

A DREAM OF HOPE AND SORROW

Book One of the Druid Saga

By Jonathan Crocker

Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Crocker

All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Tyler Edlin
**Read all the books in the Druid Saga!**

A Dream of Hope and Sorrow - Book One

A Long and Restless Slumber - Book Two

A Deep, Enduring Reverie - Book Three

**Other works by Jonathan Crocker:**

The Hummingbird Series

Out of Fire - Hummingbird: Book One

Out of Phase - Hummingbird: Book Two

Out of Time - Hummingbird: Book Three

Prologue

The boy could see his breath in the air, his body stilled by the biting chill upon the night. He had little desire to be this deep into the forest, let alone halfway up the mountains, but when his master beckoned, he followed. And Graumin had beckoned.

He had been following Graumin deeper and deeper into the dark of the woods for over a week, the pair making slow progress. The confines of the lighter copses of trees had been left far behind, and now there was naught but dense, thick brush to penetrate. There were no roads or trails this far in. They made their own path, Graumin hacking away at the overgrowth with an old handaxe, the boy nimble enough to navigate most of the limbs and branches, roots and rocks.

"Keep up back there," Graumin snarled over his shoulder. He didn't bother to turn and see whether or not the boy made any additional haste.

Graumin was a gruff man, one of the oldest in their clan, though he didn't seem his age. He wasn't overly tall, but he had a stocky and imposing figure, and a menacing disposition. As Graumin waved his torch back and forth, the boy could make out his elder's thick garments. As with all members of the clan, Graumin wore a fine cloak about his shoulders, dangling down his back past his buttocks. The cloak was made of black silk, and was emblazoned with the image of an arachnid, eight legs spreading nearly to the edges of the cloak itself. Upon closer inspection, one might find that the silk even possessed a web-like design. Some day the boy would wear a similar cloak.

The boy glanced around, only being able to see a dozen feet or so in any direction thanks to the light of his torch. The trees were thick about the trunk, and the limbs and branches tightly packed together overhead. This far north the sky was constantly dark, the sunlight rarely so much as peeking over the horizon. Nighttime in the woods that he was used to was alive with the constant silvery-blue glow of moonlight dancing between the trees. But not here – here it was just black. Were it not for the fire they carried, he would have been blind. And the forest seemed eerily quiet, too. He was accustomed to the presence of thousands of animals nearby, and many times that number of insects. But not here – here it was just silent.

Legend told that the first trees had grown on the slopes of these mountains, and spread from there to cover all the world in green. These were the oldest trees alive, and most of the boy's clan would have savoured the opportunity to stand beneath these boughs. But not him – the boy just wanted to leave. The trees were old and gnarled, and there was a strangeness to this place that he didn't like one bit. Even the air itself tasted foul on his tongue.

"Sir," the boy called ahead, as Graumin had continued on. "Sir, should we be turning back soon, sir? It's a good ten days hike back to the village, and we've the stores only for half that."

It was true enough – Graumin hadn't expected their journey to take this long. They had set out with a pair of horses, laden down with saddlebags enough to carry their gear and supplies. But three days back, when they had left the beaten trails, the horses were unable to continue through the brush. Graumin had let the horses go, either to find their way back home, or to wander, free of human bonds. So not only was the trek on foot, over difficult terrain, much more arduous, but they now had to carry heavy packs as well.

The glare that the boy caught in the glow of Graumin's torchlight was enough of an answer to his question, although he was relieved when the older man declared that they could stop and make camp for the night.

The boy heaved his pack to the ground, and it landed atop the fresh layer of snow that covered the area. The snow wasn't deep enough to hamper their progress, but it was a stark reminder of the long night ahead. The boy could only sigh as he went about setting up the campfire, one of the many duties tasked to him by his elder.

Ordinarily, fire was a welcome companion to the boy when out in the wilds at night. But so deep into this strange and eerie wood, the boy was apprehensive about what a fire might attract – there must be a reason no animals ventured near, after all. What if there were something scaring them away?

"Don't worry, boy," Graumin snarled. "There's nothing can hurt us here."

He seemed confident, but it did little to lessen the boy's worries.

"Mister Graumin, sir," the boy began as he stoked the small, newborn flames. "Do you think we'll really find it, sir? The cave, I mean? You don't think it's just stories, sir?"

Graumin glanced up over the fire, his grizzled face and wild beard a frightening sight in the flickering light. His eyes were narrowed at the boy.

"You know better than that, boy."

"We're deep now, though, sir. It doesn't seem like it could be too much further, does it?"

Graumin let his eyes wander towards the darkness that surrounded them. His breathing was slow and steady, the night air misting in front of his mouth with each breath. They could barely make out the trees, though they were sitting right in the middle of a dozen of them.

"We're close," the man stated.

"How can you tell?"

"I can feel it. So can you."

The boy paused – could he feel it? He couldn't feel much of anything at all, save for the cold biting at his extremities. Although he could still sense the queerness of the place that he had noted earlier – was that what Graumin was talking about?

He wanted to keep talking, to learn more, but he knew better than to press Graumin. Instead the boy leaned in closer to the fire – he could feel the cold much keener now that they were just sitting instead of walking.

They had set the camp up in short order, having done it for many nights in a row now, though this was by far the darkest and coldest. It likely wasn't an ideal location for a camp, but they didn't have much choice, and there were only so many places with enough clear and flat ground to lie down. There wasn't much to their camp anyway – two bedrolls, two blankets, the campfire, and what little food they had left. Normally the boy wouldn't have been concerned about their food stores, the forest usually being a plentiful source of sustenance – but the absence of animals meant no available meat. And he wasn't sure that leaves and berries and twigs would provide enough energy for the march back home.

The boy watched as Graumin slipped into his bedroll, the gruff man hauling the blanket up and over his back. His pack was on the ground beside him, and lying atop it was his old handaxe. The handle was about a foot long and was carved out of some sort of bone that sported the intricate design of numerous spiders crawling about it. There were a few notches in the blade, and it looked quite worn, but the boy knew better. That axe had been in Graumin's family for generations. It had slain giants, and hacking its way through some dense brush wasn't going to damage it.

The thought of giants suddenly unnerved the boy. He had never seen a giant himself, but stories told of the giants dwelling in caves among the foothills of the mountains – the same mountain foothills that they were now moving through. His eyes darted to the darkness that seemed to swallow the camp. He had the sudden impulse to put out the fire. It was certain to draw their doom down upon them – giants, or worse. He almost did it, but he knew that it would upset Graumin. So he just sat there on the cold ground, pulled his knees up against his chest, and held on tightly.

Sleep didn't come easy to the boy. He rocked back and forth on the ground for many hours, the cold still nipping away at his face, the flickering of the fire slowly dwindling away, darkness creeping in over the camp. His eyes scanned the tree line constantly, occasionally coming to rest on Graumin's sleeping form, buried beneath blanket and bedroll.

The boy's breath came more slowly, his eyes began to droop, and exhaustion overtook him. He fell asleep in his sitting position, his chin resting atop his knees. His dreams were filled with giants and dragons and whatever other nightmares inhabited the minds of frightened boys.

The fire flickered its last flames, leaving naught but smoking embers in the center of the camp. The darkness was upon them, as Graumin slept soundly beneath his warm blankets, and the boy slept much less so, his body trembling slightly in the cold as even his furs couldn't keep him warm. The minutes crept by as the black night hovered over the pair, biding its time, the stillness and that eerie silence ever present. The old and gnarled trees towered about them, unseen, breaking the silence with an occasional creak or rustle of barren branches.

A strange and sudden sound penetrated the night air and the boy's eyes shot open. It wasn't a loud sound, more of a whisper in the night, but the boy heard it keenly enough that it woke him. He didn't move, and he silently cursed himself for not tending the fire, as he could see nothing but black in any direction. The sound was gone and hadn't repeated, but the boy knew that he had heard it. He tried to slow his rapid breathing, his heartbeats pounding in his eardrums. Despite the cold, his palms felt sweaty as he listened intently. And then he heard it again – it sounded almost like voices, just out of earshot. Were there people about? Or was the wind playing tricks with his mind?

He wasn't sure if he should move, if he should try to wake Graumin. In the end he thought it best to keep silent and still, not wanting to draw any attention to their presence – perhaps the loss of their fire was a good thing after all. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to locate something, anything. Surely if there were other people about, they would have to be carrying torches. Unless the sounds weren't voices at all.

The boy pulled his knees even tighter into his chest. He heard the sound for a third time, and he felt paralyzed as the whispers seemed to be getting closer. On a sudden impulse, he turned his neck and peered over his shoulder. There was a soft glimmer of light beyond the nearest trees. He felt his eyes widen and his chest tighten. Forgetting his attempt at perfect silence, the boy skittered away from the light and forward into the camp, his knees shuffling right over the still-hot embers of their former fire. He stumbled as the heat pained him, but did well not to cry out, not to make any sound at all. He just rolled out of the fire pit, across the snow, and slammed into the back of his sleeping companion.

Graumin grunted in his sleep but didn't appear to wake. When the boy again heard the sounds, much louder this time, he reached back and grabbed the older man, shaking him frantically. This time Graumin snorted and blinked and was about to curse the boy for waking him until he noticed the pale glow emanating from just beyond their blackened camp.

"My axe, boy," Graumin muttered, as he went about tossing his blankets from atop his body and slipping himself out of his bedroll.

The boy fumbled around to find Graumin's pack and lying atop it was the handaxe. As he handed the axe to the now-standing man, the boy glanced towards the woods beyond the camp. The strange glow was brighter now, and he could make it out as a golden hue in colour. He might have mistaken it for the sunrise, except for the fact that he hadn't seen a sunrise in days – they were too deep into the old forest.

"Sir, what is that, sir?" the boy mumbled.

Graumin just grunted as his fingers tightened around the axe handle.

"Sir?"

"Stay close, boy."

Graumin took a bold step towards the light and the whispering sound grew louder.

"Are there people out there, sir?"

Graumin didn't answer, didn't acknowledge the boy in any way. The man's lips were moving subtly, but the boy didn't hear any words. Then there was a bright flash of light, and when it faded, Graumin and the boy were surrounded. There were figures all about them, soft, glowing figures, the same colour as the pale golden light. They were tall and had the form of men. The boy squinted his eyes, trying to get a better look – the figures didn't look human at all. But what else could they be? They were moving now, towards Graumin and the boy. But they weren't walking as a man might. Instead they seemed to float across the snowy ground.

The boy could feel his heart racing – this was definitely worse than giants.

"Sir... are they ghosts, sir?"

The boy barely got the question out, his breath was coming in such gasps. He watched in horror as the nearest figure closed on Graumin. The man slashed out with his axe, a wide sweeping arc that struck the figure square in the chest – or would have, except that the axe passed right through the figure's incorporeal form. The boy heard himself gasp aloud at the sight.

What were they going to do? They couldn't even fight back. Surely they were doomed. What could they do against an army of ghosts?

"Stay close, boy," Graumin muttered once more, but the boy's attention was lost. His head was turning from side to side, his neck craning about. His eyes were wide and unblinking as he scrambled about on the ground, trying to keep Graumin between himself and whatever ghostly figure seemed to be moving in his direction.

"Stay sill, boy!"

The boy heard Graumin muttering beneath his breath, words that sounded vaguely familiar, yet entirely foreign. The boy spun his head around to see a figure only feet away, the gold light washing over his face. He panicked and fell backwards on his rear, his legs pushing him away in the snow only to have his body shuffle right through the legs of another spirit. There was a cold sensation, almost a numbing, as his flesh passed through that ghostly form. The boy felt a chill, and not from the cool night air. He knew that he was doomed.

A number of things happened all at the same time: several of the spirits made a ghastly howling noise as they flew towards Graumin, who still clutched his axe in his fingers; A fire erupted in Graumin's other hand, but the flames were a pale bluish colour rather than red or orange; And the boy ran.

His courage was spent, his fear overtook him, and he ran. He heard Graumin shout after him, call for him to stay near, but the boy didn't even look back. His short legs were pumping, his boots sloshing through the ankle-high snow. He didn't even look behind to see if the spirits were chasing him, he just ran.

He couldn't tell for how long he ran, but his legs were tired and his breathing was heavy. It was only then that reality gripped him once more, as he realized that he could see nothing at all. So full of fear, he had been running through the pitch black forest, only sheer luck saving him from a collision with one of those old, gnarled, and very solid trees. But as soon as that thought passed through his head, his foot caught on an exposed tree root, his balance failed him, and he stumbled forward. His momentum carried him to the ground, his head slamming against the base of an ancient willow.

He couldn't see to stand up again, the night was so black. And his body felt weak and powerless in any case. He slowly lifted an arm and ran his fingers along the side of his head. He couldn't see the blood on his hand, but he could feel it. It was wet and cold, just like his body.

He glanced back in the direction that he had come, but he couldn't see the golden light. He had left his master far behind, to fend for himself against those strange foes. The boy was overcome with a sudden sense of shame – he had abandoned his elder, he had shown cowardice.

He lay back on the soft, snowy ground. His head was bleeding, his body immobile. He was tired, so tired. And he was a failure. He closed his eyes and waited for the cold night to take him.
Sasha

The evening air sparkled with an unnatural quality – the moon was big and round and silver, and the night was doused in a soft, bluish glow that Sasha had never before seen. It was like something out of a fantasy. She stared up into the sky, the stars seeming brighter than usual. The bluish glow was more than enough light for her to see quite clearly, despite the late hour. It even penetrated the forest that backed on to her yard, as she now let her eyes wander between the trees beyond the edge of her mother's garden.

She could see a fair distance into the woods before the blackness engulfed those trees farthest away. It was a strange scene, to be sure, as she wasn't even certain how she came to be in the garden at this hour. She couldn't remember coming outside at all.

Sasha walked across the stone path that ran between the plants and flowers. She stopped beside a birdbath, set upon a pedestal, and looked down into the water's softly rippling surface. Her fingers slid across the smooth ledge of the bath as her eyes settled upon her own reflection. The sky behind her was that same silvery-blue colour, framing her almost silvery-blonde sleek shoulder length hair. She had poignantly pale blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a kind-looking face. She noticed that she was clad in a rather elegant-looking lavender silk gown, which did little to hide her feminine form – a slender and toned athletic body. The gown only added to the strangeness of the evening, as she had no idea why she was wearing a gown outdoors at night.

Just as she was about to turn and head back towards the house, she noticed something else – something that sounded like music. At first it seemed only the whistling of the wind through the treetops, but suddenly it sounded so much clearer. It was definitely music. And it was definitely coming from the trees. But who could possibly be in the forest playing music in the middle of the night?

Whether it was her heightening curiosity, or whether she was simply entranced by the sound of the melody, Sasha took a bold step away from the garden and towards the edge of the forest. She was wearing a simple pair of sandals, and she could feel the long blades of grass tickling her feet as she stepped off of the stone path. She took one step, and then another, and within moments she was pushing back the lower branches of the closest trees, trying better to peer into the great woods. The forest was darker than the garden, but as she had noted before, the strange bluish light penetrated the boughs well enough that she could navigate the towering trees.

Her neck was craned, her eyes straining for some sign of the mysterious sound. The music was wafting ever clearer into her ears, but she could spy no source. She felt compelled to enter the forest, to seek out the enchanting sounds. She carefully took a step forward, pushing a long branch aside to make way. And despite the long branches and limbs brushing against her, the silken gown didn't rip or tear. She passed quite easily through the brush and suddenly came upon a clear trail. The path led deeper into the woods and she didn't hesitate in following it.

There was a calm breeze sifting between the tree trunks, causing her gown to flutter somewhat, though how the wind made it deep into the woods she wasn't entirely sure. She continued down the path for some time, always listening intently to the cadence of the music – was it growing louder or softer as she moved? But the sound never seemed to change. She was constantly peering around at her surreal surroundings, the forest seeming almost magical with its bluish glow and silvery beams of moonlight descending from the canopy.

Sasha walked the forest trail for what felt like an eternity, never seeming to get any closer to the source of the music. In fact, she was quite amazed that she had heard it near her house at all, given how deep into the woods she had now progressed.

The trees surrounding her were lush and thriving, the forest seeming alive around her. She could smell the fresh scents of various trees and plants, and hear the chirping of crickets and skittering of squirrels along the boughs. And on any other occasion, she might have paused to better take in the environment, but the entrancing music called to her, beckoned her to seek it out. And she wasn't easily deterred.

After many more minutes, and seemingly no more progress, Sasha felt suddenly exhausted, felt the sudden compulsion to sit and rest. She noticed a large rock beside the trail, taller than her knees, and just the right height for her to take a seat. The rock was cool and mossy, and she could sense the coldness through the thin fabric of her gown – she found it quite refreshing.

As Sasha sat there, thoughts drifting along with the constant melodious hum in the air, she heard a more immediate sound behind her. She turned around with subtle apprehension, her implacable calm breaking for the first time since entering the woods. And she was surprised to see herself face to face with a forest creature – a pair of dark, beady eyes were staring right back at her, only a few feet from where she sat. The eyes belonged to a small doe, her nose twitching gently as she sniffed out Sasha's scent. The animal's fur was soft and sleek and the sight of her brought a wide smile to Sasha's face.

"Hi there," Sasha whispered.

The doe blinked several times and Sasha went so far as to ever-so-carefully stretch out an arm, hoping to pet the beautiful creature. Sasha's hand closed in on that innocent face, slender fingers outstretched, and for several moments it seemed that the doe was going to let Sasha touch her. And then in a second, the doe was gone. Sasha heard only the sound of hooves galloping off through the brush. She let out a sigh, feeling as though she had overstepped and scared the doe away.

Disappointed, she turned her head back towards the path, ready to resume her journey deeper into the forest. And as her eyes came about, she saw another animal standing much too close to her – mere feet from where she sat was a large wolf, teeth bared. Unlike the soft, dark eyes of the doe, the wolf's eyes were cold and hard, and they were staring right through her. The wolf seemed big to her, though having never seen a wolf before, she couldn't rightly say. But her reaction was immediate – she skittered backwards across the stone, tumbling right over the back of it and onto the ground.

She glanced back up to see that the wolf was now perched atop the rock, where she had been sitting only moments before. Its sleek coat of gray fur shone strangely in the mixture of silvery moonlight and bluish hue of the night forest. Though its teeth were bared, it made no move to attack her. But that didn't calm her down any. Sasha's heart was beating quite fast, her breathing coming in short bursts. She tried to crawl away from the beast, to get as far away from it as she could. The strange melody of the forest was nothing but an afterthought now, as her survival instincts had kicked in. She knew she would never outrun the wolf, and she knew that she probably couldn't fight it off should it come after her. Her thoughts whirled madly in her mind – what was she to do? She took one more look back at the snarling face, the long, pointed snout.

And the next thing she knew, she was awake, sitting up in her bed, her chest heaving with laboured breaths. Her head shot around, her eyes scanning her bedroom for the pale eyes of the wolf. But they were nowhere to be seen.

She leapt out of her bed and over to the window, which overlooked the garden. She flung the curtains wide, and the window was open. There was no silvery moonlight, only the dull yellow glow of the moon high in the night sky. And as she looked over the vast, dark forest, she could see only the blackened outline of the treetops. There was no strange blue aura, no illumination of any kind – only the dark, quiet night, the silence interrupted occasionally by the soft rustle of branches in the evening breeze.

* * *

Sasha spent most of the morning sitting in the garden, staring aimlessly at the many, many trees that encroached upon her yard. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get the realness of that dream from her head. Not only could she remember the dream, which was rare to begin with, but she could remember every detail vividly. She had even spent the last hour humming the strange forest melody out loud.

"Sasha!"

Sasha turned to see her mother's head poke out the slightly ajar door. Her mother had similarly pale blonde hair and pale blue eyes. As the door opened, Sasha could smell the scent of freshly baked cookies wafting into the garden – chocolate chip, most likely.

"Are you coming in for lunch, Sasha?" her mother asked. "You've been out there so long, what are you doing? And it's chilly out, you should be wearing a sweater."

Without waiting for a response, her mother's head disappeared inside the house once more. Sasha just sighed and moved towards the door, taking a last glance over her shoulder at the ominous forest.

Sasha entered the house, the garden door opening into a nook off of the kitchen, where her mother was now standing over the counter laying out the bread for a pair of sandwiches. The kitchen was spacious and had a rustic feel to it – which was appropriate given the rural setting of their new home.

"Whatever were you doing out there, Sasha?" her mother asked, without even bothering to look at her.

"Nothing, really," Sasha replied, moving towards the table to take a seat, the smell of the freshly baking cookies was drifting tantalizingly through the kitchen.

"Nothing? It's not a very nice day out to be doing nothing, dear."

Sasha didn't respond. It was indeed cloudy and cool, but she had just felt the need to gaze over the forest – she couldn't rightly tell her mother about her dream, though. She could almost hear her mother telling her not to be silly, dreams are dreams.

So the pair sat in silence, eating their lunch, Sasha quite content to be lost in her thoughts. But she knew that the silence wouldn't last forever.

"Have you made any new friends, dear?" Sasha's mother asked as she cleared away the dirty plates.

"How would I have made new friends?" Sasha said. "The nearest house is half a mile down the road."

"Well, I thought you'd been going into town now and then. Surely a pretty girl like you must attract some attention. You haven't met any boys?"

"No, mother. I haven't."

"Well come now," her mother pressed, as she by the oven, pulling the tray of cookies from within. "You're nineteen years old, you can't go through life without any friends."

"I had friends," Sasha muttered. "But I had to leave them all behind."

Sasha heard a clatter and turned her head to look towards her mother – the tray of cookies had been slammed into the counter and several cookies were even lying broken on the floor. Sasha looked a little surprised.

"Do you think this is easy for me?" her mother said, and Sasha couldn't tell if the woman was angry or sad. "What did you expect me to do? Just stay in that house? Without your father?"

"No..."

"I know it was selfish of me to ask you to move here with me. I know that, Sasha, believe me. But I can't do this without you. I can't do it alone."

Her mother turned to look at her and Sasha could see the tears rimming her eyes.

"I know, mom," Sasha said, and she gave a little half smile. "I get it, I do. But please, just don't push me. I'll meet new people when I meet them. The town's not very big, you know, and there aren't many people my age."

"I saw a young man about your age..."

"Mom!"

Sasha's mother smiled this time, and so did Sasha.

"I know this is an odd place to start over, Sasha," her mother said. "Out in the middle of nowhere, in this big, old house. But I had to do it. And I'm just glad that you're with me."

"I'm glad too, mom."

* * *

Sasha was standing in the middle of the forest, the strange bluish glow illuminating the area surrounding her. She looked up and saw the silver outline of the moon high above, through the gaps in the branches and treetops. She couldn't recall how she had ended up here – was she dreaming again?

There was a small stream that ran alongside the path upon which she stood. She glanced down into the stream and noted her reflection – she was again wearing that same elegant lavender gown, the same small sandals upon her feet.

And then she heard it. The soft forest melody filled her ears once more, that slow, enchanting song that had so entranced her only a few nights previous. It seemed more distant and yet closer to her all at once. She stood there for several long moments, carefully trying to discern the direction from which the music came. She made up her mind and started off down the path, determined not to let it elude her this night.

The trickling water of the stream only added to the beautiful melody. Sasha walked alongside the stream, constantly glancing into the trees on either side of the path. She seemed to walk along for ages before something finally caught her eye – it looked like some sort of light coming from a clearing not that far ahead. She paused for a moment – was this really such a good idea? What if there was someone up ahead?

Despite her trepidation, she did continue on, albeit a little more carefully. Her neck craned a little as she tried to peer through the limbs and branches in the direction of the light. She assumed that it was some sort of campfire, and as she grew closer she could see that that was the case. The melody flowed freely into her ears this close, no longer the strange, haunting music that drifted distantly through the forest. She stepped off the beaten trail, pushing a few branches away and walking into the brush – given the presence of the music, she didn't think that her soft footsteps would be noticed.

She was able to press even closer, hidden away behind the thick undergrowth. She could make out a tent now, but not the type of tent that she might have seen at a camping ground – this looked like a very primitive tent, made of the hide of some animal and sewn together with coarse thread. The fire was flickering away, and the player of the music had his back to her – she assumed it was a man given that he wore no shirt and his arms were reasonably muscled. She moved a little ways to the side, to try and get a better vantage point. She felt a little awkward, peeking through the trees at some unwary man, but she thought it more prudent than announcing her presence.

The man appeared to be playing some sort of wooden flute. And once she saw his fingers moving nimbly over the instrument's holes, the music again stole her thoughts. It seemed so natural to this strange place, so fitting with the dull bluish hue that permeated the forest. She even closed her eyes for a moment to let the sound sink in, feeling it, enjoying it with all of her body.

And then it was gone. The music was no more, replaced only by the soft chirps of nearby crickets and the quiet rustling of leaves in the night breeze. She opened her eyes – the campfire was still flickering away, but the man had disappeared. Surprised, she turned and looked behind her. And staring back were the familiar cold, hard eyes of a wolf, perhaps even the same wolf that she had encountered once before.

Her heart raced, but the wolf made no move toward her, its teeth not bared. Rather than the snarl that it had sported upon their last meeting, the wolf now bore an inquisitive look, appraising her as though she did not belong in this place. Her breaths were coming in quick bursts and she found herself backing slowly away, hoping to take advantage of the animal's odd behaviour. Instead she backed right into something hard.

Spinning around, she now found herself face to face with a man, likely the man from the campsite. He was staring at her with a similar questioning expression. His face was rugged, but had a handsome quality to it – he seemed not much older than her upon first glance, and yet his face exuded the experience of many years. His eyes were a soft blue, not unlike her own, and his hair was shaggy and unkempt, tossed lazily about his shoulders. His shirt was still missing, and she couldn't help glancing over his lithe torso, admiring the tight musculature of his physique. He was slender and wiry, but the strength of his muscles was apparent, despite their lack of bulk.

"S-sorry..." Sasha muttered, and tried to back away from the man this time, only to remember that the wolf that was waiting behind her.

But when she turned to look back at the wolf, the creature was gone. And then she spun back to face the man, but he was gone as well. And then Sasha found herself again sitting up in her bed, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from her brow.

* * *

Sasha spent most of the morning sitting in the garden, staring aimlessly at the many, many trees that encroached upon her yard. But this time, instead of heading in for lunch, she moved towards the trees. There was no bluish illumination emanating from the forest, like in her dream. In fact, the place seemed far less mystical and magical, and more damp and dreary. But her curiosity had gotten the better of her, and she pushed through the outer edge of the undergrowth and stepped into the woods. She felt one branch pull against the sweater that she wore – she couldn't remember any of the branches cutting into her in her dreams, despite the minimal protection that the elegant gown had provided her.

Sasha knew that there was a trail not too far into the forest. Despite not having any close neighbours, there were still enough people who lived in the area – which sat on the outskirts of a small town – that people sometimes walked their dogs, or rode their bicycles, along the trails within. And soon enough she found one such path, happy to be out of the brush and onto an open road, able to better appreciate the nature about her now that it wasn't poking into her body.

She took a good look around, trying to place herself – could she remember this area from her dream? She wasn't really sure, and there was no music here to guide her. So she just shrugged and headed off down the path in a random direction. She figured that if she were meant to find her way, she would.

She walked for some time, not really recognizing anything in particular. And then she came upon a small, trickling stream. Was it the same stream she had encountered the night before? She couldn't be certain, but it seemed a good sign. So she followed the path farther, the stream slowly running along beside her. And as she glanced around, she started to notice things, small things – the shape of a tree trunk here, or the placement of a large rock there – that she could recognize. Her spirits seemed to jump – could it really be possible that the forest from her dreams was the same as the forest she now walked?

Given the sudden familiarity, she knew that she would soon be upon the small clearing where the campsite had been. She didn't really expect to find a tent or a fire there, but for some reason she seemed to be pulled in that direction. It just felt right. She even picked up her pace a little, trotting along with a quicker gait, eager to find her way. A few minutes later she was upon the clearing, and surprised to find that there was, in fact, something awaiting her there. But it wasn't a tent.

Standing in front of her were a half dozen or so immense rocks, taller than she was, and not much wider. Most of these rocks were lying on their side, on the ground. But two of them were standing straight up, with a third balanced across the tops of the other two, creating something of a doorway. It reminded her of the rocks of Stonehenge, though it didn't seem to be serving the same purpose – she had read somewhere that Stonehenge was thought to be some sort of calendar, or time measurement system, utilizing the sun. But as she glanced skyward, at the thick canopy above, she realized there was no way that these rocks had anything to do with the sun. At least not now, as they looked quite old – perhaps they were remnants of a time before a forest stood around them.

She saw that she wasn't the first person to stumble across these rocks – several people had carved little messages into the stone, some had even spray-painted crude phrases. Across the top rock, which was several feet above her head, there seemed to be some more intricate carvings, letters perhaps – though she didn't recognize them. She took a step closer to get a better look.

"Go ahead. Touch it."

She gasped, her heart leaping into her throat. Her head shot around and standing behind her was a man – she immediately recognized the soft blue eyes and the shaggy, unkempt hair.

It was the man from her dream.
Kelly

Cool autumn winds whistled through the barren limbs of the surrounding trees, causing them to shake and rattle. Most of the leaves had changed colour and fallen from their branches, coating the forest floor in a myriad of dull browns and oranges and yellows. There were scattered groups of firs about, that kept a little of the green colour of the woods intact, but they were sparse at best. Luckily for the couple that now moved carefully through the brush, there was plenty of undergrowth that could provide cover should the need arise.

One of the two travellers, the woman, stood a little ways ahead of the man, staring off into the distance. She could make out foreign structures in a clearing that was still a far ways off.

"We're heading the right way," she stated, her auburn hair fluttering in the breeze as she turned her head back to face her companion.

The burly man snorted – all he could see were more trees.

"I'll take your word for it," he said, and he moved up to join her, adjusting the weight of the pack that was slung over his shoulders.

While the woman was reasonably tall, the man still towered over her, his height nearly reaching seven feet, and his body solid and well-muscled. His hair was sheared short, and his face and neck bore several scars, one particularly gruesome keepsake running down the side of his neck and beneath the collar of his leather jerkin.

The woman, as opposed to her gruff-looking partner, was slender and possessed of many feminine attributes, not the least of which were the delicate features of her face. Her eyes, in particular, were an intriguing sight – they were an almond brown colour, and seemed piercing to any who viewed them.

"How much longer, Kelly?" the man grumbled.

"You'd better get used to waiting, Brandt," she replied. "This is a scouting mission. You're not allowed to go charging in there, knocking heads."

"You didn't answer my question," he persisted.

"Come on, let's get moving. We want to get closer to town before nightfall."

"Are we really going in there?" he asked, as he began walking behind Kelly.

"Of course. Our cloaks are packed away, they'll have no idea who we are – we can pass for common peasants."

Brandt didn't look convinced. The cloaks, which identified them as members of other clans, might be packed away, but there were other ways of discerning enemies.

"I can smell a serpent a mile away," he argued. "You don't think they'll be able to sense us?"

Kelly just shrugged and kept walking, moving around bushes and tree trunks, trying to keep a reasonable pace.

* * *

They reached the small town just as the sun was setting, the bright orange and red hues of the sunset visible over the tops of the many nearby trees. Kelly glanced around the town, noting that it was much the same as many other towns she had ventured into in her time. There were homes made of wood with straw-thatched roofs. There were businesses, armouries and merchants and the like, often made of stronger materials, like stone with wooden roofs. The place had started as a village, built in a clearing of the forest, beside a small river. But as the population swelled, Kelly could see where the tree line was cut back, trees cleared away to make room for more buildings and dirt roads.

People milled all about them, many heading home after a hard day's work, many more heading to a nearby inn or tavern. Kelly hated venturing into civilization like this – people were dirty, and the smell of towns and cities assaulted her. She much preferred the solitude and fresh air of the forest. Although, she had to admit, the basic dress and scent of the rabble made it easy enough to fit in unnoticed – prior to entering the town, she and Brandt had thrown on ragged travelling cloaks and smeared their tunics with a bit of mud and dirt. It seemed to be working.

And then she glanced behind her and wondered if any amount of disguise would help – despite the non-descript appearance of his garb, Brandt was still nearly seven feet tall, and towered over the men and women that he was passing on the street. He kept his head bowed, trying not to draw much attention to himself, but it was no use. Everyone that he passed gaped at his size. Children even pulled on the arms of their guardians and pointed openly. Kelly had to hide her smile as she watched their reactions.

They walked for some time before settling on a particular inn, having tried to locate what seemed like the least busy establishment. Some of the wooden panels on the exterior of the building were rotting away, and there was less loud noise emanating from inside than many of the other taverns they had passed. Kelly inclined her head towards Brandt, indicating that they should give this place a try.

They entered and found that the inside of the inn was in the same disarray as the exterior – it was clearly not well maintained. But if they had beds and food, that was all that was needed. Even a shabby inn was an upgrade from sleeping on the cold ground.

Kelly moved into the center of the common area, tables lining each side of where she stood. There were about a dozen or so people seated at the tables, most of them men, and most of them looking rather inebriated. The common room had a high ceiling, rafters visible above, stairs near the wall winding up to the second level. She moved towards the bar, ignoring the few lewd comments that followed her, and hoping very much that Brandt would ignore them as well.

The barkeep was a stout man, a shaggy beard covering much of his chest. He was in the process of wiping mugs clean with a rag that didn't seem fit for cleaning much at all.

"We'd like a room for the night," Kelly said, smiling at the man.

The barkeep didn't respond right away, eyeing her, and then eyeing her large companion.

"Ten coppers for the night," he grunted, finally, and he hobbled away to retrieve a key from a rack as Kelly reached into her pack for her coin purse.

"Good sir, where can we find the serpent temple in town?" Kelly asked when the man returned with their key, and she felt Brandt's eyes boring holes into the back of her head. "We've been on the road some time and haven't had much chance to worship properly."

The barkeep again narrowed his eyes at her, appraising her. He didn't speak for several long moments.

"End of the road," he answered, "Hang a right, can't miss it."

And then he turned and hobbled off with his payment, not wanting to answer any further questions.

"That was risky," Brandt chided once they were safely within the confines of their rented room.

"Just testing our disguises," Kelly said with a shrug. "Didn't you say that you could smell a serpent a mile away?"

"I'm not a common peasant," he snarled. "And if we go into a serpent temple, we're likely to find serpents that aren't common peasants either. It was still risky."

"I'm sure you could have handled a fat, old innkeeper and a room full of drunks without too much trouble."

"You really want to go into a serpent temple?"

"I can't tell if you sound scared or excited," Kelly grinned. "And, yes, of course we have to go into the temple – how else are we to complete our mission?"

Brandt moved towards the side of the bed, one of only two pieces of furniture in the small room – the other being a worn-looking dresser with a drawer missing. He pulled his travelling cloak up over his head and tossed it to the floor.

"And what do we do if the serpents in the temple do recognize us?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something."

She watched him smirk as he approached her, grabbing each side of her waist in his large hands. Though Kelly was a tall and athletic woman, Brandt had no trouble lifting her off the ground with ease and holding her up so that she was looking down at him.

"My, my," she said, "Always so frisky when you think there's a fight coming."

She smiled and ran a finger along the side of his face, tracing one of his nastier scars. He didn't reply, but just pulled her closer and pressed his mouth against hers, her lips parting slightly and letting his tongue press in. She returned his kiss eagerly and they clung together for several minutes, tongues entwined, dancing together.

Her feet touched the ground as he set her down once more and moved to undo his leather jerkin. She lifted her own cloak over her head and tossed it aside, her tunic following in short order. Her torso was bared to him, an invitation he never refused, and she soon felt his rough hands fondling her ample bosom. Though her breasts were more than a handful for most men, they were a perfect fit for Brandt, one of the many things she loved about him.

As he entertained himself with the sight of her revealed body, she looked upon his own treasures – the signs of honour and battle that scattered his large form. The scars were many, and they had many sources – swords, knives, arrows, any sort of weapon a man could devise, Brandt had likely felt the sting of. Many women found his scars off-putting, even grotesque. But Kelly adored them. She loved to run her hands along his more gruesome lines, her soft fingers embracing the once torn skin.

She suddenly felt his lips wrap around one of her sensitive nipples, suckling it gently, and her fingers instinctively dug into his back.

"Maybe we should save our energy," she half-heartedly suggested. "We wouldn't want to be too worn out if we run into trouble later."

Brandt simply laughed aloud and threw her down on the bed.

* * *

Kelly stood at the window, looking out at the black sky, Brandt still sprawled out on the bed behind her. The moon was full and bright, its light reflecting off of her glistening torso, her breasts hanging against the window ledge. Judging by the moon's height in the sky, it was nearly midnight - it was nearly time.

"Are you ready?" she asked, without turning away from the window.

She heard a grunt from the bed and she smiled. When was Brandt not ready for a potential fight? But in this case, a fight was the last thing she wanted to find.

"We need to get dressed," she added, finally turning and moving back into the room proper.

She went straight for her pack and pulled out a pair of emerald silk cloaks, each emblazoned with the emblem of the Serpent Clan – silver stitching that depicted a coiled snake, ready to strike. Brandt looked at the cloaks uneasily.

"I'd rather be wearing my bear," he stated. But he picked the cloak up anyway.

Kelly nodded her agreement. There was something foul about putting these cloaks on. But this was all part of the mission – it was the best way to blend in.

She watched as Brandt rolled out of the bed, his manhood dangling between his thick thighs, the many more scars that adorned his torso clearly visible in the soft illumination of the room. He stared a moment at the serpent cloaks and then snorted as he reached down to collect his breeches from the floor.

"What's the world come to?" he asked. "Bears and eagles hide among serpents. Why can't we just kill them all and be done with it?"

A sigh escaped Kelly's lips, though she knew that the big man was only half serious – he couldn't possibly kill an entire town full of serpents himself. Even though most of the town's residents were just common peasants – farmers and labourers, merchants and tradesmen – there were certain to be enough devout followers of the Serpent Clan to pose a rather significant threat to the two companions.

"Let's get it over with then," Brandt muttered as he pulled the cloak on over his now-clothed body. Kelly nodded and tossed her own cloak on atop the robe she now wore.

Several minutes later the pair was walking down the dark street. There were still numerous taverns and inns open, jubilant noises emanating from most. But Kelly and Brandt passed by the buildings more or less unnoticed. They wandered the streets, following the basic directions they had received from the innkeeper – there usually lay a temple of some sort near the centre of a town.

Most towns started as nothing more than simple temples or monasteries. Folks had the good sense to live in groups, and the various religious centres often provided some degree of shelter and food, so other buildings and farms often sprung up around the temples. Small communities became villages, and villages grew into towns. This particular town was still on the smaller side – it seemed to be home to about a thousand people or so. Kelly had no idea what it was even called, it was simply another of the nameless towns that they had come across since entering the Serpent Clan's territory.

Given the brightness of the moon, Kelly expected to find the temple crowded. And while that might be a bad thing – being among more of their enemies – she hoped it would simply make it easier for them to blend in. There were sure to be unfamiliar faces around on nights like this.

And then they came around a bend and were upon the temple itself. Kelly had never seen a Serpent temple in person before, only heard about them. There were large stone slabs marking the entrance, as was the case with all the clans, but the serpents were different in that there was no building behind the rocks. There was just a hole in the ground. The serpents called their temples coils, as they were dug into the ground, spirals that descended downward like the coils of a snake. She had heard that the coils could be quite expansive and she was eager to see for herself.

Brandt flashed her a look of apprehension as he placed his foot onto the first downward-leading step. She knew that he was more comfortable in the outdoors, closer to nature. He didn't like enclosed spaces. He didn't even like spending more time than he had to in his own clan's cavern fortress. But he was nothing if not brave, and he led the way down into the coil, Kelly right behind him.

They followed the winding, torch-lit steps, the spirals growing longer and wider as they progressed, and they must have been more than twenty feet underground before they came to an open chamber.

The place smelled stale and decrepit and the room was crowded, several dozen people standing eerily still, all wearing black robes, hoods drawn, the same silver snake emblazoned on their emerald cloaks. Kelly and Brandt exchanged looks as they surmised the scene. There was a huge bonfire burning in the centre of the room, the ceiling being ten or twelve feet high. Large stone columns were placed strategically throughout the room to aid in holding the earthen ceiling in place. Beyond the bonfire was a stone altar, not unlike the ones that she and Brandt worshipped at with their own clans – the only difference being that a naked man was tied down to this altar, his squirming limbs clearly indicating his desire to not be there.

Brandt took a bold step forward and Kelly had to reach out and grab his wrist. Her look told him unequivocally that they were not to intervene – only to observe. His arm tensed under her soft grip, but he heeded her unspoken warning.

Kelly followed Brandt's intense glare to the man who stood behind the altar – the high druid of this temple. The man was tall and gaunt, his robes covering what could only be a wisp of a body. His hair was mostly gone, save for gray clumps along the sides of his skull. The old druid was reciting something, but Kelly was too far away to hear the words.

The rest of the congregation was watching intently as their leader produced an ornate dagger from his voluminous robes. Kelly sighed, knowing that Brandt was bound to interfere – and with nearly fifty serpents in the room, they might as well just go ahead tie bind themselves to the altar as well. She could feel his muscles twitching, her hand still holding him back.

"Let's go," she whispered.

Brandt didn't move right away.

"We just got here," he hissed.

As far as Kelly was concerned, they'd seen enough. Rumours had spread through the wood that certain clans had begun dabbling in ancient rituals long banned among the more civilized clans. And as Kelly watched the old druid plunge the dagger swiftly into the bound man's chest, blood splattering up and across his aged face, Kelly knew that the rumours were true.

The sheer hatred emanating from Brandt's body was palpable, and Kelly was certain that even if he didn't charge forward, someone was sure to notice how out of place they appeared.

"Lets go," she insisted, pulling on his arm this time.

There was a moment when Kelly feared that all might be lost, but it passed - Brandt turned and walked determinedly back up the coiling stairs towards the fresh air above. Kelly's hand was shaken loose as he had abruptly moved away, and she hurried to keep pace with his long strides. It took only a minute and she could see the stars again, littering the blackened sky high above.

Brandt was standing beside the large stone slab that marked the entrance to the temple. His fists were clenching and unclenching at his side. Kelly moved towards him, placing her hand on his muscled shoulder.

"It's over," she whispered. "We can return to the elders and deliver our report."

Brandt snorted.

"Our report?" he scoffed. "What of it? What will your precious elders do about it?"

Kelly knew that Brandt was a man of action. He didn't always have time for the careful thought and planning that went into the political machinations of the clans' leadership.

"We must have faith in the elders," she reasoned. "They were chosen for a reason."

"As we were chosen for a reason?"

"Yes," Kelly sighed. "As we were chosen for a reason. Don't forget your place, Brandt."

The big man made a dissatisfied sound and ripped the cloak he wore from his shoulders. He threw the garment to the ground at his feet and slammed his large boot right into the image of the serpent, grinding his foot against it.

"That's what I think of our place," he spat. "My place – our place – should be down there, ridding the world of monsters like that. You saw what they did, Kelly."

Brandt was looking at her now, his eyes pleading with her. He was asking her permission to charge headlong into battle, the one place he knew that he did belong. She stared back at him, appraising his soft brown eyes. For a man his size and strength, a man of his experience, to Kelly his eyes often showed the innocence of a child.

"I saw what they did," she admitted. "But what would you have me do? We aren't even armed. Are you going to kill fifty men with your bare hands?"

"If I have to."

He spoke the words with such cold conviction that Kelly almost believed him. But she also knew the futility of attacking even a single enemy within their own temple, where their power was strongest.

Kelly was about to urge Brandt to leave once more, to head back to their room or, better yet, make for the woods immediately. But she didn't get the chance, as a noise from behind stole her attention.

Kelly turned to see a trio of robed figures moving towards the temple. The figures had been conversing a moment earlier, but now they had stopped and were looking in the direction of Kelly and Brandt. Kelly glanced at her companion – Brandt had noticed the approaching figures as well. One of the robed figures was pointing, his head inclined as he whispered to his companions. Kelly looked down to the ground, noting that Brandt's foot was still planted firmly in the centre of his serpent cloak.

"Should we run for it?" Kelly whispered, though she already suspected Brandt's answer.

In fact, he didn't even bother to give an answer, he just broke into a sprint towards the trio, who were no more than fifty feet away from them. Kelly sighed and stalked in behind her lover. She had managed to dissuade him from violence down in the temple, but up here, when their cover had been blown, there wasn't much that would stop the warrior's charge.

She watched as Brandt flung his massive form against one of the figures, bowling him right over and landing on top of him. He might have caught the first man, whose hood was now lowered, by surprise, but the other two were ready for him. One man produced a long, thin dagger from within his robe. The other seemed to be muttering something under his breath, possibly an incantation of some sort – Kelly narrowed her eyes at that one.

Her own fingers moved nimbly as her lips mouthed words that she no longer needed to recite aloud. Her thoughts were focused on the man, her concentration pure. And as her lips ceased to move, and her fingers finished their intricate weaving, she watched as the ground beneath her enemy began to rumble and shake. It was enough to distract the man from his own magic, his knees wobbling as the ground at his feet began to crack.

His head glanced frantically around – none of the ground nearby was shaking or rumbling so, only that space directly below his feet. The crack widened into a crevice, its depth indiscernible. Panicked though he was, he had the presence of mind to try to simply move away from it, but as he moved the crevice grew and followed him. The crack was wide enough to swallow him up now, but he managed to outrun it – for a dozen strides or so. The man let out a futile wail as his foot found nothing but air, his body lurching forward as his weight was thrown off. He fell into the crevice and Kelly heard the sound of his body slamming into the bottom, just far enough down that he wouldn't be able to get out on his own – if he were still conscious.

She turned her attention back to Brandt, who was deftly dodging his assailant's pointed dagger, the other man knocked out cold on the ground. Kelly had always admired the way that Brandt's large, muscled body could move with such agility and grace. His size was misleading, as he could move with the speed and quickness of a much smaller man.

The cloaked figure lunged forward, a simple attack that was easily dodged. But the man wasn't expecting Brandt to be able to spin to the side. Brandt locked his hand upon the man's wrist, crushing it with his sheer strength. Kelly even heard the crack above the man's screams. She glanced behind her, towards the entrance to the coil – surely someone must have heard the commotion by now. But there was no movement. She turned back to see that Brandt now had the smaller man by the throat, lifting him fully off the ground with just one arm. He took a few steps to the side, towards Kelly's magically summoned crevice, and tossed the man down to join his friend.

"We'd better get out of here," Kelly called out.

Brandt nodded his agreement and he moved towards her. Together they turned and darted between a pair of buildings, making haste to exit the town as quickly as possible. Some of their belongings were still back at the inn, but they could make due without them.

It was only as they reached the tree line that Kelly noted Brandt was bleeding – a long slice had been cut into his right forearm.

"You're hurt," she stated.

"It's nothing," he dismissed, flexing his arm. "It still works just fine."

She knew that he was right. It was nothing – nothing more than another scar for her to admire the next time that they made love.
Sasha

Sasha shifted uncomfortably as she appraised the man standing in front of her. Her mind was working things over, trying desperately to recall ever having encountered him before – how had he ended up in her dream? Certainly he couldn't be solely a figment of her mind, as he was standing right in front of her.

"Who are you?" she demanded, uneasy but unafraid. The man was smiling, and his handsome features and composed demeanour had a strange calming effect on her. There was a certain disarming quality about him.

"My name is Desmond," he replied.

She expected him to divulge what he was doing there, why he had snuck up behind her – but all he said was his name. His eyes sparkled at her, though, and she couldn't make out just how she felt about his presence.

"I saw you in my dream," she blurted out, thinking the words silly and childish as soon as they left her mouth.

"I know," he stated.

She shot him a confused look.

"How could you possibly know what I saw in a dream?"

"Because I was there, you said it yourself."

Sasha just shook her head.

"Touch the stone, Sasha," the man said. "You were about to before I arrived, weren't you?"

She had been about to touch the strange stone structure, but now she wasn't so sure.

"Why do you want me to touch it?" she asked.

"I want to see what happens when you do."

Sasha narrowed her gaze at the man.

"What are you doing here, really?" she asked. "And how do you know my name?"

"Are those really the questions you need to be asking? If you touch the stone, I will answer any questions you have."

"Really? Just touch the stone and suddenly you'll answer my questions? What's so important about this stone?"

She turned and faced the large stone slab, walking right up next to it. She inspected it closely, but it seemed no more than a regular hunk of rock to her. It was smooth in places, a little jagged in others. She started to move her hand towards it, her curiosity having taken over – why was this man so eager to have her touch this plain old rock?

"Clear your mind," Desmond interrupted, before her hand made contact with the stone.

"What? Do you want me to touch it or not?"

She did make an attempt to clear her mind, though, and after a long, deep breath, she let her fingers lightly brush over the surface of the cold rock. Nothing happened, so she pushed her entire hand against the flat surface. She waited a moment, and was about to turn away when she heard a subtle noise.

It sounded almost like the trickling of a stream at first, and then it grew louder. Her eyes darted around, trying to locate the source of the sound – had she somehow released water that was hidden within the rocks?

"Open your eyes," Desmond whispered.

She didn't know what he meant – her eyes were wide open. She turned to look back at him in frustration, only to note his calm stare, looking right past her and into the gateway that was formed by the stacked stones. She turned back towards the stones and was astonished to see that some sort of thin, translucent blue material now covered the entire doorway shape. She was so surprised that she backed away, her hand slipping from the stone. The glowing gateway remained in place, however.

"That's better," the man behind her commented. "You can see it, can't you?"

She nodded.

"Good," he continued.

Desmond stepped forward, brushing against Sasha's still outstretched arm as he did. He approached the bluish gateway and turned to appraise her. His sparkling eyes beckoned her to follow, but still she stood, simply staring.

"Don't be afraid," he said, flashing her another disarming smile and extending his hand to her. "We'll just pass through to the other side."

"The other side of what?" she asked, hesitantly taking his hand in her own, noting how warm his flesh felt.

He didn't answer, but merely walked through the glowing portal, crossing the watery barrier as though it didn't even exist. Sasha followed him through, hand in hand, and she felt nothing as she traversed the threshold. And then she was standing on the other side. She glanced back at the doorway to see that the bluish glow had vanished – it was simply a trio of stacked stones once again.

"What was the point of that?" she asked, but no sooner had the words left her mouth than she understood the answer to her own question. She was not standing in the same woods that she had been moments before.

The woods looked similar – the trees were the same shape, they were in the same place, the path was the same. But she could tell immediately that they weren't the same at all. The colours were sharper somehow, the greens greener, the sun shined brighter, and even the air itself smelled fresher. Where the forest she had entered that morning had seemed dreary and dull, this forest teemed with energy. She could almost feel it wrapping around her body, like some sort of aura.

"What is this place?" she whispered, letting her fingers slip from Desmond's grasp. "It feels like... like the forest in my dreams..."

"You're quite perceptive, Sasha," Desmond replied, his eyes now focused keenly on the young woman.

"But it looks like the same forest. How can it be the same, but so different?"

"They were the same forest once, but that time is long past. Now they are as different as can be. They only look the same."

The cryptic responses didn't seem to bother Sasha, so entranced was she at gazing about the forest, noting the small woodland creatures as they ran about the trees, the small stream that trickled lively by her feet, even the gentle rush of the wind as it tickled her hair.

And then, in one sobering moment, she spun back around and stared at the empty gateway that the pair had just passed through.

"If this is a different place," she said, "Can I still go back home?"

"Yes," he assured her. "The waygate functions in both directions, so long as one with the gift activates it."

She was relieved to hear that, and it was only after that initial relief passed that she registered his mention of a gift.

"I activated the gate," she stated, narrowing her eyes. "But I don't have any gifts. Mother says I have a gift for sticking my nose where it doesn't belong, but I don't think that's what you meant."

"You will have plenty of time to explore your gifts, Sasha."

She was partly confused, partly intrigued, but mostly she was having a difficult time grasping what was going on. He didn't seem to want to explain much about why she was able to activate the gate, but that question weighed less on her mind than did the existence of the gate itself.

"Is my house still over there?" she asked, pointing back in the direction of her garden. "You said this isn't the same forest, but we haven't gone anywhere. Is that thing some sort of teleporter, like in Star Trek or something?"

"Maybe it would be easier if I showed you," Desmond suggested, and he again offered her his hand.

Her brow askew, she took his hand and he led her on down the path. They walked for nearly a half hour, Sasha asking a few questions and Desmond resisting to answer. Eventually she gave up and just enjoyed the imposing presence of nature that surrounded her.

They came upon a knoll and Desmond led her up the side, off the path that ran around the small hill. The grass was long and dense, and she was glad to be wearing a sturdy pair of hiking shoes. She noticed then that her companion was wearing only a subtle pair of sandals, not unlike those she had worn in her dreams.

They reached the peak of the hill and Sasha was able to see over the other side. At the base of the hill was the outskirts of a small village, built within a large forest clearing, and she could immediately see that she was no longer in her own neck of the woods. The buildings in this village were nothing like the house she lived in, or the buildings she passed during her day. They were small and built mostly of wood, with thatched roofs, though there were a few stone buildings. Dirt roads ran between the buildings, and smoke billowed from stone chimneys. People, dressed in very simple garb, walked along the dirt roads, pushing carts or carrying baskets or leading horse or oxen.

"Did we go back in time?" Sasha whispered, her voice awed. The entire scene seemed so surreal that Sasha half expected that she was asleep once more, dreaming this entire exchange, this entire place. Her previous dreams had seemed quite vivid, after all.

"Not exactly," Desmond replied. "This place was once part of your world, but it exists now in its own time and place, magically hidden from your world – a world that my people fled."

"Magically?" she echoed.

Desmond just nodded, not elaborating any further. He led her back down the bank of the knoll to the edge of the forest, away from the village.

"The same magic that powers the waygates keeps us hidden from prying eyes," he continued. "It was a necessary step in our survival."

"Waygates? So there are more of those portals?"

He nodded.

"The ancient druids constructed Stonehenge, using the magic of the natural world to travel great distances. My people functioned in such a way for many years, before the Romans arrived to conquer our lands. Some of our more aggressive clans chose to fight, but they were too few, and their magic was weaker back then. Most of the clans fled, but when they realized that the pursuit would never end, they retreated to this place – a place that they couldn't be followed."

Sasha wasn't sure what he was talking about, but it sounded like a good story.

"You just created this place out of thin air?" she asked.

"Something like that. But I'd prefer not to bore you with the history of our people. And there are some things you aren't ready to hear just yet."

"You said the ancient druids – are you a druid?"

"I am," he stated. "I am a member of the Wolf Clan. There are many druid clans, some large, some small. They are all named for various creatures. You can identify the standing members of the clans by the cloaks they wear."

"I didn't see people in that town wearing cloaks," she noted.

"Cloaks are generally worn by druids and soldiers, as well as the clan's nobility. Small towns like this have no nobles, and few soldiers. And not everyone in this world is a druid. Druids are noted at a young age, showing signs that the magic of nature flows within their veins. The vast majority of the people who inhabit this place are simply regular folk, perhaps the descendants of druids or simply the descendants of the people who fled the Romans alongside my ancestors."

"Where is your cloak?"

"I sometimes prefer to travel anonymously. And my clan is not on favourable terms with a number of other clans presently."

"You mean the clans fight? Why?"

Desmond shrugged.

"Why do any men fight?" he replied. "Power? Wealth? Pride? Different clans have different goals, and when those goals conflict, they fight. Some of the more... aggressive clans even aim to fight with your people."

"My people?" Sasha's eyes widened. It hadn't occurred to her that large groups of druids could move into her world. "But wait, those villagers back there, how could they fight my people? We have guns and planes and bombs and... and they have, what, pitchforks and swords?"

Desmond smiled and walked away from Sasha. She wasn't sure what he was doing, and she stayed where she was. He turned to face her again. He was standing about a dozen feet from the nearest tree, a tall and mature elm.

"While your technological advancements are no doubt impressive," he began, "They would pose little obstacle to our powers."

Desmond then extended his arm, palm outstretched towards the elm, and Sasha watched as a blast of fire erupted from his hand, sucking in the air about it as it careened towards the tree, immolating it on impact. The tree didn't even burn, the fire so intense that it singed the bark and leaves and then was gone, leaving the charred skeleton of an elm in its place.

To this point, this place, this man, these claims, had all seemed like a game to her, some extension of her previous dreams. But now questions assaulted her mind, so many that she was unable to choose just one to ask. How? Why? It didn't seem to matter.

Desmond walked casually over to the tree that he had just destroyed. He gently ran his hand along the blackened bark, caressing it caringly. He whispered a few words under his breath and his hand began to glow, a strange greenish light emanating from beneath it. The tree near his hand began to glow that same greenish colour, and then it spread rapidly to cover the entire elm. It grew increasingly bright and then the glow disappeared altogether, and the tree was as it had been, alive and healthy.

"How did you..." Sasha sputtered.

"Your world's thinkers are too grounded in mathematics and logic, they are blinded to the world around them. They are too concerned with breaking the world down into little particles and molecules. So much effort is exerted into organizing, classifying, categorizing – no one stops to look at the whole, to look at the fabric of the world that surrounds them. If they did, they might discover the magical weave that binds everything together – the birds, the trees, the very air we breathe."

Desmond waved his hand through the air in front of him, his fingers causing ripples of blue and purple and green to trail behind them, as though he was running his hand across the surface of a pond.

Sasha opened her mouth, but this time he cut her off.

"That's enough questions for one day, Sasha," he said. "Though I do have a question for you, something to think about until the next time we meet – a test, let's call it. If my people fled your world more than a thousand years ago, and have been living in this place, how can we understand each other when we speak?"

Sasha was still looking at this man in a new light – she didn't know what to make of him. She processed his question, but didn't have an answer. She assumed it was a question she could answer, otherwise why would he have asked it?

"You're leaving then?" she asked. She looked to the sky, noting the sun's low position. "I really should be getting back, myself. Mother's going to kill me, she'll want to know where I've been."

"You may find that not to be the case," Desmond stated. "Time flows differently in this place – consider it part of the magic that maintains this world. You could spend several days here, but were you to return through the portal, you might find that only hours have passed since your departure."

He gave her a last, appraising look, the familiar twinkle in his eye.

"I trust you can find your way back to the waygate from here?" he asked her.

She turned and looked back down the path that they had walked.

"I think so," she replied, but when she turned back to face him, he was gone. There was no sign of him in any direction.

"Another neat trick," she muttered as she began the trek back to the doorway, eager to find out if his claims concerning the passage of time were true.

Many thoughts flit through her mind as she walked, not the least of which was the expectation of waking in a cold sweat at any given moment. But that didn't happen. She still wasn't sure what to make of everything she had learned, of this world she now walked. Was it even real? Maybe she would wake up, but in a straight jacket. Fireballs and magic and druids – whatever this place was, it was beyond her imagination. But she was certain of one thing, as she gazed at the bright colours and the serenity of the forest around her – this was a wondrous place.
Graumin

He had spent the last two days walking north – much farther north than he thought he would ever have to come. He hadn't even known that the woods extended this far north, so far from any apparent civilization. He was much higher in the mountains now, as well, though trees still surrounded him thickly. He tried not to let it bother him – not the cold, not the lack of shelter or food or water. It was rough travel, but he was moving with purpose. He had a destination now – after all of his searching, he knew where he was going. His guide had seen to that.

Graumin turned his cold eyes upon the spirit that floated not so far away from him. It was daylight in the dark woods, but barely any of the sun made it to the forest floor. So the specter was still easily visible to him, the golden glow outlining its form.

The ghost had a remarkably distinct figure – it even appeared to be dressed in intricate clothing, perhaps the very clothing it had been wearing upon its death. Its hair was fine and long and blew in what little breeze crept through the dense trees. But most of all, its facial features were distinct and clear – the spirit bore the look of a sad, forlorn individual. And any time that its eyes fell upon Graumin, the man could see the hate in its look. But that only made Graumin laugh.

Graumin remembered the battle quite clearly – it had only been two days, after all. The specters had come in the night, while he and the boy slept. Graumin fought them, though his trusty handaxe had been of little use. The ghosts were ethereal, he couldn't physically touch them. But Graumin was the most capable druid of the Spider Clan. His magic was unmatched among his brethren, and it took him little time to discern that the spirits were weak to magical attacks against their minds.

It had surprised him, actually, that psychic attacks had worked – he wasn't sure a ghost even had a mind to attack. But fire hadn't harmed them, nor had lightning or ice or earth, the spells passing right through their bodies as easily as his axe. But once his mental blast had killed the first spirit, he had the rest defeated in short order.

The spirit that sat with him now had been the last of his attackers. The ghosts didn't flee, they were relentless, even against imposing odds. Graumin had nearly killed this one too, but had then thought better of it. If these beings did have minds, if they did think, couldn't he use that to his advantage? So rather than attack the mind of this last spirit, instead he bent it to his will, commanding it to do his bidding. And now the creature would lead him right where he wanted to go.

Graumin chuckled again - a deep, throaty chuckle - as he observed the spirit's hateful glances. His mirth disappeared, though, when he remembered that the boy was gone. He had ordered the boy to stay by his side, but in the chaos of the battle, the boy had run off. He needed the boy. He wasn't sure that he could accomplish his goal without the boy, even should the specter lead him to his destination.

Graumin had wanted to track the boy, to bring him back. But his battle of wills had left him weakened. He had needed to rest. He had slept until morning, the spirit standing dutifully by his bedroll. But when morning had come, he saw that it had snowed while he slept, erasing the boy's tracks from sight.

So here he found himself, two days farther north, alone save for a ghostly companion. His only recourse was to scout the situation and come up with a new plan.

"Let's move," he ordered as he stood up and began strapping his pack over his shoulders. He didn't actually need to speak commands to the spirit, as a simple thought would be sufficient. But Graumin had always enjoyed ordering others around.

* * *

Graumin could see naught but black in any direction, save for when he looked at the spirit. There was a soft gold light that was ever-present, and Graumin was silently thankful for that – the blackness was a lot to take when added to the cold and hunger. He could create fire himself, of course, but magic was taxing to the mind and the body, and Graumin's body was beginning to wear. He hadn't eaten anything more substantial than tree bark in nearly four days.

He sighed as he looked down at the piece of bark that was currently in his hand. There wasn't much nutrition in the bark of trees, particularly trees as old and gnarled as these. But berries and leaves didn't grow this far north, or at least he hadn't found any. And game was more than scarce. He was beginning to forget the feel of his teeth tearing through a piece of meat.

The cold bit at his fingers as he raised the bark to his mouth and clamped his teeth down upon it. His teeth couldn't bite through it, so he was forced to rip it apart – which wasn't much easier. It took forever to chew it to a swallowable state. And the wooden taste was more than most men could handle. But his stomach was desperate for something, anything. And a man will eat most anything when real hunger is upon him.

He tried as best he could to push the cold out, to push the hunger out, to keep the miserable conditions around him at bay. But it wasn't easy. Graumin was a hard man, and had lived a hard life. He didn't rely on frivolities like love to keep him going. He had no special someone waiting for his return, no one worrying about his safety. And he had no warm memories to fend off the loneliness of this place. He just had his gruff demeanour and taciturn nature. He survived through sheer stubbornness, not willing to admit that a little cold or hunger could get the better of him.

It was the third night since the battle, since the boy had disappeared. He had been certain that he would have reached his destination by now. He thought they were close – he knew they were close. He could feel it. But then again, he had thought that he could feel it three nights ago.

Graumin tried to lay out his bedroll, but his fingers were numb. He tried to squeeze them, to warm them up, but it wasn't working. He grunted and maneuvered his worn body into the bedroll using his forearms and elbows. It wasn't much warmer inside, but it was something. He closed his eyes to find some rest, hoping that he would wake up come morning.

* * *

His feet were sore. They were numbed by the cold, but they were still sore. He had thick, woollen boots atop several layers of cloth, but it did little to keep out the cold now. The rest of his body was similarly covered in furs and wool, but there was no defense against the cold this far north and this high up.

He had no idea how high up they were now, but it was becoming more and more difficult to breathe. The air seemed thinner, and of course, it was much colder. He found himself often flirting with the idea of turning back, but that wasn't like him – that was his weakness clawing towards the surface of his gruff exterior. Despite his constant state of exhaustion, sleep was not easy to come by. His body was weary, but his mind was taxed from imposing his will upon his glowing companion. He knew that he could only maintain that level of control over the spirit for so long. Eventually his mind would lose its strength and the specter would attack him – and he wasn't sure that he would be able to resist.

Graumin's head was bowed as he walked, his eyes glued to the snowy ground in front of him. He was trying to protect his face from the harsh northern winds. He could feel the wind ripping through his hair. He tried to keep his furs bound tightly around his head, with only a slit for his eyes and nose to peek out, but it was ever blowing back and revealing his forehead and scalp to the elements.

Graumin raised his eyes occasionally to ensure that he was still following the specter. It was difficult to see well when he did look ahead, with all the blowing snow and harsh wind in his face. The trees were just as gloomy and gnarled, but they were more spaced out now, which allowed the wind much better access to the forest floor. He assumed that the rocky mountain terrain made it more difficult for the trees to grow closer together. There also seemed to be a larger abundance of fir and pine trees in this area.

They continued on for many hours, and Graumin ruefully anticipated another miserable night – as much as his creaking bones and aching back could use the rest, he just wanted to get this damned expedition over with. How he longed to be back in a real bed, warm and well-fed.

He rolled a shoulder to readjust his pack – though it was much lighter than it had been when he'd departed on his journey, it had never felt heavier. And then he noticed himself walk right through a soft golden light. He might also have noticed the accompanying cold sensation of passing through a spirit, but his body was already so cold that it didn't register. He stopped and turned his head to see why the ghost had paused – his mind was weary, but he didn't think that he had lost his control over the being just yet.

The spirit was standing still and erect, immune to the effects of the elements. It was staring straight ahead, past Graumin, and into a thick gathering of old, gnarled trees. They were black in colour, and Graumin might even have thought them dead if not for the thousands of black leaves that still hung from the branches. He had never seen black leaves before, not black like these. And he had no idea how any leaves at all were still hanging in this weather. He knew immediately that he had arrived.

Graumin thought he could feel a strange sensation, but it wasn't as poignant as it should have been. He had felt that he was close to his destination for days, but he expected to feel something greater when he actually arrived. Perhaps his body was too far gone for such feelings.

He slowly started moving in the direction of the blackened trees. He noted that the spirit didn't follow him, but he didn't care enough to compel it to. He didn't need a guide any longer.

As he approached the trees, he was amazed at how densely together they were packed. Though the trees were black and looked dead, they smelled vibrant and alive – it was a pleasant sensation for the near-broken man, who had seen nothing but desolation over the last week. The blackened trunks and limbs and branches were intertwined like a thicket, and he had no idea how he would even make it through. He walked the perimeter, eyeing every little opening until he came across one that looked just big enough for his bundled form to slip past.

He crouched beneath one thick overhanging exposed root and managed to squirm his body between the root and the twisted trunk beneath it. He had to remove his pack and push it ahead of him. It was like a labyrinth of tangled wood, roots and trunks and branches jutting out in all directions. Graumin's progress was slow, but determined. He felt the adrenaline flowing in his veins, his mind racing at the prospect of being so close to his destination.

Graumin's head poked through another hole and suddenly he was in a clearing. He pulled his body from the maze and lay on his back for several minutes, catching his breath. As he recovered, he noticed that the cold didn't seem to be biting as strongly. And it wasn't dark – his head popped up at that revelation. The forest had been long and cold and dark for so long, he forgot what daylight felt like. But he soon realized that it wasn't daylight at all. It was the same golden glow that emanated from the specters, but a lot more of it.

Across the clearing from him, maybe a hundred feet away, was the opening to a cave – a very large opening, twenty feet high. The entire cave entrance was doused in that same golden light, which appeared to originate deeper into the cave. It illuminated the clearing, which was bordered completely by the thick tangle of blackened trees, even overhead as the treetops converged to meet the side of the mountain just above the cave.

Graumin pulled himself up off the ground and onto his feet. He knew what the cave was. And he knew what lay inside. He had been searching for it for a very long time.

He started to make his way across the clearing, his eyes focused only on that one, final goal. But even as he approached the glowing cave, he sensed that he would not be able to enter it. As he had suspected, the cave was magically protected. He flexed his hand, the sensation in his fingers beginning to return now that he was protected from the extreme cold. With his feeling returning, he could sense the tingle of powerful magic – the magic that protected the cave was beyond him. But still he moved closer to investigate.

All along the rocky border of the entrance were carved strange runes – shapes that looked familiar to him, but he couldn't read them. They were old, very old, older than even the most ancient of druidic texts.

Graumin let the magical energy wash over him. The mere presence of such strong magic seemed to rejuvenate him – he could feel strength returning to his weary limbs. He was still starved and cold, but it was easier to push those feelings out now.

He sat down on the ground in front of the cave and just stared into the light. He knew that he would not be able to pass over the threshold. The magic would not allow it. He had always known that the protection of this place would be powerful, but even he had not been prepared for this. He chuckled to himself, wondering why he was surprised – given what lay beyond, he should have expected even more magic than this.

He considered his original plan – Graumin was among the most powerful druids at dispelling others' magic. Along with his psychic magic, banishing spells were a particular forte of his. Many of the other clans found such spells distasteful, as they often required more rudimentary reagents. The stronger the magic that needed dispelling, the more primitive the ingredients required. And for something this powerful, Graumin would need the blood of an innocent. A great deal of blood.

He cursed himself for allowing the boy to escape. He had ordered the boy to stay by his side, but he hadn't counted on the boy's cowardice. After all the trouble in dragging the boy through the wilderness, at the first sign of danger the boy had fled. It was just as well, Graumin knew. Now that he stood in the presence of the magic that he wished to dispel, he didn't know if even the boy's blood would suffice – the magic was that strong.

Graumin hoped that the boy had met his end painfully. Cowards didn't deserve a peaceful death. He suspected that even now the boy's body lay frozen in some snowdrift, or at the base of some hulking tree. As he glanced at the golden light, he contemplated the idea that the boy's spirit might even be floating about somewhere nearby. Perhaps Graumin would cross paths with the boy's specter. He smiled at that thought – the thought that he might still have the chance to punish the boy properly for his disobedience.

But that was neither here nor there – he needed a new plan. He didn't even know if it would be possible to penetrate such powerful protective spells. He needed time to meditate on such things. He needed to figure a way to strengthen his own magic so that it could compete with the likes of this spell – a spell cast by a creature far beyond his meagre capabilities.

Graumin went about setting up his camp, just close enough to the cave entrance so that the warmth of the golden light basked over him. He took an opportunity to scout about the clearing, and found a number of bushes nearby that were teeming with small berries. There was even a trickling stream not far, so that he wouldn't be forced to melt snow into water. It wasn't much sustenance, but his body felt renewed. It would be enough to get him started on his journey back home.

Graumin camped by the cave entrance for several days. He meditated for hours on end, letting his own energy mix with the magic, trying to feel out every fibre of that intense protection, trying to plan how best to attack it. He would find his way inside that cave eventually, he was certain of it. But for now, patience would have to be his ally. And when he finally felt that he understood the essence of that protection, he packed up his camp and exited the dense copse of blackened trees the same way that he had entered.
Kelly

Low-hanging branches occasionally swiped at her face as she moved quickly through the brush. The trees, having lost their leaves, were navigated easily enough, but there were still thick bushes and roots and rocks to deal with. Kelly charged on, though, stopping now and then to ensure that Brandt was keeping pace, and using her keen eyesight to keep track of their pursuers.

The serpents had been tracking them through the woods for days since they had fled the village. Twice Kelly and Brandt had thought their followers eluded, only to set camp and hear the sounds of people moving through the woods nearby. It seemed to Kelly as though they had covered quite a bit of ground, and yet here they were, only a few hundred yards ahead of a group of about a dozen robed druids.

"Let's just kill them," grunted Brandt behind her. It wasn't the first time that he'd expressed that sentiment.

"We can't kill them all," Kelly insisted, though the farther that they ran, the more that she considered relenting and making a final stand.

But they hadn't reached that point yet. Not when the odds were two against so many.

Kelly ducked around a large, fallen tree and pressed her back up against it. The tree was quite thick and as she sat against it, it was still several feet higher than the top of her head. She was breathing heavily, though she felt she could still continue on if she had to. Brandt joined her a moment later, sweat glistening on his brow.

"Giving up already?" he chided.

"I'm tired of running," she admitted.

Brandt grinned and rubbed his clenched fist with his other hand. He started to rise to peek over the top of the heavy log. She knew how badly he wanted another fight. But she had other plans, and she reached out and laid a hand on his muscled forearm, calming him.

"What?" he asked, looking back at her.

"Keep still," she said, and she began whispering, almost singing beneath her breath. She was engrossed in the moment, but still noted Brandt's surprised expression as the brittle bark from the fallen tree began to stretch out and around him. He started to move, uncertain of what was happening. But Kelly's hand squeezed his arm and he settled back against the log. Kelly felt the magic wrapping around her, enveloping her. To the passerby, the tree simply appeared slightly larger than it actually was, but the illusion hid the pair from view entirely.

She turned to look at Brandt, who was just now spotting the first serpent to pass by the tree, realizing that the magic still allowed him to see, despite having covered him completely.

"They can't see us?" he whispered.

"They can hear us," she replied, pressing a finger against her lips.

Brandt nodded and he watched, muscles tensed, Kelly calmly eyeing the various robed figures as they milled about the area. They seemed to have realized that their quarry had gone to ground, as they were no longer running through the bush, but rather walking the area, searching. Kelly held her breath as one man came out of the bushes and walked right in front of their magical concealment, nearly brushing his leg against the illusion. He stopped moving, turning his head side to side, and Kelly knew that their hiding place would be given away if he moved any closer towards them – the illusion was not substantial, his hand would pass right through it.

She flashed Brandt a concerned look, and the big man took the cue, leaping up and right out of the fallen tree. The serpent's eyes widened, but he didn't have time to react, to even shout out, before Brandt decked him, knocking him out cold with one punch. In a fluid motion, Brandt grabbed the man's falling body and hurled it right over the top of the large log, before diving back beneath the cover of the illusion. Kelly heard the man's body thud against the ground on the other side.

"Are you waiting for them to wander off?" Brandt grunted.

Kelly didn't respond. That was exactly what she was waiting for, and Brandt knew that that was what she was waiting for. He just wanted to argue the case for charging out and being rid of their problem once and for all. Kelly didn't like the risk, and she had always been the more prudent of the pair. But as she watched three of their followers huddle, whispering, only fifty feet or so away, she thought that maybe Brandt had a point this time.

"Be ready," she muttered to him, and he turned to give her a questioning look.

But she was already absorbed in the throes of her spellcasting. She figured that if it had succeeded once, why not twice? Her fingers worked nimbly as she summoned the power of the earth. She heard the low rumble as she focused, trying to tap into her strongest stores of magic – the farther away the magic was used, the more power was required to summon it. And as her fingers stopped, and her whispered song faded, she heard the sudden wails and accompanying thuds. She opened her eyes to see that another wide chasm had rent the ground exactly where the three men had been standing – they were no longer standing there.

Brandt didn't waste any time, charging out of their illusionary concealment just in time to intercept another serpent that had come running to investigate the screams of his companions. Brandt tackled the man and sent him tumbling across the ground and skidding right into the wide crevice.

"How deep is that?" he called back to Kelly, who was now focused on a serpent who had rushed her from the side.

"Not deep enough," she muttered.

The serpent stalked towards her and she slowly maneuvered herself around until the man was directly between her and the chasm – which was about thirty feet behind him. And as soon as she was properly positioned, she thrust her arms out before her, summoning the power of the air. A torrential gust of wind blew past her, rustling her hair all about, and sweeping the serpent right up off the ground. The man had a look of shock upon his face as he was carried that full thirty feet and dumped into the hole with his friends.

"Nice one!" Brandt chuckled, as he watched the flailing body soar through the air. She knew that Brandt's magic wasn't nearly as strong as her own – his magic came more in the form of his strength, easily thrice that of a normal man's, rather than any innate ability to control and manipulate the magical weave of nature. And he always enjoyed watching her cast her more creative spells.

Unfortunately, the serpents were also rather adept at magic, and Kelly knew that that little hole in the ground wouldn't keep them at bay forever. There were still a few more serpents about, as well, and she wanted to get on the move again.

Kelly moved to the edge of the chasm, but didn't risk looking down into it. She knew that the druids below were probably casting their own spells even then, and she quickly began whispering, fingers dancing in the brisk air. She raised her arms as her voice trailed off, and as she lowered those arms the edges of the chasm softened and eroded away, a landslide of sorts filling the great hole from all sides. Moments later she stood before a small empty crater, only a few feet deep.

She turned to see Brandt standing nearby, keeping an eye out for further intruders. But as there were none, the pair moved swiftly towards the nearest cover, escaping into the bush.

"Won't they suffocate under there?" he asked.

"One can only hope."

* * *

Kelly stifled a moan as her body gyrated, Brandt's naked muscled form lying on the ground beneath her. Kelly's torso was still covered by her travelling tunic, a leather garment that clung tightly about her feminine curves. Her body moved rhythmically with her lover's, their loins pressed together. Kelly's arms were outstretched before her, hands placed against Brandt's barrelled chest for support. Her delicate fingers traced his many scars, traced the lines of his courage, as he moved inside of her.

They continued in this position for some time, their grunts and groans echoing through the nearby brush. A clear-headed Kelly might have worried that they would attract unwanted attention, despite having spent the bulk of the afternoon confining their movements to a forest stream, erasing any tracks that might be followed.

Brandt suddenly leaned forward, pressing his lips against Kelly's, before reaching his big arms behind her and flipping the pair of them over, Kelly's back landing flat against the ground. Despite his size and strength, Brandt always handled her delicately, and her back pressed softly down as the pair continued their forest tryst.

Kelly stared up into Brandt's hard eyes. She felt her body tingling with anticipation, her breathing coming in quicker bursts, sweat dripping from her brow. She felt Brandt's hands upon her breasts, squeezing them roughly through her tunic. She felt him moving within her body, her heart beating harder, her mind racing, unsolicited moans and groans escaping her lips. And finally she felt her body tense, screams of delight echoing through the trees.

Several minutes later, Kelly lay on her back with Brandt laying beside her, still naked. She was just staring up into the sky, at what little sunlight was poking through the dense cloud cover. Her body was recovering from its recent exertions, and she could feel the cold slowly creeping back into her. She turned her head, glancing around to find her discarded breeches, eager to slide them back on.

"Are you getting dressed?" she prodded Brandt, who appeared to be asleep.

Brandt just grunted as Kelly stepped over him to pick up her leggings. She pulled the tight leather pants over her shapely, toned legs and then moved to retrieve her boots. She stepped lightly on the cold ground, her feet graceful and agile.

"I hope they didn't hear us," Kelly noted, staring out into the woods.

"We left them far behind," Brandt mumbled, his eyes still closed. "Don't worry."

Kelly knew that he was probably right, but part of her was hoping that the serpents were still tailing them. Not because she was eager for a fight, as Brandt always was. But because the next step in their mission was a less pleasant one for the woman.

"If we're away, then it's time I returned to The Aerie, to report to Marcus," she stated.

Brandt's eyes opened wide this time, and he sat up. He didn't say anything right away, as he appeared to be contemplating the situation.

"I haven't been home in so long," Kelly continued, staring off to the east, in the direction of The Aerie, seat of the Eagle Clan.

"You don't have to go," Brandt said, knowing it to be a long journey.

Kelly just smirked in Brandt's direction. They both knew that she had to go – it was part of their job, their responsibility.

"I hate being a totem," Brandt muttered, and he fell back to the ground, his back thudding against the hard dirt.

"We were chosen for a reason," Kelly reminded him, a common refrain among their peoples. "We were sent on a mission because we're the most trusted, the most capable."

Brandt waved a hand over his face, as though dismissing her claims.

"We haven't really finished our mission," he reasoned. "They sent us to find out what the serpents are up to. But we haven't found out. I mean, they're using dark magic, human sacrifices, spells outlawed by the elders long ago. But we don't know what their plan is. Maybe we should find another serpent town, another temple. We might learn more."

Kelly just laughed. She knew the way Brandt thought, and wasn't surprised to hear him suggest such an idea.

"We know enough, Brandt," she said. "Enough to sway the elders to action. We may not know exactly what they're up to, but it should be enough to unite the clans. A war is brewing, you know as well as I."

Brandt just sighed. Kelly was always right. And he knew better than to argue. He knew that she was stubborn like that – she'd made up her mind already and there was nothing that he could do about it.

"Well at least you'll get your chance to fight," Kelly said, which did bring a gleam to Brandt's eye. "We'll need to rally the others, though. No one has heard from Desmond in months."

Brandt shrugged.

"He's always been a loner," he said. "He's probably off exploring some dark corner of the Reverie. Or worse yet, outside of it."

Kelly felt herself shudder. Desmond did have a reputation for travelling through the waygates and into the other world. It was something that most druids frowned upon, but he had his habits.

"Iain was still missing, last we had word," she added. "He was sent to spy on the spiders months ago, long before we were set on our own mission."

Brandt didn't appear concerned.

"Spiders are weak," he spat. "Besides, I'm sure they sent Brom after him. That sneaky little bastard can infiltrate anything. They'll be fine."

Kelly hoped that he was right. Alone, they were each among the most powerful druids that the clans possessed, imbued with the power of the elements and the spirits of the ancestors. There were a scattered few serpents and spiders who could rival their power individually, through dark magics. But together, the totems were near unstoppable. They could stand against entire clans.

"I could come to The Aerie with you," Brandt stated suddenly.

It caught Kelly a little off guard.

"You know you can't," she said.

"You know it won't be like last time, I promise. That was just a misunderstanding. I thought that guy was flirting with you. I'm sure they'll be happy to have me back."

"It's not that," she replied, grinning. "I'm sure they would be quite happy to have the great warrior, Brandt, back among them. But you know that I need to travel with all haste. And you can't keep up with me."

Brandt sighed and flicked a fallen branch into the bushes beside him. He got back onto his feet and moved closer to Kelly.

"I hate saying goodbye," he said.

"I know."

He leaned in closer and kissed her, letting his lips linger against her own.

"We'll be together again soon," she promised as she pulled away. "And it's about time you were back to your home, as well."

Brandt nodded half-heartedly. She knew that he didn't much like going home. The Bear Clan worshipped him, but he didn't like the attention. Brandt was a simple man – he liked to enjoy life, be it in battle, in love, or in festivity. He wasn't much for politics, and he preferred to spend his time out in the open, as opposed to within the cavernous fortress that was the Bear Clan's seat.

"You'll be fine," she said as she picked up his pack and handed it to him.

He nodded and even managed a smile.

"Now put some clothes on," she chided, giving him a final peck on the cheek and then disappearing down the trail and into the trees.

* * *

It had been only a day since Kelly and Brandt had parted ways, and yet Kelly had covered nearly half of the great distance to The Aerie. She had stopped to rest in a small clearing beside a calm spring. Her campfire was dwindling away as she made preparations to continue her journey.

Kelly wasn't sure what to expect when she returned to The Aerie, she had been away so long. But both she and Brandt had been expressly ordered to return to their respective homes upon completion of their mission – the elders insisted on following a certain level of protocol and propriety. Kelly was expected to report her findings to her superior, Marcus, one of the leaders of the Eagle Clan.

She stretched her arms out after her restful sleep, kicked some dirt over the remnants of her fire, and then moved on down the trail. She walked a little ways, eager to stretch her legs before embarking on her journey. And after a little while, she began glancing up at the forest canopy, every few minutes, hoping to see a clearing, some sort of sizable gap. But she didn't find one, and continued following the trail.

To her surprise, the trail eventually led her to a breathtaking sight – the trees ended, as the forest ended, opening right up into a cliff, at least two hundred feet high. The forest continued on down lower, and Kelly inched her way to the edge of the cliff, carefully looking over the side. The view was incredible, the forest stretching on for miles in any direction. She had no idea that she had been so high up to begin with, but there she was.

After admiring the view for several minutes, she backed away from the edge and smiled. She took a deep breath, and then broke into a quick sprint, her legs pumping hard, her eyes watching the edge of the cliff grow closer and closer. And then, with great effort, she flung herself over the side, enjoying the rush of the wind through her hair and against her body as she fell.
Father Lawrence

The man heaved the large stone slab up off the ground and let it thud down upon the stone beneath it, the crude mortar between the stones splashing across his weathered black cassock. His cassock was so dirty that the thin white stripe at the neck was barely visible – it looked more like a dark beige or grey. He wiped the sleeve of his garment across his brow, trying to mop up some of the sweat that was dripping into his eyes. And no sooner had his brow been wiped dry than he was reaching down for the next heavy burden.

The man was not large, nor did he appear overly strong – but a decade or more of hard labour had created a rather more toned physique than one might expect to find on a man nearing fifty years of age. His hair was once thick and black, though now it had thinned some, and there were tufts of grey all about the edges. His face appeared as weathered as his robes, but there was a boyish charm to his smile despite the rugged lines that surrounded it.

He dropped the next stone into place beside the first and then reached this time for the bucket of mortar and his trowel. He lifted up a healthy amount of the thick mixture and slathered it across the next area that he aimed to lay stones – he had worked this particular wall up nearly to the height of his shoulders. It wouldn't be long before he'd need a scaffold and pulley to continue.

He stepped back for a moment and took in the sight of his work thus far. It had been over fifteen years since he had started work on this church. Two years ago he had finished it, a small, modest structure, stone on the exterior, the roof made of wood. It was only about twenty feet tall at its highest point, a far cry from the great cathedrals of his homeland. But it was his, built with his own bare hands. And now he was in the process of expanding it, the new addition aimed to house a school. It would be several more years before he finished this section, but he could live with that – this work was what defined him now. And he savoured it.

But the real fruits of his labour lay behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder at the sounds of the bustling village that had sprung up around his church. There were only a few hundred people here, but it was quite a sight to behold for the humble priest. When he had laid out the foundation for his church, it had been just him, alone, in the middle of this clearing. But now there was a village, complete with a market, two taverns, and rows of dwellings, some larger, some barely straw huts. A small river had flowed only a hundred feet or so inside of the forest, which was why he had chosen the spot to begin with – a healthy supply of fresh water. Most of those trees had been cut away now, to provide wood for construction, and the river ran just along the edge of the clearing.

At first, he hadn't been sure what to make of the people who had shown up and asked his permission to build their homes alongside his church, which had been barely half finished at that point. He had gladly said yes, though on the condition that they had to provide for themselves. More and more people showed up, many of who were simply folks who didn't care for the druidic way and wanted to get away from the various clans. As far as the priest knew, his was the only settlement for miles and miles that wasn't affiliated with a druid clan. They were outcasts, people who didn't fit into this strange world around them. But no matter who showed up here, they always found a home.

The priest turned back to his dwindling pile of stones, limestone that was dug up from a nearby quarry. He'd soon be making a trip to see the oxen, he realized. The leaders of the Ox Clan had long ago made a deal with the priest, barter for their stones. It seemed the druids were rather fond of wine, yet only had the ability to make a somewhat crude concoction themselves. But the priest knew just where to find an inexhaustible supply.

"Father Lawrence!"

He was just reaching down to pick up the next stone when he heard his name being yelled. The priest turned to see a man running towards him.

"Father," the man said as he pulled up alongside the priest, trying to catch his breath.

"What is it, Jeffrey?" Father Lawrence asked. "Is something amiss?"

The man nodded fervently.

"A newcomer," he said, between laboured breaths. "Just wandered in. Looks lost, hungry. Judging by his clothes, he's not from around here."

Father Lawrence sighed. While the majority of the people in his little village were merely outcast peasants from other towns, fleeing the druid clans for whatever reason, occasionally someone would stumble into this world through one of the portals. It was rare, as only those with the ability to utilize magic could access the powers of the waygates. But some people had such a gift deep inside, never able to fully realize it. And those people could activate the stones entirely by accident. Others, like the priest himself, might inadvertently follow another through the gate, or sometimes a gate might remain active for days before the door finally closes. In any case, it seemed someone from the other world had stumbled into this world, and that person would be lost and confused – they would require guidance.

"Where is he?" the priest inquired.

"That's why I hurried over," Jeffrey replied, "The witches got to him first."

Father Lawrence groaned and immediately started walking at a brisk pace, leaving his stone and mortar behind. Jeffrey was scurrying behind, trying to keep up.

"How long ago?" the priest called back over his shoulder as he moved down the dirt path that served as the village's main road.

"Not long. He came out of the woods near the river, a few folks fetching water saw him."

Many people greeted the priest as he moved quickly through the village, and he smiled and returned each greeting. The witches had their own structure on the opposite side of the village from his church, though they often preferred to practice their rituals under the open sky.

Father Lawrence moved off the dirt path and confidently made the last few strides towards the circular stone building that served as the witch coven's home. It had a domed roof, which always impressed the priest, and he knew that he could never re-create it. The building boasted a large, ornate oak door, which he was now pushing open. A nod over his shoulder indicated that Jeffrey should wait outside.

The room inside was completely dark save for the flickering light of many candles – the witches used no windows, only candles of many different colours. The interior of the circular building was entirely open. The floor was made of packed dirt, as most of the witches liked the feel of nature against their bare feet.

In the centre of the room there was a finely polished stone altar, which stood upon a pentacle that had been seared into the very ground – the priest had long ago given up inquiring as to how the witches accomplished such feats. The answer was always the same.

Father Lawrence gently shut the door behind him. He was intruding upon the coven's private sanctuary and always treated such things with great respect. While he may not agree with these people's views, they were their views and they had as much right to them as he had to his own.

The witches seemed to be in the middle of some sort of ritual, and he suspected that it was likely designed to seduce the newcomer to their ways. Tamara, the High Priestess of the coven, was always trying to recruit new members to their ranks. Candles were lit all about the central altar, and when he looked in that direction he saw that Tamara was in her usual place, front and centre.

The priest shifted uncomfortably, not all that surprised to see that Tamara was standing in front of her coven completely nude. To say that the witch was a sight to behold would have been putting it mildly, he thought. She was very attractive, though she had dark, gothic features to her – long black hair, sleek as the raven, and she generally wore dark make-up about her face. Her body was toned and taut and she appeared to be no older than her mid-twenties, though he suspected that she was at least ten years older. She was tall, with long, slender legs that seemed to climb forever. And she had large, firm, impossibly round breasts that seemed to defy the laws of physics as they hung proudly on her chest – even her nipples, through some trick of the light, seemed to sparkle or glint in the dim illumination. He had seen all of this before, of course, but a woman of such beauty was difficult to ignore, even for a priest.

He began to carefully move through the onlookers and toward the altar. It bothered him a little to interrupt the witches' ceremony, but he had no choice. He couldn't allow Tamara to lay claim to this newcomer. It didn't take long for him to spot the newcomer, either – the man was wearing strange clothing and standing near the altar, just off to the side. As expected, his eyes were glued to Tamara's body as she gyrated her hips and danced rhythmically for her coven. Dancing was a sensual and important part of these rituals, the priest knew. And it also served to entrance those that the witches aimed to seduce – and no one was better at that than Tamara.

Father Lawrence was soon standing beside the man, and laid a hand on his shoulder. The touch seemed to snap the man out of his trance, and he turned to look at the priest. Father Lawrence nodded to him, and then turned his own gaze back to the High Priestess – he expected that Tamara would notice him any second.

"Finally succumbing to the darkness, are you father?" she purred as she moved around the altar to stand only feet from the two men, her body still swaying erotically.

"I'm taking this man from here, Tamara," Father Lawrence replied.

The witch made a pouty face, and then let one of her slender arms reach out towards the newcomer, a finger curling in her direction, calling the man to come to her.

"Why don't we see what he has to say about that, father?" she asked.

The priest turned to see that the man's eyes were again glued to the dark beauty and he was even starting to inch towards her. Father Lawrence stiffened his grip on the man's shoulder.

"You know the rules, Tamara," he stated. "We're leaving, now."

The priest turned and headed back towards the entrance, pulling the man behind him. The newcomer didn't seem quite as eager to leave, his head turned back towards Tamara the whole way to the door, but he didn't protest.

Back out in the daylight, the man blinked and shook his head.

"I'm sorry about that," Father Lawrence said.

But the man didn't seem to mind.

"Who was that?" he asked, his voice awed.

Father Lawrence sighed.

"That was Tamara," he replied. "She is the leader of the witch coven here. And she is not supposed to see you before you have spoken to me."

The man looked confused.

"My name is Father Lawrence," the priest continued. "I'm what you might consider the unofficial leader of this village. I'm sure you have many questions, and I will answer them all. And after that, if you so wish, you can return to see Tamara – though I would advise waiting a while, she's bound to be a little angry with me."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Tamara came charging right out of the door. She had covered herself in a black robe made of wispy fabric that did little to hide her ample bosom or long legs. She had a cross look on her face, but before she could scold him, the priest made sure to send the newcomer away with Jeffrey.

"You have no right to intrude on my coven's rituals," she said, scowling.

"You violated the rules of our deal, Tamara," the priest replied. "Newcomers are to be brought to me before anyone else."

Tamara scoffed.

"So that you can poison them with your filthy religion?" she accused.

"Because I'm the only one who can be trusted to speak to them objectively. Every member of this community is free to choose their own beliefs, Tamara – as you know quite well. I allow you and your witches sanctuary in this village based on the agreement that you will follow a very simple set of rules. If you can no longer abide by those rules, then you are free to take your people and move on."

He paused a moment, taking measure of her.

"What sort of welcome do you think you will receive at the hands of the druid clans?" he asked.

The witch sighed after a moment.

"Forgive me, father," she said, her tone mocking. And then she bent at the knees and gave him a little curtsy.

"This is no joking matter, Tamara," Father Lawrence said. "That man is not from this world. He is lost and confused – though I'm sure you know that already, given that you and I are from the same world as he. Revealing the truth to him is a delicate matter, as is planting the notion that he can never return home."

Tamara laughed.

"I forgot," she chided. "You and your high ideals, and yet you lie to these poor folk who stumble into this world. You go back through the portals every other month, but they can never return home? Why don't you sell that hypocrisy somewhere else?"

She turned to leave, but he grabbed her by the wrist. She spun back to face him, though she didn't look upset – instead she had a rather playful look in her eye.

"Tamara," he cautioned. "You know the dangers of letting someone go back home after seeing this place. What if they returned with others? The druids abide our presence in their world because we stay out of their way – we give them no reason to care if we are here or not. But if we were the cause of armies of intruders streaming through those waygates, we'd have the clans arrayed against us in a heartbeat. We lie to them to ensure our survival."

"You think I care about some silly little man and whether you lie to him or not?" she scoffed. "Do what you will with him, I care little."

"Then why were you just trying to seduce him?"

"You know why," she spat. "Our coven needs more men. We have over twenty female witches, but only three males." She cast her eyes out over the village, where men wandering down the dirt path were turning their eyes to her. "These men all want to fuck me, but none of them will join me."

The priest could see her frustration – he had felt it himself from time to time. Despite his efforts in building a church and forming this community, he still had as much difficulty as Tamara in actually recruiting anyone to his faith. Most of the people here had fled the druid clans, and had little interest in trading one belief system for another.

"You know, father," Tamara purred, drawing his attention back to her. "Now that I've seen this side of you," she inclined her eyes down, to where he still had his hand clasped about her wrist, "I think you just might fit right in with our little group."

The priest just smiled at her and released her arm.

"A pleasure, as always, Tamara," he said, and then he turned and walked away.

* * *

The stone church was drafty and darker than the priest had hoped, but he kept it warm and well lit with a hearth that was always burning and plenty of white candles lining the walls. There were half a dozen rows of pews that faced the front of the church, the priest's altar and podium. He had intended to put a large stained glass window behind the altar, but glass itself was difficult to come by, so he made due with what he had.

"Tea, Edward?" Father Lawrence offered, the newcomer seated at a large oak table at the far end of the church.

"Ed," he said, "Call me Ed. Uhh, tea would be fine, I guess."

The priest had a black kettle hung atop a spit over his fireplace, which was just coming to a boil. He lifted the kettle and laid it atop a stone counter where he poured two mugs full of boiling water.

"I have the finest herbs from the local market," the priest commented as he steeped the herbs into the water. "Makes for the loveliest tea."

But his guest didn't seem as interested in the quality of the tea.

"So you're saying I really can't go home?" the man asked. "Ever?"

Father Lawrence bowed his head as he carried the two mugs back over to the table.

"I am afraid not, Ed," he said, and he laid his hand on the man's shoulder.

"But my wife... My kids... I can't just leave them..."

The priest saw that the man was near breaking. He had taken the news of this world with a stoic air, seeming almost interested in his accidental discovery. But his tone had changed quite dramatically when told that this was now his home – he could never return through the portal.

"It is unfortunate," Father Lawrence went on, "I know. But the portals function only in one direction. Once you pass through them, there's no going back."

The lie flowed so easily through his lips that he wondered for a moment if he was really as holy a man as he thought. But he had convinced himself that this was for the greater good. Many lives might be at stake if someone were to return back to their world and say the wrong thing to the wrong person.

"I feel for you, my friend," the priest said. "I myself stumbled through a portal just as you have – the very same portal, in fact. I was out for a hike one sunny morning and I wandered just off the beaten trail. I spotted the glowing doorway, wondering what sort of unearthly device it might be. And... well, you know the rest of that story. I found myself here, wondering whether I'd travelled back in time, or even whether I was dead.

"I was forced to leave people I cared about behind, as well. Not a wife and children, obviously, so I can't share that pain with you. But others that I cared deeply for. And not a day goes by that I don't miss them, wonder how they are faring without me. And that was over fifteen long years ago."

He wasn't sure if his tale would cheer Ed up or just depress him further. But the point was that the priest had to convince the man that all hope of returning home was lost, and that he might as well make the best of his time here.

The priest didn't make much progress with the man. In the end he just escorted the newcomer to the local inn and provided him with a room.

As he was leaving the inn, the priest spotted Tamara walking up the road towards him. He just sighed, not in the mood for her mocking just then.

"Is it done?" she asked, her dark eyes boring into him, her burgundy lips curled into a little grin.

"Is what done, Tamara?"

"Your little song and dance? Is the poor little man up there crying his eyes out that he can never go home?"

"Do you really take such pleasure in the pain of others?"

The witch laughed.

"I take pleasure in many things," she said. "Many things..." she let her voice trail off as she pressed closer to him, her firm breasts pushed right up against his arm. But the priest had become accustomed to her teasing – seducing a man of the cloth was probably quite high on her list of pleasurable things, he imagined.

"But that man's sorrow is not one of them," she added. "Though I find your motivations to be much more intriguing."

"I'm sure that you do," the priest replied, smiled at her, and then walked away, wondering all the while if the witch was really wrong.
The Prisoner

He was crouched in the corner of the cramped cell, his arms wrapped around his knees. He might have been trembling with hunger, thirst, or simple exhaustion, but his body was too far gone for such things. The cell was black, no light entering it save for what little illumination could sneak under the heavy oak door that served as his barrier from the world – and that wasn't much. The walls were made of thick stone slabs. They were often damp and cold. The cell was empty – four walls, a floor, and a ceiling.

He tried to close his eyes, to sleep, but sleep rarely found him. While his body was worn and tired, his mind was constantly alive and crackling – it felt like little spikes were being driven into his brain. He had become used to the pain, it didn't bother him like it once did. He could remember screaming at first, when the pain was introduced to him. But now he was just used to it – and he didn't think he could scream if he wanted to. His voice had regressed to a hoarse, throaty whisper.

He leaned his head back against the stone wall, hoping that a different pose might better help him find some rest. But he knew that it was a futile attempt – how many times had he tried the same thing in the past?

He heard the soft scurrying sound that accompanied the arrival of his cellmates. The stone slabs that made this dungeon were old, very old. And the mortar was weak and brittle. It was easy enough for the rats to gnaw their way through, probably hoping to find food on the other side of the wall. Instead they found only the prisoner.

He wore no clothing, and he instinctively moved to cover his genitals with his bony hands. He wasn't sure what difference it made – the feeling of a rat nibbling on his sensitive parts wouldn't even register against the pain he endured on a daily basis in this place. But he did it all the same.

The rats weren't his only company, either. It seemed only fitting that the dungeon was filled with spiders. He wasn't sure what the spiders fed on – maybe his fleas. But he had long ago given up trying to shake them from his body. They ran across his skin, tickling him. They dangled from his long, unkempt hair. There might be a dozen of the creatures crawling across his body at any given time.

He heard a sound outside his cell – the sound of approaching footsteps. The passage of time was lost to him, but there were only two reasons that they ever came to his room. One was to bring him his meal. The other was something that he tried very hard not to think about.

His body tensed – it always did when he heard the footsteps. Emotions swirled in his pained, tired mind. The steps grew louder, closer, and his fingers scratched into his skin in anticipation, his bowels in knots as he waited. The steps were the one constant in his life, the one thing that he knew would happen each and every day. If the door swung open, his heart would sink, his body having long ago lost the ability to fight back. The sound of that door opening, of the rusty hinges creaking, was the sound of sheer terror.

But this time he was lucky. His body relaxed as only the small flap at the bottom of the door opened, an object tossed inside his cell. There was very little light and he couldn't make it out, but he knew what it was – it was his meal. It was always the same meal. One stale piece of bread. It would be wet, having been soaked in water, his only source of water in this place, save for the occasions when it rained and a few drops dripped down into his cell. He liked the rain. Even though he knew that he was underground, he could still hear the pitter patter of the drops, and it helped soothe his mind just a little. And he was always able to lick the walls to get a bit of water.

One stale piece of bread a day was what they fed him. There was no plate – it was simply tossed onto the filth of the floor. And it was wet to provide him enough water so that he wouldn't die on them, and to soften the bread up a bit so that his teeth could go through it. He remembered vaguely how eager he had been for that bread in the early days. He had liked the sound of the footsteps back then. He would rip through the hardened dough, devouring the meal in seconds as the rats looked despondently on.

But he didn't have that energy anymore. The rats beat him to the bread today.

* * *

His limbs ached, his legs still folded beneath him as he leaned against the walls in the corner of his black cell. His belly gnawed at him – he felt as though his insides might start eating themselves before long. It had been three days since he had beaten the rats to a piece of stale, mouldy bread, and he wasn't sure that he could last much longer without some form of sustenance.

But he didn't mind. He welcomed death. He knew that escape was impossible, and that they would never let him go. His only escape now was to die. And he laid in that cell, head pounding, day after day and night after night, waiting for the end. It never did seem to find him, even though his body had given up. He couldn't even stand up anymore, his legs were so weak and atrophied.

He heard the faint sound of footsteps coming down the hallway outside his door. Part of him wanted to lunge forward, to snatch that piece of bread up, to give him something, anything, more to survive on. But a bigger part of him just didn't care anymore – and he hadn't the strength anyway.

But instead of the flap opening and the single piece of bread being tossed into his cell, he heard the old key rattling in the lock, followed by the rusty hinges creaking as the door swung wide. Normally this would cause the terror within him to swell. But now he just hoped that they had come to finish him off.

The light clink of chain mail identified his gaolers, though his eyes couldn't make them out. He knew their grip well enough, though, and moments later each of his arms had been roughly grabbed hold of by large hands. He was pulled to his feet, but when he tried to set them on the ground beneath him, they just gave way, and he was dragged along instead.

"Fuck, that stench," one of the jailers said. "He shit himself! Again!"

"How?" the other replied. "Look at these bones, he barely eats a thing. What the fuck is he shitting out?"

There was a time when the guards might have beaten him for such an atrocity. But now they just laughed at him. He was too pathetic to even bother hitting anymore. But that didn't mean that they treated him with any care as they hauled him out of the cell and down the hallway, his body limp, his head bowed, eyes closed.

He knew what came next. He had memorized the path from his cell to the room at the end of the long, barren hall. There were a few turns and one flight of stairs. And even with his eyes closed, he knew as they approached that big, black iron door.

The door opened with an echoing clang and the guards tossed him onto a table, the wood hard and cold, splintered in many places. He felt his wrists and ankles locked in to thick leather straps, the back of his skull pounding with extra intensity simply from being in the unholy room.

He lay there, his back flat on that cursed table, waiting. He knew the dread that would follow, and he just continued to hope and pray that he would die before it came. He certainly felt close enough to death.

"Is he secure?" a new voice asked, and the sound of that voice sent tingles down the prisoner's spine.

"Aye, sir," one of the guards replied.

"Good. Now leave us."

The two men obeyed, and the prisoner heard the clinking of their chain mail as they left the room, the heavy door clanging shut behind them.

"There now," the new figure said. "That's better, isn't it?"

The prisoner forced his eyes open, turning his head to view the man. The man was tall and gaunt, with dark, penetrating eyes, and perfectly manicured graying hair and matching goatee. His clothes were always of the finest quality.

"My good imposter friend," the man said, "I must apologize. I have been unable to visit you these last few weeks – urgent matters to attend, I'm sure you understand. But now that that business has concluded, we may resume our little sessions. I pray you've been faring well. You look as well as can be expected."

The prisoner remembered this man well – his voice, his tone and speech, his dark eyes. Even his name – Kendrick. It was the only name that the prisoner remembered, including his own. Kendrick had made quite an effort to maintain a certain level of propriety in their early sessions together, and though he could barely remember much about those encounters, the name was still with him. Initially he had tried very hard to remember that name – Kendrick – so that he might whisper it into the man's ear as he killed him. But those days were long behind him now. Now that name meant something else entirely.

"Well now," Kendrick continued, "Where did we leave off last time?"

"I think... I think that..." the prisoner managed to whisper, his voice hoarse and throaty. "I think that you were about to let me go."

Kendrick laughed, an evil high-pitched sound.

"Was that it?" he asked. "And here I thought we had left off just before you telling me who you are and why you were spying on my people."

"I don't think so..."

"No, I imagine you don't. But that's where we shall pick up."

The prisoner braced himself. He felt the blow coming before it ever hit him. And then a sharp pain shot through his right side as Kendrick slid a pointed instrument right through his rib cage. He could feel the metal inside of him, squirming around as the gaunt man twisted it. He opened his mouth to scream, but the sound never emerged. Instead he just lay there, covered in his own shit and filth, and felt the blood draining out of his side.

"Now, my friend," Kendrick said. "Let's try this again, shall we?"

He pulled the instrument from the prisoner's body, and went about wiping the blood and gore from it with a black cloth.

"What is your name?" he demanded.

"I don't... I don't remember..."

It was true enough. Any memory of his former self – his name, where he was from, any such details – had long been ripped from his mind by the pain and isolation.

"I find it hard to believe that you can't remember your own name. Perhaps I'm being too soft on you."

The prisoner watched as Kendrick picked up another torturous implement, a fiendish-looking three-pronged dagger with little ridges and serrations designed for tearing flesh.

"No... No..."

But it was no use – he felt the blades rip into his gut and his body shuddered and convulsed as the waves of agony roared through him. He could barely think, but one thought kept flashing through his mind – that this was it. He was dying. His body couldn't handle the abuse any longer.

But Kendrick seemed to sense the same thing. The prisoner felt a hand press against his gaping wound, holding his insides in place. And then he felt the warm caress of healing magic, putting him back together.

"No... No..."

His voice was different this time – he was no longer frightened, but pleading.

"Now, now, imposter," Kendrick said. "We can't have you dying just yet. I need information from you first. Then, if I'm feeling merciful, maybe I'll let you die. Or maybe I'll throw you back in that cell to rot away. That all depends on how quickly you tell me what I want to know."

Kendrick moved away from the prisoner, back to his table of devilish instruments.

"It seems you're not quite up to the old fashioned treatment. Pity, I was hoping to try a few of these out. I picked up a handful of new toys from some badger merchants – they're devious little buggers, badgers. But no, I suppose we'll have to accelerate our work a little instead."

He turned back towards the prisoner with only a small wooden stick in his hand. Most people would have found such an innocuous-looking tool to be a pleasant reprieve from the blades and pokers. But the prisoner knew better.

"Now why don't you tell me what you were doing in our city?" Kendrick asked. "And how you managed to subdue nearly a dozen spiders before they overcame you."

Again, the prisoner couldn't remember any of those things. But the thought that he may have harmed a few of Kendrick's allies did bring a little smile to his withered face.

"Does that amuse you, friend?"

Kendrick pressed the little stick against the prisoner's temple, and his body immediately started to buck and shake on the table. Wave after wave of psychic energy assaulted his mind, pain the likes of which blades and pokers couldn't possibly replicate. Though Kendrick only held the stick in place for a few seconds, the prisoner's body shook and spasmed for several minutes. Kendrick waited patiently until the prisoner was lying still on the table once more.

The prisoner found his breath steadying and the twitching in his limbs died down a little. But the piercing sensations in his mind continued, those familiar spikes driving into his brain. Would he ever be rid of them?

"I don't suppose that you're ready to talk now," Kendrick said.

But the prisoner was in no state to respond. He was just staring straight ahead, up at the stone ceiling of the dungeon. He didn't even notice when Kendrick sighed and summoned the guards.

"Throw him back in his cell," Kendrick said. "Once he stops shaking."

And the prisoner felt the stick press into his temple once more, his body wracked and writhed, nearly bucking free of his restraints. And then he blacked out.

* * *

The prisoner had been in a nearly catatonic state for days following his session with Kendrick. But what little sanity he had left was beginning to return to him. He again recognized his cell, his home. The darkness seemed almost welcome to him given the stabbing pains that continued in his head – the echoes of those powerful psychic attacks.

He had almost died. He had been so, so close. But the universe had let him down again. Why couldn't he just die? What had he done to deserve this life?

He had his arms wrapped around his knees, his usual pose, and his body hunched up against the cold stone wall in the corner of the cell. He could feel the spiders crawling across him, and the rats' whiskers on his ass as they nibbled at his excrement.

The light patter of rain had been filling the cell the last few hours, and the prisoner barely noticed when the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside approached. He noticed them only when they were very close to his cell, and his mind raced in panic. Kendrick couldn't be calling for him again, not so soon – he was pleading with himself, desperate to not have to enter that dungeon, to lay on that table. He liked his cell. It was cozy. It was his home now.

He expected to hear the flap open and his piece of bread tossed in, but instead he heard a different sound – it was the sound of a door swinging open, creaking hinges and all. But it wasn't his door. It must have been the cell beside his, but he could hear it quite clearly.

"Get in there, you wretched sot," one voice, presumably the guard's, said.

The prisoner could hear the scuffle of feet and a second man being tossed into the adjacent cell.

"Thank you, my good man," the second man replied. "Your spider hospitality is legendary. Although I must say, the accommodations are a little disappointing. Are there no rooms with a lakeside view remaining?"

The guard didn't answer. The prisoner heard the door slam shut a moment later.

"I'll give a shout if I require anything!" the man yelled after the guard.

The prisoner relaxed as he heard the guard's footsteps moving away until they disappeared altogether. But the sound was replaced by a different sound, something that the prisoner couldn't quite make sense of – it sounded almost like the sizzle of meat cooking over a fire. And then he could smell something burning. It was perplexing – what was going on in the cell beside him?

He didn't have time to contemplate the possibilities before he noticed that a large stone, right in the centre of the wall between the two cells, was beginning to glow a faint reddish colour. His eyes narrowed, not understanding. But the glow only intensified, until that one, individual stone was bright red, and appeared to be burning hot. The sizzling sound was louder, and the scent of burning more prominent.

He wanted to crawl across the cell, to get a better look, but his body was too far gone. He just stared, eyes glued to the glowing red stone. The stone continued to grow brighter and brighter and then it just sort of dissolved, liquefying before his eyes, and melted away onto the floor leaving a hole in the wall.

It was very dark and he could barely make out the hole, but he was certain that he saw a pair of eyes looking back at him from the other side.

"Hello, old friend," the man on the other side of the wall said. "I must apologize, it's taken me longer than anticipated to find you."
The Boy

Remnants of the charred squirrel still clung to the spit that straddled the dying campfire. His meagre fire was flickering weakly in the stiff breeze, but the boy couldn't be bothered to stoke it. He was bundled tightly beneath his bedroll and blanket, and he didn't want to climb out. He could always light another fire come morning. For now, he just wanted to fall asleep, glad that his belly was full for the first time that he could remember.

The boy had no magical abilities, and he didn't have great skill as a hunter, either. Not to mention that he had no weapons beyond his small knife – and that would hardly help him take down a deer. But he had always shown a keen proficiency for trapping. He had spotted the small tracks in the snow early that morning, and using what supplies he could rummage from his pack, he had created a rudimentary snare. A few hours later he had returned, happily surprised to see a struggling squirrel caught up in his trap.

And thus, he had eaten well – the first meat that he had tasted in weeks. He had been surviving on tree bark and wild berries, and, as he had travelled farther south, some wild herbs and plants. He knew which ones were safe to eat and which could poison him. The boy had always shown promise at his survival training.

He thought about the last week or so, about his ability to survive on his own, without Graumin. He smiled to himself, his pride beaming through. Graumin had always treated him hard, always criticizing. The boy felt as though he could do nothing right for his mentor, despite always trying to please the older man. And now, free of the bonds of servitude, the boy had come to discover that perhaps he had some worth after all.

Of course, it had taken a few days for him to realize that. When he had woken up that morning - alone, cold, bloody – he thought for certain he would die before the morning was out. He retraced his steps, back towards the camp where the spirits had attacked he and Graumin – a fresh layer of snow had made his tracks difficult to follow, but the boy managed. The remnants of the campfire were still there, and the boy's pack and bedroll were lying beside it. But Graumin's things were gone, and so was Graumin.

The boy figured that Graumin had just gone out looking for him, and that he had best wait by the camp for his mentor's return. But as the hours passed and night came on, the boy wanted nothing to do with more angry spirits. He spent that night cowering under the blanket, afraid to light a fire. He nearly froze. And the wound on his head was pounding, sharp pulses of pain shooting through his skull. He had torn a piece of cloth from his shirt and wrapped it about his head, but it did little to dull the pain.

By morning there was still no sign of Graumin, and the boy's fear had gotten the better of him. He had left the camp and started heading south – even though he knew that Graumin was heading north. It had been a difficult decision for the boy. He had been with Graumin for years, ever since the man had taken him as an apprentice so long ago. And though he held no particular affection towards his mentor, there still existed a bond that was difficult to sever.

The boy had made little progress that day – between the snow that rose nearly to his knees, and his weariness, thirst, and hunger, it was slow going. But he had been determined not to die out among those cold, gnarled trees. And he had doggedly pressed forward, his mind often wavering on the brink of senility, his lack of food catching up to him.

But as days turned to nights, and nights to days, the boy had made it farther and farther away from the dark woods and back to the friendlier confines of the forest that he was accustomed to. And as the light returned, and the snows lessened, he had found more and more plants and berries that he could eat.

And even a squirrel.

* * *

Well-fed and well-rested, the boy continued his march south. The sunlight was dancing through the barren branches of the trees, tossing its gleam across the forest floor. It was a sight that the boy was only getting used to once more, having been travelling so long in the darkness of the ancient forests of the north. But it was a comforting feeling, not having to carry a torch to find his way.

The only problem was that he really had no idea where he was. The spider lands were much farther south, beyond the end of the Ursal River, a journey that would take him weeks, if not months. He and Graumin had initially set out on their journey well over a month ago. They had made the final preparations from a serpent village not far from the mountain foothills. The boy figured that that was as good a place as any to make for. He knew that the village was to the south-west. He also knew that bear territory lay in much the same direction – if he had veered too far to the south, he would find himself in unfriendly lands.

But the boy figured that nobody would really be able to tell that he was a spider. He hadn't earned his cloak yet. He could easily just be a lost boy from any number of small clans that inhabited the area – he could even be a bear. And so he continued on, just happy to be a little closer to home.

As he walked, he kept an eye out for tracks. There wasn't as much snow on the ground now that he was out of the mountains, only pockets here or there, so finding tracks wasn't as easy. But he figured that sooner or later he'd have to spot a squirrel or a rabbit. He could hear nature all around him – he considered catching a bird, but he had no bow, only his knife. And he didn't think that he could throw it that accurately.

As the sun began to set, the boy decided that he might as well set up camp. He had found no meat, but at least he had a pocketful of fresh berries. He went about setting up his campfire, laying out his bedroll and blanket, and then sat down on a soft patch of ground. His fingers were still a little sore from having been numbed by the cold for so long, but they were improving. He flexed them as he pulled some berries from his pocket and began to eat.

As darkness drifted over his camp, he noticed something – there were lights, fires, not too far away. Given the lack of foliage in the branches, he was able to see a town in the distance. He hadn't seen it in the daylight, but the darkness of night had brought out the flames. The boy smiled, glad to be back in the civilized world, far from those old, gnarled trees of the mountains. He glanced down at his meagre berries and wondered what he might find to eat in a town.

* * *

Walking down the main street of the town, it didn't take the boy long to realize where he was – many of the buildings that lined the dirt road were adorned with carvings and images depicting brown and black bears.

"Great," the boy muttered, but he kept walking.

As long as he didn't encounter any druids, he'd probably be alright. Commoners wouldn't be able to tell that he wasn't one of them - he blended in easily enough, having been out in the wilderness the last few weeks.

He continued down the street until he spotted an inn that looked to be quite busy. He fumbled around in his pack and pulled out the few coins that were deep inside. With a resigned sigh, he dropped the coins back into his pack – the Spider Clan used their own form of currency, and while the copper and silver coins would still have value to another clan, they would mark the boy as a spider immediately.

He moved towards the inn anyway. There was a large man standing at the door, a mug of ale in his hand, laughing at something that someone inside had said. The boy squeezed by the man and into the establishment. It was even busier than he had anticipated from outside, but that didn't bother him in the least. He preferred it that way.

Spiders were taught at a very young age how to go unnoticed, and the boy had always excelled at such tasks. He slipped through the crowded inn, moving from person to person, avoiding the glances of any who might look down to spot him. The smells that wafted through the room teased his hungry belly – the juicy meats, the foamy ales, the fresh dough. There were a number of tables where people were eating, but each of the tables was surrounded by a few people standing, talking, and drinking.

The boy paused and looked around. He could see where the door to the kitchen was, but he didn't want to try his chances there just yet. The boy eyed a table that seemed particularly busy and moved towards it. There were several men and women standing about it, and they were enjoying themselves as much as everyone in the rest of the room – enjoying themselves just enough not to notice when a fresh piece of bread, slathered with butter, disappeared from a plate at the edge of the table.

The boy blended into the shadow in a corner of the room, right next to the staircase, away from most of the bustle. His teeth bit hungrily into the soft dough, the warm butter melting in his mouth. The taste was heavenly, but even that wasn't enough to sate him. He could smell the fresh beef cooking in the kitchen – some of it was being charred over a cooking fire, some being boiled in a stew. But either way, he was craving the taste of meat, and the fresh bread only spurred that desire.

He waited until the serving girl had exited the kitchen, holding a tray laden down with all manner of food. And then the boy slipped through the closing door, behind the girl, and entered the kitchen unnoticed. He kept his head low, beneath the height of a counter that bisected the room. There were two men on the other side of the counter, one dutifully carving a large hunk of beef, the other stirring a huge cauldron that the boy assumed was filled with stew. Getting to the beef would be near impossible.

But then something else caught his eye – a pair of Cornish hens that were roasting on a spit over a second fire at the end of the room. They were golden brown, their skin glistening in the firelight, juices slowly dripping across their flesh. They called to him, and he could feel his tongue running across his lower lip as she stared at the small birds. Now he just had to get to them unnoticed.

The boy peeked his head over the top of the wooden counter to ensure that both of the cooks were facing away from the hens – they were. He moved silently, hidden from view by the counter, pausing only when he reached the end of the structure, needing to cross a few feet in the open to snatch the birds. He took a deep breath, knowing full well how bears treated thieves. And then he started to move towards the fire.

"Hey, what are you doing there?"

The boy's head shot around – the serving girl had returned through the door and spotted him edging closer to the food. He hesitated and both of the cooks turned to see what was going on.

"Shit," he muttered.

And then he darted for the hens, grabbing the end of the spit and dropping one of the hot, dripping birds right into his pack. Both the cooks moved in his direction, but the boy was faster, skirting around the edge of the fire and towards an open window. The window was high, but he jumped for it, grabbed the ledge, and pulled himself up and through it. He looked back as he sat on the windowsill and smiled at the pretty serving girl. And then he dropped down to the ground, landing in a roll.

The cooks were at the window by then, shouting for him to stop, but they were too big to slip through as he had. He moved into the alley between the inn and the adjacent building, and then sprinted down the street, grinning ear to ear. Had it really been that easy?

He ducked around the side of a building and peered back towards the inn – the innkeeper was standing in the doorway speaking to two men who appeared to be town guards. They were dressed for it anyway, both clad in chain mail with swords at their hips. The boy was a little surprised that they'd set the guard on him over one hen, but he didn't wait around to see what happened – he took the quickest path he could back towards the woods to enjoy his well-earned meal.

* * *

The hen tasted far better than his squirrel had. His teeth were ripping through the tender meat, juices dripping all over his hands and chin as he attacked the chicken's flesh. He tore a drumstick from the body, savouring the taste of the dark meat. He was so enthralled in the delicious sensations, that he almost didn't hear the sound of approaching voices.

His chicken hit the ground and his head spun around. Someone was out there. He quickly kicked dirt over his fire, putting it out. There was enough moonlight shining through the treetops that he could still see. He could definitely hear voices – at least three. But he couldn't make out what they were saying.

Were they looking for him? Or was it just a coincidence? He had strolled almost an hour into woods before setting his camp. Would they really follow him this far over one silly hen?

He glanced down at what was left of his hen, having fallen to the dirt at his feet. He scrambled to pick it up, wiping the meat off with his sleeve – which he knew probably wasn't much cleaner – and laying it atop his pack. And then he saw it – his pack had given him away. While he hadn't yet earned his cloak, the packs that he and Graumin had carried were both adorned with stitching of the Spider Clan's emblem, not to mention the intricate and web-like embroidery that was unique to the spiders. The serving girl certainly would have had a good look at his pack, and possibly the cooks as well.

His mind was racing now, panicked thoughts rushing through his head. They wouldn't chase him over a chicken, but they would chase a spider to the ends of their territory. And he had no idea where that might even be.

The voices were getting closer, and he knew that he would be found. He had to move. He rushed to throw his things together, flung his pack over his shoulder, and he was off. He couldn't move too quickly – he didn't want to disturb the brush any more than necessary, and there was only so much light to see where he was going.

He made it about fifty steps before he slammed into something hard. He shook his head as he practically bounced off the hard surface, wondering how he could possibly have run into a tree. When he felt a hand grab him about the arm, he knew that it wasn't a tree at all. He tried to shake loose, but the grip was too strong.

"Look what I caught, boys!" the man shouted to the other sentries.

"Let go of me!" the boy yelled, kicking out at the man's groin. His legs weren't long enough to reach, though.

Three more men moved out of the brush nearby to join the guard and his struggling captive. The boy was still trying to shake himself free.

"He's a stubborn little shit, this one," the man holding him said.

"Tie him up," another offered.

The boy let loose a well-aimed kick, this time at his captor's knee, while the sentries were discussing what to do with him. He managed to shake free and found his footing beneath him.

"Don't let the spider skitter away," one voice growled.

The boy didn't even bother reaching for his pack, he just darted towards the brush. A body appeared in front of him and he changed course, diving towards a tree. He tried to slip away around the tree, but instead felt his head slammed into the side of the trunk. His legs wobbled and he felt his body fall backwards. He hit his head a second time, on the ground, and blacked out.
Sasha

Glittering, sparkling wings fluttered lightly, inches from her eyes. Sasha's smile was wide as she watched the dazzling creatures fly about the meadow. There were dozens of them, and three were now floating near her head, trying to get as good a look at her as she was at them. In all her years she had never dreamed that such creatures existed, and here she was watching them frolic about the long grass and tall flowers.

"They like you," Desmond stated, seated in the grass not far away.

Sasha smiled even wider.

"How can you tell?" she asked, reaching a finger out and grinning as one of the faeries flew right up and pressed her own tiny finger against Sasha's.

They were only about six inches tall, with colourful, nearly translucent wings that were almost as big as their bodies. They all appeared to be female, which confused her. But Desmond had explained that they were children of the forest – they didn't reproduce as humans did.

"Well if they didn't like you, they wouldn't be out at all," he said. "But they're curious. They can sense your energy, your spirit."

He had been talking a lot about her energy lately. She still wasn't sure what to make of it all, but she had been spending as much time as she could in this world, returning home only to see her mother as much as she had to.

"What's so special about my energy?" she asked him, and not for the first time.

The group of faeries fluttered around Sasha's head, occasionally dropping low enough that she could make out their laughing faces.

"She's a slow one!" one of the faeries exclaimed. Their voices were soft and sounded almost musical.

"Hey!" Sasha said, playfully looking to Desmond. But Desmond just smiled at her and shrugged, as though the little creature's statement was all that needed to be said.

The faeries were now zooming about her head, streaks of glittering colours trailing behind their wings, giving the illusion of even greater speed. She remembered Desmond being able to create the same effect with nothing more than his fingers, simply moving them through the air. Though she would never admit it to the man, she had been trying for days to accomplish such a feat.

"We should be moving on," Desmond said, drawing her attention from the frolicking faeries. "It will be dark soon."

Sasha glanced up towards the sky and noticed that the sun was indeed dropping below the horizon of treetops at the edge of the clearing. She slowly lifted herself back to her feet. She didn't want to go home yet.

"There's a town nearby," Desmond stated, as though reading her unspoken desire. There were times when she felt certain that he could read her mind.

"Well then, why don't you lead the way," she said, extending her hand to him. Desmond enclosed his warm hand in her delicate grasp and the pair began walking down the side of the knoll and back towards the forest. She took one last look over her shoulder at the swarm of glittering wings before they disappeared over the top of the hill.

"Things are so different here," she mused.

"If you like faeries, just wait until we find a dryad," Desmond replied. "Or if we're really lucky, maybe even a unicorn."

"A unicorn?" Sasha whispered, eyes wide. "Really?"

Desmond just smiled as they made their way down the trail. It wasn't long before they came to a small river that was flowing between the trees. The current wasn't strong, and the river didn't look deep at all. But it was still a fair bit wide, and she hoped they weren't going to have to cross it – she hated getting her clothes wet, and Desmond didn't seem to have much of a problem trekking through any type of terrain, wet or not.

While Sasha had been spending more and more time with Desmond, exploring the vast forest and sparse meadows, this would be the first time that he had taken her into a proper town. She'd seen the outskirts of villages and such, but aside from her personal guide, she hadn't yet met a single other person in this world. She thought that maybe he was shielding his brethren from her – it must be awkward for them to meet someone from another world.

"We're nearly there," he said as they followed along the edge of the cool river.

Sasha eagerly looked on ahead and she could make out the first signs of civilization. The river narrowed a little up ahead, and there were buildings on either side of it. The water flowed freely beneath a series of wooden bridges, some small and intimate, others a bit larger. Like the other villages she had seen, the buildings here seemed like they had been plucked right out of the Middle Ages of her world – they were mostly wooden with thatched roofs, and the larger buildings had stone foundations and walls. It all looked so primitive compared to what she was used to.

With the forest growing on all sides of the town, and the river running through the middle of it, this place seemed a rather endearing mixture of people and nature. The people in this world lived in commune with nature, rather than exploiting it for their benefit. Sasha liked that.

They passed under a wooden arch that marked the entrance to the town. Intricately carved into the arch was a beaver – she recognized the long, flat tail of the creature.

"Beaver settlements are always built on the water," Desmond stated, noting her interest in the carving. "Their seat is a huge dam made entirely of wood and mud. Smells a little, but a charming place to visit."

"Their seat?"

"What you'd call a capital."

Sasha nodded her understanding just as the first citizens of the small town came into view. They were children and they seemed to recognize Desmond, calling out and waving to him excitedly. He returned their waves.

"You've been here before, I take it," Sasha teased.

"Once or twice."

Word spread quickly that Desmond was in town, and soon people were all about, greeting the pair. Sasha felt like she must have been introduced dozens of times in but a few minutes. She barely had the chance to take in the town around her. It had never occurred to her that the man who had introduced her to this place might be something of a celebrity. But she didn't get a chance to ask him why with all the beavers about.

The pair was ushered through the wide streets of the small town and towards what appeared to be the local gathering place. It was an old building – though most of these buildings appeared old to Sasha. But there was something unique about this one. It was taller than most, and built of thicker lumber. And on each of the exterior walls were intricate carvings; detailed pictures, and long lines of runes running underneath.

"These are the histories of our people," a voice behind Sasha said. She turned to see an older woman leaning on a wooden walking stick. She had long gray hair, many of the strands braided with black and brown beads. Her face was lined and wrinkled, and Sasha couldn't make out much else about her in the dwindling twilight.

"The Beaver Clan is one of the oldest clans in the Reverie," she continued.

"The Reverie?" Sasha echoed.

The old woman narrowed her gaze and then turned to look at Desmond, who had appeared beside them. Then the woman suddenly reached out and smacked Desmond on the arm with her stick.

"Have you taught her nothing?" the old woman barked. And without waiting for a response, she turned back to Sasha and took her by the arm. "Come, child. Come inside where we can sit and talk."

Sasha felt herself pulled towards the door by the old woman's surprisingly strong grip. She glanced back over her shoulder at Desmond, who just smirked at her and followed.

The interior of the building was just as impressive as the exterior. It was really just a gigantic single room, with a towering ceiling. There were high wooden columns spread out to support the weight of the roof. Each column had the same intricate carvings and runes. There were many long benches and chairs and tables throughout the room. Off in the far corner were several large bonfires inside stone outlets – there were numerous large cooking cauldrons hanging over the flames. The room was lit by a combination of windows and many, many candles that lined the long walls. Each candle had a metal holder, so as not to catch the wooden walls aflame.

Sasha was led to a chair and she happily sat down in it, eager to be free of the tight grip on her arm. The chair was unexpectedly comfortable, given its rudimentary wooden design. The old woman sat down in a chair opposite her, and many of the townspeople had gathered around them to watch and listen. She could feel Desmond's hand on her shoulder as the soft murmur of chatter surrounded her.

"You are new to this world, child," the old woman stated. "I don't need Desmond to tell me that."

Sasha just sat there, not sure what the old woman wanted. Sasha hadn't noticed it before, but the old woman had strange-looking eyes. They had almost a milky quality to them, like the eyes of a blind person. But the old woman had just led her into the building, how could she possibly be blind?

"I sense many other things, as well," the old woman continued. "I sense that you are meant to be in this place, in our world. Do you believe in fate, child?"

"Fate?" Sasha echoed. "You mean like destiny or something?"

"Fate, destiny, a greater calling or purpose to one's life. Call it what you will."

"I hadn't really given it much thought."

The old woman nodded and waited a moment before continuing. Sasha again looked over her shoulder at Desmond.

"Do you know what this place is?" the old woman asked. "This world that you find yourself in?"

"I know that it's a place that the ancient druids created to hide from the Roman invasion," she answered, feeling a sudden rush of pride.

The old woman narrowed her milky eyes at Sasha, and then glanced up at Desmond shaking her head lightly. Sasha could hear Desmond stifling a chuckle. She could picture the amused smirk on his face.

"Desmond here has been leading you astray, child," the old woman said.

"He has?"

"He has. While it's true that most of the druids fled to this place when the Romans came, this world is much, much older. Desmond isn't a believer in the ancient ways."

"The ancient ways?"

Before the words even left Sasha's lips, the lighting in the room suddenly dimmed. She looked around, wondering if some of the fires or candles had gone out. The soft chattering murmur had died down a little, as well. And the old woman was edging forward in her seat, leaning on her walking stick.

"Many, many years ago, before the dawn of the age of men, the world was a very different place. The air was cleaner, the water fresher, the trees taller and thicker. And the creatures stranger and majestic, both small and large – the most majestic of all being the dragons, the wisest and most ancient of creatures."

"Dragons?" Sasha asked. "Aren't dragons just a myth?"

"To some," the old woman answered, looking pointedly at Desmond. "But the old texts don't lie. Dragons ruled the earth for millennia. Great, scaly hides; wings that cast shadows over entire lakes; snarling fangs and breath of flaming terror. Dragons were also powerfully magical creatures."

"So where are they now? Did humans kill them all?"

"Humans likely killed a few, primitive bands of men protecting their settlements. But no, most dragons were much too powerful for even large groups of humans. No, dragons had the unfortunate habit of fighting amongst themselves. Fiercely proud and territorial, titanic clashes of claw, fang, fire, and magic were common in the ancient times. By the time that humans had evolved, there were only a scattered few dragons remaining.

"One of the remaining dragons, however, was the most powerful of all. She was called Adenah, and legends tell of her fearsome prowess in battle. Many other dragons challenged her and she defeated them all. But watching the bodies of her brethren fall caused a deep sadness within her and she withdrew from the greater world, deep into the mountains, hidden away by isolation and magic.

"For many years she watched, observing the changes in the planet, how the various creatures evolved. Until, for the first time, a new species emerged that piqued her curiosity – humans. Small and frail compared to the mighty dragons, humans nevertheless displayed intellect and resilience, a resourcefulness and survival instinct that impressed Adenah. And though she desired to make contact with humans, dragons are patient creatures – she watched for a long time, learning all that she could.

"Meanwhile, several thousand years ago, the first druids emerged. They were primitive peoples, who worshipped the power of nature. Many religions vied for the hearts of people in those times, but the druids were one of the few that worshipped the planet, rather than some form of deity. This impressed Adenah even more, for the planet is the one true god – the provider of life.

"It wasn't long until the early druid clans, deep into their commune with nature, began to unravel the mystic fabric of the world. Some of the more devout practitioners even managed a few rudimentary spells. They were the only humans that had managed such a connection, the world's first users of magic. Adenah knew it was time, then. If the humans had connected with the magical side of the world, then they were prepared for an encounter with the ancient magical power of a dragon."

Sasha suspected that every person in the room, Desmond included, had heard this story many times. And yet every ear was listening intently, not a soul was speaking over the old woman, not even a whisper. She wasn't really sure what to think – dragons and magic and all of that. It seemed so surreal. Then she remembered where she was, and it made a little more sense. But then again, hadn't the old woman implied that Desmond didn't believe these stories?

"Adenah found a glade where some of the druids came to commune with nature," the old woman continued. "She waited until one day when a particularly skilled druid, that she had been watching for some time, was alone in the glade. And she showed herself. The druid, Michael, was amazed, as well he should be. But he was also unafraid, his rampant curiosity barraging Adenah with many questions. Dragons, as quite solitary creatures, didn't have friends. Adenah hadn't conversed with another being in thousands of years. She took a great deal of pleasure in her meetings with Michael. The druid was strong in his own right, but with Adenah's guidance and tutelage, he was soon harnessing the magical energies of nature like no other before him. And thus was born the first true druid clan – the Dragon Clan."

"The Dragon Clan?" Sasha asked. Desmond had been teaching her about this world, and he had told her of many different clans – Wolf, Bear, Eagle, and so on. But he had never mentioned a Dragon Clan to her.

"In the beginning, the Dragon Clan was the only druid clan," the old woman said. "Druids either practiced their ways alone, or they joined the Dragon Clan. Adenah didn't make her presence known often, but people knew that there was a true dragon about. Unfortunately, this caused a great deal of fear and apprehension among many other druids. They didn't understand the dragon's ways or motives and they felt weak and powerless against such a creature.

"This led to the creation of other clans. And as the years passed, and more and more clans sprang up, rivalries developed and, in some cases, outright war. No one dared move against the Dragon Clan, of course – not with a real, live dragon backing them. But it was only a matter of time.

"Adenah sensed this. She wondered if perhaps she had erred in training so many of the humans in the more powerful ways of magic. So many druids, armed with weapons both magical and conventional, could pose a threat to her. She decided to retreat from the world once more, as she had so many years before.

"But that didn't keep her safe for long. Perhaps she had underestimated human resourcefulness – or simple human paranoia. But it wasn't long before the other clans were wandering the snowy mountain passes in search of her lair. And they might have found it, had the Dragon Clan not laboured tirelessly to protect their precious ally and namesake. Many druids died in the skirmishes that broke out throughout the mountains. And while the Dragon Clan often prevailed – thanks in no small part to their expert training – they were far fewer in numbers.

"Adenah was nothing if not cautious, and as the oldest and wisest of her kind, she was always prepared. When the sensed the clans closing in on her lair, she tapped into an ancient store of magic. A great battle ensued on the very steps of her cave. The Dragon Clan held their position for days, but were overcome in the end. Bodies littered the mouth of the cave when the clans raided Adenah's lair – but it was empty. The dragon was gone.

"With the help of Michael, whose own power had grown substantially over the years, the dragon had executed her escape plan."

"Michael?" Sasha asked. "The same Michael that she tutored first? But wasn't that hundreds of years before?"

"An attunement to the magical weave of nature can prolong the natural lives of humans," the old woman said. "Those who are more adept can live for decades, even centuries, longer than the average human. I'm surprised that Desmond didn't tell you that."

Sasha looked back over her shoulder, eyeing her companion.

"Why? How old are you?" she asked.

"Old enough," he replied with a smile.

"Desmond is much older than I," the old woman stated. "And Michael was much older still. And without his help, Adenah may not have survived. But together they fled the danger and came to a new world – this world."

"But how did they know that this place existed?" Sasha asked.

"Because they created it."

"They created an entire world?"

"The spell nearly consumed Adenah's life spirit – dragons are far more attuned to magic than humans are. In fact, this very world's existence is linked to her spirit. One cannot exist without the other, so powerful and complex was the spell. But she managed to create this place, a place that only those she allowed entry could follow. A whole new world where the Dragon Clan could start over – could exist in peace.

"But Adenah soon found that maintaining an entire plane of existence was more taxing than she had foreseen. She grew weak and weary. The druids worried that the dragon would perish and they used all the magic they knew to help her persist. But it was no use. She needed to rest.

"Adenah again retreated to the mountains, to the place she felt most at peace. She found a new lair deep in the mountains, guarded by an old forest. And she went to sleep. Michael cast a powerful enchantment over the entrance to the cave, ensuring that the dragon would never be harmed while she slept, regaining her strength. And she sleeps there still, to this day. This world persists so long as the dragon lives. Some even say that the long-dead spirits of the Dragon Clan protect her rest. We've come to refer to Adenah as the Sleeper, and this place, this dream that she concocted, as the Reverie."

"That's amazing," Sasha said, wondering if it was really true. "But if the only people who can enter the Reverie are invited by the dragon, and the dragon is sleeping, then how did I get here? How did any of you?"

"That was Michael's doing," the old woman answered. "When Adenah went to sleep, she left stewardship of the Reverie to Michael, her closest friend. At first the only people allowed entry were those few survivors from the Dragon Clan. But as the decades rolled by, things changed. They say that time heals all wounds, and perhaps that is true. One day Michael created a portal – the same type of magical gateway, formed by enchanted stones, that you entered this world through. He passed through the portal and found the other druid clans.

"Michael promised them that the dragon would sleep for many years, that they needn't feel threatened. He told them of the marvellous world that the dragon had created, a world where magic was felt even more keenly than in their homeworld. He convinced a number of them to join him in the Reverie. The Eagle Clan was the first to follow, curious to see this new world. Many clans followed after. In time, Michael created many gateways, most connecting to a central hub in the other world – a place they now refer to as Stonehenge. Although there are numerous other, slightly more scarce, portals. There was a time when druids roamed freely from one world to the next, enjoying all that both worlds had to offer.

"And then the Romans came. Most of the more powerfully magical druids had already relocated to the Reverie, to indulge in the closer attunement to magic. They weren't there to fight off the invaders. The Romans were many, their ships and armies seemed endless. Some druids tried to fight, alongside villagers and townsfolk. They were all slaughtered. And after several such massacres, the druids retreated to the Reverie, a place that the Romans could never follow them. They took many more non-druids with them, saving the simple folk from certain death or enslavement.

"And so it is today, that the descendants of that great exodus exist in this place."

As the story neared its close, the light murmur of chatter and children laughing in the back of the room again filled Sasha's ears. It was quite a tale, she had to admit. But why didn't Desmond believe any of it? Or was she not understanding the old woman's scolding of Desmond?

Sasha was about to ask him just that, when something off in the corner caught her eye. She turned her head to see a pair of children, probably no older than eight or nine, playing on the floor. One child extended her hand towards the other and, a moment later, flickering flames of green and blue were dancing from her fingertips.

"It's not so hard," Desmond whispered to her.

"What?" she asked, turning back to him.

"The use of magic is largely innate – you either have the ability or you don't. And if you have it, simple feats are accomplished even by children."

"How do you know if you have it?" Sasha asked.

Desmond smirked at her eagerness.

"Perhaps you should try," he suggested.

"Try what?"

But Desmond just shrugged. She hated his riddles. But she didn't give up so easily. Sasha moved across the room and approached the two children, one of whom was now putting out the other's flames with blasts of air from his palms.

"Hi there," Sasha said, kneeling down beside the children. "How did you do that?"

"It's easy," the little girl replied. "Just close your eyes."

That sounded a little too easy, but Sasha did as she was instructed. Her eyes were closed, but she didn't feel any differently.

"Now put your hand out, palm up," the boy said. She did so.

"Now you have to concentrate really hard," the girl added. "It gets easier as you learn, but the first time is always the hardest."

"What am I concentrating on?" Sasha asked.

"Can't you feel it?" the boy responded. "Just try to feel the energy all around you. That's the magic of nature. It's buzzing all around you, all the time. But most people don't notice it because they're not looking for it."

"It's always there, though," the girl continued. "Do you feel it prickling your hand?"

Sasha was about to say no, but then she did feel something. Or did she? She couldn't really tell at first, it was so faint. It felt almost like little shocks of electricity, except that they didn't hurt.

"She can feel it," the boy said. "I can see it on her face."

"That's good," the girl went on. "The magic surrounds you, always. And it will do what you tell it to do. Tell it to do something."

Sasha wasn't really sure what that meant. How could she tell it to do something? It seemed suddenly silly to her. Like she could just tell the magic to turn into fire.

"See, it's easy," the girl said.

"What?" Sasha asked, opening her eyes. And there, dancing in her palm, was a flickering orange flame a few inches tall. It disappeared a moment later, her concentration having given way to her sudden excitement. But it had been there.

"That was good," Desmond said, and she turned to see him smiling behind her.

"Did you see that?" she whispered, her face beaming with pride. "Did you see that?" Without thinking, she jumped right up from her kneeling position and wrapped her arms around the man, pulling his body right into her own. He didn't return her hug at first, but that didn't bother her. She liked the warmth that seemed to radiate from him. It made her feel safe, strong. It made her feel like she could summon a much larger flame next time.

"So how old are you, really?" she whispered into his ear.

"I don't know," he said. "I lost count after three hundred."

"Three hundred?" she gasped. "Well I always did have a thing for older men."
The Prisoner

His back was pressed tightly against the wall. He was trying to back away, but there was no more room. He couldn't see the man's face in the darkness, but he could make out those eyes staring back at him. He needed to get away from those eyes.

The glowing red light from the liquefied block had all but faded away and those strange eyes were even now receding from view. His breathing came a little easier as the black engulfed his cell once more. He liked the black. Maybe the man was gone. Maybe he had never really been there at all.

"What have they done to you?" the voice asked, shattering the black calm.

"Stay away!" the prisoner shouted – or tried to. His voice was still hoarse and throaty, and it didn't have much force behind it.

"And what's that awful smell?" the voice continued. "I suppose I shouldn't have expected jasmine, but still..."

There was a long silence. The prisoner could feel the spiders scurrying across his naked body as he hoped again that the voice, the intruder, was gone. He wanted the quiet back. He needed his black home.

"So, how are we going to get you out of here then?" the voice asked.

The prisoner began slowly edging his way out of his corner, keeping his back pressed against the wall. He couldn't see the eyes anymore, but he could feel them. They were watching him, he could tell. He had to get away from those eyes. His legs could barely hold his weight, though. His progress was not swift, and he only made it a few feet before the intruder spoke again.

"I'm assuming you don't remember the way out," he said. "Lucky for you, I'm rather resourceful. I met a homely young woman who works in the dungeons, cleaning out the empty cells, cooking for the guards. And for only a few measly romps in the hay, she was more than willing to divulge everything she knew about the place. So what do you think, Iain? Ready to make a run for it?"

Iain – the name froze the prisoner. He stopped edging along the wall, and even managed to look back towards the hole on the opposite side of his cell. He momentarily forgot his fear of those eyes. The name struck a chord deep inside of him. The intruder had called him Iain – was that his name?

No, no, it couldn't be. He shook the thought from his head. He had no name, Kendrick had seen to that. He was just a prisoner, one of many. Prisoners didn't have names.

"Leave me alone," the prisoner managed to mutter, again averting his eyes from the space in the blackness where he felt the intruder watching him.

"Now, now," the man replied. "After all I've done to get myself here, I'm afraid I can't just up and leave. And, in case you haven't noticed, I'm locked in anyway. So I guess you're just stuck with me."

"No... no... you have to leave..."

The prisoner's hands were up by his head now, his withered fingers clawing at wispy strands of hair. Why was this man in his home? But before he could contemplate it any further, he heard that familiar, terrifying sound – footsteps in the hallway.

They were soft echoes at first, barely audible. But his ears were so attuned to their sound that he heard them immediately. His breathing was coming in quicker bursts, his fingers painfully pulling on his own hair. The footsteps grew louder as the guards approached. The prisoner threw his body back into his corner, trying to blend right into the wall behind him. And then he heard the worst sound of all – the sound of the cell door being opened. He dropped his panicked head down between his knees, cowering. Except, nobody entered his cell. He suddenly realized that the guards had entered the adjacent cell, that of the intruder. Maybe they would take the other man away, give the prisoner back his silence.

"What the fuck is this racket down here?" the guard demanded.

"Ah, my good man," the intruder replied. "Apologies for the noise. But I have a few requests. Firstly, I can't seem to find my bed in here. I realize it's dark and all, but still, it must be around here somewhere."

There was a loud thud, and the prisoner assumed that the guard had just struck the intruder.

"Well then," the intruder said a moment later. "If that's how you want to play."

The prisoner expected to hear another thud, perhaps more than one. Instead he heard sudden agonizing screams. He opened his eyes at the sound and saw flashes of deep orange and red emanating from the hole between cells. What was going on? He'd never seen a guard do anything like that before – only Kendrick awakened such terror in his victims.

The prisoner blinked his eyes as more of the light flickered into his cell. The screaming was as loud as ever, and he didn't know how much longer the intruder could hold out. He suddenly felt a pang of sympathy toward the poor man. The prisoner dared move a little across his cell, trying to angle his eyesight into the other room. He wasn't sure why he wanted to see, but he felt compelled to watch.

But no sooner had he acquired a view into the cell than the eyes reappeared in place of the missing stone block. The prisoner backed away in panic, not immediately realizing that the presence of the eyes, which were blocking out the glow of light, meant that the intruder was not the one screaming.

"Now would be a good time to go," the voice said.

The prisoner didn't move.

"What... what..." he mumbled.

The eyes disappeared and the prisoner had a clear view into the cell – the guard's body was slumped against the far wall, angry flames eating away at his charred form. The prisoner stared, eyes wide, for several long moments. The sight didn't compute in his mind, he couldn't comprehend what was going on. Where had the fire come from? And how had the intruder overpowered a guard? Nobody overpowered the guards.

The door to the prisoner's cell opened and the intruder stepped into the doorway. With a little more light coming from the hallway, the prisoner could make the man out now. He appeared old, withered and infirm even. Not unlike the prisoner himself. The intruder had a long, scraggly beard and wore a torn cloth tunic and similarly tattered pants.

"Come, Iain," the man said, and the prisoner noted that the man's voice was deep and firm. It didn't seem to match the man's appearance.

But the prisoner didn't come. Instead he backed away from the door.

"No... no..." he muttered. "Mustn't leave... must stay here, here in my home..."

But the intruder was done waiting for the prisoner to come around. The man strode right into the cell and hooked his forearm under the prisoner's shoulder, lifting him right off the ground and to his feet. The prisoner was shocked at how strong the old man was.

"Can you walk?" the man asked him, but the prisoner didn't have an answer. He didn't want to walk, but the intruder just started moving towards the door anyway, prisoner in tow. The prisoner realized quickly that he could not walk – at least not under his own power. His legs were weak beneath him, and were it not for the stability provided by the intruder's firm grip on his arm, the prisoner would have fallen right to the dirty floor.

But the intruder moved easily, even with the prisoner propped up. And with each step, the prisoner's panic increased. He kept looking back over his shoulder, towards the open door to his cell. He even reached a weary arm out, futilely grasping.

"No..." he muttered. "No... we can't leave... they'll hurt us..."

"No one is going to hurt you any longer, old friend," the intruder said, without even turning back to look at the prisoner.

The prisoner didn't believe those words. He knew they would soon feel the wrath of Kendrick and his spider guards.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The prisoner looked up at the sound of the voice and saw that two of those spider guards were now blocking the hallway. He let out a faint moan, sensing his impending doom. Maybe he would get lucky and they'd kill him out of rage. If they did it quickly, and Kendrick wasn't around, the prisoner might find the mercy he so desired.

"Don't mind us, we were just leaving," the intruder stated.

One of the guards reached a hand out to grab the intruder. Instead, the guard was suddenly doubled over in pain, the intruder having grasped the man's wrist and, with only a slight twist, bent it backwards until it cracked.

"What the fuck?" the other guard grunted, wide eyes appraising the intruder's elderly, dishevelled appearance. The intruder just shrugged, smirking at the man, his other arm continuing to hold the prisoner up on his feet.

The guard drew his blade then and waved it ominously in the direction of the two prisoners. He didn't say anything, though, and after several moments of glaring, took a wild slash with his sword. And just as he had grasped the other guard's wrist, the intruder reached out and stopped the blade with his bare hand. The prisoner saw no blood, no cut at all – the edge of the sword was simply pressed into the flesh of the man's hand.

"You crazy old fool," the guard muttered, not yet deterred. He pulled the blade back and swung it again and again it was stopped by the intruder's hand. Another swing, another block. But this time the intruder wrapped his fingers around the blade, holding it steady even as the spider tried to pull it back once more. The intruder's face was cold and he stared the guard right in the eyes as he held the sword in place. The prisoner then noted that the steel began to glow a faint red, just as the stone block in his cell had. The guard noted it as well and tried even harder to pull the sword away. Within moments the blade was bright red and the prisoner could feel the heat against his cheek. The leather gloves that the guard wore began to smoke and then he let out a yelp and recoiled his hand. The sword clanged as it fell to the ground.

"We're going to leave now," the intruder said.

The first guard was lying against the wall, cradling his broken wrist. The other guard was standing, back against the opposite wall – he made no move to stop the pair. The intruder guided the prisoner down the hallway.

"How...?" the prisoner asked in his hoarse whisper of a voice.

The intruder chuckled.

"How indeed?" he replied. He turned to look at his companion. "You really don't know?"

The prisoner didn't understand. Why would he know? All he knew was the blackness of his cell.

"I wonder..." the intruder whispered, narrowing his eyes at the prisoner. He reached out then and pressed his free hand to the prisoner's temple. The prisoner tried to back away, the simple touch causing those familiar spiking pains in his brain to amplify. But the intruder held him steady and kept his hand pressed against the prisoner's head.

A light greenish glow emanated from the intruder's hand, and the prisoner closed his eyes. He didn't know what the man was doing, but what choice did he have? He couldn't fight the intruder. But even as he contemplated such things, a soothing sensation cooled his mind, dulling the prickling pains that he had grown so accustomed to. He opened his eyes.

"Better?" the intruder asked.

The prisoner nodded.

"How did you do that?" he asked eagerly. "Can you help me walk?"

"I'm afraid not. I could heal your legs were they broken or wounded. But your body is weak and weary from exhaustion and starvation. There isn't much cure for that other than food and proper rest – both of which you'll have plenty of soon. Come on, we need to get moving."

But the prisoner didn't move right away.

"My head..." he said. "It's not pounding anymore. The spikes, the pain... it's gone..."

"I had a hunch," the intruder admitted. "I've never tried to heal mental wounds before. I guess it worked – for now."

The prisoner smiled. It was the first time he could remember smiling since he had been in this place.

"Who are you?" the prisoner asked, no longer fearing the man – his mind seemed clear for the first time in so long.

"Who are you?" the intruder shot back.

"I'm... I'm Iain... Iain the stag... I think..."

"That's a start," the intruder replied, and began guiding the weary man down the hall once more. They kept the conversation to a minimum, not wanting to attract any more attention than was necessary. The prisoner knew that, before long, they would likely attract a great deal of attention – one didn't simply walk out of a spider dungeon. But he could sense his companion's power. And even if they died in the escape, that was a better fate than going back to that cell.

They made slow progress. Stairs were the worst, as Iain had difficulty lifting his legs up each step. So the intruder was forced to carry him in his arms. And while the intruder was strong, the stairs were steep and high.

Eventually they came to a fork – the main hallway led straight on, but a second hallway led a short distance and ended at a large iron door. Iain remembered that door well. And just as he was about to urge the intruder on, a great echoing sound burst through the dungeon. The guards they had left behind must have trumpeted some sort of alarm.

"Please, we must move quickly," Iain whispered.

But it was too late. As soon as the sound had erupted down the hallways, Iain heard the iron door creak open. Both men turned to look in that direction. Emerging from the doorway was the last man that Iain wanted to see.

"What's going on here?" Kendrick called out, over the loud alarm signal, which was even now dying away.

The intruder angled his body so that Iain was shielded behind him.

"Sorry," he said. "We got a bit lost. Which way to the brothel from here?"

Kendrick took a few steps towards the pair. He didn't seem shocked or angry. He did seem curious, though – probably as to how one seemingly old and withered man could be helping a second escape.

Kendrick waved an arm and Iain felt a gust of air blow past his body. He didn't think much of it at first, but then he caught a glimpse of his companion – the intruder no longer appeared a withered old man. Instead he looked noticeably younger, his hair was raven black, and his body was thin but taut.

"Brom..." Kendrick sneered.

Brom? That name sounded familiar to Iain. He had known a Brom once, he was sure of it. But he couldn't quite place it.

"Kendrick," Brom replied, politely inclining his head.

"How did you get in here?" the tall, gaunt dungeon master demanded. For the first time that Iain could remember, Kendrick seemed rattled.

"It was admittedly much easier than I had anticipated," Brom said. "Your guards seem quite eager to toss just about anyone down here. Finding you out in the middle of nowhere was a touch trickier, though."

"I prefer to conduct my dealings away from the prying eyes of the councils," Kendrick replied. "You know how those silly politicians can be. Granted, my spider brethren are a little more open to my unorthodox methods, but still."

"I can imagine. So, you seem to have caught us during our grand escape. What do we do now?"

"I don't see that you have much choice. These halls will be filled with guards any second."

"Probably. But unless you've somehow magically replaced your idiot guards with powerful druids, I really don't see that as much of a challenge. No, I'm pretty sure that you're the only one here who might pose even the slightest obstacle to our escape – emphasis on slight. It's just one old man against two totems."

Kendrick scoffed.

"Two totems?" he sneered. "You can't seriously expect that decrepit creature to aid you in any way."

Brom glanced over his shoulder at Iain, before turning back to face the spider.

"No, you're probably right," he admitted. "So that leaves one totem against one sick, twisted, depraved old man. And I must say, I'm feeling quite eager to see what you can do against an opponent who isn't strapped to a table and stripped of their magic."

Brom was about to take a menacing step forward when the rush of footsteps came echoing down the hallway, from the direction of the exit. As Brom turned to look in that direction, Iain watched as Kendrick turned and fled, running back towards the safety of his big, iron door. Part of him wanted to chase after Kendrick, to get his revenge. But his legs couldn't even hold his own weight.

Brom, though, wasn't so easily dissuaded. As Kendrick fled, Brom shot his arm forward and, out of the tattered sleeve of his cloth tunic, a raven emerged, wings flapping in full flight. It streaked down the hallway after Kendrick and, as it flew, it turned from an ebon colour to a flaming red, its feathers becoming flickering flames. The fiery bird reached Kendrick just as he grasped the handle to his door. The raven exploded over his head, setting aflame the top of his robes and what little hair he had remaining. He disappeared behind his door screaming, hands pawing at the flames.

Iain turned to see that Brom had already refocused his efforts on the approaching guards. Two of them were already down from spells that Iain had missed. There were four more closing in.

Brom had his arm extended at his side, palm wide open. There was a small ball of flame, no bigger than a coin, twirling in his hand. It was slowly growing in size. The guards slowed their approach as they noted two of their fellows already down, and the man with the flaming hand eyeing them.

"Normally I'd have a little fun with you lads," Brom announced. "But I'm in a bit of a hurry today, as you've probably noticed. So I present you a choice – you can either run down this hallway here and hide with your fearless leader, or I'll incinerate you all and be on my way."

The flaming ball was now the size of an apple and still growing. It didn't take long for the guards to make it to the big, iron door. They pounded on it, but Kendrick never opened it. Brom eyed them clawing at the door and, with a flick of his wrist, sent the ball of fire screaming down the hallway. Men dove to the ground and the fireball connected with the iron door, a small explosion ensuing. When the smoke cleared, there was a hole in the door, easily large enough for a man to climb through.

"You're welcome!" Brom called out after them. He then readjusted his arm, taking Iain's weight, and began the slow march down the hall and toward the final set of stairs.

"How does it feel to be a free man once more, old friend?" Brom asked.

"Are we free?" Iain responded.

"The fair maiden in the kitchens, at the top of these stairs, awaits our arrival. I have arranged with her a discrete exit from town. We should be well on our way before sunrise."

"Won't they follow?"

"Yes. And likely with greater numbers and numerous druids, who aren't so easily defeated."

"So then we're not really free yet."

"It's all in how you look at it, old friend. The cool forest air, the stars above our heads, plenty of spiders to battle – what more could a man ask for?"
The Boy

The crack of bone striking bone echoed through the nearby trees. The boy's jaw felt like it might be broken, but that was the least of his worries. He managed to duck under the next blow, the assaulting arm swinging high above his head. The boy planted his feet and lunged forward, his shoulder slamming right into the mid-section of his adversary. The boy's momentum carried both to the ground.

Once on the forest floor, however, his larger opponent had the advantage. The boy felt his body pinned to the ground by the weight of his attacker, his arms held down at the shoulder. He kicked his legs, trying desperately to find some degree of leverage. Instead, he felt a fist against his cheek. And then another. And another.

But the boy didn't cry out, and he didn't stop fighting. He managed to struggle one of his arms loose and grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground. He tossed it directly into the face of his opponent. His larger assailant yelped, the dirt stinging his eyes, and the distraction offered the boy the opportunity he sought. He used his arms to push his opponent off of him, rolling his own body out from underneath.

Breathing heavily, the boy regained his feet. He glared at his attacker, who was still rubbing the dirt from his eyes. The boy's face was bleeding, large globs of his blood hitting the ground at his feet. He couldn't even feel one side of his face.

"Had enough?" the boy sneered, spitting more blood from his mouth.

His opponent growled and got back to his feet. He looked about the same age as the boy, but he was a good foot taller and much bulkier. And he wasn't bleeding.

The boy tried to press his advantage, charging in once more, attempting another body tackle. But his attacker was having none of it. This time the boy felt his body slam into its target, but his opponent didn't budge. The boy felt an elbow drive into his back, his knees crumpled and his body collapsed to the ground. The weight of his attacker fell over him, his face shoved right into the mud and dirt. There was a thin layer of snow over most of the ground, but with all the movement it only made the ground they were on that much wetter and muddier.

The boy gasped for breath and tried to move his body. But he was pinned to the ground, the back of his head being pushed down. He tried to breathe through his nose, his mouth full of mud and dirt. He couldn't see anything, and he felt the pain building in his back as his much heavier opponent refused to let him up. He kept kicking and flailing, trying to shake free, hoping that maybe he would just slide out with the slick mud all about.

"That's enough, Hamish," a voice said.

The boy hadn't known the name of his opponent until that moment. He expected Hamish to get off of him then, but instead he felt a hard knock against the back of his head. He felt his senses grow woozy, nearly losing consciousness. But then the weight was gone and his body strained a little to straighten out. He rolled over in the mud, staring up at the forest canopy high above. He just needed to catch his breath, and then he'd be ready again.

But the bears had caught onto the boy's tenacious attitude, and before he was able to leap up and charge Hamish once more, the man who had spoken walked over and stood over top of him.

"I said that's enough, spider," the man said, and he accentuated his final word by spitting down onto the boy's fallen form.

The boy didn't bother to wipe the spit away - he just stared up at the man, his eyes full of malice and hate. How he wanted to kill these bears, every last one of them. But he was too weak for that. No, he'd just be thrown back into his cage until the next time that they wanted to play with him. He was their prisoner, and there was no mistaking that fact.

The bears didn't chain him, they didn't even hold him when they walked him from his cage to the training grounds. One guard, who towered several feet over his head, would lead him back and forth. The first day the boy hadn't understood this tactic. He couldn't believe his luck when they forgot to tie him up, and he made a run for it. He didn't even make it fifty feet into the brush before he was knocked out cold by the butt end of an axe. Now he knew better – they were taunting him. He could run, but he'd never get away. And each time he tried they would hurt him a little more. His shoulder still hurt from the last time that he had tried to escape.

* * *

His cheek was cool. He blinked his eyes open to see that he was lying on the cold ground, face pressed into the dirt. The air nipped at his extremities, his body sore from another night spent curled up on the forest floor. He would have liked to stand up and stretch his body, but the iron bars that held him weren't high enough. So he tried to stretch each of his limbs in turn, using what little space he had at his disposal.

Snow had begun to fall in the bear lands, though the roof of his cage prevented most of it from covering the ground that he now sat on. But the cage certainly didn't keep out the cold. His captors had taken away the supplies and pack that the boy had had when they found him. But they'd at least let him keep his furs. Without a fire, though, the nights were still painfully cold.

The boy ran a finger over his cheek. He could feel his dried blood, mixed with the dirt and mud that seemed to constantly cover him. The bears didn't allow him to bathe, and his body and furs were filthy. There were several layers of dirt upon blood upon dirt caked over his skin. He glanced over his shoulder to the far corner of his cage, where his bucket sat – at least he had the bucket. That was something.

He'd lost track of how long he had been locked in that cage. He sometimes dreamt of the night that he was captured, of the succulent chicken that he had just sunk his teeth into. Had it been worth it? His body ached, his belly grumbled, and he was cold and numb half the time. But still he thought of that chicken and smiled. It wasn't so much the meat itself that made it so rewarding – he couldn't even remember what it tasted like, really. No, it was the fact that he had stolen it right out of a bear kitchen. And he'd nearly gotten away with it, too.

The boy leaned back on the ground, stretching out as best he could. His feet were down near his bucket, sticking just out of the cage through the iron bars. The top of his head was pressing just against the bars on the other side. It seemed the cage was just the right size for him. Despite it being daytime, there wasn't a whole lot to do in his cage. And there didn't seem to be anybody milling about the area, so he figured he'd just try to fall back asleep.

He was just about to close his eyes when he heard a call.

"Spider!"

He groaned, but part of him was excited. He knew what that call meant. They didn't speak to him when they brought food or water – they just threw it in his cage. No, the only time they addressed him at all was when they took him to the training grounds. He flexed his fingers, repeatedly making fists. His hands were still numb from the cold, and he was pretty sure that he had a broken pinkie finger from his last trip to the training grounds.

The cage door was thrown open and one of the guards grabbed the boy by his furs and lifted him right out of the cage, throwing him to the ground outside.

"I can get out of my own cage," the boy snapped, but the bear only laughed at him.

The boy knew the way to the training grounds by now, and he walked it eagerly, head held high. He remembered his first trip down this path, not knowing what to expect. He had realized very quickly that the bears seemed to find it amusing to let their younger warriors practice brawling on a scrawny spider. Everyone that the boy fought was about his age, but they were all bigger than him, some much so. And he lost every fight that they put him in. But that wasn't the point to the boy. He didn't mind losing, as long as he had the chance to hurt the bears a little.

"Harold, you ready?" an older bear snorted as the boy entered the center of the training area.

The boy couldn't remember fighting Harold before. Harold looked to be over six feet tall, and probably double the boy's weight. He was easily the boy's largest opponent yet. The boy flexed his fingers again, waiting for the signal to start. He noticed that there seemed to be a larger audience this time – there were always a few bear adults around to gauge the training. But now there seemed to be dozens of people standing around the circle.

The guard gave a loud grunt and a wave of his hand, and the boy took that as his cue to begin. He wasn't sure what he could really do against such a large opponent, but he figured that he'd better do it quick. Maybe he could use his smaller size and speed to strike fast and retreat.

He darted in near Harold's legs and aimed a kick at his knee. But Harold dodged it. The boy danced away. Then the boy lunged forward again, feigning a punch to Harold's left side and, at the last second, twisting to strike the right side. But Harold saw the ruse and simply grabbed the boy's arm in mid-punch. Surprised, the boy tried to pull it back, to jump away. But Harold had him. The next thing the boy felt was like the force of a boulder slamming into the side of his head.

The boy had never felt a punch like that in his life. Even given all the beatings he had taken as a young spider. His head rocked back, his spine jerked, his body tried to fall to the ground. But Harold's iron grip didn't allow it. He pulled the boy in closer and struck him again. A sizable gash opened on the side of the boy's face. He had bled before, but not like this. His eyes rolled in their sockets, his mind wobbling, his feet being dragged around at Harold's will. He could faintly hear the laughing of those in the crowd.

A third punch nearly knocked him unconscious. Harold at least had the mercy to let go of his arm this time, and the boy's body collapsed to the dirt. It was a familiar setting for him. He barely had control of his limbs, but he tried to push himself back up, to get back to his feet. His breathing was laboured, his vision blurry, and his mouth was filling with the blood that was flowing down his face. But still he managed to get back to his knees.

There were a few audible gasps from the crowd as the boy regained his feet. He tried to step towards Harold, but his foot moved in the wrong direction. He steadied himself and then swung his fist. It was a feeble thing, a punch that missed Harold by a good three feet and spawned a renewed round of laughter from the observers. The boy was back in the dirt a moment later, on his back this time after a sturdy kick to the mid-section.

He let his head rest for a moment before rolling over onto his belly. His eyes would barely stay open now, his arms completely sapped of their strength. He tried to prop himself up, but his hands gave out and he fell back to the mud. He curled his knees up, trying to use them as leverage, but even as he tried to lift himself a second time, he felt his nose break under the force of Harold's boot.

His face was bright crimson, his chest heaving with each breath. The boy lay on the ground for quite some time. No one was laughing any longer. He felt as though he might die, lying there in the mud and his own blood. But if he was going to die, he'd at least make them work for it. He'd make them watch. He didn't bother to open his eyes this time, he just went about lifting his broken body from the ground. It took quite some time, and he was surprised that Harold didn't knock him over again.

As the boy hauled himself to his knees, he heard numerous loud gasps. At first he thought they were for him, and he grinned. It was painful to smile, but he didn't care. He stayed on his knees for a while longer, trying to gather the strength and stability to stand up. He was surprised, then, when a powerful grip took him under the arm and hoisted him to his feet. Was Harold helping him up?

The boy squinted his eyes open. He couldn't see well, but he could see that the man holding him up was not Harold. Nor was it one of the usual guards. In fact, the boy had to incline his head almost as far as his sore neck would allow just to look up and see this man's face. It was easily the tallest man he had ever encountered. The man's muscles were large, and his shirt was hanging open despite the cold. His entire form seemed to be covered in deep scars, more scars than the boy had ever seen. Magic had the power to heal scars, and most people found them unsightly. But this man had his scars on display.

"Who is in charge here?" the man demanded.

The guard that had escorted the boy to the training area stepped forward, his posture perfectly erect.

"I am, sir," he stated.

"You know who I am?" the scarred man asked.

The guard nodded.

"Brandt, sir," he said.

Even as a spider, the boy knew of Brandt. He was supposedly the fiercest of warriors. He was one of the five totems. The boy stared up at Brandt's face again, a little impressed. But then he remembered that Brandt was still a bear.

"He's only a boy," Brandt observed. "Are we taking battle to the young now?"

The guard stiffened.

"He's a spider, sir," he stated.

"And that's reason to lock him up?"

"He was trespassing on our lands. He stole from our kitchens."

"And why is he beaten and bloody?"

The guard didn't have a response to that question.

"But... he's a spider, sir," was all he could mutter. "Would they treat us any better?"

"Are we spiders now?" Brandt bellowed, his voice echoing through the gathered crowd. "We do not take our lead from such monsters. Free the boy and feed him – a hot meal. Dress his wounds. Give him his things and a skin of water. Then send him on his way."

The guard paused.

"Send him away?" he asked. "Into the forest? In this cold?"

"Yes," Brandt said.

"Alone? We might as well kill him now."

Brandt shrugged.

"We make our own fate in this world, boy," he said, glancing down at the boy's face for the first time. "If you're meant to survive, you will."

Then he released the boy's arm and walked away. The boy felt his knees wobble and he shuffled his feet. He nearly toppled over but he begged his legs to keep him standing. And they did.

* * *

He was three days' travel from the bear town and his spirits were high. Of course, not being locked in a cage and forced to fight for his life on a daily basis helped in that regard. True to their word, however reluctantly, the bears had given him back his pack and supplies. He'd even managed to pilfer a small amount of salted pork from the coffers before being escorted from town. The bears had provided him safe passage across the Ursal River that first morning. He had set out south from the river.

The boy certainly felt his luck change after that. He had stumbled across a main road, cut through the trees, and followed it until nightfall. And just as he had been setting his own camp for the night, the far-off flicker of a campfire a ways down the road caught his eye. Ordinarily, he might have avoided that sight, alone in the wilderness. But given the events of the past few weeks, he figured that he had nothing to lose.

It turned out to be a group of merchants, their caravan heading for some fox towns along the eastern coast. They gladly accepted the boy's company, provided he was willing to work. And for food, protection, and a more comfortable journey, it seemed a fair trade-off to the boy.

And that was how, given that he had no destination in particular, the boy came to be on his knees in the mud, trying to loosen a stuck cart wheel. Some of the merchants had noticed the boy's pack, which was embroidered with the unique web-like pattern of the Spider Clan. But the boy insisted that it was merely something he had come across in his journeys, and they believed him. They had asked him his name, and the boy had lied and said that he was called Jonas.

The boy felt the mud spray into his face as the wheel finally freed itself and spun out of the thick mud. He was only a few days south of bear territory, but the snows hadn't reached the area yet. They would soon, though. Several of the men cheered as the wagon moved back onto the main road, and the boy extracted himself from the muddy ground.

"Good work, Jonas," a merchant, called Soran, said. He clapped the boy on the back.

Soran was a big man, and not in the same way that Brandt had been big. Soran had a full belly and a bushy beard. He wasn't a good worker at all, but the boy supposed that he didn't have to be – not if he could hand out a few coins and get other people to work for him. And Soran never seemed to be short on coins. But he was a jovial enough fellow, talkative, and the boy found that he enjoyed Soran's company.

The pair climbed up onto the back of the trailing wagon just as its horse was starting to move. The boy sat with his legs dangling over the edge, Soran sitting with his back against the wagon's rail, feet on the wagon floor behind the boy. The ride was bumpy, but despite the constant jostling it was still better than walking.

"You never told me where you were headed," Soran stated as he pulled a loaf of bread from his pack and tore it in half. He handed one half to the boy, who took it eagerly.

"Not really headed anywhere," the boy admitted.

"You're a little young to be out adventuring, aren't you? Don't you have a home to go back to?"

"I had a home. But I'm not going back there. I'm never going back there."

Soran didn't press the issue.

"Well it's nice having you around," he did say. "Sure makes my life a lot easier. I don't think these old joints could handle bending down in that mud."

"It's not that hard."

"Not for a young one like you, I imagine not. You know, Jonas, you never told me what happened to your face, either."

Sometimes the boy forgot that he must look a right mess. It was only three days, after all, since he had lain bloody and beaten on the snowy, muddy training ground. The gashes on his face seemed to be healing well – one of the men on the caravan had even given him a healing salve to help it along. But the wounds must still be noticeable. The boy absently ran a finger over the gash in his right cheek. He wondered if it would leave a scar. Maybe one day he would have scars like Brandt –maybe he would be a great warrior.

"Jonas?" Soran prodded.

"I got in a fight," the boy stated.

"How does the other fellow look?" Soran asked, chuckling.

But the boy just shrugged. He didn't want to think about that.

The cart rumbled on for a while, stopping occasionally when one of the men needed to relieve themselves, or if the horses needed a quick rest. It was nearing sunset when the wagon came to a fork in the road. It didn't stop, taking the path to the right. The boy spotted a signpost, with an arrow to the left beside a sign that read "Churchtown."

"What's Churchtown?" the boy wondered aloud.

"A small town, a village really," Soran answered. "It's about a day's walk down the road that way. We don't usually stop there, although we have on occasion."

"Why not?"

"It's not very good business. We go where the coins are, and most of the folk in Churchtown just fend for themselves. They don't have much, if any, gold. It's a town full of peasants and outcasts, people who've fled the druid way."

The boy had never considered the possibility that one could simply flee the druid way. The entire world existed for, and because of, druids. And even though only a small minority of the world's inhabitants were actually practicing druids, the druids controlled everything. In many cities and towns the druid temples served as the voice of power. And even when they didn't, they still carried as much weight and influence as the towns' officials. Apart from living alone in the wilderness, the boy had never realized that he could escape the grasp of the druid life.

"Are you a druid?" he asked Soran.

The heavy man let out a deep, rumbling laugh.

"I couldn't cast a spell if my life depended on it," he said. "But then again, most people can't, can they? No, I'm not much of a worshipper either, but let's keep that between us. My family has lived in this land for more generations than I can count, though. This is my home, and these are my people, whether I believe or not."

"Those people back there, in Churchtown, they don't believe either?"

"I'm not rightly sure what they believe, to be honest. From the rumours I've heard, though..." Soran glanced around before lowering his voice, "Some of them come from the other world. They've come through the portals and gotten stuck here."

The boy's eyes opened wide. He had never really believed in the other world, in the portals. He thought they were just tales, stories told around the campfire. Was it really true?

"Some of the folk there practice faiths from the other world," Soran continued. "I don't know much about it, really. There's a man, the leader there, who calls himself a priest, whatever that is. And there's a group of witches, too."

"What's a witch?"

Soran laughed.

"I daresay it's a woman you might like to meet," he bellowed.

The boy looked confused.

"I don't know much about witches, either," Soran admitted, "But the few I saw when I've been to Churchtown, and one in particular, were enough to make a man's heart flutter and jump right out of his chest. Oh come now, Jonas. You can't tell me you've never taken an interest in a beautiful young lady?"

The boy shook his head, still not really sure what they were talking about. He kept glancing back down the road towards the signpost, which was getting smaller and smaller with each wobble of the cart.

"Fancy yourself an outcast, do you?" Soran asked with a grin.

The boy didn't answer, but he didn't need to. The boy had found Soran to be a very perceptive man – which was probably what made him such a good merchant. The boy was definitely curious – a town of outcasts, people who had run away from their homes to make a new home. Was there really such a place?

"I don't think I'm far off the mark in guessing that you've been on quite the adventure so far," Soran said. "It might be worth your while to explore such a place. Or it might be worth your while to continue on with us. But you might want to make up your mind."

The boy made up his mind and he hopped down off the moving cart. Soran smiled wide and tossed the boy's pack down to him. He even reached into his deep pocket and then flipped the boy a big, round golden coin. The boy waved goodbye and then turned back down the trail, back towards the signpost.

Maybe an outcast was just what he needed to be.
Kelly

The second leg of her journey had taken longer than expected. High winds and stormy skies above the eastern half of the continent had slowed her progress. But as she glanced up the road, her destination was in sight. There were high, rocky hills on the horizon, though they weren't tall enough to be considered mountains. And the air smelled of the salty sea that was hidden behind those high hills. The road inclined slightly, but Kelly kept a steady pace, striding quickly toward her goal.

It had been some time since she had last been home, to the Aerie, seat of the Eagle Clan. But she knew she was home even before she set eyes on the hulking twin statues that straddled the road. As she approached the pair of towering eagles, standing at rest with wings tucked to their sides, she smiled and wondered why she didn't visit more often. It had been three years since her last trip to The Aerie, and that had ended in awkwardness. Kelly was looked upon highly by the Eagle Clan, for obvious reasons. But she had brought Brandt with her on her last trip home, and he had mistaken every glance, every smile by a male eagle, as some sort of contest for her affections.

She shook those memories from her head as she moved closer to the entrance to the city. It didn't look like much – just a large stone gate carved into the side of a hill. The hill rose about a hundred feet or so above the entrance and sloped into a cliff on the other side. If one were a first time visitor to this place, upon walking under that gate, they might think the home of the Eagle Clan to be inside the mountain itself – and, indeed, part of it was. But that was only a small part, a precursor to the majesty that waited on the other side.

Kelly walked those stone halls, nodding and smiling to those that recognized her. The city's main marketplace was under the hill, and she moved towards the throngs and bustle of those customers and merchants alike, busy buying and selling and going about their daily business. There were storefronts carved right into the rock, and there were many more carts and vendors placed strategically throughout the cavernous hall. It was a loud place, as any busy place would be. But she didn't mind the noise or the crowd. She was happy to be there.

She was keen to make it through the hill and back to the outside world, though. So she took the quickest route from the city entrance to the second large gate that marked the passageway out of the hill and back into daylight. She navigated the tunnel and came out onto a landing that provided one of the best views that the Reverie had to offer. The city was carved right into the side of the cliff face, with different levels, some within the stone confines of the hills, some out in the fresh air, overlooking the never-ending sea. The smell of salt was more potent this close to the water – she could even taste the salt on her tongue. She liked being home - the sight of the endless ocean, the sound of the waves rolling in from far out in the water to crash recklessly against the cliffs, and even the sounds of eagles, and many other birds, flying overhead. All of it made this place rather unique.

The tunnel fed out to a landing at the top of a wide set of stairs, leading down to a terrace that sat atop the cliffs. There were paths and buildings and trees and parks all about the large terrace. And at the far end of the terrace was the building that she was seeking – the council chambers of the Eagle Clan. That was where she would give her report. That building was the final destination of her journey. But that didn't mean that she couldn't enjoy a few more minutes outside.

She made her way down the steps and across the terrace to a large stone railing that had been constructed to prevent people from simply falling over the side. Kelly needn't worry about such things, of course, but most folk weren't adept at magic and would have little more than a hope and a prayer to save them should they go tumbling over the side. Kelly leaned out and looked down towards the sea. All the way down the cliff were smaller terraces and balconies with similar railings to the one she was now leaning against. They went all the way down to the very bottom where she could see the pounding waves to one side, and the small wharf and pier that housed numerous smaller ships in an inlet on the other side. There was a more formal port in the next major city to the south, Havencrest. The Aerie's wharf was primarily for travellers and merchants.

After a little more peaceful reminiscing, Kelly figured it was about time to move on. She had business to attend to, after all.

* * *

Kelly sat in the waiting room, adjacent to the council chambers of the Eagle Clan. It was an opulent room, covered in ornate decorations clearly designed to make the guests revel in the majesty of the Eagle Clan. There were golden carvings of eagles, the finest silk and satin draperies, and luxurious chairs and furniture, possibly the most comfortable she had ever sat in. But given that Kelly wasn't a regular guest, she wasn't overly interested in such things.

She also didn't have to wait long. The page had barely been gone a minute, to announce her arrival to the council, before he returned and quickly ushered her into the main council room. The council room itself was less pretentious, though it still displayed the pride of the clan. There was less gold and silver, though, and more wooden and stone carvings – more appropriate to the nature of a druid clan.

At the far end of the room was a long oak table. There were eight chairs that surrounded the table, one each at the head and the foot, and three on either side. But Kelly knew quite well that there were only three council members – in fact, it didn't seem like much of a council at all. But the Eagle Clan was thriving, populous and wealthy. They were one of the most prosperous clans in the Reverie.

While the Eagle Clan was known for its wealth and fineries, not all druid clans were so. There were the seven largest clans, who made up the bulk of the power base in the Reverie, and Kelly had visited them all on her travels. Each left its own impressions on her. The bears were a simple people who worshipped strength and battle. The stags were peaceful, negotiators and compromisers by nature, perhaps the clan that stayed truest to the druid ways, very in tune with the natural world around them. The wolves were a strange and stoic people, perhaps the least populous of the major clans, as they tended to be more solitary, with no large cities. Their seat had no more than one quarter the population of The Aerie. The ravens were a secretive and mysterious clan, keeping mostly to themselves. And Kelly had nothing good to say about the spiders or the serpents.

She strode across the elegant rug that sat atop the cold stone floor. The three men at the council table were already standing, smiling at her entrance. Each of them wore a long cloak, woven in a deep blue and gold pattern, the colours of the Eagle Clan. And each of the men was elderly, having been part of the council for many, many years. Council seats were awarded by popular election, the people choosing their leaders – the Eagle Clan alone operated in this manner. Most clans used either hereditary title or some form of competition to determine leadership. But once elected to a seat on the eagles' council, that seat was for life. The council had once been five strong, but two of those members had died and their seats simply never filled, the people having sufficient confidence in the surviving three councillors. But as Kelly looked the men over, she suspected they might soon be calling a new vote.

The man standing in the middle of the other two was the one that Kelly truly wanted to see. He was tall and still stood quite erect for his age. His hair was mostly gone, save for a few white tufts about the sides of his head. He had once been a handsome man, she remembered quite well.

"Hello Kelly," the man said, smiling at her. "It's been a long time."

"Only three years, Marcus," she replied, marching right up and wrapping the man in a warm hug.

"For one my age, three years is quite a long time!" he added with a chuckle. "I would have been very disappointed to have died without seeing you again."

"The stubborn old fool's been hanging on just in the hopes of seeing you again, we think, Kelly," one of the other councillors put in.

"And now I can die in peace," Marcus added, grinning.

Kelly shook her head – Marcus knew that she didn't like it when he talked about dying. She didn't find it as trivial as he apparently did. But she had learned that as folks grew older they seemed to have a firmer grasp on their own mortality.

"I've missed you," Marcus said, sincerely this time. "I always do."

"I've missed you as well, old friend," Kelly replied.

Marcus was her oldest friend. They had grown up together, been born to parents who lived in houses next door to one another in a small eagle village, not that far from the Aerie. Marcus was in his seventies now, and though he looked healthy enough for his age, Kelly knew that he wouldn't live much longer. Kelly was the same age as Marcus – she was actually one year his elder. But she didn't look much older than her late twenties, thirty at most. Such were the ways of this place.

At a young age Kelly had found that she had an affinity for magic. She could manipulate things around her - water, air, the earth. When children were found to have an ability for magic, they were taken to the druid temple for training. Kelly would go there every day, while Marcus would go to lessons at the local tutor's with the other children his age. And for quite some time, that was the only real difference between the pair – Kelly had the ability to do strange things, which Marcus found entertaining and amusing, and they attended different places of learning. Their bond was as strong as ever, and there was a time when Kelly expected to live her whole life with Marcus. They would become married, have children, live a life together.

But once magic-users reach puberty, the true strength and power of their ability is revealed. Depending on the user's affinity and attunement, their body's aging slows, as their connection to nature itself is strong. Marcus began to age, while Kelly remained young. When he was thirty years old, she still appeared a teenager. And while they loved each other, the complications were too many. Her body was not yet that of a woman's, and Marcus found that he was not sexually attracted to her. And as Kelly's magical powers heightened, and her position within the druid hierarchy grew, she was often called upon to leave the eagle lands for long stretches of time. And, as life often has its way of changing one's plans and dreams, Kelly and Marcus simply drifted apart.

"So," Marcus put in. "You have returned from your mission – the elders informed us of their plans to dispatch you and Brandt to investigate the rumours surrounding the serpents. What did you discover?"

Kelly took a seat opposite Marcus, one of the other older gentlemen beside her.

"The rumours were true," she admitted, to audible gasps from all three men. "Brandt and I headed into serpent territory from the east. We moved through several villages not shown on any maps, which is disconcerting in and of itself – it seems the serpents are spreading rapidly. Small towns and villages are popping up all over."

"We've heard similar reports of the spiders," Marcus put in.

"It's difficult to say if they are recruiting, perhaps deserters from other clans," Kelly continued. "Or if they've simply started breeding more fervently. Or maybe we simply never had a good grasp on their true size. Who can say? But their numbers are swelling, and that can't be a good thing."

"What did you find in these villages?"

"To be honest, we didn't find much in the first villages. They were populated entirely by peasants. There were no druids about at all. But the villages bore the colours and emblems of the serpents, there is no doubt about that. And there was a tension about those places, a strange quality to the air, as though nature herself was angered with the folk.

"We moved from village to village, never staying long. We were disguised as peasants ourselves, our colours put away. But, as you can probably imagine, Brandt is a difficult one to disguise. I thought of leaving him outside the towns at first, and exploring alone. But I figured that he'd find some way to get himself into trouble, and the last thing we needed was to have him tearing apart half a village."

The other men chuckled – Brandt's reputation for battle and destruction was well known.

"Eventually," Kelly said, "We arrived at a town with a temple. The coil was located in the centre of the town, and this town had many druids about. They wore their cloaks and colours proudly, and we were more careful about blending in. It seemed that luck was on our side – the serpents were in the middle of a meeting when we arrived. We descended into the coil, still disguised. And there I saw it with my own eyes – a human sacrifice. I don't know what sort of ritual they were performing, the a man was killed atop the altar – it was certainly dark magic."

"This is troubling news, Kelly," Marcus said. "Human sacrifices!"

"Very troubling," Kelly agreed.

"Was the man a willing sacrifice?" Marcus asked, getting up from his chair and walking away from the table, his hand rubbing his bearded chin.

"He was squirming and I could see the fear in him when the knife plunged into his heart," Kelly said.

"That's good," Marcus muttered. "An unwilling sacrifice isn't as powerful. Perhaps their rituals haven't yet proven fruitful."

Despite not being a druid himself, Marcus had spent his life studying the histories of the clans. There were few men more knowledgeable about such things.

"I don't know," Kelly said, "But the use of human sacrifices in rituals has been outlawed for over a thousand years. Whatever the serpents are up to, it's nothing good. And if the spiders are in league with them, the Reverie may very well be in grave danger – has there been any word of Iain?"

Marcus shrugged.

"We've heard nothing here," he said. "Though news that doesn't concern our clan often takes longer to reach us. It's possible that he has returned to the stags with a report of his own."

"It's possible," Kelly said. "And it's possible that he's been captured, or worse."

"Don't speak such things, Kelly. Iain is a powerful druid. He can handle himself."

"I'd heard the elders dispatched Brom to find him."

Marcus sighed.

"Yes," he said, "That piece of news did reach us. But still, it doesn't mean that anything untoward has happened to Iain – it may simply have been a precaution."

That was Marcus, Kelly knew. Always the optimist. But she didn't see the point in arguing – she'd allow him his optimism. Because the alternative was a terrible thought, indeed.

"So what's our next move?" Kelly asked.

Marcus didn't answer right away, though she did catch a significant glance passed between him and the other two councillors.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"Our next move is to report to the elders what you have found," Marcus said. "But I don't think that you'll be happy with their response."

"What do you mean? How can you know what their response is already? We haven't even told them the news yet."

"Kelly, the elders are cautious. The balance of power in the Reverie is a tenuous thing, the slightest action could send the clans into war."

"Don't these actions warrant such a response?"

Marcus shrugged.

"Perhaps," he admitted. "But you said yourself that the serpents are large in numbers. And the spiders even more so. And their tendrils reach far and wide – who knows what support they already have lined up should certain clans move against them."

"We have the totems. I'd like to see them try to stop us."

"We have you and Brandt. We've had no word of Iain and Brom's success, or what condition they might be in. And who can say where Desmond is? Without all five of you, success is hardly guaranteed."

"What happened to your optimism, old friend?"

Marcus laughed.

"Perhaps my old age has brought about a certain degree of pragmatism," he admitted. "But my point is the same – don't expect the elders to take your side."

"The elders are the leaders of our faith," Kelly countered. "They don't take sides in the political dealings of the clans. The crime of the serpents is one of faith, and must be punished accordingly."

Marcus was already shaking his head.

"You always did have a child's view of the world, Kelly," he teased. "The elders will never openly choose sides politically, no. But don't doubt that there are whispers in their ears. Some may not desire a war because of the devastation it will bring to the land, and to the common folk. And some may oppose a war because they've been offered compensation, political or otherwise, for doing so. We can never know."

Kelly wasn't convinced.

"As you wish," Marcus said. "We will leave for the Elder Tree first thing in the morning."
Sasha

Her dreams were filled with the pleasant thoughts of her new place in this new world. Sasha saw herself running through the forest, barefoot, laughing, dancing between the trees. She saw the faeries and dryads and forest nymphs frolicking alongside her. And she saw the man that she had come to care so much for, watching over her, as he always did. He was her guardian in this place. She wasn't sure how she had survived before his handsome smile and windswept hair had whisked into her life.

She woke to the sounds of the birds chirping happily in the fresh morning air. Her straw bed was remarkably comfortable and she lay awake for quite some time before finally dragging herself up and out of the bed. She and Desmond had been in the beaver town for two nights. It was her first extended stay among the civilized parts of the Reverie – usually Desmond made their camp in some peaceful corner of the woods and they slept beneath the stars. But she could certainly get used to a solid wood cabin protecting her from the elements.

She moved towards the window, which was covered by a rudimentary threadbare drape. She pulled the drape open and let the morning sunlight shine into the room. The cabin was a simple enough structure – it had a bedroom and a common area. And that was all. Some of the larger cabins had cooking areas as well, but most folk gathered at the town's hall to eat communally. And Sasha was still getting used to the lack of plumbing – which necessitated the practice of toilets away from dwellings, sometimes as individual outhouses, and sometimes as larger public-use structures. It was the one thing about this place that was certainly not better than her own world – that and that everything in town was a little bit smellier and a little bit dirtier. Maybe that was why Desmond preferred to wander the wilderness alone.

As she thought of Desmond, she smiled to herself and wondered whether he was awake. She moved to a small bench that was against the wall of the cabin and began gathering her clothes. Moments later she was dressed and outside in the cool, fresh morning air. Desmond had been sleeping in a cabin next to Sasha's and she lightly rapped on the door. But no one answered.

"Desmond?" she called softly, unsure as to whether she wanted to wake him or not. But there was still no answer.

She glanced around, wondering if perhaps he was already up and about. Their cabins were at the end of a path that led back towards the centre of town, to the large gathering hall. She started down the path and could already smell the scent of cooking eggs and meat coming from the large building. As she walked the path towards that building, along the side of the road opposite the river was a large enclosure, a pasture of sorts, for various livestock. There were cows peacefully gnawing on long strands of grass; chickens clucking outside of a wooden henhouse; and she could even make out a few pigs farther up. The far end of the enclosure encroached on the trees of the surrounding forest, and a sturdy fence and railing kept the animals penned in.

The scent of bacon and sausage was assaulting her senses as she approached the front door of the hall. She glanced at the carvings and runes that lined the walls, but didn't stop to inspect them too closely – she could feel her belly grumbling, eager to get a taste of the food that smelled so delicious.

The inside of the gathering hall was bustling. There was a loud chatter throughout the large room, and most of the long tables were nearly full with folk enjoying their breakfast. At the far end, where the cooking area was, there was a short line of people, apparently waiting to be served. Two men and two women seemed to be doing all of the cooking, and Sasha thought it to be quite an undertaking.

She glanced around the busy room, trying to spot Desmond. She couldn't see him, but there were so many people, she could easily have been missing him. She craned her neck to get a better view.

"Hello child."

Sasha turned to see the old woman with the milky eyes standing behind her.

"Oh, hello there," Sasha replied.

"You should eat up, put some meat on those skinny bones."

Sasha smiled.

"I was planning on eating, just as soon as I find Desmond. He didn't wait for me to wake up before coming down here."

"Desmond is gone, dear," the old woman said.

"He's gone? What do you mean?"

Sasha knew that the old woman was mistaken. Desmond wouldn't abandon her in the middle of a strange town. Why would he leave at all?

"Desmond sensed a disturbance," the old woman said. "He went to investigate. He left in the middle of the night, I assume he didn't want to wake you."

"A disturbance? What does that mean?"

"Druids of Desmond's skill can sense things – imbalances in nature, if you will. Something nearby that warranted his attention."

Sasha was now thoroughly confused. Disturbances in nature? What was the old woman talking about?

"Don't worry," the old woman added. "He asked me to keep an eye on you."

"Keep an eye on me? I guess he can't trust me very much if he didn't take me with him."

The old woman narrowed her gaze at Sasha.

"Don't be daft, child," she said. "Do you still not understand the danger that this place presents? Especially to one who has yet to realize her gifts?"

Sasha was getting tired of hearing about her gifts. She was about to continue arguing, but the old woman raised her walking stick in a gesture of silence. Sasha grit her teeth, but complied.

"Go get your food," the old woman instructed. "And then meet me at the far table." The old woman pointed to an empty table along one of the walls.

Sasha turned on her heel and marched off towards the short line to await her food. It only struck her at that moment that she didn't have any sort of payment – did they even use money? But she needn't have worried – despite the fact that the beavers did, in fact, use coins as currency, they were also quite welcoming of guests and seemed glad to provide her with a free meal. And that, at least, had her smiling again when she returned to sit with the old woman.

Her plate was hot, even a little steam rising off of it. It seemed much the same food that she might have eaten in her mother's own kitchen. There were scrambled eggs, a large slice of freshly baked bread slathered in butter, and several long strips of sizzling bacon. She hungrily breathed in the scent before picking up her crudely forged fork and digging in.

"You have been spending much time here," the old woman said.

Sasha glanced up as she continued to fill her mouth.

"Is that bad?" she asked, between mouthfuls.

"Do you not have a home of your own? A family?"

Sasha swallowed.

"It's just me and my mother," she said, pausing. "I told my mother I had been accepted to college and would be away for a while. As long as I pop back into the other world now and then, to make a phone call, she won't know where I really am."

"You lie to your mother so easily?"

Sasha wasn't sure how to answer that.

"Would you rather I go back?" she asked.

"What would you rather?" the old woman countered.

Sasha laid her fork down beside her plate and stared at the old woman.

"If I didn't want to be here, then I wouldn't be," she stated.

The old woman just nodded.

Feeling that the inquisition had passed, Sasha returned to her meal. She picked up a piece of the piping hot bread, the butter having melted smoothly over it. She had never tasted bread so fresh or so delicious. The old woman seemed content to just watch her eat now.

"You said this place was dangerous," Sasha commented, once she had finished the last of her eggs and bacon. "But I haven't seen anything dangerous. Everything seems so beautiful, so peaceful."

"You don't find it dangerous that certain people can make fire appear out of nothing?" the old woman replied.

"Well, I guess that could be dangerous. But everyone I've met seems quite pleasant."

"According to Desmond, this is the first town that you have visited. Desmond is many things, most of them good, but he isn't the type to ruin your vision of this place. He was sheltering you from the truth, though he knew you would eventually discover it."

"The truth? What do you mean?"

"Desmond has told you of the druids and their clans, of course. But how much he has told you remains to be seen. Not all of the druid clans are good."

"There are evil clans?"

"Good and evil are relative terms, child. Most people are neither wholly good, nor wholly evil. They simply act in their own best interests. The clans are the same. And while most are happy to co-exist peacefully, their aims and motives sometimes conflict. The legends I relayed to you, of the dragon and the great battles between the Dragon Clan and the other clans, were the truth, whether Desmond believes them or not. And such battles occur more frequently than many would like to admit."

Sasha nodded. It made sense to her – she figured the clans in this world were like countries in her world. And just as countries often warred with one another, sometimes over seemingly trivial motives, she saw no reason why the clans here wouldn't operate similarly.

"Do you believe it an accident that Desmond found you?" the old woman asked.

"I found one of the portals," Sasha reasoned. "I assumed he was just coming back through and happened upon me. It was just a coincidence."

"Really? That was the first time that you met Desmond?"

Sasha paused, eyeing the old woman. How could she possibly know?

"Druids can sense things, child," the old woman continued. "Powerful druids, like Desmond, can sense even the tiniest of disturbances, the smallest ripple in the magical weave. Desmond sensed you, I am certain of it."

"What do you mean he sensed me?"

"I mean that, even across the barrier of two worlds, Desmond sensed that your energy was profound. And he sought you out. I know you think that dreams are just dreams, but they aren't. When we dream, our minds are open and free – thoughts don't get in the way, biases don't exist. We even suspend our understanding of the laws of nature. While you're dreaming is when you are most susceptible to magic. Desmond used your dreams to lure you to him. Is that not where you first met?"

Sasha nodded.

"But how can you know that?" she whispered.

"Call it an educated guess," the old woman responded. "I know Desmond."

"So why did he seek me out? It sounds like he was stalking me."

"I may know Desmond well enough to predict what he will do, but why he does what he does is another story altogether. It is obvious, though, that you have some role to play in this world. Whatever that may be."

It seemed that every day that Sasha spent in this place was more overwhelming than the last. Magic, faeries, and now this business with the dreams and her supposed destiny – she really didn't know what to make of it all.

"When will Desmond return?" Sasha asked.

The old woman shrugged.

"Don't concern yourself with Desmond for now," she said. "There is much to do."

* * *

Sasha's eyes were closed but her mind was focused. It didn't help that she had an audience, but there was nothing that she could do about that. Her concentration was intense, and she just couldn't remember it being so hard the first time. Hadn't she simply thought about fire and then it appeared. Why couldn't it be just as easy now?

"Open your eyes."

Sasha obeyed, opening her eyes. And then she smiled. Hovering in the air, about ten feet off the ground, was the small boulder – several feet across – that the old woman had instructed her to lift. Of course, she couldn't lift it with her arms. But with her newfound abilities, apparently she could. Her mind still focused, she slowly set the large rock back down on the side of the riverbed.

There was a small clattering of applause and children cheering for her. The old woman had placed Sasha in the class with the young druids who were still learning how to use magic. There were nine of them in the class, and now Sasha made ten. They ranged from ages as young as eight or nine to as old as fourteen or fifteen. Sasha was by far the oldest, at nineteen. But she was also the only one who had managed to lift a boulder of such size on but her third day.

Sasha had spent the last few days in the beaver town, sleeping in the cabin, eating in the gathering hall, and spending most of the rest of her time with either the old woman or the children in her class. They were training her in the ways of magic, and she was progressing faster than even the old woman had predicted.

And though she was enjoying her lessons immensely, she wondered often where Desmond had disappeared. She would have preferred had he been her teacher.

"You miss him," the old woman stated as the pair walked away from the larger group, along the side of the softly flowing river.

"Who? Desmond?" Sasha asked.

The old woman smiled.

"I can see it in your eyes. You think of him often."

Sasha wasn't sure what to say, and she even blushed a little.

"You've been spending a lot of time together," the old woman continued. "It's only natural. He is handsome, after all."

Sasha glanced at the old woman, at her milky eyes.

"Yes, he is handsome," Sasha said. "But he's also been so kind to me. He introduced me to this whole new world, to this magical place. He's been so patient with me."

"He is a rare specimen," the old woman nodded. "Though a little odd at times."

"He is a little odd," Sasha said, smirking. "But it doesn't matter, I don't think he likes me that way. He's always so proper."

"Don't be foolish, child. He likes you. I may be blind, but there are some things I can still see. You aren't the problem, he likes you just fine."

"What do you mean? What's the problem, then?"

"Desmond was in love once. A very long time ago, before I was even born."

"Why is that a problem?"

"Because he hasn't loved anyone else since. You have to understand the burdens that come with being as long-lived as Desmond is. He was a young man when he fell in love. And she wasn't attuned to magic, she was just a regular girl. She was beautiful, charming, and she knew just how to capture his heart. They were wed, lived together, they even had a child together."

Sasha was catching on.

"The girl grew old?" she asked.

"Exactly," the old woman said. "She aged. And though Desmond was more or less the same age as her, she was an old woman, wrinkled and grey, and his body had barely changed. You can't imagine the heartbreak of watching the person you love grow old while you remain young. I think that's part of the reason that he mostly keeps to himself – it's too hard to become attached to people, to have friends, only to outlive them all. You see, Desmond is long-lived even among druids. Most druids of notable skill will live for a few hundred years, a little more, a little less. But Desmond is already past three hundred and he doesn't appear much older than his thirties. Who knows how long he might live."

Sasha hadn't considered any of that. How could she be with a man who would so outlive her? It wouldn't be fair to either of them. Perhaps it just wasn't meant to be.

"Maybe you'll catch up to him," the old woman teased.

"Sorry?"

"And just when I thought you were smartening up. How old are you?"

"Nineteen. Twenty in a month."

"Do you look twenty?"

"I think so..."

"Your chest is flat and your hips are narrow. I'd put you around fifteen, maybe. You pass for older because your face is pretty."

Sasha crossed her arms over her chest defensively.

"Not every woman has large breasts," she argued. "Or maybe I just haven't filled out yet."

"Are you still that daft, child? Weren't you paying attention when you lifted the rock? Or lit the fires? Or any of the other feats you've accomplished these last days?"

Sasha just started blankly at the old woman, her arms still covering her small bosom.

"You may not be a druid by faith," the old woman said. "But you are a user of magic – you're attuned to nature, and have been since puberty. Maybe before. But magic is harder to use in the other world, it wouldn't have come to you without great skill and focus. But here in this world, you're thriving. The point is, you can use magic, which means that...?"

"That I won't age like a normal person?"

"That's more like it. I like you better when you're using that brain of yours."

"But wait..."

Sasha wasn't sure what to make of the idea that she might live for hundreds of years. She fumbled the idea around in her mind for quite some time. She had no reason not to trust what the old woman told her. And her body was a little underdeveloped for her age, though not noticeably so. But more than anything else, the thought that had her smiling was that she might grow old with Desmond.

But she quickly shook that thought away – she barely knew Desmond. It had only been a few weeks since she had even stumbled through the first portal, and Desmond wasn't exactly forthcoming with personal details. Why did she feel so attracted to him at all?

She decided maybe it was best not to dwell on it – to just let things happen naturally and see where they took her.

"I'm still not sure how all this magic stuff works," Sasha admitted. "I mean, how is it that I can just think really hard about something and then it happens?"

"Because you have a strong connection to the world around you," the old woman said. "Everything you see is connected, and some people are able to manipulate that connection. In this place, this magical creation of a world, that effect is amplified greatly. Your connection to nature allows the energy that surrounds you, the magical weave, to interpret your intentions, your desires, and make them reality. You simply have to accurately focus those intentions."

Sasha nodded – the old woman's words seemed to coincide with what she was experiencing.

"Desmond asked me once why we could understand each other," Sasha pondered, "Even though our languages couldn't possibly be the same. That has something to do with magic, doesn't it?"

"It does," the old woman confirmed.

"This place, it takes what I intend to say and allows the people around me to hear it, to understand it, regardless of whether we speak the same actual words?"

"More or less. It's a convenient benefit of living in a world steeped in magic."

It didn't make complete sense to her, but Sasha was pleased that she would have something of an answer for Desmond. She grinned, wondering if he would be impressed with her.

* * *

Sasha stood on a path in the middle of the forest. It was night, but the forest wasn't dark – or was it? She looked around and noticed that the woods were doused in the bluish silvery glow that she remembered from her dreams. Was she dreaming again? She glanced down to see that she was clad in the same silk gown and sandals that she had worn in those previous dreams. What was going on?

And then the soft forest melody rang in her ears – that same, simple music that had drawn her deeper into the woods those many nights before. And she instantly took off in the direction of the music. She knew where that music led.

She followed the path for some time. It wound back and forth and even crossed a few small streams. But she didn't worry about getting her feet wet. After what seemed like an eternity, the music began to grow louder – she was getting closer.

She came around a bend in the path and there was a campfire in a small clearing. There didn't appear to be anyone around. The camp was well hidden from the main road – if she hadn't been compelled in that direction, she might have missed it altogether. There was a knoll above it on one side and the trees and dense bushes guarded it on the other.

"Sasha."

She spun around, away from the fire, to see Desmond standing behind her. He looked the same as he had in her initial dreams – he was again shirtless and wearing the same leather breeches. The pale blue quality of his eyes seemed heightened by the bluish light that filled the forest.

"Find me, Sasha," he whispered.

She was confused. Hadn't she just found him? She was about to ask that very question when suddenly she woke, her body jerking forward to a sitting position. She was breathing hard, sweat upon her brow.

"Find me," she muttered once her breathing had slowed. Was that a message? Or was it just a dream?

She glanced to her clothes, which were neatly laid upon a chair by the wall, and then to the cabin door. She was in the forest minutes later, darting through the trees, a pack flung over her shoulder, guided only by the light of the full moon.
Father Lawrence

The clap of the mule's feet and the slow grating of the cart's wheels on the dirt road were the only sounds that could be heard for miles around. The countryside was a lonely place, but that was just the way that the priest preferred it. There were rolling fields as far as the eye could see, many of them full of grape vines. The sky was blue and the sun was bright.

"That's a good boy, Charlie," Father Lawrence said, as his feet dangled over the front of the cart. "We're almost there."

He could see the small forest coming up in the distance. Soon they would be back through the portal. The priest often wondered if Charlie could tell the difference between the two worlds – he suspected that the mule could indeed. Animals seemed to have a keener sense about the world around them than humans did.

Father Lawrence could still remember the day that he had first discovered the portal. It was a day not unlike this one. He had once been a priest in a small Irish parish, but it was actually here in France that he had stumbled into the other world. Visiting the wine regions in the south of France, on something of a vacation, the priest had been out wandering the countryside one day, following a path that wound its way in and around a small forest. Upon hearing the sound of trickling water, the thirsty priest veered from the trail in search of a stream. He found the stream, but he never found his way back to the path.

The priest chuckled as he recalled losing his way after moving only a few minutes from the trail. But he had never been much of an outdoorsman back then. Luckily, he had come across another man out for a walk – or so he had thought. Father Lawrence had only caught sight of the back of this man, as he pushed through the brush. But as the man seemed to know where he was going, the priest had tried to catch up.

Before he was able to catch up, however, the man had disappeared, right before the priest's eyes. He had just walked under some strange formation of rocks, shaped something like a doorway, and then he was gone. Just as if he had never been there at all. The only thing that the priest could remember about the man, having only seen him from the back, was a long silver cloak that he wore, of fine quality, and emblazoned with the head of a wolf, fangs bared.

No matter how many times he replayed those memories in his head, he could never quite remember exactly why he had walked through that gateway himself. He had never been overly brave, or even overly curious. Maybe he had felt that God wanted him to find that portal. Whatever the reason, it seemed to be long gone.

The old mule was making good time as the small forest was getting closer and closer. It was about mid-afternoon, the sun being nearly halfway from its peak to the horizon. The priest had been expecting the journey to take all day. He smiled, wondering if his companion would be pleased at the shorter trip, or whether she would just find new reasons to taunt him.

Charlie pulled the cart beneath the first boughs of the forest, and despite his enjoyment of the sunny afternoon, Father Lawrence was pleased to have a bit of shade over him again. It wasn't far down the path before they had to cut through the brush, a bit harder of a journey for the mule and cart, but one that the priest had managed many times before. He hopped down off the cart and helped to guide Charlie across the softer forest floor.

Father Lawrence had to coax the mule along, often getting behind the cart to push – the work was much harder when the wheels of the cart didn't roll quite so easily. But despite the more arduous trek, it only took a little over an hour before they came rolling up in sight of the waygate.

Kneeling in front of the portal, with her bare back towards him, was the witch, Tamara. Her long raven black hair hung halfway down her back. The priest noticed a variety of symbols laid out on the ground in front of her, some formed with twigs and sticks and rocks, others with some sort of dust. There were several candles lit as well, flickering lightly in the gentle breeze. Charlie let out a low wheeze, the mule clearly exhausted. The sound alerted Tamara to Father Lawrence's presence, and she glanced over her shoulder.

"Back so soon?" she asked as the priest reached into his pack and produced an apple for the mule.

"Old Charlie here made good time today," he replied, patting the animal on the back. "Don't let me interrupt you, we'll have to make camp here tonight. I don't think Charlie has enough left in him to get me to the oxen town without a good, long rest."

Tamara stood up anyway, and the priest could see that she was – as he had feared – completely naked. Her slender form was enticing to the eye, even for a celibate man. She turned to face him, revealing the sight of her large, firm breasts. He had realized a long time ago that the witch preferred to practice her craft in the nude – she felt as one with nature that way. He could respect that. He was certain that she would also prefer to spend all of her time in the nude, but she likely didn't want to deal with the commotion that would accompany walking around town with her breasts bared. Her nudity used to make him uncomfortable, but Father Lawrence was nothing if not strong of will. When Tamara was engaging him, his eyes never left her face – ever.

"I was just finishing anyway," she said. She always wore a mischievous smirk when dealing with him, and he assumed that she was simply trying to find new ways to tempt him.

The priest nodded and moved towards the supplies that he had left with Tamara that morning. He had sleeping bags and some food and fresh water.

"Can't we go back through the portal first?" she asked, glancing around the unfamiliar forest as she pulled on a black silken robe. The robe barely covered her chest and clung lazily to her delicate curves. "This place doesn't feel right."

"It's safer here," the priest replied.

"That's a matter of opinion. My magic isn't strong in this place."

"This place? Have you so easily forsaken your home?"

"My home?" she scoffed. "Is this not your home as well? And yet here we are, about to head back into another world."

"It is my home, yes. And I think on it fondly. But my place is in Churchtown."

Tamara always snickered when he mentioned the name of the village that he had founded around his church. She had a point – it wasn't the most original name. But given that just about everyone in the Reverie had no idea what a church was, it seemed an appropriate title.

"And you think that my place is not with my coven?" she rebutted. "And stop unpacking, we're going back through before we make camp."

The priest glanced up, raising an eyebrow at her order.

"How many times have we done this?" she asked, shaking her head. "And you never remember that time flows differently – you have no idea what time of day it is on the other side of that portal. We could camp here for the night, and go through in the morning only to find that it's night again. Or maybe that's your plan... to keep me sleeping next to you as long as possible?"

Father Lawrence smiled politely.

"You're right, Tamara," he said. "As usual. I did forget. I was simply thinking of our best interests – there are fouler beasts, and fouler people still, on the other side of that portal."

"Are you forgetting who you're with?" the witch replied, smiling wickedly. "You make me come out here with you, you might as well let me have a little fun. Bring on a few druids – we'll see whose magic is more powerful."

Tamara always spoke coldly of the druids. He didn't blame her. Witches were often shunned in their home world, and when Tamara had found a world where magic was so readily accessible, and populated by people who worshipped it as she did, she likely expected a warmer welcome. But it turned out that the druids were just as unwelcoming to witches as many of the people in the world she had left behind.

"I don't make you come, Tamara," the priest said. "It's part of our deal."

"Which you insist on holding me to," she replied.

"And here I thought you enjoyed my company."

"Oh, I do, father. You might be a misguided little man, but you're the only man I know who doesn't stare at me like I'm a piece of meat. Although, I must admit, sometimes it makes me wonder if all of your parts are working properly."

The priest just smiled.

"Alright, let's head back through," he said, having loaded the last of the supplies onto the cart. "Activate the portal, if you would."

Tamara walked over to the stones and gently placed her hand against one of the vertical slabs. After a moment, the stone beneath her hand began to glow faintly. Then came the familiar trickling sound, followed by the gate itself seeming to flow right into place like a small waterfall.

"See you on the other side," she called over her shoulder and then she disappeared through the portal.

Father Lawrence spurred Charlie on – he always became a little paranoid when he was left on this side of the gate alone. Even though he knew that it would remain active for some time, hours even, he always felt the same uncomfortable sensations.

He led Charlie to the gate first. The cart was a tight squeeze, barely fitting between the two upright stones. He had to position it just right and wait until it passed through to be sure. Once the mule and cart were safely away, the priest himself stepped through the portal, emerging in a forest that appeared quite similar – but felt entirely different. He always savoured that feeling, the freshness of the Reverie. He didn't know exactly what it was, though Tamara insisted that he was sensing the magic of this place. He also noted that it was dark – he could barely see anything at all.

A flash of light emerged up ahead, and the priest knew that Tamara had summoned light – probably a flame in her hand, as she seemed to enjoy that particular trick. He moved around the back of the cart to find the woman.

"You're welcome," the witch said, standing in front of the cart and petting Charlie on the head with her non-flaming hand.

"Thank you, Tamara," the priest said, smiling at her.

"A few hours until morning," Tamara commented. "You should be fine from here."

She handed Father Lawrence a stick that was now burning with the same flame that had been in her palm a minute before. Then she picked her pack up from the ground and slung it over her shoulder. She was still wearing only her sleek robe, tied loosely at the waist. The priest often wondered how she managed to trek through the forest in her bare feet, but she insisted that she liked it better that way.

"You're leaving?" he asked.

"Oh, I know you're worried about all the evil things that lurk in the forest at night," she mocked. "But I've fulfilled my end of the bargain – I opened your portal for you. So unless you have something else to hang over my head and force me to do, then yes, I'm leaving."

The priest just smiled at her, and she even managed a smirk back at him.

"Have a safe trip," he said, and he went about setting up his camp for what little night remained.

* * *

"So that's six casks of wine?" the burly man inquired.

The priest nodded, watching as Thaddon inspected the wares. The big man pulled the stopper from one of the casks and took a strong whiff from the spout. His eyes went wide and then he smiled, his crooked teeth barely visible behind a big, bushy beard. The Ox Clan was less known for their grooming than their physical size and work ethic.

"Same deal, then?" Thaddon asked, turning to face the priest.

"Six casks for six carts of limestone?" Father Lawrence clarified.

"Aye. You can pick 'em up as you need 'em, as usual."

"That may not be for a while," the priest noted. "I fear the snows will be upon us soon."

"In the spring then. Though we might be needin' some more wine by then!"

That was indeed the usual arrangement. Obviously the priest was unable to take all six carts back with him at once. So the oxen allowed him to take one cart at a time, use the stones, and then return when he was ready for the next cart. He felt that the deal of one cask of wine for an entire cart of stone to be very much in his favour. But that was how things worked in this world – the oxen had no other means of acquiring such high quality wine, and they had plenty of rock to quarry.

"Sure you won't stay for a meal, then?" Thaddon asked, though he likely already knew the answer.

"I appreciate the offer, friend," Father Lawrence replied. "But if I want to make Churchtown by nightfall, I had better be on my way."

"Suit yourself."

The priest did have to wait a short time, while the oxen unloaded the wine and then loaded his cart with the limestone. So he decided to take a quick stroll through the town. The Oxen Clan wasn't a large clan, comprising only a half dozen or so small towns and one larger city that sat on the western coast of the Reverie's sole continent. They were a simple people, though tough and rugged. The only major difference between oxen towns and towns of other clans that the priest had visited were that just about all of the buildings here were built of stone. It made sense, he thought, given the abundance of stone provided by the quarry. But having spent the last decade or more of his life building a single stone structure, he could only imagine how much work went into the creation of all these stone buildings.

The priest wandered a while longer, stopping twice to chat with the locals – they all knew where the wine came from, and they were always eager to compliment him on it. Father Lawrence, of course, had left out the particulars of where he came by the fine wine. They likely assumed that he made it himself. And he wasn't about to correct them – most residents of the Reverie feared the portals. He didn't know why, but they were fierce about the subject and it wasn't a discussion he wanted to get into.

Eventually he made his way back to old Charlie and his cart, which was now laden down with a full load of heavy stones. He felt for the mule, who had several more hours of hard labour ahead of him.

"Don't worry, Charlie," he said, rubbing the mule's head. "Once we get back to town, you'll have all the food and rest you can handle." The priest paused as he glanced over the number of rocks in the cart. "For a few a months, at least."

Ten minutes later, the cart was rumbling slowly along the road to the north. With an empty cart, Father Lawrence could usually make the journey back to Churchtown in about five hours. With a heavy load, it would take two or three hours more. But such was life in this primitive place. The priest sighed, breathed in the fresh air, and settled in for the long ride home.

* * *

The mule made a whining noise, and the priest couldn't really blame him – it had been a long, hard day for old Charlie. And here they were, in the dark, only a half hour from home, and the cart was stuck in the mud.

"Don't worry, old boy," Father Lawrence said as he knelt down by the side of the road to inspect the situation. "We'll be home soon."

The wheel had slipped off the main road and onto the softer forest floor – which was now quite soggy given the bit of rain that had fallen a few hours previous. It was late in the fall season, the priest knew, and he fully expected the winter snows to be right around the corner. Travel was difficult in the winter months, especially in the northern regions. Luckily for the priest, and completely coincidentally, he had chosen to build his church near the coast, and not so far north – both of which factored in to a milder, and less snowy, winter. But even with the lighter snows, these forest trails would soon be impassable for a wagon.

For now, the roads were still clear, though they were often wet and muddy. The roads weren't really roads, at least not in the sense that the priest had been accustomed to in his youth. They were simply trails where the trees had been cut away. In some places the ground had been salted to prevent regrowth, keeping the paths clear for years. And on the more travelled roads, the constant wear from horses and mules and carts and carriages prevented anything beyond a few weeds from growing back.

The priest reached out and tried to yank the wheel free of the mud. He knew it was useless before he even tried it, given the weight of the cart full of stones. But he wasn't sure what else to do. He had tried having Charlie just pull the cart free, but that had only served to get it stuck deeper. He flirted with the idea of walking to town and enlisting Tamara's help – he knew that she could have the cart free in a few seconds. But he wasn't sure that her inevitable gloating would be worth it. And he didn't like owing her favours. So instead he just sat back to think, the old mule eyeing him impatiently.

"Do you need a hand, sir?"

The priest was startled and his head shot around to see that someone was standing behind him. He couldn't quite make the newcomer out right away, the torch from the cart not being bright enough. He got back to his feet and took the torch in his hand.

With the better lighting, Father Lawrence could make out the stranger – it appeared to be a boy, maybe in his mid teens. He was dressed in heavy furs that were looking worn and shaggy, and he had a black pack slung over his shoulder. He was dirty, and he had several painful-looking wounds that were only half-healed across his face.

"What happened to you, son?" the priest asked.

The boy just shrugged.

"Are you out here alone?" Father Lawrence continued. "It mustn't be very safe."

"I'm not afraid," the boy said.

"No, I'm sure you aren't," the priest said, smiling. "Now, did you say that you could give me a hand here?"

The boy nodded and dropped his pack to the ground. The priest couldn't help but glance down at it, as it seemed to shimmer in the firelight. He noted the intricate web-like pattern that was embroidered into the bag – it was something that he had seen before.

"You need to dig it out a bit," the boy said, now down on his knees and using his hands to pull as much of the mud as possible away from the wheel.

"I see," the priest said, crouching down near the boy.

"Go up to the front. And when I tell you, push the cart backwards."

"Backwards?"

"Right. We need to give it some momentum. You push it back, and I'll pull it from the end, and when I yell, get the mule to pull forward. I'll push, too. That should be enough, the wheel's not buried so deep."

Father Lawrence did as he was instructed, first setting the torch back in its holder on the cart. He pushed backwards as hard as he could, and when the boy yelled out he gave old Charlie a slap on the rear. The mule darted forward and the priest could see the cart moving slightly. The wheels were trying to grip. The boy was pushing hard at the back and Charlie was pulling forward. The priest darted around to the back of the cart and set his shoulder up against it, right next to the boy. Between the three of them, they are able to free the cart and get it back up on the road.

"Whoa, Charlie!" the priest called out, as the mule seemed content to continue down the road, even after the cart was free. He hustled back around to the front of the cart to calm Charlie down.

"Well, son," the priest said, as the boy had come up to join him near the front of the cart, his pack again slung over his shoulder. "I'm grateful, I might have been stuck there all night if you hadn't come along. So why don't you tell me where you were headed?"

"Nowhere in particular," the boy said, although Father Lawrence sensed that that wasn't entirely the case.

"Nowhere at all? You seem to be an awful far ways out in the wilderness to be going nowhere at all."

"I'm a traveller."

"Travellers usually have a destination, son. Where are you from?"

"Nowhere. I mean, I was from somewhere, but I'm not going back there, so it doesn't really matter."

"Fair enough. So since you're headed nowhere in particular, why don't you come along with me. You never know when old Charlie and I might need a hand getting unstuck."

"Where are you going?"

"I suspect you know where I'm going, son. There's a town up ahead – it's called Churchtown. I'm what you might call the unofficial leader of the community."

"I heard that Churchtown was a good place for people looking to start over."

"It certainly is, my boy. It certainly is. I have a few spare beds in the church – they're comfortable enough, I think. You can have your pick."

"What's a church, sir?"

The priest chuckled.

"Don't worry, son," he said, "We'll have plenty of time to discuss things like that."
The Prisoner

Iain was resting comfortably on the bed. There was only a small bundle of sticks to serve as a mattress, covered by a thin layer of pine branches. But given that he had spent months in that cell, with a bed of rock and shit and filth, he found his current position to be quite cozy. His body was still exceptionally weak – he had difficulty walking, his back was hunched and sore, and his limbs were little more than skin upon bone. It didn't help that he and Brom had spent three days fleeing through the forest, with little time for proper rest or healing. Iain knew that he wouldn't be any help in a fight. And he knew that a fight was coming.

In fact, the bed was the only remotely pleasant portion of his life just then. He was out of that cell, but between the failings of his physical form and his spotty memory, he wasn't sure that he was much better off. And he certainly felt that he was burdening his companion.

Iain glanced across the room to see Brom staring out the window. They had only a single small candle burning, providing minimal light – but that was by design. Earlier that evening, the pair had come across this abandoned cabin and they had taken refuge inside. Brom had spent the bulk of the last few hours out in the surrounding woods, trying to plant false trails to lead the spiders astray. But they both knew that it would only provide a temporary reprieve. Spiders were nothing if not tenacious.

And so here they were, a crippled old man and his protector, hidden away in the dark of a cabin, futilely hoping that their pursuers would tire and turn back. The wind was whistling eerily outside, and Iain suspected that it would be a long, cold night.

"How long until morning?" Iain asked. His voice had gotten a little better, at least.

Brom glanced over his shoulder for a moment before turning his attention back to the window.

"Still a while, yet," he replied. "I thought you were sleeping."

"I haven't slept in months. I'm not sure that I remember how."

"Well you should try. We'll have to be out of here by first light, and it won't be an easy road. The land to the east is rough, rocky terrain. Although you are getting thin enough that I may be able to just carry you soon."

Iain smiled, before dropping his head back down on the makeshift pillow and shutting his eyes. But the silence just reminded him of his cell. The quiet was broken only by the wind whipping about outside, and he feared that a storm may find them. The roof of the old cabin was far from sturdy and it was constantly rattling in the stiff gusts. The minutes rolled by, but Iain only lay there, eyes closed, wide awake. Every little rustle drew his attention, and it was getting colder as the night grew deeper.

He tossed on the pile of branches, and suddenly they didn't seem quite so comfortable. He didn't have a blanket, just a crude deerskin that Brom had crafted the day before – it didn't help much against the cold. Iain was tossing and turning as the wind continued to rattle against the rickety old cabin.

Finally he just gave up and opened his eyes again. The small flame atop the lone candle was blowing around, a clear sign that the cold wind was penetrating their shelter. But it was still better than sleeping outside, as they had done the night previous.

Iain was just closing his eyes again, intending to pursue sleep once more, when a sound from outside caught his ear. It wasn't a rattle or creak caused by the wind. It sounded like a voice.

"Brom..." Iain whispered.

"Shhhh," Brom instructed, and, with a quick wave of his hand, sent forth a small gust of air to blow out the candle.

Iain was suddenly overcome by darkness, with only the smallest amount of illumination coming in the window from the moon and stars outside. But even they were faint, given how dense the nearby forest was. Iain remembered Brom telling him that, with any luck, the spiders would pass right by the cabin in the dark of night. And given that he couldn't even see the other side of the room, Iain could believe that.

He could barely make out Brom's silhouette, the other man kneeling by the window now, only the smallest portion of his face peeking out over the sill. Iain wanted desperately to ask if Brom could see anything, but he knew better than to make a sound. He kept his ears perked, but he didn't hear anything now – at least nothing beyond the constant rattle of the wind.

He lay there for several minutes, his breath coming in long, nervous gasps. Maybe there had been no sound in the first place. Maybe it had just been his mind playing tricks on him, or a bluff of the wind. He ignored the fact that Brom had seemingly heard it also. But before he could convince himself that he had never heard anything at all, there was a new sound – a loud, piercing sound that was unmistakable. It was the howl of a wolf.

The sound sent a shiver down Iain's spine. It made the air around him feel even colder. The howl sounded very close. Did the spiders have wolves with them? Iain's memory was still foggy, but he seemed to recall that wild animals held a connection with their druid counterparts – a wild bear might approach a member of the Bear Clan without fear or aggression. But the same bear would happily maul a druid of another clan, should that druid encroach on the bear's territory. The spiders couldn't possibly have wolves as allies. Was it a just a coincidence then? A nearby wolf howling at random?

"What was that?" Iain whispered, unable to restrain himself.

"I'm not sure," Brom replied, now taking a closer look out the window.

"Do you see anything?"

"I see trees. That's about it."

Iain was about to press his companion, but there was a sudden flurry of noise outside, in the distance. There were definitely voices this time, quite clear but too faint to make out their words. Brom wasn't even trying to hide his face from the window any longer. He was standing at the window, his head sticking right out into the night.

"What is it?" Iain asked, his words followed by what sounded like small explosions in the distance.

"They're getting closer," Brom replied.

"Should we leave? Run for it?"

"And go where? We're as safe here as we're going to be. And we can defend a structure if need be. Just try to get some rest already."

Iain nearly laughed at that statement – he didn't foresee any rest at all in his immediate future.

The strange noises, along with the voices, continued for a few moments and then disappeared altogether. The rattling of the branches and cabin roof could be heard again over the silence of the forest. And without even the small candle lit, Iain could see nothing aside from Brom's silhouette against the near-black night beyond the window. Both men listened intently, hoping to hear some hint of what was going on out there. But they heard nothing now.

Iain was sitting up on the bed at this point, staring at the window. There was only the one window in the cabin, on the wall opposite the lone door. Iain's bed was set against the adjacent wall. The cabin was small and dark and it didn't feel very safe to the weary man. But he trusted Brom – Brom had gotten him this far, after all.

Iain nearly jumped right off the bed when a loud thumping came from the cabin door – someone was trying to get in. Brom's head shot around and, even in the darkness, Iain could see his companion's eyes narrowed in the direction of the door. Iain wanted to yell out in fear, but his voice was caught – the mere thought of ending up back in that cell terrified him. He could almost picture Kendrick's gaunt face and dark eyes.

He watched as Brom stalked across the distance between the window and the door. Earlier, Brom had blocked the door with a rather simple wooden barrier. It might hold a thug or soldier at bay, but it would pose little obstacle to a skilled druid. Iain wondered if perhaps they were lucky enough that the man on the opposite side of the door was just a spider soldier. Since they had fled the spider dungeons, the pair had been chased by a seemingly endless stream of both soldiers and druids – soldiers they could deal with, if there weren't too many of them, but a group of strong druids would press even a totem or two. Whoever was outside, they were again banging on the door, louder this time.

Iain was staring in the direction of the door, but he couldn't really make out exactly where it was in the darkness. He couldn't even see Brom now that he had moved away from the window, but he heard the floorboards creaking beneath his companion's feet.

"Is this how you treat your guests?"

Iain looked back towards the window to see that a different silhouette had replaced Brom's. A moment later, the figure – who had apparently climbed in the open window – held a hand up and his fingers set aflame, illuminating the nearby area. He looked vaguely familiar to Iain. The man was handsome, with unkempt hair that hung almost to his shoulders.

"Desmond?" Brom asked, moving back towards the mysterious figure. Iain had a hard time determining if Brom sounded surprised or relieved – perhaps a bit of both.

"Hello Brom," Desmond replied. "It's been a long time."

The two men clasped hands and Iain could see the newcomer's handsome smile, stirring his memory further. Desmond turned his attention toward the bed, letting his flame grow stronger to light the entire room.

"And who have we here?" Desmond asked, taking in the sight of Iain lying there, in his prone position.

Iain saw Brom shift uncomfortably.

"That's Iain," Brom said. "I rescued him from the spiders three days ago."

A shadow passed over Desmond's face, the playful visage of a moment prior gone, his features growing stern.

"We've barely been keeping ahead of them," Brom continued. "We thought you were a spider - you're lucky I think before I react or you might be a burning heap of ash right now."

"They're out there," Desmond replied. "In numbers. I drew some away, but more are coming. It seems they aren't willing to let you go so easily."

"I've been wondering about that myself. I mean, I know that spiders are persistent bastards, but this is getting a little out of hand – why are they so keen to get him back? I've killed at least a dozen or so, some of them druids. And even after three days in the wilderness, still they follow."

"Perhaps our friend here knows something he shouldn't."

Both men turned their gaze upon Iain.

"I... I..." he stammered as they inspected him.

"His mind isn't what it used to be," Brom commented. "I believe our old friend Kendrick is responsible for that."

"That's not surprising," Desmond said. "Kendrick always did enjoy watching a man deteriorate, a rather cruel hobby of his."

"Well, you'd know better than I would."

"In any case," Desmond continued, "We don't have time to figure it out right now – whatever their reasons, the spiders are still pursuing us. I slowed them down, but they'll be back soon. We need to move."

"We can't wait until morning?" Iain croaked, not keen on limping through the darkness with potential danger behind every dark tree.

"The black is our friend here," Desmond stated. "They can't follow our tracks as easily at night. We might get lucky and they won't find this cabin tonight, but they'll find it easily once the sun is up. And we had best not be inside when they do."

Brom nodded his agreement and moved to help Iain up off of the bed. Desmond was just staring at the pair curiously, before moving towards the window.

"There's a bluff, about an hour south of here," Desmond said, as he put one of his feet up on the window ledge. "It should provide ample cover until morning. Wait for me there."

"You're not coming with us?" Brom asked, as he slipped Iain's arm around his shoulders, holding the crippled man's weight.

"I need to plant a false trail, or they'll find us just as easily. Don't worry, I'll find you before the sun breaks."

Brom was about to argue, perhaps to suggest that they not split up at all. But the three of them froze as they heard voices off in the forest, not so far away. Iain watched as Desmond's face turned cold, his eyes staring out into the black night.

"There's no time," Desmond hissed. "Move!"

Desmond gave a wave of his hand, and the flame that he had been maintaining disappeared in a puff of smoke, the cabin again doused in blackness. Neither Brom nor Iain needed to be told twice, and they were out the front door a moment later, trudging through the brush.

They hadn't made it very far when Iain heard the howl of a wolf again pierce the cold night air. The sound rang in his ears, and it was followed quickly by the fainter sound of growls and snarls, even the snapping of teeth.

Iain could feel Brom picking up the pace, and he tried to move his weak legs to keep up.

* * *

"An hour to the south," Brom grumbled. "How are we supposed to see a bluff in the middle of the night anyway? I can barely see my own feet."

Iain was struggling just to keep his legs from dragging and slowing Brom down. He certainly wasn't helping the pair move any faster. And he could see Brom's point – it was nearly pitch black, and they had to move very slowly just to avoid walking right into trees.

"I should have known," Brom went on. "Desmond always did like to make things seem easier than they are. He likes to show off, that one. If I didn't know any better..."

Iain felt his body jerk as Brom stopped suddenly. He glanced down and saw that they were standing right at the edge of a steep decline down the side of a knoll.

"Heh..." Brom said.

Brom moved forward carefully, steadying himself before taking Iain's weight on his shoulder. Descending the side of the bluff was difficult, but Brom managed, even with Iain draped over his back. Once at the bottom of the knoll, Brom set Iain down against the base of a tree and went about making camp.

"I think we can chance a fire here," Brom noted, glancing around. The bluff protected them from pursuit, as the fire wouldn't be visible in that direction. And there was sufficient cover on the other side to keep them hidden from any prying eyes.

Iain was glad to have a bit of light again, not to mention the warmth that the fire provided. His old bones didn't handle the cold well, and the nights kept getting colder and colder. It was only a matter of time until winter made its way south, and by then Iain hoped to be settled away in a cozy stone building, with a raging fire in the hearth.

The duo could still hear the occasional howl of a wolf in the distance, though the growls and snaps had faded away.

"Do you think he's alright?" Iain asked.

"Desmond? He's fine. Nobody hunts better at night than Desmond. They won't even see him coming, the bloody wolf."

Iain watched as Brom moved about the area, grabbing up any loose pieces of dry wood that he could find. There was minimal light from the moon and the stars, but Brom was lighting his way with a magical flame that floated in front of him. He carried the logs back to where Iain was sitting, piling them up and setting some moss, twigs, and bark at the centre. Then he commanded his flame to float right into the pile of kindling.

"There, that's better," Brom commented as he lowered his own weary body down against a tree across the fire from Iain.

"How much farther must we run?" Iain asked. He really didn't have any idea where they were.

"We shouldn't be far from the beaver lands, unless I'm completely lost – maybe a day or two to the west. But the spiders will follow us there. No, I think we're better off getting you home. The stag lands are maybe a week's journey to the northwest, if we can make good time." Brom glanced across at Iain, before adding, "Probably a good ten days or so, really."

Ten more days – the mere thought made Iain wince. He didn't think he could last ten more days like this. He was weak enough as it was, but their flight left them with barely any food, water only when they came across a stream and could fill their skins, and little to no rest. He could vaguely remember a time when such challenges would have been welcomed. But those times were long past, it seemed.

Iain was about to express as much to Brom, but instead he held his tongue. Brom was suddenly glancing about the nearby trees.

"Did you hear something?" Iain asked.

"I'm not sure..." Brom replied.

But then Iain heard it too – a rustle in the branches. And not from the wind. Someone was approaching their camp. It might be Desmond, but Iain would have expected him to come down the bluff as they had – not to arrive from the opposite direction. He noted that Brom was eyeing the source of the rustling, his hands moving quickly and whispering under his breath.

"It might be Desmond," Iain said, figuring the need for silence was likely moot. Whoever was approaching had certainly seen their campfire by now.

"Did you say Desmond?" a voice asked out of the bushes. But it wasn't the voice that Iain expected to hear. It was a soft, female voice.

"Show yourself," Brom commanded, standing up and moving out from behind his tree.

A moment later a young woman walked into the camp, her attractive, delicate features highlighted by the flickering flames. She had a slender frame and long, silvery blonde hair. She didn't look like a spider – in fact she didn't look much like a druid at all. She was wearing strange clothes. Iain wanted to get up and greet the girl, but his body was too weary. So he just sat there and hoped that Brom wouldn't do anything rash.

"Where is Desmond?" the girl asked, after glancing from Brom to Iain.

"How do you know Desmond?" Brom countered.

Iain noted that the girl did appear a little flustered. And why wouldn't she?

"Brom..." Iain said in a calming tone.

Brom just sighed, threw a hand up in the air, and sat back down against his tree. He continued to eye the girl hesitantly, though.

"Please sit down, miss," Iain invited. "Desmond has promised to meet us here shortly."

"Thanks," the girl said, accepting the invitation and sitting down on a large stone, facing the fire.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you find this place? Surely you weren't stumbling through the woods looking for Desmond."

"Well, I was, sort of. I mean I had a pretty good idea of where to go from the dream, but I wasn't sure exactly where."

"What dream?" Brom interjected.

"Desmond came to me in a dream two nights ago. He showed me this place and he told me to come and find him. So here I am."

Brom glanced at Iain, and Iain knew why. Communicating through dreams was not something that a normal person could accomplish – this girl was attuned to magic.

"Who are you?" Iain asked.

"I'm Sasha," she replied, smiling.

A piercing howl interrupted their conversation, and Iain noted that it sounded not so far away. The howl lasted several long seconds, and was followed by the fainter growling and snapping sounds that they had heard earlier.

"What was that?" Sasha asked, looking off towards the top of the bluff.

"It was a wolf..." Brom stated, eyeing the girl curiously.

"You'll have to pardon my friend," Iain said. "He's a bit on edge. It's my fault – he has been forced to lead me through these woods at great personal risk and effort. I am rather a burden, you see. But forgive me, where are my manners? I am called Iain, of the stags. And my friend here is Brom, of the ravens."

Brom nodded curtly at Sasha as she smiled at both men.

"I see you've met my friends, Sasha," a new voice said, and all three heads turned to see Desmond stroll into the firelight. His tunic was torn and there were several long scratches showing blood on his arms and chest. Sasha was about to ask if he was hurt, but he raised a finger to silence her.

"Proper introductions will have to wait," Desmond stated. "For now, we need to get moving. Sasha, can you please assist Iain? Brom, you lead the way. I'll cover the rear."

Desmond had always been a man of few words. And his commands were followed immediately, with Brom hopping to his feet, a new flame already in his palm, and Sasha moving to help Iain from his sitting position. His back was aching and his body was already sore. Part of him didn't expect to last the night.
Graumin

His trek up the mountains, through the snowy, windy passes, and to the mouth of the glowing cave, had been an arduous one. His body had nearly let him down many times. And his mind had been severely taxed by the elements and his continual domination of his escort spirit. But the trip back down the mountains, through those same snowy, windy passes, was noticeably easier. Perhaps it was the absence of his guiding spirit. Or perhaps it was simply his renewed determination. Whatever the reason, Graumin had a purpose to his step as he moved through the knee-high snow.

As he travelled the mountain passes that led away from the glowing cave, he could sense more of the spirits about. But they didn't attack him this time. It was possible that his guide, who had fled once Graumin had discovered his goal, had warned the others. Or maybe they just sensed the rejuvenation within the man, and as he was walking in the opposite direction, they let him pass. Whatever the reason, it intrigued Graumin that there were even more of the spirits. But he didn't have time to investigate further – he was eager to make it home, and the journey would be long.

He was moving to the southwest, making for the same serpent village that he and the boy had set out from many weeks before. The more rugged mountain foothills were behind him, and the trees were a little friendlier now. That was his first sign that he was close to civilized lands once more. His problem was that he didn't really know which civilized lands he would stumble upon first. The serpent lands lay to the west of the northern part of the Reverie. Eagle lands lay along the eastern coast. And the bear lands lay between the two. The lands that he walked now belonged to no one – the last unclaimed wilds of the druid world. Even the most rugged of clans found the elements this far north too difficult to live in, and the mountains made for poor crops and little game.

His travel was imprecise – while he was moving in a generally southwesterly direction, he was just as likely to wander into a bear village as he was a serpent village. And given that the village he sought lay close to the border between the two clans, the risk was even greater. He didn't fear the bears – there was little that unnerved Graumin – but he was trying to make haste back to his homeland in the south. And distractions, no matter how pleasurable they might be, were not wanted.

One distraction that would be welcome, however, was a bit of food. Berries and twigs and bark could sustain a man for only so long. What Graumin needed was a good bit of meat, the flesh of another living creature. He hadn't come across any tracks yet, but he knew that he was far enough out of the mountains that there would be game about somewhere. He just had to find it.

Druids were connected to the magical world, and as such, Graumin could sense things that common folk could not. He didn't need to find a track in the snow to locate an animal. He could sense their life force if he focused hard enough. And given how empty his belly felt, he thought that it was worth the effort at this point. So he decided to find a somewhat sheltered area and set up camp for the night.

He searched for a short while before locating a suitable site – a small, rocky overhang, about ten feet high, had kept most of the snow from piling up beneath it. It would also keep the snow and wind off of him as he slept. Graumin dropped his pack and set out to retrieve some wood. His notched handaxe clutched firmly in his grasp, he trudged across to the nearest tree, a stout pine. With only a few fierce slashes, the tree toppled over and Graumin hauled it back to his campsite. He could hack the trunk up for firewood and use the branches, with their soft needles, as a bedding.

Once the fire was alive and crackling, Graumin laid his handaxe down on the ground beside him. The firelight glinted off of the blade that, despite its rusted appearance, had made quick work of the pine. Graumin sat facing the fire, legs crossed in front of him. His eyes were closed and his mind focused. He quickly fell into a trance-like state, his spirit darting about the area.

It was ten minutes, maybe longer, before he sensed something distinct. His body spasmed as his spirit latched onto something nearby, rushing to seek it out. And while Graumin couldn't physically see anything in this state, his senses were still sharp. There was a doe, drinking from a nearby stream. Despite the abundance of snow and the cold temperature, the stream hadn't completely frozen over. The young deer was contentedly lapping away at the cool water as Graumin's spirit approached from behind.

The doe's ears straightened, her head popping up from the stream, eyes scanning the area. She sensed something, Graumin knew. Animals had a sixth sense about the world around them, and the deer could tell that she was in danger, despite not being able to see anything nearby. Graumin had no time to waste – the doe could flee at any moment.

He urged his spirit forward, straight for the simple-minded creature. The doe kicked her hind legs, trying to spring away, but she was too late. Graumin had assaulted her mind, his spirit possessing her. It was a quick battle of wills, the animal not really posing much of a challenge to the powerful druid. And then she was his.

Possession was an evil act – condemned by most of the druid clans. But Graumin didn't abide by civilized laws and rules. He did what he felt was needed. He was inside the doe's mind now, and he could sense her emotions as clearly as if they were his own. She was terrified, as all creatures were when he possessed them. Her thoughts were basic, primitive, not like a human's thoughts, only instincts. But he could feel the terror all the same.

He commanded the doe to move, and she obeyed, though her legs kicked strangely as her will fought back against him. It didn't matter – she was just a deer. Graumin led the creature back through the trees and snow, in the direction of his campsite. It was slow progress, as the doe's legs did not want to obey, often kicking out to the side. But in the end, he had control of the animal. And after a few minutes, he led her into the campsite. It was always a strange sensation to see his own body through the eyes of another being, but there he was, sitting by the fire, bundled in his furs, wild hair and beard more scraggly-looking than ever.

The doe's fear was palpable now, her heart racing as her eyes viewed this man. She could sense that he was the source of her possession. Graumin could sense her desperation, her desire to leap away, back through the trees. It only made him smile.

Graumin compelled the animal to drop to the ground, the doe's shaking legs hesitantly responding. He could feel her terror, her sense of impending doom. That she was powerless to prevent it only spurred him on further. Graumin enjoyed the feeling of complete domination, he enjoyed revelling in the fear of lesser creatures. And before the doe even knew what was happening, the rusty edge of Graumin's handaxe was imbedded in her flank.

He was standing over her now, looking down at her prone form. His spirit was no longer possessing the poor creature, but Graumin still compelled her to stay – much in the same way that he had compelled the ghost on his way to the cave. He couldn't stop the doe from crying out in anguish, though, loud, primal shrieks echoing through the trees. He thought it a pathetic sound indeed – just another sign of the animal's weakness.

Graumin reached down and wrenched the axe free from her side, allowing the blood to flow freely from the garish wound. Even if he allowed her to stand, she wouldn't be able to. Her flank was too badly injured and her life force was quickly draining away. He reached down stuck two of his fingers inside of the wound, causing her body to tremor, her shrieks even more pathetic and pitiful.

Graumin pulled his hand up to his face, inspecting the thick, dark blood that covered his two fingers. He sniffed at them, savouring the rich scent of the doe's blood. And then he slipped both of his dirty fingers into his mouth, sucking them. When he pulled them out once more, they were no longer red. Graumin could already feel the doe's spirit within him.

Blood was a creature's life force – it sustained them, carrying nutrients through their bodies. Many spiders believed that it was the purest source of nutrition available in a fresh kill, and Graumin was no different. He would eat the doe's meat, of course, but first he would drain it of its blood, consuming as much as he could. And the fresher the blood, the better. The blood of a living creature was far more valuable to Graumin than that of a dead one.

The doe's shrieking had passed, its energy too far gone to make such noises. But it was not yet dead, its chest slowly rising and falling. Graumin was busy filling his canteen with fresh blood and only glanced up occasionally to note whether or not the animal had yet passed on. He was tempted to cut a slab of meat while the deer still drew breath, but he figured that such an act would surely kill the beast. His initial wound had been too deep, too grievous. He wouldn't make the same mistake next time.

He sat back and brought the full canteen to his lips, drinking down the thick substance in long, slow draughts. He looked the doe in the eye now, noting the sheer terror as the last of her life drained away. Graumin smiled, and he only smiled wider when he pictured the boy's face in place of the deer's. How fulfilling it would feel to see the traitor lying there instead of a common beast – to be drinking down the boy's blood as opposed to this meagre swill that he now swallowed.

The boy's blood – that was what had started everything almost a decade ago. Graumin had looked more or less the same back then, but his life had lacked the same direction, the same purpose. He knew about the cave, of course – one of the few people who did. And he suspected its magical protections. But back then it was all just a big jumble of information. He had no plan. He was a drifter, well-known among the Spider Clan's population, but exiled by the highest figures of the clan's political structure. He spent as much time in spider lands as out, but he never took the exile seriously. In fact, he enjoyed tempting the authorities to try and hold him to it.

But as his journeys often took him into other territory, and it had been decades since his last visit to the spider seat anyway, he didn't bother fighting them over it. He understood why they had exiled him. He hated them for it, but there wasn't much that he could do.

After one particularly fruitful trek into the southern marshes, Graumin had sought out the friendly confines of the spider lands, though he only ventured to the villages along the border, farthest from central cities. It was in one of those small villages that he had first stumbled across the boy.

The village reeked of poverty, like so many villages of the Reverie do. The peasants got by as best they could by farming and hunting. Money wasn't common in such places, most folk just bartering for what they needed. And any money they did get was usually taken as a tax by the local magistrate or donated to the local druid temple. Graumin, in his filthy, worn furs, fit right in as he walked through the village.

The average peasant may have heard of him by name, but nobody would ever recognize him that far from the spider seat of power. Nevertheless, he was a menacing figure. People steered clear of him. He liked it better that way, as he didn't like dealing with people. But for some reason, as he was walking the dirt street that led toward the local inn, the boy caught his eye. He couldn't have been more than four or five years old at the time, and Graumin was compelled to move closer for a better look.

The boy's mother noted his presence first. She quickly wrapped an arm protectively around the boy. But Graumin ignored her. He realized at once why the boy had caught his eye – he could sense the magical emanations in the air. And as close as he was then, he could almost smell it on the boy. The boy had magic in his blood, that was certain. It was obvious enough that it might even have been noticed by the low-level druids that staffed the local spider temple.

"Can I help you?" the boy's father asked. He was a sturdy man who was leaning on a pitchfork. Graumin wasn't sure if it was meant to be intimidating, but he didn't care.

"That your boy?" he grunted in response.

The boy glanced up at him. Graumin smirked at the innocence in the boy's eyes.

"Aye," the man replied.

"What do you want for him?"

Graumin could sense the power running through the boy's blood. He almost didn't believe that these two, dirty farmers could possibly be the boy's parents. But what did it matter?

The woman looked confused by his question.

"For the boy," Graumin stated. "What's he worth to you?"

"He's our son," the man said, as though that were enough of an answer to the stranger's question.

Graumin was never a patient one, and he reached under his robe and produced a small coin purse. Inside it he had a number of silver coins. He had gold coins in his other purse, but he suspected that he wouldn't need them. He tossed the small bag at the woman, and reached out and roughly grabbed at the boy's wrist.

Instinctively, the man moved to intercept Graumin. But when his wife let out a little gasp, he turned to face her. She showed him the contents of the purse and Graumin noted how the man's posture grew a little straighter. For a few pieces of silver, any man or woman in this pitiful village would trade their child, as though he were a goat or a cow. Graumin didn't even have to wait for an answer. He pulled the boy closer and turned to walk away. And despite the boy's cries of protest, neither parent did anything at all to stop him. The boy had been with him ever since – at least until their encounter with the spirits that night.

* * *

Graumin had put a few miles behind him since leaving his camp, and the deer carcass, that morning. He felt that he was making good time and should reach serpent territory soon. But he was suddenly distracted by something else. He wasn't even sure what it was right away, only that he had lost his train of thought and was now glancing around the nearby trees. He stopped walking and took a deep breath, tasting the air around him.

He felt as though his mind might be playing tricks on him, given his reminiscing of the night before. But he seemed to be sensing familiar magical emanations. They were faint. But they were the boy's.

Graumin chuckled. Perhaps he hadn't given the boy enough credit. Was he still alive, after all? The boy had always been a fighter. Never too bright, though, Graumin realized as he noted that the trail was drifting off in the direction of the bear lands rather than the serpent lands. He was lucky that the boy's blood was as strong as it was – were he a lesser druid, or the boy not as strong, he would never have picked up this scent. But now that he had picked it up, he had to decide what to do about it.

He glanced to the west, towards the serpents. Then his head turned a little, towards the southwest, towards the boy. Graumin stood there for some time, thinking. And then he followed the scent. It was hard to follow, and he had to stop numerous times to pick it up again. It was little more than a tingle at his mind – he wasn't really smelling it, of course. Magical emanations were sensed by the mind, through the strong connections that magic-users had with the world around them. But they generally wouldn't last long – the boy must have passed through this area weeks ago. Graumin just chalked it up to his familiarity with the boy's scent, and the strength of the boy's blood.

He followed the trail for several hours, and was just beginning to doubt his decision, when he came across what looked like a used campsite. There was a small pile of rocks that encircled what must have held a fire – a habit that Graumin knew the boy practiced. Snow had blown over most of the camp, but the rocks were a good indication that the boy may have passed this way. Graumin knelt down to inspect it closer. He brushed away some of the snow and found what looked like a small skull. There were other small bones scattered around. Graumin picked up the tiny skull, holding it between his fingers. It appeared to be that of a squirrel.

Graumin glanced off to the southwest again. He would be heading deeper into bear territory if he continued. If the boy had wandered unknowingly into bear lands, he might be dead already. Bears didn't take kindly to intruders. Was it even worth the effort to find out?

But in the end, the mere fact that he could sense this trail, however faint it might be, reminded him just how much potential the boy's blood held. Perhaps it would be strong enough, after all.
The Boy

Manure. The smell of manure filled his days, and he could never quite wash it out of his clothes at night. But it didn't bother the boy. He'd smelled a lot worse back in the many spider towns that he had grown up in. Despite the constant unpleasant stench, the boy enjoyed the freedom that he had in his new home.

He heaved the pitchfork into the air, the heavy bale of hay stuck to the end of it. The horses were eyeing him suspiciously – no one was supposed to enjoy stable duty as much as the boy appeared to. The stable wasn't that large, with only a half dozen horses inside. There was room for a few more, but Churchtown only boasted the six mares. Stallions were sold to merchants, as they were stronger and more often used for pulling carts and wagons, for farm work, or as military steeds.

While difficult physically, the boy found the work peaceful and enjoyed his time in the stables. He also helped out in other areas of town, be it assisting a villager with odd duties, or even working alongside Father Lawrence in constructing the addition to the church. Whatever the job, the work kept the boy's mind busy, and his young body could handle the load as well as most grown men.

He wiped the sweat from his brow as he paused to admire his work. The hay had now been neatly stacked in its appropriate position, and the boy had even snuck a little extra into each horse's stall. He liked to keep the horses happy, because his next job – mucking the stalls – required close contact with the large animals. The first time he had tried it, several of the horses were spooked and kept pushing him into the wall. It was a painful experience. But now, even though it had been barely a week, the horses accepted him, and his job was that much easier.

He walked out of the stable about an hour later, sweat still pouring from his body despite the cool evening air. The snows hadn't yet reached Churchtown, but they soon would. For the time being, though, the boy found the place to be rather beautiful. It was quaint and simple, a far cry from many of the large spider towns that he had visited in his youth. And the close proximity that the buildings held to the encroaching forest allowed the leaves of red and orange and yellow to flutter through the streets and atop the thatched roofs. It created quite a stunning effect.

The stables were right on the edge of the forest, close to the path that led to the river – the town's sole source of fresh water. The boy wondered why they didn't have a well in town, but the walk to the river wasn't long. He imagined it might be a more arduous task in winter, though.

The church, and his comfortable bed, was on the other side of town. There were only two main roads that led from one side of town to the other. One was lined with houses, the other passed through the market area of town. The boy usually walked back through the market. He had no money – save for the coin that Soran had given him, but he had no desire to spend that. He just liked to look at the storefronts and stalls.

His favourite of all the storefronts was the bakery. It was simple enough, with an open-air counter, the roof hanging out overhead. Many of the baker's wares were on display right out in the open, as the baking took place inside the small wooden building. But what really appealed to the boy was the smell of freshly baked bread that wafted through the marketplace every day. The boy loved the way that the scent tickled his nostrils, and he was always yearning to feel his teeth knife through the soft, fluffy bread.

"Well, if it isn't my favourite customer," a voice said, and the boy looked up to see the baker's wife approaching. He didn't know her real name, but the townsfolk called her Old Mag. She had white hair and walked with a bit of a hunch, as though her bones were weary. But she always had a smile on her face.

"Hi, Mag," the boy replied. He doubted that he was her favourite customer, as he'd only been around for a short while, but he enjoyed the feeling all the same.

"Now, Jonas, what are you looking for today? A nice loaf of spiced bread? Or maybe a plate of hot rolls?"

The boy smiled at the thought of the different options. He always did have a hard time choosing. He wondered if she'd still be so generous if she knew that his name wasn't really Jonas.

"I don't have anything to trade today," he said with a small shrug.

"Oh, hush," Mag replied. "Of course you do. You have those big muscles, you know. A strapping young lad is always going to find some food here, as long as you're willing to do a bit of work for it."

The boy smiled. The baker was as old as his wife, and not up to the task of carrying heavy loads of flour or water or whatever other ingredients went into the delicious breads and rolls and cakes.

"We just got a load in," Mag continued. "The cart's out back. You get that all inside and you can have your pick of anything on the counter here. How's that sound?"

The boy smiled and nodded and then hurried around the side of the building. He found the cart by the back door, which led into the kitchen. There were several large bags of flour, a barrel, and numerous smaller crates. It looked like a lot of work, but the boy enjoyed working. He felt useful when he was working.

The boy heaved one of the heavy flour bags up on to his shoulder. Despite being in his teens, and not particularly big for his age, the boy was stronger than he appeared. He assumed it was due to the years of being forced to carry out all manner of manual labour for Graumin. Growing up a spider was hard enough for most children. Having a man like Graumin as master had only made it that much more difficult for the boy.

He could still remember the day that Graumin had taken him from his parents. He remembered staring back as he was dragged away, his parents just looking at him, neither making a move to stop what was happening. His father just kept glancing at the silver coins in his hands. And once they reached the tree line, Graumin had explained, in no uncertain terms, how the boy was his now. He took several blows right there for his tears. And then he was laden down with Graumin's heavy pack and ordered to follow closely or risk further punishment. At no more than five years of age, his little legs could barely keep up with the much older man, and he was nearly crushed beneath the weight of that pack. But somehow, he had survived.

He lugged the last of three bags of flower up the small set of steps and through the door into the kitchen. It was small and cramped inside, but the smell was many times more powerful than it was outside, and the boy relished every second that he was able to linger. If such scents had existed in the spider towns of his youth, he certainly hadn't been exposed to them. Any bread he ate while growing up was stale by the time it reached his plate – when he was lucky enough to have a plate.

All those years spent under Graumin's heel - following orders, enduring beatings and punishments, traipsing through the wilderness on the old man's wild chases for untapped stores of magic – had at least taught him that he was tough enough to handle pretty much anything that life threw his way. He had obeyed Graumin's every command out of sheer survival instinct. He never knew why Graumin had taken him from his parents – why him, out of all the other children? But it never really mattered to the boy. He had done his time, and now the world had rewarded him. Now he found himself in a place where he was actually welcomed.

"That's good, Jonas," Old Mag called out, as she noted that he had carried in the heaviest items. He assumed that the baker could handle the smaller crates with the fresh fruits and exotic spices.

The boy moved back around the bakery to claim his prize. He wasn't sure what he should choose. The night before he had taken a small cake, complete with frosting – something he had certainly never encountered before. The taste was intense, but very sweet. Perhaps tonight he would take a simple loaf of warm bread. Maybe Mag would even throw in a little butter for him.

As the boy rounded the corner, back to the storefront, he noted a trio of young women walking down the street past the bakery. They didn't look much older than he was, maybe in their late teens or early twenties. Each of them was wearing a long, black robe with a hood pulled down at the back. One of the girls seemed to be eyeing him as he watched, and he quickly averted his gaze.

The boy had seen such women, and a few men, about the town in the days that he had been there. The black robes were eye-catching, though never the same style. Some of them were very conservative, the collars tight to the neck. And others were low-cut and provocative, revealing ample cleavage, or slit up the side of the leg. He wasn't sure who those people were, but they appeared to belong to some sort of group. He would have assumed that they were members of a druid clan, except that Soran had assured him that Churchtown was void of the clans – that was the whole reason the boy had come, after all. This was a place for outcasts.

"They're witches, boy," Old Mag said, catching his gaze.

The boy looked up at the older woman. He couldn't tell if she thought that being a witch was a good thing or not.

"What's a witch?" he asked.

"Some sort of religion, from the world beyond."

The boy's eyes widened a little. The world beyond the portals was something that had always been a great mystery to him. Despite Graumin's intense desire to increase his knowledge of the Reverie and its magic, he never went anywhere near a portal. The boy wasn't sure that they even existed, as he had only heard about them in stories.

"How did it get here? The religion?" the boy asked.

"A good number of the people of Churchtown come from the world beyond, Jonas," Mag answered with a chuckle. "Your priest friend being one of them."

The boy had noted, of course, that Father Lawrence wore a strange outfit as well – a different kind of black robe, slimmer with a white strip at the collar. But he had never asked the man about it. The boy wasn't accustomed to asking questions. Graumin had never allowed it.

He looked around now, at the few people milling about the street in the twilight. How many of them were from his own world, and how many from the other? It was a strange sensation, knowing that any one of those individuals might be from an entirely different world.

"So are the witches like druids?" the boy asked, turning back to Old Mag. "They all wear robes too."

"Similar, I think," she replied. "I don't know much about them, to be honest. They worship nature, like druids do. And some of them can use magic, like druids. But not all. They seem to accept anyone who wants to practice their beliefs, regardless of their magical prowess."

That was definitely unlike the druids, the boy knew. Only those who showed an aptitude for magic at a young age were accepted as druids. He had often dreamt of having his own magical abilities, but he was fourteen now – nearly fifteen. And that was too old. Most children showed signs before puberty, their full potential becoming clear as they began to mature. They would be put into special schools, designed to harness and focus their powers. The boy had enjoyed none of that.

"So what'll it be today, Jonas?" Old Mag asked.

He turned his attention back to the counter and settled on a loaf of bread so fresh that it was hot to the touch. He had to wrap a cloth around it just to carry it. And his mind was so occupied by new ideas – of witches and priests and the world beyond – that he completely forgot to ask Mag about taking a bit of butter.

* * *

The boy sat on the edge of the bed in his small room. The church that Father Lawrence had built wasn't overly large, though it was still impressive. The interior consisted of a large chamber with a podium and pedestal at one end, and a series of benches facing it. There were various idols about, crosses and paintings of people that the boy didn't recognize. It looked very different from the spider temples that the boy was familiar with.

On the east side of the church was a door that led to the priest's private chambers. They were small and simple, containing a bed, a table, and a chest of drawers. There was also a hearth for a fire, and a cooking pot that hung over it. Candles were flickering brightly in both rooms, the only source of illumination indoors. And adjacent to the priest's chambers was a second door that led into the even smaller room where the boy now sat. But he didn't mind that it was small – he really only slept in his room. He spent the rest of the day out in the town, working and exploring.

The boy was just about to lie back on his bed when there was a light knocking at his door. He had left the door unlatched, but partially closed. He started to rise off the bed, expecting Father Lawrence to enter the room. But as the door swung smoothly open, it wasn't Father Lawrence who entered.

A statuesque woman with long legs and long raven hair entered the boy's room. She was wearing a slight robe that did little to hide her figure. Inexperienced as the boy was, the woman struck him as having been sculpted of men's desires. Her silken robe hung delicately upon a pair of large, round breasts, and she smirked at him, dark eyes twinkling, as he fumbled between standing and sitting.

"Errr..." the boy stammered. "Father Lawrence is still out."

"I know," the woman replied, and her voice sounded sweet and innocent despite an appearance that was anything but. "That's why I'm here."

The boy had next to no experience with women – of his own age or any other age. Up until very recently, his every waking moment had been spent at the service of a stern master who allowed the boy little time to pursue his own interests. The boy had noticed girls, as any growing boy would. But it never went beyond looking.

Propriety was another skill that sometimes eluded the boy, as was evidenced by how he was blatantly staring at the woman's body rather than looking her in the eye. But she didn't seem to mind.

"I've heard a lot about you, Jonas," she said. "My name is Tamara."

"Hi..." he muttered.

"You've caught the eye of a few of my girls, you know."

Tamara moved boldly across the small room until her body was mere inches from the boy's, positioning her chest enticingly close to his face for a moment as she sat down on the bed beside him. The boy wasn't used to being noticed by anyone, let alone numerous girls. He wasn't really sure what that even meant, but he was enjoying the attention just then. It was even stirring up some foreign sensations in his loins.

"You don't say much," Tamara stated.

"Sorry..." the boy said, and his face flushed red.

Tamara just smirked and scooted a little closer to him on the bed. He instinctively inched away, despite his arousal.

"Oh, don't be afraid," Tamara purred.

"You're a witch, right?" the boy asked – it was the first thing that popped into his head, and he was desperate to say something.

"That's right. I see you've noticed me too, then."

"Are you from the world beyond?"

"I came through the portal, yes. I prefer this place. It's a little more backwards than where I'm from, but the energy here is palpable. My magic is strong. I can do things here that I could only dream of where I'm from."

The boy had run out of questions already – ordinarily he might have any number of questions about the world beyond, but he was distracted by the subtle press of Tamara's ample bosom against his shoulder.

"I can sense things about a man, you know," Tamara whispered, having leaned in a little, her lips close to his ear. "You are a man now, aren't you?"

The boy wasn't sure what that meant, but he nodded anyway.

"And you haven't been with a woman yet, have you?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"You can see them if you like," she said.

"What?" the boy gasped, his voice barely a whisper.

"My breasts. You can't stop looking at them. You might as well enjoy the sight."

And without waiting for a response, she slipped her robe down over the front of her chest, allowing both of her heavy breasts to tumble out. The boy had never seen a woman's breasts before, but he expected that not many looked quite so nice. In addition to their size and round shape, each of Tamara's nipples was pierced by a small diamond stud, creating a sparkling quality that was impossible to ignore – not as though he would have been able to look away in any case.

"Do you like them?" she whispered.

He nodded dumbly, his body tense, his groin aching.

"They're magically enhanced," she cooed. "Go on, touch them if you like."

The boy blinked several times, not even sure what was happening. Had he fallen asleep? Was this all a pleasant dream? All he knew was that there were urges welling up within him that were strange and appealing all at once. And no sooner had the words left her mouth than he felt compelled to accept her offer. His fingers were trembling as he slowly eased his hand towards her chest, his other hand firm on the bed, steadying his body.

"He's a little young for you, isn't he?"

The boy's head shot around to see Father Lawrence standing in the doorway. The man wore a curious expression, almost as though he wasn't surprised by the scene playing out before him. The boy felt embarrassed, ashamed even, and pulled away from the woman. He wasn't sure why, if what he was doing was somehow wrong, but the sensation overwhelmed him immediately.

Tamara groaned and turned to face the priest.

"You have impeccable timing, as always," she said.

"Thank you," he replied, smiling, and he inclined his head, apparently indicating that Tamara join him in the adjacent room.

She stood up, not even bothering to cover her exposed breasts, and walked the few steps to the door. She turned back towards the boy and smiled widely.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Jonas," she said. "I'm sure we'll be seeing lots more of each other."

She left his room then, and the boy watched as Father Lawrence shot him another curious glance before closing the door. The boy fell back onto his bed, his arousal having calmed, but the sight of Tamara, her beauty and her stunning figure, etched into his mind. He was about to blow out the candles and fall asleep when he noted that he could hear the priest and the witch talking in the next room. The church was well built, but it was still a bit drafty and sounds seemed to roam freely about the place.

"I just needed some of his semen," Tamara stated. "I've been preparing a ritual for three years. The last ingredient is virgin seed – do you have any idea how hard it is to find a virgin around here? I thought the cooper's son was my best bet, but he's still at least another year from puberty. And then this boy just waltzes into town."

"He's just a boy, Tamara," Father Lawrence countered, and it seemed a weak argument to the boy.

"He seemed to be enjoying himself. And you won't always be around to save him from my terrible clutches, you know."

"Oh, I know. I'm just hoping that you realize the disservice you do him by manipulating him like that."

Tamara made a dismissive sound.

"You know so little about this world, Tamara," the priest said. "You have no idea the repercussions of your actions."

"I know so little about this world?" she scoffed. "I spent five minutes with that boy and I can tell you more about him than you'll ever know."

"Yes, I'm sure you got him nice and hard. Congratulations."

The boy felt another tinge of embarrassment.

"That's not what I meant," Tamara said, and her voice was lowered somewhat. "That boy's blood is strong – very strong. I could sense it."

"What do you mean?"

Either Tamara didn't respond, or her voice was now too low for the boy to hear. He was just as eager as the priest to hear the answer. But it never came. Either the pair had concluded their conversation, or they had moved into the main hall of the church, out of range for the boy to hear any more.

He sighed, and moved to blow out his candles before collapsing back onto the bed. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered what other surprises his new home held in store for him.
Kelly

As the wagon pulled around a bend, and under a low-hanging bough, Kelly came into view of the Elder Tree. She had seen it before, several times, but the sight always impressed her. The tree itself was immense, its trunk a thousand times thicker than any normal tree. It was tall, and towered over the surrounding trees, though all the trees in this area were taller than most. They were so tall, and their limbs and branches so dense, that not a single ray of sunshine reached the forest floor, even on the brightest day – yet there was still plenty of space to move around, and even construct an entire city beneath the boughs.

But it wasn't just the size of the trees that was impressive. The area was engulfed in a strange bluish glow that seemed to emanate from the very trees themselves. It was enough that Kelly could see perfectly well, despite the lack of sunlight and not a single torch lit in view. Nowhere else in the forest did this phenomenon exist. Upon closer inspection, one would notice that hanging from the branches of the trees above, mixed in amongst the leaves, were little bulbs of glowing blue light. They were like large raindrops, hanging delicately from the branches, a single one of them providing more light than a candle. And there were millions of the small bulbs now hanging far above Kelly's head.

No one really knew what the bulbs were – if they were simply a natural phenomenon, or something else entirely. Some legends told that the bulbs were the spirits of dead druids that tried to float up to the stars and became trapped in the dense branches. But Kelly had never believed those stories. If they were truly spirits, she felt certain that those strong in magic would be able to communicate with them. And she had certainly never had a conversation with a bulb before.

The wagon moved slowly over the cobbled streets of town, making its way towards the Elder Tree. Even at a distance, Kelly could make out the detail of the tree itself. Its trunk had been hollowed out at the base, with a pair of huge oak doors guarding the council chambers within. The Elder Tree was the most sacred site of the druidic faith, and it housed the three elders who presided over spiritual matters of the realm. But the tree was also home to the Verdant Council, a collection of secular leaders from the many clans – they met regularly around a large table to argue and curry favour and fight for every last scrap of political power they could claim for their respective clans. It always struck Kelly as a little strange that the spiritual and secular leaders shared the same holy site.

A number of the townsfolk had taken notice of her wagon, and were even now waving and giving greeting. Here in the Elder Village – a name that had stuck, despite the fact that it had grown much larger than a village over the long centuries – the people revered the totems. Kelly was a veritable hero to the common folk, a protector of the realm. But it was accentuated in the Elder Village, at the very heart and spiritual centre of the Reverie. She smiled and returned the waves. She noted that Marcus, a popular leader from the prosperous Eagle Clan, was receiving nearly as many waves and shouts of greeting as she was. That made her smile as well – she often forgot how well-connected and respected her old friend was. Despite his inability to perform even the simplest magic, he had spent a lifetime crafting his own type of power.

It took nearly half an hour for the rickety wagon to make its way to the base of the Elder Tree. Kelly's cheeks were sore from so much smiling, her arm tired from waving. She was quite happy to hop down from her perch and stretch her limbs. It had been a long journey from The Aerie, one that she could have made on her own in no more than a couple of days. She glanced up the tall, thick trunk of the massive tree until it met the canopy – which looked like nothing more than a velvet blanket of black dotted with many brilliant blue speckles.

"Shall we?"

She turned to see that Marcus had also descended from the wagon, his attendant busily unloading certain items. She grasped her old friend's extended hand and the pair strolled towards the guarded doors that marked the entrance to the holy site.

"Remember what I told you," Marcus whispered to her.

She wasn't sure how she could forget – he had been pounding the details of this meeting into her head since the moment that they had rolled out the gates of The Aerie. Warnings and advice from her politically savvy friend had made up the bulk of their conversation over the last week. Kelly would be meeting with the elders alone, and Marcus wanted to ensure that she understood all of the potential ramifications of that meeting.

"This is a delicate time," he added. "Tensions are high, and nobody wants to start a conflict."

"We didn't start anything," she replied stiffly.

Marcus gave her a disapproving glare and she could only smile. The last thing she wanted to do was disappoint him. But she had a duty as well, a duty to the people of the Reverie, not only of her own clan.

"Part of being a good leader, Kelly, is knowing when to pick your battles," Marcus said. "Be careful to pick the right ones, and only ones that you can win."

She nodded, though she didn't necessarily agree. She understood his words, but Kelly saw the value in fighting for principle even if she couldn't win that fight. Though given her supposed enemies, she wasn't about to charge headlong into anything.

They had reached the gate, and Kelly glanced up the giant tree one more time. She liked looking right up the side of the tree, as it rose on a sheer vertical from the ground, like the great cliffs at The Aerie. Some people found such views dizzying, but to Kelly they just made her feel free.

Marcus greeted the guards, and they promptly moved to open the great oak doors that barred the way. She heard the crank inside being turned, and the doors slowly creaked open, revealing the cavernous council chamber within. The Verdant Council wasn't sitting today – which Kelly was thankful for, as that was a meeting that she was not looking forward to.

The Verdant Council had come into being more than a millennia ago, as an attempt to still the constant wars and conflicts that often raged throughout the Reverie. It was named for one of the bloodier battles of a particular feud between the bears and the spiders, which culminated at the Verdant Field, a great expanse in the south of the continent – the largest single area in the Reverie that wasn't covered by forest. Many druids died in that war, and many more soldiers and peasants. It was the last in a long line of wars, before saner heads prevailed and an effort for peace was made.

The stags, ever the peacekeepers of the Reverie, had called the heads of all the major clans together, here at the Elder Tree, under the witness of the elders. And the Verdant Council was formed, a political forum where the clans could sort through their differences without resorting to bloodshed. It didn't always work, but it seemed a better step than simply diving right into war over every slight or disagreement.

Each clan, from the largest to the smallest, was entitled to send a single representative to sit on the council. The council sessions would begin at each season's solstice, and conclude only when every issue had been discussed and an appropriate resolution reached. Kelly noted that the fall equinox was over a month previous, but the current council was still in session. She had no idea what these people talked about that could take so long to resolve.

Marcus gave Kelly another knowing look, as if to remind her of everything that he had grilled her on over the last week. Meeting with the elders alone was the custom when a totem reported on the outcome of a mission. Marcus entered the chamber ahead of Kelly, and made his way toward a few people who were milling about. Though Marcus wasn't the Eagle councillor, it was a position that he once held before his age got the better of him. And he was still quite influential among the other clans.

The chamber was large and cavernous, but decorated simply. There were wooden carvings and a few tasteful stone sculptures. There were many candles, as no natural light penetrated the great tree. Along the perimeter of the room, on either side, was a pair of staircases, chiselled right out of the tree. They led to a chamber above, where the druid elders made their home.

Kelly moved to the staircase and began to climb, not wanting to delay this meeting any longer. Despite Marcus' warnings, she was eager to report her findings to the elders. She reached the top of the stairs in short order. Both staircases converged on a landing that looked out over the council chamber. There was a large door, with the sigils of each clan etched into the wood. She knocked loudly and waited for the door to swing open.

The door did just that a moment later, and Kelly entered the adjoining chamber. She looked around the circular room, which served as the inner sanctum of the three elder druids. It was much dimmer than the large council chamber below, with only a pair of flickering torches on opposite walls. There were three more doors within, each leading to the private quarters of one of the elders – despite being the heads of the druidic faith, the elders lived simple lives with little luxury. It was a stark difference from the men and women who used the chamber below, the councillors and leaders of the various clans who often bathed themselves in opulence.

The three elders were standing before Kelly now, on the opposite side of a plain wooden table. They were all wearing the same long, elegant cloak that was emblazoned with the symbol of the elders – an intricate depiction of the elder tree, white on a dark green field. The man who stood in the centre was the eldest of the three, Arturus. He was old, wrinkled, his back bent. But there was a wisdom that shone in his eyes, a sparkle that defied his age. He had served as elder for over a hundred years.

Elders were elected by their peers, and served for life. When an elder passed on, a gathering of high-ranking druids from all the clans was called together. A great celebration of life ensued, marking the transition from one era to another. The celebration culminated with a vote to replace the fallen elder. And while Kelly was certain that politics played a role, theoretically an elder cast aside their clan affiliation upon election. She had never actually seen this process in action, however. There had been only one such gathering in her lifetime and she had been very young then. Taking a good look at Arturus, however, she couldn't help but think that another gathering might be imminent.

Arturus was flanked by two others – a man and a woman. The man was stiff and hawk-faced, with small peering eyes and a hooked nose. Ballon was his name, and he was the newest of the three elders – which still put his service at over sixty years. The final elder, the lone woman, was older than Ballon, but didn't look it. She had a distinguished air about her, her black hair graying around the edges, but impeccably well-kept. She had a soft face and warm eyes.

"Welcome, Kelly," the woman, Victoria, greeted.

Kelly bowed to the three, as was custom. She then took her seat at the table before them.

"You have returned sooner than we expected," Arturus commented as he took his own seat alongside his companions.

"Brandt and I were lucky to escape," Kelly responded. "Had I been alone, I may not be sitting here now. You've had no word of Iain?"

"No word."

"Then perhaps it's time we took action."

Kelly looked hard at the elders, but none replied to her. Arturus averted his gaze while Ballon stared right back at her. But it was Victoria who finally broke the silence.

"Don't be foolish, girl," the woman said.

"Foolish?"

"How do you propose that we take action?"

"You haven't heard my report yet. After I tell you what I've seen, you'll want to take action, I assure you."

"Oh, don't be daft. You think we don't already know what you saw? We'd heard the rumours before we ever sent you – that's why we sent you to begin with. So you've confirmed what we already suspected."

Kelly appeared confused.

"What do you mean you already knew?" she asked. "Why did you send us then? You put us in danger."

"Oh, I'm sure that a pair of totems can handle themselves against some serpent riff raff. We sent you because confirmation is prudent – and I assume that you are, in fact, confirming our suspicions. You came across a ritual involving a human sacrifice, is that correct?"

Kelly nodded.

"Then nothing has really changed," Victoria stated. "We have been operating under the assumption that such events were occurring – the disturbances in nature's energy were evident to us even here."

"Then what are you going to do about it?" Kelly demanded, still not impressed by the elder's words. But she knew to watch herself – she might be a totem, but the elders' magic was quite powerful here in their home. The Elder Tree was the purest source of magical energy within the Reverie, and the elders knew how to access it better than any.

"Nothing," Ballon stated.

"Nothing?" Kelly echoed. "How can you do nothing? They're breaking our sacred laws."

"Who is breaking our sacred laws, child?" Arturus asked.

Kelly was again confused by what she viewed as obvious questions.

"Who?" she said. "The serpents. Isn't that who you sent us to investigate?"

"It's not that simple," Arturus began, before Victoria cut him off.

"Arturus is being too polite," she said. "Use your brain, Kelly. Where did you see this ritual? At the serpent seat? Or in some little, out of the way town in the middle of nowhere?"

Kelly narrowed her eyes at the woman.

"I'll assume the second," Victoria continued. "An insignificant coil in an insignificant village, run by an insignificant druid. Not exactly an accusation that you take to the clans – the serpents will deny it, of course. They will demand proof. Have you brought us proof?"

"I've brought my word," Kelly stated. "Is that no longer sufficient for the elders?"

"It is sufficient for me," Arturus said, and he gave Kelly a weak smile.

"Oh, we don't doubt that what you're saying is true," Victoria dismissed. "I've already said that we suspected as much months ago. But do you not understand the ramifications of publicly accusing the second-largest clan in the Reverie of practicing outlawed rituals? On the word of a single woman?"

"Is Brandt's word no longer good in this room, either?" Kelly asked.

"That only makes it worse," Ballon stated.

Kelly glared at him.

"What my blunt friend here is trying to say," Victoria went on, "Is that you are not considering the perceptions at play. Brandt's history with the serpents is no secret. And you are his lover. Many people will simply claim that you're making it all up. That you saw what you wanted to see."

Kelly bristled.

"Then why did you send us?" she spat. "You could have sent Desmond or Brom."

"Perhaps we could have. But we have our reasons. The point is that we have no proof, and we cannot go around making unfounded accusations against powerful clans."

"Are you saying that you're not going to punish them?" Kelly demanded. "They killed a man. I watched it happen."

Kelly was suddenly regretting her decision to restrain Brandt. Maybe she should have let him rip every one of those serpents apart, limb by limb.

"What would you have us do, Kelly?" Arturus asked.

"I would have you do something. Is it not your job to protect the sanctity of our faith? Leave the politicking to the fools downstairs."

But even Arturus was shaking his head.

"Things are never so simple, child," he said. "As much as we desire to keep the religious and secular aspects of the clans separated, it can never truly be so. To attack a clan's faith will be viewed as an attack on the clan as a whole. Such accusations could bring about wars, you must know that."

"So instead you'll just sit here and pretend that none of it is going on?"

"The serpent leaders learned of your mission. They have already openly stated that a rogue sect of druids within their clan was engaging in outlawed practices. They've vowed to hunt down these outlaws themselves. What more can we do?"

Kelly didn't believe a word of it. She knew the serpents. She knew that there was more to it than that. But she was still surprised at how quickly they had played their hand – offering to hunt down a rogue sect of druids was a brilliant maneuver. It would placate the masses, even if the elders and other clan leaders didn't believe it. And no one could move against them without proof.

Kelly was dismissed shortly thereafter and left the elders' chamber fuming. She made a point to herself to listen more intently to Marcus' advice from now on. He seemed to have a much better handle on how these things worked.
Sasha

Her body was curled up on the cool ground, arms tucked in front of her. And as she opened her eyes to the first morning light, she could feel the warmth of Desmond's body wrapped around her, and his light breath on the back of her neck. His strong arms cradled her, as though he was trying to keep her safe from the dangers of the night. She smiled as she lay there, enjoying both his touch and the pleasant thoughts that danced through her mind.

Sasha wasn't entirely sure what her relationship with Desmond was. She knew that she enjoyed his company, and that she felt like a part of her was missing when he wasn't around. But that could simply be because he was the one who had introduced her to this world – he was really her only connection to it at all. Though she sensed that their connection went deeper than that.

At nineteen, Sasha was certainly no novice to the world of men. She was an attractive young woman, and had had a few sexual partners in her teenage years. But she couldn't remember ever waking up next to one of them and feeling as safe and happy as she felt at that moment – and her relationship with Desmond was not at all sexual. It had developed over the last week or so, though. She started noticing that he would often give her light touches, perhaps on the arm or back, something that he never did before. And, now that they were sleeping out in the cold, on the run, he would curl up beside her as they fell asleep. She told herself that it was just to keep warm, to use one another's bodies as a source of heat, but whatever the reason she very much liked it.

She was wide awake now, but Desmond was still asleep, so she lay there longer while he rested. She could see Iain across the way, propped against a tree, covered in the group's only blanket. His condition unnerved her – in fact, this whole situation, running through the forest, being chased by enemies, gave her much pause. Up until now, her experiences in the Reverie had been full of wonder and learning. Now she was trudging through the woods with a man who had clearly been horribly tortured, trying not to get caught by the people who had tortured him. It was quite a departure.

"I'm amazed we haven't been killed yet."

Sasha glanced up to see Brom returning to the camp. Desmond and Brom took turns standing guard during the group's frequent stops to rest.

"What do you mean?" Sasha asked, looking up at the man from the ground.

Brom looked pointedly at Iain, who was still resting soundly, but his crooked body looked as frail as ever. Sasha knew what Brom meant, of course – how would they ever keep ahead of the spiders if they had to stop every few hours?

"Are they still following us?" Sasha asked as she delicately extricated herself from Desmond's welcoming grasp and stood up, stretching her weary limbs.

"They are," Brom confirmed. "Though a little more cautiously now."

"Why?"

"Because they know that Desmond is here now, not just me. Two totems scare them more than one, apparently."

"I meant why are they still following us at all?"

Brom just shrugged.

"Who knows," he said. "Maybe they weren't finished with him. Or maybe they're afraid of letting evidence of their torture get back to the other clans. Or maybe they're just stubborn little bastards who can't handle the fact that we might get one over on them. Your guess is as good as mine."

"How close are they?" Sasha asked, peering off into the trees to the east.

"Not far. No more than an hour. We need to be on the move again."

And within minutes, the four companions were traipsing through the brush once more. Desmond and Brom took turns supporting Iain, as the man could not move swiftly on his own. They didn't speak much as they walked, and they made efficient use of their rest time, so Sasha still wasn't sure exactly what was going on. She didn't know who Iain was or why the spiders had him in the first place. All she had managed to piece together was that Brom had somehow rescued Iain, and that Desmond had sensed the pair in trouble and had left the beaver village to find them.

Both Desmond and Brom were sturdy, fit men, aided – she was certain – by a magically increased constitution. As such, the group was still able to make excellent time through the rough terrain, despite having to more or less drag Iain along. The last three days had been spent in much the same fashion – cover as much ground as possible in a few hours, then stop to rest for a few hours. Each time they stopped to rest, Desmond would tend to Iain, but the man didn't seem to be improving.

Desmond had explained to Sasha the tentative balance of magic and nature. It was far easier to use magic to destroy than to heal. Some wounds were too grievous to heal with magic, some diseases too potent. Iain looked quite old, and Sasha knew that even magic couldn't stop the aging process – those powerfully attuned aged slower, but nothing could make someone young again.

It wasn't long before they were stopped once more, and Brom disappeared into the trees to scout their pursuit. Desmond found a comfortable place to lay Iain down and carefully rested his head against a moss-covered rock. It was as close to a pillow as one might find in the middle of the woods.

Glancing around, Sasha could see that they were in a bit of a hollow. There was a small bluff to the north, and a bit of an incline downwards to the south. They were sheltered from the wind by the bluff and the many pine trees that surrounded them – which was good, because every time that they stopped, Sasha could feel the cold biting at her bones. She was hungry and thirsty. It had never occurred to her to bring more supplies when she left the beaver village. At that time she had no idea why Desmond had summoned her, or even where she was headed. She had inquired as to why they didn't make for that same village, but both Desmond and Iain insisted that they couldn't bring a swarm of spiders down on an unprepared village, nor would the druids there be able to help Iain. They had to get him back to the Meadow – to stag territory.

Sasha heard the faint trickle of water down over the incline and decided to investigate. She left the camp area and moved around a few trees. No more than two hundred feet from their camp was a slow-moving stream. She wondered if the others had known it was there. She knelt down and placed her canteen in the running water. It was quite cool to the touch, and she wasted no time in lifting the canteen to her lips.

"You shouldn't wander about alone."

She spun around to see Brom standing behind her, his own canteen in hand. He was eyeing her strangely – he had been since she first arrived. It wasn't an uncommon feeling for her in this place. She suspected that many people here didn't trust her because she had come through the portal. But with Brom it seemed something more than that.

"Sorry," she said. "Did you see them?"

He nodded and crouched down by the stream beside her.

"How?" she asked, as a sparrow fluttered overhead. "You were only gone a few minutes."

"I guess Desmond hasn't shown you all of his tricks, has he?" Brom grinned.

Sasha wasn't sure what Desmond's tricks had to do with Brom, but the man didn't seem to be any more forthcoming. Instead, he filled his canteen and stood up, then started making his way back up to the camp. Sasha followed.

The forest seemed calm around her, and yet the air was thick with tension. How safe were they here? Spiders could flow from the trees at any given moment, and they were just sitting around, waiting. How much time did they have? An hour? A few minutes? She didn't like it at all, but she assumed that Desmond and Brom knew what they were doing. And she kept trying to convince herself that soon they would be resting comfortably in a stag town, safe from the encroaching spiders.

As she came back within view of the camp, she saw Desmond kneeling over Iain – the man looked broken. Iain's body was emaciated, his skin blotchy and pale, his hair gray and wiry. He could barely walk. And yet the two men accompanying her treated Iain with the utmost respect. Had he once been a powerful druid?

"The last time I saw Iain, he had a mane of golden hair," Brom commented, noting Sasha's interest. "Thick, lustrous hair, like a woman's. And he had a body that made women tingly in the thighs – fit, toned, tight abs, I'm sure you know the type. He was a rare specimen indeed."

Sasha took another sceptical glance over at the withered man. Desmond seemed to be trying to heal one of Iain's legs.

"That was six months ago," Brom added, before Sasha could ask.

"Six months?" she gasped.

Brom shrugged.

"At least he's alive," he said. "He had a strong will. Bull-headed, really. But that's what you need to resist psychic magic. His mind was nearly gone when I found him."

"Psychic magic? I've never heard of that before."

"A specialty of the Spider Clan. Merciless bastards. I could sear your flesh, break your bones, but you'd always have the chance to fight back, to turn the tide as it were. But if I were to attack your mind, I could do devastating things... well, just look at him."

Sasha didn't look at him.

"Psychic magic can scramble your mind in ways that you couldn't even fathom," Brom went on. "Layer by layer, the mind is stripped. Intellect, knowledge, memories... one by one, they all just disappear, until all that's left is a blithering fool. The thing about psychic magic, though, is that it takes an incredible force of will to overpower another's mind. What happened to Iain was gradual, psychic torture over weeks and months."

"But you said that Iain was very strong of will," Sasha noted.

"He was. That's what scares me."

"But who..."

"It was Kendrick, a powerful spider. I didn't realize how powerful until now."

"You know him?"

"I know of him, and I know him by seeing him – we'd met briefly before. Kendrick is assigned certain 'special' tasks within the spider ranks. The kind that well-adjusted people might find distasteful. But the kind that Kendrick enjoys."

"Is that who is chasing us?"

"Probably. But Desmond scuttled his forces the night you showed up. That's why they haven't pressed in on us yet – they'll need a number of druids and soldiers to handle two, possibly three, totems. When his reinforcements catch up, they'll come at us again."

"And what will we do?"

"We can fight – maybe we win, maybe we don't. Or we can run."

Sasha did look to Iain this time.

"Can we outrun them?" she asked.

"I doubt it," Brom said, and his eyes answered her unasked question.

* * *

The forest was black around her, save for the flickering campfire that was roaring in the centre of the four companions. Iain was resting against a stout tree trunk. Desmond was standing guard, off near the east side of their camp. But neither Sasha nor Brom were sleeping. She could tell that things weren't going well. Iain wasn't getting any better, and their progress wasn't getting any swifter. They were still a number of days from the stag lands, and she could tell that Brom didn't think they were going to make it.

Desmond had determined that they might as well light the fire – it wasn't as if the pursuing spiders didn't know where they were. Their camp was set up in as defensible an area as they could locate. There were several large rocks, boulders even, to take cover behind, and the woods were more open to the north if they needed to break into a run to get away. It was about as well as they could do, all things considered.

"How are you holding up?" Desmond asked, as he had wandered back towards Sasha. He sat down on the ground beside her and draped an arm over her shoulders. She crossed an arm over her chest to take his hand in hers.

"I'll be fine," she said, smiling. But she didn't believe it, and he probably didn't either.

She was often wondering why he had even summoned her out here to begin with. When she first had the dream and set off into the woods, she had expected that this was just another of his little tests – some sort of opportunity to learn something new about this world, or about magic. Instead she found herself in the middle of a deadly game of cat and mouse – and she was pretty sure that she was one of the mice.

It also bothered her more than a little that she didn't really know what was going on. Desmond and Brom had spent a lot of time over the last day off whispering to one another, and they always stopped completely when she tried to get close enough to hear. She had even confronted Desmond, asking him what they were talking about but he wouldn't tell her. He just assured her that there was nothing to worry about, and that he wouldn't allow any harm to befall her.

"Don't be afraid," he said, pulling her body a little closer to his own.

"What's there to be afraid of?" she said, and she tried to laugh but what came out sounded more like a meek choking noise.

"I can feel something," she continued. "I can't explain it. Something is pulling at my mind, like a warning. No, not a warning, really. More like a signal."

Desmond smiled at her.

"Your senses are becoming more in tune, Sasha," he said. "What you're feeling is the presence of other druids, other magic users, nearby. It's subtle, sometimes undetectable if it's only one or two individuals. But I suspect there are many spider druids, and many more scouts and soldiers, not so far away."

That didn't make her feel any better. What were they going to do? She was useless. Sure, she had made great progress back in the beaver town, lifting the boulder and other such tricks. But that was different. Out here, with danger lurking all about, she hadn't even been able to light the fire earlier – Brom had to do it for her. And Iain would be about as useful as Sasha. Which left Desmond and Brom alone against an army of spiders.

"We're going to die," Sasha whispered. Her breathing was coming in shorter, uncertain bursts. And a few stray tears has escaped her eyes and were making their way down her cheeks. Desmond didn't respond, save for squeezing her a bit tighter. She appreciated his comforting hold, but it wasn't enough just then.

"Why did you summon me out here?" she asked, accusation in her voice.

"I figured it was time for you to get your feet wet," he answered.

"What?" she gasped, perplexed by such a response.

"Things are happening, Sasha," he said. "Things that are outside of our control. Things that you are meant to play a part in, whether you want to or not. Would I have preferred to have been able to take more time, to ease you into your role? Of course. But things don't always work out the way we'd like."

She still had no idea what he was talking about. What was happening? How was she supposed to play a role in anything? She couldn't even light a fire. But she didn't get a chance to ask him to elaborate.

"They're coming!"

She heard Brom's voice echo over a loud noise that rolled from the forest and through their camp. Voices, cheers, guttural sounds, all mixed together in a deafening array that shattered the night's peaceful silence. Desmond leapt to his feet and Sasha was quickly beside him. She wanted to run, to flee through the trees and find somewhere to hide, but Desmond held her there. She even tried to pull away from him, but his hold was strong. Her breath was uneven and her eyes darted back and forth, expecting death to come charging out of the darkness all around her.

"Listen to me, Sasha," Desmond said and forced her to turn. He held her head steady, and she stared into his soft, blue eyes. That seemed to calm her panic a little, but not much. "I'll see you again soon. I promise. Listen to Brom, he'll keep you safe."

"What?" she asked. "What? Desmond?"

But Desmond had already called out to Brom and a moment later Sasha felt Brom's grip on her arm, trying to lead her away. She was still staring at Desmond, who smiled at her. And then he leaned in and kissed her, pressing his lips firmly against her own. Sasha was so unprepared that she barely noticed when his tongue parted her lips. She closed her eyes and kissed him back, her own tongue mingling with his. The roar in the night air all but lost to her, she cherished every second as she eagerly tasted him, her hands exploring his chiselled form. And then it was over as unexpectedly as it began.

Desmond pulled away as the first spider came crashing into the camp. Sasha's eyes went wide as the man, a large sword in hand, charged towards them. The smile on Desmond's lips was gone, the twinkle in his eyes faded away, replaced with a look of grim determination. He turned away from Sasha and she cried out for him as two more soldiers barrelled out of the trees.

Brom was pulling Sasha towards the opposite tree line, but she was resisting, calling out after Desmond. She wasn't going to lose him now. Not after that kiss. She tried to break away from Brom, but he was too strong. She felt her body lifted from the ground and she began to move away from Desmond. He was just standing there, waiting for the soldiers to reach him. And then he was gone – no, not gone, but no longer standing there. No longer a man.

"What?" Sasha muttered, her cries of desperation giving way to her confusion as Brom carried her away.

Desmond's body had glowed a strange bluish colour, an aura that faded quickly, and when it passed he was down on all fours, fur having sprouted from every inch of his body. He snarled and snapped and lunged forward at the oncoming soldiers. He slammed into the chest of the nearest spider, knocking the man to the ground. And then powerful jaws tore through the fallen man's neck. Sasha watched his body spasm on the ground for several moments as Desmond leapt towards the next spider.

She got a full view of him just before Brom made it too deep into the woods, just before he faded from view behind the many leaves and branches and limbs – Desmond had turned into a wolf, bigger than any she had ever seen. His growling and the snapping of his teeth echoed through the woods. Her final sight of her beloved Desmond was of him raising his snout and howling into the night sky, a half dozen bodies scattering the ground around him – some still twitching, others not.
Graumin

Bears – he had always hated the Bear Clan more than most. Graumin hated all of the clans, really, but the bears held a special place in his heart. The bears were lumbering, mindless oafs for the most part, all brawn and no brains. He looked around the small town to the numerous bears who were even now going about their miserable lives. He grunted his displeasure and continued on down the street.

The boy's scent - the subtle magical emanations left behind by the boy's presence - had led Graumin to this village. It seemed that the boy's navigating was incompetent and he had ended up in bear territory rather than serpent. It didn't surprise Graumin, as the boy had always been a disappointment.

Upon entering the village, however, the boy's scent became muddled. There were too many people around, and even a few bear druids nearby. Graumin couldn't pick out the boy's trail amid all of the sensations in the air. So instead he would have to resort to more rudimentary forms of tracking. Luckily, Graumin considered himself to be rather intelligent, and he didn't foresee this being much of a problem.

Graumin's black eyes peered around the street. He tried to put himself in the boy's shoes. Had he just wandered into town from the wilderness, after a trek of many weeks, where would he go? Graumin sniffed the air and immediately caught a different scent – that of cooking meat and freshly baked bread. He followed it to an inn, the type that would generally be bustling and rowdy come evening, but at this hour of the morning it was likely mostly empty. Graumin assumed that they were busy preparing food for later on.

He marched up to the door and swung it open. As expected, there were only a few people inside, and each had their head lying on their respective tables – drunks from the night before, he assumed. There was one woman moving about the room. She was busy cleaning up the mess and didn't notice Graumin's entry. He moved towards her. She was not unattractive, with a large bust that strained against a too-tight serving wench's outfit.

She must have heard him walking across the floor, because she looked up and asked if he'd like anything. Once she got a better look, though, she hesitated. Graumin didn't wear his spider cloak openly, unless it served to hasten his cause – like when he and the boy had set out north from the serpent lands. He hadn't bothered to put it on since, but even without his cloak he was obviously not a bear. And his grizzled beard, cold eyes, and grim expression marked him as an intimidating individual. He liked that his appearance scared folk. It made the next step that much easier to accomplish – he grabbed the woman and hauled her through the double doors that led to the kitchen.

The woman yelped, but Graumin ignored her. He threw her up against the counter and pulled out his old handaxe.

"Hey, what's going on here?"

A cook had come around the counter and spotted Graumin manhandling the tavern wench. He turned his glare to the man, while using his free arm to hold the woman in place by her hair. She was panicking, trying desperately to free herself, but Graumin's grip was like iron.

"Mind your own business, fool," Graumin growled.

The cook picked up a cleaver off the counter and cautiously approached Graumin. The man eyed Graumin's axe, noting how worn and notched it seemed. He looked confused – what good would a rusty old hatchet do? Would it even cut into the woman's flesh?

The cook rushed at Graumin, cleaver bared. It was a clumsy attack, and Graumin had little trouble dodging it, without even relinquishing his hold on the woman's hair. As the cook lumbered by, Graumin swung his axe, imbedding it cleanly into the man's side, nearly to the shaft. The cook howled in pain and tried to swing his cleaver again. Graumin simply took his hand off the axe handle and used it to grab the man's arm, stopping his weak swing.

The cook toppled to the ground then, his blood – and his life – rushing out his side. The woman was screaming, but no help came. The men who were passed out in the other room didn't even wake. Graumin thrust the woman's head down towards the cook's, forcing her to look the man in the face as he slowly died. Normally Graumin would have enjoyed that sight himself, but he had other priorities just then. This seemed the most efficient way of convincing the woman to cooperate.

The wench had given up resisting. She was sobbing now, though, and her head was jerking back and forth, much to Graumin's annoyance. When he assumed that the cook was gone, he yanked the woman up to her feet by her hair and pushed her forward against the counter, facing away from him. She might have thought that he was going to try to rape her, but Graumin wasn't interested in that – no matter how enticing her heaving bosom might be. While her fear did arouse him, he was too overwhelmed by his quest to worry about such base desires.

"There was a boy here," he snarled over the woman's continued sobs. "No more than a month ago."

"What?" the woman asked, her voice shaking.

"A boy. Hungry, dirty, probably stole some food."

"This is about a boy?" She glanced down at the dead cook, her tears streaming down her cheeks.

Graumin let the blade of his axe brush lightly against the side of her cheek, just enough to draw a thin line of blood.

"I'm not going to ask again," he spat. "The boy, he was alone, probably tried to blend in. He was a spider."

"Oh!" the wench said, recalling the spider boy who had stolen the hen. "You should have said so – that he was a spider. People remember things like that."

"So you saw him then?"

The woman nodded, pulling Graumin's hand up and down.

"What happened to him?" he asked, losing his patience.

"I'm not certain," she replied.

That wasn't the answer he wanted to hear. Graumin sliced a deeper gash in the side of the woman's face, causing her to yelp as the blood splattered over the counter.

"I heard some rumours!" she cried, hoping that he would stop.

"Rumours?"

"Yes," she said, trying to overcome the sobs. "Yes, the guards tracked him into the woods. Caught him. They took him to the south, to Fort Ursal. Locked him up, that's where they take the prisoners. That's all I know! I swear!"

"How far south?"

"A few hours, I think. I've never been there. It's a bigger town than here. Lots of soldiers. Please, that's all I know. Please let me go."

Graumin liked it when they begged. He considered letting her live. If it weren't for the cook's body, he might have let her live – she might have kept quiet about the cuts on her face, but there would be too many questions about a body. There would be even more questions about two bodies, but there would be no one to answer them.

* * *

The walk to Fort Ursal took him longer than a few hours. Even with the food that he had swiped from the kitchen before leaving, the journey left him weary. But given that he had recently trekked all the way from the far northern reaches of the Reverie, weariness was a feeling that Graumin was used to. Nevertheless, he felt a little tinge of annoyance that the wench had misled him – and he felt more than a little satisfied that he had ended her wretched existence.

Fort Ursal turned out to be pretty much what its name implied – off in the distance Graumin could see large logs sticking up out of the ground, side by side to create a high, thick fence. It was a fairly standard defensive tactic – difficult for soldiers to penetrate, but quite simple for a druid to burn to the ground. Behind the fence was a large structure, the fort itself Graumin assumed. He couldn't tell much about it from a distance, only that it looked large.

There was a town spread out in front of the fort, and that was where Graumin soon found himself. Part of him wanted to dive right into his continuing search for the boy, but he knew that he needed food and rest. So rather than seek out the stocks, he made his way towards the nearest inn, finding it quite easily thanks to the enticing scents that drifted down the streets.

It wasn't until the following morning that Graumin stood near the town's stockades, surveying the scene. The fort didn't use a building as a prison. Instead there were a series of cages, barely large enough to hold a man, lined up near the thick wall of the fort. There were many cages, although very few actually held any prisoners – all of whom appeared emaciated and very near death.

Graumin didn't need to ask himself if the boy had been held in such a cage – he already knew the answer. Almost immediately upon entering the vicinity, he had again picked up the boy's scent. It had led him right to one cage, off near the edge of the prison area, closest to the forest. The floor of the cage held a mixture of mud and blood. Graumin knelt down and extended his hand through the bars of the cage, running a finger through the dried blood. He brought the finger close to his face, sniffing at it. It was the boy's blood.

The sight of the boy's blood on the ground caused Graumin to grind his teeth together, his hands clenching into fists. True, Graumin intended to spill the boy's blood himself, but the thought that someone else – anyone else – had had the audacity to harm Graumin's property infuriated him. He alone was allowed to harm the boy.

There still remained the question of where the boy was now, however. And Graumin had to calm himself to consider it. The boy's scent was quite evident at the cage, but he had trouble picking it up in any other direction. Had the boy left this place? Graumin doubted that the boy had escaped – such feats required talent and intelligence. The boy had neither. It was always possible that the boy was dead – that he had died in this cage and the bears had rid themselves of his rotting corpse. And if that was the case, then Graumin would be displeased. And many bears would suffer his displeasure.

Graumin still couldn't pick up the boy's scent moving away from the cage, but he did notice a path leading away from the cage, and it seemed to be well travelled. He decided to follow it, and soon found himself standing in what he presumed to be a training area. Given that this was a fort, such areas were not uncommon, but Graumin did wonder why it was located so near to the stockades. He looked around and thought that he could faintly sense the boy's trail once more. Then he noticed that, much like the cage, there appeared to be dried blotches of blood mixed in with the snow and dirt at his feet. He sniffed it again, as before, but it wasn't the boy's. He moved to a second patch and, sure enough, this time he could taste the boy on the blood.

Graumin stood up, his mind racing. He needed the boy's blood. He had all but given up on it during his trek back from the cave. But the discovery of the boy's scent – of the boy's survival – had changed all that. He knew that his plan would never work without the boy's blood.

"Hey! You there!"

A pair of bear sentries had spotted Graumin standing in the training area. He assumed that he wasn't supposed to be there, but that was of little concern to him.

"Who are you?" one of the bears yelled. "What are you doing there?"

"There was a boy here, not long ago," Graumin stated as he turned to face the approaching guards. They were both clad in basic chain mail, each with a long steel sword at his hip.

"A boy?" the second bear grunted. "Who gives a shit about a boy? Who are you?"

"I'm sure you'd remember this boy," Graumin continued, narrowing his eyes. "He was a spider."

"A spider?" the first guard laughed. "Yeah, I remember that one. Tough little shit. Why do you care about some spider boy, old man? Or maybe you're a spider too, is that it? Come to fetch your boy home?"

"Maybe this old spider needs to see what happens when he sets foot in bear territory," the second guard said. "What say we lock him up in one of those cages until he learns how to answer questions."

Graumin just glared at the two men, his fingers still twitching from his anger over the boy's treatment. Clearly these two had had some part in the boy's punishment.

"Where is the boy now?" Graumin snarled.

"What'd we just say, old man?" the first sentry countered, moving closer to Graumin. "Fuck that stench – don't you know how to bathe?"

Graumin let his handaxe slip down into his grasp – the guards hadn't noticed it hanging from his pack moments before. But they noticed it now, and both men jumped back a little. One sentry drew his sword, the other had his hand on the hilt.

Unlike the tavern wench and the cook, these men were armed and clad in armour. Graumin could kill them both quite easily with magic, of course. He could turn them into drooling, blithering fools if he liked, by attacking their minds. Or he could simply char them to the ground with fire or lightning. But to Graumin, humans who lacked the ability to use magic were the lowest form of life – he reviled them. He ranked even animals and insects above them. He didn't waste his magical energies on such filth. No, for these fools, his axe would feast.

"Tell me where the boy is, and I'll make it quick," Graumin said, his voice so cold that the guards exchanged a glance, perhaps wondering if they had misjudged the intruder. But they weren't about to back down now.

"You old fuck," the first guard said, inclining his sword in Graumin's direction. "What are you going to do with that rusty old blade? I bet it wouldn't even cut my skin, let alone this armour."

Graumin didn't respond. Instead, he struck the guard's sword with his axe, causing both men to spring into action. The second bear reached to draw his own sword, while the first thrust his blade out at Graumin. It was a simple, measured jab, the type of attack designed more to gauge an opponent's defense rather than to inflict any damage. Graumin ignored it, though, and instead lunged out towards the other guard, his axe nicking the man's shoulder before he was able to get his sword out to block.

"What the fuck?" the guard said, raising his free hand to his shoulder – Graumin's blade had cut through several links of his chain mail and his leather jerkin beneath. It hadn't punctured his flesh, but it was warning enough that the old man wasn't to be taken lightly.

The first sentry rushed forward then, and Graumin was forced to back away, parrying several fierce blows. It seemed that the bear's defensive posture had been abandoned, his attacks now aiming to keep Graumin off-balance. But again, the guards had underestimated their foe, likely assuming that an old man's footwork wouldn't be able to keep up with their own. But Graumin was quicker, and after three successful parries, he spun inside the fourth blow and slammed his axe into the man's chest. The notched blade cut through the chain links with little resistance, and imbedded right into the bear's chest.

He howled in pain, clearly not having expected the worn axe to so easily cut through his armour. His sword fell from his grasp, and he dropped to one knee. Graumin felt the second guard rushing for him now, and he had to yank hard just to get his axe free of the other man's chest. He turned just in time to block the guard's slash, but his axe wasn't straight – the sword slid right down the handle and cut into Graumin's hand. He growled and grit his teeth together, fighting through the pain.

Both men backed off a little, taking better measure of one another. They had both suffered wounds, though Graumin's was a little more severe. He clenched his hand repeatedly around the shaft of his axe, ensuring that he could still find a strong grip. He glanced to the side to see that the other guard was rolling around on the ground, his hands clutching at his gaping chest, the blood flowing freely.

Graumin decided to take the offensive now, and charged forward with a wild swing of his axe, hoping to throw the bear off kilter. But his grip on the handle wasn't as firm as he thought, and when the sword parried his blow, the axe went flying from his grasp. Graumin lost his footing then and tumbled to the ground beside his notched blade.

"Not so tough now, are you, old man?" the bear said, stalking in towards his fallen opponent.

How badly Graumin wanted to blast this fool with his psychic energy – to destroy him completely. But Graumin was far too stubborn to let these buffoons get the better of him. He didn't need magic to kill them. He slid back from the approaching bear until his hand found the handle of his axe. And with one quick motion, he sent the weapon careening through the air, spinning end over end, until it connected with the guard's shoulder, burying itself several inches deep. This guard was just as stunned as the other that the simple axe had penetrated his armour, and he fell to his knees in disbelief.

Graumin grunted and lifted himself back to his feet. The first soldier was dead, having bled out, his body curled up on the ground a dozen feet away. The second soldier had dropped his sword, unable to grasp it with his shoulder so severely wounded. Graumin walked forward and grabbed hold of the handle, but he didn't pull it out.

"The boy," he snarled. "You remember the spider boy?"

The guard's face was pale, his eyes looking lost. He was dying as well, Graumin knew. But he would get his answers. He twisted the blade and the man howled.

"The boy!" Graumin shouted.

"The boy..." the man muttered. "The boy... gone... Brandt let him go..."

Brandt – that was a name that Graumin recognized. He had never met the mighty bear, but all druids knew of him, of the totems.

"Where did he go?"

"I don't know..."

Another twist of the handle had the man screaming again, his arm grabbing at Graumin's bloody hand, trying to wrench the axe from his body.

"You know," Graumin said.

"South, he went south... That's all I know. We dropped him on the other side of the river, about ten miles south of here... He was on his own from there..."

Graumin could see the truth in the man's eyes. He just wanted the pain to stop, he didn't care about giving away secrets anymore.

Ten miles to the south – that wasn't so far. Graumin felt certain that he could pick up the boy's scent again once he was out in the open forest. He would find the spot where the bears let the boy go, and he would follow from there. It seemed his foray into bear territory wasn't a total loss after all.

He yanked his axe free of the man's shoulder and blood sprayed up over his face. The guard collapsed to the ground, his hands clutching at his wound as the blood spewed forth. Graumin wiped the man's blood from his face with his own bloody fingers, and then turned and walked away, leaving the bear to die in agony as his friend had.
The Prisoner

Most days passed in a bit of a haze, as Iain tried to drag his sorry excuse for a body around. He knew that he was slowing his companions, and the idea of sacrificing himself so that they could escape was something that flitted through his mind constantly. But he knew that they would never go along with it. Brom had risked his life to free him from that filthy cell. They weren't about to cast him aside now. At least that's what he told himself – sometimes he thought that perhaps he was just too weak, too selfish, to really go through with it.

His arm was draped over Desmond's shoulder, the stronger man helping to prop him up. Iain did his best to move his legs, to carry some small semblance of his own weight so that Desmond didn't have to, but he was pretty sure that he wasn't helping much. Desmond never complained once, even after their last encounter with the spiders. Desmond had ordered Brom to flee with Sasha, but he had stayed behind himself to protect Iain. To his credit, the mighty wolf had managed to fend off the spiders again. But he was limping badly now, and as much as he tried to hide it from Iain, the crippled man could see it plainly. Iain doubted that they would survive the next attack. And at their current pace, it would take weeks, if not months, to reach the stag borders.

The only thing that Iain had to be thankful for these last days - as his body seemed intent on decaying - was that his mind was improving. His memory was still a little spotty, but he could think clearly during the periods where his body wasn't throbbing with pain.

"How long do you plan on dragging me through the woods?" Iain asked, his legs now hanging limply beneath him as Desmond pressed on.

"As long as it takes," Desmond replied. He held an old blade in one hand and was using it to hack his way through any excess branches or underbrush. Iain assumed it was easier than just muscling through it.

"I may have lost my mind," Iain said, "But I'm still sane enough to see what's in front of me."

Desmond stopped walking and turned his head a little to eye his companion.

"If you think that I'm going to leave you behind, then you still don't remember me very well," he said.

"Oh, I'd rather not be left behind," Iain replied. "But we'll never make it to the stag lands at this rate. Maybe there's another way."

"Another way where?" Desmond asked as he resumed trudging forward.

"Anywhere really. The spiders know the land as well as you or I... well, better than I know, I suppose. They must have determined our destination. And they won't let us get there."

"They haven't stopped us yet."

Iain tried to chuckle, but his hanging foot smacked against a rock and he groaned instead.

"They're wearing you down, Desmond," Iain said. "They've run off two of our party already, and they know that you and I will travel slowly. They'll regroup, and they'll finish us off."

Desmond was about to argue, but Iain cut him off.

"There's no one here to impress," he said. "Your leg is hurt – you won't be able to hold them off again. And as long as I'm here to burden you, you won't be able to outrun them."

"So what did you have in mind?"

"We wait until cover of darkness, and we change course. It might gain us nothing, but if we're lucky they might lose track of us for a while. We head northeast instead of northwest."

Desmond stopped walking again.

"Northeast?" he repeated.

"I know you're not fond of the elders," Iain said. "Or of the council. But our current plan isn't getting us anywhere. The Elder Tree isn't any farther than The Meadow, and there's a well-travelled road not far from here. It would make the journey easier and quicker. And if we're very lucky, a passing merchant might pick us up."

Iain knew that Desmond wouldn't like the plan – on any front. Endangering innocents wasn't his way, even to his own detriment. And worse, Desmond had forsaken the leadership of the clans, and of the druids, a long time ago. He did not serve them, as did the other totems. Iain could only smile, as he considered where his own service had landed him.

"The spiders are only a few hours behind us," Desmond countered. "They'd pick up our trail and be on us again in less than a day."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

"Although... If I can get you to the road, maybe I can stow you with a passing wagon and then lead the spiders away."

"I don't think it's wise to split up at this point. We should both go on with the wagon."

"If we even find a wagon," Desmond said, now rubbing the scruffy beard that had grown on his face over the last week or so. "But it's a chance, at least. You're right, if we keep heading northwest they'll overtake us sooner or later. It's only a matter of time."

Iain took advantage of Desmond's interest. His body was sore from being held up and dragged for so long. He needed to sit down, to lie down even. So he convinced Desmond to find as best a campsite as he could, and the pair would wait until cover of dark before making their move.

Desmond was nothing if not efficient, and he had a crackling fire going in no time at all. Iain felt comforted by the warmth of the flames, and he lay down immediately beside the campfire while Desmond disappeared to seek some food. No one was a better hunter or trapper than Desmond, and Iain wasn't the least bit surprised when his companion returned an hour later with a pair of hares, already skinned and cleaned.

The food was nourishing, and Iain could almost feel his strength returning after only a few bites. The sun was setting off in the distance, and he knew that it would only be a few more hours before they were on their way again. He needed every last ounce of strength that he could manage.

"Do you think Brom got her away?" Desmond asked as he chewed on the last of the rabbit bones.

"I'm certain he did," Iain replied, eyeing his friend across the fire. "He'll keep the girl safe. He knows what she means to you."

Desmond shifted uncomfortably.

"If that was supposed to be a secret," Iain continued, "Then you need to do a better job of disguising your interests, old friend. Not that I didn't suspect before, with the cuddling and what not, but the kiss gave it away."

"It wasn't supposed to happen like that," Desmond said, staring at his feet.

"Desmond, you're allowed to move on. After two hundred years, I'd say that you've paid your proper respects. I don't think she'd disapprove of Sasha."

"It was so sudden. I met her on the other side, you know."

"I know."

"I wonder what your elders would say about that," Desmond said, grinning.

"Oh, I'm sure you know what they'd say. And I'm sure that you'd ignore them and do what you want anyway."

"She's special, Iain. I sensed her while she was dreaming – she penetrated the Reverie in her sleep."

"That's not unheard of."

"Not like this. She found me, she recognized me. I sought her out in the world beyond, and she knew who I was. And if that wasn't enough, she enabled the portal with but the slightest touch of her hand. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing – that somehow this girl had stumbled right into my world. And she had the power to change everything."

"You can enable the portals with the slightest thought," Iain countered, but if what Desmond was saying was true, then he understood the implications.

"I can now," Desmond said. "But that took many years to perfect. The portals are powerful magic. She learned it in a second, purely on instinct."

"And you left her with Brom?"

"I can trust Brom with this," Desmond replied, but Iain wasn't sure that the man believed his own words. Brom had particular skills that made him an invaluable ally in many ways. And as a totem, he had vowed to uphold the principles of the druidic faith – but then again, so had Desmond. Brom was also, however, a man who put his own interests above anything else. And Iain wasn't so sure that that was the best type of man for Desmond to leave his cherished pupil with.

"It's done now," Desmond said. "I have faith in Brom."

Iain nodded.

The night had grown colder as the sun had disappeared over the horizon. Only the flames of the campfire kept them both warm and able to see. Despite the plan having been Iain's, he didn't really want to leave. He was tired of running, but he didn't want to die either. He kept wishing that the spiders might just give up the chase and turn back.

"Did you hear something?" Desmond asked, his eyes darting to the surrounding trees.

"It seems that, perhaps, our friends aren't going to allow us the opportunity to escape," Iain replied, having indeed heard the noise in the distance. "They'll be upon us shortly."

Desmond stood up and moved to put out the campfire, but Iain raised his hand.

"There's no point, Desmond," he said. "We tried. You've fought valiantly. But I'm not going to let you die to save me. You need to go."

"Hardly. Those spiders are going to regret the day they took you prisoner. Come on, we can still outrun them. We'll get you to the elders."

Iain was already shaking his head.

"Just go, damn it," he said. "We have no options left. And if the spiders are going to such lengths to prevent my escape, there must be a reason. Maybe I saw something that I don't remember. But whatever that might be, it can't be good. They're up to something, and that means that the totems will be needed. And four totems are better than three."

"Iain..."

"Go, Desmond. Get to the elders. And then find your girl. If she's as important as you think, then you need to protect her."

Desmond didn't leave. He just stood over his friend, as though contemplating whether to reach down and grab him, or to obey Iain's demands. A crashing sound in the forest stole his attention – the spiders were getting closer.

"I'm going to sit right here," Iain said, his back pressed firmly against the tree. "I'm too tired to keep running, Desmond. You're free to join me if you insist, but I'd prefer it if you fled."

Desmond glanced from the dark of the woods to Iain and back again. Iain knew that this wasn't an easy decision for the man. Desmond was loyal, as loyal as men came in these times. But all men find their loyalty challenged when faced with their own survival.

"Please, Desmond," Iain whispered, the noise in the forest growing louder and more frequent.

Desmond nodded, and opened his mouth to say goodbye.

"Just go," Iain pleaded.

And then he was gone – Desmond darted past the tree and into the black of night, leaving Iain alone in front of the flickering campfire. The weary man gave a deep sigh of relief.

He sat there peacefully for no more than five minutes, but it seemed like much longer. It was then that the first of the spiders tore into the camp. They were common soldiers – Iain knew that most clans preferred to use common folk on the front lines, the druids waiting safely in the rear to launch magical attacks from afar.

There were six of them, each carrying some sort of crude weapon – a club, a short sword, an axe. They were clad in rugged leather, but Iain doubted that it would stop an enemy's blade or an arrow. And it would certainly be no defense against powerful magic.

"Where's your friend, old man?" the apparent leader of the group asked, storming forward towards the tree where Iain rested.

"You must be mistaken, good sir," Iain replied, glancing up at the imposing spider. "I am but a lonely traveller. I have no companions."

The spider scoffed, the men behind him chuckling along.

"Nice try," the man said, and he lowered his sword even with Iain's neck. "Now, where is your friend, old man?"

Two of the men behind him exchanged nervous glances, and Iain knew why – Kendrick wanted him back alive. The mere thought of that cell sent chills down his spine.

"You really aren't very bright, are you?" Iain asked. "If I had a friend, as you claim, do you really think that he'd leave me here to be captured by you lot?"

The leader scowled and pressed his blade closer to Iain's neck.

"If you were really alone, and weren't expecting us, you'd be shitting your pants right about now," the man replied. "And you wouldn't have so loose a tongue."

"My apologies – I'm not generally intimidated by a lack of brains. I'm sure it's not your fault, poor breeding and all. Your slut of a mother had better things on her mind than raising a bright little boy. Thank goodness you found a big sword to play with - I imagine it helps ease the frustrations and disappointment."

The spider glared at Iain, but he didn't strike him. Instead he flashed Iain a chilling, calm smile. Iain realized that this one was the leader for a reason – spiders liked lieutenants who followed orders. If they didn't follow orders they would usually end up dead – or worse.

"Search him," the leader said, retracting his sword and instructing one of his younger cohorts to approach Iain.

The young man stepped up to Iain and bent low to pat the ragged robes that clothed his frail form.

"If you touch me, I'll kill you," Iain said plainly, as he looked up at the young man. The spider turned to look at his leader.

"Look at him," the leader spat. "How's he going to hurt you, fool? Get on with it."

Iain was tired and weak. He could barely walk, or even lift himself from a sitting position without help. But he had just enough strength left for one final act of defiance. As the young spider leaned in to pat down his robes, Iain reached out a spindly arm and grabbed him by the throat. He saw the spider's eyes widen in surprise, and he saw the spider lift the sword at his side.

And then Iain let a great burst of flame erupt from his hand. His arm went limp immediately, the strength being drained from it. But the spider's neck was scorched and charred black, the smell of smoke and freshly burnt flesh filling the campsite – the young man wasn't even able to scream. He was able, however, to panic and lash out. Iain felt the tip of the blade pierce his side a moment later.

"You idiot!" the spider leader cried, and he rushed forward to knock the young man away and rip the sword out of Iain's side.

The burning smell persisted as the young spider fell to the ground, both hands clutching at his smoking neck. Iain watched, with a certain degree of pleasure, as the man's neck continued to smolder and the life slowly faded from his eyes. But once that small sense of satisfaction had passed, the reality of his own condition came rushing over him.

His side was split wide open. Blood was gushing forth, and he knew that the sword had gone deep enough into his slim body to have cut open at least one of his organs. He could feel the life rushing out of him just as surely as it had the dead spider beside him.

"It wasn't my fault, sir!"

Iain could barely make out the words as the world around him blurred. But he felt the ground tremble a little as a second body hit the dirt beside him. It was the spider leader. Iain turned his head ever so slightly to take in the sight of a familiar face. The new arrival knelt down beside him and inspected his wound.

"You think you've escaped me?" Kendrick sneered.

But Iain only smiled. There was nothing that Kendrick could do to bring him back this time. The wound was too severe and his body too far gone from so many days of hard marching and little rest and food.

How badly he wanted to sting Kendrick with some final quip – to get the last word in their little repartee. But the strength eluded him. Instead, he felt his eyes close shut. And then he was gone.
Kelly

The constant dim blue glow that filtered throughout the Elder Village helped to ease Kelly's frustrations – it had a calming effect on her. The last few days had been hectic and disappointing, and it had been taking its toll on the woman. Before arriving at the Elder Tree, she had felt certain that action would be taken upon her revelations of the serpents' immoral practices. But instead, the elders had let her down, refusing to act for purely political reasons. And now she was expected this very afternoon at the Verdant Council, as an honoured guest, to sit in on a council meeting. And that was the last place she wanted to be.

But certain formalities were expected of a totem, and Marcus had convinced her that her attendance was necessary. The thought of sitting at that table, with those men and women who decided the fates of the common folk's lives, disgusted her. But she would do it anyway.

Escaping that tension, and those thoughts, was what brought her to the Elder Grove. She sat on a fallen log, at the edge of a small clearing. In the centre of the clearing was a mound with a great, iron double door. That door led down into the crypts. Once, those crypts had been called the Tomb of the Elders. To many of the populace they were called the Tomb of the Ancients. To Kelly, it was just a tomb - a place where the skeletal remains of once great people lay.

They said that the bones of the very first elders, over three thousand years old, lay at the base of the tomb. Kelly had never seen it, though – she had never been able to bring herself to enter such a place. She preferred to spend her time in places full of life and vivacity rather than death and decay. Desmond had tried to tell her once that understanding her link to the past, to those who had come before her, was important. But she wasn't sure that she had ever really understood him back then. The bones of the totems lay within the tomb, as well. And while the other four totems would always come to pay their respects when they passed through the area, Kelly had never set foot into the crypts themselves. She had never made it past those imposing iron doors.

She sighed and hopped down off the log, moving into the clearing itself. Glancing up, she could see that it wasn't really much of a clearing at all – despite being completely devoid of tree trunks for several hundred feet across, there was still a thick canopy above that blocked out the sky. It never ceased to amaze her just how immense the trees around the Elder Tree were.

She walked slowly, and it took her several minutes to reach the big iron doors. They were plain and simple – there were no intricate carvings or runes etched upon their surface. They were just big and dark gray in colour, even rusting a little around the edges. There was a handle on each door, and she suddenly wondered if perhaps they were locked – the thought hadn't occurred to her before. She took a deep breath and then reached down to grasp one of the cold, rough handles. She turned it gently, and it opened.

It was quite dim inside, only the flickering wall-mounted torches giving off any light. Kelly wondered who kept the torches lit, as it was uncommon for anyone to enter the tomb proper. Stairs led down into the ground and Kelly followed them tentatively. She wasn't sure what to expect.

But once she entered the main hall of the tomb, she realized that there wasn't much to it. Brandt had told her once that he had to bend his neck just to fit, and she could see why – the ceiling couldn't have been seven feet high. It was stone, as were the walls and floor. Given the age of the place, it wasn't surprising that the stone looked in rough shape, and was even crumbling in a few places.

She moved to the first hollow on her right. Etched into the wall, in the ancient runes, was the name of the deceased, along with their clan of birth. Elders, of course, gave up their clan affiliation upon election, but they were allowed to be buried under their clan colours. This particular elder, whose name had worn from the stone, hailed from the Ox Clan. She could tell from the tapestry that hung at the back of the hollow, and the cloth that was strewn over the sarcophagus – she could also tell that he had been dead a very long time, given the state of both fabric creations.

It was a strange feeling for her, to be standing in a place full of dead people. She respected the elders, of course, but her true desire in coming down here, after all these years, was to find the tombs of the previous totems. Would her body join them down here some day? The choice was the totem's – many chose to be put to rest in their homes rather than in the Elder Grove. Some preferred funeral pyres, wishing their ashes to again become part of nature.

Kelly passed the tombs of many elders, from many different clans. In fact, there were very few clans that hadn't been represented over the years. Even small clans, like the Beaver Clan or the Badger Clan had provided at least one elder. She spotted a few eagle sigils and spent a few moments investigating. Many elders had hailed from the Eagle Clan over the years. She felt comforted to know that her people had played a part in the direction of the Reverie.

The dead totems had a wing all their own, and Kelly passed under a small archway to enter it. There were hollows, much the same as the elder tombs, and she followed them along, inspecting the names of her predecessors. She wondered how powerful they had each been, how many had lived through wars, how many had been fortunate enough to dwell in times of peace. She wondered how these dead men and women would have handled her present situation. Would they have gone along with the elders, accepting that peace was more important than principles? Or would they have stood up and fought for what was right – for the morals of their faith?

She spotted a spider sigil adorning one particular hollow and had to chuckle. Perhaps some of the totems in this room would have been on the opposite side of her current conflict. She forgot that totems could be chosen from any of the clans, and the choice was based primarily on magical strength, though temperament and disposition did factor in.

Kelly passed by several more eagle tombs, each with brighter decorations than the last. It struck her, both with sadness and pride, each time she spotted her own clan's colours. She hadn't expected to be emotional – Kelly had always been very good at keeping her feelings in check. But something about seeing the dead heroes of the past, rotted away in a hole in the ground, tugged at her a little. They had lived their lives, protecting the Reverie, and now here they were – but was the Reverie any better off? What had they really accomplished? More importantly, what was Kelly really accomplishing?

* * *

She approached the enormous doors that barred entry to the Elder Tree. As always, she glanced up the front of the tree, staggering at its colossal size. The guards nodded to her, and one of the doors creaked open to allow her entry. She sighed as she passed into the council chamber.

Unlike her last visit to the tree, the council chamber was now filled with people. She was actually a little surprised, as there appeared to be far more people in the room than there were seats around the table. She knew that when Marcus had served as a councillor, he had been allowed several assistants and attendants – perhaps the bulk of these people departed when the council session officially began.

"Kelly, there you are."

Marcus approached her, his face disapproving. She was late, after all. Her trip to the tomb had been strangely calming, even invigorating, and she had lost track of the time. She smiled at Marcus and he just shook his head.

"There are some people you should meet before we get under way," he said.

Kelly had insisted that the only way she would attend the council meetings was if Marcus attend also. As a former councillor, the exception was granted, and Marcus would sit at her side for as long as she attended.

Marcus escorted Kelly through the throngs of people, many of them greeting her as she passed. She tried her best to return each courtesy, but Marcus seemed to be motivated. He was in his element now, she knew – schmoozing with political types. Finally he pulled up in front of a trio of men.

"This is Lord Carrick," Marcus said, indicating the man in the centre. He was handsome, with neatly coiffed ebony hair and slightly pale skin. His eyes sparkled and Kelly expected that his charming grin had felled many a lady. She was always suspicious of these councillors and their motivations, but her first impression of Carrick was better than most. The name tugged at her, though. She felt that she had heard that name before. And then she noted the broach that held the front of the man's cloak in place and it all made sense – the broach was in the shape of an arachnid.

"Lord Carrick is the son of Baron Carrick," Marcus continued, "Patriarch of the Spider Clan."

Carrick smiled at Kelly and reached out to take her hand. Her first inclination was to withdraw it quickly, but Marcus had warned her to respect the proper etiquette. She allowed the man to take her hand and raise it slowly to his lips, kissing it gently.

"It's always a pleasure to meet one of such renown," Carrick said, still smiling.

"The pleasure is mine," Kelly replied, hoping it sounded genuine.

"It must be such a wonderful life, being a totem. Grand adventures, magical powers – I can only imagine. As a child I often dreamt of such a life, but alas the magical inclination never found me. Instead I have fallen into a rather different life."

"Very different," Kelly said, glancing around the room. Carrick chuckled.

"Indeed," he agreed. "As you may have heard, my father is old and ill. I have been tasked with the responsibility of running the clan - a task that prevents me from indulging in my own desires. Perhaps some day you can show me what it's like to live a life such as yours."

"Perhaps," Kelly replied, this man having a strange calming effect on her. "There's not much to it, really. I'm sure you'd prefer your luxuries to sleeping on the cold ground night after night."

Their conversation was cut short, however, as the council session was set to begin. Kelly was directed to a seat in the very centre of one side of the length of the table. Marcus sat to her right. Lord Carrick sat directly across from her, a stern-faced man sitting to his left. She noted the emerald colouration of the stern-faced man's cloak, and wasn't surprised to see the slithering form a snake adorning his outfit.

She was going to ask Marcus about the serpent, but a man at the head of the table stood up and began to speak. His voice carried well in the acoustically favourable conditions inside the Elder Tree. He was welcoming everyone to the current council session.

"We have with us today, an honoured guest," the man said, looking in Kelly's direction. "I'm sure you are all familiar with her – one of our treasured totems, and a protector of the Reverie. Welcome to the Verdant Council, Kelly of the Eagles."

There was a small clattering of applause and Kelly smiled sheepishly. She soon learned that it was custom for the speaker to introduce every single person sitting around the table, listing their accomplishments and services to the council. It took quite some time, and Kelly really didn't see the point – didn't these people all know one another? She did learn that the serpent's name was Vexonis, and it seemed that he had been serving on the council for a number of years.

Eventually the meeting got under way, and Kelly was surprised when the speaker requested that she, as the group's honoured guest, begin by tabling any issues that concerned her. She wasn't expecting to be thrust to the forefront so quickly, and she certainly wasn't sure if she wanted to broach the very issues that the elders had warned her to ignore for the time being. She could feel Marcus' eyes on her – he had echoed the elders' warnings.

But she remembered her visit to the tomb. The sight of those dead totems had brought feelings of purpose billowing to her surface. The speaker himself had referred to her as a protector of the Reverie – what was she protecting, if not the principles upon which their faith and society were founded?

"As some of you are aware," Kelly began, looking directly into the grain of the table in front of her, "I am recently returned from a task set to me by the elders."

She heard Marcus sigh at her elbow.

"It was requested that I - accompanied by Brandt, whom many of you also know – investigate rumours that had reached the elders. These rumours were of a particularly sinister nature, and dealt with two of our larger clans."

She lifted her eyes to see both Carrick and Vexonis fixed on her. Vexonis looked grim, his eyes narrowed. Carrick, on the other hand, appeared calm and was even smiling at her – almost as though he was offering her encouragement.

"Brandt and I found ourselves in a serpent town," she continued. "Surrounded by men and women who bore the robes of druids and the sigils of serpents, we descended into the town's coil. And I bore witness to an act of excessive evil, a practice long banned by our peoples – the sacrifice of another human."

There were some audible gasps around the table, though nowhere near the reaction she had been hoping for. Glancing around, it almost appeared to her that this was not news at all to some of these people. The ones who did seem shocked were of the lesser clans.

"This is a grave accusation that you have tabled," the speaker said. "Do you offer proof to the council?"

Kelly bristled.

"I am invited here as an honoured guest," she shot back. "You yourself introduced me as a protector of the Reverie. I have spent my life in service to the elders and the clans. Is the word of a totem insufficient at this council?"

That same argument had proven fruitless with the elders, but she figured it was worth a try here.

"Speaker, if I may," Carrick said, and Kelly's eyes shot to the man. He was still smiling. "Kelly, no one doubts your word. I believe I speak for most here when I say that we all hold the totems in the highest esteem. But you must understand the difficulties in governing such large clans."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Kelly asked.

"Only that you were in a remote town, on the edge of serpent territory, far from the serpent seat. I am not refuting the claim to which you bore witness, but it is one thing to report a human sacrifice, and another still to claim that it was sanctioned by the Serpent Clan. In fact, as my good friend Vexonis here will gladly confirm, the serpents have already disavowed this rogue sect of druids – the same rumours had reached them, after all. These foul acts were committed by a few misguided souls seeking to recapture the glory of days past. They are being dealt with as we speak, and I assure you that such acts will not continue."

Several approving words were uttered around the table, and Carrick even went so far as to nod his head in thanks to those supporting his words. But Kelly wasn't convinced.

"Another totem was also sent to investigate similar rumours," she said. "Iain, friend to this council, travelled to spider territory and has not been heard from since. Would you care to explain that, Lord Carrick?"

More gasps and whispers followed Kelly's words – Iain, as a stag, was the most involved in the council dealings. He was always the first chosen for any type of diplomatic mission. His loss would sting the council far more than unconfirmed rumours of human sacrifices.

"I had no idea that Iain was in spider lands," Carrick replied, taken aback. "Is it not custom, as per the Treaty of the Shattered Coast, for one clan to officially request passage through another clan's lands? I was not aware that such a request had been made – otherwise I would have gladly escorted him on his mission personally."

"Informing you of the mission defeats the purpose, does it not?" Kelly spat. "He found the same things that Brandt and I found, and you captured him – or worse."

There were several cries of discontent, as direct accusations against councillors or clans was a touchy subject in such a setting. But Kelly was no politician. And she was upset.

"I assure you, I have no knowledge of Iain's condition or his whereabouts," Carrick said. "And the Spider Clan certainly cannot be held responsible if he met with some misfortune while conducting clandestine dealings within our territory. The rules of our society are established for a reason – to prevent such unfortunate circumstances."

Many heads were nodding in agreement, and Kelly suddenly realized her futility. She should have listened to Marcus.

"I assure you, Kelly," Carrick continued. "Upon my return, I will personally look into the matter. I counted Iain as a friend, and if he is within my clan's borders, then I will find him. You have my word."

Kelly wasn't sure what his word was worth, but she didn't bother to acknowledge his words.

"If we're done playing nice with the totem, I have an issue to raise," a new voice said. It belonged to Vexonis. His voice was deep and cold, just like his appearance.

"Of course," the speaker said. "The table is yours."

"Reports have reached me that the Serpent Clan is under attack," he stated, and many eyes widened at that proclamation – Kelly's included. War between the clans happened, but not often.

"Who has attacked you, good Vexonis?" a voice down the table inquired.

"The Bear Clan has been raiding our southern outposts and villages," he responded. "My sources tell me that Brandt himself leads them."

There was a growing clamour around the table – the bears and serpents were old enemies, their enmity going back thousands of years. But they had maintained an unspoken truce for several centuries. If that truce had now broken, who knew what the fallout might be.

To Kelly, though, it was fitting. Leave it to Brandt to take the most direct approach to a situation – he, like Marcus, had warned her that the elders would do nothing. But Kelly had insisted in playing by their rules – and look where it had gotten her. The thought of Brandt leading the charge against the serpents brought a wry grin to her face.

"Does that news amuse you, totem?" Vexonis growled.

"Are these the same outposts and villages that are being run by a rogue sect of druids?" Marcus asked, speaking up for the first time. "Perhaps the bears are only doing you a favour – wiping out your problem, as it were."

"Watch your mouth, eagle," Vexonis spat. "You're not part of this council any longer."

Kelly had had enough. She stood up from her chair and pounded the table in front of her, which seemed to get the attention of most of the room.

"Marcus is here at my request, serpent," she said, loudly and firmly. "Or has my position as honoured guest been revoked?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

"If this man's words are true, and the bears have led an assault on the serpents, then I trust that the justification will be learned soon enough. And though I suspect that alliances have already been made in this room, let me assure you that the totems will stand united. And woe be to those who stand against us."

"Is that a threat, girl?" Vexonis snarled.

But Kelly never got the chance to respond. She lurched forward suddenly, an incredible pain shooting through her head. She cried out in agony and, a moment later, fell to the floor. She could feel hands trying to assist her. But the pain was too intense. It felt like it was ripping her apart – like her very connection to the world, to magic, was being torn away.

And then, as quickly as it had come, the pain dispersed, though she could still feel its reverberations in her mind. Her breathing was long and deep, as she tried to regain her bearings. Despite having never experienced anything like that before, she knew instinctively what it was – she had heard of such a phenomenon.

Those around her helped her back to her feet, and she looked immediately to Marcus. His eyes asked her if she was alright, and she nodded.

"What was it?" he asked.

She thought of Brandt and his foolish need to always rush into battle as she responded.

"A totem is dead."
Sasha

Controlling her emotions was something that Sasha had never been good at. It didn't help that her companion had been less than forthcoming the last two days, as they fled north and away from the spider pursuit. Brom hadn't been able to locate any spiders still tracking them, but he didn't want to take any chances. He had promised her - after a sufficient number of complaints, threats, and harassment – that once he was certain that they were safely away he would answer any of her questions. She wasn't sure if he meant it or if he was just placating her, but it was something.

Brom would disappear every few hours, leaving her alone to rest or to continue forward without him. He always found her again, and he always reported that he could find no pursuers. She wasn't entirely sure how he could cover such distances so quickly, but after what she had seen happen with Desmond she was beginning to get a few ideas.

Sasha stoked the small fire near her feet with a fallen branch. There was a brisk wind shooting through the boughs of the trees and she was struggling to keep warm. She and Brom had been making good progress northward – much better progress now that Iain was no longer slowing them down. But moving north brought with it colder nights and colder winds.

"It's only going to get worse," Brom said, appearing from between a pair of trees. "Winter has reached the northern lands already – it will arrive here soon."

Sasha's only response was to shiver and stoke the fire some more.

Brom tossed a dead rabbit down on the ground in front of the fire. Sasha looked at it – its eyes were empty of life, which saddened her a little. But despite that sadness, she wouldn't hesitate to eat it. Brom had insisted that Sasha skin and clean the last rabbit – he said that she should learn to do it herself in case he wasn't around. It was a miserable experience and she was quietly hoping that he wouldn't ask her to do it again now. But apparently he was taking pity on her – perhaps it was the cold – as he sat down and pulled out his knife.

"Did you see anyone?" Sasha asked.

Brom shook his head as he slipped the blade under the rabbit's fur and began tugging.

"We must be safe," she reasoned. "You haven't seen anyone in two days."

"It's looking that way," he agreed.

"Then I think you owe me some answers."

Brom sighed.

"I'm already regretting this," he said. "Fine. You can ask three questions and I'll answer them."

"Three!? You said you would tell me anything I wanted to know."

"I did. But I think I can only stomach three for now. We'll see about more in the morning. No promises, so you'd better make them count."

Sasha wasn't pleased, but she was cold and desperately wanted some information. So she went along.

"First question," she said. "Are you a werewolf?"

"That's your first question? And Desmond told me you were bright."

"Just answer it."

"What's a werewolf?"

"You know... a person who is cursed and every full moon they turn into a wolf. They can only be killed by silver, I think. Something like that."

"I suppose that I'm a little hairy, but I have to ask – what makes you think that I'm a werewolf?"

"I know what I saw when you pulled me away the other night – Desmond turned into a wolf. And it's the only way to explain how you can move so quickly to see if we were being followed."

"Wouldn't a better question been to have asked if Desmond was a werewolf? Also, it wasn't a full moon the other night, so that would put one hole in your little theory. Now why don't you start over, and this time just ask me what happened to Desmond."

"What happened to Desmond?"

"The ritual that we undergo to become totems grants us certain particular abilities that other druids can't achieve. One of these abilities is the power to shapeshift into the form of our clan animals. Desmond is a wolf, and thus he has the power to become an actual wolf."

"Only totems can do this? That's a follow-up question."

"I suppose that anyone powerful enough in magic could learn to shapeshift, but it is exceptionally difficult. I've never heard of anyone other than a totem successfully shapeshifting."

"Does that mean that you can..."

But before she could finish her question, Brom stood up. He closed his eyes and his body glowed a dark violet colour for a few seconds. And then his body was gone altogether, replaced by that of a rather large raven. The transformation was nearly instantaneous, and Sasha eagerly stood up and approached him. It wasn't a trick or illusion, she could see – he really was a bird now. He cawed loudly and then flapped his wings and ascended into the canopy.

She realized that this was a much better explanation for how Brom could so easily track their pursuers. They probably didn't even realize that he had been observing them the whole time. Sasha smiled as she watched him soar above the highest limbs before he finally descended back to the ground, landing just in front of the fire. A moment later he was himself again.

"That's a neat trick," Sasha said, but she couldn't hide her smile.

"Not as impressive as a bear or a wolf, I imagine, but I find it quite useful," Brom replied.

"I bet," Sasha whispered, picturing all of the different animals she wished that she could turn into – she'd have difficulty settling on just one. But then again, she wasn't part of a clan. She had noticed how keenly members of different clans connected with their animal namesakes.

"Now, correct me if I'm wrong," Brom stated. "But I believe that was more than three questions."

"Fine, last question - where are we going?"

"Excellent – I much prefer practical questions. Desmond instructed me to lead you north. And as Desmond's plans generally turn out far less smoothly than I'm sure they do in his head, for some reason I find myself following along. Remind me to thank him later."

"What's north?"

"Cold. Wind. And other things that I generally try to avoid. But for our purposes, Brandt and Kelly are north – at least they were as far as Desmond knew. They're the two totems you have yet to meet. Desmond feels it's important to gather. He thinks that bad times are coming. And he thinks that greater tidings await you far to the north, in the mountains."

"And you don't? Why do you listen then?"

Brom shrugged and stared into the fire. Sasha was still trying to warm herself up, but the night was only getting colder.

"Desmond has been around longer than I have," Brom stated. "He knows things. The totems are equals, but Desmond is really our leader. We listen to him, anyway. I guess that makes him as much of a leader as we're likely to have. So if he wants me to take you to Brandt and Kelly, then I'm going to take you to Brandt and Kelly."

"I got the impression that he was a bit of a loner," Sasha observed.

"You don't know the half of it. He's strange that way. He walks his own path – most of the time no one even knows where he is. But when he bothers to show up, he has our attention."

"So what's this bear territory like? Will we be safe there?"

"The lands are more or less the same as any others. Lots of trees. But the seat of the bear lies at the mouth of the Ursal River. It's a big hole in the wall, literally – a giant, underground fortress, accessible only through caverns. It gives me the creeps. Ursa's Maw, they call it. It's never been breached – about the safest place you could be."

"Ursa? Isn't that Latin for bear? Why would druids name things in Latin – that's from my world."

"Again with the lack of brightness. Didn't Desmond explain how the portals work? He must have, since you came here through one. When the Reverie was first created, those portals connected all different parts of what you would call Europe and the Americas. Druids came and went as they pleased in the early days. Many druids used the portals to travel to distant lands, to learn and explore. Some druids even hailed from the land of the Romans – before the Romans tried to invade Britain anyway. Picking up other languages and customs was just a product of that."

Sasha nodded as she rubbed her arms under her light furs.

"So the bears," she continued, "Sound ferocious – are they allies?"

"The bears are pretty much how you would imagine them, I would think," Brom replied. "Big and dumb. Brawn before brains, and such. They like to fight, to show off their strength. They're at home on the battlefield. A terrifying force, really – I once saw an unarmed bear kill four armed men. He crushed one man's skull in his bare hands. Brandt is their leader, though, and he's loyal."

"Brandt? Isn't he a totem? He's the leader of the clan too?"

"The bears are strange that way. Just about every clan in the Reverie uses some form of hereditary title to determine leadership. Some use first-born males, others use the oldest child of either gender. A few clans even let the people elect their leaders, like the eagles. But the bears follow their own traditions – when the leader dies, a tournament is held. Strength and prowess in battle are the most prized qualities of the Bear Clan, and so they allow those qualities to govern who rules them. The winner of the tournament is deemed the strongest member of the clan, and they become leader for life."

"Sounds like a fun time," Sasha commented. "Are you sure we'll be safe with these bears?"

"If you find lots of drunken brawling to be safe, then yes. But like I said, there's no safer place than Ursa's Maw. Desmond thinks that a war might be coming, and he wants you protected until someone – be it Brandt, Kelly, himself maybe – can escort you farther north."

"A war?" Sasha had heard hints and rumours and such while travelling with Desmond, but the thought finding herself in the middle of an actual war still frightened her – no matter how safe Brom insisted they would be with the bears.

"He wasn't really clear on the details," Brom said. "But given that we've just been chased for miles by a group of angry spiders who had abducted and tortured one of the totems, I'm going to go out on a ledge and suspect that that might have been a clue. The spiders are the largest and most secretive of the clans – they've gone to war and won against the combined power of numerous clans in the past."

"Why? What are they hiding?"

"If I knew what they were hiding, then it wouldn't be a secret now, would it?"

"But it must be pretty terrible if they go to such lengths."

"Desmond would agree with that line of thinking."

"But you don't?"

"It's certainly possible," Brom said, shrugging. "But some people just enjoy their privacy. It could be nothing more than that."

"Their privacy to abduct and torture people, you mean?"

Brom glanced sidelong at her.

"Fair point," he said. "But the elders did send Iain into spider territory, breaking centuries worth of treaties and protocols."

"Are you defending them? They tried to kill us! Repeatedly!"

"I'm not defending anyone. I'm just pointing out that we don't know the whole story, that's all. Iain couldn't even remember what he saw that caused the spiders to imprison him."

"Because they tortured him! You saw what they did to him. I don't blame Desmond for expecting a war after he gets Iain back to your elders."

Brom just shrugged again and didn't argue any further. Sasha could sense that he didn't feel it was so cut and dry, though.

When he didn't respond, Sasha decided that it was a good time to fill her belly – maybe having a full stomach would help stave off the cold a little. She scampered over and collected the rabbit that Brom had skinned and cleaned while they were talking. She always felt a little disgusted when handling the raw meat like this, still bloody and all. But it was food, and she was hungry, and if she was going to keep spending time in this world then she figured she'd better get used to things like this.

The smell of fresh rabbit wafted through their camp as the meat sizzled and charred over the open flame. Sasha was as close to the fire as she could be, keeping an eye on the rabbit while welcoming the warmth.

"So how far are we from bear territory?" Sasha asked, her teeth tearing through the well-done meat.

"We're still a couple days south of the stag lands," Brom replied, chewing on a rabbit leg. "From there, it's a straight shot north to Ursa's Maw, but it's a long journey. Several weeks, most likely. Unless we get lucky and get picked up by a passing caravan or something."

"Is that likely?" Sasha asked, imaging the idea of sitting comfortably on a wagon rather than stomping through the woods as she'd been doing for far too long.

"Merchants travel around to the various friendly clans frequently. But the lands are large, and winter is nearly here. In fact, I imagine that the snows are already present farther to the north, and wagons can't move easily through the snow. So our chances aren't looking good."

"Great," Sasha muttered, tossing her cleaned rabbit bone to the ground.

She was about to ask another question when she glanced at Brom to see that he was keeled over on the ground. It was dark out now, and she had to blink a few times to ensure that her eyes weren't playing tricks on her.

"Brom!"

Sasha hopped up and raced around the fire to reach him. He appeared to be in severe pain, both of his hands clutching at his temples, his knees tucked up into his chest as he lay on his side. Sasha grabbed hold of his shoulders, trying to calm him – or because she really didn't know what to do.

"Brom, what's wrong?"

But then his body relaxed a little and his breathing steadied. He opened his eyes and looked up at Sasha. She helped him up from the ground to a sitting position. He looked distraught, which scared her – she had never seen a look like that on Brom's face. He always seemed so certain, cocky even.

"What happened?" she whispered.

"A totem is dead," he replied.

Sasha's eyes went wide – a totem was dead? How could he possibly know that? But then she remembered where she was.

"The totems are linked," Brom explained. "We can sense one another, but the sensations are faint, almost imperceptible unless we know what to look for. It's how Desmond found Iain and I out in the woods. He sensed that we were in trouble. But a sensation that intense... it can only mean one thing – that the connection to one of the five has been severed."

"Maybe somebody just cut if off," Sasha suggested, her voice shaking.

Brom was already shaking his head.

"The ritual that creates a new totem binds the five together," he said. "It's old magic, natural magic. No human could counter such enchantments. The only way to sever that connection is through death – I've felt it before."

"Do you know who it was?"

"No, though I think the answer is obvious – Iain was barely alive when we last saw him. He probably couldn't handle the road any longer."

"But what if the spiders caught them... what if they captured Iain again... and they..."

"I doubt that Desmond is dead," Brom stated, though she wasn't sure if he was trying to be comforting or not.

"But you don't know."

Sasha could feel the trickle of tears running down her soft, cold cheeks. Brom looked at her with sympathetic eyes.

"No, I don't. Not yet anyway. But I'll find out soon enough."

"What do you mean? Where are we going?"

"You're going north," he replied, and it took a moment for his words to sink in. "I'm going to the Elder Tree."

"Wait... what?" she shook her head, the tears flowing more freely as she realized what he was saying. "You can't leave me!"

"Desmond wanted you to get to the bears. He had his reasons. I'm sure those reasons haven't changed."

"But I can't go all that way alone!"

Sasha's eyes were wide with terror, her head shooting around and staring into the dark trees that surrounded them. She was in the middle of the wilderness, in the middle of a dangerous world that she was only beginning to understand. And now her only guide was abandoning her.

"Sasha, please listen," Brom said, and he held her shoulders and focused her eyes on him. "If a totem is dead, then Desmond was right – things are happening, and I imagine they're happening even quicker than he anticipated. There's no time to waste."

Sasha was meekly shaking her head, unable to accept that this man, her supposed protector, was just going to leave her behind.

"Sasha!" Brom said, giving her a shake. "If Desmond is right about you, if you are who he thinks you are, then your path is yours to walk. Desmond took you so far, and I've taken you this far, but you have to take the next steps. And those steps are to the north."

"But I don't even know which way is north," Sasha muttered between sobs. "Desmond showed me, but I can never see the sun through all the trees."

"Sasha, you're strong with magic. Let nature guide you."

That didn't seem like very helpful advice to Sasha. But she didn't know what else to say so she just nodded dumbly.

"Desmond wanted me to give you a message, Sasha," Brom continued. Her ears perked up at that. "He told me to tell you to always trust your instincts. If you're not sure about something, about what to do, listen to your gut. He said that you're special, and that your instincts will never lead you awry."

"You're not really going to leave me, are you Brom?" Sasha whispered. "Can't you take me as far as the stags?"

"There's no time for that. That's a good start, though. Head north and you should find a stag village within two or three days. The stags are peaceful, helpful people by nature. They'll guide you from there. And if you tell them that you know Iain, they'll probably be too helpful."

"I can't make it alone," she pleaded as Brom moved away. She knew what he was about to do.

"You have to," he replied, and in the blink of an eye his body glowed violet and became that of a large, ebon raven. He cawed loudly and then spread his wings, giving them a furious flap. Sasha watched as he soared up to the canopy and then navigated his way through the boughs and branches.

"This is a joke, right?" she yelled after him. But he didn't return. He was gone. She was alone.

She fell into a sitting position by the fire, her eyes empty of tears, her cheeks slick and red. She was too afraid to look around her, into the unknown darkness that was all about. Her face burrowed between her knees, her shoulders heaving with dry sobs.

"Desmond..." she whispered.
Father Lawrence

Despite standing in the centre of another faith's sacred site, Father Lawrence always felt a certain calm when inside the witch coven's circular temple. It was always darker than his church, and the earth floor was surprisingly warmer than his great stone slabs come winter. He still didn't understand the witches' ways, but he had always had an open mind when it came to other faiths – if he didn't, he never would have survived in a world dominated by a single, magical faith.

"How do you keep the ceiling up?" he asked his host, always curious about the structural integrity of a building that had no support columns, but measured more than fifty feet across.

"You know I can't divulge all of my secrets now, father," Tamara purred, smirking at him.

He hadn't really expected an answer, but he found it best to flatter Tamara when he was in her domain – it put her at ease. The priest knew that Tamara had a way with men. She usually got what she wanted from them. But he had never been one to fall prey to such primitive urges – even when a woman as beautiful and shapely as Tamara was standing before him in a gown that did little to hide that shape. As always, the witch was clad in something that showed just enough of her skin, and hinted at just enough of her curves, to have most men in the palm of her hand before ever uttering a single word.

Complimenting her looks or her skills was what the woman expected of men, and so the priest gave it to her. But it was nothing more than a ploy to him – a stepping stone to get further into her good graces.

"I suppose you're here to tell me to keep away from Jonas?" Tamara asked, leading Father Lawrence to the temple's stone altar, where they stood on opposite sides from one another.

"His name isn't really Jonas, you know," the priest replied.

"What do you mean? Everyone calls him Jonas."

"Yes, they do."

"So then why do you say that it's not his name?"

"I would have expected someone of your particular expertise to be able to get the truth from most people – certainly from a boy."

"Oh, and I suppose he opened right up to you, did he?"

"Not at all. The boy has secrets that are his own. But I've been trying to tell you for many years how important it is to be aware of your surroundings, Tamara. To understand this world that we find ourselves in. Our survival depends on it."

"Your survival maybe. What does that have to do with the boy?"

"The boy is a spider."

"What's a spider? Oh, you mean he's from one of those silly druid clans? I figured that much – where else would he have come from?"

"The point is that if you had bothered to learn anything about the other clans, you'd have been able to figure out that he's a spider. And that spiders don't name their children – upon reaching adulthood, spiders have to go through a series of ritual tests to earn their place in the clan, culminating with a naming ritual."

"And how do you know that he hasn't done all that? He isn't that young."

"Intuition partly. He looks like he's been on the road for some time, and I suspect that he's only recently reached sexual maturity – the point at which his spider rituals would have begun."

"Well I could have verified that for you – the sexual maturity part," Tamara said slyly. "But you put a stop to that, didn't you?"

"And that won't be the last time I put a stop to it. You can have any man in town, why do you need a teenage boy?"

"Not any man," Tamara said, letting a finger trail across the priest's unshaven cheek. He didn't bother to stop her – he knew that it would only encourage her.

"In any case," Father Lawrence continued, "The boy is a spider, and he has gone to lengths to hide that fact. And I get the impression that that isn't the only thing he's hiding – you yourself said that you could sense the boy's power."

Tamara nodded, her playful smirk disappearing.

"His blood is strong," she agreed. "And his aura is powerful, but damaged. It's hard to see exactly what his strength is with a broken aura, but I've rarely seen children with such potential."

"Can you repair it? His aura?"

"I thought I was to stay away from the boy?"

"Oh, I'm sure we can make a few exceptions, so long as I'm there to supervise. Now tell me, what do you think this power, or aura, that you sense means? Is the boy magical? Most druids have shown signs of magic by his age."

"I can't say for certain, but I would be surprised if he didn't have some form of magical abilities."

The priest was rubbing his chin, thinking – why had the boy shown up here at all? He had been bloodied and beaten that first day, as well. Had he escaped from somewhere? Or someone?

"If the boy has as much potential as you believe," the priest said, "Someone may want him back."

Tamara appeared unconcerned.

"The boy is under the protection of my coven," she said, as though that settled the matter. The priest knew that there were beings in this world that were well beyond the witch's powers, but he kept that to himself. Tamara could be a little defensive about such things.

"I wouldn't have figured you for the protective type," Father Lawrence commented.

"I've taken a liking to the boy. And I still intend to get my hands on his semen."

Father Lawrence sighed.

"What in the world do you need a boy's semen for?" the priest asked.

"Oh, it doesn't have to be a boy's," she clarified. "Just a virgin's. But we don't exactly have an abundance of virgins around here. Three years I've been waiting and here this one just stumbles right into our lives. Can you really blame me for wanting to take advantage of the situation – it's almost like a sign. How do you know he wasn't sent to our village just for this purpose?"

"I have a hard time believing that the universe would be rounding up young boys to send to you. And you've already agreed to stay away from the boy. You'll stand a better chance of getting my semen than his."

"Now that's an idea," Tamara said, suddenly looking interested. She sauntered the few steps to brush her body up against the priest's, making certain to let her firm breasts press right into his arm. "Mature virgin semen is even more potent. Maybe I'll take you up on that offer."

"That wasn't an offer," the priest replied, carefully extracting himself from Tamara's embrace, ignoring the playful pout that crept across her lips. "You'll be having neither of us. I may be immune to your charms, but I daresay the boy is not – so I expect you to keep your word."

"You know I will," she sighed, moving back around the altar.

"I would ask that you keep an eye on him, though."

"Now you're just teasing me."

"Let's just say that I have a bad feeling. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but two sets of eyes are better than one. And, though it pains me to admit it, you are better equipped to protect him, after all."

"And just what's in it for me? I don't have time to be babysitting some child."

"But you have time to seduce him?"

Tamara just grinned, bringing her burgundy lips together in a mischievous smile.

"And there's nothing in it for you," the priest continued. "But I already know that you're going to do it. Because no matter how hard you try to hide it, your heart isn't nearly so black as your exterior."

Father Lawrence smiled to the woman, nodded his head, and then turned to exit the witches' temple.

* * *

The priest knelt by the water's edge, his robes brushing against the thin layer of newly fallen snow. It was less than an inch deep, and it would probably be gone by midday, but snow was always a stark reminder of the harsh times approaching. Winters in the Reverie were not easy, particularly for the common folk. Druids were afforded the luxury of magic to keep them warm, and nobles had thick walls and well-used hearths. Even the priest had the stone walls of his church, and while it could hardly be considered warm, he was much better off than most of the people of Churchtown.

He filled his large container with water, as heavy as he could manage to carry. The river was on the far side of town from the church, and it was a long, arduous trek back carrying the barrel of water.

"Do you need help, father?"

The priest turned to see the boy standing behind him, his own smaller canteen in hand. The boy's face had healed well, with barely any scars showing from his previous wounds.

"You're up early, son," Father Lawrence replied, stepping away from the river so that the boy could kneel down in his place.

"Couldn't sleep," the boy replied.

"Is your bed uncomfortable? We can always do something about that."

"No, father," the boy replied, standing up with his full canteen. "It's not that. I've been having strange dreams. They keep waking me up."

"Strange dreams? You know, the witches believe very strongly in the meaning of dreams. Perhaps you should talk to Tamara about your dreams. Do you remember them?"

The boy's face reddened at the mention of Tamara – as the priest expected it would. He had been trying to help the boy past the embarrassment of that encounter with Tamara, but the boy seemed resistant. Clearly he was battling some feelings for the older woman. And why wouldn't he? She was by far the most beautiful woman in the village - perhaps in any surrounding villages for miles – and she had revealed herself sexually to the boy. An experience like that was certain to cause confusion.

The boy didn't respond, but instead moved to pick up the priest's barrel of water. Despite his stature, the boy continued to impress the priest – the barrel must have weighed well over fifty pounds, but the determined young man carried it without complaint.

"Why Jonas?" Father Lawrence asked as the pair moved back into the town.

"Sorry, father?"

"It must have some meaning to you. If I were to choose a false name to present to others, I would likely select something that had meaning to me."

"False name?" the boy repeated, glancing at the priest. But Father Lawrence just smiled down at him.

"Don't worry," he said. "I won't tell anyone where you're really from. That's your secret. I just thought that if you like the name Jonas, then perhaps we can make it official. We can conduct a naming ritual of our own if it interests you."

They walked for a minute or two before the boy replied.

"I would like that, I think," he said. "Jonas was my brother's name. He was a few years older than me and worked as an apprentice to the town smithy. I haven't seen him since the day before my parents sold me."

The priest had suspected that the boy came from a troubled past, but the selling of children was not something that he was accustomed to. Curious as he was, Father Lawrence held his tongue – it was clearly an emotional topic for the boy, who had now gone silent again.

It took twenty minutes for the pair to walk the length of the small town, the boy making steady progress with his burden. They reached the church and the boy placed the barrel of fresh water just inside the main door.

"So, how does it work?" Father Lawrence asked as he sat down on one of the church pews, opposite the boy. "The naming ritual, that is?"

"Oh," the boy replied. "Well, it's an ancient ritual. But I thought that maybe we could do something different. I don't want to be a spider anymore."

"No?"

The priest stared at the boy, his eyes hard and piercing. The boy shifted on his bench and averted his gaze.

"No," he replied, simply.

"You'll always be a spider, son."

"I'm not a spider!" the boy shouted, suddenly leaping from his seat. "I'll never be like them."

The priest stood and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"I didn't say that you had to be like them," he said, calming the boy. "Only that you are a spider. You can't change what you are, son. But what you are doesn't have to change who you are."

"I don't understand..." the boy said, shaking his head.

"I take it you've been mistreated at the hands of some of your people. Your parents abandoned you. I'm sure that you resent all of them. But is every spider evil in your eyes? Was there no one who ever showed you any kindness?"

"Well... my brother was always kind to me. And when I was travelling with... with my mentor, there were people who showed me pity. I think they knew what he was like. Or maybe they just saw my bruises."

"Do you resent those people too?"

"No..."

"Not all spiders are evil, son. A man isn't inherently good or evil – the choices he makes determine that. You can run from who you are, from your clan, your history. Or you can accept who you are. But you can never change your past, your heritage. You don't have to like it, but it's who you are."

"I guess."

"The choices you make will determine whether you are a good person or not. And you seem like a good person to me. So why don't we get you that name, and then we'll take it from there. How does that sound?"

"That sounds good," the boy said, even managing a smile.

"Now why don't you tell me how the ritual works, and I'll take care of everything."

"Well, it's actually three rituals. Spiders value three things above all others – resilience, strength, and obedience. Each has its own tasks."

"So let's start with resilience."

"Resilience is demonstrated by surviving in the face of death. The boy or girl would be fed a meal with certain herbs to knock them unconscious. I'm not sure how long it lasts, but when they wake up, they will be alone in the wilderness. They have no food, no water, and no weapons. If they make it back home, they move on to the second ritual. If not..."

"And the second? Strength?"

"Strength is demonstrated through physical prowess. The boy or girl is locked in an arena with a wild animal. They'll be armed with a knife."

"What sort of animal?"

"It depends on how harsh the magistrate is feeling. Sometimes a wolf or a cougar. I saw one boy killed by a bear – he never had a chance. His family had disrespected the magistrate a few weeks prior."

Father Lawrence couldn't help but wonder how the Spider Clan was so large – given these first two trials, it was surprising that many children made it to adulthood at all.

"And the final test? Obedience?"

"That's the scariest one of all," the boy said, taking a deep breath. "The magistrate will order the boy or girl to stab themselves in the heart."

"What?"

The boy nodded.

"A druid is always present," the boy said. "If the magistrate is satisfied with the level of obedience, he will instruct the druid to heal the wound before the boy or girl dies. But like with the bear, if he doesn't like your family... I've heard of children lying there dying, and having to watch the magistrate and druid turn and walk away."

"You know, son," the priest said, "Maybe you were right, all along. I'm not sure these trials are appropriate to life here. I certainly don't have any wild animals caged up anywhere to test you with. But you know what? I do know someone who is a bit of an expert in rituals, and I bet she can help us come up with some ideas."

The boy seemed in a brighter mood when the priest left him behind. And Father Lawrence was left wondering just how many favours he was going to owe Tamara in this lifetime.
Kelly

Brom was sitting across the table from her, taking in her every word. Kelly hadn't been surprised when the other totem had shown up at her door, only moments before. She assumed that each of the other totems had experienced the same painful sensation that she had. But their reunion was not a happy one – she had barely had time to embrace Brom and he was already demanding to know what was going on with the elders and the council. But Kelly had questions of her own.

"Do you know..." she began.

"It was Iain," Brom stated.

"You saw?"

"No, we were forced to split up. He went with Desmond, but he was in bad shape. I'm positive it was him."

"Desmond was with you?" Kelly asked. She had always had a soft spot for Desmond, despite his wholly unusual behaviour and disdain for the elders. He had been the one, years before, who had mentored her during her first months as a totem.

"He just showed up one night," Brom said. "Iain and I were holed up in an old cabin, spiders hot on our trail. And out of the blue, Desmond appears at our door. Damn near scared me half to death, but he held the spiders off single-handedly."

"What happened to Iain?"

"I'm sure you can imagine. Kendrick got hold of him. Tortured him – mind more than body, really. But they starved him too, he couldn't have weighed more than seventy pounds when I got him out of that cell."

"Who is Kendrick? A spider?"

"Oh, that's right, I keep forgetting how young you are, little bird. Kendrick is a druid, not overly powerful in magic, but he was the most sadistic man I've ever met. He figured out how to channel his inner magic through various instruments that he used to inflict tremendous pain. And by the looks of what happened to Iain, it seems Kendrick has figured out how to torture the mind, destroying memory, intellect, pretty much everything."

"That's terrible."

"But more than that, he seems to have been able to disconnect Iain's mind from nature – he was completely impotent when I found him. Not an ounce of magical power. He started to get it back, little by little, as we fled. But he was still very weak."

"He can stop us from using magic?"

"So it would seem, though I doubt it's that simple. He had Iain captive for months. I imagine it took most of that time to do what he did. At least I hope it did."

Kelly could only nod in agreement, not even wanting to imagine what it would be like to lose her powers, let alone her memories.

"Anyway, Kendrick was a high-ranking spider once," Brom continued. "He served Baron Carrick's father, also named Carrick, as chief interrogator. As you might expect, he was rather good at that job - at least until he went a little too far. Rumour has it that Kendrick was so obsessed with the heightened attunement to nature that druids feel, that he spent all of his time experimenting on the minds of young spider druids. But old Lord Carrick wasn't aware that Kendrick was ruining young batches of potential druids – to the old spider lord druids were magical warriors that he could use against the other clans to expand territory or just wipe out the lesser clans that he didn't like. When he finally found out, Kendrick was himself imprisoned. And that was the last that anyone had heard from him in a very long time."

"Are you sure it was him?" Kelly asked.

"Oh, I'm sure," Brom replied, but didn't elaborate. "Now tell me, what's been going on in the council? They invited you as an 'honoured guest' of course?"

Kelly nodded.

"Brandt has led the bears against the serpents," she stated.

Brom chuckled.

"That stupid oaf," he said.

"Be nice, Brom..."

"Between Iain's death and Brandt's recklessness, things have accelerated. Remind me not to doubt Desmond's intuition ever again. Why did Brandt attack?"

Kelly spent the next few minutes detailing her and Brandt's journey into serpent territory, and their subsequent witnessing of human sacrifice. Just like Brandt and Marcus before him, Brom wasn't the least bit surprised that the elders hadn't acted decisively on that information.

"They never do, little bird," he said. "The elders are puppets of the council."

"The elders are the leaders of our faith!" Kelly argued.

"They were once, perhaps. Or maybe old Arturus just doesn't have any fight left him, I don't know. But I wouldn't expect much in the way of help from them. It'll be more important to rally the clans to our side – do you think the spiders will side with the serpents?"

"I don't know," Kelly said with a shrug. "Carrick seemed genuine in claiming he had no knowledge of Iain's capture. I don't think he's looking for a fight."

"No, I daresay he isn't. He's a smooth one, though \- he can talk you onto his side as sure as a whore can talk a man out of his gold. Still, there's really nothing for the spiders to gain by open warfare. What I'd like to know is why they dug Kendrick up and put him back to work. That'd explain a few things."

There was a knock at the door, and the pair turned to see Marcus poke his head in. The old man nodded to Brom, who returned the greeting.

"They're asking for you," Marcus said. "The council will be in session within the hour."

Kelly was apprehensive – things were so tense and she didn't really know what to make of them. But her companion seemed more than eager.

"Let's go get some answers," Brom said, standing up and heading for the door.

* * *

Kelly was sitting, again, opposite the handsome Lord Carrick. Marcus was to her right, and Brom was on her left – directly across the table from Vexonis. The two were staring at one another as Kelly shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"I heard that serpents battle with bears," Brom spat, before the speaker was even able to officially open the council session. "Seems like an unfair fight."

"Watch your tongue, totem," Vexonis retorted, standing up and pounding a fist on the old wooden table.

"I'll be fucked before I take orders from a filthy serpent," Brom said, standing himself.

"Please, Lord Brom, keep a civil tongue," Carrick said, and Kelly was happy that someone else had taken the mantle of peacekeeper. "We can discuss these issues respectably."

"I'm no lord," Brom replied, never taking his eyes from Vexonis'. "And I think these issues are sorting themselves out just fine."

"Do you speak for the Raven Clan?"

Brom glanced quickly down the table to an older woman who sat as councillor for the ravens. Kelly noted that she didn't make eye contact with Brom.

"I do not speak for my clan," he stated. "I speak for myself, and for the totems."

"He speaks for you, Lady Kelly?" Carrick asked, and she caught the slightest hint of a smile on his face. She sighed, having wanted no part of such a dispute.

"He does," she said.

"He speaks for the eagles, as well," Marcus said loudly, and Kelly's head shot around to look at him.

"You're not a councillor, old man," Vexonis sneered.

"Who do you think the eagle councillor answers to when he returns home to the Aerie?"

"Very well," Carrick stated. "Please continue, Master Brom."

"Why thank you, Lord Carrick," Brom said. "It has been some time since I last addressed this council. I recognize a few faces, and am surprised that you have not tired of mundane bickering. Ruining the lives of the common folk is an unpleasant job, but I suppose someone has to do it."

Kelly bowed her head, trying to stifle a grin. Brom certainly had a talent for ruffling feathers.

"Considering my utmost loathing of this place," Brom continued, glancing around the large chamber, "I can assure you that I would only set foot in this room for matters of incredible urgency. And so I come to you today with the news that a totem has indeed perished."

"That's no news," Vexonis growled.

"No, I suppose it isn't – and I shall ignore your disrespect this one time. But while it comes as no surprise to me, it might interest some around this table to learn that Iain the stag is dead at the hands of a group of spiders."

Brom paused to let the words sink in, and while many in the room shifted or gasped, Kelly noted that Lord Carrick seemed unfazed. It was a bold statement – one didn't simply accuse the councillor of another clan of such transgressions. But Brom wasn't much for following proper etiquette.

"I am sorry for your loss," Carrick stated calmly, nodding his head to both Brom and Kelly. "Iain was an inspiration to this council, and we will all grieve for him. But letting your emotion lead you to placing blame where it doesn't belong won't help anyone heal any faster."

"I know where blame belongs, Lord Carrick... What exactly are you lord of anyway, boy? How does one get to be lord of a spider's web? I imagine it takes a great deal of cunning and deviance."

Several people stiffened at the insult, and Kelly realized immediately that Brom was trying to determine who Carrick's allies were. Judging by the reactions, at least three of the smaller clans were in league with the spiders – not to mention Vexonis and his serpents.

"If you have proof of your claim, I would be happy to entertain it," Carrick said with a smile, clearly not rattled by Brom's accusations.

"Oh, I don't need proof, boy," Brom replied. "I was there. I rescued Iain from one of your filthy cells – he was a tortured mess. And I had a little run in with your torturer. Why don't you summon Kendrick to bear witness? Though his head might be a little more charred than usual, I imagine he could tell you exactly how Iain died."

There was much whispering and muttering around the table now, but Kelly noticed that – for possibly the first time – Carrick seemed a little unnerved.

"Kendrick?" he repeated. "Are you referring to Kendrick the Inquisitor?"

"Oh, you know who I'm referring to Spider Lord. You and Kendrick spun your little web and Iain was the first fly to fall into it. And it was only after his mind was ruined that I was able to free him – a mighty man made feeble by your torturer's evil tricks. Severing the mind from its magical connection is careful work, and he almost succeeded. But when we fled, he followed with his minions, druids and soldiers alike. Apparently he just wasn't willing to give up his little lab rat – better that Iain was dead than be able to make these claims himself."

Carrick looked pale and confused – Kelly expected that he was rarely caught so unprepared. She almost believed that he really didn't know anything about Kendrick. Vexonis was cursing under his breath, and she could tell that he and Brom were about to explode at one another. But instead there echoed a loud creaking sound through the room, and many heads turned to the doors – interrupting the council while in session was forbidden.

Kelly turned to look as well, and she watched as a lone man sauntered into the room, his head looking up towards the ceiling, taking in the enormity of the place. It took her a moment to place him, having not seen him in many years.

"Desmond," she whispered.

If Brom was a stranger to the council, Desmond was many times so – he hadn't set foot beneath the lofty boughs of the Elder Tree, let alone inside of it, in over a century. Kelly knew that many people around this table wouldn't recognize him. But they would all know his name.

"Hello Kelly," Desmond said, smiling, as he approached her. She was beaming back at him.

There was the sound of another door opening, and many heads turned to look high above, to the landing that led to the elders' chamber. The three elders were looking over the council room – Arturus in the centre, flanked by Victoria and Ballon.

"You are not welcome here, wolf," Victoria stated, her voice carrying easily to the council room floor.

"I go where I choose," Desmond replied, not bothering to look up at her. "And last I checked, the elders had no authority over this council."

Silence filled the room – nobody spoke so brazenly to the elders, the most respected figures in the Reverie. Desmond's attitude would be considered blasphemous by many.

"I come to bear witness, and then I shall leave," Desmond continued. "I am Desmond, of the Wolf Clan. I am one of the five, sometimes called the Howling Wind. And I was with Iain at the end."

"Please, speak your piece, Desmond," the council speaker said after several moments of silence.

"Kendrick and his spiders chased us for days on end. We fled, trying to get Iain back to the Meadow. I managed to fight off the pursuit on several occasions, but eventually the spiders grew too many in number – there was no holding them back. They caught us, and they killed him. I don't believe that Kendrick wanted Iain dead at all, but Iain had no intention of returning to his dungeon – he antagonized some soldiers into killing him before Kendrick himself appeared."

"And how is it that you escaped unharmed, wolf?" Vexonis asked.

"Iain convinced me to leave him behind, lest we both perish in the next assault. I allowed my friend that one, final favour. But I watched from the trees as the spider's sword dug into his side. He bled out quickly, given his weakened state."

"Master Desmond," Carrick began, and Kelly thought that he looked shaken himself. "I can assure you that neither myself, nor my father, have any knowledge of Kendrick operating within the spider domain. I had not heard that name spoken in many years before today – I didn't even realize that he was still alive. This action was most certainly not sanctioned by the Spider Clan, and I have every intention of hunting down Kendrick myself."

"An attack against a totem is an attack against this council, and the elders," Marcus added. "We appreciate your words, Lord Carrick, but the deed is done. It cannot be undone, even with Kendrick's head."

Kelly assumed that Carrick knew that, and he was sensing his vulnerable position. He merely nodded, accepting Marcus' words.

"That doesn't change the fact that the stag was trespassing on spider lands," Vexonis put in. "In clear defiance of our treaties. And then this crow here followed suit. Are totems not held to the same laws as the rest of us?"

There was a murmur of support from the table, although Kelly couldn't see how mere trespassing could excuse the imprisonment and murder of a totem – or anyone, for that matter.

Brom placed his hands on the table and leaned forward, glaring at Vexonis.

"I don't have much use for your laws, snake," he whispered. "But I wouldn't mind incinerating you where you stand. I wonder what laws they have for that."

Vexonis growled and slammed his fist into the table.

"The next time I see your face, crow," he said, "It will be at the end of my pike!"

And then the large man turned and stalked off towards the door. Things unraveled quickly after that, the speaker having no control over the councillors following Vexonis' bold exit. The badger, salmon, and marmot representatives all followed after him. And while the remainder of the councillors lingered, it was clear that more of them supported Vexonis' views – there had always been a feeling among the councillors that the totems were granted certain privileges that others were not.

Kelly didn't understand it, really. It's not like Iain and Brom took it upon themselves to invade the spider lands – they were sent there by the elders. Did the councillors feel the same way about the elders? Maybe they did, she thought.

And there was also the always-present possibility that certain deals had been made or favours had been promised in exchange for support – the councillors were here to represent the best interests of their people, after all. And for the clans that bordered serpent territory, it was in their best interests not to anger Vexonis.

But whatever the reasons, the gathering soon dispersed, and Kelly found herself leading Marcus, Brom, and Desmond back towards her room at the inn.

* * *

"What do you mean you left her behind?"

Desmond sounded fierce as he rounded on Brom. Kelly wasn't entirely sure what they were discussing – she heard the name Sasha mentioned, but she didn't know who that was.

"She's fine, Desmond," Brom said dismissively.

"She's fine!" Desmond retorted, and Kelly could hardly remember ever seeing Desmond this upset about anything. "You left her in the middle of the woods, alone, with spiders lurking all about. How can you say that she's fine?"

"There were no spiders, I made sure of that. It seems they were only interested in Iain. We'd had no pursuit at all since we split up from you. And please enlighten me, oh mighty wolf, as to how me leaving the girl alone in the woods is any different than you summoning her from the beaver town to wander the woods for two days to find our camp."

"Because I was between her and the spiders."

"How do you know that? They could have had scouts anywhere. You took a risk because you knew that it was time – so did I."

Desmond didn't respond right away.

"Time for what?" Kelly interjected. "And who is Sasha?"

"Desmond went exploring in the world beyond again," Brom said. "And this time he brought someone back with him. Cute little thing, too – she seems to have made him feel all fuzzy inside."

Desmond glared at Brom, but didn't say anything. Kelly glanced from one man to the other.

"And this girl, Sasha, was with you two while you were rescuing Iain?" Kelly asked.

"Yes," Brom said, nodding. "Desmond summoned her in a dream, and she found us quite easily, actually."

Kelly understood the relevance of that fact – dream visions were often difficult to interpret, and only those skilled in the art could do so with any degree of accuracy. Remembering a path in the day that one had travelled in a dream was no easy feat – unless they were guided by more than just their eyes.

"You shouldn't have left her," Desmond stated. "I trusted you."

"So trust me now," Brom insisted. "She'll be fine. She was only two days south of the stags, and I told her to tell them that she knew Iain and that she was with us. They'll look after her. They'll help her get to Brandt."

"To Brandt?" Kelly asked.

"Well we figured that you and Brandt would be with the bears," Brom admitted. "We didn't realize that you'd be here. But Desmond feels that Sasha has a part to play in the north, and Ursa's Maw is the safest place to be if things turn bad."

"They've already turned bad," Kelly said. "The bears and serpents are already at war. She might be walking right into a battle zone."

"I have to get to her," Desmond stated. "I can make it to the stags before she heads north."

Brom was already shaking his head, but it was Marcus who spoke up.

"That would be a mistake, Desmond," the old man said. "The spiders have not yet joined this conflict, but given the events of today, I daresay it's possible they soon will. Lord Carrick may be a pleasant fellow, and he may even mean well, but his father is neither pleasant nor well-meaning. When the baron learns of a totem's death, at the hands of his spiders, he will view it as a sign."

"He always was a superstitious old fool," Brom agreed.

"Kelly must return to Brandt," Marcus continued, "To help lead the assault against the serpents. Desmond and Brom, you two will need to prepare the defense against the spider attack. The Spider Clan is the largest of clans, and their people are hardened and trained for battle from a young age. The stags will not commit, and the spiders won't be foolish enough to attack them. But the eagles, wolves, and ravens surround the spider lands, and we must rally the smaller clans to our cause before they are invaded. There is little time, Carrick is likely already on his way back home."

Desmond sighed. Kelly could tell that being away from this girl was tearing at him, but he understood his greater responsibilities – Desmond wasn't one to take orders from the elders or the council, but he always acted in the best interests of the common folk.

"I will leave at first light," Kelly stated.

"I'll leave immediately," Desmond declared – as a wolf he couldn't travel as swiftly as Kelly or Brom could. "I'll follow the Southwood trail to the Dragon Graveyard. Brom, you fly to the Crow's Nest and alert your people first, then meet me at the graveyard. Kelly, stop at the Aerie on your way to the bears – I know it's out of the way, but you'll get there much faster than Marcus can."

Each of the totems nodded and shared a quick embrace.

"Kelly," Desmond, said as he held her at arm's length, "If Sasha makes it to you..."

"Don't worry," she said, smiling. "I'll keep her safe."

Then Desmond headed for the door. Kelly heard him whisper Sasha's name as he left.
Sasha

It had taken only that first night after Brom's departure for Sasha to overcome her fear and apprehension. After all, this wasn't the first time that she had been out in the woods alone. Although it was the first time so soon after being in mortal peril – after being chased by spiders for days. Still, when she woke the morning before last, she felt renewed and had been making haste through the forest ever since.

And while fear for her safety was no longer holding her back, the cold had become her biggest obstacle. Brom had left her his furs, in addition to her own, but they didn't help much to keep her feet warm. She had been forced to stop several times just to start a fire and try to warm up her extremities – and from what Brom had told her, this was only a precursor to the real winter. Not for the first time, she wondered why he couldn't have told her to head south.

Flames flickered before her eyes, and she was huddled as close to the fire as she could manage without running the risk of her furs catching aflame. The fire certainly helped to keep her warm, but she knew that four walls around her, and a proper hearth, would be far more helpful. So she went about packing up her things and preparing for another few hours hike before she was forced to stop again. Brom had told her that she was two days from stag territory, and she had been walking for a little more than two days. So she hoped that meant that she was close.

She needn't have worried – less than an hour later Sasha pushed through a few pine branches and emerged onto a well-traveled trail.

"This must be the road Brom spoke of," she muttered to herself. During their conversations before his abrupt departure, Sasha had often asked Brom how he knew that they were travelling north – what if they were travelling north and ever-so-slightly to the east or west? Wouldn't they completely miss the village? Brom indicated that he used the roads as a guide – all towns and villages were connected to others by roads or paths or trails. If you find the road, you can follow it to the village.

Sasha looked down the road in one direction, and then turned to look in the other direction. She had forgotten to ask one other important question – how would she know which direction to follow the road to the village? She couldn't make out any signs of life as far as she could see.

"Trust your instincts," she whispered, remembering the last advice that Brom had given her.

She knew that the spiders dwelt in the east, and that they had been running to the northwest to escape them. So she reasoned that the stag village would probably be down the road to the west – and even if it wasn't, she'd rather head to the west anyway, avoiding any possible encounters with spiders. After all, something had to be on the end of this trail.

It was nearly nightfall, and her toes were again freezing, before Sasha came within view of the town. While the trail was still covered by overhanging branches, it was clear that many trees had been cut down to create the road – she imagined that carts and wagons might have a difficult time traversing regular forest terrain. A lot of work had been put into this road, and Sasha wondered why she had been spending so much time wandering through the woods if such trails existed.

"Who goes there?" a guard called out as Sasha approached.

She wasn't entirely sure how to answer – who was she to these people?

"A friend," she yelled back. The man didn't reply right away, but waited for her to get closer. Apparently satisfied that she wasn't a threat, he let her come right up to the edge of the village.

"A friend of who?" he asked once she had reached him.

"You are a stag, correct?" Sasha replied. "I'm a friend of Iain's."

The man's eyes widened.

"How do you know Iain? I don't recognize you."

Her feet were killing her, and Sasha wanted to ask if this common guard would recognize every friend that Iain had ever made – but she kept a polite tongue and played along.

"I don't know Iain that well, to be honest," she said. "I met him only recently. I'm really a friend of Desmond's – the wolf. Do you know him?"

The man clearly didn't know how to react – she imagined that not many travelers came this way in the course of his usual day, let alone travelers who claimed to be acquainted with any of the famous totems.

"The magistrate will wish to speak with you," the guard said. "Come with me."

And then he turned and marched off, and Sasha had to keep a quick pace just to follow. The first thing she noticed about this little stag town, even in the dwindling light, was that it was very well decorated. There were the usual wood and stone buildings, but everywhere she looked were vibrant flowers or draperies of ivy. There were bright, vivid colours all around – which struck as very odd given that there was an inch of snow on the ground.

They eventually arrived in front of a small stone house, and the guard knocked on the door. It took several moments before anyone came to answer.

"What is it?" grumbled an older woman, and her eyes quickly found Sasha.

"Apologies, my lady," the guard said, bowing his head. "This woman arrived in town and claims to be a friend of Iain's."

"Iain?"

"So she claims."

"Alright then," the woman said. "You can go back to your post, Theron. Please come inside, miss."

The guard nodded and left, and Sasha followed the woman inside her home. The interior was humble but, much like the town outside, was quite pleasant. Sasha noted several different types of flowers that she didn't recognize, and a host of fabric drapes and tapestries.

"You have a lovely home," Sasha said.

"Who are you?" the woman asked sharply.

"My name's Sasha... Like I told your guard, I'm a friend."

"A friend of Iain's, yes. And how is it that you know Iain?"

"Well, I'm more a friend of Desmond's really. I met Iain through him."

"Oh, so you just happen to be friends with a pair of totems, and yet you show up in my town alone - where are your friends now?"

Given what Brom had told her about the stags, Sasha had been expecting a warmer welcome. But all Sasha wanted was a place to sleep, and maybe even a hot meal. She was weary from her travels, and her body was sore.

"I don't know if you'll like the answer to that question," Sasha said, and the magistrate narrowed her eyes. "Fine. Iain was captured by the spiders and held captive in a dungeon for months. Brom rescued him, but the spiders chased them. Desmond and I found them in the woods and helped them get away, but we were forced to split up – Brom and I headed north while Desmond tried to hold off the pursuit. That was the last I saw of Iain or Desmond. And Brom left me two days ago to head to the Elder Tree, so I've been trudging through the woods for days and I'm really in no mood for your questions."

The woman didn't soften her gaze, but she didn't offer any retort this time. She appeared to be digesting all of the information Sasha had just imparted on her. Since no response was forthcoming, Sasha decided to walk across the room and drop herself into a comfortable looking chair. Her bottom sunk right into the cushion and it felt quite nice to be sitting in a real chair for a change.

"I had heard rumours that Iain was off to investigate the spiders," the magistrate said, finally.

"He was," Sasha confirmed.

"Well, perhaps he'll pass by here soon then. Assuming your friends are to follow your path."

Sasha didn't have the heart to tell the woman that she suspected Iain might be dead. She could barely admit it to herself.

"Would you like some tea, dear?" the woman offered. "My name is Corin, by the way. I'm the magistrate of Deer Run."

"I'm Sasha. And tea would be lovely, thank you."

"So Sasha, what brings you here?" the woman asked as she hung her black kettle over the fire in her hearth.

"I'm heading north, to Ursa's Maw."

"To the bears? That's a long way. Why are you headed there?"

"I'm not really sure. Desmond wanted me to go there – he meant to take me there himself, I think. But..."

"Are you a bear?"

"Me? Oh, no. Actually, I'm not really from around here."

Corin glanced over her shoulder at Sasha and peered a little more closely.

"Not a bear then?"

"No, I'm from the other side of the portals."

Sasha wasn't really sure if this was information that she should so easily divulge – several people had told her how superstitious many of the Reverie's residents were about the portals. But she figured that most people would figure it out easily enough.

Corin didn't seem too taken back by it, though. Sasha answered a few curiosities for the woman, and eventually they arrived back on the topic of why she was headed north.

"That's not a trip I'd recommend making," Corin advised.

"Why not?" Sasha asked – she really didn't have another plan as far as where to go.

"You've seen the little snow here, I'm sure. And I imagine it made your trek through the forest much more difficult. Winter will have come on harder even a little north of here. You'll find many of the forest trails to be knee deep with snow, and some will be completely impassable."

"But I have to get north. Desmond wanted me to."

Corin smiled.

"Those totems can be a persuasive lot, can't they? But I just don't see how you can manage. You should stay here until spring, and then the journey will be much easier."

"Spring? But that's months away!"

"I can't make you stay, child," Corin said, sighing. "But I don't think you should go. At least think it over for a day or two – I'll arrange for a nice room at the inn, free of charge."

The old woman handed Sasha a steaming cup of tea, and the first sip helped to warm her bones.

"Thank you," Sasha said, and then she sat in silence for some time, wondering what she should do.

* * *

Sasha woke feeling refreshed for the first time since leaving the beaver town. The inn was solidly constructed and didn't allow much of a draft, although the room was still not warm. But that was easily countered by the sheer number of blankets that Sasha had draped over her body. She lay in the bed, her head resting comfortably on the pillow, for a while longer, just staring up at the wooden ceiling. She felt like she could lie there forever – maybe Desmond would just come find her, and she could forget all about the next leg of her journey.

When her belly started grumbling, she finally decided that it was time to throw the blankets off and head downstairs for a bite to eat. She hopped out of bed and gave a great stretch before reaching the door. She was on the upper floor of the three-storey inn, and the staircase was at the end of a short hallway. She could hear that the common room was busy, even at this early hour.

The hearth was blazing, and she could feel its warmth as she stepped down onto the main floor. About half of the tables in the room were taken, and Sasha made her way to the empty table that was nearest the fire.

The lone tavern wench was busy rushing back and forth with eggs and bread and mead – it all smelled so good to Sasha, and she was quite content to sit patiently and enjoy the smells and the roaring flames. Eventually she did receive her own meal, which was thrust down before her, consisting of eggs, a strip of bacon, two slices of toasted bread, and a glass of white milk.

"Excuse me," Sasha asked as the wench tried to scurry away. "You forgot my fork and knife."

The girl flashed Sasha a puzzled look, but did return with a fork that had two bent prongs, and a knife that looked like it might be completely dull. Sasha thanked her anyway and tried to put the utensils to use as best she could.

"It's nice to see another civilized soul."

Sasha turned to regard a man sitting at the table beside her. He was quite large, with a round belly and a big, bushy beard. He was clad in a velvet purple robe, with gold embroidery around the edges. And he was smiling at her as he held up his own bent fork.

"I think we have the only two forks in the house," he said.

"I imagine you're right," she said, smiling.

"I just arrived here this morning. This is a charming little town - I haven't been in many years. I had high hopes, but the lack of cutlery is a bit disheartening. I don't know if I'll survive the whole winter eating with this."

"The whole winter?"

"Indeed, my dear. Is that not why you are here, as well? My wagon is of no use come the snows. I had been hoping to make it to the Meadow to winter, but I guess this will have to do."

"Is the Meadow far?"

"A few days north of here," the man replied, eyeing her curiously now. She knew that look – it was the look she got whenever she said something that was common knowledge to most people.

"And where are you headed, if not here?" he asked her.

"Well, I was headed to Ursa's Maw," she replied, dejectedly. "But they're telling me that I can't make that trip until spring."

"And they're right, child. That's a long trip north, even in the summer. In the winter it's naught but a fool's errand. You'd be better to stay here, keep yourself warm and fed, and set out come the spring thaw."

It was the same line she'd be hearing since she arrived in town – wait until spring. But could she wait until spring? Surely Desmond and Brom were aware of the seasons, and they had pressed her to head north. They had higher expectations for her, and she was intent on living up to them. And yet, she had barely made it this far without freezing, and the snow and cold would only get worse the father north she travelled.

She was absently playing with her fork, poking it into the food on her plate without actually eating anything. And the next thing she knew, the burly man was seated next to her, his arm resting on her shoulder. She looked up at him, surprised.

"I don't know why you need to go north," the man said. "But I can tell that it matters to you."

"I promised someone that I would go," she said. She hadn't really promised anything of the sort – in fact, she had argued with Brom over her need to go north alone. But now that her path was blocked, she felt as though she was breaking a promise.

"I understand the weight of a promise. And I wouldn't say this lightly – but travelling north in the winter is a dangerous proposition. Are you sure you won't consider staying in this charming village through the winter?"

"Do I have a choice?" Sasha muttered.

"There's always a choice."

The man stood up then, and moved towards the door. Sasha watched him walk away, and when he reached the door he turned to address her.

"Come with me," he said.

Puzzled, Sasha rose and followed the man outside. She realized immediately that she didn't have her furs, as the biting wind nipped at her through the thin fabric that she wore.

"Do you see that building down there?" the man asked, pointing towards the end of the street. "The one with the straw roof?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Gather your things and meet me there when you're ready."

He started waddling down the street without waiting for a response. Sasha watched him for a moment, confused. But the cold got the better of her and she darted back inside and up the stairs. She was still shivering a little when she pulled on her furs and grabbed her pack. It struck her a little strangely that these were the only items she owned in this entire world.

She approached the straw-roofed building a few minutes later, and realized as she entered that it was a stable. It was rife with the smell of manure, but she tried to ignore it. The man was standing at the stall farthest from her, and she moved eagerly towards him.

"This is Dancer," the man said, rubbing the neck of a beautiful white mare.

Sasha smiled at the horse and reached out to stroke her fine coat.

"Can you ride?" the man asked.

"A little," Sasha replied, and then it dawned on her what he was really suggesting. "Wait, I thought you said that the roads were impassable – that I should wait until spring."

"The roads are impassable for a wagon. And you could always manage on foot, but it would be slow going – you'd be lucky to make a mile a day if the snow got deep. And lastly, you should wait until spring, but I have a feeling that you wouldn't last that long before braving the journey. And though it disheartens me to lose the only civilized companion I might have found for the winter, my heart tells me that you're meant to make this trip. And I always listen to my heart – that's sound advice, you should try it."

Sasha wasn't sure what to say – was he offering her his horse?

"I can't pay you for the horse, sir," she said. "And I don't know that I can ride well enough for such a trek anyway."

"No matter – Dancer is an excellent mount. She'll do most of the work for you, just focus on not falling off. As for payment, consider it a loan. I don't know what business you have in the north, but I assume you'll be back this way at some point. Even if you can't find me, I'm well known in any of the lands around here – just leave her with any of the stables or inns and tell them that she's Soran's. She'll find her way back to me."

Sasha took her hand off of the mare and looked up at Soran.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked.

"Oh, I suppose I've grown soft over the years. I'm a rich, fat man who has enjoyed all of the material gains that a man can enjoy. Perhaps I only really find satisfaction in other places. But if you'd rather, we can consider it a business arrangement – because I have a favour to ask of you, if you are to take Dancer."

"A favour?"

"Yes. Not too long ago, on my own trip from the north, I encountered a boy – name's Jonas. He made an impression on me, not unlike yourself. A tough lad, off to take on the world. I left him near a place called Churchtown, a place that he was keen on making his home. I'd appreciate it if you could check in on him – it's a little out of your way, but with the horse you'll still make the bear lands much quicker than you would have on foot."

"You just want me to check in on him? That's it?"

"That's it. Tell him that I hope he found his place."

Sasha was slightly annoyed that she would be playing messenger, but as she looked from the old man's weepy eyes to the stunning mare, she wasn't in a position to complain.

"I don't know the way," she said.

Soran smiled at her and opened the stall's gate, leading Dancer out and into the open air. Sasha followed behind.

"I have her all saddled for you," he said. "And the saddlebags are full of food – for both of you. She's a good horse. Make sure you treat her well."

"Of course," Sasha said.

"The winter is still early, so if you're lucky, the snows won't be too deep yet. If that's the case, and you keep a strong pace, you can reach Churchtown within the week. From there it's another five days ride or so to the bear lands. Follow the west road out of town, and don't leave it until you see the sign for Churchtown – the road will curl to the north and all of the forks are marked with signs. From there you can get good directions to Ursa's Maw."

"Which road is the west road?" she asked, glancing in either direction along the street.

Soran chuckled and reached into one of the deep pockets in his velvet jacket.

"I had a feeling you'd ask that," he said. "Here, take this."

He thrust into her hand a small instrument. She opened it and saw that it was a compass – she no idea how to use a compass, though.

"How does it work?" she asked, shaking it in her hand.

"For starters, be gentle with it. It's a marvellous little contraption. I don't how familiar you are with the world beyond the portals, but this is something they use in that world – it shows them the direction. It's called a compass, though it's not a real compass, of course."

"It's not?"

"No – this place is a magical world. In the world beyond, a compass functions using magnets that line up with that world's magnetic field. Magnetic fields don't exist in the Reverie. The laws of physics are much looser here, as evidenced by the existence of magic."

"Well then, how does it work?"

"Do you remember my advice? It will help you follow your heart. You can return it to me with the horse. Now you'd better get going – you'll want to get a good start on your first day off."

With that, Soran led her to the west road, and watched as she stumbled trying to climb atop the horse. Eventually he helped her up, smiling all the while, but assured her that she would have to learn to do it herself – and quickly.

As Dancer trotted along the trail, and the bustle of the village disappeared behind her, she couldn't help but wonder if someone was looking out for her.
The Boy

His muscles ached, but he still enjoyed the manual labour. He was constantly asking Father Lawrence for more chores, and the people of Churchtown knew exactly who to come to when they needed a hand with something. The boy was eating better than he ever had in his life, as most people offered him a good meal in exchange for his help. And with all of the heavy lifting, the boy's body was already visibly changing, despite only a few weeks in the small town. He had overheard the priest saying that he suspected the boy might even be a bit older than he previously thought – that the years of hardship and mistreatment had held back his growth. The boy really didn't know how old he was, as Graumin hadn't exactly celebrated his birthdays.

But as much as he enjoyed the work, he equally enjoyed when his day was over and he could collapse onto the soft bed that the priest had provided him – the first real bed he had ever known. He loved the feel of the soft down pillows and the heavy furs that kept him warm at night.

He was on his way to that soft bed and warm furs when he heard his name called – or at least, his fake name. The priest and Tamara were still working out the details for his naming ceremony, and he was still thinking what an appropriate name might be – taking his brother's name just didn't seem right.

"Jonas."

The voice calling him was sweet and melodic. He stopped and moved towards a small house – the sound seemed to be coming from between a pair of houses that lined the road. As he got closer he saw the source of that voice.

"Hello Serena," he said.

Serena was one of Tamara's more learned witches, a lieutenant of sorts, despite being younger than many of the other witches. She was quite attractive, though in a much different way than Tamara – while Tamara had dark hair and dark features and dressed in black, Serena had fiery red hair, glowing, tanned skin, and liked to dress in an array of more vibrant, though equally provocative, outfits. She was currently clad in a deep blue dress that accentuated her piercing eyes, complete with a plunging neckline that gave the boy an eyeful of her firm bosom.

"Don't you girls get cold?" he asked, glancing down at the inch or two of snow that had built up over the past week.

Serena just grinned and reached out to take the boy's hand. Her fingers were warm to the touch, despite the cool evening air.

"Some do," she admitted. "Tamara taught me how to use magic to warm my body – even in the deep of winter I needn't worry about the cold."

"That's a convenient trick," the boy muttered, his own fingers a little numb from both the cold and his hard day of work.

"Poor thing," the witch cooed. "You can always warm up with me, if you like."

The boy couldn't help but smile, despite his weariness. Serena had that effect on him. The priest had warned him to be wary around Tamara, but he hadn't said anything of the other witches. Although the boy wasn't entirely sure why they pursued him at all – he wasn't anything special.

"Come here," Serena whispered, and she pulled the boy in closer against her body. Her deft fingers began unbuttoning his shirt as he breathed a little quicker. Being this close to her was intoxicating – her very scent caused little shivers to run the length of his spine. She let her fingers drag across his chest, and then she pressed her own chest right up against him.

"They'll keep you warm," she said, grinning, as she pulled the top of her dress down, baring her breasts. "I know you like it when they press into you."

Her lips descended to the boy's neck, planting little kisses, nibbling gently on his flesh. He was so entranced by her presence that he nearly missed the figure now walking down the centre of the street. But the movement did catch his eye – he was always conscious of being caught by Father Lawrence. He respected the man, and felt uncomfortable that he might be betraying the priest's trust.

But the figure in the street wasn't Father Lawrence. As the boy squinted to get a better look, he suddenly pushed Serena away from him. She looked up, confused.

"We need to go," the boy said, and he grasped her wrist and disappeared down the alley, away from the street.

"What's going on?" Serena asked, once they were around the back of the building.

But the boy wasn't paying her any attention at this point, save for trying to keep her as close to him as possible. His heart was in his throat, with sweat pouring off of his brow, despite the cool night air.

"Jonas!" Serena said, squeezing the boy's hand. "Are you alright?"

He wasn't alright, and he kept glancing back in the direction of the street, even though he could no longer see it. What was he going to do? His entire world was crumbling down around him, all in the matter of a few minutes. He had found a place here, a purpose. And now it was gone. All because of that lone figure in the street – he would have recognized that grizzled form anywhere.

He could run. But what would be the point? Graumin had tracked him all the way from the edge of the world, deep in the northern snows, to this obscure village. How could he ever truly escape? He should have known better. He never should have left his master to begin with. He knew that Graumin would punish him severely. He could feel tears rolling down his cheeks at the thought of that punishment.

The boy felt a stinging pain in his face and was jolted back to reality – Serena had slapped him.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"I need to find Father Lawrence," the boy whispered. "He'll know what to do."

"What to do about what?"

"Please, Serena," he said, and he only then noticed that her breasts were still hanging out of her dress and he tried to quickly cover her back up. "You need to get away from me. It's not safe."

But as the boy's hands were futilely pawing at her chest, the girl suddenly grabbed him by the wrist and started dragging him along. His mind was lost, and he just let her lead him. He trusted her, even though he barely knew her.

To her credit, though Serena was dragging him along at a good pace, she kept to the backs of the buildings and avoided the main street. The boy was too caught up in his fear, head darting back and forth, to really be paying attention at all. But the next thing he knew, he was standing at the front door of the church.

The church was a place that Serena wouldn't ordinarily enter. The boy knew of her distaste for religions beyond her own. So perhaps it spoke to her feelings towards him when she yanked the handle of the heavy oak door and pulled it wide open. The boy quickly ducked inside and shut the door behind them.

The sound of the door closing summoned the priest from his private chambers – but he wasn't alone. Emerging alongside him was Tamara, clad in one of her customary slinky black gowns. Tamara and Serena looked at each other, probably wondering what the other was doing in the company of either man.

"What's going on?" Father Lawrence asked, his eyes focused on the boy.

"I don't know," Serena said. "He panicked all of a sudden. He saw a man in the street and rushed away, scared."

"What were you doing with him?" Tamara asked, but the priest only narrowed his focus, moving across the room towards the boy.

"What is it?" the priest asked, taking the boy by the shoulder. The boy's expression was glazed over.

"He found me..." the boy muttered. "I thought he was dead..."

The sullen, distant quality of the boy's voice seemed to draw Tamara's attention away from Serena, and she exchanged significant glances with Father Lawrence.

"He's here?" the priest asked, and the boy nodded.

"Who's here?" Tamara asked.

"Graumin..." the boy whispered, and the very name felt foul passing his lips.

The priest guided the boy towards the two witches, and quietly asked that Serena escort him back to his room. Serena had never been in the church before, but there was only one door – it led to the priest's room, and the boy's room in turn. The boy could hear Father Lawrence and Tamara whispering to one another, but he just let himself be led by Serena.

They didn't make it to the room, however, before the creaking of the big, oak exterior doors echoed through the church. The boy stood stone still for several long moments before slowly turning his head.

"Hello boy," Graumin snarled from across the room.

He looked the same as ever, his face cold and grim, his hair wild and unkempt. He was covered in furs and he held that familiar handaxe in his right hand. Both the priest and Tamara were staring at the man, but he wasn't paying them any heed. It was as if the boy and his master were alone in the building, Graumin's cold stare piercing him.

"Come," Graumin commanded.

The boy started to move towards Graumin, but he felt Serena tug at his arm. That simple tug, the notion that Serena wasn't willing to let him walk away so easily, brought the boy's mind careening back – he remembered the kindness that these people had shown him over the past weeks. And that just made him want to leave with Graumin all the quicker, before the volatile man hurt any of the boy's new friends.

"Master Graumin, sir," the boy said. "I'll come with you. I just need to gather my things."

"Come now," Graumin growled. "I don't care about your things."

"But sir, at least my furs, sir."

"Now!"

Neither the priest nor the witch had spoken to this point, seemingly entranced by the odd exchange. But the boy knew that if he didn't leave quickly, Father Lawrence would certainly intervene. He didn't want that to happen. He extracted himself from Serena's grip, giving her a weak, pathetic smile, and then began to walk across the room towards his master. But the priest grabbed him by the shoulder as he passed.

"Good sir," Father Lawrence said. "The boy here has been our guest for some time. You appear weary from the road yourself. Surely you can stay and rest a few days - there's no need to depart in the middle of the night."

Graumin just glared at the priest and stepped forward. It wasn't until he took a good look at Tamara, though, that he paused. His eyes narrowed in her direction and, without any warning, he flicked his wrist and sent a small burst of energy rippling through the air towards her. Tamara waved her own hand and dissipated the blast before it could reach her.

"You're no druid," Graumin sneered, though he was clearly intrigued.

"Thank the Goddess for that," Tamara scoffed. Then she opened her hand to reveal burning violet flames. "Now get out of our town before I show you how weak a druid really is."

The boy groaned. He knew how Graumin responded to threats.

Tamara barely had time to react. Flashes of electricity seared the stale air of the church as Graumin sent arcs of lightning reaching for the witch. The boy dove behind a pew and couldn't bring himself to watch right away. He heard the commotion, the sounds of battle raging, of fire and lightning colliding. The church was lit up by various vibrant colours as spells were flung back and forth between the combatants.

Eventually the boy chanced a look over the top of the pew. Father Lawrence had ducked behind a pew on the opposite side of the aisle, and Serena was nowhere to be seen – the boy hoped that she had had the sense to hide in the priest's chambers. But, much to his surprise, Tamara was standing tall across the room from Graumin. The boy could see the anger on his master's face – it was contorting with rage.

"Maybe some day I'll show you how real magic works," Tamara mocked. The boy wished that she wouldn't provoke him.

She waved her arm and another blast of violet flame erupted from her hand. Graumin raised his forearm in front of him and the blast collided with an invisible shield that sent the flames skittering in all directions, but never reaching his body.

"Foolish girl," Graumin said, through clenched teeth. "I've studied the ways of the druid for nearly two centuries."

"Your mistake," Tamara replied, grinning, and she loosed another ball of flame.

The priest's church was being decimated by the two powerful adversaries - pews were on fire, the stone walls were scorched, and a smoky haze was filling all about the ceiling. The boy was forced to duck back behind his pew as a stray blast of lightning sizzled over his head and exploded the bench behind him.

The boy had always sensed that Tamara was in tune with the magical weave of nature, but it had never once occurred to him that her power would match a druid's – let alone Graumin's. The boy knew that Graumin was one of the most powerful spiders, and a woman from the world beyond was proving to be his match. Another blast seared a few of the hairs from the top of his head, and the boy ducked down lower.

"You need to get out of here."

The boy turned to see that the priest had scurried across the aisle and was crouched down beside him.

"What?" the boy said.

"I don't know who that man is, or why he came for you, but I assume that it can't be good. Tamara is buying you time."

The boy didn't know what to say. The priest was right, of course. And the last thing that the boy wanted was for his new friends to get hurt on his account. But with chaos raging all about him, and the presence of his master in the room, the boy found that his legs wouldn't lift him. He just sat there, cowering behind the bench.

He felt the priest's hand on his shoulder as another blast rocked the room, louder than the last. The boy could hear ringing in his ears and he risked a glance over the top of the pew, shocked at the sheer ferocity of the battle. Tamara's dress was torn down the side, one side of her face was smeared black, and her hair was wildly out of place. Graumin looked more or less as he always did, but he was clearly favouring one side of his body. Both combatants were breathing heavily.

The boy watched as Tamara waved her arms and gathered up a gust of wind, sending it rushing towards Graumin. The man was unable to block it, and the force lifted him right off the ground and sent him crashing into the stone wall. He crumpled at the base of the wall, and Tamara stalked in over him. She appeared to have the upper hand, and raised her arm to loose another spell. But Graumin was ready this time, and a blast of psychic energy caught the witch unawares. She clutched at her head and fell back, tripping over an upturned pew and landing awkwardly on the ground behind it.

The boy could feel the priest shaking him, trying to regain his attention. But his head was still ringing, and the sight of his master had unnerved him. The boy vaguely heard the priest call Serena's name, and a moment later he felt his arm hooked at the elbow by the pretty young witch.

"Get him out of here," the priest commanded, and Serena didn't think twice.

She was surprisingly strong, given her size, and she managed to yank the boy up from his crouched position. Graumin was still sitting against the wall, cradling his left arm – it looked like it might be broken. He averted his gaze when Graumin looked in his direction.

"Boy!" Graumin snarled.

The boy's feet froze, and Serena had a difficult time pulling him along. They had a clear path to the door, and Graumin didn't appear to be in any position to stop them. But the boy felt himself pulling against Serena's hold, trying to get back to his master's side. He could hear the priest shouting for him to run. Tamara was back on her feet and loosed another blast of violet flame, which slammed into the wall beside Graumin and showered him with little bits of stone.

"Come on, Jonas," Serena said through gritted teeth, and she pulled him closer to the door.

Things were happening so quickly, and the boy's mind was darting all about. He felt the strange compulsion to aid his master, but at the same time he felt his heart pulling him to obey his friends, to run. Then he watched as Graumin, from his sitting position, flung his worn handaxe through the air towards Tamara. The sight of that spinning blade was enough to wake the boy from his trance – he cried out in warning as the axe seemed to take forever to cross the room. Tamara might have been able to block Graumin's spells, but could she block the edge of a blade from tearing into her flesh?

Serena was still trying to drag him towards the door as he watched Tamara knocked to the ground – Father Lawrence had seen the axe as well, and he dove to protect the witch from harm. He wasn't quick enough, though. Graumin's axe dug into his right side, just beneath his arm, as he pushed Tamara to the ground.

The boy could hear his own scream piercing the room as Serena pulled him through the doorframe. He was alert now, fully aware of what was going on around him – now he was trying to get back to the priest, the man who had given him his second chance. He couldn't accept that Graumin might have hurt – or worse – Father Lawrence. But Serena was having none of it.

"Let me go!" the boy yelled, now that the pair were outside of the church.

But the witch just shoved him aside and moved to slam the oak door behind them.

"Why, so you can get an axe for yourself?" she chided. "Let's move."

"I can't just leave them..."

"You have to, Jonas. They were fighting so that you could get away. Now get away."

The boy just stared at the heavy door for what seemed like hours. There were no more blasts or loud noises coming from inside the church. He could only imagine what was going on in there. Were all three just lying there, recovering? Or had Graumin crossed the room to finish off his opponents up close?

The boy felt Serena's grip take him once more, around the wrist this time. He had no opposition remaining.

"Go," she said.

"Go where?" the boy asked, defeated.

"I don't know. Hide somewhere. Or run away and hope that that man doesn't find you again."

Serena leaned in and planted a sensual kiss on the boy's lips. He was taken aback at first, but then eagerly returned it, closing his eyes and enjoying those few seconds. Then the feel of her lips was gone, as was her hold on his arm. He opened his eyes to see her walking hurriedly away.

"Where are you going?" he called after her.

"To rally my witches," she yelled back. "I have a priestess to save."

The boy smiled, and considered the notion of staying to help. But his friends were right – Graumin had only come here to find him. If he left, so might Graumin. Tamara may have slowed him down, and Serena and the other witches might even scare him off. But Graumin was a stubborn old fool and wouldn't be easily killed. He would soon be on the boy's trail again, and the boy was determined not to let any more of his friends get in the way.

As Serena ran off in one direction, the boy headed in the other. He was reluctant to embark on another journey through the wilderness, having only recently found a place here – especially given that winter was on in full. What few belongings he did have were back in the church, and he knew that he wouldn't survive long in the woods without furs and supplies. The baker's wife had always been kind to him, and he knew that she was probably his best bet for help.

He took one last, longing look at the church that had been his home for too short a time. And then he turned and sprinted off in the direction of the marketplace.
Kelly

Flying high above the forest, Kelly was afforded a rather unique view of the battlefield. The bears were encamped on one side of a small valley, the serpents on the other. It was difficult to determine numbers through the trees, but Kelly felt certain that there must be at least three thousand bears behind the battlements – and, unfortunately, that number, and more, serpents were entrenched across the valley.

There were large gaps in the forest, on both sides, where trees were being felled to fuel fires or to construct shelters or to build spears and pikes. The bear edge of the valley was lined with long pikes dug into the ground and stuck out diagonally towards the slope. It was a rudimentary defense, and Kelly imagined that the bear ferocity was more of a deterrent to attack than a bunch of pointy sticks.

Kelly loved the feel of the wind currents rushing beneath her feathered wings, her small, delicate body streaking through the sky at reckless speeds. It was a level of freedom that a human body simply couldn't grant. In her eagle form, she was larger than the average eagle, with sleek brown feathers coating her body. Her beak and claws were sharp, and she was more than capable of doing battle – though perhaps not as capable as Desmond or Brandt.

She was inclined to soar over the serpent encampment, to scout their preparations. But she knew better – while her eagle form was convenient and allowed certain advantages, she was also incapable of casting spells. And if she were spotted through the limbs and boughs, a well-aimed arrow could drop her from the sky. She had heard the stories of more than a few totems who met their demise while shapeshifted. So instead she circled back and put her keen eyesight to work looking for Brandt's tent.

Bears didn't put much stock in the privileges that might come with higher ranks – a bear lieutenant slept in the same size tent and was provided the same rations and supplies as a common soldier. While the commanders of other clans' armies might have elaborate and lavish accommodations, even in a war zone, Brandt just had the same simple deerskin tent as every other soldier – though with a little more room for one his size. And that made Kelly's search to find him from the air much more difficult.

She found a sizeable opening in the canopy and swooped down through it. Her wings fully extended, she glided right down towards the ground. With a flash of golden light, she morphed back into her own, human form, her feet touching down perfectly on the forest floor. Her little entrance caught the eye of many of the bears that were milling about, most of them giving her some form of greeting, be it a wave or a shout.

It didn't take long for Kelly to locate Brandt's tent, however – the nearby soldiers seemed more than happy to point her in the right direction. She imagined that the arrival of a second totem to fight alongside them must be a comforting thought. But as she walked through the camp, noting the many men who were sharpening blades or hammering dents out of armour, she couldn't think of much about war that might be comforting.

War was a foreign concept to Kelly. She had fought in a battle once before, shortly after she had become a totem. It couldn't be called a real war, though, and she hadn't done much in the way of fighting, either. The battle had broken out between two lesser clans, the badgers and the salmon, that were fighting over a sliver of land that each believed held ancient power. The elders had dispatched the totems to stem the fighting before it got out of hand, and somehow they had ended up behind the salmon battlements when the badgers attacked. The fighting didn't last ten minutes, and there were less than a hundred dead in the end. But it was a shocking experience for the young woman, nonetheless.

She pulled aside the thick hide that made up the entrance to Brandt's tent and walked inside. He had a small desk set up at the back of the tent, and he was leaning over it, perusing some sort of map or battle plan or the like. Kelly couldn't help but smile, just at the sight of her lover's back. It had been a number of weeks since she left him last, and she had dearly missed the feel of his large arms wrapped around her.

"Always so hard at work," she said.

Brandt spun around at the words, his smile equalling her own. He didn't speak, but after two long strides managed to swoop her up in his arms.

"I could have been an assassin, come to put an end to this silly conflict," she teased.

"The serpents don't send such pretty assassins," Brandt replied, leaning in and kissing her. They held that pose for several minutes.

"Besides," Brandt continued, as he dropped Kelly back down on her feet, "I'd have smelled a serpent a mile off."

"I'm pretty sure those serpents are closer than a mile. And there are a lot of them."

Brandt just grunted.

"I wasn't expecting you back so soon," he said.

"You felt it, didn't you?" she asked. "That pain?"

"Yes."

"It was Iain."

Brandt bowed his head and wrapped one of his muscled arms around Kelly's shoulder.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"Brom rescued him from the spiders, but he was in bad shape, and the spiders chased them. Desmond met them in the woods as they fled. He was with Iain at the end."

"Desmond? That old fool is back, is he?"

Kelly nodded.

"Is he as big a fool as one who provokes the snake?" Kelly asked, grinning.

Brandt could only chuckle.

"I was under the impression," she continued, "That you were going to wait until I convened with the elders. What a surprise it was to learn that Brandt and the bears were leading an attack against the Serpent Clan."

"I knew the elders, and that silly council, wouldn't act," he argued. "They'd just talk about it for a while and nothing would happen. But I saw what I saw. And if they won't act, then I will. My bears were hungry for battle, anyway."

"Well, that's certainly what they've found. How many battles have you seen so far?"

"Just one. And it wasn't much of a battle. We caught the serpents unprepared and routed them. But the filthy beasts rally quickly – this force met us after only two days' march from our first victory."

"The elders would have you turn back to your own lands."

Brandt laughed openly.

"And the council?" he asked.

"The council is split. Many support you. Many support the serpents. And many simply want to avoid a conflict. But given what I saw outside, I think it's a little too late for that."

"Figures. Men suited for sitting around a table trading the lives of their people aren't meant for battle. It's easy to condemn a man to starve to death from a crushed velvet chair, but much more difficult to drive a blade through his heart."

"Vexonis seemed quite eager for battle," Kelly put in. "In fact, he told Brom that the next time he saw him, Brom's head would be on the end of his pike."

"Now that's a fight I'd like to see," Brandt said, grinning. "That little raven fights dirty. I wouldn't bet against him."

"Brom and Desmond are rallying the south. Desmond fears that the spiders will join with the serpents. Among other lesser clans."

"They can worry about the south. When I'm done with the north, the bear holdings will be substantially increased."

"The Eagle Clan resides in the north," Kelly teased.

"So they do. I hope they know which side to be on."

"Oh, you should have seen Marcus. He was almost as furious as Brom. I'd be surprised if there isn't an eagle regiment already on the march."

Brandt seemed to be considering those words carefully. He turned and walked back towards his small desk, and Kelly followed. He had the positions of his forces laid out on a map, and what he knew of the serpents as well.

"If the eagles can press the snakes from the east, that will make my push all the easier," he said. "Perhaps that's a job for you, my precious bird. Find your people, and we can coordinate our attacks. The serpents will be hard-pressed to hold the fight on two fronts."

Kelly nodded. She expected that her role would come to that – scouting and ferrying messages over long distances. She longed to stand on the field of battle beside her brave lover. She was certainly capable. But she also understood the importance of lines of communication, and she knew that she was better suited than most for that task.

"I'll leave in the morning," she agreed. "I hope you have room for me here tonight."

She didn't wait for Brandt to answer, but instead let her furs fall to the ground. She began unlacing her tunic as Brandt took her in his arms and let his lips roam her sensitive skin. The large man's hands were drawn to her bared breasts as readily as her own fingers found the lines of his many scars. She moaned lightly as he squeezed her, and then she felt her body lifted from the ground and carried over to the pile of hides and furs that made up Brandt's bed.

* * *

As with the day before, Kelly was afforded a rather unique view from her vantage point high above the trees. She could see the serpent lines through the branches, despite the light snow that was falling. Where the trees were evergreen, it was a little more difficult to make out the soldiers' movements, but those areas were few and sparse. She was careful not to venture too close to the serpents, though, wary of any well-placed missiles – they likely knew that she was no ordinary eagle, as Kelly's allegiance to the bears was no secret.

Her true mission, however, was not to simply spy on the serpents – she was doing that out of curiosity. No, she was tasked with flying to the other side of the serpent lands, off to the east, to try and locate the approaching eagle regiment. Marcus had promised her that the eagles would join with the bears, and Brandt wanted to ensure that the eagles pressed the serpents' eastern front promptly.

She knew that Brandt was a confident one, and that he likely felt that he could smash the serpent army arrayed before him. But he also had a keen mind for war as a whole, rather than keying on a few battles – the long-term effects of a two-fronted assault would far outweigh any slaughter he could achieve down in that field. And that was why Kelly had been dispatched – Marcus had originally planned to have the eagles travel down the Ursal River to join the bear forces.

It wasn't a short flight, and Kelly's wings were growing tired after but a few hours. She had flown straight from the Aerie to Brandt, and now was flying off again the very next day. It drained much of a totem's power to be in their animal form at all, let alone to the extent that Kelly was. She knew that she would have to stop to rest soon, and that she likely wouldn't be able to take her eagle shape again for many days once she finally reached her destination. Any thoughts of hurrying back to join Brandt in his battle were dashed as she felt the weight in her wings.

She was far from the impending battle when she finally took the chance to land. She drifted down between a pair of tall pines and towards a small stream that she had spied from the air. She realized just how thirsty she was as she retook her human form, stretching her limbs and cracking her neck. She was on her knees by the slowly flowing water a moment later, scooping the freezing liquid into her mouth.

Her body felt weak. She had been pressing it too much lately. Between the stress of her council meetings and the time spent flying in her eagle form, she was simply exhausted. And she didn't think that she'd be able to continue without some rest. She had a fire up in short order, and she lay back on the soft, snowy ground, her furs clung tightly about her. She knew that some druids were able to channel the magical powers of fire to keep their bodies warm from the inside, but Kelly had never mastered that skill. Every winter she thought to herself what a useful ability that would be to have, but here she was, bundled up on the ground.

She drifted off to sleep soon after, her weariness easily overwhelming any cold or soreness in her limbs. She slumbered through most of the afternoon, and it was only long after her fire had burned out that she staggered awake, vaguely aware of a noise off in the distance. She cursed herself for her lack of vigilance, and quickly got to her feet – what if serpents, or worse, had stumbled across her sleeping there, fire burning brightly?

Twilight was upon her, and the last rays of sunlight were barely creeping through the trees. There were definitely sounds, almost like faint screams, emanating from the south. She knew that she must be close to one of the branches of the Ursal, but she wasn't as familiar with the area. She found that interesting, given that she was about halfway between the bear seat and the eagle seat – the two lands that she spent most of her time in. But it only served to remind her just how vast the Reverie was, despite her ability to travel more swiftly than most.

Kelly decided that she'd best investigate, and she struck off to the south immediately. She had no supplies with her, as she was expecting to make the eagle camp within two days – and the forest could provide her with food and water. She didn't have to go far before she felt a strange pulling sensation – it was something that she'd never experienced before. It seemed as though the very fabric of nature was yanking at her ever so slightly.

Confused, Kelly moved in the direction of the subtle tugging. It was getting dark and she had to move carefully, but her keen eyesight allowed her to pick out trees and obstacles with relative ease. She was moving between the trunks and branches for nearly an hour before she stepped out from behind one tree and spotted something that didn't belong.

In the centre of a ring of barren trees stood a stone obelisk – twice as tall as Kelly, with soft, rounded edges. It was a deep black colour, and covering it were runes and symbols etched in a dark green hue. Kelly couldn't read the runes, but she felt the power of the obelisk right away – except that it didn't seem to be emitting power, but rather absorbing it. It was clearly the source of the tugging sensation that she had felt, and given her close proximity, she felt it all the stronger. It seemed to be trying to pull the life energy right out of her.

Glancing around, at the trees that formed the ring, she could see that they were all drooping towards the obelisk. The stone was thrumming with energy – energy that it had presumably leeched from the surrounding life. Kelly even spotted a few small animals – squirrels and rabbits and the like – that were lying dead near the stone base. Kelly tentatively stepped forward, closer to the obelisk, and reached out to place her palm against it. She could feel the power brimming beneath the surface, and it scared her. This was clearly dark magic.

Kelly stepped back to consider her discovery. Dark magic – the kind that she and Brandt had witnessed the serpents performing – had long been outlawed by the elders. While powerful, the results were often unpredictable and more than a few druids had gone mad or inadvertently killed themselves while experimenting with the darker powers of nature. There was something unseemly about it, and simple morals had turned most druids from that path regardless of the decisions of the elders.

And yet here she was, face to face with an implement of that very outlawed magic. What did it mean? She wasn't sure if she was still in bear lands, or had crossed into the territory of some smaller clan. She knew that the border to the serpent lands was dozens of miles to the north-west. Still, this area was hardly well-travelled – anyone could have arrived here, in the middle of the woods, and constructed this obelisk. In fact, given that she couldn't read the runes, it was possible that it might even be an ancient relic, simply gone unnoticed for millennia. But the fact that it was active, that it was sucking in the energy of all around it, unnerved her. Something wasn't right about it.

The constant hum of the dark magic, and the pull against her soul, was wearing on her, and she decided to move away. She marked the area as well as she could, so that she might find it again, if needed. Then she darted off to the east, her mind full of possibilities. And the more she thought about it, the more she connected it with the human sacrifice she had witnessed, and with the strange rumours coming out of the spider lands. Some sort of evil was coming over the forest, she felt certain.

But if there was one person who might better help explain it all to her, it was Marcus. His study of druid history was nearly unmatched. She wasn't sure if he'd have travelled with the eagle regiment – he was hardly a warrior, after all. But she hoped that he had. Her mission seemed all the more urgent now.

She kept glancing up as she ran, seeking a sizable hole in the canopy above. And when she saw one, she leapt from the ground. A flash of golden light surrounded her and her arms became wings. She gave a great flap and she was free – soaring above the trees once more.
Graumin

Blood was still seeping from several of his wounds, and his arm hung limply at his side. The last thing that Graumin had been expecting when he entered that stone building was to be humbled – and by a woman, no less. He spat on the ground just thinking about it, and even his spit still had a reddish tinge to it. His back was propped up against a tree as he tried to rest his broken body.

He could barely remember all of the events of the previous night. His battle with the woman in black had been fierce, her strength far surpassing anything he would have anticipated. Her skill with shadow and fire, in particular, was impressive - impressive enough to leave him in this state, anyway. He had gained the upper hand, briefly, when he flung the axe. It was a ploy that was beneath him, and it angered him that he had ever been forced to use it, but survival bore more weight than his honour. He hadn't been expecting the man to sacrifice himself like that. But he had never understood the motivations of the sentimental rabble.

He remembered lying, battered against the crumbling stone wall. He remembered hearing shouts from outside the building, knowing that others would soon arrive. He remembered the deep anger and regret that swelled within him as he couldn't find the strength to cross that room and kill the woman. He had hurt her, at least – possibly more than she had hurt him, which pleased him a little. The last view he had was of her leaning over the man, Graumin's axe still imbedded in his side. Graumin managed to stumble out of the building a moment later, and he was lucky that it was built so close to the forest's edge. He had barely disappeared into the trees when the red-haired woman arrived with reinforcements – half the town was there, some robed in black, others common folk with hammers and pitchforks.

They were searching for him still, he knew. He could sense their presence in the woods. He could sense their anger. Perhaps that anger was the result of the man's death – maybe even the woman's death, too. He knew that that might be too much to hope for, but the thought brought a strange smile to his grizzled face.

Graumin grunted as he tried to stand. He had made it maybe half a mile from the town over the course of the day, only narrowly escaping view a few times. He was lucky that there were an ample number of pines and firs in this area, enough to hide him when needed. The leafy trees had all spent their leaves, and wouldn't have been able to conceal him. He was even luckier that these searchers couldn't sense his presence. In fact, he found that odd, given the woman in black's proficiency with magic. Druids who were that powerful could sense when other powerful magic users were nearby.

He managed to drag his body a few hundred feet before he was forced to collapse on the ground once more. He lowered his good arm to his side and pressed against his ribs – he had to grit his teeth against the shooting pain. At least a few of his ribs were clearly broken, and he was almost certain that one of the bones was protruding through his skin. It was the only explanation for his bleeding, though he hadn't bothered to remove his furs and check his condition. It was too cold, and he considered that the heavy furs might be helping to keep pressure on the wound. If he was able to start a fire, he might have been able to better patch himself up – but a fire would be the death of him in this state. He wouldn't be able to fight off his pursuers. Once he was far enough away, and certain that they were no longer following, then he would risk a fire to better tend his wounds.

Graumin's body tensed as he heard voices not so far away. He hadn't felt anyone approaching – but given his state, he wasn't feeling much of anything. He tried to slink his body a littler further beneath the boughs of the thick pine tree in front of him.

"It's getting too dark, I can't see a thing," a woman stated.

As he peered between the lowest branches, he could see the torches. The woman with the fiery red hair – the one who witnessed his battle with the woman in black – was among them.

"Let's head back, Serena," a man beside the red-haired woman pleaded – so her name was Serena. Graumin would remember that name. She had made his day rather unpleasant.

"Tamara wants him found," Serena rebutted.

"Tamara..." Graumin muttered to himself. He remembered that name from the battle – Tamara was the woman in black. And if she wanted him found, that meant that she wasn't dead. That disappointed him, but the fact that Tamara herself wasn't out here searching for him at least meant that she was still wounded. Or perhaps she was tending to the man. Graumin felt a deep rage within him at the thought that he might not have killed either of them.

"He couldn't have gotten far," Serena said. "He could barely walk."

If only she knew the truth of it, Graumin mused. Had they come to that spot from the other direction, they would have spotted his blood on the ground. He was doing his best to keep it from spilling onto the snow, but it wasn't easy.

"Are you sure you even want to meet him?" the first woman asked. "He nearly killed Tamara and the priest. And he scared Jonas away – no one has seen him all day."

Jonas? Was that the boy? Had the boy taken a name? Graumin cursed under his breath, imaging the things that he would do to the boy as punishment.

Graumin had to keep very still as he heard footsteps closing on his position. One of the townsmen was barely twenty feet from him – but he was confident that the dwindling light and the cover from the lower boughs of the pine would keep him well hidden. In fact, without the assistance of magic, he wasn't sure how these people really expected to find him at all – none of them seemed particularly skilled at tracking, as Graumin couldn't possibly have left an easier trail to follow. An experienced hunter would have found him by midday.

"This is a waste of time," the townsman grumbled, kicking at a chunk of ice near his feet. The ice nearly struck Graumin, who was holding his breath as the man walked right past the pine tree that Graumin was hiding under.

Graumin wanted badly to reach out and grab the man – to pull him under the tree and leech his life force. Graumin had never been strong at healing magic. He spent most of his training focusing on more devious skills. Even if he had any strength, he likely wouldn't be able to heal his wounds. But stealing the life force of another being to strengthen himself was something that Graumin was good at. Could he risk it, with all of those searchers so close by? Could he get the man under the tree without him screaming or calling for help?

It was unlikely, and Graumin allowed the moment to pass, letting the man move out of his reach as quickly as he had entered it. He shifted on the snow, trying to find a more comfortable position, but instead aggravated his broken ribs and causing a wave of pain to shoot through him. He had to stifle a gasp and dropped his head back down onto the snow as the pain subsided.

"Alright," Serena called out. "Let's head back to town for the night. We'll try to pick up the trail again come morning."

Graumin waited some time, watching as the torches moved off, before he risked any movement. He was confident that their departure wasn't a ploy, but caution seemed prudent given his current state. When he was convinced that the group was long gone, he dragged his body out from under the pine, using his elbows to pull himself through the snow. It was all he could do not to cry out as his ribs threatened to break off completely.

He decided that he had no choice – he had to risk a fire. He wasn't sure he'd survive the cold of night without one. But it wasn't just a fire he'd need. He propped himself up against a tree and fell into a deep, meditative-like trance.

* * *

The deer's body was still throbbing, with the occasional spasm, as it lay on the ground beside Graumin and his crackling fire. He had his furs open – they were soaked in blood on the inside and not providing much warmth. His hands were covered in more blood, both his and the deer's. An animal's life force wasn't as strong as a human's, but it was a start. Graumin already felt his pain lessened, and his ribs looked better than they had ten minutes before.

The skin had healed over the bone already, the leeching of the deer's spirit having quickened his body's healing process. It was still broken, and he was probably still bleeding internally, but that too would stop soon enough. He felt stronger already. He glanced down at the animal – it was barely clinging to life, but there was enough left to see the terror in the creature's eyes. Graumin would leave the deer there, near death, until he felt the need to feed again. For now, he was content to enjoy the warmth of the fire, and the renewed vigour in his body. He even felt confident enough that he could fight off the townsfolk if they did happen upon him. Perhaps not the woman in black, but the others posed little threat to his magic.

It was a strange position that he found himself in – there were very, very few instances in his life that he had been bested by a foe. And while he wouldn't say that he had been bested the night before – it was really closer to a draw – it had certainly shaken him. An odd twist of fate had brought him to that building in the first place. Had he not picked up the boy's trail while heading south, he may have lived another hundred years and never encountered that woman in black. But he had. And not only that, but the boy had escaped him again. Was this some sort of message? Some sign from the fates that his chosen path was not the right one? That he should have continued back to the spider lands as he had planned, and have let the boy go? It was his thirst for revenge, to punish the boy for his cowardice, that had led him.

But despite all of that, the one thing that troubled his mind more than anything else was the loss of his handaxe. The blade worn and notched, many a foe had underestimated him at the sight of it. But it was magically imbued, an ancient weapon passed down through Graumin's family for more generations than even he knew. The edge of the axe was sharper than any other blade, no matter its outward appearance. The hilt had been crafted out of the bone of a dragon, slain by his ancestors. The weapon had been sanctified in the blood of that mighty dragon. And he, Graumin, had lost it. And that angered him most of all.

Part of him badly wanted to go back for it. He wanted to get the better of the woman in black, too. But mostly he wanted his handaxe. It was pointless, though, and his lesson about chasing the boy had taught him to think with his mind rather than his rage – the deep wound in his side was a stark reminder as well. He had the feeling that he would meet the woman in black again. He had taken her measure, and she his. Their second encounter would be more ferocious than the first.

He spent the next hour shaking the doubts from his mind – he would have to leave both axe and boy behind. The town was on the lookout for him, and he was nowhere near healthy enough to wage such a battle yet. He had no idea where the boy was anyway – the girl had said that the boy had run, had disappeared. But if the boy had left the town, then Graumin couldn't sense his trail. He could have gone in any direction, and Graumin didn't have the time to circle the town trying to pick up the boy's scent. So he would leave them both behind and set out on a trip that was many decades coming.

It was time to go home.

* * *

His progress was slow. But he was much improved from the day before, the wound in his side only paining him when he twisted his body in certain ways. He was still weak and weary, though, and the snow was falling through the canopy above to make his trek all the more difficult. The spider lands were far to the southeast. And even after he reached the borders of the Spider Clan, the spider seat was a long way still, along the eastern coast of the continent. The Spider Clan held more territory than any other clan, obtained mostly through use of force over the centuries. The spiders had absorbed smaller clans that surrounded them, and had simply wiped out others who refused to be assimilated.

Graumin remembered some of those wars. While there hadn't been a major war in the Reverie in a very long time, skirmishes between clans broke out every now and then. And given the Spider Clan's propensity for claiming new territory, they were involved in such skirmishes more often than not. Once upon a time, Graumin had played an important role in such endeavours.

He smirked as he recalled those adventures. Old Carrick – leader of the Spider Clan three generations back – knew of Graumin's particular talents. Graumin wasn't the type to lead an army into battle, but he fit right into Carrick's other plans. The Verdant Council frowned on any type of overt attack by one clan on another – not that that stopped the Spider Clan, but it was always easier to find cleaner solutions to problems. So when one little clan, living along the southwest border of the spider lands, refused to merge with the spiders, Carrick called Graumin to his palace. Graumin couldn't even remember the name of the clan.

Carrick's palace was huge, made of black stone and gold. But Graumin never felt comfortable in such fortresses, so he showed up just long enough to have the old spider hire him for a job. It wasn't the usual type of job one expected to be offered from the leader of an influential clan. But it was exactly the type of job that Graumin excelled at.

He didn't remember much about the palace, save for its size, and he didn't remember much about that first meeting with the spider lord. But he remembered the details of his mission. His first task was to recruit a group of like-minded spiders. He recalled wanting to tackle his task alone, but orders were orders, and he was too naive to know otherwise. Besides, he was already acquainted with a number of suitable candidates. In short order, they were armed, supplied, and ready to ride out towards their small neighbouring clan.

The mission was simple enough – to cause as much damage and inflict as much pain as possible, until the leaders of the clan saw the wisdom in joining with the spiders. Carrick wanted more lands, and Graumin was to be his chief negotiator. Of course, the negotiations were very one-sided.

It took Graumin a while to grasp the subtleties that would eventually help him sway the resistors – that first village that he and his crew visited was left burning, men dead, women raped, children beaten. It was excessive, and only caused the clan to rise up against the intruders. Graumin was powerful magically even then, and his men were skilled both in sorcery and swordplay – each village fell to them easily, despite their group being only twenty strong. But with the people dead and the towns destroyed, the lands were of less use to the spiders. Productive lands were far more valuable.

Over the years, Graumin's little band acquired a reputation in the south – the Lost Brothers, they were called. He wasn't sure what made them lost, but the name stuck. More importantly, Graumin learned the value of fear as a motivator. Killing one or two people, and leaving the rest terrified, proved far more effective. Villages relented quickly, and Graumin and his men passed through them with little resistance. The spiders owed several hundred square miles of territory to Graumin and his Lost Brothers.

Graumin remembered those times fondly. Striking fear into the hearts of men – and being able to see it in their eyes – was one of his few joys in life. He loved to watch a man's pupils dilate, his pulse quicken, as he wondered if he would live or die. And while begging repulsed him, the power that Graumin felt as someone grovelled at his feet, desperate to have their life spared, was unparalleled.

But all good things eventually fade, and Graumin's charmed life disappeared with the death of old Carrick. The spider lord passed the lordship on to his son, who didn't share his father's sadistic ways. The new leader felt inclined to bend to the Verdant Council's will, and to appease the elders. Graumin scoffed at such obedience, but was dismissed. He was told that his services were no longer required, and he was sent on his way. There was no reward, no payment for his years devoted to filling the coffers and expanding the borders of his clan. All he had gained was the hatred of every clan south of the Elder Tree. And while that might have been a worthy prize in itself, Graumin wasn't pleased.

The cruel sword of his rage was levelled in the direction that had once commanded it. Graumin led his band against spider villages, hoping to make the new Carrick rue the day that he had disrespected him. And while his campaign against his own people was successful for a while, the spiders were not small, insignificant clans. Soon he found an army marching against him, and powerful druids lurking in the shadows, seeking his head.

After a bloody battle in one of the very villages that Graumin had once seized for the spiders, he found himself captured by a group of robed druids. He managed to kill several of them, but he soon found himself tossed in a dark cell to rot. But it was the very quality that Graumin despised about Carrick that set him free. The new spider lord didn't have the stomach for letting men rot away in cells with no food, little water, and the occasional torture. Graumin spent only two weeks in the cell before being set free. He was exiled from the spider lands and ordered never to return, on pain of death.

But all of that had happened a very long time ago. Graumin had never obeyed the order, often roaming through the spider lands. But he had had enough sense never to return to the spider seat, or to tarry very long in any major city.

That Carrick was long dead, though, and his son as well. Graumin wasn't familiar with the current Carrick – who, by all accounts was himself ailing – or his son, the next in line to rule. Perhaps they wouldn't even know who he was. He expected to make quite an impression on his new lords.
Sasha

Dancer seemed to be handling the trip better than Sasha. Coming from a world of modern transportation, spending a week riding a horse, stopping only for brief rests and to sleep bundled up on top of the snow, was quite a shock to the young woman. The horse was still going strong, though, despite the hard riding through several inches of snow. More snow was falling, Sasha noticed, as she glanced out from beneath the brim of her hood. Luckily for her, though, she expected that she wasn't too far from her destination – her first destination, anyway.

Part of her wanted to just forego stopping at this town to check up on some boy – part of her wanted to just keep moving forward, towards the bear seat. But Soran had been so generous to her, she couldn't just ignore his wishes. Also, she didn't really know how to get to the bear seat anyway, so she would be forced to stop somewhere and get directions. She might as well stop in Churchtown.

Sasha spent most of the afternoon bent low over Dancer's back, trying to fend off the cold wind. She could never figure out how such a biting wind even reached the forest floor, but it always seemed to. She supposed it didn't help that many of the trees along the road had been cleared away. Her horse didn't seem to mind the wind, though, and she was having little trouble with the six inches of snow that sat atop the trail – it seemed to be packed down hard, aside from the freshly falling layer, and the horse's hooves barely pressed through it.

Sasha kept waiting and hoping to see the fork in the road that Soran had spoken of – the signpost that directed her to Churchtown. But it didn't come until the sky was darkening, and there was no mention of distance. As she didn't know how long a ride it would be to the town, she decided it might be best to just make camp at the fork for the night. The last thing she needed was to lose her way in the dark.

For the first few days out of Deer Run, Sasha had been very hesitant to light a fire out on the open road – for fear of drawing unwanted attention. She would sneak into the woods a little ways and find a spot to camp. But it wasn't easy navigating the horse through denser trees and deeper snows. And after about three full days of riding and not encountering a single soul, Sasha decided that there simply wasn't anyone else travelling the roads – Soran had told her as much back in town anyway. So she hopped down off of Dancer, tied the horse to the signpost, and went about gathering up some firewood.

She remembered thinking that finding dry wood would be a problem, but had since come to learn that she had a knack for creating fires – any wood was fine, really. The branches of pine trees seemed to burn particularly well for her, though they created a lot of smoke. On this occasion, she was lucky enough to find a dead birch tree not far off the road, and was able to break a number of branches from its body, carrying them back to the signpost.

Eyes closed, Sasha sat cross-legged on the snow in front of the pile of firewood. Dancer looked on, pawing the ground, as Sasha fell into a light meditation. Even a few months ago, she would have had no idea how to light a fire without a lighter, or matches. But now – now she could simply extend her palm against the wood, and with only a thought there was a roaring fire blazing beneath the signpost. She opened her eyes and smiled.

Bundled up in her furs, the fire stoked and burning brightly, Sasha had little trouble drifting off to sleep. Her dreams were familiar, filled with flitting images of Desmond's face. Things had seemed so much simpler when Desmond was showing this world to her, the fantastical beauty of nature and the common ways of the townsfolk. It was romantic and calming.

Now there were rumblings of war – and she was headed right into the middle of it. Desmond was off somewhere without her, probably endangering himself. She had heard nothing of Brom since he abandoned her. And, as far as she was aware, Iain was dead. This world didn't seem so romantic and calming any longer.

But what could she do? She tried not to think about her mother – about her home. Even if she wanted to go back, and sometimes she wanted it very dearly, she wouldn't even know where to begin. She had no idea where the portals were, particularly the one that led to the forest behind her house. And so she would carry on, trusting that Desmond knew what was best for her – what would keep her safe. Who else could she trust?

The sun was high in the sky, creeping through the gray clouds above, when something woke her. Her eyes popped open and she started to get up – had she heard a sound? She glanced around the trees but didn't see anything right away. She got to her knees, the heavy furs clinging around her. Dancer was up and standing beside the tree where Sasha was tied her off. She couldn't see or hear anything, but she was certain that someone was out there, watching her. She couldn't explain the feeling at all, but Desmond had told her to trust her instincts.

"Who's there?" she called into the empty forest. The chirping of a few birds was all that answered her.

She began to gather her things up from around the fading fire, continuously glancing between the tree trunks. She flung her pack over Dancer's back and moved to start untying the horse – she thought it might be best to get on the move right away.

Robed figures started stepping out from the trees to surround her – figures that she was certain weren't there a moment before. There were seven or eight of them in all, some were men and some women. Some had hoods drawn to hide their faces. They looked like they might be druids, but again Sasha had a strange feeling in her gut that they weren't druids – not that it made any difference, as Sasha had seen both good and evil druids in the Reverie.

"Who are you?" one woman asked, stepping forward from the group. She had striking features and fiery red hair.

"Who are you?" Sasha shot back, clutching Dancer's reins close to her chest.

The woman sneered at Sasha, narrowing her eyes.

"I'm Serena," she answered. "And you're trespassing."

"I'm on a road," Sasha countered.

"A road that leads to our town. Why are you here?"

"I was just passing through. I'm on my way to Ursa's Maw, and a man... a friend asked me to stop by Churchtown and check on someone."

Serena looked sceptical.

"It's winter," she said. "That you're on the road at all is suspicious. And I'm supposed to believe that you came all this way, in the snow and the cold, just to check on someone? Who?"

"A boy," Sasha replied. "His name is Jonas."

Serena's green eyes went wide at the mention of the boy's name, and murmurs broke the silence behind her.

"What did you say?" Serena demanded, moving forward threateningly.

"Jonas?" Sasha muttered, shaking her head. "I don't know him, I was just asked to check on him. To give him a message."

But that answer didn't satisfy Serena, who was now only feet away from Sasha and glaring at her.

"Who are you?" Serena asked. "Why are you here?"

"My name is Sasha," she replied, as Dancer pawed the ground beside her. "And I've told you why I'm here. If it's that much trouble, I'll just ride on past. I don't need to stop. I was just trying to do someone a favour."

"How do you know Jonas?"

"I already said, I don't know him at all. I was just asked to check in on him."

"Asked by who?"

"By Soran." Sasha realized that this name meant nothing to Serena. "A friend. He gave me the horse. He knows Jonas."

"You're coming with us," Serena said, and she glanced back at the pair of men behind her – they both stepped forward.

"Please, I'll just ride around."

But the two men approached her. Dancer whinnied loudly, rearing up on her hind legs. Sasha struggled to keep hold of the reins, her heart pounding as the men closed on her. They both had their cowls pulled low, and she could barely make out their uncaring eyes.

"Please," she begged. "I didn't do anything."

She recoiled as one of the men reached for her arm, fear bubbling up inside of her. What were they going to do with her? Pictures of Iain's emaciated form flashed through her mind. She hadn't done anything. She didn't deserve to be taken anywhere. If only Desmond were with her, none of this would be happening.

Dancer reared again, more violently this time, and the reins slipped from Sasha's grasp. The horse sprang forward towards Serena, who was forced to dive out of the way to avoid being trampled. The two men approaching Sasha paused a moment to watch the horse flee before turning their attention back to her. With the comforting presence of the horse gone, Sasha felt alone and empty. She was helpless. She closed her eyes as the men reached out for her.

She felt her heart pounding in her chest. And then she felt it burning in her chest – a strange sensation that she was not accustomed to. Within moments her entire body felt aflame, heat emanating from her very flesh. She heard a yelp and she opened her eyes to see that one of the men had grabbed hold of her forearm, only to fall back clutching at his hand.

Sasha's fear melted away, and her emotions turned to anger. She was still new to the world of magic, and her achievements in the beaver village seemed so far away when she was out here all alone. But with the sudden realization that she could fight back, she narrowed her eyes at the two men. They didn't appear as confident as they exchanged glances.

Sasha shot her arm forward, towards the duo, and she was nearly knocked off of her feet as an intense wave of flame erupted from the end of her hand. Her eyes widened as the orange and blue fire rolled over the two men, incinerating them where they stood. The flames crackled and sizzled, searing through the snow and small vegetation, even taking branches right off of trees – the bark burning crisply into ash and falling peacefully to the scorched ground below.

Dropping to her knees, Sasha was suddenly far less impressed with her power. Two men had stood before her, but now there was little more than dust upon the brown earth at her feet. Had that really just happened? The heat of her body had subsided quickly, and she felt cold and hollow. Starting fires, lifting rocks, all of it had seemed fun and intriguing to her. But not this.

Her other aggressors were diving out of the way of the moving wall of fire, and the flames petered out about a hundred feet or so from Sasha. She looked up from the two little piles of ash and noted that several people were staring at her. But none were moving towards her. She had fended them off for now, but she couldn't stay there. As difficult as it was to detach her mind from what she had just done, she pulled herself up from the ground and hurriedly gathered up the few things that were scattered around her campsite. She then took off in the direction that the horse had run, brushing right past Serena as the fiery-haired woman was picking herself up.

Sasha continued forward, not looking back behind her, hoping that no pursuit was forthcoming. She didn't know if she had it in her to summon that sort of power again. She spotted the white horse up ahead a little ways, gnawing at the bark of a tree. It seemed that the scared beast had calmed somewhat, and Sasha was glad of that – continuing on foot was not something that appealed to her.

* * *

Sasha was seated on a thin layer of snow, her knees tucked up under her chin, her arms wrapped around her bent legs. She was just staring into the crackling fire as Dancer watched over her. It had been less than a full day since her encounter outside of Churchtown. As far as she could tell, no one was following her. But a possible pursuit was the furthest thing from her mind.

What had happened the day before? Had she really killed two men? Or had that been some illusion, some trick of magic that had fooled her eyes? But she couldn't discount the two little piles of ash – those two little piles were burned into her mind, every speck of dust. Tears were already streaming down her cheeks as she tried not to think about home – about her mother. She knew that would only make things worse. She kept hoping that she would just wake up, and that this whole adventure would just be some silly dream. But dreams weren't so long as vivid as this. And so she had no choice but to carry on.

Instead she sat there weeping as Dancer stood over her, the horse lowering her nose to nuzzle gently against the back of Sasha's head. Her shoulders trembled as she considered the offenses she had committed – was this the way of the world she had found herself in? Where magic was used to hurt and kill? She vaguely recalled Desmond using spells to heal and to help, but the visions that stuck with her were those of fire and burning. And that only caused her to sob harder.

She had no idea who those two men were. She didn't even know why those people had come after her. What had she done? As soon as she had mentioned the name Jonas, the woman, Serena, had become more aggressive and demanding. But rational thoughts eluded her, and her tears washed away any thoughts of why things had happened the way that they had. All she knew was that two men would never see their families again because of her. Did they have wives? Children? She wiped the sleeve of her furs across her face, trying to sop up the wetness.

Gradually, over many minutes, Sasha was able to calm herself. She tried to convince herself that what was done was done, and that there was nothing more she could do about it. She felt sorry, but she wouldn't even know who to begin to apologize to. She certainly wasn't going to go back to that town. But the one thing that she could do, she realized, was to prevent it from happening again.

She had spent the last month listening to Desmond tell her that she was special. The old woman in the beaver town had said the same thing, as had Brom. They all saw something within her that she herself couldn't see. And if this was the result of that special gift, then she didn't want it. She had the sudden urge to profess her desire to be rid of her magical gift. But as her eyes caught sight of the flickering fire, she knew that magic had its place – she would certainly never survive this journey without it.

She stood up, finally, and gave Dancer a reassuring rub. She even managed a wet smile for the horse's benefit. She looked around for something, anything, that the druids might consider to be holy – something that she could swear upon and have it mean something. But all she saw was the white of the snow, the brown of the barren limbs of trees, and speckled amounts of green where scattered firs and pines dotted the forest. But then she realized that the best thing to swear to was the magic itself – she knelt down before the fire that she had created with the same magic that had killed those men.

"I'm not really sure how to do this," she whispered, after a deep breath. "But I vow never to use my magic to hurt another person."

She paused a moment, thinking.

"Unless they're trying to hurt me," she added. "And even then, I'll do my best not to kill them."

She stared into the fire for a few moments longer before nodding her head, content that she was doing the right thing. She may have been in a different world, but that didn't mean that she had to become a different person – she was confident that she could maintain her principles no matter where she might be.

She stood up and straightened out her furs, which had rumpled about her body. Her face was still wet and streaked, and the cold was freezing the tears to her cheeks. She moved closer to the fire to warm up a bit.

"But where do I go now?" Sasha muttered to herself.

Her stores were nearly depleted, for one – she had planned to resupply in Churchtown, before heading farther north. But that wouldn't happen now. And she certainly hadn't been rationing any food, be it her own or the horse's. A bigger problem than her lack of food, however, was that she had no idea where she was, and no idea where she was going. She had fled the outskirts of Churchtown in something of a hurry, taking little heed to even which direction she had gone.

She glanced up at the sky, but it was gray and clouded over, the sun nowhere to be seen. How was she supposed to find her way without the sun? She had no idea which way was north. That was the one thing she did know, though – that she needed to keep heading north. Desmond had wanted her to find Ursa's Maw. But how would she find it? She recalled Brom telling her that the city was built at the mouth of the Ursal River, where it met the sea. So if she headed north, she figured that she would either find the coast, or she would find the river. And following one until she found the second should lead her to her destination. It seemed as good a plan as any, she supposed, and she set about packing her things.

Dancer, though, quickly identified a more pressing problem – between the snow and the trees and the undergrowth, there was no way she would ever make good time travelling through the brush. They had barely gone thirty strides and she realized that this would never work. She needed to find a road again. Sasha had been scared for her life when she fled, and paid little attention to silly details like roads. But now a road didn't seem like such a silly detail.

She sat there, atop the unmoving horse, trying to figure it all out. She needed to find a road, and she needed to get her bearings – neither of which she knew how to do. She thought of a few of the tricks that Brom had tried to show her about figuring out which way was north, but it didn't make much sense to her. She looked for certain types of moss or growths on the trees, but none of it seemed to be growing on any one particular side. Eventually she just let out a deep sigh and her shoulders slumped.

How was she going to find a road, let alone her way to the city? If only Desmond was still with her. He would know exactly what to do. She felt her heart flutter a little just thinking about him. And then it struck her – she twisted her body around on the horse and began rummaging through one of the saddlebags. She found what she was looking for and a grin crept across her face. She flipped open the top of the compass that Soran had left with her. Now she just had to figure out how to use it.

She held it out in her arm, moving it around as though she expected it to beep or flash or somehow signal to her the direction she should head. But nothing happened – the needle of the compass didn't even budge. She tried to remember Soran's words, the instructions he had given her.

"Follow my heart," she whispered.

But how? She closed her eyes and tried to focus on her heart's desire. At first, she just kept picturing Desmond, and she was tempted to use the compass to find him – even if it meant galloping halfway around this strange world. But she was able to control those desires and she soon found her focus settling on Ursa's Maw – and, more particularly, the road that led there.

She opened her eyes and saw that the needle on the compass had moved. It was pointing to her right. She wasn't sure what direction that was, but she felt certain that she would find a road. She gave Dancer a slight kick in the flank, and the horse responded, moving off in the direction that Sasha led her.
Kelly

The eagle glided gently on the waning currents of air as she slid beneath the high branches of the canopy, easing her way down toward the forest floor. Just before she touched down, there was a flash of golden light and what was a bird became a woman once more.

Kelly had circled overhead for several hours trying to locate the approaching eagle forces. And now that she had, she could only hide her disappointment – she estimated their numbers at barely five hundred men. Brandt was on the other side of the serpent lands commanding a veritable army, and the best that her own clan could do was this paltry showing?

Her mood softened slightly when she entered the camp and noted several soldiers sporting helmets of gold – that was the sign of the Gold Feathers, the Eagle Clan's elite military division. Kelly knew that a single Glad Feather was the equal of ten normal soldiers of most clans. Still, the bulk of the soldiers appeared to be regular troops. And while they looked the part – the Eagle Clan spared no expense when it came to armour and weapons – if the serpents came at them with superior numbers, would it matter?

One of the Gold Feathers approached her now, greeting her with a salute.

"Lady Kelly," he stated, "We were told to expect you."

She smiled at the man.

"Your name, soldier?" she asked.

"Gracos, my lady. I lead this regiment."

Kelly nodded, glancing around the camp. Tents were being erected and fires were burning to keep the men warm.

"How was your march?" she asked.

"It was difficult. Wars are best left for the spring, frankly. But we are soldiers, and we shall do as we're told."

"I was expecting a larger force," Kelly admitted to the man. "Why are there so few of you?"

"There was some contention on sending even this number, my lady. Councillor Marcus was adamant that we must help the bears, but the other councillors, along with the generals, were more prudent. They feared that we are just as vulnerable to attack as the bears, should the serpents try to take the fight to the east. And, as some fear, should the spiders join the conflict, we would be equally vulnerable from the south."

"The south?" Kelly echoed. "The spider border is two hundred miles to the south, how are we vulnerable to them?"

"I think there was some fear that the clans between we and they were likely to join with the spiders. Apologies, my lady, but I was not privy to the discussions. I was told to take this force west to aid the bears, and that's what I intend to do."

"I'm sorry," Kelly said, smiling. "I know that you're not responsible. Tell me, is Councillor Marcus among you?"

The soldier looked confused – of course he did, Kelly realized. Why would old Marcus be among a war party?

"The councillor is safe at the Aerie, my lady," Gracos replied.

"And how many druids are with you?"

"Eleven, my lady."

"Can you take me to them?"

Gracos nodded and began leading Kelly through the camp. While similar in appearance to the bear camp that she had recently visited, there were far fewer tents, and far fewer men. The men didn't look comfortable, either. She knew that marching to war was never pleasant, and doing so in the winter was worse. The snow made the march more difficult, slowing everything down. Men were forced to go ahead and clear the roads so that wagons could pass and armoured horses could move more easily. And the cold made the nights miserable.

"Who leads the druids?" Kelly asked.

"Matthias," Gracos answered.

Kelly nodded – she knew Matthias. He was a strong druid, and would be a help to her. Unbeknownst to them, however, Kelly had more pressing concerns than any possible encounters with serpents.

"The druids are in there, my lady," Gracos said, indicating a large tent with smoke wafting out of its entrance. Eleven people might have been a tight squeeze in that tent, but she knew the ways of her people – staying together to share in rituals and immerse themselves in one another's power was more important than their comfort.

"Thank you, soldier," Kelly said. Gracos saluted her once more and moved away.

Kelly approached the tent – the canvas was rigged quite high, no doubt aided by some form of magic. As she looked up, the point seemed to be at least fifteen feet. She pushed her way through the thin fabric that blocked the doorway. The interior was more spacious than she had expected, being thirty feet across in either direction. It was still cramped for eleven druids, but she knew that it would suffice. It was dark, despite the fire that was crackling in the centre of the room. Eleven men and women, all wearing the same blue and gold cloaks, were huddled in a tight circle around the fire.

"Kelly!"

She turned and saw a man stand and approach her.

"Hello Matthias," she said. He was an older man, though he still appeared stout and strong. His hair was black in places, graying in most.

"We weren't sure when to expect you."

"Time is short," Kelly said. "I bring strange tidings with me."

"Oh?"

"On my journey to meet you here, I was distracted by a foul presence in the forest. It was deep into the woods, well off of any roads or trails – only pure chance brought me to find it. But what I found was quite unsettling."

"What was it?"

"I'm not sure exactly. It was an obelisk of sorts – large and black, with bright green runes. But they weren't in any language that I'd ever seen before. The obelisk seemed to be draining the energy from the life around it – small animals were dead and the trees were being physically pulled towards it. I could feel it tugging at me."

Several of the druids were whispering at Kelly's words. Matthias appeared shocked.

"What foul magic was that?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "But we need to find out. I can't shake the feeling that it's connected to what's going on – sacrifices and dark magic."

"You think it's some tool of the serpents?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it's some ancient evil that's been hidden away in a dark corner of the forest for a very long time. I can't say."

Kelly paused a moment to think. How big a risk was she willing to take?

"Matthias," she continued, "Choose two of your best druids, and take them with you. You will investigate this obelisk – determine its purpose and whether you can block its dark magic. It's perhaps a day's march to the southwest. You'll feel the pull when you get close – it will guide you the rest of the way."

Matthias nodded and turned back to his druids. Kelly walked back into the fresh air outside the tent. She needed to find Gracos.

Kelly made her way back through the camp, the same way that she had come. It wasn't hard to locate the Gold Feather captain, as he seemed to be spending his time raising the morale of his troops. He was knelt down beside a young man when Kelly came upon him, smiling and assuring the young soldier that the serpents were feeling the sting of the snow and cold much worse than they were.

Kelly was about to join them, to put in her own words of encouragement – but she never had the chance.

"Sir!" a soldier called, hustling up to Gracos.

"What is it?" Gracos asked, as he stood up to meet the soldier.

"Our men found a serpent scout, not far to the north. But he escaped before we were able to capture him."

"Were they able to discern our numbers?"

"I don't know, sir. It's possible."

Gracos sighed. Kelly could sense his unease – he had likely been hoping to sneak by the southern border of the serpent lands to connect with the bear force to the west. He wasn't planning on doing battle with his small force. Kelly had purposefully withheld Brandt's plan of a two-fronted attack when she had seen the eagle regiment.

"What do you think we should do, my lady?" Gracos asked.

"I'm no tactician, Gracos," Kelly said, smiling. "Brandt sent me here to encourage an attack against the serpents' eastern front. He felt that splitting their resources across their lands would benefit us."

"Aye, that would have been my plan, as well. And with the full force of the Eagle Clan, it would likely work in our favour. But with a smaller force, that's not an option."

"And your force is smaller still – I had need to send Matthias and two other druids on an urgent assignment. My apologies for not consulting you first, captain. But it was necessary, I assure you."

"So we're down to eight druids," Gracos said, rubbing his bearded chin.

"Nine," Kelly clarified, smiling. "And I am a rather valuable asset."

"Nine then. If the serpents have our position, and they have troops nearby, they could be on us quickly. I have faith in my men, and even more so with a totem. But were they to come at us with three or four times our numbers..."

"Should we be on the move then?" Kelly asked. "Maybe we can outrun them."

"If it were summer, that might be a viable option. But in the winter, running is too hard. We'll run ourselves to death. But maybe..."

"Maybe?"

Gracos turned and shouted for one of his men, who immediately came running.

"Sir?" the soldier asked.

"We're along the southern border of the serpent territory?"

"Aye, sir."

"There must be villages nearby. What have the scouts reported?"

"There's a small town with minimal fortifications a day's march to the north, sir. And a smaller town to the west, with no fortifications. That's all we've found so far."

"Thank you, soldier. You're dismissed."

The man saluted and walked away. Gracos turned to face Kelly.

"A small force such as ours is best utilized for quick attacks. We hit them where they're weak and then retreat, striking quickly elsewhere. We keep ahead of them in the field and we can cause chaos within their ranks, disrupting their supplies and resources."

"Now that sounds like a plan," Kelly agreed.

* * *

Kelly was crouched low, alongside a handful of eagle soldiers. It was twilight, and visibility was dwindling – but that was just the time that Gracos preferred to launch his attack. They were hiding inside the tree line, on the edge of a small serpent town. Kelly knew that there were a few sentries about, but there wouldn't be much resistance. She had seen to that already – her most useful skill, of course, was her ability to fly. She had been able to scout the movements of the serpent forces in the area. Many of them had been encamped at a town about a half a day's march from this one. The small town that she was looking at right now had appeared the least defended – although there was a druid coil in the centre of town.

Kelly glanced down the row of warriors who stood beside her. Some of them were steeled veterans of battle, grim-faced and determined. Others were young, fresh-faced and trembling. She pitied them, that they would lose that innocence in but a few minutes. Things would take place, Kelly knew, that they would never forget.

But she didn't get the chance to give it much more thought – Gracos called for the charge and they were off. The initial run was silent, Kelly felt her feet carrying her through the snow – they were falling in ankle-deep with each step, but still she ran to keep up. The Gold Feathers were the first to reach the town, and it was only then that the townsfolk even realized that they were under attack.

She watched as a man with a golden helmet drove his sword into the belly of an unarmed farmer. Kelly reached the border of the town then and ran right past a few of the villagers – she knew her role well, and it didn't involve being distracted by commoners. She was on the lookout for any druids that might enter the fray. The unfortunate side effect of having to be observant, however, was that she was forced to watch everything that was going on around her.

At least a dozen serpents were dead before they ever managed to organize any type of resistance. A few soldiers clad in green and black were now doing battle with the many eagle intruders, but they wouldn't last long. Kelly saw three eagles fall over the blacksmith, who had felled one man with his hammer – he wouldn't get the chance to fell another. She turned her eyes in disgust as she saw two eagle soldiers ripping the dress off of a young woman. But these were the realities of battle, she knew.

She heard the sizzle of fire break out farther into town and she ran off in that direction. Sure enough, she found one of her own druids facing off against a pair of robed serpents. A building beside the eagle druid was burning – Kelly wasn't sure why, but the man seemed to be paying more attention to shielding himself from the heat than he was to his opponents. A bolt of lightning crackled through the air and struck the man in the chest. Kelly tried to bring up a gust of wind, to blow him clear of the building, but she was too late. The blast caused the man to stagger back and he slammed into a burning post – the post collapsed and the roof of the building fell atop him.

So Kelly turned her attention to the serpent druids – they both had their cowls pulled low and their faces hidden away. She liked to see into the eyes of her enemies. She couldn't tell whether the serpents knew who she was or not – whether they knew that their foe was a totem. But they seemed confident either way.

Before she had a chance to cast any spells, both serpents had created a tandem bolt of lightning, and sent it hissing towards her, little sparks flying off it in all directions. Kelly barely had time to react. She coalesced the energy that surrounded her into a barrier of sorts, using it as a shield against the electrical attack. The force of the lightning striking her barrier shook her and forced her to a knee. And while her barrier sizzled and wavered, turning many hues of light as it struggled to defend her, in the end it held and the bolt of lightning simply dissipated.

Kelly used the very energy that had formed that barrier and simply sent it speeding towards the two men. It was barely visible, no more than a hint of green and pink on the wind, as it streaked across the fiery street. But when it struck the two men, it was quite substantial, smashing into them as though it had been a stone hammer. Both men were knocked from their feet by the powerful blow.

Kelly meant to follow that attack up with something more potent, but she looked on, instead, as men in golden helmets ran their swords through the fallen druids. It was a stark reminder to her that even her magic couldn't protect her from a well-placed piece of steel.

She turned to take a few steps towards the burning building beside her. She tried to peer inside, while shielding her eyes from the bright flames and fierce heat. There was no movement, though. As she expected, the eagle druid was most certainly dead. It was a stinging blow, especially if those two serpents were the only druids in this small town. If Gracos meant to use this force to strike repeatedly at the serpents, the druids would be key. And between the three that Kelly had sent away, and the one that had just died, that left only eight, including her.

She walked the streets then, the battle seemingly won. She was trying to find Gracos, and trying even harder to ignore what was going on around her. She passed no fewer than a half dozen serpent women being raped by her eagle brethren - some quite violently. Part of her wanted to step in, to protect those women. But she knew her place. Soldiers were entitled to their spoils after battle, as unseemly as those spoils might be to her. If she started denying the men their pleasantries, they would no longer fight with the same relentless fury.

She found Gracos in the town square. It seemed that most of his soldiers were gathered around the square, and they had ushered in the remaining serpent villagers. There appeared to be about fifty or sixty villagers. She expected that these were the ones who had had the sense not to take up arms against armoured soldiers. It was getting dark now, and the only light was provided by a number of buildings that were still burning brightly.

"Citizens!" Gracos called out to the crowd. "I am called Gracos, of the Eagle Clan. I claim this town for my clan, but I will spare your lives if you want them. Gather your things, and any supplies that you may carry, and be gone from here by midnight."

"This is our home!" one lumbering man shouted out. A few other voices echoed his sentiment, but Kelly could see that most of the people just looked scared.

"It is?" Gracos asked. "Your homes are mine now. Accept that, and you shall live. You'll just have to live somewhere else."

Apparently the lumbering man didn't accept it, as he charged towards the platform where Gracos stood. Kelly turned her head as four different swords cut him down before he was within fifty steps of Gracos. That was the last voice of protest that was heard. The rest of the villagers, escorted by the eagle soldiers, began moving dishearteningly back towards their homes to gather whatever they'd need to survive in the bush.

"You're letting them go?" Kelly asked Gracos.

"We can't take prisoners," the man replied. "Would you have me kill them?"

"Of course not. But if they leave, won't they bring word to the serpents."

"I hope so."

"And when the serpent army comes down on this village?"

"Then we will be twenty miles west, sacking the next village."

"How long can we outrun them?"

"Long enough, I think. It's a fight that we can't win, I agree. But if we can keep their troops occupied in the east, then Brandt will have an easier time of it in the west. We can't fight the full-out two-frontal assault that he envisioned, but perhaps this can serve the same purpose. You can guide us to wherever the serpents are weakest. We will become like ghosts, striking out of the night where they least expect it, and long gone when they arrive to find yet another village in ruins."

"And what about the common folk of those villages? How many innocents will be caught in our wake?"

"Innocents die in any conflict," Gracos replied, shrugging. "It's unfortunate, but it would be the same for our peasants should the serpents or spiders press into eagle lands. Better them than us. Besides, the dislodged commoners will prove an asset to us – the serpent army will be forced to aid them and other serpent cities will have to take them in as refugees, using up food and resources more quickly."

Gracos bowed to Kelly and excused himself while she remained behind in the square. She was a little overcome, now fully immersed in her first real war. She wasn't entirely sure what Brandt found so pleasurable about battle. This village had been unable to put up any real fight – which was exactly the plan all along. They were going to slaughter village after village to keep the serpents running around their own lands instead of taking the battle elsewhere.

It was a strong military tactic. Kelly just wasn't sure that she had the stomach for it.
Father Lawrence

He was barely able to sleep. The deep gash in his side was healing much slower than he, or his new caretakers, had anticipated. Tamara insisted it was because the axe was enchanted, and that the wound was being kept open by dark magic. Luckily for the priest, he had the witches to help counteract the effects. But whatever the reason, he still found it difficult to sleep – the pain was always present, a slow, dull ache that turned into a sharp, slicing pain when he moved his body in certain ways.

When sleep did find him, it was often restless and riddled with strange dreams. And when he woke, it was to find his side bleeding once more, the bandages bright red. He remembered running his hand over that axe a few days after the battle. The blade was quite dull - it wouldn't even break the skin of his thumb. And yet it had cut so easily into his side, digging right into the bone of his ribs. The axe was sitting on the desk in the priest's chambers. He felt the strange desire to keep it close, and Tamara liked to inspect it when she was about.

"How is my patient this morning?"

The priest opened his eyes to see Tamara walking into his chambers. She had free reign of his church since the incident, as he hadn't been able to leave his bed. In fact, Tamara had gone about hiring the only two stonemasons in Churchtown to begin repairs on the damaged building. He had assured her that it wasn't necessary, that she had saved all of their lives by fighting off that intruder, but Tamara wasn't the type to listen to what anyone else had to say.

She sat down on the edge of his bed, and he shifted, sitting up a little with his back pressed against the headboard. Despite the snow and cold on the ground, Tamara was wearing a wisp of a robe – which didn't surprise him. This particular choice was black, as always, and had a high neck, hiding her cleavage, but the fabric clung so close to her form that every curve of her body was easily discernable. He imagined the looks that she had received walking across town.

"Let's see here," Tamara said as she pulled back the bed sheets to reveal the priest's bare torso.

Father Lawrence grimaced as she placed a hand over top of the bandage that wrapped around his mid-section. He noticed that the witch had a confused look on her face, as though she still wasn't sure why his wound hadn't healed. She had used her substantial magical abilities to try and heal him on numerous occasions, but still the wound persisted.

"Is it still bleeding?" she asked.

"I don't know," he replied, as the bandage was not red – and that was something, at least.

Tamara traced a finger lightly over the bandage, and the priest felt his abdomen tremble at her subtle touch. Her fingers trailed over his wound, and he felt his pain lessen. But the sensation was short-lived. Whatever magic Tamara could conjure up to heal his injuries was being counteracted by whatever magic lingered in the gash.

"This doesn't seem to be working," Father Lawrence stated, and Tamara narrowed her eyes. He knew that she didn't like to fail.

"It's improving," she declared. "Don't complain, I could have just let you kick it, you know."

The priest smiled.

"Oh, I was expecting you to," he stated. "In fact, I've been quite surprised at discovering this tender, caring side of you. Who would have known?"

"The thought had crossed my mind. But then I realized that if I let you die, the people in this town would start coming to me with their silly little problems - like I have time to give them all guidance."

"And here I thought you were on the lookout for new witches. It seems like that would make for ample opportunity."

"Oh, I'm always on the lookout for witches. But most of these people don't have any interest in new religions. Look how many of them pester you with their problems, and how many have actually joined your little church? Any?"

"I'm pacing myself. I wouldn't be able to handle such a large influx of new members."

She had a good point, though. Father Lawrence helped people because, to him, it was the right thing to do – not because he was trying to expand his religion's membership. If that was his goal, he would fail. He would be lying if he said that he hadn't hoped to sway some to his flock, but he understood that the bulk of the people of Churchtown weren't interested in religion – that's why they had left the druid clans in the first place. Tamara didn't share the priest's benevolent views. If she was going to help people, she expected something in return.

"I appreciate all you've done for me, Tamara," the priest said, his tone sombre.

Tamara cast him a strange look. He knew that she didn't like being in people's debt. And he knew that she would never openly admit that he had saved her life – that axe had been meant for her, after all. But he also knew that this was her way of thanking him, even if she never spoke the words.

The witch got up off the bed and walked towards the priest's desk. She sat down and carefully examined the notched handaxe. She had looked that axe over a hundred times in the last week. If she was learning anything from these investigations, the priest certainly couldn't tell.

She didn't get to examine it for long, though. Father Lawrence heard the main door to his church open and close, followed by a scurrying of feet across the main hall. There was a pause and then a light rapping against the door to his private chambers.

"Come in," he said, despite knowing that the guest was likely intended for Tamara.

Indeed, a fiery mane of hair appeared in the open doorway a moment later, Serena poking her head into the room. She gave the priest a quick nod and turned her attention to her mentor. Serena's eyes spoke volumes – something was wrong. Tamara sensed it as well, and she excused herself from the room. The priest was left sitting there, propped up in his bed, as the two witches moved back into the main hall of his church. Tamara didn't bother to close the door behind her, though – whether intentional or not, he couldn't be sure.

"What is it?" Tamara asked, the priest still able to hear their voices from his chambers.

"David and Stephen," Serena said. "They're dead."

The priest wasn't sure that he had heard that right – how could two of Tamara's witches be dead? Had they encountered their quarry, the old spider that had been chasing the boy, out in the woods? Tamara was apparently just as confused, as it took her a few moments to respond.

"What do you mean they're dead?" she asked.

"We were out searching again, like you said," Serena continued. "And there was this girl on the road, and she was looking for Jonas, and then... she killed them."

"What girl? Slow down, Serena. What are you talking about?"

"We were out early this morning, and we decided to head towards the main road. When we approached the crossroads, we saw a small camp set up – someone was travelling. It was a girl, or a young woman, with long silvery blonde hair. I'd never seen her before. She had a horse. I could sense some magic about her, but I never thought..."

Serena's voice trailed off a little, and Tamara had to get her back on track.

"We confronted her," Serena said. "She said she'd been asked to deliver a message to a boy named Jonas. I wanted to know how she knew Jonas, but she insisted that she didn't know him at all, that she was just supposed to give him a message. She begged us to just let her ride on past, but I wanted to know more. I tried to get David and Stephen to bring her back to town. I should have just let her leave. They went up to her, she looked like she was afraid of them, she was even trembling. And the next thing I knew, I was diving out of the way of a giant wall of flame that came roaring towards us."

"A wall of flame?"

"The heat was incredible. David and Stephen were too close. The girl ran off after her horse and all we found left of David and Stephen were two little piles of dust. They were just... gone."

Tamara didn't say anything for a minute or so. Father Lawrence was rather shocked by the news. He didn't know either man well, though he saw them around town frequently. Most of the witch community kept to themselves. But the fact that another allegedly powerful wanderer was on Jonas' trail was not lost on the priest. The more he learned concerning the boy, the more he wondered what else he could have done to protect him.

"There was no sign of Jonas?" Tamara asked, apparently coming to the same conclusions as the priest.

"No," Serena replied.

"And the old druid?"

"Nothing. He's gone."

"No more search parties," Tamara declared. "Inform the coven that we will hold a ceremony for our fallen brothers this very night. You have the ashes? Tonight is a full moon – the Goddess smiles on us, even in tragedy. We'll give them a proper send-off."

* * *

It had been three days since he had overheard the news of David and Stephen's deaths, and the priest hadn't seen much of Tamara since. His wound seemed to be improving of its own accord at this point, though he was still confined to his bed. Tamara had expected that whatever magic had poisoned him would weaken over time. Peaceful sleep continued to elude him, though, and he often found himself up much of the night, reading by candlelight.

Shadows flickered on the walls as he turned the pages of an old tome. Many of the books that populated the shelves of his chambers were brought with him through the portal. But he had stumbled over books, most bartered from travelling merchants, written in this world. He had seen ancient texts of his own world in old church libraries, and even once at the Vatican, and the book he held in his hands now reminded him of those. He was always impressed with the incredible penmanship, given that such old books were handwritten. The problem, of course, was that he couldn't read it.

The concept of language in this new world had always intrigued him – he could understand spoken languages just fine. This had been explained to him once by a wise druid as the effect that the strong nature of magic had in this place – that it was able to interpret the thoughts and intentions of the speaker and transfer those thoughts and intentions to the listener. He had never been able to wrap his head around it, and he gave up trying long ago. But that magic didn't seem to extend to the written word, as the pages he was staring at now were full of runes and script that were completely foreign to him. He suspected that it was some ancient form of Gaelic or Norse, as he knew that many of the druid clans drew their roots to the northern areas of Europe.

But he still enjoyed flipping through these few treasured books that he had obtained over the years. Despite not being able to read the words, nearly every page contained an illustration. They were high quality pieces of art, depicting druids in various stages of what he assumed were magical rituals. There were intricate etchings of different animals, representing different clans. He particularly appreciated the sketches of dragons, which were quite predominant throughout the book. Somehow, dragons just seemed to mesh well with his concept of this world and its magic.

He was inspecting a detailed illustration of a young woman standing beneath the horned head of a magnificent, red dragon. The woman was looking up as the dragon passed above her, her silvery hair blowing in the wind. The dragon was huge, with hardened scales and great, leathery wings. Its eyes were black and its white teeth were bared. The priest found the image unsettling, as though somehow the dragon meant to fly right out of the pages of the book.

He was about to continue on to the next page when he heard a noise out in the main hall of the church. His eyes turned toward the door to his chambers – he could hear the soft stepping of feet approaching his door. If it weren't for the perfect silence that permeated his church, he might never have noticed the innocent sound. And he might never have noticed that the handle to his chamber door had begun to slowly turn. He closed the book on the image of the silver-haired girl, and focused his complete attention on the door.

As the door began to creak open, he could tell who it was. Part of him had suspected all along.

"It's a little late for a house call, isn't it?" the priest asked, as Tamara entered the room.

She looked ravishing, as always. But there was something about the way that the dim candlelight washed over her enticing feminine form that gave her an even more alluring appeal. Her ebon hair was sleek and long, and seemed to have an extra shimmer in the candlelight. She was wearing barely more than a nightgown, made of a sheer black fabric – the priest could see the silhouette of her round breasts quite well beneath the surface. He tried to keep his eyes locked on hers, but even a man of cloth would be hard pressed to keep his calm when Tamara turned on her charms.

"I saw the light beneath your door," she said. "I thought I'd check on you."

"You had to have been in the church to see the light beneath my door," the priest rebutted. "Why were you in the church?"

"Maybe I was looking to be converted."

Tamara stepped closer to the priest's bed, and he shifted uncomfortably, keeping his book held over the bed sheet at his groin.

"I find that unlikely," he said.

Tamara smirked and sidled up beside him on the bed. The priest had to shuffle his legs out of the way, eliciting a slight gasp as a little bolt of pain shot through his ribs. Tamara reached out and lightly grazed a finger over his bandage.

"It's getting better," she noted.

"Yes, you were right about that."

Tamara didn't take her hand from the priest's side, though. Instead, she began to gently run it along the length of the bandage, and then up and over the rugged skin of his chest. His body tensed at her touch, unaccustomed to such things.

"Tamara?" he asked.

"Things aren't going well, father," she said, her eyes boring into him.

"Sorry?"

"My coven lost two witches, my two highest-ranking males. I have so few males to begin with. And to what? Some druid wandering through the woods. Not to mention that you and I almost died to that grizzled old fool here in your own church. The omens are not good."

"Tamara, those were just isolated incidents – coincidences."

"I don't believe in coincidences. I knew that existing in this world would be a danger. But the extent of my magic here was just too tempting – I had no choice, really. But I've reached a point."

"A point?" the priest asked, still squirming as Tamara's hand caressed him. "Tamara, what are you doing?"

"I've reached a point where my powers have peaked, and I'm not sure that they're powerful enough to protect my coven."

"They seemed pretty powerful to me. I don't think that old guy was expecting the fight you gave him."

The witch was already shaking her head.

"It's not enough," she said. "I need to be stronger to take care of my coven. I knew this day would come. I've been preparing for it."

She suddenly pulled her hand from his chest, and the priest sighed. He didn't want to admit the effect that her touch was having on him – in fact, it confused him a little, given his usual immunity to her obvious charms. His relief was short-lived, as Tamara reached for the front of her gown and unclasped it, letting the sheer fabric fall casually to the floor.

"Tamara..." the priest muttered.

But she was standing there, quite naked, just looking at him. Her body was flawless, which he already knew. Her heavy breasts somehow sat high and round on her chest, and the diamond studs in her nipples twinkled in the dim candlelight.

"I require something from you," Tamara said, her voice barely a whisper. "You wouldn't let me take the boy's seed – a mature virgin's seed is even more precious. Consider it repayment for nursing you back to health."

The priest tried to back away as Tamara came at him. Her eyes were hungry, and she tore the blankets right off of the bed. Father Lawrence was wearing only his undergarments beneath, along with the bandage that wrapped around his mid-section. He quickly tried to cover his obvious arousal with the book that was still in his hand.

"Tamara, please," he gasped. "This isn't right."

But she already had her fingers hooked into the waist of his underpants. He was using one hand to hold the book in place, and the other to try and keep his clothing on as she pulled against him. But with only one hand, and a sore mid-section, he was no match for the eager witch. Moments later he was trying to hide his bare erection from her, as it pressed against the underside of the tome.

"Tamara!"

"Oh come now," she purred. "Don't tell me that this doesn't excite you." She even went so far as to run her hands along her toned body, letting her right hand come all the way up to cup one of her own breasts.

"That's hardly the point," he retorted. "I am a priest. I can't..."

"Oh don't be silly," she said, dropping to her knees at the side of his bed. "I don't plan on making you break any vows. I just need a little... donation, let's call it."

And before he could protest again, Tamara's long, slender fingers had slithered their way up and encircled his arousal. The priest gasped aloud, and Tamara snickered.

"See, it's not so bad, is it?" she asked, her dark eyes staring up at his face as she worked her delicate fingers back and forth.

He felt the tome fall onto the bed at his side, allowing himself to be fully exposed to Tamara. He knew that the witch was skilled in the sensual arts, but given his limited experience, he wasn't really sure what that meant. But when he felt the warmth of her wet mouth enclose around him, he started to get an idea.

The priest had taken his vows of celibacy quite seriously – he hadn't experienced an orgasm since he was a very young man, and only then at his own hand. It took Tamara less than a minute to coax one out of him. His head lolled back against the headboard as his eyes rolled up in his head. He could feel the tremors shooting through his limbs and his nerves, and the explosion of ecstasy that followed. It was like a whirlwind, and it subsided just as suddenly. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel at that moment – happiness? Guilt? Betrayal?

All he could really say was that it felt good. And that his smile was as wide as Tamara's when her head came back up into view. She had a twinkle in her eye and she flashed him a small vial that she quickly tucked into one of the deep pockets of her gown as she pulled it up around her.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" she asked.

He wasn't really sure how to answer.
The Boy

For what felt like the hundredth time in the last few months, the boy found himself wandering the forest, cold and alone. It seemed a cruel trick of fate to punish him so, especially after his brief stint in Churchtown, where he had felt so at home. But deep down he always suspected that Graumin would return for him. And he couldn't shake the familiar feeling that his life would boil down to him running from Graumin, and little else.

He stared down at the last piece of salted pork. It was a thin slice, and it was tough and rubbery. But it was food. He'd been on the run now for a week, and the supplies that he had weaseled out of the baker's wife were nearly gone. Finding water in the wilderness wasn't hard – he could even boil snow if need be. But in the winter, food was trickier to come by. There wasn't much game, and the trees had almost all lost their fruits and berries.

He had spent the last week trying to figure out where he should go. He had no home, and he didn't think that he would ever be able to settle down in one place for very long. He had toyed with the idea of letting Graumin catch him and facing off with the older druid – but that notion lost traction every time he recalled the colossal battle in the church, and the vicious spells that Graumin had loosed on Tamara. What could the boy possibly do to protect himself? He certainly didn't have Tamara's power.

So instead he would run. For now, he was running east. He figured that he would make for the Ursal River, which bent south and eventually ran right into the edges of the spider lands. He was a spider, after all. Perhaps it was time he sought out the land of his roots. He held no love for the parents that had sold him to Graumin, and wouldn't go back there. But he also knew that Graumin held no love for his spider brethren, and the boy felt that that might be the last place that Graumin would search for him. The boy had never known why Graumin was outcast from his clan, but he had heard rumours that an ancestor of Lord Carrick himself had exiled Graumin. And if those rumours were true, then the boy might very well find protection there. It seemed as good a direction as any to head.

The boy busied himself packing up his things. The web-like pattern of his pack was faded, but still noticeable – it occurred to him that he might have been wise to procure a new pack before leaving Churchtown, as well. But as he was headed for spider lands anyway, he figured he might be lucky enough to make it there unhindered. And then the look of his pack giving him away wouldn't be so bad a thing. He might even find that spiders were welcoming of other, travelling spiders.

It was a little past mid-morning by the time he set out. He was following an old hunter's trail, and the snow wasn't quite so deep. There were spots where it nearly reached his knees, but those were few and far between. For the most part, the snow never went higher than his shins. It was still slow going, though. He knew that most folk didn't travel in the winter. The snow made it difficult, and the cold was always a hindrance. He often found himself dreaming of Serena's warm skin, and how badly he wished that he could reach out and press his palm against her flesh. But that was just a dream. He was still getting used to the idea that he would never see sweet Serena again – or Tamara, or Father Lawrence.

He tried not to dwell on those thoughts, instead trudging on forward.

* * *

The boy had a small fire going by nightfall. He was out of food though, so the fire served as his only source of comfort. He expended a lot of energy marching through the snow each day, and not being able to eat was only going to wear him down quickly. He decided that in the morning he would have to make it a priority to find something – preferably some meat. He had seen a few tracks along his trip, but he had no way of knowing how old a track was, and if the animal was still anywhere close by. He might end up using even more energy chasing phantom tracks in the snow. But for now, all he could do was rest. He slid his body down on the soft snow and propped his head up on his ever-lightening pack.

The boy was asleep quickly, and his dreams were filled with visions of Serena, dancing seductively. Her body swayed and gyrated, much of her skin exposed, but not as much as the boy might have liked. Despite his efforts to keep his thoughts from her while awake, he had no control over his dreams. He dreamt about her almost every night. He could see her fiery hair, could smell her scented skin, could almost feel her soft flesh as she moved her body against his.

And then, as quickly as she had flitted into his mind, she was gone. The boy was startled awake as he felt his body lifted from the ground. His eyes shot open and, in the dying firelight, he could barely make out two figures holding him, and several others milling about his small camp. The boy struggled, but they had a strong grip on him.

"Well, what do we have here?" one man, standing by the fire, asked.

The boy could only make out that he was tall and bald, though he seemed to have a scraggly beard. Another man reached down and picked up the boy's pack, tossing it to the man by the fire. The boy's heart sank as he watched the man inspect it – maybe there wouldn't be enough light for him to notice the web-like stitching.

"Seems we've caught ourselves a spider, boys," the man said, chuckling loudly.

But the boy wasn't about to let this happen to him a second time. He was more prepared now, after his ill-advised foray into bear territory. He could feel the sharp metal pressing into his wrist as he tried to wriggle free the knife that he kept up the sleeve of his furs. One man had hold of his legs, and the other was holding him under the armpit, but his hands were more or less free. He felt his fingers grip the handle of the blade. It wasn't a large knife, just something that he had slipped from the baker's home during his last stop. He wasn't even sure how sharp it was any longer. But that wasn't the point – he had no illusions that he could kill all of these men. He just needed a surprise and a few moments to get away.

The man by the fire was rifling through the boy's pack when he made his move – he slashed out at the arm of the man holding his torso. The man yelped and lost his grip on the boy, who fell and slammed into the ground – luckily the thin layer of snow took away most of the brunt. The boy kicked out with his feet, and managed to shake himself free of his other assailant. Within seconds, the boy had darted into the trees, out of the light of the fire.

Voices were yelling behind him, but he was too focused to pay them any heed. He moved carefully, but quickly, both arms out in front of him that he might locate any trees before smacking into them. The darkness was all about him now, though he could make out the silhouettes of many trees thanks to the moonlight that shone down through the barren branches. It was just enough that he could pick his way without incident, and hopefully enough that his pursuers would be unable to follow. But as he glanced over his shoulder for the first time, he groaned – they were following him, as he could make out the light of the torches they carried.

He remembered passing a stream earlier in the day, and thought that perhaps he could use it to erase his trail. But he realized that he no idea which direction he was running. The voices were growing louder behind him – the men chasing him could move faster than he could, as they had light and could follow his footsteps in the snow. His head start was diminishing.

The boy tripped several times as he ran, once even falling and hitting the side of his face on the base of a tree. He could feel the blood tickling his cheek, but he tried to ignore it. He had to keep running. But how far could he run?

As he narrowly dodged yet another tree trunk, the thought occurred to him that perhaps he was running in the wrong direction. He slowed his pace and turned his head skyward. The trees in these woods were tall and sturdy. Some of them even had branches low enough for him to reach. Could he hide overhead? It was possible, but he knew that his tracks would lead his pursuers right to the base of whatever tree he decided to climb. Though maybe he could use that to his advantage.

The boy frantically moved from tree to tree, looking up above at each stop. He passed several that had low-hanging limbs until he found just the tree that he was looking for. Without hesitation, he hopped up, hooking his elbow over the lowest branch. He grunted as he pulled his weight up, thinking to himself how much easier it was to climb trees without a thick layer of furs wrapped around his body. He could hear the voices getting closer as he reached for the next branch.

It took him nearly five minutes to climb about halfway up the tall tree. He looked down and saw the flicker of a torch at the base of the trunk – he was at least fifty feet off the ground. He heard a voice summon the others. He wasn't sure if they would risk climbing after him – they were bigger and heavier, after all. Not to mention that climbing trees wasn't exactly easy, especially in the dark.

"Come down here, boy!"

It was the man who had stood by the fire. He seemed to be the leader of this group. The boy ignored him and reached for the next branch. The limbs were getting thinner and weaker the higher he went, and he wasn't sure that many more would hold him. But the voice scared the boy up a few more branches.

The boy propped his back up against the trunk, stretching his legs out along the branch. He was a little surprised at how comfortably the tree's limb held him. He kept glancing down towards the ground – there were a number of torches at the base of the tree now, but so far none of his pursuers had dared come up after him. He was thankful for that.

The leader continued to shout up after him, however – expected pleasantries, about how they wouldn't hurt him, and how they just needed to talk to him. He didn't bother answering. He knew that they couldn't see him up there, not in the dark. Their torches didn't give off that much light. So the boy just lay there, waiting. He had to wait for just the right moment.

It was nearly an hour before he could make out the figures on the ground starting to lie down – were they setting camp for the night? He assumed that their plan was to wait until morning, when they could see him, and then either come up after him, or somehow knock him from his perch. Either way, he knew that the longer he stayed in the tree, the less chance he had of getting away.

The boy stared down at the ground for a long time, assuring himself that everyone down there was still. He couldn't risk being seen – or heard. When he was satisfied, he carefully crept along the edge of the branch. It wasn't thick, and he knew that he couldn't make it all the way to the end – but he didn't have to. The next tree over was so close that the branches intertwined with the tree that he was in. This high up they didn't quite touch, but they were close enough that the boy was confident he could make it into the next tree – he didn't want to risk climbing lower.

He slid as far as he could, until he felt the branch starting to bend beneath him. He steadied himself, took a deep breath, and then lunged forward. The branch had a lot of give to it, and the boy wasn't able to propel himself as far or as high as he had hoped. He felt his body falling, and his arms flailing outward for something, anything, to grab hold of. Luckily, the next tree was close enough that he only fell about ten feet before catching hold of numerous branches in his arms – as well as having many of them scrape across his already-bloodied face.

His heart was pounding, and his body hung beneath him as he tried to pull himself up onto this new branch. His panic subsided as he found himself safe once more, his back again pushed up against a sturdy tree trunk. He let out a sigh of relief, and even managed a bit of a smile as he wiped the blood from his face with the sleeve of his furs. He didn't have as good a vantage point from this tree, and couldn't quite make out the men at the base of his former tree – they were slightly hidden by the other tree's trunk. But he heard no movement or voices, so he assumed that no one had heard his little escape.

But the boy knew that he hadn't really escaped at all. If he climbed down this tree, he'd only be twenty feet from where he went up the last tree – still too close to his pursuers to risk making a getaway. He needed to get to the other side of this tree, to see what his options were. Most of the trees in this area were fairly clustered together, and he was hopeful that there would be another tree, and then another, that he could leap to. And once he was four or five trees away, he could sneak off. They'd probably pick up his trail again come morning, but it was something. And if he was lucky enough to stumble across another stream, or even the Ursal itself, then he'd be free. That thought alone brought a smile to his young, haggard face.

Once he had managed to reach the opposite side of the trunk, carefully setting his feet on a branch that was a bit lower, he noted that none of the trees were quite so close as his last jump. He contemplated abandoning his plan and just taking his chances running for it. But he didn't like those chances. So instead, he decided to climb down a number of branches and try from there.

It took him a few minutes to find a position that he felt comfortable with. His heart was pounding once more, and he kept glancing back, around the tree to the small flickering of light where his pursuers slept. He knew that at least one of them would be awake, standing watch. And he was much closer to the ground this time, his movement may not be so easily written off as the rustling of the wind. But still, he had no choice. So he leapt.

This time, his hands couldn't manage to find any firm branches to grab hold of. His body fell, cracking loudly through several branches. He could feel the waves of pain rolling through his side and back as they slammed against tree limbs. And then the back of his head knocked against a firm branch and he blacked out.

* * *

The boy woke up some time later. His head was aching, and he could feel the swelling and dried blood on the back of it. His fingers gently reached around and probed his injury. His eyes were squinting, as the sun shone brightly – it was morning. He suddenly remembered the events of the previous night, and shot upright. But the front of his head hit something this time, and he groaned in pain. As his eyes fought away the brightness of the sun, he could make out the bars that encircled him.

"No..." he whispered, and he crawled forward, grasping at the iron, his mind frantically praying that they weren't real. But they were. He again found himself prisoner, and locked in a cage with barely enough room to spread out on the ground, let alone stand up.

"That was a clever plan, boy."

The boy spun his head around to see a man standing outside his cage. The man was thin and pale, with a bald head and strange yellow eyes. The boy recognized his voice immediately – he was the leader of the group, the man who had stood by the fire.

"It might even have worked," the man continued, "If you hadn't been so clumsy. A pity."

"What do you want from me?" the boy spat.

"What do I want from you? Nothing, really. I doubt you have anything of value. A better question might have been why do I want you. And the answer to that question is a simple one – you're a spider. I dislike spiders. I find them foul and distasteful. Spiders aren't really human, and so we don't treat them as such."

"I'm no spider," the boy insisted. "I ran away. I can help you. I can work, or fight even."

"Help? We're fighting a war, and wars are fought by men, boy. You're going to help by staying put in your cage. You may not like it at first, but I'm sure you'll grow to appreciate it."

"Appreciate what?"

"Oh, you'll see."

The man grinned at him, and the boy saw that his teeth were the same yellowish colour as his eyes. The man turned and walked away, and the boy almost called after him, to ask him who he was, to beg for his mercy. But as he looked around the small camp, he saw the standards flying, the sigil of this clan – it looked like an otter. The Otter Clan was a small clan, and as far as the boy could remember, they had sworn fealty to the Bear Clan, his previous captors.

The otters looked more like a rag-tag crew of misfits than any organized army. Barely any of them bore armour more protective than boiled leather. And their weapons looked rusted and worn. But the boy supposed that in times of war, any able-bodied men were of use, well-equipped or not.

The boy laid back down on the ground, his head still aching, his back and ribs still sore. He couldn't help but wonder if his life would be better off if he had just stayed with Graumin – at least with Graumin he had never woken up in a cage.
Sasha

Dancer stood patiently at her side as Sasha looked across the nearly half-mile expanse of the Ursal River. The bear seat, Ursa's Maw, stared back at her, and she couldn't help but wonder if the fates took pleasure in laughing at her. She had been set on the road to Churchtown, only to be turned away. And now she had followed the road to Ursa's Maw, only to find a huge army swelling outside its walls – those very walls that Brom has assured her would keep her safe.

To be fair, those walls were massive, and barely shook at all when the rocks and flaming pitch, sent soaring by the many engines of war, struck them. But how would she possibly get behind those walls? Was she supposed to just walk her horse through an enemy army, right up to the gates, and politely ask the bears to swing their doors wide and admit her? She wasn't even sure how she could get across the great river. There had once been a ferry, as she could see the small wharfs on either side of the river. But the wharf across the way was burnt and charred, and the ferry was half submerged near the opposite shore.

The city was an impressive sight, even from across the river. It was carved right into the side of a small mountain, the first of a chain that ran north along the coast. It was probably less than a thousand feet high to the peak, but it was imposing all the same. Images of giant bears, claws bared, were carved right out of the rock. And surrounding the base of the mountains were thick, high stone walls. There was a gate in the southern side of the wall that led to a field of burnt crops. On the other side of the field was the mighty river, just as it flowed into the sea to the west. And this was only what she was able to see – much of it was hidden by the walls, and from what Brom had told her, there was an even more expansive city underground. She couldn't fathom the thought of living in a cavern like that, but she also couldn't deny how impenetrable the fortress seemed.

None of that mattered to her now. The army that was arrayed outside of the city walls looked formidable. They seemed to be sitting back, letting their catapults and trebuchets do most of the work. Although there was the occasional crackle of blue lightning that smoked against the walls, so Sasha assumed that they must have their share of druids present, as well.

She sighed as she tried to figure out what her next move should be. She couldn't go back to Churchtown, and she couldn't go to Ursa's Maw. And those were the only two places that anyone had instructed her to go – it seemed that her next destination had to be hers to choose. But how would she know where to go? She knew nothing about this place, this world. She considered just turning around and riding back to the south, to try and find Desmond. The thought of being in his arms again spurred her on more than anything. She dreamt of it often – but she was always faced with the reality that she had no idea where Desmond might be. And after her encounter near Churchtown, she was afraid of what, or who, she might run into along the roads.

She was out in the open, and in full view of the city across the river, but she felt that the expanse of water provided her with a certain degree of safety. With the sun dipping in the sky, Sasha decided she'd make camp right there, on the side of the road. She'd have to chart her course come morning.

Once she found a nice, flat area, just off the road, she reached into Dancer's saddlebags and produced a small hunting knife and a chunk of flint. Soran had packed the flint for her, of course having no idea that she possessed any degree of magical powers. Sasha had refrained from using magic, even to create her campfires, since her vow following the encounter outside of Churchtown.

She gathered up some kindling and tree branches, and knelt down to strike the flint. Starting fires this way was more difficult, but she persisted. Once she had a small fire going, she propped her back up against a sturdy tree, giving her a view right across the shimmering water of the river. And as darkness slowly descended on her, that view became all the more illuminating.

Little flecks of light were everywhere outside the city gates, torches having been lit throughout the assaulting army. Every few minutes, a ball of flaming pitch would soar through the black sky, slamming into the side of the great walls – some would fly over the walls and land in the city itself. Fires in the city were put out quickly, but Sasha occasionally heard faint cries of anguish carried on the wind.

As the eerie scene played out before her, she wondered how exactly she was supposed to continue north – Desmond had wanted her to head north, after all. And while Brom had told her to go to Ursa's Maw, the implication had been that her path lay still farther north. She had no idea why Desmond wanted her to continue north, but she saw little choice in the matter. She couldn't turn back now – she had no idea where to go, in any case. So she would continue north. She just had to find a way around the massive army that sat across the river.

* * *

The night passed uneventfully, and Sasha was on the move at first light. She was back on a road again, and Dancer seemed to handle the burden with much more ease. The road ran adjacent to the Ursal, with very few trees running down the banks from the road to meet the mighty river. The Ursal flowed with a strong current, and as far as Sasha could see, it was wide and deep for many miles. With the ferry destroyed, she decided that her only course was to follow the river until she discovered a way to cross – surely there must be another ferry, or a bridge, at some point.

She rode Dancer for many miles, until well into the afternoon, before she reached even the slightest semblance of civilization. The road followed a small slope, down into a valley that was level with the river's edge. There was a village in the valley – in fact, the term village might have been an overstatement. Sasha could only make out about twelve structures in all.

A single road ran through the centre of the settlement, with all of the buildings lining either side of the road. There were several large areas, covered with a light layer of snow, that seemed to serve as gardens, as well as a fenced-off region that would serve as a small pasture for grazing cattle in the summer. She wasn't sure if there was an inn in a town this size, but as night was fast approaching, she thought it best to find out – it would be pleasant to sleep in the warmth of a bed again after so many nights on the road.

As Dancer descended the steady decline, Sasha spotted a few people walking between buildings. One man was carrying a load of chopped firewood towards the largest of the settlement's structures. He was the first to notice her approach, and she saw his body tense. She smiled, but she doubted that he could see it from any distance, so she offered a friendly wave. The man didn't return her wave, but he stopped and waited for her.

Sasha gave Dancer a light prod and the horse broke into a slow trot down the rest of the slope. As she pulled up to the man, she could see that he was tall and strong. He had a bushy beard and was well wrapped in a variety of furs. She smiled again, and he didn't return her smile.

"You're not one of them," he stated, and his voice was as gruff as she expected.

"One of who?" she replied.

"One of them serpents."

"No, I'm not part of any clan."

The man eyed her strangely. She realized, again, that it must seem odd for anyone in this world to not be part of a clan. Where did she live? She almost told the man that she was new here, and that she came from beyond the portals, but she remembered that many people found that to be even stranger and frightening still – so she left that part out.

"I'm not part of any clan around here," she clarified. "I'm of the Wolf Clan, far to the south. I've been travelling north on a mission of sorts, heading for Ursa's Maw, only to arrive here and find that the city is under siege."

"You're a long way from home, little wolf," he said, and he was still eyeing her suspiciously.

Sasha let herself down off of the horse's back and took Dancer by the reins. She walked over to a post and tied the reins off.

"Are you of the Bear Clan?" she asked, as she turned back towards the man on foot.

"Aye. Folk call me Branson."

"I'm Sasha. It's nice to meet you."

Branson still didn't smile or nod or seem at all pleased by making her acquaintance, he just stood there holding his firewood against his chest.

"So, little wolf," he said. "What brings you this far north? These are troubled times, and strangers on the road are never a good omen."

"I won't trouble you long," Sasha promised. "I was just hoping for a bed for the night. I can't pay, but I'd be happy to work if you have any chores that need doing."

"You said you were headed to Ursa's Maw. What business do you have there?"

"A friend told me to seek out a man named Brandt, that he might help me on my journey."

"Brandt?" the burly man echoed, and his narrowed even more.

"Yes, and I was told he often travels with a woman named Kelly. I was told to find these two, but judging by the situation, that seems unlikely. So now I'm just looking for a way across the river. I'll have to continue on my own."

Branson stared at her a while longer before inviting her inside his home. She wasn't sure if he was starting to trust her, whether her story had simply caught his interest, or if he was just cold. But she was happy to be inside, his home warmed by a roaring fire in the hearth.

"I can get you across the river, little wolf," he grunted as he dropped his wood beside the fireplace. "But I don't think it's a good idea."

"Why not? The army is miles farther toward the coast."

"The serpents are everywhere across the Ursal. We see them march by every few days, more and more headed west. The bear lands north of the river are lost. Once they overrun Ursa's Maw, they'll flood the southlands just as easily. You're as likely to find a band of serpents in the woods as you are a copse of trees."

"Then why do you stay? Why not run for it?"

"These are our homes," the man stated grimly. "I'd rather be cold in the ground than abandon my home to a serpent."

His voice was so grim, and Sasha wasn't sure how to respond. So instead she didn't say anything at all for a few moments, as she contemplated her options.

"I have to continue north," she said.

"And why is that?"

"It's the path I'm meant to follow."

Judging by his snort, Branson didn't find that to be a satisfactory reason. But Sasha didn't really have a better explanation, without divulging far more than she should.

"We'll leave at first light," he said. "But if I even smell a serpent, we'll be turning back. I'm not risking my ferry, or the safety of my village, just to help you. That's the deal."

Sasha nodded eagerly.

"We'll be fine," she stated.

"We'll see, little wolf. We'll see. Now eat."

Branson threw a hunk of meat down on the table, and Sasha could sense her taste buds working overdrive. She had spent the last few days eating berries and twigs and what little salted beef was left in her packs. The mere scent of the fresh, juicy meat had her licking at her parched lips. For the first time since she had left Deer Run, she enjoyed a hot meal and a warm bed.

* * *

It was still dark when Sasha ushered Dancer onto the small wooden platform. Branson's ferry was little more than a log raft, about twenty feet long and ten feet wide. It seemed to hold the weight of the horse and two humans just fine, though. The current in the Ursal was strong, especially this close to the coast, so the ferry didn't use oars or paddles or even a pole to cross the river. Instead, there was a heavy chain that ran all the way across the bottom to the other side. At the front of the ferry was a crank – as Branson turned the crank, the raft was pulled along by the chain. Sasha could tell after about thirty seconds that turning the crank was hard work – it took about ten cranks for them to even move far enough that she noticed. And they had a long way to go - she figured that the river was at least a quarter of a mile across at that point.

"Why isn't the river frozen?" Sasha asked, noting the snow on the ground.

"Some of it'll freeze, if it gets cold enough," he answered. "But the current's strong here, and the river's wide. It never freezes all the way."

Sasha nodded.

"Why did you help me?" Sasha asked, as she stood carefully in the centre of the platform.

Branson grunted in reply as he knelt next to the crank.

"I mean, I could have been a serpent for all you knew," she continued. "You had nothing to gain by helping me."

"You're no serpent," he said. "I could see that clear enough once you got up close. And I told you, these are troubled times. If good folk don't help one another, we might as well all be serpents. You're heading north, and that's reason enough for me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that no one in their right mind would cross this river right now, with swarms of snakes on the other side. So that tells me that either you have important business, or you're crazy. And I don't think that you're crazy. You have a good heart, little wolf – I can see that much from the way you treat that horse. Serpents abuse their animals, but you care for yours. If you have a good heart, and important business to the north, then I'm going to get you north."

It seemed a simple way to look at things, Sasha thought. She kept quiet then, not wanting to distract Branson from his labours. He was already sweating profusely, and she knew that wasn't good in the cold. Dancer was fidgeting at her side, and she reached out to rub the horse's flank.

After about an hour, the ferry was within a hundred yards of the opposite shore. But Sasha noted that they were slowing. She looked over to see that Branson had stopped turning the crank.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Quiet, little wolf," Branson replied, holding a finger to his lips. He was staring off towards the shore.

Sasha wasn't sure what he was looking at. All she saw on the shore was a small wooden dock, a slope up to a road, and the forest beyond the road – much the same as the shore she had just left. But Branson was eagerly eyeing the trees, as though he saw something beyond the slight rustle of the branches in the wind.

"They're waiting," Branson whispered.

"Who's waiting?" Sasha asked.

"Serpents, probably. Who knows. Someone's behind those bushes."

Sasha squinted, trying to get a closer look. They were still far from the shore and she couldn't make out much. But then she caught a glimpse of movement – or was it the wind? She couldn't be sure, but once she saw it she knew where to focus. And sure enough, she saw the outlines of at least three figures hiding just inside the tree line.

"Sorry, little wolf," Branson said. "We turn back now."

"What? No!" Sasha said, louder than she meant to. "We can't turn back."

"That was the deal. I can't risk them using this ferry to get at my village. We'll try again in a few days. They won't wait around once we head back."

Sasha wasn't convinced – how did they know that a different group wouldn't see them coming in a few days? And again after that? She didn't have the time to wait – winter was coming on harder with each passing day, and she knew that the road north would be difficult enough as it was.

"Please, Branson," Sasha pleaded. "I need to reach the shore."

"Don't be silly," he stated. "Even if I wasn't worried about my village, I wouldn't let you near that shore. Those men will do all manner of unseemly things to you and your pretty little body. I don't imagine that you want to be raped and murdered, and I don't mean to let you be. And that's that."

"You don't understand..."

But Branson had turned and begun cranking the chain, leading the ferry back the way they had come. Was this it? Was she going to be turned back by a small group of men hiding in a bush? Desmond wanted her to go north, and she knew that he expected her to overcome any obstacles in her path. This seemed like a small obstacle.

"Please, Branson," she begged. "I need to reach the shore. It's important."

"I told you I'd get you to the other side, little wolf," Branson called back over his shoulder. "But not today. We'll try again, don't worry."

But that wasn't good enough for Sasha. She needed to continue on her journey, and she wasn't willing to wait. Dancer pawed at the wood of the raft as Sasha fidgeted at her side. Sasha looked back towards the shore, to the spot where the figures were huddled in the woods – she couldn't even be certain that they were people, as they still hadn't revealed themselves. And how strong could they really be if they hid away like common thieves?

With a sudden surge of determination, Sasha grabbed hold of Dancer's saddle and pulled herself up. The raft shook with the movement, and Branson turned to see what the girl was doing. She didn't wait for his imminent protest, instead urging Dancer forward. But Dancer wasn't about to gallop straight into the water, despite Sasha's directions. So Sasha kicked the horse hard in the flank and Dancer lurched forward, over the side of the ferry – but she didn't sink.

Sasha hadn't even been sure that it would work, but as she looked down she saw that Dancer's hooves were pressing against the water. The horse seemed shocked, as she had stopped moving, but Sasha gave her a little push and Dancer took a step forward, and then another. They were moving safely atop the river's flow. It was the first magic that Sasha had used since uttering her vow, and it had come to her spontaneously – the idea hadn't even occurred to her until after she was pressing the horse forward. But there she was, with a clear path to the shore before her.

The figures in the woods were apparently impressed, as they showed themselves for the first time. There were five of them, four men and a woman. They were armed – whether part of the serpent army, or just common highwaymen, she couldn't tell. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw that Branson had stopped turning his crank, and was instead standing at the edge of the ferry watching her. She waved back at him, and he nodded to her. He mouthed something, and while she couldn't hear the words, she sensed them just fine – she was certain that he had whispered "Take care, little wolf." She smiled and then turned back towards the shore, leading Dancer forward over the water.

She briefly considered just charging into the group on the shore, but she remembered her vow. Even if she didn't mean to kill them, she would rather not hurt anyone if she could help it – she still remembered that empty feeling after those two men had died at her hand. She didn't want to feel that sorrow ever again.

So she guided Dancer parallel to the shore, and the horse broke into an easy trot. At first, the group on the shore tried to pace her, but it was a futile effort. They would be no match for a horse and rider to begin with, but they had to contend with the snow while Dancer could run unhindered over the water. Sasha let the horse gallop for ten minutes, leaving the strange figures, and Branson, far behind. She enjoyed the feel of the cold wind blowing through her silvery-blonde hair, and she didn't mind the biting cold at her cheeks and nose. She was used to it.

Eventually she spotted a place where the road along the river forked north. That seemed to be her best option, and she led Dancer slowly to the edge of the water, and then up the embankment. She took one last look at the mighty Ursal, and then disappeared down the road.
Graumin

Winter was on in full force. The wind was gusting snow up into his face as Graumin stepped down the trail that led to a small spider border town. He wasn't yet as far south as he had hoped to be, but he was far enough south that winter storms weren't common. The southern lands of the Reverie usually received cold and snow, but nothing severe. The Isle of Crows, off the southern coast, rarely saw snow at all.

He had a plain black cloak hanging off his shoulders, and he swept it up to wrap it over his face. Small shards of ice were often mixed in with the blowing snow, and he had suffered a few minor cuts to his cheeks and brow already.

But none of that dissuaded him. Graumin had made excellent time, especially considering how wounded he had been following his battle with the woman in black – Tamara. He had spent half of his journey mulling over how he would savour his revenge. He could already envision her pretty little form lying prone at his feet. He would take great pleasure in uglying her up a little before killing her.

The trek had been a long one, but Graumin could travel with haste when needed. With each day he had gathered more and more strength from the beasts and critters that he encountered along the way. Travelling east to meet the Ursal, and following its course as the great river bent south, had been a wise decision. He had left the river behind three days ago, and was now setting foot into one of the more northern spider towns. He was still nearly a week away from Arachnia's Spindle, the spider seat, but he was satisfied with his progress.

The major spider cities, and particularly the spider seat, were constructed in a dark, gothic fashion, with an emphasis on dusky colours. There were many limestone buildings, with pointed arches and glass features. Glass working was a particular specialty of the Spider Clan, and they liked to show it off in their construction. Most of the important buildings, like the council chambers or temples, had high, majestic spires and stained glass windows. And while the towns and villages didn't share that same level of lavishness, Graumin noted many of the same features – to a lesser extent – as he walked down the main road of the spider town.

He wasted little time in locating the town's stables and headed straight in. He was immune to the smell of filth after so many days on the road. There were about a dozen stalls, each housing a well looked after mare or stallion.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Graumin turned to see a stable boy holding a broom. The stable boy bore a slight resemblance to Graumin's lost companion, but the old spider shook that thought away.

"I require a horse," he stated.

The stable boy looked confused, and Graumin had never been a patient man.

"Who owns that one?" he asked, pointing out a sleek black steed.

"The innkeeper, sir. He owns three horses."

"Saddle that one for me," Graumin ordered, and he turned and walked out as the boy stood there unsure of how to proceed.

It took him about five minutes of wandering through the small town before he located the inn. It struck him only as he approached the door that this town might be big enough for multiple inns, and that he perhaps should have asked the boy for more specifics. But he wasn't heading back to the stables yet, so he pulled the door open and entered the dingy inn.

That was one thing that Graumin remembered about spider life – that the interiors of the buildings were often dark and dank. Despite the large number of windows used in spider architecture, the high arches and spires gave the rooms a cavernous feel, and the natural light couldn't stretch to all corners. And at night, the candles had an even more difficult time keeping things bright.

Graumin approached the dim bar. There was a man, bald and rotund, wiping down the bar with a dirty rag. He glanced at Graumin and his eyes lingered longer than they should have. It often escaped Graumin just how gruff and ragged he must appear. But he had never cared for such things.

"What can I do for you, friend?" the barkeep inquired, his small eyes still peering at Graumin.

"You own this place?"

"Aye. That I do."

"And you own the black stallion in the stable?"

"Aye again," he said, nodding hesitantly.

"I'm going to buy that horse."

The barkeep didn't answer right away. He was still staring curiously at the weathered visitor, but Graumin was matching his stare with a cold, determined glare.

"Sorry, friend," the barkeep said. "My horses aren't for sale."

"I don't want your horses," Graumin replied. "Just the black."

"Well the black's not for sale."

The barkeep had stopped wiping, and was now pressing both of his hands down on the bar, his arms bared. Graumin assumed that he was trying to be menacing, intimidating even. But a slight tremor in his left arm gave him away. Graumin had that effect on people.

He reached into his pack and produced his coin purse. He hadn't had occasion to actually spend any of his coin in quite some time – since he and the boy had stayed the night in a serpent village before trekking into the mountains. He produced a gold coin and placed it on the bar. Most commoners – even ones who owned establishments such as this – rarely dealt in gold. Silver and copper coins were the usual currency. A single gold coin was worth twenty silvers, and was a more than fair price for a horse.

"The gold coin, and I'll let you live," Graumin stated. "It's a good deal. I'd take it if I were you."

The barkeep didn't answer, but his eyes said enough. Graumin knew that he could probably have just taken the horse, and nobody in this measly town could have stopped him. But he was trying to put the right foot forward on his return. He was hoping to receive the help of the spider lords, after all.

The barkeep slid a hand across the bar and swept up the gold coin. Graumin nodded and headed straight back for the door. He would have enjoyed a hot meal and a night's rest, but he had a purpose now and he didn't like to tarry.

When he arrived back at the stables, the boy had the horse saddled and ready. Graumin stuffed his pack into the saddlebags and lifted himself up.

"You're going to ride him in the snow, sir?" the stable boy asked.

"Snow's not too bad," Graumin said. "And I'm in a hurry. Is the road to Arachnia's Spindle still well travelled? I've been away many years."

"The Widow's Road is, sir, yes. Although not as much with the snow, of course. But even last week we had a wagon come in. The Recluse Trail might be quicker, though. Not as wide, but a straighter shot."

"And where is this trail?"

"Follow the Widow's Road south about ten miles and the trail forks off to the east. You could probably make Arachnia's Spindle in five days if you ride hard and the weather clears a bit."

Graumin nodded and he flipped the boy a copper coin. He couldn't remember ever being generous in his life – perhaps he was in a better mood than even he realized.

"Go buy yourself an ale, boy," he said. "Or a woman."

He kicked the horse hard in the flank, and the stallion galloped out of the stables and down the main road, nearly knocking several people over.

* * *

Graumin rode the black horse hard. He had never been one to care about the well-being of animals, or even of people for that matter. But even the best steeds had their limits, and Graumin seemed to have pushed the stallion to its threshold. He was kneeling in front of a fire while the horse was leaning over a stream, exhausted, its legs nearly buckling. The animal barely had enough energy left to lick at the trickling water. Graumin found the sight pathetic and turned back to the fire.

He didn't like stopping to rest, especially in the middle of the day. Were it up to Graumin, he'd have ridden non-stop to the spider seat. But the horse was weak, so he had little choice. It did allow him the opportunity to warm up by the campfire, at least. That was something. He hadn't expected the cold to be as bad so far south – and it wasn't nearly as bad as the cold up north. He supposed that he still hadn't been able to shake the chill from his bones after trekking into the Old Mountains - a trek that he hoped to make again soon.

Graumin was distracted by the sound of footsteps approaching – many footsteps. He stood up and walked away from his fire, glancing down the trail towards a bend. The stable boy had assured him that this road was less travelled, so he was intrigued as to who might be nearing. As the sound grew louder, Graumin could tell that it wasn't just footsteps. He could also make out the sounds of clinking metal. A moment later, about twenty armoured men came rounding the bend, the spider sigil evident upon their chests.

Graumin crossed the trail and moved to grab hold of his horse's reins, worried that the soldiers might spook the animal – not that the horse would have run very far, given its tired state. The soldiers slowed when they approached Graumin's camp, one of the few places along the trail where a stream was so close by – he expected that this was a popular resting spot for any who knew the trail well.

"Hail, traveller," one of the soldiers greeted, approaching Graumin.

Graumin nodded, always wary of authorities. He wasn't supposed to be on spider lands, after all.

"Where are you headed?" the soldier asked.

"This is the road to Arachnia's Spindle, is it not?" Graumin replied.

"It is. What takes you there?"

"I have business there."

The soldier was eyeing Graumin, obviously trying to determine if he was a friend or a foe.

"And where are you taking these good men, soldier?" Graumin asked.

"Regular patrols," the man responded. "Tidings from the north are grim – war has taken hold. And word from our scouts to the west is that the clans are massing their troops. Lord Carrick felt it would be prudent to increase protection in our own lands."

"Perhaps those clans are massing for the same reason – to protect themselves against a possible invasion from the east."

The soldier shrugged.

"We're just following orders," he said. "I don't get to hear the reports myself."

"Of course not. What word from the north then? I've been on the road many days."

"All reports indicate that the serpents are winning against the bears. We don't have many details, but the serpents are friendly to us while the bears are not – so it seems like good news."

"I've been away for some time. The Lord Carrick you speak of..."

"Baron Carrick's son. The Baron is old and frail and leaves most of the day to day affairs of the clan to his son. Lord Carrick seems wary of entering into any war."

"That's not very spider-like."

"No, and many of the nobles grumble about it constantly," the soldier said, adding a chuckle. "Lord Carrick is a cunning man, though. He may not favour military strength, but he has many other tools at his disposal, and knows how to use them all. He personally serves as the clan's councillor on the Verdant Council, as well."

Most clan leaders would choose a noble, a high-ranking druid, or even a citizen in high standing – perhaps a well-respected merchant – to serve as councillor. It was quite unusual for the Baron's son to personally fill such a role. Especially as a spider, a clan that generally held little love for the council.

"And you think that his tricks and whispers are better suited for our enemies than steel and magic?" Graumin asked.

"Who's to say?" the soldier responded. "I wouldn't bet against him, though."

The contingent of soldiers had rested a while, all filling their canteens at the stream, before the man informed Graumin that they would be on their way.

"Do you really expect to encounter any danger this deep in spider territory?" Graumin asked. "Wouldn't it be better to patrol the borderlands?"

"Oh, there are plenty of patrols along the borders," the soldier replied. "We got off easy, I'd say. Following these trails from town to town, sleeping in inns and getting warm meals at each stop. It's easy work. And I doubt we'll stumble across any wolves."

The soldier wished Graumin luck on his journey, and the soldiers marched off down the road, in the direction that Graumin had come. His gaze lingered on them until they disappeared around another bend, after which he yanked on the horse's reins and pulled his steed away from the stream. He needed to get back on the move.

Graumin had sensed the tidings of war when he had been in the north. But things seemed to be moving much quicker than even he had realized. The serpents had already pushed back the bears? He wouldn't have thought that to be such an easy feat. If the serpents controlled the north, it might make Graumin's plan easier to achieve. He hated the bears and serpents both, of course. But the spiders got along well with the serpents, and that was something.

That was all beside the point, though. Graumin had more pressing matters to attend to in the south. He had gleaned some information about the new spider leadership from the soldier, though not as much as he might have liked. The Carrick family still ruled, obviously. But the fact that the younger Carrick seemed unlike so many who had preceded him was interesting. It was a Carrick such as that who had once exiled Graumin – a man more concerned with playing politics than upholding spider values. Graumin decided that he didn't like the new Carrick.

The soldier had given him another interesting piece of information – that some of the nobles weren't so keen on their young leader. That was something that he could use to his advantage. He suspected that the younger Carrick wouldn't be very welcoming of his plan. But he knew quite well that the older Carrick, a man that Graumin had heard much of over the last decades, would be more open. He just had to get the ailing man's attention.

Things seemed to be falling into place just as he had hoped – well, perhaps not everything. There was still that one nagging loose end that Graumin just couldn't seem to track down. The entire plan hinged on the boy's blood. And he had come so close to getting the boy back – so close. Now he had no idea where the boy was, or if he was even alive. He had a starting point, at least. Perhaps he could return to that town, exact his revenge on the woman in black, and then pick up the boy's scent once more. It was a long shot, he knew. But it was something.

He gave his horse a rough kick, and the beast broke into a slow trot. It was another two days, at least, to reach Arachnia's Spindle. And he meant to make it there in good time.
Father Lawrence

Many days had passed since the priest's late night encounter with Tamara, and many more emotions had swirled through his mind since. Not the least of which was the fact that Tamara had not returned to see him again. The priest had always felt something of a bond with Tamara, a mutual understanding or respect. The two may not have believed in the same things, but they had similar goals in this new world – chief among them being the survival of their small town.

Given that tenuous bond, Father Lawrence had been able to convince himself that his act with Tamara had been something more meaningful than its sinful appearance suggested. He knew that he could never take a wife - that he could never love a woman in that way. But if the two shared feelings for one another, could that not be the basis for some form of affection? He had not had intercourse with the woman, after all. He knew that to be semantics more than anything, but he clung to it anyway.

Her apparent ignorance of him since the act served to wear at that theory. The priest could stand again and move about his church, but he didn't have the strength yet to brave the snowy streets of town. And so he had not yet been able to broach this topic with Tamara. Serena had been to check up on him twice in the days since, but he got little information out of her. She seemed to be acting more out of duty than out of any care for the man.

He sighed as he recalled how tender Tamara had been while nursing him. But now he suspected that she had been using him all along. He didn't begin to understand the rituals that Tamara conducted as part of her witchcraft. But she had mentioned, on more than one occasion, her need for virgin semen. He had prevented her from acquiring it from the boy – perhaps he should have allowed the boy that pleasure, but it didn't seem right. In any case, with the boy out of the picture, Tamara had turned to the only other virgin she knew – a man of the cloth. And she had waited until he was in a weakened state and unable to resist her.

But as much as Father Lawrence tried to place blame on Tamara for what had happened, he was unable to forgive himself. No matter how enticing a woman Tamara might be, and no matter how weak his physical condition, the priest expected more of himself. What were his vows worth if they were broken so easily?

The priest managed to lift his weary body out of his bed. It wasn't a simple task. While he could stand and walk to some degree, the pain was still significant, and his body wouldn't bend in certain ways. So his movement was limited. And he had no one left to help him.

Each step caused him a little bit of anguish, but he knew that this was the only way to improve – one step at a time. He took many of those small steps until he reached the door to his private chambers, where he was forced to stop and rest a moment, leaning on the door handle. He yanked the door open and shuffled into the main hall of his church.

Everything was still in disarray. The stonemasons had disappeared around the same time that he last saw Tamara. He wasn't sure what she was paying them, and part of him didn't want to know. To be fair, much of the structural work was complete anyway, with only a few places where the cold winter's wind was able to penetrate the interior. But the stones themselves still bore the scars of that battle – scorch marks and chunks crumbled away. And the wooden pews and pulpit were all smashed to bits, little pieces of debris everywhere that he looked. Bits of wax from candles and metal from their holders were scattered about the floor, as well.

He sighed deeply, knowing it would be some time before his body was capable of fixing all of the damage. Part of him wondered if he would ever be capable of it again – he wasn't a young man, after all. He had spent the bulk of his life in this world, and all of it building this church. It was his life's work. And now it was scarred and broken. And it was within this holy place that he had suffered his injuries, and that his friends had been attacked. What was the purpose of such a holy site if it couldn't even keep the people he cared for safe?

The priest noticed something on the floor, amid the wreckage. He couldn't bend his body, so he was forced to descend to a knee to inspect more closely. He reached over with a grimace, and shoved a long plank of wood out of the way, revealing an object underneath – his bible. The book was blackened and many of the pages were simply gone, the spine having been torn in half. He glanced around, wondering if the other half was laying somewhere else, but he didn't see it.

He thumbed the pages for many long minutes, eyeing passages but not really reading them. He couldn't make out half the verses on the charred paper anyway. He wasn't sure if he should laugh or not – he couldn't even keep a book safe, let alone his friends.

With much effort he regained his feet and began moving, ever so slowly, towards the front door to the church. He could hear the wind whipping about through the few holes in the stone, but he was determined to make it outside today. He had spent the last several days simply walking around his small chambers, and occasionally making it out into the main hall – but he preferred not to look upon the ruin of his work.

The oak doors that barred his church were thick and heavy, and he wasn't able to provide much leverage to push them open. But the priest was accustomed to overcoming obstacles, and he was eventually able to shift the door enough to slip his thin body through the opening. He was immediately struck by the cold. He hadn't even thought to put on his furs.

The small town was white all around him, and more snow was falling as he stood there. The flakes trickled down from the heavens ever so peacefully, and yet he knew how much hardship the beautiful sight brought to the people of the land. He stared down the long street that led from his church – he couldn't make out the witch's temple through the falling snow, but he knew that it was there. He badly wanted to walk that street, to enter the temple and find Tamara. But that was a fool's errand in this weather.

He sighed and slipped back inside his church, shutting the heavy doors behind him. He would have to leave that trip for another day.

* * *

Despite his improving condition, the priest still found sleep difficult to come by. He wasn't sure if it was the loud winds that blew through the church, or if it was simply his own confused state of mind, but he spent most nights sitting up in bed, candles flickering, a heavy book in his lap. On the occasions when sleep did find him, he dreamt strange dreams, often filled with dragons and magic and steel. He often woke sweating and alarmed, only to realize that he was safe in his chambers. He chalked the dreams up to the stories that he was reading in these old tomes.

As the days passed, the priest found his mobility improving to the point where he could actually begin to work at cleaning up his church. The chaotic state of the main hall bothered him to no end. Given all of the work – so many years of hard labour – that he had put into creating this structure, he insisted that it be always presentable. It didn't matter to him that there was rarely anyone to present it to.

His body was still stiff, and bending over wasn't easy. But the more he did it, the easier it became, and the chunks of stone or planks of wood began moving from the floor to neatly organized piles along the wall. He hoped that he'd be able to re-use some of the materials – after all, he couldn't get more stone until the spring, and despite the plethora of trees nearby, lumber was much easier to work with when dry. It took him several days, but he finally had the church looking presentable inside again.

He found that the work helped to distract his mind from the many swirling questions and emotions that had been plaguing him. But once the clean-up had been completed, his mind again started to wander. Tamara still hadn't been to visit him, and even Serena hadn't stopped by to check up on his condition. He tried to find other ways to occupy himself, even attempting to patch up the holes in his stone walls. But he didn't have the proper tools, and no fresh mortar, so those tasks didn't last long.

Finally, he decided that it was time, and he threw on his furs and made his way to the heavy oak doors that led outside. He hadn't been outside in some time – his food and water was being brought to him each day by a few of the local boys. His steps were still measured, and he had a difficult time with the shin-high depth of the snow on the main road. But after an hour or so, he had managed to maneuver his weak body all the way to the door of the witch coven's temple.

He had to stop and rest outside, before opening the door. The air was cold, but he felt refreshed as he propped his body up against the stone exterior. He often enjoyed the winter months, despite the hardships that accompanied them – of course, most winters didn't find him with a magical axe wound deep in his side.

He pulled the door open and walked inside. The witch temple was always quite dim, with the candles around the circular wall being the primary source of illumination. There were a pair of standing torches up by the altar, but they weren't lit at the moment. A few people were milling about, some of them turning to look at the priest as he entered. He didn't see Tamara, though. She didn't live in the temple, like he did in his church. He had thought it more appropriate to first call on her here, rather than at her home. He did see one familiar face across the room.

She saw him coming, and turned to address him before he reached her.

"Good to see you on your feet," Serena said, her fiery hair dangling over the shoulders of her black robe.

"I appreciate your help in that matter," Father Lawrence replied. He moved to open his mouth to continue, but Serena cut him off.

"She's not here," she said.

"Sorry?"

"Tamara. She left. I haven't seen her since the night she acquired your..."

The priest felt his cheeks flush. He hadn't expected that Tamara would share that information. But as he considered it, he wasn't really surprised. Witches were very open about sexual matters – more so than a priest, in any case.

"Where did she go?" he asked.

"She got what she needed, so I assume she went to finish her ritual."

"But it's the middle of winter. How far has she gone?"

Serena turned and eyed him curiously.

"Tamara is a powerful witch," she said. "Winter isn't going to slow her down. And midwinter is approaching, a time of great importance. I'm certain that her ritual coincides with midwinter. And a witch doesn't have to share the details of her rituals, or where she plans to conduct them, with other members of the coven. Such matters are quite private."

The priest could understand why the ritual might be private – his own religion practiced many forms of private prayer, after all. And Tamara certainly had no accountability to him. But it still stung him that she had left without so much as a word.

"When will she return?" he asked, before adding, "Will she return?"

"Miss her already?" Serena replied, smirking. "She does have that effect on men, doesn't she? Oh, I'm sure she'll return, and I doubt she's gone too far. But I don't know when, and I don't know where."

The priest nodded. He knew that Tamara wasn't one to share intimate details. In fact, when he considered it, he didn't really know much at all about Tamara's life before she had wound up in his little town. He could still remember the bright summer morning that she had sauntered out of the woods and into his town for the first time.

Churchtown was much smaller then – in fact, the priest couldn't even remember if he had called it a town at that point. Maybe ten or so families had joined his small community, and only the foundation of his church was laid. She hadn't changed much over all those years, despite the fact that Father Lawrence himself had changed quite a bit – his hair was grayer and thinner, and his body was sore. But Tamara's looks seemed almost timeless.

He recalled how easily she had coerced the men of the village into helping her construct her temple – all the while the priest laboured away at his own endeavour, attaching significant meaning to his sweat. Tamara had requested his permission before building her temple, of course, and it hadn't taken long for the priest to realize just how careful he would have to be with her.

While Father Lawrence was content to practice his own faith and help others in accordance with his beliefs, Tamara tried to convert anyone she came across in order to establish a coven. Once her temple was complete, and her coven had a dozen or so members, she eased off a little, but the priest insisted on certain protocols and attached certain conditions to her presence in his town. He remembered the look on her face as she agreed to his terms – one of intrigue, almost amusement. It was as though she had never encountered a man who wouldn't do exactly as she asked. And that had been the basis of their relationship for many years since – the priest was the only man in town who didn't leer at or ogle her body, and who wasn't afraid of her supposedly dark craft. It wasn't much to go on, but a mutual respect was a start.

Of course, things had changed. The priest sighed as he stood in the temple, watching as Serena continued working around the altar. He still couldn't figure out exactly what his encounter with Tamara meant. She had come at him so suddenly and aggressively, like nothing he had experienced from her before – part of it had been precipitated by the loss of two coven members, of course. But while he couldn't shake the feeling that he had been used, exploited, even abused, a larger part of him felt like his bond with Tamara had deepened.

And then she had disappeared.

"Still no sign of Jonas?" the priest asked.

He saw the look pass over Serena's eyes before she answered – a look that indicated that his question had struck her harder than he intended.

"No," she said. "Although we stopped looking. It's been too long now. If he was still in the area, or if he meant to return, he'd have been back by now."

Father Lawrence agreed. He missed the boy, but he knew that he would likely never see him again. The boy had been a part of his life for only a few weeks, but he was the one person – with the possible exception of Tamara – that the priest felt he had truly connected with in this place. The villagers cared for him, of course. He had provided them this sanctuary, after all. But there was no real connection there – they would never understand his beliefs, and made no attempt to understand him as a person. He was their unofficial leader, and they would come to him with problems, but he doubted a single one of them would offer their support to his problems – as evidenced by the last few days he had spent alone, cleaning his battered church, despite his still serious injuries.

"I'm sure that Jonas is safe, Serena," the priest added, smiling, before he bid the red-haired witch a fine day and departed the temple.

As he made his way back down the snow-filled street, he realized that he now had more questions than when he had set out a while earlier. But if anything, he was a man of strong convictions, and if Tamara chose to leave him out of her affairs, then he was equally capable of shoving her from his thoughts.

He just hoped that she was alright.
The Boy

He was moving again. The boy squinted his eyes open to see the landscape slowly rolling past, white and brown and little bits of green mixing together in a big jumble in his swollen head. His body was being rocked back and forth as his cage was rolled along the bumpy winter road.

The boy groaned as he tried to raise his head off of the rumbling platform. His cage was quite small - he had to curl up just to lie down. And he could only lift his head a few feet. The bars that surrounded him were old and rusty, but they held strong – he had already tried to kick his way out, hoping that the old bars would give way.

"Someone's awake," the bald otter leader said, pulling his horse up alongside the boy's cage. The boy had learned that the man's name was Argus.

The boy didn't answer.

"Excellent timing, my friend," Argus said, and he motioned for the cart to stop moving.

The boy felt his body lurch as the mule leading his cage ceased pulling. He was finally starting to wake up, the feeling in his body returning to him. The cold bit at his face and fingers, as his plentiful furs had been taken and replaced by something far less substantial – the shaggy coat was just enough that he wouldn't freeze to death, but not nearly enough to keep him warm. The pain in his sides and his back was resurfacing as well, and he slipped a hand under his meagre coat to run a finger along a deep gash that covered his left ribcage.

"Open the cage," Argus called out, and an otter soldier scrambled forward with the key.

The boy watched, eyes wide, as the man unlocked the door to the cage and swung it open. How badly the boy wanted to race out and scamper into the woods, disappearing from his captors once more. The whole scene seemed familiar to him, though. And he found that his legs wouldn't have carried him far anyway – he had a difficult time just crawling out of his confinement.

He made it out onto the snow, and his knees cracked loudly as he stood up. He assumed that they'd been bent for several days, although he couldn't really remember. Aside from Argus, there were two other otters standing nearby. The trees weren't very dense, though, and the boy doubted that they would provide enough cover – or much of a hindrance to his pursuers – if he were to run for it. And as he flexed one of his legs, he wasn't even sure that he could run at all.

"Time to work, kid," Argus said.

He nodded to one of the other otters, and the man tossed a shovel in the boy's direction. The boy instinctively snatched the handle of the shovel out of the air. He stared at it a moment – the otters had freed him from his cage, and were now handing him something he might use as a weapon. He glanced up at Argus and the man had a sparkle in his eyes, almost as though he was daring the boy to try something.

Instead, the boy just gripped the shovel in both hands. After another nod from Argus, one of the otter guards grabbed the boy by the arm and started dragging him towards the front of the otter group. The otter march was not swift, and as the boy approached the head of the group, he saw why – a trio of druids were using fire to melt the snow, but it was slow work. The boy noticed that, where he was standing, the snow was about a foot or more lower. There was only a finely packed layer above the ground, and even that was worn through in some places.

But the druids weren't getting the full width of the trail any longer. There was a strip, about six feet wide, where the snow was still at its full height. It didn't take the boy long to piece together what was expected of him. As he moved towards the snow, his body aching and sore, he glanced down at the shovel in his hands. It was a spade, designed for digging holes in the earth, not for pushing snow. He wasn't sure how best to proceed, so he simply drove the tip into the snow as he would were he digging a hole in the ground. It wasn't the most effective method, but it was something.

The man who had tossed him the shovel was set to watch guard over him, glaring all the while. And Argus was never too far away. Each time the boy drove the shovel into the ground, he could feel shooting pains in both of his sides. Tossing the snow to the side caused him even more pain, his body not reacting the way that he was used to.

"Faster, you little shit," the otter grumbled, and the boy looked up.

Apparently he was meant to keep pace with the druids, despite the fact that they had magic and all that he had was a rickety old spade. They also didn't have battered bodies. Still, the boy tried to increase his haste, pushing his limbs to their limits. But mostly he was spying the surrounding area, searching for some sort of opening. He didn't think that he could outrun his sentry, and he didn't see anywhere that he could disappear into the woods.

The boy continued his shovelling, trying his best to bend his body in ways that didn't hurt quite so much. He kept one eye on the otter guard, and occasionally glanced back behind him, towards where Argus was talking with several other men. And then the boy grabbed the end of the shovel in both hands and swung it in a sidelong arc, smashing it against the knee of his sentry. He put every ounce of strength into that swing, hoping to break the man's knee, and then he darted off into the snow.

It was only seconds before he heard the cries behind him. And his feet weren't carrying him nearly as fast as he would have liked. But he kept running, ignoring the building pain in his left side and the slight limp in his right leg. He made it past a number of trees before the first otter caught up to him. He felt the metal of the man's sword pierce the skin of his right calf, and he tumbled down into the snow – but he refused to let any cry of pain escape his lips.

He landed on his back and looked up at his pursuer. The man was brandishing his sword menacingly, and the boy could hear others approaching. He kicked the foot of his good leg out, striking the otter in the shin. The man clearly hadn't expected the boy to show such resolve, and he stumbled. The boy managed to scamper away, diving over a snowdrift and practically crawling on all fours towards the cover of some barren bushes. He was able to slip under the lowest branches just before two men reached him.

The boy wanted to stop to catch his breath, but he knew that he couldn't. He was gasping for air as he navigated the branches and twigs, many of them cutting into the skin of his face. He needed to make the other side before the men worked their way around the bushes. He was nearly there when he saw a boot step down only feet in front of his face. He changed tack immediately, dodging to the right as steel cut through the uppermost branches of the large shrubbery.

He managed to wriggle his way out of the bushes and propelled himself down a slight incline, rolling and regaining his feet as he neared the bottom. He was running again, but he didn't make it far – the wound in his leg was too grievous and he couldn't keep his feet. His right leg gave out under him and he fell into the snow once more. This time there were three otters on him. He tried to kick out again, but one of the men grabbed hold of his good leg.

"I'm unimpressed, boy," Argus said, walking up from behind the others, sword in hand. "You didn't give me much of a chase today. You made it twice as far yesterday."

The boy was breathing too hard to reply. The next thing he knew, his scraggly coat was being torn from his body, leaving his torso bare and pressing against the freezing snow. Many wounds lined the boy's body – some of them were fresh and still open, and a few had already scabbed over. The cold seemed almost to numb the pain in his newer gashes.

"We really will have to teach you some discipline this time," Argus said.

One of the otters produced a small, devilish dagger and handed it to Argus. The man ran his gloved finger over the thin blade, avoiding the fine edges. Argus knelt down beside the boy and looked him in the eye – the boy tried to look away, but another man held his head in place. He was forced to stare into Argus' yellowish eyes.

"Now what say we start with a simple lesson," Argues continued. "If you run, you will be punished. We need reliable workers."

Argus then ran the thin blade along the boy's belly. It amazed the boy how easily the knife cut through his flesh. His body trembled as the metal dug into him, slicing a fine cut the length of his gut, right beneath the belly button. His eyes nearly rolled back in his head as the waves of agony washed over him. He even lost consciousness for a moment, but the otters weren't going to let him off that easily.

The boy knew that Argus was taunting him – they didn't want reliable workers. Why did they need the boy when they had druids? It was all a game. They just wanted to hurt him. They took pleasure in it.

"Lesson number two," Argus said, and his tainted eyes moved closer to the boy's. "You're mine. You don't get to escape."

Argus' foul breath turned the boy's stomach. He felt the knife slip into his side, between two of his lower ribs. The metal probed the inside of his body, twisting and tweaking at his innards. He lost his composure then, unable to resist the temptation to cry out in anguish. His voice didn't hold, though, as tremors ran up and down his spine, his muscles convulsing and his limbs twitching involuntarily. Finally, Argus retracted the blade, and the boy noted the sinister grin on the man's face. But he couldn't even find it in him to hate Argus at that precise moment, his relief at having the pain relent so absolute. He tried to slide his hand over to cover the wound, but one of the otters knocked it away, letting his blood gush out onto the snow.

"Remember this feeling boy," Argus whispered into his ear. "Pain is such a beautiful thing. It's like the window to a man's soul – you never really know someone until you see them suffer. You'll come to embrace the pain soon, my friend. You'll invite it, yearn for it, even."

As Argus pulled his face away, the boy took a feeble swipe at him. But his arms were so weak that his fist missed by several feet. Argus chuckled at the boy's futility.

"Time for lesson three," Argus said.

He nodded to the three men that surrounded the boy, and the next thing that the boy felt was a firm boot to his side. He howled in pain and his body curled up on the snow. He was still bleeding, and his wounds were still throbbing with sharp pains.

"Try not to kill him," Argus said, as he turned to walk away. "I like this one."

Boots and fists continued to slug the boy as he lay there, helpless. Tears welled up in his eyes as he tried to scream out – his voice seemed to have failed him, though. His senses were all going numb, the pain overwhelming his mind. He could only vaguely hear the sounds of laughter and mirth. His body jolted with each blow, but they didn't seem to hurt as much – the agony having all melded into one, continuous, unbearable suffering. He could still feel his life leaking out the side of his body, and he hoped that he would just die there on the snow. Any happy thoughts – thoughts of Serena's sweet embrace, or of the priest's welcoming smile – had been stripped from him.

Sobs were rolling freely through his body now, his face wet with tears and blood. He was cold, so very cold, as his bare torso sunk into the red snow. The kicks were coming less frequently now, but he hardly noticed. His eyes were open and he was just staring blankly into the brown and white and red jumble of colours in front of his face. Even as the kicks died away, his body continued to shake with each whimpering sob.

He felt a finger against his cheek. It was touching him tenderly. A grimy old man knelt down in front of him then, placing his face on the snow, inches from the boy's. The boy's mind was too far gone – he couldn't hear the words that the man spoke. But he seemed to be trying to console the boy. Then the man leaned forward and extended his tongue, licking the boy's face. The boy didn't even recoil.

The man was gone a moment later, and the boy felt his deerskin breeches being pulled from his legs, leaving him naked on the snowy forest floor.

* * *

The boy awoke back in his cage, his eyes squinting open to the morning sun. He couldn't recall all of the events of the previous days, but the simple act of breathing caused little jabs of pain to race through his flesh as he lay there. The cart was rumbling along, shaking the boy's prone form.

"Up so soon?"

The boy turned his head to see Argus riding alongside his cage.

"I admire your strength, boy," Argus said. "We need strong men like you in our ranks."

The boy didn't respond. He did slip a hand up under his meagre coat. He ran a finger along a new gash that he found, one that ran right along his abdomen, just under his belly button. It was still moist, and when he extracted his hand there was a slight reddish tinge to his fingers.

He felt the cart wobble to a stop, and heard the creak of the rusty cage door swinging open. He made no effort to exit his cage, preferring to just lie there. But a pair of rugged hands reached in a moment later and hauled him out. The boy's legs were not sturdy, and he nearly toppled right over when he was placed upon the ground.

"Do you remember your job?" Argus asked.

He didn't wait for an answer, just handing the boy the shovel. As soon as his fingers wrapped around the wooden handle, the boy could feel the little tremors tingling through each of his many gashes, new and old. The shovel signified pain, he was certain of that.

He was led to an area where the snow was higher and he was told to shovel it away. But he could barely stand. He planted the tip of the spade into the snow and then just leaned on it, using it to keep him upright. He could hear the otter guard shouting at him to dig, but he didn't acknowledge it.

A moment later his head exploded in agony as the butt end of a sword slammed into his temple. His legs buckled and he fell to the ground. The sudden onslaught of pain caused his body to wretch, his chest heaving as he tried to vomit. But he had barely eaten in days, and there was nothing to come up. He stayed on the ground until his dry heaves subsided, and then he very slowly picked himself up, using the shovel as leverage.

Back on his feet, he heard the otter again shouting at him. This time he gripped the shovel and picked it up. But instead of using it to dig, he summoned what little strength remained and spun, swinging the spade so that it slammed right into the face of the otter that had struck him. The man's nose erupted in red, clearly broken, and he fell to his knees, dropping the sword from his hand.

The boy let go of the shovel, and reached out for the sword, his mind absorbed by the singular focus of killing this man. His fingers found the hilt just as a boot connected with his head and several otters swarmed over him. He tried to pick up the blade anyway, but someone knocked it from his hand.

As the blows rained down on him, the boy rolled over onto his belly, blood coughing up from his lungs. Over the tumult, he could barely hear Argus yelling for the men not to kill him. The boy hoped that they were too angry to listen.
Sasha

Two weeks of hard riding had brought Sasha and Dancer into the foothills of the Old Mountains. Sasha, of course, didn't really know the exact layout of the Reverie, but she gleaned enough from her conversations with Desmond and Brom to know that the northern part of the continent was covered by a large mountain range. And while she couldn't see the outline of the mountains through the forest's trees, there had been a steady incline over the last few days, and she was certain that they were getting higher.

The land grew colder and the snows deeper the farther north that she travelled, but the journey hadn't proven as difficult as she was led to believe. Some of the snow was packed enough that the horse could move across it without sinking deeper than a few inches. And in the places where the snow was fresh and softer, Sasha found that the same creative use of magic that had allowed Dancer to gallop across the open water worked just as well for snow.

What had proven more difficult than she had expected, however, was food. She had planned to be well fed and well rested in Ursa's Maw by now. It had never occurred to her to pack weeks and weeks worth of supplies – she doubted that she could have fit that much in the saddlebags anyway. It was only out of sheer luck that she hadn't starved already. On her third day north of the Ursal, she and Dancer had come across a man's body. The snow surrounding it was red, and he was crumpled up against the base of a tree – it appeared that someone had left him for dead. But they had also left the man's pack sitting on the ground beside him, and it had provided Sasha with just enough food to ration out over five or six days. Since then she'd been relying on various herbs and berries, but even those were becoming scarcer as she moved north.

She hadn't eaten anything in the last two days, and her body wasn't responding well. She was fatigued, and the constant ache from her stomach permeated the rest of her. Brom had taught her how to skin a rabbit, in case she ever found herself needing to survive on her own – but he had forgotten to teach her to actually catch one. He had shown her, however, which berries were safe to eat, and she had put that skill to good use. But as hungry as Sasha felt, she knew that her mount must be even more so. Dancer seemed content to munch on branches or eat pine needles, but Sasha knew that the horse craved a real meal, just as she did. Berries were one thing, but Sasha needed meat.

She kept moving, hoping that she might stumble across some tracks in the snow, but she never did. There seemed to be a continuous rain of soft snowflakes descending from the canopy, which hid any but the freshest tracks from view. And this far north there was a higher concentration of firs and pines in the forest, which hid most of the forest floor anyway. Her odds of finding a rabbit seemed quite slim.

Distracted by her hunger, Sasha didn't notice right away when Dancer twitched and slowed her pace. It took a loud whinny before Sasha realized that something was amiss.

"Whoa," she said, grabbing hold of the reins. "What is it, girl?"

The horse was eyeing the trail up ahead. Sasha couldn't see beyond a few densely packed pines, as the road bent a little to the right. She was surprised that the horse sensed anything at all – Sasha had become accustomed to the road being empty. They hadn't seen any sign of civilization in over a week. Just snow and trees and gray skies above. In fact, she was most surprised that the road even continued this far north. She had been expecting to lose it eventually, that it would simply end.

But there was something on the road ahead, and whatever it was had spooked her mount. Sasha hopped down off of Dancer's back and rubbed the horse's flank. Dancer had come to trust her rider, so when Sasha moved forward with a calm determination, the horse followed her.

Sasha led Dancer around the bend in the road. The first thing that she saw was that the path was flanked by two enormous stones, standing high and thin – very similar to the stones that the portals were formed from. The stones even had the familiar etchings of some ancient runic language. Once Sasha passed between the stones, she saw that there was a town – at least, there once had been a town. It looked abandoned, and many of the buildings were in varying states of ruin. The forest had even regrown between the buildings, where once it had been cleared away.

Dancer didn't want to go any closer, but Sasha was curious. She eased the horse along, stopping and reassuringly stroking her face when needed. Sasha wasn't sure what the horse was so afraid of – it was just a bunch of old stone buildings and rotted away wooden structures. The trees and bushes interspersed with the buildings did give the area an eerie, otherworldly quality, but Sasha certainly didn't feel any particular unease. Her instincts told her to keep looking, so she did.

She passed by a building that looked like it might once have been a smithy – there was a stone chimney still partially intact, and an anvil sitting out front. There were a few buildings that had likely been dwellings, but little was left of the wood – only the stone foundations remained whole. As Sasha approached another stone building near the far end of the abandoned town, Dancer started to rear once more.

"What's wrong, girl?" Sasha asked, trying to sound soothing.

As she tended to the horse's discomfort, she thought she saw a movement off to the side. Her head snapped around as Dancer whinnied. She didn't see anything, though. Perhaps it had been a trick of the light – despite being hidden behind the gray skies, the sun was setting and the forest was growing darker. Sasha wondered if the horse would settle down enough to stay the night – a bit of shelter would be a welcome change.

But then Sasha did notice something. There was a faint golden glow emanating from just behind one of the crumbling stone walls on the very building that she had been approaching. Curious, she tried to move forward, but Dancer resisted.

"Don't be so stubborn," Sasha insisted, and the horse snorted.

Sasha pulled the reins a little harder and Dancer followed. They closed the gap to the stone ruin, and Sasha slowed as she approached. The golden light was still present, and Sasha angled her neck, trying to see around the crumbling wall, when the light shifted. Sasha paused, and she could sense Dancer's anxiety.

"Hello?" Sasha said. "Is someone there?"

After a moment, a small face appeared around the side of wall. But it was unlike any face that Sasha had ever seen. She tried to keep her calm as the glowing golden face blinked at her. It was the face of a child, a small girl, perhaps only eight or nine years old. And yet she wasn't a girl at all, as far as Sasha could tell – she was some sort of apparition.

A few months ago that sight might have frightened Sasha – as it was clearly frightening Dancer. But after everything that Sasha had encountered in this world, the appearance of a ghost was barely noteworthy. She was more intrigued than anything, and she took a cautious step forward. The ghost retreated behind the wall, just out of sight.

"It's ok," Sasha said. "I'm a friend."

Sasha didn't think that she'd get Dancer any closer, so she tied the horse's reins to the branch of a tree that was hanging over the very wall that the ghost now hid behind. Sasha took a few easy strides, and poked her head around the side of the wall. The girl was there, staring back at her with big, wide eyes.

"Hello there," Sasha said.

"Hello" the girl replied, her voice nearly a whisper but loud enough that Sasha could make out the strange ethereal quality that it had. It didn't sound like a human voice.

"What's your name?" Sasha asked. "My name is Sasha."

"Starla."

Sasha moved another step closer to the faintly glowing girl and bent her knees so that her head was in line with Starla's.

"That's a pretty name," Sasha said, and the girl's lips hinted at a smile. "Do you live here, Starla?"

The girl nodded.

"My daddy went away to fight," she said. "I'm waiting for him to come back. He told me to wait here. He's been gone so long, but I know he'll be back soon."

"I'm sure he will. What about the other villagers? Where did they go?"

Even through the golden light, Sasha could see the girl's face blanch. She bit her lower lip and looked around nervously.

"After my daddy and the other fighters went away," the girl said, leaning closer to Sasha, "Some bad people came. They were big and mean. But my daddy always told me to hide from big, mean people. So I hid under my bed. One of them came into my room, but I'm a good hider so he didn't find me. But when I woke up... everyone was gone."

"And you've been alone ever since?" Sasha asked.

The girl nodded again.

"Sometimes more bad people come," Starla said. "They scare me. They want to hurt me. I hide, and they go away. But sometimes they come back. Will you make the bad people go away?"

Sasha smiled. The girl looked nearly on the verge of tears. Sasha reached her hand out tentatively, not even sure if she could make contact with an apparition. But when she touched the girl's arm, it felt as solid as any other human, so Sasha offered a comforting squeeze.

"No one will hurt you while I'm here," Sasha said.

"Promise?" Starla asked, through a few sniffles.

"I promise. I'm a good fighter too, you know. Just like your dad."

"Really?"

"Oh, definitely. If any more bad people show up, you just watch. I'll take care of them."

Starla smiled, and Sasha couldn't help but smile herself. The girl's innocence was intoxicating. Sasha expected that Starla had once been an adorable child. Though her features were a bit harder to make out now, she had long, flowing hair, and little dimples when she smiled.

Sasha led Starla back around the crumbling wall, out into the open. She had forgotten about Dancer, though, and the horse reared frightfully when the ghost came into full view. Starla was equally startled by the reaction, and darted back behind the wall. Sasha flashed Dancer a disapproving look.

"Your horse doesn't like me," Starla said.

"She does like you," Sasha insisted. "She's just fidgety sometimes. She didn't like me at first, either."

"Animals never like me. They always run away from me."

"Oh, don't be silly, Starla," Sasha said. "Dancer likes you. Don't you, Dancer?"

Sasha knew, of course, that the horse couldn't think or reason like a human could. She reacted on instinct, and her instinct told her that a ghost was something foul and unnatural. Sasha wouldn't be able to talk the horse into accepting the girl. But it occurred to Sasha that perhaps she could influence the horse's instincts.

She approached Dancer and rested a hand upon the horse's head. She made soothing sounds and imparted her own feelings of safety and security to the horse. She could sense the animal calming, and she focused greater energy into easing Dancer's mind and assuaging her fears. Sasha closed her eyes and rested her head against Dancer's. The sensations she was feeling were overwhelming – she felt as though she was actually communicating directly with Dancer's mind. Was this just another unexpected extension of her magical abilities? Whatever the case, she could sense that the horse had relaxed.

"Come here, Starla," Sasha called, and she glanced over her shoulder to see the girl carefully step forward.

Dancer didn't whinny or rear this time. In fact, she seemed almost curious about the girl now. Starla still appeared nervous, so Sasha extended a hand. The girl took it and Sasha led her right up to the horse. Starla's eyes were wide, and Sasha expected that she probably hadn't been this close to another living thing in a very long time.

"See?" Sasha said. "She likes you just fine. Why don't you pet her?"

"Really?" Starla asked, but her hand was already rubbing against the horse before Sasha could answer. The girl giggled as she gently caressed Dancer's flank.

Sasha noted that the light had nearly disappeared – night was soon upon them. It was only then that she realized that Starla was giving off enough of a golden glow that it actually served to illuminate the immediate area around her. But that light didn't give off any warmth, so Sasha decided to build a campfire all the same.

Once she had the kindling and what dry wood she could find piled up at the base of the crumbling wall, Sasha bent low and looked over at Starla. Sasha showed the girl her empty palms, and then turned her hands over to show the backs. And when she again revealed her palms, a small ball of flame had appeared in her right hand. Starla smiled widely, and even clapped her hands together as Sasha lit the campfire.

Soon the fire was flickering away, Sasha seated on a fallen log opposite Starla. Dancer was absently gnawing on a tree branch nearby. Sasha noticed that Starla's golden glow was much brighter at night, but that the added light created by the fire actually made it more difficult to get a clear look at the girl.

"I'm impressed that you've lived here alone for so long," Sasha commented as she tossed a berry into her mouth. "You're a brave little girl."

"Daddy always said I was brave," Starla said, smiling.

"Hopefully you won't have to wait much longer for him. I'll come and check on you on my way back south."

"You're leaving?" Starla asked, after a short pause. Her smile was gone.

"Well, yes, I have to leave first thing in the morning."

"Oh..."

Sasha fiddled with the few berries in her hand, trying to make out the look on the girl's face through the firelight.

"I'm sorry, Starla," she said. "I'd like to stay here with you for a while longer, but I need to head north – it's important."

"North?" Starla replied, her voice still shaking a little. "My daddy went north to fight, up in the mountains."

Sasha sighed, just thinking about how much farther north, and higher up, she had left to go – in reality, she had no specific destination, but her gut told her that her journey was far from over. And here, in the foothills of the mountains, it was already cold with a bitter wind.

"Doesn't it ever warm up around here?" Sasha asked, pulling her furs a bit tighter around her chest. "I can't imagine how cold it gets higher up."

"You don't have to go up," Starla said.

"Starla... I'd like to stay, I really would. But I can't."

"No, silly. I meant you don't have to go up, you can go down instead."

"Down?" Sasha repeated, not sure what the girl meant. "Down as in... Starla, are you saying that I can go under the mountains?"

The girl nodded her head excitedly.

"Are there tunnels?" Sasha asked. "Is that even safe?"

"Oh, yes," Starla replied. "Daddy told me to wait here for him, but he's been gone so long. Sometimes I go exploring, to try and find him. And one time I found the tunnels. They go very far, all the way to the last mountain in the north. That's where daddy went to fight."

"So you followed the tunnels?"

Again the girl nodded her head.

"But you can't tell daddy," she added suddenly. "You have to promise."

"Don't worry, Starla," Sasha said. "I promise."

* * *

The next day found Sasha and Starla seated upon Dancer, the horse trotting steadily along in the direction that Starla had indicated. Having never ridden a horse before, the girl was excited by the prospect, and Sasha assumed that she wouldn't add much, if any, additional weight to Dancer. At first Sasha had recoiled at the idea of bringing a girl along on her journey, but she continued to forget that Starla wasn't really a girl – could a ghost come to any physical harm? Sasha wasn't really sure, but if the girl could show her a faster way north, then she was willing to take that chance.

Starla had informed Sasha that the entrance to the tunnels wasn't far from the village and, true to her word, the horse arrived near the opening in the mountain before nightfall. It wasn't a large opening, maybe only ten or twelve feet wide. In fact, if Starla hadn't pointed it out, Sasha might have missed it altogether. But as she approached, she could make out runes etched into the stone around the edges of the entrance – the same runes she had seen on both the stones back by the village and the portals. It seemed that ancient druids must have used these tunnels – that made her feel a bit better about travelling under a mountain, at least.

As Sasha was dismounting near the entrance, a sudden thought occurred to her – what about her trusty mount? Dancer had been with her so long now, but she could already see in the horse's eyes that an underground cavern was no place for a horse.

"You'll have to let her go," Starla said, catching on to Sasha's dilemma.

"I can't just leave her behind," Sasha replied, rubbing Dancer's side affectionately. "She's been with me so long. And she's not even mine – I'm supposed to bring her back."

Starla looked sad, as well. When the girl didn't say anything else, Sasha knew that this was a decision she would have to make for herself. She badly wanted to take Dancer on with them, but she knew that she was being selfish – she couldn't take the horse underground. At the same time, she wasn't sure how safe the horse would be alone. But in the end, she knew that she had to get north. It wasn't even Desmond's instructions that led her north any longer. She could feel it deep inside of her – the farther north that she had come, the more she felt that this was indeed her path.

She unsaddled the horse and dropped the saddle and saddlebags on the ground beside Starla. She then led Dancer over to the edge of the nearest grouping of trees, and pulled the horse's face close to hers. She had no doubt by now that the horse could understand her - perhaps it was the same magic that allowed Sasha to understand the words of others, or perhaps it was just some innate connection between rider and horse.

"We have to part ways now," Sasha whispered.

Dancer just stared at her.

"Don't make this any harder than it needs to be," she continued. "Go on now."

The horse didn't budge.

"Please, Dancer," Sasha whispered, leaning her forehead against the horse's head. "Find your way home."

Then she mustered every ounce of courage she had, and she turned and walked away from the horse. She clenched her fists as she forced herself to not look back. She walked all the way back to Starla before she chanced a gaze over her shoulder – Dancer was gone. Just like that, the horse had disappeared. Sasha hoped that Starla knew these tunnels as well as she claimed – it would be a long walk north without a horse.

It was nearly dark, and Sasha decided that they should camp at the mouth of the cave for the night. She didn't want to proceed until morning.

"It's going to be dark inside either way," Starla pointed out.

"I know," Sasha admitted. "But I'd just feel safer waiting until morning. Besides, I'm tired anyway – we wouldn't get very far tonight."

Starla smiled and nodded, watching as Sasha gathered up the materials to start another fire. Wood was always plentiful in the forest, and given her magical abilities, she found that it didn't make much difference if the wood was wet or dry. She had a fire crackling within minutes.

Sasha found it difficult to converse with the girl. Avoiding subjects like ghosts or death wasn't easy. She also had to remember not to bring up the girl's father too often, as Sasha was certain that he must be dead also. So instead, Sasha took to telling Starla about her world – the world beyond the portals.

"You come from a whole other world?" the girl asked.

"Yes, I do," Sasha replied. "It's very different from this world. Like, instead of horses to take us places, we have big metal machines that we sit in and can make move really fast."

"You're lying!"

"No, I swear. It's true. And I never have to worry about finding food or water. I can buy as much food as I want and put it in this big, cold box that keeps things frozen. And then whenever I'm hungry I can just warm it up and eat it. And, even better, my house has a tap – it's like a switch that I can turn on, and water just flows out of it. As much as I want."

Starla was entranced, listening to Sasha's stories about things that had once seemed so trivial – in fact, it wasn't until Sasha sat there talking to the girl that she realized just how much she missed many of those conveniences. How much would she give to have a toilet right now? Or a hot shower? Or to see her mother again?

"Did you hear something?" Starla whispered, before Sasha was able to get lost in her thoughts.

"Did you?" Sasha asked, glancing around. But she couldn't make out anything more than a dozen feet or so from the fire – the darkness had set in all around them, and the stars and the moon were blocked out by clouds high above. Starla insisted that she had heard something, though, so Sasha started to get up.

Before she was able to reach her feet, however, a great brown bear ambled out of the darkness and right into the firelight. Sasha stumbled backwards onto the snow and managed to crawl around the campfire to position the flames between herself and their new guest. The bear was enormous – at least as far as Sasha could tell, as she had never seen any other bears to compare it to. It was certainly big enough to cause her worry.

That worry only grew a moment later when the bear let out a low growl that rumbled through the nearby woods. The bear pawed at the ground and bared its long teeth. Sasha wondered if perhaps they had wandered into its territory.

"See, animals never like me," Starla said, and her voice quivered with each word.

Sasha instinctively positioned herself between the bear and the girl, even though she didn't think that Starla could actually be hurt by a bear.

"Maybe you can calm it down," Starla suggested. "Like you did with the horse."

Somehow, though, Sasha didn't think that the bear was going to let her walk up and communicate with it. Her heart was pounding much too fast for her to concentrate properly anyway. She expected that that sort of attempt would end up with her being clawed, or worse.

"I think you were right after all, Starla," Sasha said. "We should head into the tunnels now. I'm not feeling so tired anymore."

Sasha scrambled to pick up her pack just as the bear moved around the fire. The girls dashed through the crack in the mountain and Sasha could sense the rush of the oncoming animal. Was this it? After everything she'd seen, would she be done in by an angry bear? She turned, ready to unleash some sort of magic on the animal. Except that the teeth or claws never came. Once she was able to calm herself and regain her bearings, she saw that the bear hadn't come any farther than the entrance to the cave.

Sasha slowly stood up, the bear eyeing her. It growled again, sending echoes shooting down the tunnel behind her. And then the bear wandered away, as casually as it had arrived. Sasha was too relieved to be confused by the animal's behaviour. She turned to make sure that Starla was safe.

"I think he's gone," Sasha said, and she noticed that Starla's glowing form cast off more than enough light in this dark and confined space for her to see quite clearly.

The girl smiled up at Sasha, and Sasha could now make out her features quite plainly.

"Well, I guess we'd better get moving," Sasha said. "We've got a lot of ground to cover."

The girl nodded and the pair headed off into the black depths of the mountain.
Graumin

Arachnia's Spindle – the spider seat was the largest city in the Reverie, and it appeared even larger to Graumin now than it had the last time he saw it. He was seated atop his black stallion at the peak of a small hillock that looked down towards the southern coast. There was a cool breeze blowing, but he was far enough south now that the snow hadn't taken hold, and likely wouldn't.

He was at the edge of the forest - the hill declined into a rolling field where farmers worked their crops or tended their livestock. There were cottages dotting the landscape, where the farmers and their families dwelt, and dusty paths that carts and wagons full of wheat or corn or meat rumbled across to reach the great city.

A bird's eye view of the city would show that it was laid out much in the shape of a spider's web, with a dense centre surrounded by rings, each larger than the last until the sprawling, spacious fields were reached. The very centre of Arachnia's Spindle was home to the Carricks' palace, as well as the druid enclave. The area was walled from the encircling ring by a high stone wall. Both the palace and the wall were constructed from the same blackened stones, and in the same gothic style, which gave the place a rather sinister appearance. Few spiders ever saw the other side of that high black wall, as there was only a single gate and it was heavily guarded. Only people of a certain degree of importance were allowed through that gate.

The next ring housed the spider nobles, families of varying degrees of power and wealth. There were twelve great houses within the Spider Clan, and each of them had an estate within this ring. This ring also had a single gate, and there was but one road leading from the palace gate. The wall protecting this ring was not as high, not as well guarded, and was made of plain limestone.

Encircling the noble ring was the marketplace – which also served as home to most of the merchants. Some of the merchants had estates within this ring that rivalled the lesser noble houses for size and opulence. The market was well organized, with food being sold on the south side of the ring, and clothing, armour, and weapons to the north. On the west and east sides were more frivolous items, jewellery or books or potions or the like. A man could find anything he needed somewhere within that ring.

The merchant ring had no outer wall, but was instead surrounded by a wide moat. There were four bridges crossing the moat, one at each of the cardinal points. The bridges were large enough for many people and wagons and horses to all cross at the same time. Across the bridges lay the peasant ring – home to the swell of common folk that resided in the city. The peasant ring was by far the largest ring, and by far the dirtiest and smelliest. Most of the buildings were simple wooden homes, though there were a few stone ones mixed in. The streets were narrow and always crowded. There were a large number of taverns and inns, as well as numerous druid temples.

And beyond the peasant ring lay the very fields that Graumin now looked down over. To most travellers, Arachnia's Spindle was an impressive sight to behold. But not to Graumin. Graumin wished he had the power to raze the entire place to the ground. He grunted and gave his steed a hard kick in the flank, starting it down the incline towards the road that led into town.

* * *

Graumin tossed his pack down on the bed. He had found the seediest inn that the peasant ring had to offer, and he had rented himself a room. He was on the third floor of the building, but he could still hear the tumult in the inn's common room below. Spiders could be a rowdy bunch.

His room was small, but that didn't bother him. He just needed somewhere to lay low. He didn't want his presence in town noticed until he was able to meet with Baron Carrick. He suspected that he'd have to go through the baron's son first, and that annoyed him. But so be it. He expected that his name would be enough to grant him an audience. Had he had his handaxe with him, that would have been better. He silently cursed the woman in black as he lay down on his bed.

The bed was hard and his pillow was lumpy, but it was still more welcome than sleeping on the ground. The noise from below, however, was quite unwelcome. It was well past midnight, but still the tavern was full of boisterous customers. Graumin rolled over many times, even placing the pillow over his head to try and block the noise. But no matter what he tried, sleep wouldn't find him. Perhaps he would have been better off to just sleep in the woods and ride into town each morning.

Finally, growing impatient, Graumin threw off his bed sheets and stormed out into the hallway. As he approached the stairs, the noise from below only heightened. He made his way down the staggered staircase and back into the common room. A single table of men seemed to be making most of the ruckus – the other tables were either empty or peopled by men and women who were passed out drunk, or nearly there. But this one table was still going strong. Graumin thought that they looked like guards – one was still wearing his cloak, which was clasped together with the insignia of the city watch.

"Some of us are trying to sleep," Graumin growled as he thrust himself in between two of the seated me. He drew their attention immediately.

"Fuck off, old man," one of the drunk guards said. Another slammed his mug of ale against the table. Then they went back to ignoring the intruder.

Graumin had never been a patient man. As the guard with the ale raised the tankard to his lips, Graumin flicked his wrist and dark flames erupted from the surface of the ale. The others noticed, but the guard kept tipping the mug towards his mouth until the flames caught against his full beard – once he felt the burning against his chin, he noticed too.

The ale sloshed across the table a moment later as the guard dropped the mug. He was waving his hands frantically over his beard, trying to quell the flames. Three of the other men, including one particularly large individual, rounded on Graumin.

"You magic-using shit," the large man spat. "I'd like to see you try something without your filthy spells."

"I don't need magic to take care of you," Graumin replied, his stare cold as an evil leer crept across his lips.

The large man threw a lumbering punch in Graumin's direction, but it was easily dodged. Graumin slugged the man in the belly, causing him to lurch forward awkwardly and drop to his knees on the tavern floor. The large man looked like he wanted to get up, but didn't. Instead his hand was cradling his abdomen, as if he was trying to calm it – but he failed, as he began to vomit all over the wooden floor.

"Too much ale," Graumin said, and then he turned towards the next two.

They didn't seem as eager to fight now, but the other guard had extinguished his flaming beard and was now moving towards Graumin with his sword drawn.

"I can't use magic, but you get a sword?" Graumin snorted.

He decided to even the odds, producing a small dagger from within his sleeve. It wasn't much compared to a sword – but drunken thugs weren't much compared to Graumin. The guard came at him with a cleave aimed at his midsection. Graumin was able to spin out of the way, but the guard pressed the attack, forcing Graumin back against a wall, narrowly missing with the point of the sword. It seemed that this guard wasn't quite as inept as his companion.

Graumin missed the feel of the bone handle of his axe. He fumbled the dagger around in his hands, trying to find the right grip. The guard's next attack was straightforward, a simple thrust of the sword, trying to pierce Graumin through the belly. But the older spider was able to sidestep and use his elbow to knock the flat side of the blade out wide. A kick to the guard's midsection had the man tumbling backwards over a table, his sword clattering across the floor.

The next thing the guard knew, Graumin's knee was planted over his neck, pinning him to the ground. He tried to push Graumin off, but it was no use. The evil leer had returned to Graumin's lips, his eyes cold and black as they stared through the guard. He calmly pushed the tip of his dagger into the man's neck, just nicking the flesh. None of the other guards were bothering to assist their friend – two had even scampered out the door and off into the night.

There was no need for him to kill this man – he had made his point. But he drove the blade of his dagger into the man's throat anyway. Blood spurted out of the side of the man's neck as his hands waved aimlessly above his prone form. Graumin twisted the metal as the man screamed out. Life slowly faded from the guard's body and Graumin's dark eyes eagerly took in the sight. He didn't move at all, not even to pull the dagger out, until the guard's eyes had gone cold.

When Graumin finally did rise, he was greeted only by blank stares. He ignored them, and no one challenged him. The body on the floor was still twitching as Graumin approached the bar – the innkeeper was clearly annoyed. But Graumin produced a gold coin from his purse and tossed it in the man's direction.

"For the mess," he growled, and he began to climb the stairs back to his room.

* * *

The market ring was bustling as Graumin navigated the crowds. Voices called out the various wares that were for sale, each trying to shout louder than the last. People were scurrying to and fro, coins and goods changing hands all around him. It took him nearly an hour from the time that he crossed the eastern peasant bridge until he reached the gate that led to the noble ring.

The gate was made of wrought iron, but it was usually swung open during the day. There was always a pair of city guards flanking the arched opening, though. As Graumin walked towards the gate, the two guards were inspecting a cart – probably bringing supplies to one of the noble houses. It occurred to him that that might have been a proper ruse for him to attempt. But no matter, as he was at the gate now, and he had little patience for such tricks anyway.

Graumin approached the guards, who were now standing together near the centre of the gate as the cart wheeled on through. Both men regarded Graumin and one raised his sword to block Graumin's path. Unlike the men from the tavern the night previous, these two were wearing full chain armour and had more finely crafted weapons. He knew that the sentries guarding access to the nobles' homes would be the best that the spiders had to offer.

"I require an audience with the baron," Graumin said, stopping short of the two men.

"You and every other mutt in town," the first guard replied. "Get back to your gutter, old man."

Graumin clenched his fists by his sides. But he maintained his composure.

"I have urgent business with the baron," he continued. "Tell him that Graumin seeks an audience."

Graumin wasn't sure what effect revealing his name might have – he was an exile, after all. Technically, returning to Arachnia's Spindle at all was punishable by death. Would the guards try to exact that punishment themselves? He welcomed them to try, of course. But he expected that they would have the sense to at least report his presence to the baron.

"I don't give a shit what your name is, old man," the guard said. "Now fuck off."

That wasn't the reaction that Graumin had expected. He realized that he had been gone a very long time, but he thought – or perhaps hoped – that his name would still carry weight in the spider capital. Had his notoriety faded so quickly?

Graumin took a menacing step forward, and both guards reacted swiftly – the first levelling his sword in Graumin's direction, and the second circling around behind the old spider. The tactic was simple, but effective, as Graumin was unable to keep his focus on both of the sentries. Still, he was always up for a challenge.

"Last chance," the guard behind said. "Or maybe a night in the hole will smarten you up a bit."

"I doubt it," Graumin replied and he darted forward with the agility of a much younger man.

The first guard obviously wasn't expecting such speed, and he wasn't able to get his sword up to block in time – Graumin had produced his dagger and slashed at the guard's elbow. The blade simply rang against the chain mail, not penetrating it, but Graumin had made his point.

The guard narrowed his eyes and came forward. Graumin sensed that the man behind him was closing as well, and he stepped to the side. He tried to maneuver himself so that both guards were in front of him again. That didn't slow their approach, though. Graumin soon found himself dodging one sword on the left, and nearly being impaled by one on the right. He managed to spin away unscathed.

"Looks like the old dog can move," one of the guards chortled.

"Let's see how quick he moves when I cut his leg," the other answered.

Graumin tired of their insults and sent a quick flame bursting forward from his hand. The shadowy blast struck the first guard in the chest and knocked him over, but did no more damage than that. As the man was falling backwards, Graumin let his dagger fly in the direction of the second guard – the man caught sight of it at the last second and was able to twist his neck out of the way. The throw drew a thin line of blood, but nothing more serious.

As both men charged him, Graumin was readying a more potent spell – one that attacked the mind. He unleashed it just as the first guard reached him and the man cried out in agony, clutching at his temples, his sword falling from his grasp. The second guard pressed on, and his sword slashed across Graumin's arm, cutting through the hide jerkin that he wore and slicing into his skin. The guard wasted no time in raising his sword for a second slash, one that might have caught Graumin off-balance.

The sword never fell, though, as a voice cut through the skirmish.

"What's the meaning of this?"

Graumin saw a half dozen men, flanked by several more city guards, walk through the gate – he suspected that they must be nobles, given the difficulty that he had found in passing through the gate himself. When both guards scrambled to their knees and bowed their heads, his suspicion was confirmed. Graumin didn't kneel or bow.

The man who had spoken approached, the other nobles following a little behind. The man was young and handsome. He was slightly pale and had short black hair. He hadn't even a trace of a beard, and Graumin wondered if the man shaved or simply couldn't grow any facial hair. He caught sight of the clasp that held the young man's cloak together over his shoulder – it bore the emblem of House Carrick.

"You must be the Carrick boy," Graumin said, scowling.

"Indeed," he replied. "And who must you be?"

"I have business with your father."

Some of the nobles stiffened, likely at Graumin's disrespect. But Carrick just narrowed his gaze, eyeing Graumin curiously.

"My father is not well, nor does he take kindly to strangers bothering him," Carrick said. "You would have more luck bringing your business to me. And you would have more luck still if you refrained from attacking my men."

"They attacked me," Graumin growled. "And my business is for your father alone – last I checked he was still the head of the Spider Clan, not his whelp."

"Hold your tongue, sir!" one of the guards commanded, stepping forward. But Carrick just raised a hand to quiet the man.

"This whelp speaks for the clan," Carrick clarified. "It is well known. You must not be from around here. What did you say your name was?"

"It has been a long time since I stood in this spot," Graumin admitted, tilting his head up to look upon the towering spires of the noble houses. He could even see the blackened peaks of the Carrick palace.

"And why, pray tell, have you been away so long?"

"Because your great grandfather cast me out."

"Your name, sir?"

"My name is Graumin," he growled, and he noted that several of the nobles stiffened. Apparently his name did carry some weight, but only with the more educated of the clan.

"Graumin?" Carrick repeated. "Of the Lost Brothers?"

He didn't answer, but he knew that Carrick wasn't really asking.

"And you think that a few generations passing has lifted your exile?" Carrick asked. "Your crimes were many."

"My crimes were only what I was ordered to do by your ancestors, boy."

"In any case, I doubt my father would see things any differently. You're not welcome here, sir. You say that you have business, and I will excuse this transgression should your business be worthy. Otherwise, my men will escort you back to the borders of our lands."

"The clans war to the north, yet the spiders do not march. Why?"

"The Spider Clan does not seek war with the other clans, sir. Guards, please remove this man from my city."

The guards started forward, but Graumin kept staring menacingly at the young lord.

"You do not seek war, boy," Graumin said. "The Spider Clan that I remember seeks glory, and I come to deliver it."

His words weren't really aimed at Carrick. He knew that he would never convince Carrick to march north.

"Sir, you should discuss this with your father," one of the nobles said – an older, distinguished looking man.

Carrick sighed, and Graumin could tell that he had no desire to discuss anything with his father. But he was a seasoned politician already, even at his age – and he agreed to consult with the baron.

"You have my leave to remain in the city until we summon you again," Carrick said. "Provided that you abide by our laws. No more of these little skirmishes, is that understood?"

Graumin didn't bother to answer. He just turned and started to walk away.

"Where can we find you when we need you?" Carrick called after him.

"I'm sure your little guards will know just where I am," Graumin answered. He knew that Carrick would have him followed. He didn't like the idea, but he was one step closer to an audience with the baron. So he would do what he had to do. He disappeared back into the tumult of the merchant ring a few moments later.
Kelly

The sound of metal clanging against metal surrounded her as she tried to maintain her focus. Men rushed all about her, and women's screams assaulted her ears. But still she eyed her target – a man clad in a dark green robe who seemed to be enjoying the pain that he was inflicting upon his burning victims. Kelly raised her arms and hurled a blast of fire all her own in his direction. He didn't see it coming and soon his body was lying, charred, on the ground beside those he had killed.

Kelly didn't have time to think, only react, and she was moving again before any of the serpents could determine the source of that fireball. Kelly never liked to wear her druid robes when she was travelling, and that fact had likely saved her life in these battles – the serpents expected the eagle druids to be dressed like druids, not in a leather tunic and breeches. Gracos had also insisted that she carry a sword, just in case. She didn't like it, though – it only made it awkward to run, as the blade always seemed to be slapping against her leg.

She turned the corner, coming around the side of a building, and saw more of the same carnage. Anywhere she looked there was metal and blood. Occasionally there was fire, too. But she was getting used to it all – she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

She saw an eagle soldier fighting valiantly against three serpents, and she raced in his direction. With a subtle flick of her wrist she sent a wind current through the air. It wasn't much, just enough to throw a serpent's parry awry, leaving a hole for the eagle's sword to slice through. The soldier made the most of it, felling that particular adversary and then quickly dodging another strike. Kelly wanted to continue helping him, but someone had taken note of her.

Two serpents, one wielding a long sword and the other a club, were bearing down on her. She wasn't sure if they had seen her magic, or if they just saw her as another eagle soldier to fight – or worse yet, if they saw her as a woman to rape. Whatever the case, she turned her attention towards them. Her heart always beat a little quicker when she knew that she was a target, and that only made it all the more difficult to concentrate – to focus her magical energies. She let a crackle of lightning loose from her hand, but it wasn't as powerful as she would have hoped. One of the men staggered, but the other was almost on her.

Frightened, she tried to pull her sword from its sheath, but it wasn't as easy she thought. It stuck as she pulled too hard on the hilt, and she had to let it go as the man swung his club towards her face. Kelly ducked under the swing and fell into a roll, coming up to the man's side. She kicked out at his ribs, connecting hard enough to throw him off-balance. It allowed her the few seconds she needed to loose another bolt of lightning. Again, it wasn't as powerful as her usual spells, but the force knocked the club from his hand, at least.

Kelly followed the lightning by charging at the man and kicking him again, this time in the leather-clad belly. He stumbled backwards and fell over, but the man with the long sword was on her now. She had to dive to the side to avoid his thrust. He came at her hard, his sword slicing and slashing in different directions. She was backpedalling, trying to avoid each of his attacks. She felt her back slam into the side of a wooden building just as the man's sword came swinging down from overhead. She fell to her knees and covered her head with her hands, but the blow didn't land. She glanced up to see that the tip of the man's sword had caught in the wooden siding of the house – he had been overzealous with his attack.

As he tried to wriggle his blade free, Kelly summoned a great gust of wind that blew him several feet off the ground and across the street, slamming him into the building on the other side. It seemed to have knocked him unconscious. She turned her attention back towards her other assailant, only to see that eagle soldiers had fallen over him. Her breathing slowed as she looked around the town. They had won the day again – but at what cost?

This was the fifth village that they had taken, and each with more difficulty than the last. Kelly could scout the weakest villages easily enough, but it hadn't taken long for the serpents to catch on to the eagle plans. They had begun fortifying their settlements with more soldiers. And the serpent army was moving more swiftly than they had thought possible – five thousand men were no more than three days' march from this very town.

Kelly wandered the streets, trying to ignore the atrocities of war that surrounded her. She could handle the dead easily enough – it was a natural part of life, something that a druid learned to understand at a young age. But as hard as she tried to steel herself against the rape and pillage that followed battle, it never sat well with her. She had always thought her people above such things.

She found Gracos in the town square, where she always found him. Normally at this point he would be organizing the exile of the serpent villagers. She now found him organizing the execution of any survivors.

"What's going on?" she asked. The quiver in her voice would have given her away, but Gracos knew her well enough by now to know that she wouldn't approve.

"The serpent army will be upon us soon," he said. "Setting the villagers into the wilderness was meant to delay the serpents with an influx of refugees. If I let these men go they will only swell the army's numbers."

"And the women and children?" Kelly asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Women and children are being set free. I'm only interested in the men."

Kelly sighed – that was something.

Another Gold Feather approached as Kelly stood there. Gracos asked the man for a report.

"Forty-one dead, sir," the soldier replied. "At least seventy more wounded."

Kelly and Gracos exchanged looks. Gracos' five hundred men had been dwindled to little more than three hundred over the past weeks. Many of those were nursing minor wounds. With another forty-one gone, and seventy possibly unable to fight, there wasn't much of the force remaining.

"And druids?" Kelly asked.

"All survived, my lady," the soldier replied, and Kelly afforded herself a weak smile. Still, there were only six of them left. She kept hoping that Matthias and his two companions would return to her – he was strong with magic, after all. But she hadn't heard a whisper of him since she had set him on his task.

"When can we leave?" Gracos asked.

"I don't know that we can, sir," the soldier replied, shaking his head slightly. "Many of the wounded wouldn't last the march through the forest. We would have to leave them behind."

Gracos looked around the small village, and Kelly followed his gaze. This place had been their toughest fight yet. Granted, it had had more soldiers, but the layout of the town was defensible - largely thanks to the small hill that it sat upon, which gave defenders the higher ground.

"Bring everyone inside the square," Gracos ordered. "Put the wounded in those two buildings."

The square was maybe two hundred feet across, with the town well in the centre. It was surrounded by buildings on three sides, but the north side was the slight incline of the small hill upon which the town was built.

"Barricade the spaces between buildings," Gracos continued. "I don't want any serpents sneaking in through the streets. Once the barricades are complete, set the soldiers to constructing battlements on the north side. Use any spears we have and craft wooden pikes from the trees. Set any men skilled with a bow on top of the nearby buildings. Kelly and her druids can choose their positions. We have three days to prepare a defense. Let's make them count."

Gracos turned and walked away. Kelly could hear the grunts and screams of the men being executed over near the well, but her eyes just stared off to the north. They were going to fight. Part of her was glad that the running was over. But a bigger part of her feared that she might never escape this little serpent town.

* * *

Kelly had spent the last three days in a state of constant worry. On the same day that they had sacked the small serpent town, a message had arrived from the Aerie. The druids of the various clans held a special kinship with their animal namesakes – the Eagle Clan had a large fleet of well-trained eagles that were able to carry messages over long distances. They were even able to hone in on the natural energy of druids, to locate them in the wild – that was how the message had found Kelly to begin with.

The message hadn't brought good news. Kelly was shocked to learn that Ursa's Maw was under siege, and that Brandt was leading the defence from within the city. When she had left him, he had seemed so confident about driving the serpents back. Apparently more of the snakes had come slithering out of their holes than either of them had anticipated.

Kelly badly wanted to take flight, soaring off to Ursa's Maw to help her lover. She had almost done it several times. But she knew her place, and her duty. Being a totem came with responsibilities, not to mention her allegiance to her own clan. She couldn't abandon Gracos and his men. And so she found herself staring over the lip of the roof of a three-storey stone building. She couldn't see much through the tree limbs, but she knew that the serpents were out there, or soon would be.

Glancing down over the square, she was impressed at the progress that had been made in securing the town's defences. All of the streets into the square were now barricaded, as per Gracos' direction – stone and wood debris from other buildings in town had been used to block the roads. And all along the north side of the square, facing the forest, the eagle soldiers had even managed to dig a small trench – only a few feet deep, but enough to slow any charge. Between the first line of defenders and the trench were placed the long spears and pikes, driven into the ground on an angle. There weren't as many as she had hoped, but it was something, and at this point anything helped.

Kelly waited, as everyone else waited, but she was nervous. She had scouted the serpent army herself, and she hadn't even been able to count their numbers. There were thousands of them, and it wasn't even the full eastern army – the serpents had split their force, with most of them marching west to the bear lands. They had left this force behind to deal with the eagles. Kelly thought it a wise decision, as she couldn't see any way that Gracos' two hundred men would be any match for such a force.

She flirted with the idea of flying out over the forest and trying to locate the oncoming army. She couldn't stand the waiting, especially knowing that Brandt was also under attack – he might even be standing on a parapet looking out over a serpent army himself. Would they both fall victim to the serpents? She shook the thought from her head – Brandt was a great warrior, and Ursa's Maw was impenetrable. It had never been breached in thousands of years. Brandt would be fine. As she again glanced over the makeshift defences of the town square, she knew that it was herself she should focus on.

Sounds in the forest drew her attention, and she peered out between the branches. With her keen eyesight, she was able to make out the approaching army before most of her companions. She wondered if she was ready for another fight so soon. Gracos had made her promise that if things went bad, she would fly to freedom. He told her that losing a totem would be a far more serious blow to the war effort than losing a few hundred men. She had a difficult time placing her own life so far above the lives of others, but in the end she had agreed.

The first serpents were nearing the edge of the tree line, and Kelly watched as the eagle archers loosed their arrows. A few serpents fell, but most continued their charge. When they hit the shallow trench, they were forced to slow and climb out the other side. The pikes had been designed to prevent any horses from jumping the trench, but Kelly didn't see any horses yet. Men on foot could slip between the pikes easily enough. Still, arrows rained down on the serpents in the trench, and many of them fell before climbing up into the square. Those who did make the square were quickly cut down by Gracos' soldiers.

Kelly wanted to join in the attack, to let her own magical energies loose upon the attackers, but the druids had been advised not to reveal their positions until the bulk of the serpent army was engaged. She didn't have to wait long, though. The streams of serpents continued flooding out of the trees. The archers couldn't keep their arrows flying quickly enough, and serpents were breaking through Gracos' front lines. In some areas of the trench, the serpent bodies had piled up two or three high, making it easier for subsequent soldiers to cross the gap. Kelly decided that it was time to make her presence felt.

Her first instinct was to blast the serpents coming over the trench. But she was worried that her spell might hit her eagle brethren as well. So instead she aimed a bit farther north, towards the tree line. The serpents coming through the trees were slowed only by their sheer volume. Kelly needed to slow them down further.

First she considered another trench – cracking the earth apart at their feet. But to do from such a distance – several hundred feet – would take more power than remained in her weary form. Then she toyed with the idea of summoning a mighty wind and blowing the very trees over to block the way. But there was no guarantee that her wind would knock every tree down. So although her strengths lay in the magic of the air and the earth, in the end she settled on something much more basic – fire.

She focused her considerable energies on the trees closest to the trench, the very last row before the town square. She forced the sounds of battle from her mind – the clanging metal, the screams of pain, the twangs of bowstrings, the shouts of fury – and let her concentration rest squarely on those barren boughs. She fell into a trance, her mind calm, her body relaxed. And then she opened her eyes and swept her right arm out in front of her. As her fingers traced through the air, angry red flames leapt from tree to tree, catching the serpents in between. Many of the soldiers suddenly found their leather armour, or even their very flesh, caught aflame. Some fell to the ground in agony, others ran amok trying to put the flames out. But most importantly, the serpent charge was, for the moment, stopped, as no one seemed eager to run through the wall of flame that was now roaring for three hundred feet along the tree line.

Kelly looked down over the ledge of the roof and into the square, where the eagles were sorely outnumbered. She spotted numerous gold-helmed men who were holding their own against three or four serpent warriors. And the bodies of serpents clearly surpassed those of the eagles – but the serpents had many more bodies to spare.

The scene below was a mess of men running about, distinguishable only by the colours of their cloaks. But Kelly was able to single out a few lone serpents and she let her lightning bolts streak through the cool air. Each man, in turn, was blasted from his feet. But Kelly had barely let those few attacks go when several arrows whizzed by her. Her position had been compromised.

She backed away from the edge of the roof, thinking herself safe only to turn around and find serpents coming over the other side of the roof. With the roads barricaded and the wall of fire blocking the north side of the square, her enemies had taken to scaling the buildings. There were three men standing on the opposite side of the roof now. Kelly acted quickly, launching another blast of lightning – it struck the first soldier in the chest and threw him over the side.

She wasn't able to get another spell off, though, before the second serpent had closed the gap and lunged out, tackling her around the mid-section. She felt her back slam into the hard roof and the breath was squeezed from her chest. The man reared back and slugged her across the jaw. She felt a wave of pain roll through her. Kicking out, she tried to throw the man from atop her, but he was much stronger than she was – and his friend had arrived to pin her legs down as well.

The serpent had her shoulders pressed against the stone roof. She couldn't lift her hands to fight back, or to loose a spell at him. She kept squirming, but it was no use. She couldn't call for help, either - she was alone on the roof. She heard the sound of a sword being unsheathed and she gasped. Is this how she was supposed to die? Her eyes closed and she thought of Brandt, his muscled body covered in scars. How many times had Brandt found himself exactly where she was? And how many times had he escaped, with only a new souvenir to show for it?

Her heart was pounding and her breath wasn't coming as steadily as she would have liked. But she was determined not to die pinned to a rooftop by two filthy snakes. She opened her eyes and gazed up at the leering face of her assailant. His short sword was drawn and he seemed to be contemplating where to stick it. But Kelly didn't give him the chance. She channelled every ounce of her remaining strength into one more lightning blast. Her hand was still pinned, and the force of her spell erupted downwards, into the roof of the building, which almost immediately started to crack and crumble.

With the weight of the two men closer to her legs, when the stone roof gave way the second man fell down into the building. The man whose eyes she now sought had the foresight to toss his sword away and grab at the edge of the broken roof as Kelly skittered backwards to safety. She had barely avoided tumbling down herself, and she was surprised that the serpent had been able to grab something solid enough to hold him up. She cursed as she watched him pull his body back onto the roof.

He had no weapon now, but his eyes were filled with hate. Kelly's jaw was still causing her intense pain – she suspected that it might be broken. And her side was sore from where the man had been pressing his knee into her rib. She was exhausted and knew that she'd be lucky to get even one more spell off. The man was charging at her and she considered wasting that last spell driving him back. But she knew what she had to do.

She managed to get back on her feet, and she dove over the side of the building. With a quick flash of golden light, her wings were outstretched, and her body was gliding on the wind, just feet above the fighting in the square – what fighting was left anyway. As she crossed the square she could see that the serpents had finally overwhelmed them. It was expected, of course. And it looked as though the eagles had taken many more serpents with them to the grave. But the battle was lost.

She soared between two buildings and right out of the east side of the village and into the forest. She narrowly missed several tree trunks, her flight not steady given her injuries and fatigue. She soon found herself dipping lower, closer to the ground. Her wing clipped a branch and caused her to stagger, her small form slamming into a snowdrift.

She needed to rest. She was in her human form once more, lying in the fresh snow. She had no strength left, and she could only hope that she had flown far enough that the serpents wouldn't find her.
Sasha

Walking beneath the mountain, with thousands of feet of rock sitting just above her head, wasn't what Sasha had had in mind when she first ventured north. She also hadn't pictured going days and weeks with very little food. The berries that she had brought with her were gone, and the most food that the caverns seemed to provide were the occasional mushrooms. There were bats around, too, but she wasn't sure that she'd be able to kill a bat, and she was even less sure that she'd be able to eat one – the mushrooms were bad enough, but she needed some form of sustenance.

Luckily, though, there seemed to be plenty of natural water dripping from the ceiling of the tunnel, and down along the cavern walls. They sometimes encountered natural rock formations, stalactites and stalagmites, where she could fill her canteen with the slowly dripping water. It took some time to get even a small amount of water in her canteen, but she was usually in need of the rest anyway. Starla, on the other hand, seemed to require no rest at all, and often appeared confused as to why Sasha needed to stop regularly.

But despite all of that, the pair had made excellent progress – Sasha knew that she was making much better time than if she had continued on in the snow and wind and cold. The tunnels weren't warm, but they weren't as cold as outside either. Sasha found it to be a pleasant temperature, given the freezing numb that her face and extremities had been experiencing of late.

Starla spent most of the time leading the way. She had been through the caverns before, and she provided the light. Sasha could have summoned fire, of course, but using magic was tiring and she couldn't afford to use any energy that she didn't have to. So she happily followed along behind the girl.

Most of the journey was spent confined to tunnels, usually no more than twenty feet across and ten or fifteen feet high. But every now and then the tunnels would open up into wider cavernous areas that spanned hundreds of feet.

"Oh, wow," Sasha said as she followed Starla's glow into one such expansive cavern.

But this cavern was unlike any of the previous that they had entered. The entire ceiling of this cavern was lit up in strange streaks of white light. It appeared almost as though hundreds or thousands of strands of light were just hanging from the ceiling, dozens of feet above her head. It reminded her of the starry skies that she had enjoyed alongside Desmond, in her first few nights in the Reverie. She hadn't seen stars like that in some time, as the northern skies always seemed to be covered by clouds of varying shades of gray.

"They're glow worms," Starla whispered. "My daddy used to bring me into the caves near our village to show them to me."

"Those are worms?" Sasha asked, not sure whether to be amazed or a little grossed out.

"Don't they have those where you're from?"

"I don't know," Sasha replied, shrugging. "I've never been down in a cave like this where I'm from. This is all new to me."

"Oh, really? I've been down in lots of caves. Daddy used to take me. The villagers used them to mine rocks and stuff."

"I can't imagine coming down here every day. I'd be scared. Then again, a lot about this world scares me."

"Really? But you're so strong, why are you scared?"

Sasha chuckled, wondering what about her seemed strong to the girl.

"This place is so different from my world," Sasha said. "My life was never in danger on a daily basis, for one thing. This world seemed so wonderful when I first got here. It was magical and mysterious and everything was exciting and I just wish it could go back to being like that. And instead I've spent the last month trudging through the snow on a mission that I don't even understand, being chased through the woods by people who want to kill me. Sometimes I wish that I'd never come through that portal – that I could just go back to my mother."

"Where's your mother?"

"I left her behind, in the world that I'm from. I lied to her... I told her that I was going somewhere, but I really came here. And now I can't get back to her. I try not to think about her too much or I'll just start crying."

"I cry sometimes too. When I miss my daddy. Or when the bad people come."

Sasha smiled, sometimes forgetting that whatever her troubles might be, at least she wasn't a ghost. It seemed that Starla had been alone for a very long time, but she still held out hope that she'd see her father again.

"It's ok to cry sometimes, Starla," Sasha said. "When you miss somebody – like your father, or my mother... or Desmond."

"Who's Desmond?" Starla asked, and Sasha noted that the girl was trying to suppress a little smile.

"Desmond is the man who brought me here. He found me in my world and showed me the way through the portals. He's the one who first taught me about magic. Things seemed so much simpler then. Some nights I fall asleep just wishing that I could feel his arms around me and that everything would be alright again."

"So he's your boyfriend?" the girl inquired, stifling a giggle.

"I'm not really sure," Sasha replied, sighing. "I think so. At least, I hope so. But what does it matter if I never see him again?"

Sasha wasn't sure why she was discussing these things with the young girl. But it felt good to talk to someone, and Starla was the only one around – even if her questions weren't very deep.

"Is he handsome?" Starla asked, giggling openly now.

"Very," Sasha said, and she couldn't help but smile herself.

Starla spent the next few minutes, as they continued walking beneath the glowing cavern ceiling, asking questions about Desmond. And each question about his eyes or his smile or his voice struck Sasha a little harder than the last. She had never been in love before, and didn't know what that felt like – all she knew was that she missed Desmond terribly. He was her constant in this world, the one person who made her feel safe. She had been apart from him so long now, though, that she wasn't even sure about that anymore.

"Did you kiss him?" Starla asked, the girl nearing the point of being overwhelmed by a fit of smiles and giggles.

"Once," Sasha admitted, speaking mostly for her own benefit now. She dreamt about that kiss often – about how wonderful it felt. But it was also a painful memory, as it was the last time she had seen Desmond before they were so cruelly pulled apart.

The conversation faded as Starla seemed all giggled out, and Sasha was again lost in her thoughts. She missed her mother and her home, and she missed Desmond's warm embrace. And she was stuck walking underneath a mountain, worried that any second thousands of tons of rock and dirt could come crashing down on her head. And yet she seemed to have finally found a place of calm and acceptance. Desmond had continually told her that she belonged in this world. Maybe she was finally beginning to believe him.

* * *

Sasha and Starla continued on, through the winding passages, for a number of days before they again encountered a large cavernous area. This one lacked the glow worms hanging from the ceiling, but it had something else that immediately drew Sasha's attention – she could hear it from a quarter of a mile down the tunnel before they arrived in the chamber. It was the sound of rushing water.

Starla's glow only emitted a small amount of light, after all, so Sasha had to guide the girl in the direction of the sound. She soon found herself standing at the edge of a large underground lake. And the sound of water was the result of a waterfall delivering that water down the side of the cavern, from somewhere high above. Sasha inspected the water carefully before cupping her hands and bringing some to her lips. It was fresh and cool and tasted better than any water she had ever tasted. She spent five minutes sitting at the water's edge, just drinking her fill and topping up her canteen.

The pair moved along the water, following it. The lake was much larger than Sasha had first thought, and it took them nearly an hour to reach the other side. As they approached the far side of the cavern, Sasha noticed that the water in the lake didn't seem to be sitting still. She was curious, and soon discovered that the lake narrowed into a river, and that the water was flowing out of the cavern.

"Oh my," Sasha said as something else caught her eye. "Starla, did you know this was here?"

Sasha carefully stepped out onto a wooden platform. It was only five feet across and ten feet long. But at the end of it was moored a small rowboat.

"What is it?" Starla asked.

"It's a boat," Sasha said. Her eyes followed the flow of the water towards the narrow passage that led out of the cavern. The river led somewhere. And sitting in a boat seemed a much more desirable method of travelling than walking. Sasha's legs had been sore for days, and her feet numb for weeks.

"Did you know that the river was here?" Sasha asked.

Starla nodded, and she smiled as she stepped out over the water – her feet never slipping beneath the surface. It didn't seem to matter whether she was walking over rock or water, and Sasha realized that she never would have needed to notice the boat – what use was it to her? But it was of great use to Sasha.

Sasha was about to step out and into the boat, to test its strength, when she heard a splash. At first the sound startled her, and she was afraid that someone else was in the cave – or something worse. But with Starla a dozen feet or so out over the water, the girl's glow caught a second splash – there were fish in the water, and apparently they were trying to see what the source of light was.

"Was that a fish?" Sasha asked, peering out towards Starla.

"Yes," Starla confirmed. She was staring down into the water's surface, trying to see if the fish was still swimming about.

The mere thought of meat had Sasha's stomach grumbling. She could almost taste the sweet flesh of a grilled fillet of fish. The only problem being that she had no idea how to get the fish out of the water and onto a fire. She didn't have a fishing line, or even some type of net.

What she did have, of course, were her magical abilities. She had been conserving her energy as best she could, relying on Starla's glow to guide her, and lighting fires only when stopping to rest – Sasha didn't know what might be lurking in these caves, just beyond the darkness. She felt that a fire would help keep unwanted visitors away. But despite all of her magical conservation, she was still exhausted from the long journey and lack of real food – mushrooms and lichen could only provide so much energy. She knew that she had to try. A little meat would go a long way in helping her.

She gazed over the precipice of the lake – there was a slight incline that led down a foot or two from where she stood to the surface of the water. She wasn't even sure what sort of magic was going to help her catch a fish. All she'd really used in her limited experience were spells involving fire or lifting heavy objects into the air with her mind – neither of which was much help. She imagined that lifting a boulder, no matter how heavy it might have been, was very different from trying to lift something that she couldn't see, and was moving. She didn't think that would work.

What she did remember about magic was that it was largely based on the four elements. And while she had never used her magic to affect water in any way, she knew that it was possible – how much different could it really be from creating fire?

Sasha called out to Starla and asked the girl to move a little closer to the lake's edge. Sasha backed herself up and waited – sure enough, a splash followed Starla to her new position. So Sasha closed her eyes and concentrated on the water. She could feel it flowing in her mind, could hear the soft trickle of small drips and then the roaring crash of ocean waves. She tried to reach out and touch that energy, but it wasn't as easy as she was used to. A small ball of flame in her hand had become so simple, but this was different. Her mind pressed on, and tried to harness the water, to pull it towards her.

The next thing she knew, she heard Starla laughing, and then felt a spray of water hit her face. She opened her eyes to see that she had summoned a large wave out of the lake, which had rolled right over the rock all the way to her feet. And sitting on the ground, flopping helplessly, were two large fish. She had never seen fish quite like them before – they were fat and ugly and pale, and they had strange eyes. But she assumed that they had just evolved differently due to their unusual habitat. In any case, she had found her first real meal in weeks.

It didn't take long after that for Sasha to get the fire crackling and her catch sizzling away. The smell alone was making her mouth water.

"You should be a fisherman," Starla said as she watched Sasha dig in to her food. Despite the fish's odd look, the meat was flakey and tart. Sasha enjoyed it very much.

"I'm sure you can just picture me with a raincoat sitting on a boat all day," Sasha said. Then she realized that Starla probably wouldn't know what a raincoat was, which led to another barrage of questions about Sasha's world. Sasha didn't mind, though – it was nice to have someone to talk to, even if it made her a little homesick.

When she finally finished her meal – and all of Starla's questions – she lay back on the rock to let her belly settle. She hadn't eaten that much food, let alone meat, in some time. It seemed almost foreign for her to feel full, she had become so accustomed to the constant hunger.

"What is that?" Sasha asked, as her eye caught sight of something else.

She rolled over on the ground, focusing on something just beyond the circle of light that her fire created. She didn't think that it was the cavern wall – it looked almost like carved stone.

Curious, she slowly rose to her feet and moved towards it. She called Starla to follow, needing the girl's glow to see beyond the flickering light of her fire. Starla didn't seem as eager to investigate, but Sasha insisted and the girl obeyed. Bathed in the golden glow, Sasha could clearly see that she was standing beside what was once the wall of a building – it was now broken and crumbled, much as the buildings in Starla's village had been.

"Did people live down here?" she asked, breathing heavily.

It seemed an absurd idea at first – it was over a week's journey underground to reach this cavern. But then Sasha reasoned that there might be other tunnels that led to this cavern. There could be many, many tunnels running through the bowels of the mountains, and any number of them could lead to any particular cavern. They were following the road that Starla knew, but that didn't mean that there weren't other roads.

Sasha ran her hand along the worn stone, wondering how it had arrived in this state – there was no wind or rain or snow down here to wear it away. Perhaps it was just so old that it had fallen apart naturally. Or perhaps something else had caused the damage.

This wasn't the only building, either. There was a string of the same remnants of ancient structures, all straddling an evenly spaced gap between them – it was a street, and these had likely been homes and shops and what not. Sasha was certain that this was an old village.

"We need to keep going," Starla whispered, and it was only then that Sasha noticed that the girl hadn't followed her any farther past the first building.

"This place is incredible," Sasha said. "We should look around."

But Starla didn't move.

"Please," she whispered, even quieter this time.

"Starla, what's wrong?" Sasha asked, stopping and looking back at the girl. Starla was already taking a few steps backwards, towards the water.

"You might wake them," Starla said.

"What? Wake who? Do you know what this place is?"

But the words had barely left Sasha's mouth when she heard a low howl behind her. She turned, looking back down the road and into the blackness that engulfed the village – off in the distance there was a faint, golden glow, not unlike the glow that surrounded Starla. Sasha couldn't tell how far away it was, but it seemed to be getting bigger.

"The bad people..." Starla mumbled.

Sasha looked back at Starla – the girl looked petrified. Sasha had no idea what was going on, but she was alone and under a mountain. If whatever was making that light wasn't friendly, she might never escape these long, winding tunnels. She glanced over her shoulder again to see that the light was bigger still, and possibly closer. Then she turned and ran back towards Starla.

"Quick, to the boat," Sasha called. The girl didn't move right away, too scared to do anything.

"Starla! I can't see anything!" Sasha yelled, and then she flicked her wrist and created her own source of light.

She had to find the boat. She kept yelling out for Starla, but she wasn't sure if the girl had moved. Sasha made the water's edge, but she didn't have her bearings – had the boat been to her right or her left? She couldn't see more than a dozen feet in any direction, and the boat wasn't within that radius. She was starting to panic. She could sense the golden light closing in on them. She didn't know what it was, and she had no desire to find out. She started to move to her left.

"Over here!"

Her head shot back around to the right, and she could see the familiar soft glow of Starla's form, out over the water, showing her the way to the boat. She ran towards the girl and nearly tripped over the small wooden dock. They were both in the boat a moment later, and Sasha was pushing away from the moorings with the lone paddle. The boat was just big enough for two people.

Sasha was paddling madly now, trying to get them to the river. The current was helping them along, and Sasha noted how it started to pick up the closer they got. She didn't give it much thought just then, eager as she was to elude her pursuit.

The golden light finally reached the edge of the lake, and Sasha could make it out – it was people. Or maybe not people, but ghosts like Starla. Lots of them. It seemed like an entire village of ghosts had come down upon them. And it suddenly struck Sasha that Starla could walk over the water. She had to assume that these ghosts could as well.

"They won't follow us through here," Starla said.

Sasha turned and saw that they were just passing through the mouth of the next narrow passageway. She also noticed that she had stopped paddling altogether, but the boat seemed to be picking up speed.

"They can't get back up," Starla added.

"What do you mean, back up?" Sasha asked, and then she felt the boat lurch forward.

Her body nearly fell clean out of the boat, and might have if she hadn't grabbed on to the side of it and hung on with all her strength. Their little craft had tipped almost ninety degrees and was falling at a near vertical. And then it slammed into something and the next thing Sasha knew, they were floating peacefully atop another small lake.

"A little warning might have been nice," Sasha said, after catching her breath.

Starla just giggled.

"What were those things?" Sasha asked, and Starla stopped giggling.

"Dead people," she whispered. "They're not supposed to be here. Dead people are supposed to go on."

Sasha thought that an interesting statement, but she didn't press it. She knew how easily such things upset Starla, and she needed the girl if she wanted to get out from under these mountains.

"Do you know where we are now?" Sasha asked, looking around into the darkness that surrounded them.

Starla nodded.

"That way," she said, pointing her finger.

Sasha sighed and grabbed the paddle from the floor of the boat – she was lucky it hadn't gone overboard. And then she started paddling in the direction that the girl had indicated.
Graumin

Four days had passed since his encounter at the Noble Gate. And still Graumin lay on the hard bed in his dingy room at the inn. He stared up at the ceiling of the small room, smiling to himself as he envisioned the chaos that he might have stirred up with his unannounced arrival. He had played his plan perfectly, having accurately assessed that the younger Carrick would have no desire to associate with a man like Graumin, but that some of the older nobles would be eager to rescue a bit of the clan's lost power and glory. Now he just had to hope that the old baron agreed with the nobles rather than his own son.

It was early in the night, and the ruckus from the common room below was still loud and boisterous. But Graumin wasn't lying on his bed in search of sleep yet. He was just thinking – plotting how he might approach his meeting with the baron. He knew little about the man, even less than he knew about the younger Carrick. Graumin had only his knowledge of the Carricks who had come before – hard men who sought to rule over as much of the Reverie as they could claw away from other clans. They were brutal, ruthless leaders who cared little for the problems of the common folk and only for whatever selfish desires they aimed to progress. Graumin understood men like that. He didn't understand the young Carrick.

He got up off of his bed, deciding that he could use a bit of fresh air. The planks of wood that formed the staircase squeaked loudly with each step as he descended, announcing his arrival to the common room below. As had become custom over the past days, when Graumin appeared in the framed doorway that led to the staircase, the room went from raucous to quiet almost instantly. The place was crowded, and he suspected that each and every one of the patrons was drunk, yet they still maintained the sense to hold their commotion as Graumin passed through the room. Not a single one of them wanted to draw his ire. There was still a bit of a bloodstain on the dirty wooden floor.

He grinned as he walked through the room, passing brigands and guards alike. Even the overly friendly tavern wenches went quiet when he appeared. Every eye in the room was on him, and Graumin revelled in the fear that he sensed from them. He exited the building, and seconds after the door shut behind him, he could hear the loud celebrations resume. But despite the bevy of activity taking place in the great city's various inns and taverns, the streets were relatively quiet after dark. Large cities were full of various rogues and cutthroats, after all.

Such things didn't bother Graumin. He enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere that the darkened streets provided, and he cared little if some thug might try to rob him. Graumin had never cared much for cities. He didn't like people, and cities tended to be full of them. He preferred his solitude and sought it in the wilderness of the Reverie – but sometimes his affairs demanded sacrifices, so he'd have to put up with his disgust a while longer.

It wasn't a long walk from his inn to the bridge that led into the marketplace. The stalls and shops were all closed up, save for the few establishments that served food or some form of alcohol – Graumin avoided those. He had no particular destination, but his wanderings soon led him towards the Noble Gate, the very same spot that he had encountered Lord Carrick those few days before. The late hour found the gate closed, though, so any inclination he may have had of just barging in on the baron would have to wait. He could circumvent a simple gate, of course, but he was here seeking help – breaking all of the rules wouldn't go very far in accomplishing that goal. So instead, he found himself tracing his steps back towards his room. He expected that it would be quiet by now, and if not, then he would make it quiet.

Graumin arrived back in the peasant district not long after, and as he came within sight of the inn, he noted a pair of men standing outside the door. They didn't look like the usual drunks who often stumbled outside. They were guards – clad in chain mail with swords sheathed at their hips. And as he drew closer still, he saw that they weren't just regular city guards – they bore the sigil of House Carrick on their chests. These were members of the baron's personal escort.

"Took you long enough," Graumin grumbled, and the two men glanced at one another.

"You're Graumin?" the first guard asked.

Graumin grunted in reply. He suspected that they already knew exactly who he was.

"The baron is willing to grant you an audience," the guard continued. "But he sends warning that should you disobey even the simplest order, or show any sign of aggression toward the clan nobility, you do so on pain of death. I am to carry out the order myself."

Graumin glared at the man. The threat was levelled quite clearly, and Graumin was tempted to test it. But he had come halfway across the Reverie for this meeting, so his pride would have to wait. He turned and the two men led him back in the same direction that he had just come.

"Does the baron always meet guests in the middle of the night?" Graumin asked as he followed a few feet behind his escorts.

"I guess you're just special," the second guard stated.

Graumin watched every slight movement that the pair in front of him made – he knew the way that spiders thought. Maybe the baron had just sent these two to be rid of a potential thorn in his side. Or maybe these two were the younger Carrick's work, having convinced the nobles that his sick, old father needn't be consulted. Whatever the case, Graumin had no intention of being caught unawares.

"Who are you supposed to be, anyway?" the first guard called back over his shoulder. "The baron doesn't usually see anyone, let alone a filthy old louse like you."

"Watch your tongue, boy," Graumin said.

The guard stopped abruptly and turned to cast a menacing glare at the old spider. But Graumin ignored him and just walked right on past, bumping his shoulder into the man's chest as he did – he knew where they were going, and he was insulted by the notion that he should be escorted there at all.

Graumin half expected to receive a sword in the back, but he didn't turn. He could hear the second guard whispering harshly to his companion, and then he heard the soft clink of armour rattling as the two men hurried to catch up with him.

With his sentries flanking him once more, Graumin was led through the Noble Gate – which was now raised – and passed the opulent estates of the various powerful houses of the Spider Clan. Graumin didn't give them much attention, though, as it was both dark and he didn't really care. When they reached the final gate, which led to the Carrick palace, they had to stop and signal the soldier who controlled the gate. A moment later Graumin heard the sound of a heavy crank turning and the gate was slowly raised.

He didn't even wait for the gate to go all the way up, stepping forward and ducking his head. His escorts stumbled, trying to keep up with him. Graumin quickly crossed the courtyard and then brushed right past the guards that flanked the palace's main entrance.

The inside of the palace was made from the same black stone that composed the exterior, giving the place a dark, grim atmosphere. The walls were lined with suits of armour and statues and tapestries and many other things that Graumin expected filled the homes of most obscenely wealthy people. Such trinkets had never intrigued him, though. Only two things captured Graumin's attention – power and magic.

"Which way?" Graumin grunted – though he had walked through this castle several times before, it was vast and he couldn't remember the layout. The two guards seemed eager to retake the lead from him, and they both scurried around him and turned down a hallway to the left.

At the end of the hallway was a large double door, made of heavy oak, emblazoned with the black and violet sigil of the Spider Clan, and the crimson crest of House Carrick. Two more of the baron's royal guard flanked this door, and when it swung open Graumin walked into the throne room.

The room was largely black, with many candles burning along the walls. The only piece of furniture in the room was a golden chair, which lay at the end of a long, narrow violet carpet that ran the length of the room, splitting it in half. Seated on the chair was a man, old and shrivelled. He was bald, save for a few unkempt wisps of gray hair around the sides of his head and his ears. He was wearing the robes of a spider druid, though Graumin was certain that the man possessed no magical ability – it was an insult to druids to wear such a robe, but the nobility often got away with such transgressions. But perhaps the most intriguing aspect of the man was the lithe young woman that was draped across his lap, her arms wrapped around the back of the old man's neck. Graumin couldn't tell if she was happy to be in that position or not, but she knew how to play her role, gazing adoringly at the baron.

"Well met again," a voice said, and Graumin shifted his eyes to notice the younger Carrick stepping forward. There were another dozen men standing on the other side of the violet carpet from him - presumably the leaders of each of the twelve noble houses.

Graumin was again reminded of how well Lord Carrick played the political game, when the young man immediately began to introduce each of the twelve men, along with their numerous titles and their house's various achievements. He also kept referring to Graumin as "Master Graumin."

"Enough with the pleasantries," the baron spat, however, and the younger Carrick bowed politely and stepped back – the baron apparently didn't share his son's appetite for formalities.

"I never expected to hear your name again," the baron said, staring straight at Graumin. "We all figured you were long dead."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," Graumin stated.

"You caused my family a great deal of grief once upon a time."

"I caused your family a great deal of wealth and power not long before that," Graumin replied, letting his eyes rest on the baron's son. "It's funny how things change with a new leader."

The old man cackled, his old form shaking, causing the young woman on his lap to squirm.

"That's very true," Baron Carrick said. "Still, why shouldn't I have you killed just for showing up here? You were exiled, you know."

"You're welcome to try," Graumin said.

Graumin could see a few of the nobles tense, and the baron's son sighed. He expected that not many people spoke to the leader of the Spider Clan with such candour. The baron kept staring, appraising Graumin. And then the old man looked to the pair of guards who had escorted Graumin from the inn, and inclined his head. Both men drew their swords and lunged forward.

Graumin growled and thrust an arm out – he didn't have time for the baron's little games. As Graumin's fingers flexed, one of the guards faltered, his free hand clutching at his temple. The man howled in rage and stabbed his sword out to the side, catching his companion just under the armpit. Graumin heard a number of gasps from the gathered crowd, and a squeal from the woman on the baron's lap.

The possession of another human's mind was an outlawed branch of magic – much like human sacrifice. There was a certain level of disgust that accompanied such acts. But more than that, it was a very difficult feat to accomplish. A human's will was much stronger than an animal's, and much better prepared to defend such mental invasions. In fact, the guard had already overcome Graumin's domination, but the sheer shock and surprise of the attack had overwhelmed him for just a few seconds – long enough for Graumin to use the man's own sword against his ally.

The guard was blinking his eyes rapidly, as though only realizing that he was again in control of his actions. He glanced confusedly to the side, where the second guard lay bleeding, his arm draped across his body to put pressure on his wound. The first guard looked back in Graumin's direction, his gaze showing a level of repulsion that only made Graumin grin with pleasure. Graumin could sense the man's fear – the fear of each and every person in the room.

The guard seemed to be trying to decide if he still wanted to attack Graumin, but a quick glance at Baron Carrick's stern face had him charging once more, sword brandished high. Graumin gave his wrist a flick and sent a black flame streaking towards the man. The guard deftly spun to avoid the attack, and continued towards Graumin. As the slash of the sword came down, Graumin gave a little spin of his own, and it was only then that the guard realized that Graumin's black flame had been nothing more than misdirection – Graumin had produced a slender dagger from his robes, and it was now imbedded in the man's abdomen, having sliced right between two links of his chain mail.

Graumin kicked the sword from the man's hand as he dug the dagger in a little deeper. He then reached out and grabbed the guard by the throat, preventing his body from slumping to the ground. Graumin wanted to watch the man's life fade from his eyes. The man cried out in pain as Graumin ripped the dagger from his side, letting his blood gush out and all over the baron's well-kept floor. The guard tried to spit in Graumin's face – one last, defiant act – but all that came out was a gurgle of blood and bile. A moment later his eyes fell dark and his head lolled to the side. Graumin threw the man's body to the floor and retook his position across the violet carpet from the nobles.

The baron had a strange grin on his face, while his female companion looked like she might soon be sick. She couldn't take her eyes from the dead body.

"Get him out of here," the baron commanded, indicating the second guard, who was still on the floor, struggling to keep his insides inside of him. A pair of guards came running from the door to drag the man away, leaving a streak of dark red across the black stone.

"Well," the baron continued, "You don't disappoint after all, do you?"

Graumin didn't answer. He just glared at the baron, annoyed that he had to take part in such demonstrations.

"Get to the point then," Baron Carrick said. "You called this meeting, not me."

"I require an army," Graumin said. His statement was met with mirth from the gathering.

"Is that all?" one noble called out.

But another stern look from the baron quieted them.

"My son would have you exiled once more," the baron said. "And a few of these men would even have you killed outright - although several did speak on your behalf. I accepted your audience out of curiosity, nothing more. I would rather be back in my chambers, enjoying my last few days. If you don't have something important to tell me, right now, then I will have you killed – and by men more capable than those last two."

"A great war is upon the Reverie, and the spiders hide away in their holes. Why?"

"My son controls the fate of this clan now. He believes that we will weaken our position if we engage in this war. The serpents will be crushed and then the combined might of the remaining clans will come down upon us. We have allies, of course, but they're mostly inconsequential, and probably only allied with us out of fear anyway. Who knows if they'll even stay loyal. If it's a war you want, lost brother, then you'd better convince my boy of it."

The baron claimed that his son was in charge, but Graumin could tell - given the respect that the men in the room were affording the old man - that the baron was still the leader of the Spider Clan.

"Let me lead an army north," Graumin said. "And the Spider Clan will know greater glory than ever before."

"The north is cold and doesn't agree with my old bones," the baron said. "I've heard enough. I had higher hopes for you."

The baron let the girl hop down off of his lap and he started to rise out of his throne. A few of the nobles started whispering among themselves. And Graumin debated whether or not he should reveal his true intentions.

"I've found the cave," he said at length.

The baron turned back to regard him, a puzzled expression across his tired face.

"Cave?" the old man repeated. "What cave?"

"I've not been idle these many years of my exile. I've spent most of them exploring the Reverie, seeking out untapped sources of magic – places where the connection with nature is stronger than others. My journeys have recently led me north, far north. I traversed the Old Mountains. I found the cave of the Sleeper."

The room was silent then, the baron eyeing Graumin curiously.

"The Sleeper? Adenah?" the baron asked, sounding unconvinced.

"Yes," Graumin replied, nodding. "Does the power of a dragon intrigue you?"

"Legends say that only the blood of a dragon can enter the cave," the younger Carrick put in.

"Legends say a lot of things, boy," Graumin grunted. "I've been there. I've seen the protection. And I can break it."

Graumin left out the part where he required the boy's blood to dispel the cave's protection. He would have to figure out a way to locate the boy later, before he got back to the cave.

"And you intend to harness the power of the dragon?" the baron asked.

"I will bring glory to the spiders," Graumin said.

The two men stared at each other. Graumin knew that the baron was taking measure of him.

"Father, this is nonsense," Lord Carrick said. But his father wasn't listening.

"You'll need a proper team if you mean to lead an army," the baron said. "I've just the man to serve as your lieutenant."

Baron Carrick inclined his hand towards one of the guards near the door, and the man turned and shouted something down the hall. Everyone stood around the throne room for several minutes, waiting. The nobles were busy muttering to themselves. Lord Carrick looked frustrated. And the baron appeared like he might have been plotting a way to involve his clan in the war all along.

A minute later a pair of the baron's royal guard entered the room, escorting a man, just as Graumin had been escorted in. The new addition was a tall, gaunt man, with a full, graying goatee. His head was bald, but as he drew closer Graumin could see that it was heavily scarred, as though it had been burned. The man's face pulled at Graumin's mind – he knew this man. The man's eyes were dark and penetrating, and Graumin remembered his name – Kendrick.

"Father!" Lord Carrick yelped. "This man has been accused of serious crimes at the Verdant Council."

"Oh?" the baron said. "Such as?"

"It is said that he killed a totem – Iain the stag."

"Is that a crime? It sounds more like cause for celebration."

A number of the nobles chuckled, but Graumin didn't join in. He was glaring at Kendrick with eyes full of hate. It took every ounce of his composure not to lash out and kill Kendrick where he stood. He almost declared to the baron that he wouldn't abide having Kendrick accompany him. But he was so close to realizing his goal – the baron was about to give him his army.

"Two lost brothers, returning to the fold," the baron commented. "I consider this a sign. Send word to rally the troops."

Baron Carrick went on for some time, assigning different nobles to different tasks – defense of the west border, defense of the north border, securing supply routes, and so on. Graumin mostly tuned it all out. He had even managed to stop glaring at Kendrick, although his hate for the man was no less.

Graumin was experiencing something that he hadn't felt in a very, very long time – happiness. Everything was falling together just perfectly.

"Deliver me the north," the baron said, turning back to Graumin and Kendrick. "The north, and the power of a dragon." He paused a moment, before adding, "Or I'll have both of your heads."
Kelly

When Kelly finally woke, she was still lying in the snow. She groaned as she leaned forward, raising her body. Her head was throbbing. But as she looked around, she realized that she was not alone. A fire was crackling nearby, and about twenty men were surrounding her, some lying, some sitting. All of them appeared to be nursing some degree of injury, and much of the snow was tinged a light red.

"You're awake," Gracos said, approaching her side.

Kelly tried to smile at the man, but it just made her head pound a little harder.

"You've been unconscious for three days," Gracos went on. "We thought we may have lost you. We couldn't do much to heal you, only two other druids survived the battle, and one is in worse shape than you are."

Gracos sat down in the snow beside Kelly, handing her a canteen. She lifted it to her lips and drank, realizing just how thirsty she was.

"Is this all that's left?" she whispered to him, once she was finished drinking.

"Yes," Gracos replied. "The town is lost to us. But this number was still able to escape into the woods. The serpents haven't even bothered to come looking for us."

That made sense to Kelly. A well-armed group of several hundred capable soldiers could pose a hindrance to the serpents. But a scattered group of twenty or thirty injured men posed little threat. As long as they kept out of the way, she suspected that they wouldn't find much trouble from the serpents – who would be too busy trying to repair the damage that Gracos' group had caused over the last weeks.

"I'm glad we were able to save some," Kelly stated.

"We're a little worse for wear," Gracos admitted. "But after a week's rest, I think we can do a little more damage. We'll be more mobile with fewer soldiers. We can hit their supply lines in the woods, disrupt the army's movements."

"You want to keep fighting?" Kelly asked.

Gracos' look was all the response he offered. Of course, Kelly was accustomed to such warrior mentalities, having spent so much time with Brandt. But glancing around at the wounded men – and so few of them – she couldn't see any reason to possibly continue these skirmishes.

"Our work here is done," she said, already shaking her head. "We've done what we could, and pressing forward would be folly."

Gracos started to protest, but Kelly cut him off.

"Your courage is admirable, Gracos," she said. "But enough is enough. I have a new task for you – to lead these men back to the safe confines of The Aerie. Report our successes to Marcus, and he'll direct you from there."

"My lady, I'm certain that we can still accomplish our aims with this force."

"This isn't a debate. I speak for the clan out here. You're to return to the city as soon as the men are healed enough to safely travel. My druids will aid you there."

"Are you not joining us?"

Kelly didn't answer right away, instead gazing off towards the south.

"No," she said. "I dispatched Matthias many moons ago, and have heard no tidings of him since. I must return to the obelisk and investigate."

"But you've been wounded as well," Gracos stated. "If Matthias met any danger, it may still be there. We'll escort you to this strange obelisk."

"No, Gracos. You'll return to the city. I can cover the ground quickly, and my injuries are minor. I'll be away first thing in the morning. And that's final."

Gracos finally seemed to accept that his fight was over, and that it was time to return home. He didn't seem happy about it, but Kelly assured him that he had her full support in arguing that the eagle council dispatch a larger force. She wasn't sure that he'd be able to convince them, but it seemed to placate him.

She spent the remainder of the day resting, keeping warm near the fire, and trying to soothe the dull ache in her head. She had hit it quite hard while in her eagle form – not to mention the blow that her jaw had taken – and the pain hadn't relented much over the course of the day. But once nightfall took the camp, she was able to find some sleep.

* * *

She had been flying for several hours in a general southerly direction. She couldn't remember the exact location of the obelisk, but she remembered quite keenly the foul tugging sensation that had drawn her to it in the first place. She wasn't sure if she would sense such things high above the canopy, so she found places to occasionally descend through the boughs and land.

It took less time than she had expected before she first felt that dark magic pulling at her. It was stronger than she remembered, and she wondered if chance had driven her to land close to the strange stone, or if the radius of its pull had increased. Whatever the reason, she wasted little time in trudging off through the snow and between the trees. She noticed that the trees became less vibrant, their branches hanging limply, bark having rotted away. Every limb of every tree seemed to be subtly leaning in the same direction.

She pushed through a final bough of pine and found herself in a familiar clearing. Once in sight of the black stone, its bright green runes shining on the surface, she felt the unnatural tug at her soul – it was much more powerful than before. She didn't take that as a good sign. The trees that encircled the obelisk were tilted more dramatically towards it, some roots even exposed as the trees were unnaturally pulled. She noticed a squirrel skitter across the clearing, and a good look showed that much of its skin was peeling away, the bones beneath visible to her. She was repulsed by the sight - by the corruption of nature. But the squirrel disappeared into the trees before she could process the implications of what she had seen.

Something else caught her eye then, and she rushed around the side of the obelisk, fighting against its pull with each step. There were three bodies lying on the ground. Each of them had a deep blue and gold cloak wrapped about its shoulders. She recognized Matthias' stout form immediately. She was on her knees, hands reaching out and touching the torn flesh of his face. All three of them looked the same, like they might have been dead for some time. She could see no wounds on the bodies – no source of their demise at all. They hadn't even drawn their weapons, though they may have unleashed some magic in defense – she had no way to tell.

"I suspected I'd find you here sooner or later, little bird."

Kelly's head shot around to see a man standing nearby. The tone of his voice was grim, much like his stern face. His hair was well kept, and his body seemed strong and well built, despite his apparent age – she guessed that he was in his late forties. The last time she had seen him, he had been clad in the emerald fineries befitting a councillor. But today he was wearing much different garb – a tunic of boiled leather with matching leggings and boots. And in his hand was a long spear, a green feather tied near the point.

"What are you doing here, Vexonis?" Kelly asked, rising from her kneeling position.

"I could ask the same of you, totem," he replied, leaning forward against the shaft of his spear.

"Did you kill these men?" Kelly asked.

"Not me, no," Vexonis said, chuckling.

"Do dead men amuse you?"

"I seem to recall a time when my dead brethren amused you. And I didn't kill them. They should never have come here in the first place."

Kelly noticed that Vexonis wore an amulet around his neck – something that she didn't remember seeing at the Verdant Council. It seemed to be made of the same black stone that comprised the obelisk, and it had a bright green gem in the centre. The gem was pulsing with the same frequency as the thrumming pull that she felt emanating from the obelisk itself.

"I sent them here," Kelly stated, taking a menacing step forward. "And if that caused their deaths, then I won't be pleased."

"No matter," the serpent replied, shrugging. "You'll join them soon enough."

Despite his threat, Vexonis didn't raise his spear or make any aggressive movements. It took Kelly a moment to realize what he had meant. She remembered seeing the dead animals on her last visit. Had a powerful druid, like Matthias, been overcome by this foul magic?

Kelly didn't get a chance to ponder that question very long. She had glanced towards the obelisk for only a second, and that's all it had taken for Vexonis to lunge forward. With the subtlest of movements, he slipped the tip of his spear from the ground and up. He was holding the end of the shaft with only one hand, but seemed to have remarkable control of the long weapon. Kelly only caught the flurry out of the corner of her eye, and she moved her head just as the spear tip went whistling past.

She was taken aback by just how quick and fluid his motions were. The spear had shot past her head, but he had already swung it back for a second pass. Kelly was ready this time, though, and she was able to dodge the incoming attack. She barely had time to consider what magic she might fling at him and he was spinning his body, the spear's shaft flexing as he spun. She thrust a hand forward, intending to send a gust of mighty wind at the serpent, but she was forced to abandon her spell and jump back as the spear came slashing down towards her arm.

Kelly did manage to flick her wrist and loose a small flame. Vexonis did his best to dodge, but the heat was enough to sear part of his leather armour, just over his belly. Kelly knew that she hadn't hurt him, but perhaps it was enough to send a message.

All the while that she fought the skilled warrior, the continued thrumming of the black obelisk penetrated her mind. It was enough that she had the deal with the ache from her recent head injuries, but now this dark magic was dulling her senses beyond that. She tried to shake it away, to concentrate, but it wasn't easy. She did note that Vexonis didn't seem to be affected by the magic at all – or if he was affected, he didn't show any sign of it. Her eyes dropped to the bright green gem around his neck. It again occurred to her that the gem seemed to pulse in time with the pulling she felt in her head. Could that amulet be protecting him? Or was his foul spirit just naturally immune to such magic?

Vexonis lashed out again, his spear arcing in high, almost like the broad sweep of a sword. But as Kelly moved to elude the high attack, the serpent spun his wrist and the spear dropped and knifed in towards her side. Her momentum was already carrying her in one direction, and she wasn't able to slow it. The tip of the spear slashed in through her own leather jerkin, tearing part of it away at her ribs. She was lucky that the tip hadn't pierced her flesh, but if she had hoped to send a message with her small fireball, Vexonis had just sent a bigger one.

"Careful, little bird," Vexonis sneered at her. "Or you might find your wings clipped."

Kelly grit her teeth and the ground beneath Vexonis' feet began to shake and tremble. He looked momentarily surprised, perhaps by the force of the quaking, but he was moving again quickly, trying to elude the widening chasm that had appeared beneath him. Kelly realized very quickly that she would never catch him in such a trap – he was too nimble and agile. The ground ceased bucking and Kelly took a few steps back to regain her composure. She maneuvered herself around, Vexonis circling, until the crack she had just created stood between the duelling foes. It was nearly five feet wide, and at least twenty feet long, and she felt that it provided her some semblance of defense against Vexonis' quick strikes.

She was wrong, though – she glanced up to see that he was leaping from the ground, his spear leading the way, and careening through the air towards her. She was just able to duck, bringing herself into a roll to the side, avoiding the bold attack. Vexonis was on top of her right away, and she wasn't able to regain her footing, rolling and skittering backwards across the ground, evading the many slashes of his spear.

The spear tip cut at her leather in a few places, and one slice nicked her left wrist, drawing a thin line of blood and causing her to gasp. Her back slammed into a tree trunk as she blindly backed away. The spear came shooting in towards her head, and she was only narrowly able to avoid it. But as she maneuvered her body out of the way, she pushed a little gust of wind, leading the tip of his spear too far – it stuck right into the trunk of the tree. She rolled to the side as Vexonis pulled to extract his weapon. She thrust her right arm forward and a crackling blue streak of lightning issued forth, slamming into the serpent's ribs. He was thrown to the ground, losing his grip on the spear shaft.

Kelly tried to catch her breath, hoping that Vexonis would be stunned for a few moments. She crawled forward, towards the serpent's spear, reaching out to grab hold of the long shaft herself. Her fingers wrapped around it, but she was unable to pull it to her body. She glanced up to see that he had also reached out to take hold of his weapon. She couldn't pull it away from him, but the thought came to her to release a small flame – the length of the wooden shaft of the spear was soon crackling. She removed her hand, and looked over to see that Vexonis had removed his hold on the spear as well. Then she felt a sudden blow, pain shooting through her head – he had kicked her in the face.

Kelly grunted and rolled onto her back, a hand coming up to clutch at her nose. The last fight she had been in, she had nearly broken her jaw. This time she was certain that Vexonis had broken her nose. Blood was gushing out of it, all over her hands and chest, and she could feel that it was sitting crooked on her face. She tried to ignore the pain, though, and get back to her feet. She used her arm to brace her body and she managed to stand up.

"Had enough?" Vexonis growled, his voice tinged with rage.

He didn't look nearly as bad as Kelly did – his leather armour was mostly blackened, and parts of it were still smoking, but she couldn't see that she had seriously wounded him at all.

Kelly didn't bother to respond, feeling that she had the upper hand now – his weapon was useless, after all. She raised her right arm to loose another lightning bolt. But even as the blue crackles began to emerge, Vexonis' own arm moved forward. It happened too fast, and Kelly didn't pick up the projectile right away – he had thrown the metal tip of his spear in her direction, and it was careening towards her, end over end. The spear connected with her right shoulder, throwing her magic awry. It didn't strike her squarely enough to dig in, but the glancing blow tore a gash out of her flesh.

As she was still wincing in pain, she felt his boot collide with her belly, and she keeled forward. A fist slammed into her temple then, and she tumbled to the ground, waves of agony rolling through her battered form.

"Aren't you supposed to be a totem, or something?" Vexonis taunted.

Kelly responded by kicking one of his ankles, causing him to stumble forward. She reached up and grabbed the side of his face with her right hand – gritting her teeth as she endured the pain in her shoulder. She could smell the burning flesh a moment later as her hand ignited the side of his head, burning away much of his hair. He kicked her again as he regained his balance and backed away.

Kelly couldn't get up. The tugging of the dark magic was wearing on her as she lay there in pain. She could feel it pulsing in her mind, trying to pull her soul towards it. Is this how her fellow druids had found their end? Had this thing simply sucked the power right out of them, leaving their shells behind to rot on the ground?

Her eyes found Vexonis standing over her. One side of his face was burnt, but she didn't have the strength to hurt him again. She needed to get away. She wondered if she had the energy left to transform. She could fly far, far away.

Vexonis leaned down, bringing his mouth close to Kelly's ear. She tried to reach out again, to grab at him, but he just knocked her arm away.

"How badly I want to kill you, little bird," he whispered. "But someone else wants that job even more than I."

Kelly was confused, and she tried to look around, but her neck hurt when she moved it. Was there someone else nearby? Why hadn't they joined in the fight?

"Here he comes now," the serpent continued. "I believe you know him?"

Kelly again lifted her head, fighting the pain. Her vision was a little blurred, but she found the approaching figure. His stout form and blue and gold cloak made him unmistakable – it was Matthias. Kelly shook her head, unsure of what was going on. She had seen Matthias' corpse. How could he be alive?

As he drew closer, Kelly felt the sudden revulsion. The obelisk had been masking her senses, but as Matthias came right up to her, she could keenly feel the perversion of nature. Her eyes found his face, the rotting flesh just as she recalled. His eyes were dark and empty. She knew immediately that he wasn't alive.

"What have you done?" she asked, unable to mask her horror.

Matthias reached an arm out towards her, and Kelly could see just how stilted and unnatural his movements were. Vexonis was standing behind the undead creature now, and Kelly could hear him laughing. She found the strength to push her body backwards, trying to distance herself. But the thing just continued after her.

"Matthias!" she screamed, but she already knew that he wasn't inside that body any longer.

Her quickening pulse did serve to bolster her resolve, though. Her rage and hatred for Vexonis and that foul obelisk provided her the little strength she required to rise from the ground. The thought of destroying Matthias once and for all was foremost in her thoughts. But she was weak, and she looked past the creature to see that the other two druids were standing, as well. She had barely survived her battle with Vexonis alone – how could she fight him again, along with these three abominations?

She had to get away, to spread word. Vexonis seemed to realize her sudden inspiration, and he was no longer laughing. He was running towards her, shouting at the undead beings. He was trying to prevent her escape.

She was in the air only seconds later. She could barely flap her right wing, but she managed to gain enough lift to clear the forest canopy. The wind above the trees refreshed her, but she was still so weak.

The sun was peeking through the clouds and she noted its position. She was heading south – she hadn't planned to head in any particular direction, she had simply fled. She thought of going east, back to The Aerie. She could warn Marcus and she could rest. Then she thought of the west, of Ursa's Maw. She could see Brandt again – how she missed him. But she decided that it was no fluke that her current course was to the south, given what she had just witnessed.

Her pain was no less while in her eagle form, and she knew that she had little strength. She didn't know how far she could make it like this. Already she felt like she might simply fall from the sky. But she had no choice. She had to fight through – and it was a long journey, even for her.

But she was convinced that Desmond would know what to do – and Brom, if they were still together. She only hoped that she had the strength to reach them.
Father Lawrence

The wind was whipping through the few holes in the stone that the priest hadn't yet been able to fix. It made the church cold, but he spent the bulk of his time in his chambers anyway, where he constantly had a fire burning in the hearth. It was well into the morning, and he knew that he should be getting some more work done – he had been rebuilding his pews out of some of the broken wood and some new wood he had acquired through trade. But the comfort of his warm bed and crackling fire was too pleasant to leave.

There was yet another large tome lying on his bed, atop the blankets and furs that covered him. He still couldn't read the strange runic language, but he felt that he was piecing together more and more of the history of this place through the many paintings and illustrations – he just hoped that he wasn't reading a bunch of children's stories, and that these were the actual histories of the Reverie.

He was roused from his bed abruptly, though, when he heard the large oak doors of the church open and shut. He caught himself again fantasizing about Tamara's return. He constantly dreamt about her just showing up in his room in the dead of night, returned from her rituals and soul searching. Midwinter had come and passed, and still Tamara was off, wherever she had gone.

He approached the door to his chamber and stepped out into the main hall – he was disappointed, as he always was. It was not Tamara, but rather the town blacksmith's wife, Marina.

"Good morning, Marina," he greeted, trying his best to smile.

He noticed immediately that the woman seemed distraught. She didn't return his smile, but instead looked afraid.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked, and she nodded her head.

"The dog ran off last night," she sputtered. "The boys went out at first light this morning, into the woods, trying to find her."

"Okay," the priest said, moving to place his hand on the woman's shoulder. "Are they still gone? Are you worried about them?"

"No, they've come back. They found the dog just off the road, heading towards the crossroads. But they saw something else, too."

"Something else? What was it?"

"First, they just saw lots of torches. They didn't want to get too near. They didn't want to be seen. But then they could hear voices on the wind. And they could make out men, lots of men. And they were heading towards Churchtown."

News like that was not something that Father Lawrence was prepared for. Word had reached them, of course, of the ongoing war to the north, between the bears and the serpents. And Churchtown wasn't that far south of bear territory. But still, it hadn't occurred to him that the fighting would come this far south – unless the serpents had broken through the bear lines. In any case, bear or serpent, an army coming through his town was not a prospect that pleased him.

He thanked Marina for the news, and led her back to the door. There was a light snow falling again, but the weather wasn't bad. He knew that troops moved slowly in winter, but if they were already on the road from the crossroads, they could reach town by nightfall.

Sighing, he hauled on his furs and headed out the door. His movement was nearly back to normal – he had only a small limp when he walked that was barely noticeable to most. What did remain, though, was a rather garish scar. It was black and spanned over half a foot of his flesh. He expected to have a scar, of course, but when he had finally removed the bandages for good, the dark colouration had surprised him.

It didn't take long for him to reach the other side of town, and he cautiously opened the door to the witches' temple. He was always hesitant about intruding, in case they were involved in some sort of ritual. But as he glanced around the darkened room, he saw only a few figures.

He spotted Serena, with her fiery hair and her simple black robe. She saw him coming, as well.

"Hello, father," she said. "What can I do for you?"

"I just had an unsettling visit," he replied. "Word is, there are troops marching towards our town, as we speak."

"Troops? What do you mean?"

"It seems the northern war is spilling south."

"But what would troops want with us? I don't understand."

"Oh, I doubt they intend to attack us – we're not affiliated with any clans. My guess would be that they'll probably demand supplies – food, lumber, any weapons or armour we might have."

"Our people work hard to harvest food for the winter. We have just enough to feed ourselves, we can't go giving it away."

"I don't disagree, Serena. But while these people may have no intention of attacking us, should we refuse to help them we may find that they become less friendly."

Serena was already shaking her head, her fiery curls dancing about her shoulders. He could see the anger flare up in her eyes.

"Why should they just be able to barge into our town and take our things?" she demanded.

"They're an army," the priest replied. "They can do whatever they want. And we can either do what they say, or we can fight them. It's really that simple."

"How many are there?"

"I'm not sure. But if they had even fifty well-armed soldiers, that would likely be enough to overwhelm our town. And if they have druids with them, then we would be even worse off. Can your witches fight?"

"Not well. Tamara is by far the most skilful with magic. She's been mentoring me, but I'm still nowhere near her power. A few of the others have shown an aptitude for healing magic, but we don't have many that would be much help in a battle."

"Then it seems like our choice is an easy one."

Serena didn't look at all pleased with that pronouncement, her brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. But the priest knew that they didn't really have any other options. He didn't even know what clan the approaching army belonged to.

"So what are you going to do?" the witch asked.

"I'm going to need your help," he replied. "We need to go around to everyone in town and gather whatever supplies can be spared. Tell everyone to keep only what they absolutely need to survive until spring. We'll gather everything in front of the church."

Father Lawrence left the temple soon after, confident that Serena and her witches could be persuasive with the townsfolk. In the meantime, the priest had to go and clear a place in front of his church to store whatever they could gather.

* * *

It was dark by the time that the troops reached the town, but most of the buildings that lined the main road had their torches lit. Between that and the moonlight, there was enough illumination to see clearly. The priest glanced down at the meagre supplies that they had managed to put together. There were a few swords, an old bow, a barrel of flour, a few sacks of tubers and hard vegetables, and even a crate of salted beef that Serena had practically clawed away from the butcher. Many of the town's citizens, including Serena and her witches, were standing around the pile, very unhappy to be losing their goods.

As the soldiers approached, Father Lawrence got a better look at them. There was a single mounted man who was leading the way. He had sturdy plate armour that was shimmering in the array of firelight. It was difficult to count in the dark, but the priest thought he made out close to a hundred men marching down his street. In the back he could clearly see at least a half dozen robed figures.

"Greetings," the priest called out as the rider drew close. "Welcome to our humble town, good sir."

The man led his horse right up in front of the priest – the man's chestplate bore the sigil of the Bear Clan, a black bear rampant on a field of white. The bear leader didn't acknowledge the priest, but rather looked out over the gathered crowd.

The priest was nervous. These men looked grim and weary, and the lack of a friendly greeting put him on edge.

"We understand that the bears war with the serpents," the priest went on. "We've always held good relations with the Bear Clan, and we aim to continue that relationship. As you can see, we've prepared an offering to aid your forces."

The mounted bear did look down at the pile of supplies.

"You call that an offering?" he scoffed. "That pittance wouldn't feed this group for a week, let alone a real army."

"I apologize, good sir. But it is all that we can manage. We're a small town, after all, and our men labour hard to store enough food for winter. Even giving up this small amount is a burden to us."

Despite his mockery of the small offering, the bear leader did order his men to take the supplies away. Several soldiers moved forward and began carrying the sacks and crates back towards their supply wagons.

"The Bear Clan is at war," the bear leader shouted to the crowd. "We fight and we die so that towns such as yours can survive so close to the evil serpents. Without us, you would be fodder to the dark magic and darker inclinations of the foul men of the deep north. Today we demand repayment. You will go back to your homes and you will retrieve every scrap of food you possess, every coin, every tool, every weapon, and you will hand them over."

The priest could hear the grumblings rolling over his gathered townspeople. His eyes briefly met Serena's, and his look implored her not to do anything stupid.

"Good sir," Father Lawrence stated. "There are many weeks of winter still to come. What would you have us eat? We have toiled long and hard for our food, and our coin, and it is not..."

"This isn't a negotiation," the bear yelled, and his horse reared up on its hind legs, sending a few people skittering backwards. "In addition to the supplies already noted, any able-bodied man between the ages of sixteen and forty will be leaving with our regiment. You will become conscripted members of the bear army until the war is won, at which time you can return to your homes."

People in the crowd were shouting now, and the priest was afraid of what would happen if things got out of hand.

"Sir!" he yelled back, trying to calm the gathering. "You will take our food and coin, so that we cannot eat or trade? And you will take our hunters and our workers? You must be reasonable. If we provide you with our food and coin, let our men stay here."

"Clean your ears, old man. This isn't a negotiation."

The priest felt the rider's boot slam into his chest, and he stumbled backwards into the snow. And that was all it took. His people, armed with hammers and pitchforks and some not armed at all, ran at the bears. The priest tried to get back up, to shout over the commotion that had erupted – the clang of metal and thud of wood. But it was no use.

He watched as the bear leader gave the order to burn the town. He watched as soldiers took their own torches, or grabbed the very torches that the priest had ordered lit in the spirit of friendship, and flung them onto the thatched roofs of dwellings. He watched as soldiers knocked over men and women, running them through with swords. And he watched as a trio of soldiers ran up to his church and lit the heavy oak door and the high maple roof aflame.

He wasn't sure what came over him, but the priest found himself sprinting towards the man on the horse. He had never been a fighter – he didn't even know how to hold a sword. The man was facing away from him and he reached up and grabbed hold of the long white cloak that hung down over the horse's rear. He pulled on it hard, twisting it around, and he was able to unseat the much larger man. There was a loud thud as the man hit the ground. And as he slowly rose, the priest realized his folly.

In his armour, the bear looked almost a foot taller than him. The man reached up and pulled off his helm. His face was stern and grim, like most of his men, and he sported a black, scraggly beard. His eyes were dark green and laced with anger.

The priest tried to back away, but he tripped and fell. The bear was raising his large bastard sword above his head. The priest glanced around at the burning town – half the buildings on the main road were high with flames, and some of the others had already burned away. He was afraid to look back at his church. Bodies were strewn about the snow, and very few of them were the bodies of bears. People had flocked to his little town because they felt that he could keep them safe, but as the priest looked up at the towering warrior in front of him, he realized what a joke it had all been. How could he keep anyone safe?

He waited for the blow to fall, but instead he felt something whistle through the air above his head. And when he looked back at the bear, the man's posture was different, his head leaning backwards. The priest looked closer and saw that something had struck him in the face, and was still there, sticking out of his forehead. It looked familiar – all he could make out was the white handle. It looked almost like a bone protruding from the man's head. And then he fell backwards and landed hard and Father Lawrence could see clearly that the very same axe that had caused his blackened scar was embedded in the bear's skull.

His head swivelled around. Emerging around the flames that engulfed his church was a woman – tall and shapely, with long ebon hair and clad in a plain, but elegant, long black robe. Her eyes met the priest's and there was a playful smirk on her face. She mouthed the words "Miss me?" and then turned her attention back towards the burning town.

Many of the bears had noted the fall of their leader. Some were moving angrily in Tamara's direction, while others seemed to be holding back, unsure of this new foe. Father Lawrence just lay there in the snow, unable to help in any meaningful way, and watched as Tamara loosed streaks of violet and black and blue from her fingertips. His senses were assaulted with the noise and the bright colours and the heat of the flames and the smell of burning – both of wood and flesh.

The battle continued for some time, with Serena and the other witches having joined in alongside their leader. Many of the townsfolk were dead, but enough of the rugged men were still up and fighting, encouraged by the fierce display of power that Tamara presented. Even the bear druids didn't seem up to the task of battling the fearsome witch – with their leader dead, they turned and fled down the road.

Something else drew the priest's attention – he looked up from Tamara to see the roof of his precious church collapse and crash to the floor below. The broken wood was still on fire, and the flames flickered from within the hollow shell. He could feel the tears trickling down his cheek at the sight – how many years had it taken him to erect that roof? His life's work was crumbling before his eyes.

He just stared at his church for several long minutes. The commotion of battle died down behind him, but still he didn't turn away. The oak door was flaking apart as the wood began to burn through. The pews that he had reconstructed would be gone. He doubted that his bed was still there. All of his old, priceless books would be consumed, as well. His body felt numb. Part of him felt like he would have been better off if that bear had just cleaved him in two.

"We can fix it."

The simple words were whispered into his ear. The voice was so soft and soothing that it finally drew his attention away from the blaze. Tamara was kneeling down beside him, that same mischievous smirk still sneaking across her lips. His eyes moved past her, though, out over the main street, where enough buildings were still burning so that he could see the piles of bodies. That stung him still harder than the loss of his church. As much as he had built this church, he had built this town. And now what was left of it?

The bears were gone, at least. And there were a few dozen people moving about. Some were screaming and wailing, rolling over corpses to discover the deathly faces of lost loved ones. Others were scavenging items that might help them rebuild. The bear supply wagons were still sitting in the middle of the street, which meant that in a strange twist of fate the town had ended up with more supplies – and fewer people to use them.

"You did the right thing," Tamara said.

He wasn't even sure what she meant, but he just liked hearing her voice. She had her hand on his arm, and she helped him back to his feet. He wiped the sleeve of his cassock across his face. Serena and a few others were standing around him. But Tamara was the only one who spoke. There were so many questions that he wanted to ask her - so many emotions that had been swirling through his mind for the last weeks. He didn't even know where to start.

"I'm glad you're back," was all that he said, though.
Sasha

Sasha stared at the tangle of black trees. She had never seen trees quite like these – they weren't just dark, they were as black as coal. Everything about them was black. The bark was black, the leaves were black, and the branches were black. The fact that they even had leaves at all was strange enough, given that every other tree nearby, save the pines and firs, had shed its leaves. But stranger still was just how closely these trees had grown together. There was barely any space between the intertwining trunks and limbs and branches to look through, let alone squeeze her body through.

Sasha and Starla had emerged from the underground passage the day before. The river had made their journey beneath quick and painless, and they had made it farther north than Sasha ever expected. Many times she had wondered if she would make it out from those tunnels and caverns, but Starla's guidance had proved true. The girl had clearly followed the path before.

It was cold and frozen and the wind bit with bitter angst, but still Sasha preferred the snowy landscape to the unending darkness that existed below the mountains. She had no idea how many mountains they had passed under, or how far north she was now standing, but Starla seemed to know exactly where they were headed. It was almost as if the girl was being led to this tangle of black trees. Since they had emerged from the cave, they had taken an almost direct route to where Sasha stood.

"How do we get through?" Sasha asked, reaching out and trying to move some of the branches - she couldn't make a hole big enough to squeeze by, though.

"You just have to find a space," Starla replied. "But I've never gone through."

"You haven't?"

The girl shook her head.

"Why not?" Sasha asked, wondering why the girl would come all this way and then not go any farther.

"Can't you feel it?" Starla asked. She was looking into the black tangle of trees.

"Feel what?"

But when Sasha stopped looking for a way to get by the dense trees, and just stood there, she thought that she could feel something. She didn't know what it was, just a subtle tug. But there was definitely something. It was a pleasant feeling, a slow trickle at first. She closed her eyes and just let it wash over her.

"What is that?" she asked.

"I don't know," Starla replied. "But it scares me."

"Scares you?" Sasha said, opening her eyes. "But it feels so comforting. Like I'm meant to be here."

Starla shook her head again. Sasha was confused – was the girl feeling something different than she was? How could she be scared of such a warm, welcoming sensation? Whatever the case, Sasha knew that she was supposed to continue on. For the first time since she had come north, she truly understood why Desmond had sent her.

"Don't worry, Starla," Sasha said, moving closer to her ghostly friend. "I won't let anything happen to you."

Starla didn't look convinced.

"You've brought me this far," Sasha continued, smiling. "Let me take you just a little farther. I know you're scared, I do. I was scared when you took me under the mountain."

"You were?"

"Very," Sasha confirmed, nodding. "It was dark and musty and we were under there for so long. But I trusted in my friend – I trusted in you. And you got me through. Now you just need to trust me."

"Okay."

The girl's voice was barely a whisper, but Sasha had faith in her. She'd been alone for so long, after all. That had to take some sort of courage.

"Now let's find a way through these trees," Sasha suggested.

The pair roamed the edges of the tangled trees until they found an opening that appeared big enough – and it wasn't very big. Sasha's slight build proved to be an advantage, as a larger person may not have been able to fit their frame between the two tight trunks as Sasha managed. Starla's incorporeal form followed easily. The tangle turned out to be thicker than Sasha had pictured, and she nearly found herself stuck in a few places. But a cool head and gentle encouragement from Starla allowed her to find her way. At one point, she even attempted to burn her way past a bothersome limb, but was surprised to find that her magic did nothing to the gnarled branches.

Eventually Sasha's head poked through on the other side. With much difficulty, she was able to drag her body out of the tight space and then she just collapsed onto the fresh snow on the other side. But as she lay on her back, breathing hard, she wondered how the snow had even reached the ground at all – the sky above was completely blocked out by the black trees and their tightly mingling limbs.

She felt the faint golden glow of her companion wash over her, although it seemed much stronger than usual. Starla was to her left, but as she turned her head to the right, she noted that the same golden light that emanated from Starla was also pouring out of a giant opening in the side of a cliff. She quickly rose to her feet, staring at the huge cave. She noticed how the clearing that she now stood in was completely encircled by the great tangle of black trees, as though they were guarding this strange golden cave. Sasha took a step towards the cave before turning back to look at Starla.

"It's alright," she said, noting immediately that the girl again looked frightened.

"We're not supposed to come here," Starla whispered.

"I'm supposed to come here," Sasha said, but the words seemed directed more at herself than at the girl. "The cave is lit up, it can't be as scary as the dark caves we just travelled through, can it?"

The girl shrugged uncertainly, but Sasha was able to coax her forward. They approached the cave tentatively, Sasha basking in the welcoming sensations that hit her even stronger on this side of the trees. She knew that powerful druids, like Desmond, could sense magic. She wondered if that was what she was feeling.

She couldn't see anything inside of the cave – the golden light made it impossible to see more than a few feet beyond the entrance. As she stood just beyond the opening, she looked up to see that there were runes scrawled into the rock that bordered the cave – they looked similar to the runes that she had seen elsewhere, like those on the portals. But she couldn't keep her attention off of the golden light.

She sensed Starla squirming at her side as she slowly reached her arm out. She half expected there to be some sort of magical barrier protecting the entrance to the cave. But her hand passed easily into the light. Starla gasped at her side.

"You try," Sasha said.

Starla's hand inched forward, towards the light, and Sasha was taken by just how similar the two sources of light appeared. What were the odds that a ghost she had first encountered so far away would be comprised of the exact same golden light that now filled this cave? There was a connection here that Sasha didn't quite understand.

Sasha's own fingers were still dangling on the other side of the cave entrance as Starla's hand slipped into the light. With the girl and the light being the same colour, Sasha found that she could barely make out the details of her companion's arm – it had nearly disappeared from sight, camouflaged by the mingling brilliance.

"Wiggle your fingers," Sasha said.

Starla complied, and the girl giggled as the movement made little ripples in the air. Sasha decided to capitalize on the momentary relief and she moved forward, fully entering the cave. Starla didn't follow.

"Oh, come on, scaredy cat," Sasha teased, smiling at the girl.

Sasha basked in the radiance that surrounded her as Starla tiptoed into the cave.

"See, it won't hurt you," Sasha added, and the pair began moving deeper into the tunnel.

The golden light filled the passage, but it wasn't long before they came to a fork. The source of the golden light lay to the right, in what appeared to be a cavern even larger than the cave opening. To the left was a smaller chamber that was mostly dark, except that there was a soft blue light drifting out from inside. Despite the pull that Sasha felt to follow the golden light, her curiosity led her into the smaller chamber first.

It didn't take long to realize that this chamber served as someone's home – it wasn't overly large, but there was a bed, a table, and a niche carved out of the stone that Sasha assumed served as a hearth. The pale blue light appeared to be coming right out of a large black stone that was sitting beside the bed – it was like a makeshift lamp. But everything looked so old and worn, she had no idea if the owner still inhabited the place.

"I don't think we should be there," Starla whispered, her gaze darting back and forth.

"It's ok," Sasha assured her, without really paying her much attention. "I'd be able to tell if we were in danger. I think this place is safe."

Sasha moved towards a shelf that had been carved into the cavern wall. Atop it was a collection of small figurines, crafted from different types of stone. There were even a few bright gems mixed in. Sasha reached out and picked one up. It was crudely done, and she couldn't really tell what it was supposed to be, though it did have large wings – at least they seemed to be wings.

"My stonework is less impressive these days, I'm afraid."

Sasha felt her heart leap and she spun around, dropping the figurine to the cavern floor where one of the wings chipped off. A man was standing near the entrance to the chamber, leaning calmly on a walking stick. His brown robes were tattered and he looked old – older than anyone Sasha had ever seen. And yet he stood straight and tall. His hair was wispy and white, and he had a soft white beard to match.

"I'm sorry," Sasha blurted out. "I didn't mean to break it."

"It's probably an improvement," the man said, chuckling.

He stepped forward into the chamber, and while his posture was strong, his walk was slow and deliberate. As he moved closer, Sasha could tell that his eyes were not guiding him.

"Can you see?" she asked as Starla shifted over to hide behind Sasha.

"My eyes haven't worked for a very long time," the old man said. "But you don't need eyes to see."

Sasha wasn't sure what that meant, but she didn't think that the old man intended them any harm. He crossed the chamber to his table and reached out to grab hold of a chair. He was seated a moment later, and turned his body towards Sasha.

"It's been some time since I've had any guests," he said. "Please excuse my lack of manners. There's water in the well, in the corner. And I have a bit of venison stew left if you'd like a hot meal."

He snapped his fingers and a roaring fire appeared in the hearth. Sasha saw that there was a cooking pot hanging over the flames. The smell of cooking meat was soon tickling her senses.

"How long have you been out here?" Sasha asked. "I can see why you don't get many guests. You might want to trim your bushes a little."

"Those trees were planted millennia ago to keep people away from this cave," he replied, smiling. "It seems that over time a few small gaps have emerged. Still, the true protection of this cave lay at the entrance. Powerful magic guards this place, and yet you passed through it with ease."

"Powerful magic?" Sasha repeated. "I didn't feel anything."

"No, I noticed that. I expected your friend to pass through, of course. But I wasn't so sure about you. Now that I see you up close, though, I can feel it."

"Feel what?"

"What drew you to this place?"

"Well, Starla led me here. But before that, a friend sent me north. He said that I was meant to come north, that I had some part to play."

"Your friend was wise. But I suspect that it was more than just other people telling you that led you here. You don't brave such a journey on the faith of others."

"I don't really understand what's going on here. Who are you? What is this place?"

"My name is lost with the ages. And this place is a sacred place, perhaps the most sacred place of all. But your presence here is the more interesting topic of discussion. Your questions will be answered once we discern who you are, not who I am."

"I'm Sasha," she replied, shrugging. "I'm not even from here – this world, I mean. I came through a portal and ended up stuck here."

"Now that is interesting."

The old man got up from his chair and began to slowly pace around the room, his old, wrinkled fingers pulling on the wild ends of his beard. Sasha watched him as he moved, holding back the many questions she still had. She glanced over to Starla, who didn't seem very afraid anymore, but just as intrigued as Sasha was.

"It is possible," the old man muttered.

"What's possible?" Sasha asked.

"I wouldn't have expected someone from the other side to be able to enter this cave. But it is possible – druids did pass freely between worlds long ago."

"I'm sorry, but what allowed me to enter the cave, if it's so strongly protected?"

"The protection that shields this cave from intruders is a very complex and specific bit of magic."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I created it."

"You...? But I thought you said this cave has been protected for millennia?"

"Oh, it has."

"But... What... How old are you, exactly?"

"Quite old – a gift from an old friend. Or perhaps a curse, I haven't yet decided. But I have been living in this cave for thousands of years. I get out to stretch my legs now and then, but I'm bound to this place. If I were to leave for too long, I would likely die."

Sasha knew that druids could live long lives – Desmond was over three hundred years old, after all, and still didn't look very old. But if what this old man was saying was true, that was something entirely different. Thousands of years? She couldn't even fathom living that long, and being confined to one place.

"Back to the matter at hand," the old man continued. "The protection around this cave was designed only to allow friends to enter."

"Friends?" Sasha asked. "Am I a friend?"

"It would appear that you are. Magic cannot differentiate friend from foe, of course – it would be too easily fooled. But I crafted the spell to allow entry only to those of a certain ancestry. The blood of the Dragon Clan flows through your veins, Sasha."

"Dragon Clan? But Desmond said that was just an old story – that it wasn't true."

"Desmond? The totem? You choose wise friends, Sasha."

"But how could I be descended from the Dragon Clan? I'm from the other world."

"As I said, druids once travelled between worlds openly and often. I didn't know of any dragons who had left, but perhaps one of my brethren – and your distant ancestor – chose your world over this one."

Sasha was processing too many thoughts at once, and it seemed as though her mind couldn't possibly keep up. Could it really be true? That she was some long-lost member of an extinct – or nearly extinct – druid clan? Something did trigger for her, though.

"Wait..." she said, reasoning things out in her head. "You said your brethren? So you're a dragon too... And you created this protection... Thousands of years ago? That means that you're... Michael? The first dragon?"

The mention of the name Michael had the old man rubbing his beard once more.

"I have had different names over the years," he said at length. "But I do believe that Michael was among them. And, yes, I was the original member of the Dragon Clan."

That revelation only had Sasha's eyes opening wider, as she realized the implications.

"But that means..." she said, and suddenly she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Does that mean that there's a real dragon in this cave?"

"Oh, yes," Michael replied, smiling. "Would you like to see?"

* * *

Sasha crept down the passage that led from Michael's chambers to the Sleeper's cavern. She'd been with Michael for a week now, and several times a day she would walk the short distance to gaze upon the magical sight that lay ahead. Michael had assured her that the dragon would not wake – that the dragon may never wake again – but still Sasha walked as silently as she could manage. She reached the entrance to the cavern and paused to take a deep breath.

The dragon's cave was the source of the brilliant golden light. When she had first entered the room, she had half expected to see mountains of gold and treasure beneath the sleeping giant, like in the stories she had read from her world. But the cave was empty, save for the dragon itself.

The creature was huge, even when curled up on the ground. Her body gently rose and fell as her great lungs pumped throughout her continued slumber. Leathery crimson scales covered the dragon's hide, each one bigger than Sasha's hand. Her wings were wrapped around her form, hiding the lower half of her body from view. But her head was plainly visible, with a large snout and numerous sharp teeth bared beneath her upper lip. Two horns, each as tall as Sasha herself, topped the dragon's majestic head. The sight was something that Sasha had never dreamed she would see – dragons were nothing more than a fairy tale where she came from. Even in the Reverie there were many who didn't believe the old tales. How badly Sasha wished that she could show this place to Desmond.

Sasha noted that Starla was sitting on the cavern floor, near the dragon's head. While Sasha had been spending most of her time learning from Michael, Starla had found some degree of peace with the revelation of the dragon. The girl seemed to enjoy just sitting there, in the presence of the great beast.

After watching from the entrance for quite some time, Sasha finally turned and headed back up the passage. She left the bright light of the tunnel behind for the soothing blue glow of Michael's quarters. Another bed now lay on the opposite wall from Michael's. The old man was standing by the hearth when she entered the room.

"Have you completed your meditation?" he asked, without turning to face her.

"I have," she said.

"Good. You're becoming more adept. Remember, reaching a state of pure focus and concentration is key to achieving the highest degree of magic. Your connection with nature is strong, but even the strongest attunement is worthless if you cannot master your own mind."

Michael's curiosity with Sasha's sudden appearance in his lonely cave had led to him tutoring her in the ways of magic – and as much as she cared for Desmond, she couldn't imagine having a more suitable tutor than Michael. His lessons were quite different from those that she remembered in the beaver town, though. She barely ever cast any spells under Michael's guidance, his lessons were more about understanding the ways of nature, the flows of magic, and the harmony of the mind.

He made her meditate for several hours each day, until she reached a point of clarity that she hadn't achieved the day before – each day she went a little further, a little deeper into her focus and concentration. Her body had never felt so relaxed as it had over the past week.

"Magic isn't about summoning fireballs or lightning bolts," he often told her. "Those are useful tricks when needed, but the true power of magic lay in the interaction with the world around you. Did you know that I created the portals? Consider the power involved in transporting a person's body from one physical place to another. It's much more impressive than burning a tree with a blast of fire, isn't it? When you're ready, I'll teach you to reach that potential."

And so the days went by, with Sasha studying and meditating and eagerly absorbing each little tidbit of information that Michael offered up. Starla would occasionally emerge from the dragon's cave, but it was clear to Sasha that the girl was likely bored with this place - she was young and impatient, after all.

"Your little friend is a dragon too, you know," Michael said.

"I figured as much," Sasha replied. "She passed through your protection too, and she's made up of the same glowing light as the dragon's."

Michael nodded.

"You treat her very kindly," he said. "Most people would be frightened of such a being."

"I'm not even sure what she is, to be honest. She doesn't seem to acknowledge that she's dead. Is that normal?"

"It is unusual, but it sometimes happens with children. They're not always able to process that they've died – which is why you can touch her, where most spirits are insubstantial. The fact that she remains a spirit instead of moving on only confuses her mind further."

"Moving on? What do you mean?"

"When a person dies, they move on to the next phase of existence. Remaining here as a spirit is something that happens very rarely."

"How rarely? We saw a whole village of ghosts like Starla when we passed under the mountains. They chased us away."

"The exception to the rule – Starla, and the others that you encountered, are what remains of the Dragon Clan. When Adenah felt that her life was threatened by the other clans, she compelled those dragons who died to remain in the Reverie, as spirits, to protect her."

"So they're all dead dragons?"

"Yes. When the warriors of the Dragon Clan left to fight the clans, the women and children and elderly left their villages and towns in fear. They travelled to remote areas of the forest and made new settlements, hoping that they were beyond the reach of the clans – but they never were. Even those who ventured into the tunnels and caves beneath the mountains were sought out and slaughtered. Many of the spirits simply remain in those places, afraid to leave – their fear in life having carried over. And many of them roam the Old Mountains, driving away any who wander too near to this cave."

"No one drove me away."

"No, they could sense your blood. They knew that you were one of them. But they watched you, be certain of that. They likely found you intriguing."

Sasha wasn't sure what she was supposed to make of that – the idea that a bunch of ghosts had been watching her wander through the snowy woods unnerved her a little. But she was so caught up in learning about her newfound heritage that it didn't really bother her.

"Now, I think another round of meditation before dinner," Michael instructed as he draped an extra layer of fur over his frail body. "Are you in the mood for venison?"

"Do I have another option?" Sasha asked, moving towards the hearth. She liked the feel of the heat on her body as she delved into the depths of her mind.

Michael just smiled and walked out of the chamber. In all the time that Sasha had spent out in the woods around the mountains, she hadn't seen even the slightest sign of a deer – or even a rabbit or a squirrel. And yet Michael always returned with one. She didn't even want to contemplate how he carried it all the way back, let alone how he managed to get his old bones through that tangle of black trees.

She just sighed and sat down on the rocky floor in front of the hearth. She closed her eyes and began to clear her mind.
Kelly

For the second time in a week, Kelly woke up not knowing where she was. She could vaguely remember her long flight south, with only bits and pieces dotting her recollection. She knew that she had been seeking her friends, her fellow totems, Desmond and Brom. But she couldn't recall how far she had made it. Her head was still woozy from her recent injuries, and her right shoulder was still throbbing with pain. She was surprised that she had been able to fly at all.

Groaning, she sat up, noting for the first time that she wasn't outside – she was in some sort of tent. She could hear the wind whipping around outside as she sat up, trying her best to cradle her shoulder. She was sitting atop a small pile of furs, and the tent was only big enough to sleep a single person.

As her head wasn't hurting so badly anymore, she struggled to her feet and moved towards the flapping entrance. The wind was cold, but the ground had only a light frosting of snow – clearly she had made it a fair ways south, far from the deep snows that she had left behind. As she looked around, she noticed many more tents, and a great many men roaming between them. It appeared that she had arrived in the midst of yet another army.

"You're up. It's about time."

She knew that voice – Brom appeared at her side a moment later.

"It's nice to see you too, Brom," Kelly said, and she smiled warmly at him.

He nodded, but he didn't smile back. Kelly noticed the worn expression on his face, marring his usual handsome features.

"You look like you've seen better days," she observed.

"You know what it's like," he said. "You and I always get the fun jobs. They think they can just make the little birdies go wherever they like. I've spent more time in my raven form these past weeks than out of it. I might start cawing at any moment."

Kelly did know what that felt like – she had also been spending an inordinate amount of time in her eagle form, scouting the serpent movements for Gracos. It had been quite draining, but she felt well rested now.

"You there," Brom called out, summoning a wolf soldier to him. "Go find Desmond. Tell him that his patient is awake."

The man nodded and scurried off.

"How did you find me?" Kelly asked.

"Oh, you know how it goes," Brom replied. "Desmond had some strange dream and then just disappeared, went off on his own, didn't tell anyone where he was going. The next day he walks back into camp with you in his arms. He's been watching over you like a nursemaid ever since."

"And yet you were the first one to me when I woke up."

"Well, he doesn't leave your side without making me guard your tent. It's like he expects that the second you're left alone someone's going to steal you away into the trees, never to be seen again. I was considering testing that theory, but I happen to like you, you know."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Kelly spotted Desmond moving through the camp towards her. His hair was a little longer, but still had that same windswept quality of a man who spent far too much time in the wild. But despite centuries of braving the elements, he maintained his rugged good looks. Desmond greeted her with a warm embrace, holding his arms around her for many seconds.

"It's good to see you up and well," he said as he pulled away.

"Well enough, anyway," Kelly said.

"How is your arm, by the way?" Brom asked.

"It still hurts, but it's improving, I think."

"Kelly," Desmond cut in, "Have you had any word of Sasha?"

It took Kelly a moment to even place who Sasha was – but then she recalled the argument that Desmond and Brom had gotten into the last time she had seen them. Desmond had entrusted the girl to Brom's care and Brom had left her alone to find her way north.

"Here we go again," Brom said. "Our lovesick little puppy here can't go two hours without moping about his precious Sasha."

"You exaggerate, as always," Desmond shot back. "I worry about her. She comes from a world where convenience lay at her fingertips – she has no concept of how to survive in the wilderness. And yet you left her alone in the middle of the woods, with dangerous foes lurking about."

"No one was lurking anywhere," Brom replied. "We've been over this before – if she's as important as you think, then you needed to let her stand on her own two feet anyway."

"Not so soon. I meant you to get her to safety and then I would join her and lead her north myself."

"Wait," Kelly interrupted. "This was the girl that you wanted to send to Brandt?"

"To keep her safe," Desmond confirmed, casting a significant glance Brom's way. "Until I could re-join her."

"Ursa's Maw isn't safe," Kelly said. "The serpents have the city under siege. Their armies swarm about the walls."

"Well that's unexpected," Brom said.

"You didn't know?" Kelly asked.

"We haven't received much word of the north," Desmond said. "There are few travellers who will brave the weather this time of year. We've been focused on the spiders."

"What of the spiders?" Kelly asked.

"Waste of time," Brom muttered.

"It might very well be," Desmond said, sighing. "The spider lands are vast, as you know, and we can only really scout the borders. I won't risk sending Brom deep into spider territory alone. We keep expecting to catch wind of an army nearing the border, either heading west or north, but so far there has been nothing. We've noticed a bit more excitement of late, but nothing that might indicate a pending attack. Of course, the towns around Arachnia's Spindle could very well be mounting an impressive force and we would have no way of knowing."

It made sense to Kelly – she remembered how careful she had been while soaring over the serpent borderlands. One wrong move could have had her felled by an arrow or a druid's spell.

"Do you have faith in your men to hold these lands?" Kelly asked.

Desmond and Brom looked at one another.

"What do you mean?" Desmond asked.

"I believe we may all be needed in the north," she replied. "My tidings are strange and grave all at once."

"My two favourite kinds of tidings," Brom said. "Do tell."

"When I left Brandt, he was encamped in a field, preparing to do battle with a serpent army. He seemed to have the war well in hand. I flew east to meet with the eagle force, except that when I found them it was a much smaller force than I had anticipated – apparently the council was less enthusiastic about a war than Marcus had been. Still, we were five hundred strong, and a good number of those were Gold Feathers.

"But the grave tidings begin before that – during my flight east I encountered something dark and mysterious. It was a type of magic unlike any I had ever seen, and I could feel its pull from a great distance away in the forest. I uncovered the source – some type of obelisk carved of black stone, and etched with green runes. It was thrumming with power, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I marked the spot and was away. But when I met with the eagles, I set Matthias and two of his strongest pupils to investigate this obelisk."

"A wise decision," Desmond said.

"I fear it may not have been," Kelly continued. "I spent the next weeks with Gracos' legion, striking quickly against serpent villages before fleeing to the next. We kept a large serpent army occupied in the east, preventing them from adding to the force that pressed the bears. But eventually we were overcome and scattered. At that point I ordered Gracos back to the Aerie, and I departed to seek Matthias. I had expected a report from him much sooner."

"I'm guessing that this story doesn't have a happy ending," Brom said.

"Far from it," Kelly went on. "I returned to the obelisk to find Matthias and his two druids dead. The black stone was pulsing with more power than when I had left – it seemed stronger somehow, as though it had drained their life forces and strengthened itself."

Desmond appeared to be most intrigued by Kelly's tale. He kept rubbing the stubble on his chin.

"Could you tell what the obelisk was made of?" he asked. "What type of stone?"

"I'm not sure," she replied. "It was black, maybe a charcoal-like colour in some places."

"Could it have been obsidian?"

"I couldn't say. What's obsidian?"

"Does she look like a rock expert?" Brom cut in.

"Obsidian is volcanic lava that has cooled over time," Desmond said. "It's found in the north, among the foothills of the Old Mountains. According to legend, obsidian blades were often the choice for ritual human sacrifice in the early days of the druid clans. Some believe that this was simply because obsidian is extremely sharp and deft. But obsidian has magical properties, as well – the types of imbibing properties that would corroborate what you're saying about the feeling that the rock was draining part of your soul. But please, carry on."

"I wasn't able to inspect the bodies long," Kelly said, "Because I was attacked."

"Who attacked you?" Desmond asked. "What were they doing there?"

"It was Vexonis, and I suspect that he was waiting for me there."

"Vexonis?" Brom echoed. "The councillor? I hope you gave him a good thrashing."

"Not exactly," Kelly admitted. "He had help. Halfway through the fight Matthias and his two druids rose and joined against me."

"I thought you said that they were dead," Brom said, but Desmond didn't look surprised.

"They were," Kelly confirmed. "Rotting skin and all. I don't think that it was really Matthias anymore. I couldn't see any life in his eyes."

"Are you saying that the serpents can raise the dead?"

"No," Desmond stated. "Not in the way that you mean. No magic can raise the dead – nothing can bring back life. But in ancient times, practitioners of dark magic knew of ways to animate corpses. Such knowledge has been long lost from the world, though."

"Well it would seem that it's been found again," Brom said. "If what Kelly says is true."

"I saw what I saw," Kelly said.

"Did you battle these creatures?" Desmond asked. "Were they strong?"

"I didn't," Kelly said, suddenly thinking it silly that she hadn't at least tested the abilities of a potentially dangerous new foe. "I was badly hurt and fled."

"Understandable," Desmond said. "I would be curious to find out if a druid maintains any command of magic in such an undead form. Of course, it's possible that whoever is controlling the abomination might be able to channel their own magic through the thing. That could prove troublesome."

"What do you mean by whoever is controlling them?" Kelly asked.

"An undead thing has no mind, so to speak," Desmond explained. "It exists and walks and can carry out tasks based on the commands of whoever cast the magic to animate it. It's possible that the serpents have re-discovered an ancient means to use enchanted obsidian to drain the life force from living creatures and then utilize that power to cast their animation spells. Animation was one of the primary rituals that required human sacrifices – the amount of magical energy required to bring false life to a dead thing is immense."

"And Vexonis figured out how to do this?" Brom snorted. "He's not even a druid."

"I doubt that he was the source of the magic," Desmond said. "He was likely the instigator of such a scheme, though – utilizing serpent druids to carry out his unseemly plans."

"Then how do we stop it?" Kelly asked.

"Kill the serpents," Brom offered. "There are enough of them to begin with, we hardly need to have to fight all of their pet monstrosities too."

"I'm not sure how to counter the magic," Desmond admitted. "We would first need to understand the specifics of how they enact it. Were the ravens not experimenting with obsidian?"

Brom didn't respond right away and Kelly turned to look at him – he had a funny expression on his face.

"Oh," he said, noticing that his friends were looking at him. "Sorry, I was just picturing Vexonis' maimed and bloody corpse lying at my feet. Some of the druids at the Crow's Nest were playing with obsidian, yes. But it didn't really go anywhere. Of course, they weren't exactly trying to use it for the same purpose that the serpents seem to be."

Kelly wasn't sure what they were supposed to do. She was the youngest of the totems, and she had never been faced with such a dire situation before – the mere thought of an army of creatures like Matthias was enough to make her shudder. How such foul and unnatural things could even exist in the Reverie seemed abhorrent to her. But what scared her the most was the fact that even Desmond didn't seem sure of how to deal with them.

"What are we supposed to do now?" Kelly asked.

"We do what we can," Desmond replied. "The spiders haven't shown any outward aggression yet – perhaps we still have time there. In any case, if the bears are as hard pressed as Kelly reports, then they'll need our help. The three of us should head north to Ursa's Maw, to aid in the defence of the city."

"The city could have fallen by now for all we know," Brom pointed out.

"Then we take it back," Desmond said coolly.

As Desmond and Brom continued to discuss the logistics of a siege on the great bear fortress – or the possible retaking of such a fortress – Kelly's mind was elsewhere. All she could think about was what might happen to her beloved Brandt should the city fall. She had spent time in Ursa's Maw, and the mere concept of such a citadel being overcome was foreboding. So she clung to the idea that the impenetrable walls would stand and that she would be reunited with her lover soon enough.

"I'm sure he's fine," Desmond said, noting Kelly's distraction.

"It'll take more than a few serpents to bring that stubborn fool down," Brom agreed. "He's probably standing on the parapets right now, letting their arrows add to his lovely appearance."

Kelly smiled and nodded her head. She had to trust in Brandt.

"What will you do with these men if we leave?" Kelly asked, inclining her head towards the large encampment that the three totems stood beside.

"I have capable men to leave in charge," Desmond said. "They're skilled in war and tactics. If the spiders are inclined to attack while we're away, these men will be up to the task."

"Are we supposed to wait for you, wolf?" Brom asked. "Some of us travel faster than others."

"I may not be able to fly, but I can still travel with haste," Desmond said. "But we won't be travelling together anyway."

"We won't?" Kelly asked.

"No. You still need to rest your shoulder. It's a long flight and we can't have you falling from the sky again. Brom will leave tonight – he'll bring word of our impending arrival. You and I will leave when I feel that you're up to the flight."

Kelly wanted to argue, but she knew better. Desmond didn't change his mind for anyone, and he was usually right about things anyway. If this was his plan, then she'd accept it – no matter how badly she wanted to get back to Brandt.

"Well then," Brom said. "Now that I have my orders, I guess I'd better go get ready. There was a comely young wolf whose acquaintance I was hoping to make tonight – I suppose I'll have to go make my apologies instead."

Brom smiled at Kelly and then walked away. Her eyes lingered on him as he left.

"I'm never sure what to make of that one," Desmond admitted.

"Just be glad that he's on our side," Kelly said.

"Is he on our side? Sometimes I think that he's only on his own side."

"Well then I guess it's a good thing that his side and our side are usually the same side."

"I suppose you're right," Desmond said, smirking. "Now go get some sleep, little bird. You're going to need it."
The Boy

It had been more than a week since his last escape attempt. The boy could barely feel his fingers as they gripped the wooden shaft of the shovel, but that was due more to the cold than to the soreness that permeated his body. His wounds and scars were many more in number, and his face was rarely bereft of bruising. He was pretty sure that some of his ribs hadn't healed properly, which made his posture awkward as he tried to minimize the discomfort. But he was still alive – despite his best efforts to the contrary.

The boy wasn't sure where the small otter force was headed – he thought that they were marching west, and maybe a little to the north, but the skies were often gray and cloudy and he only rarely caught sight of the sun or the stars – he had never been overly good at reading directions anyway.

His shoulder hurt too much to drive the shovel all the way into the snow. He had managed to survive the past two days without suffering any punishments, but his progress today was slow. The otter to his right was already snarling insults at him. The boy resisted the urge to smash his shovel over the man's face. Such acts were more difficult for him to accomplish than in his earlier days of imprisonment – both because his body wouldn't obey him as well as it had, and because Argus had put more capable soldiers in charge of watching him. But that didn't stop the boy from fantasizing.

He didn't dream much anymore, as both his mind and body were usually far too exhausted for any semblance of clarity. But on the occasions where dreams did find him, they almost always involved the boy driving a spear or a sword through some part of an otter's body. Long gone were the visions of sweet Serena that had often teased and tempted him in his sleep. He was left only with more unsettling and violent sights – yet he enjoyed them immensely. He derived a strange form of primal pleasure from the image of Argus needled with hundreds of cuts and stabs. He found even more satisfying emotions when he dreamt of shoving a spear up the old otter's ass – the perverted old man that had so violated him. He tried not to think about those nights. He tried to focus on his shovelling.

It didn't take long for the boy to tire, but that hardly mattered to his taskmasters. The otters fed the boy little to nothing – they treated him like a dog, throwing scraps of their own half-eaten food at him. He was often left with only the fat or grizzle of meat, or bones that had nothing but the faint hint of taste. On one occasion he had even been forced to eat rotting green meat that hadn't kept. But the boy would eat almost anything. It still didn't bring him any real strength, though.

He had learned over the weeks how best to angle his shovel into the snow, and how best to toss it out of the way. Following such techniques allowed him to conserve as much energy as possible while still accomplishing enough work so as not to draw suspicion. The boy had been smartening up lately – he no longer just took off into the woods each day when they let him out of his cage. He was always caught and always severely punished. He realized that his escape attempts would need to be better thought out in order to be successful. If he didn't flee every day, he might even lull the otters into thinking that he had given up hope – that he had accepted his fate as their prisoner. He would need that element of surprise.

But for the time being, he had to work faster, despite his body's refusal to do so. He tried switching the grip on his shovel – placing his left hand at the top and providing strength with his left arm. But it didn't work any better, as the boy was right-handed. So after a few shovelfuls of snow, he switched back to his proper side. But his shoulder was sore – a small dagger had recently cut through the muscles around his collarbone. And his ribs still pained him quite severely the more that he used them.

The boy felt the flat side of a sword smack him on the rear and he lurched forward a little.

"Faster, boy," the otter sneered. "Or you'll regret it."

The boy was certain that he would regret it. But he simply wasn't capable of going any faster. He tried anyway, but jabs of pain danced up and down his body and he nearly dropped the shovel. The next thing he felt was the hilt of the sword slamming into the side of his head.

* * *

The boy woke to the sound of a scream – a loud, piercing scream that rent the night air. His head was still groggy from being clubbed earlier in the day, but he was alert enough to realize that it was night and that his cage's wagon wasn't rolling. His ears perked up, listening for some sort of follow-up to the blood-curdling scream. But all he heard was silence.

He propped himself up on his elbow and peered out into the otter camp, though he couldn't see much in the night. There were a few torches burning here and there, many of them blocked out by the surrounding trees. He noticed that a number of the nearby otters were similarly glancing around the camp, trying to discern what that sound had been – the otters weren't well outfitted, and only the few leaders had tents. Most of the men slept on the snow, covered in furs and blankets. The boy didn't get any furs, and had just a simple threadbare blanket to shelter him from the cold.

The quiet continued for a number of minutes and the boy lay back down on the floor of his cage. He could hear the wind rustling through the barren branches. But he didn't close his eyes. He had a strange feeling in his gut – screams like that didn't just happen for no reason. Maybe someone was just having a nightmare, but he didn't think so. Turning his head to the side, he noted that many of the otters were lying back down under their furs. He looked back up at the ceiling of his cage and waited – for what, he wasn't sure. But he didn't have to wait long.

A great many cries broke the silence of the night. They weren't screams like the first had been, but rather cries of battle. Someone was attacking the camp. Perhaps the first scream had been that of an otter sentry who had wandered too close to concealed enemies. Whatever the case, men were jumping up all around the boy's cage, reaching for their weapons.

Cries for light and torches were many, and the boy was up on his knees now, hands gripped around the iron bars, watching the commotion. He watched a nearby otter rise from his sleeping position and fumble through his belongings for his sword. But the man couldn't see any better than the boy could in the dark of night. As the man reached down and produced a stick of wood – that the boy assumed he meant to light – another figure appeared, hurtling out of the darkness, and tackled the otter to the ground.

The boy watched as the two men rolled around on the ground, each trying to gain an advantage over the other. Other skirmishes were breaking out throughout the camp. The otter slammed his fist into his assailant's face and was able to roll away and regain his footing. But as he moved to strike at the man with his weapon, a second attacker hit him from behind. As the pair fell over the otter, slashing and stabbing, the boy saw that they wore emerald cloaks and realized that they were serpents.

The otter was dead and there was a moment when the boy felt certain that the serpents would turn and see him sitting there in his cage. He wondered what they would do – he doubted that serpents treated their prisoners with any more civility than did the otters. But the boy was a spider, and from what he knew spiders and serpents were friendly. As much as he hated considering himself a spider, if it would get him out of his cage, he would do nearly anything. But the opportunity never came.

Instead, a pair of otters charged towards the serpents. One otter had a torch in one hand and a mace in the other. The other was wielding a huge axe in both hands. The man with the torch assaulted one serpent, their weapons clanging against each other. But the otter didn't seem overly skilled at combat – even the boy could tell that his strikes were clumsy. He missed wildly with one swing and the serpent kicked him in the mid-section. The boot caused the otter to tumble backwards into the snow, the torch flying out of his hand and landing in the boy's wagon.

The boy scurried to the side of his cage and tried to reach his arm through the bars – he needed to toss the torch from the wagon quickly. But it was too late. He watched in horror as the wooden wagon caught fire, the flames rising, engulfing one side of the wagon in mere seconds. As he felt the heat tickling at his flesh, the boy backed away until he hit the opposite wall of the cage. He cried out for help, but he knew that no one would come – the sounds of battle were ringing out all around him.

He pushed his back against the iron bars as hard as he could manage, hoping to slide the cage right off of the wagon. But with his own weight holding the cage in place, it was no use. The wooden cart was burning up all around him, the smell of burnt wood and smoke assaulting his nostrils. He glanced back towards the camp, where he could vaguely make out more men fighting through the smoky haze. He wondered what it might feel like to burn to death. He imagined that it wasn't pleasant.

The wagon shuddered beneath him, and he realized that as it burned it was losing the integrity to remain in one piece. There was a second, more violent, shake, and the boy felt the wagon begin to break apart beneath him. The flames were licking at the cage, and he was about to fall right into the middle of them. As he sensed the cage about to fall, he thrust his body again into the wall of the cage - as the cage fell the boy's weight managed to roll it onto its side. When it hit the ground, it rolled over again and then again, until it came to rest a few feet from the burning wreckage, the iron bars of a side of the cage pressed into the snow.

The boy breathed hard as he stared at the remnants of the wagon. How close had he come to being immolated in those very flickering flames? But he was safe for the moment, and the fire gave off just enough light for him to better make out what was going on around him.

He could see at least a dozen melees nearby, and, judging by the sounds echoing through the trees, many more in the surrounding area. The boy even spotted Argus doing battle with two serpents – and holding his own with a halberd that he swirled about his body with great skill. The boy watched that fight eagerly, his eyes wide with hope that a stray blade might find its way into the otter's flesh. Every one of the boy's many wounds was pulsing as he yearned for Argus' demise.

The boy's attention was stolen as an otter's body fell to the ground right next to his cage. The serpent that had slain the man didn't even give the cage a second look before running back into the fray. The boy crept to the side of the cage closest the dying man – it was the old lecher, the man who had often violated him. The boy felt his body recoil at first, as it always did each time he saw the old man. But when he realized the extent of the man's injuries – that he likely wouldn't last the next few minutes – the boy inched even closer, his eyes taking in the sight.

The boy had seen corpses before. He'd even seen men die in front of him. But never like this – never this close, never this intimately. The old man gurgled, little spits of blood shooting up his throat. He had two separate gashes in his body, both spilling blood out onto the snow, but that wasn't what was killing him. The boy realized that the man was going to choke on his own blood. His other injuries prevented him from standing up, and in that lying position he couldn't clear his airway.

The old man's eyes found the boy. The boy wanted to look away, but he didn't. He wasn't sure if it was fear, curiosity, or some other unknown emotion, but he simply couldn't look away. But then the old man tried to speak. His voice was lost, but the boy got his meaning well enough – he was asking for help. The boy felt his body suddenly overcome with a palpable anger. That this man, of all men, would seek his help. But help was not what the lecher would find. The boy squeezed an arm through the bars of his cage and placed his hand over the man's open mouth.

The old man's eyes widened when he realized what the boy was doing. His old, wrinkled hands tried to pull the boy's arm away, but the boy's rage held it in place. He could feel the old man's breath faltering and blood sputtering against the palm of his hand, but still he held it there. He felt the old man's body begin to writhe and convulse on the ground, but he didn't move his hand. The boy kept his hand firmly over the old man's mouth until his sickly eyes rolled back in his head and his body lay still on the red snow.

Finally, the boy backed away and pulled his hand back inside the cage. He hadn't realized how fast his own breaths were coming, and his hand was still quivering a little. But he didn't get a chance to calm himself as the noise of battle still surrounded him. He saw that Argus was still fighting, standing tall among the many corpses that littered the camp. And he could still feel the heat on his back from the burning wreckage of the wagon.

As the boy again considered his precarious position, something struck him – the old man had had keys to the cage! The boy scrambled forward again, grabbing hold of the bars. His eyes searched the old man's body until they found the keychain dangling from his belt – on the opposite side of his body from the cage. The boy groaned, as his arm had barely reached the man's face. But he stretched out all the same, trying to drag the man's corpse closer to him. But the body had sunk slightly into the snow and wouldn't move easily – and the boy didn't have much strength in him.

He pressed his arm all the way through the bars so that his shoulder was right up against the iron. Only inches separated the tips of his slender fingers from his freedom – but they just couldn't reach. Exhausted, the boy nearly gave up when his eyes settled on something else that was well within his reach. On the opposite hip, the old man had a small dagger tucked into his belt. The boy snatched it up and pulled it back into the cage to inspect more closely.

He had no experience with picking locks, but he had seen other men use small knives or daggers to do so. He carefully slid the tip of the dagger into the cage's lock. As the lock was on the outside of the bars, it was difficult for him to see what he was doing. He wiggled the blade around, not even sure how locks functioned, just hoping that something would click into place. He was hunched over in the cage, his arms reaching awkwardly around the bars, and no matter how much he maneuvered the dagger around, he got nowhere.

His ribs and shoulder paining him from the bent position, he gave up and fell back onto the floor of the cage – which was actually more iron bars given that the cage was on its side. He took a few deep breaths as he stared up through the bars above him, into the dark sky above. And then, his frustration boiling over, his feet began to kick out, striking against the cage door over and over. He screamed out, confident that no one would notice, the battle still raging all around him. And then he felt the door give way. His head shot up and he watched the cage softly swing open.

The boy didn't move for several long seconds, staring in disbelief at the open cage. He crept forward slowly, afraid that any sudden move might cause the door to shut once more. But it didn't shut, and he was soon standing in the snow, stretching his stiff limbs. He felt his pulse quicken as he glanced around, hoping that none of the otters had noticed his escape. There didn't seem to be as much fighting going on – he assumed that most of the combatants were dead.

The boy stepped over the old man's corpse and retrieved a sword that had been dropped in the snow. He moved to a pile of furs that had served as a bed earlier in the night. He gathered up the owner's supplies, and threw a thick fur over his shoulders. He opened up the supply pack and noted that there was some food left, and a canteen of water. He fought the temptation to just eat and drink right there – he needed to get away before someone saw him.

He was about to make for the woods, to disappear, when a loud grunt and cry drew his attention over the diminishing sounds of battle. He spotted Argus, who had just taken a sword blow to the arm and was now holding it gingerly at his side. The otter had used his good arm to thrust his halberd deep into the side of the serpent that had wounded him, though. But with no one left to fight, the weapon fell from his hand and he tumbled down to join it.

The boy couldn't tell how badly Argus was injured, but he found himself creeping towards the fallen man. He couldn't explain his actions, but he felt the overwhelming urge to approach the sight of his tormentor lying wounded on the ground. As the boy drew closer, he was careful not to make any sound – he didn't want to alert the man to his presence too soon. The boy's grip on the sword hilt was so tight that his knuckles were white.

Before Argus noticed him, the boy had the tip of his blade pressed against the otter's throat. Argus' yellow-tinged eyes found the boy's. No words were exchanged – there was no need. After what the boy had endured, there was little that Argus could say. The man didn't even ask how the boy had escaped his prison. Emotions flooded the boy's mind, many of which he couldn't understand or explain. He felt scared and angry, his mind even more wrought and conflicted than when he had suffocated the old lecher minutes earlier.

He could tell that Argus was no longer any danger to him. The man had a number of wounds, and he was making no effort to get up and fight back. The boy likely could have just walked away, never to see Argus again in his life. But that wasn't an acceptable outcome to the boy. He wanted to kill Argus. He eyed the man's neck and considered thrusting his blade right through it. He knew that he could do it - all it required was a little push.

Instead, the boy leaned down and took up Argus' fallen halberd in his other hand, keeping his sword pressed against the otter's neck. He held it firm, feeling its delicate weight in his hand. He looked down at those yellow eyes again. How many times had he wished for death? How many times had he begged his captors to just kill him already? The boy narrowed his eyes and then drove the point of the halberd into Argus' belly – he felt it hit the ground beneath the man's body.

The otter lurched forward, the pain evident in his eyes. His screams were terrible and beautiful to the boy. How he had longed to hear such cries. He squatted down beside the man's squirming body. Argus was desperately grabbing at the shaft that protruded from his abdomen, but he hadn't the strength left to pull it out. The boy felt a strange smile creep across his lips as he saw the agony on Argus' cruel face. He knew that the man would die from the wound. And he knew that it would be a long and painful death. Even the help of a druid wouldn't save him now – if any were even still alive.

A noise to the side stole the boy's attention and he fled. A moment later he was gone, having faded into the black of night.
Graumin

Graumin was seated atop a fine chestnut stallion, provided to him from the baron's personal stables. He had spent the last few days attending councils of war and listening to the nobles drone on about how they should proceed. Graumin, of course, had his own plans for how things should proceed, but he knew better than to speak openly against the nobles – once he was leading this army north, the nobles would have little say over what happened. They would all be sitting comfortably in their manors. So Graumin waited patiently for the day that they let him leave, an army at his back.

His steed calmly pawed at the trampled grass as other horses moved nearby. Graumin was in a field, just north of the city, where his army was gathered and preparing for war. The mounted troops were nearest to his position, and were being led through drills by the cavalry sergeants. Farther away were hundreds of archers, firing arrows into far-off hay bales. The sound of the infantry clanging their swords against one another echoed over the whole gathering. And farthest from where Graumin sat was a powerful contingent of druids, currently sitting in a large circle meditating.

Graumin was quite pleased with the size of the army, but more and more soldiers were pouring in from the outlying towns each day – he had no idea how many would arrive. The organization of the army was left to Lord Carrick and the nobles – Graumin hadn't laid eyes on the baron since the audience he was granted in the throne room. And while Lord Carrick didn't seem eager to be sending a spider army north, he begrudgingly obeyed his father's wishes.

There was only one problem left that Graumin had to deal with – Kendrick. He had seen almost as little of Kendrick as he had of the baron, but that was by design. This was the second time in Graumin's life that the Spider Clan's leader had thrust Kendrick upon him, only this time he understood the reason. He remembered well the much younger Kendrick that had rode into the Lost Brothers' camp one morning, over a century ago, bearing an official decree complete with the Carrick family seal. Graumin hadn't thought much of it at the time, as he was often receiving new recruits that had been handpicked by the baron – the man known as Carrick the Bloodthirsty.

It hadn't taken long for Graumin to determine the purpose of Kendrick's presence, though. Kendrick had a perverse curiosity with the mind, particularly the minds of druids and how they controlled their magical powers. He had never been much help in a fight, but revelled in the aftermath. He would take wounded druids and torture them with psychic magic, often to the point of severing their connection with nature completely – rendering their magical powers impotent. Kendrick had devised foul instruments to assist in his dismantling of the mind, and Graumin had watched many druids rendered helpless by Kendrick's experiments.

Graumin had often felt that what he hated most in the world were the common folk – anyone who lacked the ability to use magic. He had never understood why druids didn't simply enslave such worthless people. They served no purpose other than to go about their meaningless lives. Druids had been given a gift, and Graumin felt that they were wasting that gift.

But upon meeting Kendrick, Graumin realized that the common folk were not what he hated most – not at all. He remembered the revulsion that he felt the first time that he had witnessed Kendrick's acts. It incensed him to no end that a man would so tamper with those magical gifts that he so revered. He couldn't imagine living life as a worthless commoner, but that's exactly what Kendrick was sentencing these druids to do. Graumin would gladly kill an enemy druid, but he would never subject them to the humiliation of having their magic stripped away.

Just thinking about it had him gripping the reins of his steed far too tight. He glanced out over his army once more – after all these years he was finally back in the good graces of the Spider Clan, only to again have the miserable Kendrick foisted upon him. He grunted in disgust and gave his horse a fierce kick in the flank, sending the beast galloping off, back towards the city.

* * *

Graumin strolled through the black hallways of the Carrick palace. He had unlimited access to the city now, able to move through the Noble Gate unhindered. He was still staying at the same dingy room at the same dingy inn, though. Comfort was something that Graumin had never bothered with – he found that people who got too comfortable in towns lost their edge when they travelled through the wilderness. And he spent little enough time in towns as it was.

Kendrick, however, had jumped at the baron's offer of a private room within the opulent palace. The décor might have been dour and dreary, but the Carricks spared little expense when it came to pleasure. Residents of the palace were provided with all the food they could eat, all the ale they could drink, and all the companionship they desired. Graumin could just picture Kendrick enjoying himself in the castle – he remembered well how little Kendrick had appreciated life on the road. It was unlikely that much had changed.

Graumin found the room that he was looking for and pushed it open – it wasn't locked. Inside he found the man he sought. Kendrick was standing by a desk that sat against the black stone wall. He was pouring himself a glass of wine. Graumin also noticed that, on the bed, was a naked woman – although he quickly realized that he might better think of her as a girl, as she couldn't have been older than seventeen.

"I was wondering when you would show up," Kendrick said, without looking back at Graumin. "Can I pour you a glass?"

The girl's cheeks were red and there was a fresh bruise forming over her left eye. Graumin stepped into the room and picked up a torn dress from the floor.

"Get out," he growled, tossing the dress at the girl.

She didn't need to be told twice, grabbing the dress and not even bothering to put it on, just racing out of the room, her young flesh jiggling subtly as she ran. Graumin waited until she had gone and then closed the door behind her.

"Taken to beating up little girls?" he asked.

"Oh, are you the protector of the innocents now?" Kendrick shot back. "That's quite a dramatic change."

"I'm glad you remember your time with me. It's a shame you didn't learn anything."

"I remember that time quite fondly. I learned plenty, actually, about the mighty Graumin and his hunger for wanton destruction."

"I'm sure you learned more than that."

"I did indeed," Kendrick replied, leering at Graumin as he sipped his wine. "Are you still upset about that? After all these years?"

"It has been many years, hasn't it? And they haven't been kind to you, old friend. I still remember when you rode into camp, fresh-faced and ready to bring glory to the spiders. And when we massacred that first village, you were cowering in the back, shitting your pants. I should have known your weakness then. But I can see it clearly now – you look older than I do. Maybe if you'd spent more time harnessing your own magic instead of toying with minds, you'd have lasted a little longer."

"I daresay I'm not finished just yet. In fact, I think I have plenty of time left. Didn't you ever wonder why the old baron sent me to join you? Why send a young druid, with no real experience in battle, to join his precious elite fighting force?"

Graumin had wondered that, many times. He had assumed, of course, that the baron had been aware of Kendrick's little experiments. And he had expected that perhaps the baron hoped that Kendrick might devise a simpler way to detach a druid's connection to the magical weave of nature.

Kendrick laid down his wine glass and was openly laughing.

"It never occurred to you," he continued, "that the eighty year-old baron would encourage my research? Research that I was conducting on the link to magic that druids had – druids who live to be hundreds of years old in many cases."

"The old fool wanted to live longer?" Graumin asked, narrowing his eyes. "That's it?"

"That's it?" Kendrick echoed. "Isn't that enough? Do you know how many wealthy men with the misfortune of not having been born with magical talents would pay small fortunes to be able to live longer?"

Graumin felt his rage mounting. He had always hated Kendrick for attacking the very thing that Graumin valued most in the world – magical ability. But the revelation that Kendrick was apparently doing it for money angered him even further.

"I suppose that's why you're here now?" Graumin growled. "Another old fool wants to live forever, so he dug you up out of whatever hole you were in and plans to send you off with his army? I'm sure he expects you to find many unwilling druids to practice your filthy craft on."

"You're smarter than you look, old friend," Kendrick replied. "Although, to be honest, that's not a difficult feat. But yes, the baron has great faith that you will lead his army to many victories. And with each victory, any surviving druids will become my prisoners."

Graumin was already shaking his head.

"You're a bigger fool than old Carrick," he spat. "You can't take a man's magical power and transfer it to someone else. It's innate."

"Oh, I discovered that a long time ago. You're right, of course. I spent years trying to siphon magic out of one subject and install it in another. It failed every time."

"You're deceiving the leader of the Spider Clan?"

"He won't live much longer," Kendrick replied, shrugging. "And I doubt his son will keep me around. It seemed like a fine opportunity to make a rather sizable amount of gold before disappearing back into that hole you mentioned."

Graumin scoffed. All this time he had viewed Kendrick as a stooge – a simple peon carrying out the baron's wishes. But instead, Kendrick was playing the baron, just as Graumin hoped to do. It if it weren't for Kendrick's greedy motivations, Graumin might even have gained some respect for the man. But the hate ran too deep for that.

"Leave," Graumin said coldly. "Tonight."

"I expected you to threaten me," Kendrick replied, grinning. "I'm not going anywhere, other than north with you. And I don't think the baron would appreciate you meddling in his plans."

"The old lecher hasn't been seen in days. And I can handle his boy."

"In any case, as I said, I'm not going anywhere. You don't even have your infamous axe with you. Do you really think that you're that much more powerful than I am?"

The comment about his axe stung, although he had thus far avoided answering any questions as to its whereabouts. He had replaced it with a bastard sword that was dangling at his hip. He had tried a few handaxes, but he couldn't find any that felt right to him.

Graumin didn't bother answering the man's question – he knew quite well that his power far exceeded Kendrick's. And he knew that Kendrick knew it too. Instead, he simply drew his sword.

"I heard that a raven scorched your head as you were running away," Graumin said. "Are you going to try and run away from me, too?"

Kendrick sneered at him. Graumin rushed forward just as Kendrick loosed a weak spell in his direction. It was avoided easily and Graumin slashed out sidelong, catching a good chunk of Kendrick's robes, but none of his flesh.

"You're spry for an old man," Graumin said, shaking the torn fabric from the point of his blade.

"You're one to talk," Kendrick said, his voice shaking. "You don't exactly look young."

Graumin shrugged and then let his own spell fly, a fireball that split into three smaller flames as it approached its target. Kendrick dove for cover behind the bed, just as the sheets and blanket erupted in flame. Graumin calmly paced around the side of the bed, pinning Kendrick between the fire and the wall.

"Nowhere to run," he said.

Apparently he was mistaken, though, as Kendrick ran straight at him. Graumin was taken by surprise, and he wasn't quick enough to get his sword up. Kendrick tackled him and both men fell to the cold floor. Graumin knew the types of implements that Kendrick kept hidden away in his flowing robes, and he tried to pin the taller man's arms to the floor. He noticed that Kendrick already had a slender wooden wand in his right hand, and was trying to free his arm from Graumin's hold.

His sword wasn't much use in close quarters, so he dropped it. He reached down to his belt and produced a small dagger instead. Kendrick was able to free his arm as Graumin brought the dagger to bear. He swung the dagger towards Kendrick's right shoulder, just as the tip of the wand made contact with his temple. Graumin had never felt anything quite like the pain that wracked his head. It lasted only a second, but the agony was so intense that it had his body shaking for minutes afterwards. Luckily, his dagger had connected just below Kendrick's shoulder and gone right through to the stone beneath.

Graumin was able to roll away, trying to calm his quivering hands. He didn't need an explanation – he knew enough about Kendrick and his devious ways to know that his connection to nature had just been attacked. But he also understood that there would be no lasting effects to such a short exposure – such a severing took weeks, if not months, of constant torture.

He managed to regain his feet and looked down upon Kendrick, the man futilely trying to wrench the knife from his arm. The wand was lying on the floor a few feet from Kendrick's hand. Graumin reached down and picked it up. He brought it up close to his eyes, intrigued as to how such a simple piece of wood could cause such incomprehensible damage. He could feel the foul energy flowing within the wand.

"This is quite a toy," Graumin said, and he kneeled down next to Kendrick's body.

He gently pressed the wooden tip up against Kendrick's own temple. Graumin half expected guards to come rushing into the room given the screams that emerged from Kendrick's mouth. He kept the wand pressed against Kendrick's skin for some time before pulling it away. A satisfied grin creased Graumin's lips as he watched Kendrick's body spasm and convulse, half-hearted cries still emanating from his drooping maw.

"So this is what you did to Iain, is it?" Graumin asked. "Not that I care about the filthy totems. I'd have relished the chance to battle Iain myself – to kill him and savour the taste of his blood. But what you tried to do to him..."

Graumin pressed the wand into Kendrick's temple again, and only grinned wider as Kendrick's body began to buck against the stone floor. There were no more screams.

* * *

Graumin was seated atop his fine chestnut stallion. His saddlebags were full and a black and violet cloak adorned his back. A general of the Spider Clan had to look the part, after all.

Another horse was saddled and supplied and waiting for a rider that Graumin knew wouldn't arrive. He expected that Kendrick's body was still shaking on the cold floor, right where he had left it. He knew that Kendrick would recover in a few days – he would probably be fine eventually. He might even run to the baron with his tale. But by then Graumin would be several days north and too far away to care. Although he did wonder if Kendrick would be man enough to follow after the army – a single rider could catch such a force without much difficulty. But Graumin didn't expect Kendrick to have such character – he would likely just take whatever gold he had acquired from the baron and disappear.

"Where is Kendrick?"

Graumin glanced over his shoulder to see Lord Carrick approaching, riding a majestic black courser.

"Maybe he changed his mind," Graumin said. He knew that there was no love lost between the younger Carrick and Kendrick.

"We have thirty thousand men ready to march," Lord Carrick said, clearly annoyed. "We can't wait for a single man."

"Then don't," Graumin replied.

The spider sighed and then called one of the lieutenants over and gave the order to depart.

"I have business in Murky Hollow," Carrick said. "I will ride with you that far."

"Fine," Graumin said, and he gave his stallion a light kick, urging the horse into a slow trot. He badly wanted to gallop forward, but he knew how slowly armies moved. Still, he had to be pleased with his position – he was riding out of Arachnia's Spindle with thirty thousand men at his back.

Now he just had to figure out how to find the boy.
Father Lawrence

The ruins of his once humble, yet lively, town lay all around him. The days since the bear attack on Churchtown had not been happy ones. The priest had lost count of how many bodies had been buried. A few of the folk had even allowed him to provide their loved ones with a small service – religion mattered little to most of the people, and they knew that the priest meant well, whatever his beliefs might be. He had been quite active in the digging of graves, and while they didn't have proper gravestones, there was an abundance of stone rubble available to create rudimentary markings.

Many homes had been destroyed, as well. But given all of the dead, there were still enough buildings left standing to house the residents that remained. And, much to Father Lawrence's surprise, the folk had already begun the work to rebuild the fallen buildings. There were few men remaining in town, but the women and children seemed more than eager to help out. The human spirit never ceased to amaze him.

His own spirit didn't seem so strong. Now that the burials were complete, and everyone had found safe shelter, the priest was resigned to addressing his own ruin. He found himself often staring at the charred remains of his once impressive church. He had tried to enter the building, the see what had survived, but the debris inside was too plentiful, blocking the entrance and difficult to dislodge. So instead he had taken to just sitting in front of the building.

"It's a little cold to be sitting out here alone."

Father Lawrence felt someone sit down in the snow beside him. He knew that it was Tamara without bothering to look – he recognized her sweet scent.

"Well I can't really sit inside," the priest responded.

"How long have you been out here?"

The priest shrugged.

"It's just a building," Tamara said.

"It's not just a building," the priest insisted. "You know very well how many years it's taken me to build that church. I put my soul into that building, and now it's gone. Just like that."

"It's not gone. It's still there, it just looks a little different."

"That's not funny."

The next thing that the priest felt was Tamara's arm draping around his shoulder, and then her soft lips pressed against his gruff cheek. She kissed the side of his face gingerly and he closed his eyes. He was furious that she might be toying with his feelings again, but he enjoyed the sensation of her touch more than he could express.

"It's just a building," she said again. "It doesn't define you, and the fact that it fell down doesn't invalidate your life. The years that you spent building it, and building this town, haven't been erased just because the damned thing fell down."

He didn't answer her. He just sat there, taking comfort in the feel of her soft caress.

"I'm going to be leaving soon," Tamara said. "I wanted to let you know."

For the first time, Father Lawrence turned and looked at her – and he wished that he hadn't. In his vulnerable state, the last thing that he needed to see was Tamara's beautiful face and exotic features. He was at least thankful that she was wearing her more conservative travelling robe rather than one of her usual revealing gowns.

"Leaving?" he asked.

"It's time," she said simply.

The priest sighed, not even attempting to unravel the myriad of emotions swirling within him. Everything from anger to rejection to passion was primed and ready to leap out of him at any moment. Instead he shrugged Tamara's arm away and stood up, taking a few steps towards the battered church.

"You just got back," he said, still staring at the building rather than Tamara's intoxicating eyes.

"Are you mad that I left?" Tamara asked, and he could tell that she was again right next to him.

"I don't know."

"I came to tell you, you know. It was late and you were asleep."

"You should have woken me."

"Maybe. But I didn't."

"You used me," the priest said, turning to face her.

"You didn't exactly seem unwilling," she replied, smirking.

"That's not the point. You took advantage of me."

"So?"

"What do you mean, so? Don't you understand what that means? How wrong that is?"

"What's wrong about it? You enjoyed it didn't you? And I enjoyed it."

"I'm not supposed to enjoy it. I'm a priest."

"Well then, priest, I guess you'll just have to come to terms with that. Personally, I don't see the point in casting aside emotions that you're not supposed to feel. What's the point of living if you're not going to experience life?"

"It's not that simple."

"No, it's actually simpler. Right and wrong come from within, preacher – they don't come from a book. Are you upset because what happened feels wrong? Or are you upset because what happened feels right – but that it's supposed to feel wrong?"

He didn't have a good answer, so he said nothing at all.

"In any case," Tamara continued. "I wanted to say goodbye this time."

"Why are you leaving?" he asked.

"I've been treading water in this world for a while now. I've enjoyed my time in our little town, but the idea that my destiny lays elsewhere has been nagging at me. And now I have a better idea of what I'm meant for."

"Is that why you left? To try and predict the future?"

"Something like that. I can't predict the future the way that you mean it. But I can find guidance. I can ask the fates to point me in the right direction. It's a complicated ritual, though, as fate is fickle and always changing."

"So where did they point you? Where are you going?"

"To find a friend."

"A friend? In this world?"

"Yes. I'm going to find Jonas – or whatever his name is."

That pronouncement caught the priest's attention. He hadn't given much thought to the boy lately, not with all that had happened. But the mere mention of him had the priest worried all over again.

"Why are you looking for the boy?" Father Lawrence asked. "What did your ritual say about him? Is he alright?"

"I don't know if he's alright or not," the witch replied. "And I don't know where he is. All I know is that my fate and his are linked. And that I'm meant to find him again."

The priest didn't know how to process that information. And Tamara didn't give him the chance – she insisted that she had to leave. She had preparations to attend to, as she meant to leave town immediately the following morning.

She leaned in and kissed the priest on the cheek once more, and then she turned and headed down the snowy street towards her temple.

* * *

It had taken him the better part of an hour, but the priest had managed to clear enough of the debris away from the entrance to his church that he could squeeze his way in. The interior was a mess, as he expected. There were large chunks of charred stone all about. The walls had crumbled away near the top, leaving a disjointed look to what had once been a strong and level foundation for his roof. And that roof – what was left of it – lay scattered across the floor, half-burned slabs of wooden beams and odds and ends of wooden planks everywhere he looked.

He had to be careful with each step, and he even had to climb over small piles of rubble in a few places, but he managed to reach his private chambers. He had been hoping that the inner room would have been spared the worst of the destruction, but his hopes were dashed – his chambers were in an even worse state than the main hall. He could barely make out what had once been his bed, and his books and desk had been reduced to ashes.

He wondered how long it would take him to rebuild this place – if it was even possible. He couldn't be sure that the walls were even strong enough to build atop. He might be forced to start again from scratch, and that wasn't a promising thought at his age.

Walking back through the main hall, heading for the entrance, something caught his eye. The priest bent down and pushed a few sticks of black wood out of the way. He picked up a piece of curdled leather and dusted the ash off of it – it was the cover to his bible. The book itself was nowhere to be seen. He expected that it had burned up in the fire. The portion of the cover that he held in his hand was all that remained of his holy book. He chuckled as he realized that he was now a priest without a church and a priest without a bible.

Back outside a few minutes later, Father Lawrence couldn't shake the notion that Tamara was off to find the boy. No matter how much everyone around him tried to console him, to ensure that he had done everything possible to protect the town, the priest couldn't help viewing himself as a failure. He realized that they were right, of course – there was little he could do against armed soldiers. But there was a bigger failure that kept nagging at him, and he knew that he had to set it right.

* * *

It was just after dawn as he approached the witch coven's temple. He hoped that he wasn't too late. He had managed to scrounge up some supplies from the locals, and from the abandoned bear wagons, and he had his pack full and slung over his shoulder. He was carrying a long walking stick in one hand, as well.

He opened the door and walked into the temple – he was relieved to see Tamara standing beside Serena near the centre of the circular room. He didn't want to interrupt, so he waited near the entrance as the two women spoke – saying their goodbyes, he expected. He knew that Serena would make a fine leader for the witches. She had shown a great deal of strength and resolve both during Tamara's absence and the aftermath of the bear attack.

It was a few minutes before he saw Tamara offer Serena a warm embrace, and then the statuesque woman was walking towards him. She was wearing the same long travelling robe that he had seen her in the day before – he assumed that it was easier to navigate the forest trails in such a garment, rather than her usual attire. He felt suddenly nervous, unsure of how he was going to explain his decision to her. He decided to be honest and succinct – there was nothing left for him here.

"Are you ready?" Tamara asked as she approached the door and saw him standing there.

"Sorry?" he muttered.

"Are you ready to go? I want to get a good start today."

"Uhh... yes..."

"Good."

She was out the door a moment later, and the priest had to hustle to keep up with her.

"Don't act so surprised," she said. "We both knew that you were going to come with me."

"We did?" the priest asked, pulling up alongside her.

"Of course – you're in love with me."

"What?" he sputtered, coming to a stop. Tamara stopped and turned to face him.

"Don't worry, most men are," she said, winking at him.

"No... that's... I owe it to the boy. I should have gone after him before. I told him he'd be safe here."

"It's ok. Your secret's safe with me. Do try to keep up, though."

The priest didn't have much trouble keeping up with her, despite his terrible sense of embarrassment. He almost turned back, afraid of what else she might try to drag out of him. He always knew that Tamara had a way with men – she knew exactly how to wrap them around her finger. Was this still just a game to her? But whatever effect her words had on him, he continued to follow – there really was nothing left for him in Churchtown, and if anyone could find the boy, he expected that Tamara could. Besides that, he enjoyed her company.

"So how do you even know where to start looking?" he asked, as they followed the road out of town and into the forest. "The boy could have run off in any direction. We have no idea where he was headed."

"No, we don't," she agreed.

"So then where are we going?"

"My ritual pointed me to the north. So we're going to head north."

"That's it? North?"

"Until we find another sign, yes."

As the priest didn't have any better suggestions, he decided to just follow Tamara. It wasn't like he had a choice – she was going to follow her path with or without him. He might as well stick along for the ride.

The forest was cold and beautiful, the trees covered in a thin layer of white. He enjoyed the untouched, peaceful ambience of nature, even if he wasn't accustomed to travelling. The priest had never really explored the Reverie. The longest trips he ever took were to the portal and then to visit the Ox Clan – and he only ever learned of the clan's existence when they stumbled upon his small settlement. His church was being built out of wood that first summer, until he realized that he could acquire limestone through trade.

In the early years that he had known Tamara, she had often left for long stretches of time. He knew that she was more familiar with the lands than he was. But he also knew that she resented the druids and their rejection of her beliefs. He could understand her position – she had strong magical powers, just as the druids did. They must share some sort of bond, regardless of ideological views. But apparently druids and witches had some sort of history, long, long ago, before the bulk of the druids fled to the Reverie.

They had been walking for many hours when Tamara stopped suddenly.

"We can rest here for the night," Tamara said, as they came into a small hollow with a high ridge that might protect them from the wind.

"Is it night already?" the priest asked.

"Near enough," she replied, and she glanced up at the canopy above. "There's a storm coming. We'll need the shelter."

"A storm? How do you know that?"

"I can sense it on the wind."

"That's convenient," the priest muttered. "Couldn't we have waited a day to set out?"

"You're not afraid of a little snow, are you?"

The two of them went about setting up a small camp. The priest laid out a few blankets and furs for each of them to sleep under. Tamara had a fire lit in the blink of an eye, and the priest realized just how useful magic could be, beyond the savage battles that he had witnessed Tamara fight.

"So do you think we'll find him?" the priest asked, an extra fur draped over his shoulders. It seemed much colder to him now that they had stopped moving.

"Yes," Tamara replied.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I have faith. How is it that you're not so sure?"

"I'm not going to argue my faith with you, Tamara."

"Suit yourself," she said, and she reached into her pack to retrieve a small piece of salted beef.

The priest just sat there, occasionally sipping from his canteen. He kept pulling his furs a little tighter around his body – he hadn't expected the cold to be so biting. It was dark soon after, and the cold only worsened. He tried to inch closer to the flickering fire, but it didn't seem to be helping him much.

Tamara was sitting in place, a heavy fur draped over her shoulders, but not closed in front of her. He always forgot that she had the ability to keep her body quite warm. She was sitting up, but she had her eyes closed – he wasn't sure if she slept that way, or if it was even possible to sleep that way. He assumed that she was just engaging in some form of meditation.

The snow began to fall as the priest munched on a few berries. He wanted to lie down and fall asleep, but his body was shivering – he didn't think that he'd be able to find any sleep, and he wanted to stay as close as he could to the fire.

"You should rest," Tamara said, and the priest looked over to see her eyes open and looking at him.

"I will," he said, but the words came out funny thanks to his clattering teeth.

Tamara stood up and crossed the gap that lay between them, sitting down again on the snow beside him. She reached out and touched his cheek.

"You're freezing," she said.

"It's cold out," he countered.

She smiled at him and slid her hands under his furs, trying to remove them from his body.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"You'll never survive the night shaking like that," she said.

He tried to resist, clinging desperately to the little warmth that his furs provided. But his limbs were stiff with cold, and Tamara was able to slip the furs away. The priest crossed his arms over his chest, his body shaking uncontrollably.

"This is much better," he said, teeth still clattering wildly.

"Have a little faith, for once," Tamara said, and she started to unbutton his cassock.

He again tried to stop her, but gave up quickly when he felt her palm press against his bare chest. The warmth of her body radiated through his torso like a fire spreading through his body. He couldn't believe how warm her flesh felt.

"See," she said. "You should trust me now and then. Now take it off."

"What?" he said.

"Your robe. Take it off."

"I don't think that's going to help."

But Tamara glared at him, and he sheepishly obeyed. She had removed her hand, and the cold was quickly returning to his body. He was able to slide the robe up over his head, which left him sitting there in his undershorts, shivering. His black scar was visible as well, but Tamara didn't mention it – he was thankful of that, uncomfortable enough as it was.

"All of it," Tamara said.

"What do you mean?" he asked, but when he turned to look at her again, he saw that she, too, had removed her robe.

Even in only the light flicker of the flames, her body looked just as he remembered – how could he forget? Her long, slender legs were curled up beneath her, hiding her intimate parts from his view. But her large breasts were proudly on display, as they so often were. Her ebon locks dangled just over her shoulders, teasingly hanging over the tops of her round breasts. But his eyes quickly found her own dark eyes, and he stared into them for several long seconds.

"What are you doing?" he croaked.

"What do you think?" she asked. "I'm going to keep you warm. Now take it all off."

The priest had little desire to reveal himself to Tamara – at least not like this. But the cold had returned in force, and he so desperately needed to feel the warmth of her body. So he hooked his thumbs under the waist of his undershorts, and he pulled them down.

Tamara smirked at him, and he felt highly embarrassed about the state of his manhood in the extreme cold. But she didn't seem to mind, as she picked up a blanket and then brought her lithe body right next to his own. She hadn't even touched him yet and he could already feel the heat from her form.

"I'm not in love with you," the priest blurted out.

"If you say so," the witch replied, and she wrapped an arm around his back, pulling his body right into her own.

He was immediately overcome by a soothing warmth that seemed to penetrate every inch of him. The two of them sat there, bodies entwined, as Tamara pulled the blanket tight around them. Her heavy breasts were pressing right into his chest and he could feel a subtle tingling in his loins. He tried to shift his position, to hide it, but he should have known better. He felt Tamara's hand slowly slither its way down his torso, across his belly – and even drag across the outline of his garish scar – and come to rest over his groin.

"What are you doing?" he breathed, as she gently guided his body down to a lying position – they were both lying on their sides now, bundled under the heavy blanket, bodies still mashed together.

"Warming you up," she replied.

He could feel her delicate fingers encircle him. She moved her hand back and forth, his arousal growing rapidly. She had a tighter grip around him, and her hand was moving quicker.

"Tamara..." he whispered.

"Do you want me to stop?" she asked, her dark eyes twinkling.

He didn't answer, and she didn't stop. He even found that his hands were absently caressing her smooth skin. Tamara leaned forward and kissed him, and at first he pulled away – but that hardly deterred her. His tongue was in her mouth a moment later, savouring the sweet taste. She was still expertly manipulating him beneath the blanket, and he felt her pull him closer.

He broke away from their kiss as he realized what she was doing. Her fingers guided him until he felt himself rubbing against something wet and warm. She wore a playful smirk as her eyes bored into him.

"I'm still not in love with you," he insisted as he felt himself enter her.
The Boy

Nearly half the food in his stolen pack was gone – the boy just couldn't help himself. He knew that it would be wiser to ration the food, as he had no idea how long he would be alone and on the move. But having been starved for most of his captivity, the boy delighted in the tough, stale food that he pulled from the pack. Propped up against a tree, he inspected a slice of cheese that was blue and mouldy in many places – he ate it anyway, nibbling around the mould.

The boy's body was still weak and he hadn't made very good progress through the snow. He wasn't on a trail, so the snow was deeper in some places and the terrain was rough and uneven. He was making his way west, as best he could tell. He knew that a road ran north from Churchtown towards Ursa's Maw. If he could make it to that road, he'd have an easier time of it – then he'd just have to figure out where he wanted to go.

The boy tried not to think about Churchtown. It would be so easy for him to follow that road south, back to the small town that had been his temporary home. He missed the priest, and he missed Serena. He even missed Tamara. But his reminiscing always brought him back to one simple image – that of Graumin walking through the doors of the church. He didn't even know if his friends had survived Graumin's attack, and he couldn't risk going back to find out. He knew that Graumin would still be looking for him, and he wasn't about to lead the mad spider back to Churchtown for a second bout of devastation.

The boy hadn't lit a fire, as he hadn't been expecting to stop long. But the longer that he sat there, back against the tree, the less inclined he was to get up and move. He doubted that any otters remained to pursue him, and if Graumin was going to find him then Graumin was going to find him – there was little that he could do to stop his old master at this point. So he decided that he might as well get a little more rest.

With a small fire crackling a few minutes later, the boy tried to lie down on the abundance of freshly fallen snow, but he had difficulty finding a comfortable position. His body was still sore, and many of his fresher wounds still caused him undue pain. He slipped his furs down over his right shoulder, ignoring the cold, to inspect the sharp jabbing that he felt each time that he moved it. The skin was still tender and he poked out with his finger, applying different levels of pressure.

The boy was about to pull his furs back up when he was startled by a movement. His hands frantically sought the hilt of his newly acquired sword, and he scrambled to get back to his feet. Staring at him from across the fire was a pair of pale blue eyes that belonged to a very large wolf. The boy felt a touch of relief until he realized that a wild animal could prove to be as much trouble as an angry old spider.

The wolf's fur was sleek and fine, and its snout was long and pointed. The animal was slowly padding its way around the fire, and the boy stood stone still, his hands shakily clutching the sword out in front of him. He didn't have much experience with wildlife – Graumin had always been quick to kill animals, often consuming their blood. He didn't know how best to deal with a wolf. And yet, the wolf didn't appear very aggressive, as it simply sauntered towards him – it almost seemed as though the beast was eyeing him curiously.

"Go on now," the boy said, but the wolf didn't move away.

He wondered if maybe the animal smelled some of the food in his pack. He was about to bend over and pick it up when there was a brief flash of blue light. The boy shielded his eyes with his arm, and when he lowered his arm the wolf was gone – and had been replaced by a man. The man had shaggy brown hair and was clad in a simple leather tunic and pants, with a gray fur wrapped about his shoulders but hanging open in the front.

"What do you want?" the boy asked, recoiling from the man.

"That's not the usual reaction I get," the man offered, smiling. "What happened to your shoulder, boy?"

The boy quickly pulled his furs up, covering his wounded arm.

"It's fine," he said, sword still pointing forward, towards the man.

"I don't mean to hurt you. I would have passed by your camp altogether, but I was curious as to why a boy was in the middle of the forest, alone. Where is your home?"

"The forest is my home."

"I can relate to that," the man said, nodding his head. He took a few steps closer to the boy.

"What do you want?" the boy repeated, pushing the tip of his sword right up against the man's belly.

"Are you going to run me through, boy? Otherwise, why don't you put the blade down and let me see your injuries."

The boy didn't budge, just staring warily at the man.

"If I wanted to hurt you, I'd have done it already," the man insisted. "I don't know if you noticed earlier, but I'm rather skilled at magic. Your sword wouldn't help you if I meant you harm."

The words made sense, but as the strange man approached, the boy could only feel jabs of pain in his mind – images flashing through his head. He saw Argus and the old lecher and his cage. Then he saw a different cage and a bear sigil waving atop a wooden fence. And he saw Graumin. He saw all the places that he never wanted to find himself again, and he wouldn't let anyone take him there.

Before he could react, though, the sword was extracted from his hand and he was forced to the ground, his back thrust up against the tree trunk. He screamed out, and his legs kicked, hoping to knock the man away. But instead he found his furs yanked away from his torso, leaving him naked from the waist up. He tried to cover himself, afraid of what was coming next.

But instead of pain, he felt something else – a soothing calm washed through his body. He chanced a look down and saw that the man had his palm pressed against the boy's side, and a pale green light was emanating from beneath his hand. When the man removed his hand a moment later, one of the boy's more severe wounds felt significantly improved. The gash in the skin had closed together, and all that remained was a sliver of a scar.

"What happened to you?" the man said, looking up at the boy's face.

The boy still wasn't sure what to make of the situation, but the relief that he felt from his constant pain - even though he could already feel the deep soreness returning in many of his other wounds – allowed him a few moments of clarity.

"What do you want from me?" the boy asked again, trying to control his heavy breathing.

"I want to know what happened to you."

The boy's body was getting cold, but it warmed when the man placed his hand over a second wound. The soft green light again began to glow, and the boy felt his pain lessen once more.

"Are you able to use magic?" the man asked.

"No."

"You have the ability. You've never learned to use it?"

"What? I don't... I'm too old now."

"Your body is covered in scars and gashes and cuts – many more injuries than a regular person could sustain and survive. You should be dead right now, but you're not."

"They... they kept me alive. They wouldn't let me die."

"No," the man said, shaking his head. "Some of these are quite deep. Your magic kept you alive, not your enemies. Trust me, boy – I can sense it within you."

The boy didn't believe that the man was saying. Magic found children at a young age – they were tested for an affinity with nature. And they were placed in schools to learn how to properly harness and foster that connection. The boy had gone through none of that.

"Unless I miss my mark, you've had a hard life," the man said. "I've seen this before. Your power has been repressed, either by your own sufferings, or by an external force."

"An external force?" the boy echoed.

"Have you had close contact with another druid – someone who may have had reason to prevent your abilities from showing?"

The boy nodded.

"Did that person do this to you?" the man asked, indicating the boy's body.

"No. Not these. I escaped that man, but I was taken prisoner by someone else."

"Prisoner? For what crime?"

"I don't... I mean... I'm a spider. That seems to be crime enough for some."

"I don't have much use for clans, myself. I'm a wolf, in case you hadn't picked up on that earlier."

"You're Desmond."

"I am," Desmond replied, chuckling. "I see they're still teaching children about clans and totems then."

"Graumin taught me about the totems. He said you were all evil. But you helped me. And Brandt helped me when I was held captive by the bears."

"Graumin? Is that the man that you fled, boy?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"I know of him – a cruel man by all accounts. I've never met him, though, no."

"You're lucky," the boy mumbled.

"I suppose I am. You'll have nothing to fear from Graumin while you're with me."

"While I'm with you? Are you taking me somewhere?"

"If you'd like. If you have any desire to explore your magical abilities, then I can help you. I may not be able to teach you myself, but I can bring you to those who will help."

The boy nodded eagerly.

"I should warn you, though – I can't promise that you'll be any safer with me than you are here in the woods, alone. My path is a dangerous one. But if we're able to pass that danger, then I can offer you a life better than the one you've known."

"What's the danger?" the boy asked, feeling his hopes fall a little.

"I make for Ursa's Maw."

"The bears war with the serpents."

"Yes, they do. Now let's go help them win."

* * *

The boy stared out over the mighty river, Ursa's Maw sitting proudly on the opposite shore. It was dark and the boy could barely make out the huge stone walls that surrounded the city. He could see the vast army that surrounded the city quite clearly, though, given the thousands of torches and bonfires that were lit outside the walls.

"That's a lot of serpents," the boy said.

"The walls won't hold much longer," Desmond observed.

"They won't?"

"Don't put too much stock in legends. They say that the walls of Ursa's Maw are impenetrable, but any wall can be knocked down with enough force and enough time. And by the looks of it, the serpents have been at this a while."

The boy couldn't disagree – the serpent army seemed well entrenched, on top of being immense in size.

"How are we supposed to get in there?" the boy asked.

"We'll have to be creative," Desmond responded.

"How do we even get across?"

"I know another way across. I prefer to travel less-weathered routes. If we leave now, we can reach it by morning. Are you ready?"

The boy knew what that question meant, and his shoulders slumped. He nodded his assent, though, and after a quick flash of blue light, his companion was in his wolf form once more. The boy cautiously approached the large wolf and swung a leg over its back. It wasn't like riding a horse – there was no saddle and a wolf wasn't nearly as tall, so his legs just sort of hung over the sides and he had to keep them from scraping the ground.

He had spent the last day and a half travelling like this, though, so he was getting used to it. He had to keep a firm grip on the wolf's thick hair, as Desmond ran with as much haste as he could manage. The boy soon felt the cold wind blowing against his face, and the bouncing and bounding often came close to shaking him right off the side. But he did his best to hold on.

They ran on like that until morning, the boy desperate for a break, his hands numb but clinging to the tangled fur of the wolf's back. The boy found himself nearly falling asleep at a few points, but Desmond never slowed his pace. It was a much more even run now that they were on a proper trail, rather than the last days' journey through the forest.

When the boy felt the wolf slow to a stop, he knew that was his cue to hop off, and he gladly obliged. He brought his stiff hands up to press into the skin of his frozen face. It wasn't until a few moments later that he even noticed the buildings that made up the small settlement at the base of the road's slope – it was like a small valley that was almost level with the water's height.

"Where are we?" the boy asked.

"I don't even think this place has a name," his human-again companion responded. "It does have a ferry – or a raft, at least. We can cross the river here."

Desmond started down the hill, the boy panting as he tried to keep up – despite the fact that he had merely been riding, and Desmond running. They were down the slope in short order, and the boy was curiously peering at each of the wooden buildings. He noticed a large man with a bushy black beard standing outside of a building up ahead.

"If it isn't Branson the Bear," Desmond called out, laughing.

"Is that you, old wolf?" the man yelled back, his voice as burly as the boy expected.

"It's been a long time," Desmond greeted as they approached the man, Branson reaching out and clasping Desmond's offered arm.

"Let me guess," Branson said. "Another wolf wants a way across the Ursal. Who's your friend?"

The boy smiled and nodded, but didn't say anything. Desmond knew that he had no name, but revealing that fact to others would give away that the boy was a spider – and he wasn't sure that was wise.

"What do you mean, another wolf?" Desmond asked, and the boy noted the serious look on Desmond's face.

"A while back, maybe two months or so, a girl showed up here, trying to cross the river. Said she was a wolf."

"No wolves are this far north that I'm aware of. Unless..."

The boy saw a sudden flash of inspiration across Desmond's eyes.

"A young woman?" he asked. "Slight of build? With silvery-blonde hair?"

"That'd be her," Branson grunted. "Said her name was Sasha. She was pleasant company – in a hurry, though. You know her?"

"I do. I'm glad she found you. Did you get her across?"

"I got her most of the way," Branson said, chuckling. "She went the rest of the way herself. Rode her damned horse right over the side of the raft."

"She swam?" the boy asked, a shiver coursing up his spine at the mere thought of how cold the river would be.

"Nope," Branson said. "Her horse walked right on top of the water. I didn't even know she was a druid until she did it. There were serpents waiting in ambush on the shore and I wanted to turn back. She wouldn't have it – she rode her horse right up the river until she was out of sight. Damnedest thing I ever saw."

Desmond appeared to be deep in thought for several long moments, and the boy wanted to ask what was going on. He wasn't sure how much the bear knew, though, so he figured he'd save his questions until they were alone again.

"I don't mean to be rude company, old friend," Desmond said. "But it's imperative that the boy and I reach the opposite shore today."

"Figured you'd say as much," Branson said. "Come on, it'll only take a few minutes to get the raft set up."

The boy followed the two men down to the river's edge where he saw that the water near the shore had iced over. The ice didn't look very sturdy, and it only lasted for about a hundred feet. The raft was sitting right on top of the ice, with the chain running out over the ice until it dove into the water.

Even though the raft wasn't in the water, the three of them crowded onto it all the same. Branson began turning the crank, and the raft scraped noisily across the rough surface of the ice.

"I assume you're heading for Ursa's Maw?" Branson asked as the raft plunked down onto the surface of the river, splashes of cold water hitting the boy's face.

"That's the plan," Desmond confirmed.

"Always eager to save the day, old wolf."

"There was a time, not too long ago, when Branson would be leading the charge to save Ursa's Maw."

The burly bear let out a deep belly laugh.

"I'm old and fat now," he said. "The most help I can be is turning this crank."

"And a good help it is," Desmond said. "I really didn't want to have to swim across."

The two men continued chatting as the raft moved slowly across the breadth of the river. The boy curled up at the back of the ferry, hoping to get a bit of rest – he expected that Desmond wouldn't want to wait once they reached the opposite side. The boy had come along with Desmond willingly, especially after the man had helped to heal his wounds. But now that they were actually heading into the mouth of a vast army, the boy really wasn't sure what his role was supposed to be.

He wasn't able to find any sleep, but he at least got to rest his limbs a little. He felt the raft bang against something and he was jolted forward. He looked up to see that they had hit the ice on the other side. Before he knew it, they had said their goodbyes to Branson, and Desmond was leading him across the thin ice on foot. With every step the boy feared that it would crack and he would plummet to the depths of the river, but it never did.

Desmond moved deftly up the snowy slope and into the cover of the trees, while the boy lost his footing halfway up and had to clamber clumsily the rest of the way. He was breathing hard by the time he caught up, and he bent down on one knee while Desmond peered off into the forest.

"Which way are we going?" the boy asked.

"I think there's someone camped that way," Desmond replied, and he started moving in that direction.

"Shouldn't we be going the other way? Avoiding detection?"

"No."

The boy didn't like the idea of seeking out potential enemies. But he liked the idea of being alone on this side of the river even less, so he followed closely, trying to keep his head low. They didn't have to go very far – he wasn't sure how Desmond had seen these people, but soon a campfire came into view between the many trees.

"Can't we just go around them?" the boy pleaded.

"We need to get into the city," Desmond said, his eyes staring at the three men that sat about the crackling fire.

"How will they help us get into the city?"

"They won't. But their cloaks will."

It seemed such a simple plan that the boy was almost ashamed he hadn't thought of it himself. With an army the size of the one camped outside of Ursa's Maw, there was no way that every soldier would know every other soldier. Anyone with an emerald serpent cloak would be accepted without question.

"But won't they notice me?" the boy asked.

"I doubt it," Desmond replied, turning to regard the boy. "And if anyone says anything, we'll just say that you're my son. Serpents like all that becoming a man stuff – just like the spiders do."

The boy nodded.

"Now you wait here," Desmond said. "Stay down and stay out of sight."

"I can fight," the boy blurted, clutching the sword hilt at his waist.

"I know you can fight, boy. But I need you to keep your strength. I have a feeling that we'll see our share of fighting before long."

The boy nodded again and he crouched down behind some bushes. He heard shouts first, as Desmond approached. The shouts were drowned out by low growls and the gnashing of sharp teeth. Screams followed soon after – screams that turned the boy's stomach and had him holding his hands over his ears. As the screams faded away, he could still hear the sounds of teeth and claws tearing and pulling. And, finally, the long, echoing howl of a wolf standing over its kill.

As the boy tried to catch his breath, he could only wonder what he had gotten himself into.
Sasha

Her mind was calm, her breathing slow and measured. With eyes closed, the serenity enveloped her as she focused on the black and tangled branches. She couldn't see them with her eyes, but she sensed their presence. She reached out with her spirit, probing the labyrinth of trees, gently caressing the rough bark and softly shaking the many dark leaves. She focused on one particular tree, sensing its life force, her mind mingling with the tree's own spirit – and she simply asked it to move.

"That's good," Michael said, in his usual soothing tone.

Sasha opened her eyes to see that the single tree had straightened, its branches having extracted themselves from the great tangle. There was a small gap now, big enough for a person to enter, only to be blocked by the next tree. Sasha shook her head, unsatisfied, and closed her eyes once more.

Michael had been teaching her about the true power of magic – at least, that's what he called it. He had told her that many druids fall into the failure of approaching magic as masters, and bending nature to their will. She remembered the way that the beavers had taught her how to manipulate her connection with nature – which, as far as she knew, was the way that most druid clans taught their young. But Michael insisted that creating magic was a cooperative effort between druid and nature. He had taught her how to bond with the elements around her and to ask for their help, rather than forcing them to enact her demands.

It had required a radical change in her thinking – to accept that everything around her had some sort of energy, things she had once considered inanimate, like rocks or the ground itself. When she had first come upon the great tangle of black trees, she had tried to use fire to burn her way through, only to find that it had no impact at all. But now, by simply asking the tree to move, she had created a small hole.

"Be patient," Michael said.

Sasha had never been the patient type, though. And although she had shown noticeable progress with her meditation, she was emboldened by the small gap that she had created in the tangle.

Sasha delved deeper into her own mind this time, her spirit shooting out towards the trees. She sought that partnership more keenly this time – the connection that existed, linking everything together, allowing her to work with the trees. The sharper her focus became, the more she discovered about that connection. She found that she could sense not only the individual trees, but clusters of them all at once. Her spirit united with those of the clusters of trees, like an intricate dance of life energies, and Sasha encouraged the trees to part.

She heard Michael laugh a moment later, and Starla began to giggle. Sasha opened her eyes to see that a path had opened up in the trees, easily big enough for all three of them to walk right through and come out on the other side.

"You should have done that when we first got here," Starla said. "It would have been a lot easier!"

Sasha shot the girl a stern look, but that only drew more giggles.

"I didn't expect you to succeed on your first lesson," Michael said. "You continue to impress me, Sasha."

* * *

Sasha was woken from a deep meditation by Michael, who had entered the small cave that Sasha had been using. Not wanting to impose on Michaels' home, Sasha had discovered the small cave off of a second tunnel that led from the dragon's lair. The golden light filled the tunnel and seeped into the cave, where Sasha felt that it helped to soothe her and ease her mind into higher states of concentration.

"This is an appropriate place," Michael commented.

"I find it calming," Sasha agreed.

"I have something for you."

Sasha raised her eyebrows – she wasn't sure what sort of gift Michael could provide her that would compare the knowledge that he had already imparted. But she followed him out of the cave anyway. They didn't head back up the tunnel towards the dragon, though, instead heading deeper into the bowels of the mountain.

"Where are we going?" Sasha asked.

"I want to show you something, as well," Michael said, not divulging any more than that.

So Sasha simply followed in silence, Michael lighting the way with a bright blue flame that floated in front of him. After nearly twenty minutes, the tunnel bent to the side and came to an end in a small cavern. There was very little of note about the cave, save for one thing – at the very back, carved right into the rock, was a portal. It had the same bluish glow as the waygate that Sasha had passed through to enter the Reverie. Even though it lacked the upright stones and the runic etchings, she knew that it was a portal.

Michael moved towards the side of the cave, and Sasha's eyes shifted to follow him. There was a shelf built into the rock, as well, and Michael pulled something off of it. He turned and approached Sasha, a fine long sword in his hand – he held it out and presented it to her.

Sasha picked the sword up hesitantly.

"I don't know how to use one of these," she admitted.

"You should," Michael replied.

It felt heavy in her hand, but she slashed it through the air anyway, feeling slightly foolish. Her stroke was clumsy, and she nearly dropped the thing on the follow through. It was only then that she noticed the finely crafted hilt. She lifted the handle up to inspect it more closely – it was an off-black colour and carved in the shape of a dragon's head, and the crosspiece resembled a pair of dragon wings. Something was set in the pommel, but it had been covered over by years of dirt and dust. Sasha wiped it away to find a brilliant red gem.

She gazed at the beauty of the weapon for a few moments before taking another swipe through the air with it – which didn't fare much better than her first attempt.

"Not like that," Michael said.

"What do you mean?" Sasha asked.

"I mean that there's more than one way to use a sword."

"Like thrusting it, instead of slashing?"

"No," Michael replied, chuckling. "When you see a man holding a sword, what do you think?"

"That he's dangerous?"

"Exactly - that he's dangerous, or that he's powerful. Perhaps you might even fear him. Perception is a tool, and it is just as useful as the sword itself – and in your case, perhaps more useful."

"But won't people expect that I don't know how to use it properly? Why would they be scared of that?"

"Because you won't be using it in the way they expect. You won't be the scary part – you'll make the sword itself instil fear. Try it."

"Try what?"

"Make the sword seem more intimidating."

Sasha wasn't sure what that meant – was she supposed to make the sword bigger? She was contemplating how to even do that when she noticed the blue glow that was reflecting off of the silvery blade. She looked up to see Michael's fire, still flickering away in mid-air, as it had been since they entered the cavern.

With a simple thought, angry red flames erupted from the sword, starting near the base and dancing their way to the pointed tip. As her magic filled the blade, runes became visible along the metal, in the same red hue as the flames that surrounded them. The cave was filled with a red glow and Sasha held the sword up before her eyes. She could feel the heat from the flames against her face.

"Very good," Michael said. "Whether you can swing the sword well or not won't matter if your blade is aflame. Perception is a powerful tool."

"I can see that," Sasha breathed.

"The blade can channel your magic, as well. Any spell that you might cast will flow through the metal as easily as if it were an extension of your arm. I'd rather you don't test it now, lest you bring the roof of the cave down around us with a fireball."

Sasha nodded, and she cleared her mind, allowing the fire to slowly dim and then fade away completely.

"Can all swords do this?" she asked.

"No," Michael said. "You could force fire upon any blade, of course, but metal doesn't burn the way that wood or cloth might. The sword you hold in your hand is special – it was crafted thousands of years ago by the most skilled blacksmiths of the Dragon Clan. The runes that you saw were in the ancient language of the druids, which is mostly lost to this world, and the other."

"Really? It's that old?"

"It is. I've been waiting a very long time for someone to claim this sword."

"Claim it? What do you mean?"

"I mean that it was crafted for the leader of the Dragon Clan – myself. I wielded this blade for many years. But my time as leader was a failure. I allowed the other clans to defeat us, and to drive the dragon into hiding. I had been hoping that another dragon would reveal themselves and take up the mantle as leader once more. And here you are."

"Did you just say that I'm supposed to be the leader of the clan? But I'm not even a real druid. And isn't the clan gone? Who am I supposed to be leading?"

"What is a druid, really? It's just a label assigned to someone proficient in magic. I was among the first druids, but we didn't call ourselves druids at that time. It was a word thrust upon us by others, and we simply accepted it. True, the word seems to have taken on a different meaning, but as I'm the only other living member of the Dragon Clan – at least that we're aware of – I will gladly accept a non-druid as my leader."

Sasha was shaking her head. How could she possibly accept such a role? She barely knew what she was doing in this world. And she certainly was nowhere near as wise and skilled as Michael.

"You should be leading me," she said. "You are leading me. I'd have been lost if we hadn't found you."

"Perhaps, but now you've found your way. And your path lies back to the south."

"Please tell me that I don't have to make that journey again so soon," Sasha said, even though the mention of the south had her thoughts quickly drifting to Desmond.

"I think you might find the journey a little easier this time around. Come here."

Michael led her to the portal that had been sitting at the side of the cave the entire time. She hadn't given it much thought until Michael brought her to stand beside it.

"Where does it lead?" she asked.

"Where would you like it to lead?"

"I thought the portals were tied to portals in the other world? My world?"

"That is their simplest function, yes. But your abilities are beyond that now. I created the portals to serve several functions – this was the very first portal. This cave has always held special meaning to Adenah. It was in this very cavernous complex that the dragon first tutored me in the more advanced ways of magic."

"What else can the portals do?"

Michael reached out and placed a withered hand upon the side of the rock. The blue watery surface of the portal began to shimmer and then change altogether. It was replaced by something that looked almost like a window to Sasha – and it was looking right out over a familiar scene.

"Ursa's Maw is under siege," Michael stated.

"I saw that on my way north," Sasha said.

The great walls of the city still stood proud, she noticed. But they were also still being battered by the serpent war machines. The army sitting outside the walls looked even larger to her now than it did when she had crossed the river.

"The Reverie was created with the goal of being a haven for druids and non-druids alike," Michael said. "There will always be fighting between the clans, I suppose. Nothing can change simple human nature. But the serpents engage in unconventional magic – the type that could damage the very fabric of the Reverie, endangering everyone. If they are able to conquer the bears, then I would fear the consequences for this entire world."

"How are you able to see this?" Sasha said, only partially taking in Michael's words. She reached out and pressed a finger against the image of the city, but felt only the rock of the cavern wall.

"I can see any physical place in the Reverie through any portal," Michael responded.

"Can you show me Desmond?"

"Do you know where Desmond is? I can show you any location, but I can't find a particular person without knowing where they are."

"So you're telling me that I have to help the bears defeat the serpents?" Sasha said, trying to hide her disappointment.

"I believe that to be your role, yes."

"My magic may be stronger now, but it's not strong enough to battle an army. I don't even know if I could defeat one other powerful druid, let alone lots of them."

"Your experience may be limited, but remember that your power lies not only in your own might, but in the symbol that you can become – if you can inspire courage in your allies and fear in your foes, that's more powerful than any spell you might conjure."

Sasha nodded. She wasn't sure just how effective a symbol she could be. But with her newfound sense of calm, and her desire to impress Michael, she would give it her best shot.

"Can I pass through this portal?" she asked, eyeing the scene at Ursa's Maw.

"You could," Michael said. "But we're not quite finished here. I have one further task for you, and should you accomplish it, you will find your road south much, much easier to traverse. And when you do reach Ursa's Maw, I intend to help you find success."

"Are you coming too? I thought you were bound to the cave?"

"Oh, I can leave for short periods of time. The longer that I'm away, the wearier I become. But I think that for this, I can chance a few hours. This is important."

"So what will we do? Can we win?"

"When you arrive, I want you to make your presence felt – make an impression. And once enough eyes are on you, find the highest point that you can reach, and raise your sword high. I want you to announce that the Dragon Clan is alive and well, and that the serpents have drawn your ire. And then I'll join in. I think that, together, we can certainly make an impact."

Sasha smiled – she felt much more comfortable about this whole ordeal knowing that Michael would be with her.

"Now," Michael continued, "For that final task..."

He reached out once more and pressed his hand against the rock. The portal glimmered and the image changed again. Sasha was now looking into another dark cavern – but she could see the light that marked the entrance.

"Where is that?" she asked.

"It's another cavern in these mountains," he said.

"So you can use the portals to go anywhere?"

"The portals are all interconnected, even between worlds. Each portal has a sister portal, with a link strong enough that simple magic can activate it. That's how you were able to enter this world. But those who can sense that deeper connection between gateways can travel between any two portals. As far as I'm aware, that ability can only be achieved by myself, although in days long past there were others who could accomplish the feat."

"I can't do it?"

"Perhaps. But we don't have time to test that now – soon you will accomplish such feats with ease, but those are lessons for another day."

"So what's in this other cave?" Sasha asked, peering into the portal.

"Oh, I don't want to spoil the surprise. I expect that you will find something that will be very helpful to you, though."

"I don't like surprises," Sasha muttered.

"Surprises are fun!" Starla said, excitedly, and Sasha and Michael both turned to see that the girl was standing by the entrance to the cave. Sasha didn't know how long she'd been there.

"Hello, child," Michael said.

"Can I come too?" Starla asked. "I want to help Sasha."

"I think that's an excellent idea," Michael commented.

"You do?" Sasha said, but Michael just smiled in response.

"Before I forget," he did say, "I have one last gift for you."

He moved back towards the same shelf where he had taken the sword. This time he picked up some sort of fabric. He carried it back towards Sasha, unfolding it as he walked – it was a robe. It was a dark shade of red, almost burgundy in colour. And emblazoned on the back was the profile of a dragon, in black.

"My old robe," Michael said. "You should wear it."

"It's beautiful," Sasha said, and she noted that there were golden runes stitched all along the borders and hemlines of the robe.

Sasha pulled it on over her head – she had been wearing just her simple leather tunic and pants, as it wasn't overly cold in the caverns. The robe fit her well, hanging nearly to her feet. It had a large hood that she pulled up and over her head, casting her pretty face in shadow – Starla giggled at that part, and Sasha eventually threw the hood back.

"You will represent the clan well," Michael said. "Now hurry through the portal, and I'll meet you at Ursa's Maw."

"You're not coming?" Sasha asked.

"Oh, no. I'll be keeping an eye on you, though."

Sasha nodded and smiled at him – she wasn't even sure how to thank him for everything, but she expected that he already understood just how thankful she was.

"Well, I guess it's just you and me now," Sasha said, extending her hand to Starla. It still felt a little strange to Sasha that the glowing girl felt as solid as any other human. Hand in hand, the pair walked forward and stepped through the watery portal.

Sasha's foot touched down on rock that seemed more or less the exact same as the rock she had just left behind. But the air tasted differently, and the golden glow from the dragon cave was gone. She glanced back at the portal, expecting to see Michael looking out at them – but all she could see was the faint blue glow that she remembered from her first portal.

"I guess we're supposed to go outside," Sasha said, and she led Starla towards the white light at the end of the tunnel.

It wasn't a long walk before they emerged into the snow – they seemed to be much higher up in the mountains. As Sasha looked around, she could see three different peaks. They were in a clearing that was surrounded entirely by rock. There were a few scattered trees, but none of the forest that she had become so used to.

"Where are we?" Starla asked.

"I'm not sure," Sasha replied. "Michael said that I would find something here that would help me."

"Do you know what it is?"

"No, I don't."

There was a loud and high-pitched sound above Sasha, and she looked up – she nearly fell over in surprise. Perched on a rocky outcropping, only thirty feet up the side of the mountain, was a huge creature. At first she thought it was a really big bird, as it had bright white feathers covering its head, along with a bright yellow beak and razor sharp front claws. But then she noticed that its body was not that of a bird. It was clinging to the rock with two large hind paws, attached to the muscular legs and body of a feline – a lion, maybe. The white feathers of its head turned to golden feathers around its neck and upper torso, and then to smooth golden fur across its sleek lower half. She had read about creatures like this before.

"Oh!" Starla squeaked. "It's a griffon!"

"A griffon..." Sasha echoed. Normally she would have questioned whether such things even existed, but after Desmond had introduced her to faeries and nymphs, and she just spent several weeks in a cavern with a sleeping dragon, she wasn't so easily surprised anymore.

She was frightened, though. The griffon was much larger than her, and it was staring right at her. And then, with one fluid movement, it was in the air, its great wings spread far apart, talons dangling down threateningly. Sasha grabbed Starla and pushed the young girl towards a large boulder that lay on the ground not far away. They were able to duck behind the boulder just as the griffon flew only feet above their heads.

"It would have been nice if he had mentioned that," Sasha muttered.

How was she supposed to get past a griffon? And what was so important that she needed to get anyway? She remembered Desmond explaining to her that many creatures that existed in the Reverie but not in her world had a closer bond to magic – as a result, they often had a high resistance to magical attacks. How effective could her spells even be against such a beast? She glanced down at the new sword that hung at her hip. She reached down to grip the hilt, but she felt Starla's small hand stop her.

"It's like the bear," the girl said.

"The bear?" Sasha echoed, remembering their encounter before entering the long, dark tunnels. "The bear that almost killed us, you mean?"

But the notion immediately made sense to Sasha. Michael would never have sent her through that portal with the intention of killing such a special animal. She remembered the connection that she had made with Dancer, her trusted mount. Was that the role that Michael foresaw for this hulking creature? To be Sasha's new steed, unhindered by snow or rough terrain? He had stated that whatever she found would make her journey south much easier.

She peered out over the top of the boulder to see the griffon flapping its wings not far away. It was facing her, and clearly waiting for her to make some sort of move. While she had had success bonding with the horse, the bear had been an utter failure. Still, she sighed and stood up. Pulling the sword from its sheath, she laid it on the ground beside Starla. Then she stepped out around the boulder.

The griffon wasted no time in streaking towards her, and Sasha simply held her arms out wide and closed her eyes. She fell into her meditation, delving deep within herself and sending her spirit out to meet the charging beast. Unlike with the bear, Sasha could sense the griffon's spirit. No words or thoughts were exchanged, but she knew that she was communicating with it – and as her body hadn't been ripped to shreds, she could only assume that she was having some success.

Sasha opened her eyes to see that the griffon had landed just in front of her. Its eyes were black and staring straight ahead. With her eyes open, Sasha had a more difficult time controlling her pulse, which began to race. She tried to take deep breaths, to calm her nerves. She didn't know if the griffon could sense her apprehension, and she didn't want to wait to find out.

Taking a bold step forward, Sasha extended her arm and touched the griffon's head, running her hand through its incredibly soft feathering. To her surprise, it lowered its head, as if inviting her to pet it further. Apparently Sasha had succeeded in convincing the griffon that she meant no harm – but she knew that allowing her to mount the creature would likely be a more difficult feat.

Sasha let her hand slide down to the side of the creature's face, still gently rubbing its soft feathers. She closed her eyes once more and set her mind to finding that connection with the griffon, as she had with Dancer. She tried to impart her intentions to the griffon, and she sensed that the animal understood her. And, as it was still behaving peacefully and allowing her to touch it, Sasha took that to mean that the griffon was agreeable. Her breathing steadied a little as she opened her eyes and saw that the griffon had bent one of its front legs, lowering its back to the point that Sasha would be able to climb atop it.

"You did it!" Starla said, and the girl's sudden appearance caused the griffon to blink repeatedly and raise its head. But it remained calm, unfazed by the appearance of a ghost.

Starla raced up and handed Sasha the sword.

"Can you find your way back to the portal?" Sasha asked.

"Can't I come with you?" Starla pouted.

"It's too dangerous, Starla. I'm heading into battle."

The girl looked dejected as she started to turn away, looking forlornly at the griffon – the animal seemed to be looking right back at her.

"Well, maybe we can take a quick ride before you go back," Sasha said. "If it's okay with you," she added, leaning down towards the griffon's face, her hand nuzzling the back of its neck. The griffon made a low clacking sound that Sasha took to be akin to a kitten's purr.

Starla's smile nearly took in her face as she raced over and leapt right onto the griffon's back, before Sasha had even had a chance to climb up. Laughing, Sasha swung her leg over the griffon's neck and pulled herself up.

"One ride," Sasha said, eager to experience such an event herself. "And then back through the portal, okay?"

"Okay!" Starla agreed.

"Now, I wonder how we..."

Before Sasha had the words out of her mouth, the griffon's wings extended and with a single flap they were ten feet off the ground. Sasha's eyes were wide and she reached out to take hold of the griffon's neck. They were soaring over the clearing a few moments later, Sasha feeling the wind blow through her long, silvery blonde hair, and Starla giggling happily behind her.

Sasha looked down over the side of her mount, noticing just how high up they had come in only a few seconds. She could see the peak of one of the mountains below them. The griffon glided on the air with such ease, and each powerful flap of its wings sent them streaking forward with such speed that she realized how right Michael had been – she would find her road south much, much easier.
Kelly

Another boulder smashed against the thick wall and Kelly felt the ground beneath her feet tremble – it had become a familiar sensation. There were bear sentries lined along the parapets, looking out over the serpent forces, but they had long since run out of ammunition of their own. The archers had no arrows left, and the bear catapults had no stones to fire. Occasionally a serpent boulder would fly over the walls and into the city, causing minor havoc, and the bears would be able to load it and send it flying back. A few druids stood near the top of the wall, shooting the odd spell down at the mess of serpents – but they'd been mostly instructed to conserve their energy.

Kelly was helping to herd the last few civilians behind the huge iron doors that led down into the caverns and the city proper. Brandt wasn't sure that the walls would hold much longer, and he wanted everyone who couldn't fight to be evacuated deeper into the city. Most people were already within the caverns, as the exterior portion of the city was mostly in ruins – but as some people needed to feel the fresh air in their lungs now and then, they had all been free to come and go as they pleased. Not anymore.

Every minute or so there was a loud bang as the serpent battering ram slammed against the east gate. The bears had reinforced each of the gates with wood and stone and iron. But many of those supports had already been battered away. Kelly looked to the gate as the ram hit it – she wore a resigned look as the gate bent and nearly buckled.

"It won't be long now," Brom stated, as he walked up beside her.

"Always the optimist," Kelly observed. She knew that he was right, though.

"I hope you're well rested. We're badly outnumbered."

"Stop your whining, crow," Brandt said, approaching the pair and draping one of his large, muscled arms around Kelly's shoulder. "So we'll lose one gate – only so many serpents can pass through it at a time. And we'll meet them head on. We'll block the way with the their own filthy corpses."

It was true that the gate was only about thirty or so feet wide, Kelly noted. But she wasn't sure how easily they'd be able to pile the serpent corpses up. The bear forces, while enthusiastic, were tired and malnourished. The siege had had its impact on the people within the city, while the serpent army was well supplied and well fed.

"If you say so," Brom said.

Brandt didn't answer, he just leaned forward against the shaft of his massive axe, the end of which was planted in the dirt at his feet. The weapon was taller than he was, and the blade was wide and sharp.

"You and I should get to higher ground, Kelly," Brom said at length.

Kelly looked up at Brandt, who nodded his agreement. She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek before following Brom away from the gates to the inner city.

"What'd you have in mind?" Kelly asked.

"Something taller than the walls, obviously," Brom said. "And close, too."

"Everything close to the walls is mostly rubble. Although there is the old barracks. It overlooks the east gate, and its thick and tough, like the walls. It hasn't collapsed yet."

"Yet. Sounds like a good choice – lead the way."

The east gate was at the end of a long street from where they stood. Bear soldiers were moving about, many of them clumped near the gate at the end of the street. Kelly moved swiftly, with Brom following close behind. The barracks was on the left side of the street and stood about twenty feet higher than the top of the great wall that guarded the city.

Kelly and Brom ducked into the side entrance of the barracks. Inside, many walls had crumbled, and she wasn't sure how structurally sound the building still was. But she headed for the staircase anyway, and it was a straight shot up to the roof. Even the roof had a few holes in it, but they navigated across easily, coming to the edge and looking out over the mass of soldiers below. There was a lip that ran around the roof, about two feet high, to protect people from falling off.

They had barely reached the lip when there was a great creaking sound of wood being pressed beyond its limit. Kelly looked down to see that the east gate had finally splintered, and the serpents were coming through the hole. What remained of the door was trampled down quickly, and the gap found bears and serpents colliding together – with Brandt leading the charge.

Kelly sucked in her breath as she watched her lover drop a serpent with a closed fist. He turned quickly and, with a single mighty swipe of his huge axe, felled two more. The blood sprayed across Brandt's muscled form, and he had to shake his axe free of the second body, so deep was it imbedded in the man's chest. Another serpent rushed him from behind, but Brandt's thick leg found the serpent's midsection. His axe followed a moment later, cleaving the man's head from his shoulders and spilling gore across the dusty ground.

But as fierce as Brandt's charge was, the serpents were too many. They swarmed through the hole like vermin, some of them engaging the defending bears, while many escaped into the streets. Kelly watched as bears chased after them, fights breaking out all around. It seemed that Brandt's notion of bottlenecking the serpents had failed – their initial rush had been too strong.

"Aim your spells beyond the gate," Brom said. "We don't want to hit our own people."

Kelly knew how difficult it would be to try and hit a serpent that was engaged with a bear. So she followed Brom's advice and summoned her magical energies, focusing them on the hordes of serpents that lay outside the east gate, waiting their turn to race in and wreak havoc.

She closed her eyes, trying to heighten her concentration. She could sense the earth wincing beneath the many serpent feet. She tapped into that sensation, causing the ground to tremble and quake. She opened her eyes to see that many soldiers were trying to keep their balance as the ground shifted beneath their feet. A crack opened up and quickly widened into a crevice. A few serpents fell into the hole, but most were able to step away before it enveloped them – but it succeeded at providing an additional obstacle to their charge.

Brom, at her side, waved his arm before him, and a black raven emerged from his hand. Brom had always had a flair for the theatrical with his magic, whereas Kelly's was simpler and more elemental. The raven flapped its wings and streaked down towards the gaping hole in the wall. It glided right through and, once on the other side, it exploded into a black cloud, the mist falling gently atop the gathered serpents. Many of them began to clutch at their throats as the cloud fell over them, some even keeling over and onto the ground.

Over the next few minutes, Kelly and Brom did their best to slow the constant flow of serpents into the city. Lightning bolts and fire flew freely from the barracks roof, with a few more creative spells mixed in now and then.

"We might have company," Brom shouted over to her, as he was peering over the side of the building.

It didn't surprise her. She hadn't expected that they would be left unhindered for long. But hopefully their impact had been felt. She tried to locate Brandt in the tumult below, but her eyes couldn't find him.

Footsteps behind alerted her and she turned to see that a number of serpents had reached the barracks roof. Brom had already launched a black ball of flame towards the group, which might have been easily avoided except that it seemed to track one serpent in particular. The man thought that he had sidestepped the attack, only to have it bend and chase him. When the black ball did finally reach him, it was absorbed right into his body. His face contorted strangely, and then his body exploded, bits and pieces shooting off in all directions.

"Brom," Kelly muttered, shaking her head.

Once the shock of that spell had passed, the remaining serpents were charging hard across the stone roof. Kelly swept her arms and pushed them forward, ushering a fierce gale of wind that picked two serpents right up off of their feet and threw them over the side of the building.

Five soldiers remained, three rushing at her, and two at Brom. They were close now, and she just flicked her wrist and shot a quick blast of fire at one. It hit him in the face and he screamed out, clutching at his head. The other two didn't slow, though, and Kelly was forced to back up, nearly tripping over the lip of the roof. She dove to the side as they approached, rolling away from the danger that the edge of the roof presented.

She was still on the ground, backing away from her attackers. She thrust both of her arms forward, blowing another strong gust of wind at the pair. Her spell caught one of them off guard, and he stumbled backwards, catching his leg on the lip of the roof and tumbling over. The second man avoided such a fate with a quick step to his side. And now he was right on top of her.

His sword slashed down and Kelly barely dodged it as she continued to scramble backwards. She knew she couldn't avoid all of his swings, though. His blade rose again, and this time it struck the stone just to her side. She stumbled over some rubble, and realized that she had nearly backed right into one of the holes in the roof. The stone was less strong there, and she could already feel it breaking away under her weight. She had nowhere left to go as the serpent lifted his sword a third time.

She loosed a quick fireball that she knew wouldn't have the power to hurt him much. It struck him in the belly and he keeled over. Kelly was confused a moment, until she saw the tip of a sword sticking through the man in the same place that her flame had hit him. He slipped off of the sword and fell over her, through the hole, crashing down into the barracks below. Brom stood before her now, wiping the blood from his thin blade.

"We keep telling you to learn how to use one of these," he said as he reached down to help her up.

She accepted his hand and smiled at the man as he pulled her to her feet.

"I'm starting to see the wisdom in that suggestion," she said.

Kelly moved back to the lip of the roof and looked down into the main street. There was fighting everywhere. Bears and serpents were stepping over corpses trying to kill each other. She did note that there seemed to be many, many more emerald cloaks. Serpents were still flowing through the east gate, but not at the same rate – there wasn't enough room left in the streets to hold them all.

"We're not doing well," she noted.

"The odds were never in our favour," Brom said. "But it's not over yet."

"So now you're an optimist?"

"Not really. I think we're fucked. I was just trying to cheer you up."

The deafening sounds of war were alive all around her – metal clanging against metal and the screams of dying men filling her ears. Kelly's eyes desperately sought out Brandt. She had scanned most of the main street but hadn't caught sight of him. She moved around the roof to the adjacent side and glanced into one of the side streets. Moving swiftly along an alley was the unmistakable large form of her lover. His body was a dark shade of red, and Kelly hoped that most of that blood was not his own. But he seemed to be moving without difficulty, so she was thankful for that.

He came out of the alley, crashing into a pair of serpents. He struck one of them with the shaft of his axe, knocking the man over. The second man received a short swipe of the axe blade across his neck – Kelly's keen eyesight could see the blood spurt from his throat even from her distance.

Brandt was making for the iron gate that led to the inner city. With the exterior city lost, he intended to defend that final gate. How badly Kelly wanted to leap over the side of the roof, extend her wings, and glide down to meet her lover. She wanted to fight with him, side by side. But she had just been reminded, once again, that she was little use in such close quarters. Her role was better suited to where she now stood.

Brom was already back at the edge of the roof that overlooked the gate, raining punishing spells down on the serpents as they entered the city. Kelly hurried back to join him. Lightning crackled from her fingertips as she loosed bolt after bolt down upon the invading soldiers. She knew that it was only a matter of time before more of them climbed the steps of the barracks. She intended to do as much damage as possible before that happened.

She was about to loose another blast when something took her attention – the high-pitched call of an eagle. She heard it even over the din of battle. As a member of the Eagle Clan, she was quite familiar with the sounds of her clan's namesake. Her eyes turned skyward and she glanced around, wondering why a bird of prey would be anywhere near such a scene as this.

"Did you hear that?" Kelly asked.

"Hear what?" Brom said, not looking up from the destruction he was causing below.

Kelly's eyes scanned the skies, but even her powerful eyes couldn't penetrate the thick clouds that lingered overhead. Then a shadow began to grow in the cloud, small at first, but getting larger. She watched it with heightening interest, her curiosity having gotten the better of her. She again heard the call of the eagle, and was convinced that a bird was about to break through the clouds. Was it a message from Marcus? Were the eagles on they way to help?

The shadow did break through the clouds a moment later, but only after Kelly realized that it was much too large to be an eagle. So she was surprised when the feathers and beak of an eagle did, in fact, emerge from the clouds. She was even more surprised when the full creature became visible, its front claws and hind legs both in full view.

"What...?" Kelly muttered.

She watched as it glided across the air with its great wingspan, easily banking and changing direction, circling high above the battlefield. Kelly had heard stories of griffons while growing up as an eagle, just as all children of the Reverie heard stories of dragons. But having never seen such a creature, she had always considered griffons, and dragons, to be just that – bedtime stories for children.

It took a few moments for her to even realize that there was a person riding on the griffon's back. Kelly squinted her eyes, trying to get a better look – she could make out the long, flowing, silvery hair of a woman blowing wildly in the wind. The griffon banked again and flew towards the city, getting closer and closer to Kelly's position. She watched as the rider produced a sword and held it aloft.

"Brom..." Kelly said, and she reached over and grabbed the man's arm.

"What?" he snapped, and she just pointed to the sky.

The rider slashed her sword through the air, and Kelly watched as a great red fireball emerged from its tip. It sizzled as it burned through the air, streaking down and into the middle of the serpent gathering.

"I guess they're on our side," Brom stated.

"Have you ever seen a griffon before?" Kelly asked, her eyes still following the soaring sight.

"No."

The griffon circled and launched another red ball of flame. Kelly watched as it slammed into the ground, exploding into fire. Serpents were running away as the fire burned brightly. Some of the archers were trying to shoot at the griffon, but it was flying much too swiftly. Another fireball, and another fire soon raged behind the enemy lines.

The griffon was flying straight at the city now, the woman with her sword held high above her head. Kelly glanced down and saw that many of the soldiers had stopped fighting, staring up at the strange sight high above. The griffon streaked across the sky and raced right over the old barracks, only a hundred feet above Kelly's head. She and Brom both turned to watch the creature pass above. It flew towards the mountain peak and then turned, hovering briefly over the city.

"Wait a minute," Brom said.

"What?" Kelly asked, looking over at him.

He was peering intently at the sight of the griffon and its rider, her hair still blowing wildly about her head. And then Brom started to laugh.

"What is it?" Kelly insisted.

"That's Sasha," he said. "Desmond's girl."
The Boy

Desmond led the boy through the sea of emerald cloaks. They were still near the back of the forces that were gathered outside the walls of Ursa's Maw. There was a tangible excitement coursing through the serpents – the mighty walls of the city had been breached, and the army was flooding in. The boy overheard many of the conversations as he and Desmond pressed forward - serpents speaking of imminent victory, and how they would push south and east, conquering all of the Reverie. The boy didn't know what plans the serpents had, but the rumours trickling through the camp didn't seem promising for the rest of the clans.

"Where are we going?" the boy muttered.

"Into the city, with any luck," Desmond replied, glancing back.

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"Danger is likely to find us now, regardless."

The boy knew that Desmond was right, of course. He just didn't like the idea of running headlong into a huge battle. He'd seen enough battles in his short life, and had little desire to take part in any more.

As he struggled to keep up with Desmond, who was moving swiftly through the soldiers and horses and tents, the boy thought that he heard something high above – a strange sound, almost like a loud squeaking. He glanced up at the gray sky and was shocked to see what he thought was a huge bird flying overhead. But as it flew closer to his position, he realized that it wasn't a bird at all – he didn't know what it was, but he could see that someone was riding it.

"What is that?" the boy asked, tugging on Desmond's cloak.

"What is what?" Desmond asked, looking back.

The boy just pointed to the sky, and the wolf looked up. He saw the rider and her mount careening back and forth just beneath the clouds.

"That's a griffon," Desmond said a moment later.

"What's a griffon?" the boy asked.

"An ancient creature, thought long extinct. It has the front of an eagle, and the rear of a lion."

"It doesn't look extinct."

"No, it doesn't."

The boy watched as the woman riding the griffon waved her sword in a downward, slashing motion. A fireball roared out of the end of her blade and smoked as it streaked toward the ground. It struck a few hundred yards to the north of where the boy stood, but he could see the high flames that it caused just fine – he could even feel the heat as a blast wave rolled past him.

"Wow," the boy muttered.

"We need to keep moving," Desmond said, and he grabbed the boy and pulled him forward.

At first, the boy couldn't figure out why Desmond wasn't as entranced by the sight as he was. And then a second fireball exploded much closer to them, knocking several nearby serpents from their feet. The boy realized that if the woman was attacking the serpents, then they needed to get away from the very serpents that they were trying to blend in with.

The boy tried to move quicker, but the closer they got to the city, the thicker together everything was cramped. At one point they were even forced to crawl under a horse to get by a line of heavy cavalry. Most of the serpents seemed to be staring up at the sky, and the boy kept trying to steal glances upwards as well.

The griffon streaked by overhead and disappeared over the walls of the city. The boy craned his neck, trying to get a better look, even as his feet trudged along trying not to trip over anything. The griffon reappeared a moment later, hovering above the city walls. He had a better look at the rider from this vantage point – it appeared to be a young woman with long, silvery blonde hair. She was wearing a dark red robe that did well to set off her hair.

"Sasha?" Desmond muttered, stopping in his tracks.

"You know her?" the boy asked, nearly bumping into Desmond as he stopped.

"I do."

The boy wondered how Desmond knew the woman, but he didn't ask, instead staring up at the strange sight along with everyone else. A number of serpents shot arrows at the woman, but they didn't get close – with lazy swipes of her sword, the arrows curved and flew off in random directions. A few ambitious druids even launched spells up at her, but she simply extended her blade and it seemed to nullify the magic.

Then she raised her sword high above her head and it erupted in angry red flames. The boy gasped at the sight – the flames even crept away from the blade and enveloped the woman, her entire body suddenly outlined in flickering red. Every head was turned in her direction, every eye upon her.

She slashed her sword downward and a huge fireball emerged, bigger than any the boy had seen. The boy could hear the sizzle of the flames as it moved through the air and struck one of the serpent war engines. The tall trebuchet exploded on impact, sending pieces of timber flying off through the air, and leaving the area around the explosion burning brightly.

"My name is Sasha," the woman yelled, and her voice boomed and echoed over the field – the boy assumed that she was using some sort of magic to carry her voice over the wind.

"I come today to deliver a message from the north. The Dragon Clan lives, and I lead them. The Serpent Clan has committed crimes against the Reverie itself, and the Dragon Clan is not pleased. Crawl back to your holes or I will destroy you. Every last one of you."

As her voice faded away, a silence encompassed the field and the city – a quiet that the boy wouldn't have thought possible with so many people present. He could see serpents looking at one another, uncertain looks on their faces. The boy knew what they were thinking – that the woman had shown great prowess with her fireballs and her griffon, but could she really destroy an entire army?

Desmond seemed to be stunned. He wasn't moving, his eyes simply glued to the woman, his jaw hanging loose. The boy hadn't known Desmond long, but he had never seen the man with such a look on his face. Despite all of the hesitant looks that surrounded him, the boy couldn't see that anyone was actually leaving the battle.

Apparently Sasha had noticed the same, as she let another huge fireball loose over the gathered forces. This fireball, however, didn't explode or ignite, it simply travelled in a direct line from the griffon and over the armies, carrying out over the forest and dissipating a mile or so away. But it had every eye on her once more.

Raising her flaming sword above her head, Sasha didn't speak, she just sat silently on her flying steed, the griffon's wings flapping away. The boy wasn't sure what was going on until he noticed a shadow growing in the gray sky above Sasha's head. He thought it might be a second griffon, but the shadow grew too large. He held his breath as something else emerged from the clouds above Sasha's head.

Its head appeared first, as red as the flames that surrounded Sasha's body. Its head alone was as big as the griffon, and it had great horns curving upwards from its skull. The gargantuan, scaled body followed the head, bigger than any beast the boy had ever imagined. Great, leathery wings extended outwards, and last came a long, snake-like tail. Its back was ridged, the little spines running all the way to the point of the tail.

"A dragon," the boy croaked, barely able to find his voice.

Those around him seemed similarly speechless, their faces blank or painted with shock. Even Desmond stared ahead with eyes wide, unable to articulate the tingling sensations that the boy knew were also coursing through his body.

The dragon flew over Sasha and then careened down towards the field. It opened its mouth wide and issued forth a tremendous roar – the boy nearly toppled over from the force of that sound. The silence of the gathering was broken as men began to shout and scream, many of them turning and trying to run into the forest or towards the shelter of the city walls.

The dragon wasn't about to let them all escape so easily, though – fire erupted from its mouth in a long stream that lasted many moments and left a great blaze burning in its path. Men were roasted alive, some dying instantly from the intense heat and others left screaming in agony as their bodies burned. The boy could feel the heat on his flesh, and Desmond was quickly moving again, having grabbed hold of the boy's arm.

"We need to get to the city," the wolf shouted behind him.

The boy didn't disagree – between Sasha's fireballs and the dragon's breath, the last place they wanted to be was among the great serpent army. But movement was even more difficult now, as everyone scrambled to get away. They were still several hundred yards from the east gate when the dragon soared over their heads again.

The boy could hear the sizzle of fire in the air before he ever saw the flames. He could feel the heat blistering his arm before the fire ever hit him. He glanced up and all he saw was red and orange. But somehow his feet kept moving, and Desmond kept pulling him along. He was in the fire, running through it, with serpents falling all around him. He could smell their burning flesh and see their smoking corpses. And then he was out of the fire.

"What happened?" he shouted, panting as he tried to keep up.

"I shielded us," Desmond said, slowing for a moment.

"You can shield us from dragon fire?"

"I am a totem, you know. I have a few tricks of my own."

The boy saw that they were nearly to the gate. While the serpents outside the city were fleeing in every direction, just trying to get away from the dragon, the boy could see the battle raging inside the walls.

"What are we going to do?" the boy asked as they approached the battered entrance.

"Do you know how to use that?" Desmond shot back, inclining his head towards the boy's waist. The boy's sword was still hanging from his hip.

"I think so," the boy replied, pulling the sword free of its sheath and squeezing the hilt in his hand.

"Good. Now we should lose these cloaks, so our own side don't kill us."

The boy thought that a good idea and reached up to his neck to unclasp his cloak. He threw it down on the ground and stared at it for a moment. It had felt nice to wear a cloak – he had never earned his spider cloak, after all. He wondered if he would ever have the chance to wear a cloak again.

"Let's go," Desmond said as he ran towards the gate.

The boy didn't follow right away. Instead he turned and looked back over the field they had just crossed. He could see the dragon at the far end, loosing its deadly fire upon the fleeing serpents. Most of the field was still aflame, and the areas that weren't were scorched and charred. There were bodies everywhere – he had never seen so much death. He remembered the stories of dragons that he had heard as a child, and how fanciful they seemed. He had never imagined that such devastation could be caused by a single creature.

The boy looked towards the gate and Desmond was gone, having disappeared into the fray. Sighing, the boy raised his sword and followed. As he entered the city, there was fighting all around him. Bodies slammed into one another, swords and clubs and axes collided fiercely, and there were almost as many bodies lying in the streets as there were out in the field beyond the city. These bodies weren't black and smoking, but they were bodies all the same – most covered in blood and guts and gore.

A lightning bolt crackled just to the boy's side and he dove out of the way. From his back he could see two figures standing at the edge of a roof high above, raining spells down on the unsuspecting fighters. With his cloak gone, he just hoped that they wouldn't hit him, but he scrambled around a corner to safety all the same.

Without Desmond to guide him, the boy wasn't sure what he should be doing. He was in an alley that ran between two buildings. It seemed to be empty, save for a few bloody corpses. He crept along the parallel walls, one hand running along the stone, his other clutching the hilt of his blade. As he approached the corner of one building, a man staggered backwards, nearly falling into the alley – he was wearing an emerald cloak.

The boy froze, hoping that whoever had struck the man would follow him in to finish the job. But no one else appeared. The boy just stood there until the serpent glanced in his direction. Neither moved for a moment, and just when the boy thought that the serpent might attack him, a thrown spear slammed into the man's chest, pinning him to the wall. The boy gasped and backed away as the serpent tried to pull the spear from his body. But he couldn't, and soon his arms fell limply to his sides.

It took the boy several minutes before he was able to move forward. He had to duck under the protruding spear shaft just to continue down the alley. He glanced to the side as he passed, noting the battle that still raged in the streets. He had no idea who was winning, even though the remainder of the serpent army had been all but wiped out beyond the city walls.

The alley was long, and the boy followed it to its end, at which point he was deposited into the street that ran in front of the mountain. The boy could see two huge iron doors built right into the rock – he knew that Ursa's Maw was largely an underground city, and assumed that those doors must lead to the inner part of the city. The fighting seemed to be fiercest along this street, as the serpents tried to penetrate the cavernous complex.

Snarling, gnashing sounds stole the boy's attention, and he spotted a large gray wolf pouncing on a serpent, its teeth diving for the fallen man's throat. There was a ripping noise as the wolf tore the man's neck apart, blood spraying over its snout. Two other serpents closed on the powerful wolf, and the boy wanted to rush over to aid his friend. But he should have known that Desmond would be fine, as the wolf dodged a clumsy sword strike, and knocked one serpent over with his front paws. After a low growl, the wolf clamped its teeth around the second serpent's leg, biting right through to the bone.

A bear soldier fell to the ground at the boy's feet, knocking into his legs. The boy tumbled over onto the ground and felt blood spray across face as a serpent drove a blade into the bear's chest. The man violently yanked the sword free of the bear's body, blood dripping freely from the blade. The serpent's eyes found the boy lying there, trying to back away. The man stepped over the fallen bear and levelled his sword at the boy. The boy's own sword had fallen to the ground when he fell, and his hand was pawing at the dirt trying to locate it. A slash came down, and the boy managed to roll out of the way.

Scampering to his knees, the boy eyed his sword at the feet of his attacker. He glanced up to see that the man was scowling down at him, readying his blade for a second strike. The boy lunged forward, grasping his sword just as the second blow fell. It caught him in the leg and cut a deep gash. But the boy rolled onto his back and thrust his own blade right up into the serpent's gut. Because of the strange angle, the boy's sword was able to slip under the man's leather armour, penetrating right through his flesh. The man fell forward and landed on the boy, groaning in agony. Pulling his sword back out, the boy managed to skitter out from under the dying serpent.

He backed into the wall of one of the buildings running along the street. Bodies were dropping all around him, and he could occasionally hear the roars of the dragon flying about outside the city. Each roar caused a few people nearby to steal a glance at the sky, but the dragon never attacked the city directly.

Another roar passed the boy's ears, but this one was different – it was a man's roar. Brandt the bear was guarding the front of the iron doors, his massive axe swinging back and forth, clearing serpents as easily as if he were sweeping the dirt from the street. There weren't just bodies at Brandt's feet – the bodies were in pieces, some cleaved in two, arms or legs lying disembodied. The huge man was covered in blood, and the boy could make out new wounds on his body that would soon add to his collection of scars. It struck the boy how much his own body resembled Brandt's – save for his size, of course.

There was a high-pitched call above, and the boy looked up the see the griffon soaring over the city. Sasha's body was no longer engulfed in red flames, but her sword was still flaming brightly. And she was still waving it about, issuing small fireballs with incredible precision. The griffon glided down low, men having to duck their heads to avoid being clawed by the ferocious animal. A few serpents found themselves burning alive, and a few others found themselves raked by sharp talons, and then the griffon soared away, back out past the city walls.

Between Brandt's might and Desmond's feral savagery, the bears seemed to be turning the tide. The serpents were being pushed back, away from the great iron doors. The boy got back to his feet, took up his sword, and raced across the dirt street, dodging a few wild slashes as he ran.

He wanted to help – to be among the heroes of the city. And he figured that being behind Brandt and Desmond was about the safest place that he could be.
Kelly

First a griffon, then the mention of the Dragon Clan, and then an actual, living, fire-breathing dragon – Kelly felt like she was in a different world. Creatures of myth and legend were coming alive all around her. Brom had said that the girl riding the griffon was the same that Desmond had found in the other world, and yet she was announcing to the gathered armies that she was, in fact, the leader of the long-lost Dragon Clan. How could that be possible?

Kelly didn't get much time to contemplate it, as the dragon burst through the clouds shortly after. Brom had to rouse her from a stunned stupor, as her eyes were transfixed on that sight – she couldn't take them off of the flying behemoth as it devastated the serpent army.

"Do you see that?" she asked.

"Yes," Brom shouted back. "I also see the hordes of serpents trying to overrun Brandt's city. Maybe we should do something about that."

"Right," Kelly whispered, but it still took her a moment to look back down at the city streets.

Brom was busy unleashing his shadowy magic – black crows exploding into clouds of noxious gas, or balls of shadowy flame that burned much hotter than normal fire. Kelly had simpler tactics as she just tried to slow the flow of serpents towards the inner parts of the city. She had always favoured earth magic, as it came naturally to her. She put it to good use, creating cracks and rifts in the ground. Sometimes enemies would fall into the holes, but mostly she just wanted to provide more obstacles to their progress.

She would occasionally lift her eyes to find the dragon passing high above, long spouts of flame issuing from its jaws. The screams of burning men carried over the wind. But Kelly had more pressing concerns – she again heard the sound of steps upon the stone roof. She turned to see a single man standing at the top of the stairs.

"We meet again, little bird," the man said, sneering. "I see you've brought a friend this time."

Brom and Vexonis were no strangers, having nearly come to blows at the Verdant Council. But Kelly was wary, remembering well her last encounter with the dangerous serpent.

"Little bird?" Brom echoed. "Is he talking to you or to me? I'm not that little, am I?"

"I think he's talking to me," Kelly replied, staring into Vexonis' cold eyes. "He and I have some unfinished business."

"Well then. Why don't we show him what a pair of totems can do?"

Kelly didn't even wait for Brom to finish speaking before a bright blue bolt of lightning was arcing towards Vexonis. She didn't actually expect to hit the agile man with such an obvious spell, but he made no attempt to move out of the way. He just stood there, with the butt end of his spear planted on the roof in front of him. And instead of striking him in the chest, as she had intended, the lightning coursed into the point of his spear, fizzling out as the weapon appeared to absorb her magic.

It was only then that Kelly realized that Vexonis' spear tip was a shimmering black colour – it wasn't the same weapon that he had used against her previously. Its ebon colour reminded her of the black obelisk.

Unfazed by the failure of Kelly's spell, Brom had one of his little ravens flapping its wings towards Vexonis. The bird streaked in at the serpent, wings spread wide, and exploded with a puff, a black cloud taking its place around Vexonis' head. Kelly watched as Vexonis waved his spear in front of him, and the black cloud was sucked into the spear tip, just as her lightning had been.

"Seems our friend here isn't without his own tricks," Brom stated.

But Kelly didn't remember any such tricks from their last battle. She eyed the spear carefully, noting how the long wooden handle met the black spearhead. She remembered Desmond's theory about the obelisk being crafted of obsidian – a stone that legend said had the power to imbibe magic.

Vexonis just grinned back at them as he raised his spear in both hands, the green feather blowing around in the wind. Despite being a good fifty feet away, the serpent thrust the spear forward. Kelly was shocked when a blast of blue lightning issued forth from the spear's black tip – she was forced to roll to her left to avoid being hit by what appeared to be her own spell.

Kelly and Brom exchanged glances – she knew that Brom was thinking the same thing that she was. Without warning, both totems launched bright orange fireballs towards the serpent, hoping that he would be unable to absorb both spells at once. It was a sound attempt, but as the fireballs approached him, Vexonis took up the end of his spear and swung it out from his body in a wide arc. Spinning in a full circle, the tip of his spear attracted the two spells, pulling them right in and absorbing them like the others. The spear flowed smoothly about his body and, as he came out of his spin, Kelly saw the same two fireballs sizzling through the air towards her.

She tried to roll again, and was able to avoid one fireball. The second hit the ground at her feet, though, and she was blasted backwards. She slid along the hard stone roof, feeling the rough surface ripping through her tunic. Her body came to a stop just short of the lip of the roof and she took a moment to steady herself, breathing in deeply. She glanced down to see that the blast had scorched away the leather breeches on her right leg from the knee down, the skin on her leg suddenly red and blistered. She also saw Vexonis' spear sweeping in at her face.

She didn't have time to move, so she just threw her head back against the rock, feeling it smack hard. But the tip of the spear flew harmlessly high of her head. Then she heard the sound of metal striking metal. She looked up again to see that Brom had drawn his blade and was now battling Vexonis in a more traditional manner. Brom preferred a long, slender sword made for thrusting and piercing to the powerful slashes that most soldiers favoured. She had never realized just how skilled with a blade her fellow totem was – he was holding his own against who she knew to be a very formidable opponent.

Backing up until she felt her body hit the lip of the roof, Kelly took a moment to follow the movements of the two combatants. Vexonis swung the lengthy spear around with little difficulty, using long, sweeping arcs as feints leading to vicious jabs straight ahead. Brom spent most of the time on the defensive, clearly not as accustomed to such fighting styles. But he managed to avoid making any mistakes that would lead to penetrations of his body.

Kelly quickly realized that Brom was maneuvering around so that Vexonis' back was facing her. It took a minute or so to make the subtle transition, but as soon as she saw the full breadth of that emerald cloak, Kelly unleashed another burst of crackling blue lightning. It struck the serpent clear in the back and pushed him forward. He lost his footing and hit the ground hard, Brom wasting little time in pouncing forward. But even as Brom led in with his slender blade, Vexonis somehow managed to flip his body over and knock the blow astray with his boot.

By the time that Brom even realized what had happened, the serpent was back on his feet, and had positioned himself facing both totems once more. Kelly could tell by the angered look on the grim man's face that he wasn't about to make the same mistake a second time. But all the same, Kelly began to circle around to Vexonis' right, while Brom circled around to his left.

Kelly was limping as she moved, her right leg more injured than she had first realized. But she kept circling, trying to position herself behind Vexonis. Apparently not willing to wait and become cornered, the serpent suddenly lunged in Kelly's direction, leading with his outstretched spear. She was able to hobble out of the way, but he didn't press the attack. Instead, he turned, his black spear tip absorbing a spell that Brom had flung at him the moment he had attacked Kelly. The black spearhead was right in Kelly's face a moment later, the obsidian glowing a faint violet. She could tell that he was about to unleash the captured magic.

Kelly just stared straight ahead, wondering what would happen when that spell went off in her face – wondering what she had done to deserve this twist of fate that would allow a non-druid to kill her using magic. But when the spell erupted from the tip of the spear, Vexonis let out a cry and the spear was knocked inches from Kelly's head, instead blasting a hole in the lip of the roof.

She saw the flap of a black feathered wing and blood was dripping from Vexonis' face. She backed away, along the short lip, and saw that Brom had taken his raven form and clawed one of the serpent's eyes - there were large scrape marks from his cheek right up to his forehead. His left hand was clutching at his bloody face, while his right still clutched that foul spear.

The raven circled back for another pass, leading again with his claws. Despite the use of only one eye, Vexonis was able to duck out of the way. Brom flew over the serpent's head, but Kelly was ready to capitalize – she thrust both arms forward, summoning a strong gust of wind. Vexonis was hunched over, and his spear was facing off to the side. The serpent was lifted right off of the roof and sent flying. He landed with a thud, sliding across the uneven stones, and fell into the stairwell from which he had emerged many minutes before.

Following Brom's lead, Kelly was soaring a moment later, cutting through the brisk wind as her wings guided her towards the fallen serpent. With a flash of golden light, she was back in her human form as her injured leg touched down on the top step. Vexonis was fleeing – he still had a hand to his face as he was staggering down the stairs. Kelly followed, her right leg touching each step gingerly as it barely held her weight.

She felt a rush of wind and watched as the large raven flew past her. Brom streaked right at Vexonis and, in mid-air, transformed back into his human form. The momentum of his flight carried his body like an arrow, his shoulder driving into the serpent's hunched form. The wooden railing broke as the colliding bodies slammed against it, and both men tumbled over the side and crashed onto the second floor of the barracks – a fall of a dozen feet.

Kelly forced herself to move faster, trying to catch up. But by the time she reached the second floor, Brom had chased Vexonis right down to the ground level. From above, she could see that their weapon play had resumed, though it was no longer the fluid dance that she had witnessed on the roof. Both were injured from the fall, and Vexonis was blind in one eye – their movements were crass and jerky. A clumsy strike from Brom's slender blade was parried by the spear, only to have the riposting thrust fly wide of the raven's chest.

Kelly limped down the last few stairs as Brom lunged forward with a wild swipe, hoping to catch the serpent unprepared. Vexonis wasn't able to bring his spearhead around in time, and the sword struck the middle of the spear shaft, notching into the hard wood. Brom tried to pull the sword free, but it was dug in deep - Vexonis was able to wrench the spear away and the hilt of Brom's sword slipped from his grasp.

Now unarmed, Brom backed away from the serpent. But with a sword hanging off the side of his spear, Vexonis had difficulty pressing the attack. He thrust the spear forward anyway, the sword wobbling enough to veer the strike wide. Brom reached out and grabbed the spear shaft in both hands, trying to wrest it away from the serpent, only to receive a heavy boot to the midsection. Brom lurched forward, one of his hands cradling his side, and Vexonis slammed an elbow into the side of Brom's head, knocking him to the ground.

As Vexonis tried to extract the sword from his spear, Kelly positioned herself to unleash another spell. Brom was on the ground, and out of the way. Before she was able to release her magic, though, something blurred through her line of vision, knocking Vexonis to the ground. The obsidian-tipped spear went flying from his hand. Kelly smirked as she saw a large gray wolf sitting atop the serpent, paws planted squarely on his chest.

Snarls and growls filled her ears as Kelly helped Brom find his feet. They were both sore and injured, but otherwise intact. Brom was favouring his side as he took a few steps and bent over to retrieve Vexonis' spear. He twirled the shaft about in his hands, eyeing the black spearhead. And then he snapped the shaft over his knee, the wood breaking easily thanks to the notch that his sword had created.

They were standing near the east gate, where Kelly and Brom had first entered the old barracks. She couldn't begin to count the number of bodies that littered the streets. And when she looked out the gate and into the field beyond, the scene was even more horrific – some of the dragon's fires were still burning, while others had gone out but left smoking piles of corpses and debris in their wake. The smell of burnt flesh was overpowering, and she had to fight the urge to retch and vomit. But the thing that she noticed most of all was that the fighting had concluded – the bears had held the city.

Kelly felt an arm warp around her waist – it was a large and powerful arm, and she knew the owner of that arm before she ever turned to see his face. Brandt was covered in blood and gore, but he had at least managed to wipe his face clean. Kelly would have kissed him anyway, but she appreciated his consideration as she planted her lips over his.

"Are you sure we can't kill him?"

The words brought Kelly back to the present, and she looked over to see that bear soldiers had chained Vexonis up. He was kneeling between Brom and Desmond – back in his human form – as the soldiers closed the final clasps over his ankles.

"He's more use alive," Desmond insisted.

The serpent didn't appear very troubled by the two men arguing over whether to kill him or not. He had a wry grin across his lips that unnerved Kelly – even more so given his dead eye and the bloody tears that ran across it.

"I'm glad we amuse you," Brom said. "Please let me kill him."

"You'll never win," Vexonis said, accepting the butt end of a bear sword across his back for speaking out of turn – but even that didn't wipe the smirk from his face.

"Funny," Brom said. "It looks to me like we just did."

"Oh, you may have stemmed the tide for now, crow. But the darkness is coming."

"Throw him in the dungeons," Brandt growled, settling any debate over the serpent's fate. Brom looked disappointed as the soldiers dragged Vexonis away.

Remembering what Kelly had seen when she and Vexonis had fought at the obelisk, she couldn't help but wonder if his ominous threats were legitimate – she kept picturing Matthias' dead eyes and rotting flesh. But those were thoughts better saved for another day, when the leaders of the allied clans could prepare for such potential dangers. Between the serpents and the spiders, she imagined that there would be many days of preparations ahead. But now was the time for celebration.

Kelly gently pulled herself free of Brandt's embrace, eager to greet her old mentor. As she approached Desmond, she noted that he was standing by a young man – or perhaps a teenager. The boy looked nervous, still clutching a bloody blade in his right hand, despite the fact that all of the serpents were either dead or had fled. Desmond had a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder.

The wolf smiled when she arrived beside him. They didn't exchange words, just a warm embrace.

"Who's your friend?" Kelly asked.

Now that she was standing right there, she could sense something about the boy – she had never been as good at reading such signs as Desmond was. But she could tell that there was something unusual about the boy, special even.

"I picked him up on the way here," Desmond said. "I thought he might prove useful."

The boy offered her a sheepish smile.

"He's just a boy, Desmond," Kelly said.

"He's been through more than you know," Desmond replied. "This is Kelly, the eagle," he added, turning to the boy. "You'd better be careful – if she gets a look at your scars, she may be all over you."

The boy clearly didn't understand the comment, but Kelly noticed the few areas of the boy's body where his clothes were torn, revealing the remnants of brutal torture. She couldn't disagree – it seemed the boy had been through his share.

"What's your name, boy?" Kelly asked, only to be met with a frightened look.

"It's not important," Desmond said.

Before Kelly could press the issue, a loud, high-pitched cry interrupted them. Everyone in the area looked upwards to see the griffon slowly descending from the sky. Kelly got her first good look at the silvery-haired woman – she was a cute little thing, just as Brom had described. There was an old man sitting behind her on the griffon's back, as well. They were both wearing dark red robes.

No sooner had the griffon landed than the woman, Sasha, leapt from its back, stepping softly onto the ground. She didn't even look around, walking confidently through the gathered folk until she was right in front of Kelly. Her eyes twinkled as she strode right up to Desmond, placed a hand on the back of his head, and pulled his face into hers, kissing him deeply. Kelly couldn't help but smile, and she moved around to stand beside the boy, who was also wearing a sly smirk.

People nearby were exchanging awkward glances as Sasha and Desmond continued their passionate entwinement – Desmond's hands resting comfortably around the woman's slender waist. A loud wolf whistle broke the tension, followed by a round of hearty laughter. Kelly didn't need to ask the identity of the whistler.

"Let him breathe already, girl!" Brom called out.

Desmond finally pulled away from the kiss, and Kelly felt tingles course her body at the way the two were smiling at one another. They turned to face the remainder of the group, arms still draped around each other's backs.

"I suppose we should offer a proper introduction," Desmond said. "I knew this girl once – her name was Sasha. But I can't say that I know who this woman before me now is."

"I told you she'd be fine," Brom said.

"I still haven't forgiven you," Sasha snapped at Brom, but she was unable to hold a serious look for very long.

"Seems you have quite a story to tell," Desmond said.

Kelly had all but forgotten the griffon and the old man, until the griffon squawked and a number of heads turned to see the old man still sitting there. Sasha hurried over and helped him down. The old man didn't look well, and Kelly was fairly certain that he was blind – though no one had to lead him.

Things in battle had happened so quickly, everything was a jumble in Kelly's mind. But now that she saw Sasha and this old man, both wearing the same dark red robe with a sigil that she didn't recognize – but that she could certainly make out – she remembered Sasha's proclamation. She had claimed to be the leader of the Dragon Clan.

"This is Michael," Sasha announced, and she paused to let the words sink in. "Michael of the Dragon Clan."

Kelly repeated that name under her breath many times. Michael was a name that every child in the Reverie knew – it was the name of the legendary first druid. The name of a man tutored by a dragon, a man who had crafted the very portals that linked worlds together. But that was thousands of years ago. Was this old man a long-lost descendant of the Dragon Clan? A namesake of that ancient druid, Michael?

"I am weary," the old man said. "I must return soon."

"You were the dragon?" Desmond asked.

Many excited whispers followed that question, and Kelly realized that the dragon was nowhere to be seen. Sasha and her griffon had landed, but not the dragon. Was Desmond suggesting that this old man was a dragon?

"I was," Michael confirmed. "But I should not be away from my home so long. I invite the totems to visit me in the north. I fear there are great events still to come, and you may find my counsel useful. Sasha knows the way."

Then the old man turned and walked away. And while a moment before he could barely stand without Sasha's help, he suddenly broke into a sprint down the street, nimbly stepping around the many corpses. He leapt into the air and there was a blinding flash of golden light that forced Kelly to cover her eyes. When the light faded, a great red dragon was soaring over the city walls and up into the clouds. Every eye watched until its shadow disappeared high above.

"You really do have some stories to tell," Desmond said, his eyes still lingering on the spot where the dragon had vanished.

"Yes, I do," Sasha agreed. "But for now, I'm starving. Where can we get some food around here?"

Desmond smiled and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, leading her toward the big iron gates at the end of the main street. The others followed suit, eager to hear whatever stories the young woman had to tell. Even the griffon seemed to want to follow, and Sasha had to pause to convince it to wait for her outside.

Kelly held back for a moment, looking out over the broken city. If one battle could cause this kind of devastation, she couldn't imagine what might lie ahead. With a resounding sigh, she turned and followed the others into the city proper.
Epilogue

He opened his eyes and blinked several times. He felt like he was waking from a very long slumber, though he couldn't remember when he had fallen asleep. He was lying on his back, on the soft grass and moss and dirt that made up the forest floor. He looked around at the many trees that surrounded him, but they didn't look familiar.

"You're awake."

The voice was soft and melodic, and seemed to float through the cool evening air. Looking around, though, he couldn't see the speaker. Using his elbows, he managed to get back to his feet. He turned a full circle, but all he saw were trees and the diminishing light that squeezed between them.

"Is someone there?" he called out.

A woman appeared then, walking out of the trees. She was taller than him, with long, light red hair. She was naked, even walking barefoot over the roots and rocks of the forest. She had modest breasts and wide, motherly hips. Her face was strikingly beautiful, with angular features and angelic eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"What do you remember?" she replied, ignoring his question.

"I remember my dream. It was quite pleasant. And then I woke... where am I?

"What do you remember before your dream?"

He tried to recall something – anything. But he couldn't. His mind was clouded, as though his entire existence had just begun with his recent waking. But how could that be? He was a grown man, he must have had a life before today.

"Do you remember your name?" she asked.

The man shook his head. He remembered nothing.

"Do you know what you are?" she asked, stepping closer to him.

"What I am?" he repeated. "I'm a man."

"Are you?"

He held his hands up in front of his face only to find that they weren't made of flesh and blood. Instead, they glowed with a faint silver light and, while substantial, he could see through them. In his dream he had been a whole man.

"Then what am I?" he asked, looking back to the woman.

"You were a man once," she said. "A great man, accomplished in many ways. And you died."

The mention of his death spurred his mind. He could vaguely remember his end – among unfamiliar trees like those surrounding him.

"This is death?" the man asked, looking again at his partially transparent glowing hands.

"No," she replied. "Death is the long, pleasant slumber that you were, until very recently, enjoying."

"Then why am I here?"

"Because I have need of you. You can return to your slumber soon."

"You can summon me from death? Who are you?"

"I have had many names. I believe that your people called me Adenah."

The name stirred something in his mind – he began to remember a little more.

"Adenah?" he repeated. "The Sleeper?"

"Another of my names," she replied, nodding. "I am the creator of the Reverie, as you call it – a world that I created as a sanctuary, both for myself and for those druids who felt persecuted in the other world."

He had heard this story before – he could recall it.

"This world was formed through a bond with the very core of nature and its magic," she continued. "It is a tenuous link, and one that requires my life force and constant attention to maintain. But that connection is now being threatened."

"Threatened?" he said. "How?"

"Druids of the Serpent Clan are using ancient magic – dark magic – to violate the very laws of nature. The animation of corpses erodes the fabric of this world. If it is allowed to continue, unchecked, it could destroy the bond that I continue to nurture – and the Reverie will cease to exist."

"I was dead, yet you brought me back."

"I summoned your spirit, yes. But your body is rotting on the ground somewhere. You can never regain it. You can exist in your spirit form indefinitely, though such an existence is cold and detached, and you would not desire it. Your body, however, belongs to nature. It will slowly become part of the ground. Life and death create a delicate balance and are not to be trifled with. Not even I would attempt to raise a dead body."

"What would you have me do?"

"Undead creatures have no spirit, no soul. They have no mind, so to speak, and simply follow the commands of those who raised them. Thus, they are vulnerable to suggestion. A sufficiently strong spirit could sever their link to their masters, and make them dead once more. And you, my friend, have a very strong spirit. Will you help me?"

He nodded his assent.

"That is good," she said. "I expected nothing less of you, Iain of the Stag Clan."

THE END
Check out A Long and Restless Slumber: Book Two of the Druid Saga

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If you enjoyed (or are enjoying) the Druid Saga, please check out my new series, a science fiction adventure:

Out of Fire - Hummingbird: Book One

At sixteen years old, Deacon Barnes had spent his entire life on the dusty moon of Ophelia, on the outskirts of Republic territory. The son of a farmer, Deacon's lazy days are spent dreaming of adventure; of escaping his dreary life and visiting distant stars. That dream becomes reality, but hardly in the way he expected. It comes in the dark of night, in the form of fire. Flames bathe his home, his moon attacked by a powerful and mysterious alien race known only as the Ethereals. He's left for dead, the lone survivor of a brutal massacre.

A chance encounter with the entrancing Diera Hawk, notorious smuggler and captain of the Hummingbird, gives Deacon a second chance at life – and the adventure he's always dreamed of. But is Deacon cut out for the life of a rogue? And when Diera turns her focus to chasing rumours of the Ethereals across the galaxy, can the crew of the Hummingbird stand against the might of the powerful aliens?

