 
### Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Other works by D W Gladstone –
The Land of All Things Fallen

The Wyvern Kings Redemption

Volume 1 - Part III

D. W. Gladstone

Copyright © 2015 D. W. Gladstone

Cover Art Copyright © 2015 Marco Morata-Plaza

All rights reserved.

Fifth Edition 2017

Published by Errant Words Publishing

ABN : 65 430 929 540
Chapter 31

_Syrkyn, healed of his wound, watched the Mountains of the Pit. Where the others could not bear to look, he stared always with intent. Something beneath called to him. From the Immortal's doing, he had been exiled from his home, and wounded by his own blade. And still the foul enemy was allowed to be. Perhaps exiled to the three pits of his own making, but the darkness yet remained. Syrkyn wanted to destroy the Immortal, as the Immortal had nearly destroyed him._

_But when Syrkyn looked up, he saw his brothers were happy. And he did not want to make them sad again. So he hid his despair from them, and it grew worse within him. Soon he found it hard to see anything less than anger and hate. He began to speak with the lesser wyverns upon the Fourth Heaven. Many wanted to destroy the Immortal as he did. And he promised them, they would leave the Fourth Heaven once again and fly to the darkness beneath where they would destroy their enemy. Syrkyn thought that with so many behind him his five brothers would be convinced to allow him to leave._

_But when he spoke to Aunvari, his brother tried to tell him it was foolish. And Syrkyn grew angry and could not see the truth Aunvari spoke. His brother begged him not to go, but Syrkyn was sure of his cause. So Aunvari was forced to forbid him and all the others from leaving. Syrkyn now saw an enemy where there was none, such anger he had not known. He struck at his brother, and fled for his army. They too became angry and rallied with him, not aware of the shadows that gathered behind them._

* * *

Lyrien walked towards the Halls of Seeing, amongst the metropolis of the City of Eyes. The hurt and anger at Phio's actions had cut deeply inside her - she could not stomach thinking about the man. He loved her - and that worsened the pain to the point she could not bear.

She had left the Library-levels; the guards and restrictions the Elder Archivists had set to prevent Ormus contacting the bloodhounds, did not prevent her from leaving. The soldiers had questioned her, and she had satisfied their answers. She was informed her return would not be permitted without express consent of an Elder Archivist - and she had not considered that a problem.

The walk had taken two hours. And she had to suffer an escort the entire way - but the soldier's unwelcome presence had reminded her of her resolve.

Despite the tumult of emotion that twisted her insides, her reason and suspicion had not been dulled. She owed her loyalty to the resistance - and they were under threat; from Ormus, and from Rethan. Whatever it was that the Elder Archivist was hiding from them, Lyrien knew Rethan doubted his own motives. But there was also a deep hurt - she had seen that in his eyes.

She had decided - what Rethan concealed had to be discovered. Lyrien knew the most expedient method to accomplish her endeavour - the power of her blood. Visions came to an oracle - but one could never predict when or why a prophecy would be seen. Birth-readers were taught to hone their gift into reading the blood that an infant was born to - through training and skill an oracle could narrow her sight to see the inherent destiny of a new-born; what blood ran in their veins.

She had wondered if an oracle could force a vision as they did with birth-reading; she needed a prophecy now, and as none were forthcoming she would answer her own question.

Lyrien knew the risk - to peer into destiny when it did not want one to would blind the oracle - or so the ancient teachings said. Like many laws and edicts that had governed their society, Lyrien had begun to doubt the truth of them; the necromancer's were said to be evil - and as the resistance challenged the falsehoods of the Magus, she would challenge the laws of her blood.

She had meditated for hours, thinking only on her suspicion and Rethan. Exhaustion, from lack of sleep, but more so from the pain weighed her heavily. Her body threatened her with unconsciousness - but she strove to remain awake.

Another agonising hour passed, dawn would soon approach, but her conviction was set; she would maintain her vigil until either she passed out or a vision came to her. Three more hours dropped upon her shoulders. Weariness dragged her body into limpness, and her energies were spent utterly - soon exhaustion would enforce sleep.

Outside Delphanas the first rays of dawn coloured the sky; the lambent glow of the approaching southern sun warmed the horizon.

Lyrien opened her eyes; she could not remember if she had thought to do so, but in an instant the exhaustion was cleared - replaced by fear.

A blinding light shone before her, white as the southern sun at mid-day in summer, it surrounded her in burning, terrible brilliance. She squinted her eyes, but the pain inside her pupils was unbearable; her lids were forced closed again, but they could not shut out the light. It tore through her eyelids and blazed before her vision - and cleared.

The images were sharper than in any prophecy she had ever seen - and no words formed in her mind; she felt no desire to speak, to recite her prophecy or even describe what she saw. She felt only the desire to watch and listen.

By the marbled white-grey walls, she knew the vision was set in Delphanas, and as Rethan stepped into view she knew who the vision was centred on. Another man stepped into her sight - the traitor; Ormus.

Surprise flared, and apprehension constricted her. Rethan was a traitor.

"I assume you have uncovered information that we can use to convict Phio?" Ormus asked, flatly.

"He has shown me something," Rethan answered, "Another piece of prophecy he has kept from us, and used to direct his insane actions."

The Elder Archivist handed a slip of paper to Ormus; after perusing the note, the older man lifted his gaze.

"We have what we need to convict him," Ormus pronounced, "And it would seem the Prophecies of Thyesmered have been misused."

Doubt coloured Rethan's face, "What if Phio is right? What if there is to be a War of Men?"

Ormus glared at him coldly, "The War of Men was his fabrication. He intended to unseat the Tribunal, he engineered the circumstances so they would appear to be the instigators, and when he goes to the Assembly and uses our armies to defeat the magus there will have been a war. It will look only as though prophecy was fulfilled. This," Ormus motioned with the paper, "This changes what the outcome would have been. Phio must have thought without the Assembly or the magus knowing this that he could overcome the prophecy. But instead Phio is the one who would bring the prophecy about." Ormus sighed, "There was a reason these words were banned; it is dangerous to the land, the Archivists and everyone. We should never have used it to dictate the war."

Rethan wavered for a moment, and then unenthusiastically nodded in agreement.

"We must move against Phio." Ormus declared.

"What about Ragmurath?" Rethan asked.

"This prophecy matters more," Ormus stated, "We cannot allow the cause of the conflict to remain free for another moment. We can bring this to the Assembly's attention once we have prevented Phio's coup - but this war of men must be averted." Ormus paused, and added, "Do not worry, I have formulated a plan to deal Ragmurath, but it will require time - and while Phio remains free we have not the time we need."

"You can deal with these matters after Phio is arrested. I cannot stomach this anymore."

Ormus eyed Rethan coldly, "Do your duty Elder Archivist."

Rethan glared with indignant fury at the man standing before him - he made to retort but paused. After a moment he let out a ragged sigh, and muttered in agreement.

The blinding light blazed across the images; Lyrien had to close her eyes again - the light burned through her eyelids, for an instant. She gasped and tumbled to the floor; the cold, hard stone of her quarters.

Exhaustion weighed so heavily upon her she could scarcely breathe; her vision was clouded by a blurring haze, and she could not blink it away. Blood trickled from her nose, across her cheek.

Lyrien tried desperately to move, to get to her feet. But despite the will she mustered to stand and run, the weakness that beset her body utterly surpassed her. She wanted to shiver from the cold inside her core, she wanted to scream - but exhaustion strangled her breath and darkness covered her vision.

Her last thought was of Phio; she loved him.

* * *

Elle'dred had been woken an hour before dawn. The apprehensiveness yet lingered that they were suspected by the town's commander, and was joined by an unreserved anticipation to be moving once again, as he had donned his armour and clothes. A final meal with their host was unavoidable, and the knight, alongside the magus, had eaten as politely and unhurriedly as could be managed.

His wariness had peaked when Rhordred had informed them there would be no escort - other than himself, accompanying them to the docks. The Garrison Commander of Vyrys led them through the lantern lit streets of his town, towards the northern side and the harbours.

Whether their course had been designated ahead of time, Elle'dred could not tell - but as they moved through street after street utterly devoid of people, he began to suspect such. No request had been made for special measures, and the Commander's apparent foreknowledge only heightened his consternation.

There was, however, no avenue for objection that would not likely lead to imprisonment.

Aside from a concerned glance shared with the magus, no other comment was made.

They arrived at the harbour as the first glow of dawn broke above the rooves of the buildings.

Rhordred turned towards the fourth harbour, and the eighteenth pier.

The causeway of the wharf was littered with a plethora of equipment and crates that provided large shadows against the faint light. The air was still, but the piers stank of salt - and for Elle'dred, whose visits to a shore numbered very few, the smell was more than slightly overpowering.

Even the wharf was devoid of life. Most of the boats were empty.

As they neared their destination, a figure moved out of the thin shadows of the ship moored at the pier.

With peaking apprehension, Elle'dred continued until he could see the woman's face clearly. She had the weather-beaten, brown skin of many of the townsfolk, which obscured her age, but the long, draping locks of dark grey hair signified her years. Her face was amply marked, both by weather and scars - a large line of pale white ran down the right side of her face. And yet, despite the roughness of her complexion, there was a pleasing shape to the slope of her cheeks and the lines of her brows that merged delicately with her sockets. The only thing that challenged the coarse beauty of her features were her eyes - pale blue, almost white, including the pupils at their centres.

The woman's gaze glinted with a sharp light of its own, as she watched them approach.

She wore a drab, fraying overcoat, with absurdly proportioned shoulders adorned with golden lace, matching her similarly threadbare and worn trousers that billowed about her high boots. Her somewhat understatedly ostentatious outfit seemed intended to highlight the unnecessarily wide, broad-brimmed hat - bright purple, drooping at the sides, which she bore upon her head.

Her dark features lit up in the flash of a sudden grin, as the party and their escort reached her. With an elegance, utterly unexpected by the knight, she clicked her heels and swept the broad hat away in a half-curtsey, half-flourish, that led into a deep bow.

As she returned slowly to uprightness, she met the knight's gaze.

"You must be Elle'dred, Champion of the White Wolf," her tone wavered between a friendly mirth and mocking joviality, "We've never had such a distinguished guest aboard the Spirit before, milord." she replaced the hat without breaking her grin, "And you must be Magus Syla, so very charmed to meet you."

Syla nodded, somewhat unsure.

"Now, where are the other two?"

Elle'dred could not help an expression of shock - his suspicions flared into sudden trepidation that a horde of guards would emerge from every unseen area of the wharf.

Seemingly cued by the woman's question, however, two figures emerged onto the pier; one, overly tall and wrapped entirely in the darkness of his robes, and the other, obscured by the thick, uneven ruffles of a blanket. The odd sounds of heavy, armoured boots and soft padding resounded against the wooden flooring of the wharf.

The Commander immediately moved for the hilt of his sword - but was stifled by the strange woman's gesture. She chuckled.

"It's perfectly alright Rhory," she chirped, cheerfully, "Those two are as welcome aboard the Spirit as these two."

Elle'dred's fears evaporated into bewilderment.

With a wide - and disturbingly welcoming smile, the woman turned to them, "I assume you are all packed and ready to depart? Well, as I'm sure Rhory's guards can't keep those frisky fishermen from getting to their boats all that much longer, I'd suggest we be off." she glanced at the two cloaked figures, "I'm quite certain introductions can wait until we're all aboard and out of this retched harbour - eh, no offence Rhory."

The Commander snorted, in response; he continued to eye the concealed figures.

Elle'dred, stifled a moment by confusion and incredulity, addressed the woman he assumed was the Captain of the ship she had named the Spirit, "Captain, you must understand one thing, these two passengers are my mission. By the order of the Archivists, they must remain hidden. You and your crew cannot be permitted to see them."

Elle'dred felt the suspicious glare levelled at his back by the Commander, but the Captain only raised a quizzical brow and smiled, "If it hadn't occurred to you, my dear knight¸ I've already seen them," her grin widened splendidly, "And besides, you'll find it is very hard to surprise me. However, to expedite matters, I shall quite heartily agree to your terms, and say once again we should be off with all due haste. Now, now, all aboard."

For a moment, Elle'dred felt entirely unnerved by the incomprehensible joviality of the woman before him, but as she threw an inexplicably warm glance at him with her paradoxically cold eyes - and largely because he could see no other avenue of objection that did not involve bloodshed, he nodded and gestured for Llrsyring and Ayadra to move alongside.

The Captain beamed, gave a sly wink to the Commander, which Elle'dred was certain was intended to be seen by all upon the pier, turned and strode up the gangway that led to the deck of her ship.

As the four of the party proceeded after her, she uttered, cheerily, "The Spirit is the fastest ship on these waters, and provided you don't count your lunch or mind a commodity, welcome aboard."

As Elle'dred and the others stepped onto the deck, they were met by the guarded expressions from a number of the crew. At a wave from their Captain, however, they abandoned their inspections of the knight, magus and two unidentified cloaked figures and began to prepare the ship for departure.

The Captain squeezed inofficiously past the party, and opened the door that led below decks - a flourishing gesture ushered them inside. After wandering down a long corridor that seemed the spine of the ship, the Captain deposited them in a large cabin, equipped with four bunks.

With a last smile, she departed without a word, leaving the four uncertain party members to their own devices. Llrsyring stood to the rear of the room, as Ayadra crawled onto the left-hand bunk beside him.

Elle'dred gestured for Syla to take the right-hand bunk farthest from the doorway, as he sat reservedly on the closest.

In silence, he waited. Their new and strange abode did not help to unseat his apprehension, and the suspicions and misgivings he had about their odd, new host swirled about his head, as did a mild nausea. He had never been aboard a boat, and the overpowering smell of salt had already upset his stomach.

The shouted orders, given in the Captain's voice, above them were followed by the gradual buck and heaving of the wooden floorboards beneath them.

They were underway - trapped aboard a ship with a woman who seemed to know far too much already about them.

Still, Elle'dred let out a sigh of relief.

* * *

Phio woke to the unwelcome voice of a servant; who shook him gingerly from his despairing stupor. He waved the man away; but the serf's voice was insistent.

The Elder Archivist sat up groggily; the light of the sun shone in from above the mountains around the city, blindingly. It was sometime after dawn - he looked away from the glaring radiance to the serf's unrelenting, vocal face.

"Elder Archivist Phio," the serf stuttered, with an apprehension and respect, "Elder Archivist Rethan sent me to give this to you."

Phio rubbed his eyes lethargically; the ten hours of sleep had not helped at all - and the emptiness struck him immediately.

"Elder Archivist." the serf insisted, tentatively.

"What is it," Phio snapped. The man trembled slightly, but handed him a note.

"Elder Archivist Rethan sent me to deliver this."

Phio took it and motioned for the serf to leave his study. The man bowed quickly and did as the Elder Archivist had ordered.

Phio opened the note and read it - alarm struck him. A surge of adrenalin flooded his veins, and his heart raced. Despite age, and weariness and the crushing weight of remorse, shame and frustration, Phio sprang to his feet.

Rethan had summoned him again - it could only be news about Ormus. The bastard must have been found. Phio rushed to the exit of his study, ran through the atrium outside and continued into the large expanse of the library beyond.

He wove through corridors until he found where Rethan had summoned him - the thought flitted into his mind that ordinarily Rethan would have come to his study to discuss such secretive matters, but no doubt his friend had a purpose in calling him to the council chamber.

He opened the doors; Rethan sat at the centre of the room, on one of the two austere couches around the low, equally simple, table between them. The antechamber, like many in the highest levels, was sparsely ornamented - there were five doors that led to adjacent rooms off of the single curving wall.

Rethan stood as Phio entered, and shut the entrance behind him; he glanced at the doors concernedly, but his friend alleviated his trepidation.

"The rooms are empty. It is safe to talk." Rethan said.

"What news?" Phio asked, earnestly, as he strode over to the couch. Rethan looked as tired as he felt, without the burst of vigour Phio had mustered.

His friend eyed him, sat back down on the couch, and lowered his head to stare at the ground.

"I have found where Ormus is hiding." Rethan muttered.

"Where?" Phio asked eagerly.

Rethan looked up at him; there was a blankness in his features that unnerved Phio.

"What do you plan to do about him?" he asked, flatly.

Phio's eyes narrowed in confusion, "I have already told you - he must die." - Rethan sighed; Phio did not try to repress a surge of desperation, "Rethan, he must die. He is a threat to us, to the Assembly, to the land itself. We cannot allow him to spark -"

"I know." Rethan interjected, "Will you handle the arrangements," he paused, "...for his death?"

Phio watched his friend; his suspicion flared amongst the concern, "Rethan, is there a matter you have not discussed with me?"

Rethan looked up at him - Phio recognised the doubt in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm very tired. And I cannot do this - I cannot have a man killed. Can you handle it?"

The doubt seemed sincere to Phio, and he allowed a moment of ease - the decision was not as hard for him as for his friend, "I will handle Ormus' death."

The screeching of hinges behind Phio, forced him to stand and turn with alarm to face the open doorway to an adjacent room.

"Elder Archivist Phio," High Inquisitor Ansara said, as he stepped out into the antechamber, "You are under arrest for the crimes of sedition, treason, and intent to commit murder - under the laws of the Tribunal."

Phio was struck - shock strangled every emotion from his mind. He turned to Rethan.

The Elder Archivist had stood and glared at him. There were tears in his eyes.

"Rethan?" he pleaded.

Amongst his heavy beard Rethan's lip quivered; from his hard eyes a tear fell and ran into the coarse facial hair. Rethan turned away from Phio as more doors screeched all around, and the squad of magus bloodhounds poured out into the room.

Phio was restrained - he did not fight.

"Rethan?" he managed through the shock once more, "Why?"

Rethan twisted on his foot; he glared, the tears were gone, "I trusted you!" he yelled, "You betrayed me! You are the traitor!"

The anger and betrayal in his friend's eyes struck Phio to his core; the emptiness dragged and bored through his gut. He breathed shortly, and stared at Rethan as the bloodhounds hauled him away out into the corridor. Rethan stood beside the High Inquisitor, beside a magus, and watched.

* * *

Elle'dred sat against the wall of the cabin, on the soft padding of the bunk. He did not know how much time had passed since they had departed the harbour, and within the confines of the room there was no method through which he could gauge the time of day.

He regretted the breakfast he had shared with the commander shortly after the bunk beneath him began to move. It had not taken long for the constant rising and falling of his surroundings, and the equally incessant stench of salt, to tighten his gut with nausea. For longer than he appreciated, he had focused a large part of his attention on not retching over the limited floor space of their quarters.

Shock beset him, as the strange Captain of the ship once more emerged unexpectedly from the corridor outside. He had not heard her approach, unlike the constant thundering of feet on the deck above him.

Beneath the heavy bindings of his blankets, Ayadra flinched. Llrsyring stepped surreptitiously in front of him; the deathwalker trained the folds of his cowl on the woman.

Elle'dred stood, and fathoming what frustration nausea did not prevent, pronounced, "I thought you agreed no one would be permitted to see these passengers."

- The deck heaved, and the knight returned rather inadvertently to the bunk beside him. Clutching at his stomach. He struggled not to gag.

The Captain eyed him with the striking paleness of her eyes, "Are you trying to tell me what I can and cannot do on my own ship, milord? When you can barely stand?" she chuckled disarmingly, "I agreed to your conditions because it was the only way to convince you it'd be a damn sight more foolish to be stranded there in Vyrys, stubborn as a mule. Besides I already know - more or less - who I am carrying."

"Then why do you need to see them?" Elle'dred responded, quickly.

The woman chuckled, "Fair point. But I think it fairer to say I am a cordial host, who has yet to throw anyone - or anything," she eyed Llrsyring and the incarnate with a glance, "Off my boat for any reason. So without further bickering let me introduce myself...then you will be obliged to reciprocate."

The strange woman grinned widely, swept the hat from her head, and bowed.

"I am Captain Thria, master of the ship known as the Spirit of Humour. And you each would be?"

Elle'dred shared a glance with Syla, before replying in a defeated tone, "You already know who we both are."

"Elle'dred," Thria stated, cheerfully, "Knight and Champion of the White Wolf Hall, and Magus Syla of the Magus Order. And these two would be?"

The knight glanced concernedly at the standing shape of the deathwalker.

A short silence filled the room.

"Would you rather I turn back to Vyrys?" Thria's grin had not faded, and her tone evinced more than sufficiently she meant the phrase as a rhetorical joke.

Elle'dred sighed, "When I say that these two are my friends, do not think me mad. I give you my word as Champion of the White Wolf Hall that they are of no threat."

Thria beamed, as the knight looked up at the suit of armour and nodded.

Llrsyring reached out from underneath his cloak with his gauntlets and pulled down his cowl. The sharp sloping lines of his helm emerged into the dimness of the cabin.

The Captain seemed stunned for a moment, but then grinned widely and broke into a slow, happy chuckle.

"Well then, can't say I expected that." she paused, "Do you have a name?"

"Llrsyring."

"Charmed." Thria chuckled, and glanced at the mass of blankets hiding behind the suit of armour, "And he would be?"

After another tense and hesitant silence, the deathwalker stepped to his side, and looked at Ayadra. Much to Elle'dred's surprise, the incarnate reached out from his enshrouding blankets with his own uniquely contoured hands, and removed his own obscuration. His talons glinted sharply in the dim light of the cabin - unlike the dull listlessness of his stare, amidst the immovable bone mask that was his face.

Thria's grin widened into an ecstatic smile, "Well don't you look sinister," she turned to the suit of armour, "And you - you seem to be missing something."

She laughed, and sat on the empty bunk beside the doorway.

Elle'dred watched her honest mirth in disbelief; fear, surprise, and uncertainty were shockingly absent from her features, overwhelmed by a grin.

Her eyes glittered brightly as she continued, "I can't accuse you of not keeping interesting company - eh, does he have a name?"

"Ayadra." Llrsyring answered coldly.

The incarnate glanced nervously up at the Captain - but when he, as ever, averted his gaze with a flinch of fear, Thria beamed, almost sadly.

"Might I ask exactly what you two are?"

Another silence fell between the impossible joy of the strange woman's smile and the knight's incredulity.

"Two very long stories," Llrsyring replied, but concluded, "I am the last of my race, Ellyan Taun and Deathwalker."

"And Ayadra there?"

Llrsyring did not answer.

Thria let a disappointed frown cross her face - fleetingly, and returned to a grin, "Very well, I won't pry." she paused and seemed to fall into distant thought, "I don't suppose you two are welcome in most civilised places?"

"No." the knight replied for the deathwalker.

"Well then," Thria said, "Let me be the first to tell you, you are both more than welcomed company aboard the Spirit, and that my crew are of like mind to myself - hence, you are both welcome to walk the deck and all other areas of my ship."

The admission shocked the knight - as the older woman had so consistently since their first meeting.

"The Spirit of Humour?" he asked, although it sounded more alike a statement.

"Fastest ship on the Inland Sea," Thria added, "Or at least, so I tell myself."

She chuckled.

Despite himself, Elle'dred could not suppress a smirk.

"Can I ask why you're not afraid of our companions?" Syla asked.

"Never said I wasn't," Thria answered, slyly, "But I'll tell you, after you've lived on this sea for as long as I have you get used to knowing what is a monster and what isn't...and on that note, when I say that those who live on the sea are accustomed to and expect strange things, I mean it as much as a dire warning as I might a joke - there are some things I've seen on these waters that are a damn sight more frightful than a - eh, man-lizard and a walking suit of armour." she paused, "Many a ship has lost more than one crewman to them...but that's life then isn't it, you live and you die, one after the other." she chuckled, "Though maybe not in your case...hmmm...deathwalker you said? That's sounds - eh, not very nice. No offence meant of course. But might I ask what blood you are born to? Or on that matter, are either of you born to a blood? Also, is it that either of you are born?"

Llrsyring did not reply immediately, "I am born to the blood of deathwalkers, the sixth blood."

"Ah," Thria acknowledge, "Hmmm...that makes me look something of a fool now doesn't it?"

Elle'dred suppressed a smirk, "How did you know Llrsyring and Ayadra would be joining us? Or who they were?"

Thria chortled, "You are fortunate, milord, in that I believe this to be the only boat that would've welcomed you to a free journey across the sea to Eryndor. And you are also fortunate enough to have the only ship on the sea that has an oracle for a captain - at least, so I am aware of."

Once again, Elle'dred found himself incapable of restraining his surprise. Syla stared, similarly incredulous.

Thria beamed, "My turn then? I am born to the seeing blood, and before you ask, I escaped the Archivists only because I was never read by a fellow oracle at birth. My mother had the good sense to keep me hidden - that was, after my older brother was taken away for being an oracle." she paused, for a sardonic laugh, "And when you spend most of your life floating pointlessly from port to port - that is, away from the large part of civilisation, you don't have to worry about being discovered." again she paused, and glanced at Elle'dred with an abrupt seriousness, "Might I say, you felt a lot of pain when I mentioned the Archivists - there it is once more. I myself am not much of a fan of the rulers of our lands, so might I enquire why you feel that way?"

Elle'dred was not aware he did. Beyond the bitterness that had followed him since Hheirdane's death, he did not much attend his emotions.

After an indecisive hesitation he replied in a low voice, "The archivists betrayed me - us...all of us. They are responsible for many crimes the people are unaware of."

Crimes that seemed to matter little in their current situation - no - he refused to complete the thought. If he survived the following months - if - he would not live his life that way.

"So you are a traitor then?" - the brusqueness of the remark, shocked a glare out of him; Thria chuckled, "Offence very much provoked but not intended. We are all traitors on this ship - what we do wouldn't be viewed in any great esteem by the arch - rulers of our lands. And I'll say, you're not the only one who thinks the Archivists have betrayed you. I've lived my entire life thinking it, taught my daughter, and husband and - er, crew, to think it. Didn't take much effort, might I add. The Archivists think their domain reaches across the land and the sea, but they don't realise very few people agree with them."

She chuckled.

"What do you mean by what you do?" Syla probed.

Thria raised her brows knowingly, "Let's just say that recent events - people moving from Eryndor in droves, and replacing a great deal of cargo that would otherwise occupy the holds of some ships, might just very soon put me out of business."

What exactly was implied eluded Elle'dred. Syla pursed her lips but the expression melted into a sour smirk.

"The darkness in Eryndor has been growing for some time," Thria muttered, nonchalantly, "Every trip I've taken over there has made me want to come running back to Vyrys all the swifter," she paused; an unnerving glint passed over her pale, fate-telling eyes - she glanced up at Elle'dred's comprehending stare, "You wouldn't happen to know a great deal about that would you?"

The knight looked away.

"Hmm..." Thria smirked, "Well, might I say, whatever it is that has brought you here it's so laden you all with grief and guilt that I saw it across the sea. Actually, it was what had me race across the water to make sure I'd be there to greet you," she beamed with delight, "My first vision ever. I saw a white wolf, a raven, and two shadows crossing a wall, the ocean lay before them and I was the only one who could answer their call. Heh, that rhymes."

Elle'dred could not suppress an inane chuckle.

"You're all very welcome by the way," the captain continued, "Though you haven't thanked me yet, you will. Unless we all perish on the sea of course...more than likely, knowing my crew. Until then, all I ask is that you do your best to smile." she rose and moved to the doorway, "It's a lot easier to smile in the sun, if you didn't know. So once you're ready to abandon the gloom of this dank little cabin, come up to the deck - it's a damn sight more palatable than down here." as she left, she loosed another hearty chuckled and muttered, "I'd best get up there, make sure the fools haven't turned us completely around."

For a moment, Elle'dred stared at the empty doorway after the odd oracle - incredulity tried to assail the inane trust he felt the woman deserved. Nausea churned in his gut, and ended any musing he was capable of.

After fighting down the urge to retch, he clambered to his feet - swayed unsteadily, and stumbled to the doorway, "I think I might take her up on that offer," he clutched his stomach as the deck heaved beneath him, and he fell into the doorway, "If only to throw up somewhere more accommodating."

Syla pulled herself to her feet - despite a slight disturbance to her milky-white features, yet marred by a purple mark on her jaw, she seemed significantly more stable than he. Her azure eyes met his for a moment - despite the joviality of the Captain, there was a deep uncertainty he was not entirely sure she meant to reveal to him. She looked away.

He glanced at the deathwalker, and Ayadra; the incarnate met his eyes momentarily before turning to stare at the cabin wall. There was no fear in the abyssal orbs - too much else, unrevealed, he knew - but the absence of terror was something Elle'dred was grateful for.

Carefully, yet adapting to the constant motion of the floor beneath him, the Champion of the White Wolf stumbled away into the unstable narrowness of the corridor, with the magus behind him.
Chapter 32

_Syrkyn did not see his grief twisted into anger, and slowly he became the enemy he hated so much. The shadows taunted and whispered to him, and finally Syrkyn saw only hate and enemies where he glanced. Then he fell. He plunged his blade deep into the Mountains of the Pit. And his form was bound. He became the death he so longed to visit on his enemies._

_At the instant Syrkyn's blade fell, so too were the bloods of the other Wyvern Kings bound. Syrkyn in his madness had become death. Gharguan's form was bounding to seeing, he an oracle doomed to watch the heaven fall. Rahn, was bound to the blood of magus, to feel the world spirits twist and warp beneath him. Sulit was bound to wield a blade, and heed the call of war. Tuoris was bound to the lower creatures, their commander first to fall. Aunvari seemed to be the only one unbound to a blood. And the other Wyvern Kings thought him strongest, that he had resisted Syrkyn's madness._

* * *

Ormus was clad in an old, worn robe; the colour had long faded, and there were areas where it had been patched and repaired. But it disguised his identity. He had to play his part; the final factors of his plan had to be dealt with - to quash the last unattractive contingencies.

Rethan played his part well; the Elder Archivist and the High Inquisitor had gone before the Assembly to expose the threat of the resistance. Ormus had advised that Phio's arrest required a delicate explanation, and Rethan had concurred. The shock of an Elder Archivist being guilty of treason would have repercussions throughout the Assembly; as would the arrest of the Tribunal's Staff-Bearer soon after. Multitudes of inquiries would be demanded, by both the Archivists and the Magus Representatives; the bloodhounds would demand the laws of the Tribunal be observed, and the Assembly would be inundated with matters of reformation.

Rethan had agreed not to reveal the last verse of the prophecy - if the government was to be preserved as it was, Rethan knew he must contain the impact the corruption, treason and misinformation of the former Elder Archivist would have. The information that the prophecy, which had dictated their war efforts, was false or at least misdirecting would cast disillusion on the effectiveness and ability of the Assembly; if not doubt on the Assembly itself. The Archivists had to be protected from Phio.

Rethan had been indignant that such measures were required to clean up Phio's crimes, but Ormus had reminded him of his obligations and duty as an Elder Archivist.

Ormus had planned for this; Rethan's compliance had been necessary - the last verse was the crucial factor of his plan's resolution.

As he strode down the long, torch-lit corridor, passing a multitude of cell-doors - all occupied by the filth of his society, he reached the wooden barrier that held the former Elder Archivist.

There was a grate at eye level, and Ormus peered into the darkened cell to catch a glimpse of the man.

"Phio." he beckoned, quietly. The prisoner's chains clinked as Phio shuffled his feet, until his face was illuminated by the ambient light of the torches outside his cell.

A crusting of blood had run from his nose.

"You bastard." Phio spat, though his voice was devoid of emotion.

Ormus eyed him, coldly, "You blame me for your predicament?"

A flicker of a snarl twisted the corner of Phio's lips, "You manipulated us all along."

The Elder Archivist, outside the cell, stared flatly into the anger inside the prisoner's eyes, "I did no such thing."

"Liar." Phio stated.

Ormus sighed, in frustration, "I have risked my life for you and the resistance. I have assisted you willingly, and now that a traitor has been found it must be me?" he paused and muttered, cuttingly, "You are as petty as you have ever been."

Phio glared at him.

"Rethan betrayed you. He betrayed all of us." Ormus stated, coldly, "Not me."

"You lie."

Ormus moved closer to the bars; the sincerity he feigned in his eyes was cruelly irrefutable, "I suspected Rethan. I investigated him, and I discovered his plan. But I also discovered I am not the only Elder Archivist to be experienced in the ways of subterfuge and assassination." Ormus paused, "Rethan tried to have me killed. I escaped, but I was prevented from contacting you. Rethan knew he had to act soon - otherwise he would either have to sanction the use of the armies against the magus or oppose us openly. He could not afford to cast suspicion on himself, and he could not allow us to commit treason. So he turned me in, falsely; he knew you did not trust me - and that you would believe if any of the resistance could betray you I would."

Phio's stare had weakened; Ormus knew belief was overcoming the former Elder Archivist's anger.

"Furthermore," he continued, flatly, "Rethan knew you would act this way - using the guard, restraining the bloodhounds. How were you going to answer the High Inquisitor's questions after you detained me?" he paused, and narrowed his eyes, "After you and Rethan killed me? The High Inquisitor would have doubled his investigation, and the resistance would have been entirely discovered. You would have been forced to kill the bloodhounds, and then the Tribunal would have its evidence to move against us. You have exposed the resistance to the magus." Phio's eyes had weakened entirely; Ormus paused, and sighed, "Rethan has gathered enough evidence to destroy the resistance, and once the Assembly is convinced the threat is gone, the magus will betray Rethan and after a short massacre the War of Men will be resolved. If you had trusted me from the beginning we could have avoided this."

"You did not know about the last verse did you?" Phio asked in disbelief.

"What last verse?" Ormus asked, exasperatedly.

"Thyesmered's prophecy; the last verse stated the Archivists would fall." Phio looked into Ormus eyes, "I kept it from you and Rethan. I thought I could prevent it if no one else knew of it."

Ormus sighed, "You did not trust me," anger burned in the distance of his eyes, "I brought you the news of Hadrath's plot. I helped you - I killed him. And when your aide came to you with the prophecies of the War, and you were convinced the magus posed a threat, you did not come to me first."

"Was Keron planning to betray us?" Phio asked.

Ormus glared at him, "Still, you do not trust me." he retorted, "Keron planned to turn you and Lyrien over to the bloodhounds. He wanted to protect Faldorn; he was his lover, and he was the first mistake you made."

Phio let out a ragged breath.

"You did not trust me then, and so you pretended Lyrien had a vision, that I had to kill another High Magus." Ormus stated; guilt darkened the former Elder Archivist's face, "I did so to earn your trust. I risked my life in doing so - and you endangered the resistance. You have made all your decisions on a fallacy," Ormus paused, "This was War, Phio. People die, murder, battle, assassination - all are the same. Alliances are forged for personal gain, for wealth, for power - but not for friendship or loyalty. I warned you against Rethan; you had strained his trust with the prophecies, and he is a servant of the law. He always has been - but because of his relationship with you, you over estimated his value."

"I've trusted him for years." Phio snapped.

"And now he has betrayed you." Ormus stated, "Because he is an Elder Archivist. Before he is your friend, he is his position, he is his duty. That is who Rethan is - that is who you were. You overcame it, he did not."

"We needed his help." Phio argued weakly.

"There were ways that did not require his support," Ormus replied, coldly, "But you would never have considered them. Unlike I."

Phio moved to the bars, he glared disgustedly at the man standing before him, "You would have killed him?"

"This is war," Ormus reiterated, "This was war. But you, like too many archivists, are complacent and idealistic. Wars are only fought with goblins. We are good, they are evil. Our soldiers win. There are no mistakes." a pause followed the callous tirade, "You made mistakes Phio, you trusted men who you did not know you could, and you did not trust me. I could not compensate for every error you made - but I tried. And now the resistance has been discovered, and the War of Men will occur." he paused - before adding viciously, damningly, "And it will end in a sanguinary massacre that will destroy the Archivists."

Phio stumbled a step back; each accusation struck him with the pain he deserved. The truth tore him apart; as Ormus had intended. Pain welled in the prisoner's eyes, and a tear ran across his cheek.

"Lyrien," Phio muttered, weakly.

"What?"

The former Elder Archivist swallowed, "Lyrien. Has she been captured by Rethan?"

"No." Ormus answered.

"Please," Phio pleaded, "Find her. Protect her. And Faldorn - I sent him away. He will return in a few days - and Rethan will arrest him. If you can, find them - protect them. Get them both away from here; you can form the resistance again. Even if the magus win, you can try to fight them off - or don't," he stammered, "Don't get involved. Just escape this war and live. Can you protect them?"

There was a long silence; the solemnity of Ormus face seemed to consider Phio's request.

"Where is Lyrien?" Ormus asked.

"She left," Phio answered, "She must have returned to the Halls of Seeing. Please Ormus -"

"I will do all I can." Ormus answered flatly, "You have been sentenced to death. There will not be much time before your execution, and I doubt it will be public."

"I know," Phio admitted, heavily, "Please, just protect Lyrien." Ormus nodded; the prisoner breathed a painful sigh - he looked into Ormus' eyes, guilt and regret drowned his gaze, "I am sorry."

Ormus stared at Phio for a long moment; he nodded and turned away.

Ormus did not indulge in luxuries, not when clarity of thought was necessitated - not when plans required his full focus. Emotions had their place for him; he allowed himself to feel when he benefitted from it, but he had resolved never to let it influence him. And when its influence was irrepressible, the emotion was to be abandoned entirely. Logical thought, unbiased calculation were his dedicated techniques of conducting his life.

The final phases of his plan would require such pertinacity and assiduousness. But, as he strode down the corridor, he did not try to repress or quell a trivial emotion that exerted too much influence - pleasure.

* * *

Ayadra stared at the blank wood of the cabin wall.

All he could do was stare.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, as it did in his dreams, hell-fire crackled. It was ever there. It would always be.

Forget. It was all he had the power to do.

When food or water was offered, he took it. Ate it steadily. Bore the nausea his surroundings engendered. Silently.

He breathed. He slept. He stared.

Anything else was too much.

When Thria came down for the fourth time in three days, he felt the spark of fear. Instinct moved him to hide his face. Thought -

Forget.

Llrsyring stood to meet the Captain; the deathwalker had not moved from his bedside since they had departed the town. Llrsyring had not tried to speak with him since - for that he was grateful.

"So how're my favourite passengers today?" the smile that lit her face had not waned.

Llrsyring did not reply.

Thria frowned momentarily, and sat on the bunk nearest the entrance, "Hmm...well I guess that's an answer, of sorts." she chuckled, "You know I never realised how...gloomy these cabins were. I suppose next we set down in port I should really have them painted. A bright blue or green I think, something cheery and depressing at the same time."

Neither the deathwalker nor the incarnate alleviated the following silence.

Thria smiled gently, "If you're content to spend the entire trip down here, I won't object to it - however, if you would like to be alone, you'll have to ask me to stop annoying you."

Despite himself, despite the dictates of unconscious instinct, Ayadra turned the bone mask that was his face to meet the oracle's pale eyes. Whether he was asking her to leave - or to stay, he did not know or care. He did not know why he met her eyes.

The Captain's grin did not fade, "See, that wasn't so hard. Ayadra -" she paused, and seemed to reconsider something, "That's not really your name is it? Syla told me that it wasn't...what she said it was, I'd dare say isn't terribly nice. But I'm not sure what else to call you. I don't suppose you much like the name?" - Ayadra looked away, "Hmm...well if it's what I must call you, Ayadra I know I can't say anything to lighten this black mood of yours, or persuade you to come out of the little hole dug for you by too much grief, but I'll endeavour regardless. My sincere apology if I end up giving you cause for more despair - although from first glance I'd say that rather impossible." she chuckled gently; again, despite the urge not to, Ayadra raised his eyes to meet the oracle's, "You've been through a lot - too much would be the long and short of it; don't need these eyes to see that. And however you are going to deal with it, is...well, how you are going to deal with it. But some advice - potentially terrible and soul-destroying, again my apologies if it is - from someone who has seen no short end of grief herself, happiness is something we have to make for ourselves. It'd be a wonderful world if it weren't, and seems rather cruel that it isn't, but that said, it's worth it - more or less." she paused, "I try to have faith that everything will get better, and if it doesn't, oh well."

Amidst the abyssal depths of his eyes, and the obsidian darkness of his scales, an expression more alien to him than being fed and warm moved his jaw and lids for a moment.

A smile.

It passed too quickly for him to recognise, and when he realised the oracle had seen it, he almost regretted it. He did not deserve -

Forget.

He closed his eyes and turned away.

Thria chuckled warmly, "Oh well."

* * *

Faldorn made his way through the deep, snaking ravines situated around Delphanas. Phio had told him to return in eight days if his contact did not appear; no one had appeared, and he had waited - but Faldorn knew there was no contact.

He understood why Phio had wanted him gone from Delphanas; the excuses his mentor had provided were insulting to their years of friendship - Faldorn knew Phio was protecting him from something. He was angry that Phio had not trusted him; he knew whatever it was, it could only be something significant to the resistance - and he wanted to be party to any move against the magus. But he had seen the sincere need for Phio to be sure of his safety in his mentor's eyes - and Faldorn had agreed only to ease the burden on the Elder Archivist.

But when he returned, he would demand answers.

He arrived at the city's main entrance, and fell into the queue of people - a convoy of villagers, with a multitude of coaches and carts, from the lowlands were slowly shuffling through the immense archway that led to the five balconied levels of the foyer and stables beyond.

Faldorn trotted in, with several other mounted villagers - many wielded agricultural implements that had been substituted for weapons; evidently, no guards could be spared or afforded.

Faldorn winced slightly at the despondence that dominated many of the people - a palpable manifestation of the war's impact. Anger blazed inside him - the magus were trying to wage a war on their own people, during an already terrible conflict - it sickened the young archivist.

He noticed the presence of far more guards than was typical; three squads were positioned throughout the balconies, and two more were spread through the villagers on the ground level.

The supervising of refugees would not have required more than one squad of guards - alarm struck him; something had happened in Delphanas.

He dismounted, and led his horse to the stables. They were crowded with the new influx of people to the city, but Faldorn found a free stall and began to remove his mount's bridle and saddle.

He jumped slightly, as someone clad in worn, brown robes and a heavy hood stepped into the stall behind him.

He made to speak, when the figure lifted her head and raised a finger to her lips.

Lyrien's face stared at him for a moment, before she moved closer and whispered, "Follow me."

The edginess in her tone permitted no discussion.

She handed Faldorn an overcoat - as worn and drab as hers, before turning and moving at a steady pace out of the stall. The archivist slipped the garment over his traveller's robes, as he followed.

She moved through the crowd of people, deftly, carefully warding their passage from sight with the masses of similarly clad villagers. She moved to one of the exits on the western wall of the room; it led into a long corridor before emerging into the city - and it was guarded by two soldiers.

Lyrien whispered, "Keep your head down."

Faldorn complied; the oracle strode quickly up to the armed men - she eyed them both and nodded. They casually looked to the side, away from the doorway, as she and Faldorn slipped through.

The archivist maintained his silence until they emerged onto the large balcony that overlooked the metropolis inside the immense, circular cavern. More villagers waited around the large platform - many were bartering with people who stood on improvised podiums and were arranging for quarters and belongings to be transported to their establishments.

The less affluent of the lowland people were shouldering their own possessions and slowly trickling down the stairs that led to the city. Lyrien moved towards the descending steps.

"Lyrien," Faldorn enquired, confusion and frustration shaking his voice, "What has happened?"

"Not here." she responded, sharply - and increased her pace. They reached the floor of the city itself - she continued into the maze of buildings. After passing several streets, she darted into an alley and stopped abruptly.

Lyrien turned to look at Faldorn; her characteristic coldness belied the emotions she felt.

"Why -" Faldorn began; she held her hand for silence.

She sighed, "Faldorn," Her voice was cold, flat and strong, "Phio is dead."

Shock gripped the archivist's features, abject disbelief opened his mouth and shook his eyes, "What?" he stammered.

"Rethan has betrayed us."

Faldorn could only stare.

"Ormus had convinced him that what we were doing was treason. And the bastard has been manipulating us from the beginning." she paused, "Rethan turned Phio in to the bloodhounds six days ago, under Ormus' advice. Rethan and the High Inquisitor went before the Assembly to reveal our threat," her cold eyes glistened with pain she could not fully conceal, "Phio was killed two days ago...under the Tribunal's laws."

Faldorn stepped back; the shock manifested in his eyes. Tears began to run down his cheeks.

Lyrien gripped his arms sternly, and moved her face close to his, "Please Faldorn," a tear ran down her own pale cheek, but her features were immovable and impassive, "No tears. I can't bear yours and mine."

Faldorn looked into her eyes; the pain broiled and surged, but gave way to emptiness - he sniffed a sob, and forced himself to nod.

She backed away, wiped the tear from her face and glanced out to the street, "Rethan and Ormus want to arrest us..."

Faldorn's pain transmuted into a glare of anger, "We have to kill those bastards."

Lyrien looked back to him, "I doubt we will have to." her remark elicited the young archivist's attention; she paused and explained, "Either Ormus doesn't think the prophecy is true, in which case the magus will attack while he and Rethan are trying to restore order - or he has been manipulating us so he can gain the advantage. Either way, we must find our way to the White Wolf Hall."

Confusion lit Faldorn's features, "Why?" he asked, softly.

"No matter which side wins the war of men, the Knights will be the only force that can resist them." the oracle elucidated, flatly, "The Knights must remain apart from this conflict; we can't let Ormus and Rethan use them to fight the magus. Both you and Phio believed the laws of necromancy must be changed - if those bastards win, the Hall can exert pressure to change the laws. And if the Tribunal wins, the Knights are the only order with enough influence to resist them, in any way."

"How do we know Rethan hasn't ordered them to arrest us."

Lyrien sighed, "We must ask the Knights for asylum."

Doubt overcame the archivist's expression, "That will not -"

"It is the only option we have," she snapped, "Unless you want to abandon the resistance altogether?"

The suggestion resounded in the emptiness of despair; the resistance had exerted a toll beyond what either of them could bear. Lyrien knew.

"Why don't we?" he asked, acrimoniously.

She glared at him with a sharpness he could not weather - as much as she glared at herself, "Because you loved Keron," she stated, "Like I loved Phio."

Angry tears welled in Faldorn's eyes, but he bit his lip and looked ashamedly to the ground. With a downcast head, he nodded.

Lyrien sighed, "We must move. The knights hall is more than a day's walk from here," she said as she moved out of the alley, "I bribed the guards to let you pass, but I doubt it will take Ormus long to discover your return, and they'll be hunting me, as they have for three days."

Faldorn fell into pace behind her, and they both moved out into the metropolis.

* * *

Syla stood watching the swells lap against the prow of the ship. Four days had passed since they had left the port of Vyrys, and for four days she had spent her time in the closest thing to solitude she could find. She needed to think, as ever.

As ever, she wanted to be alone.

A seeming impossibility on such a relatively small vessel; the crew's shouts filled the mild breeze with constant noise, and the only cabins available that were not inhabited were filled with the constant drumming of the water against the hull.

She had wasted two days intermittently retching what little food she could force down into a gut already churning with unresolved confliction. But slowly she had attained her sea legs, as the crew had told her, and been left to the mercy of her own interminable debates.

Uncertainty and shock were yet her constant companions. Uncertainty of where she was, what she was doing, who she befriended - shock. So many people had died. Hheirdane. Taedoran. Dus.

She did not know how to comprehend the loss. She did not know if they were a loss. The absence of the Tribunal's Champion, the knight and her fellow magus did not bother her - as death did not bother her. It was a part of her life. It had been, since she had left the safety of Grgadorn and become involved with a deathwalker and the weapon of the Immortal.

Death did not bother her. She was accustomed to it.

She lied to herself.

In the numb incomprehension of shock, she had made a decision - one she had made before. More accurately, she had reaffirmed her decision; because she had had no other choice. What the magus did was wrong; the way her society worked was wrong; she would not be party to a life of falsehood.

She had decided that when the suit of armour had revealed the truth to her. She had made a promise to herself. She had broken it. She had been alone. As always, she had been alone.

She had been walking through a daze for weeks - since Ayadra's hell-fire, since Llrsyring's betrayal, she had sunk deeper and deeper into a nightmare she had not wanted to be in. A nightmare she had made for herself, when she should have had the strength to handle it.

She realised that now.

The nightmare had ended with a rune striking her in the back, and a man's boot crushing her jaw.

She had woken in the arms of a deathwalker. In the daze of waking she had remade her decision that Llrsyring was the only path to the truth left available to her - and that was the whole truth; she had had no other choice than to accept the deathwalker's friendship and assistance. Her only other choice was to be abandoned in the wastes of Agdor - she had almost embraced that option. It scared her less than this. The truth: that two monsters and a knight that did not hold her in the highest regard were the closest thing to friends she had left.

Two monsters and a traitor.

She wanted to be alone. Abandoned.

As she stood contemplating on the prow of the ship that had unwillingly become her home, her attention was drawn to the movement on the mid-deck. The crew, who were not otherwise occupied above in the rigging, had gathered around the entrance to below decks.

- Llrsyring and Ayadra had emerged.

The crew had circled around the two enigmatic guests, clad in black robes and blankets. Llrsyring's bare helm caught the midday light across its inexpressive grey façade.

Shock washed away all thought.

The incarnate hung tentatively beside the shape of the deathwalker. Even from the distance of the prow, his fear was obvious. A group of strange people had surrounded him.

Syla watched.

The Captain moved down from the helm and interposed between the incarnate and her crew. A smile lit her face as ever. Kind and welcoming.

"Well," she began, "I think formal introductions are in order," - stepping beside a burly man with intense brown eyes and skin almost as dark as the incarnate's, the Captain of the Spirit continued, "This is Hadorn, my first-mate and no doubt regret-filled husband," she loosed a chuckle; and Hadorn flashed a sly grin; Thria gestured to a beautiful young woman with lighter skin than Hadorn, and striking pale-blue eyes, "And this is our daughter Enyera, our quartermaster and head cook - by self-appointment, and thankfully she gets her looks from her father."

The Captain continued her introductions of her crew, with pokes at each of them in turn.

Gerdain; a bald woman who looked more battle-worn than her Captain, and was taller and more muscular than Hadorn - sword-born and the boatswain.

Collyara; a rotund man with a scraggly beard and a fierce face - sword-born, the ship's surgeon and relegated to assistant cook when Enyera appropriated the foremost position.

Ammasar; a man with a waist length plait of black hair, and a dashing smile - undestined, sailing-master and an exceptional carpenter.

Pyrretta; another young woman, elfin but strong, whose flaxen hair contrasted with her weather-darkened skin - sword-born, and the helmswoman.

Klemeya and Iothyr; the two in the rigging; twin brothers with brown hair, dark eyes, wiry frames, and flat, imperturbable faces - one sword-born, the other undestined, both riggers, and one of whom was involved with Enyera, although by Thria's admission she still was at a loss to tell who.

And lastly, Thydo; a middle-age man, with a tan face and greying - once-red, hair. A fraying strip of cloth covered his eyes, and until he had trained a bird to see for him he was ever blundering into things; a kestrel sat atop his shoulder, and the man was evidently tamer-born - the ship's weather-watchman and navigator, according to Thria.

As the last chuckles died down and Thria swept a glance across her crew, she turned to the deathwalker and incarnate, "This is Llrsyring, deathwalker-born and clearly ominous and intimidating."

She grinned.

All attention fell on the incarnate, "This is Ayadra." she said gently, and glanced at the folds of a blanket rippling in the breeze, "Don't worry, your face is only half as ugly as mine."

Syla stared on astonished, as, ever nervously, the incarnate reached out of the cloak - the curving, scythe-like talons above his hands glistened in the morning sun, eliciting some hushed gasps from the crew - and pulled his cowl away.

The featureless black bone of his mask was fully revealed - the abyssal eyes in its cavernous sockets caught a gleam of the light.

From her vantage point, Syla could not see the expressions of the crew, and as Ayadra kept his gaze lowered, submissively, she could not judge by his reaction. He tensed visibly in fear.

He was always afraid.

For a moment, despite all the doubts and misgivings that she had been unable to resolve for too long, she felt an overpowering sympathy for the incarnate. More - care.

She cared for him.

The thought came as a great surprise - it shocked her further than his emergence.

Some long moments passed, as Ayadra stood - seemingly ready to accept judgement and punishment from a mob of guards that despised him, as he had all his life.

The Captain's daughter was the first to step forward, and throw an annoyed glance over the others, "Well if you cowards are going to be that rude, I'll have to show you how it's done," she turned and offered her hand to the incarnate, "Pleased to meet you."

Ayadra glanced up - even from the prow, Syla could see the utter bewilderment in his eyes.

Enyera leant forward - though after prompting a flinch and a reflexive aversion of the incarnate's gaze, she reconsidered, "It's called a hand-shake. It's how most people say hello." she chuckled, in a moment completely alike her mother; gently, she reached out and took hold of the incarnate's hand - Ayadra did not resist, and after a moment, he glanced up at the only person likely in his entire life that had not hated him the moment she had seen him.

Unlike Syla.

There were too many things she already regretted, for the thought to have considerable impact, but she could not deny the shame she felt.

Enyera shook the incarnate's hand firmly but gently, and released his grip. She moved over to the deathwalker and extended the greeting once more. Llrsyring, silently, reciprocated.

The Captain's daughter turned and cast a reprimanding and expectant glare across the crew; after they yet paused for a moment longer than she appreciated, she asked, "Well?"

There were chuckles, before a few of the crewmen - excluding the two riggers yet clinging to the mass of ropes above, and the boatswain who just turned away with a disregarding snort - moved tentatively towards the incarnate.

Through the course of several awkward minutes, most of the crew had greeted the incarnate and deathwalker to their ship. Syla watched, in silent shock.

From the armour's side, Enyera beamed. Seemingly pleased.

"She'll make a wonderful captain someday," - Syla could not repress a start, as the Captain's unperceived presence beside her was exposed.

Recovering herself, Syla glanced at the oracle, "She gets that from her mother."

Thria chuckled, "Despite my best efforts."

For a moment, Syla wondered how much the strange woman's eyes saw in her; she had been taught an oracle spoke prophecy only when it was granted by fate, that the power of their blood was an unpredictable and inconsistent ability. That an oracle might see things beyond the norm of a person's eyes had never occurred to her - the law stated it did not.

Oracles were taken away at birth to be trained in their sight; necromancers were murdered outright. So many lies dominated the world she had not chosen to live in. It sickened her.

Her recurrent musing was broken by the wild scramble Ayadra made from his previous position to the railing at the side of the ship - where he hung his serpentine face over the edge, and vomited what was undoubtedly the majority of his stomach contents.

Laughs spread across the deck, as they had when Syla had been similarly occupied.

Syla could not help a sympathetic smirk.

Ayadra sunk limply to his knees as he hung over the railing.

He had suffered enough.

The weapon of the Immortal, that had tortured her with the heat of hell-fire - unintentionally - that she had been told to hate, that she had hated since the beginning of their mission, had suffered enough.

The thought surprised her.

Thria chuckled, and moved away towards the incapacitated incarnate. Syla followed in her wake.

As they reached the railing, Elle'dred appeared from somewhere behind the helm - Syla halted momentarily. The knight joined the deathwalker and Captain a few paces ahead of her, and stood beside the incarnate, slumped across the balustrade.

The magus was confronted by the kinship the three inexplicably held, despite all they had been through.

For a moment, she was more terrified than she had been when she thought she was going to die.

Ayadra laboured several steadying breaths; his legs quivered underneath him.

Thria laid a supportive hand on his shoulder - as ever, he flinched, initially, at the touch, "Don't worry, happens to all of us," she paused and glanced at Llrsyring, "Well probably not to you."

The Captain and Elle'dred both chuckled.

Tentatively, Syla moved alongside.

Elle'dred greeted her with a nod.

She returned the gesture with as much of a smile as she could manage.

"Not that I am eager to abandon your ship," Elle'dred began, "But how long do you think it will take to make it to Eryndor?"

"A month or so, if the sea's kind," the Captain answered lightly; the incarnate's unabashed moan of dismay elicited a laugh, "You'll be well used to the waves by then." she glanced across the blankets covering his body, "And if it would not be too forward to say - seeing as I doubt you'll get the chance to do it once we reach land again - you might as well leave this dreary mass of cloth in your quarters, and enjoy sunning that black, scaled body of yours."

A shout from her blind navigator, at the helm, drew her attention, and she moved away.

Elle'dred smirked and patted Ayadra's back, sympathetically, "It'll pass in a day or two, Syla and I already feel better. Though I would skip a few meals for the moment."

Ayadra turned his eyes up to the knight for a moment, before hurling the last remnants of his breakfast over the side.

Elle'dred chuckled.

Syla stood, beside an empty suit of armour, watching the weapon of the Immortal retch over the side of a ship. Baffled by the strangeness of her life, she found herself smiling.

For a moment, she forgot entirely that she had suffered an incessant march for months, escorting a dangerous prisoner across the breadth of their land, in order to prevent the end of the world. For a moment, the thought occurred that she was standing with her closest friends - acquaintances, on board a ship that was bearing them into the wide freedom of an ocean.

She wanted to smile. Another surprise.

She was still alone; she might always be alone. But for a moment, she didn't care.
Chapter 33

_Syrkyn tore open a peak of the Mountains of the Pit, and breathed his fire into it. This, he roared, would be the forge of the Immortal's undoing. All metal would be turned into blades to arm the lesser wyverns of his army. The mountain spat flame and ash into the sky. The thick clouds darkened Syrkyn's armour, and cast the western wind that formed his wings into a terrible shadow. The ash fell to the ground and from it the first of the goblin men were born. From their first sight, all they knew was Syrkyn's shadow, and the flames of his breath. They cried to him, wailed under his terror, but the Prince of Ash was their master._

* * *

Days passed. More days than Ayadra could count. More days than he wanted to count.

At night, he burned. The guilt and shame seared into his flesh was visited upon him in nightmares he could not escape; every night he lived the screams that damned him.

The screams that were no longer his.

He feared sleep, but he did not try to avoid it. He could not, however much he might want to. In the mornings, he bore it - the overwhelming desire to cry, to break down and weep. In silence.

He wanted to forget.

For days he had spent his time on the deck, in the open. He had tried to enjoy the sun and the wind, and the constant hum of the ocean.

He was not cold.

He was hungry, but not for lack of food. He could not stomach eating, or even the thought of it; he'd thrown up enough for one lifetime. He'd had too much of this -

He wanted to forget. To be something else - to be someone else. To leave all that had happened, all that he had - behind.

For moments, he almost did.

The infectious joy of the ship's Captain was impossible to ignore, and even the people - those he had been terrified of, upon that first inexplicable meeting - were full of joy. It was a thing so alien to him - he did not know how it had come into his life -

He felt grateful just to watch it.

Somehow, over the course of his all too frequent bouts of nausea, he had developed an approachable amity with the man named Collyara. The plump man, despite his apparent fierceness had made an effort to be companionable, while Ayadra was otherwise incapacitated over the ship's railing.

Ayadra had flinched each time the man spoke to him; he would always flinch - though even when he did not return a word, or meet his eyes, the man had continued to speak to him. In his own brusque way, the surgeon had offered the constant encouragement that seasickness would not be the only thing Ayadra would suffer throughout the trip.

It still surprised him that he had emerged from their cabin at all. He did not know why -

He did. Forget. The overpowering urge that had once driven him to run from a guard that had stumbled down into a ditch, had driven him to leave his cabin. He had expected to be punished again for his offense - he deserved - no - he had wanted, to be punished. He still wanted to be punished.

Forget. Escape.

It was all he had the power to do. Even if only when he was conscious.

He liked Collyara; his guard - the man, was kind. Like Elle'dred. Like Llrsyring. Like Thria.

He liked Thria.

He liked Enyera. The young woman had made as much an effort as the surgeon to offer him a companion that did not regard him with a concealed glint of fear. And would not take offense where it was deserved.

The others of the crew had not spoken to him, save for the rare request for him to move away from some piece of rigging or equipment he'd inadvertently obstructed. He was simply grateful they were not offended by him. Offense led to punishment.

Forget.

More days passed.

The winds had increased considerably. One morning, after nearly being swept off the deck by the force of a gust that billowed his cloak much as it did the sails above him, he had sprawled, half-exposed amidst his loosened blankets. Despite his instinctual fears of being seen by guards that could take offence at his unnatural shape, he had let the blankets slip free of his obsidian scales.

He had wanted to be punished. For falling. For revealing himself.

Asides from a few stares, and muttered comments, he had not been reprimanded. Collyara, and Llrsyring, who had hurried to his side, both looked him over, asked if he was unharmed, and after receiving a silent nod, the surgeon had muttered, "Not so scrawny as I thought."

Ayadra had smiled.

He had relinquished his makeshift garments to the storage of their cabin, at Llrsyring's advice. Naked, and buffeted by the decreasing wind, he had been undeniably reminded of Agdor - of all he had -

Forget.

Ayadra moved to the prow. The place where he would cause the least obstruction - where he could be alone. He stared out across the ocean.

Behind him, the cloud-cover that had obscured the south all morning thinned, revealing again the golden light of the southern sun.

For the first time he could remember - as he stood naked, amidst the spray and the breeze - the full, untrammelled warmth of day washed over him. And it cleared his thoughts. For a moment, all he could hear was the gentle slosh of the waves against the hull. And he was warm.

He glanced back, into the soft radiance of the sky.

Syla intermittently watched the naked incarnate, standing at the prow for the majority of the afternoon, as she went about her self-prescribed duty. The magus had offered her expertise to the ship's Captain; Syla could cast spells of the deep magics to strengthen the wood of the hull. Such spells were more often relegated to the most important constructions of their society, but having already broken the most fundamental laws of her order, Syla had not thought that restriction valid.

At the very least, it gave her something to do. Thria had agreed heartily.

The magus glanced up at the approach of the Captain's daughter from across the deck; Enyera paused as one of the twins descended from the rigging beside her, and glanced at the prow. The naked incarnate yet stood beside the railing. The young woman made a hushed remark to the twin beside her - received an insulted glare in response - and kissed him briefly, before giggling and moving away. Enyera was as infectiously jovial as her mother, though her sense of humour was more restrained - and she had inofficiously become the ship's hostess to each of the party. Syla had taken a liking to her, and the two had shared more than one long conversation.

The wind had entirely abated during the course of the day, and the crew had furled the sails.

Syla greeted Enyera as she neared; her newest friend informed her that her knight companion had agreed to test himself against the other sword-born aboard the ship, and that the contest was scheduled to begin once Ammasar had constructed two practise swords. The man was amazingly skilled with his knife; carving a semblance of masterful gilding into the hilts of both swords.

Syla received a proud smirk when she told him so.

The crew gathered on the deck of the becalmed ship to view the combat.

Collyara was first to face the knight; the ample belly he sported did not hamper him at all, but he lasted only two moves before the Champion of the White Wolf had twisted his own sword into his gut.

He retreated to the circle of the crew, muttering, "Showy bastard."

Pyrretta was next; she outmanoeuvred Elle'dred with her smaller stature, but overzealously pressed her advantage and finished too close, with his blade across her waist.

The twins faced Elle'dred, with both swords being neatly dodged and the knight's blade stopping short of vital areas. The Champion of the White Wolf showed the deftness of his hand; he nullified the first twin in counter to the rigger's first move, and dealt with the second twin in an elegant flourish that disarmed the man of his sword.

Enyera survived a sole move against him, before coaxing her father to the arena with declarations of family honour. Hadorn - undestined born as his daughter, and Elle'dred himself, also lasted only one move before the knight's years of training resolved the fight.

That left only Gerdain; Elle'dred stared at the woman who rose a foot taller than him; her eyes had the most ferocious glint of any of the crew, and as she raised her sword he knew she was likely the most practised - she rushed at him with a furious blow, which he nimbly avoided. Before he could counter, she swung in a wide arc, nearly caught him in his advance, and replaced her sword in guard.

Elle'dred waited for her next blow, which came abruptly to his flank; he moved to dodge, but the move flashed above him into an actual strike - the first having been only a feint. He was forced to block, but twisted with the blow, grappled her arms and freed his blade - twisting in one fluid motion on his foot and bringing the wooden sword towards Gerdain's throat.

The burly woman - in anticipation, hurled herself to the ground, ducking the knight's killing blow, and dragged Elle'dred to the deck with her. She angled her own blade with her wrists so the knight - and she, would tumble across its wooden edge. Her finishing move summarily would have resulted in a fatal draw - but she had not lost.

Elle'dred hauled himself to his feet, beside the boatswain.

A satisfied smirk lit her scarred visage. The Champion grinned, and extended his hand; she clasped it and shook firmly.

"Anything for victory?" Elle'dred remarked.

The boatswain smiled broadly, and answered, "Anything for victory."

Elle'dred chuckled.

An offer was extended by the Champion of the White Wolf for informal lessons in swordplay, and the crew, seemingly dismissed from duty, eagerly agreed.

Ayadra watched from the prow, as the southern sun descended slowly towards the horizon in the south-east. Myriad thoughts returned, all of which he did not want; with a despairing sigh, he rose and turned away from the group of people.

He gazed out over the calmness of the water.

"And you were so happy," Thria quipped lightly beside him.

Shock. A start. A flinch.

He glanced over at the Captain. The old oracle leaned over the railing and watched the ocean with her strange, pale eyes. He turned back to the water.

After a silence, Thria asked, "So might I ask why all that lovely happiness you'd gathered from sunning yourself suddenly melted away into this black rain-cloud hanging over you?"

Ayadra glanced up to test the analogy. Thria laughed.

He managed a weak smile, but it faded quickly into dejection -

Numbness. He tried to forget.

Again, the silence he could not break fell between them.

However much he wanted to, he could not answer her question. He did not deserve her friendship - he deserved to -

"Not to make you feel worse," Thria's jovial voice interrupted the inescapable cycle of thought, "And I'm certain it has eluded your notice, but I think you have the female complement of my crew rather endeared with you."

Confusion.

Thria chuckled, and grinned broadly, "Perhaps distracted would be a better word. They've been a little busy gaping to hear an order I have to say. Might be that a floggin's in order."

Ayadra stared at her with a growing fear and confusion - he did not mean to -

Thria smiled, disarmingly and kindly, alleviating his fear but not his bewilderment - after a moment, and a brow raised knowingly, the Captain chuckled and glanced down at his bear crotch.

"You're not badly endowed by the way." she remarked and chortled.

Embarrassment.

The hard, dark bone of Ayadra's face could not flush, nor could the static features of the mask express the alien sensation. He had never questioned his nakedness before - it was how his guards had left him, it was how he existed. A facet of his nature; one of the few he did not entirely resent.

Uncertain and confused, he surreptitiously tried to pull the slack cape of his wings over his legs and waist.

Beside him, Thria laughed.

"Don't fret your already heavy head about it," she beamed, "It's not much of a surprise for my lot. When we were first courting, and I was threatening to throw him off the ship, Hadorn and I went through a certain phase where we spent a bit of time on the deck in - ah, our full skin." she chuckled, "Though complaints from the crew throwing up not due to the waves changed that to just my quarters after a while." she paused, "Besides, now that you've decided to show off that unique body of yours, I can see a little more than I did at first - apparently you have wings, among other things."

Ayadra swallowed - and realising the wings were a poor and ill-fitted substitute for clothing, released them. Thria chuckled.

He could not fathom the sound of his own voice; he did not deserve -

He tried to speak; the words choked in his throat.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

Thria's hand falling on his shoulder prompted a flinch and a surge of reflexive fear. The Captain smirked disappointedly, and withdrew her hand.

Compassion, alone, glittered in the pale eyes that watched him. The oracle's gaze held no fear, no loathing, no hatred, as his own gaze must have - he did not deserve her -

"I'm sorry." he said; his voice was rough and weak from lack of use.

"Think nothing of it." - Thria smiled.

For a moment, Ayadra met her gaze, and managed to mirror the smile, though it was lost beneath the edged, bony rim of his otherwise immovable face.

"Might I say, though, if you keep jumping like that, you might jump of the side of the ship one of these days."

She chuckled.

Ayadra smiled. In silence.

The Captain rose and glanced over her shoulder - Llrsyring had emerged from below decks, and Elle'dred was trying to coax the suit of armour into demonstrating his own sword skill.

"It would appear that your friends are trying to negotiate how they will have another scuffle with my crew, mayhap we should go over there and see if we can't convince them to find some other method of attaining entertainment?"

Ayadra glanced over at the mob of people, and could not help a weakening dismay.

Thria grinned, "Maybe not."

She turned her gaze out across the ocean again.

Furtively, he tried again to wrap his wings around his torso, but after their refusal to remain around his waist, he resigned himself to his more comfortable nakedness.

Thria chuckled.

* * *

Rethan sat in the antechamber to the Assembly hall; the High Inquisitor and several of his bloodhounds marred the austere, white space of the room. Rethan hated their presence; he was beset by a weight of responsibility enough, and endured an incessant blaze of emotion.

The death of the former Elder Archivist, and traitor - Phio, lingered in his mind. Remorse burned, as his anger had days before - only where indignation had filled him with purpose, this fire tired and sickened him.

"Once Ormus has drawn out the other traitors of your order," the High Inquisitor said, flatly, from across the room, "You, he and I must have a talk about the extent of your involvement in the resistance."

Rethan glared at him, and growled, "I have informed you of what I was party to."

Ansara turned and eyed him with a warm smile; his eyes glittered malevolently, "And we must question you jointly to be sure there are no incongruities in your confessions."

Rethan sighed in exasperation, "Phio was responsible for killing the Staff-Bearer and the High Magus, not I."

"I thought you said Staff-Bearer Ragmurath was responsible?" the High Inquisitor asked, deceptively.

Rethan snarled, "Phio commissioned the murders and your bastard leader carried them out! I had no part!" - the dangerous glare his insult elicited from the Inquisitor, forced him to lower his voice, "I do not know the extent of Ormus' involvement."

"Then we shall find out," Ansara hissed, and paused, "And as for my bastard leader, he will be arrested in due course."

Rethan remained silent for a long while; Ormus had left to hunt Lyrien and Faldorn, after it had been discovered they had evaded capture. The Elder Archivist was capable of far more deception than Rethan had known, and had alluded to affiliation with disreputable types in his means to track down the fugitives.

Rethan had begun to wonder what the man's full involvement in the resistance had been. He had begun to doubt Ormus' loyalty to the Assembly.

Regardless of his methods, Ormus had evidently had more luck in apprehending the oracle and former archivist; he had summoned a number of the bloodhound squad when he had discovered the whereabouts of the two.

The bloodhounds had been gone for two days. This morning, Ormus had sent word they had apprehended Lyrien and Faldorn, and that they would return within the day.

A knock at the door, that broke the long distrustful silence, signified their arrival; the Elder Archivist stood, and the High Inquisitor moved to his side as the doors were opened.

The bloodhounds filed in; the group formed into a line before Rethan and their leader - the prisoners were not with them, if they had been apprehended at all.

"Where are they?" Ansara snapped.

"Sir," the middle bloodhound answered, as he stepped forward, "Ormus was incorrect. The fugitives were not where he said they would be. He did not meet us at the place he specified."

Ansara cast his glare down on his inferior; his eyes narrowed above his beard, and his malevolently jovial smile was absent from his face. He sniffed loudly; the odorous censer on his stave did not seem to cover a smell that crinkled his nose in disgust.

"Have you been in battle?" he asked; his sharp eyes glared into the two blue-orbs that stared from the holes in the mask.

Agony flared through his belly, and blazed, as the knife was torn out of his body.

The High Inquisitor gurgled a scream - but as it passed the assassin in front of him pivoted the strange knife on a finger and drove the blade a second time into the magus chest. Ansara's staff clattered to the ground, as his corpse struck the stone beside it.

In the same fatal second as the first blow had been laid, the line of assassins - clad in the uniforms of dead bloodhounds, hurled a salvo of knives across the room. Short cries of pain sounded from some of the magus; the assassins flitted to their sides, driving further blades into the bodies - whether alive or dead.

The men removed their weapons and - hiding the knives in their robes, left the antechamber silently. The bodies of eight bloodhounds, the High Inquisitor, and Elder Archivist Rethan lay sprawled across the austere marbled stone. Red slowly bled out across the floor, staining the beautiful white-grey of Delphanas. At the door of the Assembly Hall.

* * *

Ayadra stood on the prow of the Spirit. As ever, watching the limitless magnitude of the ocean. As ever, now, enjoying the sun.

The day passed, and ended with a feast prepared by the Captain's daughter.

Ayadra had never tasted real food. He had never tasted anything like Enyera's cooking. He had never been allowed to eat until he was full, until he could eat no more.

He had never tasted candied pears.

After the feast he had shared with the crew, with Elle'dred and Syla and Thria, Collyara and Enyera, despite his silence, despite his nakedness, the crew had sung, accompanied by the delicate harmony of Thydo's flute. They had passed the night with dancing.

He had watched, too timid to do else. He had been full. Warm. Rested.

As the night deepened above the becalmed ship, lit by the glow of lanterns, he had curled up on a heap of blankets. The stars had shone overhead.

He had slept.

He woke late in the morning, the southern sun shone above the eastern horizon. Most of the crew lounged about on the deck as he did - the water was yet calm and although there was a light wind, the Captain had not roused them to set the Spirit into motion.

Llrsyring had kept watch all night, a few feet away from him. The armour turned to the incarnate, as he sprawled comfortably on the makeshift bedding.

Ayadra glanced up at him.

"Did you sleep well?" the helm asked.

Ayadra nodded.

He had. He had slept well.

- He had slept well.

He bolted up in surprise.

Llrsyring knelt beside him in concern, "Ayadra?"

For a moment, he sat, as the realisation welled in his chest and tears glistened across his eyes.

He glanced at the helm, "I didn't dream."

Llrsyring was silent.

"I didn't dream of the...fire."

His dreams, for the first time he could remember, had not been haunted by the heat of hell-fire. The nightmare had not come. He had slept - well.

Ayadra smiled.

* * *

Ormus stood in the Assembly hall, berated by the thundering sounds of hundreds of Archivists filing in and assuming their seats. He waited in front of the throne-like chair, in the central position of the high-lipped desk. The azure banner decorated with the white eye of Delphanas coloured the wall above him.

The position had been Phio's; now it was his, and the other two chairs were empty.

The Assembly quietened and a silent mass-attention fell on him. Ormus met it with the distance of his eyes - a cold, harsh glare.

"The Assembly will come to order." he declared, "The events of recent days have been unthinkable. An Elder Archivist has been accused, convicted and executed for the crime of treason, and the Elder Archivist that brought the crimes to our attention has been brutally murdered, by an element of our order that would seek to overthrow the laws of Ammandorn and plunge our land into civil war." he paused, "You have all read the reports of the High Inquisitor; with his help Elder Archivist Rethan and I had uncovered the resistance, and the corruption of the Staff-Bearer of the Tribunal...you have all read the report of Rethan's death; that magus bloodhounds were seen entering the Antechamber of the Assembly Hall. The bloodhounds have not been seen since - though the guard is sparing no measure to hunt them." again, the Elder Archivist paused, "This crime is evidence that, as they have before, the resistance has manipulated the Staff-Bearer into murdering his own. Without the High Inquisitor there is no recourse against the Tribunal, and without the aid of the bloodhounds the resistance will remain free to threaten and kill members of our order."

Ormus waited; the room was silent with shock - and fear.

"The resistance has corrupted the Tribunal; if Ragmurath is the only member involved, his influence is too great on the other High Magus. And if he is not the only Tribunal member party to these crimes - then the Tribunal poses a significant threat." Ormus paused, hushed mutterings rippled over the archivists in front of him, "The murder of an Elder Archivist in the highest levels of Delphanas evidences that the resistance is the most dangerous enemy we yet face - and highly capable of eluding capture."

Silence strangled every voice in the room; all eyes stared attentively on the Elder Archivist.

"There is one more piece of information that you must know - the reason the resistance killed Elder Archivist Rethan." Ormus sighed, "The Prophecy of Thyesmered has been the crux of all that has occurred thus far; Phio's motivation to manipulate the Tribunal, why the Tribunal has become corrupt and treasonous, and why our city is tainted with traitors and assassins - the Prophecy is incomplete."

Abject shock bound the silence to the lower archivists.

"Phio hid the last verse of the Prophecy from the Assembly and the Triumvirate. He knew if we were made aware of it we would disregard the prophecy, and he thought by concealing the last verse he would gain the advantage he needed to win the 'War of Men' that he would spark." Ormus paused, and watched the Assembly for a long moment, "Elder Archivist Rethan and I had only just uncovered this most alarming fact, and the resistance killed him to prevent you from being informed. The Prophecy of Thyesmered was forbidden under the Laws of Necromancy - these laws are integral to our society, and by breaking them we have allowed this terrible evil to occur. The last verse of the prophecy reads as follows;

_Yet still, there lies one simple truth,_

_A doom that must be told,_

_This path of fate is absolute,_

_For it seals the ending of the old,_

_Fate is thus, in time of war,_

_The Archivists shall rule no more."_

Ormus paused and the mass-attention of the people before him transmuted to terror. A dreadful silence pervaded the Assembly Hall.

"Procedure would indicate that we should review the full prophecy, study and decipher all meanings and connections to other prophecies. But even now, our armies are being decimated in the Valley of Ythordor; the losses of the war are unsustainable. And the threats of criminals, traitors and a corrupt Tribunal that might attack us at any time loom over our order - we need decisive action." he paused, "There is no precedent to cite, no laws to guide us in this. Though as the last Elder Archivist I propose a motion that you must vote upon here - you may vote to either preserve the laws of our order, and spend the next few months deliberating, while the war depletes our forces, archivists are murdered and criminals allowed to remain free - or, you can vote to declare martial law throughout Ammandorn, and invest me with the power of the Assembly. I will make the decisions that must be made, quickly, and as swiftly carry them out. For the sake of Ammandorn, decide well." Ormus paused, "Those that support the declaration of martial law, and my promotion to Leader of Ammandorn, stand."

The fearful silence of the Assembly Hall was shattered, and the thick rumbling of a terrible storm of feet echoed throughout the cavernous room.

The vote was clear; if there were any archivists that remained seated, they were obscured by the white mass of bodies that had stood.

Ormus nodded, and finalised the motion, "I stand now as the Leader of the Assembly, Leader of all Armed Forces, and Leader of Ammandorn - by decision of the Assembly."

* * *

Keylyn had waited. He had been confined to quarters since his recovery; for weeks he had been locked in the toppled mess of his room. He had righted the bed, so that he could sleep.

Sleep was the only way of passing the time, but it was the only thing he could not do. The hole of despair had worsened and deepened until he had abandoned himself to the emptiness. He was choked day and night by a noose, twisted together from the vicious circle of remorse, self-hatred and anger.

One after the other they overwhelmed him, forced tears or screams from his hoarse throat, and all he could do was lie on his bed, desperately willing sleep that would never come. The conditions of his pardon were worse torture than dying of fever and starvation, naked in a frozen cell.

The wound on his leg had left a horrible scar across his thigh, and he walked with a limp - a constant reminder of his foolishness. He had let Ormus turn him against his order, his blood - his father.

He could not forget Hadrath; the pain and shame did not fade.

The knock at the door signified the entry of someone other than a servant bearing a meal, but Keylyn ignored it - until he saw that it was Staff-Bearer Ragmurath, flanked by two vermillion guards, who had stepped in. Keylyn sat up listlessly on the bed.

"Keylyn," Ragmurath said, "Ormus has sent word to you."

Keylyn watched in silence, as the Staff-Bearer surveyed the disarray of the room; Ragmurath sneered in scorn, before handing him a letter.

The lower magus unfolded the letter; the remnants of the wax seal that had bound the paper remained - clearly Ragmurath had already read the message. Keylyn's blurry eyes took some moments to focus before he perused the elegant script of the Elder Archivist.

It read;

'Keylyn, my apologies that I have not sent word to you sooner. Momentous events have occurred in Delphanas, and have required my full attention. I hope that it has provided ample time to gather evidence against the traitor of your order; we no longer have the time for gathering proof - our enemy will move soon and we must act first to counter them.

I will need your help in Delphanas. I am ordering the entirety of the Bloodhound Order to the city; they are required to enforce the martial law edict that has been passed for all of Ammandorn. With so many magus leaving Grgadorn, your extrication should go unnoticed.

You must leave soon; I will meet you in Delphanas. Haste, Keylyn, will see the traitor condemned, and avenge Helanath and Hadrath.'

Keylyn let out a ragged breath - rage blazed inside him; the name hurt - Ormus had no right to it.

Ragmurath's voice was twisted in derision, "Although he was careful to seal it anonymously, that message comes from the hand of the new Leader of Ammandorn."

Keylyn glared, "The Leader of Ammandorn?"

The Staff-Bearer sneered, "Ormus has not only been manipulating you, Keylyn, he has betrayed his fellow Elder Archivists. Phio and Rethan are both dead, and he has convinced the Archivist order to grant him the full power of the Assembly. They have declared Martial Law throughout Ammandorn, and Ormus is the Leader of all Armed Forces."

Shock and anger resonated through Keylyn - amongst the emptiness.

"It would appear he is preparing his last move against the Tribunal." Ragmurath continued, "He intends to use the Bloodhounds against us. As he intends to use you." the Staff-Bearer paused, "You are to join him at Delphanas, where he will present your evidence and his lies to our bloodhounds and turn the Magus order upon itself."

Keylyn was silent.

"Ormus would then have justification to arrest us. When the bloodhounds march upon Grgadorn with his army, we would defend ourselves; the civil war Adran foresaw would erupt." the Staff-Bearer paused and eyed Keylyn, "However, we have an advantage that Ormus is unaware of."

"Me." Keylyn stated flatly.

Ragmurath sneered, half in condescension, half in approval, "You will go to Delphanas, with the bloodhounds. Ormus trusts you. He is inviting an army of Magus into his city. The bloodhounds will only be a part of that army, as will you and I. We will remove the traitorous Leader of Ammandorn; in the disarray that will ensue we will detain the Assembly."

Keylyn was silent.

"It will be decisive. Few people will die - and Ammandorn will be spared a civil war."

"I understand," Keylyn answered, "But there is one condition..."

The Staff-Bearer glared indignantly upon him; but raised a querying brow.

Keylyn muttered, quietly, "I will kill Ormus."

"You are a loyal Magus, Keylyn." Ragmurath's face softened into a smirk, "Hadrath would be proud of you."

* * *

The sky had darkened; heavy, grey clouds had formed above the sea. The thick cloak of a storm stretched across the sky, its farthest edge obscuring the southern sun at midday. No rain had fallen yet, but it had lingered for five days. Wind had returned, and blew steadily into the sails. The nights were colder, but still a pleasant warmness transmuted the air during the day.

As the southern sun crossed the hoary border, behind the Spirit, it turned the clouds to a shimmering, pale glare; for several minutes, the sight would linger as though the sun had shattered upon the sky, and its dying burst of luminescence - a frozen explosion of white lances, was captured in the grey clouds above and cast onto the ocean beneath. And then it would fade, and a shadowed gloom would cover the ship.

The midday darkness would last for an hour; until the reverse of the sun's departing illuminated the sky and the ship returned to full daylight.

Ayadra stood on the prow as always, watching the endless, stretching expanse of water around him. He stared listlessly at the distant north-eastern horizon - a small glimmer of light caught his eye. It passed, and he dismissed it.

Shock. A start. Fear.

He was startled by the unperceived presence of Captain Thria beside him.

"Watch." she said, cryptically - her normally jovial voice was oddly cold.

Ayadra peered closer at the light, it shone and faded, shone and faded - an intermittent glare that repeated for several minutes. Then a dark shape - barely perceptible, moved across it. The black silhouette scattered the light, between its curving tendrils of abyss. The first of the thin tendrils of darkness curved into an arc and dipped below the waves, another followed it, and another, and another - until the shape was gone, and the light evanesced into air and water.

Confusion. Apprehension tightened his gut.

"No, you are not seeing things," Thria remarked, "Well, not things that aren't there anyway."

Ayadra watched the horizon intently, for another emergence of the shape.

His attention was drawn to the Captain as she leaned precariously over the railing to gaze down at the waves - he followed her line of sight.

The waves were gone.

The ocean was perfectly still, flat and frozen, but remained the dark cobalt of the depths.

Shock.

Agitated, his breath increased.

He glanced to Thria, but she seemed perfectly calm beyond the unnerving solemnity of her face.

Uncertain, he looked down again into the water - as a dark shape moved towards the ship. Seven lances of shadow slipped past the prow, and underneath the Spirit, and slowly merged into an immense shadow that darkened the ocean around them - its edge could not be seen.

Thria chuckled, "A small one."

She lowered herself back to the deck and leaned less precariously against the railing.

Fear. Ayadra stared at the black mass filling the ocean beneath him.

The ship's Captain grinned, "We call them the shining death. The many-headed horrors. They have been said to attack ships, though none survive to speak of them. Although, how both of those can be, still eludes me. Mayhap a dying sailor yelled out to a passing ship once - 'help, I'm being attacked by a monster with a lot of heads' - before he drowned," she chuckled, "Contradictory myth, such a joy. Which leads me to believe that they do not attack ships at all." she paused, "They do, however, quieten the sea above them - and their appearance, in my experience, always heralds the coming of a terrible storm. The more that are seen the more powerful and longer the storm will remain upon the ocean."

Ayadra stared at the water. The shadow faded, and the waves resumed their rhythmic lapping against the hull. The incarnate resisted the urge to turn around and see where the shadow had gone.

"Hmmm, now the only problem is," Thria continued, lightly, "That that's the seventeenth I've seen in the past few days."

Shock clenched the incarnate's throat.

Ayadra's met her eyes with a horrified plea.

Thria chuckled, "Don't fret, I haven't met a storm yet that could overcome the Spirit." as ever, she was indisputably sincere, "Besides a many headed horror or a storm aren't the worst thing you could have seen on this ocean. Now the mermaids...they're what you should be really scared of. They appear on the darkest nights, and they sing. Foolish sailors are drawn to them -," she paused, and began to hum; words joined the notes, and her gruff voice intoned every line with a rueful depth,

_"Be careful on the sea at night, be wary of the song,_

_Waters calm 'neath star-made light, for voices lost so long,_

_The mermaids dragged them down the depths, to feast upon their bones,_

_And from the last of gurgling breaths, they weave their dulcet tones,_

_They hunger for the voices, of men and sailors all,_

_And those who heed their song at night, into the depths of water, fall."_

Thria fell into a silence for a long while; Ayadra could see the bitterness in her eyes - despite the smirk she sported on her face.

She continued, "The mermaids are said to steal the voices of those lost on the sea, and they sing to you in the voices of those you've lost. They sing to foolish sailors, and those that want to listen to them..." she paused, "...those that say even one word back...drown on the deck as though they had been swallowed by the waves. And the mermaids steal their voice." she paused, "They're a bloody pain when you work with so many idiots."

She chuckled.

Ayadra could see the pain - a sharp glimmer, in Thria's eyes; he was too accustomed to pain to miss it.

Or mistake it.

Despite himself, he could not repress the urge to speak.

"Have you ever seen them?" - his voice, as ever, was weak.

Thria grinned, "Once. Lost a daughter to them too. And a father. Long time ago." she paused, "Cruel irony is said to be funny, but I think only to those who've forgotten how to laugh."

There was a long silence, as they both watched the ocean, overshadowed by the storm.

For a moment, Ayadra wanted to speak, but couldn't manage it.

"And then there's the tale of the great serpent," she continued, "The deep terror, that is said to stretch the length of each shore. I don't suppose you would happen to know anything about it, would you?"

Ayadra glanced at her. Thria chuckled.

"It's old, you know. The serpent. Frightfully old; older than me even." she grinned, "Actually, it is about as old as you are."

Confusion.

Thria met his eyes, "I see you didn't know that."

After a moment, he asked, "What else do you see?"

The oracle's smile warmed, "A lot. And not enough. You like to keep things hidden, I can see. You've suffered a lot, plainly obvious." she paused, "You're a good person. Also plainly obvious. But you're too much of an idiot to see yourself as a person."

Ayadra smiled.

Memory returned for a moment - fire, guilt, des-

He stared out at the ocean. He had forgotten; he was happy. He deserved to be happy.

He deserved -

* * *

Lyrien sat in one of the many chambers of the Hall of the White Wolf. The bastion of the Knights was an immense fortress, but despite its security, the oracle felt a vulnerability about her confines - her fate lay in the hands of a Knight.

Fyrdane; a Sword-Bearer - a Knight subordinate to only the Champion of the White Wolf Hall himself, stood staring at her with an uncertain expression.

Faldorn and she had arrived at the Hall sometime after dawn; and they had sat for the morning and much of the afternoon waiting for the arrival of the Sword-Bearer - only a Knight of his rank could hear their plea for asylum. And he would decide whether to grant it or to arrest them.

Lyrien waited patiently for him to consider what she had said; the truth. She had iterated how the resistance had begun, why they had formed the group - who they had killed, and how they had been betrayed by Ormus and Rethan. She had omitted only one fact - the death of Keron; she hated the lie, but she would not let Faldorn suffer a pain he did not deserve - not again.

Fyrdane had heard the information with a blank expression, and now, in the tense seconds he took to consider her confession and their request for sanctuary, his features were darkened by reservation.

She waited, as Faldorn did beside her.

Fyrdane's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and it seemed to tense for a moment.

"I believe you." he stated.

Relief flooded the chests of both the oracle and the archivist; Faldorn let out a sigh, and Lyrien released the apprehension from her muscles.

"You will grant us asylum?" she asked, flatly.

"Under the order of Martial Law instituted by the Leader of Ammandorn, I am required to consider you traitors, arrest - and execute you here," he paused, "But I happen to disagree with that declaration, and with the post assumed by our new leader." he smirked sourly; the dark skin of his old, scarred face wrinkled in a counterpoint of bitterness and mirth, "As our Champion would no doubt attest, I was never his best follower either - no young pup should be ordering me about."

He glanced at the two knights that stood guard on either side of the door; he nodded, and the two closed the entrance to the chamber.

Fyrdane moved to a seat and gestured for Lyrien and Faldorn to join him.

He sighed, disappointedly, as he sat, "The Circle of Sword-Bearers has been contesting the order since it was given; this decree, and everything that has happened within the Assembly is deplorable." he spoke the words as though they affronted him; he scoffed, "But the Circle is empty - too many of our Sword-Bearers are fighting in the Valley of Ythordor. And the order has been sent to withdraw. The Leader of Ammandorn has refused to explain himself, and he's making decisions that belong within this Hall, with us. We are being shut out of the law, and with the bloodhounds of the Tribunal arriving each day, we will soon not even have the right of justice within our home."

"Bloodhounds?" Lyrien asked.

Fyrdane glanced at her, "The Bloodhounds have been ordered to relocate to Delphanas; they have been given full rights of law-enforcement, by our new Leader."

"How many bloodhounds?" the oracle enquired.

"All of them." Fyrdane answered, "According to the few reports we have been allowed."

Faldorn flinched visibly at the news, "The War of Men will be a massacre."

Fyrdane glanced at him, "Phio believed this War was inevitable?"

The oracle and archivist nodded.

The Sword-Bearer chuckled; Faldorn looked at him in bafflement, "Well at least we won't be the first order to declare war upon the Archivists."

Lyrien's gaze sharpened on the knight, "What do you mean?"

Again, Fyrdane let out a tired, disappointed sigh, "The actions of the Assembly are wrong. The Circle is convinced the only way to win the war, tactically, was to remain entrenched in the Valley. Ormus is not even willing to listen to our advice. And this decree of martial law goes against every precept of our order and the Archivists." he paused, "The Knights of the White Wolf serve the people, and we are entrusted to protect them - from whatever threat befalls them."

Despite the heaviness of emotion that beset her, Lyrien felt a surge of gratitude and respect for the knight; however, she could not suppress her concern about what Fyrdane had said.

"You were planning a coup?" she asked, flatly.

Fyrdane eyed her, "As were you." he responded, "The Circle has considered it. And if Ormus will not reconsider his position, then we will be forced to secure the command of our armies."

Lyrien sighed, "Not for some time." the cryptic remark prompted the knight to raise a querying brow; she explained, "The Magus will attack soon, and with the bloodhounds already in Delphanas, it would seem likely they will defeat Ormus. Whether they win or not, the White Wolf Hall must refrain from the fighting."

"You would have us abandon our duty?" Fyrdane asked, clearly affronted.

"No, Sword-Bearer," Lyrien returned, resolutely; her fixed gaze and expression challenged him, "You do not have the Knights to fight off the Magus Army, and I suspect you have not begun to acquire the allegiance of the guard." she paused; Fyrdane's eyes confirmed her assertion, reluctantly, "You were relying on surprise for your coup to succeed, and you were not considering removing the Assembly entirely." the knight nodded; Lyrien paused and sighed, "Then you will not be able to repel the Magus, only resist them for a time at most - and you would all die. There may not even be the time to rally the guard - we do not know how or when they plan to attack; I think the first sword-stroke may fall before the morning."

Fyrdane's eyes sharpened to attentiveness, "A vision?"

Lyrien shook her head, unsurely, "More an intuition." she met his gaze, "In any case, you will be needed in the aftermath."

The knight listened.
Chapter 34

_Syrkyn's army grew, and the Wyvern Kings knew they could not match the power of his followers. They spoke with the elves and told them to build a great fortress. A circle of mountains that would surround the Fourth Heaven. From there the forests would spread forth and lay siege to the crown of the world, and the Mountains of the Pit. If their brother wanted war, then he would face it on all sides._

_The Wyvern's Hold, Arhnsalfier encircled the crown of the world. Lesser peaks were carved into a path to walk the edge of the Fourth Heaven. And on its eastern side, the bastion city of Hraesvyrling was built. And watched the Mountains of the Pit. The city was crowned in seven lights, seven tears Aunvari shed as he stood on the highest peak, the seven tears he shed for the war his brothers would wage. Aunvari chose to do nothing, he would not help his brothers fight. He would not help them kill Syrkyn._

* * *

Ormus slept. He was secure and comfortable in his quarters. He had reprimanded himself before he had lain down to rest; the trivial emotion had lingered in his mind for too long. Pleasure.

Since his visit to Phio's jail cell, the feeling had not abated - and regardless of the duties he knew he must perform, he had not tried to quell the unremitting emotion. He did not want to. But he knew it was necessary for the following day - he could not afford a mistake of sentiment.

He would have to appear grim, solemn and resolute, when he and Keylyn delivered their evidence - including their testimony, to the magus interrogators. Keylyn had made a surprising effort to gather proof against the Staff-Bearer.

The Elder Archivist had expected far less from the young magus, and had over-compensated with his own fabricated evidence - but together they would leave no avenue for the Bloodhounds to doubt that Ragmurath and the Tribunal were traitors.

Keylyn's resourcefulness perturbed him; the magus was clearly capable of suspicion and subterfuge - Ormus had considered his value, and unfortunately for the young magus the threat he presented was too significant. Keylyn's death would be the last facet of his plan - the completion of which would herald the full security of Ammandorn.

His dreams were absent for the first hours of sleep, but then a light began to wash across his eyes, the light formed into colours, colours into images, images into surroundings. Sensations met his skin, his tongue, his nose, his ears.

He was in a simple room; the grey walls behind him bled away into endlessness - and the only light was from the crackling fire in the hearth, where two chairs had been placed. The heat of the flames was uncomfortable, yet a force urged him to approach the chair and sit.

The chair was soft and welcoming, but his skin burned.

He tried to look around the room, but the same force compelled him to stare into the opposing chair. The harsh light of the fire cast a wall of shadow across the seat, and the fire brightened slowly to pull the shadow across the chair-back like the drawing of a curtain.

Two piercing eyes emerged out of the darkness, followed by a face and an ebony-robed body.

Staff-Bearer Ragmurath sat, watching him.

Ormus wanted to stand, but as he tried to extricate himself, he felt as though chains had twisted around his chest and arms. They wrenched his skin, and strangled his breath.

The Elder Archivist gasped for air.

"Don't try to move," Ragmurath ordered, from his own seat, "This is a dream. I control what happens in this room." he sneered, "You won't be harmed here."

Ormus released the tension from his muscles; the chains slackened and he could breathe again.

"Why are you contacting me?" he asked, impassively.

Ragmurath waited a moment before he answered, "Elder Archivist Ormus, Leader of the Assembly," the Staff-Bearer addressed him with his full title, "You have been convicted of treason. You have been convicted of the assassination of Staff-Bearer Hadrath, High Magus Helanath, Elder Archivist Phio and Elder Archivist Rethan. You are sentenced to death."

Ormus glared at the magus.

After an agonising silence, Ragmurath asked, "Do you have anything to say in your defence?"

"You killed Hadrath," Ormus replied, flatly, "Using your bastard, murderer son. You used him to kill Helanath. You are the traitor."

"Your accusations are true." Ragmurath agreed; Ormus concealed his surprise, "- save for the last one. Under ruling of the Tribunal the wartime assassination of a traitor is deemed acceptable. The Tribunal has decided that the former Staff-Bearer and your consort were both traitors - as are you."

Ormus was silent.

Ragmurath continued, "You cannot overturn the Tribunal's decision. You have no grounds to oppose me." he paused, "The Tribunal is fully aware of all the parts you and I played in the situation that besets us. We are in agreement; the Archivist order has been corrupted, and it must be removed."

Ormus stared, blankly, "How did you discover me?"

Again Ragmurath sneered, "Your one mistake, Ormus." he paused, "Keylyn."

The Elder Archivist's eyes belied the strangling surprise that muted his voice - the cold distance of his gaze met the Staff-Bearer's contempt.

"Keylyn attempted to kill me," Ragmurath stated, "But he failed. During his interrogation he revealed that you had manipulated him into aiding you. Afterwards, I convinced him that it was you who killed Hadrath - not me." The Staff-Bearer paused, his mouth curled in disgust, "The young magus loved Hadrath more than you accounted for."

Again, the surprise did not shake the impassive distance of the Elder Archivist's eyes.

Ragmurath sighed, "I must ask you a question - whether you answer it truthfully does not matter. But I would like to know why you attempted to betray me."

Ormus was silent a moment, "You were a liability." Ragmurath narrowed his eyes in disdain; the Elder Archivist continued, determinedly - his impassive distance showed no bitterness, "Ammandorn required a Leader. Someone who could make decisions without regard to the incessant and debilitating politics of our orders. Someone who would uphold the law."

The perpetual sneer of contempt twisted on the Staff-bearer's face, "That task falls to the Tribunal." he paused and stood, "Good night Ormus."

The fire flickered and faded, leaving Ormus in the dark - alone.

Keylyn stood over the sleeping body of the Elder Archivist. The bastard's brow was creased in concern, and his eyes flickered underneath the lids in some terrible nightmare.

The sounds of fighting outside, screams and the screeching of steel, wafted in through the open doors to his quarters - they did not waken the Elder Archivist.

Enraged tears welled in Keylyn's eyes; he glared on the recumbent man beneath him. He raised the knife above Ormus - and stabbed down.

The blade slid into the Elder Archivist's chest - and freed a sole gurgled scream. Keylyn tore the knife out, and drove it into the body again.

Overwhelmed by a rage repressed for days, he raised the blade, and stabbed - again and again. He stabbed the corpse until blood soaked the sheets, the bed and the shredded blankets. Until his arms were weak with strain, and could no longer obey his hateful intent.

His hands and robe were drenched in vermillion shame; the corpse was an effigy of guilt - a portrait of self-hatred. He had killed the man responsible for murdering his mentor, his father - his love, but the emptiness inside him did not wane.

It worsened. Hadrath's disappointed face continued to stare at him.

Keylyn screamed, and fell onto the corpse; he smashed his fists into the parted flesh, coated his face in red - he shrieked, but the blood could not wash away his despair.

The face of his mentor would not change.

* * *

Days had passed - they were less than a week from Eryndor. The storm had darkened further; the clouds now stretched to every edge of the horizon - and they were impenetrably thick. The days were beset by a perpetual gloom; the pallid memory of the sun in the south, could scarcely ward off complete darkness.

The wind howled day and night; its strength billowed the sails and drove the waves. For three days, the party had been trapped below decks, as the crew of their ship battled the storm. Intermittent squalls had beset the ship, where the wind shrieked so violently and so powerfully, it drowned out the thunder of the waves.

An unexpected, torrential shower had fallen during the morning. The waves had worsened during the onslaught; the Spirit of Humour heaved over the ferocious swells - mountains of water the ship climbed and fell, again and again.

Ayadra had clung to his bunk, in the dark, waiting.

For hours.

He was simply glad to be out of the weather.

Thankfully, after only a few hours of battling crashing waves, the Spirit returned to a less unsettling motion; and, after the cabin had remained steady for some time, the wake of adrenalin forced him to stand and move back out onto the deck.

He needed to breathe.

"We are through the worst of it," Thria shouted over the waves and wind, as he, Elle'dred, Syla and the deathwalker emerged, "...for now."

Slowly, carefully, Ayadra moved to the prow; the deathwalker followed at his side.

He stared at the heavy, black clouds of the northern horizon.

"The storm will not fade." the deathwalker muttered, "It is not a natural thing."

Ayadra was silent for a while, and responded in a whisper that was drowned out by the waves, "The serpent."

The helm met his eyes for a moment. He knew; the serpent was waking. Somewhere, deep down, where he did not want to remember, he knew.

Forget.

Ayadra stared at the clouds above the north; his dreams were peaceful - they had been for days. But deep down, he could feel it; the immense power stirring below the fragile barrier of the water. He could feel the power of the serpent beneath him, the power of the tempest above him, the force of the waves surrounding him - the power of the hells inside him.

No.

Somewhere, deep down, hell-fire blazed.

Kindled by the shadowed gloom of the storm, his nightmares grew -

No.

As Ayadra stared out across the prow across the raging froth of waves and wind, the darkness of the storm, above the north, began to recede - menacing black paled to ashen white, and parted to the east and west until the shroud of mist was but a ghostly veil, and underneath, it could be seen.

Abyss.

A hole was bored into the northern sky - a circle of black, abyssal like Ayadra's eyes, crowned in crimson, amidst a sea of pale ash.

The Dark Moon of Perrefiere.

No.

Hell-fire blazed.

All the nightmares he had escaped - that he had denied for too long raced for his skin.

He screamed -

As fire erupted from his hand. Hell-fire.

A roar that surpassed the storm around him filled the deck - as a wave of violent orange, seething with malicious glee, coated his limb and clawed into the air above his arm. Accompanied by the crushing, impossible heat.

- And despair.

The crewmen of the Spirit were struck by the terrible flames of the incarnate; energy bled from muscles, as the will behind them faltered and drowned. The crew, the party, the Captain of the ship, could not fight the infernal despair - one of the twins, unable to keeping his grasp on the ropes, fell from the riggings and landed on the deck with a sickening snap and a muffled cry.

Ayadra burned.

The dream he had lived - it had been a dream - was ravaged by hell-fire. Again.

He shrieked; the fire - freed by that which claimed the northern sky - crawled down his forearm, and burned upwards towards his shoulder - the flames bit into him with all their savage hatred. His arm contorted under the agony of burning.

Hell-fire laughed. And roared. And crackled.

It would ravage him, the prow of the Spirit, the ship - and everyone he loved. As it had Taedoran - as he had Taedoran.

Ayadra gasped - his cry choked in his throat.

All the truths he had forgotten - all the truths he had buried alongside his memories of Agdor now clawed their way to his surface, and blazed inescapably upon his skin.

He was evil. He was a weapon. He had failed.

He would kill all those he loved.

Hell-fire laughed.

Ayadra screamed - the fire savaged his shoulder.

The flames roared.

No.

- He fought.

No.

He had to -

Hell-fire reared -

Ayadra screamed. The flames raced across his skin, fleeing to his fingertips, and sputtered into nothingness. The fuel of his flesh was extinguished.

He collapsed, sobbing. His arm stung with the memory brands. The Dark Moon watched above.

The impossible heat of hell-fire faded. Energy and will returned to the bodies of the crew.

Collyara rushed to Klemeya's side; the rigger sputtered a breath, against the soaked panels of the deck where he had fallen. He moaned in pain. Hadorn assisted the surgeon to move the injured crewman below decks.

Ayadra lay on the prow, as the beginnings of another downpour fell. He clutched his arm to his chest.

The suit of armour moved to his side - and paused.

He met the empty sockets of the helm - for a moment - as the drops of rain beat the deck around him.

The deathwalker did not approach further.

As Ayadra slowly found his feet.

Amidst the rain, the incarnate moved past the suit of armour, yet clutching his hand to his chest.

Ayadra moved across the deck, towards the archway that led below - under the gazes of the crew.

The incarnate did not meet their eyes.

Tears welled in his.

* * *

Keylyn walked through the highest levels of Delphanas, through the Library that housed all the prophecies of the oracles since the race of men journeyed across the Inland Sea to the land of Ammandorn. The immensity of the level had been covered by shelves, filled with books.

Now, the shelves were toppled - they lay flat upon the ground, some perched on other fallen cases, some smashed. The white-grey marbling of the floor was covered by tomes and volumes, splayed across it. Many were torn, shredded - others burned, some were soaked in blood.

Keylyn's face was crusted in red; his robe shifted awkwardly about his body as the vermillion had dried to a crimson staining. The blood was absent in lines on his cheeks - where remorseful tears had run and washed the red away.

Another tear welled and trickled across his skin; the water wetted the dried blood, and mingled with it until the tear itself was red. It fell to the ground.

Keylyn stared at the sight that had provoked the remorse - an archivist. He was old; a balding head amongst grey hair, with a face beset by wrinkles. His eyes were vacant, and his features motionless.

A bookcase had fallen onto him, and volumes had scattered around his body. An unmoving pool of red covered the floor around the books and seeped into their pages. His tired, worn fingers had reached out in his last moments - and held onto one of the tomes.

Keylyn had to look away - the pain flared in his chest.

The level was empty - the sounds of distant screaming and fighting echoed through the library, but the highest levels of Delphanas had been cleared.

The Magus army had swept through the Assembly, detaining the Archivists. They had struck so suddenly, the guard had not been able to react - the higher-levels had been secured, and soon the Tribunal was to meet with the Knights of the White Wolf to present their ruling.

The Tribunal would claim their victory over the traitors, and Keylyn would be pardoned of his affiliations with them. He did not care.

It all seemed empty to him. Amongst the fallen shelves and scattered books, the library was empty - he was empty. And alone.

* * *

Ayadra lay. In silence.

The storm thundered against the wood of the walls around him. The rain beat the deck above.

Llrsyring sat on the bunk opposite him. The deathwalker had not allowed him to remain alone.

Thria's shouts yet carried sporadically above the howl of the storm. The Captain of the Spirit was battling to save her ship, against the overwhelming power of a storm. A storm he had brought upon them. The serpent was waking, he knew - the door to his knowledge had opened and whispered the truth into his ear.

The serpent was waking, and it was stirring beneath the ocean. It brought the storm.

Because of him.

Ayadra closed his eyes. Hell-fire crackled and roared. And laughed.

All the truths of damnation.

He did not know what would happen once the storm passed; if the ship was not drowned with all its crew, he did not know what would next happen. He had wanted to forget - to leave all the truths of hell-fire behind in that ravine. And he had, for a time.

Hell-fire had burned that away - as it always would.

- Klemeya might have died, he didn't know.

He did not want to hurt people.

The storm passed. The Spirit no longer bucked, heaved and groaned underneath him. Footsteps sounded their approach, from the corridor beyond the doorway.

He feared what they would bring.

Hatred, loathing, disgust - he could bear those emotions in Thria's eyes. He had born that from his guards his entire life.

- What he could not bear, what he hoped, though he had no right to, was that Thria would not be disappointed - that she would not show him that he had failed her. The truth.

Hell-fire crackled.

The old oracle stepped into the doorway. Her long grey hair was soaked, and her tunic shifted about her frame with the adhering weight of water. There was a smile on her face.

Ayadra could not meet her eyes.

"So, here's where you ran to after all that," she quipped; she lowered herself to the bunk nearest the door, "Ayadra -"

"I'm sorry."

Thria chuckled, "If I'd wanted an apology I'd have asked for one." she grinned, "I don't want one, if you didn't know. I know enough to know you shouldn't have to give one - but as you beat me to it, I'll accept your apology." she paused, "Ayadra, no one hates you for what happened. I'd have to throw them off my ship if they did." she chuckled, "However, none of us - an overly old oracle included, know exactly what it was that happened."

For a moment Ayadra remained silent; he could not answer her tacit question - he could not face the truth -

"I am the weapon of the Immortal."

Thria chuckled, "Well, I thought you were dark. But I didn't think you were as dark as they come. Maybe I haven't seen anything quite as sinister as you." - Ayadra winced, "Though I haven't seen anything as beautiful, either...well, asides from my daughter." she moved to his bunk and sat beside him; he wanted to recoil, he did not deserve - "You're a good person Ayadra, whether or not you want to see it." her smile faltered for a moment, "Whether or not you can." she chuckled.

She was silent a long while, "Was a pretty light show, if a bit hot."

Ayadra could not help a flicker of a smile.

Hell-fire whispered. He grimaced and looked away.

- Thria held his hand.

He flinched reflexively, but as ever, the blow he anticipated, did not land.

And the oracle did not let go.

Despite himself, he glanced up at her eyes. In the pale gaze he met only what he had from the first day he stepped aboard her ship.

He looked away.

"The crew understands. They don't hate you," she paused, "Though, just a thought, you might want to stay away from Klemeya for a time. He's a little sore after his fall."

Ayadra winced, "Is he hurt?"

Thria paused, "A few broken bones, ribs, arm - he'll be right in a few weeks. 'Til then Hadorn will have to take care of the rigging."

Hell-fire roared.

He had failed. He would continue to fail. He was evil.

The truth.

He had hurt Klemeya -

Ayadra sat up, and shifted to the lip of the bunk - he met Thria's gaze, "Please...take me to him."

"Why?" Thria asked, confused.

Purpose shone amidst the shame of his eyes.

He had to -

"I can heal him." Ayadra answered.

"Ayadra-" Llrsyring began.

"Don't!" the incarnate growled - it surprised him. He met the empty sockets of the helm.

He had to do this.

"Let me do this Llrsyring." - he begged.

The helm remained silent.

Thria stood alongside the suit of armour, as Ayadra moved from the bunk. Hesitantly, she led them out of the cabin, down the corridor to another of the rooms near the front of the ship. The door was not closed, and Thria stepped into the makeshift infirmary ahead of the incarnate.

Klemeya lay on the bunk at the wall, Collyara sat by his side. The young man was covered in bandages, and his arm was set in a splint. He tried to sit up as he saw his Captain enter, but grimaced in pain and lay back down. Collyara stood to attention.

Despite his fear, Ayadra stepped into the room.

He did not meet the surgeon's eyes - a friend he had wronged. He did not meet his victim's eyes.

Hell-fire whispered.

You are evil. You have failed. You will continue to fail.

His victim and former friend both remained silent.

"Ayadra wants to help you," Thria said to the rigger; she paused, "Ayadra can do eh...something."

Ayadra moved to the side of the bunk. Without lifting his head, he addressed the surgeon.

"You'll need some bandages."

Collyara gaped beside him uncomprehendingly. The man was afraid of him. He knew.

Ayadra reached out with his hand, he angled the talon away as best he could; Klemeya did not recoil, but flinched, as he laid his open palm on the man's chest.

He closed his eyes. Hell-fire whispered in the depths of his being.

It laughed.

- Ayadra knew pain.

He let out a cry, cut short by a choking sputter of blood.

Klemeya gasped beneath him -

His scales were rent apart, as wounds, inexplicable and severe, ripped open his flesh. Snaking lacerations sliced up his arm - wide, gashes tore across his chest. Blood trickled from the exposed flesh, and ran down his leg to pool on the ground.

He gurgled, and coughed - he gasped for air. He could not breathe.

He collapsed amidst a sputter, atop the recumbent twin.

Llrsyring was at his side.

Overcome by shock, Thria watched silently - as did Collyara.

"Help him." - through the haze of agony he heard the numb voice of the deathwalker.

His head swam through shock, darkness edged his vision.

The horror of the wounds did not stifle the surgeon for more than a moment; the rotund man lifted Ayadra off of the bed, and laid him on the floor. In an instant, he had retrieved bandages and wrapped them over the wounds with a precision and speed born of years of experience.

Klemeya was as shocked as the Captain, but he probed his arm and his ribs - and was bewildered by the lack of pain. The rigger's bones were set and strong, as though they had never been broken. His bandages were covered with blood - blood that was not his.

The red stains belonged solely to the incarnate.

"Get him on the bed." Klemeya ordered, forcefully. As he bent down to lift Ayadra's legs.

"What in the hells are you -" Collyara began, but was silenced by the shock of seeing his patient standing beside the bunk.

The rigger repeated the order, and the bewildered surgeon, suit of armour and he, lifted the limp body of the incarnate onto the bunk.

Ayadra's eyelids flickered through spasms; they shut and opened erratically.

Blood leaked from his mouth. He sputtered and dragged in a gasp. He spat it back out.

Baffled by the rapid convalescence of the rigger, Collyara poked the young man's bandages, his ribs, his arm - Klemeya didn't notice. His gaze, like that of his oracle Captain, was locked on the recumbent incarnate.

The scent of blood filled the cabin. A stain soaked into the floor.

Thria waved aside the bewildered surgeon and motioned for the rigger to leave the room; Klemeya obeyed the order, unquestioningly. The Captain had to somewhat forcibly extricate the larger man from the cabin, and muttered a command for him to report to the deck before pushing him into the corridor and barring the doorway.

The two men faded into footsteps on the edge of the incarnate's hearing.

Ayadra could hear too clearly. Shock filled his vision with a glittering haze, but he could hear.

He could breathe. Every breath darkened the white haze.

He might die -

Blood still ran from his mouth and nostrils.

He did not want to die.

For a moment, the guilt was gone.

Ayadra lost consciousness.

Hell-fire met him in his dreams.

He burned.
Chapter 35

_Syrkyn's rage embraced him always, and he struck at the Mountains of the Pit. His blade, terrible and swift, it gouged great wounds in the land. He knew the Immortal lay only a sword stroke away from him, and no mountain would stand in his way._

_The Wyvern Kings were distraught. They knew if Syrkyn dug deeper the pit would be opened again and he would bring the end he had fought so hard to prevent. They knew they had to stop their brother. All but Aunvari gathered to plan their war with Syrkyn. They knew their army was too weak to combat Syrkyn's, but Syrkyn still held something of theirs. His sword. They could use his blade against him. So the four Wyvern Kings cursed his sword, but Aunvari could not stand to do so and he would not._

_The four each spoke a curse upon Armenblista. The first was that with each stroke of his blade, Syrkyn's doom would draw ever closer. At fifty strokes he would be felled. The second curse was such that whenever Syrkyn marched, his blade must draw the blood of one of his servants for each league that he crossed. The third curse was uttered, that should Syrkyn ever lose his blade his army would be doomed to die. The fourth curse was that should Syrkyn raise his blade to fell his brothers it would turn against him._

* * *

Ayadra stood on the prow of the Spirit. He was wrapped in bandages, and his blankets. Despite the force the draping material caught from the wind, he required it - to keep himself warm. To hide.

To conceal the blood that stained the bandages. To conceal the burning.

For days he had drifted in and out of unconsciousness, woken only by bouts of coughing. While he slept, he burned. As he had before.

Hell-fire haunted him in his dreams.

As it always would.

Its truths echoed in his mind.

He ignored them. He did not care. Or at least he told himself he did not care.

They had survived the storm - no one had been lost. Or injured. Beyond the scrapes and bruises the tasks of the ship demanded.

He had healed Klemeya.

He clung to the one fact that gave any hope - he denied the truth. He had hurt Klemeya. But for now he did not care. He had taken back what pain he could. He burned in his dreams.

For now, he wanted - to forget.

For one last day, he wanted to forget what lay ahead.

His wounds had closed unnaturally fast; as before, the bandages were singed by the fire of his flesh. He would be able to march once they -

Forget. He could not. Hell-fire laughed in his dreams, in his thoughts - in the northern sky.

The Dark Moon stared down from the north, limned in red, black and gleeful.

Always.

It was hell-fire's promise.

At some point during his nightmares, he had known where he would have to go. He would have to reach the shadow of the moon. Hell-fire would burn if he didn't. He knew.

They were less than a day from Eryndor.

Beyond the black mass of the storm that now occluded the southern horizon, there lay a peaceful calm. Overhead, only the pallid ash of Perrefiere's sky remained. The wind was weak - gentle. The rain no longer fell. The sky could shed no tears.

The storm lay behind him; the southern sun was remembered solely by a faint glow that resisted the black mass above the ocean.

The shore grew; a serrated line of promised mountains.

Ayadra hated mountains.

He closed his eyes.

- Shock.

He flinched, recoiled, stifled a yelp, as Thria's unexpected hand fell on his shoulder.

The oracle chuckled, but when she saw the pain in his eyes, her face lit up in concern, "I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"

It took a moment to calm the reflexive fear, repress the despair; he shook his head.

She smiled.

Hell-fire whispered.

The Captain of the ship leaned against the prow beside him. As ever, she did not wish to leave him alone. For that, he was too grateful for words.

The shore loomed.

"How are your wounds?" Thria asked, with an inspecting glance.

Ayadra met her eyes for a moment; he looked away.

After a long pause he found the strength to mutter, "Healing...they don't hurt."

A lie. It did not matter, he lied to himself too much. He didn't care.

"Klemeya is grateful for what you did, by the way." Thria chuckled, "I've been working him a bit too hard for him to have had the time to come and say it himself." she paused, "If you don't mind me saying, that wasn't the best way to get him back on his feet."

The truth.

Silence lingered.

"That power will kill you, you know. And that's not a good thing."

She chuckled.

He stared out across the ocean.

"Do you want to die?"

The question came as a shock; for a moment he did not know how to answer. All the truths of hell-fire resounded in his mind; all the truths of his nature.

"No." he muttered, reluctantly. The truth.

He did not want to die.

He had never wanted to die.

For a long while, the Captain and he stared out across the ocean. Across the endless waters lost in gloom. The waves were beautiful.

Thria glanced up in response to a shout from her helm.

As much as she wanted to, she could not stay beside the incarnate. Thria knew he wanted to be alone, whether or not it did him good. She laid one last reassuring touch on his shoulder - again he flinched, surprised at the gesture, or rather, expecting something less gentle.

The Captain of the Spirit moved across the deck, back to the helm.

The deathwalker, another of her overly silent passengers, stood staring out across the ocean. The empty suit of armour had not said anything for some time.

She greeted the expressionless metal of his helm with a grin, "You really are a twisted sort."

Llrsyring turned to face her fully.

She chuckled, "Speaking of which, I think I had another prophecy last night. Although it might just have been a horrible nightmare." she paused, "I saw something during that last bit of storm - you'll have to go into the Darklands. Or at least, under the light of the Dark Moon, for Ayadra's sake."

Llrsyring was silent a moment yet, before he replied, "I was already aware of that."

She chuckled, again, "Well, just a reminder. Something old waits for you in the darkness, something you might not have expected." The empty sockets of the helm met her eyes; she perceived his tacit question, "No, I'm afraid that's all I saw. Not at all of any use, I know. But I might say I never had a vision in my life til I met you lot. Now this old head of mine's all clogged with prophecy."

Llrsyring chuckled.

"This storm's never going to fade is it?" she asked, her grin did not falter, "Thydo's never seen anything like it. Well it's true that he's never seen anything, but he's quite sure this is not just a bit of bad weather." she eyed the deathwalker, "And I think you and I both know that it has a little more to do with the presence beneath us...and over there on the prow."

Llrsyring met her gaze, levelly. He did not say anything.

Thria raised a knowing brow, "Whatever Ayadra is - he is a rather large bit older than either of us."

"He is." Llrsyring affirmed, "The serpent creates the storm. It is awake, and will not return to slumber."

"So the sea won't be crossed again, once we reach land?" Thria asked, rhetorically.

The helm only looked at her.

She chuckled, "Oh well. Guess it is a good thing. I was nearly out of business."

The deathwalker iterated, flatly, "You and your crew will be stranded in Eryndor."

"Oh yes. I was already aware of that." Thria chirped, lightly, "So did they. Since we decided to leave Vyrys, as a matter of fact. Actually, since we hurried across the sea to reach Vyrys." she chuckled, "I let the crew decide whether we'd help you or not - we all knew this journey would be one way. And somehow not a soul jumped off the boat at Vyrys, like I offered."

Llrsyring turned away for a moment.

The deathwalker stated, straightforwardly, "The War of the Immortal is coming."

Thria laughed, "Dear me, so we're to be stranded in a land menaced by an evil moon promising nothing but our complete destruction, with a war dropped on our heads and no possible hope of escape or victory? That sound about right?" the oracle grinned, widely, joyfully, "Well, let's hope everything works out for the best. And if it doesn't, a hopeless battle to the death sounds like fun."

* * *

Lyrien stood in the small room reserved for both her and Faldorn; she stared out of the narrow window onto the metropolis below. Delphanas belonged to the magus - the Archivists were deposed.

The Tribunal's coup on the city had been resolved; the city-guard had surrendered. A civil conflict would result in widespread destruction within Delphanas, and the threat of retribution from the remaining magus forces at Grgadorn, convinced the guard their allegiance was better placed in the Tribunal.

The magus had presented evidence of the Assembly's corruption - indisputable evidence, and the guard had accepted the necessity of the Tribunal's actions. Under martial law, the coup had been justified - and with the majority of the Archivist order either dead or detained, there was no one left to defend within the city. The negotiations had been resolved in less than a day - the only large force of arms Delphanas possessed had acquiesced to the instatement of the magus as the 'Overseers of Ammandorn'.

The Tribunal had signed a treatise; that once the war was concluded, and the remaining Archivists had been tried and, where guilty, condemned for their crimes - the Assembly would be reformed, and the balance of power would be restored to the tenets of the law.

The Circle of Sword-Bearers, of the Hall of the White Wolf had not believed that the Tribunal intended to relinquish their power - nor had Lyrien or Faldorn, but with the City Guard in support of the magus, and the Hall bereft of even the comparably small numbers it possessed during peace-time, the Knights could not resist the Tribunal.

They had signed the treatise. And, as the first order of their new post, the Tribunal had assigned the 'placation of the people' to the Knights. It was demeaning, and against every precept of their order.

The riots had begun almost immediately - the fear of the Magus regime, and outrage at the overturning of the legitimate government had divided the people. Those that weren't rebelling against the new order were fighting their fellow citizens in support of the Tribunal - the city had turned to anarchy.

The Tribunal had responded with the stricture of the law; they had instituted a curfew and invested the guard - under the command of the bloodhounds, with the power of summary conviction. People were being killed for their fear - by guards who thought they were doing their duty.

And Lyrien watched it all from her room.

They waited for Fyrdane to return; the Sword-Bearers would be busy until the riots ceased, then they would retreat to their Hall - and Lyrien would ask them to begin the work of the resistance all over again.

Disillusionment strangled her resolve; asking the Knights to go against the principles of their order would be a difficult task, and if the Circle disagreed the resistance would indeed have lost. But what disheartened her most was that inevitably the resistance would again spark a civil war that would result in more death.

She could not stomach it; the fighting in Delphanas appalled her. She had ignored the full extent of their actions; the murders of the Staff-Bearer and the High Magus had been so extraneous to her life she had not grasped their full meaning. It was only Keron's murder that had demonstrated the terrible impact of killing - and then Phio's death; she realised she did not want to be party to it anymore.

But there was one factor she could not ignore - every other reason for the resistance had been defeated; the magus had won, the War of Men had been fought - but there was still an abhorrent wrong she had to correct. For Phio's memory. The necromancers.

With the Tribunal in power, those born to the sixth blood - read by oracles at birth, would continue to be slaughtered mercilessly. All their proof had burned with the prophecy of Thyesmered - the Tribunal would never overturn that law. And that had to be opposed.

Faldorn had concurred; the resistance must survive, until the lies of their society had been corrected. He lay on the bed, and listened to the dim sounds of battle that echoed in from the streets; Delphanas was burning. She could see it hurt him; the destruction of his home. Of her home.

He did not let her see his pain fully, and in that, he might never.

She didn't need her eyes to see he wasn't dealing with his loss - but she could not blame him. What she herself had lost was, at times, too difficult to bear. And she would not allow tears.

If he preferred to ignore the pain, who was she to tell him that it was wrong.

The world was wrong.

They were both empty, running on the last instincts available to them. They wanted to fight, if only to sustain the wavering anger and resolve.

But until the Knights returned, they could only wait - and watch their city burn.

* * *

They were only an hour from the shore. At Thria's direction, they had all gathered in her cabin, the largest room on the ship, yet one that still seemed cramped with the magus, incarnate, deathwalker and Elle'dred all inside.

Thria's desk was covered in maps she had unrolled to give them a sense of location.

Elle'dred had not seen such detailed maps of Eryndor before; admittedly, he had never needed to.

It struck him, just how unfamiliar he was with the land he would be traversing in too short a time.

Ayadra stood, wrapped in his enshrouding covering. As ever, in silence.

Elle'dred wondered what would happen when they reached Eryndor. He did not want to acknowledge the possibilities. There were too few.

"So, where would you like to set down?" Thria enquired, with a grin, "Goldingress is cold and damp this time of year."

Elle'dred could not help a smirk, "I do not think a port would be the best idea."

Thria glanced at the blanket clad incarnate and the dark-robed suit of armour, "No, I suppose not. I must keep reminding myself normal people wouldn't receive these two at all well."

The knight turned to the deathwalker, "Where do you we need to go once we reach the shore?"

Llrsyring glanced at Thria, before he answered, "We must go to Ambranas."

"Why?" Syla asked.

"Ayadra must walk under the light of the dark moon." the helm responded, and turned to the incarnate.

All eyes fell on the black, expressionless bone of Ayadra's face. He nodded.

Elle'dred sighed.

"During the storms," Thria interposed, "I saw that you must cross into the light of the Dark Moon - for Ayadra's sake, and because there's something old waiting for you. Something that is important to your shared fate." she chuckled, "Beat's a little off, but it rhymes...more or less. It's my second prophecy, I'm so very proud."

Elle'dred chuckled; Syla allowed a smile.

"Ambranas." the knight muttered to himself.

Despite all he had been through, all he had lost, their mission had not changed - the thought caused a surge of bitterness. For a moment, it all seemed so pointless.

"Well there really is only one way into Ambranas..." Thria began.

Elle'dred threw an inspecting look at the magus - the glimmer of uncertainty that flitted across her gaze, as the Captain continued, prompted the doubts he had about her motives. Or perhaps a care he had for her - he did not know. She'd made her choice, but he was not convinced she wanted it.

"Syla," he addressed, interrupting the Captain, "You do not have to come with us - if you do not want to."

The magus azure eyes hardened into a glare that informed him if he asked another question as condescending as that he would suffer a debilitating injury.

Elle'dred looked away abashed. As ever she proved him wrong; he respected her more than he could admit.

Resolutely, she answered, "I have come this far."

"Wouldn't do you any good to come with us, anyway." Thria remarked, jovially.

The knight and magus both turned to the Captain; she grinned, "Oh, so you haven't been told the black storm above is going to become rather permanent on this ocean?"

Elle'dred glanced at the deathwalker.

"The serpent has awoken, it creates the storm - the sea will not be crossed again."

The knight returned his gaze to Thria's beaming visage - any concern was immediately assuaged, "The crew and I knew all this before we decided to help you."

Elle'dred could not help a smirk, but turned to the suit of armour, "Were you going to tell us this?"

"It was not important."

The knight suppressed a grunt of frustration; Llrsyring had not told him to full truth. Again.

- It did not matter that much now -

"Ambranas." he reiterated.

Thria chuckled, "As I was saying, I think you should take the most direct road. We'll set down ten leagues from Goldingress," she searched through the maps, and moved a large canvas sheet etched with the immediate shore atop the others, "You can make it to the forest of Beren'dier and across the Living Mountains within a couple days, from there you can cross the Flats of Narsoth until you reach the City of Shades." she pursed her lips, "Would be terribly quicker with horses."

Elle'dred could not repress a derisive laugh, "We've not had much luck with horses."

Since Garde. A friend he had lost a lifetime ago. A friend he had abandoned.

"Well," the captain continued, "Provisions won't be a problem. You restocked in Vyrys - and I'll give you what you can carry from our stores."

"Thank you." Elle'dred said. The words were not sufficient to express the appreciation he felt for the old oracle.

Thria beamed, "Thank you for your thanks. Despite stranding me in a land besieged by the enemy, telling me the world is coming to an end - and travelling without paying me, you have allowed me to think I might actually do something that has some consequence in this world," she chortled, "And that is no bad thing."

Elle'dred could not help a smile.

After they had gathered everything that could be carried from the Spirit's storeroom, they reconvened on the deck, and waited as the ship pulled closer to the shore. Even in the distance, the jagged row of mountains grew to a towering height; their sides, blue in the dim light - covered in forests. The ship dropped anchor, and a longboat was lowered into the water.

The crew gathered on the deck for a farewell.

Elle'dred and Syla exchanged hearty tidings, encouraging hugs, and stoic nods with the each of the crewmen - mingling in a convoluted mass. Llrsyring had seemingly abstained from the parting, disappearing - unseen, into a wisp of black smoke before the party had returned to the deck.

Ayadra had not noticed the absence of the deathwalker until he stood watching the departure, shrouded in his coverings.

Fear.

He was more naked than ever.

He would have to face the people he had hurt. Klemeya.

He wanted nothing more than to move to the edge of the ship, climb down to the longboat. He wanted to pass from the lives of the crew, unacknowledged and forgotten. He did not want to face those he had harmed -

He did not deserve -

Hell-fire whispered. It crackled.

Whether because he could not deny the thought that he deserved it, or because it was simply unavoidable, he stood, in full view of the crew.

Elle'dred and Syla exchanged their last farewells, and the attention fell on him.

He stared at the deck for a while, as ever, in silence.

Despite himself - because of - he raised his eyes to meet the crew's.

For a moment there was only the silence, uneasy, damning - until Klemeya moved forward.

The rigger met Ayadra's eyes levelly - and extended his hand.

Shock.

Terrified, and uncertain, Ayadra tentatively reached out with the same obsidian-scaled hand that had burned with hell-fire - the same part of him that had harmed the man.

Klemeya's met his grasp, his hand - and clasped it firmly.

The rigger shook his limb, "Thank you."

There was no hatred in the man's eyes.

Enyera moved forward, and extended her own farewell. She smiled.

Collyara followed, a grin filled his coarse features, "Chin up, scrawny."

The crew, each in turn, extended their hands, clasped his and shook it warmly. All save for the boatswain. Ayadra was grateful for that, he was yet terrified of the woman.

Hell-fire flickered in the back of his mind. It seethed.

But for a moment, it did not matter.

Thria beamed from beside her crew, and after the last tidings and farewells were given to the incarnate, knight and magus, she ushered them down the rope ladder that led to the longboat.

She followed. The Captain alone, as she had welcomed them aboard, saw them through their departure from her ship. Thria freed the tether and began to row the craft to the shore.

As they neared the beach, she gestured ahead, at the black-clad shape of the deathwalker.

Llrsyring stood on the shore some distance away from the lapping waterline.

Syla and Ayadra disembarked, and waded through the shallows, as the Captain and the knight beached their craft.

As Elle'dred and Thria joined the three on the sand, the old oracle flashed a grin.

"You didn't tell me you could do that." she quipped to the deathwalker, "Not one for parties, huh?"

Llrsyring chuckled, "I've said enough goodbyes in my time."

Thria laughed, "Well you are damn well not getting out of this one."

She came to a momentary halt, as the knight took his place alongside the others.

"Hmmm," Thria mused, "It'll be something of a bore not to have such a strange bunch on my ship...you do realise you're leaving me stranded with those fools I call my crew?" she chuckled, "Oh well, I am sure that the ale of Goldingress will wash all memory of you in no time."

Elle'dred grinned, and extended his hand, "Thank you."

Thria clasped his hand, and pulled the knight into a short embrace, "Anytime." - after sharing another embrace with the reluctant magus, amidst a chuckle, the older woman turned to the deathwalker, "I don't suppose I'll get a hug from you? You'll disappear on me again."

Llrsyring chuckled.

The oracle turned to Ayadra, "You're not getting out of it." she moved towards and embraced the incarnate - with the gentle firmness he could not resist, nor wanted to, "Now, don't you dare forget what I said about things. At the very least it'll make you smile, and that's no bad thing."

She laughed.

Ayadra smiled - the expression was mostly lost, beneath the rim of the bone mask that was his face, but for a moment, his eyes shone with a lightness Elle'dred could not thank the oracle enough for.

"I'll probably never see any of you again - but on the oft chance I do I'll be very pleased. Take care. Now, I'd best return to my ship," she said, with a note of reluctance, "Make sure the fools haven't turned it completely around."

With a grin, as ever, the Captain turned and moved back to the longboat; after shoving the craft back into the shallows, she leapt aboard, sat momentarily and then stood.

Sweeping her overly wide, broad-brimmed hat from her head, in an elegant flourish that preceded a bow, she saluted the party one last time and shouted with limitless joy, "To doom and death, us all."

* * *

Lyrien sat in the spacious meeting hall. The room surrounded her with the same marbling grey-white stone that was common to every room in the immensity of Delphanas. As befitting their stature, the room that served the Knights of the White Wolf was austere and simple - only the large, azure banner depicting a White Wolf with golden eyes adorned the walls' subtle shifting through white and grey.

Faldorn sat at her side; the young archivist stared listlessly at the banner. His eyes were unfocused, and his face had yet to deviate from the despondent impassivity that had beset him for days. She understood his feelings, and for the first time since they had been introduced she realised how young he was.

Too young.

He strove to maintain the strength Phio had asked of him - the strength she continued to ask of him. He fought because she asked him to. But once more she did not need the eyes of an oracle to see he was in pain - he was broken. Shattered down to his core. As was she.

Lyrien had resolved, she would restore the resistance - restore the Archivists, and depose the magus. But her conviction was an empty thing; in the days they had waited, with nothing more to do than watch - conviction did not obscure what they had already lost.

However, the meeting hall was filling - and she was too stubborn to surrender.

Fyrdane strode in, ahead of the remaining Circle of Sword-Bearers that still resided in Delphanas. He nodded an acknowledgement to Lyrien and Faldorn, and then turned to his side and waited for each of his fellow knights to enter.

"Alladane, Sword-Bearer of the White-Wolf Hall," he introduced the first man to enter; he continued, though omitted the tedium of the full titles, "Cyrradorn..." an elderly man, "Palai'dred..." a young woman, "Lyrdane..." another aging man, "Eldane...Ythadane, and Ammario." three younger men.

They moved into the meeting hall; Lyrien and Faldorn sat at the front of the room, as the Sword-Bearers stood in a line opposing them.

Fyrdane joined the oracle and Archivist, standing at their side, "This is Lyrien, an oracle, and Faldorn," he paused a moment, "...an archivist. By my right as a Sword-Bearer of our Circle, I have granted them asylum. I have promised them safety in our Hall, and I request the Circle not to challenge my decision - I trust them." he paused, a series of nods issued from the other Sword-Bearers; Fyrdane himself nodded in gratitude, "They have come to request our assistance."

He gestured to her; she stood and the knight sat beside Faldorn.

"You are all aware of what has happened to our city," she began, "And I will tell you the reason for it. Elder Archivist Phio, Faldorn and I discovered that a War of Men was inevitable, and that the Magus had planned to stage a coup and overthrow the legitimate government." she paused, "Phio formed a group, a resistance to oppose the magus and prevent their coup - we failed. We are guilty of treason - and murder. We assassinated Staff-Bearer Hadrath and High Magus Helanath; these are the facts - and I will not deny them. The truth of the matter also, is that we were manipulate by Elder Archivist Ormus - his motives I can only guess, but he betrayed us, convicted Phio, murdered Rethan, and used the fear of our corruption to manipulate the Assembly into granting him their political power." - the bitterness rose inside her, "Ormus is dead. And the magus have taken over - the reasons for our resistance have been exhausted. Save for one. The situation within Delphanas is evidence that a great wrong has been done to our society - and that that wrong must be corrected. You will find it difficult to believe what that crime is, but what I speak is the truth - there are six bloods. The sixth is the blood of necromancers. There are some born to the blood, and under the laws of necromancy they are considered evil and murdered at birth." she paused, again - the impact of her words perturbed even the stolid faces of the soldiers, "The Elder Archivists, the Tribunal, oracles trained as Birth-Readers and the soldiers trained by the magus to guard them, are responsible for enforcing this law. For hundreds of years this has been a secret of our society - and now it is something you must know."

The faces before her were a myriad of differing reactions; distant in thought, shaking of heads, attentive, flat and expressionless. All bore signs of incredulity.

"What proof do you have of this?" Cyrradorn asked; his age-furrowed and battle-scarred countenance was locked in suspicion.

"Only my word." Lyrien stated, "I was trained as a Birth-Reader."

"What are the parents told?" Ythadane enquired.

"The soldiers..." Lyrien paused, "We tell them the child has been born to the seeing blood. The infant is taken away as an oracle, and then the soldiers secretly murder them."

Shock pervaded the Sword-Bearers.

Lyrien stared at them, unwaveringly, "I have come to ask your help. This was the reason Phio formed the resistance, the reason the War of Men has occurred, and the reason why the Tribunal exists. We intended to change the laws - the magus opposed us. Faldorn and I are all that remain of the resistance and I ask the Circle of Sword-Bearers to join us."

"What do we have to do?" Palai'dred asked; her visage was strong and resolute - she exuded support for the oracle amongst the uncertainty of her fellows.

Lyrien maintained the inexpressiveness of her face, though she was grateful for the Sword-Bearer's forthright allegiance, "The Hall of the White Wolf is the only political body left; you, along with your knights can exert political pressure on the Tribunal, gather information or evidence against them," she took a breath briefly and stated, "And assassinate those that can be, until a military coup can succeed."

Even Palai'dred's conviction wavered at the request.

"We are Knights, Oracle," Cyrradorn stated, "Not assassins - or murderers. Such people are criminals." he paused; Fyrdane had stood and glared a challenge at him - the older Sword-Bearer continued, unheeding, "If you ask us to resist the magus order we will do so the way our Hall always has."

"So you speak for the entire Circle now?" Palai'dred asked, sharply.

Cyrradorn snapped back, "I am a Sword-Bearer of forty-years, I will not have this oracle - or you, challenge our dictums."

"Perhaps you are too old." Palai'dred rejoined.

"Palai'dred." Ythadane interjected in chastisement.

"Cyrradorn," Lyrdane said; the Sword-Bearer stepped forward to meet the affronted eyes of the other man, with his own aged, wrinkle-framed, gaze, "I have been a Sword-Bearer as long as you - and I do not know where in the dictums of the White Wolf it states that age is any measure for wisdom. Our Champion himself is younger than any of us - and if he were not absent from our Hall, this matter would be his decision."

"It is fortunate he is not here." Cyrradorn answered.

Lyrdane glared dangerously, "Do you challenge his right as Champion of the White Wolf Hall?"

Cyrradorn's mouth curled in spiteful rage, "If the dictums of the White Wolf did not preclude such behaviour, I might. But I follow them - and so should you."

"I agree with Cyrradorn," Alladane stated, flatly, "We cannot betray our ideals to serve the people. We have considered a coup already - I see no reason to abandon that idea."

"A coup would fail." Fyrdane announced from beside Lyrien, "We have not the knights to fight the magus."

"We only need to remove the Tribunal." Alladane answered.

"And what of the magus army?" Fyrdane growled, "Do you think they will turn to us so easily? Like the magus have turned our own armies against the city?"

"They have not the right to challenge us -" Cyrradorn began.

"So say the dictums of the White Wolf." Fyrdane rejoined, acerbically, "And you think you are wise."

"Fyrdane!" Alladane reprimanded.

"If we fight the magus now we will all die!" Fyrdane shouted.

"Do you see this doom, oracle?" Lyrdane asked, meeting Lyrien's gaze.

The oracle's eyes hardened, "The magus are in control of the city. You do not have the force to fight them off - and the Tribunal are not fools; they know the longer they hold power the more difficult it will be to unseat them. They will be expecting an attack soon - you are outnumbered, and the element of surprise is lacking at best."

"Have you seen our death?" Cyrradorn pressed, cuttingly.

Lyrien glared at him; his eyes did not waver - nor did hers, "No." she answered, sincerely.

"Then if there is no prophecy that says we will lose, we will handle this as Sword-Bearers of the White Wolf Hall - not assassins." the aging Sword-Bearer turned to his fellows, "Declare yourselves, those who agree."

"Aye." Alladane said.

"Aye." Eldane, Ythadane and Ammario each answered in series.

Fyrdane glared at them - clearly affronted by their decision, "You disgrace the Hall of the White Wolf."

"The Circle has decided." Cyrradorn announced, and turned to Lyrien and Faldorn, "Your resistance will survive - we will fight despite the chance of defeat, and if you are loyal to your cause you will aid us in planning our move against the magus. But we will not be your murderers to command."

"Cyrradorn." Alladane reprimanded.

The older Sword-bearer maintained a disdaining glare for a second, and moved out of the room. The others filed out behind him.

Lyrdane approached the oracle and archivist, "As much as I disagree with him, Cyrradorn is correct - we are not assassins or even politicians. We protect the people, oracle, but for the most part we are sword-born, our blood and destiny reside in our blades, and they have been sworn to our codes." he paused, and muttered, reluctantly, "I am sorry."

Lyrien met his eyes, "You do not need an oracle's eyes to see that you will die on them."

Lyrdane's expression wavered for a moment, tacitly and fatalistically agreeing, no you do not.

Palai'dred followed him, nodding both indignantly and supportively to the oracle. Fyrdane muttered his disillusion with the Circle, before moving behind the last of the Sword-Bearers.

Lyrien waited, until the fading footsteps vanished from perception - her face was cold and impassive. The emptiness of defeat resounded inside her once more; her strength was waning - but she was angry. And anger could be transmuted into resolve. She knew what she must do - and although it frightened her to a degree, she had done it before.

"If they need a vision to convince them," she muttered, hoarsely, "Then I will give them one."

"What do you mean?" Faldorn asked, confused.

Lyrien sat beside him and met his eyes, "I will force a vision."

"That's dangerous." he warned, weakly.

The strength of her features overcame what he could muster, "I have a forced a vision before. I needed to know if Rethan would betray us. I can force another vision."

Faldorn did not answer - his eyes were hurt, "Did you see Rethan betray us?"

"Yes," she answered, "But I was too late to warn Phio."

Faldorn winced; he turned to stare at the floor, after a pause, he asked, "I cannot stop you can I?"

Lyrien's resolve had not been shaken - and now ire fuelled her determination, "No. At worst it will blind me. But a blind oracle can convince those bastards better than I." she paused; he looked back up to her - he had conjured the same empty strength she upheld, "Either I will see their deaths, or I will see their victory. We cannot suffer any further defeat."

Faldorn breathed out steadily, and managed a glum nod.

She knew they were both weak, and they would eventually falter, but he had decided to force one last effort from himself; her gratitude strengthened her resolve, "I will need your help." she said, "Last time I attempted this, I fell."

* * *

The light was fading as the party made their way up the southern slopes of the mountain. The dull ambience of the southern sun was muted to a perpetually fading grey, which pervaded the mountainside. It drifted through the high, blue-green trees, and was quenched by shadows on the forest floor.

The southern sky was obscured by the black storm - now, the torrential fall of water could be seen even from a distance, and the waves turned the horizon to an effervescent, white fury.

They made their way to a grey, rock plateau that protruded from the slope, and overlooked the white-line of the shore. As the dreary glow transitioned into darkness they set up camp.

Elle'dred and Syla lit a fire; Elle'dred struck a spark with flint and steel and Syla grasped the flames with the power of her birth. Soon the wide cliff was amply warmed.

Ayadra sat close to the blaze; Elle'dred met his eyes - they were despondent. And as ever, filled with a confliction he could not fathom.

He, at least, knew one source of the incarnate's feelings. Despite the mass of high peaks that obscured the northern sky above them, the Dark Moon still remained - undeniable, inevitable, waiting.

Elle'dred could not repress it; a gnawing dread lingered in the back of his mind. And despair.

He knew Ayadra could feel it. Despite the bittersweet parting of the captain, the incarnate now stared listlessly, in silence. As ever.

Ayadra deserved better.

There was nothing he could do.

The night was sadistically cold - the chill cut through each of them despite the warmth of the fire. They clustered together, as close to the flames as they dared, wrapped in every spare blanket they had.

Sleep came, eventually, and morning arrived too soon, with the bleak grey light.

Elle'dred roused, and began to gather their belongings. Syla quenched the remains of the fire, after draping her blanket over the still sleeping incarnate. Once they had shouldered their packs, Elle'dred approached him.

"Ayadra." he said, as he shook his shoulder, "We have to move."

A groan reverberated underneath the blanket.

Elle'dred sighed. He lifted the edge away from the incarnate's face - and was immediately alarmed.

Ayadra groaned again; a bandaged hand was clenched to his chest -

The swathes were peeling away, singed and blackened at their edges.

The incarnate's eyes were clenched shut; he grimaced. In pain.

"Llrsyring." Elle'dred called.

The deathwalker moved swiftly to the incarnate's side.

The helm watched as the bandages hung loosely from the incarnate's obsidian flesh, then were rent by fleeting burst of fire and fell away - a small flame sputtered on the last shred, but died before it could burn onto the blankets. Ayadra's arm was scarred, as though the wounds had been seared shut - snaking lines of charred, rough black replaced the injuries he had suffered healing the rigger. Still, his eyes were clenched in pain.

Llrsyring rested his gauntlet gently on the incarnate and muttered something imperceptible to the knight beside him.

Ayadra managed to open his eyes a crack.

He uttered a weak moan. There was shame in his abyssal orbs.

He looked away.

Ayadra tried to move, but winced visibly as he attempted to unclench his hand.

Elle'dred watched; he was helpless to do anything.

Syla knelt beside him.

"Is there nothing more you can do?" the magus asked.

Llrsyring stroked the incarnate's neck, "This battle only he can fight."

After a long minute, Ayadra managed to attain his feet. In silence. In pain. He would not meet anyone's eyes. He moved a step away from the knight; he still held his hand against his chest.

Elle'dred watched the incarnate stumble momentarily, and continue. Up the steep slope of the mountainside.

Ayadra deserved better. He had always deserved better.

There was nothing Elle'dred could do.

It all seemed so pointless.

He assumed pace behind the deathwalker and Syla.
Chapter 36

_No longer could Syrkyn feel the curses upon his blade, as once he would have. He had become blind to all things save hate. He had made his army ready for war, he knew he must purge the land of those that stood in his way. Only then would he be strong enough to open the pit and slay the Immortal. So the shadows told him. He led his army to the wall of Arhnsalfier, to the bastion city of Hraesvyrling._

_His army had crossed forty leagues, and forty strokes of his blade. Syrkyn knew not what he had slain, nor that with each stroke his doom drew ever closer. His four brothers, four Wyvern Kings stood upon the wall. The Prince of Ash sent his goblins forth to battle the elves that defended the city. The lesser Wyverns flew to set fire to the wall. But Syrkyn himself, watched only his brothers. Who mocked him from their perch, or so the shadows said. They would die, he roared. He leapt to the sky and flew to slay them._

_The battle that came was unlike anything the Wyvern Kings had known. They loved their brother, but they would not let it stay their hands. They fought him as they had fought the darkness, but they were not strong enough. In eight strokes, Syrkyn had cast their spears and daggers to the ground. And wounded each of them. Syrkyn stood above his brothers, tall and dark as his shadow was cast across them. And he raised Armenblista to fell his kin._

* * *

The white light. The glaring light that burned through her eyelids. Through her eyes. Through her. Lyrien faced it. Once more she had found this light - once more at dawn. For a day she had meditated, with only Faldorn to watch and wait by her side.

But now he had vanished, the room had vanished - there was only the white light. Destiny. It blazed too bright to touch - her eyes burned with agony. And she was lost to the pain.

The pain. Phio's death.

It ate at her, deep inside - her emptiness was rooted there. The defeat after defeat she suffered weighed on her; Rethan's betrayal, her inability to see the threat - and when she did, her inability to act in time. The knights decision to fight an unwinnable battle - they needed a prophecy to convince them.

She would give them one - even if she lost herself entirely in the pain.

She did not try to shield herself from the loss, the emptiness - she opened her eyes and met it full-sighted. And she was blind.

For a moment. The light burned through her; the pain reduced her to nothing - but it cleared, and she saw.

A sea of images swept over her, too many to count, or perceive individually. She saw the pain the magus would inflict, the travesties that would occur - the suffering of the people.

- Too many images. Too many prophecies.

Too many deaths.

A blacksmith, beaten to death for supporting the magus. A stable-woman executed for hiding an archivist. Archivists, all of them, too many - killed. Murdered. A magus guard, vermillion, dragging a body from an alley. The future. He would be tortured. She would die. Fathers. Mothers. Children. Necromancers. Too many - they all would die. Suffer -

Under a wealth of pain she could not bear, Lyrien cried out.

Her vision cleared.

The sea of images swelled and surged and coalesced into prophecy. The vision surprised her - it was so clear, so sharp. It was the truth. It was what would happen; what was destined.

She knew what she must do.

The light burned again, her head reeled through a backlash of agony, and she fell from the blinding glare of destiny into their quarters in the Hall of the White Wolf. Blood leaked from her nose and eyes, and her vision was clouded in haze - but the enduring arms of the archivist caught her. Held her.

And she fell into darkness.

* * *

The party continued up the mountainside. The steep climb was shortened by a large gorge, which cleared abruptly before them. It led directly northwards.

The valley-walls towered above, and after an hour they were so deep between the rocks that the peak itself was obscured - as was much of the sky. Thankfully. In the dim light, the luxuriant green of the surrounding plants was bleached to a pallid blandness; the lack of illumination necessitated the use of torches. The dell wound tortuously, until all semblance of direction would have been lost - had it not been for the one beacon that signalled them always to their approach.

They could all feel it - and not feel it. The presence that trespassed the edge of their senses, invisible and silent. The presence of the Dark Moon grew - it was closer. They were marching closer.

The day drifted by unnoticeably; when night began to fall the bleakness of dusk was no different than the light of noon. The sky above was unendingly grey - a hoary mist filled the sky in every direction over Eryndor. Haunting. Foreboding. Grey.

They set up camp again. A fire was lit, though Ayadra shivered incessantly despite the heat.

Elle'dred and Syla both huddled closely to him to grant what limited warmth they could, but the incarnate's quaking was not a result of the chill.

Sleep came, and Llrsyring watched through the darkness until the ambient luminescence returned. The knight and magus roused easily, but Ayadra was too weak to stand.

He shivered violently; he clutched his hands to his chest, contorted by pain.

Twisted by the heat that burnt in his flesh.

The incarnate let out a fragile moan.

Llrsyring lowered himself beside the obsidian body, ready to carry him.

- Heat ravaged the air.

A wave as heavy as death swept over the camp. Born from the infernal flames, alive upon Ayadra's arm. Elle'dred and Syla collapsed and Llrsyring raised his arms to shield the empty eyeholes of his helm.

Ayadra screamed.

The malevolent fire erupted from his flesh - the flames crackled in orange glee. They tore down his arm, ravenous, sadistic, insatiable. His eyes were clenched shut - the fury of the fire was not spared from him. Nor was the despair.

The fire lasted only a moment - as it had aboard the Spirit. When it had stolen all his joy from him. When it had exposed his lies.

- He fought.

As quickly as the fires had leapt from his skin they flickered and faded. The crushing despair and the impossible heat of hell-fire abated. It left only its laughter inside him.

And its promise.

He would fail. He already had failed. Because he was evil.

Ayadra moaned.

Llrsyring knelt over him - the deathwalker laid a gauntlet on his shoulder.

He was able to force open an eye. Elle'dred and Syla slowly picked themselves up from the valley floor.

"I'm sorry." he murmured.

Both knight and magus were silent.

Painfully, Ayadra stumbled to his feet. He clutched his arm to his chest; it ached sharply.

He lumbered away. The deathwalker stayed at his side throughout the march across the precariously dipping and rising floor of the gorge. He lost his footing more than once, but the armour caught him.

As the day drew on, the high rock walls parted unexpectedly - a massive gouge had been hewn to the valley floor, leaving the unbarred edge of a cliff and permitting a view over the northern slopes of the mountain. The precipice was covered by boulders and fallen trees; left behind by whatever sudden event had split the valley wall. Below and beyond, stretched the highest tips of the trees. The individual points merged into a singular canopy that covered the mountainside in dull green.

It swept down, across the undulation of the slopes, to the base of the mountains. And halted - where it met the suddenly and faultlessly flat expanse. The expanse was ashen grey - as grey as the pallid, hoary sky, as bleak as the light that lit it. Unnervingly level, it stretched without end to the east.

But in the north, it was cut short.

A jagged line of black mountains stabbed out of the flat grey; an abyssal wall of peaks. The darkness of the range was marred only at its base by thin lines of green - along undulating foothills, which yet lingered under the pallid light. The mountains towered in the distance - like an immense wave of darkness and rock. They dwarfed the peaks of the range the party traversed. The peaks yet lit by the light of the southern sun.

The Dead Mountains were perpetually black, covered by a darkness, which fell across their sides and defined the edge of their bases as a barely perceptible wall - a diaphanous veil dealt from the sky above.

The edge of the northern sky's shadow.

Above the dark wave of peaks, stretching across the sky to its farthest reaches - east and west, the sky was black. Impenetrable. Inevitable. Black. The hoary cloud-cover that filled the sky above the Living Mountains, and all the south of Eryndor, met the darkness of the north at an edge as sharp as a blade - as though what once had been the northern sky had been gouged away into darkness. Sudden and fatal.

Only a single feature held place amidst that darkness.

Perrefiere, the Dark Moon of the Immortal.

The sphere resided in the centre of the northern sky; a black face in the darkness, rimmed in crimson. It was as abyssal as Ayadra's skin, and shimmered with the same obsidian glee - whereas the darkness that surrounded it was empty - a void untouched by light - the moon was substantial, it was full, it had form. It was darker than depth, it was the end at the bottom of the fall.

Perrefiere glared hatefully across the landscape.

Hell-fire laughed.

Ayadra winced at the sight; he clenched his hands so forcefully the sharp claws at his fingertips sliced into his palms. The fires broiled inside him, they burned and swelled and singed, stinging his skin - they effaced the wounds from his flesh.

But they would not be released. Not now.

They only laughed.

And whispered the promise that damned him.

Ayadra stared, from amongst the bone mask that was his face, he met the sight. The truth. His abyssal eyes glistened against the crimson glow of the northern sky.

The promise. He would never reach -

Underneath the Dark Moon, the Dead Mountains parted; a gap opened in the range where the flatness of the land continued between the immense, serrated walls.

In that gap there were lights. A myriad of flickering sparks burned in the darkness; tiny specks of orange hue defied the terrible waves on either side. The buildings that they emanated from could not be seen for Ayadra's distance, but the lights clearly heralded their destination.

Ambranas, the City of Shades.

Where he had to go.

He would fail. He had already failed. He was evil.

Hell-fire whispered.

He stood on tremulous legs, as he met the sight of the north; the others said nothing. They stared as he did. Llrsyring stood at his side, in silence. Ayadra looked up into the empty helm -

The promise. The truth.

He looked away.

Ayadra resumed the march. Llrsyring turned from the cliff, and the others moved back into the path through the defile. Ayadra was grateful for the shield the gorge-walls provided from the sight of the northern sky.

The day drifted by amongst the grey light, and once again night began to fall.

Ayadra slept alone. Despite the cold.

Hell-fire haunted his dreams, and when he woke -

He did not dare sleep near the others. He could not bear to harm them.

The chill withheld sleep, for a time. For that he was grateful.

He shivered.

Alone. In pain. Cold. Ayadra drifted into slumber.

He dreamed.

He burned.

* * *

Lyrien had woken after two days of unconsciousness. She had breathed so shallowly and so sparsely, Faldorn had feared she would die at any moment. He had cleaned the blood from her face. After her vision, it had run for an unnerving length of time, and had heightened his fear.

She had slept under his watch for two days.

She had woken slowly. The oracle had been dazed and weak for some time - several hours, but, after a meal and water she had stood, despite the quaking of her limbs, and ordered him to follow.

She would not tell him where she led them - and it was only after she nearly collapsed, that she acquiesced to his assistance.

The winding corridors of white-grey stone trickled past them, until they reached a set of doors. Lyrien stopped - they had arrived at the quarters of the Sword-Bearer.

Lyrien steadied herself, before Faldorn opened the doors for them and they moved into the sparse room. The archivist shut the entrance and watched his companion with uncertain trepidation.

Fyrdane met the oracle's determined eyes as she entered the room.

"I need your help." she stated.

The Sword-Bearer sighed, "Lyrien, I cannot oppose the Circle's decision. However much I think it wrong."

"You must oppose them." the oracle responded - before he could argue, she cut him off, "I have had a vision."

Fyrdane was silent; he nodded for her to continue.

Faldorn stood at her side.

"The Circle will fight the Tribunal, and they will die." she stated, "The Hall of the White Wolf will be torn down and your order destroyed. But some of you will survive." the oracle paused, "Some of your knights will escape Delphanas with Faldorn and I, and we will fight the magus."

"Lyrien, is this vision true?" he asked.

The oracle met his eyes, unwaveringly, "Yes."

For a moment the knight was silent, but nodded, "Is that all you have seen?"

"No."

Fyrdane sighed and smirked, "Good. Then you are going to tell me how I am going to convince the Circle to side with you."

Lyrien's face was weighed by solemnity and exhaustion, "You are not. You cannot convince the Circle to change their minds...but you can defy them. I know it goes against the code you serve - but that code has been broken. I ask you to serve the people of Ammandorn, not the order of the White Wolf."

The Sword-Bearer was silent a moment, his countenance was as expressionless as the marble around him, "My trust in you wouldn't be worth much if I disagreed." he muttered, "What do you want me to do?"

Lyrien's own determination was reflected in his eyes.

"You must gather the knights you can trust, tell them Ammandorn requires their service. Enlist Palai'dred, she will assist us. When the Circle moves against the Tribunal, we will escape Delphanas." she paused; her expression wavered momentarily, "There is a favour I must ask of you."

"No." Fyrdane said, resolutely, "You do not have to ask it of me. I am going to fight with the Circle."

The oracle allowed a despondent smile.

The Sword-Bearer frowned, "I saw the fault in your plan. Cyrradorn will be expecting me to do something - foolish. If I am not there when they march into the Library, you won't have your diversion." he chuckled, "And I can make sure he's too angry at me to notice Palai'dred's absence."

"Thank you." the oracle said.

"So how are you going to fight the Magus?" Fyrdane asked.

"We will ride to the Forest of Dwener'dier." - shock beset the Sword-Bearer's face, as it did the archivist's; Lyrien continued, flatly, "Where we will meet the Champion of the White Wolf. He will lead the battle against the Tribunal."

Fyrdane breathed out a confounded breath, "I suppose sometimes insanity is the only plausible thing."

"The Forsaken Glade is where we must be to meet Elle'dred," the sincerity in the oracle's eyes did not dull, "And there is something else I must ask of you."

"I have already agreed to help you."

"We must take the Champion's Blade with us when we leave Delphanas."

Fyrdane's eyes widened incredulously at the oracle, but after a moment, he chuckled, "The poncy bastard should not have left it here anyway." he shook his head, "Anything else you want to ask? Would you like me to bring you the Staff-Bearer's head?"

Lyrien smiled, "I'd ask you to do that if I knew you could."

Fyrdane chuckled.

* * *

Morning came. Ayadra woke.

His hand burned. He fought.

Hell-fire blazed - for a moment, and then relinquished.

Pain remained. Aching. And its promise.

Ayadra muttered his habitual apology to the three people who did not blame him. He owed them more.

As ever, in silence, he dragged himself to his feet, and trudged away.

Llrsyring followed wordlessly behind him.

They found the stream that had worn away the gorge; the heavy trickle of water lapped against the rough edges of its bed, and ran around the tortuous bends of the valley. The watercourse led them to an exit, where it fell away into a crystalline pool amongst a copse of trees. The rock sloped gently down beside the cascade of water; an escarpment that was gradually traversed.

They continued down the northern side of the mountain.

The trees swayed in the listless breeze, the forest, a defiant but fading army - the grey light bleached the life from their leaves, and despite their towering height, the darkness of the northern sky perforated the canopy. Glimpses of the Dark Moon flitted sporadically amongst the treetops.

Perrefiere watched its weapon approach.

Sometime during the day, after too many long hours of marching, Ayadra collapsed.

He was exhausted.

Fear clawed its way inside him - fear of all the truths hell-fire whispered in his ears. The fire no longer haunted just his dreams. Even during the weak light of day, he heard them. Felt them. The flames. They singed his skin. He had tried to ignore them - he had tried -

But he had failed. He would continue to fail. Because he was evil.

Hell-fire would burn soon, he knew.

It would burn, and Llrsyring -

The strong grip of the deathwalker lifted him from the forest floor. Into a cradle. Llrsyring carried him.

Hell-fire promised.

He would fail. He had already failed. He was evil.

He would kill Llrsyring. Soon.

He could not fathom a protest; Llrsyring would accept none. The deathwalker would carry him until he burned him away - until -

Ayadra failed to hold onto consciousness; he slipped into a daze, half awake, on the fringe of sleep. He was exhausted. In pain. Hell-fire burned.

For the rest of the day, coiled to ease the discomfort, Ayadra lay in the deathwalker's grasp, drifting in and out of wakefulness. Only the rare moan broke the sporadic swish of the trees as a faint breeze moved through them.

When night fell again, Elle'dred and Syla agreed to continue throughout the darkness. They lit torches - in the dark, the forest turned to a labyrinth of shadow, while the malevolent glow of Perrefiere singed the tips of the trees above.

Elle'dred avoided the sight wherever he could. How anyone lived under the presence of the darkness, he did not know.

The gloom of day arrived again. Despite their tiredness, the knight and magus continued - Ayadra hung limply in the deathwalker's untiring arms. Whether he was conscious or not, Elle'dred could not tell.

Ever more, he wanted to do - something to help the incarnate. But he had no other choice than to watch. As Ayadra suffered. It all seemed so pointless.

Sometime near dusk they neared the base of the mountain - where the grey flatland met the tree line.

Elle'dred halted them momentarily.

A silhouette stood amongst the trees. He drew his bow. Fixing an arrow, he crawled ahead of the others - until he could see the shape more closely. Standing, he signalled the way was clear, replaced the shaft in its quiver and reshouldered his bow.

The deathwalker and magus joined him.

Together, they approached and stopped at the base of a statue, mounted on a marble plinth. The statue itself was weathered and grey - as bleak as the flatlands that lay under its interminable gaze.

Its face had been worn to featurelessness by too many years, but Elle'dred recognised the armour it wore, and the emblems emblazoned there upon. A White Wolf.

It was a statue of a warrior - a Knight of the White Wolf.

The plinth that bore the man was engraved with lines of runes Elle'dred could not identify. But from a glance at the magus, he could tell Syla comprehended much of what was written.

The knight moved around the statue - carved into a banner that draped across the man's right shoulder were the only sigils on the effigy he understood.

_'I stand as a man, to protect my home,_

_Age will not harry me, as I am cast in stone,_

_Once a Champion of the White Wolf,_

_I serve now in death, as in honour and sooth,_

_Foes that cross me, I visit doom on them all,_

_As the Guardian Line, lest the Six Cities fall.'_

"The line of Erenbrek," Elle'dred muttered; a line of guardian statues that had protected the realm of the Six Cities since their founding - and was meant yet to protect the Living Mountains, and the south of Eryndor, from the darkness of the northern sky.

Elle'dred doubted the statues would protect anything from Perrefiere, if indeed they ever had.

"The forces of the Immortal will tear it down, won't they?" he asked the silent suit of armour; he didn't need an answer.

Llrsyring nodded - the knight let out a defeated sigh. He glanced at the incarnate cradled in the deathwalker's arms. Ayadra was the weapon of the Immortal - and he was Elle'dred's friend.

He deserved better.

The knight looked at the faded warrior - he wondered for a moment whether he was betraying the statue, or preserving its defence. For a moment, he did not overly care; he dismissed the thought.

He resumed his march towards the barren expanse that lay ahead.

* * *

Fyrdane stood in the Sword Chamber of the White Wolf Hall. The long walls on either side that stretched away from him, displayed dozens of hanging pennants - each azure cloth was embroidered in gold with a dictum of the White Wolf; all the tenets of their order. At the far end of the hall, where he stood - a pedestal had been carved seamlessly from the marble of the floor.

Above it, hung the banner of the Knights; azure, depicting a White Wolf with golden eyes. Beneath the Wolf, embroidered in white was the first dictum of their hall.

The pedestal, itself, was draped in black - which highlighted the silver shine of the sword that rested in the ruffled folds of the cushioning velvet.

The Sword-Bearer mounted the step beneath the pedestal, and gazed down on the blade that by right was to be wielded by the Champion of the White Wolf.

The sword had a simple hilt, bound in black leather and silver rings, that met the heavy, unadorned cross-guard. The elongated blade was overly broad, flaring outwards to its full width from the hilt, and stretched to a gently tapered tip. Its surface was ornate - a dozen lines of tiny, intricate runes cascaded down the full length of the blade, engraved into the width of the metal. Hundreds of characters were set in the perfect silver centre of the sword. The sword of the Champion of the White Wolf.

The sword had been given by the elves to their order before men left Eryndor; there were many myths about the blade - one myth purported that he who wielded the blade could shape destiny itself.

Fyrdane had never believed the myths, and he might hold in contempt any knight who held the blade that did. Magus could craft magical weapons; sharper, lighter, imbued with deep magics - and the Champion's blade to him, while exquisite, was no different.

Fyrdane reached for the hilt, and lifted the sword away from its pedestal.

"Only the Champion of the White Wolf is supposed to wield that blade."

Alarm tensed his body; he quelled it, and turned slowly to face the recognised source of the chastisement.

Sword-Bearer Lyrdane stood eyeing him; the man's hand rested on the hilt of his own blade.

"I am bringing this sword to our Champion." Fyrdane said.

Lyrdane stared at him silently.

Fyrdane stepped forward, "Do you intend to stop me, Lyrdane?"

The silence resided for a moment before the older Sword-Bearer let a tick of annoyance, and moved his hand away from his hilt, "No. But I would like to know why you would betray the dictums of the White Wolf - all these laws you have served with your life."

"What is the first dictum of the White Wolf?" Fyrdane asked, flatly.

Lyrdane raised a brow, but answered, "Where the undestined lead we shall follow."

"The undestined do not lead any more." Fyrdane retorted, and smirked, "So my choice is either to follow the magus, or to follow an oracle I'm entirely convinced is mad."

Lyrdane sighed in exasperation, "Did Lyrien have a vision?"

"Cyrradorn would never believe her," Fyrdane answered, "But I trust her. Our order cannot survive if we all die. She has said that some of us won't."

"Hmmm," the older Sword-Bearer mused, "So are you going to run away with her?"

"No." Fyrdane answered, his smirk broadened into a grin, "I am going to die alongside all you old fools."

The older Sword-Bearer unleashed a discontented harrumph, and muttered, "Well that's good at least."

* * *

They had continued through another day of marching. The greyness of the flatland was absolute.

The emptiness was as unassailable as the harsh rock beneath their feet. Amongst the desolation the rare piece of stone had liberated itself from the despotic flatness of the ground - only to be abraded under the uncaring breeze to a scattering of sand.

When night fell, the greyness died, and the flats were lit by the darkness of the Moon.

The knight and magus were too weary to continue, and exhaustion had finally forced a respite and sleep - if for a few hours only.

A fire was not lit; the danger of a beacon on the flats was not one either Syla or Elle'dred thought worthwhile - despite the deathly chill of the breeze.

The glitter of Ambranas on the northern horizon and the bitterness of the wind were not the only threats they faced - another mass of lights shone on the slopes of the Living Mountains, to the southeast. Multitudinous gleams covered the mountainside - Hresfyrra, the Fifth Watchman, the last of the Six Cities not fallen to shadow stared down upon the flatlands.

A beacon could attract a patrol, and the emptiness of their surroundings provided no concealment. The only consolation they had was that they would see any overwhelming force long before it inevitably caught up to them.

Elle'dred and Syla lay down for sleep; Llrsyring sat nearby, cradling the incarnate in his arms.

Ayadra had not yet regained full consciousness; Elle'dred doubted he would before they reached Ambranas.

If even then.

Exhaustion brought about unconsciousness quickly, despite the cold.

Ayadra dreamed.

Hell-fire burned. It burned him.

In the nightmare of torture and flame, guilt and despair, he burned. As he had since the hell-fire had returned on the prow of the Spirit.

Hell-fire burned. It laughed. It crackled. It promised.

The truth.

He would fail. He had failed. He was evil.

He was half a day away from the darkness. The darkness that would provide relief against the flames; the only ease he could find in this world - the darkness of Perrefiere. In the shadow of the moon, hell-fire would be impotent, it would no longer escape his skin - or fill his flesh with agony. He would not have to fear it, save in his dreams. Its will would be quenched.

It promised.

It laughed.

He would not reach his salvation.

Ayadra woke -

His hand blazed with immolating crimson. With Hell-fire.

A scream choked in his throat as the anguish of the flames clenched every muscle of his body.

Llrsyring recoiled; a spasm dragged him from the deathwalker's gauntleted grasp, and sent him rolling across the barren ground of the flats.

- A crushing wave of despair swept forth from his hand.

The ravenous heat of infernal flame covered the knight and magus. An alarmed flail was all they managed before hell-fire dragged all will and energy from their bodies.

Ayadra screamed.

Hell-fire burned.

The flames crawled across his arm, across the obsidian weakness of his scales - ravenous fingers of orange sliced onto his shoulder.

He screamed.

Hell-fire crackled and roared.

He fought -

But the will to fight was ravaged by the infernal glee of the flames. By the pain he could not bear.

Hell-fire would not relinquish - not this time. It would burn and burn and burn, until it had burnt him and the world away. It promised. Whether or not he fought, on the doorstep of his salvation - half a day from the darkness that could aid him - hell-fire would devour him.

And then Elle'dred and Syla. And Llrsyring.

The truth.

Hell-fire laughed.

Ayadra screamed -

His other hand caught flame - the fire sliced down across his right forearm, as the blaze on his left limb consumed his shoulder and clawed at his chest.

Ayadra convulsed in agony, ragged groans tore out of his throat.

The deathwalker appeared beside him - the echoed voice said something, but he could not hear it above the roar of the blaze. Of hell-fire.

Beyond its promise. He would kill Llrsyring.

Because he was evil. Because he had failed. Because he continued to fail.

Because he did not want to fight.

Not anymore. Since losing the joy of the Spirit to the inevitable return of hell-fire, he had not wanted to fight. He had fought because he had no choice - because he could not bare to do else -

But the will to fight was gone, ravaged into hopelessness by the despair of infernal flame.

By the hurt he had dealt to Klemeya and Thria -

By the truth.

He was evil. He had failed. He would always fail.

He was a weapon.

He did not want to fight anymore.

Hell-fire roared.

For a moment, Ayadra stopped fighting - for a moment, he let the sadistic flames burn freely from his flesh. Their power no longer leashed by a reluctant will that had no hope of overcoming them.

He did not want to fight.

Not anymore.

Ayadra let the hell-fire burn.

Hell-fire roared, it laughed and crackled and burned.

And there was no pain.

The depraved elation he had felt the first time he had released hell-fire - when he had ravaged the soul of a nether-touched - returned to his flesh. The savage delight of crimson - the violating glee of the infernal, blazed once more against his eyes. For a moment of surrendering ecstasy, he almost smiled.

Hell-fire laughed, and promised - he would kill all the people he loved -

- He would kill Llrsyring -

And he did not care.

- He could not fight anymore.

He did not want to fight anymore. He just wanted it to end.

Hell-fire would burn him and his guilt away.

It was what he deserved -

And wanted.

Hell-fire laughed.

And roared. And crackled.

- And fled -

The flames that consumed his arms and chest, that had ravaged his limbs with pain and pleasure beyond bearing, burst suddenly into a terrible inferno - and were freed from his skin. The savage tongues of fire fled upwards into the night and dissipated - patches of flame flickered lowly, and burnt across his scales. They guttered and faded. And died.

Hell-fire laughed in silence as it left him to the empty blackness of the night.

No!

Ayadra unleashed a hoarse cry - he wanted to scream.

No. Please no. Please...

He wanted to scream.

His body gasped for air; the cold night filled his lungs and soothed the aching left in his arms, with numbness. He lay on his side; naked, alone, breathing. Crying.

The hell-fire was gone.

And it had left only guilt. Beyond bearing.

Deserved.

Elle'dred and Syla dragged in air beside him; the will of their muscles returned slowly, painfully, and they raised themselves on unsteady limbs to look at him.

He could not meet their eyes. He could never -

"I'm sorry." he moaned - he had no right to say the words.

Ayadra unclenched his hands; despite the weakness of his flesh he lifted himself off the ground. His limbs shook and buckled, but both knight and deathwalker caught him. Elle'dred gripped his shoulder supportively.

He was lifted gently to his feet. He stood.

Beside him, Llrsyring enquired, "Can you walk?"

Ayadra nodded.

He could not meet the helm's socket.

He could not bear -

He stepped away from the knight and deathwalker. His legs trembled - he stumbled, but he forced his feet into a rhythm away from the camp. The cold air drifted across every scale of his skin - he had failed to notice, that as the fire had climbed to his shoulder it had caught alight his blankets and burned the material away.

He shivered. The cold was merciless.

There was no mercy left for him.

The bite of the wind vanished, abruptly, as cloth was draped across his back. Llrsyring walked beside him, and wrapped him in another blanket.

The magus and knight had shouldered their packs and joined them.

Ayadra was startled, when Elle'dred moved closer beside him and handed him a small wrapped bundle.

"The last of the candied pears Thria gave us." the knight said, gently.

"You need to keep your strength up." Syla added, from his other side.

Silently, Ayadra accepted the desserts, unwrapped them, and ate. The memories of the Spirit returned - the joy -

And was burned away.

The truth resounded in his depths. It coloured every scale of his obsidian skin. It was an undeniable as the talons affixed to his hands, as the bone mask that was his face.

As the hell-fire that burnt in his flesh.

He had failed. He would continue to fail. He was evil.

Because he wanted it to burn.

The truth.
Chapter 37

_When his stroke fell, Syrkyn cried out in pain. Armenblista had driven itself deep into his side. But it had not killed him. He roared in anger, and tore the sword from his body, and cast it across the land. He roared again, with such power and hate that it tore open the sky and let forth a storm of ash upon the hold. He leapt from the wall, and retreated to his furnace in the Mountains of the Pit. His sword was lost to him. And his army fell as his shadow swept over them._

* * *

Keylyn wandered towards the Staff-Bearer's office, in the highest levels of Delphanas.

He had forgotten the days that had passed. And the Tribunal seemed to have forgotten him - he did not care. Whether the Tribunal lifted the binding spell, and restored his magic - he did not care.

The door arrived, and he reached out for the cold metal of the ring - he opened the partition, and stepped into the refurbished office.

Ragmurath sat behind his desk, scrawling something onto a parchment. His contemptuous eyes glanced up at the magus who had entered inofficiously to his chamber - the insult was plain on his face.

"Magus Keylyn, you will observe proper protocol when in the presence of your superiors."

"Yes, Staff-Bearer." Keylyn muttered, lethargically.

Ragmurath's mouth twisted in disdain; he scrawled the last lines onto the paper before furling it tightly and setting a wax seal across its loose edge.

He stood and cast his ever-condescending glare on the lower magus, "You will take this to the High Captain. She is in the seventh Market District in the lower chasm."

Keylyn moved forward, slowly - he had become accustomed to his limp shortening his stride, and accepted the paper from the Staff-Bearer.

"When you return," Ragmurath continued, "The Tribunal will lift the binding-spell placed on you. And you will be inducted as my new Aide." his mouth curled into a cold smile, "You are experienced with all the duties of the post; I expect you to do me as fine a service as you did Hadrath."

Keylyn didn't flinch at the name; somewhere inside him it hurt - but self-care was beyond him.

He nodded, weakly, and turned for the door. He limped back out into the passageways, through the highest levels and descended down a spiral staircase to the lower chasm.

The metropolis stretched throughout the immense enclosed ring, but even as he passed the balcony that overlooked the marbling vista he was oblivious to its splendour.

Two long hours passed, his limp restrained his pace and frustrated him, as he wandered listlessly through the streets; the people in this area were peaceable again - riots still flared in other districts of the city, but the bloodhounds were quelling any outbreaks swiftly and lethally. The laws of the Tribunal had begun to be displayed on immense banners that covered the façades of the common buildings - Halls of the people had become courts, and the streets had become places of executions.

Peace was returning, slowly. But it was a peace enforced by violence.

Keylyn felt the smallest pang of grief - the thought flitted into his head that this would have dismayed Hadrath. The magus were responsible for justice throughout Ammandorn - and this was not justice, this was not law. But Hadrath was dead; an Elder Archivist had killed him - such regrets were easily forgotten to the emptiness inside him.

He neared the seventh market district; it occurred to him the Staff-bearer had not told him where the High Captain was in the area - a full search would take hours, longer with his limp. Keylyn sighed; annoyance flared but faded - he reasoned she would be in an open area, so he began to walk towards the market-square.

"Keylyn." the voice came from an alley, beside him. A Magus Guard stood facing him from the shadow of the building.

He stopped and turned to meet the eyes in the dull mask.

"You are in search of the High Captain?" the guard asked.

Keylyn nodded.

"She is this way." the guard informed, turned and moved down into the alley.

Keylyn limped awkwardly at the pace set by the beat of his glaive. He struggled to keep up.

The guard stopped abruptly, mid-way down the alley - a door resided in an alcove, at the base of a short flight of steps. It led into the basement of the building above.

Keylyn paused beside the guard. The man was silent for a long while.

"Is the High Captain down there?" Keylyn asked, impassively.

"No." the guard said - and moved.

His gauntleted hand swung out across Keylyn's jaw. Metal struck flesh, and jarred bone - the blow sent the magus sprawling to the ground in a daze. His head smacked against the pavement, and further exacerbated the haze of dizziness that clouded his vision, and gurgled his voice.

He groaned in pain.

The guardsman grasped his legs and dragged him down the steps - every stair struck his head as he slid across the echeloned descent.

The guardsman opened the door and dragged the semi-conscious magus into the dark basement.

He closed the door and locked it; the guard removed his helmet - the face of the Staff-Bearer's bastard son leered hellishly as he moved around the room, lighting the torches for illumination.

He turned his sadistic and gleeful eyes on the limp form of the lower magus.

He cackled - the demonic epitome of sound wafted over Keylyn.

Keylyn knew pain.

* * *

The Dead Mountains loomed before them to the east and west - but not the north. The large rift in the dark stone wall was flat from a distance - but now that they were so close to it, the city that occupied the gap waited as an immense mass of shadow.

The main road began some distance before the edge of the darkness - beautifully laid pavement stretched before them to the periphery of the shade. Two statues, mounted on marble plinths, were set on either side of the road; each identical to the one they had passed at the base of the Living Mountains - save for the inscriptions.

The faces of the woman and the man had long been worn away, but one was yet the remains of a Knight of the White Wolf Hall, and the other a City Guard.

A dozen paces behind the two soldiers, the domain of Perrefiere began. The veil of darkness cast from above met the ground - delicately, diaphanously - as a wall of shadow.

The edge of the darkness.

The main road stretched into the shadow, lit by the pallid orange hue of street lamps that lined the spine of Ambranas. In the depths of the gloom ahead, smaller buildings rose to either side, escalating in height, until the immensity of the innermost constructions consumed the horizon with their overshadowing silhouettes. The exact make of the structures could not be discerned, yet, but they all shared one aspect - their rooves burned unendingly with the crimson glow of the moon.

Elle'dred approached the wall of shade.

Ayadra, and Syla and Llrsyring followed him.

He crossed the edge. And continued.

He threw a glance at Ayadra - the incarnate's eyes were downcast, as ever, and his face was largely concealed by the wrapping folds of his blanket.

He crossed the edge without reaction. As did Syla and Llrsyring behind him.

He deserved better; better than this, Elle'dred thought.

The knight glanced up - at the Dark Moon - the fortress of the Immortal.

They all now stood under the darkness of Perrefiere.

Elle'dred motioned for them to move further into Ambranas - up the main street. The flicker of the streetlights cast hordes of darkness across the walls of the buildings; shadows skittered across the stones, fled into recesses and corners and then loomed, sudden and terrible, in a perpetual slavery to the light of the lamps. The air was cold and dead.

The first buildings they passed were decaying; architraves were cut sharply into their facades, and the archways were gouged open - the doors were gone, long ago torn down, and now replaced by partitions of darkness. Rubble decorated the outer districts.

The main road mounted an intervallic series of steps; five stairs then the stretch of an even level, five stairs then the stretch of an even level, repeated as they moved upwards into the subtly rising structures. Ambranas grew around them; the buildings merged into a mosaic of shadow on either side, daring them to enter - but the rare light of windows imprisoned in the depths warned them away.

A persistent dread pervaded the streets, like the chill of the air; the city was dead, and they were not.

The main road widened and curved away into a circular expanse, around a central monument. At the centre of a perfectly still pool a plinth rose and bore a group of statues. Six men, back to back, stood and pointed their left arms towards each of the branching roads that moved away from the circular courtyard. Each man held a shield with his right arm, across his chest - and the districts that each path led to were engraved into the flat stone surfaces.

In the darkness, even when he strained his eyes Elle'dred could not make out what they said.

He sighed in frustration, and turned to the deathwalker. Llrsyring had not drawn his cowl to cover his helm - shrouded solely by darkness, the armour watched the empty streets.

"So what now?" the knight asked.

A sharp sound answered him. The clack of hooves.

The sounds struck a manifold rhythm as they grew in volume from the northern road.

Elle'dred let his hand fall to his sword hilt.

Slowly, the darkness revealed the horsemen. Their silhouettes formed, vague against the deeper shadow - and then sharpened and emerged into the nearer light of the street-lamps.

Five men on horses rode in a line towards the party. They closed to ten paces and stopped.

"Elle'dred, Knight and Champion of the White Wolf Hall," the central figure began; the man's voice was thin and sharpened on the edge of his words, "We mean no harm. We have been sent by our patron - his seers informed him of your arrival."

Elle'dred released his hilt, as the man dismounted.

The guardsmen were each shrouded by armour; breastplates and grieves shone under draping tabards and partitioned kilts, woven of a shimmering black cloth. Golden chasing, and flares protruded from their pauldrons and gauntlets, and a long crest of white hair fell away from the sleek, silver helms that hid their faces.

Their tabards all displayed a silver sword, pointed down towards the ground.

The central guardsman wore a curving blade on his waist, and Elle'dred assumed him to be the Captain - by the golden gauntlet he wore on his left hand, which differentiated him from his fellows. The metal's radiance was marred to a sallow sheen, and his armour glinted piercingly in the dimness as he reached to his helm and removed the obscuration from his face.

He had pale hair that shone slightly of gold in the lamps, but his skin held a ghostly hue - a shimmer that bordered on transparency, and his eyes, like his hair, bore only an insinuation of blue. They rested on the shape of the incarnate's blanket concealed head, for a moment.

He did not see Llrsyring.

"Knight," he said again, with a slight smile, "I greet you in the name of my Patron, Enrasus. He is the master of the Eleventh House of our great city, and he awaits you. You will not deny him your company, will you?"

"How did you know we were here?" Elle'dred asked.

The guard's face was unperturbed, though the smile sharpened, "Your arrival was foretold by the seers of our house. They saw that on this day you would arrive in Ambranas; that we would meet you here at the Fountain of Six...and that you would welcome our hospitality."

Elle'dred eyed him; he doubted every word the man said. But they were faced with five soldiers on horseback, and the threat of many others hidden nearby.

He glanced at the helm of the deathwalker; Llrsyring said nothing.

Either the suit of armour perceived no threat - or, more than likely, they had no choice.

"We will follow you." the knight agreed.

The Captain of the guards nodded - the smile shone from between his thin lips, before he replaced his helmet, returned to and remounted his horse.

The patrol led the party deeper into the city; the buildings loomed - but the immensity of the dark edifices was eclipsed by the serrated silhouettes of the mountains to the east and west. Everywhere, shadows crawled across the surfaces, or were devoured by absolute darkness.

They turned towards one of the largest structures, through an open archway, and moved into a courtyard enclosed by high walls against the building's façade - two meagre torches, set in sconces, burned on the facing wall of the house. A second archway, imbedded into the stone, waited for their entrance.

The Captain of the guards dismounted, approached and opened the doors.

Immediately beyond the gaping archway lay a cavernous hall, lined with further archways and doors. All closed. A raging fire burnt at the far end of the chamber - behind the silhouette of a towering throne.

They were gestured inside by the Captain, and he shut the doors behind them with a resonant thud. The Guardsman moved ahead of them, and ushered them towards the throne.

Candelabras hung from the ceiling, each grand and immense - once having born a thousand tiny lights - but now only a handful of candles still flickered dimly in the shadows of the vaulting. In the vast first hall of the eleventh house darkness pervaded and obscured the throne.

The chair itself was silver, every shimmering arch and side, and above it a massive tapestry was hung from the ceiling - black, displaying the silver sword, with its tip pointing down onto the throne; onto the crown of the man that dwelt in its encompassing shadows.

The man sat in the dark recess of his chair; he was wrapped in purple robes that blended with the deepest source of darkness in the hall, and the light of the inferno behind him hid much of his body; but the sharp glisten of his eyes watched the party's approach.

They lingered on the incarnate.

And glided over the deathwalker without perception, as had the guardsman's.

The Captain gestured for the party to halt, and moved beside the throne. He bent to the height of the patron's head and whispered something. A pale, withered hand emerged from the darkness and waved him off.

With a bowed head, the Captain stepped away from the silver chair.

"You are the knight, Elle'dred?" a grating, deep voice asked from the throne.

Elle'dred answered, "I am the Champion of the White Wolf Hall."

He did not care if it was still true or not.

A snort of contempt issued from the darkness, "Your title does not impress me, Knight. I despise the Archivists. And all they rule. They have no power here - and their pets are not welcome in Ambranas."

"I no longer serve the Archivists." Elle'dred stated.

The patron was silent a moment, before answering with a sneer apparent in his voice, "That is good." he paused, and growled proudly, "You have entered the Eleventh House, Champion of the White Wolf, very few are so fortunate to stand in the presence of Enrasus."

"I thank you for your hospitality." Elle'dred responded, courteously - he did not bow.

The patron snorted, "You should show the proper respect."

Elle'dred met his reprimand with silence.

Enrasus growled in displeasure, "There is a guest in my house that has informed me you are of particular value. You will stay here Knight. The magus you seek resides in the highest wing of my domain. You will be shown no special treatment - you live here at my sufferance. But you will be well tended. You will not leave his quarters - they are ample for your needs."

The pale hand waved out of the darkness again, and the Captain stepped forward. He gestured for the party to follow him, and moved to one of the doors set into the walls.

Before he complied, Elle'dred glanced again at the deathwalker. That Llrsyring did nothing, persuaded him that either they were utterly without choice, or that the deathwalker did not think their course a danger.

Elle'dred was not convinced of either.

Hesitantly, they followed the Captain; the suit of armour - yet unseen - warded Ayadra during the long march through the house. They arrived at a spiral staircase, and were led up level after level, until the stairs terminated at a faded green door.

Their guide opened it and ushered them past; they complied wordlessly, and moved into the room.

The door was shut behind them, and the shriek of grinding metal emanated from the archway - the grating of a lock.

Elle'dred glanced around the room; they stood in a small circular pit - two twisting staircases led to the overlooking balcony that encircled them above, and the chamber itself rose beyond that.

They moved up onto the first of three tiers; the levels encircled each other as they rose up the slightest of inclines to the sole wall that merged with the dome of the ceiling. The perfect circularity of the expanse was adorned with all manner of furniture; tables and reading desks covered with parchment and tomes, beds and sofas, and chairs.

The enclosing wall was partitioned into shelves, save for the sporadic doors that sealed archways along its curvature. Cressets flickered, on either side of each door; the only lights of the room.

One of the barriers opened; a man stepped out.

He wore the ebony robes of a magus - which highlighted the pale shimmering of his skin. His face was severely wrinkled, and a ragged matting of white hair covered his head.

His eyes flickered deep green amidst his features. Eager and pleasured.

"Well," he said, "You have arrived, I see."

Elle'dred stepped forward, "I am Elle'dred, Champion of the White Wolf Hall, and this is Magus Syla. I would ask you your name?"

The man's eyes flicked to the knight and magus, but rested on the blanket-covered figure, "My name is Fyrentus, I am an exile...a criminal to your Tribunal." he grinned - the expression twisted his wrinkles into a grotesque parody of delight, "You are fewer than you were - or so I am told by my patron's seers. The Tribunal sent their Champion with you - where is he?"

"Dead." Elle'dred stated, "You will have to deal with me."

"Evidently." Fyrentus replied, "The incarnate, is he the one in the blanket?"

Elle'dred stepped between the old magus and Ayadra.

"You are eager to serve the Tribunal," he remarked, "I thought you said you were a criminal?"

Fyrentus glared, dangerously, "I was exiled because I did not comply with every single rule those bastards laid down. And now I find myself at the mercy of a cruel patron, and exiled to the darkness of a dead city."

Syla advanced on the older magus, "You know of Incarnate magic?"

Fyrentus eyed her pale skin and ebony hair - as he met the pale blue of her eyes, his grin warped into lecherousness, "The Tribunal said they needed my help - they wanted me to undo the incarnate."

"Do you believe that you can?" Llrsyring asked.

Fyrentus' widened eyes snapped to the ebon-robed suit of armour - as he scrambled back in alarm; a rune crystallised above his hand. Its argent glare caught the emptiness of the helm's sockets.

"What is that?!" he hissed.

"I am Llrsyring, Ellyan Taun, and deathwalker-born. I protect this incarnate. I warn you, if you harm him your death will not be swift."

Fyrentus regained himself, dissipated the rune, and glanced at Elle'dred, "You travel with enemies, knight - if the Tribunal knew a deathwalker stood beside you they would condemn you of necromancy."

"Their Champion already tried." Elle'dred replied, flatly.

Fyrentus sneered disappointedly, but his eyes rested on the suit of armour with the gleam of intent - and comprehension, "Curious," he muttered, "You are a far more unnatural thing than I had expected. I had thought for a moment -" he paused abruptly, and scrambled away to one of the shelves.

The older magus clawed furiously at the books, sending a cascade of tomes onto the ground - he pulled a large, tattered volume from the shelf. His eyes lit up gleefully; twisting the wrinkles and shadows caught in every indentation of his skin.

He glared at Llrsyring with a smile of malicious delight, "The Golem of Daethyr," he stated, "I had not thought I would ever see such a thing."

Llrsyring stood, silent and unmoving.

"You are old, deathwalker - very old. And powerful." Fyrentus turned his gleeful glare on Elle'dred, "This thing that you travel with knight - it is a very powerful weapon. A very evil weapon."

"I am no weapon." Llrsyring countered, flatly, "And I am not the Golem of Daethyr - I am Ellyan Taun, last of the Twelve Suns and I guard this armour from the world."

"Twelve Suns," Fyrentus asked, a brow raised in curiosity, "Then you are the same Llrsyring that is spoken of in this tome? The Elves kept extensive records, you know. Llrsyring. Twelfth Sun, Guardian and Forebear to the Ellyan people. Servant of the Silver Moon, and Curse-Bearer."

Elle'dred looked to the suit of armour. Uncertainty clouded his gaze.

"Then you did not know who it was you befriended knight?" Fyrentus asked, delightedly, "He is much more terrible than you knew."

Llrsyring did not move, but the empty eyeholes of the helm met Elle'dred's gaze.

Syla glanced at the armour, and then turned her own glare onto the older magus, "I want to see that book."

Fyrentus grinned again, but handed the volume to her. The older magus stroked her delicate fingers as the tome was removed from his grasp. He leered.

Syla gave no reaction, and turned her attention to the book.

"Your Incarnate, now." Fyrentus chirped, lightly.

Elle'dred looked away from Llrsyring, to Ayadra. The incarnate did not meet his eyes - but comprehendingly, lifted his obsidian scaled hands out of the blanket folds. His talons shone threateningly in the light of the room. Ayadra removed the makeshift hood from his bone-covered, serpentine face.

Elle'dred stood between the incarnate and the old magus.

Fyrentus' grin widened; his eyes burned ecstatically as he viewed the creature standing before him, "Hmmm...I don't even know what this thing is." he muttered, more to himself than the party - he was accordingly oblivious to the dangerous look shot at him by the knight, "It is an incarnate - of some sort. But the spirit bound to it is like no other I know exists. I will endeavour to find out what this thing is."

Whirling on a heel, he moved to the door he had emerged from. In an instant he had entered the passageway that lay beyond, and shut the wooden partition behind him.

Elle'dred followed; he tried to open the door again, and pursue the elderly magus - but as he had expected, the door was barred or locked on its outer side. He forced his shoulder against it, but the wood was as steadfast as the stone around it.

He moved back, and glanced again at the deathwalker.

Syla moved beside him, and shared the picture on the page - it was unerringly a sketch of the suit of armour.

"Llrsyring," Elle'dred stated - uncertainty coloured his voice, "The truth."

"What must my past tell, that my actions have not." the helm replied - the empty eyeholes met the knight's eyes, "I am the last of my people Elle'dred...I say that it is because men destroyed my race. But that is not the truth."

Elle'dred stepped closer to him; his voice held no accusation when he asked, "What is?"

"Before my race fell, we fought a terrible war with our kindred. Ellyan who desired to end the world in darkness - they were called Daethyr. They constructed a weapon, with ancient magic - the Golem. And the armour I am, my skin, was made to contain it. During that war, I fought the Golem - I commanded it to death by the right of my blood. But Daethyr had cursed the weapon...he who slays the golem is doomed to become it. I bear that curse - as I do the curse of Ishtavra, last sword of a fallen people. Curse-Bearer." he paused, "This armour is a shell, a breathing metal that surrounds death, no sword can pierce its skin - all blades raised against it are broken upon it; its touch bears the death of stone, and from its maw a breath of shadow was to cover the world in darkness. I restrain the golem, stop it from pursuing its mission - but I have failed, twice. I have let the golem exert its power on the world - once was that night on the plains, where I turned the incarnate to stone. The other -" again, he paused, "The Twelve Suns were born of the blood spilled in the falling of the first world; one male, one female, born to each of the six bloods. We were the oldest of the Ellyan; the forebears of our people. And their guardians. The last war my race fought, was with men. My Eleven kin fought your race, and defended ours - but I did not. I was afraid I could not contain the Golem, and use the power of my blood...until we lost the war. When your armies marched upon our city - the last hold of the Ellyan people, and my eleven kin lay dead - slain by the swords of men, I turned my power to the defence of my people. I was born to death, and I hold its power in my hand - alone, I slew your armies. Without remorse or pity, I have killed more of your race than all of your wars combined...but in pride and arrogance and joy of power I drowned. Destruction was mine to visit, so easily was it wrought and did it slip from my hand - none could oppose me. I did not want to give that power up. And in my hands, death and Ishtavra knew not rest until all of my people were slain." he paused, "When I finally remembered myself - remembered why I needed the power, I had destroyed what I was meant to protect. There is a chasm in Ammandorn, buried and sealed by time, where there stands a hundred thousand statues. I slew my people - I turned every last one of them to stone. I became the Golem, not because I was too weak to fight it - but because I wanted what it could give me. Because it and I were so alike - I became a part of it. I became touched by the nether. When I realised what I had done, it was too late for me to die - I was trapped in the death of my blood, the death I had lived and visited upon all I loved, and hated." he was silent a moment, "That is the truth."

Elle'dred did not respond.

"And I blame your race," Llrsyring continued, with palpable bitterness, "If men had been wise enough to see the evils they commit, the world would not be so dark a place. And I would not have destroyed my race."

Elle'dred stood in the silence of the room. 
Chapter 38

_The Wyvern Kings did not pursue their brother. And from the highest peak of Arhnsalfier, Aunvari watched and wept a storm that freed the sky of ash. But still he would not help. He loved Syrkyn too much. And he hoped beyond himself that Syrkyn would see his folly and return to them._

* * *

Lyrien marched wearily through the streets of the market districts; Faldorn moved at her side, and their escort of knights held a protective formation around them.

They were both clad in the garb of the knights - a shirt of chain-mail, a helm, and an austerely embroidered tabard concealed their identities; their disguise had to win them passage to the southern entrance where they would meet the safety of more knights and the horses they had secured.

Palai'dred led the convoy through Delphanas; Lyrien wondered what reservations the Sword-Bearer had in betraying the Circle, in leaving their reinforcements without a commander - and allowing her fellow Sword-Bearers to march to their deaths. But whatever doubt or misgivings the younger woman felt, none were shown in her countenance - she marched as though Lyrien's vision was the only course of action that made sense; and, her confidence bolstered the uncertainty of the knights around them.

Two dozen men and women were all that the three traitorous Sword-Bearers could muster without suspicion - Lyrdane had added his own trusted knights to the ranks of the resistance.

Lyrien was grateful for his support, and for Fyrdane's and Palai'dred's - but even as they marched, the remaining knights of the White Wolf were walking into an impossible battle.

Even as she marched, Fyrdane was dying.

More death. Lyrien hated it. But this was war. Which she hated even more.

The convoy paused for a rest in the sixth market district; neither the oracle nor the archivist was accustomed to the weight of chain mail and the helmets that obscured their faces.

Lyrien removed her helm as she gladly accepted a water-skin from the Sword-Bearer.

Palai'dred's doughty demeanour assisted the weary oracle in combating the exhaustion hours of marching had beset her with.

The laboured breath of the older woman and the younger man, and their sagging posture as they reclined against the wall, provoked an amused grin from the Sword-Bearer.

"We have some time yet before we reach the stables," she quipped, as she removed her own helmet - her short brown hair was matted to her head with sweat, "And unless you favour being captured by the magus we're going to have to run for much of the way."

Faldorn groaned in disappointment, which prompted a chortle from the knight.

"You'd be a little fitter if you spent more time with swords, than with books." Palai'dred jibed.

The archivist let out a half-snorted laugh, and muttered, "If both our orders are ever restored, the knights will damn well train the archivists."

Palai'dred chuckled, "It will be an honour."

Lyrien rested her head against the wall, and closed her eyes. She was glad for the purpose the vision had granted her - but regret and fatigue were not burdens she would ever be immune to.

Neither was doubt. Despite seeing what the immediate future held for them, she wondered also where this course would lead them - if they won, would Ammandorn ever recover from the destruction of its government, would the people ever recover their faith in that government.

Too many hurts had been dealt, and a War of Men would leave scars that might be impossible to forget.

She sighed - first they had to win the war.

After the brief rest, they stood again and resumed their course towards the south entrance.

They crossed into the seventh market district.

As before, the few people that ventured out into the streets regarded the convoy of knights with caution or fear. The citizenry were terrified of the men and women that had been meant to guard them.

The magus had established their rule. As Lyrien had seen. A rule based on terror.

It sickened her.

The streets of Delphanas, of the market districts, were empty - food and necessities were likely dwindling, and they would not be restored for some time. People would starve; they would die. They would kill each other over food.

She had seen it.

They passed an alley.

Lyrien stopped. A disturbing familiarity halted her stride.

The column behind her arrested their pace, as did the knights and archivist ahead of her a moment after. Concerned eyes fell upon her from more than one of the knights.

"Are you alright?" Faldorn asked, offering a hand in support.

Palai'dred approached from the head of the column, "Lyrien?"

The oracle met the Sword-Bearer's gaze for a moment, but she did not respond.

She was overwhelmed by the sensation of recognition - a vague, unsourced recognition.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a memory struggled to resurface - she had forgotten something.

Ignoring the slight frustration of the younger woman, Lyrien turned.

The alley. She had seen it before.

"Lyrien?" the archivist asked.

She stared at the alley. Slowly, despite her better judgment, she moved a step back towards the gap between buildings.

"Lyrien?" the Sword-Bearer tried, "Are you alright?"

"There's something." she replied, something important, "I have to see something."

For the briefest of moments, Palai'dred's expression exuded frustration, and doubt, but the Sword-Bearer did not voice her concerns. The knight and the archivist followed a pace behind her, as she moved towards the alley.

She had seen it before. A body being dragged from an alley. A man. By a magus guard.

Slowly, Lyrien moved into the corridor between the two high-rising walls.

Palai'dred and Faldorn followed.

The oracle moved to the alcove where, at the base of a flight of steps, a door resided. She had seen the body - the man, dragged here.

She stared at the door.

Palai'dred stopped at her side.

They both heard it.

A scream.

* * *

Silence pervaded the tiers of the large circular room. Since the suit of armour had divulged his past, there was a consensus of uncertainty that warranted silence. Elle'dred sat away from the others, on one of the myriad sofas - his eyes were distant in despondency or thought.

Syla had examined the tome pertaining to the deathwalker, but whatever she discovered had not enlightened her further. Her infrequent glances at the armour revealed no emotions; eventually, she had examined the shelves and buried herself, alone, in the books of the room.

Food had been delivered through one of the doors; a servant had entered carrying a tray. The aroma of the meal was exquisite - though no one found the desire to eat.

Ayadra had left Llrsyring alone as well.

He could not bear the reminder.

He had inflicted upon Llrsyring the worst pain the deathwalker had suffered - the scythes affixed to his hands had gouged wounds into the armour, and Ayadra had seen the pain they - he forced the armour to relive. The pain of Llrsyring's past - of his greatest crime. The murder of his people.

Hell-fire laughed.

He was evil. He hurt people. Because he had failed.

As he continued to fail.

In a moment of weakness he had exerted Llrsyring's greatest pain on him. In a moment of weakness he had killed Taedoran. In a moment of weakness -

He had surrendered.

Since they had crossed into the darkness of the moon, the fire had abated. Although it still burned deep inside him, it was weaker - it was tempered by the hell above. The hell that claimed the northern sky.

It would not burn, as it had before.

And that truth was more sadistic than the flames of the hells.

He wanted to sleep.

Sleep would bring the dreams - the burning. The hell-fire. He knew.

He was exhausted, he wanted to sleep. The simple tiredness of the day's efforts had worn his energy away. Sleep was the only answer to fatigue, and he wanted to sleep. And he wanted to dream.

He wanted -

Ayadra dozed heavily on a couch; his eyelids sunk and his breathing steadied.

Slowly, alone, he drifted into slumber.

Ayadra dreamed.

Hell-fire laughed. And gave him what he wanted.

He burned.

* * *

Keylyn had been tortured for longer than he could remember - all time had been obscured by pain.

Again, his immaculate, milky-white skin was stained with blood - his blood. It clogged his nose, filled his mouth, and choked his throat.

His naked body was decorated grotesquely with shallow cuts - some gouged lines that showed when his torturer had been driven to rage, others were pictures sadistically riven into his flesh. Bruises flared blue and black in evidence of beating, and red welts stung from the tip of a branding iron that had been sporadically pressed to his flesh.

The pain had been beyond him.

And only one thought was driven deeper into him - he was going to die. He wanted to die - to escape the pain.

But his torturer was too skilled to allow him a quick death. The bastard son of the Staff-Bearer was too adept at infliction to slip and cut a vital artery or vein - and he was patient. When Keylyn lapsed into unconsciousness, Tor would wait; until his prisoner was able once more to feel the agony he dealt to his body.

He had promised Keylyn that there would be no escape. Keylyn would suffer until his body simply could no longer live - until his heart stopped beating out of exhaustion and weakness.

Keylyn wanted to die.

He had woken again from a bout of unconsciousness; he quivered as his agonised muscles reacted to the injuries. A throbbing daze hung about his head - and flared as chilling water struck his face.

Tor appeared from behind him; grinning with his innate demonic malevolence.

"Good morning, sleepy head." his torturer chirped gleefully, "I was beginning to think our time was over - but there you go, waking up again. I'm glad - I've been thinking it over, and I'm going to let you go." the man paused, and cackled, "But there's several hours before the time I decided to let you go. You do your job well -" the magus reached out and patted Keylyn's soaked hair, "Scream for me, and don't go sleeping again, and if you make it there I'll let you go. No hard feelings."

Keylyn shivered, and unleashed a ragged cough.

The insane magus grinned, turned and strode over to the rack where his implements of torture were holstered.

Tor returned with one of the many knives, which was stained with Keylyn's blood, "Now I know I said your face was too pretty to cut, but I was thinking you'd look rather dashing with a scar or two - or a bruise," Tor lashed out viciously with his fist; he struck Keylyn's jaw - the magus' head reeled; Tor bent down and cupped the injured magus' jaw in his hands, "Oh, I'm sorry...that was bad of me...I shouldn't break my pretty toy," his face twisted into glee, "Just the ugly bits."

Keylyn screamed as pain was carved into his chest. Tor giggled excitedly.

The torturer dropped the knife he held; it clattered to the ground; he returned to his rack and selection of tools.

Keylyn moaned. His chest bled.

"You know, my dear magus," Tor continued relentlessly, "My father told me an interesting thing about you, and about Hadrath." - Keylyn flinched at the name, "He said you loved Hadrath - he said you loved him in a despicable way." Tor paused, "...did you want Hadrath, Keylyn? Did you love Hadrath? Did you want Hadrath to love you?" his torturer moved back to him, "He was your father, Keylyn. How dare you love him!" the man slapped him viciously across the face, "My father was disgusted with you - he said he wanted me to teach you a lesson. Show you how disgusting you are." Tor paused, again, and kissed Keylyn's forehead, "I'm going to do you a favour; I'll show you how Hadrath would have loved you - how you wanted Hadrath to love you." Keylyn winced at the words - his torturer stroked his cheek tenderly, and whispered with a hoarse growl of ire, "How my father loves me."

Tor dropped the injured magus' head to the ground carelessly and moved to his tools - he looked them over, and gripped a long, cylindrical baton.

"How my father loves me." he muttered to himself - then snarled with ferocious rage.

He struck the rack, and it toppled, clattering to the ground as his implements of torture skittered across the stone.

Tor turned to Keylyn; his face was cold and empty - he held the baton before Keylyn, "This is how Hadrath would have loved you. From behind you. Always from behind you." the torturer knelt above Keylyn's face, and whispered into his ear, "It always hurts."

Tor stood, and moved behind Keylyn, readying the baton - he knelt down behind the injured, naked magus. He pressed the baton against Keylyn's anus.

"You will feel Hadrath's love," Tor muttered, "Like my father loves me...loved me."

An explosion of shattered wood, interceded between the torturer and his prisoner - tearing his attention away. The door was torn from its hinges as the shoulder of the knight behind it forced the wood out of the archway. A spray of splinters was scattered across the crouching torturer and his recumbent prisoner.

Tor's eyes hardened into rage and malice. He threw the baton at the intruder and leapt over the body of the injured magus; he scrambled madly for the tools he had scattered on the ground.

He grasped one, and whirled to face his opponent. He lashed out with the dagger.

Palai'dred dodged the slash - and brought her blade cleanly across Tor's extended arm.

The Sword-Bearer's blade cleaved his limb free, and spilled a gush of blood. Vermillion spattered across the stone, the dagger and the lifeless hand.

Tor did not scream. A demented noise emanated from the magus' mouth, as it twisted into a grin.

A laugh, choked by pain. A satisfied laugh.

For a moment, the torturer clutched his bleeding limb, watched and leered in ecstatic delight at the face of the Sword-Bearer above him. Palai'dred whirled her sword through a swift arc - a flash of steel met the neck of the Staff-Bearer's bastard son.

Tor's body was cast to the stone by the force of the blow; his neck opened bare to his spine. As the lethal course of blood pooled around his head, his mouth remained in its gleeful smile.

The Sword-Bearer brought her blade to her arm, and wiped the offending red from the metal, before she re-sheathed it at her waist.

Lyrien moved into the basement behind her; she was followed protectively by Faldorn.

Keylyn moaned, he had no energy to do else. He was scarcely aware of anything that had transpired - the cold touch of the oracle's hand rested on his cheek.

"Don't worry," she said, "You won't be harmed any more. We're here to rescue you -"

As she uttered the words, her face twisted in disgust; Lyrien recoiled suddenly, and withdrew her hand, as though Keylyn's cheek had inexplicably become hostile and abhorrent.

The injured magus moaned and lapsed into unconsciousness.

Alarm and concern gripped both Faldorn and the knight.

"Are you alright?" Faldorn asked the oracle.

Lyrien paused before she whispered, "He's a magus..."

Faldorn's eyes widened with surprise - and then narrowed. He let out a ragged breath; he reached to the floor, retrieved one of the knives and rushed at the unconscious body on the ground, brandishing the implement for a thrust into Keylyn's neck.

Palai'dred's strong grip stopped his hand from stabbing downwards.

"Faldorn!" she shouted, in reprimand.

"He's a magus!" the archivist returned with vehement fury.

"Lyrien?" the Sword-Bearer asked, though her glare did not leave the man she restrained.

After a pause Lyrien muttered, shaken with uncertainty, "He is important to the future...and we came here to help him."

Faldorn snarled, "Lyrien!"

"No, Faldorn." she answered; determination hardened her features - she met the Sword-bearer's eyes, "Palai'dred, wrap him in a cloak, we will need to carry him out of here."

Faldorn glared at the oracle, but after a moment spent confronting the immovable bracing of the Sword-Bearer, he eased and relinquished his weapon. Sullenly, and silently, he turned for the door.

Palai'dred removed her own travelling cloak, and carefully wrapped the injured magus in the material before scooping him into a cradle. She waited for the oracle to move out of the basement.

Lyrien looked at Keylyn's face for a brief moment - the doubt flickered in her eyes, but she turned and marched back into the alley.

An injured magus was carried behind her.

* * *

Ayadra burned.

In sleep - in the nightmare he now wanted - he burned. Hell-fire burned him, as it always had, gleefully, malevolently. In his dreams - these nightmares, the hell-fire was free.

It laughed. It crackled and roared. And burned.

Like he wanted - like he had wanted.

He had failed. He was evil. He would continue to fail -

Ayadra woke suddenly - a startled gasp escaped him.

- As did the crackling flares of infernal flame.

The burst of searing despair swept across the room; hell-fire burned on his hand, coating his obsidian scales in orange flares. The room was lit by light as crimson as the moon beyond the stone of the domed ceiling. For a moment.

Elle'dred and Syla were struck by the heat - but as swiftly as it had appeared it vanished.

Ayadra lay on the ground, moaning. The flames were gone; they had burned - as he wanted them to.

For a moment. And then they had abandoned him to the truth once again - to the damnation he could not bear.

He had had failed. He would continue to fail. He was evil.

He had allowed the hell-fire to burn -

In the darkness of the moon.

The door to his inexplicable knowledge opened and showed him - the truth of what he had just done -

Of his failing.

No.

He clutched his hand to his chest, and grimaced in pain - and remorse.

Llrsyring knelt at his side.

"The dreams." the helm said; the incarnate did not answer.

Elle'dred and Syla both moved closer to Ayadra - he groaned and shivered, as the deathwalker knelt over him and stroked his neck.

The knight sighed.

"So this is the thing that the Tribunal would have me undo," the sharp voice of Fyrentus emanated from the open archway the magus had first emerged from; it twisted into malice and glee, "I did not know it flamed - perhaps if I could prod it with a few sharp objects, it could become my new table lamp."

Elle'dred shot a ferocious glare at the man.

Fyrentus ignored his expression and tacit warning; he continued - evidently, speaking only to himself, "If this is a weapon, it seems to be rather weak and useless. It is supposed to be the Three Hells incarnate - I wonder what else my sharp objects will uncover -"

"Try to hurt Ayadra and I will kill you." Elle'dred growled; his hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

The malicious intent of the magus' gaze shifted to him.

"No you won't, knight," Fyrentus returned, "Because I have found a way to undo that pathetic thing."

Elle'dred glared.

The magus tottered forward and grinned, "I can draw the incarnation from him - it will not even kill him. If his life is valuable to you." the grin lessened into a cruel smirk, "But it will be - painful."

"You are disgusting," Syla remarked, as she stood beside Elle'dred, "The Tribunal was right to exile you here."

Fyrentus' features froze, "How dare you." he hissed, "I was exiled unfairly - and if I am despicable, it is only because your Tribunal made me so." - his grin returned sharply, and with a new ire, "And, as your Tribunal does not threaten me - nor do you - and as the magus do not even know you are here...I will not do their bidding." he chuckled, "You are prisoners in my patron's home. And the thing you have brought to me is a weapon - if it doesn't work the way it is supposed to, I will make sure it does. And my patron will reward me for arming him with such a device that he can destroy the other houses and claim the city for himself."

Elle'dred's sword was a flash of steel, as he bounded across the room towards the magus.

But the knight was forced to a halt; he struggled to arrest his impetus - and recoil, as a wall of fire burst across the room between him and his target, fuelled by the flame of the cresset beside the archway.

Elle'dred recovered as swiftly as his reflexes allowed; the fire dissipated in a moment, as quickly as it had blazed through the air, and divided the room. But before the knight could mount another charge, he uttered a gasp - and threw his sword to the ground.

The blade glowed, incandescent with heat; his hand had been burned by the metal.

The pain was transitory.

- The other doors of their enclosure opened amid the clattering of plated boots on stonework; the house guards moved into the room, each brandishing a sabre that glistened in the dim light.

The Captain strode forward; his own blade pointed towards the surrounded and weapon-less knight.

"If you should attempt the murder of this house's guests again, I will see that your death is the subject of many weeks rather than days," he paused, "Enrasus has deemed you enemies of his domain; you will be executed each in a manner befitting criminals of your stature. This weapon is claimed as compensation for his expense towards your comfort." the Captain glanced at Fyrentus, "How long do you require?"

"A day to prepare the spell," the magus answered, with an abrupt servility, "I will need a guard."

The Captain sneered in disgust, but nodded and met the knight's eyes again, "You have a day. Enjoy the comfort of this house."

Fyrentus filed out before the guards; the Captain closed and locked the door behind them.

Elle'dred retrieved his sword - the heat had faded from the metal; he re-sheathed it at his waist.

He turned to Llrsyring - the deathwalker had not moved from his position; the incarnate still lay on the floor of the room beside him.

"Why did you do nothing?" the knight snapped.

The suit of armour was silent for a moment.

Before Elle'dred could press for an explanation, Llrsyring spoke, "The forces of the Immortal have felt Ayadra's fire. They will be here before nightfall. Ambranas will be destroyed."

The admission shocked the knight. In bewilderment, he turned to the incarnate.

He did not expect Ayadra to meet his eyes.

The abyssal orbs in the expressionless mask of black bone, wetted by tears, could only stare at the floor.

"I'm sorry." the incarnate whispered.

The guilt was palpable in his voice.

Elle'dred did not blame him.
Chapter 39

_Syrkyn's wound was healed. But a deeper wound had been dealt. Now, he hated his brothers more than any else. They had taken his blade from him. He cried in rage, and his anger grew such flame as to burn the sky above the Mountains of the Pit. In pain, he spat upon the ground. His spittle at once took shape, in the form of a serpent. And he leant down to pick it up. It struck him, and as its poison filled his veins he roared again in rage. He plunged the beast into the fires of his furnace, and when he withdrew his hands a blade now rested upon them. But the handle was bladed, and when he gripped it, alike the serpent, it bit him. But this would be his blade, this would be the sword that struck down each of his brothers._

_He roared in glee and triumph. And at that instant the furnace grew a great flame. The fire swept over Syrkyn, searing his face and casting his body alight. His face like water, clouded by hate and ash, was burned to stone. And glistened against the fire of his flesh. His face was a window to his madness, and a mirror to the madness of the Three Hells. His body burned, the flames would not die, and in their orange light one could glimpse a darker fire. The Fire of the Three Hells. But Syrkyn would not let the fire claim him. He stood against the sky and roared in madness and anger._

* * *

The sounds of battle were unmistakeable - the clamour and screech of steel and screams. The cacophony outside was not muted by the stone of the walls, or the wooden doors that barred their escape. They knew only one path that provided egress from the building - but the sole door in the small, stone pit was the source of the loudest emanations.

Llrsyring drew his blades; the song of steel glided into being, as Ishtavra and Athyndyrra glinted in the dim light of the room.

Elle'dred decided on the same door the magus and guards had chosen; he drew his sword and ordered Syla to breech the wood.

She complied with alacrity; the magus raised her hand, the wood creaked, warped - and shattered into a cascade of splinters that fell in a heap beneath the now open archway.

Immediately, two guards entered from the far side - readying their sabres.

Elle'dred did not have to move; Llrsyring stepped before both men, his swords flared in an arcing edge of steel that bordered the elegant swirl of his cloak - amidst a spray of red, the corpses dropped to the ground, beheaded.

The deathwalker did not pause - he moved into the hallway with a lethal fervour.

The knight, magus and incarnate followed closely behind him; Syla removed a candle from the wall, but the paltry flame was not capable of illuminating the corridor fully.

The rushed rhythm of clanking armour signalled the approach of more guards - and the screech of rent metal, gurgled screams, and a silencing clatter of blades falling to the ground denoted the swift end meted out by the walking suit of armour.

"This way." the echoed voice called from the darkness.

Syla chanted imperceptibly into the flame, and although the fire above the wick grew no larger, the luminescence it cast reached into the depths of the hallway. The vague outline of the armour could be discerned near an overshadowed door. Corpses were scattered at his feet - amidst the scarlet glisten of puddles that ran from their fatal wounds.

They joined the deathwalker near the archway.

"More enemies are coming," the armour said, flatly - the helm met the knight's eyes, "Enemies other than guards."

Elle'dred looked to Syla; the magus had already raised her hand to the door. Again, the wood groaned and cracked, before splintering into a cascade of shards.

Syla stifled a gasp, and lurched unsteadily; Elle'dred braced her from falling.

"Do not exhaust yourself." Llrsyring warned, as he moved through the archway.

The magus took a short moment to regain herself, before she proceeded through the aperture; Elle'dred motioned for Ayadra to continue ahead of him. After a moment, he too fell in behind the incarnate - watching the dark corridor behind them.

They exited the hallway onto an open terrace - a large expanse atop the roof of the house. Beds of barren dirt were arranged across the level, but whatever flora had once grown in them had been choked to death under the light of the Dark Moon.

Perrefiere blazed down upon them.

The black stone orb loomed, crowned in lambent crimson and enthroned by a mantle of abyssal void; its alluring light set the garden beds afire with vermillion hue, and burned the uppermost level of the Eleventh House - just as the City of Shades burned beneath.

The terrace was walled on all sides, and each wall served to house a multitude of doors. The high stone partitions restricted what they could see; but it was enough.

Towering columns of smoke, lit by the glow of the fires that birthed them, billowed upwards from the streets until they were swallowed by the darkness above. The din of the battle waged beneath carried on the air.

Despite the destruction of the city, Elle'dred's attention fell entirely ahead of him.

The deathwalker had come to an abrupt halt.

On the opposing side of the terrace, a line of dark figures stood facing them - each was composed of black, wrought metal plates that met at warped and twisted seams. Each held a jagged blade, alike a hilt-less shard of metal.

The line of fourteen nether-touched raised their swords in a malicious salute - before they began to laugh. The hideous cackle crawled over the terrace, skittered over the dead beds of dirt, and swarmed across the party. And then the malefic glee transmuted into flame - and heat.

From amidst the conflagration that burned within the suits of armour, the impossible despair of hell-fire tore across the garden. The coalescent heat struck the knight and the magus; Elle'dred and Syla collapsed to the ground. The air would have seared their lungs had they managed the will to breathe - but even that was beyond them. Under the heat of infernal flame, they lay on the terrace, as still as death - watching the line of fourteen foes advance.

Llrsyring raised a gauntleted arm to shield his helm from the heat.

Without glancing to the incarnate, the deathwalker shouted, "Protect them!"

The ebon-robed suit of armour turned to the line of blazing counterparts, and ran. Both of his blades glistened in the light of the hell-fire. Ishtavra, Ellyan longsword, and Athyndyrra, Guardian of the Sixth Blood, leapt into the battle with the all the graceful fury eleven hundred years of practice could bear.

At the instant the armour reached sword-range, the black folds of his cloak swirled into departing mist. His charge - a feint.

- He reappeared behind the line of foes.

Ishtavra sang as she glided under the helm of the first adversary. The Ellyan blade cleaved through metal and hell-fire and freed the hollow head of its foe. The suit of black armour clattered to the ground amidst a dying plume of flame.

Athyndyrra arced in perfect harmony with the flare of ebon robes that swirled around the deathwalker - her outstretched edge caught and cleaved, sending another cascade of immolating armour to the pavement of the terrace.

Llrsyring did not pause through his finish. His leg bent, he took stance - and he raised his blades.

But the moment of surprise had been expended - and the other nether-touched turned to meet their foe.

And Ayadra watched.

Under the weight of infernal despair, and the overpowering surge of guilt, he watched.

This was his fault. He had brought this doom upon the others.

In a moment of failing, he had let hell-fire burn - he had wanted it to -

And it had - it had burned free of his skin. It had called to the hell above.

As ever, he failed. As ever, he was evil.

Hell-fire echoed in his being -

Ayadra crouched over the bodies of the knight and magus; if they breathed, he could not perceive it.

They would die because of him.

- The doors on the western wall of the terrace were burst open. The massive shapes of incarnates emerged from the archways; dozens of the creatures marched out into the garden - their bovine countenance's swept the battlefield, unaffected by the impossible heat, immune to the despair.

Their bestial eyes fixed on the three members of the party - the two that lay defenceless on the ground, and the black incarnate who knelt over them. The incarnates unleashed snorts of delight. They approached, readying their weapons; barbed clubs and maces that two men would struggle to wield.

They would kill him, and Elle'dred and Syla.

Because he had failed.

Because he was guilty.

The first incarnate neared, it raised its club.

Because he had surrendered.

- Hell-fire reared. And Ayadra did not fight.

He wanted -

He had to protect Elle'dred and Syla -

- The guilt was consumed by hell-fire.

As he forced himself to his feet, Ayadra's arms blazed with flame - tongues of searing orange crackled madly into the perpetual night. The air was utterly consumed by heat and despair.

The incarnates continued to advance.

The damning elation of surrender filled Ayadra's arms, and every inch of his flesh raged to be free of pent fury - but that power was born by his limbs alone. He funnelled the fire into his hands, and let its ferocity tear out of him. All the guilt - all the damning shame, was channelled into the fire of his hands.

He had to protect Elle'dred and Syla - he had to -

From his outstretched arms, a roaring conflagration erupted - hell-fire spewed forth as a river of flame; the torrent of orange waves rushed across the air and met the breakwater that was the nearest incarnate's body.

The slow, horrific torment of hell-fire began to blaze across the creature. It stumbled back, into another - the flames burst into new height and leapt onto a second victim.

And Ayadra watched - and did not care.

All thought, all comprehension and reason - all the guilt - was effaced by hell-fire. Burned away by the impossible power of despair.

He deserved it. He deserved this.

And he wanted it.

To end.

Ayadra did not relent; the flames continued to erupt - tearing and streaming from his arms. Wave after wave of hellish orange bathed the incarnates in torment - and those at the front did not sate the fire's course; it engulfed them and raced into the ranks behind. Dozens of incarnates flailed, stumbled and shrieked amidst the sadistic immolation that devoured their army.

The flood of hell-fire would not abate, evermore ferociously it tore from Ayadra's arms - gouts of flame ripped free of the torrent and spiralled down onto the pavement. The stone burned.

And Ayadra was oblivious -

He had failed. He had surrendered. He deserved this.

Hell-fire burned.

- And there was no pain -

The fires crawled slowly up his arms, latched onto his chest with crackling fingers - and he did not resist. If not for the will of the flames that drove his legs, he would have lain down across the pavement and let his end come.

Hell-fire laughed.

Llrsyring flowed through a cascade of arcing movement; his blades a dance amidst the ebon swirl of his cloak, flaring, fading, feinting - striking. With every shift in stance, every planting of his feet, he lashed out swift destruction.

But despite his speed and seamless elegance, he could not ultimately prevail - jagged blades ripped through his immaculate defence and gouged deeply into his armour.

Hindered by the weapons, his melee faltered - and surrounded by a ring of blazing foes he was trapped and crushed. Seven shards of hilt-less steel were driven through him and lifted him up.

Pinioned aloft on seven blades, surrounded by the heat of hell-fire, Llrsyring was helpless.

The flames amidst the suits of black armour roared into a coalescent inferno; the nether-touched surrounded the deathwalker with a sole conflagration born of their individual flames - encircling him with the emptiness of despair. And the insidious madness of their laughter.

Llrsyring went limp; his helm lolled to one side and his limbs hung, inertly - his two blades clattered to the ground at his feet.

For a moment he hung, as still as death.

- Stone.

The nether-touched that gripped the deathwalker's throat convulsed in a sudden, violent spasm. Snaking tendrils of rock speared and stabbed downwards across its burning arm - manifesting from the stone-gauntlet that gripped its armoured wrist.

Llrsyring's left hand.

The rock spread and melded; the fire retreated into the suit of black armour, and was sealed inside - as the nether-touched was transmuted into a flawless carving of stone.

Llrsyring gripped the arm at his throat - the effigy could no longer release its grip. But the deathwalker did not require it to do so.

The blades that perforated him snapped free from his body. The stone arm that gripped his throat crumbled in a cascade of dust, as he lowered himself to the pavement.

The circle of fire was broken; the blazing suits of armour attempted to retreat from the deathwalker.

Llrsyring caught one before it could move beyond the reach of his arm; the black armour was paralysed and agonisingly transmuted into stone. But as the flames died amidst the plates of the nether-touched, Llrsyring had already moved to the next. With the same graceful fluidity he showed when wielding his blades, the deathwalker danced from one nether-touched to another. Reaching out with his left hand, he placed only a brief touch on the suits of armour - and they were paralysed.

An imprint of stone marked the black plates, and from the small stain tendrils lanced out across the blazing, metal skin. In seconds they were consumed - transmuted into effigies, perpetually fleeing a darkness that had made hell-fire afraid.

Llrsyring pursued his foes, he caught the last as it reached the far wall of the terrace - he held onto the nether-touched as it groped desperately, but futilely, for the open archway and escape.

As the last of the stone solidified and cast the burning suit of armour into solidity, Llrsyring changed.

Darkness emerged.

The incarnates burned. And shrieked. And screamed.

And Ayadra watched.

The river of fire birthed from his hands had ceased, and now the flames blazed savage and infernal upon his skin. Ragged plumes of fire erupted from his arms and chest, escalating into the night and serenading the Dark Moon above.

Oblivious - immersed in the hollow elation of hell-fire - Ayadra stood and let the fires creep across his chest and neck, and legs. In moments the fire would devour his body - and he would be free. Free from guilt and pain. From fear and despair. Free from the thing he had never asked to be.

Hell-fire whispered its promise. The truth.

He deserved this. He wanted it. He had surrendered.

But darkness cut short his fatalistic reverie.

A sheer plane of shadow swept across the terrace from the far wall. Utter, flawless, shadow.

- Emanating from the maw of the deathwalker.

Llrsyring's helm had changed; where a mouth belonged, a jagged maw of teeth had opened, and from it, an unerring blade of utter abyss stretched forth. The darkness choked the light of the flames still alive on the bovine-incarnates - and the fires began to gutter and die. Their immolation was completed, and they dropped to the ground; as charred, shrivelled corpses.

Ayadra was dragged from his stupor; he turned to face the deathwalker.

Llrsyring's darkness scoured the vermillion hue of the moon from the stones, and bathed the terrace in a shadow darker than the void above.

Only Ayadra's flames opposed the darkness and were not stifled; amidst a sea of abyssal black, the incarnate stood as an island of fire.

The channel for all Hell-fire stood before the Golem of Daethyr.

* * *

Lyrien rode through the narrow ravines that surrounded Delphanas. The beat of hooves beneath her centred her thoughts, and reinforced her resolve, but still, a tear ran down her face.

She held onto Palai'dred's waist, as the last Sword-Bearer of the White Wolf hall directed the mount at a gallop through the valley. The battle was over - the Circle of Sword-Bearer's had fallen, and now, the Magus forces were moving on the Hall of the White Wolf.

The last of the knights there would have little warning, and no hope of repelling the magus from their home. They would all die.

The tear that traced a rivulet across Lyrien's cheek was quickly effaced by the rush of air around her. She could not turn back. Her vision still lingered in her mind; she knew the future of Ammandorn rested with her and Faldorn, and the knights around them.

Many days of hard riding lay ahead; they would have to leave the Aft-guard Mountains as far south as the ravines permitted; they could not risk crossing the Warded Valley too close to the Magus Keep. If they were discovered, the Tribunal might be alerted to the survival of the Knights - and under the law, the Magus would track them down and condemn them.

Lyrien would not allow that to happen.

They had to reach the Forest of Dwener'dier. They had to reach the Champion of the White Wolf. The fate of Ammandorn, like the Sword of his title, would lie in his hands.

And the hands of two magus and an archivist.

* * *

Guilt.

As Llrsyring's darkness had touched the hell-fire upon his skin; the flames had weakened.

For a moment, the savage elation of the flames was gone.

Guilt returned. And despair. And remorse.

And all the forces he could not bear.

Hell-fire roared.

- The darkness had stolen his end. It had stolen the freedom of his surrender - it had stolen his right to surrender. The only right he had left -

Hell-fire laughed.

Ayadra advanced on the deathwalker. He held out his burning arms, and roared.

The fire that blazed upwards into the night from his limbs was wrenched into another blazing stream. Hell-fire spewed forth amidst the darkness, and rushed towards its source.

Llrsyring waited for the flame; unmoving, the inferno rampaged around him. The flames engulfed his robes and body - but could not consume them. His robes defied the heat as did the cold, shimmer of his armour. Tongues of fire licked and slashed at the darkness that emanated from his maw, but the hell-fire could not overcome the shadow.

Llrsyring turned to black mist amidst the flames, his dying wisp evaporated under the heat.

Hell-fire drew back Ayadra's hands, and the river abated. The darkness had vanished suddenly - the flames had burnt away its source. Despair obscured any reason, or recognition that if that were true, he would have killed Llrsyring, and even when the haze of heat cleared amidst the air, and Ayadra saw the far side of the terrace empty - the ramifications were swept as kindling to the flames. His flames.

He did not care. All he wanted was this.

A void of pain obscured his senses, as did the flames that tore from his skin. Ayadra did not see the swirl of solidifying smoke that appeared next to him - darkness stabbed across from his left, and he managed the briefest glimpse of the blow the deathwalker lashed out with his right hand.

The plated arm struck the bone mask that was his face.

The blow sent him reeling to the pavement. He sprawled on his side. Before he could recover breath or his senses, an equally savage kick was delivered into his hunched belly. He was propelled across the terrace, and his momentum carried him into an effigy of a nether-touched.

He cried in pain as his back arched around the statue, halted by the stone. His fires blazed.

They effaced his wounds.

The roaring taunts of hell-fire drove him to his feet.

- He was forced to the ground again, as he dodged another strike from the deathwalker. This strike dealt by the stone-gauntlet.

Llrsyring's left-hand rived a gouge in the effigy that had been behind him, and sent a flurry of dust in pursuit of his blazing body.

Recumbent, Ayadra rolled and released a raging blast of fire from his arms - the burst caught the deathwalker with such force it propelled him away.

Llrsyring was halted by another of the statues - the rock cracked precariously as it arrested his movement. But with silent, cold force he held himself erect and advanced a step on the incarnate bathed in hell-fire.

Ayadra's fires burned brighter, crackling gleefully on his flesh - they had consumed his chest, and slashed down onto his waist and abdomen. Power, infernal and damning, filled every muscle - as the fire roared around it. And laughed.

Oblivious to all but the power and promise of hell-fire, Ayadra extended his arms and allowed the inferno to rip free and pour from his flesh.

Besieged by flame, Llrsyring battled through the orange torrent, bracing its ferocious force with his hand, and the darkness from his maw - but that shadow flickered. The teeth of his helm began to close and seal at the edges of his mouth.

The deathwalker stopped, the fire held him at bay - tongues of flare clawed at his helm, singeing the teeth shut. The plane of darkness weakened. After a moment, the suit of armour could no longer defy the power of the flames - he was swept across the terrace by a river of orange waves. His flight was arrested, again by another statue.

Ayadra was unaware. Oblivious.

Ravaged by hell-fire, he did not care.

It burned away the guilt. It burned away him.

Hell-fire would burn and burn and burn.

Ayadra was unaware of his foe - or that the fires guttered from the river and rose instead above him as a blazing pyre affixed to his flesh. He had failed. He had surrendered. He was evil.

The Hell-Fire weakened - the flames lessened.

He screamed.

The hollow elation ebbed from his flesh - guilt returned for a moment - he needed it, he could not let it go. He clawed his way to his feet, chasing the fire. The blaze goaded and manoeuvred him across the terrace.

It led him to his foe - Llrsyring had stumbled to his feet, and grasped weakly to the statue for support.

Hell-fire laughed. And roared. And burned.

Fire tore free of his hand and blazed in a torrent that affixed the deathwalker to the rock. Hell-fire did not relent - with each step driven by the will of the flames, the river burst and seethed with escalating power. Flames swept across the armour, across the statue behind him, across the terrace. The stone was scorched ineluctably black, cast to searing red - and reduced to molten slag. The pavement, the effigy, the statues of nether-touched around the deathwalker, all ran amidst a sea of infernal flame.

The liquid remains of the effigy trickled down across Llrsyring's body, braced against the glow of the pavement. The molten rock was effaced by a swell of fire.

The deathwalker was bathed in heat and despair. And flame.

Llrsyring's darkness had long abated; his maw was closed, restored to the wholeness of his helm.

Ayadra did not see - he did not care -

The fire consumed his waist, clawed across his genitals, and slashed down onto his legs. Spurts of flame flared along his furled wings.

He had surrendered. He had failed. He was free.

Hell-fire roared and laughed.

Amidst the inferno of his flesh, the bone-mask that was his face remained immune - his dark countenance floated amidst the fire and framed the abyssal eyes oblivious to the conflagration that consumed him.

Hell-fire laughed. It weakened for a moment - quelling the torrent of fire that moved from Ayadra's arms.

He screamed.

The river was abandoned; his enemy lay motionless beneath him - the deathwalker's robes were singed short, and the suit of armour was scorched black.

In the savage absence of elation - in the hell of guilt he could not bear - hell-fire taunted; one strike - and it would all be over. It would end. Pain, guilt, remorse, sadness - Ayadra would be free of all.

The truth.

Ayadra listened and raised his arm above his enemy.

His talon glistened obsidian amidst the flames; angled above his hand like a blade of shadow that crowned the infernal scythe he would use to deliver Llrsyring's death. With one stroke, he would drive his talon through Llrsyring's face - and end it.

As he wanted. As he had always wanted.

Hell-fire roared.

- Ayadra glanced down.

Guilt.

Recognition.

Fear.

Terror.

Despair.

The truth before him stabbed a knife so cleanly through the elation of the fire, Ayadra recoiled. He lowered his arm.

Hell-fire retaliated.

It roared and tore out of the incarnate's skin - it abandoned him into the void above, and vanished amidst the crimson glow of the moon. It left only the damnation of his pristine skin behind.

The truth. The undeniable truth.

Ayadra gasped - the sudden freedom from the fire was as sadistic as any wound; half of him shrieked for it to return, and the other half drowned under relief, grief and guilt. He collapsed to his knees as tears welled in his eyes.

He did not deserve them. He had no right to them.

The truth.

The heat and despair lifted across the terrace; the knight and magus each sucked in a weak, desperate breath.

Ayadra cried. Cold, and naked under the Dark Moon, he could not bear the guilt -

The truth.

He did not see the suit of armour move; he was not aware of the deathwalker, until a gauntleted hand closed around his throat. And hurled him across the terrace.

Brutally, the incarnate collided with a statue of a nether-touched. Bones cracked, and he fell to the ground.

Ayadra let out a cry.

The suit of armour pursued him, bending down mid stride to retrieve one of his fallen swords.

Llrsyring raised Ishtavra above the shuddering, obsidian body of the incarnate.

"Llrsyring!" Elle'dred's shout tore across the terrace.

- And the knight's cry stifled the blow that would end his life.

No.

He could not bear it.

The truth.

For a moment there was silence.

- Then steel ground against stone. Against his neck.

Ishtavra had been plunged into the pavement, beside the bare scales of his neck. The edge drew a cut through the scaled obsidian, and freed a thin trickle of red. It stung.

"You should have killed me." the deathwalker hissed, above him.

Guilt. Beyond bearing.

Llrsyring stood above him for a moment; the deathwalker silently withdrew his sword and replaced it at his waist.

"Get up." The helm growled down onto him.

The suit of armour moved away and retrieved his second blade, re-sheathing it alongside the Ellyan longsword.

Ayadra coughed; pain. It hurt to breathe. He propped himself up against the statue; the memory of the fire ached in his arms, his chest, his legs. But the truth drove him stumbling to his feet.

On the far side of the terrace, Elle'dred stood; his legs half-buckled and he nearly fell. The knight caught his balance, and stood for a moment to regain command of his muscles. Behind him, Syla did likewise. Despite the lingering exhaustion of hell-fire, both knight and magus forced themselves to walk.

Llrsyring moved to one of the open passageways that led off the terrace.

"We must move." he stated.

Ayadra stumbled a few steps, and had to brace himself on another statue - he repressed a yelp of pain.

The stone of the effigy scraped against his throbbing skin, and the cold air burned in his chest. Every movement caused him agony. He winced as he forced his legs into motion.

Elle'dred approached his side to aid him -

He snarled, "Get away from me."

Tears accompanied the words.

He had failed.

Hell-fire had won. Because he wanted it to. 
Chapter 40

_The forests of the Elves once more besieged the crown of the world. And from the Mountains of the Pit, Syrkyn saw the army his foes made ready. They would soon march upon him, and he would fall. But he also knew his brothers were not yet ready to face him. If he could strike them first, he could slay them and their army. He roared into the pit, and the flames made a terrible storm of ash that darkened the sky. And Syrkyn began to strike at the mountains again. He knew that each strike, each clap of thunder would be heard in every reach of the land. They echoed across the sky. And his brothers would have to come before they were ready, lest he breech the crown of the world._

_Aunvari, atop the battlements of the city, heard each clap and knew his brother had gone mad. The other Wyvern Kings had yet to recover from the wounds Syrkyn had dealt them, and the army of the Elves was not strong enough to fight Syrkyn without them. Aunvari chose, he knew he had to go to his brother, and if Syrkyn did not stop, he would have to do what he dreaded most. He would have to kill his brother._

_With Salfiernadorn in his hand, Aunvari leapt from the battlements and flew for the Mountains of the Pit. Syrkyn's storm clouded his eyes, and he listened for the claps of thunder and his brother's blade. When he neared the crown of the world he heard the claps no longer. He feared that Syrkyn had broken through, and hoped that perhaps his brother had stopped willingly. He dared to hope and flew swifter than before. But when he saw the furnace, and that the Mountains of the Pit were bare, he knew what Syrkyn had done._

* * *

The party left the Eleventh house, quickly, the conflict within was over - if any house guards or guests survived they either hid or had fled into the streets.

Enrasus had been slain - impaled to his grandiose, silver throne with a black lance, as his house's banner burned, defiled, on the floor of the throne-hall.

The streets were alive with the noise of battle, and death. Fire consumed much of the city.

Llrsyring led, maintaining a distance from the others. Elle'dred assumed the rear guard, but at moments he watched the deathwalker intently. Syla held pace beside him; despite the lingering exhaustion from the battle between the deathwalker and incarnate, she maintained herself with stubbornness.

Ayadra stumbled along ahead of them; every breath was a wheeze, and as often accompanied by bloodied coughs. The knight knew they had to stop and tend to the incarnate - he wanted to speak with the deathwalker, but Llrsyring drove them on at a merciless pace motivated by darker feelings, which Elle'dred had become well too aware of.

A goblin happened upon them as Llrsyring exited an alley; without breaking stride, the deathwalker hacked the foe apart with a savageness that shocked the others. His preternatural strength splayed entrails across street.

Elle'dred glared down the deathwalker's back - for the first time in a very long while, he did not trust Llrsyring.

The suit of armour halted at the entrance to a large square; the party was concealed in the shadow of two buildings, but in the fires that lit the plaza they could see an army of incarnates.

The creatures were piling bodies - and the wounded, in a massive heap that was being lathered by goblins in a viscous black oil, and set alight. The rank odour of burning flesh clogged the air throughout the alley, choking the screams of the bodies yet moving amidst the flames. Elle'dred and Syla could do nothing but turn away.

Ayadra rested his back against the wall, but as he stifled another paroxysm of coughs, his legs buckled and he slid against the stone to the ground. He drew in breath through clenched teeth, grimacing - red seeped out across his lip.

Llrsyring ignored the others - the empty eyeholes of his helm were fixed on the blazing mound.

Elle'dred knelt down and tried to assist Ayadra, but the incarnate waved him away weakly.

The knight sighed in vexation, and restrained the incarnate's arms, as he moved to examine the broken ribs within the obsidian scaled chest - Ayadra's eyes, forced open by pleading, radiated a shame deeper than the abyssal void of his eyes.

Elle'dred met it with an understanding glance. Ayadra flinched as the knight's hand moved across his flank; the inner wounds were concerning, though Elle'dred was at a loss at how to tend them.

The knight stood and moved behind the suit of armour, "Ayadra is injured," he whispered, "He can't keep marching like this."

Llrsyring turned to face Elle'dred, silently, before he moved to the incarnate. Ungently - he thrust his hand against Ayadra's chest, pinning him to the wall.

Ayadra let a half-restrained, half-gurgled yelp escape him.

Alarm flared through Elle'dred, the knight's hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

But a near inaudible echo reverberated in the helm, and Syla tacitly conveyed to him that it was the chant of a spell.

"He will live." Llrsyring muttered, harshly, and shouldered past Elle'dred to watch the square again.

Elle'dred sighed, exasperation overcame him for a moment, but he curbed a sharp retort and asked instead, "How are we to leave Ambranas?"

The armour did not answer.

"Llrsyring." Elle'dred snapped.

The helm did not turn to face him, "The catacombs of the city extend into the Dead Mountains. If the Immortal's forces have not already conquered those passages we might survive long enough to reach open ground."

Confusion lit the knight's features, "Open ground? The darklands?"

"We can remain in the ravines of the range," Llrsyring responded coldly, "Until there is no more food."

"We won't survive in the darklands for more than a day -"

"Ayadra cannot leave the darkness of the moon."

Elle'dred glanced to the incarnate; a sullen nod affirmed the deathwalker's pronouncement.

With the fire of people blazing into the night, birthing another black tower of smoke, the army of incarnates and goblins departed the square. Before Elle'dred could speak further, the deathwalker moved out of the alley into the plaza. The knight helped Ayadra to his feet, as Syla moved beside them to follow.

An hour passed.

Cautiously, they made their way to the eastern side of Ambranas; the only enemies to confront them were reduced to corpses by a power too swift and unnatural to oppose. Llrsyring.

Elle'dred watched the deathwalker with the same wariness he did the streets.

From the outskirts of the city, a snaking path led up a slight incline - to meet the sheer vertical façade of the Dead Mountain that flanked Ambranas. A towering archway held place in the mountainside. The gaping aperture was unlit.

They paused briefly to light torches. From the elevation of the ledge, Elle'dred took one last look at the city; Ambranas burned from hundreds of fires, and the Dark Moon watched the city's destruction in gleeful crimson. Syla also looked across the scene, and she shared a glance with the knight.

- The Immortal's war had begun.

The knight tacitly requested she proceed ahead with Ayadra, and the magus nodded acknowledgement. Before the deathwalker could move ahead of them, Elle'dred gripped his arm.

The helm turned to face his hard, accusing eyes.

"What happened up there?" he asked.

Llrsyring muttered with an unashamed bitterness, "Not what I had hoped."

Elle'dred's glare narrowed, "And what would that have been?"

For a moment the helm was silent, but then it answered, "Hheirdane was not the only one who wanted to die." the answer struck the knight with the violence restrained in Llrsyring's arm; Elle'dred let his hand fall away from the robes.

"You selfish bastard."

Llrsyring stepped closer to him, the pointed snout of the helm just short of his nose, "Should we not decide when our suffering comes to an end? Why should we not get to choose? Death is a not a release all of us have been allowed to enjoy."

Elle'dred returned a stare in silence; Llrsyring turned towards the archway.

"What about Ayadra?" Elle'dred asked, hoarse with indignation; the deathwalker paused, "There are many things about you that do not bother me. I don't care that you are part of a weapon meant to destroy this world. I don't care that you used it to slaughter thousands of men. I don't care if you blame my race or me personally for the loss of your people." Elle'dred laughed, "Hells, I don't even care if you want to die. But what you've done to Ayadra is unforgiveable." he paused, "Did you even hope that you might change his fate? Or did you come here just to make sure he would kill you?" the knight sneered in disgust, "Ayadra deserves better than you."

The helm was silent a moment, "You have not done well by him either."

"No." Elle'dred answered, sharply, "But at least I tried to help him."

The helm turned to meet the knight's eyes, but after a second, Elle'dred looked away - too appalled to meet Llrsyring's gaze. He moved up the stairs, into the catacombs of the Dead Mountains.

After a moment, the deathwalker followed.

* * *

The City of Shades extended far into the mountain range on either side; myriad tunnels and causeways led to strings of immense excavated caverns. The chambers housed hundreds of buildings, on descending tiers of terracing that curved fluidly with the walls. But the passages were precarious; some walkways were entirely buried in debris from cave-ins, others were weakened by the collapse of the surrounding structure or the impact of fallen rock. Caverns were sealed off, others half-buried by the cataclysm that had shaken the mountain's roots. The touch of Perrefiere perforated all distances of rock.

The air was stagnant and thick. Though, the staleness aided them, it prevented the heat of their weary muscles from escaping too readily.

They continued slowly - and silently. Elle'dred had assumed the lead - Llrsyring had be relegated to the rear, while Syla bore the injured incarnate over a shoulder.

Ayadra limped beside her, in pain, in silence.

They descended a dangerous slope of shale. Flakes of stone skittered and fell - and broke the still air of the chamber with a rattling cacophony.

They achieved the base of the descent.

Wary of both unstable stone, and the approach of enemies from behind or ahead of them, Elle'dred slowed their pace to a crawl. They made their way out of the cave, into the west most tunnel. Shortly down the corridor, the distant clatter of stone prompted a halt, and all listened to discern sounds that might warrant a swift backtrack.

The dull clack of hoof meeting stone filled the knight with dismay; the sounds were rhythmic and increased in volume. All too quickly, they escalated into a discordant thrum - more than one incarnate marched down the tunnels ahead of them.

The knight whispered an order for them to retreat into the previous cavern; the magus and incarnate followed the deathwalker as they crept back as quietly as they could.

Again they were confronted by the precarious slope of shale; the only other exits that led vaguely westward resided on higher ledges they could only access by rescaling the mound.

A silent glance from Llrsyring informed the knight he would remain at the base and protect their ascent; Elle'dred shouldered wordlessly past him. He moved up the incline carefully; as did Ayadra and Syla behind him. But their passage sent more than one cascade of stone down the slope, and the tumult of rattling, clattering rocks transmuted their apprehension into dread.

When they achieved the nearest ledge, and tunnel, they ran. Llrsyring joined them in a swirl of materialisation - but even above the sound of their own feet, they could hear the echoes of their enemies escalate into a flurried thundering.

The reverberation chased them, resonating with new intensity down the tunnel behind them. All precautions for stealth were abandoned and they fled through the corridor as fast as the injured incarnate could manage.

Elle'dred's heart thumped in his chest, desperation combated the exhaustion of his muscles, his attention discerned everything within the light of his torch - but he could not see behind enshrouding rock. As he entered another half-collapsed cavern, littered with fallen boulders and debris, he passed the potential cover unthinkingly. The incarnate that had chosen that particular piece of rock stepped out and levelled a blow with its club that would crush the knight's chest.

Elle'dred realised his error far too late to react with any semblance of intention - he threw himself to the ground with all the momentum he possessed. The fall sent him reeling across sharp debris, and the jagged protrusions of stone that covered the ground.

One scored a gash to his head, and filled his vision with the blinding glitter of numbness. For a moment he could feel neither the blood trickling down across his face, nor the ferocious advance of the incarnate.

Syla careened to a halt, paces from the enemy that raised a monstrously large club above the knight - she was too late; she formed a rune only as the blow fell.

But a swirl of black mist dispelled her dismay; Llrsyring materialised with a flare of steel. Ishtavra sung as she sped upwards, and severed the Incarnate's arms at the apex of its swing. The creature roared in pain - as its limbs and weapon, imbued with the diverting force of the deathwalker's blow, fell to the ground beside the knight.

Elle'dred was spared death, but not the gush of the bovine-incarnate's thick blood that splattered across his face and chest. The abrupt sensation, and the nauseating stench both served to return awareness to his battered body.

Llrsyring continued his move seamlessly through a turn; Athyndyrra glided in his other hand, in an arc that guided her tapered point upwards - spearing through the incarnate's head.

The armour pulled the blade free, as the knight staggered to his feet clutching his forehead - and his sword. Though the deathwalker's intent superseded any defence Elle'dred raised.

Incarnates emerged from every nook and cranny that could hide their massive figures; their bovine countenances released gouts of spittle as they roared and charged the party.

Llrsyring intercepted the nearest enemy; ducking a blow through a fluid lowering turn, he cleaved open its gut, and before the corpse met the ground he had advanced to the next foe.

As he spun through a stance, and severed limb and head from his opponent's body, he shouted, "Run!"

Elle'dred realised the armour's objective immediately - Llrsyring had opened a path to one of the adjoining tunnels. Though his head spun with dizziness and pain, the knight ran for the opening, Syla and Ayadra on his heels.

Llrsyring's defence was abandoned the moment the party made their retreat; his cloak swirled into evanescent mist - and reappeared within the tunnel, bowing into a flash of steel that slew the first incarnate that entered in pursuit of the party.

Ayadra ran. Fear and exertion forced his heart into a rapid beat that filled his chest with agony. Pain flared with every stride and breath - and every exhalation filled his mouth with the taste of blood.

It covered and fuelled the shame - the guilt he could no longer escape.

Tears filled his eyes, as blood filled his chest; pain and guilt in tandem wracked his body and covered his vision with a haze - when both Elle'dred and Syla placed a foot on a loose edge of rock, and toppled down the narrow tunnel that had once been a carved staircase, Ayadra barely perceived what had happened.

Naked, the incarnate was scraped and gashed by the sharp stones that littered the descent - the tumble exacerbated the ribs broken in his chest, and added two more to their number. Excruciation twisted his body and wrenched a gurgled yelp from his throat.

The hard bone of his face protected him somewhat from the stair edges - but he struck the ground with a sickening thud as the end of the staircase arrested his fall.

He lay limply against the stone; he managed a groan - but the burning in his chest stifled it into a quiet whimper. A reverberation swathed his head in sharp dizziness, but the thrumming in his ears was not a result of the fall.

Elle'dred grunted as he forced in breath - the sickening reek of the blood that soaked his tunic helped reinforce his reluctant alertness. He rolled onto his side and wiped crusted red from his face, and fresh blood from his eyes. His body ached as he dragged himself to his feet. His hands were scraped raw in places, but his clothing and armour had absorbed the worst of the fall - and he had been fortunate not to have smashed open his skull on a stair.

Syla, however, had not been - she lay face down, and at the back of her head, her ebony hair was parted by a gash and matted with blood. She drew in shallow, short breaths.

Elle'dred stumbled to her side - he searched desperately for their packs; one satchel was in sight, but much of its contents had been freed during the fall. As he stumbled over to it, the knight snarled a curse and began to remove the remainder of its contents - desperation occluded his awareness of the thrumming behind him. But only for a moment.

The thrumming.

The stone vibrated, and the air was filled with a dull roar of movement.

The knight glanced at the lip of the balcony they had landed on. Slowly, he rose and stumbled to the edge. Shock and despair gripped him.

Around the expanse of the cavern that stretched below, a horde of goblins marched forwards. Hundreds of torches flickered above the mass of sallow yellow heads and ashen white armour.

The sight paralysed him for a moment - but the whistle of an arrow past his head reignited his instinct. He dropped to the ground as a volley sailed over him. He scrambled back to the others; Ayadra moaned - semi-conscious; the incarnate shifted his limbs slowly but flinched as they dragged across the floor.

"Ayadra!" Elle'dred called, desperately, "We have to move."

The incarnate groaned. Oblivious to the alarm in the knight's voice.

The skull-like visage of a goblin appeared over the lip of the balcony - it snarled; it had scaled the rise that led to the ledge and mounted the precipice. It loosed a piercing wail as it charged.

Elle'dred was defenceless; there was no weapon in sight - save for his adversary's sword.

The knight leapt for his armed foe.

Elle'dred dodged the first blow, and rammed into the goblin with all the force he could muster; expertly, he grabbed the goblin in a hold, grasped the foe's arms and twisted. He threw the goblin to the ground - and twisted its own blade into its gut. It gurgled blood and died.

Elle'dred tore the blade from its slack hands and wheeled around to face the next enemy. Two more had reached the balcony, and charged him.

He dodged the first blow, sidestepping, to manoeuvre one goblin in front of the other - and hacked. The first fell, and he dragged his blade free into a block that met the second goblin's steel. The blades screeched as he stepped forwards, grappled the goblin's hands, freed his sword and stabbed in one fluid motion.

Another goblin had reached the lip of the ledge, and yet more were scaling the further ends of the balcony on either flank. Elle'dred had no choice except to fight until a sword was driven into him.

Ayadra blearily propped himself up on unstable arms; his head throbbed - he winced as he drew in a breath. The daze in his head muffled the worst of the pain - and bound his senses into a stupor.

The clatter of a blade against the stone beside him - and the screech of steel, drew his attention.

Alarm. Panic. Fear.

Elle'dred fought a goblin that had clambered over the rim of the ledge. A half-dozen lay slain at his feet - but as many were mounting the balcony in front and around of him - behind the one he currently combated.

Shrieks. A handful of enemies had achieved the far end of the ledge, and moved towards them.

In a moment they would be overwhelmed and slaughtered. Elle'dred and Syla would be killed.

Because of him. Because he had failed. Because he had surrendered.

Overwhelmed by panic, Ayadra uttered a gasp - hell-fire surged and broiled.

No. Please, no.

He had failed because of the fire. Because he wanted it. He could not let it burn, not again.

- He was defenceless.

He had to do something - anything. Hell-fire whispered; there was no power he had that was not evil - there was no power he had other than it. He had to use it. To save his friends' lives.

He had to let it burn -

Elle'dred and Syla would die. Because of him. Because he had failed to fight the hell-fire. If he failed to use the hell-fire. Hell-fire laughed.

He was powerless -

- No.

Darkness answered him. The door to knowledge he should not have known opened once more and whispered the truth in his ear - he knew what he could do. There was something - other than to use the hell-fire -

He had to -

With a ragged gasp, he thrust himself to his feet - Elle'dred dragged his blade free of the goblin's corpse, as he limped past.

Pain forced a cry from his lips, but he turned it into a shout, "Get down!"

Elle'dred complied immediately.

Ayadra stopped just short of the rim of the balcony; a goblin raised its blade to hack his legs from under him -

But its swing never fell.

The incarnate stared - and let the madness of the mask that was his face sweep forth into freedom.

The last power, his last power - the three hells incarnate of his flesh were complete.

Ayadra stared across the chamber - all eyes fell upon the mask that was his face, and were swallowed in darkness. The dull black bone fell away to abyss and obsidian - a window to the deepest shadow.

In an instant, the goblins were consumed.

In an instant.

Ayadra knew he was damned.

All the knowledge of madness - that had once shown him Hheirdane's greatest pain, and Llrsyring's, and Taedoran's, that had shown him the truths of the land of all things fallen, of his nature, of the evil that resided in his flesh, the power of his hands, the truth of hell-fire - came to him in a moment.

He had failed. He would continue to fail. He was evil.

The truth.

A moment was all that was needed. The silent voices of a hundred demons were freed in a moment. And then relinquished. Hell-fire laughed as the power of his mask recoiled, as the madness it wrought was returned to the dull sheen of black bone.

Its knowledge receded - it left only one truth.

Elle'dred buried his face in his arms - he did not see what happened - but he felt it. And as quickly as it had come it was gone. There was silence in the cavern.

He turned to look up at the incarnate.

Ayadra freed a cry - bursts of fire tore across his wounds. Each small flare sputtered and vanished, but seared the flesh into pristine scales. A plume of fire coalesced from the smaller flames, erupted and scorched his neck and jaw, as it clawed out of his chest. But its heat and despair were momentary, it guttered and passed.

The incarnate dropped to the ground, in silence. A grimace of pain choked a scream or a cry in his throat. He tried to cry.

Elle'dred turned his eyes across the ledge at the goblins - they were frozen.

Alarm flared at the goblin that yet raised its blade in front of Ayadra - but it did not swing. For a moment it just hung to the cliff. And then it let go.

There was sound, and movement below.

Elle'dred stood and moved to the incarnate's side, but was paralysed by the sight of the expanse once more.

Goblins cackled and laughed. Painful mirth ripped from the throats of the skull-like faces. Other goblins screamed, curled up or cowering, they shrieked and shrieked and shrieked. Fear possessed their eyes. Some fled. Others roared and snarled; they began to hack wildly at every piece of flesh around them. Some lay down and slept under the spray of blood. Some clawed their eyes out.

Elle'dred stared; after a moment, he looked down at the huddled form of Ayadra.

The incarnate sobbed, weakly.

Llrsyring slid down the debris-covered stair; he held the knight's blade in his gauntlet, retrieved mid-way down the steps. He moved to the body of the magus sprawled at the bottom.

Sheathing his other blade, he knelt down over Syla and examined her wounds - he sighed, the sound echoed deeply in his helm. The empty eyeholes glanced up at the knight and the incarnate.

Elle'dred stared down on Ayadra; Ayadra sobbed.

Llrsyring moved to the knight's side - the helm gazed out over the cavern. After only a moment, the eyeholes turned to Elle'dred.

Elle'dred met the deathwalker's gaze; a flash of hatred glistened across his eyes. Llrsyring silently handed him his sword. He took the blade, sheathed it and moved past the suit of armour.

Llrsyring took another look across the cavern - the army of goblins devoured by madness.

Ayadra's madness.

The deathwalker knelt beside the incarnate, and moved to rest his hand on his shoulder, "Ayadra."

A cry warned his touch away.

The armour retracted his gauntlet, and turned to the knight; Elle'dred had scooped Syla up and moved towards the stairs. Llrsyring glanced down at Ayadra and moved behind the others. After a moment, the incarnate dragged himself up and followed a distance behind.

In silence.

* * *

Staff-Bearer Ragmurath walked up the steps that led into the Hall of the White Wolf. The Circle of Sword-Bearers had been slain, and the magus army had moved onto the hall and removed the threat presented by the remaining knights. But although the uprising had been foiled, word of the fighting had sparked a new tumult throughout the city.

The Tribunal had to deal with the problem; the people had to be convinced to accept their rule.

High Captain Allyndra strode protectively at the Staff-Bearer's side; her glaive clacked against the pavement with a perfect tempo the High Magus appreciated.

But Ragmurath was not pleased.

The death of his bastard son stung at him - and beneath his perpetually disdaining countenance, he seethed that his predecessor's favourite magus had escaped death. But undignified rage did not suit his position, and although Keylyn was a liability - he was not a pressing threat. Ragmurath would deal with him when time permitted.

For the present, the situation inside the city required his full attention. And as he reached the entrance to the former Hall of the knights, he joined the other members of the Tribunal.

High Magus Gerdanath, and Sansurath stood alongside the recently appointed High Magus Salynath, and Eranath. Both were young women who had shown remarkable talent, and were powerful magus. Each had a craving for power, but more pertinently, both were willing to do anything required of them to obtain it. And both knew their place. They had been two of his favourite students - and he had favoured them with the privilege of his bed.

The Tribunal was complete - and under his control. His alone.

A throng of people had moved into the street around the Hall, and many looked up at the figures clad in black against the hoary stone.

"Silence!" Allyndra yelled from the perch of the highest step.

The High Captain bowed to the Staff-Bearer as she moved aside, and Ragmurath addressed the crowd, "All of you are aware of the revolt the knights of this hall led only days ago. All of you are aware of the fighting that still taints our city. You fear for your homes, your loved ones." he paused, and repressed a contemptuous sneer, "Some of you blame the Tribunal for this conflict. But you are wrong to do so. We are not responsible for the civil unrest that disrupts our society. The blame lies with the Archivists - with the sworn leaders of the people." the Staff-Bearer paused, "Their order was decadent, greed and infighting had tainted them and led them to ignore their duty. They violated a fundamental law of our society, and they plotted against each other and against the Tribunal - more than one Elder Archivist planned to annex full power for himself. They were guilty of treason. But what is far worse is that they chose the time Ammandorn is under its greatest threat to perpetrate their heinous intent - we are at war!" he paused, "And more than goblins threaten our lands. The darkness of Eryndor is moving - and it aims its full force at Ammandorn. Hresfyrra has reported that Ambranas has already fallen." he paused, as the news elicited shock and fear from the people below him, "The Archivists knew of this threat, as did the knights of this Hall - and still they risked plunging the land into civil war to sate their own personal desires. That is worse than treason." Ragmurath sighed, "The Tribunal has protected Ammandorn for centuries, and we will continue to do so." he turned and nodded to Allyndra.

The High Captain moved into the Hall of the White Wolf and returned shoving a bound knight ahead of her. The knight's face was crusted with red, and swollen with patches of dark blue.

Allyndra struck the small of his back with the butt of her glaive, and he collapsed to the ground. The High Captain wrenched his arms, and hoisted him to his knees.

Staff-Bearer Ragmurath glared at the crowd, "There are still knights and archivists who have fled and hide in the city; anyone who aids the bloodhounds in tracking down the remaining fugitives, will be amply rewarded. But anyone who aids these criminals will be guilty of sedition and executed." he looked at the knight, "This Knight is guilty. And this is the price of his crimes."

Allyndra raised her glaive with both arms, over her head, and looked up at her commander.

Ragmurath nodded.

With a sudden, brutal swiftness, the blade flashed and landed across the Knight's neck. The beheaded corpse dropped to the ground. Red blood trickled down the steps of the White Wolf Hall.

The crowd cheered.

* * *

Elle'dred stumbled to a halt; exhaustion had finally got the better of him. He had carried Syla's limp body for the majority of an hour, and after negotiating a frustratingly sheer rise, he sagged to the ground - overcome by fatigue.

He was battered by more than physical injury; a fear occupied his mind, as much as the magus had occupied his arms. Syla was dying; he had no doubt about it. And they were days from anywhere that could offer adequate treatment of her wounds.

Her breathing was dangerously weak; as she lay beside him, propped against the hard rock wall, her head rested on his shoulder. Elle'dred swept blood-caked hair from her face - the plastered ebony left a pattern of vermillion lines encrusted on her skin. He stroked her red-stained cheek, gently; the movement removed thin flakes of the blood that had crusted on her pale skin. Her blood.

Tears burned beneath his eyes, but they seemed as futile as the march he tried to maintain.

They had only a week's rations left.

There was nowhere in the darklands that they could go, and the closest outpost that could be considered friendly was Hresfyrra - far more than a week's travel away.

It was useless, hope was useless. It was all so damned pointless.

Ayadra stumbled past him; he glanced up, but the incarnate trudged away without recognition - the abyssal orbs in the serpentine mask were withdrawn and listless.

As the deathwalker climbed up onto the rise, Ayadra continued to the far side, and disappeared down the descent ahead of them.

Llrsyring moved after him, but stopped in front of the knight and magus. The armour sighed, and knelt down to examine Syla. After a moment he stood again.

The helm watched the knight from above, "There is no spell I can cast that will alleviate her wounds."

Elle'dred paid no attention to the statement.

The deathwalker continued flatly, "But I could cast a dreaming spell," he paused, "To let you say good bye."

Elle'dred's eyes snapped up at the empty sockets of the helm; his body tensed in preparation to stand, or draw his sword - but Syla's presence stifled either movement.

"How dare you."

Llrsyring knelt down again, "Ayadra is deteriorating. Very soon the fire may claim him. He has fulfilled each of the powers the Three Hells manifest in his flesh, and I do not think he can last." the helm paused, "As you have pointed out, I have not helped him. But he needs help - and you are the only friend he has left."

Elle'dred spat, carelessly, "Fix your own damn problems."

The helm was silent a moment, "I intend to. But I doubt he will want to listen to me after I speak with him. Which means he'll have only you."

The knight glared. Silent.

"Ayadra could heal Syla's wound." Llrsyring muttered.

Elle'dred's features twisted in disgust, "You are despicable. Ayadra is growing worse - because he uses his power. I am not blind - the more he uses the fire, the more he is consumed by it. The more he wants to use it." he freed an angry sob, "If he heals Syla it will just drive him further towards the end you want for him. I am not going to help you manipulate him." Elle'dred glanced at Syla's face, he frowned and bit his lip - but then muttered, quietly and disappointedly, "Besides, we don't have any bandages left to tend his wounds."

Llrsyring was silent; Elle'dred returned to staring at the body beside him.

After a while, the deathwalker stood and approached the far side of the ledge. Slowly, he moved down the slope in pursuit of the incarnate.

From the lower level of the cave several branching tunnels opened up along the wall; Ayadra had taken a torch with him, and one aperture was lit by an orange flicker. But the intensity of the illumination increased and faded sporadically, and only for short moments, again and again. And as Llrsyring neared the entrance to the fire-lit corridor the despairing heat of hell-fire wafted out ungently.

The burst of heat was transient - it was gone almost instantly after, but the deathwalker stepped into the tunnel with new haste.

Ayadra sat against the wall, the torch rested on the ground beside him. The incarnate was bent over a jagged protrusion that emerged from the uneven rock-face.

He held his hand above the edge of the stone - and struck the sharp rock with his open palm. The rough blade sliced apart the obsidian scales of his skin, and breeched the flesh in a shallow cut.

Ayadra flinched, and sucked in a breath through clenched teeth - he whimpered shallowly. His hand trembled as he raised it above the stone - a burst of hell-fire erupted from the wound. The flames were thin and weak, they crackled over the incarnate's hand and Ayadra grimaced tightly. But in a second they were gone, and ragged breaths of relief returned to his lungs.

The flames left the obsidian scales as pristine as before, effaced the wound - so Ayadra could repeat the process of infliction. Again. And Again.

With each burst of hell-fire, the flame of the torch crackled with unnatural intensity, enlarged - but returned to a lower flicker in the absence of the infernal fire.

Llrsyring stood in the opening of the tunnel, still - and silent. He watched.

The abyssal orbs in the bone-mask that was Ayadra's face glimmered with a pain that could not be sated - Ayadra's eyes could not hate the obsidian flesh of his hand more so.

Once, Ayadra recoiled his hand prematurely, the wound was not as large as the others - he growled angrily and sobbed, and scraped the open wound across the rock. The gash stretched across his wrist - and the hell-fire answered sooner - and with a larger burst of flame. It crawled across his palm and licked his fingers in a seething flare - but guttered and vanished as quickly as the others.

Ayadra's mouth hung open, but the scream choked in his throat; a moment passed and it retreated into a gasp that became sharp sobs. Tears glistened and fell, as Ayadra glanced around blindly, at the torch-flame, and the pitiless wall - at the deathwalker.

As he met the eyeholes affixed to him, a small, terrified whimper escaped his lips. His eyes weakened, tears formed and shame crystallised over his abyssal orbs. He looked away from Llrsyring.

"I'm sorry..." - the words escaped his lips.

The suit of armour moved over to his side, and lowered himself to the ground.

"Ayadra..." the name came out weakly, and was swallowed by the echo.

Ayadra could not look at the deathwalker.

There was too much shame, too much guilt. He had failed again, he knew.

He couldn't bear it.

He broke-down into sobs, and he rested the bone of his head against the wall. Llrsyring sat beside him.

For a moment Llrsyring said nothing.

Quietly, to himself, the deathwalker muttered, "What dooms do we not bring upon ourselves."

The truth. It hurt like the touch of hell-fire.

Llrsyring sighed - the sound echoed amidst his helm. Silence fell amidst the empty suit of armour.

"I'm sorry," - guilt demanded the words, though he had no right to say them - he had lost that right, too long ago, "I'm sorry, Llrsyring."

The suit of armour reached out and held him.

After a moment, the deathwalker spoke, "I've lived too long Ayadra. I've lived too many years and I have too many regrets. For so long, since I became what I am, all I've wanted is to be free of regret, free of the pain of living each day. I'm a coward." he paused, "...I just want to die. Nothing of this world can kill me, only you. Athyndyrra showed me that. And I knew you could." again, he paused, "I did not come here to help you. I came here so that you would kill me. To make certain that you would kill me...I could have intervened long before Taedoran dragged you across the mountains. I could have prevented all the torture you suffered. I could have broken your binding spell without forcing you into that dream. I could have told you the truth from the beginning," he paused, "But I did not. I told myself that it was unavoidable; your fate had been sealed by Athyndyrra - as had mine. I pretended to be your friend, and when you discovered the truth - I gave you no hope that you could change it. That you could be something other than the weapon of the Immortal. I wanted you to be the weapon of the Immortal." he paused, "But your power is beyond the years of this world - you are not of this world. You are not bound to its curses, like I am. If I had allowed you the hope that you didn't have to be the weapon - you might never have been. You might never have ended up here."

For a long moment, the helm was silent.

"If I had acted differently, none of this would have had to happen." he paused, "You could have resisted the fire."

The truth.

"I can..." - the truth; he could not bear it, "Under the moon...I can...it only escapes when I let it..." the abyssal orbs in the bone mask turned to meet the sockets of the helm, "...when I want it to."

He fought the tears - the urge to look away. He had no right to them.

Llrsyring was silent.

"I'm sorry." - The words escaped him, again.

Llrsyring said nothing.

"Can I still change it? Can I resist?"

For a moment, the helm was silent, but then asked, quietly, "Can you stop hating yourself?"

The words were more damning than hell-fire.
Chapter 41

_Aunvari turned and fled for the Wyvern's Hold. The thunder in Syrkyn's storm had been but echoes of his blade, and as Aunvari flew to him, Syrkyn flew to the city of Hraesvyrling. Aunvari's wings of the eastern wind tore the sky asunder, and tears fell from his face. They mingled with the broken sky, and another terrible storm was born. His tears fell further, and struck the ground beneath as rain. He neared Hraesvyrling, and there he saw the evil of his brother._

_The Wyvern Kings lay dead, each slain without mercy. The army of the elves burned, not a single tree or elf left standing. The hold was aflame, and the seven lights had been thrown to the ground. Their braziers broken. Atop Arhnsalfier, a dark light glistened beneath Aunvari's storm. And Aunvari knew rage, and hate, and took to the sky, to the peak of the Wyvern's Hold._

* * *

They staggered through the tortuous caverns and tunnels for hours, labyrinthine and choked by shadows, which torchlight could not fully lift.

Llrsyring had cast a spell on Syla, the most he had said, was to give her a handful more days than she had. Elle'dred, despite himself, had silently requested the incarnate to heal her - Ayadra had refused.

He had said 'I can't', but that was not the truth - he was simply too weak to use the power without provoking hell-fire. The power that could save Syla's life. Again, he had failed.

The knight had not blamed him, but he could see the disappointment in Elle'dred's eyes.

He had failed. He was weak. His weakness hurt his friends.

The knight stumbled on weary legs ahead of the incarnate; exhaustion had forced him to relinquish the magus to Llrsyring's untiring arms, but even without the weight of her body, or his pack he could not continue. Elle'dred collapsed and lost consciousness. Over-exhaustion finally defeated him.

Llrsyring sighed, and directed Ayadra to watch the knight as he scouted ahead for a safer area. The incarnate complied, and moved beside the unconscious body; Llrsyring retrieved Elle'dred's torch and moved further into the chasm.

Ayadra was alone in a small circle of flame-light. As he watched Elle'dred's body - the ragged rise and fall of his friend's chest, weak with fatigue, remorse flourished in his eyes. Tears welled; he wondered if the knight would forgive him - or hate him, when Syla died. Every moment that ebbed away, he could save her. He had failed. His gut twisted. He was terrified that any minute the weak breath she so stubbornly fought for would be her last - and he would be to blame for her death.

Because he failed to heal her. Because he could not.

And he did not deserve Elle'dred's forgiveness; he had never earned it - but the knight's blame, and the guilt were too severe a punishment. He deserved it. Grief was a wound he could not take to his own flesh - just as he could not take Syla's wounds. Elle'dred would suffer.

Because of him. Because he had surrendered.

Llrsyring reappeared from beyond a rise further down the cavern's length; he marched steadily to the knight's side, scooped up the limp body and motioned for the incarnate to follow.

Ayadra met the empty eyeholes for a moment before rising and falling in behind the robed, walking suit of armour. Ayadra forced himself to maintain the pace set by the deathwalker; the shelter could not have been far from the chasm - and labouring his own exhausted legs for a short time would do little harm. His muscles strained with every stride, but the pain was transitory. They arrived at the cavern quickly.

The body of the magus was revealed by the torchlight as they entered the encompassing stone; Llrsyring lay Elle'dred beside her for warmth, and moved to the entrance.

Ayadra slumped against the wall. He inclined his head back, until the crowning edge of the bone-mask rested against the rock. Remorse and guilt were as inescapable as the stone that surrounded him.

"I'm sorry." the echoed voice of the deathwalker broke the silence, unexpectedly.

The context of the comment was lost on him, "Why?"

The helm turned from the entrance to meet his gaze, "Because I did not say it before."

Llrsyring's confession.

Despite it, there was nothing he felt to curb the response that formed instinctively on his tongue, "I don't hate you."

Llrsyring chuckled, a warm, caring chuckle - something the incarnate had not heard him do for a long time, "You don't have to forgive me. I'd prefer it if you didn't."

Despite the guilt, Ayadra met his sockets, "Too bad."

Llrsyring chuckled, again.

Ayadra looked away.

In truth, he had not forgiven Llrsyring - because the deathwalker deserved no blame. Regardless of what Llrsyring had done, his own failure - his crimes, overshadowed his friend's. Nothing could combat the guilt; not anymore.

Llrsyring deserved to be hated, some part of him - some part he had forgotten, said that, but Ayadra could not bear the thought, he had hatred enough for himself - in overpowering abundance.

He did not want to kill the deathwalker. He did not want to fail, again.

"Rest," the deathwalker muttered as he turned back to guard the entrance, "When Elle'dred wakes we will need to keep a quicker pace."

Ayadra nodded. He shifted onto his side, and curled up across the floor. The heat of the torches was captured by the mustiness of the air, but the warmth did not entirely fight off the cold. He could have moved closer to the flames, but he preferred to endure the chill. It was not severe.

He did not deserve the warmth of the fire; it was too much like the flames he had failed to fight.

Exhaustion dragged him into slumber, and his dreams were harrowed by fire. He burned.

Hell-fire laughed. It had won. Because he had surrendered.

The truth.

He had failed. And he would continue to fail. No matter what he did.

- Ayadra woke.

The gaunt face of the knight stared down at him.

The incarnate's trepidation spiked - he glanced at the magus; Syla still breathed, weakly. He calmed - but the guilt flared. Syla was dying.

"Llrsyring and I will scout ahead," the knight informed, flatly - his voice was still weary, "Keep a watch on Syla until we return."

Ayadra sat up and met Elle'dred's eyes - the disappointment had not faded, and for a moment Ayadra saw an edge of blame. Guilt. He nodded understanding of the order, and the knight turned and moved out towards the torch-lit shape of the deathwalker.

They left.

Alone, Ayadra sat against the wall and closed his eyes, as the footsteps of the others echoed down the passageway - he suppressed tears. The dream was wrong - the truth was wrong, he begged it to be. The soft breaths beside him only echoed the words.

He had failed. He would continue to fail. Because he had surrendered.

If he did nothing, Syla would die, Elle'dred would suffer - and he would be to blame. But if he used his power, took her wounds to his own flesh, the fire would escape to seal them. No matter what he did, he would fail; he was evil.

He glanced at Syla - he desperately wanted to heal her, but where once that would have been an act of beneficence, now it would only be a depravation to sate his own self-hatred. His surrender. The temptation burned beneath his skin - all he had to do was reach out and hold Syla's hand.

And there would be pain, punishment. The guilt would go away.

For a moment. Only for a moment.

He clenched his fist, and bit his lip. He clung to the knowledge that any escape would only be temporary, and he would end up at the same confliction, only the guilt would be worse. He stared at his arm, the shimmer of his scales, the dull menace of the curving talon above his hand, the darkness that coated his flesh.

Syla's soft breathing reverberated through the cavern.

Every breath was a whisper - you will fail. You have failed. Take the pain. Surrender. It is better.

Ayadra could not fight the tears; it was agony just to sit and listen to his friend's last moments. He clenched his hand, harder and harder. The sharp claws of his fingers, broke his skin. A small tatter of pain released his grip. Tiny beads of blood welled and ran across his palm.

The guilt wrenched a gasp from his chest.

He had failed. Already. Even though he fought. He had hurt himself.

Punished himself. Surrendered.

He sobbed, the sounds were ragged and hoarse, and covered the tunnel. He could not hear anything above the corollaries of his remorse, and the hounding whispers that he would continue to fail.

He did not hear the soft slither of scale against stone, nor the hiss that edged the whispers in malice. Had Syla been awake, or even simply asleep - she would have felt the magic that wafted on the air.

But the whispers were heard by Ayadra - alone and weak.

You will fail, you already have. Give up.

Guilt.

Guilt stopped him from reaching out to the magus, as much as it drove his desire to do so. No matter what he did, he failed - it whispered in his mind and in the air. The guilt hurt more than the pain - and now he wanted that guilt. He punished himself with it. And fulfilled his self-hatred. Guilt simply had replaced wounds and pain. The truth. He had failed. Again.

He could not win. Self-loathing would be sated. Either way. But wounds were less painful than guilt. Self-punishment hurt less. It was less evil. The lesser of two evils. And easier.

Confusion and despair choked him. No matter what he did, he would continue to fail. The cycle of self-hatred was inescapable; it was a noose that would always strangle him. A noose he had made himself, and chosen to put on.

He had failed. He would continue to fail. Because he had surrendered.

The source of the magic that tormented him rose above his huddled, obsidian body.

The myriad hissing that issued forth from the cluster of snakes that grew in place of the creature's head, was concealed by the desperate sobbing of its victim. It reared on the long trailing length that was its body - coated in dark scales. The snakes of its face coiled, and aimed a hundred glittering eyes towards the unaware incarnate below. They struck.

Elle'dred and Llrsyring trudged ahead, across the uneven floor of the chasm. The torch lit the surrounding rocks, but exposed none of the features that lay ahead.

As the knight mounted a rise, he spied the vague, darker shadows of tunnels at the bottom of the slope. He listened intently for the sounds of movement - there were none.

He sighed, and turned to the deathwalker.

Llrsyring swept the surrounding darkness with the emptiness of his sockets - the helm met his gaze for a moment, and then looked away.

After a long hesitation, Elle'dred asked, "You talked with Ayadra?"

"Yes." the answer was submissive - Elle'dred's emotions weakened.

"He wouldn't heal Syla," the knight muttered, "Does that mean he's fighting?"

"He's trying."

"Did you lie to him?"

The helm met his gaze, and answered, "I told him the truth." Llrsyring paused, "Everything. I said I would help him as much as I can. That he did not have to kill me. But...I've done a lot of damage. He hates himself. Too much I think."

Screams.

The knight's eyes snapped open in alarm. The cries echoed across the cavern.

"Ayadra." Llrsyring exclaimed, before he melted into black, evanescent mist.

Elle'dred ran.

Ayadra lay; the bites stabbed into his skin, through his scales - and infused his flesh with venom. He screamed; he huddled in a ball to protect himself, but the dark mass above did not seem to care where its strikes landed.

The creature loomed over him - the writhing mass of snakes that grew from its neck lashed and bit, and filled the air with hissing. Snake after snake coiled and struck; venom poured from a hundred sadistic fangs.

Swirling mist manifested from the air behind it; the black tendrils parted to reveal the dull sheen of Llrsyring's armour, and settled into the solidity of his cloak.

Ishtavra glistened sharp and furious as she leapt from his side.

The creature turned to see the deathwalker - as his blow severed every last snake from its neck.

The multitude of bifurcated serpents cascaded to the ground, followed by the splatter of a hundred gouts of blood.

As the slain creature flopped to the stone, Llrsyring leant to down over Ayadra. The twin holes of the bite-wounds covered the incarnate's arms, and had perforated his wings to score dozens of wounds upon his back.

Ayadra convulsed in agony, and spittle frothed from his parted lips. The breath he drew gurgled in his throat. He was dying.

"Ayadra." Llrsyring whispered.

The name was answered by hell-fire.

Gleeful tongues of orange flared from the wounds, and each sharp plume radiated the ravenous heat of their infernal nature. The flames coalesced and raced across Ayadra's black scales - and then guttered, and died in a lambent flicker.

The incarnate whimpered softly across the stones.

Llrsyring sagged in relief; as he sheathed his sword, the whimper transmuted into remorseful sobs. The deathwalker sighed, and placed a reassuring hand on Ayadra's uninjured shoulder.

"It's not your fault," he said, "The venom would have -"

- The deep, strengthened breath of the magus drew the sockets of the helm.

Syla sucked in another fortified breath, and another - her eyes opened blearily. She shifted, and blinked repeatedly as she returned to full, conscious life.

The helm looked back at the incarnate.

Ayadra slid his hand away from Syla's ankle, his grasp still moulded to the curvature of her limb. The incarnate's arm scraped along the ground under him as he forced open an eye and looked up at Llrsyring.

He bit his lip, to stifle another sob, and muttered, "I'm sorry."

Llrsyring remained silent.

Ayadra closed his eyes again as the rapid footsteps of the knight echoed into the tunnel - followed soon by the light of his torch.

Elle'dred entered at a run, but slowed when he saw the scaled body of the creature lying beside a heap of bisected snakes. The corpse had the torso of a man, with thick, burly arms, but below its waist an elongated tail melded with its hips, where two legs - atrophied to vestigial proportions, sprouted from between its black scales. And from its neck a myriad of gangly stumps grew and bled - once having been attached to the snakes that replaced its head.

The deathwalker stood, as Ayadra did in front of him.

The knight approached the two, "What happened?"

Llrsyring stepped aside, as Ayadra moved past them both - the incarnate avoided Elle'dred's gaze.

Concern lit the knight's features, "What happened?" he pressed.

The groan from the magus drew his full attention.

Syla breathed, deeply, steadily; the fact had him ignore the deathwalker's unresponsiveness entirely. The magus examined the back of her head, and frowned at the caking of blood that matted the hair. Elle'dred knelt down beside her, as her confused eyes looked up at him.

"What hap-" - he cut her off with an embrace. Close, desperate and relieved.

They held there for a moment - he pulled away in an abrupt embarrassment, overcome. Syla met his gaze for a moment.

He could not discern the emotions buried beneath the pale azure of her eyes.

"What happened?" she asked, slowly.

Elle'dred repressed the relief and shock - it took more effort than he acknowledged, "You knocked your head." he managed.

After another moment, he regained himself, and a flicker of solemnity darkened his countenance - he glanced over his shoulder at the shape of the deathwalker, he could not see the incarnate.

"We have to move." he muttered.

Syla looked out at Llrsyring, partial comprehension softened her expression. Silently, she levered herself to her feet.

Elle'dred offered a supportive hand, but she scowled, and remarked, "I can walk by myself."

Elle'dred allowed a smile.

* * *

The council chamber had been refurbished; the furniture had been removed, and an intricate, azure mosaic of runes had been laid across the floor. Now the room would serve as a focus for circle-magic.

The Tribunal did not need the runic adornment to perform such magics, but the spells affixed to the pattern augmented their coalesced power. Power was something they required, and would continue to require - the War of the Immortal was upon them.

Every weapon would count. The armies had suffered escalating losses as they continued to retreat from the Valley of Ythordor, and more than one war band had already broken through. But the goblins could be dealt with - at the line of keeps that had been built to repel them. The evidence for the retreat was uncontested; a necromantic prophecy had driven the Archivists to commit tactical suicide - the second war of Thgad should, from its beginning, have been fought at the fortifications built to wage it.

The Staff-Bearer was pleased that Ormus, in his one loyal act, had ordered the move - and freed the Tribunal of needless bureaucracy. The last minutiae of their settlement into office had been dealt with - the arrest and detainment of the remaining Knights that served with the armies had been ordered. They would be brought back to Delphanas for public execution - and any outright resistance to the new order would be silenced.

Furthermore, the armies would now be led by Magus Generals, already dispatched to the keeps of Thgad where they would bolster the defence and direct the war-effort. The previous leaders of the armies had acquiesced, under the explanation that the defence of the flatlands would rely considerably on the magics of the Tribunal - and that they would only be a hindrance to the war. It had been re-iterated that the Magus would surrender control of the armies, once the conflict was resolved; a lie as brazen as the lingering promise that the rightful Archivist order would be re-instated, therewithal.

The Tribunal was acquiring more power every day.

In that, Ragmurath was pleased.

The Staff-Bearer had summoned the other High Magus to the chamber; there was a matter they had to resolve. The five members of the Tribunal stood in a ring, as the proceeding commenced.

"This session of the Tribunal has been called to address the War of the Immortal," Ragmurath began sharply, "There is a consideration we have overlooked. The recall of the armies from the Valley of Ythordor was made in just cause; the Last Prophecy of Thyesmered is tainted by necromancy, and any actions derived thereof are to be considered detrimental to the survival of Ammandorn. No one here contests that ruling?" the others answered with silence, "Then there is an act we must remedy: the dispatch of the party, led by the Champion of the Tribunal, to escort the weapon of the Immortal to Ambranas." he paused; confused looks were directed at him - he elucidated, "The Last Prophecy of Thyesmered was involved in our decision to send the weapon away - we cannot risk the taint of necromancy. And as Ambranas has fallen, and likely the magus that was to undo the weapon has perished in the city - the mission no longer holds value. So I motion that we recall the party to Ammandorn, and reconsider how best to deal with the weapon. Are there any objections?"

High Magus Gerdanath answered, "The prophecy of the Birth-Reader Abatha clearly stated if we allowed the weapon to remain in Ammandorn it would destroy the land. Is that in dispute?"

"The weapon itself is in dispute," Ragmurath countered, "We cannot trust any of our records pertaining to it. The forbidden prophecy calls into question the reliability of the Journals of Darllyndus; the words of the elves may have been misinterpreted due to the false information provided by the Archivists of the time. And Abatha's prophecy is broken, its value is contestable - and it was read subsequent to Thyesmered's, therefore, once again, we may have misconstrued its intent."

Gerdanath and Sansurath both watched the Staff-Bearer with scepticism; they were unconvinced - but the two newest members were not.

"I agree with our Staff-Bearer." Salynath said, barefaced.

Eranath added, "As do I."

Ragmurath restrained a sneer, "Is there more you wish to add, Gerdanath?"

The High Magus sighed, and answered, "No, Staff-Bearer."

Sansurath motioned to be heard; at a nod from the leader of the ring, he questioned, "What are we to do with the weapon?"

The Staff-Bearer let contempt twist his face, "If it is a weapon, we will learn to how to use it."

"That option was ruled out when we first examined it." Gerdanath interjected, flatly.

"Under Hadrath's rule," Ragmurath snapped, "Hadrath did not consider all avenues of control."

"We considered all viable options." Gerdanath countered.

"Incorrect," the Staff-Bearer reproved, "We considered all legal options."

Gerdanath's eyes narrowed into a dangerous glare, "You propose we use forbidden magics?"

Ragmurath met her glare with scorn, "Not all that has been made illegal was done so for the right reasons."

"What magics do you propose we use, Staff-Bearer?" Sansurath enquired.

Gerdanath shot her glare at the other High Magus.

"Possession."

Sansurath shook his head incredulously, "Such magics were outlawed for their danger to the caster as much as the subject of the spell."

"We are the Tribunal," Ragmurath stated, "There is no magic that survives on record that is beyond us."

"Possession requires the subject to be of magus blood, the weapon -"

"It is wrong." Gerdanath snapped, "This magic was outlawed because it is evil - it is an affront to the laws we uphold."

"Would you hesitate to use it on a Goblin leader, if it could end a war?" Ragmurath asked; Gerdanath pursed her lips in disgust - before she could rebut, he continued, "Would you refuse to use it on the Weapon of the Immortal? When we could turn it against the Darkness of Eryndor?" Ragmurath narrowed his eyes, "It would be difficult not to consider that treason, Gerdanath."

The High Magus wavered; her glare weakened and she looked away submissively.

"The weapon is a beast," Ragmurath spat, "As goblins are beasts. One does not give rights to animals, nor mercy when they must be killed. Once the weapon is returned we will investigate every way it may be controlled and turned against our enemies."

"And if it cannot be?" Sansurath asked, impassively.

"Then it will be destroyed, as it should have been when we first found it."

Silence pervaded the chamber; the Staff-Bearer recollected himself, and continued, "The Champion of the White Wolf is among the party; when he returns he should be publically executed for treason."

Gerdanath looked up, "Would it not be better to offer him service with our army? He could prove to the people the value of our leadership."

"There is too great a risk he may mobilise another rebellion. He has too much influence with the people."

Gerdanath masked her outrage; quietly, she argued, "He is not guilty of treason."

Again, Ragmurath eyed her with disdain, "By affiliation with a Circle of Knights that attempted to overthrow the legitimate government he is."

Gerdanath did not press her argument further.

"There are no more objections?"

The ring of High Magus remained silent; Ragmurath repressed a victorious sneer.

"The Tribunal will join as a Circle and order their return." the Staff-Bearer ordered.

The High Magus lifted and joined their hands around Ragmurath as he placed his ebony mark of office across the mosaic, at his feet. He raised his arms and threaded his fingers through the soft, pliant hands of the two younger women either side of him.

"We will find the Champion of the Tribunal," he continued, as the others began to chant in a low rumbling mantra, "In dream and slumber."

The Staff-Bearer merged with the chant, intoning a new reverberation to the chorus.

Deep magics surged amidst the circle of magus, focused through their blood, their birth right blazed - invisible, tangible power.
Chapter 42

_Syrkyn stood upon the peak of the hold. He held no remorse for what he had done. Save for a single tear that fell to the ground. His enemies had been slain. Only one remained. Aunvari approached, and drew his blade. Aunvari stood upon the battlements and cried, you are beyond redemption, beyond saving Syrkyn! I loved you so, but now I see there is nothing left to love, you must die, only then will the Fourth Heaven be safe._

_The brothers fought. Their hatred held no bounds, and they struck without mercy. Their blades locked, their blood spilled and their tears of rage and sorrow grew fire upon the ground. Aunvari's strength though, was beyond that which Syrkyn had known. His brother's grief gave him power and his will carved it into Syrkyn's defeat. Aunvari struck his brother with a terrible blow, and the Prince of Ash was thrown to the ground. Aunvari turned from him, his eyes blinded by tears. He had lost each of his brothers, and the pain was more than any other he had felt._

_But in that moment, Aunvari saw the single tear Syrkyn had shed. It sparkled, a star amongst the darkness of the storm and the blood. It was unlike any other tear Aunvari had known. It did not flame, it did not wet the ground. It was the least and most of all tears. It shone only for a moment, but it held the brightest light Aunvari had seen. He knew the tear was Syrkyn's, and that it held all the pain, and sadness, and regret that had been driven so deep inside his brother by the shadows that strangled him._

* * *

Ayadra made his way down a narrow descent that threaded between two jagged protrusions; the halves of a high precipice that watched from above, lit by torchlight.

Llrsyring and he had gained some distance ahead of the others; the magus and knight having only attained the top of the precarious stairway.

The deathwalker had not said anything since resuming their march through the catacombs. The dull clank of the armour's boots stopped, as he reached the level platform at the base of the climb, the incarnate a dozen paces behind.

Ayadra carefully placed a foot on the steep rock, but as he shifted his weight to lower his other limb, the tenuous grip of his footing slipped and he tumbled the remainder of the descent.

He caught himself as he landed on the ledge below, but scored a gash across his palm as he braced the fall with his arms. He let out a short yelp of pain. He rolled onto his back, and pulled himself upright with his uninjured hand.

The abrupt shadow of the deathwalker standing over him, incurred a momentary paralysis. Llrsyring reached out for his limb with a gauntlet; Ayadra flinched involuntarily - for a moment, he expected the armour to treat the wound ungently, as Llrsyring had in Ambranas.

As he deserved.

But Llrsyring's touch was gentle; he examined the wound. The incarnate bit back resurgent shame - it bore too close a resemblance to the cuts he had inflicted on himself.

"You will be alright." Llrsyring muttered, impassively - his voice held no blame; for that, Ayadra was grateful, "Use hell-fire to seal it."

The remark captured the disappointment the incarnate feared - deserved. Ayadra winced. Llrsyring released his hand and stood to watch the darkness beyond the light of his torch.

"No." Ayadra managed. He did not want to fail, again.

The helm turned to meet his eyes. The condemnation that was there - that he could not help but see - recalled a pang of shame; he looked away.

"I was going to burn anyway..." he mumbled, "Syla was dying."

Llrsyring said nothing, but, slowly, he approached and knelt down in front of the incarnate.

After a moment, and biting his lip, Ayadra could not repress the words, "I'm sorry."

"You already said that," Llrsyring jibed, cheerlessly, "What's done is done. We can only live with it."

Silence lingered for a moment.

"I can't..." Ayadra muttered - the truth, "I can't live with what I am...I don't want to die, but I can't live with what I am."

Llrsyring was silent.

The incarnate and deathwalker both looked up, as the knight and magus navigated the steep rock and stepped out onto the level platform behind them.

Ayadra moved his hand to his side, and turned the palm into his leg.

Together, they stood and moved towards the farer edge of the platform; the cave sloped down from the ledge more gently than the descent through the rock-face. The deathwalker set pace once more as he climbed deeper into the chasm.

Syla moved alongside the incarnate; unexpectedly, she asked, "Are you alright?"

Ayadra glanced up at her; the magus' eyes were strikingly sincere. He forced a weak smile and nodded.

Syla allowed a slight smile of her own, "Thank you for saving my life."

Ayadra managed a glance that met her eyes, and a nod.

He didn't deserve her thanks.

They continued through the chasms for some time, before the sounds ahead alerted them to a change in their environment. A dull roar had them each wary of enemies, but as they crossed the boundary of a cavern, they were greeted by the loud rush of water.

A large river raced through the expanse, frothing with exuberant life in the darkness below; asides from its roar, the water was signalled only by the moisture in the air.

The party stood on a thin protuberance of the cavern's wall, likely eroded precipitous by a once higher flow of the river. The thin sill led along the wall to a shadowed tunnel that exited the cavern.

Gingerly, they edged their way towards it.

The muffled roar of the river followed them with echoes as they made their way through a winding passageway and out onto another cavern dominated by a precipice. The ceiling and the southern side of the chamber were obscured by darkness; emptiness stretched from the edge of the large platform, which was severed in half by a thick course of water. The stream cascaded down from the high shadows above the northern wall of the chamber, crashing in a burst of spray as it landed on the ledge. The water ran across an eroded bed to the boundary of the rock and then tumbled away into the darkness below the precipice.

In the depths of the cavern it rejoined the louder thrum of the river they had passed.

The party made their way out onto the wide cliff; a number of exits were embedded on the far wall.

As they approached the rushing water, the strength of the flow became apparent - wading across the riverbed was unfeasible. It would have to be traversed by a jump.

Already weary, the task seemed insurmountable to each of them, save for the untiring deathwalker.

Elle'dred nursed a pang of despair - if they could not overcome the stream they would have to turn back and search for another westward route. That would take time. And their supplies were already dwindling. Worse yet, if they became entirely lost in the mountain they might never rediscover this cavern.

But why were they trying? Why were they marching endlessly? Ayadra would have to remain under the moon forever. If he could resist the fire. And he was deteriorating. He used his power. The power ate away at him. Soon he would fail. And they would all die. It was all so pointless.

Elle'dred glanced to the Incarnate - Ayadra did not meet his gaze.

He wasn't fighting. He had given up. It was useless.

Syla stared at the river with the same dismay as the knight; the water stood between her and escape from the mountains. She could shape the water, turn it to ice, or steam, or simply divert its flow. But the effort of controlling so much of the element would exhaust her, and she would have to be carried by Llrsyring again. Using her power always reduced her to a burden.

She had never been able to wield the elements easily. It always tired her more than anyone else. She had tried the deep magics. Learnt nuance in place of power. But there she had failed as well. She did not understand the deep magics the way Llrsyring did. All her years of study had been futile. She had failed. She would never understand magic. She was useless.

Ayadra stood and stared; he listened to the whispers; the doubts, the fears - the voice of hell-fire. He had failed. He would continue to fail. He was evil.

Hell-fire burned despair beneath his skin.

He had failed. He would continue to fail. He was evil.

The truth.

Llrsyring had turned his back to the others as they stared in catatonic dismay at the rushing water - he turned the empty sockets of his helm to the darkness of the ceiling.

He muttered a word, the sharp phrase was lost in the softness and echo of his voice.

But in an instant, a glaring white rune materialised above his open gauntlet, and he slung the symbol of luminescent glass into the recess of shadows above. The rune shattered, and evanesced as it struck the brief glimmer of illuminated scales.

A moment later, the elongated, serpentine body of the creature fell and landed, splayed across the jagged rocks of the precipice. The mass of snakes that grew from its neck writhed briefly, with lingering hisses, and then were motionless.

Elle'dred and Syla were snapped from their stupor.

Hissing transfixed the air.

The deathwalker's blades sang as he whirled to face the far side of the cavern.

Two of the serpentine-incarnates, slithered across the wall - coiling and leaping from each of the narrow jags formed of the rough, undulating rock. They descended with alarming speed.

From several of the tunnels beneath them, a thundering clack of hooves on stone manifested into the shapes of bovine-incarnates, bellowing roars laced in spittle.

Elle'dred drew his sword, and shouted for the others to retreat as he turned.

The sole entrance behind them exploded with movement - a serpentine-incarnate emerged and reared in a maelstrom of hissing. It flowed across the rocks towards the knight and magus, as a band of goblins streamed out of the tunnel behind it.

But its movement was abruptly stifled by a glaring rune hurled from the magus' hand. White brilliance and crystal arrested its momentum and toppled it to the ground; it flopped briefly, before writhing itself upright once more - the goblins charged past it.

Elle'dred ducked the first wild hack deliver by a goblin, rose out of his low stance in a sweeping slash and split the foe's belly with a fatal gash. The second goblin was only a step behind, and cut across the air to catch the knight between its brutish sword and the corpse behind him.

Elle'dred met its steel with his own, and after a discordant screech, he shoved the goblin's blade away and struck at its face with the hilt of his sword. Bone cracked as the knight drew back his blade into a thrust and ran the reeling foe through.

Llrsyring stood on the bank of the river, his blades raised and outstretched to meet the bovine-incarnates' charge. One massive bulk reached the edge of the water and leapt - raising its club above its head to land a thunderous blow upon landing.

The armour was not there to greet it; rolling through a fluid swirl of his cloak, the deathwalker stepped the strike, advanced - and cleaved open the incarnate's neck with a flash of his sword. The blade of his blood glistened with crimson effluence. The second bovine-incarnate landed ten paces away, but Llrsyring had already melded into mist, solidifying before the bewildered foe and severing its head from its torso with an elegant arc of his steel.

Two incarnates turned eyes alive with bestial fury on the armour, but two others aimed themselves for the backs of the knight and magus.

Elle'dred blocked, struck and arced his blade, swift and deft. The glare of runes lit the air around him as the magus protected his flanks - Syla dealt with the goblins he could not.

Elle'dred met a strike, grappled the goblin's arms and hurled it through a spin onto the ground, twisting his blade through its gut as it fell. Another foe hacked at his back; anticipating the attack, he stepped to the side and winded his adversary with a vicious butt from his elbow. He rotated through the stance, bringing his sword edge up across the doubled-over goblin's throat.

Shock.

The serpentine-incarnate reared suddenly above him in a mass of coils and ferocious hissing - but before it could strike, a rune collided with its side and knocked it to the ground. Seizing his opportunity, the knight hacked at the mass of snakes that served as the incarnate's head - a dozen serpents scattered across the stone, trailed by blood. He landed another blow into its neck.

Behind the knight, Syla crystallized another rune in preparation to hurl it at a goblin - but a force pushed her sideways, sprawling her across the rock. The rune dissipated in her grasp.

Ayadra scrambled from the magus' side, as the ground where she had been was cratered by an incarnate's club; the bull-like countenance roared, enraged the obsidian incarnate had deprived it of its kill. With the alarming speed born of its preternatural strength, it raised the club and swung in pursuit of him.

Ayadra dove to the ground, rolling across his wings to avoid the blow - towards the edge of the precipice, and the waterfall. His heart hammered in his chest. Desperation pulsed through his veins and beckoned the hell-fire to his flesh - fear screamed for its release.

- But Ayadra held it back.

The wound in his hand throbbed with pent agony, but he would not fail. Not again.

He had already failed.

The pain of his wound flared suddenly in retribution; hell-fire roared; a cry choked and he clutched his hand to his chest - overcome by a brutal spasm. The bovine-incarnate closed and raised its club to crush his defenceless body across the ground.

- A rune intercepted it.

The bovine-incarnate stumbled to its side from the force of the magic, regained its footing - and was struck again; it toppled across the rocks, rolled, and fell over the edge of the precipice.

It bellowed a fading roar.

Ayadra forced his eyes open, and met Syla's; she had risen and defended him - but the exertion had imposed heavy breathing. Shock. He uttered a yelp in warning - the magus turned to face the bovine-incarnate that advanced behind her.

The incarnate charged, but the magus met it with a rune; glaring crystal broke into a cascade of sparkling evanescent mist - the creature was halted briefly. It roared, and moved towards the magus. Syla conjured another rune, and hurled it at the massive body - the incarnate stumbled, and paused. Another rune shattered across its chest, forcing it to the ground - a final rune broke across its bovine countenance and reduced it to unconsciousness.

Syla gasped, and doubled over - the magic thoroughly exhausting her. She collapsed to the ground.

Behind her, Elle'dred was beset by two goblins; forced into outright defence, he retreated towards the frothing currents of the stream.

Ayadra watched - as another group of incarnates emerged onto the precipice. Seven.

Pain stabbed at his wound - as desperation stabbed at his chest. Syla lay defenceless on the chamber's floor, and Elle'dred was being driven to the overwhelming currents of the water.

Seven incarnates advanced on the exhausted knight -

They were going to die.

Because of him. Because he had surrendered.

And he was powerless to do anything. The only power he had was evil - it would harm Elle'dred and Syla. He might kill them. But if he did nothing he would let them die - when he could have saved them.

He had already failed. He would continue to fail. The truth.

The incarnates advanced.

He had no choice. He had to -

He couldn't let his friends die.

Protecting them was not failure; he pleaded it was not. He had only pleas to fight the guilt.

And hell-fire.

Unleashing the flames of his flesh, he aimed his arm and funnelled the blaze through his open wound. Savage tongues of fire licked at his fingers, and burst across his palm and hand - as a scorching lance ripped across the cliff.

A bovine-incarnate was engulfed in fire. It shrieked.

Guilt.

From the edge of the precipice, despair washed across the battleground. The last goblins froze, Elle'dred collapsed to the ground - and for one, short moment, the incarnates were paralysed by shock.

Ayadra recoiled his hand. He severed the blazing stream. But hell-fire crawled down across his skin. Sadistic, gleeful, fire. Depraved elation flooded his limb, followed by cruel guilt, and hollow remorse. Self-hatred and hell-fire seduced him, and shame pushed him into their arms.

He wanted them. He was evil. He had failed.

He had surrendered, again. He wanted to surrender.

No -

Ayadra fought.

Despite or because of the guilt, the despair, the self-hatred - he did not care. If he had surrendered, he did not need to anymore. If the guilt was his punishment, he would accept it - but he would not accept the hell-fire. Whether it was a lie or truth, he did not care.

The hell-fire roared - it burned him - it filled his emptiness with malevolent fury. And pain. For a moment. And then was dragged back into his skin - he fought - it guttered and died.

Ayadra inhaled desperately; guilt crushed his chest.

He had failed. He was evil.

Remorseful tears eclipsed his senses.

He did not see.

As though born from the hell-fire of his flesh, and the obsidian darkness of his scales - a nether-touched blazed to life on the precipice beside him. It cackled, and lashed out with its shard of steel.

Ayadra gasped - and leapt back. But the blade found his chest, and sliced a deep wound through his scales.

He shrieked - and his foot found only emptiness.

He fell over the edge of the cliff, beside the waterfall - and joined the river in the darkness below.

Llrsyring solidified into steel and blades - Athyndyrra and Ishtavra flashed with terrible swiftness, and cleaved the burning suit of armour into a cascade of black metal amidst a dying plume of flame.

"Ayadra!" the deathwalker shouted - desperately.

The only answer was the dull roar of water.

* * *

The Tribunal had stood as a circle for hours; their dreaming spell had reached and waited. But their Champion had not slept - the circle was strong, and though the magic slowly drained them, the Staff-Bearer ordered their endurance. Hours bled into a day, another night, and morning.

Another day.

They were exhausted - and more troubling, no man could have remained awake for so long.

As night fell, Ragmurath ordered they widen their search. The dreaming would be extended to the magus they had sent alongside the Champion - the spell sought Syla first. She also did not sleep.

The Staff-Bearer would not wait for her; he directed the spell to Dus.

- The spell found a mind deep in slumber.

The dream burned. It was fire. Encircled by a black horizon, the barren ochre dirt flared with spontaneous flame. High, terrible fires lit the line that met the sky - above, the clouds were born of smoke and darkness, the ensnaring breath of the distant inferno.

At the centre of the flames, knelt a man - clothed in smouldering ribbons. He watched the flames with eyes alight - reflected and deep from within his form.

He turned, alerted to the intrusion of others on his ferocious bliss.

"Magus Dus," the Tribunal's chorused voices intoned upon the air, "By right of the Tribunal, you will heed our message, and relay it to the Champion."

Dus smiled slightly, gently, but gave no answer.

The Tribunal spoke to the man with the resentful indignation of its leader, "The Archivists have been overthrown, they were guilty of treason. The Magus have established a new order; we rule Ammandorn. The crimes of the Archivists however are far-reaching - they had tainted knowledge we used to identify the weapon of the Immortal -" the flames of landscape blazed suddenly and gleefully on the speaking of the name; the Tribunal took no heed, "And our motivations for sending it away have been called into doubt. We order the return of the Champion, you and magus Syla, with the weapon and the knights you travel with."

Dus was silent for a moment, then answered, "Taedoran of Ygoth is dead."

"What?" the Tribunal questioned with vehemence.

"Slain by the weapon of the Immortal."

Silence.

"I no longer travel with anyone," the magus explained, impassively, "They left me to die in Agdor."

"Where are you?" the chorus asked, tempered to fatal flatness.

"I fight with the armies, in the Valley of Ythordor."

"What happened to the party? The weapon?"

"It is a long tale -" Dus began inexpressively.

"Speak it!" the voices were imbued with anger - their leader's power.

"After we crossed the Fore-guard Mountains, we encountered a deathwalker -"

"What?" - The Tribunal hissed in shock.

Dus smiled.

"He named himself Llrsyring. He is unlike any monster that has ever been encountered. He has no body, and swords cannot wound him. He joined our party - under all objections. Despite our attempts to be rid of him, he followed us into the Riven Mountains and Agdor. He seduced Elle'dred and Syla, and Hheirdane. Taedoran acted to execute the traitors; he slew Hheirdane, and abandoned Elle'dred and Syla. We took the weapon to fulfil our mission. But it resisted. It killed Taedoran." he paused, "The deathwalker found us. I was incapacitated, and when I woke I was alone in the goblin lands. I stumbled my way, blind, and happened upon a skirmishing band of our soldiers. They took me to the Valley of Ythordor, where I have been fighting."

"What of the weapon?"

"Elle'dred and Syla befriended it, and the deathwalker." Dus answered, "They likely have freed it."

The Tribunal was silent.

Dus waited.

"Return to Delphanas, magus." the order was barked, "We will deal with these traitors, and this deathwalker."

"Be warned," Dus said, though his voice carried no concern, "The deathwalker is a master of magic. And he is very powerful. He protects the others and the weapon. I do not know if the Tribunal could -"

"We will deal with him." the voices chorused with rage, and shouted, "Wake!"

The Tribunal returned to the chamber, each member panted heavily with exhaustion.

The Staff-Bearer's eyes burned deep in thought.

First to recover her breath, Gerdanath enquired, "How do we plan to deal with the others?"

Ragmurath shot a glare at her, but reinforced his deportment; through clenched teeth, he snarled, "Sansurath, follow me."

The two High Magus left the council chamber.

* * *

The stream babbled cheerfully as it ran along its pebbled bed. Its soft, ever-flowing melody was a daily joy for Anynna. Every morning, she would walk over the rise of gentle hills that led down towards the water; her home - a village of modest wooden huts was nestled amidst them.

But above the crest of the grey knoll behind her, obscured partially by a scattering of trees - the Dead Mountains loomed terrible and ominous.

An immense tidal wave of serrated darkness poised to come crashing down upon her. Had she not lived in the Lingering Hills all her life, the sight would have instilled a deep terror - and she would have fled.

The wall of darkness that stretched up across the north, however, was something she was accustomed to.

She bent down at the river's edge, and unshouldered her yoke. She filled the first pail in the stream, and set it on the bank. As she filled the second, a shape floated past.

She glanced up - and screamed.

The large corpse had the torso of a man, its head was submerged in the water, but its legs were cloven alike a bull's. Another corpse floated by, another immense monster. More bodies marred the cheerful water of the stream; goblins and incarnates.

She backed away from the source of her fright - as a stampede of feet closed behind her. A number of her kinsmen ran down the hill, alerted to her plight. An elderly woman hurried to her side and embraced her, shielding her face, as the trauma of the sight reduced her to sobs.

Anynna's mother cooed softly to comfort her.

A plethora of exclamations moved across the gathering throng of people. The villagers had often defended themselves against small bands of goblins that scouted the hills. Swift reaction and vigilant defence had left the existence of their home unknown to enemies that lurked in the north.

But they had never seen an incarnate - and the goblin skirmishing bands had only ever numbered a half-dozen at the most. The sight transfixed them all with horror.

Another body, different to the others, floated by - and was caught by a promontory further down the bank. Braced against the jutting stone, the slender shape of obsidian scales rested motionlessly. A ragged vermillion mist was carried away from his body amongst the flowing water.

His arms bobbed beside him, afloat on the eddies of the stream - the curving onyx talons above his hands gave his limbs the resemblance of scythes.

The people watched.

From its serpentine face, perpetually cast into the inexpressiveness of black bone, he opened his scaled lower jaw a crack, and drew in a sharp, shallow breath.

The villagers recoiled in fear.

After they had regained themselves, several of the younger men marched towards the beached incarnate. They raised their crude spears in preparation to slay the helpless body of Ayadra.

"Stop."

The order came from the crest of the hill - in a voice whose authority none could deny. An elderly man, clad in a brown robe that emphasised his long white beard, stood atop the rise.

The spearmen paused.

The older man hobbled down the slope, his left stride was hampered by a limp, but he bore himself with a gentle dignity, and serene presence. As he moved amongst the crowd, the others parted in deference, forming a path for him to approach the spearmen.

Though tempered by respect, the first of the men he passed questioned, "Barensarh, it is a monster. Must we not slay it?"

Barensarh met his fellow villager's apprehension, and answered, "He is not a monster."

Waving the men back into the crowd behind them, Barensarh moved down the bank and knelt at Ayadra's side. The fragile obsidian body inhaled weakly.

The old eyes of a healer watched the incarnate in compassion - amidst the furrows of his brow, his eyes wavered in a counterpoint of kindness and stern worry; the gaping wound on Ayadra's chest elicited a grimace of sympathy.

Barensarh stood and turned to the others; quietly, he ordered, "Bring him to my hut."

Shock pervaded the faces before him.

A particularly audacious young man stepped forward, "Barensarh, that is folly."

The old healer sighed, "My visions are made clear to me; I saw this day a long time ago - and I have seen what our future holds." he paused, "I had hoped my visions were wrong, for they spell the end of our home. You must leave the village, and make for the Living Mountains and the City of Hresfyrra to the east."

The crowds shock transmuted into gasps, and objections.

Barensarh raised his hand to quell the fear, and restore silence, "The enemies of the north are moving - they will sweep through these hills and anyone left here will die." he paused, "But we have yet time; gather your belongings - only what you can carry, you must go. Hresfyrra will protect you. However, I must remain behind."

The crowd was struck into silence.

"In my visions, I saw this creature. And a voice sang to me of its nature -

_'In water shall he come to thee,_

_An Angel, far from light,_

_His flesh shall cry a silent plea,_

_For hope yet staves the night.'_

I must heal him. And therefore I must remain behind." he sighed, "If I can, I will join you at Hresfyrra. But I have given my word, you will go."

The final phrase curbed any remaining protestations. Two of the spearmen moved to the river's edge, and apprehensively lifted the incarnate out of the water.

The crowd moved back up the hill, towards their homes. An aura of dread loomed over the people; their fear was more tangible than the dark wave of rock that loomed to the north.

With Ayadra shouldered between them, the spearmen moved past an elderly woman who still stood on the bank - opposing Barensarh.

The oracle's eyes met hers with a gentle chastisement, but before he could speak, she stated, "I am staying."

Barensarh approached her; he paused, and smiled. He moved his hand to her cheek, and planted a tender kiss on her lips. She smiled.

"Very well." he said with a practised temperance, and affectionate disapproval.

The oracle's wife aided him to climb the hill, and they moved back into the village that had been their home for seventy years.
Chapter 43

_Syrkyn rolled in the dirt, clawing his way to his feet. The wound Aunvari had dealt him was deep, and his blood flowed freely. But he saw only rage. His wound would be Aunvari's. His brother would feel his pain before he died. Aunvari had turned his back to Syrkyn, and stood unmoving, and unseeing. Syrkyn would strike at his back, he would fell his brother in his weakness._

_Aunvari stood, his heart torn. But he chose. He let Salfiernador fall to the ground. And turned to Syrkyn. In that instant, Syrkyn's blade pierced him. Driven through his form. And Syrkyn's hand grasped his throat. Syrkyn cried, you will feel my pain, you will take my wounds, and die as you should!_

_Aunvari felt Syrkyn's hate in his hand, and Syrkyn's wounds healed before him. Only to take their place upon Aunvari. Syrkyn roared. A great clap of thunder rushed across the Fourth Heaven. And the crown of the world began to crumble, Syrkyn's touch the last of the Three Hells to take form upon the land. But Aunvari looked at Syrkyn, with no hate in his eyes. And spoke, soft and gentle. You are my brother, and I love you._

_Aunvari did not weep as the pit was reopened. The storm had been silenced, and he whispered the last curse upon Armenblista. And died. Light shone, and glistening fire roared across Arhnsalfier, the city of Hraesvyrling crumbled, and all the waters of the seas poured across the land. They drowned the pit in stone and water. Through the east of the Fourth Heaven they poured, the waves drowned the crown of the world._

* * *

Once more the Leader of the Tribunal had called his subordinates to the Chamber of Circle Magic. Two days had passed since they had counselled magus Dus on the state of the party - and for two days the Staff-Bearer had obsessed over his course of retribution.

Magus Syla - a mage-born had betrayed her people, her land, and her blood to ally with a deathwalker. Such an occurrence was intolerable. The traitorous magus had to be executed - and the affront to the Tribunal must be righted. No necromancer should be allowed to live.

The others gathered in a ring with Ragmurath.

"This session of the Tribunal has been called to pass judgement on Magus Syla, Elle'dred, Champion of the White Wolf Hall," the Staff-bearer repressed an disgusted sneer, "- and the Deathwalker that accompanies them." he paused, "They are guilty of treason; they have stolen the Weapon of the Immortal, murdered the Champion of the Tribunal, and befriended an enemy of the state. By their affiliation with this deathwalker, they are guilty of necromancy." he surveyed the eyes of his fellows; his gaze rested on Gerdanath, as he asked, "Do any of you deny their guilt?"

Gerdanath remained silent; no one challenged the accusations.

"Then as Staff-Bearer of the Tribunal I condemn them - and pronounce their sentence: they will be executed by Circle-magic." he paused; Gerdanath did not object - but her eyes tightened, warily, "High Magus Sansurath, Salynath and Eranath have assisted me in devising a method by which we shall exact the sentence on the traitors."

The excluded High Magus glared at her leader, "Why was I not party to this?"

"Your services were not required," Ragmurath answered, cuttingly, "Undoubtedly you will have your objections to the technique we will implement."

The older woman's gaze hardened, and her lips pursed to retort - but she quelled the reflex.

The Staff-Bearer's eyes glistened with the arrogant sneer he restrained from his countenance, "After deliberations were held, it was decided by consensus that the most efficient and reliable means of executing the criminals, is through the utilisation of possession magic."

Gerdanath visibly restrained an exclamation of outrage.

Ragmurath paused, baiting his opponent with silence - when her restraint held, he continued, "The Circle will possess Magus Syla through a variant of dreaming magic, where we shall then channel our full power through her body."

Sansurath was tacitly ordered to continue the explanation, "The spell can be cast over any distance, but its recipient must be of magus blood. The traitor will have no volition of her own while subject to the magic, and the power we will channel through her will be severely damaging to her physical state. We will use her to execute the Champion, and the necromancer, and then we will burn her away with the power of our Circle."

Gerdanath watched the Staff-Bearer impassively; she asked in an inflectionless tone, "And what of the weapon? Is its recovery not a priority?"

"No." Ragmurath responded, "The worth of the weapon is disputable, and as its recovery is no longer viable, its destruction is our only recourse."

Gerdanath did not challenge the statement; the Tribunal remained silent.

The Staff-Bearer allowed a slight curl of his lips; triumph, "If there are no further considerations to be raised, we shall begin."

"What if magus Syla is dead? What will our course be then?" Gerdanath asked the question quietly - but the spiteful deprecation of the Staff-Bearer's argument resounded sharply amongst the ring.

Ragmurath narrowed his eyes, and hissed under his breath, "Then we will consider other options."

Gerdanath met his eyes - a burning enmity hid under her impassive gaze. She raised her hands with the others as they formed the Circle, and closed her eyes.

As they began to murmur the low phrases of the spell, Ragmurath placed his ebony staff on the ground.

He raised and linked his hands with the flanking High Magus - but before he too closed his eyes, he shot a dangerous glare at his clandestinely defiant subordinate.

Gerdanath's opposition was a threat, and he would not allow it tolerance - in any case, not for long.

* * *

He had failed. He would continue to fail. He was evil.

As Ayadra dreamt, the words echoed. All the truths of hell-fire. He could not escape them. Hell-fire crackled and laughed around him - it had won.

Because he had surrendered. Because he hated himself.

He had failed. For a moment - on the cliff.

He had had no choice.

He had tried to do good; he had only wanted to do good - to save his friends. But he had failed. He had used the hell-fire, for a moment. And he had caused this.

He was dying - and once he did, the Immortal's weapon would consume the world. It had been his error that allowed it to blind him - an error he had made before. When he had surrendered, it was free; when he tried to do good, it was free.

Because he was evil.

Over and over, he begged for forgiveness. The words that personified him - I'm sorry.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

But the despair - hell-fire, was as pitiless as flame could be. It offered no forgiveness.

He did not deserve it.

He had failed. He would continue to fail. He would die.

Despair offered only one mercy -

The one Ayadra could not bear.

The fire born from his flesh could ravage the black stain of guilt from his surface, and succour his torment with bliss. The depraved elation of hell-fire could efface the guilt.

But as ever, only for so long as he allowed it to burn.

If he fought the flames, there would be pain - and they would abandon him to the guilt he could not bear. Despair offered only the mercy of damnation.

He was dying. He would die - soon. The weak beat in his chest, in moments or hours would fail. And hell-fire would be unleashed upon the world.

The truth.

Because he had failed.

Because he continued to fail.

He wanted to be forgiven. He wanted to be free of the guilt. Just for a moment - for one brief moment.

Ayadra surrendered - he accepted the fires' offer.

The blaze of his self-hatred, and guilt, and hell-fire, together leapt to his skin in the same despairing inferno; one birthed from the other in a perpetual cycle of self-condemnation.

Only for a moment.

Ayadra cried - for a blissful second, despair effaced the guilt.

And then brought it back upon him.

Despite the crackle of the flames, and the whispers that tormented him - he heard Barensarh's scream.

* * *

Elle'dred opened his eyes, the dark void of the sky stretched eternally above - the unnatural night of Perrefiere.

Alarm would have flooded through him, but despair held an overpowering influence on his body. For a moment he wondered if he was dead, and the dark hell he had fallen into would be the only sight he would be privy to for the remainder of eternity.

But instinct wrenched him into movement. He forced himself upright.

A dull scraping of metal on stone elicited his attention - Llrsyring.

The deathwalker stood a few paces further into the valley, and turned to meet the countenance of the awoken knight.

Elle'dred met the empty, overshadowed eyeholes; perhaps it was his own despair that allowed him to see the armour's eyes - wracked by shame, as though they were corporeal once more, or perhaps it was just his imagination.

The empty suit of armour strode over to the knight, and silently sat beside him. The helm stared down at the ochre dirt lit by the fading and flickering light of the torch.

Aside from the lambent flames that burned slowly to extinguishment between the knight and the still sleeping body of the magus, the valley was as black as the towering mound of stone behind them. The mountain, somewhere in the eastern half of the range, concealed the dark orb and its crimson corona that burned over the north.

For that seemingly trivial mercy, Elle'dred was grateful.

But it did not combat the emptiness - Ayadra was dead. He had watched the incarnate cleaved through by the hilt-less sword of a nether-touched. And then Ayadra had fallen over the edge of a precipice.

They had fought - more accurately, Llrsyring had fought, while Syla and he scrambled to their feet and ran for their lives. They had fled through the tunnels, until they had collapsed. Then Llrsyring had carried them. Somewhere between the numerous times he had lost consciousness, they had achieved egress from the catacombs. Now they slept in a shallow valley riven into the western side of one of the Dead Mountains.

Llrsyring's last word had been 'Ayadra'.

Elle'dred glanced at the helm, "It was not your fault." he muttered.

Llrsyring looked at him, "Yes it was." he paused and chuckled, grimly, "You made that undeniably clear to me."

Elle'dred said nothing in response.

The deathwalker continued, "It seems we may have changed his fate, but only for the worst." he paused, "If Ayadra is dead, then the world will fall to Perrefiere. And if he is not -"

The possibility sparked a desperate hope within the knight, "Could Ayadra have survived?"

The helm turned to meet his gaze with both sockets, "If he has, then he has also passed beyond the edge of the darkness." the statement dashed Elle'dred's hope resoundingly; Llrsyring continued, "I have tried to find him with magics, but he is nowhere within the dark light of Perrefiere. And the darkness limits my view as it never has before." - He sighed, "Ayadra is likely alive. But if not through his death, then through his fulfilment of the weapon, he is achieving the moon's ultimate ends."

Elle'dred grimaced and muttered morosely, "So it is hopeless."

"It would seem so."

For a moment, the knight was silent, then Elle'dred chuckled, "I suppose then, it would be nice if you'd kill us now, rather than let Syla and I die slowly of starvation."

Llrsyring laughed.

Elle'dred smirked; after a pause, he asked, "What did you mean when you said, 'if you are to save this world'?"

The helm looked at him with the same immovable façade as ever; however, the knight interpreted the quizzical expression that would otherwise have been present.

"In the land of all things fallen," he clarified, "When I collapsed, you said, 'Stand knight, if you are to save this world'. What did you mean by that?"

Llrsyring chuckled, "And you seek to shame me further." he paused, "You have a destiny Elle'dred, one I have forsaken, and now I think doomed, through my selfishness."

"What destiny?"

The deathwalker answered sullenly, "A prophecy. Its details seem unimportant now," he paused, "But it spoke of a man born to undestined blood, who would right the wrongs of his race and reunify them."

"And you thought that was me?"

"At first." Llrsyring paused, "But when you seemed intent on following the Champion of the Tribunal, I began to doubt my assumption. And when finally you were ready to choose a different path, I was too obsessed with Ayadra - and my own desires." again the armour paused, and sighed, "I no longer cared if your race fell, or this world with it."

Elle'dred smirked sourly, "So I am supposed to reunite my race? While I am stranded in Eryndor, weeks away from aid, with only enough food to last another day or so?"

They both chuckled at the sardonic absurdity of the idea.

"Thria's prophecy," the knight muttered, "Maybe there's hope, there's still time - it'll be a week or two before..." what little faith he mustered in the notion, vanished hastily; he sighed, and after another despondent pause, said, "Another question."

The deathwalker's chortle resounded quietly amidst his helm, "Are you forever to be asking my permission before you ask me questions?"

"Maybe not for much longer," Elle'dred quipped, dismally, "If Ayadra kills you - would that mean he would become the Golem?"

Llrsyring sighed; after a silence Elle'dred interpreted as contemplative, the suit of armour answered, "No." he paused, "Ayadra is older than this world. I doubt he is bound to the same laws as we are - or the same curses. He may have been able to change everything. Had I had the faith in him he deserved."

Silence settled over the valley once again, broken only by the low crackle of the torch-flames.

After a moment, Elle'dred muttered, "We all make mistakes."

Llrsyring did not respond; another long silence permeated the rocks.

"Elle'dred," Llrsyring exhorted, "Get behind me."

The armour snapped upright frighteningly quicker than the knight was capable, and as Elle'dred barely attained his feet, the deathwalker grasped his arm and near threw him into his shadow.

Llrsyring's back was turned to the knight, but Elle'dred traced the sockets of the helm to where they had been fixed - unwaveringly, on Syla.

The magus stirred, rolling restlessly in her sleep, as her eyes flicked beneath the lids with the rapidity of dreaming. Her arm wrenched spasmodically, and dug her fingertips into the dirt - she clawed at the ground. After a moment her body shifted onto its side, and rose with a contorted effort that seemed as though the muscles that moved beneath the skin did not belong there.

Slowly, she twisted on her ankles to face the braced shape of the deathwalker.

Her eyes opened, the azure blue glinted in the firelight - but emblazoned on their surface, was a sheen of immitigable horror.

A scream silenced by the possessing force within.

Syla's mouth formed words, but her voice was replaced by the chorused multitude of the Tribunal.

"Deathwalker." the magus spat, "By right of the Magus Tribunal, the Champion of the White Wolf, Magus Syla and you are sentenced to death for the crimes of necromancy and treason." an inflection of cruel glee coloured her tone, "The condemned are granted a final statement before sentence is exacted."

Llrsyring met the terrified eyes of the magus.

"I do not bow to the laws of men." he declared, "Nor do I bow to their power. You will leave."

The words were laced with an invisible strike that landed against Syla's chest - the possessed body reeled backwards. But as Syla's features twisted into rage, the pain of violated will remained over her eyes.

"You are no match for the Tribunal, deathwalker." the chorus snarled.

"Leave!" Llrsyring shouted - again, an unseen volley of deep magics lashed out at Syla's person.

But the possessing-circle countered; waving her arm as though brushing aside an inconvenient bug, the magus nullified the deathwalker's spell with a terrifying ease.

Llrsyring backed a step.

Syla's face settled into a malevolent smile, mixed with a sneer of contempt that evidenced the Leader of the Tribunal within her.

With a casualness born of disdain, she stretched out her hand - towards the flickering torch on the ground. Her limb swept in a circling gesture above her head, and the fire leapt to obey. A roaring torrent of flame burst from the torch - the wood that fuelled the blaze, consumed in an instant.

But the fire was alive upon the air, and in mirror to the magus' gesture, it circled around her - coiled like a serpent, ready to strike. The belly of the blaze burned the stones of the valley - and the current reared above Syla with a flickering maw of flame. The torrent held for a second - then Syla's hand fell, and the coiled inferno lashed out as a deluge of crackling orange waves.

Llrsyring reacted; extending his hand, a dozen tendrils of sparkling mist intertwined and solidified. Three runes crystallised into glaring brilliance, swirled - and interlaced into a sole exquisite shape. A tower shield.

The river of flames crashed upon the shield as an ocean upon a breakwater, but white glare staved the assault, and splayed the monstrous torrent in two. Fire coursed around Llrsyring and the knight behind him - two diverted rivers scorched the valley to either side.

The air was seared by heat; Elle'dred shielded his face, but his skin throbbed with burning.

The deathwalker acted to safeguard his charge - with a twist of his fingers, his hand withdrew to his side. The shield immediately contracted, collapsing into a pinpoint of light against his metal-clad palm - and then as quickly was gone. But the fire was mastered by the magic he wrought.

A wind, unseen and unfelt by any but the flames, tore across the valley. The orange river was swept away by a violence that dissipated its fury - the coursing inferno as instantly dispersed as it had begun.

The valley was covered by abrupt darkness.

The Tribunal's chorus roared. The cataclysmic cracking of stone boomed throughout the valley.

White luminescence flared; the rune, Llrsyring held above his palm, illuminated the surrounding rock - and exposed the horrific cascade of stone that crumbled across the valley side. A landslide of boulders and monstrous debris crashed down upon the deathwalker and knight.

Llrsyring hurled his rune, and in a fluid continuance of the motion embraced Elle'dred as tightly as the man's body could withstand. With the disappearance of the light, the thundering of stone became the deafening roar of water.

Besieged by darkness once more, and buried in the deathwalker robes, Elle'dred could not tell what had transpired - until water drowned the air around him. Drenched by a torrent that battered every unshielded area of his body, he was swept free of his feet and into the rushing currents.

In moments, he was returned to and dragged along the rough undulation of the valley floor - as the water sloshed and receded around him. Tossed across sharp rocks, his back took a beating, but the deathwalker's clinging gauntlet protected his head from injury.

Recumbent, Elle'dred sputtered, expelling the liquid he had unwittingly inhaled amidst panic.

But Llrsyring had released his hold, and stood above him - illuminated by a rune.

The valley floor was flooded, the landslide having been transmuted from a cascade of rock into a flood of water. Every stone glistened, and the dirt had been washed into mud.

The possessed magus, however, still stood upright - untouched by the ferocious inundation. Her pale eyes shone in the argent light, with an enraged glare. She panted lightly - the first sign the power she wielded had begun to take its toll, save for the drop of blood that ran from her nose.

The deathwalker slung the shimmering symbol he held across the distance between them, and simultaneously formed another in his free hand.

Syla batted the projected rune from the air with a simple sweep of her arm; she merged the gesture with her other limb and swung both into the air.

In concordance with the movement, steam hissed to life as curling gouts tore free from the ground - leaving the dirt dry. A curtain of hoary, wavering vapour rose, encompassed Syla, and expanded outwards across the breadth and length of the valley.

Llrsyring hurled his second rune; sharp crystal perforated the mist, and illuminated the cloud in pallid glow. Within, Syla freed a hand from control over the element and shattered the rune on her forearm. But, where her direction faltered, steam scalded her cheek, and as she regained her hold on the vapour, she hissed as sharply as the searing water around her.

She threw the steam upwards with a savage gesture - cleared of the valley floor, the element coalesced as a pale thunderhead above her.

Llrsyring's third rune poised above his hand, as the possessed magus slashed her arm downwards - and the cloud billowed towards him. The rune leapt free from his palm, as he extended his arm, but stopped short above - as again, two additional runes crystallised and merged with the first, to form the woven shape of a shield.

The cloud swirled furiously down upon the deathwalker and knight - but at the apex of its descent, the vapour parted into dozens of tendrils, which froze instantly into a volley of arrows comprised of ice. The barrage rained down across the valley.

In a moment, the ground was blanketed in elongated icicles embedded in the dirt. Dozens of the projectiles fell across the armour's argent shield - all shattering into a cascade of tiny fragments that poured around the huddled figures of the knight and his bracing protector.

Llrsyring returned the shield to its initial size, with a flick of his fingers, and the rune floated down to reside suspended above his palm.

Syla's mouth curled into another snarl, but the expression was quashed as she was forced to release a pent breath and inhale raggedly. Another droplet of blood ran from her nostril, across her ashen lips. She sucked in a deep breath to steady herself, and drew erect.

Her eyes met the empty sockets of her foe, the chorus spoke, "As skilled as you are, deathwalker - you are no master of the deep magics."

In response, Llrsyring hurled his rune; Syla struck it from the air with her arm, and freed the repressed snarl. Another glaring symbol crystallised above the deathwalker's gauntlet.

The magus seethed through clenched teeth, but then, her lips curved into a sinister smile.

She held out her hands.

Llrsyring paused and waited, braced for whatever onslaught the Tribunal summoned.

A tendril of sparkling mist drifted free of the valley floor - rising, it swirled, and crystallised into an intricate rune. Suspended scarce an inch above the stone, it danced as though blown by a gentle wind. As it moved through flitting spirals, it drew forth another wisp - that formed a second rune.

The two danced in arcing delight as they skimmed across the ground - and their wake brought another emanation of illumined vapour into being. Followed by another, and another, and another. Flights of runes materialised, carried amidst a silent wind, some swept away, caught in separate eddies, though all were as soon joined by multitudes of kin birthed in their wake.

The valley floor was covered by a sea of a thousand dancing crystals.

Elle'dred scrambled to his feet behind the suit of armour.

"Llrsyring." he murmured, his voice shook with trepidation and bewilderment.

"Syla is possessed." the armour muttered, "The Tribunal intends to kill her."

Panic gripped Elle'dred's chest; he watched, as helpless as the magus at the centre of the shimmering, argent sea.

"Llrsyring, you must save her," he pleaded; the deathwalker answered solely with silence - desperately, angrily, Elle'dred shouted, "Damn it! You cannot let her die like you did Ayadra!"

The accusation provoked a glance from the helm; empty sockets met eyes fraught with pain.

Llrsyring faced the magus once more.

The gentle breeze that bore the runes, encircling Syla, swirled around her feet - unheard, but not unfelt, it parted the ebony locks of hair that fell on either side of her face.

Her mouth was twisted cruelly into glee, but in the glaring light that bleached her pale skin a ghastly hue, the sharp pain of her possession glistened upon her eyes.

Blood trickled steadily from her nose.

The low zephyr that moved the luminescence intensified; exuberant with motion, the shining crystals twisted and whirled - some spiralled upwards, caught in rising air-streams.

Syla's arms lifted.

Like autumn's fallen leaves caught in a sudden updraught, the sea of runes was swept skywards by a gust of unheard wind - a thousand crystals rose into the air, born upon a hundred whirling, rising eddies. The leaves, the runes, danced in the emptiness under the void-filled darkness above.

The valley was bathed in argent light.

But as swift and beautiful as the circling flight of the runes was - did it change to violence and terror. The silent breeze became a gale - and the runes, so lively and graceful in their ascent, were now whipped through arcs by savage gusts of wind.

The countless shards of luminescence traced the paths of the intangible air-currents that drove them; they curled and twisted, wrenching into courses that then veered aside, violently, and birthed sudden whirling eddies. The runes were tossed amidst the turbulence without mercy or restraint - some escaped the gale and were dashed upon the rocks, others were rent asunder by the savagery of the winds. The crystalline leaves were violated in their flight, as helpless as the stationary magus at the centre of their motion.

Syla's robes billowed and fluttered, and her hair was whipped across her face by the power of the argent tempest around her.

"You will bare witness to our power!" the harmonised voices of the Tribunal cried, in chorus.

The winds' ferocity escalated - runes spiralled around Syla, born on currents with the force to reduce rock to sand. A cyclonic fury twisted upwards into the night, birthing a swirling column of argent lights.

Llrsyring hurled his rune at Syla; the symbol sailed across the air, but then veered away - caught amidst the whirlwind of force that enslaved its shining brethren.

Blood ran from Syla's nose freely, tracing vermillion lines across her lips and chin - but did not mar the hateful glee carved into her smile. The Tribunal would burn her from within, as the raging tempest of runes around her would efface their foe from the valley.

Strands of her ebony hair where bleached suddenly and terribly white.

The force of the storm was beyond challenge, and the myriad whirling crystals shed a blinding glare - the knight shielded his eyes, but the empty sockets of the helm did not avert.

Wisps of sparkling mist materialised and coiled around the deathwalker's chest and arms. The wisps entwined, and swiftly crystallised into an array of runes - all joined and interlinked, as a suit of argent crystalline armour.

Llrsyring was clad in a new breastplate, gauntlets and helm comprised of interwoven runes.

White radiance lanced off the seams of the crystalline plates, surrounding the deathwalker with a corona of glare.

Llrsyring shone as bright as the storm before him.

But the mist had yet to finish - the last tendrils flowed away from his hands as a glittering spray, then sharpened and solidified. Crystal wove into hand-guards that encircled Llrsyring's runic-gauntlets; hilts materialised against his armoured palms, and, at either side, birthed slender shimmering blades.

Two runes shaped as swords were held by the deathwalker clad in light.

Syla stared out through her whirling vortex - her foe's transformation provoked a sneer of contempt.

Llrsyring stepped forward, raising his argent-blades in preparation to enter the maelstrom.

The magus roared.

The wind turned towards the deathwalker. A gust tore free of the spiralling tempest, swirled and lashed out with an eddy that cast a dozen runes - the barrage flew to fell Llrsyring.

But the deathwalker countered; with a single argent circle of his runic-blade he cut the volley from the air - a dozen runes shattered into a cascade of evaporating crystal.

His sword, unmarred by the impact, danced above him in perfect poise, bearing his stance as he moved beyond the boundary of the storm. Wind and rune lashed amidst the spiralling tempest at the foe that trespassed - but Llrsyring did not halt.

He danced.

Eleven hundred years of skill were born upon two shining blades; sword and magic alive together, were wrought into a flawless grace. Arcs of light became Llrsyring's hands, and through seamless stance and strike he danced. From flaring sweep to narrow parry, he melded, swift and poised - every step and every move, perfect and seamlessly joined.

From the centre of the whirling maelstrom, Syla watched her adversary close - her mouth curled into a snarl.

Llrsyring moved unhindered by wind or rune or storm; eddies and gusts curled and lunged - countless crystals struck out at him. But with each arc of his argent-blades, he swept apart a volley; luminescence scattered, as shattered crystal evanesced. The gleaming remnants of the runes, were cast amidst the wind - the throws of the tempest deprived of white radiance.

But the possessing force inside the magus struck back - sparkling mist was ripped from the ground by the whirl of the wind. Innumerable runes crystallised and leapt upwards, in a spiralling column that wrapped around Syla. The savage gusts veered, and hurled the conjured influx at the argent figure in their midst.

Syla's hair, once ebony, was now as white as the brilliance that swirled around her - and the glare effaced the crimson streams that ran from her nose and eyes.

She was dying.

Llrsyring, yet ten paces from his friend, was assailed by a storm of runes. He spun and twirled, and twisted, his blades ever in motion. They enwrapped his form, with illumed grace, and set a perfect defence - showers of shattered crystal, filled the air.

Though, as seamless and as flawless as every step and stance was placed - as every was strike was laid, the power of the storm overcame him.

A gust of runes struck his hand, as the argent-blade sailed to meet them - and glaring crystal shattered; the barrage was dispersed, but so too was Llrsyring's runic-blade splintered into fleeting shards.

One moment passed - and the ferocity of the winds hurled a glaring salvo upon the deathwalker.

Bombarding runes smashed against his argent armour - the cladding of magic cracked and fractured; some plates were stripped and torn away into dying luminescence as mist upon the wind.

But only for a moment.

Llrsyring was but five paces from his friend. As he raised his last blade - buffeted by the storm, he leapt forward.

Battered by the tempest of countless runes - his gleaming armour was cracked and smashed, and sheered from his body. But as each plate was torn away, he charged through a torrent of crystalline shards and mist. Five paces.

Rune-blade swept and struck.

Sword became arc.

Crystal rained.

Argent.

Thrust.

His final move - a lunge, speared through the whirling, rising column that protected Syla. His rune-blade shattered, but his last step was laid - and brought his naked gauntlet to touch Syla's face.

In an instant, the ground became ash. All the light of the runes, and all the winds of the swirling tempest vanished. Around their feet, a grey unmoving mist settled. And above, the sky was darkened by storm clouds that stretched to every, endless horizon.

A storm that would never shed its anger onto the land beneath.

The land of all things fallen.

Syla collapsed - as she clutched at her chest. The mist parted as she met the ground, on her side. A gentle wind blew around her; the grey vapour remained unmoved, but the zephyr swept up thin black wisps from the dirt - each, alike a hand that curled to embrace her.

She sucked in breath desperately, but with each inhalation the suffocation that choked her lungs grew worse. She wheezed, enraged, as she glared at the shape of Llrsyring above her.

"What have you done?" the chorused voices of the Tribunal screeched - but where in the valley, they had boomed with terrible power, here, they sounded as a faded echo.

Llrsyring's voice however, resonated with clarity and force - echoless, he answered, "I have brought you into the shadow of the world. The Land of All things Fallen."

"Impossible!" the chorus shrieked, but no fury could combat the pall that surrounded them, nor its debilitation.

"Here, your power will not avail you," Llrsyring continued, "And no magic can remove you from this place." he paused, and muttered reluctantly, "Except relinquishing your hold on Syla."

"We will burn your bitch away!" the voices hissed.

Llrsyring let a moment pass in silence; he answered, quietly, "Then you will die."

"So will she!"

"Yes." the deathwalker answered, impassively, "But her life is well worth traded for the lives of the entire Tribunal. Your magics are trapped in the spell you forced on her; possession has linked your life-force together - if Syla dies, then she will drag your spirits into this land with her!"

Syla's face contorted into a sneer, "We will possess her again."

"No. You will not." Llrsyring knelt down beside her, and met her eyes with the empty sockets of his helm - for a brief moment, a pale circle of shimmering light shone through the clouds, framing his helm, "I will protect her. You will not find her dreams again. You have failed." the deathwalker stood, "Yet your choice remains as such: free yourselves or die."

The magus glared upwards - blood coated her cheeks and jaw, and her white hair draped about her head like a tether to the death that loomed in the mist.

She hissed - a sound of palpable bile.

Then a contorting spasm wracked her body - her mouth opened in a choked scream, and her eyes clenched shut in agony. She moved as though a blade plunged fatally deep was as cruelly torn free from her back.

Her body went limp - as the stones of the valley re-manifested beneath her. Darkness shrouded the chasm, the knight and the returned magus and deathwalker.

But before Elle'dred could approach - or Llrsyring bend down to examine Syla's weakly breathing body, the howl of a goblin swept across the air.

The war cry was joined immediately by a multitude of shrieks and roars. And the thrumming of feet and hooves.

They ran.
Chapter 44

_Aunvari's curse upon Syrkyn's blade, his last word had been, that when the last of the Wyvern Kings was slain the world would be reformed and reborn anew. What is more, Aunvari knew that in this the Fourth Heaven would be changed. Those that followed would be bound to the bloods of the Wyvern Kings, and the land wound be bound also. Under the power of Syrkyn's shadow, and the shadow of those that had fallen. A seventh nether would be born, the shadow of the world, the realm of all things fallen, a land for the dead to walk. But in this, all would be given a great gift and a great price to pay. All things in rebirth would be bound to that of Syrkyn, that all things would die, and bound to that of Aunvari, that all things would be free to shape their own destiny._

_So it was, that Syrkyn's shadow was made whole and the nethers bridged apart. And the Fourth Heaven, the resting place of Aunvari would be final ground to decide Syrkyn's fate. Syrkyn would be reborn, and be given a second chance, and the war of all things would be fought until either Syrkyn was redeemed, or all fell to shadow._

* * *

Ayadra opened his eyes.

Fire greeted his sight. Small flames crackled sedately on the charred remnants of timber - the remains of the house that had surrounded him.

Panic normally would have beset him, but the lingering touch of the guilt restrained his movements. He remembered giving up - surrendering - he remembered embracing the fire.

He had failed. He would always fail.

He breathed a remorseful sigh - it seemed to him that every breath that entered his lungs would inevitably be imbued with the shame that permeated his body.

His breath carried a wisp of dark flecks into the air beside him. He lifted himself up on regret-laden arms; the ground beneath him was covered in cinders. He looked around - the soft flickering of the flames traced a black circle of debris.

Beyond, along the dull ochre of the valley floor he saw the other dwellings - wooden huts, undoubtedly identical to how this one had been. Until he had burnt it to the ground.

There were no people in sight - they must have fled, when he burned.

When he had failed.

Guilt.

He remembered the pain, fire surrounded him, for an immeasurable length of hollow relief - but then it had receded. Or he had fought - for some unknown reason.

Hell-fire had drawn inside him and left him to the mercy of his guilt. The flames tortured him at every turn - he tortured himself. But in that moment of retreat - he thought he remembered a scream.

- A scream.

Ayadra swept the landscape wildly - his senses finally registered the daylight that glowed down upon him. He was not under the darkness of the moon.

Despair.

He could not fight the hell-fire beyond Perrefiere's domain - it would burn as it had before, savagely, sadistically - it would find his flesh and escape regardless of what he did. Then it would consume him. And he wanted it to. He deserved to burn. He did not want to fight anymore.

He continued to fail.

He could already feel the flames burning inside him - savouring the hopelessness of his predicament. Delighting in his surrender. They would blaze very soon, and what little strength he had was weakened by remorse and guilt - and that he no longer wanted to fight.

The soft cry of the wind wafted around him; an errant breeze shift the ashes into a delicate dance before releasing them to a slow fall to the ground.

Hesitantly, Ayadra surveyed his surroundings. Hills obstructed the horizon, but beyond their gentle crests and sparse forestation, he could see the green and white peaks of the Living Mountains - and the greyness that shrouded the sky above.

He turned around - darkness met him.

The frozen tidal wave of rock loomed amidst a diaphanous wall of shadow - the Dead Mountains. The black serrated peaks hid the malevolent orb he knew burned amidst the northern sky.

At least, Perrefiere would be cheated of watching his last moments.

Though the hope of reaching the darkness sparked amidst the emptiness inside him, it was devoured by the despair of the hell-fire that burned in his inner void also. The edge of the shadow was hours away at best - and he would have to navigate through the hills without incident to reach it.

And without being found by enemies - goblin or otherwise.

He could not last that long. And he knew it.

He did not want to.

Guilt.

- The wind's gentle whistle ceased and sounds reached his hearing.

Soft sobbing echoed across the air - from beyond the rise of the southern hills.

Ayadra listened; the cries were muffled by distance - but they carried on the still air with a gut-wrenching sorrow. Whoever made them, suffered a pain no being of the world should bear.

He recognised that pain, all too well.

The sorrow struck a sympathetic resonance with his own regret, compassion welled as tears in his eyes. He stumbled to his feet; guilt and despair harrowed out his gut, as they always did - but sympathy drove his legs into motion.

The voice was a woman's.

Ayadra knew it; whether by the tone of the sound or some other force he knew a woman was the victim of that pain. A pain sourced of helplessness and loss.

Ayadra moved through the vacated village - then stopped suddenly.

He stared at the ground.

The dull grey of the dirt had been scorched black - by fire. An indentation had been pressed, and burned into the earth. The shape of a heel, of a man's foot.

Ayadra looked further up.

There was another. A full footprint - charred into the ground. And another. And another. They fled towards the hills.

Fear.

Ayadra knew they could have been made by only one thing. And he dreaded that they should have been made by that. The woman's pain echoed across the air - pain undoubtedly, he had caused.

He moved on.

The footsteps continued - through the village, to the base of the hills. Each one scorched into the earth with a heat no fire could possibly exude - each one as black and damning as the obsidian scales of his skin.

Ayadra ran up the rise of the earth. The footprints were joined by stench - burning flesh. Gouts of melted skin and hair began to litter the dull barrenness of the hillside.

Nausea would have churned in his gut, had guilt and fear not so thoroughly choked his insides.

Ayadra clawed his way to the top of the hill - where, down on the riverbank, he spied the huddled figure of the woman, kneeling, clutching something. Her moans and sobs moved upwards with a resonant guilt Ayadra could not fight.

Remorseful tears burned amidst the sympathy he had no right to feel for this woman - this victim. He had tortured her, by burning the man she loved alive before her eyes. For long, slow minutes.

Ayadra knew.

As he made his way slowly down the gentle slope of the hill, the tranquil noise of the brook accompanied the anguish of the woman. The footprints were shorter; the man's legs had been wracked by agony during his flight - but here, the very muscle that drove them had begun to burn.

Strips of scorched skin and flesh lay on the ground.

Somewhere, near the base of the hill, his body had finally surrendered to the wicked torment of infernal flame - he had collapsed and rolled the rest of his way to the bank of the river.

Flaying what was left of his skin.

And there, a half-dozen paces from the water he had writhed - still burning, until the hell-fire had guttered out.

When the fire had receded, the woman's torture had been crowned, and Barensarh had finally died.

- Barensarh. Ayadra knew the man's name.

The inexplicable knowledge of his mask, the terrible knowing of madness - exposed him to the full comprehension of what he had done. The truth.

Barensarh was a healer; a man who had ruled his village with understanding and mercy for thirty years. Born to the seeing blood, he was a man who mended the hurts of others, and who treasured life above all else - and yet an oracle who would willingly give his own life to serve his visions.

He had been afraid - he knew if he stayed he would likely die. But when his vision had manifested in the river, he had remained to heal Ayadra. The incarnate was suffering, Barensarh's had seen Ayadra's pain as plainly as his obsidian skin - and the compassion that defined the man would not be ignored.

For days, Barensarh had laboured to tend his wounds - and preserve his life.

And Ayadra had rewarded him with this.

A death no living being should suffer.

Only a moment, Ayadra had surrendered only for a moment - and fire had blazed upon his arm.

Barensarh had burned - he had run to the river, and died on its bank.

Ayadra had killed him.

The oracle's wife had watched - helpless to aid her husband. She had thrown water on his dying body, but it did nothing to the infernal flames. And now, she cradled the charred corpse of the man she loved in her arms. Crying.

Ayadra drew a ragged sob - tears had welled in the sockets of his mask, and ran across the façade of black bone. The mask had shown him all this - the power of madness was the power of knowing. And the third hell had wanted him to know.

It delivered Ayadra's final torment.

And it revealed one last thing.

The incarnate stumbled, grief-stricken down towards his victims.

The woman's moaning formed coherent words, "Water, water, water...did nothing...water..."

Ayadra moved to the side of the body - a skeleton with a draping of blackened flesh.

The woman looked up, as his scaled feet ground softly in the dirt - her eyes were clouded with grief, but cleared in horrified recognition.

"Get away!" she shrieked.

Ayadra knelt down beside the body - she shrieked at him again, and tightened her embrace on the corpse to draw it away from the obsidian monster.

Ayadra raised his hands, angled his talons away so as not to harm her - and slid them through her hold around the body. He wrested Barensarh's remains from her; she screamed, but he pushed her aside with minimal effort - she struck him with weak fists, again and again. Ayadra flinched as she tried to force him away, but he did not relinquish his hold on her husband's body.

Dread and remorse had been burned as deeply into his flesh as Barensarh's, and the guilt, black and terrible, was as inescapable as the corpse in his arms. He had killed a good man.

This man, who had cared for him, who had shown him compassion and treated him as any other living being - not a monster or a thing. This good man.

Hell-fire whispered the truth.

Ayadra knew it; it defined him.

The truth.

Ayadra knew.

- Pain.

A scream choked in his throat -

Agony had engulfed him long before the branch smashed across the bone of his face; as he collapsed and tumbled across the dirt, the only thing clear amidst the pain was the inexplicable knowledge.

The last fact his mask had shown him.

Barensarh breathed.

Life flooded into the man's chest - a desperate, deep inhalation. He was alive.

And unharmed.

Where skin and flesh and bone had been stripped or blackened by hell-fire, now they were restored. His flesh was full, and his bones felt as though they had never suffered the strain of age or injury. His skin met the cool air with every wrinkle he had earned in his long years - complete, unbroken and repaired.

Yet covered in blood.

The smell entered his nose, and alertness forced him upright. He descried movement beside him.

His wife's face stared down at his with a shock - and joy, he had never seen before. Tears of unbridled happiness welled and ran across her old cheeks - and she smiled with elation and relief.

Barensarh glanced down at her hand - she clung to the haft of a branch.

The happiness of her expression changed to confusion - and a flicker of guilt, she looked over him, and he followed her gaze.

To the source of the blood that coated his chest.

Ayadra.

The incarnate lay on the ground, bleeding. Already the dirt was stained red, and yet more vermillion trickled and pooled around his body.

Barensarh moved to stand, his wife assisted him - but helplessness manifested in his eyes as compassionate tears.

Ayadra breathed - a ragged breath that was choked by blood. Crimson ran from his mouth and nose and eyes, and every lethal wound on his body. Skin hung from the limp spines of his wings like a tattered cloak of rent flesh, as shreds of obsidian hung from the limp muscles of his body.

Too many bones had been broken to allow him movement - and blood flooded his insides.

Still he managed to force a word past his broken lips, "Run."

Ayadra pleaded - though the word gurgled soon after utterance, he hoped his desperation was written on his eyes.

Barensarh nodded; his wife draped her shawl over his naked body, as he turned and ushered her west, over the hill. As they moved, she offered her support as he always needed - but as Barensarh took a step on the leg that had been plagued with a limp for years, there was none.

Ayadra had taken that injury with him.

Barensarh glanced back at the naked, broken body that lay in the dirt - a thank you was whispered too quietly for the incarnate to hear. The two moved as fast as they could over the crest and away.

Ayadra did not hear them depart.

Pain was no longer a concern; he was beyond it.

He did not want to die, he had never wanted to die.

But he was dying.

And he knew his wounds would not be what would claim him. As ever before, he felt the fires broil and surge in the depths of his being, they raced out of the void to sear his flesh. And the gates, that had held them at bay before were irreparably broken.

Nothing could stop the fires, not here, under the light.

The truth.

Ayadra felt his flesh burn - the heat of the flames neared his surface.

As the hell-fire reared, he closed his eyes and muttered the words of his soul.

"I'm sorry, Llrsyring."

Hell-fire blazed.

And Ayadra burned away.

* * *

Elle'dred fled, desperately. His pulse raced, as his feet thundered across the valley floor.

Llrsyring ran behind him, bearing Syla's unconscious body over a shoulder - and a rune above his other hand. The pale light of the crystal was outshone by the looming crimson glow that grew all around.

Torches, flickering and malevolent, poured across the valley sides - an army of lambent flames closed on their heels. Goblins shrieked, and their incarnate commanders roared, as they pursued the fleeing party.

Fear gripped the knight's chest - as he clenched his hand on his sword.

He skidded to a halt as a goblin leapt from an outcropping and slashed wildly at his chest. Instinct planted his foot and twisted through a stance to avoid the blow - a swift strike of his own blade slew the enemy without a second moment.

Llrsyring moved alongside, slowing his pace - his rune had been extinguished, and Ishtavra glimmered in his hand.

Elle'dred was about to resume his flight, when he descried what had stopped the deathwalker.

His chest plunged into the emptiness of despair.

The valley ahead was barred by a wall of dark shapes, lit by the hundreds of torches they held.

Rocks skittered across the jagged slopes around them, as yet more goblins clambered down the rises and landed on the valley floor, bearing weapons that gleamed in the torchlight.

The deathwalker circled with the knight - blades raised against the overwhelming number of foes that surrounded them. The wall that barred their escape moved towards their position - isolated and vulnerable in the centre of the valley.

The army moved and surrounded the two figures with a circle of bodies and blades.

The goblins cackled; the skull-like faces, lit by the hellish hue of torches, spat jeers and obscenities in their sharp, brutish tongue.

Elle'dred breathed out - hopelessness reduced his muscles to limpness. He lowered his sword.

A bovine-incarnate shouldered out of the goblins' ranks - readying its immense mace. Its countenance glared at the helpless knight and the deathwalker still bearing the unconscious magus. Red eyes glinted in the light of the surrounding flames, as its snout curled grotesquely into in an expression of dominance and glee.

Llrsyring could not defend them - and Elle'dred was despairingly aware of it.

The deathwalker, though, would not lower his blade, and he faced the army with the silent emptiness of his helm.

The incarnate stepped forward - as five others moved towards the front rank, followed by dozens more. The goblins chattered and screeched with fearful enmity at their commanders, their eyes begged for the right to avenge their slain kinsman.

But the incarnates paid no attention to the yammering indignation of their subordinates.

The lead incarnate neared the deathwalker and raised its mace above its head, to bring down a crushing blow across Llrsyring. The gauntlet that held Ishtavra tensed, in preparation.

However, what fell was not the blow from the immense weapon - but an arrow.

Above the din of the goblin masses, the high whistle of the shaft had not been heard, and its landing was as silent and swift as the death it carried.

- To the incarnate-leader.

The wooden shaft protruded from its left socket, lodged through its eye with instantly lethality. Its mace thudded to the ground behind it, followed by its toppled bulk.

Shrieks of alarm moved across the ranks - the other incarnates snarled in surprise and fury at the stationary deathwalker and the bewildered knight.

But before they could move, and bring their mammoth weapons to bear, a hundred arrows fell from the darkness - plunged into their faces and chests.

The air became alive with noise.

The initial barrage was followed by a downpour of shafts. Goblins shrieked and died, as arrows whistled out of the sky in a torrential shower of piercing death.

With a moment that permitted only the pent, incredulous breath of the knight to escape, the valley was coated in the bodies of goblins and incarnates. Their torches still flickered with life, but only the soft crackle of the fire broke the silence of the stones and corpses.

Elle'dred and Llrsyring stood at the centre of a clear patch of ground - not a single arrow had fallen where an enemy did not stand. And not one had failed to strike a foe.

The clatter of stones amidst the higher crevices of the slopes elicited their attention - as did the glaring argent-light of runes, flaring to life across the valley side.

Rune-lit shapes made their way down the slopes, and emerged from a cleft in the rocks that exited on the valley floor. The crystals they held illuminated the heavy cowls that obscured their faces, and the cloaks that draped about their figures. The elegant curvature of bows resided beside the feathered tips of the last arrows each carried in quivers on their backs.

They moved amidst the multitude of corpses, retrieving unbroken shafts and confirming the effectiveness of their volley.

One figure extinguished its rune and moved across the bodies towards the deathwalker - who still gripped Ishtavra warily.

The figure lifted swathed hands from the folds of its cloak and removed her cowl.

Her countenance was formed of sublime curves, melded and compliant with the suppleness of a willow tree. Her skin was silver, and bore the sheen of fresh bark in spring. And the locks of hair that grew from her crown, seemed as delicate vines coated in a weave of foliage, amber and gold as in autumn.

Impassive, green eyes met the empty sockets of the helm.

"Llrsyring, last of the Ellyan Taun, Twelfth Sun, and Servant of the Silver Moon, I greet you in the name of Arneya, Last Protector of the Elven Kindred."

Llrsyring released a sigh, and lowered his sword.

The elf moved closer, "I apologise for our tardy arrival." she said impassively, but added almost snidely, "We were expecting you, but the vision was not clear as to which of the thousand valleys in the range you would be fleeing through."

Llrsyring was silent. Elle'dred stood beside the elf, paralysed with bewilderment.

"Elle'dred, Champion of the White Wolf Hall." she addressed him, "I am Yrian, Elf and sword-born."

The Champion managed to overcome his stupor enough to shake the elf's wrapped hand.

Yrian glanced at the magus, "Syla," she murmured, and met the helm's gaze again, "We sensed the magics that were wrought through her. She is fortunate to have survived...such a spell..."

Llrsyring completed the thought the elf could not, "The Magus Tribunal."

Anger flared on the elegant silver lines of Yrian's face, she quashed a scowl.

"They have demonstrated their ignorance, yet again." she muttered.

The deathwalker remained silent, as the elf glanced over his shoulder at the darkness of valley and the mountainside.

"We must move," she stated, flatly, "There are many more enemies in these mountains, and the destruction of this army will not go undiscovered for long. Follow me."

She turned and led them into the cleft, and up onto the path through the valley side.

Llrsyring shifted the magus into a cradle to grant her more comfort, and moved beside the knight as the last of the elves assumed a rear guard behind them.

They trudged up the mountainside, under the perpetual darkness of the evil moon; a hollow suit of armour, an unconscious magus, and a yet bewildered knight.

* * *

Ambranas had fallen. No life, other than goblin and incarnate, remained in the darkness. The Eleven houses that ruled the City of Shades had been torn to the ground. Their patrons butchered.

Fires still burned - the pyres of the citizenry, which fuelled the massive, billowing towers of smoke. The black plumes were devoured by the void of the sky - and the infernal crimson of Perrefiere.

The moon's corona flickered with lambent glee, insatiable and hungering.

The obsidian orb possessed the northern sky, but its face was ever cast outwards - to the lands that remained under the light. Its army had gathered on the main road of the city; nether-touched, incarnates and goblins all formed into regiments, though carried no banners or insignia.

Only blades, and the desire for destruction.

A flame blazed above - high in the endless abyss, a mass of cruel orange flare defied the darkness and the moon. It wove a path trailed by fire, amidst the rising towers of smoke.

The flame circled, around the plumes, above the army, again and again - tracing arcs of hellish flare and infernal crimson. It soared towards the edge of the darkness, then veered upwards at the periphery, and fell.

Its descent scarred the sky with a line of fire, and as the flame struck the ground, it burst into a swirling inferno. The trail above faded and died amidst the darkness, but the conflagration that burned at the moon-shadow's edge swelled into a sphere of fire.

For a moment. Then it too began to dissipate.

The flames retracted to reveal the shape that birthed them.

Covered in a sea of orange waves, the sinuous body of the Incarnate emerged. An elongated tail, slender legs and arms, a narrow waist and chest - all bathed in flickering, lambent flame.

Hell-fire.

No inch of his skin, no charred memory of the obsidian scales that once coated his body, remained. The Incarnate was clothed solely in the flames of his flesh. In hell-fire.

Save for his talons - and his face.

His two wings draped on his sides like a vestment of rising flame. A mantle of crackling tongues rested about his shoulders, covered his neck and jaw - but above the scorching raiment, the Incarnate was crowned in darkness.

His serpentine face, slender and sharp, was fixed as a mask of black bone. It glistened with the sheen of madness, endless void, reflecting the hell-born flames that grew from its inviolable edge. The scythe-like talons of his arms, affixed to his hands aflame, dulled in comparison to the sinister crown.

Into its obsidian visage, two sockets were carved and cradled eyes - abyssal dark.

Sharper than the mask, they reflected the fury of the flames - but in their depths they bore a damning rage that no destruction could sate.

The fire surged, blazing suddenly from and around him, as a roaring plume that assaulted the night.

The impossible heat of hell-fire clawed out across the ranks of the army - goblins cowered in despair and fear, incarnates grinned with demonic glee, while nether-touched burst into livid flame and malign laughter.

The Weapon of Perrefiere, the Three-Hells Incarnate, stood before his army and spoke.

"I am Syrkyn, Wyvern King. And I am the voice of the Immortal."

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Other works by D W Gladstone -

The Wyvern Kings Redemption Series

Book One

The Land of All Things Fallen - Part I

The Land of All Things Fallen - Part II

The Land of All Things Fallen - Part III

The Land of All Things Fallen - Combined Edition

Book Two

The Forest of a Thousand Suns - Part I
