 
A Hex Upon Rynia

Ken La Salle

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Ken La Salle

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### A HEX UPON RYNIA

THE FIRST RYNIA NOVEL

by Ken La Salle

### CHAPTER ONE

### HEX AND THE TOPLESS HELICOPTER

Flight was a dream that had always pressed upon the backs of his eyes like a persistent hatchling, hungry to catch air. Flight! Oh, ever flowing flight. Nothing would keep him from it. Nothing would deny him. Nothing would prevent him the attainment of his dream!

The afternoon sky flowed from horizon to horizon like a bed full of used pillows and the sun warmed it all. He thought of his cat, Succotash, and how it would roll in the sunlight like some pagan worshipper. He shook his head as the wind blew through his long, brown hair. Ah, yes! Flight!

Down below, as he zipped along from north to south, a magical land spread before him. California! Orange County! Newport Beach! It was all magical and mystical as he toured around, far above them all.

It was easy for a man called Hezekiah Fanlan to find things magical. He loved the intricacies of the atom and the grandiosity in the blade of grass. His mind trafficked with those of the ancient philosophers and the modern gravitationalists. He admired and laughed at them all.

His friends thought he was a bit of a kook.

"Oh, oh! Looks like we've got a Sig-a-lert on the 405 freeway northbound from John Wayne Airport. Whatever shall they do?" He descended like a floating leaf, dropping to a couple of thousand feet above the traffic. "Yep, it looks like some red-neck rubber-neckers got whiplash while they were necking!"

From behind, he could hear the whup-whup-whup of a helicopter and he turned to face it. "Ah, Traffic Two. We give you traffic information every five seconds whether you want it or not. What are you looking at? Haven't you seen a helicopter before?"

The pilot/reporter in the other helicopter had a look of stark terror on his face. He rubbed his eyes and looked and looked again. He couldn't get the Twilight Zone image to disappear.

He had seen a helicopter before, of course.

But never a topless helicopter.

* * *

Later that day, after he had outflown two police helicopters and returned home, Hezekiah went to the park to relax and have a little fun. The park wasn't especially huge. It was a strip of earth that separated the stores on the main strip from housing tracts. It was odd and incapable of being particularly memorable simply due to geography and that was probably the reason Hezekiah liked it so. That night, he would go to work at the hospital, where he was a security guard, but the time he had left he wanted to spend outside with a friend.

His favorite tree was the huge ash that cast its shadow upon a lonely mound of dirt in the back of the park. The mound was lonely because it had little grass, no plants, and few people ever went to spend time with it. Hezekiah stretched out on the hillside, letting the shade make a counterpoint against the warmth of the sun. He picked up several twigs that had fallen from the ash and started to bend them together.

One thing you should know about Hezekiah was that he didn't have many friends. He was friendly enough. I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea. People just thought he was too weird and stayed away from him. That was okay, though. Hezekiah had an incredible imagination and, when he couldn't have real friends, he made new ones.

He'd spent a childhood surrounded by imaginary friends. Maybe that was why he had such a hard time finding real ones. Either way, by the time he'd reached puberty, he'd corrected the Theory of Relativity, resolved how simple it was to exceed the speed of light, made cold fusion in his bathtub, and laughed at how far off the mark Chaos Theorists were. Most importantly, though, he found a way to make his imaginary friends real.

His mother wanted to put him in a mental hospital. His father wanted to put him in a circus. He lost all his real friends in the resulting mess and had a rotten adolescence. In that way, at least, he was normal.

Now, at 35, he hadn't lost his sense of the imaginary or his imaginary friends.

He didn't have one friend in particular. They changed each day as he made new ones. He knew that he couldn't have hundreds of little, real/imaginary friends running around so he created them with a finite life span. To his credit, he made sure that they experienced joy while they were alive and felt no pain at the end.

Bending the twigs of the ash, he formed a little, round head, arms and legs.

The head looked up and said, "Hello, Hex! Thanks for picking me up. It was getting awful boring down there." They'd all called him Hex, since the very beginning.

"Hello," Hezekiah answered. "What's your name?"

"Well, it'd be stupid to call me 'ash'. Then people would tell me to stop making an ash of myself." Standing there in Hezekiah's hand, it scratched its chin. "Hmm, something strange and enigmatic, that's what is called for! How about Robert? I've always liked that name. Robert. Yeah, that's sounds good."

"Okay, Robert, what would you like to do today?"

"I don't know. What do you want to do," he little creation asked, ready, it seemed, to do anything.

"I don't know. What do you want to do?"

"I want to put down roots and grow but that's not why I'm here, is it?" The little, twig man put its hands on its hips and said, "Look, there must be some thing you want to do. You created me, so what's up?"

Hezekiah thought for a moment and said, "Why don't we play a game?"

"Great!" Robert jumped from Hezekiah's hand and landed on the hill, rolling. Luckily, Hezekiah had made it flexible by bending it around a lot. When Robert came to a halt, he said, "I spy with my little eye something beginning with the letter T."

Hezekiah smiled, "Oh, okay, I know this one. Um, let's see... sky!" Hex could be difficult, even thick, when he wanted to be.

Robert folded his arms. "Sky? You came up with sky? T. Something beginning with T."

"Oh, right. Um, oh, um," he looked around and found the answer, "a cloud!"

"Heellllloooo! I said T, you idiot. Now get with the program. I said T. There's lots of stuff starting with T around here. You got trees. Tables. There's a terrier over there. You could point to your tummy."

"Oh, right. Okay. Tummy?"

"No."

"Terrier?"

"No.

"Table?"

"No."

"Tree?"

Robert put his hand on his forehead and shook his head woefully. "Oh, you are so good," he said, sarcastically. "What now? Tic-tac-toe?"

There was movement over in the bushes as several young boys entered the park through a hole in the fence. They were a tough bunch, although most of them had not yet hit their teens. Several of them lived in a nearby apartment complex and they named their little gang after it. Winwood Forest Rowdies!

Hezekiah knew one of them, the nine-year old boy named Vincent Gobel. There were five boys in all and Vincent was the youngest. Being the youngest, he tended to be pushed around a bit. So he was timid and would gladly conform. Hezekiah and he had made friends, though, from the many times Vincent had cut through the park. "Hey, Heck," the young boy called out. "What you got there?"

"Leave the Heckler alone, Vinnie. He's just a crazy, old, coot," one of the other kids advised.

"He's a bum," another said.

Passing Hezekiah, they laughed but Vincent walked away from them and up to Hezekiah. "What is that," he asked.

Robert looked over at the small boy and then up at its creator.

Hezekiah picked Robert up from the ground. "It's nothing, Vince. You should run off with your friends."

But his friends had seen what Hezekiah had put in his hand and were close behind Vincent. "Yea, what is that thing, old man?"

"What'd'ya got? A puppet?"

"Yea, it's a puppet." They laughed.

Robert put one hand up, saying, "Laugh at this, fat boy."

Vincent smiled, "Wow. You're a ventriloquist, too?"

"Something like that," Hezekiah said, placing Robert in his jacket pocket. Robert's muffled protested issued from within.

The kids laughed.

As they continued on their way, one called, "Come on, Vincent, or you'll be hanging in a park when you're old, too."

"Bye, bye, Heck," Vincent said.

Hezekiah looked at the boys, sadly, and pulled Robert out of his pocket. The WFR's weren't the best friends in the world, just a loose association of kids but, Hezekiah thought, better than just a bunch of old twigs. He could bring life to it but Hezekiah knew that he wanted more. He wanted real friends. "Come on, Robert. Let's go home."

* * *

Vincent lived in a one bedroom apartment with his brother, Samuel. Their parents had died two years before when Sam was twenty and Sam had been made legal guardian by the state.

Samuel didn't talk much about how hard it was to be Vincent's guardian. He worked two jobs and didn't have any other family to help out. He wouldn't call taking care of Vincent a regret, although there were times when he missed things like parties and girls and enjoying his youth with friends.

He'd arranged his schedule so he'd be home to cook Vincent dinner when Vincent returned from school. As his brother stepped inside, he was putting fish sticks in the oven. "Hey, Vincent! How was the day?"

"Okay," Vincent answered, absently, more interested in turning on the TV.

Samuel set the oven and sat down next to his brother. Together, they pulled Vincent's books out of his backpack and talked about his homework. Vincent had cartoons on so Sam turned the channel to the news - which he knew Vincent wouldn't want to watch.

Vincent frowned and huffed. "Thanks," he said, not meaning it. "Alex got in a fight today."

"That one of your WFR friends?"

"Nah. He got the stuffing knocked out of him!"

"Great bunch of guys you hang out with. Didn't I ever tell you that fighting is a cop-out for people who can't solve their problems any other way?"

Vincent put his head down. "Yeah." They watched news for a moment until Vincent got bored. Turning from the news, he told his brother about the other interesting thing in his day, "Heck was at the park."

Sam had never met Heck. Vincent had only started mentioning him less than a year ago. "I thought I told you not to hang with him."

"Aw, but why," Vincent whined.

"Listen, Vince, you don't hang with old guys who hang out at a park. They could be dangerous. You don't know."

"O-okay. He had a puppet, though. It was real cool. It talked and -"

"Hush, Vince, look at this!"

On the screen, some amazing footage was being shown. Something that looked like a helicopter frame, with the blades taken off and the roof of the helicopter removed, hovered in the sky over the 405 freeway. The announcer was saying, "This footage was taken by Channel Two New's traffic copter. And we assure you that it's real."

* * *

Almost a mile away, in another apartment (this one in the basement of Harold Crubnower's house), Hezekiah also watched the news. He shook his head ponderously, back and forth. "I've got to be more careful," he slowly scolded himself.

A big, fat white and orange splotched cat sat on his lap, purring. Hezekiah took his hand off the cat's hind-quarters and said, "I've got to be more careful, Succotash."

The cat brought its chubby head up, squinting, and asked, "Mrowow?"

Hezekiah scratched beneath her chin. "Do you have any idea how much trouble I could get in if I was caught?"

"Mmmmmmrrrrrr..."

"Worse. The government'd take me away and never let me go. God only knows what they'd do to me."

Succotash rubbed its face against the side of Hezekiah's hand, its wet nose making an uncomfortable smear.

Hezekiah picked it up and hugged it. "Succotash is getting mashed." He turned her to look into her eyes. "Succotash wore a sash?"

"Arrrrraow?"

"Succotash bashed hash in a flash?"

She moved off his lap and deftly dropped to the floor as he looked at the TV. "Could you switch off, please? I've seen enough for one day."

"Hey, I'm watching here," it answered.

"Okay. Okay. Could you turn yourself down, at least?"

"Yeah, sure." The sound dimmed but the picture remained.

Hezekiah rose from his chair and looked down at Robert who sat in front of the fireplace. Robert looked at him with scorn and loathing. "I've told you already, Robert. It's a gas fireplace. It doesn't burn wood."

"Oh, save it," the little man snapped. "How many of my brothers have you burnt in here, hm? All in the name of a little warmth? You just wait, paper user! Come the revolution!"

"Oh, shut up. You're just a twig."

"I'm a twig with an attitude, buddy and don't you forget it! Hey, where are you going?"

But Hezekiah had already turned away from Robert and went to look at himself in the mirror. His uniform was pressed and his face shaven but his hair was a mess (it was always a mess) and bags hung below his eyes. He just couldn't seem to look nice. Loneliness made him dirty.

Fortunately, his boss didn't hire him for his looks. Among other things, for all the times they'd threatened to fire him because of his appearance, he was the only one who knew how to fix their punch clocks.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall -" he started to say.

A smile broke on the mirror's face (although "broke" probably isn't an appropriate word to use regarding a mirror) and he said, "You look marvelous, sir! Absolutely smashing! Oh, what's this! You could cut an avocado on those creases! Yep, dashing as ever, sir! Simply dashing!"

Hezekiah had made the mirror during a moment of whimsy. He was beginning to somewhat regret it. (An odd thing about the TV and the mirror and the bedframe and many other things he'd created was that, unlike most of his creations, they continued to be aware. It was almost as if their sentience was not limited.) Turning from the mirror, he said, "Thanks Mir'. You're nothing if not effusive. Oh, and it's a tomato, not an avocado."

"Darn, darn, darn, darn, darn," Mirror said. "I was so close!"

"Going to work, guys. Let's keep it down, okay?"

"Phooey," a chorus of voices replied.

He shut the door that led out into the back yard and was heading up the stairs when he heard, "Ring ring ring! Ring ring ring! Hey, come back here! It's the phone!"

"Will you shut up," he said, throwing the door open. He shut it behind him and ran to the phone.

It looked up at him and said, "Hey, a phone's gotta ring," as he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Hezekiah. This is Margaret; we have a new post for you." She was using that voice again, against which Hezekiah had little defense.

"A new post? But I was just on my way -"

"I know its late notice but Carl didn't tell me until just now. We covered the hospital and we're sending you over to P.B. John." P.B. John was a food distribution company. Hezekiah knew that he'd sit in a shack all night long watching trucks. There'd be nobody to talk to and nothing to do. "We're gonna need you there in an hour Hezekiah. Make it on time, okay?"

Hezekiah sighed, "Okay, Margaret."

He leaned against the wall and thought about his topless helicopter. Maybe I can fly there, he thought. No. He'd taken too many chances already. Even creating the thing was a step too far.

If only the two Hezekiah Fanlan's could split apart, one going to work and the other creating machines of wonder, flying around the world.

It was more likely that he'd fly to the moon for some green cheese.

* * *

Samuel looked in on Vincent. "You okay with your homework?"

"Uh huh," Vincent answered, not looking up from his math.

"Okay, you finish that up. I'm off to work. Don't forget to do the dishes, okay?"

"Okay, Sammy. You got tomorrow off?"

Samuel grabbed his keys and stopped behind his brother to say, "Not tomorrow. Saturday. Now, what time are you in bed tonight?"

"Ten," Vincent tried.

"Funny. Nine."

"Okay. Nine."

The hugged each other and Samuel headed down to his old, pick-up. His evenings were spent at the warehouse, moving pallets of food into trucks at P.B. John.

* * *

"Go fish."

"I'm not going to say this again, okay? It's bad enough you have me holding these paper cards but you could at least get the game right. We are playing Gin Rummy. You understand? Not twenty-one. Not Crazy Eights. Not Go Fish. Gin Rummy!"

Hezekiah looked down at Robert and put his card down in the palm of his hand. The cards had been cut from a cereal box and were each a centimeter square. Although Robert's hands were mitten shaped, with the four fingers forming one, flat surface and one thumb, they fit well in his hands. "I'm sorry, Bob," Hezekiah said. "I'm just in a bit of a funk. I mean, look at you. You're probably my best friend and you're nothing but a bunch of twigs."

"I am not just a bunch of twigs. I am a fully, articulated, self-aware, treeling... and a good looking one at that. So what if you're a little funky. Things could be worse."

"How's that?"

"Well, for one, this shack could be on fire."

Hezekiah heard footsteps approaching and he shoved Robert and the cards into his pocket. A young man stepped up to the window and signed the log sheet. "Samuel Gobel leaving for the night. Could you open the gate for me."

"Sure," Hezekiah replied.

"Hey, what's this?" Sam picked up a couple of the playing cards Hezekiah had missed. "You play cards with these?"

"Well, yes, but we're not supposed to have them on duty."

"It's okay. I won't tell," Sam reassured him. "It must get pretty dull here late at night."

"Oh, yes."

"So, what're you playing? Solitaire?"

"Gin Rummy," a little voice shouted from within his pocket.

Samuel smiled, uncomfortably. "What are you? A ventriloquist?"

"I, um, well, that was just my stomach," Hezekiah answered.

"Stomach this," the response came in that teeny voice.

Sam looked at Hezekiah's badge. "Hezekiah Fanlan?" His eyes narrowed and his face frowned. "You don't spend your time hanging around parks, do you?"

* * *

Country Gardens, California sat as far back from Orange County as you could get without going into San Bernardino or Riverside. It sat between two hills that nobody would ever want to develop because they were too steep and too irregular. Just in case, though, the residents passed an order in 1983, the same year the city was incorporated, to restrict any growth in the city.

Don't get the wrong idea; it wasn't really a city. True, it did have an elementary school and a post office and two housing tracts (in fact, the name "Country Gardens" was taken from the first of those tracts). However, it had no grocery store, only a 7-11. It had no department store, only an old TG&Y. (In fact, it was the last TG&Y in existence. The parent company had gone under years ago. The owner, Greg Hilliard, had bought the store and never changed the name.) There were two gas stations, Bob's Hamburger's, and a flower shop. These were all on the main strip, Perigosa Boulevard, which ran quite a ways through the hills right by Irvine Park (which wasn't actually in Irvine but sounded much better than Perigosa Park) to Chapman Avenue. There was a light on Perigosa, at the far end of the town, which was Lynan Street. For one block, it was a fine street, repaved every five years whether it needed it or not. After that, however, it returned to its pre-incorporated identity which was "the dirt road that goes up to where all the rich people are at". Little lanes led off this road to older homes on big lots. These were the first homes in Country Gardens, long before it was Country Gardens. This was how Hezekiah got home every day. He'd grown adept at taking his motorcycle around every pit and pothole on the route.

Just as Lynan's pavement peters out, there's a stop sign. Garden Road. This is the road that leads to the two housing tracts. Also, there are two apartment complex's, Winwood Forest and Country Woods. And it was there, in his apartment, the next morning, where Sam awoke at five. While it was still dark out, it was something to which he'd grown accustomed. At six, he woke up Vincent. Vincent grumbled but opened his eyes and crawled out of bed. "You awake, Vince?"

"Mmmyem..."

"I want to tell you something, okay?"

Vincent's dark, blue eyes opened in the half-light of the morning. "What?"

"I want you to start taking another way home, understand? You go down to Lynan. No more cutting through the park."

"Why?" the sleepy boy asked.

"I met your friend, Heck, last night, and I don't think you should be spending any more time with him. He's not well. He's not stable. I don't want you hanging out with him. You got that?"

His head lowered, Vincent grumbled, "Yeah. I got it."

What Samuel had forgotten, however, was that little boys hear everything and they do exactly the opposite. Vincent had already forgotten his brother's request.

* * *

Now, although Hezekiah's personal life wasn't quite up to snuff, you probably have the impression that he was a pretty amazing guy. That paled in comparison to the great adventure he would soon take.

He didn't go home after work. He rode his old Honda motorcycle all the way down Warner Avenue to Bolsa Chica State Beach. He still enjoyed the sense of freedom as the wind tugged at his clothes. His hair couldn't blow in the wind - his head was snuggly in his helmet - but the movement as he rode down the coastal hills was akin to ballet. He smiled, watching the other drivers and making his way to the shore. He was able to fit his bike into a crowded, motorcycle parking area and made his way down to the sand.

Now sand was an interesting material. Hezekiah had never been able to work in sand. Just like water, it was too fine. It got away from him. Sand, when subjected to high levels of heat and pressure, turned to glass. Hezekiah had been able to make things out of glass but only when he was very patient. The work was intricate and demanding. Glass wouldn't bend readily and it was hard to shape. The obvious answer was to subject it to high levels of heat and melt it. But Hezekiah preferred not to alter the inherent integrity of things. Hezekiah disliked obvious answers.

So he sat on the sand and took Robert out of his pocket. Robert quickly sunk down to his knees in the sand. "Wow! What a beach! This place must stretch for miles!"

"It's the whole west coast , Bob."

"The name's Robert and I know that. I was referring to the distance to the water."

"It only looks far because you're four decimeters tall."

Robert sat upon a dune. Actually, it was the indentation of a footstep but Robert considered it a dune. He put his chin in one hand and stated, "You know, I think I'm beginning to get kind of sensitive about this height thing."

But Hezekiah wasn't listening. He took a pinch of sand and put it in one hand. Spreading it out, it formed a thin veil. Downright trite to the passing beachgoer, each grain had its own shape, its own personality. The older grains were almost entirely round, eroded to such a state after thousands upon thousands of years. As a grain became rounder and smaller, it went from sand to silt. Silt was too fine. Hezekiah knew he hadn't worked his way to that, yet. He took the larger, coarser grains out of his hand and brushed the rest away. From there, he continued to remove the larger from the smaller. When he'd narrowed it down to the two grains that were the largest, he put one on each thumb.

Examining each, he turned them with his index fingers, admiring all of the shapes and designs. To call a grain of sand "multifaceted" would be much like calling stars bright. Each grain had been buffeted and buffered by the primal forces of the earth. No two were alike. After studying the grains, he found the largest facet of each. With a little help, they would fit together nicely. He took them gently between the nails of each thumb and forefinger, bringing the primary facets into view. He slowly brought them together and found their joining point. Now, the work began. He brought each grain to his mouth and exhaled his warmest air upon them. Slowly, breathing on both, he rubbed them together. As he moved them and warmed them, he found them begin to meet. They began to merge into one entity.

"You got somewhere you gotta be?"

The harsh, intrusive voice broke his concentration and both grains fell apart. Disappointed, he looked up. Two police officers stood above, frowning at him.

"Hello, officers," Hezekiah said.

"I asked you a question. Do you got somewhere you gotta be?"

Robert sat very still. To the police, he looked like a stick-man. Which is exactly what he is, Hezekiah thought. "No, sir. I was just enjoying the beach."

"You've been sitting in the same spot for four hours now. We got a call that you were some kind of vagrant. What're you doing out here?"

Hezekiah didn't get up but answered as sincerely as possible. "I just have a lot on my mind, officers."

"You might want to think about picking yourself up and going somewhere else with your problems." The officers both gave Hezekiah a bad look and walked away.

"They might have a good idea, Hex," Robert said. "If it's at all possible for wood to get a sunburn, I got it. Ouch!"

"Okay, Robert." Hezekiah reached down to pick Robert up when a spot in the sand before him caught his eye. It glowed, reflecting the sun. Odd, though, sand wouldn't reflect the sun unless it was, "Glass."

Suddenly, the sand began to swirl. It rose to several decimeters and, just as it exceeded Robert's height, it's spinning slowed and different areas began moving in different ways. A figure began to take shape and, as Hezekiah watched with his mouth agape, a doll-like figurine appeared. It looked like a girl in a formal dress from centuries ago. Her hair descended in curls around her shoulders and the fine features of her face etched themselves into his memory.

"Wizard," it spoke, "you have triggered this message by attaining the level of sand bonding. This signifies that your magical skills are superior and helpful. This message has been sent around the galaxy and throughout time, in an attempt to find wizards such as yourself who can aid us. Our time is desperate and our cause just. You must help us. Having achieved this level in the magic of Bonding, we're hoping that you can use it to bridge the gap between our worlds. Find practitioners of the other three types of magic and bring them if you are able. We beg you your service. Make an interplanar gate using your ability to bond sand and follow it to the crystal's source. Our lives depend on you. Please. Do not fail us." It shown brightly, too bright to be just the sunlight, and, in a second, faded.

Robert clapped. "Good trick, Hex."

Hezekiah looked down at his friend. "It wasn't a trick. I didn't do that."

"Well, don't look at me, big man."

Hezekiah picked up the crystaline symbol that remained. Intricate forms danced upon its surface, fine as crystal. "I don't know what's going on, Robert. I didn't do this." He looked down at the sand, now a dull lump, and remembered the girl's face. She'd been beautiful, hauntingly so. Hezekiah couldn't help wondering who she was. "She sounded like she needed help."

"What's going on in that noggin of yours, Hezzie?"

"She talked about my talent like it was magic. She called it Bonding."

"Well, you gotta admit, Hezekiah. I ain't no science experiment but you go past science. What would you call that if not magic?"

Hezekiah thought for a moment and guessed. "Art?"

"There's a lot of magic in art. You, my friend, are a magician."

He looked up into the sky and pondered, "I'm a magician." Seagulls flew like drunken sailors overhead, squawking at each other and looking out for bits of food they could nab. The mysterious, female figure's words echoed through Hezekiah's mind. "She called me a Wizard!"

"That's right," Robert concurred. "But before you get too far up in the sky, let me bring you back down for a minute. Remember, she mentioned three other kinds of magic too."

"Three others," he asked. Robert was right. Thinking of this brought him back down to earth. "Oh, right. But I've never even considered this to be magic. What would be the three others?"

"You got any clue at all?"

"No."

"So, maybe that whole message didn't apply to you."

"Message? That wasn't just a message. It was a girl of sand who spoke to us. That was a miracle!"

"And I'm walking and talking twigs. What's that? Chopped liver?"

"I've got to make an interplanar gate out of sand so I can somehow follow this glass to its source."

Robert leaned back. "Oh, sure, that should be no problem at all. Just whip up a little interplanar gate and we're on our way."

Ignoring Robert's sarcasm, he scooped up the little man and dropped him in his pocket.

* * *

Later that afternoon, he was sitting under his favorite ash tree in the park (Robert's favorite, too, as it so happened), etching in the dirt a diagram for an interplanar gate, when Vincent walked up to him.

"What'cha doin' Heck," Vincent asked, tapping on Hezekiah's back and disturbing him from his work.

There was a reason why Vincent called him "Heck", instead of Hezekiah, Hex, Hezzie, or any of the other names to which he was referred. Vincent had started walking home from school alone after he had been put into his brother's custody. He'd been seven, then. Insecure, afraid, and a bit lost from the death of his parents. He'd once had a speech impediment which had come back to the fore during that lonely time.

He'd met Hezekiah the first time he'd taken the shortcut through the park.

"Mind the thistles," Hezekiah had warned, though he looked the other way.

"Missiles," Vincent had asked.

"No." Hezekiah walked over to the bushes that lined the fence and pointed at the thorny branches. "Thistles. They're sharp."

"Oh," Vincent had replied, his eyes large with fear and ignorance. He moved through the fence and through the bush gingerly. "T'ank you, misser."

"The name's Hezekiah."

"Heckskekiah?"

"No, no, Hez-e-kiah."

"Hecksekiah."

Hecksekiah soon became plain, old Heck and there was no changing Vincent's mind that it was anything else.

Hezekiah looked over at the small boy. Although he was crouched, the two were eye level. "Just drawing, Vince." He looked down at his diagram and erased it, scratching the dust it was in.

"Where's your puppet?"

"Pup -? Oh, my little stick figure?"

"Yes."

"I don't have him. I left him at home," Hezekiah replied, though he felt several small kicks in his ribs from where Robert had been quickly stashed inside his jacket pocket.

"That's too bad," said Vincent. "So, what're you drawing?"

Hex looked at the small boy with a smile and, for the moment, forgot Samuel's harsh words from the night before. Vincent's curiosity always gladdened his heart. "An interplanar gate. You know, so I can travel between worlds."

"Oh," Vincent replied, looking at the drawing. "That would be an awful small door."

"Well, yes, that would but it's just a prototype."

"A potato-type?"

"No. Proto. Prototype. It's smaller."

You see, Hezekiah had a certain weakness for anyone as innocent as he and, as it has probably been obvious, Hezekiah was nothing if not innocent. It seemed contradictory to think that someone who knew so much could remain innocent. Knowledge, however, was not the conduit for corruption. It was mankind that managed such malevolence.

Hezekiah had sensed Vincent's innocence from the very beginning and grew more taken by him as the innocence remained with age. He knew that Vincent was ignorant of just about everything he was saying. He'd probably report it to his brother who would, also, make little sense of it. So, what harm was done?

"Where's the gate gonna go?"

Hezekiah's eyes were wide as he answered, "Another world!"

"Like this one?"

"Like it," Hezekiah replied, pointing with his drawing stick. "But with magic!"

"And wizards and dragons and dungeons?"

"Well, I don't know," Hezekiah answered, scratching his head. "Where'd you come up with that?"

Vincent's small nose went proudly up in the air, "I read."

"Ah!"

"Well, I gotta go, Heck. My bother might be mad if I'm late."

Hezekiah's eyes shot open with a start, "Oh, yes. You're right. You're brother. Get going, then."

As Vincent walked away, Hezekiah earnestly began sketching the gate on the ground. This time, the drawing came fast and fluid. Time rolled by like water down a drain and darkness approached well ahead of when Hezekiah thought it should. He needed to get going home to get ready for work. His plans, equations, and doodles lay before him, hardly right but not entirely wrong. He left it there for the wind and headed home.

Vincent had left from that point for home as well and had regaled his brother with a story of gates that lead into realms of magic. As it happened, Sam wasn't as amused as Vincent and thought about seeing the eccentric Hezekiah at work that night.

When Hezekiah reached the Crubnower place, he pulled his bike up on the side as he always did and went to the back. Every other door to the house was locked up. No one lived there anymore. Harold Crubnower had died alone, a rich man. His children had all left him years before, taking their allowances and moving out to Los Angeles and points beyond. The old man had left a provision in his will that his family house was not to be sold and could not be rented to any new tenants. (Hezekiah moved in two years prior to Harold Crubnower's death.) The kids didn't want to live out in the country and, since they were living high on the hog (and on old Harold Crubnower's final generosity), they decided to let the old place rot. Hezekiah had a key to the basement and to the storage shed, where he kept his secret experiments.

As he entered his home, Hezekiah found that he had been saved from Samuel's wrath. It was his telephone that gave him the good news as soon as he came through the door. "Hey, Hex! Hey, Hex! I got a message for you!"

"Okay. Okay," Hezekiah replied, waving his hands in exasperation. "What is it?"

Margaret's voice began, " - wanted to let you know that you're back at the hospital again tonight. Don't be late."

Hospital work was easy work. He stood outside of the emergency room, talking to people and being friendly. Most of his time, however, was spent thinking about the beautiful sand doll, the gate, and the magic. He was just beginning to figure out sand bonding and making a gate out of sand (at least, a doorway) wouldn't be easy. By morning his thoughts of whimsy and wizardry were replaced by sleep. Succotash jumped up onto the bed beside him and curled up in the spot between his feet. The TV kept itself down low and the bed rocked slowly, reminding him of a long, warm wind pushing him as he lay in a hammock.

First thing he did that afternoon was grab a bucket and a large, mixing bowl and he went out to the bus stop. It wasn't actually close but he couldn't carry the bucket and the bowl on his motorcycle. The walk to the bus stop alone took several hours. He reached the beach by late afternoon, loading the sand as Robert supervised. Well, Robert didn't actually supervise but he liked to think he did. "More sand! More sand! We're building a door we want your hair to fit through! More sand! Put some in your pockets! Get some in your shoes, for crying out loud!" Robert was always popping up. From the minute he was created, he didn't want to leave Hezekiah's side.

The buckets full, Hezekiah boarded the first bus towards home amidst a crowd of odd looks. One lady said, "S'pose he just can't get enough of the beach."

Back home, and his back breaking from carrying all that sand, the hour was already growing late. He was too tired to argue the point with the clock. (When he'd tried, the clock had insisted that it wasn't cookoo.) Resting himself on the sofa, he fell asleep.

Saturday morning, he felt ready to take on the task of building the gate and took two plastic baggies full of sand to the park, hoping to enjoy a pleasant day. He walked, as always, kicking a loose rock here and there on Lynan, going up one hill and down the next.

He stopped at the 7-11 on Perigosa and bought a Slurpy before heading into the park. There was a familiar face waiting at the park but not a friendly one. Samuel stood there, his arms crossed and his eyes squinty. He stepped towards Hezekiah and said, "You"

Hezekiah immediately stopped his forward motion and took a step backwards.

Sam tried to remain calm. "What did I tell you about my little brother?"

Hezekiah took another step backwards. Around his Slurpy straw (he still hadn't taken it out of his mouth), he said, "Look. I don't want any trouble."

"What did I tell you about my little brother?"

"I was just at the park. He came up to me at the park."

Sam took a step forward, Hezekiah a step back. Hezekiah didn't realize that he was stepping off the curb. His Slurpy went flying into the street. He fell back onto his bags of sand which spilled from his back pockets. A little, "Ow," came from his shirt pocket. He sat there, stunned.

Samuel stepped to the edge of the curb and grit his teeth. "Then you stay away from the park. You got that? You don't want me to have to tell you again."

So advised, Hezekiah got up and walked away. He wondered what he'd done wrong and why Sam was mad. He had been told that night at P.B. John to stay away from Vincent and, in truth, he had. Unfortunately, Vincent didn't stay away from him. It was a public park. Hezekiah thought anyone had a right to be there. According to Sam, he was wrong. In a way, he could see Sam's side. He was a stranger. He looked kinda weird. And these were dangerous times. Okay, he thought, I'm a victim of my time. My looks are a liability. But the kidding around didn't work. In truth, he'd lost the only friendly face at the park. Somebody who believed in him. His only friend.

Robert grumbled in his pocket but he ignored it.

He'd never felt more alone. Even the streets seemed deserted.

Though he didn't know it, he wasn't alone. Far behind, a lone, little figure on a bicycle, Vincent followed him home.

They went through the pastoral hills along Lynan. The retired rich sought out these hills with a passion, building estates that dotted the hills. Each estate was surrounded by huge, immaculately maintained grounds and a winding road led from each to the dirt roadway. On one hill, grounds less kept than the rest, the Crubnower estate sat like a lonely toad waiting to be kissed. Hezekiah left the road and started up the drive while Vincent stood up, straddling his bike, watching the strange man go into the strange, old house.

He had a determined look on his face and a determined face on a nine year old shows just how unstoppable it is. He was going to see just who Heck was. Who was the little man? (Vincent was sure it wasn't a puppet.) Where was his gate to other worlds? Was Heck a magician? Was he crazy? Vincent was going to find out and he wasn't going to let anything stop him.

In the meantime, though, he turned and rode home. It was Sam's day off and Vincent didn't want him to suspect anything.

* * *

Sam knew to be suspicious. "What were you doing out on your bike?"

"Nothin'," Vincent answered. "Just riding around."

"You didn't go to see your friend, Heck, did you," Samuel persisted, fixing his own lunch after making Vincent's, pouring some potato chips onto his plate.

"No."

"Good," Samuel said, "because he won't be going back to the park anymore."

"What?" Vincent looked up from his sandwich, his eyebrows down and his eyes pointing in anger.

Samuel didn't look at his brother. Chewing, he replied, "That's right. I had a talk with him and he's not going to be bothering you any more."

Vincent put his sandwich down, standing up. "But he's my friend."

Samuel wanted to stand but remained seated, trying to remain in control. "You have your friends, Vincent. That guy is dangerous. He's not in his right mind."

Sam's last sentence fell on deaf ears. Vincent, enraged, ran to his bedroom and slammed the door screaming, "You can't take my friends away! I hate you!"

"This is for your own good!"

His hands on the table, Samuel knew he wouldn't be eating any more of his sandwich just then, either. Maybe for dinner. He went to the TV. Perhaps a ball game was on.

* * *

Later, after that story was told, a young man asked, "And you told him you hated him?"

"Yeah," Vincent answered, playing tough.

"I don't think I'd say I hated him. He'd kick my butt"

Five kids, all hanging around the pool at the apartment complex. The pool was theirs. The complex was theirs. This was their kingdom. They were the Winwood Forest Rowdies.

Later that Saturday night the air was still warm. Pete's mother had called and asked if Vincent wanted to spend the night. Samuel decided it was probably for the best. There was no way they were going to see eye to eye that night and it seemed pointless to let the tension hang in the air. So, Sam told Pete's mom that Vincent could spend the night. He couldn't see putting any restrictions on the boy since he hadn't really done anything wrong. Samuel knew that he was taking a friend away but knew there was no other way. Maybe being with another friend would help soften the blow. He went to Vincent's door and knocked.

A sad face looked up from the other side as the door opened. "Can I go," Vincent asked.

"Yeah," Sam said, kneeling down. "I know you're mad at me and I'm sorry. We're not always gonna agree with each other, you know?"

"But Sammy, he's -"

"Don't start, Vin. Now get your stuff together and don't forget your toothbrush cause you know that Miss Matthews is gonna check and send you back if you don't got it."

Vincent still looked sad and he turned muttering, "Okay."

"Hey," Sam barked, taking Vincent's arm, "do I get a hug for letting you go?"

Vincent gave a squint and thought he probably shouldn't. But he hugged his brother, anyway.

"He wouldn't kick my butt," claimed Sean once the WFRs had reassembled at the pool. It was easy for him to say, being the biggest of the bunch.

"He would, too, Sean. He's twice your size," Randy said.

"Yeah, well, he's big but I'm wily."

"You're a coyote," Geoff joked.

"So, how'd you get to go to Pete's, Vinnie?"

Vincent puffed out his chest. "Well, I wasn't going to hang with him after that so I grabbed my stuff and said I'm going to Pete's and then I left."

"My mom called and asked if you can come over," Pete corrected.

"Yeah, I did all that after," Vincent bluffed.

"You shouldn't hang out with Hex anyway. He's spooky."

"He's weird."

"He's an agent of the devil!"

All the boys burst out laughing, kicking their feet in the pool. But they could tell when Vincent didn't join in the laughter that he was going to remain friends with the old man anyway. Sean asked the obvious question, "Well, if he ain't going to the park no more and Sammy said you can't hang with him, what you gonna do?"

Vincent smiled. "I know where he lives."

"Where's he live," asked Pete.

"In a cave," Randy guessed.

"In a shack," asked Geoff

"No," Vincent said. "He lives in one of those mansions further in the hills."

Sean asked, "He's rich?"

"He can't be rich," Pete claimed. "He don't look rich."

"Maybe he's a retired thief and he's living off a lifetime of crime."

"I don't think so," Pete said. "He don't look smart enough to be a thief. At least, not a good one."

"He's smart."

"Sure, Vinnie."

"He is, too," Vincent said. "He's building a gate that goes to other worlds."

The others laughed, thinking Vincent gullible.

"You're full of it," Geoff shouted before dipping his curly blonde hair again in the pool.

But he wasn't gullible at all or, if he was, it was only at just the right times. That evening, an hour before they were supposed to come in for the night, Vincent rode away from Pete's apartment. Down Garden Road he went and turned up Lynan. It was a long ride, through the dusty hills of inland Orange County. The setting sunlight hit the sparse grass and bushes, turning them into muddy golds and dirty browns. They were some of the last empty hills left in Orange County. Most of the rest had been paved over. Vincent was wishing that, at least, this road could have been paved over, but he didn't say anything as he looked on at the Crubnower house, determinedly.

He put his bike against one of the large trees that shaded the front of the house and crouched down. He stepped softly and darted quickly; this was how he'd seen it done on TV. Every window he looked in was dark. Strange, he thought. There was Heck's motorbike on the side assuring Vincent that he was there.

But, where?

He continued around the side, looking in the cracked panes but finding nothing. It was such a sad house. There were no lights, no curtains. The windows were opaque from dirt. All the plants around the trim were dead. It didn't look so much like it was losing paint but rather that somebody had thrown a few flecks up on the walls.

Where'd everybody go, Vincent wondered.

Around the back, he spotted a sign of life. A single, house plant sat on the top step of the stairs that led down to the basement. It was a healthy plant, full and fat. Vincent avoided it, though, noticing that the door to the basement was ajar. He stepped down but even with the fading sunlight he couldn't see very well within. So, he worked the door open a little further, afraid the hinge might creak.

It didn't.

Vincent noticed that he had been holding his breath.

He saw Heck inside, doing some kind of sculpture. He breathed slowly and crouched down. As slowly as he could move, he entered the room.

Heck was making something tall and earthen, picking up very small pieces of something and somehow gluing them on. "That just about does it, Robert. Where's the key?"

"It's in your pocket with me," a wee voice replied.

Heck took the glass bauble out of his pocket and held it close to his eye.

Was that the interdimensional gate that he'd talked about, Vincent wondered. Was he going to open it? Was he going to open a gate into another world? He had to find out. He couldn't wait! Abandoning all thoughts of stealth, he walked up to Heck.

"Well, here goes nothing," Heck said, and he put the glass on the door just as Vincent began tapping his back.

* * *

At about that same time, Samuel had made dinner and watched a couple of movies. The food was tasteless and so were the movies. He just couldn't seem to concentrate on anything. Perhaps it was the argument they'd had and, maybe, the fact that Vincent had taken his bike simply to go across the street. Would he actually disobey him and go seeking Heck out?

Worry got the best of him. He knew he'd embarrass Vincent by checking up on him but that would be the price Vincent paid for making Samuel suspicious. He picked up his phone and dialed.

"Hello," a boy's voice answered.

"Pete? Is this Pete," Sam asked.

"Yeah. Who's this?"

"This is Sam. Vincent's brother. Is he still down there?"

Pete's voice paused for just a moment, long enough to betray him. "Uh, yeah, we already went to bed like we was supposed to."

Samuel put the phone down and headed out. He wasn't one to lose his cool and he remained pretty calm as he walked through the complex, looking for any sign of Vincent's bike. There was no sign of him in the Country Woods complex so he crossed the street into Winwood Forest. He didn't bother looking around. He knew where Pete lived. He'd brought things over there before. So he headed straight to the Matthews' apartment, scanning again for his brother's bike.

Miss Matthews answered the door, wearing some kind of house coat, a worried look on her face. "He didn't go home?"

"No," Samuel answered. "And he's not between here or there, either. Is Pete here?"

"Yes, he is. Pete," she yelled. There was no answer. "He's probably in his room playing one of those violent video games. Come on in."

Sam entered the Matthews' place and waited as Pete's mom went to get him.

"Pete!"

"I'm busy, mom," a faint voice replied.

"Get out here right now! I'm not kidding!"

"Ma, I'm busy!"

The bedroom door was thrown open and the sounds of a scuffle came out into the hall. Shortly, Miss Matthews' dragged Pete out by the sleeve, scolding, "You get your fanny out here, Peter, or I'll whip you into next week and then we'll see how busy you are!'

Out in the hallway, Pete tried to regain some composure. His friend, Randy, had said that Samuel was twice their size but, as Pete looked up at his friend's muscle-bound brother, he knew that Randy had guessed low. Way low.

"Where'd my brother go," Sam asked.

"Uh, I don't know. I thought he went home." Pete made a rotten liar. His mom whipped his butt until he said, "Okay, uh, maybe he went down to Randy's."

"Maybe," Sam asked.

"Or Sean's. Or Geoff's."

"Miss Matthews, if you don't mind, maybe Pete and I can go for a little walk."

Miss Matthews smiled an evil smile, "Sure." Glaring at her son, she said, "And you tie your shoes!"

His eyes wide with fear, Pete stuttered, "Wh-where we going?"

Samuel took his arm. "Maybe down to Randy's."

Randy was the oldest kid in the WFR's. At twelve, he acted more like twenty. He whistled at women. He took sips from his dad's beer. Sometimes he sneaked his own beer. He watched his dad's adult movies. He smoked his dad's cigarettes.

"What the hell kind of friends does my brother have," Samuel yelled as the walked up to the Collins' apartment. Randy was sitting outside, smoking, his long, straight hair hanging in his eyes. Samuel answered his own question. "I hope to God they're not influential!"

Randy had already thrown down the cigarette. If his dad ever knew that he'd stolen smokes from him, he'd be dead. "What'cha doin', Pete?"

Sam answered before Pete could. "Pete's here with me, Randy, because we're looking for my little brother."

"Yeah, Randy. You know Sam, right? I told him that Vinnie was heading your way. He came here, right?"

"No," Randy said.

"Yeah, sure," Pete continued. "He came here and then went home, right?"

"No. He didn't come here no time."

"Shit, Randy," Pete shouted, growing angry, "come on. Tell him."

"Hell, no, Petey. I ain't getting in no trouble just cause you can't lie right. What Vinnie do? Go to the Heckler's place?"

Hearing this, Samuel's eyes flared. He grabbed two handfuls of Pete's shirt and lifted him up. "What's he talking about?"

"I - I - don't know."

"Sure, he does. Vinnie was telling us just yesterday about how he followed the old guy home and how he was gonna sneak in to see his weird place."

"Why didn't you tell me this?"

Pete repeated, "I - I - I -"

Samuel dropped him and, though he only fell a couple of feet, Pete yelped. Looking at Randy, Sam asked, "Did he tell you were it is? Heck's house?"

"Nah. What do we care? We don't want nothing to do with some old bum."

Sam gritted his teeth. "Great." He left the two in the dwindling light and headed home.

Behind him, Pete said, "Great help, Rand."

Samuel went back to the apartment but there was no sign of his brother anywhere. He got in his truck and drove to the places he'd seen Hezekiah. First, the park, but there wasn't a sign. He walked its four corners and, though it wasn't large enough for him to have missed anything, walked them again. When he was sure that neither Hezekiah nor his brother was there, he went back to his truck and headed for Irvine. To P.B. John.

The security guard on duty was expecting a quiet evening. Then, Samuel pulled up. "Call your supervisor," he demanded.

"Sir," the guard asked.

"Your supervisor. Call him. On the phone."

"Well, the only phone I can use is in the break room."

"You got the keys. Let's go."

Samuel bullied the guard into making the phone call and got the supervisor on the line. Later, Sam would think how amazing it is that people will do anything for a person who acts like they have authority. "Hello, your name," Sam asked.

"Carl Alek. Who is this?"

"My name is Samuel Gobel, Carl. I need you to give me the address to one of your guards who works here. His name is Hezekiah."

"Hezekiah?"

"Yes, that's him. Do you know him?"

"Know him? No. He don't work at that post but I know who he is."

"Well, he's taken my brother to his house and I need to find him."

"Well, um, sure but I can't give that kind of information. Have you tried calling him? You know, it might be listed."

For a moment, Samuel was silent. "I've tried," he said, lying because he couldn't look up Hezekiah's phone number without his last name, "but there's so many listings in the book."

"So many listings? You mean there's more than one Fanlan in the book?"

Hanging up the phone, he turned to the guard. "Where's your phone book?"

* * *

Pulling his truck up the long, dirt drive, his headlights picked out Vincent's bike. There he was, finally. Samuel had found him. "And boy am I gonna kick your butt," he muttered. He saw the old motorcycle leaning against the house as he stopped.

He honked his horn several times and walked up to the front door. The doorbell didn't work, so he pounded instead. The sound echoed around inside and he pounded some more.

There was no answer. Not a sound. It was like the place was dead.

Now, normally, Samuel wasn't one to lose his temper. This being a bit out of the ordinary, however, he made an exception. Taking a step back from the door, he kicked the doorknob, smashing the flimsy wood. He kicked it again and again, busting the door open.

But, boy, did his foot hurt.

Stepping - limping inside, he yelled, "Hello?" The hallway was unadorned. The front room had no furniture. Nobody was there.

"Shit." He limped back to his truck and pulled it around back, hoping that there'd be some kind of guest quarters back there. No luck. Just an old shack locked from the outside. He thought, maybe Vincent's in there. Maybe the crazy, old guy had him locked up. He got out and pounded on the shack's door. "Vincent? Vin? You in there?"

No sound. Sam's worried mind thought that maybe the old guy had him drugged. Or worse. He went around to the back of his truck to get his crowbar, thinking he could pop the lock.

That's when he saw the light coming from the basement. His crowbar in his hand, he walked to the door. It was already ajar so he pushed it open the rest of the way.

"Where are you, you -" Nobody was home.

The lights were on but...

It was a small apartment. There was a kitchenette with an unsteady table. A TV and old sofas. It even had a fireplace.

But Sam ignored all of that. His eyes were drawn to the two figures standing in the center of the room. Poorly shaped, they looked humanoid. One man shaped and the other looked like a boy. "What kind of sick, perverted -"

He drew back his crowbar and swung at one of the figures. The crowbar went in a couple of inches.

Sand.

They were made of sand.

His hand still on the crowbar, he turned back toward the back room. Maybe they were in there. But when he pulled on the crowbar, it wouldn't come.

He turned back and saw that his crowbar was still stuck in the sand figure.

Not in the way he'd struck it, though. Now, the sand figure held the end of the crowbar in its hand.

And it wasn't letting go!

### CHAPTER TWO

### OSTRANDER

Hezekiah caught his breath with a start.

Vincent was gasping, soon he'd go into hysterics.

Robert had sunk down into Hezekiah's shirt pocket and said, "Oh, you really did it this time, Hezzie. You blew it, smart guy."

The room was dark. It looked like someone had slapped it together fast. A window open by the bars of their cell let in the light.

The bars of their cell.

They were in a prison. It was rank with human misery. The floor was lined with straw. The straw was probably meant to help keep the cell warm and give the prisoners something to sleep on but did little more than house the rats. The barred window was little more than a hole gouged out of the wall, too high to see outside. There were no chairs. No bed. No commode. Not a single luxury.

Hezekiah knelt down and held Vincent close. "Shh, Vince. Calm down."

The kid was trembling. "Heck, where are we?"

"Where the heck are we," Robert muttered.

Hezekiah looked up and around and tried to figure things out in his head. "I don't know."

"That's reassuring!"

At Robert's shout, Vincent stepped back. "What is that?"

Hezekiah looked down into his pocket and frowned. "Well, I guess there's no point in keeping this a secret." He took Robert out and the little figure stood proudly in the palm of his hand.

"Hello, young Vincent. I am Robert. Pleased to meet you." His mitten hand shot out and he smiled congenially.

This deviated Vincent's attention from their situation, if only for a moment. "Is he real?"

Roberts hand dropped. "No, I'm fake kid. Just a figment of your imagination. Ignore me."

"Robert," Hezekiah scolded.

"Hey," Robert yelled, turning, "I tried to be nice. You saw. Am I real? What kind of question is that, anyway? Of course, I'm real. And I'm not the one who landed us in this dung heap shaped like a prison. How you getting us out of here, Hezzie? Huh? How?"

Hezekiah put Robert down in his pants pocket and said, "Don't pay any attention to Robert. He's kind of irritable."

"What's he? A puppet?"

"Why don't I tell you later? Right now, let's have a look around."

Two of the cell's walls appeared to be solid stone which, upon close inspection, were set with mortar. The other two walls were barred like a cage, or a prison. The bars were made of wood, not steel, and not very sturdy. If Hezekiah shook it hard enough, the whole wall would wiggle to the end. He knew that, if he worked it enough, he could shake it down. The contradiction struck him immediately. What kind of people would be able to build as stone wall but could barely construct the bars of a cell? The door was lashed on with thick twine. He couldn't cut it and he couldn't work it off. There didn't appear to be a lock and Hezekiah wondered how they'd open it.

And who were "they"? There was nobody there. An empty cell occupied the other corner of the room and broken chairs sat near an entrance. Although the window let in some light it wasn't enough to illuminate the entire room.

Hezekiah took Robert out of his pocket. "Robert, I need you to do something."

"Is that all I am to you? Just some servant, some errand boy? I have a sensitive side, too, you know! I'm more than just sticks and twigs! I have a -"

"Robert," Hezekiah hissed.

"Okay. What is it?"

"I want you to go out that doorway and tell me what lies behind."

Robert pretended to give a thumbs-up. "Right-o!"

He shuffled his way through the straw, lifting himself over mound after mound. Near the bars, he disturbed a sleeping rat that knocked him several feet with a swish of its tail. As Robert picked himself up, Hezekiah wondered where he'd learned to swear like that. It took a few minutes with his little feet but soon, from the dark of the doorway, they heard him yell, "It's a step up!"

"Okay," Hezekiah reasoned, "that means that there's a stairway leading up." He spoke loudly to Robert, "Go up it."

"Right." A moment passed. "There's another step."

Hezekiah leaned against the wall, sighing a heavy sigh. "I should have made him out of pine. Pine's a serious wood. How was I to know that ash would have an attitude? Go to the top of the stairway," he yelled.

They waited in silence for a moment. Vincent was afraid. What would Sammy think? How was he going to get home? How far away was he? Mexico? Arizona? Europe? He tugged on Hezekiah's shirt. "I want to go home, Heck."

Hezekiah knelt down beside him. "I know you do, Vincent, and I'm sorry I'm not much of a help." He looked into the little boy's eyes. "How did you come with me, anyway?"

Vincent looked down, ashamed. "I snuck in."

"You snuck in?"

"I snuck in."

"You snuck into what?"

"Into your house."

"You snuck into my house?"

"Yes," Vincent said, getting a little irritated, "I snuck into your house. You weren't looking. I was sneaky."

"Oh," Hezekiah replied. Then it occurred to him. "Of course, it must have some proximal effect."

"Huh?"

"It means, um, what's that noise?"

A high pitched whine came from far away and grew louder. Soon, it was followed by pounding on the roof. The pounding went from one side of the roof to the other and the whine turned into a high pitched scream. It grew louder.

And louder.

Then, Hezekiah could make out the sound.

"Heeeeeeeezzzzzzzziiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee!!" The noise dropped down the stairwell and a little figure ran to the cell. "Run of your lives! They're after me!" With a skill unimagined by his creator, Robert scaled Hezekiah's pant-leg and dropped himself into the pocket, quaking.

"They," asked Hezekiah.

"Big," Robert babbled. "Very big! Several of 'em!"

The thudding drew closer.

"Heck, what is it?"

Hezekiah pulled Vincent closer as the little boy's arms wrapped around him. "I, uh, I don't know."

"Big help," Robert cried. "Big, BIG help!"

Then, silence. They could feel another presence in the room with them. Hezekiah thought he saw something moving in the darkness...

And he was right!

"So," a sound as deep and rich as an earthquake seemed to be the voice from out of the darkness. "It works again."

Hezekiah's breath caught in his throat as he watched the creature moving into the light. It was huge with a head perched upon a nearly humanoid body. The head clicked and clacked upon rock vertebra, looking through agate eyes and speaking through a massive mouth that moved like mud. It stood well over two meters high. It could have been three! Hezekiah knew that its thick arms of earth could crush him effortlessly. It was terrifying!

It stepped up to the bars and muttered, "Puny humans."

Vincent wanted to laugh and it didn't even occur to him that he might have been losing his mind. Puny humans? How many times had he heard that on the Midnight Monster Movie?

"You tried to send a spy out of your cell. Humph. Good. The Leader will like to see one so resourceful."

Hezekiah's words leapt from his mouth, startling him. "Where are we?"

"It speaks, too. You human wizards usually too afraid. You don't make good fighters. But you! Ah. You. Humph. No. Too scrawny. No rock on you. You'd break apart. But you asked where you are and you should be answered. Come. You shall be brought to War Council."

"War council?"

Vincent clutched him tighter. "What is he talking about, Heck?"

Hezekiah looked down into Vincent's eyes. "I'm sorry, Vincent. I don-"

Robert complained, "You don't know! You don't know! Get yourself some new material, Hex!"

For a moment, Robert's response brought the hint of a smile to Vincent's face.

The stone creature ignored them. "Lock! Open!"

A bolt slid and snapped open. Hezekiah should have known. It was enchanted.

The door opened slowly and a huge, stone hand entered the cell. Vincent held Hezekiah closer, if that was at all possible.

"Come."

"Come on, Vincent. This seems to be the only way we'll learn about where we are." With Hezekiah's aid, Vincent took a step forward.

"No. Little one stays here," the creature told him.

Hezekiah was not one to feel anger towards others; he always tried to give the benefit of the doubt. The situation, though, was getting to him. He gasped, "What? I have to leave him here alone?"

"He stay. Won't step out of line, then, will you?"

Robert launched himself onto Hezekiah's shoulder and shouted, "Look, you overgrown molehill, he goes wherever we go! He's our responsibility!"

"He stays!" With a flick of one finger, the rock creature tossed Vincent against the wall. Hezekiah couldn't move. His shirt was gathered in a stone fist and he couldn't shake his way out. He was carried out against his will and the door was closed behind him. He heard the lock slam back into place and Vincent didn't move.

"Robert, quick, go stay with Vincent! Make sure he's alright!"

"Yeah. Yeah. Just don't expect me to like it!" Turning to leap into the straw, he realized, he wasn't supposed to look down. The drop was almost two meters to the straw-lined floor. To Robert, it might as well have been a kilometer. "Why couldn't I have been from the top of the tree," he mused as he lowered himself down Hezekiah's shirt-sleeve for a shorter jump. "Those top of the tree branches can take a jump like this. No problem!"

"Robert, just jump," Hezekiah shouted. With a shake of his arm, Hezekiah assisted Robert in his jump.

* * *

Vincent's head felt like one of his brother's casseroles, hard and crusty. He heard a voice saying, "Oh, come on, kid. You realize how much trouble Hex is gonna be in if you die? I can hear it now! Well, Sam I brought your brother back. He's dead, though. Wake up, you little brat!"

His head was splitting and the yelling only brought more pain. So, he brought one arm up and brushed his chest, where the voice came from.

"Aaaaaaahhh," Robert cried sailing into the wall. As he picked himself up and brushed himself off... and wondered why he was brushing himself off, he said, "You know, this trip is turning out to be no fun. That's right. No fun at all." But he climbed up the boy's side and sat on his stomach. "Kid? You up?"

"Don't yell. My brain hurts." Drifting off away from the pain, he sunk into sleep for several hours. The pain would not relent, though, and, when he awoke, he reached up to feel his head. His hair was wet and crusty. He must have been bleeding. It hurt just to feel it and he whimpered.

"You okay, kid?"

"I hurt my head."

"So you keep telling me."

Vincent shuffled down to get more comfortable in the hay and opened his eyes. "Oh, my God! I can't see!"

"Oh, no! What d'you mean, you can't see?"

"Everything's black! It's pitch black!" Vincent thrashed about but Robert stood calmly, tapping his foot.

"Oh."

"This is terrible."

"Kid, listen."

"What am I gonna do?"

"Kid."

"I'm blind!"

"Kid! Of course, you can't see you paranoid, little chimp. It's nighttime. It's dark."

Vincent stopped to catch his breath before his next scream. "You sure," he asked.

"Yes. I'm sure."

"But, it's so dark."

"These people live in castles. They ain't got the technology for light bulbs."

"Oh."

"I'm blind, indeed," Robert mocked

Vincent was quiet for a moment, passing his hand back and forth in the air. He literally could not see it before his face. "No stars. Nuthin."

Robert replied, "Yes, well, we are in a dungeon."

"This is a dungeon," Vincent asked, wishing he could see it.

"Dungeon. Prison. Whatever you wanna call it."

"Wow." Vincent paused for a moment a shot a glare at where he felt Robert was. "Did you call me little?"

"Existentially."

"Oh. What's that?"

"You'll learn when you're older."

"What are you, Robert?"

"I'm a treeling, a very handsome treeling. You're friend, Hex, made me."

Despite the obvious proof, Vincent couldn't believe it. "He made you?"

"Isn't that what I said? Yes, he made me. He's a very gifted guy, although a bit thick at times."

"He made you from a tree?"

"Parts of one, yep."

"What'd you do when you were a tree?"

"I photosynthesized, kid. What d'you think?"

Although Vincent was growing tired of Robert's sarcasm, he asked, "What do you think they'll do with us?"

"I don't know, kid. I'm completely in the dark." As he rolled over on Vincent's stomach in a fit of giggles, Robert said, "In the dark! Don't you just love it? I kill me! Ah! Ha! Kill a tree!" But when Vincent continued not-laughing, Robert asked, "What were you? Born without a sense of humor or something?"

* * *

Hezekiah sat nearby all alone, sucking his lip. He was being held inside an oubliette, in one of the courtyards. Amazing construction, really. Hezekiah marveled at its simplicity. He was, perhaps, ten feet below ground, in a pit. Even if he was able to climb out, there were dogs awaiting him. Stone dogs; mean suckers.

He was lucky. He hadn't banged his head on the stairwell's ceiling as Ostrander carried him up. ("What's your name," Hezekiah had asked. "None of your business," Ostrander had replied.) Into a hallway and down, passed several doors hanging off their hinges, they went. As he glimpsed glances through a rare window, Hezekiah got the impression that they were in some building of medieval construct. A palace, perhaps? A castle? Around another corner, they entered an archway and went into a room. If there had been four walls, only three survived. The missing wall faced outside and Hezekiah could tell from the rubble that it had been quite thick. What could have destroyed the wall so completely? Obviously, these creatures weren't in possession of any modern technology. From what Hezekiah had seen, they'd not yet entered the Iron Age. Everything was made of wood or cloth (or stone) but no metal.

"What have you brought for us, Ostrander," a towering, thick limbed, stone giant bellowed. Compared to this guy, Ostrander was anemic.

"Another wizard, War Master Hargoth." Ostrander bowed, dropping Hezekiah to the ground.

Rubbing his hip, Hezekiah shouted, "Hey, now."

"The human wizard will be silent," those near the war master shouted.

Hezekiah turned around to face them. The War Master sat upon a stone throne that appeared improvised from pieces of the wall. Around him, several other giants crossed their arms and stared down at Hezakiah. They wore no clothes, looked exactly alike. Each one was over several meters in height and their limbs were as thick as a man. Their "skin" was uneven with jagged, rock edges and their heads were flat on top with a solid, stone block. Something different about Hargoth, though, where each other the other stone creatures had dull eyes, Hargoth's shone white!

"Report, Ostrander."

"I was watching the droproom, War Master. There the humans had said the beacons would send them to us. I found this one in the cell with a smaller one."

"Midget?"

"No, War Master. A boy."

"A boy?"

"Yes, War Master."

The War Master turned to Hezekiah. "You brought a boy?"

"You talking to me," Hezekiah asked. When no one replied, he said, "It wasn't my idea. He hitched a ride. We can send him back if you don't-"

"Silence!" Looking at Ostrander, the War Master asked, "Did you kill it?"

"No, War Master."

"Good. Now, we have leverage. Go now, Ostrander. Go back to the droproom and watch it well."

Ostrander turned and left. Hezekiah wasn't sure why but he wished Ostrander had stayed.

"You are a wizard," Hargoth asked.

"Actually," Hezekiah replied, "I'm more of a relativist. Maybe even an existentialist."

"Silence!"

Hezekiah took a step back, his breath caught in his throat.

The War Master said, "You will be tested."

Suddenly, one of the other giants stepped forward and began pulverizing one of the many loose bricks from the wall. The pieces that he'd crumbled were soon gathered by the War Master to form a four-legged creature. Hezekiah knew what Hargoth was doing. The creature looked like a cross between a dog and some kind of insect. Hezekiah didn't know if that was a real creature in this world or if they were just improvising but he did know to move away. The creature charged him and he dodged just in time.

Two of its legs reached out to where Hezekiah was standing. Hezekiah jumped aside towards the stone giants. With a shove, they moved him towards his opponent.

His foot caught beneath him and he dropped onto his hands and knees.

The creature sprung.

Hezekiah had no experience fighting. Samuel's threat was the closest he'd ever come. He couldn't fight the creature but he could get out of its way. That was just what he did, rolling aside as it landed. As he got to his feet, one of the creature's arms connected, cutting through Hezekiah's shirt and creating a red line on his chest.

"Hey," Hezekiah shouted.

The war master pointed. "Use your power, wizard. Defeat him."

"You got the wrong guy. I'm not a wizard. I just make things."

"Then Break this," the War Master shouted, standing.

Hezekiah stepped out of the creature's way and went before the giant. "I can't," he said.

Hargoth would brook no impudence. He looked at one of his men who slapped Hezekiah to the ground.

His head was spinning. A tooth felt lose. All he could taste was blood. As he opened his eyes, he saw the creature with one, sharp arm poised above his eyes.

"You forget that we have your boy. You don't cooperate, he dies. Throw him into an oubliette until he decides to cooperate."

Stone fingers wrapped around him and squeezed him until he didn't think he could breathe. Maybe he couldn't. Either way, he passed out.

When he awoke, all was dark. Lying on his back, he could see stars above him, through the top of the oubliette. They were bright as diamonds. He remembered Olber's paradox which questioned why the sky wouldn't be totally bright at night given the astronomical amount of stars and arrived at a new reason. Smog. For in this world, the sky was positively crowded with celestial lights. None of the constellations, or parts of constellations, that Hezekiah saw were at all familiar to him, which disappointed him because it only impressed upon him even more how far from home they really were.

Good thing Vincent hasn't seen me, he thought. The last thing Vincent needed was to see Hezekiah dejected, beaten, and full of self-pity. Hezekiah wondered how Vincent was, if Robert had been able to help the boy, and if they were any safer - or any warmer - than he.

He tasted his lip, which had crusted over, and felt his tooth, which wasn't as lose as it had been. Perhaps that was a good sign. Hezekiah hoped that he wasn't in for any more.

Sitting there, alone, he drifted back into sleep. Drifting in and out of slumber, when the sun began to rise, he smiled to himself that he finally had some light and began to do what came naturally. He began to put things together. Slowly, at first, almost hesitantly, but he knew that he had to get a look around and, if he couldn't get past the dogs, he knew what could. He spent a great deal of time working at building with several sharp rocks. He grabbed wide, thin stones to use as feet and made the body thin. Together with the sharp rocks for hands, it would be perfect for burrowing.

When he was almost done, he made meticulous, little eyes and, taking his tip from the giants, formed a mouth out of mud.

It looked up at him and rigidly saluted. "Yes, sir! Hex, sir!"

"You don't need to be so formal," Hezekiah told it.

Putting its hands behind its back, it answered, "Yes, sir. At ease."

"Look, um, what'd you say your name was?"

"I didn't, sir."

Looking at his creation in his hand, Hezekiah was suddenly very tired. "What is it?"

"Maximillian, sir."

"Maximillian?"

"Yes, sir. Corporal Maximillian Salkind Reginald Archibald Jones, sir."

"Let's just stick with Max, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fine. I need you to burrow up to the top and have a look around. Can you do that?"

"Put me on the ground and just give the word! I'm your man!"

Lowering his hand, Hezekiah said, "Sure. I wouldn't doubt it for a minute."

Maximillian, on the ground, looked up at his maker. "Sir?"

"Hm?"

"The word, sir."

"Oh, um," motioning towards the wall, he said, "Go."

With a flurry of dust, Max met the ground with a digger's fervor. Soon, only a hole remained where the little, rock creature had been.

Hezekiah sat down, leaning against a wall. As he waited for some word from the little man, he thought back on the room of giants. If he'd been forced to fight one of them, he'd probably be dead by now. So, why were they testing him, anyway? What did they want?

Outside the great hole in the wall, Hezekiah had caught a glimpse of the world outside. In the light of dusk, Hezekiah remembered looking out upon a dark sea, dark like a secret hiding who knows what. To the side, a jagged coast whose edge stood higher than any he'd ever seen. How high? Nearly a kilometer, perhaps. Which would make the cliffs insurmountable. Trapped as he was, Hezekiah felt that this was a truly dark world.

Then, he heard a scream and a growl. Something fell down to him. There, in the half-light of dawn, Max's broken form struggled to rise.

Hezekiah picked him up and placed him in his hand. "What happened, Max?"

Max coughed and wheezed. A toothmark made a large crease in his chest. "Ack! Oh! Permission to report - ack! - sir?"

"Yes, of course."

"The enemy is dug in - argh! hack! - sir. Mobile units - oh! - deployed. Suggest massive troop deployment to break - wheeze! hock! - enemy lines."

"Max? What happened?"

"This unit - kak! cough! - caught by enemy beasts. Close inspection shows - cough! cough! - teeth are a liability!"

"Well, just get some rest. You'll be okay." But, as Hezekiah said the words, he could see the truth. Max's feet were crumbling apart and falling through Hezekiah's fingers. His legs quickly shifted back to dirt. Hezekiah tried the cradle the rest but Max had lost coherency. He was a goner.

As the rock head detached from the torso, Max whispered, "It was a pleasure serving beneath you, sir." The hand moved up as if to salute but the lift was gone. Max was soon just a pile of rocks.

Hezekiah placed Maximillian's remains on the ground and looked up into the chilly morn.

* * *

By evening, Hezekiah's stomach was talking back and his body was cramping up. He tried walking around the oubliette but, as it was only a meter or two in diameter, the walk didn't help much. He couldn't eat dirt and he didn't want to risk one of his creation's lives to run out and get him some food, so he waited. He conserved his strength.

Then, a voice from above shouted. "Up, wizard! You come up!"

Hezekiah looked up and thought he saw Ostrander's anemic, stone-giant face. "That you, Ossie?"

"It is Ostrander. You will come out of oubliette, now."

"Sure." Hezekiah stood up and waited for a moment. "Aren't you going to drop me some rope," he asked.

"Rope? We don't need no rope."

"What," Hezekiah started to ask when he saw a long arm reach down the hole. He'd never seen anything like that before. It was reaching down the oubliette, almost to the bottom.

"Climb on," Ostrander shouted and, so, Hezekiah did. The hand was narrow, like the arm, so he put one foot in and held onto the arm like a pole. With a lurch, the arm rose out of the hole and, once out, Hezekiah could see the rest of it. It was a short, rock thing that looked almost like a midget. It was very stocky, though, with short legs. Hezekiah could see how that would act as counterbalance. He could also see how the arms went so far, contracting like an accordion.

Stepping off the hand, Hezekiah was immediately surrounded by rock dogs. They hadn't been equipped with a growl or a snarl. They couldn't salivate. They moved Hezekiah along by snapping at his legs. Ostrander said, "Come with me. There is no escape."

Hezekiah wasn't going to argue but he had noticed Ostrander's slurred, slow way of speaking and asked, "Ostrander, the other giants I saw last night could speak okay. Why does your voice not sound the same?"

Ostrander's head noticeably sunk and his voice lowered. "Ostrander not made from rock. Ostrander made from dirt."

"Does that make you lower?"

"Ostrander is expendable. A strand... There is plenty of dirt."

When they reached the War Master's chambers, Ostrander turned to Hezekiah. "You go in alone. Ostrander stay here."

Hezekiah entered the chamber. Two giants, each looked much like Ostrander - made of dirt, faced him in the entryway. They were slightly shorter than Ostrander, standing at only about two meters, and each held a club. Something about their dirt surface caught Hezekiah's eye. They had been polished to a high sheen. The dirt didn't just hang loose like Ostrander's. These guys had armor.

Hezekiah turned to the War Master and asked, "What's going on?"

Hargoth rose. He stood even taller than the rest and Hezekiah found that he had to crane his neck to watch Hargoth's face. "We know, wizard, that you have come into this world to start a war. We know that you have come to defend the humans who once inhabited this castle. We know your powers and we know your kind. You are trying to deceive us. You are trying to make us believe you don't comprehend your magic. We are not deceived. We have the boy you arrived with and we can kill him at any time we wish. Remember that we will kill him if you do not pass this test. It is to the death and, if you do not show us your magic, all the better." He sat down, the huge, makeshift throne creaking beneath his weight. The command came like a bark. "Begin."

Hezekiah looked around him, suddenly frightened.

From both sides, the dirt giants shuffled forward.

Hezekiah didn't have time to think. He ducked out of the way as one giant swung its club at his head. The other brought its club down upon the ground where Hezekiah had been crouching. Now, he ran against the farthest wall as the two creatures advanced.

Like Ostrander, they didn't walk as much as shuffle. Their feet never left the ground. Hezekiah thought he might be able to use this to his advantage. At least, he thought, I have speed over them. They want to see a fight. They'll get one. I just hope I don't die in the process.

But Hezekiah knew that he couldn't die. There was a kingdom to save and a beautiful princess to rescue. (Every moment that passed without seeing her made him question where she could have been.) Also there was Vincent, stranded alone in a dark cell. Well, if not alone, at least, with Robert. But what could Robert do?

The two giants swung at the corner Hezekiah had been backed into as Hezekiah scrambled between their legs and ran across the room. How long will I be able to keep this up, he wondered.

The answer was not long. This time, as one giant cornered Hezekiah, the other stood back a few paces, its club in bunt position. The first giant swung both its club and its other arm, trying to catch Hezekiah. Hezekiah was already jumping to the side and into the empty area at the giant's knee. He slipped. There was something on the floor.

As he tried to end the roll in a crouch, he saw that the giants were leaving bits of themselves on the ground as they shuffled, slicking the surface. As he got on his hands and knees, the other giant was bringing its club down on him. Hezekiah jumped but too late.

As his foot left the ground, a giant's club connected with it.

Bright light and hot blood flashed before Hezekiah's eyes and he clenched his teeth as he fell on his face. He rolled over and saw clubs descending upon him. He rolled out of the way, against one of the giant's legs. The other giant, pressing his attack, hit its partner and brought away handfuls of dirt.

Hezekiah scurried between its legs. He had a hard time getting to his feet; his left ankle was sore and would soon be swollen. The advantage of speed had been lost. He knew, though, that there might be a way to use one of those clubs to his advantage.

I must be crazy, he thought, stepping between the earthen behemoths. He saw one draw the club back to swing and he jumped to the side.

He cried out as he landed and drew his swelling ankle up against him.

When he looked back, only one giant stood. Hezekiah's insane gambit had worked. The other was reduced to a heap of dirt on the floor.

Its club had landed several yards away and Hezekiah scuttled across the floor to retrieve it. He was reaching his hand to grab it when he felt something hard and fast knock the wind out of him. Breathless, he lost his ability to reason. He grabbed at the giant's leg and dragged himself on the ground around the loamy pillars that were legs. The giant tenaciously continued swinging downward, hitting its legs again and again.

Hezekiah felt his back relax and finally sucked in a double lungful of air.

The giant didn't wait. He caught Hezekiah's shoulder with the back of his hand, knocking him across the room.

Sprawled on the floor, Hezekiah couldn't lift himself up. A tear fell from his eye. Looking through one fish-eyed lens, he saw the giant approach. His mind reeled. He couldn't run. He couldn't fight. He was panting to catch his breath as he tried to roll away from the next pounding.

It didn't work. The giant's club connected with his good arm and he landed on his back. All the better to see the final blow.

He heard the War Master's voice as if in a dream. "Finish him."

The club drew back. The giant had it in both hands. It would be a simple stroke and it would cave in Hezekiah's skull.

Then, something began to change. Where it came from, Hezekiah didn't know. One moment he was watching the club's rapid descent and the next, he was analyzing the giant's soil components. Time slowed. Hezekiah found himself reversing the equation which allowed his magic. As it reversed, he found a practical application.

He put out one numb arm, touching the giant, and said, "Stop." A simple word, softly spoken (in truth, he was already out of breath), yet the utterance shook the giant to the core. Pounds of dirt fell all over Hezekiah.

Knuckles made of rocks and pebbles shattered.

The huge, wooden club was released from the grip and bounced off the wall, harmlessly landing on the floor.

Hezekiah took his hand off the giant.

Too late.

The destructive power that was the reverse of Hezekiah's magic powers of creation were tearing pieces off the giant until all Hezekiah could make out was a quivering mound of earth.

Then, he passed out.

* * *

It was dark where he awoke. Dark and musty. No stars shone above him and no loam cushioned beneath.

He didn't bother opening his eyes wider than a crack before closing them again. For some reason, his head hurt. His head hurt and his muscles burned with dull, throbbing aches and he was burning with anger, as if he'd been angry in his sleep as well.

They'd twisted his magic, perverted it. They'd turned it from creation to destruction. They hadn't given him a choice. It was either that or death.

But was it them? Was it those stone monsters who did this to him, showed him this dark capacity? Or was it something that had been in him all along which he had used in self defense. Existentially, it was the only answer.

Hezekiah knew that they'd have him use it for more than just self defense. They wanted him as a tool but Hezekiah knew resolutely that they wouldn't have him. He'd find a way to rescue Vincent and get home safe without resorting to the violent side of his magic which he loathed so.

Resolved, sleep overtook him. When Hezekiah awoke, he found himself sleeping in an actual bed. There were no sheets or blankets and the mattress was little more than a thin pillow but still, compared to the moist earth in the oubliette, it was heavenly. Hezekiah didn't want to move. There was no other furniture in the small room and he couldn't see a window. The room was like a cell. Light crept in from outside the doorway, though. The door was gone and Hezekiah could see a golem guard at the door. The light beckoned him like freedom.

He tried to ignore it.

Someone had put food at the foot of the bed. Bread. Fish. A little cheese and an apple. The light may have beckoned but Hezekiah hadn't eaten in two days. He moved the food over to where he could eat propped up on an elbow (one of his arms was feeling better) and he ate like a starved man. The bread was thick and dry and the fish salty but the apple slaked his thirst and, after, he laid back and fed himself bits of cheese.

His foot was still swollen. He took off his boot and eased it out. There didn't appear to be any breaks. The outside of his left ankle was black and, around the edges, yellow. Given a couple days, he thought, it should be good as old.

He took off his other boot and set it beside the bed. Laying back down, he felt sleep return to him. As long as he wasn't disturbed, he'd make the best of it.

* * *

"What do you do there? With your eyes closed?"

Hezekiah recognized Ostrander's voice and muttered, "Sleeping, Ossie. Shhhhhh." He rolled away from the earthen giant but felt a large hand come down on his hip and roll him back over. His eyes opened, looking upon the soily face just inches from his own. He noticed that Ostrander's eyes were agate, swirling patterns giving him an almost intelligent look. "My, grandma, what big eyes you have."

"Eyes," Ostrander asked, his muddy lips moving in a partial semblance of human speech.

"Yes, eyes, Ossie. And I was sleeping. Don't you know it's rude to wake people up?"

"I must. War Master summons you."

Hezekiah drew slightly back. "He's not looking to beat me up again, is he?"

"No. Test is won."

"Oh," Hezekiah said, allowing himself to relax again. "Well, let me get my shoes on." Ostrander took a step back as Hezekiah leaned over for his shoes.

"What is that thing? Shoes?"

"Yeah. They probably don't make any your size. They protect my feet."

Ostrander looked down at his feet and so did Hezekiah. They weren't much like human feet. They were simply blocks twice as wide as his legs. "Well, they're functional," Hezekiah observed.

"Why, functional?"

"Well, they're wider. They'll aid in your balance and you can squish bugs with them."

"Ostrander does not squish bugs."

"Why's that," Hezekiah asked, looking down at the feet. Then, he noticed, "You don't have any knees, Ossie. They made you without knees."

"Ostrander cannot have knees. I'm a quick job. A strand.. Thrown together. Now, I must keep my bond with the Regal Isle."

"Is that where we are? Is that what they call this place?"

"Yes."

"But you're breaking your bond right now, Ossie. You're not touching the ground."

"No, but the Imperial Palace is."

Hezekiah looked around at his dreary surroundings. He remembered the oubliette and the cage where Vincent was being held. "This is an Imperial Palace," he asked, suspiciously.

"The Imperial Palace isn't what it once was."

"I see that."

"Hurry, now. We must go."

Hezekiah had his shoes tied and he rose out of bed. "I'm ready."

This time, he wasn't taken to the War Master's throne room. Instead, they went in another direction which sloped downward. The twisting hallways of the palace held no rhyme nor reason for Hezekiah so he followed Ostrander. The passageways constantly dropped but Hezekiah knew that he wasn't simply going downhill. For all their lack in technology, the Imperials knew their mortar. The passages were fine; he could drag his foot without it catching.

"Where are we going, Ossie?"

"To face the enemy," he replied, looking forward as he picked different hallways seemingly at random. "We'll have a better view from the outer walls."

They soon reached an area where the halls grew grander and the doorways stood unbroken. This must have been the outer chambers of the palace, where foreign dignitaries would easily be impressed. Higher up and farther back sat the resident's quarters and such. It had to have been on a hill, though. The yard he'd been placed in had been up there and so had the quarters where Vincent was held.

They stepped out into the blinding daylight and approached the Palace's wall. It ran around the perimeter, seeming to rise as high as the Palace itself. A road, paved with once-polished stone, ran from the Palace entrance to the massive doors that kept the wall closed. On the side of the road, an entryway led into the wall itself. "When will I be able to see the boy who came with me," he asked.

Ostrander answered, stepping into the broken doorway, "Come this way."

Within the doorway was a staircase, steep and tall. Looking up, Hezekiah could see a bit of light at the top as he followed the giant's steps. They weren't steps, actually. Ostrander's "feet" simply glided along the stairs, up a vertical surface and along the step. Both feet were apart so that as one rose the other remained flat.

At the top, they exited through another broken doorway. (These giants hadn't quite mastered the knack of doorknobs.) Here the sunlight was not hampered by the shadow produced by the wall and Hezekiah squinted his eyes against its brightness. A strong, sea breeze tugged at his hair. It felt good. He put his face into it and opened his eyes.

Above him, spiraling like Xanadu, the Imperial Palace rose in its splendor. White and stark, it dwarfed the sea and blocked the clouds. Hezekiah could see that it was composed of many levels and easily defendable. It stood upon the top of a hill at its highest point and, as if to say that wasn't high enough, a grand tower pinnacled in Seussian proportions to the rest. Below, the elaborate, vaulted rooftops of the Palace shot like daggers to the sky. As it made its way down the hill, more courtyards sprung up as if in defiance of the stately halls, the last of which led down to the outer wall, which Hezekiah now stood upon.

The walls were precise in their enormity. By Hezekiah's guess, they rose well over fifty feet above the Palace's entry yet were only thick enough for four men to stand side by side. Thin though they were, Hezekiah could detect no holes, no cracks. This wall had never been breached.

Outside, Hezekiah could see that they stood upon the highest point on the island. Though he couldn't see to the far end, the rest he saw bowed below the Imperial majesty. Outside the walls of the Palace, acres of buildings surrounded like kittens around a great mother cat. (And Hezekiah couldn't help wonder how Succotash was doing.) Surrounding it all, another wall. Hezekiah observed that many of the buildings within that wall had been reduced to rubble and the wall hardly stood.

What had happened?

"You are looking at the cause of our hour of need," Hargoth, the War Master stated as he approached Hezekiah. "The Hordes of Death. They descended like a flood and threaten the Imperial Palace like an earthquake."

Hezekiah looked in the War Master's shining eyes. "Hordes of Death?"

"Dead Raiders. The Undead. Servants of the Lich Vyr-At-Hozoth. Call them what you will."

"What are you talking about," Hezekiah asked. "I don't see anything."

"No. You don't." Hargoth looked out into the sky. "That's because there's nothing to eat." He clapped his great, stone hands together with a crack and one of his fellow giants pulled a dog out of a bag. It was wild and mangy though it may have been a child's pet at one time. With no hesitation, the dog was thrown over the wall.

"What are you doing? You can't just -"

"Silence, wizard. The animal is better off with a quick death. Look you below."

Hezekiah turned and looked despite his anger and immediately saw shambling human figures dart out from the buildings. The were quickly upon the still warm animal and -

Hezekiah had to turn away. His stomach threatened to heave and his eyes teared at the taste of bile that rose.

They had picked the dog up, ripping it to pieces with their hungry hands, and eaten it raw. Hezekiah had turned away as the first undead creature had taken a bite from the bleeding torso, reveling at the blood that squirted upon its face.

Panting, trying to relieve his violent innards (and maintain some semblance of composure), Hezekiah whispered, "Okay. I want to go home now."

The War Master answered, "I'm afraid that's not possible."

"Who are you people? What is all this?"

"Those," Hargoth began, pointing down at the scrambling figures, "are the undead. They were created by a wizard with powers much like your own to destroy the Rynian Empire and destroy it they have. The four cities that cornered Rynia were destroyed. Many casualties were suffered. The remainders of the Empire came here, to the island, hoping to escape. But the undead followed them. Floating, swimming, and walking below the waters. The Bania Channel - once the Isthmus of Bania - didn't stop them. As you can see, they kept coming. They decimated the army raised by King Marcus - breaking through the outer walls and slaughtering those townsfolk who couldn't escape into the Palace - and skinned Marcus alive in the Promenade. Out there. The whole time Marcus screamed in agony as they feasted on his flesh."

"Who is Marcus," Hezekiah asked.

Hargoth looked at the drying, red splotch where once had been the dog. "He was our king... once."

"All of the people are gone," Hezekiah stated. "Where'd you come from?"

"In the final hours that were the defense of the Imperial city, Marcus' court wizard, James Galeny, took stones from the underlying cliffs and brought them up into his tower. His first creation, Hargot, he sent into the field of battle, a man built of stone and armed with fingertips sharpened to points. Hargot took down dozens of the undead swine. For all those dozens, though, it seemed that hundreds took their place. They overpowered Hargot and they threw his shattered remains into the sea.

"The shock, the loss, was too great for the Wizard Galeny. His mind broken by the spectacle of death, Galeny built his finest creation. Me."

"You?"

"Yes. I was the first stone giant. I was endowed with the magic that coursed through Galeny's veins. As he died, he brought me to life. With his final word, he called me by name. Hargoth." As the giant spoke, he seemed to draw into himself and his voice grew faint.

Now, he rose up to his full height, looking down upon Hezekiah. "Since then, I have created more giants, as you can see. The human population soon began to die off without sustenance and, so, the last of them left weeks ago on a quest to the south. To bring aid."

"Do you think it will work?"

"It is not for me to say, wizard. I am here to defend the Imperial Palace and, if possible, to destroy Vyr-At-Hozoth, who has brought forth this evil upon the Empire. That is why you are here."

Hezekiah took a step back against the edge, looking at the War Master's face. He could have sworn it was smiling. "Whoa - wait a minute. I just make things. I can't take on an army of undead. I'm just - I'm just - I just make things. I don't know anything about fighting. Hey, you got the wrong guy!"

"You constructed the gate between worlds, wizard. We've seen you used your power both to Bond and to Break. This was why you came."

The other stone giants moved in behind Hargoth and Hezekiah felt pressed between the evil he knew and the evil he didn't know. "What about Vincent? The boy? What are you going to do with him?"

"He'll be safer here than where you are going. After you've returned - assuming you do - perhaps you can work out a way back to your home."

"I want to see him before I go."

"That isn't possible. You will see him upon your return." Hargoth leaned forward, towering over the wizard. "Think of it as an incentive."

Hezekiah felt an anger rise within him that, while it was once a foreign emotion, was becoming more familiar each day. He took a step up to the War Master. "I could destroy you like I did your fighters. You know that."

"Yes, I do. You should know that I could have the boy killed at any time as well."

"How do I know you haven't killed him already?"

"You don't."

Ostrander took a few steps down the wall. It led around the palace, seemingly to the sea.

"Before you go," Hargoth said, "you will be named as a knight in the Rynian Empire."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Your desires mean nothing in this. Kneel before me."

Hezekiah thought of Vincent and of Robert. Then, he remembered the girl in the crystal whose face kept popping up in his mind. Besides, when looking up at the rock creature, he knew he hadn't much of a choice. He knelt, his eyes looking up to Hargoth's knee.

"What is your name, wizard?"

"Hezekiah. Fanlan." The words came thickly as Hezekiah worried that something was about to change.

"Then, Hezekiah Fanlan, before the Empire of Rynia, whose founder was the son of Gerrit, God of earth and stone, and whose lineage leads to King Marcus of Rynia, before the Regal Isle, whose shores were once bonded with Gerriter, the land of the ancients, and before the sons and daughters of the nine gods and the creatures which they created, I name you a knight to the Empire of Rynia and all her territories. Arise and greet your new life, Hex of Rynia!"

* * *

An ancient stairway had once been built, leading from outside of the Palace's walls down to the shore. Ostrander led Hex through a secret door and they began their descent. The stairs down the cliffside were so steep that, after hours of climbing, when Hex rested on them, he might as well have been standing. The view was fine. To the left, he saw the waves gently lapping upon the shore while the cliffs stood in stark, dramatic contrast. To the right, the Imperial Palace rose like a star, a magic castle caught in a struggle for survival.

"Come, Hex. We don't have long now."

Below him, the beach looked pencil-thin. For all the stairs he'd descended, they were only a third of the way down and it was already after noon. "You make a rotten liar, Ossie. Let me just catch my breath."

"And where did it go?"

Hex smiled down at the giant, "No, silly. I need to rest."

"Oh."

"Don't you ever rest, Ostrander?"

"I have no need. As long as I am connected with the Regal Isle, my needs are met."

"Uh huh. Well, you'll just have to bear with me."

While Ostrander took the steps fluidly, gliding down each one, Hex had to descend backwards, climbing the stairs ladder-like. "I wasn't the first one, was I, Ossie?"

"The first one, Hex?"

"Wizard. There were others before me, right? What happened to them?"

"Some of them died. They weren't made like you, some not so solid, some couldn't breath. Some wouldn't go."

"What happened to them?"

"They died. Hargoth had to kill them or he ordered me to," Ostrander replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

Hex stopped and looked at the giant. In the short time they'd spent together, Hex had begun to form an opinion of this tall, sad, companion as a friend. Perhaps he'd judged too soon. "You killed them, Ostrander?"

His eyes wide - his expression almost innocent - Ostrander replied, "I obeyed the War Master's orders. To not obey is to perish."

"Why?"

"The War Master is my creator. I do as he commands."

"How many did you kill, Ossie?"

"I did not count."

"Did any others get this far?"

"Yes. A few."

"But more died than came this far." It was more a statement than a question.

Ostrander agreed. "Yes. Many more."

"And you'd probably have killed me, too, if you had to."

"If I had been ordered, I would have killed you, Hex."

"I kinda figured." Hex couldn't feel any resentment towards Ostrander just as Ostrander could feel no remorse. Both understood the mechanics of creation. Hex assumed that restrictions could be put on the creations, just as Ostrander had been restricted to obey orders. Hex had never thought to do that and the idea disgusted him.

Further down the cliffside, the slope decreased and Hex was walking forward down steep stairs. He watched each step carefully, not wanting to take a fall from this height. His head down, he heard Ostrander's gravelly voice say, "I'll tell you, though, you are the bravest."

"Really," Hex said, smiling. "And why's that?"

"You are the only one who didn't bother to bring weapons."

Hex stopped and frowned. "Weapons?"

* * *

Far above, upon the inner wall, Hargoth had watched the wizard and the dummy dirtman descend the stairs. He turned to one of his adjutants. "Now, to the boy. Find him. And when you do, kill him!"

### CHAPTER THREE

### THE WORLD'S YOUNGEST MAGICIAN

The last Hex had seen of Vincent was when he'd sent Robert to look after the small boy. He'd tortured himself with images of Vincent suffering from concussion and no first aid or worse. Then, he began to wonder if Vincent had food or water or if he'd ever get free. Unless Hex did as the stone giants commanded, Vincent would die.

It was inevitable.

Reality, or what passed for it in Rynia, however, is always doing unexpected things and, despite Hex's worried thoughts, that was far from what really happened.

Vincent was gone from the dungeon long before Hex left on his journey. He was out while Hex was still in the palace, though Vincent was ignorant of Hex's predicament.

The morning after they'd arrived, Vincent with Robert sprawling upon his stomach like it was some great mattress (and, really, it was) awoke before the dawn. He was no great "early riser"; he just couldn't sleep. It was cold in there, among the damp straw and cold stone. To conserve heat, he moved into a fetal position, Robert grumbling as he fell into the straw.

A sound came from the corner. It was a scraping. It was a shuffling.

Both Robert and Vincent moved away from the corner. No rat could make that sound.

Then, they saw the ground move. It rose and shook off straw, growing larger and larger. With the dark so nearly absolute, they couldn't make out much. It was a huge, humanoid figure, rising from the stone.

Was it another stone giant?

Come to kill them both?

Light shone up from beneath it, casting eerie shadows upon its form

"You there," it whispered. "Come with me." It picked up a lamp, as though from out of nowhere, and approached.

Vincent turned against the bars, shuddering, terrified. Where was Hex? What had happened to him? Where was Sammy?

"Don't be afraid," the voice said. "I'm here to rescue you." The voice was distinctly human, sounding much like Sam's. Vincent turned around to the huge figure. It smiled at him and Vincent felt more at ease. "Come on. We don't want anyone to see us." The eyes displayed urgency, lit by a lamp that looked like Aladdin's.

Robert rose from the floor and pulled on Vincent's leg. "Sure. I knew all along."

Vincent picked him up and followed the stranger. In the corner, there was a hole in the floor and the stone block beside it betrayed its purpose. Vincent looked into the total darkness, wondering where the hole led. The stranger descended into the hole and put his hand out for Vincent, helping him down.

They were in a tunnel, dug crudely below the cell floor. The stranger replaced the block and brought up his lantern to look upon Vincent, the shimmering of flickering light dancing upon their features. "This must all come as quite a shock to you, new in our world as you are," he whispered. "My word! You're so young."

"Who are you," Vincent asked.

"Not now," the stranger whispered. "We must descend before the guard discovers you gone."

And so they went down the tunnel without another word. The stranger crawled on his belly, like a caterpillar, inching his way down into the darkness. Vincent crawled on hands and knees, using his feet when he could. They turned at another tunnel and Vincent had to turn over as this one descended in another direction. They reached another tunnel and another, continuing downwards. Vincent began to feel like an ant and the tunnels made him claustrophobic. "Are we almost done," he asked.

"We'll be out in just a moment," came the answer.

Vincent followed his light in the darkness. He thought, I hope he's careful with that lamp. Without the light we'd be - He shut that thought out of his mind and tried not to let it back in. He just kept descending.

"You're doing fine, kid," Robert said from within the pocket of Vincent's t-shirt.

True to the stranger's word, they were out of the tunnel in just a moment. Vincent heard the stranger's feet hit something. The stranger said, "Okay, now come on down. I've got you."

After a couple of steps down, the tunnel disappeared. Vincent drew his legs up and said, "Hey, there's no ground there!"

"Don't worry. I've got you."

Strong hands took his legs and drew him down. To steady himself, Vincent grabbed a hand-hold here and there. The light below dispelled the darkness of the tunnels and down he went into -

Another tunnel! But this one was bigger and they could stand. The stranger stood there with his lamp in hand, in the company of two women. Vincent noticed that their style of dress was very different from his own. The man and women all wore blousy tops with bright colors and pants tied here and there with string. Like gypsies, Vincent thought.

"Now that we're out of those tunnels," the stranger started, now holding a big stick like the others, "perhaps it's the time for introductions."

Robert popped out of Vincent's pocket, his hands raised high. "I am the great God of Death and Destruction! I've come from another world and I am pissed! Bow to me, your master, and serve my every need for I am great and powerful!"

The gypsies looked at one another and the stranger asked Vincent, "Yours?"

Vincent giggled, "Yep." Robert climbed up onto Vincent's shoulder and huffily noted, "Well, that worked in the old movies."

The man, ignoring Robert's posturing, put his hand out to Vincent, "I am Mark Nygarra, my young friend."

Vincent's hand went out, instinctively trusting his new friend. "Vincent," he replied.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Vincent," said Mark. He smiled the friendly smile everyone said he had, his long dark hair falling around his collar. "This is Gertrude Yska and Bethel Patir. We're soldiers in the Princess' Guard and, it seems, your liberators."

"Thank you," Vincent said.

"Think nothing of it. It's our job," Bethel said. "I can't get over how young you are."

"Let's get down into the light," Mark recommended and they walked down the tunnel. As they went, the three soldiers put sticks in the ground or moved rocks, seemingly for no reason.

"Did you put the wards back in place," Bethel asked.

"Of course," Mark replied. "Not to worry."

Gertrude, who'd been noticeably silent, moved some rocks and said, "Those golems'd probably never fit into those tunnels anyway."

"Sand," Mark said. He was so serious, the word gave Vincent shivers.

"Yep, sand," Bethel agreed.

"Can't spare 'em," Gertrude argued. "You think they'd just throw them away?"

"They've surprised us before, Gert. Don't forget that."

"Yeah. Yeah," Gertrude muttered.

They stepped out of the tunnel, its wide mouth opening into a vast cavern wider than Vincent's sight. He stared all around, his mouth hanging open in amazement at what he saw. They looked down at the rest of the cave and, from there, Vincent could take in the expanse around him. Perhaps it was a natural cave and perhaps some had been dug out. Either way, it stretched out larger than a city block. Its ceiling rose high above them, dotted here and there with stalactites. Some stretched far towards the ground and stalagmites reached up to touch them. Partitions to simulate habitation were erected to house the many people who dwelt in the cave. There was light everywhere, coming from the huge, cave mouth or from the torches, lamps, and cooking fires abundant throughout.

As they entered into the light, dim though it was, Vincent was able to make out the features of his rescuers. Mark was younger that Vincent had imagined, probably about the same age as his brother. His skin was pale - Vincent would soon learn that all of the cave's inhabitants skin paled from living out of the sun - and his hair was light brown, a wavy mass with a life all its own. His eyes were blue, like Geoff's. The big stick that he'd carried through the tunnel was better defined in the light and Vincent could see it was a weapon. One end was sharpened to a point and its width changed from here to there as it was either narrower or thicker in ripples up and down its length. A leather band stretched along its length from one-third up to two-thirds, or so.

Where Gertrude's hair was trimmed short and her bearing was masculine, Bethel's hair was as long as any Vincent had seen and she was very pretty. Vincent couldn't see their eyes, for they were turned away.

"Welcome to Rynianhomme, Vincent."

"What is all this," Vincent asked.

"You'll be learning that soon enough. For now, there's someone who wants to meet you."

"Who?"

"Princess Helen."

They walked down the incline and onto the cave floor where people commenced as though they were within a small town. Gertrude and Bethel went off in another direction without saying goodbye. "You'll have to forgive them," Mark said, as if sensing Vincent's thoughts, "they're not trained to be polite. They're just soldiers."

"Well, you're just a soldier, too, aren't you?"

Mark laughed a little, his confidence overflowing. "Not exactly, Vincent. I am a soldier but I'm also Defender of the Crown. Hence, I need to be a bit more polished than others in the Imperial Guard, or the Princess' Guard as some call it now. Sadly, it seems that Princess Helen is all that is left of the Royal family." As they headed through Rynianhomme, people they passed greeted Mark Nygarra and Vincent got an idea of how popular he was with the people. Popular? No, admired. As they walked through the alleyways, many folks even bowed to the Defender with respect.

Here and there, the smells of the town reached out to Vincent. Some were odd, things unimagined, like the casting of pottery and the quickening of hardwood for the woodsmiths. One odor he easily recognized was food. During the night in the cell, no food had been brought to him. He knew he'd missed supper. "Excuse me," he asked. "What's that smell?"

Mark looked down at the boy, an eyebrow cocked. In a moment, he smiled. "Ah, that would be breakfast." He put a hand on Vincent's shoulder and smiled. "I think we have time for a bit of breakfast." They turned into a wide room, where long tables made for eight sat side by side, cafeteria fashion. At the other end of the room, a bald, fat man, whose attire ran just as blousy but not nearly as clean as Marks, hovered over several fires. "Hello, Moitches! How's breakfast coming?"

"We don't open until full sun, soldier. If you'd open your eyes and look eastward, you could tell we're just passed half." He didn't pause to look at the two for a moment. He bustled between the fires and kept one hand stirring sauces.

Marked stepped before Moitches and dipped a finger for a taste.

Moitches brought the huge fork in the other hand up like a weapon. "Get yer grubby fingers - Oh! Mark. What are you doing sneaking up?" A smile betrayed their familiarity and, disarming himself, he shook the Defender's hand.

"I did speak but -"

"I know. I know. My hearing's not getting better with time. Who's your little friend? I don't think I've seen him around."

"My name's Vincent," Vincent said, shaking the cook's huge, sweaty hand.

"Well, Vincent, how about some breakfast?"

"Yes," was all Vincent could say.

Moitches brought out wooden platters and laid them out with slabs of egg, chunks of potato, and brochettes of meat. He would not open for another hour but exceptions could be made for old friends. But there were friends and there were friends. Moitches wouldn't be around if it weren't for Mark, who had been just a soldier back then. When the stone giants launched their initial assault upon the Palace, from within the Palace, Moitches and his daughter were sure to die. The giants were approaching, Moitches could hear them as he and Salnya packed away their worldly possessions. Suddenly, rock hands were breaking through the mortar walls and smashing to bits all they could lay hand upon. Moitches had grabbed Salnya and tried to run but they were surrounded. Then, as a bolt from the blue, a giant's head exploded from a blow delivered by the blunt end of a soldier's bat.

"That was this end right here," Moitches continued, holding Mark's weapon. "After that, all havoc broke loose but I could see my girl, Salnya, in the arms of the Defender here as he carried her off to safety."

"Wow," Vincent exclaimed. "You did that?"

"Well," Mark balked.

Moitches put one arm around Mark's shoulder and said, "No favor is too much for him to ask. But, so, you never told me where you came from or where you ever got the strange clothes. Who is he, Mark?"

"We're on our way to the princess," Mark began, taking a mouthful of the greasy meat. "This industrious, little man has come from the other side of a gate."

"Him?" Moitches gawped for a moment. "But he's so young!"

"Just what I thought. But I went up to the holding pen like Karlyn said and there he was."

"You built a gate," Moitches asked Vincent.

Vincent replied with a mouth full of food, "Huh?"

"You're the most talented young man I've ever known."

"Just wait until he's older," Mark stated around a piece of root.

Eyes wide, Moitches said, "He'll be powerful."

Vincent swallowed. "But I didn't build the gate."

Suddenly, all was quiet. Chewing stopped.

"Now you've done it," Robert's faint voice said from within Vincent's pocket.

"You didn't," Moitches asked slowly.

Pointing at Robert with his fork, Mark exclaimed, "Then, what about that?"

"Oh, I didn't make this. A friend of mine did."

"But that's impossible," Mark exclaimed. "The beacons were constructed so that only creatures of magic could use the gates. But you didn't build it?"

"No," Vincent replied. "Heck did."

Mark looked over at Moitches. "That means there's another wizard up there and Hargoth doesn't understand the beacons like we thought he did." Taking Vincent's hand, leading him out, he added, "And you need to be trained to achieve your potential as a wizard."

Vincent didn't know what all that meant but he was pretty sure it meant trouble. They took off like a shot and crossed the cave in no time.

"What's the matter, Mark?" Vincent asked. "I didn't do anything wrong."

Robert suggested, "I say we grab him by the toothpick and jab him a few times."

"It's nothing bad, Vincent, but the princess will want to talk to you," Mark replied.

"I say we grab that big, old toothpick of his and give him a few jabs!"

"It was my friend, Heck," added Vincent. "He did it."

"The toothpick! That big, old toothpick! Grab it and poke him!"

"With any luck, we'll find your friend soon enough. This is going to change everything," Mark answered.

Robert plopped down in Vincent's pocket and pouted. "I'm being ignored, ain't I?"

In the rear of the cave, several dwellings had been constructed, held together with hardwood joints. As the cave rose, so did the dwellings, rising up to the roof of the cave like a castle.

Up into the crude dwellings, Mark and Vincent crossed through crude hallways and yards until they entered the princess' quarters. Two soldiers stood before the plain door. It looked like all the rest and would have been easy to miss amidst the complex of buildings but it was the Defender's job to know. "Soldier Feyton. It is most important that I take a moment of the princess' time. Please request an audience."

The soldier was a young man who had come from outlying Awlsban, Rynian's southernmost city, only weeks before the stone giant's initial attack. Like most of the people from the south, he wore a short beard. Facial hair was an oddity in the Empire and Feyton never grew it longer than an inch. Shaving was another oddity in northern Rynia. Feyton kept a short blade forged from metal in Kallent, a kingdom far to the south that never had rich forests of hardwood like Rynia and had been forced to resort to the use of metals like the dwarves of old. He entered the princess' quarters and was out again before the door closed behind him. "She will see you, Defender."

Mark, still holding Vincent's hand, gave his bat to the guard and walked in. His chin was straight and proud as he stepped through the doorway and approached the woman who would one day be his queen. When he reached the middle of the room, Mark dropped to one knee and bowed. Vincent was now the same height as Mark, so remained standing. Robert said, "Hey, we stopped moving. Why'd we stop moving?"

Princess Helen sat upon a simple chair before them. Piles of maps cluttered her lap. She wore simple pants and a tight blouse, which betrayed her athletic build. "There's no need for that, Mark. Who is this?"

"The one we found in the cell, your highness," Mark replied.

Her eyes widened. "This is the wizard?"

"Not exactly, princess," Mark began to say while rising.

"What do you mean? Not exactly?"

"Princess. When we became aware of another crossing into our world, it seems that we were unaware of one other. I went as you bade but the only one I could find was this."

"And who are you," the princess asked.

"Vincent, ma'am," answered Vincent, who was wishing he could go home. He bowed, not knowing what was appropriate and as he did so Robert slipped out of his pocket. Dexterously, he grabbed the top and held on for all he was worth, screaming, "Hey, you want to be more careful?"

Embarrassed, Vincent took Robert in his hand and moved to return him to his pocket.

This caught the princess' eye and she kneeled down to eye level with Vincent asking, "Can I see?"

Vincent held out his hand and replied, "Yes."

Walking from one hand into another, Robert said, "Hi'ya toots! How's tricks?"

"It speaks!"

"Sometimes too much," Vincent sighed.

"Hey, watch it there, little buddy!" Vincent turned to the princess, who was standing and held the wooden man just inches from her nose. "So, tell me, Hel. What's the low down?"

"He speaks so strangely," the princess observed. "What purpose does he serve?"

"Purpose," Vincent asked.

Robert answered, "I am therefore I am... I think."

"He's just a friend," Vincent stated. "He doesn't really serve any purpose."

"Nor do I serve porpoise."

"I don't think Heck created him for any purpose."

"Nor do I serve dolphin."

"You were created by another wizard?"

Finding a chance to get another word in, Mark started, "Yes, he came over with another wizard. That's why I brought him so -"

"Yeah, good old Heck," Robert interrupted, leaning on Helen's thumb. "A heck of a guy, Heck. Actually, his name's Hex but you get the point. You'd probably like him, Hel. You don't mind if I call you Hel? Hel?? Hmm, Heck and Hel. Wait a minute. There's a joke in there somewhere. I'm sure of it."

Vincent brought his hand up to his mouth as he began to giggle.

"You should call me Helen, Robert, or princess. It seems strange to me that you'd be created for no reason. All of our Bonders create things for a useful purpose." With Robert still in her hand, she returned to her throne. Vincent was hesitant to follow but Mark nudged him forward.

As she sat, Robert stepped down on to her lap, softly settling atop her knee. "Ah, but there was a reason, you see. He, too, creates things only for one reason or another."

"Then what could that reason be, Robert," the princess asked, oblivious to the others.

"It's very simple, your Highness-ness. He was lonely."

Helen's eyes opened wide with surprise, their blue shining like a precious jewel. "I've never heard of that. Creating a companion. How intriguing."

"Not so much as that, your princesslyness. He's created a lot of things, a whole apartment full of them, many to keep him company. And those weren't all of them. Many were gone."

"And they all had personalities? Like you?"

"Oh, no. Some of them were as dumb as a stump. No. Wait. Scratch that. Thick as a brick. All the TV did all day was watch itself and that picker-upper thingie was a neat-freak. Personally, I always wanted to see the helicopter."

"Helicopter?"

"Yeah. A topless helicopter. And I'll bet that thing fly!"

"Fly," the princess asked.

"So, it was true," Vincent exclaimed, remembering the story on the news.

Helen looked over at the boy, asking Mark, "But, if this Hex was the bonder, then Vincent is not yet trained?"

The two looked at each other and Mark nodded. "That is exactly why I came so soon."

"Vincent," the princess said, kneeling down to take his hand, "I need to ask something of you. You must go with Feyton. He will bring you to Gourden, a bonder like your friend. Stay with him for a while, will you?"

"But, why?"

"I have to call an important meeting right away. This news you've brought us needs to be heard."

He held tightly onto her hand, almost afraid of what was coming. "News? What news?"

"Why, don't you know? You're the world's youngest magician!"

* * *

An hour later, in another of the many rooms in the royal apartment, Princess Helen sat before the leaders of Rynia. Mark stood behind her, his face gaunt. (His face was always gaunt during these meetings. It was part of the job.) His bat was draped over one shoulder at ready. To their right, Lord Alinax, Watcher of the Northern Spires and sovereign of Benaatt, sat with great reluctance. A man of action, he was used to fighting and winning wars, not staying cooped up in a cave and losing them. He'd led the Benaatt militia for fifty years, holding off the ice giants who had often crept down from the spires. He had come here when an army of ice giants marched south from the spires, led by the deamon of the north winds. The icers had never won before but this time was different. There was no way the humans could win a battle against their numbers this time. Family upon family was sent either to the east or southward, taking only that which they could carry. Alinax took what was left of his men, the ones who'd survived his foolish attempt at a defense, and herded the last of the refugees east, toward the ocean. They didn't get far. While they were pursued from the north, to the east stood an army of undead, their rotting bodies waiting for Alinax's people to fall into their trap. To the south, stood the perilous Silen Forest. Alinax knew about the ancient perversion that ruled the forest, every Rynian child was told the tale. But to go east would be just as foolhardy. Little more than fifty families remained and they had fled their homes without food, clothing, or transport. Only half his fighting men were on horseback. The rest would walk. So, he knew that it was either a two day journey through the eastern cusp of the forest, after which they'd be safe through the rest of their trek to the Palace, or a six days walk without food or water westward until they reached Morrata, and who could say in what shape it would be.

His brow pressed hard in thought, Alinax fidgeted at the table. He didn't like moments like this. When thoughts crept upon him. The memory of those starving families led out of Silen four days after they'd entered. Banry Ellison, one of the many scouts sent from the Palace before its fall met the remnants of Benaatt before they reached the shore and was able to safely direct them over the channel, to the Isle, and into the cave. Ten more people died on the way. Now, less than a tenth of what was once the great city of Benaatt remained. Maybe less.

"You have called this meeting to announce you've finally agreed that we must attack, I hope," he growled, his sharp voice scratching at their ears.

"Courtesy, my Lord," Mark requested, his eyes drilling into those of the old soldier. "The princess would speak." That is, if you wouldn't be so blasted arrogant, he thought.

The other soldier, Kraephten Kattox, chuckled, "Stay in line, you old ice-digger, 'ere the boy smites you." He laughed, his graying goatee bouncing with his head and his dark skin shining with his eyes. Like Feyton, he, too, came from Awlsban, but this one was no half-breed. Where Feyton only held half Kallent blood, Kraephten Kattox was a full blooded Kallent. Agile, lean, and slick like a desert fox, if you didn't know him, you wouldn't trust him. At his side, a long, curved sword hung scabbardless. That, too, was a sight rarely seen in Rynia, much like Kraephten's long, black goatee.

"Sand pirate," Alinax muttered in return.

At the far side of the table, motionless, Tuk, the great Destroyer, waited in his voluminous robes for the lady to begin to speak.

Helen cleared her throat. "Thank you, gentlemen, for coming at such short notice. News has reached us that you must all hear. Tuk," she addressed and his head rose slowly, his eyes hidden beneath his robe and his mouth showing in the light, "another wizard has passed through."

"Has he been retrieved safe," Alinax interrupted.

"Well," Helen answered, pausing for a moment, "that seems to be the point of contention." And, so, Helen proceeded to tell them about Vincent, the young boy who - by virtue of having passed through the gate - must be a magician of some kind, and of Hex, the great wizard – if Robert was to be believed - who had been taken captive by the golems.

"If he's findable," Kraephten surmised in his tenor, oily voice, "my boys can find him. Make no doubt about that."

"So, you think we should hit all of the secret passages," Helen asked.

"Hit the passages, yes. And man the tunnels. Put personnel on the parapets."

"Tunnels," Alinax scoffed. "You could be looking out your peepholes for days while this Hex person is taken apart on one of the upper levels or left to rot in one of their oubliettes. I'm telling you, princess; the time has come for an assault! We could put a force of a two hundred men in the palace by dawn and take them while they sleep!"

"Golems don't sleep, 'nax," Mark stated.

"They'll be off guard, Defender. Admit that!"

"Yes, and so will we," said the princess, instantly quieting the room. "They'll know of our tunnels and they'll send sand before we know what's hit us. No, my Lord. We cannot assault. There are too many lives at stake."

"Two more families were sent to Ceyliz at nightfall. Things are progressing," said Kraephten.

"Are they," Helen asked. "People are settling here. Some even like it here. They hold out in the hope that we will retake the palace and that they can return to their home. They don't want to leave that for some foreign port. Kallent has ever been our ally but relations cannot withstand the strain we are placing upon them by sending them our refugees. Sooner or later, someone will know that Rynia has fallen and then how soon before Kallent decides they no longer need to be our allies?"

"But, princess," Mark interjected, "the sovereign of Ceyliz is your uncle."

"He was the youngest of five sons. Don't forget that. He went over to Ceyliz after the war because nobody on our side would have him. You put far too much faith in family."

Alinax's hand was balled into a fist. "Then what are we going to do," he growled.

"What we have been doing. Biding our time. Commander Kattox, send your best person into the tunnels. If you see the opportunity, put one in the parapets but have a care. I don't want anyone captured. If they get any hint of our tunnels, we are finished."

"My spies aren't simple boys, your highness. They are one with the brick and rock of the palace."

"Fine. General Alinax, hold your men at ready. The battle could come at any time and make no mistake about it - it would be our last. We have nowhere to run but, perhaps, into the sea."

"Aye," he said.

"We are overlooking something," Tuk said, his voice rough and tired.

"And what is that, Tuk?"

"The boy. This Vincent. You were right to assume he is magical. I am certain no one can pass through a gate without that power. He is the first, however, who has come across without any training in his abilities. Perhaps, this could work to our advantage."

"Not forgotten," the princess stated, confidently, "just not addressed. But since you have some thoughts on the boy, I'd like to hear them. Say on."

"He is a boy, as you said. He needs guidance. With the proper training, with total immersion into the magical arts, he could be powerful. Those who start early often are. I would ask that you hand him over to me. Leave him to me and you'll have a great defender for the cause."

"I see," Helen said, nodding.

"And we'll only have to wait a decade for that to happen," Alinax added, the sarcasm muttered under his breath.

* * *

"E - I! E - I - O!"

"And on this farm he had a pig!"

"E - I! E - I - O!"

"With a -"

"Oink! Oink!"

"Here, and a -"

"Oink! Oink!"

"There! Here a -"

"Oink!"

"There a -"

"Oink!"

"Everywhere a -"

"Oink! Oink!"

"Old MacDonald had a -"

The sound of the door opening halted the singing. The princess entered the wizard's quarters, followed by the Defender and Tuk.

"Come on, guys," Robert shouted. "Another verse! And on that farm he had a goose -"

"Good afternoon, Robert," the princess said.

"Oh, I see. Somebody in authority shows up and you guys buckle. What a bunch of wimps!"

"Good afternoon, Rayesh, Vraacs, Gourden," she said to the wizards who sat before the treeling, nodding to each in turn. She thought it best not to mention their singing. "Robert? Where is Vincent?"

"You'll address me as comrade, you aristocratic pig-dog!" He balled his hands into fists and defiantly put them on his sides. When nobody responded, he said, "The kid's asleep."

Mark went into the next room, while the princess introduced Robert to Tuk.

Through the doorway, Mark could see the walls lined with cots, each kept meticulously neat through the strict discipline encouraged in the field of magic. Where the cave was perpetually dim, lit only by torches here and there, this room was darker than most. Entering, Mark could see a lump in one of the cots betraying Vincent's position. Mark smiled for a moment but, then, he heard the sobs. "Vincent? Are you alright?"

"Who's that," Vincent called through his tears. "Oh, Mark. It's you. I'm sorry." The little boy sat up in the cot, trying to appear strong. "I've just met so many people and I don't know anybody and I want to go home. Heck's not here. Sam's not here."

It occurred to Mark that Vincent might not have come of his own will. Perhaps, he hadn't known he was going. Perhaps Vincent was just as lost as he was. As all of Rynia.

He sat down next to the boy and put on arm around him. "I'm afraid I don't know what to say, Vincent."

Vincent looked up, pulling his blanket closer, and asked, "Where am I, Mark? What is this place?"

"Well, you see, this is Rynia. Not all of it, you know. Above us is the Imperial Palace of the Rynian Royal Family.

"Many years ago, before all of this, Rynia was founded. It was a small nation among many others. Where they plotted and waged war, though, Rynia formed alliances and bonds, looking only to please her people. The first King, Matthew Haddison, founded the Imperial Palace on the Isthmus of Bania. Although it was founded where the land met the sea, no port was constructed. No war fleet ever found a safe haven in Rynia. They were a people of peace, our founders, and perhaps a bit naive. Our nation grew and we lived in peace for hundreds of years. Every king built more onto the palace for that is the way of royalty. Cities were built and farmers and traders alike grew fat and wealthy. Times were good. Those times are are no more than a myth now. Now, things are different.

"It's been two generations since the big war, since the armies of Tsurtor marched west, decimating Paead and entering our borders. We were not ready for war. Our alliance with Kallent brought forth their armies, fighting with their swords. They cut down thousands upon thousands of Tsurtor's evil minions but where one had stood, one hundred took its place! Through the land they came, invading Rynia and killing many with their evil magic. One desperate gambit was all that was left. King Natir stood with his sons - one of whom, Marcus, would one day be our king - where the isthmus met the mainland. There, a great trap was formed. The enemy was met in one last battle, Rynian forces with their bats of hardwood fighting beside Kallent swordsmen. Their numbers were but a speck before Tsurtor's hordes and he thought he'd won. King Natir, though, was a man of brilliance and did something that surprised everyone. For, where Tsurtor was a wizard without equal, the king brought together all off the wizards in his kingdom. When the trap was sprung, the wizards of Rynia attacked! Envisioners brought forth wondrous beasts while Movers sent them into the fray. Bonders and Breakers, too, did all they could but to no avail. Tsurtor was too powerful. It was then that Tuk's father, the great destroyer Tulk, gathered the other destroyers of Rynia to do something horrendous and unimaginable. For, while we Rynian's hold life as dear, that must also include our own lives. Tulk and his men cast an incredible spell of destruction that sundered the isthmus from the land and the ocean came pouring in."

Mark waited for a moment as his narrative grew silent. "Tulk died that day, along with his fellows, but Tsurtor's armies were defeated. One figure stood upon the cliffs where Gerriter now met the sea. A dark and evil presence. Tsurtor. He vowed his return and then was gone. He hasn't been heard from since. Perhaps...

"Then, less than ten years ago, our current problems started. The ice giants of the north grew restless. They began to move south, attacking villages and killing those before them. Lord Alinax grew incredibly popular during this time, pushing back each thrust by the icers. Silen, too, grew unquiet. It had been avoided since the big war but now it was not enough to leave it alone. Those who neared it were overcome by horrible, nightmarish visions. Our security was being compromised but, still, we were whole.

"That's when the undead came. Thousands upon thousands. An endless sea of horror. They left Benaatt to the ice giants and overran the rest. Cities turned into open tombs and those who could escape fled here, to this isle. We sent as many away as we could, into the relative safety of Kallent. Only who's to say how safe that place remains?

"It wasn't long before the undead came here. We foolishly thought we were prepared, too. King Marcus charged out to meet them with the weapons of the living but who can stop death? His men were killed in moments and then the undead fell on him. His horse was taken. He nearly lost his life. Separated from the palace, he shouted a curse to the sky, vowing not to return until this evil was vanquished at its source. Still, they came. With no leader, what were we to do? Galeny created those rock monsters above us, empowering them with the ability to procreate in their fashion. After he died, they considered themselves better than man and turned on us. We escaped before them, fleeing into the tunnels."

His mouth dry from the telling, Mark finished, "And now, we are here." Silence passed between the Defender and the boy. "I tell you this, Vincent, so you know that I'm being honest with you. So you know that you have a friend. So you know to have courage."

"Can I ask you something, Mark?"

"Of course, you can."

"Was that supposed to make me feel better?"

* * *

Outside, introductions commenced.

"Tuk," Helen said, "this is Robert."

"Bobbie to all my friends," Robert stated, putting one hand up. "But you can call me Robert."

"I am Tuk," Tuk replied, taking the treeling's hand.

"Friar Tuk," Robert asked.

"No, just Tuk."

"Where's Robin Hood?"

"Robin-? No, my name is Tuk."

"Just Tuk?"

"Yes. Just Tuk."

"How do you get your shirt in your pants?"

"What?"

"Just tuck. Pleased to meet you, Just."

"What? No! My name is just Tuk."

"Great! So, what did your mother call you? Jussie?"

"No! No! No! Just Tuk. That's all."

"Who's all?"

"Robert, you're getting out of hand," Vincent said as he walked back into the room.

"No, I'm still in hand. He won't let go."

Tuk let go with a huff. "This is yours, I assume," he shouted at Vincent.

"No. Not mine. Hex made him but I don't think -"

"I'll just take him along for the time being," Tuk remarked, dropping Robert into a handy sack. "You're coming along with me."

"Why," Vincent asked, looking at the princess and her defender.

"Tuk will help you, Vincent," Helen answered. "He will help you develop the magic that we are sure is within you."

"Yes," Tuk agreed. "It may take years before there is but a glimmer but we will work you to the bone. You will study from dawn to dusk and work from dusk to dawn. Only through endless discipline can a wizard be formed and form you I will. I will personally see to your growth and you will never leave my sight."

All was quiet as Vincent fell into shock.

Robert leaned back inside the sack. He asked, "And this is going to help him?"

Softly, Vincent whispered, "I want to go home."

### CHAPTER FOUR

### SAND

It was like looking into the darkest, starless night, those eyeholes on the sandy figure. Samuel's breath caught in his throat as, before him, their features became defined. Coarse, grotesque in a gothic sense, they looked like fat, wingless gargoyles. The tall one pulled the crowbar close to its face and inspected it while the short one drew up, thinning out, and peered with equal curiosity.

They must have been some kind of puppet - some kind of intricate puppet like the kind they used in the movies, Samuel kept trying to rationalize. But puppets didn't shift like these things. They weren't as solid. In the half-light of the apartment, they looked like creatures from hell, rising out of the earth.

The large one smiled and ripped the crowbar from Samuel's hand.

He wanted to leave, go into the other room and find Vincent safe and sound, but his legs wouldn't move.

His feet wouldn't lift.

He couldn't talk.

He couldn't scream!

Then, the smaller one moved towards him, its body shifting across the floor with a gravelly sound.

Samuel's body, disobeying his every, urgent request, shook and began jerking this way and that. "Aaahh," he finally screamed and lifted his legs like a puppet himself, charging into the back room.

He slammed the door and quaking hands locked the puny doorknob lock.

"No more locks," he yelled the question at the doorframe. "What kind of idiot don't got no more locks? Where'd he grow up in? Friggin' Kansas?"

There were no windows. No other way out.

No Vincent, either.

"Oh, bro, when I find you I'm gonna kill you!"

Thud! The door shook in its frame from the assault outside.

Sam didn't have time to scream. He grabbed a dresser and pulled at it for all he was worth. It caught in the deep, pile carpet and still, he pulled. He pushed aside the hamper in his way, planting the dresser in front of the door.

Another thud, muffled now by the furniture, came from behind it.

Sam exhaled and breathed deeply to calm his heart. Leaning over, breathing, he noticed traces of sand on the floor.

Oh, God, he thought, taking a step back. Again, he couldn't breath and the trembling started. His eyes were locked on the spot, before the dresser, where he saw the sand.

He was sure nothing had been there before.

Then, there were a few inches of it.

Then, a patch of sand a couple of feet wide had grown before him.

Then, he could see it, pouring from behind the door like a flood.

"No!" He pulled against the dresser because he knew that, while the sand could go beneath, the doorway was his only way out.

It's just sand, he thought, again and again. Sand. Sand. Sand.

Then, the weight of the dresser pressed against him and he lost balance, dropping it with a crash. Beneath, he could see a sand creature forming like an inflating balloon. Still, the dresser blocked his way and he lifted up an end, throwing it with a strength he didn't know he had and an abandon muchly needed.

The door wouldn't open.

He yanked and yanked at the door, trying to lock so often he didn't remember which way was unlocked.

They were blocking his way.

"What are you," he yelled. "Leave me alone!"

But they wouldn't let him alone. They had been sent automatically when Hex, Vincent, and Robert had passed through. It was an exploitation of the mass to mass equation that made the gates work, a trade which Hargoth had been only too happy to insinuate into the magical formula.

Sam didn't bother waiting for a reply. Not caring about his foot, he kicked at the door. It was hollow and his foot went right through it but he yanked it back again, afraid of what might happen otherwise. Again, he kicked and again, made a huge hole in the door. The sand started to pass through it but he didn't care. Panicking, he leapt through the door, running for his life.

He forgot about his truck.

He ran out into the fields and hid.

It wasn't until the next morning that he snuck up to his truck and drove away. Sitting there, driving down Lynan, he thought about his only family and steered toward Country Gardens' police station.

Perhaps calling it a police station is a misnomer. While it was a station, it wasn't a "police station", actually. The only police that Country Gardens could afford (and wouldn't have gone that far if it hadn't been required by law) was John Schuck. Being the only officer, people just called him sheriff. The police station doubled as the Emory Auto Care Corner, one of the two gas stations in town. He'd been voted in because people felt that he'd take good care of the police car, and keep it clean. True, he was fat, so fat that he never fit into his uniform, and he wasn't particularly bright, but nobody else had wanted the job.

Samuel tried reasoning with Sheriff Shuck at first, telling him about his ordeal.

"Aw, Sammy, you just run along home, now. I'm sure a nice nap will straighten your head out."

"Look, John," Sam answered. "I know you took sheriffing lessons from Andy Griffith but I won't be patronized. If you don't believe me, come check out that house. There's something in there!"

"Did you ever see Paul Newman in that original Blob movie, Sammy," John asked, sitting back in his swivel chair. "Great movie. Better than any of the remakes. I'd swear that's who you remind me of right now. Monsters made out of sand? You actually expect me to take you seriously? What'd you do? Go to Newport Dunes and have a nightmare?"

"Sheriff, look, Vincent and that old bum are missing. Aren't you going to do anything about that?"

"Sure, I will, Sammy. You don't need to worry about that. You just wait twenty-four hours just to make sure they don't show up somehow and I'll send word down to the county. That's all I can do for you, Sammy. Take it or leave it. You gonna take it," John asked.

But Samuel was gone.

* * *

"Now, are you absolutely sure that's what he said?"

"Yes, Randy. I was right outside the window. John didn't give him the time of day." Geoff was sure of his story, even if the others did give him strange looks. They were sitting at Winwood Forest's playground. A huge, wooden playset dominated the sand lot, logs jutting out at odd angles. The boys always chased the small kids away whenever they wanted it. Randy would climb to the top and start smoking. The others would take a ledge or sit within the chamber, like it was their clubhouse.

"I can't believe you're talking monsters," scoffed Pete.

"Hey, I ain't the one. It's Vinnie's brother who done it."

"So, John's not gonna go out there, huh," Randy asked.

"Nope," Geoff answered. "John said he wouldn't listen to Sammy until tomorrow. Sammy said they had to go back to the Heckler's place."

"Are they gonna?"

"No. John even chased after Sammy and told him he better lay off."

"Why don't we go," Sean asked.

"No way," Pete answered.

"Why not," Randy asked, his cigarette held between his teeth.

They went out that night, figuring that nobody would see them in the dark. Petey and Geoff took their BMX racers. Randy rode on his ten-speed. Sean took his skateboard but, after he hit Lynan, he had to walk. It wasn't a long walk, up the hill just a mile or so, until Sean met the others at the gravel path to Harold Crubnower's house.

It was no big thing. The house looked deserted. It was a simple exercise in walk up, look around, see what was there, and leave. They'd be able to find out what the weird, old Heckler had stashed out in his place and what he did up there. But each of them knew something they weren't saying. Samuel Gobel was a big guy. He was in martial arts when his folks had died and he had to get a real job (two of them) to take care of his brother. No easy job was for him, though. During the day, he worked as a mover, loading trucks full of furniture. At night, he was at P.B. John, loading trucks full of food. His arms were like cement blocks. His grip like a vice. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him; it wouldn't survive.

So, perhaps, it wasn't just a walk up. The gravel would shift. Who knew how much noise that would make? What would it alert? There was no quiet way up. The rest of the property was fenced off. Unless they went single file up along the brick that bordered the path, they would step on the gravel. How would they look around? The house was dark. They weren't going to go inside. Maybe one of them could convince another to go in, each of them thought. Maybe there were dogs - big, hungry, guard dogs - walking around inside the fence. People up here could afford guard dogs. They could afford security guards, too. With guns. Who shot first and asked questions later. How could they see what was there if they were being chased by dogs and being shot at by security guards? What if they were caught?! How would they get away?

With this in mind, none of them stepped back.

None of them moved. They each waited for the other to take a step.

So, Pete took a step. When he did, the others followed. They took two steps, wanting to appear braver. Pete fell back a step, following behind so the others would get shot first. The gravel sounded like fresh potato chips no matter how softly they walked. Eventually, when they reached the grounds, things became even more daunting. The hour had grown later and the evening had grown darker and the shadows that fell over the old Crubnower place from the huge, spruce trees that bordered the property formed a sharp line of hellish gloom within the fence.

Geoff said that he wanted to go home so softly it wasn't worth it. He didn't want to say it any louder. He'd already made too much noise.

"Come on," Sean whispered, motioning for the others to follow him. The others muttered curses but followed him into the dark. Up to the front porch, they ran. The front door was busted open and Sean was about to lead them inside.

"Hold on," Randy hissed. "What if somebody's there?"

"Ain't nobody here," Sean answered, nudging the door open.

"He's right," Pete agreed. "People like this don't just go to bed with the front door open."

"And there's no security guards around," Geoff added.

"No dogs," agreed Pete.

Sean flicked a light switch but nothing happened.

"Cut it out," Randy demanded. "You'll trip an alarm or something."

"Ain't nobody home, doofus!"

"Right," Pete remarked, sarcastically, "so lets stay right here so if they pull up, they'll know we're here."

"We gotta find some light if we're gonna look around this house."

"You wanna get caught?"

Sean didn't like the idea of being the only one inside and nudged his way out. "I ain't gonna look around no dark, empty house."

Pete said, "Well, if Sammy came here looking for Hex, it looks like he broke down the door to get in. We need some light to see around inside. And we can't turn on a light," he demonstrated, flicking another switch, "The power's turned off. What we need is a little light. Like a flashlight."

Randy was quiet. He didn't move.

Geoff gladly offered, "Randy smokes!"

Grimacing, Randy smacked Geoff's arm. "Thanks a whole lot, Pee Wee." He pulled out his lighter. "I'm just gonna look around a minute and then I'm gonna come right back out. I don't have a lot of lighter fluid left and I ain't gonna use it up looking around some dumb, old house." He stepped upon the threshold, flicked his Bic, and went in.

Pete said, "Find out why there's nobody around," but he didn't think Randy heard him.

He didn't. He was too busy being - for lack of a better word - terrified. All he could think of was his police record. He'd been caught shoplifting a few times when he was a "kid", at the age of nine. Then, a year ago, he'd stolen money from a liquor store when the owner's back was turned. Turned out that the owner's back wasn't turned long enough. He'd been sent to juvie hall for that. Three weekends. And he had to go to this stupid therapist for the rest of the year. What if he was caught now? He was the only one inside. He was the oldest. He'd be to blame. Breaking and entering, that would be it. They'd say he kicked the door open and he told the other three to wait outside while he stole everything for himself. But, stepping into what might have been the living room, he saw there was nothing to take. Only dust was disturbed by his tentative steps, whisps rising through the light of his flame... like ghosts. He almost ran out, the lighter already too hot in his hand. Pushing his way outside, he was almost in a claustrophobic panic.

"Did you see anything?"

"What did'ya see?"

"You scared or something?"

"There's nothing in there," Randy answered, angry. "It's empty."

Sean asked, "Empty?"

"Yeah, like your head. Nobody lives here."

"But, Vince's bike," Geoff said.

They'd all seen Vincent's bike leaned up against the side of the house. Vince was here. Somewhere.

"Come on. Let's look around." Without looking behind him, Sean went to the far end of the house and turned the corner. Not to be outdone, the others followed. Sean was at the large shack at the far end of the property, working on the lock, pulling at it and shaking the door. The others approached and Geoff noticed the light coming from the basement.

The door was opened. Randy wouldn't go in. He shook his head vehemently over and over again. If anyone was here, they were here in the basement. The lights were on. Somebody was probably home. Every now and then there came a shuffle, a grunt, a hushed tone. The TV was on.

Then, from behind, they heard, "What the hell are you fella's doing here?"

Geoff stumbled down the landing. Pete jumped. Randy and Sean tried to run.

It was Samuel, standing in the stark light emanating from the doorway. His hands were clenched into fists and his lips were taut. "Do your parents know you're out here?"

Their hearts were racing like hamsters on cappuccino and they breathed raggedly, their mouths wide open.

Sean, speaking in gasps, tried to sound non-chalant. "Oh, hey, hey, Sammy."

"Hey, Sammy," Pete added.

Geoff squeaked, "Sam."

That gave Randy time to catch his breath. "Were you following us?"

"No, I wasn't following you, you little punk. You shouldn't even be here. Do you know that this is private property?!"

"You're here," Pete said.

The others agreed.

Samuel quickly felt his argument pulled out from under him. He knew they were probably there for the same reason as he: to find Vincent. He wasn't going to tell his monster story to a bunch of kids. (He didn't even know if he believed it anymore.) They wouldn't leave and he couldn't force them. "So, you seen anything?"

"No," Randy said. "We haven't been inside or nothing. We've been outside the whole time."

Sam walked down to the doorway. "Okay, Clyde. This ain't a bust so relax."

With the lights on, he could see the furniture laid out just as before. The TV was on. (How did the TV get turned on?) Nothing looked out of place. Oddly, there was no sign of any sand. He walked inside, the WFR's following him. In the center of the room, Sam found his crowbar lying on the floor. He bent down to pick it up and ran his fingers through the carpet.

No sand.

Had it been a dream? Was he crazy?

He hurried into the back where the bedroom door stood with a huge hole defeating its purpose.

"What are we doing, Sammy?"

"Shut up," he hissed. Inside the bedroom, he could see the dresser's contents dashed upon the floor. It hadn't been a dream but...

Where was the sand?

Someone coughed and they all turned around.

Sheriff Schuck leaned against a wall shaking his head. "You know, you boys are in a heap of trouble."

### CHAPTER FIVE

### TO CROSS REGAL ISLE

The sand was like a dull bed, shifting beneath his weight. His toes, free from the bonds of his socks and his shoes, dug into the gravelly depths. It was so clean and fresh, and the smell of salt so invigorating, he could have stayed there forever.

Ostrander stood above him.

"Just another hour, Ossie. My legs are killing me."

"Your sleeping has lasted long. The sun is up."

Hex turned onto his side, accepting that Ostrander wouldn't allow him the luxury of a little more sleep. With one hand, he scratched his head, shaking as much sand out of his hair as he could. It was oily and it was tangly and he was sure that seawater wouldn't help much. Sand was everywhere and Hex, being a realist, accepted this. He dumped as much sand out of his socks and shoes as he could and stood, stretching and yawning like a big cat.

Before him, laid an ocean. ("What is that called," he'd asked Ostrander. "It is the ocean," Ostrander answered. "You keep this up, Ossie, and I'll know everything.") It looked alive and strong unlike the Pacific Hex had often seen. He could see fish darting and birds dancing upon the crystal blue waters. He'd never learned how to fish but thought that this might be just the time to learn. Behind him, like some stairway to heaven, the steps ascended to the Imperial Palace, where creatures of stone battled creatures of flesh and bone. Which would win?

It had taken them nearly two entire days to reach the bottom, as the stairway descended from the sky to the sea. It didn't drop straight down, circling instead on the great hillsides in switchback after switchback. The steps went from being so steep that Hex had to climb down them like they were stairs to an almost flat trail and, then, steep again. Halfway down the trail, at a point where the ground was flat, a patch of wildgrass growing on the side, Hex stopped and rested as a brilliant sun fell into the sea. The night sky, beautiful beyond expectation, kept him awake as he tried to identify shapes and patterns. (The last time he'd seen a sky this full of stars, he'd been at the La Silla telescope in Chile.)

"We must go south," said Ostrander, breaking the silence.

"South it is. But I need some food, Ossie. Where can I get some around here?"

Perhaps it was something in the air that aroused Hex's appetite, for less than a mile away, within the earth, Moitches was stirring a morning stew and grilling slabs of bacon.

"It would seem that's for you to find. I have no need for food," Ostrander said.

"What? Don't your bosses know that humans need food? We need food or we'll die."

Matter of factly, Ostrander replied, "Then boy dies, too."

The coast stretched for miles to the south and, to the north, the cliffs were impassable. To the south, though, those cliffs descended and woods grew a long way off. "Come on, then. It seems we have some walking to do."

By noon, the sun beating directly upon him, Hex had to stop. His mouth was dry and his face was red. This was his third day without food or water. His eyes were a blur and his legs were weak. He walked to the cliffside, where a lone palm made a little shade, and sat down. "Heck of a diet plan you got here, Ossie."

Ostrander was silent.

The sand was no longer beautiful as it has once been. It was an endless stretch, a road to nowhere. And the sea was acerbic with its lap, lap, lap upon the shore.

"We gotta do something about this, Ossie. There's got to be some way to get some food."

"Your people eat fish. Why don't you eat them," Ostrander asked, pointing to the sea.

"Because in order to fish you need a pole, a line, and a hook. I can get a pole." Hex waved his arm, indicating the lack of suitable driftwood that lay on the shore. "Getting a line, though, that's another story. And then there's the hook."

"You are a bonder. Why don't you use your magic?"

Though the scraps of wood on the shore were hardly poles, that didn't mean they lacked utility. Hex looked up at the golem, into the bright sunlight, and smiled. "You know, Ostrander, that's a very good idea." He thought for a moment, reflecting on what he'd built before and what was at hand. "Didn't you say that people farmed this island?"

"Yes," Ostrander replied.

"Then, perhaps, I can take advantage of that. Gather me up some wood." As Ostrander began collecting branches in his large hands, Hex pulled two fronds off the palm tree. He broke the base off the leafy majority, wanting only the part that was shaped like a huge scoop. With two of those, he had perfect hands for picking. He grabbed several of the branches that Ostrander brought back and started to shape a long-legged, long-armed creature.

Ostrander watched in silence. This was how he had been formed. Bits and pieces had been taken. Inanimate material. In his case it had been dirt, scooped up from the ground. Piles had been made. A large pile for the torso and four smaller piles for his arms and legs. The four appendage piles were shaped and lengthened. Fingers and toes were attached. Then, a head of pebbles and dirt was mashed on top. He had been a throwaway. A nothing. Among the leaders within the stone giant's army, he was but a strand. He hadn't been needed; was good for only the lowest, most menial jobs. Like gathering branches. He turned away from the wizard with that thought, tightening his mouth (the living mud of his mouth) and looking out to the sea. The sea. There was a place where Ostrander knew he could end this pathetic existence. One day, perhaps?

Hex was finishing long fingers for his creation, a wooden creature that looked at itself with amazement. It stood almost two feet in height, big enough to carry back something worthwhile. "- long rows, with spaces in between each plant. Sometimes the plants will be tall, bearing fruit -"

"You t'ink I don't not know about your tree problem, mon? I was once a tree, too, you know? My legs were each from an apple tree. My body from a fir. My fingers were... well, I don't know what these things were from!"

"I had to work with whatever I had nearby," Hex explained.

"Well, not to fear, mon. I be finding you somet'ing good before you can holler for a maître-de, eh?"

"Thank you. I'm Hex."

"I know you, Hex. Everybody knows you! You okay in my book, mon. I'm Bandoo Lelala! I bring you food and den we do a little song. Okay?"

"I'll see," Hex replied, hesitantly. "I'd just like some food, now."

"Sure t'ing, mon." And up and away, the little creature scampered. It climbed quickly over the top of the cliff and Hex let himself relax.

"His feet didn't touch the earth," Ostrander observed, having turned away from the sea.

"No," Hex replied. "They didn't." Ostrander's silence reached out to where Hex sat. He said, "Look, Ossie, I don't know how you were made but, perhaps, I could help you. I'm certainly not an old hand at this but we might be able to work something out."

"No. Not in my nature."

"What is in your nature, Ostrander?"

"The War Master has given me orders. I follow them. That's all."

"What are your orders?"

"To bring you as far as I could. To make sure you don't run. To kill you if you try. That's all."

"Well," Hex started, rising to stand before the giant, "if you could take your feet off the ground, wouldn't you be able to bring me farther? Wouldn't you be able to make sure I don't run?"

Ostrander thought for a moment. "How do I know you won't kill me as I would kill you?"

Hex looked into his agate eyes and put a hand on his shoulder, warm from the sun. "Because I could have already done that. Your masters aren't very smart, Ostrander, and they consider you very expendable. I could kill you at any time if I wished and go back into that palace, if I was as powerful as they believed."

Ostrander's head shook slightly. "They know you're good. They know you won't do that."

"Then, if they know that, you should as well. Why won't you trust me, Ostrander? What are you afraid of?"

Ostrander turned away as quickly as he could, taking a step towards the sea. "Your food comes."

Behind them, a voice grew louder as it neared, singing:

"You can have you an orange

Or you can have wheat

You can pick all day 'til you get blistered feet

You can go on a grape binge

forgoing all meat

Or you can just send your friend, Bandoo Lelala

Find you some apples from a big, old tree

Bandoo Lelala

Bringin' my friend Hex something good to eat."

He was about to start another chorus when Hex said, "Bandoo? Did you get something?"

"Did I get something, mon," he asked, descending the cliff with care not to drop anything... himself included. "Don't you not gonna listen to my song? I got you, my friend, some good, fresh apples. Ripe and crisp and delicious. T'is the real thing, mon!"

Hex didn't reply. Bandoo has tossed him a piece of fruit and he was busy eating. After the second apple, he said, "Thank you, Bandoo!"

"Not a problem, mon. But do yo'self a favor and swallow, for pity's sake!"

* * *

Continuing south, the shore had widened and the cliffs had grown short. It was two days after the creation of Bandoo. He became a member of the party, singing and foraging food. Ostrander was visibly uncomfortable so near a construct of such gaiety and freedom. Hex tried to talk to him but couldn't draw him out.

That morning, they came upon a creek emptying into the sea. Hex was elated to find some real water. Now, he could bathe and drink as much as he pleased. (Bandoo had found a well the day before and, using a cup which Hex made out of palm fronds, had brought Hex the occasional sip.) But Ostrander advised against it. "It be too small for you. You need bigger place for cleaning."

"Well, I guess you have a point." The creek was no wider than one of Hex's steps. He could drink from it but it would hardly do for a good bath.

"We go upstream. There is a pond."

"Why, Ostrander, I didn't know you cared."

"Care for yo'self," Bandoo hooted. "I'm being parched 'till I'm peeling, mon. I'll be swimmin' upstream!" Bandoo dived like a thirsty fish, paddling around with his big, cupped hands. After all, he is plant-life, Hex reasoned, even if he is animated.

Looking up to where the creek disappeared into the hillsides, Ostrander said, "I took another up there, once." His voice was deep and regretfully ominous. "He may still be up there."

"He," Hex asked, following the giant up the hill. Leaving the seaside, they entered into lush scenery, while farms took the sides of the creek for irrigation, trees grew almost wild and everything was green. Bandoo followed behind, enjoying every stroke in the cool, clean water.

"He was another wizard," Ostrander answered. "Ooobrecht, his name. He dwelt in water like this. And almost dead when we came here."

"So, you put him in the creek?"

"Yes. He got away. Up the creek and I followed. He went into the pond. I could not follow."

"Why not," Hex asked, pushing aside branches as they continued up and the creek grew wider.

"Water kills me."

"What?" Hex stopped walking, appalled.

Ostrander looked back at the wizard. "I am made of dirt. I am nothing special."

Up ahead, an irrigation ditch cut across their path. Though filled with trepidation for the earthen behemoth, Hex knew that Ostrander had to have crossed it before. More than once. He followed as Ostrander approached the edge of the ditch. What was Ostrander? Friend? Guardian? Keeper? Threat? Could he kill Ostrander simply by throwing him off balance as he crossed the water? No. He realized he couldn't and he was sure that Ostrander knew that as well. Was that a weakness or a strength, Hex wondered. Was the quality of mercy strained? Or was he just another sucker with an odd name?

Ostrander moved into the ditch, submersing the blocks of his feet. Small clumps of earth fell away, washing into the ditch and, as he moved out the other side, his feet were noticeably smaller. Hex stepped over and asked, "Isn't that dangerous? Loosing mass like that?"

"Mass," Ostrander asked, unfamiliar with the word. "I'll sink down. Form new feet."

"You'll get shorter?"

"Yes."

"That won't do."

"Why?"

"Well, if I need your help with something, I'll need you this size, not as some midget."

"Oh. The War Master can repair me."

"The War Master can and so can I." Hex knelt beside the ditch and grabbed a handful of mud. With it, he knew he could work his "magic". When he turned, though, Ostrander was gone. He had continued up the river. Hex rinsed his hands off and ran after the giant. A gentle roar coming from up the trail. "I don't get it, Ossie. Why won't you let me help you?"

"Many things, you don't understand," Ostrander answered, looking far away. "Pond straight ahead."

Hex hadn't been looking. His attention had been on the giant. When he looked to follow the giant's gaze, however, he saw the pond. Pond? It was like something out of a tropical paradise! Falling from majestic cliffs, crystal water showered down upon rock after rock, green with lichen and moss, entering the "pond" with a high roar. Around the "pond", trees and flowers of every imaginable color flourished. The water was clear like a mirror, showing only an occasional fish, swimming by. Hex stepped over to the water, put a hand in, and brought the crisp, icy water to his mouth.

"Why have you returned, 'Trander? And what have you brought with you?"

Hex almost spit out his water. The voice boomed like thunder, carrying in the air like a breeze. Before him, in the middle of the lake, the reflective surface of the lake rippled by the disturbing form of...

It must have been Ooobrecht, a creature so colorful and bizarre that Hex couldn't help but stare. Its skin was what first jumped out and entranced Hex's eyes. It looked like it was covered in body paint. Yellows, greens, purples, all streamed and danced in a chaotic array. It was for that reason that Hex had to keep staring in order to discern Ooobrecht's exact shape. It was short, at least, that which had surfaced. Two large flippers propped it up against... something. And its head looked much like a multicolored walrus with wide, twinkling eyes.

"This another wizard," Ostrander answered. "We head to the end of the Isle."

"So," Ooobrecht huffed. "Another victim to your mad scheme, eh? What is your name, silent one?"

"He is the Hexman. He is Hex, man. You are the Walrus. Ko ko ko joob!" Bandoo fell back against the shore in a fit of laughter, not able to go on to the next line.

"What is all this nonsense?"

"So sorry, Ooobrecht. That's Bandoo Lelala. He's with me," Hex explained. "My name is Hex. Actually, it's Hezekiah but they named me-"

"Yes, indeed they did," Ooobrecht interrupted, swimming towards the shore. The large ripples in the water portended a larger body than Hex had supposed. When Ooobrecht was a few feet from Hex, he stopped, his large, walrus-ish body sticking half-way out of the water. "And name you well, they did. Hex, indeed! I can see a great deal of magic in you!"

"You can," Hex asked.

"Indeed, but it is my talent. They name us all, you know? It is part of their way of getting us involved in this mad scheme. I used to be Ooowaaayyeeeaaammmmeeeeelllaaaayyyeeeeaaannn." The name was like a song, floating above the leaves into the air like an angel. "Now, thanks to that wretched Hargoth, I am simply Ooobrecht."

"Why don't you just go by your old name?"

"Because he I no longer am. It seems that everyone knows me as Ooobrecht. Why not? That's who I am now. Thinking of my old name and my home on the shore of Lake Nylnouwa, I grow too sad."

"How is it that you came here?"

"As I said, seeing is my talent. What else with eyes like these? One day, while experimenting with the integritous state of ice, I came across a beacon."

"A message," Hex asked, anxiously. "From the princess?"

"Indeed, just so. I was to find the gate form within ice that matched the precise wave-sense of the beacon. When I did, well, I wasn't expecting to be sent here."

Hex agreed, "Me neither."

"Trapped in that awful cell, I had no option but to cooperate until we reached some water. Not that awful sea water, either," Ooobrecht spouted, glaring at the silent form of Ostrander. "So, tell me, Hex, what is your story?"

Hex sat down in the dirt beside the pond and began telling his long tale, including Vincent and Robert, his talent and the gate.

"So, you are a Bonder, then?"

"Bonder," Hex replied. "It just seems like something I do."

"Indeed, and my talent seems to me to be only that which I see, you see? It is in our nature. Magic? Who's to say what is magic and what is simply that which is?"

"But there seems to be a good argument for magic. Look at us. When I came here, I could suddenly talk to rock creatures and now I can talk to you. The odds of us each speaking English on each of our own worlds must be-"

"Odd, yes. But I would ask you to remember that each of your creations, too, speak the same language as we. Of course, their only point of reference is you. They come from you and, therefore, are a product of you. Why wouldn't they speak the same language? And us? Well, we came from the gate. The gate was the product of someone who spoke a certain language and so."

"Are you saying that we're reinvented when we pass through the gate?"

"Reinvented? Perhaps. Reinvisioned, too. Mayhap our selves are simply adapted to fit into this new place."

"Perhaps."

"And you said that Bonding was simply something you did and I, too, have a talent which I take for granted. I am what is called a Mover. I see, you see, and wherever I see I can be."

Bandoo, waiting for an opening sang, "Hey, sirrah, sirrah, wherever he sees he be!"

"Is there any way to shut him up?"

"I'm afraid not," Hex replied. "For some reason, he's quite taken to singing."

Ooobrecht grunted. "Such is the way with magic. As a Mover, I have brought myself to many exotic places but, stuck here, I didn't find a suitable spot until I dragged myself here with both flippers. The remnants of some Summoners or Envisioners swimming hole," he said, looking around appreciatively. "Probably an escaped captive like myself. Who would have thought our gifts would have brought us to this?"

"It had always seemed like some, oh, I don't know, intensely unorthodox derivative of science to me. A twisting of physics or some fudge of biochemistry."

Ooobrecht was scandalized. "You didn't believe in your own magic? Amazing! Shocking to think that you made it through, actually. Did you actually think there was a rational explanation for the animation of inanimate material?"

"Well, yes," Hex answered tentatively. "I suppose I still do. To a degree." He looked up into the sunlight. "Up there, the sun is doing the same thing. It's taking a hydrogen atom and turning it into life." There was something else nagging at Hex's brain, though. "How do you know so much about my talent, though? You're not a - Bonder."

"No. I'm not a Destroyer an Envisioner or a Summoner, either, but, I... Hey, wait just a moment, how many wizards do you have in your world, anyway?"

"Well, I don't know." It was an odd question, Hex thought. "I'd always assumed that I was the only one."

Ooobrecht's head went back in surprise. "The only one?!"

"Yes."

"That would explain it, then. Did you not even have any formal training?"

"No. College, mostly, but otherwise, I'm the only person I've ever known who could do it."

"Amazing. You astound me now more than ever. You see, where I come from, just about everyone is a wizard. Certainly, there aren't many as talented as I. Most of our Movers can only drag a stone the size of 'Trander, there. Our breakers can hardly crack a coconut. We've only had one Envisioner in recent history. Sent down a storm of fishes. That's well remembered, I'll tell you. I was almost a Teleporter, best of my peers. Ah, but that's gone now. What you need is a crash course in magic before you continue with this mad mission of Hargoth's."

"Why do you keep referring to it as that?"

"What would you call it? You're traveling through ground overwhelmed with creatures of the grave on a quest to destroy a lich. What would you call that? If not mad?"

"I guess you have a point."

"And, so, you have come to a land rife with magic, knowing almost nothing about magic. Then, to start, here is what you must know. There are four schools of magic that I know of. In each school there is a lesser and a higher school, each interrelated. There could be more."

Ooobrecht continued, educating Hex in the most rudimentary points of magic all afternoon. The first school Ooobrecht mentioned was that of Creating. Hex was a lesser creator, a Bonder. His was the talent to put things together, creating something from something. A Creator, though, could make something from nothing. He wouldn't need twigs or leafs or rock to make a creature. Indeed, he wouldn't need the parts of a helicopter to make a topless helicopter. With a thought, it would be created! The opposing school was that of Destruction. The lesser school was that of Breaking. Hex knew about Breaking.

"Somehow," Ooobrecht told Hex, "Bonders can Break as well. But true Creators never Destroy and Destroyers never Create. It is much like good and evil that way."

"But what if the circumstance requires something to be destroyed for good to be done," Hex asked. "Or what if you create something evil?"

"Indeed," Ooobrecht answered, eyeing Ostrander distrustfully.

The next school was that of Teleportation, with the Movers being in the lesser school. Movers could only teleport from one spot they could see to another spot they could see. Teleporters, however, could move things to a place unseen. Perhaps, some place they had been before or some place in a picture. Finally, there was Summoning. The higher school was Envisioning. While Summoners could only summon that which they could see, Envisioners could summon anything. Anything!

"But I don't understand," Hex interrupted. "If they can't see it, how could a Summoner summon it?"

"Surely, you must realize that most of magic is art, Hex, as most of art is magic. Aren't you a sculptor, then? Don't you sculpt your creations?"

"Well, yes."

"Yes, and how does one summon something they can't see? They draw it, don't they? This puts in a terrible limitation. Some can only summon that which they can draw. Nothing living. Nothing three dimensional. Not like a Mover who can move things where a picture points them. They are actually making things real here!"

"Well, if an Evisioner makes things appear, isn't that the same as a Creator?"

"Very good, Hex. But there is a distinction. For, while Creators are making new things just like you do with your Bonding, well, Envisioners are summoning things that already exist. They come from somewhere, you see?"

The sun was low by then, setting over the far end of the Isle. The pond and the copse of trees were already covered in shadow and Hex was feeling hungry. So he sent Bandoo out for some dinner and he returned with some peaches and a carrot. Hex offered Ooobrecht a peach but Ooobrecht wouldn't come all the way to the shore.

"Why not," Hex asked.

"I thought that would appear obvious by the look on our mutual friend."

Ostrander had been silent all day long. Not a word. Hex had tried including him in on the conversation at first but the giant stood still. It wasn't just that he hadn't spoken, though. He hadn't moved. He was still standing in the same spot, looking into the pond.

"I don't understand."

"It's simple," Ooobrecht replied. "'Trander, there, wants to kill me."

Hex was shocked. "Kill you?"

"Yes. Certainly, you know he's done it before. There have been many wizards before you and, though I wish you the best, there may be more after. Don't you wonder what had happened to those before? They certainly didn't complete Hargoth's mad quest. He-"

"Yes. I know," Hex replied. "He - he told me."

"Then, you understand your predicament and you understand mine."

Hex stood up and went to Ostrander's side. "But, he has me now and I'm certainly better suited for the task, if I might say so. He doesn't need you. You're free now. Isn't that right, Ostrander?" But Ostrander was silent, his eyes blank.

"The reason your friend doesn't answer is because you're missing part of the puzzle. You see, he views me as one of his failures. Because of me, he wasn't made into a rock giant. He's still dirt and mud. Isn't that right, 'Trander?"

"Is that right? Did they offer that to you," Hex asked.

"Of course, they did. They offer him that for all of us. That's why he killed the rest and that's why he'll kill me if he gets the chance. Only I'm not gonna let him."

Hex looked into the golem's dull eyes. "I don't know if what he's saying is true, Ossie. But, you know, Hargoth isn't the only Bonder." He walked back to the edge of the pond and whispered, "What's to stop him from killing me as well?"

"Nothing," Ooobrecht replied quietly, "and that's part of the madness of it. Hargoth has a firm hold on that castle and he's not anxious to let it go. There might not even be a lych. He might be fictitious and the undead may be what's left of the inhabitants of this isle. Either way, they serve Hargoth more than they hamper him. If he comes across any wizards he can't easily kill, he sends them out here on a mad quest. Fighting undead without a clue of what they're doing. And if they come close enough to success, 'Trander kills them in their sleep."

Hex sat down and ate a peach. He tossed one to Ooobrecht, who found he quite liked them. Later, Bandoo sang peach picking songs and, when he ran out of those, a few selections by the Beatles. Ooobrecht rather liked the Beatles tunes.

The next morning, after the sun had warmed the copse, Hex allowed himself the luxury of a bath. There was no soap but Ooobrecht showed him the bark of a tree which scrubbed him rather well. He spent over an hour swimming in the pond with his new friend but, as time flew, Hex knew that he'd have to leave before he lost the afternoon. He had to dry in the sun and put on his clothes while parts of him were still damp.

"I still don't understand why you have to go, Hex. Between the two of us we could take out Ostrander and we'd be free."

Hex tried to appear busy tying his shoes but, actually, he was thinking. After a moment, he looked up at Ostrander, who still hadn't moved, and then, over to Ooobrecht. "You could kill Ostrander alone, Ooobie. We both know that."

"Well, yes, but -"

"No buts. If your magic works the way you say it does, you could inscribe a portal on the water, making a gate above Ostrander that would turn him to mud. You could do it right now if you wanted. So, why don't you?"

Ooobrecht tried to look callous. "They'd just make another one. There's plenty of dirt in that castle. Plenty of 'Tranders where that one came from."

"Perhaps," Hex answered. "And, perhaps, it's because you owe Ostrander your life. He could have dumped you on the land any time he wanted and you couldn't have moved out to the sea. You don't have arms - not real arms, anyway - or legs."

"I don't like sea water, anyway. All that salt. It gets in my skin. Perhaps he did put me in the creek. Perhaps I do owe him my life. But you're still their pawn, their slave. You can run but you don't. What is your excuse?"

"Mine? I just think there's more to this than meets the eye. I think Ostrander knows what he did was wrong and has been trying to make amends. Maybe he believes in his cause. I don't know. But I'm not willing to give up on him. Not yet, anyway. And I have to go. I can't just run when I get the chance. They're holding a young man for whom I'm responsible. He's just a boy. He must be terrified right now. They've promised his release if I go fight this lich for them and I can only hope they keep their word."

Bandoo returned with lunch, which Hex split with Ooobrecht. Then, they took the rest and headed back down the creek, Ostrander following them like a silent monolith.

Ooobrecht, nibbling on a peach, watched thoughtfully their retreat. "Calm tides, my friend. Calm tides and fat fish. Fat fish. That's something I haven't had enough of. Fish. Perhaps I should take a trip down river to the sea." He swam around the pond a couple of times, ending at the river's mouth. A boy, he thought. Left in the cell alone.

Ooobrecht remembered that cell, how he sat within drying out and suffering from cracked skin. There was something else, though. Something he'd specifically wondered about. He had nothing if not very good eyesight and he remembered sitting in the cell wondering about the hole in the floor. He would have explored it if only he could have lifted the block that covered it. Would someone like Hex be able to lift it? After all they did have those... fingers. Ooobrecht thought about those fingers as he went down the river and, as the river narrowed into a creek, he considered how the tunnel did seem to go down. Down. Perhaps, Ooobrecht thought, I should make a little trip south and see if there are any boys about.

* * *

Ostrander put his hand on Hex's shoulder, stopping him abruptly. "Wh - what is it, Ossie?"

As Ostrander pointed northwest, Hex was afraid that his giant friend would remain silent. But Ostrander spoke, "Better to go northwest from here. Shorter to cross."

"Shorter to cross? Where will that take us?"

"Bania Channel is shorter that way. Crossing will be easier."

"Okay, Ostrander. Then we'll go that way."

Ostrander had taken a few steps to the northwest when he realized that Hex was still standing behind him. He turned around to see Hex determinedly smile.

"While you're talking, I figured I'd take advantage. I'll walk with you, if you'd like. Or we can stand here and talk if you can't do both at the same time."

Ostrander walked back to Hex. He stood over him, ominously dwarfing the wizard. "I'm not stupid, Hex."

Hex's smile softened and he put a hand up on Ostrander's chest. "Nor did I think you were but you're not very cooperative either. I can't just follow you blindly and hope for the best. It's hard to trust someone who I know has killed other wizards before me. You gotta help me, Ossie."

Ostrander turned and began walking again, saying, "Come, then."

Hex let Bandoo jump on his shoulder and he kept pace with Ostrander, saying, "How do you know which way to go, Ossie? Have others gone this far before me?"

"Yes, others have. More, though. I am in oneness with the land. I can sense the way."

"Ah. How far did the others go?"

"To the shore, then they left me. They swam on. I stayed on the Isle."

They were walking down into another farm. Trees formed a natural boundary and, as they crossed through the trees, Hex said, "But I can't go on without some kind of guide. I don't know my way."

"I can't cross. My feet must remain as one with the land."

As Hex and Ostrander continued to speak, and Bandoo softly hummed, the island around them was eerily quiet. Hex nearly jumped out of his shoes when he heard a footstep behind him. It was a wet sound, hard and unforgiving. Hex pivoted so fast that Bandoo almost flew from his shoulder. Before he'd even turned, the smell assaulted him. It caught in his throat, sickly sweet in one moment and rank like bile the next. His breathing stopped when he saw the creature that stood before him.

Rags hung from its flesh and Hex knew that this was one of the undead, close up. The face was almost human where bits of skull didn't protrude and worms feasted on skin. It moved in a kind of dance, trying to force movement from long dead and putrefied muscles. Yet, it was completely silent, its mouth hanging open, teeth showing over lips that had sunk down into the face with rot.

"Os -" Hex started to say but was shocked into silence as Ostrander brought both stone fists together upon the undead creature's chest, popping its head off with a rain of fluids. As Ostrander's hands went back to his sides, the bottom half of the undead thing danced and wobbled and, eventually, fell to the ground, kicking where it lay.

There were others, though, shambling from the trees and rising from the field. They were all in various stages of decay, from the newly dead whose eyes still inhabited their skull, gazing through milky white pupils, to things that looked like little more than starved skeletons.

Hex turned to see more coming from behind. That's the last time I take a shortcut, Hex thought, running with Bandoo into the center of the field, being herded like a sheep. There had to be something he could do. "Ostrander! Help!"

But Ostrander was far behind, moving as swiftly as his earthen body could take him, being picked apart by sadistic undead as he hurried along.

Bandoo leapt back onto Hex's shoulder. As Hex said his name, Bandoo replied, "Don't be lookin' to me, mon. I'm just a singer, not a fighter." Hex scanned the fields for some farming tool, a pitchfork or a hoe or a shovel, but there was nothing. Ostrander was pulling undead limbs off of him. He'd stopped several but he was obviously injured. They were too close now to run. Too close for anything except...

Hex looked at the nearest zombie, running at him, and focused on the composition of the bones. Analyzing what it was composed of, he observed that he could break the collagen, which bound the hard matrix together. The effect this had on the zombie's body was not surprising. As it brought one, bony hand down to grab at Hex, its arm turned to powder in mid-air, falling harmlessly to the ground. The zombie almost took a step back before it fell like a tattered bag of fluids. Hex didn't have the luxury of patting himself on the back. Other monsters were jumping for him. The next noctambulist was as easily disposed of as the first. The next closest creature, though, was almost alive, mostly clad in its original flesh, and Hex couldn't make out the bone easily enough to decipher its chemical code.

He needed a cruder attack. He brought his foot up to kick the creature's leg but was hit from behind. Loosing his balance, Hex fell. Before he could rise, a mummified corpse fell on top of him, exhaling putrid breath into his face and as Hex's lunch came up, two more grabbed his arms. He tried calling out for Ostrander but didn't dare inhale. As bone claws scratched at his face and arms, he tried to kick at the thing on top of him. He couldn't help feeling sorry for Vincent and Samuel and wished there was more he could do.

His shirt was being torn away where it covered his heart and his skin was clawed at. Suddenly, his arms were free and the weight was flung off of him. He opened his eyes and, beside him, the creature was squirming at the end of a long, wooden spike. The spike was removed, turned around, and the blunt end crushed the creature's skull, spilling black fluids on the ground. For all that, though, Hex was too stunned to move.

Above him, a man twice his age looked at him with a brutal glare. His face was etched with hardship, thin lips framed with deep lines. His hair, short and wavy, was shot through with grey.

"Come on or we'll both be dead," the stranger shouted, pulling at one of Hex's bleeding arms. The undead had fallen back, frightened by the stranger's weapon and skill. Those on Ostrander were still attacking.

His wits returning, Hex screamed, "Ostrander!"

The stranger grabbed his arm as he tried to run to the giant's side. "What are you, crazy?"

"That's my friend."

"He's a stone giant. He's the enemy."

"Look, I don't know you from Adam, pal. You either help me or step back!" Hex pulled free his arm, slick with his own blood, and ran to the giant. As undead tried to overwhelm him, he lost all sense of where he was or how much danger he was in. He balled his fists and swung them blindly, beating the undead back. In a moment, he was passed by the stranger, armed with the large stick, who crushed his way to the giant.

Ostrander was hardly recognizable as they pulled a decaying body off of him. His arms had been pulled off and his torso had been ripped away in pieces. "Can you move, Ostrander?"

Ostrander was silent. His agate eyes staring into oblivion.

"Dammit, Ostrander! This is no time to play the stoic, silent type! Can you move?"

Ostrander's head tilted, inquisitively. "Yes. I can, Hex."

"Come on!" Hex pushed his companion toward the treeline shouting back, "Just hold them off until I get passed the trees!"

The stranger was knee deep in putrefied flesh and bones but yelled, "Then what?"

"I have an idea!"

Soon, they passed the treeline. The stranger ran towards the trees, hordes of undead on his heels. Hex was already on the ground, studying the composition. There was a lot of moisture in this soil. Lots of it. It was just a matter of letting it out.

Power like he'd never dreamed of rushed through his fingertips and into the ground. So much power, it would hurt if it didn't feel so good. The undead stopped as they felt the rumbling beneath their feet, stretching from one end of the field to the other. Then, with a dull boom, it happened. The undead quickly sank as the field turned from loam to mud to swamp.

Hex saw his world flutter and turn and then passed out.

* * *

"So, it didn't take long for me to figure that 'dey wasn't interested in no salad, mon."

Hex heard the voice coming from a mile away. He felt his fingers and toes and could feel his head on something soft. "So, that's how you got away," he asked, his eyes still closed.

"Oh, and here I didn't t'ink you was listening." Bandoo Lelala was lying beside Hex's head, leaning against his shoulder.

"Someday, I gotta introduce you to a friend of mine, Bandoo."

"And who would that be, mon?"

"His name's Robert."

"Oh! Very enigmatic!"

"Didn't think you'd make it but that big rock-hound of yours insisted that we wait for you."

Hex heard the stranger's voice approaching and opened his eyes. "What happened?"

"You did! I've never seen somebody use Breaking magic like that before. To break the ground itself - hoo," the older gent hooted with a smile, kneeling beside him.

Hex had no idea what he was talking about. The last thing he remembered was trying to release the water particles from the soil to make mud. He remembered thinking, if I could just get them to slip so we could run away. "What did I do," he asked.

"Here, let me show you." The stranger got behind Hex and lifted him up against his knee. Hex felt like a rag doll. He couldn't lift his arms, couldn't move his legs. He only kept his head up with the greatest effort and his eyes kept loosing focus.

They were on a hillside, barren except for scree and scrub. The sky above was clear and the sun felt good against the slight morning chill. Below, all he could see beyond the treeline was grey. The land had lost all definition. "What is it?"

"Past this stand of hardwood, it's nothing but swamp," the stranger answered. "Damn good thing we were in a valley surrounded by these rocky hills. Three families used to farm that valley. They'll be plenty mad when they return. Me. I'm just happy to be alive."

"I don't get it. Where are we?"

"You really don't remember, do you?" He put Hex back down on the ground and crouched over him. "We were attacked down there. Or, I should say you were, until I was fool enough to run to your rescue. There were a lot of them. Your friend over there always takes wizards through that valley to get to the north shore. The undead must have caught on. You weren't made to be very imaginative, were you," he asked Ostrander. Ostrander remained silent. "Anyway, it seems that you rescued me, in the end. I don't know how you did it. Never seen Breaking magic used to such a degree. It started in the ground around you. It was like a bubbling, almost, and spread out with a crack. You knocked over almost half of those undead and then fell flat on your face. It wasn't over, whatever you did. The ground started moving and churning - I could hardly keep my feet beneath me. I ran. I wasn't stupid. And I knew you weren't going anywhere on your own so I carried you out. The ground started turning soft, like mud. Then, became like mush. Those undead just sunk into it like nobody's business. Don't you see? You turned the whole valley into a swamp! Those undead are under bog so deep - well, however deep you made it."

Hex felt a shiver run up his spine. Was this wanton destruction magic? Could magic scare him this much? All he could say was, "Oh no."

"Oh no," the stranger asked, amazed. "Oh yes! You really did them in! Don't you see that?"

"All too well," Hex answered, feeling an empty spot in the center of his chest. He couldn't help thinking of Robert and home and the mundane life he'd enjoyed. Where was the princess? Where was the fun? Why had he ever built that gate to begin with?

"Well, I can see your big, rock friend has brought a good one, this time. Maybe we can succeed where others have failed."

"We," Hex asked.

"Yes. I'm Mack. Pleased to meet you." But Hex couldn't shake Mack's hand just yet. His hand was still made of clay. "Oh, of course," Mack said.

Hex didn't hear his final words, though. The conversation had been exhausting and he let his eyelids slip shut. Soon, he was back asleep.

### CHAPTER SIX

### THE BATTLE FOR RYNIANHOMME

When he'd first come into this world, Vincent had found himself in a cold, dank cell. His life was at risk and he never thought he'd be rescued.

Now, Vincent found himself in a study cell, planted at a desk and told to stay. He was trained in the ways of the quill and handed stacks of parchment. One stack was composed of ancient runes and incantations. The other stack was blank.

"You'll copy each of those a minimum of five times and return them to me before supper," Tuk, the Destroyer, roared over him. Not waiting for Vincent's reply, he turned and stormed out.

Instead of being starved to death in the cell above, Vincent was now being bored to death. He almost wished he'd never been rescued.

And so, he traced, over and over. Tuk had told him that they'd find out what kind of wizard (or "wizardling", as Tuk had taken to calling him) he'd be by what incantations he excelled at. Vincent just wanted out. Ink was quickly all over his hands and face and he was very hungry.

He'd slept in this very room the night before. He'd slept on the floor covered by the thick throw rug. As if sleep wasn't hard enough, breakfast had been served before sunrise and Vincent had eaten in the dark.

He found that he missed Robert, who'd been taken from him before he'd left the princess' side to be Tuk's pupil. (Vincent would use some other term. Like punching bag. Guinea pig. Victim.) What would Robert say at a time like this? And would he think of a way out?

Vincent spent enough time thinking of escape plans, but none of them would work. (The entire cell was made of wood and he would have even tried to burn it down if he had some matches. Where was Randy when you needed him, Vincent thought.) The cell was tall enough for Tuk to stand in, almost twice Vincent's height, but was so narrow that, lying down, Vincent could touch one wall with his feet and the opposing wall with his hands. In it fit the desk and two tables, one for supplies and the other for books. The supplies were beyond Vincent's recognition. Oddly shaped, they had to be used in some kind of magic.

The smallest item was a piece of yarn, about four inches long. Vincent found that mentioned in the fourth incantation: Making a piece of string into a snake. First, the book instructed him to become familiar with the string. Look at it carefully. Study each of its weak points and thickest points. Then, shaping the yarn so that it formed a head, bring a snake out of it. That's how Vincent interpreted it, at least. And though he did all of that, all he was left with was yarn.

So, he continued transcribing.

Days passed, often with Tuk charging in and berating his young pupil for his lack of advancement. Vincent was given more books and more parchment and assignment after assignment of tedious transcription. Most of them seemed interesting at first, before the dreariness set in. Teleportation reminded him of how he came into this world, though he was certain that Hex was a Bonder. After all he'd read, he figured, correctly, that there must have been something in the gem that Hex put into his sand door which activated some kind of Teleporting magic. But he couldn't help wondering how Hex could have been duped into coming here.

By week's end, Vincent had read, and transcribed, texts on every kind of magic. Another week, and he'd read them again. Week after week passed, transcribing the same texts, eating gruel, sleeping on the floor, getting into fight after fight with Tuk who'd gone beyond intimidation into real threats, and, one morning before Vincent awoke, Tuk burst into his cell.

"Get up, lad! You've been slacking off too long! Time for you to show what you're made of," Tuk hollered, kicking at the boy's still form.

Vincent jumped up, skittering across the floor like a large crab, and cried, "What?! What?!"

Tuk had some tests in mind for the boy that day. He grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic, a garment given him when his own shirt had proven too thin for the cold cave life. Luckily, his tenees remained and he could run after the old man. They moved down to the floor of the cave and to the entrance where the morning waves lapped quietly. Tuk pulled Vincent up onto a rock shelf and said, "Here's your chance, boy. Prove to me that all my work was worth it. We're gonna find out what all this talk of your magic was about. You got some form of magical ability in you and we're going to find out just what. Pick yourself up a couple of rocks."

"Huh," Vincent asked, his mind still bleary.

"Rocks, boy. Like the ones in your head. Come on."

Vincent bent down and grabbed two rocks as he was commanded.

"All right, now. If you are a Bonder, show me. Put those two rocks together."

Vincent brought the two rocks up before him but couldn't remember how the bonding was done. He looked at his tormentor blankly.

"I will offer you a loaf of good bread if you do it, boy."

A loaf of bread! The thought made Vincent's mouth water. Though, he remembered when he lived with Sammy and he could eat as much bread as he wanted, he was amazed at how he'd taken that for granted. He was so hungry now, he'd do anything for a loaf of bread. This was exactly what Tuk had planned. Vincent remembered that Bonding involved seeing the thing beyond its outer appearance, looking for the smallest intricacies and seeing how the pieces fit. Knowing this, he looked and looked.

"Put them together, boy," Tuk ordered, impatiently.

But it was no use. Vincent was no Bonder.

"Very well. You have rocks in your hands. Take one and break it. My offer still holds. You do it and I'll give you bread."

Judiciously, Vincent dropped the larger rock and focused on the one in his hand. Breaking was accomplished by seeing the flaws and faults within something in order to break at that point. A simple task, if you're looking to break a piece of wood that has been sawed halfway through, but it gets more difficult when you're trying to break things like rocks. Yes, he could see, when he looked hard enough, cracks in the surface of the rock. Perhaps, that's what the textbook had been referring to. Though he was weak and undernourished, he mustered all of his strength and tried to break the rock.

But it wouldn't break!

"Drop the rock, boy!"

Vincent kept trying to break the rock but he couldn't feel it give. "I -" he started to say.

"Drop the rock!"

His hands sore and his body tired, he dropped it.

"Now, move it."

Innocently, Vincent kicked the rock off the shelf.

"A most pragmatic display of Moving magic if I've ever seen one. Tell me, young man, are you trying to teach this one a lesson in Less is Best," the rumble like a deep, bass saxophone came up from the water's edge. Like the music of the seas, it said, "But, perhaps, it would be best if you worked on your aim." After all, the rock had nearly hit him.

Tuk was flabbergasted. "Who -? What are you?"

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, oh tense one. I am called Ooobrecht, a name given to me by Hargoth, the War Master. A name you should be familiar with, being so close yet so far as you are. Greetings to you, as well, young man," the walrus said.

A slight smile formed on Vincent's face. Instinctively, he took a liking to this... creature. "Hello," he relied, trying the name, "Ooooooooooobrechet."

"Too many Ooooooo's but a nice attempt just the same."

"What are you doing here," Tuk exclaimed.

"In good time," Ooobrecht answered, brushing the Destroyer off. "Young man, would you happen to be named Vincent?"

"Well, yes," he responded, surprised.

"Yes, I thought you might. I've been swimming outside this cave for almost a week, watching the people coming in and out as if they had no reason to worry about secrecy, and wondering if this is where you might be. I've also been enjoying the most delightful fish but that's neither here nor there."

"I asked you a question!" Tuk howled. "What are you doing here?"

"Yes, yes. Well, I've come for the same reason you've remained, it seems. Surely, you want to defeat those lumbering rock things, don't you? Well, I have information on them that you might find useful. I've been with them, you see? Like the other wizards, I came from another world and fell into their midst. It seems you people are awful at a reception. Furthermore," he said, climbing further onto the rocks, "I wouldn't mind a nice, clean wash to get some of this brine off of me. It positively itches!"

* * *

Never one to waste time, Princess Helen called a formal dinner as soon as word of Ooobrecht's arrival reached her. That was dependent upon Tuk, who wanted nothing to do with that brightly colored creature in the sea and would rather his princess not be disturbed as well. When the princess' Defender was informed of Ooobrecht's presence by several guards who had seen Tuk's tantrum at the creature, Tuk appealed to Mark's reason, blocking his way at the cave's entrance. "Surely, Defender, you won't bother Princess Helen with a simple sea creature."

"But it spoke," Mark replied.

"Spoke. Spoke. So it spoke. It's just a trick! Why, I've heard of artisans in Marrisha who could make a bird speak and a monkey dance."

"A monkey," Mark asked, trying to move out of the cave. He was very interested in seeing this Ooobrecht.

Tuk stepped in from of him, waiving his hands. "It's a little creature who hoots and jumps around a lot. I think they're related to dogs or some such. The point is that the gift of speech is no sign of intelligence."

So I see, Mark thought. "But what about its claims to have come from another world?" He tried to step around the Destroyer but Tuk stepped in his way.

"So it claims but it could easily be lying. Maybe it's too stupid to know. It's a bloody fish, for crying out loud."

Mark stepped to the left and dodged back to the right, breaking the wizard's blockade. "I've also heard that it claims to be a wizard."

"A wizard?" Tuk ran after the Defender. "Surely you don't believe -"

"No," Mark interrupted. "I don't." He knelt down, trying to get a better look at the creature that was preening itself on the rocks at the water's edge.

Ooobrecht looked up at him, nodding, "And how very wise you are, sir, not to judge me in advance. For my own part, I wouldn't have thought there was a reasonable person amongst you, with the possible exception of Vincent - but being a boy what does he know? - if you hadn't stepped out here as you did. My name is Ooobrecht, sir. I hail from the shores of Lake Nylnouwa where my family and tribe lived for generations. Given the caveat that you are as reasonable as I have given you credit for being, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"You're right, Tuk," Mark spoke snidely. "It must be just a trick." He turned to Ooobrecht and did his best to introduce himself in the same manner. "I am Mark Nygarra, Ooobrecht, Defender of the Crown. I hail from the plains city of Bemmiton, where the road to Paead's lush forests and skillful artisans meets the road to Kallent, the great desert kingdom. My family home is small yet large enough to house the Nygarra clan for generations. It is also a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"And quite the diplomat as well, young sir. I am impressed."

"And I am impressed to be impressing to one with colors so... impressive," Mark relied, making the creature burst out in laughter that sounded like the honking of some great horn. "I will inform the princess at once of your arrival."

"As you wish," Ooobrecht replied, chuckling.

Tuk stopped him, though, before he returned to the cave. "Perhaps, you should rethink this, Defender. Should the princess, after all be troubled with matters so... petty."

Mark drew himself up, standing inches about the Destroyer. "Tuk, you are the princess' own advisor in matters of magic. You have been hailed as the finest destroyer in the kingdom. No one stands above your wizardry and everyone defers to your judgment in these matters."

"Yes," Tuk replied, suspiciously.

"I find it hard to believe that one such as you could be jealous of a fish."

* * *

Evening fell and the people of Rynianhomme ate their nightly meal. At Moitches', the meal consisted of fish fillets (with hot peppers in the Kallent style), corn, and potatoes. Each of the three Rynianhomme kitchens turned out almost identical meals. It was a tribute to Moitches talent as a chef that so many tried to make it to his place first. Another tribute was that he held the post of Imperial Chef, hand picked by the princess.

The majority of the ground floor in the Imperial Apartments was taken up by a grand dining room. It wasn't ornate - not much could be retrieved from the palace but whenever an opportunity presented itself, something was pilfered - but it was obviously set aside for royalty. The table sat a dozen with ease. It wasn't the original table from the palace, which sat twice as many - and who knew if it survived - but it was constructed for the princess upon the occasion of her birthday, in the first year of exile. Almost all of the place settings matched. Those that didn't were relegated to those less important diners at the table. Vincent ended up with a cracked cup. The walls were draped with portions of the largest tapestries that could be salvaged from the palace and the floor set with a newly made rug of silver and green, the royal colors.

That said, there were many things about the room that didn't seem fitting for a place of royal gathering. None of the royal centerpieces survived the escape from the palace. Moitches tried to draw attention from that by putting vases full of flowers on the table but, in the end, that only reminded everyone of the loss. One of the pieces, a sand sculpture of King Natir, was sorely missed, indeed, as that had been the last reminder of the great king's passing. The room was drafty as well, which couldn't be helped. There weren't enough tapestries to block every draft. The entire cave was drafty, hit by the winds that came from the seas as regularly as the tides. Worst, though, were the chairs. None of them matched. Chairs aren't easily dragged through tunnels so new ones had to be salvaged or constructed. Eventually, they might have a matching set but, for now, they were simply a reminder of the Rynian's humiliating rout and banishment from their home.

As always, Helen arrived first, followed by Mark Nygarra, her Defender. In her long blue dress, which scandalously fit her form and left her elbows exposed, she seemed disheartened, her long, auburn hair, which usually danced upon her shoulders, sat motionless. Her eyes, usually shining and blue as a clear sky, were weighted by the bags sitting beneath them. This had been her mood every time a royal dinner was held in this room, for she knew that it marked more time that her people were without a home and her kingdom was without a leader. She felt ineffectual, helpless, like a marionette with its strings cut.

Mark tried to help remind her that things could be worse. "Nothing like this has ever been tried before. You told me that. We've moved almost every non-essential person off of this island; that by itself is an incredible feat. And you are to be thanked for that." However, nothing the Defender said lightened Princess Helen's heart. "The people cannot hold on to hope if her leader does not freely give it, princess."

"Yes, Mark, I've heard that quote many times before," she replied, sitting on the edge of the table. "That is why I'm so depressed now." She paused and grinned. "Because you're the only person who can see the real me."

Mark turned from the princess and slung his bat properly behind his chair.

"How many more do we have left, Mark," the princess asked.

Mark knew she was referring to those civilians who were in harm's way. This was what weighed heaviest on her shoulders. To have the Guard attacked or the wizards, that was one thing. They knew what they were getting into. Her people, though, were a precious commodity which she abhorred having to waste. "Almost a hundred, princess. Rynianhomme is all but empty, a ghost town. All that remains is empty shelters where our people once were."

"And almost a hundred helpless people."

Mark was hesitant to answer. "Yes."

"Moitches is still here, I know," she said. "He insists that he'll stay so it is that much more important that you put him in the last boat. Forcibly if necessary."

"You know I will."

"Yes, Mark," she said, walking to her Defender's side. "Him and one other."

"Yes, princess. Salnya." There were no secrets between the two, especially not of Mark's love for Moitches daughter.

She put one hand on his chest. "I know that it is mostly for her that you work from dawn to midnight, not so much for your people. You keep your worry on the inside, old friend. I'm just a bit more vocal with mine. But I think you're right. I think, perhaps, we will do it."

Mark smiled, slightly. "Thank you, Helen."

Moitches arrived shortly, carrying pitchers of water and ale and placing them on the table, bringing out freshly baked bread, and genuflecting before his sovereign. "I hope my attempts will please her highness," he whispered.

Helen had never been one to stand on formality when it wasn't necessary, much like her father. The king had embodied classic royalty, as it had been exemplified by his father and the Haddison line before him but had never been aloof, standoffish, or abrupt. Determined, succinct, and rarely unsure, these were King Marcus' trademarks. He had been just as Helen wished she could be.

Though she was not yet ready to assume the role of monarch, she did well to follow her father's example. She reached down and took Moitches hands, "I would be honored to eat anything that came from your kitchen, good sir."

Moitches blushed, smiled at the princess and her Defender, and bustled out to the kitchen.

"And here I thought I'd be spared the sickening sweets until desert." General Lord Alinax stood before the entryway in full regalia, a perpetual frown upon his face. "Keeping the servants happy, princess?"

"Hold thy tongue, General," Mark snapped, drawing himself up to his full size.

"Gentlemen, please. I'll not have you fighting on a night like this," the princess commanded. "Lord Alinax is used to governing from the saddle, while I find it helps to see from their perspective instead of looking down upon them."

Alinax growled, "Your station puts you in the saddle, princess. Nay, in a tower. And no amount of slumming will change that in the people's eyes."

"Be that as it may, you will honor my position as you honor me as you honor my father. Is that understood, General." She addressed him, not as royalty, but as a servant in her army.

And he understood. "Of course, princess."

Tuk arrived shortly thereafter, followed by Karlyn and Gourden other wizards in the princess' service. Vincent was not with Tuk, for Mark had been told of Tuk's mean spirit when dealing with the boy. Ooobrecht had told Mark what he'd seen. Mark certainly didn't mind taking Tuk down a peg by removing the boy from his tutelage.

Following them, came Commander Rolf Heaphge, Alinax's second-in-command. Andrea Knight, head of the healer's corps, and Haldeen Ubden, the young carpenter who had been put in charge of building longboats and moving civilians off Regal Isle, were next. Kraephten Kattox strutted in behind him, dressed in desert robes, and followed closely by one of his spies, the young boy, Timothy Holt.

Other prominent members of court arrived, filling the empty seats, and Helen greeted each, accepting brief reports and dispensing encouragement where she could. She remained by the double entry doors after her other guests had arrived, in anticipation for the guest of honor.

He was preceded by Vincent, looking more fit than he had in days. Once Mark had taken the boy out of Tuk's custody, he'd put him temporarily into Moitches'. Already, some of the boy's weight was returning to him. He was wearing denim slacks and a brushed leather tunic, the style for most of the Rynian boys. Vincent hadn't wondered where the clothes had come from and he hadn't been told. It was believed that he should be spared the truth that his clothes had once belonged to a boy who had been killed the night the giants had turned on the people of Rynia. Vincent smiled as he pulled along a cart behind him. The cart was made completely of hardwood and Vincent had marveled at its construction. "You know, I never had a red wagon when I was a kid," Vincent had exclaimed. To which, Ooobrecht had replied, "If the stories I hear are true, Vincent, you still are."

Ooobrecht was the last to enter, pulled in on the cart. His hide had been washed by Vincent who was now the resident expert on walrus ticklish zones and he'd enjoyed a wonderful lunch of halibut. (Moitches found it odd that he'd want to eat the fish raw.) This placed him in a particularly good mood.

The princess bowed ever so slightly, smiling at Ooobrecht, and said, "It is a pleasure, sir, to welcome you to the land of my fathers. While we may be in a difficult passing at the moment, banished from our ancestral home, know that you are as welcome, here in Rynianhomme, as in any palace." Then, she proceeded to greet him in the manner that Mark had described. "I am Helen Haddison, daughter of King Marcus Haddison and Princess of Rynia. My home, the Imperial Palace, stands upon the cliffs above us, waiting for the return of its people. For there, in all my life, and my father's, and his father's before him, peace has reigned and we are determined to see its return."

Ooobrecht nodded, "And I hope it will soon." He nodded again, thinking. "Thank you, princess, for that elegant introduction. As you know, I am Ooobrecht, Mover and instructor in the magical arts for the families of Lake Nylnouwa. In all my days, in the darkened depths or upon the shallows of the Beowruk Falls, I have never seen courage such as that of your people or bravery in leadership as I have seen in you."

Helen smiled, automatically liking this colorful creature. "Thank you, Ooobrecht."

"No need, princess. If you would humor me, though, in attempting something with me. I've seen a certain interaction with your people that I would like to perform with you. Young Vincent has aided me in practice and I believe I have it down." Ooobrecht lifted a flipper and bowed his head, "My lady."

Helen placed her hand in Ooobrecht's flipper and Ooobrecht brought it up to his mustache, as if in a kiss. "I would like to thank your highness for welcoming me into your home and your cause," he said, casting a shiny, black eye towards Tuk. "It was you who drew me to this world and it is you to whom I am pledged."

"I would please me if you would dine with us, Ooobrecht," the princess said, retreating to her chair. She sat at the middle of the table, her father's chair empty beside her.

Ooobrecht was pushed into an empty place directly across from the princess, Vincent being extra careful to give the walrus enough room. "If it would please her highness, I believe I should beg off on the dining."

"Wherefore, Ooobrecht," the princess replied.

"To put it delicately, princess, I've observed that your people eat in a way more - daintily than my own. It would please me greatly simply to enjoy your conversation."

"Very well," the princess replied and, with a clap of her hands, the food was brought out. The fare was simple for a royal dinner. Kallent style fish fillets, as the people had eaten, were served along side of hens and mussels and a variety of vegetables.

Ooobrecht, observing the repast, commented, "Interesting."

"Interesting, Mr. Ooobrecht," inquired Alinax.

"Ah, interesting, sir, in that I've never quite seen food brought in this way before. My people are more accustomed to eating, er, off the fin, if you will."

"How did you get here, Ooobrecht," Vincent asked, for, although he'd spent the day with the walrus, young boys never run out of questions.

"Same way as you, Vincent. I expect. But that does remind me of something I've been wondering about for some time, princess. It was your face I saw on that gem that took me here. Why did it drop me into the midst of those stone giants?"

The princess, putting some mussels on her plate answered, "It's a long story, Ooobrecht."

Ooobrecht tilted his head. "It would seem I have time, your highness."

Helen looked down the table at Karlyn, the seer, who nodded. "Very well," the small woman said with a high and distant voice.

* * *

It was the peak of winter when the undead first came, slowly and unexpected like a disease (the seer recalled). Before they'd reached the Regal Isle, we'd heard reports of their presence from Bemmiton, Awlsban, Benaatt and Morrata, all about the kingdom. It being winter, communications were slow and by the time we'd heard the reports, the undead were everywhere. Our militias couldn't stand up to them and we never seemed to have enough magic to stop them. Then, the first were spotted on the isle, killing all those in the farms that stood in their paths.

King Marcus was expending all the resources he could spare with little being replaced. Still, with armies and all the wizards at his command, it seemed there was nothing he could do.

That was when I sought his audience. My name is Karlyn Beele and I am what you might call a seer. My talent, it seems, is unique. I've never heard of such manifesting before. I know the future. It - comes to me when it feels it is necessary.

I went to the King early that morning in winter, as he was eating his breakfast, for a horrifying vision had come to me just moments before.

"What is it," the King asked. "Something is obviously troubling you and I'm afraid it is not just these undead things that are plaguing our kingdom." You see, the King, too, was something of a seer.

"I have had a vision, sire. As disturbing as it was brief. The images which I've seen cannot be put into words... almost. For I look upon them each and three words come to mind."

He pushed aside his food and had paper and quill brought forth. He said, "Tell me."

"I see Galeny, stone, and Hargot."

"What do you feel about them," the King prodded.

"Feel? I feel nothing but, no, there was almost dread. There may be death involved."

"Death? Death to whom?"

"Who's to say?"

Sadly, it happened as I saw it. Such is the curse of my wizardry. Galeny did dabble in stone, producing the giant he called Hargot and those monstrosities which followed. Death was shortly behind. Galeny died and the stone giants produced more monstrosities that brought death to the Imperial Palace.

"What else, Karlyn," the King asked. "What else did you see?"

"I see you, my king, vividly surrounded by many undead."

"But that's two words, Karlyn. King and undead."

"Yes, my king, for the third word is gone."

"What do you mean it is gone? Where'd it go?"

"It is not the word that is gone, sire. It is you. As to where you went, I do not know. You are gone."

The king's graying eyebrows came down and his eyes squinted as they did when he was angry. "Gone, am I? Understand, then, Karlyn, that this is information that you must broach with no one."

Now that the king is truly gone, as I had seen, I don't believe he would find fault in my telling you. Know you, however, that at no time did I foresee his death. He is gone from us and that is all I know.

The King continued, "Was there anything else, Karlyn?"

"Yes. The strangest thing of all."

"That being?"

"Karlyn, sand, gate."

* * *

"What I didn't know at the time, I quickly learned," Karlyn finished, lowering her head.

"So, then, you created the crystals which sent us wizards here," Ooobrecht said.

"Yes" the seer answered, "but I am not as pleased with that creation as you might think. Dozens of wizards have answered the call. I knew when each crosses the gate. They step across into a room we had prepared in the palace, a room where we could greet them. That room was turned into a crude prison by the stone giants and most of the wizards died where they were to be greeted."

Mark spoke up. "But we dug more tunnels to stop that. Originally, there were two tunnels leading to this cave. That was how we escaped from the stone giants; we all ran down the tunnels. What better way to spy on the giants than to dig more tunnels? So we did."

"Yes," General Kattox added, "and once we started putting spies in the tunnels, we garnered more information that we'd previously thought possible, like how the situation with the undead was going and if the stone giants were launching any attacks."

"And what they were doing with the wizards," Karlyn added. "I started sending guards up to fetch the wizards when I felt them come through. This way, we were able to retrieve young Vincent out from under their noses. There were others, of course. Many were not suited to our world. Another we had successfully retrieved, a human by the name of Aramya, deserted us."

"But how did you create the gate crystals," Ooobrecht asked. "You must admit, they are a marvel of wizardry."

Karlyn smiled, "Yes, well, that wasn't exactly all my creation, really. You see, when Matthew Haddison and the first Rynians first came to this isle, which was then part of Gerriter itself, magic was a much more powerful thing. Thankfully, though, many of their old tomes remain to this day, stowed away up in Galeny's tower."

"Which, unfortunately, we cannot get to," Tuk remarked.

"Precisely," Karlyn agreed, taking a drink. "However, I did have time to peruse those old texts full of notations and formulae and found what you might call a precursor to our crystals. You see, it is theorized that all magic runs from the same source, that being the universe itself. By tapping into that source, we have been able to come up with Bonding and Breaking and Summoning and Moving. However, they are all reflections in the same pool, if you will. They are all derivatives of the same universal energy. The only difference is in the way we interpret that energy."

Ooobrecht shook his head. "I don't think I follow."

"Well, basically, I suppose you could say that all magics are faceted by interpretation. And that was exactly the kind of understanding I had to come to in order to create the crystals. You see, if all magic is the same, then a wizard who can perform one type of magic -"

"Should be able to perform them all," interjected Ooobrecht. "Fascinating theory!"

"Yes. The problem was in making it work. Each crystal was made as a kind of funnel for Teleportation magic. Since the magical power was in the person using the crystal, they had to be steered towards using a type of magic they weren't familiar with. Also, the crystal included the destination, that room in the palace. Teleporters were the easiest since they already used that magic. How many came, I don't know. I can only hope they got away before the stone giants found them useless. You see, stone giants are only interested in Bonders and Breakers since their magics bleed over most often. Perhaps, too, because that is the most destructive of magics. For Envisioners and Summoners, the crystal turns their magic back on them, making a mirror image, if you will. And for Movers, who weren't yet Teleporters, the crystal opened their eyes to that greater power of magic."

"Yes," Ooobrecht said, "that's exactly what I felt."

"With the Bonders and Breakers, we had to get more creative. We had to give them a gate to physically go through. With the bonders, we knew that only the most advanced would be able to help us so we made the crystal inactive until the wizard reached the level of sand bonding, one of the hardest kinds. Breakers tended to be too erratic, so we had to insure some kind of control. The crystal wouldn't activate for them until they could break water into vapor, no easy feat."

"So, you made the crystals," Ooobrecht stated, trying to follow the order of things, "but how did they get to our worlds?"

"Well, we couldn't just have a Teleporter toss them out where he thought he'd get a nibble. We had to maximize our chances; we only had five hundred of these little crystals. So, we used an Envisioner to help us."

Gourden, sitting beside Karlyn, lowered his head and whispered, "Blake, rest his soul."

"Yes. He was a great asset. He focused in on where they felt the greatest probability of wizards would be - which is how they work their magic, by focusing in on probabilities \- and our Teleporter, Vraacs, sent them where those probabilities lay."

"But how did you know things would happen soon enough," Ooobrecht asked. "Who's to say that wizards won't be popping up centuries from now?"

"Blake was able to zero in on periods of probability to within two years. That means this little one here," Karlyn reasoned, indicating Vincent, "and his absent friend was probably the last to reach us."

"So, out of five hundred," Ooobrecht thought.

"We only had a return of about less than five percent," Karlyn said, finishing that thought. "It seems that it is rare for a people to discover magic, let alone learn how to use it."

"But why the princess' face," Ooobrecht asked. "How did that come in?"

"Well, we knew that we'd have to transmit some kind of message from the very beginning," Karlyn answered. "King Marcus was the one who recommended Princess Helen. His reasoning was that a wizard would feel more sympathetic towards a beautiful, young girl than a stodgy, old man. No disrespect intended, princess."

"And none taken, Karlyn," the princess answered. Vincent had been ignoring the conversation, arguing softly with his stomach. It seemed that there was a lot of kicking and pushing from inside of his jacket. When that had attracted the attention of half the table, Princess Helen asked, "Vincent? What is the matter?"

Holding his jacket closed, Vincent smiled, "Nothing princess."

"Nothing? Are you sure," she queried, innocently.

"Oh, yes," he said, squirming.

"Perhaps it would be best," Mark observed, "if you let Robert out of your jacket."

Vincent smiled, ashamed. Mark had asked him not to bring Robert, as Robert was a little too rambunctious for a state dinner. He could have left Robert with Franc, one of the few boys left in Rynianhomme, who would take good care of the treeling. Vincent, being a boy, was short of memory, though, and thought he could easily tuck the little creature in his jacket, having someone to talk to during the long, formal affair. Now, opening his jacket, the little man of twigs sprang forth.

"Whew! It's so hot in there I was beginning to grow moldy!" Robert gained his composure on the end of the table and looked around. Truth be told, Robert was something of a ham. Looking around him, he saw a captive audience. "Sorry. Didn't mean to sprout out of there. I would have come sooner but I didn't know when to leaf. What branch is this, anyway?" All eyes were on him, studying him with interest.

But nobody seemed to have got the joke. "Hello? Branch, get it?" Looking at their stares, he said, "Folks, you people are so quiet I can hear your food cool."

No response.

"So, princess, how's tricks," he said, sauntering over to Helen's plate.

"Fascinating," someone said.

Helen was looking at him with a smile. She was still intrigued by the thought of someone creating him as a companion. She thought of her own life and felt she had much in common, if in an odd way, with this Hezekiah Fanlan. Clearing her head, she dismissed the thought. Best not to dwell on that for the present. "Yes, much of what he says doesn't make much sense but he's very interesting," the princess explained.

"And what," Robert asked, looking into her bowl, "is that?"

"That is soup, Robert."

"Soup? Well, you certainly won't be getting me in there."

"I can surely sympathize with that," Ooobrecht said with a chuckle.

Robert turned around and, looking at the multicolored walrus, fell back with a yelp. "Wow! Jeez!" He walked across the table, shielding his eyes. "Who left you alone with a full box of crayons? Striped walruses? Princess, this is all getting a bit too weird for me."

Tuk wasn't amused. "You see, ladies and gentlemen, he is merely a construct. This Hex person must be extremely deprived to have to create his companions."

"Hey, who you calling a construct," Robert yelled at the Destroyer. "Don't you be calling me a construct unless you have something constructive to... wait, that didn't turn out right."

"If you'll observe closely," Tuk was saying as Robert spoke, reaching his hand out to pick him up.

Robert beat the hand away with his fists, "Hey, watch the meathooks, Clyde! I gotta look sharp for the fems." He jumped over to Helen's plate and leaned back against her bread. "You'll protect me. Won't you princess?"

"Only if you get off of my dinner."

As Helen reached down for her bread, Robert saluted it like a fellow soldier. "Adieu, mon brave. I knew him, Horatio."

"That's another thing I find fascinating," Ooobrecht began. "How is it that, with your island overrun by all sorts of vile creatures, you are able to feed your people."

Kraephten Kattox, enthusiastically enjoying a plate of mussels, said, "It wasn't easy at first. There were a few thousand people cramped into this tiny cave. It was a while before we had our food supply under control and were able to start sending some people off to the mainland." He dug back into his food, allowing Princess Helen to complete his answer.

"This is mostly the result of learning how to forage, Ooobrecht. We've learned that if we're fast and cagey, we can avoid those undead long enough to sneak some food off the farms and take care of them where we may. Our fish are easily obtained," she said, motioning outside, "and the meat is hunted from the mainland.

"At first, as General Kattox noted, we had a very hard time because of all the people. It has taken us the better part of two years to get to the point where we can now plan our strategy and ready our assault."

Alinax, with a determined scowl, added, "To take back what is ours."

But fate wasn't looking well upon the Rynians that day. The luxury of planning an assault wouldn't be theirs.

The door burst open with a sharp crack. Several people at the table jumped in shock while those men with weapons quickly armed themselves. Mark, with a yank of his bat strap, stepped before the princess and held his bat at ready. Alinax, Commander Heaphge, and the other members of the Guard drew their own bats while Kattox drew his long, Kallent sword.

But the intruder was hardly in any condition to attack. As he fell on the floor before the table, they could see that he was a wounded guardsman, out of breath and bleeding.

Mark rushed to his side and immediately recognized him. "James, what is it? What happened?"

"On the rocks! Outside," the guardsman shouted, hysterical.

"James, calm down. Tell me what happened?"

"It's coming! It's here!"

Mark shook him, yelling, "What's here? What in Dyneesa's name are you ranting about?"

James body quaked and he lifted one hand. He had been clutching it so tightly that blood ran from his fingernails. When he opened it, their greatest fear was revealed.

Sand.

* * *

"Get this man to the infirmary," Mark snapped and Andrea Knight, who had pushed her way through the crowd, reached Mark's side at that moment.

"Generals," said Princess Helen, "you have your orders. This is a matter of defense. We don't know how many are attacking. We knew this day would come. Move."

The two men needed no prodding from the princess. They were halfway out the door before she was half finished with her command. On their tail were Commander Heaphge and the others in the guard.

Mark barked orders out into the hallway while Princess Helen commanded, "Haldeen, make sure the civilians are moved as far from the fighting as possible!"

"Yes, my princess," and with that he was off.

The room was almost empty.

Ooobrecht looked up at the princess. "Your Highness, I believe I can do better on the battlelines than here with you."

"Perhaps you are right, Ooobrecht." Tuk and the other wizards had left with the troops but Karlyn remained. Her frail form wouldn't last long in the battle. Not even her magic would protect her.

"Do not worry, my princess. I will bring Ooobrecht safely to the battlefield and return to you whole."

"Are you sure, Karlyn?"

She took the handle to Ooobrecht's cart and replied, "It is my magic."

The Princess, Mark, and Vincent (and, of course, Robert) were the only ones left.

"Come on," Mark said. "There is a hideaway."

Vincent, picking up Robert and following the Defender, said, "But shouldn't you be out fighting, Mark? Then, you could really take 'em on." Vincent had no idea who was attacking but knew they were the bad guys. That was all he had to know.

"No, Vincent. I don't think that'd be a very good idea."

"You could bust them up. Kick their butts," Robert added.

But Mark didn't reply. Holding the princess' arm, letting Vincent follow along, they hustled down the hall to the far end of the building. A rock wall met them. With the ease that comes from practice, Mark found a tripstone that opened a seamless passage into the wall. It was pitch black outside but Mark started down without them. They heard something being struck and a torch lit in the hallway. More torches were lit as they followed the hallway to its end, where a hole in the ground led down into inky blackness.

Vincent tried to see into it but it was too dark.

"There's water down there," Mark said. "Ocean Water. If all fails, the princess, and you, will be able to follow the caves below out to the sea and escape. This is our only hope."

Vincent heard a quiet clicking from within his jacket and Robert's voice saying, "There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home."

* * *

Outside, the Imperial Guard was being slaughtered. General Alinax hadn't arrived yet with the main force from their barracks and Kattox was putting his boys in the tunnels as planned. The only Rynian force at the mouth of the cave were those guards who were on duty at the time of the attack. Ten soldiers. Two were at the farthest point to the north of the cave's mouth. Two were at the farthest point to the south. Two were at the halfway point north and south and four more men and women were at the cave's mouth.

Outside the mouth of the cave was a shelf of rock approximately six meters wide and three deep. It narrowed at each end, breaking off to jagged rocks, which were almost impossible to fight in. The shelf was entirely defendable as long as the defenders were not taken by surprise. The defenders knew that if the giants were to attack, they would do it with sand because rock giants were too clumsy. The cliffside was too steep to descend. Once the sand golems crept up onto the shelf, the defenders reasoned, they could be washed away with buckets of sea water.

However, when the sand came, it did not creep from the below the shelf and they did attain complete surprise. The four guards on the shelf were terrified to see sand dropping onto the shelf from above. The defenders of Rynianhomme had been thinking about the descent in human terms but Sand obeyed different rules.

The consistency of sand is such that it cannot be cut. Immediately, it joins together again. It is not exactly solid and does not hold a specific shape.

And this is why sand is so terrifying.

Two guards ran to the buckets to try to wash the sand off the shelf. Though there wasn't much sand yet, there was still enough to stop them. The sand dashed to where the guards ran, like streams of earth. At the ends of these streams, needles as sharp as any metal formed and, with unbelievable force, were driven into the hamstrings of each of the guard's legs.

Blood curdling screams erupted from their throats as the guards fell. The legs began to swell as sand poured into their wounds. Blood was pushed out of arteries as sand forced its way up legs that exploded like overcooked sausages. It was over at the hips, when the sand had lost its shape, flooded with the blood of its victims.

The other two guards were fighting a losing battle to stay on the shelf. The sand, now forming several large piles, herded them inside. Where it had previously formed needles, it now formed poles, inches thick. One of the guards found out just how dangerous those poles were as one caught him in the lower abdomen, filling his gut with so much sand the he exploded like a festering blood blister.

James Erda, the other guard, already bloody from several hits ran hell-bent for reinforcements.

Still, Alinax did not come.

The six remaining defenders had to form ranks of two fronts. The shelf was only wide enough at its farther points to fit two men abreast. The third provided rear guard until he was needed to take the place of a fallen comrade. This is what happened with Banry Ellison, a Rynian scout who found himself pulling guard duty that evening. He heard a man behind him scream, "My eye!" Banry turned to see sand piercing the soldier's eye, driving a terrifying assault onto the soldier's skull. Banry harbored no illusions that the man could be rescued. He pushed the dead soldier off his feet and off of the shelf and, pivoting his bat to the blunt side, thrust a fatal blow to the sand golem before him. Sand didn't respect piercing blows. The only way to take them out was to hammer them to death, dashing them to pieces. Afterwards, they lost their cohesion and were left as squirming pseudopods of sand.

The woman at his side, hammering at the sand thing before her while dodging its blows, shouted, "Good one, Ban!"

Banry was stomping out pseudopods and parrying thrusts by another sand golem. He didn't miss a beat, yelling back, "Shut up and fight!"

Two more soldiers on the other side, both women, met death by sand. One was quickly dispatched as the sand formed a round blade and, curving up in an arch, slit her throat. The other took her place. Yllana Mott. She believed that the best way to take down sand golems was to get in the midst of them and swing your bat like a sickle to wheat. She was right about it being more efficient. She took down almost ten that way. She gave her life, though, because of that very efficiency. She was surrounded by squirming heaps of half dead sand. She was almost up to her knees, with nowhere to run. The golems she killed couldn't attack her as before. They couldn't form needles or knives, had no cohesion. They could only wriggle which was exactly what they did, moving closer and closer to her, burying her up to her knees and her waist and her chest and, pinning down her arms, her shoulders. If they could, they would have burrowed into her skin, turning her flesh into putty. They couldn't do that.

But Yllana didn't know that. She screamed for her life. She screamed so loud that those in the cave could hear her. Banry and the others tried to reach her but they couldn't. She screamed and she struggled as sand worms wriggled and squirmed under her clothing and against her skin. When the sand went beneath her clothes, insanity crept in as well. Her screams became shrill, unintelligible. They were no longer words but screeches as her face turned hot red and her body quaked inside the mass of quivering sand. Then her heart burst as sand found her lower orifices. Her last sight was that of defending troops fighting inside the mouth of the cave.

"Give no ground," Alinax ordered from just within the battle lines. Soldiers stood in ready, moving back the wounded and taking their place. Wizards couldn't get close enough to the sand to do any good. Still, they were holding the mouth.

Men were falling at a staggering rate. They couldn't be carried to the infirmary but were left where they fell. Sergeant Kittle came off the line, falling against the General. "Alinax," he cried, disposing of formality, "we're losing too many men! We can't keep this up! They're sending down more sand than we can ever hold off! There's got to be fifty - sixty of them out there now!"

Fifty or sixty. Banry couldn't see beyond the three that had him cornered. He was all that was left of the original defenders and separated by too many sand golems for the soldiers in the cave to be of any help. He'd heard the screams from the other side as that soldier fell and saw blood spring from the soldier beside him like a geyser. Now, his turn had come, to give his life for Rynia. Blood poured from his cheek where a sand probiscum had nearly pierced him and his hands were numb. Though he continued to hammer blows, swinging his bat like a sickle, it wouldn't be long before his tired arms gave out. When he'd killed another one, several in front of him drew back like snakes and did something he'd never thought possible. Merging together, they created a golem that stood over one and a half decameters in height. Elongated at the top, it wielded a polearm that must have been two meters long. Banry could already feel it enter his gut and pierce his spine as it leapt for the kill. He knew he couldn't bat it away, knew he couldn't stop it. He was dead. He knew it as it raced towards him. Dead.

Suddenly, he screamed and leapt for the water. It was an uncontrollable reaction. I'm a coward, he thought, leaving his bat to sink in the brine and swimming for all he was worth. A coward.

But a live coward.

* * *

Inside the hideaway, Vincent was feeling very afraid. It was far too quiet, just like in the movies, and Mark didn't look confident that things would be all right.

Then, the door was kicked open and a bloody General Alinax charged into the room. He was not wounded; the blood was from moving the wounded. "Princess," he shouted, coming down the hall.

Helen stepped up to him, her face gaunt and frightened. "What is it, General."

"We've been beaten, your highness. It was a total rout. They took us completely by surprise."

"What can we do?"

"There's nothing we can do. We have to retreat and evacuate the caves."

"General, what about the civilians? What about the wounded?"

Alinax grabbed her by the arm and gave her a shake. "Will you stop playing the lovable liege for just a moment? It's war out there!" He lost his breath with a punch to the gut and was forced against the wall.

The sharp end of Mark's bat was against the man's throat. "I've admired you for a long time, General. But I hold no compunction against slitting your throat right now for the way you handled our future Queen." His words were confident even though it was obvious he'd do no damage. Alinax held Mark's bat, wielding it back with equal leverage.

"Wait, Mark," he heard the princess say. "He's right." She braced herself against the wall, almost crying. "We're doomed."

"Not doomed," Alinax whispered, moving away the point of Mark's bat. "Not yet. There might be a way to turn this into a victory but we have to act fast. We have to act now."

### CHAPTER SEVEN

BANRY ELLISON

Sand.

Sand.

Sand.

"He's hallucinatin' again, poppa."

"It's the fever, child. Get a wet rag and wipe his brow."

The voices faded and, again, Banry Ellison was alone. Alone in his fevered head. Alone with the blood of his fallen comrades and the unearthly evil in the guise of sand. Alone with a swim in icy waters - away - away - for his life depended upon it. Alone with the blackness of the sea, his ebony guilt, as it swallowed him at last.

Still, there is alone and there is alone.

Down there, in the blackness, his father stood like a marker to hell. The Fist of Tzuratt, God of Death and Judgment over the Dead. The man was not happy. His arms were crossed and his eyes looked down his long nose at his boy. "The family means nothing now," he spat. "You have sundered any honor for yourself or your nephews."

It had been almost five years since his father, the old farmer, had died. Banry was the only son, still without an heir.

"How could you have run?"

"I'm sorry, father. I didn't mean to -"

"Didn't mean to? You didn't jump into the sea by accident!"

"But if I hadn't, I'd be dead now."

His father huffed. "Better to die with your dignity than to live a coward."

Suddenly, Banry grew very cold. His arms shivered and the image of his father was dashed with brightness. There were arms around him, putting blankets on him. Soft arms. Banry saw hazel eyes above him.

"There. There. You must stop nightmarin' and get some rest," a woman told him.

His eyes focused a bit more and he could see her long, light brown hair falling on her shoulders like rivers of soft wheat. He croaked, "Are you real?"

"Aye," she replied. "Sleep now. You still have a fever."

* * *

Her name was Hildy Marrek and she was thirty years old. Rather old to be a woman without a man, living and farming with her father. It seemed that all her chances for love and happiness had wilted with her vanishing youth. Mayhap she was too big of bone or too plain in appearance; whatever it was, she'd never had a man and was pretty much resolved that she never would.

She'd grown up in the northern reaches of Paead, where the many farm people traded with the goat ranchers in the hills. It had been that way for many years. Her mother died when she was very young and her father became her only family. He raised her as best he could, teaching her about farming and about the land. About Paead, the tiny nation that was so poor few paid it any attention. Hildy's father wasn't necessarily a very important man. His farm was smaller than most. When the ice giant's raids began, though, this turned out to be an asset, for they were left alone far longer than most. However, when the others had left, and Greck was the last to stay, the icers found him the only target.

They crushed his house and ate his cow and left, laughing in that cackling, cold way. Greck and Hildy picked up what little they could carry and, stopping one last time at the graveside of Hildy's mother, started south. Years passed. It was a hard time. They were poor as dirt and Greck wasn't getting any younger. Chasing their next meal around Paead, they ended up leaving for the hope held in Rynia. There, at last, they found a home. Farming for a Duke Retmin east of Awlsban, they were provided a two-room shack, a share of the food they raised, and the Duke's protection.

The Duke's protection wasn't much good against the arrival of the undead, however. But Greck was a hard man and he'd already lost one home. He'd be damned if he lost another. He built traps in his field and always kept a fire burning so he could torch anything that got too close. The Duke fell in battle over a year ago, sadly dying a slow and painful death. As a last act, he ordered his young son to think first of his people. (Serf was such a cold word.) The boy had since granted those people who survived the undead raids near autonomy; he was too young to do anything else.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons why Greck was so headstrong about protecting what was his. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why, like this night, he stayed up so late to watch his fields.

Hildy stepped outside, behind him. "Poppa, you should sleep."

Greck looked over at his daughter, who approached him with a cup of tea. "Thank you, love," he said, taking it. "I'll be sleeping soon, is sure. This brew of yours could relax a bear."

Hildy gave his father an appreciative peck on the cheek.

"Speakin' of sleep, how's yer merman in there?"

Hildy smiled (and, perhaps, blushed). Her father had called the stranger "merman" since Hildy had found him washed up on the shore. It was one of her chores to walk the few miles down to the Bania Channel, where they kept their traps in the rocky shoreline, and check them in the morning (for shellfish had become one of her father's delights). Two mornings ago, she found they'd caught something bigger than a lobster. She remembered looking down at his strong, dark face. His clothes were odd and, indeed, her father had told her later that the stranger was a soldier. He looked so peaceful, lying against the rocks but, she saw when his chest moved ever so slightly, he wasn't dead. He should have been. His face was cut deeply and his arms and upper body were terribly beaten. Who could tell how long he'd been floating in the sea - to come all this way - to her. She giggled and turned away, "Poppa!" She took a deep breath, calming her excitement. "He hasn't said anythin' else. He's still sleepin'."

"Still, that's a good sign, girl. He's healin'. You can be sure that he'll be wakin' eventually."

A weak voice answered from inside, "Maybe sooner than that."

The Marreks spun around to see Banry Ellison leaning against the doorway.

"Here, now, son," Greck ordered, "this is no way for a healin' man to act!" He grabbed Banry by one arm and put the grateful and weary man in a chair. "You're weak as a kitten, boy. What are ya doin' out of bed?"

"I'm sorry," Banry answered. "I didn't know where I was." When he spoke, he felt a tight feeling on his cheek. His hand went up, felt a scab crusted over.

"You'll have a dilly of a scar, there," Greck told him.

Banry looked past the old man at a half-familiar face. "You," he whispered.

Hildy approached slowly, coy. "Are you well," she asked.

Banry tried to smile but was too tired. "I've been better," he answered and, for a moment, the two forgot they were in another's presence, staring deeply into the other's eyes. "Who - who are you," he softly inquired.

She took a step forward and bowed to his level. "My name is Hildy. I - found you."

"I'm grateful. My name is Banry."

She smiled and said his name, "Banry."

Banry.

And then he was asleep.

* * *

"Poppa said you should eat this," Hildy said to Banry the next morning when he arose. "He says you shouldn't be up, yet."

Through half-closed eyes, he looked at her. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. "I don't think I could if I wanted to." He took a bite of soup and she grabbed a cool, wet cloth. His fever had risen again.

Dabbing his forehead, she smiled. "Then I don't want to see you tryin' behind my back, Banry."

"Ellison. It's Banry Ellison."

"Then you have your orders, Banry Ellison," she said, rising.

"Where are you going," he asked.

"I have to go. You gotta sleep."

"I can't sleep," he said, reaching his hand up. "Stay with me for a while."

"Very well," she replied, letting her hand slip into his. "You're too weak for Poppa to be suspicious of anything."

Somehow, her hands were amazingly soft. Softer than he remembered a woman's hand to be. It had been a very long time. Banry had already been twenty when he'd given up on love and joined the army to become one of their elite, long range scouts. Now, almost thirty-five, he'd forgotten what love was like. Could this be it, he thought. Falling for this strange woman who fished me out of the sea after I'd almost killed myself? But, why not? Hildy was a beautiful woman. Tall and shapely with a smile you would obey above any other. She had a sense of gentleness and grace and -

"What did you do," Hildy asked.

Banry missed the question. "Do?"

"Yes, do. How did you ever get so hurt?"

"How? It's a long story. My contingent was wiped out and I - I ended up in the sea." He couldn't bear to tell her that he was a deserter. A coward.

"So, you are in the army, then!"

"Was. I was. But now I don't think I'll be getting back."

"Yes. I've heard all the ferries are down because of the dead."

"Yes. The dead," Banry answered and all was quiet. "Where am I?"

"You're on a farm owned by Duke Retmin. We tend this land for him."

"And you're Hildy."

"Hildy Marrek."

"And where is your husband, Hildy Marrek?"

Her hand drew away as if his hand had turned to ice. She crossed her arms and turned away.

"Look, I'm sorry," Banry said as her hand left his. "I'm not very good at this."

"Good at what," she asked, accusingly.

"Er, nothing. I guess."

"Get your sleep," she said, and walked away.

The next morning, Banry rose and went outside to get some sun. Greck had brought him dinner the night before, shaking his head in disappointment, and his breakfast was left by his makeshift bed. Outside, the sun felt like a blessing from Kunsiit, the goddess of sun and storm and all between. Banry sat down but wished he hadn't when Hildy stepped out on the porch.

The silence was deafening. Banry couldn't stand it. "Can I ask you something?"

She looked over at him and nodded.

"Can I ask you how he died?"

"Who died?"

"Your husband. How did he die?"

She nearly laughed. "He didn't die."

"Oh," he said and with a realization added, "Oh! I am sorry."

"No. He didn't leave me either."

"I don't understand."

"Banry Ellison, are you thick?" She turned away from him, sad to admit it. "I'm an old maid."

"Oh," Banry said again.

"Yes. Oh."

He chuckled. "I thought I was the only one left."

The next day, they walked. Slowly at first, they walked around the shack. As days passed, though, Banry's strength returned. They began to walk the fields and, by the end of the second week, to the next farmhouse. There Ferd Laivem, a farmer older than Greck himself, waived at the young couple. "So, Hildy's bagged herself a man, eh?"

It seemed that she had. Banry thought little of his old life. The army didn't look well upon deserters. He'd probably end up an outcast from the kingdom, if, indeed, there was still a kingdom left. Walking with Hildy renewed his body, his spirit, and his heart.

"I just took for granted that things would always be like that," he told her.

"What," she asked as they walked to the coast, "do you mean alone?"

"Yes. I just thought that it was how my life was destined to be."

"Aye," she replied, "me, too."

"So, perhaps it is not," he asked, taking her other hand. She turned to face him and he drew her close.

She almost swooned, feelings his arms go around her, "What are you saying, Banry Ellison?"

They kissed, their lips meeting like the pieces to a long lost puzzle, settling in like the sea to the shore. But her head drew back and she turned back to her home. Faint shouting reached out to them from far away. "It's father. Come! He needs help!"

Suddenly, she was off. Though Banry had felt restored, he had a hard time keeping up. After he was winded, he kept going, panting and gasping for air. As they reached the farm, the shouting grew louder. Old Greck was under assault by five, no, six undead, beating at them with his huge trowel. But the old man was fighting a losing defense. He almost ran back to his home.

Hildy ran towards her father but Banry yelled, "Hildy! No. The fire. Get the fire."

The fire. Both Hildy and Greck knew that was the solution and, as Hildy darted towards the cabin, Banry ran to the porch. He picked up the stool, there, and ran to the old man's side. Two of the undead were more skeleton than flesh and they were quickly dispatched as Banry hit them with the stool, shattered their bones with several blows. The other four, zombies half decomposed, leaking interstitial fluids and breathing noxious fumes, pressed their attack.

Banry swung the stool like a flail, yelling, "Where are these traps of yours?"

"They're out in the field," Greck shouted, caught up in the passion of the fight.

"Get yourself out there. Stand behind the nearest one and I'll follow."

Greck took several steps before turning back. "Are you sure?"

"Go!"

The old man ran without another word, circling the zombies with a wide arch. Banry used the flat seat of the stool like a battering ram on several of the zombie's heads before following. Just as he thought, the zombies followed. Two fell in the first hole, plummeting beneath its camouflage of twigs and leaves. Banry swung the stool and knocked the third in after them.

Hildy came out of the cabin, holding a torch, and the forth zombie ran towards her like a starving man.

Perhaps, it was starving. Who knew what the undead felt? Banry knew, though, what a zombie could do to a person. The creatures held diseases from beyond the grave, wasting, rotting diseases. Should a person survive their attack, they'd likely die from a wound. Knowing this, Banry shouted, "No! Hildy! Run," racing after the undead thing. He leapt upon its back, driving the leg of the stool through its neck like a stake, and twisting it. The zombie's head came away like rotting fruit and Banry leapt from its back before it fell to the ground.

"Banry!" Hildy ran to her man, clutching him against her despite the gore.

Greck told her, "Come on, girl! He's alive. Get that torch over here and let's burn the lot of them before they're ready for more."

Banry came out of her arms, a numb man. The feeling of battle was a memory only a few weeks old, yet one he had hoped he'd forget. Still, he couldn't. No more than he could forget his duty to his kingdom.

He remembered the oath he took in the Imperial Armed Forces. "I hereby acknowledge that my life belongs to duty and to honor and to Rynia. I stand not just for the king, not just for the royal family, not just for the nobles in power. I stand for the defense of the code of selfless duty. I belong to something as large as this land. I belong to Rynia."

He looked down at the headless, undead body, as it wriggled on the ground as if trying to get to its feet. Hildy put the torch to it again and again until it was aflame.

"There," she said. "That's the last one. Everything's going to be alright now."

* * *

The next morning, before Greck or even the sun was up, Banry had found a branch that stood almost as tall as he. He had searched for it for hours. Straight and true, he knew he had the right piece. He went back to the porch and, in the half-light of the lamp, took up one of Greck's knives. A strange thing, nearly all metal; Banry's hand was not used to it. Still, he took it to the branch and began carving out the thing he needed.

Morning soon arose, along with Greck. The old man was shocked to see Banry up and about. "After that tussle yesterday, you'd think you'd want to enjoy the simple, good things. Like a warm bed." The old man went on to his work and Banry kept up his.

After a while - after all, it was inevitable \- Hildy came out to Banry. "This is new. Banry Ellison, the early riser."

"You forget, Hildy. I grew up on a farm, too." He had told her that and many other things, almost everything, during their walks together.

"Aye, so you did. You've never seen the business end of a carvin' knife, though, I'll warrant. You're holding that thing backwards." She leaned over, against him, feeling the chill of his skin, and turned the knife around so he could use his thumb as leverage. "You'll see that's much better."

He tried to whittle some more of the branch and found that, indeed, it was.

"So, what is that you're makin' there," she asked.

He stood up and held the half-finished thing straight. "It's going to be a staff. I figure it'll be some time before I get back to the palace again so..." He stepped away from her. The morning sun didn't warm him and he didn't feel any better lying to her. "I've got to go, Hildy. I need to be alone for, for a little while."

A familiar weight pressed against her stomach. "Of course, Banry. I understand."

So, he took his unfinished staff and tucked the knife in his belt and started walking. He went east, through the fields, and walked over the crest of hills to the sea. He stopped at the top of a hill, where it slowly descended before being cut off by the sea, and sat beneath an ash tree. Looking out there, seeing the Regal Isle on the other side of the Bania Channel, he could imagine how, long ago, the earth was torn asunder at this place by powerful wizards and how, perhaps at this very spot, Lord Tsurtor had flung a curse at the isle before retreating to his Great Hold in Ktoll.

Those were great times full of powerful people and Banry was only one, lone deserter. He sat and whittled and felt incredibly small.

He thought, what right have I to this kind of happiness? To a woman to love? To a home? I took a vow to forsake those things in defense of my kingdom and I ran. I have no honor. How can I face the woman I love when the face that she sees is just a lie?

But face her he must, for up the hill she came, calling his name. A pot of food was in her hand and she held it out to him. "I brought Poppa some breakfast. I thought you might be hungry, too."

But Banry couldn't take anything else from her, not while it was still a lie. "I'll be leaving, Hildy. There are things I have to do."

The weight in her stomach grew worse and she almost couldn't breath. She clutched the pot against herself in both hands. "I had a feelin' you might say that."

"There's something you should know about me." He held the rough staff in his hands and stared out at the water, hoping its calm might grant itself to him. "I wasn't washed out to sea, Hildy. I ran. I ran from my home when the fighting got too tough. I ran and probably left Rynianhomme to die. I'm nothing but a craven coward."

"That's not true," Hildy said. "You've served for more than ten years. You've never run before."

"But I did now."

Hildy went to him and put one hand on his arm. "You know that means nothing to me."

"I know, Hildy, and I love you for it. I wish I could be the same but I cannot. My life as an Imperial Scout was \- my life. I need to make amends for what I've done. Before I can be happy, I need to stop these undead."

She replied, "I understand."

"So now you truly know who I am. You've seen the worst." He turned to her and took her hand. "But know this, Hildy Marrek. I love you as I've loved no other."

"I love you, Banry Ellison."

After they'd kissed, they lowered themselves to the ground, putting the breakfast pot to the side. Hildy felt newfound strength in Banry's arms and nothing would disturb them

Later, as the sun set behind them, Banry ran his fingers through Hildy's hair. "I may be gone a long time, Hildy."

"I know, Banry. I've come to accept that. At least, we'll have today."

His face became serious, looking for the correct words. "I don't know if I'm doing this right. I should probably ask your father first. Hildy, if I do make it back... would you marry me?"

Hildy sat up with a frown. "Don't be playin' games with me, Banry Ellison. This has been a wonderful day. You don't owe me nothin'."

"I think you're wrong, Hildy. I owe you everything and I don't mean for saving my life."

Later, just before nightfall, they returned to the Marrek home, carrying an empty pot. Greck sat out on the porch, smoking his pipe.

Hildy went to him. "Poppa, I didn't make you supper."

"I got my own supper, girl. You forget who was cookin' long before you learned." Greck turned to Banry and said, "Well, young fella, yours looks like a face that needs speakin'."

Banry leaned his staff against the shack and said, "I have to be going, Greck. I want to thank you, though, for your hospitality. I owe you a great debt."

"It seems you took more than your share of hospitality, young man. Do you have any intention of making my daughter an honorable woman?"

Banry jaw set and he said, "Yes, sir. As soon as I return." Then, he told his new father his story and what he had to do.

He stayed one more night. Sleep was put off as Hildy crawled into his cot, waking him up.

The next morning, he ate a proper breakfast with the Marreks and shook the old man's hand for a long time. Hildy followed him outside. "No," Banry said. "I wouldn't be able to leave if I saw your face every time I turned around." He kissed her and she held him for several moments. "Take that, then, and go back into your home."

She stepped back inside, saying, "I'll wait for you, Ban."

"You've given me reason to hurry back, Hildy."

As he left the farmland that the Marreks tended, he could still see the house. He almost wished he hadn't told her to go inside. He almost wished she was there with him. But he had been right; he'd never be able to do what he must had she been there. So, he turned away from his love. He turned to the north. To the Lich Vyr-At-Hozoth.

He started walking.

### CHAPTER EIGHT

### ICE

It took several days for Hex to recover from his use (or abuse) of power, turning the field into a swamp. Even then, he was winded easily, felt queazy, and didn't exactly feel quite himself.

"It's normal," Mack said as if he knew. "Had a friend who was a wizard, once. Every time he went beyond his limits, same thing happened. Your body's not used to it. That's all. It won't be so bad next time."

"Next time," Hex asked, having already promised himself that there wouldn't be such a thing.

Mack stopped what he was doing and faced the wizard. "Something you gotta get used to, Hex. It's not getting any easier from here on in. You have to prepare yourself for that. If we do make it all the way to Hozoth where that Lych is making this mess, somebody is going to die. If you're not ready to use all your power to kill him, you may end up as one of his subjects. Understood?"

Hex felt his mouth and throat go dry. What was he doing here? He was no soldier. He had been thrust into the role and he didn't want it. This magic that he had was simply for amusement. It wasn't the weapon people seemed to think it was. No matter how much he might want to believe that, the proof was obvious. Somehow, the innocent, little trick that he did to fill his apartment with friendly voices had been turned into the power to kill. No matter how much he tried to deny it, he knew how pointless it would be to say it.

He sat against the boat on the beach and traced a finger in the sand. Where his finger passed, he created little sand snakes that danced for a moment and petered out. Behind him, Mack was packing food into bags for their trip. A boat large enough to carry them was easy to find on the island. The bags had been discovered in abandoned farmhouses and Bandoo was fetching food. The plan was to strap the bags onto Ostrander's shoulders so he could carry them once they reached the mainland.

Ostrander, though, was dead set against leaving the island. "I have told you, Hex. I cannot cross the water."

"I know, Ossie, because you can't get wet."

"Yes. Also, I cannot get into the boat. My feet cannot leave the land."

"I know that, Ostrander," Hex said, putting a hand on the golem's chest. "You're just going to have to trust me."

"No."

"Ostrander, I'm not going over there without you. You might have done some awful things and I won't presume to know why but you've done all right by me so far. I need you with me and I'm not going without you. I don't think your War Master will be very happy to hear that I didn't make it through."

Ostrander lowered his head and was quiet for a moment. Finally, he whispered, "Hex, please don't."

"Don't," Hex asked. "You took me here, Ossie. This is your doing. Nobody told me things would be like this when I left my home. I lost Vincent. I lost Robert. You're the only person I know who can get me back to them. You're coming along."

"But I'm scared."

Hex shook his head with regret. "Welcome to the real world, Ossie. Welcome to humanity."

Before they left, Hex took the rockiest earth he could find and began fashioning Ostrander a new arm. He had Ostrander join him where there was plenty of mud and commenced work. The area where Ostrander's arms had once been was hard and crusty. At first, they had been moist, oozing mud. Before he could attach the new appendages, Hex had to break away the hard earth, the scabs, at Ostrander's shoulders. "This may hurt, Ostrander. Tell me if it gets too painful."

"Just do it, Hex."

Hex didn't really know what he was looking for. On a human, scabs stand out, a crusty red against the smooth skin. Here, lumps of dirt covered lumps of dirt. Slowly, he looked for a dividing line, where the arm had once been. "Are you right handed or left handed, Ossie?" Ostrander remained silent and Hex grimaced. "Right. I'll shut up." He started on the right side and painstakingly used his magic to break the hard crust that had built up. Soon, he came to a soft, loamy substance that Hex knew would have to be Ostrander's actually innards. No bone, then. Ossie got along fine with an exoskeleton.

Hex took the first piece of arm and, with a handful of mud, fit it against Ostrander's shoulder. To make it true to Ostrander's form, Hex had to make it huge and, to his chagrin, heavy. He didn't rush to get it attached. He wanted every pebble and gram of earth grafted like one piece of soil. There were no trees to shade them and the noon sun quickly turned relentless. His brow was dripping sweat and his arms were straining. He called for Bandoo to fetch him more water. After the first half of the piece had been attached, though, Hex began to see that this new arm would be better than the old one. No longer a lumbering mass of earth, this extremity would be fully articulated, more like a human's, and stronger thanks to Hex's fine workmanship..

When he was done, Hex sat down. "Go ahead, Ossie. Flex it."

Ostrander did, moving it around in amazement. "This is a wonder, Hex."

"Yeah, you're going to like your knew elbow. I think I've got a way of making a hinge joint that will give you further range of motion." That he did, putting a joint on the inside while leaving Ostrander armored without. He patterned the wrist after his own and spent hours on the hand, giving Ostrander three distinct knuckles for each finger and two for the thumb. When they were through, Ostrander moved them again and again, looking in amazement.

"This befits a stone giant, Hex. I am not -"

"You're not because you weren't made to be. It doesn't mean you can't improve." Hex moved to get up from where he'd been sitting but only succeeded in falling over.

"Hex!"

"It's okay, Ossie, though I appreciate your concern." Hex rolled onto his back. His forehead had been cut against a rock in the fall but he didn't think about it. "I seem to have worn myself out, Ossie. Could you...?" His head lolled to the side and Hex fell asleep.

"Ooop! Would'ya look at that, mon," Bandoo, who had been quietly watching from the side, observed. "Oh, he's done for de night."

With his new arm, Ostrander scooped the wizard up and rested him again his shoulder.

He went down to the beach, where the boat was lit by a bonfire at the water's edge. Night had fallen long ago. Mack reclined in the sand and poked at the fire. "What happened to him?"

Ostrander gently put Hex beside the fire, judging it safe to put him as far away as Mack. Bandoo grabbed a cover and put it over the wizard's form. "He fainted," Ostrander replied.

"Great," Mack sneered. "All I need is a wizard who faints. He made you a new arm, eh?"

"Yes, Hex did."

"Let me see."

Ostrander walked over to Mack and turned his right side to him.

"Hmmm. Good workmanship. He even changed your design some. How do you feel?"

"Better," Ostrander replied.

"He probably overdid it again. He keeps this up, he won't have to worry about anybody killing him but himself."

Ostrander stood silently and Bandoo rested against Hex's stomach. Mack poked the fire a few times and said, "You know, we've never talked before, Ostrander." The golem did not reply. "I know you must come from the palace. That's the only place you'd get an off-world wizard. What has become of the people? Does the army stand?"

Ostrander remained silent.

"Has the palace been overrun? What about He - what about the princess?"

Ostrander whispered, "The people are gone."

"Gone? How," he asked.

"I was created recently and do not know. I am only an earth golem."

Mack's head fell back and he rested himself on the sand. "You know, I was in the Palace once. It seems like a lifetime ago."

* * *

Mack let Hex sleep through to the next morning and woke him as the sky turned grey.

"Huh," Hex said, his eyes still closed.

"Come on, wizard. Sun's almost up and we have got to get going. Those undead will be aware of our location by now. They might attack."

At the mention of the undead, Hex opened his eyes and rose, still feeling weary from the previous day's labors.

"How are we going to get your large friend on the boat? After all, his feet can't leave the ground."

Hex got up and brushed himself off. "I've got an idea for that. Ostrander, do you want me to make you another arm?"

"Yes, I do," Ostrander answered.

"Then, you'll have to trust me." He grabbed several, large seaweed leaves from the shore and started wrapping them around Ostrander's head. When he was finished, Ostrander's head was covered, leaving only his mouth to stand out. "Can you see, Ossie?"

Ostrander stood still, almost as though he were afraid to move. "No. I cannot."

Hex shook his head in amazement and whispered to Mack. "The funny thing is that they don't see through their eyes any more than they hear through their ears. Their senses are omnidirectional, coming from their entire bodies like radar and sonar."

"But if their eyes aren't what they see from," Mack asked, "why did you blindfold him?"

"Psychology," Hex answered.

"Sike what?"

He quickly explained to Mack and Bandoo what needed to be done. They gathered all the sand around the boat that they could, forming an earthen ramp up to the side, and then made a dirt platform within the ship.

When they were away from Ostrander, Mack asked, "Do you think the ship will still float?"

Hex answered Mack with a shrug, "We'll find out."

"And you don't think he actually needs to be connected to the land to exist? That he won't come apart? It's more of your Sike...?"

"Yes, psychology. He's been told that he has to remain attached and was made without knees to reinforce that belief. This gave his masters more power over him. Sure, it's possible that he could fall over but, given his size, improbable. He'll think we're still on the ground as long as we tell him." Hex walked over to the golem and took his hand. "Now, Ossie, I've bonded together a big hill and we're all going to get on top of it, okay?"

The golem tilted his head. "Why, Hex?"

"Well, I'm going to make the hill reach over and get us to the mainland and that's how we're going to get to the other side."

"We are," Mack asked.

Hex shot him a look that said "bear with me".

"That's a very good idea," Ostrander said, slowly, as if not completely sure, as Hex led him up the ramp. Much of it slid away and Hex thought that it might be too fragile to hold Ostrander's weight. Mack and Bandoo, though, threw more sand against the incline, keeping it sturdy. Ostrander made it to the top without a hitch.

"Okay, now go forward," Hex told him. When Ostrander reached the center of the ship, he was told to stop.

"What now," Ostrander asked. He stood there, in the middle of the boat, whole. Not a crumb had fallen from him.

"Just wait, Ostrander." Slowly, Hex and Mack began shoveling sand from the edge of the boat until it was ready to be moved into the water. But the boat, having a flat bottom, couldn't be budged. Ostrander was too heavy.

"What are we going to do," Mack asked.

"Just get in," Hex whispered, "and hold on."

Mack sat in the boat and Bandoo followed in after him. Hex knelt down and felt the sand. It was moist, being on the edge of the water. Once again, he tried to release the water. He wanted to release enough to give them a slide out of the sand. He felt the water surge up as he split molecule from molecule. At the last minute, he realized, "Hold on!"

With a rush, water poured onto the shore, pushing the tiny boat against the wide channel. Hex clung to the side, spitting up sand that had flown into his face and Mack clung to the edges like a man going over a waterfall. Ostrander stood still. "Was that the hill, Hex?"

"The hill," Hex asked, spitting. He climbed into the boat and tried to shake himself off.

Mack shook his head at the disheveled wizard. "Yes, Ostrander. It was the hill. We've risen over the water, now. I've taken the oars from the boat and I'm going to push at the water to make sure you don't get wet." With that, Mack started rowing them to the mainland.

Hex squeezed out a sleeve. "I didn't expect it to all rush out at me like that," he said.

Mack smiled, "I'm beginning to get the impression that you are slightly more powerful than even you realize."

"Why is the hill rolling," Ostrander asked.

Mack looked at Hex who answered, "It's like an earthquake. I'm trying to keep it steady but this is harder than I thought."

"I understand," Ostrander replied and, being made of earth, perhaps he did. It didn't make any difference, though, as he was being deceived. "I'll try to remain steady."

The trip across the channel took longer than either Hex or Mack would have liked. Mack supposed that it was the result of all the extra weight as Hex kept reassuring their earthen passenger. Hex watched Ostrander intently, prepared to start working his magic in case his hunch about Ostrander failed. It didn't, though. The golem stood still, almost anxious, but solid.

"Where are you from, Hex," Mack asked.

"Not from around here, that's for sure."

"I'd got that impression."

"I live in a little town called Country Gardens."

"Country Gardens?"

"Yep. I only moved there a few years ago. Before that, I lived with my folks. But I was getting older and so were they. They moved to Phoenix to retire and I got my own place."

"You must miss your friends," said Mack.

"No. I don't have many friends. One of my only friends, in fact, is being held in the Imperial Palace while I go after this Lych person."

"Held in the palace," Mack inquired, his eyes intense.

"Yes. Those stone giants are holding him hostage until I stop the undead."

"But where are all the people?" Mack almost stood up, rocking the boat greatly.

"I don't know, Mack," Hex replied, holding Ostrander steady. "I didn't see any. What about you, Mack? Where are you from?"

Mack rowed the boat determinedly, his jaw set. "Like you, I come from far away and, it seems, I have few friends as well."

* * *

The landing went smoother than they deserved. Hex and Mack rolled off the boat as they approached the shore, dragging it onto the sand. Huffing and puffing in their wet clothes, they began to build Ostrander a ramp off the boat.

Bandoo, meanwhile, sang:

Sand, sand, must be bland

must be bland cause it's made of sand

when you're eating sand right out of your hand

you're only feeding that bland right hand sand gland.

"Shut up," Mack told him.

Once they had taken Ostrander off the ship, they knew things would be all right. They kept the blindfold on Ostrander until they'd walked far enough inland so he couldn't see the boat. Then, unwrapping Ostrander's head, Hex said, "So, Ossie, what do you think?"

Ostrander looked around in amazement. "This is the mainland?" He looked out at the ocean, farther up the shore from where they'd landed. "We made it."

"Told you we would."

"Now, we need to find a place to rest and get something to eat," Mack said. "There's a town called Caspeton somewhere north and west of here. There are farms surrounding it. If there are people left, they'd be there."

"And we can make some breakfast, mon," Bandoo said, jumping on Mack's shoulder with glee. "We'll get some eggs and some bacon! We'll have a pa'ty!"

Mack looked at Hex. "Get him off of me."

Hex shook his head, thinking that he might have made the little creature too much like a monkey, "Come on, Bandoo."

Bandoo jumped lithely from one's shoulder to the next, saying, "He's not a happy man, mon."

They set off to the north, hoping that it wouldn't be long before they found some habitation. The undergrowth along this part of the shore was thick and wild, populated with a few trees and tall grasses. They found no roads or trails and had to beat back the overgrown scrub out of their faces. Ostrander led, though, handily creating something of a trail. His automatic sense of direction suffered some in this new terrain but Mack, fortunately, new the way. At least, he knew more than the others. As night approached, he led them into a clearing under a huge, oak tree and called a halt for the night.

Hex thanked his lucky stars for his enigmatic companion and was grateful he knew how to start a fire. In the chill of the night, that was all that mattered. There were more night sounds here on the mainland and Hex couldn't help asking about it.

Mack didn't look up from broiling the rabbits Ostrander had trapped. All the huge creature had to do was stand alone and wait. He could be as still as a hillside and the little creature's curiosity was the death of them. Hex wasn't much for eating meat but knew he had to eat something. Mack turned their dinner on a spit as he replied, "The folks who inhabit the Isle have had a generation to hunt down everything noisy. Out here, things keep coming."

"Like what?"

"Flying dernyts, mostly."

"Flying whats?"

"Dernyts. They're a lot like bats, except they have arms and legs and can excrete this very strong glue."

"You're kidding."

"Oh, no. Then you get your occasional Bimune. They started coming out of the desert twenty or thirty years ago. The female of the species is a fierce warrior. They have two very long arms, lined with poisoned spikes. Then they pull you against their skin, secreting their digestive fluids."

"Oh, my God! I thought you were referring to bears or wolves or -"

"We have those too. The northern bears are famous for their hunger." Mack pulled their dinner off the fire and said, "I wouldn't think too much of it, though. Best to eat and then get some sleep, Hex. Tomorrow won't be any easier."

Indeed, the next day way far from easy.

Rising early, Hex started gathering dirt for Ostrander and sent Bandoo to find some rocks. (Bandoo immediately began to sing "Like a Rolling Stone".) Hex, being something of a perfectionist, tried to make both arms match as much as possible. Filling his material with rocks, he tired soon after he reached Ostrander's left wrist. "Can you wait on the hand, Ossie. I'm wiped."

"Er, yes, Hex."

"That's good," Hex said, laying down.

"There is something, though."

"What is it, Ossie?"

"Since you made my other arm, I feel... different."

"Different? How so, Ossie?"

"I don't know. Closer to you. Indebted."

"Nonsense. You're just grateful."

"Perhaps." Ostrander left it at that.

They found a farm by mid-day. Hex was already running on an empty stomach so he sent Bandoo out to find some food. "Food, you'll get, mon," Bandoo said as he scampered away. "We'll make you a repast fit for a king!" That would be difficult. The crops were in severe disarray, some having wilted to nothing while others were overgrown with weeds. The odor emanating from the barn implied the worst. They found the animals all dead, each in various stages of consumption, signs of the passing undead.

As they went to enter the dwelling, a small, chimneyed shack, Ostrander remained outside, attached to the ground as always. "You keep watch out here, Ossie," Hex said.

Mack held his bat at ready. "You might want to stay out here, too, Hex. We don't know what's in there."

"I'm okay," Hex replied. "You be Starsky. I'll be Hutch."

* * *

Across the field, Bandoo was picking carrots, singing, "Oh, Bandoo Lelala had a farm, de-yo de-yo de! And on this farm he had -"

His singing was suddenly stopped by the sight of the pointy object being held in his face.

He croaked out the final words, " - a pitchfork?"

* * *

The cabin was little more than a two room shack. A stove sat squarely in the front room and the back room held a rudimentary bed. Thankfully, there were no bodies, dead or otherwise.

"They must have fled," Mack observed. "They took what they could and left."

"So, we can stay here," Hex asked.

"We should be all right," Mack replied. "Looks like we'll have a warm bed for a change."

"You're alive," a surprised voice shouted at the doorway. Hex and Mack quickly turned, Mack's bat held in defense, to see who they'd heard. Three men stood at the door, all armed. Two of them were older while the one in front was a younger man. The older men were armed with pitchforks, as Bandoo could plainly see, riding the pointy end of one. The young man held a bat. "You are alive," the younger man said. "Then, it seems that you are correct, gent. You will have a warm bed. In our prison!"

"Who are you," Mack growled.

"My name is Stark. I'm the constable for the town of Caspeton. These are my aides. While you, it appears, are looters."

"No," Hex protested. "Let me explain. My name is Hezekiah Fanlan. I was made a knight for the empire and given my new name, Hex. I'm a wizard."

The three locals let out an audible gasp and looks of scorn appeared on their faces. "By your own mouth, you admit it," Stark accused. "Put down your bat," he told Mack. "You're coming with us and let the Gods determine if you live come morning."

As they were brought out of the house, Hex looked for their other companion.

But Ostrander was gone.

* * *

Over the next rise, a trail led to a path down a road that led to Caspeton. As they walked on the road, Mack and Hex held at pitchfork point the entire time, Mack muttered, "You know, I can't take on these three by myself. But if I could have a little help..."

"I won't use my magic - whatever it is - on these men. These are human beings, not monsters. This is all just a misunderstanding," Hex insisted.

"Quiet up there," Stark yelled and the men with the pitchforks gave them a poke.

(Bandoo had since been placed in a burlap sack, protesting loudly the entire way in. His voice could be heard from inside as they walked, singing the "I don't know why I've been poked and stuffed into a sack when I didn't do nothin' blues".)

Pushed and prodded, they were led into town. Caspeton was rather small; it was even smaller than Country Gardens. Its shops and taverns and stores and such were kept within a three block radius. At the northernmost end was the mayor's home, which stood next door to the constable's office and prison.

"It's early yet," Stark said. "His'soner should still be in."

And, indeed, he was.

Mayor Haphalot Rounes was a fat, zealot who took great pleasure in the amount of power he wielded. He'd been in office for a little over a year, before which he'd made a laughable blacksmith and a terrible handyman. He'd been voted in simply because he could raise the people's paranoia. After the big war, Caspeton had been nearly destroyed. It was those wizards who caused that war. Now, they had the undead launching assaults on their homes and who was to blame for that? Wizards. What evil in the world couldn't be blamed on the wizards?

"What'cha got, Stark," the mayor said, while rolls of fat jiggled about his bald head.

"Two counts of looting, your honor. But more important," Stark said pointing at Hex, "this man's a wizard."

"A what," the mayor roared.

Hex raised his open palms, "Look, I can explain."

"Quiet, you," one of the constable's aides insisted.

Mayor Rounes banged on his desk with his fist, "Execution at dawn, constable! We'll string 'em up in the square!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Hold on," Mack said. "This has gone on far enough. How long have you been in office, sir?"

The mayor answered, "This is my second year, but I don't see -"

"What happened to Mayor Seppa?"

"He was one of the first killed by the dead after they came," an aide said.

"We don't have to answer your questions, you impudent gent," the mayor yelled. "You've been sentenced to death. Take them out!"

"Well, you'll have to answer my questions, mayor," Mack insisted.

"Shut him up! Gag him," the mayor ordered.

Mack was promptly gagged and his arms bound behind him. Hex was bound as well, for good measure.

They were led into the next building where three cells stood empty. Mack was put in a cell alone and Hex was put in the cell farthest from him. Their legs were bound together and they were locked in. Hex couldn't help but notice that the architecture here was a far cry better than that in the palace and he wondered at that. He realized, too, that it only made escape that much more improbable.

"You know, I can just destroy these bindings and these bars," Hex tried to threaten.

Stark shook his head. "Just like a wizard to try and scare us. Okay, Mr. Wizard, my aides will just have to watch you. Boys, if he makes one move towards those bars, kill him. That should solve the problem."

Hex closed his eyes in disgust, knowing that the improbable just became impossible.

One of the aides hung the bag that held Bandoo up on the wall and a sad voice came from within:

No I don't like being in a bag or hanging from a hook

Cause I don't got much that I can do or anywhere to look

But it's growing so humid in here, I'll very soon start to cook

I'll be Bandoo Lelala a la cart, er bag, before too long!

The only sensible option remaining seemed to be sleep, and Hex was so tired already that it wasn't too difficult for him to sink into a deep slumber.

Then, from out of nowhere came a crashing sound and Hex's eyes opened to a cloud of dust falling all about him. In the midst of the explosion, he heard his name called.

"Ostrander?" Hex asked, seeing the golem. He didn't bother to wait for a reply; his captors were rushing towards his cell walls. He scuttled his bound body away from them and saw, as the dust cleared, Ostrander through a massive hole in the prison wall.

Hex stopped breathing for a moment when he saw the expression on the golem's face.

Ostrander was smiling.

Actually smiling! Hex was shocked. He'd never seen any expression on the golem's face before. His lips had only moved when he spoke.

"Ostrander? What's going on?"

"I believe it is called a prison break," the golem replied, his voice oddly cheerful. He picked up the bound wizard and moved him to the side. He stepped forward, standing between Hex and the entering guards. The guards didn't stand a chance. They'd never seen a golem before and weren't aware of what they were fighting. Ostrander took his left arm and nudged their weapons aside while his right hand conked them on their heads.

Hex tried to stand and Ostrander helped him up. Swiftly, he used his magic to reduce his bonds to shreds and was free. "Thanks, pal. Now we just have to get Mack and Bandoo and get gone."

Mack agreed, nodding his head vigorously and trying to direct Hex over with wide eyes.

"We should hurry, Hex. The time was right for a breakout only because of what is happening outside of town."

Hex, halfway out of the cell door, turned around. "You know, I think that was the first time I've ever heard you use more than a couple of words in a sentence."

"Perhaps," Ostrander replied.

After Hex broke Mack's bindings and gag, Mack was quickly on his feet, asking, "What do you mean, Ostrander? What's happening outside of town?"

Matter of factly, Ostrander replied, "The dead are attacking."

Ostrander was not created for speed. Indeed, there was little about him that could be called swift. Mack pushed and swore at the golem to hurry, but Ostrander continued propelling himself at the same rate, his earthen feet rolling forward to always stay in touch with the ground. Mack had seized his gear from the prison before they left and Hex had set Bandoo free. Bandoo, of course, had little inclination towards running off to battle.

"I'm just a singer, mon!"

"Come on, Bandoo!"

"I'm just a simple farmer type folk, mon!"

"Bandoo, let go of the bars!"

Eventually, they reached the edge of the town, where several men lay moaning in pain. Beside them, thrice their number lie dead, their wounds a testament to the horrors inflicted by the dead warriors. Their victims were missing arms, huge portions of legs, abdomens and throats torn to the bone, faces were rent asunder. The living were little better. Some would survive with elaborate battle scars and one was certainly blinded. One, though, would surely die. He was the quietest of them all, lying against a log, bleeding from his stomach. His eyes were not drawn to the four strangers like the other wounded. He stared before him at a point a thousand miles away.

Hex walked over to him, without a word.

"Hex," Mack called. "Come on. Whoever is leading this town - and it looks like the whole town is in on the fighting - doesn't know strategy from stroganoff. He's allowed the dead to draw him away from his line of defense."

"Just a minute, Mack," Hex answered, examining the dying soldier's wounds.

"They're heading into a trap!"

Hex turned from the wounded man, his eyes afire. "Look, Mack, you want me to go out there and destroy those undead, right?"

"Yes," Mack replied, for it was obvious.

"Yes," Hex spat back. "That's all anyone has wanted me to do since I got here. Break this. Kill that. Destroy that! Well, there's more to this magic than killing! I'm only going to take a minute but this will take longer if we stand here, arguing. Go on ahead. I'll catch up."

Mack knew that it would be useless to argue. So he walked on ahead, Ostrander (with Bandoo riding his shoulder) followed along.

Hex returned to his patient, for that was how he looked upon this wounded man. As he had told Mack, he was tired of using the negative form of his power, Breaking, and ignoring the Bonding methods that had first led him to magic. The first time was simple, unique, and enlightening. He'd been waiting for the Director of the Jet Propulsion Lab to have a moment free so he could meet with him. Hex had recently discovered a simple equation for exceeding the speed of light. The Director had consistently ignored him. Probably because of his age, when most kids were still in elementary school. So he decided to wait in the lobby outside of the Director's office. It was mid-February, raining, and Hex didn't want to look outside. Playing with his pencil, he found that he could stimulate the molecules and change the arrangements of several atoms. Soon, the pencil began wiggling and worming. In fact, as Hex found when he put the pencil down, he turned the pencil into a long worm. The Director's secretary and he watched in amazement as the pencil inched its way across the table. It only took a moment, though, before the atoms realigned correctly and the pencil snapped in several pieces. That was many years ago and Hex had learned a lot since then (least of which was never to try and make something into something that it wasn't).

The man before him was dying, there was no denying that. Hex lowered his wounded body from the log and checked his vitals. Pulse was low and breathing was erratic. "Wh-what are you do-do'in," the man whispered.

Hex looked into his eyes, which were still glazed and looking into space. "Just relax. You're going to be fine," he tried to say in his most reassuring voice.

"I'm dead," the wounded man muttered.

Hex thought about shock and loss of blood and infection and whatever ill magic the undead bore and nearly agreed. Still, Hex could see the wound and knew that while there was something he could do, he must do it. He put his hand on the skin, feeling the wound. It was just below the last rib on the right side. The skin was torn right through and the cavity beneath was hemorrhaging. He gave himself a moment to become acquainted with the blood and the connective tissue and the injured areas before proceeding to the various chemicals that the body was releasing. In there, Hex found a chemical compound that resembled morphine and eased his way into the nervous system until he found that glands that produced it. With a rush, the wounded man felt relief from his pain and fell asleep. Then, Hex found epinephrine and rushed huge quantities of that to the body. He felt pain shooting up his arms and his head began to ache. A voice inside of him told him that he'd taken on too much.

Still, he couldn't stop. Although he knew little anatomy, he knew how things should be. He knew that the tears in the colon were not supposed to be there and used the cell structure already there to guide him in restoring its correct composition. He did the same for the connective tissue and, before he closed the skin - although he was already drenched in sweat and in a great deal of pain - he broke apart any foreign material and spurred on the production of new blood. Then, as his eyes lost focus, he closed up the wound, hoping for the best.

His body a vessel of pain and exhaustion, he couldn't stay down. He had to get up and fight the undead with Mack, though his body refused him.

"Hex!"

A scream came from the edge of the town and Hex turned to face it. It was Bandoo Lelala, running at full tilt. Hex rose from his hands and knees into a crouching position. Why would the little man be screaming so loudly? "What is it, Bandoo?"

Bandoo charged up to Hex, gasping for air (though the little thing hadn't lungs). "It's Ostrander!"

"Ostrander," Hex asked, suddenly forgetting about his pain. "What?"

Bandoo grabbed Hex's hand and pulled at him. "You must come quickly! He's fallen down!"

Hex's breathing stopped. He knew that Ostrander's insistence that he must touch the ground or die was psychological. Still, what would Ostrander's body do to itself to perpetuate that belief? He couldn't follow the thought to its logical conclusion. Scooping Bandoo up, he ran from the town, directed by Bandoo to where the fighting continued.

Bodies littered the ground. Which were newly dead and which were fallen undead, none could tell. Only a couple dozen townsfolk remained, fighting as though their lives depended upon it - and they did. Mack fought separately from the main force, fighting and dodging ten of the undead alone. Only occasionally could his bat swing out in attack when it wasn't being used to defend Mack's life. Ostrander lay on the sidelines, motionless. Away from the melee, acting like some heroic general, Haphalot Rounes barked commands from the back of an equally fat warhorse.

Hex almost attacked the mayor but knew there were enemies to contend with. "Call retreat," he shouted at the mayor.

The mayor, rapt in his role of the leader, acted oblivious.

"Call retreat," Hex insisted, stepping up to Haphalot's horse.

"Look, I don't know how you got out of your cell," the mayor began to say.

Hex, however, had no time for his posturing. He pulled the mayor down with one hand and put the other hand around the mayor's neck. "Call retreat or I'll kill you."

The mayor quivered beneath the wizard's hand and beads of sweat formed on his temple. "Retreat! Retreat," he screamed, as though his life depended upon it - and it did.

The townsfolk heard Haphalot the first time, fleeing before the undead hordes that were sure to defeat them. As Hex moved away from the mayor and towards the undead, the townsfolk, who'd been armed only with what they could pick up, sticks, chairs, or pitchforks for the lucky, had run well past him. Even Haphalot, on his huge horse, was moving away.

"Hey! Hey, where's everybody going," Mack yelled, taking a step back from the tireless undead.

"Get behind me, Mack."

"Hex?"

"Yes, it's me."

"And it's about damned time, too!" Mack turned tail and ran, leaving his bat in the hands of an undead man who was trying to wrest it from his grip.

Hex barely had the energy to stand but he knew what he had to do. The equation was simple. Fingers of ice flew from his outstretched fingertips, crashing into the undead with horrid results, leaving smoking chunks of frozen flesh littering the ground. Another bolt flew and undead bodies stiffened, cracked, and split to fragments. Another and another, Hex acted without hesitation and the guilt that had once been with him whenever he used his power for destruction was gone.

It almost seemed over before it had started. Chunks of flesh were falling to the ground, rods of frozen air that had momentarily connected them shattered as they fell to the earth, and the spring air was deathly silent. Mack had never seen such carnage. He eyes bulged and his mouth gaped. "What did you do?"

Hex rubbed his hands together, which hurt like they'd been put in a roaring fire. His voice barely croaked out, "I stopped the motion of the atoms in the air. I froze them at near Kelvin." He stumbled towards the fallen form of Ostrander. "Help me," he asked Mack, who quickly put an arm around the wizard and helped him to the fallen golem's side.

Ostrander had fallen on his face. Heavy as he was, there was no turning him over. He had never breathed. He had no pulse. There was no way to tell if he was alive. One telling sign, though, was the amount of dirt that had fallen from him. While still not a dangerous amount, his body was quickly becoming disfigured by loss of integrity.

Hex hadn't time to waste with his pain and exhaustion. Taking Ostrander's feet, he began to form arches and heels and ankles from what had been earth blocks. He moved up the legs, tearing away dirt like a sculptor, revealing subtle curves and, with a violent snap, knees. He hardened the dirt without and created stone bones within while making the rest supple and pliable and better than anything on a human being. His own legs were numb; Hex had lost all feeling in most of his body. He looked up at Mack and pointed at Ostrander's head. Mack, unquestioning, pulled Hex's own lifeless form where he wished.

With great effort, Hex brought his hands onto Ostrander's head, stretching his senses and working his magic, hoping that Ostrander's center of intelligence was in his head. Indeed, it was. It was a quiet place. A somber place. Hex found the point where Ostrander believed that he had to always touch the ground and obliterated it.

Then, he was done. There was nothing else he could do. Whether Ostrander ever rose again, was beyond him.

I need to sleep, he wanted to tell Mack but found that he couldn't talk. All was silent. He couldn't hear. In the utter blackness, he knew that he was blind. He could neither move nor will himself to move. He was alone in an empty void, still.

My god, he almost thought, what have I done?

* * *

Hex was motionless, lying atop Ostrander's body.

"Hex, you gotta stop. I don't think this is working," Mack said, putting a hand on the wizard's back.

Bandoo jumped onto Ostrander's back. "I don' t'ink it's workin', mon."

When Hex still hadn't moved, Mack grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him over. Ashen faced, eyes opened and glazed, his head lolled to the side, Hex looked deader than some dead men Mack had seen. Had Mack been an uneducated commoner, he would have left the wizard for lost. Fortunately, he detected a slight breath and felt a fluttering pulse.

"Bandoo, see if you can find someone to help me."

"Sure t'ing, mon."

The thought of a two-foot plant-monkey running after the already jittery populace didn't exactly fill Mack with confidence. He pulled Hex off of Ostrander and tried to make him comfortable on the ground.

"What happened," Ostrander whispered after a long time.

"Oh, Ostrander. You're awake. It's about time."

Tapping his fingers against the ground, Ostrander said, "My feet aren't touching the ground, are they?"

"Nope," Mack replied.

"Ah," Ostrander moaned for a moment. Then he stopped and looked at Mack. "I'm not dead."

"So it appears."

"I feel... different." Ostrander rose from the ground, bending his legs to sit on his knees. He looked down at the ground. "That's never happened before," he said in amazement.

"I would hope not. Hex built you new legs. Fixed you up, it seems."

"Hex," Ostrander said, looking at the wizard's still form. "How is he?"

"Not good," Mack replied. "I've seen men fall into this state from injuries they suffered during battle. Oftentimes, they don't wake up. They starve and dehydrate and die this way."

"What can we do?"

"I'd like to get him inside, at least. Maybe in a bed."

"Give him to me. I can carry him," Ostrander offered, standing up on his new legs.

"You sure you feel up to it? You lost a lot of, um, dirt." The idea almost seemed laughable to Mack as he said it.

"It's not a problem I'll be having from here on in. Something's different inside of me and I believe I have him to thank for it. My creators made me as something less than disposable. Hex has given me life."

Mack lifted the wizard (who was much heavier than he appeared) and placed him in Ostrander's arms. The golem was still without a left hand, so he cradled Hex's head in his right as they walked into Caspeton. They'd only walked by a couple buildings when Stark came to meet them. He was walking shortly behind Bandoo, who ran with a paranoid awareness.

Mack didn't give Stark a chance to speak. He shouted, "We're bringing him in, Stark. We're bringing him in and we want a bed. This man's a hero. He saved your town and your life. You owe him that much."

Mack had not seen Stark smile before and now, seeing the crooked grin spread across Stark's face, he wished he could have kept it that way. "You got it all wrong, Mack. I was just coming out to lend a hand. Nobody else was able. They were all tending the wounded or grieving the dead. I'm all alone and, it looks like, mayor by default."

"What happened?"

"Well, when the folk saw Haphalot running, let's just say they were less than impressed. They knocked him off his horse and ran him out of town. Good luck to him, wherever he goes." Stark led them back into the heart of Caspeton and into the mayor's office. A huge bed dominated the back room. "Put him there. Haphalot always had the best of everything. I'll bet his bed is just as good."

"What about the anti-wizard sentiment, Stark," Mack asked. "What happened to that?"

"Politics, Mack. I hope you understand. As constable, it was my job to follow Haphalot's orders. I didn't know what else to do; I'd only been deputized from my brother's farm a year or so ago and then promoted when the old constable died. But I watched Haphalot and I learned a few things. He was a fat, old cow but he knew how to look good to the people. So, if they're thinking your wizard was a hero, well, what better place to let him sleep but in my own bed." Stark gave another one of those ugly smiles.

"You got it all figured out, don't you, Stark?"

Stark laughed. "Not really. But I wasn't gonna sleep in that marshmallow." He left the room and, exiting the building hollered, "You need anything, I'm usually next door."

When the door shut, Ostrander said, "Wait until he sees the new air conditioning in his prison."

Mack looked over at the golem "The what?"

"Er, I don't know," Ostrander replied. "I'm not familiar with the term."

"You really are shaken up, aren't you? Maybe you better sit down."

Ostrander moved to the straight-back chair against the wall and, sitting down, crushed it beneath him.

"Ah, maybe not there."

* * *

As night fell, Stark brought Mack some dinner and checked in on the wizard who was still unconscious. Morning came and Hex's condition remained. So it continued through the next day and the next. In that time, the meals grew smaller and, Mack could sense, Stark's hospitality wore thin. With the next morning's light, Stark entered, as was his habit. The look he wore wasn't pleased when he saw the wizard still asleep. "What's the story, Mack? When will he awaken?"

"I can't tell you that, Stark. I'm not the magician."

"Well, maybe you should think of entering that field," Stark replied without a hint of sarcasm. "I've got townsfolk out there with short memories who can only remember that the dead who attack us were created by one such as he. To be perfectly honest with you, I just want him to be up and you to be gone but there are some folk out there that think a prime opportunity to permanently rid ourselves of the wizard is to get him in his sleep, if you know what I mean."

Mack stood, holding his bat. "I think I do."

Stark lifted his own bat, a beat up remnant of battles long gone, and said, "Don't think of doing anything that will make you look worse than you do already, Mack."

Mack smiled, "I wouldn't dream of it."

Ostrander, who hadn't left the wizard's side, stepped away from the bed. He walked up to Stark and grabbed the bat in his right hand. He pulled it away from Stark like a child's toy and crushed it, two useless pieces falling to the ground followed by wood chips. He leaned over the new mayor, "I would," he said, ominously.

Stark tried to give Mack a threatening look that was ruined by the terror in his eyes. Without another word, he stormed out.

Mack put a hand on the golem's forearm. "Well, that bought us another day, at least."

"What do we do now," Ostrander asked.

"I t'ink it's been done, mon," Bandoo said, sitting on the pillow beside Hex's head. "Look. Look at de eyes!"

They looked at Hex and were almost relieved. His eyes were open and almost cognizant. His gaze shifted from Bandoo to Ostrander to Mack.

Mack smiled, "Good to have you back. We thought you were gone. How are you feeling? We've gotta be going soon."

Still, Hex looked. He took in his surroundings for several moments and stared back at Mack.

"I don't get it," Mack said. "What's wrong? Can't you talk?" He lifted one of Hex's hands, still dead weight. "Can't you move?!"

Ostrander said, "I don't think he's well, Mack."

Indeed, he wasn't. And Mack knew, well or not, they had to leave Caspeton.

When the moon rose that night, Mack put Hex's sleeping form into Ostrander's arms, his head cradled in his hand. They left the mayor's office as quietly as they could but not quietly enough, it seemed. Stark was waiting outside.

Mack put a hand up in warning. "We're leaving, Stark. Don't try to stop us. We'd rather be gone than face your blood-thirsty townsfolk."

Stark agreed. "Good idea. I don't think I want to face them, either, knowing that you got away on my watch. But, hey, maybe I wasn't cut out for public office." He laughed, "I wasn't going to stop you, Mack. You gotta learn not to be so suspicious. Here." He lifted a huge sack and handed it to Mack. "You'll be needing that."

Mack opened it and looked inside. Though it was dark, it was obviously filled with, "Food. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. To anyone. Please."

Mack took the sack and bound it around Ostrander. "There you go," he said. "Now you've been promoted from gurney to pack mule."

Ostrander smirked, "And until now it was all just a dream."

Mack turned back to Stark, "What'll you do now?"

"Get run out of town? Nah. I'll be gone before morning as well. Haphalot had a chest in his office full of gold dernigs. I grabbed about half so I should be having no problem with money for a while."

"You're a thief," Mack accused.

Stark shook his head. "An opportunist, if you please. Well, be gone with you and your magical creatures and good luck."

"We'll need it. Although another hand may -"

"Don't say it, Mack. Marching into mountains full of ice giants to find the source of the walking dead wouldn't be on my agenda even if I wasn't a rich man. We're simply a different breed."

"Well, then," Mack said, stepping away from Stark, "Safe journey."

"Yes, and kill a thousand or so for me."

Mack and those with him headed west and north, out of the town as Stark watched them. An ugly smile spread across his lips as he jingled his bulging purse. I hear the desert is a fine place for an industrious lad, he thought. He laughed and then was gone.

* * *

They were miles from Caspeton before the sun began to rise over the trees. Mack thought back to how he used to watch it rising over the calm Seadilia Sea and felt acutely homesick. Walking before Ostrander, he looked at the frail wizard. "Any progress?"

Hex looked over at his companion and, with a motion hardly noticeable amidst Ostrander's walking, gave his head a small shake.

"Hey! Progress! Why at this rate you'll be walking by winter."

They continued north, passed farm after farm, over unkept fields and through thickets and overgrown hedgerows while the sun went to noon and fell to night.

"Where are we going, Mack?"

"There's a road north of here, Ostrander. It leads to our destination."

"Which is?"

"Benaatt."

"Benaatt?"

"Just that," Mack replied.

"But if there is a road," Ostrander asked, holding Hex above the undergrowth. "Why didn't we take the path from Caspeton that led to that road?"

"Good question. It appears you're thinking with those new brains of yours. But what you're not considering is why we wouldn't. And the why is a who or a what."

"Who," Ostrander asked. "What?"

"Exactly. The undead know about those roads, Ostrander. They know where to lay in wait. So we'll bypass them and travel away from the road."

"I see."

"The path you mentioned is only about fifty yards that way," Mack said, pointing to the east. "But we're gonna stay on the far side of it and we'll stay away from the Benaatt road as well."

"Oh."

"It's called flanking."

"Ah."

For many more days they traveled, Mack always driving them forward until it was so dark that they could travel no more. In the midst of a farm of hardwood trees, Mack called them to a halt. Bandoo had draped himself around Mack's neck like a cat and had slept there (as much as a magical construct can sleep). Mack dropped him in a bed of leaves and said, "You can wake up, now. Time to earn your keep."

"But I'm not keepin' not'in', mon," Bandoo replied.

"You're gonna get high up in one of these trees and keep watch," Mack commanded, ignoring the little creatures complaint. "Make sure you got plenty of visibility and don't make any noise unless we're attacked. Then I want you to scream for all your worth."

As Bandoo scampered skyward, Mack went to Ostrander. "We won't be starting a fire tonight," he said as Ostrander had put Hex on the ground. "The dead are too close."

Ostrander nodded. "I'll keep watch from over there."

As the golem stepped away, Mack looked at Hex. In the half-light of the falling night, Hex brought a hand up. "It lives," Mack exclaimed. Hex put his hand on Mack's arm and Mack helped him into a sitting position. Hex motioned around him, his arms still shaky.

"We're just east of Silen. The dead fear the forest more than the living so I'm using it to our advantage. In the next few days we'll get closer but I'll make sure we don't get too close. We've got about ten days ahead of us before we reach Benaatt."

Hex tilted his head, questioning.

"I figure that's the best place to start looking. It was once a thriving city before the ice giants came. After many years of struggle, the entire city was overran and fled to the Imperial Palace. I knew the man who led them. Gregor Alinax. The General wouldn't have retreated without a reason. When he reached the Imperial Palace with the last families from Benaatt, he reported that while they were chased by ice giants, they were cut off by hordes of dead monsters. So Benaatt, it seems, is where we might find some lead on them. Where they came from. This place called Hozoth." He remembered when Karlyn Beele had named it, that place where humanity had first encountered the dwarves but far within, she'd said, far within. He didn't know whether or not he should hope she was right.

* * *

Northward, they traveled, further into the Rynian heartland and higher into the steppes beneath the Northern Spires. Ten days passed and turned into twenty. Food was scarce and Bandoo found that the farms were less fertile than ever. Luckily, the weather assisted them. In the early summer days, the sun, though mild, kept the bite of the winds at bay and crops grew without a cultivating hand.

Hex grew more aware of his predicament each day, forcing himself to overcome the magically-induced shock that he'd fallen into. When his legs grew stronger and, through great practice, he'd learned to walk again, he'd not allow Ostrander to carry him until he'd absolutely exhausted himself. Communication was difficult but Mack was getting better at recognizing Hex's signs and pantomimes. Try as he might, Hex couldn't talk. His tongue wouldn't behave and his lips had forgotten how to articulate. Alone at night, he'd practice, grunting and gasping, and each morning he'd shake his head at the others in a resigned negative. His garments were wearing thin and his appearance grew shaggier each day. He thought it must be mid-summer. Still, Mack encouraged him to go on, saying that their destination was near.

Perhaps, the most frightening loss that Hex felt was when he found he was bereft of magic. It was acute, like a kick to the stomach. His nerves were dead and his brain was dumb. He could still perform the equations and he could still envision the results. A mental block, though, like an eternal chasm, prevented him from making it a reality. At times, when he was alone, he'd pick up a twig or a leaf and practice on it. Trying to bring forth some hint of life. In the end, it was futile. It was devastating. And he couldn't think of how he'd ever tell Mack.

After an endless parade of scenery, hiking from overgrown fields to dark woods to the high grasses of the steppes, their destination appeared like a shining white icon. The walls of Benaatt. Mack led them onto the road before the city and they stopped, gazing at its splendor, sure that the dead would be overconfident in their possession of the area. The walls rose above them high as a four-story building. Hex could see nothing of the city behind it, nor any breach along the walls. Mack knew, though, that it was just this kind of construction that had been the city's downfall.

Behind Benaatt, the rising Northern Spires loomed. The walls, while defending the city from the outside, cut it off, held it in, trapped it. This was exactly what had happened when the ice giants launched their final attack. Those in Benaatt began outflanked. Any attack on their part left the city open for counterattack. It was a losing proposition.

Mack saw the awe in Hex's eyes, though. It was just what the walls were meant to do. "Impressive, isn't it?"

Hex nodded. They approached it on the road and found the distance much easier to navigate this way. The front gates had been thrown open wide and it was when they approached these gates that they witnessed the first sign of carnage. The remains of bodies littered the ground like leaves of an autumnal forest.

What had happened here, Hex thought.

A slaughter.

"We might not find any sign of the icers here but we know that they're working with the Lich so we have a trail to follow," Mack said.

Hex agreed.

"Should I stand out here, Mack? Keep watch," Ostrander asked.

"No, Ostrander. If an army of men couldn't keep the icers back, I don't think you will. Besides, they're probably long gone by now. There's nothing left."

Benaatt opened before them like an icy Oz. Hex, being from a modern world, was still impressed. Cluttered with clusters of massive buildings, it looked like no less than a giant's maze. Dead as it was, quiet and still, Hex felt the silence pressing down on him and wanted out. He hurried their pace along, as towers rose above him. Their footsteps echoed, resounding off the walls.

"What is it, Hex," Mack asked. His voice reverberated like a shout.

Hex shook his head, motioning them to continue.

"You know, if you spoke you'd make this much easier."

Hex slapped the side of his head and gave Mack a sarcastic look. No kidding.

As they neared the end of the town, the worst destruction appeared. Roads were littered with boards and beams from buildings that had been broken like matchsticks. Entire blocks were flattened. Nothing there, in the furthest quarter of the city obstructed the view of the walls. And what a view that was. Where the walls in the front of the city had been pristine, these were torn like paper mache. Pieces of them stood out in a stark contrast to the fallen buildings. Beyond the destruction, the Northern Spires beckoned.

"Well," Mack said, "there's our trail."

* * *

Days stretched on end. The mountains rose about them, trapping them on a thin trail. Mack had forgone the mountain road that led through the Spires in favor of this small trail known to only a few. "We'll be safe here," Mack said. "This trail's known only to the Imperial Scouts, some nobles and a few others. The ice giants are too big to travel through here." Indeed, they traveled unharrassed for over a week as the trail stretched endlessly through the range.

Happily, they didn't need to worry about snow. Their trail made its way through only the lowest passes and, though the summer sun was often hidden in these northern reaches, the temperatures remained somewhat mild. A few months earlier and the trial would have been covered in snow for the almost six months when it was impassable. They were cutting through the range in half the time one would take on the main road. Travel through the day was almost pleasant and the ease of the trail remarkable.

The nighttime, though, was a struggle. Hex and Mack huddled together for warmth. The food was soon gone and Bandoo could find no other. So they continued, growing hungry and tired.

Mack knew they'd come out on the northern coast soon, though. He'd traveled this route several times before and was familiar with the range. Though it spiked higher than any other in the land, it was narrowest at this point and he could see, day after day, the spires shortening.

With great relief, they finally exited on the other side. The trail dropped down upon a wide shoreline that looked hard and barren from the punishment it took from the winter months when it was covered in snow.

Mack dropped down on his haunches. "Well, we've made it."

A roar erupted to the side and Mack fell back to avoid a hand nearly half as big as him. Bandoo skittered back and Ostrander helped Hex up from where he had fallen in shock.

Stepping out from a mound of rocks, as tall as a house, crunching ice beneath it like eggshells, came a monstrosity of cold. It was almost pure white and blue and its composition was angular to the extreme of being almost demonic. Its mouth was lined with many sharp teeth and its eyes were black with hate. This was a real giant, Hex thought. Those rock giants in the Palace were pebbles in comparison.

As it roared again, Ostrander pushed Hex into the pass. That act, though, kept him from running and the ice giant's hand picked him up like a frail leaf and a hard wind and threw him against the pass wall. Mack was up in a second, though, and wielding death defying blows upon the icer with his bat like a man possessed. Every time his bat connected, chunks of ice flew away and it looked like he could beat it. He couldn't defend himself, though, and was quickly backhanded onto the floor of the pass.

Hex didn't know what to do. Turning to see if Mack was all right, he felt a strong wind push against him and icy air surrounded him. Fingers were wrapping around his body and he was being lifted up. Up he went, towards the icy maw of the ice giant and he was struck with terror when he heard it bark a guttural laugh.

"Put him down," he heard. Bandoo had jumped up on the hand and was using his big hands to scrape ice away from Hex.

No, Hex wanted to scream. Get down! Get away! He'll only -

The teeth came down with a crunch and Hex's eyes refused to close.

"Bandoo!" His voice left him like a hoarse bellow from the bottom of his soul and tears fell without hesitation.

His body was rocked as something beat against the ice giant. It was Ostrander and his blows had nearly broken the icer's leg. It brought its other arm up and swung it at the golem, wind whistled as it cut through the air.

Hex almost cried out again but the sight he saw brought joy to his eyes.

Ostrander leapt. His new legs took him high in the air, over the ice giant's crushing hand, and landed several feet away.

The icer's hand shook the rock mound, knocking it about like children's building blocks, and shattered into innumerable pieces.

"Ostrander! Check on Mack!"

Ostrander smiled. "Hex! You're talking!"

All at once, the ice giant let out a scream. Hex flew from its hand and the air was filled with a crystalline display of fragments that had once been part of the giant.

Hex landed against the edge of a rock and fell to the side. He looked back to see the ice giant's head fall with a crunch.

His right leg felt broken. Ostrander pulled him up and carried him to Mack.

"We lead a charmed life, don't we," Mack remarked.

"Are you okay," Hex asked.

"Just a few bruises and a broken ego." Mack got up and looked at his friend. "Nice to hear from you again."

"My leg. I think it's broken."

Mack looked. "No. You probably twisted your ankle."

"You boys want to turn around," a voice said from behind them.

Mack picked up his bat and stepped forward. "If you gentlemen are going to arrest us, I'd appreciate a hot cup of tea first. Or a warm ale if you can spare it. It's awful cold up here." He was looking up at several bearded men carrying axes and packs. None of them smiled but he couldn't blame them. It was cold. Night would soon fall. And the ice didn't help things.

"You look familiar to me," one man said, putting his hand out. "My name's Red Martag."

Mack took the hand and introduced himself. "But I don't think you recognize me from anywhere," he added.

The men helped them down the pass. Hex and Ostrander stopped, though, at the ice giant's decapitated head. Ostrander turned it over so they could see the face. The mouth was closed tight. Inside, trapped between teeth like an icy cage, lay the still, broken form of Bandoo Lelala. A tear fell from Hex's eye. The little creature had been a faithful friend. He'd almost reminded him of someone else he'd known and Hex's mind was cast back from that icy place to a warm park in a small town amidst sunny hills.

### CHAPTER NINE

### SAMUEL AND THE TOPLESS HELICOPTER

Samuel's first thought, when he looked back at Sheriff Schuck was, "Now, I'm in trouble."

John Schuck stepped into the apartment shaking his head. His hands were in his pants pockets and he leaned back just a little. "Let's see what we have here, Sammy. Breaking and entering. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor - four counts. And, let's see -"

"He didn't make us do it, Sheriff. He was trying to stop us," Pete shouted out.

"Right," the others agreed.

"Sean told us to," Pete exclaimed.

"Right," shouted the others, except for Sean who was busy glaring at Pete.

"I don't think you boys understand," said John, sitting upon the huge sofa. "It's too late to try and blame anybody. You're all in trouble."

"Look, John, take it easy, okay? I was just looking for Vincent and so were these kids. We had only the best intentions," Sam explained.

John rose and began looking around. "I hear the rode to Hell's just covered with the stuff, Sam." He went to the kitchen and began looking in drawers and cupboards. What was he doing? Looking for something to eat? Then, he went to the hallway.

"What are you doing," Samuel asked.

"Just looking for damage. I saw the front door kicked in and," he said, looking back with a toothy smile, "I want to see if there's anything else I can take you in on." When he reached the bedroom, he immediately saw the damage caused in the fight with the sand. "Well, that's it, Sammy. I hope you like prison food cause you'll be seeing some of it, I assure you."

"But that wasn't me," Sam demanded.

"Wasn't you," John asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"No! That's where the sand went into the room. I was just trying to," but Sam heard how crazy he sounded, so he shut his mouth.

"Sand, eh, Sammy?" Sheriff Schuck pulled out his citation book and began to write. "Now, I saw the bikes out there when I pulled up. Any of you kids got helmets?"

"Yes," they answered.

"With you?"

After a pause, they replied, "No."

"Didn't think so. I'm writing out tickets for each of you. Twenty-five dollars and your parents signature is what we're gonna need. You can bring that to the station and if I don't see it within two weeks, I'll visit your homes."

Knowing that they were had, the boys left. For the first time, Sean was happy he didn't have a bike.

"Now, for you, Sammy. How many tickets do you want? Or should I just include their price with your bail?"

"Look, John."

"I don't see any sand here, Sammy. Now, if the story you were telling was true then, heck, I'd be on your side running away. All things being equal, though, I'd say we're still all right. Now, I've got a brigade of boys who care very much about their friend and an older brother slash guardian who feels the same. I know that as long as I let you young men free to roam around, you're gonna be roaming on somebody else's property. Sam, I can't have that."

Samuel looked at the ground and, for all his twenty-two years, felt like a five year old. "I know," he replied.

"So, you see my dilemma."

"What if we all promise -"

"Well, I think I could take your word, Samuel, but then there's those kids to worry about." Like a mindful uncle, John put an arm around Samuel's shoulder. "Now, if somebody were to keep an eye on those kids for me so I didn't have to bother myself with them all day..."

Sam was silent.

"Great idea, Sammy. Consider yourself deputized."

"But-"

"Now, don't worry. It will only be for a few days - at least, until your little brother shows up. After that, you're off the hook. I'm going easy on you cause I know you're a good kid."

Thinking about it, Sam couldn't see how he'd get a better deal. After all, it would only be for a day or so, now that real cops would be looking into his brother's disappearance. Then, Vincent would be back again and Sam would be off the hook. "Um, okay," he said, feeling better.

"Of course, you'll have to pay for all the damages to the house," John said, writing.

"Oh."

"And you'll be liable if anybody wants to sue."

"Oh."

"And," John finished, tearing a page out of his book and handing it to Samuel, "you'll have to pay the hundred and fifty dollars for my coming out since it was all just a false alarm."

"Oh," Sam answered, taking the bill. As the sheriff stepped away, he mumbled, "And this was the good deal?"

John turned out the lights and shut off the TV. "Well, let's get out of here, Sam." They left the apartment and John closed the door behind them.

From inside the apartment, his fading voice was heard to say, "And, while you're at it, get me one of those cheesecakes you get over at your night job." When the voices disappeared, the TV turned back on (after all, it was the Twilight Zone marathon), the mirror let out a sigh of relief, and the coat rack dropped its arms and relaxed.

* * *

The next day was a school day and Samuel found the boys in their usual spot at five that evening, reclining in their "clubhouse". Pete and Geoff were eating Twinkies and Randy was lighting up another cigarette, which he promptly put out when he saw Samuel coming.

The thought of Vincent gone from the apartment, drove Sam out. He'd spoken with sheriff's officers about Vincent's disappearance ("Has he ever run away," they asked. "Was there any trouble at home? Did you ever hit him?") and they were no help at all. He tried telling them about Hex but they ignored any idea of kidnapping. "We shouldn't blame our problems on other people, Mr. Gobel."

"I just want you to find my brother," he replied.

"Well, we can't promise miracles, of course. Kids go missing in Orange County all the time. Most of them come back by themselves." Leaving his apartment, one of the officers, a thick-necked brunette whose name Sam didn't catch, gave him a business card and said, "That has the station number and your case number. If you feel compelled to follow up, be sure to give that information and the operator will transfer you to the correct department."

"We'll be in touch," the other grunted and they were gone.

As he shut the door, he couldn't help feeling a lump pulling his stomach to his knees. He could hardly move, leaning back against the door, looking around at all of Vincent's stuff like in a dream. A nightmare! What am I going to do, he wondered.

One thing was certain. He couldn't stay here with Vincent's disappearance pressing against his gut. He had to get out.

He walked across the street, remembering another responsibility he'd gained. He found the boys - the W.F.R.'s - at the playground. "Guys," Sam said.

"Hey, Sammy," Randy replied, stomping on the ground. The others greeted him as well but their voices were hollow and their smiles were fake. They carried the same weight as Samuel, the weight of Vincent's disappearance.

Sean was the first to voice it. "Any word," he asked.

Samuel shook his head. "No help." He sat down on a bench and hung his head down, bracing his elbows against his knees. "They think he ran away."

"Well, that's stupid," spat Pete.

"That's what I told them."

"Why would he run away," Geoff asked. "All his friends are here."

"He obviously went off with that Heck jerk," Randy stated. "I mean, they were both gone, right? And Vinnie said that he'd be going down to his place, too."

"Yes, he did," Sam agreed. "But we can't go checking that place out again, guys. Sheriff Schuck wouldn't let us off so easy next time. So, he made me make a promise. I'm supposed to keep an eye on you guys and make sure you don't go up there again. We've been there. We know they're gone. We just don't know where to. But if we go in there, disturbing evidence, it will be even harder for the police to find anything valuable in there. So, I need you to promise me that you'll stay away from there. Let the police handle it."

"But what if they don't find him," Sean asked.

"Well, then... then we'll do something." But Sam didn't know what.

Waiting for the police, Samuel's life fell into a hazy monotony. Everything was put off while he waited. No plans. Most of his free time was spent, surprisingly, with the W.F.R.'s, whose interest in Vincent's disappearance seemed to grow by day while Samuel's fell into a gloomy resolve. If it hadn't been for them, he might have given up hope right away.

The first week, Samuel called the police every other day. There was no news. The second week, he called twice. Still, no news. He called them again at the end of the third and fourth weeks but they still had nothing to report. "We'll notify you when we find anything, Mr. Gobel," they told him and, so, he believed them.

Summer came.

Seeing the kids out of school only worsened Samuel's depression and reminded him even more that Vincent was truly gone. The W.F.R.'s didn't believe it. To them, there was always a chance that he might return. Every day, they'd come by Sam's apartment and ask - he no longer went to them, preferring instead to keep himself indoors with the blinds shut and a six pack of beer - and he always had the same answer. "No. No. No. Nothing. Now, leave me alone!" Occasionally, he'd even slam the door.

In late July, the fourth month since Vincent's disappearance, Samuel finally did receive word from the police. The phone rang. It was eight in the morning. Samuel had called in sick for work. He had a hangover. "Hmmm," he answered.

"Mr. Gobel," the voice on the other end asked.

"Yes."

"This is Detective Martinez, Mr. Gobel. I've been investigating your brother's disappearance."

"Yes," Sam replied, knowing that he'd hear the same old news all over again. "You've found nothing, right?"

"Well, Mr. Gobel, you're right on that. We haven't found anything. I'm sorry. I hate to be the one to tell you this."

"What," Samuel asked, his eyes closed.

"Mr. Gobel, it's been four months. One hundred twenty days. That is the limit that our department can look for a missing child. I am very sorry but, as of this morning, we have to close your brother's case. We'll put Still Missing on the file in the hopes that something will come along later."

"Sure," Samuel replied. "Sure." He put down the phone, fresh tears flowing down his cheeks. Now, it was impossible not to give up hope.

* * *

Summer came easily within Hex's apartment. Furniture sat in the stale air, not needing to breath or stretch. Dishes and glasses rested in the cupboards, happy to stay in one place until needed. The linens and all of Hex's clothes hung out in the closets without a care.

Everything was still and if there was a problem, it was universal... dust.

"A-choo!" The phone jingled a little, skittering on the countertop.

"Bless you," the beater said.

The coat rack crossed its arms and told the others, "Shut up, will ya?"

"Well, nobody has cleaned here in a long time," the phone moaned.

"You're telling me? I must have an inch on top alone," said TV. "Where's the cat, anyway? I'm warm. She used to like sleeping up top and giving me a good dusting with her tail."

"She's long gone," announced the cat box scooper, walking out from the bathroom. "I haven't had a thing to do for months. Sometimes I just sift for memories."

The mirror sighed, "But she looked so good in me."

"Yeah, but none of us knew how to work the can opener so she went next door to the Hendershot's place."

"Where could Hex have gone," the skates asked in a wee small voice, rolling into the living room. "He's never been gone this long."

TV agreed, "Kid's got a point."

"Nothing we can do but wait," Beater said.

Phone argued, "There's gotta be something we can do. What about all those people who were here before?"

"You mean those kids," Recliner asked.

"And that guy, Sam," TV chimed.

"And Sheriff John," Coatrack added.

"Not him," said Recliner. "I don't want anything to do with that lardbutt!"

"Well, what about Sam? He did seem very brave against those sand creatures."

Scooper nodded at Phone. "That's right. All that sand. Boy, could I sift through that!"

"Be that as it may," TV said, taking control, "Sam does seem to be our best shot at finding Hex."

"Good idea," said Phone.

"Great idea," agreed Beater.

Skates rolled forward and asked, "But how are we gonna do it?"

All was silent.

Skates rolled to TV. "It's not like we know who he is. We just know his name is Sam." She rolled to Recliner. "We don't know where he lives." She rolled to Coatrack. "We don't know if he'll help." She rolled to Phone. "We can't even leave here."

TV said, "She's right. I don't even have legs."

"I don't do anything but open and close," Recliner replied.

"I can ring but I can't walk," said Phone.

"I'm a little conspicuous," added Coatrack

Mirror said, "I'd break."

"I think people would notice a pooper scooper walking down Lynan, folks."

"What we need is someone who can roll forward," proclaimed TV.

"Someone who has their laces in the right places," agreed phone.

"Someone who can tell left from right."

"Someone who is inconspicuous enough that people won't wonder why she's rolling down the street," finished Coatrack.

Skates simply tapped the ground, thinking. "Sure, guys, but who are we gonna get to do that?"

* * *

The stairs that led up from Hex's apartment were the first problem. After Skates fiddled with lifting herself up to the first stair, and failing miserably, Coatrack bent over to help.

Hex had put Coatrack together for a very practical reason. He was a slob. But, he reasoned, at least I'm honest with myself. He bought a coatrack from Penney's (wizard he may be but a carpenter he certainly wasn't) and started working on it in the bus on the way home. People must have thought him strange, staring so intently at the top of his coatrack while he sat in the back. He wasn't just staring, though. He was working magic. Looking within the coatrack to reassemble the atoms within the dead wood, moving this electron here, increasing a charge there.

He told the furnishing to hush as he walked down Perigosa and, then, up Lynan. When he'd reached his apartment, he plopped down in his comfortable recliner. The footrest came up and he said, "Thank you, Cline."

"Don't mention it," Recliner replied.

The coatrack bent its arms this way and that, testing the feel. It looked around, stretching its senses out, not limited by sense organs. "Where am I," it finally asked.

"You're home," Hex replied. "I hope you like it."

"Oh, it's fine. Just fine. In fact, that looks like a nice place to stand over there." It pointed to a corner next to the front door.

Hex smiled. "Good. That was just what I was thinking."

"You're Hex," the coatrack stated.

"Yes, I am," Hex agreed. "And what is your name?"

"Ko," it said.

"Ko?"

"Yes," Ko replied. "Ko Trak."

"Ah, I see."

The rest of Hex's creations didn't much care for Ko's flashy name and called him Coatrack regardless.

And, so, Coatrack went around the apartment, picking up Hex's coats and umbrella, tidying up after him. For a gift, Hex bought Coatrack a hat once. Though Hex never wore it, Coatrack was pleased.

Coatrack had plenty of experience picking things up.

So, he picked up Skates by the laces (which were tied together) and flung her up and out into the yard.

* * *

On Thursday morning, August 5th, the sun pounded down on the earth like a relentless deamon, forcing mankind into submission. The earth, straining against the unbearable heat, used all sorts of evil magic to increase gravity, amplify sound, and to swirl around and around and around.

Samuel's head rested against the edge of the toilet, the one, cool spot in an evil, unbearable world. Although he'd promised God several times that he'd never drink gin again, the pain persisted. In his head. In his eyes. In his gut. In his limbs.

Why'd he drink so much? Better to ask why he'd called in sick to his night job so much that he'd been fired. He called in sick to his day job too and his employment there was growing tenuous. He hadn't been sick. He just couldn't seem to get his life together after the loss of his brother. He thought that a few beers might help him relax. When that didn't work, he'd tried wine. Then, he'd tried gin.

He'd definitely had enough of gin.

He sat there, resting, wishing he'd just throw up and get it over with, nothing but Vincent on his mind. His parents had trusted him with Vincent. He had tried to make a good parent as compensation for all the times he'd blown it as a brother and, yet, he had failed. Vincent wasn't just his brother. He was all Samuel had had in the world. He was his whole family. Now, without that little, energetic, stupid kid, he was adrift, without direction, motivation, or reason... for anything.

A pounding erupted in Sam's head.

No.

Wait.

That was the door.

He crawled away from the toilet on the nice, cool, tile floor. He wasn't wearing much. He had on his boxer shorts and slippers (Vincent had bought him the slippers shaped like gorilla heads) and his body looked softer and rounder than it had in a long time.

The pounding came again. Sam held his head between his arms.

"No," he groaned. "Stop pounding!" His voice came out like the roar of some terrible dragon, both frightening him and hurting his ears at the same time. "Just a minute," he said, softer.

"Sam," a tiny voice said from the other side of the door. "Is that Sam?"

"Is that you, Geoff? You little twerp. I'm gonna rip your stinking hands off at the wrist and you'll never be able to pound on my door again."

The pounding came again, this time much louder. Samuel dropped completely on the floor and whimpered, "Oh, God." As quick as he could, just to stop the pounding, he skittered across the carpet to the front door. His head still on the ground, he reached up to open the door.

Then, he reached again.

His arm wasn't long enough to reach the knob.

Damn, he thought. I'm either going to have to grow my arm longer or get off the floor.

Try as he might, however, his arm refused to grow.

He climbed the wall and unlocked the door, opening a crack as he ducked his head away from the sunlight. Samuel knew that sunlight was bad.

"Sam," the small voice asked.

Though his eyes were closed, Sam could hear the jingling of metal as it crossed the doorway.

"I'm not opening my eyes," Sam said. "Who is it? And do you have aspirin?"

"You are Sam, aren't you? You look somewhat like how the guys described you."

"Yes. Now go. Leave me here to die."

"Oh, you can't die. You have to help us find Hex."

"Hex?" Sam jumped up with a speed unimagined just a moment ago. Opening his eyes, he looked around.

But whoever had been there... was gone.

"Come back here. Where'd you go?"

The jittering of metal answered and a voice said, "I'm over here."

"Where," Sam asked, looking behind the door. He went into the livingroom and into the kitchen but still saw no one.

"Sam. Please. Calm down. This may come as a shock to your system."

"Where are you?" Samuel looked out the door. He could have sworn he had heard the voice by the door but no one was there.

"I'm right here!"

"Where," he asked, following the voice.

"Here!"

"Where?"

"Here."

"Where?"

"He-"

"Aaaaaaggghhhh!" Sam leapt back from the quivering skates, falling on his back. He felt like he'd bruised something. His hangover was back with a vengeance. He didn't want to move.

The skates rolled up to his face and turned towards him. "Please. Calm down."

Sam screamed and, somehow, jumped several feet in the air. He landed on his hands and knees and hopped across the room in panic.

"Sam," Skates asked.

"Don't come near me! Don't come near me." He grabbed one pillow from the sofa and hugged it. The other, he used as a weapon, waving it from side to side. His exhaustion getting the better of him, he said more calmly, "Don't come near me."

"Okay. Okay. It's going to be okay."

Samuel held his pillow closer. "So you keep saying."

"Okay. Now. Tell me what you see."

They were skates. Old skates. The kind of skates that tied around ones shoes. "Skates."

"Right. Skates. Not an axe. Not a butcher knife. Not a shotgun. Skates."

"Thanks for clarifying."

"So you know I can't - I won't - hurt you."

"Uh huh. I didn't think sand could hurt me, either."

"Yes, there was something about that sand. I was told all about it."

His pillows lowered and Samuel raised one eyebrow. "You were told about it? You?"

"Yes, me. TV and Coatrack and Cline tell a compelling story."

"Who's Cline?"

"The recliner, silly."

"Of course... silly question. So the television and the coatrack and the chair all told you this."

"That's how I know."

A pillow on his forehead, Sam moaned, "Oh, man, I am drunk."

"You're not drunk," Skates insisted, rolling up to Samuel. "Well, you may be but I'm still real. I'm one of Hex's oldest toys and earliest creations."

"You're what?"

"Yes, and we need your help."

"What in God's name are you talking about? You're a skate!"

"A pair of skates, if you don't mind."

"I -" Samuel started, but looking down at the skates before him he lost his train of thought. He brought his knees up, crossed his arms upon them, and put his head down.

Skates said, "Look, it's this simple. Hex created us, all of us over at his apartment. He's been gone a long time, ever since he went through that gate. We thought he'd come right back but he didn't and we're worried."

"A gate," Sam asked.

"Yes, that's what the guys tell me."

"The guys didn't tell you if my brother was there, did they?"

"No. I'm sorry but they didn't mention that. If you come with me, maybe they could tell you."

"Sure," Sam said. "Maybe they could -"

Suddenly the door was thrown open and a tall, lanky figure stepped in. "Hey, Sammy! How's it going?"

Randy!

Sean followed, "Hi, Sam!"

Then, Geoff, "Sam-erino!"

Pete entered with a strange look on his face. "Boy, Sam, do you look sick! And how come you're not wearing any clothes?"

Samuel grabbed the quilt from the sofa and wrapped it around himself. "What are you guys doing here," he yelled.

Sean answered, "Well, you know, it's August fifth."

"Sure," added Randy. "Vincent's birthday."

Samuel nodded. "Yeah, I know. I know." He'd bought the bottle of gin just for the occasion. To help him forget.

To think it had almost worked.

"We're sorry, man," Randy said.

"Yeah. Really sorry."

Sam answered, "Its okay. You're not to blame."

"These are the boys," Skates said, excited.

"What was that," Pete asked.

"Nothing," Sam answered, suddenly in a panic.

"What," Geoff asked.

"Nothing," Sam repeated, scooping up the skates.

"No! No!" Skates rolled its wheels at top speed, causing them to slip from Sam's grasp.

"What the hell," Randy exclaimed.

Skate landed and rolled up to them. "When Hex was just a boy, he believed in me. That's why he created me. Please, believe in me."

"Wow," they said, almost in unison.

Sean nudged Sam. "Man, those things talk!"

"Just like Hex's puppet," Pete said.

"Right! Just like Hex's puppet," Randy exclaimed. "Those skates must belong to Hex!"

"Exactly," Skates cheered.

Samuel put his head in his hand and thought that, perhaps, he should explain things. Then, he realized that he was totally confused.

* * *

Samuel knew he had to return to Hex's apartment. Now that the guys knew about Skates, he knew that they'd go as well, with him or without him.

"We can't go during the day. Schuck would spot us in a minute."

The guys agreed.

"Good," Sam said, stumbling towards the door. "Now, leave. I've got to sleep this off."

"But, when will we go," Pete asked.

Samuel had to think... and it hurt. "I'll meet you guys at five tomorrow morning at the playground. Now get out." Sam had a problem with subtlety at the best of times. Still, the guys left, leaving Sam alone with Skates. "You, I'll talk to later." He went to the bedroom, shut the door, fell on the bed, and passed out.

He didn't awaken again until evening. His stomach woke him up, telling him that it was hungry. His head, on the other hand, told him that any food at that point would be detrimental. So he sat up on the edge of his bed, his legs wobbling. He slowly made his way to the kitchen and tried to find some food that his stomach and his head could agree upon, for while his stomach wanted a steak the size of a cow his head wanted to fast for a week.

Ritz crackers, though a little heavy at that point, came closest to a happy median. That and water seemed to make a nice dinner.

"I was wondering how long you'd be," a small voice said.

Samuel looked down at the floor and saw Skates approaching. "Oh, I knew it was too weird to be a dream."

"Hello, Sam," Skates said.

Sam sat at the kitchen table and put Skates on the table so he could talk at eye level. "Hello, Skates."

"Feeling better?"

"Better? My head's pounding. My stomach's gurgling. I could probably sleep for days. I'm talking to a pair of skates." Sam paused for a moment. "You know, I can't top that one." He went back to eating his crackers but couldn't help noticing how sad Skates looked. Was it possible for skates to look sad? Sam grimaced, "Overall, I guess I feel better."

Like magic, the skates perked up.

Like magic? It was magic. Samuel knew that he'd have to admit it to himself. He was conversing with skates. How much more evidence did he need? So, it was magic. Which made Hex a magician. Not an ordinary magician – like that guy in Vegas, Tim McCarty – Hex was a true blue, honest to goodness, sure as happy I.R.S. agents at audit time, Merlin. But real magic? Was there such a thing? Had his world changed so much that Sam now had to contend with real magic? He supposed it had.

It didn't make him feel any better.

"You're real," he said to Skates.

Skates nodded, "I'm glad you finally think so."

Sam rested his head in his hand. "But, how?"

"How? I really don't know. How were you created, Sam?"

Sam laughed, "If you really want to know, Skates, my mom had an egg and my dad had sperm and they got together to commence cell division. I'm the result."

"And you don't call that magic?"

Samuel could see that he had a point. "So, you don't know then."

"Haven't a clue. Still, here I am."

Sam looked at Skates and considered his statement, eating more crackers. "Are there many like you, Skates? I mean, other than the chair and the coatrack and the TV."

"Oh, many. Hex makes more of us whenever he gets lonely."

"Really?"

"Sure. They're not always useful things like me or Phone. Sometimes he just puts sticks together. That was how Robert was made."

"Robert?"

"Yes. He's a stick man, about my height. He wasn't useful. He was just a companion."

Sam's head was swimming again, this time from unbelievable information. He finished his water and closed his box of crackers. Rising, he said, "Well, I've heard enough, Skates. I'm going back to sleep. I suppose I'll meet all of your friends tomorrow."

He certainly did.

Five o'clock came and Samuel, true to his word, met the W.F.R.'s at the playground. With Skates on the dash and Sean and Randy riding in the truck's bed, they made their way through the coming dawn up Lynan and pulled into Hex's driveway. They pulled up next to the house and Samuel cautioned the guys. "This isn't a joke, guys. I don't want any screwing around. We're here to find my little brother, got it?"

There was no argument.

Hex's apartment was still unlocked. Hex pushed the door open and turned on a light.

Everything looked normal.

Sam entered first, holding Skates, looking around. The others eagerly followed.

"Is that Cline," he asked, pointing at the recliner.

"Sure is," Skates replied.

Sam stepped before the chair and looked at it. "Hello," he said.

The chair, however, was silent.

Sam repeated, "Hello."

Still, the chair remained mute.

"I feel like an idiot," Sam said.

"Come on, guys. It's us! You can move!" Before Skates could finish her statement, however, the apartment came to life all around them. Cline popped its footrest up and said, "Well, how'd'ya'do?"

"Hello," TV greeted.

Phone rang out a greeting.

Mirror smiled.

Coatrack gave an audible sigh of relief and relaxed into a noticeable slouch.

Lastly, Scooper came out, nodding its huge, scooping end. (The guys found Scoop the strangest of all. With the scoop end being its head, it walked on little legs that came out of the handle's end and arms gesticulated along the middle.) "Hey, it's great to see ya. Put a load down. Glad you came to help!"

Samuel thought this odd, "Help?"

"Sure," said TV. "You're gonna help us find Hex, right?"

Skates felt all eyes turn on her and she groaned, "Well, I hadn't exactly told them about that part, yet."

"Hold on a minute," Samuel yelled over the rest. "I'm just here to find my little brother. I'm not trying to find Hex."

"But you have to," cried Beater.

Coatrack agreed, "You must help us."

"Their right, Sammy," said Pete. "Don't you see? If they both disappeared here, they both probably went to the same place. If we're looking for one, we're looking for both."

"Did they both disappear here," Sam asked. "Hey, you, TV -"

TV snorted. "Television if you don't mind."

"Yeah, whatever, you were here when this Hex guy disappeared, right?"

"Of course."

"Well, was there a little boy with him? Same size as these guys?"

TV thought for a moment. "Well, no-"

"Yes, there was," Coatrack interrupted. "He snuck past me just before they disappeared."

"He snuck in," Sam asked.

"Oh yes, sir," Coatrack replied. "Hex never even knew he was here."

This didn't exactly make Samuel feel better. Now, he knew that it wasn't Hex's fault. Scrap one scapegoat. He had to chalk it up to Vincent's own stupid curiosity and stop cursing Hex. "So, you're right, Pete. If we find Hex, we find Vince."

"But, where do we start," Randy asked.

"Well, he loved the beach," Phone offered.

"Oh, yes," Mirror agreed. "Why he made the gate out of sand, after all."

"Gate," Sam asked. "What gate?"

"The gate that they traveled through," Coatrack answered.

"Traveled through," Pete exclaimed.

"Yes," Skates said, excitedly. "You could look for them there. Why, you could even fly there."

"Skates," Cliner admonished.

"Hush," TV said.

"Wait a minute. What do you mean we could fly there," Samuel asked.

"Well, um," Skates was stuck.

"Oh, just tell them," Mirror insisted. "They're gonna need every edge to bring Hex back. He has a helicopter."

Sam and the guys were wide-eyed. "A what?"

"Yes, it seems that feline's out of the sack," TV moaned. "He made a helicopter. It's in the shed."

Sam shook his head. "This is getting too weird, guys. Just too weird."

"Not half as weird as it's gonna get."

Samuel closed his eyes and his face took on a pained expression. He recognized that voice all too well.

"Sam, I thought you were gonna keep an eye on these boys," Sheriff Schuck said, stepping into the apartment.

"I, um, was, sir," was all Sam could reply.

"Yes, you were. You're keeping a good eye on them too. Unfortunately, you're all back here in the missing person's apartment where you were supposed to keep them away."

"How'd you find us, Sheriff," Pete asked.

"Hendershot's got good set of eyes. Got a phone, too. Did you know that?"

"But, Sheriff, we've found something," Sam said.

"Really? And what is that?"

Sean went to the television. "TV can tell you!" The TV, however, remained silent.

"Oh, can it?"

Sam held Skates up. "Well, Skates will just have to tell you, then. Go ahead, Skates. Tell him."

"Sure, skates, I'd be glad to hear your story." An odd smile was on the Sheriff's face and Skates said nothing.

"Uh oh, guys," Randy muttered.

Pete stepped forward, though, confident. "We don't need them to speak up for us, Sam. We have the helicopter we can show him."

The news almost made Samuel jump. "Of course, Pete. The helicopter."

"What helicopter," the Sheriff asked.

"It's in the shed. Come on. We can show it to you." Sam walked outside, Pete leading, and Sheriff Schuck followed with a sympathetic shake of the head.

"It's right in here," Pete said, waiting for the others to catch up. He kicked impatiently at the sand on the ground.

"It appears to be locked," the Sheriff observed.

"There must be some way in," Sam said, looking down at the ground in thought. "Maybe there's a key inside."

He barely heard the Sheriff agree behind him; his attention was drawn to the ground. Wasn't it once covered with grass? It seemed to be mostly sand and no matter how much Hex liked the beach it didn't seem realistic to -

His train of thought was cut off by the razor sharp reality of what he saw before him and he was frozen for that second in terror.

The sand - moved!

He saw Pete standing in the middle and reached for him. Time seemed to slow and his worst fears were confirmed. As he reached out for the boy's arm, spicules of sand launched from the ground at Pete's legs. Samuel grabbed the boy and pulled with all his might, nearly losing his balance and falling to the ground.

The yard had erupted in chaos. Sand was rising from the ground in great mounds, undulating like a restless sea. Sam could barely see the others near the house, looking horrified across the expanse of sand. Where had all that sand come from? Somehow, it had multiplied! "Randy," he shouted.

The oldest boy looked over at him but didn't reply.

"Can you drive?!"

It wasn't a quick response, nor was it sure. Still, Randy replied, "Yes. I think."

What the hell, Sam thought reaching for his keys. He smokes and drinks and does everything else. "Take the truck and get everybody out!" He pitched the keys at the boy and Randy caught them with equal dexterity.

Behind him, John Schuck was frozen in terror. Pete was pulling on the lock.

"Get out of the way," Sam yelled, feeling somehow distant and different. Moving Pete away from the door, he kicked but to no avail. It wouldn't be long before the sand began attacking. It seemed only to be waking now, not completely cognizant.

Then, a needle of sand pierced John's pants pocket and filled it as John jumped several feet into the air. He pulled Sam aside and broke down the shed's door in a panicked run. Inside, he seemed to gain some composure, still swatting at his pants pocket like an angry bee had got inside. "Well, Sam, there's your helicopter now Get Me The Hell Out Of Here!"

But there was something wrong with the helicopter. It wouldn't fly. It sat there, in the center of the shed, like an unfinished eyesore. "There's no top," Sam shouted, staring at the machine.

"Oh, God! That thing can't fly," John screamed. "That thing can't fly!"

"Maybe it doesn't matter," Pete yelled. Outside, the sand was making an awful noise, almost like a roar. Sam slammed the door shut and pulled a table before it, though he knew that wouldn't work. Pete continued, "Maybe it's alive like the others!"

"Right!" Sam stepped before the topless helicopter and knelt down before it. "Hello. Look, we haven't much time. We're in trouble. We're being attacked and we're gonna die if you don't work."

Lights flickered on the dash and a lilting voice came from the machine. "Where's Hex?"

Before the question could be completed, something pounded against the shed. Dust fell from the ceiling and things were thrown from the walls.

"He's not here! We're friends of his! Please! You have to get us out of here," screamed the Sheriff. "Tell it, Samuel!!"

Sam pleaded, and another hit shook the shed, "Please. You are a helicopter, aren't you?"

"I beg your pardon," the helicopter said, almost offended. "I'm Antoine."

"Antoine. Right." The Sheriff and Pete were holding the door shut. Each pounding the shed took, pushed them away, letting in small amounts of sand. As panic began to set in, Sam grabbed on to Antoine's side. "You can fly, can't you?"

"Well, of course."

"Then, can you please get us out of here?"

"Sure. Hop in."

Somehow, both John and Pete heard Antoine and ran away from the door and jumped in. Samuel squeezed in on the driver's side. Above them, the shed's roof spread open, the four triangles separating like a flower as Antoine slowly rose. "Neat trick, huh," he said more than asked.

Sand rushed in on the floor, tearing the place apart like rabid dogs.

Tilting forwards, Antoine cleared the roof by inches.

"Higher, Antoine," Sam chanted. "Higher."

"Give me a break," Antoine said, straining. "What are we hauling here? Dumbo's landlocked cousin?"

John gave the machine a mean look.

"Two words for you tubbo," Antoine groaned as he wavered in the sky. "Die - it!"

With a lurch, they fell several inches.

"Antoine," Sam screamed. Lances of sand launched in the air around them. John grabbed Pete, whose sleeve was cut and arm bleeding, and pulled him in, wiping sand off.

"I think I can. I think I can," the little topless helicopter repeated. It rose several feet into the air and began falling again as Antoine said, "I'm lying to myself. I'm lying to myself."

* * *

Randy had seen the keys by a flash of reflected sunlight in the air. His catch was better than he'd expected and he turned around to order the others to the truck. They'd already moved, back to the bottom steps to the basement apartment. Before him, sand writhed like a huge snake, blocking any exit. Randy had seen how it moved and could tell it wasn't friendly.

A needle of sand shot out before him and he jumped to the side. It dropped harmlessly to the ground but Randy's shirt was sliced open and his chest ran red. He turned to the apartment and the pain hit him, burning like fire in his ribs. Fear was giving the orders, though, and he easily ran down the steps and entered the apartment with the others.

"What are you doing?"

"What's up?"

"What's going on?"

The barrage of questions from the furnishings went unanswered as Sean and Geoff stood terrified and Randy clutched his side in pain.

Skates rolled up and tapped Randy's foot. "What's the matter, Randy?"

"There's something out there," he gasped. "It's like some huge sand monster."

"Uh oh," Skates muttered.

Phone started dialing, saying, "I'm calling 911 right now! They'll be able to help!"

"911 emergency," a voice said on the other end.

"Help," Phone screamed. "We're being attacked by a huge monster! It's -"

"Please don't crank call 911," the voice said. "Your number has been billed for this call. Thank you."

The line disconnected and Phone growled.

"What are we going to do," Geoff cried.

"Shut up," Randy yelled. "Look. It's sand! We've got to be able to beat sand!"

Sean's eyes opened wide. "Get the vacuum cleaner!"

"Vacuum cleaner, Sean? We're going to suck this thing up?" Randy shook his head in amazement.

"No," Geoff corrected. "You can turn it on reverse! Then it will blow instead of suck!"

"Sure! And I can help," Scooper offered

"And what about a fan," Sean added. "If Hex's got an extra extension cord, we can bring it outside with the vacuum!"

The items were gathered up. Vack was the vacuum and he rolled by himself. He was ready for the fight before anyone else. "Let me at 'em! I'll suck 'em up and -"

"Blow, Vack," TV corrected.

"Right, blow. I'll blow 'em away 'til they didn't know what hit 'em!"

Scooper was right beside him.

Sean grabbed the huge, box fan that Hex kept in the bedroom. Geoff grabbed the broom and Randy, his side feeling stiff but the paid subsiding, took the mop. "We all ready," Randy asked. Everyone agreed. "Okay, then, let's go!" Randy grabbed the doorknob and flung the door open wide.

Before them, like a concrete slab, sand filled the entryway

"Uh oh," said Skates.

With a rush like a tsunami, sand flew into the apartment. Geoff and Randy jumped back and ran to the other end of the room while Sean, armed with his fan, blew sand back all around him. Each dart of sand that came towards him, he blew away. So much sand was blown that a cloud was forming. He had to step back, though, retreating slowly, for the sand filled the room and its mass didn't seem to end.

Somewhere in there, Vack and Scooper were trapped beneath all that sand.

Though they fought with all their might, swinging broom and mop and blowing with the fan, the sand relentlessly pushed on. It reached Coatrack, who couldn't fight and was quickly buried, and Cline, who dashed sand by kicking up its footrest. TV was soon being buried. Defenseless, he'd soon be gone. Sand covered it and commenced.

Then, from beneath, came a pop, like a muffled gunshot.

The sand shook and danced in a frenzy. Like a disappearing ghost, back it went, out of the apartment and up the stairs, leaving clumps of sand behind.

TV was ruined. The guys rushed to its smoking side.

"TV? Can you hear us," Geoff asked.

"Yes. But I'm not long for this world, boys. Do your old, uncle TV a favor, will ya? Fight the good fight. Never say die. When the odds are against you and your back's up against the wall, don't give in. Get out there, boys! Get out there and win one for the clicker!"

"What's he talking about," Sean asked.

"Haven't seen that one, huh? Well, just get out of here, then. Get to safety." Its picture tube shattered and its LCD display dimming, the boys gave TV one final pat on the top.

"It must have been the electricity," Randy said.

"Great! Then, let's go out there with some electricity," Sean said.

"You wanna walk out there with live wires? No? Then, come on. We gotta get to the truck."

Scooper and Vack, unhurt by their burial, attacked piles of sand left in the apartment.

Geoff and Randy took their weapons - Sean's extension cord wasn't long enough - and headed outside.

* * *

"Oh my God! We're gonna die," the Sheriff screamed as Antoine fell earthward.

"Please, Antoine! Please," Sam begged.

With a grunt and a wheeze, Antoine halted their descent.

Samuel looked around them. He could see only one safe place and they were less than twenty yards away. "Can you get us to the roof, Antoine?"

"The roof," asked Antoine.

"Yes, Antoine! The roof!"

"That's up, isn't it?"

The house was two stories tall and Antoine was flying lower than that. "Not by much. Please!"

Sputtering and wavering, Antoine advance on the house. He rose an inch into the air. Then another, and another, as he lined them up with the roof.

I'm flying in a topless helicopter named Antoine, Samuel thought. I talked to it and it talked back. There was a calmness in the center of his soul and he thought, so this is what insanity's like.

The sand beneath them followed, plastering itself against the house.

Sam leapt out on to the roof and helped pull Antoine forward until it was completely atop and could rest.

Beneath them, sand crept up like ivy.

Sam ran to the side. The truck was still there. What had happened to the boys?

Out in the street, Sheriff Schuck's Lincoln Towncar sat waiting.

"We gotta get you down to your car," Sam told John. "Antoine can't haul us all."

John looked at his car. "So, what am I going to do? Jump?"

"Antoine," asked Sam, "can you take John down to his car?"

"Him alone?"

"That's right."

"I can probably handle it."

John climbed in and Antoine sputtered up a few feet. Then, once they were near the car, Antoine dropped almost all the way to the ground and landed hard - but no so hard as to do any damage, to himself. John hobbled out of the helicopter and leaned against his car, rubbing his butt.

Antoine went back up to the roof and Sam and Pete climbed aboard.

The sand beneath them scattered to the far end of the yard causing Sam to wonder what had happened. Shortly thereafter, Randy, Geoff, and Sean ran out, towards the truck.

"How can you fly anyway," Sam asked Antoine.

"It's hard to explain. Basically, though, Hex showed me that my propellers were just a crutch."

"Ah."

The guys got in the truck as the sand started to advance. The truck started and lurched in reverse with a crash.

* * *

Randy had his eyes shut. "Where are we," he asked.

Sean rolled down the window. "I think we're in the kitchen."

They lurched again into the driveway and lurched out into the street. John honked his horn to warn them away from colliding into him.

Samuel started thinking about where they might go now that Antoine was floating with ease when, in the midst of the sand, he saw something.

"VINCENT!"

### CHAPTER TEN

### TAKING THE IMPERIAL PALACE

"Vincent!"

The boy felt a hand grab his pantleg and draw him back. He looked back to see Mark's lamp-lit face. "We're in here, Vin," he said, pointing.

Vincent crawled back down and into the side tunnel which dead-ended in a circular shaped room. He couldn't help feeling like he was in a giant Habitrail. Mark and Princess Helen crawled in after him and they sat in silence. There wasn't even enough room for Vincent to stand. The eerie shuffling of troops soon passed in the tunnel beside them as hundreds of men went up into the Palace.

It had started with Lord Alinax. "If there's to be any way to turn this around on those stoners, we have to take the fight to them."

"Are you serious," Mark asked, lowering his bat.

"It's the only way. Hargoth may be bright for a hunk of rock but he's not going to expect us to hit him in his gut when he thinks we're cornered."

Helen looked at Mark for advice.

Mark tried to think of some way around Alinax's plan but, in the end, he could only agree. "He's right, of course. Hargoth's resources are pressed for attack at the cave's mouth. If we hit him hard and fast from the tunnels, we can force him to stop his attack..."

"We'll do more than that," the general insisted. "We'll take back the palace!

"Once we're in," Mark continued, "the tunnels could be blocked by any Bonder and neither the stone giants nor the sand would know where we came from. We'd be trapped there but we'd also be unreachable."

"What about the wounded," the princess asked.

Alinax fudged a bit, "Well, they'd-"

"And the civilians," Vincent spoke up.

Both Alinax and Mark were silent.

"We aren't going to leave them, if that's your idea." The princess thought for a moment. "Take half your men. Arm the artisans and attack."

Alinax shook his head. "Princess, a two front assault-"

Helen insisted, "We'll save the wounded and the civilians while simultaneously securing a safe haven. Once we've secured enough of the Palace, we'll begin a slow withdrawal from the cave." That was the final word.

Alinax stormed out, breaking into a run. Vincent looked up at Mark. "What do we do, Mark? Do we get to attack?"

"No, Vincent. Attacking would not be a good thing." He herded them towards the top of the cave, where a large tunnel led up to those smaller, which they'd used to pull Vincent out of the Palace in the first place. At the entrance, one guard stood at attention. "I'm counting on you, Daniel," Mark told him. "You are under my orders to wait here as long as you can. Get as many out and into the palace before you set the traps on the sand golems."

"Yes, sir," Daniel replied. His would now be a waiting position. He would be witness to the great havoc that would overwhelm the cave. He'd see men and women die as sand poured in like relentless fate. He'd be the one to decide who lived and died as he set the traps behind him. If he was moved too soon, more would die in the cave. If he waited too long, he'd compromise the safety of those who'd already left.

They hurried, knowing that soldiers would soon be behind them, into the great tunnel lined with torches. Mark kept looking around as they walked and stopped at the second tunnel above them. "This will do. Vincent, you're first."

"We're going in there?"

"Yep, we're going in there," Mark replied, putting his hand out for Vincent's foot.

Robert poked his head out from Vincent's pocket. "No. No. No. Up there isn't a good place. I've been there. Take my word for it."

"Come on," Mark prompted. He lifted Vincent up and held him while he got a grip. The little boy crawled a ways and Mark turned to Helen. "I've got to be second in case we meet any resistance."

"What," she asked, surprised.

"We don't know if they haven't breached the tunnels. If they have, I'll need to hold them off until you can get away. Don't worry about Vincent. I can pull him back if necessary."

Helen shook her head, "But Mark, you can't-"

Mark put his hand up. "I'll put my leg down and you can grab on to my foot. I'll pull you up. Okay?"

Helen hated it when he wouldn't listen so she gave him a cross look. "Fine."

Mark hopped up and grabbed on to the edge. After he'd pulled himself up far enough to secure his position, he put his leg down. When Helen jumped up and grabbed a hold of it, Mark slipped slightly but kept his grip.

Helen climbed into the tunnel. "Where, now?"

"I think I know a place. The spies sometimes store jerky there for when they pull a long watch. It's in an indirect route so we should be out of the way."

And, so, they'd arrived. Vincent didn't find any beef jerky on the floor. It was dark (Mark said they needed to conserve lamp oil.) and painfully boring. After a while, it even became scary, as the sound of advancing troops ended and the screams of the dying began.

* * *

Lord Alinax ran through the alleys of the cave, a man possessed. His actions further limited by the princess, he knew that time was now his worst enemy. He had to clear out the civilians and the wounded, empty Rynianhomme completely, before he could allow his men to withdraw and flee from the horror outside the cave. Even then, their retreat would have to be slow, calculated, and appear reluctant. Any mad dash for the tunnels would surely alert Hargoth to their attack and doom their breech into the palace. Alinax knew that his defending forces would have to remain for as long as possible, buying the retreating Rynian's muchly needed time. Two small forces against an army of stone and sand seemed insane but one thing Alinax knew from past experience (and tried vainly to convince himself of) was that the most insane plans usually paid off the best.

His feet carried him to the rear of the cave and the entrances to the tunnels. Here, in another hideaway, the civilians could hide until needed. And needed, they were. "All you men, come with me," Alinax roared as he stepped before the civilian populace. There weren't many women and no children. A few men were elderly and some were sick but they all stood, a militia of almost eighty men, at the call of Lord Alinax. "Grab whatever you can use as a weapon and bring it with you. Make it the heaviest you can carry. These stone giants don't respect blades so forget 'em, cause you're going up into the palace to free our home. The time has come and you best be ready!" He turned and he ran, confident that they'd follow.

They followed like new recruits, the closest man was just inches away and they trailed men far behind who hadn't run in the entire time they'd lived down in the cave. They wanted to breathe fresh air and see their homes again. Led by Alinax, they were more than ready to die for it.

Alinax ran them to the cave mouth, where several more men had fallen, and stopped them there. Already, many of the men had picked up hammers and axes and pans and huge, hardwood tongs. Others had picked up lengths of hardwood that had yet to go through their quickening. Although they had not been transmutated into the ironlike, resilient stuff of quickened hardwood, those men who had grabbed them knew they'd deliver a bit of damage to the stoners before breaking. Alinax stepped away from the militia and went before Commander Rolf Heaphge and saluted.

Rolf, bleeding from the hand, returned a stiff salute. "What's the word?"

"You won't like it. You're to stay here."

Fire erupted in the Commander's eyes. Only a few years younger than Alinax, he still looked upon the general as a father figure, as did most of the army, rarely questioning his judgment. This was one of those times. "And have our men die meaningless deaths?"

"No death is meaningless, Commander," Alinax replied, placing a hand on his second in command's shoulder. "Wheels are turning. We just may win this thing, yet."

"How?"

"I'm taking a force into the Palace," Alinax replied, indicating his militia.

"Those men have never been trained for war, my Lord."

"Nor were you before the icer's first assault."

Rolf looked at Alinax's face, the fire remaining in his eyes for a moment. Slowly, though, he remembered a younger time, pitching hay, before an ice giant attacked a neighbor's farm and he ran with his pitchfork to aid in his neighbor's defense. He'd been fighting ever since. "Aye, sir."

"We'll be launching the initial assault. Kraephten's recon has only shown us a couple of hundred stone giants."

"How many of those earth golems?"

"Maybe three dozen."

"Sand?"

"We don't know about sand, Rolf. You know that. What are you getting at exactly?"

"You'll need us, Alinax. I've got almost four hundred good men here and I'm losing them fast. We could hit those tunnels and attack the palace in force if -"

"Stop," Alinax ordered. "The word came from Princess Helen herself. You are to stay as long as you can and bring up as many men as you can. Make it look good. I don't want any reports going up to Hargoth, informing him of our assault. Buy us time and - when we've had enough to breech the palace and obtain a defendable position - bring your men along for the cleanup." He walked towards his militia without another word.

* * *

There were many tunnels that ran beneath the palace. They reached up between the walls and climbed to the ceilings. From within them, Kraephten Kattox and his squadron of boys had spied and laid traps for the army of giants and golems who lived within the walls. Now, it was time to spring those traps.

One tunnel in particular, the newest to be dug, ran beneath the cave. It ran down and below in a straight determined line to a hole lying beneath a room in the center of the town. It was from within that room, now, that Kraephten presented his plans. He spoke in short, direct sentences, his hand always on the hilt of his sword. The battle had commenced and Rynian blood had been spilt; the long Vittahr would remain in his hand, ready to be drawn in a moment's notice, until all of this was over.

The boys stood around him in the small room, determined and ready like his weapon. Indeed, these boys were his weapon. He'd educated them all in the manner of concealment and espionage. He'd seen to it that they could fight better than the best of Rynia's soldiers and had armed them with daggers and picks, mauls and mattocks, hammers and hand-spades, anything they could get their hands on. Not only did he teach them how to fight, he also taught them every underhanded trick he knew.

What he wasn't telling them was that he'd never fought stone before.

Ten boys stood before him. This was his squadron of spies. They'd left their families willingly, even when their parents were hateful of Kraephten for keeping their sons after they'd left for safety. He'd learned everything he could about each of them so that he could gear each job to the unique talents of each.

When his general orders were given, his pep talk finished, and he'd briefed them on the fighting outside and the battle to come, he paused. "I've never asked you boys to fight. I've done all I could to keep you away from harm. It seems, however, that harm has come to us and we must meet it."

He turned to little Charles and smaller Matthew, the two boys with chameleon-like abilities and who could climb roofs like they were born to it. "They keep their army in the east wing of the bottom level, waiting. I want you to release the roof on them." The boys had worked hard, damaging the roof's structure, for the past several months. Now, armed with small, Kallent hatchets, they'd strike the final blows, dropping the whole of the ceiling on the stone army left in the east wing. They knew that wouldn't stop them but they hoped it would slow them down.

Michael, Jake, and Mordry were next. These three boys had grown up together in the town outside of the palace. They were so sneaky that, had it not been for the war, they'd probably have been hung by now for thievery. If things worked out as Kraephten hoped, these boys would be heroes come morning. "You've weakened the floor on the third level," Kraephten asked.

They each nodded, a wiley smile on each of their faces.

"Good. There's gonna be quite a few up there. Catch a stoner as it passes over and chop off its feet. That will take them out for sure. But be careful not to have any land on your head!"

The next would be simple. Pare, Engle, Storch, and Monte were sent individually to each side of the palace. Each was a good lad with good eyes and fast feet. Each of them would dart around inside the tunnels, looking for empty rooms or waiting for rooms to empty, and close and bar each room shut. This would close off the giant's and the golem's mobility. They'd be crowded into the halls and lacking the room they needed to fight. Their long arms and wide torsos would be stuck and clumsy to move.

Kraephten tried to smile, knowing that they were doing all they could. Yet, for all the time he'd spent as a soldier in Kallent's army, he'd never led. He'd started as a boy himself, a runner in the Great War against Tsurtor. He'd quickly been promoted when people saw the skill he had with a sword. They put him on a horse at twelve and he was a desert raider for the queen until he was eighteen. Then, the fool had gone and saved the daughter of a duke who happened to be good friends with King Marcus of Rynia. That's when his troubles had begun. He was sent to University among the oases of Kalu-nar. There, in Kalu-heart, he was reshaped into a diplomat, an emissary, and, sadly, a man of peace. A friend of the Rynian King, he'd been assigned to the Imperial Palace. When war had come to Rynia, King Marcus had asked him to stay. "Times are bad for our world, Mister Kattox. These dead things that threaten my home will soon threaten yours unless we stop them here. I would ask that you to remain and help."

Kraephten had been more than impressed by the King, a man who overshadowed the previous desert raider in height and in musculature. He couldn't say no. "Still, your Highness, I haven't a clue as to what you would want with me. How could a simple ambassador aide you in war?"

"Do you think that I know nothing of you, Mister Kattox? I know quite a bit. You were called Bloodbolt as a boy, when your knives found enemy blood behind the lines. Later, as a desert raider, you were called Mi'larha'ta, The Blade with Wings, for you moved so fast that the enemy..?"

"They thought my sword flew on its own, your Highness," Kraephten had replied, repeating the annoying line of flattery from memory, looking at the ground.

"And so I hope it will again," the king replied.

But then, the king was gone. Some said he'd left to bring the fight to the Lich Vyr-At-Hozoth but Kraephten could not help thinking he was dead. He'd seen King Marcus fall. Hundreds upon hundreds of dead men rushed for the kill. Nobody could fight his way out of that many dead soldiers. Not even a king.

"You are still needed. You've been a close ally and friend to the king, my father. Please don't leave us in our hour of need, Mister Kattox." Princess Helen had been wounded in battle. Her hair was matted with blood but still, she stood, requesting the Kallent's aide.

In the face of such courage, he could not leave. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "I am forever the arm of Kallent, serving the royal family of Rynia."

Later, though, doubts had crept in. "What can I do, princess? As a diplomatic envoy from Kallent, I've procured their aide for your cause as best I could. Here in this cave, preparing for battle, all I can do is wait and be idle."

Though young, Princess Helen had ever been the perceptive one. "You come from a land where a single man can often defeat many foes, even bring defeat to entire armies. You call it espionage, spying. These underhanded tactics, if you don't mind me saying so, may pay off in our current dilemma. You've seen the tunnels, Mister Kattox. Is there still nothing you can do?"

"But, princess, our spies in Kallent, our runners, they are just boys. No one else could be expected to move as gracefully or even to fit in the tunnels where they branch throughout the palace. You can't expect me to send an army of boys to their deaths."

"No. I can't. Their number must be small, certainly not an army. And they must be safe. They must be safe so I can assure any doubters of the good you are doing. Do you understand, Mister Kattox?"

"Yes. It seems that I do, princess." He was to take the boys and turn them into Kallent runners, even killers, without suffering one casualty. It was very likely an impossible task.

"Good," she said, taking his hand. "Then, it seems, you have quite a bit to do, Kraephten. Good luck."

He looked around the room again, returning from his reverie. "Then, it seems, you have quite a bit to do, boys. Good luck."

They left in a rush. Kraephten could almost feel the breeze created as their bodies disappeared. Only Timothy remained. "What of us, sir?"

Kraephten looked down at the dark haired boy and thought he saw himself. This boy was the best out of all of them, he knew. Still, his thoughts were not at ease. "Us," he asked in reply. "We have the most difficult task of all."

* * *

Ooobrecht had long since abandoned his cart. While clumsy, at least he could move of his own accord. Madness reigned at the cave's mouth, shouts and screams coming from the front of the amassed force. Ooobrecht had used his Moving powers in the only way he could think of helping. He went to the room where Andrea Knight had fashioned an infirmary. Several men were already there and, while their wounds dripped and hurt, they attended to the more severely wounded. The Bonders, Gourden and one other Ooobrecht had not met, walked from one to another, doing what they could to heal wounds.

"There may be some way that I can help you," he told Andrea as she attended to a patient.

"Yes," she asked.

"But I'm going to need you to keep people away from that wall."

She looked over at the empty area that Ooobrecht had indicated. The Imperial Palace had always been her home and, while she knew nothing of how magic worked, she was inculcated with the ways of magicians enough to accept his offer.

As the others bustled around him, he took the dye he'd been able to procure and, dipping one flipper, began drawing on the wall. His strokes were sure and, if a bit obscure at first, soon took on a definite picture. It was the area adjacent to the cave's mouth. There, few people gathered, he could Move without interference. His picture drawn, the magic worked, he focused on the picture. There were several, audible gasps as his body faded and he disappeared.

He appeared again outside, adjacent to the cave's mouth. There, he picked up his dye and drew some more. Sergeant Kittle had assured him that they would keep that area empty for as long as they could. So, he drew a fine picture of his area in the infirmary. When he was done, he put down his dye and began his work in earnest.

* * *

The Imperial Palace had been built as a series of semicircular levels laid on top of each other just off center as they ascended the hill. While the first level once housed stables, barracks, blacksmiths and other artisans, the second was occupied by apartments and kitchens, the third by suites for those who held royal posts as well as the meeting and planning halls, the fourth held the royal suites, and the fifth, a tower instead of a level, had once been home to the great wizard, Galeny. They were not directly atop each other; each level covered only half of the one below it. This was how the Palace was made to look so expansive and majestic, rising over the hill and capping the cliff in a royal manner. Inside, stairways were few and never near each other. While this often led to great confusion and exhaustion, going from one level to the next, it achieved a defensive benefit, not granting access to the entire Palace at once. Almost every floor was flat and level except the bottom, which was built on an increasing plane as it went up the hillside. This allowed the defenders to drop objects on anyone who had breached the walls and made invading the Palace an uphill affair.

Alinax launched a three-pronged offensive. They would enter towards the rear of the second level. The giants would probably expect them to try and take the royal suites first or, perhaps, rush straight to the grand throneroom on the first floor. Alinax would not be so hasty. He knew from Kraephten Kattox's information that the War Master Hargoth had set his command center in the private throneroom on the third floor. By hitting the second floor, he'd cut Hargoth off from his command, split the army in two and, perhaps, win the day by sleight of hand. Hell, Alinax thought, Kattox does that all the time.

Tuk, the Great Destroyer, had conceived another plan, of course. "Let me take my men. I've assembled a corps of wizards unlike any seen before. You won't let me help defend the cave. Let me attack with you. We'll enter at the other side of the floor and meet you halfway, cutting them off!"

"We can't chance it," Alinax had replied. "Once we appear on the floor, they'll know about the tunnels. If one of us fails and is pushed back, they'll have sand in there before you can start cursing Gerrit. No. The obvious answer is to have a combined assault, with your men complimenting mine and visa versa. That way, we'll be able to hold our line and push forward without jeopardizing those in the cave."

There were other considerations, such as how so many men would attack from one tunnel. If the bridgehead were too small, they'd be in the same situation they were in at the cave mouth. Alinax understood this and changed strategy to the three-pronged assault. He found an area on the map of the second floor where three tunnels came close together and ordered the assault to begin there. In an effort to shut him up, Tuk was allowed to lead a team. Team Tuk, the Great Destroyer insisted on calling them, to Alinax's dismay. The next team was led by a seasoned Commander, the only one other than Rolf Heaphge left in the service, Ned Blakely.

And, so, it had begun.

Alinax led the assault with the third team, breaking through the wall that hid the tunnel like it was paper mache. He held his bat at a ready swing as he darted from the opening into the dark room. Alinax was used to darkness, though, having lived in it for over two years. The room was empty and, as more men poured from the wall, he moved to a position within the open doorway. One room away, he could hear more men pouring in; he knew there was no going back.

As if in confirmation, an earth golem lumbered in, stopping shocked at the sight of all the men. It didn't have time to consider the danger it was in before Alinax took his bat and knocked the head off of the thing. Other men fell upon it, tearing it apart. It was the only way to kill them. Make sure there was nothing left whole or it would fight on.

The room was nearly full and more men were coming in. Alinax grouped the men in teams of four and sent them out. When the last of his assault team had made it, he led his own team and, as he pushed his way to the front again, his team knew they'd have to work hard to keep up with the old man. Rooms were closed off, as Kraephten had said they'd be, but as they neared the center of the floor the way grew much more difficult. It was a curse in the form of stone.

"Tuk," Alinax called, hoping the old Destroyer would hear him. The first line of defense the stone giants had assembled was greater than any Alinax has expected. Their attack met the Rynian's where several hallways met. They held the point and there was little chance they'd give it up. Men began throwing themselves against the stoners as they'd been trained to do. Perhaps it made Alinax proud; he didn't have time to think about that just now.

Tuk came, winded, "My team is meeting a defensive group as well. They must have circled around-"

"Of course, they circled around! They know this is a defensive point. Neither of us will get through here so they want to flank us where they can! Get your blasted wizards to work on them but I need you here!"

"It's already done. I told them before I came."

"Good."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Like I said, Tuk, this is a defensive point. Nothing's getting past here without one of our armies being slaughtered. I'd rather it be them than us."

"So -"

"So, I'm relying on your reputation, Destroyer. Let's see some magic!"

* * *

They were now piling the dead and placing the wounded beside Ooobrecht's place of magic. There seemed to be only one certain end and that was death for the army of the Empire. Still, Commander Heaphge would not give the order to withdraw. He had his own orders and he knew that those assaulting the Palace needed more time.

Ooobrecht returned from the infirmary, exhausted from bringing his fifth man there. Still, he went to the man lying closest to him, a young boy with a broken jaw and blood spilling from his mouth. Someone stepped before him, though, and he looked up.

Standing there was a wizard Ooobrecht had only met in passing. He remembered that she was older than the other wizards, with the obvious exception of Tuk, and seemed very quiet. She wore her long, auburn hair pulled back in a great tail and her manner of dress was plain. Her severe, blue eyes conveyed the seriousness of her attitude and she spoke without introduction. "You are a Mover? Right?"

Ooobrecht tilted his head. "And you are Rayesh. Am I correct?"

"Yes," she answered impatiently. "You are a Mover?"

"Indeed I am. My name is Ooobrecht, I -"

"I have an idea that might help us," she said rapidly, shutting the walrus up. "I'm not particularly great at what I do but, with your help, we might be able to really help out."

"I see," Ooobrecht replied, slowly. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm rather tired, moving all of these people under such circumstances. What is your idea? Perhaps we'll find time for proper introductions later."

* * *

Commander Ned Blakely, formerly Captain Ned Blakely of the Regal Isle Militia before this madness started and commanding officers drew a premium, pulled a wounded man back from the fight. Chances were that this one wouldn't live. Ned had to be careful putting him down so his innards didn't fall upon the floor. Two more fought in front of him, tired. Ned drew his bat to ready, finding it slick with his own blood, and yelled to be let in the fray.

Before he could strike his first blow, an incredible crash came from below.

"What by Faetsha was that," the soldier beside him screamed, invoking the Rynian God of war.

"Don't worry," Ned replied, blocking a stone fist to his head. "That sounded like it came from the lower level. That's our boys fighting!" Indeed, it was the sound of success as Kattox's boys, Charlie and Matt dropped the roof on the stone giant's reserves.

The stone giant launched a vicious, two-fisted attack at the soldier beside him and Ned made his move. He spun the bat in his hand and drove the pointed end down with all his weight into the attack. The point entered the elbow joint in the giant's left arm and severed it as the rest of the bat followed. The three pressed harder in attack and, soon, the giant was reduced to lifeless rocks in the hallway.

"Pull him back," Ned commanded, "and prepare to attack once the Destroyer's magic is worked." Turning from them, he ran down several halls to report to Lord Alinax. The halls had been cleared as the Rynians secured this side of the level. There had been fierce fighting but, for now, it seemed that they held a defendable position.

The General's arms were covered in blood. How much of that was his own, Ned couldn't say.

"We're clear on this side," Ned reported, stepping into a slick spot beside the General. "All of the giants, earth and stone, have been taken out." This news helped put Alinax's mind somewhat at ease. The wounded were filling several rooms behind them and, worse, more were being brought from below in anticipation of the withdrawal. "How goes the Destroyer's attack," Ned asked.

Before them, Tuk had been joined by two Breakers for support. A squad of stone giants was blocking the stairway to the floor below. Whenever one attempted an attack, the Breakers would discourage them by turning an arm or part of a torso to dust. Tuk's body poured sweat and his eyes were clenched shut.

"It's not going to work," Ned muttered. "We'll be finished."

"It has to work," whispered Alinax. "It has to."

Ned had never seen the legendary General behave so... human. Perhaps it was for that reason that he looked the old man over carefully, noticing that his bat was held, not at ready as all soldiers were trained, but with pointed end down and his weight held by it like a crutch. Ned saw more - and had to turn away so the General wouldn't see his horrified look.

"I have no feeling in it," Alinax said. "Still, it's of no use to me now."

"Is it, uh, broken," Ned asked.

"Perhaps," Alinax replied, his voice an echo of the strength he once possessed. "I could only look at it for a moment. From the knee down, it is still whole. Everything above that... there are too many pieces." The femur. The hip. Blood ran from it like a river in spring thaw.

"Shouldn't you -" Ned began to ask, thickly.

"I was dead as soon as that giant threw me against the wall like a ragdoll, Blakely. There's no help for me now. I will lead my men to victory, Commander. I will die a free man. A hero. We shall not fail." His gaze remained straight, into the hallway where the Destroyer's form began to glow.

But Alinax was already a hero. By his very presence, he inspired a nation. "No, sir," the Commander replied. "We shall not."

As if in reply, the Palace became silent. Tuk's light launched itself like a beacon down the stairway and, as it hit the stone giants, sizzled and cracked. Caught in the light, the giants couldn't move. They began to yell and attempt to fight the power of Tuk's magic, quickly finding that they couldn't. Then, the light closed in upon them and the giant's screams faded, just as they did, into darkness.

"Now, move," Alinax shouted at his men. "Into the breach, quickly!"

Ned shouted as well, leading his men into the hallway, certain that they would - they must - succeed.

* * *

Rayesh was not one to mince words. "You must move us out to sea! Quickly!"

Ooobrecht hated acting with such haste, indeed, acting without proper introductions, but he knew that he could respond to Rayesh's request without having to draw a picture. With the sea, he was all too familiar. The cave faded around them and the icy wetness of the Seadilia hit them with a start.

Rayesh clung to Ooobrecht like a lifeboat, flapping her arms in panic.

"Please, Rayesh! Please," Ooobrecht barked. "Hold on to me if you must but stop splashing so!"

In a moment, when Rayesh saw that she wasn't drowning, she calmed down.

"My word! It's as if you haven't been in the ocean before," Ooobrecht shouted.

Rayesh looked away scornfully.

"Oh," Ooobrecht said, his voice catching in his throat. "I hadn't considered that possible. After all, you live by the sea."

"I lived on the plains," she grumbled. "I never even dreamed I'd be doing this."

"What are we doing, exactly," asked Ooobrecht, his body bouncing buoyantly with the waves. Before them, the shelf at the cave's entrance was covered in sand. Monstrous undulations were the only sign of attack.

Still, they knew what occurred within. "I know how we can defeat the sand!"

Ooobrecht turned his stare to the side where she was clutching. "Well, don't keep me guessing, girl! Tell me!"

"It's a theory I have. You're a mover. So you can move yourself and things you're attached to. I'm a summoner. So I can move things to me. Individually, we are ineffectual. You couldn't hit the sand with water without hitting yourself. I couldn't send the water there. I can only bring it to myself."

"Yes? So?"

"So, we work in tandem. You can move me to the sand and I can summon the water to them. You can move us away before the water hits."

Ooobrecht stuck his head under the water, something he did when he was particularly frustrated. Rearing up again, he said, "So, you're idea is for us to Move onto that shelf where a mountain of death with carve us up in seconds."

"Not seconds. It will take them a moment to respond. By that time, we'll be gone!"

"And if we're not," Ooobrecht inquired.

Rayesh, however, was silent.

So, Ooobrecht shouted, "And if we're not?"

"Mr. Ooobrecht, the people in that cave are going to die if nothing is done to stop it."

If Ooobrecht could have kicked himself, he would have. "Fine. Very well. Hold on." Those final words spoken, the two wizards felt the weight of the water going away. Solid rock took its place beneath them and they were on the shelf. Ooobrecht looked at the mountain of sand that rose above him as Rayesh stood upright. "I would greatly appreciate if you would work your magic with all speed, madame."

"Hold on," she replied.

Was it their voices? Or, perhaps, their presence? Either way, globules of sand, each at least the size of Ooobrecht, came away from the mountain, thrusting pseudopods at the wizards.

"Quickly now, Rayesh," Ooobrecht shouted, his voice almost in a panic.

"Wait," she said. She didn't move, remaining still at the sand crept closer, maintaining her concentration. Even her eyes were closed.

Ooobrecht, perhaps in response to feeling so useless doing nothing and cowardly standing behind her, charged in front of the woman, barking in the roughest tone he could summon. His teeth gnashing and body waving, he did his best to scare back their foes. After an initial lurch back, though, large needles of sand launched against him, driving him back... into a darkness where even the stars didn't shine.

"Ooobrecht! Get us out of here!!"

Ooobrecht felt familiar hands lock onto his sides and looked to the side of the shelf. Blocking the sun, a wall of water that challenged the cliffs fell towards them.

* * *

Commander Rolf Heaphge was moving a fallen soldier to the side when the water hit. It struck the sand, exploding the shelf with sandy and watery debris. Soldiers were thrown back. The screams of terror and panic echoed in the cave louder than the sea outside.

Rolf rose with a leaden weight in his heart. Surely, his army was vanquished and Rynia had fallen.

But the sand didn't move.

It just sat there, covering some and tossing up where others cleared it away.

Could this be victory?

"Sergeant," the Commander screamed, afraid this was some delusion brought on by his wounds. "Report!"

Kittle's voice came with a high glee. "It's dead, sir. We've won."

They laughed and then the other soldier's laughed. Even the wounded laughed drawn from the clutches of certain death by some unknown miracle.

They didn't miss the absence of one wizard or the multicolored walrus.

* * *

Three boys crawled in tunnels dug more for moles than for men. Luckily, the boys were thin as rails.

This wasn't their first time beneath the third floor of the Palace, either. They'd been digging and digging for months now, following another one of Kattox's strange ideas that was hoped to pay off in a big way. As they crawled, they listened above. Earth golems would pass without a sound but those giants, with stone feet, could lift their legs and their footsteps would echo through the tunnels as one approached.

As did one now.

Toom. Toom. Toom.

Mordry curled into a ball, turning his body around in the tunnel. For him, born double jointed, it was easy. The others had gone through many painful lessons in flexibility to come close. Lying on his back, he pointed up. There, the giant would pass.

Behind him had been Jake and the two took out their tools and started digging up towards the floor.

Toom! Toom! Toom!

Faster, they stabbed at the mortar, bringing down chips that held it up. Soon, their arms were up in the hole they were digging.

TOOM! TOOM! TOOM!

If their timing wasn't precise, the giant's leg would fall through and crush them.

It was fortunate that Mordry and Jake's training had not been given by a normal mortal but by Kraephten Kattox. They pulled their arms out simultaneously as the steps above shook dust upon them.

TOOM! TOOM! TOOM!

The floor cracked like a ripe eggshell on a wolf's tooth and the giant's foot plunged into the boy's tunnel up to its knee. The giant was helpless. It had never needed to lift itself up before but it tried. Oh, it tried and tried as Jake and Mordry hacked its leg off.

* * *

Rolf Heaphge bellowed, "Okay, up everybody! Weapons on your back and wounded in your arms! Let's go!"

Sergeant Kittle joined in, "You heard him, troops! Up, all of ya! Somebody get those civilian women moving as well!" Kicking and shouting, he herded the soldiers from the cave's mouth. Those that couldn't walk were carried. Those who had died remained. The time for tending to the dead had not yet come.

Corporal Daniel Dunnet stood at the mouth of the tunnels as he watched the princess' forces approach. They looked beaten, bloodied, and tired but on they came. Behind them, the last Rynian women stumbled afraid, shocked, wondering where they were going. When the last had exited the cave, Daniel took the final torch, cast a last look at the buildings and the stars glittering outside of the cave's mouth, and followed, setting deadly traps behind him.

Rynianhomme. The people's refuge. For over two years, the citizens of Regal Isle and much of Rynia had hidden here. Thousands had been there at first, huddling like frightened mice. Trapped without a king, they would certainly have been doomed if it hadn't been for the strength of such people as Princess Helen, Lord Alinax, Mark Nygarra, Tuk the Great Destroyer, Kraephten Kattox, and others. Now, all was dark. Quiet fell in like a blanket broken only by the splash of low tide. The makeshift habitations stood like a solemn monument to a time when men had to seek refuge from their creations.

Silent.

Still.

"You can wake up."

"Uh?... Is it time?"

"Well past. There's not been a sound for the better part of an hour. Come on."

A trapdoor rose. A sword point thrust upwards and a bearded man stepped from the dark... to the dark.

"How did you know it was an hour," Timothy asked.

"There are timepieces in nature, Tim. The sun and stars are things you can see. The waves are things you can hear. And, for as long as you are living, your pulse is one you can feel."

"You guessed," Timothy accused, following his mentor out into the cave.

"I did not guess," Kattox replied, shocked. He looked at his charge in the dark. "You probably didn't notice the clock in the next shack?"

Tim hadn't. "Clock," he asked.

"Yes. A clock. It chimes every quarter of an hour but you have to listen closely." The other chuckled. "Now, come on. We've got work to do."

As each lit a candle, they stepped out into the deserted streets. Taking no steps to hide their shadowy forms, the two walked down the lanes, lined with the many one-storied buildings of Rynianhomme, to the Imperial Apartments. Though trained in espionage, Timothy's eyes kept jerking about at the ghosts within, all those who had once lived there and were now - gone. If it wasn't dark enough outside of the apartments, within the darkness grew thick and impenetrable. Still, they continued on and their eyes slowly adapted.

Through the heavy doors in front and through the entryway, they circumvented the dining hall. They cut to the left, away from the kitchen, to the few quarters and down the final hall. Toward the rear, Kattox bent over and lifted a trap door.

"I didn't know that was there," Tim exclaimed.

Kattox, already half descended, looked up. "You weren't meant to. Now hush."

Once below, Kattox called up, "Now, I'm going to hand you a box and you need to be extremely careful. This box is full of powerful magic and, if you're not careful, you could kill us both!"

Tim looked into the depths. "Okay," he answered.

In a moment, the box rose, backlit by Kraephten's candle. Tim could barely see its outline and he grabbed it, feeling more than seeing, and put it down beside him.

Kattox took it and Tim followed him out. After the crushing weight of the abandoned town in the severe blackness, the cave's mouth opened like a haven. Tim hadn't wanted to let on how anxious he was to be out and, now that they were, his interests changed. "What's in there, anyway?"

"Explosives," Kattox answered simply. "We're going to make sure nothing can follow them up." As Kattox dug out a hole in the cave's mouth and placed the box within, Timothy knew his plan. This is what Kattox had meant when he said they had the most difficult task. Yet, why not? By destroying the cave's mouth and eliminating the entryway, they were following Alinax's commands precisely. Make sure nothing could enter the cave. Valuables could be Moved later. As for the army above, even Timothy knew that the current assault was their only chance. Returning to the cave was not an option.

Timothy took the stones Kattox dug out of the cave's mouth and piled them beside him. Explosives were something foreign to the Rynian native and, so, he asked "How is that?"

"You know that Kallent is famous for its rich, mineral deposits, Timothy. Well, this is how we mine for them. It's said that the great desert was once a mountain range rich with gold." With the box put in the hole, Kattox took the stones back from Timothy and buried it. "Took me a while to forage the proper materials for this. Sulphur. Coal. There isn't an ounce of saltpeter on this island. Had to boat out to mainland to find it," he said, piling more rocks on with each ingredient. "Alinax wanted me ready. I think this will do."

Kattox let the cloth fuse hang from where it led into the hole and, lowering his candle, lit the fuse. It didn't take right away but the fuse was dry and Kattox, tenacious. Within moments, spark and sizzle came from the fuse as it advanced steadily to its end.

Kattox grabbed Tim's arm. "Now, into the rocks!" They jumped off the shelf and made their way behind a large boulder.

It was quiet out there in the night and -

The air shattered around them, crashing into their ears like a hundred knives. Kattox pulled Timothy closer and ducked down to the ground as rocks and dust flew past them. The earth shuddered and, simultaneously, they feared that they might have brought the whole cliff down and the Palace with it!

But the pebbles and sand stopped dropping on them. The earth stopped shaking. Silence returned.

They looked out from the boulder they stood behind and saw nothing left of the cave's mouth.

"You think I used too much," Kattox asked.

* * *

The fighting in the Palace continued for hours. Floors grew slick with blood in some places and congested with rock in others. The second level was taken while it was still dark. By dawn, the Rynians knew that the Palace would soon be theirs.

It was then that Ned Blakely left his men, crawled down a side tunnel, and found her royal highness, Mark Nygarra, and the boy, Vincent. Mark was the only one awake. "Is it over? So soon?"

"No, Mark. There's still fighting to be done but - Gerrit preserve us - it looks like we've done it."

Mark breathed a sigh of relief.

"Not yet," Ned told him. "There are still things we must do that we'd rather not."

"What are you talking about," Helen asked, waking up.

"You must come with me, princess. It's the General."

Word that Alinax had fallen held more power over her than any of Mark's pleas for caution. She was going into the Palace with or without Mark. She would see Alinax one, last time, with or without the Defender's protection.

She was shocked at her first sight of the Palace. She'd never been to war before and Vincent, an innocent as well (despite all the war movies he'd seen), huddled against Helen, her arm around him, as they walked through the halls of the Imperial Palace. They were lined with dead and wounded. Blood stained the floor. Often, a frail voice would welcome Helen home but, all too often, a stark silence met them. Ned Blakely led them to a large room where a wizard stood over Alinax's body.

It was Gourden, the Bonder who had been tending the wounded since the first assault on the cave's mouth. His eyes were black and his hair, flecked with white despite the wizard's youth, was drenched in sweat. He looked up at the princess, though he didn't appear to have the strength even for that. "I'm sorry, your Highness. There is nothing I can do." Saying this, he left, hoping to find some wounded he could aid.

Alinax's eyes fluttered open and shut, like he didn't want to sleep. "Who's there," a hoarse whisper came. In the hours since his injury, he'd faded from the experienced, war hero to a frail, dying old man. His uniform had been removed to make him more comfortable and the sheets upon him were stained with blood. Where his hair had once been a healthy grey shot with black, it now appeared to be completely white. His skin, which was now white as well, hung off his bones like wet rags.

Helen went to the old General's side and took his hand. "It is I, Gregor."

"Helen," he whispered. His face tensed as another bout of pain rushed through him. "Welcome home, your highness."

She looked into his glazed eyes as tears began to fall. "What can I do," she asked.

"Nothing," he replied, his head rocking slightly from side to side. "We've paid a terrible price here. Just don't let me down."

Helen wanted to reply but she could not. She looked down at this broken husk of a man and remembered another time, when she was but a girl, and the two and ridden to Errant Point, in the hills outside of Benaatt. From there, the two could see a large area of Rynia, spread before them in a brilliant panorama. "It's beautiful," she had said.

"Yes," Alinax had replied, stepping down from his horse and motioning for Helen to do the same. "Beautiful, it is." They sat on the promontory rock that stretched out over the cliff like a horn. "It's a great responsibility, beauty."

"Beauty is," she'd asked.

"Indeed. Without your father to watch over this - without his fathers before him - the land before us would be overrun by Tsurtor's minions. Burned and pillaged, that's what it would be."

"My father is a great man," Helen replied, with confidence.

Alinax grinned, "Yes, he is. And just as his father passed command down to him, so will King Marcus entrust you."

Helen looked at him, wide eyed. "He will?"

Alinax nodded, "He will."

The kingdom grew bigger, all of a sudden, and the eyes of a little girl grew wide. "Oh," she said.

Alinax laughed at put a strong arm around her. "So, don't let me down."

Through her tears, she saw his eyes open and his hand pull her close. "You haven't so far," he said, almost smiling. Then his body sunk in, wracked in pain. She thought for a moment that he was trying to catch his breath but he was not breathing at all. Air escaped his mouth with a hiss, and then, he was silent.

His body went limp. His hand fell out of hers. His eyes continued to stare upwards.

Helen, sobbing over the death of her lifelong friend and sometime adversary, turned to the others. Her dress, immaculate at dinner, was now covered in dirt, torn in several places, and stained with blood. Makeup ran down her cheeks and she couldn't help but appear less than regal. She didn't want to look regal. She was too afraid.

Familiar arms held her. Mark, the man she'd known as a boy - the boy who was often bullied even by the stablehands - held her tight and accepted her tears. He couldn't defend her from this kind of pain but he could help heal her wounds.

Wounded or not, this was not a time for tears. Men were dying around her, men just as valiant as Alinax, dying for the same cause. "Come on," she said, dashing the tears from her eyes and wiping her face with her sleeves.

"Where," was all Mark had time to say before she'd left the room behind her.

There would be time for the dead later. Now, she must help the living. She strode through the halls, once again the regal figure, as if in a race. Mark followed and Vincent ran after them. She was looking for an officer and approached the first she saw. "Lieutenant Obregon!"

"Your highness," he said with a start. "What are you doing up here?"

"This level is clear, is it not?"

"Well, yes, but -"

"Then, I'm in no danger. How goes the battle?"

"The men have taken half of the level above us but have come upon fierce numbers."

"Below?"

"Taken, your highness," he replied. He'd never dealt with the princess before and was certainly not used to her presence in battle.

"Send the majority of your men up, Lieutenant. Inform the other officers." The princess turned to leave with Mark and Vincent following behind.

"But, princess," he yelled, though it was clear that she was uninterested in the Lieutenant's opinion, "we must have some forces remain in the areas that we hold in order to protect in the event of counterattack!"

She turned to face him with a quick pivot. "You're holding the levels, Obregon! There's nothing there to counterattack!" With another pivot, she continued on her way. Mark and Vincent ran after her.

"Princess," Mark said, rushing to her side.

"Don't, Mark," she cautioned.

"Your place is not in the field of battle, your Highness. Where would the kingdom be without its leader?"

"And where would I be without my kingdom?"

"Your father wants you safe."

She stopped and thrust a finger at Mark's chest. "My father is not here! I am the princess of this kingdom and I will not see it fall while I hide in a hole somewhere! If I am to act in my father's absence, then I will lead as well. Now, follow me, defend me, but do not harp upon me for I will not turn back!"

Robert, whose head stuck up through Vincent's jacket, whispered, "Their first fight."

The princess was not satisfied with sending men above her into battle and remaining safely behind. She took the steps to the third level, shouting the men onward. She found the front lines and inspired the men with her presence. Stone fell like soft clay before the princess' forces and piles of motionless rock were crunched beneath their feet. The giants had no place to run - all the doors were barred shut. Some of the giants were crippled, crouched upon the floor without a leg to stand on. The men pushed their way through and through. After men of magic fell, the soldiers fought on though their hands were bloodied and sore.

The princess, Mark, and Vincent strode throughout the floor, tending the wounded, cheering on the living, and clearing aside the dead. One door, they found open. Looking inside, the princess was compelled to enter.

Behind her, Mark yelled, "Princess, don't!"

Helen looked back. "It's okay, Mark. It's clear." It was the throneroom, where Helen had spent so much time at her father's knee. A huge, crudely shaped throne of rock, an overwhelming symbol of the stone giant's domination of the Palace, had replaced the simple, cherrywood and velvet throne that had once been her father's. Beyond that, the back wall, where once had hung the Haddison family crest, was open like a wound, stars shimmering in the night beyond it.

She stepped in. Mark and Vincent followed.

"What is this place," Vincent asked, staring around him.

Robert's voice, from beneath Vincent's jacket said, "It ain't the bathroom."

"The private throneroom," Mark said. "Where the giant's betrayal was launched."

"And where you'll meet your deaths," said a voice from behind them.

The three spun around to see what had spoken and it shut the door hard, jamming it with slabs of rock. Hargoth smiled, approaching. "A fitting place, don't you think? After all, it should end where it all began."

Mark, standing before the other two, raised his bat, "You should have left this place, Hargoth. You know you haven't got a chance."

"What I know, Defender, is that you know nothing. I could leave here at any time. Come and go as I please. I could make more soldiers and defeat you if I wished but I've seen that this battle is but a cul de sac. A friend of mine taught me that phrase. It means a dead end. A pointless distraction before the main event. Before I went, though, I wanted to see the end of the Haddison line." Hargoth took a step forward but Mark approached as well, lifting his bat threateningly.

"Don't do it, Hargoth!"

"Please, little soldier, don't humor me to death. Even if you could actually fight, it would take several of you to take me down."

So, the giant knew his secret. A secret that he'd hoped to keep from everyone by staying as far away as he could from a fight. He remembered back when the giants had attacked the humans in the Palace and when it all had began.

* * *

Mark Nygarra had never been a fighter. He'd been bullied throughout his childhood and had only joined the army for his father, General Lonna Nygarra, a hero in the Great War against Tsurtor. He hadn't exactly propelled himself up the ranks. At 27, before their exile into Rynianhomme, Mark hadn't made it any further than 1st Private, having failed to make Scout three times in a row. Coming from renowned lineage, though, he'd spent much of his childhood in the presence of royalty. He'd been the princess' friend; she'd had enough protectors.

Then, the stone giants came.

He'd been courting Salnya, Moitches daughter, at the time. They'd been kissing in a garden adjacent to Moitches' kitchen. While Moitches ordered most of his supplies from grocers in town, there were several things that he grew in his garden that weren't grown on the island. Without warning, alarms were shouted throughout the Palace. "To arms," the cries came. "All soldiers to their post! We're under attack!"

What could it be, Mark had thought.

Salnya flew out of his arms, heading for the kitchen. "Father," she yelled.

With her away, Mark stood alone. He picked up his bat and held it for comfort. For all his posturing, however, he couldn't avoid the truth. He was no good with a bat. He'd never really learned how to use it. Maybe he held it out too long or his grip was too firm or not firm enough. Dread stole into his heart at the thought of having to use it. Maybe he should guard the garden, he thought. Maybe he'd be more help here.

Standing there, in the garden, he shuddered at the sound of every door shattering, walls caving, people screaming. He knew he couldn't help. He should just stay there where he wouldn't get in the way.

He would have done just that had the garden wall not exploded from some incredible force, opening to the form of a stone giant.

But, how? The stone giants were the people's allies. They'd been created by James Galeny, the great Bonder, to save the people of Rynia from the undead coming from the north! How was it possible?

Possible or not, Mark knew it was happening and his legs told him to run. He'd always been able to rely on his legs.

Into the kitchen, he flew, running from chaos to havoc. Inside, two stone giants tore walls apart, reaching for Salnya and her father. Mark could see, through the holes the giants had made in the kitchen wall, another soldier fighting the stone creatures. His bat lashed out and the giant's head exploded like a melon; Mark looked down at his own weapon, ashamed. When he raised his eyes, though, the other soldier was dead, crushed beneath the foot of the creature he'd thought he'd killed.

Mark didn't watch a moment longer. Dropping his bat, his legs took him into the kitchen - for his only escape was through the door on the far side. His thoughts weren't on Salnya but he picked her up just the same, carrying her out. Moitches cry of gratitude followed him out but he didn't wait for the old man to get to safety.

He just ran like the incompetent coward that he was.

Later, in the cave below, Princess Helen spun another story. "You saved the girl's life, Mark! You're a hero!"

Mark sat on a rock. There wasn't much else to sit on in those first days. "She was in my way, Helen. If she hadn't been, I would have kept going without her."

"You sell yourself short. You're agile. You're quick on your feet."

"You make me sound like a rabbit."

"And," she said, poking his shoulder, "you have a keen eye for strategy."

"Strategy?"

"Absolutely! You measured all of the probabilities and you acted upon them."

"Helen. I ran away."

"And that is what we must do as a people until we are strong enough to fight back," she replied. They looked into each other's eyes for, perhaps, she was right. "I should make you a Sergeant. A Lieutenant."

"You can't. Only an officer in the military can promote soldiers."

"My father was an officer."

"But you are not."

"Still, there is a way I can promote you," she said with a smile.

"How's that," he asked.

"I can make you my Defender."

"Defender," he asked, incredulous. "There is no Defender!"

"Not yet. I've heard stories, though, that the Desert Queens of Kallent take Defenders."

"That's because their husbands are so often killed in wars."

"So, that's how it will be, then."

"Princess," he said, rising so he'd not have to look up at her, "you're making a mistake. I can't defend you. I cannot even defend myself."

"Nor will you have to, Mark. We'll set up a guard around me. You won't have to fight. You'll stay with me and take me to safety when necessary."

"Princess -"

"Mark, you're my oldest friend. I don't want to see you die."

* * *

Nor did he.

Still, he was the princess' Defender and there was nowhere to run.

"Get him, Mark," Vincent cried out.

"Yes, Mark. Please. Get him," Robert concurred, shuddering at the thought of twigs beneath so much stone.

His bat lashed out quickly, straight at the head of War Master of Rynia. His move had been so quick that the stone giant didn't seem to see it coming. He stood motionless as the bat thrust toward his face.

All hopes were dashed, though, when Hargoth weaved to the side, plucking the bat from Mark's hand like a toothpick. A leer on his face, he asked, "Was that it?" Several blows pummeled the Defender, throwing him against the far wall.

"They just don't make those Defenders of the Crown quite as good as they used to," Robert sighed.

"You bastard," Helen screamed. "What do you hope to accomplish?"

Grabbing the strap of her dress he whispered, huskily, "Your death, princess. That will do, for now."

"No! No! No," Vincent screamed. He jumped on Hargoth's arm and punched the stone with his young hands.

"What is this nuisance," Hargoth spat. When he recognized Vincent, he yelled, "You?" He swung the child off his arm like a pesky gnat - and Vincent flew out of the hole in the Palace wall, plummeting to the sea.

Certain death.

"Vincent! No," Mark screamed. His face bloodied, he had run across the room when he saw the child fly and, lurching to grab him in that final step, fell to his death just as certainly as the boy.

* * *

Helen remembered herself falling through that gaping rip in the wall. It had been Hargoth then, too.

He'd come to the throneroom, making demands. "We are stronger than you, princess, and we demand that you step down so that we can protect this kingdom as we have been created to do!" Three other giants stood behind him. When he motioned, though, they fanned out.

"Hargoth, you are a creation by a wizard, created to aid us. Your belligerence is not aiding us."

"Belligerence," he shouted. "I could snap you like a twig and still you remain so arrogant. There is nothing to you but meat and blood. Even the stones within you are frail. You are nothing!"

Two giants rushed behind her, grabbing the family crest and tearing it from the wall. Alinax was the first to raise his bat. The five other soldiers followed suit. The only other person in the room, Lasio, a wizard appealing to the crown - she stood against the stoners on Rynia's behalf - cowered upon the floor. Blows were exchanged. Though the giants seemed unbeatable, one soldier was grabbed by the leg and flung him against the wall where the crest had been. Blood sprayed and bones crunched. The stone giant beat the wall down in a rage.

Hargoth grabbed the princess and the wizard and hauled them to the wall. The soldiers around them could do nothing, their individual battles preventing their aide. "Here's to human royalty and human wizards," Hargoth bellowed, throwing them through the gap like garbage.

The wind was incredible. Helen could barely hear, "Princess! Take my hand!" Her eyes were closed but, somehow, she opened them to see Lasio falling below her.

"Quickly," the wizard screamed.

She did and their deadly descent faded as they went someplace else. Of course, the wizard was a Mover and had a safe retreat. Helen fell upon the floor, quaking in terror.

She rose up drenched in blood and needed to vomit. She fell to the side and did just that, emptying her stomach from what she'd seen. For the physics applied in Moving didn't slow the rate of descent and the confines of the safe place had a floor. Lasio's magic didn't include the floor in the equation. Consequently, she had Moved too far, falling partially into the floor. Blood had splashed up and arms reached out in terror.

The door opened, for Tuk had heard the sounds. "The Gods," he had gasped in horror.

Helen looked up at him, lost.

"Quickly, child. We'll clean you up later. Now, we must flee!"

* * *

Helen's dress snapped and she fell to the floor.

Hargoth chuckled. "Two down. One to go."

Helen didn't fall in a roll, as she'd hoped, but on her butt. Still, as Hargoth bent to grab her, she spun out of his way, picking up the fallen bat. Rising, she held it at ready.

"Surely, you can't be serious," he said.

"I've had some training. You'd be surprised."

"I'm sure I would be." His hand swung without hesitation, larger and stronger than her.

She ducked almost to the floor, avoiding it, and saw the other hand thrust. She spun out of its way and brought the bat up against the elbow joint with a CRACK! The sound was so loud that she knew it couldn't be her.

It was the door!

Several soldiers came running in, swinging their bats at the War Master. Hargoth grabbed rock from his shoulder and threw the shards at his approaching foe. Only one was hit, stone ripping into his arm.

But that was all for Hargoth. His body faded and when Helen swung Mark's bat, it passed through air. His transparent figure smiled. "I'm not just a Bonder, princess. I'm a nightmare and I remain even when you think I'm gone." His voice faded with his form until, seemingly, he disappeared.

But the nightmare wasn't over yet for Helen. Her throat clenched, she looked out of the room, down to the sea crashing on the rocks below, and cried.

* * *

With the air rushing past him and the view before his eyes, if he hadn't been falling to his death he might have enjoyed it. The rocks below were beautiful like a cobra, preparing themselves before him as the water rushed back from where he'd land.

Vincent was inordinately quiet. He thought he'd scream but all he could do was watch, distant, horrified.

Robert, on the other hand, yelled, "Aaaaaaggghhhh! We're gonna die! We're gonna die! Mommieeeee!"

Vincent ignored it and the pounding of the air in his ears drowned it out.

There was only one voice he heard: his own. Calmly, almost serenely, it whispered, "Stop. Stop. Stop." Why, stop? Was this something he'd learned in magic? He'd read so much and forgotten it just as well. He could only recall four schools and none of them had to do with stopping. Yet, after a few seconds, his hands before him began to feel the air thicken, almost congeal beneath his fall. "Stop. Stop. Stop," he thought, hoping that added effort would increase the affect. Somehow, it did and the air enveloped him like a cool, soft mattress, slowing his descent. "Stop. Stop. Stop." He had no idea what he was doing so the How wasn't an issue. Somehow, he was saved - It was Magic! - and he was happy at that.

The screaming above him drew his attention away. It was Mark, plummeting like a stone. Vincent brought his hands up and concentrated on slowing the other. He'd almost done it, too, when he felt himself begin to fall again.

Done once, he was easily able to slow his fall again. How he would handle Mark's descent was harder to discern. Low on ideas, he simply dropped Mark faster until the Defencer was on his back, babbling and afraid. "What the hell are you doing?"

Vincent didn't remember speaking, his concentration so focused on the approaching earth. "Magic, I think."

"Magic?!" Robert's head popped out of Vincent's jacket. He climbed up the inside of the coat and exited out the back, on top of Vincent. Then, he clambered up Mark, standing atop them both. "Not that I don't have faith in you. It's just that you two should help break my fall."

Mark laughed, relieved. Then, he began laughing at the top of his lungs. He suddenly stopped, though, and whispered, "Just don't drop us, okay."

Robert nodded, "Seconded!"

"I'm trying."

"What is it you're doing," Mark asked, finding it odd that he was actually enjoying the scenery.

The rocks were still quite a ways beneath them. Their fall progressed slowly through a series of drops and slowing periods that Vincent called, "Air brakes. I can get the air to thicken up beneath us and cushion our fall. But I can't just move us slowly so I have to let go and catch us again."

So, they continued, the rocks growing larger. Down. Down. Down. Every inch, a lurching sensation in their guts followed by a soft catch, they rode the hands of serendipity. Finally, inches above the rocks, they splashed down into the water when the tide rolled back in. Mark held Robert, and grabbed Vincent who struggled in the sea.

He scooped the boy in one arm, shaking him about. "Vincent? You okay, boy?"

Vincent, however, didn't answer. He was unconscious.

* * *

Above, Ned Blakely found the princess. She sat on the floor, her back against the broken throneroom wall, her head hung down. She looked as though she'd been pounded by a thousand fists. Her dress was torn and her hair was ratty, her mousy features stained with smeared makeup, no longer the regal figure he'd so often seen walking the alleys of Rynianhomme. For his own part, Ned cradled one broken arm in the other, his bat slung uselessly over one shoulder. His mouth bled - he'd lost several teeth - and he walked with a limp. In better days, he'd kept a perfectly pressed uniform and his hair was always combed back neatly. Now, it stuck up at odd angles and his silver and green uniform was red with blood. He nodded at the other soldiers as he walked in, the remnants of an army that was now a handful of armed men. He limped across the room and stopped at the rubble throne. "Princess," he whispered.

She looked up, her pale blue eyes catching the light of the approaching dawn. "Commander."

"It seems that I bring good news at the appropriate time, your Highness. The stone giants have been beaten. The Palace is ours once again."

"Is it, Commander," she asked, standing. A cynical gleam shown in her eyes above a frown plastered on her face. "You'll have to tell me one day if it was worth it."

"Yes, your Highness," he replied, curtly. "I will send Commander Heaphge to meet with you and discuss casualties. I will be reporting to the infirmary and put my arm into the care of Andrea Knight if that is all."

"Yes, Commander." It was all she could say for tears crept in, thickening her throat.

It had been a long and painful war for Helen Haddison. She'd lost her father, her mentor, her friend, and a small boy from another world with whom she had felt a growing affection. Surely, she knew that there were others who had lost more but that didn't matter now. For now, she was a twenty-four year old woman, alone in a great Palace, alone in her life. She allowed herself the privilege of a good, long cry.

* * *

The water had rushed in and Ooobrecht had closed his eyes. He wanted to be somewhere - anywhere! - other than beneath the crashing sea.

Suddenly, he was in warm, fresh water.

"Wizard, where are we?" Rayesh coughed and sloughed off tons of weeds that had washed onto her clothes.

Ooobrecht opened his eyes. Above, a warm, red sun burned over the noonday sky. Tropical fronds hung low, providing delicious shade, and the water of Lake Nylnouwa surrounded them, clean and fresh. "Home," Ooobrecht shouted.

Rayesh gave him a suspicious look. "Home?"

"Yes! I must have Moved to the safest place I could think of! Months of perspiration must have given way to inspiration! This is Mon Faseeelie's tukwit grass farm." He took a big bite of the weeds that surrounded them and munched happily. "Delicious!"

"We're on another world?"

"Exciting, eh? This was where I was raised. My home was, or is, across the lake from here. I lived with my brothers Weeeharrammma and Iyelionoui and their wives. Together, we watched after my father." He looked up from his munching. "He's a bit of an eccentric, you know? Mon Faseeelie grows the best tukwit grass on the lake. Just the place to pop up. You really should try some."

Rayesh looked at the multicolored walrus impatiently and Ooobrecht stopped munching.

* * *

Kraephten Kattox had seen a lot of things in his life. He'd fought in wars as a boy and learned of peace before going to war again as a man. He'd traveled through deserts and forests and oceans and tunnels. But Mother Moena, goddess of knowledge, wasn't through with him, yet. He and Timothy had picked their way through the rocks and coral and made their way up the shore to lie on the beach only to see two people flying - FLYING - down from the Palace. Kattox had believed himself familiar with the ways of magic but admitted, not for the first time, that there was more to it than he knew or might ever know.

"Rise, Tim," he said, shaking the dozing boy beside him. "We're going to have visitors."

Vincent and Mark dropped into the sea with a little splash. When they came up again, there was splashing all around. Mark was pulling the boy out of the water, shaking him and calling his name.

Kattox and Timothy were almost there by then.

"Mark," Kraephten called. "Mark Nygarra!" He embraced the Defender who, soaked and panting, was shaking like a newly born foal. Timothy was already taking the boy, almost his own size, and pulling him to shore. Kraephten put Mark's arm around his neck and helped him walk.

Robert stepped out of Mark's hand and sat on Kattox's shoulder. "This is awful. I'm soaked and salty! Why, I'm waterlogged!! I demand a blow-dryer! You hear me? Dry me off!"

"Well," Timothy offered, "we could start a fire."

Robert leaned over and looked at the boy. "You know, nobody likes a wise guy."

A fire wasn't needed. Morning had come and, with it, the sun. Vincent slept in the warming rays and Mark agreed that he could use some rest as well. His nerves were all afire from their fall. He didn't know whether to be relieved it was over or want more. The sun did all of them good, drying and resting them. Soon, however, talk turned to matters immediate to those above. Mark was sure they had taken the third level in addition to the second. However, with Hargoth in their midst, who knew how long that could last.

Vincent rolled over in the sand and opened his eyes. "Mark," he said, sleepy.

"Yes, Vin. Good to see you're up."

"I had the weirdest - Hey," he shouted, bolting upright. "We're on the ground! It really did happen!"

"Sure did," Mark replied, with a smile.

Vincent's eyes were like saucers. "We flew!"

"Yep. You must be the world's youngest magician, just like the princess said."

Kattox added, "And every bit of him dedicated to our cause, we can only hope."

"Dedicated, he's sure to be but what's this talk about magic?" The voice came from down the shore. It was Ooobrecht, waddling up the shore with Rayesh.

"I did it, Ooobrecht! I worked some magic," Vincent shouted running towards the walrus and his companion.

"Really," the walrus exclaimed. "Then this is wonderful news. I knew there was something in you. It's plain as day." When they reached the others, Ooobrecht asked, "So, what did the lad do, then?"

"It was something I'd never seen before," Mark said. "We were thrown out of the Palace and he actually slowed our descent."

"Slowed your descent," the walrus asked.

"Yes," Kattox agreed. "I saw the whole thing from here."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Ooobrecht insisted. "Bonders put things together and Breakers take them apart. Movers take themselves from one place to another and Summoners take other things and bring them to themselves, going from Point A to Point B without going through the points in between. To slow a descent, though, would take something totally different."

"Totally different," Vincent asked.

"How is that," Timothy asked.

"It's not," Ooobrecht replied. "He must have done something else that appeared to slow them down."

"And what could that have been," Mark asked.

"Well, being a Mover myself, I might have an explanation using Moving magic. You see, when something normally falls, it picks up speed as it falls. In order to appear to have slowed down, maybe Vincent took you on a series of small Moves. That way, you would only be going as fast as you went prior to your last move, which may have been right out of the Palace. You would never have reached the maximum speed of someone who fell straight down. Understand?"

Obviously not. All were silent.

"Well, it can be easily proved. Vincent draw a figure in the sand. Something memorable so you can focus in on it later."

Vincent drew a star and, upon each point, Ooobrecht drew a circle. "Now, remember that," he said.

Vincent stared hard at the figure in the sand. "Okay."

"Now, think of someplace nice where you've been. Maybe home or someplace that you've enjoyed visiting. That will be the place where you're going. If this works, Vincent, you'll need to get back here safely so we know you're okay. When you want to return, think of your symbol and you'll return. Understand?"

Vincent squinted in thought and scratched his dirty, short hair. "I think so."

"Very well, then. Try it."

The others looked on intently as the young boy thought about a place. Where would he like to go? Home? No. Samuel was going to be very mad at him when he returned. Pete's house? No. Pete's mom would be pretty mad, too. Same with the other guys. How about the last place he was at? Hex's place. He wasn't inside long enough to remember it but he easily remembered the threshold and the yard and the shed that was locked up.

Standing there, a thoughtful look on his face \- in the blink of an eye, he was gone!

Gone!

"It worked," Timothy said.

"Worked well," Kattox agreed.

Rayesh and Ooobrecht exchanged a knowing glance, though. They'd never seen anyone Move that fast, that suddenly. It was obvious to them that Vincent was no simple Mover.

Now, to hope he returned.

### CHAPTER ELEVEN

### LICH VYR-AT-HOZOTH

Red Martag spat distasteful chunks from his beer, smiling as he did so. "South," he garbled. "Awlsban. Maybe, even Ceyliz."

"Nope," replied Mack, who'd opted for a whiskey. He took a shot of it now, the liquid burning the ice out of his bones. "How d'you know so much about the south, anyway? You spend time down there?"

"Spend time down there? Ha! I practically lived there for almost five years." Stopping his tale, he tilted his head and shouted, "Felicia! Get on over here." They were sitting in the largest tavern in Goroc's Landing and Felicia was only one of several barmaids. It was hard to find them, though, amongst the crush of people.

Goroc's Landing was a supply outpost for shipping between the southern kingdoms and ports east of the Seadilia. Technology being what it was in their world, Hex had only seen ships that could sail before the wind. They weren't navigating anywhere further than a few miles off shore. Goroc's Landing had been prosperous, back when it was founded. The buildings had been thrown up in a gold rush just decades after the arrival of the first men in Rynia. The Northern Spires' untold riches had only begun to be plumbed and men returning with gold from the mountains needed a place to go, liquor to drink, the scent of a woman, and more. Millions of dernigs in gold ore had been brought forth when, as quickly as it had begun, the mining had come to a crashing halt. It was said that accidents plagued the mines and that prospectors met gruesome ends in the chasms beneath the Spires. The King had commanded the Northern Spires off limits. Perhaps that had stopped the foolhardy from venturing in or, perhaps, it was because the truth had come out. That truth, it was told, was brought by a dying man. Before succumbing to his wounds, he drew amazing and intricate diagrams of the world beneath. It was the axe the he carried hat told the tale in vivid realism. The blade was outfitted with razor sharp edges and rimmed with spicular teeth. Its handle was finished in white gold and bronze, the designs etched thereon telling the story of a people. Those people were small, squat, and horrifically violent.

Dwarves.

Creatures of evil brutality that men had long learned to stay away from, found again. Goroc's Landing almost became deserted. It would have if not for human nature. For the shipping lanes had already started passing through there for gold and, now, came for the hospitality and shipwrights and, of course, the women. The axe, Bloodletter, was soon said to be magical and was mounted in the mayor's quarters. No one went into the Northern Spires anymore. Travellers came only through the passes and only when no other way was available.

"I say you're southern because nobody else would be foolish enough to come up here on foot," Red continued. "Maybe you rode in? I don't know. You'd have been eating off the hoof, though, if you had, am I right?"

"Oh, yes, you are right," Mack agreed. "We would have."

Red squinted. "But you didn't. Did you?"

"No. We didn't."

"What can I get you boys," Felicia asked, her heaving breasts pressed against Red's shoulders.

Hex had never seen breasts heave before and was glad to see what all the fuss was about. Though he'd rather have been in Red's shoes.

"Here you go, darlin'," Red grunted, smiling, as he dropped two dernigs down the girl's compromising top. "Another ale here and a whiskey for my friend and...?" Red Martag looked at Mack's droopy looking companion.

"Er, more of this black tea if you will," Hex asked.

"Oh, black tea, eh," Felicia asked. "When'd you start going about with such old women, Red?" She and Red had a hearty laugh, making Hex uncomfortable. Then, Felicia, with other customer to attend to, gave Red a generous kiss and he gave her a pat on the behind while she sauntered off.

He took another gulp of ale, forcing down the swallow and spitting up the bits. "It was in the war, then," he announced. "Did you fight in the Kallent cavalry, then?"

"No," Mack answered. "I was in the war but nowhere near there."

"Sad sight. Seeing horses torn up like that. Tsurtor had this magic that made the ground explode beneath their hooves. Nothing you could do for it. They just bits of metal would fly up and cut you in half."

"How'd you see that," Mack asked.

"I was infantry, that's how. We had to follow them in. Poor bastards. Still, they got the better food and beds. Only seems right they should die first."

"How'd you get out?"

"Did my time. Did more than my time! I made Corporal cause I was the only one left, you know? So, I told the Sarg to have a go on his bat and left him. Found myself working up in Ceyliz as a longshoreman. One day, they needed me to come on as a crewman. I didn't know what I was doin' but I figured, why not? Been on the sea since."

"When was that war," Hex asked. Immediately, he knew he shouldn't have as Red shot him yet another suspicious glare.

"More than a score," Mack answered silently.

"Oh, yes," Hex said, smiling, "more than a score."

"More than a score and more upon this shore," Red spat. "More than a score and it's naught more than lore as tales that are bore ere commencing with a whore."

Mack and Hex were silent.

Red smiled, "I've always fancied myself something of a... troubadour."

Mack laughed, "You are an individual of some amazement, my friend. We shall always be in your debt."

"There is no debt," the big man scoffed. "I've been held over in this ice pit too long and needed a release. Never found one so fine as a hearty battle. But, maybe we can call in that debt, now that I think of it. For you've yet to tell me your name and I still don't know why you and your friend were in that pass."

"But I've already told you, Red! My name's Mack and this is Hex. We're scouts for Benaatt, came to see that the pass was clear."

"Yes, you've told me that. What I want, though, is the truth. That must be worth the price of a drink, at least," Red offered when he saw Felicia approaching. She deposited the drinks in a rush and was gone. Red swigged his new ale, spitting something up on the floor. He wiped his face with his sleeve and continued, "For I've been to that Regal Isle, my friend, and I've seen your face as I'm sure you can understand. So, do you continue with your story?"

"Red," Mack replied, his face tense and eyes narrow, "if I am who you are supposing, then you should know that I don't like to be pushed. You should also know that I can push back."

"Can you?" Martag brought his ale to his face but didn't drink from it.

Mack stood before him. "I don't need an army to defend myself," he said.

Red looked up and weighed his options. Mack's body was tense and ready. If his suspicions were true, Red had heard stories of how this one could fight. "I'm sure you don't but do you need one to drink your whiskey? Cause they're stacking up."

Mack took his half-filled glass and drank it down. He sat down again, taking his new drink.

"There, now! No need to fight. For you're Mack just as sure as I was born with the name Red, eh? And, if you are who I think, it wouldn't hurt to stay on your good side. So, drink up."

This they did. When they left the bar after midnight, Red was spitting into the street, hacking up remnants of his ale. Red couldn't understand how Mack was walking steadily. He didn't know that Mack, during an early commode run, had approached the bartender who was happy to water down the drink as much as the customer requested. Hex walked behind them, with Ostrander helping him along, nauseous from the black tea.

Goroc's Landing was a succinct place, holding only those buildings necessary. Taverns, inns, brothels, and mechanics and artisans to service the ships that passed in and out of the harbor. All of these buildings occupied the one street that overlooked the docks. There were a few houses outside of that for those few who actually lived there. It was a quiet place. People were too tired and cold to make any noise. Only sailors stood outside of their ships to keep night watch.

The silence of the seaside night, disturbed only occasionally by the splash of the water and the creak of soggy wood, was broken when Red announced, "Benaatt fell years ago, Mack. Even us fin-footed know that. You're story's an obvious lie."

Mack remained silent.

"I'm telling you this, not because I want to wrestle information out of you, but because I think you should consider changing it. It would be better for you if you decide not to stay out here with us folk much longer."

"Thank you, Red."

"Perhaps, I can help you."

"I'm sure you could," Mack relied, stopping to look into the huge sailor's eyes. "You wouldn't, though. You wouldn't for all the desert Queen's handmaidens."

Red chuckled. "Try me."

"We're going into Hozoth."

Red frowned and his brow tensed. "What?"

"You heard me well, Red. We're going south, into the mountains, into Hozoth."

The sailor shook his head. "But - but - but - you can't be serious!"

"Very," Mack replied. "The Dwarven Mines. That's what you're thinking, isn't it? Well, let me tell you, there's something worse in there. It's a Lych, a powerful wizard returned from the dead or so I'm told. He's summoning the dead of the earth and sending them against the southern kingdoms. We've come to stop him and send him back to Tsurtor or wherever he came from."

Red Martag hissed, "But, that's madness."

"Yes. It probably is. We'll very likely not come out of there alive." Mack put his hand out and Red took it. "You're not a coward, Red. You proved that when you saved our lives. This is just something we have to do. I would be obliged, though, if you'd give us a few dernigs to resupply, put ourselves up for the night, and eat on the morrow."

"Surely," Red replied in a frightened, little voice. He took out a handful of coin and gave it.

"Many thanks, Red. I'll remember this."

They left Red, standing like an awestruck child, and entered the nearest inn. Ostrander remained outside, once again, keeping watch so the two could sleep.

* * *

Their room was cold. All of Goroc's Landing was cold. It was the way of the Northlands. "You should be glad it's not winter. They get hit pretty hard up here."

Hex sat on his cot and looked at the room, thinking it wasn't exactly the Holiday Inn. "How do you know so much, Mack. Who are you, anyway?"

"Me," Mack replied. "I suppose I'm something of a mercenary. I've been all over. I know a lot of things."

"Like how to keep a secret?"

Mack sighed and sat down across from Hex. "Look, wizard, I don't want to have to tell you this more than once. We haven't finished our journey, yet. We've barely begun. Where we're going, we're sure to face death. Chances are, we'll probably die. I'll be fighting to keep you alive and you'll be working your magic to protect me. Given that, I don't think my name is that important. Just call me Mack."

Hex nodded as Mack's words echoed in his ears. You'll be working your magic to protect me...

He laid down, resting his head in a pile of straw.

It seemed that they both had their secrets.

* * *

The morning lurked behind clouds for a while before the two arose. The sounds from the docks informed them that they'd slept late. That didn't bother Hex. He was happy to be out of the elements. Happy to be in a bed, such as it was. Mack on the other hand kept shaking him like it was an emergency. The closer Mack journeyed to Hozoth, the more he wanted to be through with this insane quest.

Hex opened his eyes. "Is there anything I can do to make you leave me alone for just a few more hours," he pleaded.

Mack replied, "No."

Rising, Hex scratched his head, "I didn't think so." He slowly dressed himself in his ratty shirt and torn pants. His jacket was little to speak of and his shoes were split up the sides.

Mack frowned, "You don't look like royalty, that's for sure."

Hex yawned. "Maybe there's a bath around here?"

Mack shook his head. "Do these look like royal suites?"

A knock came on the door. Mack and Hex exchanged startled glances and Mack grabbed his bat as he answered. "Who is it," he asked.

A familiar voice replied, "A fool. A friend."

When Mack opened the door, Red Martag pushed his way in, clothes washed and whole and red hair still wet. "You gents look worse in the harsh light of dawn than in the sympathetic gloom of night. Whoo! You smell worse, too! I think I can help you out. I've got some copper to spare. Even a few dernigs. I can get you into the bath by the docks. It's salty but it's cheap."

Hex smiled but Mack was gruff. "We'll do fine by ourselves, Martag. Our business is in those mountains, not in any public bath."

"Well, private baths are a premium here, sir. Not something a sailor such as I can afford."

"Shouldn't a sailor such as you have left with your ship at first light," Mack growled.

Red looked shocked. "Ooop! Did I say sailor? I meant something else entirely! Look outside," he implored, steering them to the window, "and you'll see the nature of my latest enterprise!" A mule stood beside Ostrander, who stared at it with innocent curiosity. On its back, "Ropes. Lanterns. Shovels. Hooks. Everything we'll need!"

"Everything an idiot will need," Mack shouted, pushing Red away. "Do you know where we're going? Do you have any idea?"

"Hozoth," Red Martag replied, his face straight. "The heart of the Dwarven realm. That place where hundreds of men died at the hands of the dwarven madmen. Also, the home of the Lych Vyr who has been sending a multitude of undead into the southern kingdoms to destroy Rynia. Am I close? Is this what you were referring to? Yes, sir, I know all of that. While you slept, I had time to think, sober up, and ask a few questions. And you're right. I am very likely a fool for involving myself. However, if I am correct and you are the man I believe, then your cause is just and I would be worse than a coward to turn away. Besides, you need my help. Look at you! You're hardly dressed or fed. You're pursuing your goal on confidence alone. Your egos have been your only provider thus far. That time is over. Now, Red Martag steps in. Now, the Lych doesn't stand a chance!"

Mack was silent. He turned back to the window and looked at the mule.

Hex put his hand out to the large man, "Thank you, Red. We appreciate the help."

"Then the help begins now, my friend. Come! We'll leave your gloomy companion and get you some breakfast, some clothes, and," he indicated Hex's shaggy, black hair that had grown well past his shoulders, "a haircut."

Below, they were served stew and potatoes. Sausages stuck out of the broth with only a few vegetables and the potatoes were pan-fried. Hex ate like a man possessed, hardly pausing to chew. Finally, he commented, "These sausages are great! What are they made of?"

Red, who'd forgone the sausages, replied, "You seem like a man of some culture, Hex. You'd do well not to ask."

Hex made a face, looking down at his half finished stew, and ate the remainder of his potatoes. Mack came down, looking somewhat less disturbed, and joined them. "Mack," Hex called, holding up the bowl of stew, "here! Have some breakfast."

Red held back a grin.

When Red had put down a few coppers for breakfast, they went down the road and had the two measured for clothes. Shoes were stretched out and softened for them. By days end, they were both looking less like beggars and more like adventurers. Mack wore brown pants that wrapped tightly around his legs and tucked into high, fur lined boots. A shirt of thick denim covered him instead of a jacket and a black, leather vest provided a little protection. Hex looked shockingly different. The barber knew less about hair cutting than the significance of Hex's dandruff and simply cut it as short as he could. Now, practically bald, a fur cap covered his head and he wore a thin shirt beneath a thick, brown leather jacket. He wore thick, sailor breeches and, not being used to boots, he wore the shortest boots he could find. Red returned with a heavy iron knife and tucked it underneath the wizard's rope belt.

"Protection," the sailor said with a wink.

Hex pulled the knife out and asked, "Against what? A steak?"

It was too late to leave and Red still had a couple of dernigs. "Come on, gents. We've enough for lodging and a drink or two. Perhaps, I can even introduce Hex to the wonder's of Paeadian ale." This he did to Hex's dismay. The American spent the rest of the night spitting up pieces of barley.

The sun rose the next morning over the vast, northern plains, touching the Spire's tips, shedding its pale light upon four determined figures entering the base of the mountains. Mack was glad to be moving once again and he had to admit that Red had been right. The going was easier with fresh supplies, warm clothing, and a full belly. Suspicion being an old habit, Mack couldn't help question Red motives.

By mid-day, the peaks were rising above them once again as they headed south into the range. Red, their guide, had only seen this route on a map. Consequently, they back-tracked quite often and camped that night on a hill outside the range.

When morning came again, Hex walked alongside Mack. "Tell me about the dwarves," he said.

"Dwarves?"

"Yes, dwarves. Little men. You know? Hi ho hi ho it's off to work we go and all that. Dwarves."

"Yes, I know what you mean by dwarves, even if I don't know what all the singing is about. I was just wondering what to tell you."

"Tell me whatever you can. If there are any in those mountains well, I'll be seeing them, too."

"True. Okay. Dwarves are indigenous to this land. They lived here long before the Rynians arrived. By the reign of Andrew Haddison, Rynia's third king, there had been several sightings. That was when the first city of Benaatt was built. Well, King Andrew found the thought of these little men intriguing and went north from the Isthmus of Bania to meet them. Perhaps he wanted to begin trade with them or welcome them as part of the kingdom. He didn't know they had a kingdom of their own."

"Where's that," Hex asked.

"We're walking on it. They own these entire mountains. They paid enough for them. You see, when King Andrew went to the southern half of this range, looking for dwarves, he found none. They searched for a long time until they finally did. Four of the King's guards were slaughtered. The dwarves were no longer friends with man. The one dwarf who had taken out those guards was dying, you see? He wanted to take a few of those who had killed his people along with him."

"I don't understand."

"We gave them some kind of... sickness. It was like pneumonia. That's what I've heard. It makes no sense, though. There are no accounts of any plague in the land at that time."

Hex shook his head. He understood, now. It was culture shock of the worst kind. "It wouldn't have needed to be a plague. It could have been just a cold."

"What?"

"Sure. The dwarves, living apart, wouldn't have been exposed to the same diseases as mankind. They wouldn't have had any resistance. A cold to you might have been a plague to them."

Mack walked on, silent for a moment. "I try to understand but I just can't."

"Don't worry. Your people probably don't know much about medicine or science. They have magic. You should just be happy that the dwarves didn't have any diseases to give in exchange."

"Aaaah," Mack replied, his eyes lit up.

Ahead of them, Red Martag led the mule and Ostrander walked beside him. "So, you're telling me that you're made of dirt?"

Ostrander nodded and replied, "Yes."

"Just dirt? Like mud and rock and loam and soil and... and dirt?"

"Just so."

Red scratched his short, red hair. "How does it feel?"

"Feel," Ostrander asked in response. "I'd never thought of that. I suppose it feels... hmmm... good."

"I'd think it'd feel dirty."

They walked on in silence for a moment. Ostrander asked, "So, you're telling me that you're just made of flesh?"

Red, taken aback, answered, "Yes."

"Flesh? Like rats and dogs and buzzards and roaches?"

"Well, um, not quite, er, well, um... shoot, I guess I am."

* * *

Several days later, they found the entrance to a mine. Standing against the towering mountainside, it looked like a gaping maw eager to swallow them up.

"The mines lead into the dwarf's tunnels. Few miners who found them escaped to tell the tale." Red turned his gaze from the mine to his companions. "That's the first thing you hear when you land at Goroc, mining stories. There ain't no miners left today. They all died off long ago. As long as their relatives live on, though, those rotten, old, stories are gonna be told."

They camped near the mine that night, sleeping while Ostrander kept watch. The earth golem had never seen a dwarf before so he kept his eye out for anything at all. Hex tossed and turned on the hard ground and woke up several times before light came over the mountain. It wasn't dawn, though. It was the stars, shining brighter than Hex ever remembered or, perhaps, it was his own guilt. He moved over to where Mack lay and shook him awake.

"Hex. Look. I know you're nervous. Every soldier gets nervous before battle. That way, you know you have a conscience. But, don't worry about -"

"Mack, that's not it. I need to tell you something."

"You need to...? What is it, Hex?" Mack, now fully awake, rose on one elbow.

"Maybe I should have told you before. It's just that," he looked through the dark - the only light coming from the moon and the embers of the fire - at the other's eyes. He paused for a moment to take several breaths. "My magic is gone."

Mack squinted. "I don't understand. What do you mean gone?"

"Gone. I don't have it anymore."

"But, how could that be?"

"I don't know. It happened back in Caspeton. After I came to, I was without magic. I've been trying ever since but... nothing."

"But that doesn't make any sense. From the moment I saw you, I knew you were it. You're one of the strongest wizards I've ever seen." He laid back down and folded his hands behind his head. "Maybe it's just nerves."

Hex shook his head. "I don't think so."

"We can't turn back now, Hex. For every day that we wait, more people are killed, towns destroyed, and the plague of the undead is sent throughout Gerriter!"

"I'm aware of that," Hex replied, lying down. "I just wanted you to know."

The next morning, Mack was unusually silent as he helped load Ostrander up with the supplies. What was left, the ropes, the lanterns and the gloves were split between the three.

"What about him," Hex asked, pointing at the mule.

"Well," Red answered, "we could have killed him last night for the meat but they tend to be tough." He surveyed the land and said, "There's plenty of food out here. I think he'll live. Maybe he'll find his way back to Goroc's Landing. Maybe somebody'll find him. He won't be much use to us in there."

Mack led the way, walking beside Ostrander who held the lamps. Hex followed and Red, now armed with a hammer the size of his head, came behind him. The tunnel started out wide and tall, with plenty of room to walk side by side. Quickly, though, it narrowed and Mack had to take a lantern from Ostrander and take the lead. Ostrander soon had to crouch and Hex took the other lamp from him. The sounds of the outside world quickly drifted and were gone. The shuffling of feet was all that accompanied them.

"Stop," Mack said, his voice echoing several times like a bellow. Ostrander stopped immediately as he'd been told and the two behind muttered after soft collisions. "I've found a shaft here. There's no way around. The pulley's not going to hold us but we've got to go down." He turned to their earthen companion. "Sorry, 'Trander. This is where we part ways. The rope won't hold you and there's no way you can climb with only one arm."

"Sorry, Ossie," Hex said.

"Don't concern yourself, Hex," Ostrander said, moving aside for the other two to pass. "I'll wait here until you return. That way, you'll know that your rope is secure."

"That's a good idea," Red observed.

"Sure," Mack said, "He's full of them."

Hex looked at the earth golem's dimly lit face and thought, the Tin Man got his brain.

Red handed Ostrander their longest length of rope and they each put on their gloves. The lanterns were hung from Red's and Mack's belts and they took all the supplies they could. Red went first. "I'm an old pro at ropes," he said. After a moment, Mack followed. "I don't know anything about ropes but I do know not to fall." Hex went last, thinking, this ain't no Emerald City and I don't think we'll be meeting The Great and Mighty Oz but things are certain not to go as well.

They soon came upon an adjoining tunnel. Mack told Red to continue on, following his hunch that the lych would be in the heart of the mountain. Hex wanted to stop immediately. Although his hands weren't burning from the rope friction, his arms were killing him from holding on to the rope. At the next tunnel, he pleaded to stop and the three stepped off for a rest. Hex hung his arms like limp pasta while the other two looked around.

"Look at this," Red whispered, crouching down. He turned back to the others, holding up a rock that shimmered in the dim lamplight. "I think it's gold." He smiled as he pocketed it for later.

"So, that's what they were mining here," Hex said, rubbing his shoulder.

A soft whisper came from the shaft, drawing the three quickly over. The rope was gone. That must have been what they heard, the rope dropping.

"Ostrander," Hex called, his voice echoing from above and below and from the end of their tunnel and back. As his voice faded, only silence remained. He looked at the others. "What happened?"

"Maybe, he's left us," Red growled. "Maybe, he ran away."

"No," Mack answered. "He wouldn't do that. This was the whole reason he came. His reason for existence. He wouldn't have run." He looked down at Hex who mirrored his own worried expression. "Something's not right."

Red sneered. "In a place like this? Imagine that."

"What do we do now," Hex asked.

"Well, I can tie a rope to a spike. Continue down." They agreed to Red's suggestion, preferring not to state the obvious. After all, down was the only way. He tied a heavy rope on a single spike, making the knot sturdy, and drove the spike deep into the floor with his massive hammer.

Again, he went first. Hex had started lowering himself when he heard Red call up, "Come on down. I've reached the bottom. And there's something here... something you have to see."

Hex hurried down and, in moments, saw what made him drop the last few feet. It was the walls. Somehow, those who had been digging this mine, dug into someone else's. Not just anybody else's, either. These walls were not set by mortal men. They glimmered with a golden luminescence. Their lanterns weren't needed in the warm, golden glow. Each wall was resplendent with artwork etched in and embossed with decorative tiles.

These were the halls of the dwarves.

In a small voice, Red whispered, "Remember, when this is over, to see about those handmaidens."

"What do we do now," Hex asked.

Mack grimaced, "Look around you, Hex. See if you can find any undead."

Each of them silently started to walk in the direction they'd been facing. Down the hall that way was just as good as any other. Red held his hammer up and Mack had taken his bat off of his shoulder and held it at ready as well. Hex considered drawing the iron knife Red had given him but, compared to the size of their weapons, felt foolish.

The hall seemed to go on forever. Their slow pace didn't help much. They seemed to go on for miles in the dimly lit tunnel and, still, it continued on. Hex began to grow hungry and thought that it might be lunchtime. Further on, his stomach began to growl.

"Shut it up, Hex," Mack muttered. "You can be hungry later."

"Maybe we should take a break," Red offered. "After all, it must be past supper."

"We won't be stopping," Mack said.

"But Mack, this tunnel might go on forever," Hex said.

"It doesn't go on forever," Mack replied. "I hear water."

"Water," Red asked. After a quiet moment, he realized that he could hear it, too. "It is water. It must be a river."

"And underground stream more likely," Mack added.

Then, Hex realized that the wall's luminescence ended up ahead. They were coming to the end of the tunnel. As they stepped up to the final glow of gold, the sight before them was breathtaking.

The Northern Spires had risen above them in a runaway fashion, never fully comprehensible for all their height. In the nighttime, against the multitude of stars, they stood above humanity in awe of the sky. Down below, however, this view was positively crushing! The tunnel had come to an end upon a crevice that ran so deep into the earth that no bottom could be seen. The light cast by the gold only reached out a few feet before being gobbled by the hungry blackness. Above them, the ceiling rose into the darkness. A ledge ran to the right and left of them, precariously hanging above the unknown.

"Gerrit," Mack whispered, his voice almost caught in his throat as he the plea to the God of Earth left him.

"Gerrit, yes, and Ibbrano," agreed Red, invoking the name of that god who lorded over such intangibles as evil, torture, pain, and sorrow. His name was always said at funerals and repeated often in times of war.

"Hex," Mack said, turning around, "did you get a load of this -" The question stuck in his gut as a shattering blow fell upon his bat. The hardwood cracked in several places and Mack's arms went numb. His eyes were wide, knowing what he was looking upon yet not believing. It was a short, stocky man with colorful breeches, suspenders, and shirt. His blonde hair was long and bushy, some of it tied into braids with beads at the ends. Unlike the others, he had no facial hair and blatantly displayed his snarling teeth.

Others? Hex had two axes against his throat and a short pike pointing at his gut. Three dwarves kept him from doing so much as wink.

He heard a crash from beside him - Red must have been fighting one of his own - as he rolled to the side to avoid another blow. The dwarf wielded an insanely large double-headed axe and swung it like it was made of paper. Feeling came back to Mack's hands as he jumped up to avoid another blow. The dwarf was open as he landed and Mack brought the flat of his hand down on the dwarf's temple in the style of the Kal-Kor monks who lived in the south of Kallent. A blow like that would have dropped a normal man. It would even have knocked over a man as large as Red Martag. The dwarf, however, turned his head with it and brought the axe's handle into Mack's ribs. Blinding pain was already rushing up Mack's left arm. The blow to his ribs only knocked him back. From elbow to wrist, his arm was infected with fire.

Red wasn't doing much better. He'd fought hammer to axe for several blows until the dwarf chopped the hammer into pieces. Then, Red had tried to use his greater reach to his advantage. With his first blow, a fist thrown in when he saw an opening, he learned how hard these creatures were. His punch to the gut turned into a fistful of pain. An attempt to kick, for Red thought his boots would absorb some of the impact, got him limping. Then, the dwarf spun his axe in the air and delivered a killing blow - to the ground. For a moment, Red was stunned. He only had a moment, though. After that, the ground he was standing on turned to dust. He fell with it into the chasm.

"No," Mack screamed. Flinging himself toward the edge, he put his right hand out as far as he could. It touched Red's forearm, which fell like a diving hawk. Red saw Mack coming, though, and grabbed his arm for his life. Mack was thrown to the ground, bloodying a lip. Red, saved for now, hit the crevice wall so hard that his nose bled and his shoulder burned. He wanted to let go.

"Red," Mack called, "you've got to come up."

"I can't," Red replied. "I hurt my arm."

Both of them tried to move back onto solid ground with no success.

"Please," Hex whispered. The axes pressed harder and the pike put pressure on his belly. "Please," he repeated, cautiously. "Those are my friends. You can't let them die."

The dwarfs scowled and pushed their weapons harder against Hex. The axes bit into his flesh - Hex kept praying that they weren't close to his jugular - and the pike tore his shirt.

Though Hex couldn't move, he knew he had to do something. "You can't just let them die," he repeated. "We didn't come here to hurt you. We -" The pike was flipped around and the handle tapped hard against his jaw, cutting off his words. The three dwarves exchanged knowing glances, eventually agreeing with the unspoken conversation. The dwarf armed with the pike pushed away the axes and took a rope from Hex. He relaxed a little but, then, the axes were back in place.

A lasso was tied, lowered down to Red's legs, and bound him. As Mack held on, axes were brought up against his ears. Red was lifted up and the three were quickly herded together. "Look," Mack started, "we are sorry that we are intruding in your kingdom but there is a great evil that -"

"Quiet," the pike armed dwarf shouted, his voice rumbling off the walls like thunder. "You humans talk so. Your shrill voices!" Reaching into his pocket, he threw a powder at the three.

"What was that," Hex asked.

"Could have been anything," Red replied.

"Whatever it was," Mack reasoned, "we -"

* * *

The repeated poking in the ribs woke Hex from his sleep. His head buzzed and his mouth tasted funny, almost as if he'd been drugged. "What's going on," he asked, rubbing his head. If not for the torches, he would have been completely in the dark. The torches were held by three dwarves. The others, with the notable exception of the pikemen, kept their distance. "Where am I?"

"You are out of the Halls of our dwarven elders, which is where all humans should remain," the dwarf said, his thick beard and mustache bouncing as he spoke.

Hex looked at the other two and noticed a dark figure looming above them. "Ostrander!"

"Greetings, Hex. I am sorry about the rope. I was worried that something might have happened when the dwarfs cut it. They said they'd lead me to you and they spoke the truth. It's a good thing, too, for I quickly beat two of them and I don't think they're used to being beaten." Ostrander smiled and Hex returned it.

He turned back to the dwarf and asked, "Why did you let us live?"

"We have no quarrel with you. We were hoping to take you out of the Halls without a fight. Unfortunately, that could not be avoided. We knew you were not in there for looting or invasion. I sensed the - what is it your people say? Fisiks? I sensed the fisiks about you and knew you must be coming for the gate that leads to the dead."

The lych! Hex's mind was racing. "How did you know about the lych? And what do you mean by physics?"

The dwarf frowned, "I remember when other humans came. They were so proud, nothing like you, and proclaimed to us that their fisiks would be the instrument that conquered this world. Hmph! They may have been right."

"But I've been told that there hasn't been any human contact with you for hundreds of years."

"Yes, I was but a boy then. I survived the human plague and fought in the battles for these mountains. We chased the humans out then as we'll do again if need be. Your human plague brought much death to my people. Long lived though we might be, we still suffer from the devastation."

"You must know that that was unintentional," Hex implored. "The humans that you met carried a germ that your people were not immune to. They did it unknowingly, by accident."

"I know nothing of these Jurms. I only know that which is. Know that we did not need to let you live and tell your people." He took a torch and handed it to Hex before turning with the others to leave.

"Wait!" Hex rose. "What about the lych. The undead. You mentioned a gate."

"There is a gate further in the passage. May your fisiks protect you if nothing else can."

Looking at the dwarf, Hex wanted to kneel so they were both eye level. Somehow, though, he felt that would not be appropriate. "My name is Hex. I'm sorry we couldn't meet under better circumstances."

The dwarf nodded. "I am Gurrak. I weep for my children."

Hex didn't move as the dwarves walked away. He marveled at Gurrak's simple honesty and wondered what it could mean. The torch burned in his hand for several minutes as he watched Gurrak and his people fade into the darkness.

"Hex? Maybe we should wake Mack and Red. Our journey is not yet complete."

"I know, Ostrander. Every time I think it is it seems to have only begun."

* * *

"Absolutely remarkable," Red declared, taking another drink of water to flush the dryness from his mouth. It had better work, he thought; they were just about out.

"What," Hex asked, "the dwarves or the sleeping powder?"

"Neither," he replied. "I'm just amazed to be alive."

"True," added Mack. "We may be the first people the dwarves have ever allowed to live aside from the very first... and that was only because they didn't know any better."

"They seemed to wish us no harm," Ostrander interjected. "To believe them, they mean us no harm. They only want their privacy."

"Well, they can have it." Red stood again, his head clearing. He looked uncomfortable without his great hammer and put his hands on his waist. Now that they were back in the inky darkness below the mountains, Red's hairy face looked like fuzzy lump with eyes.

Mack rose as well, disarmed, too, and not optimistic. "We'll have to use our hooks and spikes as weapons. It seems that's all we've got. You said the Lych was further down this way?"

Hex nodded.

They didn't bother tethering themselves together this time. The tunnel was wide and allowed two of them to walk side by side. Mack led again with Ostrander beside him. Every step was like a journey into dread. Hex was glad to be in the rear. He'd never be able to lead through this. Without magic and armed only with a small knife, Hex felt like a fool - and a displaced fool at that.

They all soon grew tired. They'd been walking for hours, if their reckoning was correct, without a change in the tunnel. It continued leading down, down, down, relentlessly as though into the bowels of Hell, what the Rynian's believed was Tzuratt's Eternally Grinding Fist or Tzuratt's Fist, for short.

There was one thing, however, that neither place had.

"Water," Red exclaimed. He kneeled down and brought handfuls to his mouth.

"It must be the underground stream," Mack observed.

As they drank their fill and filled their water bags, Ostrander took a few steps down the tunnel.

"Hex!" The cry came loud and short bringing the three up from the refreshing drink. They ran towards the golem, Red holding the hooks, Mack wielding spikes, and Hex brandishing the useless, little knife.

Ostrander was covered with men long dead. They tore at his loamy flesh and he hammered them with his good hand, bringing down four as the others ran to him. When the undead saw more coming, they spread out to take on the other foes. Ostrander still crushed dead bones beneath his blows while others attacked the humans. Red had always been a fighter, be it with hammers or staffs or his bare fists. The hooks caught on to the dead man attacking him and he pulled bones from sockets. Mack, facing off against another dead man with his spikes, brought both up into the creature's ribs and threw it down the hall into a broken heap. Hex never was one to fight. He had learned well at a young age that his feet could take him away from any melee. There was little chance of that now. As bony fingers reached out to him, he brought his knife down in a valiant, pointless slash. Bone that had once threatened, fell clattering to the ground. Hex looked at the knife in disbelief and the thing before him held its hand back in shock. Hex felt a smile on his face and he launched with the knife again with a bold stroke that cut the long dead man in two.

"What is that," Red asked in amazement.

"I, uh, don't know. You gave it to me."

"Not that knife, nay. Mine couldn't have cut tomato juice."

Quickly, all of the undead were dispatched or sent running away. Hex held his knife with not a little fear as the others shined a light upon it.

"I belief it dwarven," Ostrander observed. "I recognize some of those runes from the halls."

Red looked at the golem. "Good memory."

"Only the best," Ostrander replied, smiling at his maker.

"So, they must have switched your knife. But, why? Why, after all this time, would they be giving us help," asked Mack about the dwarves.

"Perhaps they have as much stake in this as we have."

"Ostrander's right," Hex agreed. "The undead must be getting into their halls."

"Indeed. These tunnels were not dug by the dwarves."

"Is that why you went up here, 'Trander? To check out the architecture," said Mack.

"Partially," the golem replied. "Also to confirm my beliefs."

"Beliefs? What beliefs," Red asked.

"Around that corner," Ostrander motioned. "We've found our quarry. He's just in there."

His chest clenched like a vise and Hex couldn't breath. He tried to relax but found it extremely difficult. The Lych. This was what they'd traveled all this way for and Hex was, was useless. All he had was the knife and that would easily have been wielded better by one of the others.

But they didn't seem to have the same idea. Mack had started walking forward. Red and Ostrander waited and Red finally gave Hex a shove.

Within the dark world of the tunnels, the anachronistic world of Rynia and Gerrit was eliminated. Mack and Red both wore the same, horrified looks. Ostrander stood in thoughtful awe. For Hex, it was like returning home but to a hellish home a macabre replica of that which Hex had once known.

What froze Red and Mack in their steps was the great array of flashing lights flickering and dancing like children of the sun. A computer monitor. EEG and EKG displays. A tumult of noise. The roaring of dragons. Portable generator. Artificial respirator. A gate into Tzuratt's Fist, pulsating like a living creature. Some sort of portal constructed with huge magnets and creating a huge, electrical field. It almost looked like a miniature particle accelerator. And sitting before them, oblivious to their arrival, reclining in its bed of shining silver, the look and stench of the grave upon it - the Lych Vir.

Hex stepped up to it, disgusted. "What in God's name is going on here?"

Which God, Red wondered.

"What do you mean," replied Mack.

"This guy's on life support. He looks like he's been laying here forever! Look. Electrodes leading right into his skull. It must all be regulated by that PC. What the hell is this place?"

"I don't know," Red replied. "But I can guarantee you that that is the Lych."

"He's not a lych, Red. He's just a person hooked up to these machines."

Mack turned his head from the disgusting form on the bed to Hex. "You're saying he's not...?"

"Of course, he's not. Don't you think if he was a lych that he would have attacked us by now?"

Red nodded. "You have a point."

"Still, you seem to recognize some of this," Mack observed. "Are these of your world?"

"Yes," Hex answered. "Though I'm sorry to say it." All of the wires led from the patient to the computer. Further wiring led to the portal. It was all hardwired, soldered in, and Hex wasn't sure that disconnecting it wouldn't kill the patient. "This seems to control that," he said, pointing from the PC to the portal, "and we can be pretty sure that the portal is what is bringing in those undead."

"Then I say we destroy it," Red barked, lifting his hooks. "Destroy it all so it can't come back!"

Mack nodded. "Martag's right. That's the only way we'll be done with this."

"But what about him," Hex asked pointing at the man in the bed. "Destroying all this might kill him."

Mack looked at Hex, shrugging. "Then, that's the way it will have to be."

"Aye," Red agreed, "tis the way of battle."

"But this isn't battle -" Hex started to say when he felt a large hand rest on his shoulder.

"They're right, Hex," Ostrander said. "It's him or this entire kingdom."

"The entire world," Red added.

"But maybe we could find a way to destroy this without killing him. Given time -"

"But we don't have time," interrupted Ostrander. "It's already been minutes since the last undead came over. How long until the next bunch?"

"Then, that is the way of it." Red raised his hook to perform the deed.

Lightning shot out of the portal, hitting the hook in Red's left hand and knocking him back into the tunnel. Mack and Hex ran to where Red shook on the floor, a quivering mass. Mack reached for his hand and reared his head back at the putrid smell. Smoke rose from the blackened skin. Red quickly brought it up to his side. "I'll be fine," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I'll be fine."

"HOW PRECIOUS," a voice came from the portal. "YOUR MOTHER MOENA - THAT'S HER NAME, ISN'T IT? - WILL WELCOME YOU KINDLY INTO HER COUNTRY ESTATE FOR YOUR GOOD DEEDS. ISN'T THAT WHAT YOU FILTHY PAGANS BELIEVE?"

Hex and Mack stepped back into the room. Hex felt and icy grip take his arm and looked back at Mack's ashen face.

Mack seemed unable to talk, straining to whisper, "Tsurtor."

"YES, RYNIAN, RELISH IN MY TRIUMPHANT RETURN. YOUR LAND HAS BEEN LAID WASTE BY MY - YOU CALL HIM A LYCH, DON'T YOU? THEN LET IT REMAIN SO. WEAKENED AS YOU ARE, YOU WILL FALL LIKE ROTTEN DOMINOS BEFORE MY FORCES!"

Hex had been watching the dark form of Rynia's worst enemy with something of detached awe. Mack had told the American about Tsurtor, regaling him with Rynia's history and long tales about the war with Tsurtor. Hex was well aware of exactly who he was facing. He was surprised to see the enemy appear so tall, like a giant. Tsurtor was dressed in a black uniform that covered him in ebony cloth. Hex was almost certain from their appearance that the clothes had come from his world. Despite the darkness surrounding him, the face was unmistakable. Red eyes looked down over strong, prominent cheekbones and the skin was a map of folds. A white line showed that the mouth held a sneer and the teeth were clenched. There was something else as well. "You're a hologram," Hex announced.

"WHAT?!"

"You're nothing but a hologram."

Tsurtor paused, pursing his lips. "YOU'RE VERY CLOSE BUT WRONG. STILL, WHO ARE YOU THAT YOU WOULD KNOW ABOUT THESE THINGS?"

"My name is Hex. I come from a place much like your own."

"YOU THINK YOU DO," Tsurtor replied, more a statement than a question. "THEN, IT SEEMS, ANOTHER PIECE HAS BEEN ADDED TO OUR LITTLE PUZZLE. SO, THEN YOU KNOW THE EQUATION FOR CROSSING BETWEEN WORLDS?"

"Yes," Hex lied.

"AND YOU ARE KNOWLEDGEABLE IN THE FIELD OF SCIENCE. YOU KNOW WHAT I HAVE BUILT THERE AROUND YOU? YOU KNOW E=MC²?"

"It's a misnomer," Hex replied. "You must know that if you built this. An interdimensional gate," he said, pointing at the portal, "regulated by the computer which also provides life support to him. Those electrodes go right into the part of his brain that works the equations, doesn't it? You're too lazy to work them out for yourself, is that it? You aren't smart enough to learn Summoning for yourself so you get it out of his brain?"

"OF COURSE, I DO. I HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO THAN THAT. BESIDES, EVEN YOU MUST BE AWARE THAT WHEN YOU ARE MANIPULATING QUANTA AT THAT LEVEL IT IS MOSTLY INTUITIVE."

"Yes, I suppose it is. But I've been answering questions long enough. I think it's time that you answered one. I don't know where you come from or what your story is but you are obviously a man of science. You must be brilliant, even if in some perverse way, to have been able to pursue it this far. Where inspiration reaches you, wisdom falls short. Don't you see what you are doing? Why, Tsurtor? Why?"

"WHY, LITTLE WORM? WHY?! WHY DO THE STARS EXPEND THEIR ENERGY WHILE NEBULAS COALESCE AND THE BLACK HOLE STARTS THE PROCESS ALL OVER AGAIN? WHY, YOU ASK? WHY WILL I CRUSH THIS INSIGNIFICANT WORLD BENEATH MY FOOT? WHY WILL I GRIND RYNIA TO DUST? WHY WILL I - OH, WHAT? - FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE HEX - WHO YOU REALLY ARE - AND DESTROY YOU FOR THIS AFFRONT? WHY?" The dark image laughed. "BECAUSE I CAN, YOU WORM! I CAN! JUST AS I CAN DO THIS!" He motioned to the "Lych" and disappeared.

"What is it," Red asked.

They all turned their gaze from the bed as the portal began to hum. Light exploded and a blast of air hit them as the portal came to life. In seconds, hands and legs appeared and undead poured into the room.

"Red," Mack shouted. The once sailor was washed away amongst a sea of men risen from the grave. They had no time to think of it, though, for more came after them. Ostrander held many of them off, battering them with his body. Mack used his fists on those that clawed at him.

Hex shook with fear. "What do I do?"

"Make it stop! Stop it any way you can!"

Hex grabbed the wires in the back of the computer and tore them out. Immediately, he wished he hadn't. The portal was still working and the life support connected to the Lych - but the Lych was gone beneath a sea of death. The generator was still supplying power to the portal but there was no way to reach it through the undead. Ostrander, however, was very near to the portal, raging against the dead men. "Ossie! You have to destroy the portal!"

Ostrander turned through the sea of undead, looked at his maker. As if the rage was long gone, a smile broke on Ostrander's face.

Hex and Mack were using whatever they could find to push the undead away. Hex was holding them back with the I.V. stand.

Ostrander pushed his way through the unrelenting power of the undead and stepped inside the portal, prepared to rip it apart.

Hex's screams were lost in the crashing of dead forms. Hex's fears were soon realized as he saw Ostrander's form waver and ripple. The forces that created the gate were buffered by energy that kept the resident reality grounded. Ostrander, though, connected the two and was caught in its feedback.

Hex supposed, as he rammed the undead with the stand's wheeled base, that the end would come in a blaze. There would be lightning and spewed feedback and explosions.

Not so.

The generator went first, its hum cutting off suddenly. Everything went black. An immense sucking sound shook the ground and dust and rocks fell upon Hex as he thought, "Implosion!" Hands reached for him and pulled him up.

Distantly, he realized that he was being drawn away, into the mountain.

### CHAPTER TWELVE

### VINCENT RETURNS

"VINCENT," Samuel yelled, his voice suddenly hoarse and his heart suddenly still.

"How'd he get down there," Pete asked.

However, there was no time for supposing. Sam barked a quick command to Antoine as he saw his little brother swoon to the ground. Vincent dropped to his hands and knees, shaking his head. The sand knew of his presence at once; he was in its midst. Pete held on to his chair and Samuel clutched the stick as Antoine went into a dive.

Then, Vincent stood up, his little body drawing upon a previously unknown strength. He looked up at his brother and, though happy to see him, waved him away. A wind caught the little helicopter and Antoine pulled up. "Sorry," he said, "something's pushing against me."

"Oh, really," Sam snapped, "and what could that be?"

That was something he quickly discovered, though, when Vincent took to the air. Alongside the helicopter, he floated with seeming ease.

"You're back," Pete shouted.

"You're flying," added a stunned and dizzy Samuel.

"And you found the helicopter," Vincent yelled. "I knew it was Heck's all along!"

Samuel, however, could think of only one thing. "How are you flying?"

"It's magic, Sam! I'm a wizard," Vincent announced proudly.

"A wizard," Pete asked.

"Yep."

"You're full of it."

"Guys, please," Samuel interrupted. "We need to get to safety to discuss all of this. That sand's not too happy, okay?"

"That's right! The sand," Vincent said as if suddenly remembering. "Ooobrecht had said that the stone giants must have fudged the crystals so that they could send their sand golems through."

Samuel's face scrunched up. "What?"

"He said that the transfer between worlds should only create a displacement of air," Vincent replied, looking at the swarming mass.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'll tell you later, Sam." With that, Vincent plummeted to the earth.

"Vincent!"

Samuel almost leaped from Antoine's seat but the helicopter would have none of that. He floated over to where Sam was jumping and caught him again. "Now, just relax. I don't want you taking a header into the concrete."

Below, Vincent landed in the Crubnower's driveway. His body was sweating worse than he'd remembered and his neck was hurting but all that was ignored by one fact. The sand was amassing and charging at him. He thought he'd try something simple. Using the same force it took to push him into the air, he pushed forward, instead, pummelling the sand with violent blasts of wind. It settled down into a hill as tendrils were blown apart. It couldn't launch any needles or spears at the boy without losing further mass. So, it held itself together and rolled towards the boy. Vincent backed up, seeing that the force of the wind was only blowing the driveway cover apart. Siding was being torn loose from the Crubnower house and paint was peeling but the sand golem persisted.

Soon, he was in the front yard. Sam had landed Antoine nearby and was racing to his brother's side. The others had left their cars and were watching in amazement.

"Vincent, I don't know what you're doing but this is too dangerous!"

"But if I stop," Vincent shouted in reply over the winds he was creating, "it'll get us!"

No. It won't. Samuel bent down and said into his brother's ear, "Look. I'm going to get it to stop for a minute. When it does, I want you to run - or fly - or whatever it is you do. You got that?"

"Yes," Vincent tried to shout. His voice was so hoarse now, he didn't think his brother heard him. The pain in his neck had traveled down his spine and up, setting a fire in his head. Sweat ran down his face and his fingers, extended towards the golem, were growing numb.

Sam noticed all of this. "Stupid kid," he muttered, running towards his truck. "Get away from it! Get away," he called to the others.

"What are you gonna do," Sean asked as Sam jumped in.

"You guys just stay out of the way," he yelled, starting the engine.

He drove several houses down Lynan and kicked up a cloud of dust as he turned around. What the hell, he thought, they're gonna repossess it anyway. Why give it to them in one piece? He gunned the engine and tore up the road accelerating to thirty, forty, fifty miles per hour. He sped past the others and flew up the curb. The sand stood as tall as the house's first story and Samuel hadn't a chance to regret his actions until the collision took place. Then, as metal cried, parts popped, and his airbag inflating, Sam realized what dumb move that was. Glass shattered around him and sand flew in.

The golem took an obvious hit from the truck, losing some of its cohesion. Vincent was about to blast it again when he heard Pete scream, "Vinnie! The electricity, Vinnie! Use the electricity!"

Vincent looked over at his friends who were pointing at the wires leading to the house. Which wire, Vincent thought. Did it matter? I'll just throw them all down, he decided. Pushing himself back into the air, he flew above the sand to where the wires entered the house. He knew he couldn't subtly remove them so didn't bother. He grabbed the part of the roof they went into with his mind and yanked them free – coming up with half of the living room! He didn't think about it. He shook the wires again and again as pieces of house fell from them. Then, moving both them and himself over the top of the golem, he thrust them downward. Converter boxes exploded up and down the street and the golem seemed to howl in pain.

One arm whipped up at the young wizard but Vincent flung himself to the side, into a row of hedges.

The sand thrashed about violently for just a moment and, as the power left the cables (They would later discover that Vincent had blacked out most of Country Gardens.) the sand sunk down to the earth. Evil no more. Just sand.

* * *

As the sand rushed into the cab of Sam's truck, he held his breath and clenched his eyes shut tightly, waiting for certain death. Soon, he was buried up to his chest and he continued to hold his breath.

In a few moments, it was getting too difficult to hold his breath.

Death can be so damned inconvenient.

He exhaled loudly, breathing in the stale, dusty air and looking irritated. The sand was still, settling around him. Death, it seemed, wasn't coming.

"Well, now, that's a disappointment," he whispered.

In a moment, he heard voices on the other side of the sand. Don't move, they said. We're coming, just be patient, they hollered. As if he was going anywhere!

The first face he saw was Geoff's. His mother had shaved his head for the summer and the hair was just starting to grow back so the first thing Samuel saw, after hands pushed away the sand, was stubbly skin. "Okay," he said, rolling down the broken window, "I promise never to insult your hair again. Or your baldness."

The truck was irretrievable. It was buried beneath a mountain of sand. There would be sand in the engine and sand in the axles, sand everywhere. The truck was a loss. Now, Sam thought, they can repossess it.

And let them guess how it got that way.

Sam stepped out of the sandpile, brushing himself off. "Where's Vince?"

"He's over here, Sam," John said.

Following his voice, Samuel found his brother on the ground, unconscious. "Is he alright?"

"Well, they made me take a first aide course when I got this job. I can't find anything wrong with him but bumps and bruises. Still, we should get him to a hospital."

"Fine," Samuel said, even though he'd lost his medical benefits.

"Okay," John said, standing up and assessing the situation. "You and you," he pointed at Randy and Sean, "I want you to go over to the Hendershot's and use their phone to call 911."

"What do we tell them?"

John Schuck frowned.

"We can't tell them the truth," Sam said.

"You know it's not my policy to lie to the officials, Samuel. Being as that's who I am. Still, you've got a point. So, for now, we'll just tell them that Vincent fell and that will be that. I'll notify county that we've found our boy and that I'll send in the report. They'll love that."

"So, we won't tell them a thing," Geoff asked.

"Not a lick."

Looking over at Antoine, Pete asked, "What about him?"

John thought for a moment, with no luck. "That is a tough one, Peter. Short of dismantling," the topless helicopter shot him a mean look, "which I wouldn't suggest, I can't think of anything. Sam?"

"Well, the shed was totaled. I don't have a garage, just a carport. Do you live in town, Sheriff?"

"Sam, one of the pleasures of being an appointed official is that I do not have to live here. I'm on the edge of Riverside County."

"Is it a house?"

"No, it's a barn. If you have an idea, Sam, just spit it out!"

* * *

"You're storing it at the Sheriff's house?"

"A little louder, Vinnie. I don't think the people in L.A. heard you."

Vincent's eyes were wide with shock. "But, how could you let him have it?"

"They don't exactly get along, Vin," Samuel answered. "It's not like he'll be going for any rides. He won't report it, either. The last thing he wants to do is write another report."

Randy agreed. "Besides, there was no place else to put it."

Vincent folded his arms, staring straight ahead. Eventually, he said, "I never got to ride in it."

"This from the guy who can fly," muttered Geoff.

"Don't worry," Sam said. "You'll have plenty of other weird creatures waiting for you when we get home." When Vincent's eyes lit up, Samuel nodded. "We didn't want to leave them at Hex's for when the owner's showed up. We already think the Hendershots saw something out their window. We don't need more proof against us. So, we had John help us move them back to the apartment and he drove us back here." Samuel got the chair beside Vincent's bed while the others stood around. Sitting there, looking at his brother, he felt a powerful sense of relief, as though he'd been holding his breath for the past four months. "Where the hell have you been?"

It was the question they had all been waiting to ask. Now, they leaned forward, waiting for Vincent to answer.

"It's a long story," he said.

Samuel nodded his head. "I should hope so, for keeping us worrying so long."

"Can I tell you when we get home?"

"It's that bad, huh?"

"Worse."

"Great." Sam stood up, thinking. "Well, then, let's get you home." He looked around, thinking some more. "Can one of you guys have your mom drive us?"

* * *

Vincent's absence had affected Sam worse than he would have admitted. He'd lost his night job, started drinking and, eventually, had pretty much given up on personal hygiene. He hadn't cleaned the apartment in over a month.

Remembering this, he was less than thrilled at showing Vincent the place. Randy, Pete, Sean, and Geoff had been left behind at the Winwood Forest apartments and the two brothers returned home. Time to chew some crow, Samuel thought, and he opened the door.

But it wasn't his apartment. Sure, the number was the same but inside it was... clean!

"Glad to see you home," the coatrack said from within the doorway. "You must be Vincent."

"Yes, I am," Vincent replied without a pause. He walked in, leaving Sam at the threshold.

Coatrack leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "We sort of picked up."

"Oh! Well, um, thank you," Sam replied.

Vincent went back to his room and knew he was truly home. The posters were still in the right places, the space ships hanging from his ceiling, and his floor cluttered with toys. In an odd way, it felt uncomfortable. Perhaps he'd grown used to dank walls and drafty rooms with hard floors and the smell of sea salt permeating his clothes. His clothes? These weren't even his clothes. He kicked off his ratty shoes and felt the carpeting beneath his filthy feet. Stripping down, he went in and took his first shower in months. All his bathing in Rynia had consisted of boiled water poured into a tub of cold water. Now, with the hot water rushing down onto him and the soapy lather surrounding him, he just couldn't shake the feeling that it was all wrong.

After the shower, he ran a comb through his hair (it took him several minutes to get the major knots out) and pulled some clothes out of his dresser. Fresh underwear, blue jeans, and a t-shirt, over which he pulled on the maroon tunic that Mark had given him. "Sammy," he called, "we have to talk."

Samuel was asleep on the sofa. It had been, after all, a long morning. Still, it was only one in the afternoon and there was much that needed to be done. Vincent was compelled by the urgency of resolve.

"Sammy," he said, shaking his brother.

Sam stretched and ran his hands through his greasy, black hair. "You know, bro, I'm almost glad to be disturbed. Almost."

"We need to talk, Sammy."

"Sure, Vin," he sat up so Vincent could sit beside him. "Are you finally gonna tell me what happened with you and Hex?" It was obvious that Sam wasn't overly worried. He'd spoken with the doctor who'd seen his brother and, short of a little malnutrition, Vincent was healthy as ever, which isn't saying much for a nine year old boy.

Vincent nodded, "I guess I have to. I'm sorry I made you worry, Sammy. I didn't know what would happen. He had built this big door from sand and I just wanted to see what he was doing with it. Then, me and Robert -"

"Who's Robert," Sam asked.

That's when the real explaining began. How do you tell your brother that you've been living in a cave with a stick man amongst medieval refugees? Answer: Very carefully. They were ready for dinner before Vincent reached the part where he was led down the tunnels from his cell. Phone ordered in pizza as they all listened intently. The evening passed as Vincent described Rynianhomme and both brothers began to grow tired. TV, Cline, and Mir wanted him to continue but the rest were sympathetic. They'd hear the rest tomorrow.

Samuel put his brother to bed and, thought it might have been something he did more for himself than his brother, he knew the shock of Vincent's return still hadn't worn off. Sam was afraid that Vincent would be gone again in the morning. He even woke up extra early to make sure Vincent was still there.

He was.

Sam knew he shouldn't ask for another day off from his day job again but couldn't bear the thought of leaving Vincent on his own just yet. His boss said he could take off as much time as he liked because he wouldn't be working there any longer. There was no shock on Sam's part. He could take care of anything now that his brother was back.

They had pizza for breakfast. Vincent told them about Mark Nygarra, Princess Helen Haddison, Lord Alinax, Tuk, Kraephten Kattox, Moitches, and the other folks he'd met in Rynianhomme. Then, he told them about Ooobrecht.

"A striped walrus, Vin? A striped, talking, magician walrus?"

Vincent didn't need to say much in reply to his brother. He simply looked down at Skates, who'd settled down between them to listen.

"Point taken," Sam groaned.

As the day progressed, he told them about the final battle, the many deaths, the taking of the Palace, and - this was the part where Sam had the most difficulty - Vincent and Mark's fall to the sea.

"You mean to tell me," Samuel started, turning on a lamp as it had grown dark again, "that you stopped your fall by flying?"

"I just pushed against the ground. I don't know how but you saw me when we fought the sand!"

"Yes, Vincent, I saw you. But how is that possible?"

"I don't know, Sam. It's magic."

"Magic," Sam said, trying to grow familiar with the term.

"The princess said I was the world's youngest magician."

"She said that, did she?" Sam took a drink of beer. "She's probably right."

And now came the hardest part. Vincent looked very serious, alerting his brother immediately that something was wrong. "I have to go back, Sammy. I have to help them."

Samuel was shocked. He gasped, "What?"

"It's just like Mom and Dad always told us, Sammy. Help out where you can. Well, I can help now. They need magicians. I'm a magician, now. I can help."

Sam's mouth hung open and it took him a while to ingest. "How long have you been thinking about this," he asked. "It couldn't have been a long time. You only got back yesterday."

"Since yesterday."

"But you just got home, Vin. You can't want to leave everything so soon."

"I don't want to leave everything. I was thinking. Maybe you could come with me."

Sam wanted to drop to the floor.

But Coatrack was in his way.

So, he babbled.

"Bu-bu-bu I..."

"It'd be perfect, Sam! I could show you where I've been and introduce you to my friends! We'd get Robert back and you could help fight."

"Whoa! Hold on! Fight?"

"Sure! The princess needs good fighters to help her. Mark can't fight at all. He's useless! I know you can kick butt. You were in that jujitsu tournament and you're really strong, too!"

Samuel laughed. "Do you realize you crazy that sounds?"

"Please, Sammy," Vincent begged. "I don't want to go back all by myself."

All by himself? Samuel had to agree; he didn't want that, either. But he knew he couldn't stop him. He didn't know how Vincent worked his magic. If Vincent was going, he was going. It would probably be best to keep an eye on him. Putting his head in his hands, Sam muttered, "Fine. You win."

* * *

If there was one thing Randy was known for, it was his gun-happy father. When salespeople came to his door, he'd yell, "I got a gun!" Evangelists? "I got a gun!" If he heard a noisy neighbor? "I got a gun!" Whenever he saw something on the news that he disapproved of, he'd yell, "They're just lucky I don't go down there with my gun!"

Well, now, Sam had Chet Collin's gun. Randy had stolen it.

"Oh, my dad's gonna be so mad," Randy kept saying.

"Come on, Randy," Samuel said. "This ain't your first robbery. Besides, we'll only be gone a day or so. Right," he asked pointedly at Vincent.

"Sure," Vincent agreed, nodding. He was still wearing his tunic, which kept him warmer than he liked in the noontime sun of late August.

Samuel put the last few bullets from the box in his jacket pocket and inspected the gun again. It was an aged .32 caliber pistol, caked with rust. Sam didn't expect it to kill anything made of stone but Vincent had mentioned earth golems and they both had experience with sand. A gun should be of some help. In addition, though, Sam had borrowed a long handled mallet from Pete's family and all of the WFR's stood around them as they prepared to go. He felt the daypack where he'd stowed away camping food and a few other things. "Now, Randy, you remember what you have to do," he asked.

"Call your landlord and tell him that a family emergency came up and you'll be out of town for a few days."

"Right. That should keep him off my back." He turned to Vincent, who was regaling his friends with his adventures. "Okay, little brother. What's the plan?"

"Well," Vincent replied, thinking, "Ooobrecht gave me a symbol to follow when I wanted to return. I guess I just concentrate on that like I did when I came here."

"And then what happens," Geoff asked.

"I, uh, don't know. We'll see, I guess."

Samuel put his hand on the ten year old's shoulder. "I have no idea what you're doing, Vincent. Just don't get us killed."

Vincent closed his eyes and concentrated. He remembered the symbol and the beach, Ooobrecht, the princess, Mark, and the others, focusing all his energy until -

They were gone.

The four boys were silent until Sean whispered the definitive, "Cool."

Randy jingled the keys. "Well, I'm not staying here, guys. I got the keys to Sammy's place." The WFR's knew where they were going to spend their day.

### CHAPTER THIRTEEN

### DEAD UNDEAD

The fall of the final stone giant was anticlimactic. The giant had fallen victim to one of Kattox's patrols. Its body was prostrate on the floor and one leg was missing. Killing it was a simple matter. It could hardly fight.

A few victory cheers went up but they were quickly stifled by Commander Heaphge, the highest ranked officer still standing, and Lieutenants Obregon and Parry, under orders from Commander Blakely. There would be no victory until everything was put to rights. "And that includes the undead," Heaphge announced to a congregation of soldiers. "First, we must open all the rooms in the Palace that were closed in the fighting. We need to search this place top to bottom to make sure the stoner's didn't leave us any surprises. Then, we'll secure the walls, mount an offensive, and take those undead things back to the Fist where they belong!"

A contingent was assigned to the royal suites on the fourth floor. Princess Helen followed and after her room was inspected, the soldier's announced, "All is in order, your highness."

"Thank you," she replied. She entered her room but something stopped her. She turned around, her thoughts cluttered, asking, "Can - can you - have someone posted at my door?"

"There will be two of us, your highness. Around the clock. Commander Heaphge's orders."

"Oh," she replied. She turned to look at her room as the door was shut behind her.

Hargoth had carried out his rage even here, on the royal family who had become his bane. Mirrors were broken, tapestries torn. The furniture, tables, chairs, bureau, wardrobe, and her bed, were reduced to splinters. Thankfully, her mattress remained with the sheets, blankets, and quilt upon them.

Her eye was attracted to one of the mirrors whose bottom half remained intact. She picked it up and looked at her face. She looked ancient. Blood and dirt had splattered upon her sallow cheeks and in her ratty hair. Once upon a time, her hair had been a light auburn, sometimes, even blonde. Now, with the blood and the dirt and, perhaps, her lack of sunlight, it was dark brown. If there was any red left in it, she couldn't tell. The sun was setting and soon it would be impossible to see. Her lamp didn't do much more than distinguish shapes. She could see the bags under her eyes, though. Maybe sleep would help her. In the morning, she'd see what she could do about bathing.

She released the clasp and removed her dress. Had it been blue? What did it matter? It would never be worn again even if the blood and dirt hadn't ruined it. The heels of her shoes had broken off long ago and she slipped them off immediately. There were still clothes in the rubble of her wardrobe. The stone giants must not have seen much purpose in destroying those. She found an undamaged outfit of leather breaches, corduroy shirt and leather jacket. She placed those aside and found a woolen nightgown to sleep in. But, putting on her gown, she discovered she wasn't tired. She didn't know if she'd ever sleep again. Instead of retiring to bed, she looked for her leather boots. She found them – amidst something moving in the darkness.

Her gasp was almost a scream and she dropped the shoes in the closet.

"What is it, my lady?" The soldier's rushed in without hesitation.

The Princess clutched her nightgown in her hands, trying to pretend that she wasn't petrified. "Nothing, gentlemen. It was a," she looked down where the white, fuzzy creature had scurried into the shadows. "It was a mouse."

"Ah," one of the men replied, sympathetic to the princess' fears.

"If you have any need, princess," the other said as they stepped from the room.

The boots could wait. Perhaps, now, sleep would be best.

But when she turned down the bed, sleep became a distant memory. Her sheets were covered in sand. She stepped back, her breath caught in her throat.

She stood and watched but the sand did not move.

She grabbed the bottom sheet and pulled them off the mattress. She shook each sheet and blanket out vigorously until each was free of sand. I'm a nightmare, Hargoth had claimed, and I remain even when you think I'm gone

The sun rose upon Helen after a fearful night. Her sleep was restless, busy with nightmares of the day before. She rose from the bed more exhausted than when she'd lain upon it. Her clothes fit her loosely and she shook out her boots before she lifted them.

Outside, a different team of guards waited outside of her door. "Your highness. Commander Blakely has requested your presence as soon as you may."

She nodded, knowing a bath would be far off. "Where is Commander Blakely?"

One of the soldiers smiled. "If he had it his way, he'd be assembling a strike force against the undead."

"Andrea Knight has confined him to the infirmary," the other added.

She remembered his broken arm. "Good morning, then."

Andrea Knight had commandeered most of the second level for her wounded. Civilians were allowed to their homes, if they'd resided within the palace, or to set up residence if their homes were in town. The dead were moved out into the many gardens that encompassed the palace.

Among the wounded, the two Bonders were working with minimal rest, healing those they could. Blakely had been treated during the night and waited impatiently on his cot.

"You look as though you're being imprisoned, Commander," Helen said in greeting.

He looked over and gave a small wave with his good hand. "This is worse than imprisonment. I've no bars to hold me still."

"Then what is holding you," the princess asked, pulling up a chair. Blakely was in one of the better rooms. Only two others occupied the quarters with him, much unlike the rooms where the common soldiers were squeezed in ten to a room.

"This arm," he replied. "Gourden's already healed it. It should be better come noon. Until then, though, I'm not to move it. I'm not to sit up or do as much as roll over. It's freshly healed but weak, he told me, and any movement could break it again."

"I've never heard of Bonding being so tenuous."

"It is when you have almost two hundred men to treat."

The princess gasped, "Two hundred?"

"Yes," Blakely said, nodding, "that's why I called you down. We have a final count. Almost a fifty percent casualty rate. Seventy-two dead and a hundred sixteen wounded that cannot fight. About ninety more men with cuts and scratches who can fight on in the coming assault."

"We're left with only two hundred men?"

"Two hundred and two," the Commander replied, "to be exact. Many more if we call the artisans to fight."

Helen shook her head. "The stone giants were lumbering and slow. We beat them by attrition. But the undead? They're inhuman. They could rip apart an untrained man in minutes."

"Less. You forget that I led the militia when the undead first arrived. I saw those bastards tear a man to bone in less time than it took to look twice, if you'll pardon me saying so. No. I expected that you wouldn't allow the civilians to get caught up in this. We'll be at two hundred, then."

The princess gave him a harsh look. "The civilians are already caught up in this, Commander. Or have you forgotten whose homes those are out there?" She shook her head. "We cannot go against them with only two hundred. There were almost a thousand outside those walls when last we checked. Who knows how many there might be now? We'll wait. Many of these men, like you, will be better come morning, well enough to hold a bat or to drop rocks from the walls. Besides, I wouldn't want you to miss an opportunity to get wounded all over again."

The brutal humor was not lost on the Commander, who asked, "What about the dead? They'll know we're back."

"No, they won't. They think the stone giants remain and we'll let them continue thinking that. I'll put out an order that there is to be nobody on the walls. We'll keep them empty until we're ready to strike. Then, we'll run up with a few barrels of flaming pitch and reduce them to cinder."

"A good enough start," Blakely replied. "That should soften them up enough for us to hit them."

"Then, rest well, Commander. Tomorrow we finish these wretched undead and take back what is ours. If they think - if they think at all - that this Palace will be theirs, they are sadly mistaken. This place will not change hands again."

Commander Blakely smiled, "Glad to hear some of your father in your voice, your Highness."

The princess rose to leave. "How's that, Commander?"

"You're stubborn, like your father. I've heard that the Haddison's don't lose what they don't want to give up."

Helen walked out of the Commander's room, full of confidence. She strode through the halls to issue the commands, passed hall after hall filled with stone debris. A shudder ran up the princess' spine. She wished that she could stop imagining Hargoth in the midst of it.

* * *

Those on the beach weren't as quick to rise. They had slept in the soft sand by a fire with Robert keeping watch. In the warmth of the morning sun, the fire had become embers and the sand was cool. Kraephten stretched, running his hands in the sand, and was, thus, the first to waken.

"Good. You're up. Does that mean you'll let me down now?"

Kraephten stood up, running his toes through the cool sand, and yawned. He scratched his goatee, ridding it of sand and walked over to the large rock onto which Robert had been tied, upside down. It had worked. The little, stick figure had stopped his yelling and kicking that had kept them up half the night. He had gone on and on about how they had to find Vincent or search for Hex. Mark had tried to explain sympathetically that the creature was now all alone in this world. Still, when the moon rose high in the evening sky, humans and walrus needed sleep. Mark had volunteered his rope belt.

Kraephten untied the little man who dropped from the stone into an inch of sand. He looked down to the sand that went up to his knees. "Well, thanks for letting me go. All the blood was rushing to my head."

"Do you even have blood," Kraephten inquired.

"Well," Robert replied, hesitantly, "no, but if I did it would have rushed to my head."

"I see," said the desert native. He went over to Ooobrecht and shook his shoulder. At least, he thought it was his shoulder.

Ooobrecht snorted. "What is it, Kattox," he grumbled.

"Time to rise, walrus. We should be going," Kattox replied and went to wake others.

"Going? Going where," Robert asked.

"Into the Palace," Kattox replied. "Remember? We talked about it yesterday."

"No," Robert yelled. "We can't leave here. What about Vince? What will I do if he comes back and we're gone?"

Ooobrecht opened one eye. "I believe you meant: What will he do."

"Yes," Robert said. "Right. That too."

"He'll be fine. Besides, he might be home right now. What better place for a boy?"

"With me," Robert yelled. "What about with me?"

"What about," Kattox said, picking Robert up, "we went through all of this last night. Remember? When you threatened to kill us all in our sleep if we didn't do what you said?"

"I could have, too. I could have."

"He would have strangled us," Ooobrecht joked.

Kattox laughed with the walrus for a moment but, then, looked back at Robert. "The answer is no. We have a kingdom to see to and that is more important than all of us." He put Robert in the sand and went back to rising the others.

Robert brushed himself off. "It's not my fault that you have a problem with low self esteem."

The plan was simple. Ooobrecht would first move Kattox into the Palace alone. They would appear in the cell when Ooobrecht had first come into this world. Kraephten would scout around and make sure that the stone giants had been defeated and come back with Ooobrecht for the rest. They wouldn't want to all appear in the middle of a stone giant victory party.

The Move was easy, both Ooobrecht and Kattox materializing in the cell. The room was barely lit but Kattox had been living in the dark for too long for that to be a problem. He slashed the bindings to the door and stepped outside, all without making a sound. Ooobrecht eyes were wide as he watched the former desert raider work his own magic.

Kraephten went up the stairs and out onto the first level. The hall was empty but footsteps were approaching. Kraephten crouched around the corner. The footsteps were softer that those of a stone giant but better not to take chances.

The body passed him and he recognized it with a lecherous leer. He leapt without a sound, bringing his arms around the girl, who screamed and brought her bat up in defense.

Kraephten deflected it, whispering, "Bethel Patir. I had expected a stone giant in these halls but I would be more than happy to attack you in its stead."

* * *

Helen had moved out of the upper levels, congregating instead with her soldiers. She went from squad to squad, bolstering morale, easing concerns, and explaining the strategy for the following day. Her confidence, faked well, was a godsend after the fall of General Alinax.

"Helen Haddison, you look like a warlord," said a voice from behind her.

She recognized it instantly, spinning about in glee. "Mark! Mark," she cried, happily, running down the hallway into his arms. They held each other for several minutes, him glad to be home and her afraid her childhood friend would disappear. "I was sure you were dead," she whispered.

"I can't fault you for that," he replied. "I was just as sure myself."

She stepped back. "Then, what happened?"

Mark smiled. "Vincent happened. He did something incredible that slowed our fall. Ooobrecht said that it was just some kind of moving -"

"Ooobrecht," she asked.

Behind Mark, Ooobrecht nodded his head and winked a black eye. The wizard Rayesh stood there as well, along with Kraephten Kattox and the spy, Timothy. "Hey, don't forget me," Robert shouted, standing on Mark's shoulder.

The princess put out a hand that Robert stepped into. "Who could forget you, Robert? But, where is Vincent?"

"He took off. The bum. Went traveling without me."

"He's discovered his magical nature," said Ooobrecht. "It seems that the boy is a Mover."

"A Mover," the princess asked.

"That's the walrus' theory," Mark replied. "I think he's something different altogether."

"I see," the princess replied, grinning as she handed back Hex's creation. Happy to see her friends returned, however, their desperate business would not wait. "Kraephten, I know you have your boys to look after. Ooobrecht, please see Tuk if you would like to help."

The others left on their business, Mark remaining with Robert on his shoulder. Robert watched the others leave and looked back at the princess. "What makes us so special?"

Helen looked at Mark. "If you'd like to grab a bat, sir. I could use your assistance." She turned to go but he remained.

"I don't believe that would be the best choice, princess," he said as she turned back to him. "I've shown my pathetic skill with a bat. We are at a point where anyone who defends you should know how to use one, don't you think? I thought I might help with the wounded."

"Help with the -? Mark, you've been my right arm throughout our exile. I can't lose you now. Especially, now that you're back!"

"Give it a rest, Hel," Robert shouted. "The guy couldn't fight his way out of wet toilet paper! You put a bat in his hand, he'll stub his toe with it!"

"Then stay with me as my advisor. At least, do that."

"Princess -"

"I need you, Mark. I've lost everything I had. These people around me are my subjects. They're not my family. My friends. I've lost my father. I've lost Alinax. Please be my friend among all these strangers."

Mark took a deep breath and held it. He knew he couldn't fight. He knew he'd be useless in battle. Before those considerations, however, he was a solider, even if a poor one. "I cannot defy your wishes, your highness. Just, please, don't expect me to win you any battles."

"Nothing that small, Mr. Nygarra."

* * *

The dinner that night was meager, a broth concocted by Moitches and bread and jerky that had been stored in the tunnels. The soldiers ate their fill after spending a day clearing rubble, fixing wells, and burying the dead, and slipped into an exhausted sleep. Before they did, however, there was one thing that the princess asked of them. Remember the men you are burying, she'd told them. Remember those who gave their lives so we could be in our home if just for this one night.

On the Palace's third floor, in a grand meeting hall, a solid marble table stood undamaged. It seemed that the stone giants felt too much kinship to damage it. Around the table sat Kraephten Kattox, Mark Nygarra, Tuk the Destroyer, Commander Rolf Heaphge, and Princess Helen Haddison, the leaders in the coming battle. Kraephten was the last to arrive, pulling stuffing from a burlap sack.

"What is it you have there," Rolf asked.

"Just a little something I had my boys stash in the tunnels for just such an occasion as this," he replied. The contents of the bag became looser as he pulled more wadded cloth from it and he happily removed a bottle from the sack and dropped the sack on the floor. "A bottle of Tzurritzarrian brandy!"

"Tzurritz -?" Mark tried to pronounce that name but it required more dexterity of tongue than he possessed.

So, Kraephten repeated it for him. "Tzurritza. It's a little nation west of our southern border. Pardon me, princess, west of Kallent's southern border." As he spoke he worked at the bottle's cork with an instrument he'd fetched from his pocket. "They live in the realm of Tzuratt's Grinding Fist and find their brandy a great relief but so would you if you lived there. It's a foul place. Sulphur fumes and lava pits everywhere. But I'll be damned if they don't grow the best pomegranates and make the best brandy you've ever tasted." After opening the bottle, he looked around the table. "Oh, pardon me, my lords and lady for not bringing a glass. Hard times come to those who live with stone monstrosities."

"Indeed, Kattox," the princess said with a mean look in her eye, "but we've come to discuss strategy not to jest."

"Aye, princess, and my strategy is well in hand. A toast, then, to the heroic men and women of Rynia. May they not have passed into Tzurratt's Fist for naught. May we hold these grand halls for our children and kill those bastards outside that our children may live." Kattox smiled, his mustache curving up to the bottle, and drank deep from the brandy.

Rolf Heaphge took the bottle next and took a sniff. It was sweet, devilishly so. "I can only second your wishes, sir. They are certainly mine, as well." With that, he drank. The sweet brandy had aged in the dark into a thick liqueur, not exactly to the Commander's tastes.

Tuk was next. "I'll forego the drink from your bottle, Kattox."

"Come, Tuk. Join me in my toast so that our wills will be one in the coming battle."

Tuk shook his head. "I don't drink. I believe in holding my resolve."

"And what better to strengthen that resolve than a nip from the juice? I insist, Destroyer, drink."

"I would rather not."

Kraephten leaned over the table, a vicious look in his eyes. "The desert people do not take kindly to anyone who refuses a toast, magician. It is bad luck. It shows a lack of resolve, a lack of willingness, a lack of dedication to the cause, and can only bring ill upon us. If we were at home, I'd have to take my sword and slit your throat. You see? Here it is in my hand. You've heard of my proficiency. Do you refuse me still?"

Tuk shot a look at the princess. Both her and Mark were leaning back with smiles on their faces.

Tuk huffed. "Certainly, princess, you will defend my right not to drink if I don't -"

"Not if it will bring ill upon us," said the princess.

"But -," Tuk began to say. He could think of nothing, however, that would save him from the mad desert raider's threats. Lower than dirt, he might be, but he did have a sword and magic took longer than the thrust of a blade. The Destroyer grabbed the bottle and took a deep drink. Fire and knives tore at the inside of his throat. His eyes watered and his nose ran as he coughed up the foul liquid. Mark hadn't taken any chances with the bottle, seizing it before Tuk was seized by his violent reaction.

Kraephten took the sack and wiped off the table, laughing with the others at the Destroyer's reaction.

"Oh, please, laugh all you wish. Yes, enjoy your clowning," Tuk spat along with the last vestiges of brandy. "You'll get yours, Kattox."

"Ah, but that's only if the dead don't devour me first, my stalwart Destroyer." He pulled something from the bag. "Here, then, in payment for my jest."

Tuk took from Kattox's hands what looked like -

"Yrachian cigars. I heard from one of the Bonders that you have a penchant for them. So I used my dernigs to entice them from a soldier. I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that the price brought me unbearable pain."

The Destroyer lit one of the cigars off the lamp and smiled back at Kraephten. "Only if you promise, sand rat."

Mark had tasted the brandy and Helen took a sip, passing it back to Kraephten. So, the bottle went around.

"We should settle to business, gentlemen."

"Yes, princess," Kraephten said, taking another drink.

"Rolf," Helen said, "I wish this could be handled under better circumstances. However, with the death of Gregor Alinax, I see no other choice. You are to be promoted to General upon successful completion of tomorrow's attack. I would give you that honor now but I am restricted by the laws of my forefathers. Once this is over, we'll decide if my father lives and, if he does not, I will take command of the army. Father told me about a tribunal that I would have to go through to test my worthiness or some such thing. We'll look into that."

"I am honored, your highness," Rolf replied, drinking.

"You shouldn't be. You know what we have to do."

Rolf nodded.

"How does it look?"

"I can't say, princess," Rolf replied. "I won't know for sure until we look over that wall and see what we're facing. A force of a hundred? Five hundred? A thousand? Who knows?"

"I understand," the princess replied. "Tuk, how are your wizards?"

Tuk stopped puffing and looked serious. "I do not have good news to report, your highness. Not many made it out of this attack alive."

"How many," Mark asked.

"Eight."

"Eight?"

"You have to understand what you are dealing with, sirs. Your Highness. Those of us who use magic are not trained to fight. Our bodies are neglected while we focus on the might of our minds. We cannot withstand the blows that I have seen your men suffer."

"I understand, Tuk," Helen said. "Closed quarter combat is not the place for wizards and, still, that is where they'll need to go again. Who are the eight."

"There are Gourden and Bern, still exhausted from their efforts tending the wounded. They are our only Bonders. Vraacs. A very good Teleporter. He can focus on a place with its name. Rayesh has returned with Ooobrecht, which gives us a Summoner and a Mover. Lucion is a Mover as well. And, then, there is Karlyn."

"But that is only seven, Tuk," Helen said. "What about the eighth?"

"Why, myself, your highness."

"Ah. And a better addition I could not conceive. Very well. How fare the wounded?"

"Better than we'd hoped," Mark announced. "I've checked with the sergeants and almost three hundred men reported ready this evening."

"Three hundred," Kraephten asked with his eyes wide.

"Count us lucky. We had far less this morning. Who knows. By morning, we may have another fifty. Still, this won't be a rout, Kraephten."

"We can only hope, princess," Kattox replied, though he was not referring to the same thing as the princess.

Mark took another drink from the brandy. "Nobody ever said this would be easy, Mr. Kattox."

"And a good thing, too, Defender. For they would be proven very wrong."

* * *

Long before the sun rose over the ocean, the army was preparing for battle. There was no talk of obfuscation. To break the siege, the strategy for the battle would have to be a direct assault. The undead would be hit first from above by the burning pitch. Then, those that still remained would face the Rynian's attack. The undead were quicker than the stone giants but fell much easier. So the humans had to remain optimistic.

Helen refused to hear any mention of her remaining in the Palace during the assault. Now, she stood in her father's place, and would not hide while others fought.

Ooobrecht waited with Lucion to move any wounded into the infirmary, where Gourden and Bern waited to work their magic and save lives. Rayesh also waited to move wounded to her and get them to safety. Karlyn helped out where she could. Vraacs stayed within to spirit the princess off to safety if necessary. Tuk stood beside Rolf Heaphge for he knew that his type of magic would be needed in the battle.

Kraephten Kattox had instructed his boys to take to the tunnels in the event of a defeat. They were to remain safe to fight another day. Kraephten, however, kept his Vittahr drawn and stood among the soldiers.

The morning light began warming the army as Princess Helen, Mark Nygarra, and Ned Blakely (holding a bat despite Gourden's admonishments) stood before the stairway leading up to the wall. "These are our best scouts. They'll be able to see whatever the Lych has thrown at us."

"Very well, Commander," the princess replied. "Send them up."

The men nodded curtly and ascended the stairs. They each carried with them a bucket of pitch and a torch. One placed a torch within the stairway while the other put his in a holder at the top of the wall. As both men looked over the side, they stood still. They didn't turn back or run down to report the situation. They just kept looking.

Commander Blakely looked up the stairway and said, "Report!"

But the report didn't come. The two men stood frozen in their shoes.

"Report," the Commander hollered but the two men didn't listen.

"I'm going up there," Mark said. He grabbed a bucket of pitch and ascended the stairs.

Robert, riding in his shirt pocket, said, "Shouldn't you be running the other way?"

"Quiet, shorty, or you'll be going down the fast way."

Robert's replies were ignored as Mark reached the top of the stairs. The two scouts didn't turn to Mark; they kept looking. Mark walked up between them and looked over the side.

The island was a writhing mass of undead. Everything was covered. Undead pushed against each other in a crush of flesh. Among them, the roof of a building or the top of a tree could be seen poking out for air. There must have been thousands, tens of thousands, out there.

And the Kingdom of Rynia fought with less than three hundred men.

"We're dead," one of the scouts lamented. "We're all dead."

"No we're not," a voice said from behind him. "We're still in here. They're out there." Mark looked at Ned Blakely and was glad that it wasn't his job to be confident.

"Thank Dyneesa," he replied.

Princess Helen had ascended with the Commander and held her jacket closed with one hand as she looked at the horde. "What are we going to do?"

"Well, there's plenty we can do," Blakely replied. "We can fire them up, work magic, even send sorties from below if the Movers don't mind taking them. There's plenty of things. We just have to ready ourselves for a long siege. Ration food and - princess?"

Helen had been listening to the Commander at first but, then, something at the gate caught her eye. A mud puddle. Just a mud puddle. Nothing to worry over. She'd seen mud before. But she did remember it raining any time recently. How could a mud puddle have formed there? "What is that," she asked, immediately regretting having mentioned it. She had become paranoid at any unusual sign of dirt or stone. Sand in her bed. Mice in her shoes that she mistook for more sand. Rocks and stones in the hallways which she was afraid would recombine and kill them all.

It was just mud.

Until it moved.

Helen screamed and the others were afraid to breathe. The mud rose up from the ground and coated the gate. A figure appeared far from the Imperial troops. It stood tall and was all stone. Hargoth laughed, "Didn't I warn you, princess? Perhaps now, you'll take me more seriously! Witness my final betrayal to your kind! Tsurtor's plans have come to fruition," he bellowed. "Your time is gone!"

Soldiers ran with their bats swinging but no one watched. All eyes were on the gate. For just a second, it stood, coated in mud. Then, it creaked and wobbled. The mud golem was tearing it apart.

Commander Heaphge turned to Tuk and started to yell, "Do Something!" But as he said, "Do," the gate burst into a million splinters. Undead poured through the gap, biting and tearing and rending all in their path. Everyone was pushed back immediately and, from atop the wall, it appeared like an inexorable wall of death.

"The door," Blakely shouted, rushing down the stairs. Already, undead were swarming into the opening. Blakely fought all he could, his bat guided primarily with his good arm.

Mark pulled the scouts from the wall and pushed them down after Blakely, yelling, "Down there! Now! Move!"

Helen and Mark were the only two left.

"What are we going to do," she asked.

"What can we do?"

"The pitch," she said with a sudden inspiration. She grabbed two of the buckets and Mark grabbed the ones the he and Blakely was carried.

"This isn't going to do much good," he said, lighting the buckets.

"It'll do something," she answered.

"It's like throwing dirt into the ocean!"

The lifted the buckets and pushed them over. They fell onto the undead like a black rain.

"No," Mark shouted. The pitch had landed among a wide area of the undead but the flame had gone out. Now, only a small bit of burning pitch lay, harmlessly, a distance away.

"Throw a torch onto it," Helen yelled, grabbing the torch from its stand.

"No!" Mark took the torch from her, shaking his head. "You throw this, it'll go out before it hits and we'll be without a weapon when those things come up." He didn't notice that Robert jumped out of his pocket onto the wall.

Helen looked at the stairway. Mark took her arm. "They won't last long, princess. We need to get you to safety."

"Well, princess, it's been real." The two turned to see Robert perched on the edge of the wall. "Mark, take good care of her, okay? Get her out of this mess." He looked over the side and shook his head. "Boy, if we get out of this mess, you're really going to owe me." His body tilted and he jumped without another word.

Helen gasped and Marked rushed to look over the side.

Robert dropped a lot slower than he thought he would. He could feel the wind whipping past his bark and it reminded him of long ago when he was part of the ash tree. Before he could completely enjoy the experience, though, he hit the ground.

Robert hit the ground a lot harder than he thought he would. He felt twin cracks beneath him and knew that landing on his feet was probably a bad idea. His face went into the dry soil and he lay there for a minute, stunned. Then, he rolled himself over to see what had happened. Both legs had broken at the knees, completely off. Now, he had stubs where legs had once been.

"Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is."

He was lucky enough to have landed near the fire. Lucky? Perhaps that was stretching the term. He walked awkwardly to the flames and looked back at where the rest of the pitch had landed. It was quite a distance. He didn't know how quickly he'd burn but he didn't give himself good odds.

He dipped his right hand into the fire without another thought. (He was a lefty.) His fingers crackled and caught and he was quickly dashing - as quickly as he could, given the circumstances - to where the rest of the pitch had crashed down.

"Hot potato! Hot potato! Hot potato!" His arm quickly burned to the elbow. "Nice to know I make such great kindling!" The flames licked upon his shoulder as he reached the pitch. "Hope somebody has some marshmallows," he thought as he leaned in.

* * *

They didn't appear amidst the sand and sun of the beach as they had hoped. The poorly lit cell greeted them, as it had the first time he'd come into this world.

"Where are we, Vin?"

"The cell," Vincent said. "This is wrong."

"So, I thought," Sam replied.

"Let me try again." He took Samuel's hand and they disappeared.

A bush hit them as they rolled off a staircase. They caught themselves on the bush and stood on the stairs. From where they stood, the beach was very small. The stairs must have led down to it, along the cliffside. The stairs only climbed a short way before the crest of the cliff. The two brothers ascended the steps and saw, only a few hundred yards away, the press of undead flesh against the Palace walls. The two didn't go unnoticed for long. A contingent of undead left the horde and charged the stairs.

"Come on, Sammy."

"Where," Samuel began to ask. As they floated into the air, his question was answered.

A ball of flame rose before them, igniting a third of the undead troops. There was no question. The war was not over.

* * *

Within the walls, men fought side to side and back to back. Kraephten swung his long vittahr with both hands, decapitating several undead with each swing. But, as they fell, more took their place. "Perhaps you should do something, Commander!"

"I am working on not dying, presently!"

Beside the Commander, Tuk used magic on each of the undead that assaulted him but he was tiring quickly.

"Tuk, stop using your magic to defend yourself," Kraephten shouted. "We'll defend you! You need to turn this around for us!"

"I can't do anymore," Tuk snapped. "Our men are too close! They'll be caught in it!"

Rolf Heaphge shouted beside him. "You worry too much of those who might die! We'll certainly all be dead if you don't do something and soon!"

Tuk nodded and began preparing his magic.

Around the soldiers, dead bodies piled. As the press of dead flesh grew, combat grew more difficult. Heaphge had ordered a slow withdrawal and it was a tribute to the hardened men and women of Rynia that they didn't bolt for shelter. Wounded were carried and those who had seen more fighting were the first to retreat. The older, tougher soldiers fought on beside Kraephten and the Commander.

"You're next, Kallent," Heaphge ordered.

Kraephten sliced off an arm and grinned his wicked grin. A claw tore at his left arm and, though it bled freely and he could only wield his sword with his right hand, he shook his head, "And miss the Destroyer's wizardry? I'll be staying!" And that better be coming soon, he thought, or I'll be buried here.

* * *

Having seen the horde of undead, the attack upon the Palace, and the Rynian's counterattack, Vincent brought Samuel down to the stairs leading to the beach.

"What are you doing, Vin? What happened to helping those folk?"

"I still want to help them, Sam. I know I can do something. I just wanted you to be safe. I don't know if I can hold you in the air when everything happens."

"I understand," Samuel said.

"Wish me luck," Vincent replied, moving into the air.

Samuel put a hand up and took Vincent's shoulder. As they clasped each other, Samuel couldn't help feel a certain awe towards this little, ten year old boy. He didn't appear strong enough to defend himself against schoolyard bullies but was going off to fight an army of undead. He looked into his brothers eyes, thinking, boy are we going to have problems when he becomes a teenager. What he said, though, was, "Don't get yourself killed, okay? I'm not exactly walking distance from home."

Vincent smiled and rose into the air. "This might be worth a raise in my allowance, I think." Vincent's voice faded away and, soon, the boy was gone.

Samuel looked down the long expanse of stairs. He looked up again at the top of the cliff. Either way was a long walk. Far be it from me to display any common sense, he thought and started up the stairs.

* * *

Ned Blakely had fought hard and well but he was as nothing before the tide of undead bodies. The soldiers behind him fell quickly as the undead forced their way up the stairs.

Mark was glad he'd kept the last torch. "Get behind me," he shouted, waving the torch at the dead flesh. Moldy garments and dried hair flared ablaze, raising a terrible stench. The two Rynians gagged, running back along the wall. Other undead were walking into the shambling pyre and, soon, a mound formed on the wall, dripping fluids into the courtyard below.

"Princess!" The voice was young and excited, coming from behind them. There, where the wall ended at the Palace rooftop, Kraephten's boys shouted, "Come on! Over here!"

Neither Mark nor Princess Helen needed more than that. They ran full tilt to the Palace roof.

"I thought Kattox was supposed to get you boys to safety," the princess scolded.

"He did," one answered.

"It was Mordry's idea," claimed another.

The blaming would have to wait, however. Mark grabbed the princess' arm and, as she turned to him, he pointed at the sky. "Look."

The boys were suddenly quiet and the princess whispered in awe, "He's flying!"

* * *

Vincent was flying over the horde of undead, trying to figure out what to do. Only a few buildings remained of the Imperial City below. The rest had been destroyed beneath the unstoppable crush of bodies. Tens of thousands pushed against the Palace walls, silently hungering for death.

"Get away," Vincent said. He moved his fingers before him, trying to snatch undead into the air, away from the Rynian fighters. One by one, he raised them into the sky.

The ones surrounding Kattox, Tuk, and Heaphge were pulled away as the men watched in amazement.

Ooobrecht was preparing to Move some wounded when he saw the bodies of the onslaught rise towards Vincent's floating form. "That's no Mover," he said.

Away. Away. Away from the humans. Away from the wall. Away from the town.

Into the air, Vincent lifted them like a weightless morgue. Then, he felt his ear pop. Liquid poured from it like a burst balloon.

There was a cracking in his fingertips.

Blood ran from his nose.

What do I do now, he thought. Should I just drop them? Would they still move? What if I dumped them into the sea? Didn't they cross part of the sea to get here? Maybe I could crush them into a ball.

His hands came together, bringing the bodies into a cohesive group. In all, he was carrying a mass of bodies as large as a football field. He held more bodies than the population of his hometown.

He didn't have time to be fascinated by those facts, though.

He suddenly lost control of his bladder and bowel.

He couldn't breathe.

A terrible pain shot down his left arm and he spun about in the air.

Below, Tuk yelled, "Get back, all of you!!" A blinding, white light shot out at the sky full of dead bodies. It erupted like a star switched on by one of the nine Gods. It burned bright and hot. Those outside shielded their eyes instinctively while Tuk had to watch it all if his magic was to work.

"My eyes," he screamed. "My eyyeeeeesss!!!"

The light was switched off again.

The undead were gone.

And the form of the world's youngest magician had vanished from the sky.

* * *

Sam had seen the light in the sky, over the cliffside, as he hurried up the stairs. Vincent had left him far enough down the stairs that, soon, the light was gone and he still had many stairs to climb. Still, he'd only been avoiding exercise for a few months. He could still run when necessary. The sun was setting when he reached the top, sore and tired.

There was no sign of the undead. No sign of war. No sign of Vincent.

"Vincent," he called. "Vincent!"

"Hey, buddy," a little voice yelled.

Had Sam never met Skates or his friends, he certainly wouldn't have believed what he saw. A wooden man, half burned, leaning up against a rock, motioned for him to come closer.

"You looking for Vinnie," the stick figure asked.

"Uh, yes, I am. Who are you?"

"Let's just say I'm a friend. I'm a broken, beaten, battered, burned, and not very happy friend. Give me a hand?"

Samuel scooped him up in his left hand. "What's your name," he asked.

"Robert. Ooooh! Gives you chills, doesn't it?"

"Where can I find Vincent?"

"I saw him drop out that way," Robert said, pointing.

It was like walking through a ghost town. The buildings, those standing, were shells and everything else was crushed. Samuel saw a figure come from the palace but paid no attention. He needed to find Vincent.

"Ho, there," the native called out. Sam looked for a second, long enough to see that it was a middle aged, dark skinned man with a goatee. "Who are you, stranger," he asked.

Samuel still ignored him.

"Is that Robert in your hand?"

"Come on along, Kattox," Robert yelled. "We're looking for the brat."

It wasn't until they'd reached they edge of town that they found him. Vincent lay in a patch of overgrown grass, still as death. Samuel didn't want to drop Robert. Kraephten took the stick man from him as he rushed to his brother's side. Vincent had lost a lot of blood and his leg was twisted in a multiple fracture.

"Oh, Ibbrano," Kraephten sighed. "Is the boy -"

"He's still alive," Samuel replied, tears running down his face. "He's burning up. He might be dying."

"Oh, no."

"Call an ambulance," Samuel yelled. "We've got to get him to a hospital!"

"I'm sorry," Kraephten replied. "I don't know what -"

"A hospital, dammit! For Christ's sake, you've got to have a hospital!"

"No, I don't think -"

Suddenly, Samuel pulled the gun out and aimed it at Kattox.

Kraephten wondered for a split second what that thing could be, then the ear shattering shots rang out.

Something fell behind him and Kraephten turned to see the undead form that had snuck up for the kill. Luckily, Kraephten was not the victim. "It seems that I am at your debt, stranger. Wait here. I'll get help." This time, Kraephten dropped Robert and bolted for the Palace.

"Sammy?" Vincent's voice was quiet, deep and hoarse.

Samuel couldn't reply. Fresh tears welled up and his nose ran.

"I feel awful," the boy whispered.

"Oh, shut up you whiney, little snot," Robert grumbled, dragging himself from a mud puddle.

* * *

After flying and moving between worlds, the tour of the Imperial Palace came as something of an anticlimax. Vincent was Moved away by Lucion and Samuel was assured that he'd be well taken care of. "I'd like to see him," Samuel said.

"We'll bring you right to him," Kraephten answered, remembering the gun. "Don't you worry about that."

Within the gate, soldiers were tending to the wounded and the Rynian dead were separated from... the others. Sam was struck by the constant stillness in the air, now that the excitement had passed. If not for the birds, there'd be no sounds other than those made by the cleanup.

No planes. No cars. No radios or TVs. An antiquated culture with none of the trappings of 21st century Earth.

Through the soldiers, a man ran towards Kattox. "How's the boy, Kattox? I heard he was injured and I feared the worst!" He looked to be about Sam's age and definitely used to command.

"He's with Gourden," Kraephten answered. "Lucion took him. I know no more than that." He indicated the man beside him. "Perhaps I should introduce you. Mark, this is Samuel, Vincent's brother. Samuel, this is Mark Nygarra, Defender of the Crown."

Mark smiled. "It's my pleasure. Your brother mentioned you often during his stay here."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. He was sure you could beat most people up."

Sam cracked a smile and Kraephten let out a laugh. "He wishes to see his brother, Defender. Can I leave you to do the honors?"

"Most definitely," Mark replied, shaking his head. They went through the bottom levels and rose up to the third floor, with Mark playing the tour guide. Mark told Sam the story of the war between the dead and the giants. Creatures of the Earth and Stone. He pointed out damage, where great battles had been fought, and stopped where Alinax had fallen.

As they walked through the hallways of the third level, Sam asked, "Is this the way to my brother?"

"Well, not exactly. I know you wanted me to bring you right to him but you should know that these things take time. I thought that, perhaps, while the Bonders tended to him, I'd introduce you to someone who would be interested in meeting you before bringing you to your brother."

Bonders? "Oh," Sam answered. They entered a room dominated by a stone throne.

Several men were standing around it, engaged in heated debate. The object of their protests was a brown haired, young woman who shook her head in resolve. "The answer is still, no, gentlemen. Your people rest this day and tomorrow march out to take the rest of the isle. I am certain that the forces of undead would not hold back reserves for future battle but there may be rogues and those you must put down. I will have order restored to this island immediately. After life has been restored to some semblance of normality, we will discuss rest and recompense." Seeing Mark, she smiled and nodded, "Ah, Mark. Who is this -"

"You're the princess," Sam blurted out. Vincent had said that she was beautiful but - There is beauty and there is beauty. The princess could walk onto any beach in southern California and all eyes would be upon her. On top of that, she commanded an aura of strength, dignity, and respect. She was, indeed, royalty.

She tilted her head in surprise. "Yes," she answered, almost as a question.

"The princess! A real princess," Sam said to Mark.

"Yes," Mark replied. "We have those." He turned to Helen. "Princess. This is Samuel, Vincent's brother."

Helen was shocked. "Sam? You're Sam?"

"Yes, uh, princess."

"How is Vincent," Helen asked. "Is he alright?"

"We still don't know, princess. We were on our way to see him."

"Well, go," she said. "Go."

They turned but, before they left, Helen took Samuel's hand. He looked into her eyes and, for a moment, her beauty dashed any worry from his mind. She said, "Thank you, Sam. Thank you for coming back with him when we needed him the most."

Samuel almost laughed. "I don't think I could have stopped him, princess."

"Ah," she replied, understanding. "Did you, by any chance, know the one Vincent calls Heck?"

Martin thought back a long time ago when he'd pushed Vincent's friend down at the park. "Not very well, princess."

She nodded. "Regardless, welcome."

They traveled back to the first floor, where room after room had been converted into infirmary space. There, the Bonders healed the wounded, the Movers brought them to a place to heal, and Summoners retrieved needed food and water. Outside of the main hallway, the going was tough. The two had to step lightly around the wounded and pick their way through an ocean of makeshift beds, trying to find the wizards.

One was easily located, being more recognizable than any other wizard in the Palace. "You've got to be Ooobrecht."

"Indeed, I am, sir. I don't think we've been properly introduced."

"This is Samuel, Ooobrecht," Mark said. "He's Vincent's brother."

"Ah, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Samuel," he replied, putting out a flipper. "Young Vincent spoke of you at length. I believe he was homesick."

"Ah," Sam replied, shaking the flipper gingerly. "Boy, are you bright."

"And what magic do you work in your world," Ooobrecht inquired, mistakenly thinking that Sam had to have been a wizard to pass between worlds.

Vincent hadn't told Sam much about the ways of magic. This led to some difficulties in conversing. "Oh, I don't work any magic," Sam replied. "I'm just a mover."

"A Mover? What a happy coincidence! But just a Mover? Never. Moving is a noble endeavor," Ooobrecht replied. "Well, and that's the happy coincidence for I'm a Mover as well. "

"You are," Sam asked, looking at Ooobrecht's little flippers and wondering how the walrus picked things up. "Oh."

"Where's Vincent," Mark asked. "We're trying to find him."

"He's in one of the back rooms. Only the best for a hero of the war."

"How is he," Samuel asked.

"Sleeping. He should be fine."

"What about Tuk?"

Ooobrecht shook his head at Mark's inquiry. "Not good. Completely blind, I'm afraid. That final spell did something terrible to his eyes. The bleeding, it almost could not be stopped."

"I see," Mark replied. "I'll check on him, later."

With that, they went to see Vincent.

* * *

Vincent's eyes were open. Gourden was standing above him.

"Gourden," Mark asked.

The old Bonder was inspecting the boy's arm. "He's very weak," he said, his voice hushed. "He's been through a lot."

"Will he be okay," Samuel asked, stepping beside his brother.

"Given time," the Bonder asked, "who can say? If this type of physical abuse increases the potential for magic, this is one powerful boy."

Vincent's eyes were glazed over with exhaustion. He looked at his brother and gave a tired smile, "Sammy."

Samuel took his brother's hand and leaned over. "You gave me a real scare there, kid."

Vincent turned to his brother. "What?"

"I said you really scared me."

Vincent was suddenly frightened. "Sammy, I can't hear out of my right ear!"

"What," Sam asked.

"It's like it's been turned off."

"Let me see," Gourden said, stepping between the two. He placed his hands on the side of Vincent's head and looked carefully. Samuel wasn't aware that the Bonder was extending his senses to see what had broken inside the boy's head. "I'm sorry. It's too intricate. I can't help."

"What do you mean? You didn't even examine it."

"No, Sammy," Vincent said. "It's magic."

"Magic," Sam replied.

"He's a Bonder. He heals with magic."

"He is," Sam asked. "Like Heck is a Bonder?" He suddenly realized just how healthy Vincent looked. His fingers were straight, no longer twisted and broken. His breathing strong, it didn't wheeze and flutter with a ruptured lung. Samuel felt Vincent's leg. It had been broken in several places and was now whole.

Samuel turned to speak with the wizard but found Gourden gone. Vincent pulled on his hand and he turned to his brother.

"I had a dream that I was riding my bike with the guys, Sammy. We were hanging out at the park. But I guess things are going to be different now, huh?"

Sam held his brother's hand and could see the truth all too well. "Very different, Vin. Very different."

* * *

The week passed and life began to return. Word was sent immediately to Ceyliz of the war's conclusion and Rynians began the slow return to their homeland.

On the second day after the war, the dead were laid to rest. Princess Helen stood behind those officers left in Rynia's army. As the officers spoke that morning in early autumn, no mention was made of Lord General Gregor Alinax. It was for this purpose that the princess was allowed to be present with the military. She stepped before them when her turn came and said, "This Palace stands as a cold, white reminder of our supremacy upon the land and our sovereignty upon Rynia. It has been the home to my family for generations. It is more than that, though. We all know that. No more has it been proved to us than during this war. This Palace is the home of the people. It is a shelter for liberty and an asylum during times when hope is held dear. There is not a one of us who has not lost someone to the creatures of earth and stone. These defenders are the ones who have lost the most. The greatest of them all, the hero of this war, rests here beneath us. Gregor Alinax. Forget not his name. Do not allow it to slip into obscurity. For he fought where others fled, lived where others died, and died so that others might live. He was a hero to us all. " Tears were streaming down her eyes and she looked upon the oak sapling that had been planted over his grave. "Goodbye, friend."

As days passed, Vincent's health slowly returned. It wasn't until week's end that he was able to walk, however, and by then he wanted to return home.

"You're just gonna leave Hex," Robert asked, sitting in the clay mug that had become his home.

"What else can I do, Robert? School's gonna start soon. Sammy keeps telling me that. We gotta go home."

Sam helped the Rynian's where he could. They were an easy people to grow close to, friendly towards strangers and strong in their sense of community. When they moved rubble, he was there with his moving experience to ease their load. (Ooobrecht was shocked when he found out that Sam moved things without Moving things.) Along with the Rynian masons, he helped cement in the tunnels below the palace floor.

Very soon, the week was over. Samuel and Vincent stood outside of the castle, saying their goodbyes. Vincent leaned on the broken half of a bat. Sam carried a sack over his shoulder, full of souvenirs that Vincent could not return without. Robert rode in his mug, held in Samuel's hand.

"Goodbye, Vincent," said Mark, giving the boy a hug. "I hope we'll see you again very soon."

"Whenever my brother lets me," he promised.

The princess knelt down before the boy and held him tight. "I'm sorry that your friend, Hex, never turned up. But you can be sure that if he ever does -"

"Hello!" A faint voice called from the edge of the town.

It was an intrusive greeting but all eyes turned to see who was coming just the same.

"Don't tell me that you didn't leave any of the walking dead for us!"

### CHAPTER FOURTEEN

HEX RETURNS

Hex awoke to a light buzz in his head and a funny taste in his mouth. "Drugged again," he muttered. He rose on heavy limbs and looked around, immediately relieved to see that he was outside again, on a hillside covered with hard grass. The sun shone dimly from the east and a chill bit into the many cuts along his skin. His clothes were torn here and there and the exposed skin revealed scrapes and bruises.

What had happened, he wondered. Was it the rock? He remembered hands grabbing him and lifting him and pulling him through a tunnel. It had been obvious that he wouldn't fit but they forced him through anyway. It was shortly thereafter that he'd blacked out and he had come out... here.

But where was here?

Still in the Northern Spires, it seemed.

He dragged himself up into a sitting position and, looking down the hill, saw another form. "Mack," he yelled.

But his enigmatic companion didn't stir. Instead, he yelled, "About time you decided to rejoin the living. I've been up half the night, calling your name."

"Why didn't you just come wake me," Hex asked, rising and brushing the dirt and grime off.

"Come here and see!" Mack had yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice inflecting more than a little pain. Hex hurried down and soon saw why his friend wasn't moving. It was his leg, broken below the knee leaving the tibia and fibula swollen and at a strange angle.

Mack looked up at him with a strained look on his face. "I hope you can work some magic 'cause this thing is not putting itself back together."

But his magic was gone. He could still feel the absence within him. "No," he said. "I can't." Then, a thought occurred to him. "But that doesn't mean that there's nothing I can do." He left Mack's side, walking down the hill. Mack called after him but Hex didn't turn back. He was looking for something and he wouldn't find it upon the barren hill. He was looking for a stick, long enough for Mack's leg. He'd make a splint and carry Mack out of the Spires.

He heard water running and followed it, hoping to find something growing nearby. He climbed down the hill and into a gorge, where a river ran full. There was little vegetation down in the gorge and little hope of trees. When he looked across the river, though, he saw something else.

"Martag," he shouted. "Martag!" The dazzlingly red hair was unmistakable. Red sat on a boulder, looking at the ground. The roaring of the river drowned out Hex's voice but he yelled again and again. "Red Martag!" Finally, he threw a stone towards the sailor. When Red still didn't look up, he threw another and another.

Finally, Red's head snapped up when he saw a rock zing past him. He scanned the opposite shore for a moment until his face broke into a wide smile. He yelled something but was muted by the river. He motioned Hex up the river and Hex followed until they found a place to ford the water.

The giant sailor rushed at Hex and crushed him in a bear hug, laughing. "I thought you'd died for sure. The last thing I saw was a million dead men rush out of that gate before I was washed out with that river under the mountain."

"It was the dwarves," Hex answered, fighting for air. "They saved us before Tsurtor destroyed the lich and all his toys."

Red put Hex down. "Tsurtor," he asked.

"Familiar with the name, huh? Yes, it appears that he's back."

"This is very bad, Hex. It would have been enough that you won." He turned away, chewing his beard, looking into the rising sun. "What about your companion," he asked, facing the wizard.

"Over there," Hex replied, pointing at the hill. "But I need to make a splint. His leg's broken."

"Why don't you," Red began to ask. Then, the answer came to him. "You still can't?"

"No. Help me. I need to find a long stick. Half as long as your leg. We need to tie his leg down so it's immobile."

"Why?"

"So it can mend."

Red looked hesitant. "Is this some other form of magic, then?"

Hex saw a copse of trees and headed in its direction. "I can only hope," he replied.

Soon, they returned with the longest branch they could find. Red had stripped it of several small branches but larger ones remained.

"Is that what you went away for," Mack ranted in a weak, heavy voice. "You left me so you could get a tree? Ah, Red, how nice to see you. Do me a favor, will you? Beat some sense into Hex's head so he'll use some magic on my blasted leg!"

"We're doing everything we can," Hex stated as he approached his friend. The two kneeled down before him, inspecting his leg.

"Yeah," Red agreed. "We're doing everything we can." Then he looked up into Mack's eyes and added, "But don't blame me."

Hex tore Mack's pant leg off and ripped it into strips. "This is probably going to hurt," he said. "Red, bring your arms up under his arms and hold him still, okay?"

Red did as Hex asked and Mack flinched several times from the pain of being moved. "Does he have to move me? What's the point in making it hurt like that?"

"I'm afraid," Hex replied, "that wasn't what was going to hurt. Now, Red, I want you to hold him still no matter what. Put all your strength into it if you have to. If we're lucky, he'll pass out."

"What are you -" Mack began to ask. His question turned into a scream as Hex took his leg and pulled it straight. Unfortunately, Mack didn't pass out. Consciousness remained as Mack screamed and gasped for air. Hex moved his leg back and forth. It felt like he was grinding the bones together. Mack's face went from tan to red to purple to blue to green. Still, his body refused to pass out.

"I think he's going to throw up," Red muttered.

"Almost done," Hex said, feeling the bones to make sure they were straight. Then, he took the branch and bound it tightly to Mack's leg. When the splint was finished, Hex looked at Mack's still opened eyes. "See? All finished."

Mack's eyes were glazing over and he was lapsing into unconsciousness - and about time, too, Red thought. He whispered, "Why didn't you just dump me in the nearest lake?" Then, he was out.

"Is he dead," Red asked.

"No. He's not dead. He's just sleeping. He should awaken by and by."

"And then?"

Hex looked down at Mack's huge splint. There was no way he'd walk on it until after he'd been given a chance to heal. "Then, I guess we'll take turns carrying him." Though Hex was sure that Red would do the majority of the carrying.

"Where," Red asked.

Hex hadn't thought as far as what he would do once the lych was destroyed but there seemed to be only one place to go. "The Imperial Palace, I guess."

And so they went, taking turns carrying Mack. Though his leg hurt, he traveled with them stoically, even silently. In fact, he may have been pouting.

"Come now, Mack. I can think of many other ways of traveling that are worse by far," Red claimed.

Mack didn't buy that. "Oh yeah? Well, then, why don't we break your leg, tie you to a tree, and carry you down out of the mountains?"

Red laughed. "Because you couldn't!"

"I've told you, Mack. It's called a splint. They work very well on my world."

Mack scoffed at Hex's claim. "Yes, and you've been kind enough to mention how many weeks it will take to heal when, if you would only use your magic, it could be whole again in minutes."

Hex walked silently on, noticing something he hadn't seen in days. That is, another person. "Look," he said. A man slowly made his way up the craggy mountainside, pulling a donkey behind him.

"No good reason for a person to be hereabouts," said Martag. "He's not likely to be doing any prospecting if he knows what's good for him."

"True," Mack agreed, looking over his shoulder. "And why would someone head up this way with the walking dead about?"

"Unless he's coming to do what we just did," Hex supposed. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted across to the opposite hillside, where the man ascended. The distance was too great, though.

"Catch him," ordered Red. "He may have rations." In truth, it had been a while since their last meal.

"Sure," agreed Mack, "go catch him. Just try not to break your leg running down there."

Red put Mack down as they watched Hex hurry down the slope.

Hex called out again and again and he pursued the stranger, finding the distance longer than he'd imagined. As he started up the opposite side, calling out, the stranger heard, turned around, and rested on a rock. He looked suspicious, wearing a thin beard and small mustache. He looked like he'd been on the road a long time. "Hello there," Hex greeted, catching his breath.

"Stranger," the bearded man said.

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you heading up into these mountains?"

The stranger guffawed, "You mean to tell me that you've not heard of the lych whose sending the undead to kill the folk in the south?"

"Then, you've come to kill the lych?"

"As much as any one man may."

Hex smiled. "Well, then, you're in luck. It's already been done."

The stranger took the staff that had laid lazily across his one raised knee and held it upright as he stepped up to Hex. "What is this you're telling me?"

"Um, the lych has been destroyed. We destroyed the lych."

"You?"

"Me and my friends," Hex replied, stepping away. "They're over on that side if you'd like to join us and we could tell you what happened."

"Yes," the stranger said, warily. "Yes. I'll see your friends."

"Good," Hex replied as they descended. "I couldn't help notice that your bags looked full there. You don't happen to have any extra rations in there, do you?"

* * *

Hex approached his friends without a word, huffing from the climb back up. The stranger, following behind him, stopped when he neared, dropping the reins of his donkey. His eyes reflected a disbelief and awe as he stepped closer. His staff, standing a foot taller than he, was lowered to the ground as tears started to fall from the stranger's eyes. "You're alive," he whispered, and Hex was amazed to see him place his forehead on the ground before Mack's feet. The words came to solve the riddle, "My liege."

Hex gasped in astonishment.

The stranger remained bowed.

Mack looked at Hex and slowly shook his head.

"Well, the secret's out." Red smiled, "I suppose that means I can stop calling you Mack, your highness?"

Mack ignored Red's question. He leaned over to the stranger and put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't need to do that," he said. "Rise."

The stranger rose shakily. His eyes were teary and he smiled a broad smile of relief.

"You're the king," Hex shouted, incredulous.

Mack shook his head. "Yes, Hex. I'm the king. Now, can you heal my leg?"

"But you're supposed to be dead!"

The stranger agreed. "We all thought you were!"

Mack nodded. "And I very nearly was. Chances are I would have been. It's just not my time yet, I suppose." He smiled. "Now, tell me what you're doing up in these mountains, Banry Ellison."

Banry motioned into the mountain range, "I've come for the lych, your highness."

"A brave deed, indeed, but we've beaten you to it."

"So I've been told."

"Gather some wood," the king commanded. "Get a fire going. We can tell you all about it."

So, Banry went back to his donkey and Red went off to retrieve wood.

Hex gave Mack a disbelieving look. "You're King Marcus?"

"Yes, I suppose," the king replied with a sigh. "Though I was growing somewhat fond of Mack."

Camp was made and dinner was consumed. As luck would have it, Banry had brought along extra rations, expecting a long trek into the mountains. Red and Hex slept as Banry took the first watch.

Marcus stayed awake with him for news of the kingdom.

"It is bad, your highness. All of it. The Palace was taken by the stone giants after you were gone and the people had to escape through the tunnels into the caves below. We lived there these years, trying to get the folk to safety and preparing for when we could retake what was ours." Banry looked across to the king in the firelight. "But the stone giants were not prepared to let us live. They hit us with an army of monstrous sand golems that overwhelmed all we could send against it. When last I saw the cave, it was being devoured in a wall of sand."

"When last you saw, Banry? What does that mean?"

"That's the worst of it, your highness. You see, I ran away. I am a deserter. A cravenly coward. Let your justice be swift, your highness, for I cannot stand the shame I feel in facing you." Banry lowered his head and his body quaked.

"A coward," Marcus asked. "I've known you for several years, Mr. Ellison. You present me with a difficult judgment."

Banry shook his head.

"Did your cowardice lead you into these mountains, Mr. Ellison? Did you run straight here, hoping to hide beneath a rock?"

Banry furrowed his brow and thought for a moment. Was it some trick? "Er, no, your highness."

"Did you make that staff?"

"Yes."

"And did you make it in hopes that it would help you run away?"

Banry looked at the staff and then back at his king. "No, sir."

"I see. Tell me about your journey, then. How was it that you ran away and how did you get here?"

So, Banry began his tale, poking the fire. He told the king of the sand overwhelming those he fought with, his leap into the sea, and being consumed by the waves. He had awakened in a weakened state in the Marrek home and spent several weeks with them, regaining his strength. He spoke at length about Hildy and it was clear that he was still very much in love with her. Sadly, though, he had to leave. His duty was to the people and he could not indulge in love while the people were in danger. He made his staff and traveled north, fighting alongside the folk he met to rid them of the plague of dead. Along the way, he'd gained his donkey, his supplies, and his rations, given him by grateful folk, until, finally, he was here.

"It's a terrible thing you tell me, Mr. Ellison, and a hard choice I have to make. For now, though, I think it would be best for you to remain by my side, as close as you can, so I can keep an eye on you." With that, Marcus laid his head down and proceeded to go to sleep.

Morning came. At Hex's request, Red Martag confiscated Banry's staff and broke it in two. The halves made far better splints than their branch and felt more comfortable to the king, who was tired of the weight on his leg. Banry's donkey, too, fell victim to Hex's planning. The supplies were stripped off of the animal and tied onto Banry and Red's backs. King Marcus rode the donkey and, though uncomfortable, it was a better idea than being carried by Red Martag.

They continued down the mountain and Hex walked beside the king. "Mack, er, I mean, your highness -"

"If you want to continue calling me Mack, Hex, you can, you know?"

"Oh. Okay, your highness. I'm just having a hard time adjusting to this. It's something of a shock."

"I'm still the same person, Hex. I haven't changed."

"But why didn't you tell me," Hex asked, looking into his friends eyes. "Why didn't you just tell me who you were?"

"Tell you I was the king?"

"Yes."

"I suppose I could have. I could have walked right up to you that first day - or the next morning after you woke up - and said, 'Young man, I am King Marcus, monarch of Rynia. Join me and we will rid this kingdom of the scourge of undead that is upon it.'"

"Yes," Hex exclaimed.

"Poppycock," King Marcus spat. "It's like something out of a fable. Do you really think you would have been better off knowing, Hex? More likely, my title would have got in the way. You would have hesitated when you should have acted, wondering if you should await my command. You would have expected me to have all the answers instead of helping me find them. And you would have been genuflecting all over the damn place! Not only does that annoy me but it causes all sorts of problems. Can you imagine what sort of position we would have been in in Caspeton?"

"We wouldn't have been put in jail," Hex replied.

"No. We would have been killed, more likely. Tyrants like that idiot Rounes don't want anything interfering with their little plans. What? A king come to sort things out? We would have been the ones sorted out. And what about in Goroc's Landing?"

"We could have recruited an army!"

"An army? Can you imagine what the response would have been if I walked into one of those pubs with you and proclaimed that I was their king, come to recruit an army?"

Hex shook his head.

"We would have been laughed clear out of town!"

Hex was disappointed. "I suppose."

"Let me tell you something, Hex. King is not a verb. It is not something I do. I can't just go around Kinging things away or Kinging things to be the way I want them or Kinging the world into shape. It doesn't work that way. No. King is a title. It is a responsibility. King isn't what I do; it is what I am, you see? And I can only be King so long as I can lead. You don't lead by spouting off about who you are. You don't become a great king by saying it enough times until people start to believe it. You become great by doing great things. So, I decided from the minute I crawled out from underneath a thousand undead bodies, that I would lead. That is how I am king."

"I see."

The sun was rising over the plains as they caught a glimpse of lower Gerrit through a break in the Spires. "Perhaps, too," Marcus said, "it was easier being Mack. I don't know if you can understand this, Hex, but Marcus Haddision is a tough person to be. Mack was just one man and it was nice being him for a while."

"Who is Marcus Haddison, then," Hex asked.

"You'll see, Hex. In due time, you'll see."

And, so, they traveled south through Rynia, until, weeks later, they came to the boat that Hex, Ostrander, Mack, and Bandoo had left behind. So much had changed since they'd left it. Hex was no longer a wizard. Ostrander was gone. Mack was now revealed to be Rynia's monarch and Bandoo, tucked away in a bag that Hex carried along with him, was no more.

The boat would carry them easily across the channel but first the donkey was given to a nearby fisherman for the night's dinner. They ate on the beach that night and crossed the island the next morning.

The Imperial Palace rose above them like an enigmatic icon. Home, Marcus thought, limping as his weight was supported by Red. But home to what? Stone giants? Undead? His people decimated?

Banry's eyes, which were better than most, saw something at the Palace gates and encouraged them to hurry their pace.

"Hello," Marcus cried out.

Red laughed, "Don't tell me that you didn't leave any of the walking dead for us!"

* * *

The sound of the first call brought a clutching feeling in the princess' chest. She stepped away and walked toward the three, no, four, figures approaching. Mark followed her, as did Kraephten. Then, the princess gasped and began to run and the two chased after wondering what had possessed her.

"Father," she cried. "Father!" She barreled into her father, clutching him tight. Out of Red Martag's arm, he came, holding on to his daughter to support his weight. "I knew you were still alive! I knew it," Helen cried, tears streaming from her eyes.

"Yes, daughter! Yes! But, please, stop shaking me!"

She let him go and Red swiftly caught him up as he stumbled under his bum leg.

"Father? What has happened to you?"

"Your highness," Kraephten gasped.

Mark was speechless.

Marcus was trying to act kingly and catch his breath at the same time. "Kraephten," he said.

"Your highness," Kraephten repeated.

"Would you happen to have a Bonder in that crowd down there?"

"We have two remaining, your Highness."

"Then, in all deference to Hex's fine medicine, bring me to one immediately."

"Yes, sir," Kraephten replied.

"You must excuse me, daughter, but, be assured, our time together is soon. Banry, I'll expect you to look after Hex's well being." Red led the monarch off after Kraephten. Banry, Hex, Mark, and the princess remained.

Helen had heard Hex's name and looked over the strange man with the messy hair. He stood taller than her, nearly two meters total. His black hair was wild from weeks on the road and his eyes were just as dark. Other than that, he appeared just as she'd imagined, kindly, quiet, and somewhat frail.

Hex knew Helen immediately. He'd carried her image with her since that spring day upon the beach and his heart skipped to see that she was just as lovely in person. Chestnut hair framing sky blue eyes, a proud nose and dainty lips, a strong demeanor, she was more than beautiful. His eyes caressed her form, memorizing every curve, before he realized that he was staring... and everyone there knew it. He looked at Mark and Banry and saw that they were both watching him watching. Suddenly, his face felt very hot. "Er, princess, um, hello."

"Hello, Hex," the princess replied. "So, we finally meet."

"Um, yeah." His reply was short while, inside, he was swearing at how stupid he appeared.

"I've heard much about you," she said.

"Much," he asked. "How?"

"Your friends," she replied, laughing. "Vincent and Robert, of course."

"Vincent," he asked, his head clearing. "Are they here?"

"Yes. They were just leaving, though. I'll bring you to them."

They walked back to the Palace, Hex rushing. When he could make out the boy's small form, he broke into a run. "Vincent!"

"Hex," Vincent replied, happily.

Hex grabbed him and held him tight, relieved. Then, he saw Samuel, remembered the older brother's threat, and put the boy down quickly. Samuel took a step forward and Hex tried not to flinch.

"I think I owe you an apology, Hex."

Could it have been a trick? Some ploy? Hex wasn't sure and all he could say was, "Huh?" Yep, he was Mr. Eloquent that day.

"An apology. I thought you'd kidnapped my brother but I was wrong. I was all wrong about you. I guess I was trying too hard to take good care of my little brother." Sam put his hand out and asked, "Friends?"

Hex took the other's hand. "Sure," he replied.

And so, everything was put to rights. The Palace was back in the hands of the Rynian's. The undead were destroyed. The stone giants were eliminated, at least, for now. The king had returned. Hex and Vincent were back together. Sam was even Hex's friend. Mark smiled; it seemed that all would be right with the world.

Perhaps, now, he thought, I can do something I've been putting off. It took him a while to work his way through the crowd and into the Palace but, once there, he headed straight for his destination.

Moitches' kitchen.

Already, the ovens were finished being cleaned and the great, iron stove was being patched. Tomorrow or the next day, they'd be ready to cook. "Can't give yourself one day off, old man," Mark asked, stepping into the kitchen.

Moitches whipped around, a heavy ladle in his hand, but smiled immediately at who he saw. "And what of you, Defender? How many days have you taken for yourself?"

"Far too few, sir. Far too few." Mark pulled a chair over for Moitches to sit in and he sat across from the old man. "And that is what brings me here, Moitches. I've come to ask something of you."

"And what would that be, Mark?"

Mark steeled himself up for the moment he'd been anticipating. "It's your daughter, sir. Salnya. I've loved her since I was a child. I can think of no other future but one with her. Please, sir, give her to me in marriage. I'll take good care of her, I promise. I can make her happy."

A profound sadness darkened Moitches' eyes. "But Mark -"

The door opened and a familiar giggling echoed in the kitchen.

"Salnya," Mark greeted, turning to see her walk in.

But he'd never imagined what he saw and his heart shattered within him. Salnya entered, clasping a young scout who Mark had only seen once or twice. She saw the Defender and a look of extreme distaste wrinkled her face. "Mark," she said.

"This is what I was trying to tell you," Moitches said. "Salnya's already engaged to Rannan."

"But Salnya," Mark said.

She turned to leave, pulling Rannan after her. Her words stung like acid as the door slammed, "You didn't expect me to wait forever, did you?"

Mark's hands went to his chest and he clutched his shirt where his heart ached.

"I'm so sorry, my boy. Had I known... You never mentioned..."

But Mark couldn't stay and listen to Moitches' halting accusations. He left in a rush, with a stammered goodbye, wondering what had happened to his happy ending.

* * *

The mild morn gave way to the hot afternoon sun. Hex, Vincent, Samuel, and Robert caught each other up on how their summers had progressed. Rolf Heapghe reviewed his troops. Gourden and Ooobrecht tended those wounded that remained. King Marcus and Princess Helen ate together for the first time in over two years.

As evening approached, a message was sent throughout the castle.

"Are you sure, soldier," Samuel asked.

"Yes. The king realizes that you wizards can do just about whatever you wish," the soldier said, looking at Vincent. "Still, he would appreciate it if you would remain for the night and appear in the throneroom at the 'morrow."

"One last goodbye," Hex asked Sam.

"Alright," Samuel conceded, "but then we're gone."

The soldier nodded. "I'll inform the king of your decision," he said, leaving.

* * *

The sun sank beneath Gerrit and the many stars lit the night sky. Hex took a friend up to the wall, hoping to be alone.

"Just so you know," Robert said, "I don't like the view from up here."

"Sorry," Hex replied, looking at the stars. "This was nothing like I'd imagined, Robert. My magic's gone. I had to use it for destruction most the time, anyway. Vincent's more powerful than I can possibly imagine and -"

"And poor little you is just gonna cry," the wooden man spat. "Get over it, Fanlan. You've just had a great adventure. Would have been greater if you'd taken me but, hey, we can't all be perfect."

"Joke all you want, Robert. It gets worse." Hex opened the bag that he'd carried and set the pieces along the top of the wall. Branches, sticks, palm frond hands, all of it was a creature once known as Bandoo Lelala. The singer. The little monkey. Thanks to Hex, Bandoo was dead and there was nothing Hex could do.

A footstep came from the top of the steps. Hex turned and saw -

Something he never expected. Standing there, dressed as she had been during the day with the addition of a tan cloak, Helen looked almost afraid. "I hope I'm not intruding."

"You intrude," Robert asked. "Never, toots!"

"Hello," Hex said, although it came out as a whisper.

"Hello," Helen replied.

"Beautiful evening," he said, though he couldn't take his eyes off of her.

"Yes. The most beautiful evening in more than two years." She stepped closer to him. "You weren't with your friends. I thought you might like some company."

"Company," he asked, looking at Bandoo's pieces. "Only if you like funerals."

Helen looked at the pieces on the walls. "What was... it?"

"A friend. Bandoo Lelala. I can't put him back together."

"I'm sorry," Helen said. "My father told me about how sad you were that your magic was gone. He said that he knew you didn't like using it to fight and he was very sorry that you were forced to."

"I know," Hex replied. "I'm just sad that I won't be able to use it for something other than fighting ever again."

"Gobbledygook," Robert shouted. "You are making me want to puke with all this self pity! What are you talking about? What do you mean you can't use your magic?"

"I can't, Robert. I can't seem to summon it up."

"Summon? What are you talking about? Have you forgotten what this magic is?"

"What it is," Hex asked.

"Physics, you idiot! It's just physics!"

"Physics," the princess asked.

"Physics. Chemistry. Biology. We're just talking the power of science here," Robert explained. "Don't you remember, Hex? Don't you even recall E=MC²?"

"What language is that?"

"It's a formula," Hex explained to the princess. "It means Energy equals Mass times the speed of light squared. The problem that Robert is trying to make me remember is one of semantics. What is Energy, after all? Energy is everything. Everything is just energy in different states. Using the speed of light as a constant begs the question, 'What if I go just a little bit faster than the speed of light?' It's kind of like telling someone that the highest number is one hundred. Sure it is until you add a one and you can add a one to anything! That which can be imagined, can be done. So, you're really talking about the speed of thought. And the problem with squaring all that is the same problem. What can be squared may be cubed and so on."

"I don't understand," the princess said.

"It's simple," Hex replied. "Everything, Anything is equal to the thought times the mass. This wall was created with thought and mass. So was that Palace. Even you were -"

"No," Helen interrupted. "I don't understand anything that you're telling me."

"Stick around, your highnessness. You can count on a lot of that."

"So, how did you know that," Hex asked Robert.

"I thought you'd know by now, Hexie. All of your creations, myself included, we're all just little parts of you. Thought and mass, remember?" Robert added under his breath, "Besides, I want you to fix me, too."

Hex picked up the two pieces of Bandoo's head and inspected how they fit. For some reason, now, the math was very simple. The execution simplistic. The two parts of Bandoo fused together with a sigh.

The sigh was from Bandoo who said, "Ah! It's good to be out of t'at bag, mon."

Hex took a step back, his chest full of emotion. He turned to Helen. "I did it," he yelped.

Helen smiled. For so many years, she'd seen nothing but destruction, witnessed little joy. When she'd first been told of Hex, she thought he was too good to be true. A kind and good man with a generous heart, creating companions and not servants who loved him as much as he loved them. Helen had never been in love before so she didn't know the feeling that was growing in her heart. "Yes, you did," she said.

The stars flickered above them as their joy swept them away and they soon found themselves in a kiss.

Robert turned himself with his stubby legs and asked, "So, you're name's really Bandoo Lelala?"

"T'at's right," Bandoo replied.

"Cripes. It sounds like a kid's breakfast cereal!"

* * *

As he walked below, Mark did not hear them. He was still half asleep, having been wakened by the boy named Timothy. "My master, Kraephten Kattox, wishes your presence upon the beach where we'd met before."

"It's late," Mark had muttered. "Besides, there's a curfew in the Palace. We're not to leave."

"Ah, but the King has only stated that he would appreciate us to remain within. This was not an order. My Master, however, gives an order. He told me that, if he must, he'll order you to the beach. He does outrank you, Defender, does he not?"

So, it was an order. An unusual one, at that. Kraephten was never the most stable individual so it didn't take Mark too much by surprise. He took Lucion with him to the stairs that descended down to the beach and requested Moving. A heartbeat later, he stood in the sand. "Come for me in an hour," he told the wizard, who promptly disappeared.

"Kattox," Mark called out. He was in no mood for subterfuge. Walking on the beach in the middle of the night did not make him happy. Not much could. His life was shattered. Nothing would be the same. All he wanted right now was -

A sword?

Kraephten's Vittahr. Mark had never seen the Kallent without it, at least, never during the long exile. It stood in the sand like a flower waiting to be plucked. So, pluck it he did. It felt good in his hand, the metal cool. He held it in one hand, his right, though he could have easily held it in either.

Then, he heard a sound he'd heard many times before. Throughout training, just before he'd received a vicious blow to the head - the familiar whistling of a weapon as it descended upon him from behind. The sword spun in his hand like it had a life of its own. Now, he held the sword hilt up, blade pointing down, and he brought it behind him in an arc. Something connected and he heard a yelp.

He spun around, replacing the sword to blade up position.

Kattox rubbed his hand, smiling at the Defender. A wooden sword lay on the sand. "It's nice to see you came," Kraephten said.

"What is all this, Kraephten? Why did you try to strike me?"

Kraephten looked at his hand again and picked up the wooden sword. "I was hoping you'd have the foresight to wake Lucion. I wouldn't have waited until morning."

"Kraephten, I won't ask again."

"Feels good, doesn't it? Feels right," the Kallent said, indicating the sword.

Yes, it did. In fact, Mark's blood was almost singing.

"You're quick. You have talent. Take it from a pro." Kraephten stepped down to the firmer sand and drew lines with his sword. "I always thought you held your bat all wrong. You never centered your gravity. You were too loose. Too fluid. Your hold was, well, like that." He pointed at Mark's hand.

He was right! The realization erupted in Mark's head like dynamite. "You mean that you're giving me this?"

Kraephten laughed. "Not nearly! That Vittahr is mine, boy. Get your own. It's too subtle for you, anyway. You're too bulky. You'd do better with a sabre. Not that sabres are made in Kallent. I think they're only made in Marrisha but Kallent is full of importers, eh? No, that sword is only yours only so long as you can keep it." He pointed out the two connecting boxes that he'd drawn in the sand and they each stepped into a box. "It's a simple match. I'll fight with this wooden thing but, fear not, I made sure it was well balanced. To win, you must disarm me or push me out of my box."

"Or kill you," Mark added.

"Yes, but let's avoid that if we can. You shouldn't have that much anger. After all, it was only a girl and there are plenty more out there even for one such as you."

Mark was shocked. "You know?"

"Yes. Moitches was afraid that you might do something rash and asked for my help."

"So, that's what this is? You helping me?"

"Think nothing of it," Kraephten said and launched his sword in a sudden thrust. Mark brought his down, parrying, only to find the wooden sword flying at his head. He blocked with the long hilt, taking a step back. The sword pivoted in his hand and he launched his own attack. Blow after blow put notches in the wooden weapon until, with a double-handed swing, Mark chopped the sword in two.

Kraephten's hands were shaking from the vibration of the broken sword and he dropped his weapon, rubbing his hands.

"So, I've won then," Mark said, proudly.

"Not quite," said the Kallent. "You haven't disarmed me." He pushed his body off the ground with one leg, bringing the other foot into Mark's jaw.

The Defender flew back into the sand, dropping the sword.

Kraephten picked the Vittahr out of the sand and wiped it on his tunic. "There's an order of monks in Kal-Kor who are solely devoted to the Lost God. They taught me that little trick."

Mark rubbed his jaw as Kraephten helped him up.

"Remember this, Mr. Nygarra. Your opponent is never disarmed so long as he is alive."

"So, does this mean I'm not any good with a sword?"

Kraephten spun the Vittahr around in one hand, laughing. "My boy, you're a natural!"

* * *

The next morning, Hex and Samuel were wakened by the sound of a soldier knocking on their door. Along with Vincent, they had occupied one of the smaller rooms on the third floor. The soldier softly said, "The king will be expecting you within the hour, sirs."

"Oh sure," Robert grumbled, "well none of us are trying to sleep. Don't worry about us!" When Hex had put Robert back together the previous night, he had also included the capacity for sleep. He'd hoped that might keep the little man quiet.

"Ah, but it's not to be helped, mon! We got to be seein' the king, you know."

Vincent's head popped up and looked over at Bandoo. "Hex," he said, "your magic."

Robert grumbled, "Don't say that, kid. It'll go to his head."

Hex smiled.

"How," Vincent asked.

"I want you to remember something, Vincent. Magic is nothing but another name for really tough science."

They didn't bother with breakfast. They had a long way to go before they reached the bottom floor and the grand throneroom. When they arrived, the room was in disorder. From wall to wall, people were trying to find a seat. Where once the pews sat four across and seven deep, now the pews were shattered and scattered as if a giant hand had come through and crushed them... which it had. Hex thought that, perhaps, ten could fit on a pew. Those that couldn't find a seat stood and Hex and the Gobels had to stand. King Marcus stood as well, with his daughter sitting on a stool beside him. His throne had been reduced to rubble. Still, the room was in good condition. Tapestries hung on the walls and the tiles in the floor were still set in their ornate designs.

King Marcus paced the floor until the assembly of soldiers, artisans, farmers, wizards, and children were silent. Then he turned and, with a look of pride beaming from his eyes, smiled. He struck a commanding figure, dressed in his robes of office, lined with gold, his hair coiffed though crownless. "We are a fine people," he said, his voice echoing off the walls. "We are a strong people. Through this time of crisis and despair we have all faced it with faith, determination, and alacrity. I am humbled to be your sovereign."

Applause erupted. Children cheered. A feeling of resolution swept through the people and they were finally sure that all would be better.

"But this has been a time of crisis," the king's voice boomed, "make no doubt about it. So, I bring you news. The Lych Vyr-At-Hozoth has been destroyed. He is no more." The applause started again and Marcus waited until it calmed down. "The remaining undead shall be found and destroyed. They shall not threaten our land!"

More applause. Marcus looked at his daughter who beamed a prideful smile.

"Through this war - this war of earth and stone as I've heard you call it - many have fallen. Much has been lost. But we have gained many heroes through this conflict who shall be honored today. Let my scouts spread word throughout the land that Rynia is alive and her heroes names shall ring in all of our ears!" He paused for a moment, looking for faces in the crowd. "Bring to me the Great Destroyer, Tuk!"

Feet shuffled about. People muttered. A young man helped the wizard walk before the king. Tuk had aged greatly since the war. His final spell had taken everything he had. He hobbled forward, hunched, shaking. His hands were gnarly and bony, his body rail thin. He looked ahead through a black bandage that had been tied around his head. (He'd also lost all of his hair.) The young man stopped Tuk when just inches separated him and his ruler. Tuk started to bow but Marcus stopped him.

"No, my friend. It is I who should bow before you. You have given everything you had for this kingdom and nothing I can give can thank you enough."

"It was my duty, my lord. I require nothing for that."

"Tough luck, old man, because you're going to get it. I want you as my advisor. I've spoken with some of the other wizards. They have assured me that your work in magic could kill you if you continue it. So, I am asking that you take the position of Wizard Council. What do you say?"

"You are asking, my lord," Tuk asked, not sounding too happy to leave his magical pursuits no matter the damage done to him.

Marcus pursed his lips. "I would consider it a good favor, wizard."

"So, then, it is a request."

"I had forgotten how stubborn you could be," Marcus whispered. He turned to the assembly and announced, "Tuk, the Great Destroyer will be aiding me in the future so that we use our magic wisely and appropriately. I am deeply in his debt."

The congregation applauded and Marcus motioned to the young man to lead Tuk away. Tuk, feeling the pull on his arm, protested, "And I had forgotten how manipulating you could be!"

Marcus smiled. After the assembly grew silent, he said, "Ooobrecht."

Ooobrecht was wheeled forward by Franc, a young boy with whom Vincent had made friends in what seemed like another lifetime. Hex's heart leapt. He hadn't heard of the multicolored walrus' presence. Franc rolled Ooobrecht before his highness and took several respectful steps back. Ooobrecht looked up at the king, happily hanging his mouth slightly open.

"You are Ooobrecht," the king asked. Helen had tried to prepare him but Ooobrecht's appearance outshone (literally) any comparison.

"Indeed," Ooobrecht replied.

Marcus smiled and introduced himself as his daughter had instructed. "My name is King Marcus Haddison. I was born here, in the Imperial Palace, as had my sires before me. I've been gone for the past two years on a long journey, from this isle to the icy Northern Spires, fighting undead and encountering dwarves. It is my pleasure to return to my home and meet one of its saviors." With that, the king bowed low and much of the audience was stunned. They'd never seen the king humble himself so, and it wouldn't be the last time.

"I am Ooobrecht, my lord, as you already know. I have stayed her for the last couple months, enjoying the hospitality of your people, which seems to know no ends. My people from Lake Nylnouwa would marvel at this wondrous Palace and shall be excited to hear my tales when I return." Ooobrecht, too, bowed, adding, "However, your highness, I have only aided with the wounded. Your true hero is but a boy who -"

"So, I am aware, Ooobrecht," Marcus interrupted. "Know always that you are welcome here as we will always be in your debt."

"Thank you, your highness."

Franc led the walrus away and the king called, "Red Martag."

Red approached cautiously, looking warily at the king.

"Get up here, you sea dog," Marcus snapped. It was a familiar voice. It was Mack's voice.

"What is it you want of me, sire," Red asked, lowering himself on one knee.

"First, I want you to get up. You've no need to kneel before me. You, too, are a hero, Red. We would have never made it to the Lych's hole without you." Marcus spoke loudly so all could hear but then said quietly, "And you kept my secret. But you never told me how you recognized me."

"Coinage, sire."

"Our coinage is not that good, Martag."

"Aye, that is true," Red replied, nodding. "It was a shipwreck, sire. Me and my mates went under in the channel. The captain thought he'd cut off half a day but we knew that nobody had sailed through the channel before. So we crashed. Ship went down and the captain went to Seadilia." The goddess of the sea. "Your men saved us, dried us out, and brought us to your hospital - well, there used to be one." The hospital was gone with the rest of the town.

"I see," said Marcus. "So, it was a debt you owed then?"

"Just that," Red replied.

"And, so, I have a debt as well." He spoke up, looking at the assembly. "We've remained to long isolated on this island and if this war has taught us anything it is the folly in that. People could only leave through the rowboats they could snatch and an orderly evacuation was not possible. That is past. We must learn from our mistakes. A port will be built, a harbor constructed. We will be isolated no longer."

The crowd cheered but Red remained dumbfounded.

"It's simple, Martag. You're the sailor. You know about ports."

Sudden realization exploded within Red's eyes and he sputtered, "But, sire, my lord, you aren't saying that -"

"Just that," Marcus replied.

Red returned to sit (for, in truth, he found it hard to stand) and Marcus turned to his daughter. "People were evacuated. Lives were saved. Somehow, for two years, Rynia lived when, by all rights, she should have died." He took Helen's hands and dropped to one knee. "I owe all of this to you. You succeeded where even I may have failed. You are truly a hero and I am honored." He kissed her hand and she burst into tears. They embraced and the congregation applauded.

He held her for a moment and stroked her hair. "No tears, now, Helen. We're not yet finished."

She sniffled and sat down again, smiling.

He turned back to the audience, found his next choice, and looked straight into his eyes. "Hex," he said and all the assembly turned to look.

Hex froze for a moment but stepped forward at Sam's prompting, and started down the isle. He was carrying something and King Marcus gasped when he saw what it was.

"Your magic," the king declared.

"I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm magic, mon," said Bandoo.

Robert poked his head out of Hex's pocket. "You want magic? I'm magic!"

Marcus laughed and then frowned at Hex. "A little late, though. I almost think you let me suffer on purpose."

"I - I -" Hex gawked.

King Marcus announced, "Hex has come into our land, saved our people and our nation, befriended the dwarves, destroyed the Lych, and saved my life. For this, we are truly grateful. Not only is he a great hero but also a supreme Bonder."

They looked into each other's eyes. It was true. This gentle soul was a Bonder and nothing else. Marcus gave a slight nod.

"From here on he shall be known as Hex the Maker."

They embraced, applause filled the hall, and Hex returned where Vincent and Samuel smiled at him.

"However," the king announced, "we are not yet done. For, you see, we've more than just heroes here. We have cowards and deserters as well. Craven creatures who need to be punished for their wrong doings!"

Princess Helen leaned in. "Don't you think you're over doing it?"

Marcus waved her away. "Approach and bow before me, Banry Ellison and Mark Nygarra!"

Soldiers grabbed the two and pushed them before the king. They fell before him, silent.

"I'm going to tell all of those here a story. It is the story of a coward. It applies to both of these young men. One of them was the lowest of cowards. He was not adept with a bat and, so, he chose to defend his sovereign. Even though he couldn't defend himself, he became a soldier. He saved a woman's life and accepted the position of our princess' defender. He put himself in danger time after time and saved her from many dangers until, finally, he leapt off the cliffs above us to save a boy's life. Despicable," he shouted, trying to keep a straight face. "The other, worse! Overwhelmed, his life at risk, he fought an army of sand golems. He leapt to safety only when his life was nearly taken. He leapt into the sea and washed ashore on the mainland where he traveled from village to village, fighting undead and saving families. His final act of cowardice was to take supplies up to the Northern Spires, swarming with undead, and save my party from starvation. Wretched," he cried, and the assembly shouted so.

Mark raised his head at the same time as Banry and asked, "Do you think we're being had?"

"Quiet," Marcus shouted and the two returned their noses to the ground. "What should we do with two such as these? Banish them! That is what! They will be sent north to Benaatt and put that city back to rights."

"Sire," Kraephten shouted on his cue. "Someone will have to go with them to make sure these horrid creatures don't simply run into the nearest rabbit hole!"

"True, Kattox. That someone will be you."

"If I must, sire."

Suddenly, the crowd burst into peals of laughter. The soldiers who had brought the two forward held their stomachs hand rocked back and forth. Marcus and Kraephten leaned against each other, bellowing.

Mark and Banry both raised their heads and, then, rose to their knees. "We are being had," Banry said.

"Get up, lads," Kraephten said, helping them up.

King Marcus put his hands on their shoulders. "Unless I am mistaken, you are of noble lineage from your father's side, aren't you, Mr. Nygarra," he asked. "Now that's the very last I want to hear about cowardice, boys. Do you understand?" They nodded. "You should know that I'd be happy with an army full of cowards like you."

"So, it's off to Benaatt," Mark asked.

"Oh, yes," the king replied, remembering. "As it is my authority," he shouted and everyone quieted to listen, "Mark Nygarra is granted the title of Duke and the land of Benaatt is decreed to him and his heirs for as long as they serve their lord. Also, as Supreme Commander of the Imperial Guard, I hereby promote Banry Ellison to Lieutenant and Chief of the Benaatt Guard, so long as he fulfills his duties with honor."

Mark's mouth was dropped in awe but Banry shook his head. "No, sire, er, respectfully. I - I can't." Banry knew that refusal of a post by the Supreme Commander could mean dismissal or worse but there was something more important holding him.

"What could it be, Lieutenant? Have you duties on the island?"

"No," Banry replied.

"Questing that needs to be done?"

"No."

The king stepped close and put his hand on Banry's arm. "Could it be the love of a woman?"

"Banry," a distant voice said and the king turned him to see from whence it came.

It was a dream, he thought. An apparition. But there she stood at the hall's entrance, radiant though she wore a simple dress. She stood nervous and Lucion stood beside her. "Hildy," he asked.

"She's here, boy," the king said, giving him a shove. "Now, go to her. Go!"

Banry was gone before he'd finished. He dashed across the room, and the assembly cleared a path. Their lips met and he held her tight, relishing what he'd missed all of his life.

"I think we'll be having a wedding, daughter," Marcus said.

For Hildy had never been so radiant and Helen guessed, "And a baby?"

Marcus smiled. "Just that."

Final thanks were given to the heroes and the soldiers and the common folk and Marcus turned to leave through his exit.

But he stopped for some reason.

He scratched his head and walked into the crowd. People stepped back to let him through as he walked up to the small boy, Vincent.

"Vincent," he said.

Vincent looked up in awe, though the sound came through fuzzy in one ear. "Your highness," he said nervously.

"You were the greatest hero in this war, Vincent. The world's youngest magician and, from what I've heard, the oddest. You are an enigma whose magic no one can fathom. I would ask you to stay but your brother says you have things to do back at home. The fourth grade? Is that what it's called? I would knight you but you are too young. I would raise a tankard of ale with you but your brother says that you are too young for that as well. So, I will do nothing. Nothing, that is, except to tell you that you will always be welcome here. You will always be remembered with fondness in the Rynian hearts." He stuck his hand out. "I would be proud to call you friend."

Vincent smiled, "Sure!" They shook hands and Marcus picked the boy up and embraced him.

Within days, Vincent and Sam were gone. Samuel promised that Vincent would visit. (He didn't think he could stop him.) Hex remained, though. There was little back in California for him. Sam promised to take care of his creations and, then, they were gone.

"What the deal, Hexercizer," Robert asked. "Why ain't we hoofin' it back, too?"

"There's just nothing there for me, Robert."

"And, like, there's that much for you here?"

Hex smiled and nodded. "Yes, there is."

### CHAPTER FIFTEEN

### WEDDINGS

Hex didn't explain to Marcus why he'd stayed behind. How could he explain his growing feelings for the princess? Summer quickly changed to autumn and rebuilding on the castle continued.

Just weeks after Vincent and Samuel's departure, Mark and Kraephten were ready to leave for Benaatt. They hadn't left yet because of a matter Banry needed to attend to. It was a small wedding, held in a farm that had been cleaned and laid with wildflowers. The trees that towered there were starting to turn and the air that morning was crisp. Retic Mourant, a Dyneesan priest, conducted the short service. Hildy and Banry walked through the crowd on a path of petals, smiling at all the guests. Mark and Kraephten were there, of course. King Marcus would not have missed it. Hex and Helen stood together; the service was performed standing. Ooobrecht was also in the crowd, accompanied by Rayesh. Banry and Hildy walked arm in arm to the front of the crowd, where Hildy's father stepped forth with an angry look on his face. The scowl turned to a wink as Greck bound the couple's arms together with a white ribbon, signifying the bond that would hold them forever. Retic wore the yellow and white robes of Dyneesa and addressed the crowd, "It is a great honor to perform the wedding rites of any couple. These two, however, have the distinguished honor of being the first to wed since the war." He looked at Hildy's stomach, "And, it seems, they were in a rush." Many people snickered. Hildy and Banry just smiled and smiled. "The couple shall state their wedding vows," announced the priest.

Banry was first. He took a deep breath and said... nothing. He just gasped a little. Hildy stepped closer and held his hand. "I don't think I've ever been so afraid," he whispered.

"Am I that horrid," she whispered in reply.

Banry smiled. In a clear, loud voice, he stated, "Never shall you need or want. For I will be with you always. My love with outlast the ground. My duty, like the stars. Though I lose everything and lay broken in battle, I will have all for I have you. Though I struggle with Gerrit and reap less than a dernig, I will be the richest in the land for I have you. My love, always."

Hildy's stomach was doing flip-flops and she wasn't sure if it was the baby or if she was going to lose her lunch. Her mouth felt covered in sand. Still, she remembered her words. "Never shall you need or want. For I will be with you always. My love with outlast the sky. My devotion, deeper than the seas. Though I lose everything and, um -"

"Feel friendless," the priest prompted.

"Right. And feel friendless, I will always have all for I have you. Though we are separated by miles and the world thinks you have gone, you will never be gone for I have you. My love, always."

Retic stood behind the two and placed his hands on their shoulders. "Dyneesa finds love most fortuitous. Never may ill luck be where one has love."

Hildy and Banry looked into each others eyes. Hildy was crying. "Our love, always," they said and, though Retic had not yet recited his eulogy, pulled each other close for a kiss. Everyone applauded, even Ooobrecht, and Greck stepped up to give them both great, big hugs.

Retic looked out of sorts. "Well, then, they are married!"

Soon after, the party began. Farmers from nearby brought what they could spare, happy that they could catch the late summer planting. Fish were barbecued over a spit. Marcus even found a few dozen bottles of wine in a hidden cellar. "Another hidden cellar," Helen asked, surprised.

King Marcus grinned slyly, "I can't tell you all of my secrets."

Soon, a toast was made to the couple and well wishes went all around. Hex and Helen, however, were nowhere to be found.

* * *

A stolen bottle of wine. A snatched blanket. A pilfered loaf of bread.

"If you weren't royalty, we'd be in big trouble!"

"Yes," came a whispered reply, "but I am royalty. Cheers."

Newly made earthenware cups were tapped and the wine sipped.

The sun came down on their little hideaway by the beach through two huge trees, warming the chilled air. The blanket was spread out and the couple, though they wouldn't refer to themselves as such, sat closely upon it.

"Weddings are so beautiful," Helen sighed.

Hex nodded. "Yes, there are some similarities between our worlds."

Music floated down from the party above.

"What else is the same," Helen asked, taking a bite of bread.

"What else," Hex asked. He had to think. Then, he looked down at his glass. "Wine. Wine's the same. I wasn't a big wine drinker, you know, but I've had enough to know they taste similar. Your bread's kind of different but I'm sure they make the same somewhere."

"What about the girls," she asked, leaning closer.

He hated it when she did that. Hated it and loved it at the same time. It wasn't fair, though. It made his chest freeze up. He couldn't breath. He couldn't think. "Helen," he said. "Princess. The girls are nothing like you."

"You're just saying that because you want to kiss me."

"No," Hex said. Then, "And yes."

After a while, the wine bottle, where it had been stuffed into the sand, was lifted and another glass poured. Helen took a sip. "Why aren't you married," she asked.

"Me? I'm not exactly the best looking guy in the world, princess. I'm kind of awkward and brainy and, um, wimpy. I really don't know what you see in me."

"You're right," the princess agreed. "You're not the best looking guy in the world." She sipped her wine. "The best looking guy in the world is very likely a complete idiot."

They ate for a while and watched the sun on the sea. The music poured from above them as the party continued through the afternoon.

"Besides," she said after a long while, "I know why you're not married."

"You do? Why?"

She looked at him through sly eyes, sultry and arousing, "Because you hadn't met me."

* * *

Before anyone knew it, winter came. The Palace had been mostly put to rights and the town had started to rebuild. Sadly, many of the Rynians who had been displaced remained in Ceyliz. They had homes there, now. They enjoyed the more temperate climate. In the backs of their minds, perhaps, they were afraid to return. Ceyliz seemed very distant from the creatures of earth and stone.

Ooobrecht took his leave before the weather grew too cold. Apparently, the weather at Lake Nylnouwa remained temperate throughout the year. No grand ceremony sent him off; he insisted on that. Instead, King Marcus, Helen, Hex, and Tuk met him at the beach.

"I prefer Moving through the water," he said. "That way, it simply warms around me."

"You will be missed, Ooobrecht," the king said. "The children speak of nothing but you."

"Not at all," the walrus countered. "I hear tales of Hex's marvelous toys, too."

Tuk was helped forward by his attendant. "Farewell, Ooobrecht. Forgive me for misjudging you."

"You were at war, Destroyer. I would have expected no less."

Helen kissed him. "Goodbye, you walrus."

"And to you, little girl. Be safe and happy."

She hugged him. "I won't forget you."

Ooobrecht laughed in his barking kind of way. "I don't think I could ever forget you either, princess... considering there are no humans at my home."

The walrus turned to Hex, who wore a frown upon his face. "I still don't know why, Ooobrecht."

"Why, Maker?"

"Why did this all have to happen? Why did Hargoth send me to kill the Lych if he was only allied with Tsurtor from the beginning?"

"You don't actually think he expected you to survive, do you," Marcus asked.

"The king is right," Ooobrecht replied. "He sent us up this coast, expecting his servant Ostrander to kill us before we could succeed. And, if we did? Rock is ambitious and wishes to tower. Mayhap, he wanted this isle for himself?"

Hex remained silent, almost reflective.

"Walk with me, Maker," the walrus said. "See me to the beach."

Hex looked at the king, who nodded and waved him on, and started down the shore.

"You are thinking of something."

"Yes," Hex said. "I'm thinking about Ostrander."

"Ah, 'Trander. The king tells me he was a hero in the end."

"Yes. He saved the kingdom. Maybe, the world."

They had reached the water and Ooobrecht turned to Hex. "I am something of a cynic, wizard. I believe in doing good, not in believing there is good in others. Perhaps you have a power to see as well, eh?"

"Perhaps," Hex answered.

"And yet?"

Hex sighed, "And yet I can't help think that he's out there somewhere, moved to the planet of undead, wherever that would be."

"It is not somewhere you'd like to go."

"No," Hex agreed. "It's not."

"I must be off," the walrus announced.

"Forever?"

"When the waters of Lake Nylnouwa grow warm and the air grows thick with humidity and mosquitoes, I may be back. I'm a Mover, remember? I can go anywhere."

The multicolored creature rolled into the water and began swimming off. Soon, he had slipped from sight.

Hex had been assigned an apartment on the third floor and that was quickly filled with goodies brought over from Vincent. There were pictures to remind him of home and furniture the artisans of Rynia lined up to marvel at. The bed that Vincent hauled over for Christmas arrived just in time to save Hex's back.

"Why don't you come back," Vincent asked on one visit, having brought pizza, soda, chips, and (per Hex's request) a large jar of peanut butter.

"For better or for worse, Vince, this has become my home."

"No TV. No phones. No video games!" Vincent made a sour face.

Several days later, Hex was reclining on his bed, eating the peanut butter straight from the jar, and watching the rain outside. Perfect comfort, however, must always be disturbed. It is a universal law.

"Wizard," a call came from outside his door followed by several hard raps. "Open up, wizard! We have work we must do!"

In the hallway, Hex found Tuk being led by his attendant.

"Good afternoon, Tuk. How are you feeling?"

"With my hands, usually. And a whole lot more, now that I can't see." Tuk poked at the doorway with the cane he always kept with him. He was dressed in plain, brown robes with sandals on his feet. The black cloth tied around his head had become a permanent piece of attire, signifying his lack of sight. "Put down whatever you're doing. We're going to the tower."

"You want me to inspect Galeny's tower with you," Hex asked, happily.

"No. I was considering reading through those texts myself!"

Grabbing his cloak, Hex followed the blind wizard, who rushed up the hallway with his attendant's helping avert collisions. When they reached the fourth level, they immediately entered a door that led to another staircase. The only light was admitted through the tower's four small windows. Due to the storm outside, the stairway was mostly dark. "Where is a light," Hex asked.

"I don't see why you're having a problem with light, Bonder," Tuk sneered. As the reached the stair's apex, he pointed. "There should be a lamp and oil in the room."

That might have been so but that still didn't help Hex see his way up the staircase and into the tower. Tuk was no help in entering. He didn't have the key. No one did. Why else would he have taken a Bonder with such a capacity for Breaking? So, in the dark, Hex knelt before the door and felt the lock. His senses extended into its workings until he felt the single tumbler that held the bolt in place. Reducing the tumbler to dust was just a small matter.

They were quickly inside and Hex lit the lamp he found. The tower was larger than Hex had thought though the flickering lamplight seemed to make the walls close in. Were it not for the storm, Hex would have opened a window to let in some air and the limited starlight. He knew he dare not allow any moisture in, though, as most of the books appeared old enough to fall apart. The walls were covered in books, from the floor to the ceiling, all around them. On a large table, wide parchments were spread. Several candles sat there, half burned down, and Hex took a moment to light them.

What Hex saw on the tabletop, twisted his face into a mask of disbelief. He remembered the Lych and realized that this place, all of it, was far from what it seemed.

"Why are you so quiet," Tuk insisted.

"It's covered with equations," Hex whispered. "All of it. It's magic broken down to mathematics. These books must hold calculations and theorems that scientists on my world would find hard to understand." He turned around to face Tuk and sat down on the desk. His head was so full that he was stunned, breathless. "Who are you people?"

* * *

The rain came down throughout the day and on through the night. Hex couldn't stay in the tower. It was just too much to take. An anachronistic society, equal in technology to the 14th or 15th century on Hex's planet, possessing knowledge of science that excelled anything Hex knew of... and they didn't know it!

Hex didn't bother with dinner. The kitchens serving in the Palace were full of people. There were more every day and, soon, there'd be no room left in the Palace. He felt too cooped up in his quarters. He went to the only place he felt comfortable. His hair was soon wet and the memory of kisses strong. Still, he could be alone here or, at least, mostly alone.

"I'm getting waterlogged, champ! You ever think about going in," Robert asked.

"Where to," he asked distantly. "To a warm, blazing fire?"

"Ooooh, funny."

Bandoo was gone again. This time, though, he was only as far as the wizard's quarters. Rayesh had needed someone to keep her company after Ooobrecht left. (Oddest of all things, Rayesh had grown very fond of the walrus.) So, Hex, in a fit of altruism, volunteered Bandoo to keep her company. At first, he thought it would only be for a short time. Then, Rayesh took a liking to the little tree monkey. Bandoo even took a liking to Rayesh. "I never want for nothin', mon! I'm waterred t'ree times a day!"

So, Hex stood with Robert, his only companion, looking out at the rain and those stars bright enough to shine through. Alone, he craved but one thing.

"I thought I'd find you up here," she said.

He turned and saw her hair was already wet and her cloak was speckled with rain.

She stepped closer and took his hand. "I looked all over the Palace.

They kissed and she gave him an odd look. "What's wrong," she asked.

He turned away, looked deep into the dark night, and told her what they'd found. She listened quietly, holding his hand. "Your people aren't from here, Helen. They're certainly not an agriculture-based people. They were technological geniuses once."

Helen nodded. "I've heard this before."

"Before," he asked intently. "Where from?"

"Father. He told me all the stories that were passed down to him from his father. There's a legend of our people arriving in a massive fireball. Silen, the forest to the north, was reduced to half its size. They say that the phantoms and apparitions that dwell there are a result of that. Our people were decimated by their arrival."

"That may be why they were forced to revert to an agricultural society." Hex looked down where the town was being rebuilt.

"Is that what is bothering you, Hex? Is that all?"

"All, Helen? Isn't that enough? I'm far from home in a world I don't understand. One minute, I think it's filled with magic. Then, I learn that it's secretly filled with science more advanced than anything I'd ever seen. I know it's up to me to solve this mystery. I'm the only one with the knowledge to do it. For the first time, I have a purpose in my life. A reason."

"So, that still doesn't explain it," she said, holding his arm, standing close. "What troubles you so?"

Hex closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He whispered soft as the rain, "You."

"What did you say, Hex?"

"It's you, Hel. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I've fallen madly in love with you. You're all I can think about." He turned to her. "Knowing that you're not mine is breaking my heart."

She cuddled up against him. "Then marry me, Hex. Marry me."

* * *

The news spread throughout the Palace like a wildfire. As Hex walked to King Marcus' private throneroom, he was greeted with congratulations by all who saw him. A soldier stood outside of the throneroom door, looking dour faced. "He is not here, Hex. He's in his chambers and refuses to see you."

"Refuses to," Hex asked.

"Absolutely. You must stay away from his chambers at all costs. In fact..." The soldier lowered his eyes and shook his head. "I do know some people in Ceyliz. They could help you leave the country."

Hex felt his throat tighten. Leave the country? Without Helen? Without everything he'd stayed for? He thought back to his days alone in the park and then remembered the previous night, standing in the rain, with the woman he loved.

Oddly enough, he also remembered the prank that Marcus had pulled on Mark and Banry...

* * *

A knocking came on the door the to king's quarters. There was a wait and, then, Marcus opened the door. "What is it, soldier?"

"I have a message, sire. From the wizard, Hex."

Marcus smiled. "And?"

"He's returned to his world, sire. He told me that he's never coming back."

Marcus's eyes bugged out and his jaw dropped down his chest. "What? No. No." Marcus looked around him, his mind racing. "I have to tell Helen – I have to – Out of my way, soldier. We must find Hex. We have to..."

The panic King Marcus felt stopped cold as he met the smiling faces of Hex and Helen standing in the hall. Then, it turned to anger. Then, it turned to something like admiration. "Pulling jokes on your future father," Marcus begrudgingly asked.

"I thought you might appreciate it," Hex said.

Marcus gave him a nod. "You have to admit," the king said, " you set yourself up."

"Do I have your blessings, then?"

"Blessings? My boy, you have my life!"

Hex smiled, stroking Helen's hair. "I'll take your daughter."

* * *

There was one thing Hex needed to do before the wedding day. They had to wait until spring, when Vincent came for his next visit. Hex asked him to take him and his fiancé on one quick trip.

They appeared on a hot driveway, the sun was blazing above them.

"Good job, Vince."

"This is Phoenix," the boy asked.

"Yep. 1481 North Sepulveda, just like I showed you in the picture."

As agreed, Vincent left them for a couple of hours and Hex and Helen stood alone before the tract of condos. "It's amazing," Helen said, staring at the canyon of buildings in which they stood. She gazed at wonder at the cars and looked up and down the street. When a car drove by, her mouth dropped in awe. "How is such a thing possible?"

"You think that's wild? Look up there," Hex pointed as a jet flew overhead.

Helen gasped and quaked in Hex's arms. "You okay, Hel," Hex asked.

"I'm -" she couldn't finish her sentence. Another car drove by.

"Remember what I told you about machinery? Those are just machines, Hel. Our technology is just more advanced than yours. If the books we've found in Galeny's tower mean anything, though, yours may exceed ours before too long."

"It's like some magical place."

"Magical? No. This is a pretty ordinary place. Our world is covered with places like this."

"Covered," Helen asked. "How many people are there?"

"Billions," Hex replied. "Our nation alone has, maybe, a thousand times more people than all of Rynia."

"Gerrit," she gasped.

"Uh huh."

They went to the doorstep and Hex took a minute to look at his fiancée. "I'll be fine," she said. After what she'd been through in the war, he believed her.

He knocked on one of the door's glass panes and, shortly, it opened. The woman who stood there, her hair speckled with grey, wearing a long, yellow sundress, dropped her mouth in astonishment. "Baby!" She launched herself at her son and held him tight. "Is it really you?"

"Yes, it's me, ma," Hex strained to say as his throat was crushed against the woman's collarbone.

"Well, let me look at you!" She stepped back and looked at Hex, his hair cut short and his face neatly shaven. He wore black, denim trousers and a white shirt he'd purchased on one of his trips back with Vincent. His mother frowned. "You've lost weight. Have you been eating?"

"Who is it, Bonnie," a barking voice called from within.

"It's Hezekiah, Charlie! Hezekiah," she jumped and yelled, smiling. Then, she saw the young girl beside her son. Helen wore a simple, Rynian dress and sandals. "I'm Bonnie, sweety," she said, putting her hand out.

"My name's Helen, Mrs. Fanlan. I'm pleased to meet you," Helen replied shaking hands.

"Oh, and isn't she polite? Who is she, dear," Bonnie asked Hex.

"That's what we've come about."

Inside, the condo was packed with clutter of all kinds. Dust piles grew here and there as the Fanlans had long since ceased in their attempt to keep everything clean. Charlie Fanlan sat on the sofa watching TV. His hair, white with age, was buzzed short and he was rail thin like his son. He glared over at his approaching son and grumbled, "Well, isn't this a treat. What's it been? Five years?"

"Six," Hex answered.

Charlie coughed, trying to laugh. "I was giving you the benefit of the doubt." His attention was caught by Helen, whose eyes bulged wide at the sight of the TV.

Bonnie looked, worried, at the girl, and asked, "Are you okay, dear?"

Hex stepped forward and switched off the set. The spell was broken but Helen was still out of sorts. "She's fine, ma. We have some news we want to give you."

"Oh," Bonnie asked, sitting by her husband. "What is that?"

Hex and Helen stood. Hex put his arm around her. "We're getting married."

Bonnie's face lit up and she screeched, "Oh! Isn't that wonderful!"

"Wonderful," Charlie spat, disbelieving. "What kind of freak is she?"

The two had spent hours planning for this afternoon. Hex had cued Helen in on both his parent's odd behavior. They had all of their answers down pat. Still, it wasn't enough.

Helen pursed her lips, trying not to scowl. "I'm royalty," she snapped.

Hex felt his breath catch in his throat.

"You're what," Bonnie asked.

"Royalty? What the hell kind of royalty are you," Charlie laughed.

Hex tried to quip, "She's my queen!"

Helen sneered.

"No. No. No," Bonnie corrected, her shrill voice scraping in their ears. "That's not what she meant."

Charlie waved his hand at her to shut her up. "That's as close to royalty as she's gonna get, Bonnie."

"She's not having delusions like you? Is she, dear," Bonnie asked her son.

"Delusions?" Charlie waved his hand harder. "He never had delusions! I'm telling you, the boy's a freak! He always has been!"

Helen looked at Hex. "Tell them the truth," she said. "If you don't, I will."

Hex looked down at her, anxiety twisting his features. He had hoped to avoid any conflict but told himself that if I could face a Lych he could do this. "Okay," he said, loudly. "That's it. You want to know what kind of royalty she is? I'll tell you. She the princess of a nation called Rynia that located on another planet. We just won a war there, her and I. A war against undead and stone giants! We came here with the help of a ten-year-old boy who travels between worlds! Happy?" Taking Helen's hand, they stormed out and slammed the door behind them.

Helen looked up, chagrined, "That went well."

Inside, Bonnie looked at her husband and ran for the door. Charlie coughed out a laugh and switched back on the TV. "About time he stood up for himself."

Outside, Vincent was waiting. "I was wondering how things were going," he said.

"Not well," Hex replied as they came together. "Let's leave."

Bonnie came running out, yelling at her son. "Wait, sweety! I'm sorry. If you say that's a person from another planet, I'll believe you. If you say you fought in a war, I'll believe you. Is that your little friend who's going to take you to another planet?"

Hex answered with his teeth clenched. "Yes. It is."

"Well, then you go to your other planet, then. Maybe, if it gets too hot, you'll come inside for lemonade."

Vincent looked up at Hex. "Your mother's weird, Hex."

"Home, Vince."

Vincent nodded and the three vanished.

Bonnie almost fainted.

But, then, she remembered that she had lunch in the oven.

* * *

"I wanted them to be here."

"Here?"

"Well, here as in at my wedding."

Marcus finished tying Hex's bow tie and asked, "Is that right?"

Hex looked into the mirror. His tux was about as perfect as it could be. White from the shoes to the tie. It was an oddity in Rynia and that was exactly why he'd brought it from Earth. His hair was combed back and his eyes sparkled. He was the picture of the man about to be married.

"Let me tell you something about being a parent, Hex, for what it's worth. The only thing a parent really knows is that he hasn't a clue what he's doing."

"Was it that way with Helen?"

"Oh, yes. Not that I could let on to anyone."

"How young was she when her mother died?"

"Seven. We'd just signed a new pact with Kallent. She had plenty of family around, though, between my advisors, other, visiting royalty, and her nannies." Marcus laughed, looking sheepish. "I guess we were all we had."

Hex remembered one of the many walks he'd taken with Helen. "Royalty and solitude go hand in hand, I've been told. My life's been no different."

Marcus slapped the groom's shoulder. "It's nice to know she'll have someone else, now." He patted down his ceremonial gowns, the trappings of royalty, and thought how fat it made him look.

"I'm still sorry you can't be my best man," Hex said.

"As am I. It would get me out of this outlandish costume. Still, I am the father."

The door opened. "It's time," Vincent said. He was dressed in a small, black tuxedo, the privileges of being the ring bearer.

"Come on, then, lads," Marcus said. "We've all got to face our destiny sometime."

Out of the quarters, they went. Down the halls and to the royal gardens.

* * *

Unlike the Dyneesan wedding ceremony, this one would be more somber, less festive. It had to be. Gerrit was the deity upon which Rynia rested and, so, the royalty of the land had to be wed by his priest. The god of earth and stone, still recovering from the previous year's war, would not cotton to elaborate celebration, despite the fact that it was late spring.

One year since the war. Since Hezekiah Fanlan and Vincent Gobel had been accidentally spirited away from their homes in southern California. Hex looked nothing like he had then. He was the picture of the hero come to claim his prize. Vincent seemed to have grown taller and stronger. It was a chore, raising him like a normal boy who didn't use magic. Somehow, Samuel managed to do it.

Mark Nygarra had come from Benaatt. He wouldn't have missed this for the world. Dressed in formal robes, he was flanked by his Advocate, Kraephten Kattox, and Defense Minister, Banry Ellison. Commander Rolf Heaphge also attended, sitting beside the recovering Ned Blakely and Tuk, sitting beside Rayesh, smiled quietly.

One year. The town was almost completely rebuilt, with more people settling on Regal Isle every day. Commerce had picked up. Things were returning to normal. It seemed as though everyone had forgotten about the undead, the stone giants, the Lych, the sand, Tsurtor, dwarves, or anything related to war for one day of joy.

Eric Kasis, the Palace's Gerrit priest, walked through the assemblage in the garden and stepped onto a platform before them. More than two hundred people were crammed into the gardens.

The priest looked at the guests with a smile. "As Gerrit works towards rebirth and the healing of wounds, joy comes onto our land and brings us love." He bowed and extended his hand to an entrance on the side.

A violin softly began to play as Helen stepped out into the light. Radiant, she walked like the embodiment of beauty. Helen's mother's dress had somehow survived the giant's possession of the Palace and, with only a few alterations, it fit her like a glove. Not comfortable by a longshot, she looked like she'd been born in it. The top held her tightly while the rest billowed around her like gossamer. The downy white fabric was stunning and the veil covered her chestnut hair. (No veil had been planned. Yet, Marcus had insisted that she wear this piece that had not been a part of the original dress.) Taking small, careful steps, she walked forward to the priest.

Her father came up from the other side, a scowl on his face.

That was when Hex entered from the back, taking resolute steps to his bride to be.

Halfway there, Marcus walked up and put a hand on his chest to hold him back.

Red Martag, silently sitting in the crowd, stood up, his hair smoothed back and his beard braided. He, too, wore a black tux. (He could hardly walk in it; he looked so uncomfortable.) Red rose and quietly held the king back. He'd been assured that since this was all ceremony it wouldn't be held against him.

Robert, too, stood before the king. Actually, he was perched on the chair before him, his hands balled up into semblances of fists. "Once this shindig's over," Robert had informed Hex before the wedding, "I'm going with the boy. He's gonna need a lot of help, that kid. Somebody to kick his butt."

Unhindered, Hex took the final steps to his fiancée.

The music stopped.

They clasped hands and faced each other for several minutes. The garden was completely silent. Even the birds stopped singing.

"Know that Gerrit sees your love and acknowledges what you two are about to commence," the priest said. "You shall not be apart from each other, so long as you are with Gerrit. Your fealty and your shame will he see. He will test you and you will answer to those tests, together, until he claims you again."

Vincent stepped forward, carrying the rings.

The priest nodded at the boy, took the rings, and addressed the gathering. "I have been asked by the groom to perform this deviation to the service. Gerrit sees nothing wrong with rings. They show our constant responsibility to the land. They tie us to it. They remind us of its permanence. They also display the circle, which binds us each to another. As you are bound to Gerrit, so are you bound to each other."

Hex took Helen's ring and Helen took his. She placed it on his finger as she'd been shown, saying, "With this ring, we are one."

Hex smiled, putting the ring on her finger. "With this ring, we are one."

The rings sparkled in the springtime sun.

"I am told of another tradition on Hex's world, one that is common to us both. For no wedding would be complete without the kiss."

Their hands pulled each other in and, as their lips met, more magic! The veil slowly rose over Helen's face, coming apart into many small, winged creatures. Helen gasped, her eyes opening, but Hex's eyes were also opened and he grinned slyly in the kiss. The creatures, which Hex had painstakingly made over the last month, landed back on Helen and Hex and began flapping their wings.

Marcus, Vincent, the priest, and all of the guests remained still, awestruck at what they saw.

The two lovers continued kissing as the creatures drew them up and away.

"Hex," Helen whispered.

Hex continued kissing his wife. "Honeymoon, my dear," he said. "Honeymoon."

# Author's Note

You can follow my continuing story and artistic endeavors on the web and in future publications.

As I draft this special, digital edition in 2011, I am actively pursuing a career writing novels and plays. You can find me all over the web. Just search by my name, **Ken La Salle**. You can also find me at the following locations:

**MY SIDE. THE BLOG** : http://mysidetheblog.blogspot.com/.

**ONE PATH** : http://twolivesonepath.blogspot.com/.

**KEN LA SALLE.** You can follow my writing career at: http://kenlasalle.blogspot.com/.

Selected reprints of the above blogs and other thoughts can be found at http://open.salon.com/blog/ken_la_salle. Thank you for your support in making my story a success with this and future work.

