 
A Hex Beyond Rynia

Ken La Salle

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Ken La Salle

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1

### A Hex Beyond Rynia

SONS OF RYNIA

BOOK TWO

by Ken La Salle

PROLOGUE

For Helen Haddison, Princess of Rynia and wife of Hex the Maker, the end of her world began not with the thundering of Hargoth's massive stone feet in the Imperial Ballroom and not with the sounds and smells of death in the midst of her Anniversary celebration. Those were things she knew she could fight. Hargoth, the leader of the stone giants, had been defeated once; he could be defeated again. With the power of Rynia, any evil could be vanquished. Hadn't that been proven eight years before when undead had walked the land and Hargoth's troops had taken the very center of Rynia's government?

No. The end began a few, short hours later with a whisper of air filling the empty space left by the passing of a Mover carrying her love from this world to another. Hex had been adamant. He had to return to his world to find the young wizard, Vincent. The only hope Rynia had, or so Hex said. So Lucion had been summoned and appeared with morning's light to take her love away. He had stood there, the bastard, with that same smug look on his face. Nothing to worry about, it seemed to say. Everything's going to be fine. You'll see.

She saw nothing but an empty room, left colder by Hex's departure. It was raining again outside and, though Helen checked to see that the windows were shut, a draft still brushed against her bedclothes. It was as if she were afraid to leave the chambers. Afraid Hex wouldn't return.

She would leave, though. She must. Princess was not just a title to Helen. It was her identity. She must dress before her father's departure. She had learned, to her dismay, that she'd have no part in this war, no way to strike against Tsurtor as he befouled her kingdom. It was a bitter pill to swallow but swallow it she did; it was her duty to do that which her father and liege commanded. His command had been for her to rule in his stead. There had been some argument and Helen did not wish for her father to leave without first setting things right.

Her maids had placed a dress out for her to wear. It was a celebratory affair, appropriate for the day after Anniversary, with brushed blue satin and rolling sequins in which she would have looked breathtaking. She moved it aside. Stepping into her closet, she knew exactly what she was looking for. It was her brown riding gear, brown denim breaches, white cotton shirt, and leather jacket. With this, she wore her favorite boots. It wasn't the most flattering thing she had - her chestnut hair looked less than spectacular amidst all that brown - but it reminded her of another time, eight years ago. When she was exiled to Rynianhomme (The only place where the inhabitants of the Imperial Palace had to run. Now sealed off, it was the huge cave and network of tunnels which lay beneath the Palace in the Isle's rock.) all of her finery had to be left behind. Then, as now, she was confined to her most sensible attire. It suited her well and made a statement. This was no longer the time for frivolous things.

Her jaw set with determination, she strode from her room, nodding as her guards saluted. Directly across, her daughter's chambers were still closed, laying in the peace of ignorance. Better not to disturb her, yet. She turned to her left and walked up the corridor to the king's chambers. Her father's rooms. Oddly enough, they, too, appeared quiet.

The door was answered by the King's attendant, Carle Barant. "Your highness," he asked with a bow.

"I've come for my father," Helen replied. "Where is he?"

"I beg your pardon, your highness?"

"My father. I've come to see him off. Where would I find him," she asked.

"Oh, my. I thought her highness would have been told."

"Told?"

"Yes. His majesty left before the coming of dawn."

Shocked, Helen stood with her mouth open, looking at her father's servant.

Wondering if she'd heard, Carle said, "He's no longer here, your highness."

"Of course," she heard herself say and took two steps back without thinking. "Thank you," she said and walked back down the corridor, hoping not to look too unsure of herself. For the foreseeable future, it was a luxury in which she could no longer indulge. The woman who was Helen Haddison had to disappear beneath the facade that was Princess Helen.

Was that the way it was with her father, who shed the guise of King Marcus Haddison for that of Mack, the adventurer?

Now, Helen had no choice. She'd been left behind for a reason. To provide stability and guidance in a time when both commodities would be in desperately short supply. Thus resolved, she took the stairs down to the Palace's third floor.

When she entered her father's private throneroom, she was met by only one figure. She remembered when she'd first seen him, bringing her father home. He was a large man was a brilliant, red beard and arms that could hold up the world. After all this time, he may have grown softer but there was no mistaking him. This time, however, he had not brought her father back.

"I'm sorry, your highness," Red Martag said, bowing on one knee.

"Get up," she commanded. "We don't have time for that." She walked to the window and looked out at the rain. Unlike the windows of her world, this had been constructed with Hex's help and no draft got in. No surprise there. Hex wasn't known as the Maker for nothing.

It seemed that bad news always awaited her in this room. She should have learned that lesson long ago. At the beginning of the war of earth and stone, it had been in this room that Hargoth had first made his true nature clear. She encountered Hargoth here, again, at war's end. It had been upon that occasion that the stone giant had thrown little Vincent through the massive hole in the wall to his imminent death. Helen's friend, Mark Nygarra had tried to catch Vincent but had only succeeded in falling with him. Only the miracle of Vincent's magic had saved them, then.

What would save them now?

No time for that, she thought. Sitting upon her father's throne, she said, "Tell me everything."

There wasn't much to tell. King Marcus had sought Red Martag out the night before and informed him of his plan. By the dark of night, Red had prepared his ship for the short voyage and, after Marcus and Laurence had arrived, stealthily sailed northwards over the Regal Isle. The trip across the Bania Channel had been uneventful but, coming back, Red had ample opportunity to contemplate recent events. After much thought, he was sure that the reason Marcus had desired such an expeditious departure had little or nothing to do with meeting the enemy any sooner. Returning to the Isle's small port, he'd resolved himself to a grim task. It had taken him eight years to build an adequate port on this isle but the wooden planks passed beneath his feet as if they were inconsequential. He saw the sun rising over the five tiers of the Imperial Palace as he walked through its massive gates. He stopped for nothing, heading directly to the private throne room where he knew that Helen would be presiding in her father's place. It had been his plan to tell her everything but the look on her face as she walked into the room told him she knew much of it already.

"If I had known, your highness -"

"If you had known, you would have gone anyway," Helen spat, surprising herself. "I'm sorry, Red. I usually don't have this much scorn before breakfast."

"It is understood, your highness."

"So, where will you go now?"

"Now, princess? It seems I would do better to stay." He cleared his throat, trying to think of some reason that wouldn't offend the unusually touchy royal. "Caroline, she can be a handful."

"My daughter has nannies, Red," she reproached. "Crap. I'm sorry. Of course, you should stay. In my condition, I may end up firing the whole staff."

"Of course, princess," Red replied with a smile and a small bow.

"We need to start by informing the people. Rolf needs to get out there and recruit and -"

"PRINCESS!" The scream shattered her thoughts and quelled her words. The throne room door swung open to one of the princess' handmaidens, Esther Sinse. Esther was being held back by the guards who, while they knew her well enough to know she posed no threat, insisted on some level of decorum. The spindly, little lady fought them with the strength of those twice her size, pulling them in the room with her. "Princess! Please!"

"Let her go," she said, trying to sound authoritative but emitting little more than a gasp. She'd never seen Esther Sinse do more than fold and sew and now she was running and screaming and dragging men. What could -?

"It's Lucion, princess. Lucion! He's come back!"

"What," Helen asked, rising. With Red at her side, she approached the handmaiden.

"Oh, please, princess! You have to come!" Taking the princess' hand - It was something she would never have done in a rational state. She'd always prostrated herself before the family and had never said more than a handful of words to the princess before that day. - she pulled her out. "Please! Hurry!"

Helen needed no pulling. In a dash, she was after her handmaiden. Something was terribly wrong. Her stomach was suddenly a mass of knots. Her heart shrank into a stone and her body shook. Turning her head, she saw Red on her heels. Good. She may need him.

Esther ran them back up the stairs and through the Palace until she reached the room that Hex and Helen had shared throughout their marriage. But Helen couldn't make it that far. She realized that tears were in her servant's eyes, in her own as well. She couldn't look beyond that portal.

With a hand on her shoulder, Red whispered, "Come on, Helen. We must."

She took his hand and let his strength draw her into the chambers.

There was Lucion, wringing his hands and shaking in terror. He was dripping from head to foot. His eyes were wide and blank and he muttered incomprehensibly.

Helen's first reaction was to look up at Red, hoping to see some sign of comprehension. There was none.

She went to Esther, asking, "What has happened?"

Esther, quaking, whispered, "Oh, princess."

"Where's Hex," Helen asked. But there came no reply. Only tears.

She asked again. "Where's Hex?" Looking down upon the Mover, he didn't reply - nothing understandable, at least.

Her body feeling like an open wound, her heart dropping into the pits of her bowels, her hands and her head shaking with something she would soon discover was rage, she shouted, "Where is Hex?"

But no one answered her.

"Tell me, damn you," she screamed, her hands grabbing Lucion's head and pounding it backwards against the wall. "Tell me!" Her hands were filled with his wet hair and her eyes were filled with blood. She shook him like she was trying to work his head lose, pounding it against the wall, insisting on an answer. Still, there was none. The magician took the beating with no attempt at defense.

Arms circled her waist. Thick, strong arms. They pulled at her, pulled her back.

But she wouldn't let go. She screamed and screamed until tears mixed with spittle hearing nothing until the thick, strong hands were on her shoulders, pushing her back. Then the words came. They came with a gust of warm, angry breath. They entered her body and pierced her soul and denied her any way to strike back.

"He's gone! Helen, can't you see? He's gone!" Red's face had turned the color of his hair. Hurting though he was, he held his friend's wife still. He held her up. He didn't let her go, didn't let her faint. His thick, strong hands wouldn't let her forget that she was a princess and it was her duty to suffer just as it was her duty to sacrifice.

At first, she couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. The only parts of her working were her tear ducts. Then, her neck started moving her head back and forth. Then, her body drew back, releasing itself from those thick, strong hands just as her vocal chords issued the denial towards which her body had been building. "No." It wasn't a scream. It wasn't a holler. It was a singular gasp, propelled by an empty body. It was all she had the strength for and then she ran out.

Esther tried to follow her but an arm dropped in her way. "Let her go," Red ordered. The room was a wasteland of past happiness which Helen couldn't be forced to face.

She ran past the tower entrance to the secret passage Hex had constructed. She had to get out, get away. She couldn't be within those walls, those walls that had been their home. The passage went through the Palace's stone and exited upon the broad, outer walls. The rain immediately hit her like a cold fist and she let it wash over her, hiding her hot, painful tears.

* * *

Footsteps behind her.

Helen realized she'd cried herself to sleep.

With the rain still falling upon her, she looked up from where she sat, huddled against the cold, stone parapet. She didn't need to look too high, though.

"I thought I'd bring you some lunch, ma'am."

Byron Malagosh. Hex had told Helen that he'd made the little man out of loneliness. Had that been Helen's fault? Had she been too busy enjoying the fineries of royalty to tend to her husband's needs? Her head fell back down. Had she even made him happy?

"It's soup. Turkey, I believe. If you eat it quickly, it won't get too cold or runny."

"What are you doing out here, Byron? Won't you warp?"

Byron was silent for a moment. Then, putting down the tray, he let out a sarcastic laugh. "Oh, I see. I'm made of wood so I'd warp. Ha ha. I love human humor. But seriously, I'm made of hardwood. I stand little risk of warping."

"Byron -"

"He's my creator, princess. My father, if you will. I believe I have just as much right to be out here as you."

Hex's other child, Caroline, was still inside, warm and comfortable. She didn't even know. Helen turned and looked out at the sea, a curtain of darkness. "Caroline," she sighed. Hex's words echoed in her head. He used to sing them to their daughter when she was sick or had woken from a nightmare. Caroline, you look so fine, wish you were mine, my Caroline. Be my Valentine and we'll dine on wine and we'll feel divine by the time you're nine, my Caroline. He never was much of a poet. "Oh, Byron. How am I ever going to tell Caroline."

"Tell her? Tell her, what?"

"What? Maybe the rain is getting through. You know what."

"No. I'm afraid I don't."

"About Hex, stupid."

"Oh sure, insult the little man. But I still have no idea what you're talking about."

"Stop being cruel," she muttered, closing herself up in a fetal ball.

Looking at her for a while as the rain kept pouring down (ruining the soup), Byron wondered what Hex would have said. Finally, he blurted, "Princess, how did you feel when you're father died?"

"I beg your pardon?" She looked up at him with fiery eyes forcing him back a step.

"Excuse me. I meant to ask: How did you feel when you first heard your father had died?"

"What are you trying to get at?"

"It was down there, was it not?" Byron pointed down to the city square. In less than a decade, it had risen from the rubble brought by the undead. "If the stories are true, there were so many undead out there you couldn't count them all. Your father led a charge. A hasty maneuver. Fitting that Hex should end up in this family. Where were you, princess?"

"Where," she asked, rising to look over the wall.

"When he led the charge? Where were you? Sleeping? Getting a bite to eat?"

"No," she snapped, insulted. "I was negotiating lodgings for the stone giants. They had outgrown their billet and wanted the stables."

"So, instead of fighting, you were -"

"I was taking care of this damned Palace! That's what I always do! So, what's your point?"

Byron was silent for a moment, wearing a smirk. "I never said I had one."

Helen pulled back her wet hair, wondering what had compelled her to come out in the rain.

"You never did bury your father, did you?"

"Byron," Helen started, her voice impatiently level, "Hex did not make you stupid."

"No, he didn't. He couldn't. What I mean to say, princess - if it will help you understand - is that you never held a memorial, never honored his memory."

Though the rain kept pouring, things began to clear for the princess. "No," she replied. "I never believed he was dead."

"And he came back. Didn't he?"

"Yes. Yes, he did." She looked down at the little man, her heart brimming with pride for her husband's work. "So, you're saying that, although it might appear as though he's died, Hex may still be alive."

"Actually, your highness, what I am saying, with all due respect, is that my father is far more resourceful and determined on a bad day that the king ever was. He'll come back, Helen. We both know that."

Somehow, she still felt like crying. Perhaps it was because she'd been given hope and, in a way, it was Hex who had given it. "Yes," she said. "We do."

"So, let's get inside. You have a lot of work to do and I think I'm beginning to warp."

* * *

Helen sent pages to fetch General Rolf Heaphge, who would be expecting her summons, Tuk the Destroyer, who would be needed, and Red Martag. She was especially glad she had not sent him away. He'd been her only strength in the beginning of a truly bleak time. Returning to her quarters, she had her handmaidens fetch her a new outfit, similar to the first. Esther, relieved to see the princess' spirits back, did her hair. Lucion was gone. It was hoped that the Bonders could do something for his condition.

In less than an hour, she was back in the throneroom. Her long hair pulled up in a most serious fashion, she wore mostly black. In no way did she look frivolous. Byron accompanied her for, in Hex's absence, she'd need someone who understood his mysterious sciences and logics. Byron, who had been inseparable from the Maker throughout his many experiments, was perfectly suited to that task.

Red Martag was the first to arrive. His hair was wet and his look was haggard. Helen thought he might have gone looking for her out in the rain. She was right. His first task, after she'd left in tears, was to tend to the wounded magician. Lucion couldn't walk under his own power so Red had scooped him up and carried him down to Bern and his troop of Bonders, hoping that in some way they could help. Then, he walked immediately out into the courtyard. The guards at the gate had not seen her pass or use the stairs that ascended to the parapets so he searched the courtyard again before he returned. Then he searched the gardens and, where he thought she'd be, Alinax's grave. When the page had found him, he'd only had time to change into dry clothes before making his way to the royal family's private throneroom.

Rolf Heaphge had been easily found in his chambers. For the fourth time that day, he'd been drawing out his troop strengths on a tablet, trying to squeeze one more number onto the front. It just wouldn't happen. He could only expect so many townsfolk to leave their homes for certain death no matter what Hex said. Only a miracle will save us, he kept thinking. Only a miracle. When he entered the throneroom, he bowed without a word.

Helen bade them both to wait. She would not start without the third.

The third, the old, blind wizard named Tuk, was furiously moving cards in his small, dark room. They were braille cards that Hex had made for him as a gift. He'd also taught the king's Wizard Council the game of solitaire.

Ha! Some gift, the old wizard thought. He could never win without cheating, it seemed. Some way to treat the man who had singularly won the war of earth and stone! That was how the old man had gone blind. With a great feat of magic, his power had flared uncontrollably and it was only at the cost of his eyes that he'd kept it under control.

Feeling through his draw pile for an Ace, there came a knock on the door. "No! I won't! I didn't do it! I already told you! It'll be done tomorrow," he yelled, hoping that would put anybody off.

The page, however, had already poked his head in and asked, "Tuk?"

"What?"

"How can you see in there? It's so dark."

"Who hit you with the dummy stick, kid," Tuk asked, grabbing his cane. "What is it?"

"It's the princess. She requests your presence."

"Of course, she does," he replied, stepping out of his chambers. "They only want me when there's a war on."

He strode into the throne room with no concern as to who was present. "You've sent for me, princess. And, once again, I have answered your call. Perhaps we can stop them before they take the Palace this time."

"It is my sincere hope," she replied. "Gentlemen, I won't waste our time. My father has left. His mission is to retain the services of our old ally, Kallent. If this is at all possible, it could only be done by our king. The mission that remains to us is just as important. In fact, it may be the most important of them all. To us lies the task of defending our great kingdom."

"What about Hex? Where's he," Tuk blurted.

Helen took a deep breath and answered. "He's returned to his world to retrieve Vincent. It is felt that only that young wizard holds power enough to save us."

For a moment, Helen was silent. Red Martag offered his words. "The Mover who took Hex has since returned in a state of shock. It is feared that Hex was not successful."

"There is no proof of that, Mr. Martag," Helen corrected. "I also do not believe it wise that word of that leave this room. It would only serve to lower morale. Hex has certainly been through worse. He'll come through."

Tuk smiled, looking at Helen as if he could see. All were spared the sight of his burned-out eye sockets, though. When he'd first lost his sight, a black cloth had been tied around his head to cover the sockets. But then Hex had acquired for him, through Vincent, a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses which he wore with enthusiasm, knowing he wore earth apparel. "Just like before? Do you never change, Princess Helen?" He coughed. "Still, another gone. One less strength we can rely upon."

"Perhaps this is what Karlyn saw the other night. Was this the message? Not to divide our strength for that way lay... No matter!" She pulled herself up in her throne. She had to deal with the strengths that she had and not wish for those that were no longer hers. "General Heaphge. I want you to ready your army. Move west with all speed, remembering to draw as many from our populace as you may."

Heaphge moved as if to say something but Helen quickly put a hand up. "I know what is on your mind, General. Don't speak it. Hex has proven far more insightful than we could have dreamed on many things. Let this be one more.

"Tuk. You are to immediately take up residence inside the tower. Find whatever you can that will help us against Tsurtor's hordes."

"It might not have occurred to you, your highness, but I have a minor sight deficiency. My reading just isn't what it used to be."

"I know that. That's why I have for you a new set of eyes."

"What?"

"Byron," she said, indicated the little man towards the shriveled, old wizard, "you are to be Tuk's new companion. You are to assist him in every way that you did my husband, more so if possible."

"Now -" Tuk started to say, used to getting the last word in.

Helen wouldn't let him have it. "This is no time for excuses, wizard! You've served your kingdom gallantly before. You will do so again or suffer the painful loss of our benevolence!"

His back ramrod straight with ire, the wizard replied, "Of course, your highness."

"Please, Tuk. You know that things will get worse, much worse. Let's not start things off badly."

Tuk chuckled. "Ah, little Helen. You always were a softy. Don't you worry. We'll find something."

"And Red. You have asked my father to be released. You have certainly served your time. Still, I have need of you here."

Red Martag, who had no idea what purpose he could serve and no reason not to inquire, asked, "But, Princess, what can I do?"

"I'll need a defender. Not just for myself but for my children as well. My father would have it no other way. My husband could not likely think of any better. It would mean laying down your life, if necessary."

"Of course, your highness. Yours has been like my own family since I arrived. I could do no less."

And so the war, that would hold so much for so many, had begun for Helen Haddison.

* * *

Rolf Heaphge had dreaded this day. For years, he had implored the king for more dernigs to keep a larger army. He'd known that the previous war had not truly been the last. It had been too unconventional, too chaotic and, in the end, too easy. He had known that when Tsurtor did attack, he would be at the head. Rynia's age-old enemy was too prideful to let anyone take his glory.

The present was an inescapable fact, however. With less than three thousand men scattered throughout the kingdom, they'd be lucky if they could piece together three, small divisions. Then, too, the forces would mostly be composed of foot soldiers who were, for the most part, poorly trained. They'd be armed with hardwood clubs, not having had enough training to wield a bat properly. About a thousand would be Rynia's well-trained guard; fierce fighters whose bats were not only weapons but extensions of themselves. Of all his troops, nearly one hundred, a shameful sum, were knights. Hearty men, trained to ride with their feet in the Kallent fashion, they could ride and strike with their bats like lightening. There were none better.

Against Tsurtor's forces, though? In the last war, Tsurtor had summoned an army of undead. Before that, he'd fought his way across Rynia with machines that belched fire and brimstone. Now, it was certain that he had Hargoth's aide. Who could guess at what other measures he had taken to increase his hordes?

When morning came, the troops gathered in the streets of the town, ready to march. This thanks to Commander Obregon and the energetic leadership of the newly promoted Captain, Bethel Patir. She stood at the head in her new dress uniform of silver and green. It was all show, of course. She'd leave her dress colors behind in her quarters and return for embarkation in her marching clothes. Still, General Heaphge knew that she'd do well by him. He remembered her fighting for the Palace in the last war. He was lucky to have such people by his side.

Before embarkation, Heaphge and Obregon went to the city square for recruitment. By Rynian law, they could call up all able bodied men and women but to prevent desertion, Heaphge selected two hundred to remain, thus augmenting the home guard. If Heaphge's army lost, however, it would be futile in the end. The home guard would just become more grist for Tsurtor's machine. Still, Heaphge thought, if they could defend the isle long enough for more to flee and for lives to be saved, it would be worth it.

The Rynian Army left Regal Isle with less than three thousand soldiers.

It would be a month before they'd cross Rynia. It should have taken half that time. Fewer than two thousand citizens were recruited from the lands through which they passed, with pockets of troops left behind for defense. For many of these new recruits, raw and untested, a forced march was beyond the scope of reality. Though they'd go far, they wouldn't get there fast.

Two days out of Morrata, Rolf Heaphge knew they'd entered onto Paeadian soil. In Morrata, he'd heard the worst. The final harvest had never come. Paead was silent. Tsurtor had claimed that land as his own.

Looking out onto the Paeadian lands, his army behind him and his enemy ahead, the general resolved himself to his destiny. He'd lived a long life, over 62 years, and, though he'd never married, he'd loved and had many women in his day. Better to die in battle than to waste away in that Palace, he thought. He knew Tsurtor, knew what they'd be up against. With less than three thousand men to face their foe, the battle would be short. The sting of defeat would not burn for long. He was only sorry he couldn't do better. With no sign of the king or Kraephten Kattox and Mark Nygarra, Heaphge assumed they had failed as well. He only felt bad for Helen and her children, feeling as though he'd let them down.

An emerald flash upon the southern horizon and a shaking of the ground seemed to indicate Tsurtor's first strike. It was as good a day to die as any. At almost noon, the air was sweet and just a little cold. Rolf Heaphge had not wanted to die in the mud.

Walking to his horse, Rolf Heaphge decided that he'd best see what the emerald flash had been and what the future held.

CHAPTER ONE

COUNTRY GARDENS

Part I

Hex didn't know how Tsurtor had done it. He certainly didn't want to consider what it implied with regards to Tsurtor's power. Somehow, the entire town had been Moved to Rynia. An incredible feat, Hex was sure; every building looked intact, even the new, three-story shopping center, Country Woods, remained untouched. But as the chill, Rynian winter air beat down the last, warm remnants of a California summer, the realization of the moment struck Hex even harder.

On an impulse, he ran to the corner of Lynan Road to look in the other directions. Off in the distance, down West Lynan, a cloud of dust appeared. Hex had no idea which way he faced; he was too disoriented from his recent journey. Still, he knew that the dust cloud meant men were approaching. He hoped they were friends but knew that Tsurtor could have easily dropped the town in his own territory. (Still, he felt relief at the fact that there were no mountains nearby. No sign of the dreaded Mount Brutalitie. There seemed to be plains all around.)

Samuel, who had kept pace with him, asked, "What the hell's going on?"

Hex replied, "I think we're about to find out."

"What," Sam asked, following Hex's gaze. "Men on horses?"

The forms grew larger, racing towards Tsurtor's act of conceit. There had to be more than a dozen of them, riding abreast.

"Oh my God," Samuel whispered, his voice dry with the ground shaking realization. "We're back in Rynia, aren't we?"

Hex didn't turn his gaze, kept watching the riders. "I hope it's Rynia," he replied.

"You mean...?"

"What I mean, Sam," he said, now looking at his friend, "is that I don't know what I mean."

The riders were several hundred yards away now, slowing. Some were garbed in mail, others in strong, leather jerkins. The riders in front, though, appearing unarmed, wore no special attire. They knew that none would be necessary if it were allies they rode to meet or, if they faced Tsurtor's hordes, effectual. While the others stopped, the rider in the center pulled out front and rode straight to Hex.

Hex recognized him immediately, shaking General Heaphge's hand vigorously.

"Maker, you've returned," General Heaphge cheered. "Now, perhaps, we have some hope."

"Where are we, General?"

"On the Paeadian border, my boy, just where we agreed," Heaphge replied with a smile.

Hex, however, was less than pleased. If Tsurtor knew their meeting place - indeed, if he was confident enough to put Hex safely there - what else did he know? Had he prepared traps for Mark and Marcus just as he had for Hex? "General, we need to talk."

"Understood," was Rolf's reply. "But I think we need to do something about them first."

Turning to where the general pointed, Hex saw another effect from Tsurtor's cause. Hundreds of people, all standing out in the street, watching with interest. These were probably only those people from Chestnut and Lynan, the newly developed area with tightly packed tract houses. They probably moved here recently, Hex thought, to be "closer to the country". Had they got their money's worth!

With that in mind, though, there were also the other people who were trapped in the borders of Country Gardens to consider. Many only worked there, commuting in from other communities. They'd be homeless when darkness fell. Perhaps they could sleep in the shops, Hex thought.

All of these people! Country Gardens had only recently started expanding but, even so, there could be thousands! How could they possibly be kept from the natives? They'd expose this backwards land to their modern wonders and, in a short time, rend it from the past, propel it towards the realization that the magic currently practiced by a few was the lost heritage of all Rynians!

The thought alone made Hex dizzy. Still, he couldn't dwell on it. These people were stunned for now, even dazed, but that wouldn't last for long. The spell would wear off quickly. Soon, perhaps in hours, they'd want answers. Where were they? What had happened? How could they get back? They had to be told something before their wide-eyed wonder turned into frustration, anger, and hate. Tsurtor didn't need to march through his army. He'd already have one here. This gun-toting community would make short work of Heaphge's army.

What was needed was action, swift and decisive.

Hex turned back to Heaphge. "General, take your men and return tomorrow morning. Be prepared to meet with the citizens. They'll want answers."

General Heaphge nodded. "Alright, Hex. If you've got a plan, I'll trust you."

Hex had far less than a plan but he wasn't telling. It wasn't until the General had taken several steps back that another thought raced onto Hex's mind. He'd been thinking about the reaction the people in the city might have, how they might react. He hadn't thought about Rynia, about her people, until now. "Wait!" He said it louder than he intended.

Rolf Heaphge spun about. Hex had obviously realized something important.

"Rolf, I know we're never been particularly close but you have to do exactly as I say. Send your men away."

"What?"

"Now, General. You don't realize how important this is."

Heaphge's men had heard him and shifted in their saddles, uncomfortably. Rolf nodded to them and, along with his horse, they rode several hundred yards away. They stopped there and stepped down, as if to wait. "You're right, Hex," Rolf said, turning back to face him. "We've never been what I'd call friends. What's important is that you've always been loyal to the king and are a hero to the land. So, enlighten me."

"Do you recall what I told you about the dwarves?"

"You'd found them on your quest for the Lich Vyr-at-Hozoth. They'd been diminished," Rolf recalled. "Some sort of plague."

"Yes, well, that plague wasn't any ordinary plague. It was just a head cold they'd picked up on their first contact with the early Rynians."

"So?"

"The dwarves hadn't been exposed to the human diseases before. Some small bug the humans may not have even known they had turned into a killer for the dwarves."

Suddenly, Rolf Heaphge was shocked. "You think we're diseased! You think we're going to kill your people!"

The thought was just as surprising to Hex as it had been to Rolf. Hex hadn't thought about the folks in Country Gardens getting infected but it was just as possible as them infecting the Rynians.

"But we're all well," Rolf continued. "I've not been sick in years. Not even a cough!"

Hex tried to keep his reply to simple terms, knowing that the general wasn't versed in twenty-first century virology and medicine. "Trust me, General, you don't have to be. It's like that time you had Tzurritzanian crayfish and okra. The Tzurritzanians might have thought it was fine fare but you -"

"Yes, I remember, Hex." His bowels had been miserable for a week. "I don't see what that has to do with it but I'll trust you. What do I have to do?"

"Nothing. You can help as a representative of your people. Then, if you've passed anything along to the people from Earth, we should see some signs by tomorrow." He turned to Sam. "We need to go see Sheriff Schuck." As he walked into the crowd, he heard Sam's call.

"Hex! Schuck isn't sheriff any longer."

"He's not," Hex asked. "I guess a few things have changed."

"Oh yes. Quite a few."

* * *

"Name's Chief Boom H. Tower, boys. What can I do you for?"

Hex stared with amazement. "My god. He's Sheriff Lobo."

The police station in Country Gardens had grown a bit over the years of Hex's absence. When he'd left, John Schuck had served and protected the town (with the emphasis on serve) from his filling station. When Schuck had retired, he'd sold the property to Richfield petroleum who now had two Rich-Gas stations in town. The Orange County Board of Supervisors then interviewed dozens of applicants for the coveted job of Country Gardens Chief of Police. (Sheriff had always been a misnomer when applied to Schuck. He just happened to have been the only police officer in Country Gardens so he might as well have been Sheriff.) More businesses moving in and more homes being built were certain to mean more crime. The ideal candidate would be some gun-happy, easily controlled, small-town officer looking to move up in the world. They scored on all but one point.

Boom didn't much like the idea of taking orders from a bunch of pencil-pushers. He didn't like it back in the Marines (He'd almost garnered himself a dishonorable when he led five other men in his division during maneuvers to capture the enemy's base... with live mortars.) and he certainly wouldn't stand for it in the smallest town southern California had to offer. His first move had been to expand his budget. His second - to spend it. His staff expanded to five, still making the Country Garden's Police Department puny for a town of over twenty thousand folk. A new station was constructed with a six cell jail. Boom invested in the newest, fastest cars, biggest guns, and strongest body armor. "Gotta get the most Bang for m'buck," he'd say.

Bang, he had.

Currently, however, he was painfully short on patience. He looked across his desk with an impatient, angry look in his eyes and asked, in his Oklahomish drawl, "And who are you, boy?"

"With all due respect Chief Tower, I'm probably older than you."

"Maybe. You're also wearin' prison duds. Care to explain that?"

Hex looked at Boom and then at the other officer, Hernandez, who stood with a nervous hand on his gun. Hex supposed everyone was a little nervous. Having your home Moved to another planet would do that to a person. "I don't know if I can but I'll try. My name's Hex, er, Hezekiah Fanlan."

Boom's eyes shot wide and he lowered himself into his swivel chair. "And here I thought you didn't exist," he said, feeling pieces coming together. "Why don't you and your boys set down? That's right. I know all about you, Mr. Fanlan. I was new when they found the bodies."

"And, yet, I don't see you pulling your gun. You know I'm a convicted murderer."

"Double murderer. Sure, I know that. But I also know something else."

"What," Sam asked.

"I know that Mr. Fanlan here didn't do it."

"How," Hex asked.

"I got eyes. If your neighbor, Ms. Hendershot would've found the bodies like the story says, she would've called me but that's not how I found out about it. I didn't know there was any excitement at your place until I read in the Times about a month ago that you'd been captured up in Frisco. The story told all about how you'd killed that couple in your apartment, how you'd been tried and convicted and, later, escaped. Don't think that didn't get my attention. A double murder? Here? Shit, my boys don't do nothing but bust taggers and hand out traffic tickets. I think I would have remembered a double murder. So, I checked with the Times. Asked them to give me their sources. No sources, they tell me. It's all in their computer files. Prisons got records of you. County courthouse. Everybody. Even my own computer. Hell, if it was workin' I'd punch you up and show you but I don't think we'll be getting any electricity. Am I right?"

Hex nodded.

"So, it's in my records. Gots my name. But I didn't enter it. I never filled out the forms. I can smell forged documents like stink on shit so I report it to the state. Not one days passes before the Board of Corrections, the County Supervisor, and lawyers from more agencies than I could ever remember jump down here to shut me up. Well, hell, I'm a good little soldier. If my boss tells me that it's all a snafu, red tape, bureaucratic bull-hocky then give me a merit badge and call me a scout. Heck, I've never been one to believe in conspiracies. If I didn't file the report, it must be a snafu. So, I laughed at the paper and thought that they were reporting on a computer error being taken into custody."

"But my trial was televised. You must have seen it."

"Seen it? Son, I recorded it. Was ready to hand the whole mess over to your attorney for appeal when you busted out. Quite a chase 'cept near the end. The helicopter camera lost you. That's when I went over to Duke's for some lunch. Almost made it, too, before the sky went all green. And I can't help but feel you know something about this."

"Yes, I do."

"So, why don't you tell me, Hezekiah Fanlan? What in the hell is going on."

Part II

Hex thought for a moment, trying to put his words together. "There's really no short answer to that.

"There'd better be," Boom replied. "I've got twenty thousand scared citizens out there who want their world back."

"Well, that's just it," said Hex, trying not to sound glib. "We're no longer on Earth."

"Oh, really," Boom snapped, his voice heavy with disgust. "And how did that happen?"

"You were Moved."

Boom looked at the old man who sat there wearing what looked like a silver chain mail shirt over green cloth and holding what appeared to be a huge, strangely carved...baseball bat. A lunatic? Funny farm reject? What was this walking anachronism doing with Fanlan? "Who the hell's King Arthur," Boom asked.

"Excuse me," the old man barked, offended.

"Gentlemen, please," Hex shouted, putting his hands up as if the old man could be any threat to Boom. "Chief, prepare to meet your new world. This is General Rolf Heaphge, supreme commander of the Rynian Forces."

Boom scrunched his face, disbelieving. "What? What kind of hash are you slinging, Fanlan?"

"It's true. He came along because we wanted to find out if either of our peoples were carrying any germ harmful to the other."

"If you are deadly to my people, you'll only harm me. Then we can contain you here until a solution is reached," Rolf stated, judiciously.

Hernandez took a step forward and leaned over to his chief. "Like the conquistadors with the Aztecs, sir. The only problem is that we don't know if he carries anything that would kill us."

Hex coughed. "Yes, well, we didn't have time to do anything about that."

"Nobody's dying," Boom announced, "because I still don't believe we're on a different planet. Do you realize what you're saying? Nothing like it is possible!"

"That's because there's something Hex is leaving out," Sam added.

"What?"

All eyes were upon Sam as he started to say, "The magic -"

"I think we should go about this a little more methodically," Hex yelled, cutting off Sam's answer. He gave Sam a sharp look, motioning for them to return to their seats.

"Fine," Boom said. "We got at least ten square miles of southern Californian real estate here. You say we're on another world. Assuming that's true. Where?"

"Well, uh," Hex began to say, thinking. "Do you have something to write on?" Boom fished out a pen and paper which Hex began to sketch upon. "Let's see. This is Rynia, it's the nation on this world where I've been living. To the west is Paead, the south Kallent, the southwest Tzurritza. To the east is the Seadelia Sea."

"And we are," Boom asked.

Rolf took the pen and put an X on Rynia's western border. "Here."

Hex heart sunk. The Paeadian border. Tsurtor's troops would march right through there. The Country Garden refugees had far worse ahead of them, yet.

"And just how is that possible?"

Hex motioned for Heaphge to sit back. "It's like the General said, Chief. It might be tough to swallow but - where do I start? - this world possesses technology so far ahead of ours as to make us look primitive. They call it magic. That's what Moved Country Gardens."

"Magic," Boom spat, his sarcasm mixed with not just a little disbelief.

"Yes," General Heaphge answered.

"You're telling me that magic exists? It works? There's actually such a thing?"

"Well, as I explained, it actually just a very advanced mixture of physics and -"

"Now, how the hoppin' hell am I supposed to swallow that?" Boom's holler startled even himself.

Nudging Hex, Sam said, "Well, you could give them a demonstration."

"A what," Boom asked, incredulously. "You mean you can do some of this magic?"

Hex sighed. "Will you believe me if I do? And will you help us get this situation under control?"

"Heck, boy, I'd shine your shoes if you were that good."

Hex breathed deeply. He hated having to use his power for proof. "Can I have your pencil?"

Boom eyed Hex suspiciously but handed him his pencil.

Hex felt through the paint, into the wood, bringing out little arms and legs, and placed it back on the desktop. "I didn't have much time," he explained. "This isn't much but it should be enough."

With a twitch and a leap, the pencil-man rose from the table and began to kick up his heels. One arm rose to the eraser and lifted it like a top hat. A mouth appeared and, as the body began to parade across the desk, sang, "Hello, my baby! Hello, my honey! Hello my rag-time gal! Send me a kiss by wire! Baby, my heart's on fire! If you refuse me, honey, you'll lose me and then my heart will roam so baby, telephone and tell me I'm your ooooooowwwwwwnnnnn!"

Then, gracefully, the pencil dropped down on the desk, silent. A louder thud came from behind, where Officer Hernandez had passed out on the floor.

Boom was still conscious. His eyes were riveted to Hex. Without pulling them away, his hand went to his desk and came back with a small bottle of Jack Daniels. Taking a pull, he whispered, "That wasn't much? Whoever moved our city can do more?"

"He can do a lot more," Hex agreed.

"We're sitting in the proof," Sam added.

Boom asked, "Who?"

General Heaphge spoke up. "An evil creature by the name of Tsurtor. He's bent on destroying our kingdom, taking our land and, it seems, throwing you in the middle of it."

With an eyebrow perked, Boom asked, "You're at war?"

"I'm afraid so," Hex replied. "Tsurtor's unconscionable. This was just his way of showing off, raising the body count."

Still not understanding the complete picture, Boom got up. "Where is he? I say we kick his ass!"

"It's not that easy! We have to get this situation under control," Hex shouted, himself trying to regain control. "Now, people are going to start panicking unless we move. You said you'd help. Can we count on that?"

"Of course," Boom replied. "Just you better give me a shot at this Tsurtor dude."

"Trust me," Heaphge offered. "You won't be lacking in opportunities."

* * *

Movement had to be immediate.

Already, people had gathered around the edge of the city, looking out upon the countryside as if it were some great, holographic mural. A brave few had stepped out upon the land. Others returned to their homes, fretting that their televisions and telephones didn't work and that their radios emitted only a strange kind of static. Some were left at work with no power and, for those who had lived outside of town, no place to go. Nearly all were left aghast at the futility of their actions, whatever they may be.

Hex moved Chief Tower to get in his car and, along with his men, block the main streets. Keep the people inside where it was familiar and introduce them to the reality of their situation slowly. Hex added, tiredly, "Then, we try to stop the next disaster."

"And what do we tell them?"

"Just as we agreed. Stay calm and wait until tomorrow. Rain or shine -"

"Probably rain," Heaphge interjected.

"Whatever. Either way, we hold a town meeting at Santiago's Gym." Santiago Canyon High School's Gymnasium was, arguably, the largest building in town. It had only been taken by luck. Most of the school was back on Earth.

Boom and his men were quick to station themselves in their places but things slowed dramatically upon reaching them. Boom took the point, the Lynan exit where Hex and many of the other townsfolk had first seen the dispatch from the Rynian army. Where once had stood a crowd of just over two hundred, now nearly three thousand gathered! Interest had grown on all sides of the city and the crowds of lookiloos had grown to nearly half of the city. The rest remained inside, frightened. Nowhere, though, did the crowds gather as in Boom's sector.

He'd left the road back by the station, lucky to be the only cop in Country Gardens with a four-by. The city road ended with a sharp cut of concrete, not an imprecise, bull-dozed edge but more distinct. Almost laser-like. Once off the road, he drove through the soft meadow of this alien world. Seemed real enough as he occasionally drove over holes and stones. If anything, it was his city that stood out like a prominent flaw, marring the natural beauty that reminded him of childhood camp-outs and back-roads excursions of old. The once, small town looked laughably huge. As he bounced towards the edge of the city where thousands gathered and he had to come up with answers for them, he instinctively flipped on his lights and let out a blaring honk from his horn. Their eyes had all been focused away from the city and, before stepping out, Boom followed their many stares. No wonder. The Rynian dispatch could still be seen several hundred yards away, tending their horses and watching as well. Of course, they were watching, Boom thought. We've got one of their leaders in here. If it had been Boom out there, he wouldn't have been waiting so far away. They must have had a great deal of trust in Fanlan. What had he called them? Rinans?

"Listen up, people," he shouted. Slamming his door, he stepped confidently before them. "We're going to do this by the numbers. We've got a city-wide emergency here and you're going to have to give your complete cooperation. Right now, you're being asked to return to your homes or places of business. You will be receiving word on what to do from there -"

"Where are we?" The question came as a scream, breaking the peace of the once silent crowd.

"What happened to our homes?"

"My TV doesn't work!"

"I can't get a signal on my phone!"

Panic. Chaos. It was all that separated a crowd from a mob.

The questions stopped coming one after another but rushed together in a frenzy of need. The need for order, familiarity, home. The warm, embracing comfort of electricity, running water, gas heat, telephones, and a recognizable, modern world.

People started rushing forward, pushing against Boom like starving mice... and Boom was like a man coated in Velveeta. He'd learned back in the Marines that there was only one way to handle crowds like this but, being separated from his world, he didn't think he could spare the ammunition. He stepped lightly to his Jeep Cherokee and blasted his siren.

Deafening, it had the desired effect. Townsfolk took several steps back, holding their ears and ceasing their shouts. Boom left the siren on to let it sink through their skulls. Who's in charge here, it seemed to demand. Cutting it off, he heard other sirens around town; his other men had liked the suggestion.

He stepped past his hood and, placing his hands upon the hips of his crisply pressed trousers, shouted, "Now, lookit here! I am a duly appointed officer of the County of Orange, appointed by them to be Chief of Police of this here town. That makes me the law! And until someone elects a new government, I intend to remain the law." All was silent as he pulled up his hat and ran a hand over his shortly cropped hair. It was then that he first noticed it had begun to rain. "Now, listen up. Why don't you just go on home? If you're from out of town, return to your place of business or, if you don't have no place to go... and you can do it orderly, come by the station. Come tomorrow morning, rain or shine, as close to eight a.m. as we can make it, there will be a town meeting at the high school gym. Until then, just let us do our jobs and you get out of the rain!"

It took a while. People didn't like being left out in the dark. Fortunately, they liked being out in the rain even less. This was no humid summer shower. No lighten-a-warm-day sprinkle. No, this was a true gulley-washer. The rain, that had started as a mist upon Boom's neck, was, within minutes, coming down in sheets. Cold, hard sheets. They ran the people into the buildings and, one by one, the streets emptied.

Boom stood outside of his Jeep until only he remained. Then, soaked and not feeling nearly as tough as he tried to look, he climbed inside and, driving through the town, made his way back to the station.

* * *

Sam looked out and wondered when it would stop.

"Usually a mid-afternoon to early evening kind of thing," Rolf Heaphge told him. "Clouds should move on in time for starlight."

"But that won't be until after eight o'clock tonight!"

"Excuse me," Heaphge asked.

"Just a second," Hex said, stepping between the two. "Guys, come here," he said to the WFR's who were working diligently on a couple of old, manual typewriters to complete hand-outs for the people of Country Gardens. "Before this gets too confusing, you need to understand that it's nearly winter here. Night's gonna come a whole lot faster that you're used to."

"Winter," Pete gasped.

"How's that possible," Sean asked, laughing nervously.

Randy hit his arm. "It's cause we're on a different planet, you moron."

"Lots of things are going to be different," Hex said. Thinking to avoid the obvious shock of the loss of twenty-first century technology, he continued, "It'll be colder for one. The food is different. Local customs. Religions. And you've seen Sam's apartment."

"You mean there's more of them here, too," Sean asked happily, remembering Ko-Track, Recliner, and the others.

"There can be. Just be prepared for a world of surprises."

"Speaking of surprises, Hex," Samuel said, "what do you thinks gonna happen once those clouds part?"

"Pardon," both Hex and Rolf asked.

"When the rain stops." Samuel had been to Rynia once before, many years ago. He remembered the nights on the ramparts, staring up at the skies.

"What's gonna happen," asked Pete.

Samuel smiled, happy to have out-thought Hex for a change. "It might be the perfect time to get out these fliers. People will be looking to the sky. They won't miss us."

* * *

Antoine, the helicopter, was in a mood. "You know, this humidity is going to ruin my upholstery. I wasn't made for this. No, I wasn't. I was made for warm - you hear me? - warm, temperate climates. Not this rain, rain, rain stuff. Oh, sure, you say it's clear now. No clouds, you say, but mark my words. I foresee a downpour the likes of which ain't been seen since Noah closed the boat! And I'm just not going to stand for it. Will not. You just put that tarp back on because I ain't flying until I hear a forecast that reads - S U N N Y."

Pete, along with Randy and Sean, climbed into Randy's Ford half-ton pick-up, parked several feet away, and said, "Have fun with the helicopter, guys."

Forbert, the Ford half-ton, pulled away with a smile in his voice, "Nothing like a brisk rain to clean the grill! Where to, boys?"

"Up," Randy replied. "We've got to dish out these fliers."

Yes, Forbert could fly. Normally, trucks didn't fly but Hex had been desperate and forced to improvise. Once Forbert had been convinced of his aerial skills, he'd found that he rather enjoyed it. Though his look remained that of a mid-70's pick-up truck, it didn't restrain his soaring any. Flight, for him, was done more by determination than by aerodynamics. He quickly rose and went where Randy steered him.

Meanwhile, Sam looked over at Antoine.

Hex had always wanted to fly. Lacking Vincent's unnatural ability, he'd decided long ago to do what he did best and made a flying machine. It wasn't actually complete. It was the world's (both this world and Earth's) only living, topless helicopter. How did it fly without a top? Without rotors atop for lift or behind for guidance? After seeing a 75' Ford half-ton soar into the air, the questions seemed moot.

Sam was well familiar with Antoine's abilities. He'd flown in him over eight years ago when sand golems had entered into his world. Oh, the helicopter had had his moments of irritation then. Now, however, he was positively terse. "Is he gonna bite?"

Hex stopped for a moment, considering the question. He'd never let Antoine get rained upon before. He hadn't considered what reaction the helicopter might have. The thought that his creations, these animate inanimates, had wills, minds of their own had never escaped the Maker. Yet, the application of that knowledge had occasionally failed him. He looked up at the stars, filling the sky with light. It was an expression of hope, an insight into infinite possibilities. So, too, was something like Antoine. A gift of life, an application of the unimaginable. "Sorry, Antoine. I honestly didn't know the rain would bother you so. We'll find you a covered garage and get you cleaned up. I promise."

"Ah, Hex," the helicopter replied. "You say the nicest things."

Sam couldn't help but let out a little laugh. "If I didn't know better, Antoine. I'd say you're blushing."

"Yeah, and making me sick," Robert replied. "You want to get your butts in here so we can fly, already?"

* * *

The announcement came via PA systems borrowed from the police. Sean, riding in the truck's bed spoke into the microphone while Pete and Randy threw the fliers overboard. "Fellow citizens of Country Gardens," Sean read from a prepared statement. "While you might find this a time of great confusion, it is now more necessary than ever that we pull together. Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock a.m., please attend a town meeting at Santiago Canyon High School's Gymnasium." Cold, in the exposed bed, Sean continued to read that over and over as they flew over the town.

It wasn't really necessary but Hex and Boom had thought it better to ere on the side of caution. Below, it looked like all the residents of Country Gardens took to the streets, looking at the wonders above. The sky, so often hidden away by Southern California's typical smog layer, was alight with a wonder of stars! People could almost read by it. They made the now useless electrical lights unnecessary. As if that weren't enough, closer to them soared an impossibility. Some thought it was a modified plane or, perhaps, a glider. They were in the extreme minority, though. There was no mistaking a pick-up truck, especially when it flew just over the rooftops. It shocked many, some fainted, but it succeeded just as Samuel and Hex had intended. If the prepared statement was ignored and the many fliers stepped upon and not read, there could be no ignoring the incredible changes that had taken place when a Ford truck was flying overhead.

* * *

It was getting late. Riding in Antoine's unsheltered seats, reading the prepared statement, Samuel was getting awful cold. Still, Hex directed Antoine to fly on and tossed out handfuls of fliers. Sam would switch hands on the bullhorn as they alternately froze and were subsequently thawed between his legs. He tried not to shiver or show any other sign of cold. As long as Hex can make it, Sam decided, I won't say anything.

That decision was changed abruptly when Sam realized that he could see his breath! Yesterday had been summer for him. He wasn't ready for this kind of cold! Too, Sam wore his typical, summer attire: shorts and a t-shirt. Hex was still in his prison denims. "Okay, Hex, one more block and we're done. Let's let word of mouth take care of the rest."

Hex looked over, his teeth clenched. "It's about time you said something! I thought I was gonna freeze to death!"

Forgetting his frozen extremities for a moment, Sam laughed. "What? Were you waiting for me to say something?"

"Well, yeah, I - wait a minute, were you?"

"You bet I was!"

Both laughed, ignoring the cold. It was the first time either had been comfortable enough with the other to laugh and that, perhaps, was a good sign. As they pulled Antoine into Sam's parking stall nearly an hour later, they were still laughing about it. Nice to find something to laugh about in the midst of all that was happening before tomorrow could take it away.

Part III

"So, then, no word from Vincent after that?"

"No, I'm afraid not," Hex replied.

Samuel scowled, "Just like the little twit. Can't have his own way so he throws a temper tantrum."

Hex shook his head. "It gets worse, I'm afraid. I have every reason to believe he's been kidnaped."

"Kidnaped? With his powers? How?"

Hex needed but one word in reply. "Tsurtor."

"Shit," Samuel spat. He had no way of understanding the severity of Hex's claim... aside from the fact that his entire town was no longer in California. "How are we gonna get him back?"

"I don't know. I don't even know if we can."

"Oh, we will," Sam barked angrily. "He thinks he can do just about anything, doesn't he?"

Hex sighed. He'd had several weeks in prison to snuff out his anger. "Unfortunately, Sam, it appears that he can."

"Yeah, well -" Sam said, his voice trailing off. Proof of Tsurtor's indomitable power surrounded him. Words of defiance meant little, while, around them, alien sounds crept in from the dark. "You don't have anywhere to stay. Do you, Hex?"

"Well, I, uh... actually, no, I don't. I hadn't had a chance to think about it."

"Why don't you come upstairs, then? You can take the pull-out and I'm sure a few friends would be happy to see you." Indeed, they were. Before he slept, Hex helped soothe TV's nerves (so to speak), after the sudden withdrawal from incoming frequency.

The Rynian night was unmistakable. The Southern Californian buildings were like paper before the cold winds, protecting their inhabitants from none of its effects. Folks quickly rose to turn on furnaces that refused to respond. Electric heaters, too, were useless. Those who were lucky pulled out blanket after blanket (the cool cotton far from ideal) while those less fortunate either put on more clothes or shivered the night away.

And true winter had not yet fallen.

Hex rose before Samuel and took Antoine to the police station. The topless helicopter was an incredible asset, Hex realized when he thought of the loss of power and incoming supplies of gasoline. Boom had not yet awakened from a night's sleep on a prison cot. One of the many who had lived out of town (not married but certain his folks must be going crazy), Boom slept there not only out of necessity but as living proof of his commitment to the community. He'd promised the people, both during his patrols and in the fliers that Hex and his friends had distributed, that anyone could come to the station at any time during this chaos. So, the front door had remained unlocked and Boom had stayed within while his officers, lucky enough to live in town, had gone home. Boom had finally sunk into a deep, restful slumber when a small voice shouted, "Hey, Sherif Lobo! Get off your duff! Time to go!"

His eyes shot open and his hand was on his gun as Hex tried to hush the wee, wooden figure. "Fanlan," he hissed, his voice hoarse from a day of talking and a night of little sleeping, "what the hell are you doing?"

Hex began to say, "I thought that -" before Robert again spoke up.

"Waking you up, Sherif Taylor! Is Opie up? Can he come down to the fishin' hole and -"

"Robert, will you please shut up?"

Robert looked into Hex's red face, sitting only inches away upon his shoulder and smiled absently, glibly asking, "What? Me?"

Sitting up, Boom asked, "What's this? Another thing like my pencil?"

"Something like that, yes," Hex replied.

"How soon 'til it dies?"

"Well, Robert here's been animate for nearly a decade now. I don't think he'll die any time soon."

Boom raised his gun and pointed. "I can change that."

Robert leaned back, shivering. "Hex. I think I'd like to go to the pocket now."

Dropping the treeling into the inside pocket of the jacket he'd borrowed from Sam (on Sam it had been tight while Hex found it oversized), Hex said, "I thought that you'd like to get an early start. General Heaphge is back with his troops and you can see what we're in for."

"Hmmph," Boom replied, getting up. He walked over to his coffee machine and turned it on. When nothing happened, he checked the grounds and the water and turned it on again. Still, nothing.

"No electricity, Chief Tower," Hex whispered, trying not to sound too insulting. It wouldn't do to make the Chief his enemy by insulting his intelligence. "Remember?"

"You're telling me this world ain't got no coffee? Just great!" Having slept in his uniform, Boom grabbed his jacket and headed out. "Let's go!"

As he exited, Hex said, "Actually, they do have coffee, Chief. It's just not something you would find, um, familiar."

Outside, Boom was heading to his Jeep. "Uh, Chief," Hex shouted. "I can take you there. You want to conserve your fuel while you can."

Following Hex, Boom said, "Well, that's mighty nice of you Fanlan."

"You can call me Hex. Everyone else here does."

"Hex, huh? Well, then, since we're gonna be working together, you can call me Boom."

"Boom?"

"Yeah, Boom. Like the explosion."

"Boom?"

"Yes," the Chief replied, growing impatient.

"Is that your real name?"

Boom Tower didn't need to reply. The look on his face spoke volumes.

"I guess it is," Hex said sheepishly. "Is that short for something?"

"Boomer," the Chief announced.

"Of course, it is. Well, here we are. Climb on in."

"You jerkin' my rope, boy?" Boom had seen many airborne craft in his day. He'd flown in several helicopters during his time in the service. Never, though, had he seen a topless helicopter.

"Who's your friend, Hex," Antoine asked.

Hex had hoped to explain it to Chief Tower slowly, gradually. Work him into it.

When he looked over at Boom, the Chief's eyes were wide and his jaw dropped in disbelief.

Hex made a little cough and said, "Uh, Antoine meet Chief of Police Boom Tower. Boom, this is Antoine... my helicopter."

"I like to think of myself as a personal transportation buddy," Antoine added.

It was probably not the most appropriate time for Antoine to be friendly. Though it seemed impossible, Boom's jaw dropped further. Motioning toward the passenger side, Hex said, "You can climb aboard, Boom. Er, Chief Tower? Can you hear me?"

As if nailed to the concrete, with very long spikes, Hex had a heck of a time pushing Boom aboard.

* * *

"Hex, he's gripping awful hard."

"Could you let go, Boom? You might be hurting him."

"I ain't letting go of nothing! This is impossible! You drugged the water supply, didn't you?"

"He didn't drug anything," shouted Robert, stepping out of Hex's pocket. "You probably just ate some tainted pig ears!"

"Look, you," Boom growled. "You watch it or I'll throw you over!"

"Hey, Boom! You've let go of the chair."

Boom looked over at Hex, then down at his hands. It was true. His panic attack (the only one of his life, honestly) had passed and his hands, once tightly gripping his chair, were hungrily grasping for Robert's neck. "Of course, I did, Fanlan," he replied as if it were no matter. Daring more than he would have considered just moments before, he looked over the helicopter's side. Below, stretching for miles, as far as he could see, were plains of lush green. A living world, not dead with cement like his own, unfurled as they propelled across the sky.

"You know," Hex reflected, "this may be the first time anyone has seen Rynia from this perspective. I've got to get Helen up here."

"Fanlan," Boom asked intrusively, "how is this possible?"

After thinking a moment, Hex knew there was no rational explanation. "You're just going to have to accept that it's magic, Boom. The science would take too long to explain."

"Hex had a long talk with me," Antoine offered in way of explanation. "He explained to me several facts that I hadn't yet realized that helped me come to this conclusion."

"Such as?"

"Such as... when you look at me, Chief Tower, what do you see?"

"What do I see? Well, I see a topless helicopter. Something that shouldn't be able to fly. Shouldn't be able to talk, either."

"Exactly! But when Hex looked at me, he saw Antoine. He saw the being within the machine. That's his magic or, as he likes to call it, his science."

"There's no simple explanation, Boom," Hex said to console the confused chief. "Most scientists on earth wouldn't understand it until they mastered bio-physics, quantum manipulation, and had a sincere understanding of the life/energy relationship. But basically, it comes down to one thing. Everything is alive. Everything around us. It's just not animate or, I should say, as animate as we. Animate enough so we can comprehend it as alive."

"Heavy stuff, Fanlan. Is that what you're telling me these Rynians have?"

"Hmmph," Hex grunted. "Somewhat."

"I don't get'ya. How advanced are they?"

"Oh, they're very advanced. More advanced than any earth technology."

"I hear a 'but' coming, Fanlan. Spill it."

Hex pointed forward. "That should say everything."

Cresting a hill, Antoine slowed to give them a better look. Lined up in rows lay several hundred tents. In sets of four, a fire burned in the midst of each set. Weapons were lined up along the tents, bats, swords, pitchforks, hoes, and even a few of the bows the Tzurritzanians used to kill from their tree's lofty heights. At the north end of the encampment, nearly a dozen tents, much larger than those for the fighting men, stood for the highest ranking commanders.

"Is this a joke," Boom whispered. "What the hell is this supposed to mean?"

Hex tried to answer but was quickly interrupted. "This -" he tried to say.

"I thought you said they were advanced! Where are the tanks? The heavy guns? The planes? Why they got those primitive weapons? Where are the machine guns? Grenade launchers? What the hell kind of joke is this?"

"This is the reason why I wanted to bring you out here alone. Rynia is advanced. More so than you can imagine. But something, a long time ago, threw their civilization back. It was probably only luck that propelled them this far. But all of that is meaningless compared to what's coming."

"What's coming?"

"Tsurtor. He has access to Earth technology. Who knows what he could bring over. Guns. Tanks. He doesn't seem to have any limitations."

As Antoine passed over the huge corral where the Rynian's horses were kept, Boom gasped. "It'll be a slaughter!"

"And Country Gardens is directly in its path."

Boom grimaced and Hex couldn't help think that the chief would throw him overboard. He'd probably said the wrong thing but he had to impress upon Boom just how terrible the threat was. He could have told him yesterday but he wanted to show him. A picture was truly worth a thousand words.

"Take this thing down," Boom ordered.

"I don't see how that will help -"

"These people need some strategy, Fanlan. They're gonna need a damn sight better weapons. I don't even see pikes down there. Mostly just those bats your General was carrying around."

"That's because there are no pikemen. Hardly any bowmen either."

"No, huh," Boom spat with contempt. Hex knew what he was thinking. Hex had had eight years to improve their technology, improve their weaponry, with no results. (Hardwood was just too hard for the construction of bows and, therefore, the weapon was not developed for the Rynian style of fighting. It was only when the Tzurritzanians had introduced their short bow that such a weapon could be applied in a very limited fashion.) Perhaps he, too, had been blind to the oncoming threat or, more likely, had wished that by ignoring it, it would simply go away.

Boom announced decisively, "Well, they're going to have them now."

* * *

Later, at almost 9 a.m. (Pacific Daylight Time. By Rynian reckoning, it was nearly eleven.), there was still no sign of either Hex, Boom, or General Heaphge.

The gymnasium had quickly filled to capacity. The benches were crowded with many more people standing before the podium, which was set up at one end, filling the huge building with fidgeting, impatient bodies. Others, still, pushed for a place within the doors and waited for news outside. Amidst this crowd, Chief Tower's men kept an order harder to maintain as the morning worn on.

Everything was ready for someone to take the podium. Before dawn, speakers were pulled out (speakers that were usually provided for the high school's pep rallies, assemblies, and sporting events) and placed both inside and outside of the great building. Given electricity, everyone would hear. Electricity had been brought by Chief Tower's men nearly two hours before in the form of an emergency generator. As long as gasoline supplies lasted, Country Gardens would run what few generators they had.

As Hex had asked, Sam had met Rolf Heaphge's party of representatives, four men and women from as diverse fields as Rolf could find, outside of town. Their leader, Commander Obregon, Heaphge's second in command, had been described to Sam. "Commander," Samuel had greeted, shaking the older man's hand, "thank you again for coming."

"Believe me, Sam, you couldn't have kept me away," the commander had responded with a smile. Sam had been described to him as well. It wasn't too hard to find him. He was the only person out this early. "Let me introduce my countrymen. This is Bern Elcit is the leader of our magicians. Elise Zauri, one of our Breakers. And this is Captain Bethel Patir, one of the rising stars in our forces. Should we survive the coming unpleasantness, I see her going far."

Sam had shaken hands all around but when he reached this final person, and she was introduced, he was stunned. The people of Rynia were of varied appearance, as varied as any group of people from earth. Sam had known that. But this woman, Bethel Patir, he'd not seen here like on either planet. The name suited her, exotic, mysterious, with an underlying intensity. She would have fit well in any city of India or the middle east. She must have carried the bloodline of those south of Rynia, the place Samuel forgot was called Kallent. His pause was only brief, maybe a second at most, but it was obvious he was staring.

And why shouldn't he be, Obregon thought, Captain Patir wasn't only a rising star in the Rynian army but a beautiful woman as well. One of the last of a dying breed, too, for like himself, Bethel Patir had not begun a family or taken a mate, choosing instead to devote her life to her kingdom. Too bad for Sam. Commander Obregon knew that Bethel's reputation, and a true one at that, was one of a cold fish.

When Sam's handshake didn't follow through, Bethel put out a gloved hand and shook his. "Vincent's brother," she observed. "I remember you from your last visit."

Samuel was shocked. Surely, if she had been anywhere near him, he would have noticed. "You do?"

"Yes. We rarely get visitors from another planet."

Several laughed and Sam, regretfully, let go of Bethel's hand. He wondered if it would be soft without the glove or hard from years of soldiering.

He still looked at her now, sitting in the row of chairs behind the podium, awaiting Hex's and Heaphge's return. Sam stood aside with Officer Hernandez, trying not to stare at Bethel.

Hernandez said, "We need to get this started," but Sam wasn't listening.

A poke to the ribs got his attention. "What?" His shout, coming as a complete surprise, drew the attention of several around him, including Bethel's. He lowered his head, turning around, and looked at Officer Hernandez. He asked quietly, "What?"

"I said, we need to get this started. Let's go."

"Go? I'm not doing anything with this. I was just supposed to get the Rynians in here. You do it."

"Look, Gobel, we're crowd control. Now your friend was supposed to get here. I don't see any sign of him. So, it's your job. Get to it." As if to punctuate the final statement, Hernandez gave Samuel a push toward the podium.

The podium had been set up on a raised platform, used during awards ceremonies, and as Sam stepped up, both before and above his townsfolk, voices quieted in anticipation. Conversations and speculations broke off, eyes raised and widened, movement ceased until, within seconds, Samuel stood in the center of Country Gardens.

It wasn't a place where he'd thought he could be. There had been a time... long ago. He'd been in junior high school. His studies had been average and, though he'd had his share of friends, he was never the life of the party. When it came to sports, he either fumbled, struck out, missed, shot air-balls, or was just too slow. Then a friend had dragged him into wrestling. Wrestling had led him into Tai Chi. Tai Chi to Karate and Karate to Jujitsu. He remembered the pride in his father's eyes when, after five years, he'd earned his black belt. By that time, high school was only a fond memory. His twentieth birthday. He had moved to Seattle for further study and to take a position teaching martial arts. With almost judo-like grace, he'd propelled himself out of Orange County, and a background of suburban obscurity, and nothing could stop him. Then, word had come of his parents. There'd been an accident. Where Samuel and Vincent's parents had both been orphans, so too were Samuel and Vincent. Samuel returned to Orange County, found a place at the Country Woods apartment complex in County Gardens, took two jobs and, from there, well, things had just continued. Obscurity, yeah, Sam was used to it. Even comfortable.

Before this crowd, though, he definitely wasn't comfortable. But everyone wanted him to say something. They were all waiting on him.

"Good morning," he said, his voice rough and, as it turned out, unamplified. He flipped the power switch and started again. "Good morning." His voice echoed throughout the gymnasium, louder than he expected, and settled down into an anticipatory silence. "A lot has happened in the past days. I know you've come here looking for answers. We're going to give them to you but we are going to require, demand your patience and ask that you keep an open mind. What has happened isn't... exactly... easy to understand. Before we begin, let me introduce myself. My name's Sam Gobel. You may recognize me. I've been a resident of Country Gardens for the past decade."

A voice from the back, yelled, "We know you, Sammy!" Sam recognized it. It came from Pete's mother.

"Well, um, the only way to tell you what has happened is for you to accept the impossible. For those of you who have looked outside of town, you already know." He took a deep breath and announced, "We're no longer in California. In fact, we're no longer on earth." Samuel waited for the tumult of voices he knew would come, the hollers of astonishment and the screams of outrage.

Surprisingly, though, there was no noise. The building remained completely silent. It wasn't because there was no surprise, no shock, Sam knew. Indeed, it was because the people knew something terrible had happened, were expecting it, and now that they knew it, were too scared to do anything.

Samuel hoped he could ease their fears. (Though, in truth, deep down, he knew that whatever he told them would only make it worse.) "Let's get the rest of the bad news out of the way. You already know this. There will be no more electricity, gas, or phone service. Your radios and tv's won't work. We've been cut off from our world." He paused again but there was still no reaction. "Thankfully, we are in a place that is familiar to some of us. It's a country called Rynia and the people here are friendly, even helpful. They know our situation and want to help us. With any luck, they'll help us get home."

"But how did we get here," a voice asked.

Sam stopped and looked down towards the voice. How? Sam knew that Hex would have had an answer for that. He'd start talking about advanced sciences and other things that meant only one thing to Sam: magic. But how could he explain magic? It would only lead to more questions. Whose magic? How did it work? Why? Sam knew that after he, and the Rynians, had answered that he would have done more than scare the people of Country Gardens. He would have shattered their reality.

CHAPTER TWO

PAVED WITH THE BEST INTENTIONS

Part I

Morning in Tzurritza came in like a cool breeze heavy with the taste of the regions winter favorite, iced brandy. Oh, yes, definitely heavy with the flavor of iced brandy. In fact, as Mark Nygarra laid amidst the sheets his head throbbed with the flavor of iced brandy.

"Yoou awake, Dukie," a familiar voice asked, sultry with the extra o-vowel prevalent in the Tzurritzanian accent.

Oh, her, Mark thought. That... princess. Though, in her case, princess was more of an accusation than an honor. She was certainly no Helen Haddison, with her unyielding grace and indomitable strength. While Helen wore the robes of office, this one wore buckskins. What was she doing, interrupting his hangover?

Mark slowly opened his eyes to far too much light and saw her lying naked beside his equally naked body. With a speed instinctive to anyone who's been in that situation, he raced through the events he could remember of the previous evening. But it had started long before then. It had all started in a boat on a swamp, with his arm around her waist and her body tightly against his.

* * *

"No. No. It goes under," he remembered Kraephten insisting, fixing Mark's cravat. It was supposed to billow in the Tzurritzanian fashion but Mark couldn't seem to get his to billow. It looked more... swollen.

"Can I help it? I didn't come here to get involved with formal affairs," Mark replied, irritated. He stuffed the cravat down again but it simply swelled beneath his dinner jacket.

"Affairs of state, my dear duke, are always formal affairs," Kraephten instructed. "Your problem is just that you've been out on the frontier too long. Fighting ice giants instead of bureaucrats."

"At least the ice giants don't make you dress in these ridiculous outfits." Mark looked again in the mirror. To make him feel more at home, or so the story went, the Council clothiers had prepared Mark and Kraephten both costumes in their national colors. However, as silver dye was at a premium, the costumes arrived in white and green.

"Be thankful," Kraephten replied, adjusting his white jacket. "We could be visiting Marrisha and be forced to wear their colors."

"Which are?"

Kraephten straightened the green, shoulder sash to align with his cummerbund. "The Marrishan colors are orange and purple, I believe."

Tying up his green spats, Mark snapped, "I didn't come here to have a good time, Kraephten. We're on very serious business."

"Then don't have a good time," Kraephten replied, growing exasperated. "Be miserable! Just be sure you're a good actor when it comes time for the reception."

"I'm sure glad I don't have to go," Timothy replied, reclining on the settee. After the attempt on Council-member Saldia's life by the homonculus, Timothy had been vindicated but the Council still felt him a bad portent. Thus, an invitation for him had "accidentally" been neglected. Message enough for Kraephten. Timothy was just happy for the chance to relax. He'd be back on the road again soon enough.

A light rapping came at the door and Mark, tired of fussing with his outfit, answered it. With one hand opening the door and the other fighting his cummerbund, he didn't notice who was on the landing until he'd said, "Yes? What do -" When he looked upon the landing, what he saw took the words from him.

She'd been beautiful before, when she'd addressed the Council. Vulnerable, that time he made her cry. He'd even seen her commanding. Never, though, never did Mark ever think he'd see Kelly Adson looking so royal, so magnificent. Literally breathtaking, as Mark realized when he had forgotten to breathe for several minutes. He just held the door and lifted his hand to meet hers. She brought gloved fingers up to his and made a small curtsey. He bowed in response.

"Kell," Kraephten's loud voice boomed, pleased at the sight of her. "Don't you look smashing! Simply smashing! Don't you believe so, Mark?"

His breath still short, Mark tried to answer. "I, um -"

"Come in, my dear. We were nearly ready to leave." Kraephten took her gloved hand and led her inside where all three could appreciate her. Having left the buckskins for less formal occasions, she wore, instead, a dress of emerald satin. It accented her light green eyes though, with its scandalously low cut, none of the men noticed. In truth, it was not suited for winter chills. A thin, white jacket provided little protection. Kell, though, had been in worse conditions. Having received the response from Mark that she had hoped for, she didn't mind the cold.

It had been nearly a week since their arrival in Raful. Most of that had been spent shoring up relations between the two kingdoms of Tzurritza and Rynia after the terrible murder of Sorina and the subsequent accusation of Timothy. There'd been little time for Mark to think about his feelings for Kell, had he any. He preferred to shove them deep within the rucksack of his subconscious and leave them there. He had no time for romance. He clenched his fist, so recently bereft of Kell's soft fingers. Good. It was a good thing Kraephten had taken over and shown her in. Kraephten was trying to help Mark keep his focus, he thought. Still, did Kraephten need to be enjoying it so?

That evening held the official welcoming dinner for the Rynian emissaries. The three of them strolled from the royal mansion to the huge, council building. At the entrance, they were greeted by doormen who faked rigid, military movement through their uncomfortably tight uniforms. Kraephten held the princess' hand, drawing forth peals of laughter at his witty remarks as they walked inside. Mark, his face uncontrollably cross, walked behind with his hands clasped together behind his back.

Crossing through the council hall, where later would be the reception, they entered a grand dining hall. All of the Council was there, with one seat left vacant in memory of their fallen comrade. At the head of the table, King Thomas, the ancient figurehead of the monarchy, sat with his heir, Prince David, proudly at his side. At the other end of the long table, two chairs were placed for the Rynian guests and one chair had been placed at David's side for Kell.

"Your highness," Kraephten addressed Kell, stopping so suddenly that Mark nearly collided, "I would give my eyeteeth for the opportunity to converse with your venerated sire this night. It has been so long. Would you grant me this boon?" The words were formal and proper and, Mark knew Kraephten well enough to know, entirely rehearsed.

Kell looked around before replying, "Why, it woould be my pleasure, Mr. Kattox, but where would that leave me? Where would I sit?"

"Hmm, indeed a dilemma. Perhaps, my lord, Duke Nygarra could help us," Kraephten said as if thinking and, though Mark was standing right there the entire time, he addressed the duke. "Sire, where could we sit the fair princess this night? Please, endow us with your wisdom."

If Kraephten thought he was being entertaining, Mark wasn't buying it. "You want her to sit with me, don't you?"

"Ah, wisdom eternal springs forth from your royal brain," Kraephten replied and, with a final bow, sat in Kell's chair.

Mark put his arm out to the princess, irritated by Kraephten's desertion, "Coming princess?"

Tilting her head, Kell crossed her arms and said, "Not unless you want me to."

"What," Mark asked, taken aback by Kell's response.

"I don't think you really want me to sit with you."

Mark's eyes widened. All in the room were staring at him. "What? Yes, I want you to!"

"Really," she asked with a pout.

Looking as if steam would soon escape, his voice cracked. "Yes!"

"Okay, let's go then." She grabbed Mark's arm and, though he was completely off balance, walked him to the table's end.

Not usually a great fan of brandywine, Tzurritza's fortified fruit wine, Mark consumed more than his share that night. Talk around the table focused not so much on the impending war, something which Mark would have been more than pleased to discuss, than on things like family stories. The Adson family was a distant cousin of the Haddisons and, thus, shared a common bond, though stretched to its limits. Kraephten kept the table amused with stories of Hex and Helen and little Caroline. Mark waited for more serious talk to ensue, whereupon he would join in, and continued drinking his brandywine.

Walking out after the meal, Kraephten ceased his laughter for only a moment to inform Mark, "My boy, I've been terribly remiss. All these years of teaching you the art of war and I have not spent one day teaching you the art of royalty."

"Royalty," Mark asked, feeling very relaxed.

"Yes," Kraephten answered, steering Mark into the council hall. "There are three things you must always remember. First: learn to laugh. If the royalty worries, things must be really bad indeed. Second, the friendly attitude. How is an ally to know that you are dedicated to his cause if you do not at least behave like a friend? You see?"

"Yes, Kraephten. Those are very good points," Mark replied, and he meant it.

"I'm glad you think so. You've failed with both of them so far."

"What's the last one," Mark asked, trying not to sound cross. Perhaps by performing the final feat he could redeem himself.

"Ah, that," Kraephten replied. He'd walked Mark adjacent to where Kell stood waiting. Just a couple steps within the makeshift dance floor, she knew what to do. "The last one is to dance, my boy."

"Dance? I don't know how to dance!"

"And so you'll learn." With a light shove, Kraephten sent Mark into Kell's waiting arms.

"Hey," Mark snapped.

"I'd love to," Kell replied. With a deft hand, she held him and spun about.

Kraephten looked on remembering that he'd learned how to swim the same way. It was that or sink.

Hours passed. Mark had never realized what fun it could be, holding a beautiful woman close and twirling her to a string quartet. Kell had the grace of an angel and the smile of one, too. As the time flew by, the wine left Mark's system and he, too, gained the poise to dance with confidence. He hoped it wouldn't end, smelling Kell's sweet perfume. Though the wine had left him, he felt more intoxicated than ever. In fact, he could have -

But then, Kell was gone.

He thought she had gone to apply her makeup but she had yet to return. Kraephten had seen no sign of her and her father was oblivious. She wouldn't have just left, would she, Mark wondered. Had he done something? He traced his every move in his mind and could think of nothing. Finally, he went to the door and asked one of the men there if she'd been seen leaving.

"Noo, sir," came the stiff reply. "But she did mention something aboout the roof."

"The roof?" There was but one staircase that Mark had seen and the structure didn't look any taller than two stories. Making his way upwards, a piece of white cloth caught his eye. Picking it up, he'd known he had found her. It was her left glove. At the landing to the second floor, he saw its match higher up the staircase. Then, stepping out into the night, he saw his reward. Two benches sat upon the rooftop and Kell sat on one of these. Mark approached, uncomfortable as she watched his every step. "Er, you forgot your gloves."

"No, I didn't," she replied. "I wanted to see how good a tracker you were. Sit doown."

He accepted her invitation, slowly seating himself, watching her, and wondering. There were feelings here he'd never felt before. Oh, there had been someone. Once. A lifetime ago. With every other woman he'd tried to let into his life, the same fears she had planted rose up in the way. Now, those fears were dead, gone, and nothing was left in Mark's mind but the wonder. "Dance with me," he said and she did.

But folded in his strong arms, safely and cherished, a thought bloomed and it wouldn't remain unsaid. "This isn't me tonight, Mark. You know that, don't you? You wouldn't be dancing with me if this was me. You'd be mad at me or annoyed. You'd stay away from me."

Mark shushed her quietly, replying, "This isn't me that you're dancing with, Kell. I've never allowed myself this much pleasure. I would be downstairs planning for the war. I would be pushing for supplies. I would never allow myself to feel so good with you so near."

"Then, in the morning, when the spell is brooken and we're ourselves again -?"

Mark stopped dancing and looked deeply into Kell's eyes. "I don't want to think about tomorrow, Kell. I don't want to remember what Tsurtor is doing, how the people I'm responsible for are going to die, and how there's nothing I can do about it. Right now, I don't want to be me." He brought her closer, feeling her cheek press against his.

"Mark," she sighed.

"I don't want the spell to break."

As the sides of their mouths touched, they forgot any spells or names or who they might be. They just knew that they didn't want it to end. As the endless stars above shined light upon their kisses, it didn't.

* * *

With the morning came another meeting. Mark knew that foot soldiers would not be enough. They'd need something that could actually fight Tsurtor on his own terms.

The Council Chief, Bernise Holl, considered his request with a pinched brow before replying, "My loord, Duke, what you require is considerable at best. Tzurritza has noo army of magicians like Rynia. We have only the Machinists - which aren't exactly oours - and they are... less than cooperative."

"I don't believe that to be an obstacle, Council Chief. The threat is large, council members, larger than any to face the land in our lifetimes. Every avenue must be traced no matter how dark."

The council members nodded their agreement and the Council Chief said, "Yes. You're right. Still, we cannoot sacrifice the manpower needed to make the journey to Kieni where the Machinist's Guildhall lays. The Machinists have noot always been friendly. They've been secluded in their foortress to the southeast for generations. Foor all we know, they could be dead. Even if they were alive, gaining their support would be a loong shot at best."

"Long shot," Mark asked.

"Unlike the magicians of Rynia," Kraephten explained, "the Machinists don't consider themselves beholden to any sovereignty. They consider their land between the borders of two realms, Kallent and Tzurritza."

"They woouldn't answer well to a fooriegn force invading their land," the Council Chief concluded.

"So, explain to me, if they are on the border, why Kallent doesn't claim them for themselves," Mark asked Kraephten.

Kraephten replied with a smile, "Because they don't want them."

"Then it is settled," added the Council Chief. "You have oour agreement. The need for gifted magicians is oobvious but, sadly, the request is moot. They will not be joining us."

"Your assessment may be premature, Council Chief," Kraephten announced, rising from his chair. "You are correct regarding your armed forces. All foot soldiers should be sent north with all speed. That alone could take a month. Meanwhile, the northern road out of Raful can take those of us here north in less than two weeks. I believe that gives us a two week window of opportunity to make some attempt at Kieni."

"And what kind of attempt would that be," council member Pallo asked. The same question was on Mark's lips but unvoiced.

"There are only three people here who stand outside of the sovereignty of Tzurritza. Duke Nygarra, myself, and Timothy Holt, whom I believe you have met." The final comment was not lost on the council members.

Mark, however, was no longer noticing them. His look was intense as he said, "Kraephten, we can't leave here. There is important business to take care of! Strategy to -"

"The duke is right," Kraephten announced, yelling over Mark. "These important things do need attention. I would not dream of turning our attention from the main front which is the north and fighting Tsurtor. Duke Nygarra has been the supreme strategist for the defense of Rynia's northernmost city. He cannot be spared in this endeavor."

When the room went quiet, Mark replied, "Well, thank you," with some reserve.

"That is why Timothy and I will be going alone."

* * *

"It's a damn, fool move."

Kraephten looked up from tying on his boots and replied, "It's the only way it will work."

Mark shook his head. "You're going to be needed here."

"And that's the beauty of my plan. I will be here. Kieni's only three to four days by boat and the return trip can be done in six. We'll be back in plenty of time to join in the war."

"And if not?"

"If not," Kraephten asked as if it wasn't a reasonable question.

"Chief Holl told me a few things, Kraephten. She told me how the Machinists had been violent in the past."

"Really," Kraephten replied with mock surprise as he packed. "And what did Kell tell you?"

"Kell?"

"Yes, Kell."

"Well, she said just about the same thing."

"Good. Smart girl. You should listen to her."

Mark growled, "Kraephten."

"Listen, Mark, we've been friends for a long time. Anything I could tell you about strategy, you already know."

Timothy walked in with a pack on his back and his staff in his hand, ready to go.

"How long -" Mark tried to ask.

"I've known it would come to this for a few days," Kraephten replied. He checked his sword a final time, it was strapped tightly to his back, and smiled, "Give Kell a kiss goodbye."

But he didn't give Kell a kiss. Not for anything. If it had been Kraephten's intention to draw the two together, Mark wasn't falling into it. There was still a war to win and no amount of grandstanding on Kraephten's part was going to change that.

Kell couldn't understand what had happened. The night on the roof had been the most romantic of her life and now Mark kept a blind eye turned her way. He stayed away from his room until the wee hours of the morning, monopolizing every moment of the council's time. When, days later, the troops began to move north, he took every moment to review men and plan strategy with the leaders.

Mark didn't realize what he was doing, every time he pushed Kell away. Her pride wouldn't let the hurt show and his single mindedness refused the distraction that feelings for her would bring. A time came, however, more than a week later, when all the troops had marched through. All the generals were with their men. The council had to meet on internal matters. For the first time since arriving, Mark had to face the fact that he was alone.

He went to the most secluded place he knew, on the Council Hall's roof, and looked over the city. Night was falling and the clouds had blocked out the sky. Under these conditions, there wasn't much to see but that was all right. Mark wasn't looking. He was trying to block out a myriad of thoughts that he'd spent a great deal of time avoiding but only seemed to get stronger the longer he ignored them. King Marcus' month deadline had long since passed. Tsurtor could have already been in Rynia. What had become of Benaatt? The city he had sworn to protect. Banry Ellison? Another coward like himself put in an impossible situation. Hex? Had the Maker found a way to win the war? His family? Had they made it to safety before the war had found them? King Marcus? He had placed so much faith in Mark. Had he done enough to live up to that faith? Helen? His childhood friend who had made him Defender of the Crown so long ago when he didn't have the courage to fight. She'd always believed in him but had he been worthy? There was still so much to do. Had he done enough?

"Return to the scene oof the crime, eh?"

Mark hardly heard her. It was as if her voice came from another world. Then, she stood beside him and, though his eyes were closed and his head was bowed over the low wall, he could feel her there. "I haven't done enough," he said.

Was it a question, she wondered. After days and nights of constant work, creating Tzurritza's war effort in the short time he'd been there, could he have been serious? "Doo you mean that," she asked. Though he appeared about to answer, she continued, "Doon't you know what you've done? You're a legend around here, Mark. People look up to you. They follow yoour step. After everything you've done, how you've moved us, you're a hero, Mark."

"A hero," he replied, almost angry. "I've seen better men die, Kell. More men are goin to die than we can count! I'm no hero. All I've done is send them to their graves."

Kell took a moment to let his anger wash over her, knowing it was misplaced. All his anger was turned within, at himself. "You never give yourself a break, do you?"

"What?"

"You. Mark Nygarra. Duke of Benaatt. King's emissary. Yada yada yada. You never go easy on yourself, do you?"

Mark stepped away from the wall, shaken. "I don't -" he began to say.

But Kell didn't want to hear another word. "Shh!" She said it so loudly that spittle flew from her mouth. Then, when Mark looked like he was going to say something again, she said, "Shh," again for good measure. Taking his hand, she pulled, demanding, "Coome here."

He followed her reluctantly to the same bench they'd sat upon so many nights ago. She'd brought a basket and, pulling aside the cover, now removed a bottle. She poured a shot and handed it to Mark. "Drink this," she commanded.

"What is it?"

"Drink it!"

It was a clear liquid, smelling strongly of alcohol. Mark quickly swallowed it, feeling the ice cold sensation turn into soothing heat within his belly.

"Ice brandy," Kell said.

"And why am I drinking it?"

"Because you, my friend, need to relax."

"I can't relax. There's still a lot I have to do!"

"There's nothing for you to doo," Kell snapped. "That's why you were standing there just now. Everything's been done. All that's left now is the fighting."

Mark realized she was right. He said, "Give me another one of those." She poured and he drank it quickly. "This is my second war, Kell."

"Yes," she replied. "I've heard about the last one. I heard you were a hero."

Mark took the bottle and poured himself another shot. "I was a coward." He said it all with a rush and, drinking the brandy, hoped for more of her soothing words.

There weren't any, though. She asked, "A coward?"

"I only became a hero by accident. I spent most of the war running."

"Ooh," she replied. "Pour me one of thoose."

Then, Mark's memory became fuzzy. They'd gone through two bottles of ice brandy, sitting there, talking about their lives. Kell had seemed sure that Mark wouldn't repeat his cowardice but Mark couldn't help but feel that, without Kraephten there, he'd flee at the first charge. Kell had told him how much she admired his dedication and his drive. Her life had been spent without those things, being raised as a minor royal in a country where royalty meant little. He told her that he admired, if only in a cursory sense, her independent spirit. He remembered, somewhere in there, that they'd begun kissing on the bench and had, with an alacrity that had startled him, rushed down to her chambers. They'd kissed the entire way, not wanting their passion to be extinguished in the newly falling rain and cold, winter air. On the contrary, though, as they neared her chambers, their passion only grew. It was a need that was being met. The need had been born in the swamp, when he'd caught her and held her and she had kissed him. There were no pretenses, no thoughts of the future, only a realization that their bodies had made claim upon each other from that moment in the swamp and the time had come. The need was met.

When Mark had remembered it all, when he knew how right it all felt, he brought his arm against her back and pulled her close. Her head on his chest, they went back to sleep.

Part II

"May the 789th Board of Directors for the Patrizzi Machinist's Union come to order! As senior Board member, I, Bertrum Typewriter, motion this meeting open!" Complete the declaration, Bertrum smiled. He'd worked in the Machinist's Guild his entire life. Sweat in the workshops. Toiled over schematics. Advanced from Supervisor to Manager to Director. Now, with the first words of the first board meeting of the session, he felt his destiny fulfilled. His smock, like all of the directors, was gold, a reassuring weight over his cotton jumpsuit, the Machinist's uniform. What the others didn't have, and what they all envied him for, was the white shoulder bands that specified his rank in this organization.

As he sat, he could feel the stares of the other, six directors. Bonnie Rolodex. Austin Dispenser. Roderick Stapler. Charles Carburetor. Fisher Interface. Melissa Refrigerator.

They were waiting for him to talk. They had to. It was tradition.

Who should it be? Who should he address first? Bonnie had been kind enough, filling him in on the latest projects back when he'd been only a sub-assistant coordinator. Charles, on the other hand, he'd never liked. Back when he'd solved the ink problem on the movable type printing machine, Charles had stolen the idea, claiming it as his own. Bet he never thought he'd see the day when 2nd class designer Typewriter would be lording over him! He'd never known Stapler or Interface or Refrigerator too well. They'd advanced in administration rather than design; serving a useful enough purpose, Bertrum supposed. Austin, however, above them all was the obvious choice. Bertrum wouldn't even be sitting there if it weren't for Austin. He'd practically given Bertrum all his voice-transmission network ideas. If it hadn't been for that design, Bertrum would never have been advanced.

"The new wrist wearable timepiece, Austin? What's the progress?"

And so the session began. Projects were advanced, such as the miniaturization of the clock into a form suitable to fit on one's wrist and the heating of a filament with swamp gas to create a light source. Others were debated: safe conduction of electricity and the use of steam to turn a piston for various applications. Some were laughed at like Roderick's plan to construct a machine that could fly. Even more laughable was the suggestion that it could carry a man!

All of the laughter was broken, however, when the doorbell rang.

"What is that," Charles Carburetor asked.

"It almost sounds like the doorbell," Austin replied.

Bertrum didn't know what the doorbell sounded like. It hadn't been rung in his lifetime. But Bertrum was the youngest and Austin was the eldest on the Board. If anyone knew what the doorbell sounded like, it would be Austin.

"Of course, it sounds like a bell. I knew that but what does that mean," asked Charles.

Bertrum gave a bad look but nodded toward Austin for a reply.

"It would seem that there's someone outside who desires ingress."

"Ingress," Bonnie asked.

"They want in."

The thought was so foreign to them all that it took several moments for it to sink in. The Patrizzi Machinist's Union had been isolated for as long as anyone could remember, having scared off the locals with their fabulous machines. What would someone want with them now?

"I have a spyglass," Roderick offered. It was a tempting idea, to spy down upon the strangers, to actually see someone from the outside!

The window was quickly opened and the Directors mobbed around the long spyglass. "My, but they're dangerous looking!" "Is that actually a sword?" "They're nothing but primitives." Bertrum listened to their expostulations but held judgment to himself.

Then, Charles went to the voice-transmission box, connected by tubing to the guard's station. "There are intruders at the western entrance. Have security-"

"Ignore that order," Bertrum shouted. He was so loud, they could hear him at the other end of the 'com.

"I beg your pardon!" Charles was fuming; he still wasn't clear on who was in charge.

"Ignore this entire conversation," Bertrum shouted into the mouth piece. He slammed the tubes back into place, clicking the sending end shut and restoring their privacy. Looking at his fellow directors, he said, "There is no reason to send security in on this. These strangers have shown us no ill will."

"But what could you mean, Bertrum," Melissa gasped. "It has been our policy to shoo these Neanderthals away ever since, well, the beginning."

"Then it is high time we rethink that policy."

The rebuffs rang within the boardroom, drowning Bertrum so that he had to yell, "Gentlemen! Ladies! Please! There is a world out there, people! The Founders knew that. It is even in our mission statement. We protect the inventions of man until such time as man is ready for their return, remember? Well, I say there is no way for us to know that unless we have, at least, some rudiment of communication in place."

"But how would we do that? Who would talk to these people?"

Bertrum bit his tongue for a moment, hoping another would volunteer. They didn't. Finally, Bertrum said, "I will."

* * *

Several minutes earlier:

It had taken the full, four days for Kraephten and Timothy to travel from Raful to Kieni. Day and night, they traveled with little sleep. Four days of muchek and swamp stench and, when their boat had hit a snag, hiking over miles of winding trees until the ground was rising around them. Walking again on land, Timothy felt in paradise in spite of the torrential rain and gluey consistency of the earth. Under a canopy of trees, several hundred yards from the Kieni fortress, the two had made their beds, sleeping on the soggy soil.

When morning came, it was still raining. Within their bed rolls, they were soaked to the bone. Quietly, they repacked their things and made their way through the storm.

Kraephten remembered all he'd been told of Kieni. It wasn't hard; little was known. It was a huge complex of buildings, interconnected. If anyone lived within those walls, it was unknown. Nobody had ever been seen entering or leaving. No sign of life had been spied with the complex's many windows or upon its rooftops. Still, the popular belief that the Kieni's had died off long ago and their fortress stood only as a memorial to their kind (whatever that might mean) flew in the face of reason. Why didn't the structure collapse? Why did none of the windows break? If no one was there, why were people afraid to go?

In the dim light of the winter's day, the fortress looked uniformly brown. Almost... "seamless!" It wasn't until after he'd said it that Kraephten realized he'd spoke. This was something unheard of in Rynia. Where were the logs, the boards, the bricks? How could the Kieni's, whoever they might have been, have built a fortress out of one solid piece of, to Kraephten's touch, rock? "I'd heard that they were masters of building but -"

"It's not possible," Timothy exclaimed. "Not even the finest thief could scale this! It's at least ten meters to the first window."

Kraephten frowned, "Actually, I was hoping for a door. Does that suit the Hand of Night?"

Timothy was too busy thinking of his former profession to listen until Kraephten nudged him. "Uh? Oh, sure."

The front door - at least, they hoped is was the front door - was less imposing than the complex. A single set of double doors, it had no knob or handle, no way to enter from them, it seemed. Beside them, rising like an anthill upon the wall's level plain, was a single button.

"What is it," Timothy asked.

"I don't know. They're supposed to be master builders; perhaps it makes the door open?" Kraephten tried to get his fingers around it and pull but met little success. Then, he pushed it. The button went in with hesitation, years of accumulated rust impeding its operation. When Kraephten had it in, though, the door did not open. Shocking both of them back several feet, a series of great bells went off, ringing throughout the building.

"What is it?"

Kraephten looked around. "They must be summoning someone. Someone of some importance, I'd say from the sound of it."

"Soldiers?"

"Could be. Just be ready for anything."

Several minutes passed, though, and no soldiers came. Once again, all was quiet. Then, far above them, something poked out of a window. A pipe of some kind.

Timothy looked at it, and looked at Kraephten looking at it, and asked, "What is it?"

"Will you stop asking me that?" Kraephten yelled louder than he intended but, knowing just as much as Timothy did, he was in no position to answer questions.

Several more minutes passed and Kraephten began thinking about pressing the button again, hoping it would do some good. It wouldn't be necessary, though. A clicking sound came from the door. Then a scraping. Then a clicking. A banging. Then, a pounding.

* * *

"Why won't this door open," Bertrum shouted, exasperated.

The security men tried it again while their supervisor answered, "It hasn't been opened in many years, sir."

Finally, with a reverberating pop, one of the doors flew open. The security team that had been pushing against it fell forward. The strangers outside looked on inquisitively.

Bertrum felt strangely embarrassed. This was all far less than auspicious. He stepped over the security men, though they had insisted he shouldn't go out until they'd captured the "intruders" - thick headed oafs that they were - and stopped before the strangers. The older of the two seemed to be in charge. This was apparent by the way the younger man kept staring at him. Bertrum turned to the older man, who wore his long, white hair in a tail and whose smile was easily seen between his long, white mustache and goatee, and said, "Hello."

"Hello," Kraephten replied, his soothing voice accentuated with a bow.

Bertrum thought about bowing but felt it didn't suit him. He put his hand out, instead, satisfied when the stranger took it. "Welcome to the Patrizzi Machinist's Union Hall and Lodging. My name is Bertrum Typewriter and I am the senior on the Board of Directors. Though our peoples have not interacted in generations, I bid you welcome."

Kraephten's smile was broad as he replied, "And I accept your welcoming, Senior Typewriter. My name is Kraephten Kattox, special emissary from the kingdoms of Rynia and Tzurritza. Both King Marcus and The Council bid you peace." For a moment, he could no longer contain himself, having been taken by surprise at the sight of men falling through the doorway, and laughed. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't comprehend everything you tell me. It seems that, although we understand one another, we speak a different tongue."

"Indeed, you people are still far behind where we had hoped. Only with much education will you understand our advanced ways."

Raising an annoyed eyebrow, Kraephten replied, "Yes, well, until we can somehow meet your greatness, just try to keep it simple."

"I would like to welcome you into the Union Hall where you will likely see all sorts of wonders undreamt of in your primitive world. No outsider has been bestowed with such an honor in hundreds of years. You should feel privileged."

Kraephten stood nearly a foot taller than Bertrum and looked at the little man in disbelief. It wasn't that the Kieni's, now the Patrizzi Machinist's, had scared everyone away all these years. They were just too pompous for anyone to stand. "Privileged? Sure. We already feel privileged. Actually, Bert, we came because there's a few things we need to talk about."

* * *

"Of all the audacity," Bonnie exclaimed. "They weren't even impressed by our self-contained-inkwell-pen!"

"The idiot boy thought the epoxy was porridge! We don't even eat porridge!"

"People! People! Please, calm down!" Bertrum sat in his chair rubbing his temples. It had been a day of surprises, too much to keep in one's head. "We know that these men represent a primitive civilization. They're just discovering the rudiments of plumbing, after all. They fight with swords and clubs. Their production methods keep their population levels down and - I think this was noticeable to all of us - they aren't particularly fond of bathing. However," he concluded, rising now that the others were sitting quietly, "we may be partially to blame for this."

"Us?" Roderick let out a wicked guffaw. "You can't be serious!"

"Completely," Bertrum retorted. "Protect the inventions of man until such time as man is ready for their return. That is what the Founders told us. Not only do these men look like they come from a world that is ready, they look desperate. How long have we held them back while we kept our technology to ourselves? How much faster would this civilization have blossomed if we had been there to help it along?"

Fisher gave a huff. "We can't be held responsible -"

"We can and we should. Have you people forgotten already how inextricably twined our history is with theirs? Oh, sure, we're taught that our lineage was the best and the brightest after the Fall. That makes us better than them, doesn't it? But who among us isn't a half breed? Whose ancestor didn't creep out to take a taste from the garden of delights, hmm? It wouldn't surprise me at all to find that most of us here are more than simply half-breeds, that it is more pride than anything which maintains that delusion."

"So, what are you saying, Bertrum," shouted Charles. "Are you saying we open our doors? Unleash our technology upon an unsuspecting world?"

"No. Of course, not," Bertrum replied. His headache grew worse at the thought of what he was going to say. But it had to be said. After meeting with Kraephten, he knew what needed to be done. "I'm saying we do much more than that." Moving to the window, he looked at the torrents of rain. "They've come to a cross-roads. A crux." Looking back at the Board, he said, "They're facing a war."

The room erupted in sound. None of the others could believe what they'd heard. War? Why, war was a word only known on the periphery of their vocabulary. Held together by a common cause, the Patrizzi Union had never faced any such threat. Now, for Bertrum to bring it into their own Boardroom...

"Ladies! Gentlemen! Please! I require your silence!" Bertrum watched as the others squelched their outbursts before continuing. "It gets worse than that, I'm afraid. The entity who is declaring war has access to technology greater than their own. In fact, this enemy may possess technology much like our own."

"Another machinist," Fisher yelled, disbelieving.

"I doubt that, Fisher. There have been no desertions. But that does not make our responsibility any less clear. The peoples of Rynia and Tzurritza cannot win this war without our help. They need our technology. The decision, I believe, is clear."

"Yes," Charles spoke, "we must help them. Send them one of our best. Our brightest. What say you all?"

Though the response was hesitant - everyone knew Charles had something up his sleeve - the rest agreed.

"Therefore, Bertrum, I nominate you as our representative!"

Bertrum smiled. Of course, Charles would recommend him. Get him away. Perhaps, get him killed. So he could take Bertrum's job. What he didn't see was that Bertrum was ready. He nodded, "I accept your nomination, of course. As the best and brightest among us, I say we send our next best and brightest to accompany me. What say you?"

With Charles' encouragement (for, in truth, Charles thought Bertrum was referring to Austin), they all agreed.

"And who would that be," Bertrum asked.

The response was nearly unanimous. With Charles being the exception, everyone voted for Charles to go. Austin was then voted in as the acting Senior until Bertrum's return as Charles, slack jawed, watched in silence.

* * *

That night, Kraephten and Timothy were both quartered in Bertrum's chambers. Timothy, happy to be sheltered as the skies opened outside, quickly and comfortably slept upon the bed which Kraephten had been fool enough to surrender for the sofa. Timothy thought Kraephten to be cramped on the small cushions, not knowing that Kraephten had long since left the quarters.

For Kraephten had received a note. He was several apartments down the hall, in the Director's wing, in the chambers belonging to Melissa Refrigerator. "It is important that, if our people are to carry on a dialogue, we conduct a preliminary investigation in our, oh, compatibility." Her clothes in various states of removal, she found it difficult to speak.

Kraephten, too, was equally engaged. "If what your senior says is true, mmm, and we come from a common origin, then we should fit together quite nicely."

She brought her hand up to lift her abundant tresses of golden hair, granting the savage better access to her neck. "We are so much further, ah, advanced than your people, you may find us difficult to comprehend."

With the removal of her final garment, Kraephten replied with a leer, "I know only one language."

"You're an animal," she moaned, clutching him tightly.

"Then teach me with your superior intellect to be civilized!"

The lessons continued until dawn. Kraephten walked out into the misting morning with a smile. It was met by confused looks upon the faces of Timothy and the two machinists until Melissa leaned out a window and Kraephten waved to her goodbye.

Part III

Kraephten returned as promised. Plenty of time remained for the trip north and the inevitable clash of armies on the border of Ktoll and Paead. He walked up the broad concourse leading to the royal mansion, enjoying the early evening air in spite of the fat drops of rain falling on his face. Timothy wasn't quite as happy to be back, sick from days of inhaling damp muchek and living in wet gear. Their companions, Bertrum Typewriter and Charles Carburetor, padded their feet over puddle after puddle like tortured men. Day after day of damp conditions had brought them to near retreat and the urge to flee headlong back into the warmth and comfort of the Union Hall was quelled only by Bertrum's incessant (and, from Charles' perspective, annoying) need not to look like a complete fool. If the savages could tolerate a little moisture, Bertrum felt, then so could more civilized men. Still, with their delicate slippers, suited so well to a machinist's daily, primarily indoor, routine, falling to pieces, they wanted but one thing, shelter. And a warm bed. And a hot meal. And a hot bath.

Kraephten had assured them that, whatever their desire, it would be awaiting them in Raful. It was all he had to keep them going as the weather beat against them. Winter storms had come in from the south, bringing the dreadful monsoons that came every year to the Tzurritzanian swamplands. Kraephten had never made the trek in such awful weather but remained certain of its outcome. It was the reason why he walked with a smile because he knew, now that he'd returned successful, that he could deliver. Eschewing the spartan assembly of the Tzurritzanian Council, he brought them here instead. The impressive mansion sprawled before them in the rain. Though the sky was dark, the many balconies on the expansive wings were easily visible and proof enough of Kraephten's promise of a comfortable setting. He'd sent word ahead, upon reaching the edge of town, and now the king's personal guards stood proudly before the entryway.

They bowed deeply at Kraephten's approached, their voices rumbling, "The king awaits you within."

Kraephten bowed in return and felt a single lock of drenched hair fall in his face. Pushing it back, he turned to his companions, "This way, gentlemen."

They were guided down a short hall, the air warming them as they dripped rainwater upon the stone floor. As the warmth soothed achy bones, they made their way into a large antechamber. Decorated with the finest furnishings the royal family could import, the four guests saw nothing but the open-mouthed fireplaces where massive logs spat tendrils of flame. It was so hot that steam began to rise from their garments. The heat chased away their chill and promptly placed them in the mood for copious sleep. But first, there was something else to be done.

King Thomas and his son, Prince David, rose from their seats.

"Yoour arrival is welcome," greeted the prince. "As is our fire, I'm sure."

Charles, tired though he was, was irritated at this obvious display of wealth, grotesque for such barbarians. "Simple construction," he announced, looking about him. "Inefficient framing. Looks to me like they don't even know to use two by fours. Stone floors defeat the purpose of heating. Warped wood. Don't you agree, Bertrum?"

Bertrum didn't want to reply to Charles' rude pronouncements. It was all he could do not to wring out his clothing then and there. So, he shot a sour look at his fellow director.

Charles nodded but, obviously missing the message, continued, "That fireplace could use a grating. Protect the place from burning to the ground. And look at how crude their clothing is, we -"

"Charles!" Bertrum blurted out the name in the hopes of halting the machinist's judgements.

"I knew it was too good to last," Timothy muttered, remembering how... helpful was the word Bertrum had used... pestering they had been on their first day out from the Guildhall. Fortunately, after that, they'd been too wet and weary to talk.

Clearing his throat, Kraephten said, "Well, on that note, your highnesses, please let me introduce you to the machinist delegation."

It was an historic event. The machinists, armed with lost technology which could catapult the peoples of Tzurritza, Rynia, Kallent, and Paead into a new age and, with luck, save the present one from almost certain destruction, had never before formally addressed the rulers of any of the four realms. The Tzurritzanians had never laid eyes upon a machinist. They had been perceived as nothing more than mythical figures; now that would all change. They stood on the precipice of the future! Truly, it was a time for memorable words to be spoke.

But the machinists were too wet, too irritated. The Tzurritzanian royals were too annoyed at the machinists' air. (Though, in truth, King Thomas wondered what the one called Charles had meant by a grating.) Timothy just wanted to go to sleep and Kraephten could see that things were going south. With a smile, he tried to backpedal, "Or, perhaps, the time for formal introductions has not yet arrived. Could I show you gentlemen to your rooms?"

* * *

"So you took them to their rooms and then what," Mark asked

"Then they proceeded to complain about the plumbing, as if they expected it to be everywhere!" Kraephten stepped out of the closet in a clean uniform. He'd bathed downstairs and finally felt clean for the first time in almost two weeks. His hair was worn down, common for him in the winter, and wouldn't return to its tail until the next formal occasion.

"I think they're going to be more trouble than they're worth," added Timothy, himself freshly bathed and returned to dry clothing.

Kraephten shook his head vehemently, "No. They have a lot to teach us, if not humility. Something that we lost..."

Mark raised one eyebrow, questioning, "So, you think there's something to this talk of Hex's that we were once part of a more advanced society?"

"More advanced? If Tsurtor's got it, I don't want to be more advanced."

"One of 'em's doown in the kitchen," Kell announced. She was received by both Kraephten and Timothy with warm embraces and then casually sat upon Mark's lap. "They're trying to teach our chefs about something they call sanitation. You should see how obsessed they are with cleanliness!"

Kraephten didn't reply. He was too busy smiling, looking at the young couple, thinking that his king would be pleased by his accomplishment. "So, young lad," he prompted, "why don't you tell us what you did while we were away?"

* * *

After a couple days of hasty preparation, the final contingent of Tzurritzanian forces were ready to leave for the northern border. It was composed of the last division of troops which had made the long, winter journey from Tzurritza's southwestern border. If nothing else was accomplished, the speed with which these forces had responded and made the journey through the flooded swamplands was the stuff of legend. It left no doubt as to both Tzurritza's commitment and Mark Nygarra's leadership in this time. Traveling with them was the Rynian delegation. Kraephten Kattox, Timothy Holt, and, of course, Duke Mark Nygarra.

He approached Princess Kell Addison's door early that morning, before that sun rose. Waking at that hour had been no problem. He couldn't catch any proper sleep during the previous night, anyway. His bed had been a trap of bad dreams and morbid thoughts and, so, he'd sat at the balcony watching the stars on the first clear night in over a week. He'd drilled with his sword and cleaned his gear. Now, he was at her door. He had to do this before he left, considering that he might never see her again. It would probably be easier if he left without another word but he couldn't. She'd spun a web in his soul that blocked out all light save her own.

Tentatively, he knocked.

The door flew briskly open, shedding light from the many candles within. "Dukie," Kell said. "You're up."

"Well, yes, I am," he replied, befuddled. "And you are?"

To his surprise, she was not only fully awake but completely dressed. It was what she was wearing that shocked him the most. It was the snakeskin armor so popular with the Tzurritzanian commanders. Soft and pliable but able to withstand the sharpest steel and the keenest fang from breastplate to greave. She was the image of the warrior princess. "I am just about ready for breakfast," she replied, flashing her dual spike-blades with an eager twirl.

Mark stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"You didn't think I'd stay behind, did you?"

"Well..."

"Don't you think I can take care of myself?"

Mark groped for a response. "But you're royalty."

"And you are?"

"I'm just -" He tried to think of some response but couldn't. She'd made her point. How could he tell her that he was just a cowardly soldier who had been granted a promotion he never deserved and could never live up to?

"Besides," she added, "my family isn't going to miss me. They have their heirs. I'd rather be with you where the action is."

"But I don't want to lose you," he muttered.

She smiled and kissed him. "That's sweet. Now come oover here and sit down. I have something for you." She led him to a chair and sat him upon it while she inspected his feet. Like most Rynian soldiers, he wore plain, above the ankle, hard boots. "No. Those will never doo," she determined and began to take them off.

This took Mark slightly out of his shock. "Um, Kell -" he began to say.

She ignored his feeble protest, continuing, "Now, I couldn't get you an entire suit of armor. We'll manage that later. Right now, though, you're going to need something for the long walk north." With the currents running strongly southward, boats could not reasonably be expected to take them north. They would, instead, follow the great tree-roads to the battlefield.

Kell pulled out her surprise, a new pair of Tzurritzanian styled boots. Made entirely out of the tough snakeskin, the Tzurritzanians wore their boots completely to the height of their calfs, granting full protection from the denizens of the swamps. Kell undid the long laces and, after Mark brought up his pant legs, slid the massive things onto his feet. "Don't worry. They'll feel better once you break them in," she told him. After several minutes, both were on and tied to fit his legs. "Perfect," she declared.

Mark got up and could hardly walk. It was like wearing a second skin.

"Don't make a face," she warned. "You'll get used to it in time. Walk with me to breakfast."

He did. It was the last meal they shared in Raful. Before full sun (which, with all the clouds, was hard to determine) over three hundred soldiers, Kraephten, Timothy, Mark, and Kelly Addison, were well on their way to the north.

It had been decided that they should journey northeast, towards the badlands between Tzurritza and Paela, where nothing grew and old magic could still be smelled. From there, they would continue to the east, to the Rynian border. They would fight any of Tsurtor's forces that they encountered along the way, driving the enemy along with them to General Heaphge's army. With luck, they would meet the Rynian forces unharrassed and march west with them to Ktoll, taking the fight to Tsurtor's lair.

Tsurtor had anticipated this, however, and was ready for them.

CHAPTER THREE

KAL-KOR

Part I

"And what was her name?"

The sound of the horses plodding along behind them nearly drowned out Laurence's question. They'd needed to stop riding after the first week. Without enough fresh water and grass, living off of the scant amount of oats they carried on their backs, their horses could be employed as little more than pack animals. Well enough that they could be employed at all. Neither Marcus nor Laurence could have carried the supplies needed for that first week of riding or what had stretched into another week of walking.

Their destination was to the south and west of Ceyliz. Laurence had attempted to keep Marcus riding along the coastal hills as long as he could but after several days no amount of pleading kept him on a true, southward path. Marcus was determined to head west. Any riding further south would only lengthen their trek and they did not have time to spare. The month was almost up. Rynia would soon be at war and under no circumstances would Marcus return without the strength of Kallent, the Kal-Kor monks.

And so they walked. The boredom of the slow pace from the first day off of their horses had encouraged idle talk. Never close, it had been difficult for the two to break the ice. However, after Laurence suggested that Marcus recount his adventures, the days were full.

"Shelly? Shirley? No, Shelby! Shelby Ferace. She had a face that could make your heart stop."

"So why didn't you marry her?"

"Marry?" Marcus looked out at the darkness washing over the dawn. With the sun rising from the east, the dark should have dissipated. Yet, it didn't. "I couldn't have married her any more than the others. I suppose once Caroline died there were no other women who could fill that place. Oh, there were other women! My heart might have died but my body hadn't." He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly through his pursed lips. "So, what about you," he asked.

"Me? What about me?"

"You know, Larry. Women."

"Ah, that. There've been a few, I guess. Never the one, though."

"Who, then?"

"Baroness Hisk's niece - at least, she said she was her niece - that was last summer. Mayor Retmin's daughter was out in the spring. Typical royalty. More interested in my holdings than myself. Felicity Hisk stormed her ass and her entourage out after only a couple of days screaming about my lack of ambition. I'm a duke! What need I with ambition?"

"Still you are a Haddison. The name alone puts you steps away from the throne."

"Perhaps it does but I do not wish it. Hex and Helen's little one will succeed the princess." They continued in silence, Laurence aware of Marcus' sudden reservation. "You may not believe this, your highness, but my unfortunate association with Kamm was initiated with only the best of intentions."

"I believe you, nephew," Marcus replied after several minutes. Raindrops began to pelt their clothing and their faces as the darkness moving overhead became apparent. Marcus pulled his garments tight as the temperature quickly began to drop. "We'd best find some shelter. There'll be a storm soon."

The storm quickly descended upon them like some hungry sand devil before they could locate proper shelter. The rain, falling hard and cold at almost right angles and making accurate strikes at the travelers exposed faces, quickly turned the lifeless sand and barren dirt into a quagmire. Each step sunk further than the last. The horses, having never traveled farther into the desert than Ceyliz, spooked at the violence raining upon them.

Laurence pulled his clothes tightly about himself and drew a cloak out of a saddlebag. "This is incredible," he shouted over the storm. "I never knew a storm could be this bad!"

"Then ready yourself for another shock," Marcus replied. "From everything I've heard, they get worse than this out here."

Indeed, within hours the sky was black though it was only the middle of the afternoon and the freezing air hurt their lungs. The winds picked up, pulling the travelers away from their destination. Had it been any stronger, it would have picked Laurence up and carried him away. Soon, it had stirred the mud and Marcus suggested that they wrap their faces in cloth to protect themselves from the wet earth that pounded against them amidst the growing hailstones. The two quickly wearied but still could find no place to shelter themselves from the weather. The landscape was a constant, endless blur of flat, rolling dunes. Marcus had hoped to reach the western region of the desert, near Kal-Kor before the worst of the storm hit. There, inexplicably, impenetrable rock grew out from the poisoned earth. The Mountain Oasis, it was sometimes called, where sat the Great Temple of Kal-Kor. It was that oasis that Marcus had hoped would save them.

As if their own exhaustion wasn't enough, the horses reached a point where they would go no further. It wasn't recalcitrance; that much was painfully obvious. Froth and white steam rushed from their noses and mouths with every painful exhale that simply meant breathing more of the freezing air. Their legs had sunk several feet into the muck and could not be drawn out. Marcus tried everything he could think of to force them into just one more step. Neither he nor Laurence could budge them. Sadly, they couldn't even lay, their legs were too far in the earth to bend.

"Take the food," Marcus yelled to an astonished Laurence.

"What?"

"The food! And anything you can reasonably carry!"

"We're not leaving them, are we?"

"Either that or die with them!"

"But -"

"Look! You think this is bad? By night it will be even colder! Now, come on!" Marcus started stuffing wet provisions and garments into his pack and was glad to see his nephew do the same. Before they left the horses, Laurence tried pulling one a final time. It had sunk even further. Its eyes were shut with wet mud and cold. Had it the strength to pull itself out, it wouldn't have been able to survive. Laurence stepped away from them, sick at the thought of their deaths.

Marcus drew him close and told him, "We have to keep heading west. I know there's shelter there. We just have to reach it."

The obvious problem, though, was that they couldn't tell if they were still headed west. There were no landmarks. No sun. Nor could any stars poke through the malevolent clouds. Still, they continued. Laurence kept reminding himself that his uncle had survived far worse and must again. Marcus only needed to remember Tsurtor's threat to move him yet another step through the shin-deep mud, the lives of his people to keep his eyes from closing tightly against the freezing rain, his daughter and his grand-daughter to keep him from letting the mighty winds break him like a twig.

But no amount of resolve could withstand the power of the storm. Within an hour of leaving the horses, the storm had broken Laurence's will. He constantly fell back several paces, yelling pathetically, "Don't worry about me. I'll catch up!"

"You won't catch up! You'll get stuck in the mire and die like those nags!" Marcus grabbed his arm and started pulling. It went on like that for a terribly long time, until Marcus' hands were so numb from the cold that they slipped more often than holding on to his nephew.

He wanted to talk to his nephew, provide some words of encouragement, but found his face too numb. It hurt too much to move his mouth. And so they continued, lifeless, like one zombie leading another.

Zombies. The undead. Marcus remembered those lifeless forms converging on his Palace, laying siege upon his kingdom. It was nearly a decade ago. He was surprised at how vivid the memory was, of him riding out on his white stallion, the one with the brown ear, Ferix, to charge those undead hordes. But they'd moved faster than he could imagine, until the very weight of them dragged him from his horse, down, down.... He'd barely escaped with his skin. It had only been by throwing himself over the Cliffside and onto the cliff-face he'd climbed so many times as a child that he'd been able to escape. His daughter had then taken his place as leader, just as he knew she would. She's always been so full of promise. Even at nine when she'd stormed into his throne room that morning, before his generals and advisors, demanding that he join her at once for porridge. How could he refuse her? After her mother had died? How could she have died? This woman so full of life and joy and beauty. Caroline! Thank Gerrit that their daughter had inherited her beauty! Even their finest Bonders could do nothing for her in the end. It was during the coldest part of winter, that night when she had died, and Marcus had found that he couldn't breathe, clutching her dead body wishing that he could work magic when all other magic had done no good. He'd risen from her and stepped out upon their balcony, into the driving sleet and the frozen air, collapsing into a panting heap, screaming, "Caroline!! Caroline!!"

"Caroline......" He could hardly move his lips. If the word actually came out, he wasn't aware. He couldn't feel the mud caked around his face as he sunk beneath its warm embrace. He just wanted to be with his Caroline.

* * *

"I believe he's waking up."

The words came from somewhere else, outside the darkness in his head.

"Uncle? Uncle, can you hear me?"

Marcus forced one eye open a slit. From out of the darkness, came a vague blur. He tried to respond but found he couldn't move his tongue. As he felt himself drift back to sleep he thought, the world's just going to have to wait.

Later, it could have been hours or days, he opened his eyes in the dark. A candle burned in solitary illumination several feet before him and he could see a figure in its dim shadow.

"Uncle? Are you awake?"

"Nephew," he groaned. "How?"

"We were nearly dead. They found us half-submerged in the mud and dragged us out. The horses weren't so lucky. I slept for nearly a day. You've been out almost four. The shaman told me that you'd be waking soon since your fever broke."

Marcus could only give an inquisitive moan.

"One of the tribes! They found us! They say we're in eastern Kallent. Kal-Kor's only a day's ride south of here. We're made it, uncle."

We've made it, Marcus thought. Now to hope Kamm hadn't arrived before them.

* * *

Marcus had fallen back asleep but in his mind he dreamed dreams of the past. Almost half a lifetime ago, he'd been king of a land bountiful and content in a time of peace. They had just passed through a long, dark winter, overshadowing the newness of spring, after Caroline's early death. Marcus had probably spent more time than he should have in mourning. He had left things unattended, his palace, his kingdom... Helen. It seemed easier to become consumed in matters of state than those of family. So, he'd traveled south, to Kallent, leaving his daughter in the care of her many attendants. The Kallent queen, Olivia Imnustre, had been old then but not so set in her ways that she couldn't see the benefits of closer relations between the two peoples. Only two weeks after he returned to Regal Isle, a new ambassador was sent north from Queen Imnustre to the Imperial Palace.

"It's pronounced with a soft A, your highness. Kattox," the new ambassador had explained after Marcus had read the name incorrectly from the proclamation.

"Of course, Mr. Kattox. And what region of Kallent do you hale from?"

Kraephten had pursed his lips, thinking for a moment, before replying, "None, your majesty."

"Excuse me," Marcus had asked, surprised. "You are the Kallent ambassador, are you not?"

"Yes, your highness, and I am at your service," Kraephten had replied with a stiff bow.

"But you are not of Kallent blood?"

"No, your majesty."

"You're Rynian born?"

"Yes, your majesty."

Marcus took a deep breath and rubbed his head. "Walk with me, Mr. Kattox."

To his surprise, Kraephten saw the monarch stride past the others who had been waiting for their turn all morning long and exit the throne room. Kraephten, who had believed himself unflappable after years of war, explorations through the desert, and court intrigue, leapt in a near panic after King Haddison, catching up with him in the hall.

"I can't think in there," Marcus explained.

"Wherefore," asked Kraephten.

"It's my father's room," the king had replied, turning on a dime to continue down another corridor. Kraephten ran to catch up again, having walked several feet down the wrong corridor. "You come highly recommended."

"Thank you, your highne-"

"Wait," the king barked, cutting off Kraephten's reply. They stepped through a thick, wooden door into a wide garden, scented with the new spring blooms. The chill, dank atmosphere of palace halls fell away, replaced by the warm, garden's air, as the king showed Kraephten to a chair. "Now. We're going to be working together, right?"

"Uh, yes."

"Which means we'll be spending quite a bit of time together, right?"

"Yes, your hi-"

"I cannot work with someone, anyone, who insists on using those pompous affectations. If we are to be spending our time together, then I assume we are to be friends. Does that appeal to you, Mr. Kattox?"

Kraephten wondered where he had gone wrong. The nobility of Kallent preferred, rather insisted upon, the very most respectful type of address. He had always known that Rynia differed significantly but had never guessed... "Yes. It does."

"Very well, then. We're alone here. When we are alone you may address me as you will. King. Sire. You can even call me by my given name if you wish. I'll only forgive genuflection in formal circumstance. Understood?"

Kraephten thought over his reply. It would set the precedence for years to come. "Yes, I do, Marcus. Thank you."

"None needed, Kraephten. It's not a gift I'm giving. It is my hope that if you address me more like an equal, you'll be more willing to advise me and not merely to regurgitate what you've heard is best to say. Now, tell me how a Rynian returns to serve Rynia as a Kallent."

The tale started in a time Marcus was well familiar with, the great war against Tsurtor. While Marcus' father had been leading Rynia against the dark forces, Kraephten's family had fled for the relative safety of Kallent. As one year of war turned to another, Kraephten lost siblings and parents until he remained alone in a world that made no sense. Instead of waiting for the war to claim him, he became a party in it, expunging his hate for the war while he learned its ways. The child of war became a man of diplomacy on a road that had led him back to his homeland and the king's side.

When he'd finished, night had come. The king was famished and he invited his new ambassador to sup with him while they continued their conversation. The long table, ornate with fine brass and full platters, did its job of intimidating the young ambassador who sat alone with the monarch.

"I did not see nearly as much of Kallent as I wished while I was there. Never went further south than Ceyliz," the king mused.

"Then, begging your highnesses pardon, you did not see Kallent," Kraephten chimed.

"We're alone, Mr. Kattox." Marcus had ordered his servants to leave them, despite their fretting over who would pour the wine.

"Of course," Kraephten muttered, taking a bite of his dinner.

"So, tell me about your people. I've heard so little. What is the great desert like?" Marcus asked. He watched Kraephten mull over a response and then ordered, "Just say it."

"Well, your, um, Marcus, forgive me if I seem insulting but..."

"Go ahead," Marcus prompted, taking a drink.

Kraephten took a drink as well, saying, "This land you hold. This Rynia. It is a soft land. Fertile and generous. If I tell you that the desert is dry, what is that to you? When something is dry in Rynia, you walk to the nearest stream. Just so if I say that Kalu-nar is barren. Nothing in Rynia is barren. Even the tallest cliffs have birds."

"I understand what you're getting at," Marcus said with a nod. "Still, how am I to understand this land of yours? I cannot go there myself."

"No. That's true. Kalu-nar... Marcus, Kalu-nar could destroy you. It would eat the flesh off of your bones and turn your very bones to sand. It is more powerful than anything you know, even your vaunted magic."

"Yet, people live there," Marcus said between bites.

"Yes, indeed. They are called the tribes of Kal. They stay not in one place, like your people, but move like the sands of Kalu-nar itself."

"But there must be fertile land within their reach. Surely they could travel south to Marrisha or move to the coast, inland to Tzurritza. Why, they could even have come here at a time."

"You misunderstand, Marcus. The tribes of Kal are not in exile. They do not remain in Kalu-nar because they are forced to do so."

"Are you saying that they like it there? I can't believe that!"

"Like it? No. For their stories all tell of suffering at the hands of the desert god."

"Desert God?"

"You've not heard of him, then," Kraephten asked, taking another drink.

"No. I'm afraid that my conversations with your queen did not include spiritual matters."

"He is known by some as the Lost God."

"The Nameless One?"

"No. Not nameless. Though it is said that he forsook his identity in the end. We still refer to him by a name. Kal-Kor."

"The name of the great temple."

"Yes. It was taken from that of the god to whom it is dedicated. I learned a great deal about him in my time attending the University in the great oasis of Kalu-heart. The tribes would go there to trade their goods and for the annual celebrations." Kraephten took another drink, contemplating how to continue.

"It is said that at the beginning of time there was one god, Gerrit. But Gerrit, alone within himself, was bored. So, in the blackness, he drew from within himself the movement and the change. This was Kunsiit who would later manifest herself in the planetary movement and the weather. Kunsiit wanted little to do with Gerrit. Gerrit was eternal, unchanging. It was only Kunsiit within him that had compelled him to draw Kunsiit out. Now, with Kunsiit stirring him into action but giving him no comfort, Gerrit knew that, while his boredom was relieved, there was no comfort in that. He was lonely, still, and the blackness was all around him. He took the brightest parts of his eyes and created Dyneesa who became the stars and the suns. Their colors of yellow and white were overwhelming. It is obvious in the night sky. She was a great comfort but something had been created with her. Not remembering that there was darkness behind the light of his eyes, Gerrit had inadvertently created Ibbrano. Ibbrano was the planets who hurried around Dyneesa's light giving nothing, taking her warmth and light. Ibbrano soon introduced Gerrit to pain and sorrow which Gerrit had never felt before. He tried to shut out Ibbrano's tortures and Kunsiit's mania by reaching into his heart and drawing out Moena who was everything good within Gerrit. Science, knowledge and wisdom."

"But he'd made the same mistake twice," Marcus interjected. He washed a mouthful down and continued, "He'd thought of only the good, his heart, and didn't realize that he'd also withdrawn black bile. Faetsha, Moena's brother, the god of war and desolation."

Kraephten nodded, "Terrified at what his loneliness had let loose, he curled himself tightly into a ball, huddled closely against his cherished Dyneesa."

"And so we remain today," Marcus finished.

"But it goes on from there. Gerrit went through a great deal of pain during his transformation and could not hold back his tears. These waters became Seadilia, the great goddess of the sea. Gerrit relaxed with Seadilia's companionship and, wishing to be near her, let his essence drift to his surface, creating the plants and the animals. Even us."

"Yes. I'm familiar with that."

"But there were two final gods. Two pieces of Gerrit who snuck out against his bidding. Tzuratt and Kal-Kor. The twin gods of Gerrit. Both were evil for there was too much good upon the world. They vowed to destroy the good that had sprung from Gerrit and quickly went about the realization of their plans. They chose the greatest place of beauty upon the world, the Great Forest. Tzuratt caused one part of the ground to sink and fester while another rose and spewed lava and ash upon the forest. In this way, he created the great swamp. Kal-Kor stripped the world in that place of all its goodness, grinding the dirt beneath his feet, creating the great desert. Tzuratt reveled in his perversion of beauty and settled back into the great wound that became Tzurritza. Kal-Kor, however, looked upon the desolation he'd caused and, having come from one as capable of love and beauty as Gerrit, began to doubt. What had caused him to do such a horrible thing? To what purpose? In a moment of shame and anger, he forsook his godhood and went into the desert, into Kalu-nar, to vanish."

"Interesting," Marcus said.

Kraephten took another bite and a drink before continuing, "The tribes of Kal believe that within such desolation can be found true beauty. They remember the myriad desert flowers that bloom after the great storms. The Mala lizards, ferocious fighters but beautiful beyond compare. Something else, too. The tribes are somehow able to live off of the desert. I don't know how but they say that there is a world of beauty amidst all that ruin."

"But why would they want to, Kraephten?"

"They say that Kal-Kor will return again someday, to undo the evil in the world and atone for his sins. They say he'll come out of the desert. It's the preachings of the Kal-Kor monks. They train for him, readying themselves for his return and the fight against evil."

"A few monks," Marcus asked incredulously, taking another bite.

"Not hardly," Kraephten replied with a full mouth. "The cult of Kal-Kor draws members from throughout Kallent and even neighboring kingdoms. There are several thousand in Kal-Kor alone. More in Kalu-heart."

"Hmm," Marcus muttered. He took a sip and assessed, "A potential army."

"Indeed," Kraephten replied. He finished his glass and wondered how many he'd consumed thus far. When he looked, the bottle was empty. "A fascinating vintage, Marcus. What is it?"

"That? Tzurritzanian brandy. You probably don't get much in the desert."

Kraephten picked another bottle. "I certainly would have remembered." He uncorked a new bottle and poured a generous glass. "And, so, from such desolation can be found true beauty."

* * *

"They've been waiting for you, uncle. The shaman, his name's Denshan Yria, says he knows who we are."

"Did you tell him," Marcus asked, still tired from his ordeal but once again walking under his own strength. "I won't mind if you did."

"He wouldn't let me."

"Then what does he call you? How does he refer to us?"

"He always says, 'You from the north'."

Full of questions which he knew his nephew could not answer, he took the remaining steps to the shaman's tent and pulled aside the entrance flap. Within, the shaman sat upon a blanket in silent meditation. Though he looked no older than Marcus, his hair was completely while and his nearly black skin held many wrinkles. His head rose slowly, though, and one eye opened. "I was told you desired my presence," Marcus offered quietly.

"Yes," the shaman replied, bringing one arm gracefully out to indicate an adjacent blanket. "You may sit here, please."

Marcus was happy to sit, drawing his long kaftan, which the tribe had supplied him to replace his damaged clothes, above his knees. His legs looked more spindly than he'd cared to imagine. The shaman seemed to be oblivious to that and to Marcus as well. He continued to look almost blindly into his meditative state. "My name is -"

"Your name is not required here. I know who you are and that is more knowledge than I need." His voice was tireless and calm, almost like waves.

"You know who I am? How is that?"

"The desert has told me much. You test that knowledge. I understand. It is the way of the world outside. You have come from the north to save our queen. You will ask much of us and yet you will give us more. Is this not correct?"

"Some of it. I am from the north and I do intend to save your queen. Without her, Kamm will have a lock on this land."

"Ah, the warlord. The false ruler. He takes much for granted. He could never take our land. The desert would swallow him. Him and his liege. Your enemy, I believe."

"Tsurtor," Marcus asked with a gasp. How had this man, who had been secluded within the desert, known about the current war with Tsurtor?

"He," the shaman replied. His wizened eyes opened, smiling. "He forgets the power in a grain of sand. He thinks that great power is only found in the largest of things but he forgets that a grain of sand is a mountain which has withstood all that could be thrown against it."

The words were so full that it took Marcus several minutes to absorb. "You say that I will give something to your people. I cannot promise -"

"Freedom is one of the greatest gifts. It is the restoration of life. The healing of the imprisoned soul. Your eyes are not the eyes of the desert tribes. You cannot yet see what is directly in front of you."

Perhaps the shaman was right, Marcus thought. But all he could see before him was Tsurtor and Hargoth and a horizon that could no longer hold back the approaching doom. "I, I don't know how to refer to you. Is it proper for me to use your name?"

"You from the north call me shaman. It is appropriate, then, to call me Shaman Yria"

"Shaman Yria, what has happened here? At the Great Temple?"

"The insects have come. Those monstrosities from the west. Tall as a man and stronger, too. They travel beneath the ground. Burrowing, you see? The hard lands of Kallent allow this but here, in Kalu-nar, the lands are soft beneath our feet. You can see them come, see them from far away, their mounds crossing the dunes. Do they think us stupid? We killed many of them. Their flesh is bitter and we were forced to bury them again. But we couldn't stop them all. Many burrowed past us."

"Burrowed," Marcus asked. "To the temple?"

"We saw them descend beneath the great walls and disappear. I sent four strong men into the temple to discover what had occurred. Only one returned." The shaman, his white hair falling before his eyes sobbed. The sudden display of emotion a contradiction to his calm, reasoned speech. After a moment, though, he continued. "They'd horribly disfigured him and he lived only a day after his return. The others, he told us, remained far beneath the Great Temple, serving those who now possessed it."

"What did he tell you, Shaman Yria? What did he see?"

"Horrible," he moaned. "A terror that has surely rendered the tribes helpless." For the first time, Shaman Yria looked at Marcus, his eyes, piercing and bright, imposed his will upon the Rynian monarch as he announced, "The queen has been taken captive. Her attendants, the Monks of Kal-Kor, too are gone."

"The monks," Marcus gasped. "How?"

"It is not for me to answer. When my son returned from the temple, he informed me that they had believed it empty. The great alter had been untouched. The hanging gardens untended. The mosaic ceilings above echoed only his footsteps."

"But how can that be? I've always been led to believe that the temple was impregnable. Its walls are the walls of a mountain. The monks built it within living rock, calling down the envy of even the dwarves of the north. It is filled with secret passages and bolt-holes and trap-doors. How is it that even one of the monks could not get away?"

The shaman hung his head, ponderously shaking it. "This I cannot tell you. Densha was dying upon his return. He could not speak without experiencing much pain. All that he told me, you now know. I can tell you this, however. I, and others of my order, know of the temple's vast architecture. Many basements extend far into the earth. It is there that food is stored. Perhaps these creatures tunneled below, into these areas, but how they overwhelmed the might of a God is beyond my understanding. It is to you that I pass this burden. You must go forth into our Great Temple and return it to us. Save our queen. Restore our honor. This is why you were called to this place."

And so Marcus, just as Hex, realized the unimagined length of Tsurtor's reach.

Part II

Shaman Yria's tribe was camped only a few kilometers away from the temple. Hidden beneath the edge of a great dune, they were close enough to observe the center of their universe, captive at Tsurtor's hand. Many others were stationed just as well, encircling the Great Temple, laying siege, blockading on an ocean of sand.

That afternoon, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, the call went out. Shaman Yria's tribe was positioned at the westernmost edge of the siege and as it sent out its call to the other tribes, huge blasts of thick, black smoke that rose thickly through the sky, inescapable before the setting sun, it had only to wait a brief while before delegates, shaman's and others of their tribes, began arriving to the camp.

All of the tents had been moved into a large circle, allowing room for the guests of Shaman Yria to sleep nearest to the central fire, it's coals warming the bitter, winter evening. Fellow Kallents arrived on their large, desert horses, their gait determined despite their plodding, ponderous appearance. Shaman Yria's men greeted their fellow Kallents with deep bows and generous smiles. The Shaman wouldn't step out of his tent until the stars of Dyneesa lit the sky.

On another dune, nearly half of a kilometer away, sat the two Rynians around their own coals. The Shaman had been generous with them, providing them with coals and food and blankets for the night, but he could not allow them to remain in camp. Any strangers present amidst the meeting of tribes would be taken as the highest insult, jeopardizing any possible negotiations.

"Doesn't make any sense to me," Laurence said, building himself a pillow of sand for his head to rest upon. "Why get an army of untrained soldiers to rescue an army of trained soldiers?"

Marcus looked up at the night sky, thought about the stars. Karlyn had told him, many years ago, that there were many planets circling those stars. Planets like their own. During the previous war, they had sent beacons out to those many planets, summoning the wizards of many worlds. For their attempt, they'd only retrieved a handful. Many of them had died at Hargoth's hands. Hex had been brought from one of those beacons. In the end, he'd saved their world.

But without Karlyn to guide them, any attempt at sending more beacons would be like putting a poorly scribbled message in a broken bottle upon an endless sea... Tsurtor had known where to strike. It seemed he always did.

Marcus pursed his lips. He couldn't allow himself to feel defeat yet. Not when the war had yet to be fought. "Their belief and devotion make them valuable despite their lack of experience. It's that belief that will keep them going even after a seasoned soldier would run. Belief's a powerful thing, nephew, which is probably not something that you learned too well during all your years hidden away in your mansion at Awlsban. And if we can reach those monks we'll have made a valuable addition to our army." He turned his eyes from the sky for a moment, looking at Laurence. "There's a good chance that the monks were taken by surprise. The bimunes tunneled in from beneath. For all its defensive advantages, this is not a stratagem its builders could have conceived."

"But what good is all of this? The Kallents won't stand for Kamm's power play. They'll waste no time bringing him down."

"Will they? Another thing you've yet to learn: never underestimate your enemy. Kamm has Tsurtor's power behind him. These bimunes. His armies in Ceyliz. Kallent, like Rynia, is soft with internal security and friendly neighbors. Tsurtor has capitalized well on that weakness." Marcus' eyes wandered back up into the night sky in time to see a shooting star. "Something else you should learn," he told his nephew. "You can't always predict the outcome of these things."

They slept near to the fire as the night grew colder and colder. Fortunately, there was no rain. When the bright sun came rising from the sea far to the east, a messenger came from Shaman Yria's camp. Marcus, who had been sleeping lightly in the dawning light, rose to greet him. "Do you come with news," he asked.

"Yes," the messenger replied. "The tribes acknowledge your righteous mission and have consented to your will. Five hundred of our people will be yours on the morrow."

Marcus felt a weight lift off of his shoulders with the news. Now, perhaps, things would turn around.

* * *

That night, as clouds drifted from the west, five hundred young Kallents prepared to sleep outside of Shaman Yria's camp. Laurence was already with them, inspecting them as Marcus had ordered. The small army had to be separated into ten divisions. The natural leaders needed to be found and appointed as division heads. Fellow tribes members were to be kept together. All were to have a supply of food and water. Too, Laurence needed to brief them on the situation.

Meanwhile, Marcus entered Shaman Yria's tent. The scent of cinnamon filled the tent and the Shaman sat before a steaming cup.

"One of my weaknesses," said Yria. "Cinnamon tea. The spice comes from the south along the sea routes. We don't see much of it here." The aroma danced in the air, almost hot but soothing. Yria took a sip and asked, "What have you come to tell me?"

"We are leaving before dawn," Marcus answered, kneeling before the shaman, enjoying the pleasant scent of the tea. "Your soldiers will afford us a great opportunity and I wanted to thank you personally. If the enemy of the north can be defeated here, perhaps, it foretells victory on all fronts."

The old shaman frowned, holding his tea and breathing deep, steady breaths. "I had hoped for more. Many of the tribes believe that the taking of the queen is a sign of Kal-Kor's return and to rescue her would be a foolish gesture."

"But you believe differently."

"I believe that Kal-Kor would not require pretense. The desert does not hide behind the oasis. No. Such talk is stirred by people touched by this enemy of whom you speak. In my meditations, I see them returning to the way of Kal-Kor with the liberation of the temple. Let Kal-Kor make this true."

"What else do your meditations tell you, shaman?"

With that same piercing glare that held Marcus still, Yria replied, "I have heard that there are those in your land who can reassemble the grains of sand with but a thought. Know this; the Monks of Kal-Kor have their own magic. They can summon the wind with a glance and fight without fail for an entire day. It was not of the desert, this force that has taken our queen and somehow overpowered the Monks. My meditations tell me that the Monks did not fight, nor did they go willingly. They await your arrival as a sign that the world north of the desert has not turned against Kal-Kor. Then, will they rise against their foes for no force can fight against what Gerrit has determined."

Marcus lowered his head in reverence. "My thanks, shaman. We will seize this victory for Kal-Kor."

"Wait," the old man said. "There is more we must do before victory gives itself to us."

Feeling the hairs rise on the back of his neck, Marcus asked, "What more, shaman?"

"You are from the land north of Kal-Kor. So are our enemies. There is little to distinguish you and that may be why so many of my people turned away in our hour of need. It is just as the books of Kal-Kor tell us. When he first traveled the great desert, he came across a spring. Clear and fresh did it run and Kal-Kor knelt to drink. But he didn't know that the desert had turned the water bitter and grew very sick. He didn't heal for many days and, when he finally came upon an oasis, was afraid to drink of its water. You see, things are not always as they appear but we should not allow suspicion to turn us from our path."

"But, I don't understand something, shaman. If Kal-Kor is a god, how did he become sick from the water?"

Yria's eyes grew wide. "You don't know, do you?"

"I come from beyond the desert, shaman. Tell me."

"You know that Kal-Kor created this desert, do you not?"

"Yes. I know this."

"When he saw what he had done, Kal-Kor tried to flee the desert. No product of Gerrit, he thought, no God, could possibly do such a horrid thing. A demon, maybe. A devil? Most certainly! But Kal-Kor did not desire to be these things. He ran into the heat of the desert sun, searching for release from his creation. He soon realized that such flight was futile. The desert was as much a part of him as he was of it. The devil of the desert, that was how Kal-Kor knew he'd be seen. No God could do such a thing and Kal-Kor refused to take up the mantle of a devil. So, knowing no other choice, Kal-Kor shed his godhood and became human. Freed from the title of devil, he remained locked within the desert forever."

"So, Kal-Kor's a human being," Marcus asked, trying not to sound too unbelieving.

"It is why we devote ourselves to him. Like us, he could neither be god nor devil. He could only be human. There is something else for you to consider. Like all of us, and even like those who dwell to the north, he cannot leave his desert. The desert is our life and there is no way to step outside of the suffering within it. We can only look for the beauty it holds. And so Kal-Kor teaches us the greatest lesson."

Now Marcus felt that he fully understood the desert tribes. No words would suffice for the feeling he experienced. He could only nod.

"Now you know a little of what it is to be Kallent. Kal-Kor's mark is within you if only slightly. But on your skin, you remain an outsider. Are you willing to undergo the process that will show you to be Kallent to all of our people? Only in such a way will the soldiers follow you completely."

Marcus swallowed. "I will do that which is needed of me."

"Give me your right hand," the shaman instructed.

As Marcus held out his right hand, the shaman drew a gleaming dagger. "By your hand do you perform your deeds and by your hand shall you be known." He brought the flat of the blade against Marcus' palm and began to sing vague, arcane sounds in time with his movement.

Marcus felt his hand grow warm and wanted to draw it back. "I don't understand," he said.

"It's very simple, king of Rynia," Shaman Yria replied in a sing-song, comforting voice.

Shivers ran down the monarch's back. He'd never felt less like a king and more like a child. "You know who I am."

The shaman nodded. "I knew before you arrived." Suddenly, he drew the dagger's blade across Marcus' palm. It cut without a sound and, inexplicably, Marcus felt no pain. Only the warmth of his pooling blood registered in his mind. Shaman Yria brought the back of the blade against the cut, wiping aside the spilt blood.

"Kal-Kor put you in the desert," the shaman whispered, picking up a handful of sand. "Now we put the desert in you." A thin stream of sand fell from out of the shaman's fist, glittering as it dropped, into Marcus' open palm. It didn't sting as Marcus had expected. No. It felt warming, soothing. Almost... beautiful. The glimmer of the grains gave light, shining blindingly as it entered the skin.

It took only seconds and the sand was gone. Absorbed into the king's flesh as if he'd been thirsty for it, there was neither blood nor sand. Only a thin, pronounced scar remained as proof of the ritual.

"Now you are one of our people. When you return to your land, you will return not as a Rynian but as a Kallent."

"If you truly know who I am," Marcus replied, "then you will also know that I have always treated your people fairly. Know that I will ever honor this mark which the desert has placed upon me."

Leaving the tent, Marcus wondered for how long that would be.

* * *

Laurence couldn't sleep. He'd done all he could but still felt that there was more he could accomplish. Marcus would have done more, he knew. He just couldn't think of anything that was left.

He'd met with the ten leaders of the divisions of fifty men, had conferred with them at length. It was obvious from the beginning that they would not be led by an outsider, no matter how foretold. A Kallent would fight for Kallent. One of Kal-Kor's would liberate the Great Temple of Kal-Kor. There was no room for discussion. The decision was self-evident.

Instead, they treated Laurence like a silly child. They laughed at his poor skill with a sword. He'd come without a bat and had no weapon for the coming battle. The Kallent's swords, heavy broadswords or long Vittahrs, fit poorly in his hands. "I should take that from you so you don't hurt yourself," one of the division leaders, Alek, had bellowed, laughing. To the division leaders, Laurence was nothing but one man who had become lost in a storm and was saved by Shaman Yria's tribe. He was not worthy of leading himself, let alone an army.

Despite all of this, Laurence, after swallowing much of his ego, was able to hold the army in place. Until dawn, they agreed. Then, they would march. In addition, he learned their names and their specialties. Most fought with their swords, some from the backs of their great, desert steeds. Others, though, carried long javelins. These served not only as a weapon. In the wastelands of the distant south, these javelins were used to test the strength of the soil and to spot pools of quicksand. An entire division had come from as far away as Sabritau, the great port of the south. They were the Kal-Kor initiates. Many years would pass before they completed their training and became worthy of being one of the monks. Still, their intensity was impressive. They were ready to leave for the temple immediately upon arrival at Shaman Yria's camp. Our throwing blades and gauntlets of pain (a thick, leather glove with blades upon the back and needles on the fingertips which every initiate wore on his left hand) will decimate any foe, they insisted. Yet five thousand of your masters could not, Laurence replied. We will save the glory of our order or die trying, their leader, Tario Lupa shouted. Laurence looked at Tario with gritted teeth and determined eyes. He would not let his uncle down again. He glared at the leader. "Your deaths mean nothing to me. It is only your lives, and the lives of all those gathered here, that will save the temple. And I will not allow you to throw that away!"

Laurence had gambled that the initiate's leader would not harm an ally on the eve of a battle. For an eternally long second, he believed he'd erred. Then, Tario lowered his fist and nodded his head. "Yes," he said. "You will do. Tell me when your leader arrives and we will talk."

Laurence knew he should sleep but he, too, awaited Marcus' return. One eye stayed open of its own volition. As that eye, too, started to doze, footsteps approached. One hand dropped to Laurence's shoulder and a familiar voice said, "Rise, nephew. We have to get started."

Laurence found his eyes locked shut and have a devil of a time opening them. Soon, he rose and Marcus waited as he gathered the division leaders.

They came at once, bleary eyed for the most part. Tario, alone, looked ready to fight at that moment. "So who is this you bring before us, Laurence of Rynia? You foretold a warrior and you bring us a grandfather!" Shouts of derision and laughter broke out amongst them all.

"You fool," Laurence replied and, for the first time, Marcus noted a hint of authority in his voice. "This is the king of Rynia who stands before you. Show some respect!"

"Respect," Tario spat. "Rynia's nothing but an abattoir to feed Tsurtor's armies! You think we don't hear about this in Sabritau?"

"Rynia -" Laurence start to shout in response but stopped when he felt his uncle's hand pulling him back.

"No," Marcus said. "I'll allow your doubts," he said to Tario and the rest, "but there is something you all must know." He lifted his right hand and spread his fingers to reveal his scar.

Tario took a step back in surprise. Conflicting emotions crossed his face and he dropped to one knee, bowing his head. "Forgive us. We did not know you had taken the mark." Alek, the swordsman, too bowed on one knee. The others soon followed.

Laurence sighed and shook his head. "Boy," he said under his breath, knowing that only his uncle could hear him, "do you have a way with people."

Part III

Through the day and into the night, they marched. As if Kal-Kor or Kunsiit were smiling upon them, no stars shone through the heavy clouds and they were hidden in the darkness. Even when dawn arrived, the heavy cloud cover had not lifted and it was beneath this grey sky when the army of the tribes arrived at the Great Temple.

Laurence looked up it slack-jawed. Silent. Awe struck.

Marcus said, "Now I know where their devotion originates."

"Yes, Rynian," Tario replied. "Truly it is an homage to a God."

Shortly after their march had begun, the dunes had fallen away to rocky, desert hills. A single road cut through the hills but it would be naive to think they could take an entire army (even one as small as theirs) up that road and remain unseen. The division leaders had informed Marcus that they could each pick their way through the crevices dividing the hills and, thus, retain the element of surprise. When Marcus and the initiates had passed through the final crevice, they stopped at what appeared to be a man-made plain. The plain stretched our for several hundred meters deep before halting and seemed to be dug out of the hills for only one reason. That is, to make more awe inspiring -

"The Great Temple." The words left Laurence's mouth more hesitantly than any others in his life. It was almost, he felt, like a remote and heavy silence. What he'd heard was true. While the mountain itself was uninspiring, reaching just over a kilometer in height (not exactly a mountain), The Great Temple had been carved out of not just the side of a mountain but resided within the very mountain itself. Massive, vaulted archways faced the four points of the compass, wide enough to lead an army, or a desert god, through. They were lined with columns carved with the stories of the god. Promenades of polished stone wrapped along the mountain's sides without a thought to defense. Windows, too, were wide, adorned with beautiful draperies, designed without a care for any who would attack the home of the desert god.

Marcus understood. This was a temple. It called in the voice of the desert for all to come. The Imperial Palace had been built to hold back enemies. The Great Temple had been built to create worshipers. Marcus smiled. It just made things worse for the bimunes. "Come on," he whispered, taking his first step towards attack in over eight years.

But a hand grabbed him firmly and yanked him, forcefully back. He was stopped by the bodies of several soldiers, steadied himself and glared at Tario. "What the devil are you doing?"

"Look," Tario gasped. "The sand! It... moves!"

In the plain that had been dug before the temple, in the sand that carpeted that area, there was a vague ripple. Marcus stepped forward, feeling Laurence peering on one side and Tario on the other. Then, a ripple turned into a lump, dervishing its way like a spinning top out of the sand before settling on all fours. It was as big as a large dog and each appendage ended with a deadly looking set of pincers. Within a few seconds, it had dug its way back down again.

"Sand beetle," Tario hissed. As the sand before them writhed and shifted, there was truly no way to tell how many of the creatures there were. It was obvious, however, that there were many.

"So, a beetle? Can't we just go past them," Laurence asked.

"They can snap the hoof off of one of our horses with their pincers," Tario replied. "I've seen what they can do to a man. You don't want to know." He turned to Marcus, shaking his head. "This is not natural, king of Rynia. These creatures only live in the wastes and men know better than to go there."

"Of course," Marcus spat. "The bimunes brought them here. They're ready for us. What can we do? How do we get past them?"

Tario thought for a moment, biting his lip. "There is a way. It is an old way. It's old knowledge and, in the end, better just to avoid them."

"There's no way to go around, Tario. What is it?"

"Fire. They're afraid of fire, king of Rynia. We need to build a path lined with fire."

"But we have no wood," Laurence argued.

"That's right," Marcus agreed. "But you carry your coals. Can you ignite those?"

"It would be tedious. To make a path lined with burning coals, one would need to put the coal down and coat it in oil before setting it ablaze."

"Good. That's what we'll do."

"But there's something you don't know. These sand beetles are afraid of fire but not ignorant in extinguishing it. We'll only have a few minutes before they started throwing sand onto the coals. Then, they'll be free to attack whoever is still standing on the sand."

Marcus looked back down the crevice. Fifty men were in his party. Elsewhere, nine other divisions waiting for Marcus' lead. "Fine," he said. "Have them do it. I'll be the last to go. That should give them some confidence."

"Then, I'll be second to the last," Laurence announced.

"I see," said Tario, pensive. "Then, I will go just before you. But it seems strange why we sacrifice our lives for those beneath us."

"I wouldn't want to go in there without an army, Tario."

Tario agreed. He gathered four of the bravest initiates and sent them upon the plain. As they walked onto the sand, one knelt, setting the coals and igniting them, while the other handed him the coals and the oil and readied himself to take up the task should his comrade fall. Marcus, Laurence, and Tario all watched in silence as the team progressed step by step. After they had crossed half of the plain, almost two hundred meters, Marcus said, "It's working."

"Yes," Tario replied, "but there's no way to know how long that will last."

"Right. Start sending your men. Single file. I don't want there to be a crush of bodies should a beetle surface."

Tario nodded and gave the order. Slowly, initiates proceeded along the path. Each walked cautiously over a meter behind the next, watching the sand carefully. When the last had gone out, the three leaders could see the path completed at the other end. "Success," Tario announced.

"Fine. Just get going," Marcus ordered. Tario began quickly jogging along the sand route and Marcus gave his nephew a nudge. "Go ahead, you."

Laurence, with a smile, followed the initiate's leader.

Marcus waited for a few moments until he saw his nephew pass the halfway point. Then, confident that his men would make it safely, he too started to run down the path. After only a few meters, he realized that many of the coals had been buried in sand. A bead of sweat ran down his face and he saw the ground beneath him shift more with each footstep. Faster, he ran, trying not to look at the ground, keeping his eyes looking ahead. Meter after meter, he ran until he reached the halfway point. He could see his nephew safely in the archway to the temple. All the men were safe. But the coals were extinguished around him. Many, he could no longer see. His footing shifted as he stepped on beetle after beetle that tried to surface. Panting and wheezing, he was less than fifty meters from safety.

Something caught his right pantleg, yanking him backwards. He couldn't keep his footing and the world spun around as he fell onto his back. Winded from his bat breaking his fall, he struggled to get up but found his right foot pulled beneath the sand. He couldn't get up. Something had grabbed his bat and was pulling him down. He tried to shift his weight but the grip was too strong. Was this what the sand beetles did, his panicked mind screamed. Did they drag their prey under to their deaths? A pincer sprang from the sand, trying to grab his arm but he caught it. Ripping it from its hiding place, he flung it away. But another grabbed his left arm. Marcus screamed as the pincer's cut into his wrist, spilling his blood onto the sand.

"I have to save him," Laurence shouted, terrified to move.

"You can't," Tario insisted. "I've seen this! They'll just drag you down as well!"

But Laurence fought his way through the terror and was already running on the sand, no longer protected by the flaming coals. He quickly made the distance to his uncle, who was now half submerged beneath the sand. Grabbing him beneath the right arm, he pulled with all his strength. The sand would not afford him any leverage but, as he pulled and pulled, he slowly extricated his uncle's arm. Sand beetles had clasped onto his clothing but Laurence kicked them away.

Then, pulling on the one, free arm, it was as though the sand beetles had doubled their efforts. As Laurence lost his footing, Marcus was pulled further underneath his panicked eyes speaking volumes which his mouth, covered in flying sand, couldn't.

"You fool," came a shout. "You didn't even take a weapon!" Tario came up behind Laurence and grabbed onto Marcus' right arm. "Put this on," he said, dropping one of the initiate's gauntlets with blades all along the back. Laurence quickly placed it on his left hand and continued pulling. Between the two of them, Marcus' torso was quickly uncovered. Dragging him up, they found his clothing shredded from the grips of the pincers. Laurence and Tario shucked them like shells with the bladed gauntlets and, soon, Marcus' left arm was out of the sand.

It was bleeding freely and the pincer still had it tight. At the sight of this, Laurence quickly brought the back of his gauntlet down, separating pincer from beetle in a single stroke. Then, Marcus was free. Resting his weight on his two rescuers, Tario and Laurence carried him, quickly and cautiously to the temple's archway. The other divisions, at the sight of such bravery, had their instructions. Not a single man was lost to the beetles.

Laurence took some of the precious water and cleaned his uncle's wounds. "This is bad. They cut you pretty deep," he said. "You're not going to be able to fight."

"I still have my right hand," Marcus rasped. "That was a damn, fool thing you did back there! You could have died, too."

Laurence took a fresh cloth and began wrapping Marcus' wrist. Without looking up at his uncle, he said, "Redemption."

"What?"

"If it wasn't for me, none of this would have happened. If I hadn't been so gullible and listened to Kamm, none of -"

"Laurence," Marcus snapped. "Don't you know that's ancient history? That was forgiven long ago, at the very least when you rescued me at Ceyliz. You can't go through your life feeling guilty for your every mistake."

"I understand, sir."

"This is important, Laurence. I need you to understand this. I need you to be careful. If anything should happen to Helen or Hex, you'd be needed to take the throne after I'm gone."

"You'd be gone much sooner, if I hadn't done something."

"True," Marcus agreed, raising his left hand, mailed in bandages. "I guess we should both be careful."

"Kal-Kor doesn't fight his battles. He leads his troops."

Marcus and Laurence looked up to see Tario standing above them.

"Perhaps there's a lesson to be learned here, hm?"

* * *

The armies arranged to assemble in the heart of the Great Temple, the massive area designed to fit all of the Kal-Kor monks with ease. This was the Shrine. Stepping into it, Laurence was struck silent by the grandeur. Hundreds of meters, it extended up into the mountain. The ascending walls were filled with balconies lined with balustrades for more to join in observance. On the ceilings above were painted the stars and suns of Dyneesa and the planets of Ibbrano. The paintings showed the movement of Kunsiit. All of the gods were represented here. Beneath them, Gerrit. At the shrine's center, a fountain, representing Seadilia. Moena and Faetsha were the monk's studies, the acquirement of knowledge and the preparation for war. These could be seen on the Shrine's walls in the ornate tiles and inscriptions. Even Tzuratt was represented upon the tiles. Only one thing was missing, Laurence knew. Kal-Kor, who had not yet returned.

As the armies gathered around the fountain to quench their thirst, Marcus met with his division leaders. They quickly agreed that the impressive grandeur of the Great Temple was not suited to the bimunes. Though the Temple was constructed out of a mountain, the bimunes were more accustomed to the tunnels of their lairs deep within the ground. The Great Temple held many tunnels where supplies were stored and visiting initiates stayed. These were beneath the mountain, far below the sand. That was where the bimunes must have tunneled in. It was still unclear, though, how they could have sprung their trap.

The horsemen were placed within the four archways. Here, they would serve to defend the Kallents in the event of any possible retreat. Another division of tribes members were ordered to wait in the hall at the top of the stairs. Then, the stairs were descended. Four hundred men, each pair walking shoulder to shoulder, and Marcus walked in the midst of them. He'd wanted to lead but couldn't deny that the injury to his left arm had reduced his fighting ability. Leading, he would have been quick to fall. He agreed that, in this case, he would allow caution to rule.

Tario walked up front along with the rest of the initiates who had claimed the right of first blood by virtue of their close association with the order. On the first basement level, they found nothing out of the ordinary. In the second basement, as well, all was in order. As they proceeded further, Marcus found his way closer to the front. With only fifty men before him, he started down the stairs. After several steps, he caught one of the initiates yawning, which was odd for such a disciplined order. Further down, he felt a numbness in his tongue. His arms were heavy and his balance was muddled. He stopped and after taking a couple more steps, Laurence looked dumbly up at him.

There was a taste in the air. Familiar.

"The bimunes," Laurence whispered.

That was it, Marcus realized. That taste was the same taste as he had tasted when held within the bimune lair! "Retreat! Retreat," he hollered. He shook his head to clear it and yelled up the stairs. Those behind him fled and he hurried down to push the confused initiates. One by one, he shouted at them and forced them up the stairs until, thinking he was near the railing, he grabbed thin air and fell on top of an unconscious form beneath him

Part IV

Coming out of the drug was a familiar experience as well. His mouth was full of gummy saliva and his eyes stuck shut. This time, however, instead of his hands being plastered in rock, he found his arms separated, shackled high above his head. His feet barely touched the ground and it was this incredible pain that had won the contest with the drug. After he forced his eyes open, he still thought they were shut. The darkness was so enveloping. How far below the Great Temple was he?

He hacked the drug-coated saliva out of his throat and spat it upon the ground.

"So, you're awake, then. It's a pity about your rescue. A shame about the results." It was a female voice, older and reserved. There could have been only one such person held in the same cell as Marcus.

"Your highness," he addressed, "how long have you been here?"

"It did not take me long to discover the futility in counting, your highness. All is night down here."

"Please, call me Marcus. We are, after all, equals."

"Very well, then. You may call me Olivia. Equals, you say? Imprisoned monarchs of two soon to fall kingdoms?" Olivia Imnustre, the Queen of Kallent. By Marcus' reckoning, she had to have been imprisoned since he was in Ceyliz. How long had that been? Two weeks?

"I surely hope you're in a more comfortable and dignified position than I, Olivia."

"Oh, certainly. They have little to fear from me. I cannot fight them."

"Yes, but you have your monks."

"You saw what became of them. The same thing, I'd wager, that happened to your army."

"I didn't know you were one to wager, Olivia."

"What is power but a progressive series of fortunate gambles, Marcus? The only difference now is that my gambles have lost. The monks of Kal-Kor have been disposed of - or so our jailer reports. There's nothing to fear from me now. You, on the other hand, have always been a threat."

"Threat?"

"To Kamm."

"Kamm," Marcus gasped. Of course, it was Kamm. He still remembered his younger brother's boasts in Ceyliz. "So, we made a deal. A trade. You for all of Kallent. Can you picture it? Kamm Haddison, ruler of the desert realm, high priest of the Kal-Kor monks, possessor of Kalu-heart." But how did he get here first? The queen would have had to have been taken while Marcus was still in Ceyliz. A cold feeling pierced Marcus' spine and he realized that Kamm hadn't needed to get there first. He had friends where Rynia had enemies. Tsurtor had foreseen it all. It was Tsurtor who had directed Kamm to victory. Now, suspended by his agonizing arms, Marcus knew defeat.

He heard footsteps and a door opened above them to allow in a needle of light. Marcus only caught a glimpse of the barren cell and the Kallent monarch sitting upon the stone floor. A familiar voice said, "That's far enough. I'll see my brother alone," and the door closed again, removing Marcus' sight.

The darkness was only momentary. Kamm struck a flint and lit a torch before continuing down. The light was a bit brighter and brightened still as it progressed down. Marcus' eyes were still on the queen. He had always thought her so much older than he. He remembered first meeting her. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old. She had looked nearly forty! Could it have been her demeanor? Her dress? For now, he was sure that it was he who looked older than she! Though her hair was completely white, her face looked soft and firm. Her robes had been removed and all that remained was a simple, brown shift which showed more than enough of her firm body to make him think just for a moment -

But no time for that. Kamm reached the base of the stairs and glared at his brother as if Marcus was a well fought fish. The anger that fired Kamm's soul was obvious; Marcus couldn't understand why he hadn't had him killed straight away. "You're deviousness is slipping, brother. I'd think you would have killed me by now."

"Soon, Marcus. Very soon. It wouldn't do to have you die in a dungeon. The act that makes me ruler of Kallent will be the very same that put the queen on her throne and I want you to be there to witness it. Then, I'll kill you."

Marcus tried to stand on his toes to relieve the pain in his shoulders and muttered, "It's nice to have a plan."

"You will speak to me with respect!" With the torch's handle, Kamm struck Marcus violently across the mouth, shaking the monarch in his chains. "I have your feeble army! I took them just as I took the monks! They'll watch the entire coronation! They'll watch as their first king is crowned and then there will be no wife for Kal-Kor and this entire, ludicrous religion will be struck from the pages of history! This temple will be my castle! And when the ceremony is over," Kamm said more calmly, lowering the torch, "and when I am king, I shall kill all but one hundred of your men - they're bodies will be fed to the bimunes - and I'll send the rest into the desert. In this way will word of my rule be spread."

Marcus looked at his little brother and Kamm waited as if expecting a reply. After a while, Marcus asked, "Why are you telling me this, Kamm? It's obvious that there's nothing I can do about it. Go! Go spend your time with your insects or your master. Don't expect me to be impressed by the sickness within you."

"I don't tell you this to impress you, brother. No. I tell you this to ready you. For yours shall be an exceptionally hideous death. I want you to know what you must endure and give it time to fester in your brain before the deed is done. My bimunes have been quite loyal to me thus far. They've been my army and my eyes. Extensions of my will just as Tsurtor told me they would be. Yes, very loyal but what is their reward? They cannot procreate, you see? On their native planet their offspring are given sustenance to survive but here, in the desert where nothing lives, they are fruitless as the sand. But, just as Tsurtor knew how to bring them to me, Tsurtor knows the way. Tsurtor always does. The larva need plenty of food, you see? Plenty. And it must be warm and wet - alive! Still alive! A baby wouldn't do. Nor would a child. It takes a full, grown man, strong and hearty, to sustain just one larva. It's not been tested. Even Tsurtor has better use for his chattel." Kamm lowered the torch further and brought his face up to Marcus'. His eyes were wild and red. His breath was shallow, and he whispered, "But I can test this, can't I, brother? And there's no one to stop me. Not even your celebrated Hex or even little Vincent, the boy who saved you once before! So ready yourself for your death. The egg has been readied and the hatchling comes soon." A quick spin sent him back up the stairs without a word. The door slammed shut and the darkness was returned.

"He's quite mad, you know," the queen said.

"Yes," Marcus simply replied. He remembered Hex's tale of inbreeding Rynian royalty and added, "It seems the curse of my line is with me yet."

"What will you do?" Her voice was very quiet, almost hesitant.

Marcus was even more hesitant to reply. "What can I do? If he's right and the army of the tribes has fallen - and my nephew along with them - then our position is hopeless." Coming from his mouth, the words seemed almost prophetic and his stomach hardened to a rock. "He's made mistakes before, though. Tsurtor has always overestimated his chances. There may yet be hope."

"Always the optimist." The voice, whispered from the darkness, sent a chill up Marcus' spine.

"Who is that?"

"Sometimes evil wins, king. Sometimes you just have to admit it."

"I won't admit it," Marcus hissed through gritted teeth. "Tsurtor's only victories will be temporary."

"How can you be so sure of that? Hung up like that?"

"I - I -" I can't, he thought. My hope is vague and tenuous but it's all I have. In the silence after his remorse, something occurred to him. Something about the voice... "Who is that," he asked. "You sound familiar."

"I should. I saved you once before."

"Saved?"

"It was a long time ago, king. Surely you remember. You were fighting a losing battle then, too. Even your wizard had fallen."

"Caspeton!" It had been almost a decade ago, when Marcus had journeyed north with Hex and the earth giant, Ostrander. They had been captured by the town's militia, exacting their vengeance on all makers of magic, but soon found themselves defending the town. Hex had nearly died. He would have if not for the safety provided by town's newly self-proclaimed mayor. "Stark! Stark, is that you?"

"You remember my name."

"Yes. Of course, I do. You had said you would head south and so you did, didn't you? But are you being held here, as well?"

"I'm not hung from a wall like you, king."

"Then where -?"

"Where I am is wherever I wish to go." Suddenly, Marcus felt an arm on his hand. It clutched him and the shackles seemed to melt off. Light erupted and, had Stark not been holding him, Marcus would have fallen to the ground. The light was wavering. Torches hung on the walls around him. Where was he? He looked up, kneeling on water-weak legs, at the figure in grey robes before him. "You see, king. I am a wizard, too."

CHAPTER FOUR

THINGS THAT CAN AND CANNOT BE

Part I

As morning rose over the western end of the northern spires, bringing a chilly fog up from the scales and onto the newly laden snows, Agnie squirmed closer to the fire. It was warm and good and she'd never felt anything like it back on Amprek. The fires there had been muggy and crowded and... and then there had been the night gangs. Ostrander had healed most of Agnie's wounds but there were some that only time could heal. She opened her eyes, reassuring herself that Amprek was far behind her. She was in a place that didn't know the night gangs. Only a warm fire and snugly blankets newly knitted by Ny'ezia and the chill from outside were with Agnie. Over there, sprawled her brother, Tetrem. He must have liked the cold; the blankets were mostly thrown off of him.

By the doorway, sitting in a bowl dug out from a snow-bank, was an assortment of fruits. How they grew in the winter's cold or where they came from, Agnie had no way of knowing (dragon wings easily brought treasures from afar) but it concerned her little. She scampered from her blanket and bounded upon a pear. Its sweetness made her moan in delight. She grabbed her blanket, bundled herself, and nibbled away on her breakfast.

She wondered where Ostrander was off to. He'd spent a lot of time enjoying his new body, running through the snow and exploring his surroundings and spending time with that pretty lady. Ny'ezia. The two had spent a lot of time together of late but Agnie didn't feel neglected. On the contrary, as Ostrander had taken the role of her surrogate father, she had great hopes that the pretty lady would fill a comparable role.

So, she sat, eating her pears, thinking about Ostrander's nightly hug and kiss. Had Ny'ezia felt those warm, rough lips, Agnie wondered between bites.

* * *

"I will brook no further delays, Ostrander. You will leave before dawn." Ny'ezia sat in her human form before a fire of her own making, disturbed at the other's presence. The disturbance she felt was not the kind which Agnie was wishing for, not by far. Ostrander was a miracle in stone, an incredible achievement in magic. He'd survived Tsurtor's hordes of undead and expulsion from this world. He'd quickly become adept enough at magic to rebuild his tattered body and construct a way back to Rynia, while rescuing two, helpless children. As if that weren't enough, upon returning, he'd sacrificed his life for the bairns and had somehow passed enough magic on to them so that they could save him in return. She wished that she could feel the admiration that was due, the regard, the esteem and, perhaps, even the affection.

But there was one thing keeping her from that. One thing that festered beneath her hidden scales like a dwarven nail. Ostrander had been imbued with that magical essence by Hex. Hex! None of that would have been possible if not for Hex, the human who refused to lift so much as a finger to save - to save... A chest-crushing pressure took hold of her and she could not so much as think. She just wanted to kill him, shatter that new form and throw the dust to the wind. She'd kill the children too. Human children! Kill them just as the humans of this world had killed her kind. Just take them in her dragon-formed fist and crush them! Crush them! But no matter her anger, they were still helpless children just as her own had been before... A salty drop fell before she could will it back.

Before her, crouched low so he could gaze into her moist eyes - eyes of blue and green and yellow and red - Ostrander looked at her with sympathy. He'd put together much of her mystery and his heart went out to her. Yet, again, this was not the emotion for which Agnie wished. Ostrander felt sympathy for Ny'ezia because he remembered when he, too, had been alone and manipulated by insidious forces. Hex had saved him, then, and he wished that his association with Hex didn't shut him off from her so. It was obvious that Hex had wronged her in some way but Ostrander couldn't see how. He knew Hex as well as he knew himself and was sure that any slight was not intentional.

* * *

Ny'ezia had watched Hex's shimmering form break apart and looked down at Gurrak, the dwarf. "So, your human wizard has left us. Poor magic, hmm?"

"Stay back from me, dragon," Gurrak had shouted, dashing as quickly as he could back into the next row of stalactites.

"Oh, spare me your bravery, dwarf! You think I could not easily bring those stalactites down upon you, hmm?"

Gurrak looked about him and frantically hurried further into the mountain.

"That's right, dwarf! Flee! But remember to tell your elders that you have failed here. My children will be hatched. Dragons will again fly above this land while your kind dies beneath its mountains." Ny'ezia laughed, reverting back to her comfortable, dragon form.

The eggs were safe; she inspected them one by one. Each the size of a grown man, she'd hold them and sense the life waiting to hatch within. Once they were redistributed around her, she unfurled her wings and set them atop, keeping her babies protected.

The next morning, off to the hunt! She soared above the eagle, outracing the horizon, gleefully enjoying the air before swooping down upon and unsuspecting elk. Holding it in both hands as she returned to her cave, she felt it would make a decent breakfast. Down she settled at the cave's mouth, setting the elk down for a quick sear. Out of the corner of her ear, though, very faintly, she thought she heard something from within her cave. Could it be that pesky dwarf again? She didn't worry that Gurrak could actually harm her children (either he was too fearful or too impotent) but felt it better to scare off the little mite before she dined.

Poking her head within, though, she screamed at what she saw. Neither the loudest sounds in Gerrit, the bellow of a pike whale in battle, the whistling of a tremendous, Kallent sandstorm, or the rumbling of Tzuratt's Eternally Grinding Fist, nor those of Earth, a pneumatic drill, a shotgun, or the roar of a rocket, could compare with that issued from an enraged and terrified dragon. The mountain shook. Pieces of the cave's ceiling collapsed. For miles around, wildlife fled.

Ny'ezia had entered her cave just as human movers took nearly a dozen of her children. She screamed as they vanished beyond her reach. The scream killed most of those humans who remained. Those closest were reduced to naught but sacks of crushed bones, liquified organs, and leaking orifices. Others felt their eyes and ears burst as blood flowed from their mouths and noses. Fumbling on the ground, they lived for only moments as their insides hemorrhaged. A couple, however miraculously, survived. The first, Ny'ezia took with little patience. She picked him up from the legs, crushing them instantly, and bit off his head, eating it raw. The other, however, she waited to question.

She pinned him to the ground between two talons and pointed the third, middle, talon at his throat. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE," she bellowed, careful not to kill him with her voice. "Where are my children? Where have you taken them? Who ordered you to do this? What have you done with my children?" But the human didn't answer. Blood flowed freely from his ears and he looked around, disoriented. Ny'ezia had no way of knowing that he'd soon die of internal injuries. Nor did she know that he was deaf; his eardrums had been crushed. As it happened, she didn't care. She'd run out of patience and slipped her talon beneath his ribcage yanking it free, taking the spine, lungs and heart with it.

Again, she screamed and her victim quickly became paste.

The supreme horror had not yet faced her, however. When she'd recovered from the pain and could once again move, she turned to her remaining children. There were still over two hundred of them for her to tend and she went to clutch them close. But just as the mountain had shook, just as the bones of men had turned to powder, the eggs had felt her screams as well. Strong they were, strong as a dragon, they were babies still.

The eggs were cracked. Each and every one of them. For many of them, the contents had been shaken too hard. Killed.

She'd killed her children.

The others, she was terrified to approach.

She fled the cave, fled her kill, taking not to the air she ran into a copse of trees, knocking them down. Stumbling, she shrunk down into her human form. Clutching onto the side of a fallen ash, she wept for days, asking an unseen presence: Why? Why? After all, she was only one being. In her time, she done wrong but had always tried to do good. Now had been her time to save her race.

And, she had killed them.

Later, when the tears had run out and, walking in her human form, she reentered her cave, she again wondered why. Humans, she thought. Always humans. How could they have known she was here? How could they have known about her babies? Then, she knew. One human had been there. One human who had refused to help her.

She fell down to her knees, experiencing a pain in her gut that would soon become hate. Hate at one human among them all.

Hex.

* * *

"Come with us," Ostrander said in that kind, new voice of his. "If Rynia needs help, surely you could bring it. Come away from this cave of yours. Come with us."

"Come with you," she spat, her anger winning the fight with her pain. "You understand so little! Those humans make me sick! I'd rather kill both sides of that war. Kill all the humans, hmm?"

"But why? What have you against them? Why have you shut yourself away in this cave like this?"

"Why," she shouted, her vibrant face red with anger. But she couldn't say it. Couldn't bring herself to say it. Because I'm the only one they left alive, she thought. Why couldn't they just have killed me, too? "Please leave me, Ostrander."

"I cannot, Ny'ezia. It is not in my nature to leave someone in pain." He brought his hand up, which held a large piece of shell. "You're hiding something, Ny'ezia. And I think it has something to do with this."

Ny'ezia brought her head up and, as she raged at what Ostrander held, Ostrander fell back in terror. "DON'T YOU TOUCH MY BABIES," she roared, her human voice becoming something much more than human. Her arms expanded and burst in a bath of hot liquid. Her clothes were shredded from the sharp edges that sliced outwards. Her legs grew and her body metamorphosed. Her head shed its hair, sprouted great ears, and her mouth bled as massive blades of teeth stabbed through the human flesh and Ny'ezia became what she truly was. Last of her kind, queen of the dragons. One great talon slapped the shell from Ostrander's hand while her giant face dropped before him. She growled, breathed hot gas, and clacked her teeth together.

A million thoughts fought for dominance within Ostrander's mind. He knew he had to survive to take care of his children. He knew he had to bring word of this to Hex. He was sure that Ny'ezia would not intentionally hurt him but was lashing out from her pain. Also, he was fascinated at the conflicting fascination and revulsion spinning within him. In the end, however, all he could say was, "Ah, you're a dragon."

"YES, I'M A DRAGON, STONE MAN! LAST OF MY KIND! YOU SEE THAT SHELL? THAT WAS ONE OF MY CHILDREN! ONE OF MY CHILDREN!! HEX COULD HAVE HELPED ME BUT HE STOLE THEM! STOLE THEM FROM ME! AND NOW THE OTHERS ARE DEAD! DEAD, OSTRANDER!" Water ran from her eyes and her head shook with each sob. Slowly, she shrank back into her human form and Ostrander held her, stroking her lovely hair. "Why did he do it, Ostrander? Why? Hmm?"

Ostrander thought for a moment, still holding Ny'ezia close, putting the pieces together. "I think I can tell you something, Ny'ezia. Please, let's sit down." She quietly allowed him to lead her to a stone and, sitting beside him, wiped her eyes. "Hex did not do this," he firmly announced.

Her face twisted, Ny'ezia growled, "You would play word games with a dragon?"

"No. Please. Hear me out." Ostrander took a moment to get his thoughts together while Ny'ezia, looking strangely small, tried to stop her tears. "If Gurrak summoned Hex to destroy your eggs, wouldn't that have been a more opportune time to strike, with the whole Dwarven nation at his back?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I was here then. He waited until I was gone to strike. Just like a human."

"Okay, perhaps, but you said they stole your eggs. Hex is a Bonder not a Mover -"

"He could have had help, Ostrander! Don't insult my intelligence!"

Ostrander took a deep breath. He didn't want to get her upset again. "That isn't my intent, Ny'ezia. I'm here as a friend. There's something else you're not taking into consideration. You mentioned that Rynia is at war. They face superior forces. Why would they throw away an opportunity for an alliance with you with such an act? Doesn't it make more sense that Tsurtor, knowing that you had met Hex, knowing where you'd pin the blame, orchestrated the kidnaping?"

"Tsurtor?"

"Yes."

"Just so I'd withhold my aid from Rynia?"

"And, perhaps, become their enemy."

Ny'ezia gritted her teeth. "Oh, I know well enough who my enemies are."

Ostrander, assuming she meant that she was set against Tsurtor, said, "They say that the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

"You misunderstand, Ostrander. Oh, I suppose I can only blame Hex in as much as he's just another human. In truth, all mankind is my enemy. I'd kill them all if I didn't think they'd bring me down first. I remember the bloodbaths when the dragon armies clashed with humans all those centuries ago. I just want to be left alone, Ostrander. Please, take your human children and leave me be."

He put his hand in Ny'ezia's and said, "Perhaps there is still something I can do to convince you of Hex's innocence. Redeem him in your eyes. Ny'ezia?"

She looked up, her eyes puffed from her tears, "What?"

"Bring me to your children."

She gasped, drawing away, "I beg your pardon!?"

"Your children, Ny'ezia."

"You don't understand what you're asking, Ostrander. No human's ever seen a dragon's nest - not before Hex, that is."

"But I'm not human and something of Hex is already in me."

"I can't -"

"To share your pain if for nothing else."

She looked up at him, her many colored eyes meeting his of grey stone, and with his hand in hers led him to the nest. Hex had stood there, in his shimmering form, and seen a multitude of gleaming, white eggs. Now, as Ostrander was led in, he gazed upon less than fifty shells, all cracked, their contents held in by dragon luck alone. He knelt beside one, feeling it's almost hidden warmth. "Tell me something, Ny'ezia."

"Hmm," she asked beside him.

"From what you tell me of dragons, they were killed off hundreds of years ago. How is it that these are still eggs?"

"No. Not all killed off. Just the females. It was like any other war. The strongest men went out to meet the humans. They were brave and true and gave a respectable accounting for themselves but the humans had their physics and the dragon armies were cut to ribbons. Some humans took the parts of my fallen brethren. Others heard about dragon eggs and had to have them." She sighed. "That's when they began killing off the women."

"The women?"

"Yes. The mothers were protecting their bairns, you see, hmm? Well, that killed a generation. And the men who were left threw their lives away in an impassioned assault."

"How did you survive?"

"I was just a bairn myself. My mother sent me away. Other male dragonlings went with me. After a couple of hundred years, I was ready to mate. What I didn't know - I wasn't aware of - was that I was the only female remaining. It happened during that time when you start thinking about sex."

"Sex?"

"Hmm? Yes. The humans call it puberty. There were many fights. Dragons killing each other for my favors. But a young wizard among our people caught my heart. His name was Aret'zia. We performed the mating ritual away from the remaining few. That was, I think, about two hundred and fifty years ago. Those remaining flew away from me, bitter at my choice, and I never saw them again. They killed my poor Aret'zia. I found my mountain and, nearly a decade ago, I laid my first eggs. I was so pleased to see three but there was to be more. In the end, there were three hundred seventy-two. Now, this is all."

"They're not dead," Ostrander told her.

"I know. It's worse. They're stillborn. Never will they have the strength to leave the egg or grow in our world. In truth, they should have hatched already. That is why I cannot leave them."

Ostrander felt life in another of the eggs and another. "Some of these can be saved, Ny'ezia."

"How dare you say that," Ny'ezia hissed. "How dare you come in here and give me false hope! You don't know what I had to go through to admit their deaths!" She grew larger, her anger increasing, and scales began to show. "You come in here with your talk of benevolent humans! They killed my children! How dare you -"

"Stop," Ostrander yelled with his loudest voice. Ny'ezia was on the verge of shifting form again in her rage, he could see that. Any such threat would render these eggs incapable of saving. "You must retain your human form," he ordered. "Give me some time! Let me try!"

As a balloon losing all of its air, she shrunk down. "Oh, Ostrander. What are you saying? I'm so confused."

"Sit," he commanded. "I must try." Stepping back to the eggs, assured of her compliance, he extended his magic sense. It would be a larger task than any he'd tried. Healing two human children had nearly killed him. (Actually, it had. He'd just been lucky enough to be saved. He wouldn't be so lucky again.) Looking with his special sight, he could see that some, indeed, were beyond help. They were merely coffins which, later, he would bury. Still, over forty eggs held dragonlings who still clung weakly to life. The damage to their shells had stunted their development and many were sick, some expiring right before Ostrander's eyes.

He couldn't use his magic on one at a time without risking the death of the others. If he were to save one, he'd have to try to save them all. Manipulating calculations which seemed to be from another life, Ostrander extended his magic. Slowly, he triggered new bone marrow and fresh, rich blood began to flow through reptilian veins. Many had been left without food when their sacks had leaked precious fluids. He tried to provide them with sustenance, reproducing the meager traces he found within a couple of the shells. As he attempted this, though, he felt a familiar pain in his head. He couldn't let that distract him, though. He gripped the shells tighter.

The babies were barely surviving now. He had to clear their minds, awaken them to their surroundings. That's when he heard the first shell explode. There was a violent crunch and one of the children fell out of its shell, dead.

No! Ostrander's cried out. He couldn't lose control. Not now! Not when he was so close. He pushed past the fog which had obscured his concentration, past the stabbing pain in his shoulders, and furiously began working his way through equation after equation. The dragonlings were alive. He could feel them! Why weren't they waking? Winding his way into each of their minds, he found the shock of near-death. He couldn't use the brute force of magic to cure this. It would take comfort and reassurance, expressed in magic. It would need to be powerful yet delicate, requiring Ostrander to focus even further.

Another shell exploded with brute magic, followed by another as Ostrander panicked to bring his magic under further constraint. The more he focused, though, the worse the pain grew. It was throughout his body now, searing like hot knives working their way within and pulling him apart.

Suddenly, a feeling shifted. Something with a shell. A dragon came awake and started working its way out of its shell! Ostrander, encouraged by the small victory, smiled -

\- but it broke his concentration -

\- a brilliant nimbus of magic erupted around him as several more shells exploded, spewing their contents throughout the nest, and Ostrander was hurled across the nest and crashed into a distant stalactite.

"Ostrander," Ny'ezia screamed. She stood, her body almost running of its own accord after the stone creature, but her eyes were drawn to something else.

The eggs. There were over a dozen - fifteen - remaining. She felt her legs buckle, her head spin, and she dropped down to her knees at what she saw.

The eggs were moving!

The first to crawl forth from its shell cawed in triumph, wobbling over to its mother. Big as a man, it was coated in the remnants of its sak and its eyes were not yet opened. Still, it felt an instinctual bond and used its weak legs and spindly wings to propel itself forward. Ny'ezia shifted into her dragon form so that she could touch her newborns, dragon to dragon, mother to child. Others were hatching, too, and Ny'ezia cooed with delight.

Ostrander felt like his head were made of sand, not an unfamiliar feeling. But this was his new body, his head was solid rock. He felt it to make sure it was okay and he rose unsteadily to his feet. Having lived a life of earth and mud, he habitually inspected himself for damage. It was reassuring, knowing that his new body could take that kind of beating... until -

At first, he thought it was a trick of light. After all, it was dark in the nest. Then, he felt it and looked at it again. Along the back of his right forearm, like a potential chasm, a crack less than a millimeter in width stretched from the wrist halfway up to his elbow. What had done it? The fall? No, he couldn't imagine something so trivial causing such a scar. It was the magic, he knew, the crackling nimbus that had exploded with the loss of concentration. Ostrander would look upon it as a reminder, whenever arrogance overwhelmed him, not to believe his own press. Whatever that means, he thought.

For several minutes, he inspected his arm. Then, a sound intruded upon his self-pity. It was a cawing and a cooing. He looked up. There, Ny'ezia towered above him. Fifteen infant dragons cuddled up to her, in her arms, her wings, against her body. She held them lovingly, making soft sounds.

Ostrander walked up to them, holding his arm. It had begun to throb and would do so now and then for the rest of his life. "I'm so sorry I couldn't have saved more."

"More," Ny'ezia asked.

"Yes. More of your children. There were so many."

"They were all dead. You didn't kill them. You saved these!"

Ostrander nodded. "Perhaps."

Ny'ezia brought her dragon head down before Ostrander and whispered, "Thank you."

Ostrander bowed before the dragon. "Thank you, Ny'ezia."

For a moment, there was silence as creature of stone and creature of magic gazed into the other's eyes. "You must go now. I am feeling something for you which I could easily mistake as something more than gratitude. Take your children. Leave the mountain. My babies will hunger soon and I will not excuse anything they may mistake for a meal."

"Of course, Ny'ezia. I will carry the memory of this day with me forever. May your children grow great and strong."

"As yours, Ostrander. As yours."

Part II

The Northern Spires stretched far and wide over Rynia's northern border. Where rebirth lent its grace upon one end of the range, death and destruction blighted another.

Banry Ellison had been driving his men forward for weeks. They couldn't travel fast; there were too many wounded. They were the devout, the true. Though they'd fought and lost their hardest battle, they marched to the Paeadian border, to the Rynian troops there hoping to warn them. The rest of the survivors, mostly those civilians who had joined in the attempt to save the city, had gone east to Caspeton.

Survivors? Banry laughed quietly to himself. There were no survivors at Benaatt. Not even the city had survived.

Slowly, the great cloud of dust, formed by the crashing down of the mountainside, that had risen high enough over the once Jewel of the North to block out the sun, had dissipated. Thin streams of light poked through and what might have been beacons of hope quickly turned into exposers of horror. There was no wishing the light away and as the morning grew brighter and brighter, Benaatt came out of the dark.

Banry still remembered looking around him to see the ground running with blood. Blood had flown everywhere. When a one ton boulder fell upon a man, it didn't merely crush him. It burst him like an overripe boil, showering crimson horror in all directions. Now imagine what happened when a ten ton boulder fell upon a dragon. Mixing with the blood of defenders and destroyers alike was a thick, bluish goo. This was all that was left of the great, ice giant horde. As men walked through it, it stuck to their feet producing a slurping sound as they walked.

Banry could almost hear the slurping as his feet were stuck to the ground but it wasn't that, they were far to the southwest of the ruins of Benaatt by now. It was sheer exhaustion that kept him from lifting his legs; he dragged his feet as he led the shambling troops.

"Commander Ellison," a weak voice called from behind. He looked to see the young soldier, Darum Koppes, approach. "The sun's nearly at the horizon, sir, and we're getting tired from carrying the stretcher. Can we stop for the night?"

Banry looked at the terrain ahead. Up there, less than a kilometer away, an old farm sat lonely and inviting. Perhaps they'd have some food. "Okay, soldier. Let's steer to the farm."

Food. They'd not seen a proper meal since before the battle. Some of the men could hunt but the game had all vanished, either running from the battle's noises or hiding away after the first chills of winter. They'd been lucky enough to trap a rabbit one day. The rest of the time, they'd foraged as they'd marched on, finding a root here or a berry there.

In desperation, his men had begged him to coerce Lanigan Reise into summoning them some food. He'd refused. He didn't want to see any more of Reise's magic, that curse. The guilt of a single use of magic plagued his every moment. But he wouldn't tell his men that. "The man's a Destroyer or a Breaker. He doesn't use summoning magic so forget it." Lanigan had tried to speak for himself but couldn't talk past his stutter which had grown progressively worse since the battle.

"It's a curse, Reise. You're going to have to live with what you've done." The words - Banry's last words to the weak, little magician - ran through Banry's head. Lanigan Reise had looked up at him with those pitiful eyes, opened his mouth as if to speak, and gouts of blood had rushed out upon his chest. Banry had hoped then that the destroyer of Benaatt would die but, as it turned out, he didn't. All of the blood was the result of the incredible strain his magic had placed upon his body. For two days, as survivors were rescued, Lanigan Reise didn't move. On the third day, he rose, begging for f-f-f-f-f-f-ood.

The first survivors were easily spotted. They came up from the south, where the city walls still stood. Fifty of them, struck dumb and numb by what they saw, reported to Banry. After that, the luckiest they found had only broken limbs. Many would heal. Amongst these, Banry had found his third in command and one of Benaatt's finest, young officers, Captain Davich. Banry and he had become close friends in the four years since Davich had come north with his young bride, a Benaatt native.

"What did they hit us with," the young captain asked, his blonde hair red from the blood that pasted it to his face.

"Everything," Banry whispered after a moment's thought. He saw to the Captain's wounds which included an abundance of cuts and bruises from the shrapnel of an exploding city. The worst, though, was his knee. It was soft and swollen, filled with blood. There was no way to know how bad the damage was, enough to know that Davich couldn't move it.

"We've no Bonders, Davich," Banry told him later that night, feeding him a thin soup.

"I understand, Commander. We all sign up knowing this could happen."

"I know you sent your wife down to Caspeton. I got my own family down there. I could try to get you down there with the rest of the townsfolk to see your loved ones but I don't want to lie to you. Chances are there won't be any Bonders down there, either. They've all gone to the west, to the border, for the war."

"So, what're you telling me, Commander? That I got a chance of surviving if I go east?"

"A slight chance. You could get healed only to die in later fighting."

"True. But isn't that what we took an oath for?"

Davich was correct, Banry knew that. Every Rynian soldier dedicated themselves to protecting the kingdom. Banry himself had taken such an oath.

"How many of us are left, Commander?"

"We're near a hundred now. I don't think we'll find many more, living."

"You can't blame yourself, Commander. This'll be remembered as a victory. You knew going in that we would've rather died than hand over our city to those bastards."

Davich's words rang true but it couldn't wash the guilt from Banry's hands. Davich had said what Banry had been afraid to admit. He did blame himself. He'd tried blaming Reise but the city's commander could not escape his responsibility.

The next morning, the surviving troops moved to the southern gate. Still standing, it provided a laughable reflection on a once great city. Only forty or so meters of the walls still stood on either side of the gate. Banry would not allow anyone to open the gates; everyone had to march around them. The only part of Benaatt remaining, it would stand closed tight just as when the city had died.

Most of those remaining would go to Caspeton to, somehow, build a new life. Only twenty-two men and women of Benaatt's guard followed Banry. Davich was put on a stretcher to be carried. Several hours out, a skulking form was seen following. "What do you want, Reise," Banry challenged, recognizing immediately the scrawny figure in an oversized uniform.

"Th-they wouldn't ta-take m-me. I got n-nowh-where to g-go."

"Well, you're not going with us. We're headed into battle. You'd probably try to kill us again. Stay away from us, do you understand?" Banry walked back into his troop and they proceeded south-west.

"It was an accid-du-dent," Lanigan whispered, too tired to cry. Inexplicably, his legs started forward and though he knew he wasn't wanted he continued to follow. The thought of being left on his own was more terrifying than any fate following held. Living on whatever he could forage (his curse had exiled him from his fellow man long enough so he was far better at foraging than the soldiers), he followed day after day.

After several days had passed, and the snows began to fall in earnest, Lanigan was allowed to enter the soldiers' camp and light a branch off of their fire. He'd bring it back to his stack of wood. With nothing but his torn uniform, the fire was his only heat.

* * *

"Is he still back there," Banry asked.

"Yes, sir," the lookout replied. "He's coming up slowly. Almost like he has something against farms."

"Doesn't matter. I just don't want him destroying our only shelter."

The Benaatt forces had found the farm long abandoned. (More than eight years after the invasion of the diseased Ampreks, whom people took to be Tsurtor's undead, scars, like the abandoned dwelling of a murdered family, remained.) They took shelter inside the three room farmhouse and, though its roof had long since collapsed, found a family of deer within the barn. Banry ordered the stag slaughtered. The doe would be saved along with the calf and led along with Banry's soldiers for future meals. Shanks were laid upon the open fire and the pungent odor of venison soon permeated the evening air. Three of Banry's men were still within the barn, preparing the remains for transport and the morning's breakfast.

"Let him have the barn," Banry muttered between clenched teeth. He hated being so weak but couldn't help feeling partially responsible for Reise. After all, who had given the orders? "He can't destroy that much more than it already has been." He turned from the window, biting back any further sympathy. It did him little good. He turned, almost against his will, saying, "And give him a small portion of meat. The snow's only going to get worse out there and he'll be without a roof. Meat and a cup of broth... and see to it he has a fire!" The last bit was shouted as Banry's disbelief at his own voice grew. Why not just invite him in? Banry stalked off, putting as much distance between himself and Lanigan Reise as possible.

Rank had its privileges. That night, while the forces of Benaatt billeted upon the floor, Banry had the room with the bed. Not much remained of the bed, just a simple pallet, but he saw to it Davich was placed there to sleep. Davich seemed comfortable if silent. Banry took the floor and went quickly to sleep.

Later on, when the darkness was so thick you couldn't tell if your eyes were opened or closed, Banry heard a noise that awoke him. It was a noise familiar to soldiers but a noise he'd never heard before. Banry had been fortunate never to see a man die slowly. He'd seen them die fast, back when the sand golems were attacking Rynianhomme and pseudopod-spikes thrust into his comrades, bursting them like festering boils. Even later, as he traveled north to the Spires, seeking absolution for his cowardice in a quest for the Lich Vyr-At-Hozoth, he'd seen sudden death in his battles against the undead. But the years since had been quiet; it was a kingdom-wide epidemic. Peace brings not the soldier's death. Sometimes, neither did war.

It was a rattling, the moist crunching of rotted leaves. Banry was up in seconds, calling to whomever stood watch. "A torch! Bring some light in here!" Banry's cry woke the rest of the house and with good reason. The rattling sound resonated from the fallen captain, Davich.

The light came within seconds, shining on Davich's nearly still form. His chest was moving, though, erratic, spastic, in a losing fight for life. "Bring the wizard," Banry yelled in a panic. "Get Reise!" There was no denying that Lanigan Reise was a Breaker, not a Bonder. There was no denying his incredible power, either. Banry remembered stories of wizards who could switch disciplines. Hex had done it, turning his Bonding magic around for Breaking.

Reise was hauled in as Banry finished the thought. "Heal him," he screamed. "You can use your power for Bonding!" Looking back, Banry would often wonder what had driven him into such an irrational state. "Because you're human," Hildy would console. "You can't just watch death upon death and not feel helpless." And that was just how Banry felt. Helpless. His city was taken. His army was taken. And now his friend was being taken.

Reise knew nothing of this. All he knew was that the very thought of using his magic on a person terrified him so he could hardly speak. "I ca- I ca- I cannnnn't."

Banry cut Lanigan's excuse short with a violent slap across the wizard's face. If a soldier hadn't been holding him up, Lanigan would have dropped like a stone. His head spun and his face felt like it had been stung from a thousand bees.

"Shut up," Banry was screaming. "I don't want to hear it!" He grabbed the scrawny wizard and threw him against the wall next to Davich's pallet. A thin stream of blood, turned sickly grey by the dim torch, spilled from the captain's mouth. "Do it," Banry yelled.

Lanigan knew that if he didn't, he'd be killed.

With no knowledge of medicine, no knowledge of the human body, he used his magic sight in a way he'd never tried before. Davich's form was still, dark, very near to death, Lanigan could see. He'd heard the last of the death rattle's coming from the chest and Lanigan looked within to see what he could find. A maze! An endless disturbance of broken bones and tubes and fluids. What to heal first? The bones, he thought, strengthen them, build them up.

Banry watched the young wizard kneel beside his friend, appearing to do nothing. What was he waiting for? A thick silence hung in the room and those who crowded within watched with a pensive hush.

Then, slowly, they could see the magic take effect. Davich's lifeless eyes took on a golden hue as if the magic was so powerful it could not be contained within. The captain's body twitched like a puppet and, after several minutes, gave a tremendous jerk to the side. Lanigan Reise was sweating from the effort; moisture poured visibly down his face.

It might have been a hush of awe in the presence of the powerful magician. More likely, though, the soldiers of Benaatt - and, more specifically, Banry Ellison himself \- knew what a horrible mistake they'd made. To ask Lanigan Reise to heal? What insanity had possessed them? He'd destroyed their city! He'd taken the Northern Spires and flung them upon their homes! The man hadn't the deft hand of a Bonder. The man was a monster!

All of this flew through the minds of those watching as Reise's hands began to vibrate under the tremendous strain of his magic.

"Commander, look," one soldier said, breaking the silence, allowing the others their screams of horror as they ran from the house.

Davich had once again grown still, rigid in fact. His face twisted (though, looking back, Banry was sure he was already dead) into a silent scream and his skin turned a deeper and deeper red.

"Stop," Banry gasped, taking the wizard's shoulder.

Reise's hands still vibrated and Davich's face still swelled. It wasn't just his face; his entire body had turned a deep hue and blood began to run freely from his ears and eyes. His mouth pooled and out of his very pours ran his life's blood.

"Stop!" Banry screamed, pulling the wizard away in the now empty room. He threw Reise against the wall, shaking the entire structure and looked back at his dead friend. Looking at all the blood that had run out and grotesque swelling where his innards had tried to evacuate, he felt his heart stop and incredible pain clutch at his gut. He didn't think about how small and weak the wizard was. He took his fists and began beating him as hard as he could.

Reise accepted it. His curse had made him commit the most horrid atrocity imaginable. His swollen eyes would not be able to look at the twisted, bloody statue upon the pallet; he was grateful for this.

I'd built up the bone too much, he realized. Far, far too much bone.

Part III

When the sun had risen the next morning, Davich had been buried, pallet and all. As the last rocks were carried in by the soldiers and dropped on top of the burial mound, Banry Ellison watched in silence, rubbing his bruised knuckles. None knew what became of Lanigan Reise. None asked. It was generally considered Ellison's right to decide the wizard's fate after what had become of his friend.

But there was no time for reflection, not even eulogizing. From far afield, a call was raised. One of the soldiers on watch had found something and was returning. The others gathered and watched as the young Rynian returned. He walked alongside a tall character accompanying two children, holding each by the hand. Whoever this newcomer was... he was naked.

Banry stepped forward. "Report," he ordered.

"Found this - thing coming down from the north. Says he's coming out of the mountains. Says he's been here before."

Banry looked from his soldier to the strangely familiar figure. It didn't take him long to realize what was familiar. He gritted his teeth and snapped, "Stone giant."

"No, I'm afraid you're mistaken," came the response.

"Shut up," Banry shouted. "I saw enough of your kind during the last war to know what you are!"

"You were at the Imperial Palace?"

The stone creature's familiarity caught him off guard. Banry replied, "Yes, I was."

"Then you know Hex?"

"Well, of course, rare is the person who doesn't."

"Good," came the reply, the stone creature nodding. "It's good to hear things turned out well for him. Let me introduce myself," he said, letting go of the little boy's hand and putting it out, "my name is Ostrander."

Two of the soldiers raised their bats, readying for a fight. That was the last thing Ostrander wanted. Neither was he an enemy nor were the children safe. He brought his hand down. "Please. If I had intended you harm, I certainly wouldn't have walked in here with the children. Give me credit for that, at least. I assure you we're on the same team, uh, Mr.?"

"Ellison," Banry replied. "Put your weapons down, men." He'd heard the name Ostrander many years ago, just after the war. It was someone about whom Hex was very concerned. Someone he'd lost. Somehow, Banry thought, the lost have been found. "He's telling the truth."

* * *

Agnie and Tetrem were the immediate darlings of the troop. Having not seen another soul since the battle for Benaatt and having sent their families away, the children were reminders of what they were fighting for. The children were fed heartily and much playing ensued.

Outside, however, the world still held a more somber tone. Ostrander stood beside Banry, looking over the grave. "He was the most recently casualty," Banry explained, having described Benaatt's fall to Ostrander.

"When last I saw Benaatt, it was in ruins. Amazing to think that it actually had been rebuilt again. I feel like Rip Van Winkel."

"Who?"

"Rip, um..." The story was firmly in Ostrander's mind but, like so many things from snips of Jimmy Durante movies to the taste of cayenne pepper on blackened catfish, he found it impossible to explain in terms of Rynian experience. It came from far beyond Rynia. "Never mind. Where is this wizard who destroys cities. I think I'd like to meet him."

"No. You don't. He killed my friend here. He -" Banry choked off the word, shaking his head. "You just don't."

"If things are as bad as I've been told, we're going to need all the power we can get. You may have suffered from a pyrrhic victory in Benaatt - that might be what awaits us all - but you have to be willing to do whatever it takes to save what's important."

"Are you so sure of that?"

Ostrander felt the back of his right arm. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"Fine," Banry muttered. "Come with me." Banry led him to the barn, crunching through the snow to a pile of rotten wood. Behind it, a broken body lay. Banry knew what he'd done was wrong but a rage consumed him whenever he thought of what had happened to Benaatt and Davich, a rage that wouldn't go away for many years. If the anger was directed at Lanigan Reise or himself, he couldn't say. But Lanigan had made a willing target.

Lanigan Reise lay behind the woodpile, bleeding. His cuts, where the skin had burst after Banry's iron fists had battered him time and again, still oozed blood. His face was a swollen mess and his guts wouldn't stop hurting. He was hardly aware of Ellison's return, he'd sunk so low into himself, hoping to escape the reality of his curse.

"Who did this," Ostrander asked.

"He destroyed my city. Killed my friend," was Ellison's only response.

Ostrander reached within Lanigan's beaten shell with his magic, healed the bruised bones, the many contusions, and the cuts with but a thought and replied, "There's much more at stake than that." He helped Lanigan up to a sitting position and looked into his eyes. Lanigan looked terrified and Ostrander didn't know if he was the cause or if it was the commander. "You're going to be okay, now," he said soothingly. "It's going to be alright. What's your name?"

Banry knew it well but didn't answer for him. He was stunned at the sight of such rapid healing. If Ostrander had arrived just a few hours earlier... He shut that thought away in a cellar of his mind and turned his attention back to the stone creature. Lanigan still hadn't answered, either.

"You should be able to respond. You should only be feeling some fatigue and," Ostrander turned to Ellison, "this man's going to need food. He's very undernourished."

Banry didn't move for a moment. "Any food I take away from my people will make it harder on them."

"I can hunt better than your men, I suspect. Feed this man and I promise to keep you well fed."

Banry walked back to the house and Ostrander returned to Lanigan. "Now, you'll get food. Will you talk?"

Lanigan, looking more relaxed after Banry's departure, slowly shook his head.

Ostrander nodded. "You've overtaxed yourself. I've seen this once before. You should regain your speech in time."

No, Lanigan shook his head.

"You won't -? You haven't lost your voice, have you?"

Again, Lanigan shook his head.

"But you won't speak."

Lanigan shrunk back into himself, looking far away.

Ostrander put his hand on the small wizard's shoulder and said, "I'm your friend, wizard. I'll stand beside you and get you to someone who should be able to help you. Do you believe that?"

Lanigan looked tentatively into Ostrander's friendly eyes and, slowly, nodded.

"Good," Ostrander said. "We'll get you some food. Get your strength back. Then, we start marching. We've got a date to keep on the Paeadian border."

CHAPTER FIVE

RETURN TO RYNIA

Part I

As snow began to fall in the north, to the south the rain grew colder and more intense. The only benefit seemed to be the disappearance of the serpents and the insects, who migrated to spots still warmer, but the last dispatch of troops from Raful traveled the tree-roads during a time of year when more rational folk would have stayed at home. The air had become so thick with the swamp's winter mist that visibility quickly fell to less than a meter. Not only was the air thick with mist but heavy with the constant pour of rain. The order went out then for the travelers to buddy up.

A length of rope was tied between each pair and, for several days, all Mark could see was Kell. It seemed strange, that she would possess so much honor, but with every passing day she seemed to look less like a buckskinned rogue or a spoiled princess and more like someone dedicated to a cause. The look on her face said that nothing would keep her from winning this war, not even Tsurtor himself. But Mark had little time to think of her transformation.

After a week on the tree road, they were hit by the worst storm yet. As if they were at sea, waves of swamp washed over the tree road. The wind made footing almost impossible and there was no way to know if the Tzurritzanian forces were near or far. Kell and Mark clutched each other's arms, progressing step by cautious step. They couldn't stop. All of their food had spoiled. All they could do was sip their precious water and go on. Did they walk for hours or days? They couldn't tell.

After much walking, though, keeping their footing upon the road became nearly impossible. Their legs were waterlogged and their muscles throbbed. "We need to rest," Kell shouted over the driving rain.

"Where," Mark asked, looking into the storm. "There's no shelter! Nowhere to lay."

"There's one thing we can do. Coome here." Kell knelt down beside an outcrop of branches and removed her rope from her pack. Looping it around Mark, she began tying him loosely to the tree. "I'll tie you down so you can't slip. This way, you'll be able to sleep without worrying about the storm."

"But wait! What about you? Who'll tie you down?"

Kell reached back into Mark's pack and retrieved his rope. Having finished tying him down, she approached, laying against him. "Yoou can."

Mark understood. Taking the rope, he tied her against himself. Now they were inextricably bound. His last free hand pulled her closer and, ignoring the rain, they kissed.

* * *

Morning came and Mark shivered up against Kell. Opening one eye, he witnessed something he hadn't seen in days, sunlight. The storm had passed, it seemed, and the fog had fell. Now, the duke of Benaatt was faced with a new reality: frost. He felt it in his hands and on his face. Frost had formed all throughout his soaked clothing. He was surprised he hadn't froze to death. In only seconds, his shivering had intensified and he quaked against his companion, waking her suddenly.

"What," she asked and her quaking began as well.

The ropes were difficult, frozen into their knots, and it took several attempts to untie them. Once free, the two huddled together, opening their jackets to better feel the other's warmth. Still, there was little to be had. "We're pretty secluded amidst these branches," Kell observed. In truth, they were. The large leaves mostly cut them off from their surroundings. "I think I knoow a way to make plenty of heat," she said, pulling him closer.

Under other circumstances, there would have been nothing he'd want more. Something was holding him back, though: the war. There were many lives out there for which he would be held responsible. Not only them, there was Benaatt and his promise to King Marcus, too. Rising as quickly as his frozen form would allow, he said, "We can't, Kell. We have to get moving."

She looked up at him, shaking her head as if from pity, and said, "I'm beginning to get the feeling that you have soomething against princesses."

They spent another day on the tree-road and, by evening, another storm had moved in. With morning came the mists and a light shower. By mid-afternoon, they had left the tree-road behind and ground was again beneath them. They continued north to find the Tzurritzanian forces. As the sun began to fall, Mark felt more like a couple on a romantic holiday then royalty readying for war. To defeat this, he picked up the pace and, with grateful eyes, he spotted the army before it had grown too dark.

"Where's Kraephten," Mark asked as they approached one of the sentries.

Turning to point, the leather-clad sentry replied, "He'll be seeing to preparations if he's here."

"Shouldn't he be awaiting our arrival," asked Kell.

"That's the last thing I'd be wanting him to do. There no special treatment for royals during war, Kell." This may have been a lie. Mark would never consider expecting Marcus or Helen to fight (though he'd seen Marcus do just that before) but he didn't exactly consider himself royalty. With the tragic death of Alinax, he'd always considered himself collateral royalty. He wasn't raised to be separate from his fellow man. Despite his father's name, he'd entered the army as a private, promoted only by the grace of Princess Helen. He knew that Kell had been brought up to appreciate the advantages of rank but she'd just have to unlearn those habits. Mark continued to the camp's center, hoping Kell was following behind.

In typical fashion, the grunt soldiers were bivouacked towards the outer edge of the camp with progressively higher rank stationed within. More soldiers were still arriving and still more followed behind Mark and Kell; they'd find a place in the layout. To no one's surprise, Kraephten was found within a central tent, hovering over a map and nursing a bottle of brandy, to fend off the damp chill. "Welcome, sir duke," he greeted, handing over the bottle.

With their packs taken by attendants and fresh clothing on their way, each took several shots. As their insides grew warm, their bones remembered what heat felt like also. A pile of coals took a prominent position near one wall, radiating welcome heat.

Kraephten was looking over a map of the region. To the south, spreading over the majority of the map's bottom, lay the northern border of Tzurritza. Northwest of that, stretching like the tail of a great mountain range to the west, rose the mountains of Ktoll. Mount Brutalitie stood prominently like a festering sore amidst the range, falling nearly at its center. This, they knew, would be from where Tsurtor's troops would be launched. The map's center was Paead, with Paela along the southwest border. This forest stretched south to become one with the trees of Tzurritza. It was within this forest's outskirts that the Tzurritzanian army had positioned itself. If a force was moving eastward from Ktoll, along Paead, to Rynia, Paela provided the best, natural barrier. Finally, as if to remind Kraephten and Mark why they'd come this far, along the map's eastern side lay Rynia's western border.

"We'll need to skirt Paela and move along southern Paead until we reach Rynia. If the war hasn't started yet, that route should take us to the Plains to the Sea," Kraephten explained.

"And there we'll meet up with the Rynian forces," Mark agreed.

"But what if the war's already started?"

The two looked knowingly at Kell - they'd asked themselves the same question plenty of times - and Mark replied, "Then we throw the map away."

"If we have to face Tsurtor's forces alone, we will. This should provide some relief, albeit transitory, to the Rynians. We'll take out as many as we can."

Fresh clothing was brought and Kell was shown to her tent. Slipping off his jacket, Mark asked, "So, how are our guests?"

"The Machinists? They had a rough time of it. Almost had to be carried but Sergeants Steyer and Brewis kept them safe and got them here. They arrived just a couple of hours before you - getting slow there, Nygarra - and they've been holed up in a tent since then. Said they had to clean their stuff. They're awfully concerned about cleanliness."

"We should go check on them. They've got a lot of new surroundings to grow accustomed to."

"My thoughts exactly. Whenever you're ready."

"In a minute," Mark replied, tying the endless laces of his new boots. Kell had been right, though. They'd grown on him like a second skin. "Where's the Hand?"

"It's time for dinner. I sent him for a couple of plates."

"Dinner," Mark asked, suddenly remembering how long it had been since his last meal.

"Don't worry," Kraephten replied. "We'll eat first and then see the Machinists."

* * *

Meanwhile, miles away beneath the crushing weight of Mount Brutalitie, Tsurtor, too, had people to visit. He strode the tunnels with such speed that underlings had to scurry away for fear of death (or worse!) at his impatient hands. As the great battles neared, his pace had grown ever faster. Now! He wanted victory now! But there were preliminary steps to be taken; he couldn't let his will run rampant. That was how he'd lost the last war. To him, the undead and the stone giants were no war; they were simply a happy juxtaposition of circumstances. (The Rynians called it the War of Earth and Stone. Ha! Wouldn't they be surprised when a real war was fought.) He wanted everything to be just right. He didn't want this to be a war. He wanted this to be a slaughter.

The robes he wore were darker and larger than those of only a month ago. Now, the bone spikes jutting from his flesh like erratic tusks were so large it often hurt him to move. Move he would, though, and quickly. The war was about to begin and he didn't want to miss any of it. He wanted to witness each death with his own ebony eyes.

Pekit ran ahead, announcing the master's coming so all could bow before him. (Some of the more foolish bowed in the center of the hall, scurrying for their lives when they saw that Tsurtor wasn't stopping.) With the winter snows, Pekit's arms were a constant source of torture and he clutched them against himself as best he could for what little warmth his body provided. For one, good arm, he would gladly have cut out Tsurtor's black heart or slit Tsurtor's mangled neck but that could only remain a dream. For now, he ran ahead and when he reached the entryway to General K'tan's quarters, he stopped, panting.

K'tan looked up from his desk, blood from a freshly killed rabbit running down his chin. The rabbit twitched and spasmed on the plate, just the way K'tan liked it. Chewing with his muzzle-like mouth, the general spat, "What?"

Flecks of fresh blood hit Pekit's face as he instinctively went down on one knee. "The master," the little man screeched. "He comes."

With a swing of his left arm, K'tan pushed away his food and bolted around his desk, charging at Tsurtor's messenger. Pekit scrambled into a dark corner and, as his master's form filled the doorway, K'tan bowed low, placing both hands on the floor. "My mashter," he groveled. "What can I do to sherve you?"

"On your feet," Tsurtor whispered, his ominous voice requiring very little volume to instill fear.

K'tan rose before Tsurtor, standing nearly as tall, but kept his head bowed as was Tsurtor's want.

"Are you ready to go to war, K'tan?"

"Yesh," K'tan replied, hungrily, "ready, more than ready. My men have sheen the patshetic buildup on the Paeadian border and can crush it in lessh than a day. Rynia can be yoursh in a week! We can have thish entire, primitive, little planet in lessh than -"

"I only want Rynia," Tsurtor said, cutting off the general's boasts. The general was immediately silent, staring at the ground. "And you won't be attacking Rynia. I have other plans for you."

"Other plansh? But they're jusht waiting to be taken! They're ripe! They -"

"They are not as weak as you presume. Oh, the Rynian's will fall. That much is assured," Tsurtor mused, taking several steps. "It would be foolish to believe that they don't have reserves somewhere."

"The Kal-Kor monksh -"

"The Kal-Kor monks have been dealt with. No. Marcus will return empty handed. My preparations are so complete that not even they could stand in my way. The dwarves are sick and dying. The dragons are mine, the rest dead by Ny'ezia's own hand." Tsurtor chuckled and the sound immediately brought bile up from Pekit's throat. "So, I won't be needing you at the Rynian border, not yet. For now, I want you to send fifty men south to Paela. Tzurritza has had it put in their mind to defend Rynia despite attempts to convince them otherwise. What do you expect? You're not going to find a great deal of intelligence in a people who live in a swamp. They'll be sending an army north. Kill them."

"An army? And all I can shend are fifty men?"

"Send a hundred if you like but no artillery, no planes. I want to save that in case we need a surprise."

"A hundred men. And what am I to do with them?"

After explaining the strategy in Paela, Tsurtor left K'tan, assured that any threat the Tzurritzanians could pose would soon be slaughtered. He headed down into the mountain, down to his throneroom, for he did not want to miss seeing his favorite... victim!

There, upon a surgical table, lay the world's youngest magician. Vincent Gobel. A talent, to be sure, but his age, his lack of experience, left him sorely open to outside influences. Hex had tried to influence him, tried to make him behave, tried to make him be a slave. Samuel had tried as well, tried to make him be normal and ignore his gift and let other people pick on him. Then Raphineal had tried to take his magic away. Rynia had tried to ignore everything he'd done for them. Tsurtor fed him these thoughts of hate until they were ingrained in his very being. He also made Vincent realize who the only person was who had never tried to change him or ignore him or deprive him of what he was or what he'd done. There was only one person who he could really call friend: Tsurtor.

Now, Vincent lay upon the table without restraints. He gnawed one fingernail, dwelling in the hate that Tsurtor had left festering within him. I should have aimed that fireball at Hex, he thought. I should never have saved Mark. He didn't deserve it. I'm the most powerful wizard there is! I can do anything! The thoughts throbbed over and over.

And, indeed, he was the most powerful. Tsurtor had seen to that. He'd flooded Vincent's mind with equations, giving him more control of his magic than anyone short of Tsurtor himself. He'd fed the boy a constant stream (an IV tube permanently inserted in the boy's arm) of hormones and chemicals that turned his immature, seventeen year old body into a burly mass of muscle. Now, Vincent stood taller than his brother and was stronger than anyone he'd ever known.

With his increased magical prowess and his powerful body, Tsurtor could have aimed the boy at Rynia and had Vincent take the kingdom himself. Very nearly, he could have. Still, there were flaws.

Tsurtor strode down the amphitheater-sized throneroom, to Vincent's table. Vincent's eyes, glazed over by the constant drip of drugs, stared adoringly up at his master. "How are you, my boy," Tsurtor asked.

"Oh, I am well, master. I am ready to do your bidding!"

"I'm sure you are, Vincent. I'm sure you are." Tsurtor's black eyes looked deeply into Vincent's own as he asked, "Are you ready to kill?"

"Kill? Kill for you? Yes! Yes, I am!"

"Good. Who would you kill?"

"Kill? Kill for you? Um... Hex! I'll kill Hex! Let me! Oh, let me!"

"I'll let you, my boy. Who else would you kill?"

"Um... all of Rynia's royalty! Yes! I'll kill them all! All for you!"

"Yes, I'm sure you would." Tsurtor tired of the drugged-out teenager. He demanded loyalty, even subservience, but groveling could grow old fast. "But would you kill your brother? Would you kill Samuel?" Tsurtor knew this was the bottom line. Would he kill his own family? If he could do that, he'd do anything to please his master.

"Kill?" The question wasn't the enthusiastic screech as before. It was hesitant, almost frightened. "Kill Sa-Sa-Sammy?" Tears started flowing from Vincent's eyes. "But mommy and daddy are already dead! I'm all alone! Please don't make me kill Sammy! I don't want to be alone!" His words turned into cries and sobs and he rolled into a fetal position.

No. Vincent wasn't ready. Net yet, Tsurtor thought, but soon. Very soon.

Part II

"Good evening, gentlemen. I trust you had a pleasant journey." Kraephten had hoped that entering on a positive note with a smile would start this meeting off right but there were some things that even congeniality wouldn't help.

"Pleasant," Charles shouted. "You think our journey was pleasant? Let me tell you something, primate! It was far from pleasant! There was nothing to eat. All of our equipment became drenched. I was pulled along every step of the way. And just look at this camp! Have you people ever heard of dysentery?"

"What my associate is trying to say, gentlemen," Bertrum chimed, shutting Charles up, "is that the journey was a learning experience. We've spent the evening cleaning our gear and we believe some of this will come in particularly handy during the coming battle."

"Providing they can understand it," Charles' griped.

"Any help you can provide will be appreciated, Mr. Typewriter," said Mark, entering the tent.

"Very well. These are what we call projectile throwers," Bertrum began, lifting two objects that, to Hex, would have looked suspiciously like revolvers. "These are just prototypes, the only ones we have. The larger projectile throwers would have been too cumbersome."

"How does it work," Kraephten asked.

"You take an exploding projectile - one of these," Charles explained, taking a bullet, "and insert it into the chamber, like so. You close the chamber, aim the barrel - that's this end - at your target and squeeze the trigger, this part."

"Be careful only to aim if you plan to kill," Bertrum added. "These things are very dangerous. Each has six shots and one shot can kill a man."

"How many of those exploding projectiles do you have," Kraephten asked.

"Twenty," replied Bertrum.

Charles added, "It was only a prototype."

Mark took one of the projectile throwers as they continued to the next item.

"They were using one of these things on our way up from the Machinist's Guild," Kraephten said, holding up a kerosene lantern. "This cover kept it dry during the rain."

"What else do you have for us, Bertrum," Mark asked.

"Well, what's most important right now - I think Charles and I can both agree - is what we can teach you. I don't think it would be unfair to say that you tend to lose your share of men to disease in a camp like this, correct?"

Kraephten nodded, "Sure. That's about right."

"Well, if we moved your latrines away from camp and took steps to clean things up around here, we'd take two giant steps towards cutting that down."

Mark and Kraephten exchanged glances. Perhaps, they both seemed to think, there was something to these Machinists. "What else can we do," Mark asked.

Midnight neared when Mark and Kraephten could finally got to sleep. Tomorrow would be a big day. With the armies together, they could start the move east. After two weeks of marching, they should reach the Rynian border - if they didn't encounter Tsurtor's forces along the way. Mark found the tent in which he'd been billeted, larger than he expected, and stepped inside.

A torch provided subtle lighting, showing where his things had been laid, where a sleeping roll had been provided, and where Kell sat, smiling. "What," Mark asked.

"Shhh," Kell said.

"Oh, not again with the Shhh!"

"Just coome here," she said, indicating a spot beside herself.

"Kell, you know we don't have time -"

"When will we have time, Mark? The war's no longer approoaching. It's here. And we're marching right into the middle of it. There woon't be time when the swords are drawn."

"How very true," he replied, lowering himself beside her.

Later, when the torch had burnt itself out and rain was once again falling outside of the tent, the couple held each other within the sleeping roll, trading warmth. Kell placed her lips just above his collarbone at the crook of his neck and, kissing it, she said, "Tell me of the others."

"There were none," he easily replied.

"Coome on. There have to have been others."

"No. There haven't been. Why would you ask that?" He would have looked in her eyes if he could but it was too dark.

"Well, you are considered royalty after all, dukie. For noothing other than status, other girls must have tried."

"No. I've pretty much kept away from women. Not that Kraephten hasn't tried to set me up plenty of times. But I've been to dedicated to my city to even think about my life."

"Your city," she said. "It sounds so important."

"It is. It's the Jewel of the North. Rynia's oldest city and, strategically, one of its most important."

"I'd love to see it."

"If it's still standing.

More responsibility for him to handle, she thought and, trying to avoid the subject, asked, "But what about before Benaatt? What were you then?"

"Then," he asked, remembering long months in the dank caves of Rynianhomme. "Then I was the Princess' Defender. Defender of the Crown."

"Ah! The princess! You've mentioned her before. What about her?"

"Helen? Oh, no. We were childhood friends, nearly brother and sister. Besides, being her defender I never had time to look at her that way. By the time the war was over, she was pretty much in love with the Maker."

"Ah, Hex."

"Yep," Mark replied, drawing a deep breath. Memories of that time flooded back and, along with the memories, a name. Salnya.

Sensing something behind Mark's silence, Kell asked, "What is it?"

Salnya. The girl Mark had been in love with for years before the stone giants had taken the Imperial Palace. When he'd entered the army, she'd been there, cheering him on and, foreseeing a comfortable future as an officer's wife, she had agreed to marry him. After all, his father had been an officer, the famous general, Lonna Nygarra. Why wouldn't that pass on to his son, Mark? But, perhaps, the Nygarra seed was too frail when Lonna had sired Mark at the ripe, old age of fifty-three. Maybe that was why Mark could never properly learn how to wield a bat. Maybe that was why Mark had run away at the first sign of a fight. By some fluke, he'd saved Salnya from the first stone giant's attack at the same time he had been promoted to the princess' Defender.

As if that weren't enough to drive the young couple apart, Mark had to devote himself to the princess' safety. He'd never really earned the honor of Defender. It was given to him out of pity and, somehow, he had to live up to it. (This was the same thing that happened when he was granted his title and his city, things he hadn't earned and never knew how he could deserve them.) When the Imperial Palace was reclaimed, and the war ended, Mark found Salnya in the arms of another man.

During the next few years, Mark had tortured himself, wondering what he could have done differently. What if he had spent more time with her? What if he had refused the title of Defender? What if she wasn't happy with the one who had taken his place?

Then, the inevitable occurred. Moitches, her father, had been an old man before the war and it was a miracle that he'd made it through. Less than four years after the war's conclusion, Moitches died. They said he was napping in his tomato garden, perhaps the most fitting place for the master chef. Helen had seen to it that word had reached Mark and he made certain he was there for the funeral.

Moitches would have liked the simple, spring morning ceremony, held by a priestess of Moena. (Moitches had always been a Moenan devotee.) His plot was simple and, just as he would have wished, hidden away in his vegetable garden. Helen and Hex were there with little Caroline and a few others from the Palace's cooking staff attended. But where was Salnya? Mark had imagined Salnya to be grief stricken. He'd imagined this to be the thread that held them together, their love for her father. But she'd gone away. Moved south to Kallent, relocating with her husband who had left the Imperial Guard for a job with his brother on the docks of Ceyliz. Word had reached her - Helen had seen to that - but she just didn't come.

Mark sighed and tried to put the sad thought from his mind, tried to enjoy the happiness he had now.

"Mark," Kell asked.

"Oh, nothing," Mark replied.

* * *

Neither could get much sleep and, as the rain fell, they dozed to the spattering of drops on the tent. With the first sound of movement, which signaled Mark to the changing of the guard and the start of a new day, he rose, quickly dressing in his full gear. His sabre slung over his shoulder, he stepped out of the tent. (Best to let Kell sleep while she could, he thought.) Around him, things were much busier than a typical morning should have been. He found Kraephten and questioned the activity.

"It's started. Oh, we have a while, yet, but they're making their presence felt."

"What have they done?"

Kraephten pointed to the northwest where the clouds seemed to be much thicker. "Up there. Our scouts say they've started putting the forest to flame."

"What," Mark asked, shocked. They had just presumed that, by putting Paela between themselves and the enemy forces, the fighting would automatically be pushed east, around the forest. Paela had always been indestructible, beyond men. It was said that, hundreds of generations ago, the ancestors of Paead, the forest folk, had first come forth. Their beauty was so great, it was said, that maidens throughout Paead had lain with them. Some said the Paeadies still possessed a modicum of their forebear's forest magic. Others insisted that it was diluted with generations of cross-breeding. With the Paeadies gone from their own country, it was a moot point. "How can this be happening? It's raining!"

Mark's exasperated claim echoed the thoughts of all those around him. It was Bertrum Typewriter, approaching from his tent, who answered, "They must be using fuel to keep it going."

"Fuel," Kraephten asked.

"Kerosene. Petroleum," Bertrum explained. "Any number of natural fuels that may proliferate in those mountains. I know we found plenty of it in the swamp. Methane gas."

"Why aren't the forest folk leaving?"

"Some might have already," Tim said. When all eyes turned towards him, he added, "Well, isn't Silen another home for the forest folk? Maybe when they saw that the Paeadies were gone, they decided to head for safer ground."

"Good point, Tim," Kraephten said, adding, "or it may have been the fleeing forest folk that convinced the Paeadies to run for safety."

"But Tsurtoor's forces don't know this, doo they? That's why they're lighting up the forest, to drive the forest foolk, south. Into us."

Mark turned to Kell, who was also outfitted and ready with her spike blades. Her armor was laced up and her pack was on her back, ready to go.

"That's exactly right," Mark agreed. "And that's why we've got to get moving!" Sending the others on their way, rushing to break camp, he gave Kell a quick kiss. "Good job, princess."

"Thanks, dukie."

They didn't have much time. Rain was still falling heavily when, less than a couple of hours later, the forces of Tzurritza had pulled back from the shadow of Paela and they saw the first creatures emerge from the forest's edge.

"I thought you said they were forest folk," Tim accused. "Folk, you know, like people."

Kraephten looked over at his young friend. "Some are," he replied and, turning to the troops, he yelled, "Ladies and gentlemen, I recommend we pick up the pace." Never having mastered the art of understatement, Kraephten had done a fine job of it this time. The Tzurritzanian army saw what Tsurtor's forces had been aiming for; had the Tzurritzanians remained where they were, they would have died beneath a stampede of creatures.

They darkened the landscape, creatures great and small. Some had been seen by man: the dryad with its large, transparent wings, the gomny, it's huge snout and little feet running frantically, the woodnamph which could blend it's female form effortlessly with the forest ran out onto the plain like a striding sapling along with a variety of wildlife, deer and squirrel, wolf and bear, and thousands of birds. Others had lived so deep in the forest that no man had ever laid eyes upon them whether they flew through the air or scurried or slithered on the ground or glided effortlessly like wisps. Many of these were older than man, older than the dragons themselves. And they fled southward, swerving ever so slightly to bypass the last of the Tzurritzanians, into their only haven, the swamp of Tzurritza itself.

Traveling for the next few days, always keeping their distance from Paela to avoid the fleeing creatures, they finally came on the outskirts of the eastern edge of Paela on an unusually clear day. It was near dusk. The air was biting. It felt like there might be snow on the way, in lowlands like these. Mark and Kraephten knew what was coming. Tsurtor's forces had dogged them this far; they'd either be awaiting their northward charge or they'd be lying in wait. Both of the Rynians were sure it would be the later.

Kraephten arranged the forces for battle. The captains of the fourteen divisions, over four thousand Tzurritzanian men and women, were ready to sound the call. Timothy stood with Kraephten, his staff's edges whittled to points. Kell and Mark stood aside, royalty. They'd see their share of fighting later. The initial charge would be left to the army. Charles and Bertrum stood further back, for they knew that their knowledge would best be used in the treating of the wounded.

"Stand ready," Kraephten shouted. The call was raised by the fourteen captains. Throughout the field, swords were drawn, armor was checked, and bodies tensed. A moment was given for one last check of armor. Kraephten raised his vittahr in his right hand and, in his left, he held the awkward projectile thrower. He was dry as desert stone, war was no stranger to him. Nothing would break his nerve. Still, in the last war against Tsurtor, when he'd rode with the desert raiders, Tsurtor had let the forest stand. He hadn't been so... desperate.

No more thoughts. Now was the time for action. At the top of his lungs, he shouted, "To war!!" The captains could not repeat his command. A great roar rose from his forces as they charged past him and out of the shelter of Paela. Kraephten looked over at Mark with an excited smile. Mark wasn't smiling. His sword was held in a shaky grip and his legs were ready to bolt. Towards battle or away, he didn't know.

Then, the great roaring of the Tzurritzanian army was broken by a louder sound. It was almost like Kunsiit had opened the heavens and was hurling down thunder. It came so fast, one couldn't keep track.

Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!

Kraephten's smile turned quickly into a look of shock. What was happening?

"Pull your forces back," came a cry. Bertrum was running towards Mark. "They have projectile throwers! I know that sound! Your people will be slaughtered! Pull them back!"

Mark's heart stopped pumping and he ran without thinking, screaming the order to Kraephten. It was an ambush of the worst kind. Somehow, Tsurtor had possession of the Machinist's technology and had turned it against the Tzurritzanians.

Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta! This time the thunderous pounding came in several successions followed by the sound of dying men. Kraephten didn't have a chance to run forward and call retreat. Men were fleeing for their lives. The captains were watching him, though, and he yelled his next command. The meadow on which they ran was too wide open. If Tsurtor's forces had projectile throwers, the most obvious defense was to find cover, just as with an arrow attack. The swamp was too far, though. They'd never reach it before dark and, by that time, most of the troops would be dead. So, as Tzurritzanians charged past him, he shouted, "To the forest!"

To the forest? It was insanity. Already, the enemy had set a great deal of it aflame. They wouldn't hesitate now. Nay! They'd be encouraged. Slowly, though, as the captains hollered the order, the troops slowly complied. What was the option? Death upon the field? Through the press of bodies, Kraephten saw his young friend, Timothy Holt, fleeing as well. Finally, Kraephten thought, the boy displays some intelligence.

He didn't finish that thought, however. With the next barrage of projectiles, Tim was hit, picked up by an unseen hand, and thrown face first into the field. Kraephten's breath caught in his throat and he rushed to the young man's side. Blood was pouring from Tim's upper leg and he shook as though he was freezing. Kraephten turned him over to see Tim's face full of bleeding scrapes and terror. "I was running," Tim said as if asking, "Why?"

Kraephten had no time to comfort him. The Saladans, General K'tan's men, were marching around the side of the forest, their projectile throwers spewing death. Kraephten knew immediately that they weren't human. Their bald, scaly heads were capped with strange helmets and their huge bodies were armored with thick scales. In their hands, they carried projectile throwers that looked nothing like those of the Machinist's. These were bigger, longer and Kraephten instinctively fell against the ground when they fired on him.

Pulling his projectile thrower, he prayed to Gerrit and, yes, to Tzuratt as well, that the Machinists made their weapons as well as Tsurtor. Aiming at the head of the nearest saladan, he pulled the trigger. The blast it made was deafening and Kraephten's entire arm was jarred with pain. The thrower spewed a cloud of smoke but Kraephten could see that he'd hit his target. Blood pumped into the empty chasm that had once been the Saladan's head.

With the Saladan's temporarily shaken, Kraephten rose, grabbing his young friend's body. "Come on, lad." He put one arm around him but Tim was no longer conscious. He dragged the ex-thief to the safety of the forest, looking for a familiar face. "Spread out," he called. "Forced march! Southwest!"

Charles Carburetor, who had been nearby, approached him, asking, "But what about the wounded?"

"Leave them."

"Leave them?"

"Leave them!"

"But they'll die!"

"They're dead already! Here. You want to help with the wounded?" Kraephten gingerly handed Tim's still form to the Machinist. "Bond him," he ordered. Mark and Kell weren't too far away and, seeing the blood on Kraephten, were concerned. "It's not mine," Kraephten told them. "Tim got hit."

"Where is he," Kell asked.

"One of those Machinists has him."

"What happened back there," Mark asked.

"Projectile throwers," Kraephten answered. "Tsurtor's forces have 'em and they're better than ours. Mine only shot one projectile." Seeing some stragglers, Kraephten ordered them on. "Things have changed, Mark. We lost more than a couple hundred men back there in only a few minutes. We need to get word of this to Heaphge before he throws his men into the same kind of trap."

"That is," Mark replied, "if he hasn't already." Saying this, time seemed to break into fragments as everything fell apart around him.

It started with another barrage of projectiles.

Mark heard the throwers firing and turned to Kraephten. We don't have time to get word to Heaphge, he wanted to say. Heaphge will have to take care of his own. Our job is to get these people to safety. He didn't say that, though, for Kraephten's horrified stare drew his attention to the ground beside Mark.

Kell was no longer beside him. She had been standing there but in the next instant, she was gone. Following Kraephten's eyes, Mark looked down from where she'd stood. Now, she was on the ground, writhing. Blood streamed from her left arm as she clutched it, trying to hold the blood in.

Next, Mark was diving for the ground, his heart threatening to break. Kraephten beat him, though. He was already holding her tight, staunching the blood with his hands and looking accusatorially at Mark. "Go," he shouted.

"What?"

"Use your brain, for Gerrit's sake! Somebody has to warn Heaphge. You're the only one! I certainly can't!"

"I can't leave Kell!"

"You don't have a choice! This is reality, Mark!"

"But - but, Kraephten!"

"You were sent here to help preserve Rynia," Kraephten shouted as if to a child. "Nothing else matters! If he takes Rynia, he can take anything! That includes Kell, Benaatt, everything! Now, go! It's turning dark. Use your projectile thrower if you need to, just go!"

Mark saw Kraephten rise with Kell, who was panting as if she would soon lose consciousness. He looked to the east, where Tsurtor's men were advancing over dead bodies. He looked back at Kraephten, whose eyes demanded action. Looking back again, he trembled. How could he go? Turn his back on the reason he was sent to Tzurritza and the woman he - His shoulders fell, and somewhere inside he wished he would get shot, as he admitted, "I can't, Kraephten. I just can't."

Kraephten pursed his lips and gritted his teeth. Drawing Kell close as if he were about to turn, he spoke. It was just a whisper and it carried directly to Mark's ears. "Coward."

Mark felt tears fall from his eyes and his grip clenched around his sabre. "Kell," he asked.

Her eyes fluttered open just a little and she said, "I love you."

Now, he couldn't leave. Not when he had this. Couldn't he be allowed just another moment with this woman? He started to say, "I lo -"

And Kraephten yelled from the bottom of his soul, "GO!"

Hearing this, Mark ran in the falling night. He thought nothing of fallen bodies or projectile throwers or the woman whom he loved. It was as though Kraephten had given the order to his body and his body could not disobey. When he reached the forest's edge, he came on a saladan by surprise and his sabre's keen edge struck off its head. He brought up his projectile thrower at the two others blocking his way (Looking around he saw that there had to have been more than several dozen combing the forest in this area alone.) and fired at them, missing them both. But they had thrown themselves upon the ground and Mark ran past, into the darkness.

Then he pocketed his thrower and replaced the sabre in its scabbard across his back and ran and didn't stop running until the sun was rising the next morning. By then, his body was so tired and soul so torn that he had to stop beside a stream and add his salty tears to its mix. Resting upon a rock as the rain fell upon him, he was nagged by an enduring thought. Had he been more afraid to run or more afraid to stay? For now, his path was set. He would proceed northward and, if such a force remained, fight with the Rynian army to crush the one who had deprived him of love, never forgetting what he'd almost had and how he'd been too afraid to keep it.

Part III

"How long have you known," Marcus asked.

Stark glanced up for a moment, his hair falling over his eyes because it was too long for the hood of his robe to hold back. His eyes, a piercing blue in the torchlight, looked at the king with a mixture of contempt and suspicion. Or, perhaps, it was Marcus' own suspicion reflecting back at him. "Most of my life."

"Then you knew back in Caspeton?"

"Oh, of course."

"But you didn't help us!"

"They were burning wizards at the stake in Caspeton, your highness. I wanted to get out alive."

"But you ended up here," Marcus observed, looking at his left arm that Stark had cleaned and wrapped. "You didn't strike me as the religious type."

"Who said I was? It's an old story, your highness. You've heard it before. Young kid gets a hold of some money and takes a try at the big city. In my case, it was Ceyliz. This was back when Kal-Kor monks were a typical sight in the city. Queen Imnustre used them as spies. Well, fool that I was, I took a few of them for all their gold in a crooked game of dice. They'd probably have happily walked out of my parlor penniless - I'd set up a gambling den up in Ceyliz, you see? Good business, too - if I hadn't been so greedy. Took their gold. Didn't have enough hidden pockets."

"You were caught."

"Oh, no. Those boys are fast but I have a way with shadows and my den was full of shadows. Before they knew it, they was fighting thin air."

"So where did you go?"

"Nowhere to go! That was my mistake. I thought I'd step outside of my den and wait for the ruckus to die down. That was the way I'd done it before. But with these monks they - they were everywhere! Outside the den. Down the alley. No matter where I Moved, those monks found me. They could smell me! And once they got me out of the city, I was theirs."

"I don't understand."

"No shadows out in the desert. Not in broad daylight. So, I ran and they chased me. Oh, they could have caught me easy but they didn't. They didn't want to - not yet. Night came eventually but they had me too tired to Move. So, I kept walking. They were herding me like a sheep! Right into the desert!"

"They were herding you here," Marcus guessed.

"Yep. Took me before their queen for execution."

"How'd you avoid that?"

Stark laughed, and the sound of it was carried into the giant cavern where they sat, "You saved me, your highness."

"Me," Marcus asked.

Stark nodded. "Her highness said that Kallent was strong in many ways but weak in one. Rynia held the world's most powerful wizards. Tuk. Hex. Vincent. Kallent, though, lacked in magic. She spared my life and made me promise to remain here where I would serve her if she needed me."

"And so she did."

"More than anyone could have surmised. When the bimunes came here less than a month ago, they achieved complete surprise."

Marcus pursed his lips. "They tunneled in, didn't they?"

"Only some," Stark replied. "You're aware of the Kal-Kor monk's ability to manipulate the winds? Well, when the bimunes tried their magical gas on them, the monks simply shifted the winds to bring in air from the upper floors."

Marcus gasped. "But there were more bimunes on the upper levels. They filled the upper levels with gas!"

"Brought it right down onto the monks. Took out the queen, too, as you have seen."

"But you got away."

"I was the only one who could. I knew I couldn't take on all those bimunes alone."

"How many are there?"

"How many? More than I could count. More than there are monks. They've filled the lower levels. Kamm's got himself quite an army. The only way I've been able to keep them off my tail is to start random fires in their tunnels - not a place I like to go to often - just like you did in Ceyliz."

"How did you know," Marcus asked.

"After the queen was taken, I started Moving to the various tribes, instructing their shamans to head closer to the Great Temple and close in the enemy."

"And they listened to you?"

"Well, they had to; they thought I was one of their monks." In the simple, long robe, Stark did look like a member of the Kal-Kor monastic order but his size left something wanting. "Although there is a definite size deficiency," Stark added, as if reading the king's mind. "A couple of the tribes had recently come from the outskirts of Ceyliz. They'd heard about the fire and they'd heard about the old man who'd fought off ten of Kamm's soldiers singlehandedly."

Marcus modestly added, "It wasn't that many."

"Still, I knew of only one man who could do that. I also knew that the fire meant an escape attempt. When Kamm sent out searching parties for nearly a week afterwards, I knew you'd made good on your escape. So, I said to myself, if you made it through the desert, you'd head here. That's why I had the shaman's looking for you."

"So, that's how he knew," Marcus said, thinking back to Shaman Yria.

"What? Did one of those shaman's pull some of that Kal-Kor mumbo-jumbo on you?"

Mumbo-jumbo, Marcus wondered, closing his scarred hand into a fist. He wasn't sure what it was. "So why didn't you warn us when we came here," Marcus asked.

"Quite honestly, I wasn't expecting you to charge in like you did. Enemy position, held by an unknown force, I figured that you'd at least take a couple of days to gather your intelligence."

Marcus bristled at Stark's words. There was something strange about them... otherworldly. Besides, "We couldn't risk losing the queen, not when so many lives are at stake."

"Not to mention the fate of your kingdom, is that it?"

"Rynia is my first priority, Stark. There's nothing wrong with that. But neither of our kingdoms is going to survive with the threat of Tsurtor. He's already brought this danger on your heads."

Stark rose, stepping back into the shadows. "I think I was doing a pretty good job before you blundered in. I can free the rest of the monks, too, as well as your army. Then we can deal with those bimunes."

"No," Marcus ordered. "If you do that, you'll alert them to your presence and Kamm and the bimunes all will escape to threaten you again. No," Marcus repeated, thinking. "we have to make them think nothing suspicious is happening. We have to keep them here until we are ready to strike."

"And how do you plan to do that?"

A thought occurred to Marcus and he said, with an evil grin, "We'll let Kamm have what he wants."

"Beg your pardon?"

"He wants the Kallent throne? We'll give it to him."

Stark eyed Marcus from beneath the robe's hood through slit-fine eyes for several moments. "Sounds sneaky," he said. "I like it."

"Good," Marcus replied. "But we're going to need a little help if this is going to work. I'm going to have to go back to my cell and you can't do everything."

"I think I see where you're going with this," Stark replied, pulling back his hood, "and it sounds like a plan I've been working on. I've only been able to free a handful of men, just a small percentage of the monks. Queen Imnustre told me to be patient and, since she wasn't suffering unduly, to leave her in her cell so as not to arouse suspicion of my existence. Still, I think we can pull this off."

There was the sound of soft footsteps as, from out of the darkness, human forms stepped up behind Stark. There had to be twenty, no fifty - Marcus lost count. Was this the small percentage Stark had spoken of? This huge division?

"King Marcus," Stark said. "Let me introduce you to some of the Kal-Kor monks."

* * *

The shackles were looser than he remembered so he had Stark - who possessed a keen adeptness at lock picking - make them tighter.

"Whatever you say," Stark replied. "You're the king." The metal tightened further around his wrists and Stark said, "Now just hang tight. Things are on schedule."

"What is he referring to," the queen asked.

Marcus looked back at where Stark had been but the Mover was gone. "It's rather complicated, your highness. Just try to have faith."

"Faith? Marcus Haddison, that's why I've been waiting for you to arrive. I knew once you were here, everything would be fine."

For the first time, Marcus was glad he was in the dark. He was sure that, if there had been light, she would have seen him blushing.

* * *

He put the incense in the censer just as he'd been shown. Moving to the floor, where his twitching, excited body would lay prostrate, he looked up to see his master's form take shape. Kamm didn't realize that there was more to Tsurtor's appearance than a simple ritual and Tsurtor wanted it that way. "I've done as you asked, master! And you were - you were right! The enemy walked right in," Kamm's high pitched squeal echoed off the unadorned stone walls of his chamber. It was one of the largest on one of the highest levels as was appropriate. Later, he'd take this entire suite and have it turned into one, massive bed chamber. Then, the echo would be deeper and his voice wouldn't sound so high.

"You have taken them," Tsurtor said, no doubt in his voice. His was a commanding bellow, echoing off the walls like thunder. If only, Kamm wished wistfully, I could have a voice like that!

"Yes, my master. And they are all below. Encased. Imprisoned. They will be brought forth in the morning to watch my coronation just as you foresaw. There will be no one to thwart our plans this time, oh master. No one will stop me, er, us."

"Fool," Tsurtor bellowed. "They already make the attempt!"

"What?" Kamm's voice raised several octaves, betraying his fear. "How?"

"The enemy has been loose. I have seen it."

"But how? I saw the shackles. They bound him well."

"Not well enough, it would seem. There will be no mistakes this time. See to it that the enemy is rid of. There will be no other opportunities for you."

"I will," Kamm groveled. "I will! Tell me how!"

"He must be aligned with one of the monks. One must have broken free. Be sure that they are all watched. Be sure that they are all present during your little ceremony and then, kill them. Let none go free."

"But - but," Kamm howled, "how am I to let the kingdom know of my ascension? How will they learn of my power?"

Tsurtor was silent as Kamm waited for an answer. Then, in a terrifying voice, he commanded, "Kamm. Look at me."

Kamm looked up and felt, for the first time, his eyes grow warm. They were transfixed upon Tsurtor's form as his master transformed into fire. The flames grew and grew until they filled the chamber and Kamm, mute and trembling, felt his eyes sear and boil and melt onto his burning flesh as Tsurtor's voice roared, "WHAT POWER? WHAT POWER DO YOU HAVE BUT THROUGH ME? KNOW THIS TO BE POWER, SLAVE AND NEVER FORGET!"

Kamm fell on his face, coughing on his charred lungs and, opening his eyes, discovered that he could see. "Yes. Yes, my master," he whispered respectfully. "All power is yours and I will do your bidding."

* * *

Light burst into the dungeon cell where Marcus hung. Had morning come already, he wondered? He hoped so; his wrists were killing him. Guards hurried down the stairway, five in all, all carrying torches. The cell was thrown into light and Marcus got his first really good look at the queen. It wasn't often that he met a woman of similar station with such beauty. Of course, this probably wasn't the proper time for such thoughts but with his brother descending the stairs, a raving look upon his face, he kept the thought as long as he could.

"You're doing it again," his brother yelled, stepping off the final stair. "You think you're so smart, don't you? So sneaky!" He balled his hand into an impotent fist and hit Marcus' face. It surprised more than stung. "I know what you've been doing! But you won't get away with it! You won't do it again!"

"Kamm, what are you talking about?"

"You think I don't know! But I do! Tsurtor has seen you leave and try to weave your trickery!"

The mention of the name sent ice down Marcus' back. So, maybe Tsurtor's eyes were everywhere. Marcus tried to retain his nonchalance. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You lie! I know! And you won't do it again!" Kamm signaled to his men and they brought their torches up like clubs. Marcus noted the panicked expression on Olivia's face and heard his brother declare, "You won't be able to."

The beating began in the stomach and quickly moved to the face. Those who couldn't crowd in, beat him in the legs and the chest. Some took a fancy at pummeling his genitals. Eventually, it all blurred into one and Marcus crashed into merciful unconsciousness.

Part IV

It was a glorious morning. Kunsiit had seen fit to provide them with the first real sunlight in weeks. It fell like ribbons through the eastern passes of the hills surrounding the Great Temple which would soon be Kamm's Royal Palace. The servants made ready to celebrate his coronation at dawn, with the sun shining into the easternmost archway which led inward to the Temple and outward to the desert. As the sun's rays splashed upon the coronation's ornate, tile floor (which was quickly though awkwardly being laid by bimune pincers), they would honor the tradition of facing towards Kunsiit, Gerrit's first, and away from Tzuratt. The traditional ceremony was quite simple. The old queen, having realized the end of her term would step out onto the archway carrying nothing but a simple chair from her quarters. Before only a few eyes, she would pass this chair onto the one who she had chosen as her successor.

This ceremony would not be that simple. Kamm had ordered a chair from the queen's small chambers brought forth and placed beside his new throne. Constructed of solid marble and outfitted with onyx, ebony, and gold, it was obviously the more impressive of the two chairs.

Kamm did not walk into the archway to meet the old queen. He had decided to have things decidedly different. First, bimunes by the hundreds came out of the earth and lined the sand, standing amidst the sand beetles which the humans had found deadly. Kamm's few human servants - his personal guards and attendants - came out next. The guards surrounded the throne and the attendants stood behind it. Already, more stood forth for this coronation than any before in Kallent history. Still, there were more to witness the deed.

Lumbering slowly, like beaten men, Kallents came forth from the temple. Monk, initiate, and desert dweller alike, many who had fought vainly against Kamm's ascension, were led out by bimunes who poked and prodded them, leading them along. They could do no harm. Each of them, man and woman, had their arms bound behind their backs with the thick, rocklike substance the bimunes produced. They kept coming until no more would fit under the archway, nearly five hundred in all. They were split into two groups and a wedge was driven between them and the bimune guards, without a sound, cleared a path.

Then, a thick, golden carpet was rolled out. It stood out like a smear upon the white tiles. Walking upon it, the only one whose feet were worthy to touch its golden smoothness, was Kamm. Bedecked as only a king could be, his robes were said to be woven with the purest gold. (They weren't, of course. His tailors had insisted it would be too heavy to wear. Kamm's insistence, however, had driven them to create this garment which only had the appearance of gold. The tailors took the rest of the gold, along with Kamm's payment, on a ship to carry them far away.) His white shoes were, he believed, purest silk. The crown on his head glittered with emeralds and rubies and topaz, this much at least was true. He would not bother with another placing the throne on his head. There was only one he would bow to and he dreaded the thought of ever seeing Tsurtor in person. No, he was the superior creature here. None could near his perfection and, so, his station was evident. He only walked out to display his wonder - and to view the closure of certain, unpleasant elements in his life. When he reached his throne, the golden carpet was rolled up behind him so that none other could touch its surface.

He sat upon his throne, its hard surface aggravating a boil (he made a mental note to order the perfect cushion made for the throne), and called for all to hear, "Bring out the prisoner!" The call was repeated by another, human servant within the temple and Kamm watched with pleasure as a few moments passed. His silence was broken by none and he liked that. (In truth, though, the bimunes couldn't talk, the prisoners were too drugged to speak, and his personal entourage knew better.) After several, long minutes, the silence was broken with a scraping noise. It was dim at first but quickly grew to a familiar sound that Kamm found rather pleasing. It was the dragging of chains.

Marcus couldn't carry himself, let alone the lengths of chain attaching his feet to and hands to his waist. He'd been beaten again and old wounds had quickly reopened. Blood dripped on the temple's floor as he was dragged into the sunlight by two, massive bimune guards. He was led over the white tiles, which were soon blotted with red drops, and, reaching Kamm's throne, was dropped before him. He'd fallen head first and fresh tears fell as several cuts around his right eye reopened. He tried to struggle out of the undignifying position before his younger brother, but the chains made it almost impossible. After several minutes of struggling and falling and rolling side to side, he was sitting up on his knees, looking up at his brother. It came as no surprise that Kamm was smiling and, looking down at his chained body, left only the dignity of a simple loincloth, he couldn't help letting out a very small laugh. He looked up again at his brother. "You must be really afraid of me, Kamm."

His face growing red like searing skin, Kamm shook on his throne as if he were about to leap from it and hit his brother again as he had in Ceyliz. But not in the middle of his coronation, no. Marcus wouldn't ruin that. "Hit him," Kamm ordered, looking at his guards. "Somebody hit him!" He screamed like a small child and several jumped in response. Marcus was soon back on the ground, bleeding even more freely. "You won't ruin things for me," Kamm cried. "You've ruined everything! Everything! But you won't get this!"

Marcus, too weak to move, felt terribly sorry for his brother, realizing, at last, that there would be no redemption for Kamm Haddison. Then, Marcus was dragged several feet away.

Kamm signaled to the two, massive bimunes. "Bring forth the newborn," he ordered.

Newborn? Marcus wondered for a moment to what Kamm could have referred but then recalled the fate Kamm had planned for him. He looked up, slowly, through his beaten eyes. Where was Stark? He didn't have time to think about that, though. Before his blurred vision, the newborn was brought forth. He rejoiced for a moment that his sight wasn't clear. To see any more would surely have induced madness. The bimunes must not have been a desert breed before Tsurtor brought them to Gerriter. The newborn was carried out in a huge tub of water within which it splashed like a playful child. But Marcus could see, even with his blurred vision, that this was far more than a child. Pincers clutched at the sides of the tube, shifting its weight within the wet environment, and, as it was carried past where Marcus lay, it brought its huge, misshapen head up, its squirming proboscis pointing hungrily at the Rynian monarch.

"Today you witness the reward for bimune loyalty," Kamm announced. "Ever have they been my loyal servants, my soldiers, my eyes within other realms and now, today, I make the Kallent bimunes immortal!" Trying to look impressive, but only succeeding in looking even more foolish in Marcus' eyes, Kamm thrust both hands up into the air. The bimunes, reacting to Kamm's gesture or some unheard order, shrieked in response. Their voices, hundreds of them, echoed within the temple and bled out into the desert with a sound that could shatter the hardest rock. Marcus' skull exploded in pain and his forehead felt like it was about to crack. Even the prisoners, drugged though they were, squirmed and cowered in response. Kamm's human entourage clutched their hands to their ears, trying desperately to shut out the screeching. Marcus, too, tried to bring his hands up to his ears but the chains were too short. Though he'd have sworn his stomach was empty, vomit flew from his mouth upon the tiles. Only one human among them was unaffected. When Marcus looked up as the bimunes horrid noise ended, he saw Kamm smiling. Finally, it seemed, the youngest Haddison brother had the admiration he craved.

"Bring forth her royal highness, Queen Olivia Imnustre," Kamm roared, his manic eyes clearly reflecting his excitement.

Stark, Marcus thought, trying to call with his mind. Stark? Where are you?

Queen Imnustre walked forward without shackles. She tried to hold her head up proudly though she wore only the simple shift. No crown was upon her head for the queen of Kallent wore no crown. To Kamm's disappointment, she had no royal robes, no jewelry, nothing to signify her station. She had no throneroom, no mansion. She lived in a simple set of suites, adorned with only the simplest furniture, and clothed herself in only her white robes. Kamm could not understand that the queen was not the lord of Kallent. On the contrary, the station of queen in Kallent was that of servant. She awaited the return of Kal-Kor, serving his interests in his stead.

He gritted his teeth, nearly growling, as she approached. Even in her undergarment, she possessed more grace than he ever would. "Bow to me," his evil voice whined when she'd approached.

"Kamm Haddison," she addressed without awaiting his let, "you are an evil, little man. You serve a dark master who would bring us nothing but ruin. While I thought there was a chance of saving lives, I allowed you your twisted desires and I know now that I was flawed for not having you killed then. However, as it is obvious you have no interest in sparing any lives, I shall not bow to you. I shall not tolerate you. I shall order you to leave this temple presently. Leave this kingdom and cast it from your sick mind. For you shall never have Kallent no matter who you kill."

"Bow to me," he screamed. Launching himself from his throne, his intent was to force her to bow but his long robes got in the way. They caught his feet and he stumbled down, catching himself on his hands and his knees. Before him, standing proudly, the queen said not a word. His guards saved him from further humiliation. They swiftly got behind her and, kicking the backs of her knees, drove her down. Kamm rose, fuming, taking her simple chair in his shaking hands. He picked it up and threw it upon the tiles, hoping it would break. It didn't. He grabbed it, beating it again and again until, finally, one of the legs came loose. Panting, he stepped back to his throne as several bimune guards attacked the chair, breaking it into smaller bits. "The kingdom is mine," Kamm shouted. "Take her away!"

Suddenly, a pair of hands hauled her to her feet. A robed figure looked at her with bright, blue eyes before pulling back his hood. "I'll take care of her," Stark said.

Breathless, Kamm jumped to his feet just as Stark disappeared. "No! What," Kamm cried. "Find her," he yelled at his personal guards.

Marcus was smiling. "You and your master always make the same mistake, Kamm," he said through swollen lips and a hoarse voice. "You think nobody can touch you."

Kamm grabbed Marcus by the chains holding his arms and shook. "Stop this! Make them stop this!"

"He can't make us stop," Stark said, again appearing near Tsurtor's minion.

Marcus, looking into his brother's eyes, added, "I won't."

Insanity flared in Kamm's eyes and he jerked his head to look behind when he felt a gust of wind blow through his hair. "They can command the air," he remembered the queen saying after he'd arrived and visited her in her cell. "It could be just a breeze or it could be a tornado. When you feel them, you'll know they're coming for you." And there, coming from inside the temple and circling from the north and south ends, hordes of whisper quiet demons of white arrived and Kamm trembled until he crouched on the tiled floor.

Bimunes raised a shriek greater than the one before. Many of the monks clutched their heads and fell down. Marcus felt blood spill from his nose. Their pincers clicking, the bimunes charged at the army. Others still used the previously reliable method of expelling gas into the crowd but the monks knew this would come and forced the air away, blowing the gas high into the sky.

The monks were formidable fighters. One punch could cave in the bimune's carapace. With a kick, pincers were dislocated. Many tore limbs free as though from giant lobsters. When the bimunes attempted a concerted attack, the monks of Kal-Kor used the winds they commanded to break the forces apart. But the bimunes were fast and could scurry away from what would have been a well-placed punch. They were ruthless fighters, crushing bones with a good grip from their pincers, which they'd gladly lose in exchange for taking out one of Kal-Kor's monks. Too, when taken out of the fight by one of the monks, they wouldn't stay down! Many who fought the bimunes were horrified to see a confirmed kill rise up after a few minutes to fight just as viciously as ever.

After the monk's initial charge, they were soon followed by a human roar as hundreds of the army that Marcus had marshaled charged out from the temple, their weapons hungry for blood. Many hit with their swords while others were armed with axes. They were quickly fought back, though, by the bimunes when metal edges could not pierce their hard exoskeletons. The initiates quickly took their places, though, shunning their weapons for the monk's bare-handed style. Though they were not nearly the monk's equals, they soon helped turn the battle to Kal-Kor's favor.

A singular figure hurried across the tiled floor, ignoring the battle around him. "Come on, uncle. We need to get you to safety."

Marcus looked up at Laurence and smiled.

"No!" Grabbing one of the sticks from the queen's broken chair, Kamm struck Laurence solidly across the temple, sending him to the ground. "No escape for you! I might lose my kingdom but I'll see you dead!" He grabbed the chain that led to his brother's arm and swung it around Marcus' neck. Pulling on it, he dragged Marcus's struggling body to the newborn's pool.

Marcus saw where they were going and tried to dig his feet into the tile, but only succeeded in brushing aside the poorly laid flooring. His left arm was held up by the chain that was strangling him and, though he fought hard with the other to push his brother away, lack of oxygen soon began turning things black.

Kamm grinned, seeing Marcus at his mercy and knowing that he'd not show any, and lifted his brother into the newborn's pool.

The initiate's gauntlet of pain was thickly padded to absorb any impact while the knuckles were studded to maximize the same. They were all made left handed to free the right to more direct fighting. It was Laurence's glove the connected with the back of Kamm's head. With all of his weight behind it, Laurence's punch threw Kamm over his brother.

Kamm lost his grip on Marcus' chains and Marcus felt the world return to him almost immediately. The first thing he heard were Kamm's screams.

Breathless because he couldn't stop screaming, Kamm jumped from the pool, the newborn's pincers clutching his arms tightly. They clamped down, not strong enough to crush the bone the newborn's pincers sliced through muscle. As Kamm scrambled back, his arms fell to his sides and he crashed down into the bed of sand outside of the temple's eastern entrance.

Marcus could barely focus but he could see enough. His eyes were locked in horror; he'd not wanted this for his brother. Through blurred eyes, he could see -

The newborn had one pincer free!

It reached up to Kamm's neck and dug into the soft flesh until blood started gushing forth. Hungrily, it planted its proboscis into the newly found feeding tube, nursing like a baby at a teat while blood covered the sand.

But Marcus knew there was more in that sand than the newborn. His suspicions were swiftly confirmed. The sand shifted and Kamm's body, now slack with the approach of death, was dragged beneath. The newborn was too intent on its eating. It's soft shell quickly clutched in claws, it thought of nothing but blood as it disappeared beneath the earth.

Around them, the bimunes, too, were retreating into the earth. Not to be devoured by the sand beetles, they escaped by the hundreds. The Kal-Kor monks watched with victory and relief in their eyes.

Marcus put his head on the tiles, exhausted, and slipped quietly into unconsciousness.

* * *

Several days later, a poultice was removed from Marcus' forearm. The wound from the sand beetle was healing nicely along with the rest of his cuts and bruises.

"Why are you doing this," Marcus asked, soaking in a warm tub. "There are obviously others who can do this, your highness."

"Olivia," the queen said, stepping into the tub.

"Yes," Marcus replied slowly, seeing that the queen was just as naked as he.

"Do you think I didn't see it in your eyes down there in the dungeon? Do you think I did not see you watching me?"

"But is it appropriate?"

"We are royalty, Marcus. Can it be anything but?"

Out of the bath, several hours later, they lay in her bed. Her head against his bare chest, her fingers drifting lazily through the thick hair there, she asked, "We've just experienced a tremendous victory. Why do I sense melancholy in your kisses?"

Marcus sighed. "I'm sorry. I can't stop thinking about Kamm."

"That fiend," she asked, startled.

"My brother," he replied in way of explanation.

"I see. Well, then, what of him?"

"That's just it. There's nothing I can do now. No more words."

She nodded. "His body is far beneath the desert. Even the desert beetles are gone now, nothing to hold them."

"He tried to claim the desert but the desert claimed him."

"There was something found, though," she said, sitting up. Walking into an adjacent room, she returned, saying, "I had a feeling you'd want to do something with this."

In her hand, glittering not at all despite the many jewels, she held Kamm's crown.

* * *

It took him a while to get to it. There were other, more important, things, it seemed. He had to make a formal request for troops, speaking before the many monks and initiates who had come inside the shrine. As it happened, there was no need for such a request. The monks of Kal-Kor owed their lives to Marcus. Half of those remaining, nearly two thousand, offered their fighting hands from the start. Before that could happen, though, it was imperative that all the bimunes left in the lowest tunnels beneath the temple were killed. Then, Marcus saw that his army safely returned to their tribes.

Finally, though, about a week from Kamm's death, he could delay no longer. Dawn had not yet broke through the hills. Only the dim light of the rising sun showed him to the edge of the eastern entrance. Kneeling there, before the sand, Marcus held the crown and wondered what to say.

"I don't know why I feel so guilty," he wondered aloud. "Maybe if I'd been a better brother after father died and left you alone... Maybe if I hadn't become so involved with Rynian affairs after you'd gone to Ceyliz... kept in closer contact after so many refugees fled to your shores during the war... maybe if I'd been there instead of Tsurtor..." The words hung dry and meaningless in his mouth. There was no way to know. It was an incontrovertible fact: Marcus was the last Haddison born of his mother remaining. A dying line, he thought, that's what we are. Cursed. Gerrit forgive me but I don't think Hex can change that.

Suddenly, the feeling there in the archway changed. Marcus knew he was no longer alone.

"Are you actually going to mourn that bastard?"

Marcus rose and turned to face Stark. "That's right. He was my brother."

"A brother in league with Tsurtor."

"Yes."

"Who tried to kill you."

"Yes."

Stark laughed bitterly. "Yet, still you mourn."

"I don't expect you to understand this, Stark," Marcus replied, stepping away so he wouldn't have to look in the Mover's face. On the surface, he knew Stark was right and that's why he didn't want to have to face him. Because there was something more. "He was my youngest brother. I was responsible for him. I'm just as much to blame for any of my line."

"So, are you going to mourn for Tsurtor as well?"

Marcus walked back to the edge of the archway and dropped the crown into the sand. "Yes, Stark. I believe I'll have to."

"When are you going to realize what you're up against, your highness," Stark growled. "You think Tsurtor will mourn when he steps over your bones on the way to your castle? You should have been sending your magicians out to kill these people, if I may say so, not waiting until they were powerful enough to threaten your borders! How could you have done nothing all this time?"

"Nothing? You're one to talk, Stark. You've had the power to help all these years and I find you either sneaking out of a town you just looted or hiding in the depths of this temple. Send my magicians? You're a Mover! You could have gone right to Kamm all these years and killed him yourself! That trick with shadows you have? You're better than that. I saw it! You stepped right out of thin air in front of Kamm without breaking a sweat and took the queen away! Now that I think about it, there's a lot we don't know about you, Stark. How about coming clean?"

Scurrying back into the shadows like a frightened man, Stark muttered, "I - I can't." His voice faded like a dream.

No, Marcus thought, more like a nightmare. Another question left unanswered. He looked back down at Kamm's crown. There'd be no finding Stark, Marcus was sure. Feeling the sun pierce the hilltops and land within the arch, he turned away from his brother's grave without a word

The monks would be readying themselves for the march north and Marcus hurried to see one last person before leaving. He knocked on the door before opening and saw the robes of an initiate where Rynian garb should have been. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

Laurence turned from the window and looked at his uncle. "No," he replied. "It's what I must do."

Marcus nodded. It felt right. After playing a role in Kamm's power grab, Laurence owed something to Kallent. Penance, Marcus thought. "You'll be abdicating your title, you know."

Laurence nodded. "It never did fit me, uncle."

Marcus smiled. "I'm very proud of you. Should you ever desire to return there will be a place for you, of course."

"Should that time ever come, I'll expect an even hand."

They embraced and Marcus felt a dull pain in his gut. He was losing yet another. Now, all that remained were Helen and Caroline. When he heard a knock on the door, he released his nephew, looking upon him with a smile.

"Come. You will be sworn in," Tario said.

Laurence nodded and stepped to the door. "Good luck," he said to his uncle, turning back to him.

"We have two thousand very large surprises in store for Tsurtor. Take care of my nephew," Marcus said to Tario. "So that he might return to Rynia one day."

Tario nodded and the two left without another word.

Feeling terribly old at that moment, Marcus, too, stepped out of the room and, shutting the door behind him, prepared for the next leg of his journey.

CHAPTER SIX

WAR COMES TO COUNTRY GARDENS

Part I

"This is useless!"

"Surely, there must be something -"

"They don't even have metal!" Lashing out in rage, Chief Tower knocked over a row of neatly arranged bats. Picking one up, he approached General Heaphge. "See this? We play sports with this!"

"You're underestimating them, Boom."

"Am I, Hex? You're saying they can fight a war with bats? Do they have gloves? Caps? I sure as hell hope they have cups!"

"Boom -"

"Do you have umpires, too?"

"Believe it or not, Boom, they can take down stone giants with those things," Hex insisted.

"Stone," Chief Tower asked, taken off guard. "Giants? With wood?"

"Hardwood," General Heaphge replied proudly.

Boom looked even more confused.

"It's a tree indigenous to the region," Hex explained. "I'd wager they brought it with them when they came to this planet. The wood's workable, even malleable, in its raw form. Then, it's treated and becomes harder than stone."

Tower, no longer confused, insisted, "Look, Hex, I don't care how hard it is. I was expecting metal from this society, at least. There's pitchforks down here with wooden tines! How can you fight a war with wood?"

"You're more advanced than us, young man," Heaphge replied with a look of contempt. "Why don't you tell us?"

Tower had other responsibilities. He had a town to return to and put at ease. Furthermore, if a war was coming, he had to get them to safety. There'd be no safety, however, if this war was lost. He pulled up a stool. "You got something to write on?"

* * *

Sam stood within the emptying gymnasium, marveling at how well the town meeting had gone. It had taken him some time to get started, explaining another world and their place in it, but the people of Country Gardens, far from the embittered urbanites he had presumed, were happy just to see someone try. They knew they weren't alone in their bewilderment. They knew there were others trying to make things right. Sam wasn't one to hog the podium, either. After several minutes, he gratefully turned the microphone over to Commander Obregon. He was startled by the microphone but, having seen Sam take the lead, wasn't afraid of it. The people of Country Gardens had immediately struck him as odd with their strange dress and bizarre, wrapped food. By this measure, he knew he must have struck them as even more bizarre. The first thing he did was to try and put the people at ease. It was an old trick. He simply dropped his title and introduced himself, "Welcome to my homeland. My name is Rasad Obregon." Without going into detail, he explained the army encamped nearby as protection from the danger of this new world. The conservative Californians were pleased to hear, however, that at no time would the army enter the city. He was then followed by Bern Elcit, who led the wizards of Rynia in the coming battle. His attempt at explaining magic only served to confuse the people even more. Was Bonding some kind of glue? What was so special about Moving? Did Breakers have some kind of special tool? Bern quickly saw that no explaination would suffice. Voices rose in the crowd as some stammered for understanding. Bern's small voice was quickly overwhelmed by the nearing panic. There was only one thing he could do to stifle this. With a thought, he saw the great boulders strewn upon the Northern Spires and summoned one of the smaller ones upon the gym's floor. As it wobbled, threatening to crush many of those within, Elice Zauri Broke it into dust particles. The gym was silent, hushed, stunned. "That, people of earth, is what we mean by magic." Even with those who declared that it was merely a display of holographic images or mass hypnosis, there was no denying the crater formed by the boulder's weight upon the gymnasium's floor. After the dust had settled, Bethel Patir stood up and spoke up abtou displaced persons, evacuations, and the necessities of war. If Tsurtor was coming, Country Gardens may be forced to move to safety. The eastern city of Linson had plenty of room for all and nearby forests for the building of houses. Though she spoke to them frankly, sparing them none of the horrors of their current situation as Sam had tried to do, they listened with quiet compliance.

There was something about Bethel, something Samuel had seen. It was something hard and distant and wouldn't allow anything to touch her but, at the same time, unyieldingly gentle. She was untouchable but she could touch. She had certainly touched Sam. Perhaps it was, in no small part, due to the fact that he'd not dated in a number of years. Little brothers were just too much work. This might have been the worst time but he felt his heart go out to the Rynian captain.

Now, after the town meeting was breaking up and people were returning to their homes, he watched as she met with those doctors and nurses who had come over to this planet, assembling a medical team to serve when this community would have need. She wasn't trying to put people at ease or trying to calm their fears. She wasn't trying - she was doing! A sense of pride, probably misplaced, made his chest swell to the point where he sighed.

She couldn't have heard him - she was across the gymnasium floor - but she turned from the group of medical professionals and, as they dispersed, approached Sam with an expressionless gaze. Her bat slung over her shoulder and her dress uniform clearly showing her seriousness, Samuel still thought she walked like a cat. As she closed the distance, she asked in a clear voice, "Have you thought about your brother?"

"Brother? Well, sure I have but... what do you mean?"

"What are your plans for rescuing him?"

Samuel couldn't suppress the look of shock from his face. Involuntarily, he took a step back. "Rescue? I'm not going to rescue Vincent."

"You're not?"

"Well, no. I mean, I can't."

"Then, I presume you think that one of us can."

"Well," Samuel replied, not having given the idea much thought, "that would be best. Maybe get one of your wizards to find him. I mean, I'm just a guy. I'm not a soldier and I'm certainly not a wizard like Vincent."

Captain Patir regarded him coldly. "There are only two kinds of people in war. It would do you well to remember that."

As she walked away, Sam gasped in confusion. He didn't want her to get away, though, and stumbled after her. "Wait, um, two kinds? You said there are two kinds. What kinds are those?"

She turned to him and said, "There are those who will fight and die and there are those who will die without a fight. What kind are you...?"

"Um, Sam," he replied, filling in his name.

"Sam," she acknowledged.

As she walked away, he tried to think of something witty to say, something that would keep her from being so angry with him.. But there was nothing witty for him to say and, he knew, she had every reason for being angry with him, just as he should have been angry with himself. It was clear. Tsurtor might have been responsible for Vincent's peril but Samuel was equally responsible for Vincent's safety.

* * *

"Making them wasn't a problem. Teaching these ol' boy's to use them right - that's where the fun's at."

Hex looked at Boom holding two of the new pikes, polearms standing taller than him, with heads of quickened hardwood, and smiled at the hope they provided. Heaphge just looked annoyed. "Do you have any idea how hard those will be to swing?"

"That's the point, old timer, you don't swing." Boom spent the rest of the afternoon drilling Heaphge's men on the new pikes. There wouldn't be many. The Rynian pikemen would number less than two hundred. Still, in Boom's eyes, it was a far cry better than swinging bats at whatever came at them.

As the sun began to sink, the two Americans walked back to their helicopter. Boom looked over at Hex before climbing aboard and shook his head. "I still think you're doing a damn disservice to your new homeland, Hex, keeping your magic from them when they need it most."

Hex got in and pulling on the seatbelt, replied, "I told you, Boom. I'm a pacifist. There's no changing that."

"Tsurtor's going to take everything. These people don't stand a chance and pikes certainly aren't gonna help. If you got as much power as that general says you do and you don't fight for Rynia, well, you might as well be on Tsurtor's side."

Antoine lifted without a word. He didn't want to get caught in the middle. Hex said, "There's nothing I can say that will change your mind, Boom. I have some ideas, some things that may help, but I'm not about to start killing with my magic and I won't make weapons of war. Anything I could bring in, guns, bombs, or a tank, would only serve to hurt this world in the long run."

Boom let Hex's words sink in as he watched the countryside pass beneath him. The plains were not featureless. There were creeks here and there that ran amidst copses of trees, emptying in a pond. "Tank," he asked, a memory suddenly returning. "You know, Hex, I remember an old Twilight Zone episode from when I was a kid. Seems these soldiers on maneuver took their tank the wrong way and ended up looking over Bull Run and General Custer. Bunch of idiots, they charged down with their little sidearms only to end up dying." He paused for a moment and leaned closer to Hex to be sure he was heard. "They should'a taken the tank."

* * *

With the conclusion of the town meeting, Samuel had told Randy to make sure the other guys were good while he left in pursuit of Captain Patir. What Sam had meant by Randy and the "other guys" was, as it had always been, the WFR's. Winwood Forest Rowdies, formed when they'd all been much younger for the express purpose of getting into trouble. But they were all older now. Randy resented Sam's attitude, telling them to be good. They could do whatever they pleased; they were adults.

Randy pulled out a Camel filter and looked at his pack. Fourteen left and he thought he had two packs at home. Three if he was lucky. Unless they were sent back to earth immediately, Randy was going to have to quit. Though he didn't consider himself addicted, it wasn't an encouraging thought. Outside of the gym, he whipped out his Zippo and, with the flame set high - it was always set high and damn the cost of lighter fluid - he lit up. He savored several puffs, considering cutting down.

Pete and Sean came out in a minute and they wondered about what they would do with Samuel gone. He'd always been their watchdog, it seemed. From the time that Vincent had disappeared with Hex, that first time they'd gone to Rynia, Samuel and the WFR's had been a team. Not the kind of team the WFR's had liked; Samuel always wanted them to behave, to be a good influence on his younger brother. So, with Samuel gone, it seemed there was only one thing for them to do... whatever Samuel would have been most against!

A thought had entered Pete's mind in the gym. With no lights, the gymnasium had only been lit by the sun seeping in from the open doors and the high windows. "How about we go to the new mall," he suggested. "It'll be like pitch black in there!"

"No," Randy quickly refused. It wasn't like he was afraid of the dark. Hell, he was twenty years old, far too old for that. He just knew that there'd be nothing to see - literally! Also, all the shopkeepers would have locked their stores up when the lights first went out.

"We got Forbert. We don't we go for a cruise?" The obvious recommendation came from Sean who was gazing longingly at the truck.

This time, Pete took the bed while Sean rode shotgun, his head hanging out the window. As they drove north in the Rynian sky, Forbert asked, "So, where we headed?"

"Straight, I guess," was Randy's reply.

Below them, the paved lanes of Country Gardens were soon left behind for the unpredictable feature of the Plains to the Sea. Here, a stream and a patch of scrub. Trees grew where they pleased and, amidst them, Sean saw something he'd never seen before, living his entire life in southern California. "Deer! Those are deer!"

"Yeah, sure, deer, great," Randy muttered.

"Let's go down. Let's see if they're tame. I heard that, in the wild, deer aren't afraid of people."

"Sure," Randy agreed, thinking they'd probably be instinctively fearful of pick-up trucks. Forbert descended in a wide, comfortable arch and came to an easy stop several yards from the trees. Weeping willows, Randy thought. At least, they looked like the trees in his apartment complex.

Pete had already jumped out of the bed, having guessed the reason for this descent.

"Don't charge them," Sean yelled, trying not to yell. "They'll spook. You gotta ease your way in."

"Sure. Sure," Pete was heard to say, ignoring Sean's direction.

Sean had grabbed a bag of chips from the truck, hoping that deer liked Fritos, and put several in his hand. As he had hoped, several deer (stags or does, Sean couldn't tell) let him approach and began eating hungrily from his palm. "Well, I guess junk food transcends planets."

"Great," Randy replied, lighting another cigarette with his torch. "You're probably gonna kill them off."

Sean watched the deer eat and refilled his hand when they were through. The day suddenly felt very pleasant despite the looming clouds and the fact that they were far from home and Sean inhaled the air's rich perfume.

"What happened to Pete," Randy asked.

"Pete," Sean repeated, wondering. "He ran after the deer."

"Didn't do him much good." Randy stepped into the trees, feeling the unwanted responsibility Samuel had placed upon him weighing heavily. The last thing he wanted to explain was losing Pete. Walking past several trees, something struck him as odd. "Sean!"

"What," came the faint reply.

"Put down your damn chips, leave your damn deer and get over here!"

Randy wasn't someone to be ignored, especially with that tone of voice. Last time Sean had ignored him was when the truck's engine had caught fire. (Randy insisted he was a fine mechanic despite ample evidence to the contrary.) Payback came about a week later when Randy had set Sean aflame. It was no big deal, Randy had insisted. Sean had been wearing a denim jacket that was far from flame retardant and the episode had ended with Sean in the pool, having jumped, screaming, to extinguish himself.

Sean caught up with Randy as the two walked further into the dark. "Where the hell's Pete?" Randy asked.

Sean's answer was to call out Pete's name. Randy followed and then they repeated. Finally, wandering into the darkening trees with Randy holding his lighter up in the night, Pete found them and accused them of scaring off the deer.

Which was when they realized they had no idea where they'd parked Forbert - and the Rynian night was falling.

"Stupid," Sean exclaimed.

"Idiot," Randy accused.

"Well, what are we going to do?" Pete asked. "It's not like we can spend the night out here."

"You should be fine," said a voice. Randy didn't see where it had come from, amazed at how quickly night had fallen. But a figure immediately stepped out of the gloom, adding, "I take it you're not from around here."

Sean tried not to stare at the naked figure approaching but did anyway.

Randy didn't try anything. He just gawked.

"My name is Ostrander. And you are?"

Pete stared, slack jawed for another minute before he was enough of mind to reply, "Confused."

Part II

It was already raining when Randy steered Forbert down before the police station. Sean and Pete had packed into the cab with him, all of them pretty uncomfortable about the stone man who came out of nowhere to help them out when they were - They weren't lost. They were very insistent about that.

Randy steered around and asked Forbert to shine his lights to he could see something in the inky night. Then, a familiar sight caught the corner of his eye and he steered the truck down to meet it. "Hex! Hex! I gotta talk to you!"

"Sure. Sure," Hex replied, a bit startled in the darkness. "Randy, isn't it?"

"Yes. Look something's happened."

"We were out," Sean began to say.

"We weren't lost," Randy interrupted.

"We were exploring," Pete explained.

Hex turned his eyes away from them and looked off into the rain. Someone was stepping out of the truck's bed. "Who is that?"

Ostrander stepped tentatively, his new body still feeling the fear that he'd once felt when he broken his contact with the ground, lost bits of dirt-flesh while walking across a stream, but mostly when he'd put his faith in this man. He didn't remember the feeling when they'd first bonded. He was as close to death as dirt could come. At the time, he hadn't realized the importance of that moment but now, standing there, looking into the Maker's eyes, it was almost like seeing God.

Hex was speechless. Marcus might have seen this figure before him as one of Hargoth's creatures. Even Hargoth himself would not have known just what he was looking upon. But Hex knew and it wasn't his wizard's sight that told him. It was his heart. "Os -" He couldn't finish the word but stepped quickly into the stone creature's embrace.

His voice choked with emotion, Ostrander replied, "I truly did not think I'd see you again."

"I wouldn't trust him, Hex," Robert advised, having crawled out of Hex's shirt pocket just in time to lean against Hex's ear. "Looks like a rock giant and I've seen plenty of those. I say we knock him to the pavement!"

But the moment was not to last. Ostrander stepped out of the embrace with a look of some urgency "I think you'll find I've changed in several ways," Ostrander replied. "But there's more that must be done now. Others are coming from the north and we have to be ready for them."

"Others," asked Chief Tower, who was also busy not believing his eyes as he looked upon the rock figure.

Ostrander smiled. "Friends."

* * *

Foregoing more modern transportation, Hex and Ostrander decided to walk to Country Garden's northern border. Chief Tower didn't much care for the idea of walking through the downpour simply to facilitate a rock creature's antiquated mode of transportation. Or, as he put it, "You fool enough to stay out in the rain, then you go ahead and walk in it. I'm driving!"

Sam couldn't fault his logic and climbed into the passenger side of the Chief's Jeep.

"You fool enough," Ostrander asked Hex.

Hex nodded. "Yep. I'm a fool." (Robert, on the other hand, was no fool. He jumped over to Sam and kept away from Boom.)

It was decided that Boom and Sam would scout Country Garden's north side and herd the Benaatt refuges into Santiago Canyon's gymnasium where they would be more comfortable. "They've done some hard traveling," Ostrander told Hex in the rain. "Most were malnourished when I found them and, though I've been able to hunt them enough food, there's no escaping the elements." For nearly a week, after leaving the abandoned farmhouse, the twenty remaining soldiers, all that remained of Benaatt's force, slept in groves of trees where they could get some minimal shelter. Otherwise, they'd slept soaked.

"Well, we have some food. It'll no doubt spoil soon so people should have no problem helping themselves."

When they reached the gymnasium, the front doors were open. Stepping in, Hex almost had to laugh. The Rynians were used to magic - they'd seen more than Hex could ever have known - but when they faced something as mundane as modern architecture, they froze. They stared, mouths hanging wide, at the soaring ceiling, marveled at the expansive interior, and wondered at the designs upon the floor.

"They thought they were stepping into a temple," Boom said, approaching Ostrander and the soaked wizard. "Looked like they was ready to drop when we saw 'em, but would they ride? Shit, no. They cowered in fear of a stupid jeep. You should'a seen how hard it was for us to get'em to come in here. Now, look at them."

"Well, Chief, you have to understand their level of technology," Ostrander tried to explain. "Even the Imperial Palace doesn't have ceilings this high."

"The Imperial what?"

"Ossie! Ossie!" The shouting came from the far end of the gym but quickly neared, along with the stomping of little feet. Ostrander beamed and knelt down to embrace the two children who had run to him. "Ossie, lookit what Sammy gave me," Agnie offered. Ostrander had asked Samuel to look out for his little ones and was glad to see them sheltered once again. In her little hand, she clutched Robert, her grip clutching and squeezing the treeling like putty.

"Put me down, you vicious little snot, or I'll kill you in your sleep. I swear I will!"

Agnie released him with a look of sincere distaste. "He's not much fun, though."

Hex picked up his discarded creation and, pocketing him, asked, "Children, Ostrander?"

Ostrander smiled uncomfortably. "That's going to take a little explaining."

"Who are you, Mister?"

Hex gave his name and, stooping down as he often did with Caroline, offered his hand. "And who would you be, young man?"

"My name's Tetrem. Are you the guy who made Ossie?"

"Not exactly," he replied, looking up at Ostrander. "He looks very different from the last time I saw him. I think he'll have to explain some things for me. Are you from Benaatt?"

"What's a benaatt," Tetrem replied.

"Ossie saved us from Amprek and brought us here," Agnie said before greeting Hex with a hug.

Hex looked at the little girl and thought of his own. Would he see Caroline reach that age? To remove his mind from its dark path, he glanced at Ostrander and asked, "Amprek?"

"It was the world beyond Tsurtor's gate. Where all of the undead came from. Only, they weren't exactly undead."

Stunned, Hex added, "Yes, there's a great many things you'll have to explain."

His attention was diverted in a moment when a commotion rose among several of the soldiers. Stepping away from them, one of the men approached Hex, bowing to one knee and lowering his head in shame. "Pardon me, Maker, but I have need of release. Where can I find the assembled forces? I must meet with General Heaphge immediately."

"I'm sorry," Hex said, looking over at Ostrander. The look said, "You came here with this man. What happened?" Instead, he asked the soldier, "Release? What are you talking about?"

Banry Ellison raised his head. "You may remember me, Maker. I was the commander of the troops in Benaatt. I was responsible when the city fell. I am no longer worthy to hold rank and must see the general immediately for release."

"Release? No. You'll be needed now more than ever."

"You must allow me this! I cannot lead men into battle!"

"But -" Hex began to say.

"At ease, soldier," Tower ordered. He marveled that a commander on this world would bow to Fanlan. For all that Boom didn't know about Rynia, there was also a whole lot Hex didn't know about leading troops. "He has to, Hex. It's a matter of pride. If what I hear is right and they lost a city, he has to resign his commission. Otherwise, it don't hold any meaning."

Banry nodded. "You understand."

"You're gonna go south by southwest," Boom replied. "You got a couple kliks but you can get there before too late. That is, unless you can make it through the night."

Banry looked at Hex, waiting for his decision. Hex didn't feel comfortable with it but Banry would obviously be tormented until he did what he had to do. "Go ahead," he whispered through clenched teeth. As Banry hurried out, Hex said to Boom, "I hope you know what you're talking about."

"There's more," Ostrander said. He instructed the children to stay with Samuel until they returned and led Hex and Boom to the exit.

"Where are we going," asked Chief Tower.

"He won't come in," was Ostrander's reply. "He insists on blaming himself, imposing some horrible penance."

"Penance," Hex asked. "What for?"

Ostrander glanced over at them as they stepped out into the rain. "The destruction of Benaatt or, at least, that's what they tell me."

The rain was hard, very nearly sleet, and Boom pulled his jacket close. "Neurotic little world you got here, Hex."

* * *

"Sammy! Sammy," Agnie yelled, running up to Samuel as he gazed longingly towards Bethel Patir. No matter what world they come from, kids are noisy as a rule. It was Agnie's way of being certain that Samuel would have his arms down and ready to scoop her up when she reached him. As she giggled, Samuel looked questioningly at Tetrem who was a distant second.

"Ostrander had to go off with Hex," Tetrem said. "He thought we could wait with you."

"Well, great," Samuel replied. The kids reminded him of something that was missing. He'd been raising his brother for as long as he could remember and he remembered good times with Vincent when he'd been the same age as these. Tetrem still hadn't reached that age where everyone seemed to be his enemy, where his own insecurities distanced him from the world. Perhaps, he wouldn't. Perhaps, on this world, things were different. (What Sam was really thinking, but wouldn't admit, was that other children didn't suffer like Vincent because other children weren't raised by Samuel.)

He was grateful when, before his thoughts could continue down their dark path, the familiar voice of Bethel Patir interrupted. "Children, Samuel Gobel?"

"Oh, uh, no! Not mine, at least." Her reply was unintelligible as she walked away and he quickly added, "Unless, of course, you're into that."

* * *

"Where is he, 'Trander?"

"Yeah, we're done soaking. How about let's move this goose chase some place dry?" Boom was shivering through his jacket, its thickness ineffectual when permeated with rain.

"He can't be far," Ostrander assured them. "He's usually kept within - There! Amid those bushes!"

Boom looked hard but, "I don't see nothing."

"I have good eyes," Ostrander replied, hurrying into the dark.

Hex was beside him as they closed on Lanigan's huddled body. "He can't be rational, Ostrander, if he stays out in weather like this. What's he have? Some kind of death wish?"

"He destroyed one of the largest cities in the known world, Hex."

Point taken, the three went into the bushes. Lanigan wasn't even shivering which meant that he was worse off than they'd suspected. Ostrander, cradling Lanigan in his arms, lifted him from the muddy ground.

Looking into Lanigan Reise's closed eyes, Hex immediately saw the problem. "It might not be freezing out here, yet, fellas but, combined with the stress, exhaustion, and malnutrition, he suffering from, it may as well be. He's in bad shape."

"What do we do," Boom asked, trying to stay involved.

"Get him someplace warm," Ostrander immediately replied.

"Can you get one of those generators, Boom?"

"Of course. Right away."

"Bring it to Sam's apartment. Bring a space heater, if you can, in case Sam doesn't have one and I'll make sure to nuke something hot. We'll meet you there."

After that, there was no discussion. Already close to the gym, Boom grabbed one of the cars and made it to Sam's apartment, hauling the portable generator, gas can, and space heater, as Ostrander and Hex awaited him up the stairs.

Someone must have been there. Boom saw the dim light of a fireplace from within. He tucked the heater beneath one arm and, with that hand, held the gas can. With the other arm, he tried to lift the generator. (Portable, he thought. Take the wheels off my jeep and it's more portable!) Once upon the landing, he knocked on Sam's door.

It soon opened and Boom was left wondering how... there was nobody there.

"Hello," a plucky little voice chimed. "Come on in and make yourself homely!"

Boom looked down, disturbed by what he saw. Skates had looped his lace around the rubber doorstop and had used it to pull the door open. His mouth suddenly dry, Boom said, "Hello."

"Oooh, you look wet! Come in and stop dripping on me!"

"Come on in, Boom," he heard Hex say. "I hope you brought the stuff."

"Stuff? Sure. Um, Hex?"

"What?"

"Am I talking to a pair of skates?"

"Actually, right now you're talking to Hex. You're just being rude to me," said Skates.

"I'm never gonna get used to this."

While Hex had retrieved a couple of blankets and pillows, Ostrander had stripped Lanigan of his wet garb. The deftness of his stone digits amazed the Maker; between the two of them, Lanigan was soon wrapped in blankets, his head propped up as he lay upon the sofa. Boom had the generator going and felt soothed by the warm gusts between the fireplace and the space heater. Tea was soon prepared and, as Hex and Boom drank theirs, Ostrander with a parent's care, gave a little to the fragile, young wizard.

Lanigan's eyes soon opened, bewildered, as he let the stone creature give him more tea. As he looked from face to face, visibly spending his energy trying to focus, his gaze eventually settled on Ostrander, the question on his face, "Where?"

"You insisted on behaving foolishly, young wizard. Your decision to stay out in the rain helped no one," Ostrander informed him.

"And you'll continue being of no help so long as you're resolved to being the martyr of a dead city," Hex added, sitting on the edge of the sofa, close enough to look into his eyes. "You need to rest up. Save your strength. You'll need it later."

No! Lanigan shook his head with more strength than he had and his head slumped down on his chest.

"What's the matter," Hex asked. Boom wondered why he was looking so closely at the young mute, not understanding the wizard's sight. "Can't he talk?"

"He can," Ostrander replied, carefully propping Lanigan's head back up, "but he won't. He's afraid."

"Afraid of what," Boom asked.

Ostrander replied, "Himself, I would think."

Hex looked deeply into Lanigan's weary eyes, peering deeply and true, trusting his magical sight to give him the answers. "No wonder. When it comes to raw power, I've never seen any to compare. Not even Vincent."

Who's Vincent, Boom wondered.

Hex was drawn further in, feeling the hopelessness of Lanigan's existence rush over him. "But there's no control there," he added, his voice far away. "No mechanism. No math. No formulas to give him reign. He's connected with something larger than himself and it's terrifying."

More than that. It was engulfing. Hex felt to power hold him fast, pulling at him further, as he struggled to speak. "He doesn't use the magic. It uses him! It's seeping out like a hole in a vast dike but not fast enough! When he used it at Benaatt, when he destroyed the city, it had its first real taste of release, of fulfillment, and it only wants more so it pushes harder and harder against him until he's afraid to do anything. Afraid to move! Afraid to speak! Afraid to breath!" The last word bitten off, Hex's body twitched and he swooned, falling to the ground. Boom watching from behind, caught him (he was more solid than the Chief had expected) and lowered him gently onto the carpeting.

"You okay," Ostrander asked, immediately beside Hex.

"Mu - mu," Hex tried to say, his lips numb. "Must have mo - moved in too close. It tried to leave through me."

Lanigan was sitting up, the blankets wrapped around him, looking down at Hex. "Are y-you okay," he asked, his voice rough and quiet.

"I think I'll be fine," Hex replied, sitting back up more for Lanigan's peace of mind than his own. He would have preferred staying on the ground. "The question is: how are you?"

"No," Boom refuted, "the question is: what in hell's going on? What's with this boy? Why'd you just about pass out?"

"What's going on, Boom," Hex replied, "is that you're probably looking at the single most powerful wizard in the world. Maybe, anywhere."

"Too powerful," Ostrander added. "So powerful, he can't get a hold of it. There's no control. That's why it's such a problem. Magic sometimes leaks right out of him and when he tries to use it, well, it's enough to destroy an entire city."

"That don't make sense, Hex. You told me Tsurtor knew all about your most powerful wizards. He framed you and put you away. Took that Vincent kid out, too. So, why'd he leave this one?"

"Why," Hex asked.

Ostrander replied, "Why not? What good would Lanigan do on Tsurtor's side except cause trouble? Tsurtor didn't want someone he couldn't control and, besides, he knew we couldn't control him either."

Boom nodded. "So Lanigan here's like a loose cannon. Don't know when it's gonna go off." He thought for a moment and added, "A jinx."

"Tsurtor wanted us to have him," Hex replied. "He thinks Lanigan serves him best by staying with us."

Lanigan moved forward. "He t-thinks that anything I d-do c-can only help him."

"That's exactly it, Lanigan." Hex put his hand on the wizard's shoulder. "And that exactly where he's made his mistake. Where we'll prove him wrong."

Perhaps, Boom thought. But he didn't see any good coming out of it.

Part III

After leaving the foreign structures of Country Gardens well behind, Banry Ellison's stride grew quick and sure. He knew he'd find the Rynian force up ahead despite the rain that blocked the sound and scent of the horses and clouds which turned the wet night an inky black. No matter of obfuscation, not even the sound of his own boots sloshing through the puddly grass, could remove the years of training to which he'd committed. When he heard the stirring in the brush beside him, he stopped; his hand instinctively on his bat.

It could have been nothing, a racoon or a deer, but Banry listened to his suspicions. During times such as these, nothing was almost always something. Wild things knew not to be out when the icy rain fell (only man was stupid enough for that) and most should have been ready to hibernate for the long winter. He took his bat down from his shoulder and, holding one end steadily with one hand, ready to thrust with it if necessary, poked at the brush.

He wouldn't be able to thrust. Strong hands immediately grasped the bat and, after a short struggle, wrenched it from Banry's hands. Banry took another step forward, foolishly reaching for the lost bat, when the hands grabbed his tunic and pulled him into the brush. He was thrown onto the ground, all his leverage gone, and the feeling of cold metal was thrust against his neck.

"How the hell did you follow me this far? Huh? Tell me," a familiar voice whispered, its tone grating with exhaustion and fear. "There other's with you? Of course, there are. Well, you tell me where they're at or I'll kill you. I swear I will!"

Though the metal pushed hard against his throat, Banry choked out, "Duke Nygarra... Mark? Is that you?"

Mark dropped his gun in shock, his mind clouded with fear and fatigue. His hand reached out for Banry's arm, gripping harder than before. "Banry," he gasped. "Oh, Gerrit! Banry, is that you?"

"It is, my friend," Banry replied.

"I never thought - I mean - I was hoping to reach the Plains to the Sea. I followed the stars but - I never dreamed I'd go as far north as Benaatt!"

Banry was struck silent. It was the very reason why he'd come all this way, for absolution. He'd believed that he would have to obtain redemption from the leader of the Rynian forces, General Heaphge. While that would still be necessary, now it seemed that there would be more required of the city's fallen commander. "I - I -" Banry tried to calm his stammering by taking a deep breath. "Much has occurred while you've been away, my lord."

Mark was silent as Banry tried to put his grief into words. In the silence, Banry heard Mark's small reply. "Say no more, Banry. I understand that whatever has come to pass is not your doing but that of our enemy." It was all he could do. After losing Kell and Kraephten to Tsurtor's hordes, now to find that the city may have been... "We're not near Benaatt after all, are we?"

"My lord," Banry replied, knowing no other way to say it, "there is no more Benaatt."

The silence expressed the duke's loss. Nothing needed to be said. Instead, he asked, "Where are we, commander?"

"Plains to the sea, my lord. General Heaphge's army should be over that rise, yonder."

Mark took up his gun and rose from the brush. His torn clothes and many small wounds pulled at him at they were struck by the rain and the cold. "Take me there, Banry. There is still so much that we need to do."

* * *

Morning came with a heavy dew and fog settled over the land. Word of Mark's return had reached Country Gardens and the leaders of Rynia's defense were called to Heaphge's main tent for counsel. Attending the Counsel from Country Gardens were Hex, Samuel, Chief Tower, Ostrander, Commander Obregon, Bern Elcit, Elise Zauri, and Bethel Patir. It was quickly made obvious that there'd be a transportation problem.

Antoine was frightening enough to Chief Tower, who unlike the Rynian natives had actually seen a helicopter before; Hex didn't want to break in another passenger. So, he was left with six passengers for Forbert. The pickup truck was not exactly designed as a passenger vehicle.

"If there isn't room," Bethel announced, "I can easily ride back to camp."

Sam, who looked uncomfortably inexperienced with women volunteered to ride as well. Hex had been expecting Sam to drive Forbert.

"He doesn't really need driving, Hex," Randy, who had been hanging around the fringes, corrected. "Just point him and he'll go." The thought wasn't comforting. "Or," Randy suggested slyly, "I could drive." Hex found that thought even less comforting.

"Yeah," Sean asked. "And what are we gonna do?"

"I do have a little project that you might be able to help me with," said Ostrander.

Pete, who mistakenly thought this project would involve magic and such, volunteered the both. Later, when the two were stuck at Sam's apartment, watching Agnie and Tetrem, Sean hit Pete.

"Fine," Hex said, slapping his hands together for warmth. "Boom will go with me. Randy's got Forbert and those who wish can ride with him. The rest can go on horseback."

Almost all of the rest climbed onto Forbert until Randy showed them how to use the door. Without a thought, Ostrander climbed into the bed and sat with his legs crossed. Elise Zauri and Bern Elcit rode along in the cab with Randy. Commander Obregon shared the truck's bed with Ostrander.

Sam took Obregon's large, grey mare and was happy when Bethel joined him. He couldn't keep his eyes off of her and, sadly, once he did, she was gone. On her horse, she was quickly riding away. He jumped uncomfortably on Obregon's horse and did all he could to catch up with her. "I've never ridden before," he shouted.

"Then it's high time you learned," came her reply, only barely heard from behind the thundering hooves.

He was the last to arrive at camp. The others waited impatiently. He walked the horse up, holding its reins in his left hand. His right arm was held close to his body, throbbing and useless.

"Bad sprain," Hex diagnosed. "No breaks. It should be better now." Sam flexed it, thankful for Hex's magic.

"Don't you think you've done enough to the boy," Obregon chided his young officer.

Bethel frowned, thinking she hadn't done so much to him as he was trying to do to her. Spitefully, she whispered, "No."

Soon, the lot of them were gathered within Heaphge's central tent, a cup of the general's favorite tea to warm them. Heaphge had met with Mark, who sat quietly, still tired and wet, and since the assemblage had been gathered for his return it was agreed that the duke would be the first to speak. Even so, Heaphge was shocked by Mark's first words.

"The war has come to Tzurritza and I can tell you that it's been lost." With his last word, it seemed that everyone rose from their seats, shouting. Heaphge couldn't believe his ears, nor could Commander Obregon. Chief Tower grumbled at the thought that his town had so little protection. Bern Elcit and Elise Zauri tried to offer a contingent of wizards. Banry Ellison rose without a thing to say; it was almost a panic reflex. To cover himself, he tried to mimic the general and commander. Bethel Patir rose but found that she, too, had nothing to say. The sound of defeat silenced her and she met Samuel's worried eyes - which then shocked her into sitting down. Randy stood in the back and watched the whole thing. He had to stand as no seat had been provided for him. Ostrander remained seated and watched Hex, who also remained in his chair. He could tell that Hex knew. The burden of the knowledge of ultimate defeat pulled Hex's gaze to the damp ground.

Mark didn't stand or speak another word. He listened to the shouting with a dispassionate ear, closing tired eyes until, again, there was silence. Then, he told them what he'd seen. He didn't mention Kell. Kell was his story, his sadness, alone. The silence grew thick when he said that Kraephten Kattox had, in all likelihood, perished along with the rest. "I have only one thing to give to you from our expedition, a weapon. Know that theirs are far greater, though. It was created by the machinists," he told them, drawing the weapon from a sack and, holding it by the handle, continued, "and they call it a 'projectile thrower'."

"Holy shit," Boom barked. "He's got a gun!" The others looked in surprise as Sam, Randy, and Hex joined the chief beneath the table. "B'jezzus! Boy! Put that thing down!"

Mark complied, looking only slightly amused.

Ostrander picked up the revolver and opened the chamber. "It's a six shooter. Two shots left."

"That's enough," said Boom, inspecting the weapon.

"You say the machinists made this," Hex asked.

"Yes," Mark replied. "They made two. They were only what they called prototypes."

"So they're only starting to develop them," Sam added.

"Don't make no sense, though," muttered the chief.

"Why?"

Chief Tower walked back to his seat and sat down, keeping the revolver with him. "Cause it ain't the natural progression of things, that's why. Look, guns ain't supposed to start small. They have any rifles? Cannons?" When Mark shook his head, the chief looked at Hex. "You see! Makes no sense."

"What if they already had guns," Sam asked.

Hex's ears perked up at the question. "What do you mean, Sam?"

Sam fidgeted with his hands as he replied, "Well, it could be like you were saying. These people were supposed to have in their possession advanced technology, right? Well, why couldn't they have guns, too? They wouldn't have to develop them from rifles. They'd already have them."

Chief Tower smirked. "So, what? Could they have ray-guns, too?"

"I would doubt they had ray-guns, chief," Ostrander replied, thinking on Hex's level. "It appears from the make of that revolver that they are still using more primitive manufacturing techniques."

"And the handle's wood," Hex added. "No synthetics."

Ostrander and the three from earth seemed awfully pleased with themselves but Mark didn't think they understood. "It still doesn't matter," he insisted. "Tsurtor's troops had better weapons than that! I saw them fire a - what'd you call it? a gun? - they fired a gun so fast men were hit faster than they could scatter."

"How many men," asked the chief.

"One gun took down five, maybe six of them, in one burst of shots."

Bethel was incredulous, "Oh, and what kind of 'gun' would do that?"

"A machine gun," came Hex's breathless reply.

"You think they got machine guns," Boom asked.

Hex was sure. "What else could it be?" He stood, addressing the others, "Gentlemen, um, and lady, we need to do something to remove their edge or Tsurtor will roll over us like a boulder."

"But, Hex, what can we do," Ostrander asked.

"Get my brother," whispered Samuel. He whispered because, with the constricting feeling in his gut, it was all he could do. On top of that, he didn't want anyone to hear him.

Everyone heard.

"But that's not possible," said General Heaphge, "he's been taken by Tsurtor. We can't send our forces into Tsurtor's den."

"He's right, Sam," Hex added, consoling. "Vincent's beyond our help."

"No," Samuel replied, finding the strength to look them in the eyes. "The general's right. Rynia can't spare her forces. Vincent's not Rynia's responsibility." He clenched his hand into a fist, holding it tightly as if to hold his resolve. "He's mine."

As Mark's announcement had caused a stir, Samuel's caused a tumult of silence. No one moved. They stared at Sam as if upon a doomed man. Chief Tower was the first to speak, "Sammy, you can't rescue Vincent. You can't. Why, you don't know the terrain, the locals -"

"I have to try. I can't just abandon him!" Samuel suddenly realized he was shouting, a panic at knowing he was right and he'd go through with this coming upon him.

"But you can't go alone," insisted Obregon, who put his hand on Samuel's left shoulder like one would when consoling the defeated.

"Who says he's going alone?" The question came from out of nowhere and no one at the table had asked it. For the first time since arriving, tired of just watching the older people gang up on his friend, Randy spoke up. As soon as he said it, he thought he'd regret it. He was surprised when he didn't. He stepped up behind Sam and added enthusiastically, "Vincent's our friend, too. We have just as much right to find him as Sammy does."

"Randy," Hex corrected, "you're speaking in plural."

Randy hesitated for a second and spat, "You bet I am. Sean's going! Pete, too!"

"It's foolishness," Heaphge grumbled.

"We can't fight in your war, general. Allow me to find my brother."

Heaphge looked into Samuel's determined eyes and sighed, "Well, it's true. I can't conscript you. And I have no time to waste in trying. If what Mark says is true, and I have little doubt it is, then the time for waiting is over. We must make our move east."

"Our forces are ready, sir," Obregon reported. "They can march by the morn."

Heaphge frowned as though he hadn't listened to his second in command. "Marcus has not returned. We were counting on the forces from Kallent just as we were those from Tzurritza. Our meager resistance will be as nothing if they have weapons like those the Duke described."

"I may be of some help, sir," Chief Tower offered. He felt all eyes weigh heavily upon him and grimaced. "Now, don't look at me like I'm crazy. I've had to take the heat since we come over. None of the damned city council were in town when we was Moved. Well, General, we Americans don't take kindly to being pushed around. My entire force has volunteered along with a few hundred citizens. I can get you another thousand if it means protecting the city, I'll bet. And we can meet their guns with more guns. Hell, Eddie Tran's got a freaking armory in his basement."

Hex laughed bitterly. "The Fighting Americans."

Boom ignored Hex's remark. "You want'em in the morning? They can be there. And we'll get your pikemen trained and ready to fight, don't you worry."

Heaphge was smiling, his confidence raised. "Well, I hope for your sake that your people can march, Chief Tower. They've a long way to go."

"They won't need to march, general. We civilized folk got four-by's. The ones that don't can ride."

Sam laughed, amazed at the chief's enthusiasm. "You're gonna drive across Rynia?"

"Why not," Hex, of all people, asked. "We're going to fly, aren't we?"

"We," Sam asked. His hopes shot up, thinking how the probability of success increased with Hex's help. "You're going with us?"

Hex's voice was caught in his throat. He hadn't expected Sam to jump to this conclusion. "Ah, no, Sammy. As much as I would like to help, I can't. I truly believe my assistance more useful here."

Samuel's throat clenched up. What Hex was so tactfully not saying was that he believed Vincent to be dead.

"Of course," Heaphge confidently announced, "he'll be going with us. Taking the fight to Tsurtor!"

"No, General." Hex's forceful insistence stopped Heaphge cold. Hex was rarely ever forceful. "Where I go, I will go alone."

Ostrander looked amused at his friend's frustration. "And that will be," he asked.

"In the course of my research, I have found a lot of the secret history of Rynia. A lot of the stories never told to its people. People say that Silen's a haunted forest. People say it runs with monsters."

"Yes, that's true," Banry agreed. "Those foolish enough to enter never leave, if they leave at all, with their sanity intact."

"Then call me a fool," Hex replied and, as he expected, all those around him looked upon him as if he was one. "There are old references that refer to Silen reverently. It's an old place tied together with the history of the Rynians and I believe there might be secrets there. Secrets from before Rynian society turned away from technology."

"What Banry says is true, Hex," Ostrander cautioned. "Entering Silen could be -"

Bethel shouted, "You're needed at war! You can't go on some fool's errand!"

"You have a duty to your craft," said Bern Elcit.

"Really, Hex. You can't just throw your life away."

But the denials and refusals and everything said to deter Hex fell upon deaf ears. When all had said their piece, Hex asked, "Are you through? Good. I'll be taking Antoine in the morning."

"Leaving without me," Ostrander asked.

"Take you from your children? I'd never think of it."

Obregon asked, "So, you too, Ostrander? You'll not go with us?"

Placing his hands upon the table, Ostrander replied, "No, I'm afraid not. Not only must I look after Tetrem and Agnie but there will undoubtably be a civilian population left in Country Gardens in need of evacuation. A city on the front lines is no place to be."

"But the Rynian forces are moving east. They'll be away from Country Gardens," Sam reminded him. However, faced with General Heaphge's, Chief Tower's, and Ostrander's sobering looks, he knew Ostrander was correct.

"Then that's Ostrander and Hex gone," Heaphge said, calculating. "Sam is going with his friends," he added, indicating Randy, "to Ktoll. That leaves myself and Obregon, Captain Patir, Chief Tower and his Americans, Commander Ellison, and Duke Nygarra."

"No," Mark said.

"What," Heaphge gasped, never guessing that a duke would turn from defending his land.

"Unlike yourself, General, I don't believe for a second that your tiny army, even when augmented by Tower's Americans, can make so much as a dent in Tsurtor's forces. It's nothing more than a march to suicide and I'll have no part of it. I'm going with Sam Gobel to rescue Vincent. Like it or not, Vincent is our only savior, just like the last war. If he's dead, so are we all."

"Then, that's it," Hex added. "There's no more debate."

General Heaphge, his eyes to the ground, muttered, "And may Faetsha have mercy upon us all."

CHAPTER SEVEN

IF THERE BE LOOSE ENDS

Part I

Under a heavy snow, Mount Brutalitie's gaping maw glowed malevolently towards her enemies. While snow had only begun to fall in Rynia, here at this higher altitude it collected like useless trash, undesirable manna. Jet planes and attack helicopters were kept in a constant state of readiness, their crews allowing not a flake of snow to remain. They could launch at a moment's notice, never leaving their machine's side. Within the great hangars, tank crews slept with their machines, cramped and cold but, at least, dry. Rocket batteries, too, hauled by the huge Peterbuilts, were manned around the clock.

Ktoll was going to war.

Tsurtor allowed these saladans, these acid spitters he'd found on a distant planet, to stay near their weapons. The way they stayed in readiness was nearly obscene; they cavorted about so! The lizard creatures were such lovers of war they came to Gerrit willingly and when they had killed the Paeadies that Tsurtor brought to them for food, well, it was hideously close to intercourse.

Tsurtor let none of his discomfort show, standing on the observation deck, observing his army. Not only was he nauseated at the sight of his army. There was also the constant discomfort of his skin being stretched this way and that, torn as his bodily tusks grew ever larger. More were tearing through his arms and one had sliced open his left hand, had he not been a master of magics then things would have been very difficult, indeed.

But there was more discomfort for Tsurtor than the mere rending of his mortal flesh. His anxiety over the present situation grew daily. Rynia was finished; it would be his this time! There was no doubt of that! Tzurritza was trapped beneath a barrage of machine gun fire. Kallent was suffering from the false sense of security of having beaten Kamm, never realizing that they were still far beneath Tsurtor's care. The city that had spawned Hex and Vincent was trapped in a war zone, offering up their young for the Rynian's desperate cause. Desperate? Why desperate? The thought was amusing and Tsurtor was pleased. Looking out at a sea of weaponry whose technology was more than Rynia with her meager magic could ever fend off, desperate was an understatement. Yes. They were finished. But the seed of doubt was planted in Tsurtor's mind as though between back molars. He couldn't wedge it out! Why was Hex going to Silen? What purpose did that serve? How had Ostrander returned? How was it that others had volunteered to go with Sam? What the hell was Helen doing still having faith in Hex? The taste of bile rose from Tsurtor's innards along with the realization of truth. "These people," he whispered, glaring at his troops with misdirected hate. "They're positively noble."

Noble or not, nothing would stand in his way. Rynia would be his as it had always rightfully been. Just as he had told Mandin, his once bride to be, as she slept with that bastard Kallent as his father had directed. Argon Haddison had not been looking out for either his daughter or his son but for his kingdom! Well, it would be Argon's no more! "I will show you, father! And you, Mandin, my beautiful sister! You betrayed me once but I will restore the rightful order of things!" Tsurtor suddenly realized he was ranting and took two steps back from the deck. Tusks tore and gouged for he wasn't careful where he stepped. Blood would run but it didn't matter. He had little use for the stuff and would regenerate in due time.

He turned from these troops with still others to inspect. That groveling Hargoth, he thought, spitting. I suppose I'll have to listen to more of his tripe.

Below, in another vast cave, Hargoth waited with his behemoths, the huge über-giants. They would always be ready for war. They required no sleep nor did they eat. Hargoth pined for the chance to prove his worth to his master. When Tsurtor's dark presence faded from the deck, moving with just a hint of warning to Pekit at his destination, Hargoth saw his master in the cave's inky blackness. He positively squirmed with delight. "My Lord," he announced, "we welcome you. We, who will win you this war!"

"Silence, Hargoth," Tsurtor whispered. It was all he could do with the tusks growing within his mouth and into his throat. "I grow tired of your toadying."

"Yes, my lord," Hargoth acknowledged, prostrating himself before his master.

Tsurtor ignored him, looking into the dark that suited him. "The day you have been waiting for has arrived. Your behemoths will be unleashed onto the Rynians."

"Glorious, my lord! Glorious," Hargoth shouted. He jumped from the floor and began a peculiar dance which Tsurtor found immediately annoying. "What shall we do? Come from the south? They have no troops to the south! I can be at the gates of the Imperial Palace within days! Or the north? The ice giants failed you in the north! I can descend upon the Rynian heartland, bringing them to their -"

"You will silence your unworthy graveling! Your voice sickens me!" Tsurtor had grabbed Hargoth around the neck with his left hand and, to punctuate his demands, ground the abomination which grew out of him into that which served him. Chips of rock and dust descended from his grip. Holding Hargoth suspended three feet above the cave's floor brought a satisfied feeling and Tsurtor grimaced with pleasure. It always felt to release a little pent up hostility. Then, pushing the stone giant's leader away, Hargoth plummeted to the floor. "Now, listen, you will find and engage the king's men near the Paeadian border. They'll have crossed over by the time you reach them."

"Engage," Hargoth asked, his neck screaming in pain. "But they are nothing, not even a real army, I could skirt them and..." Hargoth would have gone on but could feel Tsurtor's icy glare upon his skull and knew that his skull would be gone if he didn't stop his questioning.

"I am a Rynian, Hargoth. Still and all, I am a Rynian," Tsurtor declared turning to the darkness. "I am not without honor." This was said more as a question than a statement and Hargoth waited in the silence for his master to continue. "There will be no doubting our victory. The King's men are expecting a force of flesh and blood, not of stone and earth." He turned back to Hargoth, peering with a perverse pleasure. "They're arming themselves with guns."

"Guns," Hargoth asked, guffawing. "Their bullets will just ricochet off of us! We'll march through as if they weren't there!"

"Indeed. They think they've acquired a grand improvement in their technology but they have no idea how well they serve my plans." Ignoring his servant again, he strode to the cave's exit. "Yes, Hargoth, march through them. Cut the Rynians down like wheat and leave their bodies like broken chaff. I go now to prepare their ultimate demise!"

Tsurtor strode out into the corridors, like inevitable winter, and cast a glance to the side. "Pekit," he whispered, wincing at the pain his speaking with Hargoth had caused.

A twisted figure approached from the shadows, limping but struggling to keep up with Tsurtor's stride. "Yes," Pekit replied, the loathing in his voice apparent no matter how he tried to conceal it.

Tsurtor didn't mind the loathing. He'd have been suspicious were it not there. "Where's the boy, Pekit?"

Pekit thought for a moment, running the many schedules of Tsurtor's fortress through his mind. "Er, he'd be in the sub-levels, master."

Tsurtor frowned at Pekit's mistake. It wouldn't do to allow mistakes. He let one foot lazily point outwards.

Pekit did not notice that it had been placed directly in his path.

The shock was immediate. There was the wrenching of his leg as it was pulled out from beneath him and he flew ineffectually less than half a meter, his breakneck pace carrying him that far. He was crying before he hit the ground, knowing what that impact would mean to his contorted arms. He tried to hold them against him, keep them from harm. The rock floor ground against his face, then his shoulders, then, inevitably, his arms, until he'd crumpled to a halt. Blood welled up on his cheek as he lifted his face. Tsurtor's footsteps were fading in the distance. Immediately, Pekit jumped and began running again, after his master. Torture, his life might be, a living nightmare, but the survival instinct was not of his own accord and he knew that, without his Master's watchful eye, alone in these tunnels he'd be dead or worse.

"The boy is in the air, Pekit. You must remember your schedules before I no longer have any use for you." Tsurtor spoke without looking to see if Pekit had caught up. He didn't need to; he sensed the little Paeadian's heaving breath behind him. "Go there. See that he is awaiting my arrival." It satisfied him to see his twisted servant throw his tired body in a mad dash to be ahead of his master in time to do as he was commanded.

Outside, the snow had turned into rain, a listless rain that knew the pointlessness of trying to make anything in Ktoll grow. Tsurtor walked beneath the laden skies, longing to be on the move. The Imperial Palace could not be his soon enough.

Two figures had come up from the rocky hillside and awaited him at the stone shelf outside the cave. Pekit was on his knees, as was only appropriate before his master. It was immaterial that he was wheezing and coughing in the bitter air. Vincent, too, knelt before his master, but he wasn't coughing.

Vincent had never been stronger. He stood as tall as Tsurtor, clad only in jeans that clung to his muscular legs like a second skin. His chest was huge, rippling with layers of muscle. His arms were so large and so strong, he could lift small boulders. Yes, his body had truly soared to the height of perfection. His magical strength, too, had surpassed any previous measurement. Still, there was strength and there was strength. Inside, beneath the taught muscles, physical endurance, and magical mastering, down in a crevice of what was left of his soul, a part that had not been touched by Tsurtor's manipulations, little Vincent lived a constant scream of terror. Worms of confusion writhed within his mind, making thought nearly impossible. Thoughts of home turned to hate, friends to disgust, good to ruin, and brother to murder. There was only one thought allowed in his mind, one concept that kept sharp focus. It was Tsurtor. Tsurtor held the reins of his life and only Tsurtor could help him.

And, so, Vincent kneeled before Tsurtor, his huge body diminutive, grateful that Tsurtor had found for him some time. He didn't speak. It wasn't necessary. Tsurtor knew how he felt.

"You've been practicing," came the hoarse exhale.

"Yes, my master. Now that I have greater clarity, I can make this new body you have given me fly much better than in the past."

Vincent listened closely; Tsurtor's voice was no louder than the wind blowing off of the rocks. "Show me," he heard.

He rose with a smile, the opportunity for action always preferable to stillness where voices and thoughts brought him close to panic.

Tsurtor's robes were cast about by the displaced air as Vincent launched himself into the sky. He flew with a swiftness that was imperceivable. One moment he was on the ground and in the next he soared high in the sky. There was no in between. Dodging this way and that, looping around the clouds, it almost seemed that his course was erratic. But, no. There was more here than met the eye. Tsurtor knew that, understanding subtext. This was no simple flight, Tsurtor could see as Vincent raced through the air. No. It was a hunt! There, just beyond the boy's reach, an eagle sped, sensing the evil in the wizard's soul, knowing it had become prey. Vincent brought out one hand and enveloped the bird's wings, easily able to grind it to pulp between his fingers. Then, almost alarmingly, he let it go, stopped abruptly as it flew away and raced to the ground, landing with but a puff of dirt beneath him.

Tsurtor smiled beneath his robes. Mercifully, no one could see him. A thought crossed his mind, a thought brought back from another world long ago. He would have laughed had it not brought him so much pain. It would have been pointless to speak it aloud. None on Gerrit would have understood. Still, the smile remained at the thought: Faster than a speeding bullet.

"You did not kill it," Tsurtor whispered.

"I would not kill what is yours, master, and everything in this world is yours." Vincent didn't look up. He returned to his kneeling position.

"Still, you let it get away."

Impudently, Vincent asked, "Oh, have I? If it's the bird you want, you may have it."

Plaintive cries broke the air behind them. Vincent's magic was greater than Tsurtor had thought and he was pleased. Descending from the air, knowing it was trapped, the eagle came encased in air, held by Vincent's will. The bird suspended between them, flapping wildly and pointlessly for freedom and safety. "I can bring anything to you, my master. Anything you wish. I could bring the Imperial Palace to Ktoll if you would give the word."

"The word is not given," Tsurtor scowled. "It would disturb the order of things."

"As you wish it," Vincent conceded, still kneeling.

"Yet, you have pleased me. You have come far. But have you come far enough?"

"Master," Vincent growled defensively, almost making the error of standing, "you know I would do anything for you! Let me prove it to you! I will take Rynia today! Alone! I will take Kallent! I will bring you to earth!"

"No need," whispered the master, immediately ceasing Vincent's boasts. "There is only one thing that I need from you for now. It is a difficult thing, yet it is a thing that must be done for me to be sure of you, once and for all."

"Anything," came the reply through gritted teeth.

"Would you kill your brother, Vincent? Would you kill Samuel? Kill him as you'd kill this bird? Would you do that for me?"

Vincent's face turned red. He stood and his eyes looked into the robes at Tsurtor's.

Beside them was a quick sound, a harsh sound, a popping.

Pekit swooned to the ground.

The air bubble no longer held the bird - but it did hold what was left of the bird. It was smaller now, too, smaller by far. Vincent had collapsed the bubble onto the bird, turning it into little but blood, muscle, and waste. When he released the bubble, the remnants splashed upon the rocky earth.

And he'd done it all without looking, without thinking.

"Good," Tsurtor hissed. "Maybe you are ready, after all."

Part II

Nobody had spoken of Lanigan. Though he didn't know it, he was sure of that inevitability. Nobody wanted anything to do with him and, if he was smart, he wouldn't let them. Tsurtor had seen to it that he would be there to cause their ruin and, against Tsurtor, how could he deny it?

He'd pulled himself off of the sofa (weird thing, the sofa, lavish in its cushioning, Lanigan had thought. How rich the world this had come from must have been!) only to find Skates at his feet. It was Skates' natural reaction. "Are you sure you're okay," Skates asked with a contagious uncertainty.

"N-no, I'm not," Lanigan had replied, feeling his head spin. "B-but I'm hungry."

"Right," Skates acknowledged. "Hex says you can eat that bowl of stuff." A huge ceramic bowl had been placed on Sam's coffee table and filled with yellow kernels of food. Mixed with them was about a third as much purple, blue, and red balls of about the same size.

"W-what i-is it? It d-don't look right." Skates, who was on the ground and couldn't see into the bowl, couldn't say. Left with little other choice, he popped a few of the yellow kernels in his mouth and bit down. Their crunchiness was soon surpassed by the incredible rush of sugar that spread through his body. It was better than the finest sweet-thing he'd ever had! (Not that he'd had much.) He grabbed some of the colored balls and found them to be even better.

Yes, Lanigan Reise loved Crunch Berries.

His hands were soon sticky and he laid back upon the sofa, shoveling them into his mouth. When the door opened, his body clenched with an almost instinctive panic.

Nobody had spoken of Lanigan. Bern Elcit could not contemplate of the boy's power and, thus, tried to ignore him. It pained Banry to even speak his name. Though Hex was sure he could be turned into an asset, he couldn't spend the time trying. He wouldn't need to; he had a feeling Ostrander would take care of it.

It was Ostrander who walked into Sam's apartment. Ostrander had been glad nobody had spoken of Lanigan because he had his own plans for the boy. Just as Ostrander had risen above Hargoth's plans for him to betray Rynia, he would see that Lanigan proved Tsurtor wrong. The boy was dirty, his hair stringy, a black diamond. Ostrander could sense his panic and didn't step any further into the apartment. "Hello, Lanigan," he said, trying not to look threatening. "You remember me, don't you?"

Lanigan's body unclenched and he sat up, placing the bowl on the table. "Ost-t-t-trander."

"Yes," Ostrander replied stepping closer to the sofa. "Things are happening again. The kingdom is heading to war. I want to help you help them but I can't do anything unless you want to, you understand?" Lanigan didn't reply and Ostrander knelt beside him on the floor, afraid his weight you crush the sofa. "I think there's a great gift inside you and it's not a curse. Believe it or not, there was once a time that I thought I was cursed, too, but I had to overcome it. It took a lot of strength and a lot of courage in the end but I was able to do it. I can help you, Lanigan. I can help be your strength and your courage. I just need to know if you want that."

Lanigan didn't say anything. He was too afraid. He'd be stuttering for weeks. Silently, then, he put a hand out and met Ostrander's.

* * *

The others were just returning to town.

This time, Sam flew with Hex. He'd received Bethel's message loud and clear. No matter the reason, if it was because he was from another world, another society, because he wasn't a soldier or, perhaps, just not her type, she would have nothing to do with him. So there was no reason for him to break his neck on the back on one of their warhorses. Just the same, he wondered throughout the flight back what her reason could have been for giving him such a strange look when he didn't go to the horses when she did.

"It's a very brave thing you're doing," Hex said, looking forward.

"Brave," Samuel asked. "I wouldn't call it that. I don't really think I have much of a choice."

Hex turned, his inquisitive mind taking over. "Why do you say that?"

Sam folded his hands and put them between his knees either to take the chill off or because he was uncomfortable answering. "Mom and Dad wanted me to take care of him," he replied, staring down. "It was in the will. Not for a couple months or a couple years. He's my responsibility, Hex."

"Honorable," Hex said with a nod.

"You don't get it, do you?" Samuel was surprised at his own zealousness but continued, "I don't think any of your get it. It's like that wizard you found, Reise. Tsurtor let him stay there because he knew that you'd get desperate for something to bail this country out, some secret weapon. Well, you got it! And he turns out to do more damage to Benaatt than the ice giants could ever do. Don't you see? Tsurtor doesn't do anything by accident. He didn't leave Reise thinking we wouldn't use him. He expected us to use him!"

"So, where's this leading?"

"You're the smart one, Hex. You tell me. Do you think Tsurtor would have kidnaped Vincent if he thought there was any chance that we'd rescue him? Do you think he thinks were so dumb that we can throw away an army just to get Vincent? Of course, not! He knows our first priority is to cover our butts and that's just what Heaphge is doing. So, Tsurtor's secure in Ktoll, knowing that nobody would try. Nobody would be stupid enough!"

"And you're going to be stupid enough," Hex asked, sarcasm layered heavily.

Samuel folded his arms, tucking his hands beneath his armpits, and looked over Antoine's side. "He's probably so sure of himself that he hasn't posted any guards. It may be a cake walk." Samuel didn't say what they both were thinking. That is, Tsurtor may have been right and there may have been no way to rescue Vincent.

Another of Sam's party, Randy Collins, was busy driving Forbert, the truck not as heavily packed on the ride back to town. Now, only Mark Nygarra sat in the bed. Though he could have ridden up front, he preferred the scenery. Randy thought he was a masochist, enjoying the icy wind whipping wildly, battering him the entire way. Chief Boom Tower rode in the cab with Randy.

"That's a very brave thing you're doing, son," the chief said, looking directly at the young driver. "Not too many people'd go behind the lines to find their friend."

Randy laughed at the suggestion. "That's funny," he said. "I was thinking the same about you, chief."

"Well, that's just my job," Boom replied, gazing proudly ahead. "When I swore to protect the people as a peace officer, well, that vow didn't up and end when we left California. I still represent rule of law and it's my duty to defend it. Hell, if you want to call that brave, then I won't stop you."

"No," Randy said. Obviously Chief Tower misunderstood. "I wasn't thinking you were brave."

Boom, taken about, asked, "Come again?"

"No. I was just thinking that not too many people would be dumb enough to fight in a war that they were obviously going to lose. I'm just getting out of the way of the oncoming slaughter. Tsurtor's people are gonna wipe you out! I don't want to be there when it happens. The only safe place is gonna be with us once we find Vincent."

It took Boom a minute to process the information. "So, you're telling me that you think Tsurtor's gonna win this?"

Randy nodded. "Hands down," he said. "Rynia's lame; it can't fight. That's why Tsurtor brought in Country Gardens. He wants to kill us, too."

"Well, I can't say anything about your bravery, then, seeing how you ain't got none." Chief Tower looked out Forbert's window and couldn't help feeling that the boy was on to something. "All the same, I sure hope you get your friend."

Mark Nygarra, riding in the bed with his hair being tossed about by the chill wind, his cloak pulled instinctively tight, heard none of this. Had he been sitting inside, it was very likely that he still would not have heard. This was why he sat in the bed. Deep in thought, torn with anxiety, he remembered his final words to Banry Ellison, his former comrade and city commander.

In the eight years that they had worked together, Banry and Mark had become good friends. Many nights, Mark would sup with Banry, Hildy, and little Greg. He found that, while his own feelings of inadequacy stemmed from his never being worthy, either through experience or lineage, of the roles in which he was entrusted, Banry felt that he'd never lived up to the expectations he was forever held up to. And who was holding him up? Who was placing this monumental pedestal upon which he could never hope to climb? Banry himself. He always felt that he should be doing more. When he'd been a scout fighting in the war, he felt that he should be a soldier showing bravery not running and skulking. However, when faced with his most vicious battle, he ran. As a deserter, he felt that he had to pay a penance by killing Tsurtor's pawn himself. It wasn't enough that he'd tried, that others had beaten him to it. As commander of Benaatt, he felt that it was up to him to destroy the ice giants single handedly. Upon losing the city, though, he felt he'd reached the final threshold, the worst humiliation.

Now, Heaphge was making him second only to Commander Obregon. The army was sadly shy of commanding officers and Banry was needed. He didn't feel worthy, though. He felt it would be better to kill him outright along with Lanigan Reise. Both, he felt, were Tsurtor's curses upon Rynia.

Still, Mark didn't think Banry realized just how much he was needed in Rynia's army. "It's a very brave thing you're doing, staying."

Banry, holding his new bat after testing its strength (it would do), turned away from Mark, a scowl upon his face. "You're mocking me," he said.

"No," Mark replied strongly, walking to face Banry. "I just know how you think. I ran too, you know, in the last war. You're not the only one who still thinks he has that brand. The fact of the matter, though, is that you didn't run when the ice giants came. You stayed in Benaatt while the walls were falling. Heaphge knows that. He needs that."

"Somebody who can bring a city crashing around his ears?"

"No. Somebody who can keep his sanity while it's happening."

Banry looked up into Mark's eyes for the first time. "But you're running."

The accusation stabbed Mark like a sword, piercing his chest. What was there to say? Banry was right. Still, Mark couldn't remain silent; he had to say something in his own defense. A lump hung in his throat, halting his words. "She needs me, Banry." The words startled him. They weren't the words he'd meant to say. "My job was to return to Rynia with help. Well, in that I failed. But if the king were here, he'd know that we stand no chance with our current forces. Brave they might be and these people from Hex's world might have their weapons but Tsurtor..." He let the sentence hang, afraid to continue. He took a step away from Banry, concluding the conversation. "We need Vincent."

Banry was too caught up in his own thoughts to see his friend start to walk away. The words repeated in his head. We need Vincent. It was undeniable. Still, he couldn't leave to rescue the boy; he'd already failed in his duty enough times. There was something left unsaid, though, and he knew he couldn't afford regrets. "Mark," he called out, though his friend was only several paces away. He clasped the duke's shoulder and looked straightly, honestly, into his eyes. "You're the brave one. You always have been. The truth is, I stay here because I'm too afraid to fail again. Maybe, at least, this way people will say that I had courage in the end. Go now. Rescue the boy. Maybe, in doing so, you'll rescue us all."

As he rode in the back of the pickup and it descended into the center of Country Gardens, those panicked, halting words repeated in his head. She needs me, Banry! It wouldn't be enough just to rescue Vincent. If Rynia needed the boy, she didn't need him nearly as much as did Mark.

As they pulled up in front of Sam's apartment building, Randy saw that Antoine, and his two passengers, had already arrived. A tarp had been hastily thrown over the helicopter, acknowledging the pregnant clouds overhead, brimming with rain. As Randy stepped out, a fat drop splashed upon his forehead. He wasn't ready for rain. To him, it should still have been summer. There should have been many days remaining for him to scam on babes at the beach. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pete and Sean with Agnie and Tetrem returning from the playground, the playground where the boys had grown up together. He waved at them, getting their attention. "'Trander's in the apartment. I'll meet you in the garage." He didn't need to ask if they'd go there; Randy had always been the unspoken leader of the WFR's.

Pete and Sean showed just as he'd expected, Pete grimacing at a garage full of cigarette smoke. "What's up," Sean asked.

Pete faked an annoyed cough and asked, "Yeah, what happened at that meeting."

"Sammy's going after Vincent." He thought it would be the most dramatic way of breaking the news to the guys. He thought it would make them think he was a hero and, then, they would make the same suggestion as Randy. Even Pete, the brain, would have been impressed by Randy's quick thinking. Randy was sure. Neither of them would want to be left out of this adventure.

Sean laughed. "What a moron," he roared.

Pete was laughing, too, shaking his head in disbelief. "Right. What's he think he's gonna do? Give Tsurtor a judo chop? I'm sure glad that we're not involved in this!"

"What," Randy asked. His exasperation was such that he almost dropped his cigarette.

"That's right. We didn't tell you." Sean turned to Pete, indicating that he, as usual, had devised an alternate plan.

Pete's chest puffed out a bit. "We heard that there's a castle to the east. We can run there until this blows over."

"And if it goes that far," Sean chimed, "we can take a boat to someplace else."

"Safety," Pete agreed.

Randy had to lean against the wall. In defeat, he didn't even bother smoking his cig. "I can't believe you guys! I hear you bitching about how Vincent got to come here since we was kids and now that we're here you're gonna run!"

Sean didn't need to consider his answer. "You bet we're gonna run! I mean, hell, Vincent could fly. He could do magic! And Tsurtor still got him. Maybe if Vincent had run, too -"

"Wait a sec, Sean," Pete said, cutting the other off. He took a step closer to Randy and asked, "Why are you so shocked that we want to run, Randy? Why does that all of a sudden bother you?"

"Well, I just thought you guy had more guts," Randy replied, an uncomfortably attempted back-pedal.

"No. You'd run too, if you could," Pete insisted. After a moment's thought - the others waited silently, Randy with his breath held - Pete saw past Randy's facade. "You volunteered us," he yelled. "You volunteered us, didn't you?" Without thinking, Pete had closed within less than a meter of Randy.

Pete's diminutive height coming only up to Randy's chest seemed funny most of the time. This time, though, Randy knew not to laugh. "I thought you guys would want to go! Vincent's your friend, too."

"Not enough to get killed for!"

"You smart enough to get us home, Poindexter?" Now Randy had his ire up and advanced on Pete. "No! You're not! Only Vincent can and he needs our help!"

"You think just cause you're the oldest -" Pete tried to counter but he didn't finish the sentence. He was knocked to the garage's cement floor. It wasn't the first time the WFR's had come to blows and Sean was already between the two.

"Lay off," he shouted. Randy tried to take another step toward Pete but Sean pushed him back with another warning. "Off!"

"Hit him, Sean," said Pete, picking up his glasses.

"Shut up, Pete," Sean said.

"Yeah, Pete," Randy said but Sean turned to him and ordered, "You, too, Randy!"

"What the hell," Randy asked.

Pete turned to Sean. "Whose side are you on?"

"Neither," Sean answered. "Look, Randy's an idiot but he's right. Not only does Vincent need our help but, more important, so does Sammy. We can't let him go alone. He'd die for sure."

Randy added smugly, "So there you go, smartass."

"And you," Sean brought his fist up before Randy could dodge and hit him squarely in the chest, "stop acting like you're the damn boss! We're not kids anymore!"

"Hey!" Samuel walked into the garage, bringing silence. "Stop fighting in here!"

"We're not fighting, Sammy," Pete replied.

"Sure," Sam replied, not believing a word. He'd pulled Forbert up to his rear window and, with Hex's help, started packing in the necessary supplies. Everything he could think of, at least. But the clicking of hooves distracted him as a horse headed up the alley. He knew it was her immediately and told Hex to hold on a minute.

"Can we talk," Bethel asked, stopping her horse at Forbert's side.

"Of course," Sam replied, wishing he didn't sound so needy. So, he paused and looked around. "Where?"

"Here would be fine."

In front of Hex, Randy, Sean, and Pete? Great. Sam's dreams of one, last chance at intimacy were snuffed short. At least the other guys moved away, giving Sam the illusion that he was alone with Bethel. He sat down on the wall of Forbert's bed, trying be look cool. "So, what's up?"

"I just came here to let you know that I think you are a fool."

It hit him like a faceful of ice-cold water, like the rain that sporadically plunked upon his head. He kept wishing for a snappy retort but none came. All he could say was, "That's it, huh?"

"Don't believe I haven't seen your attempts," she accused with no lack of hubris. "You haven't exactly been hiding your attraction to me but this -" She looked around as if searching for the word. "This is preposterous."

Sam rose, taking a step back. "Is that what you think?"

"Any fool can see."

He felt his face grow warm and balled up a fist but tried not to raise his voice. "You think I'm doing this just for you?"

She hesitated for a moment, seeing a conviction she'd not known was there. "Of course."

"Look, lady, here's a newsflash. I'm going out there for only one reason: that's my brother. Tsurtor has him. He's my responsibility. You think just cause I'm attracted to you that I'd risk my life? No!" A minute voice in the back of his head reminded him of his misadventure upon the horse but he ignored it. "You know, there's a whole lot more occupying my time than my love life right now!" He didn't need that voice reminding him that he hadn't gone on a real date in nearly three years. "I want to go home, to my world. I want to go back to a place I'm familiar with. I want to leave this insanity. But I can't think about that right now and I can't think about you! Let me clear your conscious. I'm going to save my brother because he's my brother. This has nothing \- nothing! - to do with you!"

As he'd hollered at her, she'd turned her horse around but she remained, watching him rant with that haughty look in her eyes. When he'd finished, she said nothing in reply. Only the clicking of her horse's hooves retorted as they sped down the ally and away into the dark.

"That's telling her, Sammy," Randy cheered.

Pete added, "Yeah, good going, man."

Sam looked up from the bed of his truck in wonder that he'd blown it again. "When'd it get so dark," he asked.

Hex was sitting on the windowsill. "Winter, Sam. You're still too used to city lights."

"Hell, Hex," he said and, not finishing the thought, added, "Let's get some dinner."

* * *

Dinner turned out to be macaroni and cheese from a box (water boiled over the hibachi) and tuna salad sandwiches. It was the last of Sam's groceries and, he thought ironically, possibly their last "earth" meal for a long time. Hex, Sam, Randy, Sean, and Pete sat around the kitchen table and ate by candlelight. Agnie and Tetrem huddled around Skates on the floor and relished in the tunafish. Lanigan was in another room, still preferring to remain alone. (Sam held no animosity towards the young wizard though his sofa was now a pile of rubble.)

When flashing lights appeared from outside, more brightly than ever thanks to the dark night, it came to both Hex and Sam as no surprise. Randy asked, "Is he out recruiting?"

"Makes me sick," Sam commented. "Trying to make an army out of the town."

"What," Pete asked.

"Oh, Ostrander's with him," Hex added. "He'll see to it that Boom doesn't coerce everyone. He's the best person to be in charge of the evacuation in my eyes."

"What," Sean asked.

Hex realized that the two had to be updated on what was transpiring and, soon, the tale was told.

"So, Tower's turning our town into an army," Pete asked.

"Hard to believe, I know," Sam replied. "But with the gun shops at the new mall, there's plenty of weapons waiting for warriors."

"Southern California's always been crawling with gun nuts," Hex commented through a mouthful of food.

Sean shook his head silently.

"What," Randy asked.

"So, that's it for Country Gardens," Sean asked. "Nobody's gonna stay here to defend our city?"

"If they can't stop Tsurtor's forces together, there won't be any point in us trying to defend the city alone," Samuel explained. "When we return from Ktoll -"

Hex spoke up, "Don't sugar coat it, Sammy. IF you return."

"Fine. If, and when, we return, there won't be anybody here. They'll all be on the coast. That means your folks, guys, and your sister, Randy, and your brothers and sisters, Sean. You may not be seeing them for a long time, if at all. This is a war we're going into and I don't want you to get some glamorous idea that everybody's going to be okay in the end. Now, Hex and I did some talking and we want you to go home tonight and say good-bye. Spend the night there. It may be your last time."

Randy made a face and huffed. "Ah, come on, Sammy."

Samuel gritted his teeth and put on his serious face. "I'm not asking, Randy."

"But there's still another sandwich," Sean said, grabbing -

\- but too late. Samuel plucked the last sandwich and took a big bite out of it. "No, there's not."

* * *

Sam knew it might be the last morning that he heard the alarm go off but he still hated the clanging of its bell with a white hot intensity. He almost pressed the button but was seized by a great idea. If it was, indeed, the last morning, then he'd have no more need of the clock. He picked it up like a baseball and hurled it at the doorjamb. It was only a wind-up, the cheapest at the store when he'd bought it several years back. Still, colliding with the hard wall, it landed in one piece, still clanging. "Oh, gonna be difficult, huh," Sam asked as he got out of bed, approaching it threateningly. He picked it up and went to the window. He leaned out, after opening the window and tossed it in a high lob into the air over the alley.

"Clang!-Clang!-Clang!-Clang!-Cla-"

The silence was golden. Sadly, he didn't see the clock's collision with the concrete; it was still dark outside. Why was it still dark? Sam didn't know; he had no idea what time it was. Looking up, though, he could see the sky run with wisps of color. A new day was dawning.

He knew he wouldn't have been able to get any more sleep anyway - the night had been one long toss and turn - so, he dressed. Bathing was out of the question, no running water. It was something he'd have to talk to Mark about. Happily, though, he was able to brush his teeth. He didn't have the Rynian's armor but he did have jeans, a flannel shirt, and his leather jacket. He didn't have hiking boots but he did have his work boots. Shaking his head in chagrin, he couldn't understand how the guys in the movies were always so prepared for such eventualities as being stranded on an alien planet.

He didn't bother waking Hex. Lanigan was gone from his spot on the floor. Stepping out on the landing, he figured a lot of other people were gone as well. The town stood in silence and nearly a third of the vehicles usually parked out on the street were missing. He knew that, if the town were searched, he'd find that all the missing cars were four-by's: trucks and sports utility vehicles.

Country Gardens had been deserted. Split in two, some had gone east to safety while others had armed themselves for the fight to the west. Sitting on his top step, he could see by the approaching figure that his time to leave would come soon.

It was Mark Nygarra, crossing the street, bedecked in the trappings of war. On his feet were the boots Kel had given him. He also wore a new, leather armor. A pack was slung over his back and a sword hung at his waist, slapping against his leg with each step. Sam didn't know him well, had only spoken with him a few times. Yet, here was the man whose life was saved by Vincent's first act of magic. Who better to come along?

In his hand, Mark held a knife by the blade and, when he reached the base of the stairs, he held it out. "A peace offering," he said in way of explanation.

"Peace offering," Sam asked. Walking down, he took the blade from the duke's hand. It gleamed dangerously and Sam felt instantly uncomfortable. It was nearly the length of his forearm and remarkably light. "But I don't get it. What reason do you have for giving me a peace offering?"

"It's not from me," Mark replied cryptically. "It's from someone else."

"Who?"

"I think you know." Mark removed his pack easily and set it down against the staircase. "I can either call her here or not. It's your choice."

Samuel was looking at the blade. Yes, he was sure he knew who'd given the gift. But he couldn't understand why. "I don't get it," he said.

"But you want to understand?"

Sam hesitated for a moment before replying, "Well, yes."

Mark nodded. "Then, she'll come." Putting two fingers in his mouth, he blew a deafening whistle. Sam had seen people make a similar noise at sporting events but never so loudly. After he'd stopped, the ringing continued in Samuel's ears, letting up only in time for another sound to come through: the clicking of horses' hooves.

Mark smiled as Sam walked out into the street. "I'll just leave you two alone."

She approached him slowly and, before she'd ridden too close, dismounted and walked up to him. She didn't stay several paces away but stood so close he could smell her hair. Her head was bowed and, when she didn't speak, he felt compelled to talk to avoid doing something stupid. "I don't get this. Yesterday you called me names and now you're giving me weapons."

"I was the fool," she said. She raised her head and looked in his eyes. There was no way for him to know that she was equally confused about her feelings. "I want to apologize."

"Well, I - I - um, accept."

"That's a throwing knife. We have little need for them in our army. My father, the major, bought in during a trip to Ceyliz back before the war. It's said to be very valuable. You're a brave man, Samuel Gobel - just as your brother but braver for lack of magic - but I don't think you'll want to face Tsurtor without a weapon." She smiled.

Suddenly, Sam forgot what she'd called him yesterday. All he knew was that she was here and he was giddy.

She stepped closer, though he hadn't thought that possible, and he forgot that they were standing in the middle of Garden Road. "We go to fight a war," she whispered and he could feel the air touch his skin. "There is no time now for romance." Then, she kissed him hard upon the mouth. It was over before he could enjoy it and its resonance rang through his soul.

She stepped away and mounted her horse. "Perhaps another day." The words teased Sam with hope but at the same time, she spurred the horse into movement and they were quickly away.

Perhaps another day?

Samuel thought it was silly, he may soon be going to his death, but he was sure that day would come.

Part III

Hex awoke to the otherworldly sound of sailing alarm clocks. Irregardless of the sounds interrupting his rest, he remained in Vincent's bed, relishing the soft mattress and warm covers while he still could. Who knew how long it would be before he slept in a bed again. His eyes opened soon of their own accord; his body just didn't want to sleep any more. It couldn't with his mind racing as it was. Throughout the night he'd thought about this, the next leg of his journey.

He'd spent night after night in Tuk's tower, reading the old texts. He'd gone over the old lore and pieced together the clues. He knew that his next step was the most logical. Rynia was a civilization linked with advanced technology beyond their ken and Silen was the key! So, why did he feel so uncertain?

He climbed over the side of the bed, the soft mattress laying low in the frame, and spurred himself into action. After he'd dressed in his new clothes (Boom had organized the merchants in the new mall to supply gear to his new army and - though the Chief was keeping a cold distance - Hex found himself the beneficiary of it.), he went to the dresser to stir Robert from his rest.

But Robert wasn't in his bed - a bed that had been built out of a cookie tin and rags. Against a lap on the dresser, leaning as if he'd been leaning for some time, Robert watched Hex approach. "You ready to go," he asked.

"Just about," Hex replied, pulling on his army field jacket. "You want to hop on in?" He held open one of the jacket's wide, waist pockets for Robert.

"Mr. Fanlan," Robert said, more seriously than Hex had ever heard, "we've got to talk."

Hex took his hand away from his pocket and placed both on the dresser. "Sure, Robert. What is it?"

"I'm not going in the pocket, Hex."

"Well, that's okay. You can ride on the shoulder."

"No. That's not it!" Robert stepped closer to Hex, a scornful look on his countenance, his hands balled into fists. "You've been shoving me in pockets, hiding me away, ignoring me, since we got here, Hex. Face the truth. You don't need me."

Hex hesitated for a moment, not wanting to admit the truth. He didn't want to have to go into Silen alone. "But, Robert -"

"Don't 'But Robert' me." The little man climbed onto Hex's hands, continuing, "I'm not going with you, Hex. I've made up my mind."

"Where are you going to go? You can't stay here."

When Robert told him, Hex knew it was the proper choice. Picking up his pack, he put out his hand so Robert could ride in one hand. He looked down at the treeling and said, "You've been a good friend, Robert. I'm gonna miss you."

Robert inspected where his nails would have been had he any and boasted, "Of course, you will."

Hex opened the door and, heading out, he felt his thumb wrapped in an embrace from his old friend.

Outside of the apartment, Samuel was trying to put things in order. "Sean! Tie down those packs! Randy! Put out that damn cigarette!"

"Hey, Randy? Did'ja see what Sean did," Pete asked.

Sitting on the hood, Randy was trying to covertly finish his cigarette. He'd stolen two cartons during the night and stuffed them in his pack. "What?"

Sean, too, had broken one of the laws of the country he'd left behind. Though not as severe as what Randy had done, Sean had committed the act in the utmost of secrecy. Rising before dawn to see his family off, he pretended to go back to bed. He knew his mother and brothers and sisters would be safe in the east. (Out of all of their families, Randy's father was the only one to go west.) Then, after he knew nobody was around, he made his move. Though there were now less than ten people left in Country Gardens, he skulked to the playground and, at the wooden swing construction, started carving.

"What did it look like," Randy asked.

Sean remembered its every detail and had proudly displayed it to Pete. It read, "S. R. Cal - Rynia. 2008"

"How lame," Randy laughed. "You couldn't even put in your whole name!"

"Afraid he'd get caught," Pete teased.

"Oh, yeah," Sean asked. "Well, I didn't see any of you leaving your mark!"

"That's cause we don't have to," Randy said, tossing away his finished cigarette. "We'll be back."

"Will you guys just shut up and get in," Samuel yelled. "I can't believe I agreed to let you come."

Randy opened the driver side door. "You have no choice, man. I'm the only one who drives Forbert. Ain't that right?"

"If he says so, Sam," Forbert replied. "Randy is my registered owner."

Sam saw Hex heading down the stairs and said, "Oh, Hex, I don't think I ever thanked you for making a talking, flying truck."

"It gets better than that, Sam," Hex replied. "I've got another companion for you."

"Huh," Sam asked.

"Me, SammyDavisJunior!" Robert made a dramatic leap from Hex's hand to Sam's shirt and, climbing it to Sam's shoulder, did a little dance at the top. "Just what you needed! I helped you find Vincent once before, I'll help you again. And, this time, I got legs to boot. All I need is boots!"

Sam was shocked. "Oh, no, Hex."

"What," Robert asked in disbelief. "You don't have a problem with this, do you? Why, I could help you where those other, worthless punks can't! I got stealth on my side! I can be your eyes! Your ears! So, come on! Get your greasy haired, ugly ass moving! Come on!"

Samuel plucked Robert from his shoulder and flung him at Forbert's bed, where the WFR's were sitting. "You had to give him to me, didn't you?"

"He's right, Sam. He'll be a big help," Hex honestly replied. "After all, he broke me out of jail, didn't he? He may be just what you need to break out Vincent."

A shout rose from the truck. "Cool! Robert's coming with us!"

Mark, approaching after placing his pack in the truck, asked, "Robert, huh?"

"I'm afraid so," Sam replied.

"I really think it's for the best," Hex opined.

Sam gave Hex a dubious look and said to Mark, "Sure, best for him because he won't have to mess with the little demon."

Within an hour, goodbyes were said. They were surprisingly brief, as if they'd all see each other by the end of the day. Forbert revved, Randy sitting inside with Sam and Mark, Pete and Sean riding in the bed, and lifted gracefully into the air.

Hex walked to the garage, where Antoine waited dryly. "I'm afraid we might be getting you wet, old friend."

"Why's that Hex? Won't we be back by night?"

"No," Hex replied, loading his pack into the passenger's side. "Not by tonight."

"Are we going on a long trip, Hex?"

"A long trip," he asked. In a moment, he was sitting in the driver's seat and gripped the control stick. "Oh yes, very long."

* * *

"How much longer," the question came out of the pitch darkness.

Boom gritted his teeth, against both the cold and the untrained, untried nature of his ragtag army. "How many times have I said this? We're here for the night. You comprende that? You see the sun come up, then you'll know we'll get moving again!" It was hard to be stern silently. It came out too much like a hiss.

This was a strategy agreed upon by both Boom and General Heaphge. It was a strategy designed to give their small army maximum punch. It wasn't the best strategy but it worked. As far as strategies went, it certainly didn't help his men. In fact, Boom thought as rain again started to come down - as if whatever God there was on this godforsaken planet thought freezing cold just wasn't bad enough - as far as strategies went, this one sucked.

They huddled in their vehicles, bundled in blankets because they had to conserve their fuel. (Boom had never found the time to go to the new Oshman's Sporting Goods Store in the mall but he'd presumed it was well stocked. Their ads seemed to show a store where one could get anything. So, what a shock it was when they had no proper, winter gear. Winter gear for southern California was not proper, winter gear. Even now, as he peered through the high-powered, infrared scopes Oshman's had stocked, laying upon the roof of his Jeep, he quaked in overpriced, high altitude clothing, rated for below zero temperatures that may as well have been made of paper.) Heaphge had stationed them a kilometer ahead of the main force. They were the bait to his trap. Once Tsurtor's forces were spotted, Boom would hook them and reel them in. He wouldn't reel them back to the main force, though. They'd end up, instead, about a kilometer to the north (though Boom estimated they'd only get about half that far from what he'd heard about Tsurtor and seen on these so-called flat plains). Heaphge's men would then come up from behind, scattering the ranks and bringing confusion along with, they hoped, panic.

So, they'd wait until morning for the enemy to come.

Boom had appointed Gabe Hernandez as his second in command. In another hour or so, Gabe would come up and let his ass freeze off on the roof. Then, Boom reflected almost hungrily, Boom would have the rest of the night in the back of the Jeep with those thermal blankets and that soft air mattress.

To take his mind off of what couldn't be - yet - he looked to where the whining had come. It was Eddie Tran, the liquor store owner, sitting on the hood of the truck to Boom's right. Boom looked through his night scopes to see him clearer, just to make sure Tran hadn't slumped off to sleep. No. The little man shook there, scanning the horizon. Only hypothermia could get you to sleep in this weather.

It was foolish paranoia, Boom knew. The odds were completely against a midnight assault. Not only did they not have the technology to see in the dark but Tsurtor's men, just like Heaphge's and just like Boom's (though probably not as much as Boom's), needed to sleep. Didn't they? But then Boom recalled the stories Heaphge had told him about the last war, about stone giants and undead creatures.

"Chief Tower," Andrew Tichey, the local boy scout troop leader, said in a hushed voice still audible from two vehicles to Boom's left, "scope north-northwest."

Tichey was the closest thing to a soldier Boom had, having once been in the national guard, so Boom brought his scopes immediately to bear. "I'm not seeing nothing, Tichey. What's your bearings?"

"Two to four degrees north of that tall pine."

"Which," Boom muttered, scanning the horizon. "You got nothing, Tich. You're looking for red and all I'm getting's green."

"No, sir. Blank spots. Look again. Something's coming in without a heat signature."

"Bullshit," Boom groaned as he stood on the roof. "Toraquino? You still awake," he said, trying not to yell.

"And freezing my damn ass off," came the terse reply.

"Shine that spot north-northwest. Tich thinks he's got the boogie-man."

With a click, light burst in the utter darkness, blinding those watching temporarily. Once his eyes were adjusted, though, Boom still couldn't see anything.

"Further," Tichey corrected. "Up by the horizon. I'm thinking just over a klick but they're coming, no doubt about it."

Toraquino moved the spot up, scanning through brush and trees until he caught something -

\- and then, several somethings -

\- they were definitely there -

\- each as big as a house -

\- and wouldn't give off a thermal reading. Stone never did.

With his pistol at his side and the rifles in the car, Boom knew that his only way of attack was totally inadequate. He whispered, "We should'a taken a tank."

* * *

Tsurtor laughed. The thought that he might have let them bring a tank was more than just amusing. It was ludicrous! He paid no attention to Pekit, vomiting at the sound of the Master's laughter, and turned his Sight to another pawn. Only he had brought his magic to such sublimity. It was only right. All who used magic gained enhanced perceptions but there was sight and there was Sight. He saw the truck that Hex had worked his magic upon. There it was in the distance, soaring through the air, carrying Vincent's older brother to his death. It would be Vincent's final step into slavery.

Just the same, Tsurtor didn't want Samuel to think it too easy.

He slipped into Hargoth's mind, who waited just as ordered.

* * *

It was the second day of the trip. Mark Nygarra had not expected the trip to be unopposed. He had cautioned Randy to drive north to the foothills of the northern spires and follow them west. Flying over Paead, they would have been spotted instantly by Tsurtor's army. Randy, Sean, even Pete thought, by the second day, that this maneuver had outsmarted Tsurtor and they'd taken a safe route to Vincent. Seeing Mark's discomfort, though, was enough to make Samuel think otherwise.

"It's relatively clear," he said, riding with the duke in the truck's bed. Randy drove up front and Pete sat in the middle, Sean automatically taking shotgun. Robert rode on Randy's shoulder. Sam looked over at Mark, not seeing him as royalty. He couldn't change his modern outlook to fit this society and didn't try. Mark didn't seem to mind. "We can see for miles," he pointed out. "If there was any problem, we'd see it coming."

"You would think so," Mark replied as he gazed over Forbert's side.

"But," Sam asked. "I sense a 'but' there."

"But," Mark continued, turning to Sam, "I saw Tzurritza's entire army mowed down by gunfire. There was no way we could have expected that. We thought they'd have sword... bows. Guns," he asked, turning to look back over the side.

Sam didn't reply. He looked over the other side, watching for anything.

When it came, neither saw it. It was a smart-rocket, no larger than a loaf of bread. They were all the rage on earth, from where it had been stolen. Launched from a shoulder pack, several could be fired by one foot soldier. Several weren't needed, though.

One was enough.

The rocket hit Forbert squarely in the passenger's side headlight, blasting engine parts in all directions. Forbert shuddered with the initial impact then, as Randy clutched the steering wheel, tumbled to the right, falling.

"Forbert," Pete screamed.

Randy spun the wheel madly and Robert pulled on his hair, both cursing unintelligibly.

"I - I - ow," Forbert's weak voice came from the dash. "I can't - I'm hurt."

"Please! Stay up," Pete pleaded. It was pointless though. With a sudden lurch, Forbert rolled over. Dead.

Sam grabbed the edge of the truck bed as they rolled.

Supplies flew from where they were tied and were launched in the air.

Sam hadn't seen Mark fall but, with a pull that nearly dislodged his fingers, felt Mark grab his shoes, suspended precariously as air whooshed by and earth raced forth.

"It's not my fault," Randy yelled at the top of his lungs.

Again, the truck flipped over.

Mark fell into the bed, crashing his head against the cab.

Samuel dislodged his fingers as he saw a hillside spring at them.

Then, for just a split second, all was silent. Even the air, racing past, made no sound.

They hit the ground at an angle. Glass exploded in a cacophony of pain. Metal screeched as the already damaged half of the Ford's front was torn free. Almost instantly, Sean was thrown from the cab. Sam blacked out for that split second and then realized that Mark was gone.

The truck spun around, flying further.

Robert lost his grip on Randy's hair and was thrown around the cab.

Now they were tilted on the driver's side and, for another long, silent moment, they sailed.

Then, they hit. There was no recoil, no bounce. They didn't skid or slide. The truck's front crashed squarely into a boulder and crumpled under its own velocity. Pete felt his body yanked forward, held in place by the lap-belt. Randy's face slammed into the steering wheel.

Then, utter silence.

Samuel tasted the mud in his mouth and felt the pain shooting down his neck. He was laying face down beneath the truck's bed and, though the bed had kept him from flying free, his body was battered from slamming between the truck's metal and the hard earth. He pulled himself from the twisted position he was in so he could lay spread eagle beneath the truck.

So, no broken bones, he thought. It was probably a miracle but he found he couldn't appreciate it. There wasn't an inch on his body that didn't hurt.

He knew he couldn't remain where he was. There were others who could have been worse. Rolling out from beneath the truck, he caught his first glimpse of the damage. Then, following the trail down the hill, he traced their path. They'd struck several hundred yards down the hill. Trees were skewed to mark the spot. From there, mud and dirt was etched to mark their way.

He tried to stand but found his legs too shaky. He scrambled up to the driver's side door. The door was caved in, there'd be no opening it. At least they didn't have to worry about the truck exploding; it had run out of gas long ago and had operated on Forbert's willpower alone.

But Sam wasn't thinking about Hex's creation. "Randy," he called out. His voice was rough and wobbly, much like his footing.

"Sa-amm - mee," a childlike voice replied from within the truck.

"Randy," he asked again. Doing his best to gain his feet, he pulled himself up the truck and looked inside.

Randy's head was lolled to the side, blood dripping from his mouth. He looked up with questioning eyes and moaned.

Samuel quickly forgot about Randy. The gaping hole in the passenger's side, and Sean's missing body, screamed at Sam for action. He forced his body to move and, though he couldn't run, hurriedly searched the hillside.

Back at the truck, rising from Randy's pocket, Robert breathed a sigh of relief. It was sheer luck that he'd reached the pocket but now came out with the attitude that it was just what he'd intended to do. "Well, I made it unhurt. That's what's important."

Randy painfully looked down at the treeling and, picking him up with a bloody hand, threw him out the window.

"Sean," Samuel cried as he searched. "Sean!"

A single leg jutted out from some brush and Sam could see from the leather boots and heavy trousers that it was Duke Nygarra. The duke had landed between a small dune of pine needles and a bush. As Sam looked him over, it was clear that he'd gotten away with only scratches.

Sean, however, wasn't so lucky.

"I want you to stay by the truck," Samuel told Randy and Pete as he returned. His stride had grown stronger. It had to. He had a lot of work ahead of him.

The spade was tied down inside the truck's bed and, as Samuel retrieved it, Randy asked, "Wha's t'at for?" No more than an hour had passed since the accident but his speech had grown better.

Samuel sat him down beside the truck, next to Randy, and tilted his head back. "Open your mouth," he ordered and his tone of voice kept Randy from questioning. "You lost a tooth," he said, inspecting. "Keep your head back. I think that's supposed to let it drain. If it hurts, don't tell me about it."

Randy closed his mouth, wisely keeping silent.

"What about you," he asked Pete.

"Randy pulled me out. I think I hurt my hip."

Sam was no doctor but he knew he had to see what was hurt. "Drop your pants."

Pete couldn't believe his ears. "What," he asked, incredulous.

"I don't have time for this, Pete," Samuel replied, insistently. "You hurt your hip? Well, your hip's covered. Drop 'em."

As Pete undid his pants, he bargained. "I'll only drop them past my hip."

Samuel had more to think about than Pete's modesty. As Pete inched his pants down, Sam grabbed the waist and yanked them past the thigh. The area was discolored up to Pete's belly. "We have to see if that's broke, Pete. Pull up your pants."

As Pete struggled to put them back in place, he grumbled, "Make up your damn mind."

"Now, you need to get up. You need my help?"

Pete looked at Randy for help but Randy was just shaking his head. He would remain quiet. Then, Pete looked up at Samuel, hoping for some sympathy. "It really hurts, Sammy."

"I know, Pete. I came down just as far as you but you gotta get up. Now, I'm going to grab you under your arms and -"

"No," Pete yelled. Not only would Sam not give him sympathy but he wanted to humiliate him. "I'll do it." The pain was all in his right hip, so he brought his left leg under him to bring him up. Once in that position, though, he became stuck.

Samuel didn't want to see him struggle. He grabbed him from behind and pulled him up.

The pain in Pete's leg was so severe, he cried out and clutched the underside of the topsy turned truck.

Samuel looked at him. Pete was standing gingerly but it was important that he was standing. Then, Sam guessed, the leg's not broken. "I don't know if you should stay on it or if you should stay off it so just do whatever makes it feel better."

Through clenched teeth, Pete replied, "Then, I'll sit down. Again!"

"Fine," Samuel said, ignoring the ire. "Now, what happened to Robert?"

Randy shook his head; he wasn't talking.

"He went looking for food," Pete explained.

"Food?"

"Yeah, all our supplies are scattered around this hill, so Robert went to get some food."

Samuel sighed in exasperation and turned to Randy. "You can talk but only if you explain things."

Randy smiled. "He went huntin'."

Sam thought, and here I was so certain I couldn't be surprised by anything else. "Hunting?"

"Yes," Pete snarled. " That's what we're telling you!"

"How could he be hunting," Sam asked.

Innocently, Randy replied, "He took the gun."

The gun. It was a .38 caliber pistol Boom had insisted he take from the sporting goods store. Robert was a pain in the ass under normal conditions... but armed?

Suddenly, a shot rang out from the brush, somewhere up the hill. Birds flew away and creatures scurried up nearby trees.

"Oh, shit." The three looked at each other, realizing that they'd all spoken simultaneously.

Minutes passed without a sound.

"What's going on," asked a voice from behind.

Sam turned and saw it was Duke Nygarra approaching. "Are you hurt," he asked.

Mark looked down at Randy's blood-stained shirt and replied, "Less than some. Looks like we got off easy."

"No," Samuel corrected. "No, we didn't. Look, I have to go do something. You keep an eye on these two and watch for the twig." Sam took the spade and turned down the hill.

"How long've I been out," Mark asked the others.

"I'd guess we crashed a couple of hours ago," Pete told him. Randy nodded in agreement.

"Then where are..." Mark didn't finish his question. He was distracted by the image of Robert, the treeling, pulling a pistol out of the brush. He had it by the trigger guard and tugged it, backing towards the others.

Sensing their observance, Robert turned from the gun, looking as indignant as possible for a bunch of twigs, and said, "I refuse to see what the big deal is! What's everybody so afraid of!? You call this a weapon!?" He stopped when the others started laughing at him and stormed off around the truck.

"Bag any big game," Pete asked.

Robert didn't stop walking, muttering, "I shot a tree."

Laughing, Randy exclaimed, "Dem's good eatin'!"

But the laughter soon died out when Samuel didn't return with Sean. Evening soon came and, with Mark's help, they scavenged enough of their supplies to set up camp before it began raining again. Several hours later, Samuel returned to camp, exhausted from digging a grave.

CHAPTER EIGHT

SILEN FOREST

Part I

Antoine wasn't a big fan of the rain; this much was clear. And, though Hex did not need to be told again, and again, Antoine just wouldn't shut up. "Gads! My upholstery is absolutely ruined! I just know it! And look at the leather trim!"

"I understand, Antoine," Hex replied, not looking at the trim. He didn't look at the trim because, at their current speed, the bloated raindrops slapped against him like ten-penny nails and he didn't dare open his eyes. They were probably black already but, sitting in his drenched clothing with nothing dry for miles, he had other things on his mind. He was rethinking the logic of a topless helicopter. Perhaps, in the southern Californian sun, it had been a good idea but out here, in the middle of a Rynian winter, it was foolishness.

"I just know I'm going to rust! Rust until I simply fall apart!" Complain though he did - and he did - Antoine still traveled on. They were already two days out of Country Gardens. After the first day, Hex had covered him with a wide tarp and slept, painfully, inside. Hex hoped he wouldn't spend another night sleeping upright.

Now, as they flew, Hex had told the helicopter to keep a look out for the forest but, not knowing how much more - of both the weather and Antoine's incessant whining - he could endure, Hex asked, "Do you see anything yet?"

"No, nothing," Antoine pouted. "We're never gonna find someplace dry!"

Hex gritted his teeth but felt little due to the exposure. "Damn it! According to our maps, we should have been over it hours ago. I mean, sure, they're a little wet but that shouldn't change much. Why don't you set down and I'll pull them out again?"

"I can't," Antoine replied.

Hex, tired of Antoine's griping, let the irritation show in his voice. "Oh, and what is it now? Your runners fall off?"

"No," Antoine admitted. "It's all these trees. I can't see anything with all these trees here!"

Hex, bringing his hands up to push his long locks back, nearly pulled his hair out. "Trees, Antoine?"

"Thousands of them! They seem to go on forever!"

"That's the forest, you idiot! Why didn't you tell me we'd reached the forest?"

His speed slowing, Antoine seemed to pause in mid-air. "I'm sorry, Hex. I guess I couldn't see the forest because of all these trees."

Hex groaned. "Just find a place to set us down."With their speed slowed, Hex opened his eyes and looked down. Expanding like an inland sea, Silen spread below them.

"Can't blame me," Antoine insisted. "You never showed me a forest back in California."

Feeling a headache coming on, Hex remained silent. A glade was found mercifully quick and Antoine set them down on a hillock. "Are you going to be safe here," Hex asked, stepping out.

"The land shouldn't erode beneath me. If it does, I'll just hop up." As if to demonstrate, Antoine jumped several centimeters from the ground.

Hex fished out the tarp and began covering him. "You remember what we discussed? This is a dangerous place."

"I know," Antoine replied, having heard these instructions too many times. "If anything happens, I fly off."

"Get help if you can," Hex prompted.

Antoine finished, "And if I can't, I'm to rejoin either Boom or Sam. Gotcha!" As Hex walked to the edge of the glade, though, Antoine blurted, "But, Hex, what about you?"

"Me," Hex asked, turning around.

"What if something should happen to you? How will I know?"

Hex hadn't quite thought of that and was going to put Antoine's mind at east when something grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him swiftly into the forest's depths.

"Hex," Antoine asked, shocked at his maker's complete, uncharacteristic lack of concern as he sensed Hex walk silently into the forest. "Um, Hex?"

* * *

Hex grabbed frantically at roots and branches that slid away beneath him as he was pulled away from his only companion. They seemed to pass from his grasp like mirages. He knew he had to stop his movement somehow, though, or he'd soon be lost in the forest's depths with no idea how to get out and his supplies out of reach. With a maneuver that would have made Vincent proud and, quite honestly, defied his flabby abdominal muscles, he pulled himself up his leg, doubling over, and tugged at the vine. Soon, it was pulled off and, though it slithered back into the dark shadows, Hex kept sliding. Without the vine to guide him, though, he tumbled, end over end, through brush and bramble, finally coming to rest in some tall grass.

For several minutes, he just laid there, catching his breath, testing his bones for any breaks. Above him, several trees ascended to the forest's roof. Its shelter was not as thorough as that provided by the great Tzurritzanian swamp. Rain fell lackadaisically down on Hex's face. He'd had enough of the rain and sat against a tree to get a lay of the land. All around him, trees and undergrowth pervaded, even his trail, which should have been obvious having been dragged along the forest's floor, was obscured. He could follow it for a few feet but after that...

So, perhaps, this was how Silen got its victims. It would literally pull them in. Dragging them to the center, they'd have to find their way out. It wouldn't surprise him if he found the bones of previous victims carpeting his own search.

Or, perhaps, his imagination was just getting away from him.

No time for that. Night was coming. He had to decide what to do next. What could he do? Start a fire? Certainly, that wouldn't be a problem; it would seem the logical thing to do. Yet, in the middle of the great forest, where some timber may yet remain untouched by the corpulent, winter rain, any fire may quickly get out of hand. No, better to use his magic some other way.

Clearing the ground beneath the tree, he found several, large rocks. Piling them like a campfire, it was a simple task to excite their molecules to a point where they glowed, emitting a wonderful, warming heat. Then, he gathered leaves for a pillow and rested, letting the rocks take the chill of his long trip from his bones. What would Antoine be doing now that Hex was lost? How far had Samuel reached? What about the imminent clash of armies on the Paeadian border? What about Vincent? What was happening to Vincent?

If he kept questioning like that, he really would go insane! He needed something to take his mind away from the urgencies, the darkness. The stones had helped. They shed a relaxing glow. He needed something else warm enough to take his mind off his troubles. There was only one person he knew who could do that and she was half a kingdom away. He was thankful that, at least, Helen was alive and, he hoped, feeling the warmth of their bed.

He pictured her face as he had first seen it, so many years ago, in a magical projection. It was what had first brought him here, to Rynia, and what had convinced him to remain. Then, he thought of the last time he'd seen her. He remembered telling her that he'd be right back. Only a few days. How long had it been? Over a month? She must have been worried sick. And little Caroline, it must have been torture for Helen to tell her daughter, as Hex was sure she had, that her father was safe somewhere. He had to talk to her, had to see her face. And, though he knew that it would be impossible for him to see her face perhaps, he thought, she could see his.

Searching within the boundary of light the stones provided, he gathered his material. He'd made something like this once before for their wedding day. He didn't notice when night was slowly swept away by the morning's sun, rising feebly above the clouds. By the time he was finished, daylight was fully upon him. The stones were again cool and Hex sat against the tree, his arms filled with tiny butterflies.

"Okay, guys, you know what to do. No side trips and no surprises. I've given you explicit directions and I expect you to follow them." Hex was relieved when none of them argued back. Had it been Robert... "Okay, then," Hex said, tossing them into the air, "off you go!"

Without a pause to look back, the butterflies rose, swirlingly, into the trees, soaring to the treetops and away. For a moment, Hex was at ease.

YOU ARE VERY POWERFUL, HEX. TRUSTED - - - EVEN LOVED BY YOUR COLLEAGUES.

The voice came out of nowhere, booming loudly yet, inexplicably, did not hurt Hex's ears. "Who is that," he asked.

YOU'RE NOT LIKE THE OTHERS. YOU COME FROM - - \- HMM, ANOTHER WORLD! INTERESTING!

Standing, Hex asked, "Who are you?" He looked all around but saw no one.

YOU COME SEEKING AID IN A PLACE WHERE, YOU ARE TOLD, DEATH LIES. THIS IS MOST INTERESTING.

Hex stopped looking when he suddenly realized where the voice originated - inside his own head!

YOU NEED A FIRE YET YOU BURN NO WOOD. YOU ARE HUNGRY YET YOU DO NOT USE YOUR POWER TO KILL, NOT EVEN FOR FOOD.

Hex understood now how the horror of Silen Forest had spread. The Rynians had thought the voice to be their own conscious or maybe even a God's. Hex, however, thought differently. "You're feeding thoughts into my brain," he called out, hoping the voice would respond.

YOU ALONE HOLD SOME IDEA OF WHAT HAS TRULY HAPPENED ON THIS PLANET. YOU ALONE HAVE DEDUCED THE INDEDUCIBLE. FASCINATING!

Leaning against the tree, feeling his legs grow weak beneath him, he shouted, "An army is coming! Its leader plans to destroy everything in its path! That includes you!"

ME, the voice asked.

Hex would have been elated at its acknowledgment of his existence if the world would have stopped spinning. Gulping air, he gasped, "Your trees. Your creatures..."

I AM NOT THE FOREST, HEX. IN THIS, IT SEEMS, YOU HAVE FALLEN INTO THE TRAP OF IGNORANCE EMBRACED BY THE PEOPLE OF RYNIA. YOU ARE NOT BEYOND ENLIGHTENMENT, THOUGH.

As Hex replied with a thick voice, he realized he was no longer standing. "I didn't think... you the forest... I assumed you... responsible..."

AN INTERESTING NOTION AS YOU, TOO, ARE INTERESTING. I BELIEVE I MUST STUDY YOU FURTHER.

"But," Hex tried to say. He didn't, though. Instead, he rolled over in bed, pulled the blankets close, and went to sleep.

Part II

"Come on, Sleepie-Head! Don't you want to get up?" His mother always woke him up on the weekends. Perhaps this was one reason why he was never comfortable at rest.

MOTHER?

Hex jumped out from under his covers, the floor a familiar few feet from the mattress beneath his tall bed. Looking around, he was struck dumb by the maze of clutter. Books were stacked here and there, piled by content. Physics. Chemistry. Engineering. His mother was always after him to clean it up while his father threatened to throw it all away. It was blindingly familiar. The periodic table on his wall. The Science Fair trophy with the Science Day ribbon hung off it.

It was...

It was his old room.

"Glad to see some energy out of those sleepy bones," his mother chimed. "Come on. Let's go!"

Where the hell was he? He grabbed a handful of hair to pull it back. He usually did that in times of stress.

Only... he had no hair to pull.

A confused sense of terror sprung upon him and he quickly rose to stand before his bureau. There, in the mirror, he could see why his hair was gone. It had been shaved down to a military-style buzz-cut. He'd lived with that haircut for sixteen years. It was the one his mother always gave him, the one his father insisted that he have, the one all the kids made fun of...

Hezekiah Fanlan - not Hex because that name wouldn't come until after he made his first creation - was ten years old.

Trying to look deeper, thinking there was something wrong with the mirror, he fell against his bureau, almost to the floor. His mother caught him, though, having years of practice with an awkward child. And Hex certainly was awkward, he would be until well into his teens. Thanks to that, he couldn't play sports like his father wanted him to and his mother expected. Thanks to that, he wouldn't have friends as a child, only those he created.

Awkward. Yes, Hezekiah recalled being awkward. Lifting himself up the bureau, he just didn't recall it being this bad.

"Come on, silly," his mother chided playfully. "Let's go outside and play!" What she meant was that he was expected to go outside and play. He remembered all the lectures. Young boys were expected to play sports and roughhouse and get dirty. They were not to read and study and spend all their time cooped up in their room like hermits.

Instinctively, the response came from his throat. "Aw, ma." It sounded whiny and irritating to Hezekiah's own ears. "Can't I just -"

"No! You can't! Now, I've told you!" Bonnie Fanlan crossed her arms and tried to look cross through the perpetual buzz of her diet pills. "Your little friends are gonna miss you, ain't they?"

"But, ma, I don't have any friends."

"Well, then it's about time you made some. Now, get dressed!" She hurried to the door and, turning to close it, threatened, "Don't make me send your father in here."

Father. Pa. Sergeant Charlie Fanlan, United States Marines, Retired. Hezekiah knew. This was not a man you caused to get up from his television unless you wanted to get hit. Hezekiah, feeling his own, small, scrawny body, knew he did not want to get hit. "I'm coming, ma. I'm coming."

She closed the door behind her and he found his jeans crumpled beneath the bed. He knew this scene. He knew how it played out. He'd have several minutes after getting dressed before his pa came in with the belt, a huge, horsehide strap which was too big for him to ever wear. He needed information so he'd have to hurry. First, the calendar on his desk, confirmed his suspicions. It appeared to be the summer before his eleventh birthday. Then, instead of tossing books out of his window as he used to do in order to have something to occupy his time, he -

"What did your mother tell you?" The voice boomed louder than the opening door slamming against the wall.

Too slow! Hezekiah turned from his desk, panicked at this sight of his father holding the belt. He couldn't stop his body from freezing up in terror; it always did when he was about to be beaten.

"Don't just stand there with your little books, you faerie! Get outside! Now!" Adding a thunderous punctuation, Charlie Fanlan brought his heavy, steel-toed work-boot laden, foot down upon the floor.

Hezekiah wanted to run - knew he could run if he was still in his adult body - but couldn't. He twitched and looked around frantically like a rabbit about to be bitten in two by a wolf.

Charlie had had enough. Rushing forward, he grabbed his boy by the arm and threw Hezekiah through the doorway. Hezekiah's awkward body couldn't find purchase to keep him upright and he ended up falling into the hallway.

"Move," Charlie yelled, bringing his massive belt down onto Hezekiah's unprotected chest.

In his need for knowledge, Hezekiah had only put on his jeans. He was still shirtless and shoeless. His body buckled and rolled further down the hall, having caught more fist than belt.

His father brought his hand up again. "You want another?"

The boy found his legs mercifully beneath him and scrambled for the door. He fumbled for the doorknob and, opening it, found himself thrust outside. He landed on the cement walkway, skinning his chin and shoulder.

"Go on out, you freak," his father called. "Go play with your freak friends!" The door slammed and Hezekiah found himself all alone.

So, this was childhood. Though he'd done a good job of forgetting it over the past few years, it was unavoidably accurate. He'd spent most of his young life avoiding his father. His mother was equally impossible to deal with due to her lack of understanding, which was putting it nicely.

"You forgot something, silly," his mother announced, standing within the slightly-opened front door. She threw out a t-shirt, socks, shoes, and his old pair of skates and repeated her orders, "Now, you go out and play with your friends!"

Hezekiah shook his head in sympathy. They never did understand that he didn't have any friends. And giving him these old-fashioned skates, the kind that you tied around your shoes, only helped to ostracize him more. It had been his mother's idea. His father had put him in karate lessons. (That had lasted all of fifteen minutes, ending with Hezekiah falling on his back and knocking the wind out of himself.)

After putting on his shirt and socks, Hezekiah walked out to the street. His side still hurt from where his father had hit him and he leaned against the wall that divided his house from the one next door to rest until the pain ebbed. He had thought everything would look the same but, staring down the street, everything was shockingly different. It was because he remembered it as he had last seen it, when he was thirteen, just before entering Cal-Tech, not as it had been when he was ten.

He was still too young to move away from home and on to college. Though he had already passed every class high school could throw at him, the school board insisted he be a part of some planned curriculum. (Being a high school student at ten only served to get him beat up by bigger kids than if he were still in elementary school like all the other kids his age.) The Relativists still wouldn't take him seriously despite his proofs of the subtle mistakes in Einstein's Theory. He couldn't even get the patent bureau to review any of his inventions.

So, he sat in the sunlight, his back against the warm wall, wondering what a ten-year old boy-genius was to do.

"Hey, look," someone called out. "Poindexter's leaning against my wall!" For a split second, the sound held no meaning to Hezekiah except for an incomprehensible dread. It was the voice of nightmares long gone. Then, he realized what it meant to a ten-year old. It was P.J. Robbins, the kid next door. At fifteen, his body was a wasteland of drugs and alcohol. He too was shunned by the other kids and excluded from sports. While his body was too out of shape to beat up others his age, Hezekiah presented a perfect target. His and his friends staggered down the street, closing in on the young boy.

Analyzing their movement, Hezekiah could tell they'd just come from what they called "scoring". Two walked with their eyes nearly closed, their body's slack and their mouths hanging open. Another looked about spastically, laughing under his breath. P.J. waddled. He always waddled when he was stoned. They were heading back home where they would "melt" but Hezekiah, sitting far from the sidewalk in his own yard, was in their way. He wanted to run but knew he wouldn't make it past them.

P.J.'s face turned furious and he shouted, "Little braniac punk! You get up when I'm talking to you!"

Hezekiah instinctively jumped up. He wanted to call his mother but remembered how bad the beatings had been when he'd done that, one from his father for not standing up for himself and others from P.J. for revenge.

The spastic one grabbed a handful of Hezekiah's shirt, yelling, "Hit him! Hit him!"

Surprisingly, P.J. didn't launch his flurry of fat fisted blows. He had better things in mind. Picking up one of Hex's skates, he cooed, "Aaaawww! Is puny gonna go for a skate-skate?"

Hezekiah brought his hand up defensively as P.J. punched with the skate's bottom. He remembered the pain explicitly, how the doctor later found a crack in his temple as a result, the black eye that didn't go away for weeks. Tears were already flowing from his eyes before the punch landed -

Then -

The skate was in his hand.

He couldn't open his eyes. He was too afraid. He knew that, when he did, the blow would land and it would only be the first.

But the blow didn't land.

And he stood there, shaking in spite of the warm day, for several minutes. The others hadn't said anything. He no longer felt the spastic's hand grabbing his shirt. His eyes shot open, remembering the voice in the forest, darting around. A skate in one hand, the other tied to it and dangling lazily, he was alone again.

"What the hell's going on skates," he asked, marveling at the height of his voice.

Skates was silent, replying only when Hezekiah spun its wheels with a gravely whir.

"Of course, you can't talk," the boy informed them, "I haven't woken you, yet, have I?" For a ten year old boy, the feat had taken weeks of probing and scrutiny. Magic had not come easily at first and Hezekiah was often left exhausted from the effort. Now, a 43 year old Hex trapped in the body of a ten year old Hezekaih found it to be little trouble. With another spin of the wheels, a manipulation of what would be each skate's face, and a quantum jiggle, Hezekiah watched Skate's eyes open with wonder and glee.

"Hex! Great to see you," Skates shouted.

Though the elder's proficiency aided in creation, it took all of the younger Hezekiah's energy and he leaned back against the wall, bushed. "Hey, Skates. I missed you, too."

"Missed me? But I've been right here!"

Hex nodded. This Skates had just been created and wouldn't know much about the elder Hex's confused journey. "Yes, you have, Skates. I think I can assure you that you'll be around for some time to come."

"What about me, Hex," Pooper-Scooper asked, his arms crossed.

"What about me," asked a tilted Mirror.

"What about me," the telephone shouted, its handset shaking.

What About Me, appeared on TV's screen.

"What about me," insisted Ko-Trak.

"And what about me, Hex? Huh? What about all of us? What do you think gives you the right just to throw us away when you're done with us," an erroneously large Robert demanded. He pushed Hex down into a patch of springy grass beneath an ash tree.

Hex was shaking his head vigorously in both denial and fright. "But I couldn't help that. I couldn't make you immortal. That's the nature of things. All things have their time. You have to believe me, Robert! Tell me you understand!"

But Robert couldn't reply. Large enough to knock Hex over only seconds ago, now he was no more than a pile of twigs. They sat at the base of the tree, discarded, appearing as though they'd never been animate. Hex looked around and saw that he was in the midst of a park.

There was movement over in the bushes as several young boys entered the park through a hole in the fence. They were a tough bunch, although none of them had yet hit their teens. Several of them lived in a nearby apartment complex and they named their little gang after it. Winwood Forest Rowdies!

Hezekiah knew one of them, the nine-year old boy named Vincent Gobel. There were five boys in all and Vincent was the youngest. Being the youngest, he tended to be pushed around a bit. So he was timid and would gladly conform. Hezekiah and he had made friends, though, from the many times Vincent had cut through the park. "Hey, Heck," the young boy called out. "What you got there?"

"Leave the Heckler alone, Vinnie. He's just a crazy, old, coot."

"He's a bum."

"Vincent," Hex called out, desperate for some connection with reality.

"What'cha got there, Heck," Vincent asked, pointing at the pile of sticks.

Hex looked back, half expecting to see Robert reformed. "It's nothing, Vin." He sat down against the tree and, for just a second, found himself again in the forest. "Believe it or not," he told his young friend, "one day you're going to be a powerful wizard. You'll be able to fly and even travel between worlds." Dejected, he turned his eyes to the ground. "I only wish you could work your magic now."

"You mean like this?" The voice was deeper, older but Hex knew it as Vincent's. Looking up, he saw the wizard as he'd last known him, in his late teens, looking angry at the universe, unwilling to wait for patience. There, in the forest with him, he made twigs dance like marionettes.

Familiar twigs.

"My god," Hex gasped, "that's Robert!"

Robert's broken remains jiggled about for a moment more as Vincent smiled on before Hex hollered, "Stop that at once!"

"Why," Vincent asked contemptuously, throwing Robert's remains to the ground.

"Because it's wrong!"

"I got the power, Hex," Vincent boasted, spreading his arms wide. "I can do whatever I want."

"No! Having power doesn't give you the right to do anything you want!"

"It gave me the right to kill all of those undead, didn't it?" Vincent floated into the air, looking down upon his once mentor. "But that was before you found out they were just sick people, wasn't it?"

Hex wouldn't be baited. "It was self defense."

"What about all of the undead you killed during your last war? What about that, Hex? Self defense? What about the lich, Hex? Self defense? What about -"

"I'm not a saint, Vincent, or whoever you are," Hex yelled. "I don't know what this is all about - taking me to my childhood, making all these accusations - but I want it to stop!"

Vincent softly slid back to the ground, his face no longer showing the disgust of only moments before. He looked at Hex as if studying him for the first time.

Hex continued, "I've come here because the people of this land are desperate. They need help and I have a feeling that you can provide it. You are from their distant past, I know this. It would seem illogical to me that you would not want to help."

Vincent nodded, not offering anything.

Hex took a step forward with his arms out to show he meant no harm. "Then why all the tests, the subterfuge? Why pose as Vincent? What do you hope to gain from all of this?"

Vincent's lips pursed, as he considered Hex's question. Finally, he replied, "Understanding." The voice had undergone a subtle change, diverging from Vincent's.

"Fine. Understanding. I can accept that. How can I help? What would make you better understand?"

Vincent brought his hand up, his index finger pointed to the sky, and began turning it. He smiled, and replied, "A quest."

Hex barely caught the reply. The wind had kicked up and branches swung in Hex's way. He ducked beneath them and walked in the direction he thought Vincent had been. Impossibly, he exited the trees and found himself in the middle of a street. Before him, stood his old apartment, the basement of the old, Crubnower place. He ran to the front door which flapped wildly from the gusting winds.

Closing the door behind him was impossible and he ended up clutching the doorframe for dear life. But winds in southern California never blew that hard even during the dreaded Santa Ana's. Whatever was causing it was shaking the house to its very foundations. Hex looked outside through squinted eyes trying to find the cause.

There, towering high into the sky, he saw it. As it drew the breath from his lungs, he gasped, "It's a twister!"

Part III

It was headed right for the Crubnower place! Hex had only seconds to run to the sturdiest piece of furniture in the house: the big, four-poster bed. He didn't know why he reacted so; he thought he'd seen it done in an old movie.

Suddenly, with savage fury, the twister hit! Hex was tossed about as the bed went sailing through a window and into the storm, floating impossibly about in mid-air.

Around and around and around he spun...

Until, with a lurch, he landed. He head, however, continued to spin and his stomach threatened to get off this wild ride.

"What manner of creature are you," a wee voice asked.

Hex's eyes, blurry and spinning, couldn't make it out.

Another tiny voice cried, "He looks like a giant!"

"A giant! Yes, a giant," a chorus replied.

The main figure was becoming clearer... short... almost wooden... "Byron," Hex cried.

A chorus of giggles erupted around him.

Hex looked up, only to see a veritable sea of Byrons. "Byrons," Hex asked.

"Oh, no," the primary Bryon replied. "You've got us all wrong," he proclaimed. Then, with practiced synchronicity, they all gestured, singing, "We represent The Malagosh Guild! The Malagosh Guild!"

"Oy," Hex groaned.

"You'll represent nothing for long! No matter what manner of giant you get to save you," a booming retort came from a nearby hilltop. Hex wondered what other silliness had come his way but, following the voice, he saw that the silliness was over. An impossible sight, it stood upon the hilltop as Hex had never seen him stand in his lifetime. Tubing grew from his arms and ran out from his nostrils. EKG and EEG monitors, along with an IV drip, stood beside him.

"Lich Vyr-At-Hozoth," Hex whispered.

"My legend is renowned," the lich boasted. "Prepare yourself for my power! It is great and it is unstoppable!"

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure of that," Hex replied, looking up. "We've stopped you before and I'm pretty sure we'll stop you again."

"Is that so? Then, tell me, what great magic can you summon to stop me?!" The lich pointed a bandaged arm and demanded, "What doom could someone like you bring upon me?!"

Hex replied, "A house."

Just as he'd expected, the Crubnower place flattened the lich, leaving only two particolored legs sticking out into the air. A hush fell over the crowd of Byrons until one whispered, "The lich is dead."

"The lich is dead," another said.

"The lich is dead," a third exclaimed.

"Ring the bells! Sound the trumpets! The lich is dead!"

All of the Byrons gesticulated wildly, jumped upon each other, whirled and gyrated before Hex's amazed eyes. Then, to carry it further, they all began singing in unison, "Ding dong! The lich is dead! The licked, licked lich is dead! Ding dong! The licked lich is dead!"

"Licked lich," Hex asked.

But the singing came to an abrupt end. The munchkins began sniffing at the air and looking about. Hex, too, watched where the little Byrons were looking and, soon, saw a tiny, white light dancing, descending from the sky until, settling upon the hilltop beside the lich's extended appendages, it grew to larger proportions, coalesced and formed into -

"Helen," Hex shouted, dashing up the hillside. Though she looked slightly different from when he last saw her, she wore a white, taffeta gown and a diamond-encrusted tiara , there was no mistaking his own wife.

Helen smiled an angelic smile, swirling her wand in the air. "Yes, Dorothy, you've killed the Licked Lich of the East and saved the Byrons of the Malagosh Guild!"

A cheer rang out from the munchkins but Hex wasn't listening. "Dorothy," he asked. "What are you talking about? I'm Hex, don't you recognize me, Helen?"

"That's Good Witch Helen," she corrected. "And now, you must be granted a wish!" The munchkins cheered all around as Good Witch Helen asked, "What is the one thing you want more than anything else?"

Despite the silliness, despite the twister and the Byron Malagoshes and his wife dressed like a bridesmaid, Hex knew why he was here. Somehow, he had to find it here. "Silen," was his reply.

"Silen," a Malagosh gasped.

"Silen," others exclaimed.

"Silen is a very far distance from here," the good witch replied with a vacuous smile. "It's a journey fraught with peril. Are you sure you want to go to Silen?"

"Yes," Hex replied. "What do I need to do?"

Helen pointed at the lich's feet, upon which were worn the gaudiest shoes Hex had ever seen. "First," she instructed, "you must put on the ruby slippers!"

"What," Hex asked, hoping he'd heard her wrong.

"The ruby slippers," she repeated. "Put them on."

Hex shook his head. "No, Helen. I can't wear those no matter where we are."

"Are you going to turn this into an argument," she spat.

"No," he answered. "I just -"

"Why can't you just do it to make me happy?"

"Helen, I don't want to get into this."

"No! You don't because you know you're wrong!"

"Helen," Hex hollered. "I'm not going to wear them! You can't make me wear them! Now, I don't have time for this! Next thing you know, you'll be saying I have a dog, Toto!"

"Not quite, mon," came a familiar reply. "I'm gonna have to be it."

"Bandoo?" Hex was taken aback, staring intently at the image standing in the window.

"Hey, how much am I in the window, mon?" The face was familiar and the body was almost the same but the brown, furry ears, flopping about the side of Bandoo Lelala's head gave him a distinctly puppy-ish appearance.

"I am the d - o - g, you know, mon! Make with the scooby-snacks!"

"Great." Hex picked up a convenient basket and opened one end for Bandoo. "Climb in, I guess."

With more agility than a dog should have had, Bandoo climbed up and settled in the basket. Then, he began singing, "Oh, I got a new house it's the size of a breadbox! I ain't got no porridge. Got ripped of by Goldie-locks!"

Hex shut the basket and asked Helen, "Where's Silen?"

She sulked, turning away from him. "They can tell you. I'm leaving."

"You're just gonna go," he asked. He stepped closer to her and was glad to see her turn back to him.

"But you won't wear the ruby slippers," she started to say, bringing her body against his.

"This has nothing to do with slippers, Hel," he corrected and put his arms around her. Then, they kissed. It was just as good as he remembered - better, because it had been such a long time. Whoever was orchestrating this elaborate hallucination wasn't all that bad.

Helen broke the lip-lock, muttering, "You're going to crush the taffeta."

When Hex opened his eyes, she was gone. "So much for fun," he whispered. Turning to the Byrons, he asked, "So, how do I find this Silen?"

"How," one of the Byrons asked. They started to separate as one, revealing an impossible picture.

"How," giggled more. Several took his hands and led him forward. He was getting a headache from all of this but started to laugh.

"It's simple," another exclaimed. Then, again in unison, they announced, "Follow the black asphalt path!"

Drawing Hex into a walking dance, circling around and around a seemingly endless miniature roadway, they sang, "Follow the black asphalt path! Follow the black asphalt path! Follow! Follow! Follow! Follow! Follow the black asphalt path! Just like you do when you're back on earth! When you're not here! Here, have a beer!"

"A beer," Hex asked, surprised.

"A beer, mon," Bandoo exclaimed, popping out of the basket. "I'm ready for the suds and my throat's feeling parched! Make with the pa-tee!"

"Ain't got no beer near here," came a distant reply.

Hex realized he was no longer with the Byrons-es. In fact, he'd ended up in unfamiliar surroundings. On each side of the road around him, farms lined the hillside. Ahead, the road forked. "Who said that," Hex asked.

"Not seen no strangers in these here parts in a dog's age."

The voice was coming from ahead.

"And I'm d'at dog," Bandoo announced. "I'm makin' with the Woof!"

At the fork, Hex found what he was expecting. Staked on the hill, the obligatory scarecrow watched him with sagging features. "You can git yer beer at the liquor store down that'a'ways," he advised, swinging his left arm ponderously to the right. "Or, you can hit the nearest bar. That's down that'a'ways," he added, letting his right arm swing pendulously to the left.

Hex called up to it, "So, you're the scarecrow, eh, Boom?"

Chief Boom Tower, replied, "There ain't no crows to scare out here, boy. I might be the scarer of crows in these parts but there's more to me than that." He was dressed in his uniform but, not surprisingly, composed entirely out of straw. "Now, if y'all's thinkin' 'bout drinkin' yer beer, I'd suggest you take it back homes with yen," he advised, standing off his stake and walking down the hill. "Don't cotton to drunk and disorderly in public in these here parts."

"So, then, you're the law here," Hex asked.

For a second, Boom's chest puffed up with pride - only to fall in shame. He replied, "Well, I would be, you bet'cha. I rightly would be."

"But," Hex asked.

Boom indicated his holster. "No gun." Though it shouldn't have come as a surprise, Hex was shocked when Boom began to sing, "I could aim and I could fire, could even tap a wire, and have me lots of fun... I could shoot at 'coon and quail, even raise me up some he-il, if I only had a gun!"

"Yes. Yes. I understand," Hex interrupted. "But I'm in kind of a hurry. I'm going to Silen. Coming along?"

"Boy, don't you know that there Silen's dangerous? People get caught in his forest don't never get heard from again."

"Too late for that," Hex replied. "Come on."

Whistling his tune, Boom fell into step beside Hex.

Further up the road, sitting on a bench to the side, another familiar figure sat.

"Look," Bando exclaimed, "it's the Tin Mon!"

"Aluminum/Titanium alloy actually," was the reply. He stood and, tapping himself, explained, "Rust free."

Hex shook his head in disbelief. "So, Marcus. You're the tin man."

"An aluminum/titanium alloy, actually," Marcus replied.

"Boy, that's more a mouthful than a heap a' cow ribs," Boom shouted. "Just call yer'self tin!"

Hex thought for a minute. "But I thought the tin man was the one without a brain."

Marcus replied with an empty gaze, "Was he?" Then, he, too, began to sing. "I could add and calculation, sum up my summed summation, an even go insane. I could quote from ancient verses, and do better and some worses, if I only had a brain!" The song finished, he scowled at Hex, "So, this is what you really think of me, huh?!"

"Hey," Hex retorted, warding the tin (aluminum/titanium alloy) man off with his hand. "We need to look for a lion next, guys. Bandoo? Is there a set of dishes in there?"

"Crampin' my bootie, mon!"

"You shouldn't be searching for Silen, you know," advised Marcus. "There's plenty of other ways you could contribute to the war effort."

"Perhaps," Hex replied. "But I know that Silen could end up being as much help as Vincent." He opened the basket and said to Bandoo, "Here. Hand everything out." As Bandoo handed him dishes, Hex threw everything away except for one cup. He filled it from a nearby stream and put it back in the basket. "Now, make sure this doesn't spill, okay?"

Boom and Marcus were already looking ahead. They walked a long distance down the black asphalt road before -

"I don't believe this," Hex gasped.

"It's the cowardly sea-lion," Marcus announced, pointing ahead.

"Yep. That's a sea-lion, a'right," Boom agreed.

Ooobrecht, sitting in the middle of the road in a red wagon, disagreed vigorously. "I am not a sea-lion, nor am I cowardly. The next one of you to make that mistake, I'll bite your knee-caps off! I am definitely not a sea-lion. I am a walrus. Do you understand? I am a walrus!"

"Koo koo koo joob," Bandoo added from within the basket.

Hex extended his hand to a flipper. "Nice to see you again, Ooobrecht."

"I refuse to sing, Hex. It would be beneath me." Ooobrecht looked as cross as a walrus could. "Is this the best your twisted mind could hallucinate up?"

"I guess so. I've got a lot on my mind."

"You're taking this war too lightly, Hex. Providing you want to remain pacifist, your magic could be used to heal the many injured and dying."

"Don't you think I know that, Ooobrecht? But many more will die if we don't get Silen's help."

Marcus put a hand on Hex's shoulder and, as Hex turned to him, asked, "Are you really sure of that, Hex? Even given the things you presume, if they're true, what could he do to help?"

Hex looked at Ooobrecht, Marcus, and Boom, realizing that these were more than just hallucinations. Silen was trying to communicate. "The Rynians lost something in the past several hundred years," he said, addressing each of them. "They need to have it back, as much as they can comprehend, to save them from this danger. Leaving them in their ignorance only places them in peril."

"Speaking of peril, here comes the Wicked Witch of the West," said Ooobrecht, pointing a flipper to the sky.

Descending on a smoking broom, a sight too absurd even for an hallucination, Tsurtor cackled as he dropped to the ground. "Thought you could get away from me, eh?" He stood as Hex had last seen him, attired in a dark, tailored uniform. "Well, I'll have you, my little wizard! You and your dog, Bandoo, too!"

"Right," Hex replied, unimpressed. "Bandoo, give me the cup." Hex took the cup as it popped out of the basket and poured it on Tsurtor.

Smoke rose from Tsurtor's garments and his skin bubbled and cracked. Tsurtor's expression didn't change, though. If anything, he looked disappointed. "I wasn't expecting that," he said, melting into a puddle on the road.

"Now," Hex said to the others, "I'm tired of playing your games. I want to see Silen."

"Silen," Bandoo asked, leaping from the basket and onto the road, "You should have just said so, mon! He's in the Emerald City! Right here!" Towering behind him, the Emerald City shone brighter than anything else in the land.

For a split-second, Hex was a bit disoriented. But he was getting used to it. "Okay," he said, putting the basket in Ooobrecht's wagon and grabbing the wagon's handle, "let's go." Hex would no longer be hindered by pointless interference. Soon, they stood within Silen's Hall but greeted not as Hex had surmised. From what he remembered, there should have been a great machine, belching smoke, and a loud, resounding voice. But the room was empty, only emerald walls met them. Hex turned to the others. "So, where is he?"

"Oh, I see. You want me to materialize," said a wizened voice. Stepping into the chamber, from the same archway where Hex and the others had entered, came he who could only be Silen.

"Silen," Hex asked.

Silen bowed, "At your service." He was younger than Hex had imagined. Of course, Hex hadn't imagined him as a man, either. "Yes, well," Silen said, answering Hex's thought, "this is how I project myself. My human persona, if you will."

"Like the others," Hex asked. "In my head?"

"Like and unlike, dear boy. This is how I have appeared throughout the ages."

"And how you appeared to the original Rynians," Hex asked.

Silen nodded, "On their ship, yes."

"So why all this?" Hex gestured to the room and the world around them. "Why the big charade? The Wizard of Oz, no less!"

"I had to get to know you, Hex," Silen explained, approaching him. He put a hand on Hex's arm and led him to a chair. Though it hadn't been there a moment before, Hex sat in it anyway. "With war coming, one can't be too careful as to how things really are. And, for seeing how things really are, what better than Oz? After all, wasn't Frank Baum talking about just that? Things that are what they aren't? Things that can and cannot be?"

"But why these people? Why not the original characters," Hex asked. The others were interested, too, stepping closer for the explanation with Boom pulling Ooobrecht.

"All the better to know you, Hex," Silen replied, pointing at Hex's head. "These people all are exactly what they aren't."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, look." Silen pointed at Boom. "Now, he's the straw man, right?"

"The scarecrow," Hex corrected.

"Whatever. Straw is flimsy, easily disheveled but that's exactly the opposite of what you think of him. Oh, sure, you think he's a hick but, deep down, you respect him for gathering recruits for Rynia. He's a man of substance. He impresses even without a gun."

"So, then, I don't need my gun," Boom asked.

"Not at all," was Silen's reply. As Boom gladly disappeared, Silen turned toward Marcus. "The tin man," he indicated.

"Aluminum/titanium allow," Hex and Marcus corrected.

"Whatever. He's solid, impenetrable, exactly how a king should be, right?"

Hex nodded.

"But that's not how you see him." Silen shook his head. "You see him as flesh and blood, a real human being. He's not just a king to you! He's the father you never had!"

Marcus, too disappeared, along with Ooobrecht.

"Wait," Hex exclaimed. "What a minute! What about Ooobrecht? How was he the opposite of how I really remember him?"

Silen pursed his lips for a second and then sighed. "I needed a lion, okay? Now, on to Bandoo-ly, here. He wasn't just a pet. He was a creation! He saved your life! But you feel guilty because you let him die like you let the others die."

Hex looked regrettably at the little monkey. "Rayesh brought me... what was left of you. Your pieces were barely holding together. It was, it was your true death."

"It's cool, mon," Bandoo consoled, leaping onto Hex's lap. "You saved my life too, you know."

It had been the resolution of one of the hardest times of his life; he'd never forget. Slowly, Hex watched Bandoo fade and disappear.

"So, what do we do now," Hex asked. "Are we still in the forest?"

Silen looked around and replied, "Oh, no!"

"Then, where are we?"

"In your head."

"So, then this was all a dream?"

As Silen replied, the scenery faded bit by bit. The Emerald City. The black asphalt road. The basket and wagon. "I have a knack for getting into people's heads and mucking about." Trees appeared around them and Silen said, "Now, we're in the forest."

"What do we do now?"

Silen started walking and said without turning back, "We need to get you some help. You're right. I have a duty and Rynia is in some pretty big trouble."

CHAPTER NINE

WHAT BECAME OF VINCENT

Part I

Deep inside Mount Brutalitie, in the massive throneroom that had once been the seat of power, Tsurtor watched. It was all he could do. Movement had become an impossibility, a fading memory. He did not sit upon his throne but rested instead upon a pile of cushions.

It was the tusks. They had grown to unendurable proportions, some as long as his arm. He lay there in the dark, naked, his clothes torn by the ungodly growths. What he had done to bring this about, Tsurtor did not know, could not even wager a guess. It was said that what one dabbled in reflected on their own countenance. In Tsurtor's case, years of evil had transformed him into a hideous monster who didn't dare move lest he tear himself to shreds.

And so, he watched.

He watched through saladan eyes as the last bit of resistance from Tzurritza fled into the jungle. Several were caught outside - two men and a woman - and were beaten, raped, and murdered, all in plain sight of the jungle's edge. The saladan's were playing upon the Tzurritzanian honor, irrational belief that it was. They knew that the Tzurritzanians would not abide having their people brutalized before their own eyes and, inevitably, would launch a counter-attack. Fools. They wouldn't stop to think that the saladans had already put snipers in the trees.

He watched through the bimunes who still remained in the desert sands as the Kal-Kor army pushed northwards. The winter storms fell upon the desert like the sea upon an unprotected shoreline and wouldn't let up. As Marcus pushed northwards, he lost men here and there. The celebrated Kal-Kor monks, Tsurtor thought, weren't as threatening as they would have liked people to believe.

Comfortable that all help had been denied the people of Rynia, Tsurtor turned his attention east and watched the first exchange between the Hargoth's behemoths and the people of Rynia (along with the feeble help provided by those from Hex's city).

* * *

As Boom sent a man ahead on an ATV, he thought again about how much they could have used that topless helicopter or the flying truck. Kicking up an ocean of mud behind them, the Americans retreated through the pounding rain. Maybe they'll sink in that, Boom thought about the stone behemoths but knew they wouldn't be that lucky. The pincer move would have resulted in more deaths than a flat-out assault; you didn't hit the things he saw with divided forces. Speed had to be kept down - they were only putting a few minutes between themselves and the behemoths - because they had to be careful not to hit a tree or a riverbed in the miserable rain. If this had been Boom's world, if there had been roads... but there was no sense in dwelling on it. (Still, at the same moment, Boom felt screwed.)

After what seemed hours, they saw the ATV's lights, which were pointed at them to prevent their force from driving over Heaphge's. Though Boom was driving, he jumped out of the Cherokee before it'd had a chance to stop. "You've been assessed of the situation," he yelled as he ran towards Heaphge.

"Giants," Heaphge replied with a nod. "I've fought them before. Your guns aren't going to do any good. This will take good, Rynian, hardwood bats. You have your men fall back. There's nothing you can do here."

"Beg to differ, sir," Tichey shouted through the storm. "Your men don't have dynamite, do they?"

"What is that," Heaphge asked.

Tichey smiled at Boom's enthusiastic face. "High explosives. They've turn your giants to dust if we can get them over it."

"Lay it, Tichey," Boom commanded. "I'm going to assemble a team of drivers."

"For evacuation of the wounded," guessed Heaphge.

Boom laughed, his face turned up to the falling sky, and corrected, "Nope. We're gonna see how those boys stand up to some good-ol', American steel."

* * *

Tsurtor would laugh at the futility of their attempts if he could still laugh. They were facing only a third of his force and were overwhelmed. Tsurtor would hold the rest of his forces at ready for he knew Rynia too well. They always seemed to pull some surprise out in the end. All well and good; Tsurtor had prepared surprises of his own. For now, he turned his attention northwards, to the fate of Vincent's unsuspecting brother.

Hargoth was awaiting Tsurtor's attention, standing on a distant hillock far beyond his attacking army. A spent rocket launcher setting at his side like a smoking gun, he hadn't moved from that sight since he'd shot down the American's magical machine. Stone giants didn't suffer from the flawed composition to which flesh was heir; Hargoth could have stood motionless for weeks.

"Hargoth," Tsurtor's voice demanded, pounding powerfully through his soul.

"Master," Hargoth hissed. "I await as ordered, my lord."

"Silence! The sound of your voice fills my ears like hungry worms!"

Hargoth dropped to his knees as though Tsurtor were there with him. "Forgive me," he whispered.

Hargoth could feel Tsurtor slither snakelike within him. "Let me at your mind," his master hissed. Like an overripe tomato clenched in an eager fist, Hargoth's mind succumbed to Tsurtor's will. There, Tsurtor saw, the pick-up truck the Americans called Forbert soared through the air. Tsurtor knew it carried valuable cargo and was pleased to see Hargoth wait until it was at a lower altitude before he fired.

(Tsurtor never suspected the WFR's might be aboard. After all, why should he? The WFR's were nothing more than an annoyance. In their eagerest moments, no more worthy than that broken Pekit. He saw them fleeing for the soon to be conquered Imperial Palace, along with the others from Hex's city. Never, in his wildest speculating, could he have presumed that Sam would have been desperate enough to be bogged down with ones such as they. As for the treeling Vincent's brother carried, Tsurtor cared not a whit for Hex's little toys. And what about Mark? Mark Nygarra had been killed with his Tzurritzanian force; Tsurtor was sure of this. After being a minor thorn against Hargoth so many years ago, he may have grown to be a somewhat capable administrator of a now-dead city but he had easily been killed along with his elderly advisor, Kattox.)

Tsurtor watched the rocket hit and the truck veer into the rocky hillside of the lower Northern Spires. A right and proper ending for one of Hex's creations. "I hope, for your sake, that the brother lived, Hargoth."

The consequences for failure were planted inside of Hargoth's sandy mind and he stammered, "He, he did, my lord!"

"His death is to be left to the boy. Now, see to your behemoths... while you're still of use to me."

Tsurtor left Hargoth's mind with a clean break; Hargoth felt it in his rocky skull. He didn't dare dwell on any of Tsurtor's threats. Putting his mind on Tsurtors' next task, he turned to the southeast and started walking.

* * *

"It wasn't my fault," Randy whispered for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

"We know that," Pete growled. "Just get over it, why don't you! There's no way you could have seen it coming."

"Right," Randy yelled, pushing Pete to the side. "I couldn't have known!"

Samuel grabbed his arm. "Randy. We're not here to fight."

Mark nodded somberly, "Aye, best save that for Tsurtor's men."

Morning was rising over the hillside; a lone sunbeam providing a little warmth amongst an improvised funeral. Sean's grave was marked with a simple but obvious ring of stones.

Samuel had already given them the lecture. "I want you two to understand that this is what can happen to you. We're in a war. This isn't fun and games. It's serious. Now, I want us all to come back alive but, to do that, you need to cooperate and do as you are told." Randy knew better, though. It wouldn't happen to him because he was gonna be the one to avenge Sean's death. Randy was tired of all the lectures and reverence. In fact, he was nearly punchy, anxious to get moving again.

Though Randy's mouth was swollen, he acted as though he felt no pain. Samuel knew better, though. He also knew about concussions. Pete, meanwhile, behaved like someone whose hip had been shattered. He sat at the grave side, sitting upon a pillow he'd found in Forbert's remains. While the others stood, he played the part of the wounded soldier.

Mark was the only one not close to Sean and found it left to him to speak. He stood at the grave's head, opposite from Sam and Randy, with his left arm in a sling, bandaged prodigiously by Samuel with supplies from the surviving first-aid kit. "My people have a simple ritual for burying the dead. To appease Tzuratt, the god of death and of the great swamp, the family plants things upon the grave. It shows life continuing and takes our mind off of death. So, if no one minds, I'll do the honors." He shook a pinecone upside-down, letting its little seeds drop upon the grave. "I've only known one person from your planet. Hex. We were at a funeral once and he stood silently before the grave. He said it was to honor the memory of the dead. Perhaps we could do that now." He looked at the others and they nodded, bowing their heads reverently. Mark, too, bowed his head.

After a long moment, with the cold wind blowing over the hillside, Randy muttered, "We're gonna miss you, buddy."

Pete looked up, nodding. "Amen."

"I still say it was Randy's fault," Robert announced, leaning out from Samuel's shirt pocket.

"What," Randy yelled.

"Inside with you," Samuel informed the little man, taking his index finger and shoving Robert down.

"Hey! Hey! Hey," Robert yelled. "It's not that deep in here!"

"Rain's coming," Mark warned.

Randy nodded and turned from the grave. "Right. Let's get our stuff together. We're moving out!" Backpacks, along with other camping equipment, had been acquired from the new mall's sporting goods store. Three of the five had been recovered, along with two sleeping bags. As Mark walked back to the truck with Randy to pack their supplies, Sam stayed behind at the grave's side with Pete. "Don't get up. I wanted to talk to you."

Pete looked suspiciously and asked, "What for?"

"Well, look," Samuel started, "I know you're hurt. It's only obvious." His voice was calm, sympathetic. In reality, though, he thought Pete was nothing but a crybaby. No bones were broken; he could still walk. However, Samuel knew that if he pressured Pete into going Pete would only be a burden on the rest. "We're going into some treacherous terrain. Mark says that Ktoll is nothing but mountains and crevices and no place for the wounded."

Eyes wide, Pete replied simply, "Oh."

"Yep," said Samuel, stroking the stubble on his chin as if he were thinking. "That bum leg ain't going to be able to take you through. So Mark and I decided to get you set up with the truck. With the provisions we leave, you should be okay for a few weeks, maybe even a month if you make them last. With any luck, we'll be back by then... maybe one of us... and we can help you back to... oh... wherever. And you never know," Samuel acted as if he suddenly realized, "one of Boom's men might make it through Tsurtor's army. They could find their way here."

"You're going to leave me," Pete asked.

"Oh, don't worry. Even if we don't make it, you'll probably be found by one of Tsurtor's men. You'll be a prisoner of war and they can treat your leg."

Samuel's projections left Pete looking up, pleading. "Sammy. I don't want to be left alone."

"I'm sorry, Pete. We can't afford to have you slowing us up. You know how important this is."

"I know, Sammy. I can do it." He struggled to his feet as Samuel looked on passively. "See? It's better." Saying that, though, Pete lurched forward as his bad leg gave out. Sam jumped forward to catch him. Pete was visibly shaken and started crying. "Please, Sammy. I will get better. I promise!"

Samuel held him up and look in his eyes. "You're going to be expected to carry your own weight."

"I know," Pete replied, nodding for reinforcement.

"It's going to be hard."

"I can do it!"

"No complaining." This stopped Pete's nodding and brought a worried look to the young man's face. He didn't need to be told what would happen if he did complain.

"None, Sam," Pete replied seriously. "I promise. I'll be good. You can count on me."

Perhaps, I can, Sam thought, nodding his head.

They only hiked for three hours that day, however. Half that time, Pete walked with most of his weight on Sam. They set up camp around noon (as figured on the watch Samuel had taken from the sporting goods store - the one that also had a compass) under a rocky outcrop to shield them from most of the rain. Still, not all of the rain fell with the wind and the four soon found themselves plenty wet.

Robert walked over to Pete's leg and gave it a kick. "Stupid gimp," he hollered over the storm.

"What do you mean," Pete asked. "You're a plant. You should like this."

Robert looked up at the sky and replied, "I'm gonna wilt!"

"Better get used to it," Mark said, making himself comfortable against the rock shelf. "We used to have to patrol the mountains north of Benaatt in the winter and there we'd get snow!"

Samuel thought about the new, waterproof boots they all wore along with the special socks they'd taken. He'd also made sure they each wore thermal underwear under their new clothes. "We should make it."

It rained for two full weeks. Slowly, Pete was able to walk further. By the end of the first week, he could go for the entire day, along with the others. During a second week filled with rain, they entered Ktoll, Mark grumbled, "When is this damn rain going to end!"

When the sun came out, a couple of days later, breaking through the clouds only tentatively, as though it were afraid the clouds would swallow it up again, they all breathed a sigh of relief. The next morning, Pete took Samuel aside. Away from the small, wooded clearing in the midst of the stark rocks of Ktoll, Pete thanked Sam for having faith in him.

I didn't, Sam thought, knowing it was better to leave that thought hidden.

"I wanted to ask you something," Pete said.

Sam looked around them, as if to show they were alone. "Go ahead."

"I know you know judo -"

"Jujitsu," Samuel interrupted.

"Oh," Pete said. "There's a difference?"

"Yes, there is."

"Oh," Pete replied, trying to get his request back on track.

Samuel asked for him. "You want me to show you, don't you?"

"Me," Pete asked unconvincingly.

"That's why you wanted to come out here, isn't it? It's nothing to be ashamed of, Pete."

Pete looked at the ground. "I just - I don't want to be dependent upon you."

* * *

"I don't want you to have to worry about me, you know," Randy said.

"Of course, Randy," Mark replied, sensing where this was going. "I know."

"So, that's why I thought I'd ask you... you know."

"You want me to teach you swordplay," Mark said since Randy didn't seem able to ask.

"I can see it now," Robert imagined from upon a backpack. "Conan the Brainless."

"Robert, go find Sam," Mark spat. Surprisingly, Robert did.

* * *

"I can't just teach you the moves, though, Pete," Samuel explained. "It's a long process. It took me years to get any good."

"Can't you just teach me something," Pete asked, nearly begging.

"How badly do you want this," Sam asked.

Pete spread his arms and turned around. "Look at me, Sammy. Do I look like a fighter to you? I need to know how to fight if we're going into a war zone. My brains aren't going to get me by all the time!"

Ignoring Pete's arrogance, Sam conceded, "Okay. I'll teach you but it's going to be slow going. We have to condition you first."

* * *

"Condition me," Randy asked, nearly shouting at Mark. "But I'm in great shape!"

* * *

Pete was a bit more honest with himself. "What do I need to do?"

"Hey, SamIam," Robert yelled. "Duke 'o Earl over there wants -"

"Ah, perfect," Sam said, picking up the approaching treeling. "Shut up for a sec, Robert."

Robert gave him a bad look but kept quite.

Sam turned to Pete. "Now, I want to give you a test."

* * *

"As in," Randy asked.

"As in - to see what kind of shape you're really in," Mark replied. Drawing his sabre, he turned it around to hand to his young student. Randy took it and, adjusting his hold, Mark brought the sabre up. "Now I want you to hold it there."

Randy looked at the sabre and asked, "What? For how long?"

"Until I say otherwise," Mark replied, walking away. "Now, you can move but you have to keep that arm up. That's your sword arm. You have to make it strong."

* * *

"But does he have to be there," Pete asked. "It's distracting."

"Come on, Petie," Robert replied from Pete's outstretched hand. "I can keep you company."

"Now the purpose of this is to focus." Samuel adjusted Pete's footing and made sure his legs were bent and his back was straight. "Now, keep your legs like that and I want you to hold Robert in one hand until I get back. It can be either hand just so long as he stays up."

"Ah," Robert scolded. "You're dropping me some, grasshopper. Get on the ball."

Sam walked away, smiling.

* * *

"So, he's holding a sword?"

"Yep," Mark replied. "Great minds think alike, eh?"

The creek ran by cold but a moment in silence warmed their souls. Sam stretched his feet out. "I don't understand how you knew more than a week ago that this would happen, though."

Mark tapped his skull. "Instinct."

After a long while, Samuel looked at his watch and started to get up.

"Where are you going," Mark asked.

"I just thought it's about time to get back to them."

"No, no," Mark replied, shaking his head. "They've got plenty of time."

Part II

Later, in the mountains of Ktoll, snow began to fall. Mark allowed Randy and Pete to start a fire. Randy hadn't used his lighter in almost two weeks, his pack of cigarettes empty and no supply thanks to the accident. Now, he flicked it desperately to get a spark. "Light, dammit. Light," he grumbled.

Pete backed away, warning, "Look out, guys. Chimney, here's having a nicotine fit."

"Shut up, braniac," Randy spat.

"I don't think a fire's a very bright idea," Robert commented.

"That thing's making a spark, isn't it," Mark asked, ignoring Robert, as usual.

"Stupid lighter," Randy muttered.

"I said, I don't think you should start a fire."

Mark found a few dry leaves and crumbled them in his hand. "Here. Make the spark here." Randy did and Mark drew his hand away. Randy was about to swear when he noticed Mark blowing into the leaves. Slowly, Mark primed the kindling. Then, he placed it beneath the branches, feeding it leaves. "Find me some dry leaves, maybe some dry twigs."

"Goodbye," Robert said, diving into a backpack.

After several minutes, the fire flared and, though it made a bit of smoke, lit the branches, warming the night.

"What now," Sam asked.

"We head south," Mark replied. "Mount Brutalitie is on the eastern edge of Ktoll. We don't want to go in too far."

Pete thought for a moment, warming his hands. "We don't want to come out too far east or we'll be spotted by Tsurtor's army."

"Good point," Samuel acknowledged.

Robert poked his head out. "Ix-nay on the ire-fay!"

The others proceeded as if they didn't hear. "But if we go too far east, we'll lose precious time," added Mark.

"Isn't there a more direct route," Randy asked.

"I know of one," a voice called from above. It was a horrible voice, not a human voice. The four looked up from their fire and saw that they would no longer have to worry about which way to hike to avoid Tsurtors' forces. Tsurtor's forces had found them. They were completely surrounded. Over a dozen saladans \- Mark recognized their faces through the thick, winter clothes they wore - surrounded the small party.

Mark lept to his feet shouting a challenge as he drew his sabre.

"No, Mark," Sam yelled, grabbing Mark's jacket.

Mark drew his fist back to strike Vincent's brother but then heard the ring of shots being fired. It was from the saladan's machine guns. Each saladan soldier, it appeared, carried one.

"We've been expecting you," the saladan leader hissed. "We thank you, though, for the beacon." The four looked down at the fire, wondering how Robert could have been right.

* * *

To the east, Heaphge held his men at ready. As one, they steeled themselves for the first pitched battle of the war. They'd retreated only about half of a kilometer into a large stand of trees, giving them room enough and time enough for Boom's men to ready their explosives. Now, they waited in the dark, as they had been waiting for hours. Heaphge wouldn't have every man standing by for the approaching army. Though the stone giants never slept, they knew they could keep the Rynian army awake, delaying their attack to hit wearied forces. Heaphge decided that those who could would sleep. Others would dig traps. Those like himself, who did neither, simply waited. As the sky turned from a forbidding black to a depressed coal, signifying dawn, he looked again at the radio Boom had provided. He'd been told that when Boom's drivers saw the army approaching, he'd hear it on the radio. Until then, Boom had told him, there'd be strict radio silence.

Obregon walked up from behind. "You can't sleep, either?"

"I worry about any who can, Rasad," Heaphge replied tiredly, using his second's first name. "They're the ones who're either crazy or dead."

"You forget Captain Patir," Obregon pointed out, drawing his cloak against the wind.

"Is she still drilling Boom's pikemen?"

"Captain Patir's pikemen now, sir," Obregon corrected. "She seems to have some new purpose now."

Heaphge knew what it was. "She wants to remain alive."

Obregon nodded. "Here, here."

"This is Tran. I've got five coming in south to south-west," a voice on the radio screeched.

"Copy that," came Boom's voice.

Another came, "Dante, here. We got four more coming from the north, flat down on us."

"Hernandez, sir. Nearly a dozen to the rear."

"Copy," Boom replied. "Just as we expected, boys. Their trying to surround us. Break and make a beeline for the outside of the perimeter. If it's a trap they plan to set, we'll set one of our own. Heaphge, you know about Tichey's men. If we don't hold the line out here, they're going to be breaking through the trees. When that happens, they'll be hittin' Tichey's surprise. So, whatever you do, don't charge on out to them! Wait until they're on top of you! Out for now."

Heaphge looked at Obregon. "It seems that the battle has begun."

Throughout the camp, Rynian men and women were awakened and rose with weapons in their hands. For the lucky, bats were the weapons. Patir's two hundred had their hardwood pikes. Others, peasants mustered for the fight, grabbed their pitchforks, hoes, and spades.

"Hold position until word is given," Obregon shouted to the assembled army. Word was passed along to those who couldn't hear. "Those above you will give you your command!" At that, many voices shouted over each other, directing their troops. Given only a short briefing on the situation, they knew enough to shuffle their soldiers into wagon-wheel formation, with each side ready to charge to a different area around the ring of trees in which they stood.

Towards the edge of the clearing, the first behemoth broke through the trees.

Heaphge brought a mailed fist up. "On my word, commander," he said to Obregon in his steadiest voice. He could feel the tension in the air as another behemoth stepped from the trees and then another. Some of his people wanted to bolt like rabbits while others wanted to charge like feral wolves. More came from the trees from all sides until there were almost a dozen.

Heaphge knew he was not to charge until after the last explosive was detonated. He had been told that they would hurt his army more than they would hurt the giants. So, he had been admonished not to send in his men when it seemed only sensible that that was exactly what he should do. The closer the behemoths came, the more desperate their situation if these explosives did not work. Already a dozen of the giants were past the trees; Heaphge could wait no longer.

Then, with a sound that could shatter the earth, a fireball erupted to the north. The arms of a behemoth flew in wide trajectories into the morning sky and its body collapsed in ruin. Heaphge tried to rise where he'd dropped in panic with the rest of Rynia's army when another explosion rocked the clearing, then another.

Three, Heaphge counted. Tichey had told him they only had twenty charges. Some had been laid in the clearing floor. Others were being lobbed like grenades by those foolhardy enough to hide in the treetops.

Four! Five!

Heaphge tried to remain standing as explosions deafened him from all sides. Was it eight or was it ten, now? Heapghe realized with a sudden panic that, with so many going off at once, he'd lost count! More giants fell as more dynamite blasted them to pieces. Then, silence, as the last behemoth in the clearing was blasted to smithereens. Suddenly, from within a tree, a great fireball erupted. Great blocks of stone from the behemoth who had torn down the tree rained upon the clearing floor. They weren't alone, however. One of Tichey's men, or Tichey himself, was killed along with it.

"We can wait no longer," Heaphge shouted. "We must protect the dynamiters!"

Obregon couldn't yell charge. The cries of outrage that rose from the Rynians drowned anything a single voice could produce. Around him, men and women charged out into the clearing with weapons at ready.

As if in response, Hargoth's behemoths broke from the trees in greater numbers than Heaphge or anyone else had imagined. Dozens of them, running forward at speeds unimaginable for Hargoth's older stone giants, thundered forward for the kill.

"Faetsha," Obregon uttered. "We're all dead."

As Hargoth had foreseen, flesh and bone were nothing against his behemoths. Nor were simple, farmer's tools, they were not solid enough and would shatter upon a behemoth's surface. The trained forces of Rynia attacked with their bats. The sharpened end, slipped in a joint, could fell a behemoth though it was snapped off of the bat. One after another was taken down this way as dozens of men and women at a time were ground beneath the behemoths' evil intent.

Banry Ellison yelled at his troops over the din of battle. He had taken command of over a hundred farmers, their pitchforks being their only weapons. Constantly barking commands, he kept them on the run when he saw that speed was the behemoth's greatest weakness. The pitchforks could do little to break apart the stone. What they accomplished, though, to Banry's delight, was break apart the behemoth's formations, allowing Rynian soldiers to hit hard without fear from their back.

In another area, Bethel Patir led her forces onto the field. Boom had not introduced pikemen with the intent of fighting behemoths. He had expected medieval forces with medieval weapons. That did not matter to Bethel Patir. All that mattered to her was winning. "Stand fast," she shouted to her troops as a behemoth approached. "Thrust!" As a whole, the first two rows brought their pikes forth. No more than sharpened poles, Bethel had faith in them because the off-worlder had. When the behemoth's weight struck the hardwood pikes, the soldiers thanked their gods for the gloves protecting their hands.

Still, all it did was hold the behemoth back.

"Thrust," the captain shouted again, hoping it would do some good.

The behemoth wobbled and reached forward, furious.

"As one now! Left leg!" With another thrust, the pikemen dislodged the behemoth's footing, sending it with a crash to the ground. Still moving, it had not been built for rising from a prostrate position. As it struggled upon the ground, other soldiers broke it into pieces. Bethel raised her voice with those of her pikemen; they'd done it. They'd felled a behemoth. But the time for celebrating was soon over. More behemoths closed for another try at a defense for which they were not prepared.

* * *

Boom watched the clearing with his binoculars. He watched the Rynians get taken apart by an offense against which they were sadly outranked. "Okay, men, you know the drill," he said into the radio. Of the twenty other vehicles, only sixteen of the drivers were men but that didn't bother Boom any. "We're going in. We're going in full throttle. This here's smash-em-up derby. No headers. You take it on the side and you stay clear of them foot-soldiers. Clear?" He listened as the other nineteen shouted their concurrence. They's gettin' their blood up, he thought. No reason why I shouldn't. "Then let's get in there and kick some ass!"

Kicking up mud and plunging headlong into the forest, Boom quickly lost track of the others. No matter. That's the way it was supposed to be. They'd be heading off to all sides of the clearing, surrounding the behemoths that surrounded the army. By virtue of leading, Boom took the point. The trees weren't forest thick; they quickly passed on each side of the Chief's Cherokee. Then, ahead of him, chaos! Three behemoths blocked his passage, fighting ahead, not noticing his arrival. One stood towards the back and it was Boom's target. "These new tires better hold," he muttered and, throwing it into neutral in the last second before impact, slammed both feet onto the brake. His seatbelt bit into his shoulder (he'd already disabled his airbag) and he took two handfuls of steering wheel, holding it far to the left. His body was tossed about but he held on. He could feel the Jeep's tail end spin around behind him and, with a jarring crunch, he slammed into the behemoth's leg.

He looked behind to see if he'd done any good but couldn't see the giant. He craned his head and there it was! Sprawled atop another fallen giant, Boom had taken out two with one punch! The Jeep had stalled upon impact but Boom quickly got it started and drove off before the third giant could grab his vehicle (from the size of their hands, Boom knew they could do it, too). There was a noticeable wobble in the right, rear axle; Boom didn't think his Cherokee could stand up to much more. He thrust the thought out of his mind, though, as he turned back around. Number three was lumbering towards him. He wanted the vehicle that had taken out two of his friends.

Boom gritted his teeth and whispered, "Okay, stupid! Here I come!" He was already in first gear and, slamming his foot on the gas, he kicked up grass and mud as he sped towards the giant. Again, he timed his assault. Seconds before impact, he slammed on the brakes and held the wheel into a hard turn, this time to the right. Then, impact! Boom looked out at the mirror, a devilish smile upon his face.

The smile quickly dropped, though, when he saw the giant still standing. He had the Jeep's tail end in both hands and was lifting it up. "Oh shit," he yelled, grabbing his twelve gauge for what little good it would do him. He jumped without looking how high he'd risen and dropped nearly eight feet to the ground. The giant held the truck above its head and looked down at Boom with a fiendish glare. But the axle had been too badly damaged and the Jeep Cherokee hadn't been manufactured to be held upright. With the screeching of tearing metal, the Jeep tore nearly in half, falling upon the giant.

"You give him what for," Boom hollered.

The giant, however, thought little of it. It dropped the remaining piece of the vehicle harmlessly to the side and reached down for Boom Tower. Boom was ready, though, holding up his twelve gauge and firing when the giant's hand was only a few feet away. He cringed but the ricochet missed him and, opening his eyes, saw the giant looking puzzled at its hand.

"Ow," it said.

Boom almost thought, they can talk, but then the back of the giant's hand flew towards him, hitting his torso and throwing him through the air. He didn't remember landing, only the blood that leaked from his mouth and the irrefutable sense of failure.

* * *

Vincent strode down the long hallways of Mount Brutalitie, free to go as he pleased now that the master was sure of his allegiances. He could have no other allegiance, of course. Certainly, none to the ungrateful weaklings in Rynia who wouldn't have been alive today if not for Vincent. This was why Vincent was no part of them, did not belong with their ilk. Tsurtor had shown him, provided clarity to a confusing situation. The same held for Samuel, Hex, and the others. Vincent was different from them, better. They didn't understand him because they couldn't. They were nothing more than children trying to comprehend God. And, like children, they were to be disciplined. And, if they would not succumb, they would be killed. Whatever Tsurtor demanded it would be Vincent's pleasure to do.

There was a small voice in his brain, though, that he did his best to ignore. It brought him pain and anguish. Something about seeing things as they truly were. Open your eyes, Vincent, it called. It seemed so near.

But he ignored it. After all, he had everything here he had always wanted. Soldiers and servants bowed before him, recognizing his greatness as second only to that of Tsurtor's. He was Tsurtor's favored and had been granted power beyond his dreams. No absurd doubts could change his intransigent course.

Deep within the mountain corridors, Vincent reached his master's chambers. Once, these great doors had led to a massive throneroom where all of those serving him would come to witness the fruition of his plans. Now, as Vincent pulled the doors open with his mind, ignoring the huge, sloped-headed monsters that stood there to perform that very task, he knew that he would be the only witness to what had become of his master. Not even the lowly Pekit stood at Tsurtor's side.

Vincent looked down to where his master rested motionless within a pile of pillows, the only comfort his corporeal form was allowed. Still, there were more forms as Vincent had quickly learned and felt Tsurtor insinuate his way into his mind with accustomed ease.

He comes, he heard Tsurtor say.

"Who," Vincent asked, walking down the stairs to his master's side.

Your brother, Samuel. Are you ready for him?

"Yes. You know I am. I'll kill him the moment I see him."

Yes. I know you will. I can taste your hate.

But that other voice came to Vincent, too, asking why he should hate his brother. Vincent hoped Tsurtor would dispel it but, when his master said nothing, he decided it would be better not to mention it. Instead, he asked, "How do you know?"

That he's coming? I can see all, my boy. You know that.

"Yes. I do," Vincent admitted. But Tsurtor did not see all. In his hubris, he assumed that all of his plans which had gone so well so far were continuing to do so, like so many links in a chain. Vincent looked up at his massive form, swelled to more than four times its normal size due to the tusks jutting from his body like innumerable limbs. "How is the pain," he asked.

There Is No Pain! Tsurtor barked his reply so quickly that the contrary was obvious. Then, his voice took on a more insidious tone, his presence treading through Vincent's brain like a thousand red ants. This will happen to you, one day, young Vincent. You are not impervious to the result of our awesome power.

To him? Vincent's stomach rebelled at the thought. Why should it happen to him? He had known other wizards who didn't end up grotesque. Wizards who had kept their form despite how adept they were at their art. He had known...

Hex. The name hit him like a mallet to the forehead. Yes, Hex was fine, wasn't he? Using his magic, thinking it was science, he hadn't once used it to help Vincent. No, he'd only denied Vincent the right to use his magic however he wanted. He'd been jealous of Vincent because Vincent had more power that Hex could ever dream. Nothing bad had ever happened to Hex because Hex was weak, his magic impotent.

His stomach turning, Vincent felt his legs go weak. He wouldn't allow Tsurtor to see him so; he lifted himself up and flew from the room.

* * *

The saladans didn't bother with binding their captives. They simply prodded them with knives until the four were squeezed into a splintery wooden cage big enough for only one. Then, the cage was lifted up and hefted onto a wagon.

"Hit the road, boys," the leader yelled. "We're off to Mount Brutalitie and our reward!" As the others cheered, the leader grabbed the lead of the horse pulling the wagon and started their journey.

"Randy," Mark groaned, his face pressed hard against one of the cage's wooden bars.

"Hey," Randy snapped. "You can't blame this on me!"

"I wasn't going to," the duke barked back. "I was going to ask you to move your arm. It's in the back of my head!"

The saladans ignored their captives as the four jostled for comfortable positions within the cage. In a while, they each stood facing one of the cage's sides, their arms hanging out between the wooden bars. "What are we going to do," Pete asked.

"What can we do," Randy answered angrily.

"You familiar with these characters, Mark? They don't look like they're from around here," Sam commented, looking down at the saladan who marched behind him. Like huge lizards, their brows were sloped and their heads thin. They walked with their mouths opened; Sam thought he remembered seeing something about that on PBS. This cold weather couldn't suit them, though; he was surprised to see them march so well. Must have been the thick clothing.

"Tsurtor's minions," Mark replied. "No telling where they're from, this world or another, when Tsurtor's involved." Facing the wagon's front, Mark counted the saladans before him. Eight, each carrying a machine gun. "We can get a better idea of our situation if we know how many we're against," he said. "Each of you, tell me how many soldiers you see."

"Six," Pete answered.

"Three, bringing up the rear," replied Sam.

After another moment, Randy, sulking against the bars, added, "Five."

"Twenty-two," Mark whispered. "And those projectile throwers, machine guns you called them, don't favor hand to hand fighting."

"Face it, Mark. We won't be fighting our way out of here." Even as Samuel said it, he realized how ludicrous he sounded. He might have been adept at martial arts but against twenty-two men? Bruce Lee, he wasn't.

The wagon creaked along the roughly hewn trail, the prisoners silent.

As Pete looked up at the snow that had started to fall, he said, "One thing, though."

"What's that, Pete," Sam asked, holding the cage's rough bars.

"Well, they're taking us to Mount Brutalitie, right?"

"No shit, Sherlock," Randy grumbled.

"Well, it's where we want to go, moron," Pete spat.

Randy shouted, "I'm gonna kick your ass when we get out of here!"

"Guys," Samuel barked, silencing them both. "I'll kick both of your asses! Now shut up!"

"Lad's got a point, though," said Mark. "As least, for now, we won't be scrambling through the mountains. Now more hiking through the snow. We'll ride along until Mount Brutalitie, saving our strength for the real conflict. To some degree, we might consider this a free ride." Mark smiled, pleased at his positive attitude.

"Sure," Sam replied. "Except all our food is back at camp. And we could use our heavy jackets."

If that wasn't enough to counter Mark's optimism, Randy had a stronger rebuttal. "Yeah, and I gotta take a leak."

Back where they had left him, Robert came out of his hiding place, his sarcastic tone the only sound in the empty camp. "Stinky, oversized iguanas. Creatures from the black spittoon. Why couldn't you have taken me along? Now I gotta walk!" Robert looked over the campsite, considering the importance of all the gear the four others had carried along the way and walked away with a huff. "Eh, let 'em suffer. They should be happy I'm rescuing them after they refused to listen to me."

He walked to where the wagon's trail began, looking at mile after mile of empty horizon. He gritted his teeth and frowned. "Boy are those guys gonna owe me!"

Further down the trail, after hours of riding, the saladan's captives were removed from the wagon and placed near a fire. "That'll warm you up. That's what you warm-bloods need, isn't it?"

"Yes," Mark replied amicably. "Thank you."

The saladan leader simply growled and walked away.

"What's with the friendly attitude," Sam asked.

"Sometimes it gets them talking," Mark replied, looking for something that could help them.

Sam, too, was looking around - looking around the corner at the fire that Pete was facing. As far from it as they were, the fire gave off no noticeable heat. "How many times have you been held captive?"

Mark answered, "First time."

"Well, you guys had better start thinking fast! I really gotta go," Randy shouted, shaking the cage as he jumped from foot to foot.

"He's got to go to a river with lots of rapidly flowing water to drink some warm apple juice," Pete snickered.

Sam kicked him. "If Randy hits you when we get out, I'm not stopping him.

"I think I have an idea," Mark said.

"Well, let's hear it."

Mark rocked his body, making the cage shake. "We could all move from side to side and make the cage fall. That might break it. Those creatures are all dormant; they won't even hear us."

"Right," Pete concurred. "Cause they're lizards."

Randy's voice was high and desperate as he replied, "Then, let's get going." He started rocking and Mark and Pete quickly joined in.

Samuel was about to start as well and brought his hands up to clutch the bars for better leverage. Then, it struck him. "Stop it," he yelled.

They quickly did but Randy complained, "What's the matter, Sammy? It's a good idea!"

"Where are your arms, Randy," Sam asked.

"Outside, holding the cage. We couldn't keep our arms in; it was too crowded."

"Uh oh," Pete murmured.

Samuel told the rest. "I don't know about you but I don't like the idea of all of our weight crashing down on my arms. It might damage the cage, alright. It would also break somebody's arms."

"Then, they got us," Pete added with a sigh. "If we tried to escape, we'd be too hurt to get very far."

"But, guys," Randy whined desperately.

"Sorry, Randy," said Mark. "I don't know what to tell you."

As their silent captivity resumed, a distinct sound came from the brush. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. It repeated like some broken piece of machinery. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Then, a voice. "What would you clods do without me?"

"Who is that," Randy asked, looking into the darkness.

"Robert," Samuel cheered. "That's you! Isn't it?"

Robert stepped out from the darkness, seen only by the fire's dim light, his arms crossed smugly before him. "Oh, how the big, fat, stupid and ugly have fallen. I suppose you want me to get you out."

Samuel didn't have the patience for Robert's attitude. "That would be the idea! Now, go over to those soldiers. The leader has the key on the ring on his belt. Hurry up!"

"I don't know," Robert figured, pacing. "We seem to be in a bargaining position, here."

"Robert," they all screamed.

"Oh, ok! Ok," Robert huffed, hurrying to the sleeping forms.

"How did you know about the fire, Robert," Mark asked. "What clued you in on these soldiers being nearby?"

"I ain't no dummy, duke-head. I knew that Tsurtor wouldn't have let us go so far unless he had prepared a reception. You'd do well to listen to me in the future. I know all! I see all!"

"Oh, shut up, Robert, and get the keys."

Soon, Robert climbed up the cage's side, key-ring hanging around his neck, and opened the cage. The door flew open, flinging Robert's helpless form as a goldfish before a tidal wave as Randy fled into the darkness.

"Randy," Sam called after him.

From the darkness, Randy yelled, "I'm busy! I'm busy!"

"So," Pete asked, stepping closer to the fire, "what are we going to do? They'll be dormant until it gets warmer, I think."

"We could kill them," Samuel suggested, picking up one of the saladan's machine guns. "That would keep them off our trail."

Mark stepped up the Sam and brought the gun down. "No," he said. "No one has more reason to want to see these dead then me but this is not the time. We could wake them. There could be more out there. No. The trail's clearly marked. There's been a lot of traffic of late. We need to go south, to Mount Brutalitie. Then, we'll find Vincent and then we'll kill."

Robert was stomping out from the darkness. "Some gratitude," he muttered. Mark picked him up and, putting him on his shoulder, Robert said, "I think we should kill them now."

"Don't worry, Robert," Mark replied. "There will be plenty of opportunities to kill later."

Part III

Robert whistled in awe causing Mark to look down at his shoulder. "I told you it would be big," he whispered as, with the others, he looked up at the Mount dwarfing all the peaks around them. Almost two weeks had passed since their escape, a long stream of days filled with cold, hunger, and constant hiding to avoid detection.

"Yeah," Robert replied, "but you didn't tell me it would be - so big!" A wide road descended from the Mount's gaping entrance and through two mountains which looked like nothing more than markers. At the entrance, a wide plateau dug out from the Mount, weapons of all kinds were arrayed, ready for war. More filled the roads below and an airfield occupied one of the Mount's excavated sides. For all that had been carved from Mount Brutalitie, even more remained to make these roads and stages look like mere scratches.

"Are you guys going to be able to make it up there," Samuel asked Randy and Pete.

"Not a problem," Randy replied, though his body was hunched and his feet dragged and he shivered the entire way. It had grown even colder as if to spite Randy's every exclamation that it couldn't. The winter's snows had generously coated the ground and more awaited them upon the Mount. Samuel was thankful that the two had grown somewhat acclimatized; he only wished he would.

"How much further, do you think," he asked Mark.

"We can't push these guys any faster," Mark replied. "It doesn't look like Tsurtor's sent his machines out, yet. So, we'll have to skirt the front. We're looking at another week, if we're lucky."

"A week," Samuel sighed. He tried not to sound too dejected though he truly felt he would never reach the end. Still, he couldn't let the guys see his disappointment. "Come on, guys," he said. "Last leg."

But it was worse than that. Tsurtor had guards out along every navigable pass. Mark had to lead them through the toughest reaches, into crevices, and onto rocky cliffs made even more treacherous by the constant snows. Pete was in a daze but he wouldn't let up. He'd walk in a daze and climb in a daze. Only when they slept, and sleep was rare, did he succumb to his constant exhaustion. Pete wasn't made to take this kind of beating, none of them were. Only the duke had any experience and even he began slipping after the fifth day up Mount Brutalitie's side. No one would be left behind. They were in this together and the time for second thoughts was long gone. As Randy so aptly reckoned it meant either death running away, death on the mountain, or death in warm tunnels. No matter the outcome, the prospect of warmth was all that kept them going.

Then, late one evening - after losing count of how many evenings - Mark topped a ridge. He hauled the others up, inching their way behind him, and then looked at the plateau on which they stood. It was fairly broad and a well-carved tunnel before them led into the Mount's awaited interior. If Samuel felt nothing familiar about the scenery, his brother would have. A pile of broken bones, littered beneath the snow, marked the place where Vincent had answered Tsurtor's command to kill Samuel without so much as a thought.

* * *

Lying like the demon-possessed dead upon a city-morgue slab, Tsurtor writhed in agony. The tusks, for so long happy just in extruding from his torn flesh, had decided their torture to be minimal. Now, they turned, tearing his flesh anew. Blood oozed down them in gouts like thickened lava. Ropes held him down for such an indignity was far preferable to the unimaginable agony of rolling from the mound of pillows to land on other tusks!

Vincent stayed by his master's side. The ropes which he'd used to tie Tsurtor down were the softest in the Mount. (This wasn't saying much, though, as Tsurtor did not suffer luxuries within his demesne.) How long would they hold him down? Who could tell? Still, from the very first twinge (Tsurtor's body had gone ramrod straight, bellowing in agony) until now, when the tusks could be seen turning underneath his robes, Tsurtor's state had only grown worse.

Without Tsurtor, where would Vincent be? He knew he couldn't lead Tsurtor's army. He knew he wasn't ready to take the master's place. Yet, he also realized that all restrictions would be removed and he could finally do as he pleased.

"Vincent!" Tsurtor's terrified voice echoed throughout the chamber. The agony must have been truly horrific for the master to scream so, not using their mental link. "He co-es, Vincent! He co-es!"

"My brother," Vincent asked.

"Yes! Hi-! Hi- and... and... ah!" Tsurtor couldn't finish what he was saying, gripped by the horror of being ripped apart from within.

"Say no more," Vincent insisted, tired of hearing the master's pathetic screams. "I'll go and bring his dead body back." Without a thought, Vincent flew towards the ceiling and, blasting the doors opened, flew from the room.

"No," Tsurtor yelled but there was no telling if his unheard command was directed at Vincent or his own disobedient body. Tusks tore out of his mouth, desperate for freedom, halting anything further Tsurtor might have said. As blood spilled from his mouth, splashing upon the floor Hargoth had so intricately carved, he saw another step out from the darkness.

Pekit.

The little man skittered up slowly like the crab his arms made him resemble. Tsurtor thought, for just a second, that his servant might be bringing him some relief. He looked down at the Paeadian, features unrecognizable beneath unearthly, wriggling flesh and blood, panting like a rabid dog.

Pekit did bring relief, it weighed heavily in his warped limbs but he forced himself to hold it. The time had come for him to end this nightmare but before he'd take his own life he would take that of the one who had caused all of his pain. It was the perfect time; Tsurtor was helpless. He raised the long blade with a smile.

The sound of the doors opening, followed by shuffling feet stopped him. He knew that, whoever it was, they were strangers to Tsurtor's lair. Nobody simply walked in. Vincent would fly; others would grovel. At the sound of their voice, he dived behind a row of chairs.

" \- something must be going on. They're both dead," Mark was saying.

Pete looked back. "And those guys weren't small, either. Whatever they were."

"Do you think Vincent's rebelling," Samuel asked, hopefully. He couldn't have been farther from the truth. Vincent had carelessly killed the guards, crushing them behind the doors in his rush to kill his brother.

Randy's loud voice echoed off the walls. "What is this place?"

"Tsurtor must like to keep an audience," Mark replied. Looking down upon the stage, he gasped at the huge, writhing mass as the center of the amphitheater. "What is that?!"

Neither Pete nor Randy cared to know but followed as Sam descended with Mark to the bottom. "This place is as big as the Hollywood Bowl," Pete whispered to Randy.

"Cool, huh," Randy replied.

"Sure. Until you realize that there's nothing to keep the mountain from falling down on us."

Mark stopped at the base of the steps, staring in awe at the creature resting before him. Sam, not proceeding any further, looked away in fear and disgust. Nightmarish, its huge, quivering pseudopods thrust in all directions beneath the cover. "We need to go," Sam suggested.

Mark nodded. "You're probably right."

Both turned and started heading back up the stairs. Randy and Pete hurried up in front. Whatever foul creation Tsurtor had brought to this world, they didn't need to see it any closer.

There -

Mark turned his head, thinking he'd almost heard something.

You're there -

"Did you just say something," Sam asked Mark.

"You heard that," Mark asked. "I thought you said it."

The way Pete and Randy were looking at them, it was clear that they'd heard it, too.

You've brought others with you but it's too late.

Pete stepped down the stairs and pointed. "It's coming from down there."

Randy wished Pete was wrong but he could sense it, too.

"Tsurtor," Mark gasped.

Yes -

"What have you become," he asked, walking back down to the base of the stairs. He was not only curious; his sabre was readied in his hand.

More than you could imagine if you had the time!

"The time," Sam asked.

Indeed! For death comes upon you!

Behind them, blasting apart like from a giant's fist, the throneroom doors flew into the air reduced to fragments. Through the wreckage, hatred burning in his eyes, Tsurtor's prodigal, Vincent flew into the room.

"Who," Mark asked.

Realizing the truth before the others, Randy screamed, "Holy shit!"

"Vincent," Samuel shouted, his heart clutched with sorrow at seeing his baby brother's contorted features. "What has he done to you?"

Vincent said nothing in reply. His programming went beyond talk. But Samuel had always been there for him to talk to, the voice said inside Vincent's enraged mind. Samuel always said that talking was better than fighting. Vincent snarled. Motionless, he hurled his magic against his brother.

Samuel hadn't time to feel any pain. A solid wall of air, hard as brick, hit him, hurling him into the stone chairs of the vast amphitheater. He could hardly move. His jaw was shattered, blood spilling from his mouth. Yet, he could put his legs under him and tried to get up. Something had been done to Vincent, he knew. Something was wrong.

"No," Pete hollered and, with Randy, raced to Sam's side.

Vincent was quicker, sailing down to his brother's side like a bullet. He saw Sam's dazed eyes and his attempts at getting up and muttered, "You need to die!" Without a thought, he pummeled his brother's body again and again against the stone floor, breaking ribs and tearing flesh, splashing his brother's blood upon his master's ground.

"Leave him alone," Randy screamed, throwing himself onto Vincent. No time to raise a defense, Vincent went down to the ground. Randy was on top of him, slamming his fists into Vincent's huge, misshapen face. "You son of a bitch," Randy cried. Pete caught up and started kicking Vincent only to find his old friend was hard as the mountain's rock around them.

Vincent wasn't surprised for long, though. He picked both of his old friends up, suspending them in mid air. "I could kill you right now," he hissed.

Randy fought to struggle within the unseen bonds and had a few, choice words to say if not for the constriction around his throat. Pete, however, was able to choke out, "Is that what you're going to do to anybody that gets in your way? Just like Geoff?"

Vincent remembered the feeling of nearly killing his friend in the pool, how the water churned beneath his magic and the boy fought for air. He'd almost killed then even when he didn't want to kill and the thought shook him. This is what you've used your magic for thus far, the voice told him. You've only seen it as a weapon. You make a fine weapon, it said familiarly. You fit in quite nicely, being wielded by another, never having to decide for yourself. It saves you the trouble of having convictions, of having to think. You're just pointed and you go, never having to worry about people blaming you... just like they did when you nearly killed Geoff.

Seeing Vincent thrown off guard, and thinking that his words had done it, Pete yelled against the tight bands against his throat. "Go ahead! Kill us! Then, you'll have all your friends dead!"

"You little twerp," Randy gasped.

Vincent fought to maintain control of his mind and his magic as the world spun around him.

Down at the base of the stairs, Mark gathered his courage and yanked back Tsurtor's robes. They were nearly shredded already from the tusk's ends that looked like sharpened bone. "Holy Ibbrano," he screamed, diving away to safety as the tusks sprung to life. They shot out several feet from Tsurtor's body, shredding the pillows, holding Tsurtor's agonizing body on their ends. Tsurtor choked on his scream, gurgling on the blood that ran down his throat and was regurgitated up from his bowels.

"Kill him," Pekit demanded, shuffling out from his hiding place. "You must kill him."

Mark looked up at the beast which had been Tsurtor. The horrific pseudopods held him nearly three meters high upon their spasmodic ends, giving him the appearance of some monstrous porcupine. He looked down at the little man, disgusted at the broken form he saw. "I think you're right." Drawing back his sabre, he stepped forward to slash through one of the tusks. Out of nowhere, another came, coiling around Mark's wrist and pulling him, helplessly, into the air.

Vincent looked up at his boyhood friends. "What - what are you talking about?"

"One of Tsurtor's things," Randy coughed. "It killed Sean."

Sean? Sean was dead? "You know you got a real problem, asshole," Sean shouted across the playground. Vincent couldn't help remembering it; it tore him out of the chaotic world he inhabited and brought him to that afternoon after school when he was in the second grade. It was Vincent's first fight and it was against Chaz Durnets, the meanest third grader in school. It hadn't been Vincent's fault he didn't have his lunch money just as it hadn't been his fault that Chaz's father had beat the Durnets boy again but, either way, Vincent was going to pay. Chaz had pushed Vincent against the slide and then knocked him to the sand. Vincent had put his hands up in self-defense but it hadn't done any good.

Then, the voice shouted out again. "Hey! You listening to me, asshole! Yes, you! You got a real problem, you know that?"

"Oh, yeah," Chaz had asked. "And what would that be?"

Sean picked up Chaz by the scruff of his t-shirt. "Me, dickweed." Vincent looked up just in time to see Sean punch Chaz square in the mouth and, before he let go of the third-grade bully's shirt, punch him again, dropping him senseless to the playground sand. "You okay, kid," Sean asked him.

Vincent got up, trying to look tough though his back hurt something awful and his eyes were still puffy from crying. "I'm fine," he replied.

"You gotta stay away from this playground. I might not always be passing through at the right second," Sean told him.

"Uh huh," Vincent said. He watched Sean walk away as Chaz began to get up. It seemed the right thing to follow Sean.

Sean looked back after being followed for several paces and asked, "Are you following me?"

Vincent hoped that Sean's smile meant it was okay. "Uh huh."

"I thought so. Come on. I'll introduce you to a few friends."

A terrible pain ripped through Vincent's brain and he cried out, clutching his skull in his hands. His magic dropped and so did Randy and Pete.

Randy got up and rushed over to Pete's side. "Good idea, brainiac. Now, get up."

"I can't." Pete looked up, crying. "I think I busted my leg."

The look of panic in Tsurtor's eyes lasted for only a second more. Seeing the long tusk twist around Mark's wrist and draw him into the air, a glint of realization shone in the dark master's eyes. Slowly, then, the other appendages shrank back into Tsurtor's skin, starting with those that raked his eyes and tore his mouth asunder. "Of course," he shouted when he again had use of his mouth. "Of course!" The snakelike growths retreated inside of him, the only one remaining held Mark helplessly several meters in the air. "How could I have been so foolish as not to have seen this!"

Tsurtor jumped down from the bed upon which he'd stood, spreading his arms in majesty. "I was not going to die! NO," he shouted, giving Mark a shake. "I was being reborn! More powerful than ever! You thought you could kill me?" He tightened the coil around Mark's wrist and shook him violently like a ragdoll until, with a pop, Mark's shoulder was dislocated.

Their only chance to kill Tsurtor was ended. Pekit could see that. Hiding back amidst the chairs, clutching his knife, Pekit knew that Tsurtor would never again allow a threat to come within miles of him. Pekit looked down at his knife, reliving the pain of every break in his bones, every twist. He knew Tsurtor would remember him. He would remember Pekit's demand. Kill him, he had said. Surely, the necessity had never been greater. Pekit rose from behind the chairs, seeing Tsurtor shout at his half-conscious victim. Tsurtor couldn't see him; Pekit was behind him in the dark.

In the dark, he would remain, skittering up to the bed, careful not to lose the knife, or his nerve. Then, he saw the he was at the right angle. One plunge of his knife would sink deep into Tsurtor's back and, Pekit hoped, pierce his withered heart. He brought his hands up, slowly and painfully, then, drawing upon all of his strength -

\- felt tusks pierce through his body. He felt himself raised as blood fled frantically from his wounds and the knife fell to the floor with a defeated thud. He was brought to face Tsurtor who stood smiling. "Paeadian," he said contemptuously. "I can taste your blood within you. It is weak. I have no further use of you." Pekit heard none of Tsurtor's hate, though. Pekit was already dead.

Vincent's head spun and he held it with his powerful hands for fear that it would shatter and fall apart. This is what Tsurtor has given you, the voice said. Power with no control. Who has the control, the voice asked. Who has the control?

Vincent looked down at the throneroom floor. Through blurry eyes, he witnessed Pekit's death by the hideous creature's appendages, stabbing him like living knives, skewering him upon gushes of blood. Shocked at his first understanding of his master, he awakened in terror and, seeing his own, twisted form, sobbed uncontrollably. The tears cascaded down his face and into the blood pooled on the floor. There was so much blood there. He didn't need to look to see from where it had come.

"You're brother's here to see you," he remembered the woman saying in her talking-to-a-baby voice.

Vincent sat on the edge of the bed, holding his little suitcase (it had actually been a cassette tape holder but the innards had been removed for Vincent's sake), and couldn't help looking angry. He'd looked angry for the past couple of days. It had started when the police came to his door. "Are you Vincent," they'd asked. He'd known immediately something was wrong. At the house where he was brought, they wouldn't tell him his parents had died. He'd ask for them and they'd say, "You're brother's coming. You can talk to him."

"I don't wam'my brother," he'd yelled. "I wam'my mom and dad!" But they wouldn't bring him what he wanted most. They tried cookies and ice cream but, for perhaps the only time in his life, he wouldn't take them.

Then, after the two days of hell had passed, his brother came in. Samuel thanked the woman! Actually thanked her! After what they done to him!

"How you holding up, Vinnie," Samuel had asked.

"Where's mom an' dad," Vincent demanded.

Samuel stood, his mouth tense. Vincent wasn't going to let him beat around any bushes. When his older brother sat beside him, Vincent pushed him away, crying, "Where are they?"

"Vincent, shut up already! You've given everybody a hard enough time," Sam had shouted, stepping away. He was upset that he could no longer play the consoling, older brother, upset at everything happening in his life, and unfortunately began to take it out on his younger brother. "Mom and dad are dead, you stupid, little brat! You think you would have figured that out by now!"

Suddenly, Vincent was upon him, slugging him with useless fists. "What'id you do to 'em? What d'you do?"

"Nothing! Get off me!" Samuel easily shrugged off Vincent's attack. It was too weak with childhood frailty and the suffering of loss. Vincent landed hard on the floor and shuffled into the corner, bawling. That's when the woman came back with scolding words for Vincent's older brother. "It's okay," Vincent heard him say but was too caught up in his tears to refute it. "We just gotta work things out."

No. Samuel had to work it out. Vincent didn't want to hear what the judge had decided. He just wanted his parents back.

"I'm moving back. We'll find a place." Sam tried reassuring him but Vincent wasn't listening. "You're gonna be living with me now, Vinnie. We gotta learn to live together."

Live together, maybe, Vincent had thought, his soul festering with rage. Vincent knew he needed some place to live but he didn't have to like it. On the contrary, he hated Sam for a long time and made sure Sam knew it.

Now, Sam lay in a pool of his own blood and Vincent had killed him.

No. Not dead. Vincent saw Samuel's eyes flutter and look - at him!

You may still save him, the voice said. It's not too late to undo all that you have done.

"Ah, but it is too late," Tsurtor whispered, only loud enough for Vincent to hear. Pekit had slid off of the master's impaling appendages and Mark had been let go, writhing on the floor in agony. Tsurtor floated in the room's center, a broad smile on his face. "You cannot undo anything. You cannot escape your guilt!"

So, Tsurtor knew. He'd known about the voice all along. But, then, Tsurtor knew everything. He'd known about Sam's journey. He'd known that Vincent would betray his brother. He knew everything! And Vincent fell to his knees before Tsurtor's might.

"Hey," a little voice hollered. "Hey!"

Vincent didn't bother to look. It was pointless.

"Hey, dumbass!" A sudden kick to his knee got Vincent's attention. "You stupid kid. You're even uglier than the last time I saw you - as if such a thing was possible."

"Robert," Vincent sobbed.

It had taken Robert a long time to walk up the stairs after jumping out of Mark's pocket and he was pissed, having nearly fallen an unwitting victim to Vincent's many blows. "No shit," the little treeling replied. "Now, get up! We got work to do!"

Startled, Vincent stood up. It wasn't Robert's voice he heard coming from the treeling. It was Hex! "Hex," he asked.

"Hex," Tsurtor asked as well, unaware of Robert's presence.

"Here," Robert said, putting out his hands. "Pick me up." Vincent put his hands down and gingerly brought Robert up to his face. Robert wasted no time and started hitting Vincent in the nose.

"Hey," Vincent cried.

"Give me that," Tsurtor commanded.

It was then that Vincent realized how Tsurtor had not known Robert had arrived in his throneroom. Here! At the center of his power! And Tsurtor had not known! What else didn't he know? Vincent threw up a hasty shield to protect Robert from Tsurtor's power, relishing in Tsurtor's astonished face.

Now, Vincent! You must go quickly!

Vincent knew it was right and, at last, obeyed the voice. He swiftly brought Randy and Pete into the air and supported Mark beside him. Then, in the softest cushions of air, lifted his brother. Robert climbed up his arm.

"You wouldn't dare," Tsurtor shouted.

"Mush," Robert yelled.

But Tsurtor had already encircled them with his many arms, preventing their escape. Soldiers were rushing into the throneroom. Vincent couldn't block their bullets and Tsurtor's power. There was no way out. Even the voice had been silenced.

Then, Samuel looked up at him and gave him the destination.

In the blink of an eye, they were gone.

"FOUL CHILD!!" Tsurtor's scream reached throughout the mountain, bringing rocks down upon its inhabitants. Within the throneroom, the chairs shattered and the soldiers died as their reptilian brains caved before the monumental cry. Tsurtor had never before felt so powerful as he had now that the trial of his new powers was over and he had won. Still, rebellious boys slipped through his grasp.

So, you have lost, the voice said.

"Don't count yourself so lucky, Traveler," Tsurtor spat. "Is that the name you are going by this time? Or is it just Raphineal? Either way, you are the one who has lost. Be he mine or theirs, I have molded him into a weapon for my uses. It is as you say: all power and no control! Think how much he will help me when he tries to use all of that power in Rynia's defense! He will kill them just as surely as if I'd ordered it!"

Though Raphineal was miles away, viewing the scene through a mystic orb, he could feel Tsurtor's booming laughs strike him as if he were in the room. He thought he'd had more faith in Vincent. He had been sure that, once freed from Tsurtor's vile influence, Vincent could save Rynia. But now, with Tsurtor's claim, he wasn't so sure. Surely, his work was not done.

Meanwhile, within Mount Brutalitie, Tsurtor whirled upon his many arms, laughing in demented glee. "Now, my soldiers, come out from your caves," he shouted. "Bring your guns! Bring your knives! We go to kill Rynia's king tonight!!"

CHAPTER TEN

TSURTOR TRIUMPHANT

Part I

General Rolf Heaphge had known defeat would come. He'd known it since Hargoth had killed some of his men at Hex and Helen's Anniversary celebration. Tsurtor was just too powerful and the Rynians too few. Yet, he had held out, tried to keep some hope. For without hope what good was a commander?

Tsurtor had only sent the stone giants. Only a few dozen of Hargoth's immense creations had demolished Rynia's one chance. Maybe it was to humiliate the Rynians after their unexpected victory nearly a decade ago. Maybe it was meant to show how little effort Tsurtor had to spend to conquer his enemies. The time for debating why it happened would have to wait. The Rynian army could no longer muster skirmishes to delay the stone force.

Heaphge, upon his horse with Obregon riding on one side and Captain Patir, wounded, riding on the other, fled back towards the Rynian border. Any advance they had made was abandoned to Tsurtor's army. Upon the plains of Paead, there was no defense. In Rynia, they'd have to find the place for their final battle.

Ahead and to the right, the four final American vehicles crossed the plains, kicking up oceans of mud. After a while, they had begun to zig-zag. Perhaps it was their hope that the behemoths would be swallowed up within all that mud. Heaphge knew, though, that its immediate effect would be to slow down their foot-soldier's retreat. Boom would have known that but Boom was no longer there to direct them. Like nearly a thousand others, Boom had to be left behind. Heaphge hoped the American had been lucky enough to die.

At Heaphge's best guess, the Rynian forces now numbered less than two thousand. Yet, in their only pitched battle, they'd taken down less than a dozen of Hargoth's behemoths. Heaphge was glad for the downpour. It hid his face and his tears and his fright.

* * *

Many kilometers in the distance lay the Rynian border. It was unremarkable and often mistaken for Paeadian land. Because Paead was leaderless, there were few border disputes when Rynians farmed on the neighboring kingdom's land.

Despite all of that, Marcus knew it. He knew Rynian soil just as surely as a divining rod knows water. When he took his final steps across Kallent and looked upon Rynia's southern border, he lifted his hand, signaling the Kal-Kor monks behind him to halt. Over two thousand men and women followed him now. It was Marcus' hope that the sight of the famed monks of Kal-Kor would bring more Rynians to their kingdom's defense.

Despite this success, however, when they finally reached Rynia's westernmost region, Marcus frowned. General Heaphge was gone.

Marcus had known he'd be late. Yet, he'd hoped that Heaphge would have waited until he returned with more troops. Could it have been that Duke Nygarra found more support than they'd hoped? Had he summoned from the swamp an army large enough to take Tsurtor without Kallent's help? It could have been so but, just the same, Marcus was on edge. He knew Tsurtor too well to underestimate him.

He looked behind him and spoke over the miserable rain. "Camp." The single word drove the monks into action. Pitching tents, bringing out food, the monks found little need for words. He wondered if the young initiate, Tario Lupa, would ever achieve such a state.

Ahead of them - somewhere - must surely be Heaphge's and Nygarra's armies. Marcus had to find them. They'd need his help. He'd need to assemble search parties, familiarize them with the terrain, and -

But what was that noise?

It was a growling sound, hoarse and angry, yet -

They came from a distant hillside, one of the last before Paead's endless plains, speeding like eagles. But they were landborn, cutting the ground as they raced straight towards Marcus. He watched them in amazement as they raced without rest. Others gathered near him, watching in awe at the spectacle in the rain.

Marcus realized, with a weight hanging in his gut, that, whoever they were, they weren't slowing down. They'd pass right through the camp! He turned to yell, "Run!" His voice wasn't heard. The machines were too close! They halted with a sudden screeching noise that assaulted their ears and Marcus saw not a few of them cowering within in fear. Marcus felt his own knees tremble as well. But he turned back at the machines and faced them bravely.

One of the machines opened and a man with a stick stepped half-way out. "Who the hell are you," he shouted.

Marcus stepped forward. "Are you with Tsurtor," he asked.

The man waved his stick and shouted again. "What the hell are you?"

"No. If you were with Tsurtor, you'd have killed us by now. You must be with Hex."

"I don't know who the hell you're talking about, mister, but you ain't gonna be talking if you don't answer my questions," the man with the stick screamed out of his machine. "Now, who the hell are you?"

Marcus looked down at his clothes, soaking wet and splattered with mud, and thought this not the most auspicious meeting. "I am King Marcus Haddison, young man. If you're with Hex, he should have told you I'd be coming."

"Look, old man, I don't know who the hell -"

"That's enough, Eddie," another voice spoke up from another machine. "He's given you what you want."

"But Gabe," Eddie Tran protested.

"Zip it," Gabe Hernandez, Boom's second in command and now acting commander, ordered. He jumped down from his truck and approached Marcus with his hand out. "Honored, sir. Heaphge said something about a local monarchy."

Marcus eagerly took Gabe's hand and said, "Glad to hear the voice of reason. Now, where is the general?"

Approaching hooves answered the king's question. "They're right behind us, your - um -"

"Highness will do just fine," Marcus offered.

"Your highness," Gabe finished. "You better get your men ready for action, sir. Tsurtor's not giving us much of a break."

Marcus' heart sank but he knew he shouldn't have been surprised. He waited with the others, having ordered his troops to make ready, as Heaphge brought his horse to a halt before him.

Stepping down, Heaphge bowed. "Forgive me, your highness. We have failed."

Marcus put his hands on the general's shoulders and pulled him up. Looking in his eyes, he said, "We have not yet begun, Rolf." Others were marching up behind, the last of the Rynian forces. "How many remain?"

"Maybe two thousand," Heaphge replied, drawing on strength that wasn't there.

Marcus paused. "That's less than what you started with. Where are Mark Nygarra's Tzurritzanians?"

"None came. They were wiped out by Tsurtor."

"What others did Hex bring?"

"Hex brought none, your highness. These Americans were actually brought here by Tsurtor."

Marcus gasped. Was Tsurtor so sure of himself that he'd send Rynia more forces just for entertainment?

Gabe cleared his throat. "I think if my boss were here he'd say you just doubled your forces."

"We cannot keep running," Bethel Patir added, stepping off her horse, cradling her arm. "We must face them."

But who are they, Marcus worried. What did Tsurtor send - and how many - to so decimate his feeble army?

Stepping upon the distant rise, their footsteps like thunder, the remaining behemoths showed themselves.

"Gerrit," Marcus gasped.

"We should begin rallying our forces," Heaphge recommended. "They'll be on us soon."

"Wait," said Commander Hernandez. He indicated with his rifle. "They've stopped moving."

And so they had. Drawing themselves into a line, they had stopped and it was clear that no Rynian or Rynian defender would cross.

"There's no telling when they may advance," said Heaphge. "Begin tending the wounded," he ordered. A fire was started. Food was cooked. As night approached, the retreating army was put back in order. It was later, as the tension hung over them like a sword on a tattered thread, when the leaders met again.

"When d'you think they'll hit," Gabe Hernandez asked, watching the behemoths through high-powered binoculars.

"I'd say dawn if they were human," General Heaphge replied, looking up at the break in the clouds to see the stars beaming reliably down.

"But they're not human," growled Marcus. The three were standing well away from the army, so he spoke freely. "Now, we can't have every man on watch all the time but if you teach a few of them how to use those goggles some of your men can get some rest."

"Roger," Gabe replied.

"Well, don't leave it all up to Roger," Marcus suggested.

"Right," Heaphge added. "You might want to train a few people."

They knew immediately from the look on Gabe's face that they'd missed something. "What," they asked but he couldn't answer. He was shaking his head, exploding with laughter.

* * *

"They got tanks!"

The cry roused only a few. Only the Americans knew the deadly implications.

"Red Alert! Everybody get up for God's sake!"

Tichey's screaming wasn't doing anybody any good. So Toraquino put both hands down on his Hummer's horn and would have laughed at the sight of so many people leaping in panic if he didn't know they'd all be dead soon.

It only took minutes to assess the disastrous developments. "They've brought in more than we could have imagined, sir," Gabe addressed to the king. "Tichey spotted four Abrahms out there - the best tanks America's got. Since then, we've spotted a crapload of foot traffic. You ask me, retreat's the only answer."

"Retreat to where, Officer Hernandez?" Marcus paced his tent and looked at Heaphge and Obregon. "They'll still come. No. We must prepare for battle. Move Commander Ellison's farmer's north to prevent anything hitting that flank."

"We can divert the Kal-Kor monks to the south and bring them around, your highness," Obregon offered. "They won't be expecting that."

"I agree," said Heaphge.

"They're on the move," came a call from outside.

Marcus strode from the tent, his bat in hand. "It seems the decision has been made for us."

Heaphge barked orders to Obregon and ran to his horse. Around him, the army was dividing into squads of a hundred or more. At the fore, Bethel Patir gathered her pikemen. The monks readied themselves in formation along the southernmost flank. Gabe's Americans got in their trucks and drove away, hoping to strike at the unprotected sides of Tsurtor's army.

Marcus watched the enemy, but could see no movement. The long poles at the end of the tanks were swiveling but they didn't move nearly as fast as the trucks. Perhaps, he thought, Tsurtor's army was nothing more than a facade.

Suddenly, there was an explosion among the men. Blood and broken bodies flew in all directions. The army split in panic as burst after burst ripped through Rynia's defenders.

Marcus dashed to Heaphge's side. Heaphge's horse had been hit by something and the general had to leave it. "We must charge," Marcus shouted. "Or they'll surely kill us all!"

Heaphge turned to shout the order.

Marcus watched as Heaphge's head burst like an overripe tomato, spraying blood in every direction.

Then, Marcus felt himself hit by something, though no enemy was near. He felt his gut tighten up and he was thrown violently to the ground.

Above him, in the clearing night, the stars - those eternal beacons that had guided him through his days - slowly dimmed and then were gone.

* * *

Tsurtor laughed heartily, walking over the offal that had been Rynia's army. "Excellent job, General K'tan! You've met my every expectation!"

K'tan loped beside him like a tamed wolf, drooling over the freshly spilled blood. "F'ank you, shir!" K'tan stopped when he saw his master was no longer beside him.

Tsurtor was several paces away, looking down at the ground. There, before him, lay the still form of Marcus Haddison, King of Rynia. Tsurtor brought his head back and laughed. He laughed and laughed until all around him were laughing as well, though they knew not at what.

"The king is dead," Tsurtor shouted, his voice pitched high with pleasure. "LONG LIVE THE KING!!"

# Author's Note

You can follow my continuing story and artistic endeavors on the web and in future publications.

As I draft this special, digital edition in 2011, I am actively pursuing a career writing novels and plays. You can find me all over the web. Just search by my name, **Ken La Salle**. You can also find me at the following locations:

**MY SIDE. THE BLOG** : http://mysidetheblog.blogspot.com/.

**ONE PATH** : http://twolivesonepath.blogspot.com/.

**KEN LA SALLE.** You can follow my writing career at: http://kenlasalle.blogspot.com/.

Thank you for your support in making my story a success with this and future work.

