

### Sorely Beset In Nishagog

Copyright 2014 Euan S Mackenzie

Published by Euan S Mackenzie.

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

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, to business establishments, events or whatever is entirely coincidental.

The author accepts no responsibility for any cults or religions which are created as a result of, or influenced by, this work.

Cover art "The Forgotten Antediluvian Past" - Copyright 2014 Euan S Mackenzie.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

A Note on Pronunciation

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Find Out More

For Nadia
SORELY BESET IN NISHAGOG

Being a Nishagogian Tragedy

In Six Parts
[1]

August Casolari opened his eyes and saw his study in ruins - the door had been forced, a bookcase overturned and his favourite writing chair smashed to kindling.

For several seconds he struggled to remember what had happened. His memories were a confused jumble and everything seemed unreal, like this was some extraordinarily vivid dream.

Then he felt a sudden twinge of pain.

Something had happened, something bad, he was sure of that. The pain was getting worse, spreading across his chest, it was becoming difficult to breathe, and he could feel dampness around his groin...

August Casolari suddenly felt afraid.

He looked down then and saw that he had been torn open, that his own intestines were spilling out and that his robes were soaked by his own blood.

Casolari remembered and he sobbed and wished that it was only a dream.

Tears streaked his face as he writhed in agony and tried to push himself up from the floor. It was futile, Casolari realised, he was too weak and his every movement only brought more unbearable pain and caused him to utter another sharp gasp or cry.

That was when Casolari heard the distant Machiacum as it struck four in the morning, its faint chimes drifting in through the open balcony windows, borne on a cooling river breeze. The thin net-curtains billowed ghostly in the pale moonlight and beyond these Casolari could just see the silver lit treetops in his gardens, the lights and spires of the city of Nishagog, and the great dark expanse of the river Mardark. When he felt the caress of that gentle wind upon his sweat and blood stained cheek he relaxed somewhat and for several moments he stared open mouthed up at the moon.

Casolari's blood pooled around him and spread across the polished marble floor while his right arm hung limp and bent at unnatural angles. He was aware of a throbbing pain whenever he tried to move the arm and he could not even make a finger twitch. Just beyond his right hand, literally a finger's breadth away, was the knife - it was still there! He had been so close it was almost funny. Casolari gasped, shook his head and then coughed blood.

August Casolari realised that he was going to die.

In the distance the Machiacum's chimes faded. Then, after a moment's silence, came the first echoing, 'Dong'.

Casolari was not afraid of dying. Or rather, he was, but given his options he felt he would welcome death. Because what really scared him was what if that Thing came back before he died. Because it would come back, Casolari knew it and the prospect terrified him.

He thought then of his daughter and tried not to think about what had happened. Tried not to think about the carnage, the screams, the... No, he thought of his daughter not as she had been when he last saw her but instead he thought of her as a little girl sitting on her mother's lap. His beautiful, smiling, blonde haired little girl who had been so happy and... Casolari could not stand it. His wife was long dead and that little girl was gone as well. Worse, Casolari knew he was responsible for his daughter's fate. He might not have intended it but he had brought about the ruination of his house, his family and perhaps the entire city.

Dong! The Machiacum's distant bell peeled a second time.

August Casolari was not a particularly religious man but he was, in his way, a typical Nishagogian. And like all good Nishagogians, during times of great stress or hardship he turned to his city's eponymous deity, Great Nishagog – whom the people of Nishagog in equal parts loved and dreaded and who was usually depicted artistically as a colossal shambling half-crocodile, half-cuttlefish horror.

"Great Nishagog," went the familiar prayer, "devour my soul." He briefly wondered if, once his soul had been consumed, he would truly live for eternity as part of Great Nishagog's living flesh and if he would be reunited with his wife? Yes, he told himself, yes that must be it. They would be together as one flesh. This thought gave him comfort and he hoped that his daughter might eventually join them. Although, he knew, this might not be possible anymore.

Dong! The third peel.

Casolari was shaken from his thoughts by a gentle thud, like that of a footfall. He felt hopeless terror. No, he thought, not yet - let me die first! A shadow moved across the room. Looking up, Casolari saw a large man framed between the balcony doors and silhouetted by moonlight. Despite his size, the man moved with the easy grace of a dancer. He stepped closer and even in the semi-darkness Casolari saw him clearly.

The man held a sword in his left hand and his arms and chest were bare allowing Casolari to see that he was thickly muscled, sun-bronzed and covered with faded scars. He wore only a pair of dark Nishagogian summer breeks, those short trousers which cut off just below the knee, a black sash of fabric which served as a belt and held his scabbard to his side, and a pair of the 'House-breakers friends,' the pliable, below ankle, shoes ingeniously made from a type of 'sticky' tree sap only found Up-Country. His long brown-blonde hair was tied back by a dirty white headband and his familiar face sported two days worth of uneven stubble. The man's emerald eyes widened as he looked upon Casolari's broken form.

Casolari licked thin lips, tasted blood, and said in a croaked whisper, "You..."

"Aye, me," came the reply.

"Dong!" The Machiacum struck four with awful finality.

Casolari looked again at the knife. "Too late," he whispered as another tear rolled down his cheek.

The intruder clenched a fist. "Who did this to you, Casolari?" he demanded.

Fate, Casolari decided, had a peculiar sense of humour. This man, he knew, had come to kill him. Only, here he was cheated of his vengeance! Even dying Casolari took such pleasure from this thought that it prompted a weak smile.

"Only death... awaits you... here..." Casolari said. Every word was a struggle, every word hurt.

The man sheathed his sword and knelt. Casolari was surprised to feel him take his hand in his own and to clasp him not unaffectionately on the side of his head.

"Ferryman take you, Casolari, we will settle our scores in the afterlife."

Casolari looked him in the eye then and he saw the man he had ordered killed looking back at him not with anger but with regret. This was almost too much. The events of the last forty-eight hours tumbled through his mind in a confused jumble until his thoughts settled upon his daughter.

He gasped as if struck, "Xandar!" he cried.

Three Months Earlier.

"XANDAR?" August Casolari pounded Captain Chadwell's desk with his fist. "Are you telling me that a fictional character stole my Grandfather's sword? That a fictional character broke into Lady Isabella Fiori's mansion, took her jewellery and used them to crown some slattern 'Queen Harlot'? Are you telling me that a fictional character kidnapped harmless old Gaspar Williamson and left him naked, tied to the statue of Cappan Costa?"

"Ah...well, that is..." Roderick Chadwell, Captain of Nishagog's city guard, pulled at the collar of his uniform which had suddenly become uncomfortably tight. "H-he's not... I mean, he is a real person," Chadwell finally managed, "He is, uh, I mean, he was a famous pirate. He, um, a-apparently h-has quite the reputation along the Sword Coast."

"Really?" Casolari sneered, "Does that look like a real person to you?" He tossed a tatty novel, or 'Dreadful' in the Nishagogian vernacular, onto the desk between them. Its title was, 'Xandar - Slaves of the Moon Maidens'. The cover showed a muscular man wearing only harness and loin-cloth, struggling with two whip-wielding, blue-skinned, buxom Amazons who were wearing even less.

"N-n-no sir, I m-mean, that is..."

"I want this thief, Chadwell." Casolari said his voice dangerously calm, "Now please, tell me that you have some leads. Something. Anything. Because, mark this Chadwell, if you cannot give me this Xandar, I will have a Captain of the Guard who can."

"Y-y-y-yes, well..." Chadwell suddenly felt like crying.

He had never wanted to be Captain of Nishagog's City Guard. But his uncle had ignored his objections, as he always did, and obtained the position for him at great cost. "Roddy," he remembered his uncle jabbing him rudely in the chest as he spoke, his face ruddy and his moustache quivering, "do you know how many assholes I had to kiss, Roddy, to get this job for you? Do you? It was a lot, Roddy, it was a hell of a lot. So listen well, laddie, you're a man of consequence now. The Captain of the Guard. Why that's a plum many a fine fellow would give their right nut for. So, laddie, whatever you do - don't fuck it up!"

"Stop dreaming!" Casolari shouted, "And speak up man! What can you tell me about him?"

"Xandar..." What could he say? He looked about in desperation. At the walls, at his feet, anywhere but meet Casolari's dreadful gaze. His eyes fell on the novel lying upon the desk. "Ah, that is, um, Xandar... Xandar is... Xandar is a thief, a pirate, a reaver, a lover, the one time king of..."

"That's the blurb off the back of the book!" Casolari slapped the cowering man across the face. "Get out, get out!" Casolari screamed and flung the book at Chadwell's back as he fled his own office.

The Present.

Xandar held Casolari as the dying man struggled to speak.

"Xandar!" Casolari's eyes bulged, "my daughter..." He trailed off but Xandar saw his lips move and he heard a rasping hiss issue from Casolari's throat.

"Tiana?" Xandar squeezed Casolari's left arm forcefully. "What about Tiana, tell me!"

Tiana Casolari troubled Xandar greatly because he was afraid he might have to kill her. How else could he have been caught? She had known where Xandar was staying, she had known when he would be there, and she could have told her father...

Xandar shook his head. That brazen, beautiful tease - no, it could not be her. He refused to believe it. Tiana was in love with him, he was sure of it.

But someone had betrayed him. Someone had told Casolari, Fingerman and the Guard that Xandar could be found each morning, usually dead drunk, in the attic rooms above Dimler's Bar and Grill and that someone now had Dimler's blood on their hands.

However much Xandar might not want to believe it, he had to accept that Tiana was the most likely culprit. So then the question was what should he do with her?

Casolari suddenly grabbed Xandar's arm, his cold fingers digging into Xandar's bicep with surprising power, and he began gulping air as he tried, desperately, to speak. He looked from Xandar to the knife lying on the floor nearby then back again, as if trying to communicate something. Finally he managed to mouth the words, "Tiana... please... she... you must... Nishagog!"

With a final groan Casolari again turned his head toward the knife and then, enough, August Casolari spoke no more.

"Must?" said Xandar in a whisper, "I must do nothing for you."

Xandar laid the body of his enemy down with surprising care, resting his head gently on the marble floor, then stood.

Casolari's corpse bore dreadful wounds and his rich, heavy robes were torn and soaked with blood. Odd, Xandar thought, why would he be wearing such thick clothes on such a warm night?

He nudged Casolari with his foot and said, "If I could recall you to life, Casolari, then I would kill you again." But his words sounded strange and unnatural in the moonlit quiet of Casolari's study. Despite the summer heat, Xandar suddenly shivered. Something felt very wrong here.

As if on cue, from nearby, there was the sound of a musket shot, which was followed moments later by a lingering scream. Whoever was responsible for Casolari's death, Xandar decided, must still be here, and, by the sound of it, the killing was not yet over.

This focused Xandar's thoughts. Tiana might be somewhere nearby and she might be in danger, assuming, obviously, that she were not actually several miles away, asleep in her city centre apartments. Xandar had not yet decided if he meant to kiss her or strangle her, but he was sure of one thing – he would be the one to decide her fate, no other. Indeed the thought of someone else doing harm to her upset him. This emotion took him by surprise; did he care for her more than he had allowed himself to believe?

Xandar frowned. When it came to Tiana he always seemed to make bad decisions. At least that was what Templeton Lodge had told him and Templeton, damn him, had an infuriating habit of being right about most things. He looked down at her father's corpse, "What have you done, Casolari?" he asked. The corpse, however, made no answer. Another thing that Templeton Lodge, Nishagog's greatest detective, had told Xandar was that a crime scene tells its own story, that it can give you all the answers you need - if only you let it speak.

Xandar looked around the study. He saw a trail of bloody footsteps which led from Casolari's corpse and out into the shadowed hallway beyond. He saw how the heavy wooden door had been broken open and nearly wrenched free from a cracked and splintered door frame. He saw the gore splattered upon the door and on various bookcases and glass panelled cabinets. Then there was Casolari's body itself and the terrible wounds inflicted upon it. The killer must be someone of great strength and... something was wrong. The bloody footprints, Xandar realised, were too small. He placed one of his own feet next to them for comparison. Too damned small! They were the prints of a woman or a child. Xandar furrowed his brow, had there been more than one killer? A bigger man, perhaps, to do the violence and a woman directing it, or was there some other explanation?

There was another distant, faint scream. This one was short and sharp, unmistakably that of a man. Well, Xandar supposed, he did not need the aid of Templeton Lodge to solve this one. The killer was out there and all Xandar had to do was go and find him - or her.

Then what, shake their hand? Xandar was not so sure. Kill Casolari, fine. But to then start killing his men, men who were mere paid mercenaries? That offended Xandar's sense of morality. He would put a man down if they got in his way, but once he had done what he set out to do, in this case ending August Casolari, why then it was done. He was not about to start hunting men down, no matter how poorly they had chosen their employer.

Still, whoever was responsible for all this, they deserved some respect. Xandar had sneaked into Casolari's house before to rendezvous secretly with Tiana and he knew from experience just how well guarded it was. Anyone with the balls to kill Casolari and take on his hired-muscle in a fight was not to be underestimated.

Xandar was just considering what to do next, because he really had not planned his evening beyond gutting Casolari, when something caught his eye. Casolari's corpse was slumped against a glass-panelled cabinet of rich mahogany and that cabinet contained a selection of occult artefacts. Amongst the items on display there was one in particular which stood out.

Was that... could it be?

It was widely known around the bars, baths and vice-dens of Nishagog that Casolari was crazy for the occult. Magics, spells, cursed items, idols to evil gods, Casolari collected them all. He was not unique in this, there were many amongst the city's wealthy elite who enjoyed collecting such items. But Casolari, one of the richest men in the city, went rather over and beyond most rich dabblers in the occult market. He spent copiously when it came to any ancient Bhorrian artefacts, items such as queer idols, age-rotted mummies, gilded skulls, worm eaten books, ceremonial blades, anything from the lost Bhorrian civilisation which once dominated the continent.

Each of the occult items on display in Casolari's cabinet had a beautifully hand-written information card accompanying it. The first item on the top shelf was a withered and blackened left hand, the fingers of which were contracted into a fearful looking claw. Its information card stated that it had once been the hand of a long dead necromancer, however a splatter of Casolari's blood now part-obscured the wizard's name. It began with a 'V' and ended with "na", that much was clear. From the corner of his eye Xandar imagined he saw one of the fingers on the hand twitch.

Next to this was what, at a glance, appeared to be a huge red ruby resting on a blue satin cushion. On closer inspection it seemed there was red smoke moving and roiling inside the stone. The label read, "The Heart of the Elephant." This did not look like any heart Xandar had ever seen, but nor did it look an especially valuable gem in spite of its size.

There were a dozen and more other items, stone idols, gilded animal skulls, a wooden flute painted with queer runes, even a human skull whose label proclaimed it to be that of the legendary pirate, Heyreddin Babarossa, or as many knew him, 'Redbeard'.

But these things were not what caught Xandar's eye.

On the shelf directly beneath Redbeard's skull there was a pistol, an old, ornate and very familiar pistol, one which Xandar had not seen in over ten years.

Blackheart, this was Blackheart's pistol, one of his favourite toys! Xandar realised he was smiling. He never thought he would ever see one of Blackheart's pistols again. Did Casolari even know what he had here? Xandar supposed he must. One of the cabinet doors was already open, the key in the lock, so Xandar reached in and took the gun.

It was large for a pistol, heavy, built to an old design and the metalwork was ornately finished with intricate swirls and patterns. The firing mechanism around the trigger was oddly shaped and the mechanism itself was clearly more complex than an ordinary gun with several small leavers which could be moved and set. After careful examination Xandar was convinced - this was the gun he remembered. Why it even had the initials, 'QB' engraved and embossed in gold on the butt.

Quentyn Blackheart, AKA, Cappan Blackheart. That ruthless old dog, one of the finest pirates to ever sail the Sword Coast and a man who had raided shipping in all three hemispheres. If only he had not been a complete lunatic, he might still be around today, Xandar thought.

The gun had been part of a matched set, a pair of identical pistols which had been Blackheart's pride and joy. Xandar remembered how Blackheart had delighted in passing the pistols around whenever he had guests on board his ship. He even remembered the old pirate giving him a demonstration on how it worked, laughing as he explained the mechanisms. That had been when Xandar was his favourite of course - long before Blackheart had ordered Xandar thrown overboard after he had found him drunk and asleep in Blackheart's own bed. Whenever there had been a prisoner who required killing, an important one mind, not the common muck that would be sold as slaves or tossed overboard, these would be the pistols Blackheart called for.

Xandar took Blackheart's gun and shoved it into his belt. The gun itself would not be especially valuable, not without its twin, but Xandar was feeling sentimental. Old Blackheart, he thought, the man was a dangerous lunatic, but he had been mostly good to Xandar.

Xandar turned to leave and paused. On Xandar's right was the balcony windows where he had come in. In the distance, beyond the mansion's gardens, the lights of Nishagog, great and bejewelled whore of cities, were spread out like a star map. What a view, Xandar thought. That was what Casolari's wealth paid for, he supposed. He looked from Casolari's torn and mangled body to the broken study door.

Why was he hesitating? Because something was wrong here, Xandar just knew it. Xandar sometimes got these feelings and he had never been wrong before. A small voice in the back of his head suggested that he should leave, that he should retreat to one of the many dockside taverns, pick up a wench and get thoroughly drunk.

Tiana. Damn that girl. She was making Xandar make a mistake again.

Xandar sighed. So he would make a mistake. He would find Tiana and get her out, find the identity of Casolari's killer and, perhaps most importantly of all, he would find Casolari's vault. Well it was only fitting that Xandar take some compensation from Casolari for all he had been through these last few days and as someone else was busy taking care of the guards, well Xandar was not a man to pass up such a glorious opportunity. None of this should take more than thirty minutes Xandar decided. He was still not sure what he would do with Tiana when he actually found her, but Xandar was confident he would figure something out.

On a whim he stooped and picked the knife up off the floor and examined it more closely. Xandar frowned. He did not recognise the metal the blade was forged with. It looked very similar to silver but was much harder and heavier. Whatever it was made from, it was clearly Bhorrian. Had it served some ceremonial purpose? There was a line of little spidery-looking runes etched into the blade along the edge. Stranger still was that these were Old Bhorrian runes and not the High Bhorrian which you usually found on antediluvian pieces. Most unusual - Xandar knew a smattering of Old Bhorrian, but these characters were not only tiny but written in an archaic script. Xandar could not make out a single syllable, but he knew a man who could, Professor Reginald 'Reggie' Xoran, _Nishagog University's_ foremost lecturer in archaeology. Reggie was an old friend and mentor of Xandar's and he would, Xandar was sure, be overcome with excitement with a piece like this strange knife. Xandar decided he would take it to give to the old man and so he thrust the blade into his belt alongside the pistol.

Then he drew his sword and stepped past the broken study door and into the darkness beyond.
[2]

Forty Nine Hours Earlier.

Tap, tap, tap. James Cotton's patience had run out. But instead of shouting he wore a puckered scowl, fussed with his bow tie, adjusted his toupee and straightened his waxed moustache. All subtle signs which would have told his friends that his temper was about to break as suddenly as the summer storm currently raging outside.

In his right hand he held his gentleman's cane, a neat little antique with a gold duck head handle which he used to vent his frustration on the marble floor....

Tap, tap, tap, his cane echoed in the reception room of August Casolari's Palace. The room was large, it had been divided into two sections with the area to the rear by the patio doors raised on a stepped platform and demarcated by a line of pillars, and dark, lit only by two braziers glowing orange in the middle of the room. James stood towards the rear in the shadows by the set of sliding patio doors. Rain drummed noisily against the glass behind him.

The reason for his anger was the gang of four rain-sodden men, all good union men from the Shore Porters Society, who were slowly lifting a heavy shipping crate onto a stout stone platform in the middle of the room. The platform was meant to be an altar, though James was not happy with how it had turned out - it looked distinctly un-altarish and he wished there was time to have it removed and to commission another. It had taken the porters almost an hour to take the crate up from Casolari's private pier to this reception chamber. An hour!

Tap, tap, tap... James Cotton, who was well aware of the incompetence, laziness and stupidity of the average Nishagogian, had supervised every single, painfully slow, step of that journey, a task made worse by the weather.

The storm had arrived with the crate. Cotton and the porters had been waiting for the barge down on the pier, sweating profusely in the stifling night-time humidity when the winds had just picked up suddenly and had been followed moments later by sheets of driving rain. They had never even seen the barge, although they heard the plaintiff keening of its warning bell and the occasional faint bargeman's cry above the gusting wind and rain. At last, they had seen a dim light which had grown brighter till the barge's launch came into view through the driving rain and darkness. It had edged towards them slowly, its flailing oars struggling to pull them through the choppy river waters whipped up by the sudden squall.

While the porters had been disturbed by this sudden storm James Cotton had merely clung to his umbrella which he held angled against the rain and frowned. He was not surprised or disturbed at all, but then he knew what the barge was carrying.

Tap, tap, tap... James watched the porters lifting the crate. He noted the side of the crate nearest him was blackened as if it had been burned. To think what was inside radiated so much power! But such thoughts only exacerbated his impatience. Would that the fools would hurry up! He brought a perfumed kerchief to his nose and inhaled the flowery bouquet.

He cursed the porters, then he cursed the city and then he cursed its feckless citizens. But most of all, he cursed the smell. How could anyone stand it? The whole city constantly stank of damp and decay. Everywhere he went; his nose was assailed by the stench of rotten vegetation and mould. The natives claimed that he was imagining things, but James could scarcely believe this. He had lived here for twenty years and it still bothered him! Even here in Casolari's palace, he could see mould around the edges of the windows, mould in the cracks and crevices and even up in the corners. The damn stuff was everywhere and yet somehow everyone just ignored it. What was wrong with them?

Sometimes James Cotton wondered why he did not just jump on the first boat home, return to the Old World and try his luck in Paris or London. No doubt because it would mean starting again and that made no sense, not when he was just starting to reap the benefits of his years of hard work. James Cotton had worked to earn fame and respect. He was now a fixture at all the right social events, had a book deal, why, there was even talk of his running for the Senate.

Was it not worth tolerating a few porters, who were deliberately working as slowly as possible because it was the middle of the night and they were on triple time, for such rewards? Of course it was, but James so desperately wanted to shout at them, to tell them exactly how lazy they were and what an appalling job they were doing.

But he did not. He dare not, because these were Shore Porter men and James Cotton feared August Casolari's wrath should he be the cause of the Porters downing tools and walking out.

The Shore Porters Society was perhaps the most powerful and the most feared of all the Unions in Nishagog. It took a brave man to speak against the Shore Porters and even great politicians such as August Casolari courted them for their support. Better to have them on your side than to have their teamsters show up at one of your political rallies armed with clubs, knives, chains and broken bottles.

The Porters were headquartered in the docks, or as Nishagogians called it, 'Da Docks', Casolari's own district. As Casolari himself told it, one of his first actions as a young prospective candidate for the Senate had been to go to their offices, and to perform the traditional crawl of supplication, an action designed to humiliate Nishagog's rich, and to then kiss the ring of the feared Grandmaster, or 'Gaffer', of the Shore Porters. Casolari was philosophical about the entire process now, describing it as a rite of passage. But James doubted that Casolari would be happy about having to perform it again, for any reason.

Tap, tap, tap, August Casolari was a great man, a man James Cotton admired intensely, and most certainly not a man to be trifled with. No, if James were to anger the Porters, if Casolari again had to beg their forgiveness, well, James Cotton did not want to imagine Casolari's fury.

Oh, Casolari played the part of the smiling, caring man of the people well, but behind closed doors he could be utterly ruthless. Still, he was a very useful friend to have and James Cotton was resolved to staying on his good side.

Tap, tap...

"Stop that." There was no mistaking that voice or that tone of command.

James Cotton forced a smile and whirled, "August," he cooed, "There you, uh, are."

Casolari was a head taller than the more rotund Cotton. Rake thin where James was broad shouldered, he stood straight backed with water glistening on his bald head, a large droplet forming on the end of his hooked nose, and wearing a soaked grey greatcoat which he had pulled tight about himself.

A gentleman, James judged, endowed with certain universal qualities, would always rise to the top. August Casolari was such a man. In England or France, Casolari would be the man of the century, a Cromwell or a Richelieu. Here, well in James' opinion, he was wasted in this lawless, barbaric place, but even here he was a man of consequence, of power. But the struggles Casolari and a few other decent men faced just to run the city, why, James Cotton found it quite distressing.

The whole damned hemisphere was corrupt and corrupting in James' opinion. It was overrun with pirates, robber barons, strange religions, death cults, and insane little wars, none of which made any damned sense. Nishagog was, James would concede, the best of it, the only true metropolis on the continent, the only place with any decent society. Yet even Nishagog was like the asylum when compared with a European city.

The incessant riots; the week long religious festivals, half of which seemed to end in riots; the pirates; the ridiculous daily pamphlets which Nishagogians called, without irony, 'newspapers'; the crime; the way that even genteel philosophical debate seemed to inevitably descend into violence... James Cotton found even thinking about it all quite exhausting.

"Are we ready," Casolari demanded, "what's the delay?" A sudden gust of wind caused rain to crash violently against the windows, the curtains to billow, and made the lantern lights flicker. Shadows played over Casolari's face. In this dim light, James observed, his nose really did look like a vulture's beak.

"It's these union men." James complained, "They seem to take an interminable length of time to do even the simplest of tasks. Not to mention they have already stopped for two cigarette breaks."

"Our friends the Porters will do as the Porters do," said Casolari with the stoic calm that only a Nishagogian noble well used to dealing with union labour could muster.

At that moment there was a loud cracking sound as one of the porters, a terrifying looking man with a scar which ran from his chin up across his mouth and through the ruin of his nose, began prying the crate open with a crowbar.

The foreman ambled over. He was as tall as Casolari and thrice as broad. His face was so puffy and swollen it looked as though he had been moonlighting as a boxer's punching bag and his nose had clearly been broken several times. Huge biceps strained against a too tight shirt of thick navy and white hoops and he fumbled to make a roll-up with his slab-like hands.

"That's yer crate now, chief," the foreman said, his voice as rough as gravel. He did not bother removing his cloth cap or making any other indication that he recognised Casolari's rank. Instead he held up and inspected his rather crude roll-up and then, evidently satisfied, stuck it behind his ear.

Behind him there was another crack as the side of the crate fell away. The scar faced one hooted with delight as though he were some sort of monkey. Within, packed in straw was a large chunk of black rock which possessed a metallic sheen across which the lamp light danced and shimmered. It was around one metre long and half a metre high, and its surface was uneven and wildly pockmarked.

James gasped with delight, but Casolari's face betrayed nothing of his emotions. As for the big foreman, he simply sniffed and remarked, "Bugger me, it's stopped raining."

And indeed it had. The rain and wind had died suddenly and, like that, the storm was over. Within minutes the still night air was again filled with the song of crickets, as if the storm had never been.

"Incredible," James Cotton whispered.

"You," Casolari said to the foreman, "take your men, leave us."

The big foreman looked Casolari up and down for an insolent moment before smiling. "You're the chief, big chief." He clapped his heavy hands together. "Come on, lads, time for a fag!"

While the other porters followed the big man out, jostling and laughing with one another, James and Casolari walked over to inspect the rock.

"I confess, I was expecting more," Casolari said with a frown.

James pulled a dainty white glove off his right hand and then touched the rock, pressing bare flesh upon it. He smiled an easy, reassuring smile.

"August," James said, "give me your hand." He made a point of saying Casolari's name. The rich and powerful loved to hear you say their names.

"Come on now, August." James insisted, sensing Casolari's inherent reluctance towards any form of familiarity with a man he considered his inferior. An unusual, awkward smile formed on Casolari's lips, but he offered a hand. James took it, almost affectionately, and placed it palm down on the rock.

Casolari gasped and snatched his hand away. "It stings!" After a moment Casolari touched the stone again, this time holding his hand against its cold black surface. He held it there for a second, then five, then twenty. He began laughing.

"Do you see now?" James asked, smiling. He placed his hand on the rock as well.

"This is incredible," said Casolari, whispering. "The stone, it, it feels alive. There is an energy flowing into me, I feel invigorated!"

"You, of course, remember I spoke with you about certain stones and crystals which retain energy and how we might use this energy to heal ourselves?"

"I remember you had me lie in a wooden pyramid for three hours 'meditating' with blue pebbles on my 'natural pathways' or some garbage. I remember it did not do my toothache the slightest bit of good." Casolari's tone was admonishing, but his sharp, energetic eyes hinted at amusement.

"Yes, ah," James coughed nervously. He did not like to be reminded of his failures. He had learned from that mistake though, learned that Casolari, although enthusiastic, was not interested in subtlety or meditative occult philosophy, no it was the showier, flashy activities he liked. Banging tables, ectoplasm on the walls, precognitive card readings which uncannily highlighted his wealthy guests' finer character points and made them feel generous towards giving campaign contributions, that sort of thing.

"August, I assure you, forty-eight hours from now both you and your guests shall experience a night to remember." This was a promise James Cotton made with confidence. He had purchased three barrels of ectoplasm especially and he and his staff had already completed a dozen rehearsals. Which reminded him, they needed another run through - Carlos kept on missing his cue and Martha was still mispronouncing her High Bhorrian.

"Indeed?"

"Oh, I promise. August, I mean to guide your guests through a genuine Bhorrian ritual from the New Kingdom period called, as best I can translate it, 'The calling of the ancients'. This 'rock' shall play a central role as we shall tap into its energies. The Bhorrians called them, 'Skyfallen'. Of course Skyfallen is merely our best translation." James left it unsaid that to pronounce the original Bhorrian term correctly one would need have the tip of their tongue mutilated so it was forked like that of a snake. "But we today use the rather unimaginative term meteorite."

"The geology department at the university has a long room filled with endless rows of cupboards, each stuffed full of meteorites." Casolari said. He left it unsaid that he was a patron of the University of Nishagog's Geology department. "But none, I wager, like this. They would surely have brought them out during funding drives if they did!"

"Our friends," James sneered, "in the geology department know nothing. They have no imagination, no sense of wonder! They are mundane little men who cannot even acknowledge, let alone receive, the nurturing esoteric energies which flow around and through us all.

"But I receive them. August, I have put myself into deep fugue states and communed with my canine spirit guide, Humpalegnow, and with his guidance I have dreamed of the forgotten antediluvian past. I have seen the sky scoured red, alive with hundreds, nay thousands, of meteorites as they streaked across the heavens and brought their blessings unto this earth. I have seen wattle daubed Bhorrian priests prostrate themselves in supplication before these very rocks. I have seen this and more, August."

A moment of silence followed James Cotton's little rant.

When Captain Ruiz-Costa first discovered the Newer World, he, and the subsequent European colonists who followed him, found a continent which was, beyond the prosperous native cities along the coasts, largely empty of human life. What inhabitants they did find Up-Country tended to be misshapen, barbarous and utterly hostile.

However there was ample evidence that the continent had once played host to a thriving and advanced civilisation. The interior was littered with ancient, ruined cities and temple complexes, all hidden beneath thick jungle vegetation or partially sunken in disease-ridden swamps. Explorers had found temple wall hieroglyphs, inscriptions on Stelae and even some unspeakably ancient books which had been preserved in the drier desert regions. These all spoke of the once great Bhorrian civilisation, of its irresistible rise, its glorious peak and inevitable decline and fall. The final, and rarest, texts seemed to postdate the fall and spoke of deluges, of great walls of water boiling across the land, of the ancient ones descending from the heavens to devour the faithless and of the survivors rapid descent into savagery.

This history had only slowly been rediscovered. However, almost from the first, a few of the European settlers, and then only when they slept in or near certain locations, started having unusual and extremely vivid dreams. Some of these dreams would lead the dreamer to, upon waking, stumble off into the undergrowth and to subsequently uncover some long forgotten temple, or statue or tomb or, in rare cases, even an entire city. More commonly the dreamers reported visions of a lost world, of the Bhorrian peoples, their woad painted priests, their wars and of their sacrifices to their terrible gods.

The nature and veracity of these dreams was, to this day, hotly debated in academic circles. It was alleged by certain scholars, though by no means accepted by the scientific mainstream, that these dreams were nothing less than visions of the last days of that lost civilisation, before whatever unknown cataclysm overwhelmed them. Certainly, this was the interpretation which James Cotton ascribed to his own dreams and visions.

"Well," said Casolari at last, "that still does not explain why the very rock seems to tingle with energy."

James gave a contented little sigh. "Among the spiritualist community the consensus is that these meteorites were vessels, ah, much like our own ships, used by the Old Ones to travel between stars as simply as we would from port to port."

"This rock was a ship?" Casolari's tone suggested he found this a little too much to believe.

"Well, this particular rock was probably a bit of a larger vessel. But yes, it is said the Old Ones once traversed the universe in great egg-like cocoons. And this rock is no doubt a fragment of one such vessel. I know of several antiquarians who say the magic the Bhorrians learned from these beings was directly responsible for..."

"Their downfall, yes, I do not need a history lesson from you, James. What of the energy?"

"Ah, no doubt some residual charge from close contact with the cocoon's occupant."

"I see." Casolari began pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. "Well, I can see you have things well in hand." He paused, "Hmm that reminds me." Casolari smiled at James, "I hope to make a rather important announcement before we begin proceedings. It is just a little surprise for you all. I hope I shall not steal your thunder too much."

"August?" James prompted.

"Can you keep a secret, James?"

"Of course, August."

"Tell no one, James, on your life." He waited for James' nod of assent. "My daughter," Casolari let slip an uncharacteristic and nervous laugh which hinted at his discomfort around this particular subject, "has discovered the location of Xandar's hideout and I have Fingerman preparing the arrest. This... ordeal will soon be over, James."

Now this was news! Xandar apprehended. Well, almost... "Ah, you do not think..."

"I know." Casolari cut him off. "That man," he meant Xandar, "has an uncommon amount of luck on his side. But I am taking no chances. This time we shall have him. I have twenty guards, James, good men who value the law, men I can trust. These are men who will not baulk when we reveal who we mean to arrest. Fingerman himself has vetted each one."

Fingerman - the man made James' skin crawl. Thank heavens he was Casolari's man! He remembered Fingerman's eyes and the cruelty he had seen there. He looked at people as a madman might look at a spider before pulling its legs off. James Cotton had little doubt that Fingerman was utterly and completely evil. Still, if Fingerman was behind it, Casolari's plan might just work.

"I wish you well, August." James' was being sincere. He had no love for Xandar.

James Cotton and Xandar had met once before, albeit many years ago. Back then the current fashion for all things occult had still been the preserve of enthusiasts and a few rich eccentrics. The particular evening in question James had attended the Salon of the now lamentably deceased Topher Fitzroy Carlos.

Topher had owned a large, if slightly decrepit, neo-colonial mansion with extensive walled gardens which backed onto the rather run-down Vandermeer Park. Everything about Topher from his home, to his clothes was just a little bit dingy and faded. His soirées had been well respected, however, and the man had never stinted on refreshments. Nor had he ever stinted in his support for the occult or spiritualist communities. So James had attended expecting Topher's usual spread of quality beverages, excellent food, good company, and perhaps a reading or séance to round off the evening.

The usual familiar faces had all been there, of course, but there had been someone else, someone who had caught James' eye and his breath the very moment he had walked into Topher's billiard room.

Xandar. He stood out like a panther amongst a herd of nervous deer. Xandar had been scarce more than a boy at the time, James guessed nineteen if he was a day, James had seen him leaning against the mantle by the roaring fire, alone. He wore a sullen scowl that threatened violence and he sported the sharp, chiselled cheekbones of youth and blazing emerald eyes which were framed by a mane of square cut black hair.

Yes, black hair, clearly dyed, black hair. James had rolled his eyes at the obvious teenaged affectation. Xandar was a hulking, handsome, brute who was oh so gauche and who was dressed in an ill fitting suit which seemed particularly tight across the chest.

"See something you like?" Topher had materialised then, grabbing James' arm by the elbow, and leering at him. "I'll introduce you if you want, but you're not his type Cotton."

No, James remembered, Topher's wife had been more Xandar's type. But they had not known that then.

Xandar had been Topher's very special guest. He had been presented to the assembled company as a young man who had been Up-Country and who had gained some expertise on Bhorrian artefacts by dint of being the sole survivor of Professor Mikeal Van Master's disastrous expedition into the eastern reaches of the Forest of Silence in search of the lost Bhorrian temples of the Calambran basin. To James' astonishment, he had realised Topher meant for this young brute to give a presentation and then field questions as if he were a lettered faculty member from the University's Department of Antiquities.

Expertise, ha, what a joke! The only expertise Xandar had shown was in his ogling of the female guests and his entirely inappropriate pursuit and, later in the topiary maze, seduction of Topher's wife, Letitia Fitzroy Carlos. As for his behaviour towards James and the other respected Spiritualists present, well he was little short of nasty. A growling thug, he had scorned the years of collective experience accumulated by men and women infinitely more knowledgeable that he would ever be.

When bested in conversation and debate he had retreated to dropping dark hints about things he had seen Up-Country as if his getting lost in the jungle and frightened by the monkeys made him an expert at anything. Then, of course, he had tried to imply he had not only seen, but fought some type of devil, some creatures he described as being eyeless, black armoured, steel toothed, many mouthed, in short he had invented some terror no one had ever seen or heard of, it was absurd!

James had sipped his cognac, sighed loudly, and then nudged his neighbour in the ribs to whisper, "What twaddle. Would that I had been there to have seen what really happened"

There was no place in the modern world for a man like Xandar, of that James was certain. He was a barbarian, an out and out thug, a threat to all that was civilised, decent and proper. To think that such a man was loose in Nishagog even now, robbing, stealing - though hopefully not for much longer.

"He will hang on the morning after our little party, depend on it." Casolari smiled.

"Good." Let Casolari hang the brute. "Ah, but, August, will the courts permit this?"

Casolari laughed. "What is the point in owning judges if you cannot get them to expedite a hanging or two? I already have a signed death warrant.

"There shall be no trial, you can count on that. Xandar is too dangerous to put to trial and I seriously doubt a jury could be found in this city to convict him. Fingerman would have us simply slit his throat when we take him. No, the last thing we need is Xandar dying off stage and his reputation growing as a consequence. The people of Nishagog must see Xandar hang to kill his fame."

Of course, this outcome would doubtless save Casolari's own reputation and that of his daughter. But James, wisely, made no mention of this.

"Where has he been hiding all this time?" The hunt for Xandar had been one of the most prominent stories in the Nishagogian scandal sheets these last few months.

"Sharing a dusty attic with a lot of old furniture, would you credit it? If only the people of this city could have seen him, their hero, sitting alone in a dark attic above some pretentious bar with no one to talk to but spiders and rats.

"He might have evaded us for months yet had it not been for Tiana's discovery."

"Fortuitous indeed, August, you, ah, must be proud." James was uncomfortable. One wrong word might upset Casolari. No man wanted to be reminded that his daughter had been sleeping with his enemy.

Tiana Casolari had been fucking Xandar and the entire city knew it. The joke was that lacking a wife with which to make a cuckold of him, Xandar had taken Casolari's daughter instead and his tryst with Tiana had dominated the gossip columns and the society pages. Or at least they had dominated the pages of the newspapers owned and run by Casolari's rivals. Casolari's own stable of titles and those of his allies had remained conspicuously silent on this particular detail.

James had long considered Tiana to be a vapid, self-obsessed young woman. Pretty enough but dealing with her was a chore. Despite her father's hints that she had 'discovered' Xandar's hideout through her own cunning, James suspected she had known about it, and been a regular visitor to it, for quite some time.

So why betray the man now? Had she been spurned, had Xandar, unwisely, taken another lover? Whatever the reason, it suggested a hitherto unseen degree of ruthlessness and ambition from Tiana Casolari. James resolved to pay more attention to the younger Casolari in future.

Casolari said in a quiet voice, "My daughter is growing up. She says she wants a more active role in the family business. Good. She is a smart young woman and a little responsibility and hard work will be the making of her."

The girl had played a cruel game, had greatly inconvenienced and distressed her poor father, and had ruined her own reputation in the process. James was unsure what she could have hoped to have gained from such a liaison. Still if she had come to her senses all to the good, and if her father wanted to portray this as a positive action on her behalf, well, that was understandable. Casolari would find no dissenting words from James Cotton.

"Now," Casolari clapped his hands together suddenly, the noise echoing in the darkened room, "I must leave you. I have work to do before this night is out, much as I might like to discuss the finer points of Xandar's downfall with you. If you will excuse me..."

"Ah, August, if I may... A moment, please..."

Casolari frowned, obviously annoyed.

"I took the liberty..." James Cotton produced a beautiful, rectangular, leather bound presentation box, flipped the clasps and snapped it open. "I know you have been looking for display pieces of late. I saw this and... well... a gift, August."

A small knife rested upon red velvet and glistened brilliant silver in the dim orange light from the braziers. All along the blade's edge there were tiny markings, an indecipherable Bhorrian script looking so much like tracks through snow.

"I got it at the same auction as the meteorite," Cotton said. "It is Bhorrian, Late Period, believed to be a ceremonial blade belonging to the priesthood. I knew you were on the look-out for interesting pieces so..."

"Exquisite," Casolari said. Casolari picked the blade up gingerly, and examined it.

"It is not unique," James said, "but, ah, still a fine piece. I understand there have been others found at various temple sites. I think if you consult 'Warwick's Catalogue of Antiquities' you should find an entry or two on it."

"Indeed. A fascinating piece, James, thank you." Casolari turned the knife over, glinting lamp light dancing upon his face. "It looks silver, but it is not... and these markings..." Casolari smiled. James felt a surge of relief.

There was a brief silence. From outside came laughter and coughing. The porters, still on their cigarette break. This seemed to rouse Casolari.

"Well," he said, "Two days from now... or is it just tomorrow night? I need some sleep, I fear. Thank you, James. May Nishagog devour your soul." Casolari's smile was broad and his eyes twinkled with life. He clasped Cotton's arm with both hands and gave it a friendly squeeze and then he was gone.

But something of him remained. A sort of glow or warmth or... it was hard to explain. For a moment, James reflected, he had been hit with the full force of Casolari's charisma. It was pretty damned hard to resist. So he did not and instead he just smiled and basked in the great man's approval.

Then he placed this hand back upon the meteorite and that warm sensation just vanished. James felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he shivered. Shocked, he pulled his hand away and took a step back.

The room suddenly felt too big, too dark, too empty and he was very aware that he was all alone. There were deep, threatening shadows all around him and... what was that... could he hear screaming?

The screams seemed to grow louder, to get closer. Then James saw the meteorite, nestled amidst its bed of straw within the packing crate, he saw it crack and split and break open as if it were a monstrous black egg. He tried to scream and found he had no voice. He tried to run and his legs betrayed him. From within the egg, for it must be an egg and no rock, something began to emerge, something misshapen and alien with four long spider-like legs, something whose very movements were unsettling... He blinked and it was gone. The meteorite lay there, still intact and he no longer heard any screams. Cotton licked dry lips and, suddenly needing to hear human voices, he hurried towards the door to find the porters.

He was right to be afraid, however, as he would die in this very room almost forty-eight hours later.
[3]

The Present.

A dark splatter of fresh blood was sprayed across the wall like an exhibit from Nishagog's New Art movement. Xandar frowned. He was crouched in the shadows, hidden behind a line of doric columns. Beyond him the courtyard was a large square of pristinely raked sand which positively glowed beneath the brilliant moon. Lying just to Xandar's left was a discarded musket. The barrel was still warm to the touch and the air was ripe with the stench of black powder. Yet despite the blood and the weapon there was no sign of any corpse.

Xandar removed his bandana. It was stained with dirt and damp to the touch. He used it to wipe the sweat from the palms of his hands then carefully refolded and tied it tight.

Where was the body and why move it? Since leaving Casolari, Xandar had crept through long, empty galleries and shadow-haunted, moonlit rooms and he had not seen a single person living or dead. Where were the many servants and guards?

Despite the oppressive humidity he shivered.

"Great Nishagog," Xandar whispered to himself, invoking the protection of Nishagog's dreadful deity. His words sounded all too loud. It was so quiet even the faintest of footfalls echoed like thunder and the only other noise to be heard was the incessant hum of crickets.

Xandar crossed the portico and pushed through a set of brass embossed doors and into a series of well appointed reception rooms. Shafts of moonlight so dazzling they looked almost solid illuminated tapestries and paintings, decorative urns and intricately painted porcelain bowls, leather-upholstered reclining couches, tables gilt with gold and row and row of book cases stocked with both the classics and popular recent releases. Everything was so pristine, arranged so exactly, Xandar felt himself unwelcome here, as if he were walking through a carefully staged exhibit.

One room had a sunken floor space filled with carelessly strewn green pillows and was lit by a single glowing brazier. It was the first light he had seen since entering the grounds of Casolari's palace. The next room was dominated by a giant hemisphere map of the world which filled one entire wall from floor to ceiling. It showed the three worlds - the old with the continents of Europe, Africa, Asia and Australia; the new with the Americas; and the newer with the great continent of Terra Incognita, oft called Mysteria, which featured Nishagog painted prominently as a many armed octopus, reaching out in all directions to seize the world's trade.

Another room and behind a couch Xandar saw a splatter of gore and a severed hand upon the floor. Xandar looked around. Nothing had been disturbed; there was no indication of violence or a struggle except for the blood. And the hand, he reminded himself. Someone had lost that hand.

Xandar's mouth was dry. This was not some violent Nishagogian political assassination. A house empty of people but stinking of gunpowder, a house decorated in with blood but with no corpses. Something was not right here, not right at all. He thought, briefly, of his time Up-Country then shook his head. No, no he was leaping to conclusions.

He pushed through another set of ornately carved and decorated doors and found himself in another courtyard. This one was paved with thousands of geometrically arranged multi-coloured tiles and was surrounded by tall columns each painted a brilliant red while their plinths were done a clashing green. Where the last courtyard had been a study in Spartan restraint, this one was as gaudy as a peacock.

But the confusion of colours was not what stopped Xandar in his tracks. No, it was the fountain. It dominated the centre of the courtyard, a huge folly, an esoteric fountain-ziggurat, whose many tiers were festooned with hundreds upon hundreds of intricately crafted, and gaily painted, nymphs and satyrs fornicating.

Xandar had been here before but no matter how many times he saw it, it never failed to take his breath away. He remembered being here with Tiana, remembered her standing by his side on a night very like this, her hand in his, pressing her body against him.

"It's older than the house," she had whispered, "much older. Father says this," she waved a hand at the surroundings; "all of this was once a public park. The story goes, a man, a stranger, came before the Senate and claimed to be a master hydrographer. He brought with him the blueprints for this... marvel. The good Senators were overcome with lust when they saw the designs, Nishagog, they decided, must be adorned with such a wonder. The Hydrographer smiled when he saw their enthusiasm and named an impossible price as his fee. Nevertheless, the good Senators agreed.

"The Hydrographer built them their wonder, but when he asked for his due the good Senators laughed at him and told him the city was bankrupt. Then, because this is Nishagog after all, they had his throat cut and dumped his body in the harbour."

"A sad end," Xandar said.

"Oh that was not the end, Xandar. Great Nishagog brought him back, even though the eels had been at him something terrible. He came one night, limping down Yarmella Avenue and all the children in the city ran to him and they followed him down to the harbour where they all drowned. Then Nishagog devoured their souls."

Xandar shook such thoughts from his head. Where had that come from? He was being so careless, Tiana herself could have come up behind him and caught him unawares, let alone whoever or whatever had done for Casolari and his household.

Beyond the fountain, directly opposite from Xandar across the courtyard there was another set of large and ornately decorated oak doors which Xandar recognised as leading to the River Garden reception rooms. One of the two doors stood ajar and appeared to be smeared with blood.

The moon hung low and full in the sky above Xandar so he cast a long shadow so it seemed he was a black colossus towering over Casolari's home. The only sounds were the gurgling of the fountain and the chirping of crickets as Xandar started across the courtyard. Once again, however, he found his mind wandering from the task at hand and instead his thoughts were of Tiana.

Two Weeks Earlier.

Xandar and Tiana strolled down Yarmella Avenue, her hand on his arm, as if they were any one of a dozen or so ordinary courting couples walking the tree lined boulevard that evening. The city had baked in the sun all day, so it was dry and dusty and the avenue was littered with fallen leaves and seeds from parched trees. Shimmering waves of heat were now being released from the paving and the air was alive with crickets, though the temperature made even their alien song languid.

Xandar wore a loose white shirt with a haphazardly knotted red cravat. They had walked past at least two wanted posters bearing a crude likeness of Xandar on their way from Tiana's apartment. Xandar had stopped to inspect the first and complained about how terrible the likeness was.

"I look like a thug," he had complained, "and they've added at least ten years!"

They had ignored the second. A Nishagogian Guardsman, who just happened to be passing, had looked from Xandar to the poster and back and nearly dropped his spear in surprise. Xandar had given the man a wry smile and the Guard had, after composing himself, nodded back at him.

"Xandar, listen." Tiana wore a diaphanous white dress whose hem reached half-way down her thighs. While her sandals tied up over her knees. This Neo-Greco-Nishagogian look was the in-thing this season. She carried a parasol to shade herself and her porcelain skin from the setting sun. "My father is a pragmatic man." She said. Tiana was wearing no jewellery at all, save one simple silver ring, and a pair of tinted glasses. This was her incognito - wearing an outfit which would cost the average worker several years' wages. "He would be willing to make peace, I know it. You and he, you could work together, I know he could use a man like you in the Senate..."

Xandar laughed and sighed. "No chance," he said.

"What," She pouted, "why not?"

"That is not how this city works, girl. People love me because I oppose and mock Casolari. I can't suddenly turn around shake his hand. The moment I do, I become nothing."

"You will not shake my father's hand, but you can hold mine, pray, how does that work?" She snatched her hand away from him.

Xandar sighed again. He was looking at a small kiosk ahead. "It's different, you're the prize," he said absently.

"I'm the prize - What is that supposed to mean? I am in this game as much as anyone, Xandar. I am my father's heir, remember? I'm trying to offer you something and you; you keep robbing my father's warehouses. Those will be my warehouses one day, Xandar, or had you forgotten? When you steal from my father, you are stealing from me! I've tolerated this game of yours... Xandar?"

They had reached the kiosk, which displayed rack upon rack of newspapers. Some printed on white paper, some on yellow, and some on pink. It was manned by a small boy of about ten whose face and hands were covered in ink smears.

"Fancy The Post, eh chief?" the boy asked in a thick Nishagogian drawl.

"Xandar, are you listening to me?" Tiana said, pulling at his arm.

Xandar scanned the racks of titles and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, ignoring Tiana. "Give me The Chronicle, lad," He said tossing the boy a coin. The kid caught it and, as nimble as monkey, snatched a paper from the rack and thrust it into Xandar's hands.

"Xandar!" Tiana demanded.

Xandar unfolded the paper quickly. The headline read, "Xander strikes again."

"Xander?" Xandar said his voice low and quivering.

"Xandar!" Tiana said, her face flushed with anger. "I'm talking to you!"

"It's Xandar!"

"XANDAR!" Tiana shouted.

"XANDAR. How difficult is it? XANDAAAAR. X.A.N.D.A.R. Can no one in this damned city spell?"

"Woah," the boy said, his eyes widening, "are you Xender?"

The Present.

A bloodied hand had dragged across one oaken door leaving a red smear behind. Xandar could even make out where despairing fingers had tried to hold the edge of the door. Whoever this had been they had fought desperately, futilely against being pulled through that doorway. Their blood was now a smudged arrow pointing inside. Through the open door the dark interior yawned before Xandar, inviting him to enter. He leant closer and listened, but all he could hear from within was silence.

Xandar's arms shone with perspiration from the heat and around him the crickets sang louder. The moon shone above the rooftops, and the courtyard, the trees, the fountain, everything shone with reflected light, making the whole scene appear unearthly. Xandar looked again at the smear of blood on the door and again at the dark interior of the building before him. His fingers tightened around the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword and he heard the reassuring creek of leather.

"Weren't you scared?" Xandar remembered Arthur Wiseman had asked him that, years ago, over an extended luncheon in one of The Belly of the Whale's back rooms while interviewing him for the first Xandar novel. Xandar had been describing some of the horrors he had seen while Up-Country.

"I was young," Xandar had said, pausing to lift the lid off his meat and gravy pie and to peer inside suspiciously - one could never be too careful when it came to food in the 'Whale. "I was too stupid to be afraid."

"Hmmm," Wiseman scribbled a note in his jotter, "but what about now. Does the, ah, adult Xandar feel fear, has experience taught him to be cautious?"

"No, because of this," said Xandar, drawing his sword. Arthur Wiseman shrank back in his seat as Xandar brandished the blade. "Human, animal, fiend, it matters not," Xandar whispered, "Xandar has never yet encountered something that did not bleed when Xandar stuck it with his sword. And if it bleeds, then Xandar can kill it."

The memory made Xandar cringe a little. Not just because of his boastfulness - there was no doubt his boasting had encouraged Arthur Wiseman's more ridiculous plot lines in the later Xandar novels - but because he had still been doing that ridiculous talking in the third person thing back then.

Xandar looked at the blade he held in his left hand. It was shorter than was fashionable, a blade made for thrusting and cutting. A blade made for killing. The type of blade the ancient Romans had called a 'gladius'. As long as he had a blade like that he knew he would never be afraid. Still, he wished then that courage did not have to feel so much like being sick.

He stepped through the open door and regretted this decision immediately.

The room beyond was lit by four shafts of moonlight shining in through the windows, illuminating almost two dozen corpses. It was an abattoir with bodies and body parts piled everywhere, and the stench filled Xandar's nose and mouth, making him gag.

Xandar had been in this room once before - with Tiana. He had met her here one night, and they had kissed while reclining together on one of the couches, then they had pulled open the glass patio doors to look out across the endless dark of the Mardark. Tiana had smiled and poured him wine and the breeze from the river had been refreshing and pleasant. Then she had led him past a table set with fruits and sweet pastries to show him the erotic tapestries which decorated the walls.

"Casolari brings guests here?" Xandar had asked as he looked in wonderment at countless carnal acts depicted in sumptuous detail.

"All the time," Tiana had laughed, "but remember, Xandar, I am also Casolari."

It was still the same room, but where once Xandar had gazed around and become aroused, now he felt only revulsion and dread. Bodies were heaped upon the couches, one on top of another, each bearing awful wounds. There were over a dozen of Casolari's household guard, there was a middle-aged woman lying on the floor with her rib cage pulled apart, there was... Xandar paused, he knew this man. It took a moment to remember, but it came to him - James Cotton.

Middle age had not been kind, Xandar noted, his killer even less so. Someone had ripped an arm off and his skull had been split open. Blood and worse oozed out all over the upholstery of the couch Cotton now lay upon. James Cotton had been a puffed up peacock, a petty little man who wore his grudges as openly as he wore his expensive clothes. He was a shit, but he had not deserved such a death. Xandar recalled meeting the man at a party, when was it, ten years ago? Xandar realised he could scarcely remember. He seemed to recall Cotton taking offence at something. Xandar shrugged - It mattered not now.

There were other bodies, and Xandar saw missing arms, limbs, even a crushed skull. But crucially there was no corpse which resembled Tiana Casolari. Perhaps she was asleep in her city centre apartment?

Xandar turned his attention to a Bhorrian ritual which was set up in the middle of the chamber. There was an arcane circle chalked onto the stone tiles, replete with attendant ancient Bhorrian runes which Xandar recognised from "Ancient Rituals of the Bhorrian Master Race; or how to awaken a terror from outside of time in five easy steps." Within this circle was a stone altar and upon it was a jumble of uneven and jagged broken stone coloured like polished ebony. It looked as if the various shards of stone, if one were to fit them together, might form an egg shaped object - a hollow egg shaped object.

Xandar had a bad feeling.

The broken rock looked heavy and dense and it glinted with reflected moonlight. He reached out a hesitant hand, all the while thinking, "No, Casolari, no..." and touched his fingertips to the rock. He felt the shock of power and his heart sank.

"Oh fuck..." he whispered.

Xandar had seen such stones before, in ruined and aeons long-ago abandoned Bhorrian temples... The memories came flooding back and suddenly Xandar was no longer in Casolari's palatial riverside mansion on Nishagog's North-East side, which all respectable society considered to be the 'good' and 'decent' side, but instead Xandar was Up-Country. He was bare-chested and panting, his skin slick with blood and sweat, his mouth dry, a broken and half-melted sword in his hand. He stood in a red coloured room, red from the myriad terracotta bricks the Bhorrian architects had used to build their temples, a room filled with vines and creepers which had snaked in through the windows and doors and burrowed through cracks in the walls and ceiling with slow purpose over the aeons. He was there, he was surrounded by darkness and he could hear.... something. Something which was slithering through the dark, something which had eaten each of his comrades alive, one by one, till only he, Xandar, was left. Something he had not even seen clearly yet but which was inevitably coming for him now.

Xandar shook his head. No, he was still in Nishagog, a civilised metropolis of a million or so people, he was not Up-Country. Around him some two dozen mutilated and dismembered corpses stared at him reproachfully. Yes, they seemed to say, go on, tell yourself that you are not Up-Country, tell yourself that you are in a city, a civilised place, and that there are no nightmares lurking in the shadows here. Tell yourself that all you want, because the telling does not make it true. What is true is you are here in this room with us and, in a moment, here is not going to be a good place for you.

It is coming for you Xandar!

Something was wrong, Xandar realised. It was too quiet - The crickets, when did they stop singing? He span around in time to see the flicker of a shadow as it passed a window. Moving quickly Xandar slipped behind a column at the back of the room, sinking into the shadows like a crocodile into swamp-water.

A moment later and something vaguely humanoid appeared silhouetted in the doorway, dragging along a corpse by its ankle. Xandar pressed himself up against the cold stone column. His fingers tightened around the leather grip of his sword while his other hand sought out, of all things, the ceremonial blade he had picked up in Casolari's study and which was now nestled in his belt. He turned his head slowly, straining to see from the corner of his eyes what was there. What he saw was beyond even the strangest of nightmares.

It was a hulking and muscular humanoid which stood over six feet in height. It's face was horribly misshapen and its eyes hidden in pools of shadow, while Its skin was black with a hint of green, covered in thick calluses and contusions and so slick with moisture that it shone in the moonlight.

Like a frog, Xandar realised. Its skin was like that of a frog or a toad.

Four long tentacles stretched out from behind its shoulders and moved constantly. With each step it took, these four extra limbs twitched and probed ceaselessly. But it was not these inhuman characteristics which marked this monster as truly horrific. No, it was its human ones. It wore a silk dress which was torn and split as though some heavy-set drunk had thought to don drag for a jape. While around its neck it wore a gold necklace and on a finger a single silver ring dug into bulging flesh. But perhaps the most absurd, and disturbing thing of all was that it still had long blonde hair, hair which tumbled in expensive curls over both shoulders and half way down its back.

Tiana, Xandar thought, Tiana had hair exactly like that!

The room seemed to spin and Xandar felt his legs tremble. He shook his head. It could not be. It could not be!

But it was. He did not know what this thing was, but he knew what it had been. It had once been his beautiful, sweet Tiana!

Then he saw the body the creature was dragging and he almost laughed out loud.

It was Casolari! It was her father; she was dragging her own father! Pulling him along by one ankle, his guts and intestines spilling out and dragging behind him, leaving a gore smeared trail in their wake.

The creature, Tiana, lifted Casolari and tossed him upon one of the couches like a toddler would a doll. The corpse landed on the body of James Cotton and Casolari's head lolled back so his sightless eyes were now fixed on Xandar.

Then it climbed up so it squatted over the carcass and the end of one of its tentacles split open and covered Casolari's mouth. It began to disgorge a stream of mucus down the oesophagus. Rivulets of the stuff spilled and ran down Casolari's cheeks onto the couch and the floor where it bubbled and steamed. Xandar saw dozens of black spherical shapes in the mucus and he was reminded of frog spawn.

When it had finished it climbed off its father, stepped back and looked around the room, its hands repeatedly opening and closing. Each of its fingers ended in a long and deadly talon and as its hands closed there was a soft scraping sound as it ground its talon-like fingernails together. It paused briefly when its gaze fell upon a great bronze dinner gong which stood taller than a man just to the right of the double doors. The creature stared at its own indistinct and dark form reflected in the gong's highly polished surface for several long seconds, swaying back and forth as it did so. Then it turned away and left the room by the same door it had entered by.

Xandar waited several seconds before he started breathing again.

Had that... that monstrosity really once been Tiana? What had possessed her?

Then he thought of what he had just seen it do. The image of a maggot ridden corpse entered his thoughts and as soon as it did, he was certain that this room had become a nursery, and the corpses were both incubator and food. Why, by Nishagog, there would soon be more of those things... whatever those things were.

Unless someone stopped it, that was. Xandar wanted to laugh. He would have done were it not for the alien horror nearby. This was ridiculous, like a scenario straight from the pages of one of Wiseman's ridiculous novels about him. Book-Xandar would, of course, heroically save the citizens of Nishagog from the alien horror within their midst. All that was needed now, Xandar mused, was a beautiful young woman almost dressed in torn wisps of silk in need of rescue and seduction and his life would have become the embodiment of Wiseman's purple prose.

This Xandar was not that Xandar but he resolved that he was going to put that thing down all the same. He thought of Tiana. Of her kisses, of her blue eyes and how they gleamed in the half-light when he stole into her bedchamber, of running his hand through her soft, perfumed hair. He had never loved her. The damned girl was vapid, selfish and greedy and she had probably betrayed him and caused the death of perhaps his only true friend. But, despite all that, he had been, was still, fond of her and she did not deserve this.

Xandar slid open a glass patio door, slipped out into the gardens and hurried around the side of the house. He was not entirely sure what he was up against or how to go about killing it, but one thing was certain, he would need more fire-power.

He skirted past the topiary maze, ducked low beneath some large bay windows and then skipped down some steps to a small, nondescript doorway - the servants' entrance. What Xandar wanted was to find the palace's store rooms. But what he found when he stepped through that door was a pistol pressed to the back of his head.

Two Months Earlier.

Tiana tried not to move. She was in bed, covered by a thin white cotton sheet, pretending to sleep. It was no good; she opened her eyes again and sighed in exasperation.

Her room, the furniture, the four-poster bed, her dress which she had left draped over an occasional chair by the make-up table, these were just black shapes against the gloom. She picked up her bedside clock, an ornate gold gilded antique which had been a gift from her late mother many years ago, and held it up, squinting, trying to make out the position of the clocks hands in the darkness - what did it say, three-fifteen in the morning?

Where was he? Tiana was getting annoyed. He said he would come at three. He said he would be by her side before the Tower Machiacum had finished striking the hour.

She had spent the last twenty minutes pretending to be asleep. Of course, sleep was the furthest thing from her mind but she wanted to appear asleep when he arrived. It was part of the game that she should awaken, that is, appear to awaken, at just the right time. "Oh you," she would say. "Sorry, I was quite asleep. What? Were you expecting me, hah, to be lying awake with excitement, waiting for you? Oh really..."

She was tingling with excitement. How much longer? The agony of waiting was driving her crazy.

The game had begun hours earlier at the masquerade ball her father had hosted at their riverside palace in honour of the Portuguese ambassador. Tiana had no idea where Portugal was - the north, she supposed, somewhere in the Very Old World. Her tutor had probably told her and she had probably not listened. But it sounded so terribly exotic, Port-u-garl.

No, wait, that was not right. Por-tu-girl? Whatever.

Anyway, earlier in the day she had hoped, no she was Tiana Casolari she did not hope she planned, that she would be with the Por-tu-geeze ambassador at this very moment. He would be lying opposite her, the cotton sheet pushed down to his waist, his skin damp with perspiration after their lovemaking and they would be whispering endearments to one another. He was a handsome man, the Por-tu-geeze, if oddly dressed. Well travelled, polite, intelligent and not at all like the young Nishagogian noble men she knew, who could be so small and petty.

The moment the Por-tu-geeze, Christiano Nunes was his name, had arrived at the ball she had noted his black velvet with gold trim mask and his black, green and gold costume and she had approached him as the lioness her prey. Much like a lioness she had hoped, sorry planned, to separate him from the herd and to devour him. Not literally of course, well, maybe a little.

Only, in the end, things had not worked out that way and she had only spoken to Christiano once. That had been during the introductions when she had stood at her father's right hand as the guests arrived. When it had been his turn, the esteemed Por-tu-geeze ambassador had bowed low, kissed her red gloved hand and whispered some inane pleasantry which would have been dull from a man half so handsome. That should have been the start of their affair but things had not quite gone as she had planned.

Tiana had ended up playing a very different game. Xandar's game.

If her father had known Xandar was at the ball he would have shouted for his guards. In fact had he caught Xandar gate-crashing his ball, Tiana had no doubt that he would have had Xandar hanged in the gardens that very night, right before the firework display, so his silhouette would have been illuminated by the dazzling bursts of red, yellow, green and blue which in the end had so awed the guests.

That was the Nishagogian way, beauty and cruelty. Tiana realised she liked the sound of that so she decided to remember it for the next time she had to entertain some visiting dignitary. They, especially the older, fatter, more boring ones, were forever asking inane questions like how would she describe her city to a visitor? "Like a sewer," had been the best she had managed in the past. Well now she would smile and look bored, sorry sophisticated, and say, "Don't you know? Nishagog is beauty and cruelty."

Of course then a more daring and handsome guest might reply, "So the city is like you?" No, not that, more, "Perhaps the city is like the lady?" Well, they would say something like that, something romantic. Then again it was entirely possible that the next time they had a handsome guest she would end up sat between her father and that dreadful, old queer, James Cotton.

But her father had not known Xandar was in attendance. How could he? It was a masquerade ball and Xandar had come in disguise. Tiana had no idea if he had just slipped in amongst the guests; there were over three hundred so he could have done so easily, or if he had actually stolen an invitation. Both were daring but the latter struck her as even more clever and witty. Even better it seemed Xandar might have gate-crashed explicitly to seduce her. Tiana was the daughter and heir of August Casolari - she had been seduced by men attracted by her social standing before, but never with so much style or daring.

It must have annoyed the hell out of her father though, Tiana supposed. He had even had that little talk with her before the ball about the Por-tu-geeze. "We need a monopoly here, Tiana," he had said to her, "Me, you, our friends in the Senate, we need this. You said you wanted to be more involved in the family business? Well here you are. We all have to do what we can, and what I need you to do now is to entertain our honoured guest. Dance with him, laugh at his jokes, take him home with you... I think you understand."

Perhaps some surprise that her father might so blatantly pimp her to his business clients must have shown on her face because he had then blushed and taken her by the hand.

"I - I do not mean that you should do anything you do not, ah, that is..."

"I understand Pappi," she had said.

"I love you, Tiana," Casolari had said then, "all I do, all of this, is for you. I was so happy when you came to me and said you wanted to be more involved in the business. Proud too, but I have always been proud of you, my beautiful princess."

She had not planned to disappoint her father. Only, well Xandar had shown up. Handsome and chiselled, he was the dashing thief, the bold outlaw, the hero of all Nishagog, the man on the front page of every newspaper, and whose name was on the lips of every man and woman in the city. It was like something out of one of those ridiculously dreadful pamphlets, she would not call them novels, the poor read where Xandar would tweak the nose of the rich villain and escape from his clutches at the last moment with the buxom heroine sighing in his arms. Only now Tiana was the, buxom-ish, heroine and Xandar had come for her.

When Tiana had first seen him she had gasped. He had come up behind her on the edge of the crowded dance floor even as she had been trying to negotiate her way towards the Por-tu-geeze. She had turned and there he had been, towering over her, dressed as the grim reaper, face partially hidden by a half-skull mask so she could only see his strong chin and broad smile.

Then he had then lifted his mask for just a moment to reveal the face which had adorned the cover of every newspaper in the city and he had winked at her. It had been an absurd risk on his part. She should have screamed there and then and damned him. But she had not and for reasons she could not quite explain, she had smiled then reached over and touched his arm! Xandar then looked from her brilliant blue eyes, eyes framed by the ruby bird mask she wore, down to her red dress, the dress whose bodice was so scandalously low, and she had seen him lick his lips as his gaze lingered on her breasts.

He means to steal me, she had realised. She knew Xandar and her father hated one another. She knew Xandar had robbed several of her father's warehouses, she knew that this meant he had in essence robbed her, and she did not care. Because right then and there, feeling the excitement and romance of the moment, all she had wanted was for him to seduce her.

Before they parted she had allowed him a kiss, the kind of long, slow kiss during which you seem to fall into the black, welcoming waters of oblivion. That had been when she had made him promise to come to her later. She had liked this idea too much to resist it. Just like in one of his novels, she had told herself.

The fireworks had begun then and Tiana had allowed herself to be distracted. For several seconds she had watched the wonderful flashes and bangs illuminate the topiary beasts which haunted her father's ridiculous gardens while all around her their guests had oohed and aahed. Then she had turned and Xandar had gone. She had been waiting, thinking of him ever since.

Tiana heard the clock tower chime through the open balcony. Three-thirty, where was he? There was a slight breeze outside and her pale net curtains billowed inward slightly. Tiana heard nothing but despite this she felt a surge of excitement. She kept her eyes shut, held her breath and... she felt the faintest of touches through the bed-sheet on her calf. Fingertips traced a line up her thigh, over her hip, her arm, the bare skin of her neck and then she felt the fingers slip into her hair. She sighed, rolled on to her back, and opened her eyes...

"You're late," she whispered to the figure standing over her.

"I ran into some trouble," Xandar replied and patted his sword belt. He was no longer dressed as death, instead he wore short black trousers, a white shirt and a Nishagogian Guardsman's dress uniform jacket - Tiana did not even want to know where that had come from.

Xandar took one end of her bed-sheet and pulled. It slowly slid down revealing her nakedness. First the jade Bhorrian necklace, a gift from her father, then her breasts, then her flat stomach and finally her shadowed hips. Xandar knelt on the bed and lifted her to him. Their lips met and Tiana felt herself melt.

Yes, she thought, steal me.
[4]

The Present.

"Show me your hands," commanded an urgent yet familiar voice, "and turn around slowly."

Behind him, Xandar heard the door thump shut. The servants' kitchen was a long room lit only by the welcoming sphere of orange light from the fireplace opposite the doorway. The man who now had him at gunpoint had been lurking beside the door, opposite the fire, knowing the light from the flames would partially dazzle whoever entered.

"Come on, turn!" said the voice. Xandar obeyed, turning slowly, but he already knew who was behind him.

"Fingerman!" hissed Xandar. He said the name as if it were a curse.

"Xandar!" Fingerman laughed, shaking his head, "How the devil... damn, well this is a stroke of luck. Drop the sword, Xandar - drop it!" Fingerman was a short man with a bulging stomach, several chins, snub nose, a thick tangle of oily black hair and little, close-set eyes which gleamed like those of a devil. He wore extremely fine and expensive gentleman's clothing which was too heavy for the summer heat and so he had dark patches of moisture under both armpits. The second of his trademark pistols was still in the absurdly tight gun harness which he wore over his clothes.

"Go on," Xandar said, "pull the trigger, Fingerman, and that thing will be on you in moments."

Fingerman hissed with frustration but he kept his pistol pointed at Xandar's face. "Who uses a damned sword in this day and age anyway?" He demanded.

Xandar did not drop his sword. "This damned sword can end you silently in a moment, Fingerman." He tensed, ready to spring to the attack at the first opportunity.

"I'll scream Xandar, you move so much as twitch and I'll scream."

"Scream? Bah, I don't need a sword for the likes of you. I could crush your windpipe with one hand before you so much as open your mouth."

They stared one another. Finally, Fingerman turned his pistol from Xandar and carefully holstered it in the harness so the muzzle remained angled up.

"Muscle-bound bully," he said.

"Fat pig!" Xandar thrust his sword into its scabbard.

Fingerman suddenly opened a hooded lantern which had been hanging from a hook just by the door and Xandar was momentarily dazzled by the light.

"Sorry, sorry," Fingerman laughed when he saw Xandar's hand dart back to the hilt of his sword. Judging by the malicious smile Fingerman now wore, Xandar judged that he was anything but sorry.

Xandar frowned.

"By the seven teats of Nishagog, Xandar," Fingerman squeaked. When Fingerman became nervous or excited his voice pitched up several octaves. "What are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same thing, Fingerman," said Xandar. He glanced down at a coarse linen sack brimming with gold and silver which lay near Fingerman's expensive looking black leather boots. "You turned on your master fast enough?"

"Fingerman serves Fingerman now." Fingerman began to laugh then. Whether it was through terror or excitement, he at first began to chuckle and then to laugh uncontrollably. Xandar saw the man's short, stocky body tremble, the bulge of fat which overhung his belt jiggle and his face go bright red as Fingerman tried to control himself. At last his laughter spluttered into a wheezing cough and Fingerman bent double to muffle the noise.

Fingerman was, perhaps, the most hated man in the city of Nishagog - at least among the political classes, journalists and anyone else who could possibly shape public opinion. The man was a consummate opportunist, a skilled blackmailer, utterly ruthless and breathtakingly corrupt. Whether it was blackmail, bribery, intimidation or a need to make a 'problem' disappear, Fingerman was your man.

Fingerman wiped his brow. "I should..." he struggled to take a shallow breath, "not..." he coughed again, "be here." He squatted down, placing the lantern on the floor beside him and began sucking in deep, rasping breaths.

Xandar watched him. He was tense, ready to respond to any movement from Fingerman. You could never be too careful with this one, Xandar knew.

Eventually Fingerman managed to bring his cough under control. "Xandar," he pushed himself up back onto his feet, "You still have not told me why you are here."

Xandar shrugged then said, "I came to kill Casolari."

Perhaps it was the simple admission of truth or perhaps it was the sheer nonchalance with how he said it, but Xandar's words gave Fingerman pause. He stood breathing heavily, looking Xandar up and down.

"Fair enough" Fingerman said at last. It sounded as if he meant it.

"And I thought you liked the man."

It was Fingerman's turn to shrug. He looked at the sack of gold and silver at his feet and a sly smile crossed his face. But when he looked up and caught Xandar's eye he seemed to remember to look a little ashamed. "Ah, as I said, Fingerman is for Fingerman now."

They both watched one another. Xandar narrowed his eyes and Fingerman's fingers twitched towards the throwing knives he kept in his belt.

Several Weeks Earlier.

The 'Whale, the damned Belly of the Whale, it was a den of iniquity, a hive of villainy. Fingerman hated the 'Whale. It was dark, it was dingy, it was violent, hells, it was a pirate hangout. It was a long basement room filled with some of the most violent and dangerous men and women in all Nishagog. But most of all, the beer was awful.

Fingerman shouldered his way through the press of drinkers, five Nishagogian guardsmen at his back. One big man grunted with anger and turned, his dinner-plate hands already bunching into fists. This big man, who had a shock of bright red hair, pale freckled skin and a long, broken nose, made eye-contact with Fingerman and gasped in recognition. He backed away holding up apologetic hands.

Fingerman could see the man he wanted sitting at a table playing cards with several other men and one woman. "Xandar!" Fingerman shouted. He pushed past the last man and drew two pistols, aiming them both square at Xandar's chest. Behind him he heard the guardsmen draw their various weapons and heard one solid "thunk" as one of the guardsmen found a use for his truncheon.

Men stood abruptly. Chairs fell. Cards scattered. A woman with bright red piled high on her head screamed. The guardsmen shoved people aside.

Xandar alone remained sitting at the table. He looked drunk and was stripped to the waist revealing a formidably muscled torso which was decorated by countless scars. He had his cards and various chips arranged in front of him - it looked like he was losing badly. That was Xandar, Fingerman told himself, both as a man and as a gambler. He never knew when to quit, or when to fold. He was always all in.

Xandar had frozen with a glass of whiskey held at his lips. Fingerman smiled. Each of his guardsmen now had a gun pointed square at Xandar. He had him. He goddamn well had Xandar.

"You're not as handsome as your poster," Fingerman said at last, savouring the moment.

Xandar drained his whiskey and set his glass down. Then he looked Fingerman over and smiled. "That's Xandar," he said, "I'm not him, Xandar, I mean. I'm nothing more than an honest pirate!" Xandar smiled his most charming smile and opened his hands. A faint ripple of laughter spread around the room.

"August Casolari wants a word with you, Xander."

"It's Xandar and I am not going anywhere."

"Then I'll shoot you." Fingerman smiled.

Xandar returned the smile. "You can, if you want to die."

Ninety Minutes Ago...

Fingerman grabbed the unfortunate guardsman by his throat and squeezed. The man began choking and made a feeble attempt to pull away.

"What," Fingerman emphasised each word, "do you mean, 'he's in the Whale most nights?' Explain yourself."

The man croaked, his face contorted in terror. They were in one of the main dormitories of the Nishagogian Guard, so around them were a dozen or so spectating guardsmen. They each had expressions of concern or anger but none moved to intervene, save their Sergeant, a large black man with a thick moustache who took a hesitant step forward.

"L-let him speak," he said in a quavering voice which betrayed his size and strength. Fingerman, who was a whole head shorter than this sergeant and who was wearing no armour or any visible weapons, glared at the man. The sergeant raised his hands in apology and took a step back.

Fingerman released the man. "Speak," he commanded.

The man rubbed his throat and looked to certain of his comrades for sympathy. One or two looked away and would not meet his gaze. One however, an older man, nodded to him.

"I-I just... t-that is to say... everyone knows where to find Xandar. He's down the 'Whale, um, most nights. Maybe not every n-night, but that's where he usually ends up."

"Everyone knows this? The most wanted man in Nishagog, the man you have all been hunting for months, and everyone knows 'he can be found in the 'Whale most nights?' Well, I did not know this. Did you know this?" Fingerman jabbed a finger at one of the guardsmen nearby. The man stared at his feet. "You? How about You? YOU?" No one answered him. He turned back to the man he was interrogating.

"It does not seem that everyone knows. Now, how do you know?"

Fingerman leaned in very close. The man tried to pull away but he was already pressed up against his bedside table and had nowhere to go. He managed to indicate down with his eyes. Fingerman looked down and saw a small pile of tatty novels. The topmost one was titled, "Xandar - Gladiator Slaves of Meerene." The image on the faded cover depicted two muscle-clad men, who wore only loin cloth and sandals, fighting with swords while a creature, whose upper-torso was that of a beautiful and bare-breasted woman and whose lower torso was that of a chicken, watched from a palanquin. The thing wore a green shawl, while with one hand she took Turkish delight from a bowl and in the other she held a coiled whip.

"What... you got it from one of those books?"

"Y-yes..."

Fingerman clenched his fists. "It is lucky for you," he said, his voice wavering and becoming high-pitched, "that August Casolari is a friend to the guard and that I am Casolari's man. Nevertheless I am finding my patience sorely beset..."

"N-n-not the stories, the author's b-b-b-biography," The man stammered, holding his hands up to protect himself from imagined blows. "It s-s-says he would always m-m-meet with Xandar to interview him in the 'Whale. H-he says Xandar was always there."

Fingerman looked the cowering man over for several long seconds. Then he snatched one of the books from the floor, skimmed to the author's bio and began reading, his lips moving silently and brows furrowed with concentration.

"The last meeting was years ago!" He slapped book down on the man's head.

The guardsman whimpered and cowered. "Y-y-yes but Xandar was a pirate then and he's a p-pirate now. H-he's s-s-spent most of the last ten years scouring the Sword C-coast on the Black Witch, stealing cursed treasures, romancing beautiful princesses..."

"Yes, yes! I can read, damn you. If even half this rubbish is true then I am the King of Kagesh." Still, Fingerman was both impressed and a little perturbed at how well this guardsman knew his Xandar trivia.

"It's all true! Like how he blew up the great harbour of Camerlane..."

"Enough. This was you, you figured this out?"

"Ah, it w-was actually Cappan Ch-chadwell b-before his dismissal. But h-he told me."

"He was dismissed weeks ago. Why have you told no one?"

"N-no, Cappan Chadwell, h-he only told me when I spoke to him a couple of days ago. He gave me these b-books as well. I went straight to Cappan Osbourne once I was sure."

"And?"

"H-he said the 'Whale is n-no place for the g-guard..." Several of the watching Guards nodded at this. This was known.

Fingerman clapped the palm of his hand over his face and groaned. "No place for the Guard? Well, it's fortunate that I don't have the same scruples as former Cappan Osborne." Fingerman turned to the members of the watch gathered around.

"Sergeant," he shouted, "I want a full platoon, all armed. If that arrogant fuck Xandar is in the Belly of the Whale tonight, I mean to have him!"

Ninety Minutes Later, Back in the 'Whale.

"Then I'll shoot you," Fingerman smiled. He had him. Dead or alive, he had him.

Xandar returned the smile. "You can, if you want to die," he said.

It was like a wave. It started with the people immediately closest to Fingerman and Xandar, but it spread throughout the bar. Fingerman would never forget the sound they made, though describing it as anything other than a cacophony was difficult. It was the sound of just about every Nishagog-damn man and woman in that bar drawing a weapon.

There were pistols, knives, swords, cutlasses, falcions, axes, glaives, cleavers, hatchets, even one ancient musket - although by the time the owner of that gun, an old seaman who was eighty if he was a day, got its fuse lit and its firing pan filled with primer the situation was well over. Every single weapon in the Whale pointed at Fingerman and his men.

One man pressed the muzzle of his pistol close, against Fingerman's cheek. Fingerman looked around. He saw his men with blades at their throats already surrendering their weapons, he saw Xandar skewering him with those brilliant emerald eyes and then he saw the bastard wink at him.

"Put the guns down, Fingerman," Xandar said in a low voice. Then he belched loudly. He was still sober enough to look embarrassed.

Fingerman felt a bead of sweat roll down the bridge of his nose. He laughed nervously and holstered his guns slowly. "I guess we'll see ourselves out," he said with a squeak.

"Fuck that," The man who had his gun in Fingerman's face shouted, "This one's trouble. Let's just off the lot of them. It's safer." This suggestion proved popular with many in the 'Whale and there were calls and cheers of approval.

"DON'T YOU FUCKIN' DARE." A voice boomed from behind the bar. A moment later and the owner of the 'Whale, a peg legged, grossly overweight, red faced psycho named Malky Di Maria had pulled himself up so he was standing on top of the bar, loaded heavy crossbow in his hands. "I've had two stabbin's in the last two nights," he roared, "and ah'm no cleanin' up another this week. Now you fucks want to kill yer sel's that's your business, but ya can fuckin' take it outside. And any o' you bastards thinkin' o' following them to watch the show can leave my fuckin' tankards right whar they are. Ya light-fingered fucks seem ta think they grow on trees. Seems five o' them got up an' walked out the door only last night. Aye, thats right, ah fuckin' count em'..."

While Malky continued ranting about his tankards Fingerman turned and left, his men following behind, heads bowed. At the door Fingerman paused however. He looked back and saw Xandar laughing, surrounded by a circle of sycophants and Fingerman made a promise.

"You're a dead man, Xandar, a dead man."

The Present.

Xandar stared at Fingerman. He saw the man twitch, saw his evil little eyes sparkle.

Fingerman stared at Xandar in turn. When the Guard had dragged a very drunk Xandar from his bed Fingerman had thought their little rivalry was over. He had even urged Casolari, "cut his throat or let me do it. But do it now and do it quickly." But Casolari had not listened and... Well here was Xandar, and here was Fingerman and where was Casolari?

"Casolari," Fingerman said at last, "is he?"

"Dead? Aye"

"I needed to be sure. I thought so but, well, the last time I saw him he was running off towards the arboretum screaming something about his study." Fingerman eyed Xandar nervously, "Did you kill Casolari?"

"No."

"Bah," Fingerman laughed quietly, "Well, it's over anyway. Whatever issues you and Casolari had with one another does not matter to me."

"That does not make us friends, Fingerman."

"Ha, no, I agree. But we both know there is something worse here than our little feud. So perhaps we can agree a temporary truce. Eh?"

Xandar frowned. The look on his face suggested he would rather wade through the waist high rivers of shit which flowed through Nishagog's sewers. "Did you kill Dimler?"

Fingerman did not even flinch. "No, of course not," he squeaked.

Twenty Two Hours Earlier.

Two Guards held Dimler up by his arms when his legs gave out. Fingerman grabbed him, squashing his cheeks and lips together and lifting his head up.

"Where is Xandar?"

Dimler gasped. Blood from his broken nose stained his teeth red. "Fucked if I know."

Fingerman slid his knife into Dimler's chest and cut upwards. As the man cried in pain, Fingerman leaned close and whispered, "We know he is upstairs. I just wanted to see if you would tell us."

"F-fuck...y-..." Dimler whispered, dying.

"Great Nishagog," said the Guard Sergeant, "why did you kill him? Casolari never ordered that, did he?"

"You do as I tell you and let me worry about Casolari, peon."

The Present.

Xandar studied Fingerman's face and wondered if he should just kill him. "So who did then?" he said at last.

"Surprising though it may be, Xandar, I don't actually know everything." Fingerman smiled, but he could not meet Xandar's gaze.

"Look," Fingerman sighed, "Do you really want to go over this here? I did not kill Dimler. I do not know who did. I will happily tell you all I know about how you were arrested - later, but not now. We have more pressing issues to deal with, no?"

"Fine, you can have your truce," for now, Xandar added to himself silently. "So, tell me, what happened here?"

Fingerman glanced down at the bloodstains on his clothes. "Casolari brought this upon himself, Xandar. He and his rich friends, they were, I don't know, they thought they were playing some parlour game or something.

"Of course, Fingerman was not invited - If you can believe it. I was not considered worthy to attend Casolari's little soiree. No he summoned me here at the last moment and then he kept me kicking my heels in one of his waiting rooms while he and his guests partied. No doubt he intended to drop in and give me some order or command when his little party allowed him a spare minute. And then it would have been goodnight and out the door into the night for poor, tireless Fingerman without so much..."

"So you saw nothing." Xandar shrugged. "Fine, I get it."

"I wouldn't say I saw nothing, Xandar. I was drawn by the screams and the gunshots. I rallied the household guard. I saw Casolari fleeing, I saw the aftermath, I saw... I saw it. I shot it Xandar, I shot it and it did not even flinch. So I fled. I am no fool, unlike Casolari. Well there it is, she got him, his own daughter, and there is some justice in that."

"Clearly you were overcome with terror," said Xandar kicking the sack of loot.

Fingerman laughed. "Don't tell me you were not planning on doing exactly the same thing. We are not so different really."

Xandar sighed. Nearby there was a wooden counter covered with flour and several partially kneaded dollops of dough. As if the baker had just left and would be back at any moment. Xandar turned and rested his arms and forehead on the fireplace mantle and the soft orange glow of the fire illuminated his face.

"Xandar," Fingerman asked, "You mean to kill this thing, do you not?"

"I mean to try. How about you, Fingerman, do you, for once, want to be a hero?"

"Me, a hero? I like that. Fingerman slays the monster and saves the city. Would someone write a novel about my exploits?"

Xandar looked the pudgy, pig-faced man with his gimlet little eyes gleaming like two black pearls and his shock of oily, thick hair. "I think side-kick is the best you can hope for."

"And are the stories they tell about you true, Xandar?"

"No, the stories they tell about me are all lies." He smiled. "But I can assure you, the stories I tell about me are quite true."

Fingerman raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I am not from Nishagog, Xandar, and I suddenly find I am sick of this city. I am sick of the people, I am sick of the corruption, of the rot and the decay. Aye, when we met, I was for the exit, and then the docks and a berth on the first ship north."

Xandar turned on Fingerman, "Go then. I won't stop you."

"It comes to me now," said Fingerman slowly, "that things are different now. I've read some of those ridiculous books about you. Now, I know they are rubbish..."

"More than rubbish," Xandar muttered, darkly. "Complete fabrication. Did you know I was only ever paid for the first one?"

Fingerman had heard the story of how Xandar had signed away all rights for serialisation while drunk, but he had no desire to hear Xandar whine about it so he ignored him and carried on with what he had been saying. "But I know men, hard men, who tell me other tales. They say you have had your share of adventures Up-Country, abroad in Meinong's Jungle. They say, Xandar, that you have faced terrible and unnatural things and have lived to tell the tale. I once doubted those tales. What I have seen tonight has made me, hmm, reconsider my opinion.

"I say, you alone were made for this night. If this creature can be killed then you are the man to do it. Or maybe even we are the men to do it. Together we shall kill this creature and then we shall both come away from this rich."

"You," Xandar laughed. "Aid me? Why, Fingerman - can you tell me that?"

"Ah," Fingerman smiled a nervous smile, "for Casolari, of course."

"Fingerman serves Fingerman now," Xandar repeated in a whispered, mocking tone.

"He was good to me. No matter what, I owe what I have become - to him."

"And here I thought I had reason to kill him..."

"Damn you, Xandar, and why then are you going to risk your life to kill this thing?"

Xandar thought of Casolari's dying words then. "My daughter," he had said. Had he been asking Xandar to kill his daughter?

"Because this thing is Tiana and I owe it to her."

Love, Xandar mused. He thought then of the women he had loved throughout his life. He thought of soft touches, of certain fragrances and of nights of passion. No, he concluded, he had never loved Tiana. But when he thought of her, of her naked by moonlight, of her soft voice, and then, when he thought of her now, of the grotesque which she had become - no, he could not stand that. He owed Tiana nothing, but he meant to give her the gift of death.

"How romantic," Fingerman's voice dripped sarcasm, "like something from one of your dreadful novels. Are you sure all those tales are fiction, Xandar?"

Xandar ignored the comment.

"You do know," Fingerman said, his eyes sparkling maliciously, "that she was the one who betrayed you?"

Xandar nodded. "Enough," he said. "Whatever this thing, let's kill it if it can be killed."

Fingerman offered Xandar his hand, "Shall we seal our alliance then?"

Xandar did not take the offered hand.

Fingerman laughed. It sounded strained and nervous. "Then follow me to the armoury. Once we are ready, we shall lure it to a place of our choosing and kill it."

[5]

Four Days Earlier.

Dimler liked mornings. He liked the clarity and purity of the light, especially how it shone upon the bar and glinted off the brass fittings of his taproom. He liked that it was not yet so stiflingly hot and humid that he could have all the windows open and let some bloody air circulate. He liked the quiet of the bar and hearing the noise and bustle of another day of work and industry from outside. But most of all, he liked not having any customers! They crowded his bar, spilled their drinks, started fights and stank. No Dimler liked his bar in the morning when it was bright, breezy, clean, and empty.

Well, empty save for his one guest upstairs. But Dimler was confident he would not be seeing that one until lunchtime at the earliest.

Dimler had spent the morning as he did every morning. He had polished every surface and fitting until the entire bar gleamed. No doubt his customers would never notice the odd smudge or smear here or there, but Dimler knew he would notice, damn it. Then he had enjoyed a thorough breakfast of bacon, eggs and Nishagogian haggis - curried oats and cuttlefish \- and now he had the day's newspapers laid out on the bar before him and a large pot of coffee warming on the hotplate. Dimler liked to get a wide selection of papers in. Partly for his more discerning customers to read and debate over the course of the day, but mostly because he enjoyed reading them himself.

So he had the Times of Nishagog; the Nishagogian Commodities and Trades Chronicle \- usually referred to simply as The Chronicle; The Gazette; The Gentleman and Pirates' Almanac \- While Pirates and Gentlemen did not as a rule mix, this rather odd title had come about by two older, and long forgotten, titles merging; Furnap Publishing's Daily Globe \- although Dimler disliked even touching that hate filled and sensationalist rag, it was, he was forced to concede, popular with his customers; The Journal of Nishagog and finally; The Baleful Eye, all spread on the bar before him. All but the Chronicle mentioned Xandar on their front pages so Dimler was reading the Chronicle.

As he read, and he absently alternated polishing his glassware with taking noisy sips from a steaming mug of coffee, he had an epiphany. He was happy. Yes, even in spite of his guest upstairs, happy. The only thing which would have made him happier would be if his wife were here to keep him company.

Dimler was a short man, whose proportions filled a solid square of space and whose features were unremarkable. These days he kept his hair short, his spectacles sensible and tended to favour plain white shirts, with the sleeves turned up and clipped neatly in place. He had developed something of a gut over the last few years from all his good breakfasts but he kept it under control - if it started bulging too far over his belt he would exercise. Besides, his wife did not seem to mind.

"It is better," she always told him, "I never liked you when you were younger. You were too thin."

Dimler, in other words, looked every inch a typical barman and few of his customers gave him so much as a second glance. This was exactly how Dimler wanted it because the less people knew of his past the better, in his opinion. Dimler had not always been a barman.

As a young man he had been lithe, acrobatic, strong, fast - hells, he had even beaten Xandar in that fight. Just a friendly match-up, five rounds, point scored, nothing serious. Someone should have told Xandar. After a first round in which Xandar failed to even touch Dimler things had turned nasty. Xandar, it turned out, did not like losing at all. It was worse because there was the crowd. Dimler later discovered that Xandar hated being 'shown-up' in front an audience. Formidable fighter he may be, but was he ever touchy. Consequently for the remaining four rounds Xandar used every trick and every underhand tactic he could muster to try and turn the fight in his favour, including throwing sand in Dimler's eyes, punches after the referee called 'break' and even biting and eye gouging. Despite Xandar's gamesmanship, Dimler had won and when he had offered a conciliatory post fight handshake, Xandar had slapped it away and stormed off. The following morning, however, a subdued and sombre Xandar had found him and apologised. Then he had asked Dimler if he might train with him.

"You're fast," he had said, "I want to be that fast. Can you teach me?"

Dimler had smiled, "I can try."

Dimler had taught Xandar and Xandar had taught Dimler. Breaking and entering, safe-cracking, lock-picking - within a fortnight Dimler was more adept at them than Xandar had ever been. Xandar was no slouch either, Dimler never again beat him. Their friendship was made though and for years after that they had been a team.

While Dimler did not tend to advertise his adventuring past there was one little detail which hinted that Dimler had once been much, much more than a barman - His wife.

Ryana the Red was a legend. A flame haired goddess, she had spent seven years adventuring Up-Country and along the Mardark. Tales were told of her exploits and oaths were sworn with her name. Men would say when they saw a beautiful woman, "by Nishagog, but she is near as lovely as Ryana the Red!" Or perhaps the coarser, "She had tits like Ryana the Red!" Ryana was the by-word for beauty in the Newer World.

She was tall, a good head taller than Dimler, much to his embarrassment. Statuesque was the word Dimler would have used. Straight backed, with wide hips and large, well, anyway... Ryana was the perfect woman. Dimler had first seen her when he had been drinking with that good-for-nothing Xandar in some grotty up-river tavern filled with lumberjacks and bargemen - somewhere beyond the last outpost of civilisation. Dimler had been swatting away the flies and trying not to move due to the heat when she had kicked the door of the bar open and strode into his life.

Dimler remembered his shock at the sudden appearance of someone so wondrous, so gorgeous, and just so damned sexy in such a dingy shit-hole. Her hair a cascade of red curls flowing down around her shoulders, her shirt with the top three buttons undone and the swell of her bosom clearly on display, her hips straining against tight leather breeches, and he remembered those first words he had heard her speak...

"I am looking for a man."

For all her talents, Ryana had always lacked a little awareness. A dozen hands had shot up and the air filled with laughter and calls of, "here!" or "me, I'm your man!" Ryana had not even flinched. She swept the bar with a cold, level look, her face not betraying even a glimmer of emotion, and then she nodded to herself, walked over to one of the men drinking at the bar and, in one fluid motion, unsheathed a dagger and then stabbed the blade in under his jaw and up into his skull, burying it to the hilt. The man's eyes bulged comically and a final mouthful of ale mixed with blood had spurted out of his mouth.

The tavern had erupted with shouts, curses and the sound of weapons being drawn. Ryana, however, calmly reached into her shirt and pulled out a sheaf of paper which she then slapped on the bar.

"I claim this man as my bounty." She said.

"You fucking bitch," shouted one of the dead man's friends, "I'll..." He stopped speaking as Xandar's blade pressed to his throat.

Xandar smiled at him, at Ryana, at everyone else in the bar. "Anyone who has a problem with her," he nodded towards Ryana, "has a problem with me." And that was the end of it.

For time after that the three of them, Xandar, Ryana, and Dimler, had been inseparable. From ruined Bhorrian cities, to the temples of dark gods; from pursuing dangerous bounties, to drinking too much during easy caravan work; they had been there and done that. Dimler had lost count of the number of times they had risked their lives for one another.

Of course Xandar and Ryana had been a thing then and that was, in the end, the cause of the demise of their little group. Because while Xandar could spell monogamous in ten languages his behaviour indicated that he had no idea what it meant. Perhaps Ryana would even have been fine with that and Dimler too, but then there had been Xandar's increasing erratic and reckless behaviour. He seemed to genuinely believe the stories he had made up about himself. Dimler knew Xandar's qualities - he was brave, loyal and almost unbeatable in a straight up fight. But he began to become increasingly aware of his flaws.

Xandar was obsessed with his fame and reputation to the point of narcissism. Moreover he was a selfish bastard. Dimler had not failed to notice that in most of Xandar's older stories, the semi-plausible ones at any rate, Xandar tended to end up as the sole survivor. It was one thing for Xandar to run off after the first Chieftain's daughter to flutter her eyes at him, it was quite another when doing so risked their lives and cost them whatever treasure or money they had sought or been promised.

Worse, Xandar seemed unable to even grasp that what he was doing was wrong, let alone take responsibility for it. "It's only money," he would say shrugging off their complaints.

Ryana left first. One morning she was just gone. Dimler, through loyalty, friendship or stupidity, had stayed longer, but one morning he woke up and, with the most recent knife wound he had received while saving Xandar still aching, he realised he had had enough. He did not even bother leaving Xandar a note, he just grabbed his things and a little money and left.

After ditching Xandar he had taken on a couple of jobs by himself. These had been so financially successful for Dimler that he had retired. That old life, the constant danger, the adventure, the... it was a great life and he missed it even now, but he had never regretted his decision to retire, not for one second.

Dimler had returned to Nishagog and bought himself a bar. Not this one, of course, a different bar, a lovely little place which had burnt down when a drunken brawl Xandar had started had spiralled out of control. Anyway, one day, before he lost the first bar, he had been walking down the citrus shaded boulevard of Yarmella Avenue when he had seen Ryana again.

She had looked out of place in that genteel setting. Yarmella Avenue was home to up-market shops, to leafy upper-middle class town-houses and to well-dressed couples taking the air together. Ryana, by contrast, had been dressed in faded, travel stained leathers, with a pack slung over one shoulder and the pommel of her sword poking up from behind the other. She was wearing no makeup and her vibrant red hair was a long unkempt tangle. She had seen Dimler and when she had smiled at him, he had realised that he loved her, that he had always loved her and that he always would love her. He also offered a silent prayer to whatever god or fate had contrived that their chance meeting should happen just after he had just visited his barber for a shave and his tailor to pick up his first ever fitted suit, a suit which he was wearing at that precise moment.

Their conversation had been stiff and formal at first, as though they were mere acquaintances and not two people who had shared hardships and saved one another's lives on countless occasions. But as they parted company he had invited her to visit his bar that night, 'to catch up'. She accepted and the evening found her sat at the end of the bar watching as he poured drinks for his customers.

Later, once Dimler closed up, he poured them a large whiskey each and they began reminiscing. Story followed story and drink followed drink and next thing Dimler knew it was morning and he was lying in bed with a splitting headache and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen asleep next to him. Naked.

They had married a month later, and that was five years ago. Dimler now owned a new bar, had lost some hair and put on some weight. Ryana was still stunning and had, or so it seemed to Dimler, barely aged a day, despite having given birth to two children.

Dimler was madly, deliriously, in love with his wife, with his children, heck, even with his bar. He was, or would have been, entirely happy with life save for one detail, one inconvenient little detail. His guest. His Nishagog-damn-him guest. The one staying in the attic above the bar. The one whom Ryana absolutely could not know about. The one that he had promised her, had sworn blind to her, that he had not spoken to and who was definitely not here.

Xandar.

The most wanted man in the city. The man who was persona-non-grata with the Senate of Nishagog. The man who was on almost every front page this morning. The man who would, most like, come staggering down the stairs later, as he did every day, shouting for food and more whiskey. Xandar. The man drank and drank, only Dimler's finest vintages mind, and drank and never paid. Well, unless you counted the King's ransom in jewellery he had slapped down on the bar one night.

"That oughta see me good for a few nights," he had said, laughing. The rings and necklaces and bracelets lying there would have bought him the entire street. Unfortunately these particular jewels were the property of Mme. Dillan, scion of the noble Dillan trading family. They were also unique and very identifiable pieces and if Dimler were caught trying to sell them he would hang. So really they were worthless, so worthless and so dangerous that Dimler had gone and dumped them into the harbour before morning. Xandar, however, was now under the impression he had a line of near infinite credit on his bar tab.

Xandar. Dimler rubbed his temples, his head hurt. He looked at the papers spread across the bar. Xandar, Xandar, Xandar, read the headlines. Was there no escaping him?

The Times' headline read, "Xandar boasts of Bedding Casolari's daughter" and sported a daguerreotype of Tiana Casolari in profile. "Read our exclusive interview" said the text below the headline. When Dimler had read this he had started seeing little red spots before his eyes and had experienced piercing pains in his lower back.

Stress. His doctor had warned him about this, told him that it was all in his head. "Something is stressing you out my boy," the doc had said, "its all pscho... psycha... Hold on, I can get this. It's all, um, sicalogical? Yes, that's it, sicalogical."

Dimler had asked what 'sicalogical' meant and the Doc dismissed him with a wave, "Just some rubbish. Latest thing. It's all the fashion back in Europe. Completely meaningless jargon if you ask me. But it's in fashion just now, so damn me but I have to diagnose it or I'll lose half my customers.

"Anyway, what I mean is, it is all in your head, son. There is nothing physically wrong with you. You are head sick. Crazy. Wacko. Something has you so stressed out and worried that your body is manifesting physical complaints to mirror your brain illness."

Dimler's eye fell on the Daily Globe's headline, "Farmer Complains - Xandar molested my Goats!" Dimler felt dizzy. It was getting worse. He leaned on the bar holding his head. Breathe he told himself, breathe.

The Globe was owned by Furnap Publishing and they were one of Casolari's closest corporate allies. Of course they took an extremely hostile anti-Xandarian line and they had run daily headlines for almost two weeks now in an attempt to discredit Xandar. Their plan was, from what Dimler was aware, failing, but their sales apparently were up so even if people did not believe The Globe, they seemed to be enjoying it.

It was at this point that the door leading upstairs opened, and a young woman entered the room. Dimler looked up and, after a moment of confusion, felt his blood run cold.

Tiana Casolari was standing right there. Tiana. Fucking. Casolari. Dimler looked from the woman to the picture on the cover of the Times and back again. It was her! She looked bleary eyed, her make-up smudged, her hair a mess, and she was wearing a figure hugging black silk evening dress, but it was her. Dimler felt his stomach cramping. There was only one possible reason why she of all people would be here now, but his brain was refusing to accept the bloody obvious.

Xandar emerged a moment later yawning and pulling on a shirt. He grabbed her ass, then pulled her close, and kissed her. Dimler felt uncomfortable but unable to look away. Their kiss dragged on, Xandar whispered something to her through the kiss, she smiled and muttered a reply and still they kissed on. When finally they parted, Tiana pulled herself reluctantly away, their entwined hands the last to separate.

"Later," she laughed.

Xandar glanced over at Dimler, clearly embarrassed, muttered a faint reply and waved. Then Tiana was gone, out the door. It was only later that Dimler realised she never even looked at him - Typical aristocratic arrogance.

No sooner than the door had banged shut behind her than Xandar began grinning and he bounded over to the bar. "You saw her," he said, "What do you think?"

"Nishagog's swollen balls," Dimler shouted, "Xandar, are you mad?"

Xandar ignored Dimler's outburst, sat himself by the bar and scanned the headlines with a smile. "I would kill for a coffee, Dimler," he said, "Literally." He saw the Daily Globe headline and his smile turned to a frown. "I don't see why you still subscribe to this trash," he muttered, balling the paper up and throwing it towards a pail full of the previous night's sweepings.

"Because my customers like it and..." But Xandar was not listening.

"Here we are," said Xandar holding up The Times and tapping the headline. "I met this reporter the other night and he promised me the front page and a chance to put my side of the story. I thought, why not? Hurry up with that coffee Dimler. Tiana was not happy when I told her, but I think it's fair to say we've made up. I've barely slept;" he started laughing at this, "that damned hellcat was insatiable. She's like a demon in bed. Look at what she did to me!" Xandar pulled open his shirt and indicated to the impressive number of fresh scars which were raked across his chest. "And if you think that is impressive you should see my back. That girl damn near flayed me alive!"

Dimler poured Xandar a coffee and plonked it down on the bar harder than he had intended. He was in no mood to suffer Xandar's boasting.

"Listen you fuck," Dimler felt a pang of satisfaction as Xandar reacted with surprise, "You told me you needed a place to hide out. Fine, I let you stay here because we were friends. On your first damned night, Xandar, you had some giggling slattern up the stairs with you. Is that your idea of hiding out? Did you think, 'Hmm, if every single woman and half the drunks in the city know where I am then there is no way the Guard will ever find me?' I should have told you to go then. But, Nishagog devour me, I didn't. When you started robbing the houses of Senators, when you started buying journalists drinks and boasting, I should have thrown you out then. But damn me for a fool, I did not. So, what do you do next? You bring August Casolari's daughter and heir to my bar and show her where you are hiding - Nishagog's asshole, Xandar, are you fucking insane?"

Xandar looked angry, but Dimler could see his words had had an effect. He watched as Xandar sipped his coffee and refused to meet his gaze.

"This, all this," Xandar said eventually and he waved his hand over the newspaper headlines, "it's a game. The Guard won't find me, Dimler, because the Guard don't want to find me. Half of them are Narrows lads, just like you. They all love me. Everyone around here loves me. They all want to do what I do. They want to take those over-privileged, corrupt assholes in the Senate and rub their faces in shit. That is what I am doing, I am humiliating them!"

"No Xandar. This is no game. Not for you. When Casolari, or Mctavish, or Gunderman do these things it is a game. But for us, listen, the elite do not respect us, they do not like us, they do not see us as their equals. We are the scum they scrape off their boots. If we try and play their game, then they tend to become murderous."

"In any other city in the world you would be right, Dimler," Xandar spoke calmly, and was now looking him in the eye, "but not here. Not in Nishagog. Aye, I grant you, your description of the 'game' is doubtless how Casolari and his people see it. But that is not how it is. Nishagog, the city, its people, they cannot be controlled like that. You must feel it, Dimler, when you walk the streets. The energy! The opportunity! Here fame is not just a currency; it is very life-blood of the city. Casolari thinks he is powerful because he is an aristocrat, because he is rich - No! He is powerful because of his name and the fame accumulated to it. Look at this," Xandar jabbed his finger at one of the newspaper headlines which carried his name, "this is power, Dimler. This fame, this makes me more of an aristocrat than Casolari will ever be! I am the true Prince of Nishagog and my name alone can open doors which will ever be closed to Mr. August Casolari, the door to his daughter's bedchamber for one."

Dimler looked at his old friend in wonder. "Did someone spike your drink last night or something, Xandar? What, do you think to run for the Senate one day?"

"Aye, why not? Or better still, for Prime Minister."

"Damn you Xandar, believe what you want, I do not care. What I do care about is you dragging me into your mess. That was Tiana Casolari you had here, the serpent's own daughter. She is one of them, man, she's using you for sport and we will both be hanging from a gibbet by week's end! Come and look at yon famous corpse, the people will say. We'll see what doors your name opens then!"

"Calm down, Dimler," Xandar downed his coffee then poured himself some more. "The girl loves me. She'll be back for some more later, be in no doubt. She won't say a word to anyone."

There was no arguing with him, Dimler knew it. Once he took a notion into his head that was it. He wanted to shake the man, to scream at him, to make him see sense. Casolari would want revenge, Xandar was a just a thief, no, he was a thief who had embarrassed a few too many of Nishagog's elite. When Tiana told her father where to find Xandar, and she would, nothing and no one would stand in Casolari's way, the law, due process, guilty or innocent, none of that would matter. Xandar would be made an example of and Dimler, well he would be lucky if he just lost his bar. More likely he would hang.

Dimler wanted to say all this, but he did not. He longed for a return to his simple, quiet morning routine. To reading the papers, to good coffee, his breakfast and idle day dreaming about his wife. Instead he said with a sigh, "Damn it Xandar, how about some food? There's no more bacon, but I can do you haggis and eggs if you want?"

[6]

The Present.

They saw Tiana, It, just after the Machiacum struck five. Just as the final 'dong' finished reverberating over Nishagog, one of the ornate doors leading into the reception room where it had made its nest opened and it emerged.

It was darker, the moon had sunk so low as to be swallowed by the haze on the horizon, and so Xandar and Fingerman saw only a dark shadow crossing a darker background. Although it was still recognisably human in shape it did not move like one. It moved, Xandar decided, like something which had never controlled a human body before, like something which had never mastered bipedal motion, and which was making it up as it went along, its legs pistoning in sudden, jerking and unnatural motions. This was perhaps the most terrible thing of all, the one thing which told you, even from a distance, that you faced something not natural.

"Finally," Fingerman whispered. This was the first word either of them had spoken in about half an hour. Xandar nudged him and held one finger to his lips to indicate he should be quiet.

Earlier, when they began their watch, Fingerman had asked, his voice a scarcely audible whisper, "Do you think Tiana is still in there?"

"I don't know," Xandar had replied, "possibly."

"Do you..." Fingerman smiled, "Ah, that is, do you think it will remember you? I wonder what it will do when it sees you."

Xandar frowned, "I don't know, but she knew both of us Fingerman. At least she liked me."

Before that, they had visited the Palace storeroom for several bottles of whale oil and the armoury where they had grabbed as many guns and as much powder as possible. The journey through the narrow servants' corridors, dubbed by the staff the 'rat runs,' with their path lit only by Fingerman's thieves' lantern had been nerve shredding. Then there was the wait, watching the still, grey courtyard, enduring the sanity shredding crawl of time as second after second crept past and enduring the constant worry that they might be surprised or discovered. No, it was a relief to finally see it, and then to put their plan into action.

Once it had gone, Xandar led the way across the courtyard carrying two large muskets and hand-cannon slung over his shoulder. Fingerman followed carrying his damned sack of loot in one hand, a musket in the other and another musket on his back. Both men had several bottles of whale oil hanging from their belts.

As they entered its lair, Fingerman let out a low, choked cry. "Great Nishagog," he moaned, dropping to his knees and screwing his eyes shut.

But Xandar pulled him to his feet and slapped him. "We don't have time for this," he hissed. The myriad corpses piled on the couches all around them regarded their disagreement impassively.

It took Fingerman a moment or two to compose himself; he had gone pale and was trembling. At last he shook Xandar off and wiped the spittle from his lips. "Let's do this," he said, his voice wavering.

They lit braziers of coals and these filled the room with hot yellow light which cast flickering shadows dancing across the roof and walls. Next, at Xandar's insistence, both men doused the corpses with all the whale oil.

"Eggs, truly?" Fingerman indicated towards the bloated and mutilated bodies before him.

Xandar only nodded.

Then they loaded the guns. Fingerman had chosen four firelock muskets, and he laid each one on the table after he had loaded it with shot and powder. His pistols were still holstered in his gun harness, the muzzle on each pointing upwards. Xandar had taken only one gun, the huge hand-cannon designed to blast a spray of pellets at close range.

"Do you have any silver coins?" Xandar glanced toward the sack of loot Fingerman had placed by one of the pillars. When Fingerman looked quizzically at him Xandar explained, "For the gun. These things never like silver." Fingerman frowned, but then reached inside his tunic and produced a small pouch.

"That's all I have."

"It's enough." Xandar said. He emptied the coins down the barrel of the gun along with liberal amounts of powder.

Xandar then took Blackheart's pistol from the black sash which served as his belt. He considered it for a long moment, and then looked over at Fingerman.

Fingerman was a short, fat man, who was currently sweating profusely, and who looked frightened. Not an intimidating sight by any measure. But Xandar had heard otherwise. He had heard that despite his bulk Fingerman was quick on his feet and quicker with a blade, that he was an expert shot, that he was utterly ruthless and without mercy or sentiment. Xandar had heard tell of several political rivals of Casolari who had disappeared over the past few months, only for their bloated corpses to have been found floating in the city's main harbour wearing a second smile. Fingerman's handiwork no doubt. Xandar also knew strong men, hardened criminals, who would go pale at the suggestion of crossing Fingerman. No, Xandar believed Fingerman was capable, dangerous and not to be underestimated.

Xandar looked back at the gun in his hands and nodded to himself.

"By all the hells," Fingerman said coming over, "what is that thing?"

"This?" Xandar replied as he stuffed powder into the pistol and adjusted one of the strange looking levers, "it used to belong to an old acquaintance of mine."

"It looks as if it belongs in a museum!"

"It does. I took it from Casolari's display cabinet, the one in his study."

Fingerman laughed quietly at this.

"Did Casolari never show this to you?" Xandar asked.

"Me? No. To be honest, Xandar, I found his fascination with the occult and all his little knick-knacks tiresome. When he started droning on about this or that item I tended to stop listening. Maybe he did show me that gun, maybe he did not. I do not remember either way. I expect there is some tedious tale attached to it. Is it haunted by the ghost of some pirate's parrot or something? The amount of garbage Casolari bought, I swear, every merchant in Nishagog knew he only had to invent a tale and he could sell him the most worthless of antiques."

"Careful, Fingerman," Xandar said, "some of Casolari's purchases were real enough."

Fingerman hesitated and glanced towards the door, "Yes," he said eventually.

"Here," Xandar said and offered Barbarossa's pistol to Fingerman.

"W-what do I want that thing for? It's like to blow up in my hand."

"It works." Xandar told him, "Trust me, that pistol was designed by one of Florence's greatest inventors using only the finest materials. In a thousand years it will still be in working condition."

"It's a damned antique," Fingerman insisted.

"Think of it as insurance, you probably won't need it, but isn't it better to have too many guns than too few?"

Fingerman nodded at this advice and took the pistol, looked at it, looked at its strange and overly complicated firing mechanism, frowned and then put the gun on a nearby table. "As you say," he said at last.

Xandar propped his hand cannon against a pillar and stepped up to the gong where he paused to wipe the sweat off his hands before lifting a large wooden hammer which had been hanging next to the gong. He looked to Fingerman who had retreated into the shadows, a musket at the ready. The two men nodded to one another and Xandar turned to the gong. Illuminated by the glowing coals in the braziers, his shadow towered above him as he raised the hammer.

Fingerman swallowed, "Nishagog save us," he said.

The hammer hit the gong and a crashing 'ONG' echoed and reverberated around the room.

Fingerman winced. "Damn me, that was loud - the gargoyles on the University tower must have heard that!"

Xandar sprang from the dais, snatched up his hand cannon and stood in the middle of the room, his body braced against the gun.

A minute passed. The echoing din of the gong slowly faded.

Another minute passed. Xandar relaxed slightly. He moved a hand from the gun to his sword and touched the pommel. The feel of that familiar metal and the soft leather of the grip reassured him.

"Where is it?" Fingerman whispered.

Xandar licked dry lips.

"Where is it?" Fingerman begged now.

From outside there came a hiss. It cut through the still early morning air.

"Oh God," Fingerman whimpered, "We were fools, Xandar, fools! I saw men shoot it point blank - their shot was useless. It's not of this earth, nothing, no mortal weapon can stop..."

"Quiet!"

Another hiss and a scraping sound. Close - from just outside the double doors.

"It's here." Xandar readied the hand cannon.

A clawed hand appeared around the edge of the closed door. Then there was a creak as the door swung open and Tiana Casolari, or the thing which had once been her, stepped into the room. She seemed to have grown even larger than when Xandar had last seen her. Both in height and girth, her new body bulged comically out of the torn ruin of Tiana's dress. Her head had swollen dramatically with pulsing alien growths and fleshy lumps protruding all over. Her lips were still vaguely human looking, if larger and swollen, but these had now peeled back to reveal rows of needle pointed teeth. Some of her human teeth were still visible, however, and these jutted from her gums at odd angles. Four tentacles rose swaying from her shoulders lined with jagged teeth.

Fingerman screamed and discharged his musket. Xandar had to hand it to him, he may have been terrified, but his aim was good and the bullet hit the thing on the side of the head. But it was as if Fingerman had shot a statue. A little bit of flesh was blown off, like a chip of stone, but otherwise it seemed unharmed. It did not start bleeding.

Tiana, advanced toward Xandar, its arms outstretched and at a slow pace, making no attempt to hurry. Xandar backed away in turn, stepping past several corpses, retreating toward the back of the room. Fingerman now he had another rifle which he raised and fired, but this shot was wild and Xandar heard one of the room's windows shatter.

"Nishagog damn you, Fingerman!" Xandar cursed.

The creature suddenly lunged forward. Xandar planted both feet firmly and, at the last moment, discharged the hand-cannon point blank. There was a tremendous explosion and half a dozen silver coins ripped through alien flesh. Tiana was blown off her feet and flew back into a couch piled with corpses.

"Fingerman!" Xandar called. The room was now filled with acrid blue-grey gunpowder smoke.

"Xandar!" The fat man coughed and snatched up another musket and hurried around the couches and tables.

Tiana let out an inhuman roar and stood. Its dress was now little more than strips of material, and its black scales had been torn away in chunks revealing raw flesh below. But still there was no blood.

It came for Xandar again. "Shoot it Fingerman," Xandar shouted, "Shoot it!"

Fingerman discharged his musket into her back. A chunk of black flesh was blown off and Tiana jerked around in surprise. She raised her head back and screeched again.

"No, here!" Xandar bellowed and he hurled his own gun so it hit off Tiana's head. She turned back toward him and began to emit a harsh, continuous rattling sound. Was she laughing? Xandar took an involuntary step back. He looked at her wounds and he realised that they were doomed because her wounds were healing before his very eyes.

"By the blue beard of Nishagog," said Xandar in an awed whisper. He had time to draw his sword and then it was on him.

Xandar felt the air smashed out of his lungs as Tiana crashed into him with the force of a battering ram. It threw its arms around his waist and lifted Xandar off the ground as if he were a child and then began constricting to crush the life from him. Xandar in turned hacked and hewed at it with his sword even as his face turned red and the veins strained from his neck. Despite delivering fearsome blows which would have decapitated a human foe, his sword merely glanced off and occasionally chipped the creature's flesh. Another gunshot reverberated around the room, but the creature never even flinched.

"Fingerman!" Xandar cried, gasping for help. One of Tiana's black tentacles ripped the sword from his hand and discarded it across the floor. He saw Fingerman running, pulling his pistols from his harness, but the fat man might have been waddling toward him through treacle.

"Fingermaaaaaan!" Xandar cried out.

Fingerman discharged both pistols into it from point blank range. "Fucking die," he screamed, then a tentacle lashed out and knocked him off his feet. As Fingerman fell he knocked over one of the braziers and orange coals spilled out across the floor. Several of the coals fell onto one of the whale oil soaked corpses and it caught light instantly. Fingerman, bleeding now from a head wound, cried in alarm and pushed himself across the floor and away from the flames.

Xandar saw Tiana glance at the fire and he heard what sounded to him like a hiss of frustration. Then tentacles coiled around his arms and body and Xandar felt each one of the dozens of needle-like teeth which lined the tentacles as they punctured his skin and slid into him. Xandar struggled to pull his arms free but his every movement only caused the teeth to tear and rip his flesh more. Within moments his arms, his torso, everything was slick with blood. All the while Tiana continued to inexorably tighten its arms, increasing the pressure on his torso. It felt to Xandar as if rivulets of molten fire were running up and down his spine.

It was at that moment that Xandar looked down and saw its eyes. They were tiny little things, sunk deep in pits surrounded by puffy and bloated alien flesh and they shocked Xandar more than anything else he had seen that night. They were Tiana's eyes. It was her, it was still her and Xandar realised that she was still there, that she was still aware, that she knew exactly what was happening to her and what she had done.

Xandar remembered then one night, when he and Tiana lay in bed together, their bodies entwined, gazing into one another's eyes. He remembered the life, the love, and the excitement he had seen in those eyes. He remembered that because now all he saw in them was horror, pain and pleading.

"Tiana," he whispered, and then, with a mighty roar of defiance, he pulled his arms free from the tentacles, heedless of the ruin the serrated teeth did to his flesh, and then he drove his thumbs into those eyes.

It screamed in agony and dropped him.

Xandar fell to his hands and knees, spat blood and gasped for breath. Now, for the first time he was aware of the heat. He looked up and saw the fire, and there, in the flames he saw...

Casolari.

Casolari's corpse was right before him. The fire was scorching and blackening his flesh, his clothes were aflame and his eyes had burst, but it was him. Xandar heard Casolari's voice then pleading, "I never meant for this, for any of this. I meant to fix my mistake, I swear it, I meant to..."

Xandar's head was spinning. "No, you're dead," Xandar said as he pushed himself to his feet, "You're dead and I'm hallucinating..."

Casolari had died in his arms. He was sure of it. He even remembered his last words, "Tiana..." Casolari had said, "please... she... you must..." Casolari had been trying to warn him. Xandar remembered that scene clearly; he remembered Casolari's fingers twitching as he attempted to reach towards the dagger that was so tantalising, so near, yet forever beyond him.

The dagger, the damned, Bhorrian dagger!

Xandar turned to see Tiana coming for him. He could hear Fingerman screaming his name. He drew the Bhorrian dagger from his belt and raised it above his head like a trophy so it glistened against the orange light of the spreading fire.

Tiana stopped. It stopped dead in its tracks and stared at the blade Xandar held aloft.

Then it took a step backwards.

Xandar called on his last reserves of strength and threw himself forward, tackling Tiana and plunging the blade deep into the muscle between its shoulder and neck. Its eyes widened and it let out an alien howl of pair. Red blood gushed from the wound like an eruption of viscous magma.

Xandar roared in triumph cry and stabbed it again, driving the blade into its chest. It struck him with a backhanded clawed fist which knocked him sprawling back, and then it turned and stumbled away. Xandar staggered after it, grabbed it by Tiana's hair and then plunged the dagger into its back, once, twice, three times. At last it collapsed to the floor, and Xandar fell on top of it where he continued stabbing it. Tiana, one last time, tried to push itself up, only to collapse beneath Xandar's weight and then it opened it mouth, let out a last, pathetic alien rattle, then died.

Xandar pushed himself off it and rolled onto his back where he lay panting. He took a moment, then another, to catch his breath. Every part of him, every single nerve ending, was shrieking with pain. Then there was the heat. Xandar looked around and saw a wall of flame spreading about the room, with various tapestries and even the walls themselves ablaze. He stood, and immediately fought the urge to fall over. He saw blood dripping from his fingers onto the floor.

"Great Nishagog," Fingerman said in an awed voice, "how are you still standing?"

Xandar turned and looked at him. He was groggy and it took a moment to remember how to speak, "Damn near skinned me alive," he whispered. Behind him the double doors to the courtyard were ablaze and the tiles on the floor were smoking. He managed to stagger towards the patio doors before his legs gave out and he collapsed onto an empty couch near the back of the room. Blood immediately stained the upholstery. Xandar's head drooped against his chest and his eyes closed, and then flicked open. His chest rose and fell steadily.

Fingerman licked his lips. He stooped and picked up his sack of loot, and walked over to Xandar. In his hand he held Blackheart's pistol, the only unfired gun left in the room.

"The fire is spreading quickly, so it's best I was away," Fingerman said. "You know, the people of Nishagog are going to love this tale, Xandar. I should be able to secure exclusives with all the papers. I might even get my own book deal. How Xandar and Casolari's murderous feud reached its grizzly climax - A night of terrible carnage as the murderous thug Xandar, slew Casolari, his guards, his servants, even beautiful and innocent Tiana, his lover, only to die himself in a terrible fire which he started." Fingerman laughed and pointed the gun at Xandar, "This really does have everything - murder, sex, revenge... Thank you, Xandar, really, thank you."

Xandar raised his head, which was horribly scarred by puncture marks and bruises, so he was looking directly into the muzzle of the gun. "Nishagog devour your soul, Fingerman."

"What?" Fingerman squeaked, "That's it, no witty last words? No quips? In the books you always have a smart one liner. You disappoint me, Xandar."

Xandar said nothing to this. Fingerman sighed, shook his head and pulled the trigger.

There was an explosion as the gun detonated, backwards. The powder flash, the puff of smoke and, most importantly, the bullet all came out from the rear of the pistol. The bullet tore up through the length of Fingerman's arm and then through the side of his chest. Fingerman collapsed to the mosaic floor and began screeching in pain as he clutched at the bloodied remains of his arm.

Dear old Blackheart, Xandar thought. The man was a lunatic, a dangerous, unpredictable monster who got off on pain and cruelty, but he had saved his life. Again.

The pistols had originally been one of a matched pair especially designed and built for Blackheart by a Florentine inventor to be used as props in one of Blackheart's favourite little games. Blackheart loved games or japes as he called them. His prisoners, those he did not keep as oarsmen or sell as slaves, would be given a choice, either walk the plank or trial by combat. The latter option would result in the prisoner being offered a choice of one of the two pistols from a leather and red velvet presentation case.

"Choose your weapon," Blackheart would say, "but," and here a wink, "choose carefully because your life depends on it!" He loved this part of the charade; he loved to give them that glimmer of hope, and always became overly theatrical and generous. Blackheart would claim the 'honour' of being the opponent and take the other pistol. Whichever weapon the victim choose, it mattered not for both guns worked in exactly the same manner. Now these pistols could be fired normally but to do so one must push up one of the metal hinges on the firing mechanism and hold it.

Of course the victims would not know this and Blackheart would invariable let them fire first and then explode with laughter when the poor wretch shot themselves. Sometimes, if in a good mood, Blackheart would then finish his victim off with a shot to the head from his pistol.

Xandar had always considered Blackheart to be a bit of a cock and had thought he might have to kill him one day. However fate intervened and eventually, after Xandar had been made to walk the plank himself, Blackheart's own men had turned against him. One fine Fool's day morning, Quentyn Blackheart had strode out on deck and announced that there was going to be no more rum and that he had tossed it all over-broad during the night. "Get ready for a dry ship from now on, lads, I'm a changed man and we're for clean living from here on out," he had allegedly roared. The crew had fallen on him and within minutes he was hanged from the yardarm. Even as they strung him up it had never occurred to them, or so they later claimed, that he might have been playing a Fool's day jape.

But clearly Fingerman was not familiar with the life and times of Quentyn Blackheart.

Xandar picked up a discharged musket and used it as a crutch to push himself to his feet. He limped over to the sobbing Fingerman and kicked him onto his back and then planted one boot on his chest. Fingerman whimpered.

"There are shades in the underworld that would pay handsomely for the opportunity you just wasted," Xandar said. "Say hello to them for me."

Xandar roared and, swinging the musket like a club, cut short Fingerman's shrill scream of terror by bringing the butt down into his head with a sickening smack. Xandar hit him again to be sure before he tossed the brain smeared rifle away. Then, pausing only to pick up Fingerman's sack of loot, he limped out into the gardens.

But at the patio-doors Xandar stopped to look back. The fire had engulfed half the room and doubtless the mansion would soon follow. But Xandar only had eyes for Tiana. She was a fiend no longer. In death she was a woman once more and beautiful too, save for the awful wounds on her torso. Something black and alien, looking like a four-legged reptilian spider, lay dead on its back next to her, its curled legs sticking comically into the air.

"Great Nishagog," Xandar swore, and then he turned.

He staggered away from the house, down a long flight of marble steps and into the estate's extensive gardens, past tall rose bushes and through long avenues of trees, leaving a trail of blood as he went. He kept his eyes on the horizon where he could see the first sliver of dawn. East, he knew so long as he was heading east he would be all right. East meant he was moving away from the palace, away from Casolari, from Tiana, from Dimler and from Fingerman. Xandar was done with them all.

At last he reached a rusted gate set in a red brick wall covered with moss. He pushed through this gate and suddenly he was in a different world. A sleepy city square surrounded by two and three storey buildings with a little fountain bubbling happily in the pre-dawn light. One single weather-worn nymph stood guard over a pool of clear and inviting water. It was so very different to Casolari's estate.

Here Xandar finally fell exhausted, the sack of loot clattering to ground next to him. He pulled himself up to the rim of the fountain and scooped handfuls of cool water to his mouth. He had not realised how thirsty he was until the first drops of water passed his cracked lips.

Having drunk his fill, he turned and looked back towards Casolari's palace. The sky to the west glowed orange like a second dawn as the fire he and Fingerman had started took hold. Already he could hear distant shouts and the sounds of people trying to break through the main gates to gain access to the palace grounds. No doubt the neighbours had seen the flames and were coming to offer their assistance. That and to grab anything which escaped the blaze and was not nailed down.

Xandar decided that it would be better if his role in the night's tragedy went unknown. This was one tale which did not need to be repeated. He stood slowly, his head spinning. He was, he knew, lucky to be alive. Where could he go? Alana. Yes, Alana. He had not spoken to her for over a year and when last he saw her she had told him to, "fuck off and never come back." Well never was a long time and Xandar judged that his wounds would be worth just enough sympathy to, at least temporarily, erase his past behaviour. Alana's was about a quarter of a mile away. Could he make it without passing out? Well, if he could not he had no doubt his corpse would find its way to Nishagog University's medical school for dissection before the morning was out. But no, he would make it, one step at a time.

One painful step at a time.

He only remembered two days later that he had forgotten the sack of loot and left it by the fountain. But as to who found it and what they did with it, that is another story.

A Note on Pronunciation

Xandar is a name not a contraction. When you pronounce 'Xandar' the image you conjure up should not be of some genial country doctor sipping tea in his drawing room while reading the paper. No, when one says 'Xandar' one should say it as if speaking of impenetrable jungle wilderness, of dinosaurs, volcanoes, lost tribes and sultry barbarian princesses.

Xandaar, not Xander.

That's Xandaar.

### XANDAAR!
Acknowledgements

This work would not be possible without the patience and support of many people who, over the years, have read and commented on various incarnations of this tale.

In particular, my wife, Nadia Ayal, who has encouraged and supported me throughout and Alistair Woodhead, my most reliable proof reader.

Euan S Mackenzie, Edinburgh 2014.
About the Author

Euan Mackenzie has been telling people ghost stories for almost ten years and getting paid for it! That's quite ridiculous if you stop to think about it. This novella, however, is his first work of prose fiction. (The Nishagogian Tourist Board's lawyers insisted that we refer to this work as fiction. They also threatened legal action unless we removed the comment, "Except it isn't." So yeah it is fiction. Okay, we're all clear on that? Right? Wink, wink.)

Euan Mackenzie lives in Edinburgh with his wife and daughter.

Find Out More

Do you want more? More Nishagog, more Xandar?

Well, you can have more, at http://euansmackenzie.blogspot.co.uk/

Perhaps you'll want a list of Nishagog's best restaurants? Or how about some handy information regarding what not to wear during the Feast of the Ascension of Nishagog – a must read for any tourist who doesn't want to find themselves chased through the streets by angry, cleaver-wielding priests.

All that, and more about the author, including his writing about subjects other than Nishagog and information about forthcoming works.

So long, or as the people of Nishagog would say, "May Nishagog Devour Your Soul."
