

### Tales of the MERC
Part One: The Trial

A Novella

by Mike Eschbach

Dedicated to Harry E (1925-2016)

Miss you, Dad

Published by Mike Eschbach at Smashwords

Copyright 2018

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Art by Jessica Dueck at StarsColdNight. Please visit her at her website: http://www.jessicadueck.com

Map Art by: Tom Ruple. Please visit him at http://www.tomruple.com
Table of Contents

Chapter I – The Opening

Chapter V – Northward Bound

Chapter X – The Causeway

Chapter XV – The Maw

About the Author

Chapter I

1415, Peaceday, 21st Inadrune, Autumn, 1032

**S** tout stood alone, deep in thought. Worry lined his face as he waited on the veranda outside the small villa he shared with his wife. It was a steep drop from his vantage. He watched in casual regard as white-capped swells marched in careless succession across Emilee Bay. Flotsam and driftwood long borne upon the Tilarian Ocean's southern tide gathered along the beach below, detritus long forgotten by an insouciant sea. A sudden gust blew from the south – his tunic flapped like a pennon as eyes hued an icy blue watered beneath the assault.

His musing was dark, born of self-recrimination. A heroic past weighed heavily upon his conscience when counted against his son's decision to follow in his footsteps. Frowning, he turned away from the bay and ran a hand over short, pale hair. Gazing skyward, he asked Fortune for aid, but she seemed disinclined to meddle. Instead, clouds gathered and the temperature fell.

He was warm enough, though just barely, and gave some thought to retreating into the house to find a cloak when the door opened behind him. Turning, he found Malice gazing at him with a small smile despite her wan complexion and the dark circles beneath her eyes.

"You dreamed again last night," he said quietly.

Pulling her dark, woolen cloak more tightly about the shoulders, she shrugged in reply. With a glance toward the lowering gloom, she said, "It is cold. The sky threatens rain, I think." Facing him, she asked, "Are you warm enough?"

Stout nodded. "I'll be fine once we start walking."

"Do you think Hari will deploy soon?"

The question was sudden, yet expected, for she had asked it every day since their son's graduation from the White Sands Training Center some two weeks prior. Nodding, he said, "Yes, the MERC will need front line officers to further their plans."

"The Military Expeditionary and Reconnaissance Corps can keep their plans," Malice said, her voice couched low with a bitter tinge. "I dread the day he leaves."

"I know, love," he replied.

"He will wish to go to Cal Dakar against our counsel."

"Probably. It doesn't help that Northern Command is recommending that those who wish to face the Trial do so prior to taking charge of a platoon."

"Will you talk him out of it?" she asked.

"I will try, but Hari is stubborn," he replied. "He takes after you. If he decides for the Maw, nothing will sway him otherwise."

"Hari worships you," Malice said. "It would have been better if you had never faced the Trial."

Stout frowned and turned away. Sorrow filled his voice as he answered, "You're right. Even after all these years, my sword beckons like some bent mistress summoning her slave. It's all I can do to withstand her pull. Now I fear for our son." After a brief pause, he added, "It is a heavy regret."

Malice relented with a sigh. Laying a hand upon his shoulder, she said, "Come, let us enjoy his company while we may."

Descending together from the porch, they strolled along the narrow, stone path that led to the rear of their property. Upon reaching the postern, he held open the gate for her and then exited himself onto Drenel Lane. They made their way down the cobbled way into New Apros. Their pace was steady, the wind brisk at their back. As they drew near the heart of the city, the tumult of the Peaceday throng greeted them. This, the final day of the week, was reserved for celebrations and other small endeavors. The shops were busy.

Ignoring the appeals of hawkers, they navigated through the crowd, making their way to meet their son and his bride to be. Of a similar height, they strode silently and in step, a striking couple in spite of creases surrounding their eyes that spoke of wisdom hard won. Both were veterans of the MERC, a legacy passed with pride onto their son. Yet it did not come without a price. As Stout weighed his guilt, Malice bore a grave unease for Hari. It was a prescient fear, alive, that often woke her from the depths of sleep. Stout was aware that she suffered and offered support such as he was able, yet her intuition offered insight that was real in a way he could not comprehend.

With such thoughts dancing through her mind, she sighed. A brooding frown crossed her face. With a free hand, she tucked a wisp of raven hair behind her ear that had escaped from a barrette.

Conscious of her disquiet, Stout murmured, "You're still troubled."

"Always," she replied. "I just keep thinking that we served our time. It seems unfair they had to drag our son into it."

"Ah, lass, that was his choice. I think we should respect it. Still, his deployments promise to be harder on us than our own ever were."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. After a moment, she said, "That is because we had each other."

He nodded in reply. As she curled her hand comfortably into the crook of his arm, they continued down the lane for another span. Upon reaching level ground, they slowed and looked for signs pointing to their destination. With a nod, Malice indicated a street marker, Taborac Round, and they started off again.

"At least he's found a measure of happiness," Stout remarked.

"Do you like her?"

Pausing briefly, he said, "She's a kind, young lady from a good family."

"Quite, but you did not answer my question," Malice said, amused.

Stout laughed. "Yes, I like her. What's not to like?"

Malice pondered his answer. Bound by her own notions, she was not sure if she agreed. Click was a child of the merchant houses; spoiled, entitled, yet charming and pretty as well. Contriving a small scheme to get to know her future daughter-in-law better, she said, "Here, I think, is a chance to form a clearer opinion of the girl."

"Go easy on her, love," Stout replied softly, with a slight grin.

A short time later they arrived at the plaza that was their destination. It was crowded, but a young woman's laughter rang out over the hum of the surrounds.

"That would be Click," Stout noted wryly.

With practiced ease they studied the area until Malice pointed out a set of tables sitting outside a corner cafe. Click and Hari sat beneath an awning near the street, leaning together as conspirators do. She nodded in reply to some softly spoken compliment, her bright locks bouncing in taunting contrast to the close-cropped cut of his dark hair.

Taking in the young woman's fur-lined stole, Malice said, "I am under-dressed."

"Ah, love, you'd look lovely in rags," Stout said. "Burgundy over black goes with the season. Color me impressed."

"You are such the flatterer," Malice said, although her smile was pleased.

"I practice, a lot," he replied, his expression smug.

In spite of herself, she laughed. "I am glad you like it." Studying their son and his lady love, she noted, "They do make a fine pair."

"I wish them the happiness that we've shared," he said. "Shall we join them?"

She nodded, and together they crossed the square. Drawing near, they remained unnoticed, the younger couple's eyes still fixed upon one another.

"C'mon, Hari, let me see your sword," Click cried through a peal of laughter.

"An officer never draws their blade in public, child," Malice interrupted, an eyebrow raised in mild rebuke.

Abashed, Click pulled the stole tightly about herself like a shield. Her mouth moved in a silent stammer, but with gracious calm, Hari took her hand. Standing, they turned to greet his parents.

"You're early," he said with an ironic grin.

"As if that was ever in doubt," Malice said before kissing him on the cheek. "Your dress blues suit. You look very gallant."

"I was just showing off," he replied. "Apparently, Click likes a man in uniform."

Offering the young lady a warm smile, Stout said, "You might change your mind after you see him in the field kit, Click. It is functional, but hardly flattering."

Hari's laughter joined his father's. He made to reply when suddenly Malice pounced.

"Come, Click," she said, her tone brooking no complaint. "Give the boys a bit of time to swap lies while we share gossip over a drink or three." Grabbing the young lady's hand, she called over her shoulder, "We will be back in a turn of the clock!"

"Mom!" Hari called in protest, but Stout offered a calming word as Malice led Click swiftly from the square.
Chapter II

1505, Peaceday, 21st Inadrune, Autumn, 1032

**A** crisp, biting wind circled Taborac Round, tossing leaves and refuse throughout the square near the coffee shop. Hari ignored the cold, his attention fixed instead upon Click, who was being dragged around a curve by his mother. As both women disappeared from view, he turned to Stout and demanded, "Why?"

"A few weeks are hardly enough time to get to know someone," Stout replied. Setting a calming hand upon Hari's shoulder, he added, "Though she certainly seems lovely, and you could've done much worse than marrying into Drenel House."

Hari's eyes narrowed. "I'm glad you find my priorities to be in order."

Stout chuckled. "It's important to align yourself with good people, Hari. Click's family goes back a thousand years, since before the Wane. Their reputation is stellar."

"You're as bad as Mom, always moving pieces on your invisible board."

"Good instincts have always served us well," Stout replied. "Besides, I knew Click's grandfather, Hugh Drenel. He was a good man. Now, let's go inside. I'm cold."

With an unhappy scowl, Hari followed his father into the cafe. It was warm within as heat circulated from the kitchen throughout the main dining area. Only a few patrons were about, so they made their way toward a discreet table in a corner near the back. As they sat, Hari undid his baldric and set his sheathed sword cross-ways upon the table, the tip angled away from his father.

"That's quite a hilt," Stout said.

"I don't like the gold filigree on the hilt," Hari replied with a small frown. "It is too ornate. It got chipped up the first time I practiced with it. Still, I rather like the blade. It has more finesse than your broad sword and the balance is excellent."

Just then a waitress emerged from behind the counter. Drawing near, she cast an appraising eye at Hari and said, "This afternoon we have shepherd's pie made from scratch, with a loaf of warm bread and freshly churned butter."

Stout shook his head. "Just a cup of kaf for now, lass. We'll be here for a bit, though, so perhaps some dinner later." Hari nodded, indicating the same.

After the young lady departed to retrieve their order, Hari said, "Listen, Dad, I knew this was inevitable, but it doesn't make it any easier to say. I received my orders. I have to report to Base-Camp, Northern Command, no later than the first day of the month of Soladrune."

Stout felt his stomach lurch at the news. Sadly, he shook his head. "Only five weeks. Your mother will be distraught."

Hari nodded ruefully. "I know. I wanted to tell you both at the same time, but Mom had to be Mom."

"Will Click have the nerve to tell her?"

"Yes, sir," he replied. "We were talking about that shortly before you arrived. I kind of figured Mom would do something. Click's a bit in awe of her, but strong in her own way."

"Your mother will respect that."

Hari chuckled. "She might even admit as much in a year or two."

Stout laughed and rolled his eyes in commiseration. As the humor faded, the waitress returned with their order, setting full cups before both and leaving the carafe on a heating stone in the middle of the table.

"I'll check on you in a bit," she said, flashing dimples and a pleasant smile.

As the two enjoyed their kaf, Stout felt a pang of the same sort of turmoil he thought Malice suffered when she dreamed. Putting off his fears for a moment, he said, "When I received my orders, I traveled overland to Base Camp. I hated the idea of sailing and was determined not to go by sea. It was a long trip, however. You would be better off if you booked passage on a steamer."

Harry nodded. "I've already made plans to take a ship out of New Apros. We'll follow the tide on an easterly course, then north to the Port of Greymiste. I'll ride down the Causeway to Base Camp from there. It should take a total of about ten days."

"That's a sound plan," Stout murmured. "Will Click go with you?"

"Not yet."

Stout looked at his son with a piercing gaze. "Will you take command of a squad?"

Hari averted his eyes. His silence was deafening.

"You're going to the Isle of Cal Dakar," Stout said after a long pause.

"Waiting serves no purpose, Dad. The sooner I get back from the Maw, the quicker I can get into the field."

"Assuming success can be fatal," Stout chided. "Even success is wrought with peril. Your weapon will become a burden that grows heavier with each passing year. The effect is troubling."

Hari frowned. "Do you really think I could thrive in the MERC without completing the Trial?"

"I told your mother a long time ago that blooding her sword would not make her a better officer. That was not a platitude."

Hari shook his head. "You're missing my point. Surviving the Maw is a necessity if I'm to carve out a reputation beyond being the son of two decorated warriors."

"Failure means death, son," Stout said quietly.

Leaning forward, Hari's face was grave as he said, "That is a fate every soldier chances. Would dying in a skirmish on some nameless height be better?"

"It would be cleaner than death on that forsaken island. Either way, though, my pain would still be absolute."

Sitting back in his chair, Hari said, "I cannot promise I won't come to harm, but take heart that I am not some stripling going blindly forth. I learned from both of you the meaning of courage. I just wish to live up to that legacy."

Surrendering, Stout offered a solemn nod and said, "Well, my son, I am proud of you. If your decision is firm, I would share with you a tale I've seldom told."

"Your trip to Cal Dakar?"

"In its entirety," Stout said with a nod.

"I was hoping you would, Dad," Hari replied.

Chapter III

1330, Feastday, 6th Muri'in , Spring, 1008

**I** had one simple goal as I approached the barracks following graduation from Officer Candidate Training: to gather my gear and escape from the Resort with none the wiser. It was a good plan. Unfortunately, I failed to account for Hound.

"Oi, Stout!"

The burly bastard's voice rang out in a deep bass, beckoning me. Pausing, I turned as he drew near. "You look like shit," I said, taking in his unbuttoned jacket and the unruly fringe of hair that shone like flame from beneath his service cap.

An oafish grin spread across his face. "We're done here," he replied. "I don't need to look pretty anymore. Speaking of which, I'm surprised I found you. I figured you'd be out on the town, knee deep in some skirt's fancies by now."

"Not today," I said. "The last thing I need is a missive from Southern Command telling me some kid has my eyes."

"One of many the good reasons I don't go to the bawdy barns without a sheepskin or three," Hound replied with a smirk.

"A shame about the sheep, though."

He laughed, a great bellow, and then added, "It was a nice bit 'o marching today, no?"

"Indeed, an affair with the appropriate amount of pomp," I said with a smirk. "I'm pretty certain the parents of our comrades were suitably impressed."

"At least until they stepped through the gates," he said. "Then they saw this shit-hole for what it really is!"

"Much to their dismay," I replied.

The predecessor to White Sands, the Resort was the oldest training facility along the southern coast. The new base was being built a half-mile down the beach on Emilee Bay, a source of much longing for some of our comrades throughout the twelve weeks of officer school. For all its history, the old base was decrepit. Streamers and bunting couldn't hide the fact that an upgrade in facilities was long past due.

Looking around, Hound mused, "I can't believe we are the last class to graduate from this place. It seems a unique honor."

Now and again, Hound could surprise me with his introspection. Still, my goal all along was to graduate. That mission accomplished, I had little room for sentiment. "Life goes on," I said. "I'm just glad the training is over."

"Admit it, Stout. You're gonna miss sparring on the pell-yard."

"Right, almost as much as I'm gonna miss getting pummeled by Bracken and Steel."

"Bracken wasn't so bad," Hound said. "Steel though – screw that ornery bastard."

Instinctively, I looked around. Both of our drill instructors seemed to have a sixth sense, but Steel was uncanny. A sergeant-major who'd served some twenty-seven years in the MERC, he was everything that I thought a drill instructor should be: big, ugly and mean. One of only a handful of enlisted men to survive the Trial, he wielded a sword to match. The blade shined a bloody russet when he drew. Its call was stark.

Though relieved to find Steel absent from the surrounds, I lowered my voice and said, "Careful, that ornery bastard knows how to lurk."

Hound shrugged, though his voice was softer as he asked, "When are you leaving?"

"The sooner, the better," I replied. "I have a long road to travel and no reason to linger here."

"You're serious about crossing Flam'bhoreal?"

"I can't drown in dirt," I replied with a shrug.

He laughed. "It's a big continent, Stout. Still, if you're amenable, I'd like to ride with you."

"Sure. We can probably sign on with one of the caravans heading north up the Fairway. I can't imagine they'd say no to a couple extra swords."

"What then?"

"Once we reach Base Camp, we'll have a decision to make," I said. "Northern Command won't give us more than a few days to ponder whether or not to face the Trial."

"I'm going to Cal Dakar," he said.

My grin was taunting. "You have something to prove to Steel?"

"Hell, no," he said, his voice rising angrily. "After the Trial, I might come south and have words with him."

Before I could reply, a voice barked out from behind, "Gentlemen!"

My heart fell. Hound and I shared a rueful grimace. Turning, we awaited Steel's approach.

"Sergeant-Major," we said in unison.

His eyes were like awls as he studied us, each second an hour under such scrutiny. In a voice scoured by time, he finally asked, "You both taking leave?"

"No, Sergeant-Major," I replied as Hound nodded agreement. "We're heading directly north."

"Base-Camp?"

"Yes, Sergeant-Major," I said.

He nodded, seemingly pleased. "That's a helluva walk, but you're tough, for a skinny shit. You should fit right in. Are you going to face the Trial?" he demanded, his glare even more intense.

"I am considering it," I said carefully. Beside me, Hound nodded again.

"You're smart, Stout," he said. "You should give it every consideration and then you should do it."

I was shocked – for the past twelve weeks he had dogged my every step. I'm not sure where the courage came from, but I asked, "Why?"

"When the runes quicken, you form a bond with your weapon that makes you stronger and quicker, and sharpens your mental acuity," he replied. "One soldier with a blooded sword is worth a half-dozen without."

I must have smirked at the hyperbole because Steel's eyes changed from gray to pitch. His voice got deeper, almost threatening as he said, "Four of your people got jacked by a solo. They'd still be alive if there had been a blooded weapon among you. Not your fault, but now that you have the chance to infuse your sword, I urge you to do so."

I knew he'd seen my service jacket. The ambush he spoke of occurred during the last trek before I entered officer training. I was a corporal in charge of a squad, part of a platoon on dawn patrol in the Lochlan Heights, when we were attacked by a single assailant. MERCs official designation for a single enemy unit was shade solitaire, but we just called them solos. This particular bastard danced through the ambient shadows and killed four of my guys before falling to my desperate thrust. Along with being my friends, they were my responsibility. I did not like the reminder.

Holding my temper in check, I asked, "What's the catch?"

His grin was harsh. "There's a cost to everything, Stout," he replied. "First things first, though, you have to overcome the Trial. Only those with a strong will and sense of purpose can do so. I believe you possess enough of both traits to succeed."

As I mulled that over, he studied Hound for a long moment. In the same hard tone, he finally said, "You should not attempt the Trial, Hound, at least not yet. You lack wisdom, the kind that keeps you alive. Another year or two in the Heights will build the mettle you'll require to endure what you'll face on the Maw."

His counsel complete, he added, "Fortune's kiss, gentlemen. I hope to never see your ugly faces again." Having said as much, he turned and began to walk away, each stride careful and perfectly matched. As I watched, I was shocked to find a sudden, grudging respect for him.

Suddenly, I called out, "Sergeant-Major!"

He halted and turned around. "Lieutenant?"

In answer, I rendered the best salute I could offer.

His mouth crooked in an ironic smirk. "It still needs work, Lieutenant. You are dismissed."

As he departed, I heard Hound mutter, "What the hell was that about?"

I was uncertain, so I merely said, "It seemed appropriate."

Hound was silent for a time as we made our way to the barracks. Since my rucksack was already packed, I pulled up a chair and looked on as Hound stuffed various pieces of gear and clothing into his. I could tell he was distracted, knew that once again Steel had gotten to him. Unsure of what to say, I remained silent.

"Fuck him," Hound finally said, looking up from the odd shaped lump his bag had become.

"Maybe he's right," I said. "Maybe running a platoon in the Heights for a year will get you ready."

"No way," he replied. "If I get into the Heights, there will always be something to distract me from the goal. I am going to the Maw to face the Trial."

I worded my next thought carefully. "Do you think Steel maybe bruised your ego even more than your body?"

Hound grimaced. "The sonuvabitch hits hard, Stout. He bruised 'em both black and he's still doing it. So now I have even more reason to come back and kick his sorry ass."

I empathized with Hound. He was right. Steel did hit hard, both physically and emotionally. I felt some small satisfaction at the old soldier's approbation, however, a feeling that I'd accomplished more than just becoming an officer.

With the last of his gear stuffed into the sack, Hound looked at me with a bland grin and said, "Let's get out of here."

I agreed with a nod. Strapping my rucksack over my shoulder, I led the way from the barracks. To my surprise, we exited the front gate without further interruption. As we departed, we heard the sounds of celebration off in the distance. I felt a momentary pang of isolation and paused. Orphaned at a young age, I found myself envious of my classmates, but like so many times before I set aside the negative emotion and carried on smartly.

"Time now to focus on what comes next," I said, breaking my unwanted reverie.

"The Trial?" Hound asked.

"Aye, the Trial," I replied. "I think I will give it proper consideration as we head north. Let's meet at dawn at Bounder's Square outside the city in two days. In the meantime, don't forget the sheepskin."
Chapter IV

0645, Tilday, 9th Muri'in , Spring, 1008

**H** ound and I indeed met two days later at dawn, a mile north of New Apros on the fringe of the city. The big sap was grinning, but he must have tied one on pretty tight the night before because his eyes shone a titian hue. With a clap on my shoulder that felt like a hammer blow, he walked past me toward our destination. It took me a moment to adjust my breastplate before I followed.

Bounder's Square was bustling. Three major caravans jockeyed for the right to leave first. House Keyoe's merchant train was the largest, thereby the slowest, relegating them to last in line. The wagon masters of the remaining two trains stood nose to nose, screaming obscenities at one another in effort to win first departure rights. Only once the purser intervened did the argument subside. Drenel House was awarded the lead over House Billings.

The caravan master for Drenel House was a solid man, tall with dark hair, his cheeks still ruddy after his altercation with the master from Billings. With Hound in tow, I approached, but he had the look of someone not to be trifled with. Drawing near, I cleared my throat. Before I could speak, he glanced up from his papers.

"You're looking for caravan duty?" he asked.

"Yessir."

Noting my rank insignia, he studied me with a keen eye. "What's your tag, young man?"

"I'm called Stout, sir," I replied.

He laughed. "Your drill instructors had a sense of humor, Lieutenant. You're skinny as a whippet."

My eyes narrowed as I felt my cheeks flush. "I know my way around a blade, sir," I said coldly.

"You're proud," the man observed with a wry expression.

I nodded and said, "Well earned, I believe."

He seemed to consider this, then asked, "You've seen combat?"

I could feel Hound shifting impatiently behind me, but my reply was calm. "Yessir, up in the Lochlan Heights."

This seemed to grab his attention. Lowering his clipboard, he asked, "How long were you up there?"

"A little less than a year," I answered. "In two campaigns I scored several confirmed kills and earned a few scars for my trouble. Near the end of my enlistment, I managed to save a fool of a captain from a solo. Bastard wouldn't listen to his sergeant. He got the man killed, along with four men in my squad. Almost got killed himself, too. Upon our return to Base-Camp, he put me in for a medal. I put in an application to officer school, figuring I couldn't do worse. For some reason they accepted my request."

"How old are you, son?" the man asked suddenly.

Wary of the question, I hesitated. He noticed, and said, "Tell me, or begone. I've no time to waste."

"I'll be eighteen in three weeks, sir," I replied. As his eyes widened, I added, "I've been on my own since I was a kid. Self-taught, at least in things worth learning."

"You're but a boy," he said.

Hound spoke up at last. "Have a care, sir. Slight as he is, this 'boy' regularly whipped my ass across the pell-yard. There's a toughness to him that goes beyond the physical, a reluctance to surrender that is abiding. Insult him if you dare, but you'd do a lot worse with many who are bigger and more seasoned."

It seemed to me that was the first time the caravan master took note of Hound at all. "You would follow this man in battle?" he asked.

Hound snorted. "I'd give my life for this man in battle."

The man considered Hound's words, and then came to a decision. "Alright, gentlemen, I'm Hugh Drenel. Well met. You can form up with the house guard. All of them are former MERC, so you should get along. Look for Captain Whole – he'll be the fat bastard trying to look dangerous astride a black destrier."

After dismissing us with a nod, we made our way to where the drays were assembling in preparation for departure. Huge teams of oxen were tethered to the great wagons; land ships they were called, each filled with enough cargo that they needed to be underwritten by investors. Somewhere there was a chest full of coins to pay the drovers and the soldiers of the house guard, but that was a pittance as compared to the writs of guaranty that were offered by investors.

Circling around the wagons, Hound and I found Captain Whole to be exactly as described. Beneath him, his warhorse looked disgusted. When we reported, he said, "Find the quartermaster. He'll get you mounts." The command given, he turned his gaze from us to stare out toward some undefined point in the distance.

We made our way to the platoon. In contrast to the Captain, the soldiers of the guard seemed to be competent. As Hound and I approached, a wide shouldered bitch looked up from her pack and shouted, "Show your blades!"

It was a ritual among soldiers, an old form used to determine if someone had survived the Trial. Hound and I lacked that aura of danger that surrounds those who've returned from the Maw, but we were new and soldiers are never easy on those who have yet to pass their rites of initiation. For his part, Hound didn't take the challenge well and spat vitriol at her jibe, but I offered my best 'bugger off' grin and said, "If you show me yours, I'll show you mine."

Of course, that drew catcalls from the rest of her mates, and even Hound laughed aloud. Not to be outdone, she replied, "Listen, Junior, you're still young enough to be in swaddling."

"And you're old enough to be my mother," I retorted.

Her face twisted into a scowl and my smirk grew wider as she stuttered. At last she said, "Shit, I have no words." Approaching me, she held out her hand. "I'm Sergeant Mother," she said with a vicious grin.

Hysterical laughter rained down on me as Hound and the soldiers of the house guard shared their mirth and scorn at my expense. Red-faced, I grabbed the woman's hand in a fierce grip then joined my laughter to the rest.

"I should have known..." I said to her, shaking my head.

She nodded, then shrugged and said, "It's all good. You're pretty quick for a Lieutenant. That plays well with this group. We don't want no shrinking daisies who can't handle a bit o' fun. It usually means they can't handle combat either."

"I learned the art of word play from a guy named Guffaw up in the Heights," I recalled. "He had a tongue sharp as his blade, could cut you three ways, yet have you laughing all the while."

Her eyes grew bright, and she said, "I remember Guffaw. He looks to be about forty-five, but is only about half that."

"Affirmative," I said with a laugh. "He is a grumpy bastard most of the time, but a tough fighter."

"Glad to know he's still kickin' around," Mother said. Turning serious, she added, "You boys need to hustle. Old Hugh don't mess around when it comes to departure. The quartermaster is over by the stable – just follow the smell of dust and horseshit."

Chapter V

9th Muri'in through 9th Dutigar, Spring, 1008

**O** nce the caravan was on the move, Hound and I got settled pretty quickly into the routine. Since both of us had survived combat, we earned immediate respect from the house guard. Over the next weeks, we took our turns standing watch, riding point and other such duties as soldiers on the march are accustomed to. Of Captain Whole, we saw little except in the early mornings when he would rise and stare east toward the sunrise while astride his horse. Once the sun was up, he would disappear toward the master's wagon, as if riding escort.

"Odd one, that," Hound muttered early one morning when he and I rode the point. I nodded, but kept my thoughts to myself. In a private moment, Mother had told me a bit about him, that he was a hero whose mind was broken from combat. Despite this, Hugh Drenel retained him, which sat well with the house guard, who held their captain in some esteem.

Mother was quite a character. She was older than me by twice, but strong as most men. We spent a lot of down time talking about the Heights, telling tall tales and some that weren't so tall. I showed her my scars. She showed me a couple of hers as well. It is the nature of deployment to find such company as is pleasurable and willing, and better by far than Hound's bawdy girls.

Of Hugh Drenel, I saw plenty, if from a distance. He was an active master of the caravan, not content to let subordinates handle the daily affairs while he watched from afar. Rather, he was a bold man, into everything, sometimes halting the entire caravan if something untoward caught his attention.

On one searing afternoon, shortly after we crossed into the Scabrous Waste, he halted the caravan to unload one of the drays. After pulling the containers of rare spices from the bed, he inspected each to ensure the seals were not compromised. Then he watched with a keen eye as his folk carefully loaded them back onto the dray. Four hours later, we set out again. That attention to detail was a lesson I took from him. It stayed with me for the remainder of my career.

In the end, thankfully, it was an uneventful trip comprised of boredom and routine. Making about four leagues per day, it took us four weeks to reach Grennistaad, the final settlement along the Fairway at the northern edge of the Waste. After another seven-day, we approached the City of Cemerlin. When we drew near the city's sun-seared walls, Hound and I took our leave of Master Drenel.

"I've heard good things about you from my guards, gentlemen" he told us. "I've got some ideas I'd like to share with you sometime, so my door will be open when next you're in New Apros. Come by and see me. Until then, Fortune's kiss wherever she may take you."

So saying, he quickly shook both of our hands, and then turned to shout orders to his team.
Chapter VI

1725, Giftday, 10th Dutigar, Spring, 1008

**O** nce within the rings of great city of Cemerlin, I parted from Hound for a time. Flush with coin, I fully expected him to find some dive and not leave until he had spent his last silver talon. Likely there would be a woman or three in his debauch, which was fine. As far as I was concerned, it would keep him out of trouble.

For my part, I ran into Mother on that first day in Cemerlin. I was in the third ring of the city where the merchants reigned searching for suitable provender for the next stage of the journey when I heard her call my name. Turning, I smiled and waved her over.

"Hugh's given you leave?" I asked.

She nodded and touched my arm, almost shyly. I think I blushed. I certainly grinned like a fool. It's one thing to grasp at one another in a tent, grunting and straining while trying to stay quiet. It is a different thing altogether to have time to do things right in the comfort of privacy. We were slow and easy together that night. In the early morning she kissed me softly and wished me well.

After she left, I slept a few hours and then hurried off to finish gathering the things needed for the trek to Base Camp. I still had a good bit of coin, but was careful with it. As dusk fell on the second day, I was optimistic that most of the hard work had been done. I ate a large meal and slept in a nice bed. When I woke, I quickly finished my ablutions and went in search of Hound.

Cemerlin is a large city made up of five concentric circles, each one a defined district, the central one notable for the majesty of the College Arcanum, or so I had been told. Eager to be gone, I had little interest in making the trek to see the grandeur of a pointed spire overlooking a finely coifed green where young students argued over topics arcane. Instead, I was rather more interested in finding Hound. I fully expected a long day of visiting taverns throughout the outer rings before my search was complete.

Happily, I was wrong. He was making his way onto the third ring as I was heading toward the second. We nearly bumped into one another. I broke into a grin as I recognized him.

"Well, that was a nice rest," he said.

"That's good to hear," I replied. "The next stage is more than five hundred miles. Seems certain our asses are going to be sore when we're done. I'm almost through with gathering supplies and eager to be gone – do you have any coin left?"

He nodded. "I mostly stayed to myself."

"Mostly, eh?" I chuckled and added, "The more I get to know you, Hound, the more I see how you got your tag."

He laughed, a loud bark that drew some frowns from the locals.

"C'mon, then," I said. "We need horses and it's your turn to buy."

Once finished with our provisioning, we walked our newly purchased mounts through a modest midday crowd toward the northeastern gate. We said little; a pleasant silence suited our collective mood as we exited the city. A short time later we spanned the bridge over the River Pel'hedron and headed northeast.

Chapter VII

Midweek, 11th Dutigar through Richday, 5th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**I** was a sixteen year old private fresh out of recruit training the first time I crossed the plains north of Cemerlin. That was my first trek to Base Camp. It was an arduous journey, marching twelve hours a day in lockstep as part of a company. The worst days followed nights standing watch. They were a torment of burning eyes and faltering steps. As dusk drew near and we would halt to bivouac, I would ask myself, ' _Why the hell did I enlist, again?'_

Ironically, I had lied on the enlistment papers, an easy thing to do as I did not know my father and my mother got torched in the same fire that destroyed my birth record. My youthful appearance almost betrayed me, but I guess their need was sufficient that they accepted my application.

This time, as an officer on horseback, the journey was not so difficult. Despite a modest pace, Hound and I made good time; two riders go faster at their slowest than a marching company at their most fleet. The lands below the Dimwoud are cultivated, the roads hard packed dirt and clearly marked, making travel easy. Farmsteads abounded, only a small point of interest for me as I was city bred and had no use for the stolid life of a farmhand. Still, the 'steads helped to mark time, and at various points we were able to purchase goods from the locals for a fair price.

Hound and I didn't push the horses too hard. We stayed at wayside inns when we could, often halting well before sunset to enjoy dinner and, if there was entertainment, a good seat in the common area. We'd pay for a private room in advance, rest well and then get an early start the next morn. Traveling thus, it took us nearly a month to arrive in Millers' Run.

Sitting on the edge of the Dimwoud, the Run was a crossroads town that got its name from the old mill that sat on the small river winding through its center. It wasn't a large place, but had the feel of modest wealth to it. Several tracks twisted through its center on their way to various points on the compass. Our path, the one heading north, led through a narrow portion of the forest toward Base Camp.

It was late in the afternoon when we arrived. Darkness fell quickly at the edge of the forest. Foregoing a trek through the eaves at night, we made ourselves comfortable at a local inn called _The Lady's Reign_. We both knew the tale, an old myth that went back before the Wane of an immortal forest queen and her court of fey. There was something primal about the place, a heavy, almost stifling feel I recalled from previous treks, but I was tired enough that I gave it little heed.

The food was excellent, a beef stew, hearty with potatoes and vegetables, and a small dark loaf with butter. Of course, Hound had his fill of ale, a thick, nasty brew that he swore by. I kept to a couple small tankards of beer to keep my wits about me.

A minstrel played that night, the first set uninspiring except that he closed with an ode to the mythic sylvan queen. It was a dirge, dark and haunting, as if offering warning. Hound was out of sorts after the song ended, so we retreated to our room before the man returned for his second set.

Chapter VIII

0700, Feastday, 6th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**T** he next morning I awoke refreshed, thoughts of haunting melodies banished from my mind. For his part, Hound was already awake, looking as if he'd not slept at all. "What's the problem?" I asked.

Offering a glance, he shrugged. "I can't really put my finger on it," he said quietly. "That song, though, it stuck with me. I don't know what it means."

I snorted in some derision. "It likely means you had too much ale."

His face drawn, he offered me the one-fingered salute then stood from his bed. "C'mon, let's get out of here."

With a sardonic grin, I nodded agreement. We packed quickly, had breakfast and headed up the Causeway toward the Lochlan Heights. Constructed over the course of a decade several centuries prior, the Causeway was a fortified passage stretching more than two hundred miles from Millers' Run to the Port of Greymiste, our eventual destination. Turning off at the appropriate decline, we instead headed down into the vale where Base Camp sat between twin rises.

Normally talkative, Hound said little during the journey, so I thought to prod him a bit. "Are you having doubts?" I asked.

The big man was silent for a long moment, his mouth twisted in a grimace. At last he gave a gusty sigh. "No doubts. My ass is chafed and I'm tired of riding, is all."

After presenting our orders to the guards at the main gate, we made our way toward the administrative office. Once inside we were met by a grizzled old sergeant.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said, his voice the sound of grinding gears.

"Howdy, Sarge," I replied, handing over my paperwork.

The man studied me with a keen eye, noted my combat ribbons and said, "You've been around the block, so this should be easy. If you haven't done so already, you both get a couple days to decide whether to take charge of a platoon, or face the Trial. That's the standing order for shiny new lieutenants. If you cannot decide, you'll be assigned to the finishing school, where you'll learn how to run a platoon. The MERC doesn't have time to baby sit while you figure things out. To that point, have you already made your choice? It'll save me some time if you have."

I looked at Hound, my eyebrows raised. "You ready?" I asked.

"I've been ready since the Resort," he replied with a careless shrug. "The question is: Are you?"

I grunted and took him at his word despite the inkling of doubt that marred his expression. Then I turned back to the sergeant and considered the man's question for a moment before nodding my head. "Let's do this, Sarge," I said.

He snorted and started filling out paperwork, all the while giving us detailed instructions on what was next.

"You'll report to temporary quarters, Barracks M. I'll authorize the allotted two days in case you reconsider, but come back here in the morning to check out if you're certain. You'll be assigned administrative leave during your journey, up to ninety days. The first part of the trek is the trip to Greymiste – if you don't have your own horses, you are each authorized a mount for the ride.

"Once in the port city, stay away from the dives near the docks. They're filled with poxy whores and pickpockets. Head up the hill to the MERC outpost. There you'll show your leave chit and orders to the non-com on duty. It is north of the merchant clans. If you get lost they will give you directions."

After pausing for a breath, he went on.

"Now, for the skinny: Cal Dakar is a barren rock, so pack a lunch. Potable water will be scarce, too. When you get there, you'll have twenty-four hours to complete the Trial. If you fail, you will either be dead, or you'll wish you were dead. That's why we ask for information regarding next of kin. If you have none, the MERC gets to keep your shit.

"Occasionally, a survivor goes rogue. These men and women are hunted down with prejudice. Do not go rogue, gentlemen, and try not to fail. It is fatal if you do, and that would be a damned waste of good MERC coin. Do you understand?"

We both nodded in answer. As the sergeant handed us new orders, Hound said, "Nice speech."

"Get out!" the man barked with a cold glare.

We retreated from the admin laughing. I was glad to see Hound in better spirits. He had a knack for irreverence that had been missing since the day before. Happy to put that worry to rest, I said, "Let's stash our shit and grab some food."
Chapter IX

0630, Peaceday, 7th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**T** he following morning, we departed from Base Camp, retreating up the Causeway toward the turnoff to Greymiste. The loud report of steel shod hooves upon cobbled stone was stark in the predawn stillness as we cued our mounts to a canter. With three days of travel ahead, we were not quite as enthused about facing the journey as we were the day before. Our spirits rose a bit with the sun, however, and like the journey from Cemerlin, it seemed a fairly easy ride.

Around noontide on that first day, we passed a merchant train coming down from the port city. It was a small procession moving at a deliberate pace in single file. Though it grated on the Houses, single columns were a long standing directive issued by MERC to prevent choke points in the event of an attack. Such was unlikely; Base Camp had not been attacked in force in more than two hundred years. Still, caution ruled the day, even this low in the Heights.

As we drew near the lead wagon, we slowed our mounts. "What news?" I called out to the driver. He was an older fellow, scarecrow thin and sucking on a corncob pipe.

Pulling the stem from his mouth, he replied, "A bit o' strange at the travelers' rest, Loo," he said. "There's some feller in there chasing folks away. Rumor has it he's stark, raving mad."

Raising my eyebrows, I asked, "Is he a drunk?"

The man shrugged. "I dunno, though I heard tell he carries a sword that glows like fresh spilt blood. Think, maybe, that might apply to one of your folks."

I thought so, too, but didn't offer as much. Instead, I asked, "How long has this fellow been in there?"

The driver grimaced in thought. At last he said, "I figure he's been in there since last night. There's a lot of smoke billowing from the chimney. It looked like a good bit o' wood had been pulled from the pile outside the door, too, strange for this late in spring. We halted for a bit hoping for a bite, but pressed on when the 'keeper said the kitchen was closed."

I glanced at Hound, who shrugged, then turned back to the man as the wagon was drawing past. "How far to the 'rest?" I asked.

"Mm, I'm guessing half a turn. We been gone 'bout an hour, figure you two can make better time. Be a good deed to get that feller taken care of, one way or th'other. Travelers have a right to take shelter when there's need."

"We'll take a look," I said with a nod. Putting heels to my horse's flanks, I led Hound up the Causeway in the direction of the disturbance.

Chapter X

1200, Peaceday, 7th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**T** he driver was right: it took just under a half turn of the clock to arrive at the travelers' rest. The first thing that struck me was the thick, pale haze hovering over the surrounds. Blinking back tears, I glanced around. My gaze finally settled upon a fat man with a baleful glare wearing a white apron.

"Have you ever seen a skinny innkeeper?" Hound quipped quietly as we dismounted. I flashed a grin and then grabbed my mount's reins close to the bridle. Both of our horses were restive, nervous from the smoke, and it took a bit of effort to settle them.

In that time, the man approached followed by a woman who walked with unusual grace. Before he could begin a litany of complaints, I shut him down.

"I hear you have a problem," I said with an agreeable nod.

As the man made to speak, the woman brushed by him and addressed me.

"There is a man inside, a candidate returning from the Trial, Lieutenant," she said. "I believe he's gone rogue."

Tawny haired and lean, with remarkably cold eyes, there was a lupine cast about her face that I found disconcerting. I noted the rank insignia upon her cuirass that declared her an al'Chemic, one of the pseudo-occult adherents that blended science with mysticism and played a large role in MERC strategy and tactics. The three slashes beside the insignia showed her as fairly accomplished.

"Have you done an augury?" I asked.

She nodded. "The portents are dark."

"Is there any chance of a satisfactory outcome?"

She offered a careless shrug. "It depends upon your definition of satisfactory. Your arrival increases the odds of a happy ending but slightly. My opinion is that he poses a danger, so our course should be extreme."

I shook my head in disgust, but refrained from baiting her. Zero sum games were the al'Chemic's stock in trade. It's easier to raze the surrounds with fire and brimstone than offer a more subtle solution. Fortunately, since the man inside was commissioned MERC, my authority took precedence.

"The collateral damage would be too costly," I said. "Better I should take a look first to assess the situation."

"It's your ass, Lieutenant," she replied with a shrug. Turning, she strode back toward the gaggle of folks standing near the buttress lining the Causeway. I watched for a moment as she mounted her horse and departed toward Base Camp, then turned to the innkeeper.

"Tell me what's going on in there?"

"He showed up last night, has been in there since," the man replied. "When he arrived, he threw a couple big logs on the fire. Got it burning hot then stood like a statue leaning against the hearth. Within a few minutes the place heated up like a blacksmith's forge. It became unbearable and the other patrons started to complain. When I told him to bank the fire, he gave me a stare and went outside to gather more wood."

"Did he say anything?" I asked.

"Yeah, he told me to bugger off."

I grimaced. "What else did he say?"

"He said the Causeway was built for the MERC and he had as much right to be there as the next person. I can't say I disagreed, but there are still some courtesies to maintain to keep the peace among travelers."

"What happened next?" I asked.

The man frowned. "He pulled a large table closer to the fire. Unhooking his baldric, he drew his sword and laid it on top. It was a monstrous thing, blood hued, if you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," I said dryly. "Is that when folks started leaving?"

"Most left shortly after he drew the sword. There were a couple stalwarts, long time regulars, who tried to stay around. They actually approached the man to talk reason, but he just laid his hand over the hilt of the sword. That scared them enough that both fled out the door. I didn't fancy being alone in there with him, so I left, too. I've been out here since."

"He's in there by himself, then." It was more supposition than question, but the man nodded.

"He comes out periodically to grab more wood," he replied. "Doesn't say anything, nor does he spend more time than necessary to finish the task."

"Did he indicate why he was here?" Hound asked. Once again he was late to the conversation, but it was a prescient query. I looked expectantly at the innkeeper, but he just shook his head. Thanking him for the information, I walked with Hound toward the entrance. As we drew near, I touched the door with the back of my hand. It was warm, bordering on hot.

"Are you coming in?" I asked.

Hound had that sickly look on his face again, same as the one the morning prior in Miller's Run. I rolled my eyes and said, "I've got this, but if you hear me scream, come in at a run."

The bastard had the nerve to grin.
Chapter XI

1210, Peaceday, 7th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**A** wall of heat pummeled me as I entered the traveler's rest, suffocating in its intensity. I buried my nose in the crook of my arm, all the while choking on the old terror of the inferno that had left me orphaned. Fighting through the fear, I spat, then ground my teeth and moved deeper into the room.

The common area was built large to accommodate the many travelers making their way to and from various points of importance in this part of the Heights. Windows lined the walls, wide rectangular apertures that housed leaded glass. The midday sun was bright outside, yet its light diminished greatly once it passed within. Smoke swirled heavily; ephemeral shadows danced in dark corners, resentful of daylight's glory.

Each of my steps echoed, the sound strangely muted by the heavy, hot air. As I moved from the entry into the heart of the room, I came across a breastplate and padded tunic that had been discarded upon the floor. Lieutenant's bars were engraved upon the armor, along with a couple of rows of campaign stripes that spoke of bravery. Whoever this fellow was, he'd had a good run in the field.

Empty of patrons, the place had the air of an old ruin and a sudden loneliness descended upon me. Pushing on, I neared the far end of the common area. Here the hearth glowed an angry scarlet. Before the fire, a man sat on a low stool beside a wide table. His back was to me, a cloak wrapped about his shoulders like a towel. He was broad and thick, his skin the color of caramel, and he sat with the preternatural stillness of a hunting cat.

A nimbus surrounded him, a burnished glow formed of the hearth-fire that gave him a spectral appearance. I halted about five strides behind him, leaned forward in effort to catch a glimpse of his face. This close I could see the individual rivulets of sweat that matted his hair and streamed down his neck. Even the cloak was fouled by his perspiration, the fabric nearly soaked through. I assumed he heard my approach and waited for him to turn around, but he didn't move. After a moment I took another step.

"Come no closer."

His voice was hoarse and threatening, yet it was the sword he raised a bare inch from the table that caused me to halt. In the long months of my service, I'd heard rumors of the malefic nature of weapons that had been blooded on Cal Dakar. I recalled well the aura of Sergeant Major Steel's sword unsheathed while I was still in officer training.

Being so close to one unconstrained was much worse. Its will beckoned and I nearly stepped closer in spite of his warning. Fear soured my mouth giving rise to many doubts, and though I withstood the blade's summons, it was a near thing.

Taking a deep breath, I called to him, "What gives, Lieutenant?"

The man did not bother to look back. Instead he asked, "Who are you?"

"A fair question," I replied. "My tag is Stout, but hell, we're all friends here. Call me Rory, the name my mother gave me."

Turning awkwardly, he assessed me with dark, haunted eyes. His teeth were clenched so tight, the muscles stood out along his jaw. His face looked like a cruel mask, such as found at a merchant masquerade. "I don't know you," he said after a long pause. "You're a skinny runt, though."

"So I've been told," I replied, my voice coarse with the fumes. Coughing again to clear my throat, I asked, "What are we doing here?"

He ignored my question, asked instead, "You goin' to the Maw?"

I nodded and said, "Yeah, that's the plan."

"Come closer."

"Set your blade aside and I'll pull a chair up right next to you. Otherwise, I'm staying right where I am."

He laughed, a gravelly, manic sound. "Shucks, Rory, if I'd meant to hurt you, you'd be dead already. Just take a step or two closer."

I circled to his right until I was but four paces away. The table was between us. All the same, I was well within harm's way should he prove false. "This is about as good as you're gonna get," I said.

He nodded, a quick jerk of his head, which I took as agreement. Slowly then, he stood. At the same time, he lowered his cloak and turned to face me, revealing a chest corded by thick muscle.

"Look closely at my skin, Rory," he said.

I did as he bade. He had a large tattoo on his chest, a woman in a country dress astride a galloping horse. It was quality art, not the typical soldier's fare hastily inked and then regretted for years afterward. In fact, I meant to say as much, but my mouth went dry and the notion died before I uttered a single word.

He broke the silence first. "You see it," he said, his tone almost matter of fact. Only a slight hitch in his voice betrayed his fear.

I nodded, once. "Damn, Loo." It was all I could say.

His skin writhed. Not the ripple of muscles when combatants meet on the pell-yard, rather this was a serpentine form swimming beneath the surface of his skin. Hostile and alien, it moved much as a baby does when a mother is near to term. No sweet kick, though; each pass it made through his torso pushed upward along his skin causing him to wince in torment. After only a few seconds watching, I turned away.

His voice but a whisper now, he said, "It revels in my pain and speaks dire portents into my head. It commands me to do things, terrible things. I cannot hold it at bay much longer."

Helpless against his fear, I had no words of comfort to offer. My voice shuddered as I asked, "What is it?"

His eyes were closed, his forehead creased. In a voice raw with anguish, he said, "Some spawn of darkness. It slid into me as I dipped my sword into the Maw."

"I don't know what to do, Lieutenant," I said. "There is an al'Chemic outside..."

My voice trailed off as he shook his head.

"No al'Chemic will come near me, Rory" he said quietly. "They are susceptible to the wiles of such a spirit. No, I know what I must do. I only have a small favor to ask of you. I spent last night writing a letter. I would have you deliver it back to Base Camp, to my wife. Her name is Rowan and she is newly pregnant. Just tell her that I died bravely."

Fortune's fell kiss. I nearly wept. I was barely eighteen and the thought of delivering such a missive weighed heavily upon my soul. Yet I could not forsake this warrior. After a long pause, I drew another step closer.

"I will do it, Lieutenant."

"Thank you," he said, and turned to toss me a small courier's pouch.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"I am called Blaze," he said with a harsh laugh. "Fitting, no? But my given name is Tomas and in return for your kindness, I will offer you three warnings as you face the Trial: First, suffer not the blandishments of beauty. Next, embrace the challenge of fools. Finally, trust not those you think trustworthy. Follow my rede and you will give yourself a chance to overcome the Trial. Now, go. My will grows weak, my time short. I hope Fortune favors you with Her sweet kiss while you face this challenge."

I retreated quickly, but turned back before exiting. Tomas stood before the hearth, both hands wrapped about the hilt of his sword in a reverse grip. The blade alternately rose and fell as he faced this final clash of wills with his tormentor. Raising the sword a final time, he declared victory, offering a piercing battle cry to whatever gods might listen. Then he drove the tip of the blade deep into his midsection and fell into the hearth. The stench of boiling blood and scorching flesh swept over me so that I retched.

Suddenly, his screams were drowned by a shriek of wanton fury frustrated. I held my hands to my head, but both ears and nose bled beneath the cacophonous assault. I fell into a daze that lasted a few moments. When my senses returned, I found the flames had spread, licking at the furniture and threatening a full scale inferno.

Stumbling out of the 'rest, I pointed behind me and shouted, "Fire!" Then I fell to the ground and sucked in fresh air.

It took me some minutes to realize that Hound was pulling at me, trying to get me to stand. I got up with his help, grabbed hold of the saddle horn and held myself upright for several moments. Finally, I mounted, nearly swooning again once I was in the saddle.

When I was settled, I began to ride. Much to Hound's surprise, and chagrin, I turned the horse back toward Base Camp. Not understanding my intent, he shouted at me in anger and confusion. I remained silent, in no mood to explain. Instead, I kicked my horse to a gallop, almost daring him to try to stop me.

As dusk fell, I halted. Ashamed, I waited for him to catch up. Before he offered his anger, I said, "The man inside, he gave me a letter he penned to his wife, asked that I bring it to her."

Hound stared at me for a moment with a thoughtful expression. "You should've just told me," he finally said.

He was right, of course, but I didn't have the words to explain what happened in the 'rest. Instead of trying, I said, "We need to find her."

Nodding, he said, "She will be billeted in officer quarters. We can ask around."

Night had fallen by the time we found Rowan. She was young, with dark hair and a lovely face, a match for Tomas' tattoo. Her eyes spoke of wisdom. Initially, I said nothing, merely offered her the letter. It took her a long time to read. When she finished, she said quietly, "Better this than a missive and a Chaplain Adept."

Then she had many questions. Sadly, my effort to answer her was inadequate in the face of her grief. As her tears at last began to fall, she cried, "Go!"

Then turning, she entered her home and slammed the door closed, leaving me outside and bereft.
Chapter XII

7th – 8th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**H** ound and I stopped briefly at the admin to amend our orders before heading over to the barracks. I was exhausted, yet my thoughts swirled and sleep proved elusive. When I finally managed to doze off, a sequence of dreams haunted me: Tomas' hand stretching toward me, imploring me to pull him from the flames; Rowan staring at me, her eyes accusing, the letter crumpled and burning in her fist; even my mother, her corpse a charred ruin lying on the floor, that last a memory that crept from the hidden depths of my mind.

The next morning dawned brooding, matching my mood. We left Base Camp beneath tempest skies, pushing our mounts for speed. We reached the traveler's rest shortly after midday. With little wish to relive the prior day's events, I shoved aside the specter of my nightmares and passed by without pause.

All told, it took us just shy of three full days to get to Greymiste, the port city welcoming us with the pungent smell of brine. Dusk was still a couple hours off when we arrived, so we took our time ascending the boulevard that led to the MERC outpost. It was easier to find than I expected, the main building a bland, official looking edifice with a statue out front of an anonymous soldier standing silent vigil.

Ignoring the memorial, we entered and turned our orders over to the NCO on duty. The young corporal took our paperwork and said, "Five other candidates are here to face the Trial. I think you'll be the final two for this group, which means you're likely to be embarking in the next day or so."

"How often do ships head to Cal Dakar?" I asked.

"It's fairly random," she replied, glancing up as she passed me new orders from across the counter. "Mostly it depends upon how quickly new candidates arrive. The minimum that we'll authorize for transport is five."

My curiosity sated, I waited quietly while she finished with Hound.

"The temporary barracks is around back to the right," she said as she handed Hound his completed forms. "There's a mess next to the barracks where the chow's pretty good. Oh, and gentlemen, Fortune's Kiss. I hope the prize is worth the trip."
Chapter XIII

8th - 9th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**D** uring the down time, we took the initiative to meet the other candidates. The four men were called Twitch and Hollow, Boon and Rush. Hollow was the ranking officer as the only captain among us. They were typical young men for the most part, braggarts hiding their fears behind bullshit and boasts. Hound fit right in – soon enough the five of them were arguing over cards and tiles.

There was another lieutenant, a woman called Stiletto. She appeared round and soft at first glance, an unappealing woman. She lacked a sense of humor, though Hound found her tag hysterical and took to calling her 'Butter-Knife'. She hated Hound, I think, though it was hard to tell as she spoke less than the rest of us.

For my part, I remained as aloof as possible, declining to join their games and offering little in the way of conversation. After watching them play for about an hour, I left to wander around the merchant shops. There were outlets for most products not far from the outpost for those with money to buy. My mind elsewhere, I bought nothing and eventually headed back to the barracks. Hound wasn't there, which relieved me. I wanted to embrace the solace of silence.

As I lay down, I thought for a long time about Tomas. I began to question myself and my desire to face the Trial. Sergeant-Major Steel's voice echoed around my head so that I could almost hear his words.

You're smart, Stout. You should give the Trial every consideration and then you should do it. You have both the ability and the fortitude to survive.

But did I, really?

I remembered again Tomas falling into the flame. Could I do the same if there was no other choice? Tormented by the question, I finally closed my eyes and wished for sleep.

Hound woke me the next morning. "High tide at noon," he said. "We're leaving today. Get your shit together. We don't want to be late for the ship."

Bleary-eyed, I muttered, "Damned boats."

"Cal Dakar's an island, moron." Hound said. "How else did you expect to get there?"

"It doesn't mean I have to like it."

He laughed as I pushed myself up from the bed. Forcing myself to move with some urgency, I got my gear together. Once our preparations were complete, we departed. The trek to the docks was silent; for once we both had nothing to say.

We reached the ship with plenty of time to spare. Stiletto was already on board, leaning against the taffrail. As Hound and I asked the officer on deck permission to come aboard, she looked our way. Hound offered her a lewd grin from the gangplank. To her credit, she merely turned her face without a word and looked over the stern.

"Can't figure Butter-Knife wanting to face the Maw," he muttered as we boarded. "She doesn't stand a chance."

"It's her right to face the Trial."

"She sure doesn't look the part," he said.

"Stop dragging your knuckles, Hound," I replied. "At this point, your focus needs to be on surviving the Maw. Worrying about her isn't going to help you do that."

He frowned. I suppose he was looking for approval of his coarse humor, but I was still occupied by Tomas' death and in no mood to indulge him. Worse, I could feel the first stirrings of nausea brought on by the effluvia of brine and burning coal, an ominous precursor to the misery I would surely suffer during the next week.

Some short minutes after our arrival, the other four officers showed up en masse, grab-assing and joking around. Led by Captain Hollow, they showed little regard for naval custom by making mockery of their request to board. The officer on deck, a salty old chief, called a halt and stood at the top of the gangplank. Thickly corded forearms were folded over his chest, the muscles rippling as he bunched his fists. His expression was belligerent and his stance shouted that he would prevent them from boarding if they didn't behave with sufficient respect.

With a cold eye, he said, "Gentlemen, this lady is called _Radiant_. You will treat her with such dignity as is her due. Failing that, you can turn your sorry asses around and swim to the Maw, for all I care. Do you understand?"

Hollow stepped forward. Showing surprising sense, he offered a crisp salute and said, "Aye, Chief. I request permission to come aboard."

Mollified, the chief stepped aside and said, "Permission granted."
Chapter XIV

9th - 16th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**L** ooking back, I wish I could recall more of the journey north to Cal Dakar. I do remember Hound and the others agog like tourists as they watched the frenzied hunts of the massive sharks that swam around the Eastern Islands.

"Come on, Stout, you're missing a sight!" he would shout.

Sadly, I was in no condition to enjoy the spectacle as the Bitter Sea had its way with me. My face green, my body limp, I hung tight to the gunwale praying that one of the great predators would leap out of the water and put me out of my misery. By my best reckoning, I'd lost about fifteen pounds, an unwanted concern in advance of the Trial. The only saving grace of my wretchedness was that it left little time to give further thought to Tomas' fate. Still, it was a welcome boon when I heard the captain of the ship call out, "Drop anchor!"

As the ship drifted to a stop, my sickness began to wane and I gathered such gear from my berthing as would be needed for the trek. I unwrapped my chain byrnie and breastplate from the sealed wax paper in which they were stowed and put them on. Made of dark, tempered steel and reinforced by al'Chemic enchantments, the armor was light and comfortable over the padding I wore beneath. I then wrapped the baldric around my waist, with my sword dangling from my left hip.

Stuffing the remainder of my supplies in a backpack, I joined Hound and the others at the rail. There we stared in stark fascination at the black sands of the Isle of Cal Dakar. As I measured the island, I felt the weight of legend upon my shoulders.

Of course, Hound, standing next to me, couldn't stand the silence. "I'm thinking a sun-bath is out of the question."

Rude comments followed around much laughter. It seemed to ease our fears. Even Stiletto broke into a small smile. One of the others, I'm unsure which, muttered, "A right ugly rock we've got to climb."

He was right. The Maw was an ugly thing that loomed over the surrounds, its peak a broken crater that looked like nothing so much as an angry chancre. A veil of dark smoke wafted from myriad fissures along its face, shrouding the peak in a sulfurous haze. As a whole, the entire place seemed devoid of life; not even broken scrub grew from rock or sand.

"Tis said a demon of great power was slain within the Maw before the Wane," said a quiet voice. "Its blood infused the crater with its poison."

We all looked at Stiletto. She seemed to shrink under our scrutiny. No one said anything though; even Hound refrained from baiting his favorite target. Turning back, I gave the place greater attention.

"It feels alive in some unsettling way," I said after a few moments.

The captain's call to lower the launch into the water broke our reverie. We grew silent. My heart began to race as the deck hands heaved to. Sweat coated my forehead despite the cool ocean breeze as, inch by inch, the launch descended. When it reached the water, a strong hand clasped my shoulder and I turned. Hound stood beside me.

"C'mon, lad. It's time," he said with a reassuring grin.

My mouth was dry, but I offered a half-smile and managed to nod in reply. I followed him from the rail to the rope ladder and we climbed down to the long boat together. Once we were secured, the crew of the launch began to row. A few, halfhearted catcalls from the ship's crew sent us on our way. Glancing back, I noted a half-dozen seamen pointing and sneering at us. Lieutenant Boon was also at the rail, standing alone, well away from the crew.

"Hold up," I shouted, turning back to Mister Higgins, the master of the launch. "One of our companions got left behind."

"Piss off, Lieutenant," he growled. "This is my boat. It goes where I want it to. Right now, I'm headed toward the beach. As for your companion, he was not left behind, he chose to stay behind. Sometimes you jackasses stand at the edge of the abyss and come to the conclusion that visiting Cal Dakar is not such a grand idea after all."

Perhaps I was naive, but my anger simmered at the man's indifference. Hound must have sensed my frustration, because he said, "Save it for the Maw."

He was right, of course. I shut my mouth and turned my eyes back to the beach. Details began to emerge as we drew near. The surf mingled with dark sand, giving the water a dull, smoky color that lacked vibrancy. Above the waterline, dunes rose at a steep incline. They were the color of dark slate, formless and constantly shifting, their gritty sands flung about by crisp ocean gales to scour the surrounds.

Suddenly, my nerves grew taut. It was not fear that prompted the change, rather I found myself ready for what was to come. Always in my life, when action was imminent, I set aside worry as insignificant to the task at hand. Silently, I called to Fortune for her kiss. My prayer done, my preparations were complete.

I listened for a minute to the others discussing their plans. Hollow took the lead, his eyes intense as he said, "Best if we work as a squad, gentlemen. There is strength in numbers, surprise in quickness. The more eyes keeping watch, the less chance we have of getting ambushed."

I found myself hesitant to pursue such tactics, though I kept the thought to myself. The Trial was no patrol, rather it was a great unknown. What was to come would surely be a surprise. As such, I planned to go forth alone.

With a seed of an idea in place, I grew impatient. The launch seemed to crawl to the shore. Drawing close at last, Mister Higgins barked a couple of quick orders and the crew stowed their oars. Four of their number jumped into the surf and grabbed the ropes. By main strength, they pulled the launch close to the beach.

As we prepared to disembark, Higgins' offered some last minute instructions. "You have twenty-four hours to complete your task, at the end of which we will return to take on survivors. If you are not here come the morning we will leave you to your fate."

As a group, we clambered over the side, jumping down into water up to our knees. It was a slow slog to the shore. Once we got past the water line the sand became gritty and loose, sticking to our gear and making the march difficult.

Chapter XV

0930, 16th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**I** halted just shy of the dunes to brush the grit from my leathers and study the trek before me. Nearby, Stiletto did the same. The others scaled the incline with an eagerness that seemed born of desperation. Hound gave me a quick glance, but I shook my head.

"I'll not run heedless up the slope."

He offered a shrug. "Well, then. Good luck." Then he followed Hollow and the others up past the dunes.

I watched him depart for a moment, unsure of my emotions. We'd traveled together nigh on three months. It was like losing a brother. Shaking my head, I looked around. Stiletto stood nearby, her gaze thoughtful.

"They think numbers will offer them some measure of safety," she said.

"You don't agree," I replied.

She nodded. "The Trial seems a solitary venture. I think they will find themselves disappointed."

"I've heard that disappointment offers a permanent outcome here," I observed.

"Fatal even," she agreed. "To some of them, at least."

"Would that please you?" I asked, but she cut me off.

"I believe such thoughts would only harm my chance of survival," she said. "Good luck to you, Lieutenant."

I nodded silently then watched as she made the solitary march past the dunes until she was lost around an outcropping of rock on the lower rise. I was impressed with her bravery and a bit ashamed at my presumption. I wished Fortune's kiss upon her effort.

Alone now, I gave attention to my own fate. Conscious of the fleeting nature of time, I pushed up toward the rise, my hand restless upon the hilt of my sword. My pace was deliberate as I opened my senses to the hostile surrounds. I followed the same path as Stiletto, though once I reached the outcropping she was nowhere in sight.

Here, Cal Dakar's foul effluvium drew thick about me. My eyes watered, my throat grew raw, prompting me to pause for a moment to wrap a cloth over my face like a shamagh. Pressing on, I walked for about an hour when the way inclined at a steep angle. Stretched before me were myriad paths, six in total, winding off the main, central passage. They alternated left than right with about a span between each.

I stood there for some thirty minutes, trying to discern the most likely route to take. It seemed a giant puzzle, one that felt like a trap. Following the middle path to its end appeared too easy. The rest offered no clue. Finally, out of frustration I chose the seventh passage which seemed to lead directly toward the Maw. I didn't want to think what would happen if my choice proved false.

I trekked up the path for more than an hour when it abruptly narrowed. The way grew treacherous, filled with loose rock and scree that slipped at untoward times. Beside me, to my right, the slope fell in steep decline, a deadly fall should I misstep. At times I moved at a near crawl so that my hands grew dark with volcanic grit.

It was hot. Sweat dripped from every pore. My gear grew heavy, rubbing me raw in uncomfortable places. My breath came in harsh gasps as the incline grew steeper. I was weak and felt keenly the lost weight from my seasickness. I drank often from my water-skin and ate jerky and hard tack to recover some strength, but cramps were now a concern as well.

One step before the next became my silent mantra, enough so that I lost track of time. It was dawn when I beached, but now I had no idea how many turns had passed on the clock since the initial entry onto the isle. Looking to the sky was useless; the haze overhead created a veil that obscured the sun's passage.

Dismissing the concern, I continued on until the path began to wind upward and around the rise, right to left. It was still narrow, but there was less scree and the edge had a lip about three inches high that seemed noteworthy, but served a dubious purpose. After my initial curiosity, I gave it little thought. Ultimately, it would save my life.

I'd become inured to the peril of the journey in the face of the tedium of placing one foot before the other. The attack, when it came, was sudden. I was bull rushed from behind with such force that I teetered near the edge. I lost my balance and fell, but managed to grab the lip with my left hand. Dangling for a long moment, I collected my wits and drew my sword. My attacker, seeking to admire his handiwork, looked over the side. He seemed surprised when my blade took him through the throat.

A deluge of blood poured down, soaking me. Cursing aloud, I pulled myself back up to the path with an alacrity born of fear. Once I was safe, I crouched to study the corpse. My heart quickened. It was a man, bearded and plainly starved; a former MERC by the look of his gear and the tattered remnants of his uniform.

Shocked, I looked around. Two other men descended from up the path, similarly clad. Both seemed to be in the same state of privation as their dead companion.

"Well met," I said, standing carefully from my crouch.

Little good it did, they advanced with intent, though slowly, their swords wobbly in feeble grips. I had time to move and put the cliff at my back then waited for the slow procession to draw near. As I watched, I was reminded of a mummers' play I'd seen as a little boy, not long after my ma died. Death was featured prominently. The memory made me sick at heart, and angry.

"Come, then," I said, standing away from the cliff to meet them head on.

I struck quickly as was my wont in battle. The nearest fell, his neck ripped open, adding another layer of gore to my armor. Stepping over him, I met the next. My wrist quick, I parried his strike and countered. His sword fell, his hand still gripping the hilt of his sword.

"Surrender!" I cried.

The man pulled a dagger from his belt with his other hand and gazed at me with listless eyes.

"Hold, sir," I said again, but reason was beyond him. Disgusted, I slid my sword between his ribs, into his heart. His expression seemed one of relief as he fell.

I found myself ill. I'd come up here to conquer the Trial, instead I killed three former MERCs. It had never occurred to me that there might be survivors on the island who had failed the Trial. I sipped some water and pondered this, but found no answer. I searched their bodies, but found nothing of use. Even their swords, the finest man could make, were pitted with rust and useless, their runes inert.

I wondered briefly how long the men had been stranded here, but abandoned the thought for another of greater importance. I'd been complacent and got lucky. Cursing aloud, I promised, "That will not happen again."
Chapter XVI

1600, 16th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**L** eaving the bodies behind, I continued up the path, no longer idling forward in unthinking fashion. My steps became quick, my eyes alert. I held my sword in a firm grip, vowing to leave it unsheathed until the Trial was complete.

About a span past the site of the ambush, the incline ascended at a sharper angle. My calves began to burn, but I continued on until it came to an end. Leveling off before me was a landing in front of a small grotto. A wide entry that stood twice my height opened to me. Within the grotto, a stone seat rested with sculpted gargoyles sitting upon the floor to each side. They were huge, taller than me, and their eyes had a fell look, though I only allowed for a brief inspection. My scrutiny was diverted instead to the woman sitting between them. My attention captured, I loosened my shamagh for a better view.

She was exquisite, all smooth edges, with raven locks framing aquiline features. Her skin was so pale as to glow; a distinct contrast to eyes seemingly rouged a dark hue with expert finesse. Deep red lacquer covered nails tapered to a point. She wore her leathers tight and her cuirass pushed upward to accentuate her breasts. Twin daggers hung opposite one another upon a tilted baldric at her waist, seeming more than just ornamentation.

Her beauty was unearthly. It hurt me to look at her. As I stared, my eyes teared and my sword lowered, the tip nearly touching the ground. My cock, on the other hand, grew rigid, straining against my cod piece in effort to escape.

She seemed amused by my discomfiture, her tongue slipping from her mouth to tease playfully at her upper lip. Then she rose from the chair, a sensual dance reminiscent of smoke curling upward from a flame. Draping her hand casually over the hilt of the dagger on her right hip, she stepped out from the grotto. Her tongue slid slowly back into her mouth as she considered me. Then she smiled, her canines showing slightly elongated.

"You have bested my champions," she said.

Her voice held an odd dissonance like the echo of a throng speaking in concert. As I listened, a headache fell upon me, the pain sharp. A black veil briefly stole my vision, but I regained my senses a moment later and said, "They were ill used."

"They chose their fate," she replied, as if that was a reasonable explanation.

I shook my head. "What choice if each is a poor alternative?"

She stepped toward me and caressed my chin with a fingernail. A sticky wetness dripped from my jaw, down my neck. I jerked from the pain, a sorry recourse that offered little succor from her cruel ministration. She tasted the blood upon her nail, took a deep breath as she relished my flavor. Suddenly, I found her smile not so alluring.

"Don't your folk believe that where life endures, hope does as well?" she asked with arched brows.

"They were slaves, without hope," I said. "Better to die than be forced into such servitude."

Her lips twisted into a frown as she studied me for a long moment. "You are judging me. I should warn you, such scrutiny is not for you to make."

"It is my duty to challenge the shadow."

"Oh, but I am not of the shadow," she replied.

I caught hidden anger in her words, an unspoken condemnation and my pulse quickened in fear.

"Who are you?" I asked suddenly.

Her eyes turned sharp. "Names are a powerful thing, mortal. To ask such is to earn my enmity. Choose your next words wisely."

"If you are not of shadow, then you are a _peril_ and born of the pit."

She nodded, once. "For a thousand, thousand years I was a queen of my own realm, strong and vicious and filled with hate. Even so, still I was assailed and vanquished by my foes. Now I am but a prisoner upon this rock.

"Captive against your will," I surmised, but she merely shrugged. "What prisoner isn't held against their will?"

"One who is held captive by their own fears," I replied with a sudden insight.

Her gaze grew more studied as she considered me. "You would try to guess the nature of Cal Dakar's secrets?" she asked.

"Certainly, if it helps me overcome the Trial," I replied.

"A fair motivation," she noted. "If you think long enough, you might glean the nature of the island."

"Riddles?" I asked, but she merely shrugged again.

Uncertain of my next comment given her fickle nature, I said at last "I will not linger as your slave."

Challenging her thus, I raised my sword against her coming attack. Her response was mocking. "Silly fool, I do not intend to fight you. The island will do that for me. Time is fleeting. Already your precious sun dims and you are far from your goal."

The obvious dawned on me then. "I chose the wrong path."

"Yes," she agreed. "But you have another option."

"What other option? I have failed the Trial."

"I would not give you false hope," she replied quietly, her gaze avid. Drawing closer to me, she touched my arm. I felt again the heat of lust.

"What will be my fate?" I asked.

"Stay with me, mortal, and it will be kind," she replied with a whisper. "I offer a safe haven in this place as my new champion."

Her presence was beguiling, her scent sweet, like lavender. Bemused, I wondered at her offer, so full of promise, so enticing. She pushed closer to me, her breast firm against my arm, a beauty so sublime that my heart yearned to believe her.

And yet...

I knew time was my enemy, but did not believe that I was yet out of the race. In the end, my soul was more discerning than my body. I pulled away from her.

"How quickly would you grow bored with me?" I asked. "Do you think I did not heed your other pets, entrapped astride your perch, their eyes filled with the same despair that you've tried to raise in me? Where is their haven, frozen as they are as adornments while you sit atop your throne? No, fiend, much as it pains me, I deny you."

I turned away. A screech of fury warned me of her intent, but I expected as much. Coiling like a serpent, I whipped my blade around, my swing halting just as the tip touched her lovely cheek. Her daggers impotent in her hands, she froze in place as a bead of black blood stained the tip of my sword. She drew in a sudden breath, surprised and dismayed as the runes on my blade shone forth.

It was an unexpected turn for both of us. A surge of energy streamed through my veins, bringing with it newfound strength. I marveled at the power her blood must wield to awaken my sword's might. Aware that I was still in danger, I smiled grimly. Lowering my weapon, I said, "My name is Stout. You will remember me, I think."

"I will, indeed, little Stout, as you will me," she said quietly, with a half-smile.

I gave little thought to her rejoinder as I turned and sprinted down the slope, thanking Fortune all the while that she did not pursue.
Chapter XVII

1950, 16th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**I** nitially I'd thought her born of shadow. I was wrong. She was so much more, darker, of the pit, a named fiend if her threat could be believed. I wondered how many men she had seduced through the years, though I was not so bold as to go back for an answer. I felt fortunate to escape her attention with my life – and soul – intact.

My notions of the Trial were in error. I had to reconsider my tactics. I had come here expecting to fight my long time foes, those that we among the MERC call shades. We gave them many names over the years: Darkfae, Nightspawn, Shadowkin. Like humans, they are diverse, each of them possessing certain traits that make them dire foes.

Our war with them had gone on for a thousand years, since before the Wane. Much of our history has been made fanciful and heroic, yet I wonder what truth our enemy would present were they amenable to parlay. They are not, however. Rather they seem to delight in mischief and ambush. In all the centuries of war, we humans had gained no greater understanding of who they are.

Yet, despite my recent encounter, I still feared the shades would prove a danger. After running for a span, I slowed my headlong flight, certain that an array – what the MERC called a death squad – would attack at any time. Although beings of shadow, they were quite corporeal when they had to fight. Their most effective attacks came in the dark, when they could flow through the Stygian murk to surprise their target...and the sun was going down.

A greater darkness had fallen by the time I returned to the dunes. I took a long drink and caught my breath. My mind raced as I gave thought to which path I should now take. I finally settled upon the central way, unhappy with the choice, but afraid to make another given the result of my initial decision. I could feel time slipping by and pushed myself upward again, hopefully toward the Maw.

I came upon a body shortly after that second ascent from the beach, one of my companions, the lieutenant called Twitch. I recalled him as a restless man, given to pacing along the railing aboard our ship. Now he was face down on the stone with a dark stain spread beneath him. Flies covered him despite the shadowed gloaming. Disbursing them with a wave, I turned him over carefully.

His breastplate was rent by four deep striations that ran parallel to one another. The camo-enchantment had failed beneath the assault, revealing ruined flesh within. Blood still oozed from the openings, though mostly it was congealed, liquid enough only to stretch in sticky threads. The attack had the feel of shadow to it and I grew even more alert.

There was no sound. As I ran, I again felt the burn in my calves letting me know the path was growing steeper. I tempered my effort with short periods of walking, trying to ease the mounting ache in my lungs from the noxious air.

I saw little beyond the range of my runes, other than the soft, crimson glow from vent holes in the great rock. These provided little actual illumination; rather they served to add a macabre luster that confused my senses. Recalling an old nursery rhyme I'd learned as a child, I sang to keep my pace in rhythm.

Pale light in dark of night, wither will you go?

Eventually, I reached a small shelf of sorts, beyond which the path continued. I halted in a crouch, studying the darkness. As I battled with fatigue, my nerves drew taut. Standing again, I began a deliberate stroll toward the other side.

The tandem – two shades attacking in concert – emerged abruptly from the deepening gloom. They attacked from both directions, their curved blades wicked and hungry. I don't think I could have taken them without the quickened runes upon my blade. They were fast and hard to see, but as I reacted, the runes on the blade glowed brighter, a bloody russet that hindered their ability to merge back into shadow.

Embracing the sword's strength, I met their quickness with my own. Almost the sword felt light in my hands. Almost I could feel it directing me. My counter to their assault was efficient and brutal, parry-strike left, parry-strike right. Both went down without a sound. And now, having feasted, the runes on my blade burned like a brilliant flame.

I wondered at that. Careless of bloody corpses at my feet, I brought the blade close to inspect the enchantment. It wasn't like I could read the runes; archaic al'Chemic mage-craft was not my forte. But an extant power swam through my veins. I felt alive, yet tainted, though that was not really an apt description. At that moment, however, I was content to bide within the weapon's glow.

Taking in a gulp of water, I pushed on until I reached the end of the path. The Maw loomed above me, a dark shadow blotting out the stars. A vermilion stain shone from the chancre atop the crown, casting the surrounds in diabolic light. I thought once more of the beautiful fiend and toyed with the idea of revisiting our earlier conversation. I chuckled at such arrogance; even buttressed as I now was, she would destroy me.

The rune glow from my sword guided me. After a brief search, I found a crude passage almost like a ladder leading up toward the peak. It was a long climb. As I drew closer to the top, the gasses emitted by the volcano became searing. I unwrapped my shamagh, soaked it in water from my canteen then retied it around my face before moving on.

When I reached the top I stepped up onto the final ledge. My foot came in contact with something. I almost rolled my ankle but crouched quickly to regain my balance. I brought the blade low. Revealed by the russet glow was Hollow, his eyes open but unseeing. Beside him, his blade lay broken in two. I thought of Stiletto then, her warning unvoiced to all but me: _The Trial seems a solitary venture..._

Chapter XVIII

0045, 17th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**T** he hair on the back of my neck stood straight. I looked up. A shadowed figure gazed down on me from near the edge of the Maw, some twenty feet up. The pose was all too familiar: his sword resting lazily upon a shoulder, his weight shifted to one leg. The glow of the runes on his blade told a tale of success.

I called to him. "Congratulations, Hound. I see Steel was wrong."

"Ha, ha! Yes, Stout, and I will address that with him soon enough! But how 'bout you and me dance around the pell-yard once more for old time's sake?"

"What need?" I called up to him. "We've danced that step enough already. Let's go down and see if anyone else won through."

"I kept score," he said. "Twitch fell and Rush abandoned us shortly after. He was headed back to the beach when Hollow and I made the Maw."

"What happened to Hollow?" I asked.

"We had a disagreement."

"What about Stiletto?"

He seemed to shrug in the darkness. "Butter-Knife slipped by as I was lecturing Hollow on the finer points of swordsmanship. Gonna do something about that girl when I get down to the beach. She has no business here."

"We've won, Hound. Why not head that way now?"

"I've won, Stout," he called down to me. "My blade's double blooded, kissed by the darkness, dipped in the Maw. Now, let's dance, little man."

So saying, he leaped from the ledge, landing about five strides away from me. It was a fall that could've broken bones. He seemed unfazed.

I stood and circled quickly away from Hollow's body. Finding a clear space, I regained my center of balance. Hound didn't seem in a hurry. He waved his sword a couple of times in figure eights before bringing it to rest once again.

"You were a regular master of the pell-yard, Stout," he said, the sneer apparent in his voice. "I have to tell you, it wasn't any fun getting my ass handed to me by a mere whelp. But things are tilted right now. I'm gonna thrash you but good. I might even leave just enough of you for the next batch of fools to recognize the leftovers."

His taunts were penetrating. I began to grow angry. The darkness pulled at me even as my runes glowed. I allowed the heat to simmer, though, and made productive use of my wrath.

"Hound, I didn't beat you because I was quicker or stronger," I said. "I beat you because I was smarter. Unless that blade your holding has an extra set of brains, I'm still going to beat your ass. And this time, it'll be for real."

I struck a cord. Hound charged me with a shriek, his sword on high. It was typical Hound, all brawn, the blade crashing down with a resounding clang as it bounced off the rock. Yet I didn't follow up with a counter, something about his attack seemed off. Instead I circled again and studied him as he recovered.

The crafty bastard was baiting me. It wasn't his tell that gave him away, which I knew from training. It was actually the runes on his blade glowing far more brightly than my own. He'd mentioned the darkness and the Maw. After my own misadventures, I had a fair idea of what he meant. It occurred to me that this was a new fight, one more evenly matched than any since the first time we sparred at the Resort.

Knowing the Hound I counted friend was gone, I was okay with that.

As he turned to face me, I said, "You're still the fool, Hound. I know all of your tells, even the new ones. I'm giving you one last chance. Let's head to the beach or else your corpse will be left to feed the darkness you embraced."

Limned by the crimson glow of the surrounds, Hound's face showed doubt for a moment. As quickly, it was gone. "Talk is cheap, Stout," he said.

He charged in earnest, wielding his sword with more quickness than I'd ever seen from him. I retreated, careful to shuffle step so that I did not trip over anything unseen. He nicked me a couple times where skin showed so that my arms grew slick. Still, I watched carefully each of his moves, occasionally throwing a feint to keep him honest. Gone were the taunts and barbs we'd started with, replaced by the specter of death.

Suddenly, I lunged forward. He was caught off guard but hopped back ably, out of reach. "Gonna have to do better than that, Stout," he crowed.

Pressing my attack, I followed with an overhand blow even though he towered over me by a foot. It was an awkward swing, the angle bad. He knocked it away easily then charged hard, his eyes gone wide with victory within reach.

I pivoted on my back foot, spinning like a dancer. He lunged forward, the point of his blade taking me below my breastplate, through the rings of my byrnie. I twisted in time so that the wound was a graze just above my hip – not threatening, but painful enough to slow me a bit.

He was quick to reengage. Our swords sang, each strike a loud clarion resounding through the darkness. It was euphoric, actually, two brothers toe to toe beneath a sanguine glow. Still, I began to grow weary. I was gasping for air and could barely hold the forms I knew so well. By the same token, Hound looked in fair shape. He was smiling too, as if he knew my thoughts.

"C'mon, Stout," he said. "I'm getting bored. Let's finish this."

Showing teeth, I lifted my sword.

We charged together. Our blades clashed sending sparks flying into the dark night. I hopped back, and he followed. I tried to circle and he nearly cornered me against the rock wall. My endurance was failing. For the first time I wondered if he was going to win.

He pushed harder. My only response was to dodge and parry and hope for an opening. My strategy took less energy, but offered little in the way of opportunity. I was good at it though and he was ever impatient. Sure enough his attacks came quicker and his forms slipped. With each miss he pushed even harder in attempt to make an end to me. Such effort bore my reward; he was soon gasping while I had recovered.

I laughed.

His growl in response was visceral. Once again he charged, but this time I side-stepped. He stumbled and was slow to recover. I brought my weapon around in a swift arc. The armor protecting his lower spine was sundered, the impact a grim peal.

Hound cried out as a bloom of blood gushed from the wound. He dropped to the ground, limp. Prudence stayed my killing blow. I remained out of reach of his sword for the nonce; it seemed he could still move his arms. He struggled to rise, failed, though he did eventually manage to drag himself forward a stride. His strength gone, he collapsed.

It was a terrible injury. My blade had sheared through his armor into the bottom of his backbone. If we'd been in the heights, he might have survived, though he would surely never have walked again. It didn't matter. Up here, beneath the Maw's stern gaze, I thought death a foregone conclusion.

"Shall I put you out of your misery, Hound," I asked coldly.

"I couldn't even beat you once," he lamented between gasps.

I shook my head. "Did you really expect to?"

"Piss off, Stout."

"Ah, the darkness," I said. "Yes, that's right. It was going to aid you. Unfortunately, it did not know of my tells, so even aided as you were, you still had no chance to defeat me. Don't say I didn't warn you."

I suppose my taunts were cruel. We were good friends only that morn. And yet, as I considered my next course I found that I did not suffer his betrayal well.

"I don't want to die," he said suddenly.

"I will make it quick," I replied.

"Please!" he wailed. It was a pathetic cry.

I took breath to answer, but then had an idea. "Have a care for what you wish, Hound." Then, holding up my blade, I cried out to darkness. "Abide my call!"

Stepping back from Hound, I waited and wondered if she would heed me. I received an answer a short time later beneath the flapping of great wings. I felt the sting of grit whipped about by a sudden gust soon after. Wrapped like a cloak by the night sky, a great beast loomed as greater darkness nearby. Its mistress, however, did not. Alabaster skin glowed cold and lovely as she climbed from her mount.

"You have the temerity to summon me?" she asked, drawing near. She seemed at once amused and angry by the prospect, her eyes sharp as she awaited my answer.

I steeled myself against the mounting lust her presence provoked and replied, "I offer a bargain."

Sharp eyes became bright once joined by her wolfish smile. "You seek a negotiation."

"Once you actuated the runes on my sword, we somehow became linked," I said. "I can feel you through that connection, although I'm not sure how. Nor do I care. I just wish to be free of such bindings."

"What would you give me?" she asked.

"His lifeblood," I replied.

She glanced at Hound with some disdain. With a sigh, she said, "You are out of your depth, little Stout. He might have made a good champion, but he is wrapped in my brother's snare. I can do nothing with him."

"And yet he is still alive," I countered. "The lifeblood flows true regardless of his bonds."

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me. "You have more wisdom than your youth suggests. Even so, he's still broken. The healing required to mend his wounds would kill him, I think."

"Then let him die after you have harvested the lifeblood."

"Ah, you are a cold one. I could teach you such things..." Her words halted at the quick shake of my head.

"No, ma'am," I said quietly. "I would rather die than be enslaved. If you'll not bargain, I'll kill you or die trying."

Her eyes grew wide. Fury like a cyclone rolled over me. Great pain wracked my skull as her myriad voices cried out their spite. I blanched at the force of her will, yet the tip of my sword remained steady as the runes on the blade glowed with their own rage.

"You've tested me a third time this day, little Stout. You shall not do so again. Your blade is my gift so take it and go home triumphant. Fair warning, though, should you return to Cal Dakar, I will not receive you kindly."

The negotiation was over. I was dismissed, the taint still a stain upon my spirit. Shackled by dark bonds, I bowed my head.

"Go," she said. "You have friends on the beach and not much time left for a reunion."

Heeding her counsel, I made my way to the passage down. As I started my descent, I tried desperately to ignore Hound's screams.

It didn't occur to me until much later that I never actually dipped my sword into the Maw.
Chapter XIX

0715, 17th Lunigar, Spring, 1008

**T** he sun was up when I reached the beach. Stiletto stood alone, her back to me, her eyes apparently fixed upon the steamer still anchored off shore. She had about her an air of menace. I knew that aura intimately.

Off to her right some twenty strides, Rush sat with his legs stretched out, his back against a stone. His head was tilted to the side away from me as if he slept. I almost called out to them in welcome, but the night had taught me prudence. Instead I quietly drew closer to see what I may.

As I approached the dunes, Stiletto shifted her stance. Her pose grew almost expectant. Beyond her, the launch was slowly approaching. As the sailors rowed, her hand flexed upon the hilt of her sword in time with their strokes. I found the affectation disturbing.

With the absence of overt threats, I sheathed my sword. The runes smothered, weariness hit me like a sledge. I thought of Hound then, found that remorse did still live in my heart. I half expected the dark one to taunt me at the admission, yet she did not. Maybe her attention was fixed elsewhere, I don't know. Wanting nothing so much as sleep, I made my way to the water line.

"Oi, Stiletto, well met."

"I told you this was an individual Trial," she said without looking at me.

"You were right, no question," I replied. "It played out that way all around. I appreciate your insight."

"How do you feel, Stout?" she asked.

"I am weary, to be truthful. How are you?"

"I am more, but made less," she replied.

I thought her answer odd, likely due to the stress of the prior night. I called out to our other companion, "Come on, Rush, the launch is on its way."

"He will not answer you, Stout," Stiletto said.

"How is that?" I asked, and then glanced at the man. This close, the dahlia blush dripping from his neck was apparent. "What happened here?"

"He failed the test," she replied.

Her hand was now clenched upon the pommel of her sword. She turned. Her pupils were dilated, like a drugger, with beads of perspiration dotting her face. Her stare was wild and reminded me of Tomas. With sudden, unhappy knowledge, I asked, "Do you feel the serpent moving within you?"

"How did you know?"

"I faced a rogue on the Causeway, on the trip to Greymiste. He was strong, stronger than me by a long stretch. He killed himself so as not to hurt others."

"I am not so strong, Stout," she said.

"You can't go back," I replied. "The MERC will hunt you down."

"But I won the Trial," she shouted back at me. I realized then her tears.

"Ah, lass, you fell, only your body doesn't know it. Don't let them take your soul as well."

I believe she listened to me then. Standing on the precipice, she tried to contend with darkness. It was a courageous effort, but at last, she was overcome. With a growl like a hunting cat, she drew her blade and darted at me over the sand. I only had time to draw and counter as a flurry of blows rained down. I welcomed the strength from my blade but her's had power too.

After the initial onslaught, our dual settled into strike and counter. With sand as our surface, we both worked hard. Fighting on such shifting ground left us breathless, but neither of us was inclined to yield.

At last we backed away some two minutes after we started. I looked out to find the launch. It was about halfway from ship to shore. The crew was focused on rowing; none of them appeared to have noticed our clash.

I was the first to recover. Determined to prevail, I charged. I was a swordsman then, moving like a whirlwind, dancing to a rhythm only I understood. Despite her new won prowess, Stiletto was no match for me. Within moments I scored her arm, her leg, her cheek. Blood flowed freely from the latter giving her a ghastly mask.

Drawing back, I gave her a moment to recover.

"At your best, you couldn't hope to beat me," I said. "You are not at your best. Let me at least give you a clean death.

"Dead is dead," she replied, her voice bleak.

I shook my head, but she rushed forward. I blocked her attack easily. This was no heroic contest, she was clearly fading. Still, I held the final blow, waiting for some solution.

None came.

I killed her. It is a sad admission. My only consolation is that the pain suffered at my hands was less cruel than the pain she would have endured under her tormentor's fell touch. I left her corpse on the sand, along with Rush, and made my way to the edge of the water.

I must have looked a sight to the men in the launch. I was covered in blood, some of it my own. My armor was rent and in my fist, my sword glowed angrily. When the boat reached the shore, I called out, "Mr. Higgins. I'd be obliged if you would take me home now."

He noted my condition, the two corpses behind me, then took in my sword. His stare spoke of apprehension – he knew what the glowing runes meant. It took him a long time to reply and when he did, his voice was thick with fear.

"You sheath that bloody pig-sticker and leave it there until we get back to Greymiste, you hear me?"
Chapter XX

1755, Peaceday, 21st of Inadrune, Autumn, 1032

" **D** ad."

Stout had immersed himself in the past. Looking up, he blinked a few times and said, "I've not recalled the journey in such detail for many years. Did you know the Trial cured me of seasickness?"

His expression grave, Hari shook his head. "You did what you had to do."

Stout grimaced. "I've been telling myself the same for almost twenty-five years. It doesn't make it any easier to believe. Seven went to Cal Dakar, only one returned. Hell, not even Boon made it home. The poor sod jumped overboard in shame in the middle of the night halfway back to Greymiste. Do you see now why I am not eager for you to go rushing off to blood your sword?"

Hari's expression was sober. "Aye, yet it is still my plan. I am curious though, how is it your sword was blooded without climbing to the peak of the Maw?"

"I've wondered the same through the years," Stout replied. "My best guess is that the runes on the blades seek a conduit to some form a power. In my case, the Peril's blood was that conduit, allowing for the quickening of the runes. Once done, I had a fully blooded sword, thus I had no need to dip it in the crater. Of course, there was a price, one that I'm still paying."

"The link?" Hari asked.

Stout nodded. "I still feel her touch upon my soul."

"So what happened to Stiletto and Hound?" Hari asked.

With a shrug, Stout said, "I am not sure, son. Hound made mention of dipping his sword in both the shadow and the Maw. Perhaps the second touch of power overloaded the runes. For her part, Stiletto only admitted to dipping the blade once before I confronted her. It could very well be that she just was not strong enough to control the quickening."

"Yet you bested her," Hari said, but Stout shook his head.

"No, son, I did not. I quite think I murdered her."

"As I said, Dad, you did what you needed to do," Hari replied. "And this knowledge, I think it can help me."

Stout shook his head. "You weren't listening then. Stiletto called the Trial an individual challenge, different for each person. She was right. There is a reason the blooded don't speak of their experiences. Our tales are no guide, rather they are a trap based upon preconceived notions. I urge you to use my lore sparingly."

Hari frowned, but before he could retort the door to the cafe opened. Both men looked up as Click entered, her face a thoughtful mask as she made her way to the seat next to Hari. The young woman gave him a small smile and offered a nod at his inquiring gaze.

"She knows," she whispered loud enough that Stout heard her as well.

Malice followed behind. Instead of sitting, she stood by Stout's chair and placed a hand upon his shoulder.

"It didn't rain," she said simply.

Stout laughed, a wry chuckle that faded to stillness as he took her hand. Holding it gently to his cheek, he said in a somber voice, "Darling, I fear that despite my best effort Hari wasn't dissuaded.

###

Dear Reader:

Thank you for taking the time to read my first published story. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, I would humbly ask that you share that feedback with other folks. Also, if you have thoughts to share, you can reach me at mikee.1969@outlook.com. I'm open to all commentary, good and bad, as long as it is respectful.

Warm Regards,

Mike Eschbach, November, 2018

About the Author

Well traveled and unassuming, Mike Eschbach is the fourth of five kids, a veteran of the US Navy and graduate of Penn State University who has found modest success in retail and insurance. He makes his home in the southeastern US with his wife and two cats, because every writer should have a cat to keep them humble.

Please keep an eye out for Part Two: A Deadly Introduction coming to Smashwords soon! Spoiler Alert: Malice tells her side of the story!

Acknowledgments

A quick shout out to the folks of the Lexington, SC Library Writer's Workshop, in particular Brenda, Sarah, CW and too many others to name. You all taught me the difference between scribbling and writing and I cannot thank you enough. And, of course, thank you to my family. This story would not be possible without your encouragement.

To learn more about me, please visit me at <https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/pennst92>
