 
ABJECTION ALONG THE ROAD TO APOTHEOSIS (JOURNEY BK 2)

By

GEORGE STRAATMAN

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 George Straatman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other Smashwords Titles by George Straatman

THE CONVERGING

THE CONVERGING: MARK OF THE DEMON

THE CONVERGING: CLOSURES IN BLOOD

JOURNEY THROUGH THE LAND OF SHADES

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Steve Efondo of Sefdesign for his work in providing the stunning cover graphic for this novel. The cover design for this novel is particularly beautiful. I dedicate this novel to my wife Louise who has had to live with my creative angst over the many years it's taken to bring this story to fruition.

For a detailed map of The Antiquated Lands visit www.georgestraatman.com

Prologue

1

A solitary figure stood on the eastern bank of the Hiberas River, gazing fixedly across the now tranquil expanse of dark water, through the brooding swirl of mists which completely obscured the opposite shore. Beyond the mother of pearl mist lay the eternal mystery; a realm upon which no living being had ever trod...or so it was believed. Shrouded in perpetual mystery, the opposite shore at once tantalized and mocked...seemingly so near, yet impossibly distant.

"The Land of Shades," Islena murmured thoughtfully. She considered many of the tales that she had heard about the land beyond the deceptively deadly river Hiberas...indulgent fantasies each and every one. Despite the certitude of the teller, such tales could neither be confirmed nor refuted and thus the Land of Shades remained the definitive mystery of this antiquated world. The Hiberas River, every bit as indecipherable as the Land of Shades itself, stood as an unassailable ward that preserved the shadow kingdom's enduring riddle. She scanned the distant shore and then bent down to retrieve a small pebble. Driven by ire, she threw the stone toward the distant bank.

It reached up toward the unforgiving blue sky, its tiny speckles of mica glistening in the harsh morning sunshine. It commenced its descent and Islena felt her heart begin to soar as it did. Abruptly, a strident hiss shattered the pervasive shroud of silence as the acrid stench of burning ozone permeated the air. A tongue of argent flame leapt from the now churning waters of the Hiberas, engulfing the pebble like a ravenous predator. A distinct crack reached Doraux's ears and the tongue of flame fizzled as rapidly as it had first appeared. Gray particles of dust floated down into the water to be consumed in tiny eruptions of argent fire.

Islena's brow furrowed in consternation. She regarded the roiling waters with a mixture of trepidation and dark wonder. Horror upon horror and outrage upon outrage and still she had not lost her capacity to be horrified and astounded. At least the tales of the Hiberas River were founded firmly in the bedrock of incontrovertible fact. Any object that broached the vertical plane of the river's eastern bank suffered immediate and catastrophic immolation. Despite having the outward appearance of an ordinary river, it was a writhing mass of balefire that was contained between the river banks. Though the specifics of what the river had been intended to protect remained a mystery, one thing was unequivocally certain...the Hiberas remained an insurmountable barrier that defied mage and scholar alike. Venturing closer to the water's edge, she peered at the turbulent surface. The water was black and utterly impenetrable to the gaze. It was not wistful fancy to imagine that the Hiberas could well be a living entity and the argent tongues of flame were appendages or extensions of a sentient being.

Islena's hectic thoughts inevitably circled back to the one pivotal question that has plagued men through the ages...had the barrier been erected to keep humans out of the west or to keep the purported monstrosities from the Land of Shades out of the east?

Islena sighed wearily as the full weight of the reason for her presence on the river's eastern shore imposed itself on her troubled thoughts. Now, after of endless centuries of speculation and conjecture, the Land of Shades would finally be compelled to divulge its secrets. If the Hiberas could not be surmounted, it would be...circumvented. From the lamentable experiences of her own world, she knew that extreme plight bred sheer desperation. Desperation very often inspired the most abominable of horrors.

By unanimous agreement, the leaders of the three beleaguered cornerstone nations had conceived a gambit as audacious as it was desperate. If by some miracle, it succeeded, Myrhia's juggernaut of conquest would be temporarily stymied and the age old mysteries of the Land of Shades would be laid bare. Theirs would be an act of desecration worthy of the most heinous of her world's most predacious criminals. They would act from a position of presumed righteousness; secure in the belief that there was no other viable alternative.

'Even if this act of utter madness succeeds, you will be left exposed like wheat chaff between two grinding millstones,' she reminded herself, the unenviable prospect rousing a shudder of trepidation that raced the length of her spine and caused her to inhale sharply.

Islena muttered a vile epithet against the woman who had precipitated this insanity.

Someone hailed her from the crest of the hill that led down to the shoreline. She flinched, making no move to acknowledge either their presence or that she had heard their call. She briefly contemplated what it might be like to perish in the argent fury of the Hiberas. No doubt there would be an instant of silver agony, followed by an eternity of welcomed oblivion and this insufferable madness would be at a merciful end.

She sighed again, knowing that her nature precluded the cold luxury of self-destruction.

Footsteps crunched fallen leaves as the messenger descended upon her.

'Damn their persistence,' she thought with no small amount of rancor and stubbornly refused to turn from the conundrum of the river.

The messenger, a youthful Jerhia who had survived the systematic destruction of his people, stopped three feet from Islena. He breathed deeply, ill at ease in the presence of the alien woman and the strange aura of puissance that enveloped her like a cocoon...an aberrant reflection of light that conveyed the impression of divinity.

"They are anxious to begin, Milady," he reported haltingly, clearly unsettled by the aura.

"Fine," Islena replied distantly. The Jerhia frowned. "Gillian has asked that you join the party at once, Milady. The High Queen's Morticants are converging upon us rapidly. We are likely to be overrun if we do not make haste."

Islena closed her eyes, trying to summon the requisite energy to set her feet in motion, exhorting herself with notions of hope that were so fleeting as to be nonexistent. Ever the pragmatist, despite all that had befallen her since first being dragged into this awful place, Doraux could not easily embrace the fool's delusion that all would be well by wishful thinking alone. She followed the Jerhia up the rocky incline, envying his enthusiasm in the face of stupefying adversity. As she was about to enter the tree lined path, Islena hesitated and glanced back at the Hiberas. The water was black and churning with mystery.

Its inscrutable countenance reminded her of the state of her own tumultuous soul. It was in this state of desolation that Islena Doraux prepared to enter the Land of Shades.

2

Before the calamity fell upon her like an invisible hammer from the placid blue skies, Islena Doraux had led a relatively ordinary life. She had experienced the ebbs and flows common to many people of her age and station. There had been moments of intense joy and bitter despair which providence elects to dole out in seemingly random patterns that baffle both victim and beneficiary alike. With the bleak exception of her parents' tragic and senseless death, the path of Islena's life could have been described as a stolid progression over a series of gently rolling hills and valleys.

This is not to say that Islena, herself, could correctly be characterized as ordinary. Physically, she possessed an intense and exotic beauty that was well near painful to behold under certain lights. She consumed large chunks of life with a voracious appetite and passion that propelled her inexorably forward, though sometimes made her appear alien and even hostile to the people who knew her most intimately.

To those who did not know her, Islena Doraux was an aberration...a hieroglyph who defied definition. The delicate, fragile beauty of her exquisite face seemed absurdly incongruent when juxtaposed against the awesome power of her body. The taut flesh and rippling muscles beneath appeared to have been carved from a slab of granite or obsidian, conveying the impression of incredible physical capability.

This seeming paradox of body and face was in some ways an outward manifestation of the turbulent soul that dwelled within the exotic vessel of flesh. Islena was driven by the conviction that she was destined to stand as a symbol; an exemplary prototype of a new order in which women would rebelliously shrug off the shackling preconceptions of inferiority and servility, thus claiming a share of the power they so richly deserved and had so long been denied by the male-dominated world.

In this, Islena was not unique. Women of her era were relentlessly toppling every bastion of male domination. She however attacked the antiquated strictures from a unique perspective and with a tenacity that skirted the edges of mad obsession.

And thus her life had proceeded, beset by stress and brightened by joy in small measures, and probably would have continued to do so, had it not been for a macabre incident that shattered her illusion of mundane normalcy.

While cycling at the fitness facility where she worked, Islena was suddenly stricken by a vision of a man whom she did not immediately recognize, but who, nonetheless, seemed eerily familiar. The vision held the vivid and unsettling quality of premonition. Disoriented and stunned, Islena collapsed, setting into motion an odd sequence of events that would inevitably lead her to the moment of anguished contemplation on the banks of the river Hiberas. After Islena recounts the vague details of the incident to her close friend and assistant, Marla Holmes, her friend surprisingly implores Islena to visit a psychic to divine the possible meaning of the augury. Though wary of her friend's inclination to embrace all things supernatural, Islena reluctantly agrees.

Dominique Normandy proves to be the antithesis of the caricature fortune teller. Dignified and intelligent, Dominique provides a demonstration of her clairvoyance that shakes the foundations of Islena's trenchant skepticism. Still reluctant, Doraux agrees to throw her fate open to the oracular power of the tarot.

The ensuing tarot reading paints a stark portrait of impending catastrophe that Islena disdainfully rejects. Vexed by Islena's curt dismissal, Dominique reaches out and clasps Doraux's arm.

The physical contact unleashes a psychic thunderclap channeling Dominique's ability as a conduit. Through the contact, both women are jolted by a panoramic vision of apocalyptic devastation in which Doraux is depicted as the catalyst...the volatile fuel igniting an all-consuming pyre that spares nothing in its path.

Angered by the unsolicited touch and deeply terrified by the abstract implications of the subsequent vision, Islena flees blindly, stubbornly denying that she anything beyond revulsion and disgust at the psychic's antics.

Islena attempts to cling to her denial in the face of Marla's persistent concern, but the approaching menace does not allow her to hide behind her disbelief. The visions persist, becoming progressively more macabre and vivid, until the source of Islena's torment finally materializes to stake its claim upon her.

This apparition informs Islena that she will be broken to serve his machinations and he will do everything necessary to insure her subservience...including harming her family. Horrified and outraged, Islena realizes that she has little alternative but to take measures to protect herself against a threat that defies her sensibilities.

In another world, a grim battle between good and evil is approaching its horrific climax. Myrhia reigns as High Queen of Emercia...the most powerful and affluent of nations in a world that resembles Islena's in a time ten centuries past. Myrhia is also the most powerful sorceress this antiquated world has ever witnessed...a tyrant possessed of near limitless power and infinite ambition. Unconstrained by compassion or mercy, Myrhia has waged a savage war to conquer her world and now stands on the verge of fulfilling her ambition, though absolute subjugation of her world is only a small aspect of her ultimate campaign of conquest.

Myrhia discerns that her insatiable lust for power and dominion will not be appeased by the thorough abjection of one comparatively primitive world. Three ancient Icons stand as the means to surmounting the dimensional restrictions of time and space, but the recumbent power of these artifacts may only be unleashed by the one individual destined to wield them in defense against the very evil that the enchantress embodies. Supremely confident of her ability to control the currents of destiny, Myrhia elects to ignore the prophecies foretelling of her demise at the hands of the very creature she would now aspire to bend to her service...an audacious gambit that would yield limitless dominion should she succeed. Electing to employ seduction and subtle manipulation to bend Islena to her service, Myrhia dispatches a Morticant, an animated creature of phenomenal power, to terrorize Doraux, intent on eventually driving her to the enchantress in search of sanctuary.

Islena's once relatively placid world soon spirals into madness, finally leading her back to Dominique in the wake of Marla's gruesome murder at the hands of Myrhia's Morticant. In Dominique Normandy's parlor, the psychic admonishes Doraux that she will find no peace until she confronts her tormentor, either acquiescing to his demands or destroying him. Accepting the inexorable truth of Normandy's dire warning, Islena willingly passes into Myrhia's world of calumny and unrelenting horror.

Only the intervention of the mystical Metocan prevents Islena from falling directly into Myrhia's possession.

Suddenly finding herself alone and utterly confused, Islena struggles to adapt to the hostile, salient realities of the archaic land in which she now finds herself. In the course of her Odyssey to confront her tormentor, she meets and eventually befriends Amrand and Lorio, people from two divergent races that have fallen under the fist of Myrhia's insidious ambition for conquest.

Both Amrand, the Jerhia warrior, and Lorio, the tempestuous Lamish beauty, are mystified by Islena's appearance and both correctly construe her presence in their world as another ominous facet of Myrhia's complex machinations. From the pair, Islena learns more about the turmoil that has beset the antiquated world though she is vehemently opposed to any course of action that would embroil her in its conflict.

Convinced that Islena must be vitally important to Myrhia's insidious scheme, both Lorio and Amrand impress upon her the exigent need to elude the enchantress and seek sanctuary in the relative safety of the western continent which has not yet fallen under the High Queen's fist. As an inducement to comply, Islena is told that the solution to the dilemma of her abduction and a return to her world may be found in the collective wisdom of the Cornerstone Nations of this western continent. Islena discovers that each is a nation devoted to practice of one of the elemental arts; warfare, earth lore and magic. All have aligned themselves against Myrhia's tyranny and stand as the only obstruction between the High Queen and her goal of unmitigated dominance over the two continents.

Though characteristically leery of imparting trust, Islena is wooed by the prospect of being returned home and reluctantly agrees to follow the pair. They set off through the war torn eastern land in search of one of the three stone causeways to the west, hoping to slip Myrhia's tightening vice.

Meanwhile, the leaders of the Cornerstone Nations assemble to consider the collapse of the Eastern Continent and to conceive a defense against the direct threat of invasion that looms over their homelands for the first time in history. During the course of this rather contentious conclave, the leaders are horrified to learn that Myrhia has violated the laws of time and space to summon a woman whose coming was foretold in the prophecies of the ancients. Upon consideration, the three leaders reach the terrifying conclusion that the ultimate aim of Myrhia's heinous violation is the collection of the three fabled proclamations...three elemental icons purported to be repositories of the cumulative knowledge of each of the cornerstone nations. The ancient book of wisdoms foretold that one shall rise to wield these proclamations against an inexorable shadow. Yet, despite this inherent contradiction, the conclave members come to accept this scenario and devise a desperate and daring plan to foil the enchantress' stunningly audacious ambition.

A master of espionage and assassination, Gillian, a Jerhia warrior, is dispatched to the war-ravaged eastern continent with the task of locating Islena Doraux and taking whatever measures are required to preclude the possibility that the woman might become Myrhia's pawn.

As the three gradually make their way north, Islena is dismayed to discover that her companions...especially the spirited Lorio...perceive her as a symbol of hope and defiance in the face of Myrhia's dreadful oppression. Islena vehemently insists that she will not become embroiled in their world's conflicts and wants only to return home.

Her foresworn neutrality is sorely tested when the trio come upon a small village that bears the indelible scars of the grim warfare that has ravaged the country for the past seven years. Appalled and outraged by the conditions in which the village inhabitants attempt to survive, Islena is moved to assist them in their abject poverty.

While trying to substantiate Amrand and Lorio's account of the land's peril, the village is evidently attacked by a group of Jerhia troopers, who ruthlessly slaughter the helpless villagers. Before Islena can fall captive, she is rescued by the Imperial Cavalry of the High Queen's army. Islena wakes to find herself in the protective custody of the Emercian Queen, believing that she has been deceived by Amrand and Lorio.

Islena is taken to the fortress town of Perdwick, where she awakens to find herself in the presence of the High Queen of Emercia. From all outward appearances, Myrhia is the diametrical opposite of everything that she has been reputed to be. She is possessed of an air of vulnerability and angelic pulchritude that would seemingly refute every allegation leveled against her. Islena is quickly beguiled by Myrhia's charismatic personality.

Weaving an artful web of illusion and deception, the enchantress succeeds in dispelling Islena's mistrust. During this time, Islena learns of the Three Proclamations and the ancient prophecy that has foretold her coming. Islena is horrified by Myrhia's intimation that she might be this mythical figure.

When Islena inquires about the fate of her traveling companion, Myrhia discloses that Amrand was killed while attempting to avoid capture and Lorio was set free to return to her people. Myrhia then recounts her version of the events that have moved her world to this particular grim juncture in its history, portraying noble Emercia as a beleaguered victim of Jerhia aggression and treachery.

The Emercian Queen relates how her armies are poised to recapture the land that the barbaric Jerhia invaders from the west first annexed in the war that began after the assassination of her husband. Though she had hoped that the ejection of the invaders would bring about an end to the conflict, Islena's unexpected appearance would suggest that her enemies have turned to more desperate and diabolical tactics to achieve their ends. The High Queen elaborates upon her notion of the scheme to animate the force of the ancient Icons, concluding cryptically, "You, Islena, are the key to unlocking the dormant power of the proclamations...this is why you've been drawn into our bitter conflict."

Cynical at the very mention of magic and disconcerted by the frequent allusions to a quiescent power that she supposedly possesses, Islena vehemently rejects the assertion that she is destined to play the pivotal role in this antiquated world's dark drama. Doraux vows that she will never submit to superstitious hysteria.

Vexed by Islena's obstinate refusal to accept the exigency of the situation, the High Queen flares, "Accept the fact that your old beliefs hold no currency here and dispense with them."

Finally, the High Queen exhorts the woman to join her in the struggle against the hordes of the west. She leaves Islena with an ancient work simply entitled: The Sacred Book, suggesting that it will shed light upon the significance of the Proclamations and the coming of Messianic figure that is destined to wield them. Sensing that Islena has still is still trenchantly clinging to her mistrust, Myrhia invites her to explore the walled city of Perdwick and glean from its citizens the true disposition of both the High Queen and her avowed enemies from the west.

After reading the pertinent passages from the Sacred Book, Islena gains some perspective on the scope and enormity of her predicament. Despite her cynicism, it becomes evident that the inhabitants of this strange and antiquated world zealously embrace this ancient myth. More disquieting still, the potentates, both good and evil, have somehow decided that she is the incarnation of this prophetic savior. Judging by the passion with which Myrhia subscribed to this ludicrous fantasy, Islena doubted that she will manage to disabuse those who covet her of this absurd delusion. With this epiphany, Islena realizes that she has become a powerful piece in a deadly game of chess between death-sworn opponents who will not hesitate to enslave her...or destroy her if she cannot be bent to their will.

Dejected by the realization that, despite her fervent desire to remain neutral, she will inevitably be forced into the roiling cauldron of this world's conflict, Doraux wanders into the city of Perdwick in hopes of developing a better understanding of where she should throw her allegiance. In the city, she finds a hive of frenetic activity that seems oddly lacking in both purpose and soul. The city's inhabitants appear to drift about in an aimless stupor as though under the thrall of some enchantment.

Amidst these robotic, almost spectral beings, Islena encounters a blind merchant girl named Isindred, who is later killed by assassins while in her company. Enraged by the girl's brutal and senseless death, Islena manages to kill the assassins, who were seemingly dispatched with her as their intended target.

Returning to the High Queen's keep, Islena reaches a decision to support Myrhia, only to learn that the Queen has not yet returned from her trip to the front.

Before Myrhia returns, Islena inadvertently stumbles upon the city dungeons, where to her horror and utter revulsion; she comes upon Lorio incarcerated in the bowels of the filthy prison. The Lamish woman has been savagely brutalized and repeatedly violated. In a terrible instant of crystalline revelation, the face of Islena's true tormentor and antagonist is revealed.

Before Islena can free Lorio and escape, she finds herself incarcerated and forced to endure an orchestrated campaign of brutal coercion and duress. The enchantress informs Islena that her reach is infinite and that her family is not safe from her wrath, should Doraux persist in her refusal to submit to the Queen's service. Myrhia demonstrates the depth of her depravity by forcing Islena to participate in the sadistic torture of Amrand, the Jerhia who tried to lead her to the west.

When it seemed that Islena had sunk to the nadir of despair and contemplates capitulation, she is inexplicably freed by Ynthrax, Myrhia's High Commander. Staggered by the enormity of Myrhia's madness and the proliferation of the dreaded Morticants, Ynthrax entreats Islena to seek out the Proclamations and efface the Blight of Myrhia's pernicious evil, knowing all too well that his betrayal would have insured this death.

Together with a severely weakened Lorio, Islena makes a desperate run to the north in hopes of reaching the final open causeway to the west.

In the interim between Islena's capture and her unexpected liberation from the dungeons of Perdwick, Myrhia's armies have succeeded in driving the valiant, but vastly outnumbered defenders from the eastern continent. Led by a contingent of indestructible Morticants, her Imperial armies overwhelm the Jerhia, defenders, rolling over the once impregnable country as quickly as they were able to traverse the mountainous terrain. Only a desperate act of magic is able to halt Myrhia's juggernaut at the borders of Natzurdan...a country of the earth lore wielders who are able to alter the landscape to become virtually impassable for a time.

Frustrated and increasingly impatient, the enchantress assumes direct command of her armies in the west. Knowing that it is imperative that Islena not be allowed to reach the relative safety of the cornerstone nations, the enchantress vivifies Marla Holmes, transmogrifying Islena's friend into a hybrid version of the prototypical Morticant. Fuelled by an immutable personal enmity, Marla is delegated the task of seeking out and capturing Islena before she can reach the safe haven of the west.

Despite the intensity of the search and the constant threat of betrayal, Islena and Lorio manage to avoid recapture until the pair happens upon a tiny village named Tinacot. Eschewing Lorio's strident insistence that they circumvent the village, Islena is visited by a presage...an intimation that the village will provide some manner of solace and aid in her quest to reach Metocan.

Initially, it seems that her intuition has deceived her as the two are quickly taken prisoner by unscrupulous villagers who are eager to curry favor with the Emercian Queen.

By preparing a diversion, Gillian is able to rescue the two. Proclaiming that he is the last of the gentleman thieves, the Jerhia convinces Islena to allow him to accompany the pair in their search for the final causeway to the West.

To reach this causeway, the trio must first traverse the Blighted Lands, a barren, purgatorial expanse of ice and rock, inhabited by religious fanatics who have been driven from the south because of the depravity of their beliefs and practices. While crossing the vast wastelands, a deadly Sherak, a blizzard of lethal intensity, catches the exposed and vulnerable trio on an open expanse plain.

Sighting a beacon, the three converge upon its promise of sanctuary, but before they can reach shelter, Lorio succumbs to the cumulative effects of her personal ordeal and the ravages of the Sherak. Suddenly, the three find themselves in the inopportune position of requiring the aid of the monks of Runesholm. At first, Jackylwyn, the Abbey Curate, is congenial and promises to minister to the ailing Lorio and provide the party with what provisions they may require to complete their journey.

Perceiving the true menace that the Ravers pose, Gillian implores Islena to refuse the proffered aid, but Doraux is cognizant of the fact that Lorio will not survive further exposure to the elements without medical attention and a period of respite from the inimical environment.

Later, a somber Jackylwyn informs Islena that Lorio has succumbed to her infirmity. Declaring her intention to depart at once, an embittered, disconsolate Islena discovers the true purpose behind the Curate's benevolence and again finds herself a hostage...an intended sacrifice to the depraved order's lust for blood.

Helpless, Islena is forced to submit to the Ritual of Blooding, the ostensible purpose of which is to divine the purity of her soul. Perceiving that the premise of the ritual is rooted more in sadism than religion, she nonetheless acquiesces to the test of the sword, knowing that it could well provide a blessed albeit fatal end to her ordeal.

While Islena and her companions fall prey to the ravers, the hybrid Morticant, Marla Holmes, projects her unbound spirit across the wastelands in search of her reviled quarry. When she finally locates Doraux and discerns the immediacy of her peril, Marla reaches out to her mistress. Alarmed by Islena's proximity to disaster and the prospect for the catastrophic unraveling of her carefully laid machinations, the enchantress momentarily abandons her war in the West in a blackly ironic effort to rescue Islena from the zealots.

In a fiery climax, Jackylwyn's attempt to enact the Ritual of Blooding upon Doraux results in his own immolation and leaves Islena in possession of what may be the first of the ancient Proclamations.

Suffused by the sword's power and unable to control its outpouring, Islena nearly destroys the Abbey along with its occupants...friend and foe alike. Only the intervention of Kevlan, a Metocan posing as a Runesholm adept, is able to prevent the total obliteration of the abbey by helping Islena channel and subjugate her nascent power. Abhorred by the obscene magnitude of the Icon's power, Doraux castes aside the sword only to find herself face to face with the spectral image of her tormentor.

Discerning the profound effect that the sword's puissance has had upon Doraux, Myrhia makes one final attempt to exploit Islena's obvious confusion with an offer of unlimited power and sanctuary. Hoping to administer one final, debilitating blow to Islena's spirit, the enchantress reveals her Morticant hybrid. Shattered by the intensity of Marla's enmity and the apparent consequences of her obdurate refusal to heed every admonition she's received, Islena offers her life in resignation to the creature's hunger for retribution. Alarmed by Doraux's eager petition for death, Myrhia commands Marla to withdraw. Islena then snatches up the sword and hurls it at the Emercian Queen, exhorting her to take it and leave her to a peaceful end.

Even in her ephemeral state, Myrhia is acutely cognizant of the fact that she cannot survive contact with the terrible force of the Jerhia Icon. Forced to withdraw, a livid enchantress vows that she will resort to any means to break Islena to her will and it will now be Islena's family that will suffer the consequences of her continuing intransigence.

In the aftermath, Doraux discovers that Lorio did not perish, but only fell victim to the Ranter's vile magic...an enchantment that simulated the appearance of death. Driven by plummeting despair, Islena inexplicably vents her frustration and outrage upon the Lamish woman, who is stricken by her friend's torrent of vitriol. Unable to suffer the venomous tirade, Lorio flees in grief.

Thoroughly dejected and fraught with self-loathing, Doraux refuses to accept the silent entreaty of the Jerhia Icon. With pointed indifference, she agrees to follow Kevlan and Gillian to the relative security of the West.

Here begins the second segment of Islena Doraux's journey through the Land of Shades.

Chapter One

1

She sat motionless on a slick outcrop of Basalt. The enveloping fog drifted around her, constantly shifting and swirling with the lithe grace of some elegant and decidedly sentient being. The pervasive dampness had worked its way into the heart of her large muscles, tying them into stiff knots that had reduced her movements to lurching, wooden lock steps. No amount of movement seemed able to banish the chill and stiffness that had burrowed deep into her bones.

It had been three days since the ordeal at Runesholm, though Islena was unsure of the precise passage of time. Indeed, the ubiquitous fog made the marking of time a difficult proposition. The coming of night was indicated only by the thickening of shadow. As dark would approach, that eerie white effulgence would drain from the churning mist until, when night was finally upon the world, the featureless landscape was transformed into a series of slate gray shadows that made even the most deliberate of movement a treacherous undertaking.

Islena deduced that she and her traveling companions had nearly reached the Great Mother; the purportedly bottomless chasm that separated the eastern and western continents of this absurdly antiquated world. She had no idea of how far the great gorge might be, just as she had lost the faculty to gauge distance and sound in the oppressive fog. She found herself apathetic to this loss, just as she was unconcerned by the possibility that she might wander sightlessly into the abyss. In her present state of mind, Islena would have welcomed this eventuality with gratitude.

A shrill cry of warning briefly roused her from her torpor. She glanced up to see that she had nearly stumbled onto a Megalin bush; the deadly, spike-like barbs of which could well have punctured her thigh to the bone. She cursed absently at the natural booby trap. It occurred to her that the only forms of life that could proliferate in this hellish waste of the Blighted Land were invariably hostile. Malice seemed to be the only catalyst for growth in this vile place.

Gillian slowed his pace, allowing Islena to use his back as a point of reference. She adjusted her course and shuffled listlessly after the Jerhia. A part of her was amazed and disquieted by her mindless, mulish behavior, but Islena merely shrugged it off. A vivid image of Lorio's face tried to insinuate itself upon her thoughts, but she savagely banished the ethereal image, dreading where such contemplations would inevitably lead. Thoughts of her final bitter exchange with Lorio opened the door to a plethora of dark thoughts, each more damning than the last, and she had neither the desire nor the energy to spring the latch of that Pandora's Box.

Instead, she turned her thoughts to consideration of the man guiding them. The Metocan possessed the uncanny ability to travel without the benefit of sight. Kevlan seemed perfectly attuned to the physical geography of his immediate surroundings as evinced by his prevention of her nearly colliding with the cantankerous Megalin bush. His talent added credence to her suspicion that his race was not entirely human and that his present body was merely a convenient facade to simplify interaction with other creatures of this world. This perfunctory acceptance, as much as anything else, indicated just how profoundly her sensibilities had been altered since first arriving in this stupefying, strange world

During their few periods of rest, she had overheard Kevlan and Gillian locked in intense debate, and though she had never ventured close enough to hear specifics, Islena had little doubt that she was the source of contention. Her lapse into a lethargic indifference since leaving Runesholm was undoubtedly causing both no shortage of consternation. After all, her brooding, morose nature was hardly fitting for a woman supposedly destined to be the savior of their world.

She harbored few illusions that her arrival would be greeted with mixed emotions once they finally reached their destinations. When the two men gazed at her, Doraux could perceive a sense of urgency and desperate longing in their expressions, and though cognizant of their need, Islena found that she was callously indifferent to their plight.

She had discovered that her only chance to maintain her tenuous grip on sanity came with detaching herself from everything but her own personal and immutable despair. She had become a receptacle for despair and grief, allowing it to suffuse her being and extinguish every final spark of false hope that her heart might harbor. When the degradation and suffering finally surpassed her capacity to endure, it was possible that she would conjure the wherewithal to defy her natural aversion and put an end to her sorry existence. In death, she would vehemently reject the strident demands that pressed down upon her from every quarter. With one resolved dagger thrust, she would deny the common people their hollow savior while thwarting Myrhia's designs on omnipotence. This conflict would thus be reduced to its true context...another sad world locked in a tragic and ultimately pathetic struggle for balance.

There was a certain perverse comfort in the notion that hers was the power to abruptly end this deadly melodrama. Yet, her disinclination toward self deception made this solace imperfect. While her mind surrendered to despair of its own volition, her physical body grew steadily stronger. Forced food deprivation and the rigors of constant flight had banished what little fat Islena's body had contained. While bathing in a cold stream, beneath the cover of the ubiquitous fog, she realized that her muscles were denser and more clearly defined than at any time in her life. Her ordeal had endowed her with a striated muscularity and separation that she would have thought unimaginable in her previous life. While her spirit was ravaged, her physical body flourished in the face of constant abuse and deprivation.

There were other mystifying aspects to this physical transformation that implied her physical body would defy her beleaguered mind and not willingly participate in an act of self-immolation. Given that Islena possessed no natural propensity for suicide...even considered it craven in all but a few extreme circumstances...Doraux knew that her suffering would have to reach epic extremes before she would ever capitulate. Conventional logic dictated that she should have been tottering on the verge of physical exhaustion. There was no way that her diet, as sporadic as it was, should have sustained her through this hellish ordeal. The cumulative effects of prolonged flight, stress and physical abuse should have incapacitated her weeks ago, and yet her body had not only resisted deterioration, it had thrived and somehow grown harder...stronger.

"Because you're being honed," she murmured and blinked as though the source of this disconcerting thought had not been her own agitated mind. While she understood how the body might appear more defined with the reduction of fat, she could produce no plausible explanation for the substantial increase in raw power and endurance. Inadequate nutrition might produce the outward appearance of being leaner and harder, but it simply could not augment her physical capabilities such as strength, speed and endurance.

'Unless this is part of a process that is not entirely physical,' her internal companion offered. Islena grimaced at the implications of this notion, but the fact of her heightened strength was irrefutable as though her body was drawing upon a hidden wellspring of power in preparation for the climactic battle yet to be waged.

"Bullshit!" she muttered irritably, unsettled by the concept that her body could possess its own agenda in defiance to the evident wishes of her conscious thought. Still, she felt more capable than she had at any juncture since the onset of this nightmare. Myrhia had subjected her to humiliation, both physical and psychological, and she had only grown stronger. Circumstances had forced her to take human life and she had been equal to the challenge. Beaten, stripped of her dignity and innocence, she had been forced to flee and hide like a timid burrowing animal. Through all of this, Islena had become stronger, more formidable. She had been honed to a diamond-hard, lethal edge.

'Forged like an exquisite sword, perchance.' The simile had leapt unbidden to her mind, evoking a guttural groan of disgust.

The moment that she had activated the recumbent power of the Jerhia icon, her body had formed an affinity with the weapon. Since that time, she had been constantly attuned to the sword's presence as though it emitted a silent entreaty to take it up and succumb to the allure of the enormous power now quiescent in its steel blade...a power only she could animate if the myths surrounding the icon's origins held any credence.

Her despair had thus far insulated her against that seductive whisper, but promise of unadulterated power, framed in lilting tones that caressed the edges of her thoughts, would not be entirely silenced.

'Had it been the day before last?' Islena thought that it had. She had emerged from a fugue to find herself staring fixedly at the wrapped weapon. Profoundly shaken, she had fled from the Icon as though it were the very embodiment of evil...a pernicious addiction that could ensnare her soul with but a single touch.

From that initial instant of contact, Islena's body had been suffused by the cumulative power of generations of a culture that had been instrumental in forging the destiny of this world. This cultural amalgam spoke to her in the single voice of millions...imploring her to take up the thread of destiny and restore the natural flow of order that had been so catastrophically disrupted with the coming of the enchantress. The avalanche of emotional and sensory energy that had flooded her body during those initial moments of contact had very nearly torn the fabric of her frazzled mind to shreds. The titanic burst may well have left her a drooling vegetable had she not clung tenaciously to her refusal not to heed the collective's strident plea.

Even though she had succeeded (if only by the barest of increments) in resisting the primal urge to succumb to the collective will of an entire culture's history, its seductive whisper would not be silenced.

It was this incessant clamor that attenuated Islena's conviction that she could exercise her option and simply withdraw from the antiquated world's dark drama, thus denying Myrhia her prize and her beleaguered enemies, their Messiah.

The most frightening aspect of the final eruption at Runesholm had not been the tremendous devastation, nor had it been the indiscriminate taking of life. The most disturbing facet had been the intense, insatiable craving that had been born in that moment of awakening. The power had subsided, but in its wake there had remained a compulsion very similar to an addict's itch...one that would allow her no peace.

She had liberated the dormant power of an ancient culture and it, in turn, had endowed her with an indescribable puissance and vivified desires that she had struggled all of her life to suppress. Doggedly clinging to despair, Islena had managed to hold these desires at bay, but their attraction might well grow beyond the ability of her grief to contain them. What would follow then? This simple interrogative threw open the flood gates of a personal introspection of which Doraux wanted no part. Like a thickly shadowed path leading down into a terrible internal darkness, this simple question would wrench things into the light...fundamental truths that she had no desire to ponder.

Islena was constantly tormented by Myrhia's implacable certitude that she would eventually succumb to the temptations of power. That supreme confidence shook Islena, forcing her to confront her greatest apprehensions and admit to her darkest craving. This lust that burned in her heart like a dark, greasy flame could be contained in the civilized environment of her old world. In her world of mounting feminine power, there had been many legitimate corridors through which to channel her ambition...gainful pursuits that would be viewed with respect and admiration.

This world, however, despite its primitive state of development, offered more visceral ways to satiate that lust. There had been an instant...an admittedly brief flicker, but there nonetheless...during her rampage at Runesholm, when Islena had experienced a soaring euphoria that came with obtaining a vast reservoir of power...hers alone to do with as she would. A lightless abyss in her soul had opened like a maw, but like the fabled black hole which ravenously devours energy, she sensed that there would be no end to the power required to appease her appetite. Was this not the very muck from which monsters, such as Myrhia, were bred? If she actively sought out and obtained the remaining two Proclamations, gaining the inherent power that each contained, what might she become? That was the salient question upon which the hinge of all existence might well turn.

Myrhia was adamant in her contention that Islena was destined to become her fawning dog. Doraux refused to accept that eventuality, but she could foresee a scenario in which she might evolve into a creature not vastly different from the enchantress...if she was to allow the temptation of power to erode each and every one of her moral constraints. If she was being unwaveringly candid, her greatest adversary was not the insidious Myrhia, but rather her own flawed nature. Something dark and insidious was sequestered deep in the murky recesses of her subconscious. Myrhia's constant suggestion of intimacy...of foreknowledge suggesting that she was keenly aware of whatever dark mystery might be burned into the cold soil of Islena's heart...chilled Islena to her very marrow. Whatever this purported flaw might be, the Emercian Queen had risked everything in the belief that she could exploit Islena's inner darkness to her full advantage. The episode at Runesholm confirmed the enchantress' assessment that Islena's susceptibility to corruption was all too real. Under the right circumstances, even Islena could see that she was vulnerable to the thorough and irredeemable corruption that comes with absolute power.

And thus she found herself pinioned between two equally unpalatable options; the unconditional capitulation to grief that would eventually lead to self-destruction or the unqualified acceptance of her role as savior and all of the terrifying possibilities that this would entail.

She stumbled through the swirling mists of this gothic landscape, assailed by indecision and the fear that, should she elect not to act, the course of events would simply sweep all volition away and she would find herself ensnared in fate's tangled web.

2

Gillian had constantly, but furtively scrutinized Islena since the moment the trio had departed the Abbey, but he had made no effort to engage her in conversation. His reluctance lay, not only in her brooding reticence, but also his own conflicted feelings over what had transpired in the sword chamber.

He had always believed that the Proclamations were nothing more than a collection of inane child's fables, conceived by dreamers determined to devote their entire lives to foolish and futile quests, rather than face the harsh and rigid realities of their existence. Still, no amount of rationalization could explain the dazzling eruption of force that had well near leveled the Abbey and everything within it. Unlike Ossiran, Gillian was open-minded enough to accept things that ran contrary to his own beliefs and preconceptions when confronted by irrefutable evidence provided by his five senses. Among other things, it had been this refusal to be constrained by prejudices and rigid dogma that had cast Gillian out of favor with the conservative Jerhia hierarchy.

'And probably into the jaws of this present dilemma as well,' he thought with no small degree of vexation. Dredging up the rancor and the perceived slights and injustices of the past was pointless and ultimately detrimental to his present mission. He had chosen the path of rebelliousness of his own volition, fully aware that defying centuries of tradition would have unpleasant consequences. He had been unwilling to conform and his superiors had been unwilling to compromise. His exile to the Hiberas had grown out of that conflict as a natural progression. Long-harbored resentments were poisonous and Gillian's irreverent and rather whimsical soul would never allow him to be destroyed by festering animosity.

He stole a brief glance at the woman as she mechanically stumbled after him through the ubiquitous mists. Her head was cast downward, her face set in an inscrutable blank. Only the slight furrows at the corners of her exquisite green eyes gave any indication of the intensity of the emotional turmoil raging behind the façade. Gillian was grateful for the concealing fogs. It partially obscured her face, which was painfully lovely to behold when gazed upon directly, and protected him from a host of confusing emotions which her exotic beauty evoked...an invitation to entanglements that he simply could not afford to indulge.

The Jerhia shook his head, dismayed by the sudden appearance of these childish fancies. He would have thought himself immune to adolescent infatuations that such beauty could easily inspire, but this woman had quickly disabused him of that rather smug delusion. He tried to focus dispassionately upon his mission, but incredibly lucid images of her naked torso, with its high, firm breasts and spectacular muscle structure, kept intruding upon his thoughts. How utterly magnificent she had been as she dispatched Jackylwyn and the ranters at the Abbey. Her lovely green eyes blazing like emerald novas, Islena had seemed like an incarnation of some mythical warrior goddess...all wrath and fire. In that instant, it had been possible to accept that this enigmatic woman might indeed be the salvation of this beleaguered world.

If Gillian was willing to allow that the sword of Runesholm and the Jerhia Icon were one and the same, it followed that the ancient prophecy might hold a measure of credence as well. Again, the Jerhia shook his head in consternation. It was impossible to reconcile the deity-like creature who had obliterated the blood cult of Runesholm, with the broken, morose woman who stumbled after him like an ambulatory corpse.

Gillian sensed the dichotomy in Islena's spirit and realized that the fate of his world might hinge upon the resolution of her personal conflict. He prayed that the extraordinary creature of passion and fury would find the means to vanquish the pale shadow that shared dominion over this spectacular vessel of flesh.

3

It was several hours later when Kevlan finally called a halt to their daily exodus. While the Metocan tended to a small, ineffective fire, Gillian and Islena consumed their daily allotment of meager rations that they had foraged from the ruins of the Abbey.

Islena deliberately sat apart from the two men, mechanically chewing the strips of dried meat that had become the primary staple of her diet. The taste of the meat was bland and unsatisfying and so heavily salted that it stung the dry lining of her mouth. She tolerated the discomfort without reaction or consideration. To dwell upon the barely palatable food would only invite comparison with meals shared on occasions past in her previous life. Her grip upon sanity was far too tenuous to tolerate such poignant comparisons and so she suffered the horrible taste with the same clinical resignation that characterized her shambling march towards Metocan.

Gillian drifted over toward her, obviously uncomfortable, but determined to break through Islena's barrier of cold isolation. She sensed his approach and averted her eyes...a gesture clearly intended to convey her unwillingness to break her self-imposed silence.

"Kevlan has informed me that we should reach the causeway by midday tomorrow," Gillian informed Islena. "Though how he can retain any sense of time and distance is beyond me."

Islena responded to this overture with an indifferent grunt. Gillian inhaled deeply and forged ahead, "How long do you intend to persist with this behavior?"

Doraux tensed, her eyes blazing briefly, but then she realized that the Jerhia was intentionally attempting to provoke a reaction. She stared sullenly into the mist where the argent effulgence was gradually being drained with the setting sun. She spoke, her first utterance in three days, and her voice echoed scratchy and flat. "All that I ask is to be left alone. You owe me that much."

"Perhaps, but that is the one luxury I can assure you that you will not be permitted. Even if I could allow you to languish in your self-pity, we both know that there are others who will hound you as long as you draw breath." Islena actually winced at the oblique reference to the enchantress. If she was mired in self-pity, Doraux was of a mind that she was entitled to every second spent there.

"You are a deplorable bastard," Islena growled to which Gillian merely shrugged.

"Granted, but that does nothing to change the reality of your situation," the Jerhia persisted with the ghost of a grin playing at the corners of his generous mouth.

Islena glowered, but said nothing. Kevlan had drifted over to the pair, and stood listening silently to the exchange. This was a critical moment and he hoped that the Jerhia would prove equal to the task of surmounting Islena's unproductive reticence.

"There are certain realities that you must face," Gillian intoned somberly.

"You've deceived me from the first moment that I set eyes upon you. It's unspeakably arrogant to presume to lecture me. Why would I ever credit a word that slid out of your lying mouth?"

Gillian frowned "If you're entitled to anything, it's candor. I am a Jerhia adjutant."

Islena grunted her disgust. "It's a little late for admissions to mean anything."

"True enough, but there's more. I was dispatched by my superiors to infiltrate the occupied territories and locate you." He stole a brief glance toward Kevlan. "And then kill you...if I determined that circumstances warranted eliminating you so as to prevent you from falling under Myrhia's thrall."

Doraux gaped, her emerald eyes filled with astonishment. "Why, for Christ sake?"

Gillian looked to Kevlan for support, but found the Metocan regarding him with an expression of mortified incredulity and understood that no help would be forthcoming from the horrified Metocan.

"The man who controlled my country's policy decided that your continued existence posed an unacceptable threat to our security. Ossiran cannot be held solely responsible. His reaction was conditioned from years of fear of anything that could not be defined in terms of theoretical and practical warfare. He dreaded the unknown quantity which your presence represented and chose the simplest method of addressing the problem...eliminating you."

"I'm a victim, damn it! What gave him the right to pass judgment upon me?" Islena's indignation at this latest outrage shattered her mantle of sullen detachment just as Gillian hoped it would.

"We Jerhia are pragmatic creatures. Our every action is governed by the perceived best interest of the collective need. This single minded adherence to this one belief allows the Jerhia to dispassionately sacrifice ourselves in the name of the greater good as determined by our leaders. This tenet is ingrained in the Jerhia mind from the first moment that he or she is old enough to grasp the concepts of culture and honor. Ossiran did not see you as a victim, only an ambiguous menace...an unpredictable commodity that Myrhia could exploit to the extreme detriment of every living thing disinclined to submit to her rule. From that perspective, he took what he deemed to be the only appropriate action."

Islena fell silent, though her face was contorted with rage. She recalled another Jerhia, Amrand, the young cavalry officer who had striven so desperately to guide her to the west. In him, she had discovered a man controlled by rigid discipline and ancient creeds of false honor. In the end, he had sacrificed his life so that she might escape, surrendering to death with an eagerness that would have been incomprehensible to most inhabitants of her own culture. She realized that it was not such an improbable progression from Amrand to this Ossiran who Gillian described. Nonetheless, there were tremendous disparities between this image of a mindless, subservient drone and the man who presently stood before her.

"Then why didn't you kill me? You certainly had numerous opportunities over the weeks that we traveled through the Blighted Lands," Islena demanded, a subtle nuance in her tone indicating that she would have found the prospect pleasing in some inexplicable way.

Gillian grimaced. "Even in the most stringent of military orders, there are always individuals who do not quite conform to the traditional mold...an individual whose pattern of thinking cuts against the accepted grain. It was your good fortune to have just such a person selected to be your assassin. Had Ossiran seen fit to dispatch another of my countrymen, your corpse would, in all probability, be moldering in Runesholm Abbey, along with the ranters."

He hesitated for a brief moment and then added, "Especially after you display in the chamber of blooding."

"So I owe my life to your strong sense of individualism?" Doraux retorted sardonically.

"I am a Jerhia here." He laid the flat of his palm against his left breast. "But in my mind, I have always subscribed to convictions and philosophies that have made my superiors extremely uncomfortable. There are those who have gone so far as to label my ideas as dangerously subversive. Ossiran was amongst those. He was always my most vociferous detractor and took every opportunity to keep me tightly reined."

"And yet he sent you to kill me." Her first instinct was to condemn Gillian as a liar and reject his explanation as facile, but she could discern no hint of guile or evasion in his manner. Though she could not judge his motivations, Islena believed that the Jerhia was making an honest attempt to disclose the circumstances that had brought them together...and by extension, another facet of her current predicament.

"I can provide you with two possible explanations for that, both of which are probably true after a fashion. Ossiran was not a man above occasionally extracting petty vengeance. I suspect that he might have derived a good deal of amusement by commanding me to do something that I would regard to be morally abhorrent. Also, he required a man who could adapt to the undisciplined chaos of Myrhia's occupied eastern continent. He believed that I could assimilate into an environment of lawless anarchy whereas a more typical Jerhia would stand out like a wildfire on a moonless night."

Islena tried to visualize the stiffly dignified Amrand posing as a brigand for a moment and then intoned, "I hope you don't think that this disclosure somehow warrants my sudden trust?"

Gillian pursed his lips and exchanged an exasperated glance with the Metocan, who merely shrugged helplessly. Turning back to Islena, he countered slyly, "Islena, you were somewhat less than forthcoming in recounting your own situation, as I recall."

"I think that my motives are slightly more justifiable than yours. My only concern was survival and thus far, I've found only one person whom I could trust implicitly." A grimace of acute pain twisted her lips the instant the reference to Lorio left her mouth.

Gillian was tactful enough not to point out that Doraux had savagely denigrated and banished that one person from her presence. That simple action both perplexed and troubled the Jerhia...an indication of a possible serious flaw in this enigmatic creature's soul. Her attack upon Lorio had been incomprehensibly cruel, hinting at a core of malice carefully hidden beneath this veneer of indignation. Though he fervently hoped the need would never arise, Gillian could not preclude the possibility that Ossiran's sanction could yet prove necessary should Islena's darker proclivities rise to the fore.

Islena stood up and moved to face the two men. Her jaw was set, her manner truculent, and Kevlan experienced a sudden rush of elation. Islena's line-in-the-sand demand for answers was her first genuine display of passion since the trio's departure from Runesholm. Any emotion...even trenchant stubbornness...was preferable to listless despair.

"I'm not taking another step until you give me a plausible reason why I should follow you," she rasped, planting her fists on her hips and spreading her massive legs slightly.

"I don't see that you have a choice," Gillian retorted calmly, though more with amusement than ire. Islena stiffened, but the Jerhia smiled, hoping to placate her anger. Between her naturally volatile nature and her potential for intransigence that the Jerhia had witnessed firsthand, the last thing Gillian needed was an Islena provoked to both. "We can physically compel you, should it become necessary, but I admit that I don't relish the prospect. Even if we allowed you to simply remain here, in this barren expanse of wasteland, what future would await you...death at the hands of the elements, or recapture by the enchantress?"

"And if I elect to accompany you, what can I expect...a public execution if I refuse to play the role of your country's savior?" Doraux challenged, glaring furiously at both men.

Kevlan gestured to be heard. His serene tone mirrored his pervasive aura of tranquility, an unflappable composure that had not faltered even at the height of cataclysm in the Abbey. "I implore you to believe that Ossiran acted of his own accord. His course of action was impetuous, callous and inane by any definition. The Jerhia's action was one of cowardice, not pragmatism. I can say, unequivocally, that the Metocan would never condone assassination of the innocent...nor would the Natzurdan. We regard life with the most solemn of reverence. You must realize that you are considered the last defense against the enchantress' pernicious evil. To kill you would be an act of incomprehensible folly; a veritable end to hope."

Gazing into the Metocan's limpid eyes, Doraux could discern no hint of guile. His obvious displeasure with Gillian's revelation was too pronounced to be feigned.

"I will not take up the sword. Nothing can compel me to subject myself to that experience again. That thing..." she intoned with a shudder, while gesturing toward the wrapped sword that lay near the outcrop, "is ineffably evil. Do the world a favor and toss it into the gorge. If your world has to resort to that extreme for salvation, then it would be better if it perished." She hesitated for an instant, her face contorting into a scowl of self-loathing. "That its power could only be awakened by someone like me...someone with my defects...is testimony to how wicked that thing truly is. I'm no savior. At best, I'm cold and self-centered...at worst, I'm heartless and cruel. You both were there at the abbey. You know perfectly well what I'm capable of."

The Metocan regarded Doraux without expression for several moments and then stepped away from the pair, crossing over to his meager possessions. As Islena watched the Metocan retrieve the sword, Gillian noticed how she tensed perceptibly. Her contention that the sword frightened her was corroborated beyond dispute by the palpable tension that emanated from her body every time her gaze happened upon the icon. Kevlan unwrapped the weapon and examined its line and balance. Then he handed the Icon to the Jerhia, who hefted it experimentally, clearly impressed by its craftsmanship.

"In his hand or mine, that sword is nothing more than a meticulously crafted piece of weaponry, only as effective as its wielder. The tool is benign. The hand that wields it endows it with its dormant power. Myrhia, perhaps the most virulent and predacious evil to afflict our world, cannot release the sword's power. On the contrary, direct contact may prove catastrophic for the evil Queen. Why? Because the icon was forged not as an instrument of destruction and malice as you would have us believe, but rather it was imbued with the fundamental values of the culture that created it. These values embodied an unrelenting devotion to the concepts of honor, virtue and an obligation to preserve the greater good. Each of the three icons was invested with power derived from those unassailable principles. This instrument of destruction, empowered by the hand of prophecy, is an instrument of hope. Fate has decreed that you are to be the one to take it up in the name of righteousness. Once you have accepted that obligation, you will discover a method of controlling the power, of employing it as it was conceived to be employed." The Metocan reached out and lightly touched the sword. "It is imperative that you understand...the sword is merely a conduit for the power that actually resides within you. The magic that dwells within the Icon is only a form of instruction to unleash its boundless energy. The first step is to take up the sword, to embrace it of your own volition. Through this simple act of trust, you will come to discern the true essence of this icon's inherent power."

Islena retreated, shaking her head emphatically. Through clenched teeth, she warned, "No! Get it away from me or I swear I'll run."

Gillian need only glance at the distraught woman to know that she was sincere. He viewed her fearful reaction to the sword with both dismay and a curious fascination. He doubted that one could clearly articulate what it had been like to be infused by the awesome combined power of his ancestors...the cumulative weight of an entire civilization. Islena's frantic reaction plainly stated that, for her, the experience had been excruciating...insufferable.

Islena glared at the gleaming blade, a shimmer of revulsion flickering across her face. "You don't...can't understand what you're proposing. As dangerous, as insidious as Myrhia might be, her menace pales in comparison to the enormity of the evil that could be potentially unleashed by that...abomination."

"Islena," Gillian began patiently, but a frantic Islena overrode his objection. "Has anyone considered the ramifications of the transformation that I might undergo? To accrue and consolidate that type of power would create a virtually omniscient, omnipotent being...a deity. That is a pinnacle that no human being was ever intended to achieve. Nothing could validate the risks. Nothing! Mortals lack the faculties to absorb and wield that level of unconstrained power...without being corrupted by it. I certainly don't. If you were thinking clearly, you'd realize that Myrhia is living testimony to the intrinsic perils of a mortal possessing too much power." There was something fundamentally flawed in this last declaration...an inaccuracy that tickled at the edges of her consciousness, but she refused to give it audience.

"What are you afraid of, Islena?" the Jerhia inquired flatly, both his expression and tone somber.

Islena sighed, her powerful shoulders sagging in frustration and impotence. How could she communicate her fear without exposing her own personal flaws...flaws that she could scarcely admit to herself, though circumstances had left her with little option but to confront the shortcoming of her nature?

"Islena, if you were to be empowered with the puissance to reduce the world to motes of dust, would it make the slightest difference?" Kevlan observed softly. "You have suffered intimately under Myrhia's pall of terror and you know that a just and tranquil life is a delusion beneath the despoiler's shadow. Without intervention, Myrhia and her hordes will inevitably win this war. Under her depraved fist, what possible future can the people of my world expect?"

Islena sullenly refused to be seduced by the logic of his argument, fearing that discussion might open the door to eventual acceptance. "Stop, please! I'm not responsible for this misery. It's grossly unfair to place this burden on my shoulders. I simply can't carry it."

Gillian started to say more, but Kevlan placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, the Metocan's expression conveying that further debate at this time would prove futile. The woman seemed intractable in her refusal to accept the call of prophecy and her predestined role. Both men intuited that the fulfillment of augury now lay in the hope that random flow of events would somehow dislodge Islena from her position of obstinacy. Fate had a way of disabusing even the most vehement of detractors of the notion that they held dominion over the course of their own lives. Still, it was better that Islena accepted her destiny of her own accord, rather than be dragged to it kicking and screaming like a petulant child. "Very well, Islena, we will let the matter rest. If nothing else, please understand that we are allied in a common purpose."

Dejectedly, Islena shook her head and turned away, leaving the two men to ponder the implications of that final gesture of negation.

Stumbling into the mist, grateful for the concealment it provided, Islena began to weep silently, the tears searing her cheeks as though they were acid. In the extremity of their need, these people would never clearly comprehend the peril that they were inviting upon themselves.

There was one final reason for her vehement rejection...one that fanned the flames of her shame and anguish, but one which she was powerless to purge from her thoughts. Myrhia, despite her masterful web of prevarication, had told the irrefutable truth about the futility of Doraux's position. However slender the possibility, if Islena was ever to return to her world and her family, she must somehow manipulate or coerce the enchantress into sending her back as only Myrhia was capable of that feat of dark sorcery...or so her companions would have her believe. The destruction of the High Queen would forever relegate Islena to a world in which she simply could not survive. By a perverse twist of irony, Islena's solitary hope for deliverance lay in the continued wellbeing of her avowed enemy. If she answered fate's summons, she might well vanquish Myrhia, but her reward would be unbearable exile.

'You don't know that,' she chastised herself fiercely. Surely Myrhia was not the only practitioner of magic capable of defying physical laws. The Metocan were an entire society of sorcerers. It was not inconceivable that they would possess the means of returning her to her home...once she had served her purpose, of course.

A part of her mind realized that she was, in all probability, embracing a pathetic self delusion. Myrhia was a unique entity of incomparable power. One need only gaze into the eyes of her enemies and recognize the unabashed terror Myrhia inspired, to reach the conclusion that none could approach her ability to wield magic like the deity she aspired to become.

'No, Islena. You may prove to be the enchantress' superior.' That inner voice was a soft, seductive whisper and its twisted promise evoked another flood of bitter tears.

4

She was roused from her sleep in the small hours of morning. Gillian shook her vigorously, yet he whispered in the urgent tones of a man who was anxious, yet still composed. "Come, Islena. We must break camp at once."

"What's happened?" Doraux demanded; peering about in a bleary eyed daze, though the night mist was an impenetrable curtain.

"Kevlan has detected someone shadowing us at a distance of less than a league. The fog has an odd muting quality, thus he cannot divine their intentions or their numbers...only their presence." The Jerhia assisted Islena to her feet. "He believes that it would be expedient to depart, rather than chance a sudden confrontation. Given the circumstances, I concur."

"Could it be Myrhia or...or her monster?" Islena inquired. Fear and revulsion flickered across her face at the mention of the hybrid...intermingled with a profound and unaccountable guilt.

"No, it is neither the enchantress nor her entity," Kevlan informed her, appearing out of the mist like a wraith. "The enchantress' presence is flagrant, while her beast emits no detectable sign of animation. That is why my prescience did not alert me to its approach at the Abbey. It is not alive by any traditional sense of the word."

Islena nodded, her demeanor clearly reflecting her inner distress. It was apparent to both men that the woman found the creature especially terrifying...perhaps more so than the enchantress, herself. Doraux quickly set about gathering up the thread bare blanket and the small sack that held her few meager possessions.

When at last the three were set to depart, Islena inquired, "How long before we reach the causeway?"

"If we can maintain our pace, probably eight hours of unbroken travel," the Metocan estimated. He turned back to the blackened remains of the camp fire, staring speculatively at the ash and blackened stone for several moments. "I believe that I shall create a delay for our unseen friend."

He knelt before the charred wood, carefully re-arranging a collection of stones around the remains of the campfire. Then he reached into his pouch and deftly produced a small earthen jar filled with gray powder which he then proceeded to pour over the charred wood. With a rapid chopping gesture, the Metocan suddenly ignited the wood with the aid of neither flint nor steel. The resulting flame burned a sullen yellowish green. Satisfied, Kevlan collected his wares and stood.

"What have you done?" Islena asked, regarding the small fire curiously.

Gillian and the Metocan exchanged amused glances. "I hope that I've created an effective delay. If we're lucky and our pursuer is not adept in the ways of magic, they will find themselves confronted with a decidedly nasty, but harmless illusion. It should provide us with sufficient time to reach causeway."

Kevlan lapsed into a thoughtful silence, a bemused expression settling over his delicate features. "I'm rather puzzled that our pursuer...if, in fact, that is how whatever is out there can be described...is actually managing to follow our trail. The mists should make it virtually impossible for even the most skilled of trackers to maintain any sense of direction...much less any manner of pursuit. Nonetheless, this shadow has been converging directly upon us in a perfectly straight line since I first detected its presence."

"By means of magic then?" Gillian offered, the customary sardonic grin absent from his face.

The Metocan shook his head. "I don't believe so, but if it is magic, the practitioner is employing a discipline with which I am not familiar."

The group quickly set out, marching briskly into the moist, cottony fog. Islena anxiously awaited the moment when she would finally be clear of the accursed Blighted Lands. The mere thought of the huge expanse of desolate waste filled her with a sudden and unexpected loneliness and she feared that she might burst into tears. To forestall their fall, Islena quickened her pace and drew alongside the Jerhia.

He greeted her with a warm smile, hoping to draw her out of her tacit shell. Doraux smiled nervously and averted her eyes. "What kind of reception can I expect once we reach Metocan?"

Gillian considered a glib response, allaying her fears with false levity, but he realized that Doraux's was inspired by apprehension at the prospect of being thrust into yet another alien and possibly hostile environment. "I'll be candid, Islena...the Councils will exert tremendous pressure to take up the search for the Proclamations and declare your unequivocal allegiance to their cause. You must try to sympathize with the dire circumstances that they now confront. Myrhia will systematically eliminate the people of the cornerstone nations because we pose the greatest threat to her absolute supremacy. I've been told that my homeland has been conquered. The thought of mass genocide turns my blood to ice."

Doraux pursed her lips, wondering how the man could maintain his facade of levity while his homeland was being ravaged by Myrhia's Morticants. "And if I won't or can't comply?"

"Their priority would then become taking steps to insure that you did not fall into the clutches of the enchantress." Gillian did not bother to expand upon the methods that they might employ to insure this.

"Is it possible that this council will find a way to send me home?" she asked without much hope.

The question was so innocuous, that Gillian could not help but be moved by the woman's personal plight. "Islena, even if the Metocan possessed the means to send you back to your own world, the enchantress would simply reach out and abduct you again. This is the cruel reality of your dilemma; while the enchantress is alive, you will never be allowed to resume your former life. This is the salient truth that you must come to recognize...you cannot divorce yourself from our need...our dire plight. They are one and the same, Islena. Myrhia does not require the three proclamations to thoroughly subjugate this world. The Morticants and her sorcery are more than condign to the task. The need to possess these icons is part of a much broader ambition and she is convinced that you are the key to obtaining them. I can assure you that Myrhia is not the type of creature to settle for anything less than the absolute fulfillment of her ambition. You've spent time under her fist and know this to be true. You have no recourse but to oppose her, Islena...by whatever means are at your disposal. Believing that you have any other alternative is a self-defeating delusion for which we will all pay dearly. If you credit nothing else you've been told...believe this."

Doraux absorbed this in sullen silence and Gillian suspected that she had finally grasped the uncompromising nature of her situation. He allowed her to remain cloaked beneath her mantle of silence for several moments and then prompted, "I once asked you how you came to find yourself in your present predicament. Your reply proved rather imaginative."

"No more so than yours," Islena retorted, though without her former rancor. The Jerhia offered Islena a decidedly wolfish grin. Islena could not help but compare Gillian's rather facile charm to Amrand's stiff and formal deportment. Amrand seemed incapable of expressing emotions that were not strictly regimented and controlled. She wondered if there had been many occasions in his life when the young Jerhia had allowed himself the luxury of an unrestrained smile or any expression of unfettered joy. Under the right circumstances, Islena suspected that this Gillian could be an incorrigible rogue. Doraux managed a faint smile which the Jerhia interpreted as an invitation to continue.

"There's time," he began tentatively. "It would help if I had a clearer understanding of the circumstances in which you were brought here...not to mention, some of the things that have befallen you in the time since."

Islena fetched a quavering sigh, wondering if she was equal to the task of conjuring up the vivid and terrifying images of her recent past. Many of the wounds were too deep and too fresh to be laid open and probed. Still, there were occasions when it was therapeutic to give voice to suffering the way that one might expurgate a suppurating wound. Knowing that there might be something of value to be gained by unburdening herself, Islena nonetheless found the prospect of recounting her ordeal excruciating.

"Myrhia has planted a seed of poison in your soul, Islena, in the hopes that it will germinate and flourish in that dark place that she has somehow come to know exists in the cleft of your heart," Gillian offered with a chilling precision that caused Islena to shudder perceptibly. Recognizing the truth in that ominous thought and grasping its intrinsic danger, Islena began to speak. Slowly, haltingly at first, she began to relate the tale of her fantastic odyssey. Initially, she was able to deliver her account dispassionately, but as she delved deeper through the successive layers of pain and humiliation, the accompanying emotions began to emerge.

When she reached the point in her narrative when Amrand had been subjected to his moment of torture, hot tears sprang to her eyes and her voice became slurred and tremulous. Gillian was impressed that Islena did nothing to excuse or deflect her culpability in his mutilation, though, in truth this sadistic episode was an affirmation of Myrhia's prowess as a psychological manipulator. The enchantress had skillfully dispensed a measure of guilt and Islena had readily accepted it...just as Myrhia had anticipated she would.

"Islena, you can be assigned no blame in the matter," Gillian insisted firmly. "The enchantress is a master of insidious manipulation...sowing the seeds of discord in the hearts and minds of her enemies. Creatures of Myrhia's ilk often seek to turn virtue into apparent weakness and exploit this distortion to their own ends. If you allow a misplaced sense of guilt to affect you, then she has succeeded in laying the foundation for your eventual undoing...or rather, you have laid them for her. The very fact that you were able to maintain your sanity in the face of such an ordeal is a testimony to your inner strength."

Doraux merely shook her head in vague denial. At the present moment, she felt neither particularly strong nor necessarily sane. They walked along in silence for several hundred yards. About them, up-thrust fingers of rock appeared to drift by like free floating monoliths. Reflecting upon Islena's tale, Gillian was astounded that she remained as functional as she was. Her very survival was a remarkable affirmation of her extraordinary nature. Her sparse description of her world and life prior to her abduction by Myrhia's monstrosity, suggested a certain level of comfort and stability. To be ruthlessly torn from a stable environment and thrust into this brutal chaos (while having every perception of reality shattered in the bargain) would have reduced a lesser person to shambling incoherence.

The Jerhia had attempted to be forthright in his explanation of that she might expect in Metocan, but he had deliberately excluded the role that he would play in determining her future. Kevlan had employed his telepathic ability to convey the news of their imminent arrival to his superiors in Metocan. No doubt, the Highest Council of the three nations would be assembling in Othgol, the figurative Capital of Metocan, awaiting the woman's arrival. She would be subjected to intense scrutiny and a thorough debriefing. Only then would a decision as to how she should be dealt with be reached. If the woman steadfastly adhered to her refusal to cooperate, the Jerhia could not predict how the council might react. He did, however, know that he would be asked to deliver an in depth assessment of this enigmatic woman upon whom the future of his world hinged.

He could honestly attest that she was extraordinary save for one small, yet worrisome aspect of her personality. Presently, she seemed receptive, her natural reticence momentarily abandoned, and so he decided to pursue his concern. "Islena, there is one aspect of that which troubles me..."

Gillian lapsed into a wary silence and Islena glanced at the Jerhia questioningly. There was sufficient light to allow him to see her face now. Though his expressive eyes regarded her casually, she gleaned a keen interest behind his casual gaze, obscured by a veil of puzzlement. She warily nodded for him to proceed, certain that something of consequence was about to pass between them.

"Might you explain what occurred between yourself and the Lamish woman?"

"Lorio," Islena interrupted, sensitive to the reduction of her friend to the status of a non-person.

"Yes, Lorio," Gillian amended softly, aware of the delicacy of the subject. Still, the Jerhia felt certain that he must persist and force Doraux to produce a plausible explanation for her incomprehensible treatment of the Lamish woman in those final moments at the Abbey. In fact, Gillian was suddenly certain that understanding the episode could shed an illuminating light on the reasons Myrhia had risked bringing her purported bane into the antiquated world in the first place. "As we traveled, it became evident that the two of you were exceptionally close. I suspect that she would have laid down her life on your behalf and that you would have done the same for her had circumstances demanded it...that you risked everything to free her from the dungeons of Perdwick is testimony to the bond you share."

A brusque nod confirmed that Gillian's assessment had been correct.

"Then what motivated the harsh dismissal? You drove her away as though you reviled her." Now the characteristic grin had vanished from the Jerhia's face.

Islena averted her eyes. "It was something that had to be done. You'll have to content yourself with that explanation because I have no intention of talking about it any further."

Gillian pursed his lips in consternation, his penetrating gaze never leaving Islena's face. She met his scrutiny with an obstinate glare that he had come to recognize in their time together. Nonetheless, the Jerhia knew that, at this crucial juncture, he could not allow her to retreat behind her stone walls of brooding silence

With a deft movement, so swift and agile that Islena had no opportunity to react, Gillian drew a dirk from the folds of his cloak. In the next instant, Islena felt its lethal tip dimple the taut flesh of her chin just behind the bone of her lower mandible. Her exquisite green eyes popped wide with indignant shock, but she wisely made no rash move to seize his wrist. The Jerhia's dark eyes were as hard and cold as the Sherak's frigid breath and she had little doubt that he would bury the killing steel in her skull if the situation did not resolve itself to his liking.

"So the viper shows its fangs," she hissed and actually pushed herself closer until their bodies were pressed tightly together, though her hands remained at her sides. The abrupt movement caused the dirk to prick her skin and a single droplet of blood welled out of the tiny wound, running languidly along the blade.

Kevlan had stopped and was staring back at the pair, clearly alarmed and distressed by the sudden turn of events.

"Gillian?" he began, but the Jerhia raised his left hand, forestalling the Metocan's objection, while never taking his unblinking gaze from Islena's lovely face. "You asked what type of reception you could expect in the west...I can assure you that should there be the slightest indication you are under Myrhia's thrall, your welcome will be anything but amicable. She has gone to extravagant lengths to bring you into this conflict, despite the fact that prophecy has succinctly declared you to be her bane."

He leaned closer until Islena could feel his hot breath on her cold skin. "Myrhia can be characterized as many things...foolish or reckless would not be amongst them. If she drew you here deliberately, she must be supremely confident that she can bend you to her service. I have to know why."

"Then why don't you ask her?" Islena suggested flatly. "Or let your blade do its dirty work as your masters would have it."

Gillian's dark eyes narrowed, dismayed to realize that she would actually welcome the prospect. He withdrew the blade and stepped back, fascinated by the single droplet of blood that fell to the snow at her feet.

Quietly, the Jerhia intoned, "I have no master. Nor do I have any desire to harm you. Others, however, will have no such compunction. Something of consequence transpired between yourself and the Lamish woman...something that might provide a clue about the exact nature of Myrhia's intention toward you. You drove Lorio away, effectively consigning her to certain death in the inimical wastes. I have to know what inspired you to such a heinous act...please Islena!"

She only stood watching the Jerhia, her face an inscrutable mask, while the fog drifted around them like a sentient wraith. For a protracted moment, it appeared that she would cling to her intractable silence, but then her mouth began to work and she murmured, "I just couldn't have her around me anymore."

"But why?" Gillian persisted. "She was obviously devastated. The woman regarded you with undisguised reverence. You repaid her adoration with cruelty and scorn...abandoning her in the most hostile place imaginable."

Islena inhaled sharply, trying to resist her natural inclination to lash back in the face of intense criticism. "Lorio was the one person whom I could trust implicitly. As you've pointed out, she would have died to save me. In fact, there were many occasions when she came close to doing just that; first, in the nameless village in Kornas and then in the dungeons of Perdwick. An essential part of Lorio was extinguished there. The changes were evident in her tense posture and the way that she would cringe at an unsolicited touch...the savagery and brutality of her violation ruined her."

Gillian glanced at her speculatively, not certain if the woman was being vague or intentionally evasive.

"When I first met Lorio, she was an arrogant, self indulgent brat. Yet, there was also a fierce independence to her nature; an unquenchable lust for life. Her experiences in Myrhia's dungeons transformed her into a brooding instrument of hatred with a strong mistrust of nearly everything around her. Every time that I would happen to look at her, I would see that terrifying enmity gleaming in eyes where once there had only been youthful exuberance and I could not escape the fact of my own culpability." Islena faltered then, struggling to contain her emotions. Gillian frowned, not grasping the connection between Lorio's cruel abasement in the dungeons of Perdwick and Islena's crushing burden of guilt.

"Lorio attempted to deify me long before she had ever heard of the Proclamations or this prophecy. If I would have been emphatic in not allowing her to accompany me, she would have been spared all of the torment that followed. Gillian, you have to realize that whatever abject suffering that I have endured pales in comparison to the hell that Lorio suffered in Myrhia's dungeons. My motivations for driving her away were as selfish as they had been in allowing her to travel with me in the first place. I just couldn't accept the responsibility for causing her any further pain and misery. Perhaps that's facile self-serving bullshit as well because in the final analysis, I drove Lorio away because I couldn't bear having that gaze on my skin anymore...that haunted, embittered stare made my flesh crawl every time it fell upon me. Obviously, this logic is perverse, but you have to understand the emotional turmoil that lies behind it. Ugly as that might be, there is the simple truth laid bare with no embellishment. You can accept it or not...I don't really give a fuck."

"She elected to come with you of her own accord, Islena, knowingly accepting the inherent risks. Have you ameliorated her suffering by driving her away from the only person whom she could trust?" Though delivered in a compassionate, even gentle tone, this reproof was as sharp as a dagger's thrust.

"When first I saw her lying on the dais, livid and pale, I was nearly paralyzed by self loathing. When later she appeared, as if resurrected, it became clear that I had to find a way to severe the ties between us. They were unhealthy for the both of us," Islena murmured distantly.

"Islena, did you lie down with her?" Now his voice was barely audible, but it rumbled in her ears like the very voice of judgment. After a moment, she nodded. Gillian did not respond, but Islena discerned the thunder of judgment in his silence. She stopped and faced the larger man. "Look, I realize what I did to Lorio was deplorable and if I could have somehow achieved the same end with a kinder approach, I would have spared her the derision, but Lorio isn't exactly the type of woman who responds well to subtlety. Everyone who has associated with me, both in this world and in my own, has suffered enormously. I simply couldn't witness her die another death."

Gillian pondered this for a moment and then observed, "Perhaps it would have been preferable to disabuse her of her illusions once we had reached the other side of the causeway. At least she would have found herself in a more hospitable environment."

Assailed by shame and regret, Islena could only say "I've committed some pretty grievous errors in judgment, but I didn't ask to be put into this position. I'm no one's idea of a savior and neither want nor am worthy of idolatry. I only want to go home."

"I pray to God she is well," Islena concluded, though her concern echoed in her own ears as hollow and somehow inappropriate as though she had no right to voice any hope for Lorio's welfare. One irrefutable truth exploded in her mind then, almost causing her to stumble. Ironically, it was the voice of another lost friend, Marla Holmes, who delivered the scathing condemnation. 'You can absolve yourself of guilt for Lorio's suffering prior to Runesholm...if you're capable of such self-deception, but even a self-absorbed bitch such as you has to know that you claim exclusive ownership over whatever fate has befallen her since she left the abbey.'

"The woman is resourceful and tenacious," Gillian observed without conviction. If she hadn't fallen victim to the elements, it was likely that she had fled blindly into the grasp of Myrhia's hybrid Morticant. Personally, he would have preferred the former fate to the later. Islena attempted to grin and failed wretchedly. Clearly she had not been deceived by his feigned optimism.

Dejected, Doraux dropped her head and fell several paces behind the Jerhia, tacitly conveying her desire to return to her solitude. Gillian turned his thoughts to the examination of all that she had said.

He suspected that, while truthful, her explanations for many of her actions were incomplete. Behind her anger and vehement refusal to take up the sword there lay a debilitating fear, the nature of which the Jerhia could not define.

If his world had any hope of halting Myrhia's juggernaut of evil, it was exigent that the woman be made to disclose her fears and helped to abandon them.

5

The party finally came to the northern-most causeway as the invisible sun reached its zenith in the heavens above the trio. Though the ubiquitous mist was as dense as ever, Doraux intuited that they had been descending steadily for the past several hours. Their approach was heralded by a brisk breeze that gradually escalated into a gale force wind that forced the two humans to bend forward just to stay upright. The gusting wind had no discernable effect upon the Metocan. Nor did it disperse the cloying mist. This, more than anything else, confirmed that the fog was an unnatural occurrence.

Kevlan came to a halt and gestured for the other two to gather around him. The incessant roar of the north wind made it necessary to shout, something to which the soft spoken Metocan was plainly not accustomed. It was only later that Islena would learn that his people regarded speech as an antiquated and tiresome mode of communication.

"As we cross the edge of the Great Mother, the swirling winds become treacherous. A security rope has been anchored up the center of the causeway. I recommend that you and Gillian hold onto the rope with both hands until we've reached the opposite side," The Metocan advised, offering no explanation of why he was unaffected by the gale.

Both Islena and the Jerhia nodded and the Metocan turned and descended into the fog. The wind intensified perceptibly with each step. When the three finally reached the western edge of the eastern continent, Islena was reduced to a virtual crawl. The wind lashed her face with its icy fingers, forcing her to raise her right arm to shield her eyes from the frigid blast. It occurred to Doraux that the unnatural fog and winds had been conceived, at least in part, as a deterrent to keep the denizens of the blighted lands out of Metocan.

A swirling gust caught her broadside and nearly lifted her from her feet. She cried out and staggered to maintain her balance. Gillian reached out and steadied her with a surprisingly strong left hand. The pair took a few tentative steps forward and abruptly passed out of the fog that had been their constant companion since the day after they left Runesholm.

Mystified, Islena spun about to see a wall of fog with an edge as precisely defined as the face of a brick wall. The enigma confirmed Doraux's suspicion that the fog was a manufactured defensive measure. Gillian tapped her on the shoulder and motioned toward the security rope which stretched toward the western horizon. Then he dropped to his hands and knees and commenced to crawl toward it. Islena quickly followed, though her hands and knees were stiff and unresponsive as she scuttled over the bare rock of the causeway.

The wind was painfully loud as it barreled out of the north, making any attempt at spoken conversation a futile Endeavour. The rope was thicker than the diameter of Islena's forearm and was anchored by heavy iron posts spaced at approximately thirty foot intervals. When she reached the guideline, Islena gripped the rough rope and pulled herself erect, though her hands had lost all sensation in the numbingly cold wind.

Hunched over and pulling themselves along hand over hand, the two humans moved inexorably west at a snail's pace, while the Metocan drifted patiently along beside them.

As Islena sank deeper and deeper into the embrace of exhaustion, she began to develop an irrational resentment toward the Metocan, who appeared unencumbered by the wind and unaffected by the cold.

After what seemed like an eternity, the trio finally came to the western edge of the causeway. Islena released her hold on the guide rope, oblivious to the pain in her hands which had been badly chaffed by the coarse rope.

Bent forward, she stumbled toward the slope. The western extreme of Metocan was shrouded in mist, though not the effulgent, impenetrable fog that had occluded the upper portion of the Blighted Lands. The mist pressed oppressively upon the edge of the abyss. Beneath the heavy canopy of branches, thick, gnarled trunks twisted amidst dark, forbidding shadows. One could become hopelessly lost in such a rugged wilderness, Islena realized. Entire armies could easily be swallowed up and one could simply vanish from even the most dogged pursuit.

Islena stood erect, the muscles of her lower back aching dully, and pivoted about to gaze back at the eastern continent.

Suddenly, inexplicably, she began to laugh. Her rich, throaty laughter echoed through the forest raising startled protests from flocks of unseen birds. Her two companions exchanged bemused glances and then looked back to Doraux questioningly.

Islena spun about and raised her fists in the air, a lunatic glee flashing in her gorgeous green eyes. Though decidedly odd, Islena's behavior filled the Jerhia with a soaring rush of jubilation. In her primal cries, Gillian heard the true Islena Doraux; impassioned and powerful. He suspected this woman, thus animated and empowered by the ancient Icons, just might be capable of extirpating the rot that had ravaged his world.

She strode over to the pair, virtually swelling with each step. Gazing fiercely into the Jerhia's eyes, she vowed, "No matter what happens from this point, I'll never allow myself to be dragged back into that hell."

Like many of Islena's other strident declarations, time and the course of events would prove this impassioned oath to be false.

Chapter Two

1

The two bleary eyes guards exchanged bored glances as their patrol routes intersected. The night was tranquil and warm, the air redolent with the heady scents of a hundred different mountain blooms. Both men, veterans of the Queen's elite personal guard, were relieved that their night patrol had proved uneventful thus far. From all accounts, the campaign in Jerhia had been both costly and demoralizing.

Though the Morticants had insured that the enemy's organized opposition had crumbled quickly, the Jerhia had shrewdly adapted their tactics, resorting to resistance-style warfare. Small, mobile units of Jerhia cavalry had inflicted humiliating, debilitating losses upon Myrhia's conventional army as it prepared for the coming assault on Natzurdan. Only fear of Myrhia's wrath had prevented mass desertion and even that fearful deterrent would have its limits if Jerhia incursions continued unabated.

With the High Queen's arrival in the west, the organized resistance evaporated like mist before the noonday sun. The enchantress had dispatched a squadron of her abominations to locate and eliminate what was left of the Jerhia's conventional army. The elder guard, a veteran of twenty years of service, had been there during the glory years of the Emercian Empire, when the noble Artumas had brought peace and prosperity to the eastern continent. In the west, Jerhia had stood as a symbol of military pride, honor and unshakeable integrity. Now these virtues were but skeletal memories beneath Myrhia's boot. The guard was privately appalled by the incessant violence and the endless slaughter, but like many inhabitants of this war torn world, the guard believed that the enchantress was essentially invincible. To oppose her was a futile and suicidal venture. Better to silently conform and not actively participate in the propagation of her evil, while hoping for some abstract, miraculous intervention. As time progressed and Myrhia's juggernaut continued to gain momentum, the guard began to despair that salvation would ever be had and he would remain in the service of a monster until the end of his days.

Yet, with unexpected suddenness, her invasion of Natzurdan had come to a grinding halt. It was purported that the wielders of the earth lore had found a way of reshaping the earth, throwing up wall after wall to stymie the advance of both man and Morticant. The Queen had returned from consultations with her generals in a vile and dangerous mood. Both guards knew that it was prudent that they do nothing to attract her attention or raise her ire, believing that a casual flick of her elegant wrist could consign them to the afterlife.

The veteran laughed at the bitter irony of his assignment; the guarding of a woman who was virtually invincible and who posed the greatest threat to those who had been assigned to provide her with protection that she did not need. The two men crossed paths again and the younger one remarked, "The bitch is quiet tonight."

"Yes, and if you value your head, you would be wise to follow her example," the elder replied irritably. The other scowled but made no further comment.

Just as they passed, an electric hum filled the night air, increasing in pitch and volume until the two guards could feel their skin begin to crawl into great hackles. The two men stopped, instantly alert, and exchanged puzzled, frightened glances. They both commenced up the slope toward the High Queen's pavilion. Abruptly, the flap of her tent snapped back and a wall of pure energy surged forward in a spectacular rush of heat and light. Shielded by his comrade, the veteran guard issued a startled cry as a thick blue effulgence enveloped the pair. He was suddenly picked up and hurled back down the slope as if he was no more substantial than a sack of feathers.

His duty mate was not so fortunate. Absorbing the full brunt of the impact, the guard was not even afforded the opportunity to cry out. Wave after wave of coruscating energy engulfed his body, systematically and voraciously consuming the man's vital essence, while absorbing his life force the way that a sponge would absorb water. His imperfect body was incondign to the task of containing such a perfect force. As the horrified veteran gazed on in black wonder, the victim's body exploded in a cataclysmic unraveling of connective tissue and muscle. Seconds later, the grotesque parody of a human being that remained standing erupted into a blinding blue flame that left the other guard groping and blind with terror.

A shrill cry issued from within the Queen's tent. Staggering unsteadily to his feet in response to an age old imperative, the veteran stumbled forward, an inculcated sense of duty supplanting his fear. All throughout the camp, startled cries could be heard amidst the cacophony of a hundred conflicting and unheeded orders. Within seconds, hundreds charging feet were converging pell-mell upon the High Queen's tent.

The veteran reached the tent, threw back the flap and plunged inside, only to be stopped by a searing blue light that blinded his vision and left him staggering aimlessly about the confines of the Queen's lodgings. When the exploding flashes of blue light finally faded from his vision, he saw the High Queen sitting calmly on the edge of her pallet. Her exquisite face was inscrutable. Only her eyes conveyed any hint that something extraordinary had transpired.

"I assume that there is a perfectly good reason for this intrusion?" she inquired distantly. Her voice was flat, but no less ominous for the dearth of emotion.

"Milady, I...the burst of blue light," the guard stammered. "Another of the guards was killed by the blast. I feared that you might be in danger." His voice trailed off warily.

She rose quickly and glided across the earth floor with the fluidity of flowing water. She gazed up at the veteran guard, the incisiveness of her glance reducing him to incoherent mumbling. The man abruptly stiffened, feeling something pierce the fabric of his thoughts, probing his mind and reconstructing his memories of the last few moments.

Realizing that his knowledge must not become the fodder of camp gossip, Myrhia seized control of his mind and configured his memories to conform to a version of reality that served her needs. Satisfied that she had achieved her purpose, Myrhia stepped back and released the guard from the vice of her will. It would not do to provide the rabble with even the slightest intimation that she exerted anything less absolute control over the course of events in the camp. The Jerhia's continuing incursions and now the Natzurdan's theatrical delaying tactics had already worn much of the sheen from her mantle of infallibility. If the fools came to believe that she was personally vulnerable, there would be open rebellion amongst her troops...a distraction she could ill afford at this delicate juncture in her deadly game with Islena Doraux.

She spoke to him in a soothing tone that the guard would have sworn were beyond her sensibilities had it not heard it with his own astounded ears. There was an aspect of controlled madness about the high queen that left all of those who served her constantly wary.

"Be calm, father," The odd paternal reference was a customary sign of respect and deference to the elders of Emercia, but the guard had never imagined that he would be addressed in this manner by the frigid bitch Queen of Emercia. "The threat has passed, but I must know what happened."

The guard blinked, as though cognizant of her mental violation on some subconscious level, and then explained, "We had just intersected our patrol routes. There was a distinct snap and I whirled about to see three figures overwhelm Gaipson. Once he had been subdued, one of the three dragged him toward the trees."

"And the other two?"

The guard appeared puzzled by the question. "Milady, you emerged from your tent and dispatched them somehow. I remember a blinding glare and in the next instant, they were simply...gone."

The enchantress grinned radiantly, charming the veteran. "Organize a party to search for your comrade and the remaining intruder. I would think that this inimical greeting would dissuade them from further folly this night. Also, send a messenger to summon commander Tormal...to my pavilion."

The veteran offered the High Queen a formal bow and turned crisply on his heels, suddenly suffused by a soaring euphoria that recalled the glorious days of his youth when noble service in Artumas' Emercian military was something that every Emercian male dreamed of and aspired to. The enchantress smiled derisively at the weak minded fool as she watched him all but flee from her tent.

'Such credulous dolts,' she thought contemptuously. 'Men could be twisted and manipulated by the flash of an empty smile or the casual flutter of a sooty lash. They were even willing to tear each others hearts out for the casual suggestion of offered affection from a comely woman.'

She paused near her pallet and raised her hand with the palm turned toward her face. With a fluid stroke, she brushed the palm of one hand across the other. Abruptly, the surface of the raised hand became reflective. She searched her face carefully, seeking slightest outward manifestation that of the turmoil that raged behind her limpid eyes. As she drank in the elegant and delicate perfection of her beauty, Myrhia could feel her sense of equilibrium return, banishing her misgivings.

The reorganization of the feeble minded guard's memory had been necessary. It was imperative that her mantle of invincibility suffer no further blows. The intoxicating charge across Jerhia had come to a rude and grinding halt in the mountain passes that led the way into the fertile valleys of Natzurdan. The ignorant fools around her feared that earth lore held ample power to effectively neutralize her own potent magic. They lacked the faculties necessary to grasp the desperation that lay behind the restructuring of the earth and stone. Nor could they comprehend the tremendous expenditure of energy required to maintain these obstacles.

Myrhia however, understood precisely what was involved in erecting these barriers and was content to bide her time and let the defenders conjure themselves into utter exhaustion. When that inevitable moment finally came, the land would regress into its original form and her armies would roll through the hapless defenders like a scythe through summer wheat. If time became critical, she had more than sufficient power to tear down the barriers, but the vulgar display of power could yield drastic and unpredictable consequences. Raw, unadulterated magic was best employed sparingly, like a particularly savage beast that was best kept on a very short leash and only incited to violence when no other practical recourse was available.

If the guard had been allowed to spread stories that implied that she had been the victim of some manner of assassination attempt, the whispering would only proliferate. Any sense that the Queen might be faltering would result in desertion, if not outright sedition. As the first battle reached its climactic stage, the enchantress could not risk even the slightest distraction. She drew a wistful sigh, longing for the day when she would be able to dispense with the need for mortals entirely...a day that would not be long in coming.

She glanced impatiently to the entrance. Her Commander's tardy response to her summons irritated the enchantress and her thoughts were naturally drawn to her former Commander, Ynthrax. His treachery, while inevitable, had been no less inconvenient. Despite his crude, undisciplined façade, he had been a competent, if not particularly imaginative commander, in a world of men who seemed shackled by incompetence.

The enchantress shook her head, reproaching herself for lapsing into wistful fancies over a servile dog that had eventually required putting down. Her every thought should be fixed on contemplation of all that had transpired at Runesholm.

The first Icon had been found! Legend had been transmogrified into tangible fact just as she knew it would.

Its unearthing had proven, once and for all, that the age old stories were more than mythical fairy tales. With her own eyes, she had beheld one link in the chain of power that had been inadvertently forged to elevate her to omnipotence. At last, there was tangible proof that the foundations of her grand ambition had not been mislaid. Her delight should have been augmented by the opportunity to see it in the hands of the one who had been destined to wield it.

The last image sobered the enchantress considerably. The realization that the success of her vast and complex aspirations hinged upon a woman who appeared both erratic and fragile unsettled the High Queen. She had prepared meticulously for several contingencies, from rage to hatred, to capitulation and even willing acceptance, but she had never expected to be confronted by a woman so woefully reduced in spirit and poised on the precarious edge of insanity. Islena's madness would serve no one, save the God of anarchy.

In Perdwick, Islena Doraux had been both defiant and belligerent, a combination of emotions that could easily be turned to serve Myrhia's purpose with careful manipulation. To the High Queen's consternation, the Doraux of Runesholm had been a thoroughly defeated woman, a pale facsimile of the determined survivor who had refused to succumb to a prolonged and intense campaign of systematic degradation. Myrhia could not help but wonder what had occurred in the intervening days between her escape from Perdwick and their confrontation in Runesholm. It was as if a pernicious force had leeched the vitality out of the woman's heart, reducing a creature that had been infrangible in every previous incarnation, to a pathetic, broken husk, seeking the slightest pretext to lie down and die.

Myrhia frowned, feeling the nascent stirring of doubt chaffing at the mantle of her supreme confidence. Seeing Doraux so completely unnerved had provided a disturbing new perspective on the enormity of the audacious gamble the enchantress had endeavored to undertake. The woman had been suffused by grief and despair and the resulting instability had made her capable of any act regardless of how irrational that act might be. The possibility that Doraux might be driven to an act of self-immolation was the one eventuality for which the enchantress had made no allowance. By surrendering herself to the Morticant, Islena had placed a new and disquieting complexion upon Myrhia's machinations...one over which the enchantress would exercise no control.

If Islena was to plunge into the rabbit hole of lunacy, Myrhia would be forced to abandon her quest for dominion over the Proclamations. A lunatic could not be coerced or wooed into servitude. Yet, if Doraux lost the mental competence to fulfill her role in destiny, Myrhia would be forced to languish in this wretched world...an insufferable prospect that she could never abide...a terrifying invitation to her own capitulation to madness. She would die, eventually...as would Islena and Artumas and their game would begin afresh, somewhere along the river of time.

'Yes, but how long would it be before circumstances favoring my triumph would shine so radiantly? The daughter is flawed and the champion is weak...this moment is rightfully mine for the taking,' the enchantress whispered vehemently, but still that niggling doubt would not subside. How often, in their storied past, had her imminent victory seemed virtually assured, only to be snatched from her grasping hand by a perverse twist of inopportune circumstances?

Though immortal, more an entity than a tangible being, the enchantress lacked the patience to wait for the random tides of fate to furnish her with another opportunity to unlock the puissance of the Icons. In this incarnation, as in the one immediately prior, the enchantress had been trapped in a static time where progress moved in increments too minuscule to be measured in the course of a normal lifetime.

Possession of the Icons would endow her with the efficacy to transcend the limits of linear time and spring forward into worlds that would offer powers too vast and fantastic to be imagined. Islena Doraux's world, with its technological demon running rampant over the last vestiges of reason or conscience, held opportunities that Myrhia could only dream about in the dismal place. Other than the acquisition of the icons, subjugation of this antiquated world and its primitive, unimaginative occupants held little attraction for her. Channeling the icons' power would allow her to obliterate the boundaries that confined her to this wretched world.

The enchantress grimaced as she recalled Islena's torment-distorted face as she had stumbled toward the hybrid. She had been wild eyed and distraught, eschewing the awesome power of the sword in favor of a savage death at the hands of her former friend. From Myrhia's perspective, suicide was the escape of the craven and the hopelessly weak. Doraux's spirit had been forged on the anvil of legend, thus this flaw of character baffled and bewildered Myrhia. Of all the possible defects of character that this woman might have possessed, this was the one which Myrhia found the most incomprehensible and potentially disastrous.

Shaking her head in disgust, she uttered an infrequent curse. To hold and utilize such power was the pinnacle of her ambition, but cruel fate had relegated her to experience its ecstasy vicariously. Though only felt for a fleeting second and then only at the extremity of the astral state, the Icon's power had been the purest, most magnificent thing that the enchantress had ever experienced. Even in the throes of its agony, Myrhia had been awed to reverence by the enormity and integrity of the icon's innate puissance.

'To think that such power is contained by only one of these icons,' Myrhia mused, a flare of avarice dawning in her luminous brown eyes. 'There are yet two others whose power should prove greater...and taken as a whole, the amalgamated power should far exceed the sum of its composite parts...the veritable power of a god.'

She considered this for a moment and then amended with a child-like giggle, 'or rather, a goddess.'

Fortified by such unadulterated might, and limited only by imagination as to how it might be utilized, one could accomplish virtually anything, could realize any ambition, no matter how grand or complex. Myrhia knew that she possessed both the knowledge and the fortitude, but fate had dictated that she could only wield the power once removed. She fetched a weary sigh, concluding that she had miscalculated in her approach. Subjugating Islena's inherent instability would require that she exercise greater caution and a change of tactics. It could be necessary to hold out the prospect of retuning home in exchange for cooperation...of regaining the things she held precious.

In the lightless labyrinth of the Queen's complex mind, an idea began to germinate. The risks were drastic, but the ultimate rewards were more than enough to justify the gamble. An indolent smile spread across Myrhia's lovely face. Despite the imminence of her victory, the runes of fate had yet to make their decisive tumble. As was her nature, she would take the initiative, thus displaying the courage to reach out and seize what she coveted. For the strong and the visionary, power was an inherent right and if lesser creatures were not willing to surrender that power to the worthy, it was the duty of these select few to stride forth and expropriate that power by whatever means necessary. Only in this way could the natural order of all existence be preserved from chaos. Artumas, with all of his liberal and egalitarian philosophies, could never be made to grasp the intrinsic truth of this basic maxim.

In her mind's eye, she watched with keen anticipation as a magnificent violet flower unfurled its petals, spreading its delicate beauty across the lightless void until it encompassed everything. The symbolism of that ubiquitous flower, the Night bloom, was not lost upon Myrhia...it implications astoundingly clear.

There was a tentative whisper from beyond the entrance to her tent and the image of her ethereal bloom abruptly dissolved, jolting her back into her present reality.

"Come!" Myrhia instructed brusquely, just the right measure of cold menace creeping into her tone.

Tormal slipped into the Queen's quarters in the way that a wary hunter might approach a sleeping bear. Apprehension shone clearly upon his hawkish, angular face and his ferret brown eyes shifted constantly to and fro like a metronome. At least Ynthrax had, for the most part, managed to master his trepidation in her presence. "I assume that the guard has apprised you of what just occurred?"

Tormal flinched at the implied criticism in the Queen's icy tone, knowing that any perceived failure could be met with swift and ghastly punishment. "Milady, I don't understand how anyone could have penetrated the cordon of guards around the camp."

Tormal's obvious and genuine dismay amused the High Queen, though she affected a stern demeanor as she watched him fumble his way through his explanation. "Even if the intruders had managed to avoid the ring of pickets, I can't imagine how they would have compromised the Natzurdan barriers positioned at the head of the pass."

His darting eyes flicked to the enchantress, who trebled his discomfort by scowling severely. He sputtered an apology, without much hope of acceptance. Finally, Tormal fell silent, waiting for Myrhia to offer her judgment of his perceived failure. The enchantress allowed him to wallow in his fear for several moments and then remarked disdainfully, "As is usually the case, I have dealt with the matter. Have a team scour the immediate area to the east in search of the third assassin."

The Commander bowed formally and turned to leave, grateful for the surprising reprieve, but the enchantress called him back. When he turned back to face her, his pallid face was so beset with naked apprehension that the enchantress could barely contain the urge to laugh aloud. She had always derived a measure of perverse delight in terrorizing her minions.

"A critical situation has developed in the east. I am personally delegating you with the responsibility of resolving it," she informed her habitually nervous Commander. His beetle brows furrowed. Though relieved to be away from her vile presence, he could not help but be suspicious of her motivation.

"Trouble in the east, Milady? The entire continent has fallen under your fist..." Tormal's voice trailed away to an awkward silence as though suddenly grasping the temerity of openly questioning the High Queen's command.

"Are you questioning the accuracy of my information...or simply challenging my authority?" Myrhia demanded, her words slashing the air like a razor. The Queen's low dangerous tone pushed the beleaguered Commander to the brink of apoplexy.

Tormal, son of an Emercian nobleman and twenty five year veteran of a dozen campaigns, bowed his head in abject submission. "Forgive my insolence, Milady. I am merely astounded that there are those who would challenge your rightful dominion."

The High Queen's tone became conciliatory. "Come commander, there is no need for fearful suspicion. Have you not heard the expression: the High Queen is like the wind; everywhere and ever shifting?"

Tormal nodded, his tension abating if only a notch. The enchantress indicated a spot over the commander's shoulder. He followed her gaze and his eyes widened, a whistling gasp of astonishment escaping his lips. There, shimmering and perfect to the minutest detail in the subdued glow of the lantern light, stood an exact replica of the High Queen. Thoroughly mystified by even the smallest feat of sorcery, the Commander's gaze sought out the enchantress. "How?"

"The Particulars are of no consequence," Myrhia replied with a dismissive wave of a delicate right hand. The sound of her voice converged upon Tormal from two distinct directions and he realized that both figures were speaking in unison. "You must understand how I am able to exercise direct control over my kingdom...that I am exempt from the laws that govern other living creatures."

"What will you have me do, Milady?" the Commander asked in a soft and deferential voice that quavered with apprehension.

"The Natzurdan's delaying tactics will soon exhaust themselves and my armies will resume their northern advance. It is imperative that they reach the borders of Metocan before the first fall of snow. To insure that eventuality, the Morticants will front the invasion. Your conventional armies will serve in a support capacity, mopping up the odd pockets of resistance. I don't anticipate tenacious opposition. The Natzurdan are shameless pacifists, depending upon the Jerhia's protection to guarantee their sovereignty. Their resistance will be passive at best and more of a nuisance than an actual threat."

The enchantress laughed disdainfully. "They have been reduced to erecting barriers and cowering like frightened children awaiting the coming of the wolf."

"If I may, Milady, I'm concerned by the logic of Natzurdan tactic. If they have no other avenues of defense, what do they hope to accomplish. I fear that they might be preparing a nasty surprise... possibly with the help of the Metocan mages."

The Commander's remarks provoked Myrhia to laugh all the harder. "Tormal, you are precious. Have you never learned that it is perilous to swim in unfamiliar waters? Of course the Natzurdan and the Metocan are attempting to concoct some manner of sorcery to thwart my conquest, but I assure you that their actions are born of desperation. At any rate, your attention is required elsewhere. For years I have permitted religious lunatics to have custodianship of the Blighted Lands, but now they have taken it upon themselves to interfere with my search for Islena. You are charged with the task of cleansing the Blighted lands. My tolerance for religious dementia has reached an end...and their safe haven will now become their burial grounds."

Tormal's face dropped, his relief at being excused of his command rapidly dissipating at the gloomy prospect of purging religious zealots from the barren wastes. The Blighted Lands were dangerous and desolate; a veritable barren hell into which an army could vanish. Myrhia noted Tormal's despondent reaction and added "A cadre of Morticants will assist in the cleansing. Once the cleansing has been completed, you will be rewarded with the title of Provisional Commander of the Eastern Continent."

Myrhia placed a placating hand upon Tormal's shoulder. The touch soothed the normally agitated Commander. "The east is firmly under my control. It is time to ease the rigid restraints upon the people there. I must demonstrate that I am capable of compassion as well as harsh discipline. As you move north, gather provisions from the towns and villages along the way. Provide generous compensation for whatever you take and make it public knowledge that the practice of slave trains has been abolished by Imperial decree of the High Queen of Emercia. Let the villagers and townspeople know that, with the end of conflict, there will come a new age of peace and prosperity. If the people in the east discern that a time of stability can be had for the simple price of obedience, rebels and dissidents will soon discover that the eastern continent has become hostile to their cause. This should make your tenure as commander far less eventful."

Tormal listened to the High Queen's instruction to extend an olive branch to the eastern nations in a state of absolute amazement. Never, not on a single occasion, had Myrhia displayed the slightest inclination towards compassion or thought to the shape a post-conflict world might assume. This unexpected suggestion that the queen might treat the subjugated population with a degree of benevolence staggered Tormal, while filling him with cautious optimism for the future.

"Gather up the required units and head south to the causeway. You have served me well Tormal, and the moment is fast approaching when those who have pledged fealty will be richly rewarded. Go and prepare for your northern campaign."

Myrhia turned away, indicating that the interview was over, pleased that her simple experiment had succeeded. The gullibility of humans, especially males, never ceased to be a source of amazement for the enchantress. By proffering the smallest promise of hope, it was a simple matter to transform paralyzing fear into pliable servitude. Perhaps it was possible to apply the same approach to the matter of Islena's intractability?

After several seconds, the Queen discerned that her High Commander had not yet departed. Attempting to suppress her annoyance, she turned a questioning glance upon the man and saw that a new shadow of angst had clouded his brow.

"I take it that there is more?" she demanded pointedly.

"Milady, it regards the Jerhia." His perpetually panicked expression intensified. "They appear to have vanished."

"Vanished?" the enchantress echoed, not immediately grasping the tangent of her commander's disquiet.

"We have overrun the entire country, but where are the bodies of the refugees and the fallen? Every settlement and every outpost that we've captured, after the initial day of the invasion, was deserted. Everything that could be transported has been carried off and yet we have found nothing that indicates that a large group of refugees has passed through any given area. I can provide no explanation as to how this might be possible. The Jerhia have virtually faded into the landscape, taking everything of value with them."

The Queen's eyes narrowed speculatively, grasping the gist and direction of Tormal's disquiet. "You're suggesting that the Jerhia may retain the capacity to carry on major military operations if the proper circumstances present themselves?"

"Yes, my Queen. Other than a limited number of skirmishes, we have not destroyed bulwark of their armies. Their soldiers have melted into the foliage, taking their horses and arms with them."

"There is only one place that they could possibly have gone...north to Natzurdan."

"My Queen, there is no indication of an exodus along any of the major roads," Tormal interrupted excitedly, clearly confounded by the mass vanishing.

"The Jerhia are skilled warriors. Their entire culture is predicated upon the concept of rigid discipline. They could easily move without leaving the slightest trace should the situation necessitate absolute invisibility. The other possibility is that they had fled into the supposedly impassable mountains of the west. If they had done so, then the Jerhia is still effectively neutralized as a threat." She pondered the matter for a moment and then instructed "Assign a portion of the cavalry to the task of scouring the western flank. The Jerhia will not confront the Morticants, of that I am certain. They might, however, risk conducting excursions and raids against our supply lines and troop movements as we move north. Until we have secured the second causeway, there can be no disruption in the flow of materials from the east. Your astute observations are timely, Tormal. You will have a prominent role to play in the world of tomorrow."

The Commander beamed at the effusive compliment. Then he bowed and went to make the necessary arrangements. The enchantress watched him depart, her features curdled by an ugly scowl. 'So the Jerhia's card has yet to be played,' she thought with wary bemusement. 'If they wish to hide like burrowing vermin, then I must devise a method of flushing them out.'

"A path of thorns," she whispered and set about making preparations of her own.

2

The long line wound slowly along the narrow, icy ledge, twisting along the mountain and into the raging blizzard above. Swirling winds raised sheets of snow and flung them against the snake of humanity that moved doggedly forward with the mechanical gait of fur clad zombies.

Maroc glanced up at the heavens, cursing silently over what he perceived to be its willful belligerence. His people had endured so much. Why was it now necessary to be afflicted by this damnable storm? The former adjutant to Ossiran, now Maxim Tier Marshall, sighed warily. Such turns of thought were pointless exercises in frustration that paved the road to embittered despair.

'A hollow bit of rhetoric,' he chastised himself, where only a month before, the concept had served as a cornerstone upon which his personal and national philosophy had been founded. That country, as it had existed prior to being defiled by the invader's presence, was gone forever. What would emerge from the ashes of the Jerhia tradition would depend upon the outcome of this present exodus.

The old order had perished the moment that the Morticant had tossed the Maxim Tier Marshall from the causeway, leaving Maroc to take up the tattered threads of his nation's nebulous destiny. He had groped blindly for a solution to its predicament and had quickly realized that stealth and flight were his people's only hope for survival. The once great proprietors of military culture had been reduced to hiding and furtive flight...actions the Maxim Tier Marshall would have considered craven and inconceivable only weeks before.

The painful recollection of his final moments in the Jerhia Capital still plagued his fitful sleep. He had watched impassively as walls of flame had consumed structures which had stood as edifices of Jerhia pride for over twenty centuries. Though he had been bred to conceal his emotion beneath a facade of rigid impassivity, Maroc's tortured heart cringed at the mournful destruction. Knowing that these stone and mortar structures were not just dwellings, but physical repositories for the memory of one of the world's great, definitive cultures, the beleaguered Tier Marshall could almost hear the strident cries of his ancestors above the roar of the flames. The embattled Jerhia had searched the alleyways of his pain to produce a plan for deliverance and discovered that this desperate exodus held their only faint flicker of hope...a frantic trek through one of the most inimical environments in the known world

And how many had died?

The question echoed through the chambers of his frazzled mind like an angry indictment. Despite the Jerhia tenacity and perseverance, hundreds had fallen victim to the rigors of the trek and the severity of the elements. Maroc vowed to carry their memories in his heart until the tale of their grim sacrifice could be inculcated into the fabric of the Jerhia psyche...irrefutable proof that the Jerhia culture would persevere in the face of any threat. His survival would be a living testimony to their refusal to submit to death until the very last of their courage and energy had been expended.

The western range had long been the most inaccessible portion of his country, extending several hundred miles from the Jerhia Capital to the mysterious Hiberas River. Only one major valley pass meandered through the huge expanse of granite and ice, but Maroc had eschewed the safe route in favor of a slower, more arduous path, where even the most determined pursuit would be virtually impossible.

Now, despite Spartan restrictions, food supplies were running low and they had not located the legendary caves of Ithyx. Maroc watched the line of Jerhia trudge past, barely able to hold their gazes when one would muster the energy to raise his or her head. Most of the faces were ashen and drawn with exhaustion...skirting the edges of despondency.

Though he loathed the ability, Maroc had discovered that he had acquired the talent to distinguish between who was likely to live and who would succumb to strain of the horrible ordeal. Perhaps it was only the slightest of limps or the guttering of the vital light in exhaustion-rimmed eyes, but Maroc need only glimpse one of these tiny signs to know that he would soon be consigning another soul to the cradle of the mountains and the cold sanctuary of death.

With each new report of another death, the Tier Marshall could sense himself sinking deeper into a morass of dejection. If Ithyx proved to be the stuff of fantasy, his people would be faced with the prospect of a forced march through the mountains and into the western plains of Natzurdan. tens of thousands would perish in the frigid barrens and those who survived were likely to be stricken by such a traumatic burden of sorrow that they would have been granted a more merciful end had they too perished during the exodus.

Maroc was locked in these apocalyptic contemplations when the first excited buzz coursed through the seemingly endless procession of refugees. The Tier Marshall glanced up, squinting against the tiny speckles of blowing snow, to see the headlong approach of a mounted horseman part the trudging masses like a river. Some greeted his reckless charge with shouts of indignation, while most regarded his coming with a mixture of exasperation and resigned indifference.

The single rider reined his horse to a halt before the Tier Marshall, who recognized him to be a scout in the forerunners. Several such parties had dispersed in all directions, frantically searching for any sign which might indicate that the towering, monolithic rock walls were anything less than solid. There had been no communication with any of these parties...until now. Maroc tried unsuccessfully to master his burgeoning excitement. Instinct informed him that his people were in precariously close proximity to the limits of their endurance and if ever a glimmer of hope was badly needed, it was now.

The horseman dismounted and hurried over to where Maroc stood. In his excitement, he neglected to offer the Tier Marshall the customary Jerhia salute, for which Maroc forgave him, considering the circumstances of his arrival. Assessing the messenger's condition, the red rimmed eyes and the gaunt face, the Commander could only speculate about the hellish ordeal of his ride through the rocky and perilous wilds to deliver whatever news he was now to convey.

"I trust you carry word of great import to risk such a foolhardy charge down an ice-covered slope crammed to bursting with your countrymen?" Maroc asked formally, his face neutral, but his heart thudding expectantly.

The messenger flushed, but still mustered a smiled, though his pallid skin and his sunken features transformed the expression into a lunatic grimace. "We may have located Ithyx."

Maroc reacted to the flat declaration with cautious optimism, knowing that men in the extreme of desperation could conjure the most accommodating illusions on the strength of need alone. About him, he heard the rider's message being repeated, passed from refugee to refugee, all along the length of the seemingly endless column. He could sense the tentative euphoria swelling with each successive recounting and fervently prayed that this soaring elation would prove warranted.

"Describe what came to pass since your party left the main group," Maroc instructed, deliberately trying to calm the messenger toward relating an unembellished account as befitting a Jerhia scout. "Be precise."

The haggard messenger drew a deep breath to steady his jangled nerves, trying to organize the details of all that had happened in recent days into chronological and pertinent order. Maroc, despite his anxiety, allowed the scout to collect his thoughts and organize them into a coherent report. The Jerhia had long before come to understand that exaggeration often rendered information totally useless, if not overtly dangerous. Reports were to be delivered in a dispassionate, analytical manner that removed the speaker from the emotion of his subject, thus making the substance of his report more reliable and subsequently more beneficial.

"The first day we left the main body, the party was beset by a fierce snow storm that reduced our progress to a crawl. The snow eventually relented, giving way to a spell of frigid cold that proved too harsh for many of the other horses and two of the younger adepts. The Captain ordered that all dead be interred and their graves marked. Then we commenced a systematic search of the mountains. On several occasions we came upon hopeful signs, only to be disappointed. This pattern of expectation and subsequent despair persisted for several days and the morale of the party began to decline."

"Had it not been for a rather bizarre incident, we might never have discovered the entrance to Ithyx." The scout's eyes brightened perceptibly at the recollection. "The party had made camp for the night in a small pass. The surrounding mountains were particularly steep and inaccessible, so it became readily apparent that the only route through the peaks would prove exhausting and slow. The Captain dispatched two patrols to scour the surrounding peaks for any sign of an opening that might lead into a deeper cavern. It seemed that the elements themselves were conspiring against us because the significant fall of snow had drastically reduced the odds of locating Ithyx."

"As the small patrols made their way up the northern flank of the nearest mountain, one of the sporadic storms suddenly broke over the pass. The patrols were quickly swallowed up as the heavy clouds descended upon the valley floor seemingly in the blink of an eye. A short time later, a series of strident shrieks swelled above the howl of the wind. Many of the others implored the Captain to allow them to attempt to locate the patrols, but he adamantly refused, insisting that the heavy snows would make the risks unacceptable."

"A cautious, but prudent decision," Maroc noted softly, though his expression conveyed a subtle hint of disapproval.

"Some moments later, a banshee cry tore through the valley. Even through the muting blanket of snow, the sound was piercing...blood-curdling. The cries came twice more over the next several hours, while the blizzard raged furiously around the main party. After hours of helpless frustration waiting for the storm to abate, a solitary figure stumbled back into the camp, spattered with fresh blood and made delirious with exhaustion and traumatized by the terror of the ordeal she had just endured. The Captain attempted to question her at length, but the archer's responses were fragmented and incomprehensible."

"Eventually food and warmth were able to assuage her delirium and she was able to relate the details of what had befallen her party on the upper slopes. She and her two comrades had climbed to the first ledge of the nearest mountain when the storm had suddenly descended upon them. It had become immediately evident that the intensity of the blizzard would prevent any safe retreat, and thus the three began to search for shelter; a small niche or crevice that would provide them some surcease from the snow and murderous, incessant winds."

"Groping blindly through the swirling snow, the three stumbled upon a narrow cleft in a sheer face of granite. The party was composed of two swordsmen and the archer. One of the two men elected to explore the cleft first. He managed to light a small rush torch and pushed his way through the narrow opening. A muffled thud issued from the darkness, summoning the other two, who plunged into potential peril without thought. That rash act of bravery cost the second man his life. The pair had no sooner entered the narrow confines, when he found himself being hefted from his feet and flung along a darkened stone corridor. The archer had the good fortune of toppling backwards as an enormous figure reached for her in the dull light. She described the beast as ghastly...a huge, hulking monstrosity with yellow, malefic eyes and cracked reptilian nails. As it bore down upon her with dripping fangs prominent in the dying torch light, she was assailed by a malodorous stench that drove her to the verge of nausea. Despite the terror, Arminda retained the presence of mind to level her cross bow and fire at the creature...an instinctive reaction that ultimately saved her from a gruesome end."

Maroc smiled, recognizing the name of the Jerhia archer. Naturally, if there was a risk to be assumed or a peril to be confronted, Arminda would inevitably be the first to rise to the challenge. "A woman of unassailable courage."

The scout nodded and continued, "Her bolt flew true and lodged itself in the beast's golden eye. Howling madly, it staggered back into the darkness. She could hear the cumbersome, heavy movements of more of the beasts nearby, but their companion's agonized howl must have made them reluctant to attack. To insure they remained disinclined to attack, Arminda unleashed a volley of bolts into the darkness. If you are familiar with the woman, then you know that she is adept in the way of the sightless warrior. The majority of her bolts found home, thus rousing the shrill cries that reached our ears in the floor of the valley. When the enraged cries of the wounded beasts dwindled to silence, Arminda elected to return from the cave and risk a descent through the raging blizzard." The scout paused briefly and frowned, obviously judging her decision to be ill-advised. "As good fortune would have it, she survived the descent without incident and found her way back to our camp on the pass floor."

"The next morning dawned clear, though mercilessly cold. The Captain decided that exposure was more of a peril than the mysterious beasts of the cave and so he ordered that the entire party to seek shelter in the caverns. There was also the matter of recovering the bodies of the two slain Jerhia. In the entrance to the mountain cavern, we discovered copious quantities of dried blood...further proof that Arminda's bolts had found home. Yet there was no sign of the soldiers. It was then decided that the party would follow the trail of blood. The stone tunnel led deep into the gullet of the mountain. As we descended, the roar of rushing water reverberated through the stone tunnel and eventually we came upon a swift flowing underground river."

"After an interminable trek, the corridor opened perceptibly, it became wide enough that the entire party could have walked abreast had we elected to do so. The river took an acute turn and we suddenly found ourselves confronted by the most amazing panorama imaginable. Stretched before us like a shimmering hallucination lay a virginal paradise that spanned the limit of our vision...a forested wilderness that vanished into the darkness on the opposite side of the vast cavern."

"Ithyx?" Maroc demanded, finally allowing himself to surrender to the faint prospect of hope.

"So it would seem," the messenger replied, a genuine smile of delight breaking over his haggard features. "Our people are saved!"

With this jubilant proclamation, Maroc could feel the stirring of his own nascent optimism evaporate like mist before a noon day sun. Was his people's pride so profoundly and irrevocably shaken that they would rejoice in cowering in the bowels of the earth while the Queen of iniquity held dominion above them? He need only glance at those around him, and see the undisguised light of relief shining in every eye, to know that an aspect of the Jerhia spirit had been extinguished in the wake of their debilitating defeat at the hands of Myrhia's hordes. He wondered glumly if any future victory could redeem that lost sense of national pride or re-ignite the light of implacable confidence that had steeled the collective Jerhia will through a thousand grim conflicts.

Maroc turned away from the scout so as not to betray his sorrow. "A storm is looming over head. Even if you have found the fabled Ithyx, it would be imprudent to travel further. We will make camp near the top of the pass. Tomorrow you shall lead me back to your party and we will investigate your alleged paradise."

The messenger bowed formally and took leave of his High Commander, nonplused by his superior's rather muted reaction to word of their deliverance. As Maroc ascended the icy slope, it occurred to him that no fortress was impregnable. Inevitably, Myrhia would seek them out, even though the Jerhia would pose no further significant threat to her reign of terror. She would be driven by the despot's need to eradicate any perceived threat, simply because it defied her sensibility to do otherwise. If Jerhia was to survive Myrhia's campaign of genocide, it would be necessary to confront her in one final grim battle.

Standing erect beneath a slate gray sky and distantly feeling the cruel bite of the ravaging winds, Maroc experienced a keen moment of epiphany and clearly saw what was required, not only of himself, but of his people as a race. The grim and harrowing road caused him to shudder, but he steeled himself, offering the seemingly indifferent gods a fervent prayer that he would find the fortitude to lead his people through the dark pit of their desolation and despair and restore some semblance of their former glory.

3

The following morning dawned clear and bitterly cold. A furious wind tore out of the north, raising great blankets of snow that effectively reduced visibility to a few hundred feet. Significant accumulations of fresh snow had fallen during the night. Maroc decided to dispatch the cavalry ahead of the others to beat down a path for the weary foot soldiers. The cavalrymen prepared their mounts lovingly, draping them with heavy blankets to protect them against the killing wind...precious living resources that must be protected at all cost.

Preparations complete, the group set out, all harboring the private hope that their exodus had come to an end. Maroc remained behind until he was satisfied that the procession was well under way and then he and a group of fifty cavalry troopers, along with the scout, set out for Ithyx. They rode for the better part of the day, stopping only long enough to rest the horses and take meals.

With each passing hour, Maroc could feel both his expectation and his anxiety increase as tension twisted his stomach into painful knots. It was frustrating not knowing what had come to pass in the world beyond these isolated mountains. Had Myrhia finally realized her ambition of conquest or did the heroic resistance continue...in hopes of some divine deliverance that Maroc privately feared would never come?

Near the end of the second day, the cavalry escort entered the valley to be greeted by the Captain of the patrol. Maroc ascended the slope, stopping to briefly bestow congratulations upon Arminda, and then entered the cleft. Maroc followed the Captain, only half listening to his excited chatter. The twisting tunnel gradually opened up into an underground waterway, which eventually became a breathtaking waterfall.

As the Jerhia party approached the head of the falls, the roar of the rushing water became deafening. Conversation became virtually impossible, for which the Maxim Tier Marshal was genuinely grateful. Speaking would only have impinged upon his ability to absorb the wondrous spectacle unfolding before his disbelieving eyes.

As they came to the precipice over which the falls flowed, the tunnel was suffused by a dull, milky light.

'Impossible!' thought Maroc, considering that the group must be hundreds of feet beneath the solid stone and yet the reality of the growing light would not be repudiated for all its improbability.

His stride began to lengthen of its own accord as the growing circle of light drew him forward like an irresistible siren's song. When he finally emerged onto the ledge, Maroc realized that he was running. The magnitude of the light in the vast chamber of Ithyx was blinding. When his eyes finally adjusted to the brilliance, Maroc beheld a breathtaking tableau of teeming vitally glaring green that was painful to behold in its profusion and lushness of color. The air was redolent with the sweetest of fragrances...an intoxicating blend of Jasmine, lavender, Sandalwood and a hundred others too profuse to mention. After the weeks of exposure to the inimical environment of the western mountains, the fetid air of the vast chamber was cloying and Maroc quickly found himself perspiring heavily and laboring to draw breath. He quickly stripped off his heavy coat and thick wool undergarment.

Sweeping his gaze of a verdant vista the likes of which did not exist anywhere else in the known world, Maroc shook his head at the incongruity of this natural aberration. Ithyx was a rare collaboration of impossible circumstances that would prove to be the salvation of his people.

"The beasts that attacked my patrol must reside here," the Captain admonished. "There may be other predators as well, though we have yet to uncover any evidence of habitation here...human or otherwise."

"As in any new situation, we will have to be vigilant until we learn more about our new environment," Maroc remarked distantly. Ithyx was a reality...an indescribable paradise hidden beneath the most inhospitable land east of the Kingdom of Shades.

'But how...how could such a living marvel come to exist in a place that made a mockery of the very notion of sustainable life?' the Tier Marshall wondered, still unable to reconcile himself with the verdant sprawl of flourishing greenery. Even as his mind posed the question, instinct prompted the Jerhia to glance upward. There, hovering over the living miracle, stretched a crystalline cap of thick ice, hanging as though suspended by an invisible force.

It was difficult to estimate the thickness of the concave ice cap, but Maroc judged that it must easily be fifty feet thick. The genesis of this structure defied logic, suggesting that its creation had been supernatural in origin. It was, in theory, conceivable that this cavern had once been an underground lake and the crystal had formed where the water may have eventually found a point of egress and over interminable centuries, the lake had receded, giving way to a fast flowing river...leaving the ice cap suspended high above the chamber floor.

The theory was plausible...would have been highly probable, had it not been for the presence of the rampant greenery and the inexplicable fact that the ice cap was virtually transparent despite its thickness. Ithyx was not a random creation, spawned by an interaction of near impossible, yet entirely natural conditions. Maroc need only sweep his awe-struck, thoroughly humbled gaze over the vigorously thriving greenery and the delicate wonder that sustained it, to know that Ithyx was the creation of a sentient being, wrought with a specific purpose.

Maroc was moved to the verge of tears by the fragility under which this haven continued to exist. Once, perhaps a millennium ago, the cavern had been a vast expanse of barren rock. Somehow, possibly by the magic of divine manipulation, a thin dome of ice had formed over the recessed plain. From that moment forth, the ice had served as a lens, intensifying the paltry heat of the sun as it had been refracted through the ice. Gradually that ice had thickened, insuring that the magnifying effect would continue. The humidity and heat had combined to create a tropical environment conducive to the growth of the thick vegetation and the result had been this natural Utopia.

In a way, Maroc reasoned, their very presence had defiled this sacred place. If anything was to befall the crystal dome, either natural or contrived, this magnificent artistry would be permanently undone. In that second of insight, Maroc understood that his people could not cower here. Something so glorious must be preserved and protected even at the expense of his precious culture. Ithyx would provide a temporary haven for his people and in return, the Jerhia would sacrifice all to preserve its natural grandeur. Maroc realized that he stood poised at the threshold of a sacred shrine; a miraculous edifice to the precious delicacy of life. The very privilege of beholding such majesty obligated him to the task of opposing anyone who would aspire to plunder its wealth.

Resolutely, he turned to the Captain and instructed, "I charge you with the task of settling Ithyx...of establishing a temporary Jerhia enclave here, while insuring that our presence does nothing to defile it beauty."

The Captain fumbled for a reply, clearly flustered by the unexpected commission. Maroc placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him back to the tunnel. "You should take whatever measures are necessary to insure that our occupation in no way disturbs the natural order and sanctity of this place. We will be tenants here and reverence will govern our every action. When the time comes for us to leave, there must be no discernable sign of our ever having occupied this place. This place must remain unmarred. It is now incumbent upon you to make it so."

The Captain responded with the solemn, formal Jerhia bow. His reward for finding Ithyx would be its trusteeship. The implications of this delegated authority struck him then and glancing toward his superior, he inquired, "You will be leaving us, Tier Marshall?"

Maroc nodded. "The majority of the Jerhia shall remain here. The most able will accompany me north to join the resistance in Natzurdan. The Natzurdan are a noble people, but they lack the skills and sensibilities to mount a stern, sustainable defense against Myrhia's conventional armies. With our combined lore, the Cornerstone Nations must devise a way of neutralizing the High Queen's abominations before they lay the entire continent to waste."

"They seem indestructible," The Captain observed evenly, having witnessed their alien horror first hand in the opening days of the invasion. "Impervious to every type of weaponry arrayed against them."

"Possibly," Maroc remarked noncommittally. "Still, I believe that every force has a counterbalance. It is a natural maxim. The challenge comes in discovering and striking that balance. Whatever the case, we must not yield to Myrhia. Let us pray that our clown assassin has failed in his mission to kill the woman. She may be our only true hope of vanquishing the enchantress and reversing her night of evil.

4

Lorio fled Runesholm under a blind pall of misery and spirit-obliterating despair. Instinct warned her to retrieve her staff and though she had no conscious idea why, the Lamish beauty complied. In the wake of Islena's devastating and unwarranted verbal tirade, the notion of self preservation seemed totally meaningless. She ran into the stormy night, driven by the exigent need to be away from the woman whom she had loved...the woman who had now turned upon her, lancing Lorio's soul with a vitriolic rejection that was as shocking as it was painful. She ran blindly, pushing herself until it felt as though her lungs might burst while her dangerously enervated body throbbed like a rotten tooth. Finally, when the last of her meager reserve of energy had been depleted, she simply collapsed face first into the snow and lay unmoving while a miasma of misery and depression enveloped her.

Denied the hollow requiem of blind flight, Lorio was forced to confront the pain and the incredulity of her situation. What had driven Islena to lash out at her as she did? Were the allegations of her father's treachery anything more than the venomous weaponry of spite? Despite her fervent wish for it not to be so, Lorio was forced to recognize the fact that her father was certainly capable of betrayal if there was profit to be had. Upon reflection, it explained why he had been so vehement in attempting to prevent Islena from guiding the pair to the north. Still, his damnable pride had prevented him from confessing his treachery, instead allowing his own flesh and blood to fall into Myrhia's vicious hands.

Through her tumultuous childhood, with its eternal wandering and its forced flights, she had clung doggedly to the belief that her father loved and treasured her above all things. In the end, his love had proven a hollow and deceitful thing, destined to abandon her in her moment of extreme need. On the heels of that, Islena had cast her adrift but not before subjecting her to a savage denigration that had stripped away her reason for perseverance.

Why? What could have transpired that would motivate Islena to behave as she had? Doraux was a passionate, tempestuous woman. Ultimately, Islena's reasons for her heinous abuse of her only friend were irrelevant. The ties between the two had been permanently severed. As Lorio wandered aimlessly into the purgatorial wilderness of the blighted lands, her senses were accosted by the clamor of a thousand ultimately meaningless questions. The only one of immediate consequence was the matter of where she would go from here. Assessing her options, Lorio wondered if she would even be able to conjure up the will to rouse herself from this spot. Her world had been abruptly and rudely emptied of everything that held any value or meaning for the Lamish beauty.

A furtive sound, shifting and sly, broke her reverie. She lifted her head in time to see a rapid shifting of shadow near the edge of her vision. Lorio instinctively reached for the staff as she sprang lithely to her feet. Like Islena, her sense of survival had been deeply inculcated into the very fabric of her flesh, even though her spirit had suffered blow after debilitating blow.

"The concubine has teeth then." The voice was deep and throaty and unmistakably female. In a flare of terror, Lorio realized who, or more precisely what had found her in the vast, sterile emptiness.

The massive ebony woman emerged from the shadows, a feral grin emblazoned on her lovely face. Her eyes glowed with a ghostly blue iridescence as she extended her arms wide as though in offer of an embrace. In an eruption of argent light, the enchantress materialized out of the frigid air.

"So you've fallen under my hand again," Myrhia remarked dryly, an icy contempt shining in her limpid eyes.

Lorio simply hissed like a cornered cat, somehow mustering the strength to force herself into a defensive posture while raising the quarterstaff to strike should Myrhia's creature attack.

"Where is your mistress?" Myrhia inquired, peering about with interest. "Or could it be that the mercurial Islena has abandoned you to the harsh keeping of the Blighted Lands?"

Lorio's defiant expression faltered, confirming the enchantress' suspicion. "I have no interest in harming you. Quite frankly, you are nothing more than an annoying nuisance and I have far more pressing concerns."

"I have no mistress. I want only to be left alone," Lorio growled truculently, her eyes shifting constantly from Myrhia to her Morticant.

"That isn't an alternative, but perhaps you might consider allowing me to be your benefactress," Myrhia offered with a disarmingly innocent smile of one making a bold, egalitarian gesture.

Lorio spat upon the ground, allowing the crude gesture to serve as her response. Myrhia's expression darkened perceptibly. "Very well, I should have expected as much from shiftless scum." She turned to her Morticant, who grinned in eager anticipation and strode slowly toward her smaller adversary. "Restraint Marla," the enchantress instructed. "She may prove useful."

The hybrid grunted with her eyes set squarely upon her quarry. Neither Lorio nor Marla noticed the small gesticulation that the enchantress made with her left hand as she silently mouthed an ancient incantation...a subtle spell of drawing

The Lamish woman tensed and raised her quarterstaff so that the lethal tip pointed toward the hybrid's abdomen. As Marla glided closer, she dropped her arms and stood utterly erect. Lips fashioning a grin of supreme confidence, she whispered, "Take the first swing, bitch."

Lorio bellowed a furious cry and darted forward, bringing the iron sleeved staff down in a whistling arc. The Morticant raised its head to meet the blow, bolstered by the smug certitude that the weapon would shatter before its unyielding density. To the surprise of both, the blow drove the hybrid Morticant backward. Marla reeled, wildly pin-wheeling her arms to prevent from falling. Her expression reflected both pain and incomprehension. Confused, Lorio still managed to launch herself forward, trying to maintain the unexpected initiative. With terrifying speed, she delivered a fearful barrage of blows, striking the bewildered Marla from every conceivable angle. Overwhelmed by pain, the Morticant was unable to regain her balance or mount a defense. Lorio channeled every iota of her indignation and outrage into her attack, using enmity to fuel her exhausted body.

A tremendous uppercut caught the dazed Marla under the jaw with a resounding crack. The supposedly invulnerable Morticant sagged to the ground with a guttural grunt.

Even with the Morticant prostrate at her feet, Lorio did not relent. Her rampant emotions drove her to inflict as much punishment as her flagging strength would allow. Marla's cries reverberated across the icy expanse with every successive blow, her powerful body convulsed in agony as she attempted to crawl away from this demented woman with the staff that must surely be possessed of some infernal magic.

The hybrid stole a quick glance at Myrhia, wondering why the enchantress had not intervened. As their gazes met in a moment of complete empathy, she divined the hellish twinkle in the High Queen's eyes and realized that the damnable witch had engineered this moment of torment. Growling like the wounded animal that she was, Marla attempted to rise, but the enraged Lorio snarled and drove a heel into her exposed kidney, flattening Marla into the snow.

The Lamish beauty placed her foot on the small of Marla's back. Raising the lethal end of the staff, she paused to scowl at Myrhia and then drove the point into the vulnerable flesh at the base of Marla's skull. Marla loosed a brief harrowing cry and then fell utterly still, save for a series of barely perceptible tremors.

In a final gesture of cold disdain, Lorio placed her foot on the back of the black woman's skull and pulled her weapon free. She was somewhat surprised to find that the weapon withdrew bloodless and dry.

Lorio then threw back her head and howled in an atavistic, wolfish celebration of her triumph. Myrhia clapped in hands in sardonic applause. "A most supreme display of savagery...one that I'm sure Marla would have appreciated had she not been its unfortunate recipient."

Lorio lashed the High Queen with an expression of immutable hatred. Her full breasts heaved from the exertion of the fight, while her dark eyes blazed like bits of anthracite. "If you have the fortitude to face me, I'll kill you as well."

"Your feeble bravado betrays your ignorance, girl," Myrhia laughed, her eyes glittering with amusement. "Still, if you must indulge your fantasy, feel free to commence at your leisure. It's rather tedious that these object lessons are always necessary with your kind,"

Inhaling deeply, Lorio took a misleading step to her right. Then, shifting her body with a liquid grace of a natural fighter, she pounced forward, spinning her quarterstaff so as to disguise the intended direction of her attack. Myrhia watched her adversary, her benign expression unchanging in the face of lethal violence.

Aiming the killing end of the staff at Myrhia's sternum, Lorio darted forward, careful not to allow momentum to pull her off balance. In the space of a heart beat, Myrhia blinked like an illusion and then vanished. The Lamish woman drove her staff into the snow so as to retain her balance, her face becoming a mask of confusion and burgeoning apprehension.

"Your impetuous nature compels you to lash out," Myrhia observed in an unaccountably somber tone, "but are you truly directing your anger at the one who has done you the greatest injustice...or are you attempting to assuage the pain of Islena's abandonment by transmogrifying your suffering into mindless rage and misdirected violence?"

Lorio spun around to find Myrhia hovering near the corpse of her fallen Morticant. "I'll not fall victim to your treachery or your glib tongue, witch."

"Indeed," Myrhia retorted sadly. "Your kind has never been prone to dialogue, preferring senseless violence and bloodshed. Yet, your type invariably lacks the prudence to recognize circumstances where your skills are inadequate to match your presumption."

Lorio responded to the denigration by launching herself forward with a blur of wood and iron, choosing to ignore the tiny voice that admonished against an attack that would inevitably prove futile. This time the enchantress did not simply vanish, instead electing to alter her density to the hardness of a diamond. The staff struck the animated piece of statuary with a resounding crack, sending bolts of white agony shooting along Lorio's arms and into her shoulders. It was only through a massive exertion of will that she managed to retain her grip on the staff.

Lorio uttered a piercing shriek and attempted to pull away, but Myrhia reacted with the speed of an adder. Seizing the staff, she jerked Lorio forward. The Lamish beauty collided with the inured enchantress and reeled backwards, tumbling in a sprawl on her back, the air punched from her lungs. Though stunned by the impact, she tenaciously refused to surrender her grip upon the quarterstaff.

"Your pathetic resistance is a microcosm of the futility of those who presume to oppose me," Myrhia reflected as she gazed down on the exhausted Lorio. "Despite the empty bravado and false gallantry, your ultimate reward will be death and all to what end?"

Shaking with pain and weariness, Lorio stumbled to her feet and raised the staff. Myrhia shook her head in exasperation, though her gaze conveyed a subtle hint of satisfaction, as though Lorio's defiance pleased her. The Lamish woman tottered, but summoned the strength to swing again. Myrhia reached up and caught the staff at the zenith of its arc. Twisting roughly, she broke Lorio's grip and wrestled the weapon away, leaving her opponent helpless and vulnerable.

"Be still," she intoned softly, extending her right palm toward Lorio. An invisible wall of energy picked up the weakened Lorio and thrust her roughly backward. She again found herself on the flat of her back, the breath exploding from her lungs in a painful burst, where she lay totally still. Gazing up at the jeweled vault of the heavens, Lorio realized that she could resist no further.

Myrhia's mouth twisted in a generous half smile as she regarded the ironwood staff. She uttered three words and the durable wood turned to ash and sifted through her fingers. She brushed the last traces of the ash from her hands in oddly pristine gestures and then leisurely turned her attention to the prone figure at her feet. Kneeling beside the helpless woman, she tenderly stroked the hair from her brow. "Do you have any inkling of the power which I command? I could easily have dispatched you with the blink of an eye and yet I suffered your impudence...your arrogant presumption that an inconsequential bit of offal such as you could actually defy me."

"Then kill me now," Lorio growled between clenched teeth, though the mirthful gleam in Myrhia's eyes informed her that she would not likely be granted that particular cold comfort.

"Again you offer the predictable response," Myrhia murmured softly. "Discard your anger, child. I will not harm you." The hand continued to stroke Lorio's brow and suddenly the Lamish woman found herself falling into a light doze. She was awake and capable of conscious thought, but whatever anxiety she felt at being under the High Queen's mercy suddenly evaporated, replaced by an improbable sense of pervasive contentment. Gradually her mental defenses began to erode and she could feel Myrhia's will surmount her own. Slowly, the enchantress began to probe Lorio's thoughts and memories, searching for the random bit of information that would divulge the crux of the relationship that she had shared with Doraux. The enchantress grinned like a psychic voyeur when the images of Lorio's tryst with Islena replayed themselves upon the screen of her captive's mind.

"I'm going to share a confidence with you, wildling...a trust of sorts amidst the ice and snow. The very reason that Islena Doraux cast you off like detritus is the means by which I will bend her to my will." Myrhia leaned closer, until her lips were only inches from Lorio's right ear and her luxuriant coal black curls brushed the Lamish woman's cracked lips. The intoxicating scent of the other woman filled Lorio's nostrils and though she wanted nothing more than to throw the demon off, Lorio felt herself immobilized by the lilting whisper and the gentle caress. "You see dear, your Islena Doraux is a deeply flawed creature and beneath her façade of physical perfection and stolid determination, she is all too aware of this inherent truth. She tries to resist me...not because she reviles me, but rather because I have offered her the opportunity to become the one thing she fears. Yet, it is the one thing she desires in the blackest depths of her heart. When the last bastion of civility crumbles, she will crawl to my feet, knowing that only I can placate that one consuming need. That she would drive you away to certain death at the hands of the elements...or into my waiting embrace, demonstrates just how thin that veneer of civility has worn. Thus you have served me already and now we need only formalize our arrangement."

Beneath Myrhia's incisive probe, Lorio squirmed and writhed as she again experienced the profound emotions that the events of her recent life evoked. Myrhia witnessed her ordeal of rape and torture with stoic indifference. Watching Lorio twist and groan in torment as the wounds of her ravaging reopened, Myrhia gleaned something of potential value...something to be exploited.

Plunging her hands through the walls of Lorio's abdomen as though the muscle and viscera offered no more resistance than air, she located a small germinating spark of life and a smile radiated across her lovely face. "Ah yes, that one small chink in the armor...vulnerability to be exploited in the form of a child."

Bending forward, Myrhia bestowed a tender kiss upon Lorio's slightly parted lips. "I promised that I would not kill you and on that one vow, I will not renege. However, a few modifications might serve to make you more complaisant...and considerably more useful."

Lorio's vacant gaze fell on the enchantress. "I will never betray Islena," she swore adamantly. "I would kill myself before I would allow that."

"And would you kill the child that grows within you even now?" Myrhia inquired the ghost of a smile playing at her full lips. "Does this base lust mean more to you than your own flesh?"

"What?" Lorio rasped, inchoate horror dawning in her dark eyes, banishing her resolve in an instant.

Myrhia leaned forward. "Your time in the dungeons of Perdwick has left you with more than lingering psychic scars. Does the prospect of motherhood please you, Lorio? I have condemned the Lamish race to extinction, but now you shall have the honor of mothering a new race."

Lorio searched the enchantress' eyes for the smallest glint of prevarication and discerning none, rolled onto her side, curled into a fetal position and began to weep. Myrhia cooed in feigned sympathy and rose lithely to her feet. She crossed over to where the lifeless Morticant lay and thrust her hands directly into the center of Marla's chest, casually withdrawing a circular orb. The orb was perfectly spherical and cast strange blue effulgence, while radiating an icy chill.

Returning to the stricken Lorio, she turned the Lamish woman onto her back. Laying a finger onto the carotid artery immediately suspended the flow of blood to the brain and plunged Lorio into unconsciousness. Working quickly so as to prevent brain degeneration and a subsequent loss of faculties, the enchantress literally tore Lorio's heart from its moorings and tossed it, still beating, into the snow.

Then she inserted the orb of regeneration into the vacant chest cavity and watched as the traumatic wounds immediately began to repair themselves. Soon, no discernable sign of Myrhia's brutal surgery were evident and bodily function resumed. Lorio opened her eyes and blinked vacantly for several moments, trying to assimilate the changes had overcome her in the brief time she had spent in the void.

She turned a quizzical glance upon Myrhia, who smiled and explained, "I have assuaged your pain and bestowed a new sense of purpose upon your formerly hollow existence. Do you understand what I require of you, Lorio?"

Lorio pondered this for a moment and then nodded distantly. Myrhia offered her new hybrid an affectionate smile that one might reserve for a favored pet. "The offer that I extended to Marla, I now extend to you; deliver a compliant Islena to me, and after she has consigned the power of the Proclamations to my keeping, she shall be yours to do with as you wish."

Unlike Marla, Lorio did not react with an expression of unbridled avarice. She simply nodded mildly, her brow furrowing slightly. Without further discourse, she rose to her feet and set off toward the northwest without sparing her new benefactress another glance. The enchantress watched as Lorio was swallowed by the darkness and the swirling snow. The evolution of her Morticant sorcery had now progressed to a stage where her creations could be employed to far more versatile ends. The original drones were simple engines of destruction, but the human-Morticant hybrids could serve a myriad of purposes that would make them far more valuable tools...if she could devise a method of fully suppressing the independent inclinations of the human personality. Lorio would function very much as she had before her transmogrification, her fiery nature muted, but otherwise unchanged. She would return to her beloved Islena, this trauma deeply repressed in her subconscious, and carry on much as she had before. Then, at the critical moment when Doraux would be most vulnerable, the hybrid seed would germinate and she would execute the dictates of Myrhia's will.

The enchantress smiled, not intimidated by the delicacy or audacity of the thread that she was attempting to weave. The smile congealed to a frown when her eyes fell upon the wreckage of Marla Holmes. Was she beyond salvage? It appeared that the hybrid's virulent hatred had effected her judgment and responsiveness to command. Despite her unpredictable nature, Marla was a spectacular physical specimen capable of virtually anything once enhanced by the empowered clay of Redian...if her will could be effectively fettered.

Myrhia regarded the lifeless flesh speculatively. Then she extended her arms, palms toward the heavens. Slowly, the body began to levitate and float toward the southwest. Satisfied that she had handled the situation in the Blighted Lands as thoroughly as time would allow, Myrhia closed her eyes and retracted her astral image along its tether.

Moments later, she rejoined her body. The enchantress rose from her day bed and strolled leisurely around the shadowed interior of her sparsely furnished pavilion. One might expect that the most powerful woman and sorceress alive would be quartered in the most sumptuous of accommodations. As in most things, the enchantress defied this expectation. Her quarters were Spartan, even in comparison to a monk's cell. The only furnishings to be found were a day bed and an oak desk upon which sat the high queen's signature breast plate. The enchantress was not inclined to contemplate the parallel between her dearth of possessions and the emptiness of her existence. She had long ago inured her heart against the perils of melancholy.

There was one final aspect of her machinations to bring Islena Doraux to heel that had yet to be initiated and she grinned in anticipation of what should prove to be an amusing diversion. Events would soon require that she return to the Emercian capital, Nalosan, where she could best protect herself against the perils of a protracted absence from her physical body.

She permitted herself a rare sigh and then reclined on the cushions of her bed. Her thoughts drifted back to another time when she had come within arms length of seizing ultimate power. Then her name had been Morgan La Fey and she had been forced to employ guile and manipulation to achieve her ambitions. She had failed on that occasion and had been forced to endure centuries of torment as a consequence. Now, poised upon the threshold of an even more auspicious triumph, she analytically and dispassionately examined the events that had led to her defeat.

"This time I will not be denied the prize," she vowed before mother night, certain that it would be her standing at the apex of the eternal triangle when fate's capricious dice next came to rest.

Chapter Three

1

While Myrhia mapped her strategy for final and unmitigated victory, Gillian and Kevlan led an increasingly uncommunicative Islena toward Othgol, the capital of Metocan. She drifted forward like a docile lamb, neither knowing nor particularly caring what might happen when they reached their final destination. A part of her mind was fascinated by the mystic, almost Gothic beauty of this strange land that could seem at once deserted and yet so strikingly vital. It was hard to envision Myrhia's perverse horror touching such a place.

Islena cursed silently, understanding the dangerous temptation that lay beneath developing empathy for the land and its inhabitants. The seduction sang of forbidden power that lay beneath the mantle of every good intention and Islena steeled herself against its melodic chime, knowing all too well the dark path that capered hidden beneath that soaring aria like the rhythmic beating of a black heart.

2

Nervously, Islena ventured forward and glanced down, dazzled by the giddy view afforded by the lofty heights of her balcony. Clutching the rail for security, she risked a downward glance, peering right through the transparent material of the structure, the effect of which was to create the illusion of floating on thin air, high above the complex arrangement of streets and avenues below.

The visceral thrill of the unique perspective served to temper her bleak dejection. Gazing across the skyline of Othgol, it was easy to believe that she had fallen into a fairy tale. Like the creatures who had erected them, all of the buildings were constructed of various transparent and translucent crystals. Each magnificent edifice rose gracefully toward the misty obscured heavens, disappearing into the unseen sky like graceful specters. With an inimitable artistry, the Metocan had created a paradox of solidity and nebulous beauty.

As wondrous a spectacle as Metocan architecture proved to be, it paled in comparison to the people who had fashioned it. Upon first consideration, the Metocan reminded Doraux of jelly fish with their translucent skin through which ran alien fluids conveyed through clear veins and arteries. Only their large, limpid eyes displayed any hint of vibrant color...every iris a rich chestnut brown without deviation. These alien creatures were possessed of a serenity that the volatile Islena simply could not fathom. Despite the exigency of their predicament, they displayed no outward sign of panic or even the slightest hint of burgeoning anxiety that one would normally expect to find in a people faced with the prospect of imminent invasion. She wondered if much of that unflappable composure could be attributed to the fact that, for them, the danger did not seem immediate. Could it be that these Metocan were bolstered by the conviction that their sorcery was the equal to that of their foe?

Sighing, she returned to her quarters, glancing longingly at the large bed that had been placed here just prior to her arrival. If the imminence of danger was not sufficiently clear, the same could not be said for the Metocan estimation of her importance in the greater scheme of events. As the word of her arrival had reached the Capital, a large escort had been dispatched to lead her to Othgol. She had entered the city of crystal to a reception that was reminiscent of De Gaulle's return to Paris.

It was eminently clear that the Metocan clearly construed her to be a Messianic figure of legend that possessed the means to deliver them from their plight. She had been treated with the respect and deference normally associated with visiting royalty. The revelation that the party had recovered the Jerhia sword only further enhanced the sense of mounting euphoria that had swept the city upon news of her arrival.

With a bitter grin, she wondered how their disposition toward her would change when they learned of her vehement refusal to take up their cause. The discovery would come to pass in a short while and then she would be provided with a truer insight into the Metocan character. Upon their return, both Kevlan and Gillian had been summoned to meet with the Inner Circle of Metocan; an audience that would most likely determine her host's disposition towards her in the inevitable dialogue to follow.

As he had departed, Gillian had glanced at her with a mixture of entreaty and stern disapproval. She had met that stare unblinkingly, refusing to be intimidated by the potential affect his opinion of her pliability might have in determining her future. After a moment, the Jerhia had averted his eyes and left, knowing that Islena remained maddeningly intransigent.

There came a soft knock at her chamber door.

"Come in," she called reluctantly. The door opened and a Metocan serving girl slipped gracefully into her suite of rooms. Islena only assumed that the creature was female, though the natural Metocan appearance was androgynous. The girl approached Islena timidly with an air of deferential servitude that angered Doraux for reasons that were too complex to express. This world seemed to have reduced the average women to the role of serfdom, despite the fact that Myrhia stood as an omnipotent being. Islena found that the operative realities of everyday life in this new world were reminiscent of the ones that governed her own until the last century. Brute force was still the supreme arbiter of power in this world...a sorry truth that all but guaranteed women a position of natural subservience.

The girl came to a halt ten feet from Doraux and peered into Islena's eyes. A poignant image of Isindred, the blind merchant girl from Perdwick, leapt unbidden to her mind. "Would Milady care for food or a bath?"

Islena thought about the type of food such creatures might have to offer and opted for the bath. "More than anything else, I'd be delighted to have a change of clothes."

The girl nodded with a slight bow and retreated from the room with a display of willowy grace that Islena found so fetching. She reappeared seconds later, pushing a copper kettle. Several towels and a plush robe were draped over her thin forearm. She laid these items on a chair and asked Islena to join her near the kettle tub. "I will heat your water to a comfortable level. Place both of your hands in the water and I will raise its temperature to your satisfaction."

Doraux regarded the girl questioningly, discerning no visible means of heating the water, but complied nonetheless. The Metocan plunged a single tiny fist into the water and closed her eyes. A Rhythmic, nearly inaudible murmur filled the air and the water began to grow warmer in apparent response to the girl's arcane invocation.

Doraux pulled her hands clear with a yelp and then turned an inquisitive glance upon the girl, who appeared stricken by trepidation. "Did I hurt you, Milady? I'm so damnably clumsy. Please tell me that you are well!"

Islena placed her hands on the girl's shoulders, hoping to placate her puzzling anxiety. "I'm fine, but how did you do that?"

The girl blinked, clearly perplexed by the question. "Milady, tis a rudimentary matter, really."

"Something that you were taught?" Islena asked sharply, not certain why she felt that the question was one of some gravity. The girl's curious face furrowed. "Not precisely taught, Milady. Each Metocan is born with certain innate abilities. As we grow older, we are taught methods of enhancing and controlling these abilities. The talent lies within each of us. The elders merely assist in bringing them to maturity."

"So every Metocan is capable of doing things such as this?" Islena marveled, inclining her head in the direction of the steaming kettle.

"This and other things, depending upon individual talent," the girl responded and Islena nodded, reflecting on the implications of the girl's revelations. This line of contemplation invited the inevitable question and she blurted, "How can a race capable of such phenomenal feats of sorcery not be able to find a way to defeat one woman?"

"Whatever Myrhia may be, she is not a mere woman," uttered a voice from over her shoulder.

The pair spun about to confront the unseen speaker. The girl bowed deeply upon recognizing the speaker and fled the room without further word. The man watched her go with an expression of mild exasperation upon his face. Then he turned back to Islena. His eyes were a soft blue and his skin had the milky pallor of quartzite. The man radiated placidity and sagacity, tempering his aura of tremendous personal power that would otherwise have been daunting.

He came to stand directly before her, smiling as he fixed her with an honest, frank gaze of appraisal. "I am Morzhian of the Natzurdan."

He extended his hand and after a brief hesitation, Islena accepted his greeting. "I see that I've come at an inopportune moment." he said mildly, stealing a glance at the steaming tub. "When you have bathed and taken food, send for me and I will attempt to answer whatever questions you might have."

Offering Doraux a final disarming smile, he turned and strode from the chamber.

3

Gillian and Kevlan walked toward their interview with the inner circle of the Metocan and the representatives of the other two cornerstone nations, each locked in their personal world of contemplation. Both realized that the assessments they were about to convey would have profound repercussions upon the future of their respective cultures.

As they entered the antechamber, outside of the great meeting hall of Othgol, the two men briefly discussed their impressions of the enigmatic woman upon whom they were about to render judgment during their forthcoming interview.

"I've been to Metocan on two previous occasions," Gillian remarked. "I cannot recall sensing such a pervasive air of anxiety or expectation. It may not be readily apparent to those unfamiliar with your culture, but I can discern an intense agitation lurking behind the composed façade of your elders."

"Indeed, the gravity of the moment...of this particular juncture in time, is echoed throughout the collective consciousness of my people," Kevlan admitted. "Though the keepers of the inner circle attempt to conceal their apprehension, it is impossible to repress the sense of urgency that looms over Islena's arrival. Every Metocan shares this anxiety to some degree. The burden is too immense to be borne upon the shoulders of a few."

Thinking of Ossiran, the Jerhia nodded his concurrence. They lapsed into a contemplative silence for several moments and then Kevlan ventured cautiously, "The woman shows indications of instability, wouldn't you agree?"

"True, but there is also a hint of great strength beneath her surly, yet frangible exterior," Gillian retorted sharply, not certain why he felt the compulsion to defend Doraux. "Who is to judge the intensity of her ordeal? Just surviving the Blighted Lands on foot is a testimony to her fortitude. Her time in the dungeons of Perdwick would have thoroughly destroyed her spirit if she was lacking in mettle."

"Granted," Kevlan concurred neutrally, privately perplexed by the Jerhia's impassioned defense of a woman who seemed to cause him so much consternation when they were together.

"Kevlan, did our eyes deceive us in Runesholm or is the sword genuinely invested with some manner of magical energy?" Gillian inquired, his intense eyes narrowing in speculation.

"The woman and the weapon did interact to produce an arcane force of tremendous efficacy...that much is irrefutable. Whether the sword provided a conduit for the woman's dormant power or it channeled a force through her is a matter for debate. Our scholars may be the only ones capable of answering that question with any degree of accuracy."

Gillian nodded sardonically. Next to mages, the Jerhia harbored an automatic distrust anyone who cited their vocation as a scholar.

Just then, the doors to the central meeting hall swung open and a Metocan, attired in the Regalia of the Inner Circle, hurried into the antechamber.

"The inner circle is prepared to receive you," he declared officiously and gestured for the two men to follow. The two entered the ancient hall that had been built some thirty five centuries before and paused at the threshold, momentarily mesmerized by the grandeur and scale of its interior. The vaulted ceiling rose majestically into a huge crystal dome, the apex of which housed a massive sphere which caught the natural light, refracting it into a thousand different colors that danced lithely over the floor some eighty feet below.

"That absorbing sphere is representative of the Icon that is said to adorn the staff of Metocan," one of the interviewers explained as he moved to greet the two. "I am Inos, Elder of the Inner Circle of Elders."

He then proceeded to introduce the other members of the Inner Circle and though Gillian was not prone to displays of diplomatic pageantry, he offered the group a formal bow, knowing that he was in the presence of the elite gathering of the most esoteric culture of his world. When the culminating battle of this grim war finally came, it would be the Metocan who would give the final and sternest opposition to the enchantress...or so Gillian had come to suspect. These were men and woman whose collective knowledge and might were not to be trivialized.

"I am honored to be admitted," the Jerhia acknowledged solemnly. Inos gestured toward a venerable gentleman in an unadorned, but meticulously neat woolen robe. "I trust that you are acquainted with Morzhian of the Natzurdan."

Morzhian crossed over to the smiling Jerhia and grasped his shoulders firmly. "The clown prince of the Jerhia has not aged a day."

"Ah, but still wise enough to recognize flattery when he hears it," Gillian replied with a fond laugh. In that moment of shared levity it occurred to him that it felt good to be away from the pall that the morose Islena Doraux seemed to cast over all in her proximity. There was a time, during their flight from Runesholm, when the Jerhia feared that her sinking despair might be infectious.

"There are rare instances when the truth and flattery actually intertwine," Morzhian commented wryly. "I'm not the least surprised that you've succeeded in wresting the woman away from the enchantress."

"True, but rejoicing might be premature." Gillian's brow darkened as the gravity of their present situation quickly extinguished that brief spark of good humor.

"Premature?" Morzhian echoed, exchanging a quick glance of concern with Inos.

"Before I elaborate, I must have news of my homeland. Rumors abound on the eastern continent."

The Natzurdan frowned, reluctant to play the harbinger of doom. "Jerhia has fallen to the High Queen. I wish it was not so, old friend, but it is and there is no way to soften that bitter blow."

"Fallen?" Gillian murmured incredulously. "How?"

"The Imperial army has completely overrun the county. All organized resistance has ceased," Inos disclosed softly.

"That's impossible. The Imperial army would be no match for the Jerhia on our own terrain," Gillian exclaimed, shaking his head in negation.

"The invasion was spearheaded by entities the enchantress refers to as her Morticants; seemingly invincible creatures with unlimited capabilities that are subservient only to her. Nothing in the Jerhia's repertoire of conventional tactics could forestall their advance. Rather than give futile opposition, the Jerhia prudently elected to vanish into the mountains," Inos explained, his tone clearly conveying his incredulity over the stunning alacrity of the Jerhia demise.

"I believe that I've encountered one," Gillian said thoughtfully, recalling the strange ebony being which had nearly killed Islena at Runesholm. "How far have these abominations progressed?"

"Natzurdan earth lore has managed to halt Myrhia's advance at their southern border, but the respite is temporary," Morzhian interjected. "The particular lore we are using is especially enervating and cannot be sustained for a long duration. When these obstructions come down, Myrhia's entities will run rampant through Natzurdan. There is little to be gain by sweetening our situation with false optimism, Gillian. Our predicament is dire in the extreme."

"Succinctly put," Inos remarked somberly. "It is imperative that this woman find and empower the proclamations."

Glancing briefly to Kevlan, Gillian muttered, "If our only hope is contingent upon the woman, then we find ourselves treading the razor's edge."

"You hinted at as much," Morzhian replied quietly. "Perhaps it is time that you elaborate."

Gillian was cognizant of the subtle shifting of mood that had darkened the ambiance of the moment. The time for preamble had passed, having relented to a critical serious interview where every remark would be analyzed, every inflection considered, weighed and acted upon. The Jerhia was aware that his characterization of Islena Doraux would serve as a basis for formulated strategies and though he denied as much, his depiction would mean her possible condemnation should the situation appear to warrant it. This prompted the further realization that he still held her life in his hands and had since the first moment he had set eyes upon her. In effect, he was been the knife constantly poised at her unsuspecting throat, just as Ossiran intended him to be.

"Islena Doraux is vehemently opposed to becoming involved in our conflict with Myrhia. Nor does she have any intention of empowering the Icon."

"Can you be certain that this sword is the Jerhia Icon?" Inos pressed excitedly.

Gillian shrugged, suddenly noncommittal. "I'm afraid that I'm not versed in the specifics of the lore. There are Jerhia scholars who could confirm the sword's legitimacy, but I am not among their ranks. I can testify that the sword does possess extraordinary power...a power that is frightening in its magnitude...and seems to respond directly to the woman's touch."

He then proceeded to describe the events that led to the moment where Islena had first taken up the sword. As he recounted Jackylwyn's shocking, cataclysmic demise, Gillian could discern burgeoning excitement amongst the Inner Circle's members. "Perhaps it would be easier if you were to see the weapon."

Kevlan came forward and laid the wrapped Icon upon the table before the elders. The occupants of the room crowded around the table as the young Metocan unwrapped the weapon with only a slight hint of wariness.

The ingrained rubies captured the light and reflected it toward the apex of the domed interior where it was absorbed by the large, ornamental sphere. Like the eruption of a nova, the sphere blazed with a blinding light that quickly suffused the entire vaulted chamber with a vermilion glow.

Islena Doraux stood peering out over the skyline of the city when her body abruptly stiffened, her hands reaching out and locking onto the balcony rail lest she plummet over the edge. Deep in the sequestered chambers of her being, a single spark of power erupted into life in response to the icon's entreaty...a strident call that only she could hear.

"Fools!" she whispered to the solitude, knowing that they were entertaining notions of tampering with forbidden sources of power that was best left dormant. The flame abated and she began to relax, the tension gradually ebbing from her body. She ventured a glance over the precipice, wondering how it would feel to commit herself to the cold mercy of gravity. Fetching a mournful sigh, she stumbled back into her chamber's interior.

In the great meeting hall, Morzhian and Inos exchanged identical expression of wonder. Finally, the Natzurdan suggested, "Shall we interpret this as a sign of the weapon's validity."

Inos concurred with a tight nod. "The Icon's aura of puissance is undeniable, though it languishes in a recumbent state and will do so until the woman gives in to the inexorable imperative of destiny."

"By the Gods, we have not founded our hope upon a myth," Kyros, a senior elder of the Inner Circle, intoned his voice tremulous with fervor. He ventured closer and gingerly ran his fingers along the finely-honed blade with the air of one who finds himself in the unexpected presence of absolute divinity.

"Before you allow your jubilation to surmount good sense, you must realize that the Icon is utterly worthless as an instrument of magic. Its dormant power can only be activated by this one woman who adamantly refuses to take it in her grasp, much less unleash its fury in defense of our world," Gillian admonished.

"But surely she must see the gravity of our need?" another of the Metocan's demanded indignantly.

"The woman has been subjected to an unspeakable ordeal. She is a stranger to this world and has no desire to become embroiled in its conflicts. Perhaps her perspective is unrealistic, but thus far, she steadfastly refuses to change her mind. She wants only to be returned home...as unrealistic as that desire might be."

"We lack the means to send her home. Even if we possessed the required magic, the enchantress would simply reach across time and pluck her back," Inos noted, beginning to grasp the dilemma created by Islena's intractability. "Ironically, her only hope of seeing her own world again lies through vanquishing Myrhia and embracing the power of the Proclamations."

"We must find the means to compel her to assist us," Kyros persisted. "Personal dispositions and proclivities must not be allowed to supersede the common good. Once the Natzurdan barriers fall, Myrhia's juggernaut will grind us all to bone meal. This woman embodies our only slender hope. We cannot allow her the luxury of simply refusing our plea."

"You're suggesting that we forcefully compel her into fighting a woman whom we proclaim to be the embodiment of evil? Shall we threaten her with torture, or death, should she persist in her refusal to take up our cause? Better yet, should we offer a positive enticement...the treasures of the kingdom in return for this single service? There is a subtle line of distinction between the predator and the victim, good and evil. Shall we cross those lines in the name of righteousness or some imagined moral authority?" Gillian demanded hotly, knowing that desperation could breed monstrous actions, even in inherently good men and women. The cruel and bitter irony of having fate conjure a savior only to have that savior reject the summons could well drive the council to unconscionable methods of compulsion.

"A high flown, sanctimonious sermon from the man who was dispatched to kill the woman," Kyros retorted sourly. "Had not your leader resorted to sanction of the innocent to satisfy the Jerhia agenda with scant little consideration for the opinion and interests of his avowed allies?"

"Ossiran was afflicted with tunnel vision. He allowed his ignorance and fear of things beyond his sensibilities to obscure his common sense," Gillian remarked calmly.

"We agreed upon a course of action and he appointed himself the trustee and ultimate violator of the accord. Are we to trust his disciples to provide guidance on the best approach to dealing with this stubborn woman?"

"Enough!" Inos interrupted harshly. "Though misguided in this matter, Ossiran was irrefutably honorable. Kyros, your denigration of the Jerhia is indefensible. They have sacrificed more than any in this struggle with the despot. Time may yet prove Ossiran seemingly impetuous actions to have been prudent. If the Proclamations are the repository we suspect them to be, perhaps we do court disaster beyond all imagining. Who is to say that, in our desperation to find a means to oppose the enchantress, we will not unwittingly loose even darker of horrors upon the unsuspecting world...and whatever worlds might exist beyond our own?"

Kyros wagged his head in vexation and averted his eyes. Gillian stood with a slight half grin playing at the corners of his generous mouth, though his clenched jaws betrayed his own anger at the Metocan's uncharacteristic truculence.

"I would think that the enchantress would be pleased to learn of this discord," Morzhian observed. "While we waste precious time casting aspersion at each other, our defenses grow steadily weaker. Time is shorter than any of you realize and it is imperative that we devise some plan for concrete action. Gillian, you told us that the woman adamantly refuses to aid us in our struggle; that she will not take up the Icon against a woman who has vowed to destroy everything that she holds sacred lest she submit. What explanation did she offer for this seemingly irrational attitude? Does she not comprehend the ultimate consequences of her refusal...consequences that will most certainly reverberate in her own world as well as ours?"

Gillian recalled Islena's tirade in the Blighted Lands. There had been a manic, despairing edge to her voice as she raged. The Icon had genuinely horrified Doraux. "The exact nature of her resistance is not an easy thing to qualify. On the surface, it would appear that she regards such power as vulgar and insufferably corrupt, but I would add that to ascribe her attitude solely to aversion might be a gross oversimplification. I would also suspect that there is an element of fear beneath her trenchant refusal."

He glanced to Kevlan for confirmation and the young Metocan only nodded thoughtfully.

"Islena Doraux is the most complex human being who I have ever encountered; a living paradox of fear and bravery, strength and weakness. She has survived traumas which would have killed a lesser person a dozen times over and she has emerged invariably stronger. Physically, she is a marvel without parallel in our world. Yet, despite this phenomenal capacity to endure, the woman seems to gravitate between resigned indifference and pernicious despair. Everything that she values seems irretrievably lost to her. If hope deserts her, it is likely that she will sink into a morass of melancholy from which she will not be lifted."

"Who in this world has not suffered a grievous loss in these damnable times?" Kyros observed venomously, though his rancor seemed attenuated by some more compassionate emotion.

"As you say," Morzhian reflected thoughtfully. "This woman, however, is not of this world. We lack the facilities to return her to her rightful place. Whether we should triumph or be vanquished, her situation remains fundamentally and bleakly unchanged."

"Then we must convince her that there may be a way to send her back, contingent upon her lending us assistance, of course." Brazol another of the Inner Circle members, suggested, "Necessity may require this one deliberate lie...to save our people and our world."

"This woman is extremely suspicious of everyone around her," Kevlan observed. "Also, she is naturally perceptive enough to discern a deliberate fabrication. If there is a way to enlist her aid, it is through honesty."

"Can she be swayed?" Inos asked bluntly. Despite his mystical disposition, the Metocan had always possessed a pragmatic nature and the ability to cut through the superfluous to the salient heart of any matter. This, combined with his confident and decisive nature, had led him to the mantle of leadership in Metocan as much as his inherent mastery of the various arts of sorcery.

Kevlan considered the query, struggling for the words to articulate his personal fear, while still not certain if giving them voice was the proper course to follow. "I do not profess to have a keen insight into the human psyche, nor do I presume to debate intellectual concepts with such as are assembled here, but you have asked me to voice an opinion and so I shall. In all candor, this woman frightens me. There are subtle intimations of some terrible flaws in her nature; a defect that vitiates the external projections of strength which have so impressed my Jerhia friend. I suspect that this woman is partially cognizant of her weakness and refuses to risk exposure. It may be more precise to say she fears the consequences of exposure."

"And what is the nature of this weakness?" Morzhian prompted, his eyes narrowed in a rare expression of anxiety.

"This is only personal speculation, but I suspect that she fears corruption through power," Kevlan concluded softly, his expression becoming pensive.

"That would explain her violent aversion to the sword," Gillian remarked with a concurring nod. "When she first unleashed the sword's power, there was a malefic glint in her eyes. She was at once attracted to and repelled by the devastation that she had wrought and it appeared that she was perilously close to succumbing to the icon's fury. There was a brief moment when she very nearly allowed its power to consume her."

"Precisely," Kevlan agreed. "And the darker side of that duality frightens her and explains why she refuses to take up the sword against Myrhia. Perhaps frightened is inadequate to capture the intensity of the emotion this woman feels in regard to the icon."

Inos took up the thread of the thought. "There is a certain dreadful logic in the impressions you've conveyed. The enchantress has proven possess be a superior intellect. Impeccable judgment has guided her every action in the conflict thus far. The ancient prophecy declared that the one who would empower the Icons would stand as despite's bane."

"We are all aware of the scriptures," Kyros snapped irritably, not immediately grasping the implications of Inos' stating of the obvious.

"The woman has activated the sword, which we all agree is the legitimate Jerhia Icon, and thus it follows that she is the child of augury," Inos replied patiently.

"We have only the word of a novice and a non practitioner as to what occurred at Runesholm," the surly Metocan countered, "Is it not possible that the pair misinterpreted what they witnessed or that what happened was nothing more than an anomaly?"

"Anything is within the realm of possibility, Kyros, but the force reduced human flesh and bone to ash and cracked stone walls which were ten feet thick. I would hardly label such efficacy an aberration," Kevlan contradicted. The elder Metocan glared at the novice but elected not to respond. Inos nodded thoughtfully and took up the thread of his previous argument. "If the enchantress has reached the conclusion that Islena Doraux is the one of prophecy, it would be folly on our part to not accept that she is correct. We are left with little choice but to accept the premise that this woman has means to unlock the power of icons.

"In time it will become necessary to induce the woman to reprise her awakening of the sword," Morzhian said, mildly vexed by this petty bickering. Kyros had long been a sour, mordant being, a rarity for a Metocan, but he was being especially difficult at a most inopportune moment.

"For the time being, let's proceed on the notion that both the woman and the sword are what prophecy predicted that they would be. Inos has raised an interesting point...Islena is supposedly Myrhia's bane and yet the enchantress violated the laws of time and space to summon her to this world. This is not the action of a woman who has demonstrated herself to be a chillingly precise and effective strategist. If we concede that the enchantress is not one who is prone to gross miscalculation, it can only mean that there is some aspect of her stratagem that we do not grasp."

"Naturally, killing the woman would be the surest way of guaranteeing that she would not fulfill the prophecy," one of the others pointed out.

"Were it the case, your explanation would prove most logical," said the Jerhia. "But the woman related to us how the enchantress resorted to the most despicable means of duress to induce Doraux to seek out the Proclamations on her behalf."

Gillian's revelation produced a clamor in the chamber.

"That is madness," one of the others protested as though the notion was an affront to the collective intelligence of the Inner Circle. "Why would the enchantress knowingly work toward her undoing?"

"Again, she wouldn't, of course," Morzhian observed flatly, the glimmer of crystalline revelation dawning in his eyes. "It could well be that the enchantress has discerned a flaw in the prophecy, one that will allow her to gain control of the Proclamations and accrue the power that such possession would entail. It may well be that Myrhia has the leverage to utterly subjugate Islena's will to her own."

"And that might further explain the woman's reluctance to seek out and empower the Icons," Inos concluded, his keen gaze sharpening.

"Without the power that the Proclamations hold, Myrhia's triumph is inevitable," Brazol offered softly, articulating the culmination of the collective's worst nightmare. "Our only hope for deliverance is beset by doubt and immobilized by fear."

Morzhian smiled thinly. "Still, we must realize how tenuous, how utterly bold and perilous Myrhia's strategy really is. Only she would have the audacity to look to her bane as a means to realize the fulfillment of her iniquitous ambition. Under less desperate circumstances, one could almost admire her audacity." He shook his head, his gaze sweeping over all of those assembled. "Our time is short. My countrymen will not be able to sustain their defenses for much longer. When the barrier ultimately collapses, her monsters will sweep through Natzurdan like a scythe through wheat, and yet the matter of the woman requires delicacy and diplomacy. Until the question of our guest's ambivalence has been resolved even the Icons are of no value to us."

"We must act quickly to convince the woman," Inos agreed. "If she still refuses to comply, then we must take measures to insure that she does not fall into the hands of the enchantress. Even if our defeat proves inevitable, we are still obligated to contain the High Queen's evil to one world."

Kyros stood...his turbulent eyes ablaze with indignation. "I care not a whit for the woman's fragile emotional state. I say that she be brought before the council and forced to explain her damnable intransigence in the face of calamity. If she is afraid that Myrhia will hold her in thrall, I would hear it from her own lips."

"That is precisely the kind of inflexible, confrontational attitude that will insure her continued intransigence," Gillian barked, angered by the Metocan's persisting belligerence. Beneath his anger there lay a sense of guilt. Ultimately, he would be responsible for whatever ill fate might befall the woman if the council decided she was a liability.

"Gillian is correct," Morzhian concurred. "The woman must be dealt with carefully. I will speak to her privately and attempt to assess her willingness to join our cause. Until we learn more about whom or what Islena Doraux might be, we cannot begin to know how best to conscript her to our cause."

All present nodded their heads in agreement. Even the irascible Kyros raised no objection though his displeasure with the course that the meeting had followed was readily apparent. As the assembly filed from the hall, Inos and Morzhian requested that Gillian and Kevlan remain behind. When the others had departed, Morzhian began, "On behalf of our two countries, we would like to express our gratitude for what you have both achieved in leading the woman from the shadow of the witch. Gillian, you especially deserve to be commended for achieving what seemed a virtual impossibility."

The Jerhia shrugged, accepting the commendation with his customary sardonic grin. Something that Islena had once said suddenly occurred to him and the smile faded from his lips. "Morzhian, it is essential that you understand the extent to which this woman is distraught. She vowed that she would kill herself rather than open her soul to the power of the Proclamations. She fears the power, but she also fears what she might become should she succumb to what she perceives to be its more odious enticements."

Morzhian absorbed this thoughtfully. "Then it is time to discover if her fears are founded."

4

The expected summons came early the next morning. Morzhian had been pacing nervously when a messenger informed him that the woman had requested that he join her in her solar. Dressing in his official regalia, a humble dun-colored robe with green piping at the sleeve, he hurried along the eerily quiet corridors of the Metocan Capital Palace. His anxiety swelled with the knowledge that this meeting was critical to the future of his war-ravaged country. His disquiet was further exacerbated by his private realization that all could well be lost if Doraux persisted in her refusal to accept the role that destiny had scripted for her.

He knocked softly on the rich oak door and the woman allowed him entry, stepping back and ushering him over the threshold with a wan gesture that hinted at severe dejection. Unlike the previous day, when Islena had appeared ashen and drawn by exhaustion, the woman before him was an ethereal vision. Her sparkling green eyes regarded him with a neutral interest. Gone were the course trousers and tunic, replaced by a sleeveless blouse and a long flowing black skirt common to the women of Metocan. Morzhian's eyes were predictably drawn to the sculpted muscles of Islena's arms and shoulders. The improbable and exotic combination of beauty and strength touched a cord in the Natzurdan elder's heart that he was certain had long since been extinguished.

Her aura of strength and capability was a palpable thing, though the Natzurdan suspected that the woman was oblivious to the efficacy of her physical presence. Her tawny skin shone in the subdued light of her drawing room and the cruel majesty of her high cheekbones was well near hypnotic...an elegance of form that could lead the observer to gape in wide-eyed wonder.

Islena offered the old man a tentative smile and beckoned him to sit in one of the two chairs that had been arranged near the hearth that had been lit to ward off the pervasive chill of the Metocan night. She sat in the opposite chair, demurely crossing her legs as she watched him. Even through the soft material of the skirts, Morzhian was aware of the sweeping symmetrical curves of her legs. The woman's smoldering, yet oddly absent-minded sexuality could make concentration an arduous task for any red-blooded male, though Morzhian was well past the age where he would be affected by such things. Still, physical beauty was one of the Mother's precious gifts to the world and Islena Doraux was a beguiling personification of the mother's artistry

'An exquisite jewel to inspire and deliver a realm from darkness,' he thought, knowing that he had been enchanted by this mysterious creature and suspecting that he was not alone. He began to understand the motivation behind Gillian's impassioned defense of the woman.

"I trust that you have been adequately provided for...that you've been made comfortable?" he fumbled, surprised by the tremulous edge to his normally placid voice.

"These quarters are fine," she replied evenly, her intense gaze never wavering from his face. "In comparison to what I've been forced to endure, these lodgings are palatial. The pleasure of a warm bath was well worth the rigor of the journey."

"Islena, I promised yesterday that I would be candid and answer whatever questions you might have...about the situation in which you now find yourself."

"I imagine that I'm the subject of discussion these days."

Morzhian grinned and Islena relaxed marginally. The man possessed clear blue eyes and an open face that appeared disarmingly honest and invited implicit trust. "Your presence has attracted a good deal of attention. Your coming has been anticipated for more than a millennium."

"More talk of prophecy," Islena muttered abrasively, her tone fraught with derision.

"Augury can be tiresome I suppose...especially when one is forced to carry its imposing burdens. May I ask how you came to be familiar with the prophecy?"

"Actually, it was Myrhia who first told me about my supposed role in this nightmare." This disclosure was delivered with a humorless grin which the Natzurdan did not return.

'Then it is true, the enchantress really has discovered a flaw in the prophecy, but what could it possibly be?' the Natzurdan thought. The idea that Myrhia would go so far as to familiarize Islena with the specifics of the prophecy lend definite credence to Gillian's contention that she had found a way to circumvent them.

"The Inner Circle of Metocan met with both Gillian and Kevlan to discuss your situation yesterday. Gillian related the astounding details of what transpired at Runesholm. These events go a long way toward substantiating an important aspect of the prophecy. Yet, the Jerhia also informed the council that you emphatically refuse to take up the sword to oppose your sworn enemy. Is this so?"

"Yes," Islena replied without equivocation, her exquisite green eyes flinty and unflinching. Morzhian pursed his thin lips, discerning the steel of her intransigence.

"I must confess that your refusal is perplexing. Gillian has described some of your hellish ordeal. After such degradation, I would think that you would be eager to exact some measure of retribution for the grievous wrongs that have been done to you."

"The only thing that I really care about is going home to my family...to my world." Now Islena's eyes shone with an immutable sorrow, exposing the vulnerability of which her two companions had spoken. "I have two sons and a husband, all of whom have no idea what's happened to me. Even if I was able to wrap my hands around the bitch's throat and strangle the life out of her...which I would dearly love, I assure you...I would be no closer to rejoining my family. In fact, that would probably preclude any possibility of reuniting with them, would it not?"

Morzhian nodded in commiseration. "In all honesty, it is entirely possible that Myrhia's death would obliterate your only hope of returning home. I have no way of knowing. You must realize that Myrhia is an esoteric creature. The origins and extents of her power are mysteries to us. We know only that she is virtually invincible and that the sorcery at her disposal is vast and terrible."

"Gillian and Kevlan both admitted that your countries have no way of returning me to my home," Islena interjected, scrutinizing Morzhian closely.

Morzhian spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness. "They are being truthful. By bringing you here, the enchantress has violated what were thought to be unbreakable laws. We haven't even the most rudimentary understanding of how she achieved this. In anticipation of your next question, I might add that I do not know how Myrhia made the determination that you were the one whose coming had been foretold in prophecy."

Islena suddenly slammed her fist down upon her thigh, her green eyes flashing angrily. "Of all the people whom I've met in this wretched world, you seem perceptive enough to realize how utterly asinine all of this prophecy nonsense is. Do you not see the glaring inconsistency in this entire scenario?"

"I'm afraid that I don't," Morzhian replied carefully, his gaze drawn to the powerful contraction of Islena's biceps and triceps. In the full thrall of her agitation, Doraux appeared capable of crushing stone or inadvertently leveling a wall with a single casual blow.

"You said that Myrhia was the only one powerful enough to pluck someone from other places and times, right?"

The Natzurdan nodded thoughtfully. Doraux smiled, unaware that she had even done so, as though she had scored a particularly clever point in a debate. "If I was the person prophesied to destroy her, she could just as easily leave me where I was, safe in the knowledge that she had nothing to fear as long as I was on the other side of the dimensional doorway or whatever the hell it is that separates our two worlds. In that respect, your bit of fortunetelling can't apply to me. There is no logic in bringing me here if I'm destined to destroy her."

Morzhian pressed a long finger to his lips, impressed by the acuity of the woman's thought process, even though her logic was rooted in naiveté. "Your argument would prove most compelling were it not for the failing that it doesn't consider the enormity of Myrhia's ambition or ego. She is a supremely confident woman who believes that it is within her power to contest the dictates of fate. It has been foretold that you will gather and animate the power of the Proclamations and she covets these Icons above all things. In our discussions, we have concluded that she must perceive a flaw in the augury of the Sacred Book and has elected to gamble everything on her certitude that she can exploit that flaw."

"Why does she even need the bloody Proclamations? You've already admitted that she is going to defeat your countries without them. What's more, I offered her the sword at Runesholm, even threw it at her so that she would take it and leave me in peace." She paused to reflect on the dreadful moment, clearly perplexed by her tormentor's refusal to claim the very thing she supposedly coveted. "She fled from the weapon as though it frightened her to death."

Morzhian shuddered at the woman's impetuousness. "The Proclamations will eradicate all of the barriers that presently confine her to this particular place and time. She would be able to move freely throughout whatever worlds lay beyond this one, plundering their resources in an endless campaign of conquest...accruing greater power with each successive victory. The Icons will allow her to defeat the keepers who maintain vigil at the portals. These way keepers protect the sanctity of each individual and unique reality. This is why Myrhia is prepared to go to such inconceivable lengths...to actually bring her fated bane into her reality. The gamble is perilous in the extreme, but the prize is absolute dominion. Myrhia needs the Proclamations to satiate her boundless ambition."

Morzhian paused, his tongue feeling very much like dried parchment in his mouth. "Might I have some water?"

Islena nodded and went off to retrieve an earthen pitcher that had been set upon her night stand. As she glided across the room, the old man was struck by the litheness of her movements, admiring the fluid grace which governed her every step. The Natzurdan accepted the water and drank deeply. When he had slaked his thirst, he set the glass aside.

"As to why Myrhia refused to accept the sword...that too has a credible explanation. The Icons were conceived as tools of purity. A creature of evil might be destroyed was it to take up any of the three Icons." Morzhian paused. "This is why she so desperately needs you. You are a crucial means to an end."

Islena shook her head in utter disgust, pacing about the room like a caged animal. "Is there more?"

"Nothing...other than to say that our need for your help is exigent in the extreme."

Doraux peered down upon Morzhian, her gaze direct and appraising. "Why should I trust you? How do I know that you are so desperate for my help that you actually possess the means to send me home, but simply will not because you regard me as your one slim chance for survival? Everyone deceived me since the first moment that I came here. Gillian admitted that he was sent to kill me."

The last phrase was delivered in tones of rising hysteria that Morzhian sensed concealed Islena's desperation and fear. "If you believe nothing else, Islena, please believe that the man, who dispatched Gillian to kill you, acted on his own initiative. We only wished that you were taken away from the enchantress, but Ossiran privately preferred a more permanent solution...a path of resolution that would have culminated in our total obliteration had Gillian been a man of different convictions."

Islena regarded the Natzurdan, her face taut with anger. Morzhian felt pressured to meet the incisive gaze, but knew that, should he flinch, her trust would be lost. Finally, her expression softened and she sighed morosely. "Perhaps your Ossiran was not far from wrong when he said it would be for the best."

She turned away, her façade of defiance crumbling as she did. Not wanting to embarrass Doraux in a moment of weakness, Morzhian waited while Islena struggled to regain her composure. After several moments of tension fraught silence, she turned back to the Natzurdan. "Morzhian, you seem like a pragmatic and even minded fellow, so I must try to make you see that I cannot do what you require of me."

"And I must ask Why not? In light of all that you have learned and all that you have been forced to endure, why do you remain determined not to oppose Myrhia?"

"When I held that sword, that fucking sword," Islena rasped and her body shook with revulsion. "And felt its power surge through me, I understood the meaning of vulgar and poisonous because that kind of power is both. My first instinct was to kill, to lash out and inflict as much suffering and misery as had been heaped upon me...without discrimination."

"An understandable reaction under the circumstances," Morzhian remarked uncomfortably.

"No!" Doraux flared. "When one has access to that kind of power...and only a God ever should...striking out in mindless vengeance is totally unacceptable. If fate has decreed that I am the one to wield this power, then it has made a horrendous mistake. I'm too...too volatile and prone to react from raw emotion and not deliberation." She stopped short of speaking of the recumbent dark core that pulsed deep in the mire of her soul. "You have to understand what it is that you are tampering with, Morzhian. It is impossible to describe the destructive power of that weapon. If what I've read and heard is remotely close to the truth, an individual Icon only represents a fragment of its amalgamated power. The wrong person with that kind of power would make the enchantress seem like a fairy tale villain or a spoiled, petulant child throwing a tantrum."

The Natzurdan grimaced, sensing their one chance for deliverance slowly slip away. This woman's refusal was deeply entrenched and he could conceive of nothing that would compel her to recant. Still, he recognized Gillian's correctness in declaring that Doraux was not the kind of woman who would respond to coercion. If Islena Doraux was to change her mind, it would be of her own volition. The trick would be to foster an attitude that would be conducive to a change of heart.

Morzhian stood and extended his hand to Islena, who accepted it with a firm shake. "I'm genuinely sorry for all of the shameful injustice that you've endured. I wish that we could provide you with safe passage home, but we cannot. What we can do is guarantee your safety and comfort as long as we are able to protect our own. Metocan will be the last line of defense and time may soon come when even this mystical land is not a safe haven. It's best to harbor no illusions in dark times such as these, so I will tell you as plainly and succinctly as I can...Myrhia will soon have her day of absolute triumph. The cumulative might of the cornerstone nations is no match for the enchantress and once she has disposed of the last opposition, she will lay waste to everything to realize her ambition. There will be no requiem for you in this world, Islena...no sanctuary that she cannot violate."

The Natzurdan bowed and started for the door. Before leaving, he paused thoughtfully. "I respect your reluctance, Islena. There are other ways that you might help us. Perhaps Myrhia has imparted some type of information that might be of value to us."

Islena considered this for a moment and then shook her head, wishing that she could find a way of rewarding his forbearance. "I 'm sorry Morzhian; there was nothing but hollow platitudes and lies. Later there came the violence and intimidation."

"I'm sure that you've expected as much, but you must remain within the city. We can scarcely afford to have you fall into Myrhia's hands a second time," Morzhian informed Islena with a hint of apology couched in his tone.

"Gillian told me to be prepared for as much," Doraux responded with a sardonic half smile. The expression accentuated her beauty, despite its cynical edge. With this, she turned and strode out onto the balcony where she stood gazing out over the city. Morzhian watched her for a moment, trying to gain a sense of empathy for her plight; what it might be like to be faced with her dilemmas and decisions. From her perspective, the feelings of bewilderment and frustration must be well near paralyzing. The one solitary hope for his beleaguered world was that Islena Doraux would come to grasp the salient realities of her situation, accept them and accede to play the role that fate had bestowed upon her.

He withdrew from the chamber and closed the door behind him, leaving Doraux alone to ponder her uncertain future. Fraught with sagging despair, Morzhian shuffled slowly back to deliver his report to the Inner Circle. Their reaction was bound to be volatile. It was not an easy matter to see one's sole hope for deliverance dashed by an intransigent refusal to impart aid.

5

The session was every bit as chaotic as the Natzurdan had anticipated. The mood varied between outrage and indignation to bewilderment and despair. As the members of the Inner Circle filed out, the Jerhia and the Natzurdan stood off to one side of the chamber, both sporting identical expressions of dejection. Like the majority of the others, the two men wondered how events might develop from this moment forth, certain only that the prospect were ineffably bleak.

Only Kyros left the chamber driven by a very specific sense of purpose.

Chapter Four

1

The next three days were amongst the most repressive and dreary of Islena's life. She could virtually feel the spiraling moral of those around her plummet as the mood of despair deepened in the Metocan Capital. For herself, Islena became something of a nonentity in a city preparing for the final apocalyptic battle. Gillian came by on one occasion to see how she was faring, but his distracted manner clearly demonstrated that he was preoccupied by other thoughts and his visit had been inspired more by courtesy than a genuine desire to inquire after her well being.

All in all, Islena was left to fill her solitary, empty hours as best she could. Abandoned to her own devices, she fell back upon physical exercise, exerting herself until she would fall into a dreamless slumber. Catching her reflection in a pool of water, Doraux was pleasantly surprised to see the image of a chiseled diamond as though her physical body had detached itself from the turmoil of the frazzled intellect that controlled it.

"A diamond with a hollow core," she murmured aloud. She crossed the room and sagged into a plush chair. Driving herself beyond the brink of exhaustion was nothing more than a sophomoric stalling tactic. Eventually, circumstances would force her to confront the prospect of a future in a world where she did not belong, where her only possible contribution would ultimately prove to be evil. As she saw it, there could only be two conceivable futures...Myrhia would triumph (and that contingency seemed inevitable) or she would be held at bay and Islena would languish in the esoteric kingdom of mists until she perished. She foresaw death coming through the cumulative effects of despair, if not simple boredom.

A tentative knock came at her chamber door and Islena called for the knocker to enter. A serving girl entered, laden with an armful of towels. She glided across the floor with her customary understated grace and deposited the towels on a small end table.

"Would Milady care for food?" she inquired softly, clearly disquieted by the stranger she had been tasked to serve.

The girl waited expectantly, exuding an obvious desire to serve. She had been Islena's only source of contact. Though the girl had been careful to conceal her emotions behind a mantle of servility, Islena was certain that she could discern a sharp resentment beneath the facade of duty.

"Not just yet, Drorit," Islena replied. The girl nodded and then turned to leave. It was apparent to Doraux that the news of her refusal to lend her aid had filtered down to even the serving staff. It suddenly occurred to Islena that she had been politely ostracized. She could drift through the halls of Othgol palace like a spirit, regarded as a traitorous shadow in a time of wither.

"Drorit," Islena called out of impulse, suddenly feeling alone and melancholy.

"Yes, Milady?" the girl replied questioningly, the slightest hint of trepidation creeping into her voice.

"Is there news from the south?"

The serving girl glanced at Doraux. "Milady, I'm sure that those in positions of power do not deign to keep me apprised of such things, me being a lowly serving girl."

Islena sighed and nodded morosely. "No, I suppose that they wouldn't, but I would have thought that there might have been rumors."

"I've heard nothing Milady." Drorit watched Islena, maintaining her scrupulously neutral facade. "Milady, you've been confined to a dreary chamber for three days. Surely you must find another distraction for Othgol is truly a city of wonders."

Islena laughed...a low bitter sound that caused the Metocan to wince. "Yes, a distraction. What do you suggest?"

The girl beamed, deliberately ignoring the overt note of dark sarcasm in Doraux's voice. "As I've said, Othgol is a place of wonders, Milady. It was designed to be a place of splendor...an edifice to the realm of magic and the imagination. It might sound boastful, but the city does not disappoint." With a touch of melancholy regret, more compelling than the most considered appeal, she added "This was the most ethereal of places before the shadow fell across our time and land and dampened the natural exuberance of the city."

Islena suddenly wanted to tell the girl that she would lend her hand and confront Myrhia with her bare hands if only she wouldn't gaze upon her with that expression of wounded incomprehension. Instead, Islena simply asked, "And what is your foremost wonder, Drorit?"

The girl ventured closer, her expression speculative. "The crystal labyrinth. Surely there is nothing in the world to match its mysterious beauty. Best of all, it has been erected right on the grounds of this palace."

"The crystal Labyrinth," Islena echoed, her interest peaked by the prospect of escaping the dismal solitude of her suite. "Take me there, Drorit. I want to see...to experience Othgol's foremost wonder."

"Yes Milady." the girl replied with an obsequious bow, apparently delighted by Islena's agreement to be entertained. As Islena followed the girl out of her suite of rooms, she was suddenly suffused by the sense that she was moving toward a subtle, yet critical juncture in her odyssey. In the distant recesses of her mind, a tiny voice was braying a strident admonition, warning caution at the nebulous dangers that she could only guess at. Deciding not to allow paranoia to compound her despair, Islena trailed after the servant girl, hoping to find a momentary respite from the tribulations that threatened to thoroughly crush her.

2

Islena stood at the entrance of the labyrinth with Drorit beside her. The serving girl seemed inexplicably anxious, her gaze constantly roving the vast promenade that led to the crystal maze.

"The crystal maze is a complex of hidden surprises. Each cave holds a different illusion to enchant and delight the visitor," Drorit explained in a voice that was unaccountably tight. Islena ascribed the girl's obvious tension to anxiety over drawing Islena out of her quarters without the prior approval of her superiors.

"What type of illusion?" Islena inquired, wary of the surprises which this world might have to offer.

"The illusions are subjective, their contents drawn from your own subconscious. The crystals are said to have the power to divine your private pleasures."

"Pleasures," repeated thoughtfully. Certainly enjoyment had been a rare commodity since she had come to this world. "Why the hell not?"

With this cavalier declaration, Islena plunged into the entrance, disappearing as abruptly as if she had been swallowed by a giant beast. Drorit stared after Islena for several moments, her face now reflecting the angst that she could barely suppress in the woman's presence.

Suddenly she stiffened as the temperature of the air around her seemed to plummet perceptibly. A man in heavy robes moved to join her. "You've done well, child."

"Will she be harmed, elder Kyros?" the girl inquired hesitantly, biting at her thin lower lip.

The Metocan glanced at the girl, his eyes clouded with irritation.

`What has become of our race that we would breed such imbeciles?' he wondered dejectedly. The inner circle had been paralyzed by indecision and a sudden moral conscience. 'This woman is our only source of deliverance from the jaws of the dragon and yet she adamantly refuses to give her aid. Still, the pristine members of the council accept her wish like geldings as though dying with a sense of moral integrity was an honorable end to thousands of year of glorious history.'

Kyros was too much the pragmatist to permit his beloved civilization to be trampled by Myrhia's juggernaut in the name of some misguided sense of morality. This woman would fulfill her role in the prophecy and if her tender psyche got bruised in the process, then that was a price the elder was more than willing to pay. If the woman was in need of sterner motivation to take up the icon, Kyros would provide it for her without compunction. "She will not be harmed, girl. She is, after all, destined to be the salvation of our race. More to the point, you would be well advised not to develop attachments to strangers, especially those well above your station. Now return to the palace."

Drorit blanched and quickly averted her eyes. Kyros allowed himself a brief smile, satisfied that the girl had been appropriately chastised. "Return to your duties. Should anyone inquire about the woman's absence, make it clear that you have not seen her since the previous night."

The serving girl nodded and then scurried off, grateful to be out of the elder's dour presence. Kyros sighed and then crossed the colonnade, stepping back into the concealment of the shadows where he would wait for matters within the labyrinth to resolve themselves.

Though he had always viewed the Ulgak as inferior cousins to the Metocan, Kyros recognized their talent as most proficient hunters. His instructions had been succinct. "Subdue, but do not injure."

Once Doraux had been captured, the Metocan had made arrangements to have her spirited to the northern city of Wergol, where her obligations would be presented to her in more concrete and unequivocal terms...painfully concrete terms if need be. Having succeeded in enlisting her aid, Kyros would return to Othgol as a hero, having succeeded in achieving what the inept Inner Circle could not. Preoccupied by thoughts of the reception that he would receive, the Metocan settled back into the shadow to wait for the agreed upon signal.

3

Doraux wondered aimlessly through the narrow corridors of the labyrinth, both delighted and astounded by the elegant complexity of the marvelous structures into which she entered at random. She moved to the nearest wall and examined the crystal in great detail. From a distance, the structure gave the impression of continuity and complexity as though it was one astounding piece of unbroken crystal. Yet, as Islena examined the intricate geometric arrangement of the crystal, she realized that the labyrinth had been constructed from an astoundingly infinite number of smaller crystals, all of which had been fused together to make an incredible natural tapestry.

She glanced up toward the ceiling where diffuse sunlight refracted through crystal segments of varying thickness to create rainbow zones of color and shadow.

As Islena meandered through the maze, allowing her mind to drift in synchronicity with the flaming colors, she felt her beleaguered spirit buoyed by the distracting ambiance of this magical place. Finally she came to the first arch...an indigo span that emitted a low level energy that Islena immediately discerned was in perfect syncopation with her own beating heart. Doraux hesitated for a brief moment and then plunged inside.

Each cavern was a meticulously detailed dome, designed in such a fashion that all light was brought to focus at the precise center of the dome's smooth floor. Islena immediately deduced that she should stand inside the shaft of light at the central focal point.

Tentatively, she stepped into the column of deep blue light, not certain what to expect. The moment she entered the point of coincidence, her entire body was suffused by a warmth that seemed to radiate from a point deep within her cerebral cortex. Slowly at first, and then in rapid succession, Islena could feel an interloping force rummage through her most private thoughts. The intrusion, while alien, created no discomfort. Quite the opposite in fact, as Islena willingly relinquished control of her thoughts. The mystical process was mildly narcotic in its effect and Doraux could feel herself sinking deep into a pleasantly languorous state that swiftly banished her woes beneath a tide of wellbeing and contentment.

Her eyelids grew heavy and then slid closed. Time slipped by in an indistinguishable stream. When she finally reopened her eyes, the interior of the crystal cave had vanished, replaced by a small auditorium filled with a frenzied boisterous crowd. Standing alone in the chamber of illusions, Islena began to smile. She recalled this particular moment in time as though it had occurred only yesterday. In retrospect, it was perhaps the single happiest moment of her life...an intoxicating instant when everything seemed possible and her every aspiration appeared well within reach.

She stood transfixed as a younger Islena Doraux appeared to float across the stage with a liquid grace that was at once serpentine and leonine...a combination that the enthusiastic crowd found both intoxicating and darkly erotic. The regional championship had been her debut and her vibrant beauty, not to mention a symmetrical perfection of form well beyond the level of the competition, had routed the field. Now the scene shifted. Islena stood on the dais awaiting the final judgment, the master of ceremonies gripping her wrist as well as the wrist of her closest competition. She recalled the surge of jubilation that had overwhelmed her the moment that she had been declared the winner. Stepping forward to accept her laurels, to acknowledge her applause, Islena now experienced the euphoria that validated all of the pain and deprivation. In that singular moment, Islena knew that she would want to experience the same sensation again and again...to wallow in the adulation until every other thought was swept away. Despite this consuming desire, she had experienced this soaring elation only twice more and then her dream had come to an abrupt end. As she watched her younger self prance about the stage, never wanting the outpouring of adulation to end, a pall dampened her ebullience.

It had all ended...her dream squandered in favor of domestic servitude. As quickly as the images commenced, they came to an abrupt end, the guiding force retreating from her mind as though from something fearful.

Islena stood in the circle, hot tears streaming over the ridges of her aristocratic cheekbones. She surrendered her aspirations to live a mundane life of obscurity, dispensing with rare potential in return for a measure of security.

"Oh, you silly bitch, all of that lost time," she moaned wretchedly, her voice fraught with self loathing. She had allowed years to slip by, only to come to this sorry end, all the while clinging to the belief that her time would come. Indeed, it had arrived, though in a scenario that she could never have imagined...a dark tragedy in which everything of value would be brutally excoriated.

There was a subtle whisper of sound somewhere off to her right. She glanced up to find that three hooded figures had entered the chamber with her. One remained stationed at the entrance, while the other two slid along the walls, moving in opposite directions. Their predatory postures made it clear that they had not come to enjoy the crystal labyrinth's illusions.

The one near the entrance took several steps deeper into the cavernous chamber. The creature's face was a mottled gray, dominated by two large slate gray eyes and tiny curving teeth that reminded Doraux of a boar. The three appeared to be similar in structure to the Metocan, though without the liquid grace and the air of placidity that characterized her mystical hosts. Even the dull gray tunics and trousers spoke of a plodding, yet dangerous being and Islena immediately discerned the scope of her peril.

"You will come with us now," one of the Ulgak, the one nearest the entrance, informed her in a grating, insectile voice. "Offer no resistance and you will not be harmed."

The creature advanced slowly. Doraux stole glances at the other two who were converging upon her like spiders upon an entangled fly. "Who the hell sent you and what do you want?"

"All of those answers will be provided...in time," the Ulgak responded flatly, his tone clearly declaring that dialogue was pointless. "We will escort you out now."

Doraux shook her head vehemently, instinctively shifting into a defensive stance. "You might take me out of here, but it's going to be expensive."

"As you would have it," the Ulgak replied with an indifferent shrug. Reaching into his tunic, he produced a device that resembled a large tuning fork. The Ulgak snapped his finger against the center rod and a malefic blue spark leapt from one prone to the next. An ominous electric hum filled the chamber. Armed with the alien weapons, the trio converged upon the waiting Islena.

4

Kyros was not the only spectator to observe Islena's entry into the crystal labyrinth. Nor did the unseen observer failed to notice the assignation between Kyros and the serving girl, Drorit and carefully interpret the gist of their exchange, if not its precise meaning. When the Metocan dismissed the girl, the hidden watcher waited for a moment and then hurried to intercept Drorit.

Drorit scurried back to her assigned duties, head bowed and lost in thought. Despite all that Kyros had claimed, the girl feared that Islena, for whom she had developed a strange fondness, would receive harsh treatment at the hands of the ghastly Ulgak.

In her preoccupation, Drorit did not notice the shadow that fell across her path. She was in the process of mounting a grassy knoll when a figure intercepted her, causing the girl to cry out.

She glanced up questioningly, only to be greeted by a blow from the spatulated end of a quarterstaff. Stunned, she reeled backward, coming to rest upon her back at the base of the slope, where she stared vacantly up at the opalescent sky for several moments.

When the flaring pain subsided to a tolerable level, Drorit glanced up to find a stunningly beautiful woman regarding her coldly from along the length of the quarterstaff.

"I want to know what you've done," Lorio demanded harshly.

"Nothing. Who are you? How did you get here?" Drorit exhaled in a babbling rush.

The spatulated end snapped like a rapier and struck the girl in the jaw. Drorit cried out, her huge eyes bulging with a paralytic fear. In the blink of an eye, Lorio reversed the staff so that the killing end was pressed against Drorit's left breast. "No matter what he's threatened you with, it will dull in comparison to what I will do to you if you don't tell me what arrangement you've made with the other Metocan."

One glance into those awful brown eyes convinced Drorit that this was not a woman to utter empty threats. Seeing that the Metocan girl had been thoroughly cowed with terror, Lorio grinned and inquired, "What arrangements have been made and how many people are involved."

The girl tried unsuccessfully to keep the quaver from her voice, unable to draw her transfixed gaze away from the poised staff. "Kyros has brought Ulgak to help capture Islena. I...I'm not certain how many, but the number is likely to be just a few. Ulgak are not permitted in Othgol."

"Why does this Kyros want to abduct Islena?" Lorio demanded as panic welled up in her guts like hot bile.

"She refuses to fulfill her role in the prophecy. Kyros intends to take her to the north where he will force her to meet to her obligations," The girl whimpered, tears brimming in large, luminous eyes.

"Fool!" Lorio spat disgustedly. "The man knows nothing of Doraux if he believes that he can coerce her into submission. Are there other exits from this structure?"

"No," Drorit breathed. Lorio considered the situation for a moment and then increased her pressure upon the staff. The girl wheezed in pain. "It's imperative that you listen closely to what I'm about to tell you and do precisely as instructed. Should ill fortune befall Islena, I will hold you personally responsible. Am I clear?"

The girl nodded frantically.

"Find someone in authority and tell them what is happening. Make it clear that Islena's life is in jeopardy. Now go!"

Lorio withdrew the staff and stepped back to permit the girl to rise. Drorit scrambled to her feet. Sparing the terrifying woman one final apprehensive glance, she sprinted toward the palace. The Lamish woman was confident that Drorit what do exactly as instructed, but Lorio knew that she could not afford to wait for help. The Ulgak were a naturally violent and unpredictable lot. Only a fool would employ them to this end.

Knowing that Doraux's safety had again become her primary concern, Lorio raced back to the colonnade.

5

The Ulgak converged slowly upon Islena, who retreated, mind racing to devise a way of extricating herself from what had been an obvious trap.

"If you do not resist, you will not be harmed," the Ulgak team leader reiterated mechanically. In response, Islena relaxed and stood erect. Thinking that the woman intended to surrender, the Ulgak lowered their weapons, if only marginally, providing Islena with the slight opening that she had hoped for.

Feinting left, Islena pivoted upon her right foot and more by good fortune that prowess, caught the nearest Ulgak with a sweeping kick that detached the weapon from his grasp. The device clattered across the floor, hissing in angry protest as it went. Instead of immediately making a dive for the weapon, Islena took to the offence. Springing forward, she struck the nearest Ulgak with a thunderous forearm on the side of his misshapen head, propelling him into his nearest companion.

Both creatures stumbled and fell to the floor in a tangle. Seizing the opportunity, Doraux dived for the weapon, snatching it up with a sibilant hiss and racing for the chamber exit.

Among other traits, the Ulgak were renowned for their single mindedness and their dispassionate execution of instructions. When the two Ulgak went down, the third was not distracted from his purpose, nor did he move to assist his fallen comrades. Though the creatures appeared mechanical, if not clumsy, his speed proved deceptive.

The Ulgak reached the exit several paces before Doraux and imposed himself in her path, with the weapon thrust out menacingly before him. Islena screamed as her face grew livid and crimson with rage. Feinting left with a stutter step, she lunged directly at the larger Ulgak. The assailant was unprepared for the woman's quicksilver attack but was able to raise his arms in time to deflect the blow. Still, the two prongs of the foreign weapon took the Ulgak in the throat. A grating whine filled the air, followed by the eldritch reek of burning flesh.

The device, designed to numb the area of contact, immediately caused the Ulgak's breathing process to shut down. He clutched desperately at his failed bronchial passage with his left hand, while his right arm stiffened as though in the grip of tetanus. As he toppled to the floor in a boneless sprawl, the assailant's own weapon grazed the transfixed Doraux's out thrust forearm.

Islena glanced down at the limb in horror as an intense tingling sensation radiated outward from the point of contact. Within scant seconds, the tingle deepened to a numbness that left the arm wooden and unresponsive. Somehow, her useless fingers still clung to the weapon, but she was now powerless to raise it in her defense.

As the Ulgak convulsed violently on the ground, Doraux switched the weapon to her opposite hand and pivoted her body to accommodate her sudden incapacity though the southpaw stance felt strange and cumbersome. The other Ulgak had regained both their feet and their weapons. They approached Doraux with a newfound caution, their eyes shifting continuously from the woman to their fallen comrade.

"Come and try to kill me, you bastards," Islena raged, spittle flying from her lips. "I don't give a fuck anyway. I'm already dead. Can't you dumb fuckers see that?"

The two assailants exchanged bemused glances, unsettled by the woman's incoherent raging. One spoke in an unintelligible language, to which the other simply nodded. With the flick of a wrist, he tossed his weapon in the air just as the other extinguished his fork's force.

Islena deduced what was about to happen a fraction of a second before the impact. The pragmatic Ulgak had designed their forks for precisely this contingency. In order to neutralize an enemy who had gained possession of an Ulgak weapon, its creators had incorporated a polarity attraction into the design.

Like a magnet drawing steel, the two weapons came together with a brilliant eruption of indigo lightening. A reverse electrical current ripped through Islena's body, firing its every neuron and plunging Doraux into twitching unconsciousness.

6

Lorio crept back to her original position, relieved to see that the Metocan called Kyros was still lurking in the shadows. While the imbecile's scheme to coerce Doraux into subservience was ludicrous, the ill-considered action held the potential for disaster.

It was imperative that she foil the Metocan's kidnap attempt without revealing anything of her transformation, the effects of which had not fully manifested themselves.

Glancing along the length of the grassy colonnade and finding it deserted, Lorio crept slowly toward the Metocan, who, absorbed in his own machinations and secure in his certainty that Othgol was still inviolable, did not divine her approach until it was far too late.

She extended her staff and tapped the spatulated end gently upon Kyros' left shoulder. The startled Metocan pivoted around, astounded by the sudden appearance of the raven haired beauty as if she had manifested out of thin air.

"You play a perilous game, my mystical friend," Lorio declared and then twisted the quarterstaff violently to the right, clipping the Metocan's jaw and sending him sprawling to the grass as blood sprayed from his nose and mouth.

He gazed up at her, his huge eyes curdled with outrage. "It is you who have committed a grievous error, woman; firstly, through the act of trespass and secondly by meddling in the affairs of men...men of consequence."

"Desperate men," Lorio retorted contemptuously. The Metocan glared balefully and lunged for the staff, meaning to reduce it to cinders. With Cobra reflexes, Lorio drew the weapon out of range and then brought it crashing down upon Kyros' clutching hand. He screamed...a high, shrewish sound that shattered the tranquility of the deserted common. The horrified Metocan glanced at the injured hand to see that three of the uncommonly long digits had been cleanly severed.

They lay twitching on the grass like writhing snakes.

"You are deranged!" he croaked in a voice fraught with pain and now barely contained panic. Lorio grinned, an ugly facsimile of her lustrous smile. "And you are a senile old fool. No entreaty, no threat could compel the woman to become a Metocan pawn. The vulgar intimidation tactics will only deepen her intransigence. Conversely, I am familiar with the workings of her complex psyche and she will seek out the Proclamations at my behest."

"Then why interfere?" Kyros flared. "Surely you see that I only wish to induce her to do what must be done?"

Lorio's smile broadened...malefic darkness consuming light. "Islena will seek out the Proclamations and lay them at Myrhia's feet and I will surreptitiously guide her through every turn."

"Treachery!" Kyros cried. "Myrhia's agent will not have the woman. I will not permit it."

"Then I'm afraid that your influence in the matter must be eliminated," the Lamish warrior proclaimed dispassionately, driving the killing end of her staff directly into the Metocan's bulging right eye. In an act of unmitigated savagery, she leaned her full weight onto the end of the staff, leaving the Metocan thrashing helplessly on the common as though he was a pinned bug.

She watched him labor through his convulsive death throes...feeling neither remorse nor revulsion at the brutality of her actions. As the amber life blood languorously spread around the massive wound, Lorio stepped upon the Metocan's chest and drew the Ironwood staff free with a petulant twist.

Wiping the gore on the grass, Lorio then sprinted across the common to the entrance of the crystal labyrinth. Stepping inside to remain inconspicuous, she paused to consider her next action, knowing that it would not be long before the dead elder was discovered and the alarm was raised.

Logic dictated that it would be expedient to lay in wait and ambush the Ulgak as they attempted to leave the crystal labyrinth. Unfortunately, Islena's impetuous nature injected a potentially lethal aspect into every confrontational situation. There was no predicting how Doraux might react to a threat and the violence of her reaction could well force her attackers to resort to extreme measures. She was still debating whether to go in search of Islena or remain where she was, when the course of events decided the matter for her.

The Ulgak emerged from one of the side corridors, the one in the lead carrying his fallen comrade, while the trailer held the unconscious Doraux over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Lorio felt a wave of complex, discordant emotions sweep over her as she tracked the assailants' approach. The situation proved ideal for a surprise attack. Laden with bodies, the Ulgak were at an extreme disadvantage, which pleased the opportunistic Lorio immensely. Yet seeing Islena helpless and beaten rung the Lamish woman's heart and she realized, with no small degree of vexation, that she had not completely escaped Doraux's thrall despite having been reborn in the cauldron of Myrhia's dark sorcery.

Lorio faded back into the shadows, waiting for the precise opportunity to strike. The Ulgak reached the exit and peered out in search of Kyros in accordance with their arrangement. Now the Ulgak's plodding nature worked in Lorio's favor. The pair began to speak, their high and insectile voices conveying obvious and profound confusion and disquiet. Spontaneity was not an Ulgak strong suit.

Perceiving their distraction to be her ideal opportunity, Lorio surged out of the shadows with an atavistic cry and a feral grin twisting her lips. The ironwood cut the air in a wicked arc that struck the Ulgak, who carried Doraux, across the small of the back. The creature bellowed in shock and pain, tumbling forward and dumping Islena to the ground with a dull thud.

The other Ulgak simply cast his comrade aside as though he was disposing of a sack of trash. With surprising speed, he drew his weapon and circled away from the Lamish assailant. Lorio stepped over the fallen kidnapper, delivering a savage kick his oddly shaped head as she did.

The Ulgak hissed and a brilliant spark arced across the fork. Now the device emitted an argent band of energy that gleamed wickedly. Lorio immediately perceived that any possible contact could be fatal for a normal adversary and though its effects on her sorcery-enhanced flesh were difficult to predict, she deduced that contact with the device might be sufficiently debilitating to allow the Ulgak to escape with Islena. She crouched to reduce her target area and extended the staff to keep her opponent at range. Deducing that he was facing an obviously skilled opponent, the Ulgak gambled on a quick finish. With a subtle flick of the wrist, he released the weapon. It flashed through the air and with uncanny accuracy, embedded its prongs deep in Lorio's right shoulder.

There was an instant of indescribable agony followed by a radiating numbness that spread down the length of Lorio's right arm. Still lodged deep in the olive flesh, the fork's haft continued to vibrate wildly. Gritting her teeth against the anticipated pain, she gripped the haft and pulled it free with a guttural grunt. Gazing directly into the incredulous Ulgak's eyes, she threw down her staff and crumpled the weapon into an unrecognizable lump of metal with her left hand.

The Ulgak backed away, gleaning that this was no ordinary mortal woman. The wound gaped but no blood flowed. Lorio studied the disfigurement, roses of rage blooming on her cheeks. She bent to retrieve her staff and darted forward in one fluid movement. The creature attempted to evade the charge, but Lorio's reaction was faster. She drove the killing end of the staff directly into the Ulgak's sternum. With powerful legs pumping like pistons, the Lamish warrior lifted the writhing Ulgak from his feet. The man's death struggles were protracted and agonizing. A detached part of her mind marveled at the strength that the transformation had conferred upon her. This newfound power would serve her well when the moment came to deal with Islena.

Finally, interminably, the Ulgak's death throes reached an end and the body slumped forward along with the ironwood. Lorio threw it aside and pulled the staff free. For a moment, she stood breathing in the scent of death, basking in the primal totality of triumph. On impulse, she returned to the fallen Doraux. How beautiful...how serene she appeared in repose. Lorio abruptly placed the gore spattered tip against Islena's full left breast. "Should I kill you now, Islena?" she inquired of the unconscious woman. "It is what you profess to want and would ultimately prove a mercy."

For a moment she contemplated doing just that...giving Doraux the release that she so badly craved, while cheating Myrhia of her coveted prize. It was intoxicating to think that she held the fate of the world in her hands. She drew back the staff and brought it whistling down in a savage arc, diverting it at the last possible second, where it sank deep into the grass only inches from Islena's slack face. Lorio suddenly turned away, tears of sorrow spilling down her cheeks. "If you could only know how much I despise you."

Having uttered this painful declaration, she bent down and tenderly lifted Islena into her arms, carrying her back to the palace, where the first hectic alarm was just now being raised.

Chapter Five

1

Groping her way back to consciousness, Islena's eyes opened and she abruptly sat up. In response, her afflicted muscles began to shake and spasm and she sagged back onto her mattress with a gasp.

"Try to be still, Islena," Gillian prompted gently. "The Ulgak weapons have residual effects that may be felt for some time. In particular, the weakness will persist for some time."

Memories of her confrontation flooded back, including the sting of the paralyzing weapon. Anger and frustration followed in the wake of recollection. Morzhian appeared over her, looking anxious, embarrassed and perturbed. "Islena, we're dearly sorry. What happened was a deplorable act of treachery."

"What exactly did happen?" she demanded icily. The Natzurdan related what they did know about Kyros' plot to abduct Islena. As she listened, her anger intensified. "So, a Metocan was responsible for this?"

She found that her outrage was simply ineffable...defying articulation and so she concluded with a chopping gesture of indignation. Gillian nodded, an apologetic expression set on his face. Doraux grunted in disgust. "How was he foiled? Did you find me first?"

"Frankly, we did not," Gillian admitted, clearly sheepish over their collective failure to protect Islena. "The fault is ours for not being more vigilant in your security. We never anticipated that one of our own would resort to something so despicable."

"Then how was he stopped?" Doraux persisted pointedly. By way of explanation, Morzhian opened the chamber door and spoke to someone, presumably a guard stationed in the outside hall.

"It was an act of divine intervention to be sure," Gillian began cryptically, confusion evident on his lean, angular face. "As though materializing out of the mists of Metocan, a friend of yours foiled Kyros, slaying all of the conspirators in the process." He considered this for a moment and then amended, "Save for one."

Perplexed, Islena raised herself to one elbow and glanced anxiously toward the door. Morzhian stepped aside to admit her savior.

Lorio, her expression closed and inscrutable, glided across the threshold and stood regarding the woman whom she had once befriended. Islena attempted to climb out of her bed, but the effects of the Ulgak weapon foiled her efforts and sent her tumbling back to the sheets. The Lamish woman's improbable presence evoked a storm of emotions that immediately reduced Islena to unrestrained tears. When the outpouring of emotion had subsided, she found that the one remaining emotion was that of intense relief.

Fresh tears of joy sprang to her eyes as she pushed herself into a sitting position. She smiled tentatively and extended her arms toward her friend. To her chagrin, Lorio remained stationary, a dark shadow rippling across her exotic features. A moment of absolute empathy passed between the pair and Islena realized that the damage that she had so carelessly inflicted upon their relationship was irreparable. The vapid cruelty that Lorio had been subjected to at Runesholm had scoured whatever passion she had harbored for Islena from her soul.

"Hello Islena," Lorio said dryly. "I'm glad to see that the Ulgak weapon has left no permanent side effects. You do manage to blunder into the most precarious situations."

Morzhian watched the two women closely, cognizant of the tense undercurrent that existed between the pair. Gillian had related the perplexing detail of Doraux's falling out with this woman, making her presence here all the more improbable and troubling. Neither Morzhian nor Inos had been able to glean any sense of this Lamish woman's purpose as though she had erected insurmountable barriers to disguise her thoughts from intrusive minds.

"Your friend is a most formidable warrior," the Natzurdan remarked. "Not only did she defeat Kyros, but she managed to cross half of Metocan on foot without being detected...no mean feat considering that the country is under siege."

Lorio offered the Natzurdan an indecipherable half smile and glanced away. Islena watched her friend, pained by her reticent behavior. She perceived a change in Lorio, but could not isolate the nature of the change, beyond the deep sense of foreboding which it evoked.

Morzhian ventured closer and remarked softly, "However she came to be here, her coming proved most fortuitous. Had Kyros been successful in his abduction, the entire country would have been torn asunder by insurrection. If we have any hope of prevailing we must not be deterred by discord. What Kyros attempted to do was reprehensible, Islena...whatever his motivations might have been."

He clasped the Lamish woman's left hand and said solemnly, "We owe you a great debt of gratitude."

Lorio shrugged as though she had merely preformed some perfunctory task and gently disengaged herself from Morzhian. "May I speak with Islena in private?"

Morzhian glanced at Islena, who nodded. For a brief moment the full weight of his anxiety reflected upon the Natzurdan's face, allowing Islena a glimpse of the intense strain he was under. The shimmer of anguish in those watery eyes confirmed that the Natzurdan leader shared no duplicity in the Metocan elder's misguided attempt to abduct Doraux. "As you would like. Our position grows more precarious by the day and a line of defense must be mounted. There is much preparation to be made and so I will leave you to your reunion."

Islena sat up at the suggestion that the situation had deteriorated. "Has something more happened?"

Morzhian nodded grimly. "There is every indication that Myrhia is preparing to renew her offensive with less conventional tactics. We will not be able to stall for much longer and I suspect that she knows this. I suspect that she is fully aware that we are stalling without purpose. Furthermore, it is highly likely that she is now aware that you are our guest. I would image this development must be unsettling, even for a woman of unflappable composure. Her efforts to recapture you will become frenetic."

He began to withdraw, but paused to speak with the Lamish warrior. "Perchance you may succeed where we have failed and convince your friend to take up the prophecy before the enchantress can make such considerations academic."

"Islena is a creature of her own will," Lorio responded tersely. Her intense eyes settled upon Doraux and she said nothing as the others filed from the room.

Once out in the corridor, Gillian said to Morzhian, "There is something about the woman that touches me as vaguely sinister. It's as though she's closed herself off to scrutiny, but the woman who traveled with us through the Blighted Land wore her emotions like a badge. I find this change disquieting as is her fortuitous appearance in Othgol. Morzhian, I can say unequivocally that reaching Othgol alone isn't just highly improbable...it's virtually impossible. The girl who fled Runesholm was hysterical...devastated. Somehow, she managed to regain her equilibrium and negotiate her way thought the hazardous mists without Metocan guidance. Something is seriously amiss with the woman who now stands at Islena's bed side."

Inos nodded. "Perhaps it would be prudent to keep this Lorio under close scrutiny, but I must insist that the observation be discreet. If Islena was to learn that we were surreptitiously monitoring her every move, she might interpret this action as threatening and I suspect, between Ossiran and Kyros, we've done quite enough to alienate her trust."

"Do you really believe that Islena will recant on her vow not to seek out the Proclamations?" Gillian asked dubiously, the tone of his question clearly conveying his thoughts on the matter.

"We can only pray that something will compel her to change her mind," Morzhian remarked gravely and then strode off toward the great hall.

2

Lorio stood rigidly, staring at the closed door through which the others had just departed. She remained in this position for several seconds and Islena began to suspect that she was deliberately avoiding eye contact as though collecting her emotions before turning to face the woman who had inexplicably turned upon her.

Slowly, the tension eased from Lorio's body, leaving Doraux with the impression that the Lamish woman had maintained her aloof demeanor in the presence of the others at great expense.

'Now it will come,' she thought. `She'll let go of everything...all of the anger and outrage. Well, I deserve her outrage and I'm going to suffer through it no matter how piercing it gets.'

Gradually, Lorio turned to face the woman she had once loved. To Islena's consternation, the lovely face was devoid of expression, the dark eyes veiled and inscrutable. Somehow, the lack of emotion was more incisive than the vilest of invective could ever have been. It spoke eloquently of emotions forever lost. The cold gaze settled on Doraux and Islena struggled mightily not to squirm under its palpable touch.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that you found me...that you made it to Othgol safely," was all that Islena could think to say and immediately realized that, not only did the remark sound pathetic, it rang incredibly selfish as well, considering the circumstances surrounding Lorio's return.

Lorio offered Islena a dark, sardonic grin that declared in unequivocal terms precisely how she felt about Doraux's gratitude, but remained silent. Islena frowned and forced herself into a full sitting position. The room swam in and out of focus, but Islena doggedly managed to push herself up and fall back upon the headboard. She laid her head back and breathed deeply, while sweating profusely, until everything resolved itself into one single image. She wondered just how long the effects of the Ulgak weapon would linger. Islena had always loathed the feeling of being helpless...vulnerable. Other than the harrowing time spent in Myrhia's dungeon, she had never felt as vulnerable as she did at this exact moment.

Lorio viewed the other woman's discomfort with indifference. She crossed the room and glanced through the balcony doors. "You've found your way to the place where you wished to be, though I suspect you've discovered that it isn't the place you expected it to be."

"No it isn't," Islena concurred glumly, still unable to decipher Lorio's tone or mood. "You've saved my life...again."

"Not your life. I doubt that it was Kyros' intention to kill you. After all, he couldn't very well afford to murder his people's fated savior," Lorio corrected and now her words dripped with implied vitriol. With great effort, Islena swung her feet over the edge of the bed and tottered to her feet. Using the wall for support, she made her way across the room and stood before the taller woman.

She extended a hand, intending to lay it upon Lorio's shoulder, but the Lamish woman brusquely slapped it aside, almost toppling the weakened Doraux. "How dare you presume that you could touch me after what you've done?"

Islena nodded and retreated a step, accepting Lorio's angry rejection as something that was well deserved and even welcomed in contrast to the cold indifference she'd exhibited up to that point.

"You know that I regret what happened at Runesholm," she said quietly. "I never claimed to be perfect, nor do I have the desire or the resources to be anyone's savior. I'm as much a victim as you are, perhaps more so, because I have nothing to gain no matter who wins this ugly war. If by some miracle, Myrhia is defeated, it still won't return me to my family or old life."

The Lamish woman regarded Islena coolly as though measuring the sincerity of her words. With that frigidity came the realization that things would never be as they had been between the two and though this revelation was accompanied by degree of sadness, Islena also felt a surge of relief. Lorio's disavowal might well efface what had passed between them on that first infamous night. Given the sufficient passage of time perhaps Islena could even delude herself into believing that it had never actually happened.

Islena pushed through the balcony doorway and drifted out onto the precipitous platform. The air was sweet and fresh beneath the invisible sky. "When the Ravers told me that you had died, that you had succumbed to your illness, and led me to stand before your pallid corpse, I wished that I could lay down right beside you. Then, like a tattered phoenix, you were alive."

"And that provoked you to attack me?" Lorio demanded incredulously.

Islena wheeled about, her green eyes flashing. "Yes, damn it, because you being alive only meant that I would have to endure your dying one more time and I've endured all of the misery that I can. Everything in this fucking world is doomed to die. Everything! I decided to drive you away, rather than suffer through watching you die again. I know how reprehensible and selfish that is, but that's part of my personality and I can no more change that than I could pull down the moon."

She turned away and leaned on the parapet, trying to rein in her rampant emotions. Behind her, Lorio briefly entertained the notion of throwing Islena over the stone railing and thus ending the torment and false hope that this flawed soul engendered. It would be a simple matter, really...a powerful lunge forward to carry Islena up and over and into the oblivion that she so richly deserved. With Doraux's death, the enchantress' insidious ambition would be confined to the rape and plunder of the antiquated world and though Myrhia's wrath would be terrifying to behold, Lorio believed herself prepared to confront it.

And yet Lorio found that she was unable to translate her intentions into action. She stood watching the mercurial woman who had brought such turbulence...such towering joy and such plummeting grief to her life. Islena turned about and the moment and opportunity vanished. "I despise myself for my actions in Runesholm. There is a dark, horrible part in my soul that seems to surface when I'm under duress. It transforms me into something that I barely recognize, which is odd, because everyone around me has always been aware of it, though most were simply too diplomatic and gracious to point it out."

Lorio offered Islena the ghost of a smile that could well have meant anything.

"I desperately wanted to take back everything that I said in the Abbey, but I'll have to content myself in the fact that you've survived and you're here," Doraux concluded despondently.

Lorio nodded shortly, the smile fading from her lips. She appeared remote as though Islena's apologies and regrets were incapable of touching her. "I must know one thing; you spoke of my father's calumny. Was this true?"

Doraux could only nod and avert her eyes. Lorio pursed her lips and her brow furrowed slightly. The comparatively mild reaction to the news of her father's treachery was in sharp contrast to the wild outpouring of grief that she had exhibited at the Abbey.

"Then he is dead?" she asked, posing the question as if the potential answer was a mere triviality.

"I can't be sure. I saw him taken into custody by Myrhia's soldiers. Even the most persevering soul would be sorely tested to survive a sojourn in the pits of Perdwick. It is not impossible that he survived, but I frankly wouldn't wager on it," Islena concluded candidly, seeing no gain to be had by trying to bestow a sense of false optimism.

Again the Lamish woman nodded. Something more seemed required and Doraux added, "I'm genuinely sorry. Regardless of what he might have done, he deserved better than the dungeons...and he was your father."

"Your sympathy did not actually extend to saving him," Lori pointed out coldly.

"That's damned unfair," Islena retorted stiffly. "We were lucky to escape ourselves. Nothing I could have done would have saved your father. You know the truth of this as well as I do."

Lorio shrugged and glanced away. "Debate is futile. What's done is done and perhaps he did get precisely what he deserved...a suitable end for a shiftless snake."

Lorio's cold dispassionate tone surprised Doraux and she glanced up sharply. The Lorio she had known would never have been so cavalier about something so tragic. Islena mentioned as much.

Lorio's full mouth twisted in a bitter grin. "You've spoke of suffering. Like you, I've absorbed a giant's share of punishment and misery and I've been insulated against empathy. My only instinct and interest is in survival from this day forth. It is the reason I chose to follow you here when my every instinct implores me to distance myself as far from you as this wretched world allows. Despite the nearly insufferable aversion to standing in our presence, I know on a dispassionate level, that you are this world's only chance for survival. That is why I've come...and why I chose to save you...when a part of me relished nothing more than the thought of leaving you to the Ulgak."

Lorio stood and left Islena standing alone on the balcony. There was an alien aspect to the Lamish woman that raised the flesh on Islena's back into great hackles. There was a certain plausibility to her professed mantle of insouciance, but Islena's instinct warned her that the changes she perceived were rooted in something more profound. Suddenly wary, she followed Lorio into her suite of rooms.

"I have to agree with Morzhian. Your being here is nothing short of incredible. That fog in the east was so thick, it was impossible to maintain any sense of direction."

Lorio shrugged. "The Lamish have always possessed a keen sense of direction as well as a talent for being invisible. These are attributes that have insured my people's survival. As for the matter of tracking you, though you're ignorant of the fact, you radiate power like a veritable beacon."

Islena came to stand before the hybrid, her piercing eyes fixed on Lorio. "Why did you really risk your life saving me from the Ulgak, Lorio? As you say, Kyros had no real intention of doing any lasting harm to me and you admitted to finding the idea of seeing me humiliated rather pleasing. So why lift a finger in my defense if your aversion to me is as profound as you claim?"

Lorio's countenance darkened perceptibly, the corners of her mouth twisting into an ugly grimace. "When I fled Runesholm, I feared that I had lost my reason for persevering. You had turned against me and thus I was genuinely alone; an outcast, bereft of both a family and a people. I wandered about the drifting snows aimlessly, spiraling toward despair and capitulation. Oddly enough, it was the dungeons of Perdwick that provided my inspiration to simply not curl up and let the Blighted Lands take me."

"Perdwick?" Islena murmured with a shiver of revulsion. Lorio offered the smaller woman a bitter grin that reminded Doraux of dead fall leaves afloat in a stagnant pond.

"My stay there was not without its consequences, you see."

"I don't understand," Doraux stammered in confusion, though sensed that something ineffably horrible was about to be divulged.

"I was repeatedly violated in Perdwick. Even the most vile and repulsive beasts were allowed to do as they wished to me," Lorio elaborated. Islena winced, recalling how Myrhia had attempted to coerce her into submission through threats of rape. "Wondering alone in the frozen expanses of the Blighted Lands, I discovered that I was pregnant by one of the High Queen's brutes."

Islena sagged to her bed and allowed her head to fall into her hands. Black despair surged up and bit at her heart. Of all of the misery and tragedy she had witness and had herself been forced to endure, this latest bleak revelation was the most devastating.

"Are you certain?" was all that she could think to ask as she gazed up at Lorio, the Lamish beauty's face distorted by her own tears.

"Yes." the emphatic response brooked no argument.

"Will this ever be over?" Islena whispered, struggling with flaring nausea.

Lorio stared down at Doraux, her unblinking dark eyes as hard as bits of anthracite. "As long as the enchantress draws breath, this will never end. Myrhia is the very embodiment of night fall."

"Is there anything that can be done to...terminate the pregnancy?" Doraux ventured, her long standing right to life conviction evaporating in the blink of an eye when confronted with the very personal and ugly realities of rape.

"There are apothaceries, yes. And others who have the means of aborting a pregnancy," Lorio explained without emotion. "But I have every intention of carrying the child to term and raising it afterward."

"Good God, why?" Doraux erupted, stupefied by the very notion of birthing a rape child.

"I want the child to stand as a symbol of change, the first life in the rebirth of my people. My personal suffering will serve as the soil for the new Lamish nation...living testimony that redemption might spring from the foulest of soils. Though I might personally detest you, it is for this reason that I sought you out and rescued you from the Ulgak. You are going to save this world for the sake of my child's future. I believe you owe me this debt and it is an obligation that I will have you honor."

Doraux could only gaze at Lorio in open consternation. The immature, arrogant woman child whom she had fought to near death, had matured into a formidable woman, galvanized ideals and all. "Lorio, I just don't understand. You were raped, brutalized by monsters and how you could bring a child born of such terror into the world is beyond my sensibilities. Still, it is your decision to make, but why now? Here? I'm a magnet for disaster. You were right to say that you would be best served by distancing yourself from me."

"Perhaps, but you are all that stands between Myrhia and her agenda of conquest. You are the world's sole hope for deliverance," Lorio declared flatly, as if any contradiction was sophomoric.

"No, Lorio, I'm not," Islena retorted adamantly, angered by this constant need to ward herself against perpetual expectations. "If anyone should understand that, it's you. When I took up the Jerhia Icon in Runesholm, I experienced a flood of power that was obscene in its immensity. No one, no living being that isn't a God, should have access to that kind of power...especially not me."

"Then confront Myrhia without the Proclamations. Tear her heart out with your bare hands. You were fated to be her bane," Lorio persisted, displaying a measure of passion for the first time. "You are her bane! It could well be that the Proclamations are a distraction. Augury is an imperfect art."

"I've tried that," Islena countered, shaking her head. "She nearly killed me. My physical strength is no match for her magic."

"Still, do what you must and I will pledge to cast my lot with whatever fate awaits you. If there is to be a future without darkness in this world, it will come through your actions."

Islena sighed and turned away from Lorio's implacable gaze. The pressure to submit to the old prophecy was incessant and yet did anyone fully appreciate the inherent dangers of such unmitigated power? Despite her constant plea for comprehension, she thought that they did not. "Do you suppose that the Metocan will come up with some kind of trick to hold these Morticants at bay?"

As Doraux's back was turned to her, Lorio allowed herself a brief smile and replied, "For a while perhaps, but the Morticants are an inexorable force. Eventually they will find a way to surmount any defense, any illusion and they will roll through the remaining cornerstone nations like a juggernaut."

Islena had expected as much. She settled heavily onto the edge of her bed as the inscrutable Lorio watched her closely. Even Myrhia did not fully grasp what she had created when she subjected the Lamish woman to her arcane reconstruction. Lorio had become a creature of ambivalence...her love for Doraux tempered by an outrage over her perceived betrayal. These two emotions were still at war, even in her hybrid state. As she watched the despondent Islena grapple with the inescapable realities of her predicament, she could not help but be profoundly effected by her torment, though her own had been immeasurably worse.

"Islena," she began softly, her tone prompting her former friend to glance up hopefully. "You once spoke of your world and the challenges that confronted you there. I believe you when you claim that you've never backed away from a challenge...that you strove to be exemplary...to be your own standard bearer. This is the most severe challenge that one could ever face. Surely this is of greater consequence than a struggle for trophies and adulation."

"This isn't my fight," Islena persisted, vexed at the constant demeaning of something that she had once held sacred.

"But it is, and though it may seem grossly unfair, there is no escaping the fact that you have become embroiled in our struggle. You are the very heart of the conflict and it will follow you no matter where you run."

"What can I do?" Islena cried abjectly, feeling the onset of tears and despising herself for this perceived weakness. Tears were the last resort of the pathetic.

"You fear the dark, seductive allure of the Proclamations? So be it, but you can still give yourself to the struggle against Myrhia's tyranny. If you're going to be the victim of oppression, then you may as well make the price of that oppression an expensive one indeed," Lorio advised Islena. A part of her understood that her subtle manipulation would entice Islena into Myrhia's web, but another repressed part genuinely hoped that Doraux would find a way to destroy the enchantress.

Islena reflected upon Lorio's advice. She had desperately tried to avoid what was proving to be inevitable, finally conceding that she would be driven to a point where she must fight or die in submission. Surprisingly, she found that the acceptance was a tremendous relief.

"How do I help?" she asked, even mustering a wan smile.

Lorio gave the appearance of pondering this for a moment and then said, "Offer your help to this coalition. Your very presence should help inspire them." She hesitated briefly and then added, "Destiny led you to Runesholm and then first Icon. You may view this as a coincidence, but I think that it would be prudent to view it as an act of fate. It is possible...even probable, that you will discover the other two. Even if you will not wield them against Myrhia, you may still do everything to insure that they do not fall into her hands."

Islena pushed herself wearily to her feet, casting a glance of appraisal at the taller woman. "I can't get over how much you've changed...how you've grown from the brat I thrashed in Kornas. You are more worthy of this role than I'll ever be."

"Having a child in your womb will do that, I imagine," Lorio observed, "Especially in times such as these."

Islena nodded in solemn commiseration. "I'm going to try, Lorio, though more for you than the notion that I might make a difference. I'll inform Morzhian of my decision. Why don't you stay here and rest. You must be exhausted."

Lorio, for whom exhaustion was the limitation of another life, shook her head. "There will be ample opportunity to rest when Myrhia is moldering in her grave."

Islena nodded and after Islena managed to change into appropriate clothing, the pair went off in search of Morzhian and the other leaders. As Islena watched this new Lorio glide lithely through the halls of the Metocan palace, she pondered the Lamish woman's final remark. It had been delivered in a dispassionate and merciless tone that left Islena wondering how Myrhia could possibly sleep knowing that she had such formidable enemies.

Chapter Six

1

When Islena and Lorio were ushered into the inner sanctum, the essential seat of Metocan power, both immediately perceived the aura of pervasive doom that hovered over those who had assembled there. All heads turned to mark Doraux's entry and Islena could discern the faint spark of hope that dawned on every face. For the first time, she fully grasped the depths of their conviction that she was to be their Messiah.

Both Inos and Morzhian wore identical expressions of dismay. Islena correctly deduced that events had again begun to move and the direction of that movement was not at all favorable to coalition fortunes. Even Gillian appeared uncharacteristically morose.

"What's happened?" Islena inquired urgently and stopped suddenly, abruptly stunned to an awed silence as she beheld the massive crystal around which the assembly had gathered.

Pointing at the surface of the crystal, Morzhian informed her, "Myrhia has devised a way of surmounting our defenses...just as we knew she would."

There was a faint note of desperation in the Natzurdan's tone...one that informed Islena just how badly and swiftly the situation had degenerated. Doraux shivered as though feeling Myrhia's sweet breath on her neck. Gesturing toward the massive crystal, she inquired, "What is this?"

"It is referred to by many names," Inos explained, his voice conveying the tiniest hint of pride. "Some call it the crystal of consciousness or perception." In a sweeping gesture to include the Metocan, he continued, "What it really is can best be described as a conduit between the ephemeral world that exists all around us and physical reality defined by the five standard senses."

Islena glanced at the crystal, unable to decipher the tumultuous events playing out upon its lustrous surface. Morzhian now stepped forward, his face set in grim lines of concentration as he watched the spectral images unfold. "This particular piece of reality is southern Natzurdan where the first of Myrhia's Morticants has breeched our natural defenses."

Doraux looked from Morzhian to Lorio, who studied the crystal with intense concentration, and then back to the arcane wonder. The panorama of chaos there was perhaps more spectacular and inexplicable than the thing that conveyed it. She watched from an eagle's perspective as huge columns of stone burst forth from the earth. Peeling back huge sections of grass and friable material as though the world was giving birth, an entire wall of granite was suddenly thrust skyward with a grating scream that set Islena's teeth to chattering and reverberated deep in her viscera. At the base of the rising wall, a huge fissure snaked across the land, swallowing sections of ground like a ravenous beast.

"My God, what's happening?" Islena exclaimed. "Is this some kind of earth quake?"

"What you are seeing is our method of holding Myrhia's armies at bay," Morzhian explained tensely. As he spoke, the view provided by the crystal conduit zoomed steadily downward until Islena could discern a long line of people kneeling upon the earth just beyond the area of upheaval. As magnification increased, the fish eye perspective isolated a small group of about twenty men. To a man, each wore a shapeless brown robe that was besotted with dirt and soaked through with perspiration. Their exhaustion was clearly reflected in their gaunt, hollow eyed faces. Those expressions of desperation touched Islena as eerily familiar, though she could not quite conjure up the memory. Then she recalled the old black and white film reels taken in Auschwitz...a famous enclave of horror from her own world and time. The same expression of grim fatalism and resignation twisted the faces of the men and women now struggling to hold Myrhia's juggernaut at bay.

Fingers hooked into the earth, the exhaustion-ravaged figures appeared to pray furiously, their exhortations becoming increasingly frantic with every passing moment. Islena stole a brief glance at the Natzurdan leader, who appeared transfixed by the disturbing spectacle. He suddenly became cognizant of her scrutiny and resumed his narrative. "What you are witnessing is an event which is extremely painful for a Natzurdan to behold. I'm speaking of the desecration of the prevailing order of nature."

As the group looked on, a section of granite folded forward and a geyser of molten lava spewed out through the resulting fissure. The kneeling Natzurdan began to chant again as the steaming lava flowed languorously to the south, rapidly cooling to form a hardened mantle. As the pace of the chanting again began to escalate, one of the chanters fell back upon the grass, clutching his head as his face contracted in the excruciating grip of an intense convulsion. Blood ran freely from his ears and nose as a Metocan quickly rushed to attend to the fallen adept.

Islena gazed questioningly at Morzhian, who appeared sickened by the plight of his fallen comrade.

"A Natzurdan is born with the conviction that the health of the Mother precious earth is sacrosanct and his entire life is dedicated to its propagation and betterment. We would gladly sacrifice our lives to preserve it. The Mother recognizes our devotion and rewards it with a limitless harvest and verdant splendor. More generous still, she has imparted the earth lore to her worshippers; the talent to manipulate earth, wood and stone to our mutual benefit. Our capital city is a living testimony to the level to which the earth lore has been refined through the long centuries."

"What you see developing before you is an unthinkable act of sacrilege and desecration by every standard of our culture. Yet the Mother permits it because she empathizes with our need and understands the extremity of our plight. Still, we Natzurdan are all too aware of her agony. It is reflected clearly in every face. The lore wielders can feel her suffering reverberated with excruciating clarity through their flesh and bone. I suspect that many of those defenders will never recuperate from the trauma of this desecration."

Islena gaped at the crystal in horrified disbelief. "You're telling me that your people are responsible for these upheavals?"

"Precisely...with a little assistance from our Metocan friends. As I have said, ours is the ability to shape rock earth and living wood. An effort of this magnitude is unprecedented and cannot be sustained indefinitely. As you can see, the strain is already beginning to take effect."

"You're doing this to hold Myrhia's armies back all along the border?"

"No, even we could not be capable of such a daunting task. Fortunately, there are only three mountain passes which lead from Jerhia into Natzurdan. Similar efforts are being made at the other two."

"What do you hope to accomplish?" Lorio demanded querulously, and Islena thought that she could detect a hint of scorn in her voice.

"We hope to stall the enchantress until our coalition finds a more effective means of dealing with her invasion," Morzhian replied evenly.

"By all that is Holy!" Inos exclaimed and every head snapped back to the crystal surface. Dark thunder heads suddenly materialized out of what had been a clear blue sky only moments before. With shocking violence, each cloud burst, pouring down solid sheets of water that fell upon the defenders with staggering force.

A deathly silence descended upon the room as the ranks of Natzurdan were sent sprawling by the torrential downpour. Still, they struggled valiantly to maintain their concentration while the rapidly bursting clouds dropped tons of water from the heavens.

"The chain of empathy has been broken," Morzhian observed in a voice fraught with anguish. "Our defenses will soon crumble."

Just then, the situation was further exacerbated by the first lightning bolt that arced down from the clouds with uncanny accuracy and struck a flailing Natzurdan. As a horrified Doraux looked on helplessly in revulsion, the adept was reduced to a gruesome blackened husk. Transfixed by grief and horror, Islena watched as one Natzurdan after the other met with a similar fate.

Within the span of less than five minutes, the rampaging storm had thoroughly decimated the defenders. Those few who had managed to survive the freakish onslaught rushed back to their positions, kneeling in the two feet of standing water and thrusting their skilled hands back into the sodden earth.

"There simply aren't enough to be effective," Morzhian declared morosely, to which Inos concurred with a grim nod. The few remaining Natzurdan continued to attempt the channeling process, chanting rhythmically while working their hands deep into the soil, but as their leader had predicted, the strength of their collective wills proved insufficient to raise the earth even slightly. The defenses of Natzurdan had crumbled and the subsequent rout and slaughter would begin.

"It's futile. They should abandon their position," someone lamented, to which Lorio muttered, "Coward!"

Islena glanced sharply at her companion, but the Lamish woman's expression remained inscrutable. For the briefest of instants, Islena thought that she could detect something ineffably horrible lurking behind those dark eyes, but then someone cried out and that moment of near revelation evaporated.

Islena returned her attention to the crystal portal and her breath seemed to seize in her chest. Over the twisted and tortured landscape came a legion of luminous blue monstrosities, all mounted on black chargers with oddly luminescent blue eyes. The creatures advanced slowly, clearly unconcerned by the prospect of further opposition.

"Those are Myrhia's Morticants," Morzhian disclosed distractedly. His voice was tight with revulsion tempered by a measure of what could only be described as supernatural dread. "This was precisely what we were defending against, always knowing that the moment would come when Myrhia would find a way to surmount our defenses...knowing that we could not sustain this tactic for a prolonged period of time. We had hoped to develop a more effective strategy before that moment came."

He looked directly at Islena, his expression at once imploring and accusatory. "Now it would seem that even that scant hope is bankrupt."

Their gazes remained locked for a moment and then the Natzurdan averted his eyes. Islena experienced a pang of guilt, followed by sharp stab of resentment; the two emotions which seemed perpetually at war within her. Suddenly, a chilling notion bloomed in her mind and she blurted, "Gillian, do you think that Marla was one of those?"

For a moment, the Jerhia gazed at Islena with utter incomprehension, but then he recalled the massive woman from Runesholm who had come perilously close to killing Islena. "I can't be certain. Her eyes were tinged with the same luminous blue, but these creatures appear to resemble humans only in general form. The woman at the abbey exhibited all too human behavior."

"These are the prototypes," Lorio declared quietly, prompting the pair to turn and face her and fixed her with speculative stares. She watched the advancing Morticants with keen interest, an obscure emotion playing upon her face. "The thing in Runesholm was a refinement of the sorcery used to vivify these drones."

"How could you possibly know this?" Gillian challenged, his suspicion flaring. Lorio merely glanced at the Jerhia, indifferent to his inferred allegation. "It would be the most logical conclusion to draw, would it not? Marla, or one just like her, could infiltrate an enemy camp, revealing her true nature only at an opportune moment. These cruder versions are strictly for vulgar offence and serve as the Queen's hammers."

"You seemed well versed in the philosophy behind Myrhia's Morticants and their particular uses," Gillian growled and Islena could sense a new thread of hostility insinuate itself into the room's mood.

"And you seem intent on making vague insinuations, rather than being forthcoming," Lorio snapped, perceptibly angry for the first time. Islena imposed herself between the pair, who continued to glower for several seconds.

"This isn't the time," she rasped and then turned to Lorio. "Do you think that was really Marla Holmes or only a thing that Myrhia fashioned to look like her?"

"I don't know, Islena," Lorio replied flatly, still glaring at the Jerhia.

On the opalescent face of the crystal, a group of Metocan mages had moved to challenge the approach of the Morticants. Pushing back his cowl to reveal his translucent features, the nearest Metocan gestured in the direction of a granite boulder. The huge piece of rock began to vibrate and then levitated into the air. The mage swung his hand in a savaged arc that terminated in direct alignment with the closest Morticant.

The boulder responded to the gesture by rocketing end over end through the air, striking the monstrosity in the chest and throwing it from its mount. The assembly held its collective breath for a moment as the beast lay absolutely motionless. When it appeared that it would not rise, the Morticant abruptly sprang to its feet and remounted its charger, resuming its inexorable forward canter.

The Metocan tried valiantly to stifle the advance, employing telekinetic projectiles to pelt the creatures, but inevitably the beasts forced the defenders to give ground. As the Morticants forced the defenders further back from the passes, Myrhia's conventional armies began to file through the gap, cautiously picking their way through the treacherous, detritus-riddled landscape.

Then, like a dark sun exploding into Nova, the High Queen of Emercia entered the field of battle. Her complex emerald intaglio glittered upon its ebony breastplate. Islena noticed the way that her personal guard provided her with a wide berth as though she might be radioactive or virulent. The enchantress's eyes burned like glowing coals and her angelic face was lit by a predacious grin as she surveyed the carnage. Watching her canter across the field, Islena was struck by an immutable fury that welled up in her soul like hot bile. In that moment, she swore an ardent vow that she would be the one to smash the delicate porcelain features to dust.

Myrhia expertly guided her horse to the spot where the defenders had fallen, regarding the sprawl of dead bodies with an expression of indifference. Then she turned her attention to the heavens, peering directly into the invisible eye of the crystal of Thamius. To a one, all within the room experienced an icy shiver of trepidation as if her gaze had fallen directly upon them.

"Did you think that I would remain ignorant of your scrutiny?" she cried in a powerful voice that rumbled like thunder through the chamber. "Still, I need not stoop to gloating. Both sides realized that this moment was inevitable as though it had been decreed by fate and scribed in stone."

"Morzhian, I want you to know that I have every intention of ravaging Natzurdan...of defiling every aspect of its beauty and leaving it to fall into neglect like a defiled virgin. I will do this not for gain, but for the simple pleasure of knowing that it is within my power. My delight will be augmented by the knowledge that you will be forced to witness the desecration of your beloved Goddess."

To emphasize the dominance of her position, the enchantress began to rub her palms together with increasing rapidity, until a small spark ignited from the friction. Soon, both hands were engulfed in blinding blue balls of flame. She then leveled her hands at the nearest stand of fur trees. In a coruscating burst of blue malevolence, the flames leapt from her hand and crossed the distance between the enchantress and the majestic furs in an instant.

As the horrified assembly stood witness, the towering furs erupted into needles of flame, despite the fact that they had been thoroughly drenched by rain only moments before.

Morzhian's only reaction to the desecration was a sharp inhalation, though his face was ashen and dull. Myrhia watched the flames spread for a moment and then she cupped a small hand around her mouth and exhaled sharply. At once, a great gust of wind kicked up, fanning the flames forward in a feeding frenzy.

All around the enchantress, horses and soldiers began to skitter nervously as the flames began to rage. One of her commanders approached her tentatively, but she waved him off with a curt, dismissive gesture. Turning back to her unseen audience, she declared, "Jerhia is dead and trampled under foot. Soon Natzurdan will fall to a similar fate. Those who have militated against me can expect a slow and agonizing death as their reward, but not before they witness the thorough extirpation of every trace, every vestige of the impression they have left upon this land. I intend to cleanse these liberated areas of their antiquated cultures."

"Inos, my old enemy," Myrhia began, her tone switching from imperious to contrived fondness. "I know that Islena Doraux is in your keeping. We are both aware of her importance, and harbor no doubt that I intend to have her at any cost. To avert further bloodshed, I propose an exchange...the continued autonomy of your country for the woman. If you agree, a representative will turn Doraux over to my armies before they have reached your borders. If not, Metocan will be annihilated. I have generously afforded you the opportunity to deliver your people from beneath the poised hammer. Deliver Islena Doraux...and the Jerhia Icon...to my keeping and the Metocan can continue to live their sequestered lives, capering in the fog. Spurn my offer and I will relish the task of hunting your race to extinction."

Now Myrhia's features brightened perceptibly, her eyes suddenly animated with a genuine blitheness. Islena knew instinctively that she was about to be addressed. In response, she felt her body stiffen and her nipples tighten into turgid electric knots. "Dear Islena, it is time to end this charade. You must submit to the inevitable and come to me."

"Never!" Islena rasped vehemently, and over her shoulder, Lorio beamed a jackal's grin.

"At Runesholm, you defiantly proclaimed that you would never serve me and I, in turn, vowed that you continued intransigence would become expensive on the most personal of levels...soon my meaning will be made eminently clear. To spare your family and avoid further torment, come to me and bring the Jerhia Icon as a symbol of your fealty. The High Queen of Emercia has spoken. When next she speaks, it will be to declare your deaths"

Abruptly, the enchantress twisted her torso to the left, swinging both arms as she did.

"It's impolite to gape at royalty," Myrhia snarled and whipped both arms about.

"Down!" Inos warned urgently, seconds before the crystal shattered into a hail of shards and slivers. Howls of pain and outrage echoed throughout the great chamber. The walls reverberated with a thunderous explosion, as the crystal that had dominated the chamber for more than a millennium exploded into dust and fragments.

Gradually, the glittering dust began to settle as the chamber filled with moans of pain and anguish. Islena attempted to raise her head, but found that she could not. After an anxious moment, she realized that Lorio had thrown her to the floor and had covered her protectively as the crystal had been about to shatter.

'Will this inclination to sacrifice ever be done?' she wondered morosely.

Lorio slipped off of Islena and gripping her muscular forearm, hauled Doraux to her feet. Islena peered into Lorio's eyes, smiling with a gratitude that felt oddly insincere. The smile faltered before the intensity of the Lamish warrior's indecipherable gaze.

"Islena," Lorio whispered fiercely and then releasing her forearm, turned quickly away. Doraux heard a low voice of cold panic clamoring for her attention, but she emphatically cut it short, diverting her gaze to the carnage in the Inner chamber. Miraculously, all assembled had escaped serious injury, save for some deep cuts and abrasions. That blessing could be attributed to the extent of the crystal's destruction.

A thin patina of white dust was all that remained of the magnificent wonder. Through the settling dust, Islena could see Inos and Morzhian consoling a bitterly weeping female mage, who clutched her head in her hands and wailed piteously.

Gillian was standing near the edge of the mount, peering down into the void left by the crystal's destruction. Islena drifted over to join him. She noticed that his sharp features were pinched and that he had been nicked in a half dozen places where blood trickled languidly down his face and scalp. "Everything that has held value for our cultures has been laid to waste. Even if we found a way to defeat Myrhia, these things would be irretrievably lost. The enchantress has left her indelible scar on the psyche of everyone who held true to the notion of justice."

He glanced at her briefly and then strode out of the chamber. Had there been a hint of reproach in his eyes? She could not be certain. Sighing wearily, Islena stood at the center of the Metocan culture and could not help but draw the parallel between the gaping void and the current state of her own miserable life.

2

The next several hours were perhaps the strangest in the entire time that Islena had been marooned in the new world. The mood in Othgol was an incongruent marriage of resignation and exigency. Everyone was aware that desperate action was required, but no one knew precisely what that action should entail. All knew of Myrhia's breakthrough in southern Natzurdan and the destruction of the crystal, as the grim news sent a lassitude descending over the city like a shroud.

Islena returned to her chambers, driven by the need to escape the imploring eyes, if only for a short time. A fresh tray of fruit had been left upon her table, leading her to wonder what had become of the serving girl, Drorit. It was difficult to image that the innocuous serving girl could possibly have been involved in some sinister plot to abduct her and Islena hoped that she would be treated with leniency for her unwitting role in the failed scheme.

Ignoring the food, Islena settled onto her pallet and closed her eyes. Intuition told her that it might be prudent to rest as coming events would most likely deny her the opportunity to indulge in the comfort of a conventional bed.

The single drawback of inactivity was the plethora of unwanted thoughts that accompanied it. During her nightmare trek through the Blighted Lands, Islena had managed to keep thoughts of her old life at bay by focusing on the grueling task of putting one foot in front of the other, but now they intruded upon her in a gibbering rush She conjured the images of her sons, Donald and Allen, whom she had not seen in months and who both probably believed that she was dead. Abruptly, she began to cry bitter tears of dejection and loss, more for her grieving children than herself.

Myrhia had promised that her continued defiance would become expensive and Islena had little doubt that her threat was focused squarely on the unsuspecting heads of her husband and children. Myrhia was a creature devoid of compunction and there was little doubt that she would employ children as a means to achieving her goal of cowing Islena to subservience.

The enchantress could easily harm both of her sons if she thought that such despicable persuasion might make Doraux more pliable or if she saw no other alternative.

'Unless you were willing to use the power of the Proclamations to defend them,' a tiny voice suggested eagerly.

Ah yes, there was always that dark option, capering in the shadows of her subconscious like a predatory night creature. The alluring call of virtually unlimited puissance, justified by exigency, was never far from her thoughts. What was it that Lorio had said? "Surely this is of greater consequence than the struggle for trophies and recognition?"

There was an irrefutable logic in that simple query. In her own world, Islena had confronted life as if living was a personal challenge, and the thought of surmounting an endless series of obstacles was a source of inspiration, not aggravation. Yet, in this antiquated place, everything that she cherished and held sacred was being threatened and all that she could think to do was flee like a frightened animal, consumed by thoughts of her own survival.

And soon there would be no further ground to relent. What then?

With her family held hostage before Myrhia's cold mercy, what option did she really have? The answer was as grim as it was unavoidable...none. The enchantress had skillfully maneuvered her into a corner, leaving her with a choice between fawning servitude and open defiance. Irrespective of the path she chose, Islena was all too aware that both possible futures were inextricably linked with the Proclamations.

In that moment of defeat and bitter despair, why would she not reflect back on the places from which she had fled...emphatically refusing to seize the initiative and fight back against her oppressor? How could she possibly explain her craven inactivity to her family and to all of those who had surrendered their lives so that she might live?

'The Proclamations would spare you that moment of unpalatable defeat,' came the seductive whisper, delivered with such unflinching certitude that Islena was almost tempted to embrace the notion and its innate truth.

Except...

An unhurried rapping roused her from her slumber. She gazed, bleary eyed about her chamber, momentarily disoriented by the dull light. She had dozed through most of the afternoon and now twilight had descended upon the beset city.

Stumbling to the door on wooden legs, she found Lorio standing in the hall. She was attired in a black blouse and a long clinging skirt of some soft and delicate material that Islena did not recognize. Her hair cascaded over her shoulder, tumbling to the center of her back in flashes of lustrous ebony. Her exotic olive skin shone with a radiance all its own. In the time that Islena had known the Lamish beauty, never once had Lorio demonstrated a proclivity for soft, feminine finery. Now, in the muted light of the Metocan palace, Lorio looked as beautiful and feminine as the most elegant of Queen's. Indeed, she might well have been a prince's vision; save for the predatory glint that never left her eyes.

The Lamish beauty was aware of Islena's appreciative glance of appraisal and fielded it with a subtle grin. Even in that moment of shared warmth, Islena noticed that the emotion never touched Lorio's inscrutable eyes.

'If you had experienced her kind of suffering, you probably would close your emotions off to the outside world as well,' she reminded herself sternly.

"Lorio, you look absolutely stunning," Islena remarked, noting that her friend had went so far as to weave a strands of fresh water pearls through her tresses. Lorio shrugged. "My life has never really afforded me the opportunity to dress as such. Every now and then I feel the compulsion to indulge the softer side of my character...to remind myself that I'm a woman."

She gestured toward her clothes, which complimented her body so perfectly, and explained, "This seemed somehow appropriate for a place such as this. Though some would consider it unseemly when poised on the edge of the abyss...I desired a brief moment of normalcy."

On impulse, Islena suddenly reached out and took the taller woman's hand. Lorio tensed perceptibly, but did not pull away, leaving Doraux with the hope that there was still a chance of a rapprochement. "Lorio, you really do believe that I'm sorry for what happened at Runesholm?"

"Yes," she responded simply, her expression changing not a whit.

"I want for us to be friends. More than ever, I need someone whom I can rely on...trust implicitly." She searched the Lamish beauty's face for some hint of understanding

"You can rest assured that you and I shall be inseparable," Lorio replied after a time with a tone of abstruse irony that was lost upon. Islena There was something off center in Lorio's manner, but Islena was too grateful for the softening of Lorio's rancor to recognize the hints of derision in the Lamish warrior's tone.

"Are you really all right, Lorio?" Islena inquired, searching the alien, dark eyes for some hint of evasion. Lorio smiled, her sensuous lips twisting mischievously. "Do I not look perfectly fine?"

There was little disputing the fact that Lorio looked magnificent. Beyond her olive-skinned beauty, there was a vibrancy and light of absolute health so irreconcilable with the pallid portrait of death that Lorio had worn in that damnable monk's cell. Lorio appeared strong and capable. Had she not overwhelmed four men on the common? Those warning klaxons were braying in Islena's mind again, but she cut them off before they could usurp control of her thoughts and force her to consider the improbability of Lorio's triumph over the Ulgak.

"Would you come in, Lorio?" Islena asked softly, a pleading note resonating in her voice. There was a dangerous element to this situation, but Islena found that she was suddenly vulnerable. "We could talk, perhaps take supper."

"There is nothing that I would like better, Islena, but events have reached a pivotal juncture. The Coalition has called an emergency meeting. You and I have been requested to attend." Lorio peered directly into Islena's eyes, her gaze steadfast and compelling. "Now is the time to declare your allegiance."

The old apprehensions returned in a flood. Sensing her ambivalence, Lorio put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. "I shall be your resolve, Islena. Like a guardian angel, I shall see that you do not falter. No harm will befall you with me at your back"

Mystified by the odd assertion, Islena allowed herself to be led to the conclave, where she would succumb to the calling of destiny.

3

Islena was surprised to discover that the conclave was being held as an open forum. The massive hall was crowded with the citizens of Othgol and the atmosphere of dejection was a palpable thing. When Inos noticed Doraux and Lorio enter the great hall, he gestured for the pair to join him on the raised dais. As others became aware of Islena's presence, an excited buzz rippled through the assembly. Doraux was cognizant of the clamor and immediately deduced that she was its cause, a realization that did nothing to alleviate her mounting agitation. The weight of cumulative expectation nearly drove her to her knees. Discerning Doraux's mounting anxiety, Lorio gently gripped Islena's right elbow between thumb and index finger and guided the shorter woman forward.

The pair finally reached the dais and was ushered to seats near the podium, where Inos was preparing to address the gathering. Islena noticed that Gillian was also on the raised platform, attired in the traditional Jerhia uniform of tunic and trousers. He did not acknowledge her, instead staring at a point somewhere in the audience.

Now Inos convened the conclave, his tone somber, but composed. "Good people of Othgol, I bring you sobering news. The crystal of Metocan has been destroyed by the enchantress."

This was greeted by a collective sigh of despair that swept over the assembly like a winter's breeze, further darkening the general mood. "By destroying the crystal, Myrhia has denied Metocan its single means of monitoring her approach."

"In addition, the High Queen's army has broken the defenses in southern Natzurdan and is presently ravaging that country even as I stand before you. I have called this assembly not only to apprise you of what has transpired, but also to contrive a method of preserving our autonomy...and preventing Metocan from suffering the same fate."

"And what of the woman?" someone cried while leaping to his feet and pointing an accusatory finger at Islena. "Has she not refused to lend us her aid? What punishment shall be meted out to the Lamish woman? Was Kyros not only attempting to preserve our best interest?"

Islena noticed that many of those present nodded their heads in concurrence and understood that the gathering might quickly become hostile. Both she and Lorio were in a perilous position should the group of mystics decided to vent their collective wrath and frustration upon the pair.

Lorio abruptly stood up, tossing her head defiantly. "Perhaps you would care to administer the punishment yourself."

She glared down at the Metocan, who wisely elected to decline her challenge.

"Enough!" Inos suddenly blared, the normally soft spoken Metocan voice booming over the gathering like a thunderbolt. "This is not the time to fling threats and recriminations. Kyros' actions were deplorable, and though I detest violence, this woman was frankly justified in acting as she did. We are not barbarians. We do not employ mean force or duress to bend the innocent to our will...even if we suffer for our forbearance."

Unexpectedly, Lorio seized Islena by the wrist and hauled the startled woman to her feet. "Islena has decided to join you in the fight against Myrhia!"

Utter silence descended upon the gathering as all eyes settled upon Doraux in search of confirmation. She shot Lorio a sour glare, disengaged her hand and stepped toward Inos, feeling the hopes of an entire nation settle squarely upon her broad shoulders.

Mustering her courage, Islena stood with the intention of qualifying her the terms of her aid and declared, "I've decided to help you, to even assist in the hunt for the Proclamations, but only for the purpose of keeping them away from Myrhia. If you can find an alternative method of fighting her, I'll stand beside you."

Morzhian and Inos exchanged cautiously optimistic glances, and the Metocan leader remarked "Any help would be appreciated, Islena, and keeping the Icons out of the High Queen's grasp is certainly imperative."

The Natzurdan trailed off, though the unspoken threat hung in the air like a transparent vulture. Islena shook her head and averted her eyes. "I'm sorry, but that is the best that I can offer."

Again a strident voice brayed from the gathering. "Tell us of the offer that Myrhia extended, or is there no democracy left in Metocan."

Behind the atypical display of belligerence, Islena sensed a deep seated desperation and fear. Reluctantly, Inos addressed the matter of Myrhia's purported offer. "The High Queen has promised not to invade Metocan if we surrender Islena Doraux, this stranger to our land. We would be exceptionally obtuse and a disgrace to our heritage should we accede to this demand. Myrhia's vows of honor are meaningless. She means to have the Proclamations and as long as the possibility exists that our Icon might be located within our borders, she will never allow us to live in peace. This option must be discarded as a coward's way. If we are to be delivered, it will be through acts of courage and selfless sacrifice...opposition to Myrhia with every fiber of our beings and every drop of our blood, if need be."

Their leader's impassioned reproof seemed to quell the crowd's mounting agitation. The next hour was given to questions and discussions of the country's increasingly bleak situation, but the exchange failed to produce any tangible solution. In the end, the people of Othgol filed listlessly out of the great hall, many resigned to the apparent inevitability of the High Queen's total victory.

The pervasive mood of pessimism was infectious. Depressed, Islena pushed herself to her feet and headed toward the exit with the intention of returning to her chamber. Before she could leave the hall, Inos moved to intercept her and ushered her over to join him. "I think that it is urgent that we discuss your offer of assistance."

"Really? It didn't really seem profoundly important during the forum," she grumbled, not certain what had inspired her churlish reply.

"Islena, Metocan is an open state and we are obligated to keep our people apprised of the nation's path, but the Inner Circle still determines the direction of that path. A public forum is not appropriate when developing strategies of war."

Doraux nodded and was led to another chamber that would serve as a replacement for the devastated Inner hall. Most of the Inner Circle was present, as was Gillian and Morzhian. Lorio accompanied Islena into the chamber as though there was no question that she belonged amongst the group.

"Islena, you were serious in your offer to impart aid?" Inos asked. Doraux simply nodded, her expression remaining inscrutable.

"We have developed a strategy born of pure desperation," Inos announced, stealing a brief glance at the Natzurdan leader, who nodded tightly. In that simple expression, Islena gleaned just how dire and painful that stratagem would prove to be. "The concept that lay behind our attempts to forestall Myrhia's invasion of Natzurdan was sound, but the practical execution was flawed. Until we determine a way to defeat the Morticants, any attempt at offensive action would be foolhardy...suicidal for those who would try."

Islena nodded her agreement. Myrhia's abominations appeared virtually invincible as evinced by their attack upon the Natzurdan adepts. Attacking such monsters transcended the bounds of folly to outright suicide and would do nothing to prevent Myrhia's victory.

"Realizing this, we've come to the conclusion that our only option lies in establishing a defense that will be impregnable, even for a sorceress as powerful as Myrhia."

Here Inos paused, and Morzhian took up the thread of the explanation. "The chief problem with our defense was that it was impossible to sustain for any length of time. The strain was simply too enormous. Still, as Inos has suggested, the concept is fundamentally sound. We need only devise a way to erect a more permanent barrier."

A stony expression had dawned on Lorio's lovely face, but the others were too absorbed by Morzhian's narrative to notice. "As we considered the complexity of the problem, it seemed that nothing in our world could provide such an impenetrable obstacle. And then it occurred to us that we had been hasty in reaching that particular conclusion. There is one barrier that no living creature...or inanimate one for that matter...has ever breeched."

"You're suggesting that there is such a barrier?" Islena demanded sharply.

"Two actually...the first was the great Mother, but we were unable to destroy the causeways before Myrhia's Morticants could stream across." Morzhian paused, as though amazed by the temerity of what he was about to disclose. "The second barrier would pose a formidable challenge, even to Myrhia's insidious genius. Of course I'm speaking of the Hiberas."

"Effectively, the Hiberas is the very end of the world. Across its Hellish waters lies the mythical Land of Shades, a kingdom to which no living soul has ever journeyed and from which no ascendant soul has ever returned. Philosophy aside, the Hiberas is a river that bisects the western continent and runs from north to south along the western borders of the Cornerstone Nations. There is much speculation as to why it exists and what lies over its waters."

"You're telling me that no one has ever crossed this river?" Doraux asked incredulously, trying to envision what manner of deterrent could prove so effective.

Morzhian allowed himself a faint smile. "The Hiberas is a river only in the broadest sense of the word. What flows between its banks is a form of liquid fire."

"You're talking about molten lava," Islena informed him and the assembly regarded her without the slightest hint of comprehension. "The earth is not solid," she elaborated, pointing to the ground as she did. "At least, not to the core. The pressure will turn the rock at the core to molten lava. Occasionally, cracks form in this crust and this lava will be forced to the surface, but it is quickly cooled by the atmosphere's ambient temperature."

Now all present, including Lorio, gaped at Islena as though she had taken leave of her senses. In that simple lack of comprehension, Islena divined the huge gap which existed between her world and this relic. Grade school science was as incomprehensible to these people as quantum physics was to her.

"It doesn't matter," she muttered. Inos and Morzhian exchanged quizzical glances and then the elder elaborated. "The Hiberas is not simple fire from the earth as Gillian will readily attest."

The Jerhia allowed himself a sour grin at the recollection of his exile on the Hiberas. "The river is not so benign, Islena. In the boredom of my months there, I would throw stones out over its waters. As I did, tongues of flame would leap up from the main body and reduce the stones to powder. I never did manage to cast a projectile to the opposite shore. Obviously, this is not a natural phenomenon."

Islena reacted to this by pursing her lips, while Lorio shook her head irritably. "How can the Hiberas possibly aid in your defense?"

Now it was Morzhian who responded, his subdued tone clearly declaring his aversion to this solution. "As it is, the Hiberas is of no value at all, but we intend to change that by re-routing its course."

"That is ludicrous!" Lorio exclaimed, as thought the very suggestion was an affront to her personally.

"Not so," Morzhian corrected, somewhat pointedly. "Burzid, the charts."

A young Natzurdan, with the first tentative sprouting of a beard and nervous eyes, came forward and laid a scroll across the marble table. The scroll was not paper, but rather some woven material drawn by two ornate handles. Morzhian accepted the scroll and unfurled it upon the table, rolling it out and gesturing for Islena and Lorio to gather round and inspect the map.

Islena was impressed by the general workmanship of the map, the topographical detail of which had been woven into the material surface.

'It must have taken hundreds of hours to sew something so elaborate,' Doraux realized admiringly. The borders of each of the three nations had been sown in individual colors and the major physical demarcations of the Mother and the Hiberas had been stitched in exacting detail. Islena noted that the area to the west of the Hiberas had been left blank; a deliberate representation of ignorance from which the mythology of the Land of Shades had been born.

The extent of the topographical detail amazed Islena and she told Morzhian this. He allowed a small indulgent chuckle. "Compared to your world, ours may seem hopelessly backward, but we have lived here for millennia. Cartography is a favored science amongst the scholars in our countries and countless academics have lovingly devoted their lives to its study."

Islena nodded appreciatively and Morzhian began to detail the coalition's daring scheme for bringing Myrhia's juggernaut to a halt. "As you can see, the Hiberas bisects the entire western continent, running from the polar sea in the north of Metocan to the mountainous tip of Jerhia. At its narrowest point we have estimated that the river is two hundred yards across. Perhaps by either coincidence or fate, this narrow section is located at the approximate center of Natzurdan...right here."

Morzhian pointed to a spot on the woven map surface. Then he traced a line from west to east across his country. "This shaded area is referred to as Bardolm. Basically, we theorize that it was once a river, though nothing in our history actually indicates that water ever wound its way through its banks. Regardless, it is an anomaly of nature that may well prove to be our salvation."

Lorio stared at the map, frowning mightily. "You honestly propose to divert the Hiberas through Bardolm?"

"That is exactly what we intend," Morzhian confirmed. Islena watched the group silently. It was difficult to believe that these people were actually proposing the restructuring of the entire continent. The element of the fantastic reasserted itself and she briefly took refuge in the possibility that this was all a Byzantine dream. The notion faded as quickly as it had come when her gaze swept the solemn faces of those clustered around the table.

"Even if what you are proposing is possible," Lorio continued, still truculent in her apparent opposition to the proposal. "Have you given any thought to the consequences of diversion?"

Morzhian looked to Islena with a wry grin. "Your friend has a talent for posing the salient questions. In answer, yes. Quite frankly, we are not even certain if the Mother will permit such a horrendous act of desecration. If she grasps the magnitude of Myrhia's evil, it is possible that she might subject herself to mutilation. It may be difficult for you to consider it from this perspective, but we Natzurdan regard the earth to be the physical manifestation of the Goddess' eternal spirit...her immortal soul, if you will. I am proposing a heinous disfigurement of the very thing my people worship. If you can view our stratagem in this context...that we would even entertain resorting to such a drastic measure, perhaps you can begin to grasp the enormity of our plight."

Lorio grunted in disgust and turned away, evidently not sharing the Natzurdan view that the earth was a sentient entity. Morzhian did not seem offended by Lorio's curt gesture of dismissal, though Islena began to wonder what really capered behind her friend's inexplicable ire. Something occurred to her then and she asked "So you would split the land until the river filled this basin, thus creating a barrier?"

She traced a line along Bardolm, which trailed off only a few miles from the great Mother. Morzhian nodded. Doraux frowned in puzzlement. "That is all very well, but assuming that this Land of Shades is populated by monsters of some sort, when you divert this river, won't these things over run Jerhia and southern Natzurdan?"

Gillian grimaced. "We've discussed precisely that scenario. Morzhian has dispatched riders to inform his people that they should begin evacuating to the north. My people, however, have faded into the mountains. Unfortunately, they will be caught unaware by the upheaval."

"Then they will die!" Lorio spat disdainfully.

Gillian colored with rage. "Good lady, your acid tongue grows tiresome."

"Then perhaps you would care to silence it," she retorted hotly, actually gesturing for the Jerhia to take their simmering dispute to the gaming yard.

"Lorio, that's enough!" Islena hissed, imposing herself between the pair. The Lamish woman's nostrils flared but she lapsed into a brooding silence. She glowered at Gillian, extending a wordless challenge that the Jerhia accepted with a curt nod.

"There is a potentially positive aspect to this," Inos interjected coolly, nonplussed by the acrimony that existed between the supposed allies. "Myrhia's conventional army will be caught in the onslaught from the Land of Shades and hopefully obliterated, leaving only her and the Morticants to deal with."

"Let's say that you succeed and the Hiberas stops Myrhia; what then?"

Inos pursed his lips, an expression which seemed incongruous with his unusual face. "Much of that would depend upon you and the nature of any help that you might offer."

Doraux sighed, knowing that the moment of commitment had come. "I'll help in whatever way I can. I'll even go so far as to find the other two Icons, but only so they do not fall into Myrhia's hands. I will not use them against her. You had better believe that my no is unequivocal."

Morzhian and the others brightened visibly. "Even that would be enough, but I caution you against the notion that we...you especially...will have peace while Myrhia lives. If Myrhia's ambition is thwarted, her wrath will be terrible to behold."

Inos lay a hand upon the Natzurdan's wrist. "Let's not press the issue." Turning to Doraux, the Metocan intoned, "We accept your gracious offer of help, Islena. Despite the immediacy of our plight, we still empathize with the particular injustice of your ordeal. Even if our world is lost, and I fear that our way of life is gone forever, we aspire to make other worlds safe from the enchantress' scourge. That may be the true objective of the conflict to come...confining Myrhia's defilement to this world alone."

Islena accepted Inos' commiseration with a slight nod, sensing that his words were sincere, but knowing that they did nothing to ameliorate her situation. "What would you have me do?"

Inos frowned. "I would charge you with the search for the Proclamations, knowing that this world is the only limit to their potential location. With Myrhia's rampaging armies converging upon our borders, the task will be made all the more difficult. Frankly, we have no idea where the remaining two Icons might be concealed. Until you found the Jerhia sword in Runesholm, the very existence of the Proclamations was the stuff of contention between scholars, metaphysicians and pragmatists."

The Natzurdan assumed the thread of the Metocan's thought. As he did, Doraux felt a subtle electric tension creep into the atmosphere of the room. "It has been thousands of years since the Proclamations were purportedly scattered by our fretful forefathers. Somehow, the historians allowed this wealth of knowledge to fade as though the Icons were an ineffable evil."

"Which I believe they are," Doraux interjected irritably.

"Perhaps," Morzhian murmured reflectively. "At any rate, the actual knowledge of the Icons and their possible locations has diminished into unreliable rumor. Dreamers have devoted their lives into finding the sword, staff and orb, but every effort has proven futile. Thousands of years and nothing and then your seemingly random path led you to the sword of Jerhia. The insinuation of predestination is difficult to ignore, Islena, even for one who is disinclined to accept the concept of providence."

"You're saying that I could find the last two simply by wandering off and waiting for them to...what...reach out to me?" Islena found it impossible to mask her cynicism, though a deeper instinct she would dearly have loved to ignore, declared the validity of the Natzurdan elder's contention.

The Natzurdan shook his head. "If time permitted, that might be the best approach, but the enchantress is not likely to allow us the luxury, therefore we must be more aggressive in our search...more steadfast in our search."

Behind the pair, Gillian muttered, "The one man who could be considered a legitimate authority on the matter has been deposed by the loathsome bitch."

Islena went rigid, nonplussed by the Jerhia's uncustomary display of vitriol. "Who are you talking about?"

The exigent tone in Islena's voice caused the Jerhia to glance at her sharply. "I'm speaking of Artumas...the beloved High King and Myrhia's husband. She usurped his thrown through treachery, though no one knows precisely how she disposed of the king."

"No one knows how she disposed of Artumas because she didn't...at least, not in the final sense of the word," Islena revealed excitedly, her heart thudding hard in the confines of her chest. Though she was not certain of exactly how, Islena felt certain that Ynthrax's disclosure of Artumas' fate was about to play a pivotal role in shaping everything that was to follow this moment. By revealing what had actually befallen the former king to this unsuspecting assembly, Islena was about to set the course for future events in a way that none could have anticipated.

"What are you saying?" Inos demanded intently. "You know of Artumas?"

"The most consequential thing that I know about Artumas is that he is still alive."

Islena's astounding revelation was greeted by a tumultuous furor as those gathered expressed both incredulity and doubt in equal measure. As she glanced about, mildly resentful of the cynicism, Islena noticed that both Lorio and Morzhian were staring fixedly at her, bright, speculative expressions dawning on their faces.

"Islena, you must be mistaken," Morzhian offered. "Myrhia ascended to the thrown through treachery. Had you known Artumas, you would realize that only death would keep him from coming forth to oppose the wickedness that his wife has wrought. He was the antithesis of everything she has come to represent."

Islena considered this and then said, "There is one other power that is as effective as death...magic. When Lorio and I were being held in Perdwick's dungeons, I learned of the fate that has befallen the High King."

"From Whom?" a dour Metocan named Xkador demanded indignantly.

"Ynthrax, the High Queen's Commander," Islena responded flatly, knowing the reaction this source would provoke.

"An unimpeachable source." The Metocan's response was rife with contempt.

"Enough!" Inos hissed, stunning the assembly with his uncharacteristic display of temper. The room fell to utter silence. "We are poised on the edge of the abyss with this woman as our only means of salvation. I will not tolerate this inane ridicule and bickering."

He turned to Islena and his face was again placid, leaving Islena with the impression that his ire had been contrived. "My colleague is partially correct. The Redian is a notorious wretch...and he is not a source in which one would normally place a great deal of faith. Still, I doubt we are in a position to discount any information, whatever its source."

"Maybe, but had he not helped me, I would still be in the dungeons of Perdwick...or dead," Islena pointed out. Slowly, haltingly, she recalled her ordeal in the dungeons, concluding with Ynthrax divulging the fate that had befallen the former king.

"This is preposterous," Xkador exclaimed. "There is no evidence that a western sea exists. Even if it did, how would the enchantress consign Artumas there? More to the point; why would she?"

"I know nothing of how, but I think that I can answer why," Islena interjected, her smooth brow furrowing quizzically as though she was grappling with a perplexing riddle. "I warn you that this is likely to be greeted with more scorn than anything I've revealed thus far. She didn't kill him because she loved him."

This elicited a round of derisive laughter from the assembly. Islena's cheeks colored with anger and Gillian placed a placating hand upon her shoulder. "Islena, the concept of love is well beyond Myrhia's sensibility If Myrhia is enamored with anything, it would be power."

"No Gillian." This time it was Morzhian who interceded upon Islena's behalf. "Nothing, even the most reprehensible of creatures, is immune to love. It could be that even the enchantress is susceptible to the most humbling of emotions. Myrhia may perceive love as an insidious weakness and pervert it to something grotesque. If she relegated Artumas to the Land Of Shades or beyond, it may be the only act of mercy that she has ever performed...at least, an act of mercy as she would perceive it."

A contemplative silence descended upon the room as a stunned assembly absorbed the imponderable revelation, grappling with the multi-faceted implications.

"This puts a new complexion upon everything," Inos murmured thoughtfully, wondering how this disclosure would reverberate through the waters of fate.

"Artumas is the one man who could help us find the Proclamations, or at least expedite the search," Morzhian mused thoughtfully. "It is also possible that his return might inspire the oppressed to rise up against their occupying armies. Artumas was revered; perhaps the most beloved figure in history. His return might be a tonic to a dispirited world...a symbol of hope, very much as you are Islena."

"I must protest!" Xkador cried, leaping to his feet and thrusting himself to the head of the assembly. "Are we to build a strategy by accepting the word of a miscreant as an article of gospel?"

"And what do we really know of this woman?" the Metocan demanded of his fellow Council members. "She is not even from our world and knows nothing of our cultures. Why do we so quickly assume that her intentions toward us are amiable? Are we so pathetic in our need that we would impart our faith to a total stranger...one who has repeatedly declared her refusal to assume her role? Who is to say that she can be trusted?" he snapped, pointing an accusatory finger in Islena's direction, while she stood woodenly, watching the Metocan through smoldering eyes.

Unexpectedly, Lorio surged forward and delivered a clubbing forearm to the side of the Metocan's head. He uttered a thin cry and tumbled to the floor in a convulsive shudder of long limbs. The statuesque beauty gazed down upon the fallen Metocan, her face inscrutable. The assembly degenerated into chaos then. Two Metocan's rushed forward to restrain Lorio, who submitted to be taken without resistance. Her indecipherable gaze shifted to Islena, even as she was being led away from the fallen Metocan.

"Damn it, let her go!" Islena demanded angrily, taking hold of the nearest Metocan and propelling the startled creature across the room in a tangle of limbs. The other quickly released his grip on the captive and stepped back, looking to Inos for instructions.

Xkador climbed unsteadily to his feet, his large eyes clouded with pain, and gazed warily at the two women. "This woman is a menace! Kyros did not deserve to die, no matter how misguided his intentions. I demand that the woman be taken into custody, not only for her flagrant assault upon me, but for the heinous murder of Kyros."

Inos sighed, knowing that the Metocan law did not tolerate murder and was very specific in its prescriptions. During his tenure as leader of his Nation, he had never been confronted with such a delicate situation. To exacerbate his dilemma, Islena had imposed herself between Lorio and Inos, declaring, "She's endured enough. If you compound her suffering by subjecting her to any further torment, then you can forget about my help. You may as well confine us to the same cell"

Inos' shoulders sagged slightly. Gravely, he replied, "Islena, our laws provide for severe punishment of life takers. What Kyros attempted to do was deplorable, but it did not warrant his murder. This woman's proclivity toward brutal violence will not and cannot be tolerated in Metocan. In deference to your wishes, I will not have her sent to the prison of Othgol, but will insist that she is placed under house arrest. There is a holding cell in this palace and it is there she will be sent until the matter of her status here is decided."

"Absolutely not," Islena started to protest, but then Lorio forestalled her protest. "It is well, Islena. Discord is not what we require now." Turning to the Metocan elder, she advised, "You profess to abhor violence, insisting that I was wrong in dealing with Kyros as severely as I did? If your people are to survive, you had better shed your revulsion and learn to fight tooth and nail as would a hungry, desperate animal. If you are inadequate to face the horror and savagery, you might spare yourself the protracted torment by simply lying down and dying because Myrhia has no such reservations."

Watching the younger woman defiantly challenge the leaders of the three ancient races, Islena's heart welled up with keen admiration for Lorio. Washed in the untainted light of unflinching strength and conviction, she might well have been Hippolyte, the legendary Queen of the amazons, or even Joan of Arc.

Without saying more, she shook free of her escort and strode from the room, her face impassive and her posture ramrod straight...a portrait of dignity under siege.

No one spoke for several moments after her exit. Even the irascible Xkador seemed to have lost his hostility like a deflated balloon. Sensing that nothing further would be accomplished, Inos called an abrupt end to the assembly. Gradually, those present began to drift away. Islena considered drawing Inos aside to continue the discussion of Lorio's confinement privately, but suddenly found that she lacked the requisite energy to continue the debate. Feeling both dejected and restless, Islena started back to her quarters.

The halls where she had been quartered were strangely deserted and so she heard Gillian's approach long before he came abreast of her.

She offered him a tentative nod, wondering why his presence had filled her with such unease of late. When they had been traveling companions, Islena found a type of comfort in his unflagging optimism and his cavalier manner. He had been a rogue then, but now he was a Jerhia and to merely look upon him evoked powerful memories of Amrand, along with all of the guilt and shame that accompanied them.

"I'm very tired Gillian," She lied. In fact, she doubted that she would be able to calm the fury of thoughts and emotions that were beleaguering her weary mind.

"Not an uncommon condition I would expect considering that you carry the hopes of an entire world on your shoulders," he offered with a glimmer of his former roguish manner. She glanced at the Jerhia and was shocked by the deep lines of weariness that seemed to have suddenly etched themselves into the flesh around his mouth. Then she recalled that he had just learned of the demise of his beloved country in the past few days. There was a plethora of misery for all to wallow in now. "I only require a moment of your time."

Islena shrugged and leaned against a polished rail. "Things are really horrible, aren't they?"

The Jerhia fashioned a grave smile. "I trust you gleaned the severity of affairs by the desperation of our proposed action."

"Can they really divert the Hiberas?" she inquired, still skeptical at the very thought.

"We must pray that they can lest Myrhia's victory be complete by the onset of winter," the Jerhia responded softly and it became clear that his outwardly cavalier manner was entirely contrived.

Islena averted her eyes to the marble floor where arcane intaglios winked up at her, their complex secrets a mystery. Gillian watched her, sensing her disquiet. "I've come to speak of Lorio, Islena."

Islena glanced wearily at the Jerhia. Sensing her reluctance, he quickly forged ahead. "Your friend has undergone a rather profound transformation in the short time you've been separated."

"She has matured. I suppose that suffering can do that at times," Doraux retorted caustically, her tone mordant and defensive.

"I think that we both know that her changes cannot be attributed to maturity alone. When we traveled together, your Lorio was hot tempered and impetuous. Now, she is cold and sly. Even her attack on Xkador seemed motivated by something other than impulsive anger," Gillian pressed instantly, not allowing Islena the luxury of trite dismissal of his legitimate concerns.

"Just what the Hell are you implying?" Islena demanded hotly, suddenly tired of the subterfuge and the couched innuendo. Of everyone, Gillian had long lost any perceived right to be coy.

"We really have no idea what befell Lorio after she fled Runesholm or how she managed to track us through the fog. Myrhia's Morticant was out there somewhere." He allowed the unsettling fact to hang between them.

Islena glowered at the Jerhia, feeling an electric filament of cold loathing pulse in her temple. "What she did was discover that she was pregnant, a token of her time in the dungeons of Perdwick."

"The Gods sobbed," Gillian exclaimed, his angular face rippling with dismay and pity.

"If it were me, I would feel like I was carrying a dirty infection and would want it out." The Jerhia winced at this and Islena experienced a bright flare of satisfaction. "Lorio views it as the ultimate act of humanity...bearing a child of rape as the genesis of a new people. It's a pretty misguided notion, but I don't think that there is a force in the world that would make her renege. I think that clinging to this idea has prevented her from losing her mind."

Gillian was staring numbly at his hands, as though sickened and horrified by Lorio's intention of bringing such a child into the world.

"She came back to me because she is convinced that, if there is to be a world for the child to grow up in, it will come through my actions. Do you have any concept of how inadequate that makes me feel?" Doraux demanded in a quavering voice, perilously close to tears now.

Gillian could only gaze at her and shake his head in bewilderment.

"Lorio has killed to save my life. There may be blood on her hands, but it is on my conscience. She risked her own life and suffered immeasurably to protect me too many times to count. So I just can't listen to accusations about Lorio, because she is the only person on this wretched fucking planet whom I can trust implicitly...you included...assassin."

Then she was gone, slamming her door in punctuation of her anger. Gillian stood alone in the cool deserted corridor, berating himself for his inability to relate his misgivings. In the Lamish beauty's presence, he could feel his flesh rise up in great hackles as though he was standing in the spectral shadow of a banshee.

If Islena refused to entertain any thought that Lorio might be somehow dangerous, then it was up to him to be somehow vigilant in her stead. With a sense of dark foreboding hanging over him, Gillian returned to the council, weary at the prospect of another in a seemingly endless stream of tedious discussions.

Chapter Seven

1

Gillian left Doraux and wound his way through the seemingly endless maze of halls and winding corridors that made up the central palace. He walked hurriedly, pursued by a myriad of vague dreads that had bloomed in the outer reaches of his mind the moment that Lorio had rescued Islena from Kyros and the plodding trio of Ulgak, who were no less lethal for their ponderous nature. That this woman had managed to dispatch four adversaries was nothing short of astounding.

Even though his mind would have been better occupied with considering what affect, if any, the news that Artumas lived might have upon the struggle, he could not coax his thoughts from the Lamish woman. Her change in personality was much too drastic to be attributed to the discovery that she was pregnant as a consequence of rape...however traumatic that horrible experience might be. He would wager his foil upon that certitude, though he had wisely elected not to pursue the issue with Doraux.

He made his way down several flights of stairs, taking them three steps at a time, unmindful of the steepness of the incline. His leather heels echoed down the stairwell, ringing back to his ears in desolate tones that spoke of despair and futility and gradual erosion of all hope.

The stairway descended, twisting down in an endless spiral. He noticed that there were no doors set into any of the landings, understanding that these particular stairs had only one destination, though it had seldom served the purpose for which it had been constructed.

Finally, he reached the bottom and was ushered through a narrow doorway by an unarmed Metocan guard, who bowed to Gillian in a formal greeting of deference and respect.

"Has she been difficult?" Gillian inquired quietly.

The guard shook his head. "On the contrary...she has been remarkably cooperative. Almost docile."

Gillian frowned and entered the central corridor, that sense of intrinsic `wrongness' gnawing at his guts with renewed vigor. This woman's ulterior purpose was shadowed in deadly deception.

The dungeons of Metocan were like no other on the planet. They were immaculately maintained and virtually palatial by any known standard. Other than the boredom of confinement, the prisoner suffered very little discomfort while in a Metocan prison. The Metocan did not subscribe to harsh treatment of offenders and perhaps the ultimate compliment to their society; it was seldom that their dungeons were hardly ever used. Crime was virtually nonexistent in Metocan.

The Metocan adhered to their beliefs and abided by their laws, making the need for discipline an extreme rarity. This seemed quite extraordinary until one considered that most Metocan were a part of the collective consciousness and one extended mind united by common belief and purpose. This place of punishment was more of a symbol than anything else...an almost needless deterrent in a scrupulously well-behaved and disciplined society

On this night, Lorio was the only guest of the Othgol dungeons.

Gillian approached the door of the cell where the Lamish beauty was being detained. A Metocan guard had been posted there as well and he nodded his acknowledgement of the Jerhia's presence. Both men then peered through the small crystal opening which had been set into the door of the cell. A Blue crystal light cast a diffuse glow over the interior. Gillian knew that the Metocan could alter the intensity of these crystals, though he had no notion of how they accomplished this incredible feat.

In the center of her cell, Lorio sat cross legged, her hands folded demurely in her lap. She was either unaware or indifferent to their scrutiny.

"She has been in the same position since she was first led into her cell. Only her shallow breathing gives any indication that she is even alive," the Metocan guard remarked, his tone suggesting a certain fascination with the prisoner's unusual behavior.

"What do you suppose that she is doing?" the Jerhia asked, feeling vaguely uneasy distantly.

"I'm not certain, but she is radiating a tremendous amount of energy."

Gillian briefly considered interrupting her meditation, if this was what it was, and confronting her with his abstract suspicions. He was not precisely certain why she aroused such anxiety in his mind, but he did feel a certain cold, yet undeniable apprehension in her presence.

"The woman troubles you," the Metocan guard observed, startling Gillian out of his reverie. The remark had been phrased more as a statement than a question, so the Jerhia merely nodded.

"Deeply, my friend," he murmured. He pushed himself away from the peep square and abruptly strode back toward the stairwell, sparing one final measure of advice as he departed. "Watch her carefully...she is a lovely flower with barbed thorns."

2

Lorio was cognizant of the Jerhia's presence, though only on the most peripheral level of her consciousness. It was likely that she would soon have to deal with the meddlesome dog in harsh, emphatic terms. Though his suspicions were vague and unspecific, if he persisted, it was entirely possible that he might infect some of the others. Lorio knew that, when the moment presented itself, she could afford no obstructions between herself and Islena. She would have to take her cleanly and efficiently. Gillian's continued existence added an element of uncertainty that she could not risk and so inevitably he must die.

But not now.

Her soul priority was to alert the enchantress of the incredible stratagem that her enemies were presently concocting. There had been an unfortunate moment when her disbelief had nearly caused her to betray herself. Nor did she entirely understand what had motivated her to attack Xkador as she had. Again, the time for self analysis would come later.

She closed her eyes and allowed her chin to settle to her chest as her long hair fell around her face like a silky veil. Attempting to project herself under these hazardous circumstances was a gamble. The Metocan need only grow curious and step into her cell and her deception would be revealed. Still, the enchantress had to be informed. It was possible, even probable, that the sheer audacity of the coalition's scheme would catch Myrhia off guard.

'Diverting the Hiberas! By the Goddess.' The temerity of the act astounded Lorio. Only a lunatic would attempt such a thing. Then again, Myrhia had drawn her fated-championed bane into the world to seek the very instruments with which she could destroy the enchantress...a gambit that was the very definition of madness-addled audacity.

'Ah, but desperation is a form of lunacy,' she reminded herself.

Shunting aside her astonishment, she focused her concentration upon releasing her mind from its body, envisioning herself as a spectral entity without tangible mass. Such a being could rise, and she did...the initial moment of uncoupling both intoxicating and unsettling. Lorio did not consciously will herself in a specific direction, instead trusting that the mantle of power that the enchantress had implanted, would find a path back to its master. As in all things since her rebirth, her instinct proved eerily correct.

3

For some, southern Natzurdan had become a hellish nightmare of torture and protracted death. Those caught by the marauding armies quickly came to rue the day that they had sprung forth from their mother's womb. The fortunate ones fled blindly to the north, praying for some manner of divine intervention...or at the very least, the cold mercy of a swift death

The Morticant cavalry, on their fearsome and grotesque chargers, instilled terror into the hearts of the defenseless citizens, but did nothing more. They were mere extensions of Myrhia's will and had no interest in plunder...only an inexorable advance that crushed any and all opposition in the process. On the other hand, the High Queen's conventional armies derived a sadistic pleasure from widespread slaughter in celebration of a victory which had, in truth, never been theirs to begin with. The most vicious offenders were the mercenary elements who had pledged fealty to the Queen when it had become apparent that victory must inevitably be hers and there was huge profit to be had by simply bending a knee and mumbling oaths of fealty. While showing no personal pleasure in purposeless sadism, Myrhia was disinclined to restrain those who did.

For sport, the mercenaries would allow groups of Natzurdan to escape and then hunt them down, impaling the runners with their pikes, women and children included.

The High Queen's Commanders viewed the spectacle with tacit disgust and dismay, but did nothing to prevent the slaughter. Compassion was tantamount to an admission of weakness in Myrhia's army and was the one quality that she would not tolerate.

And so, on the first ignoble day of occupation, thousands died horribly. At the moment Lorio set herself to the task of releasing her soul to the southern skies, a huge swathe of the green jewel of southern Natzurdan was aflame...their precious goddess writhing in the agony of her disfigurement.

The purveyor of this colossal crime stood atop a ridge gazing down over the clearing where her army had encamped. Despite the totality of her victory, Myrhia found herself feeling strangely pensive. Here and there jarring screams, ripe with agony, ripped through the cool night air; followed by derisive jeers and hoots of sardonic laughter. Throughout the encampment, the sound of drunken carousal and revelry echoed around a hundred fires as the 'victor's' celebrated their triumph over a passive opponent whose only defense had been delay.

"Imbeciles," Myrhia spat, disgusted by and contemptuous of their boorish behavior. Very soon she would have animated a sufficient number of Morticants to entirely dispense with men and their innumerable inadequacies and weaknesses. Of late, she could scarcely tolerate her army's antics, from the slovenly foot soldiers to the preening, delusional peacocks who wishfully called themselves Commanders.

She brusquely turned her back on the madness below, peering up into the moonlit heavens. She imagined wistfully that she could hear their wordless summons to come and conquer. Universal dominion was now within her grasp. All that remained was the savage, relentless thrust to the heart of Metocan, and the outstanding matter of Islena Doraux. Their next encounter would be the critical one where the hinge of fate would turn and she would ascend to omnipotence.

Myrhia sighed softly, her eyes gleaming brightly, and started down the rocky incline that led to her lodgings. Dwelling upon thoughts of her inevitable ascension to omnipotence evoked feelings of restiveness and confinement as thought the archaic world was far too small to house her infinite ambitions. She was half way down the incline when she was struck by the inkling that someone, or something, was attempting to contact her.

She stopped abruptly, automatically inclining her head to the north as the sensation intensified. Cleansing her mind of all superfluous thought, she opened her senses to the summoner. At once, the image of the statuesque Lamish beauty, Lorio had been her name, formed in the inner chamber of her mind.

Behind the impassive brown eyes, Myrhia could discern the hybrid's agitation.

"Tell me what has happened," the enchantress instructed, trying to subjugate her own burgeoning anxiety.

"Not what has happened, but what is about to happen," the hybrid amended. In concise and dispassionate terms, she described the day's events, prudently omitting her attack upon Xkador or her present incarceration in the relatively hospitable dungeons of Othgol's central palace.

"By the eternal soul of the Mother!" Myrhia gasped incredulously. "To even ponder such an Endeavour is incomprehensible madness. They haven't the slightest concept of what lies over the Hiberas, but I know... I know!"

"As audacious as it might be, it is precisely what they intend," Lorio confirmed, privately amused by Myrhia's uncharacteristic display of angst.

'No matter how exacting or meticulous the scheme, we may never control every trickle and weave of destiny's current,' she mused, and then she related the geographical details of the coalitions plan.

Myrhia drew her right hand harshly across her mouth, which had become a thin bloodless slash. In their extreme desperation, the fools had conceived a plan that, should it succeed by some divine miracle, might well foil her carefully laid schemes when they were within grasping distance of culmination, destroying all but a small portion of the world in the bargain.

"Even if such a thing is feasible, the Metocan and the Natzurdan lack the combined power to accomplish it," the enchantress grumbled, perturbed by this unanticipated shift in the flow of events.

"To split a continent perhaps, but not the few critical miles required," Lorio contradicted.

The enchantress frowned, her mind racing along a thousand tangents at once. Foremost in her mind was the prospect of losing Islena behind the fiery curtain of the Hiberas. More unthinkable still, was the possibility that she might be exposed to the capering lunacy that lay across the river...all predacious...ravenous after eons of confinement.

"There is one other item that might be of consequence," Lorio reported, hesitating coyly.

"Yes?" Myrhia prompted in a voice fraught with distinct impatience.

"Islena has made it know to your enemies that Artumas lives."

Even though they were separated by hundreds of miles, and the even less tangible distance of the spiritual plane, the enchantress' intense reaction caused Lorio stiffened in her cell. Myrhia's seething rage was a palpable thing that struck the hybrid like a physical blow. Hers was a towering fury that could breed genocidal wrath.

Through the sepia filter of the imagination, Lorio visualized the enchantress, her limpid eyes bulging with fury and her small, yet sinuous body coiled like a viper in search of something upon which to vent her wrath.

"How dare she?" Myrhia shrieked on the verge of hysteria. "The impudent bitch, how dare she! How could she have known?"

"Ynthrax told her when he freed her from the dungeons of Perdwick," Lorio revealed in a deliberately neutral tone

"That traitorous Redian swine," the enchantress swore venomously. "Tell me exactly what she said. Be specific."

Lorio dispassionately related the details of Islena's disclosure, including the Inner Circle's skeptical reaction. As Myrhia listened, her rage intensified like a gathering storm. Her one weakness, her one moment of ambivalence, had been laid bare by her ancient enemy. Ah, but there would be a reckoning. By all that she held sacred, Myrhia vowed that she would extract sweet revenge. "I will thwart their foolish scheme and when the moment presents itself, you will bring Islena to me. I've exhausted my patience with that damnable bitch."

The enchantress lapsed into a dark, brooding silence and Lorio could clearly discern her master's struggle to regain her composure. Careful to shield her thoughts, the hybrid wondered how much of the woman's violent reaction could be ascribed to an underlying fear...fear that she was not as thoroughly in control of the course of events as she had believed herself to be.

"Lorio, you must take all measures to insure that Islena remains safe," the enchantress instructed.

The hybrid nodded its tacit understanding and then said, "These Metocan are perceptive. I must return lest I be detected."

The High Queen nodded and then broke the empathic link. Could such a thing be possible? On first consideration, the notion of diverting the Hiberas seemed ludicrous, but if it were only a matter of a few scant miles?

Myrhia started off down the slope at a dead run. Moving through the rocks and darkness with a lithesome grace that was eerie, she burst down from the incline and onto the flat encampment grounds. One of the pickets, not recognizing the familiar figure, moved to intercept the intruder and was struck down in an iridescent flash of green light. He lay twitching upon the grassy flat as Myrhia sprinted by without sparing the dying man so much as a glance.

As she sprinted through the encampment, faces turned to trace her path, each donning an identical expression of horror when they recognized the runner.

The enchantress burst into her Commander's tent without bothering to announce herself. On his pallet, her High Commander labored with ardor between the firm thighs of a blond wench that the army had captured in Kornas. His face curdled in rage at the interruption and he regretfully disengaged himself from the nubile blond, thoroughly intending to have the intruder drawn and quartered.

His fury, not to mention his prominent erection, vanished the moment he realized it was Myrhia standing in the entrance. Her cheeks were colored a high, hectic red and her full bosom rose and fell quickly beneath her burgundy velvet tunic. The woman uttered a cry at the sight of the High Queen, pulling a sheet over her body as though Myrhia's very gaze could set her aflame...which, indeed, it could.

"My Queen, I..."Tormal stammered, mortified by the circumstances in which she had come upon him.

She waved him off with an impatient sweep of her right hand. "Assemble your Captains and come to my tent. Five minutes, not one second later."

Then, without a further word of elaboration, she was gone. Chest heaving in a frantic effort to draw breath, the Commander groped for his trousers. Turning to the terrified girl, he snapped, "Get out. I'll send for you when I have need of you again."

She gratefully gathered up her clothes and rushed to leave as Tormal stared at her firm posterior longingly. As he threw on his tunic, an icy wave of terror coursed through his veins. Never had he seen the High Queen in such a state of agitation. Her voice had been a tremulous shriek and Tormal realized that something was about to go horribly, irretrievably awry, if it already had not.

Myrhia quickly returned to her quarters, seething with anger and a burgeoning anxiety. Her enemies knew of Artumas. She tried to consider ways in which they might exploit this new found knowledge and found no practical method of turning this discovery against her. Still, she had not anticipated the possibility that the Cornerstone Nations might tamper with the terrible mystery of the Hiberas.

If they somehow succeeded, all of her carefully laid plans would be laid to waste. She glanced irritably to the tent flaps, tapping her feet impatiently as valuable seconds elapsed. As her impatience grew, the aura of arcane energy coalesced about her; a thickening of magic that would threaten anything in its path.

Just then, her High Commander entered the tent very much in the manner of a skulking dog that dreads chastisement by its master. In tow were six of his aides, all sporting identical expressions of trepidation.

The High Queen glared At Tormal, who stiffened in the face of her anger. "My Queen, I apologize for the scene in my quarters. I..."

"I care nothing for your rutting practices, you dolt!" Myrhia snarled derisively. "What I want to see are your cartographer's maps of Northern Natzurdan."

Tormal gestured and moments later, a thin, wiry man with watery blue eyes and wispy silver hair appeared in the tent and laid a scroll map before the Monarch with trembling hands. Slowly, the cartographer unfurled the map as though divulging the very wonders of the universe. The intermingling of dust, ink and vellum rose in subtle cloud, tickling the queen's nose.

Task performed, he retreated into the background like a chameleon. Myrhia's eyes scanned the scroll, finally settling upon a ridge of land that extended from the eastern bank of the Hiberas some eight to ten miles easterly. Then, with an expression of incredulity blooming upon her face, she allowed a long nail to trace the waterless ravine, following the depression as it wound its way to the Great Mother, terminating in a sheer cliff face only miles from the divide.

Other than the few miles at either end, the ravine truncated northern Natzurdan perfectly, bisecting the land mass as if it had been inscribed into the face of the world with conscious intent.

"By the Goddess, their mad Endeavour might actually be feasible," she whispered softly, as her High Commander watched her, his unease solidifying into cold stones of panic in the pit of his guts.

"My Queen, what troubles you?" Tormal inquired, dreading the answer. If something could instill terror in Myrhia, then it must be horrifying beyond his ability to comprehend. Her head swiveled to face him, her eyes burning incisively and her lips twisting into a feral snarl. Deliberately electing not to reply, she instructed "Mobilize the army immediately. I expect the entire camp to be broken down and the troops prepared to move within the hour. Carry only the minimal provisions and forage what you can along the way."

The commanders appeared on the verge of apoplexy, all raising vociferous objections at once. Myrhia tolerated the uproar for a moment and then cried "Silence!"

She brought her small fist down upon the wooden table, blue sparks flying from her fingertips. "Do any of you imbeciles wish to live?"

The group stared at her, openly aghast. She scowled ruefully, seeing that she had captured their undivided attention. "Produce a thousand excuses why you are unable to break camp within the hour, but while you waste time with cheap rationalizations for your inadequacy...your enemies conspire to put you all into an early grave."

She rapped a knuckle upon the map where the ridge of rock separated the Hiberas from the ravine. "Unless you reach and secure this ridge of land at all possible speed, you will all be dead and I suspect that your ends will be horrible beyond all imagining. Now move!"

Tormal ventured forward and peered at the indicated spot upon the map, staggered by the enormity of what she was asking them to undertake. "My Queen, what you are asking will take days...it is simply impossible."

"The Natzurdan adepts and the Metocan mages are going to descend on this ridge in droves. If you do not reach them first, you will have signed your death warrants."

The ashen faced Commander gazed numbly at the enchantress. Again, he pleaded, "What has happened?"

With slow patience, as though explaining something complex to an exceedingly obtuse child, Myrhia related what she had learned of the coalition's intentions. As she spoke, Tormal began to perspire, cold greasy sweat running in languid rivers over his brow and along the hollow of his lower back.

"I will have my Morticants wheel northwest and drive toward the Hiberas. You will select the most accessible routes for your cavalry units. The foot soldiers shall move forward as a rearguard with instructions to immolate every last Natzurdan they come across."

The High Commander absorbed all of this with a sinking feeling of black despair, trying to visualize his worst fear given tangible form. He had been raised to believe that the Land of Shades had been conceived as a repository for mankind's nightmares. Now the walls of that repository were about to come tumbling down, allowing the unimaginable horrors to come spilling out, free to run rampant over everything in the world of men. "My Queen, it is not a matter of desire as it is a matter of practicality. Even if we were able to ride at maximum speed both day and night, we could not cross these distances in under three or four days."

The enchantress was on the verge of delivering a scathing counter when she realized that he was being truthful. "Then I must devise a way to hinder them at the source. Very well, break camp now and move out with all alacrity. The Morticants are already fifty miles to the north, moving toward that damnable ridge of barren rock. And Tormal, to succeed in their mad scheme, the coalition will require thousands of adepts and mages working in unison. Therefore, I'm instructing you to have your army slaughter every Metocan and Natzurdan you encounter. Remember, every magician who reaches who reaches Bardolm alive increases the coalition's chances for success."

Tormal bowed deeply and solemnly, privately vowing that it would be his final gesture of deference before this lunatic bitch. His army was trapped, thousands of miles from the verdant splendor of Emercia, poised on the verge of total annihilation. A myriad of seditious thoughts raced through his head then and he fervently prayed that none of them reflected on his face, even as his mind grappled with the particulars of his planned mass desertion.

The enchantress had returned to her study of the map of Northern Natzurdan and the High Commander took the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat from her malign presence.

As the group descended the slope, Fergus, a short, obese colonel, scurried up beside the Commander, his portly features distorted by fear. "This lunacy has gone far enough, Tormal," he hissed vehemently. "We must act! Now!"

Tormal cast a sardonic glance at the shorter man. "Indeed? Perhaps the group of us should rush back in, daggers drawn, and fall upon her throat. What are the chances that one of us might actually pierce her vile heart with a blade before she turns the lot of us into pillars of stone? This is assuming that we are seeing the tangible Myrhia and not one of her damnable illusions."

"Still, we must do something," Fergus intoned sullenly. The others nodded their heads in concurrence. Tormal sighed, wondering if this was how Ynthrax felt in his final days of command, the constant itch gnawing at his conscience. "We will act, though not in the way that you might imagine."

The others halted, gazing at Tormal quizzically. "We will cut through Natzurdan like a scythe through wheat, but when we reach the ridge, we will not attempt to hinder the coalition. Instead, we will surrender the entire army and cross into Metocan, safe from Myrhia's vengeance behind the Hiberas. Let as pray that these mad mages have the wherewithal to see this wild scheme to fruition."

Tormal's aides gaped at their superior in stupefied bemusement. "You mean to surrender the entire army?"

"That is precisely what I intend to do and this is why we must reach the Hiberas before it is diverted, or before her damnable abominations seize control of the region. As Myrhia so astutely observed, our very lives will depend upon it."

The group trudged the rest of the way in silence until they reached the plain upon which the massive army was encamped. There, Tormal dispatched his commanders to begin the mobilization process.

Left alone to contemplate the magnitude of his proposed sedition, he shivered in the sultry night, and whispered a fervent prayer that Myrhia's delaying tactics would succeed.

4

Frantic preparations for the journey south to the Sythian escarpment in Northern Natzurdan were well under way, while Morzhian' s entourage prepared to depart Othgol to organize what was essentially the cleaving of the continent.

He was making his final goodbyes with Inos and the Inner Circle, when Islena stepped tentatively out of the shadows. The Natzurdan smiled warmly at the appearance of the woman. There was a certain irresistible charm about this Doraux. Despite her refusal to help the cause without qualification, Morzhian found that his heart could harbor no enmity toward the woman, whom fate had selected to serve as a lynch pin upon which the future of innumerable worlds was hinged.

Inos also greeted Islena's arrival with a fond smile. "Islena, I must express my regret over what has come to pass with your friend. She is being treated well. Of that, you can rest assured. I hope that you can appreciate the delicacy of my position in the matter. The Metocan society is intolerant of violence and your friend's given propensity to let her fists be her voice has rankled the council."

Islena nodded brusquely, but then added, "Lorio can be an impetuous woman. Believe me when I tell you that she has earned her bitterness over the past months."

"Hopefully, time may assuage all wounds and efface our hatreds," Inos remarked diplomatically. "I must make arrangements for Morzhian's escort."

Turning to the Natzurdan, Inos offered, "I do wish that we would part under better circumstances."

"As do I, my friend," the older man agreed, his pale blue eyes alight with regret.

"Perhaps we will reunite in better times," Inos murmured. Then he clasped the Natzurdan's hand and strode briskly from the room. As Morzhian watched him go, Islena watched a shadow ripple across the older man's face, the lines of age and tribulation deepening perceptibly. Then his gaze settled on her and that beset expression vanished.

"It is a pleasure to see you before I leave," he intoned fondly and Doraux could discern his sincerity.

"You're going to the ridge?" she asked, to which Morzhian merely nodded.

"Can this really work? I mean, are your people capable of inducing such a catastrophic change?" she inquired, still finding it difficult to assimilate the notion of actually reshaping a miles of bedrock through simple exertion of will.

"Yes, it is possible, though our success or failure will depend upon the rather capricious twists of fortune." He gently took her arm in his and led her to the balcony of his quarters. She marveled at how she felt comfortable in his paternal presence.

The unique skyline of Othgol rose into the misty sky of Metocan, through which a diffuse light tried, but ultimately failed, to infuse warmth into the dreary pall that hung over the city. Sensing her aversion to the pervasive dampness of the palace, he gestured toward the city with its odd geometric shapes, and remarked, "Islena, this city has stood on this site for more than five millennia. I have visited this capital at least a dozen times and have never grown accustomed to the shroud. Yet, it truly is a city of wonders and is not without its inimitable albeit subtle charm. I fear that I will never see Othgol, or Inos, again. We must succeed to preserve this tradition...these small enclaves of light. These are edifices to what we, as a species, can aspire to become, if we set aside the jealousy, enmity and avarice that can poison our lives."

"Morzhian, I spent the entire night thinking about all of this. Up until now, I wanted to remain detached from this world's conflict, all of the perplexing turmoil. I honestly believed that your problems had little to do with me. All that I wanted to do was to find a way back to my world and family," she concluded, a melancholy shadow slipping over her face.

"And that has changed?" Morzhian inquired, struggling to maintain his mask of neutrality at this slight intimation of the woman's acceptance of her destiny.

"Yes. I understand that I have to accept this situation as very real and that I may never go home. It has never been easy for me to submit to unfairness, but perhaps there is no choice this time. This is my world now and my fight as well. If I truly am this mythical savior, then perhaps I can find a way to stop Myrhia without resorting to the Proclamations."

"Islena, your very presence and your willingness to stand with us has provided a glimmer of hope in a night of dismal sorrow," The Natzurdan assured her.

Doraux's brow furrowed and Morzhian understood that she had come to the crux of her visit. "Morzhian, it has occurred to me that this war, all of this horrendous savagery, may actually be incidental...a twisted sideshow to bring us together at a climactic juncture in time. The true conflict revolves around me and Myrhia. Perhaps it always has. The horror will persist until our conflict is resolved and one of us lies moldering in her grave. I understand that, and more importantly, I accept it. That is why I'm going to find the Proclamations and why I'm going with you to the ridge."

The Natzurdan leader blinked. "To the ridge? Why?"

"When the Hiberas is diverted, I intend to be on the south side," she revealed, a hint of uncompromising iron stealing into her tone. The Natzurdan gaped at her in disbelief, certain that he had misheard. "In the name of all reason, why?"

"I'm going to find the other two Proclamations, if for no other reason but to keep them out of Myrhia's treacherous hands. I can't do that if I'm on the wrong side of the Hiberas."

"Islena," Morzhian began in a calm, deliberate voice. "I don't think that you fully grasp the consequences of being caught on the wrong side of that river."

"And neither do you, if you're being totally candid," Islena interjected tartly, her emerald eyes blazing defiantly. "The kingdom of Shades is like the dark side of the moon on my world; no one has ever seen it and so any speculation as to what might be there is sheer conjecture. You know that's the irrefutable truth."

"Does it not stand to reason that anything separated by an insurmountable barrier must be ineffably horrible?" Morzhian offered. Islena scowled and he could see that any appeals to logic were futile. "Have you ever, for a moment, considered that we may be the ineffably horrible thing which the Hiberas was created to protect against? It could be that some indescribably lovely paradise waits on the other side. At any rate, it really doesn't matter what is on the other side. I'm going because it is between her and I and it is not my nature to cower behind any kind of wall. My days of running from Myrhia are over," Doraux replied tightly. The Natzurdan could only wince as she continued. "Listen, when Myrhia threatened my family, my children, she knew that she was coercing me at my most vulnerable point. Ironically, by telling Ynthrax that she had exiled Artumas instead of simply killing him, she has exposed her own weakness...her own vulnerability, however small."

"I'm afraid that I don't follow your line of reasoning in this matter," Morzhian admitted with a confused shake of his head. "Even if he still lives, if Artumas is exiled on the far side of the Land of Shades, he is lost to us."

Islena leaned forward and gripped his arm intently. The pressure of her grip caused the old man to wince. "Why would Myrhia not simply kill Artumas? I think that it is a critical question. Every instinct tells me that there is something of value to be had in understanding her motives."

Morzhian reflected upon this for a few moments, the light of comprehension dawning in his blue eyes. "Against all reason... she spared Artumas because she actually loved him."

"Precisely!" Doraux exclaimed. "And that is why I have to find him. For a parasite like Myrhia, love is like a poison...a source of weakness, not strength. That she would actually spare his life...exile him and not simply kill him outright...bespeaks a weakness that can potentially be exploited. As she has no other discernable weaknesses, finding Artumas should become our priority. When you factor in his knowledge of the Proclamations, locating Artumas may be our only recourse."

Astounded and bewildered, the Natzurdan stammered, "What makes you so confident that you can find Artumas, or if he is even still alive for that matter. He disappeared at least seven years ago. It may be that Myrhia allowed the Land of Shades to accomplish what she, herself, lacked the mettle to do."

"He's alive," Islena declared with an implacable certainty that befuddled Morzhian. "I believe that I have seen him."

She went on to relate the details of the vision that had signaled the onset of her odyssey into this nightmare.

Morzhian listened, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "I have met Artumas on many occasions and the man that you describe sounds like an aging version of the great king. But what could the augury possibly mean beyond this?"

"I was meant to find him," she intoned emphatically. "It is part of this...this entire scripted drama. Artumas has a major role to play in what is to follow and I am meant to be the one to find him."

"Islena, even if I would condone such a gamble, and I'm not sure that I do, I would have to confer with the Metocan," Morzhian offered cautiously, anticipating her indignant response.

Islena colored perceptibly, her ire rising to her cheeks in scarlet patches. "This is a unilateral decision and it is mine to make."

"Islena, I..." Morzhian began and faltered. Her gaze was implacable, uncompromising and in her eyes, the Natzurdan could see that her path was carved in stone. Oddly, he discerned a basic sense of rightness to her intended course of action, though logic would dictate that the prospects for calamity were overwhelming. Reluctantly, he promised, "I will delay my departure and meet with the Metocan Inner Circle; informing them of your decision...I will do everything within my power to make them see the prudence of this course of action."

"Tell them that, unless they mean to detain me by force, I'm going," Islena growled fiercely. Then her expression softened and she said, "Morzhian, the worst that can happen is that I die and that would be a mere formality anyway...because, if there is no way to be returned to my world and family, then I'm merely an ambulatory corpse anyway."

An expression of unadulterated misery rippled across her face and the Natzurdan gained poignant insight into how much Doraux had suffered. Unmindful of his scrutiny, she continued, "At the best, I might actually find this Artumas and the other two Proclamations and end this thing. The way I see it, Myrhia loses either way. Without my submission, she must inevitably be denied her prize."

Morzhian nodded noncommittally, not sharing Islena's over-simplified optimism. There were many things more terrible than death and if Morzhian's estimation proved correct, anyone exposed to the esoteric fog that shrouded the western shore of the Hiberas, would quickly become acquainted with all of them. Nonetheless, the Natzurdan saw little to be gain by engaging in a protracted debate with Doraux.

"Very well, Islena," he replied softly.

He turned to leave and Islena reached out and gripped his forearm gently. "I want to leave today Morzhian and I want Lorio to come with me."

"I would think that the Metocan would quite gladly release her to your custody. She has presented Inos with something of a nuisance."

"Lorio can be impetuous," Islena agreed, biting back on her anger. "Still, I trust her without reservation."

5

The meeting of the Inner Circle was one of the most boisterous in its venerable history. Fists were slammed and recriminations hurled, but finally all assembled realized that there was little that they could do to deter Doraux short of confining her to a cell along with her contentious friend. In truth, there was a certain irrefutable logic in Doraux's proposal. She could accomplish little isolated behind the Hiberas. Conversely, if she could by some twist of fortune locate Artumas, the complexion of the conflict would be radically altered.

Xkador expressed the one terrible fear that troubled all present. "Have you considered what might happen if Doraux should fall under Myrhia's thrall. She would be free to seek out the Proclamations and unleash their power upon the enchantress' behalf."

The remark evoked a collective shudder and it was Gillian who rose to allay the burgeoning panic. "Will the Cornerstone Nations content themselves with cringing like beaten hounds on a small piece of land, while Myrhia's infection rots our world? Is this the epitaph we would wish for our people?"

Xkador glared at the audacious Jerhia, but also realized that the course of events had been fixed. In the end, the Inner Circle unanimously agreed to allow Islena to leave, taking the volatile Lamish woman with her.

When Morzhian, Inos and Gillian brought the news to Islena, she was already packing her few possessions for departure. Dressed in a black military uniform of trousers and a sleeveless tunic, her massive slabs of flawless muscle rippled beneath her tawny flesh. As the trio entered, Islena stood and turned to the three expectantly.

"The council has acquiesced to your proposal," Morzhian announced quickly, to which Doraux appeared visibly relieved.

"When do we leave?" she asked.

"By first light," Morzhian replied. Anxious to begin, Islena's lovely face conveyed her obvious disappointment. She had been hoping to set out immediately, but conceded to practicality this one time.

"Islena," Gillian began softly. Islena glanced at the Jerhia. In the time that she had been in Othgol, she had spoken to Gillian only on a few occasions and even then, only briefly. Their last conversation over Islena's enigmatic traveling companion had ended badly. The reasons for her reticence toward the Jerhia were complicated, but she found it difficult to peer into his pale blue eyes without feeling the urge to flee his company. Now he gazed directly at her and his usual cavalier smirk gone; replaced by an expression of entreaty. "The council insists that you agree upon an escort...a small group of individuals with the representative talents of our three nations. Myrhia is not the only peril in this world. I ask that you allow me to be amongst that number, though I understand that you have every reason to reject my offered of aid."

She regarded him silently for a moment and then gave a tense nod. Gillian' full mouth twisted into what might have been a grin. Islena did not respond, instead pursing her lips and glancing away, wondering if she had not just condemned another Jerhia to death simply by association.

"I suggest that we rest tonight," Morzhian recommended. "I suspect that it may be a long time before any of us has the opportunity to rest again."

When the trio had gone, Doraux settled into her pallet and folded her arms behind her head. As she stared at the indistinct outline of the ceiling, it occurred to Islena that she was about to embark upon the final leg of her odyssey She was committed to a path from which there would be no turning back or deviation. At some juncture in the future, she would find herself eye to eye with her avowed enemy with claws and fangs bared as they had on so many occasions since the clock of infinite ages first began to tick.

Instinct warned her that she would encounter terror which would make all that she had suffered through thus far pale by comparison. With this admonition came another conviction...she would be allowed a rare glimpse into the heart of unimaginable wonders.

Sleep was elusive that night. When it finally came, Islena passed into its embrace with visions of a silver haired woman flickering in her mind.

Chapter Eight

1

A late fall breeze guttered, carrying golden and rust colored leaves spiraling high into the late October sky. Diffuse sunshine warmed the Seattle air, but only marginally. The day was gorgeous by Washington standards and a particularly welcomed turn of events after dreary September's incessant rain. Echoes of laughter and contentment chased the enthusiastic barking of a family dog all along the streets of suburbia. Even the pervasive smell of freshly cut grass spoke of permanence, security and contentment, and if these qualities were illusory, the people who lived here did not know it, hiding happily behind a façade of material comforts.

Ben Richards was oblivious to both the pleasant weather and the happy chatter around him. Had he heard the laughter, it most likely would have raised his ire and deepened his already abysmal depression. Hunched over his Briggs and Stratton mower, Ben attacked his Sunday afternoon yard work, sporting the perpetual scowl that had become his signature expression in the days since the darkness had descended on his life like a predatory bird. As he negotiated the mower around the decorative flower beds, his lips twisted into the parody of a grin. Combined with the rough stubble adorning his cheeks that grin made Richards appear deranged, if not overtly psychotic.

It had been nearly four months since the disappearance. That was the word that he used whenever he was forced to contemplate his wife's continuing absence, though the facade was becoming harder to maintain with each passing day. In that time, Richards had undergone a phenomenal transformation. Where once he had been ebullient and approachable, Ben had now become sullen and withdrawn. At work, his colleagues took great pains to avoid him and his personal friends had given up on trying to lift him from his melancholy. He had confined himself to work and raising his two children, both of whom were going through their own painful period of grieving and loss.

'Notice that you're thinking of them as 'my two children' and not our two children,' he thought miserably. The house was his. The car was his. Everything was his in the singular sense of the word. Adjusting to the notion of singularity was the most painful thing that he had ever had to do. Despite the alienation that had come in the last few years of their marriage, Ben had never been able to think of himself as anything other than a married man...one half of a rather turbulent whole. Even during the bleakest moments he had never considered that whole to be a divisible entity.

He closed the final square and kicked off the mower's choke, wincing as the engine died with a strangled gasp. He had pushed the Briggs and Stratton back into its spot in the aluminum shed when he first became aware of the sensation of being scrutinized.

An icy chill blew down the length of his perspiration slicked neck and he shivered in anticipation of the clammy touch that he felt certain must follow. None came and he glanced around uneasily, while dragging the back of his hand across his mouth that had quite suddenly gone dust dry.

The street was unchanged, except for an unmarked Buick Lesabre which was parked some fifty feet along the street on the opposite curb.

'The police,' Ben thought and uttered a groan and a vile imprecation against all bureaucrats. In the months since Islena's disappearance, Ben had been visited by every police agency from municipal to federal. At times, these visits had been cordial, while other times they had been downright accusatory as though he was the engineer of whatever misfortune might have befallen Islena and perhaps Dominique Normandy and Marla Holmes as well. Ben had suffered through these sessions with growing frustration, but mercifully their frequency had trailed off. He tried to recall how much time had elapsed since the previous visit and was surprised to find that it had been two weeks. He had hoped that he would be left alone with his despair, but now it seemed that they were back to rip open the wounds...to badger him with the same tedious questions.

The car continued to idle in the same position and Ben wondered if they actually expected him to come to them. There were moments of acute paranoia when Richards felt certain that the Feds suspected that he was harboring Islena in the cellar and that she and Elbert Watts were psychotic soul mates. Disgusted, he shook his head and retrieved his hedge trimmer from its spot on the press board wall template. He doggedly refused to allow them the satisfaction of reacting to their perceived harassment.

The opening of the Sedan's door was exceptionally clear in the crisp autumn air, despite its having to compete with the muffling effect of a dozen other ambient suburban sounds. He thought he heard...and surely this was a trick of the imagination...the subtle scuff of leather on pavement. He willed himself not to look up, to focus his attention on the neglected shrubbery, but found his head turning inexorably toward the approaching intruder.

She beamed a disarming smile when she realized that he had noticed her. In the dazzling radiance of that smile, Ben Richards surrendered an essential part of himself, an occurrence that had come to pass only once before in his lifetime. That had been the first time that he had ever set eyes upon Islena Doraux.

He stood in the middle of his freshly cut lawn, suddenly wishing very badly that he had shaved that morning. The trimmer hung forgotten in his left hand. He glanced down at it dumbly as if not certain what function it had been intended to serve. His eyes were drawn back to the stranger as she crossed the sidewalk, neatly gliding to a halt near his picket fence, not more than thirty feet from where he stood.

Ben Richards lacked the means adequately describe the full depth and impact of her enormous beauty. Her delicate features and her limpid brown eyes were beguiling into which one could gladly dive and never surface. Dressed in a cinnamon colored blazer and a modest knee length skirt, she placed one small hand upon his fence. Her hair fell to mid back in a swirl of ebony curls which stirred slightly in the breeze. He absorbed every detail, his dazzled senses meticulously registering every subtle nuance of her beauty.

The intoxicating image of her beauty was emblazoned in his mind and in that excruciating moment of silence, Ben experienced a rush of white hot lust that was primal in its intensity. Dragging his gaping gaze from her face required a monumental exertion of will.

"Ben Richards?" she ventured. Her voice was at once assured, yet lilting, leaving Ben with the impression that, beneath the mantle of professional confidence there lurked a vulnerable, fey spirit.

After a few seconds, during which it seemed that his tongue was too large for his mouth, he managed to reply "Yes?"

"My name is Myrhia La Fey," she intoned and extended her delicately boned hand. Her smile became apologetic, further intimating an aura of perceived vulnerability. "Actually, it's agent La Fey."

"I guessed as much from the car," Ben remarked, inclining his head toward the blue sedan. The woman gazed at the car quizzically as though she had no idea what he was referring to. Ben found her failure to comprehend the reference decidedly odd, but then she was smiling at him again and none of that seemed to matter. It required a heroic act of discipline not to reach out and stroke her flowing hair.

"Mr. Richards, I've come to talk about your wife," she said, her tone serious, yet somehow casual. After a slight hesitation, she added, "I can imagine that you've grown tired of seeing us by now...more so because our efforts have yielded little in the way of tangible results."

That was a drastic understatement, but Ben smiled and shrugged nonetheless, as though the imposition was marginal at worst. Even the prospect of answering the same repetitious questions no longer struck him as agonizing. The wind gusted suddenly and the agent hugged herself and shivered perceptibly. Watching the child like gesture, Ben could feel his heart thudding rhythmically in his chest. The sensation was accompanied by the most astounding of revelations. In the weeks immediately following Islena's disappearance, Richards had felt certain that he would never be attracted to another woman again, that his wife's departure had thoroughly killed his libido. Now, with this whimsical, diminutive beauty standing before him, he felt it return in a torrent of lust. He suddenly and desperately needed her company, whereas he had wanted to eschew all contact only scant moments before.

This visceral reaction to this exotic creature astonished Richards, at once suffusing him with alternating rushes of lust and guilt. Yet, beneath this primal reaction to the woman's captivating beauty, there lingered a niggling whisper of disquiet...a vague intimation that she was dangerous in ways that Ben couldn't begin to comprehend. That was absurd, of course, as she was frangible and delicate like a porcelain doll that could be shattered with malicious thought alone.

There came another flash of that dazzling smile and that formless apprehension dissipated like mist before a brisk breeze. "I'm from...Southern California. I can never quite get use to the chill."

Now Ben smiled, a welcomed change from his customary scowl, and asked, "How would you like to come inside. I'll make us both a cup of lemon tea to take the chill off. That's always worked for me."

'And Islena as well, you miserable bastard!' he thought, though his smile never faltered a whit.

Myrhia nodded. "I think that would be delightful."

Ben turned and led her to the front door, laying the trimmer on the first riser.

2

Had Richards bothered to glance over his shoulder, he might have gleaned the extent and immediacy of his peril. Myrhia followed him, her ingratiating smile fading to an expression of withering contempt and disgust.

'This man is an inconsequential little dolt,' she thought, bristling with consternation. His lust was so blatantly obvious that it was almost laughable. She wondered what had attracted Islena to such an unremarkable, ordinary man. As they ascended the steps, Myrhia decided that she would kill him even if Islena attained the Proclamations on her behalf. Her world would hold no place for such an annoying boor.

If a woman such as Islena Doraux could select such a nondescript mule, then this was a bizarre world indeed. Or perhaps Doraux was flawed in some fundamental way that would make her all the more malleable.

'And to think that in your last life you lay beside a king,' she mused scornfully and then uttered a small chuckle. Richards gazed questioningly over his shoulder. In response, Myrhia murmured, "I was just thinking how I mustn't seem like much of a Federal agent...you having to rescue me from a draft I mean."

Ben laughed a little too heartily and opened the front door, standing aside to usher her in. The enchantress crossed the threshold and Ben closed the door on the autumn afternoon.

***************************************************************

When Myrhia had learned of the Coalition's plan to divert the Hiberas and cower behind it like frightened children, she had resolved herself to reducing her struggle with her ancient enemy to an ugly, intimate level. While she had threatened Islena with the prospect of torturing her husband and children at Perdwick, she did not believe that she would need to resort to such crass and vulgar coercion. Now, in light of Islena's knowledge that Artumas yet lived, Myrhia discerned that the eternal conflict had abruptly and unpredictably veered off along a precarious tangent, gaining an uncontrollable momentum that could reverse itself upon her in an instant.

The coalition might somehow turn the discovery to their advantage and jeopardize everything that she had carefully conceived and nurtured. The most prudent thing to do would be to simply remove the threat at the source and kill Artumas, but Myrhia knew that she lacked the requisite degree of ruthlessness to exercise that option. She loathed this perceived weakness, but history had taught her that it was a shortcoming that she could not surmount.

Instead, she would have to find a way to bring Islena quickly and completely to heel. Myrhia judged that using Islena's family as leverage would prove the most effective method of achieving that end. The enchantress had been reluctant to abandon her assault of the ridge to her bumbling commanders, but her priority must now be gaining leverage over Doraux.

It would have proven an easy matter for Myrhia to merely take the children by force very much as she had arranged Islena' s abduction, but something about the way in which Doraux had divulged word of Artumas' continued existence infuriated the enchantress to a degree that bordered on the irrational. Though she did not entirely understand the reasons for this baleful reaction, she felt compelled to corrupt Richards and thus further humiliate Doraux.

This world and time were both stupefying and strange. When last she had dwelled upon this planet, the earth had been mired in a rut of stagnation and spiritual darkness, ruled by religious dread and superstition. Hers had been an age of rampant passions, not the cold, sterile and utterly impersonal place that this world had evolved to become. With all of this technological advancement, there had come an accompanying sense of frustration and disenfranchisement. She observed this wondrous decay with marked indifference, believing that the world was populated by multitudes of lemmings and she had neither the time nor the inclination to concern herself with their petty affairs and trite and pointless lives.

Ben Richards, it seemed, would prove to be typical of those lemmings. Marius Lockland had proven to be a different matter entirely.

3

It had been four months since Federal agent Lockland had first witnessed the horror on the highway south of Quinsett, but the memory still plagued him as though it had been burned into his very synapses. He need only close his eyes to see it in all of its graphic wickedness.

Samples of the gelatinous remains (what remains there had been) had been collected and analyzed in Quantico, then by the CIA and finally the biological and chemical weapons section of the Pentagon. The results of each of the spectrographic analysis had proven perplexing, contradictory and inconclusive.

As Lockland, whose parents had deemed it necessary to afflict him with the accursed name of Marius, sat contemplating the peculiarities of those test results on a dull Saturday morning in early October, he found that they had not lost the power to fill him with an atavistic dread. The report, while complex and confusing in its impenetrable scientific jargon, had concluded that the two men had not been dissolved, but rather broken down and absorbed, supposedly by whatever entity that had caused the car to crash.

And just what might that have been? The author of this report had been reluctant to speculate. Lockland recalled that, as each department examined the data, the reports had grown progressively terse. In the end, a gag order had been placed upon the data by the Pentagon, forever walling off a vital segment of Lockland's investigation.

"Bastards!" Lockland spat disgustedly, snapping the Beryl pencil that he had been holding. He threw the two halves onto his glass blotter and ran his fingers through his graying hair. The final insult had come when he had been forced to sign a promise never to divulge any information pertaining to the bizarre contents of that demolished van. A friend in the CIA had told him that the file had been assigned the highest classification level and buried deep in the Pentagon's sealed archive vaults.

Leaving his investigation team with precisely nothing.

Elbert Watts had vanished and though department consensus had labeled him dead, he was officially listed as escaped and dangerous. An intensive search had radiated out from the accident site, but had produced not a shred of evidence to substantiate the notion that Watts was still stalking the fine citizens of Washington.

Lockland had left the file open, but had privately closed the book on Elbert Watts. The book might have remained closed had it not been for an anonymous phone tip that had come into this very office early Wednesday morning four months ago.

A caller (whose identity had never been determined) had insisted that he had seen a man who matched Watts' description skulking about in a service alley that ran behind a steroid pit called the Iron Works Gym.

The call had been forwarded to Marius, who had made little attempt to conceal his skepticism. All through Lockland's questioning, the caller had been adamant in insisting that it had been Watts whom he had seen in the alley and his description of the escaped serial killer had been unfaltering and chilling in its accuracy.

"When the bastard rips someone's head off and stuffs it in the trash, remember this call asshole," The irate informant had rasped when it became clear that Marius remained doubtful.

Lockland had stood in the middle of the bull pen, staring at the phone with a bemused expression.

'A crank,' had been his initial impression. The memory of that damnable truck had been too vivid in his mind to seriously entertain the possibility that Elbert Watts was still alive and prowling the back alleys of Seattle.

Later that day, he had learned of the gruesome decapitation death of Marla Holmes, the progression from which had apparently stemmed the arson death of a professional psychic named Dominique Normandy...two women who were, it would later be determined, were professionally connected.

In the end, it had been Islena Doraux who had dematerialized as completely as Elbert Watts. In the wake of her disappearance, Islena had left a tale so mysterious and intriguing that cynical Marius Lockland had fallen under its thrall, leaving him with an addictive need to unravel its riddle.

Lockland leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up on his desk. It was Saturday morning and Marius was the sole occupant of Seattle's federal police common area. His life was devoid of meaning beyond his job and it was not uncommon for him to spend his Saturday morning reading through police files that remained open and unsolved, yet considered lower in priority in light of fresher, more recent trails to be pursued.

He glanced at the folder. A striking fastener bore the upper case heading: Doraux, Islena. He stared fixedly at the folder for several moments and then slammed his feet down on the floor and threw open the paper cover. The exotic and lovely face of Islena Doraux stared up at him with an intensity and openness which never failed to move a deeply concealed core of emotion in his heart.

He recalled the initial days of the investigation, when it appeared that Islena had offed both her friend and the crazy psychic. With a touch of shame, he recalled how he had mercilessly grilled the husband. In reflection, the man's grief over the loss of his wife had been all too real and agonizing.

Lockland flipped through the pages and pages of statements and interviews that he had conducted with friends and associates of the missing woman. While he had learned nothing that might help him locate Islena, the interviews had compiled a portrait of a woman who was as special and unique as she was beautiful. Only Jonathon Richler, her immediate superior, had cast any aspersions upon Doraux, and Lockland had quickly dismissed the man as an officious, vindictive sack of shit.

With the conviction that Doraux had not committed, could not have committed, the two atrocities, came a budding bloom of desperation that grew in the darkness of his guts like a rank weed.

If Doraux was not a killer, then it stood to reason that she had become a victim and everything all circled back to that phone call...the damned phone call that he had so readily dismissed. If Elbert Watts was really alive, then it was possible that he might have gotten Doraux. That horrible possibility was like a festering wound that would give him no peace. Bathed in sweat, he would wake in the solitude of his tiny apartment with the horrific image of Doraux being slowly garroted still glowing in his sleep addled mind.

It had been this grotesque image that had compelled Lockland to fill his empty time pouring over the pieces of the puzzle that he privately despaired would never be solved.

Marius was perceptive enough to realize that he had become obsessed with the case of Islena's disappearance, but as was the case with his Irish whiskey habit, Lockland had been discreet in his obsession. He had paid several visits to Ben Richards, ostensibly to follow up some minor detail. Eventually, the premise for his visits had become flimsier and flimsier, but Richards had either not noticed or not cared. Both men seemed content with a strange sharing of grief as thought these visits perpetuated the delusion that she might yet be alive.

Lockland flipped back to the mesmerizing picture of Doraux. He was still staring at it some fifteen minutes later when the telephone began to ring. Its strident yammer shattered the midmorning silence, making him jump. He inhaled sharply and snatched it up, heart thudding in his chest.

"Lockland," he declared gruffly, wondering why the call hadn't been intercepted by the answering machine at switchboard.

"Inspector Lockland?" a voice inquired tentatively. It was a woman's voice, soft and melodious. Marius felt his heart rate begin to accelerate inexplicably as a thin sheen of sweat formed on his brow and upper lip.

"That's right."

"Inspector Lockland, I have some information about someone you've been looking for."

Marius swallowed, though the sides of his mouth had become bone dry. There was a coy, teasing edge to the voice that Lockland didn't at all care for...not at all.

"Oh really, and just who might that be?" he heard himself ask distantly.

"Islena Doraux," the caller whispered and then began to giggle. Marius tensed, gripping the cradle with white knuckled fingers. "Lady, it'd an offence to place crank phone calls, especially to the FBI."

The caller's tone became sober, though she did not respond to Marius's warning. "Elbert Watts didn't kill Islena Doraux, though he did have a hand in her disappearance." After a brief hesitation, she added, "He brought her to me."

Lockland jumped to his feet, wishing that he could activate the automatic trace recorder that had been shut down for the weekend. "Why don't you tell me who it is I'm talking to and exactly what you want?"

"Why, I want to help you, of course," the caller disclosed and then went off into another peel of laughter. There was a distinctly chilling aspect to that laughter, one that made Lockland suddenly furious. Though it chimed like a crystal, that voice held a derisive edge that spoke of an infinite capacity for cruelty.

"It's time to stop playing games. If you have legitimate information concerning Islena Doraux's disappearance, I would hear it now," he rasped angrily into the receiver, knowing that anger was the worst possible reaction, but finding restraint impossible.

"You listen to me, fucker. I'm holding all of the aces in this particular contest and your belligerent attitude just might draw Islena the ace of Spades," The caller snarled menacingly, and for a brief instant, Marius had the distinct impression that he was speaking with an altogether different person than the one who had first been on the line,

Lockland fell silent for a moment. "Are you confirming that Islena is still alive?"

"You are incisive, Marius," the woman taunted. "That is precisely what I'm saying, but for how long will depend entirely on you."

"How do you know my name?"

"Really, Marius, does it matter?" the caller sighed as though suddenly bored.

"All right, let's cut the horseshit and get to the point."

"As you so succinctly put it. What I want is to help you, though in return I expect unwavering cooperation. Can you follow instructions, Marius?"

"Tell me what to do," Lockland replied, not even thinking of the inherent risks that come with engaging in this type of lethal game. He had put it all on the line so many times over the years that risk no longer became a factor in determining many of his actions.

"I want you to meet me, Lockland. I think that you know where."

"Where the truck overturned," he immediately replied, surprised by his automatic response.

"Very good, Marius," the woman intoned sardonically. "You'll meet me alone, naturally. Believe me when I say that I'm somewhat of a clairvoyant. If another federal agent is within ten miles of our meeting site, I'll know. Shortly there after, you may expect to receive Islena's head in a box. Do you doubt me, Marius?"

The voice had been fraught with an obdurate edge which challenged him to express doubt. In a voice that was barely audible, he replied, "I believe you."

"Good, then I'll be expecting you." There followed a tiny click and the connection was broken.

Marius Lockland stood in the solitude of the bullpen, staring numbly at the phone. For a moment, he had the crazy notion of calling Ben Richards, but quickly dispensed with it, stupefied by the very thought.

He instinctively checked his gun to see if it was sporting a full chamber. Naturally it was, but old habits were hard to break, very often because they had a tendency to keep agents alive.

He retrieved his shield and sports jacket and then hurried out of the office, taking the stairs two at a time. He backed the blue Buick out of the lot and headed south out of the city. The afternoon was glorious, gainsaying the imminent arrival of fall, but Lockland was oblivious to its majesty. His thoughts were consumed with images of the van and Islena Doraux's exotic face.

If Doraux was alive and if Lockland could somehow save her, perhaps it could stand as expiation for an empty and squandered life. It was not unthinkable to imagine that he could pick up the threads of the past, when his life had not been so utterly destitute of meaning. To save this idealized embodiment of everything he held sacred could bestow a degree of much need meaning on what remained of his life.

The ride toward the town of Quinsett seemed to take forever, though Lockland drove with reckless abandon. Only good fortune spared him from being pulled over or worse...ending up at the bottom of a boulder strewn ravine.

The rational part of his mind cautioned against this cavalier race to this potentially deadly encounter. These lone star heroics very often resulted in one dead cop and perhaps a few dead civilians thrown in for the foolish effort. True, the road to Quinsett was pretty isolated, but it was not entirely impossible to establish a tailing surveillance. Still, all of that would have taken time to organize on a Saturday morning and Lockland feared that time was at a premium in this situation.

"It's more than that and you know it," a tiny voice chided gruffly. "This woman has you mesmerized and you don't even know her," it accused in a tone fraught with incredulity and reproach.

Lockland found that he was unable to refute this allegation. There was something extraordinary about this woman as though her wellbeing was a matter of great importance to...to everyone. That was ludicrous, of course, but it was a sensation that he could still not dispel.

"Jesus, you're far gone," he berated himself, yet depressed the accelerator a little further, wondering if the time had finally come to surrender to the inevitable and turn in his shield.

Thirty minutes later, he rounded a gentle curve and found himself confronting a living nightmare. The van lay on its roof in the ditch, its rear doors thrown askew to reveal an indescribable horror. A strange, eldritch smell permeated the humid air and...

He gingerly guided the car onto the gravel shoulder, where he sat gripping the steering wheel and sweating profusely, waiting for the rampant hammer of his beleaguered heart to abate.

The highway was utterly deserted. Nothing stirred, save for the fall leaves that were verging on red and gold...the two deceptively lovely heralds of wither. Lockland withdrew his service revolver from his holster and laid it on the passenger seat. The sense of expectation was a palpable thing in the late afternoon silence.

"Patience, Lockland," he advised himself and settled in to wait. Time's passage slowed to a tortured crawl and Marius began to suspect that he had fallen victim to a cruel hoax.

He was about to reverse the vehicle, when a solitary figure crested the hill, walking stolidly along center line. Marius sat up, automatically reaching for his revolver, while absently fingering the trigger and safety.

The deliberate walk, so lithe and graceful, declared that it was a woman approaching. The woman was alone and apparently unarmed.

4

Myrhia stood straddling the white line of the asphalt roadway, her eyes closed and head inclined to one side as she inhaled the smell of this world. Her nose wrinkled and her perfectly formed lips drew down in a frown that was part dismay and part revulsion.

Yes, the air was redolent with the expected scents of nature along this deserted stretch of highway, but beneath the pleasing tang of tree sap, wild flowers and grass, there lingered the polluting stench of slow desiccation. Even the scorched bitumen of the gray road surface caused her breath to hitch in her chest and her stomach to clench painfully.

'Technology.' The word formed in her mind, dark and forbidding, and the enchantress instinctively gleaned that it had been this vague but inexorable force that had poisoned and sullied the primitive natural beauty of the world where she had lived during the previous incarnation of her eternal existence.

That such a vast treasure trove of natural splendor could be so thoroughly despoiled in a few short centuries spoke eloquently of the insidious nature of the mortals who held dominion here. Myrhia, who regarded all things as fodder to be conquered, nonetheless was appalled by the wanton squander of such beauty in the name of fleeting material comfort.

With the stench of decay sharp in her nostrils, Myrhia vowed that once she bent Islena Doraux to her subservience, there would be a great and terrible culling in this world.

Having carefully laid her bait, Myrhia allowed her chin to settle to her chest and again closed her eyes, waiting with the studied patience of one who has gained an intimate understanding of the concepts of infinity and immortality.

As the fall breeze stirred the cascade of coal black curls, Myrhia was assailed by a torrent of distant, yet acutely painful memories. Though normally she was averse to wallowing in the bitter waters of past failures, this time she let the memories come...raw passion-fraught and unabated.

They had been dubbed the Dark Ages, but how vibrant and alive they had been...how visceral and ablaze with a fierce light that could burn the very eyes from one's head. The faces came like stars glowing in the firmament...Arthur and Guinevere...the champion of light and the daughter of the tempest. They had united against her, as always, but their union had been a flawed and tenuous thing...undone by the queen's destructive lust for Arthur's handsome first knight, Lancelot. Was Lorio the new incarnation of that virtuous, but fatally flawed noble knight? The notion roused a smile on Myrhia's perfectly formed lips.

The image of the reviled Merlin came next and the smile quickly curdled into a scowl. Then came Mordred...the spawn of her deceitful coupling with her ensorcelled half brother. It had been this beautiful son who was to serve as her means to triumph on that occasion and yet fate had conspired against her. In the end, her carefully sown machinations had fallen to dust and ruin.

Finally, she watched as Arthur's utopian Camelot was consumed by flames...crumbled to dust and swallowed by the earth. The reality of those all-too brief, but glorious years was lost to the fodder of myth and legend.

Myrhia came back to herself with hot tears of poignant loss and regret streaming over the high, aristocratic ridges of her cheek bones.

The discordant whine of an approaching vehicle reached her ears and she quickly consigned those terrible memories to the vault of her subconscious, along with the resonating echoes of a thousand other past lives.

The past was a cold, moldering corpse of bitter sorrow, but the future belonged to her.

5

"You didn't hear a vehicle, Marius. You know you didn't." That was true, but perhaps she had been parked just over the hill, just waiting for him to arrive. That was a plausible explanation, but one to which Marius simply could not subscribe. Every intuition warned him that he was in an extremely precarious situation, one that could prove fatal should he allow his concentration to falter even a whit.

The woman came to a halt less than fifty feet from where he was parked. She was dressed in an oddly anachronistic gown of some crushed material like velvet. Marius' eyes were drawn to her angelic face dominated by mischievous brown eyes that watched him intently.

In that simple glance, Marius knew unequivocally that this woman had engineered the trail of death that had inevitably led him to this moment of reckoning. He also realized that, despite her facade of fragile beauty, he would be forced to kill her if he wished to leave this place alive.

He climbed out of his car, still clutching his service revolver. The diminutive woman watched him, her eyes twinkling in amusement at the sight of the gun.

"I see that you can sense an enemy when one presents itself, Marius," she observed lightly.

"Where is Islena Doraux?" Lockland demanded gruffly.

"In a place far beyond the very limits of your imagination, Marius. You see, Islena has gone around the rim of time to a land of mystery and enchantment." The enchantress shrugged. "She may return and perhaps she may not. Her particular cards have not been dealt."

Suddenly livid, Marius raised his revolver and took a step forward. While part of him was distressed by his undisciplined reaction, this woman's bold malfeasance offended him. "You're a lunatic, woman. I don't know where you're from, but you can bet that you're never going back."

The woman laughed, displaying no discernable hint of apprehension. "Are all people of your world so craven that they must hide behind weapons?"

She started toward the agent, tapping the hollow of her temple. "The greatest weapon is here, Marius. This is the single source of endless invention. That toy is the desperate resort of cowards who doubt their own mettle."

Lockland brandished the gun, alarmed to discover that his hands were shaking slightly. "I'm taking you into custody. I want you to cross over to the car and lean forward onto the hood with your hands placed behind your back."

The woman drew her cheeks in suggestively and cooed, "What a nasty proposition that is." Then the levity vanished from her eyes, replaced by a truculent glare. "You're going to have to shoot me, Marius. Trust me when I say that it is your only option in what is to follow."

Lockland frowned as she kept coming forward.

`Good God, what are you doing, man? You don't really intend to shoot an unarmed woman?' a little voice demanded shrilly. It was apparent that she meant to keep coming but that could not justify discharging his weapon to forestall her approach. If he was to kill her, or even wound her, he would be crucified and justifiably so. Still, he could not dispel the impression that he was in mortal danger and only his service revolver offered a slim hope for survival.

Marius holstered his revolver and drew his cuffs in one fluid movement. Then he started toward the woman, who had come to a stop and was watching him with obvious amusement.

"Found a sudden cache of courage, have we?" she quipped. "Still, it would appear that you have a decided advantage."

Marius stopped within two feet of the woman and reached for her wrist. This close, she appeared so frangible, so small. Certainly the slightest of pressures would snap her wrists like dried kindling. 'So why is the very sight of her making your insides quake with terror?'

Before he could clutch the woman's forearm, she murmured several inaudible words and twisted her head abruptly to the left. An incisive ripping sound broke the stillness and Lockland's eyes whipped to his right, searching for the source of the commotion. All along the grassy shoulders, several large cobbles were partially buried in the gravel. In response to the woman's gesture, they tore themselves from the earth and launched themselves directly at Lockland like stones from a catapult.

In amazed consternation, Lockland watched dumbly as they converged upon him, finally attempting to elude the stones a fraction of a second too late. The first struck him on the shin, directly below the left knee, while the second caught Marius in square in the abdomen. The pain was a huge, sickening thing that caused him to clutch his stomach and double over, only seconds before the final stone crashed into his forehead no more than two inches from his left eye.

A torrent of hot blood obscured his vision almost at once. Marius pawed at his left eye with his right hand, while groping about the pavement for his revolver with his left. The world around him seemed to spin in a frantic dervish of blood and pain.

Myrhia uttered a mirthful chuckle and then made a circling motion with her right index finger over the flat of her left palm. As she did this, she blew warm breath onto her right hand.

The gravel shoulder began to quake beneath Lockland's feet, the tremors quickly growing so violent that he was pitched to the ground. Now Myrhia began to spin her arms in a gesture of agitation. The granular shoulder began to shift and rise in a wild cyclone of dust and stone.

Marius began to choke, as a suffocating cloud of dust and pebbles enveloped him. Blinded and in pain, he turned and scrambled toward his car. Confused and disoriented, Marius collided with his front fender and was dumped unceremoniously to the asphalt, where he lay gasping like a fish out of water.

Through his pain and escalating fear, Marius could clearly discern the tick tack of her heels as she strolled nonchalantly over to where he lay. Slowly, tentatively, he dragged the sleeve of his sports jacket across his face to clear away the blood. Then he opened his eyes and saw her gazing down upon him, her sensuous lips forming a half smile. "You've gotten yourself into quite the state, haven't you, Marius Lockland? Violence is such a deplorable thing, really, but sadly, it seems to be the only means of conflict resolution humans understand."

She turned her back toward him, staggering Lockland with her arrogance. He briefly contemplated quick drawing his revolver, but realized that he had lost the weapon upon first being struck by the fusillade of stones.

'You really fucked up this time, Marius,' he castigated himself, taking cold consolation in knowing that this would be the final time.

"This is an ugly situation, but a necessary one. You see, you have something that I need and I mean to take it." Myrhia's tone made it eminently clear that she would not be deterred in the matter.

"What do you want?" he croaked weakly.

"Why, I want your mind, of course," she intoned with a predacious grin and a wicked laughter. "Not a trifling request by any means. So you see, Marius, we are faced with a dilemma and there can only be one resolution."

Now she turned to face him and those infinitely deep brown eyes flashed with a malicious glee. "Regard this as a contest of culture. My magic, if you will, against your technology. Retrieve your gun and shoot me. I can't promise that it will have any effect, but what do you have to lose?"

She moved to the middle of the road and kicked the revolver over to where Marius laid and then stood straddling the white line. Her dark eyes glinted like bits of obsidian. In a soft, melodic whisper, she exhorted, "Kill me, Marius!"

With an unsteady hand, Marius drew the 357 magnum and aimed it carefully in the woman's direction. Blood dripped sluggishly from his abraded forehead and he was forced to wipe it away with the back of his hand. Closing one swollen eye, he bit his bottom lip and fired directly at Myrhia's left breast.

The bullet struck the woman, picked her up and flung her back onto the opposite shoulder of the highway. She emitted a strangled, gurgling sound as blood welled up from her small mouth. Then she sighed and lay utterly still.

"You gambled and lost, bitch," Lockland snarled and then closed his eyes as the first violent shakes overcame him. He dropped the magnum to the pavement and hugged himself until the tremors subsided.

When he opened his eyes, the enchantress was standing over him, her eyes gleaming with a malefic delight and lethal intent.

Looking up at her, Marius Lockland sighed in resignation, knowing that he had expended the last of his options. He had strayed from the procedures that had kept him alive for twenty years in the jungle and now he was going to pay an exorbitant price, but one that his vapid arrogance had earned in full. He felt no real fear, only a bitter sense of disappointment and self-contempt.

"Marius, you'll have to excuse my tendency to be overtly theatrical. It can grow rather tiresome, I suppose. This may appear a contradiction, but I really have no desire to hurt you. This world has very little interest for me...at least, not for the time being."

Marius said nothing. Myrhia shrugged her shoulders and then touched her palms to his forehead. He tried to draw away, but found that he could not. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the pain was gone. He gazed up at the woman, his eyes wide with surprise.

"Such emptiness. How do you suffer it, Marius? I suppose that it explains why you dared to come out here alone. Kindness and compassion are not beyond my sensibilities," she intoned softly, her voice tinged with something that might have been sympathy. "I'm gong to remove the burden of your despair."

She pressed more insistently upon his forehead. Before Marius realized what was happening, her hand had passed through the flesh and unyielding bone, to the soft meat of his essence.

Lockland attempted to struggle, but found that his limbs were wooden and unresponsive. He could feel something being stretched, elastic and fleshy, and felt a consuming panic well up in his mind like hot bile. Moments later, Lockland's cognizance was extinguished. He slumped to the pavement in a boneless sprawl, his knuckles cracking against the fender of his sedan.

She stood over him with her back arched and her head inclined toward the late afternoon sun, and assimilated the sum total of Marius Lockland's life experience. She absorbed his sense of pervasive loneliness that had governed the last fifteen years of his life and again wondered how one could tolerate such a wretched, pointless existence. Perhaps consigning him to a limbo state of vegetative non-awareness was an act of mercy.

She shook the notion off. Marius' emotional sterility was of little consequence. His only significance was to provide her with a data base of knowledge that would allow her to function normally in this alien world. Rummaging through his memories and feelings and his deeply engrained cynicism, Myrhia wondered how Islena could ever have denounced the enchantress as barbaric.

It was imperative that Lockland's disappearance raise no immediate alarms and thus she waved her arms and extended them to the sky, palms toward the heavens. As though on a cushion of air, Marius was levitated and floated toward the tree line and out of sight.

Satisfied, Myrhia entered the agent's car and sat studying the display console. Marius' mind informed her that this vehicle was something referred to as an automatic. After a few seconds, she had extracted everything necessary to operate the car. Turning the ignition key, Myrhia executed a highway reverse with all the skill of the man, himself, and headed back toward Seattle.

6

Ben gingerly carried the silver tray over to the table and placed it before his guest. His hands shook, but only slightly and he was genuinely grateful for that one blessing. He poured the steaming lemon tea into the small china cups and placed hers on the bamboo place mat.

She offered him a warm smile of gratitude and sniffed experimentally at the scented curls of steam that wafted up from the hot liquid. The gesture was odd though somehow endearing. Ben poured his own cup and sat in the seat across from his visitor.

'What an odd way to think of her,' he told himself. Beauty and vulnerable manner aside, she was still a federal officer here to traverse the same painful territory that all the others had previously covered, some with the sensitivity and delicacy of a butcher.

Myrhia lifted the cup to her lips and sipped, closing her eyes as she did. Ben's heart jumped in his chest and he briefly considered that he might have reverted back to his teenage years, but understood that this woman's thoroughly disarming mannerisms might have had the same effect on the most inured of hearts. It was still hard to believe that she was anything as hard boiled and cynical as a cop.

Myrhia continued to sip her tea and remained silent. Bright sunshine streamed through the window in animated golden shafts. Ben glanced through the window in time to see a spiral of gold and red leaves twist by in the front yard. Quite suddenly, he felt totally content, where he had thought that contentment was inconceivable only moments before. He wished fervently that he could take this single moment and stretch it for an eternity.

Myrhia set her cup on the mat and peered directly into Ben's watery blue eyes. "Thank you. The tea is excellent. I'm sure that you won't believe this, but I was born and raised in Vermont. The winters were absolutely dreadful and I swore I would never be cold again. I go back, but never in the winter."

Ben smiled patiently and waited. Myrhia sipped her tea, pleasantly surprised by its soothing taste. She was fully cognizant of Richards' atavistic reaction to her presence and knew that he would quickly succumb to her beguilement.

"I've been talking to inspector Lockland," Ben prompted at last, reluctant to break what must surely be an enchantment.

"Yes, Marius." the woman nodded, her tone becoming sober. "I've taken over this particular case." She offered Ben an apologetic grin. "The bureau likes its senior agents to devote their time to more current cases."

Ben's obvious pained reaction filled Myrhia with private delight. "Does this mean that they intend to stop searching?"

"Not at all," Myrhia assured him quickly. "Occasionally, the Bureau will switch agents from one case to the next. A fresh perspective can sometime do wonders. That is really why I'm here. The files are thorough, but there are things that you cannot absorb from a cold, clinical written account."

Ben nodded dubiously. Myrhia detected his doubt and quickly added. "Mr. Richards, people very often underestimate me because of my appearance. It has become a hindrance in terms of gaining respect. In a way, I consider myself fortunate in that it has compelled me to work that much harder. When a case is put on the back burner, I'm often selected to follow up if there is still even the remotest chance of a resolution."

She looked Ben directly in the eye, her gaze a palpable thing on his flesh. "They choose me because I'm tenacious. I'll never relent if there is a minute possibility that a case might be solved. Marius approached me with this case, and I was quite frankly intrigued and readily agreed to assume the lead."

Quite unexpectedly, she leaned across the table and laid her hands upon Ben's. The electric thrill of the contact jolted Richards, but he succeeded in keeping his expression impassive. "I've decided that I'm going to find out what's happened to your wife. The interest is more than professional...I'll be entirely candid about that. This case holds a certain dark fascination for me because there is a dynamic at work here that is frankly fascinating."

"I'd sure appreciate it," Ben whispered in a voice that was cracked and tremulous.

Myrhia withdrew her hands and sipped at her tea. Richards was suddenly forced to reconsider his initial impression. Hidden beneath this seemingly frangible exterior, there lay a core of strength and implacable confidence. Myrhia smiled to herself. This man was easily beguiled, wearing his emotions like a family coat of arms. She could lead him along the path to moral dissolution as easily as one might entice a child with candy.

Ben watched as Myrhia pushed her cup to one side and lifted a flesh tone colored attaché case onto the table. She sprang the latches and withdrew two bound folders from within, spreading them open on the table.

At that precise moment, the Frigidaire ice maker dispensed a load of cubes. Startled, Myrhia swiveled to face the appliance, her eyes narrowed into slits of intense concentration. Ben felt a huge and unseen force brush against him, like the wings of an enormous hunting bird. Gradually, the tension drained from the agent's face and she offered a nervous titter, aware that Richards was regarding her questioningly. Vexed by his scrutiny, she experienced a malicious impulse to sear his eyes with a flash of argent power. She somehow suppressed the impulse and laughed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Richards. Abrupt sounds have always made me jump."

"Please call me Ben," he asked with a grin. "Mr. Richards makes me feel ancient."

"Ben it is," she agreed with an amiable smile that caused Ben's heart to ache. Islena had always been capable of flashing the same disarming grin. He shook his head to clear away the unsolicited comparison. Myrhia pretended not to notice his flaring sorrow, instead perusing the cover page of the first file. As she had driven back to Seattle, Myrhia had replayed Lockland's recent memories like a video. There had been some risk in recovering these files, but she had also pilfered several others, and thus it would be difficult for Lockland's cohorts to single out any specific case that had attracted the burglar's attention. Reviewing the files, Myrhia had been amused by just how misguided their conclusions had been. That element of obstinate disbelief would prove useful n providing her with the time to do what needed to be done in this world.

After disposing of Lockland, Myrhia had driven the sedan back to the outskirts of Seattle and abandoned it in a vacant parking lot. Lockland's wealth of information had informed her that she could procure a rental vehicle to serve as part of her charade. It had been a rather simple matter to convince the counter attendant that she was actually seeing something called a `credit card' and not a useless bit of plastic that Myrhia had found outside the rental office. Even the modern gadgetry of a quick teller machine had been accommodating in providing her with the proper currency.

When the time was ripe, Myrhia suspected that this world would be easy pickings for her juggernaut of conquest...made all the more vulnerable by its obstinate refusal to consider anything beyond the bounds of the five tactile senses.

"Ben, I want to start by asking you the one question that perhaps nobody has thought to ask you in the proper context...what do you think happened to Islena?"

Myrhia watched his chest hitch and noticed his Adam's apple bob up and down in his throat. Inside, Ben could feel the noose of sorrow cinch tighter about his heart. How many hours had he lain awake through bleak and torturous nights, pondering exactly that question from the depth of his alcohol induced torpor? His mind had beleaguered him with a thousand terrible scenarios, each more disturbing than the last, taunting him like malevolent Tarot images.

Feeling numb and drained, he began, "I just don't know. It's impossible to guess how many futile hours I've squandered contemplating exactly that question. In all of that time, I can't produce a single logical explanation for what might have befallen to her. I know for certain that Islena would never run off, regardless of whatever trouble she might have blundered into. She would die rather than abandon her children without warning or explanation and she is the kind of woman who confronts life head on and full bore. Simply vanishing in the face of adversity is simply not her style."

Richards paused, fighting for composure. "That is why I can't help but think that something terrible has happened to her...perhaps she's been kidnapped or worse. Whatever took Islena would have to be terrible to an extreme, because taking her by force would be like trying to subdue an enraged tiger."

Abruptly, Richards stopped and buried his face in one hand. Myrhia watched the erratic rise and fall of his shoulders, disdainful of this unmanly display of weakness. When she spoke, however, her voice was soft and compassionate. "Ben, I'll be candid, the Bureau has discounted the possibility of kidnap. At least, kidnap for all of the conventional reasons. It's been too long without contact."

"Do you suppose that Watts killed her?" The question was posed with such dread that even Myrhia was mildly touched.

"My gut instinct tells me that Elbert Watts is dead. I have nothing to substantiate that of course, but I don't believe that Islena's disappearance had anything to do with Watts."

"Then what happened to her, damn it?" Ben rasped, suddenly slamming his fist down on the wooden table, causing his tea cup to jump. He watched as the woman shook her head, noticing how her mass of black hair swayed fetchingly as she did. There seemed to be a genuine glint of empathy shining in her eyes, one that he had not seen in the parade of other police officers who had interrogated him since the nightmare first began.

"I have every intention of finding out," she replied gravely and Ben found it nearly impossible to doubt her. A moment of intense empathy passed between the pair and Myrhia smiled, again squeezing his hand. The touch was penetrating and electric and Richards was shocked to feel his penis twitch in his jeans. Unbidden, images of this woman, naked and perspiration soaked, leapt to his imagination's eye, her sensuous mouth partially opened and her eyes half closed in wild abandon. In a blink, his cock sprang painfully along the length of his inner thigh, pulsing against the rough denim fabric.

In the past four months, his only thoughts of sex had come in Scotch induced hazes, when red hued images of Islena had compelled him to take penis in hand and pound himself to an explosive climax. Afterwards, he would lie breathing heavily in the dark solitude of their king sized bed with its large expanse of conspicuously empty space.

'You miserable son of a bitch,' he berated himself silently. Here he was, sitting at his kitchen table, discussing his missing wife with a woman whose job it was to find her, all the while lusting to lead the diminutive beauty into the bedroom, which he had shared with Islena, and make love to her until neither was coherent. He felt despicable and ashamed, but that did little to attenuate his throbbing erection.

Myrhia could sense all too clearly his warring feelings of self loathing and argent lust and knew that she would be able to orchestrate his perversion like a child's lullaby. Before much longer, this spineless imbecile would fall completely under her thrall, leaving Islena's precious children vulnerable and virtually defenseless. With a subtle combination of suggestive glances and fleeting touches, Myrhia would stoke this man's sexual tension to intolerable levels. Then she would corrupt him between her thighs, knowing that it would be Islena who would ultimately suffer the humiliation.

The pair continued to speak for nearly forty minutes, Myrhia posing an endless stream of questions to which she already had the answer and Ben providing responses that he had already given on at least a dozen prior occasions. Though they spoke of matters that tore open old wounds afresh, he found himself oddly comforted by her presence and the detailed sharing of that tragedy that had befallen his life.

Finally, she closed the second folder and announced, "That just about covers everything, Ben. I'm sorry about putting you through the same questioning, and I appreciate how painful this must be for you, but it is important for me to establish a personal sense for the situation. A good deal of this sort of work is purely instinctive and no two agents perceive things in precisely the same way."

Richards nodded his understanding, experiencing a sharp pang of regret when the agent stood to leave. He rose and suddenly glanced down at his hands, his face appearing weary and forlorn in the afternoon sunshine. "Do you think that there is any genuine hope that she might still be alive?"

"I wouldn't discount it out as a possibility," Myrhia replied quietly. "Though, in light of the amount of time that has passed since she first vanished, I would say that the chances of her being alive are quite slim."

Ben grimaced and then inhaled unsteadily. Myrhia feigned a sympathetic frown. "I would imagine that the not knowing is the most difficult part, isn't it, Mr. Richards?"

Ben nodded sullenly, dragging his palm across the stubble of his cheeks. "I've never admitted this to a soul, mostly because it sounds so damnably selfish, but part of me wishes that they would find her body. At least then, the boys and I would know for certain that she was dead. Then this wretched waiting would be over and we could begin the healing process. I can image how deplorable that must sound, but I'm being totally candid when I say that being told that Islena was dead would be preferable than living in this state of limbo."

He glanced at her and she smiled reassuringly. "If I was in your position, I would feel exactly the same way. Your state of existence now is very much like being in suspension; there is no possibility of properly grieving or healing, only lingering pain and misery. The old platitude about grief and healing is ultimately true...one cannot begin until the other is expended."

Ben nodded; not speaking for fear that the tears welling up behind his eyes would suddenly spring to the surface. The pair regarded each other openly for several seconds and then Myrhia reiterated her initial promise, "I'm going to find out what happened to Islena. One way or the other, you and your sons will have your lives back."

As though choreographed, the front door burst open and Donald and Allan spilled into the hall. Both Myrhia and Ben turned to trace their entrance as the pair raced into the kitchen. Upon seeing the strange woman in their mother's kitchen, both boys stopped abruptly, glaring at Myrhia with undisguised resentment. Donald especially wore a querulous expression that infuriated the enchantress, though her face was alight with a brilliant smile.

"Who's she?" the boy demanded, his child's voice ringing with petulant outrage as though her presence desecrated a sacred shrine. Ben's face colored with embarrassment as he glanced at Myrhia. When his eyes settled upon his older son, there was an ugly anger in their watery depths that the boy could not recall having seen before.

"Is that how you've been taught to speak to visitors in this house?" he demanded tightly, taking a menacing step toward the boy.

"Children aren't ones for masking their emotions," Myrhia interjected blithely and came to stand before the two children. Donald's expression softened only slightly while Allan gazed up at the beautiful stranger with the reverence of one who believes they have come upon an angel. Myrhia turned her attention to him.

'So innocent, so ingenuous,' she thought. In the moment, she decided it would be the younger son she would abduct...would use as leverage to shatter Islena's defiant spirit. She discerned a delicacy...an inherent sweetness...about the boy that no loving mother could suffer to see crushed like a beautiful butterfly. Unexpectedly, she reached behind his ear. He jumped a little as the long fingernail traced a path through his hair.

"What have we found here?" Myrhia exclaimed, feigning wonder as she held a glistening gold coin between her delicate fingers. The coin had been roughly fashioned and carried cryptic inscriptions on both faces.

Allan stared at the coin with unconstrained awe. "How...how did you do that?"

Myrhia laughed lightly, noticing that even the resentful Donald had been clearly impressed. "Why, I merely reached in and plucked it right out of your mind."

"Just like this," Myrhia repeated the gesture and another coin appeared in the nimble fingers of her left hand. Myrhia's gaze intensified, the puissance of her will forcing both boys to extend their hands and turn the palms upward. Quickly, she dropped a coin into each palm. Each boy took to examining their treasure as Myrhia explained "Those are rare and precious coins, fashioned by thought. Perhaps they are pirate's bounty. Who is to say? Where ever they might come from, I'll bet that they will bring you luck."

"Really?" Allan inquired, his eyes becoming saucers of amazement as he repeatedly turned the coin over and over in his small hands.

"Oh really and truly they will," Myrhia assured him, teasing the boy's hair. She stood and regarded Donald seriously as though a sober demeanor conferred upon him adult status. "As to who I am, young man...I am agent Myrhia La Fey. I've come especially to find your mother. I've promised your father that I'll do precisely that and now I'm extending that vow to you."

Donald stiffened slightly at the mention of his mother. Myrhia could discern a bottomless well of misery behind the little boy's green eyes. "You, you know where my mother is?"

His tone was a wary blend of hope and suspicion. Sensing the conflict, Myrhia smiled, "Not yet, but I'll find her." She suddenly clutched his shoulders tightly. "You have my personal promise on that."

Donald nodded, and fearing that he would start to cry before the beautiful stranger, turned and fled the room, still clutching the coin. Allan glanced uncertainly to his father, who nodded slightly, and then ran after his older brother.

Myrhia watched the pair, wondering how Islena would react to the news that they were in her possession, subject to her cold mercy.

Ben walked Myrhia to the door and then to the wooden gate, still scarcely able to accept the fact that this exquisite creature was a federal law enforcement agent and not a china doll that had been animated by some wonderful magic. She paused near her car door. "I suppose that what I've promised your sons might seem out of line."

"Maybe a little," he said...his expression reflective and distant.

"I will find your wife, Mr. Richards," she insisted again and Ben smiled "It's been hard for the boys, hasn't it?"

"Yes," he replied simply. She had gleaned their pain and he doubted that there was any need to elaborate. She offered him a rather indecipherable smile. "Boys need the maternal influence. The strong female presence adds a gentle aspect to their nature, I think."

He nodded, not certain how to respond, and they stood regarding each other in the pale sunlight of the Mid October afternoon. Her incisive gaze finally caused Ben to avert his eyes. Myrhia smiled and climbed into the cumbersome chariot. "Take care, Ben. I'll be in touch."

She was about to drive away and it suddenly occurred to him to ask, "Those coins that you gave the boys, they were fakes, right?"

She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and then responded, "Of course."

Then she was gone. Ben stood by the fence, watching her long after the sedan's tail lights had vanished from sight.

Chapter Nine

1

Islena was awakened the next morning by an insistent rapping at her chamber door. She had spent several hours waiting anxiously for the Natzurdan to return with word of the Inner Circle's reaction to her proposal. Time's passage had been torturously slow and by nightfall, she had found herself drifting into sleep despite her mounting anxiety and impatience.

Her sleep was fitful and plagued by vague, incomprehensible nightmares, most of which vanished into disquieting vapors when the knocking intruded upon her sleep. Only one particular nightmare remained vivid in her recollection, though its obscure meaning remained lost in a riddle that she simply could not decipher.

In her dream, Ben sat at the kitchen table. His red rimmed eyes shone brightly from a pallid face which reminded Islena of curdled milk. He shuffled a deck of playing cards with the mechanical precision of a hypnotized man, finally dealing the cards in an arrangement that resembled the one that the demented seer had employed during Islena's macabre reading.

After dealing nine cards, Ben hesitated and lifted his head toward the ceiling, his eyes shining with a ferocity that might have been confused for either unwavering loved or intense hatred. His cracked lips parted in a bloody grin, revealing blackened teeth, and he intoned, "This one's for you, darling."

Then he drew the top card of the pack with a cavalier flick of the wrist. It fluttered, landing face up to reveal the Queen of Spades.

Ben's grin became a grimace of agony as hands with unnaturally long fingers and cracked, black nails tightened about his throat. Islena was torn from sleep just as Ben reached up to free himself from the unseen assailant. Doraux climbed reluctantly out of bed, disturbed by the abstruse implications of the dream. Oddly enough, she had never been troubled by this particular nightmare, or any like variation, but this sudden night terror impressed her as a terrible portent. Conversely, a part of her mind, the grim realistic part, had always known that Myrhia would eventually bring the battle to a personal level, threatening her family directly. The enchantress was not a woman to toss about hollow threats.

She crossed the room, knowing that this was to be the final night that she would spend in its relative comfort. The next leg of her odyssey was about to commence and with it, she must steel herself to meet the deprivations of the road. The normal tribulations of break neck travel were unnerving enough without entertaining thoughts of what penny dreads and horrors might await her on the opposite side of the Hiberas.

Upon opening her chamber door, she found Inos, Morzhian and Gillian waiting at the threshold. Islena managed a cool smile and ushered the trio in. From this moment forth, fortune would cast the group as friends or foes.

"What's the verdict?" she asked lightly, though her attempt to sound casual missed the mark by a wide margin.

Inos glanced at his comrades and then began, "We apologize for taking so long to return an answer, but your proposal raised much debate, as you can well imagine."

"I'd wager that it did," Doraux allowed caustically.

"At any rate, the Inner Council has agreed to your intention and charges you with the task of finding Artumas and the other Icons, if he is able to provide you with some insight as to their whereabouts," Inos announced, clearly ambivalent over the wild venture.

Islena breathed a deep sigh of relief and Inos' normally placid expression became grave. "There are two important stipulations to which you must agree."

Doraux stiffened, her emerald eyes flashing. There were always conditions and she was rapidly growing tired of others presuming to control her life as though they had natural jurisdiction over her future. Gruffly, she intoned, "Let's hear them."

"The first condition is that you allow a small group of our choosing to accompany you in the course of your travel. The group will be led by Gillian and will be comprised of several Jerhia, Natzurdan and Metocan, all of whom are skilled in their respective lore. There presence should prove invaluable and will ward you against many of the hazards of the trail."

Inos paused for a moment, his obvious discomfort increasing noticeably. "The next stipulation is not so much a condition as it is a contingency. Of those who opposed allowing you to venture in to the Land of Shades, the pressing fear was that you might again fall into Myrhia's hands...or under her thrall. To win your release, it became necessary to provide a guarantee that this would not happen."

Islena's eyes shifted automatically to Gillian, who regarded her impassively. "Why don't you tell me exactly how you've compromised me?"

Inos grimaced, and deciding that Doraux was the kind of woman who valued candor over circumspection, disclosed bluntly, "Very well. Should it appear that you are to fall to the enchantress, Gillian has been instructed to kill you."

A charged silence descended upon the four, while Islena absorbed the dramatic implications of the terms. She need only glance at the unflinching set of Gillian's eyes to know that he would uphold that condition without compunction, should the need arise. With dour formality, she announced, "I agree to your council's terms."

Inos' relief was a palpable as he replied, "Very good, Islena. Please try to understand the delicacy of our situation. If fate decrees that we must inevitably lose this war, it is our obligation to insure that Myrhia's rampage of conquest ends here...on this world."

Doraux continued to watch him in silence and the Metocan realized that, though the woman might continue to serve them or be united by common exigency, she was no longer their true ally. "Morzhian's party will depart within the hour. He will travel by Dragak, the horse most commonly used by travelers of this region. Can you ride a horse, Islena?"

Doraux, who admired, yet secretly feared horses, simply nodded yes. The Metocan leader nodded and made ready to depart. Islena abruptly gripped his wrist, applying a pressure that was painful. "You've mentioned nothing of my condition. Where is Lorio?"

Inos blinked. The pressure upon his wrist was shocking and increased by the moment. Islena scowled at the Metocan, her eyes glistening like bits of broken glass. Inos thought to protest, but then simply wheezed, "We promised that the Lamish woman would be released to your custody and so she shall. She will be brought to you when Morzhian is ready to depart."

Islena released the Metocan's arm and stepped back, her still smoldering gaze flicking across the trio. "In my world, we've learned that justifying desperate and violent acts through urgency is the difference between righteousness and evil. Expedience is never an acceptable justification for committing heinous acts. If you believe that it is, then any moral authority you claim to have is forfeit."

Morzhian nodded knowingly and offered Islena a weary smile grin. Soon the three were gone, leaving Islena alone to prepare for the journey west.

2

It was nearly noon when Morzhian's party passed through the central gates of Othgol. The procession was followed by thousands of grim faced Metocan who had come to watch as this small party ventured forth, carrying their collective fortunes in their saddle bags.

Inos rode along side the Natzurdan, while Islena rode next to Gillian, who kept his eyes trained directly upon the rider in front. Lorio was still not present, but Doraux had promised that the Lamish woman would join her as the party passed out of the city.

As promised, Lorio sat astride a black and gray dragak, but Islena was infuriated to notice that the woman's hands were tightly bound behind her back.

"Release her at once!" she hissed at the Metocan leader. Inos gestured for the guard to comply and the restraints suddenly slipped from her hands of their own accord. Lorio massaged her wrists, but her lovely face remained impassive in the milky light. Abruptly, she spurred the animal to a trot. Immediately, it moved to flank Islena as though it was her natural task to protect the other woman.

Inos reined his horse to one side of the procession and came to face Morzhian. He presented the Natzurdan with a formal salute of reverence. Then he smiled. "Well old friend, the time has come to part ways. A parting under such circumstances is not pleasant, but men such as you and I are seldom afforded the luxury of choosing the paths we will walk."

Morzhian rode over to his friend and placed his hand upon the Metocan's shoulder. Inos could not help but notice how frail the older man appeared and wondered if he would be equal to the trials of darkness that lay ahead. Perhaps Morzhian gleaned something of Inos' doubt, because he said, "We will come together in better days, my friend, to tell tales of how our peoples stood to overcome the serpent."

Morzhian withdrew a few paces and intoned gravely, "May the Mother provide your people and land with the strength to persevere."

"And likewise may she smile upon your people and land," Inos returned solemnly, and the party moved through the majestic gates of the city of Othgol. Islena stole a brief glance over her shoulder and was surprised to she that Inos and the citizens of the Metocan capital had already drifted back toward the city. Neither smile nor joy colored a single face and Islena's mind conjured up images of a funeral procession leaving the graveyard under gray, cheerless skies in late November after the dead had been consigned into the cold embrace of the earth.

3

The party traveled south west through dense, brooding forests where the ineffectual sun lacked the power to banish the deep pools of shadow. For three weary days, the party raced toward Natzurdan, stopping only long enough to take brief rest and food.

Islena found the Dragak to be a pliable enough beast, though the constant pounding of the day long ride set every muscle in her body to throbbing miserably...especially her hips and inner thighs. The beast did possess an uncanny sense of direction and balance, picking its way through precarious trails with the grace of a dancer despite its cumbersome bulk.

As the party traveled, very little conversation passed between its members as though each was preparing mentally for the inconceivable rigors ahead. As the miles slid by, Islena would find her eyes drawn inexorably toward the sword and scabbard that hung at Gillian's hip. She wondered if he would truly be able to use it upon her if he perceived the need, engaging in hours of mental debate over the prospect of facing execution at the Jerhia's hands.

Late in the afternoon of the third day, Gillian called a halt to the party's ride. The churning clouds appeared to drop lower to the earth with every passing minute and heavy rain seemed inevitable. The Jerhia chose a single clearing near a meandering stream as their resting spot for the night. The party dismounted and the Natzurdans and Metocans set about preparing the cooking fires, no mean feat in a land where everything was perpetually damp.

As though she were royalty, Islena was not permitted to assist in the making of camp. Dismounting her Dragak, she stretched her stiffened muscles and tethered the beast to a sturdy tree where a Natzurdan quickly moved to attend to the beast. As she watched the bearded youth remove the saddle and heavy blanket, someone moved up behind her. She turned to find Lorio regarding her intently. "You've elected to fight Myrhia then?"

"Yes," Islena responded simply. Something about the ghost of a grin that played at Lorio's lips raised an alarm in Islena's mind. Lorio glanced over her shoulder at the Dragak that Gillian was dressing down for the night. Islena's eyes moved over Lorio's sleek body, where long, lithe muscle rippled beneath olive skin. It was difficult to reconcile this image of health with the pallid, fevered creature that had nearly expired of illness at Runesholm. Lorio once again focused her incisive gaze upon the smaller Doraux.

"Myrhia may not be the only enemy that you may encounter in the course of your exodus, though she is by far the deadliest." She cast another brief glance at Gillian, who was watching the pair closely with his arms folded across his chest. Lorio looked directly at Doraux and asked, "Do you finally accept that you are the one of ancient prophecy?"

Islena considered this for a moment and then replied honestly, "I'm not certain. At first, I thought that it was so much ludicrous bullshit...pure village superstition...but now, after all that I've witnessed, I'm not sure of anything. It still seems implausible, but I'll no longer dismiss it out of hand."

Lorio nodded gravely. Islena noted that the rest of the party had ceased their chores and were surreptitiously watching the pair. Even Morzhian had come to stand beside Gillian. The Lamish woman crossed to the Jerhia Dragak and stripped a rolled bundle from the horses flank. Gillian moved to stop her, but Morzhian placed a restraining hand on his wrist and whispered, "Patience. Something of consequence is about to transpire."

Lorio allowed the bundle to fall to the carpet of needles, dropped to one knee and unfastened the rough string that held it fast. Then she unfurled the wrap and the Jerhia Icon clattered to the forest floor.

Islena glanced from Lorio to the sword, with its Dragon's head haft and ruby encrusted hand guard. She was distantly aware that she had begun to shiver violently. Lorio then returned to her own Dragak and brought forth her ironwood staff. "Prophecy has declared that you shall be Myrhia's bane and so it may come to pass, but you might just as easily be killed by a thief in the woods. A common highwayman with a short sword might alter the course of destiny because you lack the rudimentary skill necessary to defend yourself."

The Lamish beauty flicked a contemptuous sneer at Gillian, who could only smile in response. Then she came to stand deliberately before Doraux, who was suddenly reminded of the occasion of their first meeting.

"This staff is nothing more than a piece of wood in unskilled hands," Lorio explained. "But in my hands, it is a lethal weapon. This is a fighter's world, Islena and only the most skilled fighter will prevail. Those who cannot defend themselves are at the mercy of every brigand they encounter...or every disgruntled wretch with a violent disposition."

Lorio twirled the staff, bringing the spatulated end up in a blinding arc that caught Islena directly behind the right knee. Doraux emitted a startled cry and fell backwards. Lorio reversed the weapon, bringing the killing point to rest upon Islena's heavy left breast. "One mistake, one miscalculation can be fatal in this world, Islena...though I suspect you've learned as much already."

Doraux glared up at the taller woman, but said nothing. There was a slight exertion of pressure upon the staff and then Lorio pulled it away and extended her right arm in a gesture of goodwill. Lorio smiled fondly and Islena accepted the hand. In the next instant she was being hauled directly into the path of Lorio's pistoning knee.

Islena tumbled head over heels, landing with a gusty exhalation, where she laid painting heavily on the dry grass. Growling, Lorio snapped, "Trust is a fool's blessing here, woman."

Islena snarled like an enraged animal and leapt to her feet, rushing at Lorio, who adroitly sidestepped the angered charge and clubbed Doraux across the small of the back. Doraux shrieked as pain flared across her kidneys and collapsed to her knees, clutching at her agonized lower back. Lorio stepped around her and knelt before Islena, though prudently out of range. "To fight with anger is to commit suicide as I so painfully discovered when we fought. Remain calm, Islena. Think tactically and discard the heat. Let balance and reflexes be your weapons. Now come." She rose and invited Doraux to come forward. "Show me more than stubborn courage."

Islena watched Lorio for a moment, trying to divine the other woman's purpose. She glanced around ruefully, wondering why none of the others had come to intervene. All present watched the harsh lesson unfold with identical rapt expressions. Doraux stood erect, ignoring the strident protest in her lower back. Lorio's expression spoke of patience, but was otherwise inscrutable. The slight smile could have been amiable or belligerent.

Lorio spun the staff slowly. "Concentrate, Islena. Exhaust your anger."

Islena began to circle to her left, her gaze shifting slightly from the spinning staff to Lorio's eyes. Like an adder, Lorio surged forward and landed a sharp blow to Islena's shoulder. The blow stung, but had obviously not been intended to inflict serious pain. Suddenly, it dawned upon Islena that this display had been intended to impart some obscure lesson of which the bystanders evidently approved.

Doraux's jaw tightened in outrage, but she refused to allow it to usurp control of her actions. Lorio seemed to understand this and nodded approvingly. "The hips are the key to movement. Where they go, the body must follow. Now, what will you do savior?"

Doraux frowned. There could be no mistaking the sardonic snap in Lorio's tone. Islena circled to the right, quickly wiping away the perspiration that had formed on her brow. Lorio traced her movements with the spinning staff.

Suddenly, Islena feinted to her right and reversed directions to her left. Lorio reacted by spinning and swinging the staff in that direction. Anticipating this, Islena raised her left arm and bent at the waist, attempting to absorb some of the impact of the blow.

Wood smacked against flesh with an ugly slap, but before Lorio could withdraw the weapon, Islena clamped a powerful arm down upon it, pinioning the weapon between her arm and her body.

Lorio attempted to pull the staff away but it was held fast in the vice of muscle and flesh. Islena's eyes blazed triumphantly. Lorio knew that she could have pulled the staff free but not without exposing her transformation.

Instead she stood erect and remarked, "Very good, Islena. You've sacrificed to gain the initiative. Your exceptional strength is your advantage." she hesitated and then asked, "And how shall you take advantage of your position?"

Without the slightest hesitation, Islena smashed the heel of her palm into Lorio's face, causing her head to snap back and her knees to unhinge. As she toppled, Islena ripped the staff out of her hands. Then she stood over Lorio, holding the ironwood and breathing heavily. Lorio gazed up at Doraux, her eyes reflecting neither pain nor fear.

"Kill me," she whispered softly so that one but Islena could hear. Doraux's brow furrowed. Though delivered without emotion, the plea seemed a desperate entreaty.

Islena shook her head adamantly and threw the staff aside. "No!"

Again, she extended her hand. Lorio accepted the hand and allowed Doraux to pull her upright and into a tentative embrace.

A piercing whine tore the air. Every head turned to see the Icon vibrating on the ground. The rubies was gleaming a blinding, iridescent red, and washed the clearing in an eerie crimson light...a disconcerting, coruscating burst of kinetic energy.

Lorio stepped nimbly behind Islena and unexpectedly kissed her ear. Gripping Doraux's shoulder, she whispered, "Watch carefully. This is the first step along the stairway of ascension...the strength and the means to defend everything that you hold sacred."

The vibrations reached a frenzied oscillation and suddenly the weapon rose into the air and began to float toward Doraux, moving with a sense of majesty as though this was to be a coronation.

The Metocan and Natzurdan backed away, wearing twisted expressions of apprehension and horrified fascination. Even the normally unflappable Gillian appeared mesmerized by his people's icon as it miraculously floated through the now vermilion air.

Lorio clutched Islena's right wrist and raised her arm. "It comes forth to acknowledge you as its master and wielder of all it represents. You must accept it!"

Islena desperately wanted to resist, sensing that once she had taken the first step along this particular road, it would prove to have no turning and she would have little volition but to follow its course to whatever destiny awaited her.

Still the sword continued to converge upon her.

"This is your solitary hope of defeating Myrhia and returning to your world and life. The Dragonsword represents the means by which you will defend yourself against the overwhelming perils of your destiny." The seductive purr of Lorio's voice flowed into her ear like the caress of warm, placating waters...lilting and potent with the power to assuage and trivialize her anxieties.

Islena gritted her teeth to resist but found that her hand opened of its own accord. At once, the sword righted itself and the haft slapped into her open palm, blade raised to the heavens like a deadly spire.

Lorio retreated from Islena and watched as the vermilion glow became an argent burst of pure energy. Doraux's body was suffused and the excess, lacking expression, spilled from her eyes in twin silver shafts.

Every muscle in her body went taut as the contained puissance of the Icon passed through flesh and bone, channeling out into the world beyond.

Yet, unlike the first experience at Runesholm, her body was not overwhelmed by the force that it was attempting to contain. Nor did she feel the debilitating panic that had accompanied her first experience with the Icon. She understood that hers was the inherent mastery of the sword and all the cumulative might it contained. The ease with which the Icon had subjugated its power to her will was a resounding affirmation of the irrefutable truth of the prophecy. As inconceivable and mystifying as it might seem to her, Islena could no longer take refuge behind the walls of her skepticism.

She was the fabled one of ancient prophecy and the three Proclamations would be the instruments of her ascension. Deep in the recesses of her subconscious, a shadowy presence stirred excitedly, knowing that its day of emancipation was fast approaching.

"The power is yours to control and direct, Islena," Lorio encouraged from beyond the field of argent that engulfed Doraux. As the twin shafts moved over the clearing, they effortlessly reduced rock and wood to dust and splinter. Lorio's words reached Islena as though echoing along a distorted corridor. Still, she retained enough presence of mind to grasp their fundamental truth...she had not awakened the power of the sword, but rather it had stirred the recumbent power that dwelled within her soul...quiescent and waiting.

Islena closed her eyes, abruptly cutting off the argent outpouring.

"Very good!" Lorio and Morzhian remarked in unison. Islena ignored the encouragement, focusing her concentration on gradually diminishing the power roiling within the cleft of her being and knew, with implacable certainty, that it would remain there, ready to swell to an inferno should she wish to grant it release.

She opened her emerald eyes and glanced at the blade that, while magnificent in its craftsmanship, displayed no hint of its inherent power. Her gaze swept over the party and she saw a discordant blend of awe and trepidation on every face. Again she glanced back at the sword, her own expression shaped by incredulity.

'My God, it's true!' she thought in wonder. 'This thing is instilled with a vast power that only I can access.' She could still feel the incontrovertible truth of this last thought flickering in every nerve ending in her body.

Slowly, experimentally, she held the sword aloft. With both hands, she hefted the weapon over her head and heaved it high into the air while the others looked on in open bemusement. It flew, end over end, and landed in a nearby meandering stream, disappearing beneath the murky water with a splash. Standing erect, she extended her palm outward in a gesture of evocation and intoned, "Come!"

The waters of the stream began to churn and roil. Scalding steam rose with a strident hiss. The sword then leapt into the air accompanied by a geyser of super heated steam and spun wildly for a moment, before springing into Islena's waiting palm.

Utter silence descended upon the clearing for several moments. Then Lorio slowly made her way to retrieve her quarter staff. She walked toward her Dragak, pausing long enough to say "That was the most difficult lesson. Mastering the rest should prove easy enough."

Then she strode out of the clearing, passing into the trees without looking back, while Islena stood as rigid as a piece of statuary, her wide-eyed gaze transfixed upon the Dragonsword.

4

It was well past midnight. The party had settled into sleep, but Islena found herself lying on her back, gazing restlessly up into the shifting mists, which obscured the night sky. Her mind raced, pulled along a hundred divergent tangents in a frenzied blur that startled her senses. Above it all, hovered the incredible reality that she was a creature of truly mythical proportions. Even as a young child, Islena felt positive that she was destined for something other than a life of mundane drudgery. Yet even in the most fanciful of daydreams, she had never imagined that the course of her life would lead her to a fantastical juncture such as this.

Unable to endure the clamor in her mind, she stood and stretched silently. The sword lay patiently beside her. Indeed, she had inherited its possession as the others in the party regarded it with religious dread and refused to even touch it, lest it consume them in a baleful eruption of argent fire.

She stooped down and retrieved the icon, mildly perturbed by its natural feel and weight in her palm. She then carried the sword over to the fire and sat cross legged before the smoldering embers, laying the weapon across her lap. The embedded rubies glistened wickedly in the fire light.

Without prior warning, she began to weep, hot tears streaming down her face. The psychic had been totally right. Islena had discounted her as a charlatan or lunatic, yet her augury had proven eerily accurate up to this moment. With preternatural clarity, the final segment of the vision she had shared with Dominique Normandy unfolded in excruciating detail, in her mind's eye. Was it inevitable then? Was the notion that she could somehow avoid her foretold capitulation to Myrhia and the subsequent subservience such surrender would entail, just another pathetic delusion? If only she had listened, perhaps she might have found a way to extricate herself from fate's snare.

'Islena, you're not to be blamed for dismissing something so obviously absurd,' she realized, though this did little to raise her spirits. It was indeed true that she could not be blamed for initially being skeptical, yet even when the evidence began to mount that she had become embroiled in something extraordinary, she had obstinately refused to be dislodged from her position of skepticism. Now, she found herself abruptly reversing direction and traversing the spectrum to unconditional acceptance...hurtling toward a complex moral conundrum, the resolution of which she could honestly not foretell.

She glanced down at the sword. If she had required tangible proof to accept the impossible as fact, this lovely killing instrument was it. Yet, there was something about the sword, with its dragon's head haft and exquisite rubies that was eerily familiar. Somewhere, she had encountered this weapon before, perhaps in a book or on a television program. That was ludicrous, of course. This world and her own were removed by a void greater than mere time and distance.

'No, your knowledge of the weapon is far more intimate than that.' The voice resounded with an irrefutable certainty and belonged to her mother. She traced the edge of the blade, honed to a lethal sharpness, with the ball of her right thumb. Indeed, the weapon did seem unaccountably familiar as though it had been in close proximity to her on a daily basis during some point in her life.

"That's nonsense," she murmured as her forehead wrinkled in consternation. Somewhere, couched in the recesses of her subconscious mind, a long closed door began to swing open, revealing a thin spear of dirty orange light. Islena stiffened, sensing that she was stumbling to the brink of epiphany. She tried to concentrate, tried to force the door further ajar.

With a maddening languor, the mists of recollection began to coalesce into solid memory. She imagined that she could almost see the sword and the surroundings in which she had come to know it. It...

"Islena?" a voice inquired softly and imminent solidification of memory dissolved into the present reality. Vexed, Islena glanced up to find Gillian gazing down upon her inquisitively.

"Ah, my appointed assassin," she growled sardonically. "Couldn't sleep?"

Gillian declined to accept the bait. "May I sit awhile?"

Doraux sighed, shrugged and motioned toward the ground beside. "Why not?"

The Jerhia sat cross legged on the grass and commenced studying the shifting pattern of flames.

"A strange thing isn't it...an assassin and his potential victim staring into a midnight fire?" The Jerhia remarked, his tone almost wistful. "I doubt that this world will ever see the likes of these times again."

After a moment's consideration, he added, "And perhaps that is for the best."

He paused and stole a sideways glance at her. How lovely and utterly vibrant her eyes appeared by fire light. And yet she was as inaccessible as the stars in their distant vault. She was an exotic and entrancing woman, but she was also a creature of great purpose and the focal point of such lofty drama had little time or desire for such amorous distractions. Yet, it pained him to think that she regarded him as a cold, dispassionate killer, something that he reviled above all else.

"Islena, I can scarcely imagine how you perceive my role," he began haltingly, not feeling particularly condign to the task of describing his role, much less actually justifying it.

"Has it really changed all that much?" she asked evenly. Gillian considered this. "No, I suppose it hasn't. This time you know my intended purpose. There is no deception between us. I'm not certain that candor makes the arrangement any more palatable, but when considered against the stakes involved, I believe it is my purpose is warranted."

"None at all," Doraux confirmed, continuing to study the pattern of the dancing flames.

"Islena, do you not concur with the need for precaution in this matter?" Gillian ventured. She turned her head and lashed the Jerhia with a flat glare. His question had been posed honestly and she could discern a measure of ambivalence in his deportment. "I guess that I do. Your people are afraid of how dangerous I might become as Myrhia's puppet. What I resent is the fact that I have warned you against precisely that eventuality and yet I was still cajoled into going after the Proclamations as a last gasp measure to defeat the High Queen. To cover the possibility that things might go wrong, you have been sent along to kill me, if there is even the slightest indication they might. Can you possibly imagine how exploited that makes me feel? Is it not precisely what Myrhia would do if the tables were reversed...a shameless covering of every contingency?"

Gillian considered this for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing slightly and then nodded his head slowly. "Our situation is dire and the darker angels of our nature have risen to the fore. We must seem bestial, but we really are capable of higher virtues. Ultimately, the interests of one, even one as consequential as you, must become secondary to the greater interest of the struggle against evil. Sadly, it all comes down to simple pragmatism."

"And in the end, how do you differentiate between the two?" she retorted angrily. "If I only had the time to tell you how many heinous acts have been perpetrated in the name of the just cause and the greater good. In my world, the history books are replete with stories of people who have committed unspeakable atrocities for what they perceived to be the right reasons."

"Ideally, what you say is true. No individual should be sacrificed in the name of common good, but reality and idealism usually bare only a passing resemblance on the best of occasions." He glanced down at his hands, which Islena noticed were surprisingly delicate, yet long of finger. "I doubt that I could kill you, Islena. Remember that I am the Jerhia renegade who never did subscribe to the belief that one should follow orders with a mindless adherence that makes no allowance for moral and ethical considerations. You are an extraordinary woman and killing you would be a blight upon my heart...one I'm not certain I could ever live with, however valid the justifications might be."

Surprised by his candor, Doraux could only nod and glance away. Changing subjects, she asked, "Gillian, what do you make of all of this?"

"I'm sorry?" he responded, confused by the ambiguous segue.

"This whole notion of shifting continents and the Hiberas River...is it remotely plausible?"

"The Natzurdan are an amazing people. I have personally seen them change granite to liquid, though my mind could scarcely credit what my eyes kept insisting to be true. The Metocan defy description. They impose their own strict limits on their capabilities, where otherwise they would be shackled by none."

Islena's brow furrowed as if the notion struck her as somehow contradictory. "Despite being this powerful, they still cannot find a way to defeat Myrhia?"

Gillian did not answer for a long time. Doraux had begun to think that he might not respond at all, when finally he said, "I believe that Myrhia exists beyond all conventional logic that governs this world. She possesses unparalleled powers and we suspect that she has revealed only a small fraction of her true puissance. Why? Myrhia's mind is mercurial and I wouldn't dare to try to analyze its workings, but this theory strikes me as credible."

"What about the Hiberas? All of these leaping tongues of fire, surely that must be embellishment?"

Gillian grinned. Even in the firelight, it was evident that the grin was fraught with a bitter resentment. "If there is anything that I know in this world, it is the Hiberas."

Islena raised an eyebrow and Gillian explained how his punishment for perceived insubordination had been relegation to a tedious vigil over the mysterious river and a threat which would never materialize.

"In all of that time, you never discovered what might exist on the other side?" she asked, flabbergasted by the unlikely notion.

"Not as much as a glimpse," he replied with a trace of irony. "The tales of what might lay over that river are pure speculation and my time there provided no insight whatsoever."

"Then why the vigilance? How many men have wasted their lives watching that distant shore?" Islena blurted, mortified by the thought of such squander.

"We are vigilant because it is prudent to be thus and the Jerhia are a prudent people. As long as there was a potential threat...either real or imagined, we were prepared to meet it."

Islena nodded thoughtfully. Such tiny vignettes provided genuine insights into the nature of this strange warrior nation. "Someone mentioned that they were not certain if the Hiberas' intended purpose was to keep something out or something in."

Gillian shrugged as if the matter held no real interest for him. "There is room for endless debate, but the centuries of conjecture may soon be put to rest. I personally suspect that the face of the world will be forever altered, irrespective of the outcome. The inhabitants may be benign or belligerent. Who knows...perhaps the land across the Hiberas is uninhabited."

Islena gazed into the fire, another question taking shape in her buzzing mind. "Do you think that it is possible that this Artumas might still be alive somewhere?"

Gillian pondered his response for several moments, his eyes narrowed in speculation. "In my experience, I've come to conclude that there is very little beyond the realm of possibility. Perhaps Ynthrax was right, or perhaps he lied for reasons that we will never understand. Maybe he intended that you traipse across a continent in search of a ghost...if only to keep you free of Myrhia's clutches."

"You're saying that this may be a waste of time...or worse?"

"I'm merely suggesting that you should consider the possibility that you are doing precisely what Myrhia expects you to do. The woman is nefarious and attempting to divine her intentions is like wandering through a darkened labyrinth. I do know that she had orchestrated the course of this conflict with a skill and precision that would be admirable in other circumstances."

Islena contemplated Gillian's warning and suddenly the confidence that she was following the correct course of action began to erode. Gillian sensed her disquiet and advised, "Islena, doubt is a debilitating thing. You've selected a path of action based on instinct. Follow it and do not second guess you every action."

Abruptly, the Jerhia stood and gazed down upon Doraux, though his eyes settled on the weapon in her lap. "You're friend...Lorio, is unfathomable...perhaps even dangerous. She was right about one thing; you were destined to wield that sword. As you both grow accustomed to one another, it shall become an extension of your will."

Then he was gone. Islena sat for a few moments longer, reflecting on all that he had said. Then she returned to her bed roll and tried to sleep. After what seemed like an eternity, oblivion enfolded her into its welcomed embrace.

5

It was just past midday when the party passed from Metocan into Northern Natzurdan. One moment the earth was steeped in mist, the next it opened onto a sweeping panorama of verdant splendor that stunned the senses of all who had been submerged for so long in the oppressive fog.

Islena's first impression of Natzurdan was that it was the creation of perfect harmony. Every rolling hill, every valley and stream and every copse of trees, appeared in perfect proportion and position with everything around it. Doraux imagined that the Garden of Eden might have looked thus before it had been sullied by the presence of man. This place of unrestrained vitality imbued Islena with a sense of wellbeing which she knew to be false. Still, she was powerless to resist its allure, welcoming it as a distraction from the relentless and debilitating dejection of the past weeks.

In all, she was grateful to be leaving Metocan, with its perpetual dampness and swirling mists. She guessed that it would be a long time before the pervasive chill would entirely leave her bones. Yet, when she glanced at the Metocan mages who were assigned to her escort, Islena saw that they all gazed back at their homeland with similar expressions of wistful longing.

"This is why we fight the enchantress."

Islena spun about on her saddle to see that Morzhian had joined her. His placid eyes were set upon the Metocan and it was clear that he had divined her thoughts. "Each culture is struggling to preserve its unique heritage in the face of an evil that would efface every vestige of its existence from the world. It is from those expressions of longing and sadness that these people derive their courage."

Islena nodded and Morzhian offered her a slight bow and with a flourish, declared, "Welcome to Natzurdan, Islena Doraux."

Morzhian proceeded to the head of the column and assumed the lead of the trek. The hours flashed by, revealing mile after mile of magnificent, unspoiled paradise each more breathtaking than the last. Occasionally, she would catch a fleeting glimpse of creatures peering out through the foliage, marking their passage with eyes that were orange or vermilion or hunter green. None of these creatures gave any hint of menace or fear, rather only a frank curiosity.

Surrounded by such opulent beauty, Islena decided that she had reached the correct decision in choosing to actively oppose the enchantress. Treasures of such magnitude had to be preserved, irrespective of the cost.

The party camped near a stream, where silver fish flashed through the crystal clear waters like living jewels. As plentiful as the fish were, they were scant in comparison to the abundance of berries and nuts that hung from nearly every tree and bush. The Natzurdan foraged, careful to pick from only certain trees.

When Islena asked Morzhian if certain berries might be poisonous, he glanced at her in frank astonishment as if she had uttered something incomprehensibly daft and then inquired, "By all that is Holy, why would the Mother provide a tree with poison fruit? Certain trees provide berries which are intoxicating and this is a time when a level head is in order."

Invigorated by the delectable nuts and fruits, Islena approached Lorio, who drifted off by herself after the evening meal. The Lamish beauty glanced at Doraux inquisitively and Islena asked, "Will you teach me to use the sword, Lorio...I mean really use it?"

Over the next two hours, the Lamish warrior taught Islena the rudiments of fighting effectively with her weapon...offering advice on matters of offence, defense and balance. Doraux's strength and athleticism made her a quick study. Gillian, a master swordsman, watched the session, nodding each time Lorio would demonstrate a key technique.

Near nightfall, Islena attempted to unlock the Icon's innate power and was pleased to find that she could successfully channel the weapon's fury in a controlled manner. As Lorio had theorized, the sword was merely a conduit for a deeper puissance that resided not in the tempered steel, but in the bone and viscera of her powerful body.

By precisely visualizing the method in which she wished to utilize the Icon's power, she was able to control and direct its release to accurate and devastating effect.

That night, she climbed into her bed roll feeling not only new-found confidence, but a rather amazing sense of contentment. That nagging bite of loss still persisted, but for the first time since awakening in the forest of Kornas, it was manageable.

6

The next day the party accelerated its pace, pushing the sturdy Dragak as much as they dared. For her part, Doraux was glad that she had grown accustomed to riding the beasts, preferring a mount to mile after mile of heavy trudging.

At mid morning, she spurred her Dragak closer to Morzhian, whom she greeted with a genuinely sanguine smile. The Natzurdan leader tried valiantly to return the smile, but deep lines of pain furrowed the flesh around his eyes.

"You're not well," Islena remarked, her voice tight with concern.

Morzhian nodded. "I'm not particularly ill, Islena, but I am old. The rigors of this pace are not kind to my aging bones.

As if to demonstrate the point, a spasm of pain bit into his lower back and he winced again, the color draining from his cheeks. Islena laid her hand gently upon his shoulder. "You should rest."

Morzhian smiled again, though his normally bright eyes seemed dull and listless with the effects of days of hard riding. "There will be time enough to rest soon, Islena. In these dark times, a sacrifice is expected of all of us, irrespective of age or infirmity."

"How long before we reach this ravine?"

"Less than a day if we can maintain this pace. From there we will turn west and lead you to the banks of the Hiberas."

"What you're proposing is extremely difficult, isn't it...I mean, on the participants?" In truth, what the Natzurdan had proposed was far beyond her sensibility, but she had witnessed enough of the impossible to remain neutral, and allow the flow of events to prove or refute the most exotic of claims and contentions.

Morzhian nodded grimly. "Rearranging a continent is unprecedented and could never be described as an easy matter. We are demanding more of the Mother than we have ever dared. Then again, our need has never been so extreme. If we are to have a prayer of success, she must come forth and render the ultimate sacrifice; self mutilation."

Islena shook her head in exasperation and glanced away. "You speak as though the world is a sentient entity."

Morzhian appeared perplexed as though she had gainsaid something that was a glaringly obvious truth. "Look about you, Islena. In the face of such beauty, such natural harmony is it possible to refute the notion that our Mother is aware and intelligent...that all of this is not the culmination of intelligent design?"

"But this is only one place. The Blighted Lands are like an evil reflection of Natzurdan," Islena protested.

Morzhian pursed his lips. "The Blighted Lands were not always thus. More than a millennium ago the frozen wastes were fertile and habitable, but an unfortunate turn drew the miscreants and deviants northward. Or perhaps they were herded there. I cannot be certain. At any rate, their madness was infectious and slowly, over the course of centuries, the land soured and died. The Mother does not bestow her gifts upon the unworthy...the exploiters and the despoilers. Instead, she withdrew her grace from the place where they flourished."

Islena glanced down at her Dragak as the Natzurdan continued to speak. An implacable faith echoed in his smooth voice. "Every Natzurdan is raised to nurture the Mother and devote his or her life to perpetuating her beauty and continuing health. One need only gaze about to see how our efforts have been received by the Goddess we serve."

Islena nodded noncommittally. Morzhian and his people possessed a genteel fanaticism that made the most fervent of her world's ecologists appear timid and uncommitted. "The thought of this desecration must be killing you?"

Morzhian did not reply, but his expression spoke eloquently of an immutable misery that lanced Islena's heart.

7

Several hours later, the party crested a steep rise that immediately dropped away into a deep ravine. The thundering rush of white water filled the ravine as the contained river tore at its captor's banks with an awesome savagery. As the group spread out along the crest of the ravine, Islena surveyed the course of the raging river.

She required only one glance to know that the party would never be able to cross. Frustration welled up and for a moment, she feared that she would burst into tears.

Morzhian, Gillian and several others had huddled around a short distance away and were engaged in an animated discussion. The Natzurdan leader pointed to a mammoth tree that stood close to the river banks near the base of the decline.

Doraux squinted into the misty, gusting wind, immediately grasping the elders' intent.

'They don't really expect to cut that down,' she thought, guessing that it would take days to hack through the hardwood trunk, which had a diameter of at least fifteen feet, if not more.

Lorio appeared beside her then, her lovely dark eyes ablaze with animation and excitement at the prospect of whatever was about to transpire. Cryptically, she declared, "Prepare to witness a wonder, Islena."

Doraux glanced questioningly at the other woman, but Lorio's patient smile made it clear that no further explanation would be forthcoming.

Led by Morzhian, the Natzurdan descended the slope, dismounted their Dragak and surrounded the enormous tree. Gradually, the other drifted down the slope as the air of expectation thickened above the pervasive roar of the rushing water.

Doraux sought Gillian out and asked, "What do they intend to do, bring the tree down?"

It suddenly occurred to her that she had the means to fell the tree quickly. "The sword, Gillian....the sword could bring the tree down in the blink of an eye."

Horrified, Gillian glanced at Doraux as though she had just uttered some vile blasphemy. Behind her, Islena could hear Lorio giggle indulgently. The Jerhia whispered, "Islena, Never even suggest such a thing in the presence of a Natzurdan. Destroying a Fachrim tree would be considered paramount to murder."

Islena appeared appropriately chastened. Gillian sighed and explained, "The Natzurdan have developed the earth lore that allows them to manipulate wood, earth and stone without causing damage to the natural element."

The four Natzurdan, Morzhian included, had stripped off their tunics and fell to their knees before the giant tree. Gazing at the Natzurdan leader's emaciated old man's body, Islena experienced a sharp twinge of pity and her customary resentment toward the aging process. The man was persevering on will alone and the athlete in Doraux knew that will power could only carry a body so far.

Eyes closed and faces set in expressions of grim determination and reverence, the four men began to chant softly and caress the coarse bark of the tree. Doraux peered up and saw that the tree towered at least one hundred feet into the air. Laid upon its side, it would easily span the raging river, but negotiating its branch-choked, curving surface would prove an onerous and dangerous task.

The ritual continued for several moments, the chanting growing more vehement as it progressed. The four men labored, their muscles trembling and their naked torsos oozing perspiration as they caressed the massive hardwood tree as if touch alone could make it pliable.

Islena looked on with a dubious fascination, having no clear notion as to what might follow. Then something extraordinary did happen and she blinked as though her eyes might be deceiving her mind. Yet the illusion refused to dissolve. Morzhian and the three other Natzurdan had plunged their arms into the very wood of the great tree. Doraux gasped in awe as Morzhian pushed his thin arms deeper into the hard wood.

"That's impossible," Islena proclaimed airily, mystified by the seemingly impossible feat. Lorio had come to stand beside Doraux and now peered at the shorter woman, wondering if this might be the ideal moment to take Islena. The distraction would serve her purpose well and she could kill Gillian and incapacitate Doraux in an instant. The remainder of the party posed little threat to the hybrid.

She had actually moved to loosen her quarter staff, when the huge tree issued a deep, guttural groan that all present could feel in the pit of their guts.

"It moved!" Islena exclaimed and all but the four Natzurdan turned to stare at her. Indeed, the enormous tree appeared to have developed a slight list toward the river. Slowly, but inexorably, the tree began to tilt, inch by incredible inch.

Transfixed with wonder, Doraux gaped as a ten foot section of the massive trunk gradually changed consistency, slowly lowering the massive tree toward the ground. As Islena had estimated, it was of sufficient length to reach the opposite bank. A keen shriek filled the ravine. The high pitched whine reminded Doraux of a tortured cry of pain or outrage.

The four Natzurdan reeled away from the tree. Morzhian stumbled in the direction of the party on unsteady legs, his face ashen and exhausted. "Mount and cross quickly. It cannot withstand the contortion without dying."

As the harrowing shrieks of unnatural agony reverberated through the air, the party raced for their Dragak and guided them onto the huge wooden causeway. The beasts, made apprehensive by the piteous cries and the proximity of the wild water, whinnied and skittered over the rough surface, having to be coaxed and cajoled every treacherous step of the way.

Islena could sense her own mount's panic. It reared and neighed, dancing sideways over the slippery surface, toward the churning water. Inexperienced, she found that she could do little other than cling to its reins and pray that it did not tumble into the torrent. Stealing a quick glimpse to her right, she could not escape the unnerving sensation that geysers of water were reaching up to pull her down into a watery death as if the river was a thing of conscious malice.

Islena held her breath as the Dragak scampered closer and closer to the rounding. She could feel its body tense between her thighs and knew that the wide eyed beast was now stricken by terror...an emotion that presently afflicted both beast and mortal in equal measure.

When it appeared inevitable that gravity would work its ugly magic, a strong hand reached out and seized the reins from Islena, jerking the Dragak's head sharply to the left. The animal whinnied in protest but still managed to recover its footing sufficiently to allow itself to be guided back to the center of the massive trunk.

"Release the reins and I'll guide you across," Lorio shouted above the din of the rushing water. Doraux offered the Lamish woman a weak smile of relief and gratitude, but the olive skinned beauty merely averted her eyes.

Cautiously, she led Islena's Dragak to the opposite bank. When Doraux's mount had touched solid land again, Islena quickly dismounted and stumbled behind a clump of bushes where she promptly vomited the contents of her churning stomach as black flowers bloomed before her unfocused eyes.

When she had finished, Islena glanced up to see Lorio studying her intently. Doraux shrugged and admitted sheepishly, "I'm not much of a savior, am I?"

Lorio did not respond. Instead, she continued to stare at the diminutive beauty, who roused such strong and conflicting emotions in her heart. Despite having been contaminated by Myrhia's blight, Lorio was cognizant of the ambivalence that made her actions toward Islena virtually impossible to predict. Love and black loathing fought an endless battle in the recesses of the hybrid's mind. Lorio understood that the outcome of this battle could well determine the fate of her world.

Islena straightened and wiped her mouth with the base of her sleeve. "I'm badly miscast, or the fates must be obtuse. I think that this myth would have been better served by electing you to the role of heroine."

"Things are as they were intended to be. You and I have roles to play and we cannot extricate ourselves from the snare of destiny," Lorio declared in a voice made cold and gruff by an inscrutable emotion Islena could not define.

Islena could think of no appropriate response to such a cryptic pronouncement, instead inquiring, "Why did you ask that I kill you that time in the clearing?"

Lorio stiffened, her jaw tightening and her generous mouth pulling into an angry slash, "I may die, but I assure you that it will not be by your hand."

Then she stalked off, leaving a bewildered Doraux staring after her. Shaking her head in consternation, she drifted back to the river bank as the last of the party crossed the impromptu bridge. She stood transfixed before the massive tree, stupefied by the improbable right angle bend in the trunk. Above the rush of the water, she could clearly hear the shrewish cries of the tortured wood. The wails of agony were at once harrowing and darkly compelling and Islena found herself tormented by the spectacle. Of all of the things that she had experienced in this world, this was perhaps the most surreal and the most disconcerting.

When the last of the party reached the relative safety of solid ground, the mighty tree slowly, inexorably began to straighten, until it again stood erect to the heavens.

Islena turned about in time to see two Natzurdan lower Morzhian from his Dragak. With reverence and tenderness, they lowered the aging Natzurdan to the ground. Doraux rushed over as the party crowded about, each face twisted by concern.

The elder lay upon his back, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps and his face pallid and drawn. As oily beads of perspiration rolled freely down his emaciated torso, Islena's first impression was that he might have suffered a heart attack.

"The exertion was too much," a ruddy faced Natzurdan adept declared resentfully. "These rituals are incredibly strenuous."

Gillian glanced down at the older man. "We will make camp here for the night."

Several of the other party members glanced at the Jerhia, knowing that there was still several hours of sunlight left, but he met their questioning gazes unflinchingly.

'The man is actually capable of compassion even in the face of exigency,' Islena thought with a mixture of surprise and guilt born of having delivered a prematurely harsh judgment of the man. He glanced at her briefly and she offered him a grin of approval. He returned the grin and then went off to organize the night's encampment.

Islena went over to offer what assistance she could to the Natzurdan and their ailing leader. Some dark prescience warned her that Morzhian's infirmity was a harbinger of misfortunes to come.

Chapter Ten

1

Early the next morning, Morzhian appeared to have recuperated somewhat, though his face was still ashen and the light in his eyes was perceptibly dimmer. Islena came to stand beside him as two adepts assisted the elder onto his mount. "I hope you feel well enough to travel."

The Natzurdan smiled wanly. "I'll manage. My foolishness has already proven expensive. There comes a sad time when enthusiasm and ability part ways, though it isn't easy to accept the limitations of old age."

Islena smiled fondly at the old man and intoned, "Ride easy, Morzhian."

She then returned to her own Dragak. Lorio trotted by, but refused to be drawn into conversation. Islena shook her head in bemusement, but elected to let the matter rest. Eventually she would have to explore the source of Lorio's erratic behavior, but now was not the time. Gillian then rode up to join her, his angular face etched with deep lines of worry.

"You look especially miserable this morning," she chided as she spurred her Dragak to a faster pace. He attempted to grin, but could produce only a pained wince. "Morzhian's state of health concerns me."

"I spoke to him briefly. He appeared weary, but otherwise fine."

Gillian shook his head. "Morzhian is a better mummer than you might suspect. He masks his ailments well. We are at a crucial juncture and must race to the Hiberas. Myrhia's armies could be halfway across Natzurdan by now. If her Morticants reach the other side of the ravine before we can divert the river, this world is lost. However, if we persist in this breakneck spring across the wilds of Natzurdan, there is a good possibility that this pace will prove fatal to Morzhian."

Islena contemplated the Jerhia's predicament for a few seconds and then commented, "Morzhian is an adult. He understands the sacrifices and dangers. Just as Lorio chose not to remain in Othgol, Morzhian is well aware of what is at stake."

"True enough," Gillian agreed, "but there is an aspect of this situation that you might not grasp...Morzhian is more than a simple figurehead. He is the actual soul of Natzurdan. He has been the elder of Natzurdan for more years than me or my father before me have lived combined."

Islena regarded the Jerhia skeptically and declared bluntly, "That's ludicrous."

"Perhaps, but it is true nonetheless. He has lived for centuries, forging the spiritual disposition of his nation. If he were to die, the very earth of Natzurdan would mourn. Again, without the Natzurdan earth lore, we are lost and yet the loss of their beloved icon could well result in the evaporation of the Natzurdan resolve to oppose Myrhia at a critical juncture when their abilities are needed most. The impact of Morzhian's death on the collective Natzurdan psyche would be devastating."

Islena nodded tightly, gazing at the hunched figure of the elder. "We must reach Hiberas soon, Gillian."

The Jerhia nodded in agreement and the pair proceeded in silence, grappling with the unsettling prospect of yet another debilitating set back in their struggle with the enchantress.

2

The party had just emerged from under a dense canopy of trees, when Islena was afforded her first glimpse of the ravine. Someone cried out and pointed at the towering rise of rock as all eyes swiveled westward. Islena's initial reaction to her first sight of the ridge, that stretched like a spine of granite from horizon to horizon, was one of plummeting despair.

The massive extrusion was surely as immovable as the distant stars in the heavens. Earth lore not withstanding, she could not imagine any force that could reshape such a formidable land mass. Its solidity appeared to mock the party.

Lorio happened by at that moment, and gleaning Islena's thoughts, offered a note of cautionary advice, "Beware that you are not snared by your old prejudices, Islena."

Then she rode forward, leaving Doraux alone with her burgeoning sense of dejection.

The party rode out from under the canopy of trees and onto the rock plain that formed the base of the great ridge. As Islena had first theorized in Othgol, the ridge was an extrusive volcanic formation created by activity that had occurred hundreds of centuries before. Oddly enough, the spine of the granite had been named the Mother's crystal because of the innumerable crystalline formations that were embedded in the vertical face of rock. When the sun struck this formation at the right angle, an eight mile section of earth would be set ablaze, its reflected light burning with a magnitude that was simply blinding to behold.

Gillian and Morzhian were engaged in consultation over the ideal location for the party to cross the formation and it was decided that they would make the attempt at a small pass some four miles to the west. Glancing up at the ebony wall, Islena wondered if she could muster the energy to trudge on to what must surely be another bitter disappointment, but Lorio's admonition against succumbing to pessimism echoed in her thoughts.

Even if it were possible to reshape such a tangible mass, she reasoned that it had taken four Natzurdan to bend a tree and thus it might take thousands to achieve anything tangible with the ridge. She closed her eyes to staunch the tears that threatened to fall and hung her head, allowing her Dragak to lead her where it may. Lorio watched her closely, trying to view Doraux's suffering dispassionately, but there was enough of the old Lamish spirit left in her soul and she could not help but empathize with and be moved by Islena's despair.

Lorio frowned fearfully, wondering if her ambivalence would be her eventual undoing and fearing that it might.

The sun had reached its zenith when the party began to ascend the rocky incline that led to the upper reach of the ridge. The ridge was not particularly high...perhaps no more than six hundred feet above the surrounding forest, but the faces were smooth and vertical and would present a challenge to even the most experienced rock climber.

This particular pass was narrow and relatively steep. Gillian decided that it was necessary that each member dismount their Dragak and lead the animal on foot. The ascent proved onerous and difficult. The Dragak, fearful of the treacherous footing, had to be coaxed to take each step. By the time that the group was half way up the slope, most members were frustrated with the beasts, perspiration-soaked and winded by the exertion of prompting them to move.

Of the group, Islena was the fittest and while the others were locked in struggles with weariness and their obstinate beasts, she found herself taking the time to gaze around the narrow confines of the pass. Consequently, she was the first to discover the three figures peering down at the party from the crest of the slope.

Calming the beast, she scrambled up the path to Gillian. "We're being watched."

Gillian glanced at her and she indicated the top of the pass with a flash of her eyes. Gillian's jaw tightened in consternation as his eyes swept the upper slope. Now a dozen others had come to join the original trio that Islena had spotted. The men were all attired in tattered rags and wore thick, tangled beards. Nothing about their postures suggested imminent threat.

Soon, more of the others rose over the brow of the ridge line. The two groups remained stationary, regarding each other nervously in the brilliant afternoon sunlight.

"Are they the Natzurdan that we're supposed to meet?" Islena asked Gillian. The Jerhia merely shook his head, his attention transfixed on the figures at the top of the ridge. Though his expression had not changed, his mind was a tempest of dark thoughts, above which rose the certitude that the dramatic appearance of these strangers was somehow portentous.

"They're not our Natzurdan, so perhaps we had better go up and find out precisely who they are." Turning to the others, he instructed, "Remain here until we return."

Morzhian nodded and the others settled in to wait, grateful for the respite. Gillian drew a deep breath and started up the slope. Islena watched him for an instant and then started after him. He fixed her with a baleful glare, but she pointedly ignored his gaze and kept climbing. The Jerhia sighed in resignation and turned to resume the climb, knowing that discussion was futile once Doraux had made up her mind.

Islena detected a sly, shifting sound behind her and glanced back over her shoulder to see that Lorio had moved to join her. The statuesque warrior looked down on Doraux, her expression tight and inscrutable. As the trio moved up the slope, Islena considered how the pair had become the balancing forces in her life, though the exact nature of their roles remained a baffling mystery.

As the trio approached the others, a glint of emotion flickered in Gillian's ice blue eyes. The men at the top of the crest were pitifully emaciated, their faces sporting the effects of a prolonged period without nourishment or proper rest.

Gillian stopped some fifteen feet below the lead man, who looked down upon the Jerhia with hollow, red rimmed eyes.

"The rebel lion lives," the man intoned in wonder, trying to muster a smile, but managing to produce only a horrible parody of a grin.

"Maroc?" Gillian whispered. This could surely not be Maroc, not this skeletal specter in pauper's rags.

`Yet he called me the rebel lion.' The rebel lion had been Ossiran's derisive name for Gillian, though only those close to the Maxim Tier Marshall would have been aware of this or of the old man's festering disdain for the swordsman.

The shuffling skeleton nodded and stumbled down the slope, his arms spread wide in greeting. Gillian raced up the rocky incline and Maroc sagged into his embrace. Gillian was shocked by how easily he could hold the other man. Helping Maroc to sit, Gillian explained to Islena, "These are Jerhia. This man is Maroc, the second of the Jerhia Tier."

He turned with a sweeping gesture, his voice fraught with tremulous emotion. "These are my people!"

Slowly the procession wound its way over the crest of the pass. Gillian watched the shambling ghosts of his people...to a one gaunt and wretched...shuffle by, and somehow he managed to bare his outrage and pain stoically.

As the Jerhia filed past, Maroc recounted the tale of their nightmare trek from the wild climes of western Jerhia. He spoke of the frigid cold and bitter winds that had been their constant companion as they struggled through the inimical mountain wilds.

"It is almost as though we have been cursed for some transgression," Maroc remarked in weary bewilderment. "We had no sooner descended to the foothills, when the torrential rains began to fall. There were occasions when the rainfall was so intense that we were forced to call a halt to the march and huddle in hastily-erected shelters like frightened animals."

He hesitated and then intoned quietly, "It was not long after that the influenza appeared, sweeping through our ranks like a scythe through harvest wheat. The rigors of the march made the disease's grim task all the simpler."

Gillian led his superior up the crest of the pass and gazed southward. The line of refugees (he flinched at the realization that his people had been reduced to the abject status of refugees, but that was the sad truth of their current situation) slowly surmounted the pass and descended beyond the ridge.

"Illness has decimated our people, but this core has an indomitable spirit, and we will persevere, Gillian," Maroc declared proudly. "Their survival is testimony to the tenacity of the Jerhia spirit and its unrelenting will to survive in the face of an adversity."

Gillian's eyes swiveled to Maroc. "Surely you are not saying that this is all that remains of the Jerhia?"

"No!" Maroc replied at once. "The majority are sequestered under the mountains in Ithyx, awaiting the moment when they might strike to inflict a decisive blow against the enchantress. A good number of others have simply vanished into the mountains like wraiths and are slowly gravitating north towards Natzurdan."

Gillian did not respond, knowing that the Jerhia's days of inflicting decisive blows had passed into history. Then he realized that Maroc might well have employed this glorious delusion as a means to sustain his people through the hellish ordeal of flight. Gillian glanced closely at the new Maxim Tier Marshall and his expression revealed that his delusions were only things of show...a shallow façade that might never survive a deeper scrutiny

"And what of you?" Maroc asked after a moment. "How did you come to be here and where were you intent on going??"

Morzhian had laboriously made his way up to join the pair, stumbling over the treacherous incline with the help of one of his adepts and Islena's strong guiding hand. He exchanged formal greetings with Maroc and expressed Natzurdan's condolences over the death of Ossiran. Maroc accepted Morzhian's words of consolation with all due gravity.

This done, Gillian took up the thread of his tale, recounting his search for Islena and their narrow escape from the clutches of the Ranters of Runesholm. In great detail, he described all that had come to pass in the war against Myrhia, including the utter collapse of the Natzurdan defenses in the south.

Maroc winced as Gillian described how the enchantress' Morticants had surmounted the southern defense, cutting a swath of destruction through the verdant paradise of southern Natzurdan.

"Myrhia is maliciously setting the entire country to the torch," Gillian explained quietly. "Her depraved lust to inflict suffering and misery just might provide us with the requisite time to set our own plan into motion."

"Plan?" Maroc echoed with a raised eyebrow. As the last of the Jerhia refugees crested the pass, Gillian elaborated upon the coalition's intention to erect an impenetrable barrier to greet the enchantress' advancing hordes.

Maroc listened without comment, his eyes widening at the more audacious aspects of the scheme. He glanced about, his sunken eyes absorbing the solidity of the spine with a clear flicker of doubt. When Gillian had concluded, Maroc turned his regard on the fire-haired beauty at Gillian's side and asked, "This is the renowned Islena Doraux?"

Islena stepped forward and met Maroc's gaze evenly. His eyes were drawn to the heavy muscles of her powerful body, which virtually thrummed with puissance. "You are a most formidable woman, and if Gillian is to be believed, a most extraordinary one as well."

"Maroc, she has activated the recumbent power of the Icon. The sword is not a myth. It is real," Gillian declared with an expansive sweep of his right arm. The Tier Marshall glanced at Gillian thoughtfully and then turned his attention back upon Islena. "Myrhia's prescience has proven uncannily accurate. I suppose that we shouldn't be surprised. The enchantress has demonstrated a talent for surmising correctly, and yet she has scorned prophecy and allowed you to live...a most perplexing course of action on her part."

"A decision she may live to rue," Morzhian observed emphatically. Islena glanced at the elder and offered him a fond smile. Maroc cast an appraising eye upon Islena. Beneath her mantle of strength and beguiling beauty, he discerned the presence of an indomitable spirit...one that could draw fire and passion from tribulation the way that a plant might draw sustenance from the sun. This was a woman in whom repression or tyranny could only breed defiance. Perhaps the Natzurdan had been right in suggesting that Myrhia had committed a grave error by not disposing of Doraux. He shuddered to think that the obstinate, irascible fool, Ossiran, had actually sanctioned her death. The Gods be praised that Gillian possessed better judgment than his purported superiors. "This sword is truly the lost sword of the Jerhia? You have some means to substantiate this?"

Gillian turned to Islena with a wicked grin, and suggested, "Perhaps an exhibition is in order?"

Islena pursed her lips in obvious reluctance. In the days since Lorio had induced her to take up the Dragon sword, Islena had come to develop a special association with the Icon. The Lamish woman had been correct in surmising that the sword was in truth an extension of her own body. Doraux sensed viscerally that, in the case of the Jerhia Icon, the weapon might well be an extension of her heart and soul. Vulgar displays of power were abusive to the relationship and thus she was reluctant to undertake such a display without good cause.

Sensing her hesitation, Gillian prompted, "The Icon will prove a source of hope to a people for whom hope has been all but extinguished, Islena."

Islena frowned, but held her right arm aloft. In her mind's eye, she imagined the summoning and issued a silent command.

Maroc could feel the flesh at the base of his neck begin to crawl as the rarefied air of the pass was suffused by an electrifying sense of expectation.

The Jerhia Icon was bound to the flank of the Dragak by three leather thongs, but the attraction to its destined master was undeniable. The leather strips cracked with a whip like snap and in the blink of an eye, the massive sword slapped into Islena's out-stretched palm. With a stiff formality, she offered the weapon to the Tier Marshall for his inspection.

He accepted the Icon with slightly trembling hands, his haggard face alight with wonder. His gaze swept over the length of the gleaming blade, widening slightly at the exquisite beauty of the ruby eyed dragon haft. Then he glanced at Islena as though she was a greater wonder still. "By the Gods, it is all true. Your existence has transmogrified myth into reality...standing before me is the living embodiment of hope."

Gillian nodded solemnly. "The conventional war is over, Maroc. We Jerhia have fought valiantly, but magic and glamour will decide the issue now. If Myrhia is fated to be vanquished, Islena will be the instrument of her destruction. First, she must find the remaining two Icons." He paused briefly, and then added, "To achieve that, Islena is convinced that she must find Artumas."

Maroc blinked and shook his head as though his over taxed mind was deceiving his senses tricks upon her senses. "Artumas? Artumas is long dead, Gillian."

"No, Maroc...at least, not definitely," Morzhian amended. With this, the Natzurdan began to detail the final segment of Islena's plan. The Jerhia listened, glancing from one member to the next as though the group had parted ways with their reason. Settling upon Islena, he asked, "Are you prepared to take such a mammoth risk to pursue a specter?"

"Yes," she responded vehemently. "Myrhia will never rest until I'm firmly in her control and I will never rest until this is plunged through her black heart," she snarled, inclining her head toward the sword. "Hiding behind the Hiberas will only delay the inevitable and even if it didn't, I had no intention of skulking around in this fucking fog and dampness, waiting for that malefic bitch to concoct a method of surmounting the Hiberas."

Maroc mustered a wan smile. "A valid reason if ever there was one. Very well, for what it is worth, you have the Jerhia's support and acquiescence."

The Jerhia's eyes narrowed and he stroked his tangled beard. "My primary reservation lies in how we deal with the consequences of diverting the Hiberas. If the old speculation is true, our actions could well make the rest of the continent uninhabitable for eternity...even if the Natzurdan were able to restore the Hiberas to its original course."

Morzhian nodded his agreement. "There is no denying that this is an act born of sheer desperation, but we see no other recourse to forestall Myrhia from overrunning what is left of the free world."

Maroc considered this for a moment and nodded his concurrence, his thoughts focused upon the Jerhia beneath the mountains. If the demons that inhabited the Land of Shades were allowed to cross into the east, the caves of Ithyx could well become their permanent prison and the rest of the world would become a landscape of nightmares. Still, Morzhian was correct in his assessment that there was no other alternative. With Myrhia as Queen, this world would become a barren, purgatorial wasteland, while his own people would fall victim to systematic genocide. Neither choice was palatable, but at least the coalition plan offered a slight glimmer of hope.

He turned to Morzhian, unable to subjugate the emotion glimmering in his eyes. "On behalf of the Jerhia, I request asylum for my people."

Morzhian discerned the abject humiliation behind the request, and being unable to speak, merely nodded. Then he embraced Maroc, while the others gazed on, every face twisted by identical poignant expressions of stark grief that Islena could barely suffer.

3

Several hours elapsed as the Jerhia wound their way down the pass and into northern Natzurdan. Maroc, after consulting several of his adjutants, decided that it would be prudent to dispatch a small party to return to the caves of Ithyx to warn the others of the coalition's intentions. Though there was a plenitude of volunteers, Maroc selected the men and women whom he deemed physically capable of making the return journey. It was decided that they would accompany Islena's party to the Hiberas and then quest south once the river began to flow within the confines of its new banks.

As the group made plans for departure, something occurred to Morzhian and he asked, "As you approached the ridge, did you come across the Natzurdan?"

Maroc frowned. "It was rather odd. In our entire march across the country we did not encounter a solitary person. Even signs of the wild creatures were not in evidence."

Morzhian and Gillian exchanged anxious glances. To effect a reshaping of the massive ridge would require thousands of Natzurdan working in harmony. With timing being critical, the majority of the adepts should have been in position. If they were not, it could only mean...Morzhian repressed the thought before it could fully blossom. The future appeared grim enough without compounding misery with pessimistic speculation.

It was shortly before nightfall when Islena and her escort, along with the fifteen Jerhia, reached the base of the ridge. She was surprised to see that Morzhian had decided to remain with the party as it had been his initial intention to remain on the northern side and oversee the ritual. From the worried expression that twisted every face, Islena discerned that something had already gone wrong, but made no attempt to discover exactly what, finding that she was incapable of bearing any further bad news.

As the others established camp for the night, she hefted her sword from the flanks of her Dragak and headed through the trees to practice with the weapon. Eventually, she located a small clearing that would suffice to serve her purpose and set about performing an elaborate series of exercises that she and Lorio had conceived to develop her balance and reflexes. Though the weapon was heavy, her powerful body was more than condign to the task of wielding it. Her gymnast's grace would provide her with sufficient agility to elude the most intense of attacks...or so she hoped, though she was not particularly keen to test her mettle in actual combat. The prospect of hacking off another living being's limbs was not one she relished...never mind finding herself on the receiving end of the same barbaric exchange.

After forty minutes of parrying imaginary attacks and fending off invisible opponents, Islena became aware that she was being observed. She continued to perform her exercises, raising the sword above her head to block a downward chop and immediately pivoting about to deliver a telling blow to the exposed ribs of her unseen assailant.

Abruptly, she stopped and lowered the tip of the blade to the ground. "Maybe you'd like to come out and give me something to spar with other than air."

There was a rustling of leaves and a small figure emerged from behind a Cedar tree. The woman approached tentatively, as though she feared that Doraux might be rabid or poisonous. Doraux realized that this was the first female Jerhia that she had ever encountered. The woman was a pretty, diminutive blond with short hair and the ice blue eyes that were characteristic of her race. She was attired in the coarse black tunic and trousers of the Jerhia and a pair of soft leather boots that were badly worn from weeks of forced marching. Her short hair and angular features were eerily familiar, although Islena had not noticed the girl in the procession of refugees.

Across her back was slung a well maintained crossbow, while a short sword with a serrated blade was strapped to her left thigh. Something in the girl's leonine movements declared that she would be able to utilize either weapon with deadly proficiency.

And yet she approached Islena as timidly as a field mouse might approach a sleeping barnyard cat. It occurred to her that many of the people around her regarded her with an uneasy mixture of dread and awe that one might normally associate with a deity. With this realization came the startling and unpleasant discovery that a dark part of her soul derived no small measure of satisfaction from the fear that she instilled in others. She recalled Myrhia's implacable certainty that power would corrupt her, and felt a small inkling of despair in the cleft of her heart.

"I take it that there is something you want?" she snapped crossly, immediately regretting her tone, while feeling bemused by the source of her rancor.

The girl smiled shyly. "My name is Arminda. I...I came to inquire after my brother."

Islena grimaced. Suddenly she understood why the girl seemed so familiar. She had seen this particular face, with its frank and forthright vitality, a thousand times in tormented dreams of the last month. Across the relatively short distance of the clearing, she found herself confronted by the face of the man whom she had left to die in the dungeons of Perdwick.

"I am Amrand's sister," the girl confirmed, and Islena was assailed by a wellspring of shame and guilt so intense that she was forced to turn away, lest she fall on her knees and offer the girl her throat.

"I knew your brother," Islena managed tightly. "He tried to help me escape Myrhia's army...but I suspect you already know that."

Arminda ventured closer, her heart constricting in her chest. The stranger's demeanor implied the worst, but still she could not escape the need to hear the words spoken...to seek closure. The Jerhia subscribed to the conviction that the finality of death was better than the torturous limbo of not knowing. "Please tell me what has become of my brother?"

Islena found that she was unable to resist the desperate entreaty and turned to face the girl with an onerous sigh. Slowly she began to recount the tale of how Amrand had attempted to lead her to the safety of the west, the things that had befallen them during the journey, and their eventual capture at the nameless village in northern Kornas.

"Your brother was held in the dungeons of Perdwick, where he was killed by Myrhia's guards a short time before I escaped," Islena concluded in a voice that was strangely bereft of emotion, omitting details of his mutilation and the role which she had been forced to play in bringing it about.

As Arminda reflected upon this, her lovely blue eyes filled with tears that she made no attempt to conceal, "Amrand was the pride of the family. My father harbored the secret hope that he would someday be Tier Marshall of the cavalry. Like everything else in this dark world, those dreams have been turned to ash."

Islena said nothing, not certain how best to console the loss of dreams that she could never hope to understand. Arminda dragged the back of her hand savagely across her eyes and inquired softly, "Did my brother die well?"

Islena's green eyes flashed and though Arminda's expression registered trepidation, she did not avert her gaze.

'Does nothing matter to you people but death with honor?' she wanted to rage, but somehow managed to quell the ultimately pointless impulse. However alien the Jerhia values might be, they were not hers to judge, so she replied benignly, "Yes, your brother died with honor and dignity."

"Then that is something, isn't it?" the Jerhia replied in a voice choked with emotion. Then, she hung her head and simply stood there weeping silently. Watching her framed against the advancing shadow, Islena feared that she would begin to weep herself, so she planted the sword in the dirt and shuffled the other woman, gently taking Arminda in her arms and cradling her face against her neck.

Arminda stiffened and gazed up at Islena in confusion. Doraux had gleaned enough of the culture to know that the Jerhia perceived expressions of emotion to be signs of weakness. To allay this fear, she whispered, "We're alone and your grief is private."

With this, the girl began to cry in earnest, clinging to Doraux as sob after convulsive sob wracked her slender body. Islena held her tightly, stroking her hair and whispering maternal platitudes into her ear. A sardonic whisper would not allow her to forget that she had entreated Amrand to help her locate Myrhia, when he could have easily made his way back to Jerhia. If she was ever to expurgate her guilt, now would be the time to fall to her knees and confess her duplicity in Amrand's death.

Pride would not allow her that one act of absolution and so she simply held the other woman until the Jerhia's grief was spent.

Arminda finally pulled away, her eyes glazed and red. "I'm sorry. It is not proper to burden you with my grief when you already carry the weight of the world's hope on your shoulders."

Islena waved off her embarrassment. "Never be ashamed to show that you're human, Arminda. I've felt like crying with frustration and fear a thousand times since I came to this world."

Arminda bit her lower lip and whispered, "There are times when I've been afraid. Only the fear of shaming our family honor has compelled me to perform my duty. I can't imagine what it must be like to be a genuine heroine faced with the implacable demands of destiny."

She gazed up at Islena with undisguised admiration and Doraux could feel her throat constrict.

'If only you knew the truth. I wonder if I would be the object of your admiration then,' she thought bitterly. Was it possible to worship someone whose every action was motivated by fear or a lust for vengeance or hatred? Looking down at Arminda, Islena wondered if she was even capable of an act inspired by selfless nobility.

An idea suddenly took shape in her mind and she spoke before allowing herself the opportunity to weigh the consequences, "Arminda, I want you to travel with my party; to act as my...my second, please."

The woman's eyes widened and a radiant smile of enthusiasm lit her exhausted face. "It would be an honor to serve you."

"I'll speak to Maroc," Islena replied woodenly, suddenly wishing that she possessed the ability to turn back time...to call back the words. The woman's smile of gratitude wrenched Islena's heart. The spontaneous request was incomprehensible, and in light of the uncertainty and peril before her, unforgivable.

"Thank you," Amrand's sister intoned solemnly, before bowing and vanishing back through the trees.

Alone again, Islena sagged to her knees, oblivious to the fact that she had begun to moan.

"You stupid, selfish bitch!" she berated herself. Since coming to this world, she had indirectly proven to be anathema to anyone who had the misfortune of joining her. It was possible that she had agreed to lead this party to death or gibbering madness, but at least she was escorting them of their own volition. Now, she had taken advantage of a woman's innate sense of duty, using it to seduce her into what might well be a suicide mission.

A wave of self loathing set her to shivering and she lowered her face to the earth and waited for the shudders to subside. 'What you're really waiting for Islena, is for your true nature to work its dark magic...to bury the truth of who and what you are deep in the muck and mire of your subconscious so you can rid yourself of the guilt and shame that comes with being Islena Doraux'. The cold denigration tore through her beleaguered mind, spoken with Myrhia's implacable confidence. 'When the bulwarks of your delusions crumble, leaving only the ugly truth of your twisted soul for all to see, you will crawl to me for solace, Islena.'

For a long while, the only sound to be heard was the convulsive sobbing that tore from Islena's like vile poison. Suddenly a sharp crackle rippled through the air. Islena's head snapped up, her eyes fastening upon the Dragonsword, which stood forgotten where she had planted it into the futile soil.

The inlaid ruby eyes of the Dragon haft were glowing with a rich iridescent vermillion and the refulgence now enveloped Islena where she lay. As she gazed at the Jerhia Icon, her mouth formed a perfect O of utter astonishment. A stranger voice began to speak in her mind. After a few syllables, she realized that she was hearing not one, but several million voices speaking in perfect syncopated harmony...the cumulative voice of an entire people.

"You must come to terms with what you are and accept the unalterable truth of that identity," the voice informed her. "The woman, Arminda, is of Jerhia stock. She has been bred to face the obstacles that fate has elected to impose in her path. You cannot hold yourself responsible for whatever misfortune may befall her should she fall before its eternal deluge. Amrand, too, died in the service of his people. To languish in guilt and shame will only sully his memory and tarnish his sacrifice."

The voice fell silent, though the rubies continued to flicker, washing the clearing with their eerie vermillion glow and then plunging it into shadow. Islena glanced up, her face an ambivalent mixture of hopefulness and doubt.

Sensing her uncertainty, the collective voice again renewed its entreaty. Islena's mind reeled under the cumulative echo of an entire nation speaking in unison, gaining a deeper understanding of the true nature of the weapon that she had inherited. The sword was not only a repository of Jerhia power; it was also a compendium of the Country's soul.

"The Jerhia has accepted you as their champion...a defender of the principles upon which our civilization was founded. If you are to fulfill your destiny, it is imperative that you quell the ambivalence that plagues your soul. What lies ahead will be a solitary struggle that is yours alone to win or lose."

Abruptly, the voice fell silent, though her dazzled senses continued to reverberate with its immensity. Slowly, she crawled over to the Icon and locked her fingers around the ornate grip, allowing her forehead to settle against the pommel head.

In her former life, Islena had certainly never been anything that could be remotely described as devoutly Christian. Quite candidly, she had always been too busy driving her life at a hell bent, all out pace to concern herself with spirituality and metaphysics. Now, with the full acceptance of the realities of death and rampant evil, she was forced to consider the very strong possibility that there were conscious forces steering the machines of good and its dark twin, evil. Indeed, the very existence of a creature such as Myrhia would surely substantiate this concept...even for the most trenchantly cynical of doubters.

Balance and harmony...these were two essential truths to which both the old and the new Islena Doraux subscribed. If conscious evil existed, spreading misery and despair by design, then so too must there be a balancing force of purity.

She sighed and shook her head. If there was a counter force to Myrhia's depravity, it was now impotent. Still, they were in desperate need of intervention and so she began to pray, though to whom precisely, she could not say.

She prayed fervently for guidance and personal strength, but most of all she prayed for Arminda, hoping that she would be able to ward the girl against the malevolence that had taken her brother's life. Islena continued to pray for a long time, climbing to her feet when she had expended the last of her entreaties.

She made a point of not praying for personal deliverance, nor did she pray for her lost family. It had become painfully obvious that any hope to be held in those regards lay squarely upon her powerful shoulders and her own decisive actions.

Without knowing if her prayers had fallen upon deaf ears, she pulled her sword free of the earth and trudged back to the camp.

4

Gillian and Maroc exchanged glances of puzzlement after Islena posed her request.

"May I ask why?" The new Tier Marshall's expression hinted at an unaccountable wariness.

"I've got personal reasons and you're just going to have to trust me when I say that I mean only the best for her. Either way, if you choose to turn me down, you can have the sword and I'm walking away from this whole damn thing." To emphasize her sincerity, she offered the sword to Maroc, who only stared at the Icon with an expression of sour consternation.

Gillian, who had known Islena long enough to recognize that flinty glaze of intransigence that now shone in her exquisite emerald eyes, advised Maroc, "She's perfectly serious. It might be best if we allow Arminda to join the party. She is certainly blessed with skills that could only be of benefit to the quest."

Maroc shifted his glance briefly to Gillian, who nodded slightly. Maroc frowned. In his heart, he suspected that this was a fool's trek in search of a ghost, motivated by a man who had been a murderous reprobate. It was likely to end in disaster. He was reluctant to commit a Jerhia life to a suicide mission. Still, this was the chosen and her unyielding gaze spoke of an obdurate refusal to be dissuaded. In a tone that clearly conveyed his displeasure, he conceded, "Very well, if Arminda wishes to accompany you, then she may. I want you to know that this woman has endured more than her fair share of suffering, Islena Doraux. I hope you actions do not add to her catalogue of woes."

Casting Gillian a sour glance, the Tier Marshall stalked off to inform the woman of his decision. Islena gave Gillian a rather curt nod and went back to her place near the camp's central fire.

Gillian tracked her movement. She had related the tale of what had come to pass with Amrand, though the telling had been clearly painful. He surmised that there had been much that she had not told him and therein would hide the true reason for her wishing to take Arminda under her protective wing.

Gillian sighed and settled into his blankets. This Doraux woman was ruled by emotions...subject to the random tides of euphoria, despair and unpredictable compulsion. Arminda might become another emotional attachment that would complicate an already maddeningly delicate situation.

Lying on his back, the Jerhia peered up at the distant stars. He likened their mystery to that of the alien woman who had been fated to protect them.

Chapter Eleven

1

After Conferring with Morzhian and Gillian, Maroc decided that three of the Jerhia selected to return to Ithyx would serve as pickets for the night. The decision seemed logical, though in light of things to come, it proved to be a grave error. Had a Natzurdan stood watch over the southern flank of the party's encampment, he would have known immediately that the pervasive fog that had stolen in from the south was a precedent setting in its rarity and one that was probably portentous of something terrible to follow.

Yet, the Jerhia, ever vigilant, noticed the first tendrils of ground fog as they crept northward through the dense foliage. Believing that there was nothing extraordinary in this, they elected to ignore it and a heavy, impenetrable mist eventually enveloped the entire camp like a shroud.

2

A shrill bray of alarm tore through the damp night air, jerking Islena out of sleep in a panicked rush. Even without the siren like scream, the dream had left her feeling turbulent and out of sorts. Ben had been making love to another woman, whose face she could not see, concealed as it was by a mass of raven tresses. His unknown lover was endowed with the body of a Goddess and made love with the grace and skill of a highly prized courtesan.

Though Islena did not recognize the woman, she could not help but be moved by the wanton abandon with which she made love or the dream Ben's complete capitulation to the woman's artistry. The phantom lover consumed her husband's penis as though his imminent and titanic eruption was her source of personal salvation. As he approached the brink of orgasm, the lover lifted herself away from him and took his now painfully erect manhood into her mouth. Ben's head twisted back into the familiar satin pillow and he bellowed an ear shattering cry of either intense pleasure or excruciating agony. The scream rose and swelled until she could feel her own flesh vibrate with its intensity.

The cry continued to rise up, tearing through the subconscious dreamscape and jolting her back into her present reality. Her first waking though was that she had not had sex since that night with Lorio. On the heels of that came the realization that she badly missed it as was witnessed by the tingling in her loins and the rigidity of her nipples.

'My God!' she thought in consternation. 'I just dreamt that my husband was getting his brains screwed out by another woman and the notion aroused me like wild fire.' Islena was enough of a pragmatist to realize that Ben would crave sex (God knows that she, herself, had luxuriated in the warmth of Lorio's breasts), but she had never imagined that the prospect would rouse her to an incongruent tempest of anger and lust.

Through her consternation, she suddenly noticed that the siren like braying had not ceased. Furthermore, she realized that she could not see more than a few yards. An opaque white fog had rolled into the camp, obscuring everything. All around her raised cries of alarm and sleep-addled shouts of confusion, though the dampening fog distorted all sense of distance and direction.

"By the Gods, be calm and silent!" someone, Gillian she presumed, demanded from nearby. Islena was still deciding what to do when a powerful hand clamped down upon her wrist and roughly hauled her to her feet. In the next moment, she found herself being pulled along, though she could not judge in which direction. "Lorio?"

"Yes," the response was one of flat, unwavering composure, an attribute with which the new Lorio seemed rife.

"Where did the bloody fog come from?" Islena inquired, feeling like a small, vulnerable child being whisked along by a protective mother.

"Myrhia," Lorio stated with blunt certitude, continuing to pull Islena. An instinct warned Islena that she was in immediate and real danger. It occurred to her that she had not had time to retrieve her sword and its absence suddenly made her feel exposed and vulnerable.

"Lorio, I forgot the sword," she cried, pulling back on the Lamish woman's grip, which she was surprised to find that she could not break.

"Will the sword to find you, and it will come to you of its own volition," Lorio snapped impatiently. "Something is about to befall us and you must get clear." With this, she redoubled her effort, virtually dragging Doraux behind her.

Islena's burgeoning panic increased and she closed her eyes, summoning the sword from its sheathing near her blankets. A sonorous whine filled the air and then her free hand stretched out in a reflex that found its origins in something more complex than simple instinct. Upon contact, a jolt of pure energy coursed through her body and though she was aware of its efficacy, it caused her no pain. Conversely, Lorio cried out in an exclamation of agony and surrendering her grip upon Islena, stumbled into the milky darkness.

A fraction of a second later, Islena heard Lorio grunt as she hit the ground with a muffled thud. Somehow the sword had released a force that had been conducted through Islena, but had impacted squarely upon Lorio. Shocked, Islena understood that the Icon had perceived Lorio as a threat. That was ludicrous of course. The Lamish woman had saved her life on occasions too numerous to tally.

`But she's changed,' a tiny voice declared firmly in her mind. Off to her left, obscured by the thick fog, she could hear Lorio curse effusively and struggle to regain her feet.

`She hasn't changed,' Islena retorted vehemently, but even as the thought took shape in her mind, another image resolved itself; Lorio lying upon her back, gazing up at Islena as Doraux had stood poised to drive the ironwood staff into her breast.

"Kill me," Lorio had beseeched in a voice of cold and absolute despair. Why? Because she had changed. Or at least, a fundamental part of her had and the old Lorio, the creature of spirit and fire, would rather die than face entrapment in this strange living prison that her body had become.

Doraux shook her head. She had no notion of where this puzzling insight had originated and briefly entertained the possibility that her sensuous dream had segued into lunacy and this present chaos was an extremely lucid nightmare.

She was immediately disabused of that fanciful notion as a harrowing scream tore through the fog like a razor, strident and raw. "Someone comes from the south."

Without thought or instinct, Islena raised the sword above her head and began to swing it in great, looping circles. Slowly at first and then with increasing rapidity, Islena whirled the Icon like a dervish.

With her legs planted shoulder width apart, the powerful muscles of her arms and torso drove the weapon like a mighty engine. Incredibly, the fog began to dissipate as a funnel of clear air gathered around the churning blade. Mystified by her own action, Islena did not stop until she cleared a swathe of ever expanding clear air about her that allowed for clear visibility for a hundred yards in every direction.

As she glanced about, Doraux noticed that the party members had come to huddle around her, watching in transfixed astonishment as her whirling blade created a vortex that sucked the milky fog skyward into the night air. Islena labored without surcease and it came to her that she was capable of continuing indefinitely as though she had become indefatigable...the blade bestowing upon her an inexhaustible supply of energy.

Lorio backed away from the dervish of muscle and steel, regarding Doraux with a smoldering mixture of rage and incredulity. In her reluctance to hurt Islena, she had squandered a perfect opportunity to abduct her target without resistance, but she vowed that she would never commit the same grievous error again.

Islena continued to create the funnel like vortex until she had cleared enough area to encompass the perimeter of their encampment. In the background to the west, the massive ridge towered like a ghostly monolith. She glanced at Lorio and their eyes locked. For a moment, she discerned an unaccountable belligerence in those lovely brown depths, but then the inscrutable expression slipped back into place like the falling of a shroud.

Lorio smiled cryptically and growled, "You're beginning to fit the role of savior quite admirably."

Islena stared at her questioningly, but the Lamish woman turned away. Islena was about to pursue her and attempt to crack Lorio's facade, but then Maroc, Morzhian and Gillian surrounded her with a volley of excited questions.

"How were you able to accomplish that?" Morzhian inquired in a tone fraught with child like incredulity.

"I'm not certain," Islena replied honestly, glancing up at the still churning vortex that continued to absorb the fog like a vacuum. "Truthfully, the sword seemed to do it on its own, but that's not really right either. It is almost as though a subconscious part of my mind controls its actions without any direction from my conscious thought. It's an elemental process, and it may sound insane, but I don't really grasp the mechanics of how we work together yet. When action is required, the icon seems to channel its energy in a way that best suits the situation."

She glanced at the trio and saw that the three were regarding her with similar expressions of incomprehension. She shrugged helplessly just as one of the Jerhia pickets burst through the trees. Stopping before Maroc and Gillian, he reported, "There is a large group of soldiers approaching on horseback. They're moving quickly, seemingly converging upon us from the southeast. Brindum and Simort have ranged southward to determine their exact identity, but the best guess would be that they are Emercian cavalry units."

Morzhian stepped forward, his countenance grim. "It can only be Myrhia and her army. This luminescent fog is an unnatural occurrence that only she could have generated. This would provide the perfect cover for her armies to set upon the ridge while avoiding detection until it was virtually too late to react."

"This could well mean that the Morticants are not far behind," someone observed and a general shudder of trepidation ran through the assembled party members.

Sensing the need for immediate and drastic action, Gillian turned to Maroc and declared, "We must leave at once, Tier Marshall. To linger would mean the ruin of everything."

Maroc nodded stiffly and took a step to leave, but before he was able to turn away, Islena seized his forearm and pulled him back. "Send Arminda to me."

The Tier Marshall regarded her sourly, but the intense light in her eyes convinced him that he would do well to comply. He nodded curtly and disengaged himself from her grip. Gillian viewed the exchange with a frown twisting his wide mouth, wondering why Doraux was so insistent upon complicating her path. Shaking his head, he turned to Morzhian and suggested, "You should be leaving now, old friend. If Myrhia's armies should cross the ridge before we can divert the Hiberas, we may just as well throw ourselves into it."

Sensing the exigency, Morzhian nodded, though a part of him had already conceded that their cause may well be lost. As he turned away, he remarked, "Myrhia knows of our plan. It is the only viable explanation for the sudden appearance of her armies this far to the west."

His eyes locked briefly upon the Jerhia's. They were hollow with exhaustion and anxiety. "Someone within our ranks has betrayed us, Gillian. Be wary."

Then he was gone, his frail body clearly conveying the toll this last journey had extracted upon his aging flesh. Gillian briefly glanced at Doraux, his expression surprisingly fraught with resentment and accusation, and growled, "You know he speaks the truth."

She shook her head, and the Jerhia threw his hand up and turned away in disgust. Perplexed by his implied accusation, Islena stood gazing around the encampment as though she had abruptly awakened to find herself in an animated surrealist painting, the meaning of which was lost in the frenetic chaos of the moment. All around, party members rushed about, preparing to make one desperate dash to the west. She sensed a certain general feeling of pessimism, but realized that exigency was still holding it down to manageable levels...sublimating the crippling terror that capered in the shadow like a malevolent beast.

"Someone within our ranks has betrayed us." Morzhian's dire allegation rang in her mind. The inevitable progression of this accusation moved Islena to murmur. "Lorio? Oh God, please, not Lorio!"

Frantic, she glanced about, but the Lamish woman was nowhere to be seen. She was about to seek her friend out, when Arminda emerged from the trees to the south, her face radiating a youthful enthusiasm that was such a painful reminder of her dead brother.

"Maroc has given me permission to accompany you," she announced blithely as though she and Islena were about to embark on some marvelous adventure.

"Arminda, please consider what we're about to do," Islena pleaded. "No one knows what is on the other side of the Hiberas. Even if the diversion succeeds, the lot of us could be dead within minutes."

Arminda's enthusiasm did not dampen a whit. If anything her lovely smile became all the more lustrous. "Islena, if Amrand sacrificed his life on your behalf, then I would gladly surrender mine as well. Amrand understood the demands of virtue because he was a virtuous and honorable man."

Doraux pursed her lips, suspecting that further argument was futile. The fanatic's gleam could seldom be extinguished, even by death. Only disillusionment could quell those fires and Islena hoped that she would not be the one to provide Arminda with that bitter feast.

"We must go!" Gillian exhorted. "Forget the provisions and move."

The Jerhia simply cast aside their packs and began to sprint to the west. Islena did, however, note that each took the time to retrieve their weapons, an automatic gesture that had been bred into their nature since early childhood. She envied this unflappable composure, sensing her own fear building in the pit of her guts.

At that exact moment, she heard the first distant rumble of hooves and her heart sank in despair. The sound continued to swell until it reverberated through the ground like subterranean thunder.

"We must leave, Islena!" Arminda cried frantically, but Doraux found herself rooted by weariness and a pernicious sense of futility. Perhaps this was how it had been meant to end. It was possible that fate occasionally succumbed to the depraved and allowed its darker angels their moments of victory and she would soon find herself back under Myrhia's hand.

"Come," the Jerhia woman urged and taking hold of Islena's hand, Arminda began to drag her toward the west. Doraux did not resist, rather her body functioned like an automaton...mechanical footstep after mechanical footstep.

The group began to run as the din of the approaching army grew constantly louder.

In the next instant, the party was again immersed in fog, but now the oppressive shroud had thinned until it was now no thicker than a heavy mist. Massive fingers of rock jutted through the earth and as Islena and her Jerhia companion raced wildly by, Doraux observed how they looked like ghostly sentinels, gazing indifferently upon the unfolding drama.

She heard the rapid beat of racing footsteps and peered over her shoulder to see that Gillian had joined the pair. A few steps behind the pair, there followed another figure and although Islena could not see the face, the erect posture and statuesque form identified the runner as Lorio.

She called the Lamish woman's name and Lorio replied, "It is I, Islena. The pursuers are Imperial Troopers and they are not far behind. You must stay close to me."

Despite the looming calamity, Islena experienced a brief surge of elation. Perhaps she had been hasty in her judgment. She would have gladly died at the moment, knowing that at least one person had remained loyal to the end.

As the four sprinted westward (with no clear intention of what they hoped to achieve by this headlong flight), the sounds of converging horses echoed all about them.

Reaching over her shoulder and pulling her crossbow free, Arminda cried, "Let me remain behind. I can provide you with a little more time."

Before Islena could utter her objection, Lorio placed the flat of her hand in Arminda's back and propelled her forward. "Spare your acts of heroism and sacrifice for occasions where they might serve some actual purpose, imbecile."

Arminda stumbled, but Islena reached for her wrist and pulled her erect, just as three horsemen exploded from the trees not fifteen yards from the group. Doraux glanced over her shoulder, immediately registering the fact that no drawn weapons were in evidence.

Without slowing, Lorio veered off to her right and drove the killing end of her weapon directly into the sternum of the nearest trooper. The man uttered a harrowing, tortured cry and fell from his mount.

The second rider attempted to rein his beast, but failed as his mare slammed into the flank of the dead trooper's horse. In the blink of an eye, the cavalryman found himself staring up at the heavens as he tumbled heavily to the ground. Then he was gazing up at a tall silhouette an instant before a searing thrust gouged a fatal hole in his abdomen. Lorio delivered a savage kick to his exposed jaw and tugged her weapon free with a sickening liquid pop.

She was in the process of turning to face the third trooper, when he vaulted his mount over his fallen comrades and struck Lorio a glancing blow with his light shield. Pin wheeling her arms, she reeled backward and tumbled to the ground, where she decided to roll toward the foliage.

Just then, another dozen troopers broke through the trees to the east and bore down on the two women and the Jerhia.

"Lorio!" Islena cried as Arminda pulled her along at a desperate sprint.

"Run, Islena," Lorio responded from the depth of the shadows and began to grin. Killing the two imperial troopers was a necessary charade if she was to convince Islena that what had transpired back at the camp had been a mere coincidence. Doraux was perceptive enough, but it was possible that this display of ferocious resistance might allay her suspicions. That damnable sword possessed powers that Lorio had not anticipated and she would have to approach Doraux with even more caution as a consequence. Rising to her feet, she faded deeper into the trees and began to race westward, noticing the pervasive smell of sulfur for the first time. The Hiberas was close now, but the enchantress had succeeded in thwarting the coalition's desperate scheme within sight of their goal. As much as she abhorred her benefactress, Lorio had to concede that Myrhia possessed an insidious genius for evil that was without equal.

As she raced along, the smile broadened on her face, becoming feral. She wanted to be there when the Troopers closed the net; wanted to relish the expression of utter despair that would dawn on Islena's loathsome face. Then she would strip her of the sword and personally deliver her to the enchantress, while subjecting Islena to every manner of abasement that her new dark heart could conceive along the way.

The trio raced through the boulder strewn forest, cognizant of the relentless pursuit that must inevitably run them down. Arminda had loaded a bolt as she ran and in one incredibly fluid motion, she turned and delivered the deadly projectile directly into the throat of the horseman who had struck Lorio. He tumbled from his horse with a liquid gurgle.

The three broached a short incline and abruptly stopped short, their way blocked by rank upon rank of mounted cavalry. Islena briefly entertained the notion of veering southward and attempting to lose herself in the impenetrable forests of western Natzurdan, but Gillian caught hold of her wrist and shook his head. "It's over Islena. There is nowhere left to run."

Peering over her shoulder, she saw that another group of Troopers had converged upon the group from the rear, completely closing off any escape route even if she was inclined to flight. The despair of defeat struck her, but she was surprised to discover that its fall was attenuated by an unexpected sense of relief at an end to futile flight and baseless hope.

It occurred to her that she could kill herself then, without any sense of guilt or remorse. She had exhausted every alternative and was left with a choice between self destruction and subservience to a morally bankrupt tyrant.

She glanced up and noticed Morzhian sitting, ashen faced, upon his Dragak, while one of the troopers held the beast's reins, supposedly to insure that the Natzurdan elder would not attempt a daring, hell bent dash for freedom.

Islena could feel the Dragon sword buzzing stridently against the heavy muscles of her thigh, perhaps imploring her to fight rather than surrender. Gritting her teeth, she ignored its persistent demand, wondering how it would react if she tried to use it to take her own life.

Moments passed and not a single word was exchanged. Islena noticed that none of the troopers had drawn their weapons. Also absent was the pervasive sense of menace that normally accompanied such occasions. If anything, the Imperial Troopers appeared to exude an improbable aura of embarrassment or timidity.

A razor thin man, attired in a dirty Imperial uniform, urged his horse forward and swept his gaze over the party. He paused briefly as he looked upon Islena, his eyes popping at the width of her shoulders and the enormity of her biceps.

"You are Islena Doraux," he stated flatly, though his voice quavered with exhaustion. His face was drawn and had the pallor of old cheese as the leagues of hard riding were reflected clearly in his listless gaze. Doraux merely nodded, seeing little point in denial. He frowned and then his gaze settled upon the ruby encrusted sword. Lorio suddenly materialized at Islena's side, her coal black eyes blazing up at the trooper.

"Who is the formal leader of this group?" the man inquired softly.

Morzhian and Gillian exchanged glances and the Natzurdan spoke out, "I am Morzhian, leader of Natzurdan."

The thin man nodded, briefly stroking the black stubble which partially obscured his hollow cheeks. "I am Tormal, High Commander of the Imperial Army of Emercia."

Morzhian sagged perceptibly. If Myrhia had dispatched the High Commander of Emercia to stop the enactment of the ritual of earth rending, then their cause had clearly been betrayed.

`She's won,' the old man thought dejectedly and drew himself erect to offer his nation's capitulation and appeal for leniency in the treatment of his people, who were, after all, not warriors.

Suddenly, Tormal unfastened his sword and threw it into the dirt at Morzhian's feet. The Natzurdan stared numbly at the gleaming golden haft of the ornamental weapon and then he gazed up at Tormal, his expression one of suspicion as if he had become the butt of a cruel joke.

Drawing himself erect on his charger, Tormal declared, "On behalf of the Imperial army, I would offer our formal surrender and request asylum for our troops behind the new Hiberas River."

For several moments, the thoroughly astonished Natzurdan could not respond, his faculty of speech robbed by this fantastic turn of events. As if through the disjointed haze of a dream, Islena's gaze swept over the party members...the incredulity registering on the faces of those who believed that they had been vanquished only seconds before.

"Why?" Morzhian asked, pointing a long finger at the discarded sword.

Tormal signaled to the others, who quickly moved to comply. The early dawn air reverberated with the clatter of metal. Soon a full assortment of weaponry littered the earth as the incredulous party members looked on. Pikes, swords, long and short bows, lances and maces lay in piles. The High Commander sighed and explained, "When Myrhia first came to power, we served out of loyalty. When it became apparent that the High Queen was a creature of evil, we served out of fear and hoped that we might find a way to remove her from the throne when the opportunity presented itself. When the evil witch first revealed her damnable Morticants, there seemed to be no way to extricate ourselves from the web of madness that she had weaved and under which we had inadvertently fallen. If anything can be mustered in our defense, it would be that we played an ever-diminishing role in her orgy of conquest as time went by. The Emercian army was marginalized by mercenaries and Morticants. I also understand that this does nothing to absolve the Emercian military of the role it did play in this nightmare."

"Then she divined your plan to divert the Hiberas and a scheme for deliverance germinated in my mind. When she dispatched the army to the ridge, I doubt that she could ever have imagined that she had finally opened the doors to our freedom."

Morzhian studied the Emercian for several seconds, still unable to subdue his conviction that this was but a new and diabolical twist in Myrhia's scheme. Neither the Natzurdan nor Gillian gave voice to that fear, but Lorio strode to the fore, glaring up at Tormal. Then she wheeled upon Gillian and Morzhian. "Are you foolish enough to lend any credence to this nonsense? Can you not see the obvious?"

"And what might that be?" Gillian demanded coldly.

"This is a glaringly shallow ruse. Only a fool would allow this charade to be perpetrated upon them!" For the first time since the debacle at Runesholm, Lorio appeared to have surrendered completely to her emotions. Shaking with rage, the Lamish woman turned back to the Emercian High Commander. "You have the audacity to come here and ask for clemency...for sanctuary? Your army systematically eliminated my people, drove them like cattle and forced them to live like rats below the earth."

She slammed her fist against her breast and Islena winced. "I personally witnessed several of these cleansings. I watched in horror as the queen's men...monsters such as these...gleefully ran defenseless men and women down with lances and swords. They were not driven by fear, you despicable bastard. They killed for the sheer depraved pleasure of the act."

Islena was intimately familiar with Lorio's tempestuous nature and should have been able to anticipate what came next, though she found her reactions languorous, slowed by the inexplicable reversal of fortunes that she could still scarcely credit.

One moment, Lorio was railing at the High Commander and the next she had pulled him from his mount and was throttling the startled Emercian with her fists, feet and finally her teeth. The ensuing confusion assumed a surreal, almost comical aspect. A dozen hands reached for Lorio, though none seemed able to drag her away from the screaming Tormal, who beat ineffectually at his attacker.

Doraux viewed the chaos with an increasing sense of unreality as though this was some fantastical dream that her beleaguered mind had conjured. She heard Lorio's primal snarls in sharp counterpoint to Tormal's shrieks of agony. She watched numbly as Gillian reached around Lorio's neck, placing her in a strangle hold, only to be shrugged from her shoulders as if he was no more substantial than a bag of feathers.

Only when she glanced to her right and noticed that many of the Imperial Troopers had dismounted their horses and were drifting uncertainly toward their discarded weapons, did Islena realize that some immediate and decisive action was required. With calm deliberation, Doraux drew her sword and walked over to the melee. Standing beside Lorio, Islena reversed her grip upon the weapon so that the blade pointed skyward. The Lamish warrior continued to pummel the hapless and bloody Imperial Commander, ignoring the cries for reason and the clutching hands that tried unsuccessfully to pulling her away.

Functioning as if from the depths of a trance, Islena took careful aim and drove the butt end of the haft into the hollow of Lorio's temple. There followed a neon blue flash... one that conjured images of electric sparks jumping contacts...and the pungent odor of burning ozone filled the air. Lorio abruptly stiffened and her eyes rolled back in her head. Then she collapsed onto her face beside the man whom she had come very close to murdering. Islena gazed morosely down upon the unmoving figure, while every one around her gaped at the carnage in silent shock.

Doraux sheathed the Dragon Sword and turned her flinty gaze upon Morzhian. "Grant them sanctuary," she instructed, in a tone that would brook no argument. As Tormal was assisted to his feet, she looked down on the battered and bloody commander with a moue of distaste. "Lorio has earned her outrage...has paid dearly for this moment of anger."

Then she simply strode away, pushing brusquely through the ranks of Imperial Troopers and leaving the utterly astounded allies to their moment of confusion. The fallen hybrid lay utterly still on the forest floor, and though many had witnessed Islena's startling felling of the Lamish beauty, not a single one dared move to her aid.

To a last one, they drifted away, leaving her where she had fallen.

3

The unnatural fog had dissipated sometime just after sunrise and the sky was a high, scintillating shade of blue. Morzhian and the senior Metocan, Emian, walked together, each exchanging his interpretation of what the anomalous sky signified. While neither could draw a concrete conclusion, both agreed that it did not bode well as though the glaring blue heavens were a precursor of something ineffably terrible to come.

Islena walked alone, deliberately remaining detached from the other party members. Her mood was turbulent and decidedly grim, despite the fact that half of the Imperial Army had just laid down their weapons and surrendered. Neither was her disposition brightened by the reek of sulfur that heralded the proximity of the mysterious Hiberas. None of this would compensate for the sickening crunch of iron on bone as Islena had struck down her friend. Try as she might, Doraux could not manage to purge the recollection from her mind's eye.

The Lamish woman remained unconscious for many fearful hours and when she had finally stirred, Lorio had muttered a garbled apology and stalked off, refusing to entertain Islena's tearful words of apology. Morzhian had attended to the battered Tormal, relieving some of his discomfort, though he still wore the perpetually dazed expression of a man who had just wandered into a lion's den and barely staggered out with his life. It had been agreed that the majority of the Emercian army would be escorted to the north side of the ravine, where they would be granted sanctuary by their former enemies. Fifty of the elite cavalry would escort the party to the ritual site, ostensibly for the purpose of protection, though from what, Doraux could not be certain. Even elite mounted troops were no match for the fearful Morticants.

This escort had been allowed to reclaim their weapons, though the party members viewed them with unconcealed distrust. The two factions had fought viciously for seven years, inflicting scars that were indelible, yet now they marched westward, side by side in opposition to a common enemy. Though the Jerhia were not a people to harbor hatred, which they viewed to be poisonous and debilitating, even they could not easily forgive the atrocities that had been committed by the Imperial Army at Myrhia's behest.

Gillian approached Islena, discerning some of her inner turmoil. "What you did was painful, but timely and necessary. Had the troopers reclaimed their weapons, events would have taken a decidedly ugly turn."

She lashed the Jerhia a venomous glare, making it clear that she regarded his presence as an intrusion, but he persisted, "Islena, all of us have been forced into distasteful acts in the name of survival and to bring about the return of light. The action you took against Lorio was unfortunate, but circumstances required something drastic. Flaying yourself with the memory will benefit no one."

Doraux shook her head in disgust. "You know, for a world so full of philosophers, this is one seriously fucked up place. Maybe you people should follow your own advice. I cannot use circumstances to justify despicable actions. I understand Lorio's rage. If I had Myrhia in the same position, I would probably rip her throat out with my teeth and my suffering pales in comparison to what she's endured."

Troubled, Gillian simply frowned and nodded. The pair walked on in silence and Islena suddenly asked, "With the Imperial Army's surrender is this ritual still necessary?"

"I discussed that matter with Tormal and Morzhian at length and all of us have concluded that it is still necessary. Frankly, the Imperial army was nothing more than an incidental tool...a means to control captive populations. Myrhia's sorcery and her Morticants are the real cornerstones of her power. We have no effective means of combating either and so we must divert the Hiberas."

Doraux glanced thoughtfully over her shoulder. "What do you think the Morticants are? I mean are they actual living entities that she's brought from somewhere...or are they some kind of sorcery construct."

"Quite frankly, I have no meaningful theory. Other than the thing that we encountered in Runesholm, I've never actually seen a Morticant," the Jerhia admitted honestly. "As you witnessed in Othgol, the creatures are virtually indestructible and resemble humans in general structure only."

"Marla didn't look like any of the Morticants in Southern Natzurdan," Islena murmured, clearly uncomfortable with the ebony behemoth that had nearly taken her life in Runesholm.

"How can you be so sure that she was a Morticant?" Gillian inquired. Islena glanced at the Jerhia sharply. "I saw her body. The thing that killed her literally ripped her head off."

Gillian grimaced, the image leaping unbidden to his mind. "The next logical question would be; how do you know that Marla was transformed into a Morticant?"

Islena touched her full left breast. "I feel it here, in my heart. That thing was Marla, though only in the darkest aspect of her nature. That was the most horrible part of it; Marla was a beautiful, sensitive woman, but Myrhia turned her into something violent and evil."

Gillian absorbed this without remark. It was hard to imagine the monster from Runesholm as anything but terrifying. Conversely, it would have been difficult to conceive of a woman as unique and exquisite as Islena only weeks ago. Something occurred to him just then. "If Myrhia has found a way to turn ordinary people into Morticants, it would be easy for such creatures to infiltrate our ranks."

The two exchanged glances and then turned to the mounted Imperial Troopers.

'God!' Doraux thought and her anxiety must have been clearly etched on her face for Gillian placed a hand upon her shoulder and cautioned "Let us not jump to hasty conclusions. Paranoia will only aggravate an already tense situation."

Still it was not an easy matter to allay her fears once they had taken shape and she found herself stealing surreptitious glances at the Imperial Troopers for some sign of...of what...an alien coldness...A sly, inhuman glance? She did not know and that ignorance filled her with an uneasy frustration. Then that glance happened upon Tormal and a sly grin spread over her lovely face.

As she approached the Imperial Commander, he flinched as though he fully expected her to resume the beating that Lorio had begun earlier. Doraux raised her hands and mustered a smile. "I only wish to ask a few questions."

Tormal regarded the woman nervously, unsettled by her exotic combination of contained power and radiant beauty. "I will answer what I can, but I can tell you that Myrhia did not see fit to divulge details of her machinations, even with her High Commander."

"What do you know about these Morticants...specifically, about where they came from?"

Tormal's battered face appeared to contract in revulsion and he shuddered. "I know only that they are infernal engines of destruction."

"What are they and where do they come from?" Doraux persisted, her tone becoming surly.

"The first question I simply cannot answer and the second is mere speculation upon my part. The Bowels of Kammlogran castle in Nalosan are said to be a breeding ground for all manner of abomination."

Islena pondered this for a moment and then a memory surfaced in her mind's eye. Ranks of emaciated, hollow eyed prisoners being remorselessly driven eastward by brutal Imperial Troopers and from that recollection there came a question that seemed suddenly critical. "What does Myrhia do with the prisoners that she sends east?"

Tormal appeared reluctant to respond, but when it became obvious that the woman with the incisive emerald eyes would not relent, he slowly provided an explanation for the human caravans of misery. "Before I explain, I want to make it perfectly clear that the Imperial Army does not condone Myrhia's program of deportation and cleansing. The majority of my men are appalled by Myrhia's actions."

"And of course you were all powerless to stop her," Islena countered sardonically. "I watched your Troopers beat a starving boy to death in Northern Kornas, leaving his body to rot in the ditch like garbage."

Tormal grimaced in genuine revulsion. "The enchantress made it a point to corrupt the army with a core of hooligans and mercenaries who would serve her wicked agenda with relish." He waited for Islena to react, but she only glared back at him impatiently. Sighing deeply, he continued, "Myrhia's deportations serve two purposes. The women of beauty are given to the mercenaries and I will not pretend that their treatment is anything less than unspeakable."

Now it was Islena's turn to grimace. Tormal noticed her reaction and nodded grimly. "The second group is consigned to a hell far worse, though that may seem inconceivable. The children, women and what men may survive the wars, were herded east to Redian. A good many die on the way, or so I've been told. I had nothing to do with slave trafficking."

"Redian," Islena echoed, suddenly aware that many of the party members had drifted closer. "Ynthrax was from Redian."

Tormal nodded. "He was perhaps Redian's most notorious plunderer."

"But he was also Myrhia's High Commander, Doraux pressed."

"Yes, my predecessor. It was rumored that he met a gruesome death for engineering your escape from Perdwick, though I find it hard to imagine that a reprobate such as Ynthrax would take such an enormous risk out of any sense of righteousness."

"He did," Doraux contradicted softly and Tormal's eyes widened in incredulity. She felt her body shudder involuntarily. Ynthrax had been many things and unsavory to the core, but in the end, he had been capable of discerning the extent and depth of Myrhia's evil. As if it was an act of attempted contrition, the Redian had sacrificed his life so that Islena could escape to continue the fight against the enchantress. With news of his death, Islena could feel the weight of another lost life settle upon her broad shoulders. In a somber voice, she asked, "What precisely is in Redian?"

Tormal's face darkened and he offered a terse explanation that nonetheless managed to convey the full horror of the fate to which the prisoners had been relegated. "The mines."

Islena blinked.

'Mines,' she thought, shivering at the dark connotations the word evoked. She had not expected that the enchantress would expend energy in the pursuit of material wealth and treasure. Myrhia imparted the impression that she was more absorbed by the intangible aspects of power rather than the accrued material trapping that it might bring. "What is mined there? Gold?"

Now the High Commander appeared perplexed as though he could scarcely credit the answer he was about to deliver. "Clay."

Doraux exchanged astounded glances with Morzhian and Gillian. To insure that she had heard properly, she repeated "Clay?"

"Yes. There are entire sections of the Central Mountains of Redian that contain seams of blue clay. Not long after the disappearance of Artumas, Myrhia made the first of her journeys into the wilds of Redian. It was shortly thereafter that a fortress was commenced in the isolated wastes of northern Redian and the High Queen began to spend weeks at her keep, which she dubbed 'Serpian'. In Emercian, this means Cradle of wonders."

"And this is where the columns of prisoners are being taken?" Doraux reiterated to be sure she understood.

The High Commander nodded grimly. "The High Queen refers to these unfortunates as deportees. After the first campaigns against the adjacent nations had been won, Myrhia instituted a policy of employing prisoners as slaves. At first, the number of deportees was relatively light, but as her requirements in Redian grew, virtually every prisoner, including the very old and the very young, was sent to the mines, where people are used up very quickly."

Gillian frowned as he listened, his angular face set in severe lines of consternation. "What possible economic benefit would Myrhia realize through the mass scale mining of clay?"

Tormal shrugged his shoulders, clearly as puzzled as the Jerhia. Morzhian stepped forward, his face refulgent with the light of revelation. "This wicked expenditure of human resources has nothing to do with economic development." The Natzurdan turned his gaze briefly upon Emian. "Remember, Myrhia is not only a powerful enchantress, but an accomplished alchemist as well."

Emian nodded, excitedly taking up the thread of the Natzurdan's hypothesis. "The blue clay serves as the raw material for her Morticants. She has discovered a way to animate the soil of Redian."

Morzhian nodded, a bitter smile spreading over his face. "Like the material from which they were animated, the beasts are malleable, capable of becoming whatever she requires them to be. Myrhia had found the means to vivify inanimate material and mold it to her will. This is a chillingly brilliant evolution of the dark art of necromancy. Constructs raised from necromancy are merciless and violent...but also volatile and often uncontrollable. By animating raw material, the enchantress would purge that flaw, creating legions of creatures that would do her bidding without the slightest possible deviation."

Islena pondered this notion, her smooth brow furrowing as she reflected back on the events of Runesholm. "The thing at the abbey was nothing like the drones, though. Marla was livid...she was furious and it was obvious that she wanted to hurt me...to crush me to death even though Myrhia expressly forbid her to do so. The bitch doesn't have the same absolute control over these...hybrids that she does over the drones."

Islena lapsed into a contemplative silence. There was something of great consequence in what she had just suggested. To her seething frustration, the specific value of this bit of insight refused to resolve itself in her mind, instead taunting her like an inaccessible itch.

Gillian looked from Islena to Emian as though they had abruptly started speaking in tongues. When it became evident that they were perfectly serious, he shook his head in incredulity and ran his fingers through his sandy blonde hair. Finally Islena fetched a deep sigh as her tone became abruptly querulous. "What good does it do knowing what the fucking things are made of? It doesn't seem that anything can put a dent in them; clay or not."

Doraux's angry outburst could not dampen the Natzurdan's jubilance. "Oh Islena, knowledge is the key to empowerment, just as surely as ignorance is the key to fear and repression. We have learned the source and nature of Myrhia's abominations, even if we do not know how they function or what perverse twist of magic grants them life. Still, it is a start."

Doraux muttered something unintelligible and turned away with a toss of her cascading red mane. Gillian softly slapped his fist into his palm. "If only we had happened upon this information years ago. It would have been possible to launch a rapid strike into Redian and thus deny the enchantress her precious clay."

Morzhian offered Gillian a sad nod for the ghost of lost possibilities. Soon the discussion broke up and the party began its last leg of the journey to the Hiberas.

Chapter Twelve

1

Islena Doraux reached the eastern bank of the fantastical river Hiberas on the one hundred and forty second day of her journey.

As she stood on the crest of the long decline that led down to the timeless river, her nose filled with the noxious reek of sulfur and an anomalous frigid wind suddenly sprang up from the south east. Islena stared glumly down at the black, churning waters and then up at the curtain of impenetrable fog that obscured the far bank. Then she began to walk slowly down the slope as though she hoped to unravel the river's plethora of mysteries through an exertion of will alone.

The others had stopped at the crest. She could sense the weight of their stares upon the tight flesh of her muscular back, though she did not turn to acknowledge their presence. Sensing her tacit need to confront the mystery of this place alone, they respected her silent entreaty for privacy.

She was mildly surprised to find that her only reaction to another of this world's great improbabilities was one of numb acceptance. Glancing to her right, she could see the granite ridge as it plunged down to the eastern shore. The vast congregation of Natzurdan had failed to materialize and Doraux could not help but wonder how the granite spine would ever be transmogrified by four men.

Sighing wearily, she turned and trudged heavily up the slope. "When do we start?"

Morzhian discerned the brooding undertone of dejection and then pointed to the south east. Thick black smoke lay upon the distant horizon like a blight. Doraux glanced questioningly at the elder, who explained, "Myrhia's Morticants have almost found us. I judge that those fires are no further than a few hours away."

Islena nodded distantly and spun quickly away to hide her deepening despair. "Where are the others?"

Morzhian hung his head, feeling the full and debilitating weight of his years. "I don't know, but I fear that we will have to attempt the ritual alone."

Suddenly furious, Doraux pivoted back to the Natzurdan. "And exactly how do you intend to do that with only four people? You said that it would take thousands to enact this ritual."

Morzhian raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement, his face clearly reflecting the extent of his sorrow. The implications of the missing Natzurdan were brutally clear and quickly defused Doraux's smoldering anger. Tormal tentatively came to join the pair. "I'm afraid that we are to blame for the absence of your countrymen. As we marched through villages and settlements, the inhabitants would scatter like sheep before a wolf pack. There was no time to declare our intentions to each and every village elder."

Morzhian did not respond. Instead he glanced toward the horizon where the thick curtain of black smoke continued to rise toward the heavens. Then he dropped his head to his chest and sighed. All Natzurdans were possessed of an empathy with the land, one that allowed them to share in the Mother's joy and pain. Now he could sense the awful effects of Myrhia's violation vibrating through the soles of his feet. Her pain was enormous and as Natzurdan elder, Morzhian shared each subtle nuance of her agony. As bark and wood were consumed by the advancing flame, it seemed that he could feel his own flesh melt like running wax. Morzhian wondered if the Mother would ever forgive this malicious violation. Sadly, he doubted that she would and thus the magic of Natzurdan would be irretrievably lost, even if the coalition did find the means to vanquish Myrhia. Earth lore was destined to fade from memory...just another lost element of myth.

Islena watched him closely. His wispy silver hair blew in the breeze like gossamer and his skin appeared thin and insubstantial as rice paper. At once, she regretted her harsh words, but as was her norm, Doraux found that she lacked the faculty to apologize. At once, his head bobbed up, a notion clearly germinating in his watery blue eyes. "There is a way that we can still perform the ritual."

Doraux shook her head, but found her own excitement rising in response to the elder's. "I have the knowledge necessary to undertake the ritual," Morzhian elaborated. "But I lack the requisite power." Pointing toward the sword that was lashed to her back, he observed, "You, however, have the means. By channeling the sword's power through me, it is possible that we might succeed in altering the ridge."

Doraux frowned, "Morzhian, I can barely control the sword's power. Attempting to direct it in such a precise way would be extremely dangerous." Recalling how Lorio had been thrown like a rag doll, she concluded, "You could easily be killed, Morzhian."

"Perhaps, but it is a risk that I'm willing to take under the circumstances. If we fall under Myrhia's fist, I'm certain that death would seem like a blessing."

"There is another way, Morzhian," Islena insisted, with a hint of desperation fraught in her tone. "If the sword's power is required, I could simply blast a channel in the ridge. I really believe that there is enough force in the sword to do just that."

The Natzurdan elder shook his head, his thin lips twisting into a reproving frown. "Undoubtedly there is, Islena, but I would never permit such a mutilation. It is likely that the Mother would rebel against such brutality. The ritual, while painful, is a mere reshaping, while your method would be akin to crude butchery. Mine is the only chance, Islena."

Seeing her pained expression, he responded swiftly, "Islena, I am an old man who has lived more years than any man should have the right to expect. For the most part, mine has been a life of joy and contentment. There comes a time when we are all expected to repay the kindness that fate has afforded us. My time is now."

Doraux searched the elder's eyes, and seeing that he had come to terms with the dangers of his own end, reluctantly nodded her concurrence. "All right, what do you need me to do?"

"For now, I require only that you remain patient. We will seek out a spot where the stone will disseminate the applied energy to maximum advantage. Then we will lay the groundwork for the ritual."

She glanced worriedly at the curtain of advancing flames and asked, "How long?"

"There will be sufficient time, Islena," Morzhian assured her with a kindly smile. Then he was gone. The Natzurdan adepts quickly moved to follow him as he headed toward the base of the great ridge. Feeling thoroughly dispirited. Doraux turned and trudged toward the Hiberas. Gillian attempted to engage her in conversation as she went, but she cut him off brusquely, instructing, "Keep everyone away from me until it is time to begin."

2

Myrhia stood gazing through the lightly frosted doors of her suite, absently contemplating the spectacular view afforded by the Holiday Inn's western exposure, when the tickling commenced in the depth of her mind, signaling the onset of an ephemeral contact. This was a world that defied her sensibilities in many ways, but she found herself increasingly drawn by its many temptations and diversions. Here, kings and Queens were mere figureheads...impotent remnants of long forgotten monarchies where they had once wielded tangible and absolute power.

She was astounded by the incredible concept that every person, every simpleton, had the inalienable right to have a hand in electing a leader. As she watched her amazing picture box, these leaders went to great lengths to explain the most rudimentary of decisions to the ignorant masses, the majority of which lacked the intellectual faculties to comprehend any of what they were being told. It was a small wonder that they were so ineffectual and pathetic.

Yet, despite the ludicrous system, these fools had achieved wonders that amazed Myrhia. At one location, she had watched in disbelief as a huge winged vehicle had risen from the ground and flown through the air like an enormous bird. She had been further mystified that its inhabitants viewed the spectacle with bored disinterest as though the existence of this flying machine was considered as mundane as the rising sun.

Eventually, the enchantress had gleaned that these things were the by-product of science and science had supplanted magic as the force that drove the universe.

As Myrhia walked through the chaotic bustle of the city streets and witnessed the comings and goings of the floating sea monsters in Puget Sound, it became apparent that this was a world where her appetites could be indulged to the fullest. The notion of new challenges...of broader horizons for her boundless ambitions excited Myrhia as no other stimulus could.

These grandiose thoughts were interrupted by the strident buzzing that heralded an attempt at contact by one of her creations. Instinctively, she knew precisely which one. Her lovely face darkened and abruptly she seized Lorio's astral soul and pulled it forth into the tangible world.

Indistinct and shimmering, an astounded Lorio glanced down, first at her own shimmering body and then out over the improbable vista of Seattle. The world swam in and out of focus around her as she fought to stave off vertigo that this incredible perspective induced.

"What is this place?" she stammered in a tone fraught with disquiet and awe.

"This is the world from which I summoned our precious Islena," Myrhia answered with a hint of amusement.

"Is it an enchanted place then?" Lorio inquired in a tone better suited to a wonder struck child.

Myrhia threw back her head and laughed. "By the standards of our dreary and oppressive world, I would suppose that it is. I would assume that you have something of consequence to relate."

Unable to drag her gaze from the television, Lorio began to describe the circumstances that had prompted her to risk contacting her mistress. "The Imperial Army has surrendered to the Natzurdan elder. Tormal is the architect of this sedition. The Morticants are converging upon the party quickly, but I fear that they will be unable to prevent the diversion of the Hiberas."

Lorio had expected the enchantress to respond with a violent tirade. Instead, Myrhia shrugged with marked indifference and remarked dryly, "My conventional army is an obsolete encumbrance at any rate. They pose no possible threat to me and I say that it is best to be rid of their bumbling incompetence. As for the enactment of the ritual..."

She paused and threw open the patio doors. A brisk salt laden breeze rushed to fill the suite. "Your old world is dead, Lorio. Islena and her friends have merely insured that it will never again be habitable. You and I are immune to whatever horrors the Land of Shades may hold, but the human fools are not. The world will be cleansed of the mortal plague all the more quickly by this inane action."

"Only Islena's safety matters. Protect her and when the opportunity presents itself, bring her to me. By then, I will have gained the inducement necessary to compel her to seek out the Proclamations. From that point forth, the barriers of time and space shall be eradicated for us. We may shift our fields of conquest to far richer pastures." Gesturing toward Puget Sound, she declared, "Places such as this shall lie at our feet. Your world, we shall abandon as a dying husk...a repository for insanity and creeping death. The rich irony of it all is that the simpering fools will have brought it upon themselves."

Lorio displayed no reaction to Myrhia's apocalyptic vision of her world's future. The enchantress watched her hybrid construct, but the coal black eyes were devoid of expression. If Lorio was affected by the imminent demise of her world, she masked her emotions well.

"Return to your task," the enchantress intoned thoughtfully. "Ward Islena against the terrors of the night kingdom."

With a flashing gesture of dismissal, Myrhia propelled Lorio back into the astral vortex and her waiting physical body. Myrhia remained stationary until the hybrid's image had faded.

"Another human male has betrayed me," she fumed. Tormal, despite his flight into Metocan, had assured himself an eternity of ineffable suffering. The actual loss of the majority of her conventional forces had no tangible impact upon her conquest of the west. Another contingent of Morticants had arrived in Natzurdan and there would be little meaningful resistance to her occupation.

Only one man posed an appreciable threat to the fulfillment of her carefully laid plans and he was sequestered on the opposite side of the dark kingdom. No living mortal could cross the Land of Shades. If they were not killed outright, any traveler would lose his or her reason in the face of the unrelenting madness that held dominion over the netherworld kingdom. In their desperate attempt to halt Myrhia's juggernaut, the Cornerstone Nations would destroy the very world that they aspired to save. In the end they would succeed only in leaving the enchantress with a tarnished prize, robbing it of any marginal value it had once possessed.

Myrhia shrugged in an unconscious gesture of insouciance. The universe was a place of infinite possibilities for conquest and the seven years that had been expended in pursuit of subjugating this world was but a blink of an eye in the span of her endless life.

Still, if there was to be liberation from the squalid monotony of the antiquated world, Islena would be the instrument with which it would be achieved... one that would allow Myrhia's unconstrained passage through the dimensions of time and space with almost liquid ease. It was imperative that Doraux not fall victim to the infectious depravity of Kingdom of shades and thus Lorio bore the enormous burden of protecting Doraux.

Myrhia grinned crookedly and shook her head. She had charted an elaborate course right down to the most minute of details and in the end, the success of her machinations would be dictated by the actions of a Lamish itinerant. Instinct informed her that, despite the failings of Lorio's shiftless heritage, trust in her hybrid was well placed.

Only one man could thwart her, denying her the prize at the moment when it was well within her grasp, just as he had done on occasions too numerous to recall. After eight years of lonely silence and emptiness, the enchantress reluctantly acknowledged that it was time that to confront her one genuine weakness.

3

A solitary figure stood on the eastern bank of the Hiberas River, gazing fixedly across the now tranquil expanse of dark water, through the brooding swirl of mists which completely obscured the opposite shore. Beyond the mother of pearl mist lay the eternal mystery; a realm upon which no living being had ever trod...or so it was believed Shrouded in perpetual mystery, the opposite shore at once tantalized and mocked...seemingly so near, yet impossibly distant.

"The Land of Shades," Islena murmured thoughtfully. She considered many of the tales that she had heard about the land beyond the deceptively deadly river Hiberas...indulgent fantasies each and every one. Despite the certitude of the teller, such tales could neither be confirmed nor refuted and thus the Land of Shades remained the definitive mystery of this antiquated world. The Hiberas River, every bit as indecipherable as the Land of Shades itself, stood as an unassailable ward that preserved the shadow kingdom's enduring riddle. She scanned the distant shore and then bent down to retrieve a small pebble. Driven by ire, she threw the stone toward the distant bank.

It reached up toward the unforgiving blue sky, its tiny speckles of mica glistening in the harsh morning sunshine. It commenced its descent and Islena felt her heart begin to soar as it did. Abruptly, a strident hiss shattered the pervasive shroud of silence as the acrid stench of burning ozone permeated the air. A tongue of argent flame leapt from the now churning waters of the Hiberas, engulfing the pebble like a ravenous predator. A distinct crack reached Doraux's ears and the tongue of flame fizzled as rapidly as it had first appeared. Gray particles of dust floated down into the water to be consumed in tiny eruptions of argent fire.

Islena's brow furrowed in consternation. She regarded the roiling waters with a mixture of trepidation and dark wonder. Horror upon horror and outrage upon outrage and still she had not lost her capacity to be horrified and astounded. At least the tales of the Hiberas River were founded firmly in the bedrock of incontrovertible fact. Any object that broached the vertical plane of the river's eastern bank suffered immediate and catastrophic immolation. Despite having the outward appearance of an ordinary river, it was a writhing mass of balefire that was contained between the river banks. Though the specific of what the river had been intended to protect remained a mystery, one thing was unequivocally certain...the Hiberas remained an insurmountable barrier that defied mage and scholar alike. Venturing closer to the water's edge, she peered at the turbulent surface. The water was black and utterly impenetrable to the gaze. It was not wistful fancy to imagine that the Hiberas could well be a living entity and the argent tongues of flame were appendages or extensions of a sentient being.

Islena's hectic thoughts inevitably circled back to the one pivotal question that has plagued men through the ages...had the barrier been erected to keep humans out of the west or to keep the purported monstrosities from the Land of Shades out of the east?

Islena sighed wearily as the full weight of the reason for her presence on the river's eastern shore imposed itself on her troubled thoughts. Now, after of Millenniums of speculation and conjecture, the Land of Shades would finally be compelled to disclose its secrets. If the Hiberas could not be surmounted, it would be...circumvented. From the lamentable experiences of her own world, she knew that extreme plight bred sheer desperation. Desperation often very often inspired the most abominable acts of horror.

By unanimous agreement, the leaders of the three beleaguered cornerstone nations had conceived a gambit as audacious as it was desperate. If by some miracle, it succeeded, Myrhia's juggernaut of conquest would be temporarily stymied and the age old mysteries of the Land of Shades would be laid bare. Theirs would be an act of desecration worthy of the most heinous of her world's predacious criminals. They would act from a position of presumed righteousness; secure in the belief that there was no other viable alternative.

'Even if this act of utter madness succeeds, you will be left exposed like wheat chafe between two grinding millstones,' she reminded herself, the unenviable prospect rousing a shudder of trepidation that raced the length of her spine and caused her to inhale sharply.

Islena muttered a vile epithet against the woman who had precipitated this insanity.

Someone hailed her from the crest of the hill that led down to the shoreline. She flinched, making no move to acknowledge either their presence or that she had heard their call. She briefly contemplated what it might be like to perish in the argent fury of the Hiberas. No doubt there would be an instant of silver agony, followed by an eternity of welcomed oblivion and this insufferable madness would be at a merciful end.

She sighed again, knowing that her nature precluded the cold luxury of self-destruction.

Footsteps crunched on fallen leaves as the messenger descended upon her.

'Damn their persistence,' she thought with no small amount of rancor and stubbornly refused to turn from the conundrum of the river.

The messenger, a youthful Jerhia who had survived the systematic destruction of his people, stopped three feet from Islena. He breathed deeply, ill at ease in the presence of the alien woman and the strange aura of puissance that enveloped her like a cocoon...an aberrant reflection of light that conveyed the impression of divinity.

"They are anxious to begin, Milady," he reported haltingly, clearly unsettled by the aura.

"Fine," Islena replied distantly. The Jerhia frowned. "Gillian has asked that you join the party at once, Milady. The High Queen's Morticants are converging upon us rapidly. We are likely to be overrun if we do not make haste."

Islena closed her eyes, trying to summon the requisite energy to set her feet in motion, exhorting herself with notions of hope that were so fleeting as to be nonexistent. Ever the pragmatist, despite all that had befallen her since first being dragged into this awful place, Doraux could not easily embrace the fool's delusion that all would be well by wishful thinking alone. She followed the Jerhia up the rocky incline, envying his enthusiasm in the face of stupefying adversity. As she was about to enter the tree lined path, Islena hesitated and glanced back at the Hiberas. The water was black and churning with mystery.

Its inscrutable countenance reminded her of the state of her own tumultuous soul. It was in this state of desolation that Islena Doraux prepared to enter the Land of Shades.

Doraux mounted the slope and made her way to the spot Morzhian and the others had selected to serve as a site for the ritual...a location that would require the smallest expenditure of energy and time to reshape. As she pushed her way over the rising granite outcrop, the Jerhia Icon began to vibrate against the heavy muscle of her thigh.

Morzhian and the Metocan, Emian, were kneeling before a small, but evidently deep cleft in the granite structure. The Natzurdan turned when he heard Islena approach. His ancient face was pinched and gaunt in the dull light of morning.

"This is the point that we have selected to serve as a conduit to channel your power into the stone," the old man explained urgently. "We must act quickly." To emphasize the need for haste, he pointed toward the south east. Doraux followed his gaze and was alarmed to see that the advancing wall of flames seemed dramatically closer...scant miles at the most.

"Islena, I'm going to prepare the stone. Have the sword at the ready, and when I give the signal, insert the blade into this cleft. The moment that the ground gives the first indication of transmogrifying, you must sprint clear. The final process...should we succeed...will be effected with blinding swiftness, but we would gain nothing if you were injured in the process."

Doraux nodded, noticing that her party had assembled some two hundred yards south of where she now stood. Every face regarded her with identical expressions of expectant tension, and amongst the group, she was relieved to spot both Lorio and Arminda. The Lamish woman's eyes shone with a frightening intensity that was a palpable touch on Doraux's skin, even at this distance.

Doraux shook her head and turned back to Morzhian. "What will you do once the transformation starts?"

The Natzurdan merely offered Doraux a fey smile and Islena began to object, but Morzhian silenced her by raising a long finger to his thin lips. Then the old man returned to his ministrations, humming beneath his breath while gently caressing the sharp edges of the cleft with the flat of his palms. His hands moved over the rock with the tenderness of a man caressing a cherished lover.

Drawing a deep, shaky breath, Islena freed her sword from its sheath and held it at the ready. A wave of surrealism assailed her as she prepared to partake in a wonder. Morzhian's chanting grew more exigent, his caressing of the stone more forceful. After several moments, the elder turned a puzzled, concern fraught frown upon Islena, informing her that the ritual was going badly.

Morzhian repeated the process for several seconds as droplets of perspiration formed on his furrowed brow. Then he sat back on his haunches and lowered his chin to his chest with a grunt of dejection. "It would seem that the Mother has turned a deaf ear upon our need."

He glanced up at Doraux and she could see bright tears of despair glittering in his eyes. "Islena, run! Lose yourself in the mists of Metocan."

Islena shook her head vehemently. "I'm not running simply for the sake of running. If I'm fated to die, it will be here and now...fighting!"

Doraux found her gaze drawn to the roiling waters of the Hiberas. Planting the sword in the stony soil of Natzurdan, Islena had actually taken the first step toward the river, when a clearly inhuman voice filled the morning sky. "Morzhian, favored son, do you understand what it is that you request of me?"

Islena abruptly froze. The soft, lilting voice echoed in the chambers of her mind as much as through the air. Its timber and quality reverberated not only through her mind but through the tissue and synapses of her entire body, placating her anxiety and banishing all thoughts of self-destruction.

The Natzurdan raised his head, his countenance shining with a renewed vigor and an expression of reverence. "My Lady, I humbly submit that I grasp the ramifications of my request. I lack the means to adequately express the extent of our need. This despoiler will gleefully lay everything to waste...will strip every vestige of beauty from you world."

There followed a weighty pause and then the ubiquitous voice came again. "Morzhian, long eons ago, I forged a pact with the Gods of the Netherworld, granting them partial dominion over a portion of the earth. In return, they vowed never to interfere in the affairs of living mortals. To insure that this pledge would be inviolable, I created the Hiberas to secure the fledgling dominion of mortals...to protect the inhabitants of your world from the depredations of those who willingly dwell in shadow."

She paused and delivered the apocalyptic admonition that the elder had pondered when this notion was first proposed, "Should you divert the Hiberas, you will lose sovereignty over the precious world that your people have labored so long to construct. Once these dark inhabitants gain control over these lands, it may well be that you may never regain it. It is imperative that you be cognizant of the risk."

"Mother, we have reflected long and deeply on the grave consequences of our actions, but this world has been afflicted by a powerful scourge. Without this diversion, our enemy will certainly destroy everything of value and her evil will not be confined to this world alone."

There was a long sigh like the soughing of the wind through the trees. "Myrhia is indeed the very embodiment of turpitude...a despoiler the likes of which this world has never before seen. Morzhian, you have devoted your every living breath to the propagation of my creed. I am prepared to grant you this one boon if there is indeed no other way."

"We can conjure no way to vanquish Myrhia or her Morticants. Myrhia has devoted herself to the desecration of everything precious and beautiful. The rape of Natzurdan is painful proof of her intention," the elder concluded gravely.

"Tell me of your proposal, Morzhian," the Mother prompted, and so Morzhian did and when he had completed his quick synopsis, the old man held his breath, knowing how desperate this gambit must sound.

Islena stood watching the exchange in a state of utter bemusement. The idea that the actual, tangible earth possessed intelligence, a consciousness, far exceeded the bounds of her sensibilities. A sudden gust of warm wind rushed over her body, filling her nostrils with the mixed scents of Jasmine, honeysuckle and sandalwood. Every fiber of her being was suffused by this warmth, negating the fear and anger that had filled her heart with an icy blackness. It flooded her being with a pervasive sense of contentment the likes of which she had never before experienced...or ever would again.

Seconds later, the sensation vanished, and for the briefest instant, Islena feared that she would burst into tears over the titanic loss of that sense of soaring euphoria.

"I cannot comprehend the workings of this woman's mind, Morzhian," the Mother declared and Doraux realized that her thoughts had been probed by the spirit of the world. The sudden realization that her sense of wellbeing was merely a diversion vexed Doraux, but she managed to control her ire.

"She is not of this world," Morzhian disclosed. "The enchantress has displayed her disregard for the sacred covenants of space and time by abducting this woman from her own world. Through Islena, our world might find its only hope for deliverance."

"I sense that she holds the sword of Jerhia," the voice from the cleft observed. "Does she possess a genuine understanding of its inherent power?"

Not content to have others speak on her behalf, Islena straightened and ventured forward, "My name is Islena and I've been given the sword, though I have been reluctant to accept it or the role that I am seemingly destined to play in the affairs of this world. You asked if I understand the magnitude and nature of the power I might wield and I will readily confess that I do not. The only thing I really see is who my friends are...and who my enemy is. Morzhian has spoken the simple truth. Myrhia is absolute evil and we have no way of stopping her. This world...your world...is dead anyway should you decline in aiding us in completing the diversion. This allows us a chance...a precariously slim chance admittedly...of finding the means to thwart Myrhia."

As she spoke, Islena was aware that Morzhian's eyes widened at the temerity of her tone. An affront to the Mother could doom them all. He tried to signal his displeasure to Doraux, but she glowered in response and shook her head in dismissal.

"Indeed, allow her to speak, Morzhian," the Mother commanded, her alien voice fraught with subtle amusement. The elder sighed and dropped his head.

"Morzhian and his countrymen have sacrificed everything, including their lives, on your behalf. I don't pretend to understand the mechanics of your world, but I know that the reward for life long devotion should be gratitude. No matter how you look at it, your world is going to fall to shadow. If you don't allow us to divert the Hiberas, Myrhia will sweep through Metocan and gain absolute control over the earth. If you allow Morzhian to divert the Hiberas, perhaps the things over the river will take possession of a large portion of the land, but a small enclave of the old world will be preserved, allowing your devoted worshipper one small island of hope...one requiem where the things you hold sacred still have value and meaning."

"If the enchantress can reach into my world, it may just be possible that she will devise a method of subjugating even you to her service," Doraux concluded...a notion so brazen that she grimaced even as she uttered it.

There came a perceptible rumble beneath Islena's feet and Morzhian groaned. In a sonorous voice, the Mother snapped, "You are an impertinent creature."

"I've never denied that," Doraux retorted with a tight grin. "I'm only asking that you provide both of us with the opportunity to prove that we are not selfish bitches."

There followed a moment of utter and terrifying silence. Islena stood waiting, her lovely face impassive. Morzhian's eyes bulged as though he was on the verge of apoplexy. From a distance, Gillian watched the drama unfold, acutely aware of the wall of advancing flames that continued to converge rapidly from the south east. If the ritual was not enacted quickly, the party could well find themselves trapped between the Morticants and the inhabitants of the Land of Shades even if the diversion succeeded.

"You are a spirited woman, Islena Doraux," the Mother conceded at last. "I will grant this one request. Complete the ritual."

Morzhian exhaled and knelt before the crevice, quickly resuming the incantation. Almost immediately, the granite became malleable under the elder's touch. Islena observed the ritual from over the elder's shoulder, her thoughts ablaze with excitement and expectation. She had actually held discourse with the spirit of the earth. What's more, she had acquitted herself with a skill and confidence worthy of the heroine that she was purported to be. For the first time since she had escaped the dungeons of Perdwick, Doraux allowed herself to contemplate the possibility that she might actually find her way home through some miraculous turn of fate and she might actually be the one standing triumphantly over Myrhia corpse when the drama's final bell tolled.

As the ritual progressed the granite changed consistency, softening first to a viscous jelly and finally, a black, oily liquid which flowed back into the rapidly expanding crevice.

From the base of the decline, Gillian exclaimed, "Morzhian, we must hurry or we will be overrun."

Doraux could clearly perceive the cause for his alarm. Now it seemed as though the juggernaut of flame appeared just beyond the nearest rise. Driven by exigency, Doraux again tore free the Jerhia sword, strode around Morzhian and drove the gleaming blade into the gaping cleft.

Horrified by Islena's rash action, the Natzurdan cried out and attempted to draw back.

Islena forced all inhibitions from her mind, dispensing with all apprehensions that had muted all of her previous uses of power. The reaction was instantaneous and violent. Doraux's body became a channeling mechanism. Searing shafts of argent light erupted from her eyes as her body became inured like a piece of statuary, every muscle standing out in sharp, bulging relief.

The ruby Dragon's eyes also burst into light like dying suns, bathing the slope in a deep and eerie crimson. The ground beneath Morzhian's feet began to tremble and pitch as the Natzurdan stumbled upright and reeled away from the cleft.

"Islena, you have no notion of what it is you've done!" he cried frantically, though one glance made it evident that she was far beyond the influence of words. The process was irreversible now. "Mother, grant us forgiveness."

The Dragonsword burst into a blinding argent as Doraux evoked the full efficacy of the sword. The process of gradual liquefaction of the granite abruptly ceased. Instead, the ridge of granite merely exploded with the violence that evoked comparisons with the eruption of a volcano. Huge chunks of molten granite rained down on the slope but miraculously avoided crushing any of the frantic party members. Doraux remained utterly rigid while the power channeled through her body like a raging torrent. She was dimly aware of it coursing through the alleyways of her flesh, vulgar and unrestrained by either fear or reservation. It occurred to her that she might be unable to terminate the destructive flow, but she refused to allow doubt to deter her from her destructive purpose.

If it had been possible to watch the drama unfold from an eagle's perspective, one might have gazed down in dumbfounded wonder as the massive spine of granite literally blew apart as though a gargantuan beast was ripping its way through the underworld. In the end, a deep furrow replaced the granite spine. The ugly gouge resembled a deep raw wound in the fabric of the world. Only the earth beneath Islena and the Natzurdan's feet had yet to be altered. Gradually, Islena's inured muscles began to relax. She inclined her head to the west and estimated that there was perhaps no more than three hundred yards to the shore of the Hiberas. She gritted her teeth, spared a brief glance at the stricken elder and intensified the flow of power through the Icon.

"Get clear, Morzhian. There isn't going to be much time!" she admonished over the tumult. The ground beneath the pair had begun to quiver and buckle. The Natzurdan elder raised his head and regarded her through eyes that were fraught with misery and grief.

Clenching her mind, she abruptly terminated the outpouring of power and withdrew the sword, praying that the final burst of power had been sufficient to gouge out the last section of rock.

Sheathing her sword, she bent forward and unceremoniously threw the distraught Natzurdan over her shoulder. Sprinting recklessly down the rock strewn slope, Islena gestured wildly for the other party members to get clear. Behind her, the last portion of the once majestic ridge exploded with a deafening roar, filling the sky with a hail of black grit. There followed a moment of profound silence in which every eye swiveled to the east bank of the Hiberas. Then the world filled with a harrowing shriek of agony that turned Islena's blood to ice water.

By the Gods, you've done it, Islena!" Gillian declared triumphantly, pointing to the first small trickle of dark water that had entered the new ravine, gaining volume and speed as it went. Engrossed in the euphoria of the moment, no one noticed that Morzhian had not stirred from the place where Islena had set him down.

Chapter Thirteen

1

Islena drew a tremulous breath, surprised by the degree of agitation that caused her heart to skid painfully in her chest. Up until this moment, her odyssey had been fraught with great danger and mystery, but with the diversion of the Hiberas, Doraux feared that a new element had been loosed upon her embattled mind...lunacy.

The group, now isolated from their kind, stood wordlessly, watching as the deadly waters of the Hiberas, which had flown over the same bed since the Gods had conspired to create the world, almost indolently coursed through the rough-hewn banks that would guide it east to the great mother.

"Will it be enough?" Arminda asked gravely. When she noticed Islena's incisive gaze upon her, she elaborated, "The Morticants are so close. If even a small number manages to cross the ravine, how could they be stopped?"

Doraux peered into the Jerhia's lovely, open face and shook her head morosely. "We've done what we can, Arminda. The rest is in the hands of the fates."

Arminda frowned and Doraux thought that she could discern a hint of reproach in the other woman's eyes. Scowling, Islena turned away.

Now the last of the southward flow had ebbed away, revealing a river bed that conjured images of burnt corpses. Mesmerized, Doraux drifted down to the river's edge. Up close, she noticed that tendrils of smoke were lazily drifting up from the rock-strewn bed that resembled the charred husk of a massive beast that had suffered radical incineration before falling to black dust.

The impenetrable wall of fog had not yet begun to creep eastward, though the shifting curtain of mist conveyed the impression of something poised to strike...something, furtive and full of malice.

Abruptly a chilling wail of anguish rose up from behind Islena and she whirled about to find that the other Natzurdan huddled around the prone figure of Morzhian. Islena sprinted up the slope, an anguished moan escaping her lips.

It required only one glance at the old man to discern the only thing that really mattered...Morzhian, the venerable Natzurdan elder, was about to die. His respiration came in raspy bursts and his chest heaved convulsively.

"He's having a heart attack," Doraux declared urgently, her voice fraught with grief and no small measure of guilt. The two Natzurdan exchanged puzzled glances.

'They haven't a clue what I'm talking about,' she realized dismally.

Morzhian suddenly clutched her wrist. She glanced down to see that he was attempting to smile through his pain. "Do not despair, Islena. My departure from this earth is long overdue. What you did was impetuous, but in the final summation, also necessary."

Doraux began to object, but Morzhian raised a finger to her lips. "Islena, when I undertook the ritual, I was aware of the price to be extracted. My life is an inexpensive sacrifice in return for the preservation of a small enclave of enduring hope."

Amazingly, the dying elder summoned the strength to push up to one elbow. Though his body was failing rapidly, his gaze remained keen and unclouded. "My destiny was predetermined, Islena. The only thing that has yet to be resolved is the exact role that you will play in the final battle."

Doraux shifted her tear-distorted gaze to the two Natzurdan. The other party members had come to gather around the pair, and while pity and grief shone clearly in every eye, Islena could discern a hint of prior knowledge. She lashed the lot with a scowl of recrimination.

"You knew! Damn the lot of you, you knew that this would happen if he undertook the ritual," she hissed. Morzhian squeezed her arm again, though his grip was perceptibly weaker than it had been only seconds before. "Do not assign blame, Islena. The tenets of this world were established eons ago and no fault can be ascribed to those who must abide by them. Instead, give some meaning to my death. Validate my sacrifice by fulfilling the ancient prophecy and vanquishing the darkness."

Doraux held the elder's hand and finally nodded. A low gurgling sound escaped Morzhian's sunken chest and then his head fell back. There followed a soft sigh of what might have been relief and Morzhian, the elder of Natzurdan, was gone. Islena hung her head and began to weep silently. She had witnessed the passing of a great man whose legacy would be one of desecration unless she could justify his actions by vanquishing Myrhia and allowing the process of restoration to begin.

A shadow fell over her then. She peered up to find Gillian gazing down upon her. Softly, he intoned, "We have no time to grieve his passing, Islena."

Then he pointed to the capering wall of fog, which had now begun to advance across the charred bed of the Hiberas. The wind had begun to moan, a forlorn wailing that reminded Doraux of the banshee howl of specters in a crypt. The cry spoke of despair, desolation and madness...it spoke of the dissolution of everything that was good or virtuous.

Against her thigh, the Dragonsword commenced pulsating in response to the imminent menace.

"Prepare yourself, Islena," Gillian whispered in a voice that was uncharacteristically tight with anxiety. She stole a brief glance at the Jerhia, sensing the extent of his disquiet. She would have sworn that the adjutant was dauntless.

Then Lorio was beside her, her exquisite visage colored by some inscrutable emotion. "Much has passed between us, Islena," she declared urgently and Doraux thought that she had gleaned a hint of wistful sadness in the other woman's tone. "But on the first night that we met, I vowed that I would protect you and I have never reneged on that oath. Promise that you will stay close to me once we are enveloped by the mist."

The other woman reached out and grasped Islena's wrist. The contact conjured up a flood of remembered images, some delightful and others agonizing. Through all, Islena had divined one intrinsic truth...Lorio was her kindred spirit and the bond that linked the pair had been forged in the bitter fires of misery and shared tribulation. Although the Lamish woman had undergone some perplexing changes, some of which were dark and profoundly disturbing, she was the one person upon whom Islena had been able to depend. Implicitly Again and again, she had demonstrated a willingness to sacrifice herself upon Islena's behalf, where Doraux had repaid her loyalty with neglect and abandonment. Compelled by the enormity of her shame, Doraux nodded and replied "Nothing could stand between us, Lorio. Since the day we left your father's camp, I've privately believed that you were more worthy of the heroine's mantle and that our roles should be reversed. I've made no secret of that belief."

Much to Islena's surprise, an expression of intense consternation rippled across Lorio's face...there and gone in the blink of an eye. A woman who had once worn her heart upon her sleeve, Lorio had now become emotionally elusive. Islena frowned questioningly, but Lorio suddenly offered her a brilliant smile. Then she threw her arms about Doraux and kissed her cheek, ostensibly delighted with their rapprochement.

Wheeling around to face the capering mist, Lorio declared ebulliently, "Let us not caper here like fearful children. We have forged a new world so let us go forth and see what it is that we have wrought."

"What of Morzhian?" Islena protested. "We simply can't leave him to whatever is out there."

"I believe that the problem has rectified itself," Gillian intoned gravely, pointing up the slope to where the elder's body lay. Beneath the corpse, the ground had settled into a depression, the sides of which had folded slowly upward to embrace the Natzurdan in a shroud of living greenery. In a moment, the earth had been restored to its original contour, effacing any trace of the venerable elder having been taken into its embrace.

"The Mother has reclaimed her own," the Jerhia observed softly, and then began to pick his way across the charred river bed. Moments later, the rest of the somber party followed silently, each wondering nervously if the charred bed retained any of the willful malice of the waters that had once flowed over its scarred soil and stone.

2

As Islena stepped onto the river bed, she was surprised to find that her feet did not sink. The blackened surface had the color and texture of cooled lava. The wind had escalated to a steady howl, and Islena's nostrils were assailed by the malodorous stench of charnel pits.

Doraux quickly came abreast of Gillian, who drew a deep breath and turned an anxious glance upon the woman. "Fear of the unknown is perhaps the most debilitating terror of all because it has no parameters by which it can be defined...or be understood."

She considered him speculatively for a moment and then nodded. Lorio came to flank Islena and then pointed toward the shroud of mist with her iron sleeved quarterstaff. "It comes."

The heavy fog came rolling across the ancient river bed with a furtive shifting grace, evoking images of a poised Cobra. This close, the party could see that the fog possessed an eerie luminescent quality as it advanced upon them. Lorio clenched her jaws, and taking firm hold of Islena's wrist, strode inexorably toward the impenetrable blank of swirling mist.

The party that had ventured into the land of shades consisted of twelve intrepid souls who dared to brave terrors of the feared kingdom in distant hope that the means to vanquish Myrhia might be found somewhere in the arcane depths.

With the exception of Islena, each carried their own individual perception about what might await them in the dark world...perceptions honed to razor sharpness by thousands of years of speculation and mythology.

The mist fell upon Doraux, leaving her with the sensation of having been wrapped in a cold, repulsively wet sheet. The dampness immediately permeated her flesh and she shivered in disgust. Drawing a hand across her face, Doraux found that it came away feeling wet and oily. There was a palpable texture to the ubiquitous fog, one that left the party members feeling as though they had been submerged in a cold oil or thin jelly.

Somewhere behind her, she could hear the Natzurdan moaning softly, their normally placid voices fraught with a terror that bordered upon apoplexy. In her own heart, Doraux could divine that this was an evil place and thus she could only imagine how the Natzurdan, with their heightened acuity, might be affected by the emanations of evil that coursed through flesh and bone like a low grade electric current.

As if in confirmation, one of the Natzurdan declared, "The very earth of this place has been soured. The soil is alien and belligerent. Not the dominion of our hallowed mother. Nothing pure or wholesome will find root or sustenance here."

Emian, the Metocan, offered very much the same impression. "There is an immense, but abstruse magic here, yet it defies my best efforts to grasp its essence. I can discern nothing of its disposition or form beyond this pervasive impression of abstract enmity."

"We will have to be vigilant, then," Gillian advised. "This damnable fog will make our task all the more difficult."

"How the hell are we supposed to find our way if we're groping along like blind mice?" Islena complained irritably, recalling her trek through the western reaches of the Blighted Lands.

"Stop!" It was Lorio who had spoken in a voice fraught with an irrefutable imperative. The others in the party complied immediately and the world was suddenly alive with sly, furtive movements. The Dragon sword blazed into life against Islena's thigh, casting the fog in a vermilion hue. Doraux clamped her hand down on the haft, struggling to bring the sword under control.

"Shall I try another vortex?" she inquired of Gillian.

"No!" he exclaimed hastily. "Vulgar displays of power might be imprudent until we understand more about our surroundings. Draw your weapon, but don't succumb to panic or unleash its power until it's clear what we're facing."

Doraux grunted. Holding panic at bay in this Godless place was not going to be an easy matter. She could feel it gnawing tenaciously at her insides and reasoned that her burgeoning disquiet could well be the reason why the sword was beginning to waver on the edges of control.

"Be calm, Islena," Lorio whispered, again gripping Islena's wrist in a gesture of placation. "You must learn to master your fear, just as you've learned to master anger. Use the power of the sword, Islena. Direct it as though it was an extension of your own flesh. The weapon appears to react to threat...then allow it to serve as an instrument of detection. As the assassin observed, you would do well to refrain from vulgar displays of power until we better understand our environment."

"Right," Doraux muttered sourly, vexed by the younger woman's new inclination toward philosophy. Still, she drew the sword from its sheathing and brandished it before her. It responded with a low level thrum that would occasionally flare, dragging Islena's arms in one direction of the other. Whenever this would happen, Islena would urgently call out a warning, but nothing came forward to accost the party.

"They're watching us," Lorio intoned quietly. "When the situation suits them, whatever is out there will attack."

3

"The fog is lifting."

Lorio's observation shattered the tense silence and startled Islena out of the entranced reverie into which she had drifted as the party plodded blindly along, heading in what they hoped was a westerly direction, though denied the benefit of a point of reference, it was virtually impossible to ascertain their actual course. Gazing owlishly about, Doraux realized that Lorio had been correct. The mist had indeed thinned markedly and she could now make out the ghostly silhouettes of her fellow travelers.

'How vulnerable we are,' she thought grimly as she traced the movements of the floating shadows around her. This observation roused a surge of respect and admiration for those who had agreed to accompany her on this potentially futile journey into the dreaded unknown. Each had eschewed the relative safety of Metocan for a chance to aid Doraux in her quest and she now experienced an intense flood of gratitude for the lot of them...even for Gillian, the Jerhia who had been designated to serve as her possible executioner.

Other shapes loomed out of the fog, towering above the party members like sentinels. It took Doraux several moments to realize that these were trees, though their shapes were ghastly and deformed, and thus vaguely ominous in the opalescent mist.

For the first time, Islena was able to gain an appreciation of the general topography of this alien land. The fog had a way of distorting distance and dampening sound, thus impairing just about every sensory faculty. As they traveled, the party could effectively judge neither direction nor distance. Except in extreme cases, Islena could not be certain if she was climbing or descending. Without these reference points, even time became an uneven yardstick and she could not be certain how long it had been since the party had first crossed the charred river bed of the Hiberas.

Now, as the fog gradually dissipated, she felt a measure of her equilibrium return. At this rate, the ubiquitous mist would vanish within the next few miles. Islena found herself anticipating this eventuality with no small degree of relief. The pervasive dampness had wormed its way deep into her heavy muscles, tying them into wooden and unresponsive knots that left her cramped and shivering as time progressed.

Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the fog vanished...the line of demarcation between mist and clear air was so precise that it appeared to have been cut by a surgeon's scalpel. One by one, the party members emerged with the same expression of incredulity and blessed relief emblazoning their faces. That relief immediately curdled into shudders of universal revulsion as the party members absorbed the harsh reality of the disconcerting environment into which they had just emerged.

For several moments, not a single word was exchanged.

Mouth agape, Islena gazed fixedly at the nightmarish vista that hung before her eyes in a demented tapestry that could well have been conjured from the despair-inspired depths of an impressionist painting.

The sky was a hard, monochrome gray, yet not a single cloud could be seen. A glittering black orb hung in the heavens like a cancerous sun. Islena attempted to peer up at it, but found that it seared her eyes. Agitated, she averted her eyes, horrified to realize that this was what passed for a sun in this hellacious place. She shifted her gaze to the surrounding landscape and found that it was just as improbable as the spectral sky that loomed above it.

Now she could see that the hulking trees were horribly deformed, like petrified mutants frozen in eternal postures of agony. They, too, were gray and lifeless, though the trunks were adorned with wicked thorns that reminded Islena of iron spikes set at the top of an ornate fence. She surmised that a fall onto one of these trees would prove fatal and shivered at the thought of being impaled and dying slowly beneath this malevolent sky.

Other than the mutated trees, the only other feature of note was the endless stretch of monotonous gray, sterile sand. Islena took a tentative step forward and quickly sunk up to her ankles in the gray dirt that seemed to grasp at her ankles with willful malice. Gray clouds of powdery dust billowed up around her calves, accompanied by an unpleasant odor that caused Doraux to wrinkle her nose. Nothing could possibly prosper in this purgatorial waste, save for the twisted, mammoth trees with their deadly thorns. Emian had been chillingly correct in his observation...only evil could flourish in such a place.

Gillian stooped down and scooped up a handful of the sand. He raised it to his nose and sniffed experimentally. His eyes widened and he threw the dirt aside with a grunt of disgust. Turning to the others, eyes widening with horror and revulsion, he grumbled, "Bone meal."

The party members exchanged nervous glances and Islena could feel her stomach tighten painfully. "What is this place?"

"Purgatory," Roith, the elder Natzurdan replied softly.

"No," Emian contradicted. "Not purgatory. This Land of Shades is an obscene parody of our own world. Our world is an enclave of life, life vitality and fertility. This is the dominion of death and desolation. Only malice will prosper here. This place is the dark reflection of our own land."

As though in disdain, a sudden scouring wind gusted, throwing up sheets of abrasive gray sand that covered the party in a thin patina of the repulsive bone dust. Only Lorio did not react with wild gestures of revulsion, but the others were too absorbed in their frantic efforts to brush away the corruption to notice the speculative gleam that had come into her eyes.

'Patience,' she advised herself with a slight smile. 'These fools lack the mettle to survive the ordeal which awaits them. One by one, they will fall victim to the evil that holds dominion here.'

As rapidly as it had commenced, the wind abated until it was capable only of raising a fine, shifting dust.

"Let's not tarry," Gillian suggested. "Myrhia's Morticants are still out there and they will be immune to even this place." The party members nodded their unanimous agreement and started westward again, applying all of their concentration to the basic process of movement so as to avoid the contemplation of where they now found themselves. Islena walked through the ankle deep detritus of death, a scowl of disgust tugging at her lips. Occasionally she would steal furtive glances over her shoulder, certain that she would soon see the hulking blue monstrosities converging upon the party. She imagined that she could feel Myrhia's sweet breath on the nape of her neck. Doraux shivered and quickened her pace

4

The man tossed fitfully one final time and sighing in resignation, he rose from his pallet, abandoning the futile attempt at sleep. He paced about the small confines of his tiny hut and then pushed through the flaps that served as a door, and stood gazing up at the brilliant night sky. In the velvet vault of the heavens, dazzling jewels burned in a seemingly endless array of constellations. There had been a time when those stars had seemed breathtakingly beautiful and benign, but of late, the night skies had appeared rife with obscure and disturbing portents and the promise that something wicked had caught his scent.

Artumas sighed heavily and began to descend the slope that would lead down to the great ocean's edge. When he reached the golden sands, he sat cross legged and peered out over the shimmering waters, briefly contemplating what might lay beyond the distant horizon. Once he had been possibly the most powerful ruler on the planet, universally respected by all good men and feared by rogues and miscreants. Now, he had become a forced recluse...a creature imprisoned in an endless cycle of monotonous days and empty, purposeless nights.

In the early days of his exile, he had feared that he would lose his mind. Solitude and inactivity were abrasive concepts to a man who had dedicated himself to reshaping his world. He had spent many brooding, miserable hours contemplating the circumstances that had culminated in his demise. Had there been any sign of Myrhia's imminent treachery? He could honestly not recall, but he knew that his judgment had been tragically clouded by enchantment. Through all of the soul searching, he could not recollect even the tiniest indication of the High Queen's seditious intent. She had conducted herself as an exemplary monarch and a devoted wife until the very night that she had usurped his throne and relegated him to this place where the permanence of sea and sky seemed to mock him for the short-lived, inconsequential creature he was.

Gradually, he had grown accustomed to this place. Its quiet solitude and beauty had slowly defused his anger and lulled him into a sedentary lifestyle that he once would have viewed with utter disdain. He had made an accommodation with his failure and had adapted until this enclave had become a lonely, yet idyllic paradise. Even loneliness could be surmounted once one accepted the unalterable reality of his situation and strove to make the best of the circumstances.

Time had passed in a languid flow of uneventful days and Artumas had developed a level of acceptance and tranquility that had mercifully numbed most recollections of what he had once been. This place had taught him how to be content and he had fully expected to live out the remainder of his life as a solitary farmer, gently fading beneath permanently blue skies.

Over the last few months, certain inexplicable occurrences hinted that this expectation would prove false. Restless fires had begun to burn in his soul, when he would have sworn that none would ever burn there again.

He had not spared the old world thought very often, reasoning that it would be destructive, but now memories of his old life seem to consume his thoughts. His sleep had been plagued by dark dreams of titanic battles between evil and good. The entire world was aflame in these nightmares and he was agonized to discover that it was Myrhia who fanned the fires of iniquity. One stranger stood against High Queen the woman of the first apocalyptic vision and the fate of worlds hung in the balance.

Artumas would awake from these terrifying nightmares with the unshakeable certitude that he would be drawn into the heart of conflict.

"That would be extremely be unwise, my love," a voice whispered sweetly from over his shoulder.

Artumas froze, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. Even after seven years of exile, he recognized the melodious strains of her lilting voice. Slowly, he rose and turned about to confront the lover who had betrayed him and usurped his throne.

She stood at the crest of the slope, dressed in a gown of green translucent material that she had always favored during their quiet, intimate moments. Around her shoulders hung an earth colored robe of a light material that he did not recognize.

"The years have been good to you," he remarked mildly, surprised by the lack of malice that he felt toward his usurper. She had changed not a whit, her beauty still ethereal in its magnitude. He mass of lustrous black hair spilled over one shoulder, held in place by a pearl and silver comb. It took him only a moment to realize that this had been her exact attire on the night that she had ensnared him with her sorcery. For a moment, he entertained the notion that this was nothing more than an illusion...another damnable anomaly to undermine his hard-won sense of contentment

His placid reaction to her dramatic appearance aroused a strange sense of vexation in the High Queen and she remarked derisively, "The years have not been generous to you, however, my king. You've grown old and passive."

Artumas merely spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness. Myrhia came slowly down the incline. "This is not an illusion and I am not a specter. I am the woman who betrayed you and usurped everything that you held sacred. Surely you must desire to extract some measure of revenge?"

Artumas shook his head and offered Myrhia a rather self-denigrating grin. "What would be gained by lashing out? I doubt that I possess the means to harm you even if I could muster the requisite anger to make the attempt."

"Always the philosopher," Myrhia snarled. "You possess no thirst for retribution, eh? Then you are the unimaginative fool that I always thought you to be." She began to circle the man, who had once been her most devoted husband, her glance sweeping up and down his slightly stooped form. "You are a broken man, Artumas."

He nodded. "I will not deny it. You wear the look of a predator well, Myrhia, and I can only assume that you have not come out of some sense of sentimentality or curiosity over how the years have treated me."

"There are great changes afoot in the world. My star is about to reach its zenith, but there are still those who conspire against me." She stopped, her expression darkening. "They seek you out to stand against me. I have come to admonish you to reject their solicitation...out of sentimentality if you will."

Artumas glanced away. "Would it truly matter, Myrhia? As you can plainly see, I hardly fit the mantle of leadership. I could no more lead an insurrection of the people than I could throttle you here and now."

She regarded him with eyes that shone with feigned pity. "It might have been kinder if I had killed you. To see you reduced to this state of impotence is truly painful."

Artumas gazed out at the ocean, his pale blue eyes twinkling speculatively. "I've often wondered why you didn't simply do precisely that."

Myrhia stopped before him and laid a tender hand upon his shoulder. Artumas stiffened. It had been seven years since he had been touched by another human being. "You are perhaps the one thing that I have truly loved. In this life and the others before it, I have never mastered my love for you. To see that time has created a pale shadow of your old self wrings my heart with sorrow. Our separation has cost me more than you could ever imagine."

Artumas pursed his lips. "I wonder if you are truly capable of love, Myrhia. Oh perhaps a possessive fondness, but not a genuine selfless love. I believe that vile ambition has leeched the last ounce of compassion from your heart. The capacity to give and receive unconditional love is contrary to your nature."

Myrhia recoiled and drew back her hand to strike the former king. He continued to regard her benignly making no move to defend himself. The enchantress faltered and lowered her hand. There had been no resentment in his judgment. She found herself trembling inside, dismayed to find that, even in his diminished capacity, Artumas had an attenuating affect on her resolve. The inviolable ward of ice that protected her immortal heart faltered momentarily and she found herself asking, "Have the years been cruel, Artumas? I selected this spot because I hoped that you would derive some small pleasure from your exile."

Artumas laughed, displaying a hint of bitterness for the first time. "I have survived, Myrhia." He paused, reluctant to do so, but still compelled to pose the question. "This woman, is she the embodiment of the other spirit that resides in my distant memory?"

There was a flash of bright jealously deep in the dark swirls of Myrhia's lovely eyes. Guardedly, Myrhia replied, "Perhaps...it surprises me that neither you nor she has any recollection of your past life. It would be in your best interest if those inklings remained precisely that."

"What have you wrought, Myrhia?" Artumas asked, dreading the answer and his complicity in whatever evil web she had weaved even if that complicity was a peripheral thing inspired by genuine love and devotion to a beautiful illusion.

"I have reached out and seized the destiny that is my right," Myrhia snapped contemptuously. "I have conquered the eastern continent and a vast portion of the west."

She noticed Artumas' expression of horrified incredulity and offered the former king a triumphant smile, relishing his disbelief. "I gain nothing through prevarication. The west has crumbled. The Jerhia are firmly beneath my heel and verdant Natzurdan is in flames. Precious Amberdias will have been reduced to a charred husk by now, I would imagine. Only sheer desperation has allowed Metocan to escape my scythe, but they have only delayed the inevitable."

As Artumas listened in stark astonishment, the enchantress described what she knew of the Coalition's diversion of the Hiberas.

"Do you not grasp the magnitude of your crime?" Artumas demanded, displaying genuine passion for the first time. "Is your soul so bereft of light that all sense of righteousness has been extirpated?"

"Spare me the sanctimonious tripe, my king," she sneered, deliberately addressing him in the manner that she had in the days before her treachery. "The distinction between you and I is one of method and ambition. You covet ultimate power as obsessively as I do. Yet, where you were forced to pander and compromise with others in the name of virtue and equality, I had the fortitude and conviction in my inherent destiny to reach out and seize my ordained birthright."

Artumas regarded her impassively. "Together, with those whom you have so casually destroyed, I forged a world in which notions of dignity and hope were attainable by even the most humble of peasants."

"An imbecile's undertaking. Look about you," she commanded, gesturing about the small section of beach and the hovel beyond. "This is your reward for seeking to elevate that lot of riff raff."

"It is enough," Artumas declared softly.

"You lie!" Myrhia exclaimed, seething with rage. "Or perhaps solitude has transformed you into a blithering moron who sees coal and deludes himself into believing he holds diamonds."

Artumas' placid expression did not falter. "It saddens me to see you resort to spitefulness Myrhia. You have eschewed limitless potential to live a life of consequence in favor of a petty tyrant's vain pursuit of power. Even if you could conquer all that there is to plunder, the inevitable day would arrive when you must gaze out over the spoils of conquest and face the stark realization that you have gained absolutely nothing of true value...nothing you can obtain by spite or malice can ward you against the desolation that will inexorably gnaw at your black heart"

"Never petty, my king," Myrhia retorted curtly, her limpid eyes flashing in a response which only he could provoke. "When my charter has been fulfilled, I shall be a veritable deity. The daughter of the tempest will find the Proclamations and lay them at my feet. Unlike the feeble, craven dolts that conceived them, I shall have the fortitude and imagination to utilize their absolute and unencumbered power."

'Daughter of the tempest?' The exotic and unsettling salutation detonated in his conscious thoughts with the magnitude of an exploding star, causing his vision to swim in and out of focus. The collective weight of a thousand lifetimes of accrued memory impacted upon his besieged mind in the mere span of seconds. The incomprehensible flood of memories overwhelmed Artumas and drove him to his knees on the strand of golden sand.

He clutched his forehead as if in fear that his cranium might explode and a strangled moan escaped his lips. He experienced a thousand combinations and permutations of the lives he had lived...grand passion and soaring euphoria invariably eclipsed by the dark shadows of tragedy. His struggle for prevailing dignity and universal justice was foiled again and again by the woman standing before him. She wore a thousand different skins...each incarnation stunning in its beauty as her vanity demanded...but beneath was the unchanging heart of a viper.

Between them stood the daughter of the tempest...the third eternal variable in their tragic drama. At the conclusion of each sorry variation of their recurring conflict, it had been the daughter of the tempest who tipped the scales against her iniquitous mother.

As his vision cleared, the panting Artumas gazed up at the creature standing expectantly before him. Drawing on a name from the myriad of memories, he ventured, "Morgana?"

Myrhia's mouth twisted into a grimace of revulsion...that name and corresponding recollections of failure it evoked were far too raw and livid to be given audience.

"Never call me that!" she growled menacingly. "The past is laid to rest." She made a broad sweeping gesture with her slender right arm. "This is the only reality that matters."

Artumas rose unsteadily to his feet, though now a new, heightened cognizance gleamed in his blue eyes. "All of this heartache and misery...an endless tide of tragic failure and still you persist in your accursed quest for dominion."

Artumas' eyes narrowed in speculation. "I never would have suspected that even you would have possessed such colossal audacity as to taunt providence. So this woman is your bane, then? Just as the son you bore me grew to be mine when last we crossed paths. Such unmitigated temerity as to believe that you could seduce the one who has been destined to destroy you. I'm astounded by your arrogance."

"I shall bring her to crawl at my feet, Artumas," Myrhia asserted with implacable confidence.

"Perhaps not," Artumas said distantly, recalling the beguiling green eyes of his dream. He glanced at the woman with whom he had once so joyously shared his bed. For the first time, his countenance became severe. "For your ilk, there seems to be no comprehension of virtue or loyalty. The notion that one could devote his life to the advancement of others is simply beyond your sensibilities. In the end, it has been this intrinsic flaw that has always been your undoing."

Myrhia scoffed contemptuously and gazed angrily out at the distant horizon where brilliant stars raced through the cosmos in accordance with the arcane master plan of their creator. Artumas stepped closer and she glared balefully at the former king, but remained silent. "I cared nothing of palaces or crown jewels or thrones. The throne was merely an institution through which I might implement the reforms that I knew to be so desperately necessary. The monarchy must stand as a symbol of enlightenment and compassion, not darkness and oppression. Nothing of enduring value has ever been wrought from tyranny."

"Noble platitudes," Myrhia growled and then spat a burst of sardonic laughter.

"Not platitudes, but a system of values that governed my every action, Myrhia. As you are incapable of recognizing the extent to which one might sacrifice himself on another's behalf, or the efficacy of selfless love, you are condemned to ultimate failure."

"And what would you have me do, my noble king?" The enchantress inquired mockingly. "Strive diligently to see the injustices of the world righted...feed every hungry, gaping mouth and put a coin in every trembling hand?"

"Renounce the path which you have chosen and set in motion the painful process of healing and undoing the evil that you have wrought," Artumas offered quietly.

Myrhia grunted in disgust and waved a dismissive hand. "You are truly a relic...a virtuous fool blindly hoping that the woes of the world will simply and conveniently vanish and that every demon might be vanquished by virtuous thought alone."

Artumas sighed wearily and turned toward the surf. From experience, Artumas knew that genuine discourse between human beings must spring from a common ground and a willingness to listen. Myrhia lacked the moral fabric to grasp any of the refined concepts he had so passionately espoused. For her, purity was a weakness to be regarded with contempt and disdain...its devotees subject to ridicule and persecution.

"This woman, what does she require of me?" Artumas asked, not really expecting Myrhia to respond.

Surprisingly, she explained, "She will ask you to help her find the remaining two Icons."

"The remaining two?" he echoed, quickly whirling about to confront the enchantress, his eyes conveying a genuine animation for the first time. "Are you suggesting that she has already located one?"

"The Jerhia sword is hers to wield," the enchantress disclosed.

"By the Gods!" Artumas exclaimed, at once horrified and jubilant. "Where did she locate this sword? How can you verify its authenticity?"

"The Ravers of Runesholm monastery had come into possession of the sword. I can personally assure you that this sword is the authentic article." Her expression appeared to falter with the remembrance of her brush with the weapon and then she declared. "Islena Doraux is the one of ancient prophecy. She is also the third side of our eternal triangle."

Something flickered in the former king's eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. His eyes narrowed as he regarded the High Queen with an expression that was infuriatingly close to pity. "Now I grasp the purpose of this bit of drama. You wish to dissuade me from assisting her in finding the last two Icons."

The enchantress grinned wickedly. "Precisely. Islena will come upon the Proclamations, but she must be drawn to them, not led to them by the noble Artumas. She will seek out the Proclamations, motivated by rage and an immutable thirst for vengeance...not out of the misguided desire to right the wrongs of the world in the name of justice."

Artumas frowned, the network of wrinkles around his eyes providing the illusion of age beyond his true years. "Even for you, this gamble is extravagant."

"Not extravagant, Artumas, but masterful," Myrhia contradicted. "Unlike the others, this woman is tempestuous and her soul is ambivalent. Hatred will corrupt and pervert our poor, addled Islena and in apotheosis, she will become my ultimate weapon...a virtually invincible thrall to my ambition"

"And you actually believe that she will fall into your service?" Artumas asked, a shadow of uncertainty falling across his brow.

Myrhia's grin became positively lustrous. "Why, my king, do you not believe me to be a serviceable villain? I have plumbed the depths of our beloved daughter's heart to unearth the malign hunger that gnaws at her soul."

The former king sagged despondently, staggered by the enormity of the enchantress' hubris. Myrhia scrutinized him closely, disturbed by the turbulent emotions that the very sight of this man could rouse in her dark soul. She ventured closer and again touched his shoulder, her expression softening. In the pale silver splendor of the moonlight, she appeared as bewitching as she had been the first time he had laid eyes upon her those long years before. When she spoke, her tone carried the unmistakable cadence of genuine affection. "If by some miracle, this expedition of fools should reach you, you must reject this woman outright. I have spared your life once, but should you force me into an intolerable position, I will not hesitate to take it now. I will not suffer ingratitude, Artumas."

Artumas looked down upon her impassively, displaying neither fear nor defiance. Myrhia held his gaze for a moment and then averted her eyes. "If only circumstances would allow things to be different. If the demands of fate and destiny would only grant us a brief respite where you and I could set aside our ambitions and intrinsic passions, we could share a most splendid moment."

"Even you, Myrhia, are not without your wistful yearnings," Artumas responded softly. "When you stood by my side in Emercia, I felt certain that we would help the world attain an age of enlightenment. How utterly devoid of warmth and purpose your existence must be."

The enchantress wanted to counter with a biting rejoinder, but found herself foiled by a torrent of discordant and painful emotions and suddenly discovered that her victories had not been without their indelible price. The pair remained silent for several moments; Artumas gazing up at the spectacular celestial display above him, while Myrhia stood down the beach from the former king, feeling intensely bitter. Suddenly, her face brightened and a mischievous twinkle stole into her eyes. "Artumas, there is no reason for you to continue to live this wretched existence. The world is mine. You could return to Emercia with me, perhaps even be installed upon the throne once the fighting has subsided. A simple pledge of fealty can end this exile."

Artumas gazed at the High Queen, his expression benign. "I have everything that I require here, my Queen."

"Indeed?" she snapped, loathing the childish petulance in her voice but powerless to prevent it. "Do you have this?"

In a sweeping motion, she pulled the gown away and stood naked before him. Artumas inhaled sharply. The years had occluded the memory of her enormous beauty, but now she stood brazenly before him, in her feminine glory, violently awakening feelings and sensations that had lain dormant for several years. He could feel himself straining to succumb to the temptation that was virtually irresistible in such close proximity. Summoning the strength of a higher virtue, Artumas spun about and strode to the water's edge, fighting to regain his composure. "You have nothing to fear from me, Myrhia. For all that we have shared over the long course of ages, I would make one earnest appeal to whatever spark of decency might yet burn in your soul. See the three of us for what we are...free of distortions and embellishments, legends and myths. Together, we three are the shadows of ruination that have left indelible scars on the histories of a thousand worlds. You are doomed to failure because it is inculcated into the very fabric of your being. Yet even as you suffer that inevitable moment where your machinations unravel, everything around you is laid to waste in the aftermath. From the moment of our deaths, we are compelled to the next terrible juncture of intersection, where the same sorrowful tragedy can commence afresh in another world...another reality. Through it all, you have obstinately refused to accept the salient truth...only you have the wherewithal to bring this eternal nightmare to an end. The daughter and I are really nothing but sad victims...constructs raised by the fates to give answer to your unmitigated evil...your boundless ambition."

He paused, his face twisted by age old torment. "She and I have no volition in the matter...where you come around in the river of time, we must inevitably follow. You, Myrhia, can bring an end to this ignoble farce by desisting...by renouncing the dark compulsions of your flawed nature. If you could find the mettle to renounce this damnable quest for dominion, the three of us could at last find peace."

The enchantress stared at his turned back in bitter incredulity, wounded by his rejection. The man's ability to wound her filled the High Queen with a profound terror and she briefly contemplated killing him, but found herself unable to do what prudence dictated she should. Silently, she mouthed his name, mystified by the sense of humiliation that this mindless need evoked. She was poised on the verge of omnipotence and yet this broken wretch of a man possessed the power to reduce her to tears. Gingerly, the enchantress brushed a tear from her cheek and regarded it with consternation.

When Artumas could again trusted himself to face Myrhia, he turned about to find that he was alone. A storm of emotion descended upon him then. Predominant among these was a wave of pity for a woman whose soul was utterly and desperately empty.

Chapter Fourteen

1

As the party slogged through the vast, purgatorial wastes, under skies of mirthless, unrelenting gray, Islena began to suspect that this place was deserted. Indeed, it was difficult to conceive of any form of life that could possibly flourish in such a sterile, inimical environment. Since the first moment that the group had set foot across the Hiberas, they had not found the slightest intimation of habitation...neither sound, nor spore.

Islena came abreast of Gillian. He glanced at her, his expression somber in the dull light. "This place is a frigid as a witch's heart," he remarked grimly. "I'm beginning to fear that this is a futile venture. The fear of what lay on this side of the Hiberas assumed many shapes down through the centuries, but never this.

Islena regarded the Jerhia closely, uttering a humorless laugh. "What's this...a pessimistic Jerhia?"

Gillian's only response was a dismal grunt and Islena grasped the depth of his dejection. "It is difficult to think that anything could live in this hell," she observed. "Even if there was some way to survive here, how could anyone stay sane for seven years?"

The Jerhia nodded thoughtfully. "This is indeed a place not conducive to mental health. Would it be advisable to turn back?"

Islena shook her head emphatically as though the very notion permeated her with dread. "This place could change. Maybe what we're in now is only some manner of buffer zone. Instinct tells me that when this place heats up, it's going to erupt like a volcano and we'll quickly come to miss the empty silence."

Gillian regarded her quizzically, perplexed by her metaphor. Seeing his confusion, Doraux began to laugh, not knowing how prophetic her cavalier quip would prove to be.

2

As Islena had predicted, the grim topography of the land of shades did begin to change, though the changes were so subtle that the party members failed to notice until Lorio abruptly stopped. A ponderous expression crossed her face and then she raised her staff and pointed at something in the shadows of the menacing trees.

Doraux followed Lorio's gaze, at first not seeing what had so agitated her friend. Then she spotted the sleek black, monolithic edifice hidden amongst the skeletal trees. A flicker of memory evoked images of another arcane structure and after a moment, the recollection of the needle of Perdwick leapt unbidden to her mind and evoked a vivid collage of images of Isindred, innocently beautiful and vulnerable, hanging lifelessly in her arms...Isindred, who had stepped into the knife that had been intended for her. Doraux found herself perilously close to paralyzing grief, but then closed her eyes until the sorrow and sense of loss abated to manageable levels.

"Look, there's another!" Arminda exclaimed as she stood with her crossbow raised before her. Islena inhaled sharply. The inevitable comparison between Isindred and Arminda drove another dull barb into Doraux's heart. If, by some miraculous disposition of fate, she managed to survive this horror, she realized that these graphic memories of grief and degradation would assail her for whatever life would remain to her...specters that would haunt her without surcease.

In all there were seven of the mysterious needles within the party's immediate range of view. Warily, the group slowly drifted over to the nearest structure that was only a fraction of the height of the one within the walled city of Perdwick. As the group approached the edifice, Islena could sense the general gathering of tension and expectancy, while oddly she felt as relaxed as this horrid place would allow.

For the first time, it occurred to her that this Icon was not without benefits. Aside from the immediate supply of vulgar power, the sword possessed the capacity to alert her to lurking danger. When faced with a threat, the sword began to oscillate against her thigh. Since the moment that she had first ventured across the river, the Icon had pulsed in a slow rhythmic manner that had not changed in the presence of these edifices.

"What can they be?" Emian wondered aloud. As one, the members came to a halt ten feet from the base of the edifice. Gillian meandered around the needle, guessing that the structure was perhaps twenty feet in diameter. Venturing cautiously closer, the Jerhia discerned that this was not the base of the edifice...that the ubiquitous gray bone meal had partially buried the structure over time.

Kneeling, he began to scoop away some of the gray powder, a moue of disgust forming on his angular face. Islena came to watch curiously and then knelt down to join the effort. When they had dug down to elbow depth, Gillian sat back on his haunches and pursed his lips. "It's impossible to estimate its depth, but it is likely that the entrance is buried beneath successive layers of this foul earth."

"No, there is no other way in," Islena pronounced. Gillian looked quizzically to his traveling companion, who was staring fixedly at the tower with a finger pressed pensively to her lips.

"You have some knowledge of these towers?" the Jerhia inquired, his eyes narrowing into speculative slits.

"There is a tower precisely like this one in Perdwick," she disclosed softly, gazing up at the tapered structure with its ebony smooth surface that stood to the dismal sky like a silent sentinel.

Emian looked questioningly to the Jerhia, who merely shrugged. Neither man had ever journeyed to the walled city. Nor had they ever heard tell of such a wondrous structure. Then one of the Imperial Troopers, a scout named Milton, stepped forward. "Such a tower does exist in the city of the Dead."

"What purpose does it serve?" Gillian demanded shortly, still finding it difficult to dispense with his aversion to his former enemies. The trooper shrugged, "That was never determined. There is no means of entrance into the tower and it was theorized that it had been erected to serve as a religious symbol or altar...possibly a crude instrument of time or astronomy. Whatever the reason for its existence, the High Queen issued a strict edict that the tower be left untouched."

Of the party, only Lorio had not come to hear the discussion. She continued to stare at the edifice as though hypnotized. A tight grin stretched across her face and her eyes gleamed. Yet, despite the suggestion of almost malicious satisfaction, her overall expression was one of vague trepidation.

"Whatever the purposes of its construction, the implications of its existence are mind boggling to contemplate," Emian declared, his translucent face animated with excitement. "If only there was more time," he remarked wistfully. "We have happened upon a most perplexing mystery, one that could force us to dispense with all of what we presumed about our own history. The existence of towers of identical design on both sides of the Hiberas would warrant a complete re-evaluation of the very foundations of our world's history."

When it seemed that some of the others did not grasp his hypothesis, Emian eagerly elaborated, "There is no body of knowledge pertaining to these towers and until today, absolutely nothing was known of the realm of shades. It was thought that no mortal had ever trod upon this accursed ground and yet we have discovered towers that are identical to the one which stands in Perdwick."

"Don't you see...the tower is a concrete refutation of the prevailing theory? The towers were obviously erected by the same society of builders, the same culture, though their purpose remains obscure. It follows that this was once habitable land, occupied by a culture whose influence extended all the way to the eastern continent through the cornerstone nations."

"And yet it vanished without a trace, save for these mysterious towers," Gillian declared, completing the thought, albeit with a trace of skepticism that Emian failed to perceive.

"Precisely!" the Metocan exclaimed...his eyes gleaming at the prospect of an entire new body of knowledge to be explored. "By the Gods, the enormity of this discovery is inexpressible. Do you not see? This means that the Land of Shades did not always exist, but evolved into being...or was created by some unimaginable cataclysm that predated our known history."

Islena watched the exchange, only half hearing the animated banter of theories. She wanted to berate the group for squandering valuable time as the solution to the world's peril would not be found in the exploration of antiquities, but decided to hold her tongue. It was impossible to guess at the convoluted path that present events might follow and it was not improbable to think that these cryptic towers might play a consequential role in the outcome of her odyssey.

"It is possible that some clue to the riddle might be found within the tower itself," Emian was saying, to which Rioth, the elder Natzurdan, nodded his agreement.

"For all that we know the tower could well be a solid construction," The Jerhia pointed out. Like Islena, he was fascinated by the mysterious structure, but was unwilling to expend a great deal of time investigating its arcane riddle. The possibility of pursuit by the Morticants was never far from his mind.

"This is also true, but perchance Metocan prescience can determine as much," Emian remarked, before closing his eyes and bowing his head. As Doraux looked on, the elder Metocan's features went slack and she correctly deduced that his spirit had been projected out of his body. The mere thought of ephemeral departure caused Doraux to shiver with revulsion. To actually separate body and soul would leave one in an intolerably vulnerable position, or so she imagined.

After several moments the Metocan raised his head and opened his limpid eyes, which were narrowed in consternation. "The material of the tower is impermeable, even to an intangible entity...which in itself seems virtually impossible."

"Let's move on then," Gillian insisted. "There will be time in the future to explore such mysteries, but we have much to do to insure a future of any kind."

The party members expressed their general agreement and set about preparing to resume their trek. Both Rioth and Emian lingered for a moment, each gazing longingly at the tower which stubbornly refused to yield its secrets. Abruptly, the Natzurdan strode to the tower where he laid the flat of his palms upon the smooth surface which was cool and without texture.

Islena had been moving away, keeping pace with the seemingly indefatigable Lorio, when the Dragonsword began to vibrate against her thigh.

"Trouble!" she exclaimed automatically and tore the Icon from its scabbard, eyes scanning the horizon for some sign of menace.

Deep in the bowels of the earth, a low guttural rumble began to build until Islena could feel its power shaking her bones, viscera and the long muscles of her thighs. The rumbling continued to swell until it seemed that the entire world must be trembling beneath its fury. Arminda cried out and was sent sprawling, her crossbow flying in the opposite direction. Doraux bellowed and attempted to move to help the Jerhia, but the sheer force of the upheaval made coordinated movement impossible. She collapsed to one knee but planted the sword in the gray dirt to prevent from tumbling onto her face.

Rioth was desperately attempting to pull his hands free of the massive tower, but found that they had adhered to the ebony stone. The other Natzurdan literally crawled to his side and hauling himself upright, tried to pull the other man free, but to no avail.

'An earthquake!' Doraux thought. 'This has to be an earthquake.' Bearing down, she struggled to her feet as the rumble changed to a shrill braying that set Doraux's teeth to chattering. When it seemed certain that every eardrum must surely burst, the strident, cacophonous shrieking suddenly stopped, replaced by a brooding, expectant silence fraught with deadly tension. This vast silence was a sharp counter point to the sound of Rioth's frantic effort to free himself from the tower's grip.

"By the Gods!" Gillian brayed, in a tone which suggested both wonder and horror. Doraux followed his frantic gaze and gasped. All about the party, huge black forms were pushing themselves out of the sterile gray dirt. Transfixed in astonishment, Islena recognized that the emerging forms were giant beetles. The bodies of the massive scarabs were polished ebony, very much like the surface of the needle that they had evidently arisen to defend. The pincer like mandibles protruded from black heads while deadly serrations rose from the armor plated backs like monstrous battle axes.

"The tower has somehow summoned these things," Emian observed. "Perhaps whatever force that resides within believes we pose a threat of some sort. Perhaps a display of benevolence is in order."

"I doubt that these monsters have any interest in friendship or rational discourse," Gillian remarked dryly and drew his sword that felt dreadfully inadequate in the face of the advancing menace.

Brandishing the Icon tightly, Islena subconsciously began to retreat from the nearest horror that converged upon her on six long, chitinous legs. The things movements were ponderous and scrabbling, yet Islena refused to be lulled by its apparent clumsiness.

"Draw off into pairs," Gillian commanded. Gesturing toward the three Imperial Troopers, he instructed "Form a protective ring about Rioth." The three exchanged hesitant glances and then moved to comply. Islena backed up and Lorio quickly moved to stand beside her. Staff drawn, the Lamish woman confronted the menace without the slightest hint of apprehension. Watching her, Doraux could not help but be envious of Lorio's composure in the face of such terrifying adversaries.

More and more of the horrors were slowly pushing their way out of the shifting dirt. The air was abuzz with their maddening, insectile chatter. Arminda recovered her equilibrium and was the first to nock her weapon and fire. The bolt snapped from the crossbow and cut the air like a scythe, but could find no purchase on the ebony carapace plating. The shaft snapped and fell to the ground in a discouraging puff of dirt. Arminda flicked her glance to Gillian, her eyes filled with dawning horror. The Jerhia beamed a reassuring grin and advised her, "The skulls are invulnerable. Aim for the eyes."

Arminda nodded and dropped deftly to one knee, training her weapon on the gleaming red eye of the nearest beetle. Fetching a deep breath, she let the bolt fly. The deadly tip drove directly into the vulnerable orb and the beast reared up on its hind legs, emitting a mewling squeal that caused Islena to grimace. The girl allowed herself a momentary shout of celebration and immediately fired again, loosing a rapid volley that struck the advancing ranks with uncanny accuracy.

Soon a dozen of the monstrosities were reeling near the tower's base in repulsive jigs of agony, colliding into each other and lashing out with mindless rage. Yet, even as these fell, more and more emerged to take their place and it soon became apparent that the group would inevitably be overrun if some drastic reversal of fortune did not soon intervene to save the party.

Around Islena and Lorio, the advancing ranks of beetles had close ranks to encircle the pair. Their red eyes glowed malevolently and their mandibles snapped together with an ugly grating sound that reminded Islena of grinding steel plates. Watching the stolid approach of the horrors, Islena realized that she was paralyzed with fright, just as she had been when she and Amrand had been attacked by Myrhia's fire bat. Of all the possible menaces that she had faced, magic was the one that still succeeded in reducing her to immobilizing terror.

Seeing Islena's rigidity and sensing her fear, Lorio growled, "You must find the courage to fight or the lot of us will provide a feast for these monsters. The Icon is our only chance."

With this, she sprang forward and launched herself at the nearest beetle thrusting the lethal end of her quarterstaff directly into the beast's open maw. A thick jet of black ichor streamed from its mouth, spattering Lorio, who grunted in revulsion, but retained the presence of mind to pull her staff free and dart away before the pincer jaws could close around her tiny waist.

While in Othgol, the Lamish woman had employed her idle time to augment the killing potential of her weapon, by fitting a metal razor-edged sleeve over the spatulated end of her staff. Taking full advantage of her natural agility, Lorio darted forward and delivered a furious chopping blow that cleanly severed the nearest beast's left mandible. The thing collapsed onto its side, legs frantically kicking at the air.

Lorio shot Islena a smoldering glance that might have been either encouragement or disdain and turned to confront the next beetle. Doraux watched Lorio, amazed by the deftness and ferocity of the Lamish warrior's attack.

'There are simply too many,' she thought despairingly. Then her glance was drawn to the sword which hung limply in her hand, forgotten. The Dragon's eyes seemed to glare up at her as if to say, "We have entrusted you with the wealth of our culture. Has that faith been misplaced?"

Just then, one of the beetles struck her with a glancing blow that sent her sprawling onto her face. The force of the impact dislodged the sword. Doraux shook her head and pushed herself to her feet, dazedly gazing about to locate the Dragonsword and frantic when she discovered that it seemed to have vanished beneath the loose bone meal.

The beetle scrabbled toward her, pincers clicking in anticipation. Islena detected its approach and instinctively rolled directly into its path. Before the surprised creature could react, Islena was between its legs and then behind it, immediately throwing herself to her left to avoid being impaled by a second beast.

Lorio was suddenly at her side, imposing herself in the path of a particularly large charging scarab, while pushing the unarmed Islena behind her.

"Summon the sword with your mind, damn you!" Lorio snarled and then charged forth to engage the beetle. Doraux cursed her stupidity under pressure and then closed her eyes, imploring the sword to come to her. Then she extended her arm and opened her eyes...immediately deducing that closing her eyes was an unnecessary step in the summoning process, one that could well have cost her life as the creatures swarmed towards her.

The Icon literally exploded from the sterile gray earth in a blinding burst of vermilion light accompanied by a fulminating rumble. Spinning as though for reference, the icon sped toward Islena and slapped into her waiting palm...immediately suffusing her body with limitless puissance. Uttering an ululating cry, Islena Doraux waded into the midst of the beetles letting her unleashed fury direct her attack. In a dervish of steel, fire and muscle, the blade shattered the thick skulls of the beetles as though they were no more substantial than rice paper. Thick black jets of Ichor spattered Doraux, but she was oblivious to the gore, just as she was immune to the piteous cries of the beetles in their frenetic death throes.

Islena's powerful muscles bulged and rippled with unmitigated puissance as she went about dispensing death. Though she was unaware of her expression, her face was set in a ferocious grin as though this whirlwind of decimation filled her with ineffable joy.

Slowly, but inexorably, the horrors began to scatter before the remorseless thresher as Islena attempted to fight her way over to the embattled Jerhia. Arminda had long since expended the last of her bolts and could now only attempt to evade the snapping pincers while Gillian fought frantically to protect the young archer.

Discerning the severity of the Jerhia's peril, Islena uttered a piercing shriek and began to sprint forward, slashing and hacking wildly at the beetles. Several times she narrowly avoided the questing jaws, but a deeper instinct directed her every action. In later reflection, Islena came to understand that this instinct was derived more from the collective Jerhia consciousness than from her own mind.

Exhausted from her perpetual movement, Arminda's legs became tangled and she fell heavily onto her back. In the blink of an eye, one of the beetles pounced on the defenseless woman. Unleashing a burst of desperate speed, Islena vaulted over the prone Jerhia and planted the Dragonsword in the point of the thing's bulbous head. The sheer force of the blow caused the beetle to explode, covering the two women in viscous Ichor.

Beneath Doraux, Arminda began to shriek in revulsion. Quickly, dispassionately, Islena slapped the girl across the face, forehand and backhand hard enough to bloody the girl's nose. The girl glanced up at Doraux in shock as Doraux growled, "We're still alive. Don't you dare give up!"

Dawning comprehension filled Arminda's eyes and she nodded briskly as Islena pulled the smaller woman to her feet. "Stay directly behind me."

The girl complied meekly. Mouth twisted in a lunatic grin, face spattered with ichor, Doraux turned to resume her attack like a non-stop engine of death. As she fought her way forward, she cried over her shoulder, "Gillian, we must reach the tower. I think that it is serving as a beacon for the beetles."

Gillian chanced a glance at the dark tower which continued to reverberate, emitting a piercing siren's call. There was definite credence to Islena's observation and so he followed Islena, skillfully hacking and slashing at the probing jaws. The master swordsman moved with the litheness of a dancer, while striking with the savagery of a natural killer, though his weapon was not equal to the task of piercing the ebony carapaces, thus reducing the Jerhia to parrying defensive maneuvers.

At the base of the tower, the beleaguered Imperial Troopers fought desperately to hold the beetles at bay. Emian stood behind the three, attempting to shield the troopers with an assortment of magical spells. Against the tower, Rioth was still struggling to free himself from the accursed stone while his adept could only gaze about in utter bewilderment and gape-jawed terror.

Here, the creatures seemed more tenacious in their efforts to negate the perceived threat to the ebony tower. Conversely, the Imperial Troopers were cavalry members and thus not accustomed to fighting in the fashion of foot soldiers. The mindless ranks of beetles pushed forward, oblivious to the fire bursts or the slashing blades.

Finally, one of the beetles managed to avoid a direct thrust and succeeded in catching one of the troopers in its mandibles. It lifted him screaming from the ground, while the other two could only gaze on in horror. With a flexing of jaws, the beetle shattered the trooper's ribcage and a great gout of dark heart blood spewed from his mouth, muffling his wail of agony.

The beast's malefic red eyes flared, spearing the trooper with twin shafts of fire. Once the Emercian was totally engulfed in flames, the monster simply allowed him to drop to the gray dirt. This new manifestation of power instilled panic in the remaining two troopers, who searched desperately for some means of escape.

Islena watched the immolation and understood that the entire party was in danger of being similarly consumed if something drastic did not occur soon.

One of the beetles surged forward and attempted to catch the Metocan in its jaws, but the deadly pincer closed on thin air as Emian materialized some ten feet from the baffled monster.

Doraux abruptly turned and propelled Arminda into Gillian's arms. "Protect her. I'm going to try to reach the tower."

With this simple pronouncement, she was gone, leaving Gillian to contend with a solid wall of snapping mandibles. Perhaps thirty yards further out, the hybrid carried on her solitary battle with the monsters. At one point in the fray, one of the monsters managed to pull the quarterstaff out of Lorio's hands. Shortly thereafter, another caught her tiny waist in a death grip, exerting a pressure that would have killed a normal mortal within seconds.

It was mere child's play to alter her density until her body was as unyielding as granite. The beetle unleashed a burst of flame that had no effect upon Lorio's inured flesh. Bathed in a fiery corona, Lorio threw back her head and began to laugh, euphoric over her newfound invulnerability. When the inevitable moment of conflict arrived wouldn't Islena be utterly shocked?

Reaching down, she caught hold of the beast's jaws and slowly, but inexorably pulled them apart until she was able to vault clear. She briefly toyed with the notion that this might be the ideal opportunity to take Doraux, but then three more of the beetles rushed at her and she was forced to turn her full attention back to the fray.

Islena dodged and ducked, stopping to deliver an explosive blow only when her path was insurmountably blocked. Taking three long strides, she hurled herself forward, actually somersaulting over the beast that had imposed itself between her and the tower.

Even in the heat of battle, a small analytical part of Islena's consciousness became acutely aware of yet another fascinating aspect of the relationship between the icon and the woman who wielded it. She was cognizant of the fact that her actions were being directed by the Jerhia collective consciousness. The icon had actually assessed her full inventory of physical capabilities and then utilized them as the situation demanded...the acrobatic somersault being a case in point. This startling insight was not without its troubling implications.

The pair of troopers were relenting ground quickly now and their perspiration-soaked faces shone with gratitude at the alien woman's appearance. Without sparing them a glance, she rushed toward the ebony edifice. Raising the sword over her head, she spread her mind to the innate power of the Dragonsword. Then, with no regard for the possible consequences, she brought the weapon down in a whistling arc.

The blade struck the ebony stone with a bone-jarring reverberation and a tremendous eruption of sparks. The unleashed puissance enveloped the entire structure in a refulgent vermillion glow.

Rioth bellowed a shrewish scream and his hands came free in an acrid burst of smoke. The eldritch smell of burnt flesh filled Islena's nostrils, but she managed to subjugate her revulsion and deliver another thunderous blow to the stone.

The beetles reacted to Doraux's assault on the inanimate stone with fits of apoplexy...rearing and mewling like animals trapped in a fire.

Islena ignored the horrible cacophony and unleashed a series of blows in a blurred frenzy. Each time that the indestructible blade would strike the unyielding stone, vermilion bolts of pure energy would arc into the gray sky.

There followed a deafening crash and then a maze of cracks appeared on the surface of the ebony tower. Islena was preparing to deliver the one final blow that she felt certain would disintegrate the structure to dust when the peaked top suddenly exploded and a shadow burst up into the dull sky.

"Enough!" a titanic voice thundered and the horde of beetles fell obediently still and silent.

Islena stepped back and peered up at the wondrous creature floating high above her. Glancing over her shoulders, she saw that the others were all frozen in similar postures of rapt wonder. Even the mindless beetles had halted their relentless attack on the party to gaze up at the improbable creature hovering effortlessly above them.

With an audible flap of graceful wings, the figure descended, finally coming to hover some ten feet above Islena's head. In general shape, the figure was that of a man, though its body was framed by delicate wings that ran from the top of his massive deltoids to the point of its ankles. As he hovered, these lovely wings would flap in a gentle, undulating motion that reminded Islena of a flag being driven by a light breeze. Alternating ridges of black and rich gold converged upon the creature's abdomen. His golden face was a beautiful arrangement of angles, dominated by golden eyes that were now focused directly upon Islena and the smoldering Dragonsword.

For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic flapping of the creature's wings. Despite its dramatic appearance, Islena found that she was neither afraid nor anxious. It was difficult to reconcile the notion that something so angelically lovely could be in any way menacing. A vivid image of the ethereal Myrhia leaped into her mind as if to refute this foolish bit of prejudice, causing Doraux to shiver.

Then the figure began to speak.

Chapter Fifteen

1

"Who are you that you would dare to assail my domicile?" the creature demanded in a voice that was melodic and compelling, though strident with outrage.

Islena did not respond, though she did lower the Icon ever so slightly. Despite its stern tone, there was a playful resonance to its voice which intimated that this stranger was not predisposed to violence. His piercing gaze swept over the collection of motley adventurers, settling briefly on Lorio before coming to rest on Islena.

"A mere group of mortals, then?" he quipped. "Has the species so devolved that you are no longer capable of spoken communication?" Pointing to Doraux, he demanded "Woman, why have you attempted to destroy my tower?"

Islena's green eyes flashed at his imperious tone and his implied denigration of women. "My name is Islena and I am destroying your tower to prevent these monsters from slaughtering us."

The creature smiled and suddenly spiraled up into the sky, where he surveyed the field of battle. Seconds later, he floated back down to Doraux, regarding her with a speculative gleam in his inhuman eyes. "How did you deduce that their attack was connected to my tower?"

Islena shrugged and sheathed the weapon. "It was fairly obvious. The things seemed more interested in reaching the tower than in actually killing us."

The creature gave no immediate response, instead floating slightly away from Islena. It then emitted a high, insectile chatter and the beetles abruptly burrowed back down into the dirt, dragging scores of their dead after them. The thing frowned at the detritus that was spread over the field as though he was offended by the patches of thick ichor that had sullied the sterile earth.

As Doraux watched, his golden eyes widened and twin shafts of light leapt from their curving surface, spearing the corpses of the large beetles that had yet to be dragged away. Each shaft spread from carcass to carcass like an iridescent web. The party members shielded their eyes from the intense glare and when the heat had abated, the carcasses had vanished without a trace.

"A pity really," The creature reflected with genuine regret. "These beasts are a loyal lot."

"Who are you?" Doraux inquired. The creature turned to face her, spread its wings and executed a graceful somersault, coming to ground with a flourish of a bow.

"I am Sormias," he declared grandly, his tone intimating that his identity should have been common knowledge. When the party members did not respond with recognition, his expression became pained. "Surely you have heard tell of me?"

"I'm afraid that we haven't," Islena replied, glancing to the others who merely shook their heads.

"Quite frankly, Sormias, we are not even certain what manner of being you might be," Emian ventured, clearly fascinated by the marvelous creature.

Now Sormias appeared positively affronted. "I am a Golgar. How could it be that you do not know this? From what tribe have you strayed?"

"I am from Metocan," Emian disclosed. Indicating Gillian, he announced, "He is a Jerhia and these two gentlemen are Natzurdan. The remaining members are from the eastern continent, while this special lady is a guest in our world."

Sormias considered what he had been told, his unsettling, incisive gaze falling squarely upon Islena. "These Lands are not familiar to me. Perhaps I have been dormant longer than I had ever imagined."

"Why did the monsters attack our party?" Islena demanded coldly, recalling how the Imperial Trooper had suffered a gruesome, fiery death in the clutching mandibles of a scarab.

"The beasts are tasked with the protection of my tower," Sormias said, gesturing toward the badly damaged structure. "Each tower is occupied by a Golgar and each occupant has devised a means of protecting his place of rest. I selected the beetles because they are dull witted but obedient creatures. I might also say that there are others of my ilk who might have responded less amiably to such a rude awakening. Fortunately, I am naturally gregarious. I confess that it has been centuries since last I flew the thermals. Evidently much has changed in the world."

Gillian and Emian exchanged puzzled glances. There was a child like aspect about the creature. "Why are these towers here?"

"That is a long and dramatic tale," he sighed elaborately and then his mood became pensive and somber. "There was a glorious period in history when we Golgar were supreme. Our reach extended the width and breadth of both continents. Mortals were filthy, primitive beasts then, cowering in the trees like animals...sly things that would quail and flee at the very sight of one of our kind."

He noticed the general stony receptions to his reception of human ancestors and quickly added, "Don't fret. I mean no disrespect. Your species was simply in its infancy then and obviously has evolved since the time that we held court. I can also assure you that we were benevolent in our dealings with the lower species. It's essential to understand the nature of the times. The skies were ours then and consequently so were the lands below us. Often, our interactions with humans were amicable and amusing diversions."

He glanced about then and as his eyes swept over the dismally bleak landscape, his alien features rippled with distaste. "The world was a veritable paradise then, unsullied by vile, self serving ambitions. Greenery, so lush as to be painful to behold, dazzled the five senses. Of all of nature's triumphs, we were perhaps her greatest."

Sormias grew pensive then and Islena could sense that the inevitable moment of disillusionment was about to follow. Sadly, she wondered if every great accomplishment must invariably be accompanied by sinking despair. Then the Golgar resumed his narrative, his lovely voice grew heavy. "Alas, no true contentment can last if there is no corresponding sense of permanence. All true happiness must give way to dejection...such is the way of nature."

"Eventually, the earth began to sicken and its inhabitants were afflicted with diseases of envy, enmity and thirst for conquest. As we watched in bewilderment, your fledgling kind was poisoned by the killing disease. The entire world became embroiled in a serious of spiteful, bitter conflicts...ugly vicious struggles between petty tyrants, erupting at the slightest provocation, real or imagined."

"As the frenzy spread, a legion of lost souls, desperate for salvation, yet unable to obtain that which they sought, wandered the earth in search of some minute redemption. At the height of the madness, the Gods intervened. They divided the world; partitioning its fertile expanses between the living and the restless dead. This place, once so lovely as to be breathtaking, became a dominion of the dead. The dispossessed, the unrepentant and the wayward were consigned to this land which quickly spoiled for their coming, decaying into the sterile purgatory which you now see. To prevent these restless creatures from intruding upon the land of the living, the omniscient Gods created the river of fire. If a mortal attempts to cross over, he may be consumed in fire and if one of the malign inhabitants of this wretched demesne should attempt to venture across, he would merely be repelled."

"So you are saying that it is human misdeed that inspired the creation of this horrid place?" Emian asked.

"Lamentable but true," Sormias confirmed with an elaborate sigh. "Your kind appears to possess an inherent need to wreak havoc upon everything it encounters. It is my personal theory that this is a trait unique to your species" Islena experienced a sudden but intense wave of shame, and glancing at the others, found that she was not the only one to be touched by sorrow over the world that her kind had wrought.

"The earth eventually absorbed the misery and bitterness of these condemned occupants and the verdant paradise gradually sickened and died. We Golgar suddenly found ourselves stranded in this purgatory, exiled with the restive spirits and shambling horrors. One need only glance at the Golgar to know that we are creatures of elegant beauty and refinement. This wretched place was an affront to our flawless magnificence."

Islena found herself unable to suppress the grin that accompanied the hearing of such unrestrained vanity expressed with such gravity. Sormias notice her amusement and demanded sharply, "Do you find this tale amusing, woman?"

"Not at all," Islena offered seriously and redoubled her effort to suppress her grin. "Please continue."

The creature continued to glare at Islena for a moment, but then his naturally playful nature reasserted itself. "A great conclave was held and it was decided that we could no longer suffer this horrendous existence. We could not escape to the east, nor could we continue to dwell with these wretched spirits and so a consensus was reached that we must pass into hibernation until the spirits were laid to rest and the sour earth purged its poison. These great towers were constructed to serve as requiems for our dormant bodies until the moment of awakening came."

He paused and eyed the party members as a contemplative twinkle dawned in his golden eyes. "Not only have you roused me from my slumber, but you have effectively demolished my resting place in the process."

"We apologize, but we were honestly left with little choice," Islena remarked with as much commiseration as she could muster.

"I suppose you're right," Sormias sighed. "Your very presence here suggests that something of great consequence has transpired in the living world...that the river no longer serves its intended purpose."

Islena looked to Gillian, who nodded for her to proceed. As succinctly and dispassionately as she could, Doraux grinned and recounted the tale of her coming to this world and many of the things that had befallen her since her arrival. She deliberately omitted the details of her own personal degradation and the death of Amrand in the dungeons.

Sormias listened intently, occasionally interrupting to pose a question. He seemed fascinated, even transfixed by this mortal tale of warfare, treachery and intrigue. He seemed particularly absorbed by Myrhia this solitary Queen of iniquity who had driven the world to the edge of the abyss.

"And this Queen, this Myrhia, she wields enough power to vanquish entire nations of sorcerers and skilled warriors?" he inquired, clearly skeptical that such a thing might be possible.

"She is invulnerable; impervious to any force that we are capable of bringing against her," Emian confirmed, "Hers is an unparalleled might that is without precedent in this world."

"Truly?" Sormias remarked. "This Myrhia is a most intriguing creature then."

"Don't be seduced by the glamour of her evil," the Metocan cautioned. "The woman is a remorseless killer. Beneath her beautiful veneer, Myrhia is the personification of evil in its most foul and base form. Hers is an ambition without compunction or constraint."

"Still, this party is all that stands between this Queen and the realization of her dark ambition." Pointing to Doraux, he asked, "All hope hinges upon this single woman?"

Emian nodded solemnly and Sormias lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Doraux could only guess at the thread of his thoughts. Something suddenly occurred to her and she asked excitedly, "Does a great ocean exist somewhere to the west?"

He glanced at her and then nodded. "Why, yes, with waters as green and pristine as emeralds. The ocean is so vast that even the Golgar have no notion of what might lie beyond."

"How far?" she demanded, though a measure of reluctance echoed beyond the edges of her words.

"For me...perhaps a week of constant flight." Pity played at the corners of his lips. "For one not blessed with the gift of flight, it well might take the cycle of a moon or more to reach the west. This king, do you believe that he is alive in this horrid place?"

"We have no alternative but to cling to the frail hope that he is," Islena admitted.

Sormias threw back his head and laughed then. "Mortals are precious. You predicate your entire wretched existence upon every slight chance, pursuing pipe dreams with the unthinking tenacity of one of my beetles. Despite your bumbling mismanagement of your lives and your wanton appetite for destruction and the flaws of your character, the relentless pursuit of the impossible has always attracted me to your kind. It is...endearing in its own ingenuous way, though also ineffably sad."

Coming to stand before Islena, Sormias gazed into her eyes and demanded, "If you should find this king and consolidate these mythical powers, is it your intention to confront this evil Queen?"

Islena nodded solemnly.

"That would be a spectacle truly worth witnessing," Sormias reflected eagerly and Islena understood that he had no comprehension of the gravity of the situation.

'I was right,' she realized. 'This creature is like a child.'

He glanced at the fractured stone of his tower and then back to Islena. "I would like to escort you on the remainder of your journey. I believe I could contribute a host of worthy talents to your efforts."

"There is no need." It was Lorio who had spoken. She had taken her place beside Islena like a protective shadow. Her tone was adamant and almost brutally curt. Her decidedly antagonistic posture conjured up images of their first days of traveling with Gillian, causing Islena to fetch a wary sigh. Lorio's acrimony towards the stranger was not without its legitimate justification, but it could certainly grow tedious after a time.

Sormias glanced at Lorio, offering the brooding beauty a knowing smile. Then he returned his attention to Islena. Not only could Lorio's instinctive mistrust of strangers could grow tiresome but Islena wondered if the Lamish woman's perspective could be so jaundiced that she was blind to the obvious benefits that a creature such as the Golgar could provide. Patiently, she turned to confront her friend. "Lorio, Sormias' knowledge of this place is invaluable and something that we desperately need. His power of flight can help guide us and forewarn us of the dangers. It would be foolish to reject his offer of aid."

Lorio scowled. The presence of a creature with the power of flight would only make her task all the more difficult. Still, she realized that Islena was resolved to allowing him to accompany the party and vehement protest might well rouse suspicion. "Of course, you are right," she conceded quietly, nearly choking on her gesture of deference. "He could only be an asset to our quest."

Islena beamed a grateful smile and then turned to the others. "Are there any other objections?"

When none were forthcoming, she turned to the Golgar and said, "It's official. I guess you're a party member, but I feel compelled to warn you that you've made a powerful enemy."

Sormias grinned and clapped his hands together in delight. "I've always loved adventure. I believed that I've awakened at precisely the right moment. Yes, the right moment indeed."

2

Gillian entertained the notion of resuming the trek westward at once, but the listless sky rapidly began to darken and he decided that it might be prudent to remain here until morning returned in all its dingy glory. Other than the reluctance to travel at night in this accursed place, the Jerhia felt compelled to allow the Emercians adequate time to bury their fallen comrade. There were certain traditions of courtesy that even he was unwilling to breech. Though his avowed enemy up until scant days before, the Emercian had fought valiantly and died an honorable death and thus deserved no less.

Islena greeted the news with a frustrated grunt and Lorio merely stalked off in disgust, seeing little value in extending courtesy to a people whom she regarded as mortal enemies and shiftless traitors.

Twirling her deadly staff to relieve her mounting frustration, Lorio ascended a short incline and disappeared into the shadows. It was customary for Lorio to detach herself from the group and so no one reacted even though the party had encamped in a hostile, mysterious wasteland. The sudden and dramatic appearance of the damnable Golgar complicated her agenda. Dealing with the mortals was not a particularly intimidating problem, but this flying creature was another matter entirely. His demonstration in disposing of the dead beetles proved that he possessed formidable power...abilities that she could well be forced to contend with when the moment to abduct Islena finally presented itself.

If he decided to intervene when Lorio finally made her move to seize Islena, her situation could be all the more perilous and complicated. She silently berated herself for not acting long before the coalition enacted its desperate ruse.

There was a sudden whisper in the dull air and Lorio wheeled about to find the very source of her consternation floating to ground like a feather in an eddying breeze. The hybrid scowled, raising her staff defensively, to which the Golgar only smiled amicably.

"I prefer to be alone," Lorio announced coldly, her withering glare matching her frigid tone.

"Indeed?" Sormias replied with a chuckle that grated on her nerves. "I would suspect that you have very little in common with the other traveling companions."

"I have no idea what you're implying," she growled. "And I have little patience with riddles."

"Unfortunate. I, myself, am an ardent game player. I love a puzzle and you are a veritable puzzle embodied. You are not like the others and I sense the precise nature of that difference...though not the underlying purpose."

Lorio was about to simply deny the allegation, but the knowing expression on the creature's handsome face rendered any such denial pointless. "If you discern what it is that makes me different, then you'll realize that it is not wise to trifle with me or interfere with my intentions when I choose to disclose them."

She glared at the Golgar, who grinned all the wider for her belligerence. "I have no desire of interfering with your machinations. Consider me to be nothing more than a fascinated spectator or a declared neutral."

Lorio continued to gaze at Sormias for several seconds longer. "You are dangerous, I think. I have no idea how or why, but I think that this facade of benevolence might well mask something considerably more menacing."

"Possibly," Sormias agreed. "If so, you and I share common secrets."

"You'll do well to remember what Islena said...obstructing my purpose will earn you the wrath of powerful enemies."

"I do believe that you speak of treachery," Sormias intoned sharply, though his smile broadened as though treachery was just another delicious aspect of a compelling drama.

Lorio glowered and turned away. Sormias looked after her, the grin slipping from his face to be replaced by a contemplative frown.

A harrowing shriek tore the tense silence and Lorio was by the Golgar in an instance, springing back toward the others. Sormias gazed after the woman, perplexed by the emotions that radiated from the hybrid like heat from a pyre. Something alien and immensely intriguing had been implanted in the woman's heart and she was now embroiled in a savage battle to extricate herself from its pall. He wondered if she was even aware of her own ambivalence, her own torn nature.

Shrugging with cavalier indifference, he took wing and spiraled up into the dull twilight to see what new peril had befallen this motley band of adventurers. As he did, it occurred to him that it might prove fascinating to meet this creature's mistress.

3

It had been Arminda who had loosed the harrowing screams that had ended the tense confrontation between Lorio and the Golgar. The girl had been profoundly shaken by her gruesome discovery and when the others reached her, they found the Jerhia kneeling in the abrasive dirt, one hand pressed to her open mouth, pointing a shaky finger at the source of her terror and revulsion.

Both Rioth and his adept (Islena did not even know his name and at first glimpse of the gruesome display, this was the fact that first impressed itself upon her thoughts) lay sprawled in pools of blood. The blood had spread out in viscous waves, turning the dust to a lifeless shade of maroon that spoke of utter despair, desolation and the forfeiture of all hope.

A small, pearl handled dagger protruded grotesquely from the carotid artery of both men. Doraux quickly drew her sword, but Emian placed a placating hand on her powerful forearm.

"There is no need," he murmured softly, his large eyes glistening. "This was not an act of violence." Doraux regarded him quizzically and then turned to Gillian, who confirmed Emian's pronouncement with a solemn nod.

"Why?" she fumbled, in a hollow, bewildered voice, unable to drag her unblinking gaze away from the human detritus.

Emian sighed and moved over to where the two men lay. As he examined the bodies, he observed the punctures were clean. "The pair had immolated each other without uttering the slightest sound." The Metocan closed his eyes, sickened by the act of suicide. "I' m not surprised these Natzurdan would come to an end such as this."

"What do you mean, you're not surprised?" Islena snapped. The Metocan blinked and glanced at the woman. Her tone had been overtly hostile and edged with hysteria.

Cautiously, he began to relate what he knew of the Natzurdan philosophy. "A Natzurdan is more of an extension of the land than he is an independent entity. His entire life is predicated upon serving the land's needs and he devotes himself to the betterment and nurturing of the Mother. When the Mother prospers, so does the Natzurdan and when the land is stricken by blight or drought, her servants are so afflicted. Their mutual welfare is a tightly intertwined relationship."

"Succinctly put; the Natzurdan's fortune goes as does the earth's," he concluded.

Doraux absorbed this with a shiver. "This place caused them to do this, didn't it?"

Emian nodded solemnly. "Indirectly...I'm afraid so. You see, For Natzurdan, existence in a land as inimical and devoid of vitality such as this would be insufferable torture. Cut off from their precious homeland, the Natzurdan is consigned to a hellish torment; stricken by a malady that is akin to physical sickness. The only recourse would be a quick, graceful exit. The only parallel I could draw would be if you were inextricably bound to a moldering corpse. It is very difficult to reconcile what has happened with these men if you cannot grasp the essence and importance of a Natzurdan's bond with their Goddess."

Doraux's brow furrowed and her eyes assumed the flinty glint that Gillian recognized as Islena's intransigence. "Suicide is no graceful exit, damn it. It's cowardly. If one's agony is so extreme and without the slightest hope of reversal, there might be an arguable case, but this was not the situation here. As long as we are alive there is the possibility that we will prevail. To surrender to despair rather than fight it is a craven's way out."

"Islena, it's unfair to judge the weight of another's burden through the filter of our own prejudices. Look at these men. Does it not appear that they have suffered incalculable agonies?" He raised his arms in an all encompassing gesture. "In this place, does it not appear that hope is a fool's commodity? Generosity and compassion in judgment, Islena, are two of the highest virtues we mortals may possess."

Doraux's jaw tightened. She suspected that this was as close as the placid Metocan could come to delivering a scathing reproof. Her annoyance over being lectured was tempered by the realization that his message was not without credence. Had there not been moments (and a fair amount of them) when she had contemplated surrendering to the inevitable, going so far as to virtually attempt it at Lorio's behest?

"I'm sorry," she murmured softly. "Death has always disturbed me. Violent death has always enraged me, while suicide has always perplexed me and filled me with a vague sense of apprehension. My time in your world has been continuously assailed by one extreme emotion or the other. Everyone here seems eager to die for the greater good or simply capitulate to the inevitable triumph of darkness. In truth, the only legitimate victory will be achieved by living to fight and never surrendering until the last breath is dragged from your body...or until you've won. Any other outcome is unacceptable."

"Death is natural, Islena," Gillian remarked mildly. "Even children are taught that death is simply the end of a process and the commencement of another."

Islena winced ruefully and shook her head in fierce denial. "Death is natural, yes, but not like this and certainly not in the form that has become so commonplace here. I refuse to accept the notion that life is so inconsequential that it can be taken or squandered in an almost desultory manner or in service to the cause of the moment."

She gazed about at the party members, suddenly experiencing an electrifying sense of empowerment. The party members were watching her with rapt attention as though her every word, her every uttered thought was a philosophical gem to be contemplated and preserved for future study.

'They're actually enthralled by what I'm saying,' she saw with no small measure of wonder. In her own world, Doraux had been regarded, not for her intellect, but for her extraordinary physical prowess and this was the first time in her life that her personal insight took precedence over her exotic appearance. With a measure of satisfaction and pride, which she discerned was not without its dangerous side, Islena continued to expand upon her conception of death.

"I've never met Artumas, but if any of what I've been told about him is the truth, I'm certain that he would agree that the best way to raise the human spirit is to hold sacred the notion that every single human life has a distinct value. If you begin from that simple maxim, every subsequent change in trenchant thinking becomes all the easier...a link in the chain to progress and enlightenment."

"Eloquently expressed," Emian observed with a hint of admiration in his voice. "In the thick of crisis, it is easy to lose sight of the cornerstones by which we should all live."

Islena nodded and glanced away. Her diatribe had drained her in a way that she could not fully grasp as though the expression of complex thoughts and convictions required intense physical effort. She knew only that she was desperate to block out this ugly spectacle of self-immolation and wanted only to close her eyes and take refuge in sleep.

"We should bury them," she heard herself say, but the prospect of performing that gruesome labor made her shudder. She was not overly disappointed when Sormias disagreed. "If these Natzurdan so revile this wicked earth, it might be cruel to inter them here. You might allow me to commend them to the Gods in a different fashion."

Grasping Sormias' intent, both Gillian and Emian conveyed their tacit approval. Sormias nodded solemnly. Apparently his irreverent manner did not prevent him from grasping the gravity of the moment. Slowly, the party members drifted away. Islena made her way to the opposite side of Sormias' tower and sat heavily in the lifeless dirt, her broad shoulders pressed against the cold stone.

'There are only seven left,' she thought morosely and then realized that she had excluded the Golgar. Still, the dwindling number pressed like a stone on the fabric of her heart. When the amber flare erupted, Islena closed her eyes and pressed her face into the crook of her elbow. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks and she remained in this position until sleep came to claim her.

Chapter Sixteen

1

The night was mercifully uneventful and the next morning, the party resumed its westward trek. Islena's mood was brooding and despondent. The only thing that spared her from plunging into consuming depression was the amazing spectacle of Sormias in flight.

Flying above the plodding mortals, the Golgar would amuse himself with an endless array of acrobatic stunts; spins and turns that left Islena feeling giddy as she watched. She found herself envying the beautiful creature as she watched him soar and wondered what it might be like to simply glide gracefully like a giant bird, boldly defying gravity.

Sadly, she would never know and suspected that even Myrhia would never experience that simple joy of liberation from the hold of earth. The mere thought of the enchantress soured the pleasure that she derived from the Golgar's soaring antics. In appearance, the woman was every bit as beautiful as Sormias, but beneath that superficial facade there lurked an entity of unadulterated evil. Beyond this galvanizing road of trials there lay a final apocalyptic battle with Myrhia and Islena could not escape the humbling certainty that she could never be equal to the task, irrespective of how many Icons she unearthed...or the accrued power they might contain.

Emian and Gillian came abreast of Islena, their faces clouded with worry. Sensing their unease, she inquired "Trouble?"

"No, not precisely," Gillian began, biting his lower lip. "At least, not immediate trouble. It is more of a practical concern that could become grave if it is not soon addressed."

Taking up the thread of the Jerhia's thought, Emian explained, "If the landscape does not change, and should this become a protracted march, we are going to run out of provisions. The immediate concern is our fresh water supply."

Islena frowned. In this sterile environment, the notion of locating water was an exercise in wishful thinking and the fear of water deprivation was not unfounded.

"The terrain will change," she assured them confidently, though she had no idea from where this unequivocal insight originated. The two men exchanged glances and then looked back to Islena, who met their bemused gaze with an unwavering smile of confidence.

Still, as a precaution, it was decided that the party would begin rationing food and water. The precaution proved unnecessary as Islena's intuition proved correct.

2

Gradually, the sterile desert relented to rolling grassland that reminded Islena of an African plain. At first, the grass was a sickly yellow in color as though it was struggling to find sustenance in the anemic soil, but as the party progressed westward, the vegetation became healthier and richer in color...a green so striking as to be painful to behold.

"This place is deserted," Islena observed to Gillian as the party ascended a steep slope on the rolling grass land. She glanced up to see that Sormias had come to an abrupt halt high in the azure sky. He hovered in place with a gentle flapping of long, elegant wings, his eyes fixed on something in the distance that the land-bound mortals could not see.

Gillian glanced at Doraux, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. "So it would appear. Perhaps the spirits, who purportedly occupy this world, have moved on. It is also possible that we were wrong in all that we theorized about the nature and purpose of this place and subsequently, the history of our own civilization. Sormias and the cluster of ebony towers would go a long way towards disavowing most of the conventional theories about the origin of the Land of Shades and its intended purpose. If this was never intended to serve as a way station for lost spirits, what function was it meant to fulfill? Why was the Hiberas conceived? It could well be that the river has become redundant."

Doraux shook her head, uncertain how to respond. This was not her world and its history was as abstract to her as the earth's history would surely have been to Gillian.

The pair was the first to crest the incline. Both abruptly stopped in mid stride, astounded by the panoramic spectacle that had so transfixed the Golgar. He swooped gracefully down to join them, landing lightly upon the balls of his feet. "Rather awesome, is it not?"

"I would say that it would be more accurately described as unsettling," Gillian amended in a slightly tremulous voice. For her part, Islena found herself confounded by an ineffable wonder. Reduced to speechlessness by incredulity, she could only stand and gape at the teeming wall of vegetation that stretched in a wild, lunatic tangle from horizon to horizon.

The others gathered around Islena, all staring at the seemingly impenetrable wall of living greenery with identical expressions of disbelief...and perhaps the faint stirring of apprehension.

'This is utterly impossible!' Islena's frazzled mind insisted, though the cloying smell and heat of jungle informed her that this was all too real. There was essentially no transition from grasslands to jungle. The incline was covered in a lush, ankle deep grass which gave way to a thriving hothouse at the base of the hill. There was no area of transition, but rather a razor-edged line of demarcation that traversed the entire horizon on a north-south axis. The abruptness and transition of the change was every bit as shocking and improbable as the jungle itself. Doraux's imagination conjured up a fearful series of images of creatures that might inhabit such a place and a cold sweat broke out in her smooth brow.

"There is no way that we will be able to get through that tangle," she heard herself remark, her voice echoing as though down the length of a long corridor.

"I can tell you that this chaotic growth is unbroken for leagues in every direction," Sormias interjected and Islena thought that she could discern a hint of smugness in the creature's tone. He, after all, would not be forced to hack his way through this living hell.

"Still, to attempt to carve a path through this could take forever and time is the one commodity that we don't have," she insisted contentiously. "It might take less time to actually try to find a way around it."

Discerning her anxiety, Gillian peered at Islena closely. Slowly, he began, "Islena, I don't relish the prospect of forcing our way through such an obvious abomination, but we have no knowledge of the geography of this land. It could well be that this aberration spans the length of the continent."

Islena glowered, but knew in her heart that the Jerhia was correct. Before she could concede the point, a harrowing shriek rose up from somewhere within the dense foliage, freezing the blood in her veins. She glanced at the Jerhia, who grinned thinly and remarked, "At least we now have proof that this place is inhabited."

She held his gaze and he could see the fear capering in her eyes. Earnestly, she admitted "I'm afraid of going in there. I'll be candid about that. My intuition is telling me that something horrible is going to happen in there...something much worse than the incident at Sormias' tower. Still, there seems to be no viable alternative so if we are going to go, let's move before I lose my nerve."

3

The party approached the jungle the way one would attempt to slip past a sleeping tiger. The trees and underbrush radiated a palpable heat and within minutes everyone found themselves drenched in an oily, repulsive sweat that proved as enervating as it did disgusting.

Gillian turned to the group. "This jungle is likely to be fraught with danger, as you have clearly heard. Be vigilant."

Doraux stepped to the fore and drew forth the Dragonsword. "This will provide the scythe."

Gritting her teeth, she closed her eyes and suddenly the blade glowed brilliant vermilion that caused the others to shield their eyes protectively. Quickly, she strode forward and began to attack the foliage with an intensity that managed to repress her mounting fear.

The Jerhia Icon was a perfectly honed blade and it sliced through the wood and vine with ease. Deep inside the jungle, a heavy ground mist rose out of the cloying undergrowth. The process of rapid growth and decay generated such a humid heat that Islena had to labor to draw breath under the steam bath conditions. The heat produced by the icon's tremendous expenditure of energy only added to her discomfort.

Despite this, Doraux labored in a frenzy, her powerful body bathed in a ruby hued glow of power...a blur of perpetual motion. The others cautiously followed Islena, astounded by the broad leaf fronds and the creeping vines which were thicker than a man's forearm and wound their way around massive trees that were perhaps thirty feet in diameter. Every surface was slick with moisture and after only forty minutes of trudging, Gillian was forced to call a halt to the trek so that the enervated members might recover. Islena was visibly annoyed by the decision to rest, but relented to its obvious wisdom.

The Metocan drifted over to Gillian as Arminda knelt before Islena and offered the exhausted woman a drink of water. Islena shook her head stubbornly, but the Jerhia gently, but insistently raised the skin to Doraux's lips until the older woman took a brief swallow of the tepid water, grimacing as the water slid down her parched throat.

Turning to Gillian, the Metocan whispered urgently, "The situation with the water grows desperate. This place will only accelerate the crisis. It would be truly tragic if we fail because of something as commonplace as water deprivation."

Something suddenly occurred to the Jerhia, who called for the airborne Sormias as he mopped his sopping brow. The Golgar landed, regarding the assassin with his irreverent grin. "Weary already? How tiresome it must be to be landlocked like a scrabbling bug."

Gillian ignored the deprecating barb. "We must find water...a river that we might follow."

Sormias continued to grin, though his tone suggested a certain degree of disdain. "There is an unlimited supply of water all about you. Surely you can smell it?"

Gillian could, indeed, smell the presence of a huge quantity of water, but Sormias' condescending manner caused his retort to sound more cutting than he had intended. "I smell it, but I don't see it."

"May I have your dagger?" the Golgar requested. After a moment, the Jerhia reluctantly handed his weapon to the Golgar. Sormias stooped down and retrieved one of the thick vines, pulling it free of the smaller clinging foliage.

With his customary grace, Sormias sliced through the vine and there followed a deluge of water from its core. The Golgar extended the vine to Gillian and invited him to drink. The Jerhia eyed the vine suspiciously, but then his thirst overcame his reluctance and he raised the stream to his lips, grimacing against what he anticipated would be a bitter flood. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised by the flow of sweet liquid that suffused his whole body with energizing warmth. After he drank his fill, Gillian lowered the vine and wiped his lips on the sleeve of his tunic. "By the Gods, that is refreshing."

"Quite!" Sormias exclaimed cheerfully. "There is a virtually endless supply of food and water in this place." Then his eyes darkened and he admonished, "It is also fraught with peril."

Soon the entire party was indulging in the unexpected wealth of water... a welcome change after days of subsisting upon mouthfuls of their tepid rations. Only Lorio and Islena did not indulge.

As she sat on an oozing stump, Doraux drew a series of slow, deep breaths and waited for her heart rate to settle back into its normal rhythm. Despite the massive fluid loss that had come with the exertion, she was surprised to find that she was not particularly thirsty. Islena's experience as an athlete informed her that her fluid loss, when combined with her exertion level, should have pushed her to the brink of the massive and excruciatingly painful muscle cramping that accompanied water deprivation. Instead, her body felt limber and her mind was as focused as it had been at any time since coming to the antiquated land. It was almost as though her body was absorbing moisture from the humid air to replenish her lost fluids. The process both mystified and delighted Islena, a sure sign that she was undergoing some manner of metamorphosis. For reasons she did not entirely fathom, Islena elected not to share this information with the others.

Doraux was distantly aware of those around her and she guessed that, at the culmination of whatever process she was undergoing, these mortals would seem alien and pitifully vulnerable to her. This thought startled her as though it had not originated in her own conscious mind, but rather on a deeper level of consciousness she could not normally access.

"Sormias," Gillian was saying "I think that it would still be prudent to locate a water course if for no other reason than to facilitate faster movement."

"Very well," the Golgar responded with a frown that perplexed the Jerhia, and then he was spiraling up through the dense canopy of trees. Gillian and Emian watched the exotic creature until he had vanished from sight.

"A most curious being," Emian offered, stealing a brief glance at the Jerhia. Gillian acknowledged this with a distracted nod. "Something tells me that our alliance with Sormias is not just a random twist of fate. I know only that he merits watching until we can determine the precise nature of his intentions. Instinct tells me that he may be devious, but not treacherously so."

The Metocan concurred just as Doraux stood and went back to the wall of jungle. Empowering the Icon, she chopped her way forward with a stolid, mechanical determination. She chopped incessantly, stopping only long enough to ingest small quantities of water and food.

As they traveled, the party gradually became aware of movement in the dense foliage around them. Some of the sounds and movements were furtive, while others were more obtrusive as though something of enormous proportions was bulldozing its way through the jungle nearby. The proximity of these unseen beasts insured that the party maintained a high level of vigilance, but still they did not catch so much as a glimpse of the jungle's other inhabitants.

Dusk was starting to fall when Sormias burst through the canopy of branches above the party, his inscrutable golden eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Your powerful friend has drifted far from true west," he declared blithely, eliciting a glare from a perspiration soaked Doraux. Noticing her hostile reaction, he quickly added, "You drifting has proven most fortuitous so do not take offence good lady, you have inadvertently strayed within a mile of a raging river that just happens to flow due west."

"We should rest here," Gillian recommended. "Tomorrow we will, with Sormias' gracious assistance, head directly to the river and then follow it westward."

"No," Islena suddenly contradicted and everyone turned to face her. Later, after the horror had befallen the party, she would doggedly cling to the belief that it had been mere exhaustion which had prompted her into insisting that the party press forward. After all, she was filthy and foul smelling and nothing seemed more luxurious than the prospect of being clean, if only for a few hours. There was still some daylight left in the sky and it seemed fundamentally wrong to squander it. What was more; a mile was not really so far when one considered the magnitude of the power at her disposal.

Despite the logic of her rationalizations, a part of Islena knew them to be false and jaded. The poison ambience of the jungle had subtly infected her mind and compelled her to push ahead through alien terrain in descending darkness, an action inspired out of atavistic dread...or so she would later come to believe.

"The river is only a short distance," she insisted. "And I refuse to go to sleep smelling like a swine." She glowered at Gillian, who upon seeing the obdurate glint in her emerald eyes, quickly relented. He understood that, from this moment forth, his leadership of the party was nominal only. Islena's whims would dictate the party's actions from this day forth.

"Which is the quickest path to the river?" she asked, turning to the Golgar, whose golden eyes gleamed with private amusement. He raised his hand to indicate the direction and Islena immediately set about hacking out a path, her mind filled with images of cold, clean water and the delicious sensations that would accompany the cleansing of her flesh.

Darkness fell on the land with the swiftness of a guillotine, immersing the party in absolute gloom in a matter of minutes. Shocked by the rapidity with which night had descended, Islena attacked the foliage in a mad frenzy, occasionally sending brilliant swirls of vermilion puissance twisting into the night sky.

Now the jungle came alive with a thousand sounds, some low and furtive, others thunderous and menacing. Like the jungles of her world, Islena gleaned that the hellish place awakened with the descent of the night.

Hacking savagely, Doraux stole a brief glance upward. Sormias hovered above the laboring party, watching their frantic efforts with an indecipherable expression set on his angelic face. His body radiated eerie amber light and Doraux could only wonder what power the creature might possess beyond those that he had already elected to demonstrate.

That one moment of distraction proved fateful, if not fatal. The floor of the jungle was a spongy mat of living vegetation; a repulsive carpet of moisture and heat. The moment that Islena's foot came down upon the hard shell of the nest, she knew that her damnable intransigence had plunged the party into grave danger.

"Run!" she screamed even as the strident buzzing of the enraged ground wasps rose up around her...bloated with poison and an insane lust for retribution in the name of their ruined nest.

Lorio was directly behind Doraux and she automatically reached forward and seized Doraux's forearm, pulling her clear of the ruined remains of the huge nest. Arminda stumbled and fell in a tangle of limbs just as the cloud of wasps flew over her, leaving her unscathed.

Gillian was not so fortunate. Not perceiving the precise nature of the threat, the Jerhia's first instinct was to draw his sword. Partially blinded by the harsh glow of the Icon, Gillian did not see the tiny engines of destruction that were converging upon him. Already, Islena was rushing toward the unsuspecting Jerhia with a shrill cry of warning.

When the first sting sent shivers of white hot pain tearing along the length of his forearm, Gillian cried out in indignation and fury and slammed his hand down upon the wasp, which promptly stung the startled Jerhia in the sensitive webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

Within seconds, Gillian was enveloped by a cloud of wasps, flailing wildly with both arms while attempting to reel away. Through the swarm of homicidal insects, Islena could see the swelling mountains of flesh rising on Gillian's torture visage.

'My God, he's dead!' she thought, even as she raised the sword and released the Icon's power. The night sky came alive with thousands of argent bursts as tiny bodies exploded under the deluge of rampant energy that their miniscule vessels simply could not contain.

After a moment, the strident insectile buzzing relented to a profound silence as the party members stared in numb horror at the nightmare countenance of the Jerhia swordsman. He watched them through the glistening slit of his right eye and then quite suddenly, he toppled backwards like a felled tree, his fall muffled by the spongy muck of the jungle floor.

Despite her revulsion, Doraux forced herself to go to him, convinced that he was dead even as he fell. No one could absorb that many stings and survive. A single glance at the fallen Jerhia seemed to confirm her worst fears. Islena stood over Gillian, staring down upon his deformed face with horrified fascination even as she was accosted by the first stirrings of intense guilt.

"By the Gods," Arminda whispered and promptly began to weep. Islena glanced numbly at the woman and then back down at Gillian. His face was swollen and grotesque from having absorbed hundreds of stings. Large white welts had risen upon his cheeks and at the center of each of these Islena could clearly see a deep hole from the depth of which winked deep red droplets of blood.

A violent series of spasms wracked Gillian's body and broke Islena's daze. "What do we do?" she demanded of Emian. "His respiration is labored and shallow and he's covered in perspiration. Can we do something to neutralize the toxins?"

"He's absorbed a frightful amount of venom," Emian agreed quietly. "I would doubt that these are normal wasps and it frightens me to think how pernicious this poison's effects might be."

"Spare me the fucking damned gloom and doom scenarios and tell me what I have to do to save him," Doraux snarled with enough rancor to make the Metocan flush and avert his eyes. Gillian's body shuddered through another series of convulsions as the poison accelerated its assault on his system, twisting his nervous system into a frenetic jangle that caused his limbs to spasm frenetically.

Emian ran his hand across the translucent flesh of his face. "Lay the flat of your blade upon his forehead and release a tiny amount of power." He placed a hand gently upon her wrist and admonished, "Take care not to release too much power. A sudden infusion of any great quantity could well prove fatal."

Islena nodded gravely and without stopping to consider the possible consequences, laid the flat of her blade on his furrowed forehead. As instructed, she closed her eyes and concentrated on releasing a minute quantity of puissance in well spaced increments. When the blade began to flicker, the Metocan gingerly laid his palm upon its shiny surface, utilizing its power to convey his own healing magic.

Gillian twitched, his eyes flying open like broken shutters as Emian directed his ameliorating energy against the raging poison that boiled in the Jerhia's blood. Islena was about to draw back the Icon when Emian commanded her to remain still. Dragging a ragged breath, she forced herself to concentrate on the channeling process.

Slowly, very slowly, she began to open her mind, allowing the blade to flare. The Jerhia suddenly cried out and rolled onto his left side where he began to vomit copiously.

Emian stood up and inhaled sharply, his brow slick with perspiration. "I think that he could well survive."

An alarmed Doraux glanced down at Gillian and saw that, despite the violence of his convulsion, the horrible masses of swollen flesh were already beginning to subside. Soon, the only evidence of the wasps' attack to be seen were the tiny pock marks that covered the Jerhia's body...permanent mementoes of Islena's impatient misjudgment.

Utterly amazed by the Metocan's magic, Islena placed a hand upon the Jerhia's chest and found that his heart beat was regular and strong. Though his breathing was shallow, his chest rose and fell evenly. Doraux stood and glanced at Emian in mystified wonder. "We've actually saved him."

"So it would seem," Emian agreed. "Though actually, you've saved him and I've merely helped to direct your power, endowing with specific form and purpose."

Sormias came to land beside Doraux, eyeing the prone figure of Gillian curiously. He could clearly discern the altered emanation radiating from the Jerhia's body like a low grade infection. "As I cautioned, the jungle is fraught with peril. Night movement is particularly hazardous."

Doraux glowered at the implied criticism. "How much further to the river?"

Arching a thin eyebrow, Sormias glanced at Islena thoughtfully. "No more than half a mile."

Turning to Arminda and the others, Islena decided that the party would make camp here. If there were further surprises to be encountered, she would rather face them in broad daylight.

4

Islena did not sleep during that long night, though her body cried out for the comforting requiem from exhaustion and woe that only sleep could properly provide. Instead, she kept vigil beside the unconscious Jerhia, punishing her body as if in penitence for perceived transgressions. Once, during the slow crawl of the hours before dawn, Arminda approached Islena, but Doraux waved her off with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

The onus for Gillian's suffering fell squarely upon her already overtaxed conscience and so she kept silent watch over the ailing Jerhia, praying that he would not become another indelible scar on her soul. After a time, the mercurial Lorio came to sit beside Doraux, though she made no attempt to engage Islena in conversation. Upon reflection, Islena realized that she had not exchanged more than a few dozen words with the Lamish woman since the day she had taught Islena how to properly use the Dragonsword. The two women had become polarized somehow. A wall had been erected between the pair and Islena could only grieve for the loss of their friendship. She wanted desperately to speak with Lorio...to share her pain and torment and offer Lorio the same comfort in return. It suddenly occurred to her that this Lamish beauty carried a child and she winced at the recollection. What apprehension she must feel, baring a child in a world such as this...a world whose future was so utterly bleak?

Lorio was her oldest and perhaps truest friend in this tormented world and though she craved the intimacy of communication, Islena could not prompt herself to break her isolating silence and so the two women sat across from each other, locked in their own private torments, each unable to offer or receive solace from the other.

'This is what it must be like to die alone with your sorrow and regret,' Islena thought morosely and the interminable night dragged torturously on.

5

When the first light of dawn finally arrived to chase the inimical darkness from the sky, Islena was visited by a sharp intuition that today was to be a day of black and harrowing ordeal.

Heavy, moisture laden clouds spread quickly across the sky and she could feel the heavy pressure mount until it literally wrung the perspiration from her tawny flesh.

"Something terrible is going to happen," she murmured to herself as her mind conjured up images of the killing Sherak that had pounced upon her party as they had fled across the Blighted Lands.

Sormias landed beside her, startling Doraux as he flapped his billowing wings. She gazed at the Golgar, still amazed by the improbability of the flying creature.

"I believe that we are in for extremely nasty weather," he remarked casually as if the prospect did not particularly concern him.

She glanced down at Gillian and was relieved to see that his expression was tranquil and his respiration had returned to normal. Gazing around, she noticed that the others were regarding her expectantly...awaiting instruction.

'They expect me to lead them,' she realized with no small degree of consternation. Events had subtly caste her in the role that everyone insisted she had been destined to play. Though she wanted to reject this unwanted role of savior heroine, the loss of Gillian thrust her to the fore as the natural, indeed only candidate to guide the party's fortune.

'This is your show, girl,' she told herself, not readily wanting to admit that it had been since the beginning. Drawing a deep breath, she began to issue instructions. First, she dispatched the two Emercian troopers to the task of collecting a series of long poles and several lengths of the heavy vine that lay across the jungle in great profusion. Gillian could not walk and so he would have to be dragged or carried. The two men nodded, automatically accepting her leadership without question. She found it difficult to believe that these men had participated in wholesale slaughter at the behest of Myrhia.

Gathering the others about, she began to outline her intentions. "I'm going to clear a path to the river. Once there, we'll construct a raft. If the current permits, we will travel by water. I want you all to remain a short distance behind me. I don't want a repeat of yesterday's disaster."

Emian started to object, but Islena raised her hand and shook her head. "No discussions...you want me to lead this circus, then let me lead it as I see fit."

When the others nodded their concurrence, she turned to the Golgar. "If we are able travel by water, I'll need you to fly ahead and keep an eye out for any changes in the river...either waterfalls or sudden course changes. Can I count on you?"

Sormias' eyes widened in feigned indignation. "Trust me, my good lady? Why, it hurts my heart that you would insinuate that you could not."

When Islena's serious expression did not flicker a whit. Sormias sighed extravagantly and shrugged, "Very well, I suppose that there is no real reason that you should trust me. If there is any significant change in the flow or course of the river, I shall keep you apprised."

Doraux nodded and Sormias took to the sky with a lissome flap of wings.

Momentarily, the two Emercians returned with the vines and poles and Islena provided them with a quick set of instructions on travois assembly. When the task was completed, the two gingerly lowered the unconscious Jerhia onto the makeshift sled.

In the continuing state of unconsciousness, Gillian appeared almost serene and Doraux found that she envied the man in a dark way. Feeling bone weary and lethargic. Islena turned to the solid curtain of jungle and allowed the Dragonsword to flare into life.

As she approached the head of the path, a titanic rumble filled the heavens. Shocked, she jerked her head skyward in time to see the Golgar come spiraling from the heavens. She watched breathlessly as the large creature flapped his elegant wings frantically, finally managing to regain control only a few feet before the tree tops.

Clearly shaken, he circled once and then landed just as another massive rumble, this one powerful enough to shake the ground beneath Islena's feet, rolled across the heavens.

"What's happening?" Islena cried above the din, though a frantic voice in the back of her mind whispered, 'Cloud burst!'

Sormias turned to her, his eyes wide with what might have been awe or terror. He was about to reply when the clouds above virtually exploded, falling on the party like a liquid hammer.

The falling wall of water slammed down upon Doraux, knocking her sideways while dislodging the Dragonsword. Even as she toppled over, swept away by four feet of raging waters, her hand instinctively extended in search of her lost Icon. With a shrill whine, the sword flipped end over end, slapping into her wet palm. Flaring brilliantly, it slowly raised the struggling Doraux to her feet and kept her upright, further corroboration of her theory that the Icon's power was sentient in nature.

After the initial burst, there followed a torrential downpour that limited visibility to a few feet. Squinting against the deluge, Doraux could scarcely discern the gray shapes that were frantically struggling around her. Then she recalled the prostrate figure of Gillian, so serene in his sleep state, and panic clutched at her heart like the fist of a belligerent giant.

"Gillian!" she screamed over the roar of the rushing water. Something slammed into her shoulder and she realized that it was the empty travois.

Frantically, she began to plough through the chest deep water, bellowing the Jerhia's name again and again. Even as the waters began to abate, settling at mid thigh level in the unrelenting downpour, Doraux could not escape the fact that Gillian had most surely been swept away.

With her red hair plastered against her face, Islena laid back her head and uttered a harrowing cry of negation that tore through the jungle like a scythe. Someone reached to console her and she threw them off with a savage shrug. She glanced over her shoulder in a time to see Arminda disappear beneath the muddy water. A groan of regret escaped her lips and she rushed to help the girl.

Suddenly Emian was beside her, his face contorted against the downbeat of the driving rain. "If we are to find Gillian, we must fan out and work our way toward the river. The water will have carried him in that direction, but the river will be engorged..."

He allowed the remainder of the thought to linger unspoken. There was no need to elaborate upon what might happen if the Jerhia was swept into the river at this particular moment.

"Spread out, Goddamn it," Doraux seethed furiously, her anguish making her uncharacteristically surly. "Work your way to the river's edge and then towards me."

Wheeling about against the surge of water, she attacked the jungle in a demented dervish that sent bolts of raw power hurtling toward the heavens as though in retribution for this latest injustice.

6

The thing that had once been Gillian, the Jerhia warrior, hunched down behind the root of a mammoth tree, gazing hungrily at the alien creatures as they frantically gestured and droned in their unintelligible garble that passed for language.

He faded further into the foliage as the group spread out and began to ponderously make their way toward the river. Although their language was alien, he knew instinctively that they were searching for him.

The strident, incessant buzzing in its own transformed mind made coherent thought an onerous task and it took the thing several moments of weighty deliberation to decide whether to flee or shadow the group.

The woman with the improbably large arms and shoulders drew her sword and set to leveling the tangled jungle. When the sword erupted into a corona of piercing red light, fascination compelled him to move after the group.

When one of the aliens had blundered into the nest, essentially destroying the hive, the interlopers undoubtedly thought that they had been set upon by commonplace wasps. They would have been thoroughly astounded to discover that the tiny engines of malevolence had each served as a repository for a discorporate evil spirit.

Sensing that the sword wielding woman had been shielded behind a mantle of lethal power, the swarm of wasps had set upon the first vulnerable target that they had encountered. Though it might have seemed so at the time, it had not been their intention to kill the giant alien. Rather, the innumerable stings served to infuse the Jerhia with the multitude of spirits that had been trapped in the tiny insects for a span of time too long to measure.

When the alien had finally succeeded in destroying the wasps, the insects had reverted to their original state of mindless drones. Still, too many of the rabid spirits had tried to take refuge in the frail mortal body and the subsequent trauma had nearly killed the host. Had that grim eventuality come to pass, the malevolent spirits would have been scattered into an astral purgatory. They had been spared this grim fate only by intervention of the alien woman and her power-infused sword.

Now, despite being terrified of the woman's inherent power, the collective of spirits could not resist the temptation of trying to pry the sword from her possession. All through the night, she had hovered oh so close and the spirits had been nearly inebriated with lust. Still, indecision had immobilized the usurpers and Gillian had not stirred from his torpor.

Ever devious, they had elected to remain still until future events afforded them the opportunity to gain possession of the sword. Through the night, the spirits had bombarded their host's besieged mind, probing the body to divine the nature and extent whatever useful skills it might possess.

They had discovered that the body, over which they had usurped control, was blessed by extraordinary agility and an unparalleled skill with the deadly weapon known as a rapier.

With their own collective guile and the host's natural talents, it was possible that, should circumstance provide the opportunity, the sword and the power that it evidently possessed would be theirs. A measure of patience was all that was required, but the spirits had been imprisoned in their tiny bodies for millenniums and had learned patience as a matter of survival...of preservation of the small modicum of sanity they still possessed.

That patience had been rewarded in the form of one of the frequent cloud bursts that had instantly inundated the jungle and plunged the party into a frenzy of chaos and panic.

The spirits had allowed the prostrate body to be swept away by the initial torrent, prompting the body into action once it had been carried out of the view of its companions.

Rising out of the surging water, the Gillian thing had drawn his sword and trudged through the heavy current, gradually acclimatizing to the encumbrances of human movement. Pausing by the huge tree, the thing had listened closely, allowing its preternatural senses to locate the woman and her extraordinary sword.

Once it had succeeded in locating her, the collective urged their body in her direction; thoughts of the vengeance that it would extract upon the ones who had exiled the collective to this damnable jungle already taking shape in Gillian's captive mind.

Gillian stole through the thick foliage with the stealth of a water snake. He halted some ten feet from Islena, just as she hacked down the last stand of foliage before the river.

Doraux broke through the final weave of heavy vines with a titanic swing of the Dragonsword. Her forward momentum very nearly carried her over the short bluff that had been created by the surging waters.

Heart palpitating wildly, Islena stood and stared out across the raging torrent, her face twisted by an expression of incredulity. The water's rush reminded Islena of the frenzied attack of the swarming wasps. This particular river had once flowed languorously, but now it tore at its banks like a mindless carnivore. As Islena gaped in wonder, a huge section of teeming vegetation, directly opposite from where she stood, sloughed off into the flood waters, sending a plume of muddy water twenty feet into the air.

Massive hardwood trees were quickly and dramatically undermined, falling into the river where they were swept away like dead sea monsters.

"You'd best come away from the edge," a voice advised her from somewhere over her shoulder. Islena stiffened. The voice echoed with an alien, insectile quality, but it was nonetheless eerily familiar. On legs shaky with trepidation, she reluctantly pivoted to face the speaker, who declared, "If you insist on falling into the deluge, be considerate enough to first throw me the sword."

Gillian stood no more than ten feet away. His rapier was drawn, though held in the relaxed position. Though his head was bowed, he showed no ill effects of the previous night's attack or having been dragged away by the deluge.

Islena's initial reaction was to smile and relax slightly. Though his first remark had been decidedly strange, she was relieved to find that he was upright and apparently unharmed.

"Gillian, I'm so glad that," she started to say and then he raised his head. Her smile quickly congealed into a gape jawed grimace of horror.

"That I am well?" he concluded with a clattering laughter. His mouth was drawn back in an ineffably terrible grin, but even this was not the worst. Islena's gaze was involuntarily drawn to the Jerhia's eyes, which were now a deep scarlet, bisected by vertical black slashes. "I am indeed much improved. In truth, I am utterly transformed."

His levity suddenly evaporated and he snarled, "Give me the sword. I'll take it at any rate, but if you surrender it of your own volition, I might allow you to live."

Once glance into those awful eyes made it evident that Doraux was yet again in a precarious situation. Gillian quickly brandished the rapier, his lithe movements making it evident that he was a proficient wielder of the weapon who would now turn it upon her without the slightest compunction. Shaking her head in negation, Doraux raised her own weapon. It was apparent that she could not contest the Jerhia without employing the puissance of the Icon, something that would certainly prove fatal to a mortal. The thought that she would now have to kill the man who had paid the terrible price for her previous night's intransigence was simply unbearable. Stealing a quick glance over her left shoulder, Islena had a desperate attempt to reason with the grotesque parody of her would-be assassin.

"Gillian, please, whatever happened to you, we can help," Doraux adjured, hoping to conceal her anxiety. "Put the sword down, please."

"How ironic. I was just about to make the same request," Gillian remarked with a half grin that never touched those awful eyes.

Suddenly, Arminda burst through the trees. A naturally incisive woman, she immediately grasped the precise nature of the situation. Though Gillian was her superior and the Jerhia were conditioned to obey without hesitation or discussion, Arminda automatically dropped to one knee and loaded a bolt, bringing the shaft to center directly upon Gillian's chest.

The action was one of revelation for Doraux, who was provided with a clear insight into the impact she had made on everyone who had the misfortune of being tied to her fate. She could feel the girl's eyes upon her and knew that she would fire if so instructed.

"Put the sword down, Gillian," she reiterated, though more firmly this time.

Sensing that they were at a distinct disadvantage, the collective allowed the host to lower its weapon. Then, pivoting about with bewildering speed, Gillian flicked the weapon toward his startled comrade. The rapier was embedded deep in her shoulder before her finger could apply the requisite pressure to the crossbow trigger. Uttering an agonized screech, Arminda toppled backward into the water as her errant bolt flashed into the heavy rain.

As the Jerhia slipped beneath the water, a cloud of dull red blood spread across the muddy surface. Before Doraux could react, Gillian moved to retrieve the rapier, pulling it free with a petulant twist, while delivering a savage kick that caught Arminda high on the left side of her head.

"The sword, bitch!" the thing croaked dangerously and darted toward Doraux. Islena raised the Dragonsword and managed to deflect Gillian's first thrust more by blind luck than skill. The Icon flared, ready to excoriate the attacker, but Islena deliberately extinguished its force.

Enraged, Gillian stepped back and delivered a sweeping blow that was intended to take the legs out from under Doraux. Islena bent slightly at the knees and managed to vault over the flashing iron. Stealing a quick glance to her right, she saw that Arminda had not yet emerged from the water. She would have to dispose of Gillian quickly or the Jerhia would drown.

Gillian darted forward, launching a blurred barrage of blows that drove Islena to the brink of the unstable precipice. Even as Islena struggled to avoid the flurry, she could feel the saturated earth giving way beneath her feet.

Lorio was the first to hear the sound of clashing iron through the pervasive din of the falling rain. Her Morticant's heightened acuity led her directly toward the conflict and she emerged through the dense foliage to see Islena desperately struggling to fend off Gillian's furious assault.

As the hybrid drew her staff, a wolfish grin spread over her lovely face. She could sense the Jerhia's infestation and realized that the fates had given her an ideal opportunity to dispose of one nuisance who had plagued her since the Blighted Lands.

Islena detected a flash of movement just as Lorio surged forward. "No!"

Doraux's scream fell on deaf ears. Lorio delivered a devastating blow to the small of the Jerhia's back. Gillian uttered an agonized howl and staggered around to confront this latest threat. Before he could raise the rapier to defend himself, Lorio drove the flattened end of the quarterstaff directly into his exposed jaw in a tight arc.

Islena lunged for the Jerhia and actually managed to snag the right shoulder of his tunic. Gillian inclined his head toward her, his alien scarlet eyes ablaze with enmity and then he was gone. He tumbled soundlessly into the deluge and was swept away before Islena could react further.

The Jerhia's rapier lay near the edge of the precipice and Lorio swept it into the river with a baleful kick. Doraux stood regarding her with an expression of mounting rage. "Damn you, there was no need for that...not for the second blow."

Lorio stood back, feigning hurt indignation. "Are you no longer capable of gratitude? It would seem that, given a moment longer, you might well have been the one being carried off into the great unknown...if you were not fate-kissed, it is more likely that it would have buried the rapier in your heart."

Doraux glared at the taller woman, whose expression remained infuriatingly disingenuous, but whose eyes gleamed with unconcealed satisfaction. Islena clearly recognized that delight and whispered, "This was intentional."

When Lorio's expression became flinty, Islena grimaced and brushed by the woman, feeling a sudden and intense animosity for her companion and closest friend.

It had been less than two minutes since Arminda had disappeared beneath the muddy water. A wide pool of blood marked the spot where she had fallen. Biting back her revulsion, Islena reached down under the water and gingerly fumbled about until she had found a hold upon Arminda's collar and pulled her into the air. The Jerhia would have shared Gillian's fate, but good fortune had lashed her with a crooked grin. Her tunic had snagged in the branches of a fallen tree, preventing her from being swept downstream...a stroke of good fortune she would come to rue in the coming days.

The Jerhia's head lolled on the stalk of her thin neck. The rapier had passed completely through her left shoulder. The wound winked at Doraux like the red eye of a malefic idol. Tenderly, she lifted the diminutive Jerhia into her arms, gazing about for a patch of high ground. The woman's body seemed lifeless and frangible as Islena carried her through the driving rain.

Emian found his way through the foliage then, glancing about in bewilderment at the three women, his gaze eventually coming to rest upon the bloodied Jerhia.

"She's going to die if I can't revive her soon. Gillian attacked me, but he's gone now," Doraux's voice resonated with a calm detachment, but inside Islena felt as though her sanity was tethered upon a frayed rope that was unraveling with increasing rapidity.

Sormias joined the group, his alien face reflecting Emian's confusion. Soon the Emercians slogged their way through the receding waters and stood watching numbly as Islena gingerly placed Arminda on her right side. Then she beckoned Emian and the two Emercians to join her. "I'm going to need you to hold her while I cauterize the wound." she instructed the two troopers. One straddled Arminda's torso, while the other took a careful, yet firm grip upon the Jerhia's head, holding her tightly beneath the chin. Speaking in an urgent, yet composed tone, she apprised the two of her intentions, "I'm going to allow a tiny amount of power to flow from the sword to seal the wound. It might seem gruesome, but it is the only way that I know to effectively staunch the flow of blood."

Emian nodded soberly, while Islena placed the Dragonsword lightly upon the girl's injured shoulder. If there was to be anything beyond this nightmarish morning, it was imperative that she save the Jerhia girl. She had failed Gillian, just as she had failed Amrand. She vowed that she would protect his sister and now she too stood poised on the brink of the abyss...another life to be sacrificed in the name of Islena's accursed destiny. Signaling her readiness, she tightened her grip on the sword and unleashed a minute whisper of power.

Emian then laid his hand on the flat of the blade and conjured an image of healthy, unmarred skin in his mind's eye. Slowly, he sharpened and refined the image and channeled it through Doraux's vermilion power. Quickly, they turned the Jerhia over and repeated the process on the girl's exit wound.

Arminda cried out twice, but did not open her eyes once during the arcane healing ritual. When the operation was complete, Islena withdrew the blade and examined the wound. The once flawless skin was now a mottled pink...the ridge of flesh around the wound puckering into an ugly scar that would serve as a permanent reminder of the near fatal confrontation with her possessed countryman.

"There was no way of knowing what damage had been done to the tissue and nerves, but at least she won't bleed to death," Islena declared wearily and rose heavily to her feet. Her exquisite green eyes were transfixed upon Arminda's slack face as though she was attempting to emboss the pain twisted visage permanently in her memory.

Emian asked her to recount all that had happened and she turned to face the Metocan, her expression fey and distant. "Gillian attacked us, though it wasn't really Gillian. He had changed into something sly...and monstrous. He attacked me, demanding that I give him the Dragonsword. Arminda was stabbed when she attempted to intervene. It happened so incredibly fast. His reflexes are phenomenal. No, more than that, they were impossible even for a master swordsman."

"Those were no ordinary wasps," Emian correctly reasoned. "Their stings carried more than simple venom. Everything that we encounter in this place holds the potential for catastrophe. It is impossible to overstate the need for vigilance from this point forth."

Doraux regarded the Metocan with a bitter grin tugging at the corner of her lips. "We're going back."

Her declaration was flat and uncompromising and stunned the other party members into silence. Even Lorio raised an eyebrow in surprise. After a moment's declaration, the Metocan stammered, "You can't be serious?"

"Oh, but I am," Islena assured him almost blithely. "We're chasing a ghost through a kingdom populated by malign specters. Even if Artumas is alive, we haven't the slightest idea where to find him, or how far we must travel before we do. I allowed desperation to obscure my judgment and at least five people have died as a consequence...but no more."

"You're grown men and women, and if it serves you to carry on, then do so, but I'm turning back." She held the Dragonsword aloft. "I'm going to find Myrhia and challenge her with this. I have no idea if it will be sufficient. Still, it will have to be. For me, the search for Artumas and the Proclamations is over."

Emian glanced at the other party members and then back to Doraux. He hoped to dissuade her from renouncing her role in destiny, but the intractable gleam in her eyes made it clear that argument would be futile. The Metocan's shoulders sagged in dejection and he turned away without further comment.

Islena laid the Sword on the carpet of teeming vegetation and turned to Sormias, whose amber and ebony body appeared to glisten in the warm rain. "I have one further request."

The normally jovial Golgar pursed his lips and nodded gravely. "I will provide what service I am able, good lady, but there may come a time when I demand remuneration of sorts."

"I will give you what I can, though I don't have much to give," Doraux responded listlessly, suddenly indifferent to the subtle yet incessant demands imposed upon her.

The Golgar's eyes sparkled. "On that count you err, good lady."

Thinking that he was referring to the coveted Dragonsword, she merely shrugged. "Once I'm done with it, I don't particularly care what becomes of it." Then, glancing directly at Sormias' alien eyes, she posed her request. "Find Gillian and bring him back to me. If he is dead, return his body."

"I will scour the very length of the Continent, good lady," the Golgar promised with an extravagant flourish. "And then you and I shall discuss remuneration."

"As you would have it," Doraux replied dully, watching as he spread his magnificent wings and took to the skies. Without turning to face the others, she murmured "I'll stay here until Arminda is ambulatory and then I'm heading back."

When no response was forthcoming, Islena walked back to the unconscious Jerhia and sat next to her. She lay back against the gnarled root of a huge tree, closed her eyes and raised her face to the warm rain. Within moments, she was sound asleep.

7

When Islena finally came awake, she was mildly surprised to discover that the torrential downpour had ceased and darkness had come in its stead. Someone had built a small fire while she had been asleep though how anyone could manage to ignite kindling in this saturated swamp was beyond her comprehension. Stretching languorously, Doraux glanced down on the still unconscious visage of Arminda. There was an ethereal quality about the woman child and Islena was revisited by the old sorrow that had pursued her into sleep.

"Is it not the ultimate arrogance to claim personal liability for every person's suffering?" some one asked. "As if you were a failed deity and not just another fallible mortal?"

Islena glanced up to see that Lorio had taken a seat across from her, next to the fire, the flames of which caste the beauty's face in an almost ephemeral light. Slowly, she fed twigs into the flames and then poked the larger logs about with a stick.

"I vowed that I would keep the girl safe," Doraux explained. As she spoke, Islena was struck by the distinct impression that she was conversing with a stranger and not the woman with whom she had shared the long and intimate relationship. "In the end, I failed to do even that."

Suffused by a powerful sense of loathing and self-contempt, she began to stroke Arminda's smooth brow. In the thickening gloom, she did not notice as the Lamish woman flinched at this gesture of tenderness.

"Much has changed between us, Islena, but never doubt the depth of my affection for you, nor my devotion to your service. In this spirit, I must tell you that your pain springs from hubris and thus it is hollow and self serving."

"I find it amazing how sage you've become...how deeply philosophical," Islena intoned sardonically. "To think that you were an arrogant brat just a few months ago."

Lorio did not respond for several seconds and when she did, her words held no rancor. "In that time, I have endured a lifetime of suffering. I think that wisdom is the one dubious benefit of protracted suffering and torment and thus I'm fully entitled to this one compensation, inadequate as it may be."

Doraux inhaled sharply, her anger toward her enigmatic friend suddenly deflated. As though divining Islena's thoughts, the Lamish woman suddenly snapped, "I am not a child. This obstinate clinging to guilt is not only pathetic, it is patronizing." Lorio was suddenly on her feet and towering over Doraux, who glanced up at her numbly. Pointing at the dormant Jerhia, Lorio raged, "Do you think that this girl is a fragile wall flower; helplessly tossed about on fate's cruel waters? She is a trained, competent warrior, raised from birth to thrive on the challenges of warfare."

Islena stubbornly averted her gaze, though a nascent stirring of comprehension had begun to bloom in her mind. Sensing this, Lorio forged ahead, "Do you truly believe that you are causing all of the suffering and misery that presently afflicts this hellish world? I can personally assure you that we did not dwell in an idyllic paradise in the years before your immediate arrival...or even prior to Myrhia's coming for that matter."

Doraux was gazing at Lorio now, her expression that of a woman who had awakened to an essential truth. Lorio hesitated, somewhat surprised by the intensity of her passion. Her own private agenda would have been better served had Islena abnegated her search for Artumas and the other Proclamations and skulked back to Myrhia. Still, a part of Lorio's soul was unscathed by the pernicious Morticant seed and now strove to adjure Islena not to renounce her quest for hope. Aggressively, she continued to remonstrate on the subject of Islena's assumption of guilt.

"You are not a black angel, nor are you anathema to all that is good and righteous in this world. On the contrary, you are the one hope of its deliverance. It is perverse vanity to entertain the notion that you can singularly protect everyone around you from every peril. Even the Gods do not offer such an absurd guarantee. People have died and you cannot hold yourself responsible. What is more, you must prepare yourself for the prospect of more death to come. Many more."

"Yes, but they died for me, Goddamn it," Doraux pointed out, her voice tremulous with anguish. "That does make me accountable."

"Nonsense!" Lorio retorted disdainfully, kneeling before Doraux and gripping her powerful shoulders. "Those who died on your behalf did so with the conviction that by surrendering their lives, they were propagating hope. As long as you live to oppose Myrhia, their sacrifice is validated. If you persist in this foolish intention of abandoning the search, then you invalidate the efforts and sacrifices of all who have struggled to bring you to this position in time...to afford you the opportunity to find Artumas."

"I can tolerate no more!" Doraux wailed. "I am human and I have limits. How much death and failure can I be expected to endure in the name of abstract prophecy...to stand in opposition to a juggernaut whose very existence is devoted to the propagation of misery and darkness. IT'S NOT FUCKING FAIR!"

"Then kill yourself," Lorio retorted harshly, the undisguised frigidity in her voice causing Doraux to blink. "At least that would be a partial victory for those who do not wish to see Myrhia's power exceed the capacity of this world to contain it. That one act of feeble capitulation would achieve more than this inane confrontation that you propose."

"Who is to say that the power of the Dragonsword isn't enough to destroy Myrhia?" Doraux retorted hotly. "Lorio, I haven't utilized a fraction of its power." She brandished the Jerhia Icon before Lorio. "I think that this sword might possess enough vulgar force to level a continent."

"It isn't enough!" Lorio insisted, shaking her head emphatically. "Myrhia is the ultimate mage warrior, with an arsenal of weapons at her disposal that can only be guessed at. I suspect that she has only employed a small percentage of her true puissance. It is imperative that you grasp the essence of what I 'm attempting to impart...this sword is only the embodiment of one aspect of a greater, more comprehensive power. I can promise you that Myrhia's power is absolute and all encompassing and only a similar force will surmount her...and only if it is employed with equal skill."

Islena only continued to stare at the statuesque beauty, whose cheeks were colored with passion, something that had been conspicuously absent from her demeanor of late.

"I'm asking that you not surrender. You've endured an inconceivable amount of misery and pain. So have I. From all of this, surely you have learned to distinguish between the things that you can control and the things that are simply in the hands of fate. The one crucial element that one must possess to stand against the enchantress is wisdom. Our suffering should touch you, but it should not impair your determination to go forward."

"Do you think that you've exposed me to danger? Or Arminda or Gillian. Detach yourself from your own torment and try to visualize where all of those you have known would be had you not been drawn into this cataclysm. Realistically, all of us would have been dead or enslaved. Your true contribution to our lives has been to ignite our sense of hope where before there was only the prospect of death and despair."

"Then what do you recommend I do?" Islena whispered in a voice raw with anguish.

"Persevere. Let the fire galvanize your soul while the quest provides you with the requisite wisdom to stand against Myrhia and give meaning to the deaths that torment you. It is the only way that you will purge this debilitating guilt."

Islena shook her head and glanced away. "I really don't know if I have the strength. For the first time in my life, I have serious doubts about my own capabilities."

"Islena, there have been moments when I have experienced precisely the same emotion. On the day after you rescued me from the dungeons of Perdwick, agony and depravation drove me to the brink of capitulation. Lying helpless in your travois contraption, I doubted that I had the courage to drag myself out of the pit and I wanted nothing more than to simply die."

"During the long hours of indescribable suffering, I recall how you would attempt to distract me from my agony, preoccupying me from my torment, with tales of the life that you'd led in your own world. I must admit that I lacked the imagination to visualize the type of life you described, but I did glean a sense of the fierce determination and devotion that lay behind these tales. The quest for perfection, the relentless refusal to surrender to pain and limitations...these things I could fully appreciate."

She squeezed Islena's forearm reassuringly. "Do you not see that your previous life prepared you to face these challenges? From the beginning, you have adhered to the principles necessary to stand against someone as insidious as Myrhia. This is a situation where you can apply your strength and passion to a cause of prime importance. You cannot back away, Islena!" Islena met Lorio's gaze and this time she did not look away. She searched the fiery brown depths for some sign of esoteric purpose. Seeing none, she drew a deep breath and nodded slowly. "You are a remarkable woman, Lorio. I've often said that fate selected poorly when it chose me to fill the role of savior and not you. I'm more convinced of that than ever. I'll defer to your newfound wisdom and we will head west and find Artumas if he is anywhere to be found."

Lorio suddenly, unexpectedly, leaned forward and hugged Doraux.

"Even the seemingly invincible have moments of weakness," she whispered in Islena's ear. Islena closed her eyes, relishing the sweet luxury of Lorio's strong embrace. "The way in which the strong emerge from crises of doubt distinguishes them from the ordinary."

Islena merely nodded silently, her untrustworthy emotions not allowing her to speak, and returned to her friend's embrace. Concealed the gloom, she was unaware of the grin that spread across Lorio's face and would not have been able to correctly interpret the expression even if she had been able to see it.

The two women held each other for a long time as nightfall lay claim to the world.

Chapter Seventeen

1

In an ironic twist that Myrhia would have appreciated, the enchantress stood on the balcony where the late Morzhian had once stood, contemplating the meeting that would dispatch Gillian to extract Islena from the High Queen's grasp. The Natzurdan had looked down upon a city that, while tense with the anticipation of imminent invasion, was still a thriving community. The Amberdias that Myrhia gazed down upon was a macabre, forlorn shadow of its former self. The streets were empty, save for the occasional patrol that nervously roved the stone causeways, more to alleviate anxiety than to protect against a tangible threat.

The enchantress' gaze swept across the horizons of the magnificent city. When she had first learned of her army's defection, it had been her intention to raze the entire city to the ground. Yet upon entry, Myrhia had been mesmerized by the splendor of the massive living city of wood and stone. Instead of destroying the living wonder, she decided that Amberdias would become her Capital in the west.

Myrhia smiled and hugged herself, pulling the sable cloak closer around her shoulders. Fall had come to Natzurdan as the mother withdrew her caring touch from the land, conceding dominion over Natzurdan to the enchantress. The ash and tamarack trees and regal maples were ablaze with brilliant yellows and fiery reds. The enchantress realized that Natzurdan would soon experience its first winter in over four millennia...the first visible consequences of her occupation.

Despite having essentially conquered the majority of the entire world, the enchantress experienced a pang of uncharacteristic melancholy...assailed by a myriad of nagging yet formless doubts. The Metocan had surrendered the rest of the world in exchange for a tiny enclave behind the rerouted Hiberas. Myrhia was willing to allow them their hollow victory just to avoid the nuisance of having to contend with their collective magic...a task best avoided if at all possible.

That could well change, she realized, if the search for the Metocan Icon required the conquest of that damnable demesne of fog and sorcery.

There was a knock at the outer door; a mailed fist reverberating insistently upon wood. Myrhia sighed wearily and drifted into the hall, which had been stripped of everything of value save for a long oak table, the legs of which actually grew out of the structure of the tower.

"Come," she commanded distantly. Adriatus, her newest High Commander, entered the room the way that a fearful mouse might creep from its hole in search of a stolen morsel of food. His rat like eyes constantly swept the room as though searching for an escape route should Myrhia's legendary temper be roused. With the fawning, frightened fool there followed a pig of a man named Pherazz who touted himself to be the nominal leader of the shiftless rabble of mercenaries that trailed after her army like a rabid pack of scavengers. His lecherous gaze fell upon Myrhia's full bosom and she was momentarily tempted to burn the boor to a cinder.

"I trust that this interruption is necessary," she snapped in a tone to rival the frigid Sheraks of the Blighted Lands. Adriatus flinched and Pherazz averted his eyes, though the insolent leer never left his face.

"My Queen, we request a brief audience to discuss our...er, mutual concerns," the High Commander began. The enchantress arched an eyebrow at the mercenary. "Very well, but be brief. My patience is perilously thin of late."

"Milady, the situation in the city is delicate and confusing," Adriatus observed haltingly, laboring to choose his words carefully. Pherazz lanced the Emercian with a disgusted glance and began to stroll around the chamber, stopping to peruse a pile of books that sat atop the long oak table. Myrhia tracked his movements from the corner of her eye, and though her outward expression conveyed no hint, an intense anger had begun to smolder in her mind.

"How so?" she asked distantly.

"Our soldiers grow increasingly fearful, My Queen. The patrols have been accosted by horrible visions and harrowing shades that now wander the deserted streets. It is said that some are so terrible that they will drive a man to madness with a mere glance. There is a mounting sense of panic and I fear that we will soon lose what is left of our army to desertion if something is not done to restore calm and ward the men against these abominations."

"The specters are harmless," Myrhia assured him softly. The repulsive wretch had actually picked up one of the precious Natzurdan volumes and was carelessly thumbing through its pages with a dirty thumb.

"Not so my Queen," Adriatus contradicted gently, though his eyes traced the woman like a caged animal. "One cavalryman was turned to stone by one of these roving specters and another was made to age horribly."

The enchantress pondered this for a moment and was about to respond, when Pherazz abruptly slammed the book onto the table and bellowed, "Enough!"

Adriatus actually flinched and took two unconscious steps toward the door, while Myrhia merely regarded the mercenary with an expression of mild interest.

Pherazz offered the enchantress a predatory grin. This one is so small, so obviously fragile. Why, he could crush her in his palm like a dried twig. He found it quite remarkable that this diminutive woman had held an entire nation in terror. True, he had heard the incredible tales of her abilities and legendary wrath, but standing before her, Pherazz became convinced that these tales were the product of gross exaggeration. Bolstered by this certainty, the mercenary leader was determined to expose just how hollow Myrhia's mythical power might be.

"It is time that we discuss remuneration, woman," he rasped.

"I believe Queen is the more appropriate salutation," Myrhia corrected softly. The ghost of a grin played at her exquisite lips and her eyes twinkled like dark jewels. Adriatus was surprised to find that the mercenary's insolence amused the enchantress. Even so, he correctly suspected that this amusement would not spare the imbecile's worthless life.

Unaware of his imminent peril, the mercenary retorted, "Perhaps you are a Queen to this fawning dog and his ilk, but I have no Queen. Nor do the men who serve under me. Our Gods are gold and diamonds and they have been in short supply since crossing into the west."

He glanced at the precious volumes of Natzurdan books and abruptly swept them from the table with a feral snarl. "All that we have found in the west are worthless bits of paper."

"Those volumes are worth their weight in gold, though I doubt that a dolt such as you would ever imagine why," Myrhia remarked coldly. The mercenary glanced down at the volumes as though seeing them for the first time. His corpulent face was a living portrait of avarice. "Are there more of these to be had?"

"Undoubtedly," the enchantress surmised. "The Natzurdan are scholars of the earth lore. There are likely to be libraries of such work spread throughout Natzurdan."

Pherazz regarded her with a bold, speculative expression. "I demand that you allow my men to ransack the city. It would be fitting remuneration for services rendered and a guarantee that our loyalty will continue."

Adriatus gaped at the mercenary, utterly astounded by the enormity of his audacity. The man's suicidal attempt to provoke the enchantress was thoroughly incredible when one considered that the woman's terrifying wrath was common knowledge.

"Not a single stone or pillar of wood is to be disturbed," Myrhia admonished gravely. "Amberdias is to be preserved as it will stand as my Capital city in the west once the matters of Islena Doraux and the Proclamations have been settled."

Pherazz's color deepened several shades and he shook with outrage. "We will not cower before you, woman," he rasped, his crude voice fraught with menace. "If you will not dispense our just earnings, we will be forced to take them...along with anything else we might care to have."

The enchantress threw back her head and laughed, though her eyes blazed like bits of obsidian. Abruptly, the laughter died on her lips, her gaze settling upon the mercenary like the snap of a lash. "It is fortunate that you are not afforded what you truly deserve or your end would be hideous indeed."

She glided over to Pherazz, who stiffened and clutched his dagger in anticipation of some form of sorcery.

"Don't be foolish," she warned playfully. "If I wished you dead, you long since would have been a pile of smoldering ash."

"Do not toy with me, witch," the mercenary snarled, his hand not leaving the haft of his dagger. In Redian, he recalled the indigenous snakes that were almost hypnotically beautiful and yet a single bite would prove fatal in the blink of an eye. This woman reminded Pherazz of those deceptively beautiful snakes, but the mercenary promised he would not fall victim to this creature's beguiling façade of lovely fragility.

"I can assure you that I never toy," Myrhia murmured. She held her empty hands forward and then pressed her palms together. A sudden hiss filled the chamber and a wisp of smoke escaped from between the enchantress' delicate fingers. Despite his pledge, the mercenary found himself beguiled, the dagger forgotten in its sheath.

She removed her top hand and presented an object of the mercenary's inspection. He grunted in disgust. In her palm lay a tiny lump of coal.

"Patience!" the enchantress advised. Her lovely face beamed radiantly as she labored, but Adriatus could sense a deadly purpose lurking beneath this casual demonstration of her magical abilities.

Again, she covered the lump of coal with her palm and began to apply the same intense pressure that had generated the steam. Pherazz took an involuntary step backwards as the very bones of the enchantress' hands began to glow an iridescent molten red.

The lovely smile assumed a feral quality that drove frozen daggers into the Emercian High Commander's heart.

Then Myrhia removed her top hand and Pherazz's expression of trepidation turned to one of unadulterated avarice. The largest diamond that Pherazz had ever seen was nestled in Myrhia's tiny palm. Amazingly, she offered the stone to the mercenary, who snatched it up like a greedy lap dog being offered a chop. Raising it to the light, he found that it held no structural imperfections. Indeed, the stone was flawless, multi-faceted perfection.

Myrhia turned away, flashing an indecipherable grin at her High Commander. "So you see my avarice driven mercenary, I can craft treasures from the very air and thus there is no need to ransack Amberdias."

The mercenary glanced up from the bobble with the glazed expression of the opiated. "Can you make more of these?"

Myrhia laughter carried a subtle resonance of contempt. "If I desired, I could fill this hall with such stones. A rudimentary act of sorcery would make you rich beyond the limits of your dullard's imagination."

Pherazz nodded expectantly. There was a quicksilver movement in his palm, followed by a searing pain that caused him to cry out. The startled mercenary stared down at his palm to find that a tiny asp had driven its fangs deep into the sensitive webbing between his thumb and forefinger. He bellowed in agony and threw it off, though before it could hit the floor, the asp vanished into the thin air from that it had been conjured.

"Treachery!" Pherazz accused, his eyes riveted upon the two tiny marks on his hand which began to swell even as he gazed at it.

"Not treachery, but craft," Myrhia amended blithely. "You have been bitten by a tiny asp of Eladon. Even now, its venom is racing towards your heart. Its poison is highly toxic and death will be mercifully quick. To think there are those who claim that I am not capable of compassion."

Pherazz could sense the truth of this statement in the constricting alleyways of his body. Enraged by her deception and his imminent death, he drew his dagger and charged the enchantress, uttering a primal howl as he came.

Myrhia made no move to elude the attack and the mercenary buried his dagger squarely in her left breast as the momentum of his charge knocked the High Queen to the polished wooden floor.

Pherazz stood gazing down upon the unmoving Myrhia. His respiration came in great gasps and was soaked in foul-smelling perspiration as the poison attacked his nervous system with a speed that was truly bewildering. At least he would die with the satisfaction of knowing that he had sent this damnable witch to her richly deserved grave.

Abruptly, Myrhia uttered a spate of full throated laughter and sat up. She rose lithely to her feet with the dagger still protruding from her breast. An incredulous Pherazz convulsed and pitched forward onto his face. She watched dispassionately as the mercenary agonized through his death throes...dead before the last convulsive shudders subsided.

She then turned to her High Commander, who flushed and raised an unsteady hand to his brow. The sight of the dagger jutting forth from the flawless white flesh was threatening to prod him into the arms of madness.

"There are two deadly enemies of men in this world today, Adriatus," Myrhia postulated reflectively. "The first is arrogance and the second is ignorance. In combination, they prove to be inevitably lethal as this obese pig has so painfully discovered."

Adriatus did not comment, though his complexion had taken on the pallor of aged cheese. Slowly, Myrhia extracted the dagger from her left breast. Upon its removal, the flesh displayed no sign of having been violated. "This mercenary was too arrogant to grasp his purpose and importance in the grand scheme of things. Like all men, he believed that he was a creature of consequence. He and his band of deviants have outlived their usefulness."

"All men have," she intoned darkly, casting a weighty glance at the High Commander. "This Pherazz lacked the intellect to perceive his obsolescence and has paid the ultimate price. His ignorance of the nature of the force he served has sealed his death warrant. I trust that you will not fall victim to the same blunder, Adriatus."

The High Commander swallowed, feeling abject and unmanned. Slowly, he shook his head.

"A sage resolution, but then you always were a clever dog," she remarked disdainfully. "Now, have this piece of refuse disposed of."

Adriatus swallowed again, though his mouth was dry as a coal bin and his tongue felt painfully swollen. "My Queen, there is still the matter of the roving spirits. They have reduced my command to a state of panicked disorder."

Myrhia turned and regarded him flatly for several seconds. After moments of excruciating tension, she finally said, "Very well. Withdraw your troops into the central section of Amberdias. I will have my Morticants assume responsibility for patrolling the outer rings of the city. As the entire nation seems to have fled north, taking their willowy, fragile goddess with them, there is little need to ward against conventional threat, so huddle around the tower's green space like frightened children. It wouldn't do to have my elite military troops soil their armor every time a malign specter materializes out of the mist."

"What of the invasion of Metocan, my Queen?" Adriatus inquired, though his relief was obvious.

"The Metocan are safely tucked behind the Hiberas, where they may cower until I decide that it is time to deal with them," she informed him curtly. "As I've said, for the conventional army, the war is essentially at an end."

Adriatus bowed formally, suspecting that his tenure as High Commander of the Imperial Army was also destined for a quick and perhaps painful finish. He turned and strode to the door on trembling legs, but before he could make his exit, she summoned him back. Turning, he saw that she was again standing upon the balcony, gazing out over the skyline of the magnificent city. There was something fey in her posture; something that spoke of insufferable loneliness and an emptiness too vast to contemplate. For a brief moment, Adriatus almost pitied the High Queen.

"Meet with the mercenary rabble and have them select a new leader. Describe the fate that befell Pherazz and have this new leader sent to me. I would hazard a guess that he will be more pliable." Adriatus waited for a moment, and when it became evident that she would speak no further, he left her to her solitude.

2

For the party, the next morning was an enervating ordeal of oppressive humidity and heat. Emian met Islena's decision to continue the journey with undisguised relief. The river waters had subsided to a negotiable level during the course of the long night. Doraux and the rest of the party members then set about gathering the supplies necessary to construct a large raft. Islena decided upon a large one as opposed to two smaller ones, reasoning that a larger craft would be less susceptible to tipping should the waters get rough.

After only a short time, everyone was perspiration soaked, surly and tired. Steam rose from the jungle floor in a vaporous cloud that quickly occluded the sky. Still, after several hours of onerous labor, a large, flat raft floated on the river's edge.

Islena elected to wait until noon to launch onto the river, hoping that Sormias would return with the missing Jerhia. As they waited, Arminda came awake with an agonizing cry, clutching at the scarred flesh of her wounded shoulder.

Doraux bounded over to the Jerhia, who suddenly resembled a frightened child, more than a battle-hardened warrior. "It's going to be all right, Arminda. There is no bleeding and no sign of infection."

The Jerhia glanced up at Islena, her blue eyes wide with trepidation so profound that Islena could scarcely suffer the sight of it. "I feel nothing in my arm or shoulder. I cannot move my arm, Islena. I'M PARALYSED!"

Doraux's gaze shifted to the limb, which hung uselessly at the Jerhia's side. The fingers were clenched like the palled limbs of a dead spider. She suddenly swept the girl into her embrace, not wanting the woman to see her cry. Though her frantic efforts had saved the woman's life, there had apparently been nerve and tissue damage in the area of the wound that had reduced the fearless warrior to a cripple. Islena knew precisely how she would feel had the roles been reversed. Reduced capacity or debilitating illness was paramount to death for Doraux, who had long measured her worth in terms of physical ability.

"You'll be okay," she whispered into the girl's wheaten hair, hating herself for offering the hollow platitude, but helpless to prevent it from slipping out.

The Jerhia pushed Doraux to arm's length. Her eyes were listless and resigned. "Leave me behind, Islena. Without both arms, I doubt that I could hit a tree at ten paces and I have no sword experience. Voice fraught with winter's dying sorrow, she concluded, "I am an impediment and you are not obligated to bear my burden."

Islena seized the smaller woman's good shoulder and shook her emphatically. "We are obligated, damn it. We have an obligation as decent human beings to help each other. That is precisely what separates people like us from Myrhia and monsters of her kind. If we abandon our capacity for compassion in the name of practicality, we have nothing. Now decide...if you stay behind, the search for Artumas is over and we return home."

Islena's unrelenting gaze bore into Arminda, who gazed back in obvious confusion. In her culture, a disabled warrior was perceived as an unspoken embarrassment. The sword was viewed as a noble exit for such unfortunates and yet here was the very symbol of hope denouncing the notion that a crippled warrior was of no value. "I'll come with you...but I will never allow myself to become a hindrance. Mark me, Islena Doraux...if it becomes evident that I can contribute nothing of value to your cause, I will take my own life."

"Fair enough," Islena retorted. "However, I'll be the one to decide if you serve no purpose." She swiftly wrapped her powerful fingers around the girl's neck and jerked the startled Jerhia's head closer, until the tips of their noses touched. "Believe me when I say that I will find ways to put you to good use, even if it means carrying my water skins, polishing that damnable sword or massaging my feet at the end of a long day of trudging."

Arminda grimaced in distaste and attempted to pull away but the powerful Doraux held her fast. Islena's green-eyed gaze bore into the Jerhia with disconcerting intensity. "If you give me even the slightest indication that you intend to harm yourself, I will turn you over my knee and paddle your bottom until you wish you'd never left your mother's skirts. Do we understand each other, Arminda?"

The wide-eyed Jerhia gaped at Islena for several moments. Finally discerning that this stranger was being unflinchingly sincere, Arminda nodded slowly...feeling very much by an unruly schoolgirl who had just received her comeuppance.

Doraux smiled brilliantly. Tilting her head toward the lethal crossbow, that lay forgotten next to the Jerhia, she suggested, "I wonder if there still isn't a way that you can learn to fire that thing?"

Arminda gazed at Islena and then turned a speculative glance upon her beloved crossbow, a faint glimmer of optimism dawning in her eyes. Doraux smiled to herself, knowing that she had helped Arminda reach that core of perseverance that would allow the Jerhia to find some accommodation with her infirmity.

"It doesn't look as though Sormias will be back any time soon," Islena said to Emian. "So we'll launch the raft and hope that he will be able to find us."

"Perhaps the river will prove less forbidding than this jungle," the Metocan observed hopefully. Doraux grunted and assisted Arminda to her feet. Traveling by river would certainly expedite the journey west, but one could scarcely imagine what terrors they would encounter on the river.

Together, the six remaining party members embarked onto the large raft that had been lashed together by lengths of thick, hopefully durable vine. Using long poles, the two Emercians pushed the heavy raft from the bank. Islena stripped off her outer tunic and took the tail pole, her powerful arms glistening with perspiration as she leaned her rock solid body into the task of directing the raft into the current.

Soon the flow of the river took hold of the cumbersome craft and sped the party into the mysteries of the west.

Islena had expected that the river would be fraught with white water rapids and large rocks, perhaps even impassable waterfalls. Instead, the river flowed at a rapid, yet manageable rate and she realized that the general topography of this section of the Land of Shades was virtually flat.

Doraux relaxed and sat cross legged next to the Metocan, whose tense and expectant posture suggested that he feared attack around every bend in the river.

"You seem worried?" Doraux asked, hoping to sound casual. He regarded her from behind, his large, limpid eye and she again realized how unique the Metocan were as a race.

"In a land as volatile as this, one is well served by eternal vigilance," he replied softly, his eyes tracing the dense foliage on either shore. Islena grunted her tacit agreement and the pair lapsed into a protracted silence.

"Islena, I want to commend you for your adroit handling of Arminda's situation," the Metocan declared softly, rousing Doraux from her reverie. "It was certainly...unconventional, but effective. Not being familiar with the many nuances of the Jerhia culture, you have no idea how devastating and traumatic this type of maiming can be to the Jerhia psyche."

Islena looked out over the muddy waters of the river and remarked distantly, "I think perhaps I do, Emian."

The Metocan absorbed this thoughtfully and offered, "Still, I believe you quite probably saved the Jerhia's life where most in this world would have tacitly accepted her inclination towards self-immolation without so much as a raised eyebrow. To think that I actually lived to hear someone threaten to paddle a Jerhia's bottom."

Unexpectedly, the Metocan began to chuckle then...a light, mirthful chime that caused Doraux to grin. "When you have two young boys, you develop some pretty unconventional conflict resolution skills."

The Metocan's laughter abruptly ceased, his eyes widening in a comical expression of surprise. "You...you have children, Islena...in your world?"

With the inadvertent mention of her two sons, the abyss opened beneath Islena, threatening to shatter her tenuous grip on self-control. In a tiny, wounded voice, she whispered, "I can't speak about my family, Emian...or think about them. If I do, then I'll simply fall apart."

Her voice trailed off but not before the Metocan divined that she was perilously close to collapse. For the first time, Emian was afforded a glimpse of the woman's underlying humanity. This was a living, breathing and vulnerable human being who was subject to the same capricious currents of elation and despair as everyone else and not simply the personification of his beset world's slim chance for deliverance.

The two fell into another emotionally fraught silence as the current carried Islena ever close to her inescapable destiny. After a time, Islena frantically forced herself to focus on the pragmatic challenges of the here and now.

There had been a myriad of questions chasing around the confines of her frantic mind, all pertaining to the working aspects of the power that she purportedly possessed. In this moment of relative tranquility, Islena decided that now might well be the time to pose these questions.

"Emian, how familiar are you with the legend of the three Proclamations?" Doraux began. The Metocan's glance flicked briefly to the woman and then returned to the trees on either bank of the river. "Scholarly interest in the mysteries of the three Icons is virtually bred into our people. They have become something of a national obsession."

"I have the first Icon. Something tells me that I have only scratched the surface of its power. Why do I require the other two? Isn't it possible that this one Icon might prove enough?" There was an undercurrent of eagerness in Islena's voice that caused Emian to sigh, wary of the thread of speculation that might lead Islena to the misguided notion that the remaining two Icons were redundant.

"It has been theorized that each Icon is but a component of an elemental, yet absolute power. This is to say that the sum is truly greater than the individual parts. Each Icon has been invested with the collective measure of an entire culture, but combined they transcend the limitations of each of the three cultures. Do you understand the benefit of this intermingling, Islena?"

Islena shook her head. Though she did grasp the essence of what Emian was attempting to communicate, it was imperative that she gain a thorough comprehension of what it was that she was expected to achieve by bringing the three repositories together. Emian considered the problem for a moment and then withdrew a length of coarse rope from his robe. Using his thumb and forefinger, he pinched the thin strand of rope at a point of thread one third of the way from one of the ends. A green spark erupted from between the pinched fingers and a section of rope fell into his lap. He repeated this process, severing the remaining length into two equal segments.

As the enthralled Islena looked on, Emian arranged the three segments of rope into a rough circle, leaving a slight space between the ends of each length. Snapping his fingers like a carnival conjuror, he appeared to produce a jade pebble from thin air. This he placed at the center of the circle.

When the Metocan again turned his attention to Doraux, an air of grim finality had somehow crept over his demeanor like a subtle shadow. "Let us use this particular analogy to explain the relationship between the three Proclamations and the one of prophecy...more specifically, you."

"As you know, each Icon represents an aspect of power or knowledge...warfare and martial prowess, earth lore and sorcery. You possess one of these Icons and it is a truly formidable force, but it is effectively incomplete." He paused and picked up two of the lengths of rope. "Without these two Icons, your potential power is dramatically curtailed and though the Dragonsword confers upon you an awesome might, it is still inadequate to vanquish Myrhia. It is difficult to imagine the puissance that the enchantress has at her disposal...just as it is no simply task to determine what manner of entity she might be."

He then replaced the two lengths of rope in the circular arrangement, although, on this occasion, he placed the three strands in a continuous circle. He then described the circle with his index finger. "Upon collection of the other Icons, you will achieve a manner of closure and thus become invulnerable. These additional powers will cloak you in a mantle of invulnerability because each Icon will enhance the power of the other. The power of the Natzurdan staff will allow you to access the elements; water, air, earth, and fire. The orb of Metocan will not only endow you with all forms of magic and sorcery, it will also allow you to comprehend more of the forces that drive this world and how best to shape those forces to your will."

"This will be enough to destroy Myrhia?" Islena asked, scarcely able to conceive of a power such as Emian described, without being drawn to evocative thoughts of Godhood and the dark allure such a mantle offered.

Emian's smooth brow furrowed. "It is also foretold that, once the One of Prophecy has obtained all three Proclamations, there shall be a moment of ascension...of apotheosis" The Metocan quoted the precise passage from the Sacred Book, "The three forces shall come together in a purifying vortex into which shall be plunged the one, there to be judged and galvanized into the service of divinity. Thus transmogrified, the One shall emerge, devoid of flaws and worldly imperfections, to face the embodiment of iniquity."

"That implies that I will be transformed and become something entirely different," Islena paraphrased, shivering at the grave implications of the passage. "What this passage boils down to is the essential loss of my humanity.

Emian nodded. "The references are rather obscure, Islena, but there is definitely that suggestion."

Doraux shook his head and placed her index fingers in the hollow of both temples. Emian saw that there was a distinct note of bone deep weariness in that simple gesture and was suddenly conscious of the enormous strain that had been imposed upon this enigmatic woman. "There are instances when I become convinced that I'm locked in a coma and that all of this is a nightmare that I just can't scream my way out of. There is so much of this that doesn't make any sense to me. If I'm destined to be Myrhia's bane, what could possibly motivate her to bring me here and set me off on the path to discovering the implements with which I might destroy her? Would it not have been more logical to simply kill me? She has certainly had her share of opportunities to do precisely that. That more than anything else, makes this entire scenario so improbable. The explanations about Myrhia requiring the power of the icons to abrogate the existing laws that govern the separation of the realities strike me as nothing more than facile bullshit and hardly worth the risk of total obliteration."

Emian spread his arms in a gesture of helpless bemusement. "To presume to comprehend Myrhia's reasoning is akin to claiming to understand the will of the Gods. It may be that her motives could be attributed to avarice and colossal arrogance. Whatever her reasons, it should be assumed that she has a trump card up her sleeve. Whatever else she might be, Myrhia is neither impulsive, nor reckless. I suspect that Myrhia's appetite for power will not be appeased with the conquest of this world and thus she requires the Proclamations to expand her realm beyond its boundaries. You are the one instrument through which she can achieve this dark ambition."

"And she cannot wield these Proclamations herself?"

"No, though this is pure conjecture, I am confident that she would be destroyed if she was to try."

Emian was startled when Islena greeted this with an expression of intense anguish and obvious inner turmoil. "What is the matter, Islena?"

In a small, almost forlorn voice, she disclosed the shape and texture of her greatest fear. "Myrhia claimed that I would be my own undoing. She insisted that the perverse aspects of my character would eventually corrupt me and, ultimately, lead me to her. My inherently flawed nature is her wild card."

She glanced up at the Metocan and saw that he was regarding her with an overtly speculative expression as though seeing her for the first time.

"Sorcery!" someone exclaimed frantically and the moment of intense empathy shattered. The pair leapt to their feet and moved to a spot where Zilgian, one of the Emercian troopers, stood peering down into the dark waters with open dread. At first, Doraux could not discern the source of his apprehension, but then she caught sight of a vague shape floating just a few feet beneath the murky surface. Squinting, she further discerned that the outline was vaguely human in appearance, though its proportions were elongated and grotesque.

"What are they?" Doraux asked uneasily of no one in particular. Something about the dark shapes floating beneath the water was strangely familiar, recalled from some nocturnal rambling or another.

Emian shuddered and placed a hand on her shoulder to draw her away from the raft's edge. With a welling sense of hysteria, she again blurted, "What in God's name are they?"

"I cannot say, but I would guess that, based on the nature of this vile place, it would be wise to assume they are hostile."

While the heavy raft drifted down the river, the Emercians had been assigned the task of preventing the craft from colliding with jutting rocks or drifting into the shallows near the banks. This they had achieved through means of two longs poles and a good deal of sweat and strain.

While the others attention was focused forward, the tail Emercian hefted his pole out of the water. Suddenly, a tremendous pressure jerked the pole from his grasp and sent him sprawling to the rough surface of the makeshift craft. As though on cue, the submerged figures burst to the surface and launched themselves toward the raft deck. The party members recoiled, backing instinctively toward the center as the grotesque shadows scrambled for purchase on the slippery deck.

The first of the assailants deftly pulled itself onto the raft and stood statue still near the end, as its inhuman eyes fixed upon the six party members. Within seconds, a dozen of the sleek ebony figures had joined the first, all eyes locked hungrily upon their prospective prey.

Slowly, Doraux drew the Dragonsword, tensing as the throng began to advance. Lorio twirled her quarterstaff and moved forward to meet the threat. The creatures' posture became combative. The one nearest to the Lamish warrior crouched slightly, a hideous grin splitting its featureless face like a gaping open wound, revealing a blood red maw and two rows of needle-like fangs.

Lorio snarled and darted forward, her staff swinging in a tight arc. Yet, an instant before the ironwood could make contact, the ebony figure appeared to liquefy and spread about the deck like viscous oil. Stunned, Lorio twirled her arms, narrowly avoiding collapsing into the midst of the others.

The target of her failed attack reconstituted itself into a solid figure only a foot from Islena. Without hesitation, Islena lashed out, her mind releasing a small fraction of the Icon's power. Upon contact, the assailant exploded in a shower of black Ichor.

"Protect Arminda," Islena instructed the others without glancing back. The Metocan immediately closed his eyes and began to recite an ancient incantation of warding. As he labored, a translucent dome of energy enveloped himself, Arminda and the two Emercians, leaving Lorio and Islena alone to confront the onslaught. Feeling helpless, he waited, hoping that the energy dome would repel the abominations.

One of the entities ventured forward to test the energy field and was quickly hurled backward for its efforts. It struck the water with a high, piercing whine and sank beneath the surface like a lifeless block of stone.

The others hesitated and then slipped back into the current, congregating near the front of the raft. Islena stole a brief glance over her shoulder, and seeing that the others were relatively safe, hurled herself into the fray. Lorio attempted to stave off the onslaught of the ebony tide, but the mercurial opponents frustrated her efforts.

In the tight confines, Lorio's quarterstaff was rendered useless. Crying out, she thrust the point of the staff into the abdomen of the creature before her. The entity absorbed the blow, its consistency changing to allow the staff to pass through its flesh. Once it had penetrated completely, the ebony flesh solidified, encasing the quarterstaff as though it had been set in concrete

Lorio struggled mightily to free her weapon, but her efforts proved utterly futile. Snarling, she drove the heel of her palm directly into the creature's shapeless face. The force of the blow staggered the creature backward, but it quickly recovered its balance and surged forward, teeth bared truculently.

Only a few feet away, Doraux watched Lorio's desperate struggle with mounting alarm. Distracted by her friend's plight, she did not notice that one of the ebony attackers had pulled itself onto the platform. It did not bother to stand erect, instead scrabbling forward and clamping its powerful hands around Islena's ankles.

The pain was immediate and swelled to agonizing proportions. Doraux's scream tore across the river as the pungent smell of burning flesh reached her nostrils. Panic threatened to undo her then, but at once, an icy calm abruptly descended over her thoughts, as the Jerhia collective assumed control of her actions.

'There will be time enough to suffer later. You must act now if you wish to live.' This single compelling thought blazed through her mind, banishing her panic in an instant and she reacted without hesitation. Only later, in the hours of misery, did Doraux grasp that she had unearthed another facet of the Icon's power. When required, she could surrender her mind to the Jerhia collective and let them do what they did best...fight

With clinical detachment, she twisted around and brought the blade down across the creature's wrist. A keening shriek filled the air, and then the thing rolled away into the waters. Clenching her jaw, she stole a quick glance down at her ankles. To her relief, the things hands were not clamped to each ankle. Apparently, the creature's tissue had immediately dissolved, leaving behind two raw patches of ugly, oozing flesh just above the tops of her soft-soled boots.

Howling, Doraux pivoted in place, indiscriminately scything her way through anything that venture within range of the circle she described with the deadly blade. The ebony figures exploded on contact, though Islena did not know if she had destroyed them or merely forced them to retreat.

A muffled scream reached her ears and she suddenly remembered Lorio. Denied her weapon, the hybrid fought ferociously, but the sheer number of attackers was overwhelming and soon she found herself entangled by powerful limbs from which she could not escape. Although their touch did not affect Lorio's flesh, the suffocating weight of numbers shattered her normally unflappable composure and the still human facet of her nature began to scream.

Inside the protective dome, Emian viewed the grim conflict with mounting alarm. The incisive Metocan quickly grasped the creatures' intentions. As if to confirm his suspicions, the back end of the raft lifted six inches out of the water and still more of the ebony entities were climbing onto the front of the raft. Looking to Doraux, he saw that she was too absorbed in venting her fury to understand the precise nature of the threat. If the hordes succeeded in upending the raft, then the party was all but doomed. Once in the water, the party members would be easy prey for the entities.

Sighing, Emian allowed the protective dome to lapse so that he could convey the depth of their peril to Islena. Turning to the Emercians, he instructed the two to attempt to divert the raft toward the nearest shore.

"Islena, they're trying to tip the raft. You must clear them off," the Metocan roared, trying to be heard above the mad clatter of the fray.

Islena's head whipped about. Her eyes gleamed with fury and her face was twisted into a savage grin as she dispensed fiery death. Still, she nodded to indicate comprehension, but when she turned back to the fray, she was struck by the horrible realization that Lorio was virtually buried amidst the ebony monstrosities.

As they held the hybrid, the creatures would suddenly liquefy and flow over Lorio's impermeable flesh, until her body was covered in a thick, viscous coat of what appeared to be rubber. One by one, the creatures piled successive layers upon the now indistinct shape of the Lamish warrior.

Islena viewed all of this as though through a lens that slowed the passage of time to a torturous crawl. The Dragonsword dangled, forgotten, at her side.

Emian recognized Doraux's hesitation. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that the tail end of the raft was now a foot out of the water. There was a distinct cant to the craft and it would not be long before the sheer imbalance of distributed weight flipped the heavy raft, sending the six living occupants to a horrifying death...or worse.

"Islena, clear them from the deck!" he commanded, unable to drag his eyes from the elevated end of the crude raft.

"I can't. Lorio is in that!" The last strident protest was fraught with misery and indecision...the kind that paralyzes at the most inopportune of junctures.

"If you do not act, we will die!" the Metocan insisted firmly, his voice growing shrill with desperation.

Face contorted in misery, Doraux glanced back to the place where her friend had so recently stood. The thing that remained reminded her of an ebony termite mound.

'She's actually in that thing,' her frazzled senses informed her, pushing her to the brink of gibbering madness as she considered the agony such entombment must evoke.

The raft jerked upward again and the dispassionate collective asserted again itself, supplanting her will. Grimacing, she squared her stance and leveled the sword. Attempting to set aside her revulsion and grief, she gradually opened the aperture in her mind and unleashed a burst of unrestrained power. A bolt of argent lightening leapt from the tip of the Icon, filling the air with the acrid stench of burning ozone.

The sound was quickly drowned out by the hideous screech and insectile whine of the creatures that had been caught in Islena's maelstrom. Gradually, she increased the intensity of her outpouring, sensing no limit and fearing that she might not be able to rein in the puissance should she release too much. The ebony creatures literally dissolved before the onslaught, spattering liquefied ichor in every direction.

Abruptly, the tail end of the raft crashed back down into the water, sending white plumes into the air and tumbling the party members like dice. Doraux sprawled to the deck, but managed to retain her grip upon the sword.

The concussion near the rear of the deck was far more severe and destabilizing. Emian pitched forward, his head striking the crude logs with a sickening thud, and lay utterly still. The two Emercians also stumbled, but while the first caught hold of one of the wrist sized vines which held the craft together, Zilgian reeled backward and tottered on the edge of the deck.

Arminda also stumbled, but her leonine reflexes kept her upright and her presence of mind compelled her to reach out and snatch the Emercian back with her good arm. The two crashed to the deck in a tangle of limbs. The pallid Zilgian regarded Arminda with an expression of immense gratitude, while she stood back in confusion, not certain how to respond to her former enemy.

At the head of the raft, Islena drew an unsteady breath and allowed her chin to settle to her chest. She could sense an inexorable misery beating at the perimeter of her thoughts, wanting to reduce her to a vessel of inconsolable grief.

"Oh, you vile bitch," she castigated herself, as though self denigration was preferable to the numbing pain of loss. 'You promised that you would protect her but you failed...invariably...inevitably, you must fail.'

Thus afflicted, she laid back her head and howled like a mortally wounded animal, her pain fuelled by vivid recollections of her friend. The pinnacle of her agony came with the remembrance of Lorio's pregnancy.

As the others gazed on, paralyzed by indecision, Doraux raised the Dragonsword toward the heavens. In a voice rife with self loathing she roared, "I am not adequate...haven't you figured that out yet?"

She then drew back the Icon and heaved it out over the dark waters that had claimed her friend. The broad sword flew, end over end, sinking beneath the waters like the loss of hope. Doraux's broad shoulders sagged perceptibly and then she turned back to the group, who regarded her with a collective expression of horror and bewilderment.

Emian roused himself, his eyes unfocused and occluded by pain. Glancing at the remaining three, and finally at Islena, he demanded, "What have you done, woman?"

She regarded him coolly, indifferent to his reproach. "What I should have done a long time ago. I'm not a savior and it's a ludicrous notion to think that I'm capable of stopping Myrhia. In a world where horrors such as this are a part of everyday life, it is only fitting that a creature such as the enchantress would rule as Queen. I declare that she can have it, but I'll be damned if I'm going to help her take more."

Emian rose unsteadily to his feet. The intractable set of her jaw and the rigidity of her posture, informed the Metocan that the woman had sequestered herself behind a wall of intransigence, vulcanized by grief. Still, he was obligated to attempt to break through. "Islena, summon the sword from the water. Even if you have no intention of ever wielding it again, it is unthinkable to leave it in this vile place."

"Oh no, Emian," Doraux countered, her voice shrill with grief and tottering on the verge of open hysteria. "This is precisely where it belongs. Your ancestors were right... these Icons are abominable and they have no place in this world. These creatures cannot raise the sword's puissance and they will ward against those who are evil and ambitious or arrogant enough to presume to be Messiahs"

Emian started to object, but Islena raised her hand and forestalled his objection. "It's over. We can stand here and debate endlessly or until those things come back, but I doubt that we have the means to fight them off this time."

Seeing that further argument was futile, he sighed and asked, "What do you intend to do now?"

She gazed frankly at the Metocan, her eyed dulled by immutable pain of cumulative loss. "Once we reach the shore, perhaps we'll head west. I have my own reasons for locating Artumas."

Without further word, the two Emercians began to pole the raft in the direction of the north bank. When the raft finally touched solid ground, the party quickly disembarked. Doraux took several looping steps up the steep slope and suddenly collapsed to the lush carpet of grass. Tears welled up in her lovely emerald eyes and her face contracted into a distorted mask of agony as the injury to her ankles laid full and excruciating claim to her attention.

"By the gods, Islena, you've been badly wounded!" Arminda exclaimed, her eyes happening upon the suppurating wound that ringed her ankles. It was such a simple matter to forget that Islena was a woman, subject to the same pain and weakness as any other woman of tangible flesh. She was fallible and vulnerable. The Jerhia ran to Doraux and knelt beside the fallen woman, cradling Islena's against her chest while Doraux shuddered through her torment.

Arminda glanced up at Emian, her pale blue eyes entreating the Metocan to do something to ameliorate Islena's suffering.

Emian knelt beside Doraux and gently laid his palm over her right ankle. She reacted to this gentle touch with a shrill cry of pain. The Metocan closed his eyes and began to minister to her injuries. Under his touch, the mutilated skin began to bind and heal until soon the flesh had been restored to its original state with no lingering evidence of the entity's vile touch.

The Metocan stepped back and started up the slope without another word. The two Emercians exchanged tentative glances and then hurried to catch up with the Metocan, leaving the two women alone.

Islena glanced up through her tear distorted eyes at the woman, who was really little more than a girl. She had suffered her own debilitating loss and Doraux wondered if she would be the next to be sacrificed to this perverse illusion of her status as savior.

"I tried, Arminda," Islena whispered through her tears. The Jerhia stroked Doraux's hair, though inside, a whirlwind of turmoil threatened to shatter her own fragile grip on control. She had regarded this woman as something of a Goddess and now she was forced to gaze helplessly on while the mantle of infallibility crumbled before her very eyes. She desperately wanted to console Doraux, but found herself incondign to the task. Still, Islena continued to speak, her grief and self loathing pouring forth like a torrent that could not be dammed.

"My first priority was getting home to my family. Everyone that I have come in contact with has suffered on my behalf. You, your brother and now Lorio. I've tried frantically to protect all of you and still, I've failed miserably. Despite repeated failures, everyone expects me to don the heroine's mantle. I can't be responsible any further...not after Lorio. OH God...I'm so sorry!"

Something whizzed by her head and embedded itself in the dirt only inches from her face. A shadow fell across the pair and Doraux tensed, fearing that the ebony creatures were not restricted to the river after all...a presumption that seemed foolish in retrospect

Peering up, that image dissolved only to be replaced by one even more improbable...Lorio towered over the pair, unscathed by the harrowing embrace of the river's inhabitants.

"Your grief over my demise is premature, Islena," she declared with an unfathomable smile. "I'm back and I've brought along your possession."

Doraux tracked her gaze to the Dragonsword. Like the proverbial albatross, there seemed no way that she could disentangle herself from their bizarre relationship. Lorio sensed Doraux's revulsion and swiftly reached down and hauled the startled woman to her feet. Taking Islena's right hand in her own, she wrapped Doraux's powerful fingers around the haft. She then turned her alien, unflinching gaze upon Islena. Peering into the face of such splendid tempestuous beauty was akin to gazing into the eye of a hurricane. Islena was struck by the dichotomy that the woman represented; tremendous youthful beauty combined with new-found sagacity that spoke of great age. When had she undergone this transformation and more significantly, how? These two questions raged in Islena's mind, becoming more strident with each passing moment. The need for answers was fast becoming exigent, but still Islena refused to give them audience so great was her relief over Lorio improbable return.

"Islena, you have perfectly functional eyes and yet the truth of the matter continues to mock you from beyond the range of acceptance. You can no more dispense with the sword than you could hack off your own arm. You were born to this sword and the Icons and the destiny which you have yet to fulfill and you are bound to it despite your obdurate refusal to accept that glaringly obvious truth."

Islena shook her head in stubborn negation, bitter tears beginning to spill over her prominent cheek bones. Lorio reached out and seized Doraux's bulging shoulders, shaking her slowly and forcefully the way that one might shake a hysterical child. "Denial is pointless and the cause of much of the pain you presently feel. It is imperative that you set aside this destructive ambivalence. The duty is yours and there is no way to renounce it, other than death at the hands of your nemesis. Your mind is clouded by whim and fantasy, distractions from a world that was nothing more than a diversion while you waited for your true purpose to be disclosed."

She held the sword aloft. Islena glanced at it, despising everything it represented. Lorio's voice was now searing and ruthlessly harsh. "This is reality. The remainder of your life was an illusion. Perhaps that illusion may again obtainable, but first you must pay the debt owed to destiny. You have been bred to an obligation and while this might seem like a gross injustice, it is nonetheless inescapable. Until this obligation is discharged, you have no hope of regaining the things you have lost...the things you profess to love."

Doraux stiffened and brushed Lorio off, her green eyes blazing with their signature intransigence. "There is one way out," she rasped, the couched threat resonating in her tone. "Even I have a breaking point."

Lorio merely offered Doraux a knowing smile. Without a word, she produced a small dagger from the folds of her soaked tunic. Flipping the small weapon in the air, she delicately caught the blade between her thumb and forefinger. Then she offered the dagger to the nonplussed Doraux. "If you truly believe that this option is open to you, I challenge you to test that conviction now and dispense with this fool's illusion once and for all."

Islena's eyes slid from Lorio to the small, yet lethal blade, which gleamed wickedly beneath the alien sky. The new Lorio had developed a penchant for cutting directly to the heart of the matter...for striking sensitive nerves and tearing down even the most stubborn barriers of self-delusion. With slightly trembling fingers, Islena reached for the dagger as the spellbound Arminda looked on in transfixed horror, but found herself powerless to intervene.

"Your torment is augmented tenfold by the belief that you are capable of extricating yourself from the obligation to destiny by traveling this cowardly road," Lorio remarked in a voice dripping derision.

Doraux extended her arm and turned her wrist skyward. With eyes set in grim determination, she positioned the dagger an inch above the exposed flesh of her left breast. In the heightened anxiety of the moment, she imagined that she could see and hear the blood coursing through the veins there. Lorio's eyes beamed with encouragement, causing Doraux to question the woman's motivation. Not for the first time, it seemed that the woman standing before her was a total stranger.

Islena closed her eyes and grimaced. The act of self destruction had always been philosophically and morally repugnant to Doraux, whose consuming lust for life made suicide seem craven and unthinkable. A chain of harrowing loss and suffering had forced her to reconsider her attitude, but would she ever willingly surrender her own life while she still possessed her faculties and a strong will to survive?

Delving deep into the quiescent black core that lingered somewhere in the deepest recesses of her heart, she forced all of these things from her mind and focused upon the mechanics of the act. On the grainy screen of her subconscious, the blade began to converge upon her tawny flesh though she could feel her body's instinctive aversion fighting her every step of the way.

As Lorio and Arminda gazed on, Islena's hand began to tremble and her face contorted into an ugly mask of bewilderment and anguish. The titanic struggle of will caused her entire body to shake as the battle intensified. Slowly, the blade began to descend, but suddenly she threw the dagger to the grass with a primal cry of negation.

When her eyes met Lorio's, a new spark of comprehension dawned in their emerald depths. "Even if it was within your nature to destroy yourself, the Jerhia collective would move to prevent it. Your road is carved in stone, Islena. You would be wise to relent to the call of destiny before your foolish resistance destroys you."

Islena gazed into the other woman's eyes, searching for some sign of possible egress...of escape from this insufferable burden. Seeing none, she succumbed. "We'll continue west."

Lorio offered Doraux an indecipherable smile and quite unexpectedly put her arms about the smaller woman's shoulders. She bent close enough that Islena could feel her sweet breath against her cheek. "Islena, no grief or loss is irreducible. Certain scars may not be effaced, but their pain will pass. It takes a strong woman not to shackle herself to sorrow. I know you're a strong woman, Islena."

With this, she led Doraux up the slope and away from Arminda. The Jerhia had watched the two women enact their moment of intense drama, suffused by the terrifying certitude that the enigmatic Lorio was an engine of some vast and terrible purpose. Though her damnable infirmity had reduced her to a half woman, she swore that she would find a way to ward Doraux against that purpose.

3

The metronomic ticking of his pendulum pyramid clock was the only sound to be heard in the warm confines of Ben Richards' office. The Ryerson ventilation schematics lay forgotten upon desk along with an ever swelling mountain of other work that would gaze up at him with mute indignity as though cognizant of his neglect each time his eyes fell upon it.

Despite the exigency of his mounting work, Ben sat gazing out of the tint protected window, eyes focused upon the sprawling green space that stood adjacent to his office complex.

'Park! Damn it, it's a park,' he thought peevishly, despising the ugly, utilitarian term that had replaced it. He slumped in his chair, face propped on his right fist, peering down over the park which stood mostly unoccupied at this late hour of the afternoon.

Ben's mind tried valiantly to skirt around the thing that had preoccupied it incessantly of late, picking at it as though it were a peeling scab. While he could feel the reproachful call of unfulfilled obligations whispering at his shoulder, Ben realized that this was the only environment in which he could begin to brave the emotional minefield that awaited him. He had made a less than valiant attempt the evening before in the empty hours after he had bundled away Donald and Allan for the night. Before he could begin to address his persistent specters, the Scotch bottle had literally appeared out of nowhere to impose its jaundiced perspective upon his thoughts.

Reflecting back on the events that had brought him to this moment of moral confusion, he realized that his tumble into emotional and moral ambivalence had begun the day that Myrhia La Fey's shadow had fallen upon him as he chased memories in his front yard. Now that he could no longer escape the undeniable, Richards confessed (if only to himself) that he had been smitten by her, enthralled by her flawless beauty and captivated by her strange allure and beguiling mystique.

Only once before had he ever been so profoundly effected by a woman. That woman had been his wife, Islena Doraux, and therein lurked the source of his turmoil...his shame that left him feeling dirty and despicable...a thing worthy only of contempt.

"Six months," he muttered...the self contempt naked in his voice. "It hasn't even been six months."

Islena, his wife and mother of his children, had literally vanished into thin air as though she had fallen victim to an irreversible magic trick. For all intents and purposes, the authorities had closed the book upon Islena Doraux, though a myriad of unanswered questions had yet to be resolved.

Only federal agent La Fey displayed any inclination to actively pursue these persisting mysteries. She had worked ceaselessly as though doggedly obsessed by Islena's disappearance. She had gone to extreme lengths to reconstruct the events of that last horrible day, and though she had ultimately failed, Ben had been astounded by the intensity and boundless determination that she had displayed in the process.

All through the weeks of her investigation, Richards could feel himself being inexorably drawn to her; as they met over coffee to discuss or clarify certain questions about Islena's relationship with Marla Holmes or while they ate a vendor lunch in the park while she detailed leads that she had been following. Gazing into her limpid brown eyes and watching her full lipped sensuous mouth, he could feel perspiration forming in the hollow of his back, so intense was his burgeoning desire for her even as they discussed his missing wife.

With this nascent desire grew its bitter twin; self loathing. As she spoke of developments and leads, he would catch himself scarcely paying attention. Rather, he would be lost in the study of how the light would play upon her cascading ebony hair. The topic of his wife had, for him at least, become an excuse to bring them together.

Richards was disgusted to discover how quickly one could surrender any sense of moral righteousness with the proper inducement.

Yet, beyond this agonizing exercise in self denigration, Ben was cognizant of an abstruse fear. This Myrhia frightened him in ways that were too complex to properly articulate. Beneath that hypnotic beauty, there resided a razor sharp mind and a multi faceted personality. Islena had been (Richards winced at his subconscious use of the past tense) a very straightforward, no nonsense woman. There had been nothing coy or circumspect about his wife...her passion driven personality had not been prone to subtlety or the almost mercurial complexity that characterized Myrhia La Fey.

Myrhia La Fey was the diametrical opposite. Richards had the feeling that he could spend years in her company, but never begin to penetrate the deep labyrinth of her personality. Myrhia was surrounded by a corona of mystery and when he could muster the courage to gaze frankly into her limpid eyes, he found them to be as inscrutable as bits of obsidian. He could no more fathom her mind than he could grasp the theories of Quantum Physics.

Yet it was this inscrutability that drew him to her as though she was an exquisite piece of crystal that he just might have to possess. There were facets of her character that compelled him, despite an instinctive warning to tread warily. Ben shook his head and drew his palm across his face, grinning to think that the frangible creature could pose a threat to anything. The fact that she was a federal agent seemed not only improbable, but really rather fatuous. On all of the occasions upon which they had met, he could not ever recall having caught a glimpse of her service revolver. Try as he might, Richards could not conjure an image of the delicate beauty actually drawing her weapon and firing upon another living being. The act was simply irreconcilable with her serene and wistful nature.

Ben stood up and began to pace around his office. Admittedly, there had been moments, especially in the last few years, when his marriage had lacked warmth, but he had loved Islena with an unremitting passion even if the fires had waned in its last few years. Her loss should well have plunged him into an abysmal depression, and yet this incredible woman had entered his life like a divine blessing and Islena's loss had become manageable.

In the solitude of his office, he murmured her exotic name. It rolled over his tongue like velvet. Enticing, alluring, endearing; these seemed like concepts that were specifically invented to describe Myrhia. There was an anachronistic side of the woman that frankly confused Richards. It was almost as though she had been transported from another age. Common things appeared to fascinate, almost mystify Myrhia.

The woman had touched him profoundly, but the specter of Islena hovered over him like a symbol of shame and reproach.

All of this had been a mere abstraction only yesterday; a combination of whimsy and lust that had filled Richards with a private shame. Myrhia had been pleasant and demure, her emotions concealed behind an unfaltering mask of professionalism.

Last night, all of that had abruptly changed and now Richards found himself standing at a fork in the road to the future, agonizing over which path to follow. Both were dark and precipitous and both were replete with pitfalls and looming regrets.

Sighing heavily, he turned the events of the prior evening over in his mind.

It had been eight thirty when the doorbell had rung. He had been on the verge of herding the boys off to bed and preparing for another session of fending off painful and futile memories and torturous questions. Visitors this late were a rarity for the Richards household as the three occupants had become hermits after the daily obligations of school and work had been met and so Ben had been pleasantly surprised to find the federal agent standing on his doorstep.

"I'm sorry that I've came so late," she began, but the apologetic note never really touched her eyes. Gazing into those enchanting depths, what Richards did see was a muted excitement, and suddenly he found himself anxious to discover what had inspired that gleam.

"No please, by all means, come in," he fumbled, suddenly feeling clumsy and oddly juvenile. Myrhia's presence had always produced this effect, in addition to other decidedly pleasant sensations. He stepped back and ushered her in, surprised when Allan literally leapt forward and sprang into her arms.

The diminutive beauty caught the boy, who unexpectedly wrapped his small arms around her neck and bestowed a kiss upon her cheek. Momentarily nonplussed, Myrhia glanced to Ben and then hugged the boy in return. Even Donald, who had normally greeted the woman's presence with an odd reticence, offered the visitor a smile.

'By God, they could learn to accept her,' he realized, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. 'Given time and careful nurturing, they could actually come to accept this woman.' A host of possibilities bloomed in his mind then in stroboscopic succession, and Islena's memory faded if only by the slightest of increments.

"I was just about to put the kids to bed," Ben explained.

"Well, I think that I could manage to carry this little guy up the stairs," she declared and headed for the staircase, ruffling Donald's hair as she went by. Ben and his son exchanged glances and then followed.

4

The pair sat in the den, each in a wingback separated by a glass end table. Richards was conscious of her astounding beauty...full breasts beneath a black turtle neck, shapely legs flashing from beneath a conservative suede skirt.

Myrhia raised a finger to her lips, her expression growing somber. "Ben, the news I have is not good."

Richards tensed, but Myrhia immediately raised her hand. "We have not found your wife." Richards relaxed and sagged back into his chair. She paused for a moment and then continued, "Unfortunately, it doesn't appear that we're going to."

Richards' brow furrowed and he shook his head in confusion. Myrhia suddenly stood and began to pace around the room. "My entire career has been built on getting results, so it isn't easy for me to concede that I've failed in this instance. I wanted so desperately to find your wife, but I've exhausted every possible trail...covered every different tangent of possibility until the evidence actually became a blur."

She came to a stop before Richards and peered down upon him, her expression inscrutable. "Your wife has vanished, Mr. Richards. I simply don't know where else to look and my superiors are no longer willing to expend the effort to continue the search."

"So it's over then?" He heard himself ask, feeling tears welling up behind his eyes, but desperately not wanting to cry before this ethereal creature.

She surprised him then by kneeling beside him and covering his hand with her own. "Perhaps this is an impropriety, but I'm going to speak candidly. I desperately wanted to discover what happened to Islena because I could sense your pain and hoped to alleviate that suffering. I've failed and that grieves me because I believe that you are an inherently good man who doesn't deserve this anguish."

"I appreciate everything that you've done, Myrhia," Ben heard himself respond. Emotionally, he felt as though he had come unfettered in a howling wind. With the FBI disassociating itself from the search, he realized that the chances of ever locating his wife were negligible. Though the thin hope remained, Ben Richards understood that Islena Doraux was lost to him. A panicked afterthought informed him that the extraordinary creature before him was about to leave him adrift in an ocean of misery.

As though discerning his thoughts, she remarked, "Ben, it's almost impossible to fully empathize with your torment. In some ways, this is the worst of all possible outcomes. As long as there exists the slimmest of chances that Islena yet lives, grief and healing will never be obtainable for you. I have no right to tell you when, but I can say that there comes a point where the heart must let go...when clinging to hope becomes a millstone"

He gazed at her and nodded glumly, numbed by the prospect of confronting what lay beyond this awful moment. "You're leaving then?"

The question slipped out before he fully realized that he had intended to pose it. He stiffened slightly, appalled by his own insensitivity. Myrhia stood utterly still, her expression speculative and intense. "I'll remain here for a day or two longer. Then I must return to Los Angeles for a short time."

Both stood and Myrhia began to drift toward the door. Perhaps it was merely wishful thinking upon his part, but Ben sensed a certain reluctance in her movements. When they reached the study door, she suddenly bowed her head. Looking back on the moment, he dearly wished that he could have been able to see her face just then, but the pooling shadows obscured her expression, occluding any hint of her true intent.

He could remember sensing her ambivalence...the reverberation of some intense internal conflict. When she turned to face him, her eyes were veiled in shadow. "You're a good man, Ben Richards. You've been strong when circumstances could easily have reduced you to a dysfunctional vessel of self pity. I can't begin to describe the suffering and horror that I've witnessed. Is it possible to estimate the lives destroyed by seemingly random acts of violence?"

She shook her head in dismay. "I think that you've developed the character to persevere without becoming bitter and cynical. I suspect that your obligation toward the boys has helped in that regard. Tending to the suffering of others can often distract us from our own grief. This has touched me in ways that I couldn't have anticipated, though normally I am able to detach myself from the grief of those who I'm attempting to help."

She moved closer until he could feel the very palpable weight of her femininity. Gazing steadily up at Richards, she drew a shaky breath. "I don't want to leave you like this, Ben...not like this...not at all."

Ben fumbled for something meaningful to say, but before he could arrange his turbulent thoughts, Myrhia glided forward and kissed his mouth firmly and passionately. Her small hand slipped around his neck and she drew his body against her. Shocked and thoroughly aroused, Richards could feel the intoxicating fullness of her breasts against his chest.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a tiny voice raised a strident, impassioned objection, beseeching him to reject the beauty's advances.

She released Ben and stepped back, her bewitching eyes locked squarely on his. In one fluid movement, she pulled the sweater over her head and pushed her skirt over her tapered hips, sweeping it aside with a titillating flourish of her right foot. Richards inhaled sharply as the tiny voice of admonition fell to silence in the glow of her beauty.

"I want you, Ben Richards, and I'm going to have you." This unequivocal imperative left no room for refusal.

She moved closer and slowly began to remove his shirt while he could only stare fixedly at the deep valley between her breasts, wanting desperately to pull aside the indigo satin bra, but afraid to touch her as though to do so might cause the moment to dissolve like an illusion. With great deliberation, Myrhia uttered a lazy laughter and slowly pushed the shirt from his shoulders. Then she removed his belt and fell to her knees, drawing down his pants.

Richards shivered at the erotic connotations of the position, eliciting a throaty chuckle from Myrhia, who whispered, "I feel your need...your consuming hunger."

Pulling his briefs aside, she made him naked then. His engorged penis stood up along his abdomen like an exclamation point of his lust. With a long, lacquered nail, she traced its length and Richards cried out, nearly stumbling. Then she wrapped a small hand about it, rising as she did. "Do you wish to stop? This is your only chance. After this moment, there will be no turning back."

He was cognizant of the teasing quality to her voice, but shook his head frantically, though an instinct informed him that she had spoken of something more consequential than a possible retreat from a sexual tryst. Still gripping his pulsing manhood, she slowly led him across the room as he drank in the leonine curves of her body.

Pushing him down into a plush chair, she removed her panties and bra with an art that left him gasping. Then she made good on her promise to take him. Richards uttered a guttural cry as her warmth enveloped him and she muted his exclamations by drawing his mouth to a rigid pink nipple.

She began to move in a rhythmic gyration that caused him to explode in seconds. When he gazed up at her, tears of apology and embarrassment glistened in his eyes. She kissed him and smiled fondly. "No need...with me you will know no limit. Now, again and very slowly...like this."

She began to move again. As she had promised, his erection did not falter and soon his lust burned like an argent fire. Myrhia whispered into his ear, cocooning him in the warmth of her hair and exquisite breasts.

Even as his world became a blur of tactile and electric frenzy, warm tears flowed against Myrhia's flawless skin. Myrhia absorbed his tears as though they were a balm to fire her own passions...his moral dissolution stoking the fires of her own primal need.

Much later, as an exhausted and thoroughly spent Richards dozed, Myrhia threw his arm aside, regarding him with a frigid glare of disgust.

Closing her eyes, she allowed her body to become engulfed in a mantle of flames, burning off his corruption. From the globe of flame, she whispered, "All shall be mine."

Chapter Eighteen

1

An azure hue was gradually bleeding over the eastern horizon, when Islena woke screaming into the inky dawn. Her cries were fraught with absolute terror as she thrashed at the cold air in defense against an unseen adversary. Out of the darkness, arms embraced the distraught Doraux, and a soft, assuaging whisper reached her through the terror of her nightmare.

Lorio.

Islena recognized the voice as lucidity slowly unraveled the fabric of her night terror. She turned to her friend, whose features were vague and indistinct in the first light of dawn. Only the depthless brown eyes gleamed, lit by whatever resolve and strength now sustained the Lamish beauty.

"I'm...I'm all right now," Doraux stammered thinly. Lorio released her as the others gathered about the pair. She gazed up at the group, five intrepid souls in the purgatorial wastelands of madness, and offered them a wan smile. "I'm sorry. I've had a nightmare and it frightened me quite badly."

Sensing her embarrassment, the others nodded and began to drift away. Before Emian could return to his blankets, Islena summoned him back and gestured for him to sit. Folding his legs primly beneath him, he glanced questioningly to Doraux. Her lovely face was haggard, though he quickly discerned that her eyes were alight with the dying embers of residual terror. She remained silent for several moments and then began, "It was more than a nightmare, Emian. What I experienced was so inexplicably strange. The images were vague, almost surreal...but profoundly terrifying, despite being so ambiguous."

"What did you see, Islena?" The Metocan prompted softly, an anxiety stirring in the pit of his stomach.

"I can't describe it accurately, Emian. It was more like a presage of something terrible looming over the horizon." Doraux reached forward and seized his wrist. "My family is in danger, but the children, they are the actual targets."

Emian frowned. Visions and nocturnal intimations of terror were not unknown to the Metocan, yet they had a tendency to be deceptive and often impenetrable, confusing both the dreamer and the interpreter with strange abstractions. Whatever the case, the Metocan discerned that the woman's terror was a palpable thing and he would have to address this with extreme caution. "What can we do, Islena?"

She glanced up at him, tears glistening on her cheeks. "I have to find the Icons quickly and stop Myrhia so that I can find a way back to my life and family."

Emian stood up and grasped her shoulders. "Islena, it will be light within the hour. Surely we can delay our departure until then."

"We can't!" Islena objected vehemently. She brusquely shrugged him off, glaring at him from behind a wall of truculence.

Though he found such tactics deplorable, Emian knew that the party could not risk movement in the darkness and he would be required to summon the ugly specter of her past misjudgment. "No matter how exigent, we cannot chance a recurrence of the fate that befell Gillian."

Islena's face crumpled as though she had been physically struck. Emian watched her posture of inflexibility dissolve, giving way to an expression of black despair, and felt a sharp pang of shame. Softly, he offered, "Less than an hour, Islena, and then we can set off."

Even in the incondign light, the Metocan could see that she was stricken by torment. Hanging her head in dejection, she spoke in a voice that was barely audible. "My entire life has been held in abeyance. I have to take it back," She reiterated the last phrase as though desperate to convey its importance. "I have to take it back. There is simply no other alternative."

Then she folded her legs beneath her and closed her eyes. Only a barely perceptible hitching of her shoulders betrayed the extent of her anxiety. She began to weep silently then, impotently waiting for the arrival of morning.

2

Ten days had passed between the time that the party had been attacked by the ebony creatures and the morning that Islena had awoken from her nightmare. In that time, the expedition had progress perhaps a hundred miles west and the general topography of the land had undergone radical changes. The almost impenetrable jungle, with its enervating and cloying humidity, had given way to forest of a more moderate climate.

The entire party was grateful for the change, none more so than Islena, who was no longer required to hack through obstinate curtains of vines and foliage for hours on end. More important still, the change had allowed them to accelerate their pace and that had suddenly become critical to Doraux. The towering, well spaced trees, with their interwoven canopies of branches, protected the party from the sun and made the grueling trek a little less arduous. When the sun finally rose, Islena stood up and started westward without as much as a glance at the others. Lorio moved to follow, as did the Emercians. Emian glanced around at Arminda, noting how pallid and wan the girl appeared on this particular morning, where once she had been a dynamo of boundless energy. Venturing closer, he was shocked to discover the dark smudges beneath her eyes and the pinched expression that twisted her lovely face.

"The pain is extreme?" he inquired and she merely nodded as though an admission of pain was an occasion for shame.

He extended a hand and helped her to her feet. "It is not a sin to display pain and infirmity, Arminda. Nor is it a concession of weakness. The fabled Jerhia pride is not without its flaws. Suffering is not a badge of nobility whatever your scholars would have you believe."

She gazed at him in obvious confusion and he experienced a moment of extreme and poignant pity for her wretched world and its sorry inhabitants. "How old are you, girl?"

"Nineteen." she replied after a brief hesitation. Had her tone been fraught with fear and regret? He thought that it had. Suddenly, as though out of compulsion, he asked, "Are you frightened, Arminda? Ever?"

She glanced up at him, her pale blue eyes gleaming with earnest emotion. "I'm always frightened." She gestured toward her useless arm. "Now more than ever."

He smiled...a rare expression for the normally reserved Metocan. "I will tell you a secret...so am I."

Her eyes widened in disbelief and then narrowed as though she suspected that he was being disingenuous. He placed a hand upon her injured shoulder and her entire upper body was suddenly suffused by warmth that temporarily ameliorated her pain. She glanced at her shoulder and then back to Emian, her expression a mixture of incredulity and gratitude. Solemnly, he intoned, "As I've said, you are the most courageous girl that I have even known. There is no nobility in needless suffering. When you begin to experience pain, you can come to me to relieve the suffering. You must promise me this."

Arminda held her gaze for a moment and then nodded solemnly. "I promise." Suddenly her face crumpled and she burst into tears. "I've become a burden, a shame to my people and millstone to this cause."

He drew her to him and held her fiercely, silently cursing every institution that had indoctrinated its people with this vapid belief. "My girl, if human worth is strictly predicated upon one's ability to wage warfare, then we deserve the scourge that Myrhia has unleashed upon us. If we should prevail, I pray that we may finally dispense with this horrendous system of values that have reduced people to functioning bits of chattel. Arminda, you eschewed the relative safety of Metocan to serve Islena and you have suffered on her behalf. Your just reward is legend, not abandonment."

The girl glanced up at the Metocan, puzzled by his strange philosophy. "But I am not even capable of defending myself."

"Really?" the Metocan questioned. "Have you even considered the obstacles posed by your infirmity? Is it not possible that you could devise something to compensate for your loss?"

The Jerhia's eyes narrowed speculatively and Emian sighed, wondering if it was possible to save the girl from cultural despair in the face of centuries of harsh, inculcated tradition. She beamed a smile and murmured, "It's just possible that I might."

"I expected as much," the Metocan replied, displaying an optimism that he did not feel. His world had very little tolerance for the infirmed or the feeble and Arminda's future would be fraught with a giant's share of heartache if her paralysis was not reversed. "Let us catch up with the others."

Arminda again offered the Metocan her ebullient smile and the pair hurried after their comrades.

3

For the most part, Islena spent the majority of the day shrouded in a brooding silence, trying to recreate the terror of her nightmare. Its true meaning remained veiled behind an obstinate wall of abstraction. Absorbed as she was, Islena was cognizant of the changes in her environment. The great hardwood trees still towered over them, reaching for each other with branches that stood perhaps two hundred feet above them. Now, however, pockets of swamp and marsh had sprung up, forcing the party to zigzag to circumnavigate the deep pools of stagnant, rush clogged water.

Turning to Lorio, Islena observed hopefully, "There's a high degree of humidity here, but the temperature is still moderate. Are we coming to the ocean?"

Lorio sniffed experimentally at the air and shook her head. "No, there is a large body of water nearby, but it is fresh water."

Recalling the distinctive smell of the ocean from her own world, a crestfallen Islena nodded and plodded forward. The pair mounted a rise, and when they had reached the top, both came to an abrupt halt. Before them the land fell dramatically to the shores of a slate gray body of water which stretched from the northern to the southern horizon.

"I think that you're wrong, Lorio," Islena whooped ecstatically and clapped the taller woman on the back.

The slope leading down to the water was littered with dwarf pines and shoulder high rushes and was perhaps a thousand yards long. Almost euphoric with the hope that her fortune was about to reverse its course, Islena let out a brazen cry and sprinted down the slope, ignoring the pools of slime covered water which sucked at her ankles like grasping hands.

The others reached the crest in time to see Islena disappear into a stand of ugly pines.

The hybrid glanced at the Metocan, her eyes glittering with derision. "Islena believes that she has found hope."

Then Lorio was off in pursuit of Doraux with the others trailing after her. When the group finally managed to catch up with Islena, they found her standing absolutely still, staring fixedly at something in the distance. Lorio skidded to a halt, immediately drawing her quarterstaff in response to the braying of an atavistic instinct that cautioned her against unseen danger lurking in the shadows.

Suddenly, the surrounding pines came alive with sly, furtive movements as unseen shapes moved to encircle the party. The figure that had so captivated Islena's attention now moved into the open.

The man was unabashedly bald, with bland, flat features and listless gray eyes. He was attired in skins and a fur jacket that reeked of musk and swamp. His flesh appeared tangible, not ephemeral in the way of the other inhabitants of the kingdom of shades. He approached the party, slowly and cautiously, with his crude axe at the ready. Nothing in his posture suggested an inclination towards immediate violence, but rather he approached the six with an expression of wonder, tempered by distrust.

As he did, a score of others emerged from concealment, all brandishing an assortment of pikes, swords and axes. In these close confines, Islena realized that a battle would prove costly. She elected not to draw the Dragonsword, unless things became utterly desperate. Looking more closely at the man who approached her, Islena was reminded of a primitive tribesman from her own world. By comparison, the creatures that she had encountered thus far in her odyssey seemed thoroughly contemporary.

Doraux could sense Lorio's mounting tension and her almost addictive craving for violence, so she placed a restraining hand upon the warrior's forearm.

"Be patient," she urged quietly, and Lorio relaxed, if only incrementally.

'Just how did you survive that fall into the river?' Islena's subconscious inquired of Lorio. Islena had aggressively suppressed the question for the last several days, but in a moment of distraction, it reared its nebulous head. Bewildered, Islena shook her head and thrust it from her thoughts, knowing that the time would soon come when it would have to be addressed.

The man came to a halt some ten feet from where Islena stood, his gaze flicking briefly over the scowling Lorio and then settling back upon Doraux as though he had instinctively deduced that she was the leader of the group.

"Why...have you...come here?" he demanded haltingly. His mannerisms and speech patterns confirmed Islena's initial assessment. These people were near Neanderthals and communication would prove not only cumbersome, but precarious if misunderstood.

"We seek a man," Islena declared slowly. "It is said that he lives on the edge of a great sea." She gestured in the supposed direction of the ocean and inquired. "Is there an ocean? Do you know if a lone man lives nearby?"

Islena could almost hear the other man's trundling mind as he absorbed and considered what he had been told. Then his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "There is no ocean here. This is a...lake. No one lives here but us and the wicked spirits."

Doraux gazed out at the large body of water, her features reflecting her internal dejection. "This is a lake? That is impossible. It is much too vast."

The man regarded Doraux as though he feared that she was not only deranged, but extremely dangerous. Doraux noticed that he had raised his weapon ever so slightly. "We mean no trouble," she assured him, attempting to placate his anxiety. "We only wish to find the ocean and the man we spoke of."

"I am Jlarna, keeper and watcher of the shore," the man declared with a formality that seemed oddly incongruent with his ponderous manner. With measured vehemence, he declared, "This land is ours and we must drive the spirits away."

"We are not spirits. We are flesh and blood, just as you are. Touch me and you will see that for yourself." Islena extended her hand to Jlarna, whose eyes reflected his indecision. He glanced around at the others and tentatively ventured closer, gingerly feeling her arm in the way that one might attempt to touch something that could well be poisonous or rabid. Once he confirmed her solidity, he jumped back to his former position, again brandishing his weapon.

"We have never met ones like us...ones of real flesh," he murmured, clearly astonished. "Where did you come from?"

Feeling the need to be especially demonstrative, Doraux turned and pointed in the direction from which they had just come. "We are from a land beyond the forest...many days travel in that direction. The only other things we've encountered are the wicked spirits you spoke of."

"The forest," the man echoed wistfully, his tone fraught with reverence and dread. Sensing the man's ambivalence, Doraux forged ahead. "It is not our intention to trespass and if we have, we are sorry. It is said that a great ocean lies to the west. We must reach it and find the man who is said to live there."

The man regarded her in a speculative silence for several moments and then beckoned two of the others to his side. The group moved off and huddled in whispered, but animated conversation. Islena waited patiently...her face an impassive mask. Upon her brow and in the hollow of her lower back, beads of oily perspiration crawled maddeningly over her skin.

Jlarna finally nodded and returned to Doraux. "Your people will come with us to Fexal, our island in the lake. You will tell your story to Ramad. He will decide how to...deal with you."

Islena could feel Lorio tense like a coiled spring, understanding that even the slightest intimation of a return to captivity would be unpalatable for the Lamish beauty. Again, she placed a restraining hand over the woman's wrist. "Not now, Lorio," she cautioned. "We are guests, after all."

Jlarna watched the exchange warily and finally commanded "You will give us your weapons."

Doraux's eyes widened briefly and the Dragonsword's rubies flickered ever so slightly. The she shrugged and simply handed the sword over to the keeper with an amicable grin. There was a collective gasp from her own people, but she turned and advised them to do the same. Gradually they all complied, Lorio being the last to throw her quarterstaff down in disgust.

Surrounded by the armed escort, the six were ushered to the shores of the great lake. As they approached, Islena saw two things that had not been immediately apparent from the crest of the slope. She realized that the vast lake was shrouded in a heavy gray mist that limited visibility to perhaps a hundred yards. From this perspective, she could partially discern the dark silhouette of what she assumed was the island to which Jlarna had referred. The second thing of note was the incredible collection of longboats that dotted the shore. There were hundreds of small crafts stretching along the eastern shore into the obscuring mists.

The keeper led the group to the nearest boat. "We will take you to Ramad now."

Recalling the ebony horrors of the river, Islena felt herself stiffening. Stealing a glimpse of her companions, she recognized the same trepidation in every eye. "Jlarna, along the river, we were attacked by black creatures from the water. Is it safe on the lake?"

"The river belongs to the demons, as does the forest," the keeper informed her. "But the lake is ours," he concluded with a fierce and grim growl that spoke of a tenacity that would not be easily overcome.

Islena merely nodded tightly and stepped into the boat, taking a seat near the bow. The boat easily accommodated the six as Emian took the seat immediately behind Doraux.

The group watched in heavy silence as the islanders plunged into the water and strung a rope from the bow of Islena's boat to the stern of the next. They worked with a single mindedness and tenacity that spoke of plodders who would be slow to grasp and even slower to relinquish.

Soon, ten of the other long boats were filled and the silence was shattered by the slapping reports of crude wooden paddles breaking water. The boat that would lead the party, pulled away from the rush-clogged shore and soon the six found themselves being towed into the eddying mist.

The temperature in the mist was much cooler and Islena shivered in the darkness, feeling the weight of another bitter disappointment settle into her flesh along with the pervasive dampness. A hand touched her shoulder and she actually gasped.

"Be calm, Islena," Emian murmured. "Your anxiety and sorrow are palpable things. As improbable as discovering these people may be, it could yet work to our advantage."

"When I first saw the lake, I thought that our luck was finally about to turn," she remarked glumly. The Metocan nodded his commiseration.

"Your dealing with Jlarna and his people has been exemplary, Islena. It speaks of a remarkable maturity and I commend you for it."

"Do you think that we're in trouble?" She asked distantly, peering into the mist.

"I sense no conscious malice about these people," Emian offered. "I suspect that the way in which we are perceived will have a great influence upon how we are treated. By being forthright with this keeper, I believe that you have aided our cause. I did not expect you to surrender the weapon and that can only be interpreted as a benevolent act."

"Folly!" Lorio spat from over the Metocan's shoulder. Emian winced, but tactfully remained silent.

"Lorio, we cannot resolve every problem with confrontation. I've learned that the sword will come to me if I summon it. That advantage should be enough to keep us clear of serious problems should the islanders turn hostile."

Lorio merely grunted and glanced out over the rolling mists. Still Islena persisted, "These people are not our enemies. They are simply attempting to protect themselves from the madness of this place and for that we cannot judge them harshly. If we were to slaughter them because of their natural caution, we would be no better than Myrhia."

Lorio nodded after a moment, while Emian smiled his approval. Islena turned back to the bow of the long boat, hoping that her logic would not prove to be their undoing.

4

The size of the Island provided Islena with a better perception of the enormity of the lake in which it was situated. As the boats pulled into a large cove, the air came alive with the cacophonous braying of warning bells. The sound was forlorn and disconnected in the mist and Islena suddenly experienced a profound sorrow for the simple people who dwelled here. Jlarna met them at the head of the dock, which was an elaborate wooden construction that appeared to run the entire length of the visible shoreline, and escorted them up the slope.

The party members could feel the cumulative weight of thousands of eyes upon them as the keeper led them along the headland. Emian correctly surmised that this was the first occasion that these people had seen another living being other than their own kind. The Metocan, in particular, drew many a puzzled glance because of his nearly translucent flesh and exotic appearance.

Islena also attracted many a gaze and when Doraux encountered the first island female, she quickly realized why. The indigenous women were female versions of the men...relatively short and squat, with blunt features and flat faces. The statuesque Lorio, with her precise, finely honed features stood out as a diamond might in a bed of coal. She followed Doraux, her face impassive, as though she was oblivious to the scrutiny.

The keeper led them to the gates of their settlement, which had been enclosed in wooden walls constructed from mammoth hardwood trees. It was difficult to conceive of the work required to erect such crude, yet formidable fortifications. To think that the Queen's army could reduce these antiquated fortifications to cinders in just a few hours caused Doraux to shiver.

Jlarna issued a command to open the gates after identifying himself. The tortured scream of the wood issued from within and the massive gates began to lift.

Without a further word, the keeper ushered the six inside. Once within the walls, the party came to a halt in unison. What they had thought to be a relatively small settlement stretched out to be a small city.

"My God, how many people live here?" Doraux murmured, thoroughly amazed by the improbable city stretching out in every direction before her.

The other stunning aspect of the city was the uniformity of the structures within. Each building was rectangular in shape and spaced a precisely the same intervals. The only variation was the actual size of each building.

"This speaks eloquently of the character of the people who built this city," Emian whispered to Doraux. "This indicates a singularity of thought and a distinct lack of imagination. I've begun to suspect that this fixed sense of purpose, this distinct lack of vision has allowed them to survive here. A people with a more fertile imagination might well have been driven insane by the spectral terrors surrounding them on every side.

Heralded by the ringing of bells, the six were led along the wide avenue that bisected the settlement along a north-south tangent. Swarms of islanders had come to line the avenue in hopes of catching a glimpse of the interlopers as word of their arrival spread throughout the settlement.

Eventually the avenue opened onto a rather Spartan square that was empty save for a crude raised wooden platform that had been constructed of rough timber. Out of the planked deck rose a gibbet from which hung a length of heavy chain. Open manacles waited with stoic patience for the next unfortunate soul to mount the wooden steps. This solitary instrument of public pain and humiliation evoked a shiver of revulsion from Doraux...a nasty invocation of the ghosts of Perdwick's dungeons. She dragged her eyes away, though her heart began to hammer in her chest as beads of cold sweat popped forth on the smooth skin of her brow. She stole a quick glance at Lorio, but if the Lamish was unsettled by the public punishment device, she displayed no outward indication of her anxiety.

Jlarna came to an abrupt halt directly before a wooden building that was adorned by carved pillars which were extravagant by the standard of the island's other structures. "This is the home of Ramad, the sage. He will hear your tale and decide what should be done."

Without further elaboration, the keeper mounted the stairs and disappeared inside, leaving the party to mill about as curious islanders collected around to gape at the group in undisguised wonder. Several moments later the keeper re emerged and brusquely beckoned for the six to enter his quarters.

Doraux inhaled deeply and briskly mounted the stairs, eyes flashing back to the manacles that swayed slightly from the gibbet. She suspected that this audience with Ramad would be the most crucial since her first meeting with Myrhia. Should this islander, through simple malice or mistrust, decide to detain the party, critical time would be lost. Still, she could sense the reassuring presence of the Dragonsword and felt partially bolstered by the knowledge that she could summon the icon if and when the need arose, though she did not relish the prospect of a violent confrontation with the simple inhabitants of this island.

The interior of the building was repressively gloomy, a stark reflection of the lives that the islanders lived, and sparsely furnished. Ramad, himself, was a rather distinctive islander with a full shock of brown curly hair and eyes that were cognizant, if not intelligent and perceptive.

He came to greet the party members, clearly fascinated by their exotic appearance. Without averting his gaze, he spoke softly to the keeper, "You may return to your shore, Jlarna. As always, your vigilance is greatly appreciated by all."

The old man's heavy brow furrowed as though he was offended by the perfunctory dismissal. "Are you certain, Ramad?"

"Yes, old friend," the sage replied gently, but firmly. His tone and manner were almost pensive as though he was plagued by worries that fell beyond the normal sensibilities of the people over whom he governed. The old man nodded and strode from the room without sparing the six another glance.

Once the old man had departed, Ramad rose and ventured closer to Doraux, who met the islander's scrutiny with a frank and open gaze. "Jlarna tells me that you have traveled from a land beyond the forest. Can this be true?"

"It is," Islena replied simply, noting that the mantle of leadership had been deferred entirely to her.

"This island has been a home to my people for as long as they have existed," Ramad explained. "In that time, no other living being has been encountered. Only the evil specters have stalked the lands beyond the lake. How is it that you have now traveled here?"

Islena understood that this was the pivotal moment upon which the resolution of her present situation would hinge. If Ramad perceived even the slightest hint of ulterior purpose or deception, his reaction would likely be harsh. This would be especially true if he believed the party's presence posed a tangible threat to his vulnerable island brethren. Still, how much did she dare disclose of the incredible tide of events that had led them to his island city? Realizing that she would have to engage in some very selective editing, Islena began to describe her meandering path to this particular moment and place in her odyssey.

Islena hesitated for a moment. There was a note of earnest perplexity in the man's voice that spoke of a willingness to listen to whatever she might say. "Until recently, it was not possible for the people from other lands to travel to this part of the world. A river of fire separated the living from what we call the Land of Shades and its spirits. A terrible shadow has fallen across our land and it became necessary to divert that river." She gestured toward the other members. "Once we changed the course of the river, we were able to cross into this spirit land and seek out the one man who might help us fight the evil that has afflicted this world."

Ramad absorbed this thoughtfully. "Jlarna spoke of this man and a great sea where you believe he lives. How is it that you know of a great sea that might lie to the west of this place?"

Doraux shrugged helplessly and murmured, "Sorcery."

The islander frowned. "This word is not familiar to me...what is this sorcery?"

Islena sighed. Grasping the notion and concepts of magic had been a difficult task. Turning to Emian, she communicated a silent plea. The Metocan stepped forward, trying to elaborate in simple terms. "We each possess five abilities...tactile senses that tell us about the things around us. We feel, we touch, taste, see and hear."

Ramad nodded his comprehension, but it was readily apparent that he did not grasp the underlying direction in which Emian was attempting to guide him.

"Magic consists of many abilities beyond these five senses. One of the things that it can do is allow us to see and learn things that our five senses normally could not. This is how we know that the man whom we seek lives on the edge of a great sea to the west of here."

"Why could you not simply fly there or bring him to you?" the islander asked ingenuously. Emian allowed himself a slight smile. "Sorcery also has its limits."

"The man you seek, he would ward you against the danger to your land?"

"He will certainly help us. Without his help, our chances of prevailing against our enemy are perilously slim."

The islander settled back into his chair and raised an index finger to his mouth in a gesture that struck Islena as oddly sophisticated as though he was a CEO considering a daring expansion proposal. Doraux realized that her analogy was an appropriate one in the sense that the party's dramatic appearance would forever alter the course of this simple people's history. Any decision that Ramad might make would only augment the impact. The imagination, once unleashed, was virtually impossible to curtail.

The nagging question must now linger in the simple minds...what might the civilization that stood beyond the great jungle, be like? What of their peoples? Their cities? What would it be like to walk and live amongst these people?

These questions would become irrepressible and soon the first brave few would venture east in search of the answers.

"What would you like of us?" the islander inquired at last.

"A small quantity of supplies, a means of transportation to the other shore and whatever information you might provide us about what we might expect to find there," Doraux responded. "If you are unable to give us these things, then I only ask that you allow us to go on our way quickly. As I have explained, my world is in danger and time is of the utmost importance."

Emian silently applauded Islena. She had not mentioned that hers was a world other than this. Such a declaration would only have confused an already difficult situation. Only later did the Metocan come to realize that she had, indeed, been referring to her own world.

Ramad's expression darkened. "As you may have seen, we are a simple people. This is a harsh place to live, but it is the only place we know. Perhaps this talk of sorcery has merit. This island and lake is safe, yet everything that surrounds it is fraught with madness and evil. There is always the fear that change will sweep our simple lifestyle away."

In his own crude fashion, he had expressed what Islena had been thinking only moments before and though necessity adjured her to assure him that his fears were unfounded, she could not bring herself to utter such facile self-serving deceptions.

For his part, Ramad glanced at the woman with the incisive green eyes and exotically beautiful face. She radiated need like a low level heat, but he could discern no guile. "I will offer what help we may. We will provide you with food and a boat to the opposite shore. The journey by water is nearly a sun cycle long. Now, however, it is late and to go to the western shore in darkness would be very unwise...even for strangers with the gift of sorcery."

Islena frowned, her impatience reflecting clearly upon her face. There was perhaps six good hours of daylight left. She recalled her nightmare and the prospect of a protracted wait became insufferable. Tightly, she demanded, "Unwise? Every hour that we delay allows our enemy the chance to tighten her stranglehold on the land. If we are to remain here overnight, there has to be a good reason."

Ramad's eyes narrowed. Doraux noticed the islander's hand press down upon the wooden table until his knuckles had gone white. It suddenly occurred to her that what he was expressing was not ire but simple trepidation. In the confines of his simple suite of rooms his fear was a palpable thing.

"If the forest is a fearful place," he began haltingly. "Then the land to the west beyond the lake is utterly terrifying. The sense of doom is so strong there that it is difficult to breathe the air."

Engrossed, Emian leaned forward and prompted anxiously "What dwells there?"

Ramad's gaze shifted to the odd countenance of the Metocan, whose large incisive eyes evoked a shiver from the islander. "We are not certain, though the land itself is as cold and gray as death. There was a time when our people kept vigilant watch over the western shores, but recent years have seen too many of the watchers disappear without a trace. Searches revealed no clue as to the fate that befell the watchers. Naturally the chosen became fearful and I decided to withdraw our settlements there. Now, we maintain vigils from the water and none will set foot on the accursed land."

"But you have never seen the inhabitants?" the incredulous Metocan demanded.

Ramad shook his head in unmitigated confusion and dread. "Stay the night and leave just before dawn. Whatever may live there, it is best confronted in the light of day."

Despite her reluctance, the earnest concern upon the islander's face convinced Islena to heed his advice. After all, this was his home and it would be imprudent to eschew his council...all the more so when she considered the exorbitant price of her past actions taken out of impatience.

5

Islena's lodgings were as unimaginative and unadorned as the rest of the island. She nodded wanly to Arminda and Lorio and then shut the door to her quarters, sealing herself in with a host of burgeoning anxieties and sinking despair. The demands and rigors of this hellish land seemed never ending. Though dull, the islanders were unquestionably courageous and yet they feared to set foot on the western shore of the great lake. Islena, however, did not have the luxury of simply declining to face these phantom terrors. Every obstacle was one to be surmounted, regardless of how weary or terrified she might be.

She sighed heavily and slumped onto her pallet. The Spartan cell evoked recollections of Runesholm and the demented Curate, Jackylwyn, who she fervently hoped was now roasting in the hell he so richly deserved. Lying back, she crossed her legs and crossed her arms over her breasts. Unfurling her thoughts, she sought out the Dragonsword, successfully locating it after only a few seconds. Having no concept of what it was that they had impounded, the islanders had simply tossed it into a storage shed along with the other weapons.

She grinned, briefly considering the irony of her new found ability. At first, she had viewed magic with derision and disbelief. Now she employed the empathic ability as though it was every bit as commonplace as her normal five senses.

"What would I become if I was to remain here for another five years?" she inquired of the silent room.

'A Queen the likes of which this world has never seen.' The erudite, lilting voice, while familiar, had offered the rather grandiose declaration with such unflinching certainty that Islena was momentarily nonplussed. Sitting up, she gazed around the tiny cell in search of the imaginary intruder.

As before, she was the room's sole occupant.

Again, she discerned her proximity to some tremendously crucial revelation...a brushing aside of veils that would clearly demonstrate the irrefutable logic of everything that had befallen her since that first morning she had experienced the tear in the fabric of reality. She could now discern a shadowing presence, a duality that was about to come into sharp focus when a tumult from beyond her window shattered the moment and the presence retreated back into the dark recesses of her subconscious.

Islena cursed, slammed her fists down onto her thighs and bound across the room to determine the source of the uproar. Throwing back the wooden shutters, Doraux peered out over a scene of absolute chaos. A large crowd had assembled in the square outside her lodging. From her place near the window, Doraux could almost feel the collective mob lust radiating from the group like a low grade heat.

'Ramad has lied to us,' was her initial reaction to the confusion. Certain that the islanders were about to turn on the party, Doraux was about to summon the Jerhia Icon, when she quickly saw that her first impression had been incorrect. As the group of islanders moved through the square, they formed around two men who dragged a single woman through the dun colored dust and trampled grass of the common.

The men were stone faced, eyes focused squarely on the raised platform...totally oblivious to the woman's wretched cries and pleas for mercy. Agitated, Islena moved to the doorway of her chamber, standing at the threshold to witness the group's passing. As the unfortunate woman drew near the place where Islena stood, she gazed up at the stranger with the improbably beautiful green eyes and the expression of implacable confidence that was unthinkable to a woman of the island. The islander's eyes were wide with terror, but Doraux could also sense an uneasy intermingling of resignation and outrage in the depth of those dull brown eyes. The woman's broad features were twisted into a grimace of unbridled fear.

In a moment of compelling, yet silent communication, those dull eyes issued a plea for help. Then the group was by Doraux and the woman was being dragged, screaming and thrashing, up the steps of the wooden platform.

The frantic woman twisted her head back in Islena's direction until her teary eyes found the woman standing on the threshold of the squat wooden building.

"Please!" She mouthed the desperate entreaty without actually giving it voice, but the single word exploded in the confines of Islena's skull in a dazzling eruption of light and raw emotional empathy.

Doraux uttered a strangled gasp and every muscle in her powerful body constricted until she stood as rigid and unmoving as a piece of statuary. Inside her tunic, Islena was painfully aware that her nipples had grown erect and turgid.

In that single instant, the barriers and sequestering shadows of Islena Doraux's long-repressed identity dissolved.

'At last your defining moment has come,' a voice declared from just over her left shoulder. It was the same voice that had spoken to her as she lay on her pallet only moments before. Islena jerked her head around to find a statuesque woman with honey blonde hair and inexpressibly beautiful blue eyes staring back at her knowingly. The blonde hair hung over her left shoulder and down between the deep valley of her breasts...the cabled braid bound by exquisitely crafted silver torques.

The woman was blessed with a delicate beauty and the regal bearing of a queen.

'You...you are Guinevere,' Doraux stammered, knowing this just as certainly as she knew the contours of her own flesh.

'We are Guinevere,' the woman amended with a warm smile.

Perplexed, Doraux shook her head, but before she could give voice to her confusion, figures began to materialize out of the very air behind the ethereal beauty. The coalescing of shapes continued until a line of women stood in a procession that wound its way back towards the eastern gate of the island city. There were women of every shape, size and skin color, but invariably their beautiful faces were dominated by blazing eyes vivified by an irrepressible intensity and ferocious passion.

As each new figure would coalesce out of distant memory, Islena's body would quake in response to the cumulative weight of entire life lived crashing down upon her consciousness...forgotten names, grand passions, tragedy and unbearable heartache conjured into jarring focus in the span of an instant.

When it seemed certain that her mind would simply disintegrate beneath the inconceivable weigh of long-repressed memory, the process abruptly ceased.

'Islena Doraux, your true name is Daughter of the Tempest,' the voice now spoke in perfect unison...innumerable incarnations of the same enduring being speaking as one. 'This is your moment of revelation...a moment of terrible suffering through which will come profound insight and epiphany. You must face this awful moment...just as each of us have when our time was upon the world...for you are we and we are one.'

"I don't understand any of this," she murmured aloud, trying to focus on the legendary queen standing directly behind her. Guinevere reached forward and gripped Islena's right wrist with shockingly powerful fingers. A sense of surrealism washed over Islena then as she peered up at the figure of legend and myth, though Islena could feel the undeniable truth of her existence resonating in her viscera and marrow of her bones. 'Islena, fate has guided you to this juncture and though it pains my heart, I must tell you that you will suffer here, but in the depth of your abjection and misery, you will discover the wherewithal to resist the mother's iniquitous design upon your soul...just as you always have.'

'You're talking about Myrhia?' Doraux blurted. A shadow of loathing furrowed Guinevere's smooth brow and she merely nodded.

'What is required of me?' Islena asked with firm resolve around the edges of which skirted a formless dread. Something ineffably horrible was about to transpire...ineffably horrible, but utterly unavoidable.

'The wretched creature being dragged to the gibbet stands as the personification of every woman whose humanity has been stolen by men with heavy fists and dark hearts,' the manifestation of memory declared gravely.

'You want me to intervene...to stop whatever is about to happen?' Islena asked, sensing the Dragonsword's presence at the periphery of her consciousness.

Guinevere shook her head, her expression sorrowful. 'To disrupt this sorry spectacle of abasement will achieve nothing. No Islena...you must stand in her stead. In this way you will implant a small seed of doubt in the minds of those who believe it is their inherent right to reduce women to the role of chattel, deprived of even the simple rights of humanity and dignity. Yours will be the gift of civility to this primitive people.'

Islena dragged her gaze back from the winding procession of women and back to the still struggling islander who had only now been dragged onto the wooden deck. For the first time, Islena's gaze fell upon the collection of whips that had been hung over the wooden railing, near the vertical post of the gibbet. Panic, raw and debilitating, welled up in her insides and she gasped, 'You actually expect me to allow myself to be flogged?'

'This women's humiliation will serve no purpose. Your, however, will be a catalyst for change here and this selfless act will galvanize you against the mother's dark seduction. Remember always...you are us and we are one...take strength in that truth.'

When Islena turned to face the queen, she had vanished as had all the others.

'No, not vanished but rather, they've gathered into me,' Islena amended and though she was profoundly afraid, Doraux could feel a mantle of stolid determination envelope her then...a ward against the agonizing step she was about to take.

'In the mere span of a few heart beats, your salient reality has forever changed...the scales have slipped from your eyes and you can now clearly see who and what you are,' Guinevere's voice declared and then fell silent as the flow of time resumed.

Islena took a hesitant step out onto the stoop of her building and suddenly Emian materialized beside her as though out of thin air...his face clearly beset by worry.

On the platform, the two men roughly coerced the island woman into the manacles and clamped the two iron cuffs into position over her thin wrists. The metallic clatter of the chains effected Doraux like a physical slap. Once restrained, the woman seemed to resign herself to whatever was to follow for she allowed her head to slump forward and her body to go limp.

Islena tensed and the Metocan hurriedly began to speak. Glancing around, she saw that the other party members had emerged from their lodgings to watch the ugly spectacle. Most sported looks of wary bewilderment. Only Lorio displayed no outward sign of emotion, though her rigid posture spoke eloquently of her internal emotional turbulence.

"Islena, I only ask that you listen to me before you commit a rash act," Emian entreated, while a squat, blunt faced islander ascended the platform and stood directly behind the manacled woman. "However barbaric and distasteful you might consider this display to be, this is their home and their culture. We have no mandate to interfere simply because we find these practices to be reprehensible."

Islena watched stoically as the man ripped the rough sewn blouse from the woman's back to the roaring approval of the predominantly male crowd. She noticed that the women amongst the group all wore similar masks of guarded neutrality, yet she could sense their smoldering outrage and bitter resentment. "Don't you know what this is?" she demanded of Emian softly. "Can you not perceive the intention here?"

The Metocan frowned, but did not reply. "You're wrong, Emian. We have an obligation to intervene."

"Islena, please. I'm only asking you to be pragmatic. If you embroil yourself in this people's affairs, we stand to lose precious time...and that is a commodity that we can scarcely afford to waste...even if the situation seems to warrant the delay."

On the platform, someone handed the man a length of thick rope that had been knotted at one end. He accepted this and turned the opposite end about his fist, pulling it tight with an ugly snap. Evidently, the leather whips that Islena had noticed before were reserved for more serious transgressions than the one for which this unfortunate woman was being brought to task. Islena looked directly at the Metocan. The intensity of her gaze was disconcerting. "This quest of ours is about righteousness...the struggle between universal justice and oppressive evil. If we turn our backs on public humiliation, everything that follows will be hollow." She gripped the Metocan's forearm tightly. "You can't begin to understand the soul-scarring terror that victims of these ugly spectacles endure. The greater good is a wonderful thing. So wonderful that everyone appears willing to sacrifice their lives on its behalf." She pointed toward the platform. "The true measure of a person's character is found in the way that they deal with small moral issues when there is no glory or great reward to be had. If I walk away from this in the name of pragmatism, I'll never be able to face Myrhia from a position of unassailable strength."

She stole a brief glimpse at Lorio, who stood back with a reproachful scowl. Doraux nodded and then strode purposefully toward the platform.

On the crude wooden porch, Emian sighed, but made no further move to dissuade the woman. The Metocan knew that certain situations had a mechanics and momentum of their own and once set in motion, it was impossible to predict how they might evolve or just where they might lead.

Islena shouldered her way through the throng of islanders and stopped at the foot of the stairs. "What is this about?"

Her powerful voice echoed across the square and a stunned hush descended in its wake. Every eye turned upon the stranger. The manacled woman gazed back at Islena, wide eyed at the temerity of the woman's actions. She had been conditioned to believe that a woman did not speak in public, unless directly addressed and only then with the greatest of deference. That a woman would have the audacity to demand public attention was unthinkable. The woman, despite her own imminent humbling, cringed to think what was about to befall the stranger.

"What has this woman done?" Doraux demanded in a throaty growl rife with menace. Behind her, Lorio had slowly drifted nearer, hovering behind Doraux like a protective shadow.

The man with the rope whip glared balefully at the upstart woman, though something in her fierce gaze admonished him against impulsive action. "Who are you to make demands?"

"I'm someone who doesn't like what she is seeing," she retorted and mounted the first step. "I'm someone who wants to know why you are about to whip this woman as though she was a herd animal."

The man grunted contemptuously and gestured to the other two. "Throw her off."

Emian hissed in dismay, knowing that the situation had veered dangerously out of control. The nearest islander was a squat, thick man with coal black eyes. As he moved to comply, nothing in his casual posture indicated that he expected the slightest resistance.

As he reached for Doraux's hair, she quickly snatched his cuff and pulled him forward. Dipping her shoulder, she allowed momentum to carry the big man up and over her right shoulder. He went sprawling through the air and landed at the foot of the stairs with a thick grunt. He lay unmoving for several seconds, unable to comprehend what it was that had just befallen him. As he attempted to rise, Lorio pivoted and drove a heel directly into his nose, which shattered with a liquid snap of bone and cartilage, spewing blood into the dirt in a fan. The islander clutched his face and howled like a wounded animal.

The second man watched Doraux outwit his comrade with his face set in a comical expression of incredulity, but ego still compelled him to intercept her. Ducking her shoulders and driving forward, Islena caught the flatfooted man in the abdomen and propelled him off the platform. Rolling to her feet, she rose to face the man who brandished the whip, her lips split in a decidedly venomous grin. "Perhaps, now you'll tell me what this is all about."

The man raised the whip and glanced uneasily at the other islanders, who watched the drama unfold as though paralyzed by the improbability of what they were seeing. "Come ahead if you wish, demon. I'll give you the whipping that you so deserve and teach you respect. This is our home and you have no right to meddle in our affairs!"

Doraux was preparing to do precisely that, when a low voice thundered, "Enough. Miscin, lower the whip!"

Islena recognized the voice as Ramad's, but only when the islander lowered his length of rope, did she turn to face the island leader.

He came slowly through the mob, his dour expression both troubled and confused. As his people parted before him, Doraux could sense the expectant tension gathering around her. Lorio must have perceived this as well, for she turned to the other woman and implored, "Now is the time to summon the sword."

Islena disregarded the advice with an emphatic shake of her head. Lorio cursed and averted her eyes in critical disgust as Ramad slowly mounted the platform. He came to stand before Doraux, who fielded his reproachful gaze evenly.

"Why have you created this spectacle?" he inquired softly, gesturing toward the battered islanders.

Doraux pointedly ignored his question and gestured toward the shackled woman, who flinched as though attempting to escape having Ramad's attention focused upon her. "Why are they doing this?"

Ramad shifted his gaze to the man he had called Miscin. "Explain."

"She has no right to demand such answers," Miscin cried, his voice growing shrill with indignation. "This is my right. It is also my duty."

"This woman is his wife," Ramad explained as though this could somehow shed the light of absolute comprehension over the ghastly scene.

"She disobeyed me," Miscin interrupted. "She must be striped...our customs demand it."

Doraux shook her head and glanced at the leader for clarification. "Amongst our people, it is a husband's duty to insure that his wife is obedient...and properly respectful and deferential in all matters. To disobey your husband is to disgrace him and this cannot be tolerated. Public atonement is a husband's right and proper recourse in such a case."

As the leader spoke, Islena's color deepened to rich crimson. The veins in her neck stood out in sharp relief until it appeared certain that she would virtually explode with outrage. Turning to the supposedly aggrieved husband, she inquired sardonically, "And what heinous crime did your wife commit?"

Bristling with indignation, the man scowled furiously and rasped, "She was not home when I returned from the mainland."

"Not home?" Islena echoed incredulously as though doubting her own ears. The urge to strangle this wretched bastard was nearly irrepressible. She mastered it only by turning her back on him and shutting him out of her sight. Ramad observed her closely and Doraux thought that she could discern the spark of something that might have been either comprehension or embarrassment dawning in his eyes. Slowly, he began to elaborate. "The bells that you heard when you first entered the village signify the return of the shore men. It is a rule of law that the women must then return home to await their husband's arrival as a symbol of respect for the risks they have taken on their behalf."

"I haggled over the vegetables in the market." the woman objected, her eyes as wide and fear filled as a doe's. Her heart hammered in trepidation over her temerity to actually speak...to defend herself in public, but the exotic creature's defiant actions had roused a small spark of courage that she never would have thought she possessed before this moment. "I was no more than a few minutes late."

Miscin responded to his wife's brazen insolence by striding over and striking her across the face. Her head snapped back and blood began to well from her nostrils. In a voice fraught with terrible promise, Islena growled, "Do that again and I swear that I'll kill you."

The man was about to respond but something in Islena's expression convinced him to hold his tongue. Beside him, his wife hung her head in abject shame. Scowling, Doraux turned to face Ramad. "Can you not feel this woman's fear? Do your people derive a perverse pleasure from this woman's pain and humiliation? Does it somehow affirm your sorry manhood?"

Ramad blinked at the ferocity of her criticism. "These are our traditions. They are rules by which we live. Our women understand and accept them. It has always been thus."

"Your traditions are deplorable, misguided and criminal!" Islena roared, her fists drawn into balls. "They reduce women to chattel or chickens. We are not chattel, but living breathing human beings, with feelings and rights. We are worthy of respect and dignity. This despicable public display is not fit for a criminal, much less a wife who has committed some perceived minor domestic offence. No one has the right to do this to another human being over something so ridiculous and trivial."

"We are the protectors," Ramad stammered. "The gatherers and defenders."

"This ritual makes you seem weak and pathetic. It makes a mockery of your culture and proclaims to the world that you fear the very thing that you claim to master. Any thing that you might achieve or good that you might do is nullified by this damnable double standard."

"Are you suggesting that we abandon our traditions?" Ramad asked as though the notion was so alien that it had never once dawned in his thoughts.

"If you ever wish to regard yourself as a decent society, yes."

The two regarded each other under the monochrome sky...extremes clashing on an ageless ideological battlefield where there could be no compromise. In that moment, Ramad clearly realized that this woman's coming had irrevocably changed the path of his people. Though, the vision filled him with sorrow, he also recognized the potential for good in what the woman had espoused. Still, the islanders had been imbued with the notion that all change must be slow and incremental. Conditioning had left Ramad with only one possible response. "That is something that we simply cannot do."

Doraux shook her head in disgust and averted her eyes to the splintered planks, where spots of maroon marked generations of shame. Ramad leaned closer and lowered his voice. "There is merit in what you say, yet it is this man's right."

Turning to Miscin, the sage asked "Will you forego the striping on this occasion?"

"She has defied me before my people. I demand my satisfaction," the husband insisted intractably.

"And so it shall be." Ramad declared softly, a hint of apology creeping into his voice. Miscin offered the crowd a grin of vindication as the sage stepped onto the first riser. He placed a hand on Doraux's forearm, shocked by the solidity of the flesh beneath the colorless tunic.

"Links with tradition are not easily broken," he intoned softly. Behind the trio, the woman's weeping became more strident. "If it is any consolation, your words have made an impact on my soul...perhaps someday..."

Islena grunted and closed her eyes. Guinevere had been unequivocal in defining the path Islena must follow and now it was moment to stand forth and accept the bitter feast that fate had prepared for her. "How many lashes will this woman receive?"

Ramad stopped and glanced up at the stranger warily. "Ten...perhaps a dozen."

"And if the island woman had spoken so brazenly, had challenged your authority so boldly, how many lashes would she have received?" Doraux persisted, her tone rife with contempt.

Ramad sensed her intention, but could think of no way to avert what was to follow. "Thirty lashes."

Islena smiled tightly, silently gauging her ability to withstand the pain such a sustained beating would involve. She pivoted to face the husband, who stared at Doraux with dark eyes that glittered with enmity. "Are you offended by my insolence?"

"You had no right to interfere," the man muttered churlishly. Islena offered Miscin an infuriatingly unrepentant grin. "If I agree to submit to the striping, then you will agree to spare your wife?"

The islander's face brightened as Lorio and Emian raised vehement cries of protest. Ramad quickly tried to intervene. "There is no need. You are a guest...not familiar with our ways."

"Still, as a guest, I am bound to respect your customs," Islena persisted and then returned her attention to Miscin. "I'm offering a chance for you to put me into my place, if you'll agree to spare your wife. Who has offered you greater offence? Thirty lashes worth of retribution. Thirty lashes might help to restore your withered manhood."

Miscin's gaze shifted from Islena to his wife and then back to Doraux. Finally, he nodded with a gap toothed grin. "Very well. She's a defiant wench, bound to step afoul again. It will be a pleasure to hear your screams."

"Miscin, do what you must do and be silent," Ramad muttered in disgust, clearly discomforted by the turn of events that had seen him pinioned between his authority and his obligation to tradition. Islena stepped closer to the rail and gestured to Lorio, who approached with blazing eyes. "Why would you subject yourself to this indignity? You could snap this dolt's neck like a dried twig."

"There are times when violence is not the solution. In this case, passive resistance will achieve more than brutal confrontation. I don't want you to raise a finger. No matter how terrible this might become, you are to stand by and do nothing."

"I never expected you to be a martyr," Lorio hissed disdainfully. Islena gripped her shoulder and squeezed forcefully. "If you ever cared for me, you'll do as I ask you this once."

The two women regarded each other and finally the Lamish warrior nodded curtly and strode away, sparing one baleful glance at Miscin. She marched across the common, but turned back to watch from the shadow of the nearest squat building. This new masochistic display of righteousness was a side of Islena that Lorio would never have guessed existed. Of greater significance still, she doubted that Myrhia had ever imagined that Doraux could be capable of such self sacrifice. She briefly wondered what other monumental misjudgments the enchantress might be guilty of and felt a sudden chill touch her Morticant's heart.

On the raised platform, Islena turned back to confront the irascible Miscin. "Release your wife."

The islander glared, but moved to comply. As she watched, Islena began to unbutton her tunic, mentally fortify herself for the ordeal to follow. The mob uttered a collective gasp as the sight of Doraux's naked torso. The months of ordeal and cover had faded the lustrous golden hue of her skin, but her extraordinary musculature was never more prominent than at this moment. Deep striations cut through the dense mass of muscles like fjords through mountains of granite.

Every eye was drawn to the large, firm breasts and the two pink nipples that stood erect upon them. Unabashed by her near nudity, Islena stepped up to the two hanging manacles and offered her wrists. Nonplussed by the stranger's improbable appearance, Miscin pushed his wife away and hesitantly clamped the cuffs over Doraux's large wrists. Turning to his wife, he ordered her to return to their cottage, his tone suggesting that he would deal with her once he had dispensed with this particular bit of rough justice.

The woman flashed Islena a brilliant smile of gratitude and then, when Miscin had returned his attention to the stranger, speared his back with a gaze of unadulterated hatred.

'He would do well to sleep with one eye open,' Islena thought as she watched the woman scurry around the corner of the nearest building. The notion caused her to grin, thus attenuating a small measure of her apprehension. It was imperative that she show these bastards no outward trepidation.

Miscin drifted over to the rack and took a length of rope and snapped it experimentally. In their distraction, none of the other noticed that he had selected a whip with small iron tips embedded in the knots. Watching him, Islena suspected that he had enjoyed several such dubious moments of masculine domination in the past. She fervently prayed that this would be his last.

The islander glanced up at Ramad, who gave his tacit approval to begin. Islena adjusted to a wider stance and tightened her back muscles until her striated laterals flared like wings. Glancing back over one shoulder, she taunted, "All right, bastard, show me how a real man tames his woman."

The first crack of the flail cut the air with an ugly sound that sickened Emian. Islena hissed but made no other utterance. Almost immediately, a thin rivulet of blood began to trickle down her back. Angry purple dimples appeared where the iron-tipped knots had lacerated flesh.

Irritated (and slightly unsettled) that the woman had not screamed, Miscin growled and delivered a half dozen lashes in rapid succession, punctuating each with a guttural grunt. Islena closed her eyes and clamped her eyes shut. Though the pain was horrendous, she adamantly refused to give it voice. Through sheer courage, she hoped to teach the islanders that women were worthy of respect and dignity. She further suspected that there were many who derived a perverse delight from this barbaric ritual simply through watching women plead and cry for mercy...something which she vehemently refused to do no matter how excruciating the agony became.

Miscin continued to administer the beating, delivering each lash with a precision of which only a true sadist might have been capable. On the fifteenth lash, Islena's powerful thighs began to tremble involuntarily. On the twentieth, her knees buckles and she sagged, though a single sound had yet to pass her lips despite the tears of agony which flowed freely over her cheeks. Her muscular back had become a gruesome montage of blood and gouged flesh that hung in snippets and ribbons around each lash stripe. Fans of dark blood painted the crude boards around her feet, yet another fresh layer to commemorate centuries of shameful public humiliation that the boards had lapped up like a greedy repository of communal disgrace.

"Enough!" Ramad commanded; mounting the platform before Miscin could strike another blow. Though he had spoken in a voice no louder than a whisper, his words echoed over the common as though he had unleashed a roar of apocalyptic thunder. On most occasions, whippings were boisterous events, but on this day the crowd was uncharacteristically subdued.

The islander could not bring himself to look upon the excoriated flesh of Islena's back, which had been cut to bloody ribbons. Ramad had never known of a woman who could endure more than fifteen lashes, much less twenty without feinting.

"Miscin, you extracted your justice. Now set the whip aside." The islander began to comply, his appetite for inflicting pain suddenly and inexplicably gone. Islena forced herself to stand erect, though the effort of that simple action sent convulsive waves of agony coursing through her powerful body. Quarter sized droplets of blood spattered the rough planks at her feet.

"Thirty strokes," Islena croaked, through bloody lips. "You promised thirty strokes and I want them all, you sadistic fuck! Are you hard...can you cum in ten strokes?"

She glanced back at Miscin, her emerald eyes ablaze with both pain and defiance. "Give me them all, you cowardly bastard."

The islander frowned in the face of her lewd taunting, his composure shattered in the face of such foolhardy bravado. Grimly, he nodded and again snapped the lash. Islena gritted her teeth and allowed her chin to settle to her chest. By the twenty-fourth lash, Doraux had again sagged until her tortured shoulder joints were forced to bear her entire body weight.

The floor of the platform was awash with blood now and the air was redolent with its scent. Miscin finally let the whip fall to his side and stood breathing heavily. Some of what Islena had attempted to impart must have filtered through his trenchant islander sensibilities for he kicked the bloody length of rope aside with his foot and cried, "Damn you woman, why did you ever have to come here."

Then he stalked off after his wife, aware of the reproachful stares of his fellow islanders.

"Six more!" Islena demanded hoarsely, now virtually delirious with pain.

"No!" Ramad declared gruffly, gesturing for help in releasing the ravaged woman. As they unlocked the manacles, he was forced to avert his gaze from the sickening sight of her flayed flesh. He gingerly accepted Islena's weight and laid her face down on the wood. The only sound to be heard in the square was the rasp of her labored breathing.

Through the fog of her suffering, Islena raised her head and peered into Ramad's dark eyes. There, she thought that she discerned the nascent seed of fundamental understanding that was essential if change, however small, was even remotely possible. With trembling limbs, she pushed herself to her feet, and leaning against the splintered railing, turned to address those still left on the common. "I hope you're satisfied. I've given you the pound of flesh you required."

Then blackness spiraled up to claim her and she went willingly to embrace it, tumbling to the blood spattered planks with a meaty thud.

Chapter Nineteen

1

For the next forty eight hours, Islena hung on the hinge of life and death. Blood loss and the trauma of the striping sent her body tearing through a violent series of convulsive shudders.

Emian and Arminda kept vigil over the fevered Doraux. The Metocan's potent magic minimized the pain and prevented infection, but she lacked the means to retrieve Doraux from the thrall of her torment and guide her back into the realm of lucidity. Arminda constantly washed and gingerly dried the excoriated flesh, applying the numerous herbal balms that both the Metocan and the island herbalists had provided.

She applied herself to the task with a reverence as though she was attending to a fallen Goddess. Indeed, this was a fairly accurate portrayal of how the Jerhia perceived Islena, though such concepts of worship were severely frowned upon by her people

Arminda dipped a cloth into a basin of warm, medicated water and squeezed its contents onto Doraux's back, trying to direct her thoughts away from the horribly swollen flesh. The concept of sacrifice (including the forfeiting of one's life) had been inculcated into Arminda's mind. Yet, when such a sacrifice was required, there was always a tangible gain to be had...a battle to be won and an enemy to be thwarted.

In this instance, Arminda could not discern what had been achieved through Islena's abject suffering. When she had confronted Emian with her questions, the Metocan had responded in terms of abstract virtues and the repudiation of baseless prejudices. He claimed that Islena's courage had taught the islanders that their attitudes toward women were inherently unjust and that her example had made more of an impact than violent rebellion ever could. Arminda had been dubious until she saw just how profoundly Doraux's striping had affected Ramad.

The following morning, the platform on the common had been taken down and the wood burned as though it were a symbol of infamy. In that simple action, the Jerhia gleaned that Islena's suppositions had been correct. Islena's suffering had forced the islanders to examine the vile tradition of public striping and their unjust treatment and attitudes toward women in general. Ramad had appeared on several occasions, his craggy features etched with deep lines of concern as he gazed down upon the prostrate form of the stranger. Arminda was surprised that Lorio, Islena's self professed guardian, had not once appeared to inquire about her friend's condition. The mere thought of Lorio evoked a shudder in the Jerhia's soul. There was a vague, yet disconcerting aspect to the Lamish woman's character and Arminda found her brooding, stoic nature deeply unsettling.

2

On the morning of the third day following Islena's public whipping, Doraux emerged from her unconscious state, though the pain which greeted her return to lucidity was so intense that she wished she could sink back into unconsciousness.

Ramad produced a bowl of rich, savory stew which served to alleviate the gnawing hunger that had accompanied her awakening. He watched her silently, while she raised the spoon to her mouth, wincing at the misery that this simple action produced.

"You are a wise and courageous woman," he remarked after a time. Islena accepted his compliment without comment, but after a protracted silence said, "I'm told that you ordered the platform taken down."

"Yes, there will be no further floggings for domestic disobedience," the islander confirmed

Islena mustered a reasonable imitation of a smile. "It's an easy thing to confuse the voicing of an opinion with insubordination and disobedience...especially if the source of that opinion is held in contempt. If you can find the courage to change the way in which your people view women and their place in this culture, you'll have demonstrated more courage than I ever have."

Ramad nodded thoughtfully and Islena wondered how long it would be before the islander's regressed back into their old ways...before a new public platform was erected. After all, it had taken her world thousands of years to evolve to a point where women were not regarded as a mere male appendage...and even that view was not universally held.

"When will you be leaving?" Ramad asked, and though his tone remained neutral, Doraux thought that she could hear a note of eagerness couched there.

"As soon as we are able," she replied softly, wondering if she possessed the wherewithal to travel

"Provisions and boats await your party on the western shore of the island. It is a day's journey to reach that spot. Once there, I would advise you to spend the night on the island before crossing over. You would not want to come to the west at nightfall."

"What do you think is there, Ramad?" Islena asked, aware of his vague but intense apprehension. His expression darkened. "The very heart of evil, though I cannot give it a face or a name."

With this, he rose and crossed to the door. Disappearing outside, he returned with the Dragonsword and laid it upon the table before her. He gazed at the weapon with a mixture of admiration and anxiety. "You are a...magical woman, are you not?"

"I pray that I am," she replied seriously.

"That striping would have killed most women. Most men, too, I would think." After a moment's hesitation, he inquired softly, "If you should fail at what you are about, what would follow?"

"The end of everything, I've been told. After all that I have seen, I believe it."

Ramad pursed his lips and nodded. "Then I pray that your magic prevails."

With this, he left her alone with her thoughts and pains.

The party members were frankly amazed by the size of the island. The trip across took ten hours on horseback, though several stops were required to tend to Islena's ravaged back and though the pain was immense, she suffered it stoically.

As Ramad had promised, a generous provision cache had been left near the boats that would convey the party to the distant western shore. As Islena dismounted her horse, Arminda noticed that the back of her tunic had soaked through with blood.

"You're bleeding, Islena," she informed Doraux anxiously, and gently pushed up the woman's tunic. Her dressing was sopping with blood and the Jerhia inhaled sharply at the sight of the open wounds. Turning to Emian, she observed "Something must be done to stop the bleeding."

The Metocan examined the wound and nodded soberly. As the islanders and Emercians made camp, Emian attempted to mix a crude mud poultice to staunch the alarming flow of blood. Employing a purifying herb, he managed to concoct a malodorous gray unguent thick enough to act as a coagulant.

"That stuff really reeks," Doraux complained as the Metocan set the bowl on the stone beside her.

"Indeed, it does," he agreed dryly. "This is a rather primitive concoction, admittedly, but it will suffice to stop the bleeding and prevent infection." He offered the bowl to Arminda, who tenderly applied it to Islena's back.

"Feels good...soothing," Doraux conceded, flashing a smile of gratitude at the Metocan. Emian accepted her thanks with a grin. "Once this has dried, we'll apply another layer."

He was about to move away, but then paused and glanced at Islena. "In the grand context of things, this may mean very little, but your actions in the village were among the most noble that I have ever witnessed...and the most courageous."

Uncertain how to respond, Islena acknowledged his compliment with a tacit nod.

As night drew down upon the encampment, a palpable sense of expectancy wove its way into the air. Sitting near the fire, Doraux was startled by intermittent flaring of the Dragonsword.

"What does is mean?" she inquired of Emian, who merely shrugged and watched the rubies flicker. Islena's body began to vibrate in empathy.

"It is a warning," Lorio declared flatly. She stood just beyond the circle of light cast by the campfire. All heads turned to the Lamish woman, whose eyes glittered like black diamonds. Obscured by darkness, her expression was inscrutable and Islena desperately wished that she could read Lorio's eyes at that precise moment. The woman had been stubbornly reticent, though Islena had been constantly aware of her reproachful scrutiny. When she could meet that gaze, Doraux found herself confronted by a wall of cold consternation. She suspected that much of this resentment lay in what Lorio viewed as Islena's voluntary debasement at the hands of the islanders. She suspected that Lorio would have fought to a bloody death rather than submit to such a humiliation. Islena had elected to respect the Lamish woman's wish for solitude.

Now, Lorio broke her isolation with a single, yet unnerving, apocalyptic pronouncement. Suddenly apprehensive, Islena demanded, "Why a warning?"

The hybrid raised her face to the heavens, and for a brief moment, it appeared as though she did not intend to answer. Then she sniffed at the night sky, a gesture which struck Doraux as oddly feral, and then turned to Islena. "You have much to learn, Islena."

She gestured toward the Dragonsword. "The Icon is attuned to the danger here and yet you fail to perceive that danger. How can that be?"

Islena shook her head blankly and Lorio grunted as though exasperated. "I have heard mention of the ascension that will come when you have finally accumulated the Icons. Now I grasp the implication of that event. As it is now, you wield the sword and may unleash much of its power, but there remain aspects of its power to which you have no access."

"I don't think I understand what you are trying to say," Islena heard herself say.

"Simply this...both you and the Icon remain separate entities. When you become one, the menace shall pulse in your bones and viscera."

"What do you feel?" Islena demanded, thinking that Lorio was deliberately speaking in abstract riddles.

Lorio turned and pointed across the water, which lay hidden beneath a cloak of darkness. "The land beyond the lake is fraught with peril that will make all that we have encountered thus far appear benign by comparison. I can sense it in my heart and it fills me with cold dread. This evil is dormant, but watchful...vigilant."

Gazing about, Islena was surprised to see the reaction that Lorio's grim prophecy had evoked. Every eye appeared clouded and every expression seemed fearful and every face appeared pallid.

"The opposite bank is an enclave of hell," Lorio continued, the shadow of a grin playing at her lips.

'She's actually enjoying this,' Doraux realized, though this insight did nothing to attenuate the legitimacy of her prediction. "I suspect that our island hosts have discovered as much for themselves. Perhaps this is why they were so anxious to depart."

Emian stood and ventured closer to the fire, though he had always displayed a strong aversion to open flame. "I concur with our gloomy companion. There is a subtle, yet undeniable sense of menace hovering about this place. I imagine that all of us will be cognizant of it by the time we reach the opposite shore."

Tiring of the morbid flow of conversation, Islena rose and declared with feigned mirth. "Let the devil leap out of the wood pile. After a good night's sleep, we'll be ready for him."

The group drifted apart after that and soon retired with Lorio's terrifying portent echoing in their thoughts.

3

Islena's artificial levity had all but evaporated by the next morning. A blanket of slate gray clouds hung across the sky like a pall, resembling lengths of dirty cotton. Islena shuddered as she climbed to her feet, alarmed by the pain and debilitating stiffness in her lower back. Compounding this was the maddening itch that had accompanied the application of Emian's mud poultice...a supposed sign of healing, but no less aggravating for that.

The journey had become arduous, even for the physically gifted Doraux. It was no longer possible to ignore the first stirrings of trepidation that had been roused by Lorio's grim prophecy. The others must have shared the same lethargy as they too, moved with the reluctance of one heading to the gallows for a final appointment with the noose.

As Doraux chewed mechanically on the dried fruits that constituted her breakfast, Arminda drifted over and asked if she might sit. Islena nodded and gestured toward a nearby slab of granite. They ate in silence for several moments and then the Jerhia observed, "You appear troubled Islena."

Islena offered Arminda a wan smile. The girl spoke in tones of reverence that made Doraux feel extremely uneasy. Oddly enough, the more that Doraux exposed her fallibility, the greater she seemed to grow in the esteem of her companions.

"My back feels as though I've slept on razor blades and this itch is going to drive me over the edge if it doesn't let up soon."

"Perhaps we should change your dressing before setting out," Arminda suggested. "Circumstances may not afford the opportunity for a while."

Islena was about to dismiss this, but realized the prudence of the advice. Nodding, she followed the Jerhia back along the trail and removed her tunic. Arminda gingerly set about removing the old and bloody dressing, careful not to tear open the angry wounds.

When Doraux inquired about the appearance of her back, Arminda remarked simply, "Better."

Islena grimaced as the girl cleansed away the congealed fluids which had built up in the deepest of the wounds. These were still alarmingly red, but the shallow cuts were already well along the road to closing. The thought of the once flawless flesh, now permanently and horribly disfigured, filled the girl's heart with profound sorrow.

"Arminda, would you consider remaining here on the island?" Islena asked on impulse. The girl glanced at Doraux, her ice blue eyes filled with alarm. Attempting to mask her anxiety with vehemence, she insisted, "My place is with the party or in a grave."

Islena frowned and averted her eyes. Arminda misconstrued this gesture and murmured. "I will not hinder the party's progress." As she said this, her gaze slipped to her paralyzed arm, which dangled uselessly at her side. "Disable as I may be."

"Arminda, that just isn't what I meant," Doraux assured the Jerhia. "I'm beginning to feel that Lorio was correct in her assessment of what we might find in the west. Something is waiting for us...something terrible. It is important to me that I keep you safe in debt to your brother's memory."

"Please let me accompany you. I will not be a liability," the Jerhia persisted, her voice fraught with such distress that Islena finally relented, though she feared that she would come to rue this decision.

At last, a new dressing was wound into place, and though it did little to alleviate the nagging pain, Islena was grateful that the maddening itch was gone. As the pair walked back to the camp and the waiting boats that would convey them to the opposite shore, Arminda suddenly blurted, "Your friend troubles me, Islena. Beneath her impassive silence, I sense that she harbors a subtle contempt for the lot of us...and a hidden purpose"

Islena stopped and regarded Arminda questioningly. "Lorio has repeatedly saved my life. Had it not been for her, I'd have given up this insane struggle a dozen times over."

Arminda hesitated, sensing Doraux's resistance to entertaining the prospect that Lorio could be dangerous in any way. "I do not question her courage or her devotion to you. Her manner is aloof, sometimes bordering on cruel, as though she despises the other party members."

"She has good reason for whatever mistrust she might harbor," Doraux snapped irritably. Internally, she knew that her ire found its source not in Arminda's implied allegations, but in the questions they raised in her own mind.

"I'm sorry, Islena," Arminda apologized hastily. "I did not mean to imply that she was in any way disloyal to you. It's just that she quite frankly...frightens me."

Doraux sighed, "It's true that Lorio is a drastically changed woman. There are times when I scarcely recognize her. Still, I am absolutely and unequivocally certain that she would do nothing to harm me."

Arminda accepted this with a tacit nod and the two emerged into the clearing to find the others were already prepared to depart. The islanders had been most generous in stocking the party with provisions. Three boats were moored along the shoreline. The first two were empty, but the others were filled with packs of fruits and cured meat strips.

"Ramad is a true man of generosity and honor," Emian remarked. "Perhaps your sacrifice will not have been a hollow gesture."

'I wouldn't expect such a warm reception, should we have occasion to return this way,' Lorio thought as she watched the others scamper into the boats. Islena, Arminda and Lorio took the first craft, while Emian and the two Emercians paddled the other with the craft full of provisions in tow.

They paddled in silence, each trying to reduce thought to the simple action of rowing so as to avoid speculation upon what await them on the opposite shore.

4

Ramad stood in the doorway of the small cottage, his body rigid with incredulity and revulsion. Somewhere in the outer yard, he could hear a woman's wretched wailing, but her cries seemed impossibly distant and unreal.

Ramad's perception had abruptly been reduced to himself, this tiny living area and the swaying horror that would not dissolve into a more palatable reality, no matter how vehemently he willed it to do so.

"Shall we send men to find them," Someone inquired urgently from behind the sage. The island leader did not trust himself to speak. Violent death was a rare thing on the island and one this ghastly was especially shocking.

Miscin's bloated body swayed slightly as a sudden gust of wind swept through the open doorway. Ramad was stunned by how distended the blue flesh of the islander's head appeared in the dull light of the living area. The bulging eyes and the lolling black tongue were ineffably horrible, but the islander's eyes were drawn to the length of rope from which the man had been suspended.

The knots were stained a marooned red.

"Cut him down," Ramad instructed, his voice as grating as rusted iron being drawn across slate, and then turned away. This act of brutality was so inconsistent with the woman who had been sacrificed her own flesh on behalf of a principle, and yet this terrible evidence was incontrovertible.

"Should we pursue them," the man, Miscin's brother, persisted.

Ramad shook his head. "They will find justice in the west."

5

After nine hours of incessant paddling, the party at last arrived on the western shore of the great lake and began the final leg of journey to the deposed king and whatever salvation he might offer.

Even as she stepped from the bow of the boat onto the marshy shore, Islena was certain that this new land would hold horrors that would dwarf all the terrors that she had experienced thus far.

Thus ends the second segment of Islena Doraux's Journey through the Land of Shades

Glossary: Elements of the Drama, both Grand and Small

Islena Doraux: An ascendant being...Daughter of the Tempest...a Seattle, Washington resident who is drawn into an antiquated world to search for the Three Proclamations of Omnipotence...the fable One of Prophecy.

Benjamin Richards: Husband of Islena, father of Donald and Allan.

Allan: The eldest of Islena and Ben's two sons.

Donald: youngest son of Islena and Ben.

Marla Holmes: Co-worker and close personal friend of Islena. Later, the first Human-Morticant Hybrid and Islena's avowed enemy.

Dominique Normandy: A Genuine clairvoyant who first discloses the dire threat looming over Islena's life during a seemingly impromptu tarot reading.

Elbert Watts: A condemned spree killer who is chosen to lead Islena Doraux to the antiquated world.

Myrhia: An ascendant being...Mother of Iniquity...Wife of Artumas and eventual usurper of his throne. Queen of Emercia and ruler of the eastern continent...also known as the emerald enchantress.

James Richler: Islena's supervisor and nemesis...a tool of augury through which Islena receives a portent of the fate that awaits her.

The Great Mother: A seemingly bottomless chasm that separates the eastern and western continents of the antiquated world. The origins of this chasm remain shrouded in mystery as does any explanation of the fact that it has not filled with water. Three natural stone causeways spanning the chasm connect the two continents.

Rygore: Tier Marshall (the Jerhia equivalent of General) and commander of the Jerhia Expeditionary Force on the eastern continent. As the story commences, Rygore's primary task is to protect the southern most causeway leading into Jerhia from invading armies.

Jerhia: One of the three CornerStone Nations that comprise the countries of the western continent. Jerhia is a tightly regimented society whose citizens are all dedicated to the science and art of warfare. Theirs is a society imbued with an unflagging sense of honor, justice and duty. Jerhia has pledged itself to oppose Myrhia's campaign of ruthless conquest on the eastern continent.

Kornas: A country located on the eastern edge of the Great Mother, directly across the chasm from Jerhia. Primarily an agricultural state, it is the site of the final battle between Myrhia's Imperial Army and the Jerhia Expeditionary Force.

Amrand: Adjutant to Rygore, he is the first inhabitant of the antiquated world to encounter Islena Doraux and attempts to guide her to the western continent.

Morticant: An entity created from mysterious clay mined in Northern Redia and animated by Myrhia's sorcery. These beings respond only to their creator's commands and are impervious to physical or elemental damage. They are able to transmogrify their structure at the queen's direction and seem virtually invincible.

Ynthrax: A Redian mercenary who was rescued from Artumas' executioner by Myrhia and eventually elevated to become the Commander of her conventional Imperial Army.

Redia: A lawless nation of brutal mercenaries and raiders. With a topography composed mostly of rugged and impenetrable mountain ranges, Redia is located on the northerly corner of the eastern continent's east cost...the source of the mysterious clay that has allowed Myrhia to create her Morticants.

Artumas: An ascendant being...High King of Emercia who was exiled beyond the Land of Shades after his Queen Myrhia usurped his throne.

Ryalla: Also known as the thin man, Ryalla is the purported Imperator of Jerhia and Islena Doraux's apparent enemy and tormentor. He appears in Islena's world and threatens her family while vowing that she will serve his purpose in the antiquated world.

Marius Lockland: An FBI agent who is co-coordinating the hunt for mass murderer, Elbert Watts...a hunt that eventually leads him to Islena Doraux.

Icarileen: The Capital city of the small nation of Suran.

Suran: A country located immediately to the south of Emercia, renown for its artists, thespians and the exceptional beauty of its people.

Crystal of Thamius: A huge natural crystal imbued with oracular powers and employed by the Inner Circle of Metocan Mages as a tool of divination.

Inos: Grand Mage of the Metocan Inner Circle and thus, the putative leader of the Metocan people.

Metocan: A CornerStone Nation located at the northern end of the western continent. The Metocan are a culture and society devoted to metaphysics and magic and the pursuit and development of all magical arts deemed acceptable to a lawful and civilized society...an isolated and secretive society that traditionally eschews contact with the outside world, they have nonetheless joined forces with the Natzurdan and Jerhia CornerStone Nations to oppose Myrhia's campaign of conquest.

Metocan Inner Circle: Seven Metocan mages who govern the country and who control and direct what is consider practicable and teachable magic.

Jerom: The junior most member of the Inner Circle who is dispatch to The other CornerStone Nations to apprise their leaders of the imminent arrival of Islena Doraux into the antiquated world and the significance of her summons.

The Lamish: An itinerant ethnic people who are spread over the entire eastern continent. Known for their often unsavory and unscrupulous conduct, they have fallen afoul of Myrhia and now avoid all contact with non-Lamish people as a course of survival.

Grigor: The figurative leader of one of the many Lamish clans roaming the eastern continent. Father of Lorio.

Lorio: The daughter of Grigor, Lorio is a master of staff combat and a skilled woods guide, who after losing to Islena in a savage duel of staves, befriends Doraux and become her constant companion.

Bethian: resident of a nameless impoverished village where Islena is taken captive.

Milliar: daughter of Bethian

Myanthin: village elder who attempts to apprise Islena of the prevailing realities of the antiquated world.

Natzurdan: A CornerStone Nation devoted to earth magic and the protection and preservation of the natural world...its people are particularly gifted in the ability to fashion stone and living wood. Natzurdan is located on the western continent between Jerhia to the south and Metocan to the north.

Amberdias: The capital of Natzurdan and a city that is commonly heralded as the most magnificent in the known world. It is constructed entirely of sculpted stone and living wood.

Needle of Zadicus: A towering edifice that serves as a home to the elder of Natzurdan in the heart of Amberdias.

Morzhian: The venerable elder of the Natzurdan during the Emerald Enchantress war.

Ossiran: Maxim Tier Marshall and putative ruler of Jerhia during the Emerald Enchantress war.

Iythanos: Jerhia mountain fortress on the Jerhia-Natzurdan border.

Gillian: A non-conformist officer and master swordsman who is dispatched by Ossiran to rescue Islena Doraux...or assassinate her should the prospects of rescue seem impossible.

Perdwick: A country on the western edge of the eastern continent.

Perdwick city: Capital city of the nation of Perdwick. The city's entire population was exterminated after the besieged city finally fell to advancing Emercian forces. It is in Perdwick that Islena finally comes to distinguish between those who are her allies and those who are her avowed enemies.

Summergaden: Capital of Jerhia and seat of the Upper Tier...the governing military body presently led by Maxim Tier Marshall Ossiran.

Maroc: Tier Marshall in the Jerhia military and personal adjutant to Ossiran. Later, the Maxim Tier Marshall of Jerhia.

Isindred: A blind merchant girl and the only living citizen remaining in Perdwick.

Glynwith and Kerwyn: Two feudal lands located immediately to the north of Perdwick, with Kerwyn being the most northerly of the pair. Both small states are largely uninhabited and heavily forested.

River Tynan: A river that delineates the northern border of Kerwyn. North of the river lies the inimical Blighted Lands.

Blighted Lands: An inhospitable barren waste that spans the entire northern section of the eastern continent. The area is primarily composed of exposed bedrock and scouring sands but is often subject to deadly blizzards. Like many other elements of the antiquated world's arcane topography, the precise origins of the Blighted Lands remain a mystery.

Sherak: A ferocious blizzard that often sweeps across the Blighted Lands with little or no warning, dropping massive accumulations of snow.

Glendon: An initiate at Runesholm Abbey

Runesholm Abbey: A ruined abbey that sits on the upper escarpment of the Blighted Lands within a league of the Great Mother. Nothing is known of the structures original builders or the purpose for which it was erected, but it has now become home to a group of ostracized religious zealots known as the Ranters.

Ranters: An exiled religious order that has been relegated to the barrens as a consequence of the order's extreme and often times violent dogma.

Jackylwyn: Curate of the Sword at Runesholm Abbey at the time Islena stumbles upon the Ranters.

Baroth: A cleric or Runesholm Abbey who is adept in both healing and destructive magic.

Ranforte: A monk of Runesholm Abbey at the time of Islena's arrival.

Ritual of Blooding: A ritual of human sacrifice intended to appease the deity worshipped by the Ranters of Runesholm.

Dzorogan: A former Curate of Runesholm Abbey who undertook an arduous quest to locate the Sword of Judgment.

The Sword of Judgment: A Jerhia-forged sword that was found by the Ranters of Runesholm and incorporated into their Ritual of Bloodletting...the first Icon of Omnipotence.

Thadius: Supreme Commander of the Emercian Imperial Army selected by Queen Myrhia to replace Ynthrax.

Pendura, Balmox and Ilderhom: Three narrow and rugged fjords that lead out of the mountains of Jerhia into the hills of Southern Natzurdan...It is here that Myrhia's invasion of the western continent comes to an abrupt halt.

Kevlan: A Metocan dispatched by the Inner Circle to infiltrate the religious order at Runesholm Abbey. After the events at Runesholm Abbey, he leads Islena to the third causeway and the western continent beyond.

Tormal: Commander of the conventional Emercian Expeditionary Force in Jerhia after the death of Ynthrax.

Ithyx: An underground labyrinth of caves located deep in the nearly inaccessible mountains of western Jerhia. The vast central chamber of Ithyx is covered by a thick ice crystal that refracted sunlight and has created a natural anomaly in the form of a lush tropical oasis in the midst of the cold, sterile mountains.

Kyros: A member of the Metocan Inner Council of Elders.

Drorit: A Metocan serving girl who is assigned the task of hand maiden to Islena Doraux upon the stranger's arrival in Othgol.

Ulgak: A sub-species of Metocan, the Ulgak are characterized by mottled gray skin and oddly elongated and misshapen cranial features. They have been relegated to the fringes of Metocan society due to their propensity towards dark sorcery.

Bardolm: A natural valley (possibly a dried river bed) that bisects central Natzurdan, running along an east-west tangent from the Hiberas River to the Great Mother.

Xkador: A member of the Metocan Inner Council of Elders.

Sythian Escarpment: A massive up-thrust formation of granite at the western edge of Bardolm Valley.

Fachrim Tree: A species of hardwood deciduous tree indigenous to northern Natzurdan...revered by the earth-lore wielders.

Emian: A Metocan mage who accompanies Islena Doraux during her journey through the Land of Shades.

Nalosan: The capital city of Emercia.

Kammlogran: An imperial palace constructed during the reign of King Artumas. Located in Nalosan, Kammlogran is the seat of Emercian power.

Serpian: Myrhia's mountain fortress in Northern Redian...the Emercian translation of which is 'cradle of wonders'.

Rioth: A Natzurdan who accompanies Islena Doraux during her journey through the Land of Shades.

Sormias: A Golgar...a winged humanoid creature that Islena and her companions encounter in the early days of their trek through the Land of Shades.

Adriatus: High Commander of the Emercian Expeditionary Force in the west after the desertion of Tormal.

Jlarna: Keeper of the Shore...a tribe member of the lake people in the Land of Shades.

Fexal: A large island on the massive lake situated in the heart of the Land of Shades.

Ramad: The leader of the primitive people who inhabit the island of Fexal.

Miscin: An island inhabitant who administers the public scourging of Islena Doraux.

