 
Seductive Silence

written by Jordan Baugher

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Jordan Baugher

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

The girl wears no clothes. Thick, red locks wend their way haphazardly between her head and the curve of her hips. Walking along the trail with a sack of apples in her hand, she bobs her head and smiles, pleased to be warmed by the mid-spring sun after the passage of a cold winter.

"Oho, what've we got here?" says a dark-clad, stubbled man appearing from behind a tree.

"Looks like somebody's eager to give it away," says another similarly-scruffy man appearing from behind another tree as he appraises the nubile girl.

She smiles at the men, saying nothing.

The first man snorts as he approaches her. "Heh, women--they're all the same."

Once he gets close enough to touch her, it's already too late. He sees her as if with new eyes, as if it's the first time he's ever really seen anything. The effect isn't magickal; it's more a side effect of the harsh realization of the statistical improbability of ever actually coming across someone considered to be one-hundred-percent perfectly attractive.

Stunned, the first man collapses to his knees. The second man sees what happened to his cohort and rushes up to the girl, also getting a full dose of her beaming body. He falls just as his partner did, kneeling blank-eyed in the middle of the road.

The girl giggles and runs her fingers through the hair of one of the men as she continues on her way. She reaches into her sack and pulls out an apple, taking a dainty bite from it. After a few ticks, she is gone and the men are all alone, each of them locked in a perpetual stupor.

Hernaldo cuts a dashing figure as he leaps gracefully from the balcony, landing on one boot, one knee, and one hand, barely touching the pavement and pausing only briefly to flash a smile at a well-bosomed girl standing in front of the inn before he sprints out of her sight.

His cape billowing behind him, he spins into an alley and pries open the heavy, iron lid leading into the sewer. After gently replacing it, he climbs down the metal rungs set into the stone walls and stops for but a moment, listening to the rhythmic thuds as they get closer and louder. Loose pebbles rattle around him in the dark, and he breathes a sigh of relief when the pounding starts to recede.

A rat skitters by his foot, but Hernaldo does not scream. Hernaldo pulls a scrap of paper from one pocket and a small chunk of trunkchar from the other. The only light comes from a storm drain overhead maybe a man-length away.

His message is short, only a paragraph long, and just as he begins the last line, the ceiling caves in just in front of where he crouches, a mini-avalanche of rock and dust splashing violently as it tumbles into the ankle-deep fetid water.

Hernaldo sizes up the hulking, nonhuman figure standing atop the rubble for only a split-twitch before turning and fleeing into the depths of the sewer. The light from the newly-formed opening into the sewer gleams off of various points of the figure. With a series of squeaks and the grinding of steel-on-steel, Hernaldo's pursuer continues its pursuit, and the steady rhythm of ground-shaking thuds caused by its footfalls resumes.

"We should've turned left at the last fork in the trail," Zanther says, ducking under a moss-covered tree which has fallen across the muddy path.

"That way goes around in a circle; it's a fool's path meant to confuse invaders," Novanostrum says.

"How can you be so sure that this path isn't the fool's path?"

Novanostrum clears his throat. "The fact that I wanted to go this way and you didn't, that's what makes me confident we're going the right way."

An anaconda whips down from a tree above, swinging right toward Novanostrum. Zanther has his longknife off his back and swinging through the air before the serpent even sees him. The head and neck of the thing fall to the ground, the teeth and eyes still twitching.

"Don't you remember any of this place from the last time we were here?" Novanostrum asks.

"The Mucklands all look the same to me. It's all jungly and humid and muddy and deadly and irritating. I don't see why we couldn't just walk around it. Hell, we could've hopped a ship up to San-torus and flown back to Claustria on one of the trans-continental skyfreighters."

"Open the present, don't get wrapped up in the past," Novanostrum says as he raises his staff and blasts a series of medium-sized fireballs in a seemingly random manner at the trees ahead. The burnt corpses of knifebeak bugbuzzards drop from the branches and fall into the stagnant water in a series of small splashes.

Zanther casts an aggravated glance at Novanostrum. "Your suicidal nonchalance reminds me an awful lot of my father."

"Yeah, what's he do?"

"Travels around the world on his skyship looking for treasure and seducing aboriginal women."

"Wait...your father is Aristhmus Maus?"

"You've heard of him?"

"Who the High Hell hasn't? He's one of the most famous people on the continent. There used to be an article in the Gadabout about him almost every week. Wow, I can't believe I never made that connection. I just assumed that Maus was a fairly common family name."

Zanther grumbles. "I've never met any other Mauses."

"Don't you mean 'Mice'?"

The wind blows Madra's hair in front of her face. She stands on the roof of Claustria Castle's main spire, peering through a tube with lenses on each end. Far in the distance, out in the Flatlands, she can make out men working on the dilapidated locomote tracks leading to the Submount Steamtunnels.

"Well, at least someone is doing something useful around here," she says to herself.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty?"

Jarred out of her reverie, Madra stares Varello down, her feminine spite boring into his playful, whiskered face. "And how can I be sure I can trust you?"

He shrugs. "The truth is, you can't. Be sure, that is. I am confident in my own trustworthiness, but, of course, my opinion is quite biased."

A large hand grips Varello's shoulder. "You can trust me, Your Majesty. And I give you my word that neither of us," Marchand says as he tightens his grip, "will let you down."

Varello brushes the hand off his shoulder, scowling at the bulk of muscle comprising the captain of Claustria's royal guard.

Madra wags a finger at Marchand. "He may look like an old man," she says, tilting her head toward Varello, "but he can kill a roomful of people without raising a finger from his lutestrings. I'm sending him to protect you."

Marchand rolls his eyes. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, I hardly require protecting."

Madra shoots a viperish glare at Marchand. "If the reports coming out of the Willowood are true, you'll need all the help you can get."

The air hums with the buzzing of insect wings and the incessant croaking of thunderfrogs, but from somewhere beyond the static of this background noise comes a sound which tickles the tiny hairs on the inside of Zanther's ear.

"Something...unnatural is coming," Zanther says.

"Oh?" Novanostrum shrugs his shoulders, uninterested.

Zanther's eyes grow large, and he rushes toward Novanostrum, scooping him off the trail as he dives into some bushes. The noise that was previously just an incongruent soundwave sharpens, clarifies, resolves itself into a hard rhythm of heavy stomps.

On the trail in front of them, a figure enters their field of vision. A man with a dark cape runs by, panting heavily and dripping with blood from cuts and scrapes he looks to have sustained in running through the wild swamplands. He trips over a gnarl of treeroot and takes a tumble, skidding face-first across the muddy trail.

Immediately after his fall, a loud burst of thunder echoes throughout the vicinity, and a hole appears in the back of the man on the ground. The heavy stomps grow closer, louder, until their owner appears from around a bend in the trail.

"What the bonk is that?" Zanther whispers.

"I..I'm not quite sure," is all Novanostrum can muster as a response.

The stomps are produced by a manlike figure, manlike meaning in this case that two arms, two legs, a torso and a head are delineated. However, the similarities do not go much further. The body is covered with heavy plate armor, as are the shoulders and forearms and knees, but these pieces of armor do not cover a body so much as a shining brass skeleton. The elbows and knees are clearly visible, looking like nothing so much as round, brass ball joints connecting the rods of the arms and legs.

The head resembles a metal box with two short telescopes popping out of it. The right hand of the metal creature is comprised of a longknife, and the left arm culminates in what looks like six powderblasts mounted to a plate. A knifebeak bugbuzzard swoops down from a tree, the left arm rises swiftly and a shot rings out. The avian menace explodes in mid-air, and the plate and the guns spin around in a series of clicks.

The shot man in the path tries to crawl away, and Zanther reaches to tap Novanostrum on the shoulder, only to find that he is no longer crouching next to him. Zanther looks up to see Novanostrum back on the path and standing directly in front of the metallic malefactor.

The projectile-firing arm swings back around, pointing squarely at Novanostrum's chest.

Varello and Marchand stroll through the Willowood in silence. In accordance with its name, willow trees stretch as far as the two of them can see, the cave-like walls of dangles of foliage interrupted only by a few crumbling stone structures: a well, the foundation of what might have been a house, a stairwell leading to nowhere, and so on and so on.

The sky above is overcast, a white ceiling to the furry cave. After touring the woods for perhaps a bellchime, Varello puts up his arm to stop Marchand's forward progress.

"It's close."

"What's close?" Marchand asks.

Varello sniffs, turns his head and sniffs again, then pulls back a willow-curtain to reveal a kneeling, rotting corpse.

"Our killer's latest victim."

Chapter 2

The Quester of Righteousness rides hard, spurring the horse to its breaking point. The dragon releases a jet of flame, narrowly missing the valiant hero and his doughty steed. The Quester of Righteousness draws his longknife at the last eyeblink, and as the dragon tries to fly away from its fierce attacker, the tip of the longknife catches his belly as man and horse pass underneath him.

The cut is carried out in one clean, complete motion, and dragon guts spill to the ground in a quick succession of squishy patters.

The Quester of Righteousness slows his horse and turns to face the dragon, writhing in its death throes. He raises his visor, revealing two jewel-like blue eyes, tiny puddles of perfection. He swings the Longknife of Iniquity at nothing and brings it to a halt in mid-swing, shaking loose a spray of purple dragon blood.

A woman emerges from a nearby cave, her white dress and blonde hair billowing in the soft breeze. She gazes at the form of the slaughtered dragon for but a moment before running up to her brave benefactor, who has stepped down from his horse. She wraps her arms around him and plants a wet kiss on his lips.

"Oh, Quester of Righteousness, I knew you would come, I just knew it."

Novanostrum steels himself as the shot echoes through the humid swamp. The lead ball whizzes past his head, leaving a bloody burn mark on the skin of his ear. Novanostrum raises his staff and produces a fireball which hits the brass atrocity square in the chestplate and knocks it into a tree.

Zanther races up to Novanostrum, grabbing the wizard's head and inspecting the burn on his ear.

"Looks like you lucked out."

"Nothing lucky about it. I changed the density of the air to redirect the path of the shot."

With a series of clicks and scrapes and whirrs, the metallic creature rises to its feet and begins approaching them, once again raising its gatling arm.

Novanostrum pulls back his sleeve to reveal his golden wristwatch. He gives Zanther a serious look.

"Do what you do best."

Colors fade from reality, and everything is black and white as Zanther charges toward the armored menace. The gatling arm recoils, and a lead ball floats toward Zanther in slow motion. He easily dodges this, and the arm recoils again and again, sending out multiple shots, all of which Zanther dances around.

At last, with his longknife raised over his head, Zanther closes the distance and brings his weapon down in a diagonal slash, knocking the boxy head off of its metal rod of a neck.

Time reasserts its control over the scene as color returns. The metallic thing ceases to move, and Novanostrum and Zanther rush to the injured man on the ground, who has managed to sit up and grasp the hole in his abdomen. As Zanther gets a good look at the man's face, his eyes light up with recognition.

"Hernaldo?" Zanther asks.

"Zanther...it's good to see you again. It would have been nicer to run into you about five ticks ago, but--" Hernaldo coughs up a little blood as he chuckles.

Zanther turns to Novanostrum. "You've got to help him. Magick him back to normal."

Novanostrum grabs Hernaldo's hand and removes it from the wound, inspecting it. "I'm sorry, but this injury is beyond magick."

Hernaldo nods, having expected as much. "It doesn't matter, anyway, now that I've run into you. You two can convey my message to Queen Madra."

As he says this, he pulls an envelope from his pocket and hands it to Zanther, managing to smear blood all over it in the process.

"What's the message?" Zanther asks.

"That thing you just smashed up is called an 'automote'. My mission was to infiltrate Mortesia and evaluate their capabilities. They have over one hundred thousand of those mechanized monstrosities and they're preparing a war. However, they're not just going to march from town to town, they have a secret plan which is detailed in the letter. They're making a move to take the whole of Upper Kleighton, and unless something drastic is done, they'll get it."

"What sort of magick makes them move like that?" Zanther asks.

"Not magick," Hernaldo says, "gears and springs. The Mortesians have a mechanickal mastermind developing weapons for their military forces, and once he built the first one, they made copies. Lots and lots of them. Madra must be warned. The rest of Upper Kleighton must be warned. War is coming, and the people must know what they're up against."

Crouching over Hernaldo, Zanther looks up at Novanostrum. "We've got to get him to a physick."

"It's too late," Novanostrum says.

"Is there anything else we should know, Hernaldo?" Zanther asks, but it's too late. Hernaldo's eyes are glassed over, looking at nothing.

Marchand stands guard while Varello pokes and prods the body, lifting hair and checking pockets and searching for wounds inflicted before death. After he is satisfied that there is nothing else to be learned through observation, he draws a wooden flute from a jacket pocket and starts playing a slow, melancholy tune.

The twilit sky above makes the wooly walls of the willow forest glow orange, and Marchand gives Varello a puzzled look which is returned with a harsh glare.

However, Varello doesn't miss a note, he plays through the tune once and starts to repeat it. The corpse begins to stir, with the hollow wheezing of air being breathed through punctured lungs and an exposed nasal cavity. Rather than rising up and trying to eat their brains, though, the deadder just kneels there, directing its dead stare at nothing.

Varello plays through the song one final time, occasionally giving the deadder a kick to the ribs or the head as he walks around it. The deadder grunts a little, but gives no other reaction. Finishing the song for the third time, Varello stops playing.

The reanimated corpse slumps to the ground, fully dead once more.

Marchand, who has been watching this whole scene in open-mouthed horror, is finally able to draw enough breath to speak.

"You...you can raise the dead?"

Varello shrugs. "In a manner of speaking. However, they do not retain much of their former essence, if any at all. It's amazing, though, what happened to this one. Whatever happened to him was powerful enough to override his deadder instinct to shamble off towards something living to eat, even though there was a perfectly good meal standing right where you are."

Marchand looks around for a moment before catching Varello's drift. "You were using me as bait?"

Varello nods. "You're half right. I mean, you're right about the 'bait' part. You're wrong about the tense, though."

Their banter is interrupted by a rustle in the trees a few dozen yards down the path. Marchand's soldier instincts kick in and he sprints toward the sound. Varello takes his time following, mumbling softly to himself.

"No. Don't go. It's too dangerous," he mutters as he strolls closer to the sound.

He creeps into the interior of a willow tree and peeks through the drooping, living wall to see Marchand on his knees in front of three women. Two of the women are short and dumpy, with plain dresses, and these two are going through Marchand's pockets while the third woman, a moving sculpture of the ideal woman, wears no clothes.

Varello immediately realizes the problem, and pulls out his flute in an attempt to produce a temporary solution. He plays a lullaby, catching the attention of the two unattractive women who begin to stagger towards him before falling asleep. The third woman inspects her fallen friends, smiling and fully alert, before looking straight at Varello.

Knowing that her look caused the catatonic death-stupors of Marchand and the corpse not fifty yards from where he stands, Varello flinches at her glare, squinching his eyes tight and expecting the worst.

"How did you know him?" Novanostrum asks.

"I didn't really know him all that well. The first time I met him, he was playing cards with a group of guys in the back of a pub in one of the seedier districts of Claustria proper. A few moonths later, I ended up in the cell next to his in Dankwater Stinkprison. He recognized me from before, we came up with a plan, and we escaped."

Novanostrum stops, mid-stride. "You were in Dankwater? And you escaped?"

"You almost sound a little jealous. What, did you think I never had any adventures before I met you?"

"No, er...well. Hmm. What did you do to get thrown into Dankwater?"

The slithy toves burble in the distance, their vorpal cries echoing over the moonlit plains of Paterlingua as Zanther and Novanostrum come to a fork in the path. Three pointed signs are nailed to the post, each pointing in a different direction. They pause in front of the sign, and Zanther takes a sip from his waterskein.

"Well, wizard, do we dare brave the path northward into Darrinian territory, or do we head west and take our chances in the domain of the Grand Pontiflex?"

Novanostrum strokes his chin thoughtfully. "You know, I haven't seen a single Crucifer since we left the Deus Palatium after that last sketchy debacle."

Zanther looks upward, searching his memory. "Neither have I. It's weird, though. You usually see at least a few of them wherever you go. Not that I miss them or anything, with the way they would go around expaling people and coaxing so-called 'donations' from them."

Novanostrum starts walking down the road toward the Deus Palatium. "Well, let's go this way, then. We can sniff out some information about what's going on with the Crucifers and pass that info along to Madra so she can factor that into her war plans."

"You really think this is going to turn into a full-blown war?" Zanther asks.

"As they say, pessimists are just unpaid fortune-tellers."

Her long, red locks cover her naughty bits as she draws closer, her smile never wavers, and Varello keeps playing his flute, hoping against hope she will succumb to the magickal lullaby before it's too late. She draws closer. Ten man-lengths away...five...until she is standing right in front of him.

Varello's hands drop to his sides in frustration, abruptly ending his song. The woman reaches for his flute and he hands it to her. She inspects it, turning it over in her hands before putting it to her own lips and blowing hard.

Her cheeks puff out as her fingers dance over the holes, but she produces no sound.

She seems not to notice her musical shortcomings, spending a full tick doing a silent impersonation of a flute player before handing the instrument back to Varello. Dumbfounded, he stands there as she walks back to her homely friends and rouses them. Unlike the naked girl, they are wary of Varello and edge away from him as soon as they realize that he is still standing and holding the flute. They shepherd the nude girl away, and Varello is all alone with a stupefied Marchand.

Pebbles shake and the ground rumbles as two giant stone slabs are pulled from the earth below. The stars, which twitch ever so slightly, do not seem to be affected by the earthbound events. Zanther watches silently while Novanostrum rearranges the landscape with his hands, a magickal maestro terraforming their surroundings.

"Seems like a lot of effort to go through just to make a simple lean-to," Zanther says, looking at the two big pieces of rock.

"Future travelers will also be able to use this. Consider it an example of altruism."

"Now, Nove, I don't mind if you show off, I really don't, but let's not pretend you have even an ounce of compassion for others."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We spent half a day walking through the smoking ruins of Arcania, past injured and starving people, and you didn't do a bonking thing to help a single one of them."

"I have no sympathy for any Arcanian. In my eyes, they barely even count as people."

"You're from Arcania. They're your people."

"Oh, I was definitely born there, there's no denying that. However, after the myriad of unpleasant tortures they visited upon me, my feeling is that they deserve what they get."

"Deserve what they get? To have airships level half of their city? To always be subjected to the arbitrary and harsh rule of the Wizards' Council? You can't condemn the many for the sins of the few."

Novanostrum stops walking and sets his palms upon Zanther's shoulders.

"Sins of the few? What was done to me required consent from the people themselves, and yet an overwhelming majority of those fools supported it. My concern for anyone who could subject another living thing to the torment which I faced is nigh on zero."

Chapter 3

Madra and Varello stand at the foot of the bed in the castle's infirmary. Marchand drools onto his pillow, his eyes opened wide and dull.

"How do we bring him back?" Madra asks.

"Well...um...how can I put this delicately? We can't. You may keep him alive indefinitely by pouring broth down his throat and having the physicks and healthmaids tend to him, but he will never regain even an ounce of his former nature. His mind has been paused on the image of the girl. I brought him here to demonstrate to you just exactly what we are dealing with."

Madra gives Varello a suspicious look. "And you were immune to her magick?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"And she was immune to yours?"

"Quite literally, it seems."

She grabs him by his collar. "I'm not just some doe-eyed barwench for you to play word games with. Lives hang in the balance here, so I shall ask you again: why is it that Marchand is a drooling potato and you are not?"

"Well, again, there's no way to be sure, but it seems that our mystery red-headed nudist serial killer possesses what can only be described as the perfect embodiment of the female form. For any man to gaze upon it is to descend into the madness of contemplating her beauty. No magick involved, just the unlikely manifestation of a statistical improbability."

Madra narrows her eyes at Varello. "Isn't that the very foundation of magick, the ability to cause the manifestation of statistical improbabilities?"

Varello smiles. "In a world with wizards, nothing is improbable."

Madra returns her hawk-eyed gaze to Varello's face. "I find it improbable that you would just so happen to be unaffected by this girl's feminine wiles."

Varello scratches the back of his neck. "Your Majesty, though I really do not wish to discuss it, it's probably not quite as improbable as you might think."

Madra reflects on Varello's words for a moment, then blushes with understanding.

The road to the Deus Palatium is paved with the good intentions once possessed by the owners of the bones used in the construction of the aforementioned road. Zanther and Novanostrum stroll across the vast plains, empty save for the road and the towering, hulking mass of the stone seat of Crucifer power in Upper Kleighton.

To call it a castle would be to call a salamander a mighty dragon. In fact, the Deus Palatium ranks second on the Kleighton Gadabout's list of the twelve most prominent megastructures in Upper Kleighton, which is titled, appropriately enough, 'The Twelve Most Prominent Megastructures in Upper Kleighton, Ranked in Order of Prominence'. Number one was the King's New Omnimagick Tower (commonly referred to as 'The Knot') in Arcania. It should probably be noted that Arcania has never had a king, and that the Knot is not so much a tower as a conflagration of stone structures addended to the original over a span of centuries.

When the two of them are roughly fifty man-lengths from the second most prominent megastructure in Upper Kleighton, Zanther raises an arm and they both pause mid-step.

"Well?" Novanostrum asks.

"You hear that?"

"I don't hear anything."

"That's my point. This place should be crawling with Crucifers, but I don't even see any guards."

"I don't understand why you're considering a lack of Crucifers to be bad thing. If you'll recall, they spent a lot of time trying to expale us the last time we dealt with them."

They resume their walk towards the massive megadoor, which stands open.

"Ah," Zanther continues, "for all of your wizardly wisdom, you have much to learn about politicks. The Crucifers, for all of their wanton killing and tribute-gouging, do, in fact, serve a few important purposes. They act as a buffer between the Darrinians to the east and the kingdoms to the west, they serve as the gatekeepers of the main passage to Lower Kleighton, but most importantly, they are the core of the most widely practiced religion on the continent. That said religion is thoroughly corrupt and blatantly ridiculous is beside the point. People like thinking they know what is going to happen to their souls when they die, moreover they like the idea of even having souls in the first place. Without a viable religion to keep the religiously-inclined folks busy, religious people will spend their newly-freed up time doing other things like reproducing and hassling normal people, and this will lead to unrest."

Novanostrum nods. "Some of your points are valid, but the rest of what you said sounds like something you just made up on the spot."

Zanther draws his longknife as they pass through the megadoorway and into the vast, empty main hall of the Deus Palatium. The only light comes from a row of tiny windows far overhead, and the two of them walk gingerly down the long, echoing corridor. Just at the edge of their vision, in a pool of near-shadow untouched by the muted light, Novanostrum sees movement.

Zanther sees it, too, and braces himself. "Looks like we're not the only ones seeking salvation here today."

"Something gives me the feeling there isn't going to be enough to go around."

Varello and Madra sit across from each other in the private dining room reserved for Claustrian royalty. Varello takes a bite of boarsteak, savoring its juicy flavor for a moment before washing it down with a gulp of purpleberry wine.

"So how can we deal with this naked murderess?" Madra asks.

"Well, since she can't harm me, I suppose it's up to me to dispatch her before she is able to claim any more victims."

"You mean to 'dispatch' her? As much as I disapprove of what she's doing to my people, I don't know that killing her is fair. It's not like she chose to be born too beautiful."

"I don't really see any other options. We cannot apprehend her and bring her here for a trial, and we cannot allow her to roam wherever she likes unchecked. Suppose she decided to walk through the city gates and up to the doors of your castle? Who would stop her? How many would perish?"

Madra sighs. "I suppose you're right."

"Who goes there?"

The lone Crucifer soldier walks casually down the hallway with his spear only half-raised. Novanostrum keeps his staff poised, and Zanther does not lower his longknife.

"We're here to see the Grand Pontiflex," Zanther says.

The soldier nods, disregarding their battle stances. "I expected as much. Well, follow me. I'll show you to him."

He leads them back the way he came, opening the door and motioning for them to enter the spacious bedroom of the head of the Crucifist Church.

An enormous four-post bed takes up most of the space in the room. Lying in the middle of the bed is an old man with a wiry beard of gray and white. He looks into the faces of his two visitors.

"I...remember the two of you. You saved me once," he pauses to cough into his fist, "but this time, I fear, I'm beyond saving."

"What happened here?" Zanther asks.

"As you know, when you destroyed the false Pontiflex Minor, you released me from the enchantment he was using to bind me. When I regained my capacity for rational thinking, I surveyed the damage done by that impostor, and came to the conclusion that the only way for the Church to make amends was to sell off a large portion of our assets and distribute those funds among the surviving victims and families of those who were attacked and murdered by the daemons and by our own soldiers. Having done this, I then ordered all operations suspended indefinitely."

"Yes, but why?" Novanostrum asks.

"Crucifisim, I realized, was a tree producing poisoned fruit and choking Upper Kleighton with its deep roots. It was extorting the dodeckas of innocents, expaling those who opposed it, and facilitating a myriad of other abuses."

Zanther clears his throat. "Crucifism has been that way since its inception. One rogue Pontiflex Minor wasn't solely responsible for everything you just said. Why not use your considerable influence and the vast resources of the Church to do good? Why dissolve a church that gives people so much hope?"

The Grand Pontiflex clasps his hands together above his blanket. "I had a vision. I suspect it has something to do with why you're here as well. I suppose you wished to ask me to marshal a force to battle the looming threat of a mechamated army of steel men poised to sweep the land?"

Zanther nods. "Something like that."

The Grand Pontiflex fidgets for a moment. "The primary purpose of the Crucifist Church is to act as a spiritual bridge between the populace and the Two True Gods, Thanos and Vitala. In my vision, I saw our considerable forces brutally slaughtered to a man. Rather than waste their lives needlessly, I dismissed them.

"Furthermore, our role as a 'spiritual bridge' is no longer necessary."

"Why not?" Zanther asks.

"Most of the people of Upper Kleighton are going to be sent to meet Thanos face-to-face before this struggle is ultimately lost."

Varello, with his backsack packed with clothes and provisions, steps out of his room in Claustria castle.

"Hey!"

He turns to see Queen Madra running toward him holding something behind her back. She stops, panting, and holds out her parting gift, which he takes from her and immediately begins inspecting.

"Wyvern-gut strings, a dragon-horn inlaid fretboard, mythril tuning-knobs...this is the finest lute I've ever seen. A royal gift, indeed!"

She blushes. "If a soldier wants to have the best chance of defeating his opponent, he needs to have the best weapon available."

Varello strums the strings, frowning at the discordant notes. He twists the knobs as he plucks each string, trying to find a good tuning. After a moment, he is able to strum a pleasant-sounding chord.

He places a hand on Madra's shoulder. "I shall deal with this threat and return before you even notice I'm gone. Like I said, she doesn't even pose a threat to me."

Madra frowns. "You'd just better hope she doesn't have a brother."

Novanostrum and Zanther pass once more through the megadoorway and back out into the world. The sky has gone from blue to pea-green, and the winds mask the sounds of birds in trees on the horizon.

"You know," Zanther says, "for all the overwhelming architectural majesty and religious symbolism we just saw, I don't feel all that spiritually uplifted."

Novanostrum shrugs. "Just because the leader of your religion has lost his faith is no reason to lose yours."

They both turn around at the sound of frantic footfalls on marble. The Crucifer soldier stands in front of them.

"The Grand Pontiflex has asked me to provide you each with a horse and some provisions."

Zanther gives a suspicious look. "I know this is a House of the Gods, but when you say 'provisions' is there any chance that could include some beer?"

The soldier feigns offense. "This is no 'House' of the Gods, this is a Palace. We have barrels of the finest beers from across Upper Kleighton."

Novanostrum beams at Zanther. "Ye of little faith."

Chapter 4

"Things weren't always like this, you know. This used to be just another peaceful little town."

Varello sits across from an old woman wearing a tattered dress and a nearly threadbare apron. The table, hewn from thick slabs of oak, gives the room a timeless quality. She pauses, waiting for him to take a sip of tea, and then continues.

"The trouble started when the Mus showed up."

"The Mus?" he asks.

"Vasker and Trina Mu. He was an engineer fresh out of the Universitorium, sent here to build a mill so that our town could have its own supply of flour. She was the niece of some duke, and his wedding present to the couple was a nice little house on the edge of town. Things were going so well...until she got pregnant."

Varello nods. "Pregnancy does strange things to women."

"No, not Trina--her child. A baby girl they named Desa. The night she was born, the midwife brought Vasker into the room to see his daughter, and he wept and wept. Said she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen."

"A prophetic statement, to be sure."

She gives a grim smile. "Of course, the people of the town were thrilled by the new arrival. They visited the couple to see the child, and they brought presents, as they would for any new baby. But it was the strangest thing--they kept going back, and kept bringing more presents. Cribs, baby clothes, toys. It got to the point where the Mus were so overwhelmed they stopped allowing visitors. But that didn't deter the townsfolk, they just kept leaving things outside.

"Those who hadn't seen the child couldn't understand what their fellow townsfolk were doing. They thought their friends and neighbors had gone mad. They just kept going on and on about Desa, about how cute she was, about her smile, about how she was just about the bestest thing they'd ever seen. Eventually, it got so awkward that Vasker and Trina took their baby and moved out to a tiny cottage in the woods to avoid the unwanted attention.

"Sometimes Vasker would come to town for supplies, or to fix something at the mill, but for the next dodecade nobody saw much of the Mus. Until Vasker died."

Varello gives the old woman a confused look. "How did he die?"

"Nobody's really sure. It was around the time of Desa's twelfth sunspin when Trina showed up in town one day screaming and crying, saying that Vasker was dead and Desa was missing.

"A few days later, a young girl, naked as the day the Gods made her, comes wandering down the road--that was the day this sleepy little town died. One by one, as the men saw her, they just stopped. Literally, they just stopped. The women fawned over her, starting their own cult to worship her and please her. At first, her mother was happy that she was okay, but when she saw what happened to the town, she was inconsolable."

"And you were unaffected when all of this happened?" Varello asks.

"Myself, I never saw what the big deal was about Desa. Then again," she taps a finger to her temple, indicating her milky eyes, "I guess I never could see much of anything at all."

Varello rises to leave. "Thank you for the tea."

The old woman grabs Varello's wrist. "I might be blind, but I can tell you have a certain way about you. That might keep you safe when it comes to Desa, but it won't protect you from the others. They'll do anything for her--anything."

The Quester of Righteousness darts between the walls of flame, zigging left, then right, attempting to get closer to the source of the high-pitched prepubescent screams.

Moments before, the flaming inferno was merely a maze of walls were created from blocks of hay, one of many amusements at the village's Ogrefest Feastival. However, one stray spark from one stray firework was all it took to turn a celebration into a potential tragedy.

As the screaming ceases, the Quester of Righteousness realizes that the smoke must have finally gotten to the child. Rather than continuing to dart around through the maze in a time-consuming search, he thrusts out his shoulder as he charges through the dry cubes of flaming death in the direction of the last scream he was able to hear.

Grimacing as he bursts through one, two, three scorching walls, he finally comes across a bundle of clothing wrapped around a miniature person passed-out beneath the thick, black smoke. He scoops up the child in one arm as he dashes back through the walls of flame towards the entrance of the maze.

The Quester of Righteousness, victorious, hands the child to his hysterical mother. She holds him to her bosom and he opens his eyes, blinking at first at the shock of his ordeal and then at the shock of being unharmed.

The child is handed to a physick for observation, and the mother makes her way toward the Quester of Righteousness, wrapping her arms around him.

"You saved my child, oh Quester of Righteousness. You deserve a fitting reward."

"Your gratitude is reward enough."

She presses her body against his. "Oh, but my lips can do much more than form words to express my appreciation."

The Quester of Righteousness sighs as he allows her to lead him by the hand.

The village of Krassen lies four thousand man-lengths to the east of Arcania. It's a buffer between the lands of the wizards and the lands of the mechanists, and as such, it has become a trading point where the discriminating shopper can acquire the strangest, most useful relics produced by each land.

Walking down the main street, one might see a wristwatch capable of keeping its time for the next dodecade without so much as a single winding. In the neighboring stall, one might find an amulet capable of keeping a person completely dry in a rainstorm.

Being such a prominent trading hub, the town is usually filled with the bustle and hum of commercial activity, and today is no exception. The rattling sound of dodeckas hitting a wooden table, the smell of yafbeest kabobs, the glistening sweat on the neck of a San-torusian prostitute. Everything in sight can be bought for a price, and for the right price one can buy everything in sight.

The only thing not for sale in Krassen today is a reprieve from the imminent death preparing to swarm through the city gates.

Two philosophers, on a sabbatical from the Universitorium, stand in front of a stall selling bugbuzzard prepared teriyaki-style. The taller philosopher takes a bite of his burnt bird and washes it down with a gulp of beer.

"The sky...it's always such a lovely shade of green," the shorter one says.

The taller philosopher looks up at the sky. "I've never seen the sky turn completely green like this."

"Your previous inability to pay attention to the color of the sky does not have any bearing on how the sky may or may not have always looked, nor does it necessarily detract from the validity of my original assertion that the sky is always a lovely shade of green."

The taller philosopher takes another bite of his bird. "Let me tell you a little secret: I only became a Professor of Philosophy because it was the best-paying job in the Universitorium. I don't believe anything any of you guys say, and most of the time I wonder if you're not all out of your skulls."

The shorter one exhales deeply. "Oh, thank the Gods! I'm not the only one."

The taller one smiles. "That was a test--and you failed."

"Was it really a test?"

"No," he smiles, then, turning serious, "Or was it?"

"If it was a test, I was just playing along as a means of testing you."

The shorter philosopher gasps as a steel machete erupts from the chest of his travelling companion, spraying him with blood. An instant later, the tall philosopher is tossed into the air by the mechanickal beast attached to the machete. The other arm of the automate is a gatling powderblast, which is now being leveled at the face of the shorter philosopher.

"It's entirely possible this is just a nightmare from which I will soon awaken."

Screams fill the street as hundreds of automates cut their way through the fleeing crowd. A rapid succession of shots ring through the dry air, and the shorter philosopher either does or does not awaken from the reality which may or may not have been his nightmare.

"The difficulty," Novanostrum says, "is realizing that your life is not just a linear path through time, but a series of moments which you can return to and interact within at any point."

The Crucifer soldier nods at Novanostrum's words as he takes a sip of his own beer. The three of them are sitting on drab, thickly-cushioned chairs in a dim parlor in the corner of the vast basement level of the Deus Palatium.

Zanther looks up from his glass mug, foam stuck to the tip of his nose. "So what you're saying is, I can go back in time to this morning and save Hernaldo simply by altering my memory of how the event played out?"

"Not your memory of how it played out," Novanostrum corrects, "the reality of what occurred."

Zanther smiles. "That's ridiculous."

Novanostrum takes a deep hit from his longpipe. "I'm not saying it isn't. I'm just telling you how it works."

The Crucifer soldier picks this moment to interject. "But if you're changing the past, wouldn't that alter the present?"

"The present isn't some static concept, it's the constantly-changing sum total of all the events that have preceded it."

"Do you have any proof that you have ever successfully done this?" Zanther asks.

Novanostrum smiles. "Check your pocket. I tranced back in time and wrote a message on a scrap of paper and tucked it in there when you were taking a nap after digging Hernaldo's grave."

Zanther reaches into his pocket and pulls out the folded note. "It says, 'There is no proof, only faith.' Hmm."

"Have I proven my point?" Novanostrum asks.

"You've proven that you're a better magician than you are a wizard."

Varello spies the girl on the other side of the field. She is hanging sheets on a line strung between two trees. Her supple curves flow with the movement of her body. Two other women, clad in simple dresses, wash laundry in wooden tubs a few man-lengths away from her.

Above, Varello notes that the sky has turned a sickening shade of green, something along the order of a thin bowl of peapod gruel. The women seem not to notice.

The melody he begins to play is gentle, so soft that to the ears of the ladies on the other side of the field it is almost completely muffled by the breeze. Still, this does not prevent the notes from penetrating the ears of the two women crouched over their tubs. It only takes a few bars for them to succumb to sleep. Turning from the line, Desa glances at her slumbering accomplices, then focuses her gaze on Varello.

He calmly slings the instrument over his back and begins walking across the field toward her. She doesn't run. She stays rooted in place as he draws closer and closer.

Standing in front of her, his dagger drawn, she shows her first reaction to his presence: fear. Her eyelids quiver as she releases a few tears, waiting for the fatal thrust.

It doesn't come.

Varello, poised to strike, finds his left arm frozen in place. His eyes flash with anger.

"Fight back!"

Reading his lips, she shakes her head nervously.

"Why not?!" he demands through clenched teeth.

Carefully, she backs away from him toward one of the sleeping women. Watching her reach into a satchel on the ground next to the woman, Varello prepares to land the killing blow at the first glint of a weapon. She produces a trunkchar pencil and a scrap of paper, crouching down and using her thigh as a makeshift desk. Desa then hands the paper to Varello.

Why are you here? it says.

After riding hard for a few bellchimes, Novanostrum and Zanther slow down to a trot to allow themselves and their horses a rest.

"We can make it to Claustria in two days if we keep up this pace and don't sleep in too late when we stop to make camp."

"I don't like it," Novanostrum says, glancing upward.

"Well, then, you're in luck," Zanther says, "the great thing about the weather is that it's always changing."

"Yeah, well, this is just unnatural. It reeks of magick."

"I'm surprised you can smell it over your own thick stench."

"I was being figurative, Zanther."

"I was not. When was the last time you washed that robe?"

I'm happy you are not affected by my ugliness, she writes on the sheet of parchment and slides it over to Varello. Sitting across from each other at a small table in Desa's humble shack, she has a quill and a stack of blank pages.

"Your ugliness?" Varello asks in bewilderment.

She reads his lips and his expression and continues writing. Why else would people react to me the way they do? Ever since I was little, my mother kept me locked in my room. She was the only person I saw, until one day she let me outside to play while my father went to fix the mill. He came home early, saw me playing in front of the house, and then his eyes went dead. My mother told me it was because he was so disgusted by my appearance that he had a heart attack.

"She lied to you. It's actually the complete opposite. It's your overpowering beauty that renders the men insensate."

Her expression grows dark. The women, my captors, tell me the same thing. Really, though, what does it matter? The effect is the same. I will never have the love of a man or children of my own, and it's because of my appearance.

"Your captors? I thought they worshipped you."

They never let me out of their sight, and they wish to be with me every moment of every day. To you it may seem as if I command them, and though it's true they would do almost anything I ask, the one thing they refuse to do is simply leave me alone for a few bellchimes. This time I'm spending with you is the longest I've been without them since I can remember.

Varello sighs, and decides to change the subject. "The people of Claustria are terrified of you. The Queen herself sent me here to eliminate you because of the threat your beauty poses."

So what are you waiting for?

"I used to be a Professor at the Universitorium. I lectured on everything from biology to songspells. Men from all over Upper Kleighton respected my intellect, my capacity for rational thought. The more I get to know you, the more I feel that there must be a logically sound alternative to shedding your blood."

You could leave us here and have the Queen forbid anyone from entering the Willowood.

"That was my first idea, too. The problem is that the news has spread about you. After what happened with Marchand, that fellow who was with me the first time we met, just about everybody in Claustria knows about the girl in the woods whose beauty drains the life out of men. Curiosity will drive more people to come out here. I wouldn't be surprised if there were also those who would wish to capture you and use you as a--"

Before he can complete his thought, Varello hears the distinctive snap of a twig being stepped on. In a single fluid motion, he rises from the chair and spins toward the window, only to see perhaps three dozen women, all of them holding weapons and braced for a battle.

The sound of hammers rings throughout the port town of Arcania, the hub of authority in the lands of the wizards. Scaffolding clings to buildings damaged in the most recent horrific tragedy, the sacking of the city by many of its neighbors.

However, despite the explosions, fires, and flaming debris which rained upon the city when the Darrinian skyship fleet exploded overhead, the realization that most Arcanians have come to is that it could have been worse. The number of casualties from the attack ended up tallying in the low thousands, rather than the tens or hundreds of thousands.

Citizens walk between stalls, finally able to freely purchase goods again, and men with tall hats and long robes stroll from structure to structure, wizards overseeing the reconstruction effort.

A girl sits on a bench, screaming as her mother tries to console her.

"Calm down, honeypie."

"I'm scared! It's scary! Why is the sky so green, Momma?"

In the back of their minds, everyone within earshot silently echoes the exact same sentiment, but nobody says anything. The walkers continue walking, the shoppers continue shopping, the wizards continue wizarding, and the workers decide to break for second lunch.

Meanwhile, deep within the Knot, that monstrous half-castle, half-tower, half haphazard stone behemoth, the newly-installed Wizard's Council wastes no time calling its latest meeting to order. A clean-shaven young wizard, Rahvik, the commander of the bruised and battered Arcanian Defense Corps is the first to speak.

"I realize you are all busy with reconstruction efforts, but I summoned you here because the next great test of Arcanian courage has decided not to wait until we catch our collective breath. If you will turn your attention to the map on the wall behind me, you will see that I am pointing at a town which used to be called Krassen."

They watch him intently, but one older wizard decides to liven up the meeting a little. "Yeah? Well, what are they calling it now?"

The commander gives the older wizard a disappointed look. "Nothing. Nobody's calling it anything, it's been dodecimated."

He punctuates his comment by taking a piece of trunkchar and crossing out the name of the town on the map.

"Dodecimated by whom?" asks a grammatically-proper wizardess wearing a pink hat.

"Not by 'whom'--by 'what' is what you should be asking," the commander says, pausing a moment to consider how to word his explanation, "The town of Krassen, according to the reports I've received, was destroyed by mechanickal soldiers built in the shape of men."

One wizard at the far end of the table chooses this point to weigh in. "When I was a child, the Mortesians built intricate clocks, replete with tiny figures which would emerge from behind little doors and dance along these little tracks every bellchime--now these mechanists have turned their talents towards war machines," he pauses to sigh wistfully, "it's a shame we'll have to destroy them, but it seems it must be done."

Another wizard pounds his fist on the table. "Destroy them with what army? Our forces were halved in the Darrinian onslaught. We can't defend the city and send them out to battle at the same time. It's madness!"

A tall, striking wizard, unnoticed until now, clears his throat. The other wizards turn to him and he begins to speak. "So don't send the rank-and-file. Those Sixth and Seventh Circles can barely light their own campfires. Keep the soldiers here to defend the city and send the Black Robes into Mortesia to wipe out the ones pulling the strings. These murderous boxes of springs can't think for themselves, so the key will be to eliminate those who are doing the thinking for them, so to speak."

The commander smiles at the stealthy wizard. "I appreciate your faith in Arcania's ability to train mystickal wizard assassins, but the Black Robes are nothing but a fairy tale at best and a conspiracy theory propagated by our enemies at worst. I'd love nothing more than to ask those supercharged sorcerers of legend to zap on in here and save the day, but we can't waste our time on fantasy, we must deal in realities."

The tall wizard, still standing at the opposite end of the table from the commander, claps his hands together and the lights flicker for a moment. His hood flips over his face like a snake consuming his head and his gray robe turns black. Not the black of black fabric, but the black of a shadow in a dark room. He becomes a form devoid of light.

The shadow speaks to the wizards. "Of course we are a legend, but we're no fairy tale. We are a sect comprised of those who study the ancient magicks of the gods. Your system of circles and hats holds no interest for us; we draw our spells on a more primal level, a level of--"

"This is ridiculous!" interjects a wizard with a white mustache.

The shadow spreads his fingers, then tightens them sharply into a fist. The mustachioed wizard explodes into his component pieces, showering the Wizards' Council with blood and bone fragments. Aside from their initial gasps and stifled screams, nobody else feels the need to interject.

The shadow coughs. "Though I did not particularly wish to have to demonstrate the nature of our powers, I will not tolerate interruptions. Now, as I was saying, we wish to aid Arcania in its time of need. Commander, will you be so brave as to suffer our assistance?"

The commander swallows. "With powers such as you have demonstrated, it is obvious that you do not require mine or anyone else's consent to do as you wish. I surmise that you must require something that this Council has the power to grant you in exchange for your support, otherwise you would not be here."

A laugh comes from under the shadow's hood. "Commander, it is clear how you were able to attain your post. You've more sense than half the heads under these hats. We do, in fact, have a small request in exchange for our services. You see, there is an object once housed the basement of this twisted castle, a trinket--a bauble, really--in which we have developed an interest. It is a small idol which superstition holds was fashioned from the cape of Thanos himself, stuffed with the dust of his bones."

The commander nods. "So you wish to be given this doll? Clearly it is more than a bauble if one such as yourself has a desire for it. Still, I don't know that we are in a position to deny you. I would only ask that you swear it will not be used to harm any citizens of Arcania," he pauses a tick to turn his head and spit on the floor, "the rest of this cursed continent be damned."

"Commander, you continue to demonstrate that you are a man of reason. However, the idol is no longer here--the recent attack on Arcania was merely a diversion to keep you all busy while it was taken."

With their comrade's blood still dripping down their faces, they gasp for the second time in as many ticks.

"Yes, I realize that news must be surprising. With a structure as large as this, I don't suppose inventories are carried out very often. Nevertheless, here is what we, the Black Robes, are requesting from you, the Wizards' Council, in exchange for our services as 'mystickal wizard assassins,' as you so charmingly put it: we wish for any book in any of the libraries of this vast monolith which explains what exactly the aforementioned idol is, and how it works. If it contains even a fraction of the power we suspect it does, there may be far more to fear than mechanickal men and their puppetmasters."

A dowdy female wizard starts to blubber. "Th-there must be half a million books in the Knot! How will we ever find the one you're looking for?"

The shadow holds out his hand, preparing to deal with her protests, but the commander raises an arm in an attempt to calm him down.

"Please. Forgive her. As a woman, she is clearly not used to thinking about problems rationally," he pauses to glare at her, "there is, after all, a simple, if not exactly easy solution: we shall ask the Libros Majorum to find the book for us. After all, that's his specialty."

The wizards' mouths drop open. The shadow nods his approval. "That seems like a reasonably suicidal course of action. I approve. Regardless of how you accomplish it, you have twenty-four bellchimes to find me a book regarding that idol. If it takes much longer than that, the clockspring soldiers will overwhelm this city and you won't have our help defending it."

"You shall have your book," the commander says.

The shadow's head points at each of the wizards in turn, giving the impression that he is looking at everyone present. "Tomorrow shall be a day of destiny. Let us all try to fill our roles admirably."

With that, the shadow turns and takes a few steps towards the wall, passing through it.

A male wizard wearing a tall fez focuses his gaze upon the commander. "And how do you plan on speaking with the Libros Majorum?"

The commander nods gravely. "We have half a million books here. The Librarians are constantly borrowing and returning books to the libraries in this megastructure, and they maintain detailed records about our books. If this place gets leveled, the Librarians will lose access to an irreplaceably large chunk of the world's knowledge. From what I know of the Libros Majorum, nay, what I've heard of him, I'm sure he would not like to see these wonderful tomes disappear forever."

The fez-wearing wizard nods gravely. "From what I've heard of him, he doesn't seem to be a person to make demands of."

Chapter 5

Varello steps calmly onto the porch of Desa's hut with his palms out to the armed women. They keep their weapons trained on him, waiting for him to give them an excuse to reduce him to a bloody pile.

He tallies their number in his head, calculates his odds of success should he try any of the tactics flashing through his mind. Music could put them all to sleep, but I wouldn't have time to whistle more than two eyeblinks before they pounce. I could fight them, but there are too many. I have only one option, then, and I'm not sure it will work on those who have been bewitched. Well...might as well give it a shot.

"Ladies, I stand before you unarmed. I realize that those of you who have already met me feel that I am a threat because of my lullabies, but I did not harm you then, nor do I intend to do so now."

The women hold their ground, waiting for him to continue.

"Here is the situation: if you kill me or hinder my activities here in any way, soldiers will come. I don't mean a few men with spears, I mean a full-blown army of trained killers with no concept of remorse. You may think that Desa will be able to protect you simply by smiling at these men, and you would be wrong. When the soldiers come, they will not march in to attack, they will surround the Willowood and burn it from the outside in. You will all spend your final moments in horrible pain--including Desa."

Varello watches their expressions as they contemplate their beloved idoless bursting into flame. One of the women takes a step onto the porch.

"Leave here. Leave here now and do not come back. We wish only to be left alone."

He nods. "That is what I wish to do. However, I have one condition."

The woman on the porch taps her foot, waiting for him to speak. "Yes?"

"Desa leaves with me."

In an instant, the circle of women closes in around Varello.

The combination of green sky and chalky white trees and grass turns the mood of the Deathstretch from merely ominous to downright alien. Deep within the silent stillness of the dead forest, there is movement as a black figure flickers into existence a few man-lengths away from a cabin. He clutches something round and gold in one hand and something silver and slender in the other. He closes the door behind him as he enters the cabin.

Risma sits rocking a chair, barely looking up from her book to acknowledge him as he enters the room. "How'd it go?"

As soon as the man pulls his hood back, the material changes from pitch black to a normal gray. "I told them I was a Black Robe and if they didn't find me the book within one day, the other Black Robes and I would leave them to their fate when the clockspring soldiers swarm the city."

Risma tries to hold back a laugh. "A Black Robe? And they believed you?"

The man clears his throat. "I mean, it took a little convincing in the form of a demonstration, but in the end they had no choice but to believe me."

Risma closes the book she is reading and holds out the little black doll, turning it over in her hand. "Oh, Thanos, why must you make everything so bonking complicated?"

The man laughs. "Don't blame Thanos. Life is a series of inconveniences. The point of life is to endure them."

She focuses her divine eyes on him. "Any idea how they're going to find this needle-in-a-haystack in less than a day?"

He laughs again. "The commander of their forces intimated that he was going to ask the Libros Majorum for help."

Risma holds up her book, an edition bound in an odd kind of leather, titled The Lastt Darrinian King: The Compleat Monolog. "That's funny, I was just reading one of his books when you walked in."

The man nods. "Oh? How is it?"

She shrugs. "Mostly it's rubbish, but I like the ending."

Rahvik, the commander of the Arcanian Defense Corps, walks purposefully down the hallway, his purple cape billowing behind him and kicking up swirls of dust. He doesn't get ten man-lengths from the Council's meeting room before another soldier-wizard, his second-in-command, appears from the shadow of a doorway and matches his pace. Rahvik addresses him without looking at him, choosing instead to keep his gaze focused straight ahead.

"How close are the clockspring soldiers?"

"About a day at the most, assuming they don't need to stop for rest, or to be wound up or something."

The commander does not slow his stride. "I doubt the Mortesians would build a hundred thousand of those things and send them here if they needed to be wound up. They'd need almost as many human soldiers as mechanickal ones just to maintain a force that size. No, we must assume those things will head straight here from the ruins of Krassen. Were any of the scout units able to capture one and bring it back?"

The second-in-commander frowns. "All the circles on that particular mission were lost."

Rahvik gives a somber nod as the second-in-commander darts a few steps in front of him to open the door, a small service entrance leading to an alley.

Rahvik takes a look around, then starts walking leftward, directly away from the barracks. The second-in-commander gives him an odd look. "Sir, permission to ask where you're going?"

"Why ask permission if you're going to ask me anyway?"

The second-in-commander pauses, scratching his head, then rushes to keep up with Rahvik, who finally turns to him. "There's a book I'm interested in. Anybody see any Librarians running around today?"

"A book, sir? You mean like a book of strategy?"

"Kneebahn, I'm pretty sure it's a book of tragedy."

Varello flinches as the women surround him, waiting for the fatal blows to rain down upon him. He opens his eyes after a moment to find himself still in one piece, with Desa using her naked body as a shield to protect him. The women back off for a moment, confused at the actions of their idoless.

"He must die. It's the only way," one of the women says.

Desa unclenches her fist to reveal a note, which she hands to the closest woman.

I'm going with him. It's the only way for the rest of you to be able to remain here and remain safe.

The woman shakes her head, raising her knife once again to swing it at Varello. Desa swiftly plucks it from her hand and holds it steady over her own wrist, throwing a violent glare toward each of the women in turn. They drop their weapons and slowly back away.

"You want to do what?" the somber Librarian asks.

Rahvik scowls. "I want to meet with the Libros Majorum. Unless you can tell me where within the Knot there is a book describing how to activate the Idol of Thanos?"

"Well, with enough time, I'm sure we could find--"

The Librarian is cut short when he finds the tip of a longknife touching his windpipe.

"There is no time," Rahvik explains.

The Librarian sighs and brushes the blade away from his neck, meeting Rahvik's gaze with his own maniacal stare. "You are certain?"

Rahvik shrugs. "What must be done must be done."

"The thing is," the Librarian says as he turns away from Rahvik and Kneebahn, "is that you can't unmeet the Libros Majorum."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Kneebahn asks.

"Oh, you'll see," the Librarian says with a savage laugh.

Zanther and Novanostrum make camp beneath a small stone bridge. The dry, brittle ground beneath their feet suggests that the bridge was constructed to allow horses to pass over a narrow creek which has long since dried up.

"I just don't see how the sky can keep that green tint even after nightfall," Novanostrum says.

"Me, I just don't see why you care so much about it."

"It's an ill omen."

Zanther, stretched out on his sleeping roll with his hands beside his head, looks over across the dried-out riverbed to Novanostrum. "Every omen is an ill omen. You wouldn't need a warning if something good were about to occur."

"That's downright philosophical. You really missed your true calling."

"You've faced off against the most powerful wizard in Arcania, slayed a daemon lord, and romanced a goddess, and now you're telling me that a peapod sky is making you loose your bowels? It's just weather. If it upsets you that much, do some magick and fix it."

"I never said anything about my bowels."

The staircase descends in a spiral, deep under the heart of Arcania. In one hand, the Librarian holds a wrapped bundle, in the other hand he holds a torch. Cautiously, Rahvik follows behind, trying to see in front of his feet in the flickering, fickle light provided by the torch.

"The Libros Majorum lives underneath Arcania?" Rahvik asks.

"The Libros Majorum lives underneath every major city in Upper Kleighton," the Librarian answers.

"You mean he has hidden places like this all across the continent and travels between them?"

"I said what I meant to say in order to communicate the truth. If I would have meant that he 'lives in hidden places like this all across the continent,' then those are the words I would have chosen to form my sentence."

"Are all Librarians as irritable and crazy as you, or are you an exception?"

"Librarians tend to be an irritable and crazy bunch. You ever want to find out just how irritable and crazy we really are, just make a lot of noise in a library sometime."

After what seems like a few bellchimes, the spiral staircase culminates in a thick, red door. The Librarian digs around in his bundle and produces a key, which he uses to unlock the aforementioned door. It swings open with an agitated groan and the two of them walk into a large, round chamber containing dozens of similar red doors.

"Is this underneath the Knot?" Rahvik asks.

"This room is, in itself, a kind of knot. To be honest, I don't know exactly where we are, but I'm pretty sure we're not underneath Arcania anymore."

"How...how can that be?"

"There are many things in this world that exist without our knowing the 'how' or the 'why' behind their existence," the Librarian says, "for instance, one might question how or why you have the audacity to demand a personal audience with the Libros Majorum."

"I already explained why, earlier."

"Which is why I brought you here. However, I am but a servant, and it is not for me to determine the ultimate whims of our master. Should the Libros Majorum choose not to reveal wisdom to you, I would advise you not to press the issue."

Rahvik looks around the circular chamber, seeing nothing but red doors and stone walls in the dancing, precarious torchlight.

"Well?" he asks.

"Wait a moment while I summon our master."

Ringed around the center of the room are twelve stone pedestals, each with a round indentation in their center. The Librarian steps to each of these in turn, pulling out a lead ball of a slightly different weight and setting it on the appropriate pedestal.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Gradually, a clamor begins to arise beneath the chamber. The clanking and whirring of the metal-on-metal grinding of gear teeth on gear teeth gets louder and more boisterous as the round section of stone floor in the center of the room, maybe three man-lengths in diameter, starts to rise. After grinding to a stop just half an arm length from the rest of the floor, a gap the size of a well forms in the center of the platform. After a few moments, a wooden podium rises from this gap. Sitting atop the wooden podium is a book.

"I guess he's not here," Rahvik says.

The Librarian smiles as he points to the book. "He? I guess a book could have a gender. In that case, 'he' is right there."

Rahvik smiles back. "This is the book containing information about the Idol of Thanos?"

The Librarian shakes his head. "No. This book IS the Libros Majorum."

Rahvik's smile turns to a frown. "I don't get it."

The Librarian nods. "Walk over and open the book to a random page."

Rahvik steps onto the platform and approaches the book, stealing a glance over his shoulder at the Librarian just before flipping it open to a page somewhere near what he guesses is the middle of the book. Though the text is handwritten and highly stylized, Rahvik is able to discern the words on the page.

Rahvik Manislov. You braved a trip all the way down here with the best of intentions. You came down here despite this book's reputation in order to save your pregnant girlfriend from dying when the clockspring soldiers invade Arcania. And yet, you cloak this desire by presenting it in terms of wanting to save the city itself and everyone in it.

But let's be honest, you'd trade all of their--

Shocked at seeing his inner thoughts revealed in print, he slams the leather-bound volume shut.

The Librarian sighs at the rough treatment of his master. "Open it again, and try to be more gentle this time, lest you end up leaving this room through a different door."

So as to not end up on the same page, he opens the book to a random page near the front, only to find the same text as before. Frustrated, he picks up where he left off.

But let's be honest, you'd trade all of their lives for hers. And this plan of yours, to come down here and force me to help you, hinges on your assumption that I would not tolerate the destruction of the books in the Knot.

However, you are also forgetting that Librarians are allowed safe travel throughout Upper Kleighton precisely because they do not get involved in these types of matters. For me to help you would be to choose a side against Mortesia, to lose access to their hundreds of thousands of books, and to potentially forfeit the lives of half a dozen Librarians currently within the borders of Mortesia, not to mention putting the diplomatic status of all Librarians across the whole of Upper Kleighton in danger.

All of that being said, I'm going to help you anyway.

On the third floor of the Magickal Antiquity Building in the northwest quadrant of the Knot, there is a small study with a moldy green chair and a yafbeest head mounted on the wall. This room is full of bookcases--the book you're looking for will be neither in this room nor outside of it, but you'll never find it if the door is closed.

Rahvik rereads the final paragraph, picturing the room in his mind and trying to make sense of the Libros Majorum's meaning. With a sigh, he closes the book.

He turns to the Librarian, standing six or seven man-lengths away with his arms crossed.

"I hope you memorized what was written."

"I suppose another glance wouldn't hurt," Rahvik says, opening the book again. This time, the pages he opens the book to are both blank. He starts turning the pages, trying to find the one containing his message.

The pages are all blank.

Flipping frantically from page to page, Rahvik feels a hand on his shoulder.

"It's time to leave this place."

Varello walks with Desa side-by-side through the edge of the Willowood, the melancholy trees thinning out at the base of the granite slabs forming the foundation of the mountains. She dances as she walks, pausing to scrutinize every new pebble she spots on the road. Varello, wearing a heavy backsack full of supplies, carries his lute in hand. Desa wears nothing and carries nothing.

"Aren't you cold?" Varello asks, staring at her exposed skin.

She shakes her head.

They continue for awhile in silence, the half-full moons above turning the night sky above a hazy green. They walk through the shadows of trees until there are no more trees. Maybe thirty man-lengths in front of them, Varello spots a gap in the stone, a cave. He approaches it cautiously, with Desa following behind at a safe distance.

He peeks his head inside, the moonlight reflecting dimly off crystalline walls to reveal a huge slumbering a form; a dragon.

After spending a long ten eyeblinks staring at the beast, a flicker of recognition ignites in Varello's head.

"Kragnar?"

The creature's eyes flutter, and his forked tongue tastes the air before he fully awakens. He sizes up the human in front of him, and his dragon sense picks up on something even more interesting.

"Varello! You brought me a present!"

Confused for a moment, Varello realizes what Kragnar is referring to.

"She's not for eating. She's a friend of mine."

"That's a shame; I haven't had anything spicy in a while," Kragnar says, noting her red hair.

Desa stands almost completely behind Varello, her arm wrapped around his waist. Between the dim, reflected light and the dragon's lack of proper lips, she squints, trying to understand the exchange between the two of them.

"What are you doing out here in the mountains?" Varello asks.

"I'm hiding. The Darrinians have been hunting my kind recently. I guess they lost most of their skyships, and now they are trying to rebuild their fleet, which, as you may or not know, involves capturing dragons and feeding them retired prostitutes. This upsets our dragon stomachs and leads to a lot of flatulence, which they collect and use to fill the air bladders of their skyships."

Varello nods. "We are also hiding. This young woman can enrapture a man to death just by batting her eyelashes."

The dragon snorts. "You wish you could be so lucky, don't you?"

"Your dragon eyes don't miss much. But, er, yes, so I am wondering if we might stay here tonight in your cave."

"Of course."

"You realize," Varello says, "that it's implied that you won't eat the girl while I'm sleeping."

"Oh, well, right. Anyway, if she's as deadly as you say, it would be nice to have her around as protection."

Varello smiles as he unrolls a pair of sleeping bags. "Fancy that, a young beauty protecting a dragon."

Desa shrugs in confusion before giving up and lying down on her makeshift bed. Before long, she is fast asleep, her bone-crunching snores echoing through the crystal chamber.

The bard and the dragon toss and turn for awhile on their respective sides of the cave, trying not to focus on the skin-peeling noise.

Varello rolls onto his side, facing Kragnar. "I've changed my mind. You can eat her if you want--it might be the only way either of us will get any sleep."

"I can't eat her," Kragnar says, "her snoring reminds me too much of a lady dragon I used to know."

Chapter 6

The overcast haze of the morning paints the horizon with what looks like jade dust. Riding furiously along the path through the Willowood, Zanther and Novanostrum find their way blocked by a crowd of frumpy women.

"Everywhere I go, it's always the same," Zanther shouts.

"We should stop and see what they want," Novanostrum shouts back.

"We should--but we won't," Zanther says.

With his horse drawing near, and the women showing no sign of parting, Novanostrum swings his staff, sending a sharp gale of concentrated air in the direction of the women. The blast scatters them, blowing them off the path. Before they have a chance to react, the two horses charge by.

"Sorry ladies, no time for love!" Zanther shouts as they pass.

On the third floor of the Magickal Antiquities Building in the Knot, Rahvik and his men are tearing apart a small room. In the hallway, scholast wizards scan the pages of the books which are arranged in stacks. The eyes of the yafbeest head mounted on the wall of the small library watch as the soldier-slash-wizards topple bookcases and slash open the pillows on the chairs.

Rahvik stares back at the dead eyes of the dead animal's dead head, thinking.

"I wonder.." he says absent-mindedly as he grasps one of the yafbeest's horns, expecting a secret door to open. Much to his surprise, the horn doesn't budge, and no secret doors appear.

"Neither in this room, nor outside of it," he says to himself, looking around.

"Commander," one of the scholast wizards says, breaking Rahvik's reverie, "there is nothing in any of these books pertaining to Thanos or the idol."

Rahvik nods, realizing that the riddled assistance of the Libros Majorum won't benefit him without a little mental effort on his part.

"You did what?" Madra asks Varello.

"I left the girl with a dragon in a cave on the far edge of the Willowood."

"Yes, I heard you the first time you said it. Rather than having you repeat what you already said, my reaction was meant to elicit some kind of an explanation from you."

"An explanation? Well," Varello says, "the girl, Desa, will keep the dragon safe from soldiers, and the dragon will keep the girl safe from everything else. At the time, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable plan."

"And if she uses this dragon to hitch a ride to someplace populated, like, say, I don't know, Claustria, what then?"

"Relax," Varello says, "Kragnar is not going to bring her here."

"Kragnar? You do know he tried to eat me, right?"

"Did he? Well, that just proves how refined his tastes really are."

"Be that as it may, we need to find a more permanent solution to the problem of Desa Mu," Madra says.

"What do you mean by 'permanent,' Your Majesty? I thought you were against a 'permanent' solution to the Desa situation." Varello asks.

"Marchand passed this morning. She is responsible for the deaths of dozens of my people." Madra says, starting to get annoyed.

"So are you," Varello retorts, "but I don't see anyone trying to solve you for X because of it."

"Are you kidding? People try to kill me all the time. For example," she points at a guard standing at attention a few man lengths away, "Leo here was part of a plot to kill me just last week, weren't you?"

"It's true," he says with a somber face.

Madra clears her throat. "Varello, are you saying I can't count on you to do this?"

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I am not one of your subjects. I am your friend. Because of that, I will help you when you ask me to, and I would defend you with my life, but I will not take orders from you--especially ones I do not agree with."

She sighs. "I see. Well, as a friend, I'm giving you a friendly notice that I'm sending a squad of long-range crossbolters to protect my subjects from being killed en masse at the whim of a nubile nudist. I'd advise you to give their bolts a wide berth."

"Noted," Varello says, the stomps of his angry footfalls echoing down the stone corridor.

The Quester of Righteousness holds the torch steady as he makes footprints in dust which looks as if it hasn't been disturbed in over a thousand sunspins. The walls of the ancient crypt are damp and reek of mildew and ghosts, but the Quester of Righteousness continues forward, undaunted.

He steps on a loose stone and hears a click. Noticing something shiny next to his foot, he bends down to pick it up, inadvertently avoiding the arrows which suddenly fly out from tiny holes in the walls.

"A dodecka? These weren't around when they built this place," he says to himself, turning the coin over in his hand a few times before shoving it into his pocket and continuing onward.

As he passes through a stone doorway, a heavy stone door falls in place immediately behind him. An eyeblink later, another stone door falls into place at the other end of the hallway. There is a rumbling, grating sound as the stone walls begin to contract, and the corridor, which was only a few man-lengths wide to begin with, starts to become narrower and narrower.

The Quester of Righteousness advances to the middle of the corridor and draws the Longknife of Iniquity. He taps it on the ground a few times, listening to the metallic clang of the vibrating metal. After hearing a note of an agreeable pitch, he plunges the longknife into the ground with all his strength, managing to punch into the level below. The opening is only a hand-width wide, and the walls of the corridor continue to contract to the point they are almost touching his shoulder blades.

He turns himself sideways in order to gain some precious space to maneuver and raises his leg, stomping his iron boot down as hard as he can, knocking loose the floor beneath him and falling through the hole just as the walls smash together above his head.

The Quester of Righteousness lands on something squishy and slick, like a giant leather pillow. He reaches around for his torch, which was extinguished in the fall. He uses his flintrock to re-light it and finds himself straddling the head of a tremendous snake. He waves his hand in front of its eyes and determines that it is unconscious.

"Must have knocked it out when I landed on it," he says to himself.

Without hesitation, he raises the Longknife of Iniquity and plunges it into the base of the snake's skull. The beast's eyes wrench open in terror and pain, and it flicks its forked tongue out, in vain.

The Quester of Righteousness examines the rest of the room with the light from his torch, but finds nothing save for a doorway leading to a set of stairs. He descends these, finding a chamber lit by a small river of lava passing under a stone bridge leading to a giant pedestal shaped like a sundial set about half a man-length above the ground.

Sitting in the middle of the sundial is a small sack with a note pinned to it. The Quester of righteousness removes the note, which reads as follows:

This bag of sand weighs exactly as much as the object you came here to retrieve. If you remove it from this spot, it triggers a flood of water from above which will turn this room into a deadly skin-melting sauna once it touches the lava below.

Whomever you are, I applaud you for making it this far, though it pains me to be the one to inform you that you arrived too late. However, the fact that you're down here exploring these forgotten places leads me to think that we are like-minded individuals, and if you ever cross my path in some tavern in some remote corner of the world, I'd be happy to buy you a drink.

Cheers,

Aristhmus Maus

The Quester of Righteousness sighs, carefully reattaching the note to the bag before making his way back across the bridge.

Rahvik stands in the center of the room, contemplating the yafbeest head. He is momentarily startled when the door is blown off its hinges and slides across the stone floor. Standing in the doorway, framed by surrounded by shaken scholast wizards and soldiers, is the shadowed man from the day before.

"Time's up," the figure says.

"Unfortunately, I--" Rahvik says, pausing as he notices something odd about the top edge of the toppled door. He walks to the door and kneels down to get a closer look. A small recess is carved into the top edge of the door, and a book is wedged inside. He pulls it free and blows the dust off the cover, revealing the title, Divine Relicks: A How-to.

The hooded shadow plucks the book from Rahvik's hands, flipping through the pages. After a moment, he places his finger on a particular passage, scanning it for a moment before snapping the book shut and sliding it into his right sleeve.

"You do good work."

"So you'll help us, then," Rahvik says.

"There's no need. While you've been in here catching up on your reading, the mechanickal soldiers have vanished. Your scouts will return in a short while to inform you that there is no trace of them, anywhere. With no direct attack on Arcania, battered as it is, now may not be a good time to pick a fight with Mortesia."

Rahvik scratches his chin. "Where do you suppose they went?"

The hooded shadow shrugs. "It's unclear to me. However, there are more important matters that must be attended to, presently," he says, tapping the book with his finger before turning and walking out of the room, passing an out-of-breath Kneebahn.

Kneebahn rushes to Rahvik. "Commander, the metal soldiers, they--"

Rahvik nods and waves his hand. "I know. Put together a small expeditionary force. We have to find out where they went and what they're doing. I don't like hostile surprises."

Guards part their polearms to allow Zanther and Novanostrum entry into Claustria Castle. The light pouring into the stone halls from the high windows casts everything in a greenish tint as they pass by another pair of guards upon entering the throne room.

Madra hovers over a large table in an alcove, poring over maps. Three brutal-looking generals stand a few paces away, discussing strategy. Upon noticing her visitors, Madra rushes over to greet them.

"Took you guys long enough to get back here," she says.

"We ran into a little trouble," Novanostrum says.

"Madra," Zanther starts, "there are these mechanickal soldiers called 'automates' preparing to lay waste to the whole of Upper Kleighton, I ran across Hernaldo and he asked me to deliver this message to you."

"Hernaldo? Did he return with you to Claustria?"

Zanther lowers his eyes, staring at the polished marble tile. Madra sighs.

She takes the sealed envelope. "I know about the automates. There was a long article in the Gadabout describing how Krassen was destroyed. The smart money says Arcania's next. Still, it will take them time to make it all the way here, which is why we are planning our strategy," she says, motioning toward the generals.

Novanostrum shakes his head. "Hernaldo said something about a 'secret plan'. You might want to read his letter before finalizing any strategies."

Madra nods as she tears open the envelope. She spends a full tick reading it, blinking in disbelief.

"We...may not have as much time as I thought."

Chapter 7

Rahvik, Kneebahn, and two other soldiers from the Arcanian Defense Corps stalk down an overgrown path in the Mucklands. Rahvik, leading the pack, motions for the men behind him to stop walking and conceal themselves in the bushes.

Peeking between branches into a small clearing, Rahvik watches the lone automate clanking and whirring through the grass, occasionally spinning its head around to make sure the path is clear. As the automate leaves the men's sight, they creep ahead, following.

After a few moments, they once again catch up to the automate, keeping distance between themselves and the mechanickal menace. The automate approaches a stone structure covered with vines and walks through a doorway.

Rahvik places a hand on Kneebahn's shoulder. "Stay here," he tells his men.

Rahvik approaches the door from the side, taking a deep breath before popping his head into the doorway. He sees a stone stairway leading into darkness. Making sure the immediate area is clear, he enters the structure and begins descending the stairs.

Torches are set into the wall after every few dozen steps. In the dim light, Rahvik makes his way deeper and deeper underground. Ahead of him, he can hear the echoes of metallic feet on stone.

Eventually, the stairs give way to a hallway, culminating in an arched portal. Silently, Rahvik approaches the portal, flattening himself against the wall to be less conspicuous. The portal connects the hallway to a large, half-cylindrical tunnel stretching as far as he can see in either direction. Spotting a few crates stacked off to one side, Rahvik dives behind these, taking in the scene through the crack between the wooden boxes.

Hundreds of automates are stacking large, oddly-shaped metal bundles onto giant wheeled palettes. With a shudder, Rahvik realizes that the metal bundles are actually other automates which have enfolded themselves into cargo. Under the wheeled palettes, Rahvik sees metal tracks. At one end of the connected palettes, Rahvik sees what he assumes must be a steampuller, something he only remembers from books he'd read as a young scholast. With a cold efficiency, the automates fill the final bundles onto the tenth or eleventh palette. Counting the bundles and the stacks, Rahvik estimates that there must be six or seven thousand automates in just this single chamber.

The last automates climb onto the palettes and pull their limbs inward, rearranging their bodies in the same manner as their comrades.

With a whistle, the steampuller releases a cloud of steam and the wheels begin moving. After a few ticks, the last palette rolls out of sight. Kneebahn and the other soldiers burst through the portal, looking around. Rahvik rises and approaches them.

"We heard a loud whistle, and thought you might be in trouble," Kneebahn asks.

"I have a feeling we're all in trouble," Rahvik says, "the size of the clockspring army is unimaginable. I believe they passed over Arcania because they don't even view us as enough of a threat to bother with."

"Then why lay waste to Krassen?" Kneebahn asks.

"It just happened to be in their way," Rahvik says with a sigh.

Kneebahn tilts his head. "So...with this threat gone, do you think Arcania will be safe?"

Rahvik shakes his head. "I think the Mortesians will start with the larger kingdoms, like Claustria and Darrinia, and once they've been crushed, they will turn their focus here."

Risma sits cross-legged on a stump behind the small house in the Deathstretch. A few man-lengths in front of her, an automate is suspended in mid-air. She turns her wrist, and the arms and legs and head separate from the torso. She spreads her fingers, and the chestplate separates from the backplate, revealing springs and gears and bolts and rods.

A black shadow emerges from the back door, pausing to watch as Risma carries out her automatopsy.

"It's really quite clever," she says, "I haven't seen technology this advanced since the Atalanteans--and that was three hundred sunspins ago."

He nods. "And what became of them?"

"They left Upper Kleighton, migrating to a domed city they built at the bottom of the Leftern Sea. Nobody's heard from them since."

He tosses her the book, and she catches it. The pile of metal components falls to the chalky grass.

It only takes her a moment to find the passage concerning the doll. She grimaces as she reads. "It says I need to pierce the idol with a fragment of bone--from my own body?"

He smiles. "It's not like you can't heal yourself before you stab the doll. It specifically mentions that you're expected to do so. Can a goddess even feel pain?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "Of course we can feel pain. Our senses are not limited in any way. The problem is that, being immortal, it's really easy to get jaded to sensations like hunger and pain and hot and cold. From an emotional standpoint, it's the same thing. As we go through our long lives, we find that we have to keep doing more and more drastic things to up the ante just to feel something, anything at all."

"Like tearing out one of your bones so that you can render yourself mortal for nine moonths?"

"Exactly."

"So I'm wondering, why go through all this trouble just to have a half-breed child? Why not just mate with another of your kind?"

"My sister and I are the only ones left."

"What happened to the others?"

"They got--how can I put this--bored? No, that's not quite it. For us, there comes a point when we experience everything we think there is to experience, and then we find a secluded place to waste away. We may not age, but we can deteriorate if we don't take care of ourselves. It still takes conscious effort for us to heal ourselves, it's not automatic."

"So, Risma, with the looming threat of these automates clearing the way for the Mortesians to rule over the Continent, don't you feel any desire to stop them? Do you think your child will grow up living in fear?"

"Fear? I doubt your grandchild will ever 'fear' anything. As for a desire to help, you must understand that I've seen countless wars. I've seen kingdoms rise and fall. There's always a revolution, a civil war, an invading force. I really don't care much who rules what or how they do it. At best, it's entertainment for me, at worst it's a minor annoyance."

"While I understand that, you do realize that you'll have to spend the duration of your pregnancy as a mortal, vulnerable to every threat. For example, this place where we're living has a tendency to turn into a murder festival every night. That doesn't worry you even a little?"

Risma stands and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Well, Stronom, that's what you're here for, to keep us safe."

He glances at the pieces of the clockspring soldier on the ground in front of them. "Where'd you get that toy, anyway?"

With a wave of her hand, the pieces rise from the ground and reassemble themselves. The automate quickly surveys its surroundings and raises its gatling arm. Risma spreads her fingers again, and the pieces once again separate.

"This little toy?" she says, "I believe it's a scout. It wandered here all by itself. I've been probing it for weaknesses."

"Oh?" Stronom asks, "did you find any?"

Risma grins. "Not yet, but I will."

The Claustrian soldiers, a special unit of crossbolt snipers, go from tree to tree in running crouches. It takes them some time, but they finally spot the cave they believe to hold their target. The five soldiers, each crouched behind a tree, fix their aim upon the mouth of the cave.

Ticks pass with no sign of movement. Those ticks turn into a bellchime, still the professionally-trained soldiers maintain their posture and position, waiting for someone or something to emerge.

"Hey," Varello says as he taps the middle one on the shoulder.

The other four, startled, loose their bolts at the source of the noise, with three of those crossbolts ending up lodged in the body of their comrade. They look around for a moment, startled, unable to spot the interloper.

He appears from behind another tree, jamming the fourth bolt into the neck of another member of their rank. The three remaining soldiers try again to hit him, but only end up shooting three bolts into the chest of their fellow sniper. Varello pulls the first bolt out of his human shield's neck and throws it at the soldier farthest from him. With a crossbolt right between his eyes, the third soldier falls dead immediately. The two snipers left standing spin about wildly, trying to get a bead on Varello, and they finally spot him as he emerges from behind the tree closest to them. He runs right between them as they each fire a bolt, managing to miss him but hit each other. One of them takes a bolt in his ribs, and the other has one in his shoulder.

Varello stands among the fallen soldiers, two of them already dead, two in the process of dying, and one moderately injured. He claps twice, and though Desa can't hear the sound, she can feel the vibration and recognize the signal. She steps out from between the lush curtains of a nearby willow and into the men's field of vision.

Entranced, they stop struggling.

Zanther awakes from his late afternoon nap, his mouth filled with the taste of midday sleep and his eyes dry from sleeping in the sun. Through the window of his guest room, he sees the peapod green sky and a sight that disturbs him: a skyship he recognizes all-too-well anchored to a castle turret.

He rushes from his room, longknife-in-hand, darting down spiral staircases and through long hallways until he gets to Madra's private dining room. Before stepping through the doorway, he flattens himself to one side of the door, peeking through. The guards stationed outside the dining room give him questioning looks, but do not hinder him. Sitting across from Novanostrum and Madra, a man talks boisterously between sips of purpleberry wine and bites of boar leg.

"So here I am in these ancient Trinese ruins searching for the legendary Jade Tigon, when I find myself surrounded by over a hundred soldiers of the Emperor's personal guard. They bind my wrists and march me maybe five thousand man-lengths back to the Emperor's palace, and they toss me in the dungeon, telling me my execution is scheduled for the next day.

"Up on the dais, the executioner tells me to state my name and my crime so that all of those watching may know who I am and why I'm being executed. I tell them, and they force my head down on the chopping block. I look up at the scimitar, and as the man swings, there's a shout from the gallery, the Emperor himself screaming for the executioner to stop. So I glance up at the blade a few fingerwidths above my neck, and the Emperor, leaning over his balcony, asks me, 'Are you related to Zanther Maus?' and I tell him yes, he's my son.

"Knowing Zanther's reputation, I was waiting for them to take me somewhere for long-term torture, but instead I was taken to see the Emperor in his tea house. Sitting across from him, he looks me in the eye and says he thinks he can see the resemblance, but do I have any proof I am who I claim to be? Luckily, I always carry around a page from the issue of the Gadabout where they ran the article about Zanther winning the Leftlands Longknife Tournament when he was just nine sunspins old. I was so proud of him.

"So, anyway, I unfold this old article and show it to the Emperor. He nods at one of his guards, and after a few moments the guard hands me none other than the Jade Tigon. The Emperor looks at me and says, 'This is just a trinket, it has no practical value. However, the debt I owe your son is beyond payment. He will always be welcome here. As a favor to him, I will give you this trinket and allow you to leave, but should you ever return here...well, I would strongly advise against you returning here,' and then they let me go.

"I mean, I never thought I'd be the one trading on Zanther's reputation, especially somewhere halfway 'round the sphere!"

Madra and Novanostrum laugh as he continues.

"You know, he spent a lot of time drinking and gambling his way across the continent, making lots of enemies. I heard one time he even--"

Zanther coughs conspicuously as he stands in the doorway.

"Zanther! You look...well, you look more like me than you did the last time I saw you. I wish I could say that as a compliment."

Zanther chooses to remain standing in the doorway. "Aristhmus Maus. The famed explorer, the ravisher of aboriginal women, the scourge of the skies. And what sort of fancy brings you into our lives all of a sudden?" he turns to Madra, "Let me guess, has he offered to allow you to finance his next expedition into the Sumadran jungle to mine for gold?"

"Now, son, wait just a tick--"

"Son?! You have the audacity to fly your little skyship into Queen Madra's castle and demand an audience with her and drink her wine and eat her food and you're going to bring me into whatever you're scheming? To use me to get your foot in the door? Absolutely not."

He turns his gaze to Madra, her cheeks turning bright red as she focuses intently on the purple liquid in her wine glass.

"Queen Madra," Zanther says, "I just want to go on the record as saying I do NOT vouch for this man. Your business with him is your own, but be aware that while he is extremely proficient when it comes to making promises--especially those promises that he makes in exchange for his own financial benefit--his ability to actually fulfill those promises often falls short of the expectations of those to whom he has made those promises."

He turns to Novanostrum. "I expect he'll attempt to flatter you into going on an expedition with him. I would advise you to inquire how many members of his past expeditions have lived to spend their fabulous riches."

Zanther once again focuses his angry glare upon his father, opening his mouth to say something, but finally decides against it, turning on his heel and storming out of the room.

Aristhmus swallows a bite of boar and washes it down with a large gulp of wine before meeting the stunned looks of Madra and Novanostrum.

"All in all, that actually went better than I thought it would."

The Quester of Righteousness walks down the main thoroughfare, gazing at the giant metal monolith which symbolizes Mortesia's mechanickal might. While there are many impressive buildings, the most obvious structure by far is Macchen's Gear. To an uneducated visitor, it might appear similar in shape to the water wheel attached to a flour mill, but there is no river turning the gear; its movement is powered by a set of smaller gears at its base connected to engines.

The Quester of Righteousness checks to make sure the Longknife of Iniquity is clear in its scabbard before entering the screw-shaped tower which houses the leader of Mortesia--the infamous Threaded Spire. A guard stops him as he enters the main door.

"Only those with official business may enter here," he says.

"I'm here to see the Vinch," the Quester of Righteousness removes his longknife, showing the guard its broad, blood-red blade carved with runes and emblems. The guard immediately recognizes the legendary weapon and steps to the side to allow the Quester entry into the main circular chamber.

The Quester of Righteousness heads for the spiral staircase in the middle of the round room, only to find it retracting into the ceiling before he can reach it. He hears a series of loud thuds as all the doors to the room slam shut, save for one.

Six automates clank and whir their way toward him, forming a line just a few man-lengths away from him. They raise their gatling arms and train their barrels on him, and the Quester of Righteousness pulls a small orb from his sleeve and lobs it toward them as he dives clear of their first volley of shots.

The explosion tears through the line of automates, reducing all but one of them to piles of smoldering metal. The remaining automate is missing its gatling arm, but demonstrates the functionality of its longknife arm by charging towards the Quester of Righteousness and taking a swing.

The Quester dodges to his left, using his own blade to take the head off the clockspring soldier in one fell swipe. He flicks his blade, loosing a spatter of oil across the floor.

Above, the spiral stairs lower once more. A man wearing white trousers and a red vest descends the stairs. He wears goggles with dark red lenses, and while his right arm is muscled, his left arm is artificial, a clockspring marvel of mechanickal skill.

"And what brings the Quester of Righteousness all the way to the heart of the Rightlands?"

"The Longknife of Iniquity hungers for the blood of the one trying to subjugate Upper Kleighton. I am but a tool of its will."

"Ah, Quester," the Vinch says, "but you've got it all wrong. I'm not trying to subjugate Upper Kleighton, I'm trying to open its eyes. This continent is full of goat herders and magicians, simple oafs trying to preserve their outdated way of life, if you can even call it that, in the face of a new era, an era of steam and steel. You must realize, neither you nor the armies of Upper Kleighton can stand in the way of this progress. Attempting to resist is like bringing a longknife to a powderblast fight."

The Quester of Righteousness coughs as he casts a glance at the pile of smashed automates and waves his own weapon at the Vinch.

The Vinch waves his hand dismissively. "Yes, I recognize the irony of that comment in light of your little skirmish here. Still, you came here for a reason, right? Let's see how well the mythical hero can do against an ordinary man of science."

Taking his cue, the Quester of Righteousness charges toward the Vinch, raising his blade to deal the killing blow. The Vinch doesn't move; he stands statuesque as the blade bears down on him. At the last instant, he blocks the blow, grasping the blade with his metal hand.

In the moment it takes for the Quester of Righteousness to understand what is happening, the Vinch wrests his longknife away and tosses it aside. He tries to dive for it, but instead is sent reeling by a powerful punch to his back. The Quester scrambles along, trying to crawl to his longknife, but a kick from the Vinch rolls him onto his back. He is immobilized by a boot on his neck.

"People who can't see reason," the Vinch says, "don't need eyes."

With the Quester writhing under his boot, the Vinch presses the pointer and middle fingers of his metallic hand into the eyes of the Quester. A spurt of blood spatters onto the Vinch's face as guards surround him, waiting for orders.

"Lock him up," he commands them.

Deep in Claustria Castle, Madra's war room is full. In the center of the room is a large, round table. Its surface is a detailed map of Upper Kleighton, with various figurines placed at different locations. Madra places a small gear on the table, a souvenir from Zanther and Novanostrum's encounter, to represent the automates.

She places it just north of Claustria, on the tracks leading from the Submount Steamtunnels.

Aristhmus is seated next to Novanostrum. Zanther sits across from them, refusing to make eye contact with his father. The remaining seats are filled by the leaders of different divisions of Claustria's military.

"Roughly ten thousand automates will be arriving on locomotes, possibly as early as tomorrow afternoon," Madra says, her words bringing the room to silence.

"Novanostrum, I would like you to assist our army when they confront these clockspring soldiers. I'm hoping you can use your powerful magick to disable the automates so that we may cut them down. The Flatlands are vast and unpopulated, so whatever terrible power you unleash won't be harming civilians. Lightning, meteorites, an earthquake--anything you can do to level the battlefield will be a big help."

Novanostrum nods. Madra turns to Zanther.

"Mortesia sent this menace. They will expect us to have our hands full with their malicious toys; they will not expect our swift and immediate retribution to be directed on their seat of power. This is why Zanther and I will be traveling to Mortesia to carry out a devastating counterattack."

Zanther blinks in disbelief.

"Just the two of us? How will we get there? What exactly do you think we can accomplish?"

Madra smiles. "Your father has generously agreed to lend us the Rakehell. And it won't be just the two of us; I plan to pick up a little help along the way. As for what I have planned...let's just say that the Mortesians aren't the only ones with secret weapons."

"He's not going with us?" Zanther says, pointing at his father.

Madra shakes her head. "It's too dangerous for him."

"And not too dangerous for me?"

Madra smiles. "If there's danger everywhere you look, wear a blindfold."

Chapter 8

Stronom materializes in the courtyard of Claustria castle. His dark robe blends in with the shadows cast by the setting sun. He tucks the golden orb and silver compass into his sleeve before walking past two stunned guards. He walks first down one hallway, then another before ending up in the castle's kitchen.

He finds Aristhmus sitting at a small table.

"Stronom Singularis, Maximagus of the Fifth Circle, the most hated wizard in Arcania. The rumor was that Rassamander killed you. You look good for a dead guy," Aristhmus says.

"How's Lilia?" Stronom asks.

"She is no longer with us," he says, fixing his gaze upon his hands.

"You always were more focused on acquiring treasure than appreciating its true value," Stronom says.

"She wasn't safe with you and you know it. You were always the one she loved most."

"Seems she wasn't much safer with you. And the boys? I'm guessing they're somewhere around here. Where can I find them?"

"Novanostrum's up in the Flatlands preparing to fight an army of homicidal clocks, and Zanther's with Madra on a suicide mission to attack Mortesia."

Stronom nods. "And did you tell them?"

Aristhmus gives a shrug. "No. I figured they've got enough to worry about. It can wait 'till they get back--if they make it back."

"So you're just going to sit here while your son charges blindly into peril?"

"Is that not what you're doing?"

"I came here to help mine. I intend to find him," Stronom says.

"You were always a better man than me."

"Don't I know it. Also, you said earlier that I was a Fifth Circle. You should know that I'm an Nth Circle now."

"An 'Nth Circle'? What the High Hell is that? Just how does one become an Nth Circle?"

"Kill a god," Stronom says as he walks away.

Madra walks through the Willowood, stumbling across roots and bumping into trees. Her blindfold makes it difficult to navigate, but she knows she is in the right general area.

"Varello!" she shouts for the dozenth time, hearing no reply.

She trips over something squishy, falling on her face. She reaches around to feel the obstruction, recognizing the object as the leg of a corpse. She runs her hand across the body, finding the shaft of a bolt protruding from its chest.

"Madra! What are you doing out here?" Varello asks.

"I've come to apologize. You were right about Desa. I never should've doubted your judgment."

"Yes, well, don't you think it's a little risky for a queen to be bumping around in the woods blindfolded?"

"Well, now I've got you to protect me. Let's get Desa and get out of here. I've got a skyship waiting for us."

"Where are we going?"

"Mortesia."

Varello gives her a suspicious look which she does not see. "What's in Mortesia?"

Madra smiles. "Thousands of men who need to learn to appreciate true beauty."

"So you would use her as a weapon."

"Yes, that's the plan," Madra says.

"I don't know that I approve of that."

"Well, think of it this way: she can spend the rest of her life in hiding, or she can do something which will save lives and secure the freedom of all the peoples of Upper Kleighton."

"I will consult with Desa. If she wishes to help you, I will go along with this. If she does not, I will not force her."

Meteorites fall from the sky, each one smashing half a dozen automates as it crashes to the ground. Bolts of lightning strike automates, exploding them into piles of metallic rubble. Soldiers rush around, dodging shots from gatling powderblasts and trying in vain to stem the oncoming tide of automates.

The ground shakes, toppling ranks of clockspring soldiers. They simply get back up.

The captain of the guard stands next to Novanostrum, who is frantically casting spells and summoning devastation.

"It's working," Novanostrum says, "but it's not doing enough to reduce their numbers. At this rate, we won't win this battle. I need...I need a moment to think."

On the other side of the battlefield, behind the main ranks of the automate army, there are only a few human soldiers here and there fighting desperately against their mechanickal foes. A black-robed figure casually tosses a ball of shadow at an automate, vaporizing it. The figure approaches the confused Claustrian soldier.

"Hey, give this to your wizard, Novanostrum," he says, holding out a sealed letter.

The soldier, taking a moment to regain his composure, grabs the letter and dashes off.

After is out of his sight, Stronom licks his finger and sweeps the area around him as if trying to determine which way the wind is blowing. He focuses his attention on a cluster of trees fifty man-lengths away and walks towards it.

In the center of the trees, he can see three robed figures huddling over a symbol drawn on the ground with white dust.

"You did it all wrong," Stronom says as he crouches next to them, "yes, it'll work if you do it this way, but the effects won't be as strong. Ground up dragon bones are powerful, but you need something with more of a water element."

The three wizards immediately point their staves at him.

"Who are you? How did you find us?" one of them asks.

"Just followed the energy of your atmospheric stasis spell to its epicenter. A tenth circle could've done that much," Stronom says, casting a woeful eye on the sun partially obscured by the horizon.

Fireballs erupt from each of their staves and Stronom raises his hand as he prepares to deflect them.

The fireballs pause in midair. Meteorites and bolts of lightning hang suspended all around the battlefield. Stronom's hand reflexively goes to his bare wrist.

"The Ristwatch," he says to himself as he snaps his fingers at each of the frozen wizards in front of him, reducing them to piles of black ash, "well, that was convenient."

Stronom wipes his foot across the symbol drawn on the ground, smearing it until it is completely unrecognizable. He looks once again at the sun.

"Well, gotta get back before dark," he says to himself.

Novanostrum finds himself surrounded by a dozen frozen automates. He ducks between two of them to find a Claustrian soldier a few paces away, his outstretched arm bearing a letter. Novanostrum sees that the letter is addressed to him, so he plucks it from the soldier's stilled hand. He rips it open and sees three words written in the center of the single page:

Make it rain.

He looks up and notices the peapod sky regaining the normal orangey haze of a typical sunset.

Time resumes its normal flow as the circle of automates near Novanostrum crash into each other and the clamor of the battlefield is restored. Feeling energized, Novanostrum waves his staff and the wind begins to swirl around his body until it forms a massive tornado. Automates and corpses and soldiers and all the small trees in the immediate vicinity are swept up, spinning around Novanostrum as he summons huge storm clouds which soon cover the sky.

A moment later, thunder cracks and the rain begins to fall.

The soldiers still fighting automates watch in awe as their mechanickal enemies twitch and sputter, shooting sparks from their edges and joints before toppling all across the battlefield. Before long, the surviving men cheer in victory as the tornado around Novanostrum dissipates.

Zanther sits on a cot in a cabin below the deck of The Rakehell. He scratches his eyebrow under his blindfold, then reaches his hand out to find Madra's hand.

"So you're telling me that the most beautiful woman in the world is right above my head?"

"Yes."

"But I can't see her or I'll go comatose and die?"

"Correct."

"But if she's up there and we're down here behind a locked door, why are we both still wearing blindfolds?"

"Can't take any chances."

"Fair enough. So, if no man has seen her without dying, and every woman who looks at her becomes cultishly obsessed--crazy, even for a woman--how can you be sure she's the most beautiful woman in the world?"

"Varello's seen her. He told me so."

"Yes, well, I wouldn't exactly call Varello an expert on female beauty."

"He's often told me how beautiful I am."

"Exactly my point."

Zanther dodges the first slap, but Madra connects with the second.

"It's kind of boring, sitting here being blind," Zanther says, rubbing the side of his head.

"Agreed. Still, I know something we could do to fill the time," Madra replies.

"At least I'm already wearing a blindfold," Zanther says as he swings his head to try and evade her next slap. He fails to anticipate her fist before it connects with its target.

Zanther doubles over onto the cot, clutching his nethers and gasping.

The Quester of Righteousness feels around the bottom edge of his cell, exploring. With the small size of the cell, it does not take long. He feels the steel door with a finger's width of clearance above the stone floor. The walls themselves are huge stone bricks, hewn and stacked so precisely he is unable to get even a fingernail between them. He stands, running his hands over the walls and the door. He feels the hinges of the door, the stone ceiling, trying to gauge the cell's escapability.

Outside the thick door, he can hear guards. He listens to their breathing, to the periodic thuds as they lower their weapons to change their grip. Spears, he guesses from the hollow wooden reverberations.

Without warning, he begins to sing:

"There's a duck from the south with a fish in its mouth,

There's a frog on a log by the shore,

And if you didn't hear, well, open up your ear!

And I'll sing it for you once more:

There's a duck from the south with a fish in its mouth..."

The Quester of Righteousness sings the song over and over, repeating it only a half-dozen times before getting the desired reaction as the metal tip of a spear bangs against his door.

"Keep it down in there!"

Undeterred, the Quester of Righteousness continues to sing and starts to clap his hands with the rhythm of the song, losing himself in the ecstasy one is only able to achieve when truly annoying someone else.

The door to the cell flies open as the guard thrusts his spear inside the cell and hits nothing. Standing behind the door, the Quester of Righteousness slams the steel door into the guard, knocking him off his feet. The Quester of Righteousness feels around for the spear and snatches it up, immediately plunging its metal point into the chest of the dazed guard. Hearing the stunned gasp of the other guard, the Quester uses that small sound to gauge the location of that guard's chest and slams the spear through.

After a few moments, the coughing and burbling of the two dying men ceases, and the Quester cautiously begins searching for new sounds.

Oversized cannons mounted on turrets atop towers throughout Mortesia are trained on The Rakehell as it passes over the city. Four white banners of surrender flying from poles at each corner of the skyship are all that prevent the Mortesians from blasting it out of the sky.

The skyship lands in the open square of the plaza in front of the Threaded Spire. The gangplank is lowered, and a bard is the first to disembark. In one hand he carries an ornate lute, in the other he carries a rope. Three figures wearing hooded cloaks follow behind him, each grasping the rope.

The square is filled with close to a thousand Mortesian soldiers. A commander approaches Varello, who begins to speak.

"My name is Varello Punchinelli. I am the emissary of Queen Madra of Claustria. I was sent here to negotiate the terms of surrender with the Vinch."

The commander nods and eyes the three hooded figures behind Varello. "And those three?"

"Blind seers, personal advisors to the Queen."

The commander takes a look at the ship, then returns his attention to Varello. "Well, there's a problem. You see, the Vinch isn't really interested in 'negotiating' with Claustria or anyone else. He will settle for nothing less than unconditional surrender."

Varello turns and nods at one of the figures, then looks at the commander. "Actually, I was referring to your surrender."

It's at this point when one of the hooded figures removes her cloak and tosses it to the ground, revealing her full, red locks and nubile body.

All activity throughout the square stops. The soldiers who are close enough to hear the exchange have their powderblasts trained on the four figures, but upon seeing Desa, they drop their weapons and fall to their knees, dazed.

The clatter of weapons falling to the cobblestones and armored soldiers dropping to their knees echoes throughout the plaza. Everyone in sight is affected. A few dozen women who were observing from the edge of the square smile and step forward, tentatively.

"I can't see what's happening," Zanther whispers to Madra, "are we winning?"

"How should I know?" Madra whispers back.

The women from throughout the square drop their laundry and their sacks full of produce as they swarm toward Desa. Desa walks to a dazed soldier and picks up his powderblast. She motions for her new female admirers to do the same.

Varello turns toward Zanther and Madra.

"Well, the first part of the plan worked. Would you like to go with me to see the Vinch, or stay here next to this highly explosive target surrounded by cannons?"

Zanther gives the rope a tug. "Lead the way, maestro."

Varello and Desa walk side by side to the front doors of the Threaded Spire, with Zanther and Madra following behind, grasping the rope. Desa's posse trails the four of them by but a few steps. The guards at the doors attempt to take a step forward to intercept them, but immediately fall to their knees.

Once inside the main chamber of the Spire, the doors all slam shut. Desa's women immediately form a protective circle around the four of them, their weapons drawn.

Zanther turns his head, trying to hear what is going on. "I don't like the sound of this, Varello. Are we bonked?"

Dozens of automates begin swarming through unseen entrances to the chamber, their metal footfalls clamoring ominously against the polished granite floor.

The clockspring soldiers encircle them, seemingly undaunted by Desa's beauty.

Varello turns to Madra and Zanther. "In retrospect, this possibility should have been obvious. Any ideas?"

Zanther shrugs, and Madra drops to the ground, clutching her knees.

The automates begin their charge. The crazed women take shots at their metal heads as they dodge powderblast shots and the swings and thrusts of bladed arms. Desa leads by example, weaving between automates, causing them to attack each other as they miss her.

Zanther tosses his overcloak aside and draws his longknives, blindly diving into battle, using the sounds around him to direct the movements of his blades.

"Can't you do a songspell or something?" Madra asks Varello.

"I don't think...wait," he replies, having a sudden realization as he grasps his lute. He takes a look around the vast chamber, searching for the appropriate spot before bounding there in a few steps. A pick materializes from his sleeve, and he positions his pointer finger and carefully plucks a single note.

The reverberation of the note bounces off the walls and ceiling and floor of the chamber, magnified by the acoustics of the room.

Every automate in the chamber bursts into pieces as the single note continues to echo.

The women stop fighting. Zanther stands still, trying in vain to hear the movement of any clockspring soldiers. Desa, feeling the vibration, nods her head in understanding.

"What did you just do, Varello?" Madra asks.

"I recall your songspells being a little more complicated than a single note," Zanther muses.

The answer comes from the descending spiral staircase above their heads.

"Resonant frequency amplified by the precisely-engineered acoustics of this chamber," the Vinch says as the bottom step of the staircase lowers to the floor in front of them. Varello and Desa take him in: his red vest, his white trousers, his dark red goggles, his clockspring arm. In his human arm, he holds a longknife whose blade is the color of blood.

Instinctively, Varello glances at Desa, then at the Vinch, who smiles.

"Yes, I'm sure she's quite lovely. I watched what she did outside through my optiscope."

Varello stares at the Vinch in shock. "Are you...?"

"Am I what? Impotent?" the Vinch asks before knocking his metal hand against his own crotch with a hollow metallic clang.

"I lost that part of myself a long time ago. Luckily, I was able to rebuild. Bigger, harder, stronger, as they say."

The Vinch turns toward Desa, who begins to back away cautiously.

"Looks like someone would like to find out firsthand," he says, looking her naked body up and down.

At the tone of threat in his voice, the circle of frenzied women charges him. There's a scuffle as he uses his metal arm to deflect powderblast shots and thrusts from longknives. One by one, he cuts them down. He decapitates one, stabs another through the chest, killing with every swing and thrust of his blade until all of the crazed women are dead.

For a moment, there is silence in the chamber.

"Did those girls kill him, or do I have to fight him?" Zanther asks.

"How chivalrous," Madra says.

"What? I was operating under the assumption they were expendable. Was I wrong?"

The Vinch clears his throat. "I'm over here. Come take your shot at me so that I may kill you, then this fellow," he says, pointing at Varello, "and then show these ladies pleasure and pain they have never known."

Varello spies a movement at the corner of the chamber. "Zanther, I am confident you can handle him. Maybe you can intimidate him with a fierce battle cry as you charge."

Zanther nods. "Well, I am pretty intimidating. Okay, here goes!"

He screams as he charges with his blades raised. Varello watches Zanther approach, then sticks out a foot as he passes by.

Zanther trips and flies forward, falling on his face. The Vinch gives Varello a confused look which contorts into a grimace of intense pain as he looks down to find a giant blade sticking through his chest. The blade is attached to the arm of an automate.

The Vinch topples to the granite floor. Standing behind him is the Quester of Righteousness.

Desa rushes to the Quester, embracing him and planting a luscious kiss upon his lips, paying no attention to the bloody messes where his eyes should be.

"Judging from this young woman's reaction," the Quester says, "I'm guessing I saved the day. I've got to ask, though--she's good-looking, right? I mean, I have a reputation to think about."

"She's the most beautiful woman in the world," Zanther says, sarcastically, as he staggers to his feet.

The Quester of Righteousness runs his rough fingers across her face, "You aren't kidding," he says. He wraps a hand around her shoulder, feeling around in surprise, "Are you...naked?"

She laughs and gives him another kiss.

"She doesn't speak," Varello explains.

"She's perfect," the Quester of Righteousness says.

Chapter 9

Novanostrum walks along the single path through the dead forest. Overhead, the hazy sky grows dark as the sun sets. As his sandals crunch the chalky grass at the edge of the narrow trail, he thinks back to his last visit to the Deathstretch.

Almost as if triggered by his memory, the white leaves and chalky fruits begin to bloom and grow before his eyes. Novanostrum pulls his staff from his sleeve, readying himself for the inevitable onslaught.

A pair of eyes peeks from a white bush before the white anaconda springs forward. Novanostrum dispatches it with a fireball, barely breaking his stride.

Tentacles, fanged and clawed beasts, hideous oversized birds, they all meet similar fates as Novanostrum blasts his way down the path.

Finally spotting the reason for his incursion into this accursed place, Novanostrum approaches the small cabin and knocks on the door. It takes a moment, but finally the door is opened by a man literally cloaked in shadow. Upon recognizing his visitor, he pulls his hood back, revealing his head and turning his shadowed cloak into merely a dark garment.

"Hello, Father," Novanostrum says.

"Aristhmus told you I was alive?" Stronom asks, motioning for his son to enter the cabin.

"Aristhmus...what? No, I recognized your handwriting."

"I see. And how did you find this place?"

"You were easy to find, once I knew what I was looking for," Novanostrum says as he lowers himself onto a wooden stool. He notices Risma standing in a doorway, smiling.

"Welcome home," she says.

Zanther and the Quester of Righteousness sit across from each other in the galley of The Rakehell as it plies its way across the clear, starry night. Zanther tries to eat a bowl of stew, with limited success.

"So you're the one and only Quester of Righteousness," Zanther says as he feels a spoonful of stew plop onto his leg.

"And you are Zanther Maus. You probably don't remember me, but I remember you; you were the only one to best me in a fight."

"Pretty sure I'd remember fighting the Quester of Righteousness," Zanther says.

"We were children, then. It was a longknifesmanship competition. You beat me in the final round."

Zanther laughs nervously. "Well, I hope you're not holding a grudge after all these sunspins. After all, you proved your superiority pretty well back there when you killed the Vinch. After being blinded, no less."

"A grudge? Hardly. Actually, I'm a fan. I read about you and your father's exploits in the Kleighton Gadabout. You inspired me to become the Quester of Righteousness in the first place."

"Right. I see. How does one go about becoming the Quester of Righteousness, anyway?"

"All you need is the Longknife of Iniquity and the blessing of a king or queen. Madra's father named me Quester after I defeated the Ogremage of Resgard Pass; the beast who killed the previous Quester of Righteousness."

"Sounds like non-stop good times."

"Oh, it was. Saving women and children, killing beasts, searching for magickal treasure, and the women, don't get me started on the women--it got to the point where every night--"

"Yeah, I get the picture."

"I'm not quite sure you do."

There's a knock at the door. "It's just me," Madra says as she walks into the room, "here, Zanther, hold this for a tick," she says as he reaches out toward her hand and grasps the handle of something heavy.

"Zanther Maus, I hereby name you Quester of Righteousness," Madra says.

"Wait, what?"

"You see, I'm retiring," the previous Quester says, "Desa and I are going to live in a cave on the edge of the Willowood, far from men and beasts and all the other worries of the world. I hear she even has a pet dragon."

"That's all well and good," Zanther says, "but I don't really want to be the Quester of Righteousness."

"It's kind of late for that now, don't you think?" the previous Quester says.

"Well, I--"

"Nonsense. You'll do fine. Now let me tell you a little about the Longknife of Iniquity. It was forged in the flames of High Hell. When you hold it in your hands, you are immune to the effects of any magick used against you. It's cursed, of course, but--"

"Cursed?"

"Yes, well, every time a new Quester is named, the Malevolent One is set free. It's always the First Trial of the Quester of Righteousness to defeat him and send him screaming back to his prison."

"Uh, what?"

"The Malevolent One. You must defeat him."

"Any advice on how to go about that?"

"Well, one of the rules is that I'm not allowed to help you with the specifics. You have three days until his release, though, so you should able to prepare. I recommend you talk to a fellow named Crickadee. He helped me quite a bit."

Madra puts her hand on Zanther's shoulder. "I know you're not thrilled about this, but it's my duty as Queen of Claustria to name the new Quester of Righteousness and you're the most qualified. Should you succeed, I will marry you; you will be the Royal Consort to the Queen."

Zanther sighs. "And if I refuse?"

"You'll suffer a terrible, torturous death," the previous Quester says.

"No, not that," he grasps Madra's hand, "I meant the wedding."

"You'll suffer a terrible, torturous death," she says.

Books in the Vicious Magick series:

Vicious Magick

Livid Steel

Seductive Silence

The Legend of Zanther

Mystickal Melody

Knives and Needles

Toil and Trouble

Dearly Detested (coming soon)
