 
A Hex To Save Rynia

Ken La Salle

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Ken La Salle

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1

### A Hex To Save Rynia

SONS OF RYNIA

BOOK ONE

by Ken La Salle

PROLOGUE

Part I

Hezekiah Fanlan, Hex as he was now known, walked onto the outer walls of the Imperial Palace, his coat pulled tightly around his never very musculature body, and gazed contentedly up at the stars. The sky was full of them. It had been eight years since he'd made this his permanent home and he was still dazzled by their display. Wherever his home was, it rested close to the center of a spiral galaxy, which gave the night sky a constant brightness. _Olber's paradox enacted_ , he thought. A sky so bright you could almost read by it.

Was Rynia in the Milky Way? Probably not. From the observations he had made with the small telescope Vincent had brought over years before, Hex found that this spiral galaxy was much smaller than his home galaxy. Also, there were several globular clusters above the celestial horizon. Far too many for him to be within the Local Group. If he had access to a computer, he could make more detailed maps of the sky and there would be a good likelihood that he could find his position relative to Earth. There were no computers in Rynia, though, and no electricity.

Hex spent most of his free evenings with his telescope, making observations. The walls of the Imperial Palace made the perfect place for it. He was in a world that hadn't evolved past fifteenth century technology. No cars smogging up the skies. No city lights to blur the brilliance. He could see... so much!

There were exceptions, of course. It was partially because of the exceptions that he'd stayed here. After all, here was a society that used practically no metal. They constructed just about everything, even their weapons, out of wood. It wasn't an ordinary wood, either. This "hardwood" grew only in Rynia, the small nation lying on the eastern shore of Gerriter. It struck Hex very strangely that a tree should be indigenous to one nation. Yet, all the surrounding countries, Paead, Kallent, and Tzurritza, lived without the hardwood. The artisans of Rynia were able to make the wood almost indestructible with their "quickening" process. What need had they for metal?

It seemed like magic, this quickening process, and why not? This was a world of magic. Ah, but there is magic and there is magic. What the Rynians saw as magic was simply (though not simple at all) a highly advanced mixture of physics, meditation, and biofeedback. How many other worlds had advanced far enough to discover this "magic"? How many scientists on Hex's own planet knew the secret as well?

It took complicated equations to work the magic. When he found a library filled with books of these equations, in the tower atop the Imperial Palace, he knew he'd have to stay and learn their secrets. How could this nation of vassals and Lords, smithies and stables, hold the secret to discoveries that made early 21st century Earth feeble by comparison? It was an anachronism of the highest order that the Rynians had ingrained into their lives without a thought. They called it magic, just as they would have called television, airplanes, or telephones.

From where had it come? How did they get a hold of it? After eight years of digging into Rynia's long sequestered past, Hex was beginning to form some hypotheses. If they were correct, though, it would mean that the world around him was just a facade hiding a deeper mystery.

Hex had always loved a good mystery. Trouble was, he solved most of them before they could be fully appreciated. By the time he'd reached puberty, he'd corrected the Theory of Relativity, resolved how simple it was to exceed the speed of light, made cold fusion in his bathtub, and laughed at how far off the mark Chaos Theorists were. An only child, with further discoveries he succeeded in further alienating himself from his parents. They didn't know what to do with him so they sent him out to Cal-Tech for his thirteenth birthday. He didn't have any friends to say goodbye to so he packed his things and moved on. Even the nerds at Cal-Tech were alienated by the boy-genius (his nickname well into adulthood). From there, he moved on to M.I.T., the University of Tokyo, and the University at Timbuktu, earning his doctorates in Quantum Physics, Cosmology, Genetics, and something called Applied Metaphysics by his eighteenth birthday. By then, he was bored with academia. His father wouldn't have him moving back home. His several discoveries had been purchased by major corporations and were earning him more money than he knew how to spend. So, with his few belongings, he left West Africa via the Liberian shores and began to travel the world. He settled, in the summer of his twenty-eighth year, into the basement of a house in Country Gardens, California, a small city in Orange County were he could live in peace.

He even took a job as a security guard to mid-wife the monotony.

You may think that it was a lonely existence but for all of the friends he didn't have, he made his own.

Some imaginary.

Some not so imaginary.

"So, Mr. Wizard, what are we going to do today?"

Byron. At less than a meter in height, he was composed entirely out of quickened hardwood, the manipulation of which, Hex had been told, was impossible. They should have known not to tell Hex that something couldn't be done. Too, with the loss of the sarcastic, little treeling, Robert to Vincent and the musical Bandoo Lelala to Rayesh, Hex had grown lonesome for a friend of his making. He'd been making them since he was a boy, first bringing his skates out of their inanimate state. He left many like them back on Earth. Here, in Rynia, he was known as the Maker and children from all around the kingdom wanted one of his little, living dolls.

He'd made Robert small, like many of his earlier creations, so he could hide him away and keep him secret. Here in Rynia, his magic was an accolade, nothing to hide. So, he made Byron bigger, with humanlike features (real fingers and toes) and lifelike eyes.

It had been two years since they'd first opened.

"How do you feel," Hex had asked.

The creation had smiled. "With my fingers," he replied. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," said Hex, shaking the child-sized hand. "I'm Hex."

"I know that. I'm Byron Malagosh."

Byron was standing by the telescope, which stood just as tall as he.

Hex, distracted in thought, replied, "Observing." It was more a question than a statement.

"Oooh, now there's a big surprise!"

But Hex wasn't listening. He was looking out over the wall at the Imperial City. There was more of it every day. He remembered the first day he'd seen it. When he had first arrived on this world. Then, the kingdom had been wracked by the throes of war. Eight years later, the people referred to it as the War of Earth and Stone. It was still too fresh in their minds to call it what it really was, a time when the dead killed the living and man's arrogance had created giants of stone. The stone giants had turned on their creators, taking the Imperial Palace, and betraying the Rynian people to their ultimate enemy, Tsurtor. After the war, people's thoughts turned towards reconstruction. There was little energy left for pursuing those who got away, Tsurtor and his stone general, Hargoth.

Reconstruction had included the construction of a new harbor and, though that lay far below, beneath the cliffs of Regal Isle, new construction led along the shore, stretching the city down to the sea. A different type of people were moving in, not farmers or artisans but traders, civil servants, and courtiers who fed the growing ego of a bustling bureaucracy. Ordinary enough, every growing government had to go through it. Still, there was something on the tip of Hex's tongue. Something unfathomable.

"Something wrong," Byron asked.

"Wrong," Hex repeated. Yes, something was wrong. It had to do with Helen, his wife who also happened to be the Princess of Rynia. She was behaving strangely, keeping her distance. Was it because of their anniversary coming up? Or was it some prank she was playing? (The royal family - Those remaining were scattered throughout the kingdom and Hex had met most of them during his eight years of marriage - was known for their practical jokes.) No. It wasn't just her.

Vincent, too, grated on Hex's brain.

Vincent had only been nine during the war. It had been a traumatic time. Vincent had been pulled into Rynia's world along with Hex and both were deposited in a prison cell. Hex had been taken away but Vincent had been forced to stay in that cell. The Rynian's, who had hidden away from the stone giants in the caves below the palace, rescued the small boy and, in the battles that followed, Vincent learned that he possessed an incredible magic.

Perhaps, the most incredible.

It was nothing like normal magic. (Normal magic! Now there's an oxymoron!)

There were four schools of magic that the Rynian's were aware of: Bonding, Breaking, Moving, and Summoning. Bonding and Breaking were opposites as were Moving and Summoning. Bonders gave a semblance of life to inanimate objects. (Would it be an insult to the living to say they were given real life?) This was Hex's talent and he knew it well. During the war, though, he'd been forced to explore the other side, which was Breaking. The destructive power of Breaking can bring ruin to both the living and things without life. Tuk, the Great Destroyer, took Breaking farther than any other, reducing matter into intangible form, pure energy, the will o' the wisp. Moving and Summoning controlled location. (Hex believed that it, too, dealt in reducing matter to energy.)

Vincent had, initially, been mistaken for a Mover. He could send himself to wherever he concentrated. He worked his magic differently, though. Vincent could fly! He could levitate other things as well, in addition to an ability to project and control waves of force. Hex theorized that Vincent could somehow control air molecules, which moved around him so he could fly and solidified to provide his force wave.

The problem, though, was that this was a type of magic previously unseen by the Rynians and, certainly, by Hex.

_There's a million ways to tap a quanta_ , Hex thought.

He worried about Vincent. The boy was like a soft-footed bull in a china shop. Eventually, he'd hurt himself with his own power. He'd tried to counsel the boy on restraint but to no avail. Vincent developed a rebellious streak at fourteen and, by fifteen, had stopped making the crossing between worlds altogether. It had been more than two years since Hex had seen him last. He looked up at the night sky and wondered where his young friend was.

Part II

"Hey, dumb-shit!"

Vincent felt the hit to his right ear, his bad ear, and went sprawling to the ground. Laughter broke around him like shattering windows. The momentum of the strike threw him off balance, dropping both him and his chair to the ground. His mouth struck the floor, bloodying his lip.

It was only 9:05 in the morning. Ms. Partini's English class. The teacher hadn't shown, yet, which meant there was no one to stop this.

_No one to stop me, either_ , Vincent thought. After all, he was the world's youngest magician, probably this world's only, and by default most powerful. He rose from the ground, his black clothing smudged from the dirty floor. As Eddie Fender, the boy who'd struck him, danced around like a juvenile UFC contender, Vincent lifted his hands, gathering the air, readying to release its force and pummel Eddie to the ground.

That's when Eddie decked him.

When Vincent woke up, his mouth tasted like blood. He felt like his jaw was broken. "I din ma jaw i' bro'hum," he muttered.

"It's not broken," a voice said from past the darkness. A curtain was pulled aside and Vincent realized that he was in the nurse's office. The school nurse was the grandmotherly type and she leaned against Vincent, looking at his chin. Vincent kept trying to squirm back. "We'll put some ice on that and you should be fine. You just took a bad fall; that's all."

Is that what everyone was saying? That it was a fall? Gobel the Geek fell over his chair? And people were believing that?

Of course they were. Vincent wasn't cool and strong like his brother, Samuel. He was shorter in muscles than he was in brains. Lanky and frail, at seventeen, he only weighed one hundred and twenty pounds and stood less than five and a half feet tall. There were junior high students bigger than him and he was a high school senior.

Samuel had told him that he'd be picked on less if he stopped wearing his all black wardrobe, cut his hair, and tried making some friends. "Join a club, Vin. Get in a sport."

"What sport, Sammy? Aviation," Vincent had snapped, floating about the room.

"Look, we know you're not a normal kid, Vin. You're gifted. But to your school mates, abnormal is abnormal, you know?"

Sure. He knew. He was a freak. Every school had one, like a mascot. Sam had made Vincent promise not to use his magic in public, not to let his secret out, and Vincent had done a good job of trying. But Eddie Fender had been asking for it for months and... and...

Still, Vincent got beat up.

It was like his magic was ineffectual.

He remembered, a long time ago, fighting in a war, alongside brave and valiant men. He had been just a boy, then, but he'd used his magic to defeat an entire army of undead monsters. Couldn't he use his magic to beat one, blonde haired, ugly bully?

It seemed like there was nothing Vincent's magic could do... but screw up his life.

His girlfriend, Liz, had left because of the magic. They'd left the senior prom early, very early. Vincent wanted to make it up to her, somehow. She wasn't a beauty. She was just another misfit who wore a lot of black. She would never be the love of his life but he felt that he owed her something.

They drove out to Irvine Lake in Sam's truck. ("Who goes to the prom in a truck, Geek! Gobel the Geek," Eddie had sneered.) "I'm really sorry that tonight didn't work out, Liz."

"Sure, Vince. It's okay." Liz's black gown reflected some of the moonlight. Vincent thought it was the felt.

"I want to make it up to you."

"The truck's too small, Vinnie," Liz said with a giggle. She soon realized that Vincent had something else in mind, though. "What are you talking about?"

"I want to show you something." He got out of the truck and she followed. He looked at the ground around him.

"What is it, Vince?"

"You see this pen?" He held a ball point pen in his hand which he tossed in the air. It spiraled end over end at it went up and up and up, spinning around and around, before it started dropping. As it dropped down, its rotation increased, and the concentrated look on Vincent's face tensed. The pen slowed its descent, coming to rest in the air at eye level, and its gyrations made it appear to be globular.

"What is it, Vince," Liz asked in a hushed voice. "Is it some new kind of pen?"

"No, Liz! It's me! I'm doing that!"

"You?"

"Yes! Look!" The pen plunged into the ground, shattering upon impact. The real show, however, was just beginning. Vincent had taken them out there for the huge rocks that covered the ground. Several of the rocks quickly rose about them and started juggling as though by invisible hands.

"Vincent," Liz called with a frightened voice.

"Isn't this great, Liz? This is what I wanted to tell you! I had to tell somebody. It was killing me to keep it a secret!"

Liz, however, was not listening. The entire display terrified her. She shrieked, "Vincent!"

Vincent, though, kept spinning the rocks in the air. When Liz broke into a terrified run down the canyon road, Vincent didn't notice. "Isn't this great, Liz?"

There was no reply but the whoosh of airborne stones.

"Liz?" Vincent turned to look for her but she was gone. She'd left him.

Rocks began spinning out of control. One collided with a tree, snapping off several branches. Another collided with a chain-linked fence. Vincent had lost control and threw himself to the ground to avoid an oncoming missile. There was an awful crash and several loud thuds followed. Vincent rose from the ground, grateful he hadn't been hit. When he turned to the truck, though, he saw where the crash had come from. His magic couldn't fix the broken wheel and, as luck would have it, they didn't have a spare.

He'd ruined his relationship with his only friends, the Winwood Forest Rowdies (or WFRs as they preferred to be called), as well. Geoff Patros had only been six months older than Vincent and, if he wanted to be tough, Vincent thought he had to bully somebody. After all, they had always bullied him. That's how he figured it. So, during the summer of his fourteenth year (Geoff had recently turned fifteen), as he watched Geoff swimming in the community pool, he increased the air pressure above the pool and pushed the boy under.

Geoff, a look of horror on his face, fought his way up.

Vincent pushed down harder and harder.

Geoff's body went ridged and he twitched under the water.

"What do you think you're doing?" Vincent felt a fist on his back and his kidney exploded. Blows followed to his gut. It was Randy, he realized as he dropped to the ground, and Sean kicked him when he was down.

Pete had dived in the pool and dragged out Geoff's lifeless body. "He's dead," the boy yelled.

"But I was just kidding," Vincent tried to reply.

"I'll kid you, you mother -" Randy's tirade could not be heard, however, over the new pummeling of blows by his two, old friends.

Luckily, Geoff wasn't dead. Still, he remained in the hospital for several months as he recovered from the severe, internal injuries caused by the tremendous pressure upon his body. Later, he and his family moved to Sacramento and the WFRs showed nothing but hate for the little wizard.

His magic, it seemed, was more of a curse than a blessing.

"I can understand how you'd be disappointed. Seventeen already and you still haven't taken over the world."

"That's not it, Robert," Vincent replied. He dropped down on top of his bed and kicked his feet up on his bedframe. Outside, he heard a cop drive by, siren blaring, a sound never heard in Country Gardens when Vincent had been a boy. He was no longer a boy, though, and much had changed. Roads had been built through the town, connecting it with the bustling urban centers that surrounded. City life had crept in like a vine and exploded like squashed, sour grapes. There was no longer the country to keep back the city's encroaching concrete, dehumanizing steel, burning tar, and hot cement. The rampant crime, sickening greed, and apathetic filth took Country Gardens like a vulture to its weakened prey. Country Gardens had once been a haven. Now, it was the same as everywhere else.

The young man sighed, "I just wanted to be somebody."

Robert, his body achy, or so he insisted, rose from his perch on the dresser and hunkered down on the edge for a better look at Vincent's self-pity. "Vincent, I'm going to tell you something now that I've never told anyone before."

Vincent turned to him, "Oh, really? What is it?"

Robert thought for a moment and burst out, "Bring those chickens to the porch, May! We'll play hopscotch with the mayonnaise in the morning!" Vincent scowled as Robert turned his head reflectively to the sky. "Nope. I've never said that to anyone before."

Robert had only grown stranger with age. The aging was Hex's fault. He thought it would calm the creature down if Robert was given the ability to sleep. Sleep, however, had brought about the unexpected result that Robert aged as well. Though Robert was only eight years old, he insisted that it was ancient in treeling years.

"Vin," a voice said from beyond the door, a familiar voice. "Open up, little brother."

"You won't take us alive," Robert yelled, standing again. Vincent, however, rose and unlocked his bedroom door. "Fine, then," Robert snapped. "Go gently into that good night." He returned to his perch, a towel placed in an old, cigar box, and, laying down upon it, said, "Good night."

"I heard there was a problem at school today," Samuel said as he stepped in. "Was it another fight?"

"You're confusing a fight with an ass kicking," Vincent replied, returning to sit on his bed. "What I got was an ass kicking."

"You're never gonna learn, are you? Why do you pick fights, Vin? You're not a fighter." He left the obvious unsaid. Vincent had lost every fight he'd ever been in. Samuel tried sitting next to his brother to provide some sense of closeness.

Closeness, however, had been missing from their relationship for several years. Like a magnet with opposing polarity, Vincent sprang up as Sam sat beside him. "I'm probably the most powerful wizard on Earth," he snapped.

"Is that why you're always picking fights, Vin? Cause you think your magic will prevail? Like it prevailed on poor Geoff?" Samuel got up from the bed and grabbed Vincent by the front of his shirt. Eight years ago, he had been a powerhouse of a man. Now, at 30 years of age, he was leaner but no less sure of his strength. "What happened to you, Vin? You were a good kid, once!" He shook his brother in his hands until Vincent's body went limp. Then, he dropped Vincent back on the bed and turned to the door. Shutting it behind him, he yelled, "I've never had to hit you before, little brother, but you make any more trouble and I'll be the one doing the ass kicking!"

Vincent stayed in bed, glaring at the door. So, his own brother was against him now. He was, literally, without a friend in the world. He needed to go somewhere where people respected him, admired him, and praised him. Where people were his friends. Where they wouldn't pick on him.

And he knew just the place.

Later, when Robert woke up, he saw that Vincent's bed was once again empty. "Sure. Leave without me. Again."

Part III

Hex and Byron worked on until the wee hours of the night. After leaving his telescope, Hex left Byron to return to the tower. His current research was leading in a most positive direction: Rynia's distant past! It was like making sense out of backwards riddles, the kind where you get the punchline first, but genius is not lacking in creativity and Hex was untangling the twisted skein of Rynia's past, transforming it into the order he so craved. _Yes_ , he thought as dawn approached, _it's beginning to make sense now. The hardwood. Silen Forest. Magic. Tsurtor. All of it._

The night's work was rewarding as well as exhausting. Hex sat on the floor, propped up against one wall, and felt his eyelids pull themselves down over his eyes as he tried to read through another ancient text. He must return to his room. Sleeping on this floor would kill his back.

There was no avoiding it, though. His legs wouldn't respond and his hands dropped like stones to his sides. As his head dropped, he gave into it and settled in for a nap.

Then, he was asleep.

But, he was awake.

He felt himself rising from his body and heard a voice. "No sleep for you, yet, human."

Gurrak, the dwarf!

"Yes, Hezekiah Fanlan, who is known as Hex, your memory serves you well. The dwarven mages, few though they are, have summoned your ether and, alike in a dream, you must come. Come then, wizard! Come!"

Hex felt his ethereal form lift into the air and prepared himself for what was to come.

CHAPTER ONE

DRAGONS AND OTHER MONSTERS

Part I

What would the dwarves want with Hex?

As he floated, dreamlike, ascending from the Palace's outer wall, he remembered the last he had seen of the dwarves. It was during the War of Earth and Stone. Hex, accompanied by King Marcus, Red Martag, and the earth golem, Ostrander, had traveled up the Northern Spires, looking for an entrance into the mountain range. They knew that the Lych who had opened a gate issuing forth the army of undead was somewhere within those mountains. After spelunking into an old mine leading within, the three had stumbled across a long unused, dwarven tunnel. The dwarven population had been reduced by a human germ (smallpox, mumps, the common cold, it could have been anything) until the dwarves were fighting for survival. Though the dwarves had every reason to kill the humans, they helped. They showed Hex and his party to the Lych and rescued them when things got out of hand.

_But not all of us_ , Hex thought, remembering the sight of Ostrander passing beyond the Lych's closing gate. Ostrander, the earth golem who had been transformed by Hex's magic, had put himself within the gate that passed into the world of undead and had become its victim. Now, if the passage hadn't destroyed him utterly, he lay somewhere within the realm of undead. Whatever Ostrander's final destination had been, Hex felt ultimately responsible.

Now, Hex returned to those dwarven halls. To Gurrak, the one who had introduced himself, saying, "I am Gurrak. I weep for my children." Hex had spent many hours reasoning why Gurrak would be weeping and the answer, obvious by its simplicity, was not one he wanted to reach. The dwarves must have still been suffering from the human plague. For hundreds of years, theirs had been a dying race and, still, the death continued. Hex had made sure to get all the lab equipment and supplies he would need from Earth if he was ever to help the dwarves. Syringes, needles, manual centrifuge, microscopes, and several books on molecular biology, field medicine, and the like, along with all the necessary equipment for producing cultures and, Hex hoped, antibodies for the dwarves, waited for the opportunity to draw dwarven blood. No cure could be found without the culprit.

Over the Imperial Palace, he rose. Its four levels, each one round and stacked off the center of the other so that only half of each lay upon the one below it, shrunk to where Hex could take it all in with one glance. Beside each level lay a series of gardens which ascended the hillside in tiers, as the Palace did. It was in these gardens that the dead from the last war were buried and a massive headstone (too small for Hex to see now) marked the spot where Lord General Gregor Alinax had finally been laid to rest. Alinax had been the man most responsible for the Rynian's reclaiming of their historic home from the stone giants. After eight years, the gardens had been replanted and grew like miniature Edens, never again to have its inhabitants cast out.

Now, the city came into view, huge for this world. It was now claimed that the Imperial City was larger than Ceyliz, the capital of Kallent. In Hex's world, such a place would have been merely a dot on the map. It had, perhaps, eight to ten thousand inhabitants (accurate census taking would be more than a lifetime away). Where farms had once stood, there were rows of streets and crops of buildings. New villages were springing up throughout Rynia and, it seemed, they were in a time of great prosperity.

A time of change as well. The old order, the royals, the Haddison family, had held all of the power for centuries. If there was a position to be had, a Haddison had it. (For many years, they even went so far as to exclude outside marriages. Keeping the bloodline pure was vital, that is, until the inevitable degeneration occurred. Hex had read many stories in the Haddison family history that showed the royals hesitant to change their ways. It wasn't until the family line weakened so much that the kingdom was nearly crushed from within that King Marcus' great-great grandfather, Argon Haddison, forbad the clan to intermarry. He made pacts with the Kallents that were sealed with the marriage of their children. Now, the Rynians had many of their customs, their religion, and, most importantly, their support secured through their bloodlines. It wasn't long after that when royals married who they pleased, given the caveats of position, power, or wealth.) Now, the new royals, the noble rich, wanted to take a place amongst those in power. King Marcus had seen the way, granting privilege and power galore, the gentry class grew and titles were handed out like candy to those who could afford them. They were nothing, so Marcus reasoned. They held no real power. Or, as Hex had cautioned, perhaps they did. After all, didn't their money buy their way into the king's heart? Perhaps, Hex had considered on many occasions, this would be a good time to introduce Marcus to the concept of a constitutional monarchy.

He flew past the few farms left on Regal Isle. They were much smaller than those he had encountered years ago, after his marriage and on his first, grand tour of the kingdom. (He thought back to that time and how the leaves had been changing. Deciduous forestry. It had fascinated him, at the time, how both Gerriter's and North America's summer and fall had occurred simultaneously when he'd arrived. Since then, though, they'd fallen out of synch. Hex wondered if they'd fallen back into parallel seasons since he'd lost contact with Vincent.) These farms were no larger than a few acres, large tracts of land split among heirs or sold off pieces at a time. Why have farms, though, when they could trade with the Paeadie's for such a profit? Fill your pockets with dernigs and reinvest, reinvest; that's what Hex was hearing in the street.

As Hex rose, he noticed something missing. There were no birds in the air, not unusual on a cold, rainy, winter's night. _On a cold, rainy, winter's night, however_ , Hex thought, _there should at least be rain_. Below him, no lights flickered. The awakening eye of an opened door did not show itself anywhere in the city. Waves didn't crash upon the shore below him. _Interesting_ , he thought. _You could almost imagine that time has stopped if, indeed, that wasn't impossible. I must be moving incredibly fast and taking all of this in at an amazing rate for it to seem slow._

As he continued, however, his journey hastened. Over Bania Channel, he sped towards the mainland of eastern Gerriter. Northward, he flew. Caspeton, Elden, and Benaatt rushed below him as he traveled to the Northern Spires. After the lights of Benaatt passed beneath him, he rushed into the dark, with only the stars above him to break the solemn darkness. He wondered, absently, about Benaatt's young Duke, Mark Nygarra, and what luck he'd had repelling the ice giant's yearly, winter assaults.

Then, almost as if he'd closed his eyes ( _and isn't that funny_ , he thought, _how I can't seem to be able to close my eyes_ ), the stars disappeared and he was plunged into utter blackness.

I'm passing through the mountain. With the speed at which I was flying, I should be entering the dwarven halls just about -

Before he could finish his thought, though, light burst around him. The splendor of dwarven halls once again filled his eyes and eased his heart. If a race of creatures could do this, then surely they could survive and surmount the plague of man. He was descending into a central hub, a grand meeting hall, where dwarves rushed from here to there, pausing long enough to look at the human form. Three dwarves stood in the center of the room and appeared to be waiting for Hex's descent. _How is it that they can see me_ , he thought, _when my physical body is miles away_? Hex dropped to a floor laid in ornate tiles, blue and red designs flowing like the winds around circles of luminescent gold. Warm light rose from those golden floor designs, lighting the room, showing painted etchings in the walls. Paintings of beasts Hex had only read about as a boy, the manticore, the harpy, and the homunculus were there, as well as many he didn't recognize. When his ethereal feet touched the all too real floor, he looked up and saw the grandest display of them all, a painting which dwarfed the room and appeared evil in red and black. The golden light that ascended towards it made it look all that much more sinister. There was no mistaking the image of a dragon.

"Welcome to our Halls, Hezekiah Fanlan," Gurrak spoke. His voice was no longer the smooth, low rumble of lava flows. It had taken on a coarseness, a roughness, of breaking boulders and landslides. Hex knew immediately. Gurrak had the plague.

Hex found that his ethereal form moved easily, more so than his own body, and he turned to face the dwarf. "It is an honor in any form, Gurrak. Though, truth be told I'd rather have come in my own body."

Gurrak nodded and the two dwarfs standing behind him, dressed in red robes that appeared to be made of silk, stood expressionless. "It could not be helped. We could not wait for your physical body to make the journey from your human realms."

"Can I ask you how you did this? I'm curious as to how -"

A robed one cut him off with a scowl, "There is no how, human. Magic is the blood of the ancients which flows through our veins."

"You have been ensorcelled, Hezekiah Fanlan," Gurrak said more calmly, "and we have little time. You will be returned when it is proper but now we must away. There is much you must know before you return."

_So there's a time limit_ , Hex thought.

"Yes, time is always the worst enemy in all things," Gurrak replied.

You can hear my thoughts?

"You must understand that it is partially through the power of your mind that our mages were able to do this. Your present form is mind embodied."

It's like a dream.

"You understand so little, human," the red mage spat. "You waste your time in dreams thinking them immaterial -"

"Go," Gurrak roared at the mage. "Your purpose is served and you have our thanks. The present concern may not be completed with your constant interference!"

The red mages, both looking scandalized, took several steps back away from Gurrak's glare. Then, they pivoted and marched away.

Gurrak said, "Quickly, now. Come with me."

Hex followed as Gurrak turned away and headed across the illuminated floor. _What is this place?_

"We are in the Hall of Monsters. This is an ancient place, built long before the coming of man."

Perhaps he would take a place on your wall then, eh?

"Guard your thoughts, human. They betray you."

Hex looked down at the dwarf and Gurrak looked up at him. "No," Gurrak said. "For all of our hate of man and his arrogance, their plague is more dangerous than they themselves. Those above us, though, represent an olden time when the race of dwarves was young and the land was at war with itself. It was a dangerous time and, thus, few of those creatures remain. Those that do have banded to others of their race, else they'd not survive."

Gurrak stopped before the entrance to a hallway and turned back, pointing to the ceiling. "There was one though above all others. The dragon. They that flew above even the sky and breathed death upon their enemies. For many long centuries, they ruled with terror, taking what they wanted and wanting all." He turned back and headed into the hallway. "They had a special love for dwarven gold and loved to ferret through our outposts. They grew so full of avarice that the dwarfs would never have survived them."

What saved them?

"The humans. Yes," Gurrak said, nodding at Hex's surprised look, "so you can see that our hatred for your kind is tempered with debt, though that debt is very old and hardly remembered. My father told me that those humans possessed incredible weapons that brought the dragons right out of the sky."

Your father fought the dragons?

Gurrak stopped and bent over. With his hands braced on both knees, he coughed long and hard towards the floor. If all the dwarfs coughed like that, it was no surprise how the plague was spread. Hex didn't have time to dwell on that, though. Turning towards the wizard, after the coughing had passed through him, Gurrak replied, "My father was killed by a dragon."

I'm sorry.

"Wherefore? He was an old man and had seen far more than his five thousand years." Gurrak hurried down the hallway, silently, and Hex followed. The gold lining and tile inlays on the walls and floors ran through mile after mile of dwarven hallway and, though Hex stared in awe, Gurrak continued as though they were nothing. As the miles passed, Hex was surprised to find that his body did not tire. Not surprising, considering it was a product of dwarven magic. He brought his hand before his face and found that his form was composed of thousands of sparkling, blue lights, held cohesively into human form. While his ethereal form shed no light, it was still quite brilliant to look at. He realized, to his initial shock, that this form had no clothes. None of the dwarves seemed concerned, though. Indeed, they seemed disinterested.

Hex smirked at how flippantly he regarded this wonder, this body of ether, the embodiment of his mind. How could the dwarves have moved him across such vast distances in such a short time and still have granted it a tangible form? In his own experience with magic, Hex had seen that thought was far from the intangible process many around him believed. If thought had form or mass then what was to separate it from the photon? Could this out-of-body experience have been but the first length in a voyage of perception that -

"Please, human! Ward your thoughts," Gurrak hissed. He could see, though, that Hex had no inkling of the power his thoughts held and, so, lifted the glare from his face. "Recall that this form you have is a construct of consciousness, with the mage's magics granting it cohesion. The thoughts that dart about in your brain take form and ricochet upon these walls. She who we hope not to see is most perceptive and may hear you, which is not wise."

Gurrak turned to continue down the hall but Hex thought to him, _Call me Hex, Gurrak. I am not your enemy._

Gurrak stopped and turned back to him. He watched Hex, measuring him up and down. "Nor are you my friend, Hex," he finally said. "Such a thing would be forbidden among my people. For suggesting that you be summoned here, I was nearly cast out of our mountain realm."

But I came. You must have convinced your people that I would not harm them.

"Perhaps. You may fail us still. Come. We waste precious time."

Where are we going?

"No time. Come!" The dwarf hurried down the hallway and Hex was pressed to keep up with him. Time. Why the time limitation? With Hex's consciousness removed from his body, would it remain separated if away too long? Or, perhaps, would it return to his body before Gurrak had a chance to show him that for which he'd been summoned?

Soon, they passed out of the dwarven halls and entered a natural cave. Plummeting stalactites and reaching stalagmites formed a toothy contrast to the warm, solid, dwarven tunnels. In the distance, Hex heard the rush of water. Oddly, Hex could see into the blackness that should have pervaded the underground realm. A definite path led into the caves, twisting this way and that through the rocks and crags in its way.

Where are we?

"Sssshhhhh!" Gurrak's eyes were like bright, irritated beacons. His unease was clear.

They headed into the cave, sticking to the path, and followed such a circuitous route that Hex quickly lost his way. He could not see the warm emanation of the dwarven hall behind him or to either side. Gurrak, though, proceeded determinedly, confidently. The path rose up a series of caves that twisted around an underground lake until Gurrak motioned for Hex to stop. He pointed, "Over there." His voice was so hushed that Hex was surprised he'd heard him.

Taking a couple of steps forward, Hex saw what the dwarf had pointed out. It was the cave floor. The stalagmites were gone (even the stalactites were missing), replaced by a more regular, curved surface.

"Eggs," the dwarf whispered.

_Eggs?_ Then, Hex realized it. They were eggs! Hundreds of eggs! They stretched further than Hex could see, from one side of the cave to the other. Each stood just over a meter in height and were wider than Hex's legspan. _I don't understand. What are these?_

Gurrak motioned Hex to return and they took several steps backwards. "Dragons," he hissed. "A queen's litter. It's an extremely rare occurrence in the whole history of the dwarfs. Dragons, being long-lived, would usually only give birth to one or two in a lifetime. Over the centuries, as their race died, they reproduced less and less. We thought there was only one left." Putting his hand on his head, he moaned, "How could the fates have seen to it that this one was a queen?"

Where is she? Where is this queen? Is that why you insisted we be so quiet? Is she near?

"That would be certain, I believe, hmm?" From far above, near the roof of the cave, the voice bellowed. A head, bigger than a Cadillac, lowered out of the darkness. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ny'ezia, Queen of the Dragons."

Part II

"Run, human! If not for yourself, then for me-" Gurrak's voice caught in his throat as a single talon, the size of a felled tree, blocked his path.

"I don't think you'll be running anywhere, little one. It is time our bitter past is put behind us." The dragon's voice held a gentleness to it that was almost inviting. She did nothing to harm the dwarf, yet allowed him no passage.

This is the eternal enemy of the dwarfs?

"Indeed, human. It is as it always has been, hmm? The smallest creatures of the earth against the largest."

Gurrak huffed, "We are not the smallest creatures of the earth!"

"Really," the beast inquired. "Then, perhaps, it is my eyes. For, in truth, I cannot see anything smaller."

Hex could see Gurrak fuming, though there appeared to be fear in his eyes as well. _Why not_ , Hex began to think.

As if in response, Ny'ezia let out a sinister chuckle and Gurrak scuttled away from the talon blocking his path. _My thoughts_ , Hex realized, knowing they heard that, too.

Fine, then. Come out, dragon! If we're to talk, we'll do it face to face.

"Of course," Ny'ezia hissed. "Why shouldn't we? Then I can face the child of those who killed my kind!" A thudding rocked the cavern, then again, as Ny'ezia moved in closer. "Ah, but there is still the nighttime. No light, hmm? Should I provide us with some?"

You can do that?

"Observe." With a blinding eruption, blue and white flames leapt from the creatures opened mouth. The image of the dragon's gaping maw, filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth, each longer than his leg, would stay with Hex the rest of his days. The fire flew across the cavern, between arches of stone, and ignited another fire as it barreled into the cavern wall.

_Natural gas or oil_ , Hex thought.

"Whichever, it will only be lit for a while before it burns off," answered the dragon.

Hex had been marveling at the cavern's structure (in the flickering light, he could detect nightmare designs of stone, still-life lava, conch-like deposits, blisters of rock that resembled human skulls - and who was to say they weren't for, after all, they were in a dragon's nest - but, hearing the dragon's voice, he turned to see a greater marvel. The first thing that struck him were her eyes. Were the iris' were blue, green, grey...? He couldn't tell. They danced in an almost hypnotizing array of color. The pupils, white like the heart of an angel (but who's to say it wasn't an angel fallen from grace), were bordered by vertical, catlike, inner lids. Fascinating, Hex thought. The head was long and sleek just like her body, which stretched out further than Hex could see. Hex knew, though, that the emerald body was snakelike, coiling on itself. Yet, just behind the head, on either side of the short, front claws (Hex noticed, with amusement, that Gurrak's way was still barred by what must have been a rear talon) long wings, folded in on themselves, stretched back half the length of the creature's body. _It must be huge!_

Ny'ezia grinned, her upper lip retracting to show an extremely long fang. "I'd display my complete size, human, but I think it would bring this mountain down upon us. We don't want that, hmm?"

_In deference to my friend, Gurrak, I think not_ , Hex replied.

"He is not your friend, human! You are beneath his contempt." The dragon brought its head closer and peered knowingly through squinted eyes. "Or perhaps you already knew that, hmm? You've slaughtered his race. You've taken his land. No friends for humans. Not even other humans, hmm?"

I don't know why you keep accusing me of things. My people were not the cause of either the dragons demise or the dwarves. Gurrak saved my life once. If he is not my friend, then so be it. It is an amendable condition. But I am definitely his.

"You speak in riddles, human, and I thought the long-gone lynx only proficient at that. Do you deny the acts of your forefathers? The slaughter of dragonkind by their damnable machines? Eradicating the dwarves with your magic? Turning their own bodies against them?" Ny'ezia brought her head down before the wizard and opened her mouth slightly, as if to bite.

Hex remained still and quiet, hoping that his form really was intangible.

The dragon laughed. "Ah, perhaps you do. I sense physics about you, human. You are one of their wizards, are you not?"

I am.

Her eyes closed and she asked, "But not of this world, hmm? Is that what you mean when you say that your people were not the cause? Mayhap not, human, but your race surely is! And if the atrocities are not of this world, what greater atrocities has it committed upon your own?" Hex could feel the dragon's fetid breath hit him like a strong wind as it began to bellow. "Are you so innocent, then? Do you truly call the dwarf a friend when it was a human who caused all of his suffering? Am I Not Equally to Blame for Any Injustice Perpetuated by Any Dragon Just as You Hold the Guilt for All Humans?"

Hex tried not to tremble, holding himself silent and upright.

The dragon roared, "ANSWER ME!!"

The dragon's blasting breath crashed upon Hex's very core, throwing him back like a ragdoll. He landed in a pile of rocks and felt his skin scrape against each as he skidded to a stop. The dwarf was nowhere to be seen when Hex raised his head and looked around for him. Then, the dragon was upon him. _Your answer, dragon, is that you are right. Yes. I am responsible. Responsible for the injustices and atrocities of man on this or any planet. But that does not mean I cannot try and make amends for them by correcting those wrongs I see in the present. If you kill all the humans, how can they redeem themselves? Just as if all of your kind had been killed. How would it ever redeem itself for the atrocities it committed?_

Ny'ezia smiled. "You are right, human, and you are wise. And just as you are responsible for all the evil in man, all men may take heart in the good I sense in you." She brought forward her hand, palm up, to the wizard. He grabbed the long claw and she helped him out of the rocks. "You look different from the humans I have seen, though I have not seen a human in many centuries. Have your people changed, hmm?"

_No, dragon_ , Hex thought as he was set down. _This form is the product of a spell that brought me across many miles to be here tonight. It is dwarven magic._

"Dwarven magic, hmm? Dwarven physics, more like it."

You keep referring to physics, dragon, why is that?

"But, that's what your people called it! When you fought us with those incredible machines, it was physics, your people said. When you brought us down from the sky, my brothers and sisters, father and mother, and all my people, your people boasted that it was Physics that had bested us. Do you say otherwise?"

Not at all. You've just help confirm some of my suspicions about the people here."

"Suspicions?"

_Yes. The people of Rynia call it magic_ , Hex replied. Upon recalling some of the magical sights he'd seen, though, he added, _not that I'd argue with them._

"Of course," said Ny'ezia, "for what is science but magic, hmm? And what magical sciences are perpetuated?" She settled back on her hind haunches like a cat, keeping one eye on Hex. "So, you come from another world, then?"

Yes. I suppose I should introduce myself to you. My name is Hex. I come from a world called Earth.

"Earth," the dragon asked. "It sounds like dirt."

Was there a name for this world in your day, Ny'ezia? The people in this time only call it Gerriter, which is also the name of this continent.

"Indeed. Dragons flew from sea to mountaintop and had a different name for everything. Greatest of all names, though, was Vitaya, mother of all dragons. She was all and she was our world. Tell me, are there any dragons on your world, hmm?"

No. Only in fairy tales.

"Ah, so the wee fairies regale you with tales of dragon bravery. How we preserved the fairy people by -"

No. These fairy tales are told by humans not fairies.

"Oh. I see. Quite a boring existence, hmm? What about dwarves?"

None of those, either.

"Ah, perhaps it is better that way. There should be only one world where dwarves and dragons fight for each other's death."

Why is it that way? Gurrak told me about your ancient hatred. Why?

"It is our nature. For dragons have always loved gold and dwarves had ever hoarded it for themselves -"

"But you steal it," Gurrak bellowed as he came out from behind a rock. "You steal what we so struggle for! Would you mine for yourself? Would you find your own? NO! You and yours are content only to pillage our homes and steal that which is ours!"

"Perhaps it is so," Ny'ezia muttered to Hex. "They've never offered their hand in friendship."

"And you've ever offered yours in battle, foul beast! How many of your kind has killed my kin in battle? Eh?"

"It's true. We've killed many as you have killed us," the dragon admitted.

"And we could still do it, too! You are the last of your kind!"

"As you are one of the last of yours!" Ny'ezia's growl shook the walls. "What are you going to do, little one? Form a raiding party with the last able bodied men of your race? No! You and yours will stay in your underground lairs and die slow and painful deaths! I can see you fear me, dwarf! Is it because you know that you will never kill me? Or is it because you know I'm truly not the last of my kind, hmm?"

_Ah_ , Hex thought, _the eggs_.

"Yes, the eggs, human! My eggs! My children! And you've come to kill them just as your kind killed those who came before me! Isn't that right?"

Hex's breath caught in his throat and his head spun. _Is that why you sent for me Gurrak? Is that why I'm here?_

"Wherefore not, human," Gurrak barked as he approached. "Your kind is known for their killing. They are infamous! I've seen the power in you all these years! I know."

_You've seen_ , Hex asked. _How was that possible? The dwarves never came close enough to view the Imperial Palace. They were far too cautious to send spies. The only way they could is if they sent something that - The knife!_

Of course, it was the knife. Hex, Red Martag, and King Marcus (then posing as a rogue adventurer named Mack) had crossed paths with the dwarves all those years ago on their quest to destroy the Lych Vyr-At-Hozoth. The dwarves had drugged them with some kind of sleeping powder and when Hex had awoke, he found himself in possession of a dwarven crafted knife. It seemed to cut through anything and, when he finally returned to the recently liberated Imperial Palace, he hung it on the wall in his new quarters.

You've been spying on me!

"It was the only way I could show the council that we could trust you," Gurrak yelled in his defense. "We saw your great power and we are unable to wage war on a foe this powerful. Your people are many and your strength is great. Dragons have forever been the enemy of man and this will be your only chance to destroy them outright!"

"Enemy of man, ha," Ny'ezia spat. "We weren't their enemy when they first came to this land! We kept out of sight and watched them. They fought you for the land south of the Dragonbacked Mountains! But your people, ever more sly than the dragon, tricked them into believing we were the enemy. As they wiped us out like a forest put to the flame, you watched from your underground realm, cowards you are that you couldn't fight your own fight." She turned to Hex. "They were expecting us to finish your people off! Then, they'd come out and claim the land as their own! But they were too tricky for their own good. They finished the dragon off instead and relished in the death of their age old enemy! It only delayed the inevitable, though. Only a few centuries later, man infected dwarf with their wasting plague. Poetic justice is a fine dish, hmm, is it not, Gurrak?"

_I will not kill for you_ , Gurrak, Hex decided, and it wasn't a hard decision to make. The last time he'd been made to kill, he was in the middle of a war. He swore he'd never do it again and he'd certainly never do it to start a war, either.

"Then, your decision is clear, Hex of Earth," Ny'ezia announced. "You may use your destructive power not to start a war but to end one!"

"End?" This from both Hex and Gurrak at the same time.

"Yes. For the dwarves will ever try to regain what they lost. The land that you call Rynia is a thorn in the dwarves larger than my own talon. If they will not fight, they'll find other ways to fight you. Perhaps by convincing you to fight me, hmm?"

I will not kill them, either, Ny'ezia. It is not in my nature to ease a man's suffering by cutting off his head.

"You will not kill, hmm? Then, perhaps, you will help ease what suffering you may?"

What are you talking about?

"Simply this," she said, spreading a wing to point around her. "My eggs, threatened as they are by unscrupulous dwarves, may be lost. A whole race lay before you and I am their only caretaker."

"Don't listen to her! She's a killer!" Gurrak moved between the two and locked eyes with Hex. "Her kind has killed more dwarves and men than any who died in the war between our kind! They moved in to finish us both off when they saw us at our weakest! They wanted to feast upon our carcasses!"

Ny'ezia turned her nose up. "Ooh, eating a dwarf? I'd rather mate with an alligator!"

Quiet! Neither of you are making any sense! I'd no sooner kill either of you so you can stop trying to convince me! I am not a killer. Besides -

A hand fell upon Hex's shoulder and he turned towards it. There, a woman stood, whose beauty outshone the sun. Honey blonde, emerald green, and sky blue hair descended in waves upon her naked flesh. She wasn't just perfect. She was magnetic! She had the power to make a hydrogen atom want to split!

"I am not asking you to kill, Hex," she said. It was Ny'ezia.

You've changed form.

"I know," she said with a smile that nearly broke Hex's heart. "It is one of my gifts."

"Don't listen to her, man! She is trying to beguile you!" But for all of Gurrak's protests, Hex could not pull himself away from her.

There was a stirring in his loins and he almost felt dishonorable. The stirring wasn't what he'd suspected, however. When he looked down, he saw his body breaking apart. _Gurrak!_

"It's the spell! You're losing cohesion."

"Don't forget me and my children," Ny'ezia said.

_I won't! I'll return! Or I'll send someone! Gurrak! I can find a cure for your people!_ Hex yelled but he found everything around him losing focus as his body fell apart. _I can find a cure! Don't lose hope! Don't lose -_

But there was only blackness around him. The cold, masonry floor pressed against his back and a wind brushed against his wet body as he awoke. It had been raining on him all night long. Beneath him, the Imperial City was silent in the pre-dawn hours. He tried to lift himself from his uncomfortable position and found his body covered with scrapes - as though he'd been thrown into a pile of sharp rocks!

Part III

"He's found the dragon queen." Tsurtor rose from his throne, gathering his voluminous robes and cape about him. He was a tall man, standing over two meters in height. Everything about him was dark and foul. His hair, his eyes, his mouth, his clothes.

His soul.

Pekit could not help but feel disgust. It was not from the leader's appearance so much as from the scent. Tsurtor had long worked his vile magic and it had been taking its toll upon him for many years. (Necromancy! That's what some of the men had said under their breath when the Leader had twisted the magician Kamon into a lych, connected to machines and summoning undead to overrun the hated Rynia, so many years ago.) He had been forced to abandon his signature uniforms, tight fitting and black as night with all of those unusual insignia, for robes. It was said that his body was so diseased that tusks protruded from all over his body. Pekit did his best not to imagine these things pushing hornlike from Tsurtor's bowels, legs, and loins. As long as he couldn't see it, he was satisfied. It was the stench, though, sickening sweet, like rotting flesh, that repulsed the little man the most. What was the phrase? Cut off the nose to spite the face? He'd cut off his own nose to relieve his face!

Pekit was no beauty, either. He wasn't concerned. Nothing in Tsurtor's presence could hold any beauty. If any came possessing what could be considered beautiful, pleasant, or desirable, Tsurtor quickly twisted it to his own ends. Or he killed them. Pekit, for instance, had once possessed a great talent for art. He could sketch, paint, sculpt - that is, before Tsurtor found him. That was almost a decade before, when Pekit had lived and farmed in Paead. A raiding party had taken him in chains to be a slave here in Ktoll. Tsurtor broke him in several dozen places from the elbows to the ends of the hands. It was slow, Pekit remembered. A day or two would pass between breaks. Then, Tsurtor used his magic to bond the bones at just the correct, convoluted angles that he wanted. The Master was so taken by his handiwork that he took Pekit as his personal aide. There was no writing involved. No work that would be expected. What Tsurtor had wanted was loyalty. Pekit had to sit there, day after day, year after year, listening to Tsurtor's ravings, smelling Tsurtor's rotting flesh, and taking Tsurtor's frequent beatings. It would have been a living hell but, Pekit thought as he looked down at his twisted, mangled arms, _my threshold for pain has been risen significantly_.

"Send word to General K'tan. He is to lead a division of Saladan gunners to the mountains northwest of the Northern Spires. He should search every cave near bodies of water. He will find her majesty there." Tsurtor finished with a pernicious grin. It put Pekit terribly at risk of vomiting for Tsurtor's normal appearance was enough to give a grown man chills but Tsurtor smiling...

Pekit stepped away from the throne and descended the ornate dais. It had been carved from a single slab of granite by Tsurtor's General (and ardent admirer) Hargoth, after Hargoth had been found trying to hold the Imperial Palace for himself and, in the process, losing it. It was not just a token of affection. It was Hargoth's plea not to be destroyed. Pekit felt the textures of the huge sculpture beneath his bare feet as he walked over scenes of death and dismemberment. Here, King Marcus was being disemboweled. There, Hex the Bonder (some said he was called The Maker) was being eaten alive by maggots. Pekit hurried over the bowl that was part of Tuk the Destroyer's beheading.

The throneroom looked more immense from the bottom than from Tsurtor's side. It could easily have held ten thousand men. It had on many occasions, but they had not all been men. During those times when Tsurtor sent for the whole of his army, it was the hated Saladans who comprised the majority of his force. Saladans. Lizard creatures. Horrid to see. Torture to be near. (They had a terrifying tendency to bite and eat whatever looked tasty to them and they adored hot, soft, flesh.) Pekit tried to force the thoughts out of his mind as he walked up to the double doors which were the room's only exit.

Room? Hardly a room. The entirety of Tsurtor's fortress had been dug in a wormhole fashion out of one of the Ktoll mountains, appropriately named Mount Brutalitie. Pekit could think of other names, though. The scab of hate. The festering boil of pain. Two mangled limbs and a life not worth living. (In truth, the only reason Pekit didn't throw himself off the cliffside was that he was afraid Tsurtor might bring him back from the dead!) It was the largest point in the Ktollian Peaks. Tsurtor had dug barracks, garages, hangers, pens, and many other quarters (including the enormous throneroom) out of the mountain itself.

He didn't let the excavated rock go to waste, though. He let it go to Hargoth. The stone giant had been in virtual bliss (despite Tsurtor's hatred of any pleasure) since he'd been allowed to begin building more of his kind. These were different that his previous breed that had held the Imperial Palace. "My Master," the stone giant had once said, "if I had been building these back then, one would have been sufficient to hold the entire isle!" "Then, you should have been, shouldn't you," Tsurtor had replied, taking the opportunity to display his Breaking power on the giant's face. They were larger, these new giants. Taller by far, each stood at more than twice Tsurtor's height. Their girth, as well, was much larger than those Hargoth had previously made. Each giant was strong enough to uproot a tall oak tree and, then, break the tree in half. But it wasn't their size or strength that made them especially frightening. Pekit remembered, it was their bloodlust. Hargoth displayed this to Tsurtor, using Paeadian slaves as subjects. The smaller humans couldn't outrun the beasts or dodge them. Once the giant saw the human, nothing could stop it from ripping the human into unidentifiable clumps. "Ah, but these are not merely giants, my Master," Hargoth had once insisted. "These are behemoths!"

Pekit approached the massive, double doors, lit on each side by a lamp. He couldn't take the knob in hand so he turned around and kicked against the door with his heel. It was several minutes before one of Tsurtor's personal guards, huge, ugly bearlike creatures with tusks, opened a door, allowing Pekit egress.

The huge hall outside plunged him into darkness so profound that Pekit could feel it enter through his spine. It could have been day outside but the tunnels that they used as hallways were so far underground that no light could enter. Worse still, the throneroom was further below the mountain than any other quarters. Tsurtor liked it that way. Not surprising, really. The man, if he truly was still a man, had an ebony heart. No lamps lit the tunnels and monsters, invisible in the darkness, could be heard slithering their way about the lower reaches. Few came this far into his domain and the only reason he had lamps at the double doors was so he could see their faces. The hall wound upwards, cutting violently from the right to the left, as was Tsurtor's wont when he'd excavated these tunnels.

Pekit hurried along to the higher reaches, following along the left wall. He would often hear things he was grateful he could not see and press his body against the cold stone to avoid them. (Pekit knew that he was easily replaceable.) He waited until the quiet returned to the tunnel and continued the upward trek. He stopped often, catching his breath, and he stepped carefully, remembering the last time he'd stepped in some unidentifiable fluid. Bare feet slipped easily on flat stone. After almost an hour, Pekit could see the wall beside him. He knew he was reaching the main level. Soon, the entire hallway was visible with daylight and, upon the next curve, he stepped out to the viewing area.

Here, Pekit observed Tsurtor's dream of domination over Rynia come to fruition.

Rynia had never been a warlike society. What was it that made them so hard to defeat? During the first war, they'd allied themselves with Kallent and reaped a harvest of strong, capable warrior monks. Tsurtor had pushed them back all the way to their eastern shore. The last remnants of the Rynian forces cowered back onto the Bania Isthmus, a thin finger of land connecting the Imperial Palace to the mainland. Tsurtor was sure he had them but he didn't know they had lured him into a final gambit. It was a trap. Tulk, the great, Rynian destroyer, shattered the isthmus as Tsurtor's forces were upon it, plunging it into the sea. So it was many years later, when Tsurtor took the Imperial Palace with Hargoth's stone giants. Again, victory had been plucked from his grasp.

Not this time.

Tsurtor's strategy this time was simple: complete annihilation of any resistance. He knew that there was no way the Rynians would resist his inexorable onslaught this time. The preparations had begun when Tsurtor had brought thousands of Saladans into this world nearly a decade ago. They were then trained to use machine guns, drive tanks, operate mortar launchers, and fly planes. All these exotic weapons and machines were obtained from another world. Ironically, it had been the world of one of his most hated enemies, Hex. Tsurtor had brought mercenaries over from that other world (called Earth) to train the Saladans, adding to his force. Then, too, Hargoth had prepared an army of his behemoths, over a thousand of them!

All this time, Tsurtor had watched the Rynians, spying on them with his secret magic as he had so recently spied on Hex. The Rynians knew that war was coming. Tsurtor had thrown down the gauntlet to their king at the very beginning. Yet, there they were, flourishing. Their cities were growing and their coffers filling and at no time were they preparing for war. What were they doing, Tsurtor often wondered upon his ominous throne. What were they planning?

_Perhaps a surprise_ , Pekit thought. _I hope it's a wonderful, deadly surprise._

Pekit hurried passed the rows of M1 Abram tanks and APC's, only looking outside of the great doors to the sunlight once, and climbed the stairs up to the officer's quarters. Here were the only fellow humans in or on the mountain. The mercenary band from Earth which had made a deal with Tsurtor to join his war if they were given rank. Rank they were given, and more. Tsurtor used his vile magic to boost their physical strength and constitution, turning them into something more than they had been.

Pekit walked past the soldiers performing their administrative duties and stepped up before the entryway to General K'tan's quarters.

"What ish it, shlug," the general shouted when he saw Pekit's slight form standing in the doorway. The sight of him sent shivers of fear to the soles of Pekit's feet. The general's features lacked any shred of humanity. He stood at two meters in height, just shorter than Tsurtor himself. His legs and arms were lanky to the extreme and looked as though they'd been lengthened upon a rack. His fingers were long as well, concluding in long, black nails. Conversely, his face appeared to have been shortened, red, beady eyes peering from behind protruding temples and nose smashed in. His ears were wolflike, poking out through oily, black tufts of hair. Most frightening, though, was his mouth. The lips were nothing more than torn curtains, fluttering behind rows of long, razor sharp teeth, jutting from his mouth like raised swords. The transformation must have been agonizing (Pekit knew about that first hand) but K'tan seemed to relish in it, even abandoning his human name for his new form. "Enter and tell me!"

Pekit was shocked from his thoughts by the general's second, barking command. "I come with word from Tsurtor, sir."

"What doesh he shay?" K'tan approached Pekit like a snack.

Pekit thought for a moment. "The dragon queen has been found. Tsurtor says that you are to lead a division of Saladans to the mountains northwest of the Northern Spires. It's nearby a body of water."

"What elshe?"

Pekit tried to keep his voice steady and ignore K'tan's panting breath on his flesh. "That is all."

"Then what are you still doing here?" K'tan struck Pekit with the back of one hand, sending Pekit sprawling in the hallway.

The little man pushed himself up against a wall and used the leverage to rise to his feet.

_Waiting_ , he thought in reply. _Waiting and hoping that I'm still alive on the day that you all die!_

CHAPTER TWO

VINCENT'S RETURN

Part I

Hex didn't remain on the palace's wall long, He rushed up to the tower, the only place where he knew he'd have sufficient privacy along with the supplies he'd need. Byron took the telescope and awkwardly carried it back to Hex's quarters.

It wasn't yet dawn but the pervasive starlight helped Hex see his way along the wall. It wasn't often that the guards saw Hex run and on this occasion he was moving fast. He rushed down the steps into the main courtyard and, though his mind was focused on the memory of his dream, he recalled the stories he'd heard of the thousands of undead that had pressed through the gates into this courtyard, pressing as one body, relentlessly upon the Rynian defenders. Indeed, he thought, one onslaught had been forestalled. Would they stop the next?

The guards at the great, double doors - almost as large as those to the outer wall - recognized Hex and opened the portals for him, allowing his swiftly moving form to pass. "Must be somt'in," one observed. "I don' want NO part'v'it," the other replied.

This early in the morning, the halls of the Imperial Palace stood empty, broken only by the watchful form of the occasional guard. Due to the architecture of the palace - four separate levels, laid upon each other off center, rising up the hillside - Hex walked further and further to the apex of the cliff where the tower ascended. The first level had been laid at an angle. Walking up it was a chore but this served and important, defensive purpose. Any attacking forces would have an uphill battle and any number of things could be dropped upon them. Hex knew of several kegs of oil that waited sitting in alcoves, ready to be poured in defense. Most of this floor was occupied by the grand throne room, which had doubled as a ballroom on several occasions. It would serve as one again in a couple of weeks, when Hex and Helen celebrated their eighth year wedding anniversary. The rest of the level housed stables, barracks, blacksmiths and other artisans. The second level was occupied by apartments and kitchens for visitors and royal aides, the third by suites for those who held royal posts as well as meeting and planning halls, the fourth held the royal suites, and the fifth, where Hex now proceeded, was the wizard's tower.

It had once been occupied by Galeny, the royal wizard who had created the stone giants that had later become the Rynian's bane. The king's wizard was now Tuk, the destroyer. Blinded in the undead's final assault, Tuk performed very little magic and spent little time in the tower. Though retirement was a concept foreign to Rynia, it was exactly what Tuk had done. He spent his days in the garden or in one of the palace's three kitchens.

It had been a great surprise to everyone how easily Tuk had adapted to the loss of his sight. Walking the halls became a nightly routine for the wizard and he did it after all others had gone to sleep. He'd walk the halls, tapping them with the cane Hex had provided, memorizing their every feature. Now, Tuk could walk anywhere in the palace without a misstep. On the rare occasion that he collided with anyone, he'd consider it their fault. "I'm blind! What's your excuse?"

The tower was where he would have been, had he still been sighted. The tomes within held all of the secrets of Rynian history, secrets Hex was uncovering in the old destroyer's place.

Hex hurried up the steep, winding stairway, threw open the small, wooden door and began lighting candles. Four, fat candles brought enough illumination to the tower for Hex to see. He pulled out a pen and a thick pad of paper. (He had made sure that Vincent had brought him cases of these as he knew he'd never get the hand of a quill and ink well.)

Outside of the towers four windows, Hex could see the clouds gain illumination by subtle degrees. The sun was rising. Below, sailors would be readying their ships at the harbor, merchants would be rising, and farmers would be up as ever, Rynia was awakening. Hex took the sight in, feeling a fearful twinge at the base of his spine. The past eight years had been Eden and the Rynians were going to be booted out. He didn't know how he knew that. He hoped it was simply paranoia.

He put his pen to paper and began writing.

* * *

Morning for King Marcus had taken on a hazy similarity over the past couple of years. He awoke at full sun. He used to awaken with the dawn but a man of his advanced years (he'd just celebrated his fifty-third birthday in the spring) could afford himself some simple luxuries. His attendant, Carle Barant, drew the curtains to let the sun-stabbing light into the large room and readied the king's robe. He held, in one hand, the king's usual breakfast: tea, a bowl of Paeadian yogurt, and a bagel. (The yogurt had not been made in Paead, only the recipe. The bagel was a gift from Hex's world. Hex had shown Marcus' personal chef, Moitches, how to make them years ago and Marcus was hooked.)

The old servant, impeccably dressed and groomed, stepped before the king's bed and stated, "It is morning, your highness."

Marcus groaned from beneath the blankets. "Is it, Carle," he asked, not coming out. "Then that's a relief. I thought someone had set my eyelids on fire."

"It is the sun, your highness."

"Yes, Carle, I hear that happens in the morning."

Several moments passed and the king didn't move.

"Your tea is growing cold, your highness," Carle observed.

"I like it that way. Doesn't scald my tongue."

"And you have appointments."

"Carle," Marcus shouted, almost as if one would scold a bad dog. "I was out at sea, christening the Helenia - and what a stupid name for a boat. If Helen knew, she'd throw a fit and a lot more - but I was out there until after midnight if you remember correctly!"

"Yes, I do remember, your highness. You had been drinking."

Marcus threw the blankets back - his head was where his feet should have been - and shouted, "Oh, just give me my breakfast!" Marcus took the silver tray from Carle's hand and put it on the bed. He looked down on the meal and grabbed the bagel. He tore it in half and dipped it into the yogurt. "Drinking's mandatory when you christen a ship, Carle. It's called a toast."

"Indeed, your highness. How many dozens of ships did you christen last night?"

Marcus looked up at his attendant and couldn't help but smile.

Carle had been Marcus' attendant before he'd needed an attendant. When the future king was ten, the two had been put together. Carle's father had served Marcus' father as had their fathers before them for five generations. Sadly, this continuity would not continue. Carle's family had been killed when the stone giants had taken the castle eight years ago. Carle had been sent away with the rest of the non-military populace to Ceyliz while the rest of the Imperial Palace fought on. Carle had wanted to stay and fight as well for, in truth, he had nothing left to lose. Then, after the war, Carle had returned. At the ripe, old age of fifty-five, Carle had no chance to start a family again and when his life ended, so would the Barant line.

"All right, you old dustmop," Marcus said with a smile as he took a bite of his bagel, "give me my robe."

The bagel was washed down with the tea as Carle spelled out Marcus' duties for the day. "You have a meeting with your daughter... court in your private throneroom... meeting with the Society of Kallent Merchantmen... news from Benaatt... Hex's, er, friend Byron has requested that Hex see you with all haste... tour of the new harbor construction... "

"Can I fit a meal in there somewhere," the king asked as Carle brought him his clothes for the day.

"All due respect, your highness, but I think you've had more than your share."

Marcus scowled at that remark and, then, scowled some more as he struggled into his wardrobe. Strange. They'd fit him fine only five years ago. Carle constantly reminded him that he always could have ordered a new wardrobe created according to his new measurements. Marcus would hear nothing of it. Either he would fit in the clothes or he would lose weight so he could fit in them. Still, he obviously wasn't the roving hero that he'd made himself out to be during the War of Earth and Stone. Back then, he'd called himself Mack and, boastful or not, he thought of himself as one of the best with a bat in the land.

Yes, but now you're old, a little voice said from within his ears. Your father died when he was half your age. You go on like a moldering tree, an eyesore.

"You may be right," Marcus replied at last, buttoning his tunic. "Who's first?" He asked Carle this question every morning. It had become a tradition through the years.

"Your daughter, it would seem."

"Let us pray to Dyneesa that it isn't marital problems."

"The wizard, Hex, and the princess have always been happy together."

"I know," Marcus replied as he left the room with Carle following. "Strange, isn't it?"

Marcus turned towards the couple's suite, passing before Caroline's quarters. It had always pleased the king that his daughter had named her first baby after her mother, Caroline. Already, at seven, the beautiful child bore a strong resemblance to Marcus' beautiful wife, dead these past twenty-five years.

_Twenty-six_ , the voice in his head reminded him. And Helen was only seven at the time.

The thought stopped Marcus in his steps. _No_ , he thought. _It's bad enough I mourn Caroline's death every day of my life. I won't start growing paranoid._

Marcus walked to the couple's door and the guard announced his presence. Helen walked out of the grand bedroom and into the front living quarters to greet her father. She was all smiles - all too much, Marcus thought - as she led her father and his attendant in. "It's a beautiful morning, is it not, father?"

"It's overcast and drizzling, Helen. What have you been drinking at this hour," Marcus replied, sitting down on a plush settee.

Helen just laughed and sat down beside him, taking his hands. "Oh, father! The plans for the anniversary party are going splendidly. We've set the menu. The chefs will be importing some Tzurritzanian brandy and Kallent shellfish. It will be marvelous!"

"Beautiful," Marcus asked. "Splendid? Marvelous? Carle, alert my generals. Some homunculus has taken my daughter's form." He grabbed Helen's shoulders, "What have you done with the real Helen?\"

"Father," Helen squealed.

"So, tell me, little one. What did you call me for? Surely you didn't request me here just for an update on party planning."

"Well, father," Helen replied, coyly, "it is eight years."

Marcus smiled at his daughter. Yet he still heard that faint, grating voice say, _She's too happy. Something's not right. What is that wizard doing to our daughter?_

Helen's smile relented a bit and she said, "Seriously, now. I have a favor to ask."

"A favor," Marcus asked. "You want to hire another troubadour?"

"No father. This is a little bigger."

Marcus' brow furrowed. "What is it."

"I need you to get rid of Hex for a while."

The request came as a shock. "I don't think I quite follow you. Get rid of -"

"Just until the anniversary party."

"Helen, the party's not for two weeks!"

"I know! I know," she gaggled. "But this is important! I have something for him but I don't want him to see it before the party."

"A present?"

She hesitated, "Yes, well, I suppose you could call it that."

"Simple. Just store it in my quarters."

"No, father, I don't think I can -"

"Certainly. You know I have much more room than I'll ever deem necessary. What? Is it big? We'll store it at the docks -"

"We can't store it at the docks!"

"What is it? Is it some grand statue? Even I don't have a statue that large!"

"Father," Helen shouted, flabbergasted, "it is not a statue!"

Women, Marcus thought. She's my own daughter and I can't understand her. "Well, then, what could be so -"

"Your highness," Carle interrupted. He leaned over the king and whispered, "I believe what the princess is trying to convey is ---"

Marcus' breath caught in his throat. His mouth hung open and his eyes bulged. "You mean -?"

Helen said nothing. She simply smiled.

* * *

Marcus, who had dressed that day in simple breaches, white tunic, and blue waistcoat, had to don the heavy robes of office before he stepped out to his private throneroom. _These blasted things are so hot, it's a wonder I haven't lost weight_ , he thought as Carle tied the front. His crown, which had been saved only because the stone giants had found no interest in the Rynian's abandoned belongings all those years ago, was a five diamond affair. Each diamond was spaced between several sapphires and mounted on the body of the crown itself. It was more of a circlet than a crown. Marcus liked it that way, though. The robes were heavy enough.

As he stepped in the adjoining room, Carle stayed within the antechamber as was his habit. Marcus was met by the officer of the day, Gertrude Yska, another veteran of the last war, who was on hand to maintain order should she be needed. Marcus sat comfortably upon his throne, a huge mass of stone, letting the robes provide the cushioning, and Officer Yska stood at his side, bat held at ready.

Before him, the others in the room bowed to one knee. It was an all too familiar sight. "Arise," Marcus commanded.

As they did, Marcus surveyed the faces he would have to contend with. Farmers discontented with the city's growth. Merchants desiring greater profit through a reduction in royal fees and exceptions to royal laws. Messengers bringing news from the kingdom and, perhaps, foreign realms. The obligatory artist or scholar seeking a boon. It was not enough for this to be his lot in life; he had to do it quickly as well if he were ever to make his other appointments.

Who to choose first, then? His eyes scanned back and forth until they came to rest on a familiar face. "Red Martag, step forward. The crown recognizes you."

Red, an old sailor growing older by the day ( _ah, but not as old as you_ , the voice whispered from within Marcus' ears), had been Marcus' close friend since the war. He held the pride of building the Imperial City's bustling harbor and organizing the Port Authority which looked after the well-being of it and its residents, transient though they may be. For all their times together, Red insisted on maintaining professional decorum. If he came here for an audience, when he easily could have discussed anything with Marcus at the place of his choosing, something must have been wrong. Marcus could see that the sailor's fiery, red hair had sprouted a copious amount of grey as the big man bowed before him.

"You may rise."

Red stood with his legs spread shoulder's-width apart, his hands behind his back. "I seek a boon, your highness."

"You do," Marcus asked, surprised. "What is this boon, Red Martag?"

"It is this, your highness. I have been your faithful servant for these past eight years, maybe even longer. I have worked long nights and rose before the dawn and have not complained. I have built you a harbor unlike any in your kingdom. This harbor has made your economy vital and brought us closer to our neighbors."

"Nobody denies that you have done the crown a great service. The crown is ever grateful. Still, you have not named this boon you request."

"As I was saying, your highness, I have worked long and hard, never asking for more compensation than was necessary for construction of the port."

"Yes, your thrift is renowned," Marcus stated, growing irritated. "But what is your request?"

"I would like to leave your service, sire."

A simple statement, one that hit Marcus in his gut and stayed there. "Why," he whispered. "Why, Red?"

"In truth, your highness, I am feeling landlocked. I see ships leaving every day and wonder why I am not upon them."

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know, exactly. I've never been to Marrisha."

Marcus thought for a moment, though the answer was clear. "You've never been indentured to this isle, Red Martag. We have ever been in your debt and, if allowing you the freedom of the sea is in some way payment for that debt, you have our blessings."

"Thank you, my king," Red replied, smiling.

"Go see my attendant when you know what you will need and he will provide for you. In truth, we still have a great debt to pay you."

Red left through the crowd and Marcus scanned for the next. One down and only one hundred to go, he thought, though he knew that there couldn't have been more than fifty. Between two bodies, he saw Gourden waiting patiently. Eight years ago, the bonder had put Marcus' broken leg together correctly after Hex botched the job with some of his world's magic called medicine. "Gourden, the Bonder, step forward. The crown recognizes you."

Gourden prostrated himself, speaking without looking at his king. "I come on behalf of Karlyn, your highness."

Karlyn Beele, the frail, old woman who had foreseen the coming of the stone giants and undead. It was an unusual magic; she had the gift of prognostication. Though he knew the woman well, and knew that she wouldn't hurt the smallest creature, the mentioning of her name brought shivers to Marcus' spine. She wouldn't come before him unless something was wrong but to send someone in her stead? "Rise, Gourden. What news does Karlyn send? Tell it to me straight."

"It is not Karlyn who sends news, your highness. I bring you news of her. She's fallen ill and remains in her cot, burning with a terrible fever."

"How bad is it, Gourden?"

"As you know, my king, fevers are a mystery to those who practice magic. Even Bonders cannot break them. We'll have to wait and see."

"Did something bring this about? Did she say anything?"

"Not say," Gourden hesitated. "No."

"You're not being clear, Gourden."

Finally, the wizard looked up at the king and said, "Screaming, my king. We found her screaming and it took us hours to stop her. Then, she fell into this sleep from which she has not risen." The wizard's hands tightened around the front of his tunic. "Something terrible is going to happen."

"It already has."

A figure pushed his way through the crowd, unrecognizable behind the faces. The voice, however, was unmistakable. "Hex," Marcus said.

Marcus' son-in-law made his way through the crowd and stepped beside Gourden. His black hair (with lines strategically touched by the aging grey of time) fell far past his shoulders and was met by a thick growth of stubble on his face. He was dressed, as ever, unsuitable for his princely station but perfectly matched for that of the eccentric wizard, in blue jeans and ratty sneakers (both garments unfathomable to the clothiers and cobblers of Rynia). He wore his tunic untucked. This is the man who married my daughter, Marcus thought, and sired my granddaughter. If I didn't owe him my life, I'd be ashamed to be seen with him.

"You'd best clear these people out, Marcus, unless you want them to hear what I've got to say," Hex said, leaning to one side.

He hasn't slept, the king thought. "Very well," he replied.

As if on cue, Gertrude Yska began herding people out of the room. In several minutes, only Hex and the King remained.

"Now," Marcus said, breaking the silence between them, "do you want to tell me what this is all about?"

Hex paced back and forth in the throneroom. He considered all that he'd read and heard and wondered how he might repeat them to a king. Granted, Marcus wouldn't behead him. Still... "You are aware that I've been studying the books in the tower?"

"Of course, I am. If Tuk hadn't told me, I would have heard from Helen, eventually. She says that's where you spend most of your nights. She says she doesn't mind, that she's a deep sleeper, but I doubt it."

"This isn't about my marriage. It's about the survival of this kingdom, Mack!"

Mack? The king didn't miss the significance of that. He'd sojourned with Hex during the war under the guise of a rogue soldier named Mack. Back then, they'd been friends. Back then, he hadn't been king. "Very well, then, what have you to report?"

"Something's always struck me as odd about Rynia. Somehow, it didn't fit. You don't use nails. You hardly use metal at all."

"Yes? What of it," Marcus asked.

"It was the first thing I noticed when I appeared in that cell. The stone giants had slapped it together but, having been the product of a Rynian, they knew no other way. Your people's construction is much more sophisticated. Still, Kallents use nails. Paeadies use nails, too. I had to ask myself, how can a civilization develop without the use of nails."

"And the answer," prompted Marcus.

"It didn't. Do you know what a particle accelerator is, Mack? A cold fusion generator? An ion laser? A gravitational field warping drive for faster than light travel?"

"What are you talking about, Hex?"

"Do you know what those are? It's a simple question. Ever hear of a genetic recombination program? How about organic polymerization?"

"Hex, you're making no sense. I've never heard of any of these things."

"You haven't? Yet, you have the plans, the equations, the schematics for all of those things and more in the tower above your palace. How is such a thing possible?"

Marcus shifted uncomfortably on his throne. "The tower has always been a place for the king's wizard. What magic they hold in that place is beyond us."

"But it's not beyond you! It's not magic! It's science just like architecture and ship building! Somehow, your people have been conned into believing that their lost knowledge is magic!"

"I don't understand."

"How long have the Rynians occupied this land, Mack?"

Marcus thought for a moment. "I don't know. The Haddison lineage, as passed down to me, could -"

"Four hundred years."

"What?"

"Four hundred years, Mack. From what I can piece together, you landed in a spaceship. Accidentally or intentionally, I don't know. Your ancestors took what knowledge they could and tried to preserve it, only to have it stashed away from them. They devolved from a scientifically advanced people into what you are presently."

"Now, hold on a moment, Hex. We've been advancing, not losing knowledge. Why our ships have been known to sail further from shore than -"

"Nothing. It's nothing, Mack! With the technology you possess, you wouldn't need to sail. You could fly! Over the oceans, around the world, even to the stars!"

Marcus looked upon his son-in-law for a moment in silence. "Hex, you've been working a lot of late nights."

"Why do you think your wizards are so much more advanced than those from other lands, Mack? It's because you had the knowledge to start with. I wouldn't be surprised if you brought magic to the entire world. Wizards from other countries have more exotic spells, not as regimentalized as the Rynians. Institutionalization is a hallmark of an advanced society."

"Then, what happened to us, Hex? If we were more advanced then, tell me, how did we sink so low?"

"Not that low," Hex replied. "It could have been worse. You could have become like the Paeadies who live for their farms when they're not being conquered by Tsurtor. I have several pieces to the puzzle but to solve the whole thing, I need the Rosetta Stone."

"The what," Marcus asked.

"The piece that makes the others clear. I know that your people began losing their knowledge right away. There is something mentioned about a guardian or protector in the family journals who left the Rynians shortly after they arrived. They were on their own. They had to take to farming and hunting just to survive. Soon, their high-tech equipment broke down and they didn't have the raw materials to replace them. Soon, they lost nearly everything. The people selected a leader shortly after their crash. A man named Haddison. The leader was granted the title of king. That was Matthew Haddison. He appointed a committee responsible for preserving their knowledge. It must have been shortly after the palace was built that all of Rynia's knowledge was moved into the tower.

"Then, a couple of hundred years ago, your ancestors began to intermarry. They were under the mistaken belief that it helped strengthen the family line when all it did was weaken it. After four generations of this, I found the first mention of the name Tsurtor. Now, while this can't be the same -"

"Hex," Marcus interrupted, looking distraught. "No. You're wrong. It is the same person."

Hex stepped up to the side of the throne, shaken. "Spill it."

Now, it was Marcus' turn to rise and pace the room. "It was during the time of King Argon Haddison. It was by his decree that the intermarrying come to an end. The decree also stated that all engagements must be broken off without delay. One engagement was between a young man and his sister, the youngest prince of the line - there were four - and his youngest sister. That young man was Tsurtor. Argon forbad the engagement and tried to make Tsurtor see how the generations of incest were destroying the kingdom."

Marcus paused for a moment and looked out the huge window facing the ocean. Outside, it was raining again. "Tsurtor wouldn't believe any of it. He was a bright boy, maniacally intelligent. He could understand most of the wizard's tomes on the old magic, er, science. He built a machine that he found in there and told his father that it would make him mighty. This would reinvigorate the family line, saving his marriage to his love. He entered the machine and turned it on... it is said that there was an array of lights dancing about his figure and a great deal of noise. After a while, the machine began to catch fire and Tsurtor's body had to be pulled out or lost. His body was still and lifeless."

"But I thought you said that he was the same person," Hex asked.

"Wait. I'm not finished. Argon's decree was obeyed. Many of his children died early deaths. His youngest daughter, Mandin, she who Tsurtor had once loved, succeeded him to the throne and married a prominent Kallent duke."

"But what does that have to do with Tsurtor," Hex insisted.

"Because he wasn't dead," Marcus blurted out. "They all thought he was but on the eve of their wedding, the newlyweds were granted little silence in their marriage bed. It wasn't raining, like this," he said, staring out the window. "It was summer and the night was still. Then, Tsurtor rose and found his voice. He cursed them and cursed their line. He vowed to be king of Rynia one day, even if he had to destroy it. He gained the allegiance of the ice giants and attacked many years later, when Mandin was near death and my father had just been born. The ice giants were easily defeated but we lost Mandin. When she saw her childhood fiancee... the shock was too much for her. When I was a boy, he led his second assault with an army composed of ice giants, Paeadians, and monsters unknown to us at the time."

"We tried to stop him but he drove many of our soldiers into the Silen forest. Most of them left there stark, raving mad, those who made it out alive. You know the rest of the story. Tuk's father halted their advance by Destroying the isthmus and plunging them to their deaths. Tsurtor swore his revenge a third time."

"And he's still alive," Hex whispered.

"Yes. So, you see how easily he can strike terror. He's like a god."

"Not a god," Hex corrected. "A devil." The Rynian religions had no reference to devils, though, and, so, Hex went on. "What about the Paeadies?"

"They were blameless. Tsurtor had taken them by force and twisted them into a darker version of themselves."

Mass hypnosis, Hex wondered. "So, now I know why the technology had been hidden away for so long. Your forefathers didn't want to create another Tsurtor."

"Perhaps," Marcus replied. "And still, there is more to consider. With Tsurtor's oath of vengeance, could some of that technology - is that what you called it? - could it be of some use to us?"

Hex joined Marcus at the window. "Science is a double edged sword, Marcus. It may end up killing he who chooses to make it a weapon." He looked over at Marcus to see the king nod his head. "Besides, we have other problems for the present."

"Of course," Marcus replied, bitterly, "why wouldn't we?"

"What do you know about dragons, Mack?"

Marcus looked over at Hex for several long moments as Hex looked out at the rain. "Only what my father told me."

"And what is that?"

"That they are brutal creatures. Monsters from a time long gone. The story has been passed from one Rynian monarch to the next of how the dragons tried to slaughter our kind and how we met them and pursued them and rid the world of their scourge. They are a dead race, Dyneesa be praised."

"Don't praise her too much. They won't be dead for much longer."

Marcus hissed and turned Hex roughly towards him. "That is a rotten joke, Hex. Do you realize what they would do if they were alive? Those things can breathe fire. They can fly. They're bloodthirsty!"

"Actually," Hex replied, "they spit the fire. I met the last of them in her cavern last night."

Marcus relaxed his grip but didn't let go of Hex's arms. "Tell me."

"Do you remember the dwarves? They took me away by some form of magic and brought me to its cave. Gurrak, the dwarf we had met in the caves, led me into the dragon's lair. Her name is Ny'ezia and she was the last of her kind."

"Was?"

"It turns out that she's a very rare dragon, a dragon queen. She's given birth to hundreds of eggs and is waiting for them to hatch. Gurrak wanted me to kill them but I told him I wouldn't. Ny'ezia requested our aide in saving as many of them we can."

"Aiding a dragon? That's insanity!"

"Compared to Tsurtor? How insane?"

Part II

Ned Blakely was one of the bitter remnants of the war. A hero, he had protected the princess from the undead onslaught, he was left a broken man. He sat upon a stump that morning, letting the rain wash over him like redemption. As they always did, the events that had left him the shell of the man he was once played through his mind in stunning clarity.

The hordes of Tsurtor's undead had broken through the main gates to the Imperial Palace and were pouring in like the sea through a broken dike. "The door," Blakely had shouted. From where he stood atop the Palace's outer wall, he could see the staircase he had ascended, along with the princess, Mark Nygarra, and two scouts, stood open to the infestation. Already, undead were swarming into the opening. Blakely fought all he could, his bat guided primarily with his good arm. The arm he had broken in the battle against the stone giants, to regain the Imperial Palace, hung sluggishly at his side.

Mark Nygarra had pulled the scouts from the wall and pushed them down after Blakely, yelling, "Down there! Now! Move!" He couldn't have known that he was only pushing them to their deaths. The stairwell was like a nightmare. Hundreds of undead pushed through and, for every attack Ned, who had then been Commander Blakely, had made, the undead pressed forward.

There was a scratching at Ned's leg and he pulled it back to find it covered in blood. Other undead rushed upon it, pushing Ned back upon the stairs, feasting and smearing themselves with the hot crimson. Ned struck again and again until, with a shock that stopped his breath, he felt his left leg break. Undead were upon him from his chest down, burying him in a mass of writhing, rotting meat. The other leg broke and Ned lost his grip on his bat. Then, the undead swept over him like death.

And it had been death, of a sort. They'd taken both of his legs. There was nothing the Bonders could do. Ned had lost his capacity for rational thought and spoke only in broken sentences, living that horrifying moment every day of his life.

King Marcus had given his wife and boys a farm on the isle. Ned could see them working it now, taking the last of the autumn harvest. It would be winter soon. Ned could feel it.

His youngest, Gault, carried a bucket of radishes up to the house. "Is there anything I can do for ya, pa?"

Ned watched him, feeling a tenuous sort of pride, and wanted to reply. However, as it often did, nothing came out.

Gault put the bucket before his pa and grabbed a root. "D'ya want a radish," he asked with a smile.

Ned tried to smile back. Gault had always been a fine boy. He was nearly an adult, now, and, as the farm would be passed to Gault's older brother Nathan, would soon be moving on to make his own way in life. Ned was glad he hadn't expressed any interest in the military. He didn't want his babies broken like he had been. Ned saw much of his mother in Gault - Nathan had his father's looks, as was only right. Blond hair, green eyes, and a generous mouth, luckily the boy had built up a threatening amount of muscle to insure no doubt as to his masculinity.

"D'ya want I should move ya, pa?"

Ned's eyes turned down to the ground. He saw the ends of his pantlegs tied into knots where his legs should have been. It was a constant humiliation, knowing he was half a man, knowing he was no longer of any use. He looked back up at his boy and moved his lips, whispering, "No, s-son. I l-like da-da-da r-rain."

Gault picked up his radishes. "Better than the sun," he replied, turning his face to the clouds and letting the drops fall in his mouth.

Suddenly, a wave of water splashed against him along with a rush of warm air. He looked down and, standing before him was a strange looking boy his own age. The stranger quivered in his thin clothing and looked around in shock.

"What the hell? This ain't summer," the stranger yelled.

"No," Gault replied, "you're several months late for that."

"But this is Rynia?"

"Are you lost," Gault asked. "This is the Imperial Isle, heart of Rynia and its most prosperous city!"

The stranger brushed his straggly, wet hair back with his fingers. "I'm not lost. I'm Vincent Gobel. Ever hear of me?"

Gault smiled, "Should I have?"

"Yes," Vincent replied. "I only saved this entire kingdom a few years ago. Do you forget so soon?"

"My pa was in the war," Gault said. "He'd know. Pa? D'ya know this kid?"

Ned knew Vincent very well. He remembered watching the boy flying in the days after the war while his own broken body sat without the means to move itself. I died during the war, Ned thought. "W-wizard," he said.

"Oh, so you're a wizard, huh," Gault asked.

"Yes. I'm a wizard," Vincent replied, sarcastically. "I'm the most powerful wizard there is!"

Gault laughed. "Sure you are. You more powerful than Tuk? I hear he destroyed the entire undead army and won the war."

"Yes, I'm more powerful! I levitated them all into the air so he could destroy them. I would have done it myself if he hadn't barged in."

"Oh, yeah," Gault asked, "then are you more powerful than Hex? I hear he destroyed the Lych and saved the king's life. What about that?"

"So, Hex is still around taking credit? Yes, I'm more powerful!"

Gault looked skeptically at the stranger.

"Oh, what's the use," Vincent spat. Into the air, he rose without a thought as to what the farmer boy was thinking. The island dropped down below him and, soon, Vincent could see the Imperial City. It was bigger than he remembered it. (After all, the last time he had seen it, the city was little more than an open expanse of crushed lumber!)

Vincent flew into the city and found a building that looked like a bar _. I wonder what the minimum drinking age is here_ , he thought. He swiftly descended on the entrance and sauntered in.

The place was empty, even the bartender was gone.

"Hello," Vincent called out. He stepped into the cold, damp room and looked around but didn't see anyone.

Then, a door to the back opened and an ugly, hairy man stepped out, carrying a pan full of food. He wore only a pair of pants that were busting out at the waist and ate with his fingers. "What'd'ya want, kid?"

Vincent stepped up to the bar and announced, "I want a Paeadie Grolsh." He was rather happy that he'd remembered what they called their beer here.

"Huh, sure ya do. You don't look like you could even afford a decent pair of clothes! H'rold," he called to the back, "come here an' look at this'n. Says he wants an ale!"

H'rold, a tall, lanky man with no chin, at least wore a shirt and came out gnawing on a crust of bread. "Yeah? With what money you gonna pay, eh? You got gold? Dernigs? What?"

Vincent smiled. He'd thought about this and knew just what to do. "I'll bet you for it," he said.

"Bet," H'rold asked. "Bet? Hey, Reg, you hear that?"

Reg, having stuffed three fingerfulls of food into his mouth, had no qualms about spitting out food as he talked. "Bet? I'll bet you he can't pay!"

The two had a laugh but Vincent persisted. "I'll bet you I can lift up one of those chairs over there and spin it around!"

The two looked like they were going to bust a gut. "Oooh! Lift a chair," H'rold screamed. "He can lift a chair!"

"And turn it," Reg added, laughing so hard that much of his food was set free. "Oooh! He can turn a chair!"

"With magic, you morons," Vincent screamed. "I mean with magic! Don't you recognize who I am? I'm Vincent Gobel! I'm the guy who saved this kingdom all those years ago!"

"I'll tell you who you are, you little punk," Reg said, putting his food down on the bar and rushing the young man. "You're a pushy little bastard with a rotten sense of humor! It was the Princess what saved the kingdom! Her and her husband, the Maker, and ain't nobody says otherwise in my place." He backed Vincent up to the doorway and gave a shove, yelling, "Get out!"

Vincent landed on his butt and gave Reg a burning glare. He brought his hand up in the shape of a gun and pointed it at one of the barrels at the bar. "Bang," he said, using his magic to break a hole in the barrel.

Fluid poured all over the bar and H'rold yelled in panic, "Get a bucket! Get a pan!"

Reg turned to the doors, his hands clenched into fists, but Vincent was gone.

Vincent flew higher and higher, letting the breeze that pushed the clouds over the isle rush against him like a cleansing breath. Perhaps, he shouldn't have lost his temper but those rotten men had provoked him! Nobody seemed to remember who he was. Was it because he'd left before the town had been built? No, he'd returned on several occasions. He had only stopped visiting a couple of years before and, while he'd never become familiar with the locals, they should have recognized him! He was a hero; so why didn't that seem to matter?

Before him spread the grounds of the Imperial Palace. High walls dwarfed the city, their walls white like a sheet. Perhaps there, Vincent thought, I'll be recognized.

He flew towards the palace like a ghost, riding the air. He'd once tried to fly like Superman did in the comics but it was uncomfortable. He had to accelerate to get the air to blow through his hair and he had to hold his body up at an odd angle. After that, he'd decided to stay with his normal, almost walking, position which was the most comfortable.

Someone walked along the wall, towards Vincent's destination, to meet him. His uniform was plain, brown slacks and a brown tunic that flapped over the chest to button on the right shoulder, except for the insignia that he wore on the right side of his chest. As Vincent approached, he could see that the soldier was old. ( _Maybe he'll recognize me_ , Vincent thought.) A few strands of grey hair poked out from beneath a plain, soldier's cap. His hands, where they held a gnarly, old bat, were boney and knobby, much like the wood. "Vincent," he called out.

Vincent landed on the wall beside him, replying, "Finally, someone who recognizes me."

"And why not? You're the only wizard I know of who flies. You've changed, though."

"Well, a couple years have passed. Who are you?"

"I'm Rolf Heaphge, Supreme Commander of the Rynian forces. Some of my men saw you coming and, when word reached me, I thought it best that I greet you. I was just down in the courtyard, reviewing some of the new recruits. Perhaps, you'd like to join me and I could bring you to Tuk, the king's wizard."

Vincent didn't seem to hear Tuk's name. "You're the only one who recognized me? Out of all these men who I saved during the war?"

"Well, as you say, a couple of years have passed and time moves on. They are more interested in their lives today, you know," Rolf asked.

"But I saved all of you. I'm a hero, here!"

Rolf drew himself up. "Young man, you should always remember that a hero does not perform his feats of heroism simply to be remembered. Seldom is that debt paid."

"Well, mine should be," Vincent yelled. "Your whole kingdom would have been lost without me!"

"And you want us to pay you back?"

"I want something, yeah."

Rolf looked into the young man's eyes. "You are probably too young to understand this just yet but I'll tell you anyway. Heroism is not a means to an end. Heroism is the end itself. A true hero performs his action for the fulfillment it will grant him and not for reparation at a later date. I have had the honor of knowing many such men. One of them, Ned Blakely, lost both of his legs and lives on a farm on the other side of the isle."

Vincent gasped, realizing who he had seen when he first appeared on this world.

"Yes. Yet, he asks for no boon in return. He gave his life so that the princess could live. A hero, Vincent, is not one because of what he has to gain. It is because of what he has to lose."

Vincent heard little of this. He could feel his anger burning out of control. He launched himself into the air with a rush of wind that blew at Rolf's clothing. Faster and faster, Vincent ascended, then plummeted down towards the palace. He stopped when he saw a window on the side. It was oddly shaped for the palace's construction. Vincent was all too familiar with its location, though. He had fallen from that opening eight years before and had found his magical abilities in time to save his life.

So, Hex had persuaded them to put a window in.

Vincent flew up to the window and heard Hex say, "Compared to Tsurtor? How insane?"

King Marcus didn't reply, though. His attention was on the person outside the window.

Part III

Hex opened the window and Vincent stepped inside. "Nice window," the young wizard said.

"Vincent," Hex asked. He could hardly believe his eyes. Samuel's brother had grown up to look little like his brother. Where Sam was strong and buff, Vincent was lanky and appeared weak. Where Sam kept his hair neat, Vincent had grown his long. Hex knew where his young friend had picked that up; his own hair grew almost to the middle of his back. Vincent had changed quite a bit in the past couple of years. Hex could still see the timid, little boy with a lisp if he looked hard enough. Still, an older Vincent was coming out and it wasn't a happy one. His eyes were more intense, his features sharper. His manner was aloof and almost distracted. He'd been flying in the rain for some time; his clothes were soaked through.

"It's me, Hex. Don't you recognize me, either?"

Marcus shook his head. "You've certainly changed."

"But who else flies," Hex asked with a smile.

"How have you been, my boy," Marcus inquired, putting his arm fatherly around Vincent's shoulders.

Vincent ducked around the king's arm and said, with a sneer in his voice, "I'm fine. Can we go somewhere else, Hex? To talk?"

Hex looked at the king, who shrugged in reply, "Well, I suppose we could, Vince. Where would you like to go?"

"Someplace dry," Vincent replied, looking at his dripping clothes.

"Okay," Hex replied. "I suppose we could go -"

"I know a place," Vincent said, grabbing Hex's arm. With a whoosh, as air filled the vacuum left by the two departing forms, Vincent and Hex were gone.

Marcus folded his arms. "Well, maybe now I won't have to worry about getting rid of him."

* * *

Warm air rushed past Hex's face, pushing away the cool dampness with a start. He hadn't experienced the sensation of Moving - which he had hypothesized was the magic of matter transmittal - in many years. Such a swift trip left him reeling, his stomach bouncing and his legs weak. He bent over, holding his gut in one hand and his head in the other, and saw sand beneath his feat. "Where are we," he groaned.

"The desert," Vincent replied, happily. "I was tired of all that rain and cold. How do you like it?"

Hex found his footing and stood up straight, trying to make his stomach behave. "I'd like it better next time if you told me."

"I'm sorry," Vincent said, turning to look at an oasis not far away. In every other direction lay desert. "I just wanted to talk someplace quiet. Everything's always such a problem with everybody. You're the only one who understands."

"Well, you're an adolescent, Vince. It's supposed to be that way."

"Don't call me that," Vincent said, angrily.

"What? You mean 'Vince'?"

"No. The other thing."

"Ah. Will teenager do?"

"Fine," Vincent muttered.

"And I'm sorry if I ever gave you the impression that magic is fun. It is enjoyable when used in the right ways but, for the most part, it's a lot of hard work."

"It's a curse."

Hex stepped next to Vincent. "Is that why you came here? You wanted to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about. I wish I'd never found out about magic!"

"If you hadn't, you would have fallen to your death."

"I know," Vincent said, "but why's it have to ruin everything?"

Hex turned and looked at Vincent. "Such as...?"

"Such as everything!" Vincent could see that his shouting startled Hex. He turned his gaze upward and added, "Oh, I don't know, Hex. I thought, when I became a wizard, it would change things. I thought it make me somebody important."

"But it didn't," Hex said, speaking from experience.

"No. It didn't. It just made things more difficult. Sam put all these restrictions on me. I couldn't do things I saw all my friends doing. I couldn't go camping. I couldn't stay over. I always had to be nearby." Vincent turned his gaze back upon Hex. "He wouldn't let me use my magic. Not ever!"

Hex shook his head. "He was trying to protect you. Aside from the people who would use you given the opportunity, you have to realize how terrible an accident with your powers would be."

"I know about accidents," Vincent said, remembering Geoff.

"Then you see why it was so important that you controlled your powers. That you didn't give in to the temptation to use them."

Control? Vincent thought he had plenty of control of his powers. Every time he'd tried to use them to impress people, it was circumstances that worked against him. It was circumstances he couldn't control. "But why have the power if you can't use it?"

"Knowing when to use the power is much more important that having the power itself."

Vincent was quiet for a moment. Hex thought it was because the young man was reflecting on what he said. Actually, Vincent hadn't listened. "It doesn't make anything better, Hex. Girls don't like me. I don't have any friends. Even Sam hates me."

"Vincent. I know what you're going through. Don't you remember when we first met? I was alone, then. I'd been alone for a long time. I didn't have any friends except the ones I made. You don't have to tell me it's hard."

_Yeah_ , Vincent thought, _but I don't want to end up like you._

"Why did you do it, Hex," Vincent asked, turning to face his friend. "Why didn't you use your magic to be somebody? Why did you stay alone? Why did you stay here, of all places?"

"Well, Helen was here!"

"You could have brought her to Earth. You could have made millions with your magic."

"You're right. I could have. But I didn't want to tear Helen away from her home and her family. I didn't have anybody to return for. Besides, I've made a lot of progress into the whole Rynian mystery."

"But why do you do that? You stay alone when you could be famous and rich and -"

"Vince, you don't live your life for fame and money. There's never enough with those things; you always want more."

_So you say_ , Vincent thought. _I'm gonna make my magic work for me and not become a martyr like some people._

"As to why I keep at it," Hex continued. "There was this saying. I can't remember where I read it. 'If not me, who? If not now, when?' These people have no way to learn what they're missing without my help. I suppose I feel a certain responsibility."

Vincent took a few more steps toward the oasis. He was tired of listening to Hex's preaching and platitudes. He was sounding more and more like Samuel. Vincent didn't want responsibility. He didn't want his magic to make him a geek. He decided at that moment to leave Hex behind forever. Let him have this throwback world with no computers or tvs or cars or fast food. Vincent decided that he was going to make it big. He'd get friends and money and fame and everything else he wanted because he was the world's most powerful magician. He could do anything!

But, first, he'd give Hex a little show. Make this old egghead remember just how powerful Vincent was and, maybe, he wouldn't have to worry about lectures ever again. He brought his hands up to the sky, feeling the swirling currents of the air. He gathered the molecules in tighter and tighter until he could feel them pressing against each other. He brought together a ball as big as himself twenty meters up in the air. Then, with a lashing gesture of his arms, he threw the ball of air at the oasis. He could sense it flying like a meteor. As dense as it was, it would, at least, tear apart several of the trees. Vincent wasn't finished, though. This was a new trick. He excited the molecules until the moved faster and faster. Their speeds were incredible, pushing against Vincent's power until they burst into light. Growing hotter and hotter, they quickly ignited, flashing into a huge fireball.

Vincent heard Hex's breath catch and it made him smile.

"Vince," Hex whispered, but if his intention was to stop the young wizard, it was too late. The fireball crashed into the oasis, tearing asunder the only welcome sight in this part of the desert. Steam rose as the pond dried out and trees burst into flame.

When Vincent turned to Hex, he was wearing a grin from ear to ear.

Hex was still looking at the wreckage that had been the oasis. "Why did you do that," he asked, his voice very small.

It didn't sound like fear at all, to Vincent. It didn't sound like awe or dread or respect or even inspiration. Vincent knew what Hex's voice sounded like. It sounded like pity. "I don't know," he whispered, tired of trying to impress his childhood friend.

Suddenly, Hex grabbed Vincent's shirt and shook him hard. Vincent was nearly his size and could certainly push himself away if inclined but Hex's shouting voice shook him harder than his hands. "Why the hell did you do that?"

"Cause I can," Vincent shouted back. His words had a surprising effect on the older wizard.

Hex looked afraid. It wasn't Vincent that frightened him. It was something he'd locked away in the back of his mind, trying hard to forget. Tsurtor's dark image was still clear in Hex's mind as recalled their final words to each other.

"I've been answering questions long enough," Hex remembered saying all those years ago beneath the Northern Spires. "I think it's time that you answered one. I don't know where you come from or what your story is but you are obviously a man of science. You must be brilliant, even if in an evil way, to have been able to pursue it this far. Where inspiration reaches you, wisdom falls short. Don't you see what you are doing? Why, Tsurtor? Why?"

"WHY, LITTLE WORM? WHY? WHY DO THE STARS EXPEND THEIR ENERGY WHILE NEBULAS COALESCE AND THE BLACK HOLE STARTS THE PROCESS ALL OVER AGAIN? WHY, YOU ASK? WHY WILL I CRUSH THIS INSIGNIFICANT WORLD BENEATH MY FOOT? WHY WILL I GRIND RYNIA TO DUST? WHY WILL I - OH, WHAT? - FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE HEX - WHO YOU REALLY ARE - AND DESTROY YOU FOR THIS AFFRONT? WHY?" The dark image had laughed, a sound that hammered like hollow bullets. "BECAUSE I CAN, YOU WORM! I CAN!

Hex pushed Vincent away, shaking. Stunned, Vincent fell upon the warm sand. He rose, stepping away from Hex without a word, and hurriedly rose into the air. Moments later, he'd flown out of Hex's vision.

Hex sat down, watching the last of the oasis burn away. After several minutes, he whispered, "Now, how am I going to get home?"

* * *

Vincent propelled himself southward, out of the Kallent desert and into the swamp that comprised their southern border, into the air above the kingdoms further south, Marrisha, Gyorra, and Pitaan. He didn't consider the miracle of his movement, how air molecules were propelled at this incredible rate to fly him almost a thousand kilometers. All he could think about was his anger. His rage.

I'm sick of these people telling me what to do, he thought. Telling me what I can't do. Telling me how I should act and what I should feel. Well, they're gonna feel really sorry. They're gonna feel real sorry and they're gonna pay. Oh, how they're gonna pay!

The sun was sinking in the west when Vincent's rage had finally passed enough for him to think about what he was doing. His arms and legs hurt and his ear buzzed (which it always did when he was really tired). Beneath him was a foreign landscape. Rolling, green hills spread out below, broken by the occasional farm. Vincent lowered himself down and, when he touched the ground, found that he was too tired to stand. So, he sat down upon the hilltop, feeling the temperate climate.

"You're quite the wizard," a voice from behind him said.

Vincent spun around, feeling foolish that he had when he saw an old man walking up the hill towards him. "Who are you?"

"Don't be afraid, my young friend. You won't find an enemy here. My name is Raphineal and I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Are you a wizard," Vincent asked suspiciously.

"Oh, heavens no," Raphineal exclaimed, topping the hill. He quickly brought up a finger. "I was, once! I was quite the wizard. I was young, though. I had a lot to learn. Still do, I think. What about you?"

"Yes. I'm a wizard," Vincent replied, bringing himself to stand.

"No. No. Do you still have a lot to learn?"

"About my powers, you mean? About magic?"

"Perhaps. Yet, there's more to magic than power and more to power than magic."

"Oh, you mean like science? I've never been good at science. I just do it by feel, mostly."

"I don't mean science, either," Raphineal said, looking irritated. "Not even Hex realizes that there's more to magic than science."

Vincent took a step back. "How do you know about Hex? I didn't mention him."

"You will find," Raphineal replied, stepping forward, "that there is not a lot I don't know. So, tell me, do you still have a lot to learn?"

Vincent drew himself up, tired of older people bullying him. "No," he replied with all confidence.

Raphineal smiled. "That is good, then."

Suddenly, Vincent felt his throat seize up and lost the use of his limbs. He fell, rolling down the hill for quite a ways. He landed, looking up at the sky, as Raphineal approached. His head buzzed and everything grew dark around him but Raphineal's final words came through clear enough, "You're going to need your extensive knowledge where you're going."

CHAPTER THREE

TESTS

Part I

For a long time, Vincent felt nothing but the dull buzz of nausea in his sleep. The ground was hard and his limbs were weak and he tried not to let his queasiness interfere with his exhaustion.

From where had the exhaustion come? Vincent wasn't sure. He'd been on a hilltop with an old wizard. He'd just landed in the middle of nowhere. The wizard didn't know who he was but had taken an interest in him. Raphineal, that was his name! Raphineal. Ralph.

Suddenly, an icy wind blew over Vincent's body, sending chills through him and intensifying his nausea. Now, Vincent was awake, though his eyes remained closed. The old man must have been playing with his mind. There was no way it could have been that cold. It had been raining - a cold rain like late fall - but it couldn't have been winter, no matter how far away he'd flown. The chill persisted, however, and, as he awoke, Vincent realized it wasn't just a chill. It was a full-blown freeze!

Lying on his right side, he opened his left eye. His right eye bolted open at what he saw. Snow! He was lying in a patch of show!

When he'd left his house, it had been summer and he'd only dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. He could have put on jeans and, perhaps, a jacket, but nothing he had at home could have prepared him for this!

He stood up, shaking himself off. With the exception of his hair, he was soaked through and through. His right arm was several shades of red and his right leg sent pain to his hip went he stomped on it. Stomp on it, he did, though, and he rubbed hard on his arm, until some feeling returned.

Where was he? A light snow fell down on him and the clouds were so thick that he couldn't see more than a couple of feet in any direction. Where had Raphineal put him? _Once I find him_ , Vincent thought, _I'll show him to play games!_

With a leap in the air, he decided to fly up above this storm and get a bird's eye view of the land. Something felt strange, though. The familiar tingling he felt when he flew wasn't present. Perhaps, it was the storm? But as his leap reached its apex, and he felt a swift return to the earth, he realized that he wasn't flying.

He was falling!

Instinct took over where wizardry failed. His arms reached down to break his fall but no ground met them. His knees banged into the edge of the rocky outcrop - I must have been at the top, Vincent later thought - and the rest of him was tossed down to compensate. Though he hit his head and his face crashed against rocky teeth, his hands grabbed loyally, trying to save the rest of him. With a start, his right foot - once again beneath him \- landed on something. In spite of that, the rest of him continued down. Falling and falling until, with his scream long ended, he landed on his back in a huge snow drift.

Can't fly, can you?

Vincent heard the voice like his own. It came from within his head. He didn't wonder whose voice it was, though. Vincent recognized it. The old wizard.

Raphineal!

Good to see you didn't brain yourself so hard that you forgot me. You best get out of that snow before you freeze to death.

The wizard was right. Vincent was covered in snow. Slowly, he tried to extricate himself, feeling every inch of his body scream in pain. It was a slow process and it only hurt more as he dug himself further from the snow. His hands were bloody, though the cuts were pink from the ice, and he knew he'd soon be covered in bruises. His head rang like a cracked bell and his teeth rattled. Still, no bones appeared broken and the ice seemed to have stopped most of his bleeding.

Outside the snow drift, he gasped at the view. He'd landed on a shelf of rock, covered in snow. All told, it was no bigger than his brother's king-sized bed back at home. All around him, the gray, black, and white clouds of the snowstorm dominated the sky. Towering above that, mountaintops littered the horizon. How high up was he? Had his flying to great heights conditioned his lungs for this kind of altitude? Mile upon mile of mountainous terrain spread out beneath him, cloaked in white.

"Where am I," he whispered.

_Far from home_ , the voice in his head responded. _And though it's not night, yet, it soon will be._

"Is that a hint," Vincent wondered. "What did you do with my magic?"

A chuckle, then, _Absolutely nothing._

Vincent scowled. He remembered what the old man had said about his knowledge back when they'd been on the hilltop. "So, it's a test, then? Is it?"

Not at all. In a test, you have to possibility of winning!

Vincent was tired of hearing that snickering voice so he tried to shut it out by looking around. He'd been out hiking with his brother a few times. They'd pack some snacks in a backpack and hike along well maintained hillside trails. Occasionally, they'd head up into the mountains where the paths were steeper but still well maintained. There was no way he could simply hike down this mountain. Beneath the shelf he was on, a steep face dropped several dozen feet to another shelf. _This could be a straightforward climb down_ , he thought. _Or I could fall to my death._

I'll never find out by standing here.

Still, it had been a long time since Vincent had to do anything without the aid of his magic. He quickly relearned a respect for heights. One slip... there'd be no compression of air to save him. His legs were aching and his hands hurt to move them. What was the alternative, he wondered. Sit in the ice and freeze?

Bending over to the edge, Vincent brushed away the snow and, then, turned himself around to go over feet first. He'd seen several rocks sticking out of the face and thought that he'd be able to use them for footholds and handholds but they were so small! Only the edge of his shoe fit upon them, making his descent precarious at best. Several times, he slid until he could catch himself with his hands. It was a long time before he reached the next shelf of rock.

His hands were cut some more and his whole body trembled. Resting against the rock face, he waited until his body stopped shaking and the trembling passed.

Looking over this ledge, two ways presented themselves. To the left, another steep face, ending in a crevice between two mammoth boulders. To the right, an easier, longer descent, covered in snow. Night was coming; Vincent had already used up what little daylight he had left. He couldn't be caught on that snowy slope, no matter how easy it looked. He'd have to settle between the boulders and brave the night in there. It was obvious that the shoes had to go if he was going to do any steep climbing. He brushed off a large part of the shelf and removed his shoes. He tied their laces together and looped them around his neck. Now, the rocks that poked out from the face were easier to grip with his toes and he descended easily until his digits grew numb and painful from the cold. As he reached the boulders, dusk had obscured his view. Yet, he could see that, within, rocks had built up a landing and he slid further, coming to rest upon the stones. There, in the cup of all those rocks, he put on his shoes and settled in for the night.

* * *

As the rocks grew warmer from Vincent's heat, he slowly slunk off to that nether land of sleep. (Warmth or hypothermia, Vincent was too tired to care.) It was a dark world, warm and comforting, and Vincent thought of nothing but rest. But something intruded on his rest. A voice. It was calling him from the dark.

"Put it together, boy!" It was Tuk, the great Destroyer, from many years ago. Vincent had been just a boy and was being tutored by the wizard. However, this was before either of them had learned of Vincent's great powers. Tuk had grown fed up with the child and his lessons grew increasingly more intolerable. "It's very simple - one more time! In your right hand, you hold a rope composed of eight strands of string and in your left hand, you hold another rope similarly composed, correct?"

Vincent had nodded his head.

"Then, it's very simple, boy! Put it together! Put it together and what to you get?"

Vincent answered, "Sixteen?"

"Huh," Tuk had asked, as if he'd never heard that reply before. "No! No! You don't add the strings together! You put it together!"

Vincent looked down at his hands again and noticed that the ropes had been replaced. Now, he held two, bright green and white, asps. The writhed against his palm, working themselves free, and Vincent wanted to throw them down.

"Put them together," he heard Hex say from a long distance off. "Either you master your magic or it masters you. Either way, you are responsible."

"Hex," Vincent screamed, hoping his old friend would stop fading off into the distance. As soon as he said it, though, he knew that Hex was gone.

"You may not be able to see him," a rumbling voice said. "That does not mean he isn't there."

"Ooobrecht!" Vincent spun around and, in his dream, Ooobrecht stood before him. The multicolored walrus was just as Vincent had remembered him. Like something out of a Dr. Suess book, the walrus was splashed with so many colors that they almost looked frenetic at first before taking on the ease of familiarity.

"Of course, if you were a Summoner experienced enough to be an Envisioner," Ooobrecht said without pause, "you'd be able to bring forth whatever you wanted. Why, I remember an Envisioner by the name of Suuooeennezzzia who brought down a deluge of mangos. Folks all around were incontinent for weeks!"

"But I'm not an Envisioner, Ooobrecht," Vincent said, realizing that he was now in his present body, "what am I?"

"You," Hex asked, the walrus suddenly gone. "You're an enigma. A mystery. You handle magic differently than anybody else. It's hard to determine what your potential might be because your magic has taken on such an unknown form."

Enigma. Mystery. Unknown.

Vincent knew what those words meant.

"Freak!" Sean, the biggest of his friends in the WFRs, didn't bother to push him down. He hit him in the face with a fist like a steel mallet. Vincent knew he deserved it, though. He'd just drowned Geoff.

Pete was on the other side of the pool with Geoff's body. "He's dead," the boy had hollered and this time it was true.

Sean and Randy both hit and kicked Vincent. Vincent didn't move to defend himself. He knew he was wrong. Then, he realized that they were kicking him towards the edge of the pool. They were going to kill him the same way! "No," he tried to scream. "You don't understand! It was a mistake!"

"Mistake this," Randy spat, putting his foot squarely on Vincent's shoulder and pushing him over the side, into the pool. Vincent reached out for the ledge but it slipped beneath his fingers. He spun around, watching the ground rush up at him.

He tried to grab on to the rocks that stuck out from the edge but it was no use. The rocks below rushed towards him and there was nothing he could do.

"Do something," Mark Nygarra cried out. He was falling above Vincent as they both dropped from the Imperial Palace in Rynia. "Use your magic!"

"I can't," Vincent yelled back, turning to face the once Defender of Rynian's crown. "I don't have any magic anymore."

"Then we'll all die!" Mark's final statement was punctuated by the sight of thousands of bodies falling from Rynia's Palace and onto a battlefield littered with corpses. They were falling, doomed, just as Vincent -

His arms hit the rock like dual hammers and his legs went ramrod straight. His eyes bolted open and he gasped at the sight above him. The sun had risen and the light crept into the crevice where Vincent was nightmaring as a sliver of gold.

Vincent was almost afraid to rise but he knew he had to move. He had to clear his head. The dream was already fading into his subconscious when Vincent stretched his hands up to feel the warmth of the morning's sun. It couldn't have been warmer than forty degrees but Vincent enjoyed the reprieve from the icy cold just the same.

He tried to stretch as best he could and removed his shoes. His fingers were raw - he hoped they would build callouses soon - and his muscles ached. Tentatively, he climbed up to the ledge for the next part of his trek.

* * *

Vincent had made his way off the rocky spires and was resting upon a boulder looking out upon the slow descent of the rolling mountainsides. Quite some distance ahead, he saw the treeline. Wood would mean a fire for the night, providing he could remember his Boy Scout techniques. (He had Samuel to thank for that. His older brother had consistently refused to allow Vincent to distance himself from others his age. He never allowed Vincent to use his power as an excuse for antisocial behavior, though Vincent found himself using that excuse often.) Mid-afternoon was turning into evening. Vincent was hungry and tired but he knew he had to press on if he was going to make it to the trees.

I'm surprised tenacity has space amidst all that arrogance.

Vincent rose and began walking. "Are you following me?"

Every step of the way.

"Then, why don't you show yourself? Talk to me man to man instead of talking inside my head?"

_Perhaps that idea has merit._ "So long as you share your fire with another."

Vincent spun around so fast that he nearly fell.

Raphineal was following him as though the descent was a leisurely stroll. "Wonderful day, isn't it? The sun's out and the rain's gone." The wizard was dressed much differently than when Vincent had first met him. The old man wore a thick, black cloak lined with designs and carried a knobby staff as tall, and half again as tall, as he, capped with a burnished, ebony ball. The wizard passed Vincent, who had stopped to gape, saying, "Hurry along, now, pup. We've got to make that treeline before it's too dark so you can show me how you start a fire without your magic!"

Vincent stood dumbfounded for a moment but hurried to catch up with the wizard. "Why are you doing this," he asked.

"Would you pick up a hunk of metal and fight with it as if it was a sword," he asked, nonchalant. "Of course, not! You'd melt it and cast it and forge it and hammer it and, oh, whatever else it is they do when they make swords. The point is, for all of your wondrous powers, you are nothing but a hunk of metal, untempered, untested, unready."

"So, I'm to be a weapon?" It peeved Vincent that he was panting to follow the wizard. After all, Vincent had been facing the elements for two days while the wizard had just shown up.

"Oh, yes," Raphineal said with a smile. "You'll make a fine weapon. You'd fit in quite nicely, being wielded by another, never having to decide for yourself. It will save you the trouble of having convictions. You'll do nothing but take another's orders." He looked over at the winded, young man. "Sound good?"

"Not particularly," Vincent replied hoarsely.

Raphineal thought for a moment and pulled something out of his cloak. "Peach," he offered.

Vincent didn't bother with a reply. He put his hands out, greedily, taking the fruit from the wizard. As he took several large bites, juice ran down his arm and pulp stuck to his hand.

"I suppose that you hadn't the time to learn manners while you were busy being a wizard," Raphineal muttered.

"Thank you," Vincent said between bites.

Raphineal smiled.

They didn't make the treeline that day. Or the next. Vincent was entirely dependent on Raphineal, who pulled the odd morsel out of his jacket here and there, for survival. Though his cuts and bruises healed, he could feel his body weaken as they pressed on. Thus, the two remained silent, walking the next night, toward the treeline. Both men picked up a few branches and they piled them together. "Now, you can show me what these scouts do," Raphineal said. "Then, I must go."

"But you never answered my question," Vincent replied. "Am I to be a weapon?"

"That is something you have to answer for yourself, Vincent. You can be a weapon. Or, you can be a tree. Or a bird. Or a doormat. You can easily be anything you want with that magic of yours. Then, again, you could be a man."

Vincent rose with an armful of sticks. "What do you mean," he asked.

"That's quite the question, isn't it?" Raphineal smiled and turned towards a tree. "Pity you won't have time to contemplate it. For now, I must go." Stepping behind the tree, he disappeared.

Vincent raced over but could not see where the wizard had gone. No time, Vincent wondered. What did he mean I wouldn't have the time?

The thought was abandoned, though, as Vincent's left ear twinged at the sound of a growl. He knew it wasn't just a dog like back at home. Here, in the wild, only one thing would growl like that. He looked up the tree but the lowest branch was too high for him to climb. (Had Raphineal positioned him there?) His arms were still full of sticks and he tried to grab the two biggest.

Before his hands could close around them, teeth and claws were upon him, knocking him to the ground. It was a massive wolf, Vincent observed distantly, almost as large as Vincent himself. Vincent tried holding the huge head, full of sharp, hungry teeth, back with his left hand while his right scrambled for a sharp stick. He grabbed one but the wolf's slashing paws shook Vincent from head to toe. Vincent tried time and again to push the huge animal away, only to feel it crush against him harder. His left arm only grew weaker as he tried, to no avail, to beat the wolf away with the stick.

His legs were free, though, and in a moment of clarity, he brought his right knee up into the wolf's groin. The wolf's attack relented as it stumbled to the side with a whine. It was only a second, though, and Vincent knew he had to move while he could. _They move in packs_ , he kept thinking. _They move in packs._

He rolled over on to the wolf - a move he'd learned from his brother - and sat heavily upon it, his legs pressing down upon the wolf's. It snarled and rolled its eyes around to him as he held its head down, beating it with the stick in his left hand. Finally, when the wolf stopped fighting, Vincent brought the sharp end of the stick to its eye and readied to drive it in. Vincent had never killed anything with his own hands before and the prospect was terrifying. Still, he knew that he hadn't any choice.

"Please."

Vincent jumped back at the sound, feeling the cuts on his chest flame up in pain. He dropped his stick and brought his hand to the cuts which ran red through his shirt. "What," he gasped.

"I am weakened. Please. Finish me."

Vincent was transfixed. "But... you're talking."

"Yes, I'm talking! I'll be doing more than that if you don't finish me soon." His snarling face turned up, shouting, "I'll be forced to fight you again and kill you!"

Vincent moved a pace back, stepped off of the wolf. He didn't know what to do but, deep inside, he knew he couldn't kill in cold blood. What to do, then? There was obviously some intelligence in this creature and it didn't want to kill Vincent. "Why would you be forced to kill me?"

The wolf sniffed long, bringing its legs beneath it. "You're not from around here? Are you?"

Vincent picked up the sharpest stick before him, growing nervous. "Not unless this is Orange County, I'm not. My name's Vincent. I'm trying to make my way down this mountain."

"Then, let me tell you something, meat, while my energy returns. My name was Fallsbur. I was a man like you. Three years ago, the wizard Mar'zhon took the men of my town and turned us into wolves. We are his servants. His guardians. We scout these mountains to keep away would be do gooders. Are you a do gooder," Fallsbur growled.

"I was a wizard... once," Vincent replied.

"Ah, then, wizard, prepare to die." Like lightening, Fallsbur leapt for Vincent's throat. Vincent was ducking back, not thinking about the stick he held. With a blur of action, as Vincent fell down, Fallsbur impaled himself along its length, landing upon Vincent with a heavy sigh. Vincent felt hot where the blood poured around him. "Ah, it's finally over," the wolf smiled. "Know that Mar'zhon will not allow you to live. If you are still a wizard, save my people. If not, run for your life. Stay away from the woods. With luck, you may avoid the packs."

"Why weren't you with the packs," Vincent grunted.

There was no reply. Fallsbur's final breath passed upon Vincent and the wolf grew still. Vincent pushed the man-beast off of him, slicked with blood, and rose to lean against a tree. Avoid the woods, he thought. But he had seen from higher elevations that there was no way down the mountain but through the woods.

* * *

Several miles later, down the mountainside, in a glen cleared from the wood, a village sat, quiet and dark. The women of the town, all that was left, knew to lock their doors and bar their windows for the coming of the Hunt. Their chickens were penned in and their pigs were herded into a common barn. With luck, some of them would make it through the night.

In the biggest house, Elvie Gnarlson, the village matron, rocked by a faltering fire. Would it be the Hunt tonight? Or the wizard? Or the -

A crash! A pounding at the door!

"Help me," a voice coarse as broken rocks came faintly from outside.

Elvie lifted herself from her chair, her withered fingers complaining loudly, and rushed to the door.

"Please." The strange voice - it was a man! - was punctuated by a pounding on the door.

"Who is it," Elvie let herself ask, her voice like a hiss she was so nervous.

"Please, I -" The voice stopped at a familiar sound.

Elvie, too, was silent. She knew the sound like she'd known her husband Kerm, back when he was taken. It was the sound of the Hunt! The barking and howling of the Hunt!

"Please! Please," the voice was screaming, now. Pleading. "They're coming! You have to let me in! For God's sake!"

Elvie couldn't stand the pitiable screams. She pulled on the wood bolt. At nearly a meter in length, it slid across the door like devilish fate, and when it was released the door flew open on Elvie. The stranger had pushed the door open. His body had fallen against the door.

"Let me in," he screamed, scrambling. He pulled one foot in, covered in an odd looking shoe, but the other remained outside. "Ah," he yelped, pulling at his foot again and again. Elvie could see, in the dark, that a wolf - there were so many out there - had grabbed the stranger's shoe. But the stranger was turning it this way and that and, with a sudden yank, his foot came free. He scrambled inside as the wolf flew back under its own force. Another came up, its head entering the room, as the stranger grabbed the door and threw it shut. The wolf screamed, its head smashed by the solid wood. Elvie had grabbed her staff and was ready to wallop the wolf while the stranger had it trapped. To her surprise, though, he opened the door just a little. As the wolf tried to extricate itself, he slammed the door even harder, crunching bone and spewing blood and saliva from the wolf's face. It's muzzle destroyed, the stranger kicked it out without opening the door. Tufts of flesh and fur tore off as the stranger slammed the door shut.

He looked around. "Ain't there a lock?"

Elvie had seen locks as a girl in the city. Out here, in the frontier, though... She pushed the bolt back in place, taking the stranger's shaking hands. "It's going to be okay."

"No it's not," he replied, a tear falling from his eyes.

Elvie frowned, "Why, you're nothing but a wee child."

He'd covered himself with the wolf's fur, trying to throw off his scent. He'd tore the skin with sharp branches and rocks but, mostly, he'd used his fingers, tearing at the skin that was his only salvation. He'd become covered in blood by the time he was done. Finally, he'd wrapped himself in the skin and ran. He'd run through the dusk when he could only make out the outlines of the trees. It hadn't been long before he'd heard the howling noises of Fallsbur's "brothers". Then, he ran harder, into the night, and every time he tripped or crashed into a tree he only rose to run faster than before. It was the jittering in his head, the jittering and jabbering that had long passed from being a voice into being a rapid, repeating, machine gun scream, that had told him he was as good as dead. If not dead, then certainly insane. Then, there was smoke! Up ahead! Smoke! Smoke like from a chimney! He'd laughed as he ran. There couldn't be any smoke! But, there it was! He'd run harder than before, his legs stretched like those of a gazelle, until he'd entered the muddy trail that passed through the congregation of shacks. From one, smoke was rising and he'd felt his first tears fall as he'd stumbled towards its door.

There, inside the warm shack with the old woman, Vincent fell like a rag doll and Elvie couldn't stop him. He was so tired, he couldn't think, but he knew he was safe. That was enough, at least, for now.

Part II

The sabre. A man's weapon. Not as heavy and bulky as a bat and, against a bat, could slip beneath defenses or hack off limbs. Better than a vittahr. Stronger than a foil. With a good sabre in your hand, you could fight off an army.

"Are you going to look at that sword all day or are you going to fight?"

Mark Nygarra pulled his eyes away from his sword's magnetic glow. Kraephten Kattox, the desert raider who had come to Benaatt many years before to be Mark's advocate, held his vittahr at ready, one hand behind his back. They'd both aged quite a bit since the first time they'd sparred with swords.

Kraephten had met the distaste of his fiftieth birthday years ago though, in truth, he hardly showed it. Though his hair had turned completely grey, he was still as wiry, as agile, and as deadly as ever. Mark, only thirty-five, had a hard time keeping up with him.

But he could hold his own.

His sabre stabbed quickly, missing the dodging Awlsbanian by a hair. It was a different attack - sabres were standardly used as a slashing weapon - and it gave Kattox a start.

"What do you think you're using there? An epee?"

Mark smiled. "I think I just caught you off guard."

Kraephten scowled and began a lightning attack. Thrust and slash were followed by a volley of swings - it was as if Kattox had no wrists and his hands could spin at will. After eight years of practice, though, Mark knew how to ward it off and even pressed back when he could. Soon, sweat was pouring from his short, curly black hair. It had once been long, the way he liked it, but his image had needed some changes once he'd become Duke of Benaatt. Kattox had been pressuring him to change his image, yet again. This time, he was being encouraged to become a husband and father. Can't have you without an heir, Kattox had become fond of saying. The last time Mark had been in love, though, had been enough. Compared to the pain he had suffered after Salnya, an heir didn't seem that important.

His thought distracting him, Mark was caught off guard and Kraephten pressed his attack. Mark was pushed back, his sword arm twisted with the beating of his weapon, and he knew he'd either lose his sword or concede defeat.

From the entrance to Duke Nygarra's private garden, Mark's favorite place to spar, a soldier appeared. "Your highness," he barked.

"Break," Mark shouted. It was the word the two had agreed upon that would halt the match. Mark smiled, lowering his sword and walking to the soldier.

"I had you," Kattox growled.

Noting the soldier's rank, Mark asked, "What is it, Sergeant?"

"Bad news, sir. We got icers at the gates."

"Northern?"

The sergeant nodded.

"Where's Chief Ellison?"

"He's there already but it's not going well."

"When does it?" Mark started for the garden's northern exit which led to the stables in his typically long-legged stride. Kattox was to his right and the sergeant followed. "Sergeant?"

The soldier hurried up to Mark's left. "Yes, sir?"

"How are our flanks?"

"Clear to the foothills, sir."

They would be. Mark Nygarra had studied every way to defend the walled city and, where Gregor Alinax had once erred in arrogance, Mark decided he'd rather ere in favor of caution. The flanks of the city had been cleared to the foothills to prevent any ambush. Watchtowers had been built and the walls strengthened. Most importantly, though, Mark had planned a stronger defense to the north, where the ice giants had traditionally attacked.

"Bolts have been launched. Boulders dropped. Pits opened. Fire thrown."

Kraephten lifted an eyebrow as the sergeant ran through his litany of failed defenses. Second raid of the year and they made it passed Benaatt's defenses already. Kattox had designed some of those defenses. They should have worked.

In the stable, Mark mounted his horse and Kattox stepped up onto his own. "Be sure the southern guard is at the gates, sergeant. They may be hitting us from the north but they've been known to circle 'round. And alert the reserves. If they've passed the defenses, we're going to need every able body we can get."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant shouted, trying to be heard over the galloping of the two, racing horses.

"The last of the harvest has just been reaped," Kraephten shouted over.

Before Mark could reply, bells started ringing. Three bells. Call to arms. Men and women with bats, swords, hammers, and scythes would be running to the appointed locations. People would be clearing the streets to make way for them. Within minutes, the city transformed from a center of local trading and artisans into an armed force. There would be several hundred defenders, almost a quarter of the population, and they would have to be enough.

As they sped into the center of town, Mark finally replied, "Aye, it's early."

"Too early," yelled Kattox.

"You think it's a portent of something bigger?"

"You know them, Mark. You've had eight years. You should realize that they wouldn't come down this early without a little help." Kraephten laughed bitterly. "A lot of help, I'd say. Most of these icers should still be asleep!"

Mark viewed the city through the corners of his eyes as they sped northwards. It had truly been reborn since its destruction eight years ago, when General Alinax had to evacuate the city after a massive ice giant assault. _Will it now be my turn_ , Mark thought. The huge shops at the center of town loomed high above them, some three, some four stories tall. Before Mark had arrived, only a couple of buildings had been that tall, most restricted to one or two stories. Now, the city held within its walls, it seemed that the sky was the limit.

Having passed through the artisan district, the Avenues of the Gods, and Clothier Row, the northern walls loomed before them. Mark breathed a sigh of relief. The northern gates were still secure.

Townsfolk, determined to defend their homes, hurried resolutely to Corporal Nelet, who gathered them like sheep. Men and women with a firm resolve and weapons that hadn't seen any fighting all summer, there were already almost a hundred of them.

"Corporal," Mark called out.

"Yes, sir?"

"Form teams of three and prepare to assault!" Mark turned to Kattox. "To the wall?"

"Indeed, your highness, with all speed."

They dismounted and hurried to the ladders, Kraephten following. _He's changed quite a bit_ , Commander Kattox thought with a smile. _A decade ago, he'd have been running the other way. Confidence can do wonders for a man. Give him the right weapon. Show him what he's missed inside of himself._

Don't give him a choice.

Mark knew that the lives of over ten thousand people were his to protect. If his tax collectors were to be believed, Benaatt and its southern boroughs had grown half as much during the summer. These were all up to Mark to defend. He couldn't entertain the yellow streak that he still felt twisting upon his spine every time danger reared its head. If he did, the results would be... unforgivable. So, he had to act brave, even if he wasn't.

On the wall, the Commander and his Duke were greeted by the militia's top staff. Captain Davich, Major Horswahl, and Chief of the Benaatt Militia, Lieutenant Banry Ellison. "What has," Mark began to say but his mouth suddenly went dry and his breathing stopped when he looked over the walls.

Ice giants. Hundreds of them. Bigger than he'd ever seen, each stood as high as the town walls, almost twenty meters high! They weren't moving. They just stood there, staring at the northern gates, as if they were waiting.

Waiting.

For something.

"They haven't moved since they crushed our defenses," Lieutenant Ellison said. "They were very thorough. They took out everything. Now... they're waiting."

They move in packs, Mark's quaking mind was saying as his spine was twisted in knots. We've never faced more than a dozen of them. They've never put together such a massive force, not even during the war. Then, Benaatt had been defeated by forty or fifty of them. Now, there were -

"Our scouts have sighted several dozen more to the east and west. They're waiting as well," Ellison added.

"How did they get so big," Mark muttered, only realizing how stupid he sounded after it left his mouth.

"There not the same ice giants that we're used to fighting," Captain Davich said. "We got Reddigh, the Breaker, to melt part of one down. It's not water. It's some kind of gel."

It took a lot to melt down an ice giant. Their body's resistance to heat increased as the weather grew colder. If they're not made of ice, Mark thought. If they won't shatter...

He realized that he'd never been so scared before in his life. Well, maybe once, but then he'd had the help of the world's youngest magician. Where was Vincent now, when he was needed so desperately?

"Can I call down the militia, sir, " Major Horswahl asked. "We could have them stand at ready."

Mark looked at Banry. Another self-professed coward. He wondered how the Lieutenant was dealing with his fear. These, after all, were worse than undead or Hargoth's stone giants. It was obvious that the people of Benaatt didn't stand a chance against them.

"They don't seem to be going anywhere," Kattox added.

"We could have the militia stand in three shifts. I have a feeling that the rest will know as soon as the attack begins."

"Yes," Mark replied. "I don't doubt that."

* * *

Evening came and the ice giants did not move.

_Where once they had only been a threat_ , Mark thought, _now it is certain. They'll destroy us utterly. The only question is when and only the giants know the answer._

"You look like a man at his last meal," Kraephten said, eating at the table across from him.

Mark looked up from his food. "Are you blind? You were there."

Kraephten took a bite of lamb. "The ice giants, then," he asked, chewing.

Mark struck the table, scattering his silver. "Yes, the ice giants! They'll slaughter us all! They're standing there like, like, Ibbrano cracking his whips or bloody Tzuratt and his stinking hungry fist -"

"Shouting isn't going to save your people," Kraephten calmly told the Duke.

"They're not my people! They're Alinax's people! But he died and I got stuck. I can't save them, Kraephten. I don't think anybody can."

"So, you'll run?"

"No, I won't run! I resent that you'd even suggest it after all these years." Mark clutched one hand in the other. "I won't run but I can't stay, either." He looked up at his friend. "The king would be willing to send us aide. He has troops to spare after eight years of peace. The anniversary party is next week. It is also the anniversary of the war. I can speak to him, then,"

"Mixing war with pleasure."

"I thought for you war was a pleasure," Mark quipped.

"And what if your people are attacked while you are gone? Who will defend them, then?"

"I can't just stay and watch them die, Kraephten! I have to get all the help I can and hope I'm not too late!"

"I know," Kraephten replied. "I just wanted to be certain."

Mark glared.

"You should notify Mr. Ellison," Kraephten added. "He'll want to know what you're putting him into."

* * *

The next morning settled upon them like a wet cloak, the fog chilled from the icy mountains to the north. Mark and Kraephten were readied, their horses fresh and bags packed. They just had one more thing to do.

Walking before the Duke's home, Banry looked like he hadn't slept all night.

"Have you been to see Hildy," Mark asked. "Or did you sleep up on the wall?"

"Who said anything about sleep? Hildy knows that my duty continues sometimes through the night."

"How's it look," Kraephten asked.

Banry was silent for a moment. "There are more of them. They came in the dark and we didn't see them until sunup."

Mark frowned, "But, still, they haven't advanced?"

Banry shook his head.

With a cough to clear his throat, Mark found this harder than he thought. "I'm leaving the city, Banry. Going to King Marcus for support from the Imperial Guard."

"I thought you might."

"In my absence, the city will need a leader. Someone who can evacuate when the time comes. We both know the truth, Banry. This city is as good as dead."

With a stiff face, Banry nodded.

"I looked over the city's bylaws and found that no officer below the rank of Commander can hold the mayoral post in my absence -"

"So, I get a promotion?"

If not for the situation, Mark might have laughed. "Effective immediately. I've already sent a rider with the official papers to Regal Isle." He pulled the Commander's shoulder bars out of his pocket and pinned them to his friend's uniform. "Congratulations."

Kraephten shook Banry's hand. "You should see the pay increase after the current problem is resolved."

Banry grinned.

The two stepped up on their horses as Banry remained. Mark called Banry over. "Take care of Hildy, Commander. Send her down to Elden or Caspeton as soon as you can."

"I'll see to that tonight."

Moments later, Banry watched as his two old friends rode out of the southern gate. He touched his Commander bars and thought of his Hildy and their son, Greg, named after her father, gone these past five years. Then again, he thought, why put it off?

Part III

On another world, far distant from the pleasantries of Rynian court, the icy threat to Benaatt, or the forces of Tsurtor's onslaught, night was falling. Three moons danced in the sky, greeting the dark with their shimmering faces. One other appeared on the day side. Once, the inhabitants of this world had named them the Soaring Lords of Amprek and had built temples to them. The Four Lords were a family, waxing and waning before the Ampreks. As the civilization had risen, the family had become sundered and scientific dogma had replaced religion. The Ampreks learned a great deal from their knowledge, not least of which how to kill each other.

Now, sitting in the rubble of one of those temples, a creature of mud, soil, and stone, far removed from science, pondered the coming night.

"Starlight," it quoted through a smear of mud lines which served as lips. "I hear you calling out to me. Constellation in the sky is shining down on me, I wonder wonder why... and where did that come from?"

Life had never been easy for Ostrander, the earth golem. Created by Hargoth for menial labor, he was later saved by Hex, the wizard who had traveled to Rynia from another world to stop the Lych Vyr-at-Hozoth. Did he succeed, Ostrander wondered. When Hex had saved Ostrander's... existence, something had changed in the giant. His head became full of thoughts and ideas and his body alight with feelings that, at the time, he didn't understand. It was for this reason that Ostrander had the bravery to destroy Tsurtor's gate that had connected Gerriter to this world. What good had he done? Ostrander didn't know for he had been sent through to this world in the backlash.

He thought of Hex often, though, as day turned to night. Day after day and night after night. How long had passed? There was no way for Ostrander to tell. He'd lost count. Many cold seasons, he knew. Many hot ones, as well.

Many times, he had thought he was losing his mind. Sometimes, he thought he was gaining it.

The first time had been when he first passed through the gate. The explosion had burst in his ears (though he was earless) and, flying from the portal, he had seen thousands upon thousands of undead figures pushing their way through the gate. They would have, at least, if Ostrander hadn't closed it.

His flight ended abruptly, and painfully, on the edge of a lake. His flesh, the soil that he was composed of, melted away as he sunk lower and lower. Several times, on the way down, he'd collided with other things floating in the water. Bodies. More than he could count. When he touched the bottom, with a thud, he found the floor lined with decaying forms. Slowly, he hauled his lumbering mass up the slope, straining for the shore. He could feel the water washing him away with every step. Water was his enemy; he had to hurry.

He could see the light above him grow brighter and brighter until, with a slap, the water broke around him. Several more steps and he was on the shore, out of the water.

Safe.

But not whole. His arms, constructed by Hex, had held together just fine. His right hand was still whole and the stub at the end of his left wrist was the same. His body, once before reconstructed by Hex had held together for the most part. His chest, however, was missing a chunk of soil about the size of his hand. It could have happened in the fight with the undead or in the explosion or in the water. It could have been a combination of those things. Regardless, Ostrander had to fill it in with something or risk falling apart.

The mud at the shore was easy to scoop up, especially with his new hand, and he started filling the gap with mud, replacing what had been there. To the side, though, were several rocks, a few centimeters circumference each. _I'd stay together better if I used rock_ , he thought. So, he grabbed the rocks and used much less mud. It only took a few seconds before Ostrander's head began filling with all sorts of strange numbers. Strings of them - equations! Something told him that he could use these equations to make to stones stay in stronger. He Bonded them with the mud and realized, with a start, that he had somehow inherited Hex's magic.

His chest had looked half-armored after that, which matched his stone-gauntlet hands. He was greeted by the inhabitants of this wasteland as something of a demon, something of a god. They would offer him... things and would scream for him to go. He didn't want their things. Information, on the other hand, was a desired commodity.

And, so, he had learned. There had been a terrible war fought with weapons Ostrander had never heard of: bombs, gas, poison, genetics, robotics. The hordes of undead had once been the inhabitants of a small nation. They had become infected with a mutagen that destroyed their brains while making them feral for flesh. They were a scourge that the last inhabitants of Amprek killed on sight. As the years passed, the Ampreks lost their knowledge of war, replacing it with the needed skills for survival. Only one left, it was said, still held the old knowledge, the Loner.

The Loner, it was said, lived in a cave at the top of Skyhawk Mountain. No one wanted anything to do with him. He was ostracized.

Ostrander, with nothing else to do, found him.

His cave was a junkyard of flashing lights and sounds. He held a rusted, old rifle, pointing it at Ostrander as the giant approached him. "Don't come no closer," he yelled through his thick beard. His dark brown hair had long ago grown long and ratty and his clothes were rags. "I'll shoot and I means it!"

"I mean you no harm," Ostrander had said, approaching.

Light erupted from the Loner's gun, slicing through Ostrander's abdomen. It was like water, cutting through him, and Ostrander put his hand there to wipe away any of the fluid.

But it was dry.

"Please," Ostrander said, "I just want to ask you some questions."

The Loner peered, disbelieving. "You're nots human, is ya?" Shaking his head, he lowered his gun. "Ain't nobody these days?"

"Are you the Loner?"

"I guess you can says that. M'name is Mitch. You can calls me that, if'n you wanna."

"Mitch, then. My name is Ostrander. You were right. I'm not human. I come from another world." He went into detail about Rynia, the lych, and how he'd come to this world, ending with, "I want to go back."

"You wanna go back," Mitch yelled. "You wanna go back? Of course, you wanna go back! Who wouldn't wanna go back? The question is how! Sounds to me like you came here via matter transferences. Simple matter of digitalization with an ion feed. Guess you could do it, given 'nough hard memory." Mitch sat down, scratching his head. "But it'on't make no sense."

"How's that," Ostrander asked.

"I said it don't make no sense. You got a society stuck in the heyday of the sword and the parchment and the horse and the monarch. You'd be a fossil here." He laughed for a moment and coughed something up. He pointed with his gun. "There ain't no sciences in the middles of all that. Least, there shouldn't be. Somet'in you ain't tellin'."

So, Ostrander told his story again. This time, he mentioned Hex and Tsurtor, Hargoth and Bandoo.

"Well, that's the it of it then! You're talking about the socialization of nuclear manipulation via mythical interpretation.

"Huh," Ostrander asked.

"Magic, you big lump! Magic!"

"Does that mean I can get back?"

"Well," Mitch replied, scratching his chin, "t'at depends. If this Tsurtor joker had the know-how to build a thing like that - and mind you I don't know how he dun it - but he'd want to establish a line of stability. Yep, he'd want an element with a pretty long half-life to it. If that's the case, you'd be able to trace its resonance."

"What would that be," Ostrander asked.

Mitch thought for a moment, looking at the sky. "Could be plutonium or uranium, maybe a heavy metal... hahnium, maybe... whatever he used, you should be able to pick up a trace of its resonance where that, what-you-call-it, gate was at." Mitch walked back into his pile of trash and came back with a contraption in his hand. "After you do that, you'll need to rig yourself up another matter transferin' thing. Now, I cain't tell you nothin' about them. If you could get it built, though, you could follow the ion stream right back to its point of origin - providing it hasn't decayed, been cut, or tampered with in some way."

"And if it has?"

"Well, you're made of dirt. I rekin' you'd get back as a mud puddle."

Though this was an alternative Ostrander was not particularly fond of, he thought it important to return. He wanted to see that Hex was safe and, with luck, see the Imperial Palace again... so he could rip out Hargoth's heart of coal!

The requirements for getting back did stretch the limits of possibility, though. He had to find this radiation stream and he didn't know how big it was or if he'd get wet. Then, he'd have to follow it. Maybe he could straddle the stream, he thought. Then, he had to build a matter transferin' thing and he hadn't a clue as to what that could be. "When Hex came to our world, along with other wizards, they had constructed gates with their magic. These gates homed in on Rynia somehow and brought them to us."

"Just what I'm saying," Mitch shouted. "Incredible though it sounds, they moved their butts from one place to another." He motioned with his hands several times until Ostrander understood.

"So, I should build a gate?"

"If'n you want back to your home, I'd say that's the way to go."

"So, now all I have to do is find this stream!"

"That's right."

"How big is this stream," Ostrander asked.

"Boy, you're about as sharp as a lump of machine sludge. Dull! I say, dull, boy! You can't see this kind of stream!"

"Then, wouldn't it be a creek? Or, rather, a rivulet?"

Mitch shook his head. "No. No. Shut your mouth, boy, and pay attention. Ain't got no ears on your head. This here's a Geiger counter. This stream you're lookin' fer's gonna be so small you won't be able to sees it. So, you keep this on when you gets close. It'll start clicken' and poppin' and the more it does, the closer you are. Got it?"

Ostrander shook his head. "I think so."

Mitch handed the instrument to the giant and sat down. "Then, git. Go back to wherever you came from and fergit about this dead place."

Ostrander turned to go but had a second thought. "You could go with me, Mitch. It's different in my world."

Mitch leaned his head down and coughed something up. "I'm sure it is. Sure, I'm sure. Wouldn't make it, though. Took some gas during the war that's played all hell with my lungs. I'm sure to die up here on my mountain. It's something I've grown comfort with. Go on."

So, Ostrander left, thinking again that, perhaps, he was growing sane with the realization that he could return home. It could also be insanity, he supposed. Just a mad dream dreamt while wandering a wasteland wishing for a miracle.

Finding his way back wasn't as easy as he thought it would be. He found that he couldn't simply follow his steps. In all the years he'd been walking, he'd covered quite a bit of ground. Cold, silent ground. He'd been lost for years and only realized it once he tried to find his way. Season ran into season without a sign of the lake that he'd fallen into or the hillside where the gate had once been.

One night, the rain fell in huge droplets that hit like waves. Ostrander couldn't take more than a few moments of that and spent his time looking for shelter. Through a wasteland, he hurried through the rain until he saw a copse of buildings. A village. Ostrander hurried through the mud and, without a break in his stride, broke through the nearest door and into the shelter.

Within, madness erupted. Humans of all sizes shouted and screamed, slamming the door and slapping at Ostrander. "I mean no harm. I am simply a creature seeking shelter from the storm."

"Storm," an old man shouted. "Storm? You bring the fallout storm into our home! You break down our door!"

"I'm sorry. I needed to find shelter."

"And what kind of creature are you! That you are covered with dirt! That you are covered with stone!" The old man hissed. "In all my twenty-five year, I recognize it! You aren't human!"

"No," Ostrander answered. "I'm not."

"Then, what do you mean to do to us? Kill us! Send us into the hot zones!"

"No. As I said, I just want some shelter."

"And you stay here forever! You take this as your own!"

"No," Ostrander replied. "I will leave once this storm passes. I'm simply trying to find my way home, to my own world. I have no desire to remain on this one."

The shack's inhabitants moved back against another wall and talked loudly amongst themselves. Ostrander couldn't make out what they were saying, so he knelt down and leaned against a wall. Eventually, the people stopped talking and settled down, far from Ostrander, laying down on top of each other.

By morning, the rain had stopped. Ostrander left before the sun was up and continued up the street, walking along the yellow line.

"Wait," he heard after he'd walked for several kilometers. The sun was starting to poke its way up.

"Who's there," he asked. "Come out. I mean you no harm." But there was no response. "If you come out, we can talk. You needn't be afraid."

"Wait! Don't go," the voice was louder and Ostrander could tell it was coming from behind him. Looking back, he could see two figures making their way up the street. One taller than the other, they were two human children. They ran up to Ostrander and panted as the one who had called said, "You can't go \- without us - you said you were from another world."

"Yes. I did."

"A better world? Of course - it has to be - and you can take us with you."

"Take you?"

"Please," the child shouted. "You must! My sister has already been claimed by the night gangs. She'll be dead before her next birthday! At least I've lived my life but she'll never reach fourteen!"

"I didn't say that I wouldn't."

"You will, then?" The child gasped and clutched his sisters hand. "My name is Tetrem. My sister is Agnie."

"I am Ostrander, Tetrem. Hello, Agnie. What I was going to say, though, wasn't that I would not take you. It is simply that I don't believe I can."

Both children were visibly hurt, as though he'd hit them. "But, why not," Tetrem asked, holding back his emotion.

"I'm lost here, you see? I'm trying to find where I came from. It was many seasons ago and I was thrown clear of the explosion but it was on a hillside. A gate that opened between worlds. Hordes of undead pushed their way through. Thousands remained. I was told it was because of a gas. It turned them into monsters."

Tetrem gasped, his eyes wide. "I - I know that place!"

Ostrander found it hard to believe. "You do?"

"Yes, it's just over those hills. You were going to pass it if you continued on this way!"

"Really? But, how did you know?"

"I was only a child then but I had to follow them. They were caught in the blast and turned into those... things. They went into that gate and disappeared."

"Who," Ostrander asked.

Tetrem's voice was twisted with sorrow as he relived the moment. "Our parents," he replied.

And so it was that Ostrander again thought he'd lost his sanity, agreeing to take two abandoned children with him and helping them get through the gate. Sheer idiocy. But, then, what could be more sane than to try and help those hurt by the plague of the undead?

CHAPTER FOUR

ANNIVERSARY

Part I

On Regal Isle, preparations were being made for a time of celebration. It happened every year and every year it grew bigger. Shops were closing down for the three day celebration while the markets were bustling with goods. Clothiers displayed their best for the dances and parties that would continue through the days of Anniversary and Inns were packed with people who had come to celebrate.

Anniversary. It was a magical time. No other city in the kingdom had such a gala event and none who had traveled outside of the kingdom, to Paead or Kallent, had seen its like. It slapped autumn in the face with defiant optimism, a last bash before the hard times of winter's numbing frost.

Anniversary. It had been eight years since the war. The War of Earth and Stone. If any had predicted Rynia to fall during those bleak times, they were sure to be laughed at and disgraced. Rynia had rebounded with a power unknown in the world. It was now greater than ever, more powerful and more prosperous than ever. Still, those had been dire days, when the stone giants had held the Imperial Palace and undead crept across the land, killing all whose path they crossed. Then, a miracle! Princess Helen had sent a plea out to other worlds, calling for wizards to aide her in her cause! Answering the call were Hex, the Maker, and a young wizard whose name had been mostly forgotten. Hex had killed the Lych spawning the undead and Helen had led her troops to victory against the stone giants. Dyneesa be praised!

Anniversary. It wasn't just for the end of the war, for the defeat of Faetsha's madness, that the people celebrated. It was also, happily, the anniversary of Princess Helen Haddison's marriage to Hex, the Maker. After many dour years, when the people suffered from Queen Caroline's death just as badly as did the king himself, it was good to see the Palace so filled with love. They made a beautiful couple and a beautiful child. The people felt so much a part of their marriage that they made its celebration part of their own.

Anniversary.

Within the Imperial Palace, more extravagant preparations were also made. The grand throne room on the bottom level had been redecorated into a grand ballroom. A hundred candles were suspended from the ceiling with a white mesh. Tables, adorned with lace, were lined along the walls, leaving an entire area in the midst for dance. The food that had been shipped in would cost the king a banker's ransom. Luckily, the king owned the banks. He loved his daughter far too much to worry over the cost.

Royals and their entourages had arrived and were still arriving. Roomed on the palace's third flood, there was hardly room for the lot of them. Still, the king was pleased at their arrivals. Duke Retmin from Linson, the new town east of Awlsban. Retmin had always arrived at these functions simply with his retainer, a solitary, young man since his father's death during the war. Laurence Haddison, Duke of Awlsban, King Marcus' nephew, arrived by ship the morning before the party. Mayor Cronish of Caspeton arrived alone, much like that sturdily independent town. Both Baronesses Gleishe and Hisk, Marcus' nieces from Bemmiton and Morrata happily arrived the morning of the celebration. Duke Rigdon from Elden arrived with his wife in tow, both fat from the privileges of power. Duke Nygarra, Helen's old friend Mark, had arrived from Benaatt surprisingly late. It seemed he had much to discuss with the king but the time could not be had. Only hours remained before the party and there was still much to be done. In truth, King Marcus was simply putting Mark off. The only thing he had to do was watch over the walls at the city and the harbor and look for Hex. Where was Hex?

On the opposite side of the palace from the grand ballroom, though, it wasn't the mood that was infectious. It wasn't the music, nor the gaiety, nor the reminiscing, nor the wine. In the bedchambers of the Imperial wizards, Gourden sat over the seer, Karlyn. The frail, old woman shook like an autumnal leaf in a tornado. She thrashed about her bed, moaning gibberish. Gourden tried to keep her fever down with cool rags and kept an eye on her so she didn't fall out of her bed but the sickness continued with no avail.

He'd tried his magic but there was nothing his Bonding could do. He was sure that even Hex would be powerless. Nothing was broken within her. At least, nothing he could see.

He'd tried to get her to eat but the food caught in her throat. Several times, she'd almost choked to death.

Gourden had a special reason for watching over the old woman. He'd been a simple cobbler's assistant before she'd found him. Mending, hammering, and cleaning shoes every day had been his lot until, one day, by fortune or by pre-ordainment - which, after all, was Karlyn's specialty, her shoes had been given him to repair. They were a simple pair of sandles. No heel. No arch. No toes. Several strands in the intricate lace design were coming up from the wood and cork base, pulling them apart. Gourden repaired them as he would any other except he added a little encouragement to the lace to hold together.

Those shoes still stood at the foot of her bed, almost twenty years later.

Gourden owed her for seeing the magic in him and so he sat, night after night.

Waiting.

Her hand suddenly lashed out at Gourden's, pulling him down to her. The old woman's eyes were huge, terrified, and her mouth was moving as though she was going to say something. She moaned and sputtered but, finally, called, "Gourden!"

"I'm right here, Karlyn," Gourden replied, his voice sounding more squeaky and frightened than he liked. "I'm right here."

"Gourden! You must get word! You must pass it on to the king!" Her words stopped, broken into moans which filled the bedchambers.

"Karlyn! What word? What are talking about? What have you seen?"

"We're all going to die, Gourden! We're all going to - But we can warn him! Yes! Warn the king! Tell him that he mustn't divide his forces! No! He mustn't! Don't send Hex away! Don't look for Vincent! Don't go to Ceyliz!" She screamed, a scream that scrapped the lining from the top of her skull and seemed to shatter her sanity. She rocked upon the bed, burning with fever.

"Karlyn! I can tell him that but you must calm down. You have to relax if you're going to get any better."

"Better! No! We're going to die! Die," she screamed, clutching Gourden's shirt, pulling him close. "And there's nothing we can do to stop it." Her hands opened up and her body spasmed but when she landed back upon the beddings, her body was still as death. Before it could take her, however, she whispered, "Nothing."

Gourden felt a pain in his chest worse than he'd ever known. It was as though he could feel Karlyn's passing, as though she was being tore from within him. He lowered himself from his stool and knelt beside her bed, taking her quiet hand in his. He couldn't move. He couldn't think. He could only look upon the dead form of this old woman, who had been closer to him than his own parents, and weep.

Part II

In the grand ballroom, the candles were lit to ward off the darkness, shimmering down upon the room like a hundred stars, more than could be seen outside, the storm out there so thick. The room was full of laughter and gaiety; nearly one hundred people were in attendance. The king dressed simply, relieved to be out of his robes of office, in a tight fitting (too tight for Marcus' comfort) black suit. He circulated through the crowd, greeting his guests, his face all smiles. It was obvious, however, that he was looking for something. Princess Helen stepped into the room through the king's private entrance, looking positively radiant in a flowing white dress. The dress was elegant in that it caught all of the princess' curves, which were more abundant now, for some reason, than ever.

("What have you done with my husband," she asked her father beneath her breath. "I simply asked you to get rid of him until the party." "Oops," King Marcus muttered, "you're right. I've accidentally left him down in the dungeon." "We don't have a dungeon," Helen replied. Marcus smiled at his daughter, "That you know of.")

The crowd milled, drinking and chatting before sitting for the meal, and making the kind of small talk you'd expect in such a gathering. Deals were being brokered between influential businessmen and the royals who supported them. Royals spoke among themselves on matters of security and trade, keeping it light enough to seem apropos for the setting. Some, however, had other things on their minds.

Duke Laurence of Awlsban watched the king with a keen eye, just as he'd promised his uncle Kamm, Sovereign of Ceyliz. Laurence didn't like thinking of it as spying. To him, his actions were simply meant to help reinforce an alliance that had grown less stable since the last war. There was a voice, though, in the darkness in the back of Laurence's mind that said it was Kamm's own mental instability that had made the Kallent/Rynian alliance shakier since the war. Kamm insisted that Marcus had sent spies down with his so-called refugees. It was no secret that many people who had been loyal Rynians had remained in Ceyliz after the war. How many of those had been spies? How many of those had been simple folk seen differently only through Kamm's twisted paranoia. But what harm could a little checking do, Laurence reasoned. In his own rationalization, he was helping both sides.

Mark Nygarra wasn't thirsty. Kattox had encouraged him to try one of the wine mixers that Hex had introduced from his own world but was unable to break through Mark's resolve. "I don't want to lose any of my edge when I see the king," Mark insisted.

"Yet, you know that the king won't let you utter one word of defenses or battles in his presence until after the celebration. So, why don't you enjoy yourself?"

"What's wrong with you, Kraephten? How can you enjoy yourself when our city is under siege?"

"Because I remember, young duke," Kraephten addressed, sipping his drink, "that your valiant defenders would do the same in my shoes."

"So, Kraephten," Marcus said, approaching the two and patting his old friend on the back, "still teaching our young royalty?"

"Not as well as I'd like, your highness. Sadly, he's fallen far behind in his relaxation exercises."

While the two laughed, Mark drew himself up. "My king, there are urgent matters that I must discuss with you immediately on the matter of Benaatt -"

"Do these matters involve battle, Mr. Nygarra," Marcus asked.

"Unfortunately, they do, sire."

"Yes, it is unfortunate because we won't be discussing that at this party. Nothing can be done now that cannot be done later, Mark." Marcus took a few steps away but turned back with an afterthought. "There is one thing that you can do, lord Duke."

"Your highness," Mark asked.

"I've noticed that there are a lot of girls here. Why don't you keep an eye on one or two or three of them for me. That's work for the young!" With a smile, King Marcus turned and walked away.

Mark stood ramrod stiff with a profound frown pushing against his chin.

Kraephten Kattox looked upon the Duke with a smirk. "Did you take yourself this seriously when you were a coward, too?"

As Marcus made his way through the crowd, he quickly forgot the diligent, young duke, greeting his other guests with smiles and laughter. He ate several hors d'oeuvres, sipping his one drink all the while. His nephew, Duke Haddison from Awlsban, was watching him like a hawk. There was no mistaking that. Still, no reason for ruining a perfectly good evening.

"Where's Hex," Helen asked again, that worried timbre entering her voice.

"Have I told you that he killed a lych, my dear?" Marcus kissed her forehead and held her again. "He'll be fine. He'll be here." Marcus looked at the entrance for Helen's errant husband, and saw his look-outs looking exasperated at the doors. Marcus sighed. "He will be late. Something tells me, my darling, that we'll have to start this year's to-do without the man of the hour. Don't worry," he said, seeing the startled look on his daughter's face. "That just means his entrance will be that much more, er, unexpected, no, welcome when he does arrive."

He led Helen towards her seat next to him at the table and stood behind his own chair. "Distinguished Lords and Ladies, it is a joy to my heart to see all of you here tonight." Applause erupted and Marcus wasn't sure if it was in response to his greeting or because it was the attendees' cue that dinner would soon be served. "We have gathered here to honor our kingdom as it has flourished since the war. We also honor my daughter, Princess Helen, and her husband, Hex the Maker, on the anniversary of their wedding." More applause for the princess as Marcus smiled at his daughter. "Please, take your seats," he invited.

All of the place settings had been completed with a name placard and it wasn't long before the guests all found themselves sitting, strategically placed in a late night planning session.

King Marcus remained standing. "As you can see, Hex has not yet made his entrance. I am sure, however, that he will arrive shortly. Not to stand on formality, though, we will proceed with our merry making, starting with an announcement from my young daughter, Helen -"

"Wait!"

The guests all mumbled, trying to keep their comments to themselves, and, thereby, created a tumult as they turned toward the cry at the ballroom's entrance. Leaning on one of the door's handles, Hezekiah Fanlan, the wizard known as Hex, was bent over as if in pain. He walked up to the side of the table farthest from his wife and father-in-law and leaned against a chair, occupied by the Duchess Rigdon, her ample weight counterbalancing for Hex. His chest was heaving, his breath short. He held a hand up, "Wait." Panting, he continued, "I've been running a bit."

He took a step back, catching his breath. "A long bit." He was dressed, from head to toe, in a silver grey tuxedo. Although its color was flat, its design caught many of the attendee's eyes. There was nothing unusual about his hair, though. If you knew Hex, you knew that he always wore his hair long. Only in the past few years had it become shot through with grey.

Hex started walking around the table towards his wife and, as he drew closer, his smile grew wider. "You didn't think I'd miss this, did you? I wouldn't have missed it for the world!"

Helen rose from her chair and hurried toward him. The guests all watched in silence as the two met near the end of the table, falling into each other's arms. "Where have you been," she asked.

"Out of town," he answered with a smile.

"You're just in time, Hex," the king said. "The Princess was about to tell us all about your anniversary gift."

"Gift," Hex asked. "That's my favorite part."

"You have to guess what it is," Helen said, taking a step back.

"Is it something from Earth," Hex asked.

"No," Helen said certainly, "or, at least, not by more than half."

"Not more than half, eh? Well, is it something put together, then?"

"Yes, it's definitely put together."

"Well, then, bring it on out! I want to see this!"

Helen hesitated. "Well... I can't bring it out just yet."

"How about a picture? On my world, we had pictures of everything!"

"No, Hex," Helen replied, irritated. "I don't have a picture."

"Well, that's too bad." He took Helen's hands and pulled her close. "Mommy."

"How did you know," she asked.

"Helen, it's hard to miss. You must be at least four months by now." She frowned a little but he kissed it away. "You're not fat. I've known about this for a while."

"How?"

"Elementary, my dear Helen. I remember the signs from when Caroline was born. You can't hide morning sickness, even in quarters as large as ours, my dear."

By this time, the crowd was bustling. Everyone wanted to know what the announcement was. Many had guessed, for, in truth, Helen was showing, but all waited for the formal announcement. King Marcus, smiling broad, stood up and raised a hand to quiet the congregation. "What my daughter is so obliquely trying to say is that, yes, she is pregnant!" The guests roared with approval. Many hoped, as did Marcus, that this child would be an heir, continuing the Haddison line through Marcus' side of the family.

"What glorious news!" Before the king's private entrance, something Moved into the room. The displacement of air was like dropping a boulder in a puddle and wind blew upon the partiers. Helen had recognized the voice immediately and Hex had found it familiar.

It was Hargoth, standing before the guests like a statue of a demon. Several of the guests cried out and others hollered for guards. An evil grin was on his face as he said, "It means there will be more of you for me to kill."

Guards rushed in, responding to the cries of the guests. There were only four of them but they charged with their bats as though they were forty.

Hargoth sneered and threw two fistfuls of stone shards which tore into the guards like raining death. Only one guard survived but his right leg was sliced open and his windpipe was cut. He squirmed on the ground, several feet from the giant, one hand around his throat, the other clutching his leg. Hargoth took two steps toward the guard and brought one foot upon his head. Mercifully, there was no scream just some popping sounds as a violent rush of crimson rushed out from beneath his feet. "What a delightful party."

The next attack came from a sabre, dancing upon the giant's form, chipping away huge sections of "skin" as the giant flinched. Finally, Hargoth brought his hand up and a wide arch, forcing his attacker back.

"Mark," Helen screamed.

"So," Hargoth said with a smile, "the coward has found a bite to go with his bark."

Mark didn't answer. His mind was on the fight, just as Kraephten had taught him. He brought his arm out in a powerful lunge aimed precisely at Hargoth's eye. If the giant had a soft spot, that's where it would be. Tragically, it wasn't and as Mark was extended and in no position for defense, Hargoth brought one hand up, snapping Mark's sword arm like a twig, and, with the other hand, swatted the Duke aside like a bug. Mark skidded across the ballroom floor, leaving a trail of blood from his shattered face.

By that time, attendees had all moved to the far side of the room, only King Marcus, Hex, and Helen had remained at their seats, though they stood. Hargoth gave an acerbic chortle and threw several more stone knives into the room and several at the royal family. Hex brought Helen to the floor but Marcus remained standing.

"I have a message for you, King of Rynia. It is from my master, Tsurtor, who tells me that you have little time left upon this world. Your kingdom will soon fall and your family will die with it. All who stand beside you will suffer the same death sentence."

"You're fooling yourself, Hargoth," Marcus said, refusing to move even if it meant defending himself. "Tsurtor has failed before and he'll fail again. Even you lost last time. My daughter defeated you!"

"Not quite. She played her role, yes, but only for the future triumph of Tsurtor and his forces. While you lived in all the comfort you could buy these past years, Tsurtor has been building. He now has an army stronger than you can imagine and weapons beyond your comprehension. Prepare yourself for his coming. It is near!"

The double door entrance opened. Where many in the room thought would be a larger force of guard, Gourden, his face wet and tired from crying, held the still form of Karlyn the Seer. He looked around the room, ignoring the obvious mayhem there, and started to talk. "Karlyn," he said, beginning to deliver her last message.

_NO_ , Hargoth heard Tsurtor yell from within his head. Hargoth didn't understand what threat this little creature could pose but he was smart enough to know that his job did not require comprehension, only dedication. He broke off a rock the size of his hand and hurled it at his target before Gourden could get another word out. It hit his neck and took half of it with a bloody explosion. Like a broken water main, blood gushed from the small man's neck, splattering his clothes, the wall, and, finally, the floor. Karlyn's body had fallen immediately to Gourden's feet and Gourden had collapsed on top of it.

Marcus found himself incapable of standing still. His body wanted to attack though his mind said it was utterly futile. Caught in the midst of his blood lust, he saw Gourden look up and, with his dying breath, mouth the words, "Going to die."

Meanwhile, Hargoth was laughing. "But what would a party be without presents! This is a time to celebrate!" The perverse giant spread his arms out and, with a pop of displaced air, two lifeless bodies appeared draped over his arms. "Several days ago, we received these Rynian scouts in our stronghold in Ktoll. As you can see, we are kind enough to return them to you." He put them down on the table amongst the table settings, two headless bodies. No blood ran from them. They'd obviously been dead several days. The awful smell even made Marcus take several steps back. "Before I go ready myself for your deaths, here's a little something for the bride and groom."

It seemed as though the giant disappeared without another gruesome display of his magic. There was almost a sigh of relief. Hex rose from beneath the table and fell back, screaming. The contents of his stomach quickly rose and, as he vomited upon the table, others joined him, seeing what he'd seen.

Upon Hex's and Helen's plates, the two heads rested. Both were covered in maggots. The eyes were missing and each were a silver circlet, much like the ceremonial adornments for princes and princesses. The stench of rot was profuse, quickly filling the room.

Marcus, his face twisted in anger, grabbed Hex by the collar. "Get up," he shouted. "There is no time for this! We've got wounded!"

Hex bit back his next heave with a determined face. Marcus was right and Hex was the only wizard present. He slowly rose from beneath the table, clenching his fists, trying not to think about the sickness around him.

"Get Hex over here," Kraephten Kattox yelled.

Marcus tried to lead the queasy Bonder but Hex indicated that he'd be fine. Kraephten was kneeling before the bloody form of Duke Mark Nygarra. Hex hurried towards him, walking between the tables and across the dance floor.

"There's a lot of blood but I think he's still alive."

Hex looked down at the young royal. Yes. He was alive but just barely. "Let me in there," Hex said as he traded placed with the Kallent. He felt Mark's jaw and discovered what he already knew. Shattered. More pieces than he could count. Massive tissue damage. Hemorrhaging. "Don't let anybody disturb me," Hex whispered. "I don't want to accidentally kill him."

"I'll slit the throat of any man who so much as touches you," Kraephten promised.

That was good enough for Hex. He extended his senses into Mark's flesh and felt the injury at a cellular level. He was lost to the outside world. To Kraephten, he seemed to be in a trance.

Marcus immediately sent for Bern, the only other Bonder in the palace, and any of his apprentices. The wounded were tended to as best as they could. Not counting Mark, five guests had been wounded. Two killed. Six soldiers lost. Both Gourden and Karlyn, two of Rynia's most valued wizards, were dead. In the war's first volley, Rynia had lost utterly; a dire omen.

"Father," Helen said. He was shocked to see her standing by his side but he should not have been. He knew she was made of sturdy stuff and he knew that she fully expected to see worse. Her husband may have called himself a pacifist but she knew what to expect from war. She proceeded to ask the question that he had tried to force down into the forgotten reaches of his psyche. "What will we do?"

What indeed? Marcus had known this day was coming. He'd been deceiving himself for years, placating himself with the false notion that Tsurtor had sent his all against them eight years ago. He remembered when Tsurtor talked about crushing Rynia into the dust but, when the attack didn't immediately follow the lych's defeat and when the Imperial Palace was again in the people's hands, Marcus had fooled himself. He had convinced himself that Tsurtor must have been bluffing.

Now, he was sure that he'd been wrong. He'd been a fool.

Bern had arrived with two apprentices. They shuffled between the wounded and the shocked, providing aide where they could.

"Take all those who can walk, Helen. Show them to their rooms. They'll be glad to leave. Leave Duke Haddison to me." Of course, his answer was action. There were no broad strategies, yet. This was not a time to go off half-cocked. Marcus knew there would have to be broad strategies, though, broad enough to hold back whatever evil Tsurtor had planned. Would it come from within or from without? Would Tsurtor attack or would he rely on one of his minions? "Send for General Heaphge, as well."

Helen went to the guests, assuring them of their safety (no matter how dishonest that might have been) and thanking them for their understanding. The General arrived before Helen could send for him. Word had reached his quarters moments after the attack and he reached the ballroom to see Marcus hovering over Mark Nygarra's body.

Hex had come out of his trance with good news. "It's a good thing you have plenty of brandy," he said to the king. "He's going to need it."

The reason was obvious. Marcus, Kraephten, and Rolf Heaphge had all been in battle. They knew about the pain of the first major wound. Hex wished he'd had some demerol, codeine, or even some aspirin for his wife's old friend but the brandy would have to do. "I've been able to put the jaw back in place and mending the arm was no problem. It was a simple fracture. Bone's not that hard to put together. The ligaments have been cut up something awful and that will take some time to heal. I can only do so much."

"How long," Kraephten asked.

"I'd give him a couple of days." Hex couldn't help but feel lightened by his response. No amount of skill would have allowed the modern medicine of his world the same results. "Still, no reason why we can't take precautions." He tore a large strip off the Duke's shirt and handed it to Kraephten. "Go fill that with ice and have him hold it against his jaw. It will reduce the swelling." He tore another strip and tied that around Mark's head, holding the mouth shut.

Kraephten returned with the ice and put it against his friend's face. Marcus shook his head, thinking of how much the ice had cost him. The ice chilled the young Duke, rousing his beaten body. His eyes opened, looking like shiny pools and he tried to sit up.

"Hold on, Mark. Let's not move just yet," Hex said.

Mark moaned and brought his hand up to his jaw. Hex took his hand and put it on the ice pack.

"Now, you hold that there. You'll be alright. If Hargoth was trying to kill you, he botched it. Something tells me he won't get a second chance, though."

Mark nodded, a determined look on his face.

The two gave Mark the once and twice over until Hex was satisfied that he'd heal correctly. Then, Kraephten came with the brandy. "Not too much," Hex said. "He's lost some blood so it won't take much to kill the pain."

Mark opened his mouth a crack and Kraephten poured some of the potent liqueur down.

"It seems the healing is done," Marcus said. "Now, if you gentlemen will join me. It's time we started planning strategy."

"Then, I suppose I'll leave," Laurence Haddison said.

"Oh, no, nephew," Marcus replied, putting his hand on the Duke of Awlsban's shoulder. "I want you to stay," he said, slyly. "We'll be needing you."

Part III

Later, in the king's private throneroom, Kraephten sipped the brandy, occasionally passing it to Mark.

Marcus had sent for a table and a map of the known kingdoms of Gerriter. Rolf had not yet arrived. Laurence leaned against a wall, pensively. Hex was looking out the window in silence.

Marcus stood beside Hex and sighed, "It's storming again."

"You know I'm not the type to believe in portents, Marcus."

"Neither am I, Hex. Not anymore, at least."

Rolf walked into the room with heavy feet. It was, after all, nearly the midnight hour. "Word has been sent. Riders are on their way to every Commander of every city in Rynia carrying word to marshal their forces. We won't have an army, not by a long shot, but we will have nearly three thousand men."

Everyone in the room knew what a pittance that was.

_And it's my fault_ , Marcus thought. _If I had been preparing..._ "My father had more after the sundering of the Regal Isle," he murmured. That was at the end of the war when they had turned Tsurtor's forces back. They hadn't defeated him, though; that much was clear.

Hex frowned into the night. Three thousand? Tsurtor had easily set that many undead upon the people of Rynia eight years ago. If he was still using modern Earth technology, (last time he'd employed computers), three thousand would be like nothing to him.

"That doesn't mean that three thousand is all we'll have," Rolf added. "We have some markers we can call in."

Marcus nodded. "Correct. We still have a standing alliance with the Kallents. They lost their share of men in the war forty years ago. They'll remember what it was like to be attacked by Tsurtor's forces."

"If it please the king," Kraephten requested, "I would be glad to travel south and request a boon of troops from their queen." Mark gave his friend a startled look but Kraephten placated him with more brandy.

"That's a fine gesture, Commander, but I don't think Queen Imnustre will listen to your pleas. You have, after all, turned your back on your country over the years."

"I was born in Awlsban, sire. Technically, I am Rynian born."

"Yes. You were also one of their greatest raiders. The answer is no. I have something else in mind for you."

Kraephten shrugged and drank more brandy.

"What we need," Marcus continued, "is somebody with current connections to the Kallent royalty. Do we know of anybody like that? Laurence, do you know anybody with current connections to the powers in Kallent?"

Laurence straightened up nervously, "Why, no! No, sir. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason. It's just that you're the ruler in Awlsban. That's the closest city we have to the border. I thought that, perhaps, you might have heard something."

Laurence shook his head violently.

"Very well," Marcus said. "Still, we won't get all the help we need from Kallent alone. We need to look towards Tsurtor's other enemies." He pointed at the kingdom to the southwest. "Tzurritza."

Rolf nodded. "They border Paead so they're bound to have caught some of Tsurtor's flanks in their push to the sea. It's a hard land so they're bound to hold long grudges."

"Aye," Kraephten agreed, "but they make a fine brandy."

"I'm glad you like it, Commander, because that's where you'll be going."

Mark bolted upright, his pain no longer an issue.

Marcus frowned. "I knew you'd object, young man, but I'd admonish you to restrain yourself until I've finished. Kraephten might not be a viable representative to Kallent but that does not mean we cannot use his status as a Kallent hero to our advantage. It would strengthen our cause if we had someone of that stature supporting it, even if he wasn't representing Kallent. They won't know that. You'll be going with him. You're the only one I can trust to represent Rynia. You have a good way with people. The Benaatters took well enough to you."

"Bu' 'ire. Wha' abou' Benaa'," Mark struggled to say.

"You have a commander there, Mark. His name is Banry Ellison. I've heard he's a competent leader."

Mark nodded his head.

"We've received word of the ice giant army," noted General Heaphge. "You might want to send word to evacuate the city."

Marcus saw Kraephten's look and added, "If it hasn't been done already."

Mark gave a curt nod. It had.

"Good," the king said. "Then, from here on, you are Ambassador Duke Nygarra. You represent Rynia and her holdings. Do you understand?"

"Yeth," Mark replied.

"You are to find us troops, allies, in any way you can. This is no small assignment, gentlemen. We're counting on you for a miracle. We don't know how long we'll be able to hold back Tsurtor's forces -"

"You won't," said Hex, turning from the window. "Tsurtor does not plan to make this a conventional battle. We're smart enough to realize that. If he has Hargoth, that means he's made more stone giants. It could be that he's tapped into his supply of undead, as well. He might have guns, magic, and who knows what else. If we can only muster three thousand men, we won't stand a chance at holding him back."

"Your suggestion," the king asked.

"First of all, send word to your commanders that they should muster more than just your reserves. They should muster every able bodied man and woman in Rynia. Anyone who can carry a bat or a sword or a scythe or a pitchfork or a hammer. Everyone. Get the entire kingdom on that line against Tsurtor."

"You don't know what you're asking, Hex," Rolf protested.

"Oh, yes I do. Believe it or not, gentlemen, I've seen this kind of attack many times before on my own world. It won't be pretty. I'm not saying that we'll stand a chance but -"

"But every man and woman - "

"If you're thinking it's an insane plan, General, you're right. But what Tsurtor is sure to bring against us will be far worse. Either the people die fighting for their kingdom or they die in their beds as Tsurtor's giants march over them."

"You said that was first," Marcus said, calmly. "What else were you going to say."

Hex frowned, "Helen's not going to like this but I'll be leaving for a few days."

"What," Marcus gasped.

"I'm returning to Earth. I've got to find Vincent. There's no way we'll beat this thing without him. He's the most powerful wizard we've got."

"How do you plan to get there, Hex," Kraephten asked. "I thought Vincent was the only one who could travel back and forth."

"Any Mover could do it if he has the proper equipment," Marcus replied. "You're thinking of using Lucion?"

Hex nodded. "Vincent had brought me pictures from home. We can Move to one of the spots on a picture."

"What makes you think he's there?"

"He was pretty upset when he left me out in the desert. I think he'd had his fill with Rynia for the time being. I should have no problem convincing him that we need his help, though." Hex hoped he was right. If the worst happened, and he didn't find Vincent, then he'd be left with no way to help his adopted homeland and assure the safety of his wife and children.

"Then, we have our duties. I suggest we retire for the night and begin at dawn. General," Marcus shook the general's hand with grim determination, "we will combine our forces at the Paeadian border in one month's time. If Tsurtor has not yet come, then we will go to him."

General Rolf Heaphge left with a nod and not another word.

"Kattox?"

"Your highness."

"This will be our third war together. While I'd like us both to live to see another, I do not want there to be another. Tsurtor is to be destroyed utterly. No quarter given, understand."

It was an absurd statement. Though it was obvious to everyone that Tsurtor would win, Marcus refused to concede until there was no other choice. "Yes, sire," Kattox replied, his jaw set.

"Take care of the Duke. I want the two of you gone before morning."

Kattox saluted the king as he had when he was in the desert raiders, his right fist outstretched. Taking the brandy, he led Mark out of the throneroom.

"Now, Hex," Marcus began.

"Is there some problem, your highness," Hex asked. Hex knew always to use the formal address in the company of strangers.

"No. No problem. I just want you to promise me you'll be careful, young man. My daughter's very pregnant. This is no time for you to go off and die."

Hex smiled, "I'm only going back home -"

"It's not just that, Hex, and you know it. There's something more to this. I can feel it. You know Tsurtor is aware of Vincent. He wouldn't have started a war unless the boy was certainly disposed of."

Hex nodded, "Yes. Still, I have to try."

"I understand. Just be sure to meet us on the Paeadian border in a month's time."

They embraced, each hoping that their old friend would be alive in a month's time, and Hex left without another word.

Marcus turned to Duke Laurence Haddison with a sneer. "Now, nephew," he said, spitting the word, "I think we should have a little talk."

* * *

Outside, the storm continued. Tired from its raging, its winds slackened and it simply dropped its rain as though from weary arms. Most nights in Rynia were lit by a million stars but this night was curtained by clouds and perfect for the criminal who was willing to take a chance.

Just such a criminal threw a grappling hook, his own design constructed out of twisted hardwood, into the air. It rose into the night's pitch and, after it landed, he pulled it taut. No one was near; his ears were sharp. He could hear anything within several yards, his range lessened by the storm.

He'd spent days scouting this mark. He knew every way in, what lay inside, where the object lay, and how long he'd have. He made it seem almost too easy. He was the best on the street. It wasn't surprising, though. After all, he'd been trained by the best. Sneaking, surveillance, and subterfuge. He could even throw in a little sabotage when he felt like it but this job called for a lighter touch.

The bank manager had a dangerous tendency to sleep with his deposits, after all. He'd go up into his room above the bank at night and put the bag of dernigs under his bed. The room had no windows and only one door. So long as the banker kept the door locked from within, the money would be perfectly secure.

Ah, but the banker couldn't stay in the room forever. He'd need to leave on occasion to use the bathroom in back of the building on occasion. He was perfectly safe there, guarded by the bank's night watchman and murder was too messy for the criminal.

No, he had another plan. It was easy to pay someone to take the banker down to the Grin and Grolsch for a lager or three. Then, the banker would be making his runs to relief quite regularly. There were two other offices upstairs, both equipped with windows. It would be an easy task to climb through one of those and wait for the banker's bladder (or stomach) to summon him away...

No time for thinking. Someone was coming. It would be the night watchman, making his way blindly through the rain. If the criminal didn't hurry, the watchman might run right into him! Up the rope, he ascended like a spider, just as he'd been trained to do as a boy in the tunnels below the Imperial Palace. Then, noise could cost you your life. Now, it could cost him his self-respect and an income that would last him several months. (The criminal worked outside the syndicate as a matter of principal. After all, he was no ordinary criminal.)

At the top, then, and he reached over the edge -

\- and was grabbed around the wrist! A strong arm pulled at him, and he brought himself up on the roof, trying to keep his landing as quiet as possible. He hadn't heard of the banker getting another guard so this must be another thief. Even as he was pulling his staff from his back with his free right hand, though, he realized how that reasoning didn't make any sense. Another thief would have pushed him from the roof, not pulled him up. His staff lashed out to the point before his left hand, striking his opponent.

The stranger gasped and, as the criminal smiled for a moment, drew a sword. Not good. The criminal's smile dropped. The ebony black of nighttime was no place for a sword fight. _Especially when I don't have a sword_ , the criminal thought.

He brought his staff around in a wide arch but did not connect with the stranger. His opponent blocked the staff with his sword and followed it up with a strike in the criminal's direction. The thrust was easily blocked with the staff's bottom half. So, the criminal thought, his hearing is good and he's well trained. Still, his hearing won't be as good as mine, nor his fighting.

The criminal heard a footfall and jabbed with his staff, eliminating any sound as it cut through the air. The staff connected but, as he tried to pull it back for another jab, the criminal found that he couldn't pull it back. It slipped from his grasp and the criminal didn't need his gifted ears to hear it rattle upon the street below.

The criminal broadened his stance. Without his staff, he'd be forced to fight hand-to-hand, something he certainly didn't excel at.

There was a step before him and the first blow fell upon his stomach. No sword. The criminal's mind raced. _Who could this be?_

The stranger blocked the criminal's own blows and landed solid hits upon his collarbone and left eye. The criminal started to fall back but the stranger grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him around, and locked his arms around the criminal's neck.

"You never were very good at hand-to-hand," the stranger hissed.

The criminal turned his neck and tried to speak. "You didn't stay around long enough to teach me," he choked.

The hands came off of his neck and his body was spun around.

"Eight years, I leave you and you turn out like this?"

"What? Ashamed of me," the criminal asked, rubbing his neck. "Sorry I didn't become a martyr like you, Kattox?"

"A man's only a martyr after he's dead, Timothy. I don't plan on being dead."

Timothy Holt scowled. Deep inside, he felt like a child caught stealing an apple. Outside, though, that combination of fright and shame only made him bitter. "How did you find me?"

"I have friends, Timothy. You forget. I'm a hero in this town."

"Great. Well, you're interrupting my job, hero," he spat the word like poison.

"No, I'm not, Timothy."

"Stop calling me that!"

"Timothy? But that's you're name."

"Not for the past five years. I've made a new name for myself in the Imperial City."

"Really? And what's that?"

"I am The Hand of Night."

Kraephten chuckled, "Very well, eh, Hand, but you won't be going through with this theft."

"I suppose you're going to try and stop me?"

"Oh, I already have. The bank manager isn't here. He's staying with a friend. The deposits aren't here, either."

The Hand of Night snarled, "Kattox!"

"Don't worry," Kraephten flipped. "I've got another job for you."

"Really? And what would that be?"

"Well, it certainly isn't common thievery but I'll try make sure it isn't martyrdom, either."

CHAPTER FIVE

DEPARTURES

Part I

Marcus circled Laurence Haddison in the dark throneroom. The only sound to muffle the king's footfalls was the pattering of rain against the huge window but even that did little to drown out his heavy steps. Marcus looked at his nephew like prey and, indeed, Laurence could sense the king like a lion moving in for the kill.

"I'm going to make this easy on you, Larry," the king said, his voice matter-of-fact. "I know how easily you get confused." Marcus stopped behind the Duke and watched as the younger man squirmed.

Laurence didn't know what to do. Should he say anything? Z'hin had made him swear that if he were captured, he wouldn't talk. But this was his king. Where did his true loyalties lay? He couldn't stop himself from shaking, knowing that his ruler stood and watched him. A trickle of sweat dripped down his brow and he prayed for something to happen.

"Face me," Marcus bellowed in a voice Laurence never thought he'd hear.

The duke almost stumbled over his own feet, turning around. The king's eyes burned so that Laurence was forced to take a step back. He tried to stand tall, chest out, shoulders high, chin up, but he couldn't measure up to the man before him. His chest was tight, holding his breath as his uncle glared at him.

"How long have you been spying for Kallent?"

The question shocked the breath out of the young duke. How long? Then, he knew? How did he know? Z'hin had assured Laurence that no one could know, no one could possibly know! Was he bluffing? Did Kings bluff? How could Laurence tell? Should he deny it? As he was thinking, he groped for air and his mouth involuntarily muttered, "Spa-? Spa-i-ing?"

"You know the word, Larry. Now answer the question."

Still, Larry was dumbstruck. His inability to decide on a course of action was the only cover he had.

"Do you think I've remained in power all these years because of luck, Larry?" Marcus took one, long step forward before Larry could step back. "Do you think I'm stupid, Larry?" The king continued on past his nephew, saying, "The only reason I've tolerated you down there in Awlsban at all is out of respect for your father. My brother was the finest leader that city has ever had and it was his dying wish that you succeed him. That's the only reason, Larry." Marcus circled back to face his nephew but still Larry did not talk. His mouth was open wide and sweat streamed down his face. "You've mismanaged trade along the Kallent border. You've taxed the local businesses out of existence until you're left with nothing but a handful of desperate artisans. You maintain your local support through a handful of pompous aristocrats, wealthy families with old money but let me tell you something you missed, Larry. Let me tell you something you and your real backers forgot all about." Marcus walked up beside Laurence and whispered in his ear, "Nobody could be as lousy as you are and still be alive."

Laurence's knees were buckling. Sweat drenched his body. He didn't know if he should run or beg or cry or whimper.

Marcus didn't give him a chance to decide. He grabbed his nephew's collar in both hands and shouted, "How long?"

"Seven years!" The words blurted from Laurence's mouth like sprinters aflame. Once out, he found that others raced to follow. "They wanted to know. They told me. After the war. About how stable Rynia was. They wanted to protect a mutual peace. Preserve the alliance. I told them that I'd help them preserve the peace. It was all for Rynia. I did it for Rynia."

Marcus' hands had been gathering more of Laurence's shirt as he spoke but, when the young man had invoked the name of his homeland, Marcus no longer wished to sully his hands. With a shove, he dropped the Duke, who landed on his hands. "Your contact is Kamm, isn't it? That's who you get your orders from."

Laurence rose unsteadily from the floor, his voice shaking as well, "Y-yes, that's right."

"And you make contact with him at a bar in Awlsban?"

"Yes. A messenger."

"A messenger who you meet in Awlsban? Then, how many times have you met directly with Kamm?"

Laurence tried to back against a wall. "I haven't - haven't met with him."

"Please, nephew. I already have every right to hang you for high treason. There's no need to hold back now. You're already dead."

Laurence lowered his head. "I've crossed the border twice. The Ceyliz Alcazar has a secret entrance. We met in the cellars."

"His plan?"

Laurence was hesitant. "Plan, sire?"

"Yes, Larry. Plan! Plan! You certainly don't think he's going to this trouble for nothing!"

"For information, sire," Laurence answered, panicked. "After the war with the undead, he wanted to determine if the borders were protected and I gave him the information he needed to confirm that. He wanted to know the stability of the royal family. How our armed forces were prepared. He wanted to make sure there were enough troops on the border."

"He's going to attack," Marcus asked.

"No, sire. On the contrary! He wants to make sure that Tsurtor doesn't take us so he won't attack Kallent. You mentioned that he hates Tsurtor and it's true! He'd make a fine ally against the evil one."

"He would, you say," Marcus asked, glaring at his nephew. "But you forget to ask yourself some important questions. You trust too easily and that, nephew, shall be your undoing." The monarch turned towards the window, where the rain beat down, and shouted, "Why hasn't he come to me? If he wants information about our stability after Tsurtor's last assault, he can easily attain it from me. Why would he ask about troop concentration on his borders when Tsurtor would certainly attack from the east? What is his interest in the royal family after his disregard all of these years? And why isn't he more interested in Tsurtor and less interested in me?"

"If you suspect him," Laurence said after a long silence, "then you won't be traveling south to enlist aid?"

Marcus stood for several minutes, looking at the rain. Finally, he turned to his nephew with a frown. "On the contrary. That is exactly what I will do. However, I will not be doing it alone."

For a moment, Laurence did not understand but, then, he wore a frown as well.

* * *

Downstairs, in the throneroom, Hex worked beside Helen, tending to the wounded and appeasing the guests. Thankfully, the night reminded the guests of how they should be sleeping and, so, resisted little when they were encouraged to their rooms. As Helen saw each to their quarters, Hex worked beside Bern and his two apprentices, healing the wounded. Soon, they, too, were sleeping and healing, watched over by the apprentices for the night. Hex saw Helen return to the room and went to her.

Their arms went to the comfortable places around each other and they held each other close with heavy sighs of exhaustion. Hex brought his hand up and stroked his wife's hair. "Action is being taken as we speak. Marcus called a meeting and is readying our counterstrike."

Helen put and hand on his chest and looked up at him. "Your words are pleasing, Hex, but they only tell me what I already know. This was only the first strike. Many more will die before this is done. Karlyn, Mark, me, you - "

"Never you, Helen. Never."

"It's war, Hezekiah," she said. She always used his former name when scolding him. "You have to realize that it won't be neat. People are going to die. Just like the last time."

"Yes, sweets," Hex agreed, pulling Helen closer, "and we are going to get through this just like the last time."

Hex held her close for several minutes before they walked up to their quarters.

Later, as Helen changed into her bedclothes, her belly looking very full, she waited for the words that she wanted to hear from her love. Not words of hope or words of consolation. Neither words of determination nor words of optimism would appease her. She awaited those words that he refused to tell her. What would his part be in the coming war? The longer he procrastinated, the worse she knew it must be.

Finally, he entered the bed without those words and Helen, who had waited without entering the bed, fiercely yanked him out. "No! Not without telling me! No! No! You are not entering our bed, Hezekiah Fanlan, until you tell me!"

His lips were taut. He knew what she wanted. She knew he had met with her father. He was the strongest Bonder in the kingdom and leader of the community of wizards in the Palace. She knew he would hold an important part in the coming war.

"I'm returning to Earth," he said, his voice shaking.

Helen took a step back and sat on the bed. "No," she whispered. She had been sure that he was going to build an army of artificial men or lead the other wizards or defend the Regal Isle and, she was also sure, he would have done those things with her by his side. But returning to Earth? His home? She'd only been there once and the experience had filled her with awe. Almost terror. She'd be of no help there. Hex obviously knew that for he only referred to himself returning.

Hex knelt down before his wife, taking her hands. "I haven't a choice, Helen. We need Vincent. We need him more than anything else. He's the only one powerful enough to beat Tsurtor. I can't do it. I'm just a Bonder. But Vincent - he has magic beyond all my reckoning!"

She put a hand to his mouth to shush him and he kissed it. "You're the only one who can do it," she said, more as a question than a statement.

Both of them knew the answer, though. "Yes," Hex replied. "I'll be back in less than two weeks, though."

Hex seemed certain but deep inside Helen's heart she knew he was wrong.

* * *

Several hours later, after Hex was deeply slumbering, a tapping came upon the couple's door. On any normal night, it would have taken time for the door to open but this night it was opened right away. "Hello, father," Helen said. She was wide awake and only a candle lit the front chambers.

"How did you know it was me," Marcus hissed.

"Please, father. If it had been a guard, he would have knocked harder." She motioned for the king to enter and closed the door behind him.

"It could have been Caroline!"

"The girl inherited her daddy's love for sleep, father, you know that. Now, sit down. I've been expecting you."

"Expecting," Marcus asked. "How is that?"

She sat next to him, frowning. "Please, father. You've been in meetings all night long. War is coming. I knew that you'd have things to tell me."

"Things, Helen? But I-"

"Oh, do get on with it! What is my part in this war going to be!"

"Part? Why, you won't have any part."

"What?"

"You're pregnant, my dear. You can't be a part of this war in your condition. It wouldn't be right for your baby or for you."

"So, you plan to leave me? On this isle? While Hex travels to faraway places and you march to meet the enemy?"

Marcus took Helen's hand, wishing that whatever was making her so edgy - the pregnancy, the attack on her party, her husband going away - would stop. "Not at all, sweetheart. You are going to play a very important role, just not on the battlefield."

"Where, then?"

"Helen, this war will be taking place a long way from here. Someone has to rule the kingdom while I'm gone. There's no question in my mind who that person would be. This palace stands as a tribute to your leadership. We'll need it again, now. Here, you will play a pivotal role, for there must be a kingdom to return to after we win this war, and you will bear me that grandson you've promised."

Helen put her other hand atop her father's. "Very well, father. I understand."

"Good. And I won't be going to lead the assault on Tsurtor."

Helen's eyebrows pinched together and her eyes looked sharp. "What?"

"That was what I came here to tell you. I'm going to Kallent."

Helen looked at her father for a moment, her mind racing. "You're going to see the queen, aren't you?"

"Good," Marcus replied approvingly. "You'll make a fine monarch yet, or a great detective. Yes, my goal is the queen but, first, I'm off to Ceyliz."

"You're going to see Kamm? Why?"

"Because he's my brother, Helen. There's a lot of bad blood between us but he is still my brother. He knows just as well as I that we're all that's left of our family. After us, there is only you and a few minor royals left. I'm sure he'll welcome me."

"I hope," Helen replied, dubious.

"There is something else, however, that you need to know. Laurence, your cousin, is a spy for Kallent. Kamm has convinced him that it is for the most harmless of reasons but I am less than assured."

"Yet, you're still going?"

"I must." Helen glared and turned away but Marcus turned her to face him again. "There's no one else who can. No one would have the same chance to sway my brother and to see what he's been up to and the queen wouldn't listen to anyone but me. Kallent has become a very solitary place since the war. They've cut trade. Fewer people move between the borders. We haven't had an ambassador since Kraephten. Something's happening down there and, if we want their help, we're going to have to get to the bottom of it."

Helen rose from the seat and walked over to the window, where the rain still came down. Marcus followed her and held her tight. "Don't let your anger towards me make this any harder, daughter. I haven't a choice."

"I know that, father," she said, turning to face him. "I just feel that I'm losing both of you while you exile me here where it's safe."

Part II

When Vincent awoke, he kind of wished he hadn't. The pain from the harrowing past days was awake before him, tearing at his back and legs and arms and shoulders - in truth, he couldn't think of anywhere that didn't hurt. He would rather have slept through it.

But along with the pain, came a voice. Soothing and calm like a gentle breeze, it told him that things were going to be all right. He was healing nicely. Relax. Relax.

Vincent slowly opened his right eye and found it difficult to see.

"Keep them closed, child. They're as swollen as they can get."

Vincent let his eye fall closed again. He'd seen what he'd wanted to see. The voice he was hearing was from an old woman. Motherly, she cared for his many wounds. How did he end up here? All he remembered was running from the pack. Running and running and -

Now, here he was.

He parted his lips and pushed air out of his lungs, trying to speak. Only a barely audible groan came out.

"Hush. Don't talk. You need rest," the old woman said.

She may have said more but Vincent had returned to sleep.

* * *

Later, when he awoke, his eyes bolted open like curtains to a dark room, letting in the sun. He was laying on a sofa, his arms folded over his chest. Around him, he saw a room built much like some chalet he'd seen in a movie. He turned his head, trying to ignore how much it hurt, but didn't see anyone in the room with him. Beside him lay a big, four poster bed. It was obvious from the decor that this was a woman's quarters. Who was the woman? Vincent couldn't remember who had taken care of him earlier. He couldn't remember awakening.

He tried to stir but his body was so sore that he had to stop and let the pain wash over him. At this rate, it would take him several minutes to rise. If not for the pain, he would have been shocked to find himself dressed in a larger man's clothes. He was in a thick shirt, trousers, and heavy socks. Someone had dressed him. Normally, that would have shocked him. Now, he was just happy to be warm.

He got into a sitting position and stood slowly. The room looked smaller from up here than when he was resting. One door led outside and the window was boarded up. He walked slowly, the only way he could walk, to the door and opened it an inch.

People were talking outside and Vincent held the door open only the crack so he could listen.

"He's still in bed. All of Mar'zhon's wolves sleep during the day so they can come out at night, beneath the stars, for the Hunt!"

"Please, Agnes, try to remember that some of those wolves are our husbands!"

"Besides, it's not even midday yet and he came here tired and beaten."

"Elvie does have a point. She took him in. She'd know if he was a wolf."

"He's a wizard, I tell you! Another wizard to do us harm!"

"Oh, Marta, you see wizards in your bathwater."

"Mark my words! Elvie can see it. Why don't you come out and say something? What are you trying to protect us from?"

Vincent didn't like the way Marta was talking. If Elvie had been his savior, it seemed only right for him to stand up for her. He pushed the door open the rest of the way and all of the ladies - all of them were elderly ladies - turned and gasped. Vincent limped in, saying, "Marta's right. I am a wizard."

He was answered by a round of gasps, women horrified of something Vincent knew nothing about, and Marta spouted, so sure of herself, "You see! This one will cause us hardship, too!"

"Yeah," Vincent replied, "but you're missing something, Marta. Why do you think I had to run from those wolves? I don't have any powers. They were stolen from me by another wizard. I couldn't fight those wolves if I'd wanted to."

"Your powers were stolen," one of the ladies asked.

"What kind of wizard are you?"

"Obviously not a very good one."

Elvie walked up to Vincent and took his hand. "It's good to see you well. You had a harrowing night."

"You saved me?"

"Well," Elvie said, "you helped."

"What about," Vincent tried to ask, indicating his clothes.

"You were covered in blood and your garments were torn. Those were my husband's. I am sorry they don't exactly fit you." That was obvious. The pants fell below his feet and he walked on the excess. His shirt sleeves covered his hands. The rest looked big enough to fit two more of him.

"Then, you're a wizard without his powers. How do we know you still don't mean us harm?"

Vincent turned to Marta, who once again had the other women's attention. "My being here is an accident. The wizard who took my powers sent me here. Where am I?"

"You are in Mar'zhon's land," another woman answered.

"Who's Mar'zhon?"

"Mar'zhon is the wizard who took our men and turned them into wolves. They fight for him now. Our children and theirs fled south long ago to safety but we remain with our hopes no matter how vain they may be. Mar'zhon will not be defeated. His power is great," Elvie replied.

"These men do it against their will," Vincent noted.

"How is it you know that," Agnes growled.

"I had to kill one on my way down the mountain. He told me something about Mar'zhon and the wolves."

"Who was he," a quiet voice asked.

"Fallsbur," Vincent replied.

A woman cried out as though she'd been struck and Vincent realized, to his horror, that she could have been Fallsbur's wife.

He looked at Elvie, his nerves steeled. "Who is Mar'zhon?"

"He came several years ago, claiming this land as his. He rose a tower from out of the ground and demanded that we pay him a portion of our harvest and our livestock. Our men went out to fight him and never returned. Then came the Hunt and we learned what had happened to our men."

"Another wizard came about a year ago," Marta said. "Sondolak. He said he'd rid us of Mar'zhon but he was no better. He wanted the same things because he said that would show him our appreciation. When we couldn't spare our meager harvests and livestock, he said we didn't show due regard for his efforts."

Vincent felt a sick feeling in his stomach as he thought back to several days (or had it been weeks?) before:

Rolf Heaphge, Commander of Rynian Forces, had said to him, "Young man, you should always remember that a hero does not perform his feats of heroism simply to be remembered. Seldom is the debt repaid."

"Are you okay," Elvie asked.

Vincent looked up at the ladies and nodded briefly, "What about this Mar'zhon? What's his plan? Why's he doing all this?"

"Why," Marta asked. "A wizard? What does he need with reasons? What other need does he have for the things he does? Why, you ask? Simple. Because he can!"

The second hit, like a jackhammer, and almost doubled him over.

Vincent had been standing in the desert, watching with glee the destruction his magic had caused. "Why the hell did you do that," Hex had asked. "Cause I can," Vincent had shouted back.

Because I can.

"Is this some kind of joke!" Vincent yelled at the top of his lungs, looking towards the ceiling. "Tell me! Is this some trick!"

"He raves," one of the women said.

"Perhaps he's not completely healed," another supposed, pointing a bony finger in the general direction of her head.

Vincent looked at them, irked, and said, "Excuse me." He hurried as much as he could towards the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

"Now, tell me," he shouted. "This is some kind of trick, isn't it!"

No. It's no trick.

"Then, what's the joke?"

It's not a joke, either.

"Look," he said, more calmly now, "both of these wizards are acting just like me. But I just want some appreciation, some recognition. These wizards want these people's belongings! There's a big difference between wanting a Thank You and wanting somebody's stuff!"

Yes. There is. However, you expect it, don't you. The difference becomes smaller and is only one of degree.

Vincent looked at the ceiling for several minutes, trying to think of what to say next. "So, what? Am I hypnotized? Is this some world in my mind just to teach me -"

These are real people, Vincent, and at no time are you to think of them as any less. They are in a desperate position and need your help... as much as you need theirs.

"I need-? Well, what about my powers? Do I get my powers? How am I supposed to help them if you took away my powers?"

But I didn't, Vincent. If your powers are lost then it is up to you to find them.

"How?"

With your eyes.

Vincent didn't know what Raphineal could mean by that but knew that Raphineal might help him some more if he played his game. Save the townsfolk. He knew he couldn't do it alone and he knew the women couldn't help against a pack of werewolves. The answer was simple.

All eyes were upon him as he walked out of the room.

"So, where's this Sondolak?"

Part III

Mark woke up the next morning with what amounted to a hangover in his mouth. He put his hand against his jaw and, while he could tell it was in one piece, it felt like someone had been hitting him all night long.

"Mmmmm," he groaned. "O-ow."

"Jaw still hurt? No surprise." Kraephten stood over Mark's bed, already dressed for the journey ahead. "Still, can't let that stop us, eh? There's a war out there waiting to be won. Up with ye!" He pulled the blankets back from Mark who was still wearing his trousers from the night's violent party. He grabbed two handfuls of clothing and threw them on the bed. "Dress yourself. Your other things have been packed. I want you dressed and armed. Now, lad!"

Mark, who had precariously perched himself on the edge of the bed - precariously because he felt he'd fall back any minute - was still rubbing his jaw but clarity was slowly returning to him. "Tzurritza." The word came slowly out of his mouth as he tried not to move his jaw.

"Aye. And it's no short ride. I want to hit Paead, see what the whether is like."

"Weather?"

"Whether or not we'll survive."

Kraephten left Mark to dress himself and went to find some tea. The clothes he had put out for the duke were leathers, high, soft boots, greaves and gauntlets, and a heavy, leather jacket. Clothes for hard traveling and fighting. His sabre, set in his over-shoulder scabbard, hung by the leather straps on the bedpost. Kraephten returned minutes later as Mark was tying the second greave to his right leg. Mark was surprised to see that he came with another, a dark figure, dressed all in black.

"Drink this," Kraephten said, handing him a cup.

Mark took a sip and the foul fluid drew his lips taut and brought a sneer to his face.

"It's a bitter brew but it'll wake you up."

Mark drank the rest down in two swallows, trying not to let his taste buds interfere. "Who is this," he asked, handing back the cup.

"This'll be our traveling companion. He's good in a fight, alert, keen hearing, and'll keep up on anything we miss."

"He looks like a criminal," Mark commented, the syllables passing painfully through his teeth.

"You have a problem with criminals," the stranger asked.

Kraephten laughed, "I've known him since he was a boy. Trained him myself."

"Of course," Mark said with a sudden realization, "I remember you from the caves. You're just bigger now. You're Kraephten's assistant, Timothy!"

"I am The Hand of Night."

"I told him he needs to get a day job." Kraephten tossed Mark's sword to him. "You're ready. Tie that on and let's be gone."

The horses were waiting outside of the stable. Bags were already tied on and the horses were almost skittish, knowing that a long journey lay ahead. They started out, through the massive, palace gates, at a walk. The day was still dark, though the sun had begun to rise, and farmers and traders carried their goods through the streets. The clouds above them were spent and a cold wind carried through the city. It was a short trip to the harbor where Kraephten went to procure them passage to the mainland.

As Kraephten spoke to a captain several yards away, Mark and Timothy waited on their horses. "So," Mark asked, "the old guy taught you everything you know?"

"Not everything," Timothy muttered.

"Oh, really?"

"No. He didn't teach me how to kill a man. I learned that on my own."

Concluding his business, Kraephten returned to his horse and konked Timothy on the head with the hilt of his vittahr. "I didn't teach him that rotten attitude, either."

* * *

Already out at sea, Red Martag sailed a private yacht toward a beach south of Linson. As they neared the beach, Red shouted down to his passengers to wake before they hit the beach. They had no horses, it wouldn't do for them to be seen leaving the palace or Imperial City. Red dropped anchor and, as full dawn came upon them, rowed his passengers to shore.

"I can't say as how I agree with this. You're just puttin' yourself in danger."

"No different from last time," one of the dark figures said.

"Aye, there is one difference, sire," Red protested. He'd promised not to use Marcus' title on land but they were still on the water. "This time, I'm not with you."

"No, you're not, Red," Marcus replied. "I'm going to need people I can trust to remain with my daughter. She's a fine leader but she'll need good people to lead."

"She surely will with you getting yourself killed."

"You don't really believe that, do you, Red," Marcus asked, his hand on his bat.

"You may be good with that, your highness, but there are many out there younger than you are. You might not be able to fight them yourself."

As the boat landed on the beach, Red and Marcus pulled it ashore. Marcus and his companion took their packs and readied themselves to be off. Marcus shook Red's hand a final time. "Don't worry about me, Red. The war is a long way away. There might be spies in Kallent but the queen will put a stop to it. She'll be grateful for my personal assistance and will send up the troops we need. Then, we'll push Tsurtor back where he came from."

Red pushed his boat into the water and rowed out to the yacht. Marcus looked at his companion and said, "Now, Laurence, from here on in my name is Mack. I'm a soldier - a sergeant - from the palace. I'm with you to send world about the coming hostilities, got it?"

"Yes, sire - er - Mack."

As Red stepped back upon the yacht, he spied the two figures in the day's first light, hiking up the shore and a tight feeling in his gut told him that he'd never see them again.

* * *

As Red was leaving Marcus and his nephew off for their journey, another icon of the Rynian royal family was preparing his leave. Lucion had been roused from his sleep by an aide and knocked upon the royal couple's quarters as the sun was fully up. Hex answered and showed the little wizard in without a word.

Little was known about Lucion. The little man had come from Paead with his sister, Lasio. They had both manifested their magical talents at about the same time, Moving from place to place. When they'd reached their adolescence, they left the hard life of the Paeadian fields, Moving mile across mile to the Rynian realm. Their destination had been the Imperial Palace, where they became Imperial wizards. Lasio had died several years later, when Hargoth had launched his assault upon the Rynians from within the Palace. The loss of his sister, his closest friend in the world, had driven Lucion into solitude. Even now, years after the war, he was still a solitary figure.

"Now, you understand what we're doing, right?"

Lucion nodded at the wizard, "We'll move there," he replied, pointing at the picture of Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. Hex had been given other pictures. New York. Paris. Florida. None were close enough to Country Gardens, though.

"Right. Just next to that bench," Hex replied. "Now, things are going to be different, there. From what Vincent was wearing, I'd guess it's summer. You're going to see and hear a lot of strange things but if you stick with me, everything should be all right. Nobody should notice your clothing. We'll have time to get you new ones."

"But, he's going to a different world, Hex," Helen said, walking out of the bedroom in her warm robe.

"Yes," Hex replied, "but he's going to California. That's a different world in itself! Now, we're going to go right to Country Gardens and pick up Vincent. This shouldn't take too long."

"How long should you be," Helen asked.

Hex thought for a moment. "I'll need time to get money for travel so we're looking at two days, three tops."

"So, then that's it?"

"If Lucion's ready."

Lucion nodded.

Helen grabbed Hex like a vice and held him against her. "Don't do anything crazy, Hex."

"Helen, trust me. This is a cake walk. There's no way anything can go wrong."

She looked up at him. "Have you already forgotten that Hargoth turned our anniversary party into a battle field?"

"I haven't, sweets," he replied, holding her. He kissed her and she held him there, ignoring Lucion's presence. "I'll be careful, Helen. I promise."

She let him go and he went to Lucion's side. They clasped hands, Lucion concentrating on the picture from Hex's world.

One moment they were there. The next -

Helen felt the air shift to fill the vacuum left at the two wizard's departure. She felt a sudden sickness in the pit of her stomach. It's morning sickness, she told herself. It's just morning sickness.

* * *

Full sun had not yet reached Ktoll, and the black rocks of Mount Brutalitie seethed with their volcanic hate, while Tsurtor stood before his army. It spread beneath the morning sky like a festering, cancerous growth, a metaphor Tsurtor would have liked. Over fifty thousand saladan foot soldiers stood before him. Flanking their left, almost a thousand tanks, APC's, and jeeps, along with several hundred howitza's and heavier, mobile artillery, formed in rows. Flanking their right, nearly a hundred jets, bombers and fighters of many different makes and models, lined the field. Behind them all, standing like a threat, almost two thousand behemoths crowded together. Before them all, Tsurtor's newest acquisitions: dragons.

Black as Tsurtor's soul, they heaved steamy breath, awaiting their commands. It had taken Tsurtor's special attention, hatching them and raising them at an accelerated rate. Now, only weeks later, they were nearly full grown, a process that, if left to itself, would have taken a hundred years. Tsurtor was not working to that time schedule, though, nor would he settle for nature's more benevolent outcome. Benevolent for a dragon? To Tsurtor, dragon's had been naught but flying cows, until now. He looked upon them with pride. Their teeth hung like extended needles, each ready to inject its dose of poison. Their tails, too, dripped with poison. They breathed fire as a matter of course. There was no need to stoke the bellows within their guts. Each stood as a statue of armor; to see them fly was to see a mastery of disregard for physical laws. Tsurtor could only look down upon them because he stood on a raised podium. Each dragon stood well over twenty meters in height and had a wingspan three times that size. Tsurtor flashed a lecherous smile; these were truly killing machines.

Tsurtor had gone to great lengths to get here. His diversion of eight years previous had paid off much better than he'd ever dreamed. The Rynians had grown soft since the great war and ran in terror from his undead and his stone giants. Indeed, if not for a couple pesky wizards from Earth, he'd have won the kingdom with minimal effort. For Tsurtor, though, the diversion had paid off handsomely. While the Rynian's rebuilt their farms and businesses, he built his war machine. Moving between Ktoll and Earth, Tsurtor had brought the weapons with which he'd wage war. Tanks from Israel and Saudi Arabia. Jets from Russia and China. Guns of all shapes and sizes from America. The saladans worshiped Tsurtor like a god which, in his own eyes, he was. They were lizardlike creatures, almost men. They stood erect upon two legs and had two arms. Yet, their body temperature was so high that their touch burned human flesh.

All stood before the great sorcerer in silent awe. No one moved.

Tsurtor closed his eyes and entered a deep trance. Pekit, standing beside him, tried not to breath; even the slightest sound would have incurred the master's wrath. Many moments passed as Tsurtor stood like an extension of the mountain, unmoving. Then, his eyes opened and he took a deep breath. "They're on their way," he said. The mountain's walls carried his voice to the furthest rows.

All knew what this meant and they cheered.

Rynia was finished.

CHAPTER SIX

UNWELCOME GREETINGS

Part I

"It's Duke Laurence! Off your asses, men, and show a salute for royalty!" The sergeant whomped heads with opposing sides of his bat until the four soldiers at Awlsban's eastern gate rose to their feet. They were a sad display of a lax army. They didn't bother to pick up their bats and they slouched when they saluted.

The sergeant gave a grin as Laurence and his companion rode by. One of the privileges of royalty, Lawrence had commandeered the horses after hiking only a few, short miles inland. "Sorry, sir. It's the quality of men these days," the sergeant said, returning to his seat as the two entered the town.

After riding several yards more, Laurence thought he could dismiss what they'd seen by saying, "There's not much to keep them busy."

"It's midday, Laurence," Mack grumbled. "These, at the very least, should be alert. When was the last time you inspected them personally? When was the last time you saw to any matter within these walls?"

Laurence rode quietly.

Mack almost heard himself grumble, "Kids today," but stopped himself just in time. He didn't know if he was angrier with his nephew's incompetence or his own age. If this was any indication of his kingdom's strength, the whole of Rynia had grown soft and lazy amidst its prosperity. "Find your city commander. Have him send as many men as he can to the Paeadian border. Then, send word to your contact to meet him in the usual place by supper. I'll find you then."

Laurence nodded. "Yes, er, Mack."

"If you don't stop being so formal, I'll bust your teeth in."

Laurence nodded again, nervously.

"Now, where are we meeting?"

"The Kallent Bounder."

"Of course," Mack grumbled. He dismounted from his horse and handed his nephew the reins, "Have them both tended to. I want to be out by night."

Laurence rode northwards to his family's manor, leaving Mack behind.

Mack unslung his bat and carried it in both hands, at ready, south to the Kallent Bounder. It was a small bar, at the end of Caravan Row. Caravan Row stretched along the southern wall and was well known as where the seedier traders coming from or going to points north, south, and west stayed. It made Mack wonder. What would Laurence, who'd had no formal training in brawling or knives, swords or bats, be doing in an area known for its cutpurses, cutthroats, and pickpockets? If he had been involved in legitimate inter-kingdom relations, the meetings could easily have been held in the Duke's far-too-luxurious manor. Then, too, perhaps it was easier to leave the city, and make his rendezvous with the Ceyliz sovereign, hidden amidst a Kallent bound caravan.

Caravan Row was easy to find; this wasn't Mack's first time in Rynia's southernmost city. The dregs of Awlsbanian society had long since spilled over its confines, running several blocks up South Street. Paupers, pitchmen and prostitutes lined the Row, all watching Mack like some new amusement. Mack looked down at his shoes, scuffed and marked up from years of overuse. His pants were frayed at the cuffs. He hadn't bothered bathing the previous night and his face grew stubble. His jacket, though, his leather riding jacket, was giving him away. Too rich, Mack thought. Too new.

Mack stepped up to a beggar who was about his same size. "What'cha got, pops?"

"Pops," the beggar protested, "why I'm no older than you and - hey!" The beggar gave a little scream as Mack grabbed him by the scuff of the neck and pushed him into the alley. "I didn't mean no harm by - oh please - !"

"Hush," Mack hissed. "I just want to transact a trade someplace private." He removed his riding jacket and held it out. "Here. Now give me yours."

"Mine?" The beggar smiled through the few teeth he had. He quickly removed his jacket and gave it to Mack who slipped it on. "I'll trade you shoes, too, if you want -" he started to say, but Mack was already gone.

The jacket was rank but Mack counted on that. He stepped out of the alley, glad to see that no one had paid any attention to his transaction. As he walked up Caravan Row, he knew that the jacket had worked. Everyone avoided him. He stepped into the Kallent Bounder without attracting a second glance.

The pub didn't smell much better than his jacket. The dirt on the floor gathered in clumps and no one wanted to know what it hid. Only midday and the place was already full. There was no barmaid to see to the tables. In fact, there were hardly any tables. Benches were placed in triangular groupings. A fat, aproned figure stood behind the bar, pulling ale from kegs, which were drunk as fast as he pulled them.

"You got a room," Mack yelled over the din.

The bartender turned, dropping the wooden cups on the bar. "Got one upstairs but it's rented by day not by hour. This here's a respectable place!"

Two prostitutes walked in with four men, covered in fresh dust. They joined the several other prostitutes who were performing lewd acts amongst the groups of men for copper.

"Who you think you're lying to? I got eyes!" Mack launched himself across the bar with a threatening swipe at the proprietor.

"Fine, then!" The proprietor grimaced, "It'll be two copper, then."

"What's the night," Mack shouted, his voice just audible over the sound of two men beating a whore.

"Five," the proprietor yelled back.

Mack reached into his boot and pulled out a dernig. Ten coppers. The proprietor reached for it but Mack still held it down. "The rest is for damages," he said with an evil grin.

The proprietor mouthed the word, "Damages," as Mack brought up his bat. In one motion, he turned to the two men beating the prostitute and struck one solidly on the knee. He felt bone crunch beneath his weapon and brought the right end up to the other's face. In seconds, both were on the floor, moaning.

"Now," he muttered, "I feel better."

* * *

In his many years of traveling as Mack, he'd seen worse places. As a rule, though, he'd never slept in them. The room was only half as large as the small bar below, long enough to fit the bed and little else. There was a stool, though, and Mack sat upon it, watching for his nephew's arrival. As darkness replaced light, and Mack could smell the rank supper being cooked below, more traders and caravan riders filled the bars along Caravan Row. There seemed to be an endless supply of brawls, duels, and prostitutes below to keep Mack entertained as he waiting for Laurence's arrival.

The young man would have to come walking. Only a madman would take his horse upon this street. Either a madman or someone who no longer wanted his horse. Eight years after the last war, they were still a commodity. Thousands had been slaughtered by the undead and they were only slowly being replaced. He wouldn't come in his finery, either, or risk being mugged a hundred different ways by as many men. He'd arrive as Mack did, unkept, unclean, inconspicuous, and -

But, wait!

What was that?

Hurrying down the street like a ghost late for a funeral, a black figure rushed toward the bar. Inconspicuous, he was not. He wore a black cape and a large, black hat. He may have been an unscrupulous businessman, a pimp, or some frenetic assassin. Perhaps, but Mack knew who it was. In a section of town where the most brash prevailed (most trash prevailed), the most outrageous figure would be the most inconspicuous.

Mack left the room and descended into the bar. "You got something behind there I won't need to chew on," he hollered at the bartender.

"Whiskey," was the answer.

He came away with a cup of water with an alcohol scent and made his way through the room. Several prostitutes were dancing for a large crowd who threw coppers at their feet. Others just drank and grumbled. Still, there was no sign of the Duke. Could they be somewhere alone? Perhaps in a room? But there were no rooms on the lower floor, only the door to the kitchen and the stairs leading to his room.

There was something else, though. The wall along the back of the bar, which should have been against the back alley, was too close. On the right side, the kitchen was behind the bar but, to the left, there was only the wall.

Mack sidled his way to the wall and felt along the knobby wood, assured that the women were drawing most of the attention from those who had not yet drunk themselves blind. Halfway across, he felt a crack and leaned against it, pushing the wall as smoothly as he could. The secret door had been left unlocked and it led into an unlit hallway. He closed the door softly behind him and waited for his eyes to adapt. At the end of the hall was a dimly lit room. The noise from without was muffled and Mack could just barely hear voices coming from within.

"I had to meet with you. It's very important," he heard Laurence whisper. "I need to meet with Kamm."

"Is not possible," another's voice rattled. "Kamm sees you when Kamm wants to see you. Kamm decides."

"But surely you must have some influence. This is of the utmost importance."

A crackling grumble came, followed by the question, "How important?"

Laurence gulped and spilled his guts, "War has been declared. Tsurtor sent Hargoth to the anniversary celebration and he - The Rynian army is mustering but they might not be able to hold him back! We need Kamm's help! If he sends troops, his reputation could - "

Could what, Mack thought. His reputation could be restored in Rynia? Not likely. Kamm had abandoned Rynia when he knew he'd not hold a royal post. His sisters married dukes. With his elder brothers dead in the aftermath of war, Marcus was made king. There was nothing left for Kamm, nothing with any prestige, at least, or dignity, to hear Kamm tell it. So, Kamm had sailed off to Kallent, proclaiming his allegiance to their Queen.

But the other's rattly voice disturbed Mack's thoughts. "We care not of his reputation. If war is coming, he must be notified. No troops will be diverted to rescue your kingdom."

At this point, Mack thought it best if he took over the negotiations. "Perhaps, then," he said, stepping into the room, "we can speak with Kamm ourselves." The final word left like a gasp. Mack had wondered why the stranger's voice had been so rattly. Why the room had been so dim. Why they didn't meet in the midst of a large crowd or at the mansion.

It was a bimune! Mack had heard of them before. He'd even seen a specimen. They stood just over a meter in height, standing on two, strong legs. Covered in chitinous armor along its body, they had four arms, two longer and the lower two shorter, and a small head with shiny, red eyes, sensitive to bright light. Mack remembered Hex calling them giant cockroaches but their carapace was proportionally smaller than that of a roach.

The rattling was the sound of its armor clicking against itself.

"What," the bimune screeched. "You said you weren't followed!"

"He wasn't," Mack muttered, approaching the bimune with a strange fascination. "I didn't know your kind could talk."

"Plenty you don't know. Won't know!" The bimune launched itself from its chair and landed on the table between the two.

"No, wait," Laurence tried to say but was knocked aside by the creature's strong, upper arm.

The bimune moved so fast that it was off the table and springing toward Mack before he could duck. It's armor pounded upon him like rocks and Mack pushed it off as he fell to the ground. As he lifted himself back up, he saw the creature coming and threw a kick to its leg. The leg gave, fracturing at the joint, but the bimune followed its inertia, landing several blows to Mack before he fell.

The bimune fell under its broken leg, shouting, "Our secret must not be let out! You must die!" The creature propped itself on its lower arms and pulled Mack down with its powerful upper arms.

Mack fell and was shocked into action. He knew, as he was being pulled toward the bimune, what would happen if he came close enough to its powerful pincers. Even now, the pincers, attached to the front of its face like a mouth, clicked as they snapped on empty air. Mack' left leg was already pinned down beneath the creature and he couldn't work it free. He brought his right leg up and kicked with all his might at the creature's face. Again, he was pulled inches closer. He kicked again and again, trying to push the thing away. Still, he was pulled closer. Leaning over, he grabbed the back of the carapace and flipped the creature off of him, pinning it against the wall. Using the carapace as a handhold, he pounded it against the wall and stood up, out of breath.

Mack was stunned for a moment, holding his chest, which felt as if the bimune had cracked a rib. He watched the floor for several moments but the creature didn't stir.

"It's regenerating," Laurence said, having risen from the ground. "They slip into a coma-like state and come out again when their healed."

"And then," Mack asked.

"Then," Laurence replied, "he'll try to kill you again."

"I see." Mack took a few steps back from the creature. "So, what do we do now?"

Laurence's face took on a grim determination. "I never thought he'd try to kill you. I thought I could convince him to meet with you and get word to Kamm to send us troops." He picked up one of the table's legs which had broken off and was spiked at the end. "I was wrong." He placed the stick upon its neck, where the armor was broken up into many different segments, and pushed down, piercing the armor, driving it through to the other side. Laurence looked up at his uncle, "I don't know how they die but I'd say that should do it."

Mack looked at the growing puddle of green and black ichor. "I'd say." Mack took a chair and sat down across the room. "So, what do we do now."

Laurence sat across from him. "I tell you everything I've learned. I should have from the beginning. You're not only my uncle but my king. I understand now where my loyalties lie."

"So, you'll tell me everything, then?"

With a nod, Laurence took a deep breath, and began. "The bimunes have been learning from the Kallents. For the most part, they still live in the ground but they've started interacting, wanting a part in Kallent society." Laurence spoke slowly as the shock of the fight began to hit him. "Kamm has hired many on his staff. This was Z'hin, one of the few males to ascend past the status of drone. Most of the bimunes that have learned human ways are females. This all started about ten years ago. After the war, when there were more people in Ceyliz, the bimunes wanted to know where they fit in. Kamm welcomed them above ground. Right now, they're going through a kind of social revolution, trying to fit the bimunes in with the humans. Kamm wanted to make sure it didn't spill over into Rynia and he also wanted to make sure none of Rynia's problems went there. The best way, he told me, was to exchange information. That was where I fit in. Z'hin made me promise never to disclose his presence. I kept my promise but I never thought that the alternative was... this."

Mack thought for a few moments, running Laurence's tale through his mind against everything else he knew. He looked over at Laurence. From the dim light cast by the candle on the wall, the young duke looked unwell. "Are you going to be all right?"

"All right? Yes. No. I've never killed..."

Mack nodded, "And it was hard?"

"No," Laurence said as if he surprised himself. "It was easy."

"Ah," Mack replied. "That's even worse."

"What do we do?"

"The what is easy. It's filling in the blanks that's the hard part." Mack paused for a moment, watching a wave of queasiness pass over his nephew. "We still go to Ceyliz. The two of us. All of our answers lie in Ceyliz. If Kamm is behind something, something to do with these newly intelligent bimunes, or not, we'll find out there. If he is, we need to learn what's going on. They may want to keep something a secret from us. In which case, we have to learn what the secret is. If there is no secret, we still need to get those troops. No matter what Kallent's problems might be, Tsurtor is coming and we need to get help.

"We'll go on the assumption that something is wrong. The bimunes wouldn't be so secretive if they wanted to be part of Kallent society. They wouldn't go around trying to kill heads of state. I say we go in as strangers and try to find that back entrance you told me about. We'll see Kamm alone and get some answers from him... or beat them out of him."

Laurence looked nervous. "There's something you should know, uncle. That back entrance wasn't built by Kamm."

"Oh?"

"No. It's the bimune tunnels."

Mack looked down at the dead creature, who still twitched though his lifeblood was spilled upon the ground. "Of course, why should this be easy?"

Part II

To the north, another party didn't bother stopping in Awlsban. Bemmiton was their destination.

"And once again, why are we going to Bemmiton," asked Timothy.

"You don't catch on, do you," Mark asked.

Kraephten shrugged, "He's taken the last eight years off to play thief."

"Bemmiton's the closest city we have to the Paeadian frontier. If anyone's heard anything out of Paead, it's Bemmiton," Mark said.

The three riders looked down the road, upon the great plain that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was the Plains to the Sea, covering the land from the eastern reaches of Paead to the Seadilia Sea. Looking down from a hill, it appeared to be bisected into many squares, the farms that flourished upon the plains. The sides of the farms were marked off by hedgerows, fences, or dirt roads. After several more days of riding, Bemmiton was easy to see, a vast congregation of buildings at the south end of the plains.

"I grew up there," Mark said to nobody.

Its nearness was an illusion. It took two more days of riding before they reached the city. They entered on the main road to the north, though they could have entered anywhere. Bemmiton was not a walled city.

Mark gave a light tug on his reins to stop his mare. "Okay, Kraephten, you seem to know where to go for information. I'll see if I've arrived before Baroness Gleishe. If so, I'll forward the king's orders to the city's commander."

"Okay, lad," Kattox said to Timothy, "let's do our stuff."

"I'm a thief, Kattox," Timothy replied. "I should find very little to steal here except corn husks and clover."

"I think you're beginning to catch on."

They rode to the south end of the city. There were fewer farmers there. Instead of carts lining the roads, huge rigs, built to carry large hauls of produce, indicated where the traders stayed. "They'll be en route to or from Poda, that's the nearest town in Paead. Nearest to Tzurritza, too."

But they learned little, that day, for all the pubs and inns that they entered. Trade was slackening off as fall turned to winter. The late harvests had passed and, now, there was little business but that of returning home before the snows fell.

Kraephten and Timothy caught up with Mark on the west side of town, at the grand home where he had been raised. Mark came out when he heard the two ride up. "Kraephten, let me introduce you to my brother, Kurt."

"Is what I hear true," Kurt asked with a smile. "Did they go and make a duke out of him."

"Aye," Kraephten said, "and nothing's been the same since."

"I must be off, Kurt. We have a lot of riding ahead of us if we're to win this war. You'll do what I asked?"

"Yes. It will be difficult but I'll try to have the clan out east before month's end."

"I pray that's soon enough," Mark said.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay, then?"

"No, thank you. We don't know how far Tsurtor has advanced. We can't waste any time."

The two brothers embraced, not speaking of the violent times to come, each fearful that they'd seen the last of the other. Without another word, Mark climbed into the saddle and the three rode off again.

"So, what's the real reason," Kraephten finally asked, breaking the silence that had settled over the three.

"I'm the black sheep, Kattox. I left home as soon as I was old enough. Turned my back on the family business so I turned my back on the family. Add to that the fact that I followed in my father's footsteps," Mark sighed and looked over at Timothy. "General Lonna Nygarra. After he was crippled in the big war... nothing I can do can make up for that and, if you must know, I'd rather not sleep beneath it."

"I know exactly what you mean," said Timothy.

"You do?"

"Yes. My folks ran to Ceyliz during the war and I stayed behind with this desert rat. After the war, they sent word for me to join them - pa needed a hand with his new fishing boat. I knew that I was destined for more than fishing, so I stayed. I became the best thief in the Imperial City. Not good enough for them, though. They disowned me."

"Sure," Mark replied, picking up his pace. "I'm a duke. You're a thief. It's practically the same thing."

They continued to the west, skirting the plains, taking the road that led through the woods that lined the southern edge.

"So, why don't we go down there and ask some of those farmers if they've heard any news from Paead," Timothy asked.

"Those country folk go no further than their neighbor's outhouse except when they bring their goods to market. They don't care about Paead; they just want to get the most they can for their crop," Mark replied.

"The problem with you, Timothy," Kraephten said, "is that you're a city thief."

"There's a problem with that," Timothy asked. "I did pretty well as a thief."

"Yes," Kraephten said, "but you never traveled, did you?"

"I don't understand," Timothy started to say until, with a flash, he realized. "Highwaymen!"

"I do believe the boy's catching on," Kraephten added with a smile.

On they rode, for several days, along the darkest road that skirted the plains. Few others took that road and the three travelers took it for a good sign. However, several days and many highwaymen later, they still had learned no information. They neared Poda with nothing gained but sword and staff practice.

"They're all idiots," Timothy exclaimed. "A good city thief would know everything going on for blocks around!"

"Don't worry, lad," said Kraephten. "I think we taught them all a lesson or two."

"It's getting late," Mark told them. "I suggest we get a room before looking for news tomorrow."

"Place looks like a real boom town," Timothy muttered as they entered the small, Paeadian city. Calling it small is a misnomer. There were no large Paeadian cities. They hardly stood long enough to grow any larger than a few buildings. Too, Paead had no central government with which to support growth. Paeadian cities went through short spurts of little growth followed by long periods of much violence brought upon by outsiders looking to grab territory. Usually, the outsider quickly found out how worthless Paeadian land was and how penniless its inhabitants were and soon left, opening territory for the next outside conqueror. The only exception was Tsurtor, who had a permanent claim to the land by virtue of his violence. To him, its inhabitants were resources to be grabbed. Inhabitants already beaten by a bitter earth made pliable slaves.

However, as they passed building after building, they could tell something was wrong. Not a horse, a cart, nor a peasant could be seen. No lamps were lit within a window and the air was rank with tension.

"Helloooo," Kraephten called. His voice echoed off the buildings like desert canyon walls. In the dim, evening light, they could make out an inn's crest. "Come on," Kraephten said, dismounting.

Timothy stepped down from his horse. "If there's anyone left in this town, they'd be in here."

But the building was void of any life. The doors hadn't been nailed shut. People had just packed up and left.

Mark looked behind the bar. Full bottles remained ready to be poured. Though it was dark, Mark poured himself a whiskey and took a sip. "Locusts run from the storm," he said.

"What's that," asked Timothy.

"I grew up in farm country. Whenever a wind storm hit the plains, the locusts knew it long before man and they'd run. It's a terrifying sight to see a thousand of them fill the sky at once. Kunsiit's way of telling you that she'd flatten your house next," Mark observed, invoking the name of the weather goddess.

"So, you think these people had warning of the coming war," Kraephten asked.

"Aye," Mark said.

"Or they were taken by Tsurtor to be his army," said Tim.

"Or feed it," added Kraephten.

Part III

Moving between worlds was no different from Moving from one side of the Imperial Palace to the other. That's what made it so disconcerting. One moment, Hex was within his chambers, having just said his goodbyes to his wife. The next, sunlight was dashed upon his face, blinding and warming him. Familiar sounds assaulted his ears, sounds he hadn't heard in nearly a decade. Car horns. Engines. Planes. Radios. Ships. And a crush of people so loud he could only be in a mega-metropolis like San Francisco.

Standing in Golden Gate Park, the city towered over him like a solemn reminder that he was no longer in the simpler world of Rynia. (Simple? Advanced science pretending to be magic? Animated rock declaring war? Dwarves? Dragons? Tsurtor? _Okay, maybe not simple_ , Hex thought.) Behind him, gleaming structures towered like spires to heaven. Hex had forgotten how much they'd dwarf the Imperial Palace. There were hundreds, no, thousands of people on the streets, enjoying the California sun. Hex was sure they hadn't been noticed.

"Aaagh!!" Lucion clutched at his head, covering his eyes and screamed like his spine were being salted. "Aaaaaaagh!!"

This attracted attention.

"Lucion. Lucion! Calm down!" Hex tried not to shout but it was hard to be heard over the wizard's screaming. "Sit down! Here, sit down!" Hex tried to force Lucion on to a bench but, as he was pushing him down, Lucion fell into a fetal position.

Then, the wizard started rolling on the ground, curled up, screaming.

"What's going on down here?" A police officer approached the two as a crowd gathered around.

With no idea how he'd explain the situation, Hex pushed Lucion in the bay.

Hope that clears your head, he thought.

The Rynian sputtered for air and shook his head as the police officer watched from beside Hex. All eyes were on the Mover, though, as he opened his eyes and saw the skyscrapers once again. He let out a terrible scream, shook, and - disappeared.

There was a splash as water filled the empty space.

"What did you do with him," the officer yelled, grabbing Hex's arm.

"Do," Hex asked, himself wondering how he'd explain the wizard's disappearance.

The officer looked down into the water but it was too murky to see any deeper than a few inches. Nothing resurfaced. "What did you do? Tie weights onto his legs?"

Within seconds, Hex was spun around, cuffs bound his arms tightly behind him, and his rights were being read.

This was not what he had planned.

* * *

Later, left alone in a chair at the officer's desk, Hex tried to think. He had been taken to Park Station on Stanyon. He had kept quiet during the trip, sitting in the rear seat of the black and white, while the officer harassed him. "What was it? A love triangle? Were you a couple? Was it drugs? Business rivals?"

And Hex had wondered why he hadn't missed Earth very much.

He had tried to work his magic upon the cuffs but it was almost impossible with his hands uncomfortably behind his back. He couldn't manipulate them or see them. He just wanted them to loosen up! He wondered what the police could charge him with, if anything. Disturbing the peace? Murder? There was no body but plenty of witnesses, including the cop.

"Okay, get up," the cop approached him from behind and lifted him by the elbow. "We've got your bio, Fanlan, and there's no way you're getting away this time."

Hex was led across the room until he stopped short. "This time?"

"Look. It talks." The officer pulled at Hex's elbow, bringing his arm dangerously close to dislocation, and started him walking again. "You won't be getting out of here like you did L.A."

"L.A.? Look, officer, whatever it is you think I did, I'm not guilty!"

"Sure. Nobody is."

"At least tell me what I did!"

Murder. Three bodies laid in grisly fashion across his apartment's floor. It wasn't noticed until the Hendershot's, the people who had once been Hex's neighbors, saw the blood leading into the basement door as they walked by. From there, the stench had been inescapable. Hex had only been gone for six months from his basement apartment and nobody else had lived there since. Nobody else had the key. Wasn't it convenient that Hex had disappeared. Computer files showed that Hex had been taken into custody a year later in Los Angeles and had mysteriously escaped only to vanish, once again, from the face of the Earth.

A triple murder.

There was no way Hex could convince anyone that he'd been off the planet for the past eight years. ("I've been living as a princess' husband on a world where magic is real, trying to prevent a war with a man who can't be killed, and learning the secret of a technologically advanced society that devolved into a medieval system." Sure.) Nor did he know any way that he could have been seen in a jail in Los Angeles.

He sat on the floor of his cell and let his mind think through his problems. At least, it was a private cell. Being a wanted murderer afforded him some luxuries.

The viewing window in the cell's door popped open and a guard called, "Mail!"

Spiders crept up Hex's spine. Who would he receive mail from? As he rose and walked to the single piece of paper that had been pushed through the slot, he ran through possible candidates. His parents? Vincent? Samuel?

He reached for the paper and knew the writer's identity when he saw the writing.

I hope you like the arrangements. As you can see, they've been waiting for you. The war is won. Vincent is mine. Even your home here on Earth will be flattened by the tracks of my tanks.

Enjoy your stay.

If they don't execute you.

Tsurtor

IV

The hills surrounding Mar'zhon's land would have been beautiful if not for the wolves and the wizard.

"And the fact that I have to walk," Vincent said loudly. Thankfully, Elvie had altered his new garments so that now they flirted with the idea of fitting him. With his shoes gone, he'd put several pairs of socks on his feet and, though they were quickly dirty, they helped cushion the rocky hillside.

You should be happy to walk. All that flying put you in terrible shape.

"Yeah? I hiked down your mountain, didn't I?"

Let's not get testy. You'll want to be in a good mood for this wizard. He's the kind of guy who gets irritated if you're not really nice to him. You know, expects special treatment just because he's a wizard. Ever meet the type?

"Kiss my -"

"WHO DARES TREAD UPON MY HILL?" The voice was so loud that it shook the ground. Vincent fell into a bush as rocks skittered down the hill beside him.

Pulling himself up by the branches, Vincent whispered, "What the hell was that?"

Oh, oh. Big, bad guy lurking around the corner. I'll go. You probably need to concentrate on staying alive.

"I SAID - WHO DARES TREAD UPON MY HILL?" The ground shook again, tossing Vincent from his bush and onto the ground where he picked himself up and started running.

"Not me! I'm gone!" Vincent sprung over falling branches on his way down but drew himself to a quick stop when he saw what was causing the quakes. A huge foot, the size of a sedan, dropped on the bushes before him, shaking the ground once again. Vincent leapt into a copse of bushes, too afraid to peek out.

"I KNOW YOU'RE DOWN THERE. MOGAN'S EARS ARE SHARP."

"W -" Vincent started to say but decided to trust the giant's opinion of his hearing.

It stood above him, dwarfing the trees, looking down, scanning the ground. "I SEE YOU," Mogan shouted, making Vincent's ears ring.

Vincent decided not to take a chance on his hiding place and bolted away from the giant. Fingers came at him like wrecking balls. Vincent dived for the ground, feeling a breeze sweep back his hair. Lifting himself up, he muttered, "Watch the head, buddy." He ran into the next clearing he saw, leaving the blundering through the forest up to the giant.

"MOGAN SQUASH LITTLE MAN WHO TREADS ON MY HILL!"

_Thanks for the warning_ , Vincent thought, dodging this way and that around the giant's feet. Running into another clearing, he saw a massive boulder poking out from some trees. Vincent ran to the boulder and stopped to look behind.

"MOGAN SQUASH PESKY LITTLE MAN!"

"Yeah, so I've heard."

As Mogan's gargantuan foot kicked at Vincent, Vincent leapt aside, leaving Mogan's foot to crash into the rock.

"OW!!" Mogan jumped up and down on one foot, holding the one he'd bashed. "YOU HURT MOGAN!"

"Poor baby."

When Mogan stopped jumping, Vincent ran up to his other foot, grabbed a hair with both hands, and pulled it like a sword from a stone.

"OOOOOWWWWW!!" Mogan's scream descended as he tried to grab both feet and fell down the hillside.

The shaking threw Vincent to the ground and when it stopped, he picked himself up to follow. "The bigger they are, the dumber they are." Following a felled giant wasn't too difficult. It left a trail.

When Vincent caught up to it, he climbed up its breaches (and thank God it's wearing some clothes, Vincent thought), and walked upon its chest until he could lean upon its chin. "Okay, big guy. I'll be Davy. You can be Goliath."

Mogan looked at Vincent through huge, shiny eyes and said, "Okay, Davy."

"I'm looking for a wizard, tiny. His name's Sondolak. Ever hear of him?"

"He should," another voice said. "He's my creation."

Vincent turned to see a young man standing on a flying platform. It reminded him of something Hex would invent. It was simply a platform with wings. Vincent was surprised to see that the wizard didn't look any older than he.

"I'm Sondolak," the stranger said. "And this is my mountain."

Vincent sneered, "It's a hill, actually."

It was obvious that Sondolak disliked Vincent's attitude. "And who are you to disturb my peace?"

"My name's Vincent. Vincent the, er, wizard."

"Wizard," Sondolak asked, incredulous.

"I beat your giant, didn't I?"

Sondolak thought for a moment, watching Vincent through gleaming eyes. "That is true," he finally admitted.

"Fine. Then why don't you invite me up. We need to talk."

CHAPTER SEVEN

BENAATT SUNDERED

Part I

Lanigan Reise stood upon Benaatt's northern wall, watching with dread as the night fell upon thousands of ice giants. His ice giants. And it would be up to him to kill them.

He was the Golden Boy. The Chosen One. He had been hand-picked by Banry Ellison to be Rynia's secret weapon against Tsurtor's forces in the north. It took a dozen men to shatter an ice giant and there were less than five hundred in Benaatt's militia, a number reached only by syphoning the town of able bodied men and women as the rest fled to safety in the south. Only a third of that number had seen battle in the previous winter's raids. Lanigan didn't need to be a schooled, city boy to know that they didn't stand a chance.

Not a chance.

Yet, still, the ice giants waited. Standing like blue sentinels watching over a dead outpost.

When battle came, Lanigan would have to be its savior.

He was only twelve years old when he first learned of his talent. The curse, his father had called it. In the harsher, northern lands, living was poor and there was no pleasure to be taken from a boy like Lanigan.

"Keep your hands off it, boy," his father had shouted as Lanigan went to attach the hoe to Betty, their ox. "You'll starve us yet, with your curse!"

He'd been at the well that morning in late fall when the frost crunched under foot. The bucket had frozen solid and he tried and he tried with his puny arms to break the ice out of its wooden prison. Break, he thought as he hammered it against the well's stone wall. Shatter! He strained until he could do no more and looked in defeat at the ice that mocked him within the bucket. Then, with a spiteful thought, he wished destruction upon the ice!

The ice broke.

So did the bucket!

The well was consumed in a conflagration that picked Lanigan up and hurled his little body into the wheat field, breaking his nose and blackening his eyes.

That first time had taken a small boy in a hard world and ostracized him to someplace worse.

And when the plague of undead and the terror of ice from the north came down, Lanigan's father gladly came when his liege summoned. Maybe there were undead out there and giants with fists of ice but they inspired little fear in the elder Reise, after the reality of Lanigan's curse had set in. For a while, Lanigan knew peace and his mother eased his anxiety. During his thirteenth summer, the curse seemed to have passed. Then, his father returned. Lanigan shattered an iron pot. All was, once again, as it had been.

"Keep your hands off it, boy! You'll starve us yet, with your curse!" His father knocked him away from the hoe with enough force to land him on hands and knees. Granted, that wasn't much. Even at sixteen, Lanigan was a small boy. The boys on the neighboring farms were growing strong and burly from their life's labor but Lanigan's diminutive stature remained.

"Wha- what should I do, pa," Lanigan asked as he brushed himself off.

"Mind the fields, boy! Mind the fields!"

Mind the fields. Wasn't that what he always did? Since that summer day in his fourteenth year when he'd felled a great oak and landed it upon their only horse? He hadn't meant anything by it. He only wanted to see it sway. But as the last of the smoking debris fell into the fields and the Reise family ran out with wet blankets to save the crop, Lanigan knew they'd forever be suspicious of him. Hate him. So he went to mind the fields. Day after day was spent that way, pulling weeds, checking for parasites, and seeing to the crop.

After fall had fallen and winter had cracked the ground, his father could take no more. For his father had lived with four years of "What will he break next?" "Can we take it?" "Haven't we suffered enough?" Thoughts like that and "What if he turns that horrid power on us? On our home?" brought the elder Reise to a decision. When the first worms burrowed out of the earth with the spring thaw, Lanigan, now seventeen and adult enough, was sent east.

Benaatt was near, the so-called "Jewel of the North", and it was there that Lanigan found himself nearly a year later. As he'd traveled east, he stopped at any farm that would welcome him, allow him to work before the inevitable disaster occurred. A cracked horseshoe, an emblazoned cherry tree, a pyrotechnic trough, more torched hay than he could recall and, of course, a shattered hoe. The curse had brought him to the southern gates of Benaatt in his twenty-fourth year, only a month ago.

That was when the remarkable had occurred.

Lanigan found a sign posted high on the inside wall just above the dates of those fairs, traders, and celebrations soon to come. Beside it was the sign he'd expected to see since first hearing about the coming war only weeks before. It began:

TO THE GOODFOLK OF BENAATT

AND SURROUNDING BOROUGHS

YOUR KINGDOM CALLS!

It was an enlistment sign. The call had gone out to the able bodied to pick up the city's swords and maces, even bring their pitchforks and mallets, and stand fast against the threat from the north. All would be fed. There was even an offer of pay should the city survive.

Lanigan didn't consider himself for such a thing. Even his rucksack, holding only his spare pants, water bag, and what little bread he had left, had weighed heavily upon his shoulder. His feet were sore and he was far too tired to fight his own exhaustion let alone fight ice giants in a war. He would have dropped where he stood, too, if it hadn't been for that other sign.

He read it suspiciously as it gave him a feeling he'd not known in over half his life.

Hope.

MOVERS!

BREAKERS!

BONDERS!

SUMMONERS!

DESTROYERS!

ALL MAGICIANS NEEDED!

COME IMMEDIATELY TO THE CENTRAL GUILD HALL!

ANY HOUR DAY OR NIGHT!

FIGHT FOR YOUR KINGDOM

AND BE PAYED WELL

FREE ROOM AND BOARD INCLUDED

IN EXCHANGE FOR YOUR VALIANT SERVICE!

(Upon proof of abilities.)

They were looking for magicians. Of course, they were. It was to be expected. An adept magician could turn any battle. Lanigan had looked down at his hands and thought of the well. He thought of the horse and the hoe.

Turn a battle?

Lanigan would probably destroy the walls and let the ice giants in. Or kill all of those on his side.

He would have turned around and left it without another thought but he was hungry. His bread was moldy. Perhaps, he could get a meal out of them before they threw him out...

* * *

"I think you've had enough, son," the old Mover, Avery said. He looked at the scrawny, young man in the tattered clothes and had his suspicions about this one having any talent at all. Still, he knew that magic surfaced in the strangest of ways and a strong arm did not always equal a strong will.

Lanigan scraped out the last of his soup and held the bowl up with pleading eyes.

"Fine. One more, then. But no more after or you'll be too sick to do anything."

He hadn't been two feet within the Guild before he'd started begging for food. The other three, Reddigh, Bernadine, or Colwell, would have sooner throw him out as a fraud than feed him. Avery was a softy, though. He knew the Guild was rich. They could spare a couple bowls of soup.

When Lanigan had finished the next bowl, and started to hesitate, it appeared Avery's suspicions were about to be confirmed. After a great deal of coercion and a little extortion, Avery eventually led Lanigan into the stables. The three horses were gone with the other Guild magicians and there was plenty of room to test Lanigan's talent, provided he had any.

"So, tell me, then. What do you do?"

Lanigan, shuddering at the thought of his own talent, put his head down against his chest and shook it vigorously. Better to be thrown out than curse this fine wizard.

"What's that? You must do something."

Lanigan shook his head again, muttering, "No."

"Come on, young man. I fed you, didn't it? Now, honor your bargain. Show me your stuff!"

Lanigan looked at a bucket of feed. It was so small. Harmless, really. What could possibly happen if he -

The thought was knocked out of his chest with his breath as fire and noise tore through the stable. The bucket, undoubtedly, had exploded. The explosion was so large, in fact, both he and Avery were caught in the middle of it. It only lasted a second. Then, in the silence that followed, Lanigan realized that he couldn't see the sunlight that had poked through the stable walls. There was only smoke and pain.

The stable doors were thrown open and the smoke fled like a great, black demon. There, Avery stood, his clothes charred and his hair blasted back.

With a cough and a smile, amidst the rubble that was the Guild's stables, he said, "Commander Ellison is going to want to see this."

Part II

"All right, lad?"

The sound startled him and Lanigan jumped against the stone parapet. "Yes! I - uh, yes, I -" It was Banry Ellison, Commander of Benaatt, who had walked so silently up to him. Lanigan didn't know what to say. "Uh, yes," he finished.

"Good. Stand ready. It could come at any time."

Any time? How could the Commander just stand there and say that? It was as if he was oblivious to it all. Lanigan knew he'd never have that kind of courage or that much of it and, again, wondered why he was there.

"You did this, lad," Commander Ellison had asked.

"Well - well -"

"He blew the whole thing," Avery shouted.

"What was he trying for?"

"One bucket of feed," Avery replied with a laugh.

"One bucket?" The stables stood over four meters high, just as wide and just as deep. All of the walls were scorched. Ellison went before the timid young man. He may have been twenty-four but, to the Commander, Lanigan looked no more than fifteen. "I'll ask you again. Did you do this?"

Lanigan's breath was caught in his throat. The damage he had caused! And here he was, caught by the city's commander! "Well - I - no - not on pu - purpose -"

"Are you telling me this was an accident?" Ellison grabbed Lanigan by the shirt and pulled him up so he could look in his eyes. "Listen to me and think before you answer. This city is lost. We're outnumbered. There's about a thousand ice giants out there waiting to kill each and every one of us. Now, you did this. Avery saw you do this. Can you do it again? That's what I want to know!"

"Again," Lanigan muttered. Again? That's what he'd been doing all his life. Lanigan didn't think it would ever stop. "Y - yes. I can."

A wicked smile turned up the left side of Ellison's mouth. "Then we might just have a chance."

* * *

Hours passed as the night air pierced Lanigan's new clothes. Several times, he tried sleeping but couldn't escape the icy, northern winds that seemed to grow stronger as the night went on.

Ellison remained with his new magician and thought about Hex. He prayed that Lanigan might turn this around as Hex had turned things around for the king. Folly, he thought. Better to pray just to get out alive. At least Hildy had left. It had been hard. She wouldn't be convinced that he'd come to her undamaged after Benaatt was saved. In the end, Banry had begged with his wife to leave simply for their child's sake.

All of the families were gone now. It was a dead city soon to be buried beneath an onslaught of ice.

"Commander Ellison," an approaching voice called, retrieving Banry from his grim thoughts.

"Captain Davich."

"I bring word from the southern wall, sir. All is quiet and the shift is ready to be reliev -"

"They Move!" The shout came from the north-eastern tower, followed by many of the same.

Ellison immediately sent Davich back to his post and sent word to call the entire force from their barracks. His blood was tight and ran like lightening as he removed his bat from his back. He ran to the northern gates, leaving Lanigan Reise to rouse himself and make ready. The gates were opened and catapults were rolled out. They had been held back until this minute for fear that they would have been disabled like the rest of Benaatt's defenses. On the walls, burning oil was hauled into place.

Beyond the walls, Ellison could now see movement as he reached the northern gates. The giants were waking as from their warm weather slumber. As they stretched, plumes of ice popped at their joints.

Banry readied to signal attack.

Suddenly, from the south, a cry erupted from the sky. It came as if from a wounded eagle and all eyes turned to see. Even the ice giants, their crystalline eyes turned toward the southern skies as though they were waiting for a sign.

A sign of what, Banry wondered. He felt icy sweat run beneath his cured, leather armor and started to say, as if to break the silence, "It must be -"

Then, the creatures were upon them. Enormous, serpentine, and spitting tendrils of fire that lit the sky.

"Wha -" Banry breathed.

The answer came as a scream from one of the soldiers. "Dragons!"

The city erupted with pandemonium. To the north, bolts and boiling oil were launched from the walls while catapults, full of hot bricks, let fly towards the ice giants. Miraculously, they had some affect. The oil covered several giants, melting them even as the great creatures tried to advance. Several bolts struck true, tearing off arms, legs, and a head. These giants fought on, crippled, while the others took damage from the burning bricks. With every brick that shattered against a frozen form, man-sized cavities were opened. After the last of these weapons were launched, nearly forty giants lay fallen. A tremendous victory, considering the giant's size, but a larger battle remained with those giants who still stood.

To the south, and around Benaatt, flew the ancient enemy. Dragons. Where had they come from? What curse had brought them on? Had the ice giants somehow revived them? Was it Tsurtor? There was little time for speculation and those thoughts given voice were done so only between volleys of arrows, running to battle or to fight a fire, or by the many wounded who lay in the streets.

Even if the battle were stopped, it would have been impossible to count the fire breathers. They strafed the walls, burning the defenders where they stood. They flew through the city, knocking buildings over with their massive wings and burning the rubble. They harried the Benaatt forces who fought them, picking one up now and again for a light snack.

All around them, the valiant women and men of Benaatt were dying. Banry Ellison stood at his place upon the wall, knowing that he'd killed them all.

"Commander! Commander! What shall we do? Take my hand so that I may spirit us away from here and to the Imperial Palace!" It was Avery, the Mover, ready to perform his assigned task which was to take Benaatt's leader to safety. Had it been Mark Nygarra, Mark Nygarra would have gone to safety.

_No_ , Banry thought. Mark would have stayed. He would have stayed and fought and done exactly what Banry did just then. He took his bat and pushed Avery aside. "Leave me, wizard. Take those who can be saved and bring them to safety. To the south, beneath Silen. I'll remain here." Banry was not a brave man nor would he believe himself to be, at that moment, a smart man. Still, he was responsible for this city and these people and he'd do whatever it took to save them.

He sprinted along the wall, his legs wooden and numb with fear, until he found the new wizard, Lanigan Reise. The young man crouched in terror, horrified at what happened around him. Banry grabbed him by his new jacket and hauled him up. "Don't just hide yourself away! Do something!"

Lanigan's eyes were wide and tearful. "I cu - cu - can't."

"What do you mean?"

"They're too c - close. To the b - buildings \- and p - people."

"Look, I don't care if they're on top of the people. I don't care if you have to wipe out the whole, damned city and Faetsha damn me for the consequences but we have to do something!"

"But they'll all die!"

"They're dead already!!"

The Commander was right. Lanigan knew it. Men were falling before the house-sized fists of the ice giants and searing gouts of flame spewed by the dragons. Fire and ice. Killing them all.

Lanigan freed himself from Ellison's grip and leaned against the wall. For a moment, he collected his thoughts.

Then, he loosed his curse upon Benaatt.

Part III

At first, nothing happened.

Banry gritted his teeth. Tzuratt's Eternally Grinding Fist was falling upon his city as it blazed behind him. Dragons were descending, eating Benaatt's defenders. Giants were breaking through the northern walls. "Do it!"

"I'm trying," Lanigan moaned, surprised for the moment that he didn't stutter. All of his will was behind his effort as he tried to destroy the ice giants but nothing seemed to happen. He pushed harder, trying to ignore the death around him.

The ice giants seemed to notice some change within them. Many stopped fighting and brought their hands to their chests.

Banry Ellison had seen Destruction magic. He'd even had an opportunity once to see the Great Destoyer, Tuk, transmute part of a stone giant into white light. There would only be one time in his entire life when he would see Destruction greater than that wrought by Lanigan Reise.

It took less than a second. The ice giants paused as one. Hundreds upon hundreds of them, tall as the city's walls, each frozen for a split second into crystalline statues. The next instant, they ignited with white light. All vestiges of frozen blue left them replaced only by the light of power. Then - conflagration! Explosions so sharp that they deafened many men upon the field. They were the fortunate ones. Others were torn to bits as razor sharp remnants of ice were flung like shrapnel.

Even as Lanigan tried to stop his power, the explosions continued. The Northern Spires, which had hung like a roof atop the city, ruptured with an ominous thunder, as an entire mountainside shattered, falling down upon the city. Men ran to the south end of the city as the sky filled with mountainous boulders. Banry, Lanigan, and a dozen of his remaining men used a portion of a building still standing, midway through the city, as protection from the horror that befell them. It was as if the mountains had risen up and flung themselves upon the city. The walls were shattered and reduced to nothing beneath its weight. Whole dragons were buried beneath the rubble. Minute after minute of crashing earth passed until, finally, like a whisper from the tomb, all was silent. Even the dragons ceased their cries.

Banry Ellison was the first to rise from behind his shelter. It took a great contest of will but, in the end, his sense of responsibility overcame his shuddering legs. He spat several times and coughed to clear the dirt from his throat. The dust was so thick, he couldn't see past his nose. This would be a lot easier, he thought, if I could hear something. A bird, a horse, even a dragon would help establish that something had survived other than his small group.

He just stood and waited.

The others remained where they were, ready for anything.

Then, from above, a gentle light descended. As the dust fell, they could see that morning had come.

All around them, lay an alien world. Only remnants of the great city remained. A rooftop here, a wall there. The massive outer walls, the city's defenses, it's towering buildings and colorful promenades, all lay beneath the Northern Spires. The impossible ice giants, as well, were gone beneath tons of rock. Dragons, too. How many flew away could not be told but here and there, around the city, great wings and sinewy tails sprouted from beneath the rock.

Victory was theirs.

But the price of that victory gnawed at Banry's gut like a hungry rat, burrowing to escape. He'd lost the majority of his men. Only this handful, and whatever stragglers that might have taken shelter, remained. He should have known that he could never save the city under such odds. He should have fled when he had the chance. There'd be no more Benaatts. No one would rebuild this buried city. It would go down through history with the name of its killer. Banry Ellison.

"Commander," he heard someone say, "your arm."

He looked down for a moment. Distracted from this thing that he had caused. His sleeve was torn through mail and clothe. Blood ran freely to his hand.

How could he worry about a cut at a time like this?

"How are the rest of you," he asked, going through the motions of command.

Ten had made it without more than a bump or scratch. Another had been pinned beneath a boulder. After several men had rolled it away, it was obvious that the leg was gone. There were no Bonders with them. After they still hadn't found Bernadine, Benaatt's only Bonder, several hours later, the soldier, Bobkin Ellis, died. Bernadine was never found. Just another body buried in the mass grave that had been Benaatt.

"You should look at the other, sir," someone said to Banry.

He turned from where he was looking, the last remnant of the city's great wall to the south, to observe the wounded soldier. It wasn't a soldier, though. The body was too frail, too weak. It was the wizard, Lanigan.

Banry's face clenched.

"He caused all of this," he spat.

Lanigan lay, covered with dirt. He looked ancient and dead, the only sign of life being the blood that ran from his nose and mouth as he gasped for air. A moment passed and his eyes fluttered, lifting slightly.

The other men were silent in the face of Ellison's accusation.

"It's a curse, Reise. You're going to have to live with what you've done."

Banry knew that the words were meant more for himself. He'd given the command. He'd made the mistake.

It had taken less than an hour for the city of Benaatt to fall. The Rynian's had no defense and their attacks were worthless against the combined might of Tsurtor's ice giants and dragons. What would the main force be like? Banry was the first to realize what many after him concluded.

Rynia did not stand a chance.

CHAPTER EIGHT

KALLENT BOUND

Part I

Laurence Haddison had spent many years trying to discern what made his uncle tick. He thought of Marcus Haddison as a tall man, standing at just under two meters in height, but not overly tall. He was strong but no more so than the common day laborer. His hair was brown and his eyes were green and he wore no facial hair. In a word, nondescript.

Laurence had no such luxury. He always wore his hair long and, standing taller than his uncle, it was a pronounced feature. He had a generous, almost piercing, nose as well, and a sharp chin to emphasize his lean frame.

His uncle didn't seem too pleased with him. "Dressed like the black stranger, you'll stand out the minute you leave here. Z'hin almost certainly did not come without an entourage. They could have been human. Might be in the bar."

"We can take the back way," Laurence suggested.

"Oh, sure," Mack reply was dripping with sarcasm, "they'd never think to leave someone at the back door!"

The king was never known for his sensitivity under pressure.

"Now take off that hat," Mack ordered and Laurence quickly complied. "And that coat, too." Soon, Laurence stood with only his black trousers, blouse, and boots, his black hair running down his back. "Okay, that might confuse them. They're looking for a big hat and coat."

"But they'll see us both come out of here, uh, Mack. Won't they still try to stop us?"

"Well, we won't be going through the back way," Mack answered, removing his coat and limbering up. "We'll go right through the bar and, hopefully, lose them in the fight."

"Fight? How do you know there's going to be a fight?"

"Mack's answer was a wry smile in silence. When he did speak, he asked, "By the way, how's your jaw?"

"Fine," Laurence answered. "Why?"

* * *

His uncle's punch threw him through the secret door and onto the floor in the bar. The crowd watching the prostitutes dance turned to witness this new development. Laurence tried to lift himself up but his arms and legs felt wobbly.

Marcus came out in a rage. "Come 'ere, you bugger! I'll teach you not to lay a hand on my whore!"

Laurence was too stunned to continue his attempts at standing. The others in the bar cleared a path for the charging, old man and, when Mack reached his target, they gave him a wide berth. He lifted Laurence like a rag doll, shook him, and punched him again, knocking him through the front entrance.

Laurence felt white hot pain as his head hit a rock in the road. Above him, people were gathering by the score, pushing and shoving for a better view. Mack's plan was working. All the same, Laurence wanted to rise before his uncle killed him. He got his hands and knees under him and was trying to ignore the swerving ground when he felt a hand grab the back of his shirt.

"I'm not done with you," Mack shouted. He hurled his nephew to the other side of the road and then kicked him into an alley.

"Now run," Mack whispered, lifting his nephew up and throwing him again. "Come back here you bastard," he bellowed. "I'll teach ya to run from me!" As Laurence ran, Mack followed, huffing and puffing. "Go south. We want to get some distance," he said when he'd run up alongside.

"South," Laurence asked, equally out of breath, "why south?"

"We want to put... as much distance... as we can from that place."

"Why not... north?"

"You'll see," Mack replied, cradling his right hand. "Go behind there," he said, pointing. "I think I hurt my hand."

They had made their way past the business district and were running through a poorly planned section of stables and artisan's shops. Here were housed the mounts and work horses that pulled the Kallent-bound caravans. Wagons were being refitted and repaired. No one walked the streets. Though the Kallents may have done business with the land navigators, few would trust them in the dark. Laurence saw the alley, an open lane behind a mountain of manure, and ran behind, wheezing, "You're hand? What about my face?"

Mack panted, bent over, and extended his fingers and thumb. "You're young, yet. You'll get better."

"Why aren't we going north? Back to the manor?"

"Forget the manor. You'll not be back there for some time."

"What?"

"Think about it. After you killed your buddy back there, all his buddies knew where to look for the killer. They knew who he'd be meeting with. At the very least, they'll be looking for you."

"But if I do go to the manor and they do find me, I'll look like I have nothing to hide," Laurence reasoned.

"Until they question you. Face it, Larry. You're not a great liar. When they get suspicious, they'll probably want to bring you back to Kamm."

"So, that means I'll get into Ceyliz anyway -"

"Conspicuously," Mack interrupted. "That's the difference. Now here's how we'll get there, nephew, and you're bound not to like it so just be sure you do anyway."

* * *

Andre P'toush had seen forty-seven years without ever staying in the same place for more than three days. True, there was the time when he was twenty and he'd broken his leg on a drinking binge (the fall from the horse had little to do with it). He'd been stuck in the wagon for a week after being put back together by an equally drunk Bonder. When the pain had died down, and he could bear weight again, he found he'd gained a pronounced limp. It was better for him to forget about that, though.

He knew that he'd die before settling down. Even then, he'd made arrangements that his final rest would be mobile. He'd instructed his men to cast his ashes upon the plains of Paead in the middle of a windstorm. There, he would be carried to the farthest reaches of the eastern kingdoms. What settled back into the plains would remain near the trails and back roads that he'd seen and traveled throughout his life.

He'd packed a lot into his years. Born in a caravan - his father, Caravan Leader Adriam P'toush, wouldn't even let the wagons stop for his mistress to birth the child - his blood moved to a different rhythm than most men. His wasn't the two-beat of the plodding peasant or the singular, powerful gong of royalty. His, like his brethren desert raiders in Kallent, was the frenzied four-step of a stallion at full gallop. Never ceasing, thunderingly strong, always racing towards the horizon.

"So you're telling me that these wagons won't be ready to roll 'til t'morrow?" Andre was irritated because, after dropping off the final shipment of early winter fruits from Tzurritza and buying a sparse few bushels of late rye from the farms surrounding Awlsban, he'd already had to wait three days for repairs to three of his wagons. Couldn't have them crossing the rocky hills that bordered Kallent on bad wheels. Still, tomorrow would be too late.

The wagon-wright gave an evil grin. "Yep. Too bad, too. Ain't it?"

Like any reputation, Andre's was one everyone wanted to ruin. After forty-seven years, far better men had tried. "Fine," he retorted, taking a mouthful of smoke from his cigar and blowing it hard into the artisans face. "I'll leave a few men behind t'pick'em up. We'll see how your c'mpetitors do on the way 'round."

Andre limped back to his horse, Fayrlee, where his number two men were waiting. He always kept four number twos. It kept them in check as they fought for favor and it was always good to have one handy. "Jena, take three men. You'll b'staying behind 'til t'morrow when those wagons should be ready. Once I'm gone, they shouldn't take t'long. The rest of you, ready the 'van. We leave immediately. Jena, you'll have t'catch us along the road. I want t'set t'night's camp well outside o'town." With winter firmly in place, Andre knew that driving his caravan through the northern desert in full sun would be safe. Unlike the searing heat of summer, it would almost be pleasant.

"I hear you're looking to travel south. Perhaps to Ceyliz," a voice behind him asked.

Andre took three steps to turn around and, squinting through his cigar's smoke, looked at the pair of strangers. "Yep. That somethin' t'you?"

"Might be," the older one said. "If you're looking to hire a couple of hands on."

The older one was burly enough. Andre figured that he'd seen his share of work, probably good in a fight, too. But he was showing grey, a sure sign of getting too old for this kind of work. Andre would show grey himself if he didn't dye his hair, what little he had left of it.

The other was young and stood tall. Still, Andre could see that he was too pampered to live the caravan life. He wouldn't make it past the third day out.

On the other hand, Andre had lost several men on the road from Tzurritza. Highwaymen found a good living on the roads in the jungles and forests to the southwest. Caravans were large and well protected but scouts were a different matter.

"Y'got a bat there, I see," Andre noted suspiciously.

"Yep," came the reply.

"What's a soldier doin' trying't'join my 'van?"

"Ain't no soldier. Picked this up in the war. M'name's Mack," the other answered, approaching with his hand out.

Andre took it. "Picked it up in t'war, eh? Which one?"

"Both if it means anything."

"It don't. What about the other?"

"Boy can't talk," Mack replied with not a little relish. "But he's been reared around horses. He'll work hard for ya."

Andre gave his cigar several more perfunctory puffs. Then, with a toss of his shoulder as if he didn't care, he stated, "Right. Then, you're in. I run an open 'van. You're free't'leave at any time and I'm free t'toss you out. You work, you eat. You don't work, y'get tossed. Pay depends on what we'sell when we'get'to Ceyliz. You got problems wit'that?"

Mack shook his head.

"Fine." The two shook hands again to seal the agreement and Andre introduced himself.

"I've heard of you," Mack said in way of compliment.

"Good," Andre acknowledged. "Bander'll put you on'a wagon. We'll see how y'tend. That other? What's his name?"

"Lance," Mack lied.

"Bander," Andre ordered. "See how Lance'll do't shoin'."

* * *

Pitching camp at the P'Toush caravan was, like most caravans, almost a family like affair. The chefs had started readying their pots long before the wagons had stopped rolling. They were hung over pit fires that burned hot enough to chase away some of the approaching chill. No storm that night so the guitars and violins made their way out to liven up the tired travelers. Some joined in song. Around the wagons, beds were laid. The horses were drawn away and their leads were tied down.

Lance found Mack sitting with a bowl of stew. It was full of roots and wild herbs found along the trail. A good caravan chef could find enough wild to feed the crew throughout their travels. Even now, the chef's assistant was probably laying traps far from camp to catch the next day's meat.

"Where'd you get that," came Lance's indignant hiss.

"There," Mack replied, pointing with his wooden spoon. There probably weren't any spoons left. Those always broke faster than they could be replaced. The wise traveler always kept his own. Spoon or no spoon, Lance followed Mack's gesture over to the pot. He returned with a heaping bowl and no spoon. He sipped slowly at the steaming broth, letting it's warmth permeate his chilled skin. Unlike Mack, he had no jacket.

When Mack had finished his, he let Lance use his spoon. "How're you doing," he asked, his head down to rest his neck.

"Doing," Lance asked between mouthfuls. "We've only gone half a day and already I've never walked so far in my life. While you were laying out your bed, I was staking the horses and making sure they had feed and tomorrow I have to wake up before all of you to see to their feet!"

Mack shushed his nephew and, rising, took his empty bowl and gestured him to the laid out bedding. "Lay down for a minute. I promise you. You'll be fine." Mack returned the empty bowls to the chef, scoured and cleaned, and returned to his nephew. Lance had lain down and was, not surprisingly, fast asleep.

"Kids today," Mack said as he climbed up into the wagon.

* * *

It took several more days before they reached Rynia's southern border and crossed into Kallent. As they traveled, the road became less hospitable, leaving the rolling fields of Awlsban behind for the tiring Ceylan Heights. The Heights formed a natural border between the two kingdoms and were, for the most part, left alone. Neither rich with minerals like the Northern Spires nor ripe like the Plains to the Sea, they were, in fact, barren like the rest of Kallent. At their feet traveled the nomadic Kallent shepherds who raised the little meat consumed by the desert dwellers.

Most of Kallent was nomadic. It was a kingdom as large as Rynia with only three cities. Each of them, including the capital, Ceyliz, was built more for trade than for settlement. Kal-Kor, which lay at the southern end of the great desert Kalunar, was the primary site for commerce between the desert tribes. And the southern port, Sabritau, was the only place for trade between the mysterious southern realms, Gyorra and Pitaan, and the four kingdoms of Rynia, Kallent, Paead, and Tzurritza. Outside of these places, everything was Gerrit, the god that was their world, awaiting future travels of discovery.

The three cities were unconventional to the southern kingdom because, as a result of their nomadic ways, no land was privately owned in Kallent. These communal land rights flew in the face of the ownership so cherished by the peoples of Rynia. When the Rynians first traveled south and encountered the Kallents, whose nomads had then traveled as far north as the Plains to the Sea, there were immediate land squabbles. The borders weren't firmly established until the time of Argon Haddison, when they had to be lest his plans for strengthening the royal blood fall into ruin along with his kingdom. All the Rynians wanted was the fertile lands north of the Heights. The Kallents took the Heights and all east and south of them.

(Many changes had occurred in the decades since Marcus' brother, Kamm, had taken control of Ceyliz. The Kallent Queen had only made one visit to Ceyliz in all that time and had left abruptly after a rumored attempt on her life. Kamm had consolidated his power in Ceyliz and its surrounding lands, creating, in effect, Kallent's only suzerain. In the lands surrounding Ceyliz, however, Kamm was hated more than feared. His land grabbing offended the natives so much that he never left his palace and kept his men close by his side.)

Andre P'Toush avoided the Ceylan Heights in deference to his wagons. The ravines that ran through the hills were easily avoided by horses but made short work of wagon wheels. Better to avoid that, along with the extra work that slopes presented, and travel the well-worn paths the shepherds made at the foot of the hills.

Several more days and they had passed the oft-fertile hillsides to enter the hard, cracked earth of Kallent proper. Movement was slow here, lest the disturbed dirt choke the animals and men. Jena, and the repaired wagons, caught up with them there. Winter or not, this was always the worst part of the road to Ceyliz as it stretched south to join the paths leaving Kalunar before turning east to the sea. The more experienced in the caravan removed rags from among their belongings and tied them around their faces, shielding their noses and throats from the dust and sand that hung in the air like a mist. Initially, Lance had to shield his face with his hands until Mack found some material he could snatch for them.

Kalunar had been reached. It would be a day before they left from the east. Less than twenty miles. The northern Kalunar desert was not the expanse of dunes like that of the south. It was a flat, acerbic wasteland of caustic, bitter ground water and expanses of salt. The largest salt pits in the known world. Nothing would grow save the shallow rooted cacti or the short desert grasses. For the most part, the earth was weak, composed of silt and sand, packed down upon the trails by generations of use. Andre knew all of this in advance and had brought along the barrels of water and bushels of grass the horses and pack animals would need to make the crossing. They entered in the early morning and would leave before nightfall, camping on the desert's eastern shore.

Few men walked through this part of the journey. The desert floor was known to do terrible things to unprotected feet. The animals would be thoroughly checked and cleaned that night, the wagons washed, but Andre wouldn't take any chances with his men. Lance sat in the back of Mack's wagon, comfortable to be squeezed in amongst the Tzurritanian wine barrels that would be traded for great profit in Ceyliz. "We're getting close to it now," he whispered to Mack, though no one else rode with them.

"Close to," Mack replied.

"Their back entrance. It's on the east side of this desert, where the dirt's still fine enough for them to dig. I remember it," Lance said with a faraway look. "It was a hole on the side of a mound. You'd miss it if you didn't know what it was. It looked like any coyote den or dugout."

"Well, you won't need to look for it," Mack answered. "We'll be getting into Ceyliz with this caravan. Completely indistinguishable from the other traders. The less involvement we have with the bimunes, the better."

But events were conspiring against Mack even as they rode through the desert. Just as Andre P'Toush had scouts to keep an eye out, bimune scouts were carefully concealed in the dirt around the trail, watching for the one they suspected would try to sneak passed them. They watched not with their underdeveloped eyes, though, but with their antenna, scouring the air for the familiar scent of a Rynian duke. The bimunes knew that the caravan would stop shortly after leaving the desert. They all did, running from the desert that the bimunes had been forced to inhabit.

Night fell, and Mack and Lance had fallen fast asleep beside their wagon. The bimunes wouldn't attack the caravan or snatch their two targets in broad daylight. Their existence was still only rumor, caused only when one of their sibs had gone mad and strayed into the world of humans. They were careful to make sure that none of them lived and tried to communicate. Their existence must remain a secret, Kamm had told them, until everything was ready.

The two they had come for, Mack and Lance, were not found the next morning. Their disappearance was a mystery. Andre knew they hadn't fled for what was there to flee to? After a cursory scouting, the caravan continued on its way, accepting the loss as two more given up to Gerrit.

Part II

Mack tried to raise his head but could not. There was a heavy, murkiness that rested at the base of his neck clouding his thoughts and pressing upon him like a hundred boulders. Several times, he fell asleep and every time he awoke, a waxy taste covered the inside of his mouth. One thing was certain. He was being moved. At one point he was on his back and next he'd be on his stomach. First he'd be on flat earth. When he again awoke, he'd be in a curved tunnel.

What had happened and where was he being led?

He knew he was with the bimunes. He remembered awakening to their claws holding him firmly to the ground back at the P'Toush caravan's camp. Lance, too, was pinned. His awareness had ended, though, when a bimune sprayed something waxy and bitter into his face and the camp and the sky and the ground beneath him fell beneath a black fog of exhaustion.

Finally, he awoke, the waxy taste gone from his mouth, his arms encased in the stone wall of a cell. Little light entered through an oval doorway. There was no door, just the arch. The bimunes, it seemed, had little concern over his escape. The room seemed to be lit by an unadorned urn that gave off little heat. Mack turned his head and spat from the awful taste in his mouth. Hex would say they'd been "drugged". Mack gave himself a few moments to get his bearings - there didn't appear to be anyone on guard - before he tried to work his hands free. When pulling did no good, he used one arm to give him leverage but his arms hadn't just been stuck in there. The bimunes had sealed him in.

"Where are we," a weak voice asked him from behind.

"Your back entrance, it would appear," Mack replied, hearing his own voice as hoarse and weak. Which must be why I can't get free, he thought. I'm still "drugged".

"The bimunes?"

"So it would appear."

"What are we going to do?"

"Just wait. They'll probably come get us soon." That was Mack's hope, at least. No bars to the cell. Too much access. If he were in charge, he'd make sure they were dropped in a deep pit.

Mack wished his imagination wasn't so active.

True to his suspicions, several large bimunes, armed with double-pronged metal (iron?) picks, entered without a word. Another, larger than the two, standing nearly as tall as Mack himself, entered and observed the prisoners.

"Well," Mack growled, "are you going to do something or are you just going to stare at us all day?"

"It is awake," the bimune announced in a shrill, penetrating voice. Mack got a headache above his right eye from just those three words.

"Well, if we weren't before, we certainly are now," Lance grumbled.

"It is the human custom to be brought before one's final judgement awake. This will not be done if you fight us," screeched the lead bimune. With that, the other bimunes (Mack now saw there were six of them) approached the prisoners. Three went to each and one held each prisoner as far back from the seemingly stone wall as their restricted arms would allow. The other two, using the large mandibles which seemed to be their mouths, consumed the walls from around Mack and Lance's arms. They worked the prisoner's free, leaving them encased in a couple of inches of this stone. Then, in an action that made the two humans reel back, the bimunes began regurgitating this stone back around the prisoner's hands, until they were encased within stone manacles.

"Remain still," the large bimune ordered. "Do not breathe. The acids would harm you."

Lance brought his head back and coughed out, "It's not rock they're using."

Then, they were lifted up and the procession started walking down the halls. It seemed endless. Maze upon maze of featureless walls and open corridors. Placed at regular intervals, several meters apart, were those same light-emitting urns. Mack looked into them when he could. Each held several bright coals and a thin smoke rose as they radiated into the hallways. On they went for what seemed like hours. The large bimune led, followed by two of the bimune guards. Then came Lance and Mack, hauling their huge manacles, and the other bimune guards brought up the rear.

"Good observation," Mack whispered.

"What? About the rock," Lance replied, equally as quiet.

"You get any bees down in Awlsban?"

"No. Our honey's imported from Paead."

"Well, we have our share of keepers on the island. On several occasions, we've had them bring the honey in the comb. The children love it. What remains after the honey is eaten makes a good incense."

"Why? Because of how good it smells?"

"Nope," Mack replied, planning his next move, "because of how well it burns." Acting as though he'd tripped, Mack launched himself into a wall, just where one of the coals provided its light. Little resistance met him as he plowed directly into the room beyond. Before he could right himself, he was dragged back into the halls. He hoped that his nephew was observing as keenly as he was how the bimunes replaced the coals immediately into the urn with great gingerness and circumspection.

"Sorry," Mack lied to the head bimune, "I tripped."

* * *

Andre P'Toush nodded to Jena, indicating that he should pay the Ceyliz toll-man. It took several minutes before a carefully counted stack of golden dernigs were handed over for town entrance fees, convoy fees, foreign sales fees, livestock fees, import fees, business transaction fees, marketplace rental fees, and the obligatory road tax. (Though, in truth, the road was more worn by the caravan's passing than made.) Later, another series of fees would be levied on their way out, ranging from profit share to export fees, with another road fee tacked on for good measure.

Things were getting bad in Ceyliz and Andre knew it. Where trade had once been the city's business, it was now replaced with soldiers and preparations for war. Andre had been told he was skittish but he couldn't deny what his eyes told him. An inordinate number of horses were kept on the royal grounds. More and more, buildings that Andre had once been familiar with were annexed by Kamm Haddison's military. Business was brisk. That was true. For all he was taxed, he sold twice as much. But when the majority of his sales started going directly to Kamm's armies - lumber and iron and sulphur and other chemicals (special ordered) and leather and hemp along with specialty goods for the men - Andre knew that he was on the right track.

This would probably be his last year here in Ceyliz. This or one more. He'd shift his track to the north - hit Benaatt, Morrata, and Caspeton. Maybe take some his more tropical goods all the way up to Goroc's Landing, the old shipping and mining area that had turned into a prosperous fishing and shipping community over the last five years, and turn an incredible profit. Bah, Andre thought. He was getting too old for glacial expeditions. Perhaps he'd retire. Try the sea.

"Let's get moving, Jena," he said to shake off his thoughts. "I don't want t'be here too long."

* * *

They were being led upwards. Soon, they'd be out of the earth. Out of this insect lair.

Mack was uncomfortable, the way Lance kept looking at him, and muttered, "Soon."

When they stepped out of the bimune tunnels, the two were shocked to find themselves in a stone cellar. The room was empty, save for a single stairway which led up and out, and they were led to the exit. At the top of the stairs, they found themselves in a large warehouse. Piles were laid in neat rows with sacks of grain, lumber piles, and mounds of rock. Three doors granted egress. Two to the left led into equally dim passages but the third door on their right admitted light. Freedom.

"Now!" Even as he yelled it, bringing his brick encased hands to crash into the face of the largest bimune, he knew that he could go by his alias no longer. Be he Mack the traveling soldier, or Marcus Haddison... he was a dead man.

To the sound of his brick hammering against bimune chitin, the expected reply came from behind. Laurence, though never formally trained at hand-to-hand, was teaching the other bimune guards rock-to-head. The earthen manacles didn't last long, though. After a few blows, Marcus' hands were free once more, tingling and slightly numb. Ignoring that, Marcus aimed sharp kicks to the bimune on his left and, seeing another come up from behind, he jabbed his elbow into the bimune's alien face.

That only sent fire down his arm. Though he clutched it in pain, he realized that the fight was over, for now. Five were on the ground, twitching. Two had gone for help.

"How are your hands," he asked, panting.

Laurence, blast him, didn't seem to be out of breath. He stretched his fingers and rubbed his wrists. "They'll be fine. Where to now?"

Before Marcus could reply, a horde of men, led by a screeching bimune guard, came charging from their left. Marcus ran to the right, shouting, "This way!" Without pause to see if he'd been heard, Marcus was out in the light in an instant, gleefully thinking in the back of his head what a mistake the Ceyliz soldiers had made. Instead of trapping them inside the castle, they were running them out to escape.

But he had to stop short. Laurence nearly collided into him. Outside of the doorway, standing in the light of the afternoon sun, all but one wearing a cocky grin, stood more than a dozen Ceyliz soldiers backing up the other bimune guard. Each brandished a broad, short sword and looked eager to use it. They formed a mob to the doorways right and had not, yet, circled around to encompass the left. Laurence was shocked when he saw his uncle sprint in that direction.

Laurence didn't need to go far to catch up with his monarch. Ceyliz archers, from the walls, launched a volley of arrows that plunged hungrily into the ground. Marcus had jumped back only in the nick of time.

So, that was it, Laurence thought. In the space of two, maybe three, seconds, their escape had been foiled. Behind them came more than a dozen Ceyliz soldiers while certain death was assured if they took one more step ahead. "So, we're surrendering now," Laurence asked.

Mack turned to look at the approaching soldiers. A bimune still led, probably ready to hit him with more of that sedative they had used. He remembered the fight in the Awlsban bar, though, and how easily he'd picked that one up. They must be very light, he thought. He ignored the arrows, the swords, and the numbers as he focused in on that one thing. He shook his head less than an inch and whispered, "Not yet."

Before the response registered, Laurence saw Marcus lunged forward, sprinting the several meters that divided them from their foes. He must be crazy, Laurence thought in a panicked way. Then he remembered the tales of King Marcus and what he hero he was to his people. This, he realized, was why.

Now, if only they could survive to tell about it.

Marcus thought of none of these things. He neither thought about, nor heard, the two arrows that missed him only by a hair's length to stab the hard, desert earth. He was on the bimune like lightning, grabbed opposing appendages and started swinging. He had no idea what he was trying to do (though he'd never admit to that) but what happened was exactly what he'd hoped. Thanks to his father's foreign interests, he'd been encouraged at a young age to learn all the weapons he could. Primary to that was, of course, the Rynian bat. The sword was a close second. The sword was a fabulous weapon. It did a great job at hacking a man to bits. Well balanced, gleaming in the blood of its opponents, it also happened to be the weapon of choice for the southern kingdoms. For all that, though, it was easily dislodged from an unsuspecting hand. While the Ceyliz tried to thrust at the bimune's escapee, only succeeding in jabbing their swords deep into the bimune carapace, several lost their weapons in the process.

Laurence reached up and, to Marcus' shock and approval, pulled two of the swords out and began fighting as well. Soon, both were fighting with two of the Ceyliz short swords, holding off, by miracle or the Kallent's own instinct for self-preservation, almost a dozen men. More would come soon, though, and they weren't going to settle for surrender.

Marcus saw, just past the crowd of soldiers, a stairway leading up to the top of the wall and started working his way over, to put his back to the wall. That done, he yelled, in his Rynian tongue, "Throw one of your swords at them!" He was pretty sure the Ceyliz soldiers, mostly likely being Kallent natives, wouldn't understand what he'd said and, indeed, seemed perplexed after he'd said it.

Their consternation turned to elucidation when, to their horror, they saw two swords thrown, their points sailing true, at them. It was like tossing a burning faggot onto an anthill. The soldier's scattered in terror.

Neither Marcus nor Laurence had the time to see what they'd hit, if anything, as they ran hastily towards the wall.

"What are we doing," Laurence panted, shifting his sweat drenched grip, hoping for some detailed strategy from his uncle.

Marcus, feeling a terrible cramp in his side, his leg, and his sword arm, gulped for breath as he took two stairs at a time and wheezed back, "Escaping!"

Within moments, they were atop the wall. Other soldiers were charging at them from each direction and from the stairs below.

* * *

Andre P'Toush saw all of this occur as he rode his horse before his caravan. This wasn't your usual, Ceylizian, mid-afternoon entertainment. They were more likely to spike a head at the gate. He watched the fight carefully with an interested eye and lit another cigar. Already, a crowd was gathering and, likely enough, placing bets. Andre signaled to Jena and Narlec. Kurch, his other number two riding up front, would know to bring the caravan into market safely.

The three rode slowly up to the wall. It was hard to make your way through a crowd that agitated. Andre seldom looked down at the crowd or at the stalls and building, tents and wagons that filled the city during market time as he rode. His eyes were upon the two figures atop the wall who held back a flood of Ceylizian soldiers.

At first he thought about how good it would be to have one of them working for him. Then, he was sure that at least one of them had.

* * *

Only three men could stand shoulder to shoulder on the wall but that was plenty. Already, after fighting back to back for several minutes, Laurence and Marcus both had several cuts upon their arms and chests that ran with blood. Marcus knew there was only one escape. "How do you feel about jumping," he yelled.

Laurence shuddered. Ceyliz's walls were not as tall as those of the Imperial Palace but at twenty meters they were tall enough to discourage anyone from running away after the fall. "It's not something I care to think about," Laurence started to reply. He didn't get to the end, however, before his opponents changed his decision for him. With a sudden attack, they knocked the young Duke off the wall and into the crowd below.

Marcus sensed the sudden silence but only had time to register his nephew's fate before the points of six swords gave him reason to stop and the handle of another came down upon his head and knocked him into oblivion.

Part III

"How is he?"

"Lucky."

"Did that wagon break his fall?"

"No. His arm. He's just lucky I'm here."

Laurence Haddison tried opening his eyes, felt bleary. He recognized one of the voices, though, and the recognition told him that he was, miraculously, safe.

Andre P'Toush stood above him with another whom he did not recognize. The stranger saw Laurence open his eyes and put his hand down on his chest to restrain him from moving. "Rest now. You've been through a lot."

Andre nodded at the young Duke. "Don't y'worry. We'll talk soon, I vow."

Though he could feel himself drifting to sleep again, Laurence assured himself. Talk? Oh, yes, they would indeed.

* * *

Marcus could feel the pain long before his eyes opened. When the soldiers had stopped beating him, he wasn't sure. He'd been fighting on adrenaline alone, having not eaten during his entire time in the bimune tunnels, and lost the fight quickly after the first blow had fallen. He was sure, though, that each had gotten in their licks.

He hung in chains. He could feel them biting into him, the rough rust grinding on his skin. His feet barely touched the ground, just flirting with support. His entire body was in agony and, he realized, bare naked. Had they been looking for something or was it just for humiliation's sake?

They obviously knew who he was, having stored him in this deep dungeon. All he could see was pitch black. They could have killed him. They should have at least tossed him over to face the same fate as his nephew. Broken bones and the likely chance of robbery by the mob. If Laurence hadn't died upon impact, a broken neck, a snapped spine, or a caved in skull, his time wouldn't have been long. Marcus had seen men with battle injuries who had died from bleeding on the inside or who had succumbed to sudden fevers and -

Marcus tried to put the thoughts out of his head. He was a fool for taking his nephew no matter how poor Laurence's judgement had once been. Laurence had been the last male of the Haddison line and was still young enough to grow into a fine Duke.

Now, Marcus had to think of a way out. He still had an entire kingdom under certain threat by Tsurtor and whatever forces he'd gathered. Hex was finding Vincent. Mark Nygarra was forming an alliance with Tzurritza. General Heaphge was assembling what little troops Rynia had and marshaling them at the Paeadian border. All Marcus had to do was go to their longtime ally and request the aide of some of the finest fighting men in the land, the Kal-Kor monks. An easy task specifically assigned to an aging monarch and a green Duke. All they had to do was ride their horses, he thought with a snarl.

The bimunes had changed all of that. Kamm had changed all of that.

Now he was stuck in a prison.

At least, Mack thought, it's a human prison this time.

He tried to stand tip-toe to take some of the pressure off of his arms but after a while it only hurt his legs. Then, to rest his legs, his arms started to hurt. Hours passed without a sound from out of the cell or a sign of light. Marcus hoped he would soon lose consciousness.

* * *

"So, you're telling me that the King of Rynia has actually left his own kingdom at the time of an approaching war not as himself mind you but as some kind of vagabond, taken his nephew who was naively spying for Kamm, gone off as two traveling strangers through the desert with no protection, got captured by the very bug-munes they were trying to avoid, and is now being held captive - maybe dead - by his younger brother who doesn't even know that he has him?"

Laurence, who was cold and uncomfortable despite the fire that burned brightly and the imported wine that was handed around, sat upon a thick cushion with his legs pulled in and his arms crossed tightly against his chest. A full day and another night had passed since his plummet from Ceyliz's wall. P'Toush's Bonder, the stranger who he had first seen with the caravan's leader, had put the young Duke back together again, mending his shattered shoulder and left arm. Laurence hadn't left his bed until the next morning, as advised by the Bonder. From then on, he'd been constantly at P'Toush's side, trying to move him into action. "Tonight, young man. We will meet on this tonight. There is nothing to be done in broad daylight! Tonight." Night had come and Andre P'Toush met with Laurence as promised, along with his number two men. They sat by the fire and listened as Laurence told his story. Then, the number two men, sensing P'Toush's disbelief, began mocking.

"So, tell me, has the great wizard, Hex, come in disguise as a cobbler!" The number two's laughed heartily at their jest until they realized, to their dismay, that Andre wasn't laughing.

He passed over the bottle. "Here, Laurence, have some wine," the caravan leader offered.

"I will not drink while my king is being held within those walls, Andre."

"Drink. If I didn't believe you just a little, I wouldn't have hid you for this long. Your king won't b'held long and you still have some healing t'do before we get th'two of you t'safety."

Laurence took the bottle and drank a swallow of the pungent, red liquor, satisfied that, perhaps, this was a start.

* * *

"On your knees!" As if the shouting weren't enough, and the threat of the six armed soldiers, Kamm's guard kicked the prisoner's gut, doubling him over.

Marcus Haddison, King of Rynia, quaked from the cold, stone floor, his hands and arms positively useless, and tried to rise, fighting the involuntary clenching of his abdomen. He worked himself to his knees, trying to get his balance.

It was morning, light streaming through the windows in Kamm's throne room and stinging Marcus' eyes. He must have been in his cell a long time for his eyes to take so long to adjust. Days? Maybe a week, he thought. His lips and his mouth and his throat were all parched from days without food, only that retched stuff the guard erroneously called water. He felt nauseous but knew he wouldn't throw up. Though he was still naked, he tried to keep his composure as he rose, unsteadily, to his feet.

"That's enough," came the pronouncement. "You may return to your posts." The men moved as they were told. There was no questioning their leader.

Kamm Haddison, the youngest brother of the Rynian royal line, strode into the room from behind a velvet, red curtain. Kamm always had been caught up in the trappings of royalty. One of the reasons he left Rynia, after all, was because he knew he'd never be king. Never be king? Not necessarily. Kamm had been born late, a full ten years after Marcus, one year before their father had been killed in the last war with Tsurtor. Given the short life expectancies of monarchs, and the fact that Marcus' only child had been a girl, after their other siblings had either died or had married into the titular appointments and foreign holdings of their new families, Kamm could have followed as the next ruler. But he'd been impatient. Before Marcus' coronation by the High Priest of Gerrit, Kamm had already expressed interest in the desert realm of Kallent. Why not? After the reign of Argon Haddison, a short four generations prior, Kallent blood flowed through all of the Haddison line. Then, he had left one night without a word. Nothing more was heard of him until the Queen of Kallent, Olivia Imnustre, had named him her Sovereign of Ceyliz, and he thus abdicated any right he may have had to the Rynian throne.

Now, Kamm enjoyed his power with a great deal of decadence. His walkway was covered in thick, red carpet. The room hung in colorful banners and the windows were wide with real glass, a bit murky but polished to a shine. His throne was heavy with cushions and it rose above the rest of the room. Kamm himself looked more like a joke than a monarch. He strode in, wrapped in several layers of satin to cover his terribly out of condition figure, with a gaudy, gold crown upon his head.

"You always did have rotten taste, Kamm," Marcus said as clearly as he could.

Kamm Haddison burst into laughter and Marcus was sure it wasn't because of something he said. The eyes of the Ceylizian sovereign were full of amusement, even glee, as he looked down upon his older brother. "I didn't dare believe it when I was told. Then, when they brought you up I was sure it couldn't be true. But, now! Here you are!" He spoke between laughs, as if were about to lose control. "My older brother!

"At my mercy!!" The laughter curdled Marcus' blood. He'd never thought his brother capable of scaring him. Now he knew he should never have underestimated him. Kamm circled him like a vulture or one of the laughing wolves of Ktoll which Marcus had heard could render its prey incapacitated with fear. But it wasn't fear that wore on Marcus. It was exhaustion, pain, hunger and thirst. Marcus knew that Kamm wouldn't get anywhere near him unless he was sure that Marcus had been reduced to his current state. If Marcus had the strength, he'd have bloodied his brother's face upon the stone tiled floor.

"So, what am I to do with you, brother," Kamm asked, tauntingly.

"Simple, Kamm. Remove these shackles and let me go. You could also give me some food and water and a place to rest until I heal from these injuries that have been inflicted upon me but I won't be expecting that much -"

"You killed eight of my men!" Kamm's yell shook Marcus to the bones. His brother had always been the type to throw tantrums. Spittle rained upon Marcus' face like indignant rain. "You murdered one of my bimune aides in cold blood! Do you deny it? Do you?"

Marcus took a deep breath. So, this was how it was going to be. "What could I possibly say in my own defense?"

"Nothing," Kamm spat. "It'd be just like when we were children. You'd try to talk your way out of it. Well, you can't now! Mother isn't here to take your side! It's only me! I decide!" Kamm turned his back in rage.

Something was wrong, Marcus thought. It wasn't that long ago when Rynians had fled to Ceyliz for safety and its sovereign's arms were open to the people of his homeland. Kamm and Marcus had never been the best of friends but Marcus had fully acknowledged Ceyliz's autonomy, if not independence, from the Queen and Kamm's right to rule. Things had seemed to be squared between them.

Then, he'd started spying. When had Marcus first caught wind of that? Six months ago? That meant it could have been happening for maybe a year. It wasn't too long after that he'd learned of Kamm's troop buildup. Something was happening. It was right under Marcus' nose yet he couldn't see it. What he needed was information but he had to get it from Kamm without losing his head... literally. "So," he started, his voice intentionally hoarse, "what will you decide?"

"I have powerful friends, you know," Kamm said with a smile as he turned back around to face his brother. Once again, his temper had shifted. "Oh, I might not have a mighty kingdom like big, bad Rynia. Oh, you must be so proud! But you make enemies! You make enemies, brother, where I make friends."

Marcus felt his throat tighten. "What?"

"Oh, he said you would come. He said you would walk right in here like an idiot but I didn't believe him. You know? I didn't believe you could be so stupid - me! your brother! - that you'd be so overconfident that you'd just walk in here! But he said you would!" Kamm laughed again, his breathing hard. When the laughter stopped, he spoke calmly, almost matter of fact. "You've been doing it ever since I knew you. You always thought you could get out of anything. Old Alinax had to bail you out a couple times, I heard. Then, when you're kingdom is about to fall, you take off on another one of your excursions. How could you have been so irresponsible? Why, if I hadn't been here to take in all those refugees..." Kamm clucked his tongue and sighed. "Now, I hear, there is going to be a war. You should be leading your people even though they're sure to lose but here you are, playing at adventurer. Ah, he is so right about these things. It's no wonder he holds the winning hand."

Marcus' teeth clenched together as he strained against his shackles. "What are you talking about?"

"So, we made a deal. A trade. You for all of Kallent. Can you picture it? Kamm Haddison, ruler of the desert realm, high priest of the Kal-Kor monks, possessor of Kalu-heart. After that, I can take the land to the south. He doesn't care. All he wants is what is rightfully his."

Marcus screamed, "Kamm, what do you mean?"

Kamm smirked. "You know, brother. You know."

With a sudden burst of strength, Marcus threw himself at his brother despite what his body and the shackles allowed. Kallent was lost. The alliance was broken. Any hope of reinforcements, perhaps of winning the war, was lost. Marcus just wanted one chance to strike against all of that and it was embodied in his brother. A horrible scream left his throat and the guards were too far away to stop him.

Then, Kamm, in a lightning move, kicked his boot at his brother's knee. From the contact erupted a loud pop and a crunch and Marcus was back on the ground, twitching in pain, in seconds.

"Aw, did I break it," Kamm asked with a kick. Another blinding flash of pain seared Marcus' spine. "Maybe it's just dislocated," Kamm added with another kick.

Marcus didn't know. For he quickly lost consciousness.

* * *

His blacked out state was a blessing. He didn't have to feel the guards tight claws clench on his arms or the rough floor scrape his skin as he was dragged from the throne room. He didn't feel the stone floor as he was thrown into his cell. Nor did he feel the things which crawled upon his naked flesh, things which also inhabited the cell.

It did, however, make him hard to rouse awake.

"For the best," Kurch whispered. "He'd slow us more awake."

"Uncle," came a sharp whisper from Laurence, "you must wake up!" He turned to P'Toush's number two. "This would have been much easier if you'd have brought the Bonder along."

"You know the deal," Kurch replied as one of the other two men lifted Marcus in a "fireman's carry". "A small party stands a better chance. They're not expecting this." They'd only had to kill three soldiers thus far. It was unknown how many they'd evaded.

P'Toush had told Laurence about Kurch. The dark-skinned scout came from lands far to the south-west and had quickly mastered the weapons and languages of the northeastern kingdoms. His fighting skills were second to none. Laurence had no doubt. He'd seen Kurch take out a man from thirty yards in the dungeon's darkness with a deadly arrow shot into the neck. Another soldier the number two had killed in complete silence with his bare hands.

It was a bad night for a raid upon Ceyliz's dungeons; the winter sky was clear and full of stars most of the night. Only when a rare cloud passed over the city did three of Andre P'Toush's men and Laurence make their move upon the fortress. They must hurry, though, for there were only three hours of good darkness left. The soldiers were more tired at this hour than any other. Laurence's party made their way down into the subterranean darkness, avoiding eyes heavy with exhaustion, knowing that the crew would change again at dawn. If they were not out by then, they were dead.

Andre's men moved with the promise of a great reward if they were successful. Andre knew that any way he could harm Kamm would help business. Too, it couldn't hurt to have the king of Rynia on one's side.

Movement was faster on the ascent. Most of the soldiers were drowsing, their heads listing to their chests. Marcus' rescuers knew their way out and rushed through the maze to the prize that awaited. Marcus came to during that time, as he was bounced back and forth in the rush to carry him. "What -" he began to say before Laurence clamped his hand firmly over his uncle's mouth.

"Quiet," Laurence whispered.

Marcus wanted to conk his nephew over the skull. What was this idiot doing? The last male of the Rynian line putting himself in danger when he should have run to safety! The thoughts of anger were soon replace with something unknown. Pride. After all, he'd made his way this far without raising the alarm. At this rate, they'd soon make it out. Marcus would be brought to a Bonder and then be well enough to straighten out his wayward brother's delusions of grandeur. All they had to do was turn a few more corners, stay in the darkest shadows of the pitch black -

"Dawn," the gasp came.

The party pressed itself against the inside of a doorway. Outside, the sun had risen, banishing the shadows. They wouldn't make it out now, not without a fight.

"Laurence," Marcus muttered. The other three gathered around him as he tried to look up at them from an uncomfortable position. "You can create a distraction. You can start a fire!"

"Fire," Kurch asked in disbelief. "There's not enough wood to last in these stone buildings for half an hour. All it would do is alert our presence."

"No," Marcus insisted. "There's another place. Laurence knows about it."

* * *

Invention sups at necessity's teat. In Laurence's case, he found it necessary to reinvent himself. He'd never been trained in the deceptive, skulking way of the thief or the quiet, other-worldly movements of the Kal-Kor monk. Laurence knew that none of that mattered now. He had to make his way through the fortress, to where the king had directed him.

The shift had already changed. Everyone would be awake. Laurence couldn't afford to let himself be seen for, just as he would be fighting one soldier, a whole division would be upon him. Slowly, he made his way through the structure, trying to avoid any sign of the enemy.

Until he tripped.

Stupid, bad masonry, he thought.

"Help you with something there," the question came. Down the hall adjacent to the one Laurence had been skulking down, came a Ceyliz soldier.

"No," Laurence replied. "I'm just - eh - tired... I guess."

"Just getting off shift?"

"Yes," Laurence said before he realized that the living quarters were in the other direction. "I mean, well, I'm just starting one."

"Ah, double shift," the soldier replied, knowingly.

"You bet."

"I just hate them. They say things are getting busier now that it's getting closer."

"Yes. Well." Laurence looked down the hall. "Goodbye." He walked away from the soldier as calmly as possible. Closer, he thought. Closer to what?

Time enough to think about that later. For now, he'd stick with his new (accidental) strategy. He made better time walking through the halls of the fortress than if he'd have tried to sneak through. Walk with authority, he told himself. Look like you know what you're doing. Out of the fortress and into the yard, he went, striding right up to the warehouse doors. He couldn't enter, however, before he was discovered.

"Hey you," came the call.

Laurence looked around and then looked back at the large, muscle-bound, man who had shouted. Laurence pointed at his chest. Who, me?

"Yes, you. Come over here and help me with this. It'll only take a minute of your time."

Laurence walked to the other side of the warehouse where the man stood with a wagon and a team of horses. The wagon had been backed up to the huge doors where supplies were moved through. "Help me get this barrel up here. They need it over in the work-yard." Where the work-yard was, Laurence didn't know. He did know that he had to keep himself inconspicuous and helping would do just that.

The barrel was lifted in short order. The man, the horses, and the wagon were quickly gone. Laurence soon noticed, to his astonishment, that he was the only person in the immediate area. The warehouse was empty!

He had to move fast. A lamp at the foreman's desk provided light. The foreman was gone, probably the large man with the wagon. Laurence grabbed the lamp and ran to the cellar door. Below, he found the bimune tunnels. Taking a few steps inside, he lit several of the walls. Just as Marcus had suspected, they quickly went up in flames.

* * *

Later, on a hill south of Ceyliz, three riders watched the smoke that still rose from the fortress with some relief and not a little vindication. Laurence had made his way through the chaos within the walls and had found his party waiting for him in the city. The fire had lit through the bimune tunnels, sending smoke into the sky and men, all who could be spared, down into the earth. Marcus had been healed well by Andre's Bonder and, though he wouldn't walk much for a couple of days, was fit to ride. What he mostly needed was rest, something he'd find once they were a safe distance from Ceyliz.

"What happens now, y'r'highness," Andre P'Toush asked. "Whatever you came here f'r'is'n't to be had."

"That's true," Marcus agreed with a nod. "The bimunes are a weapon. We know that now. Kamm plans to use them against the queen. We won't be getting any of Kallent's military support here."

"Then, we've lost," Laurence sighed.

Marcus gritted his teeth, remembering the humiliation at his brother's hands. "Not yet, we haven't. Tsurtor thought he could trap me here. He thought he was a step ahead. Well, he was to a fault. Now, we know that he's following our actions, somehow. Okay, so no more deception. From here on in, I am the King of Rynia and you are my loyal Duke. We ride south, into Kalu-Heart, to Kal-Kor and the queen. Kamm must be stopped. With him goes Tsurtor's plans for this southern kingdom. I will not grant him that quarter." He looked into the eyes of his nephew. "To Kal-Kor, then."

Laurence met his uncle's gaze but Tsurtor's near-victory was too fresh in his mind. Royalty they might be but they were still only two men. Against Tsurtor and his minions, who seemed to be everywhere, surely they were lost.

* * *

Kamm felt the cold, tile floor press against his face as his vision filled with blue azure smoke. He was kneeling on his hands and knees but some unseen weight pressed upon his head, driving his face into the tile floor. Kamm knew who it was, though, and what to expect.

"You failed me," Tsurtor said in a quiet, malicious voice.

"Y-you were wro-wrong," Kamm croaked. "I watched for his escape attempt. You didn't t-tell me about the f-fi-fire!"

Tsurtor pushed harder. Though he was still in Ktoll, he manipulated the air pressure upon Kamm like the expert that he was. "You were to leave your men where they were. You failed me!"

"B-but the b-b-bimunes are my fu-future."

"I am your only future. Without me, you die. Remember that well." Suddenly, the weight was released from Kamm's head and Kamm fell in shock. "Now, get up," Tsurtor ordered his servant, "and ready yourself for what comes next."

CHAPTER NINE

TZURRITZA

Part I

Timothy Holt, The Hand of Night, licked his greasy fingers, finishing his breakfast. As the small party had ridden south through Paead, out of the plains, they had entered the outskirts of the Paela forest. Rumors abounded about the old trees. Like Silen, the great forest of Rynia that left no man who entered with his sanity, Paela was best avoided if you knew what was good for you. The outskirts, however, were oft traveled. The road was well worn, if muddied by the frequent rains of early winter. Timothy was happy that they'd left their civilized life far behind. Here, in the outskirts, wildlife of all kinds roamed free. He leaned back with a sigh, his belly full of winter quail too slow leaving for warmer climes.

"Enough of that," Kraephten admonished. "We've got another day of riding ahead of us before we enter the swamp lands." That's what it was called, too. The Swamp lands. No one had bothered to name the seemingly endless expanse of land whose ground level was so low it escaped measure. In places, it was less than an inch. In others, it could swallow a horse and rider before they could let out a scream, never to be seen again. Living off of it, resting upon it, were the great forests of the swamp lands. Huge trees formed a roof high above and massive roots allowed travel. There were volcanoes where the mountains of Ktoll were swallowed into the living expanse and, of course, there were more living things than generations of Tzurritzanians could name. Oftentimes, things were named on the spot, leading to much confusion. There were over five hundred different varieties of snake.

"I hope the eating's just as good there," Timothy replied. He'd grown tired of dried, traveling rations after their second day.

"Only if you like snake," Mark replied, checking his saddle.

As they rode on, the lush grasses of Paead and the evergreens of Paela were soon left behind them. They didn't know it, but this would be the last trip to the swamp lands for two of them. Another would return often, remembering, vividly, the events to come.

* * *

A guard was posted that night. It was the first time, and Timothy fought it, but it was a necessity in the land where they were traveling. "Now, you're not looking for people," Kraephten instructed. "You're looking for reptiles." "Reptiles," Timothy had asked. "Snakes," Mark answered. "Lizards." "Things that go slither in the night," Kraephten clarified. They set one last fire, knowing that in the dank swamp, there'd be no firewood.

The next morning, as the wind blew out of the west, Timothy (having taken first watch) awoke to a pungent odor. "What is that," he exclaimed. It was worse than the brine-scented stagnations that settled around the Imperial docks. Worse than compost piles and manure hills of Bemmiton.

Kraephten, already awake having taken the last watch, smiled knowingly. "Swamp," he replied, simply. "You'll get used to it."

Timothy didn't see how that would happen and the value he placed on Kraephten's opinion only fell more throughout the day as they rode down the land and toward the swamp. By noon, the ground had turned into a foot-deep muck, creating plenty of noise as the hooves slurped with every step. The marsh grasses grew noticeably higher as the day progressed and the ground sunk distinctively lower.

The night came again to a silver studded sky. The break in the rain had been advantageous traveling weather. Not only had they remained dry but the ground, until that point, was also dry. Now, entering the swamp lands, Timothy found the time of comfort behind him. Even after he stacked marshgrass, as Kraephten had instructed, the mire soaked through his bedding. The three Rynians had paid little attention to the skyful of stars during their journey, jaded as they were by the commonplace. Without a fire (for there was nothing dry enough to burn), the three looked heavenward. Kraephten had taken first watch, with Timothy following on second, and was leaning against an upturned root as big as a horse. "Look at 'em," Kraephten directed. "Get your fill. It will be some time before you see them again." Timothy didn't ask why, not because he already knew but because he was afraid to find out.

* * *

The next morning, Timothy awoke to darkness and fog. He felt as though he'd only had a couple hours of sleep and said this instead of rising.

Kraephten gave him a poke with his foot. "Come along, lad. We'll be moving slowly today and I want to be within it before dusk."

Within it? What could that mean, Timothy wondered as he folded up his blankets and readied his horse. The fog was thicker than any he'd seen. Even living by the sea, he'd never seen one grow so thick and press so ominously. It was like the fog had a mind of its own and it was pressing against their progress. Kraephten instructed them to stay close, though Timothy needed no such warning. For hours on end, as they rode, all they heard was the constant shucking of shoes as they were liberated from thick, swamp mud. Kraephten called them to a halt for their midday meal and, though the fog was lifting, all remained dark. Timothy lost all sense of time. Where was the flow of the day and the approach of evening?

When they'd stopped for the night, Timothy still wasn't sure what had happened until Mark reminded him to tie his horse down for the night. "But, wait a minute, what happened to the day?" Both gave him inquisitive looks. "There was no daylight. It was dark throughout. What kind of place is this?"

"We're in the swamp lands, now," Mark explained.

Kraephten added, "You'll find there'll be quite a few things different."

They moved off the road and into a copse of fallen logs to set up the night's camp. Kattox dug up a root and, after paring down the moist outer layers, placed it upon a log and set it alite, burning it like a candle. Tim felt like he was going to retch. The stench of the swamp was bad enough. But this? "What, by Ibbrano, is that?"

"Muchek," Kraephten replied.

"What is it," Timothy asked again, putting his cloak over his mouth.

Mark, too, had covered his face but Kraephten didn't seem to notice the foul odor. "It keeps most of the bugs and reptiles away. You'll thank me for it."

"The only one I'll be thanking is Dyneesa when my sense of smell is gone!"

Kraephten and Mark bedded down on some old, moss covered logs while Timothy took first watch. As the hours passed, and Timothy was certain that it must have been approaching midnight, no stars glimmered above to chart their course through the darkness.

The next morning, awakening from a hard sleep upon an even harder log, Timothy saw exactly what he'd been missing. A storm front had moved over the mountains from the west or up from the south and no fog rose to meet it. Indeed, Timothy wouldn't have known about it at all if not for the single drop that fell - drip, drip, drip - upon his cheek. He opened his eyes, annoyed, to see a great ceiling of trees lining the sky above him. He rose suddenly, looking around him. Trees grew everywhere and many ran with endless streams of rainwater which washed down its trunks like vertical sluices to the swamp below. The trees seemed to be of an endless size and variety. One thing was certain, though. Their tops blotted out all but a little of the sun's light, keeping it fairly dark except for a stray beam here or there. Trees grew in all directions; what Timothy had thought were logs had actually been trees branching out like a giant web. He looked to the road on which they'd traveled and saw that it had only been a tunnel carved out of the great foliage. For Timothy, who had learned to love the rooftops of Rynia, it was strangulating, claustrophobic.

"It's really something, isn't it," he heard Mark ask.

Timothy replied, "Something?"

"Something beautiful," Kraephten said, returning to camp.

_Beautiful if you liked tight spaces. If you liked tunnels and caverns, dark and lonely and unforgiving, ready to crash down around you at any minute_ , Timothy thought. But Timothy wasn't thinking about the swamp lands. His mind was almost a decade in the past. It was beneath the Imperial Palace in an endless maze of tunnels and caves. He had been trapped beneath the ominous threat of stone giants and sand golems then, fighting for a kingdom. Just as now, he'd only had Kraephten Kattox to rely upon and he still resented it.

Kraephten put an arm on his shoulder. "Relax, son."

"He's thinking of Rynianhomme, isn't he," Mark inquired.

Kraephten turned to look into Timothy's eyes. "How could you not be, eh? We were all down there, too, Tim. Things like that don't diminish us unless we let them. There's never been a doubt in my mind that you could handle this." He looked up at Mark. "We'll adjust."

Then, it was back on the horses for another day's ride.

* * *

Later, long after night had fallen, they rode on. Timothy was ready to fall asleep in his saddle and only continued to sit upright due to the constant example set by the other men. To both Mark and Kraephten, constant drills, training, and night watch were a part of everyday life. To Timothy, it was becoming entirely too inconvenient. "Find a site, Kattox," he groaned.

Kraephten rode a length ahead, watching for obstacles above and below. "Have patience. We're almost there."

"Manahna," Mark replied, knowingly.

What a manahna was held little interest for the young thief. His head kept constantly bobbing, dropping with every approach of sleep. Oftentimes, his eyes would be closed without his being aware of it. He shook himself several times, hoping that would work, only do nod off a few minutes later.

Soon, something occurred that made Tim wonder if he was dreaming or just hallucinating. Further up the tunnel, came the distant shimmer of torch light. He pried his eyes open with his fingers and blinked hard but the spots did not disappear. They grew! As their horses approached the lights, Timothy noticed something even more incredible beyond. Without taking his eyes off it, for fear that it would vanish like a dream, he nudged Mark. "Hey," he muttered inquisitively.

Mark smiled, nodding, "Manahna."

"You knew this was coming?"

"Kraephten mentioned it."

"Then, you've never seen this before?"

"Nope."

Of course, Timothy thought. Duke Nygarra still held the cool composure of the Defender of the Crown. He remembered his younger days, when Mark stood, bat in hand, always ready to protect the Princess. Never flinching. Unquestioningly true.

Mark, of course, remembered it a bit differently.

They rode past the initial torches doused in muchek which, as it turned out, was very flammable. After that, they found themselves within Manahna.

Kraephten noted, "Their Bonders possess a deftness of skill that would make Hex jealous."

Indeed. For if one is going to live within the swamp, one must learn how to live with the swamp. Before the three, a city built into the trees rose into the sky, the light from which was dazzling after the overpowering darkness of the jungle. The Tzurritzanian wizards had learned not only the biological and chemical characteristics of the great trees that grew throughout the swamp lands but their genetic traits as well. With the help of their magic, branches intertwined, forming walls and floors and rooftops, leaves lay in order, forming bedding and cushions for chairs, and vines grew strong and lengthy. It was easier to work off of the same tree that was already providing shelter for a Tzurritzanian, thus the tendency for vertical rather than horizontal growth. It was a magical city to the Rynian born Hand of Night, who was feeling less like the great thief and more like a young, inexperienced boy. To hundreds of others from around the northern kingdoms, however, it was Tzurritza's largest trading post. Throughout summer and fall, caravans drove through, picking up orders of brandy, leather, wood crafts, berries, jerky, and an abundance of other things which could be sold at a higher price elsewhere. This made the Tzurritzanians very happy, and rich.

Now, entering winter, it was a silent town. The muchek had been put out to ward against the endless species of insects and reptiles which inhabited the swamps. Kraephten stopped the horses, knowing that more than just muchek was put out at night.

There was the sound of rustling leaves. Then, an armed figure dropped before them. "Hoolt," it ordered, its accent striking Timothy and Mark's ears as funny. That this was a girl was obvious through the scant clothes she wore. Her shorts were little more than a loincloth and her tunic barely covered her small breasts. She couldn't have yet been Timothy's age. Still, Kraephten knew she was dangerous. Her attire afforded her great speed and agility and the weapons she sported, the famous Tzurritzanian double-bladed sword-spikes held ambidextrously, could gut them all before they drew their own weapons. Kraephten had always been amazed how they could climb with both hands full. "It's late," she said. "Why ore you traveling soo late?" As she spoke, her Tzurritzanian accent made her voice sound drawn out, accentuating the "o" in her speech.

"We are emissaries from the great kingdom of Rynia," Kraephten greeted with a delicate nod of his head. "We have come on urgent business for the Council. We must trade our horses for a boat and purchase supplies."

The Manahna guard lowered her sword-spikes. "The governor will wont to knoow about this."

"Of course," Kraephten countered with a smile. "Please direct us to a stable and Governor K'tecjni can see us in the morning."

"You knoow of our people?"

"I like to stay informed," Kattox answered.

Like clockwork, the governor met them the morning at their lodgings. Timothy and Mark were surprised with the comfort of their large room at the Manah Inn. Stables were at the base of the city and, making their way up through a series of elevators, they found the Inn four tiers up. The Inn could have been like any other in the northern kingdoms. Though the front entrance had no doorway, only a lit muchek and a curtain of vines provided security, it opened into a wide barroom. The bar keep was closing down for the night, cleaning wooden cups from a wide basin when the three entered. Wide branches formed the benches and tables and the bar was decorated with an abundance of leaves. Kraephten bought a swallow of brandy while he negotiated the room. Soon, they were upstairs, resting in their beds of leaves. The room had no window and, as out front, muchek was lit to ward off pests. Leafy vines provided a modicum of privacy. As the faint rays of sunlight pierced the branches overhead, signifying dawn, Governor K'tecjni rapped upon the doorframe outside of the vine curtain.

Not counting those they saw the night before, who they had observed only through tired, blurry eyes, the Governor was the first Tzurritzanian either Mark or Timothy had seen. They were a pale-skinned people, almost to the point of being albino. Their eyesight was acute to the extreme and their agility was remarkable. In those final respects, however, K'tecjni had broken with tradition. His town had been rich from trade for hundreds of years before he was governor and his plan was to enjoy that wealth for as long as he held office. Thus, he grew fat and awkward, straining branches and vines wherever he went.

The concept that K'tecjni might, one day, not hold office was as foreign to the Rynians (except for Kraephten who had already been exposed to it) as the Tzurritzanian architecture. Tzurritza, the two would later learn, to their surprise, was a constitutional monarchy. Rule by all of the people was important in a land where one person could not rule efficiently. Still, the royal family of Tzurritza, tracing its bloodline directly to that of Rynia's royalty, held enough power to maintain their privilege. Their vast estates in Raful made that the kingdom's capitol.

"Welcome, sir," Kraephten greeted the governor with a broad smile, "to our lodgings." The governor had obviously been at a celebration the night before; his breath still reeked of brandy and wine. The hangover, too, was obvious, something Kraephten did his best to ignore. The two shook hands vigorously as the governor was steered towards Mark. "May I introduce you to Rynia's official emissary, Duke Nygarra, Lord of Benaatt."

"I thoought that Alinax wos rouling Benaatt."

"He was, my lord," Mark replied, taking his hand, "but sadly that great responsibility fell unto me with his passing."

K'tecjni pulled his hand back. "Dreadfool."

"We were all saddened by his death," Mark added.

"Yes, I'm shoore you wore," the governor said, suspiciously. "You may oddress me as Govornor, young mon, not by any oother affectatoon of yoor imperiol kingdoom." The governor's accent was a thick one, owing to his age (and, perhaps, the blossoming pain in his skull). As younger generations of Tzurritzanians ventured out with the caravans north to Paead or Rynia, east to Kallent, or west or south, they were quickly picking up a more homogenous dialect.

Sadly, this didn't help relations. Mark glanced sideways at Kraephten, whispering, "Affect a toon?"

"Just call him Governor," Kraephten grunted.

"Governor, thank you for finding the time to see us this morning," Mark continued. "Our time here is short but that in no way diminishes the benefit our kingdoms derive from our mutual trade and friendship. I, along with my friends, am on a journey to Raful to inform your Council of a threat to our trade, our nations, and our happiness. With the help of your Council, Rynia is prepared to make the attempt at pushing back this threat." Mark had been working on his opener for days. He had hoped to get every nuance right and fit as much into his first couple of sentences as possible. His king had commissioned him to this task and his intent was to return with soldiers for the defense of Benaatt with all speed.

If he'd wanted to impress K'tecjni, however, he'd failed. The governor had been interrupted from his hangover, hiding beneath his bed sheets, for this meeting. He wouldn't be impressed by some young upstart who had advanced through society on the back of a dead man the governor had once admired. He pursed his lips, switching his glare from Mark to Kraephten and back again, and muttered, "Weoll, it seems that yoou hove already made oop yoour mind oon the motter. Booots con be ocquired at the doocks. Goood-day!" And with that, he turned abruptly for affect, trying not to show how much it hurt his head to do so, and stormed out of the room.

Only to be knocked down on his rump.

"Whoooot," he bellowed, grimacing between the pain in his head and that emerging from his posterior.

The three from Rynia ran from their room at the sound. The cause of the collision, a tall, lanky female in buckskins and boots, stomped as she brushed herself off. "Could'a had him," she yelled. "You big, fat, stupid cow! I was this close!" She put her thumb and forefinger a hair's breadth apart and shoved them, impudently, into the governor's face. "This close! What do you think of that, you craggily, old, piece of lard?"

"I think," K'tecjni started, his voice as loud as the pain would allow, "that I am sick of yoour kind. Aoll oof yoou! Ambassadoors! Rooyalty! Humph!!" As quickly as his huge body would take him, he stormed out of the Inn.

Good relations were less than a distant hope now. Mark knew that his first experience representing Rynia was an utter failure. He couldn't blame it on Kattox. He could blame it on Timothy, the Hand of Night. He couldn't even blame it on Governor K'tecjni's short temper.

He could, however, blame it on this woman upstart. "You!"

She took a step back, a mischievous smile upon her face. "Me?"

"You," Mark repeated. "Do you realize what you just did? What you cost us? What you cost our kingdom? The whole of the northern realms? Do you realize the consequences? What did you think you were doing? And then, talking to the governor like that! Don't you realize who he is?"

"Okay, hold on a minute before your pants explode," she retorted, her hand up at Mark's face. "No. No. No. Noo. I couldn't care less. Um, I was running and that huge slug got in my way... but he's good at that. I talk however I want to talk and, yes, how could you not know who he is? He's the biggest man in the city." She looked over at Kraephten. "I mean, in all poossible ways."

Kraephten smiled, already liking this girl. "I believe what my young friend is trying to say is what reason did you have for doing that? You mentioned that you could have had him?"

"Oh, him, yeah," she said, turning as if he'd still be there for her to chase. "He's a crook. A lech! Inscrutable."

"So you were chasing a thief," Timothy asked.

"Thief? You bet! Guy welched on a five dernig bet!"

* * *

Horses were at a premium in Manahna while boats in the water-logged land were always plentiful. Horses couldn't be taken past the trading post for the road they had taken to the city was the only one for hundreds of miles. When traveling south or west, one went by boat or overland on the network of branches that criss-crossed the swamp like the roads upon Hex's Earth. While the natives found this method convenient and enjoyable when seeing their relatives a couple of miles away, Kraephten knew that they couldn't walk several hundred kilometers before reaching Raful in time to return with reinforcements. The fastest way there was by boat.

The vessel most commonly taken into the swamp was a flat-bottomed scow, reinforced to protect from the snags and shallows to which the waterways were prone. The three Rynian men, having used the morning purchasing supplies, spent the late morning loading up their boat. All seemed well and they were ready to be underway. Except for one, little problem.

"Who you goonna get to guide you?" The voice was familiar and it came from behind them.

Mark was the first to turn around and face her. "What," he asked. "Are you going to capsize our boat as well?"

She stood before him, her stance relaxed, still wearing her buckskins and boots. Her hair was thick, black, and cropped short as if with a hatchet. Her eyes were green like the swamp yet sparkling like the sea. She was tall and muscular and lean but Mark ignored all of that. He just waited for her reply.

She shifted her weight to her right foot. "I see somebody woke up with an attitude. What about the old guy," she asked, pointing. "He gonna be civil?"

"The name's not 'old guy'," came Kraephten's reply as he brushed his hands off and extended one to her, "it's Kraephten. Commander Kraephten Kattox, first Advisor to Duke Nygarra, at your service."

"Mi'larha'ta," she asked, taking his hand.

It had been much earlier in Kattox's life when he had been known as Mi'larha'ta, the blade with wings, by the desert raiders of Kallent. "I'm not usually referred to as such these days but, yes, I suppose the moniker still applies. Aren't you a little young to know of such things?"

"I get around. Soo, Duk-ie," she said, turning to Mark, "you got a real live legend with you, huh?"

"Don't call me Dukie," he growled through gritted teeth.

"And who might you be, young lady," Kraephten quickly asked.

"Name's Kell. You can just call me Kell."

"Sure. Why not," Timothy muttered, sitting on a sack of jerky.

"You still haven't answered my question, though," Kell said, her hands upon her hips. "Who you gonna get to navigate?"

"I would be that person," Kraephten replied. "I've been down in the swamp a time or two."

"Never in the winter, I'd guess."

Kraephten looked at Mark, who was fervently shaking his head. "Is this an offer," he asked.

"Not that your friend seems interested but, yes, I'd guess you can say it is."

Kraephten smiled. "And you would help guide us to Raful because...?"

"I've got my ulterior motives. I wanna get south and I'm all out of cash. Looks like we coould help each other oout."

"We could at that," Kraephten agreed judiciously. "We've got the room," he said to Mark. "It couldn't hurt."

"Don't believe that for a minute," the duke replied.

"It's settled then," Kraephten announced with a grin. "If you can get your things, we'll be ready within the hour."

"Sure thing, Commander. I'm your girl!" As she walked away, Mark shuddered.

"You know she's going to be nothing but trouble."

"I know," Kraephten replied.

"She's already sabotaged us once."

"I know."

"If anything goes wrong, Kattox - I mean anything - it's on your head."

"Well, I'm back. I travel light." The three turned to look at Kell, who had only a rucksack strapped over one shoulder. Behind her, a burly man approached, carrying two, large barrels. He set the barrels down on the dock and turned to give Kell a hug. "Thanks, Malloy," she said, and turned back to the boat. "I said I'd spent all my money," she said in explanation of the two barrels.

What did they hold? Tzurritzanian brandy.

Kraephten's eyes gleamed hungrily. "Then, madam, by all means, welcome aboard!"

Part II

Manahna quickly faded behind them like a bad memory. What awaited them was the more pressing challenge, Mark knew, of meeting with and swaying the ruling body of Tzurritza, the Council. The Council resided in Raful, the capital by the great volcano to the southwest. Mark's paddle met Timothy's stroke on the other side of the boat, keeping their speed constant as the young woman, Kell, guided them.

Timothy kept one eye upon the rooftop of trees, wondering when it would break, allowing in some sign of the world outside. It let in so little light and, yet, the plants grew, leeching their sustenance off of the water around them. The party's eyes adjusted to the constant darkness and they could see snakes everywhere they looked, only broken here or there by a lone mongoose or ferret. Though it was winter, the animals gave no sign of entering hibernation. The swamp seemed to remain consistently warm. The summers must have been murder. They had needlessly been told that there were alligators in this swamp, which only served to reinforce Timothy's decision never to leave their boat.

"How long do you believe we'll be on this water," Kraephten asked after a day of rowing. The three had traded places and oars throughout but, not being used to this type of activity, relished in an evening of rest. As if the rowing weren't enough, each was constantly using his oar to swat away any snake interested in catching a ride in their boat. Some dropped from the trees above while others swam up from the water. It kept them constantly alert, their eyes darting in every direction.

"Oh, I don't know," Kell replied, lighting a muchek. "That all depends on you boys and how fast you can roow. A couple weeks, tops. Your supplies should get us through."

"And your brandy," Kraephten replied, tapping the keg.

Kell looked at Mark, who had decided to ignore his irritation at their current situation and recline on the prow. "What's with Duk-ie? He seems awfooly quiet."

Mark brought a sweaty hand up to his forehead and tried to calm himself. He'd already endured an entire day of this girl's incessant comments on the flora and fauna around them, along with her slanderous references to his title. With no other choice before him (he couldn't rightly push her over the side... not until the others were asleep), he asked, once again, "Will you please stop calling me that?"

Kell took a long sip of her brandy, looking at him as if she were thinking it over, and, for the first time, provided an answer, "No."

As Kraephten and Timothy laughed it up, Mark tried to take his mind off the situation by tying the boat up to a tree. Timothy looked over at his old mentor and muttered, "Dookie!" The three continued laughing for quite a while.

* * *

Rowing continued, day after day. Soon, the four assumed the irregular sleeping habits of the deep jungle and had no way of knowing if when they were sleeping was day or when they were rowing was night. They would simply sleep when they were tired and eat when they were hungry and row whenever they were awake, their goal always just past the next tree.

After one period of rowing that had pushed them to their limits (they had correctly guessed that they had rowed for half the day), Kraephten took watch as Timothy, Kell, and Mark laid down for a nap. Mark, however, was soon up. His shoulders were burning from exertion and he needed some relief. Kraephten already had out a glass and was pouring a dram. "This should cure what ails, ya," he said.

"No amount of brandy - no matter how good - would do that," he replied, taking the glass.

"Worried?"

"It's been several weeks now, since we left Benaatt. I can't help but wonder what's become of Banry."

"He could be a hero now."

"Like Alinax is a hero," Mark asked, gritting his teeth at the prospect.

Kraephten was quiet for a minute, feeling the weight that pressed heavily upon the young duke. "No, my friend. Like you are."

Mark almost retched at the thought. Hero? Mark Nygarra? Hardly. Sure, he'd turned out to be a decent administrator, having immediately taken control over the rebuilding of Benaatt after the War of Earth and Stone. Within just a few years, Benaatt had been restored to the splendor of its younger days and, under Mark's guidance, it continued to grow. Administrator, yes. Mark knew full well, though, that he was no hero. "I shouldn't have left the Imperial Palace without assuring more troops for the city," he said to leave the subject.

"Pipe dream," Kraephten said, using an oar to push one snake away that had bravely approached the boat despite the nauseating muchek. "Marcus is going to send everything he has west. He hasn't time to save a city. He has to save a kingdom." Kraephten took another sip, "Besides, what could a few thousand men do against what we saw?"

He left the question hanging, as Mark looked coldly into the waters of the swamp. It was obvious that Mark was struggling for an answer. So, Kraephten added, "Except die, I mean."

That only brought more to Mark's mind. If Rynia's entire standing force could only wither before the might of the ice giants, then what chance did they stand against the major armies out of Ktoll? If Benaatt was just the side show, what did Tsurtor have in mind for the main event?

"We've got to hurry," he said. "We're running out of time."

"We're making good time, Mark. You must be patient."

"Patient? And what if we get there only to fail again? Like we did in Manahna? What if she sabotages us again like she did last time," Mark spat with an accusatory finger at Kell.

"Now, Mark -"

"What's she doing with us, Kattox? Why did you insist we bring her along? She'll be bad luck to us as if being in the middle of a swamp named for Tzurritza weren't enough! We don't know where she's guiding us and, for that matter, we don't even know if she knows! We don't even know who she is!"

"I know, Duk-ie. I know," she said without moving. "I've lived here all oof my life and I've made this trip a hundred times. I know."

Mark was shocked to find that she'd been awake and had heard everything. Speechless, he gawked at the girl - laying on her back, soft skin exposed where her tunic pulled up from her belly, her hands folded behind her head like a pillow - and turned to Kraephten. The older man held out a brandy and Mark drank it.

* * *

Into the thick darkness as the perpetual night mixed and mingled with the swamp's often-heavy fog, navigation soon became a problem. Summer courses cut between the largest trees, often used as beacons throughout the watery course. During winter, when the water levels rose and the fog grew its thickest, better to walk through Silen - where the trees told secrets that drove men mad - than to chart a course through the swamp. It was no job for a stranger. Only those most familiar with the trees could find their way.

For all the trouble that she was, Kell served this purpose. "Push ooff against this one coming up, Kattox. We want to goo 'round the north side."

Kraephten gave a hearty push, pointing them beneath a leafy canopy.

Their course seemed to speed ever so slightly before, with a lurch, they stopped.

The boat rocked for a minute in silence which Mark gave a harsh look to their guide.

Kell let out a little laugh. "Well, what do you know? Water's not as high as I thought." Mark almost said something when she cut him off, "Don't worry. It's a shortcut. Goonna save us a day." She looked around the boat. "You got any rope, Kattox," she asked, trying to avoid the duke's scornful eyes.

Kraephten gave her the rope. With their boat prow-first into the snag, she tied one end to the hook at the front of the boat. Then, throwing the rope over a branch several feet ahead, she stood up on the prow. "So, we'll pull ourselves past. This part's easy." She gave a good tug that soon turned into a prolonged yank but failed to budge the boat. "You want to give me a hand here, Duk-ie?"

Mark kept his mouth shut, knowing that any request would again fall upon deaf ears, and climbed upon the prow. The boat was so small that it was difficult for two to fit and the snag, ironically, helped them keep their balance. Mark, with his leather gloves, knew he could get a better grip so he reached higher than Kell, his body drawing closer to her than was comfortable.

"Okay, now," she said. "Pull!" Together, they reeled in the rope. The boat moved forward with a sharp lurch and stuck fast. "Wow," she said, almost out of breath. She smiled at Kattox. "Big snag."

"Okay, Duk-ie, you ready again?" Again, they drew closer, Mark's arms brushing against hers, their bare skin touching. "Pull," she yelled suddenly and Mark grabbed a handful of rope. The boat lurched and shook. Mark continued pulling as the branch they drew against screeched from the strain.

Then, the boat was free. It quickly rushed out from beneath Mark who, looking below, realized that they'd just pulled themselves over a falls. It took less than a second. Mark knew that Kell would only fall off of the prow into who-knew-what. The boat itself looked like it would right itself after a drop of only a meter or so. But with Mark holding onto the rope and Kell holding less, the two would quickly be in the drink with the snakes and alligators and -

Kell had already been close to Mark. It was almost nothing for him to bring his right arm down and firmly circle it around her waist. She let out a little yelp as the boat fell away beneath her. Mark had only gripped one end of the rope and, although the tree it was caught in provided friction, they were rapidly falling into the drink. Kell grabbed the other end, her gloves the only thing saving her from rope burn, turning their fall into a slow descent. Miraculously, their lifeline swayed to the ship and Mark, still holding Kell, dropped the short distance into the boat.

Kraephten, having grabbed all he could along with Tim to save their supplies from a watery grave, watched the two drop to safety. Their added weight rocked the boat and Mark held Kell steady.

"Why, Duk-ie," Kell sighed. "I didn't knoow you cared." Before he could reply, she planted a firm but brief kiss on his mouth.

Mark was stunned but Kraephten smiled. He knew the look on Mark's face. It was a look that had only been there once before.

"We're moving," Timothy suddenly declared.

Mark stepped away from Kell and, with the other two, looked over the side. Sure enough, though their descent had sent them some distance, they continued moving with no visible means of propulsion.

"It's a current," Kell said in way of explanation. "That's why I wanted us to go this way."

"How far does this go," Kraephten asked.

"Should go as far as Raful. I'll tell you it's hard to catch if you don't know what you're looking for. Comes from a geyser beneath the swamp. Loot's of volcanic activity when you get into these parts." She walked up to Mark, her chin held proudly, "Not bad. Eh, Duk-ie?"

Mark thought of the current bringing them into Raful's docks ahead of schedule and the prospect of returning to Rynia with Tzurritzanian troops on time to save it from Tsurtor's masses. "Not bad," he said. "Not bad at all."

* * *

When the trees finally broke on the outskirts of Raful, the hour was past midnight. The sky was still full of clouds, remnants of a rain storm that had been pounding the upper levels of the trees for days (all that Mark's party had seen of it had been rivulets of dark water that gave the enormous trees an unreal quality as they ascended into the darkness), but there were places, here and there, where the stars poked through, greeting the four travelers like old friends who had been awaiting their return. Mark was fortunate enough to be on watch at the time. He relished in the breeze that moved some of the stagnant, swamp haze. The lights of Raful were still a distance away. For now, he drank in the night. The enormous swampland trees rose like giants, even more impressive set before the backdrop of clouds and stars. The stars poked through like determined outposts, innumerable in the vastness of the night; he'd never appreciated them as much as he did at that moment.

Raful approached as they rode upon the volcanic current. Its size was staggering. It spread out wider than Benaatt and taller than the Imperial Palace. Lights flickered as far as Mark could see but before he could fully appreciate the sight another sense intruded. His attention was diverted from his eyes as he tried not to breathe through his nose. He had thought the swamp was bad! This brought a whole new dimension to his travels. He wondered if nowhere in Tzurritza stood without a foul smell.

"Ah, hoome," Kell whispered, her nose crinkled, as she awoke.

"You never told us you lived here," Mark observed.

"And you never asked," she replied.

Mark felt a cold shiver run up his spine. She was doing it again. He was sure she was going to ruin things just like before. What other secrets was she keeping? What was she hiding? He kept the questions to himself, though. He didn't want to give her any reason to call him that name again.

The docks were fast approaching and Mark grabbed an oar to help steer them in. Kraephten was soon awake and helped as well. Timothy, seeing this, kept pretending he was asleep. He kept one eye open a slit and watched the welcome stars.

Two soldiers at the docks helped tie their ship down. Mark and Kraephten climbed onto the dock to greet them. "Good evening," Mark said. "We are emissaries from the kingdom of Rynia to the north, come to bring grave news to your Council. We must meet with them immediately to discuss this matter."

One of the soldiers looked at the other. "Well, see, that's the problem. The Council is a busy boody and can't just meet with anyboody anytime."

"My name is Ambassador Duke Mark Nygarra," Mark insisted. "I represent Rynia and all her holdings and speak for the king!"

"Sure, sure. We understand that," the soldier said. He was an older gentleman, obviously a slacker, interested only in that which he could get away with. The younger soldier beside him smiled conspiratorially. "But getting before the Council immediately, well... You coould probably see them in several weeks oon your oown. They're very busy, like I said. I coould try to pull a few strings if you'd like but you're talking about cutting through loots of red tape and that kind of woork gets expensive -"

"He wants you to grease his palm," shouted a familiar voice.

Mark turned from one irritation to another as Kell stepped onto the dock. "You know," she said to Mark, "a little pay-oola."

The older soldier recognized her with a gasp and swiftly dropped into a bow. The other quickly followed suit, bowing even lower. "I'm sure the Council will see yoou immediately," came a rushed explanation. "Is there anything else, anyway we can serve yoou?"

Timothy looked up from the boat in astonishment, a look mirrored by Kraephten and Mark.

"We'll be seeing the Council with all speed," Kell announced. "You run to the Council chambers and announce the Duke's arrival," she said, pointing to the younger of the two. "You get our provisions to my quarters. Clean our ship and have it ready to leave by morning. We should be heading out by then."

She turned with a smile and began to strut down the docks. She didn't get far, though.

Mark grabbed her arm and turned her back to him. "Who are you?"

* * *

"Presenting Ambassadoor Duke Mark Nygarra, First Advisor to the Duke, Kraephten Kattox, and her highness, successor to the southern reaches, Princess Kelly Adson." The announcement rang through the Council chambers as the first rays of dawn gleamed the windows that lined the high chamber walls. Both Mark and Kraephten could hardly walk; their jaws had dropped and they seemed to stumble in confusion.

"I wanted it to be a surprise," she told them. "Are you surprised, Duk-ie? Duk-ie. Duk-ie. Duk-ie! Now I can say it all I want." She giggled and began walking down the blue carpeting that led before the Council. The Rynians followed her, still confused.

It was one of the buildings set in the rear of the city, up against the volcano. While part of the city lay within the trees as one traveled into the city, the ground grew harder. By the center of town, the ground was mostly rock and held a firmness that supported structures built upon the land. As the city retreated up the slope of the volcano, the buildings were mostly constructed of brick. None of the massive trees grew in that region and the Tzurritzanians had learned how to use the volcanic rock and ash for mortar. The Council Chambers had been constructed from a polished brick of reds and golds.

The volcano had long since gone dormant. Now, the majority of its awesome power was harnessed by the citizens of Raful or bled into the swamp. Once, long ago, it had been the harbinger of Tzuratt. With every eruption, it had wrecked chaos upon the land. The insurmountable, unendurable lava that inevitably crushed all in its path grew synonymous with Earth's "Hell". The Tzurritzanians called is Tzuratt's Eternally Grinding Fist.

Within the chambers, Mark followed behind Kell as they both stepped before the supreme governing body in Tzurritza. The Council. Ten men and women, elected from throughout the swamplands (and those minute portions of the kingdom which somehow remained dry). Every five years was the Great Plebiscite and those who were replaced returned to their homes never to serve again. They never saw home during those five years. They remained within Raful, ruling for the common good.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Council, I bid you peace," Kell began. "I bring with me men of unscrupulous character and profound urgency. Duke Mark Nygarra of Benaatt and Kraephten Kattox, the hero of Kallent, both bring news of cataclysm to the north. For this reason have they roused you this day. Their matter is so important, I will let them tell it." With that, she stepped back, allowing Mark to be at the forefront.

Mark had been preparing for this moment for the past two weeks. Through his ride across the plains and boating through the swamp (with that annoying... Princess!), he had tried to find the words. They had to be perfect. Tzurritza and Rynia had not officially conversed in over a decade. It wasn't due to ill will. Times were hard. Rynia had been at war with her eternal enemy and the government had been cut off from other kingdoms. Now Mark had to take all of that silence and transform it into a pact. He'd thought long and hard and he thought he knew just what to say. "Um," came out of his mouth, seeming to echo within the chamber walls.

He felt a drop of sweat run down his brow as he looked over for the girl.

She'd disappeared just when there was so much to ask her!

"Members of the Council. Esteemed colleagues in the struggle for peace within the Northern Kingdoms. I bear you greetings and hopes of prosperity from the great king of Rynia, Marcus Haddison. He has charged me with a quest to come before you and I am joyful and grateful to discharge that duty here today. Our peoples have long been allies in peace and, when necessary, have struggled together in war. It is for this reason that I come before you today." The murmurs of the Council rose just as Mark had expected. He waited for a moment, letting them echo within the chamber before they quieted to a slight buzz.

Then, he said the three words that he hoped would bind the two nation's resolve. "Tsurtor has returned."

As one, the Council gasped. Their voices again were raised, now directed to the duke from Rynia. "How doo you know this?" "What are his plans?" "Why dooes that bring you too us?"

Mark remained silent, knowing that would be how Kattox wanted it, until the questions grew silent once again. "All of your questions, Council members, will be answered in short order. Remember that Rynia has stood against Tsurtor for many generations. In the great war of almost forty years ago, brave Tzurritzanian soldiers, their double blades striking true, fought beside Rynians armed with both bat and magic to defeat Tsurtor's armies. Eight years ago, my kingdom was further plagued by Tsurtor. He brought down upon us malicious stone giants and rose the dead from the ground. We nearly did not prevail. Thus has been the absence of a representative of Rynia from these hallowed chamber halls. For the past years, we have been rebuilding, readying ourselves, not for more war, but for prosperity. Prosperity shared between our peoples.

"Now, Tsurtor is back again. He has sent his minions out from his great palace in Ktoll. He first struck within the heart of Rynia, in the Imperial Palace. I fought in that battle. Several of our soldiers died before the evil was turned away. During the journey here, my companions and I saw Paead desolated, its people reaped for Tsurtor's war.

"I ask you, ladies and gentlemen of the Council, if Tsurtor's reach stretches as far as the halls of the Imperial Palace, how much farther will they stretch? If Tsurtor has taken the people of Paead, who will he take next?

"Paead is all that separates our two kingdoms. While Tsurtor marches to our western border so too does he camp along yours. We know from his past incursions where that leads. Tsurtor has taken your lands and your people in the past as well.

"Join with us in our resolve against this evil power. With our combined might brought to bear, Tsurtor will not take us. We will push him back to Ktoll and rid the Northern Kingdoms of this bane forever!"

Mark had not expected a cheer. He'd only hoped for agreement.

For that, he would have to wait. "Toommorroow moorning," the senior Councilmember informed him, the rest looking on silently. "We will weigh the ooptions and meet with you then."

Part III

"A princess? Why didn't you tell us you were a princess?"

"Well, you didn't ask," Kell was about to answer when Mark, glaring out the window, started shouting again.

"It's just - how does that look? I've seen profile paintings of King Thomas; I could bow on sight. Prince David and Princess Fiona were described to me - nobody ever told me about another princess!" Outside, a new storm dumped buckets of water upon the volcano. Much of the moisture was turned into thick fog by the main geysers which abounded this close to the mountain. They were inside the royal mansion, at the center of the royal estates, which sat directly at the base of the Mount Raful. Kell had insisted that they stay here instead of at one of the city's inns. Now, Timothy, looking longingly at the night, Kraephten, who was giving a half-hearted go at mediating the dispute, and Mark, who fogged up the window with his angry rant, were sharing Kell's three room suite - the smallest in the mansion.

Kraephten smiled. He couldn't help but smile because he found the relationship forming between the two young people too funny for words. He could see what they didn't realize. She was crazy about him and tried to get his attention by teasing. He was crazy about her but didn't realize it so he tried harder than usual to cling to his responsibility, hoping it would buoy him over these strange twists his gut took whenever she looked his way. Perhaps in time - ah! Better not to think about that. "Your Highness, I believe what the Duke is trying to say -"

"I'm the youngest, ookay," Kell blurted out. "I'm way doown here at the boottom, belooow David and Fiona and Tamrik and Hershell and Osney and Adell and William and Derrick and Cameroon!"

_Busy family_ , Kraephten thought.

"So, my only right too this kingdom is some crappy swampland to the south and my father hardly nootices me! It leaves me the freedom to doo as I please. I don't have the coonstraints my older brothers and sisters have!" She went up to Mark and pushed him away from the window and with every sentence, pushed him again. "That dooesn't mean I'm not a real princess! Just because I wear buckskins doesn't mean I don't carry a title! I can fight just as good as any man! Fight just as good! Make my way through this jungle! You should be thanking me! I got yoou in there, didn't it? I made you look good, didn't I? Well? Didn't I?" By this time, Kell was panting, tears were streaming down her face, and Mark was struck dumb. He looked over at Kraephten for help.

"She has a point, Mark. She did speak well for us."

Mark opened his mouth, not knowing what to say. Kell let out a high squeaking sound, as if she were stifling more tears, and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. He looked over at Kraephten, who looked less than pleased, and Timothy, who was generally uncomfortable amidst the elegance of the royal residence. "I'm going for a walk," he said, almost as if he didn't care they were listening or not.

Kraephten looked at Timothy. "See what you missed out on all those years?"

* * *

The air was warm but the rain was cold, it beat down in defiance of the thermal heat that crept up from the ground. No one was about, no animals wandered by except for the occasional snake. Boats down at the docks were quiet. A kind wind even blew away most of the combating stenches of swamp and volcano.

He didn't notice it, though. The rain quickly drenched him and he pushed his hair back almost in defiance. His dripping clothes clung to him like unweilding skin and his feet squished in his shoes. But he didn't care. Those were the least of his worries. So, too, were the troops he was sent to retrieve, the war he'd soon be faced with, and the possibility of losing everything he'd called home.

Just now, the only thing on his mind was one irrational, insolent, irritating young woman who was lacking in poise, grace, manners, and reverence. It all seemed to be a game to her! She didn't seem to realize how important it was!

_She's just a kid_ , Mark thought in disgust.

Mark considered most of his peers as immature. He'd been thrust into the world of royalty before he was comfortable with the few responsibilities he'd been forced to hold as a soldier. No time to enjoy his twenties. He'd been in a war, hiding in a cave beneath a castle. His early thirties had flown by as well. There'd been a city to rebuild. At thirty-five, he was still trying to catch up with a life that had taken off before he was ready.

How old was Kell? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? She'd been surrounded by luxury all her life. She'd never been faced with war. She didn't know what responsibility was all about.

It wasn't that he felt anything for her. Her? With her short, black hair that sat upon the base of her neck and her green eyes - they had caught the sun in the Council chambers and Mark had seen how truly radiant - but enough of that! He just wanted to make her understand what they were in for and how nothing else was more important.

He'd have to talk to her soon, though. If all went well, they'd have their troops and be on their way in only a few days' time. They'd enter Rynia by skirting Paead's southern border and make it back to the Plains, missing General Heaphge's deadline by only a week. The pace would have to be quickened. He'd only have another day or so to talk some sense into the girl before he left her.

His head cleared and he thought, _better to do it now_.

* * *

Back at their room in Kell's suite, Kraephten and Timothy had each taken one of the two settees and were sleeping, uncomfortably, upon them. Mark had taken a warm bath to soothe his cold, wet body. The sun was coming up again as he sat, dried his hair, and pulled on a boot simultaneously.

"Oopen up," came a holler, following a severe rapping upon the door. "We know you're in there and there's noo escape!"

Mark, his boot slipped on, rose and started for the door. Kraephten and Timothy were already rising from their sofas and Mark heard Timothy say, "... must be some mistake."

The duke opened the door and in stepped two soldiers, weapons drawn. Their brusque manner made it hard for them to be civil. Still, they nodded an informal salute at the visiting nobility. "We're here foor that one, sir. Me and my men behind me."

Timothy, having risen, instinctively took a step back.

"Noo escapin' foor you, boy! We got witnesses what said you doone it!" The troop commander and two others charged him. Five more came through the doorway.

Timothy reached for his staff that had been resting against the settee and a solid hand clasped around his wrist. "Don't do it, son," Kraephten demanded. "There's two swords for every man and when you're staff is finished your hand-to-hand skills will be like nothing against them!"

"I didn't do anything, Kattox," Timothy insisted, his eyes wide with fear and adrenaline.

"We know that, boy! But you're not in Rynia anymore. This won't help anyone!"

Timothy brought his hand away from the staff and looked at his ex-mentor. "You better be right, Kattox. I won't be hanged for something I didn't do."

"You won't be hanged because it wasn't you. Now, these gents are going to bring you straightaway to your accusers. That's the way they do it here," Kraephten explained to Mark as much as Timothy. "When they see you, they'll realize their mistake and you'll be free again."

"Coome on, you," the chief soldier ordered. A soldier took Timothy by each arm and pulled him along.

"I got a bad feeling, Kattox," Mark said after the others had left.

"That's my bad feeling you got." Kraephten picked up Timothy's staff and his own sword and motioned for Mark to follow him. "The odds of an outlaw matching Tim's description in town at the same time he's here, committing a crime just in time for our arrival, tells me that he may still need this weapon."

The soldiers drove Timothy off the royal estates and across the city walks toward the Council's chambers. There, Timothy would be accused and would face his accusers with his defense. Inside, the Hand of Night was led down the blue carpeting and before the Council's seats. None of them were in place, though. They stood on the floor, awaiting Tim's arrival.

When Kraephten saw this, he was visibly shaken. It could only mean one thing.

The Hand of Night was being accused by the Council.

Kraephten hurried forward and Mark followed.

One Councilmember entered from the rear. Mark remembered him from yesterday. Pallo Saldia. One of the youngest of the Council. Something was strange about the Council. Kraephten noticed that one of them was -

"You killed her! You bloody, murdering bastard!" Pallo Saldia launched himself like lightning at his first sight of the accused. Though he might have been only a politician, not a trained swordsman, he held two of Tzurritza's spike-blades pointing them at the Hand of Night.

Kraephten and Mark pushed their way to the fore. "Councilmember Saldia! Please! Control yourself! This outburst is not going to solve anything!"

"Solve anything," Pallo yelled, his arms now held down by Kraephten's deft use of the staff. "Solve anything? He killed her; don't you understand? He killed Soorina!" With an extra burst of strength, Pallo pushed Kraephten away and pointed his spike-blades at Timothy. "I challenge yoou, cur! I will spill your blood as yoou did my Soorina's!"

Mark and Kraephten exchanged glances. It was obvious. Timothy was being framed for a murder he didn't commit. The victim's lover would challenge him to a duel and, win or lose, Rynia was done for.

But Kraephten knew Timothy, no matter how many years he had spent as the Hand of Night. Tim didn't use blades. His weapon was his staff; so he couldn't have spilled blood. Also, the crime was too easily pinned on somebody who, it would be discovered, had a criminal history.

Kraephten would not let Timothy die. He turned the staff to his young friend. "Take it," he told Timothy, his eyes piercing and serious. "Do not kill him. Understood?"

Tim reached for his weapon as the others backed a safe distance away. He nodded. "Yes, sir."

Kraephten stepped back with the crowd as they waited for the first move.

Timothy weighed his staff. It was an old weapon, purchased from the robbery of some fine silver. Nearly two meters in length, it was composed entirely out of hardwood. It took a deft hand for the quickener to bring hardwood to this narrow width and keep its strength. Still, he'd been in many fights with it, against swords, bats, and chains, and never had it been damaged. He knew that Pallo would expect it to chip and, eventually, break under the spike-blade's edge. He knew better.

Without a word, Pallo, who was nursing his frown like a fine wine, launched his left blade forward at the Hand's torso. Timothy never considered himself just plain "Timothy" when he fought or when he stole. It was then that another persona took over and he was truly the Hand of Night. He knew Pallo's move was only a feint; he'd seen the move in knife fights in bars around the Imperial City. He brought his staff lightly against Pallo's spike-blade and readied himself for the right-handed slash that was sure to come.

Then, Pallo kicked with his right foot, connecting with the Hand's groin.

Timothy dropped to both knees. The kick had been perfectly placed and Tim would have sooner doubled over than defend himself. Pallo was already moving his right spike-blade in for the coup de gras. As the Hand held his stomach with his right hand, the staff spun in his left, stabbing at the soft tissue below Pallo's right wrist. The spike-blade flew like a cast stone and Pallo was cradling his right arm as if it were broken.

The Hand knew he probably wasn't that lucky. He rose, trying his best to ignore the pain in his nether-regions, and grimaced at the Councilmember. "So, that's how you want it? Okay, then." Before he'd even finished, the right end of the staff flew down towards Pallo's head. Pallo brought his spike-blade up to parry and quickly found himself resoundingly whapped upon the other side of his head.

Again, the left end of the Hand's staff came at him, this time to his knee, and when he tried to block it, a gloved fist struck his face. With a echoing thud, he hit the carpet. He tried a feeble jab with his spike-blade. It was effortlessly knocked out of his hand and the other end of the staff popped him in the chin, its end pressed hard against his windpipe.

"I could kill you right now. It would take one thrust and I'd crush your windpipe and maybe even your spine. You think I'm a killer? Do you? You'd better be happy you're wrong."

The staff came up so fast that the air whistled and Timothy stood above Pallo, breathing hard and looking upon the rest of the Council. Pallo couldn't move. His head hurt. His throat felt as though it actually had been crushed but it was his own fear that prevented his from breathing. He also realized, to his embarrassment, that he'd wet himself.

Kraephten was the first to step up and he offered Timothy his hand. Tim shook it and was perplexed when the hand remained outstretched. It wasn't a shake that he wanted. "You're staff, Tim. This isn't over, yet."

Tim was prepared to move away but saw a half dozen soldiers approaching from both sides. "What are you talking about? I didn't kill him. Isn't that enough."

"No," Mark replied. "We might know you're innocent but that still proves nothing to these people."

Tim handed over his staff and his hands were firmly bound with twine by the soldiers. "Then, what am I supposed to do?"

"Just wait. It won't take us long to clear this matter. It may be no more than a day."

Timothy was quickly led away. Pallo Saldia retreated with half of the Council. The other half, including the Council Chief, Bernise Holl, watched the duke and his advisor as though they were expecting something. Finally, Bernise stepped forward and asked, "So, you think that he is innoocent, doo you? Still, there are rumoors that he is a criminal back hoome. Is this true? And, if so, how are we to trust that he is innoocent?"

"It is true," Kraephten answered before Mark could consider a reply. "He was a thief. He's turned away from that life, though, to defend his kingdom. To defend yours as well. Think for a moment, ladies and gentlemen of the Council, what would be gained by him killing one of your own? How could that advance our cause? Surely, you must see how this was the doing of an outside agent, one bent toward our ruin!"

Council Chief Holl pursed her lips judiciously. "We can see that... prooviding his interest lies with Rynia's. Being a thief, hoowever, how are we to trust his inclinations? Hoow do we knoow he wasn't bought?"

Mark gasped, "Bou -"

Kraephten's shout was louder. "Surely, you don't think -"

"We doon't think anything, gentlemen," the Council Chief barked. "Yet we cannoot risk letting a murderer free. The Council will discuss these events. You will hear froom us in the morning." With that, she turned and the rest of the Council followed.

"So, we lose another day," Mark admitted in defeat.

"No," Kraephten replied. "We gain one to save Tim."

* * *

Kell returned that afternoon. She'd spent the night with her sister Adell. Six years older than Kell, Adell didn't understand her younger sister. She thought her impetuous, disrespectful, and untraditional, and she was right. Still, Kell knew she liked her better than any of her other sibs. They broke fast and, as Adell went for whatever insipid duties were assigned her, Kell returned to the Rynians, hoping Mark had been able to cool off.

She stepped in without knocking to the sight of Mark and Kraephten quietly conversing on the settees. Visibly absent was the youngest one who always dressed in black. They hadn't heard her enter and, as their backs were turned, she tried to remain unnoticed. Kraephten had his dirty-white hair pulled back into a tail and Mark let his fall back unbound. It was a loamy brown, speckled a lighter, sandy, color and Mark had grown it past his shoulders. She thought it might be fun to run one hand underneath it...

So she coughed instead.

Mark immediately pivoted around, a terse look on his face. Kell wondered if it was her imagination or did it soften at the sight of her. Kraephten rose and turned toward her with a polite nod. "Good afternoon, your highness. You left prematurely, it seems. Missed out on all the excitement."

It took them several minutes to fill her in on the details and Kell, familiar with the Council's intrigues was able to fill in some of the blanks. "Pallo and Sorina have been an item since their election. It isn't rare. Councilmembers are gone from their families for five years to seclude themselves away into their office. Whooever's trying to set your friend up did a good job, too. Sorina was one of the only supporters of further contact with Rynia. Moost of the rest, Pallo especially, supported isolation. They say that opposites attract. Either that or it could have been the sex."

"Yes, well, for whatever good that discovery will do us, we can't let this mission fail," Mark insisted.

"Is there anything you can think of that will help us, Princess," Kraephten asked. "Any way we can get more useful information?"

She thought about his request for only a moment. She knew exactly what he was after. Every society had its underworld where the criminal and miscreant thrived. It wasn't surprising that such a class of people were to be found at the docks. Quick passage, access to imports and exports, it was an environment that encouraged the unlawful.

When they arrived, the gloom of the swamp-city was turning to night. At one tavern, a bouncer blocked the doorway. "You can let us by," Kell assured him. "This here's Mr. Du-qui. He's an expoorter from the north."

The line worked and, as they walked in, Mark asked, "Du-kie? You just can't get past that, can you?"

* * *

As night fell, the Hand of Night knew his time - his freedom - had come.

It was almost as if they'd wanted him to break out. The locals had brought him to the very building where he was supposed to have killed Sorina. The special cells for political prisoners were high above the Councilmember's apartments. High above the city at the top of one of the great trees, the Hand was assured that there would be no escape so any effort to that end would be wasteful. The Hand had carefully taken in his surroundings. At the top level of the Councilmember's apartments, one ladder rose above all others. Past the kitchens and storage rooms it ascended and rose, too, above the quarters that housed the Council's support staff. Further up it went as the trees thinned and the air blew sulphur tainted fumes through the branches. At the top, two sides of a covered platform opened to the sky. The other sides led to half a dozen cells. The Hand knew that several soldiers watched the cells and were stationed at the top of the stairway. Several more were at its base. There would be no egress that way without a fight and his staff was long gone, stored who knew where. There were vents in his cell, though, that opened to the outside world. Vents naively placed that seemed to say, "Try it. Go ahead. Let's see how far you get before you fall to your death."

Perhaps that was what they wanted.

And who was he to disappoint?

He had heard the guards outside of the door. They were all gathered well down the hall and, by their discussion, the Hand knew they weren't attending to their duty. Kell had explained Tzurritzanian architecture to him during their long boat-trip. He knew how, though the walls might feel solid, the buildings were composed of living flora. It was only a matter of working the fabric of the tree lose and squirming before, almost an hour later, one hand pierced the wall and reentered the outside world.

His arm and shoulder followed. Then, his head. Had he been prone to vertigo, he might have panicked, clung to the tree. But he was an old hand at wall climbing and the open air made his heart sing! The confinement of his cell only made his flight that much more imminent and with glee, he pulled out his other arm -

Suddenly, there was a noise from within!

The Hand wriggled his way back into the room. If they found him halfway out now, he was as good as dead.

"You men, this way," the order came from the hallway.

Again within the room, the Hand hurried towards the door to listen.

"I want to see you men at the docks. There's an emergency!"

"Yes, sir," came the reply.

All was silent. The Hand concentrated all he could to shut out the incidental, outside noise and listen to the hallway beyond the door. Then, a footfall fell within ear shot. The Hand took a step back, watching warily.

"Is that you, Hand," the question came. The voice seemed to be Kraephten's! The Hand couldn't believe his luck. He knew his old friend would save him!

"I'm in here!"

The door opened and in stepped - was it Kraephten? The hair was slightly different, and the look in his eyes and the way he walked. But, of course, it had to be Kraephten Kattox, didn't it? "Come along, Hand. I'll see you to safety."

"You will," asked the Hand, trying not to sound suspicious. "But, what happened to the guards?"

"I took care of them. You can always rely on your friend, Hand. I'd never desert you."

Of course, he wouldn't. Still, somehow he seemed too certain, too eager. The Hand stepped out and followed him down the hallway. They weren't heading towards the exit. "What now," he asked.

"There's a dumb-waiter that brings up supplies. We'll take that way out." And they did. First down was the Hand and the other followed. "Now, you must climb down the side of the tree-building. You mustn't be caught inside. Meet us at the docks and we'll escape from there." Without another word, he left, leaving the Hand to fend for himself.

He was hesitant to move. What was Kraephten's problem? Why did he order him to descend down the outer side? Why did he say to meet them at the docks? Hadn't the soldiers been ordered to the docks? Something was wrong. The Hand knew. He sprinted after Kraephten, or whoever he was, determined to get more information. Down through the building, they descended. They were running into the Councilmember's apartments when the other took a turn and the Hand lost sight of him.

Where could he have gone? Something was definitely wrong; the Hand could feel it. The time for discretion had passed. He charged down the hallway, bursting into every room along the way. Room after room, he didn't find anything but shocked and screaming occupants.

Another doorway.

He kicked it open.

There, on the floor, lay Pallo Saldia, clutching his gut. He'd been stabbed and standing over him, holding the bloody spike-blade was -

Timothy Holt?

Timothy gasped, releasing the door. His twin turned, bringing the weapon up and smiling with recognition.

Timothy balled his fists. "I don't know who you are but you got something wrong. I don't fight with a sword." He charged his twin, landing a straight, left handed jab to its face.

The vibration tore up his arm, leaving him quaking.

His twin laughed. "And here I thought we had it all planned out so well. You, an inconsequential little thief, would keep Tzurritza out of the war until it was too late. Now, I'll have to kill you, too!"

The twin charged with the spike-blade as Timothy sprang backwards out of the room. Soldiers were running forward, drawn by the commotion. When the twin stepped out, they were too perplexed to move. Timothy didn't wait. He grabbed a soldier's weapon with his right hand and thrust it at his twin. Through its chest it went, running out the other side.

The twin, with a look of shock and ultimate sorrow, dropped its weapon and sank to the floor. Slowly, it's image shifted. The Timothy Holt facade faded away, leaving a small, grey, humanoid creature with a spike-blade through it on the ground. Humanoid, though it was, it wasn't human.

Mark knew immediately, upon seeing it, its creator. "Hargoth," he said, having just run up with Kraephten and Kell after word of Tim's escape had led them to him.

There were things in this world, old things, that could mimic a person or a thing perfectly. They were creatures of magic from elden times called the homunculus. They were known to cause great mischief when they were about, having an innate sense of man's foibles. This thing caused more that mischief, however, and it was more than a simple homunculus. This was a stone homunculus. Created by Hargoth and sent to destroy Rynia's hopes.

Pallo Saldia walked from the room, supported by Herriot, one of the other members of the Council. "Our enemy thinks it can divide us by subterfuge," he said, his voice weak but not failing. "Forgive me, young man," he said to Tim. "We've been used as pawns, it seems. Well, no more."

Bernise Holl stepped up to him. "You must get to a healer, quickly!" Turning to the others, she nodded her head. "You will have your troops, Ambassador. Tsurtor has just dug his own grave."

CHAPTER TEN

OUT OF THE FRYING PAN

Part I

Though Ostrander had long known that he didn't require sleep, the children took more than their share. For the first time since entering this world, he had to stop periodically to allow his charges rest. There was also the added problem of food. No wildlife seemed to walk the dead world of the Ampreks. Often, Tetrem would instruct Ostrander where to dig beneath rubble and Ostrander would come up with loads of torn metal and concrete. Beneath there, however, Tetrem almost always found something in a can or in a box that he claimed was edible.

Agnie would ride upon Ostrander's left shoulder and hold on to his upraised, incomplete wrist as Tetrem walked along side, guiding them to their goal. Both seemed consistently uncomfortable but Ostrander assumed that they were just as anxious as he. There were good days, when the little boy could walk for several hours. On bad days, they'd both be too weary to move. When Tetrem was unsure which way to go (after all, he'd only been seven when he'd been left alone on this world with his four year old sister), Ostrander would help with what little he could remember from when he'd first arrived. Between them, they knew they would reach their goal.

But what then, Ostrander often wondered. He'd kept the Geiger counter safe within a bag he'd found and lashed around his waist. Would it actually show him a stream as Mitch had claimed? A stream that he wouldn't see? And how was it that thoughts of radioactive isotopes and bits of quantum theory persistently popped into his head like popping corn (whatever that was)? Were it conceivable for him to find the stream that he'd followed to enter this world, then how would he get back? What could he build? He still only had one hand and didn't feel confident enough to build himself another. How would a one-handed golem be the hope of these two, small children? How could he build their hopes so? When all he had wanted was a chance at going home?

"Tell us again about your world, Ossie," little Agnie said.

"My world," Ostrander asked, his voice rumbling, an overtone to his thudding, plodding feet. "It's a different place than this. It had color and life and wealth. It is beautiful beyond imagining... at least to one stuck here all their lives."

"Is there lots of food," Tetrem asked.

"Lots of food," Ostrander replied, knowing that the children would start their same questions.

"Milk and honey," Agnie asked with a giggle.

"A whole lot, honey."

"And giant pies for us to munch?"

"You can have them everyday with lunch."

"And steaks and chops? Nine inches thick?"

"You'll eat so much, you'll end up sick!"

The kids laughed and Agnie swung on Ostrander's arm. "I just hope there's more people like you, Ossie," the little girl said. "You're so very nice."

Nice? In the back of his mind, he remembered his days before Hex, before the man who'd been his salvation. He'd been Hargoth's hand-servant, doing whatever the stone giant had ordered. He told himself he hadn't free will then. But hadn't he? Though he'd killed many of the wizards who'd crossed into Rynia from different worlds with his bare hands, he'd been able to restrain himself when it came to Ooobrecht, the multi-colored walrus who'd run from him into a pond, and Hex. Something brought all of this back to him, a feeling he'd never felt until that day when Hex had nearly died to save him, that day when a large part of Hex entered Ostrander and fused with his being (for many years he couldn't admit that to himself). It was his conscience talking... that part which Hex had made to make sure Ostrander never served his baser, Hargoth made, instincts (directives) again.

The children worried at Ostrander's silence and grew silent themselves. Tetrem walked several paces ahead, performing his constant scanning of their immediate surroundings. This scanning had been useful in finding supplies, food, and shelter. He also kept his eyes turned toward the distance. You never knew when a rain cloud could top the horizon, bringing sheets of acid down upon them, or when they might mistakenly cross into the territory of some strange clan who'd sooner kill you for your goods (or meat) than allow you passage. Most of the time, having Ostrander with them had been a successful deterrent. Other times, though, when there were enough hunters in a clan to give them confidence, attacks would come.

Ostrander would order the two into the closest shelter and Tetrem would have to find something fast. Then, Ostrander would await the attacking hordes. Often, he would move his giant arms like clubs, disabling his attackers. Mostly, they would be armed with simple spears or knives or whatever was at hand. They rarely seemed to harm the golem (it had taken Ostrander long to teach them that) and, when they did, he simply healed himself again with rocks from the road. Once, a coastal band had ambushed them, armed with well maintained rifles from before the wars. Ostrander had tossed the children to a haven Tetrem had spotted and, as shots rang out, ricocheting off of Ostrander's hide of rock and dirt, the golem didn't wait for the enemy to come to him. With a speed that surprised them, he went to them.

Thinking this, Tetrem knew that they would be safe so long as he could find them shelter.

Agnie thought of little. She held Ossie's arm and let the rocking of his stride calm her. There had once been a time when she could walk right along with Tetrem. After the first few weeks, though, she'd grown too frail and had become a permanent fixture upon Ostrander's arm.

None of this escaped Ostrander. The children were growing weaker. They consistently needed more sleep. They were losing weight and their hair was thinning. At this rate, they might not make it.

* * *

Ostrander watched the sun rise slowly that morning, just as he always did, with Good Day Sunshine bouncing along in his head. Three moons of Amprek hung above like solemn guardians, their path several degrees south of the rising star. Too bad that, Ostrander thought. It might make for some fabulous eclipses.

He turned to the children to look in on them. Beneath their tarp (a huge sheet they'd found in a pile of old clothes), still they slept. They'd slept for a long time and it worried Ostrander. None of the heavy mist landed upon their small faces. Their bodies were fully covered in the old clothes. He was sure they were comfortable. What he could not know just by looking, though, was if they were alive.

He knelt down by Agnie. Her wispy, golden hair draped haphazardly over her cheek. Ostrander brought his hand lightly down upon her, brushing her hair back. "Little princess of a dying world," he whispered. He was relieved to see that she was breathing, if lightly. He thought he felt his heart swell but knew that was impossible. He didn't have one.

After a while, the sun warmed him. The heat radiated to a loamy part within and he knew the day was half passed. Perhaps there would be more mist that night but they couldn't wait for it. They had to keep moving. He'd seen this day coming. Tetrem, too, was too weary to walk and, Ostrander knew, it would not pass with a day's rest.

This was not right.

Ostrander took down their sheet and bundled them, amidst much of the old cloth, finally scooping them up into the bed of his arms. They looked up at him, peacefully, but didn't speak. They would later. They'd talk and giggle. But they wouldn't walk and they wouldn't look for food and shelter. It would now be entirely up to Ostrander.

Things would continue to get worse. Ostrander knew from somewhere deep inside that Tetrem and Agnie were dying.

* * *

It had taken many weeks and Ostrander had grown skeptical as to their success. One evening, however, as the sun set before them, they topped a ridge. It led down to an inlet. This led to a bay. Above the bay were several, tall hillsides. Ostrander had been there before.

They had finally found the gate.

Ostrander looked at it for several minutes. His mind raced. Now was the chance to return! Now was the chance to go home!

Tetrem looked up. "Are we there, Ossie?" It was a question he'd asked many times before, a question Ostrander had grown quite tired of.

This time, however, it rang like a chime within him. "Yes," he said. "Yes! We made it!" With all the speed that his earthen legs could muster, he hurried down the road to the bay. In the blackness of the night, with the children sleeping beneath a lean-to of Ostrander's making, the earth golem looked up at the hillside, a great happiness coursing through his body.

He turned on the Geiger counter. Like an epileptic drummer, it spat clicks to Ostrander's delight.

Now, the real work began. How did one follow such a stream? How could he return to his home world? Oddly enough, his attention was drawn away from the question and into the sand. Over several days, after he'd found stores of food for his sickly children, he was drawn down to the bay. He forgot about the masses of bodies which had once littered this shore and thought only of the sand.

Why sand, he wondered. He remembered Hargoth's sand golems. Even to an earth golem, they'd been mockeries of life created only to kill. For a slight moment, he questioned himself, taking his hand out of the grains. Could something of Hargoth have remained inside of him? Was he there to build more sand creatures to bring into Rynia with him? No, a part of him insisted. No longer did he live beneath the specter of Hargoth. He plunged his hand determinedly back into the sand and felt another thought enter his mind, a kinder thought. He recognized it with a smile; it was Hex. Like the Bonding magic he had bequeathed, Ostrander could feel Hex's presence telling him about sand and what, along with a stick creation named Robert (enigmatic name, that), he had once built with sand.

It was a long process. For nearly two weeks, Ostrander worked sand in his right hand, trying to get it to fuse. He kept coming up with glass. Though he could reason the equations, he didn't have the knack. The solution, frustrating as it might be, was simple. He had to get the knack.

And time was running out. One morning, the children stopped eating. Their breathing was almost undetectable. Through his soily fingers, he felt a nearly imperceivable pulse. It wouldn't be long now. Ostrander knew that they'd soon be dead. He was resolved, however impossible it may seem, to bring them to Rynia before they died. He may not be able to save them. At the very least, he'd keep his promise.

Requiring no sleep, he worked through each night. He knew he was going about things all wrong but couldn't see the little piece of the puzzle still missing. What he was doing wasn't magic. Creating glass needed only one simple thing. Pressure. His earthen form contained enough power for that. He needed subtlety and grace. He needed to realign the crystal form of the sand, working his will deep inside the quantum fields stored within the vast emptiness of its atoms, to form a balance, a bond. He understood the science but didn't understand the bond until he looked down at his children.

And suddenly, it was that simple. Two grains, bonded with minute yet glorious beauty, rested within his hand.

With the coming of dawn, he had built his gate. It stood at the side of the hill, resting where the radiation emitted as strong as ever. It has been his persistent beacon to Rynia and he was about to follow it. He scooped his children up in his arms and, leaving everything else behind, walked up the hill.

"Where are we going, Os," little Agnie whispered.

"We're going home, baby. We're going home."

Modulating the gate to the hahnium wavelength was almost an unconscious act. The gate was suddenly alight and Ostrander stepped through.

Behind him, with the sudden whoosh of displaced air, the gate collapsed.

Part II

With a sonic burst, Ostrander soared through the gate. The motion and the memory of his last crossing caused him to think about his children with fear. What if he flew through and landed on them? They'd be crushed! With a grace that amazed him, Ostrander spun around in the vortex and, as he entered in the light of another world, he knew he was speeding backwards. Impact was immediate. The children pressed against the golem but his earthen interior saved them from harm.

Ostrander was stunned, though. He set his children down on the beautiful grass that was beneath him and knelt down beside them.

The sky! The heavenly ceiling was clean and blue broken only by pure clouds. All around were magnificent mountains capped with snow and, springing from their base, lush, verdant trees. Healthy grass grew beneath him and Ostrander knew he was finally home. It was not the first time he'd wished for tear ducts but it was the first time he'd wanted to cry with joy. Such peace and beauty all around. The threat of Tsurtor's undead behind him, he knew that he'd soon be happily reunited with his friends.

"Are we there, Os," he heard Tetrem ask.

"We're there, children." He wished that they could see all of the beauty around them but that was not possible. The children were blind, their eyes white with cataracts. Every day they grew worse, drawing closer to death. It wouldn't be long now, Ostrander knew.

He wanted to make them comfortable. The air was noticeably cold and the wind was blowing in more clouds. The shelter of the nearby trees wouldn't be enough. He scooped them up and carried them to a cave in a nearby mountainside. In there, he built them a fire and settled them in its warmth. He knew they'd also need food and left for a while to hunt.

So much to do, having just returned, the thought of their imminent deaths was shunted from his stream of thought. The hunting kept his mind off of things. Maybe if they ate something from this world, they'd get better. He stood motionless, easily done, and surprised a doe that had unwarily approached. He dragged its body back to the cave and, tearing free its hindquarters, put them over the fire.

Soon, they'd eat. They'd be better. They'd be happy.

But Ostrander was deluding himself.

It wouldn't be that easy.

When the meat was nearly finished cooking, Ostrander knelt before his children. "It's time to eat," he said. "You'll be all better now -" but his voice caught in his throat.

The children were no longer breathing.

All at once, he started to shake. What could he do? Alien images popped into his brain. Mouth to mouth? It wouldn't work. He didn't breathe! If only he'd reached the Imperial Palace. Perhaps someone there could save them! If Hex were there, he'd know what to do! He'd saved others with his magic! He saved -

Ostrander...

And if some of Hex's magical talent had passed on to the earth golem didn't that mean there was a chance? Didn't that mean Ostrander could...

He'd fixed himself with his magic.

He'd built the gate and traveled between worlds with his magic.

Debating the issue was getting him nowhere. He lifted the children, with Tetrem in his left arm and Angie in his right. Pushing his magic sense forward, into them, he saw, with supreme relief, that they were still alive. But they were like little trees eaten by termites on an eroded hillside on the brink of collapse; all that remained of his beautiful, little children were shells.

He used his magic to look deep within them and felt ill (a strange feeling for an earth golem) at the sight. Cancers had metastasized throughout their bodies. Their lungs. Their colons. Bladders. Bones. Brains. Tetrem's teeth had rotted and Agnie, poor Agnie, had bleeding genital warts and infections where the night gangs on Amprek had used her.

There was simply too much to fix.

Yet, Ostrander knew that he hadn't a choice. While he possessed some semblance of life, he would give all he could to heal them. It took hours. First the blood - removing the impurities. Then, there were the cancers, the radiation poisoning, and the many other poisons they had ingested. Diseases reveled in the children's sick bodies and Ostrander continued, destroying them one by one. Viruses. Bacteria. Carcinogens. The constant pressure on the back of his head, as he strained to work his magic, built into a tumult, spreading into his back and his arms and his feet. He strengthened the walls of their arteries and veins, strengthened their hearts, removed their ulcerations, gave them back their strong, young teeth.

His shaking was incredible. He never realized that the shaking was tearing away bits and then clumps of earth and rock, reducing the golem as he knelt over his children.

Then, he cleansed the puss, closed the genital sores, healed the infections, and, at last, obliterated the cataracts to reveal those lovely, blue eyes.

It was finished. He'd done more than he could have hoped. Sadly, his own body was a shambles. His legs were gone. They lay motionless on each side of him, clumps of dirt. His arms had gently sifted down and provided pillows for his children to rest upon. He, too, dropped slowly to the cave floor between his children. He Bonded ruined tissue and Broke asunder every disease.

But they didn't breathe! Still, they didn't breathe!

With one final effort, ignoring the ruin to his own form, he focused his magic on their diaphragms. Moving them with the greatest of care, ignoring the pain that pierced his - soul? - he forced breath back into their bodies.

Everything was black and silent. All of his thoughts were scattered. His torso collapsed and his head fell into the dirt like sand from a busted hourglass. It didn't matter. He was happy.

His children were breathing again.

They would be okay.

* * *

Morning rose and warmed the cave. The fire had long since died and the embers were cold. Tetrem rose with a huge stretch. His arms went way up and his legs way out. He hadn't been able to do that for so long because of the terrible pain in his back. His lungs didn't hurt when he breathed. In fact, for the first time in as long as he could remember, there was no pain at all!

What had happened?

He rose quickly, dusting the piles of dirt off of himself, and exited the cave. How they'd found it, he didn't know. The last thing he remembered was that gate Ossie had built. Where was Ossie, he wondered. He looked out onto the new day and saw -

"Agnie!" Tetrem ran back into the cave, faster than he ever remembered and yelled his sister's name again. "Agnie!"

"What," little Agnie asked, mad that she'd been roused.

"Get up! Come quick!"

"What?" Her eyes were open and her face cross. She propped herself, looking at her excited brother and noticed, suddenly, that she, too, was without pain. The life in her limbs had been reborn! She stood! She could walk again! "Tet, what happened?"

"I don't know. Come here!"

Together, they walked out of the cave and looked out upon the countryside. Things they'd never seen before, trees, birds, flowers, greeted them in a vibrant display. "He must have done it," Tetrem said, his voice filled with awe.

"He really done it," his sister replied.

"Done, children? Done what, hmm?" The voice swept up from the side of the hill, approaching the cave.

The children jumped back, instinctively ready to bolt.

"Don't be afraid, little ones. I won't harm you, nor children of any kind." The children saw a woman approach made from the magic that Ostrander had practiced. She was more filled with life than anyone the children had ever seen. No tumor blemished her skin nor did she limp. Her skin was vibrant and her hair, blonde, green and blue, cascaded like brilliant sunlight on a meadow. She wore a shimmering dress and gentle moccasins held her feet. In truth, there was no way they could fear her. "Now, tell me children. What is it you were doing on Ny'ezia's mountain, hmm?"

"This is your mountain," Agnie asked, her eyes wide.

"It is. I don't look well upon trespassers but I can see you didn't mean to trespass, did you? Hmm?"

"No, ma'am," Tetrem replied. "He brought us here. We just came -"

"And who is he? You keep referring to he."

"Ossie."

"Where is Ossie now, hmm? It is with he that I should... speak."

"Uh, he's, uh -"

"He went out to get us some food," Agnie proclaimed.

Ny'ezia's eyes squinted just a bit. "There is no one else on this mountain. Are you sure he didn't leave? I find problems with your story and, somehow, feel that I am forced to believe you. Hmm?"

"But he did bring us here. He couldn't have left us," Tetrem insisted.

Ny'ezia looked within the cave, saw only the roasted doe and clumps of earth, and turned back to the children. "You are innocents and know not the consequences of your actions. I'll bring you to a farm down that dale. They can have you. They are a kind folk and know little of me."

Have us, Agnie thought. Like the night gangs? The memory of tearing cloth and painful, forceful hands was great in her mind. She let out a scream at the mysterious, suddenly very frightening, woman and ran to the cave. She hugged the wall, gripping the rock for all she was worth.

"Let go child," Ny'ezia called in after her.

"No! No! No!"

Tetrem asked, "Agnie, what's wrong?"

"He hasn't gone away! He wouldn't leave us!"

Ny'ezia stepped into the cave's entrance. "You can see with your eyes, little one! Your Ossie has abandoned you!"

"No! He wouldn't abandon us! He loves us!"

Tetrem put his hand on his sister's shoulder. "Agnie."

"Can't you feel it," the little girl yelled, her voice rapt with desperation. She pulled her brother closer and put his hands on the rock wall. "He's still here, Tet! He's still here!"

Tetrem, to his amazement, did feel something. His hands and then his arms pressed against the rock. It was warm, almost alive. "He is here," he whispered.

Despite herself, Ny'ezia was fascinated. What would cause these children to hallucinate so? Were they sick? Delusioned? No. She could see in their minds the truth of the moment. She would have to wait and why not? Though these children, these little ones, reminded her so of her recent loss, they too must be protected.

"You'll need a fire. You must eat. Hmm?" There was firewood all around from felled trees. (Wings often got in the way.)

* * *

Days passed. Ny'ezia brought in fresh kill every morning and evening. She kept the fire burning and, almost as an afterthought, stole some sheep for their wool and began making new clothes for the children. They were beautiful creatures, these children. They played upon the ache in her heart, easing it and helping her mourn her loss at the same time.

Tetrem grew increasingly afraid as, by the third day, it grew harder for him to sense Ostrander's presence. Agnie kept holding the rock, loving it, knowing what the others failed to see. Tetrem was jealous of her but knew, somewhere deep within, that her touch helped Ostrander as much as he had helped them. (They had quickly guessed that he'd done more than just bring them to this world. Their pains, their weariness, had magically disappeared. Somehow, it was because of Ostrander.) So Tetrem, though he could no longer feel the warmth in the rock, gave it his love, his touch, and his hope just as strongly as he saw from Agnie.

By the fifth day, both he and Ny'ezia were sure that whatever hope remained for Ostrander was gone.

Then, Agnie screamed. It wasn't a scream of fear or of lamentation, though. The scream was of surprise and delight. She grabbed Tetrem and screamed again, laughing, and pointed at the rock. "Look! Look! He's getting better! I knew he would!" Agnie ran to the wall and hugged tightly the humanoid figure which had swelled outwards from the rock.

When had that happened, Tetrem wondered. Ny'ezia, too, was amazed. She smiled, thinking that this was much more than physics. Real magic, perhaps? "I can see his face," she said.

Indeed, upon the solid stone cave wall, atop the outline of a sleek neck, a smooth head was formed. This was no plop of dirt riding neckless upon an earthen hill. No mud lips were smeared. No afterthought eyes. It was a head that could look down upon the children, gaze upon them with shining, crystalline eyes, and smile with proud, articulated lips. "Hello, children," he said. His voice surprised them all. Once, it had been the clattering of many unwanted pebbles, a voice made to show its inferiority. It only attained grace with the knowing of his deeds. Now, magically, it was smooth and soft, firm like granite yet gentle as Ostrander himself.

"Ossie," Agnie squealed, hugging him tighter and tighter. Tetrem, too, held him, knowing that his lack of faith had been something best forgotten.

"Step away now. Madame? If you will," he asked Ny'ezia. "I don't want them hurt when I step free."

"Of course," she replied, holding them gently and stepping back so they could watch from the cave's mouth. Her amazement showed in her brilliant eyes as she watched his form appear.

Ostrander, too, was amazed. He had no idea how this new turn of events had come to pass. He remembered healing his children. With every new disease he found and banished so, too, did a part of himself crumble and fade. His earthen form was no match for the mighty, magical forces transferring from him into Agnie and Tetrem. So, it crumbled like a river's edge during a flood. Everything went black and silent yet remained warm. There was a feeling which he hadn't been able to put a name to before but now recognized it. Love. He felt himself leaving his earth and rock shell, falling free away from those he loved.

He couldn't let that happen. He knew that there was still so much left to do. He felt their love and his love for them calling out to him, pulling him out of the rock but, as suddenly as he felt himself formless, he knew that he held a new form. It was harder than he could ever have imagined yet supple, malleable. He pushed himself through the hard walls that separated himself from his love and knew, before he'd opened his first, new eye, from where it had come.

Innocent, little Agnie and strong, able Tetrem. They had brought him back. Was it his own magic, fused into them? Could he have been casting equations from within the rock? Ostrander didn't care; he knew that it was their love that had brought him back.

Though his head was free, the rock was no longer as malleable. It did not want to let one of its own go. Ostrander knew the fallacy in this. He was more than rock, much more. With a mighty pull from his arms, they were free. He yanked with his legs and they, too were free. The rock, the great mountain, knew it couldn't hold him and released its hold. Ostrander stepped into the cave, residual rock falling away and, with a smile, knelt down to hold his children.

* * *

The fire blazed beneath the evening sky, stars poked brightly against the fading blue. Ny'ezia had agreed to provide dinner for what was to be a joyous celebration. Ostrander, overjoyed with his new life and new body, had run all along the hillside. His old body could only walk and ponderously at best. Now he sprang meters at a time, raced frightened birds, and laughed when he fell. (After all, a new body took some getting used to.) Agnie was given dashing horse-back rides (though, in truth, she didn't know what a horse was) and Tetrem would race along.

They'd been together for several months and had never been happier.

Ny'ezia had built a fire outside of the cave and the children quickly fell to sleep with its warmth. Ostrander sat with them, studying his hands against the fire's light. After a while, when the spell of happiness had settled enough and would not be broken, Ny'ezia told Ostrander, "You and your children will have to leave tomorrow. I've suffered you upon my mountain long enough."

"My children," Ostrander sighed happily.

"Yes. You'll have to leave."

Ostrander tilted his head, something he thought he'd always marvel at, "Why?"

"Because you'll been on my mountain long enough! It is within my power to take you all now and deposit you into the ocean to the east but I have decided that, from what I've seen, it won't be necessary. Still, you must leave here."

Ostrander thought for a moment, pursing (pursing! actually pursing!) his lips. "Where is here?"

"Come again?"

"Where are we?"

"You don't know? Are you lost? Hmm?"

"Something like that. We've only recently come into this world. I'd left here, long ago, after fighting the undead."

"Ah, yes. I remember them." She remembered them giving her heartburn

"It's taken me that long to return. This is where we came back into this world."

"I see. You make little sense but I'll humor you. Just to the north and east lay a series of lakes. The Scales? I believe that's their current name."

"And the Imperial Palace? Rynia?"

"Ah, the Kingdom of Rynia," she asked, disinterested. "South and a bit west, I think."

For a while longer, they stared at the fire. Silent. Neither grew weary. Ostrander, though, disliked the silence. "I want to thank you for caring for my children. You saved me by doing so."

"You saved yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"I know how you died. Healing them? Hmm? Do you refer to it as magic? Or physics? Either way, you are quite talented."

Ostrander was flattered but he knew there was more than she was saying. He certainly couldn't take the credit. "No," he replied. "I am simply a golem."

"A golem?"

"Yes."

"A magical construct?"

Ostrander nodded.

"You are no construct. I saw your birth just today with my very own eyes. You were born not by hands wielding magic nor parent giving life. You were born of this mountain. Formed by your own spirit. These children were the midwives and I the witness. You are no golem."

Ostrander was stunned. She was right! "Not a golem? Oh, my. Then, what am I?"

"Only you can know the answer."

Ostrander tried to think for long moments but found that he couldn't. He torso felt tied in knots and his head felt funny. Moisture of some kind was running down his face. It was coming from his eyes. "Then I am no longer tied to Hargoth?"

"What is Hargoth?"

"He was my creator. I was nothing. An afterthought. It was only when Hex -"

"Who?"

"Hex. Why?"

Her body was tense and she vacillated between wanting to change forms and destroy everything and everyone in her path and simply wanting to fall down and bawl until from her eyes a new lake had sprung. Instead, she answered, "I knew him. It was only for a short time. He could have saved them. It was in his power."

"Saved them?"

"My babies."

It had been plaguing Ostrander all night long, this one question that he knew he had to ask. Now, the asking seemed imminent. "You aren't as you appear? Are you?"

Ny'ezia drew back into the shadows. For several minutes, she didn't reply and Ostrander waited. Finally, the answer came. "How could you have known? Ah, magic! Your sight, hmm? It matters not. Leave in the morning. You will find your friends at the Paeadian border. Hex has left this world and Tsurtor amasses his troops."

Tsurtor was still alive. The thought brought Ostrander's teeth grinding together. "What do you mean? They're on the Paeadian border? Who? Why? What are they doing there?"

Ny'ezia had risen and was sinking back into the shadows. "Preparing to lose a war."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

LIE DOWN WITH WOLVES

Part I

"Fine. Then why don't you invite me up. We need to talk," said Vincent, his hands at his hips, ready for anything.

Well, almost anything. Sondolak turned his fluttering platform and soared up the hillside, leaving Mogan and the wizard behind without a word.

Vincent turned to the giant. "Friendly, isn't he?"

"No. Not friendly," Mogan whispered. "He's Master."

"Great. Well, we gotta follow your master. You want to get up and bring me to him?"

"Okay," the giant agreed. As its great weight shifted, trees snapped like dried twigs beneath him. He rose, with Vincent in the palm of his upturned left hand, to a point just above the tree tops.

"Okay, Tiny, let's go."

"Up the hill?"

"Not unless you know a shortcut to Sunset Beach," Vincent grumbled. He looked over the trees to the grey sky. Far below, the rooftops of Elvie's village could be seen. What was Vincent doing here? He belonged back in Country Gardens with Samuel, with his friends, finishing school. Thinking that, he knew how impossible that situation had been. Sam and he had been driven apart. He had no friends and school was a mess. He'd gone to Rynia to escape it all and now, farther away from home than he'd ever known, he just wanted back.

And Mogan wasn't moving.

Vincent looked over at the giant who had a look of intense concentration on his face. Vincent could only shake his head in wonder. "Since you don't know a shortcut to Sunset Beach, Mogan, take me up the hill."

The giant's brow, furrowed into several deep trenches, relaxed and he slowly began to smile. "Good," he replied with a nod. With a crush of lumber, Mogan's massive foot vaulted over the trees and they were off. The ride was surprisingly smooth from the palm Vincent rode in and, for the first time, he was able to take a good look at the giant. The most shocking thing of all was what Vincent realized first. Mogan, for all his size, wasn't much more than a boy. His face still held baby fat, a tendency to smile, and that youthful glow. How old? Five or six, Vincent guessed. He'd grow more, yet. Vincent would certainly need to talk to Sondolak about that.

"WE'RE ALMOST THERE," Mogan announced, forgetting to whisper.

Vincent, though hard of hearing in his right ear, felt the blast hit his ears like a thousand horns. He fell against the giant's pinky and clutched it while his head spun. "Okay, Mogan," he groaned. "I heard you."

Mogan brought his hand up to his face for a better look at the human. "Sorry," it whispered.

Vincent saw a clearing below. A massive pile of leaves on one side was obviously Mogan's bed. Beside that, a few pieces of furniture were overwhelmed by the towering trees. "Put me down," Vincent requested.

As the great hand descended, and Vincent stepped into the soft grass, Sondolak exclaimed, "Ho, wizard! What brings another of our kind into our midst?"

"Not a job, that's for sure," Vincent remarked, approaching the other. "Wizards sure don't seem to be at a premium around here."

"Indeed. We are drawn to this valley like moths."

"Drawn?"

"As you say. But sit down, rest yourself, and we shall talk about it."

Vincent sat on the longish sofa across from Sondolak's bench. Behind him was a table with several chairs and past Sondolak was a four-poster bed. "This is some moving sale."

Sondolak chuckled, "Entreaties from the fine women in the valley below. They thought that they could buy my services with their meager furnishings." He spat. For all his scorn, though, he was clearly enjoying the goods. "But you wanted to know about us wizards."

"You're not the only one," Vincent inquired innocently.

"No, indeed. There's another. Scornful and base, his name is Mar'zhon. He lives up that way," Sondolak indicated by pointing vaguely to the south. "Turned all the men to wolves. Heard about that, didn't you?"

"It'd be hard to miss that. But what did he want with the men?"

"He didn't," Sondolak replied with a grin. "It's all a ruse."

"Come again?"

"Don't follow? Let me tell you. Mar'zhon's an old guy, you see? He's lived for centuries and beyond. Yep. I'm not fibbin'. Met him once. And for all that living, he doesn't look good.

"So, he comes down from the north of here. This here's a pretty remote valley. He thinks he can set up shop. He builds a tower, tall as a mountain, up on top of that hill, and readies himself. He knows the men of the village are coming. He can see them on their way and he's got a surprise for them. They head up the hillside one morning, as the sun is just beginning to poke through the trees and he begins to work his magic. By full sun, they're no longer walking upright with their picks and their torches. No, their padding up on four feet. Almost a hundred of them. Wolves. Well, for the most part.

"Now, you wonder, what would he want with the wolves. The thing is, he doesn't want them. He'd turn them out next week if he didn't think they gave him an edge. But they do, so he doesn't. He sends them out to hunt when the stars are bright in the sky. He sends them back into their village to strike terror in their women. If they weren't controlled by the wizard, they'd throw themselves off of a cliff for the things they've done. Straight away, over they'd go. So, he uses them. He scares the women and he steals their food. That's been since summer. They've got to give soon."

"I don't get it," Vincent replied. "You haven't explained anything. Why the wolves?"

"You're not so smart, are you? For the women! He did it for the women! This here's a remote valley. Without their men to protect them - indeed, with them creating their predicament \- the women will eventually give what has been asked of them. It's been nearly six months. They'll have to buckle soon."

Vincent grimaced. A voice in the back of his head exclaimed, _Ah! So there's more to this than you expected, isn't there? Are things not what they appear? Look harder!_

"You came to fight him, didn't you," Vincent asked.

"It wasn't to fight him that I came. I was traveling up from the south. I had found my power and was ready to begin making my name in Pitaan. So, I came across these women. They all thought I should save them. Like it was my duty! Magic is my trade not my collar and chain. They want me to help them, I've got to be paid."

Paid. Nothing more than you asked for, was it? A little reciprocation?

This brought half a frown to Vincent's face. "So, I take it they didn't?"

"They did nothing of the kind. So, tell me about yourself. What brings you here?"

"Just... traveling. Much like yourself."

"But where I fly, you walk," Sondolak corrected.

_Yes, well, I'd fly too if it weren't for a certain wizard_ , Vincent thought scornfully.

Now, let's not get out of hand. I said you still had your magic. It is up to you to find it again.

"Have they convinced you, then," Sondolak was asking.

Vincent looked back at him, absently asking, "What?"

"They convince you to fight Mar'zhon?"

"Oh, no. They have no means of payment, like you said. But tell me about Mar'zhon. How does he turn men into wolves? Is it an illusion?"

"No. No illusion would be complete enough to do what he's done. His power is far greater than that."

Vincent leaned over. "And what would that be?"

Sondolak hesitated for a moment, as if he wondered if he could trust this new wizard. Then, he blurted out, "He reaches within you to find what he wants. He tells me that there's wolf in all of us. You just have to be powerful enough to see it."

All of a sudden, Vincent realized something he'd been missing all these years. Everybody keeps referring to sight, he thought. Movers went to places they could see. Breakers saw flaws within objects. Raphineal kept referring to Vincent finding magic with his eyes. Now, Mar'zhon saw things inside people that changed them. Was it just sight, Vincent wondered in the moment of enlightenment. Could magic be a sixth sense?

"I don't get it but he says that he doesn't turn them into wolves. He just encourages their hair to grow and their fangs and their muzzle and things like that until they look like wolves. But, hey, if it looks like a wolf and it kills like a wolf..."

Vincent knew what Sondolak was getting at. He'd read about it. Genetics. Somehow, Mar'zhon could mutate the genes to do as he wished. Wouldn't Hex be envious? Probably not, Vincent thought. Hex would be appalled that power of that nature was being used to such destructive ends.

"Me? I'm a simple man," Sondolak continued. "I want something, I visualize it. Somebody needs something, I conjure it up. Right out of thin air."

Envisioner.

Vincent nodded. He'd figured that much out for himself.

What he couldn't determine, however, was why Sondolak remained even after the women of Elvie's valley refused him. It didn't make sense. He should have continued to wherever it was he was going. What would make him wish to remain as he did, in the forest, alone with his giant. Then, Vincent remembered how Raphineal had implied that the wizards were like him in some way. Why would I remain, Vincent asked himself. Maybe he wanted to defeat Mar'zhon. Maybe he wanted to take on the wolves. Maybe he was working on a bigger strategy. Maybe he'd been part of Raphineal's plan.

No, Vincent decided. It was none of those things.

Sondolak was out in the forest. All alone. Away from everybody. Maybe, Vincent realized, Sondolak wanted to help but he was too afraid. He was unsure. Nearly a hundred wolves supporting a powerful wizard, how could Sondolak think he could defeat him alone? And so, Vincent thought he understood this other wizard but another question was quickly at hand.

"How does Mar'zhon control the wolves? Couldn't they just turn against him?"

"Nope. The wouldn't stand a chance."

"Why?"

Sondolak leaned forward, pointed at his head. "Cause he get's inside you. He makes you do his will. That's what he did to those men, the wolves."

Of course, it had been that way with Fallsbur. At some point, the spell had been broken - it was when Fallsbur was weakened - and the wolf could retain some of its humanity. So what was it? Some kind of hypnotism? Brain washing?

Vincent decided that the time for questions had passed. He knew where he stood, magic or no, reward or no. "Sondolak, I see what's happened. I understand where you are on this."

"You do?"

"Yes. And I'm willing to help," he offered. "The women in that village may not have the means to pay us and, even after helping them, the reward may not be great but, dammit, there's something's you do just because you know they're right."

"Do you?"

"Yes," Vincent replied, sure of himself. "Our magic might not be as great as his and our numbers might be fewer but we can think of something. I might even be able to get us some help."

Don't bring me in on this.

"So, you think we can defeat Mar'zhon," Sondolak asked.

"Yes."

"And you think he wouldn't see it coming?"

The question caught Vincent off guard. "Well, he probably would... your giant and all..."

"You don't think he's been prepared for this?"

Off guard, Vincent quickly became confused. "I, uh, don't know what you mean, Sondolak. Prepared? How?"

With a wave of Sondolak's arm, Vincent felt the sofa tilting back. The next moment, he was flying backwards, expecting the crash into the ground. Where was his magic when he needed it? But he didn't fall into the ground; he fell past it. For a second, he wondered, "What," and then slammed into the bars of an iron gate.

He'd landed on his head, leaving him dazed as he rose to his hands and knees. Around him, an iron cage rested in the ground. Heavy bars slammed down from above. Vincent looked through the bars to his captor. "Why," he croaked.

"What a foolish wizard you are," Sondolak announced, "if a wizard you are at all. Do you really think that I would go against my master? Do you really think me that stupid or that able?"

"M-master?"

"Yes! Yes, you idiot!" Sondolak punctuated his statements by kicking dirt into the cage and onto his captive. "Oh, I came here to fight Mar'zhon but those stupid women wouldn't give me squat in appreciation. They'd go on about how much they needed my help and then scorn me when I requested - nay begged! - for remuneration. I'm but a young man. I'm not so wealthy that I can do things for free! You would think that they'd be happy to help after what I would be doing for them! So, I left them. Continued south. In a fit of rage, that monstrosity popped into existence. He only slowed me down!"

Screaming, Sondolak chased the giant like a madman. He waved his arms and threw rocks and branches he picked up. Mogan was startled into submission, cowering against a line of trees, breaking out into tears. When Sondolak returned, he seemed calm once again. "But Mar'zhon caught me just as sure as you're in that gate. I've seen his tower and the instruments he holds within." With a shiver, he added, "I've felt his touch inside my brain. Now, I am his. Just a wolf who still looks like a man. I couldn't fight him any more than I could run so you see what an idiot you are."

Vincent leaned against the gate, his mind a blur. So, he didn't stand a chance. He couldn't help those people. He couldn't use his magic. He couldn't get back home.

"I leave you now. I must report this to my master. Rest assured, he'll want to see you before he kills you."

Vincent heard Sondolak's steps fade away from the cage but there was one more question he had to ask. One more thing that he had to know. "Sondolak, why? Why has Mar'zhon does this? Why has he taken the men? Why has he taken you?"

The reply came in faint, distant words. Small words but words that stabbed like hot knives into Vincent's gut. Words that made Vincent fall in utter defeat and in memory of his own terrible arrogance. As Sondolak lifted into the sky on his flying platform, he replied, "Because he can."

Part II

Vincent had fallen asleep in tears and awoke in the dark. The night sky above was full of stars, shining brightly through the iron bars of Vincent's cage. Looking up for several minutes, his mind was so confused he couldn't form a thought.

Somebody decided to help him. _That's quite a situation you got yourself into there. All alone against not only one pretty powerful wizard but two. Doesn't look good, I'll tell you that._

"Did you come to gloat?"

No. Not at all... well, okay, maybe just a little.

"At least, show yourself and get out of my head."

_At once! It is rather cramped in here._ "I would say it looks cramped in there, too," Raphineal said from above, looking down at Vincent.

"It is," Vincent grumbled. "There wouldn't be anything you could do about getting me out?"

"Why should I? You're the great wizard."

"WHO TREADS UPON MOGAN'S HILL?"

"Uh oh, the big guy's awake."

"Get out of here before he steps on my cage and squashes me!"

Raphineal turned his nose up. "Please, child. I've been dealing with great, stupid monsters since before you were a gleam in your father's - URK!" All of the air in Raphineal's lungs was forced out as the great pressure of Mogan's fingers wrapped around him.

"MOGAN CAUGHT YOU!"

"You bet you did, big guy. Good job!" Raphineal would have clapped but his hands were trapped.

"THANK YOU," the giant said with a smile.

"Now, can you put me down, please?"

"OKAY." Simple as that, the giant placed Raphineal gingerly upon the ground.

Raphineal felt his ribs for a break but he seemed to be fine. "It looks like it's my turn to thank you, Mogan."

"WELCOME. CATCH YOU AGAIN NOW?"

"Hmm... not just yet, okay? I want to build up a good run."

"OOOOH GOOD!"

"Mogan," Vincent shouted, "I beat you before. Will you still do as I say?"

Mogan scratched his head and played with his lip, struggling with the thought. "I GUESS."

"Good. Get me out of here."

"OKAY." Mogan lowered a giant hand and, placing the cage between his thumb and forefinger, lifted it from the ground.

But it was still unopened. "No. No," Vincent fumed. "Just put me down again."

Mogan did, placing the cage on the ground, not in the hole.

"What am I going to do," he asked Raphineal.

"Get yourself out of this situation. Mar'zhon's powerful. He'll see what's within you and he won't allow you to live."

"Then, help me! Help me get out," Vincent pleaded. "I've learned my lesson! I see what an ass I was. I know that I was abusing my power."

"But it's about more than that, Vincent," Raphineal replied. He leaned against the bars of the cage, true caring apparent in his eyes. "Heroism transcends magic. When you found your magic, you only became a magician. You have to see that you're not yet ready for what you have to face. I can't tell you what you'll need to do. I can only guide you."

"Then guide m-"

"Is that the wizard, then," a strange voice asked from the darkness.

Vincent looked towards where the voice had originated and, not seeing anything, turned back to Raphineal.

Raphineal was gone.

Vincent felt like he was ready to scream or burst into tears. He clutched the irons bars, readying himself for what was to come. Immediately, dark figures burst into view, throwing themselves against the bar's of Vincent's cage. Vincent was thrown back in terror as huge teeth appeared by the dozens, gaping maws clapped shut in desperate need for the taste of flesh, and sharp claws scraped against the bars.

"Do you see that, Sondo? You're abomination nearly freed our captive!"

"Yes, master, that was wrong."

"Very wrong. He should not be allowed to live."

"Kill it, sir?"

"Do what you do, magician."

"But it's harmless. It -"

"Do what you do!"

Reality rippled around the giant and he slowly disappeared from the hilltop. "MOGAN DON'T LIKE THIS," were the last words the giant uttered before it vanished from this reality. What Sondolak had done, he wouldn't say. He remained silent in the aftermath of his obedience.

"Away dogs!" The order was barked and the wolves quickly ran from the cage.

Vincent found that he was shaking too hard to rise and could only get to his knees. Someone approached from the darkness, stepped up to the cage. From what Vincent could see, he was terribly old. Hair hung like lost vagrants from his nearly barren head. He was no taller than the young man but Vincent could sense that he held immense power. From the way that Sondolak obeyed him, and the wolves response, there was no mistaking who this was. Before he realized what he'd said, the word left Vincent's lips. "Mar'zhon."

"Indeed. And you are the boy who would defeat me? Sondo! Bring a torch!" From behind him, light approached as Sondolak hurried with a torch. Mar'zhon leaned forward. "Now, let's get a better look at this stripling."

When Mar'zhon moved in for a closer look, Vincent gained a better view of Mar'zhon. It was enough to send him back against the far end of the cell. Mar'zhon was no man, not in the sense that Vincent thought of it. His face alone was enough to give Vincent nightmares. (And they would have, had the coming months not held even more terrifying sights.) The eyes, red dots of hate, gleamed from the dark shadows of its sockets and the skin around them was warped and torn as if from some terrible burn.

"Fascinating," Mar'zhon exclaimed, the words leaving through a mouth that twisted into half a frown. There were no lips, no cheeks, to hide the skeleton mouth. Saliva ran off like a flooded tomb. "You aren't what you seem, are you boy? Is somebody hiding you? Is that it? Hoping to sneak you in? You think to do harm but I see you for what you really are!"

"Really are," Sondolak asked, for in truth he hadn't figured Vincent to be especially powerful.

"Shut up," Mar'zhon snapped. He turned back to Vincent and tried to look deeper. "I see memories of flight, don't I? Movement? Yes! Well, I know what to do with the like of you, wizard! Sondo! Let him out of this cage! I want him to walk back to the tower. Don't worry about escaping, boy. The wolves will tear you apart before you rise up a single meter. Once there, we will see what he's made of, in no uncertain terms."

One side of the cage opened, a different side than before, and Vincent took a step out. He'd been traveling for several days. His body was weak. In that time, he'd only eaten one, full meal and that had only made him more hungry. Thirsty, too. Frightened. Confused. Once out of the cage, Vincent's legs gave out beneath him. He lost consciousness before he'd hit the ground.

* * *

He came to in a damp, dark cell. For several minutes, he didn't move. His weak body remained on the floor, water soaking into his clothes. He knew right off that he'd been thrown into Mar'zhon's dungeon. They wouldn't have trusted him anywhere else... alive. When something scurried over his arm, he found the energy to get up. All around darkness reigned, except for the wall behind him. There, a chute led up several feet to the surface. It was coated with some sticky substance. Vincent did not want to know its origin.

There he remained for several hours, watching the bright stars fade with the coming dawn. What would Mar'zhon do with him? Kill him? If he'd wanted to do that, couldn't he have already? Mar'zhon had recognized him as a wizard; would he try to make Vincent his slave like Sondolak? I can't let him do that, Vincent resolved. But who was he kidding? He could barely stand.

Steeling himself, he moved to the center of the room, now made clearer with the coming sunlight, and leapt into the air. He quickly hit the ground, not having leapt more than a foot or so. He couldn't even remember how to fly, making his attempt more foolish. So, he was finished. Without his magic, there'd be no way to defeat Mar'zhon. Best to get some sleep while he still could.

Then, he heard the barking of the wolves as the returned from their evening's hunt. He tried to look up the chute to see where they were going but it was to no avail. Their barks just kept getting louder and louder. Suddenly, there was a crack from within the cell. One wall pivoted inwards and a flood of wolves rushed into the cell. Vincent panicked, running to the only place that afforded some protection, the chute.

"Ha ha ha!" Mar'zhon's evil voice roared his laughter down into the cell. "Try to find a haven! In the end, you'll only wear yourself out. Then, you'll be ready." The wall pivoted back, closing with a thud.

Vincent gasped. His right hand holding the bars as he looked into the cell, he saw nothing but the press of canine bodies filling the cell. "What am I going to do," he whispered. His shock soon turned to anger, though, and he turned his voice to the sky. "What am I going to do?"

Stop shouting.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

Do you really think this is as bad as it's going to get? Believe me, it's only the tempering. But back to your question. What are you going to do? Stop simpering, I hope, and find your magic. It's long past the time you should use it. I thought you'd see it long ago but I over judged.

"What are you talking about? Find my magic? See it? Where did it go?"

Nowhere. That's just the problem. You keep looking at your magic as some separate entity. Look! Look at the wolves. Look in their eyes.

Vincent looked down from the chute. Several wolves had gathered as if they expected him to fall. He would, no doubt about that, given time. He couldn't lower himself far enough if he kept his hold on the bars. He had to turn himself around. After a great deal of struggling, he brought his leg up and slipped it through the bars, bracing his weight with his foot. Then, lowering himself, he came to within a couple of feet of the wolves.

They seemed docile. For some reason, they didn't snap or growl but kept looking squarely at Vincent. Docile or not, he didn't trust them.

Just look! Open your eyes!

They were opened and Vincent didn't like what he saw. Would that be his future? Was that what Mar'zhon had in mind for him?

No! No! Forget about Mar'zhon for a minute! This isn't about him! It's about you! Stop thinking and just look!

Vincent looked harder, deep into their eyes. Their mouths were opened and their tongues lolled. It was almost as if they understood something that he didn't. He focused on the nearest one, trying to look deeply. Nothing.

You know what your problem is? You learned to fly so young that you never learned how to walk. Concentrate! Don't focus so hard! Don't look at them! Look into them!

Vincent tried harder, holding his concentration until he could no longer hold his foot. With a quick slip, he was falling. Looking at them, he saw them come closer. Saw their eyes, they were almost human. Saw their pain, their present form was torture. Saw their agony, away from their families, they'd all but given up hope. Now, here was a wizard come to save them.

With a tumble of arms and legs, Vincent hit the floor. He rose quickly, dazed and trying to back into the chute. To his relief and perplexion, the wolves remained where they were. They didn't attack.

Mar'zhon must not be able to keep them in thrall at all times. Look again, now. You were almost there. What do you see?

He saw - he was amazed at what he saw! Nearly a hundred men were crouching on the floor of the cell. Each was wrapped in a wolven form, trapped like in a cell. With a rush of understanding that nearly left him reeling, Vincent whispered, "Get up."

He could feel magic moving outward from him; it felt like he was awakening from a long sleep. One by one, muzzles shrunk into human faces. Fur was shed or reabsorbed as bones lengthened and contracted into human form. Around him, men were falling to the ground, crying in pain and happiness.

"The process is probably taking a lot out of them. Changing physical form can be agonizing."

Raphineal was standing beside him again. Vincent looked at the wizard, pleased for the first time at his appearance, and leaned on his arm. "What did I do?"

"Do? Isn't it obvious? You saw their true form and restored it. Seeing the truth is one of the first steps a beginning magician must take. You missed many of these first steps and went straight to the impossible. You thought you were the greatest wizard when you hadn't learned the simplest lessons."

Vincent nodded, though his head was still feeling light.

"No time to rest, yet," Raphineal admonished. "Mar'zhon will know about this soon. He won't be happy."

"I don't expect him to be," Vincent answered scornfully. He wouldn't let Mar'zhon take him by surprise. Gathering a tumultuous ball of magic in his fist, he hurled it at the pivoting wall and reduced it to rubble. Outside, the sun was shining and the light filtered in through the dust. "You men! You are free! Go home to your families!" He looked up to the tower, thinking about Mar'zhon and Sondolak. "I've got other business to take care of."

Part III

Vincent stepped back into the dungeon. An appropriate place, he thought. He'd entered this world through a dungeon and rose from that dungeon only to plummet. It was during that fateful fall that he'd discovered his instinctive talent and his magical skills. For so long, he thought he controlled air currents or pressure or, sometimes, gravity. What a fool he'd been! There was so much more to learn! No wonder Hex remained in Rynia. No wonder Ooobrecht had returned to where he could study. Meanwhile, Vincent had wasted his years, pretending to be the world's greatest magician. If only he'd realized just how little he knew, how naive he was.

All he could do was live in the present and presently, he had some wrongs to set right. Raphineal may have brought him here to learn a lesson but now he was about to teach one. Exhausted though he was, he wouldn't rest until he did what he knew he needed to do. Gathering magic around him like a nimbus, he felt the air move. Slowly, he lifted himself. No more jumping vainly into the air. No more falling down mountainsides. Vincent smiled as he looked down and saw the dungeon floor a full meter beneath him. Then, he looked up.

Above him, Mar'zhon and Sondolak inhabited the tower. It only took a thought and Vincent rocketed upwards, blasting the different levels of the tower with magic as he propelled from one level to the next and the next, leaving destruction in his wake, blasting the roof into the sky. Chunks of mortar fell all around and Vincent set himself down on the precipice. Looking out upon the new day, he saw Elvie's village amongst the trees. Behind him, as more debris fell, a voice roared as it came after Vincent, "How dare you do this to my master?"

Vincent tilted over the side and let himself fall. As the air overtook him, he was exhilarated by the current. Exhaustion seemed to peel away while the ground rushed up at him, meter by meter. Then, in the last moment, he turned his fall into an arch, lifting away from the ground, rising upwards. He turned to face the tower, rising higher than Sondolak who stood as ever upon his floating platform and stopped to float there. "Don't be a fool, Sondolak. You know I have more power than you. Mar'zhon's going to pay for what he's done. Run while you still can."

Sondolak grimaced, his arms help tightly and insecurely against his chest. "I can't! He's my master! You are his enemy! You must die!"

The air rocked around Vincent and he felt his stomach lurch. Had his magic failed him yet again? No. In less time than it took to think about it, he'd righted himself. Sondolak now stood within a suit of metal armor like some knight of old England. "What do you think you're doing, Sondolak?"

An armor clad arm rose and pointed toward the village. Vincent turned to follow it. It was to the village that he pointed but the sky above it, which had grown dark with a massive cloud.

"They'll kill everything in their path. Fight Mar'zhon or save the village. It is your choice."

But Vincent knew there was no choice. He also knew that Mar'zhon wouldn't be going anywhere; he'd probably use the reprieve to ready his next attack against Vincent. So Vincent left the tower, lifting himself high within the air and moving as quickly as he could towards the village.

The wind whipped through his hair and pushed against Vincent's magic. The speed was hard to maintain but he wouldn't allow his weariness to stop him. The dark cloud grew enormous as he neared it and emitted a deafening buzz. Insects, he wondered. He didn't wonder for long, though. The creatures saw his approach and began to speed in his direction.

The first charged at his face. He instinctively rose his hands to ward it off, pushing all he could with his magic. The another buzzed against his arm, beating him with its wing. More followed, ramming against his legs, hitting his back. There were too many! He pushed through them for some altitude, quickly rising above them.

What were they? Wasps of some kind? Each one was as big as his head. Fearless. Angry!

Vincent knew what they would do to the woman hiding in their houses and the men trying to make their way back to their homes. He spotted as many as he could and took hold of the air around them. Slowly, proficiently, he closed the trap. It was an old trick. He'd used it against the undead at the Imperial Palace almost a decade before. This time, with no Destroyer to transmute their matter into energy, he just continued to crush. Sweat began to pour down his face; he'd forgotten how hard this was. Still, he was no nine year old boy this time. He was stronger. He could do it. Sondolak's giant wasps were quickly reduced to a ball of sludge several meters in diameter. With a great swing of his arms, he hurled the matter into the snow-capped mountains.

Then, he turned back to the tower. Mar'zhon had joined Sondolak upon the roof and applauded Vincent as he returned. "Bravo! What a fine boy you are! It's a shame that you use your power to such naive ends."

"Don't waste your breath, Mar'zhon. I've already been there."

"Very well then, boy," Mar'zhon replied, his voice thick with ire. "I've seen what you can do. Sondolak!"

The sky rippled again; Vincent was tossed about. This time, it didn't cease. It only continued. He had no time to think. He was suddenly covered in hot fluid. His view was obscured by some haze. He couldn't move and the fluids burned his skin. He was trapped. His magic couldn't push against it. He had to think of something fast or he'd soon be killed.

* * *

"Good work, Sondolak," Mar'zhon cooed. "Now we must prepare our revenge upon the village. Dispose of that and begin reconstruction. I'll be down below."

"Yes, my master," Sondolak heard himself say. He looked longingly upon the great creature that floated above the tower. Its jellyfish shape rode proudly upon the morning air. Within, would be the digested form of Sondolak's only salvation. He'd made it out of the dungeon. He'd saved the men of the village. Yet, he wasn't strong enough to overcome Mar'zhon. What chance did Sondolak ever have? With a thought, the creature was gone and the sky was peaceful once again. The armor that he'd conjured as protection against the great insects he'd brought forth, too, was quickly gone. He walked back to the hole Vincent had punched through the roof and began picking up chunks of mortar and threw them over the side. Later, he'd repair the damage.

And so Sondolak's life would continue until Mar'zhon was merciful enough to let him die.

Or, at least, it would have been that way. Over an hour had passed when Sondolak felt something peculiar. It was as if someone was watching him. Right behind.

He turned around and there, as if refuting the acid that the jellyfish creature had held within, stood Vincent. He'd changed quite a bit and looked nothing like a man who'd just been digested.

"Like the new threads," Vincent asked. "I got them from the mall." He pulled a tag from the polo shirt and walked atop the tower in new jeans and sneakers. "Didn't have enough to pay," he added, sheepishly, "but, I guess, that's kinda obvious. Yep. Caught a quick shower down at the beach - that's where I popped back in Orange County - I didn't want to go back home yet. Can you imagine the delays I'd have with Sam? Not to mention Robert! So, here I am." He walked up to Sondolak and put a hand on his shoulder. "Goodbye." With a push of compressed air, he sent the wizard soaring over the tower's side.

Nice to have you back.

Vincent smiled at Raphineal's familiar voice. "You actually missed me?"

I knew you weren't dead. You're too stubborn.

"Thanks." Deftly, he was back in the air, soaring several meters above the tower. This time he didn't hesitate. With a thought, the tower burst apart as though it denied its own existence. Mar'zhon rode a chunk of stone down, landing painfully at Vincent's feet. "You're finished, Mar'zhon," he said, remembering the comic books he'd read as a kid.

"You want me," Mar'zhon asked, wheezing and gasping from pain. "Then finish me! Don't let me suffer like this!"

Vincent grabbed Mar'zhon by the arm and hauled him up. "I'll finish you," he yelled, glaring into Mar'zhon's eyes. "I'll finish -" And suddenly, as if the breath was taken out of him, he hadn't the energy to finish the sentence. No, not just the energy. He didn't have the desire.

"You'll finish me, will you stripling?" Mar'zhon grabbed Vincent's arm and held it tight, looking into his eyes. "Will you really?"

"No," Vincent heard himself say.

"No, what?"

Vincent tensed up his face. He didn't want to answer for fear of what the answer would be. "No... master." What? The words were leaving his mouth but he wasn't saying them. He had no control. He felt trapped - trapped inside his own body! It was doing things - saying things - against his will! He couldn't control himself.

"Now, kneel, slave. I'm your master now and you obey me!"

Vincent felt his knees buckle and did all he could to keep them up. They continued to drop, his body lowering now matter how much he fought. Then, his hands were on the ground. His body lowered and his head laid gently upon the ground.

"Harder."

With a crack, Vincent's head suddenly drove itself into the ground.

"Good. Now look at me." Mar'zhon's arms were crossed in triumph. Vincent looked deeply into his red, pinprick eyes and Mar'zhon cooed, "Very good. You're going to do very nicely. I'm going to be a very powerful man. I'll take over entire countrysides and you? You will be my slave from this day forward."

There was something about those eyes, something Vincent couldn't quite understand as he gazed up into them. He released his concentration from the futile battle with his body and focused on those eyes. There was something there he couldn't quite see. He looked again and, this time, thought of nothing else.

Then, it was obvious.

"You're old," he found himself saying.

"What?" Mar'zhon leapt back in panic.

As if removed from shackles, Vincent found himself free. He rose from the ground, pursuing the wizard. "You're so old you should have been dead long ago. What was it? Was one of your slaves adept at preserving flesh or - of course," Vincent shouted with the elation of discovery. "You're a master at manipulating genetic code. You can turn a man into a wolf; why couldn't you preserve your own body? But it's a lie," he insisted, his magic reaching out to Mar'zhon's terrified form. "All of it is a lie." Mar'zhon twitched and shivered, the only sound leaving his mouth the groan of defeat, and tumbled to the ground, his power sundered.

Vincent, too, collapsed. He felt as if he couldn't lift a finger. Days without adequate food and water, little rest, pushing his body to its limit, and living in constant fear and driven him to exhaustion. He couldn't move. He had to rest.

"Go ahead. You deserve it," Raphineal said, stepping into view. "We'll go back home, now. You've shown yourself strong enough to meet the challenge that lies ahead."

"NOT JUST YET!" The voice was like a thunderclap, its power dashing Raphineal against the mortar ruins.

"What," Raphineal asked, looking around. There, still and lifeless, Vincent faded from view. "No!"

"HE'S MINE NOW, TRAVELER! YOU HAVE FAILED!"

The words shook Raphineal to the core and then, quickly faded. He ran to where Vincent had been but no trace remained of the young wizard. "Oh no. Tsurtor." The fateful name left his trembling lips as he turned to pick up his staff. "I must set this right." Quickly, he, too, vanished.

* * *

Sondolak heard the voices approaching, the happy sound of a people who had been saved. He felt shaken but, still, alive. His flying platform had answered his summons and broken his fall. Broken was correct. It was in pieces beside him.

"Sondo! Come here," he heard a faint voice call. "I am your master!"

Painfully, he rose. Nothing felt broke but it would be a while before he could run. Gingerly, he made his was to where the voice summoned. There, on the ground, looking as powerless as a burnt elm, was Mar'zhon.

"Summon an army! Quickly! We will show them to do this to me! Now, pick me up! Quickly! I want to see their faces as the flesh is ripped from their bones! Pick me up!"

Sondolak knelt to a large piece of mortar. It was incredibly heavy. Sondolak heaved at it, lifting it several feet as he brought it to his previous master. It felt good to control his body again. He didn't know how it had happened or why. He assumed that the wizard, Vincent, had brought this about and remembered well his debt. Presently, though, he had other concerns.

"No, you idiot! Pick me up! We'll kill these worthless wretches! Here! Put that rock down! Put it down, I say! Put it - NOOO -"

With a squish - a sound that would issue from crushing a long-rotted egg - Sondolak dropped the piece of mortar. What a relief! His hands were getting tired and that voice was giving him a headache.

"Look! He did it! He killed Mar'zhon!" Townsfolk, entering the rubble, looked upon the grisly sight. Soon, they'd swept Sondolak into their arms, thanking him, offering him all they had in return for his valiant deed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE END OF THE BEGINNING

Part I

The days, they lingered in emptiness. Another day turned into another night. The nights were expanses of life-boat solitude upon grief filled seas. There was nothing he could do. Nowhere to go. No plans could he make; he was watched constantly. No one would come to his rescue.

He tried writing letters but none came from him. No letter could save him. He'd first thought of writing to his parents but then their memory came clearer in his mind. After the way they'd scorned him when he tried introducing Helen, he knew they'd naturally think only the worst. Anything they were told about him, they'd believe. Then, there were his old professors and colleagues with whom he'd shared many lab hours. What more did they know of him but his expertise? If they'd heard of him at all, they'd just be shocked to hear another one of their own had gone off the deep end. (Hex was doubly sure that many had thought this of him long before he'd been imprisoned.) So, who else did that leave?

Vincent? Tsurtor had already told him. _Vincent is mine_. No letter could get to him, wherever he was.

Samuel? If Vincent truly was in Tsurtor's hands, Sam would be more likely to blame Hex than to assist him.

And so the days they went on and on.

Every day, Hex would be let out in the yard for some sun. The yard was stark and dead, and Hex was kept away from the other inmates. Ironically, it only made him think more of Rynia, brimming with life and friends. He'd gather rocks and excite their molecules. They'd race across the yard or pop up high. The guards, when they saw this, didn't know what to think. Hex didn't care; he paid no attention.

One morning he awoke to find that his month had nearly passed.

_They're all going to be at the Paeadian border_ , he thought. _All of them are going to make it except me. I've_ failed - Vincent is in Tsurtor's hands - and it's all my fault. Like from a specter, Hargoth's voice rung in his head, just as it had on the night of his anniversary. _Your kingdom will soon fall and your family will die with it. All who stand beside you will suffer the same death sentence._

"Fanlan," he heard vaguely through his musings. He didn't look up. He could think of nothing but Rynia's doom.

"Fanlan! Get your ass up! Your visitor's here!" The guard's voice rang off the cell walls like an alarm, startling Hex back into reality. "You know the routine, Fanlan! Get against the wall!"

Hex rose from his bed, knowing what was before him. It had been the same way whenever his only visitor, his public defender, had come. (Hex should have been able to afford an attorney, with all the money he had in accounts on Earth. Another sign of Tsurtor's treachery... Hex was penniless. All the accounts had been emptied and closed.)

The first visit had come two days after his incarceration, after he'd been relocated south and placed in the Orange County Regional Maximum Security Detention Center. The guards didn't know him so well then, weren't as polite. Four had entered, three rifles trained on his heart, and one pinned him down to put on his restraints, plastic cords that bit into his flesh. He was pushed and lead down the long walk to the receiving area where, in a small cell with a bench, his visitor had awaited.

Hex had sat down, careful with his hands behind his back, and said nothing.

"You are Hezekiah Fanlan," the other had asked.

He hadn't answered. What good would it do? Tsurtor had him. There'd be no escape.

"Are you Hezekiah Fanlan?" Still, silence. "Look, if you don't reply, it means nothing to me. But if you're not going to talk to me don't talk at all. I might be able to get it admitted as evidence in a mental competency hearing."

"I'm not crazy," Hex had replied.

"Wanna bet? I've seen the pictures."

"Pictures?"

"You leave quite a display, Fanlan. You should open a museum. That's a joke," his visitor explained.

"Who are you?"

"Robert Velasquez. I'll be your attorney provided by the state. Unless, that is, you can provide your own?"

Hex had sighed, "No. Not unless they're free."

"No, Fanlan, that's me," Robert has said, tucking his business card into Hex's shirt. "I'm free. That card'll have everything you need to get in touch with me. I take it we'll be working together?"

A slight smile came upon Hex's face. "Robert, huh?"

"Uh, yes."

"Enigmatic."

"What?"

Hex bit back his emotion and tried to forget a life that was far, far away. "Nothing. I'll take you but if you're going to defend me, Mr. Velasquez, you have to know this right off. I'm innocent."

"Please, Fanlan. Don't play games. You already testified in L.A. to your guilt and that evidence will be admitted into this case. It's too late to change that now; this hearing will address only your escape but to change your plea at this point -"

"I wasn't in L.A."

"Pardon?"

"I wasn't there. It never happened."

"Now the client tries to develop a psycho defense. Why didn't you do that in L.A. when you had the chance instead of refusing that defense?"

"Look! You have to believe me! Whatever records you have are false! They didn't happen!"

"False? No dead bodies?"

"Well, that may be true. But I wasn't there. Look. I've been out of the country for the past eight years. I had been gone a full six months before those murders. I was never taken into custody and never brought to trial. I certainly never broke out of jail. Those records have been falsified. That's where my defense lies. You need to find proof of those falsifications. See if there are any witnesses. Any video. I wasn't there!"

Velasquez simply shook his head, astounded.

"Look. I know there's not a whole lot to go on but you have to believe me. It's the truth."

"The truth?"

"Yes!"

"Let's assume for a minute that it is the truth, okay, Fanlan? You say you've been out of the country, right?"

"Yes."

"Where have you been?"

"Ry -" Mercifully, he'd stopped himself short. If he's started spouting nonsense about other worlds and magic, Velasquez would never have believed him. "I, uh, can't say."

"You can't?"

"No."

"Do you have any proof that you left? Any place tickets? Boarding passes?"

"No."

"Receipts of any kind?"

"No."

"So, then, you have absolutely no way of substantiating your story."

"It's the truth," Hex had insisted.

"Okay, then, let's look at your other accusation. That the entire case against you has been falsified. Bodies were found at your apartment, brutally murdered. We've got your fingerprints on the scene. Good ones. Irrefutable. We've got them on mirrors in blood, on knife blades, on counter tops. The DNA evidence substantiates it. We've got the report of your arrest. Deposition transcripts. Trial transcripts. Record of the verdict. Record of the sentence. Record of your incarceration. Mug shots. Cell assignments. All these things. And you're saying they're faked?"

"Yes!"

"Mr. Fanlan, if you want another attorney, the court will provide one for you. All you have to do is say so but this -"

"What's my motive," Hex had asked, his mind racing.

"Motive?"

"Yes. They have to have one to make me the prime suspect."

"Okay, first of all: No. They don't," Velasquez had replied, pointing with his pen. In the tiny cell, there had been little space for walking around so Velasquez drummed with his pen upon his briefcase as he spoke. "There's undeniable proof of your guilt; nobody cares if you have motive or not. Your defense attorney in L.A. tried to plea insanity but you jumped up demanding to be tried as mentally competent."

His head bowed in defeat, Hex muttered, "He's thought of everything."

"He? What is this? Multiple Personality? Don't try it, Fanlan. It won't hold -"

"Who were they? Can you tell me that?"

"They were nobodies. They didn't exist. No registered fingerprints. No identification. Must have been some bums or foreigners."

"Or Paeadians," Hex whispered.

"What?"

"Look," Hex insisted, his eyes suddenly glaring, "you have to believe me. I'm being set up. Somebody is going through an awful lot to keep me in here!"

Velasquez looked deep into Fanlan's eyes, trying to figure out his client's ploy. He couldn't. The proof said that this man was guilty, a cold blooded murderer. Maybe Velasquez's gut feeling that this man was innocent just meant that Hezekiah Fanlan truly believed in his innocence. He remembered reading Fanlan's previous attorney's notes which said basically the same thing. But the previous attorney had not been ready for Fanlan's surprise demand, his rebuke of the insanity defense. The previous attorney really had no proof to substantiate his claim. What Velasquez needed was proof. His job, after all, was to find his client's defense and it was clear. His client was insane. "Well, if that person did his job well enough you won't have to worry about staying in here this time. You'll be dead."

* * *

Hex brought his hands behind his back as two guard trained their rifles on his head. One false move would be all it took. No, Hex thought. Tsurtor would have wanted it that way. _Do that and Tsurtor wins_. Another guard bound Hex's hands and shackled his feet. They'd started doing that since the day when the lie detector results had returned.

"Are you okay, Mr. Fanlan?"

"Yes. What is it, Robert? You seem troubled."

Velasquez stood on the other side of the small chamber, looking at the printout. "You could say that."

"Are those the results? Did they come back positive?"

"Positive? Yes."

"Well, that's good. It shows I was telling the truth! It shows that I couldn't have committed those murders -"

"What it shows, Mr. Fanlan, is nothing of the sort."

For a moment, silence. Hex didn't understand. Had Tsurtor somehow turned the truth against him? "What do you mean, Robert?"

"Let me read this to you, Mr. Fanlan.

"Question: Did you commit the murders of February 19 for which you have been accused? Answer: No. The needle didn't move. You weren't lying. Question: Do you have any knowledge regarding these murders which has not yet come to light? Answer: No. Got quite a jiggle on that one. You were lying, Mr. Fanlan."

Hex gasped, "Now, wait -"

"Please, don't interrupt. There's more. Further down. Question: Were you within the country when these murders were committed? Answer: No. No jiggle. Question: Were you out of the country when these murders were committed? Answer: Yes. No jiggle. Question: What country were you in when these murders were committed? Answer: China. Major jiggle. Another lie, Mr. Fanlan. We'd established that you were outside of the country and, yet, you lied about where you were!"

"It's not that -" Hex tried to speak but Velasquez shouted over him.

"Final question: Is there any information which you are keeping secret that directly relates to this murder investigation? Answer: No. You lied, Mr. Fanlan! You lied and there isn't a court in the country who will believe you! What are you keeping secret? What do you know?"

His chest tight, Hex felt tears begin to roll down his cheeks. "I can't," he struggled to say.

Velasquez picked up his briefcase. "Under the circumstances, I have only two options. Either your covering up for someone - which is impossible to believe in light of the evidence - or you are not mentally competent. I believe that with what we have, along with the psychological analysis that I have set up for you, we can argue for the later."

"What," Hex asked, standing. "What are you saying?"

"What am I saying," Velasquez replied in disbelief. "I'm saying that on or about February 19, you brutally murdered two people in your apartment. I'm saying that you did so, not out of malice but, out of an incompetent mental facility. I'm saying that you should not continue your sentence and have started the motions for an appeal with the intention of changing your sentence to guilty by reason of insanity."

"Insanity?"

"Yes."

"You can't do that," Hex shouted, his hands working furiously at his bonds. He couldn't concentrate on his magic, could only feel them warping around his wrists.

Velasquez immediately called for the guard and three armed men pushed Hex to the ground.

"But I'm not crazy! I'm not," Hex screamed, struggling against the guards as Velasquez hurried from the room.

* * *

"Are you ready," Velasquez asked as Hex was brought out to the van. The bulletproof van would drive Hex to the courtroom, where his hearing would begin.

"You can't do this. I'm perfectly sane."

"If you are, you're dead. The judge is going to want to fulfill the previous sentence. This appeal is the only chance we have of stopping that. Now, you may not understand that. I don't expect you to but understand this. Your innocence or guilt is not an issue in this case. It was already proven beyond a reasonable doubt before a jury and you were already sentenced. This appeal is only one of mental competency. It is entirely beyond your control."

Or course, it would be. Tsurtor had already taken away his life in Rynia. He'd taken away any chance he'd had of returning to it. Now, he'd succeeded in removing his freedom on Earth, his hope, and finally his choice.

Day after day passed as the hearing progressed and Hex found his life torn to bits.

From his parents to his former colleagues, Velasquez found witnesses to testify against Hex's character. He was painted as some freakish loner who had never learned how to deal with people. His years were spent alone performing bizarre experiments. (It may have been true before he'd built the sand gate nearly a decade ago but since then, he'd changed. Rynia had brought out the best in him. It was where he needed to be!)

Then, there came the flood of material from his murder trial. (The one that never happened, he kept telling himself.) The profile was clear. Highly intelligent loner couldn't handle reality and decided to lash out at it. It had happened before. The same profile had been applied to such notorious mass-murderers as the Uni-bomber, the Zodiac Bomber, and others. Hezekiah Fanlan had been caught just as he began his murder spree.

Now, Velasquez just had to show mental incompetence.

That part was simple. First, the transcripts of their conversations were admitted. Highly unusual but the judge agreed that it supported the defense's case. Then, the lie detector results were reviewed, poured over like some attractive corpse. The corpse was his own; Hex knew that. They were nearly ready to bury him.

Finally, Velasquez brought out some video tapes. It took an entire day to play them all. They were the recorded sessions of Hex's analysis. They proceeded rather dully at first.

"Hezekiah, how do you feel about violence," the analyst asked off the screen. The lens was focused on Hex's face.

"I'm appalled by it," Hex replied. "I try to avoid it in my own life though, I know, sometimes, it's necessary."

"When is it necessary?"

Hex hesitated for a minute before replying, "I suppose when there's no other choice."

The tapes progressed without a major breakthrough. Velasquez begged the court's patience as this was establishing the defendant's character. It wasn't until late in the afternoon when the portion that Velasquez had been waiting for, that he had intentionally saved until the end, came out. It was the most damning evidence of all and it came directly from Hex's own lips.

The analyst had placed Hex under hypnosis. She said it was to help clear his memory. For over an hour, they discussed Hex's life.

So, you had a lonely childhood," the analyst asked.

"Yes."

"Was there a boy who you wanted to be like? Who you wanted to emulate?"

"Yes."

"Who was that?"

"Vincent."

"Vincent? You hadn't mentioned him. Who is Vincent?"

"I didn't know Vincent was I was a boy. I didn't meet him until after I'd moved to Country Gardens. He was very small and innocent. He was my only friend for a while."

"Is that why you wanted to emulate him? Because he was innocent?"

"No. That's not why at all. I didn't start to envy him until after he'd found his magic."

There was a long pause. A pencil could be heard scribbling. Finally, the analyst asked, "Magic?"

"Yes. He just found his. No work at all. And powerful? He's ten times the wizard I am and I had to study intensely just to crack it! Now, he's gone. Tsurtor has him and the war is lost."

"The war?"

"The war against Rynia. They don't stand a chance."

"Who is Tsurtor, Hezekiah?"

"The enemy. He'll slaughter millions if I don't stop him. I've got to find my way back."

"Back?"

"Back to Rynia."

"Where is Rynia, Hezekiah?"

"Oh, far away. Far, far away."

"And you were there, once?"

"Yes."

"When were you there?"

"I've lived there. I've tried to tell you. I've been living there for the past eight years."

* * *

The next day, Velasquez stood before the judge. "And, so, your honor, a psychological expert - who had testified before this court on many previous occasions - has shown that Hezekiah Fanlan suffers from a very acute multiple personality disorder. During his good periods he calls himself Hex and believes that he is a wizard championing good. His other personality, Tsurtor, comes out to kill. He is the enemy that Hex must stop. His years of loneliness forced him to see reality as either good or evil and this has become a battle which he believes himself thrown into. A war, if you will. A war with himself. He has testified through the video that we watched that Tsurtor will strike again. We believe that there must already be another victim other than the two found. This Vincent, whoever that might be. Only through confinement in a maximum security mental hospital can this man be set free from Tsurtor - perhaps finding that the real Hezekiah falls somewhere in between the light and the dark. Not only will he then be able to recall any other crimes he may be responsible for but the success rate at treating such a disorder has been shown to be very promising. It is for that reason that I believe my client should be remanded to a state hospital and not executed for the crimes for which he has been found guilty. Thank you, your honor. The defense rests."

It was then that Hex realized what a fool he had been. How could he have ever thought of going against Tsurtor. Before him, Hex was nothing.

Part II

It was in a place not far from there that Hex's salvation was taking shape. As was often the case with Tsurtor, even when he believed he'd thought of everything, there were elements which he felt were beneath his consideration. The element, or elements in this case, lived in a less urban area of Orange County. It was the stark buildings and graffiteed walls of Santa Ana which had once driven the founders of Country Gardens up into the hills. Sadly, these things came quickly on the heels of incorporation and, within Country Gardens, the elements could be found. Their names were Sean Roberlin, Randy Collins, and Pete Matthews. Collectively, they were the Winwood Forest Rowdies, a name that Randy had thought up in one of his more creative moments. (All three, after all, lived in the Winwood Forest Apartment complex.)

Many years had passed since they had first met Hex. They had only been children (except, perhaps, for Randy who had never really been a child) then, when their young tag-along, Vincent, had first made friends with the strange loner who spent his days in the park. They had all thought Hex crazy but were right on his heels when he disappeared, taking Vincent with him. With Sam, Vincent's older brother and guardian, as their unwilling leader, they had snuck into Hex's apartment and found all of his living toys, furniture, and nick-nacks. After Hex had gone for good, he'd given all of those things to Samuel and Vincent, knowing they'd make a good home for his things.

Fascinated by all this stuff - among which were the talking television, the walking hat rack, and the vacuum cleaner that worked by itself - the WFRs had quickly become permanent fixtures in the lives of Sam and Vincent Gobel. When Vincent had carelessly injured one of them, Geoff, the WFRs were no longer his friend. Geoff and his family soon moved away, leaving the WFRs less one.

They were happy to see Vincent disappear over a month ago. It meant that they could spend time at the Gobel's apartment again, with Sam. A few of Hex's creations had died over the years. The pooper scoop was gone, the mirror had cracked, and so too went the toothbrush. Oddly, skates remained just as plucky as ever and, of course, returning from Rynia, Samuel had brought a new member to the household.

Robert.

"Hey, there, fat boy! You wanna toss me another one of those chips?"

"Get it through your head, Robert," Sean replied, "you don't eat." He was reclining on Samuel's sofa (the recliner had always given him the creeps), watching Sam's TV, and eating Sam out of house and home. Sam had kind of accepted that fact. He'd become a sort of surrogate parent to the three boys over the years. After Randy had dropped out of school, it had been with Sam's help that he'd passed his GED. He'd kept Sean out of the gangs that had flourished in the newly incorporated town. Whenever there was a problem at home, the WFRs went to Samuel. It was with the parent's understanding (as well as the WFRs understand that everything out of the ordinary was to be kept in strictest confidence) that Sam welcomed them in. Unfortunately, as is the rule when dealing with teenaged boys, they summarily took over.

"I'll eat, you fat little heffer! You just watch me! I'll eat!"

"No you won't," Sean said, trying to ignore the little man whose bed rested upon the counter top. Samuel tried to move him around some every day. It kept the shouted threats to life and limbs down to a minimum.

"Sure, maybe not as much as you, Mr. I-can-eat-a-whole-cow-before-it-can-Moo! I just want a chip. Just one, measly little chip. Even one of the reject chips would do!"

Sean flipped over and glared at the treeling, "Look! If I give you a chip will you shut up?"

"If I give you a side of beef, would you, Shamu?"

"Don't make me get up."

"Under your own power? Impossible."

"I'm gonna walk over there."

"Mighty strong legs if they can hold up that weight."

"I'll go over there and hurt you!"

"What'd they do, reinforce the floor?"

"I'm telling you. I'll hurt you, man."

"Can't be done, tub-o-flub."

"You wanna see me?"

"How could I miss you?"

"That's it!" Sean moved the bag of chips from his stomach and rose from the sofa. In truth, while he had been leaner in bygone days, he was still the strongest - if also the biggest - of the WFRs.

"Don't waste your time, Massive-don. You know what would happen."

Sean pursed his lips. The little being was tricky but what could he do to retaliate against Sean's fist? "What would happen? What?"

Robert let out a little laugh. "Gotta love the intellectually challenged. TV? Off."

"Okay, boss," a voice said. Living with a talking TV made it difficult to surprise Sean. Now that it followed Robert's orders, however...

"Hey," Sean shouted. "Hey, what did you do?"

"I switched it to the all quiet, all darkness channel. What? Don't you like it?"

"Put it back! Put it back! I'm watching a movie!"

Robert reclined, knowing he had won. "Put it back, what?"

Sean growled. "Put it back, please!"

"Put it back, what?"

"Put it back, pretty please!"

"Put it back, what?"

Sean took a deep breath. He hated it when Robert made him go this far. "Put it back, oh great and superior master to whom I am but a speck and you are like a God who could make my life a living hell if I did not please you in every way. Pretty pretty pretty please! My life, my world, my soul are all yours! Now put it back you pencil-necked little demon!!"

Robert rolled on his back, laughing until, out of breath, he asked, "Put it back, what?"

"Oh, cripes! What do you want?"

"A chip, my little flatulence hound."

Fuming, Sean picked up the bag and dumped the remainder of the chips upon the little man. Robert quickly buried but soon found his way to the top. "Ah, that's more like it. TV? You may turn on again."

Snackless, Sean returned to his movie.

Suddenly, the door burst open. "TV, channel four," Pete shouted.

"Ah, guys!"

"Sorry, Sean, this is important," Randy said, following Pete inside. "Is Sam home?"

"No. Just me and the tyrant."

Behind them, Robert moaned, "Eeeuuuugh! These chips are greasy! I'm getting all wet!"

"That's too bad," Pete replied to Sean, "cause he'd want to see this."

"What," Sean asked.

"Watch!"

The afternoon news was coming off of a commercial and the camera moved to one of the anchorpersons. "And, as we just said, word is coming in on a verdict to the Fanlan Appeal Hearing. We'll switch you live to Tricia Takamaji for this report."

The shot switched to one outside of the Orange County Courthouse where an attractive, young reporter posed for the camera. "Thanks, Ed. As you know, the Fanlan murders have been shrouded in secrecy ever since this young, scientific genius first committed those heinous crimes. After he staged a daring escape nearly ten years ago, the police pretty much resolved themselves to never finding him again. Then, the break came. He committed another murder, in broad daylight, in San Francisco. Before a crowd of witnesses, he pushed his victim - a helpless man with weights tied to his arms and legs - into the bay. So far, no body has been found but Fanlan didn't get away this time. He was quickly taken into custody and, in light of what his attorney calls new evidence, an appeal was arranged. His attorney tried to argue insanity, while Fanlan stared emotionlessly on. Today, after hearing both sides, the judge upheld the original verdict. Hezekiah Fanlan will be moved to the State Prison in San Quentin tomorrow where he will wait until his execution can be carried out."

All three thought the same thing. Sean gave it a voice. "Sam's gonna want to hear about this."

Another voice, however, dissented. "No, he won't."

"What'cha talking about, twig," Pete asked.

"Think about it. You're supposed to be the brains. You think SammyDavisJunior's got the guts - no, wait, not guts - stupidity to want to have anything to do with Hex?"

"Sure," Sean answered. "Vincent's missing again. Hex probably knows where he's at. He could tell Sam."

"Get some grey matter, gordo. Vincent probably doesn't know where Vincent's at. He's been so quick to pop off with the magic that nobody can keep track of him. Sam-I-am knows that only Vinnie's gonna decide what Vinnie does."

"Sure, Bobbie, but that doesn't change the fact that Hex is in jail for something he probably didn't do," Randy said.

"Probably didn't do," Robert asked. "Look, you refuge from a parole board, Hex never did any of those things they're saying he did. Don't you think we would have heard about it? Don't you think it would have been on the news? Those clowns on TV are being fed a line and it ends in a noose. Hex has gotten himself in trouble, alright, but not the kind they're saying."

Randy nodded, "Somebody's setting him up."

"Yeah? Then we gotta knock 'em down."

Sean turned toward the little man, ready for action. "What are we gonna do?"

"Well, we're not gonna tell Sammy," Robert announced. "He'd want us to write letters and make inquiries. This demands coordinated, impetuous, unexpected action."

Randy and Sean were smiling; they agreed. Pete, on the other hand, the kid who'd spent his high school years learning instead of getting into trouble, the only WFR who was going to go to college, wasn't so sure. "What are you saying, Robert?"

"I'm saying that you three stooges are going to help me break Hex out. He's the only one who can get to the bottom of this."

"Are you crazy? Of course, you are crazy. I'd forgotten. I'm not breaking someone out of prison."

"Oh, come on, Pete. We can do it."

"And how's that, Sean? Eh, Randy? Do you have any ideas? What about you, termite food?"

"I'll give you termite food, you little -"

"Excuse me," came a voice from the floor.

All of them looked down at the unexpected sight below them. Skates had rolled up and announced, "I have an idea."

* * *

Hex knew that, when he awoke the next morning, he'd have to admit to a world without hope. No rescue had come. No reprise from any quarter. (For hours, he tried to conceive of some application of his magic which would be subtle enough not to be noticed while, simultaneously, being powerful enough to set him free. No such application seemed possible beneath the constant eye of the security camera.) He was being moved to Death Row and there he would remain until his execution. He had to reconcile himself to that fact but found that he couldn't. Hadn't his magic shown him that anything was possible? Hadn't Helen's love proved that life was full of miracles? Bothered by this quandary, the guard shocked him from his thoughts.

"All right! Get up," the guard's abrasive voice was like an ice pick on the chalkboard of Hex's mind.

Food would be provided when the reached his new home, several hundred miles away. The shackles once again encircled his wrists and ankles as he exited his cell. The lawyer, Velasquez, hadn't even come to bid him farewell. Odds were that the public defendant was already working on yet another case. Hex looked at the familiar faces as he left the cell block, long timers like he was supposed to be. They'd learned long ago not to talk to him and his reputation of a crazed murderer kept threats at arms length. He listened dully to the orders barked by the guards. Turn this way. Down those stairs. Through this metal detector. Down this hallway. Through another metal detector and out this door.

After a long time, the stepped out into a parking garage, the sounds of their feet echoing within the cavernous space. Six guards flanked Hex as if he were some threat. Then, inexplicably, four of the guards were called away. (Unbeknownst to Hex, a new phone had been installed upstairs. It was old and beat up; the guards grumbled about budget cuts and what kind of idiots worked in purchasing. Only a couple of guards actually wondered how a new outlet had been found and nobody checked to see if it was actually plugged in. A phone certainly couldn't work on its own, could it? The guard station had been receiving quite a few crank calls on that new phone all day long until a call came from the weight room. A riot had ensued and men were needed to squelch the rebellion. "We'll send all the men we can spare." "Send more," the voice on the other end ranted. "You have men guarding that prisoner, Hex, don't you?" "Who?" "Er, Hezekian Fanlan. Take the guards from him. He'll behave!" "What? Who is this?" "It's er, Sergeant O'Roarke. Just get those men down here!" The connection was suddenly cut and the sergeant on duty was left brimming with suspicions. "There's something fishy going on," he muttered. He dialed the weight room and Sergeant O'Roarke's voice answered, "Look, you moron, there's nothing fishy going on. Now take those men off of prisoner Fanlan and send them over here!") The four guards rushed away and told the others to wait while a state branded van pulled up.

The van door swooshed open and a young police officer stepped out. Another officer stepped around from the driver's side. This one looked even younger. In fact, they looked too young. Their uniforms didn't fit well, either. The two guards eyed them suspiciously as they pulled out their manifest and handed it over.

One of the guards looked at the other and showed him the manifest. "Hm," the guard grunted. "Which one of you is Maria?"

The older officer grimaced. "Yeah, well, that wasn't filled out right. She couldn't make it. Er, called in sick."

"Sick, huh?"

"Yeah," the other officer agreed. "Funny thing."

"Well, why don't you two come inside and we can get this corrected."

"Inside," the younger one asked nervously.

Suddenly the older cop pulled his gun out and, leveling it on the guards, spat, "Shit! I knew this wasn't going to work! Okay, you two, up against that wall."

"What are you? Some kind of idiot," one of the guards remarked, backing up. "You can't do this."

"I don't remember asking."

When the guards had backed up, they felt a gun sticking each of them in the back. "Now, you're going to stay real still, aren't you," a voice from behind asked.

Both realized they'd been had but one still had some spunk left in him. "You can't get away and leave your friend here."

"Oh, I think they can," Hex replied with a smile. "Hi, Ko. Long time."

"Very long, sir. Now get going."

It had taken a moment for Hex to take it all in, this havoc about him. But when he saw Ko Track (his old coatrack) put two of its bars into the guards back, he knew that his rescue had surely come. The boys were much older but he still thought he could make one of them out. "You're Randy, aren't you?"

"Please, Hex! No names," Randy grimaced, very tense. "Just get into the van and let's get out of here!"

Pete cut Hex's binds and, with Randy, shoved him into the van and into a bin full of clothes. Pete got into the van but Randy caught sight of another guard coming. He stood back in the dark and, as the guards approached, he swung his father's old gun. It hit the guard squarely, felling him like a tree. Randy didn't think twice about the gun; its handle had broken off. He dropped it, ran into the van, and drove off.

"Now, you're all alone," the braver of the guards said.

"Not completely," Ko Track replied.

"Ready for stage two," a wee voice asked as it came from the shadows.

"Whenever you are," Ko replied. He was holding the guards out of the security camera's view so nothing should raise the alarm about a prison break too soon. When the alarm went up, though, his little friend would be ready.

Skates rolled out into the light. "This is great. Everything's going just like we planned!"

Not quite. One of the guards, the brave one, fainted.

* * *

"What's this bin doing in one of these vans? I thought they were for moving prisoners."

"You've got the wrong van, Hex," Pete replied, pulling off his uniform and exposing the jumpsuit beneath. They had entered the prison under this disguise. "This one's just a laundry van. Good for a disguise."

Randy chuckled. "Just that this van's not bullet proof so if we don't get out of here pretty fast the disguise ain't gonna do us any good."

"But where'd you get a van like this?"

Pete motioned to his partner and muttered, slightly embarrassed, "Randy stole it."

"How'd you guys do this? Did Sam help? Is Vincent with you?"

"Vincent," Randy asked bitterly. "Haven't seen him all summer. Don't wanna."

"Sam doesn't know anything about this," Pete explained. "We thought he'd try to stop us."

"You're darn right," Hex exclaimed. "So, who is responsible?"

Randy let out a hiss. "Get down! We're coming to the exit."

Ahead, a bar dropped before them and a guard stepped out of his shack. He put his hand up, motioning the van to stop. Randy put his head out as he braked and, with a smile, said, "Got what we came for. We'll be on our way."

The guard thought for a moment and replied, "I gotta see your paperwork."

"Oh, we don't do none of that. It's all handled from the home office. You've got an account," Randy said with a nod.

"Oh," the guard muttered and went to his shack to raise the bar.

All of the occupants of the van and the guard jumped several inches when the alarms started blaring.

* * *

Several minutes prior:

Three unconscious prison guards lay on the concrete floor of the parking structure and Skates rolled around them, full of pride.

"Don't get cocky," Ko admonished.

The guard who had been watching stood speechless.

Another guard, Harold Meeres, came to see what was taking the others and Skates rolled squarely beneath his left foot as it came down upon the ground. The guard flew up in the air and landed with a thud. "What the?" He got up and, seeing the old pair of skates on the ground, (and wondering what such a pair would be doing there) kicked them away with a clatter. He held his left arm which he'd bruised up and looked at the mess around him. Three guards were out cold on the ground. No, make that four. The fourth lay next to another guard who was standing, frozen with terror, before an old coatrack. Harold stepped up to the other guard and asked, "What are you doing?"

"Please," came the hushed reply, "he's warned me. He'll shoot."

Harold had seen guards go psycho but this was a new one to him. "He will?"

The other guard simply, and carefully, nodded.

Harold grabbed the coatrack and pulled it in front of the other guard. "Are you nuts? Now, what's going on here?"

Confused, perplexed, the other guard looked about as if in a daze.

It didn't take any more to convince Harold that all was not right.

* * *

"We gotta shut down. There's a problem here," the guard shouted over the alarms. "Just pull your van back and we'll get to you in just a little while."

"Shit," Randy exclaimed. He pointed at the bar ahead of him. "Is that wood?"

"Well, yes -"

The sound of screeching tires, punctuated by that of shattering wood, interrupted the guards answer as Randy, Pete, and a still confused Hex, drove wildly into mid-morning traffic.

"What the hell are you doing," both Hex and Pete yelled with astonishing simultaneousity.

"Oh, sure, staying would have been a better choice!"

They bulleted out to Flower Street where traffic was stop and go. Randy paid it no mind and kept his speed over forty, his route twisting in and out of the cars, onto sidewalks, and through yards. When he came to cross traffic, he would make lightning turns east until the next intersection and continue north. For every yard they traveled, it seemed, the van incurred another dent.

"Where are we going," Hex asked.

"They're going to be looking for this van so we've got another vehicle stashed at Main Place."

"Main Place," Hex shouted, incredulously. The huge mall was packed with cars even on a slow day. To race into it, chased by police, and hope to avoid damage was madness! And as for the police, Hex saw when he looked out the back window, they were already in pursuit. Though they drove more carefully than Randy, they were more coordinated. Where one was cut off, another took its place. More waited ahead.

"They think we're making a run for the freeway," Pete observed.

"Then they've got another thing coming," Randy answered, his teeth clenched as they barreled down North Broadway over the Santa Ana Freeway overpass. They quickly caught air as they topped the hill and, for a long time, remained suspended. We're not gonna make it, Randy thought with a flash of enlightenment. We're gonna drop headfirst cause that's where all the van's weight is!

Indeed, as they dropped, the road seemed right before them. Then, with a crash that blew out the front window, dropped Pete and Hex to the floor, and pounded Randy's face into the steering wheel, they hit ground. Randy was dazed but he could see they were still going. He floored the pedal and they tore into Main Place's massive parking structure.

As they screeched to a halt in the underground level, Randy was the first one out. "Move! Move," he shouted. Pete and Hex quickly followed with Hex asking, "Where are we going?"

The two young men led him across the concrete to Randy's truck. It was a '75 half-ton Ford four-by with a supercharged V-8. It had been raised to its highest profile and rode on new, puncture-proof tires. Randy had said they could drive to hell and back in it (and they could except it didn't have air conditioning). Randy was the first to jump in and Pete frantically shoved Hex over inside. It started with a roar and Randy gunned the engine.

"Quiet! You idiot! You need to finesse your way out not blast off to the moon," a voice yelled from, well, it seemed to come from inside the glove box.

Randy kept his mouth shut and drove quietly to the exit. Hex, looking determinedly at the glove box, whispered, "I recognize that voice."

Springing open like a Jack-in-the-box, the door to the glove box fell and it's little occupant made it's presence known. He sat on a matchbox and leaned against the metal interior. "Who else d'ya think would be smart enough to dream up this plan? Welcome back to the free world, Hex."

"Robert! Somehow, I knew you'd survive."

Survive, he did. In the cushy life of Samuel's apartment, he did more than that. Within the first year, he'd taken over the other animates in the Gobel home and lived his life in luxury. Though his bark had turned a bit grey, he looked to be the same old Robert who Hex had entrusted to Vincent all those years ago. Maybe there had been a slight change, though. For the first time, Hex saw the little treeling was all business. "Any cops?"

Pete launched into sarcastic laughter before Randy could think of an excuse so, instead, he grumbled the truth. "Hey, we'd just come from a prison for Chris'sake! Of course, there's cops!" He advanced further toward the exit but the press of traffic kept his speed to a crawl.

"And you call yourself a hoodlum? Fine, just drive natural and get us out of here. Oh, the stress! I think I'm getting an ulcer."

"Robert, you don't have a stomach," Hex corrected.

"Mind your own beeswax, Maker. I break you out of prison; you can let me have an ulcer."

Randy wasn't listening to this exchange but knew that things were going to get worse. As they neared the exit, amidst the trapped cars struggling to exit onto the street, black and whites were obviously waiting outside. Their lights flashed and officers were checking each car that left the lot. Randy gritted his teeth. In front of them, was a line of cars. Behind, more cars. But to the right, where the parking structure dropped several feet into an outside lot, the only obstacle was a shiny, red Mazarati. A new, low profile Mazarati. Taking a breath to steel himself, Randy barked, "Hold on."

Before Robert could ask, "What -?", Randy had the engine gunned and the large truck was turning the Mazarati into a fiberglass pancake. With a bounce from the steel mesh fence, the truck was airborne, falling onto the outer lot and spilling Robert into Pete's lap. Unlike the van that had landed with a jarring crash, the huge tires accepted the truck's weight and continued speeding up a divider, over a hill, and onto the Garden Grove Freeway.

"Randy," Pete tried to admonish.

"Shut up. I know what I'm doing. We left them in the dust. There's no cops following us anymore and Sean should be with us any minute!"

* * *

"I still don't understand why I can't go with you," Sean had whined sometime earlier.

It was early that morning. Final preparations were being made and Sean was being sent to Riverside and the home of retired sheriff John Schuck.

"It's the final part of the plan, tiny," Robert exclaimed, exasperated. "Providing Antoine can hold your girth, you're going to be our ticket home."

* * *

Back in the present, Randy was eating his words. Though he'd believed himself free of pursuit as he sped down the Garden Grove Freeway, flashing lights and sirens were soon close behind. Worse, up above them circled several police helicopters. Now, there would be no getting away.

"Where was Sean supposed to meet you," Hex asked, his mind racing.

"By Irvine Park," Pete replied.

"We figured that the sooner we got you out of the city, the better," Randy finished. "But now it doesn't look like we're going to get that far."

"Who says," Hex asked. "If I can get you to the foothills, can you get us to Sean?"

"Sure." The reply dripped with sarcasm. "How the hell'd'ya gonna do that?"

"Right, Hex, Chapman's pretty busy going into the hills and Jamboree isn't any easier. We're not going to be able to drive through," Pete observed.

"I got an idea," Hex announced. It had come from the blue and had seemed quite impossible. Still, there were things out there less possible. Things to which he must return. He might not be able to fly like Vincent but, he was sure, there'd been a time when he'd done an impressive bit of magic or two. "Keep driving," he said and opened the small window the exited into the cab.

"What'cha going out there for," Randy shouted.

Pete also yelled. "Hex, we're going to run out of freeway pretty soon."

Indeed, at their terrific speed, they'd already passed Main Street and were approaching Grand Avenue. After that was Tustin Avenue, Newport Boulevard, and, at Jamboree Boulevard, the freeway - not yet complete in its expansion - came to an abrupt and inescapably final ending with a drop nearly a hundred feet into unforgiving concrete. Both Randy and Pete thought the same thing; the police would expect their surrender there if they didn't exit before. The police were already on their tail again and the choppers were buzzing above like angry wasps.

"Just keep driving no matter what!" Hex put his hands outside and pulled himself halfway out.

Robert couldn't be heard over the commotion but commented anyway. He said, "There's just no saving that guy."

Outside the cab, Hex felt the wind whip through his hair. They were doing nearly a hundred. Hex hoped that was fast enough. He drew his legs out and braced himself in the truck's bed. So much for subtlety, he thought. If Tsurtor's trying to draw me out, then he'd done it. Let's see how this world likes a taste of magic.

He put his hands atop the cab and, bringing his head up, the fierce wind tried to push him back. Regardless, he heaved himself onto the roof. Slowly, he hauled himself across and, with disappointment, felt the truck noticeably slow. "NO! KEEP YOUR SPEED UP!!"

"Keep your speed up," Pete concurred. "He's obviously got a plan."

"He's obviously gonna get us all killed!" Still, Randy floored the pedal and took their speed over one hundred. Both were shocked, though, when Hex slid down the front windshield, grabbing hold for dear life. "That's great," Randy spat. "I didn't want to see where the hell I was going anyway."

What was the old wizard doing, they both wondered. Robert, though, was the first to catch on. "Hold on, boys. Something's going to happen."

Hex was clutching the hood for dear life, fighting the wind and trying to ignore it simultaneously. He extended his magic, trying to pierce the outer shell. He had been too far away in the cab and in the bed it would have been pointless. Hex needed to talk directly to the truck's working mechanisms, its pistons and valves, its carb and sparks, its belts and wires and tubing and pipes and fuses. What he wanted to do could not be perpetuated through any other part. Hex needed to get in touch with its brains, its guts.

Tustin Avenue flew by and Newport Boulevard quickly approached.

Slowly, his awareness expanded. He felt the hot, determined friction within the engine, the enthusiastic cooling from the radiator, the gleeful rush of the wheels as they flew down the road. All at once, he knew the pieces from the whole. All at once, he knew -

"The name's Forbert," came a rumbling voice.

Randy was so shocked, his foot left the pedal for just a second. All of them could hear it.

"It's the car," Pete whispered, awestruck.

"I'm a truck," Forbert corrected. "Nice to meet you, Hex."

"Likewise," Hex replied, holding on for dear life. "I don't have a whole lot of time right now, so I hope you don't mind if I get right down to business."

"Go right ahead," was Forbert's answer.

They passed Newport Boulevard. The final exit, Jamboree Boulevard, would be next. After that lay a couple of hundred yards of uncompleted roadway followed by nothing good.

"Well, you see, we're in sort of a rush here -"

"You bet! I haven't gone this fast since, well, last Tuesday."

"Yes, but I'm sure you weren't being chased by police at the time."

"Actually, I think we were." No surprise considering Randy's many run-ins with the law.

"But this time, we're heading for a really big drop at the end and we were wondering if you might be able to give us a hand."

"Ooh, that's tough. You see, I'm a land vehicle. I don't do falling very well. My shocks are still aching from that fall Randy put us through earlier."

"See, that's the point," Hex yelled. His arms were growing tired and he'd already started to get a headache. "We need you to fly for us."

"Nope. Can't do that. Land vehicle. I don't do flying, either."

The Jamboree exit was approaching. Beyond, a flimsy roadblock, composed of flashing, plastic signs, warned of their impending doom. The police cars slowed, ending their chase. Jamboree (where the police expected the escapee to turn) was already flooded with police, awaiting the fugitive's arrival. Above, helicopters filled the sky.

"Why not?"

"Why... eh, you know, I'm not sure. Don't get me wrong. I'm not opposed to flying. I might even like it. But I'm not exactly built for it. I weigh half a ton after all. I don't have wings or jets or things."

"Think nothing of it," Hex assured Forbert. "Here. Let me show you how easy it is." Focusing his concentration, Hex put an idea into Forbert's new consciousness. A twist of quantum dynamics.

"No kidding?" Forbert's surprise shook the cab and bounced Hex onto the grill. "It's that easy?"

Hex scrambled on the speeding car as Forbert tore through the roadblock. The police looked on in disbelief. Hex was hoping they hadn't seen anything yet. "Yes! And I'd suggest that you, please, give it a try!!" Hex screamed for all he was worth above the rush of the wind and the terror before him as the highway zoomed past, the yards and then feet were eaten up beneath them, and suddenly, the were airborne.

None of them dared breath. Hex grabbed the top of the hood and tried to haul himself up. Slowly, the hood unlatched and lifted Hex to safety. "There you go," said Forbert.

The police helicopters disappeared. Perhaps the pilots had inhaled too many fumes because they had to be seeing things. None of Forbert's passengers dared say anything for fear of shattering what might be an intricate illusion. Robert, however, was not so inclined, "Yeah, but how much of it is flying and how much of it is just sailing from a really good start? I wouldn't be surprised if we dropped like a rock at any minute."

As if in response, Forbert gained altitude.

* * *

It wasn't long after that when Forbert and his passengers found Antoine flying circular search patterns over Irvine Park. (It hadn't been Sean's idea but Antoine, in his old age, could be rather headstrong.) Forbert's first flight had been a smashing success (thankfully, not a crashing failure) but he tired easily. Hex, now safely back in the bed, suggested they drop into Country Gardens. There, he could learn about Vincent and, he hoped, find a way back to Rynia where the month's deadline was only a few days past.

He didn't realize that he'd be in Rynia sooner than he could imagine.

Part III

Tsurtor sat in his throne room, a wicked smile smeared upon his face like a dead animal. Though he'd never admit it, he had never expected Hex to break out of prison. Hex had just seemed too... good to do such a thing. Certainly, everything else had gone according to plan. Tsurtor had known that no Rynian Mover could get Hex back to his world without panicking (or, at best, completely losing his mind). He knew that he could get Hex in jail and, once there, kept there long enough to wage his war. He had been hoping that the death penalty conviction would be upheld and had it even in the face of overwhelming, convincing evidence putting a dim view on Hex's sanity. But never in his years of contemplation had Tsurtor imagined that Hex had friends with the wherewithal to stage a break-out.

Now, a smile was donned in spite of the set-back. But there are smiles and there are smiles. Tsurtor was far from pleased at the thought of his adversary's freedom. Like most men of dark passion, he preferred to keep his enemies close. It wouldn't do to have Hex spring up in Rynia unexpectedly. There was nothing Hex could do to throw off his plans but Tsurtor knew the wizard could provide his share of obstacles. Very well, then. What would be nicer than to see Hex killed and to slaughter all those near to him as well?

But enough thinking. Tsurtor had known all along that his next action might be necessary. He'd put everything in place long ago. A spell that could have taken him weeks took only a moment. All was done with a snap of his clawed fingers. (So much had the world underestimated his vast power.)

* * *

Forbert pulled up in front of Samuel's place and a relieved Pete and Randy stepped out into the cool, summer air. Sean, too, stepped onto the concrete after Antoine set down. Hex looked at the familiar surroundings from within the cab, relieved.

"Come on, Hex Mex. We gotta get hoofin'. Cops'll be here soon."

Hex looked down at his old friend, sitting in his lap. If it hadn't been for Robert, none of this would have been possible. Hex would be starting the long journey to his execution. Hex smiled at the sick thought that now he'd being going to war where he risked a different type of execution. "You're right, Robert. We've got to start working on a way to get back."

Sam was heading down the stairs from his apartment, his eyes wide with disbelieve. As he stepped closer, he asked, "Hex?"

Hex put his hand out to the man he hoped would still be his friend. Both had changed much in the years since they'd first met. Now, more than ever, they had a common bond. As the two shook hands, Hex asked, "Any word from Vincent?"

Samuel frowned. "I was hoping you could tell me."

Hex couldn't answer for he heard the gasps of astonishment, his own included. All around, the sky turned an emerald green. A dome surrounded the city, cutting it off from the outside world. On the roads leading in, cars collided with its sudden appearance. These were the first to discover that the emerald wall was impenetrable. Birds and insects were held within. Pipelines and cables that ran above and below ground were instantly cut and the cool, summer air instantly turned stale and foreboding.

After a minute, though, the sky returned and all around them, their emerald prison dissipated. It was replaced, however, with a whole new world. No planes flew overhead. Country Gardens had clearly left Orange County.

Looking down Garden Road, Hex saw Country Gardens terminate in a meadow, a vast plain. The air that blew into the town, greeting its sudden appearance, was fresh and sweet. On an impulse, he ran to the corner of Lynan Road to look in the other directions. Off in the distance, a cloud of dust appeared. Hex had no idea which way he faced; he was too disoriented from his recent journey. Still, he knew that the dust cloud meant men were approaching. If he knew Tsurtor like he thought he did, then he knew who those men would be.

Sam, who had kept pace with him, asked, "What the hell's going on?"

Hex replied, "I think we're about to find out."

* * *

Far away, in a darkness, in the wretched land of Ktoll at the bottom of Mount Brutalitie, that equaled that within Tsurtor's heart, Rynia's enemy rose from his throne. Pekit skittered out of the way as the sorcerer looked down upon the many scenes of Rynia's death. Soon, he thought. Very soon, now.

He strode several paces to a long table recently moved to his throne room for his amusement. Upon it, attached to an array of electrodes, stuck by an army of needles pumping a variety of drugs, lay a helpless young man. Once upon a time, he had been Rynia's only hope, its unrequited hero, the youngest magician - the very most powerful magician - in the world.

Now Vincent Gobel lay powerless, hopeless, and confused. One thing was clear, however. He was very, very afraid.

Tsurtor, with his eyes of ebony that hid in the shadows beneath his cloak, whispered sweetly, seductively, "Now, all the pieces are in place."

# Author's Note

You can follow my continuing story and artistic endeavors on the web and in future publications.

As I draft this special, digital edition in 2011, I am actively pursuing a career writing novels and plays. You can find me all over the web. Just search by my name, **Ken La Salle**. You can also find me at the following locations:

**MY SIDE. THE BLOG** : http://mysidetheblog.blogspot.com/.

**ONE PATH** : http://twolivesonepath.blogspot.com/.

**KEN LA SALLE.** You can follow my writing career at: http://kenlasalle.blogspot.com/.

Thank you for your support in making my story a success with this and future work.

