

And from the dark unknown came a hooded avenger, a sable-weaved nemesis branded with living iron whose will it was to destroy all works of delving. His name? He had many over the great swathe of his lifetime, but history remembers him only as... The Scowl.

The IronScythe Sagas, Cairn

WITH AN irritated flurry, King-Emperor Jhaz'Elrad and his entourage burst into the Reeving Chamber—a vast, lop-sided cauldron of a room with a vaulted ceiling and high open windows. The space, like all others in Castle Fangarra, was built from thin blocks of soot-coloured shale rudely cemented together and smoothed into swirls of black and white striating lines. A coarse wind blew steadily, groaning like a dying child, turning wall-mounted cressets red, their embers glowing and smoking. A pale imitation of the King-Emperor's own plush quarters.

Fools and idiots! This place stinks of them, thought Jhaz'Elrad, pulling his rich furs close against the cold and nodding towards his perfumers. The Archon has gone too far this time. I am not some vassal at his disposal. I am King!

A crowd waited in the dimness, but they did not notice the entrance of their liege. The King-Emperor was about to rectify that with an indignant shout, but stopped in his tracks. A monster lay in the centre of the chamber. An ugly naked pile of distorted, twisted limbs, staked to the floor under a net of ropes. The creature moaned unintelligibly, its voice blending with the wind. Keening. Lost. Hands, darting like hunting spiders, lurched from the abnormal body and scrabbled at the uneven paving stones.

The king did a double take. Is it a man?

"Make way for his eminence, King-Emperor Jhaz'Elrad!"

The crowd parted, some tripping over their own feet to get out of the way of the rapidly approaching entourage. Jhaz'Elrad strode forward onto a raised dais of carved, filigreed stone and ascended his throne.

Archon Glave—a rotund, self-satisfied tub of a man with an appetite for politics that outshone his liege—bowed. "Your Eminence."

For a second, Jhaz'Elrad entertained the notion of kicking the man in his fat backside, but thought better of it. "You dare to summon me," he whispered. "You go too far."

Glave straightened, his plump hands coming together in a fleshy union atop his immense belly, a half-apologetic smile plastered across his face. A single wart squatted in the crease of his nose like a red berry. "Forgive me, Eminence, if I took you away from any... important matters of state," he said with the barest flick of his eyebrows, "but a situation has arisen requiring your presence." He nodded towards the foul creature and grimaced.

"Do not push your King-Emperor too far, Archon. You overstep your mark." Jhaz'Elrad paused. The Archon was the kingdom's magistrate, his direct representative who dealt with petty squabbles and disputes. A small man with a lot of power. He tapped his sceptre, a rod of black fenneral (the hardest and most expensive of all stones) against the Archon's bulbous chest. Both men knew the significance of the gesture. One word from the king and Glave's life would be forfeit.

His smile did not waver. "I apologise most humbly, oh wise one."

The king sat back and shrugged. The Archon knows his worth. But no one is indispensable. "You better have a good explanation for interrupting my private recreations."

"A fool young noble of the court has been murdered."

"As fool young nobles tend to be. But a simple death does not warrant the presence of the King-Emperor."

"Quite..." The Archon's gaze fell once again on the gibbering creature. He shuddered in revulsion.

"If this monster is responsible, then put it to death. Such a thing does not deserve life, so foul is its countenance."

The crowd heard the king's words and jeered.

"They want blood, Archon. Why don't you give it to them?"

The creature raised itself upon shaky elbows and stared pitifully, raw pleading on features dominated by an awful beak—a nose so distorted and discoloured that Jhaz'Elrad's foot twitched involuntarily. How I would like to plant it firmly between those close-set eyes and smash asunder. "Well?"

The Archon's mammoth jowls quivered. "As ever, Eminence, things are not as simple as they appear. I believe this thing is known to you. It is called... Scowl."

Jhaz'Elrad nodded. The name had recently come to his attention. He never normally listened to the dreary Spymaster—a small, dead-eyed Oldivian—or read his even duller reports, but the name had caught his interest. "If this is indeed Scowl, I now know why his reputation is so loathsome."

The monster's head twitched; it dribbled and choked. A ruin of a face lay half-hidden by a swathe of thick hair shining reddish-black in the flickering cresset-light. Hands clasped and unclasped as if searching for something.

The gathering hooted and wailed, anger rising to a crescendo. The King-Emperor lifted his black-fenneral sceptre, and the crowd, eager to get on, immediately quieted. Below, the ominous boom of waves sounded against the castle walls. Rain beat upon wooden shutters. In the distance, a hefty door banged in the whistling wind.

The Archon pulled himself up to his full height and gestured to a thin weasel of a man in the King-Emperor's own weavery. "Captain Shyk, his Eminence grows impatient. Your report please."

Shyk, swarthy, unshaven, with a weak chin and rat-like eyes proudly displayed a bandaged arm. "My liege." He bowed deeply before addressing the court, his voice a reedy sneer. "Part of my duties are to patrol the harbour town for vagabonds, drifts and—unsuitables who land unwanted upon our shores. After all, we cannot allow everyone free access to our fair land, now can we?" He smiled, revealing a set of yellow and black teeth.

The gathering showed its agreement vigorously.

"A loud disturbance brought my attention to the Lower End," Skyk continued, seemingly eager to retell his tale, "where, to my horror, I found this creature in violent disagreement with the young noble, Radd Krall. There was quite a crowd around the disturbance and, as is my duty, Eminence, I tried to make word and break the argument. When Radd pulled back the monster's hood, it looked at me with such an abhorrence of features that I knew my life was in danger. I lunged at it, but the thing had an unnatural weapon that smashed my sword. In the same motion, this dark blade stabbed Radd Krall through, pinning him to the quayside. Killed him dead as I watched. I'm not slow to act, Eminence, I hit the creature hard, knocking it over and, thankfully, he dropped that evil sword into the harbour. Without its weapon, a sort of change came over it. Knew he'd met his better, I suppose, although it took me and many brave helpers to disarm him of a smaller blade. Cut me up a treat." He proffered his injured arm again as evidence.

The Archon pursed fleshy lips, his eyes wet and intent. "Have you any notion what this disagreement was about?"

"None, other than it ended in poor Radd Krall's death. I would've finished the monster there and then, but I know your rules." Shyk looked at the prone wretch with undisguised malice. "This creature was a passenger upon a recently arrived ship. The same ship as the murdered noble."

"Thank you, Captain." Jhaz'Elrad leaned in close to the Archon. "This is all very interesting, Archon Jarvid Glave," he whispered. "But I am losing my patience."

The Archon baulked for the first time. It was said that if Jhaz'Elrad used your full name, it would be written on your tombstone soon after. He swallowed hard. "King-Emperor," he replied with all the reverence he could muster. "It was not my will to summon you, but the law states that only the king can grant a reprieve and this matter is... complicated."

"You want me to set this vile monster free?"

Before the Archon could answer, an old man approached the throne, a gnarled wooden staff held high before him. Intent blue eyes sparkled from a ruddy, weathered face framed by voluminous silver hair and an impressive white beard. "If I may be permitted to speak," he said, his voice powerful and loud for one so aged.

The King-Emperor recognised him. Dracus Krall. An ambitious noble who long ago fell foul of my father's court. What does the old fool want?

Glave nodded. "Say your piece, Dracus, the King-Emperor is waiting."

The old man bowed, although his eyes remained fixed on Jhaz'Elrad. "The guilt of this creature is not in doubt, King-Emperor, but I have come to this Reeve to request weregild for my dead son, Radd Krall."

The chamber exploded in uproar.

"He was slain guiltless," continued Dracus, "and as such I claim a price be paid for this action. The Archon has many powers, but only you, my King, can grant me this boon. "

"A weregild, you say? How very, very interesting." The King-Emperor glared at Glave who shrugged. Be-ringed fingers stroked thoughtfully at his elegantly trimmed beard. "Do you not demand his death?"

"What I demand is not so unreasonable, if you will let me explain my motives, oh wise one."

The King-Emperor nodded and the crowd sank back into expectant silence.

"I know this creature you all abhor." Dracus' eyes played over the twitching, prisoner. "His name is Scowl, yet in far lands and courts he has many other names. He is Blackbeak, the Iron-bane, the Hooded Scourge of Delving. He is dark; marked by the Gyre and is not as we see him now for he is incomplete. He roams the land in search of woe, seeking out the unforgettable arts of delving to which he is inextricably bound. It is his purpose to find such vile works and destroy them."

A flash from the open windows and thunder rumbled from high above. The idiot upon the floor shivered and moaned.

"This is indeed most fascinating," said the King-Emperor with feigned disinterest, "please, do carry on."

Dracus bowed. "For many generations my family has held a murky secret, something so shadowy and worrisome that we have dared not speak of it openly." The old man's hypnotic voice reverberated in the Reeving Chamber, hissing around the smooth walls with a trailing whisper like that of a serpent. "A creature from the far past bedevils us, haunts our ancestral home of Keep Krall. A golem of watery flesh created by delving, a murderous thing bent upon the obliteration of our family."

The gathering drew back in horror. Cressets flickered, casting ghostly shadows in the gloom.

"It prevailed against all attempts at its destruction, and my House is prevented from returning to halls that were crafted for living and joy. The King-Emperor may not be aware, but I am an accomplished scribe. I find pleasure in history and myth, in augury and oracle. On an old, yellowed family parchment, a renowned seer foretold that the slayer of this golem would one day arrive unwanted in this land, and that woe would surround him. I heard of Scowl's presence upon the Oldivan Isles and dispatched Radd to find him. My son was as ever rash and unbelieving. How I regret the day I sent a mere boy on an old man's errand. How unwanted can this Scowl be to me?" He bowed his head in anguish. "My weregild is this: release the prisoner, return his evil weapons and dispatch him at once to destroy this golem—as is his wont!"

The King-Emperor's face darkened.

"Despite appearances," the Archon whispered to Jhaz'Elrad, "and the boasts of those who captured him, this Scowl is a powerful warrior, dangerous and unworldly."

"Just look at it; I see no danger in this poor, twisted wretch."

The Archon's head gave the barest twitch to the negative. "I have also taken counsel from the Spymaster. We both agree. There is more to this Scowl than meets the eye. We should think twice before we release such a creature into the protection of someone who craves power so openly."

Jhaz'Elrad breathed deeply. "For once, Archon, I agree. But as you know full well, my hands are tied in this matter. Now finish this. I am a busy man."

Glave bowed and turned his attention back to the chamber. "That is indeed a revelation, Dracus Krall, I better understand the many enigmas of your family, and the shadow cast upon you and your kin. The King-Emperor is honour-bound to comply with your wishes but—this creature, this Scowl—can you be sure of its compliance?"

Dracus Krall's eyes narrowed. "I mourn my son, but I also mourn all my family dead. I would place them all against my belief in Scowl's destiny. The King-Emperor cannot deny me this request. Radd was of my blood and is my blood. The weregild must be given."

Jhaz'Elrad rose to his feet. "So be it."

"If my King-Emperor will grant me one more request?"

"I understand you are grieving, Dracus Krall," said Jhaz'Elrad with menace, "but do not take liberties with your King. It is enough that against my will and better judgment I grant you this weregild. Do not risk my further displeasure." He fingered his heavy sceptre, the symbol of his authority.

"I would never risk your discontent, Eminence," Dracus replied bowing. "I ask only that my brother-daughter, Vareena, accompany the quest, to see it done. I have trust in her. A long time ago, my greatest ancestor sealed Keep Krall with an enchantment. Its knowledge passed down from first born to first-born, from father to son and father to daughter. That knowledge now rests with her. Only she, as guardian of that knowledge, can open the Keep of Krall."

Jhaz'Elrad stared into the old man's eyes, yet could not divine his purpose. "Guardian or not, you would send a child on an adult's quest?" he asked with ill-disguised irritation.

A shout brought the King-Emperor's attention to a girl in her late teens standing close to Dracus Krall. She was tall, her noble birth showing in high cheekbones and defiant eyes shining emerald green even in the smoky gloom of the chamber. She wore the light-brown weave of a fighter: tightly fitting functional leathers that did nothing to diminish her well-proportioned limbs. A well-crafted yet discoloured sword of fenneral, the weapon-stone, rested at her side, its individual crystal facets catching flashes from the cresset-light. Lank-blonde hair hung upon her shoulders.

Jhaz'Elrad's eye was pleased at her beauty, hidden, as it was, behind a boyish demeanour.

Undaunted, Vareena spoke up, her voice loud and adamant. "I've no understanding why my uncle has chosen weregild, nor why he should choose to reveal family secrets to open Reeve. But I'm no child. If it's his wish for me to accompany the quest—then so be it."

Dracus placed a protective arm around Vareena's muscled shoulders, his eyes unwavering. "I must humbly ask for my king's apology. I do not wish to force his hand. But he must understand my family have been waiting generations for the fulfilment of this prophecy."

The Archon whispered once again in the King-Emperor's ear. "We cannot allow this creature freedom to roam our lands. Nor give in to Dracus' obvious ambition."

Jhaz'Elrad shrugged, catching the eye of his favourite courtier. "As you know full well, I do not share your interest in the affairs of state. I prefer the simpler pleasures." Here is a perfect opportunity for my power-hungry Archon to earn his keep. "Do what you will."

The Archon bowed. "Thank you Eminence. This will not end here, I promise."

Jhaz'Elrad addressed the chamber. "It is a dangerous game you play, Dracus Krall." He let his eyes roam over the tight form of Vareena and frowned. "Try to make sure you do not lose many more family members, or your House will fall..." He descended the steps and strutted out of the Reeving Chamber. Behind him, the gathering erupted into discussion.

VAREENA KRALL made her way down into the deep warren of Castle Fangarra. A bleak place built high upon an elongated headland. Pointed spires jutted up from a buttress of shiny obsidian—like teeth from a wolf's blackened jawbone. Hence its fanciful name. Far below, the sea pounded and smashed against the ebony-coloured rock and slowly yielding walls.

This was Oldiva, the far most western land of Arn's northern continent. It scythed into a cold sea that provided most of their living, for this was a barren land where bare slate held the sway over rare clumps of evergreen. Trade with the Unbidden Isles and the southern dominions of Domarland, Gula and K'Bith made for a more market-based economy, but if not for Ariva to the east, there would be nothing other than dried fish to survive the bad seasons.

Like all lands upon Arn, Oldiva changed under the Gyre. Now, as the extended summer of Goldering ended, it had become a forsaken place of freezing rains and harsh sea gales.

The under-keep was a pokey maze of hidden alcoves and snakelike tunnels. In the coming winter months of Bluster, these passages would fill with those eager to survive the near constant blizzards that buried everything under hundreds of feet of snow. Families lived where they could until the snowfall became thick enough to carve out snow-homes. Every day, new mouths arrived keen for repayment of the levy—a hoard of dried fish, wheat, meats and berries stored in immense larders. Food enough to feed the castle and its levyers through the bad seasons. Until those snows arrived, accommodation was in short supply. Disputes were commonplace and the under-castle a place to be avoided.

Decked and ready for the journey, her favourite sword of fenneral at her side, Vareena appeared especially menacing. And that's what confused her. Uncle Dracus frowned upon her tomboyish ways. Being a woman of noble birth, it was a constant battle for her to resist the many arrangements of the court.

He's up to something, thought Vareena, furrowing her brows. Why else would Dracus reveal the family shame before the King-Emperor and set me on what he considers such an 'unwomanly' task? Vareena knew the answer: Only I hold the hidden enchantment of opening. Only I may enter that imposing ruin of rock and stone. Not that I want to. Dracus had tried to extract the secret from her, but she'd resisted. I promised my father to never reveal that knowledge, and I'll not break such a sacred vow.

Keep Krall once outshone Castle Fangarra. For countless generations this golem had eroded her family's power and influence that, if not so tainted, could have rivalled Jhaz'Elrad himself. Dracus often reminded her of this. Her family had waited many passes of the Gyre for this Scowl. No matter how she may resent the responsibility, she did not have the power to refuse. If I am anything, I am a Krall. I may dislike my uncle, but I will not let my father's House down.

With heavy feet and low spirits, she reached the dungeon level—a rank place regularly flooded by the sea. The weasel-like captain waited for her.

"Greetings Vareena Krall," Shyk said, flicking his small, black eyes over her leather-clad body, his nasal voice amplified in the confined space. "And my commiserations on your sad loss."

Vareena furrowed her eyebrows, unwilling to discuss her unfortunate cousin. She knew the militia well, and how their gossip often featured the brother-daughter of Dracus Krall. Some of it angry that a noble woman was allowed to wander the castle dressed provocatively in fighting weaves, others salacious and unsavoury. Shyk's performance at the Reeve had done nothing to commend him. She found his small-mindedness difficult to tolerate. And if he looks at me like that one more time, he'll feel the flat of my blade where he least wants it.

"It's a sad business, this. I'd welcome the chance to finish the fiend, yet—"

Vareena drew breath and shook her head. I hate to admit it, but I agree with the nasty little captain. "Where is the creature?"

"Come."

She didn't relish the impending meeting, yet her uncle had assured Vareena that this Scowl wasn't the idiot he seemed—and Dracus never made idle statements. She followed Shyk into a cell lit by a single cresset. Tense-looking militiamen jumped to attention.

The creature sat in a corner, a twisted rope the width of her thigh snaking around his ankle from a worn hole in the cell's rock wall. The thing lifted a shaky head and stared right at her. Vareena stepped backwards. Scowl's face was even more hideous close up—its features distorted—as if they'd been smashed and hastily put back together. The nose was a black, discoloured beak, on either side of which two iron-blue yet intelligent eyes squatted unevenly.

Shyk rubbed his injured arm. "I have my orders, Vareena Krall, but are you absolutely sure?"

"I'm not sure at all, Captain. This is my uncle's weregild. If it were up to me, I'd order you to dispatch this thing here and now."

The men murmured approvingly.

Vareena sighed, letting her hand rest on the pommel of her sword. "Alas, that cannot be. We must return his weapons." Her voice reverberated off the walls—noble, precise and containing a natural tone of command. I sound like my uncle.

"In truth, Vareena," whispered the captain, "its sword is a dark thing. The poniard the same. Evil. I fear to return them. The man who retrieved them from the harbour has become a madman. It does not bode well."

"You have ten men here, more outside. I see no palpable danger from this thing."

"I've seen him fight," he whispered.

"It must be done," said Vareena, hating her own words. "'Tis the will of my uncle and the King-Emperor."

The captain sighed. "So be it—Bring out the box!" he barked.

Vareena unfastened the peace-knot upon her sword. A stone, sarcophagus-like chest was dragged into the cell and set to rest on the floor next to the prisoner. Shyk cursed under his breath and pulled back the lid. A shadow seemed to inhabit the box, a blackness covering a strange selection of objects. The soldiers ungirded their fenneral swords in alarm.

The creature's breathing changed, slowed. Scowl reached inside and grasped the most evil object Vareena had ever seen. A thickly hewn sword, long in the hilt and sabre-like. A filigree of shapes and glyphs traced the dark surface for almost two thirds of its length. Here snags jutted—designed to catch unwary blades. The remainder was shiny grey and scythed, polished to a blinding excellence.

Something living seemed to dwell in the weapon. Moving? She could not be sure. Almost liquid. It is as I suspected. His weapon is crafted from irons, from delving metals. She shivered. Such things are wicked, forbidden.

With its taking, the creature changed in demeanour. The face was still an ugly mask but the limbs uncurled to become strong and lithe, the muscles no longer fighting one another—as if they were drawing strength from the grey metal's touch.

Vareena blinked. The creature—the man—was young. My age.

Scowl stood on powerful legs. Gone was the gibbering wretch and in its place, a tall, disfigured youth. Authority, surprising grace and a fierce pride shone from within, along with the unmistakable taint of danger. Vareena noticed Scowl's left forearm and hand were withered, the fingers stubby and childlike. He held the blade with his good hand and spun it around him like a living thing. A delicate limning of gold caught the cresset-light—the weapon revealed itself as a thing of beauty and grand design. The sword of a hero. The blade twisted again and became foreboding, shadowy and evil. It stridulated weirdly, keening and buzzing with a cadence that spoke of delving and the unnatural arts. The sword danced, slicing through the rope binding his ankle and returned inert to his thigh.

"By the Smokes!" Shyk gasped. His men jumped back in alarm.

"Do not be afraid." Scowl's nasal voice was unexpectedly powerful, but contained a complete lack of joy. The air struggled with its passing. He turned and faced Vareena. "I know of our quest. I am ready."

"All is prepared," replied Vareena, her voice trembling, despite her best efforts.

Scowl reached again into the chest and removed an iron poniard of the same outlandish design as his scythe. Iron-blue eyes pained at the touch but relief soon followed. He dressed quickly, sable weavery fitting him with the intimacy of long use. Black breaches, undershirt and tunic. He draped a cape around his shoulders and, pushing his thick raven-coloured hair away from his face, pulled a hood over his head, his nose protruding behind the fabric like some awful beak. His twisted mouth remained uncovered, sitting atop a strong chin, his only good feature. He took out a bundle and a few other possessions and girded them. "We leave now."

"What are you?" Vareena Krall whispered, the words coming unbidden to her lips.

The answer, when it came, was full of pain. "What indeed?"

"SO GIRL, you would rather me dead?" The words were lifeless, spoken without emotion.

Behind Scowl, the Sun sank below the horizon. A bloated blaze of red and orange, half-hidden by an array of thin clouds drifting in the distance. The Sun's sister, Eltirren, was just as big and bright in the sky, but her light possessed no warming. She was Coldstar, Bringer of Light; her presence extended the gloaming for many hours. With the passing months, her reign would increase, with night becoming nothing more than a fleeting moment between rising and setting suns and the time of the Whitenight would begin.

Vareena shuddered. Castle Fangarra was many leagues behind them. They had left the King's militia at the city's gates. Had he waited for the harsher light of Coldstar to frame his words?

A sound that might have been a twisted laugh died upon the air. "It was difficult to miss your hatred as you talked within the dungeon," he continued.

"I don't know who or what you are," said Vareena, her normal, confident tones muted. "And I don't want to." He is not the first man who thinks he can intimidate me. I'm a noble from a once-great family. He should do well to remember that. "If you're about to do me harm then let's stop here and have it out!" She turned to face him, planting her feet apart, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. Anger tinged with fear shone from her emerald eyes.

Blackbeak twitched his misshapen head towards her.

Long moments passed. The wind blew insidiously. Somewhere in the distance, a lone wolf howled into the extended afternoon.

Iron-blue eyes shone from two jagged holes cut into the rough fabric of Scowl's improvised hood. They betrayed no feeling. "You think I am more than just a man?"

Vareena was unprepared for the question. "I've not seen anything—anyone like you before. You killed my cousin. You carry weapons that mark you as strange and dangerous. Of course I think you different."

"I am sorry about your cousin's death. He was a fool. But yes..." He walked away. "I am marked." Vareena hurried after him. "Is it wrong for me to hate you? Is it?"

"Hate is an easy emotion. It does not sit well in you."

"I have a cheery temperament. That much is true"

"Then perhaps you can suspend your dislike until this quest be done."

Vareena tightened her gird-belt and adjusted the heavy pack upon her shoulders. Wind tugged at her lank, blonde hair. "I don't hate you, but I have no love for your company. I cannot go against my family, against the House of Krall. And you did kill my cousin."

Scowl said nothing.

"Do not misunderstand me, but in truth, I did not care for Radd," she said, wondering why she was confiding in her cousin's murderer. But Radd had told her the answer many times: 'You're an arrogant little blabbermouth, Vareena. You may think you know everything, but you don't. Why father hasn't married you off to some fat, rich merchant, I do not know.' "My cousin was a bore, a bully and a loud-mouth," she said. "If it hadn't been you who killed him, someone else would have."

Blackbeak stepped forward at a faster gait. "Tell me more of your... guardianship and this golem."

"I have little interest in this quest, or in Keep Krall," she spat into the cold air.

"It would seem you are short upon any sentiment, but please, continue."

Vareena sighed, her shoulders dropping as the anger left her. "I'd hoped to leave its memory behind. My father died there. He wanted to talk with this golem-beast... the Gyre knows why." She tried to be flippant, but heartache tinged her words.

"Ah yes, the creature of delving." Scowl breathed in deeply, as if relishing the meeting to come.

"In return the golem took his arm, wrenched it from him as a child might maim its dolly. He was able to escape and close the keep once again, but he died from his injuries." Her voice sounded disdainful. "Uncle Dracus knew nothing of the guardianship or of the secret enchantment used to open its closed doors and was furious with my father for keeping it secret from him. But of more pain to him was the loss of the Ring of Souls—" Vareena stopped in mid-sentence, alarm showing in her face.

"The Ring of Souls?"

"Nothing more than a family heirloom. A ring passed down from first-born to first-born," she said. No one in my family knows I possess it, a gift from my father just before he died. He made me promise to keep the ring a secret. "With it went the secret of opening, the enchantment," she added with quick words. "My Father was wearing the ring when the golem wrenched his arm from his body. It was lost forever. My uncle pleaded with my father to tell him the enchantment before he gasped his last breath. Yet he revealed the incantation to me only and forbade me upon his deathbed to tell any other but my own first-born. How I rue that day. A day that has led me here, to this road... to you."

Scowl grunted disapproval. At what, Vareena could not tell. "Your uncle is indeed an ambitious man."

"Maybe, but he and father did not get on. He went to Keep Krall on his own. Dracus was livid."

Scowl's head twitched to one side. "You have barely spoken since we left the city, now it seems you can't wait to blurt out family secrets."

Vareena's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I've always been like this. Since a child. Father called me his 'little chatterbox'."

"Then tell me more."

"In truth, it's a relief to get these words off my chest. When father died, I too became moribund. So important was my secret that even when Dracus told me I was also dying, I still could not share it. I wouldn't willingly send anyone else to suffer my father's gruesome fate. Luckily, I recovered." Vareena sighed into the icy air.

"Luck indeed."

"But what of you, Scowl? What's your tale?"

"A long story."

"I am always eager to learn. My tutors all told me I'm the cleverest student they had ever had," she said, sounding more like a precocious child than a refined noble-girl. "But I'm curious—and you are a mystery. Your accent is like none I have ever heard. Where are you from?"

"From no land on Arn."

"Don't speak in riddles. I know all the lands on both continents. I've memorised them all."

"You will not find my home on any map, girl. It is a place full of arcane wonders, a land beyond your simple imaginings. A world where delving has gone mad."

"I don't understand."

"And you never shall."

Vareena shrugged. "And—your weapon?"

"IronScythe is her name."

A sleek hawk screeched above, attacking an enormous crow. Feathers fell around them like blackened snow. Vareena shivered at the sight. "What is she? This IronScythe?"

"A weapon crafted for vengeance from iron that manacled hate and retribution. She is power. She is revenge."

"But metals are forbidden. Everyone knows that."

"Can you be so sure?"

"I don't know." Her voice was young and presumptuous. "But I saw you in the cell. You are nothing without metal's touch."

He stared across the snow-covered plain to the small hills looming ahead. "We are all nothing, girl. All of us. Nothing."

::

Night passed under an inky, blustery shroud that Vareena found intolerable. Scowl slept outside, his rasping loud even through the thick walls of her hidebound tent. Thankfully, the time between dusk and dawn was shorter in this season. As the first warmer light of the Sun breached the sky, she emerged tired, but ready to continue.

The new day brought no joy. At Sun-midday, six hours before the rising of Eltirren, Scowl spotted a group of men about twenty minutes' walk away. "Is travelling safe here?"

"We are on the Eastern Road. A merchant route. There hasn't been an attack since I can remember. We should be safe enough and, besides, I'm a trained swordswoman." She clapped her hand on the hilt of her stone blade with pride.

"Then we will continue."

Scowl's faith in her judgement impressed her, yet as the band of men approached, Vareena moved closer to him. Something feels wrong. She undid the peace-knot upon her sword and kept her hand ready.

"Say nothing," Scowl rasped. "This situation does not require your precocious, noble tones."

Vareena frowned. "Is there something wrong with the way I speak?"

"You are loud, over-bearing, over-confident and verbose. Dracus schooled you well. Keep your mouth closed."

"Oh."

"Be silent!"

Shocked by his sudden anger, she clamped her mouth shut and stared ahead. Vareena counted nine men... and nine was an uncomfortable number. Swarthy, unwashed, their weaves were stained and dirty, their swords gleamed with cleaning oils.

The road was nothing more than a worn pathway—less covered by stones than the surrounding plain.

Scowl gave them a respectful berth, but the men came towards him.

"Now, who do we have here then?" asked their leader, staring at Scowl's hooded features.

The men had smeared mud across their faces and weaves. Many of them had facial scars.

A sign of long practice with the sword and common for those in the militia, thought Vareena. They are not what they seem.

Blackbeak remained silent. He carried on walking as if the men were invisible.

A thick-ridged scar twisted the leader's mouth into a half-smile. "You ignore me?" he said. "Now that's just plain bad manners."

"What is he hiding?" one of the men jeered.

"Perhaps his beauty is too noble, too refined for us common folk!" cried another.

Laughter followed the remark.

"Be gone," commanded Vareena, disturbed and disappointed at Scowl's silence. "We travel upon an errand for the King-Emperor—you would do well to respect that."

"An errand of the King you say?" The leader's tone changed. The laughing ceased.

Scowl stopped dead in his tracks and turned.

"So a friend of that fool Jhaz'Elrad tries to hide from us? You'll bring us a large ransom." He nodded to his men who drew their swords.

"No, you misunderstand, we—" Vareena was hit a vicious blow that sent her sprawling.

"And some tight upper-class arse for the lads. Nice." The men laughed again, turning towards Scowl who remained mute, unmoving.

"Hello in there!" taunted the scarred leader. "Come out, come out, whoever you are!"

His laugh turned into a cry of surprise.

Iron flashed in the sunlight.

BLOOD DRENCHED the road in crimson. The leader's arm lay on the road, its loss unbalancing him. Scowl was not finished. Vareena looked on dumbfounded. The blade spun and took the man's head clean off.

IronScythe sang, held firm and sure in Scowl's good hand. The other bandits jumped back in alarm, trying to evade the deadly blade. One misjudged his distance. Scowl flicked his sword in and out—a murderous lunge that pierced ribcage, heart and backbone. The attacker was dead before he realised his mistake. In the same movement, the hooded demon rolled forward. He landed in a crouch, bringing IronScythe jutting up through another's groin and stomach. He twisted her viciously. Blood and the contents of a last meal spilled. A lunge backwards, and yet another fell to the touch of the dark metal.

Two more bandits came at him. Blackbeak parried, IronScythe slicing the tip off one crystalline weapon and slamming sideways into the other. The incredulous man's sword shattered into a thousand flashing gems. Blackbeak butted him in the face with the iron-hilt. The second attacker rushed forward with his now blunted blade and over-committed himself. A hacked midriff was his punishment—iron sliced through his spine. Scowl kicked him to the ground, whirling around to finish off his blood-splattered companion.

Seven of the bandits lay dead or dying.

A muffled scream and Scowl turned to find one of the two remaining men holding Vareena in a vice-like grip. The other held a stiletto-like crystal blade to her throat. Before Scowl could act, the bandit leapt backwards, throwing his glass dagger aside as if it was alive.

For the barest of seconds, a dark band appeared upon the exposed finger of Vareena's right hand before disappearing again.

Blackbeak pulled out his poniard and flung—the iron thudded sickly into gristle and neck bones. The man dropped, gurgling.

The last bandit released Vareena and stood back in defeat, arms raised.

IronScythe had not finished. She whipped through the air, taking the man's sword arm at the elbow. He squealed, falling into the dirt.

Scowl wiped the scythe free of blood and sheathed the weapon in his scabbard.

The surviving bandit, clutching his bloody stump, upped and ran. Iron-blue eyes followed him, Scowl's head occasionally twitching.

Vareena retched. "Is that how you killed Radd?" she croaked.

"Do not remind me of that fool," Blackbeak said, crouching next to her. "And you're right... you cannot seem to keep your noble mouth shut. The next time, remember to do what I say. You might not be so lucky. Here." Scowl proffered the leader's weapon; a wonderful thing, well-crafted and made of the purest white fenneral. "This sword has too much worth to be left behind. The grain is faultless. See how strength comes from crystals in perfect alignment? Iron cannot shatter such stone. Take it."

"No."

He thrust the sword, hilt first. "Don't be a fool."

"Alright!" Vareena snatched the fine fenneral from his outstretched hand. Larger than her sword, yet perfectly balanced, its weight fuelled her fighting arm. The finest blade she had ever held. "I don't understand," she said, marvelling at the perfect crystalline array. "This is a champion's prize, not the weapon of a bandit. That's why I had no chance against such men. It's rare for me to taken by surprise."

A sound that might have been a laugh escaped from Scowl's lips. "Trained you may be, but a fighter you are not. They were excellent swordsmen, mercenaries. They did not reckon on a contest with iron. King-Emperor Jhaz'Elrad was behind this attack, or at least one of his lackeys."

"What?"

"He suspects the motives of your Uncle, Vareena—as you should."

Vareena wiped tears from reddened eyes. What have I got myself into the middle of? The bitter stench of blood was over-powering, yet she could not help but respect Scowl's practiced butchery. IronScythe is a supernatural thing. Worrisome. A weapon of devastating power.

Blackbeak stalked away. His cape had remained free of gore, only his thick black boots were stained crimson.

They ascended a treacherous cliff-top road as night began to fall. The sea thundered somewhere below. Scowl had said nothing since the attack, standing impassive upon the cliff's edge, the steady crash of waves hollow and echoing as Vareena pitched her small tent.

"You saw it didn't you?" she asked.

"Of course I did. You may be noble trained and schooled, but you are not practised in lying. Your father did not lose the Ring of Souls. He gave it to you. And what a gift. It must be a simulacrum, a delusion-giver. A prize worthy of a queen. No wonder your uncle was so upset. You used the ring to cast an illusion on the bandit's blade—why else did he throw his dagger aside? An illusion hides it upon your finger even now."

"How can you know this?"

"I know many things—Vareena. Do not lie to me again."

The syllables of her name sounded perverse when uttered upon his lips. It turned her insides cold.

Blackbeak faced the sea.

Vareena watched him warily. "Am I—am I in danger from you?"

"You have far greater enemies."

"What does that mean?"

"If you have not worked that out for yourself, then you're not as intelligent as you think."

"The ring is mine, tell none about it."

"Goodnight Vareena. Make your tent. Sleep. For tomorrow we enter Keep Krall."

ROCK AND buildings jutted from a stark, angry ocean. Proud, stern and intractable, challenging the sky. A craggy, unreachable island crafted by both man and the constant deafening waves. Keep Krall squatted atop a needle of rock: an immense tree-like trunk of sea-ablated stone from which a canopy of fine towers, spires and improbable overhangs sprang forth with little regard for safety or gravity. Seagulls screeched, racing between tall pylons, riding the natural updrafts with nothing more than the tilt of an outstretched wing. Once gilded minarets and steeples, now bleached white by wind and sun, shone bright in the daylight.

"Your Keep seems wholesome, clean. Even magnificent," Blackbeak began. "Yet something evil and unforgiving crawls like a bloated maggot under its whited exterior."

Scowl and Vareena stood on a precipice twenty feet away from an impressive arched entranceway perched high and inaccessible. Once-magnificent double doors made of the hardest black wood sagged on their hinges, hanging above the drop. A hundred feet below, the sea surged relentlessly, pebbles and shells chattering between every crash. The Keep was isolated from both boat and land.

Silent, Vareena crossed her arms over her stomach. Keep Krall sickened her more than any bloody spectacle or carnage. The top-heavy mini-city had haunted her thoughts, her dreams and her conversations with her obsessive uncle since she was a child. How many times had Dracus commanded me to come here with him? She'd refused every entreaty. It had taken the king's Reeve and the death of her cousin to push her here.

Her companion viewed the magnificent Keep with the same disinterest he had shown when dispatching bandits the day before.

Behind the two travellers, a road cut a straight course through a tall promontory forming an artificial ravine. They were on a lip, a wide fanning overhang.

Scowl's hooded head twitched in her direction. "I am waiting, Vareena."

"First, I want to ask you something," she said. "I saw how easily you dealt with those attackers yesterday. So how come the Captain of the Guard, who is no swordsman, was able to defeat you?"

Blackbeak laughed, a peculiar reedy sound. "I am drawn by destiny. IronScythe is also drawn by that same force... it guides her blade as it guides me. I but follow. I am never surprised by circumstance, although I do not relish her loss. Now, if you are satisfied..." He nodded towards the chasm.

"The enchantment is something I cannot let you hear. This is my family's keep, not yours. You must go," she said as if dismissing one of her vassals.

Scowl bowed in exaggerated deference and retreated until she was satisfied by the distance.

Vareena felt absurd speaking the words she'd hidden for so long. Yet at the sound of the enchantment, a peculiar sense of belonging swept through her. How many of my ancestors knew this verse, how many had used these same words, standing where I am standing now, with the wind in their hair, the sea crashing below? She reached the end of her incantation and waited.

Nothing happened.

She repeated the chant. Still nothing. She glanced back at Scowl who nodded for her to continue.

She felt a fool, for try as she might, the words she had guarded almost all her life had no effect. She tried shouting the verses with abandon, but the gap remained.

Blackbeak came over to stand behind her.

"The enchantment does not work," she blurted.

The wind pushed the rough, black material of Scowl's hood against his sharp nose as he dropped a large boulder at his feet. Before she could ask what he was doing, he brushed her aside, unsheathing IronScythe and swung the arcane sword around his head with menace.

She gazed open-mouthed at the spectacle. The flashing blade that caught the fierce white light of the Coldstar and reflected it twice as bright.

"By the power of iron," Blackbeak yelled, his voice echoing around them, "I command thee, bridge—arise!"

She took a step back, and another. Scowl seemed preternatural, enlarged—displaying awesome power. Her throat became dry, her skin whitened.

A loud rumble filled the gully. An immense platform, befouled with seaweeds and clinging shellfish, appeared from beneath the water's surface, rising to form a bridge to Keep Krall's doors. Blackbeak faced her. Doom-ridden and dangerous.

"...How?" Vareena asked, dumbfounded.

Scowl pointed IronScythe at his feet.

She stared down, surprised to see an almost invisible ring in the smooth rock of the road. The dropped boulder sat within it. "I don't understand."

"The bridge is not controlled by any enchantment you possess." He sheathed IronScythe and stood back.

"What?"

"Only a Savant-master can place or use such majiks and you are not practiced in Usery."

"But— "

"This is a clear gully and an empty road. Suspicious then that three large boulders should sit here, all about the same size and weight. It did not take long to work out the mechanism of the drawbridge."

Vareena shook her head in disbelief. "But I am a Krall, not you. How can you find the way into my father's keep when my enchantment failed? I've guarded those words all my life."

"This keep was built during the Golden Age, Vareena, before delving brought ruin to the land. The stonework is neither low nor squat like many of its successors; it is crafted with high majesty. Not unlikely then, that the arts of machines and delving were employed in its design—and these heinous arts are known to me. While you uttered your useless verses, I placed boulders on two other pressure points."

"My father must have known this secret also. So why teach me the enchantment?"

"You are a quick learner and I guess he had little time. An enchantment would keep you safe. As I suspected—he lied to you."

"My father was no liar!" Vareena lurched forward, thumping his chest with hard fists, but Scowl did not react. A step back and she caught him a blow to his sharp nose with a powerful right hook.

A scream of pain and Scowl pushed her to the floor. She fell heavily upon her back.

"He lied to protect you," Scowl whispered, blood leaking over his lips.

"What?"

"From the golem... and from your uncle."

"No! He taught me the enchantment upon his deathbed, made me promise never to reveal it. He wouldn't have lied! Not to me. You know nothing about him!"

"I have learnt much and can guess the rest."

Vareena scrambled backwards and found her feet. "Explain yourself!"

"Your father fathomed what Dracus was capable of if he found out Keep Krall could be opened. He guessed you were in mortal danger. Your father not only feared his brother, Vareena—but also the golem. He would not willingly tell you the real secret of the Keep's opening. Not after he witnessed the horror lurking in your ancestral home. Your father made you learn the enchantment and, in deceiving you, saved your life."

She shook her head, wanting to blot out the cold voice that filled her with so much pain.

"Do you really think that you'd still be alive if you had told your uncle the secret, or had not kept your precious ring hidden? And what of your cousin, Radd? Why should he try and enlist my interest by talking of a 'treasure hoard' beyond those keep doors?"

"Treasure?"

"Treasure enough to buy armies of men to topple King-Emperor Jhaz'Elrad. Dracus thinks he's playing a clever game, but his son gave too much away. And he did not reckon on the intervention of iron."

"So that's your interest? You seek this treasure for yourself?"

"I seek but one thing." He wiped at the steady stream of blood leaking from his hood. "To destroy all works of delving. This is my destiny, my reason for being. Without this quest... I am nothing."

The statement, although cold and unfeeling, was tinged with hurt.

"What do you mean?"

"I am not of this world, Vareena. In my true home, I am weak, moribund. A sad creature unable to leave his hospital bed. You saw me as I truly am back in the Reeving Chamber. A miserable wretch incapable of standing on his own two feet, powerless to even feed himself. But here, on this strange planet, I have IronScythe. She is my strength." Far below a large wave smashed into the cliff face, its sound echoing under the vaulted arch of the dripping, shell-encrusted bridge. Scowl's pained whisper continued, its timbre gaining in volume until it became one with the crashing sea. "I am pushed by the whim of the Gyre to find darkness and delving, to destroy evil and depravity, and to wear that particular ordure like a badge. I am marked by delving, as surely as I am made to destroy it. But listen well, Vareena, while you are under my care, no harm shall come to you. That much I promise."

Gusts of wind whipped at Vareena's lank hair. "I didn't mean to injure you."

"It is nothing."

"Let me see to it." She reached for his nose.

"No." He shook his head and moaned in pain.

In a few quick movements, Vareena untied and removed his hood, forcing herself to stare impassively at the twisted features. She delicately dabbed at the blackened ruin of his nose with wadding taken from her pack. "You are not much to look upon," she joked.

A smile flashed across the bent, disfigured features, making brief sense of the deformity.

"You shouldn't be ashamed of your face," said Vareena. "You should show it proudly."

"A bold statement from one so unhindered by ugliness." He ran his half-hand down her cheek and, try as she might, Vareena couldn't prevent herself from cringing. He replaced his cowl. "I wear this hood not for others, Vareena, but for myself. Now stay here." His good hand found the long hilt of IronScythe. "I will soon return."

Vareena's eyes flashed with confusion, flickering past his hood to stare at the rotting double doors of Keep Krall and back again to her enigmatic companion. "We're not going together?"

"The golem is an evil I will defeat alone."

"You think me incapable? I am noble-born and noble-trained."

"You are no doubt skilful with a blade. But already you have been tested on this journey and been found wanting. The rattle and crash of the practice arena cannot prepare you for real battle."

"I can handle myself. If you had not been so eager to use your blade, I could've dealt with those bandits—without my sword."

"I doubt that very much."

"Then see this!"

The air shimmered around the young girl, colours twisting and turning. Changing. The clatter of surging waves became distorted, echoing peculiarly until... Vareena was no more. In place of the teenager, stood a tall, muscular warrior bedecked in blackened armour, dented and stained with the blood of fresh battle. He held a gore-covered battle-axe at shoulder height—ready to slice asunder. Red eyes stared out of a scarred, grizzled face framed by a magnificent horned helm, a growl upon lips that quivered and foamed with the berserker.

Scowl stood his ground, impassive to the enormous brute now standing before him. The air shimmered again and the warrior disappeared.

"You're... not impressed?" Vareena said, crestfallen.

"Do you think you can defeat a golem with such party-tricks? You hardly touch the power of your illusion ring."

A mix of rage and humiliation lurched across Vareena's face. Her eyebrows made a furious marriage, her green eyes sparkling with fury. "This is my family's weregild, Scowl. You'd be dead if not for my uncle. You do my bidding. Understand? It is my destiny to enter this Keep and I shall do so."

"Come then," he said. "If you are so eager to meet your ancestor, I will not delay you." He grabbed her arm and marched her over the slippery bridge to the impressive but age-ridden keep doors, the hinges split, torn asunder by their own decaying weight.

"Get off me!"

"Look," he said, pointing his ruined hand at an elegantly wrought motto carved into the lintel above the archway, a circle of white stone in which an ingot of black-fenneral had formed naturally in the shape of a swooping krall—a magnificent black-eagle common to these lands. He lifted up Vareena's hand. The Ring of Souls was of the same design. "This gives you the right to enter Keep Krall. Not your uncle's weregild. This is your inheritance, Vareena. If you are fool enough to enter, despite my advice, I cannot stop you."

She pulled free. "What do you mean?"

Scowl unsheathed IronScythe. "Please, your permission to break these doors down."

"My permission?"

"Your ring marks you as Keep Mistress."

"Krall is mine?"

Scowl nodded. "Do you now understand? Your heirloom would give you dominion of its halls at any Reeve. Not your uncle, Dracus."

"But that's impossible, he'd never allow it."

"Dracus is not Krall's Master and never was. You are the direct heir, Vareena."

"Then..."

"Yes. Once I destroy this golem, only you will stand in the way of his ambition."

"But I don't want it. This place was always a dream, a nightmare to me. My father died here. I want nothing to do with it."

"What you want will make no difference to him."

Vareena stared at the combined beauty of natural rock and excellent stonemasonry rearing high above her. "So it is Dracus I must fear. That's why he didn't marry me off. And if not for the enchantment, I'd be dead. You were right, Scowl. Father saved my life. I'm sorry I hit you."

Blackbeak waved IronScythe with impatience. "Do I have your permission, Mistress?"

This Scowl is a strange mixture of dark power, riddles and vulnerability—Am I beginning to trust him? "Yes, go ahead."

The She-blade battered into the wood, booming into the empty halls behind.

Vareena took a step back. "The golem will come."

"I would guess the fiend knows of our presence. Already it fears the touch of vengeful iron."

Another resounding boom and the doors exploded inwards—a pile of rotting planks and mould-covered leather. In an instant, Scowl was inside. "Come." Blackbeak stepped forwards, unworried by the gloom. Moving stealthily in the near black.

Vareena followed, drawing her new sword. "You do not fear the dark?" She peered after him, fearing hidden pits or the golem's sinewy fingers at her throat.

"Yes, darkness is delving's friend." Scowl stopped. "But not for long." He lifted his iron blade and pointed to one of the empty cressets lining the walls. And in a voice that seemed to come from the air itself, he chanted:

strand o' warmth

strand o' light

bon long and bon true

eso arc es tranbrand grat

eso attik es a' echu!

The cresset flamed into sudden life, sparking and burning with quick, bright light, bathing the entrance hall in crazy shadows.

Vareena was astonished. Scowl's words seemed to pass somewhere beyond this dimension. A cant of the Branding Crafting, but in no tongue she'd heard before. Every Keep and Snowhall possessed Brandsmen, whose duty was to light braziers and fires. Only the adept could accomplish what she had just seen.

"Now, let us find this golem beast, for IronScythe burns in my hand!" Blackbeak removed a stranding from his pack, lighting the dried brand from the cresset and handed her the flickering flame.

A change was coming over Scowl. A murkier aspect revealed under the cant of evocation and dancing, orange flame.

Already Vareena fancied she could see the golem's doom in the iron-blue eyes that squinted through his torn hood. In them rested the power of retribution, a doom-ridden authority that could not be smitten by darkness and delving alone.

Was destiny calling him?

Somewhere within the Keep of her ancestors, the golem shivered.

THEY ENTERED fantastic corridors overlaid with marbled-arranx, a deep brown luscious stone shining like polished rosewood. The tiles caught sparkles of light from Vareena's torch and released them in star-pointed rainbow bursts. The ceiling crawled with carvings that danced with their passing. Doors revealed themselves as mammoth creations of black-grey stone mimicking fenneral. Floors, paved in crimson and azure and white, were soft and yielding underfoot. Vareena was enchanted, mesmerised. For a time she forgot the creature, the golem of Krall lurking somewhere below.

They passed into a large chamber, gliding in the gloom like ghosts of floating light. Cobwebs swayed. Spiders scuttled amongst furniture half-crumbled into dust. Once magnificent tapestries, now full of holes, their colours faded by rot, hung drunkenly on ancient walls.

Many such openings and passages did they enter. Many rooms and alcoves. A swirling mass of beauty and confusion. "How do you know where to go?" she asked when she found her voice.

Scowl breathed in deeply. "Think of me like a bloodhound. The golem lurks somewhere below. I smell its foul ordure. Come, I am eager to get this deed done."

Vareena was once again reminded of the horror that had pulled her father asunder and murdered him. This is no place of the living—It's a crypt.

They arrived at a massive pair of doors above which perched an impressive glass arch inlaid with precious stones. Vareena gasped at the sheer wealth those gems alone represented. They passed underneath, arriving in the Great Hall. Every keep and castle on the world of Arn had a similar chamber, used for banqueting, festivals and ceremony, but never had Vareena seen such a magnificent room. Colossal, rounded and twice the size of anything Castle Fangarra could offer. Marbled walls curved up to a vaulted arch. Light poured through countless openings. A wondrous banqueting hall where generations ago all had eaten and been merry.

Their footfalls echoed in the dimness, their breath bounced off far walls and high ceilings—the cauldron of this place magnified even the rustling of their weaves. Impassive as ever, Scowl headed for the Kitchens.

A chill filled Vareena's soul.

The Kitchens were connected to enormous underground vaults known collectively as The Larders. Here, the levy was stored against the bad times. Bluster and Tranquillity were the two longest seasons of the gyre forcing keep-folk to spend many months trapped beneath snows four times the height of their Keep. A regular supply of vittles was paramount to survival. In the opposite season of Blaze, when the land roasted and burned, these vaults provided a cool haven for succulent fruits and grains.

Vareena shivered, lagging behind. In all keeps and castles in every land, the Larders doubled as a vast playground for the keep's many children. In them, the monsters of her childhood imagination dwelled. But here, the monster was real.

Blackbeak grabbed her with his half-hand, dragging her forward. "You will be safer with me, Vareena. A monster it may be, but I have mastered more powerful foes. This is what I am crafted for."

His words stabbed with cold asperity. Down they went, down into the murk, down into the bowels of Keep Krall, down into the lair of the golem.

A cerulean-tinged glow from bluish moulds growing on walls and ceiling rendered the torch useless. The unnatural light had a taint of sepulchre.

Vareena glanced at Scowl and killed the flame, dropping the smoking brand to the floor. Her hands once again free, she held her sword of white fenneral before her, the blade shining abnormally in the peculiar light.

Sounds of lapping water soon reached their keen ears, growing in intensity until they arrived in a low-roofed cavern. The light was brightest here, highlighting everything in stomach-churning cobalt. A broken down wall, the immense stones ripped asunder as if by some terrible force, gave entrance to the sea. Other walls were cracked and full of holes big enough for a man to crawl into. Low tide. A wide pool of seawater intruded. Crabs and other sea creatures darted amongst a fantastic array of gems, priceless fenneral items and weaponry glinting from underneath a watery sheen. Decaying remains of fish and sea animals littered the floor. A long human spine sat amongst split leg bones, the marrow licked out. A pile of skulls dominated the far wall like a shrine. The stench was almost intolerable.

Vareena covered her nose and mouth with her free hand.

A golden chain consisting of nine large interlocked links, hung upon a dripping wall. Nine! thought Vareena. The number of Chicanery and arcane majiks. The same foul yellow metal rests within Scowl's evil weapons. She shuddered.

Scowl remained impassive, sniffing at the rank air. "Golem!" he shouted, his nasal voice echoing off cold walls.

Vareena heard something stir.

"Come out, fiend," Blackbeak whispered, IronScythe firm at his side, the half-hand now holding his wicked poniard of Iron. "I am Scowl. I am on weregild to destroy you. Or are you afraid of a mere man?"

A hand, like the giant claw of the eagle, reached through a well-worn hole. Rope-like veins curled around a patchwork of roughly knitted flesh. A thick black ichor pulsed within. Talons scratched against the polished stone, twitching in time to the beat of a powerful heart.

Vareena stepped forward, pointing her sword at the creature. Only the barest quiver at the tip of her blade betrayed her fear.

"You must retreat a way," whispered Blackbeak. "This is a battle requiring iron, not stone."

"I will not stand idly by. This thing killed my father."

"So be it, but do not drop your guard."

Another vast claw appeared and the monster pulled itself through the small opening like a spider from its hole. It was man-shaped, but like no man Vareena had ever seen. The limbs were a nightmarish jumble—sharp ridges of etiolated bone pulled by ungainly muscles. Part of the creature's chest was bare of flesh, revealing the enormous ribcage of some sea animal. Within, more veins curled. What was left of the skin was a heinous mixture of man and beast raggedly stitched together like the patchwork quilt of a child. The golem dropped down from the hole to land on enlarged webbed feet, each with a wicked-looking hooked claw. A powerful shudder thumped rhythmically within the beast's shaky frame.

The abhorrence turned towards them and Vareena's stomach lurched. It possessed the head of a man but the face sagged—heavy jowls dragging its expression into that of a shrieking ghoul. A lipless mouth hung open in a perpetual, silent scream. The eyes were two empty sockets. It twitched and twisted as if trying to catch sounds from the air. Was it blind? Could Scowl use that to his advantage?

"Greetings," the golem hissed, crawling around the outer wall of the chamber, long claw-like fingers caressing the wet rock.

Vareena's skin crawled. I know that voice. The same timbre as my uncle...

"Greetings indeed," replied Scowl. "Prepare, for your doom is upon you."

The head twitched, dark pits staring right through him. "You think yourself powerful enough to kill me?"

"I am the destroyer of all works of delving. I have defeated stronger foes than you."

"You know nothing of me," said the twitching automaton, drooling from a mouth that did not work properly. "My life may be one of sombre woe, of emptiness and bitter pain, yet I will not let it be taken by another."

Scowl tightened his one good hand around the hilt of IronScythe.

"I can give you fortune, wealth," the creature continued, pointing to the vast array of riches that lay in abandon on the floor of the chamber. It moved closer, padding upon clawed feet. "But I sense you are not swayed by such base concerns. We are alike, you and I. More alike than you imagine."

"You attempt to jest with me, monster?"

"We are one and the same, Scowl. You were crafted from delving as surely as myself. Is that not a delving blade you wield?"

Vareena glanced at Scowl. IronScythe seemed darker under the unnatural blue light; the jagged sword cast no shadow, its edges indistinct, disturbing. Blackbeak stood still, taut like the drawstring of a powerful bow, primed and ready for combat.

"I felt your coming, my brother. I've waited many passings of the Gyre for your arrival," the golem continued.

"Then you have waited in vain. Unless you relish your own demise."

"You would kill me without listening to my tale?"

"I have little stomach for parley. Let this thing be done."

"No! You break into my house. You disturb my rest. You come here to murder me." The monster raked its claws along the stone wall. "I am this keep's master and you will hear me out!"

A sound that might have been a laugh emerged from Scowl's lips. "Then speak, for they shall be your last words."

The beast paused before taking breath. "The ocean has always been my home." The demon turned empty eye-sockets to the breach in the wall. "Even as a young man, I loved the invigorating touch of salty waters. Ironic then, that the sea was the cause of my downfall. A long time ago, when I was master of Keep Krall, my captains and I held regular diving competitions to find the elusive grey oyster pearls found in open bounty upon the ocean floor. It was our manly custom to brave the depths to retrieve these prizes, for a man was measured not only by his station in life, but by the number and size of pearls worn upon his breast." The abhorrence pointed to the cavern's pool. A sizable cache of the grey pearls glowed under the water like eggs from a fabled and beautiful sea beast. The enormous frame jerked. Vareena guessed the monster was shrugging.

"Ambition and greed for success, if unchecked, can be the ruin of young men," the creature continued. "Despite my vaulted position as master, I desired the finest of all pearls. I dove deeper than the rest, searched farther afield, stayed underwater longer—none could hold their breath as long as I. But as you may guess, this ambition led to my demise. On my last dive, I went deeper than ever before and on rising to the surface, I was wracked by the most grievous pain and nearly drowned. I awoke many weeks later unable to walk or talk, a prisoner of my bed. Nothing more than a drooling invalid.

"And while I watched helplessly, all my power and influence passed to my younger brother, Dravid. I began to hate him, to despise the growing collection of pearls that he wore with open disdain upon his breast. I saw what Dravid was doing, but was powerless to stop him taking what was rightfully mine." The ghoulish head turned towards Vareena. "We Kralls are a ruthless family. By the time I recovered my tongue, it was too late. Power had shifted, my influence diminished. Dravid even stole the Krall ring, the symbol of my mastership, and made show of owning it."

Vareena glanced at her right hand and shuddered at the sight of the Ring of Souls. I am the Mistress of Keep Krall. This flesh golem is my kin, bound to my family... to me.

"My captains, my friends, now dived and made merry with the new master. But I still retained a few faithful vassals." The golem's claws clicked against the cold stone. "Through them I managed to secure the administrations of the best physicians. At first, my brother was worried, and I feared the touch of an assassin's blade, but as weeks passed into months, then into whole seasons with no improvement, I became an irrelevance to him. And that's how my life should have been. An invalid, shut away in one of the many towers, forgotten and useless until I died a lonely death. But as dark luck would have it, my predicament fell upon the ears... of Chicanery."

"I wondered when the evil arts of delving would enter your touching story," Scowl sneered.

"The eminent Savant-master arrived and sent all my so-called healers away. I'd known power as a younger man. In those days, I perceived my own strength in the dominion over others, getting what I wanted, when I wanted. In this man of majiks, I observed another type of potency. He appeared to be only half my age, yet was four times my span. Wisdom in the guise of a youth barely past his first gyre. He did not need the trappings of wealth or land; he did not need an army of followers or droves of lovers. No. He travelled the lands alone wearing only the simple blue weaves of Chicanery. And yet... he was so much more than any man I'd ever met. Together we set about fixing my broken body. The ambition of the Krall family burned within me. I wanted to walk again, to leave my bed and the prison of my tower, but I thirsted for more. I desired long life. The Savant-master promised to remake me better than before, tougher. To give me dominion over Keep Krall for countless passings of the Gyre."

"Greed is often a route to dark arts." Scowl shifted his feet with unease at the creature's slow progress towards the breached wall and escape.

The golem ignored him, seemingly lost in its story. "Delving and majiks were new then. If I'd only known his plans, I may have reconsidered what we did next. I was a blind fool. For many long months he worked his Usery upon my sad flesh. His majiks invigorated me, gave me strength and, most of all, gave me hope. Finally, I was taken under the shroud of night from my tower down into the bowels of the Keep, into this very cavern. He laid me on a stone slab, my twisted body naked and shivering. And on the slab beside me?" His claws pointed at his chest. "This foul body! Only in that moment did I realise the horror the savant-master had planned. What I'd seen as power and wisdom was nothing more than a veneer hiding madness. He was insane, sent awry by his addiction to golds and silvers."

"Metals are the downfall of all Savancery," muttered Scowl.

The brute put one clawed hand around the white sagging flesh of its chin. "The mad Savant decapitated me... I thought my life over, finished, murdered by the hands of a lunatic, yet upon my awakening—" He pointed again to his twisted body. "I found this! I would have killed him if his dark arts hadn't already stolen his life-force and invested it within me. His corpse lay upon the floor, twisted and bent in a mirror of my own. His skull, even now, rests in this cavern."

The thing of ragged flesh quivered for a second. "This device he made of me took time to understand. I had to learn to walk again, to use my hands, to speak. Only then did I seek to enter the land of the living. A foolish notion. Look at me. What sane person would gaze at this and not run screaming? Yet I was too keen to reclaim my heritage. I left my cavern and sought out my brother. Dravid and his militia attacked me, but I soon found that no weapons of simple stone or glass could harm me. And I was so very strong. I killed Dravid and took back my place as master." It laughed. "As you may imagine, the keep folk did not take kindly to a monster's rule. I was not the man I used to be—I was no man at all. I decided to go back to my old friend the sea, leaving a grateful keep behind. I travelled north to the freezing regions where time passed less heavily under the cold shroud of ice, but I could not fully relieve my pain. What is life without companionship, people, and friends? After many passings of the Gyre, I sought out the land of Oldiva and resolved to again take up residence in Keep Krall.

"When I returned, I found another in my place; my brother's descendants. My sudden arrival appalled and sickened them. Although words of bonding were spoken, they blinded me with a blade of gold and tried to murder me. I destroyed them and, for their treachery, swore an oath to kill all descendants of Krall. This is now my home, Scowl, and it shall remain so."

"You speak well for a creature of foulness, but you have made no argument."

"Is it not clear, Scowl? We are kin. We are both reviled for our loathsome looks. Are you not also treated as a monster? Are you not attacked for no other reason than your disfigurement? Does not rancour grow in your soul with every disgusted look, every hurtful comment?"

Vareena remembered her own reaction the first time she'd seen Blackbeak and was ashamed.

"Here I can offer you a haven, a place where you will be welcome," the beast said. "A place you can return to."

Scowl kicked a small skull across the floor. It rattled amongst the other bones. "You are forgetting one thing, golem."

"And what is that, Scowl?"

"Iron!"

A thunderbolt of blue fire erupted from the golem's outstretched hands and exploded into Scowl, coruscating along IronScythe where it fizzled and burned. A sharp odour of ozone filled the air.

Blackbeak stood resolute, his eldritch blade somehow absorbing the living flame.

The fiend darted towards the breach, but the black-hooded figure jumped forward, planting himself in the brute's path. The fetid apparition stood half as high again as Scowl, yet it padded backwards, hissing from a lipless mouth. The claws came together and another thunderbolt erupted forth.

Scowl swung IronScythe, deflecting the strike into the cavern wall. An explosion of rock and masonry rained around him.

The golem dove for the golden chain hanging on the wall and lashed Blackbeak. The yellow metal seemed to have a life of its own, wrapping around IronScythe, snagging the grey, iron blade. The creature dragged Scowl within reach of its other appalling claw. Blackbeak lunged forward within the monster's grasp and thrust his wicked poniard into the attacking arm, cutting a rope-like vein. The golem howled. Black ichor dribbled. Scowl slashed again, hacking into the patchwork flesh. The arm fell twitching to the ground. Blackbeak jerked IronScythe backwards, yanking the golden chain from the beast's grasp. The links slipped from Scowl's blade and crashed onto the floor. He took a step backward, readying a brutal swing with IronScythe, but the creature's severed arm, still full of life, grabbed at his legs and brought him tumbling down.

The monster, sensing victory, rushed at him.

"Look out!" Vareena shouted.

Blackbeak threw his poniard of iron. It thumped blade first into the fiend's chest, bubbling and burning with an unnatural smoke. Black ichor exploded from the dreadful wound. Unable to check its forward motion, the monster crashed into Scowl, desperately tugging at the poniard with its one good hand. Both rolled with the force of the impact. The severed arm flew through the air and thudded against the wall next to Vareena. She slashed at it with her sword. Despite the sharpness of her blade, the fenneral was unable to harm the weird flesh that wriggled and writhed before her.

Scowl found his feet and yelled. His sword cleaved into the golem's shoulder. Dark blood sprayed into the pool. The golem fell forwards onto its knees, desperately pulling itself towards the water and escape, its one good hand seeking the golden chain. Unperturbed, Scowl took up IronScythe in both hands and stood above the sprawling creature.

"Your Mastership is at an end, foul demon," he said, his voice distant and unconcerned. Blackbeak brought the heavy blade down and severed the monster's neck. With a deafening bang, the golem exploded in a ball of cerulean flame that sent Scowl flying. He landed with a crash.

A conflagration met Vareena's bewildered eyes as the doomed brute, its majiks broken, screamed and writhed amongst the unnatural inferno. She kicked the still twitching hand and arm into the flames and ran to Scowl. "Are you all right?"

He rubbed his leg and nodded.

Within a few minutes, nothing remained of the golem, apart from a sickly pall in the air and a molten gold puddle on the cavern floor.

Scowl stood up and retrieved his poniard—the dagger undamaged by the heat. "Come. I have fought my battle," he said as if he had just finished a training bout and not taken part in a fight that nearly saw his death. "The gauntlet has now fallen to you, Vareena."

"What do you mean?" she asked, still amazed and horrified by the demon's demise.

Scowl pointed at the pool of gold staining the floor yellow. "This room must be blocked and forever hidden."

Vareena had heard of the most perilous of all metals, but had never seen it with her own eyes. This close, gold had the power to hypnotise. "It's beautiful."

"Do not be fooled by its glister, Vareena, gold is the greatest evil."

"But does not the same metal sit within your weapons?"

His answer was a short sharp laugh. "You must seal this room and never let any enter."

"That is for my uncle Dracus to decide—isn't it?"

Scowl turned his hooded head towards her. "I am asking you, Vareena, not Dracus Krall. You are this Keep's Mistress, not him. Do you promise?"

She nodded.

"Good. Now come." He sheathed IronScythe and marched away from the cavern, leading her once again through the magnificent halls and corridors of Keep Krall.

With the golem dead, the keep didn't seem so imposing. This is the home of my ancestors, thought Vareena. It belongs to me, not my uncle. A feeling of belonging gripped her as tightly as Blackbeak grasped his dark iron.

A HOST awaited them beyond the bridge of stone. At least fifty armed men stood upon the far side—the Krall militia. With them, what must be the entire House of Krall. More men, women and children, and their various animals, scurried under the imposing walls of the gully. They carried high packs upon their backs. It seemed they'd come to stay. Worried faces regarded Vareena and her strange companion. At their head, stood Vareena's uncle, Dracus Krall.

Scowl moved to the bridge's edge and looked down into the sea-filled chasm as if disinterested.

Sickened eyes followed his black hood; many had been present at the Reeve and had seen the horror that lurked under his cowl.

"Brother-daughter," Dracus exclaimed. "How fare you? Is the quest done?"

The same voice as the golem! Vareena baulked. My uncle doesn't just want Keep Krall, he seeks to topple Fangarra and make himself King-Emperor. If I let Dracus enter, I'm dead and war will come to this land. "Our dark ancestor lies in ruin as flotsam and jetsam on the sea," she announced, drawing eyes from the gathered throng.

"At last," Dracus said and, with a resounding cheer from the House, he stepped onto the bridge.

"Keep Krall is mine, Uncle."

Dracus stopped in his tracks, worried eyes darting at Scowl.

Blackbeak turned towards him, sharp, misshapen features made visible by a blustering wind pushing at his hood. "The weregild is done; your golem is no more. I have no interest in your petty squabbles."

"Then Krall is mine." Dracus took a further step forward.

"I warn you, Uncle!"

Dracus smiled. "You were always so clever, but in some ways, just a simple child. I wondered how long it would take you to work it out. It appears you've grown up on your journey. You are like your father, whose death did not come too soon."

Vareena's head lifted to reveal two sparkling emerald eyes that spoke of anger and a renewed defiance. "I am Mistress. And you, Uncle, cannot enter."

A chuckle shook the old man's frame. "I am your elder, your clan chief. I am Dracus Krall. This keep is mine. The prophesy speaks of a King-Emperor who will arise from Krall, not a Queen. What possible claim could you have? You're nothing but a little tom-girl." He turned to the throng amassed behind him and was met with hoots and guffaws.

Ignoring the laughter, Vareena held up her hand. "This is my claim. I wear the Ring of Souls. This heirloom has passed down from first-born to first-born. Whoever wears this ring has dominion over Keep Krall. You will bow to me, Uncle. As shall all in my House."

The men stopped their sniggering. All knew of the ring's significance.

"That is my property, girl!" Dracus lunged at her, but the whited sword of fenneral jumped into her hand, the point thrust under his throat.

Dracus' eyes narrowed. "You choose Combat?"

She nodded before she had chance to digest his words.

"Then let all here witness. Combat has been chosen. And, as is the decree of Oldivan Law, the victor shall win right to all chattels, possessions and lands of the loser." He called over the House Steward who brought him a fine-looking well-oiled fenneral sword.

Vareena turned to Scowl, but he had his back to her. He won't help me. His fight is against delving alone. And I don't need his evil blade. I have my own. If I lose to Dracus, I'll be as dead as if he kills me here and now. Scowl has at least given me that knowledge. She took a deep breath. "I take the Death-Rite!"

"The Death-Rite?" Dracus Krall repeated in consternation.

Vareena's eyes found those of the House of Krall's Steward, Allon. "It is my right."

Allon had always been a loyal Krall man, fair and mannered in his dealings and... handsome. Vareena's crush on the Steward seemed far away and childish now. I've put Allon in an impossible position. But my hands are tied.

Dracus glared at Allon with a fiery expression.

The Steward bowed his head. "I am sorry, Master, but Law is on her side. Combat is already entered into. There is no redress."

A grim smile found Vareena's lips. Killing me in Combat would be a crime many would not forgive, regardless of it being my choice. No, Uncle, I will not make this easy for you.

"So be it." Dracus raised his voice. "But let all here know that it is not my wish to kill my brother-daughter, it is she who has chosen Combat and I am Law-bound to comply. Have trust that I will do everything in my power to defeat her without blood being spilled."

"I will not submit," said Vareena, making sure everyone could hear. "If I am to die, let it be with a sword in my hand and a curse on my lips!"

A hush fell upon the gathering. The Steward stood between her and Dracus who ungirded his sword and stood in a fighter's crouch.

Allon raised his arm and backed away. "Fight."

Dracus leapt at her, sprightly for his age, his muscles knotted and hard. It was as Vareena had long suspected, his reliance on his staff was a feint. He was not a weak old man, far from it. He clubbed her proffered sword, once, twice, three times.

Against her will, Vareena took a step back.

Dracus laughed wickedly, changing his tack to swing the flat of his blade under her defence.

Another step back. Dracus was nimble, his sword darting, playing with her.

I cannot dodge his sword forever and I dare not attack with my own, she thought as he pushed her towards the smashed keep doors. He is a Swordmaster!

"You play a dangerous game, brother-daughter," Dracus whispered. "I will kill you as surely as I killed your fool father. Not now, but your time will come, that I promise."

The Ring of Souls burned hotly on her finger. Vareena squealed with pain and lunged forward, taking the old man unawares with a cut to his thigh. She took another swing and another, but Dracus quickly regained his composure, a thin sheen of sweat upon his creased brow betraying the effort.

Vareena knew she could not hold against her uncle for much longer. Desperation ate at her. The Ring of Souls singed her hand. With a yelp, she dropped her sword, the fine, white fenneral clattering on to the bridge.

A wicked smile flashed across her uncle's face. He raised his blade, holding the tip in front of her face. "And so we come to it," he said. He turned once again to the House. "Arrest her!"

Vareena clasped her hands together, squeezing out the sting from the scorching ring, turning the hurt away from herself and... on to her uncle.

Behind Vareena an unnatural voice bubbled. "Dracus."

The sprightly old man turned towards the sound and baulked. "—What?"

An enormous clawed hand reached over the bridge, feeling with long, grasping fingers. Another hand and then an eyeless head came into view as the phantom golem lifted itself upon the solid stone.

"No!" Dracus' face paled with abject terror.

"Yes," whispered the monster, "I've been waiting for you."

The amassed House of Krall stared at Dracus with shock and disdain. He shouted and writhed like a lunatic, waving his sword around him as if attacked by some loathsome, but invisible enemy.

Dracus whimpered as the apparition came to bear full upon the bridge. He slashed his sword, but one commanding hand ripped the fenneral from his grasp and threw the blade into the surging waters below.

"You've thought about me all your long and ambitious life, old man. Well here I am!" Arrant hands encircled the Dracus' neck and squeezed.

As the astonished crowd watched, Dracus Krall fell to his knees, shaking as if under some dreadful palsy, blood streaming from both eyeballs until, with a strangled rattle, he fell down dead.

"—Vareena."

Somewhere in the distance, a familiar voice called softly to her. "Yes," she answered from her dream.

"Keep Krall awaits you, Mistress."

She blinked. Scowl stood in front of her. "What...?" Her memory came flooding back. The pain in her hand. The Ring of Souls burning. Dracus' still twitching corpse lay on the bridge, his eyes, wide and staring. "What did I do?"

"Do not use the Ring of Souls again," whispered Scowl. "Your heirloom was crafted from delving majiks. Today you witnessed its true power. You created the illusion of the golem in Dracus' mind and it killed him."

"I understand," she whispered, rubbing her ring. She turned and faced what was now her house—the House of Keep Krall. The men and women were quiet, awe-stricken. Steward Allon stared at her with an expression of fear mixed with relief.

"Your keep awaits its new mistress," said Scowl.

Those simple words filled Vareena with strength. "Dracus Krall is dead," she said loudly with a commanding voice. "According to Law, I, Vareena Krall, claim this House as my own. If you wish to raise an objection, your time is now."

No one made a sound.

"Good. We've a lot of work to do. From this day forward, Krall will once again be a respected name in Oldiva. Kitchener, inspect your Larders—they will soon be overflowing with food. Send out the hunters and the fishers. Tonight we feast in celebration of the golem's demise, of our return to the ancestral home and to mourn the death of Dracus Krall."

The House remained quiet and leaden-footed, unsure of what to do. Steward Allon soon shouted them into some semblance of order and they began to shuffle past.

Scowl made to leave as the two hundred or so members of her House gingerly entered their new home.

"Stay with me awhile," said Vareena.

"I cannot."

"Please, there are many here who I don't trust, who don't trust me. And I do not yet know the intentions of Jhaz'Elrad."

"I am destined never to remain in one place. My next stop is Palimara. There is evil in that land. And as for the King-Emperor, with Dracus dead, I doubt he will worry about a teenage girl. Unless it is your desire to bring war to the land of Oldiva."

Vareena shook her head. "You'll stay tonight for this feast." Her lips quirked upwards. "Or I'll follow you to the ends of Arn!"

Scowl's iron-blue eyes, glimpsed behind his hood, shone with certainty "No, I leave now. Already I hear delving's call. Goodbye Vareena." He turned and strode over the bridge.

Vareena watched as the strange, dark and pained individual shrank into the distance. Why am I so sad to see him go? Have I fallen for him... surely not?

Steward Allon appeared at her side. "Forgive me, Mistress, but you are needed."

Vareena said nothing.

He followed her gaze. "I am grateful the golem is dead, and even more thankful that the evil creature responsible for its doom has left us."

"No, Allon," said Vareena, picking up her sword of purest white fenneral and rubbing her hand down its length. "He is a man. Maimed, broken and dangerous, maybe, but a man all the same. And let me tell you this: I would have wished him stay. Scowl will be forever welcome at Keep Krall."

Read the first few chapters from Part Two right below!

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He was no friend of witchery, nor of the gentler majiks. Yet even he, who carried delving's doom at his side, could not resist our eldritch gramarye. A great debt we owe him, a debt still remains unpaid...

The Book of the Carline.

FULMINARA'S ETHEREAL self shuddered within the Dimension Lord's powerful grasp. She would not become another member of its coterie, trapped for eternity by this hideous thing, its ugly thoughts screwing at the root of her mind. She had wandered too far, been too curious, and the creature had snapped upon her soul like a mantis upon its next meal.

"I warn you, Gibbus—you cannot keep me here forever." Fulminara, an old wizened crone, floated naked amongst a swirl of entrapping vapours, her milky green eyes defiant. "I am of the Carline, and a witch." Her voice struggled to penetrate the foggy haze.

The Dimension Lord whipped a barbed tentacle at a hovering eydi—a delicate, jellyfish-like creature. The lesser entity squeaked, spilling its life in a frothing mass of purple and white jelly. Gibbus offered the remains to its captive.

Fulminara declined with an angry wave of her bony fingers.

Gibbus was a spectrum beast, a colour-god. Its bloated body, a blob of translucent flesh upon which many hues sprayed forth, flushed mauve. A slight rebuke. Nothing more than a shrug of the shoulders in a human. It held the twitching eydi over an array of flapping pouches gaping in obscene competition from its midriff. A scene reminiscent of a morsel presented to so many hungry beaks. It chose and the eydi was engulfed.

Behind the colour-god, the Morassic Seas churned a dull red, while above the beach, fat brown clouds sucked at thinner yellow vapours.

Fulminara had been dream-walking—drifting through the planes in search of... she knew not what. But to be Carline was to be curious. And Fulminara was queen amongst them. The colour-god's mind had snared her Inner—what some called a soul—and she was powerless in the creature's practiced grasp. "Set me free!"

I have made the Plane of Realities my domain, for all dimensions cross and are real at this point. Here I wait. Here I entrap unwary visitors, for all travellers are attracted to this place. You shall be the next member of my Hive, and my strength can only grow.

"No."

I feel the power of your refusal, but you are master of only one. With every passing moment, my hold grows. Soon it shall be impossible for you to escape my clutches. You are old and weak.

Fulminara regarded the colour-god with sunken eyes. "What do you know of age? The passing of simple time is no concern to one such as I." She coated her words with defiance, yet here, in this dimension, she felt exposed. She could not hide behind her most basic of witchery. Her head twitched with impotent fury.

Gibbus' thirty-six stalked, bobbing eyes looked straight through her. The dimensions are infinite, as you well know. My power as lord comes from my mastery in two hundred and seventeen planes. To gain that mastery, I take a familiar from each.

The colour-god swept a single tentacle in a commanding arc. Revealed in the thick air—a vast array of shadowy creatures of outlandish design.

This is my Hive. These are my familiars.

Amorphous shapes danced in front of Fulminara; lumps quivered, spines twitched, scales and feathers flapped—a hideous display. A total contrast to the Plane of Realities, a beautiful, serene place of gentle, living clouds and delicate creatures. Another wave of the barbed tentacle and Gibbus' Hive disappeared.

Fulminara's next move was desperate, but as often is the way with the Carline, words came unbidden to her mind, flowing as easily as her enchantments. "Gibbus, all dimensions have different harmonies and balances. In my world, and many others, such matters are decided by contest."

'Contest?' I have never heard of such a thing.

"A creature chosen from your dimension set in combat against a creature from mine. One fighting for Lord Gibbus, the other on my behalf."

The colour-god glowed deep blue.

"If your champion prevails, I shall gladly yield. If my champion is the victor, you shall release me and bother my dimension no more."

Blue flashed to grey contemplation. A curious notion in which I give up the certainty of your servitude for a half chance of losing it... the idea has a certain merit. A lighter, more cautious blue of excitement flushed the colour-god's extremities. So be it, witch.

Leathery tentacles whipped at a materializing eydi, scything through its air bag. It burst incandescent purple and floated limply in the air. The pouches along Gibbus' belly began to chatter. Go, find your champion. But remember, I still hold your Inner, and can squeeze at will.

Fulminara bowed graciously.

Drifting back to her own dimension, to her corporeal self, the reality of her situation hit as hard as a falling boulder of cold obsidian. She was of the Carline—a witch, and such witchery relied heavily upon fate. It alone would decide this contest. She gave herself wholly to it, and with abandon.

A LARGE, paddle-like tail knocked Scowl aside as if he was made of straw. Sharp incisor teeth snapped together in a repeated click as a mammoth head—all jaws and beady eyes—lunged towards him. Scowl found his feet, jumping backwards out of reach of the deadly bite.

The giant beaver was a territorial animal, fierce and angry. He had mistakenly entered its snow-covered den on the side of a rocky ravine. The beast had dammed the mountain stream in its upper reaches, too high for any such creature—or so he'd thought. The blizzard that forced him into what seemed like a welcoming cave also hid its spoor. Scowl was awoken by the curious animal sniffing him, and although he had quickly vacated its hideout, the beaver had given chase.

The beast lunged at him.

Don't make me unsheathe IronScythe.

He rolled forward, his one good hand finding a hefty branch, both ends chewed by powerful teeth. The beaver pounced, knocking the wood from his grasp, bleating with a peculiar high-pitched whine, its flat nostrils opening and closing. The animal did not push its attack. It seemed wary of the intruder.

Scowl scrambled away from those sharp teeth, finding his feet and IronScythe. A giant head, twice as big as the younger, smaller beaver, emerged from underneath a snowdrift-covered opening. The creature struggled against the prison of snow with a deeper, more threatening sound.

"I truly am sorry," Scowl said quietly. He sprinted to where the beast thrashed and, in one clean strike of the iron blade, removed half its head. Skull and brains splashed on the snow.

The youngster came straight at him. IronScythe stabbed it through. The stricken creature squealed and died.

More growling and the pad of heavy paws.

Scowl darted upwards. Past the beavers' cave-like den and their frozen pool, climbing the snow-filled ravine. Jumping from rock to rock skirting the icy stream. Retreat was not his normal style, but the beasts did not deserve to die so pointlessly at the hand of the She-blade. Only the occasional clack of claw upon stone betrayed their pursuit.

After a tough climb, the land opened out and he was able to run. He ascended with speed, his clumsy hood blown into his sharp nose, his bare chin and lips limned with ice. Blackbeak's pole-like legs ate up the distance, yet four of the creatures still gave pursuit, scrambling across the frozen snow covered surface.

He reached a flinty ridge stretching in either direction. Here, the rock was glass-like and melted, crunching under his feet. Slowing his pace, he barely stopped himself from falling. He stood, wobbling on the lip of an enormous crater—staring down at a circular depression in the land that stretched for leagues. A thick, black forest sat at its centre, huddling around a spire of truncated rock jutting up like an impudent thumb.

No time for contemplation. The beavers arrived as one. Again, IronScythe found his hand and he was unable to prevent her wrath. She sliced the front paws off the lead animal with one swing and stabbed with another. A young individual leapt at him. Scowl sidestepped and the creature plunged shrieking into the abyss. Two more remained. Blackbeak ran at them, flicking his sword in and out like a serpent's tongue. Both fell to the arcane blade. The melee was over almost before it had started.

He regarded the bloodied corpses with disdain. Twin, iron-blue intent eyes flashed from behind the rough tears in his hood. Fine-looking, proud animals—and pride always leads to a fall.

Blackbeak was travelling through the northern ranges of Oldiva, towards Palimara—a once beautiful kingdom, if fables could be believed. Mining for fenneral, the weapon stone, had riddled the land with holes and vast ugly quarries. In comparison, Northern Oldiva was a bleak landscape of wide plains and rocky mounts plagued by winds and windblown ice. A land far too easy to become lost within.

If I am indeed lost—which I doubt. The She-blade brought me here. That much is certain. Yet no delving lurks inside this crater and its stunted spire. I'd feel it.

Eltirren, the Sun's cold sister, glinted low on the horizon. The short night would soon arrive accompanied, as ever, by a biting wind. Quickly skinning one of the dead beavers to use its pelt as a blanket, Scowl found a rocky hollow and let sleep take him.

WIND WHISTLED through the high ramparts of Keep Krall. A cold, Bluster's night. One of many Vareena had spent lying warm in her bed, curled up within the strong arms of Allon, the Krall family's loyal steward. Snug underneath rich furs, a dung fire burning in the hearth. But tonight, all was not well between them and Vareena found it impossible to sleep.

Older than herself by nearly two passings of the Gyre, stoic and hardworking, Allon's attentions were as surprising as her own matching desire. Soon after Vareena reclaimed what was rightfully hers, the magnificent Keep Krall, a change came over him. He softened. And a smile was sooner to find his lips. They worked closely together. Him practical, assured and respected by the House. Her full of energy, drive and creativity.

Vareena was barely out of adolescence and, although not shy or unaware of the ways of men and women, she'd never taken a lover. Boys her own age were just that—boys. Older men had been frightened of her now dead Uncle Dracus or put off by her warrior weaves and tomboyish antics.

Late one night, six months ago, Allon turned up at her quarters—drunk. Having secretly liked him from afar, she knew he was no drinker. His pass, when it came, was awkward and embarrassing. He'd pulled her onto the bed where he promptly passed out. But the next morning...

Vareena smiled at the memory. A most eventful time. When not learning the ways of love, she was busy in her new role of Mistress Krall. The Keep possessed many levels, numerous rooms and a whole multitude of corridors and stairs. The task to make them habitable was immense and not without its difficulties. Not everyone in the House had accepted her authority so readily.

If not for Allon, this transition would have been impossible. He gave the example of respect that the rest had followed. Tall, healthy, well-built and sure, Allon typified his job better than any other. He had gained his position by hard work and worth—was in his prime—and relished his role as steward with an arrogance his Mistress found amusing. Often she would stare with unrestrained pride when he solved disputes or ordered her vassals and drudges. He could almost have been the master. His face was impassive, crowned by a head of short-cropped prematurely greying black hair, giving him a natural authority that was beyond his seasons.

In the months since she became Mistress, many chattel wagons, drawn by tired looking drudges, arrived at the magnificent new doors of her island citadel. Ships sailed up the coast bringing with them furniture and fresh weavery. All manner of things wended their way across the sea from the greater civilisation of the South. Soon Keep Krall had raiment to match its majesty.

The vast underground vault where the golem of flesh—her vile ancestor—once lived was out of bounds to everyone except Vareena and Allon. No such decree was needed. The monster that had lurked there for generation upon generation still weighed heavily in everyone's minds. None would enter those foreboding vaults.

Down in what used to be the golem's lair was an enormous cache of wealth to outshine King-Emperor Jhaz'Elrad himself. But riches were not everything. The harsh blizzards of Bluster and the many months of the snow-locked season of Tranquillity were soon to assail the land. If her House was to survive, it needed a sizeable levy to feed all those hungry mouths. Normally a Keep relied on a host of levyer villages whose inhabitants brought a tithe of food to be stored in the good seasons in return for shelter during the bad. The underground larders would slowly fill and the boundless stash of provisions shared amongst all. The levy.

But now there were no villages, and more importantly, no food in the larders. And so, at vast expense, Vareena paid for the rations herself.

A short distance down the coastline lay a large harbour behind which ruined buildings poked and jutted. Before the golem, the marina had been a thriving fishing town. Such deterioration sat uneasily upon Vareena. She hated its broken dwellings and resolved to make the port her first levying village. With time running out before the snows came proper, she paid for carvers and masons to start repairs. They rebuilt the quayside, replaced groynes and dredged the harbour. She travelled to the capital city of Fangarra and spread word that, for those willing to work, a good living was to be had serving the larders of Keep Krall. She ordered a brand new fishing fleet, buying ships from the Unbidden Isles and the clusters of communities that dotted the coast. Soon, the Grievery, the crafting-house in charge of the levy, was salting a fresh supply of various sea-foods. The smell of fish sizzling in herbs and garlic suffused the keep with promises of full stomachs and good provender.

All had gone well—until the last few weeks. And was the reason why she could not sleep. Allon had changed. He denied it, but their easy relationship had become strained. His attention was elsewhere. Like tonight. She had made her intentions very clear, or so she thought. And yet, after a brief hug, he had settled down to sleep.

She poked him.

Allon's eyes flicked open. "Still awake?"

Vareena wriggled out of his arms and sat up, the furs falling from her naked body. "I would sleep better if you did your duty for your mistress."

She had seen his poker face many times, in his dealings with the keep's men, women, and the flurry of merchants now eager to open trade and caravan routes. His inscrutability was admirable, but she preferred to not be on the receiving end. She was not one for secrets and intrigue—words and emotions spilled from her like a mountain stream.

"I'm tired. You also need your sleep," he said.

"I know what I want, and it's not sleep. Are you... bored with me already?"

The barest twitch of his head as if the question did not merit an answer.

"I may let you be master in the bedroom, but never forget I am your Queen."

"Don't be angry. It's been a long day and your faithful steward is not as young as he was."

"Or you tired yourself out with all those kitchen vassals. The larders are a fine place for dalliances and you must know how they swoon over you."

"I have eyes only for my Mistress."

"It's not your eyes I'm interested in."

Allon pushed back a cured bed-fur with irritation, revealing his barrel chest. Thick hair curled all the way from his waist to his collarbones. His hand rubbed uncharacteristically at the lines furrowing his brow. "Go to sleep, V'reen," he ordered.

"I don't care if you have other lovers," she said, tilting her chin up. I am hardly ready to settle down with the first man to come along. "As long as you're discreet, you can do what you want. I put no constrains on you. You do not have to share my bed."

"It is not I who am causing tongues to wag. Your transformation from girl to womanhood is plain for all to see."

"They may suspect something, but I am the Mistress and can take courtesans as and when I please. Let them say otherwise."

"None would dare."

"Whatever happens between us, nothing will change. You will still have my respect. You will always be my faithful steward. You understand that, yes?"

A crack in Allon's inscrutability—a momentary flash of guilt.

"You're hiding something?"

Allon reached out to her with thick, muscular arms. "Nothing. Come here."

Vareena pushed him away. "You're lying. It's in your eyes. What the Gyre is going on with you. You've not been yourself for weeks. What are you hiding from me?"

"Sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning."

From somewhere in the corridor below her quarters, Vareena heard the sudden clatter of sword upon sword and the shouts of men. "Wha—?"

Allon cursed. "Idiots! I told them to wait for my sign."

Swords meant only one thing. Treason. Vareena leapt out of bed, searching for her blade of purest white fenneral. "You're betraying me? You?"

"I did what had to be done. I'm sorry, Vareena. Truly sorry. Things would've been much simpler if you'd gone to sleep. But you're a stubborn sort. And King Emperor Jhaz'Elrad's forces have little patience. They now storm your keep. You wondered why I was tired today... I have been busy making sure they will not face much opposition. The few guards, the odd vassal... They are being taken care of."

Where is my damn sword! "But I thought—"

"That I cared you? For your many wits, you are such a child. There is no place for emotion when playing the game. It's unfortunate that you have to die, but at least you'll die a woman. I made sure of that.

"Allon, you fool."

"It is you who have been foolish. Did you think Jhaz'Elrad would sit idly by whilst you built a secret army to topple him?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The death of Dracus stayed the King's hand but I convinced him you were still a threat. All know of the Krall family's ambition. I befriended Jhaz's spy and spun him such a tale. You made it easy. Travelling to Fangarra, showing off your 'great wealth' and out-bidding his prized merchants. This Keep will soon belong to the King-Emperor and I will rule in his name."

Vareena Krall pulled herself to full height. "And are you to be my executioner?"

Allon got out of bed, his hand around the hilt of her missing blade. "I think you're looking for this." He raised the blade threateningly. "What must be done, must be done."

The sounds of fighting abruptly stopped. The stomp and thud of heavy boots approached the closed doors to their quarters.

"I may be a child in your eyes, but even I can see you have been played. Do you really think the king will let you live?"

Momentary doubt passed over his face. "I'll take my chances."

Vareena stood lithe, naked and defiant. Lank brown-blonde hair hung upon her muscled shoulders, her skin glistening red in the embers from the fire.

Allon's eyes flickered over her body. "You're a fine specimen of a woman, but the Krall line must end." He opened his palm to reveal the Ring of Souls. "This ring of yours will soon belong to Jhaz'Elrad and with it, dominion over Keep Krall. This is what I'll use to buy my life, should I need to."

"I never did tell you what happened to Dracus Krall, did I?"

"Why speak of that fool? He went mad. Died before my eyes."

"No, Steward Allon. I killed him. Scowl once told me that I hardly touched the power of my ring. He was right. I don't even need to be wearing it..."

The air around Vareena shimmered and she disappeared.

Before Allon could utter an astonished word, a large earthen pot leapt from the hearth and hit him squarely in the face, shattering. He crumpled, the sword clattering to the floor. The ring fell from his grasp, rolling across old floorboards and down a gap between them.

"No!" Vareena shouted, flickering back into view.

The doors burst open and four militiamen, all wearing the garb of Jhaz'Elrad, rushed inside. Their swords bloody, their faces grim. Vareena was shocked to recognise Captain Shyk.

"Kill him, Captain!" she shouted, pointing to Allon who lay half-unconscious on his back, a red, bleeding gash halfway across his face.

Shyk stared at Allon and the naked noble girl. A smile crawled up from his mouth to turn into a leer. "You cannot fool old Shyk so easily, girl. And they say the Gyre is a harsh mistress. Seems she's decided to give me a reward at last. Bar the doors, lads, we are going to have some fun!" he threw down his blade and began to undo his breeches.

Vareena dove for her sword, rolling to land in a fighter's crouch. The tip of her blade jutting at the men. She assessed them quickly. Captain Shyk is the veteran, and his men? Just boys. They bore scratches and minor wounds, and did not expect or want another fight. I have practiced long and hard since my contest with Dracus. They do not know how dangerous I am...

"Now, now, Vareena." Shyk raised his hands. "This will go a lot easier for you if you don't put up a—"

Vareena launched herself at him, stabbing the rat-like captain in the throat. A geyser of crimson spewed forth, bathing her flesh in red and blinding the other men. She dispatched them like a practiced butcher in an abattoir.

More shouts from outside. Vareena closed the doors and barricaded them with what furniture she could find.

It won't hold long. Hopefully—just long enough.

Wiping Shyk's blood from her naked body, Vareena went to her wardrobe and donned her old fighting weaves, stuffing a bag of gems and jewellery inside the tight leather. More militia arrived at her rooms and attempted to batter down the doors. Vareena crouched above the ancient floorboards, but couldn't locate her ring.

Damn it!

Behind her, Allon groaned. She glared at him. "You stupid, ambitious fool. I'll let Jhaz'Elrad deal with you. You deserve no better than his gibbet."

She quickly pulled on one of the dead soldier's over-weaves. Bloody, with her hair tied under a leather cap and clutching at her white fenneral sword, she was almost unrecognisable. Vareena opened an oaken panel hidden behind a thick wall-hanging. A secret way out of her rooms that even Allon didn't know of.

She stole through, closing the concealed door behind her and headed to the Larders.

I cannot win this fight alone. I need food and provisions if I'm to leave here and survive the cold seasons. I hate to abandon Keep Krall, but tonight isn't the time for revenge. No. I must follow Scowl to Palimara. I'll buy a real army, one that can topple Jhaz'Elrad—The Krall name will live on. I vow it.

MANY DAYS passed while Scowl tried to find a way down into the crater. The walls were steep, treacherous and covered in scree. Loose boulders threatened avalanches, and overhangs were apt to fall at the barest disturbance. His search was finally rewarded when he spied a herd of mountain goats. He followed their well-worn tracks down to the basin floor and feasted on their cooked flesh.

The journey towards the black forest and its peculiar, thumb-like spire took weeks longer than he'd expected. Distances were deceptive in this vast crater.

As he got closer, Scowl spotted crows—thousands of them—circling the spire's stunted upper reaches like vultures around a corpse.

Too many birds. Especially for this late in the season. When they did flock together, which was rare, it was known as a 'murder of crows'—this was more like a massacre.

The forest borders were an odd place. Shadows danced under boughs twisted awry by some perverse artistry of the wind. The trees, which had lost their four-season covering of green, were already beginning to furl up, buttressing themselves against the heavy falls of snow that would keep them covered for over fifteen months. Their timbers were black and hard. Long branches twisted as if in pain. Others hung limply, filigreed boughs caressing the earth with etiolated fingers. He'd seen many such places before, yet this forest unsettled him.

Through the jagged holes cut into his hood, it appeared the trees were swaying to some unheard, lilting rhythm.

No delving lives here, that much is sure. And trees are no match for IronScythe.

He'd dealt many blows against delving, but here in this forest-place, was something outside his ken. He removed his cowl—the hood that hid his obscenity of a face. It only served to hinder him in the dark.

A flutter of wings and hundreds of crows, their feathers glistening in the light of the sun, descended from above, surrounding him. Black plumage, feet, beaks, and beady, black eyes. They squawked and cawed, perching in trees, and hopping on the uneven forest floor. Caw caw caw!

Scowl eyed them with suspicion. These birds were only ever seen together on battlefields. Unwelcome carrion feeders. A sign of death in any land. He regarded them for long moments, but they did nothing but stare back.

"Be gone!" he shouted, kicking at the birds, but they easily sidestepped him.

Turning his back on their derisive calls, he walked into the forest. Tall and intent, his sable weavery crowned by a mop of long, bushy, raven-coloured hair, Scowl blended into the growing dusk as if he belonged there. A crushed beak of a nose sniffed the shadows while close set iron-blue eyes narrowed.

He paused. The woodland was an ebon place and although Scowl had naturally aided sight at night, he could not pierce the murk.

'Bah!' he called into the forest gloom and strode forward. Too soon, his bravado was put to the test. The wood murmured in the darkness. When he stopped, there was only the wind in his ears. When he moved, a horde of bleary devils seemed to whisper his doom.

The hisses, creaks and groans grew in volume and rhythm. An unnatural cadence. A living, breathing voice: Come Scowl...

"Show yourself!" Blackbeak barked, but the wood swallowed his words. Am I hearing things?

Boughs and twigs brushed against him. A large branch shifted, blocking his way. A mighty swing and IronScythe bit into the hard black wood. Again he chopped, hacking with the full weight of a weapon that could fell medium-sized trees with one stroke. A long tree limb whipped at his face. Another branch stabbed his thighs. He brought the flat blade of IronScythe down, splintering the wood—her weight alone snapping the tough sinews.

The She-scythe passed through these crawling limbs with defiant strength. He grunted and yelled, hacked and sliced. To no avail. Where one bough was cut, another was sure to replace it. They hemmed him in on all sides—apart from one. He had no choice but to let himself be corralled.

::

The living wood pushed and pressed him for what felt like many days. He slept whenever he could, but not for long. The forest did not want him to rest. And always, the same outlandish whispering voice: Come Scowl... Come. Blackbeak wondered if this was to be his fate, to die within this tree-ridden darkness. IronScythe has always guided me true. She will not let me down. She must have good reason to bring me here to this forest.

Scowl was lost in a well of shadows, a madman screaming at the intractable black. And when he thought he could no longer endure the oppressive forest night, something glinted in the distance. Sunlight!

He stumbled forward into a clearing, his half-hand shielding his eyes until he found stone—the central thumb-like spire of the crater. Rough steps led upwards and, as if urged on by some unknown force, he took them two at a time, laughing with the hysteria of escape and bathing in the cold sunlight like it was a hot summer's day. He ascended with speed, spiralling around the peculiar outcrop. A wave of sound fell upon him—the flap of countless wings—the crows returning, cawing loudly. Excited. Scowl batted them aside like so many bloated flies.

Come Scowl...

Atop the truncated spire was another forest. A dense ring of trees with bark the colour of silver, festooned with thick-stemmed, choking ivy. Like silent, gaudily dressed warriors. Where below the trees were dark and threatening, the forest here had a lighter aspect and an abundant covering of green. Leaves rustled and whispered in a constant breeze.

The crows flocked again, spinning in dizzying circles of black bodies. He ran through the hoary woodland, heading inwards until he found a pillar of rock painted with odd symbols and glyphs in reds and blues. The forest bowed towards this lith-stone, seemingly in supplication. A jumble of dry and twisted branches sat at its base.

Some kind of sacrificial pyre?

A hiss like a serpent: "Come."

The voice was no longer a whisper amongst the trees; the sound came from a human mouth, leathery and dry—the croak of an old woman. Blackbeak unsheathed IronScythe, coming back to himself. "Who is there? Show yourself, or I will fell your forest and put it to the torch!"

A sudden movement at the base of the lith, and the twisted branches came to life.

Unfurling.

Untwisting.

Scowl leapt backwards in alarm. This was no pyre, but the limbs of a dried out corpse.

The hissing turned into words. Archaic, strangled words. A strange cant that slithered through the copse like a serpent. "Come with me, Scowl. Come."

The corpse-like figure found its feet and stood naked before him. An old wizened crone. The ruin of a woman. Her flesh was more bark than skin, sagging from an emaciated frame. Her eyes were dead, long-forgotten things.

"What manner of evil are you?"

A sound that wanted to be a laugh escaped from her dry lips. She raised her hands to form a bony union above her head.

A large crow crashed into her trembling chest, knocking her to the ground. Sticking against her. Trapped. Then another. The birds were somehow consumed, their flesh absorbed, leaving only feathers and dry bones behind. The tiny glade filled with a flurry of beating black wings, hundreds of crows cawing in distress and panic, drawn to the female demon lying before him.

Scowl stared until the shrieks and caws stopped. The crone lay under a vast mound of dead, broken corpses.

With a giggle, the pile was pushed aside to reveal a striking, pale-skinned woman. Her hair was as red as the sun on the hottest day of Blaze and her eyes the deepest green he had ever seen. A handsome and beguiling demoness. The crone reborn as a lush naked woman. She stood on long legs, stretching with feline grace. "Take him—"

Thick ivy found Scowl's wrist, knitting around his arm and IronScythe. He reached for his poniard with his half-hand, but it was knocked aside and ensnared by a vicious branch. More ivy and roots entangled his feet. A sinuous bough encircled his waist, and he was jerked towards the lith-stone like a virgin to a sacrifice. He was trapped, and at the mercy of this forest devil.

The woman's hands caressed the milk-white skin of her belly, sliding upwards to cup her now full breasts, each capped with a cherry-coloured nipple. A thick triangle of red pubic hair curled invitingly. Lips curved into a smile, revealing a muscular tongue licking at a set of perfect teeth. A well-proportioned beauty.

Too beautiful. False.

"You ask what I am? I am loveliness. I am desire—I am many things. Fulminara is my name. I am Carline and witch." She swaggered up to him. "You do well to keep such a face hidden."

"The last face you'll ever see, witch."

"I think not. Blackbeak is the nemesis of delving not witchery. We both share hatred of those arts, and of Chicanery. Besides, we Carline are not easily killed." She waved a single hand towards the pile of dead crows and smiled again. "New flesh can always be found."

"You are... Carline?"

She ran fingers through her voluminous hair. "Red-orange locks betray the weirding as a one-handed beggar betrays the thief. Yes, I am Carline. What you heard as whispers in the woods was my gramarye, my weirding." Her reborn voice thrilled the air. The words were low, subtle and rose and fell like a playful breeze through a summer forest canopy.

Scowl tried to shake his head. "The Carline belonged to a dead age. They are gone. Forgotten. Just how long have you lain here?"

A frown played over the beautiful woman's face. "I have waited many lifetimes for your coming, sustained by the Planes—maybe longer than I realised."

"What do you want with me?"

"Want? Do you not yet understand? You are mine, Scowl. To do my bidding as I wish."

"I follow no command but IronScythe!"

The emerald eyes widened. From her throat came a soothing sound. The branch around Scowl's neck tightened.

Blackbeak choked and spluttered while she enjoyed the spectacle.

"The strangled gasp, the sigh, the delicate moan, how they pleasure. I could live for a thousand passings of the Gyre upon their shuddering waves of ecstasy. How close they are—love and death. But worry not. I will not snuff out what is so dear, so priceless—so unique."

With a wave of her hand, she released the branch's grip.

He took a pained breath. "You know what I am?"

"We Carline have the gift of Sight. I know who you are, and that you are not from this world. Yet there is much in you that is hidden. 'Tis strange that for my own ends I should employ an avenger of the opposite arts." Her eyes dropped to IronScythe.

"'Opposite arts?'"

"Yes. For I perceive the power of Chicanery in your iron." Her lip curled. "I detest everything connected with Cairn and its malingering coterie. The majiks? Bah! We Carline witnessed first-hand the destruction they caused to our world of Arn. The Usery and all its fat savants are tied too close to Arn's power. They feed off its raw energy, its life-blood. Leeches they are, parasites!"

"You're no different, despite your pretensions. The majiks flow through you like any other savant or user."

"'Tis true that we Carline are likewise connected to Arn, but we are the natural enemies of Chicanery; for where the majiks burn and incinerate with awesome power, weirding soothes and persuades; explores and experiences. Is it evil? No. Nor foul or unwholesome. Weirding represents a gentler force; something in touch with nature, that has a certain control over it. We hurt nothing that cannot be replenished. Like those crows who gladly gave their flesh to resurrect my own. Weirding is a celebration of life and its urges, of love itself, of death and desire—of the natural order. All that the majiks are not."

"I too hate the majiks and will have nothing to do with them."

"Fool. You are them!" she scoffed and stepped closer, her face inches from Scowl. "Can't you see that? I did not take you for an idiot."

He spat at her, the close-set, iron-blue eyes defiant.

She wiped the spittle with one long-nailed finger and licked at it with a glistening tongue. "You have a certain sordid fascination." Her eyes flicked across Scowl's broken face—hot breath caressing his exposed cheek. "I took a vow to kill all Chicanery, to destroy those greedy men of power as they once sought to destroy all Carline. But men have their uses. As long as they know their place."

Her hand found his inner thigh. Sharp nails dug at him. A smell of womanliness, of secure warmth and hidden excitements, enticed. Scowl turned his head away.

"You are a strange one, but a man all the same. If I'm saved, we will have plenty of time for desire."

"End your riddles, witch."

Fulminara pulled away, shouting to the sky. "I have found my champion at last!" And then, in a whisper, she continued. "Let us hope your opponent doesn't defeat you as easily as I." Fulminara giggled into the forest, her laugh carried upon the wind to rise above the trees in a deafening squeal that crowded all other sounds—

Come.

Scowl shivered at the timbre of this word, spoken somewhere outside of reality.

Come Scowl—Come with me—Walk with me—Fly with me.

A sharp tingling worried at the base of Blackbeak's spine, spreading throughout his frame. He tensed; the sensation existed just on the edge of pain.

I want you—I need you—What kind of love is in you?—Come to Me—Feel Me—Touch Me—Love Me...

Scowl struggled against his living bonds. They held him fast; and yet, such was the nature of Fulminara's gramarye that he wanted to let those words swallow him up.

Let your spirit fly—Come float up high—Fly the planes—Ignore your pains—Come with Me fly—Hear their roar—Let yourself soar.

The weirding had him now; her wording reached the back of his skull with soft velvet fingers and caressed his brain. Teasing, pulling, tempting. Her eyes filled his vision—great green orbs of scintillating light blotting out all except her insistent gaze.

You want Me—You need Me—You want to fly free—Ah yes—I feel your smile—Come—Bring your essence—Leave awhile—Release your body—Free your mind—Leave this world far behind.

Scowl could not resist.

Come Scowl—Take my hand—Touch my flesh—Leave this land.

The trees faded, leaving only two wide green eyes blazing into his soul.

A new voice muttered somewhere upon the wind—Yes.

-*-

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Acknowledgements

Thanks for the red-pen, scribbling and 'telling me off in no uncertain terms' talents of my lovely editors:

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http://mostlywriting.co.uk

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Also by K.J.Heritage

Please visit my website for full details

Crime and Mysteries

Dying Is Easy

Science Fiction

Vatic

Ariadne: Vatic Book Two

Blue Into The Rip

Quick-Kill & The Galactic Secret Service

Lady In The Glass – 12 Tales Of Death & Dying

Sci-Fi Compilations

Once Upon A Time In Gravity City (Editor: Artie Cabrera)

Chronicle Worlds: Legacy Fleet (Editor: Samuel Peralta)

From The Indie Side (Editor: Michael Gatewood)

Fantasy

The Scowl

Non-Fiction

The Complete Indie Editor: 55 Essential Copy-edits for the Professional Independent Author

Find out more about my books below.

Enjoyed K.J.Heritage's

Flesh Golem – The Scowl Part One?

Why not get the omnibus edition

The Scowl

Parts (1-3)

Get The Scowl Now

And from the dark unknown came a hooded avenger...

When the Scowl is brought before the court of King-Emperor Jhaz'Elrad, accused of murdering a young noble, he is unexpectedly saved from execution by the ambitious Dracus Krall.

In return for his life, the Scowl is sent on weregild to kill the evil golem that has lurked in the Krall family home for generations. A terrible, haunted creature, created by dark majiks in the time of Delving.

Accompanying the task is Dracus' teenage niece, Vareena, a strong-willed tom-boy who grew up in the shadow of her uncle's ambition and who has resisted his many attempts to marry her off.

But Vareena is not as she seems. She harbours a secret power that her uncle would gladly kill for.

Together, Vareena and the Scowl begin an uneasy alliance. An alliance that will change both of their lives forever...

Reviews

"Dark, epic fantasy at its very best"

"K.J.Heritage is an amazing story teller."

"One of the best new fantasy books I've read in a while."

" If you like fantasy, or even if you don't, this is the series for you!"

Get The Scowl Now

[Get Vatic Now  
Also](http://mostlywriting.co.uk/vatic.html) available as an audiobook

Vatic (Vatic #1)

The dead don't always die

Top Company scientist, Chen Jelinek, has committed suicide.

Vatic, a half-alive empath with no memory of who or what he is, will die in six-hours if he can't find out why—or so the Company tells him—an 'added incentive to get the job done'.

Our hero soon discovers he is one of the Skilled, a genetically enhanced human revered and despised in equal measure—a bloodhound with a terrifying past who'll stop at nothing in his pursuit of truth.

And 'the Skilled always get their guy'... don't they?

Read what other bestselling authors are saying about Vatic

"Prepare to lose sleep reading Vatic! Delicious Sci-Fiction!"

Kate Danley, US TODAY bestselling author

"Gritty, intense, and compelling, Vatic is something you don't run into often enough in Sci-Fi--a cerebral thrill ride you don't want to end."

Michael Bunker, US TODAY Bestselling author of Pennsylvania

"Gritty, detailed and unrelenting--Vatic will take you on a wild ride."

Peter Cawdron, International Bestselling author of Science Fiction

[Get Vatic Now  
Also](http://mostlywriting.co.uk/vatic.html) available as an audiobook

Ariadne (Vatic #2)

Get Ariadne: Vatic Book Two Now

Never play with madness

**Experimental Company** bioship, the _CSS Ariadne,_ has cut all communications and launched herself into hyperspace--heading towards enemy territory and certain destruction if she cannot be stopped.

The crew managed to send out an SOS before the _Ariadne_ disappeared. Someone was murdered... _but who?_

Vatic, a Skilled empath in the reluctant employ of the Company, is drugged and forced to board the rogue ship. He arrives to find the vessel full of corpses, a small band of suspicious survivors, and no explanations.

Our hero soon realises that not everyone who survived is as they seem. There is an imposter aboard, but who is it, and what are their motives?

Vatic must use all his talents if he and the ship are going to survive.

_But survival is what the Skilled do best... isn't it?_

_Reviews_

"Another fast paced, whirlwind of a story!"

"Very well written and extremely captivating! Fantastic 2nd book in the series."

"Mr. Heritage has done it again with Ariadne."

"Full of twists and turns like going down a rabbit hole"

"A plot that'll keep you on the edge of your seat"

"Boil the kettle, put your feet up, and take a voyage on the good ship Ariadne."

Get Ariadne: Vatic Book Two Now

Blue Into The Rip

The Amazon #1 bestselling time-travel novel

Get Blue Into The Rip Now

Home is 400 years away

A Rip in the fabric of time, a far-flung globally warmed future, a flooded Earth and the only remainder of civilisation—a militaristic organisation living underneath 'Desert Amazon'...

Getting back home was the only thing that mattered to messed up, mixed race teenager, Blue (named after his stupid, googly blue eyes) - and that was the problem—home was over four hundred years in the past.

But how does a lowly cadet in a military academy living in a post-apocalyptic future achieve such a goal, especially with the distractions of girls, pilot training, spacewalks and his almost constant unpopularity?

The more Blue found out about this flooded, gung-ho and annoying future, about himself—who and what he was (was he even human?)—and the equally disturbing and shocking truth about his parents, the more he realised getting home was the only solution.

_Wasn't it?_

If Blue knew one thing, it was that he would at least try.

Reviews

"An amazing read and Kev Heritage's writing is superb and unique...I definitely recommend this book to sci-fi adventure readers!" Girl In The Woods

"Hands-down one of the most creative YA books I've read in a long time." Reading For Pleasure

"Fast paced, intriguing, thought provoking, character driven science fiction. I loved it." The Written Universe

"A fun, addictive read from page one." 40 West Media

Get Blue Into The Rip Now

Quick-Kill & The Galactic Secret Service

A gender-bending galactic thrill ride

Get Quick-kill & The Galactic Secret Service Now

Never, ever, let yourself get caught...

The forgotten, seedy backwater planet of Plenty (the most unfortunately-named world there ever was), is no place for a girl to grow up parentless and alone.

But self-styled, femme fatale and genius gun-for hire, Quick-Kill Jane, was no normal kid. She learned her trade early on, making a name for herself. And by the time she became an adult, everyone feared and respected that name in equal measure.

Quick-Kill Jane is always eager to hand out her particular brand of justice—for a bounty of course. In her world, everything has a price.

In what should've been a straightforward job—one of the many she had built her reputation upon—she finds herself in pursuit of small-time criminal and wife-beater, Rollo Barla. But things do not go to plan.

She learns that the contract on Rollo was ordered by the Cabal—a loose network of galactic criminals, and that they, and the equally shady Galactic Secret Service, were now in competition to chase her down.

Quick-Kill must use all her considerable talents, skills and guile to stay one step ahead. But events take an unexpected and extraordinary turn.

_A twist that will change Quick-Kill's life forever..._

Reviews

"A well written rip-roaring tale with space ships, lasers, explosions and daring-do...what's not to like?"

"Fun, feisty and fast-moving, this is a highly enjoyable read"

"If you love fantasy or sci-fi, you have to read this book now!"

"A fast-paced, brilliant SciFi story"

"Bloody marvellous!"

Get Quick-kill & The Galactic Secret Service Now
Dying Is Easy

A thrill-filled contemporary mystery set in

the local Brighton stand-up scene

Get Dying is Easy Now

Staying alive is an entirely different matter

Aspiring Brighton comic, Jozee Jackson, has gone missing from the Brighton and Hove flat she shares with her boyfriend, Adam Hanson.

Despite everyone believing Jozee had left him to pursue a new life, Adam suspects foul play and becomes determined to find her.

After a series of shocking discoveries that shed a new and disturbing light on Jozee's private life, Adam begins to wonder if he knows his girlfriend at all.

Why are men from seedy hook-up websites visiting their flat when he's supposed to be at work? Who is behind the torrent of vile text messages and emails sent to Adam's phone? And what is the dark secret of Jozee's dead ex-boyfriend?

Adam won't give up looking until he finds answers to these questions - no matter how dangerous the consequences...

Reviews

"A great read with lots of twists and turns!"

"A surprise ending, but a satisfying one."

"a compelling and believable story that kept me cringing until the end"

"A fast-paced, brilliant SciFi storf you like your crime fiction gritty and uncompromising, then you'll like this one."

"Cracking read, very difficult to put down."

Get Dying is Easy Now

The Lady In The Glass

12 Tales Of Death & Dying

Get The Lady In The Glass Now

Or download this book free when you join my Mostly Readers' Club

The Lady...

At first, when the waters showed me the Lady, I thought she was a sister of The Jesus, for she smiled at me. But when I gave her another looksee, I knew she was also Devil, for she comes from the Blackash and was broken.

Her flesh is white, stuck inside twisted glass that bends and curls—one arm reachin' out to me, the other at her side, her fingers clenched in an angry fist.

And if I look into her black eyes? I see fings. Twistin', turnin' fings.

She tells of dark, doomy worlds, of peoples and places, and of shadows where horrors lurk. Stories that play out in front of me as if I was there.

But hark! Her lips begins to dance! Serpents that whisper and hiss. Words that spin and curl, twistin' and swirlin' and I can do nothin' but watch, watch, watch..."

Reviews

"A terrific set of macabre and thoughtful tales...thoroughly recommended."

"Excellent writing. Excellent imagination. Highly recommended."

"Boldly emotional and sometimes bittersweet."

"A stunningly good read."

"What a read!! My first time reading one of Heritage's books and definitely won't be the last."

"This one is a winner!"

Get The Lady In The Glass Now

Or download this book free when you join my Mostly Readers' Club

The Complete INDIE Editor

55 Essential Copy-edits for the Professional Independent Author

Get The Complete INDIE Editor Now

Stay ahead of the competition with this easy to use, step-by-step guide

When you publish as an Indie Author, be it on an electronic device such as the Kindle or as a printed novel through Createspace or other print-on-demand services, readers are evaluating your writing by using Free First Chapter, etc. With so many novels competing against one another, you need all the tools you can get to convert interest into a buy...

Welcome to the world of copy-editing--the revision, correction and adaptation of a piece of writing for publication. An edit is the singular name given to an individual edit or group of edits in the process of copy-editing. By working through this guide, you will apply each of the fifty-five edits to your novel.

These Copy-edits include:

*Redundant adjectives & overuse of adverbs

*Over thirty overused words & phrases such as that, it, up/down, was/were, had, even, got, etc.

*Overuse of exclamations and the ellipsis

*Proper use of italics, quotations & capitalisation

*Word pairs & homophones

*How to handle numbers & time

*And descriptions of flow, show not tell, writing tenses, dialogue handling and more

Applying these copy-edits to your fiction will allow reviewers and readers to evaluate your novel purely on the strength of your story and not on clumsy and weak prose, overuse of adverbs, repetition and flabbiness.

Your readers may not understand why your fiction is more engaging, but subconsciously they will respond to the improved flow, the more immediate prose and leaner sentences.

The Complete Indie Editor cannot guarantee you marketing success; what it will guarantee is to give your novel the best chance it can get in a tough, competitive and new publishing world.

Getting readers past page one, despite your 'explosive, fast paced hitting-the-ground-running opening', is what this guide is all about.

Let's put it in a nutshell:

The Complete INDIE Editor is a one-stop copy-editing shop to improve your novel before publication.

Reviews

"An indispensable guide for amateurs and professionals"

"Full of very useful tips, tricks and insights"

"A must read for any writer"

"A very useful guide I'd highly recommend."

Get The Complete INDIE Editor Now

About K.J.Heritage

"K.J.Heritage's uncanny sense of pacing and story puts him at the forefront of today's speculative fiction writers."

Samuel Peralta, Amazon bestselling author and creator of The Future Chronicles

My First sci-fi short story, Escaping The Cradle was runner-up in the 2005 Clarke-Bradbury International Science Fiction Competition.

I have also appeared in several anthologies with such self-publishing sci-fi luminaries as Hugh Howey, Michael Bunker and Samuel Peralta.

I have done all the requisite 'writery' jobs such as driver's mate, factory gateman, barman, labourer, telesales operative, sales assistant, warehouseman, IT contractor, Student Union President, university IT helpdesk guy, British Rail signal software designer, premiership football website designer, gigging musician, graphic designer, stand-up comedian, sound engineer, improv artist, magazine editor and web journo... Although I don't like to talk about it. Mostly.

I was born in the UK in one of the more interesting previous centuries. Originally from Derbyshire, I now live in the seaside town of Brighton. I am a tea drinker, avid Twitterer, and Autistic Spectrum (ASD) human being.

Copyright © K.J.Heritage 2014

Flesh Golem (The Scowl: Part One)

Published by Sygasm

All rights reserved.

Cover design: K.J.Heritage & Dee J. Holmes

No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, beamed via black hole to other dimensions, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. You must not circulate this book in any format.

Travelling back in time to publish this book before its official publication date is strictly prohibited.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, living, dead, undead, existing in parallel dimensions or those having reached a higher plane to exist as intelligent corporeal gases, smells or colours, is purely coincidental.

http://mostlywriting.co.uk

