 
### Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Other works by D W Gladstone –
Forest of a Thousand Suns

The Wyvern Kings Redemption

Volume 2 - Part II

D. W. Gladstone

Copyright © 2017 D. W. Gladstone

Cover Art Copyright © 2017 Marco Morata-Plaza

All rights reserved.

First Edition 2017

Published by Errant Words Publishing

ABN : 65 430 929 540
Chapter 16

"There is a rebellion forming in Delphanas."

The full leadership of the resistance had been gathered in the medical tent, around his cot, to hear what Lyrien had to say.

Elle'dred lay, propped up, half sitting as the oracle explained her vision to the other knights, and Syla.

He had not spoken with any of them since his return; his wounds had left him largely unconscious for the past two days he had been told, and where his wounds had not, the broths the knight Celsye had given him to quell the pain had also.

She had removed two arrows from his leg, and one from his back. He could still feel them. Or at least the pain was enough that it was hard to forget them. The broths dampened the worst of it, but left him in a clouded daze - it took all his energy to listen and comprehend the oracle's words.

- A resistance in Delphanas.

The information surprised him somewhat. He was certain that of all places, the magus would have interposed their rule most emphatically in the former seat of the Archivists.

Lyrien's vision was also remarkably clear; the details of the resistance group were not open to interpretation. As many of her recent visions seemed to be.

In his current state, he was grateful for her forthrightness, there seemed little choice in what concurrent step must be taken.

The oracle finished, and his other knights turned their attention to their leader.

"A group of knights must return to Delphanas."

"Is that wise?" Ellario asked, "It is likely we will be recognised. Any of the knights."

"It has to be us," Elle'dred answered, "Delphanas was the home of the Hall of the White Wolf, it has to be its knights that reclaim it."

Despite the reservation present in the other's faces he could see they had realised much the same.

"Athan," he continued, "You will lead the group. Choose four others that you trust."

"Yes, milord." the knight replied.

A wave of dizziness washed over Elle'dred's vision for a moment, forcing his eyelids shut and prompting a grimace. A small surge of pain followed in its wake.

"Are you alright?" Syla asked.

Elle'dred managed to open his eyes - the pain passed, "Yes."

The misgivings of his order flickered into the doubts the others had over his return to Dwener'dier; none of them understood why he had ventured into the forest. Again.

"I will be leaving the camp as well, as soon as I can." he informed them, "While I was in Dwener'dier I encountered another group we must contact. A group that will be integral to the resistance once we are ready to move." he paused; the next words would cause significant shock - he doubted the others would believe him, "A group of necromancers."

The surprise and incredulity he had expected emanated from each of the other knights. Even Lyrien betrayed a note of shock. Syla's façade, however, did not change.

Fortunately, any disbelief the others felt did not manifest in words. Though the same misgivings they had felt a moment before found new resurgence in each of their expressions.

"In the glade, I saw a group of necromancers," he continued, "- a resistance, that I believe currently exists in Armanas. I intend to seek them out." he took a moment to steady the dizziness in his head, "Palai'dred, Ellario, you will accompany me. Syla, Darrodane, I will be leaving the camp in your care while we are gone."

The Sword-Bearer nodded acknowledgement.

Elle'dred glanced back to Lyrien, "Is there anything else that needs to be told?"

The oracle shook her head.

"Then thank you for your efforts. I would like some privacy now. Dismissed." he held the magus eyes, "Syla, if you could stay."

The oracle, two knights and Sword-Bearers filed out, Palai'dred lending her arm to support Lyrien.

Elle'dred watched them leave, before returning his clouding gaze to Syla, "You weren't surprised by the mention of necromancers."

"Llrsyring told me some survived, though at the time I did not want to know where they were."

Elle'dred allowed a chuckle, "There's many things I should have asked him - though some things I've managed to discover myself. Among other things I know what to do with his sword. I'll be taking it with me when I leave for Armanas. It belongs in the hands of a necromancer." he paused as another pain moved through his head; he caught the flicker of concern that broke the iciness of the magus features, "I'm alright. Compared to almost dying, three arrows and sword gash are nothing," he managed a short laugh.

"You almost died?" Syla asked.

"In the Riven Mountains, before Ayadra healed me..." his words trailed off; the memory seemed unbearably long ago. A pang, unrelated to his words, filled him for a moment.

There were too many regrets.

Syla's face remained unmoved.

"Are you alright?" he asked, gently.

She paused before she answered, "Yes." she glanced away, "You should rest."

She met his gaze again - the same question he had asked the morning he had left for Dwener'dier flashed again through his eyes, though this time he did not receive a refutation. Only a glance away.

Despite the concern, he did not press the issue.

Carefully, he inched himself back into recumbence, "I'll be leaving as soon as I have recovered."

Syla did not reply.

The dizziness swelled, and sent a wave of light across his vision; the sleep he had managed to hold off for the brief hours of the morning quickly returned.

For some time, after the knight had fallen into unconsciousness, the magus remained in the tent watching him.

* * *

Ragmurath stood at the window of his chambers. Outside, night had fallen across the grey cradle of rock that surrounded Delphanas, while within fire lit the white marble walls.

The candle beside the bed flickered softly amidst the silence of the room.

Fatigue dogged his body. The day had passed in preparation for the spell they were to use to wipe out the goblin host marshalling at the Dagger Slopes. When word came that they had begun to move, the Tribunal would convene again to cast it.

Despite his tiredness, there was still more he would not allow to be left unfinished.

He turned from the vista of blackness overlooked by the window to the emptiness of the bed behind him. As he lowered himself to the mattress, the words of the spell began to form on his lips.

The somnolence instilled by the magic mingled with the weight of exhaustion clinging to his frame.

He lay recumbent and let it pull him into the darkness of sleep.

- The dreaming spell reached out, again, into the void, the darkness; seeking the mind of its victim.

Again, as before - the warding spell that protected him, raised its force against the Staff-Bearer, and again, Ragmurath overcame it with his own. But tonight, beyond the realm of the dream, the effort strained his already weary body more than he appreciated.

Tonight, the dream would not linger long - and the spell was far weaker than it had been before.

Amidst the darkness, anger flared. Disdain; he hated weakness.

- It would serve. This night.

The mind he sought was wrapped in slumber. The dream slipped around it.

Darkness twisted into light; colours bled from the edge of white, and curled into form. The image sharpened - though not into the place he had intended.

Grey stone stretched without end beneath, flat, unbroken and empty. Beyond, and above, a darkness drifted - a void as infinite as the ground, yet more substantial in its emptiness than the rock.

Light lingered about the grey, despite the dark above - light enough to see the emptiness that dwelt all around. Some feet away, the magus whose mind he had entered lay.

As before, he was unclothed - the myriad wounds that breached the fragile whiteness of his skin glared hatefully up at the nothingness beyond. As before, he clutched the perfect mirror of a bloodhound's mask in his hands. Staring into the face that haunted him there.

Ragmurath allowed a sneer. This was not his dream - this vista was not shaped by the magics he wrought - this place belonged to Keylyn, alone.

There were no chains binding the boy to the flat grey beneath, no elements he could twist to force his will upon the magus. Save one. The only thing beyond.

Slowly, carefully, he moved over to the curled body lain on the ground.

Lowering himself beside the magus, he reached out for the edge of the mask.

This time, in this place, Keylyn offered no resistance -

His hand gripped the mirror, and began to pull.

- The body held tight.

For a moment. Then the grasp relinquished its hold to the emptiness beyond.

Ragmurath rose, as he lifted the mask to his face - in the world, where he lay asleep in his chambers, he could feel the magic straining the last reserves of energy he possessed. The dream would soon falter, and he would be dragged away.

Keylyn's eyes followed the face he could not bear to lose.

Ragmurath allowed a smile - at least there was this - this would suffice.

"You let me die." the words were as sharp as a blade.

The face beneath grimaced, for a moment its eyes were forced away.

"...I'm sorry." the body sobbed, quietly, ashamed.

Ragmurath stared - inevitably the gaze below turned back to the face that eclipsed his own.

"You loved me..." he said, "And you let me die."

The pale features grimaced.

"You disappointed me." - the words echoed throughout the dream.

- A sob. Painful beyond measure.

Despite the exhaustion he could feel, clutching at the darkness all around, Ragmurath could not help a smile. If he could not find Keylyn in the waking world, or force the magus to reveal his location, then - for the moment - he was content to settle for this.

"You loved me..."

"...yes."

"You wanted me..."

Keylyn met his eyes, amidst his gaze he was more exposed than any nakedness, "...yes."

Ragmurath sneered, "You wanted to be touched."

A pause, "...yes..."

"You disappoint me so." - the words reverberated in every stretch of the darkness. What was more, was that they were not wholly his own.

Another sob beneath, a wince, caught and held amidst the features of the boy's face - he tried to look away -

"You are sick, Keylyn," - his grasp on the dream began to slip, "...and you disappoint me so."

The body could only close his eyes.

Beneath the mask, that was his face - as sleep encroached upon the dreaming world - his delight twisted, and shone. All around, darkness above fell across the grey.

* * *

Keylyn woke on his cot, in his tent. The pain of the dream still filled his body.

He let out a quiet sob - the sob he could not let out in the dream.

For a moment, he lay; his head buried in the coarseness of the second blanket that served as his pillow.

The face still remained - whenever he closed his eyes.

The disappointment.

Slowly, as the wakefulness began to mount, the memory faded. As did the pain. Slowly, the numb emptiness returned. He did not feel.

He sat up, and swung his legs over the rim of the cot. He did not want to sleep. Sleep would bring the dreams - the nightmares. The face. He wanted to forget. His body was tired; in the day before, he had lent his aid in the maintenance of the camp - whatever there was to fill the senseless hours.

The emptiness.

The dream flickered beyond it.

He had to sleep; it was all he had to do at night.

He rose from the edge of the cot, and pulled on the set of breaches and tunic he had been afforded. The night was cold outside.

Slowly, at the hobble restricted to him by his limp, he moved out of the small confines of his tent. The camp was quiet; save for the sentries that kept watch on every perimeter, and the last lambent mounds of the fires, little stirred amidst the tents.

As he made his way across the centre of the camp, he passed two of the guardsmen on watch.

They paused a moment - turning to watch him. One muttered something to the other.

He did not fully hear it - but he did not need to. It was the same thing that everyone muttered around him. The same thing that had caused the fading bruise on his jaw.

Magus. Not all of them fully hated him.

He was alone. He knew. He did not care.

The guards continued on their route throughout the camp.

He moved away, towards the supply tent.

Its dark mass rose out the surrounding pavilions, against the clouded glimmer of the night above. A dull blade of light shone outwards from a crack in its shadow, from the partially open entryway, from a lantern within.

He moved to the flap and lifted it aside. The lantern glowed silently atop a crate on the far side, near the case he sought. Silently, he limped across the space of the tent, to the case and opened it. He removed a wineskin from its contents.

He closed the lid, and turned to leave. He limped a step forward.

- Something moved from the darkness nearer the entrance; something obscured before by shadows there - a man.

The man who had given him the bruise on his jaw.

He emerged into the dull light of the lantern, obstructing the entry flap. Faldorn.

He had not seen the man when he entered.

Fear flared - beyond the numbness.

The man held his own wineskin in his hand. The darkness of his eyes were locked on Keylyn's.

Keylyn looked away - amidst the edge of fear, he did not know what to do. He moved a step towards the exit, his eyes held on the ground.

"You're sick, you know that," the archivist growled; the result of wine slurred his words.

- Keylyn stopped.

"You kill children...people...you call it 'the law' but you're nothing but butchers...murderers..." Faldorn lurched a step forward, "You deserve to die...all of you...you kill and you kill and you kill...you killed everyone I cared about...you bastard...you sick bastard -"

The fear subsided into the numbness; Keylyn resumed his pace. He did not want to hear this.

He moved closer; trying weakly to limp to aside, past the archivist.

"Listen when I'm talking to you!" Faldorn snarled; his voice choked by hoarseness, "I hate you..."

Keylyn continued another step, his eyes locked down -

The blow came across his cheek, short and sharp, with a force that propelled him back. He stumbled sideways into the solidness of a crate; his shin caught the edge of the wood. Pain lanced through the bone. The man closed beside him - another lumbering punch or shove half bulling him over - he staggered back a step.

A flash of instinct attempted to raise his arm to ward off the next strike - but the movement turned unwittingly into his own blow. His fist met the other's man's face - across the bridge of his nose.

The man choked a gasp into his face. The sour scent of wine mingled with a spattering of saliva.

He tried to shove the man away - but a blow drove the wind from his chest. Another impacted his ribs.

Faldorn kissed him.

What?

He shoved the body before him away -

- A punch cracked hard along his jaw, sending him lurching to his side. Shock occluded thought. Hands fell around his neck and dragged his head up -

Into a kiss. Faldorn pressed himself against him.

- What?

Keylyn moved again to shove the man's body off - but Faldorn caught his arm. Faldorn held him there.

He could taste the archivist on his tongue, feel the flushed warmth of his face against his own. His lips. The man's scent, mingled with the wine, filled his nose.

Faldorn's hand moved down to his breeches. The other man groped his crotch. He could feel the archivist's own hardness against his leg. The man fumbled at the laces to his pants.

He tried to shove him off -

His breeches slipped down his legs, and the soft warmth of Faldorn's hand wrapped around his cock.

Keylyn moaned. Short, brief.

- He wanted this -

For a moment, the thought faded, unheeded. The numbness was swept away - for a moment - the emptiness that dogged him always, was lost amidst the terrifying closeness of the body beside him. In its warmth. It heat.

He wanted -

Faldorn continued to kiss him. Deeply. The other man was crying. Sobbing. He did not break the kiss.

His free hand was unlacing his own breeches, and pulling them down across his legs. Keylyn felt the hardness of the other man's cock press naked against his own.

He did not know what to do -

Shock occluded thought.

Faldorn broke the kiss. The glint of tears ran down his cheeks.

Keylyn could only stare. Uncertain. Confused. He wanted this -

Faldorn let go of his arm; the archivist's hands moved underneath his tunic and wrapped about his chest. The other man turned him around. One hand ran down to hold the slack flesh of his belly, clutching gently across the scars, as the other's touch fell away. The other moved to his legs, and pushed them a step apart. The man's other hand left him.

He felt the hardness pushed against -

- Faldorn thrust into him.

It hurt. It hurt. In all the best ways. It felt wrong - and right - painful and elating. He released a breath - it was forced out; the other man's hips were pressed to his buttocks, the hair above pressed to his back; his cock thrust inside him.

Keylyn moaned, as Faldorn pulled back, and thrust again.

There was pain, at first, as he stretched to accommodate the other man - but it faded.

And he wanted this - this -

He flinched as Faldorn's free hand gripped him, again. The other man's arms wrapped around him; one moving up to grasp the flesh around his nipple, the other gently enwrapping his cock. His foreskin was pulled back, over the tip - with each thrust the archivist pulled along the shaft of his penis.

Keylyn moaned. Softly, quietly. With each thrust.

Faldorn thrust, and thrust, and thrust. Behind, he grunted, or cried, or sobbed; Keylyn could not tell.

All he could do was feel.

The thrusts became harder, faster. He moaned.

The other man's hand clenched around his cock, but did not stop.

- A moan choked in his throat as he reached climax -

It caught him off-guard. Heightened by the thrusts continuing deep inside him. He moaned. And moaned. And moaned. A contented sigh escaped his throat.

The sweet scent of semen filled the air, as it spattered to the ground beneath him. The man's hand did not stop, and for some time he remained hard despite spending himself.

Pleasure continued to lance through his waist.

Some of the pain returned to the thrusts. No longer dulled by a stimulation beyond.

Faldorn grunted a growl behind, undulating with the lasts thrusts that brought him to climax.

Keylyn felt it deep within. Warmth. Closeness.

Faldorn held for a moment, a long - then withdrew.

Keylyn let out a breath. A wave of relief swept through his lower abdomen, as the strain abruptly subsided. For a moment, all he did was breathe. The man did not release him.

Slowly, unwittingly, he dared a glance back.

Faldorn was crying.

The other man did not look at him. Half stumbling through a turn, he pulled his breaches up and moved away. With a grunt of anger. Or a sob.

Faldorn stumbled through the entryway, and was occluded by the canvas wall, and the night beyond.

Keylyn was left alone. Elated. Confused. Uncertain.

Afraid.

The emptiness of the night lingered once more. 
Chapter 17

Faldorn moved listlessly through the supply tent, amidst the crates and stores of food. Amidst the silent daze. He could not think. Did not want to think. Any thought that manifested above the mechanical, methodical, task before him was silently, and violently suppressed.

He did not want to think. Could not.

- Last night -

He focused his attention on the supplies. Allocating the rations as he had been instructed. That was all he had to do, all he needed to do.

Some minutes passed blindly, as he went about the task. Rhythmically, thoughtlessly, forcefully.

Even that became hard. He paused.

He gripped a ration in his hand, but the sensation was lost in the emptiness of thought. He stared at nothing, at the canvas wall ahead of him. Unfocused. Unthinking.

He could not move. He did not -

A sound behind him, prompted him to turn.

Someone held up the entrance flap to the tent -

Keylyn. The magus.

The other man stood in the parted entryway, staring at him. There was uncertainty in the milky white features his face. The uncertainty caught most in the darkness of his eyes.

"Faldorn," he muttered.

Faldorn turned away. He could not take this. He did not want to -

He turned back to distributing the rations from their containers.

"Faldorn, I have to..." the magus moved a step further into the tent, "We have to..."

- For the damned magus. For the damned magus.

"Get out." he whispered the words; hoarseness choking his voice.

He did not look at the man behind him.

"Faldorn -"

"Get away from me!" - he turned; the blaze of anger and hate and remorse welled as burning tears on the man before him. I hate you, filled the air of the tent, like the canvas choked light of the morning.

Confusion, uncertainty - pain, played in the gaze of magus before him.

Keylyn turned, and limped out into the day beyond.

Faldorn turned away - a tear fell amidst the shudders of rage that shook over him.

Another.

He snarled; the sound choked amidst the constriction in his chest. He could not breathe. He did not want to. He lashed out with a fist into the nearest crate. His hand impacted the solid wood, and sent a jarring pain up his arm. For a moment he welcomed it - the pain in his chest was so much worse.

He did not want to think, he could not -

For the damned magus.

For the damned -

* * *

The day had passed; night had fallen some hours ago. Syla moved through the camp, under the pale glimmer of starlight. Silence lingered over the tents.

Athan, and the four knights that were to accompany him to Delphanas, had departed at dusk. She had cast a warding spell on them, as she had each other group that had left the camp.

The magic had not exhausted her, she had not even tired.

Or perhaps she was too exhausted to feel it.

- Movement caught her attention. She glanced up to the edge of the camp, and small stretch of darkness walled off by the silhouettes of the hills caught against the night.

Palai'dred stood between the outermost tents, staring off into the darkness.

For a moment, Syla wanted to move away, retrace her steps to her own tent. Find her cot for what hours she could not sleep.

- She moved ahead, and drew alongside the Sword-Bearer.

The older woman glanced aside, and brief shock showed on her face. She let it settle into a dull smirk and nodded greeting to the magus.

Syla nodded back.

For a long time, she stood beside the knight in silence, under the soft glittering of the night.

"What happened between you two? That he trusts you so much?" the questions broke the still quiet, unexpectedly - and caught her off-guard more than a little.

Unlike others, the woman beside her did not conceal the unsaid - I do not.

Like all the other knights of the camp.

The question recalled a pang Syla took a moment to suppress, "We both realised that the orders we served were based on a lie." - that our lives were based on a lie, "And the Champion of the Tribunal tried to kill both of us."

Palai'dred held her gaze for a moment; that is all? the older woman's eyes said.

Syla paused, before she added, "We wouldn't have survived Eryndor if we did not trust each other."

Silence returned to the space between them.

"What happened in Eryndor?" the question was less confrontational than the previous, "Elle'dred has not told us much, and it would be improper to demand answers from my Champion."

There was almost some lightness to the phrase.

Syla stared ahead, into the darkness of the night, "More than I can explain." she paused, "Not much of it matters here, though."

Palai'dred scoffed, but let it turn into a chortle; after a moment, she said, "Little does."

Silence returned for a long pause.

"How long have you known about the necromancers?"

- As before, the question caught her off-balance.

Syla answered, flatly, "I found out from the Champion of the Tribunal, when Elle'dred did."

It was not the whole truth. She suppressed the thought.

"It's madness," the knight muttered, "...and that the Archivists knew as well."

Syla did not reply.

The silence settled once more over the edge of the camp, broken only by the quiet whistle of the breeze.

"You care about him?"

- Another. Though this time accompanied by things she did not want to face. And could not deny.

"Yes." she answered, quietly.

Palai'dred let a snort, "Good." she muttered.

For a moment, she wanted to leave, before more questions she could not answer were levelled at her.

She stared out into the darkness.

"Lyrien is destroying herself." Palai'dred muttered, "You've seen her, haven't you?"

Syla nodded.

"I don't understand why she continues -" the knight paused, "Why she must continue." and I am helpless to do anything about it, "She's done enough."

Because she has nothing left - Syla was silent a moment, before she answered, "She needs to help."

Palai'dred let a derisive grunt. And shook her head.

After another pause, Syla muttered, "Elle'dred's going to get himself killed."

Palai'dred glanced at her - for a moment their eyes met.

"I'll do my best to see make sure he doesn't." the Sword-Bearer muttered.

Briefly, a smirk flickered amidst the pale, starlit features of the magus' face. They both knew that was not what was meant. Palai'dred turned away.

Syla stared once more at the stretch of darkness ahead. Together, she and the Sword-Bearer watched the night. In silence.

* * *

The room was empty now. They had found a home for the infant a day ago; somewhere he would be safe. Somewhere where the danger of his blood would be concealed. Until, at least, he began to discover the power that his blood granted him. But that yet was many years away.

The door opened quietly behind her - she turned - and admitted the old oracle.

Rana met her eyes, and allowed a slight, albeit sorrowful, smile. Despite the knowledge that he would be safe, the old woman missed the babe. As she so often missed her own children.

Maryssa smiled back, in consolation. She knew the sorrow was not only bittersweet; there were too many in the last months they had not saved. Too many visions left unchanged.

Rana moved slowly to her side, and glanced out at the street below; the noon sun washed away the shadows from the wrinkles of her face, and glimmered softly off her dark brown eyes. As it caught in the grey whiteness of her hair, the light, for a moment, seemed to restore some of the youth that had long passed from her body. Twenty years older than her undestined sister Nareen, the owner of their inn, the oracle was the oldest member of their enclave.

Age had not dulled her sight though, nor her resolve to save what lives she could.

As she had saved Maryssa's near thirty years ago.

There was a knock on the open door. Lana stood without, with the older male necromancer towering over her at her side. Both she and Sardorn entered, followed by Halthyn a moment after. The young woman closed the door behind the magus.

"Nareen?" Maryssa asked.

Lana shook her head, "We have guests downstairs."

She turned to the other necromancer, and raised the question tacitly.

"We were right." he muttered, as both Lana and Hal moved to the bed and sat, "There is a group forming. Or should I say that has formed -"

"They were behind the last two riots." Halthyn joined, with a hint of eagerness she could not mistake.

Sardorn let the flicker of a frown, "They are headed by a long-time former archivist and several members of the city's merchants consortium. It would appear having your rival's storehouses burnt down is good for business." he loosed a half-snort, half chortle, "There are others though. Within the leadership - or at least that have an ear of one or another - some far less noble than they."

Maryssa glanced aside, at the oracle; the news did not appear to have surprised her, "The vision is not clear. Only that there will be war here, between the magus and those that oppose them." she glanced at Sardorn, "I do not know if they are people we should trust."

"Does it matter?" Halthyn interjected, "How many of our friends do we really trust anyway?"

"That is different." Sardorn chided - prompting an indignant look on the magus face.

"No it's -"

Maryssa cut off his retort, "We were not at risk with them, Hal."

"We have to do something." he returned; there was a frustrated pleading in his gaze, "We can't just keep sitting here."

Sardorn sighed; she knew he bit back a reproach, though whether at the younger man - or at her, she could not say. She glanced aside to him.

He paused before he answered, "It's your decision."

The magus unleashed a frustrated sigh.

"Would we have to tell them who we are?" Lana asked, "Couldn't we leave the others out of it?"

"What would be the point in joining them then?" Halthyn replied, more sharply than it seemed he intended. Lana glanced away.

"You are well aware or where I stand on the issue." the oracle added from beside her.

Maryssa repressed a smirk; you would try to save every one. And you would have been dead many years ago. The thought lingered.

"We cannot get involved," - before the magus could object, she held up her hand and turned to him, "But Hal, I want you to join them."

The magus chewed his lip in frustration, but answered, "Fine."

Sardorn allowed a half-smirk.

Maryssa glanced out the window - two bloodhounds were moving through the street below. The daily patrol.

"Until we know more, we will lie low." she finished.

What they had always done.

* * *

Lyrien said nothing. That he had failed to aid her in her last visions had not been spoken. Though her anger was evident amidst the coldness of her regard.

The oracle had exchanged only a handful of words with him since he returned this morning. He had not apologised, more than a mumble. Anger was something they shared -

He bit it back. The thought.

As always, she sought another vision. In silence.

Faldorn sat beside her as she did, on the grass floor of their tent. He was glad for the silence.

Long minutes passed, as did the morning outside; somewhere above the south-eastern horizon the southern sun climbed to the height of midday. The warm spring light filled their quarters with a sallow haze, dulled by the canvas walls around.

Faldorn stared unfocused at the faded green of the grass, the patches of dirt between.

To many thoughts swirled in the silence of his mind - and for once he did not have to force them away.

The anger -

Lyrien's breathing had slowed; deep and steady, as though she were sleeping. Oft as not, the oracle passed out as the vision she forced came to her. And sometimes the exhaustion she did not let show, pulled her unwillingly into light restless slumber.

She was always exhausted - why she said she needed Faldorn's help.

Faldorn bit back the thought.

Lyrien inhaled sharply.

- And collapsed to her side.

The former archivist reached out and caught her. A trickle of blood ran from her nose. As it always did.

She was unconscious.

Faldorn held back a sigh. Slowly he lifted her to her cot. He turned for the pail of water beside his own; he wiped the blood from her face. The trickle stopped some minutes after.

Lyrien breathed weakly in the depths of exhausted sleep.

There was more he could do -

He rose and moved out into the noon sunlight. The day was warmer than it had been for some time; no clouds marred the bright luminescence of spring.

Faldorn trudged slowly to the medical tent, where he requested Celsye to retrieve the herbs Lyrien would need. The Champion of the White Wolf was absent from his cot; the thought passed barely heeded. He left the enclosure and moved to the northern edge of the camp. Above one of the cook-fires, he boiled the dried plants into a tea. It would help with the migraine that was sure to follow the oracle's regaining consciousness.

The pain was substantial. Though Lyrien had not said so. Every time now.

Faldorn ladled the tea into a metal pitcher, and took a cup from the store beside the fire. Thoughtlessly, silently, he made the long return through the camp, through the raucous of the knight's daily drills, to where the oracle lay.

He paused for a moment outside the tent.

For a moment, he stared blindly at the stained canvas flap.

For the damned -

He forced himself inside. Lyrien was yet unconscious; she likely would be for hours to come.

Her bouts of unconsciousness had become shorter - though not through anything fortunate. She was too exhausted even to sleep.

He placed the pitcher and the cup beside her cot. Where she would expect it.

He lowered himself to the edge of his own cot. For some minutes he sat, staring at the ground, as the oracle breathed shallowly beside him.

Only the sound of her laboured breaths filled the silence she had chosen.

- For the damned magus.

Faldorn clenched his jaw -

Bit back the thought.

He rose and moved back out into the camp.

The thoughts swirled beneath the numb resolve that held them at bay.

For the damned magus.

As he moved through the grass alleys between the canvas, he glanced about - searching - he did not find what he was looking for.

He never -

He found himself wandering to the training field of the knights, beside the pavilions that now housed them. A group stood beside a cook-fire, eating, laughing.

He passed two knights, on patrol. He stopped a step ahead of them, met the eyes of the woman.

"Do you know where the mag-" he paused, "Where Keylyn is?"

The knight indicated, a little hesitantly, with a motion of her head to the north; the patrol continued past him.

Faldorn moved along the edge of the training field, under the ringing crash and grating screech of swords. And the voices of knights. He passed the northern edge of the camp.

Ahen's Tears lay some minutes' walk away; beyond the gradual rise and fall of the foothills. He had made frequent trips to the small lakes, to obtain water. And to bathe.

He moved across the crest of a hill, into the furrow before the next. Up the slope ahead. As he crested the last rise of the land before the grass fell gently down to the flat, peaceful glisten of water, he caught sight of the magus.

Keylyn stood in the shallows, unclothed, washing himself.

His back was turned to the hill.

Faldorn moved down towards the encircling brown of the lakeshore. He stopped beside the ruffled pile of the magus' clothes, lain at the edge of the grass.

His gaze held straight ahead.

The light of the sun sparked a sharp glare off the centre of the lake, and smaller flares off the height of the ripples made by the man at its edge.

Keylyn turned -

And caught sight of the archivist. Uncertainty - pain, flickered around his eyes.

Faldorn stared.

The magus looked away. He limped out of the water, and across the soft dirt of the shore, towards the grass. He did not say anything. Or look up.

Naked, he moved towards his clothes.

- Faldorn reached out, and grasped the wet skin of his arm.

Keylyn paused. After a still moment, he glanced aside.

Faldorn did not meet his eyes.

He kissed him. Briefly. Almost tenderly. He pulled away.

The uncertainty - the confusion in Keylyn's eyes extended to every muscle of his milky white body, broken by the pink glisten of his scars.

Faldorn turned the magus towards him. Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees; planting a kiss on the darker redness of the man's nipple as he did.

He took the magus in his mouth. Confused softness turned to an uncertain hardness.

Keylyn released a fragile breath above.

After a time, Faldorn stopped, and paused, and glanced up, "Roll over." he muttered.

Confusion flickered in the magus gaze. Keylyn complied.

Gently, Faldorn parted the other man's buttocks with his hands, and began to massage his anus with his tongue.

Above, Keylyn moaned quietly.

Faldorn stopped, withdrew, and rose. Keylyn glanced over his shoulder - he avoided the magus eyes.

He unlaced his pants and let them drop about his legs.

The magus said nothing.

Keylyn moaned again as he entered him, and began to the thrust. His hand traced the skin of the other man's waist - across the red bulge of a scar, unheeded - and fell around the other man's cock.

- Thought was lost in the stimulation beneath his waist.

For minutes.

When it was done, for both of them, he pulled himself out. And paused. Unthinkingly, he lowered himself to the ground.

Amidst the smell, and warmth of the sun, he sat.

Keylyn followed some moments after.

Silence fell across the grass. Broken only by the gentle whistle of the breeze.

Faldorn stared at the bright, painful glisten of the lake.

"I hate the magus..." - the words slipped out without thought; the thoughts that swirled amidst all the things he did not feel, "All magus...you're evil...sick...you kill people..."

Keylyn let out a breath -

"...I hate everything you stand for..."

The other man forced himself to his feet, and reached for his clothes -

"...I hate you -"

"Then why the hells did you sleep with me?" Keylyn shouted.

Faldorn could feel the hurt glare above.

Still he did not meet the magus eyes.

The thoughts surged - for the damned magus -

"Because I hate myself, more than I hate you."
Chapter 18

Elle'dred checked the tack on his horse, for the last time. They were leaving the camp today; to head to the city where the necromancers resided. Their course would take them south, following the edge of the forsaken glade to the coast. There they would turn east, and head for the port keep of Naresus, the southern most of the Twelve Keeps. A ship would carry them along the coast to a harbour south of Armanas.

Palai'dred and Ellario both were fastening the last of their supplies to their horses. The knight Yrradorn, and the tamer Iollan had been chosen to join the group. Of the knights that remained within the resistance camp, he had asked the Sword-Bearer to find those who were familiar with the city.

The two had been the first to volunteer.

He did not know the tamer at all; though he had been a knight of the hall for some forty years. Yrradorn, on the other hand was one of the few knights closer to his own age; he had known the man in passing during his early years, and apparently Yrradorn had served a term stationed in the city, before the advent of the war.

He trusted them both as much as he did any other knight.

Under the warm afternoon light, Elle'dred made his way back to his tent. Each step sent a dull throb through his leg. The arrow wounds had not fully healed. Knight Celsye had said he should wait a few days more, perhaps a week, but he had dismissed her.

He had done nothing for long enough. For too long.

He reached his tent, and stepped inside. The last thing he would need to bring with him lay atop the chest in the corner. As he moved beside it, he reached down for the length of steel enwrapped in cloth.

The sword had been Llrsyring's - the thought provoked a momentary pang.

Beneath, locked away in the chest the elves had given him, was the armour that had once been his friend. All that was left of his friend. Llrsyring was gone; he had to tell himself.

He bit back the pang and retrieved the sword.

He exited the tent and moved back to the eastern edge of the camp, the horses and his knights.

- Syla stood beside the group. An errant lock of her stark white hair, unbound in the braid that draped behind, fluttered gently in the cool draft of the breeze.

She swept it behind her ear with a pale hand. She glanced up at him, as he approached.

He nodded a greeting. She returned the gesture.

For a moment, there seemed a tiredness to her features that he had not recognised before. An emptiness amidst the frail thinness that had stayed with her since her possession, a listlessness amidst the pale azure of her eyes.

- For a moment - then whatever it was, or had been, vanished amidst the milky white skin of her face.

He moved to his horse, and began to fasten the deathwalker's sword to the saddle.

Syla moved beside him, in silence. It seemed she was about to say something - but then restrained herself. She glanced away.

When she returned her gaze to his, the same tacit question was alive in his eyes.

She gave the answer she always did.

"Be careful." she said, flatly.

Elle'dred allowed a light chuckle, "I have no intention of being captured by the magus." he paused - with a smirk, "But then again, I never had any intention of being here either."

Syla's features remained without expression. She stepped back as he mounted his horse.

"It should take us two weeks to reach Armanas," he said from atop the grey, "I do not know how long before we will return."

Syla nodded. They had already discussed this.

The magus glanced past him to the others, as they each mounted.

She met his eyes again.

He managed a weak smile, amidst a moment of silence - then kicked his horse into a gallop.

Behind, the Sword-Bearer and the knight followed suit.

As the flatness of the grassland turned to a blur beneath the unmoving blue of the sky ahead, he could not help a glance back. The white-haired magus had turned and was returning to the obscurement of the canvas walls of the eastern tents.

There was more he might have said; more than perhaps needed -

He turned back to the south. There was too much he needed to do.

Too much that lay ahead.

It was all too much -

* * *

Their caravan moved through the last of the snaking ravines that led to the centre of the three mountains. Above, two of the three peaks were obscured by the flat, grey edge of the defile walls, while the third towered immovably amidst wisps of cloud to the north.

Beyond the next handful of switch-backed turns, lay the immensity of the white marble ring.

The city that had once been the home of the Hall of the White Wolf.

Athan sat in the back of the caravan, with only three of the four other knights that accompanied him from the resistance camp on the edge of Dwener'dier. The better part of two weeks had accompanied their journey here. They had ridden east, across the plains. That part had been uneventful. They had not met with any force, goblin, soldiers or otherwise. They had achieved the forest of Ythun'dier without incident.

The forest though, as they climbed the slopes of the Fore-guard Mountains, had not. They had fought two skirmishes with goblin scout parties. Knight Tharen had died to a goblin arrow in the chest. The goblins had trailed them into the Warded Valley; their pursuers only breaking off when they had neared the rigid grey walls of the Magus Keep.

They had been forced far closer to the township than Athan had preferred.

From there the last days of their journey had eased. They had joined a caravan amidst the ravines of the Aft-Guard Mountains; villagers who had fled the plains of Thgad some months earlier.

- They had left their swords behind.

The blades of knights of the White Wolf would be recognised amidst Delphanas more likely than any other place in Ammandorn; and there was nowhere a group of well and openly armed travellers was not unlike to raise suspicion.

They carried daggers, and each a hunting bow.

The thought had stayed with Athan, that had they had their swords they might yet still be five.

The caravan exited the last stretch of the ravine, and proceeded into the cradle of grey rock that held the City of Eyes, towards the soaring curve of its outer wall. From the rear of the caravan, Athan stared out at the slight, unbroken curvature of the marble, as they followed the edge of its southern base around the city.

The wall disappeared as the caravan turned; back to the impassable grey crags that surrounded it. For some minutes, then the grey was framed by an arc of white marble again, as they passed beneath the massive, soaring archway that permitted entrance to Delphanas.

The knights disembarked as soon as the caravan came to a stop, moved through the stretching expanse of stables, and headed towards the intervening corridors that led to the sprawling, metropolis chamber beyond.

The sight of the city, enclosed within the towering walls and soaring roof of the ring, momentarily caught Athan off-guard. The city had been his home for his entire life - and he had not realised what that meant until now.

Now it belonged to the magus. As did what once was the Hall of the White Wolf.

A moment of unrecognised bile rose to his throat; and for a moment he did not quell it. He directed his knights down the switch-backed descent of steps, to the base of the massive chamber.

Lyrien's information was in no way vague; the name of the building, and the man who owned it - and the four archivists that sheltered in his basement. They had yet a long walk ahead of them. They had entered the city in its south, while the establishment lay closer to the east.

The better part of a day would be spent traversing the streets.

- Hours where they would risk being recognised.

As they left the stairway, and moved into the outer alleys of the buildings, the knight was struck by how crowded the streets were. Masses of people filled the main roads, as many encamped on its edge in makeshift shelters, as those that moved on business within the buildings.

So many had fled the fighting in the west - and most with only the clothes on their backs.

Most looked as though they were starving; entire families crowded amidst the narrow constriction of the alleyways.

The knight did not meet their eyes.

He moved through the masses of people without a word, as did his knights behind him. It did not need saying; never before had their city been seen like this. There had not been a war like this in their lifetimes. There had not been a war between men.

The full truth was that the blame did not rest solely with the magus - the Archivists had played their part in the fall of their society. The magus were simply the victors.

- And the war was not over.

Either war. If Ammandorn survived the war with the goblins - and the forces of the Immortal - it would then have to survive the uprising of its people, the war the resistance would wage to take back their government.

More would die. More would flee. To try and find safe harbour wherever they could.

- There would be none.

Their mission here, alone, would turn the streets of Delphanas into a war zone. In the end.

There would be no place that was safe for the people.

The thought resounded quietly in the forefront of the knight's mind; the war they were trying to provoke, the war that had to be waged to reclaim -

Athan drew to a halt. His knights stopped unquestioningly around him.

For a while all Athan could do was stare. Ahead.

At the woman seated at the corner of the alley, amidst a mass of other families. Her eyes were red; a faint glisten yet rested on her cheeks. No one around her paid her any heed.

She cradled her young son's head in her lap. His cheeks were pale, his eyes sunken with illness. He had a scruff of brown hair. The boy could have been no more than eight. And now, he would never be.

Athan stood, and stared. For a moment.

Then he turned away, and without a word, motioned for his knights to follow.

* * *

They had arrived in Naresus. Under the lambent haze of dawn, amidst the rhythmic slosh of waves from the south, they had approached the black silhouette of the township's soaring walls. Despite their height, however, the walls - and the keep that stood above them some distance in - were dwarfed by the immensity of the mountain that rose to the north east.

Situated at its base, the port-city half sprawled around, and half climbed the initial, gentler slopes of the craggy, grey monolith. A split peak cloaked in frigid white, and hoary cloud, crowned the sharp rise of the mountain's sides, some great distance in the sky above.

They passed under the northern wall of the township, shortly after the advent of dawn. The guards at the main gate had stopped them briefly; but beyond the normal questions raised of any travellers who approached the town, they had not required anything else of the party.

For that, Elle'dred had been grateful. That he had not been fully seen - and recognised - he was grateful.

They steered well clear of the main keep on the north-western side of the town, and made their way to the sprawling harbour district nearer the shore. They stabled their horses at an inn a small distance from the docks. Palai'dred and Ellario had handled the arrangements.

For the most part, Elle'dred kept his head lowered, which served to hide his face amidst the faded green folds of his cowl. The others were clad in similar attire; simple tunics and breeches, rough spun and worn, underneath heavier green or dull brown cloaks, and hoods. An appearance that fortunately was more or less prolific throughout the town.

Beneath the commonplace camouflage, however, each of them wore the leathers to which they were more accustomed. Their swords remained concealed amidst their other belongings; packs, and blanket-rolls, and quivers of arrows, tied together, beside their bows. Both the Champion's blade and Athyndyrra hung behind him, from the pack-strap slung over one shoulder.

The weight pulled slightly at the half-healed wound on his back; a small pain that remained ever present. His wounds had not worsened throughout the ride.

With the Sword-Bearer and knight returned, Elle'dred directed them tacitly ahead, towards the docks. The southern sun climbed slowly into the morning, as they made their way through the crowded bustle of the streets and the intervening markets. Salt lingered on the cool air, driven off the ocean by the sporadic gusts of breeze.

Amidst the sharp, raucous shouts of marketers peddling their wares, and the drowning thrum of people moving and talking and haggling, the Champion motioned for Palai'dred to move to his side.

He had half to shout in order to be heard, "Head to the piers. Let's see what ships are docked."

The Sword-Bearer nodded acknowledgement.

They made their way out of the last buildings, and onto the wharf. The thrum of people gave way to the distant crash and closer susurration of the ocean. Pier after pier stretched out into the expanse of waves and water, shimmering, and effervescent, under the southern sun.

Only a handful of the docks were empty.

The thought passed, and provoked a pang - the last time he had been in a harbour he had met a strange oracle who had foreseen his coming. An oracle whose penchant for joy had made the suffering of the months before seem far less of a burden than they were.

And somehow he had forgotten her so easily. Like everything else.

- There was too much he had left to do.

Under the shouts of the sailors that pervaded the docks, they turned and moved east.

Elle'dred espied a vessel that he thought would best serve their voyage to the southern coast. A larger ship, that looked to be taking aboard passengers even as they moved towards it.

He glanced aside to Palai'dred, and indicated the pier.

The knight nodded and hastened her pace ahead of the others, Ellario moved to join her.

The Champion held place, some distance from the ship, watching the two as they joined the throng of boarding people. They managed to catch the eye of one of the hands aboard the pier, and held a short conversation with him. The man held out an arm, pointing to another, whom Elle'dred took to be the captain. Or the ship's master of coin.

The two knights upon the pier drew the man aside. Some long minutes of conversation later, Palai'dred and Ellario turned and moved towards the three others waiting along the wharf.

The Sword-Bearer met his gaze, "The ship is heading for the port of Halladrach. The captain will take us, though his price was close to extortion."

The town the ship was headed for was further west than Elle'dred would have liked, which would lengthen the ride they would be forced to take to the centre of the highlands. Else, they might find another ship to bear them further east along the coast.

- This ship would suffice.

He nodded for the Sword-Bearer to lead them aboard.

Palai'dred turned and led them back down the pier, towards the thinning line of passengers.

As the Sword-Bearer removed the pieces of silver that would pay for their travel aboard the ship, and handed them to its Captain, Elle'dred and the others moved up the gangway onto the deck.

It would take several days to reach the port; the Champion hoped that in that time, they would be able to disappear amidst the other myriad travellers aboard the ship.

Unlike his other life, where the crew of the ship had welcomed even a winged man-lizard and walking suit of armour, he doubted there were many here that would be amiable if it was uncovered that they travelled with condemned traitors of the new magus regime.

* * *

Ragmurath bit into the soft flesh of the woman beneath him. The silky skin of the long neck, shuddered under his lips. The body beneath him moaned - the sound, perforated by each thrust of his pelvis into her. He thrust harder.

The young woman's body arced in delight. It was his. Alone.

His to command. By law, by rank, by flesh and bone. And blood.

Ragmurath ran his hands down the body's side, to the hip, and squeezed the soft flesh there. His other hand crawled up to the curvature of its chest, cupped the roundness of its breast, to find the hardness of its nipple between his fingers. His fingers closed and squeezed.

Salynath screamed - in pleasure.

He thrust again, slow, hard, forceful. Again, again, again. The body beneath pressed against him, yearning for more. Its pleasure was his to control. With a thrust he could bring it to the height of ecstasy, or tear through to a wellspring of pain.

It was beneath him. It was his. Helpless, pliant, vulnerable.

He squeezed the nipple harder. And twisted.

She screamed. Again. Elation, pleasure -

If he were to squeeze that much harder, to twist the taut flesh between his fingers to its utmost, the body beneath would scream - a different scream. A deeper scream.

Ecstasy ravaged suddenly into terror.

He cupped her breast in his hand, felt the silky softness on his palm, the hardness of her nipple in his fingers -

He thrust then, suddenly - harshly. She grunted in pain. He thrust again.

He bit down hard into the skin of her neck. For a moment, violence graced her flesh. She whimpered.

Ecstasy wavered on the brink of terror -

He could feel the taut uncertainty of her muscles, the confused beginnings of fear - the fragile helplessness entrapped beneath - for a moment, and then he eased. His thrusts were gentle once more. He gave the body its wanted pleasure.

He released her neck, and rose above to meet her eyes.

Her gaze met his - the helplessness remained. Beneath the delight.

She was his. And she did not forget.

He moaned - that ground into growl - as he reached climax. He continued to thrust, sparks of stimulation flaring through his waist. Again, again. She followed with a quieter moan.

Her own climax opened her mouth. He thrust for a while after, to prolong the fleeting elation that sex brought the body beneath. Already his own had begun to fade.

He pulled out of her.

The disdain that ever warped his countenance slowly returned.

The body beneath him did not move; it would not, until he allowed it.

For a moment, he held his place - trapping it beneath. In the gloom of his chambers, lit only by the errant starlight from the closed shutters of the balcony, he met the soft, submissive glint of her eyes.

He allowed a sneer.

He moved off of her, and swung his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Leave." he ordered, flatly.

She obeyed. Without objection or further comment.

The door to his chambers closed with a quiet swish amidst the far darkness of the room, behind him.

For a time he sat, with the hollow emptiness that filled the surrounding silence. The cold air of the night bit bitterly into his skin, and forced it to gooseflesh.

His sneer twisted.

The enemy host gathering at the dagger slopes had yet to move; the magus General who commanded the garrison at Magrestus had relayed via dreaming spell, that the host's numbers had grown to near fifteen thousand, though seemingly no further.

A large portion of the host was comprised of incarnates. The most recent to arrive from the valley to the north.

The information had given the Staff-Bearer pause; if this was the forefront of the Immortal's true force, the first strike of the larger war that was to follow, it had come far sooner than had been anticipated.

They had not heard from Eryndor since Ambranas had fallen; the magus there had fallen silent.

If any still lived.

Either the enemy had invoked magics that spanned the old land, to disrupt or annul their dreaming spells, or the city of Hresfyrra had been destroyed. Whatever the case, it did not overly matter. Eryndor was not important, save only in how long they could hold back the forces of the Immortal.

In truth, the old land was a remnant of the corrupt order they had overthrown - if it fell, wiped from history, and the world itself, that was all for the better.

The concern over the looming host passed swiftly - the spell that had been prepared would decimate the enemy, regardless of number or composition.

The power he would wield would not be challenged.

Yet despite the certainty of their victory, and the quelling of resistance throughout the highlands, the annoyance still remained.

- Keylyn.

Keylyn was a liability; and those that had rescued him - the magus that sheltered him - were a defiance he would not tolerate; a defiance he had allowed to be for too long.

And would have to, yet, allow to remain. For a time.

He stretched back over the bed, and began to murmur the phrases of a dreaming spell - as before, he would find the magus in his sleep, and meet him in his place of dreams. As before, the formless power of his blood reached out into the dark void of slumber, seeking the tangible magics of the warding that protected his target. As ever, it lingered, powerful, resolute. And afraid.

Tonight, however, unlike before, he would not only overcome it, he would attempt to undo it.

- To break it.

It surged to fight him off - its strength was not something to be unremarked. But as it ever did, that strength waned, and against his unrelenting will it fractured and fell away. He slipped amidst the warding, to depths of its core.

He sent a blaze of power out into the dark. All the power of his blood.

A violent savage thrust -

The strike perforated the warding, in a moment of unfathomable force.

Amidst the invisible dreamscape of sleep and magic, the spell bent under his power; it recoiled - it whimpered - pliant, vulnerable, afraid -

- And held. It held.

As ever, its strength, though savaged beyond coherence - held.

And the effort he had invoke in his assault, had expended the measure of his strength.

Contempt rose amidst a swell of indignation and fury - but was quelled by the moment spent in the wake of his spell; by the wincing feel of the spell beneath his spell's iron fingers.

The warding had been weakened. His attempt had not been in vain.

Disdain settled into the distant emptiness of the night; a despised, and enforced patience tamed the more savage emotions. Into coldness. The warding might not have buckled tonight - but it could not hold against him, forever. It would not.

He repressed a sneer.

The fatigue that his magics had instilled, meant he would now have little power beyond the warding. Again. The spell would restrain him, as it had before - and he would not possess the complete control over his target.

He scowled, and sneered; it would suffice. There was enough punishment there already.

He reached out for the mind he sought.

As all too often, it was wrapped in a nightmare.

The thought manifested, quietly; no prison could match the nightmare the mind lived each night.

A smile, amidst the dark, warped his formless lips.

Quietly, gently, he slipped into the throes of the nightmare that afflicted the magus.

Once again, the infinite emptiness of the dream's land stretched before him, watched over by the hollow blackness of the sky. Light lingered all around, a light that could not fall into denial.

Keylyn sat, in the centre of expanse, as ever naked and bleeding. Staring into the face, captured in the mask.

Ragmurath moved gradually over the empty desolation and the ground.

Under the unbearable silence of the sky.

As ever, the boy did not look up at his approach. Or even, now, as his hand slipped down to grasp the edge of the mask.

He lifted it, once more, to his face.

Keylyn looked up a moment after, the wet lines of tears forever falling from blood red eyes.

Ragmurath stared down, at the pathetic body beneath; beyond, in the dark chambers where he lay, his body fought a heavy stab of fatigue.

Weakening the warding had required more energy than he had thought. Disdain warped his countenance amidst the dream.

- Power enough remained for this.

As he stared down, as ever, into the face of the magus below, the words came unbidden to his lips - formed by the haunting absence that surround him; the words the silence around fought to restrain.

"I love you, Keylyn..." he spoke in Hadrath's voice, "...But I do not forgive you."

* * *

The inn rose from the white cobblestones of the road, on its southern side; made of same hoary marble, an edifice four stories high. The front of the building was an open courtyard, divided by tables and benches, occupied by the customers who sought an evening meal.

Athan and his knights moved through the throng of people and tables and drowning chatter towards the main doors, and into the forward dining room. The oaken partitions swept aside under the lightest push, and admitted the group into the crowded hall beyond.

The bustle of the eatery filled the cavernous, white room with noise; laughter and shouts pervaded the air as heavily as the aromas of food, the thick musk of smoke and sharper whiffs of the more fortified spirits. A fireplace roared in full life on the eastern wall, enwrapped by the hoary stone of its mantel, itself beneath the high, pendant landing of the second floor, packed to its carved marble rails with customers. Red-faced and beaming, a group of men clustered around the establishment's longest table, beside the fireplace; spasmodically fondling what lay on their various platters, or whichever bar-wench happened to edge by - most seemingly too inebriated to tell the difference between the two.

By their garb and one's singularly copious exchange of money with the tavern patron - who sat at their table feigning the same intoxicated merriment - they were identifiable as guild masters of Delphanas.

Some of the most affluent men in the city.

Athan gestured for the others to find one of the unoccupied tables near the far wall of the establishment. Seemingly from nowhere, a bar wench arrived at their table side, a moment after they had found their seats.

The young woman swept a lock of auburn hair aside from her bright features, revealing the sweet, white flash of a smile, "What can I get for you gentlemen - eh, and lady?" she added, quickly, with a nod at Knight Arana.

Knight Morrick answered before the others - or his commander - could; a grin played with the youthful green of his eyes, "Four ales, and one of your rooms, beautiful."

Of an age with the youngest of their group, the wench's smile broadened, "For all of you?"

"That depends," Morrick replied - and paused.

"On what?"

"On whether you like an audience."

The girl cut short a giggle, under a smile that shone mostly of delight - shouted over her shoulder at the barman - and turned back to the young knight, "Rooms four, five and seven then."

"And which one is yours?"

"Wait and see." she flashed another smile - at one knight alone, and moved back into the bustle of the other customers.

Under a scruff of thinning grey hair, Knight Nyrus let out a disgruntled scoff at the man beside him, "You're a damned pain," the older knight growled.

"Don't begrudge me a little fun, because you're so long past your looks."

Knight Arana shared in the laugh that followed.

Athan did not, however; his attention was occupied with surveying each of the other patrons that crowded the dining hall. Amidst a sea of faces, too many concealed by mugs, or the haze in the air, the knight could not be sure there was not someone who recognised them.

While on the move through the city streets, he had suppressed an ever increasing wariness that they might be recognised - but here that growing concern had broadened into outright expectation.

He lowered his gaze from the others around the hall.

The wench returned with a tray of drinks; Morrick managing to graze her hand as she passed him his. Another grin alight on his features, he muttered something to her - provoking a giggle, and the name, "Arietta."

When she had left, Athan glanced to the knight, "Need I remind you of our purpose here."

Morrick reclaimed a small measure of decorum, "No, sir. We're here to make friends, and that's just what I'm doing." he grinned, "Besides, seems a pity to waste my last few days - before we're found and gutted by the magus."

Athan glanced aside at the other two; while Nyrus buried his expression in his ale and mug, he could see the doubt that flickered on Arana's face. They were all concerned about the likelihood of their discovery; the mission had seemed far less a folly before, now that they were surrounded and outnumbered by the forces of their enemy.

- Lyrien had said the resistance group was established here. Athan placed his trust in that.

"We'll wait 'til it's quiet. Then talk with the innkeep." he muttered; acknowledgements were exchanged all around.

Five hours, as many drinks, and a meal passed before the crowd that filled the white marble dining hall had mostly dispersed. A few remained; those either lodging at the inn, or too drunk to recognise the soiled table beneath them for anything other than a bed. One of the guild masters lay yet sprawled across a bench; his belly heaving up and down with each sonorous snore, while a small street urchin - whose presence was perceived seemingly only by the knights; now hidden beneath the draping tablecloth - filched what was left in the man's pockets.

The thought passed Athan as to whether or not the girl was an employee of the inn - though in either case, he felt no compunction at leaving her undiscovered.

The knight gave a nod to Nyrus, and the older man rose and moved to the bar, to elicit the attention of the inn's patron. The burly man, with a balding ring of black hair around a well-groomed if weathered face followed the knight back to their table.

Athan met his eyes and gestured for him to take a seat; a flash of wariness passed over the otherwise jovial features of his face - and another, as the other knights each departed the table; Morrick, to other side of the hall, where the wench with auburn hair was wiping down a table.

An amiable grin replaced the concealed wariness and whatever else resided amidst the patron's expression; the man leaned forward, "So your associate says you have some business for me?"

Athan swallowed the last of his ale, and placed the mug on the table before him, he paused a moment before speaking, "I know you have four archivists sheltering in your cellar. And that with them, you are attempting to form an organised rebellion to remove the unlawful magus government from power."

A moment of further silence passed between the man seated opposite him.

Shock did not trespass the barkeep's façade - though a glint passed through his gaze. He remained silent.

The knight finished, "I want to see them."

For a moment, the man simply stared at him; a tenuous silence hanging over the empty mugs and veneered wood of the table between. Slowly, casually, the man raised a hand to his temple, resting his elbow on the table top. He flickered two fingers up in a surreptitious gesture.

- The crossbows appeared with a swiftness that caught Athan off guard.

The wench behind the bar, one on the landing overlooking the knight, another on the stairs leading up to the higher level, and one of the men Athan had discounted as drunkenly unconscious had found and bared the weapons in a heartbeat. Each aimed at a different knight.

Arana alone had made it to her dagger, but only so far as wrapping her hand around the hilt.

The weapons their hosts now wielded were small, easily concealed amidst the multitude of folds that composed their dresses; but their size did not belie the lethality that would be released with their bolts.

For a moment, Athan raised a curious brow; their make was considerably well-fashioned, on par with a weapon forged for the White Wolf hall, before it had fallen.

- Oblivious to the sudden shift in mood that had befallen the room - lip-locked with Arietta at the time - knight Morrick pulled out of her kiss and glanced over at Arana. His gaze turned immediately away from the woman beside him to the other dark-haired wench aiming a crossbow at his back.

His hand moved surreptitiously for the throwing dagger concealed at his wrist - Arietta caught his arm.

"I wouldn't, handsome." she said gently from behind; she threw a glance over his shoulder at the woman on the staircase and pouted, "You couldn't have wait until after for this one? He's cute."

Across the table from Athan, the innkeep bellowed the order, "Lock the door."

One of the unarmed women amidst the inn's now empty tables moved over to the main entrance and placed a heavy, securing bolt into place, while another moved about the windows and drew each of the curtains closed.

Athan's gaze had not left the man's eyes. The amiability that had filled his features a moment before had vanished under a cold flatness the knight could not mistake.

"Whoever you are, and whoever you are working for, I assure you that you will not be missed if I should tell them to loose."

In the silence that followed, only the soft crackle of the distant fireplace filled the hall - and the loud grating snore of the recumbent guild master.

"I understand." Athan replied.

"Would you be so kind as to tell your friends to have a seat?"

Athan nodded to the others; each found the closest bench or chair, their eyes locked on the weapons levelled at them.

The bar's patron breathed a heavy sigh, "Who are you?"

"My name is Athan. Knight of the White Wolf Hall. Those are Knight Nyrus, Arana and Morrick," he nodded at each of them, "We were sent here to contact you."

"Sent by whom?"

"The Champion of the White Wolf Hall."

The man scoffed a laugh, "He's dead."

Athan did not pause, "No he is not. Elle'dred is alive, and he is attempting to organise a resistance that spans Ammandorn."

The man seated before him eyed him for a long moment, under the quiet spit and ruddy glow of the fireplace on the far wall behind. Athan caught the glint of disbelief in his eyes.

Slowly, the innkeep raised a hand from the smooth wood of the table top to scratch an itch beside his nose - then flicked his fingers twice in the same gesture he had before.

- Arana bit back a scream, under the thrum of a crossbow string -

A bolt had thudded instantly in her leg.

From across the room, knight Nyrus expelled an invective, and moved to rise - before another bolt speared instantly into the wood of the table before him.

Athan held up a hand for the older knight to halt; while, yet, seven paces beyond, Arana clutched at the bolt in her leg, stemming the flow blood that soaked her pants and the leathers beneath. A grimace covered the gasps of pain.

"The next one kills her," the innkeep stated, implacably, and paused, "Who are you and who sent you here?"

Athan continued, from the unfazed tautness of his lips, "We are knights of the White Wolf Hall. Our Champion Elle'dred dispatched us, at the behest of the oracle Lyrien."

Silence fell heavily amidst the crackle of the flames in the fireplace. And the restricted gasps of the knight bleeding to death on a chair to many feet away. From across the room, Arana's eyes met her commander's, over the shoulder of the man between them -

Athan's glance moved back to the barkeep.

The man stared at him for a long moment.

- Then raised his hand again.

Arana gurgled a breath - her last - and slumped limply to the floor beside the blood-stained chair.

A bolt protruded from her neck.

Knight Nyrus released a hoarse snarl -

Athan glanced at the corpse, lying amidst a now slowly growing pool of blood. The hardness of his eyes did not waver. A quick survey counted the remaining crossbows yet aimed at them.

"Who are you, and who sent you here?" the bar's patron repeated, again.

The knight held the man's gaze, "We are knights of the White Wolf Hall, and we were sent by our Champion." he paused, "Arana's death does not change that."

The patron raised a brow slightly - perplexity breaking the steeliness of his façade.

For too long a minute, only the crackle of the fireplace filled the room.

- The screech of a chair's wooden legs broke the fragile silence. From above, occluded by the pendant white marble of the overhang, and the intervening railing where a wench perched with a crossbow, soft footsteps could be heard skirting the stone. They moved across the landing to the stairs on the northern wall.

Shrouded in the shadows cast by the fireplace, the robes of the descending shape were an impenetrable black, swaying around the tall form of which they concealed beneath. The robed figure slipped wordlessly past the dark-haired wench on the stairs - the woman who had killed Arana - and continued to the soft white glisten of the marble floor beneath.

From a closer vantage, the oldest knight across the room freed a hoarse growl.

Athan watched as the robed figure emerged into the sallow glow of the fireplace - disbelief, and fear played somewhere beneath the unbroken hardness of his façade.

Amidst the light, the blackness of the person's robes did not change - save for the flairs of azure, revealed now at their edges. Amidst the shadow of the heavy, concealing hood, the mirror finish of the person's mask glinted sharply outwards. Two eye-holes, carved indelibly into the featureless face, carried the glisten of emerald eyes which met the seated knight's across the room.

Framed against the fire, the magus bloodhound approached - clutching the gnarled brown stave, adorned with a gilded censer, in one hand.

Athan could only stare.

The robed figure came to a stop beside the seated innkeep.

For a moment there was only silence, broken by the crackle of the fireplace.

"Your name is Athan?" - a female voice asked from behind the muffling of the mask.

Athan stared upwards at the emerald glint amidst the overshadowed eyeholes.

"Yes."

"Elle'dred, Champion of the White Wolf Hall sent you here?"

Athan did not reply.

The innkeep interjected, "Unless you want to see another of your knights killed, I suggest you answer."

Athan glanced at him -

"Yes." he muttered, not looking at the bloodhound.

"You were sent here at the behest of the oracle Lyrien?"

"Yes."

There was a long pause, as the bloodhound continued to stare at him from the shadow of her hood above. The mask turned over the robed shoulder beside it, to glance at the knights underneath the landing, closer to the fireplace. And returned to the table, and the seated innkeep beneath her.

"They are telling the truth." she stated quietly.

The innkeep released a breath, "That much I had gathered."

Athan held the eyes of the man before him.

The man glanced away - then met the knight's gaze again, the steeliness had not faded, though there was a hint of regret that now haunted its edge, "Do you still wish to see the archivists for which you came here, knight?"

Athan threw a glance up at the magus bloodhound - the emerald eyes stared dispassionately out from the mask.

"The hells?!" knight Nyrus growled from across the room.

The innkeep glanced aside at the black robed shape beside him - distaste and discomfort flickered amidst his gaze - then returned to the knight opposite him, "If it were not made obvious, this magus here is not going to turn you in to her superiors - if indeed her superiors were intent on apprehending you." the innkeep paused, "They - she, are complicit in the rebellion we seek to foment."

Athan turned his gaze up to the emerald eyes yet locked upon him.

A sweep across the room showed the crossbows had yet to be lowered.

"Are you intending to kill more of us?" Athan asked, impassively.

The bar's patron glanced over his shoulder at the wench on the stairs, and above on the landing; he nodded to the room behind. Each of the crossbow bearers lowered their weapons; the weapons disappeared unperceived into the folds of their floor-length skirts.

The man turned back to the seated knight; without meeting his gaze, he ordered, "Nyera, please retrieve that bolt."

The woman from the stairs moved to the table, where the bolt yet protruded from the veneer. Beside the old knight who held her in a savage glare. Grasping the hilt of his dagger. The wench pulled the bolt free of the wood, and replaced it in elegant silver stock of her weapon.

For a moment, she paused -

The words emerged flatly, "Hit her, if you like." the bar's patron did not look across the room.

The wench shot a glance over at the table, where the man was seated.

Nyrus followed with his own a moment after - Athan met the quiescent fury in his gaze. The knight's leader looked away.

For a moment the enraged, older knight did nothing - he only stared at the wench.

His gripped eased around the hilt of his knife.

With a snarl, his arm lashed out into a back-hand across the woman's face - with enough force to knock her to the marble of the floor beneath.

She made no sound, as she hit the stone.

Above her, for a moment, Nyrus spat a breath. Then backed away.

"There," the barkeep muttered; then, more loudly, ordered, "Remove the body."

The woman who had killed Arana picked herself up from the floor - blood seeped from her lips - she did not look over at the man seated opposite Athan. She, and the man Athan had mistakenly perceived as drunk, moved to the body of Arana, and lifted it from the red pool that stained the white marble of the floor. Together, they dragged the corpse away to the open doorway behind the bar.

Athan's gaze did not leave the bowed head of the barkeep before him.

- The half-coughed snore of the unconscious guild-master, yet sprawled across his bench, broke the fragile, intervening silence.

The innkeep turned, a moment, to the large table yet covered in empty platters and remnants of food, "Harriet, I think it's time for bed."

The small girl weaselled her way out from underneath the table, and darted across the room, as swiftly swallowed by the darkness of the doorway closest to the stairs. Past the pool of blood left where Arana had been killed.

"You would allow your child to witness such butchery?" knight Nyrus growled, from across the room.

"She is not my daughter." the innkeep replied, blithely, "...and death is nothing new to her."

Nyrus let out another snarl of disgust.

Athan met the eyes of the bar's patron, but did not speak.

The innkeep glanced away, as he replied, "I apologise for the...uncordial treatment. But death has a habit of loosening a man's tongue far quicker than ale..." he paused, "...and they will brook no half-measures in security." he jerked a nod aside towards the looming robes of the bloodhound.

"Although, it must be said, your methods are much cruder method than I prefer." the woman behind the mask replied, without inflection.

She turned, and pulled a chair from the nearest table, to sit on the open floor beside the innkeep. She laid her staff across the black folds of her lap.

Athan stared at the green glint residing in the eyeholes of the mirror obscuring her face. Still, he did not say anything. For a long, strained moment, he held the stare of the magus opposite him.

Across the room, Arietta broke the quiet crackle of the waning fire, with a quiet "hmm"; then moved a step into view of the yet seated knight, Morrick.

She flashed a slight, more delicate smile, "Still interested, handsome?"

With a pause, the younger man threw a glance over to the chair where Arana had sat only minutes before - then turned back to the face above. A mixture of confusion, resignation and fear - unavoidably disguised - was alive in his features.

Hesitantly, he responded, "You're not going to pull a knife on me are you?"

"No." Arietta answered, "Not unless you like that sort of thing."

She tried a grin.

Morrick released a breath and glanced away - his eyes passed over the blood stain that was all that remained of his compatriot. He rose and took the bar wench's hand.

She led him to the doorway in the northern wall - under the glare of knight Nyrus from his vantage, a table away. He did not turn to meet the gazes of either the other knight or his commander.

Athan raised no objection to his egress from the hall; though he placated the much older knight's infuriated exasperation with a shake of his head. The older knight rose and moved over to the table where his commander, the bar's patron, and the magus bloodhound, were seated.

The remaining wenches yet watched him with a sharpness that belied their stations.

- The guild master let out a sonorous snore from his bench, and rolled onto his side. A gurgled burp, released a course of spittle down his cheek.

Athan held the eyes of the innkeep, as knight Nyrus arrived and assumed a seat at his side. The older knight's gaze flickered over the man that had ordered his fellow's death, before falling fixedly on the featureless mirror of the mask, seated opposite him; cradled amidst the shadow of the bloodhound's hood.

"How is it that the magus have allied themselves with you?" Athan asked, flatly.

"We captured one of their group," the bloodhound answered, before the innkeep, "Arrested on a lesser charge. Evidently, during his interrogation, more was revealed that had been expected." she paused, "Fortunately for all involved, the information found its way first into the hands of the few magus sympathetic to the...growing dissidence of our society."

After another pause, Athan asked the man, "Do you trust them?"

The bar's patron glanced aside, "...Yes," the hesitation in his tone belied the lack of conviction in his answer, "As far as I am willing."

"And the archivists?"

"They feel similarly. Though none were pleased by the development."

"We have asked for no details concerning this rebellion," the bloodhound interrupted flatly, "Nor do we seek the identity of those whom we do not already know are involved. And thus far, we have capitulated to every - reasonable, demand placed upon us to demonstrate our loyalty. But full trust is not something we expect to be afforded - nor is it something we ourselves will grant." she paused; her emerald gaze met the leader knight's, "It has been made entirely clear to the instigators of this plot, and now to you - that this is an alliance based solely on convenience. The crimes of the archivists -"

The snarl of disgust knight Nyrus released elicited a pause from the masked woman.

The emerald eyes flicked over to the livid gaze of the man.

The bloodhound continued, "...are not in dispute. Nor are the actions taken then to address those offences." she paused, "However, the injustices committed in the wake of that incident, and the illegality of the current magus government, have not passed notice. There are yet magus who adhere to the law; and we intend to restore Ammandorn to its proper governance...on the prevailing condition, that a pardon be granted to each and all of us, for our participation in the events leading to the current situation, regardless of the nature of one's involvement."

Athan stared at the magus for a long time, before turning back to the innkeep, "The archivists agreed to this?"

"Under great duress." the man replied, acerbically, "...or else, it was implied, our magus friends will turn us over to those not so sympathetic to our aims."

The older knight spat an invective.

Athan turned his impassive features back to the emerald gaze yet locked on him, "Elle'dred will want to make use of your superiors."

"And no doubt, they will want to make use of him." the bloodhound replied.

A long pause followed.

The knight broke the silence with a level statement, "You will treat with us under the same conditions as the archivists."

"Of course." the smirk was carried in the woman's tone,

"No questions are to be asked. And no argument raised with any order that is given."

The magus paused, "...Within reason."

Athan held her eyes; the emerald gaze was as implacable as his own.

"And you will take me to meet your superiors as soon as possible."

The bloodhound was silent a decidedly long moment, before she replied, "Very well."
Chapter 19

The army sprawled across the unyielding flatness of the grey; the desolate expanse that stretched between the massive wave of black, beneath a blacker sky, and the last wall of green before the shore. Above the green the sky was grey, as grey as the flatlands beneath, and it filled the air with the memory of the sun.

Too distant, beyond the mass of a storm that fell now perpetually across the sea, the Southern Sun rose to midday.

Some way out from where the Living Mountains met the grey flatland beneath, the forward armies of Hresfyrra had marshalled. All the might the last of the six cities could afford had gathered to combat the ravening horde of the Immortal. Some three hundred thousand soldiers.

More yet remained amidst the towers and the walls that swept across the sides of the mountains, white amidst the green of the forest - as many that would hold the city when the forward defence fell.

The vanguard armies were outnumbered.

As the immortal night of Perrefiere had stretched fanning blades of abyss into the grey haze of the southern sky, so had the Dead Mountains bled a stain of black and brown and grey onto the flatlands beneath. The mammoth horde that had once sheltered in the darkness beyond the looming wave of rock had spilled out of the gap where Armanas once stood - now only smouldering ruins - and spread across the flats seemingly without end. Over days.

An ever mounting tide of bodies, and banners and blades.

That tide now turned south; and gathered in a sprawling line that covered untold miles of the grey. The incarnates and goblins and the black, empty armour of the nether-touched, outnumbered the armies of men. Ten to one.

From above - a scarlet flare amidst an ashen sky - the voice of the Immortal soared and watched. Through cloud and fire and despair. Hell-fire burned the hoary sky above.

The front-most lines of the impossible horde had begun to move forward, towards the cornered mass of the armies of men. Goblins composed the foremost ranks, with packs of incarnates scattered amidst; towering masses of muscled flesh beneath the heads of bulls; they bellowed and roared to keep the savage, pathetic, skull-faced creatures in line.

Behind the van of goblins, rows upon rows of solely incarnates stood - and formed the bulk of the horde. Most numerous were those born of the bull, mist snorting from nostrils beyond the bestial glare of their eyes; but there were as many others of differing shapes; tall things, lithe and sinewy, that walked on taloned paws - shaped like men in limb and girth, but covered in a coat of sallow, mottled fur - all save for their faces. Beneath two tapered ears, their brows fell away into the shortness of a muzzle; a feature neither feline nor canine, but some twisted mix of both - and covered solely in bare, sickly pink flesh. The exposed skin twisted around a maw of misshapen fangs and the leering yellow of their eyes - into naked, slavering smiles.

They barked, and howled and hissed; beasts that had once been men.

Behind their ranks, the fewest of the creatures of flesh slithered on scaled tails, beneath the vestigial remnants of their legs; torsos barely reminiscent of a man bore scaled arms, and birthed the mass of myriad snakes that replaced their heads. The serpentine incarnates writhed amidst the rear of the horde, spitting and hissing in a language only the dark moon and its weapon understood.

And last, behind the overwhelming tide of things and monsters - most alien to the world - the black suits of the nether-touched stood. Empty and hollow, the suits of twisted black armour waited amidst a damning silence - their laughter and their flame yet to be released.

Ten thousand flames not meant for this world.

- The foremost ranks of the Immortal's horde had reached the range of the enemy's weapons.

From the vast, surrounded cluster of men, a storm of shafts leapt free into the air, arcing high above the flatness of the land now buried beneath their enemies. The shafts fell upon the encircling goblin ranks - thousands of lethal arrows, spearing into the wood of shields, or leather, and the sallow flesh beneath.

Another volley followed - and another. And were joined by the flaming masses of pitch. Stones arced over the ranks of men, hurled into flight by machines of war - and landed with inexorable destruction amidst the fragile bodies of their foes.

Goblins shrieked and howled - and died, as they charged the terrible distance that yet lay between them and their enemies.

The incarnates behind, held place. They drew to a gradual halt.

The sea of goblins, separated from the main force, and tattered now in places where fire or stone or arrow had claimed many, closed in on the fore and flanks of the defending army.

They crossed the stretch of grey that yet protected the ranks of men.

- And were consumed by fire.

In an instant, fire erupted across the grey, amidst the charge of goblins - a massive wall of flames birthed suddenly from the ground. The inferno surrounded the defending army, and ravaged the charge of their foes into a straggle of disparate groups, trapped by flame and, moments after, then easily dispatched by arrows.

The goblins lines fragmented - some unable to halt, continued into the flames, while others were trampled in their efforts to stop. Some held their ground, before the massive inferno, under the roared orders of their incarnate commanders - others fled back away towards the ranks of the waiting host.

Some, in fear and anger, turned on the incarnates in their midst - and some more even on each other.

Smoke billowed in curling gouts, above the chaos and the carnage - black eddies birthed from charring flesh and leather and wood. The inferno blazed, savage and terrible.

Protecting the army of men.

The fire had been the work of magics - of the power of the magus blood. A spell cast by a circle, somewhere amidst the towers of the city, and directed by those that now stood amidst the soldiers.

Graced by the grey ash of the sky, a mask of utter abyss whispered the shapes of the spells, the power of a worldly blood, while the hell-fire - that trailed away in curling wisps and a wake of smoke - laughed, quietly, and crackled and roared.

Despair burned the midday sky. And descended.

A streak of hell-fire fell to the burning earth, into the midst of the inferno that protected the forces of men. The flames there leapt up to embrace the mote of crimson - a sudden, savage conflagration that filled the air with ash. And smoke. And heat.

The closest ranks of soldiers backed away - a measure of uncertainty, and fear alight on their faces.

Amidst the twisting eddies of blackest ash, and the savage light of the fire, they could not see the unviolated mask of abyss that watched and waited. The men had chosen fire to protect them - fire, that which was best suited to consume and destroy.

Hell-fire laughed.

- As it began to slip amidst the worldly flames that surrounded it; savage tongues on impossible heat. Somewhere, in the shallow depths of the minds of those that were linked through their blood and magic to the conflagration around, the doom that hell-fire promised cried out in hopeless fear. Infernal flame ravaged those born of men.

- Screams broke the roar of the air, from amidst the ranks of the army.

Magus eyes burst in gouts of blood, which ran like flaming pitch down the flesh beneath - as the fire that had slipped inside their skulls and minds burned free. Smoke spat from open mouths, choked in ineffable agony, as flesh charred and bodies collapsed to shudder silently on the ground. Those few magus not linked to the spells of the blaze, watched their comrades burn - their eyes and flesh seared away in an instant - as though charred by hours of heat. Yet still alive.

Fear blazed amidst the ranks of men.

Terrified screams, of those unharmed, moved from one to another - but those that had witnessed the horror were trapped by those that had not. And they, by the fire that had been birthed to protect them.

Despair drifted like the flakes of ash upon the air.

Hell-fire smiled with silent glee.

Torrents burst forth, from all around - and swept over the ranks of men. Flesh was caught alight, mail and leather seared instantly away; swords and bows and shields reduced to ash or a spattering of molten crimson splayed across the ground. Like the blood that continued to burn, and burn, and burn.

In an instant, ten thousand men were set aflame.

Screams filled the air. Despair, and smoke and ash.

The inner ranks broke, and tried to flee - but on all sides now they were surrounded by flame. Fire that was no longer theirs. Or the world's. The fire had crept behind them - behind the rearmost ranks - and trapped them in a prison of scarlet heat. Three-hundred thousand men.

And worse - the despair, that craved only to watch and await the end, now savaged the blazing air. Heat, impossible and consuming, torn from muscles all will and joy and hope that remained; cores of men and women froze, their heat called out, to the fires that burned their skin.

Those blackened bodies still aflame, all, stumbled into those around them - or flung sloughs of molten flesh through their rampant flailing overhead, to land amidst the clustered others who now stood like stone. Transfixed with a hopelessness that wanted only to wait, and let the inevitable come.

Hell-fire leapt to new victims with eager glee.

Ten thousand men became twenty - and twenty then more than could be told.

Some just stood, until flame and agony crashed over them. Until they began to scream. Others lay down to sleep; then drowned by scarlet fury. Every one became one with the screams.

Hell-fire laughed. And roared.

And burned.

From the northern edge of the blaze, where a crimson mote had fallen, a shard of abyss floated amidst the raging torrents of orange - a sharp glimmering of black, unviolated by the heat. From behind a mask of madness and knowing, amidst the flames that were his skin, Syrkyn stared out and watched. Eyes of limitless dark, lingered on the roiling sea of blackened bodies amidst the throes of red - on faces contorted in agony that would not end.

An agony that had once been his. A pain he had known so intimately. That defined him.

And now one that hell-fire would visit, unending, upon the world.

For hours, or days, or maybe moments, he watched the army burn - three hundred thousand men and women, unconsumed by flame.

He was the weapon of the Immortal, the channel for all hell-fire, the Prince of Ash reborn -

Hell-fire roared and laughed. And burned.

But all he could hear were the screams.

Elle'dred moved under the towering grey, granite of the city's outer wall. The massive ring, upon which fifteen men could walk abreast, stretched around the outer edge of the sprawling expanse of metropolis that was the city of Armanas. To the south, the white-capped peaks of the Thousand River Mountains sat amidst a sheet of cloud, above rugged sides cloaked in the dense green of the forest of Meran'dier; the furthest most edge of the woods, reaching the southern curvature of the encircling wall.

Their passage here had passed without incident - much to Elle'dred's relief, and in no small part surprise. The ship had made landfall without so much as a gale to trouble its sails; and from the port of Halladrach they had managed to purchase horses which had born them through the days of riding to the centre of the Highlands.

The east of Ammandorn had yet to see the fighting of the war.

Having passed through the city's open eastern gate, without issue, they continued down the main road, deeper into the steadily growing metropolis. Once out of sight of the looming face of the wall, and concealed within an alley between two high buildings, Palai'dred drew their group to a halt.

The Sword-Bearer turned to face her Champion, from atop her chestnut mare, hidden amidst the shadow of his cowl; the question was tacitly conveyed in the silence each of the other knights held.

Elle'dred moved to the head of their group and assumed the lead.

The streets, and buildings, and bridges bled into a grey maze of stone beneath the slow clop of his black's hooves; the sprawling expanse of the city a warren one could find themselves lost in for days. Dozens of canals flowed amidst the districts, from the hundreds of rivers that ran down from the mountains to the south; arcing, stone bridges spanned the flowing water at regular intervals, linking the city over the wide courses of water.

He had crossed three bridges in the forsaken glade, as he had followed the two necromancers; their path had taken them through the better part of three districts, where at the edge of each, they had fled over the intervening waterways between.

That had been under starlight, which only frustrated the fact that under the noonday sun the canals all looked identical. The thought passed through Elle'dred's mind that they might be wandering the city streets for days before they accosted the inn where the necromancers dwelt; a pang of dismay followed, that their purpose could not have been a simpler one.

It was all too much -

Elle'dred moved into a market square, under the furious shouts of the street peddlers selling their wares. On the other side of the crowded courtyard, two magus bloodhounds moved through the swish of their black robes, edged in azure. One's gnarled stave, clacked resoundingly against the grey paving of the road, in tempo with his or her strides. The frequenters of the market, moved aside warily - away from the unnerving mirrors that conceal the magus faces; the bloodhound's passage disturbed the normal ebb and flow of the market, and even silenced a few of the more raucous peddlers.

They had passed too many of the magus amidst the streets; and the apprehension that they would be accosted by one of the myriad patrols, and discovered, had drawn the muscles of his already weary body taut. The bloodhounds seemed to be everywhere.

He hoped Syla's warding spell would combat whatever magics the featureless masks used to discover untruth. He smirked to himself at how little he yet understood about magic.

And frowned, at the pang that then engendered -

It soon became clear that finding the inn through memory of his other worldly encounter alone would be impossible; so the order was given subtly, for the others to enquire for directions, as to the establishment's whereabouts.

Elle'dred conceded to its necessity; but the risk involved perturbed him no small amount. Even so, it was only after the better part of the day had been spent in sporadic inquiry that they were given directions that were of some use.

- The woman had only vaguely recalled the name.

Some long minutes passed, as they wove again through the streets towards the destination they had been given; however, this time, a sense of recognition had begun to skirt the back of Elle'dred's mind - these streets were undeniably familiar.

He could not help the morose thought, that the feeling of familiarity might just be the onset of fatigue mingling with the weary hours of wandering a city where all the streets looked the same.

He had not realised how tired he was. And there was still too much more left to do.

While the clarity of the revelation he had been dealt, within the alien ranks of the forest of Dwener'dier, had not faded during the days of his ride, weariness and fatigue had begun to fray at the conviction he held within himself.

Uncertainty was rampant. Doubt and fear, and apprehension, ever present.

It was all too hard.

Yet, unlike before, so long ago, that thought did not overwhelm him. Entirely. The realisation he had had within the ranks of alien trees, under a canopy of limitless shadow, lingered. Despite himself. Too much had begun to make sense. Too much now, he understood.

- The pendant board, inscribed with the fluid lettering of the inn's name, in silver, caught his wandering attention off-guard.

He drew to an abrupt halt, some distance from the façade of the building he had sought for too many recent hours. His knights reined their horses to a stop behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder to the Sword-bearer; Palai'dred's nod conveyed the silent question.

He managed a tired grin, "At least we found the place."

He turned back to the hanging sign. Behind him, to the southwest, the southern sun was approaching its last hour of orange and red, under a gentle evening breeze.

For a moment, Elle'dred just sat atop his black, in the relief that they had found the inn without being discovered and arrested by the magus. Or hopefully, recognised by one or more of the city's denizens.

Relief -

Now, all that was left for him to do, was to convince a necromancer who had hidden her entire life under fear of discovery by the Archivist regime - to which the Knights of the White Wolf had been subservient - that he was not her enemy; that in fact he was a friend, intent on undoing the very element of their society that had defined her existence. To then convince her that she, and those she led, were needed if they were to oppose the magus - that now of all times was the time to risk their discovery and their lives, through active resistance -

And to do it without being discovered himself and apprehended by the magus presence that seemed to pervade every district of the city.

Or without being killed by the very ally he was here to recruit.

- How in the hells he was going to do that eluded him.

As ever, uncertainty defined his life - as much as the sign on the front of the building before him.

The White Willow Inn.

* * *

Athan moved through white marble streets, under the massive enclosure of Delphanas' metropolis chamber, behind the black figure of the bloodhound who now led his course. The name of the woman behind the featureless mirror-finish of the mask, hidden amidst the hood of her robes, was Gwyneth. That much she had allowed him to know.

His knights - those that where yet alive - had been ordered to remain at the inn that sheltered the archivists. Knight Nyrus had raised an objection to the order; but had evidently been aware of its necessity. Beyond the need to ingratiate themselves into the resistance and its workings, if this morning's meeting with the bloodhound's superiors was instead a trap, Athan alone would be caught.

And the true motives of the magus would be exposed.

- That the resistance based with the archivists, and the inn where one of his knights had died, was everything that Lyrien had said that it was - had not concealed the fact. Arana was dead.

Athan continued ahead, behind the steady clack of the bloodhound's stave.

The figure in black and azure turned a corner, under the white glow of a street lamp, and moved down the branching street towards the towering, hoary edifice at its end. A district guardhouse.

The magus had told the knight where her superior had desired to meet him, and then, as it did now, it provoked his apprehension. Here, of all places, he would most certainly be recognised - and that such inadvertent recognition might be used to excuse an underlying betrayal, had not eluded his suspicion.

His face was buried amidst the cowl of his cloak, but such paltry concealment afforded little reassurance.

The twin, oaken doors of the white marble edifice, banded with the grey of steel, rose atop a flight of steps ahead. A patrol, on horseback, left the gaping archway of the flanking stable, under the harsh clack of hooves. They approached the knight and the magus ahead of him.

Amidst the heavy folds of his cloak, Athan's hand tensed around the hilt of his dagger.

The patrol turned away, and moved down the length of street behind him.

The magus continued up the steps to the doors, and the two guardsmen that stood to either side of the entryway - both shot glances Athan did not mistake at the unidentified stranger following the bloodhound. Nothing more was said, however, and the two men moved to open the fortified partitions for the magus and her guest.

Athan kept his head down, so much so that the draping edge of his cowl concealed all but the length of black around the bloodhound's feet, ahead - as she led him through the corridors and halls of the guardhouse. When finally they came to a lingering halt, the knight allowed the barest glance up. Another oaken façade barred their way; the bloodhound drew out a key from the folds of her robe. After unlocking the door, she pushed it open and admitted the knight with a silent gesture.

Athan moved into the chamber. And pulled down his hood.

Across the expanse of the room - filled only with the wooden mass of a desk against one wall, and the gentle crackle of a fireplace within another - stood the only other occupant beyond the knight, and the black-robed woman who closed the door behind him.

The fire cast a golden glow across the bare white all around, but its light did not mar the crimson of the man or woman's robes, embroidered lavishly in silver. Every surface, from hem to sleeve to draping hood, was patterned with silver imagery - unmistakably that of noble, righteous men standing in judgment over hideous abominations. All, though, possessed of human faces.

In one hand - of dark brown skin, near black, emerging from the gape of its concealing sleeve - resided the gnarled stave, topped with its gilded censer, iconic of the bloodhound order. And amidst the shadows of the heavy hood - made heavier by the weight of embroidery - rested the perfect mirror-finish of the flat, featureless mask, which replaced the man or woman's face.

Athan met the eyes, in the sockets of the mirror. Distance, and shadow, obscured their colour, though not their sharp glint off the firelight.

Gwyneth locked the door behind him. The bloodhound in black moved past, to stand between and aside her superior and the knight. In front of the fire.

Athan eyed the woman flatly.

"Athan, may I introduce Inquisitor Eradus."

Athan nodded to the featureless reflectivity of the inquisitor's mask.

For a moment, the man replied only with silence, "You are Knight Athan, of the White Wolf Hall?"

Again Athan nodded.

"Why is it that you desired to meet?"

"To test your sincerity." - the response was flat, immediate, and hard.

For a moment, the glint amidst the eyeholes held his own, all that could be perceived beyond the reflections of the room that surrounded them.

The man's tone remained cold, and exactingly level, "I am glad you are so distrusting."

Athan only eyed him; the inquisitor's stare did not relinquish.

For a long moment, the silence that filled the room remained unbroken.

The knight spoke, first, "There are others you are working for?"

"As you are working for the Champion of the White Wolf."

"How far up does this magus insurrection extend? Who are your superiors?"

The inquisitor paused, a moment, before he answered, "It would be unwise to reveal that information. If it were to fall into less sympathetic hands..."

Athan did not finish the sentiment, nor mistake its implications. The knight remained silent.

"As you have risked a journey here with my inferior, I would ask if there is more you would like to test?" the exactingness of the man's tone remained unbroken, "That is, if indeed, our loyalty has passed muster?"

Athan remained quiet for a moment more, before speaking, "I want to know how you think you can overthrow the Tribunal?"

The inquisitor was silent for a pause; before he moved forward, past his inferior and the fireplace, yet crackling gently from behind. The butt of his gnarled stave clacked against the white marble of the floor with each perfectly rhythmed step.

The red and silver robed man drew to a halt two paces from the knight.

The man's eyes were a brown, near as dark as the skin of his hands. Beneath the mask, had it not been for the surrounding whites, his face would have seemed entirely a shadow.

"I believe you mean to say, how we can overthrow the Tribunal?"

Athan did not reply; only after a pause, he allowed a non-committal nod.

The scent of the gilded censer atop the stave filled the air around him; the smell seemed to thicken with every breath. Small beads of perspiration welled on his brow; though, he noted, the inquisitor's hand was dry.

"As it happens, when all your forces are where we need them to be, we shall institute an uprising, a coup, not unlike the failed action undertaken by your Hall of the White Wolf some months past." he paused, "Ours, as it stands however, will not be as futile or ill-conceived."

Athan only held his gaze; under the growing weight of the scent that filled the air. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of the knight's face.

"How is it that a knight of the White Wolf survived the purge?" the Inquisitor asked, levelly.

Athan did not think to answer - something flickered amidst the perfect silver reflection of the mask, "We went against the orders of our leaders, at the behest of the oracle Lyrien. She saw that we would survive."

Alarm flared somewhere beneath strangling haze, and dangerous perspiration, engendered by the smoke. Instinct flared into action - his hand fell to the hilt of his knife.

A dark skinned hand reached up and grasped his arm.

"That will not be necessary, knight." the voice was unperturbed by the palpable threat.

Athan grip did not slacken, though he did not fight the magus own upon his arm.

"As you can see; if one of us were to desire to extract the information out of you - that you very much are needed to keep - you would have no way of ultimately resisting us." the inquisitor paused, "Fortunately, it remains, that those gathered here do not wish to uncover the fullness of your secrets. Not least of all, for fear that we ourselves might be discovered, apprehended and then questioned...as you just have been." again, the perfect, exacting tone behind the mirror-mask paused, "The magics we wield are insidious and subtle; and to those of us who have mastered them, the knowledge has been gained, in terrifying fullness, that our mastery in no way imparts a quality of resistance. They themselves, the bloodhounds and the magics, cannot be resisted. Not by will alone."

Something, amidst the heavy haze of the pervading scent in the air, abated.

Athan still, did not release his hold on the hilt of his dagger.

The Inquisitor stepped back a pace, and glanced at his inferior, "You did not yourself question him?"

The female bloodhound shook her head.

The perfect reflectivity of the mask, surrounded by crimson, returned to the hard gaze of the knight, "If you take this demonstration as an offence, I will cast no blame upon you. Though you must then realise that we are not alike in our methods or our capabilities. We war upon the same side, entirely out of convenience and necessity; and we each intend to fight this battle in the way that suits us best, to that which we are most familiar. You would do well not to intrude upon matters that lie outside your realm of concern."

Athan steadily released his hold upon the dagger. The scent, of the censer, though lessened had not left the air.

"As you say."

The inquisitor was silent for a pause, "As the unpleasant business has been remedied, perhaps it would be proper to discuss in fullness the next joint venture, we will be undertaking with the archivists, and consequently then with you?"

Athan gave another, non-committal, nod.

"I am curious as the whether you have your objections to our plan; although I would expect that as you have allied yourself with the archivists, you will acquiesce to its necessity." the flawless rhythm of the tone behind the mask paused, "To engender the unrest required, for the proper destabilisation of the populace, we have concluded that our next move should be the poisoning of the storehouses of the city."

The knight met eyes of the magus before him, levelly. Though underneath, amidst the heaviness of the pervading scent, a flicker of emotions - least of all surprise, could not be masked.

* * *

Maryssa made her way through the streets, under the gloom of dusk. The fountain in the gardens of the hundredth district was several hours away from the inn. From the back door, under which the note had been slipped.

Nareen had discovered the folded piece of parchment, scrawled on with precise, black ink, as she made her rounds of cleaning. The innkeep had brought it to her, immediately.

I am a friend. I want to meet. Come to the fountain in the gardens of the hundredth district at nightfall tomorrow.

The note had caught her entirely off-guard.

Apprehension, trepidation and confusion played equally in her mind. The parchment could have been left by the group of rebels they had infiltrated not days ago; those responsible for the riots. But that seemed unlikely; Halthyn would not have given that much away.

And from what Sardorn had discussed with the boy, a day prior, he had managed only to ingratiate himself with the lowest of the group's ranks. Among all the other ill-tempered youths who had begun to form the secret people's army. He could not have drawn enough attention to warrant suspicion.

But that only led to the conclusion that the leaders of the rebellion - or some other party - had some other cause to watch them. Who that other party was, or what that cause might have been eluded supposition - which led inexorably to fear.

She had ordered the inn vacated, by all but Nareen and her daughter; those who belonged there. If they were arrested, it would confirm the most prevalent of their concerns. And if the mother and daughter were interrogated, they would reveal only the vaguest of information.

She knew she would not see them again.

- It would not be the first time such had happened. They had been discovered before.

One of the others might have been captured - and revealed, during the riots.

Sardorn had left to visit each of their other safe-houses throughout the city. He would be gone for days.

If he returned at -

- The fountain emerged in the distance, from behind a sparse grove of trees.

In its centre, surrounded by an ever gently rippling pool of water, stood a white woman; carved from some fine stone whose grain was invisible to the eye. Her perfect features hung above the graceful folds of a dress; her arms wrapped around the vase, from which poured a steady stream of water.

She had flowers in her hair. The same as those that had been carved - affixed to the bottom of the pool - to give semblance to floating upon the surface of the water.

The wide fountain, and its pool, rested under a wider pagoda, whose vaulted, domed roof was held up by five pillars. In the centre of the gardens.

The dusk cast a heavy pall of shadows across the elegant stonework.

Maryssa moved off the gravel path, up the encircling granite steps and between two of the pillars. Her stride ended at the raised edge of the pool; she turned and lowered herself to sit.

Slowly, as the tenuous minutes passed, nightfall encroached.

As the last of the light faded into darkness, replaced by the delicate glitter of stars above, she surreptitiously surveyed her surroundings. The night's breeze stirred leaves into a quiet whisper on the distant trees, under the heavy splash of the fountain's cascade behind; a night-bird released a pitched trill, its song faded somewhere in the depths of the garden. Beyond the surrounding, sprawling circle of grass, the gardens were a wall of imperturbable darkness.

- The crunch of gravel, grinding steadily beneath the steps of a boot, drew her immediate attention.

- From behind -

She turned gradually around.

A silhouette of a cloak emerged from the distant wall of shadow that was the tree-line; and it was followed by another.

- Another subtle crunch.

She turned back the way she had come.

Another two shadows emerged from the opposite mass of darkness to those approaching behind; these two did not wear as heavy cloaks as the others. And they did not continue to approach.

She turned around, again, the nearing grind of gravel beneath a heavy boot.

The lead silhouette approached the further side of the circular pavilion - his companion, or guard, stopped some paces behind. The man or woman flaunted a bow, with no attempt to conceal it amidst the pale glitter and thick shadows cast from above.

The man - and it was a man - who continued to approach, wore a heavy hood, above the draping folds of darkness that were his cloak. He approached the triple, encircling steps, and moved up onto the raised platform of the pagoda, on the far side of the fountain to her.

She quelled a peak of apprehension. And furtively fingered the hilt hidden amidst the darkness of her own cloak. One knife; a glance back, at the two distant shapes did not reveal the weapons they were undoubtedly bearing. Two more bows, and swords, perhaps.

- The man came to a stop on the far side of the fountain.

"Good evening." she greeted, courteously.

"Good evening." he replied, a moment after, as cordially.

He reached up and drew his hood away from his face. Beyond the shoulder length hair; of a darkness that was rendered shadow in the starlight, and fell much as had his hood, his features were lost in the night.

She did not doubt hers were too. And the knife amidst her sleeve.

"Thank you for coming yourself," he said - and paused, "I was not sure if you would come alone."

She threw another quick glance out across the surrounding silhouettes - beyond the three others that waited in the open, a dozen more could hide in the darkness that was the distant trees; and all remain well within range of their bows.

"You did not." she said, calmly.

The man paused a moment, before answering, "No."

There was no threat, blatant, in his voice - though there was a momentary reluctance.

"Who are you?" she asked, flatly.

"Elle'dred, Champion of the White Wolf Hall."

Emotion was lost amidst the hardness of her features, and the shadows that otherwise obscured her face.

"And why did you want to contact me?"

The man loosed a brief, quiet chuckle, "That may take the rest of the night to explain." he paused, "I know you are a necromancer, I know that you are part of a resistance group composed of necromancers who attempts to stop the criminal - and reprehensible, slaughter of your blood at birth." there was a hardness to his voice, though not an edge, "I know you are their leader...and I also know this is likely doing me no favours in earning your trust."

A long silence followed, overcome only by the quiet breeze.

Maryssa remained silent.

He continued, flatly, "The crimes that have been committed against your blood are reprehensible; as is the fact that they have been hidden for so long. I intend to undo those wrongs." he paused, "...as I intend to overthrow the unlawful magus government that now rules Ammandorn."

Maryssa was quiet a long moment, "I see."

"I was made aware of the sixth blood some time ago, and what the archivists and the magus were responsible for." the man released a short breath - of what emotion she could not say for certain, "I was told the truth by another necromancer. A necromancer I call -...I called a friend."

She continued to stare into the shadows where his eyes must have been.

"I intend to incite a war between men...between the bloods. All of the bloods; and in that, I have come to ask for your help. I want necromancers on my side when this is over; and I want your support within the city, when the fighting inevitably comes here."

Again, after a pause - and a glance at the surrounding shapes - all she said was, "I see."

Silence fell again amidst the starlit darkness, and the casual splash of the fountain, between them.

"I do not need an answer immediately..." he said, less forthrightly, "Although, I do need one answer in particular...and I cannot stay in this city for long. I am myself, a wanted fugitive...if you are interested, the magus have condemned me as a traitor...for the crime of necromancy."

She did not reply to that.

After another lengthy pause, she asked, quietly, "Why do you think I would help you in any of this?"

"Because I know what you've been through, Maryssa." he paused, "Or at least, I think I know...and in honest truth, I don't think you need my help as much as I need yours...but I am offering you it, as much as I am asking for yours."

Another pause followed, "How did you know who I am?" she asked, again, quietly.

"I will be willing to explain everything," he said - the directness had returned to his tone; he paused, "Though only after I know that you trust me."

Maryssa did not reply.

"If you would prefer," he continued, "We can resume this discussion at another place, and time, of your choosing?"

Maryssa was silent a moment - the moment stretched into the quiet whisper of the breeze.

And longer.

"Three days from now," she returned, "At nightfall. In the western courtyard of the Grey Stallion Inn."

There was a silence of a pause, "Thank you." he said.

She allowed the slightest nod.
Chapter 20

The three days had passed. It had not taken long to find the inn she had specified. It had been fortunately easy to locate such a prominent building of the city.

The inn was massive; five floors high, surrounded by three courtyards, themselves surrounded by the estate's grounds, and stables, and outbuildings. The northern and southern courtyards dwarfed the western; more properly, it was not so much a courtyard, as a small enclosure of stone that led to the open air path, and steps, which descended into the garden proper.

Elle'dred kept his head lowered, and his hood drawn heavily over his face, as two men - accompanied by a small band of retainers - moved past him, and down into the sprawling grounds of the estate. The men were merchants, discussing rather verbosely an allocation of workmen for their next caravan that was to depart for the eastern city of Rhythanas in two days' time.

- Half the city was starving; that was a truth Elle'dred had seen, undeniable, throughout their stay thus far. In four of five city districts, a squad of guardsmen - and bloodhounds - escorted a caravan of wagons every two days; caravans that distributed a less than copious amount of food throughout the poorer areas of the city.

Here, however, in this district of the sprawling, grey, metropolis at the base of the mountains, he was confronted be another truth - the affluent, the wealthy, the people who owned the storehouses, and farmlands to the north, remained walled-up in their manses, and estates, enjoying the warmth of an evening in the verdant grounds of an overly reputable inn.

Though it could be said, that that was no different than times when war did not threaten their land. And the bloodhound patrols were no less frequent amidst these streets, as elsewhere in the city.

The others had spread themselves further out around him, save for Palai'dred, who stood at his side, under the waning, evening light. The Sword-Bearer did not conceal her features, as she scanned the courtyard for signs of the necromancer.

And as surreptitiously watch the other guests of the establishment.

Elle'dred allowed only the occasional glance up.

Although the orange haze of dusk yet lingered, mingling with the light of the lamps lit throughout the courtyard, and from within the grey, edifice beside, the southern sun had long dipped behind the darkened peaks of the mountain range to the southwest.

For the Champion, the last slow moments of the gloaming seemed to provide ample time to think.

Ironically, though, for the first time in too long there was precious little that occupied his mind. Concerns flitted sporadically throughout the forefront - doubts and worries, the occasional replay of what had been said, and what was left to do. And the uncertainty that ever followed.

It was all too much -

And all too clear. The surety of what he had realised in Dwener'dier manifested once more. Too much made sense - more sense than he could understand.

He waited, patiently, for the arrival of the necromancer.

The last faded glow of dusk deepened into night.

- There was movement around the courtyard.

His knights glanced up from their respective positions, at each of the surrounding entrances to the enclosure.

- At the shapes that formed from amidst the new, and thick darkness of the night. Black silhouettes composed entirely of shadow -

Then materialised into the city's guardsmen.

Their swords, already bared and raised, caught a sharp sheen in the light of the lamps.

As Elle'dred had expected.

* * *

The Staff-Bearer moved through the white marble halls of the upper levels of Delphanas.

It was time.

The Magus General at the keep of Magrestus had relayed via dreaming, that the goblin and incarnate host was on the move. The enemy numbered fifteen thousand strong.

Less than a fifth of that number, manned the battlements of the prime-most keep that lay in the host's path.

It did not matter.

The soldiers of the keep would only be required to finish off what remained of the enemy - once the spell the Tribunal was to wield had decimated them.

Never before, in their recorded history, had a spell like this that they would wield been cast. Never before, seemingly, had such a weapon been conceived.

The thought provoked a sneer, which warped the visage of his face.

Power - their full power - had been barred from the magus; by the inherent weakness of their society - by the Archivists. The weakness that had been allowed to rule their society. Had history been different - had the most powerful of the bloods fulfilled their deserved right to rule from the very beginnings of their society - Ammandorn would have been unthreatened by the enemies it faced now.

The goblins would have been destroyed long before now. And the Immortal, so many centuries passed, would never have been allowed to exist.

Ragmurath bit back a scowl of disdain; those mistakes would be addressed. Under his rule, under this ruler ship of the magus, the race of men would be purged of its weaknesses. And those without.

The doors to the chamber were already open; as he moved down the cavernous, whiter-marble of the hallway. Two vermillion guards stood to either side of the already open archway. The characterless, bronze semblances of human faces each turned and nodded reverence to him as he passed.

Behind, as he drew to a halt within the expanse of the chamber, polished, bronze gauntlets reached out from the red folds of their robes to close the doors.

As the heavy metal partitions shut with a thud that echoed throughout the silence of the cavernous room beyond, a hundred faces rose from beneath the draping folds of ebony cowls, laced in azure, to acknowledge him.

The Staff-Bearer surveyed the gathering of magus with a casual disdain.

The four other members of the Tribunal had already arrived, and awaited him, in the centre of the room; atop the raised, perfectly circular dais that had been built there.

Unlike the vast, surrounding, circular wall that contained the vaulted space of the chamber, yet remaining the same white marble of Delphanas; the floor of the room was a perfect, lustreless black. The dais was laid entirely of the ebon stonework; save only for the circles of azure runes, at all points intricate and intertwined. The floor of the chamber beneath, and around the platform, bore a similar mosaic; though yet larger, and more elaborate - a flawless, and multifarious, azure ring that encircled the central dais.

The runes would serve as a focus for their power.

Such an inlay had never before been constructed; the deep magics imbued in the laying of the stone were a feat of utter mastery - the mastery of the High Magus of the Tribunal. They would channel the power of a circle - a circle of a hundred magus; something else never before attempted - into their five superiors at the centre. And they, the Tribunal, led by their Staff-Bearer, would direct that power into the vast warding spell that rose across the west of Ammandorn.

A perfect mastery of magic. Of the power born to their blood.

The flicker of a smile came unbidden to his lips - and was quashed a moment later.

He moved into the centre of the chamber, up onto the raised platform, where his most immediate inferiors stood.

The two youngest women of their number moved to either side of him, as the older two did, opposite.

Formally, he lay his ebony staff of office on the floor at his feet, and gave a sharp nod for the others to begin. Sansurath turned and gestured for the lesser magus to take their places throughout the room beyond.

As a mass shuffling of feet, and swaying of robes, stilled into an encircling wall of ebony and azure around them; the two young women to either side reached out to join their hands with his.

Salynath and Eranath each did the same to the other, older High Magus.

The four began to chant. Monotonously. Echoingly. Their voices resonated with an astounding deepness amidst the cavernous air of the chamber.

Ragmurath could not help a moment - whether in pleasure or disdain - to survey the magus standing before him.

A perfect mastery of magic.

He closed his eyes.

Deep magics arced, silently, through his hands; throes of invisible power imbued in his blood. And alive in the phrases of chanting upon the air.

Power coursed throughout the bodies of the men and women all around. Power seethed beneath the words, the voices, the flesh.

- His power. Alone.

He began to weave the focus of the spell.

The sneer was lost in the depths of his mind, as a multitude of magics, thrummed and coursed and danced all around. Amidst an unseen dark. His place, the focus, lay within the flawless infinitude of the spell around - in the truest centre of the circles all-surrounding him. His will wove amidst the magics of the others, through mind and flesh and bone, and was swept amidst them all - above.

He was above it all; for a moment, above an endless void of terrible and perfect power; of utter and complete control.

This power, above all else, was the true power of their blood. The power of a hundred magus joined to their leader in body and soul.

This power was their right; it was, and had always been, the very essence of their birth -

It was perfection.

- But it was marred.

- The memory - the quiet emptiness, slipped unbidden amidst the perfect void of the spell. A bare intruder, a silent whisper, that tainted the utter perfection of the spell.

He had lost her. Despite the power of his blood. And the overarching authority of his station, even them. He had lost - to something so small, and so weak -

A snarl filled the emptiness of the void. Rage, contempt, disdain, birthed a surge of flame that eclipsed the thought, the weakness, the failing of the flesh. That the thought, the taint, had dared to manifest now - amidst a maelstrom of perfect and complete power, of infinite and impossible mastery - for even the briefest moment -

Anger burned the thought away; rage, cold, and utter disdain.

He would not allow such weakness - he would not allow it to be -

Power was his; it was his right by blood. And now was mastered. As ever.

The flames of his core, and of the spell, blazed with the flawless throes of the spell. A hundred bodies channelled the full force of their beings into him; into the hands of his will, and the unrelenting mastery of his mind.

The rage burned out; burned back, into the infinite, perfect void. His control was complete; mastery was so very far beneath him.

He turned his eyes to the west - to the lands where his enemies lay. A hundred eyes followed in his wake. With a force to shatter the will of the world, the spell carried him to the distant west of Ammandorn.

The mass consciousness of the hundred magus swept across the reach of the land; to the edge of its western defences, where the ancient warding spell yet lay.

Deep amidst the void, half-concealed by the unmoving maelstrom of power that encompassed him, he felt the warding hum beneath. Linked between twelve keeps across the breadth of their land, the ancient spell resonated with a power unseen.

A power - that, amidst this new maelstrom, seemed almost immaterial.

Disdain flourished anew.

The deep magics were instruments of understanding, of subtlety and unseen power.

And he was their absolute master.

- Movement drew the collective eyes of the spell surrounding him.

The gaze of the void beneath swept upwards to the solitary keep, in the shade of the jagged mass of rock that was the Dagger Slopes.

Magrestus.

To the west of which, now, the enemy's mammoth horde approached - a black stain that in moments would be erased from the land.

The void surged beneath; a tenuous breath - the last of the myriad spells intertwined perfectly into one - drawn in preparation to exert a force no magus had mastered before.

For a moment, his mind was silent; the disdain that defined his control quietened, and subsided. For a moment, all there was within, and without, was power.

The Staff-Bearer, of the Magus Tribunal, would show the world their ultimate mastery. His, utter mastery.

- The host of goblins, and incarnates, and their mammoth weapons of war neared the wall of the keep.

Neared the edge of the vast warding spell that would exert a subtle destruction upon them should them cross; into the lands of the east.

The spell that would serve as the channel for the destruction of the spell they now controlled.

Ragmurath paused.

The spell around him had threaded itself amidst the weave of the warding throughout the northwest. Its thrum resonated in perfect synchronicity with the magics of the far more ancient spell. Beneath, a hundred minds now focused upon the crux of the keep that stood before the host.

The focus of their power, of the destruction that was to be unleashed. The edge of the unseen sword that would cut their enemies down.

A moment passed, and the outer circles had finished - now, they waited for him.

The last of the deep magics that defined his blood, the most intricate part of the mastered spell, coursed their way through the will of his mind - an edge of the wave that rose behind -

- He stabbed out - with a will to break the course of the world.

Magics surged; magics swept through him with the force of the hundred bodies all around. For a moment - in that moment of the spell they wielded - the power loomed before him as an immensity beyond understanding; an immensity, perfect, cold, and terrible.

Then the tide came crashing down - sweeping through him with an agony the defied knowing, and an ecstasy that could not be born. And dragged him, unwilling, into a limitless, all-consuming dark.

In an instant, beneath the enemy's host, beneath the fifteen thousand goblins and incarnates, and the hundreds of siege towers and war-machines they manned, the ground rumbled. And shook. A vibration that ran as deep as the bedrock of the earth, now resonated upwards through their feet and flesh and bones.

And for a moment after was then silent.

Before the ground split.

As though torn instantly away from beneath, the earth beyond the wall of the keep collapsed into a massive crevice hundreds of feet deep. In an instant, a mile of solid ground had opened into the endless immensity of a chasm, stretching jagged fingers of crumbling earth rapaciously outwards from its edge.

Its sudden and terrible depths, now open to the sky.

Beneath, in the black chasm, beyond the sheerness of its edges - as sharp as any stone could be - a lightless sea of churned earth now held place. Perfectly still, and unmoving. Undisturbed.

In the instant the earth had opened, into a collapsing pit of rock, and soil, and crushing debris, it had swallowed the near entirety of the goblin host. A cascading tide of earth, and what lay beneath, had swept away fifteen thousand foes; and buried them beneath the weight of an unfathomable, motionless sea.

A cloud of dust, that would be seen for miles and perhaps for days, rose in a towering plume above the sudden chasm. White, and hoary, and drifting. The wind would carry it east.

Obscured now amidst the immensity of the rising cloud, yet still remained the keep the goblins had come to raze. One of the twelve that composed the ancient warding spell that had protected Ammandorn since its inception.

Magrestus stood, still, at the edge of the perfect chasm.

But, now, its western wall had been torn away.

* * *

Syla lay, sprawled across the grass. Under the eternal, azure blue of the cloudless sky. Beneath the soft, warm, light of the southern sun.

She could not breathe.

She could not cry. The pain that constricted her chest, strangled even the simplest of will from her throat.

She could not scream. Or cry.

Beyond the gently rolling hills to the east, beyond the flat stretch of grassland that continued inevitably there, and further - she could feel it. The scream no voice could bear.

She had to feel it.

She could not run. She could not scream. She could do nothing else but stand, amidst a swirling storm of blinding, argent glare. A storm of perfect, whirling crystal -

All she could do was stare.

The blood had run from her nose; a steady, warm trickle. Its soft, metallic, saltiness had touched the frozen warping of her lips, and seeped down, into the twisted crack of her mouth. She could do nothing to stop it; all she could do was stand, amidst the storm, and stare.

As the life inside her was ravaged. As her soul was strangled beneath the helpless scream of her eyes.

She could not cry. Or run. Or sleep.

The memories haunted her dreams. Her life -

Her mother had been killed. She had loved her - and hated her - she loved her.

Her mother had been murdered by the same man that had violated her will; who had ripped it bodily from the depths of her deepest core. Who savaged her existence.

And there was nothing that she could do - there was nothing that she could have done.

As helpless as she had been, at the centre of a whirling storm of argent crystal, now she was again, as she lay stretched unwilling, and unbreathing, upon the grass. She did not have the will to stand.

Her stark white hair, was blown astir by the breeze.

She could not scream. Any more than the spell alive in the east.

- It was a violation - that which that defined her existence. Her blood. Her soul. It was a violation.

Her hair was as white, now, as were the shards of whirling crystal. As violently argent as the glare of the storm around her.

She was powerless. She was weak. All she wanted to do was cry -

To let the helpless sorrow fall, and never stop falling, from the faded, blood-shot azure of her eyes. Until the moment of darkness that would not end inevitably took her.

She was helpless. She was weak. She was -

She forced her way to her feet.

Despite the coating of dirt, that marred the gaunt whiteness of her cheek, and the tangle of argent hair that yet fluttered over her face amidst the breeze, she moved herself a step forward.

She forced her feet to move.

Behind her - and around, the knights had stopped and gazed at the magus, fallen suddenly prostrate to the ground. None had approached her. They still stared at her.

She moved away, to the eastern edge of the encampment.

Towards -

The magics flared in her hands; invisible, intangible, and silent. The deep magics that were her soul; that were -

She reached out.

And touched the warding that yet lay screaming, somewhere in the distance; the ancient spell that spanned the land. Violated and suffering. She reached out with the hands of a mother comforting her child; a memory; one she had long forgotten, or that might only have been imagined -

She held it there, for a moment. It was all -

It hurt more than the minutes of silent screaming, the inimical terror that had filled her eyes. It hurt more than the violation that had been forced inside her, and through her. The violation that had continued with the news of her mother's death -

For a moment, she bore its cry. It was all that she could do.

All that was within her power.

It was all that she could do -
Chapter 21

The magus had dispersed the patrols. The streets, in the districts surrounding the storehouses, were clear. They had been given the exact routes of the guardsmen throughout the night; where each and every man was supposed to be.

They had planned the assault accordingly.

They had known they could evade all but two of the patrols, and they had; those men and women whom they could not, instead, they had ambush in the most concealed of areas.

The arrows had been silent - and lethal. Neither patrol had uttered so much a gurgle.

Under the ever-present light of the white marble towers, crowned in their massive and perpetual yellow bonfires, Athan and his knights had moved through the same marble of the streets.

Now, he and Morrick, mounted the open staircase, held against the side of the closest building to the first warehouse. The topmost level, contained by a low railing that formed a rooving balcony, overlooked the two guardsmen at its entrance.

A patrol, atop horseback, moved slowly through the street before them.

Spread across the white marble of the roof, Athan watched as the horses, a bay and a black, moved beyond sight - and turned a corner. He did not need to signal.

The younger knight beside him rose as swiftly as he did - their bows knocked, and drawn.

They let their arrows loose.

Only one of the two men, with a lethargic glance that evinced hours of monotonous inaction, saw the knights atop the building - before an arrow came to rest through his left eye socket.

The two guards dropped; their pikes clattering to the floor. The loudest sounds that had been made.

Already, four figures had dashed from their cover beneath, and moved to the large double doors that sealed the entrance to the warehouse. One carried a set of keys that would unlock the partitions without the application of force.

The doors opened; the group below disappeared - dragging the bodies of the two guardsmen in behind them.

For some long minutes, Athan, and the knight beside him, waited. Kept watch.

The minutes seemed to stretch infinitely on.

- The group re-emerged.

The four fled back, swiftly, across the openness of the street. And into the cover of the buildings.

Morrick had already moved across the roof, to the first of the descending steps behind.

Athan followed a moment after.

This was only the first warehouse; they had seven more left to them.

They had to strike at least two more.

And it was doubtful that the patrol - when it returned - would mistake the smears of blood, left where the guardsmen, minutes ago, had been.

* * *

Maryssa moved down the narrow confines of the back-street that led to the inn. Sardorn strode wordlessly, under the grey haze of dawn, behind her.

She did not yet trust that it was safe; though she allowed a sliver of hope that the problem had been dealt with. There had been no captures, no persons missing, amongst the other safe-houses. It appeared to all that it was as it ever had been. But she did not trust that evidence.

Not yet.

They would continue to hide; Sardorn and herself. Getting word to Hal had been impossible; not without being seen. They would have cast suspicion on him; and his then sudden departure would have piqued it further.

They might have drawn the eyes of more groups to their doings. And that was not a risk she was prepared to take.

Even if it cost Hal his life.

Sardorn had not said anything, after it was discussed. If more enemies were coming, they could not risk the tangible proof of their blood. And the simplest truth was; that they might lead them directly to the magus - if those enemies were not already watching him, in the hopes and ensnaring them all at once.

Hal was safest if they did nothing; or he was already dead.

She could not mistake the emotions that were quelled in the man behind her - the coldness of his gaze spoke more than she could stand. She was right. He knew. And grief wanted nothing more than to wrap his strong hands around her throat and strangle it. And then himself.

He would endure. Whatever loss.

As they both had before.

- They would speak again with Nareen.

Thus far, neither she nor her daughter had disappeared. While they remained free, and capable, she had to garner what information she could from them. If they had seen anything. Heard anything.

Been visited by 'some' that should be suspected.

This morning's task was more dangerous than she should have allowed. But she had to.

The back door of the inn arrived amidst the pre-dawn gloom all too quickly. The characteristic knock alerted the innkeep to the presence and identity of her visitors.

After a few moments, the blade of the lantern light slid out from underneath the door. Another few moments passed, as the barring length of wood was removed, within. The door opened a crack, to reveal the older woman's questioning face. The fear that eased unseen throughout her features was unmistakable to the younger woman who had known her too long.

The innkeep allowed a breath of relief. Silently, she gestured for them to enter.

Maryssa moved into the closest of the back rooms. Sardorn followed a pace behind. Nareen closed, though did not re-secure, the door behind; the lantern flickered warily on the table against the wall.

"What are you doing here?" the older woman asked; as stoic as her façade yet was, so too was her voice.

Maryssa paused, for a moment, "Has there been anything suspicious?"

Nareen shook her head, "There has only been the usual customers; no new faces."

"Have any questions been asked of you?"

"None." the innkeep paused, "You should not have come here. There might be some watching the place -"

"I know." Maryssa interjected, "If there are, hopefully they will follow us."

The older woman met her with an admonishing glare - you know better than that, the gaze said tacitly.

Something flicked across Maryssa's own; but she remained silent. She glanced aside at the older necromancer beside her.

"You'd best -" Nareen began.

- But was cut short by a knocking on the door, from outside. Twice. Then a pause. Then three more times, the last upon the door frame.

It could only be Halthyn. He had returned for some unknown reason.

The older man beside her looked up - beneath the simple, implacable features, there was a bright, desperate hope. Quashed by a moment of pragmatic flatness; Sardorn reached into the depths of his cloak, and gripped the hilt of the blade concealed there.

It could not be the magus.

Nareen moved, carefully, for the door -

Maryssa stopped her. A slight grip upon the older woman's arm conveyed her intent to open the door herself. And face whatever lay outside - and whatever with which they were armed.

She opened the door to the back-street outside -

A face that caught her entirely off-guard stared, unconcealed, by a hood, before her.

Above a heavy brown beard that concealed most of his features, two attentive hazel eyes gazed out levelly at the necromancer before him. Framed by the matted locks of his shoulder-length brown hair.

For a moment, all she did was glare at him.

A long moment.

Casually, carefully, she stepped back, and held out gesture for him to enter the inn.

He allowed what might have been the beginnings of a smirk, and stepped into the enclosure of the back-room before her.

She closed the door in the new, and confining, silence, behind him.

She turned around, between the man and the door.

After surveying the room openly, he glanced over his shoulder, and turned to face her.

- He opened his mouth to speak -

Sardorn was quicker; the knife flashed dull silver as it emerged from the folds of his cloak - and came to rest beneath the man's jaw, along the bearded flesh of his neck.

There was no surprise in the hazel gaze.

For a long moment, all she did was hold those eyes - and consider giving the slight nod that would open the neck beneath. Sardorn waited, unmoving, behind the man whose presence had only sparked a surge of affirmation, and fear.

Maryssa glanced aside, to the uncertain face of the innkeep, "Please get our guest a chair."

Nareen moved away.

A minute passed before the older woman returned. Sardorn moved aside for her to place the chair behind the man.

The older necromancer laid a bare hand on his shoulder, and pushed him down, into the seat. The knife remained at his back.

"Elle'dred." Maryssa said, "Champion of the White Wolf?"

The man gave a tilt, a nod, of his head.

"Are you here to arrest us?" she asked, levelly.

There was a tick at the side of his mouth, before he answered, calmly, "No."

She stared at him for a long moment, "Why have you come?"

"Because I am a friend...and I need your help."

The fragile silence returned; Sardorn met the corner of her gaze, a tacit question.

"You understand; the fact that you were not captured by the guards only serves to cast more suspicion on you."

"Yes." he admitted, "But I knew you would betray me from the start."

- If you are interested -

A moment of doubt flickered through her mind.

"How do you know I will not, again?"

"I don't." - the lightness around his eyes belied an almost grin; but that was not enough to stop me.

There was a moment of foolishness in his gaze.

"Why are you here?"

The mirth, if it was mirth, subsided and was replaced by a glint of complete seriousness, "I intend to rewrite the wrongs that have been done to you. And to Ammandorn. And in that regard I need your help...both because of the resources you command, and because of who you are." he paused, "I know you have been fighting for a long time, and I know what I am asking goes against everything you may think it best...and I wouldn't be surprised if you have been made this offer before, by those who are hunting you - but it is what is needed." he paused again; his gaze had not left hers, "Ammandorn cannot survive with the lies that have defined it hanging over its head...and if it can, it shouldn't."

She held the hazel glint, of the man seated, before her.

The silence returned for a time. He did not look away.

"I am asking you to trust me," - this time, he did laugh; short, brief, "...I know I couldn't be asking more. But I also know that you could easily kill me, with a touch of your hand, and yet I came here alone - unarmed, anyway..."

With that, the hazel glint of his gaze informed her that he was finished.

She stared.

And for a longer moment, she continued to stared. And hold the open, occasionally blinking, eyes of the man seated before her.

She glanced up. At the older man behind him - and nodded.

The knife drew back and fell with a sudden swiftness.

Its butt connected with the back of the Elle'dred's skull. The blow pushed him forwards; he slumped- toppled out of the chair - unconscious.

She gazed at the body of the knight, curled at her feet, for a moment.

Again, she met the older necromancer's level gaze - we should kill him; his eyes said; a statement, a question.

She looked back down.

We should kill him.

* * *

He lay, recumbent. The softness of a pillow supported his head. The firmness of a mattress held beneath.

- He despised it.

Slowly, forcefully, he levered himself up to sit. The movement sent stabbing pains down his legs. He swung them over the edge of the bed.

His aide raised no objection.

- He forced himself up onto his feet.

He nearly collapsed from the pain. It renewed the trickle of blood from his nose. Offending red.

A sneer twisted his face; he would not allow weakness.

He staggered a step -

His leg collapsed, beneath him.

- His aide's hands caught his chest, and arm. Dus stood beside him; he glared up at the eyes of the man who now lifted him back up, and returned him to the bed.

He bit back a snarl, as Dus released his hold. His aide waited beside him, as was proper.

The indignation - the man's infraction - passed slowly. Ragmurath took a breath to steady himself. The blood continued to trickle down his nose.

He raised a hand, and waved for the towel. His aide handed it to him dutifully.

The Staff-Bearer would manage to wipe the blood away himself. The trickle stopped after a few minutes.

It had been days. Since the casting of the spell. Still, his body was dogged by a lingering weakness. A fatigued he had yet to overcome. He despised weakness.

Forty, of the hundred others, had not survived. High Magus Salynath included.

The magics of the spell had afflicted an exhaustion that her body had been unable to bear.

He despised weakness.

High Magus Gerdanath, and Sansurath had both survived. The thought was an irony that swelled as bitter gall in the back of his throat; for a moment, it masked the metallic taste of the blood.

The reports had come in - the goblin host had been decimated. What small, disparate shreds of the massively larger force that had survived, had disbanded back towards the Valley of Ythordor. The attack had been utterly thwarted.

- A thousand of their own men had died.

As the earth had opened, and shocks had spread throughout the ground, and throughout the buildings throughout the township and the keep; a number had collapsed.

As had the western wall that protected the extent of the fortification. Hundreds of men were manning the battlement when it had collapsed. And hundreds more had been beneath the buildings themselves.

- It did not matter. Such were the costs in war.

As the pain of his attempt to stand once again subsided, he could not deny the smallest pang of satisfaction. The war would draw to a pause in the wake of such a defeat. And it would last long enough to allow the reinforcements to arrive. The war would turn again in their favour.

Dus moved beside him; and poured a cup of the herb broth, from the silver flagon on the nightstand, that would annul the remainder of the pain.

He had not ordered his aide to -

There was a pause in the sharpness of the thought; for a moment, his gaze was caught on the twisted scarring of his aide's hand. On the warped mass of white and sickly pink flesh.

Leniency.

Dus lifted the cup to his blood-encrusted lips. The astringent bite of the herbs, boiled in the broth, concealed the metallic flavour of the dried redness. The medicine immediately began to dull the pain.

He managed another bitter swallowed - and glanced -

The eyes of his aide, yet standing over him, met his. For a moment, Dus held his gaze.

The man lowered the cup. And his eyes.

- He bit back a snarl. Or a sneer.

Ragmurath drew in a recovering breath, as the broth warmed the depths of his stomach. The pain had entirely dissipated. And the beginnings of the euphoric somnolence gripped his head.

His aide replaced the cup near its accompanying flagon, and waited.

After a moment, staring harshly at the magus beside his bed, Ragmurath turned away and closed his eyes.

"Again." he commanded.

The strange, smoothly coarse touch of the man's scarred hand met his - his aide's other hand grasped his Staff-Bearer's between them. Dus began to chant the low monotonous phrases of the spell.

- If nothing else, the man, the prisoner, his aide, was a skilled and powerful magus.

There was a mastery, and a finesse, that was not to be denied, in his touch.

Leniency. It echoed amidst the somnolent throes of the dreaming spell.

The one thing he was capable of doing - that he had forced himself to do - admittedly, only with the support of his aide, was this. Each night, amidst the hours of recovering sleep that his body yet required, he would reach out, and enter Keylyn's dreams. To visit the nightmare that ever haunted the magus.

Slowly, the black void of sleep became the grey haze before colour; and colour itself became dream. A field of empty, pallid green, beneath a cloud-choked sky.

Keylyn lay, as ever, across the field of grass. Naked still, though now his wounds had closed into the pink lines of scars. Only a few continued to bleed. And at that, only barely.

He still clutched the bloodhound's mask, in hands cut by its edge.

Ragmurath moved slowly, to the body's nearest side.

As gradually, he lowered himself to the grass beside the ill-tended blonde hair of its head. A hand fell on the magus' up-facing arm.

- An aged and gentle hand; a hand that was not his own.

Another reached down, and removed the mask from the magus' slackening grasp. The perfect silver of the mirror, and the reflection that ever remained, rose and then melted into a wisp of momentary, evanescent smoke. The mirror, the mask, he no longer needed.

Carefully, he raised the body's head, until it rested on his lap.

For a moment, the head remained - then turned itself, slowly, up to face him.

The face of the man the body desired most, alone, stared down at him.

This was not his dream; this dream belonged to Keylyn; and that thought no longer sparked a mote of anger - this was a torture so deserving, that he himself, as the face above, could only smile.

A gentle - disappointed smile.

The eyes below, ever red from tears, looked again away, "...I'm sorry." the body whimpered, softly.

"I know." - Hadrath's voice spoke softly, "You can say it however much you like."

The head beneath sobbed again -

"But I will be here, with you, every night."

* * *

Elle'dred woke. His head throbbed with pain.

He was not dead.

For that intensely relieving fact, he was grateful.

He laughed - a short laugh; despite the pain, and constricting daze, that yet hung about his head and vision. It settled into a grimace before a smirk.

For a minute, all he did was breath; and clench his eyes closed to hold back the pain. Slowly, achingly, he levered himself up to sit - and managed a surveying glance around.

He was in an alley; a dirty, and malodorous alley; amidst the shadow of two high-rising buildings on either side. Something that could have been faeces lingered on the broken shards of the paving some feet away; it leaked into the runnel of water, caught by the intervening ditch at the centre of the alleyway, and that ran down past him to the rusted drain not an arm's-length behind.

The dirty brown water had run into the matted locks of his hair. And beard.

He blinked away a moment of forbearing. And tried to wipe away any filth where his facial hair was damp. Amidst the blurriness of his vision, and against the darkness of his leather gloves amidst the over-shadow of the alley, he could not tell if anything came away smeared.

He sighed. He was alive. For that, he was grateful.

He tried to rise - the constricting in his head prevented the motion a moment after.

He settled back down; against the building's solid wall at his back.

Here, amidst this less than frequented path between two high-rising buildings, he sat and breathed.

It was all too much -

An instinctive hand had raised from the coarse, grey, stone of the paving, and checked his belt for the dagger hidden behind, at his waist. It was still there.

- As was the finer touch of parchment, wedged into the space between his leathers and his waist, behind its handle. Carefully, he slid it out from its confining place, and brought it around from between the somewhat soiled folds of his cloak, and the simple shirt beneath.

It was a folded piece of parchment - a note.

The beginnings of a smirk crept across his features.

He opened the folded parchment, and began to read the elegant script, scrawled in black ink upon it.

At nightfall, in four days' time. The White Willow. Bring the others - all of them.

...another place, and time. Of your choosing.

Elle'dred glanced up from the piece of parchment, at the grey wall of the building opposite him; the edge of the light, at its highest reaches, told him it was sometime after midday, though not yet approaching dusk.

He freed a sigh.

It was all too much -

He closed his eyes, and allowed the fullness of the smirk. 
Chapter 22

The storehouses had been poisoned. A significant part of the city's food reserves had been tainted. It would rot - quickly. It would be discovered soon; if it had not already been.

They had not been caught; none of their four groups had been accosted that night.

The patrols had discovered the slain soldiers, and roused the full city guard. But they had been far from the storehouses, by then. The patrols still swept through the streets; twice as common as was the norm.

- It would take weeks to replace the reserves.

In that time, the city would starve - those that were not already starving.

The thought had not subsided, despite the days.

Athan stared at the white marble of the basement's wall; at the hoary waves and whorls in the stone.

The plan was sound. The unrest that would be provoked, and the discord that would be instilled, would what the resistance needed. What the archivists had said was required.

Athan had not disagreed. And would not.

The people would starve. There would be riots. More people would be cut down by the swords of the city's guard. Dissent would be rampant - instilled by the Tribunal, against them.

The people would starve. More would die.

All provoked, by those who were meant to protect them.

Athan stared at the hoary, white marble of the basement wall.

* * *

Elle'dred moved through the streets, under the darkening haze of dusk. Palai'dred, Ellario, and Yrradorn, held pace behind him.

The thought, that tonight they would suffer yet another betrayal, manifested once more. As it had repeatedly throughout the last four days. Doubt and uncertainty were constants.

They always would be. He was ever who he was -

Elle'dred smirked to himself.

This time, if another betrayal was immanent, they would have no recourse for escape. The irony weighed heavily on him, that, this time, it would be his doubt that there would be a betrayal that would seal its effectiveness. He almost laughed aloud at the sardonic absurdity of the thought.

- The sign, bearing the name of the inn, hung pendant above the street ahead.

If this was a betrayal -

He quashed the thought. It would do no good to ruminate further.

They approached the grey façade of the building. For a moment, Elle'dred paused, and stared at the door. Apprehension, anticipation, fear. They were constants. Doubt. Uncertainty.

He smirked. And opened the door.

Beyond, the room was mostly empty; save for the three tables pressed against the eastern wall, and the handful of chairs that accompanied them there. Save for the three women, and young man, standing - waiting - on the far side of the enclosure. Behind the intervening, level surface of a fourth table, and its chairs.

Two he recognised; the innkeep. And Maryssa. The young man, and young woman, he had not seen before.

Elle'dred moved several paces further in, and drew to a halt, as each of his knight entered, and took place behind him.

The door shut with a quiet thud, a moment after.

For some time longer, all he did was meet the eyes of one woman opposite him.

"These are all your men?" Maryssa asked.

"Yes." Elle'dred said, not breaking her stare.

- The door opened, again, behind them.

Palai'dred and Ellario both turned - as he did -

The open entryway admitted the older, male necromancer. His implacable, dark gaze stared past the two uncertain knights, and their Champion at the centre. The older man met the eyes of the woman on the other side of the room - and nodded.

Elle'dred turned back to Maryssa.

He had told the truth. Of that, the woman opposite him now was certain.

Suspicion still lingered in her gaze - that she was not entirely concealing it, was a fact that set Elle'dred at ease. If an ambush was to come, it would not be at the hands of guardsmen.

Maryssa held his eyes for a moment longer, "If you and your knights would take a seat." she said, flatly, with a slight gesture at the chairs opposite her; she turned to the older woman beside her, "Nareen, if you would get our guests some drinks."

The innkeep, and the youngest woman beside, moved away to the far wall, and into the depths of the kitchen beyond the open archway.

Elle'dred proceeded to the table, and drew out one of the central of the four chairs placed at the nearest side. Each of his knights did the same.

Seated, he continued to hold the gaze of the necromancer, as she also lowered herself to the chair opposite. The young man moved away, towards the side of the room, where the older male necromancer had taken place.

Nareen, and the young woman, returned with a platter of mugs, amidst the slight whiffs of ale. The two placed a cup each before the seated knights, and three more, for Maryssa and themselves.

The older male necromancer, and the young man at his side, stood a distance away; a wary, stoic gaze - and a somewhat restless one from the youth - were fixed on the new guests of the inn. Neither man made a move, beyond the steady, and quicker, draw and exhale of their breaths.

After the innkeep, and the young woman had come to stand, behind and on either side of the seated necromancer, Elle'dred reached out for his mug, and drew it to his lips. He could not help a moment's pause - and a glance up at the necromancer opposite -

I hope it isn't poisoned; the question was conveyed tacitly by his eyes.

Her gaze replied only with a level ambiguity.

Elle'dred drank a mouthful of the golden brown ale; it had crispness which was welcomed by the dryness of his mouth, and a following bite that cleared his head, and his throat.

Palai'dred, and Ellario, each - hesitantly - accepted the drinks provided. Yrradorn made no move for the mug before him.

Elle'dred set his own back down upon the level coarseness of the wood, and threw a momentary glance aside at the yet standing necromancer, and youth, beside.

He returned his gaze to Maryssa's, "I am fairly certain then that I did not earn your trust?"

"No." the female necromancer returned, flatly, "And I cannot say that that will change." she paused, "...however, I am willing to listen."

For that, Elle'dred could not have been more grateful; he sighed.

Another glance aside, this time at the uncertain face of the innkeep, filled the pause that followed, "I have already told you why we are here. I don't think it needs repeating."

"What do you want from us?" she asked, sharply.

Elle'dred held her eyes, "I want you to join the resistance."

For a moment, there was silence, "The resistance." Maryssa repeated, levelly.

The Champion let a tick of his mouth, "Some two hundred knights of the White Wolf hall; all that survived the magus' coup upon the government. The various rebels throughout Ammandorn - those that we have managed, so far, to contact." he paused, "And a magus, whom is and will remain my second in command...and who has, also, turned against her order."

For a long while Maryssa remained silent, "That is all you have?" she asked.

Elle'dred, for a moment, was quiet; he allowed a smirk - a chuckle, "At the moment, that is all that we have to combat the full might of Ammandorn, yes." his insouciance had not fazed the seated woman opposite; he returned to an weighted seriousness, "As I had said, we intend to incite a war between men...against the armies, with the people of Ammandorn on our side."

Maryssa did not reply.

Elle'dred continued, "The magus have too secure a hold of the government, and the military. Attempting to sway the generals would likely only alert them to our plans...and undermine the resistance before it had a chance." he paused, "I hope, that once the conflict has started, some of the armies might come over to our side."

Maryssa, still, remained unspeaking.

"In that regard, I need your help." he continued, a moment after, "The fighting will come here, inevitably. And in fact, I was going to ask you, to provoke that fighting, when the time comes."

Maryssa glanced down, at the mug of ale on the table; after a moment, she reached out, and raised it to her lips. She took a mouthful, and swallowed.

Elle'dred watched, as she placed the mug back down on the table - and returned her eyes to his. The gaze - while it had not lost any of its flatness - did not betray any other, more disconcerting, emotions.

It quietly prompted him to continue.

"I am not going to give you any promises," Elle'dred said, mirroring the flatness of the necromancer's gaze in his tone, "I am not going to promise that when this is all over, necromancers will have joint rule, or even that you will no longer be persecuted. I know you wouldn't believe me, if I did." he paused, "I will only repeat what I have said before...twice. What is done to your blood is wrong; there's nothing that can cover that fully...I do not intend to let that crime continue; I intend to stop it. And to bring to light what has been done, in the past. But let me make one other thing clear...beyond the leaders of the current illegal government, I do not intend to hold the entirety of the magus blood - or the archivists, responsible for their crimes. In simple truth, most, if not all of them, are not wilful participants of those crimes. And I do not intend to exchange one blood prejudice for another."

In the intervening silence that followed, Maryssa left his gaze and for a while looked at the coarse wooden surface of the table. She glanced back up, and over at the youth standing beside the older necromancer.

"I have no objection to that." Maryssa said, "Or to the magus who is your second in command."

That caught Elle'dred entirely off-guard - and for a moment, provided an inadvertent and bewildering relief. He glanced aside at the youth, at the side of the room; the thought occurred to him as to what might have prompted the answer - accompanied by all the doubts and worries that it was only a placation. He allowed the uncertainty to subside.

"There is one other thing, I intend to give you, beyond my word," he met Maryssa's gaze lightly, "And whether or not you intend to join the resistance." Or yet still betray me.

He glanced aside, to the Sword-Bearer seated beside him. Palai'dred unshouldered the bedroll hung at her side, placed it on the table, and proceeded to loosen the straps that held the object, wrapped in its own concealing cloth, within the roll of the material.

Elle'dred caught the slight tensing of the older male necromancer - at the side of the room - at what the Sword-Bearer was doing. Elle'dred held Maryssa's gaze, disarming any suspicion that manifested unperceived there.

Palai'dred unfurled the bedroll, to reveal the length of the enwrapped object.

Elle'dred lifted the bound cloth from the surface of the bedroll - prompting the youth to step forward, although seemingly more to get a closer look at the enwrapped object, than to menace the seated knights.

Elle'dred held the length of cloth out over the table; his eyes did not leave Maryssa's.

The necromancer reached out, and took a hold of the enwrapped object.

She laid it down on the table before her. Some moments passed as she undid the bindings that held the cloth in place, followed then by the enwrapping itself.

The dull silver length of Athyndyrra stared up at the necromancer seated beyond its hilt.

The barest hint of surprise - and uncertainty - played around the casual flatness of her eyes.

Elle'dred broke the silence, "The sword's name is Athyndyrra. And she is a necromancer's blade." - the woman's eyes lifted to meet his unwavering own, "She belonged to the necromancer I considered...and still do, one of my closest friends. He is dead now. But before he died, he made sure I had this. He said it belonged in the hands of a necromancer."

Elle'dred held the necromancer's gaze opposite.

Maryssa reached out to grasp the leather of the hilt -

"I will warn you, though," Elle'dred continued; with a measure of honest concern, "This blade shows - to one who grasps the hilt - their death. Undeniable and unavoidable." he paused; his eyes had fallen on the blade lain across the table; he let a tick of his mouth, "It was how he knew he would die. And why one of my other -" he stopped; it wasn't the reason. The thought resounded, unsuppressed, "I don't understand the sword. And I'll admit I am still a little afraid of it. But I trusted him."

Maryssa's hand retreated from the hilt of the blade. She glanced up into his honest gaze.

A moment passed, and she lifted the edge of the cloth and placed it back over, covering, the sword.

She lifted her gaze to Elle'dred's again; what lingered there, underneath the calm, level shimmer of her eyes, he could not say. The thought occurred quietly, again, a betrayal might be yet to come.

And as ever, nearly provoked a smirk to rise to his face.

It was all too much -

Maryssa titled her head, a movement forward. A nod.

* * *

Athan moved through the streets, under the limitless roof of the metropolis chamber above.

The archivists had arranged a meeting with the leaders of another cell, in operation in the northern districts of the city. The man - the guildmaster - had requested the presence of the knights. He had wanted to see them for himself. The bloodhound, Gwyneth, would be at the meeting.

The guildmaster had wanted to hear what they had to say, from them. And to propose some other business that he would not, otherwise, divulge.

Nyrus had raised the concerns about moving openly through the city streets; heightened now, due to the frequency of the patrols. And the institution of a much stricter curfew at night.

The city guard had been doubled; soldiers moved in force throughout the streets. Men and women of a newly recruited army. There was word, that people were being arrested. In the night. On no charge. None had been seen again.

Whether that was a new development or not, Athan had been uncertain. The archivists did not seem surprised by the information.

It seemed it was only now more frequent.

Athan had not said anything about the risks; he was leaving Nyrus with the archivists. Only he, and knight Morrick, had made their way out of the confines of the inn, and into the early morning streets of the white marble chamber.

They had passed four patrols thus far. Twice, the riders had stopped, and questioned a citizen, or a group, moving their own innocuous way through the streets.

They had arrested an old man who objected to their interrogation.

Athan had held their pace, despite it.

They had yet some hours of tense and apprehensive travel before they would reach the establishment where the guildmaster resided. The likelihood of them accosting a patrol that desired to question them, only increased with each passing district.

Athan proceeded into the narrow confines an alleyway. And out into the street beyond.

This district was clustered with refugees. Many families. And as many alone.

- The massive wagon, however, was not expected.

If the food caravan had ever arrived on these streets, it would have been no small surprise. And that it was here now, of all times, was source of disconcerting puzzlement.

The taint within the food supply had been discovered; of that there was no doubt.

And the remaining reserves, that they had not attacked, would have been, by necessity, rationed severely.

That sparked the thought that there was a reserve they had not known about - and another notion that brought a sickness and a strangling, disquiet rage to the gut of the knight.

For a long moment, he stared.

- At the guardsmen, handing out food from the back of the wagon, to the starving masses of people all around them. Some part of him flatly refused the gravity of the thought -

But the disbelief disappeared amidst the rage.

There was no secret reserve. Of that, he could be certain.

His restraint, all of it, was bent on not grasping the hilt of his dagger, hidden at his waist.

He continued to stare - as did the knight at his side.

- Movement. Ahead.

The mass of people surged.

There was shouting. And screaming.

A man threw a rock. And impacted the helmet of a guardsman retrieving rations. The man cried out, and clutched the side of his head.

More rocks flew. At the guardsmen at the back of the wagon.

The crowd surged again. Shouting - starving, people thrust against the sudden alarm of the escorting guardsmen. Three were bowled over, and covered by the tide of desperate, rioting people.

The captain, atop her horse, shouted a threat - it was lost amidst the shouting of the mob.

A stone flew past her head. Another struck her horse. The mail of her arm.

She snarled - and drew her sword.

The order was screamed for the others to find arms around her.

- A woman screamed. She was impaled on a guardsman's pike.

The shouting of the mob turned to rage. And violence.

All around the two knights, caught amidst the throngs of the sudden violence and the crowd, people surged, and pushed, and trampled. A child lost hold of her mother's arm, and was swept to the ground, beneath a mass of feet. She cried out -

And was silent, a moment after. People continued to tread over her.

Athan had lost sight of the guardsmen - save for the captain, atop her horse. She had ridden into the ranks of the mob behind, screaming incoherent orders and threats, at the guardsmen and the people before her. In retreat.

She had ridden down more than one, but those behind them had barred her way. Angry, violent hands reached up from all sides to pull her from her mount.

She laid into the faces below with her sword.

Vermillion spray filled the air, along with the cries - and the screams, and the shrieks.

Athan fought his way back through the ever pushing tide of bodies.

Something struck his temple - not thrown - a stone, held by a man or women, as they rushed by him.

The blow sent his senses into a daze. People battered him from every side; he forced himself to fight the daze, and somehow held his footing.

He shoved his way through the crowd.

Towards the alleyway, from where they had come. The alleyway that led out of this district.

No doubt, the alarm had been raised. The patrols in the nearest districts would be on their way. To quell the riot before it spilled over. Into the surrounding streets. If it had not already -

A person smashed into him from the side; nearly knocking off his unsteady feet.

A wet, warm trickle of blood had leaked down from his temple; from the initial injury. Into the beard on his cheek. The dizziness worsened with every step. There was a ringing in his ears. It masked the screams and the shouts. Another person slammed into his side, near toppling him.

A surge of people barred his way. A glittering haze edged on his vision.

A pushed out; shoved the barricade of people aside. Someone, or more, shoved back. And struck out. Instinct alone manifested; he returned the blow. And another.

The young man doubled over, with an unheard and winded scream. Blood spattered against the pavement. Blood covered Athan's hand.

- The alley was only steps away - he shoved a body aside, again.

The enraged face of the old man, lost its balance, reached out to catch itself, and fell - a fall battered by the bodies of moving people all around, and over. Some stumbled, and fell themselves.

Athan shoved his way out, into the narrow confines of the alley - finally ignored by the violence of the mob and the shouting of people.

He staggered four steps into its shadowed depths, and collapsed. One hand bracing the white marble of the wall beside. Forcefully, painfully, he levered himself over to rest his seated back against the implacable stone.

The shouting lingered above the ringing in his ears.

He forced himself again to his feet.

He took a step -

And threw an alarmed glance back.

There was no sign of Morrick behind him, amidst the tide of the crowd.

No sign, amidst the numb glittering that edge his vision.

And from ahead, above the ringing and shouting, he heard the blasts of a guardsman's horn, and the crashing of myriad hooves.

* * *

There was blood. As ever. It trickled steadily from her nose. It would continue to run for some minutes more.

Faldorn wiped away the blood. And dipped the damp mass of the towel into the pail of water.

The water was red. As ever. He would empty it out when he was done.

She breathed weakly, on her cot, beside him. The sallow light of the lantern, on the ground behind, cast a play of hazy shadows across her face.

He wiped the last of the blood away. He emptied the pail of red water onto the grass outside. He set it back down in front of their tent.

- He wanted -

- He wanted a drink.

Slowly, amidst the sparse, and dull light of the waning campfires, he made his way to the flaps of the supply tent. The darkness inside was lifted by the light of the lantern, as he set it aside, atop of the myriad crates.

He moved to the other, and opened it, before him. And removed a wineskin.

He unstoppered it and poured a mouthful; some errant trickles ran down across his chin. Into his beard. Onto his shirt.

He swallowed. And wiped them away.

- He wanted -

The first somnolence of the wine washed the thought away. He took another mouthful.

Another. He put the wineskin back, in the crate.

It had already turned sharp and bitter on his tongue.

He stumbled a dizzy way out; the sallow light of the lantern forgotten, as he stepped outside. There was light enough, for him to find his way.

- To the medical tent.

The magus was asleep, alone, on his cot within there. Faldorn undid the laces of his shirt, and lifted the coarse material up over his head. He dropped it on a cot, or the grass beneath, as he passed.

He stumbled to side of the magus' cot, and slumped to his knees.

He shook the shoulder of the sleeping body in front of him.

The magus opened his eyes. A bleary gaze the looked uncomprehendingly ahead.

The bleariness cleared a moment after - replaced by uncertainty, and else -

Keylyn lift himself up -

As Faldorn pushed a deep, probing, kiss to his lips.

Keylyn pulled back; he turned away.

"Faldorn, no." he muttered, tiredly.

Faldorn pushed another kiss to his lips. There was some resistance, the other man tried - but it slackened. The other man opened his mouth into the sloppiness of the kiss.

Faldorn pulled back, stood, and fumbled at his breeches.

"Fine." the magus muttered, below, "Do whatev-..." he shook his head. And let a breath.

Faldorn pulled him closer. Threw the blanket away from his nakedness. Pushed himself deep inside him. Keylyn moaned with each thrust.

When it was done, Faldorn pulled out, and stepped away. The magus had not climaxed - he did not -

He pulled up his breeches, and left.

As he wandered listlessly back through the camp, towards the tent where the oracle lay - the scent of it filled his nose. The scent of - He hated it. He hated them.

He hated -

- For the damned magus. For the damned -

- He wanted -

He stumbled into the darkness of the tent, to side of his cot. And lay.
Chapter 23

Ragmurath glared at maw of the white marble archway, which framed the outside corridor of the same hoary stone. Either side of the open aperture was trespassed by the swaying, vermillion, edges of the magus guards' robes - who stood there, as ever, on watch.

The fatigue, left in the wake of the destruction spell they had cast, had yet to dissipate fully - but he would no longer tolerate that weakness -

He had overcome it. Some days before.

- Before that which had necessitated this council meeting and been brought to him.

The council chamber, now, was silent. And it would remain silent.

The three other High Magus; Eranath, Gerdanath, and Sansurath - a replacement had yet to be allocated for Salynath - stood awaiting the purpose of their meeting. As did the unacknowledged presence of his aide, amidst the shadows of wall, behind.

Their Staff-Bearer did not glance aside - did not meet their respectful façades - from the restrained ferocity of the glare he levelled on the open corridor outside. On the magus guards that stood there.

- And the four others, that now emerged vermillion across the hoary whiteness of the stone.

They were led by the silver embroidered, crimson robes, of an Inquisitor.

The man or woman's gnarled staved, curled at its highest into a twisted hook, which held the ever dutiful, gilded censer that now filled the chamber with its heavy scent.

The perfect mirror of the mask that erased the man or woman's identity, turned up from beneath the silver-embroidered hem of the cowl that further concealed its reflective features.

The clink of chains entered the chamber, amidst the vermillion folds of the guards.

- The prisoner was thrown, forcefully, brutally, to the floor - in the midst of the three High Magus, and their Staff-Bearer.

The body - the man - stripped of all but the chaffing iron of his chains, at wrist and ankle, lay sprawled across the black and azure stone of the mosaic that was the floor. A spatter of offended red leaked from where his face - uncaught by his hands - had struck the blackness, with a dulled crack.

The body breathed - labouredly. It was all it had the will left to do.

Ragmurath turned the barely-leashed glisten of his gaze on the group of guardsmen, waiting - as their duty dictated - for his acknowledgement.

"Dismissed." he pronounced, levelly, and sharp.

The four vermillion robes left and sealed the enclosure of the council chamber in their wake.

The Inquisitor stood before, and above the gently wheezing body of the prisoner in their midst.

Ragmurath turned his glare on the mirror of the mask, "Repeat the information you have uncovered."

The cowl, and the mask beneath, nodded, "High Magus of the Tribunal," the male's voice began, "This prisoner was apprehended, following the food riot of the fifteenth housing district, five days ago. One of the guardsmen, responsible for quelling the unrest there, recognised this man amidst the other prisoners arrested for inciting the riot. In accordance with the law, he was handed over to my bloodhound squad for interrogation. He is a knight of the White Wolf Hall."

The surprise of the three High Magus, to either side, did not break their collective, strangling silence.

The Inquisitor continued, "During the interrogation, the prisoner revealed the presence of rebellious group forming in secret within the city; and, the presence of two other knights of the White Wolf hall, who had accompanied him from their home base, in the southwest of Ammandorn. Near the forest of Dwener'dier." the voice, concealed by the mask, paused, "The prisoner confessed to being a member of an organised rebellion, seeking to incite a civil war against the Magus order and rightful government of Ammandorn, headed by the Champion of the White Wolf Hall, Elle'dred."

The silence that held each of the other Tribunal Members was absolute.

Ragmurath did not turn his gaze away from the broken, naked body of the prisoner before him - the glisten in his gaze glinted lethally, behind the terrible ice of his restraint.

The Inquisitor resumed, "The Champion -"

"Enough." Ragmurath barked; the Inquisitor was silent; he looked up, at each of the High Magus gathered in the council chamber, "This rebellion will be quashed immediately. Every one of them, and every person who has lent aid to these criminals, will be executed as the traitors they are. Is my ruling understood?"

The eyes of the four High Magus did not look away. Nor did any raise a treasonous voice to speak.

Ragmurath glared - and returned his gaze to the prisoner.

"We will dispatch an army to the south, to find and destroy this resistance camp -"

- A hand, raised against him, motioned to speak.

Gerdanath waited for permission to be heard.

His glare fell upon the complete flatness of her gaze; after a long moment, he nodded.

"Should we not first deal with this rebellion within Delphanas? It will take time to marshal a force, and send it to the south. During that time -"

"Yes. Magus." Ragmurath cut her off; her voice trailed away beneath the sharpness of his, and returned to its seemingly respectful silence, "The traitors here will be dealt with, forthwith. This time, no leniency shall be shown to them. It is a flaw we never should have permitted; a flaw the guilty have exploited, to impermissible effect." - they are all guilty, "We must demonstrate that any act of rebellion - of outright treason, will be met with the full force of our authority. Those who are responsible for this, and all who have lent them aid, have forfeited their rights as citizens of Ammandorn. And the rights of their kith and kin."

He turned to the perfect silver façade of the Inquisitor, under the unwavering silence of the High Magus gathered around him.

"Arrest, and detain the families of any and all of those named by this prisoner. And of any and all unaccounted for members of the previous archivist order, and the Hall of the White Wolf." he pronounced the declaration, in the fullness of the law, with the fury yet leashed in the blazing iciness of his eyes, "Notices are to be drawn up, that any who continue to give these traitors - named in full - aid or succour, will themselves be considered party to and guilty of the crimes of those they shelter. Furthermore, any and all such identified traitors, as named on these notices, who refuse to turn themselves in, will - by affiliation - implicate their most immediate kin in party to their crimes. Those of whom, in twenty days' time, will be executed publically for treason and wilful inciting of rebellion."

* * *

Athan watched the hoary stone of the ground.

A blur of white marble, that ran endlessly beneath his feet. As his feet were dragged across it.

The chains at his wrists, weighed his hands; and from their joining links, a further length fell to the ring that immobilised the ankles of his feet. He did not have the strength to fight.

It would have done no good.

They had been out-numbered ten to one. And the gash, bound in swathes of bandaging on his head, continued to disrupt what semblance of balance he retained. He would have been disabled easily, and arrested anyway.

He had ordered knight Nyrus to do the same.

Their deaths would not serve anything.

The bloodhound squad remained, a black and azure cordon which surrounded the white marble edifice of the inn. The wall of magus robes had been swallowed by the white corners of the buildings, and by the blur of hoary stone at his feet.

He let them drag him through the streets.

The black cordon that surrounded him; five black robes, and mirror-masks, and staves, held him by the slackness of his shoulders, as they made their way through minutes and the city.

They had not said where they were taking him. And Nyrus.

The older knight, surrounded and obscured by his own cordon behind, was bound the same as he. Nyrus had bit back the invectives he otherwise levelled at his captors as they had placed the restraints on his arms and ankles.

Athan had not met his gaze. There was nothing to say.

No order he had to give.

- They had arrived at their destination.

Up a flight of steps, that seemed all too familiar to the knight, they were dragged through the emptiness of an open archway, and through the close air of corridors, and hallways, to another door. There was a pause, as the lead robe, ahead, withdrew the unseen clink of keys and placed one into a lock and turned.

The click of the bar resonated through the wood of its door, and the obscuring mass of robes beyond.

The hinges creaked, quietly, amidst the susurrations of shifting robes - as they moved to either side of those that held up the knight.

Athan watched only the floor, as he was dragged into the confines of the small chamber.

And settled on the hard levelness of a chair. Before a table.

- He glanced up. And aside. As knight Nyrus was placed on another chair beside him.

He turned to the perfect silver of the mirrors - one seated, one standing - before him.

Emerald eyes stared out from the mask, standing above and behind her superior, who rested his dark brown hands, and the crimson-silver hems from which they emerged, on the hard wood of the table in front of him.

The Inquisitor met the knight's gaze, with the near total blackness of his eyes, and surrounding skin.

Neither he, nor his inferior, bore the characteristic stave associated with the order.

- The door was shut behind. Leaving the two knights alone with the Inquisitor and the female bloodhound, in the confines of the room.

Nyrus snarled - all the invectives he had restrained, until now, moved into his throat, "You damned bastard betrayed us!" the accusation was levelled at the seated magus opposite.

Before the older knight could continue, the perfectly unbroken, level voice of the man replied, "No. We did not."

Athan glanced aside, to silence the other knight. Nyrus clenched his teeth, beneath the furious glint of his eyes.

Athan met the unperturbed darkness of the Inquisitor's gaze, "You have to turn us in, now."

"No, knight. In that regard, you are incorrect." the man's voice, muffled by the perfect silver of his featureless mask, was intonated without flaw, "Those bloodhounds who were dispatched this morn, at my behest, are without exception those whom I know are dedicated to our cause. They will not reveal the truth of the identities of those prisoners who were apprehended in lieu of the knights Athan and Nyrus, from the establishment that has been named base of operation for the rebellion of Delphanas."

Athan only stared at the darkness of the eyes opposite him.

"You were not present, amongst the other criminals apprehended or killed this morning."

"Killed?" Athan asked, as flatly.

"Those whom pose the most serious threat of divulging critical information concerning the continued operation of our alliance, here in Delphanas." the perfect enunciation paused, "Those of them, in admittance, constitutes the entirety of the patronage and administration of the inn. They are being escorted via convoy to yet a further squad of bloodhounds, who will, by necessity, detain and interrogate each prisoner in isolation of their fellows. That convoy has been met with an ambush by as yet unidentified assailants, whom, no doubt, will be later determined to be the insurrectionists of another cell acting to prevent the continued and total undermining of their organisation."

Knight Nyrus snarled, again.

"All of them?" Athan asked.

The Inquisitor paused, before he replied, "Not all. There will be recovered some survivors of the various prisoners, though all of whom will be interrogated and determined to have been mere patrons of an otherwise innocuous establishment. Simply people whom were no more than in the incorrect location at an otherwise unfortunate time."

Athan only stared, at the obscuring, silver reflectivity of the man's façade.

He glanced up to the emerald gaze locked on him yet from the bloodhound above, "Were you at the meeting?" he asked.

Gwyneth replied, "Yes." she paused, "When I was informed of the riot and the location in which it took place, I reported my suppositions to my superior. We had time enough to act."

"And the guildmaster?"

"It is fortunate that their name was not provided to your captured knight."

"Have any of the other cells been discovered?"

"None." the Inquisitor answered, "And by appearance your captured knight has revealed only the names of those who died this morning, or who were not otherwise present at the inn to be arrested."

Athan fought back a sigh; flatly, he asked, "Morrick?"

"Your knight is to be executed in twenty days' time. Along with a number of other prisoners that have been declared in association with our rebellion. That is, on provision, that those they are otherwise related to who have been named by your knight, do not commit themselves to arrest and detainment."

Athan met the magus' eyes with a new sharpness.

"The notion of refusing to divulge the information of the latest development in the illegality of our current government, has more than crossed my mind. But as the truth has and will soon be displayed openly upon each and every noticeboard, in every district square throughout the city, it was easy to conclude that such an action would serve only to provoke further distrust in both you and our respective allies." the flat, implacably level voice beneath the mask, paused, "The families of each participant to our rebellion, as named by your captured knight, have been apprehended on the charges of treason, collusion with the enemy, and willingness to support sedition against the lawful government of the land of Ammandorn." the dark gaze, in the hollows of the mirror, turned to the older knight, "Knight Nyrus, both of your daughters, their husbands and their children, were arrested in the previous hours of this morning. They will be detained and questioned."

Knight Nyrus snarled, and swore, and spat - and fell into a darkened silent. For a long moment, he stared at the magus opposite with emotions that Athan could only understand. Angry, terrible, tears welled beneath the aged blue gaze, beside him.

"You said," the older man's choked, hoarse voice began, "If I were to turn myself in, they would be spared?"

The inquisitor nodded.

The aged, tear-scarred gaze dropped away, to the floor.

"Your wife, knight Athan, has also been detained."

Athan only stared at the unwavering levelness of the gaze, behind the mirror.

"And furthermore, that which I will add in completion of the information that I have acquiesced to divulge, is that so too have the families of each and every unaccounted for members of the archivist order, and the Hall of the White Wolf, been condemned and arrested similarly; their innocence and subsequent release attainable solely through the presentation for arrest and interrogation thereof, those whom and by which have implicated their guilt."

Athan could only stare.

* * *

Keylyn moaned - and grunted.

The thrusts that continued, from behind, were hard and forceful. Rough. Amidst the relaxed stretching, and pleasurable pressure within - at the end, there was pain. They were too hard. Too rough.

A hesitant glance back, over his level shoulder - as the thrusts continued - searched the darkness above, and behind, for the eyes of the man; beyond the barest black of his silhouette, Keylyn could not see his face.

He reached back with a hand, no longer bracing him beneath, to touch the flesh of the other man's thigh, "...you're..." he muttered, inaudibly - broken by another airy grunt, "...you're hurting..."

Some seconds later the thrusts slowed.

Keylyn let the silence return to the impassable darkness of the air above; and the man who stood, behind, there.

The roughness returned to the thrusts - some minutes, or moments - after.

Keylyn bit back a - under the recurrent grimace. His hand reached up, again - but moved only to find his own reluctant hardness, between his bracing legs. He flinched with each thrust, despite -

Faldorn quickened; the roughness, was somewhat dulled by final, earnest speed.

In the darkness above, the other man moaned - and climaxed. Within.

Keylyn felt it. He had too. His own hand, on himself, stopped -

There was no further point -

Faldorn withdrew. And moved off the edge of the cot.

In the darkness behind - as Keylyn recovered with some steady breaths, yet bent over forwards - Faldorn found his breeches, re-donned them. And left.

In the returned silence, Keylyn shifted himself to his side. And lay back down onto his cot.

His own hardness yet remained. It might for a time.

Some moments passed. The wetness, left there within, leaked out from -

It was warm, briefly, then cold. On his thigh. There might also have been blood.

He would wash it off in the morning.

- He sobbed.

The reflex broke the silence of the tent. He turned his face into the pillow. There was another.

And another. The rest subsided.

He reached over, blindly, searching the ground beside for the ruffled coarseness of his blanket. The night's air was cold; he felt it - a bite, made sharper by the lingering beads of sweat. And the stickiness.

A chill. He felt it. He wouldn't feel it for long.

As he drew the length of material up and over his naked body, he rested his head on the edge of his pillow - already it had begun to subside. Back, into the constant numbness. The emptiness.

He was not cold. Not anymore.

When the other body was here, was close - inside, he felt it. He had to feel it. He wanted this. When it was close, and warm, and soft; pressed against him, inside. He wanted it, he needed it -

Even though - he hated him. The other man had made that clear. More than once; though not since. Not aloud, if in other ways. Still, he kissed him. He wanted to kiss him, that part, always -

He hated him. It was clear.

Keylyn didn't care. He didn't care.

He wanted it. While it was here. While he could feel. He wanted to be touched, to be loved. If only physically; that the man hated him, did not matter. It did not matter.

He held back another sob - without effort; it collapsed into the returning numbness.

The returning numbness.

- He closed his eyes, and let the silent emptiness deepen into oblivion.

He dreamed.

Of a verdant field. Of and endless expanse of grass. The dream was the same as it was every night; an endless, empty field, under a sky of grey.

The face was there, held in his hands. The disappointment, there. Eternal.

The sobs - the tears, that fell away amidst the emptiness of life, fell here, in full. The sobs shook the pale flesh of his naked body, under the unbroken greyness of the clouds.

Amidst the unreal sounds of the dream, the footsteps of the man he loved approached.

Every night now, save for those when his body was too exhausted to come here, the man would walk over to him and sit. He would reach down with gentle hands, and lift - and cradle, his head on the softness, and warmth, of the robes of his lap. Would rest a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Sometimes, he would smile. Above.

But his eyes would always be the same. Eternal.

Keylyn couldn't bear that.

The man approached; and sat. The gentle hands of the father he had lost reached out from behind, and lifted his head, still marred with tears, onto the soft blackness of his robes. A hand, ever so gently - so comfortingly - stroked his naked shoulder.

After the pause, which ever followed, the voice from above asked, "Keylyn, what is wrong?"

A sob, some tears. Amidst the silence he could not bear.

Minutes passed, and more.

Hadrath continued to stroke his shoulder, in comfort.

He could not bear it; as ever, his head slowly turned, to meet the eyes of the man he loved above. To meet the empty disappointment that dwelt in them.

- This night, as ever, it was too much. Like his life, beyond the dream.

He cried.

"Keylyn, what is wrong?" - the voice.

It would be disappointed if he did not answer; it was already -

"...I'm alone...everyone...every...they hate me...the man....Faldorn...he hates me," he paused, "I'm sleeping with him...I want to..." - a sob; he met the disappointed eyes above, "...I miss you..."

Hadrath only stared; for the longest moment, he only -

The old, face, defined by the furrows of its age, and the coarse length of its ancient beard, lent down.

And kissed him.

The man he loved, planted a tender kiss on his lips. And withdrew.

Above, Hadrath smiles.

The dream had never shifted to this before -

Keylyn only stared, as yet more tears welled in his eyes.

"Where are you Keylyn?" Hadrath asked, softly, "Are you near the south? Near mountains, and a forest?"

"The forest of Dwener'dier..." he found himself answering; as he stared at the eyes above.

Slowly, carefully, he rose on a bracing arm, and brought his face level with the man he loved - the face before him only smiled. A warm, understanding -

Keylyn pressed his lips to Hadrath's again. Tears yet rolled down his cheeks.

He withdrew. Hadrath only smiled.

"Are you with others?" Hadrath asked.

"...yes..." he answered, "Knights...and an archivists..."

The life beyond the dream threatened its borders yet again. He did not want to leave here; did not want to return.

"Is Syla with you? Is she there?"

He nodded.

"It is alright, Keylyn. We have to be quiet. We do not want her to hear us." Hadrath paused, "I love you. And I want you."

- The tears welled -

"But before I can be with you, I need you to do something for me. I need you, Keylyn."

The wet warmth rolled down his cheeks, "...anything..."

Hadrath smiled. And rose.

"Come. It is only a short walk away. Then..." his voice trailed off; a gentle hand reached out to stroke Keylyn's cheek.

Keylyn stood.

Hadrath turned, and began to move away. The pain -

Keylyn followed after him. He would always follow -

Hadrath glanced back; and held out his hand.

Keylyn took it, and drew alongside. He wanted to kiss -

"Not yet." Hadrath cooed, "First you have to do this."

Gently, slowly, restricted in pace by his age, the man he loved led him across the infinite fields of grass. Under the bleak haze of the endless sky.

Hadrath led him over a rise - and down, to where the body lay.

She breathed softly, upon a bed of autumn leaves. Some few, at its lowest edges, blown astir by the breeze.

"Here." Hadrath said, "She is asleep. You have nothing to fear." The man beside him paused; and met his eyes - the disappointment glisten softly, "She has been telling lies Keylyn. She had been telling many lies. They hurt me Keylyn. They have made it difficult for me to...when she stops, when she is quiet, then we can be, Keylyn. For as long as you need." Hadrath paused, "But first, you must do this for me."

Where the knife had appeared from, was lost in the uncaring of the dream. The weight of its hilt, rested between Hadrath's hand and his own.

Keylyn glanced aside, down at the silver sheen of the blade.

Hadrath's hand drew away. Left his alone.

- The tears -

Keylyn looked up into the kind glisten of Hadrath's eyes - the disappointment there -

"Silence her Keylyn. You know what you must do." Hadrath paused, and smiled, "And after..."

The tears rolled down his cheeks.

He moved to side of the mound of leaves, amber and gold and red, as in autumn.

The body atop the mound, breathed yet steadily.

He stared at the weakened lines of her face, at the pallid slope and curve of austere feature there.

She was asleep.

He raised the knife -

And plunged it deep into her chest. He missed her heart.

Her eyes snapped open - a gaze made helpless by exhaustion, and now only more so by the pain and the wound that welled dying red across her chest -

She screamed; a hoarse, half-groan.

- She was in pain; he eyes screamed it.

It had not been his intent to miss; he had failed - he had disappointed -

He raised the knife again, and plunged it in. Again. Again.

The chest beneath his blood-soaked hands, stopped. Breathing.

The desperate, terrified - and somehow relieved - glint of her green eyes, stared listless, and empty up at him. Her wavy brown locks, matted from sleep, and days and inattention, soaked up the blood, yet welling - running from her chest.

Her pale, exhausted feature, marred by speckles of red from what he had done.

From what he had done. For Hadrath -

Above, and behind, Hadrath cooed, "Thankyou Keylyn."

Keylyn rose, and let the knife slip away from his red-stained grasp. It fell to the verdant grass of the fields.

"Thank you, Keylyn." the voice behind cooed, again.

He turned -

To the face of a man it could not have been - it had -

- Ragmurath smiled, and sneered, and glared.

And lashed out with the back of a hand as strong as iron - and as vicious - a strike, that broke his jaw, and cheek, and filled his mouth with blood.

And sent him sprawling through the void of dark abyss, of night and dream, onto the starlit emptiness of the grass beneath. Inside the blurry haze of the tent.

As the lingering throes of the nightmare faded into emptiness all around, the darkness was swept away by the light of a lantern from without -

And by the faces of the knights, and white-haired magus, who drew aside the canvas flap.

Keylyn looked up, with listless, uncomprehending eyes - to lost amidst his own - to see the shock, and rage, upon their faces.

He turned - the face of the body, lying on its cot, and flecked with blood beside him. The empty emerald gaze, now dead, that stared at him.

Its blood covered his hands - and the knife -

He turned, back to the entrance -

And the looming shadow of the knight that had approached, and level the butt of a weapon above.

A last blow, cracking his jaw, alike - sent him reeling, unresisting, back in the terrible, horror of unconsciousness.

And the dark disappointment, that haunted, and stared now, from all around.
Chapter 24

Elle'dred watched the lambent glow in the southeast. The first moments of dawn had arrived, after a somewhat sleepless night.

He had woken amidst the early dark, and risen to stand beside the knight on watch.

Yrradorn, had only greeted his champion with a nod.

Elle'dred, and the knight - perhaps the only knight of his camp that was not his senior by a decade or more - had stood on watch, as the southern sun broke the south-eastern horizon. Above the myriad peaks of the Thousand River mountain there.

They would leave a short while after dawn. He had decided to let his knights have a morning's sleep.

He was exhausted himself.

It was all too much.

He chuckled, inwardly, to himself.

There was so much more left to do. Too much more.

The full face of the sun, veiled by hoary clouds, broke the black silhouette of the distant peaks, beyond the southern expanse of the city. The golden glow of dawn moved across the grey stone of the rooves of the surrounding, dilapidated, and clustered buildings, and spilled into the narrow alley-lane where they stood. The small stable, an off-room really, was built on the side of a tiny, abandoned house, and had served them well throughout their stay within Armanas.

It had kept them hidden where they needed to be.

The narrow alley, that moved up the steep slope of the hill, upon which the compacted, tiny buildings of district had been built, overlooked the flatter, more auspicious districts of the city. The sprawling expanse of grey metropolis beneath, ringed by the height of its sole, and mammoth wall.

Somewhere, amidst the myriad canals, down there, lay the White Willow inn, and a resistance of necromancers he now could name allies. If not, in surety, friends.

The poorest of the people had lived in this district, during peace; now, the vast majority were gone. Only a lone couple, an old man and woman remained in the tiny, one-room house five buildings down. The old woman was out in the alley-lane, every morning, sweeping away nothing from the broken, ill-fitted grey pavers. She always looked up at them as they had passed; a glare, a half-stare, angry and pleading.

Palai'dred had talked to her husband once, during the weeks, when she had helped him carry - had carried for him - a basket of food, up the overwhelming steepness of the slope of the hill.

Their son had been conscripted - had been taken away. Many of the families that had once lived here, were the same. Some, the entire family had been taken, to serve the armies of Ammandorn.

The archivists had ordered such. Before the magus had overthrown the government.

His wife had not recovered from the grief. And the anger.

He had thanked Palai'dred for her help.

There was a small orchard, at the base of the hill; the sole source of the district's food. It had been tended by the people who once had lived here; and had been stripped bare some months ago. By a group of the city guards. They had missed only - or perhaps had ignored it intentionally - a small tree, that bore a wrinkly, withered-looking brown fruit.

It was what the couple lived on, now; and, admittedly, it was more food than remained in some places of the city.

The old man had offered the Sword-Bearer some. She had politely declined.

By his demeanour, she had later supposed to her Champion that the old man had likely thought they were outlaws, were criminals. Three strange men and a woman, taking residence in a half-collapsed, abandoned stable, in one of the emptiest districts of the city; it took no stretch of logic.

Or perhaps he thought they were refugees fleeing the fighting in the west.

Elle'dred had later smirked to himself at the irony - both suppositions, if the latter only in part, were true.

As the dawn passed into morning, he stared across the narrow confines of the buildings, and down the alley and its sharp descent. The old woman had emerged with her hay-bristled broom, as always, to sweep the night's unseen dust from the pavers.

She glanced up with the ever aggrieved glare, at the knights standing further up the slope ahead.

Elle'dred nodded a silent greeting.

She looked away.

The susurrations, of Palai'dred stirring to wakefulness, on her bed-roll, on the floor of loose hay behind him, had him turn. He moved back into the tiny confines of the stable. Only two of its three full walls remained intact; the rear - where once perhaps there had been a smaller doorway, in complement to the wide, open entrance of its façade - had half-collapsed, into a crumbled, hole that now overlooked the other and parallel alley-lane behind; framing it in the jagged teeth of the remaining grey brickwork.

The Sword-Bearer shook the bleariness of sleep from her features - removed some errant straws from her hair, and her blanket - and glanced up at her Champion. She nodded.

Elle'dred returned the acknowledgement.

Ellario yet lay on the other side of the room, asleep.

"We should be moving." Palai'dred said, as she rose, and began to address her nakedness with her armour and clothes, "No sense in waiting longer."

"We have time." Elle'dred answered; he let a small chuckle, "We've accomplished all that we needed to here. And we're not yet dead."

Palai'dred met his gaze, with her own sour smirk; she let it melt into a small laugh herself.

Ellario began to stir, on the ground, beside them.

"What's next? Once we return?" Palai'dred asked, as she fastened her belt, and its daggers, around her waist.

Elle'dred paused a moment before he answered, "I don't know. I think...I know I have to go back into Dwener'dier."

The concern and uncertainty in the Sword-bearer's gaze conveyed the lack of understanding she yet held for him and his sojourns into that forest.

"Perhaps Lyrien also has seen more of what will happen," he finished, "Other groups forming elsewhere in Ammandorn."

Palai'dred let a tick - of an emotion not unlike the woman some buildings down the alley-lane outside.

Elle'dred said nothing.

The other, older, male knight, had risen from his own sleeping nakedness, nodded to his Champion, and proceeded to don his armour and weapons.

"Elle'dred, once we return to Dwener'dier, if we're not recognised and arrested by the guards as we leave," - Elle'dred chuckled at the Sword-Bearer's sarcasm, "When you speak with Lyrien, can you speak to her...about how her forcing..." Palai'dred met his gaze above the pause, "...she'll be no good to us, if she destroys herself."

The request was difficult - it was against the duty of a Sword-Bearer of the White Wolf - and Elle'dred could not mistake the divided loyalty in the older woman's eyes.

There was respect, and a pleading she could not allow herself to -

He nodded. Not as her Champion, but as a friend -

He smirked; it was all too much -

"I was concerned about that myself." he muttered - and we owe her more than is fair, "I'll talk with her. Though I am not at all sure it will do any good - even if an order."

Palai'dred smirked - it disappeared amidst the recurrent tick.

Ellario had dressed, and turned in silence to his Champion, for orders.

"We should be leaving." the knight on watch muttered, from outside.

Elle'dred gave a reluctant nod, and smirked, "Maryssa said the east gate was the least patrolled of the city. We'd best recover the horses; I don't fancy a walk back to Dwener'dier."

Palai'dred and Ellario each allowed a chuckle.

The Champion turned for the open entrance to the -

- There was a sound - a crack. From above -

A quiet shifting -

His knights had heard. Instinct manifested in silence, as they spread out - Ellario and Palai'dred retreated through towards the crumbled, hole in the wall behind, as the other knight and Champion moved to the entrance.

The Sword-Bearer and knight disappeared through the aperture of jagged grey bricks in the rear wall.

- There was a scrambling above. And the slap of feet.

Landing on the pavement between the adjacent, solid wall of the stable, and its neighbour building beside - the slapping turned rampant - into running -

- There was a muffled sound - perhaps a winded, gasped cry, and some grunts from the knights beyond the collapsed, or broken wall on the far side.

Palai'dred appeared in the crumbled, aperture a moment after - there was a hard alarm and a concern in her eyes. She met the gaze of her Champion.

Elle'dred stared past her, as Ellario followed.

The knight dragged the squirming body of a boy into the confines of the stable before them. One hand grasped the boy's spindly arm, the other - as the youth bit desperately down into it - covered and muffled his mouth. He continued to make sounds, half gasped, into the knight's leather gloved hand.

He could be no more than fifteen.

He wore only a simple brown vest and pants, fraying and worn in places, and covered with dirt and stains. His mop of tangled, brown hair was ragged, above a face dirty and frail, from starvation.

There was terror, amidst the desperation in his eyes.

Elle'dred stared at the boy - with the shocked glint of his eyes -

"He must have heard us." Ellario muttered.

"Everything." Yrradorn stated, from behind.

Elle'dred could only stare at the youth's eyes, at the desperate struggling against a grasp that would not break. There was pleading, now. And silence.

"Elle'dred, we cannot risk it. He could report us in." Yrradorn continued, flatly, quietly, over his shoulder.

They could not risk it.

Elle'dred knew.

He drew his sword. The Champion's blade was dull amidst the shade of the stable's two remaining walls, and roof.

He held the eyes of the youth; he would not look away.

That much, he owed -

He thrust the blade.

The terror in the eyes did not fade; though the bright glisten behind it faded into dullness.

Outside, some buildings down the street, the rasping of the old woman's broom continued against the pavement. She had not heard.

* * *

Syla stared at the unconscious body of the magus before her.

Under the growing light of the dawn, Keylyn had been chained to the prime-most post of one of the larger, central tents of the camp; the tent that now served as the encampment's prison.

Darrodane had ordered the measure immediately, upon their discovery of what he had done.

Syla had not objected. The danger was still present.

- The warding spells had been broken.

The spells she had cast, all around the camp, had been broken. They were shattered and dispersed, by a power she recognised far too readily - and intimately -

The same power that had violated the spell in the east. The warding yet cried out, in silence throughout the morn; though now, it was a quieter, aching moan.

She could only bear it.

- Darrodane had looked at her in silence. For her to explain.

How she had known. Though, too late.

How she had known, to come and warn them.

"It was a spell." she had said; it had taken all her will to hold her tone in check -

Not to buckle and fall - or leap, off that unwavering, grey precipice. And into a sea of pale mist below.

- She had been level. And calm.

"I felt it," she had continued, "The warding spells I placed to protect the camp have been broken; it was the Tribunal. They cast the spell."

Darrodane had not said anything, beneath the implacable, steady gaze of his eyes.

"They controlled him. It can only be done to a magus." - those words -

"If he is a liability, we should kill him." the Sword-Bearer had replied, steadily.

She had met his eyes, it had taken all her will -

"It was a possession. They controlled him against his will." she had paused, "I can protect him. As I myself am protected."

"Why did you not -"

She had cut him off with a glare - and more that she had masked - he had not continued further.

"I will protect him. Until Elle'dred returns; he is my responsibility until then."

Darrodane had remained silent, for a moment, under the growing light of the dawn; then nodded.

"Order the knights to form up into groups. We need to dispatch several parties out onto the plains. You and I -"

"Why?" Darrodane had asked, sincerely lost for understanding.

"This was a prelude to an attack." she had explained, "The Tribunal would have taken the knowledge of our location, and who we are, from Keylyn during -" she had not needed to continue; understanding had moved into the Sword-Bearer's gaze.

She had been more than grateful she had not need to continue.

"You and I must leave. I can frustrate their efforts to find us for a time."

"With magics." - his tone had been flat.

She had nodded.

He had shaken his head, met her eyes again, and nodded.

"I have to ward the camp first. Dispatch the others. They are not to lead the patrols back here under any circumstance."

The Sword-Bearer had moved away.

As she had too, a moment after.

- She could not have mistaken the spell. There was no doubt, amidst all else, that swelled beneath the thought. Though this one had been different. Subtler, weaker. Than -

She bit back the surge - she could not allow it now - she would not -

She moved to the edge of the camp; the silence phrases of the magics moved unheard from her lips. The spells ran through the fingers of her mind, through the fingers of her hands, unseen, and into the air.

The Tribunal would break these spells again - they would defeat her defences, like they had -

Her movements stopped; for a moment, it was too hard to overcome.

- She had sensed it, during the sleepless hours she wandered the camp.

She had thought it was a remnant, of the pain that yet lingered beyond the wall of hills to the east, and that stretched across Ammandorn. She had tried to ignore it; to hold it back as she had -

A tear fell.

She could not fight it anymore. She had not been able to fight it since that day. When the air had shattered with an unheard scream. When she had felt it -

She could not fight it anymore.

The tear rolled from the pale, empty azure of her gaze, across the white gauntness of her cheek below.

She could not bear it. Not anymore.

Her lip quivered; it shook. She bit down to stop it from moving.

Another tear welled, and fell from the frangible azure of her eyes.

She was weak. She was broken -

She could not bear it, anymore.

She could not bear it -

- She was not done. She resumed the spells; the magics flowed alike the salty trickles from her gaze. She focused, bent what will - if shattered - to the task she had before her. If she was to break - if she was to slip off that grey precipice that haunted her night and day, and had before, since the scream she could not undo - she would do it, only once Elle'dred had returned.

- Once Elle'dred returned. She would -

Until then. She would hold.

Through the overwhelming surge of emotion, that parted around the empty stubbornness and resolve that she did not escape, the magics flowed, and wove, alive and crucial, and true. And unborn.

* * *

The crashing of hooves broke the eastern edge of the camp. The fifth group to leave in the hour.

The last had taken the Sword-Bearer, atop a black, away into the morning-lit flats of grass, beyond.

The white-haired magus had gone with him.

Faldorn had watched. As the mass of horses disappeared beyond the horizon in the south.

With the glimmer of emotion his gaze could not bear.

- He had watched. The movement towards the tent had drawn his gaze.

He had stumbled, as he tried to quicken his pace. The wineskin had hung from his hand. He had not been able to sleep - he had not been able to go back, to the tent. Where the oracle lay. After he had slept with -

He had wanted -

He had drowned the pang in wine. Had drowned the scent of what he had done.

He had been trudging back to the tent, in the pre-dawn dark, when he had descried the glow of the lantern, held by the foremost knight. Ahead of the white-haired magus, and the Sword-Bearer.

He had stumbled, as he tried to quicken his pace.

- She had been lying there. As he had left her. Too many hours before.

Lyrien had lain on the flatness of her cot, for days. Her emerald green eyes stared up at the canvas roof of the tent. Above the speckles of blood, that had sprayed from the wounds on her chest.

The knights had dragged the murderer's body away - the magus -

For the damned magus.

He had not missed the blood on his hands. The dull imprint of where he had held the knife.

He had been unconscious; a knight had struck a blow across his jaw.

Faldorn had only stared, as they dragged the magus away.

- He had only stared.

- He had not been -

The rage. The impossible anger had choked his chest; had strangled the breath out of his lungs. The blood out of his veins. He could not breathe. He could not stand. The rage had eclipsed all thought; it had driven all thought away. He had shaken, for minutes - for hours -

As they had removed the oracle's body from the tent. As they said they would bury her, to the north of the camp.

Faldorn had only sat, and stared. Amidst the strangling. The choking. Rage.

He had watched as the camp had mustered, as the groups had tacked their horses and ridden away. As the white haired magus moved through the camp - at the Sword-Bearer's side. Amidst the knights.

As she had ridden away.

He hauled himself to his feet. The stagger, amidst the stabbing pains that constricted his head - the hangover from the wine before - did not faze the will that drove him. He moved slowly through the camp. He held aside the flap of the tent he sought. Amidst the waves, the breathless choking - he found the sheathed blade of the knife.

He removed it from its holding. And turned. He moved back out, into the morning's light.

His gait, a weary, unfocused stumble, carried him across the camp. To the one of the central tents. Where the thing - blood-covered - had been brought.

Two knights stood, on guard, on either side of the entrance flap.

The swell that drove his feet, did not allow him to stop.

He moved aside the right most knight, who now turned her gaze to his.

- It, glimmered in the bright light of the southern sun.

The woman glanced down, to the blade he held in his hand.

She met his gaze again. The same anger flared in hers. And the man behind.

She looked away. From the former archivist. An unseeing gaze, turned on the tents around.

He ground his teeth, and moved past the half open flap. Inside.

The tent was shrouded in gloom; its heavy canvas walls choked the morning light from beyond, and cast only a sallow pall across the shadow-ridden floor of grass.

Against the central pole; a hand-span thick pillar of wood, that held the bracing ropes, linked at its top amidst an open smoke-hole; the bastard had been chained.

Beyond the heavy iron rings, that fixed his wrists to the pole, his hands were still red. With blood.

With Lyrien's -

The red had crusted and dried. Flakes had been worn away. By the iron. And the pillar beside.

He sat there, his head rested against the unmoving wood; naked yet, as he had been when Faldorn had left him. After he had -

The bastard lifted his head from the surface of the pole. The purple mark, from the blow, had marked his cheek and jaw. The glisten of his eyes, amidst the confining gloom, lifted up to the man now standing at its entrance.

It glanced down, painfully, at the knife. He had been crying.

The redness and the swelling remained.

The bastard's eyes lifted again to his -

Faldorn moved closer. His hand clenched so tight, the skin was rendered white.

He held the bastard's gaze with the impossible glint of his own. With the choking -

He raised the knife.

Keylyn simply looked away, "Just do it..." he muttered, "...just..."

The blade glimmered darkly amidst the shadows of the tent.

For a moment, all Faldorn did was glare - above the welling emotions, that burned, and raged -

He sobbed - a breath - the first in hours -

Unwillingly, thoughtlessly, he dropped the knife. Let it fall to the grass at his feet.

Keylyn looked up - confusion, pain -

- He lashed out with a savage fist. Smashed the face beneath - a blow that broke his hand.

Keylyn reeled, against the pull of his chains; he gasped, or cried, as the blow cracked hard across his face. Across the already bruise that marked this blood-flecked, milky white skin.

He did not try to move -

As Faldorn staggered away. With another hoarse, half-choked sob.

He could not breathe -

He could not -

- For the damned magus -

For the damned -

He had been away.
Chapter 25

Athan watched, amidst the quiet throngs of the crowd. The people had been gathered, around the wooden platform. Around the stage where the prisoners had been brought.

Where Morrick, and knight Nyrus now stood.

They had been stripped, naked, and beaten. Bruising covered what was left of their skin.

They had been shaved. And tortured. Further.

And now they had been brought out before their families, before their kin, arrested on the same charges as they.

Nyrus' daughters watched from the side, from atop the wood of the platform. The stage. Their husbands, their families, were chained beside them.

They had not been stripped. Not beaten. Or tortured.

Alhana, his eldest, held her hand over her youngest son's eyes, as she fought the tears that fell from her own.

Nyrus managed to look up, from where his face had stained the stage-boards.

One eye was missing. An ear. And more.

Morrick was worse; what remained, of the young man Athan had once known, lay, without volition or semblance of life beside the body of the older knight.

The yet breathing head did not try to look up.

Five other 'condemned' knelt, or lay, beside the two knights. Three men, and two women.

All 'archivists', who had willingly - in accordance with the law - turned themselves in.

Who they really were, did not matter anymore. Not one raised a broken head.

The Inquisitor had informed him, beforehand, that the Tribunal would brook no failure; the ambush that had deprived them of the real archivists, and members, of the resistance cell, had not been allowed to stand. These other criminals had subsequently turned themselves in.

Had admitted their guilt, to the rightful Magus Government of Ammandorn. And its people.

Athan watched from amidst the crowd, of those self-same people.

- There was movement at the side of the platform.

The Staff-Bearer of the Tribunal mounted the set of stairs, which ascended to the height of the stage. Behind him, the four other leaders of the magus order followed; each was hidden amongst the heavy ebony and azure folds of their most formal robes, and under the draping cowls that obscured their faces.

Only the Staff-Bearer was unmasked.

The man turned his disdaining glare, and perpetual sneer, onto the crowd before him.

What low muttering - sparse and brief - that had come before, now fell into a complete and total silence.

"Today," Ragmurath began "Here, in the heart-city of Ammandorn, have we gathered to witness the condemnation of the traitors who yet threaten our land." his voice grated with a rage, barely leashed in his tone, "These men and women, are traitors who have committed the highest of crimes. These men and women were each once archivists, or knights, who ruled and protected this land - now they betray it! Now they seek to turn you, the people of Ammandorn, upon one another! As our soldiers fight and die in the west to preserve our home against the threat of the Immortal and the goblin hordes, they seek to undermine us with sedition and rebellion. If they are allowed to continue, Ammandorn will fall. That is the end they seek! - To betray you to the Immortal's horde!"

Shouting rose throughout the crowd, around Athan. Though where he glanced, he saw the uncertainty, and lack of conviction, on too many of the people's faces.

He returned his gaze to the stage.

The High Captain, of the magus guard, had made her way up the stairs, ahead of nine other men and women - all clad in black and ebony robes and cowls, and gloves, which hung over the perfect mirror façades that concealed their faces.

Seven took place behind each of the prisoners, while the two others moved beside their leader, who herself took place behind, and flanking, the Staff-Bearer of the Tribunal.

The seven robes, that loomed now as black shadows over the condemned men and women, each held a short, curved blade in the black gloves of their hands. At their sides. The dull metal belied the terrible sharpness of their edges.

The two others though, standing beside their leader who planted her own characteristic glaive at her side, were not armed. They bore no implements of execution whatsoever.

The Staff-Bearer continued, "The law is clear. Should anyone seek to aid or abet members of the former archivist order, or the Hall of the White Wolf, they - and their kin - shall be held accountable for their crimes. The archivists are guilty. The knights are guilty. And their families, who sought to shelter and conceal them, are guilty."

The man turned and nodded to each of the five guards, behind the five prisoners.

Each reached forward, and hauled the bodies of the condemned into kneeling positions before them; seven gloved hands placed the inner edges of their blades to the prisoners' throats. The inner edge of each was not sharp, but blunt.

"These two knights, who sought to foment rebellion here in the very city of Delphanas, did not comply with the edict that has been placed." - the Staff-Bearer's glare shone out over the crowd, "They did not surrender themselves willingly to the lawful authority of this place. They resisted arrest -"

Alarm shone, desperate and helpless, in the eye remaining to the older man, the knight; Nyrus opened his mouth to protest - to shout the truth; that he had allowed himself to be turned in by the Inquisitor.

But his tongue had been removed. Only a hoarse, rasp of bloodied spittle spat out and landed across the platform.

Beside, interrupted, the Staff-Bearer snarled - and glared. With a savage, inexpressible rage.

The executioner behind the knight, lashed down viciously with the hilt of their blade. Nyrus' head cracked, and hung, limply, over the robed man or woman's restraining grasp.

His eye yet gazed up at his family, standing on the far side of the stage. In despair.

The Staff-Bearer turned to the crowd, and pronounced, level, and cold, and sharp, "This is the punishment for their crimes."

The two men or women, unarmed save for the blood that ran in their veins, lifted the heavy folds of their ebony sleeves up around their gloves. And waved a silent gesture through the air.

Fire engulfed the far side of the platform.

And the men and women and children, that stood, affixed and chained there.

There were screams. And shouts. And cries.

A moan, like no words could express, ground out of the older man's throat - a hoarse, unutterable cry.

Nyrus' eye watched, for moments; then dropped, without volition, to the stained wood of the platform's floor.

As the fires continued to burn.

- From all around the knight, who stood, cloaked and cowled, amidst the crowd, the people - the agents, placed there by the ebon-robed men and women who stood upon the platform, raised an angry cheer. A shout of approval and rage.

Athan could only watch, as the uncowled man nodded again, to the seven shadows and their blades.

The dull metal edges flashed, and spilled the blood of seven bodies' throats; one of whom had died already some fathomless moments ago.

* * *

Syla rode atop her black, under the pale glimmer of the night sky. Sheets of cloud obscured patches of the veil overhead, and the myriad glimmers that remained were scarce enough to light anything beyond the vaguest silhouettes in front of her.

They had crossed the warding sometime after noon; the spell had remained as it had for the days before.

She had not thought -

They had ridden out onto the plains under the fading light of the afternoon.

And spied, on the horizon, the plume of some greater force, moving across the flats. The tamer, who rode with them, had sent his hawk far out and over where the mass lay, in the distant sky above. The bird had returned to their patch of grass, and released a piercing cry.

- The mass was not soldiers. But goblins.

A smaller band; not three hundred in number. They were not on horseback, or mounts, but on foot.

They had turned, at Darrodane's order, and ridden away from the steadily, growing plume.

Into the west.

An hour further had passed, into the haze of dusk - when they had been seen by the patrol.

The hawk had been shot at by a volley of shafts that fell, fortunately, short.

Though, the soldiers that had shot them were, themselves, mounted. On horses that were not flagging from exhaustion; unlike the party's.

There was a tamer amidst the fifteen strong men and women who pursued them.

They were only five. And their tamer, a male knight, could push their mounts only so much further.

Amidst the empty focus, and broken will, that held onto the reins of her black, the thought had manifested clearly.

They had to lead the patrol into the goblin force.

She had stated the words, flatly, calmly, to the Sword-Bearer beside her.

For a moment, she could not mistake the disgust that rose to his features - but it was quashed by an immediate flatness all too alike her own.

He had nodded; in agreement.

They had slowed their pace; and let the patrol close the distance.

She had woven a spell amidst the descending chill of the night's air. The spell would keep the patrol at bay for the time it would take them to find the host; and draw the goblins' path towards them.

The unseen magics arced out through the last crimson haze of dusk.

The spell, now in the west, remained.

She had not thought -

There had been a counter. Another spell twisted and warped their path.

There was a magus with the patrol. A magus who had sensed the spell she had cast.

The realisation had struck her with an unexpected force -

A magus raised their magics against her.

The truth that had stayed with her, and ever, clawed through the air unseen. The wrongness, so twisted and warped, stabbed outwards - into her - and her spell -

She felt it. To its core. She had too -

The tear, that broke the pale azure of her eyes, had rolled down her cheek amidst the new darkness of the night. Had caught the sharp bite of the chill that hung upon the air.

It had been the last. She had wiped it, with a hand, away.

The counter was designed to break her spell, to shatter it with a thrust of force. Savage, and unskilled.

Whoever it was that rode with the patrol, held the poorest grasp on the deep magics -

It echoed again, the lie - that defined -

She did not fight the swell, though she barred the tears from her face; what will she had, so unlike the spell now sought to be broken by the other, rewove the invisible course of her magics.

She rewove the spell to acquiesce to the counter. And to let it turn its own savage force, unknowing, upon itself.

The magus that rode with the patrol, only drove them now more swiftly to their foes.

Unseen and unheard - lost amidst the violent throes of their magics - and unperceived by their tamer's bird.

Somewhere, close, amidst the night, the goblin band had heard the horses - and fallen, silent and obscured, to the ground. Some unshoulder bows, and knocked the poisoned arrows they ever carried to the strings.

- Behind, amidst the thundering of the pursuing horse's hooves, under the first darkness of the night, the argent glare of a rune shone forth.

It cast its pale glare ahead into the dark.

Syla felt it, as she saw it; as they reached the crest of their black hill beneath - a shard of luminescent crystal atop the rise of the hill behind, glaring down into the valley between.

A shaft whistled amidst the laboured breathing of their mounts - a sharp cry - that split the silence to their left. Amidst the dark, the shaft had missed, though by how far they could not tell.

Another whistled overhead, as they descended the far side of the rise.

The rune, the solidified crystal of sparkling mist, then refracting its argent glare, formed in her mind - as it did in her hand.

The knights, the Sword-Bearer, around her glared with apprehensive alarm at the brightness of the light in their midst - unmistakable throughout the otherwise darkness of the grass.

She did not speak, or explain. The light lingered, floating suspended above her palm for the longest moment; then flitted up, above, and away.

The glisten shard of argent light flew through the air to the right - it soared a gently curving arc, around the base of the hill. And away into the dark beyond; up the rise of the next black mound that grew before its path.

In the distance, behind, the light of the patrol's own rune cast the shapes of their horses and their silhouettes, atop the hill, in a shroud of ghostly light, amidst clinging shreds of shadow -

- They, their horses and the riders, veered to the right, from atop the hill.

In pursuit of the yet flying shard of crystal that traced a luminescent arc away.

"Slow." Syla could only say the word -

It took some moments, for the others to arrest their pace.

Amidst the dark, made deeper by the moment of light before, the others held their questions in silence.

She could not manage the explanation that was required; though, she knew, the moments ahead would do that for her.

She waited, in silence; as the Sword-Bearer drew his mount alongside.

- Shrieks, in the distance. From over the northern hills. Goblin shrieks.

The battle-cries pierced the silence of the night.

And were followed by the screams of horses, and the men and women whom rode them.

As the fighting - if indeed there was any - died back down into the strangling silence of the grass, the Sword-Bearer made a grunt, something that rose to his throat but had been quashed unsaid.

"Move." he ordered.

They resumed a slower pace, to give time for their horses to recover what they could.

And turned back, again, to the east. And the south.

The thought returned. There was more she had to do. More that would be required, if the encampment was to remain undiscovered.

- A hundred other spells she had to cast, across the vastness of the plains. A hundred other wardings to turn the patrols and scouts away. And the draw what enemies - of both their sides - she could, into the thick of their searching forces.

The thought manifest -

The thought alone, she could only bear. 
Chapter 26

The screams echoed across the playful babble of the stream. Across the wall of hills.

The crimson glow, of what he had done, remained.

A tear welled and fell in the socket of the mask that was his face, amidst the cavernous hollow of the imperturbable, black bone. He could not bear the screams.

Yet he could not run farer away.

Behind - where the ash of the huts and village, that once had been - the terrible wave of abyssal rock rose and loomed. The deeper sky above flickered with a scarlet whisper; the first inevitable light of the crowning fires of the moon.

The fires that were not his - that were not his, here, amidst -

He could not face that burning dark; no more than the light beyond the hills. Than the lambent echoes of the screams.

The echoes fell across the ripples of the gentle water that he loved. Over the beautiful course of running water, that led away into the east.

Another tear welled, and fell, and ran across the unmoving mask of bone. It caught its edge, swelled pendant, and fell into the ever moving currents of the stream.

The shadow behind, amidst that cast by the towering rock, as ever, continued to watch.

With eyes or eyeholes, gentle and kind; but, that spoke the words he did not want to hear.

"You cannot remain here."

Another tear. It ran and welled, and fell.

The truth -

Ever and always, the truth.

He turned, and gazed into the darkness of the silhouette, at its height where the serpentine shadow of its head remained. Its eyes.

"I don't want to leave..." he muttered; he bit the gentle, quivering of his lip, "...I can't..."

"I know." the voice replied.

"...I can't come back..." the words slipped out, with silence.

For a moment, as long as an eternity, the voice behind the shadow of the face did not reply.

It whispered, unheard; you know the truth of that. In silence.

- He was not the fire here.

He was not the fire here.

The tears ran and fell, and were swept away. Amidst the gentle currents of the stream.

They had returned to the camp. Days ago. Their foray out onto the plains had lasted as long.

They had encountered several patrols, and more than one goblin band. Pursuit, and magics, further into the east and centre of the plains, had led them into one another. While those they each pursued had escaped. Though not lightly.

Two of the knights that had left with them, the tamer, and a woman whose name she had never been told, had died. One, to an arrow from a soldier from Ammandorn, the other to a goblin shaft.

One of their horses had died with them.

Over the course of the days.

Darrodane had not spoken, since they had retreated west. Past the line of keeps, under the cover of the night.

She had crossed the spell again. The silence, resounding, had filled the chill air of the plains.

She had been too exhausted to care; though she had felt it.

- She had cast the spells that she had too. Underneath whatever else -

At moments, the tears had run, from the unwavering ice of her façade. Once, during the daylight, and too many times amidst the dark. She had only let them run; whatever else remained behind.

Whatever else remained -

She had collapsed upon reaching her tent; the exhaustion had overcome her body. It had dragged her unwilling, into the emptiness of dreamless sleep. A day had passed in the camp around her; and, when she had woken, yet still exhausted, it had been night. Again.

There had been more she had to do. More she had to -

She had moved out, and examined the warding spells she had place too many days ago, around the perimeter of the camp. They remained, unviolated, as yet intact. If they had been assaulted, by the power that had before, they had held, somehow - and remained unbroken.

She had wandered against the fatigue, to the tent where Keylyn had been chained.

Beyond the food and water, that duty alone had enforced, his guards had left him unclothed. Naked against the night.

He had looked up, and met her gaze.

Too much she knew, remained within the listless emptiness of those eyes - much, she knew too intimately -

She had left without a word. She had ordered that clothes be brought, and a blanket to ward against the cold. There had been no anger, or offence, expressed amidst her voice.

She had moved about the camp; retrieved what word there was about those who had returned.

Only one of the myriad groups had made it back thus far; which had been theirs; the Sword-Bearer, and two knights.

She had spoken, shortly, with the Sword-Bearer; until more returned with word of an army - or some unmistakable force, there was nothing left to do.

She had nodded. She had turned, and left.

There was nothing left to do -

She had returned, slowly, exhaustedly, to the confines of her tent. And retched.

What little food she had managed to eat in the eternity before the dawn, had spilled, acrid and burning onto the grass that was the floor. She had knelt there, as more was brought, through spasms, up.

She had knelt above it for a moment more, before moving back, and sitting.

If the tears had flowed then she could not tell; all she had done, was breathe.

She had crawled onto her cot, and slept, for another day and a night.

The exhaustion had not woken with her, when she returned to full consciousness amidst the recurrent daylight.

The proceeding days had passed. She had passed them, with what duty yet remained.

No further tears had run, throughout the hours, or the days.

She had bathed, and changed her clothes. Untangled the knots, and the matting, of her stark white hair.

Today, Darrodane had ordered that further scouts be dispatched - two riders, unencumbered, with their fastest horses each - they were to scout the east, to keep watch should a force be seen, and meet up with any of their groups that might return. If any yet survived.

They left shortly before dusk.

Syla watched them leave, from the edge of the camp, under the gloaming haze of the fading light. The veil of cloud was coloured orange and red, and purple, across the east and the south; to the north some patches ran amidst the growing dark.

She turned away, under the gloom - towards the centre of the camp -

There was more -

- The blast of the whistle - alike an hawk's piercing cry - drew her gaze again. It had come from the south; indisputably near the fading reds of the flat horizon. It was not a tamer's bird, nor a bird at all; it was the warning of a whistle, carried by one of the scouts.

- Something lay out there, amidst the lingering gloom.

Syla stood, and watched, as did the few knights around her. A handful of weapons were drawn.

Darrodane moved from his position amidst the grazing horses, near the eastern perimeter of the camp, towards the south.

- A group of riders, silhouettes, manifested from the dark flatness of the plains. Where it met the orange haze of the sky.

The group grew steadily, into the shapes of four distinct horses, and four riders atop them each.

Something swelled in the back of her throat. She swallowed it away.

Whatever else, remained -

The group slowed into a trot, as they approached the southern edge of the camp under the waning dusk.

Syla stood, staring.

Atop the chestnut, in the lead, Elle'dred clung to his reins.

Blood ran from an arrow wound, where the broken end of a shaft yet protruded - where the arrow had perforated his leathers. There was a grimace on his face, amidst the shadow of the gloaming, she could not mistake. That bore the pale whiteness; above the heavy brown of his beard.

Syla only stared.

Elle'dred, and Palai'dred, Ellario and Yrradorn, came to a halt some paces from the south-eastern edge of the camp.

Syla moved from behind the tent that obscured her view of them. She moved, as did the older male Sword-Bearer, some pace ahead, beside, towards the group of riders that had just arrived.

Palai'dred had dismounted, as had Ellario beside her.

Together, they assisted their Champion off the blood-stained saddle of his horse.

The wound was not deep; he made a remark to that effect - amidst another wince, as he placed the weight onto his leg. The leathers had taken the worst of the shaft.

He glanced aside, amidst the gloom, to Syla, as she approached.

Relief, if nothing else, shone brightly amidst his eyes; he grinned at her.

She could not reciprocate the gesture.

The mirth dropped momentarily out of his gaze; the question, she remembered, took place -

"Milord, we must speak." Darrodane said.

His attention was diverted away.

Syla drew alongside the female Sword-Bearer, and exchanged a nod.

There was a sharp concern, at the earnestness of her counterpart's tone.

"The Tribunal have discovered our location."

Elle'dred was silent a moment; his hazel gaze glanced aside, and met the pale azure of her eyes.

"They cast a possession spell upon Keylyn." Syla continued, "They used him to murder Lyrien. She is dead."

The shock, she knew as there, was not expressed amidst the paleness, or his beard.

For a long moment, silence fell, sharp and heavy across the darkening, flat expanse of grass.

Elle'dred swallowed, "We'll continue this in the medical tent. While Celsye treats my wound."

Darrodane nodded, turned and moved away.

Syla followed beside the female Sword-Bearer and the knight, who assisted Elle'dred at a slower pace.

More than once he glanced aside; and more than once she did not reply.

They would continue the briefing in the medical tent.

They reached the open flaps of the large, canvas enclosure; a lantern, already lit, cast a yellow glow from inside. It hung upon the central pole. Knight Celsye moved to Elle'dred's side, and took the support of him from Ellario. Together, she and Palai'dred assisted him down onto the flatness of the cot nearest to the lantern.

The leaders of the resistance gathered in the tent around; careful not to obstruct the knight who tended their Champion's wound.

The knight, Celsye, inspected the injury, drew a knife, and proceeded to cut away the blood-soaked pants, and the leathers beneath.

As Darrodane, beside, continued, "I dispatched scouts shortly before you arrived, to patrol the plains closest to the keeps. If a larger force is coming, we will have some warning." the Sword-Bearer paused, "Some weeks ago, we also sent out numerous groups, at Syla's behest; they were intended to lead any searching forces away. So far, none have returned. Save us."

Elle'dred glanced aside, again at her; she allowed a slight nod.

"We evaded several patrols, and several goblin bands. We turned their pursuit into one another; the patrols were dealt with." Darrodane remarked, "But there will be more. To iron-down our location if nought else."

Elle'dred grimaced, as the knight, Celsye, removed the arrow-head from the wound.

Though the skin gaped on either side, it had barely reached the flesh. She began to clean the breached skin, and wash away the yet welling blood.

Elle'dred fought away the grimace, "That explains the patrol we ran into."

"What are we to do now, milord?" the older male Sword-Bearer inquired.

Elle'dred was silent, as Celsye moved to apply sutures to his wound.

"No." he said, to the knight, "Cauterise it. We don't have time."

Celsye nodded, but as she rose and moved out of the tent, Syla caught the silent tick of disproval.

Elle'dred met the eyes of his lieutenants, each waiting for his response.

"Are we certain the Tribunal knows our location?"

- The question was directed at her.

The other gazes moved -

"Yes. I am certain. They would have the information from Keylyn's mind."

Elle'dred glanced away; too many thoughts ran through the overwhelmed, hazel glint.

"I need to return to Dwener'dier," he said, "I need to find an answer for this."

"Elle'dred -" Palai'dred began, uncertainly.

"Lyrien's vision stated that the answer to the war of men lies within the glade," Elle'dred met the surrounding gazes, with a new and sharper resolve, "And if we are to abandon the camp - I won't be able to return to it. I have to find an answer to this."

The others continued to watch him, in palpable uncertainty.

"Go. You are dismissed." he said, "Palai'dred, Ellario, get some rest. I will need one of you to accompany me in the morning."

The two Sword-Bearers and the knight each nodded, and turned to move away.

Syla followed suit, a pace behind -

"Syla, can you stay?" Elle'dred said; there was a weariness to his voice.

Syla turned back, as the others moved out into the full darkness of the night.

For a long moment all she did was stand; Elle'dred did not meet her eyes.

- The knight, Celsye, re-entered the tent, followed by the knight Yrradorn. She held a glowing brand, to be used to cauterise the wound.

Elle'dred met the sight with an apprehensive pursing of his lips.

Syla moved a step aside, as the female and male knights passed her.

Yrradorn moved to the Champion's side, and held out a bit of leather; Elle'dred placed it in his mouth with a reluctant, resigned tick. Yrradorn moved to the head of the cot, and lent down with his hands on the Champion's shoulders; to brace him.

Celsye knelt over the yet bleeding wound of his leg.

Elle'dred closed his eyes.

Celsye pressed the incandescence of the brand to the naked flesh.

The grunt, or moan, choked in Elle'dred's throat. Barely heard over the sizzle of charring skin, and fat, and muscle.

The smell of it wafted up amidst the air of the tent.

- Syla watched. In silence.

The brand was removed from his wound. And the groan slowly became the fast inhalation of relief; Elle'dred took several steady breaths, to fight back the pain, and removed the bit from his mouth.

Yrradorn handed him a wine-skin, as Celsye set aside the brand, and moved to the crates on the adjacent wall of the tent. She removed a clay pot, and some bandages from one of the myriad cases; and returned to the Champion's side.

Elle'dred drank several swallows of the wine.

The knight cleaned the last of the blood away from the burnt flesh, where the wounds had been, and smeared the salve within the pot, across the rawness of the flesh. Elle'dred grimaced, slightly, as she wrapped his thigh in the bandages.

After she had finished, rose, and moved away, to return the remnant of the bandage-roll to the case, Elle'dred took the blanket handed to him by Yrradorn.

He drew it across the nakedness below his waist, as he moved his injured leg up onto the cot.

He stripped his shirt, and the leathers beneath, as the two other knights nodded their respect and left.

Sweat beaded on the bare skin of his chest, below the brown edge of the beard that covered his neck and jaw.

He lay back down, fully, on the cot underneath him.

In the returned, and complete, silence, amidst the soft glow of the lantern's light, Syla stood and watched.

Elle'dred sighed; a sigh that released all the exhaustion he had been fighting until this moment.

After a pause, he opened his eyes, and turned his head to meet her gaze.

A slightly embarrassed, and guilty, smirk moved amidst the beard - as though he had forgotten she was there.

"It doesn't stop does it?" he remarked, and chuckled; he shook his head, "First Ayadra. Then Llrsyring. Then half of Ammandorn. Now Lyrien."

He paused a moment, in heavy, dark, regret.

"I'm going to have to go into Dwener'dier again," he muttered, "Find a way we can survive this..." he chortled, grimly, "...and just when I thought I'd managed to avoid all the things that could kill me -"

He might have continued, but Syla did not hear.

All she could do -

Was move across the room. Was move to his side, and bend down - as he moved, uncertainly, to prop himself up on his arms -

And kiss him.

She held there, as the tears rolled down her face -

Whatever else remained -

She threw the blanket aside, off the nakedness of the man beneath. Undid the laces of her pants, and stood, and pulled them down her hips, and let them fall to the ground beneath.

She moved up onto the cot - across him. She had not broken the kiss.

It was clumsy, and awkward; and amidst the tears that continued to fall, she barely maintained her dexterity.

- She broke the kiss. And knelt, and sat, on the bareness of his waist.

She pulled her tunic up, over the frail thinness of her stomach, over the delicate curvature of her breasts. His hand reached up to move the tunic away.

To touch, and hold her arms.

She kissed him, again. As deeply.

His hardness pressed against her, beneath.

She pulled away, and moved, and took him - all of him - deep, and needed, inside. She felt herself press complete, against the skin of his waist.

He held her - and her eyes; the pale azure framed by locks of starkest white, amidst the frail gauntness that remained.

Whatever else remained -

He met the brokenness, the shattered blue that cried, and did not fight the tears that rolled onto the milky white beneath. And did not look away.

She moved; her waist, and him, inside. She moved, again.

His mouth, amidst the coarse brownness of his beard, opened - beneath the gentle glisten of his eyes.

He did not look away. He would never look away. Even as she kissed him.

He held her throughout - every shudder, every tear, until finally - impossibly - they reached climax.

In tandem, he moaned - a culminated, elated moan. It filled her mouth, her throat, joined in harmony with hers.

She moaned. And breathed.

The moment, and that was all it was, passed finally into ease beneath her.

Still, he met her eyes.

Whatever else remained -

The tears - all the tears she had wanted to cry for hours and days, and months, too long, welled and fell and ran down her cheeks. Onto his soft, gentle skin.

For minutes, or hours, she lay, in his arms and cried.

He held her. There.

When finally the tide of sorrow, and pain, and shattered, broken will had fallen into a dryness and exhaustion her body could no longer maintain; she lay, yet still, amidst his arms.

For some long, fragile moments, all she did was breathe.

Slowly - inevitably - though, the thing that most defined her, returned. Beneath, or above, it all, she could not fully tell. Amidst or in spite, it did not seem to matter. All that she had done, in the moments or hours before, remained. And would remain.

The truth. Beneath, around.

Whatever else, remained.

In the new, and long silence, amidst the warmth, and soft touch of his skin, he breathed a breath.

The words that had to follow, paused a moment before, "...I love you..." he said.

All she could do was smile.

- A perfect, mournful smile -

Hesitantly, slowly, she moved herself to meet the hazel gentleness above.

"I don't..." she said, "...I don't love you...not like that...if we weren't here, if we hadn't...we'd be wrong for each other. I love you, completely...but not like..."

- If there had been pain, if she had hurt him after all this -

Elle'dred did not look away; he would not.

Above, he smiled, "That's what I meant too." There was nothing but a relieved honesty in the hazel glint of his eyes.

His eyes.

She smiled, completely. She smiled.

As he did, above. For a moment, all they did was smile.

She lay back down, nestled the stark whiteness of her hair against the soft skin of his shoulder.

- There was more she had to say - so much more she needed to, but now - just now, all that she could bear, was to lie here, close, and warm, amidst the gentle embrace of his arms.
Chapter 27

They had lain on the cot, in the medical tent, for the remaining hours of the night. After a time, passed beneath the golden glow of the lantern's light in silence, Syla had begun to talk.

They had talked about all the things he had known, since that moment she had woken in the sanctuary of the Elven Kindred. All the things he had let be, because she had needed -

Because he had not had the courage to confront them. Like Hheirdane.

He was ever who he was.

It was all too much -

Syla had spoken, all the words she needed to speak; and all the words she could not. He had listened, as he held her. As the terrible pang said he should have done so those many months ago.

He did not try to quash it.

He only held the woman - the friend - he loved.

Syla had spoken about the possession; described the wrongness it had left within. She had cried again, as she had spoken. As ever, as he held her, he could only stand - or rather lie, in awe.

This woman was so much stronger than he.

It provoked a pang of shame - again, one he did not fight -

He was ever who he was.

Syla had told him about her mother; a fact he had not known. Though one that did not engender much surprise. That only served to harden his resolve.

The world was wrong, entirely and utterly -

It was a wrongness they had to undo.

Syla had not said as much, he knew that in those fragile moments, she could not; but he had seen it in her eyes. The duty that defined her; the impossible stubbornness and strength, would not give way to self-pity and surrender - no more than she already had -

So unlike him, so unlike all he had done thus far. Another pang. He was ever -

Their nakedness had not gone unremarked; he had asked her if this was the only night - the only time -

She had had shaken her head in uncertainty. The only moment that was uncharacteristic.

If she needed it, or he - she had only said as much, in the fragile, azure of her eyes.

The one surrender she had allowed.

He loved her. This woman. His friend. It had taken all he had to love her.

- The dawn had broken the chill of the darkness outside.

The morning, as they had both known it would, had intruded on the perfect solitude of their night.

All that had needed to be said, had been said. For that, inexpressibly, he was grateful.

With the slightest sigh of regret, Syla rose from the levelness of the cot; from the warm embrace of his arms. For a moment, amidst the soft haze of light, that moved in from outside, he watched her in her nakedness.

There was a thinness to her body, a gauntness of overwhelming stress and starvation. Beneath the subtle curve of her breasts, her ribs pressed bare, underneath her milky-white skin. The haunted frailty, that had stayed with her since the minutes of her possession - that yet remained amidst the features of her face - had moved into every inch of her body. Under the stark whiteness of her waist-length hair.

She was beautiful.

She turned, and noticing the recumbence he was all too ready to maintain, met him with an appropriately admonishing glare.

Beneath the azure glint, he now finally fully recognised, all that remained, remained. But something, if only in its barest, now, also held.

He chuckled, and swung his legs over the edge of the cot.

She retrieved her pants, and tunic, and re-donned them, as he moved over to the wall of chests, and removed a spare set of breeches. And a shirt.

Slowly, amidst the awkwardness of the lingering pain of his wound, he slipped his legs into them, and pulled the shirt over his chest.

Syla waited, where she stood, having pulled the length of argent hair out from underneath her tunic; she had bound it into a braid she let dangled across her shoulder.

Her gaze remained.

She moved out of the tent, with him a moment behind.

He retrieved his belt, and his blade, from where they lay beside his cot.

They both paused, outside, as he fastened them to his waist.

He moved beside her, and out into the camp.

As the dawn rose gradually, above the south eastern horizon, they made their way towards the centre of the tents.

Syla broke the silence, "Elle'dred, there's one more thing. Keylyn..." she paused, "...he is not guilty of the murder. It was not his fault."

Elle'dred paused, before he asked, "Is he still a liability? Could they possess him..."

The glint of her eyes glistened - he paused - she too was silent before she continued, "...Yes." she paused again, "...I don't know if I can protect him...and what's more, I don't think he wants me too. Not in any sense that he is aware of...he's holding onto something; something that makes him vulnerable amidst his dreams...when they - when the Tribunal possessed him, I felt it." she paused, and met his eyes, with all they both knew as there, "He's been violated enough. And I will not protect him against his will...but, he is not guilty."

What she asked, there, Elle'dred did not mistake. Or deny.

Gently, understandingly, he nodded.

She looked relieved. Briefly.

For a moment, there was silence; then he spoke, "In Armanas, on the last day there...just before we left...there was a boy. He overheard us talking about the guards, and Dwener'dier." he met her eyes, "Who we were. I had to kill him."

Syla met his gaze, with the same levelness he had shown her.

They both knew the truth, the world was wrong. Completely, and utterly.

Though that was no excuse.

The guilt he felt, resounded - though was not condemned in the azure gaze before him.

As ever, now, he did not try to fight it.

* * *

Ragmurath stood in the empty, circular expanse of the council chamber. Amidst the seething rage, and perpetual disdain, that warped the features of his face into a sneer, the thought resounded.

The resistance camp yet remained.

The scouts and patrols that had been dispatched from the south most keeps through the flatlands had failed to locate the encampment. Three groups of knights - of traitors - had been reportedly encountered, pursued - and destroyed.

By their own hand. No knight had survived for interrogation.

It was an incompetence he would not allow.

The thought resounded - there was no further recourse to take -

It sparked the bottomless, hollow pit of rage.

All of the armies, on the plains, were marshalled in the north, fighting the new influx of goblins. And incarnates. From the valley of Ythordor.

Despite the destruction spell that had wiped out the host of fifteen thousand, as many more had emerged from the valley in the past months.

The war, despite their efforts of the armies and their magics, was turning once more against them.

Their numbers on the plains were dwindling; each conflict - where some handful of soldiers had managed to survive to report - had resulted in the near total destruction of an army. The goblins fought with a new decisiveness, and with far more cunning that what they should be capable.

And the reserves, dispatched from Delphanas an intolerable number of months before, had met their own resistance amidst the marshes, and the river-lands of the north. A regrouping effort had been continuingly stalled.

As their losses continued, steadily to mount.

The goblins reinforcements, now, had bypassed the keeps - almost without exception. Whatever force had driven them to attack the line of keeps that defined the west, had now turned its full force against the more mobile defences of the flats.

- Ever since the host had been decimated.

The thought resounded. And provoked a snarl. It choked in his clenched throat.

Behind, upon the shadows of the wall, his aide stood in silent attention.

Dus, ever accompanied him.

- The one mitigating factor, that held the callous fury in check, was the thought of Keylyn.

The liability the magus presented had been dealt with - as had the oracle who had helped - and established, the resistance. Her visions, which had led the knights to the traitors in Delphanas, had been silenced. And Keylyn had been used to murder her.

Keylyn would be killed for what 'he' had done - that thought alone sated the rage. Barely.

The possession spell yet clung to him with fading shreds of fatigue; it had not been as powerful as the one the Tribunal had cast before, and this had only necessitated the presence of High Magus Eranath, and his aide. Dus continued to prove himself -

His gaze was drawn away from the interminable fury within, to the opening of the doors upon the opposing wall ahead.

The double oaken partitions, opened by the vermillion guards, admitted the ebony and azure form of the High Magus.

Gerdanath had been summoned. Ordered to attend.

The older woman drew to the opposing edge of the azure mosaic that split the blackness of the floor. As the doors where shut with quiet thud behind her.

She met the eyes of her Staff-Bearer, and nodded the proper respect.

Ragmurath eyed her with the contempt ever imbued in his gaze, "High Magus Gerdanath. You have been ordered here to account for the defiance you have shown in fulfilling the orders given to you by your Staff-Bearer."

Gerdanath's eyes did not belie offence, or objection, "Staff-Bearer?"

"You were ordered to handle the marshalling of a force that would sweep the south east clear of the traitors that yet gather there."

Gerdanath did not reply.

- Until she was allowed, "Explain your inaction."

"Staff-Bearer, there are no armies to be dispatched. The forces in the north are under constant attack, and the reserves are being blocked at every turn to reinforce them. The order was sent to allocate a force to move into the centre, and south of the plains, but it would seem the order was not received. Or that if it was, the force allocated was soon after destroyed."

Her voice was flat, and level. It bore no apology.

Ragmurath sneered, "That does not excuse your inaction."

Gerdanath was silent.

For a long pause, the Staff-Bearer only glared at his inferior, "The twenty seventh army is some days from the city. Their orders were to report here for resupply, then to move through the Warded Valley into the northern marshes. You will reassign them." he paused, "They are to make their way over the Fore-guards mountains to the south, directly onto the flatlands of Thgad. From there, they will move west, and join with any of the reserves that - may have been - dispatched from the north." again, he paused, "They will replace the garrisons of the south most keeps."

The phrase piqued a tacit question - or objection - amidst his inferior's otherwise level gaze.

"The garrisons of the keeps Ghalesus, Arethus, and Marnesus, have been ordered to marshal as an army. That army will scout the southwest, near the forsaken glade - it will locate and destroy the resistance camp. And any other criminals that have chosen to hide there."

The objection - that provoked his disdain - glistened beneath the woman's eyes, for a moment.

She motioned to be heard.

He quashed a recurrent sneer, as he nodded.

"Staff-Bearer, that will weaken the defences of those keeps significantly. Their reserves were already dispatched -"

"I am fully aware of the previous allocations of our forces in the south." he snarled, "The keeps do not require their men to defend them."

Gerdanath paused, "And what of the reports of goblin movement nearby?"

The Staff-Bearer glared, "They are unfounded."

Her eyes challenged - defied, his. As yet.

She bowed her head, "Yes, Staff-Bearer."

Her acquiescence provoked a disdaining sneer.

* * *

He had been released. Pardoned.

By the Champion.

The man had come into the tent after dawn, and ordered the knights outside to unchain him.

He was being pardoned. He was not guilty of his crimes.

Keylyn had sat, as the heavy iron weights were removed from his wrists. As he was allowed to stand to his feet. He did not meet their eyes. He only hung his gaze.

The Champion had glanced down, at the crusting of thick red that yet marked his hands.

"You had best was that off. And bathe." the man had said, "Eat something."

Keylyn had nodded.

The knights had left the tent. The Champion followed a moment after.

Keylyn had stood, beside the bare wood of the central pole, for some time - a minute, an hour -

He had moved out, into the day's brightness.

His stomach had groaned, as he caught the smell from the cook fires, on the northern side of the encampment. His mouth had watered, what it could, as he passed them. He had made his way - slowly, ever plagued by his limp - towards the hills that rose in the north.

He should bathe; the small lakes lay some walk away.

He did not have a change of clothes. He could find those when he returned.

He limped over the casual rise and fall of the grass.

There were some knights, themselves bathing, in the shallows at the waters edge.

He caught their stares, as he glanced up - his attention, drawn by their movement.

He looked away.

And began to strip his clothes.

As far a distance away as the shoreline permitted, he waded, naked, into the chill depths of the shallows. The cold bite of the water raised the whiteness of his skin to gooseflesh.

He washed the dried blood from his hands. Washed the weeks of dirt and sweat, that had caked to every inch of his body.

Ahead, with glares he caught again, as their movement drew his instinctual gaze, the knights proceeded to don their clothes, and armour, and move away. Back towards the south, and the encampment.

He continued the ablutions, to wash the dirt away.

And knelt down, to submerse his raw, irritated waist in the water. He had been permitted a chamber pot during his incarceration; though that had only been to allay the smell. He had had no way of cleaning himself; and the weeks of dirtiness had left the flesh behind red and raw.

He rubbed the foulness away, into the numbing chill of the water. And flinched where he broke the skin.

It was clean; as much as it could be.

He rose, and limped out of the shallows, to where he had left his clothes. He pulled them back on, over his now cleaner skin.

He hobbled a slow way back to the camp.

Again he passed the cook-fires, and the knights who gathered there. He did not meet there stares.

In the supply tent, which was empty when he entered, he found a chest of trail rations, removed one and a skin of water.

The dryness of the food was washed down with clear, clean liquid.

He retreated to the medical tent - there was no other place for him -

He lay on a cot; his cot, and let the afternoon pass into evening. Into dusk, and then the night.

From outside, amidst the light of the dwindling campfires under the dark, there was a sound of movement.

He raised his head, reflexively, to see who or what was out there.

The overshadowed silhouette, held aside the entry flap.

It paused for a moment, framed by the fire-glow on the tents outside.

- The archivist stood in the flap. He was already drunk. The smell of it reached Keylyn, from the other man's heavy breathing.

Keylyn met the eyes - that stared blearily at his cot - the eyes that glistened.

He hated him. More now than before.

He had come -

Slowly, Keylyn began to strip off his dirty clothes.

The archivist moved into the dark, and did the same.

Keylyn did not care.

He did not care -
Chapter 28

He ran. Alarm and fear thundered in his chest.

Shadows flickered across the roots of the trees behind him. They shrieked and cried. And raised their shards of darkness amidst the towering canopy, lost in shadow, above.

Amidst the endless ranks of implacable pillars, surrounded on all sides by a distant wall of golden light - beneath a canopy of unbroken darkness, Elle'dred ran.

He bled from a gash, which had parted the leathers at his shoulder. The blood continued to run down underneath, across the skin, and wrist, the palm of his sword arm. The warm thickness coated the leather hilt of the Champion's blade.

Fear beat in his chest. A thundering that filled his ears.

He was going to die -

If his terror was not so absolute, he might have laughed. Here he was, as ever, again.

He had stepped into Dwener'dier to find answers - now it seemed all he would find was a blow from a shard of black abyss, wielded by a shape of shadow.

He ran.

- From ahead, from behind five of closest pillars of unyielding wood, as many and more shapes emerged.

They slid across the twisted roots of the trees, across the verdant green of the grass, patched with leaf-litter and scrub, and flickered against the wall of distant light ahead.

Their blades wavered amidst the errant bursts of glare.

They waited.

From the corner of his vision, and from the haunting fear that drove him on, he could see - and feel, the shadows that swarmed to either side. And behind. He could not veer aside.

Instinct manifested above the fear.

He closed, at a run - a charge, on the first waiting shadow.

It maw, amidst its head of rising, wavering ash or smoke, opened - and released the cry, the alien shriek of its birthing world. It flickered - it lunged.

In an instant, Elle'dred slid past - and turned - side-stepping the stabbing shard of abyss so close that it sheered through the leathers of his chest, and may have grazed the skin beneath. Unable to arrest his momentum, and under no desire to, he planted his other foot and rolled, across the extended length of lethal blackness.

From the emerging side of his turn, a pace now aside his foe, his other foot held stance, and his sword-arm uncoiled in arcing synchronicity with the whirling movement - circling outwards, and beside, into a slash that split the recovering shadow-shape in two.

He did not pause -

The remaining shadows ahead, shrieked and charged.

From the slash, he brought the Champion's blade up into a block - it met the edge of the descending shard and slash that was meant to gut him - the silver edge of the metal whined against the shadow with a shriek not unlike the face of ash before him.

The second shadow cried - and flickered its blade -

He was quicker; through the block, he continued in an unbroken arc - rotating his arms, around and above his chest - and inverting the length of his sword, down and before himself, into a diagonal strike that cleaved through the shadow's shoulder, and opened its chest.

Instinct rushed through his muscles - shifting his feet into the stance that would -

The third shadow rushed him, a wild slash parting the air - amidst the grating sorrow of its shriek - a moment after he had ducked the blow meant for his neck.

He stepped through the duck, dragging his own blade up, across the over-committed flank of the enemy beside - and into an immediate block, of the shadow that shrieked, and charged a step behind.

Metal whined, again, against a shard of unnatural, manifested dark - as the shadow behind it screamed.

It shifted - it flickered - a moment away.

Its blade transposed amidst the glare of light that shone past its head. It slashed. Again.

Instinct raised his blade to block -

The slash - the feint - wavered, instantly, back - into a swifter lunge.

He felt the edge of violent abyss slice through the leathers at his chest - as he tried to step the blow - the blade parted the protective layer, and cut deeply into his flesh. Despite the pain, and the cold shiver of exposed flesh amidst the air of the alien wood, he continued his turn around the blow.

A foot slid back - he shifted his weight - and retreated into a downwards slash, that parted the shadow of its extended arm. His stance shifted again - and dragged his blade back up across - and through - the mass of shadow, or smoke, or ash, that was its head. The full weight of its body fell to the grass below. As its face drifted upwards into the unlimited dark above.

- Blood ran from the wound on his abdomen. Down his stomach, to his waist. Thin trickles from the parted flesh.

The warm, thick wetness.

- He glanced up.

A the fifth shape loomed suddenly across his vision - a black mass that swallowed the distant wall of light, alike the black canopy above.

He raised his blade to ward off its strike -

This time, he had not been quick enough.

- Light -

A flare of lancing light, golden and glinting, as though off of the edge of a plate of armour, cut through the very darkness before him. The shadow parted, and twisted - and fled - into shreds of wavering smoke, then dispelled by the light.

For a moment, he was blinded by the nascent glare.

It faded.

He gazed ahead - but where he had expected to see the sixth, and seventh shadows, flickering into violent death before him, instead he was met by a face of radiant gold - like the edge of a flare, of the distant wall, caught and held manifest amidst the trees.

The face was elongated, and sharp, above a billowing mass of robes swept outwards by the breeze.

Elongated, and serpentine.

With two eyeholes carved amidst the gold, where its eyes should have been.

It held a sword in the gauntlet of its hand.

- For a moment, Elle'dred was stunned - he stared -

There was a shriek - from the shadows behind the figure. It turned.

The flares of distant light behind glinted sharply off the golden shape of its face - it mask - as it raised the shimmer of its blade to combat the black shapes now flickering over the brown roots of the trees towards it. It moved with a sublime grace, and marked poise, the knight had long forgotten - the glimmer of its blade did not deign to meet the shards of abyss the shadows brought to bear -

The bright whiteness of its robes - and amidst the wall of light beyond, they were untainted white - swirled through a cascade of whirling folds, to bring its blade into a perfect arc that split the first shadow through its chest, and flawlessly down to cleave apart the second foe, a moment after.

It paused, the pillar of robes, crowned with the serpentine gold of its mask -

It glanced up to meet the Champion's eyes.

And then turned and began to run -

Elle'dred leapt after it - too many new thoughts swirled amidst the daze in his head -

It ran, ahead, a glint of gold, and silver - its blade was silver - darting through the trees.

Elle'dred ran - he chased the suit of armour, of nothing else it could be, through the implacable ranks of the alien forest under its canopy of perfect shadow. He ran, and veered, and closed -

And was swallowed by an explosion of the wall ahead - by a torrent of lancing, golden light.

- He tripped, and stumbled, and fell.

Onto the soft prickling of grass beneath. The earthy smell of it filled his nose.

He blinked, and levered himself up onto his arms - the blindness slowly cleared.

As ever, and always, he was amidst a clearing - an open area amidst the endless, ranks of the trees. But the wall, now filled with the depths of gloom all around, remained.

Sunlight cascaded down from above, amidst the cloak of hoary cloud that ran across the sky. Towards the impossible peak of the mountain that ever watched, in its infinitude above.

Elle'dred sighed, and sheathed his sword.

- He had come looking for answers. And here, he supposed, he would find them.

The clearing was small, much smaller than before -

As small as the time -

And there were statues.

Upon the level grass, that spread undeviating, throughout the area before him, small statuettes had been placed across the topography of a land unmistakably familiar.

The west of Ammandorn stretched before him.

Stone tents held placed beside the mass of sharper rock that jutted into its sky, alike the impossible peak it recalled above - the lakes, Ahen's Tears, glimmered softly beneath the mountain range that stretched away into the north; themselves south of the great lake Delphaithyn, fed by the Ageless River that divided the south most edge of An'dier and the first, perfect ranks of the alien wood that was the Forsaken Glade.

Elle'dred gazed ahead - his vision was drawn east, towards the line of twelve stone keeps, carved with impossible intricacy into semblance of each of those that held place in the real world, outside the perturbing strangeness of this clearing.

Between the second and third keeps, in parallel with the edifice of stone tents that was their camp in the west, the carvings of an army held place.

An army of men and horses. Of Ammandorn.

It was directed at the encampment of stone no significant distance to the west.

Elle'dred stared - an army was marshalling between the keeps, and it would soon march. To the resistance camp.

- But it was not the only army that held place amidst the grass and the hills.

A horde of goblin statues, carved with a twisted violence, had been placed across the flatness of the grass east of the great lake - their skull-like façades, were turned north and east - directed at the one of the central keeps of the twelve that spread upwards across the plains.

Away from the southern edifices, and the army that gathered between.

A goblin horde.

- He had wanted an answer. To what force the Tribunal levelled against them in the wake of their possession of Keylyn - and this seemed it. It did not take him by surprise.

But, as before, when once he had ventured into this forest to save the life of a man he loathed - he was faced by a truth carved indelibly in stone.

He knew what the statues were - and what an act here would mean.

- The memory passed before him, as it had each and too many nights before.

The regret, and the guilt that haunted him. He did not try to fight it.

He stabbed his blade into the glistening water of the great lake, and drew a line for an emptying trickle to flow - east, and south - around the statuettes of the goblin horde.

An impassable border of water, which would direct them south into the gathering stone carvings of the army. Of Ammandorn.

Behind, from amidst the walling gloom that pervaded the ranks of the trees - a glimmer of gold shone, and glinted.

Elle'dred turned, a glance over his shoulder. He had expected as much.

The glint, off a face - a mask - a helm, serpentine and golden - held amidst the deep, and most distant ranks of the trees. Alight, in the gloom. And waiting.

He turned fully around to face it. His back now turned to the clearing, and its statues, and the line of water he had drawn. He stepped towards the trees that surrounded the clearing.

And back into the alien vastness of the wood that would return him to the real world.

The guilt stepped with him. He did not try to fight it.

* * *

Keylyn limped across the length of the camp. The sun lingered high in midday over the south, at his back, occluded by some shreds of cloud, grey and white.

He needed to bathe. To wash the sweat - and else, that clung to him from the night before.

Nights before.

It had been a few days since he had bathed.

The thought drifted heedlessly through his head.

- He did not care -

He moved over the gradual rise and fall of the verdant hills, under the tattered azure of the sky.

His stride was ever hampered by the limp, left in the wake of -

He did not care. He let it fade.

- There was a group of knights, at the edge of the small lake.

They each were bathing, under the light shadows of the trees on its eastern side. Beside the rocky shelf over which ran the small rivulet that fed the deeper pool of the lake.

Keylyn only glanced up, as he approached, his gaze elicited by their movement. And their voices.

He needed to bathe - the thought echoed emptily -

He limped down the slight decline of the hill, across the softness of the grass, to the brown edge of the shore, where the sparkling ripples of the water lapped. The sun sparked white glints off the gentle undulation of the lake's surface, as he disrobed.

He let his clothes fall where they would, on the damp dirt beneath him.

Naked, amidst the cool chill of the northerly breeze, he waded slowly into the shallows ahead.

The southern sun's gentle warmth baked steadily into his bare back, as he sloshed the water up over his arms and chest. He washed the grime, and sweat away, into the quiet glisten of the lake around him.

Besides, he heard the more distant sloshing of the water, as the knights each waded out and onto the shore.

He did not chance a look up; his hands just moved rhythmically through the cool depths of the water.

He scrubbed away some dirt, from his flank beneath his ribs - and flinched. There was a bruise there; a small, darker pink blotch. It had come from the nights before -

He looked away, back at the glisten of the ripples around his legs. He scooped more water up to wash away the dirt from the pink bulge of his scars.

On his body. On his legs.

He washed away the dirt that had built up there.

He was clean, for the most part -

He did not care.

Slowly, mechanically, he turned amidst the lapping ripples of the shallows, back towards the shore.

The knights - three of them - where standing around his clothes.

They were all staring at him.

For a moment, he stared back - the thoughts passed unheeded amidst the emptiness of his mind. They had re-donned their leathers, and their weapons. As he stood, naked, washing himself.

He moved forward, waded slowly towards where the brown met the gentle lapping of the lake.

He limped out of the water, and up, onto the softness of the dirt. Towards his clothes.

The knights did not move - just stood, and stared.

He reached the pile of his shirt and pants, and shoes. He bent over to pick them up off the dirt.

"Magus." he heard muttered, above him.

Reflex had his head turn, lethargically, and stare up -

- At the knight's fist that came down hard across his jaw.

He staggered a step back, and fell.

Against the waiting, restraining arms of the knight behind.

The woman held him with a grip that twisted his skin - as his head reeled.

The other knight advanced a step, and raised his fist.

"Magus bastard." he snarled, as he landed another blow.

- Onto the bridge of Keylyn's nose. Pain exploded into the emptiness of his face.

His head snapped back; impacting the pitiless solidity of the knight that restrained him. Another blow landed in his gut - drove the wind from his lungs. He could taste blood from somewhere in his mouth where he had bitten down.

He wheezed a breath back in - in hurt as much as the blow.

"You deserve to die, you bastard." the knight before him stated, flatly, sharply, "...you're a murderer and an enemy. We should've -" the rest was covered with a snarl.

The blow jerked his head to the side, and struck a moment of numbness through his cheek.

The restraint from behind did not slacken.

For a moment - some moments - he half-stood there, fighting the daze that restricted his head.

No more blows landed.

"We know what you do," - the knight had bent down, to bring his face level with the magus, "With the archivist...man-lover. You're sick."

Keylyn stared ahead, past the dangling locks of matted blonde hair that occluded his sight.

The knight's face moved up, and away. He backed a step.

Keylyn dangled limply - as the female knight behind pushed, dropped, him to the ground, face first. The blood or bruising on his nose struck the soft yieldingness of the dirt.

He allowed a shallow breath -

His arm was wrenched up behind him, as a hand slid iron fingers into the locks of his head and jerked it upright - bent over, on his knees. His shoulder screamed with pain.

He stared ahead, into the face of the knight, again lowered to his own.

"Fight back, you bastard." the knight hissed, "...Please..." - he fingered the hilt of a dagger, "Please, give me..."

Keylyn only stared.

The knight ground his teeth, and stood, "Laren, grab a branch." he called, to the third.

Some moments passed, as Keylyn knelt there, bent forward, and restrained.

He heard the soft footsteps of the knight's boots shifting the soft dirt. Something was handed over the naked skin of his back -

The knight ahead, lent down again, brandishing the rough, jagged end of the branch before him, "I hope you enjoy this." the man muttered, and rose, and moved around him.

Keylyn bit his lip - bit back a - as the branch was forced in, behind, inside his anus.

He sucked in a sharp breath he could not contain.

"You like that, magus." he heard jeered by another voice, from behind.

The grip in his hair tightened, and pulled what little else it could.

He bit back a breath.

As the knight moved into the naked air before him.

The man drew his dagger, and bent down, "We should kill you for what you did. We should've killed you when we found you, you magus bastard." he paused - and brought the edge of the dagger to Keylyn's cheek, "...please. Try something. Some trick of your blood. I'll ram this up there too..." - a sharp breath; for a moment, all he did was stare, unfocused, as the knight waited for a sound, a movement - a breath -

He made none.

The knight growled, lowly, behind clenched teeth, "Fine. We'll just have to settle for marking that pretty face."

- The scream passed unheeded, as the dagger edge carved a gash into his cheek - and another. The intersecting lines of a symbol. The blood welled, and ran, down the milky-white skin of his cheek.

The knight withdrew the blade, flicked away the blood, and re-sheathed it at his waist.

The man nodded, above, for the woman behind to drop the magus where he lay.

Keylyn fell to the soft, brown, dirt of the shore.

All he did was lie -

The two knights ahead, turned and began to move away -

A kick landed hard against his leg, behind the knee, from the third knight behind. Before the man, himself, joined the others as they moved up the gentle rise of the verdant hill.

For some moments, or minutes, Keylyn lay.

Slowly, timidly, he reached behind to where the branch yet protruded from inside.

He pulled it out - slowly - painfully. And let the length of jagged wood lie on the dirt beside.

Carefully, he rolled over, onto his arms, and levered himself up onto his knees.

He stood.

And limped - and flinched - a slow pace back into the shallows of the lake.

He lowered himself into the water - and bit back the cry that welled in his throat. He washed the blood away, from his face, and behind. Slowly, carefully.

The blood still ran across the pale whiteness of his cheek - it would continue to run as he limped back to camp. The soft breeze caught a stinging chill on the bared flesh of his face.

He turned and waded back to where his clothes yet lay.

As ever, over minutes, he gradually replaced them. And his shoes.

And made his way up the gentle slope of the hill.

The blood continued to run.

He did not care -

He did not -
Chapter 29

Elle'dred rode atop his black, beside the two knights who had been waiting at the edge of the forest for his return.

He had run, again. He had been chased by the shadows. He had chased the golden glint of the helm.

The shape, the robed figure, had run amidst the trees ahead - through the rows upon rows of implacable pillars amidst a wall of distant gold.

He had been chasing it when he stumbled out into the bright white glare of the morning.

On the plains.

He had known he would.

It only made sense. He smirked to himself. The helm - the golden glint - had been there before.

The thought passed - the rampant, desperate hope rekindled. He hoped -

But the notion faded under a momentary cynicism. Sparked by guilt.

He did not try to fight it.

At least he had emerged unharmed -

He chuckled quietly to himself at the thought.

He rode at a trot, under the brightness of the sky, trammelled now by wisps of cloud. In his absence, two days had passed - in the brief moments of the alien eternity that dominated the forest of Dwener'dier, in the real world outside, two days had passed.

Amidst the clearing, and its statues, and the trees -

That much had not surprised him. Though the transition was still somewhat jarring.

- Scouts had returned to the encampment with word of the army marshalling on the flats.

It numbered close to a thousand; by appearance it was composed of the remaining soldiers of the garrisons that yet manned the south-most keeps. All those who had not been reassigned to bolster the war-effort in the higher north of the plains.

The information had come as a shock - and sparked the guilt once more.

His mind had raced back to the line of water he had drawn on the ground in that clearing - the goblin host that it would turn aside. Back. To the south.

There had been word of that host too. Their scouts had discovered the marauding goblin war band further north, on the shores of the great lake - where they had been placed in the clearing. The goblins own scout parties were rife throughout the plains - small bands, that were no doubt responsible for frustrating the keeps efforts to locate them - and concealing the larger host that marshalled for a strike at one of the fortifications.

Those scouts had undeniably seen the army marshalling in the open between the keeps of Marnesus and Arethus - and the convoys of men dispatched from Ghalesus. If they had the power of tamers with them, from the air, they would have seen the emptiness that must now fill those keeps, and have deduced the nature of the army gathering in their midst.

The thought - the fear - passed, that with one slash of his sword, he might have doomed the defence of Ammandorn against its foes. The scouts had reported the goblin war band numbering at a thousand - perhaps more. There had been incarnates with them.

The goblins would move by night - where they would strike first, a keep or the army, was not certain.

They would not venture near Dwener'dier - they had not, in all their centuries of conflict. The goblins feared the forest as much as the archivists - as the men of Ammandorn, had once.

The guilt surged, again - as before, he did not attempt to quash it.

- The first line of sallow canvas shelters grew from the green monotony of the horizon.

They continued ahead, holding pace, as the first of the knights that moved amidst the tents came into view. There was a shout, directed to the centre of camp, and it elicited some further movement.

As they reached the edge of the encampment, Elle'dred descried the two Sword-Bearers, and Syla, as they each moved out from the western tents to meet the returning riders.

Elle'dred drew to a halt, and dismounted.

A knight approached him, and he handed the reins of the black to the woman.

Syla drew alongside - for a moment, she met his eyes. As before, the same glisten yet remained - and all else that would remain - but now there was a shimmer of palpable relief in her gaze.

He had returned unharmed. For that, he was grateful himself.

He turned to the male Sword-Bearer, "Darrodane, I want you to ready a scout party. You are to move north - along the edge of Dwener'dier. Conceal yourself amidst Ahen's tears; I want you to wait there, until you see the goblin host moving." he paused, "They will be moving south, towards the keep and the army gathering there. They will attack...and I think, they will decimate the force. Whatever the outcome, we need to know the result of the battle."

The gaze of the older man wavered for a moment - doubt, uncertainty, the harder glint of reservations - Darrodane nodded his acknowledgement. Though with a measure of hesitation.

Elle'dred nodded for him to leave, immediately.

As the Sword-Bearer moved away from the group, Elle'dred turned to the doughty features of his female counterpart, "Palai'dred, any scouts that do return from this moment on are to remain here. Until the battle is resolved."

She nodded her understanding of the order.

Elle'dred motioned for them to proceed into the centre of the camp.

Syla moved alongside - for a moment, they exchanged a glance.

All that needed to be said was conveyed in a moment - the details, of the clearing, of the lakes, and the stream of water drawn with the point of the Champion's blade, seemed immaterial - neither of them needed it said. He did not try to fight the guilt, as it swelled yet again.

There was no condemnation, apparent or concealed, in the pale azure of her eyes.

Though that did not make it right.

* * *

Night had fallen once more. The orange glow of the fires caught against the sallow canvas of the tents, outside. The equally sallow light of the lantern filled the heavy air, inside.

The swallow of wine, slid down his throat and welled in his stomach - a sharp, acrid bite. A breath passed - and quelled the urge to retch. He forced another swallow.

The thoughts swirled, amidst the hollow delirium of the wine. Its numbness, its blind happiness, was absent. It had always been absent.

- He wanted -

He bit the thought away with a sob - and anger. For the damned magus.

For the damned -

He took another swallow. And again, fought the urge to retch.

He opened the top of the crate, and replaced the half-empty wineskin in the hollow container where he had found it.

- He wanted -

He stumbled around, towards the flap of dangling canvas that permitted entry to the enclosure.

He bit the thought back with a cough, with the urge to retch.

For the damned magus.

Faldorn stumbled blearily through the grass pathways that led between the tents, under the lambent glow that flickered there. He stumbled into the canvas wall of one -

- It choked his chest; he tried to breathe -

- He wanted -

He snarled. And buckled; his knee sank to the soft grass and dirt of the ground.

He retched. He threw up a spattering of purple red, and what was left in his stomach, that had not ventured too deep, from the day before. He retched again.

With a sleeve, he wiped away the remaining foulness and spittle that yet clung to his lips.

Spat the taste - what he could from his mouth - he needed water -

The thought passed; and engendered the tears. He needed -

He wiped away the salty drops, with the sleeve. They stung his eyes; blurred the haze of his vision.

He fought back a breath - fought to breathe.

The anger returned; the choking rage. As it ever did. As did -

He stumbled to his feet. He forced himself to walk.

For the damned magus.

He stumbled blindly through the walls of orange canvas, over the black shadows of the ground. He passed a pair of knights, making their rounds on patrol throughout the camp.

He remained silent.

He found the entry to the medical tent. From the parting of the flaps, a lance of sallow yellow emerged - the errant light of the lantern within.

He pushed aside the pendant canvas, with the stained mess of his sleeve.

The magus was sitting on the edge of his cot, naked, some feet in.

The locks of blonde hair, hung over the features - and the gaze - that rose to meet his entrance.

Faldorn only stared. For a moment.

Then stumbled forward. And began to fumble at the laces of his clothes.

Keylyn turned away; he did not move.

Faldorn dropped his pants to the grass of the enclosure; pulled his tunic up over the damp skin of his chest. He dropped it to the ground beside one of the empty cots.

Amidst the sallow glow of the lantern's light, he moved, naked, to the side of the magus.

One hand moved to himself, to rub the flaccidity of the wine away.

The other moved for the magus face -

Keylyn stood. He limped back a step.

"...no...Faldorn...no..." he mumbled - his voice was hoarse.

The anger flared - for the damned magus -

- He wanted -

He reached out more forcefully, grabbed the magus bare arm and drew him into a deep, clumsy kiss. Drew his hand across the magus cheek - to move the hair away.

Keylyn struggled -

- Faldorn held -

- The magus pushed him back with a cry - a sob -

"Faldorn...I can't..." - it was yelled; as the other man stumbled back a step, and half turned.

In the yellow glow of the lantern, the cuts - the mark that split the milky-whiteness of his cheek, glared sudden, and violent. The red had crusted over the deep gashes.

- Faldorn could only stare.

As Keylyn collapsed, sobbing, to the ground. Beside his cot.

The magus knelt, as the sharp, uncontrolled breaths perforated the musty air of the tent. The sobs clenched the nakedness of his chest, his legs. The arm that held to his abdomen to stem the sharpness - over the pink bulge of his scars. And bruises.

Fresh purple, around blotches of red.

For a long time, Faldorn only stared at the naked body of the magus kneeling on the grass before him.

- The anger welled, the rage choked -

For a moment - he wanted -

Faldorn moved. At step ahead. And drew alongside the kneeling body of the magus.

For the damned magus. For the damned.

- Keylyn's head was almost level with the waning hardness of his crotch -

He reached out, and let his hand rest on the blonde locks of the top of the magus head. And swept it down, to Keylyn's neck, as he himself sat on the grass beside him.

He drew the other man's head to the sandy skin of his chest.

- Keylyn fought, he tried to pull away. Another, harder sob -

Faldorn's grasp did not yield. He lent out, reached for the man's shoulder, and pulled him bodily against the warm skin of his chest.

His hand reached up to hold the unbroken, milky-white skin of the other cheek, which had not been cut.

Keylyn's resistance buckled - broken by another sob. And the tears.

The warm wetness was pressed against Faldorn's chest.

As he held him.

Keylyn did not have any strength left to fight; for a long time - for the night, Faldorn sat there, with the magus' head pressed against his chest. In his arms. Staring blindly at the sallow lantern light, reflecting off the equally sallow canvas of the wall.

- As the other man - the mag - cried into his chest.

For a long time all he did was stare.

Keylyn could not cry anymore. The other man rose, he pulled away. He muttered something Faldorn did not hear - and moved to don his clothes - and out of the tent, away.

Faldorn sat, at the side of the cot, naked, on the soft grass of the ground.

All he could do - did, was sit and stare.

* * *

Elle'dred moved through the western edge of the encampment; between the canvas walls of the tents that housed his knights. Under the pale glimmering of the night's sky, occluded by long wisps of cloud, the cook-fires, to the north, burned a bright orange; their glow, which lit the camp, was broken by the black silhouettes of the men and women that yet gathered around them.

The camp was quiet; near half their number had left. Most had been sent on missions to the east of Ammandorn, to recruit and organise the various dissident movements in the villages - all the villages Lyrien had seen before she had been killed.

The thought provoked a pang; he did not try to fight it.

The others, for the most part, had departed the camp the morning after the oracle had died - to draw away any forces sent to locate them. Only a handful had returned thus far, and at that the last had been days ago; he did not expect any further knights to return.

Darrodane had taken four others with him; two knights of the hall, and two militia-men, one of whom was his niece. She had been one of the magus guards; the few magus guards that had betrayed their order, and rescued the Sword-Bearer and condemned knights.

Elle'dred smirked to himself; it was all too much.

He glanced aside, as Syla appeared from between two of the tents and assumed pace beside him.

She did not say anything; and he felt no compulsion to break the cool, slight breeze of the otherwise silent night.

He continued to walk a patrol route throughout the camp.

- Both the magus attention and his, was drawn by the high whistle that came from the south.

Elle'dred stopped and turned, back the way they had come.

Syla did likewise beside him.

From the darkness that was flat grassland to the south, the lone shape of the horse and its rider slowly emerged. The mount and the man drew, at a trot, to the southern perimeter of the encampment, as the Champion and the magus moved to join him.

Elle'dred caught sight of the man's features, amidst the sullen glow of a lantern - Athan.

The knight - one of his lieutenants - he had dispatched to Delphanas, to organise the resistance there, dismounted from atop the bay that was palpably flagging from exhaustion.

Two knights moved to escort the horse away to the dark flats in the east.

Amidst the sallow glow of the lantern, which cast sharp shadows off the man's features, Elle'dred could see he was as exhausted as his mount. There was a tiredness, a fatigue, a hollow emptiness to the man's features - something Elle'dred recognised all too readily -

Something incontrovertibly confirmed by the haunted glaze that covered his eyes.

"Milord." Athan acknowledged, with a nod, "There is an urgent matter we must discuss."

Elle'dred held the man's gaze for a moment, before nodding and gesturing for the central-most tent of the camp.

Syla held pace beside him, as they moved through the lantern-lit grass pathways between the tents, and the cool bite of the breeze that remained there.

They reached the flaps of the command tent, and moved inside.

Syla lit the lantern, atop the centre of the table within, as the returned knight stopped and stood on its far side.

Athan did not meet his Champion's eyes.

For a long silence, Elle'dred only stared at the man before him.

Athan looked up - there was a glisten over the redness of his gaze -

Elle'dred did not avert his eyes.

"Milord," Athan began; the tiredness had not left his voice, "The Tribunal has discovered us. Knight Morrick was captured in Delphanas, during a riot. He was interrogated. He divulged the nature of the resistance within the city, and our presence there. He told them about the encampment here, and about the resistance groups forming throughout Ammandorn. He told them about you, and the magus, and everyone..." the knight paused, "...The Tribunal retaliated. They are tracking down the resistance cells in Delphanas - likely throughout Ammandorn. They have brought new laws into effect...new punishments. Milord, they are executing the families of any and all who help the resistance - and all of the knights who were once with the hall."

Elle'dred did not reply -

Athan continued, "Any who refuse to turn themselves in are condemning their families to death. We were - I was...knight Nyrus turned himself in when we were told. He has two daughters, and their families - had...he was interrogated himself, before he was executed. His families were burned to death."

For a moment, thought and comprehension seemed beyond the knight at the far end of the table - it was nearly beyond Elle'dred's grasp as well.

It was all too much -

Athan seemed to regain his broken composure, "...There are those within the Tribunal - bloodhounds, who are helping the resistance in Delphanas. They are...they can't be trusted. But they're allies." again he paused, as the haunted glint found new grounding, "Milord, it is too late...even if the knights left tonight, they could not reach Delphanas in...their families would be killed anyway...as an example...as Nyrus was. Milord, they should be told. They should be -"

"No." Elle'dred pronounced, as flatly as he could bear - his tone drew the gaze of the knight before him, and returned a semblance of coherence to his eyes, "You will not tell the others. You will not discuss what you have just said outside this tent. Those are my orders, do you understand knight?"

Something flickered through the older man's gaze, something beneath the haunted, tired glaze - resentment, bitterness, and anger -

Athan nodded; he bit back a quiver, a tick of emotion, and nodded his acceptance of the order.

The bitterness remained.

"You are dismissed." Elle'dred said, as flatly as before.

Again Athan nodded, and turned, and moved out of the command tent.

For a moment, the silence left in the wake of the knight's news strangled the air above the table, and between the magus, at his side, and himself.

He could not bring himself to say what needed to be said -

It was all too -

Syla's mother; the thought resounded heavily amidst the choking quiet - he glanced aside -

Everything he knew moved through the azure glint of the magus gaze - and everything he could not bear in himself. But, as ever - as ever, Syla held the strength that he always lacked. Had always -

She looked away. Despite all else, she did not fight the aggrieved glint, the regret, and the resolve that defined her - despite all else -

She looked back up at him; to meet his lingering stare.

The resignation wavered, but did not break amidst the icy azure of her eyes.

He glanced away.

"Syla, would you find knight Yrradorn - have him report here. And Palai'dred, after, tell her...tell her to meet me here. There is much we must discuss."

Beside him, he felt the magus nod - a reluctant nod that moved across the frozen distance that he would not break -

A hand, reached up from the rough-spun sleeve of the magus tunic, and met his arm - he turned to meet the azure gaze - as the other moved to the beard-covered cheek of his face. Syla moved a step closer, and he bent his head down to meet her -

In a kiss. Short, and soft.

Syla pulled away - the azure gaze held his -

This does not make it right. Though there was no condemnation there. But there was disgust, and disappointment, above the wavering glisten of all else that yet remained. Though, not directed at him -

For that, he did not have the right to be grateful.

She moved out of the tent, and into the dark night beyond.

For some long minutes, passed only amidst the heavy air, and the sickly, sallow glow of the lantern, Elle'dred waited, for the first knight to report to him.

- The flaps that guarded the entrance to the enclosure opened. And admitted the man, near of an age with the Champion.

Even this knight, so much further down in rank than he, surpassed him by a year or more -

It was all too much. It was all too much.

The yellow light of the lantern caught the long jagged scar that covered the man's neck; the brown bristles of his beard above, and some beneath, refused to grow over the thick pink of the flesh.

Yrradorn stood at attention, on the far side of the table between him and his Champion.

Elle'dred held his gaze for a long moment, before beginning, "Yrradorn. I don't know you well; when I was knight I think we knew each other only in passing. And after I won the Championhood -" he paused, "I want to know something. And I can make it order if you prefer...what happened to you, to grant you that scar?"

Yrradorn did not react immediately, but slowly, quietly, he answered, "I was arrested by some town guards, in the east of the plains. I, and several other knights. We were stripped, and bound. The guard captain read out the crimes we were guilty of, and the sentence for each. Death. They slit our throats. And left us in the sun to rot." he paused, for the briefest moment, "The knife didn't bite deep enough; and the guards were not thorough. I was piled with the others...naked, and bleeding. Unconscious. I woke up some time later, a day maybe. I dragged myself out from under the other bodies - the others were all dead. I didn't bother to check if anyone else was alive. I stumbled out into the plains - I don't know for how long. I was discovered by some outlaws - they thought it quite funny at finding a blood-covered, naked man wandering the flats. Their leader decided he would rather gut me himself. Instead I took his sword and cut him through near to the spine." again, Yrradorn paused, "The others thought it better if I joined them. Darrodane found us some weeks after. Once the wound had healed."

Elle'dred only stared, as the tent returned once more to silence.

He let the quiet linger.

After a time, he asked, "Do you have any family, Yrradorn?"

"No." the knight replied, flatly, "They're all dead."

Elle'dred let out a sigh; relief - disgust - regret.

It was all -

He did not look at the knight as he explained, did not meet his eyes, "The families of all the other knights have been murdered. By the Tribunal. They, and anyone associated with us - the resistance, is being condemned as an outright traitor. They and their families are being killed." he paused, "Knight Athan knows this...he witnessed it. And in witnessing it, he has been scarred - not unlike you. I have no doubt that he will recover in time; he is a knight of the White Wolf Hall, and I trust him. But in that time - or maybe, through no volition of his own, he might tell the others what he has seen." Elle'dred paused, "I cannot take the risk. Knowing what has happened will not help the resistance - and the blow to morale might undermine us all together. I cannot risk the knowledge Athan has." Elle'dred met the flat, empty gaze of the knight before him, "I am ordering you to kill him. Tonight. Before dawn."

Yrradorn's eyes did not waver; as they had not when they had found the boy on the last day in Armanas - as they had remained throughout the ride back, and now in every way Elle'dred understood, the eyes of the man before him would no react; beyond the simple nod of acknowledgement.

Elle'dred fought the compulsion to glance away, "Dismissed."

Yrradorn turned, and departed the command tent.

The Champion of the White Wolf lent on the edge of the table before him. The thought passed, as it ever did -

It was all too much. It was all too much.
Chapter 30

Keylyn moved through the tent. It was late morning outside, or sometime after noon.

Sunlight shone on the grass through the open flap, behind him.

A cool breeze fluttered the edge of the canvas.

He moved about the task mindlessly; he limped from one side of the tent, and back. He was carrying something; moving something else. Any comprehension of what he was doing passed unheeded amidst the numbness.

He just needed to move. To limp.

He limped across the shaded enclosure of the tent.

The cuts on his cheek still stung, or ached; whenever he ate. They would leave behind scars - more scars; that was their intent. The bruise behind his knee still throbbed - though fortunately, it resided on the leg that was plagued by his limp. The leg always hurt.

He picked up something -

- And turned to gaze at the open entry flap, now filled with the shape of a man.

His gaze met the dark eyes of the archivist.

For a moment, thought - emotions, swelled in his chest. They fell away.

He paused; he looked away.

The archivist moved a step further into the shade and emptiness of the enclosure.

"...Keylyn...can...can we..." he paused.

Keylyn looked up, again; there was a glaze of something over the other man's eyes -

"Keylyn, can we -"

The words cut him off, "...Faldorn...I can't..."

Something wavered in the deep brown of the other gaze; there was a small shake of his head, "...I didn't come here for that...can we talk? I just want to talk..." the other man paused, glanced about, away - "...can we, can we go...let's go somewhere else..."

Faldorn met the reluctance of his gaze; above the red lines of the cuts on his cheek.

"...please..." the word was muttered, softly. Uncertainly.

Keylyn looked away; down, at the thing he was holding.

He set it aside on top of a crate. For a moment, he continued to stare at it, before he turned and moved towards the other man, and the flap.

He wanted to feel - he needed - he couldn't - the thoughts all passed away into the perpetual numbness. Faldorn waited a moment, for him to move alongside - the other man restricted his pace to that allowed by the magus' limp.

Keylyn did not meet his eyes. They moved out from between the tents, onto the open grassland that surrounded the camp on all its sides. He could not have said which they had left from.

For a time, they continued to walk - in the silence -

Things swelled in his chest, some of them tried to well in his eyes - his heart beat a nervous rhythm in his chest. He knew - he did not care - he did not want to. He let them fade.

Faldorn broke the silence, unexpectedly - it elicited a shock somewhere amidst the numbness, "...I didn't know many people in Delphanas...I only had a few friends...I don't know what it was like...in the magus order...if you...I only knew a few a people...my family lives in Delphanas...I didn't really see them much...did you...did you have many magus friends?"

Magus.

"No." he muttered, after a long pause; in answer. It was all he could mutter.

For a moment after, there was silence; Faldorn spoke, "...I never really saw my family...never had the time...I didn't want...they weren't very far away, but I -"

"Faldorn," Keylyn stopped; the words stopped him, "...I can't have-"

"Damn it! Keylyn," the archivist stopped; he released an angry breath - but did not meet his eyes, "...That's not why..."

His words trailed off into silence; for a long moment, he did not say anything - Keylyn could only stare at the ground. For a long time only the emotions he did not feel, held in the emptiness of the air between them. They, like all the others, faded.

The numbness, and some confusion, remained.

"...Can...can we sit..." Faldorn asked, quietly, "...Your limp..."

Keylyn glanced up; but did not meet his eyes.

He nodded.

Faldorn lowered himself to the grass, and waited as Keylyn did the same. Some distance away.

Faldorn glanced up to meet his eyes from a moment; the noon light of the southern sun glinted off the deep brown there. The glance moved away.

"...so...did you have many friends in the magus order?"

After a pause, Keylyn shook his head, "No...I didn't."

Faldorn was silent an uncertain moment yet, before replying, "Did you have any?"

Keylyn shook his head, "...no..."

Faldorn let a breath, through the distance, and muttered, "...yeah..."

* * *

Darrodane moved towards the northern edge of the encampment. They were returning from the scouting mission he had been ordered on.

To watch the goblin host move away from the great lake Delphaithyn, towards the south, and the army that marshalled there, between the keeps.

They had not, themselves, tracked the goblins past the most eastern of Ahen's Tears; they had remained hidden there, as the war band had disappeared beyond the dusk-lit edge of the horizon, some days ago.

Of the two knights he had ordered with him, one was a tamer. The man's bird had followed the host beyond the range of man or woman's sight. For the night.

The goblins had been driven at a run by the mammoth incarnates in their midst; a pace that had taken them across the flats between the lakes and the keeps, and had allowed them to reach the marshalling army in the hours before dawn. The army of the keeps, itself, had begun to move out that night; at their pace they might have reached the resistance camp by dawn.

Instead they had been drawn into an ambush, laid by the skull-faced, and bull-headed foes that could see far better than any man of Ammandorn, in the dark. A volley of poisoned arrows, had rained from beyond the light of the army's torches, from goblin bows hidden so adeptly amidst the smallest mounds, and the grass.

The broken lines of the army had been assaulted on both flanks, by a charge of goblins and incarnates. The massacre had resulted in the rear most of the force of soldiers, breaking through the surrounding line of foes that had closed from darkness behind, fleeing back towards the red glow of dawn burgeoning on the horizon.

Some hundred men might have survived.

In the pre-dawn murk, their tamer's bird had wheeled; none had spotted its black silhouette against the darker sky of the night, though that might have changed had it remained with the dawn.

None had tracked it back to the group of knights, and militia-man, and a former magus guard who dwelt on the edge of a small lake awaiting its return.

The tamer had relayed all that had happened to Darrodane; he had only heard the man out, and nodded. At last sight, the goblin host - save for the hundreds of their dead, left to rot - had begun moving, pursuing the army, east towards the keeps.

The Sword-Bearer did not need to know what resulted when they arrived; he had not been ordered to watch that. The urge, to order his five men east, to the defence of Ammandorn and its soldiers - the urge born by a Sword-Bearer of the White Wolf - had been quashed.

In the minute his hand had spent clenching, bloodlessly, around the hilt of his sword.

The world was mad. It had gone completely, entirely mad.

He had ordered them back, to report to the Champion.

Dawn had burned gradually across the south-eastern horizon, as the wall of canvas shelters, and the open training fields to their north, had grown out of the orange shadows of the grass.

The southern sun had climbed its way up into the clouds of morning.

Darrodane caught the shouts from further ahead; that rose from the knights running their daily drills.

From amidst the ranks of training men and women, he descried the doughty features of the other Sword-Bearer, as she moved to meet them.

Palai'dred greeted him with a nod.

He returned the gesture.

He glanced aside to the others who had composed his scout party; he met his niece's gaze, "Go, find something to eat. Rest."

Nelhana acknowledged the half-order, and moved away into towards a cook-fire.

Darrodane turned to Palai'dred, "It's done. The army was destroyed. For the most part."

The female Sword-Bearer was silent a moment, before she replied, "There's been news, from Delphanas." her voice was lowered, as though she did not want her words to carry on the cool morning air, "Two of the knights who were sent with Athan were captured. The Tribunal knows about the resistance. Although, they have yet to discern our exact location...evidently." she paused, "Athan is dead. For reasons I have been ordered not to explain here, he needed to be killed. Elle'dred ordered it."

Darrodane stared at the bland hollowness of the woman's features.

For a moment further, his hand returned to, and clenched around, the hilt of his sword.

Mad. The world had gone entirely mad.

* * *

Ragmurath's eyes were fixed on the report. The fire crackled quietly in its place on the wall of his quarters. The orange, vermillion glow of the flames, spat shadows across the hoary white marble of the opposing façade.

His eyes remained locked on the black words of the report.

- The reserves had been attacked. And destroyed.

The report had been relayed via dreaming spell, by a magus stationed at the keep of Arethus. The keep was under attack; a goblin war band had laid siege to the township's walls - a war band numbering near or over a thousand. That which had also assailed the army as it had left to locate and raze the resistance camp.

The report had been brought to the Staff-Bearer immediately.

He could only stare at it.

The fires reflected off the frozen sheen of his gaze.

- There was a knock at the door -

One he had expected for too long.

The door was opened by the characterless silver of the High Captain's face-plate, and its surrounding helm, outside. The young woman was permitted entry. Her floor-length, ebony robes, lined in azure, swayed about her feet as she walked.

The trappings of a High Magus hung about her slight frame with a weight that was unbecoming of her delicacy. Her long, brown hair was bound in a plait that fell out from the embroidered hem of the cowl that held her face in shadow.

She raised her green eyes to the icy glaze of his.

"Staff-Bearer." she acknowledged with the proper bow of her head.

Behind her, the ebony robes, and silver gauntlet of the High Captain closed and secured the door to his quarters.

He glanced up, with a frozen levelness, at the newest High Magus to be appointed to the Tribunal.

High Magus Salynath's replacement.

He rose, and moved over to the wall, and the cupboard that resided against its hoary flatness. He grasped the crystal neck of the decanter and poured the lustrous brown liquid within into a glass.

The brandy slid down his throat with a smoothness that welled into warmth in his chest.

The ice of his gaze glanced back, at the young woman -

"Take off your clothes." he ordered, flatly.

The order caught her off-guard. For a moment, she hesitated - defied - she began to disrobe.

She let her robe settle about her feet, as she stood, naked, amidst the red glow of the fire.

Ragmurath stared at her with a disdain that forced her gaze away.

She lowered the arm she had drawn over the dark circles on her breasts, and let it dangle at her side.

Under his gaze, she moved past him, towards the open darkness of the bedroom.

He swallowed the last mouthful of the brandy, and placed the empty, fouled glass, on the mahogany top of the cupboard. Beside him.

He turned and moved towards the dark maw of the bedroom doorway.

Fingers as cold as the evening's air undid the bindings of his robe; he let the garment fall to the stone of the floor, a few paces into the dark.

He moved onto the bed, on top of her -

And thrust into her with the savageness that had broiled within - for hours - as deep as her opening could take.

- She squealed -

He thrust again, harder - faster. The ice of his fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, as he braced her - pulled her, violently - into every thrust. He thrust. And thrust -

- She screamed -

"Silence!" he snarled, with a flare of spittle that flew out amidst the dark.

She complied with the order her Staff-Bearer had given - though she dared a muffled moan with each -

He slipped a hand to her back, and lifted her up to his face; he wrapped his mouth over the nipple of a breast - and bit down -

She choked a cry, into silence. As he tasted blood. And thrust.

All the violence, the rage, the fury beat into the soft flesh of her hips, into the coarse hair above her opening - it was not enough -

He ripped out of her, twisted her over onto her front¸ and pushed his implacable hardness into the pain-clenched hole between her buttocks.

He ravished the opening there, as well - and snarled above, when she whimpered - until he was spent.

He pulled his member out of her, and spat in disdain and disgust, "Get out."

She rolled off the bed, in silence, and moved - near ran, out to the main room where her robes remained.

As he sat on the edge of the bed, he heard the door open, and close again.

The glaze of ice yet remained in his gaze. The fury, provoked by the parchment resting on the couch outside, continued to burn. By the words that dared yet to defy the authority of the Tribunal.

Of its Staff-Bearer.

The words that were as absolute as the power they deserved -

That which provoked another snarl, half-choked in the tightness of his throat, was the knowledge of the criminal lack of recourse. A weakness he could not tolerate -

Had allowed to be - in his leniency. In his leniency.

No more.

The Tribunal would be called, at dawn; this time, his orders would not be countermanded by the immediate failings of a land that should have repelled - had failed to hold at bay - the goblin threat.

The armies needed to raze the resistance camp would be diverted. The threat of the traitors that gathered there would not be allowed to persist any longer.

In the immediate, their defences might suffer a retreat; the reserves would meet the threat in the east - beyond the Fore-guard Mountains, if need be - there was another avenue he had not considered - a course they should have taken -

Because of a weakness he should not have allowed - and the failings of the armies, and soldiers and pathetic sword-born of the land.

He had allowed a tolerance - a leniency - to the mistakes of history for too long -

A leniency.

He despised the word. Reviled it.

"Dus!" he barked, into the darkness of the off-room - the only fitting quarters for his aide.

The young man moved out from the open doorway that led into the expanse of his bedroom. The black shape of his aide moved through the darkness of the room, and into the shaft of errant firelight that shone from outside. It caught the edges of his silhouette, and the warped, white flesh of his maimed hand, in a corona of vermillion.

Ragmurath glared up at the glisten of the magus eye's above -

Leniency. The thought echoed sharply, again.

And prompted a vicious, disgusted snarl.

- Choked, alone, in silence, in the back of his throat.
Chapter 31

The city burned. Across the jagged undulation of the mountainsides. Amidst the green of the forest that surrounded it on the rising slopes. Under the grey haze of cloud that held the sky.

Hresfyrra, the Fifth Watchman, burned.

The city sprawled across the slopes of the eastern Living Mountains; a thousand spires of hoary white marble, intermixed with lower buildings of grey granite. Massive bridges, and high rising causeways spanned the gaping drops of valleys; themselves bearing myriad houses and shops, of varying heights, on either sides of the interweaving streets. Half the city soared in the sky.

And the other half in the towers above.

Patches of green, of the forest on the slopes around, had spread throughout the sprawling tiers of white marble and granite; in parks and gardens and orchards that sat beneath or above the walls of the towering terraces that wound in compliance with the mountainsides' eddies.

A mosaic of white and grey and green - now joined by red. And violent orange.

And black.

By the black horde of goblins and incarnates that scrambled up the yet bare rock, amidst the trees of the lower slopes, to the first of the city's walls - and through the breeches now opened in its stone.

Two of the thousand breeches had been opened by the inhabitants themselves; the two from which the crashing force of once dammed rivers fell. The white of the wall had been torn asunder by magics, and the mammoth torrents of water had been unleashed from the city's dams.

Water cascaded from high above, somewhere near the peaks, and fell - and thundered - down through the city's levels and terraces, under the soaring arcs of the bridges it had not washed away. The massive floods of crashing white spray had been freed in the hope that it would drown the ravening horde below.

And they had - in some part.

Thousands had been swept away, amidst the eluctable torrents that spilled across the mountainsides - thousands had been crushed by the weight of the water itself, or dashed upon the rocks of the ground beneath. More thousands had been caught by the refuse carried in the wave - uprooted trees and stones - swept down onto the flats. A new river, or a lake, had been born on the grey, unyielding ground beneath.

Filled now with rubble, and broken trees, and bodies.

It had stalled the horde for a time; but the hundreds of thousands that yet remained had begun to wade across the slowly receding flow, towards the central slopes, where the rivers did not, and had not poured.

They had scaled the stone, to the white of the wall above. To myriad other the breeches their catapulted rock had opened in the hours before.

Underneath the uncaring, grey ash of the sky, they had set the first tiers of the city ablaze.

From above, amidst the clouds, as before, the voice of the Immortal soared and watched.

The goblins and incarnates were being slaughtered in their siege - arrows rained from the secure height of the bridges and the causeways, and the ramparts of the myriad walls, from the overlooking balconies of the buildings and the towers and the halls.

Fire, and water, and wood, metal and earth, were hurled by ranks of magus that formed a line of defence upon the second most fortified terrace. Catapults had been built to hurl stone down into the lower levels of the city - to shatter the abandoned bridges and aqueducts above, and send a rain of rubble onto the attackers, and the few soldiers that held them there.

Shards of metal were flung, alongside the stone, turned while airborne into incandescent liquid - a rain far heavier and hotter than fire itself, which spattered to the white marble below. And flesh.

Above, amidst the howls of the wind, Syrkyn could not hear the goblin and incarnate screams - or those of the men caught in the burning rain, but the black madness of his mask held them all in perfect knowing. The abyss, unviolated by the stream of crackling hell-fire behind, showed them to him.

Thousands of the horde - hundreds of thousands would be spent in razing the city from the slopes, and more thousands would be slain, assaulting the city within. Tunnels and caverns extended clean through the mountains to their southern side - where so many of Hresfyrra's citizens now fled.

- To the unrelenting entrapment of the shore, the sea, and the perpetual violence of the storm above.

From amidst the grey ash of the sky, Syrkyn knew, and soared, and watched.

- The mask glimmered. It leered amidst its infinite knowledge, and the crackle of the fire behind.

The truth. Whispered. Hell-fire crackled and laughed. For a moment, the flames of his flesh surged to burn the grey agony of the sky.

His wings, aflame, snapped to the fire of his flanks, and dropped him from the height of the clouds. A mote, a comet of crimson flame dove earthbound from the grey ash above. The slopes, and the white-grey of their buildings, and towers, and walls, rushed upwards the meet him.

His trail, a spear of malevolent red, lingered for a moment, as its tip landed - driven into the white marble of the sprawling cityscape.

As his wings held, and burned, the arresting air around, his feet came to grasp the grey cobble-stones of the courtyard.

Fire blazed all-around; beyond the swelling, swirling storm of infernal crimson that eclipsed his landing - fires burned atop the ramparts of the walls that defined the courtyard. In the buildings beyond, and the towering mass of the hall ahead.

Screams flickered as thick as the flames - those who had retreated to the walled refuge, now cornered and slaughtered by a wave of incarnates that burst through the doors.

The hell-fire of his flesh roared and laughed. And burned the air around.

- A soldier beside, now bathed in the impossible heat of hell-fire stumbled back, and around towards the shape of standing flame - and was swept beneath a wave of crimson agony and orange.

As was the body of the bovine-incarnate that pursued him.

Amidst their screams hell-fire only laughed.

The truth stood upon the cobble-stones, above the soldier it tried to aid, to the steps of the hall ahead.

The mask whispered, and laughed.

And was joined by the tongues of rising fire that burned the air into a haze all around. Despair flooded over and drowned the white marble of the courtyard, and the grey of the stones beneath.

The shape - beyond the haze, and the flames - had been trying to help the wounded man, the soldier, away from the battle. Had been trying to get the body to its feet, and into the ravaged safety of the hall. Where he could at least tend its wounds.

He was doing only was his heart dictated he must do. What he had to do.

- He had the gentle hands of a healer. Of a man whose sight felt every injury, and every pain, that afflicted others; and whose soul could not bear to let it be.

He had pulled him from a stream, once. Had taken up him the gentle slope of a hill, into the shallow valley beyond.

Where his village of huts had once remained.

Until he had burnt them to the ground.

To ash.

Beyond the receding haze, and tongues of flame, the old man - the oracle - stood, and watched.

The impossible weight of despair that sought only to yield and let the inevitable end of fire come, strangled - clawed at - every inch of the man's aging frame. As he yet tried to help the body of the soldier beneath.

The final breath of the wounded man passed into the terrible heat that ravaged the air.

The oracle only stared. At the shape of flame, crowned in the unviolated abyss of its mask - as the deeper glimmer of its eyes, in its sockets, emerged to meet his gaze.

The voice of the Immortal gazed forwards and watched -

- This man had once saved his life. In the eternity before, that had birthed this one. In that place, amidst those gentle hills, and playful babbling of a stream.

Where he -

Had restored this man to life - had taken the impossible burning, that had stripped his flesh, to his own. And then lay dying on the soft dirt of the banks of the stream.

He had told him to go, to run - he had said it with his eyes -

Where hell-fire had burned.

Now, surrounded by the starving fury of the flames no pain could quash, behind the sadistic knowing, and mad emptiness of his mask, he stared out and met those eyes -

Eyes, that here, at his undeniable end, spoke yet only of compassion, and a sad, gentle regret.

Barensarh let his grasp slip on the dead shoulder of the soldier beneath - now effaced by flame - as the hand, defined by fire and its inviolable, black scythe of bone, reached out and laid its crackling touch upon his throat.

The long wisps of his beard singed, and burnt away; birthing tongues, lambent and brief, upon the follicles of his cheek. They crackled, and spat, and licked at the flesh above.

The voice of the Immortal lifted him up, off the grey stones of the courtyard - the body beneath, of the soldier, had been turned to ash. Its errant flakes of black and grey now mingling amidst the fires of his feet, and some swept up, on the throes of heat, to linger, unavailing, in the air.

Barensarh looked down, at the abyssal mask, at the eyes above the shape of hell-fire below.

His gaze did not waver - as his flesh began to burn. As the life within was swallowed by a touch that visited its burning pain upon his every inch. And his skin was ravaged by the heat of undying flame.

- Again.

As cheeks, and hair, and his eyes began to burn, the man who had saved his life did not look away.

He would not. The gentleness, the soft glisten yet remained.

Hell-fire crackled and roared -

The body was reduced to blackest ash in his grasp, scattered and carried away upon the wind.

From the burning of his hand, and its scythe-like blade, that yet hung before his face, and its mask.

Underneath the eyes of the Immortal's voice -

And their tears.

The Staff-Bearer of the Tribunal stood in the flame-lit expanse of the council chamber. The ice of his gaze was locked on the open archway, which led to the white marble corridor outside.

The last of their order had yet to arrive, and enter.

The two young women, High Magus Eranath and High Magus Mianath, held place on either side of him. Neither attempted to meet his eyes, as he awaited the two oldest of their order.

As was proper.

The green gaze of their newest member was held amidst a flat expression, locked unwaveringly on the black and twisting lines of azure stone, of the mosaic that was the floor.

The Staff-Bearer stared ahead.

- Shapes of the black robes that concealed the two oldest High Magus moved over the white marble of the corridor outside, between the two vermillion guards that stood on watch. And proceeded into the circular expanse of the chamber.

Gerdanath looked up from amidst the shadow of her heavy cowl, to meet her superior's gaze, and give the expected nod. Sansurath followed a moment after.

Ragmurath's mouth curled into a sneer.

The doors were closed by the bronze gauntlets of the vermillion robes outside. In the following silence, the Staff-Bearer of the Tribunal surveyed each of the members of his order.

With a tick of contempt and disdain.

"This meeting of the Tribunal will come to order," he began, flatly, "You have all received the report of the attack on the keeps in the south of the flatlands; of the goblin war band that has laid siege to our defences - and destroyed the army that had been ordered to marshal there, to locate and raze the resistance camp." he paused, "This development is intolerable. That the goblins have been allowed to overrun our defences continuously, and so thoroughly, is a failing that should never have been tolerated - and one that is certainly criminal. As is the resistance camp that has also been allowed to remain in operation; and the fact of the survival of its leaders, which yet persists. These crimes will be addressed - they must be amended. I have sent word to the armies in the north of Thgad - for three to be dispatched south, from the defence of the Seven Lakes, and to join with the twenty seventh army on its course to the keeps. This force will destroy the enemy there - and then find and raze the resistance camp." he paused, again, as a sneer warped his face - across the chamber, amidst the shadow of her cowl, the objection had already risen in Gerdanath's eyes, "The weakening of our western defences is necessitated by the threat posed both by this assault in the south, and by the resistance. If they are allowed to continue Ammandorn itself might fall."

Silence lingered amidst the echoes of the sharpness that defined the words.

"They are the first and fore-most threat we should be dealing with. However, the fact that this move will expend a great deal of our resources in the west, has not been unacknowledged," the disdaining ice of his gaze cut into that of the older female High Magus opposite, "Our defences may buckle entirely for a time. Necessitating a retreat into the Warded Valley and Ygoth. This is acceptable. Regardless of the losses of this course, we will push back the goblin advance as we have before; and drive them from the flatlands. Though, unlike the years that have passed under the incompetent rule of the Archivists, it will not be Ammandorn's forces alone that bear the further costs of this war." he paused, "The dwarves beyond our most eastern border owe a debt to this land - and to us; for decades, we have defended Ammandorn against the goblins' predations, while they remain isolated in the Winterlands of Agadoth. The law - the treaty, that defines the border, is an offence that should have been addressed years ago."

Silence settled over the flame-lit circle of the chamber.

Sansurath motioned to be heard.

The Staff-Bearer acknowledged his inferior with a nod.

"Staff-Bearer, the treaty of Rhythanas would be broken if we pursue this course of action. The dwarves could take offence, and declare war upon our eastern border."

Ragmurath sneered, "And in doing so, they would be condemning their own nation to destruction and defeat." he paused, as the old male High Magus averted his gaze, "A fact that we would see too, long before the goblins overran our defences. Such word has already been levelled against them; the ultimatum they will have no choice but to accept. Either the treaty will be broken, and they will declare themselves against the goblins - and funnel soldiers and supplies into the Highlands, or we will declare war upon them, and see that their defences are depleted and broken by the time the Immortal's horde reaches the Winterlands. I will not allow the treaty - or any tact of negotiation, to displace the undeniable truth of this war."

Gerdanath's gaze looked up out of her hood with a palpable shock and disbelief - but the quiver that moved across her lips faded, along with the emotions of her gaze. Sansurath held his eyes solely on the mosaic at his feet.

Ragmurath continued, "We are the power of this land. All other forces will bow to our authority, as they must. The treaty of Rhythanas was established by the complacency of the Archivists; they have proven in all ways incompetent; and along with the deposing of their order, so too should we have disposed of all misguided edicts that yet remain in place over Ammandorn."

Silence held amidst the flickered of the torches, in their sconces on each of the pillars that surrounded them.

"This session was not called to debate this issue, and no objections henceforth will be heard. This is the order of your Staff-Bearer, and it has been enacted." he paused, "An envoy has been dispatched. He will reach the border-city of Rhythanas in some weeks. By then, our ambassadors' ultimatum will have been brought to the leaders of the Dwarven nation, and their official representatives will have arrived in the city to fulfil and conclude negotiations. There will be no war between our lands; the dwarves will not defy our authority. Or our truth. And when this war is done, their nation will become a dominion of Ammandorn, under rule of the Tribunal. Am I understood?"

Around him, three nods were given in sequence - the fourth and last, from amidst the overshadowing cowl of the oldest female High Magus, followed some insubordinate moments after.

Gerdanath's eyes belied no emotion, despite her reluctance; the older female High Magus' gaze lingered on the black and azure mosaic of the floor.

Ragmurath sneered.

* * *

The camp was still. Apprehension pervaded the air, under the bright azure and white clouds of the sky.

The camp had been still for days. Since the Sword-Bearer had returned with word of the goblin host.

The news had spread of the fighting that was occurring in the east. Beyond the line of hills, on the horizon that occluded the view of the resistance camp.

No one had ventured beyond the eastern wall of green, for days.

Apprehension yet remained that a force of goblins - or soldiers, might emerge into sight atop the crests; a force that they could not repel. Scouts ever held place on the slope of the hills, concealed amidst the grass; they watched beyond the height of the wall for sight of just such a force.

Syla knew they were out there, some dozen knights each day. Though she never saw them.

The days had begun to run together, again; an undifferentiated stretch of time passed only by the course of the southern sun through the cloud trammelled blue of the sky. And by the darkness of the nights that fell, always, in between.

- Everything, all else, yet remained.

The weight of memory, and all that had happened before had not left - and would never leave; not completely. But the thought - that thought, if nothing else - did not overwhelm her; not any more. At moments, the strength she maintained still buckled, or broke - there had been moments when the tears had fallen, again, despite herself.

She spent those nights with Elle'dred.

- They had agreed to that - when they needed each other -

For it, she was unashamedly grateful.

Despite all else that yet remained.

She moved slowly, about the camp; running through the tasks that filled the sun-lit hours of the day.

At dawn, she would make her way along the perimeter of the camp, of the tents, and the training fields to their north. Each day she would pass the knights who themselves ran their morning combat drills.

The camp was still. Apprehension, and uncertainty had taken full residence.

- The knights were waiting for orders; for the moment when they would be called to act. Whether in defence of the camp - or on a mission, in the east. As knights of the White Wolf.

Beyond the wall of hills to the east, Ammandorn's western defences were under assault; and this time, they seemed likely to fall.

As before - she could feel the warding line; the ancient spell so battered and damaged by abuse - now under assault by a threat that might finally, inevitably, break it.

Still, it held -

The magics, unseen, remained in the air - a voice of pain and struggle that she heard, silent, within. Unlike the memory - of a storm of whirling argent crystal - and the violation that had been funnelled into the warding from a savage power in the distant east; unlike the spells that had been twisted, and forced, through magus hands - the voice of the spell that bound the keeps was not violent. Or brutal.

It was gentle, and subtle. And right.

A rightness -

That yet lingered in the world.

Despite all else -

It would hold. Even if a keep fell. Even if all of them -

In spite of the memory, when she could, she reached out to touch the warding spell in the east - to bear its weight as she had before. As before, it did not recoil under her touch; did not flinch away.

- Though, at times, more often than not, she yet could not bear it.

Each day, she would inspect the wardings she had placed around the camp; the spells she had cast to prevent discovery by their foes. More than once, in recent days, she had found them assaulted - violated and broken, by an invisible power in the night.

A power she knew too intimately.

But the wardings had held, against each assault; where some had broken others had repelled the spells cast to shatter them entirely - though sometimes only just. Sometimes the violence that was raised against them resonated throughout, a cry that Syla felt - had to feel - as she rewove the magics beyond the dawn.

A violence she knew too intimately.

As she did with the spell in the east, she bore the weight engendered by her own.

Even on the days she could not -

They had not been broken, entirely; not yet.

- Her gaze was drawn away, to the east - to the sky beyond the hills.

For a moment, she was not certain -

She had felt it. A spell. A hawk. The bird had been bound with a weaving of magics that clamoured within her own - magics that chained and perforated its form - that drove it bodily, to wheel above, in the sky to the east. It had been stopped - diverted, by the warding spells. By the spells she had placed throughout the plains.

It had been meant to find them - the resistance camp -

It had been enspelled to find her.

She did not mistake it.

- It had been dispatched from the east. From the city of Delphanas amidst the Aft-guard Mountains. It had flown for days, without rest. It had been enspelled to do so; the weaving of magics that yet drove its muscles, dying now from fatigue, had driven it at a speed it could not maintain. For days. Without sleep, or rest, or food. It had reached its last moments. It would die, soon.

The desperation and exhaustion of the hawk screamed out amidst the sky - as did the savagery of the magics that enthralled it.

It had been enspelled to find her.

The thoughts surfaced - all else remained -

She began to reweave the wardings, the spells unseen, her own; she reached out into the height of the azure sky, where the bird yet circled. It shrieked at her touch; it shrieked every moment now -

The magics that bound it, had and would ever strangle all else from its body.

It would die as soon as it reached the camp. Before -

It would reach the camp.

It bolted, across the azure blue of the sky, beneath the hoary wisps of drifting cloud.

For some long minutes, as she stood at the eastern perimeter of the encampment of canvas tents, she watched the brown speck grow out of the azure sky above. The hawk cried, and cried - its piercing shrieks drew the attention of several knights, around her.

And more, as it reached the sky above the green flats, and horses, to the east. Behind the wall of hills that concealed them.

It shrieked, and cried, and dove down out of the sky -

And died.

Its last breath, and the spells that had driven it, broke away into the air, and evanesced amidst the breeze.

The hawk's body fell; landing ungently on the grass some paces away.

Despite all else -

Syla moved towards it.

She bent down to lift the broken bird's body from the bed of grass that now bore it.

- There was a note, bound to its leg. A message.

She undid the leather binding around the hawk's leg; and removed the slip of parchment from the case that had secured it.

Behind her, several knights had gathered to see the magus and the dead hawk that had landed only paces away from her.

She read the black scrawling on the parchment -

She turned -

And met the eyes of the closest knight, "Find Elle'dred, I need to speak with him immediately."

The knight, hesitated, but nodded, turned and moved away into the camp.

The thoughts surfaced again; the voice in the east - she bore them. It was all she could do.

Despite all else -

She moved away, into the ranks of the knights and the tents, yet holding the body of the hawk in her hands.

* * *

Keylyn moved between the crates. The narrow pathways of grass between the walls of wood, underneath the canvas enclosure, were difficult to negotiate with his limp.

He legs often grazed the hard edges of the wood, or stumbled otherwise into them.

His limp - the scar across his thigh - ever plagued him.

He did not care.

- The movement was reactionary, mechanical, reflexive - it filled the hours.

He did not -

He glanced at the crate beside him; it was open. He did not remember opening it. What lay inside, stared up at the sallow canvas of the roof.

He sighed. Let the breathe escape.

The thought passed again, again - he did not -

The stronger muscles of his mobile leg bent, and lowered him to the side of the crate. He reached in, and withdrew the wineskin.

It was mid-morning outside - or mid-afternoon. Or noon itself.

He did not care. He unstoppered the skin and drained a swallow. The tart sourness of the red washed down his throat, welled coolly in his stomach - amidst the numbness. He drank another mouthful.

Slowly, over the seconds that passed the lingering aftertaste in his mouth, the alcohol took effect - a wave of euphoria washed upwards from within. And vanished some moments after, amidst the recurrent numbness.

He stood, and turned, to replace the wineskin in the crate beside -

There was movement behind him. At the flap of the entrance to the canvas enclosure.

Driven by reflex, he turned -

And met the dark brown eyes of the former archivist. Faldorn stood, holding open the flap, to the supply tent. The archivist glanced aside - down - to the skin in his hand.

- The thoughts, the emotions - faded, beneath the numbness.

Uncertainly, numbly - nervously - he held out the wineskin, to the other man.

The thought, the emotion - he did not -

Faldorn shook his head, "No." - the other man paused; a long moment, "...Do you need any help?"

Keylyn's reach slackened, his arm dropped to his side; he glanced back up, and met the archivist's eyes. Hesitantly, reflexively - he nodded.

Faldorn moved a step inside the tent, as Keylyn turned and placed the wineskin back in its crate.

He closed the lid.

For a moment, he stared at it -

The other man began to move about the same monotonous tasks, as those that had filled the morning. As those -

Keylyn glanced back, over his shoulder.

Uncertainty, nervousness, some expectant fear, moved into his gaze. Glimmered -

Above the red bulges of the scars on his face.

He let it reside, amidst the recurrent numbness.

* * *

Darrodane strode through the canvas walled pathways of the camp. Under the bright glare of the southern sun.

He had been summoned to the command tent.

The swiftness of his pace, complied with the urgency of the summons. The knight that had delivered the message had reached him at a run herself -

He had heard the cries of the hawk that had flown in from the east. He had later heard, it had landed at the magus feet. That she, and Elle'dred, had retreated to the command tent.

The better part of the day had passed since then -

The world had gone mad. Completely.

The flaps to the tent he sought arrived on him with a suddenness born out of his haste. He parted the pendant canvas and moved immediately inside.

Palai'dred stood to one side of the large table that filled the enclosure.

Elle'dred and the white-haired magus stood at the edge opposite.

He met the gaze of his commander, and nodded a perfunctory greeting.

Elle'dred tilted his head momentarily in acknowledgement.

- The body of the hawk lay on the surface of the table. It was dead.

The Sword-Bearer glanced down at the corpse.

"Darrodane," Elle'dred began, "There is news..."

There was a pause; the Sword-Bearer glanced back up at the opposite man's eyes -

"...from Delphanas."

"Has another knight returned?" - the words emerged on a reflex he could not quell.

Elle'dred glanced away, "No." he paused, "This hawk was carrying a message, from our magus allies in Delphanas. They enspelled it to find us."

A spell. He let the thought pass, as his leader continued.

"The message contained news about the resistance in the city...and about the army that has been dispatched to combat the goblin host at the keeps to the east and then, to find us." Elle'dred paused, "The message also contained the news that the Tribunal intends to break the treaty with the dwarves. They have dispatched an emissary to the city of Rhythanas, on the border, to bring the dwarves into the war on their side."

Darrodane remained silent - the silence lingered for a long moment throughout the tent.

"How do we know that any of this is genuine?" he asked.

Elle'dred glanced briefly at the magus beside him, but answered, "We don't. However, those responsible for the note knew that the hawk would be dead when it reached here, and evidently no effort has been made to track its course - otherwise an army would have reached us by now. That lends some credence to their story." he paused, "Whoever is responsible has asked that we meet them, some weeks from now, in Delphanas. To confirm that their message was received. Evidently, the offer may be a trap...we do not know if the resistance there has been entirely compromised, or even if we can truly trust these magus at all. However, we need to assess the former in any case," again, there was a brief silence, "...since Athan returned, we have no representatives with the resistance in the city. We need to know if there still is one, and if so, one of us must be there to lead them. Palai'dred," - he addressed the woman standing at the side of the table, "I want you to go. Take only two others with you; you are to head south, cross the plains via Naresus; hopefully, that will avoid the goblins."

Palai'dred gave a nod.

Darrodane continued to stare, as the man opposite met his gaze, "Darrodane, I am dispatching you to the south, as well. At Naresus, you will find a ship, and head to a port as far east as you can. You are going to Rhythanas."

"Milord?" the question followed a moment after.

"Beyond the report of what the Tribunal intends, our magus benefactors have outlined a move me must make. We need the dwarves on our side - the resistance. The Tribunal intends to break the treaty - there is nothing we, or our allies within the magus order, can do to prevent that. And the eventuality, that the dwarves may be provoked by this, into war, has occurred to them...as much as it has to us." he paused, "The message proposed that we send an envoy to the border-city; to meet a contact, already arranged, there. This contact will facilitate negotiations between our envoy, and the Dwarven ambassadors - where hopefully we can convince them, at the very least, not to go to war with Ammandorn."

Darrodane let a breath, and glanced away. Mad. Completely mad.

Elle'dred continued, "What is more, Darrodane, I want you to convince the dwarves to come in on our side. That the magus are the unlawful government that they are, and that they do not carry the support of the people - the truth." he paused, "And I need it said, that despite the wrongs of our history, the war this land - theirs as much as ours - faces with the Immortal, is real. When the real war begins we will need their help in order to survive. And likely, after, we will need them to overthrow the Tribunal, and the armies that remain in the wake of the war."

The Sword-Bearer only stared at the ground.

"Which, for the immediate time, means allying with the magus is the best option. Darrodane, I need a Sword-Bearer of the White Wolf Hall. Someone who can speak for the people of Ammandorn."

Darrodane glanced back up -

Elle'dred held his gaze.

A moment passed, longer than he should have allowed. And more.

He managed a nod; the slightest tilt of his head.

The corner of the man opposite's mouth curl upwards into the beginnings of a thankful grin - as the Sword-Bearer's eyes fell once again to the hard wood of the table top, and the dead hawk that yet lay there. One wing spread outwards before their leader.

Mad. Completely mad.
Chapter 32

It was dawn. The first orange glow lit the black line of the horizon to the south east. Caught the layers of cloud that had obscured the glittering veil of the night.

Elle'dred made his way, atop a black, under the circle of illuminating yellow cast by the flames of the torch. Syla rode, atop her chestnut, alongside, and the other knight who accompanied them, on his bay, a horse-length behind.

She had not said anything since they had left the camp.

They had spent the night together.

Though she had not said it then, directly, Elle'dred knew the arrival of the hawk had provoked all that she was yet fighting to recover from. It lingered still beneath the resolved azure of her eyes.

- The thought, the pang, had flared once again. And as ever, he had not fought it.

Though this time, it had engendered a new guilt. He was leaving her, again, so soon after - the thought had passed into quiet words, as she lay naked, and dozing, in his arms. It had roused her to wakefulness - and a rebuking, offended glint a part of him had somewhat expected.

One he remembered, in the gloom of a torch-lit cavern, some interminable miles beneath a dead peak - a life time ago. When he had offered her a hand to help her up.

The glance, despite its reprimand - that it could be managed at all, had been more welcome than he could admit.

- The perfect wall rose out of the distance ahead, beneath the massive shadow of the peak, upon whose side it dwelt.

Dwener'dier, yet again, approached.

The need to return here had been discussed, during the hours they had spent in the command tent - before he had ordered the others to join them. The army that had been sent to find them had provoked the alarm, and uncertainty, once more - and the thought, that this time there would be no goblin host large enough to deal with the force.

Not without destroying utterly the southern keeps of the western defences of Ammandorn.

If the host he had already redirected had not done so.

The thought passed, idly, as it did ever now, as to whether Ammandorn would survive the war of the Immortal at all - or even simply the goblins. Or them.

- This time, however, there was a truth he had to know.

Whether or not, indeed, the army that marched on them had been sent with a commander sympathetic to their cause.

That element of the message, tied to the leg of the hawk, had not left a confidence shared only between Syla and himself; that the army's commander - and its prime-most lieutenants - had been emplaced for their allegiances. To those of the magus order that were intent on undoing the crimes of their superiors.

Once they had restored the defences of the keeps under assault, they were to turn their efforts to finding the resistance base camp. And lend whatever assistance they could. The resources of the keeps were to be put, thereafter, at the disposal of the resistance - providing the coup against the Tribunal was not also successful. Prior to the army's arrival, altogether.

Whoever it was that led their allies in Delphanas - and Syla had pronounced that if the information was genuine, the magus responsible would have to be involved with the inner circle of the Tribunal - they were intent on moving against the Magus Government soon.

- As soon as the resistance's representative arrived in the city. The coup would overthrow the Tribunal; and before chaos or disorder could filter down throughout the city's guard - as it had before - the change in government would be facilitated.

With the resistance heralded as the party responsible.

The power of government would purportedly shift into their hands, in its immediacy; with a minimum of bloodshed or infighting. Such was their magus allies plan.

Elle'dred had read that part of the message repeatedly - and for a moment, amidst the silence of the command tent a day before, he had even allowed himself to entertain the notion -

That the war of men could be over before it began.

He smirked to himself; even now - as he rode amidst the dawning murk towards the alien forest that would tell him only what he already knew - some part of him tried yet to cling to the fallacy.

It was a fallacy. A false, desperate hope -

He was ever who he was.

He chuckled inwardly to himself.

The perfect wall of trees, whose tips alone were only singed by the growing light, rose to their towering height ahead of them. A wall of darkness before the dawn.

He reined his horse to a stop. As Syla did beside him.

A moment passed, as the knight behind dismounted, and moved alongside to take the torch handed to him. Syla followed suite beside, as Elle'dred himself dismounted, and turned to the darkness of the west.

Dawn was rising decidedly slowly, somewhere in the east behind him.

The foreboding mass of the forest still unsettled him - frightened him beyond reason. Though he did not doubt that now, of all times, he would return, and emerge unharmed.

The face - the helm - catching the flares of the distant light, flashed through his mind.

That he might meet the armour again - that he would - seemed an obvious thing.

Once before, a suit of armour had protected him, when he had first entered the forsaken glade - and that that same suit of armour might yet be protecting him, was a hope he could not fully quash. Despite that very suit of armour yet residing in a chest in the command tent of the camp.

He hoped, despite himself. He was ever who he was.

He allowed a sour smirk. And drew his sword.

He threw a glance aside at the azure gaze, which met his own; the tacit question manifested again, and was answered by an admonishing glint.

The fullness of the smirk moved to his face amidst the morning gloom.

Something in her gaze lightened - a less aggrieved assuagement - for that, he was grateful.

He turned ahead, to the wall of encompassing darkness that edged the alien depths of the wood.

He needed answers -

Even if they were those he already knew.

* * *

Ragmurath stood in the silence of his study. As the morning grew over the bland grey of the peaks, beyond the sheer crystal of the window. The jagged, uneven rock, that defined the mountains surrounding Delphanas, was coloured a sallow yellow in the dawning light.

A distasteful yellow. Contemptible.

He stared out through the clearness of the glass.

There was nothing left to do; all that should have been done, had been done. The thought provoked a moment of satisfaction - for once, in too long, order prevailed.

But it was marred by the injustices that were yet allowed to persist - those that he could now only wait to be dealt with. His lips curled into a disdaining sneer.

The resistance in Delphanas had yet to be uncovered - despite repeated sweeps by the bloodhounds.

Not one, of the other cells the knight prisoners had said existed, had been discovered as of yet -

The thought provoked a snarl, in the back of his throat. He held it at bay; choked it into silence.

The resistance continued to elude them - and continued to afflict the city's operations -

Guards had been murdered, on more than one occasion. And magus bloodhounds.

Riots had broken out in the poorer districts of the city - easily quelled.

A sickness had claimed a large number of the refugees -

Hundreds had already died.

The riots had been the culmination of desperation, and inane, helpless anger.

They had been easily put down. No mercy had been permitted.

Some dozens more had died, on the swords and arrows of the city's guard.

- The resistance were those responsible. For the deaths. For tainting the food supply.

A clumsy attempt to force a fallibility upon the Tribunal's rule.

The people had been supposed to starve; such as to encourage dissent against an incompetent rulership.

He had not, for a moment, entertained that eventuality. The Tribunal had fed the people.

They had done as their duty required.

The hundreds that had died were of no consequence.

- The resistance had been blamed. Condemned publically. Some weeks after.

Members of the rebellious group had been 'caught' - those most responsible for the act that had claimed so many. They - some petty criminals, rounded up on lesser charges - had been executed as an example. As had their 'families'.

He would brook no compromise - the resistance was being dismantled, if only in the displays they fed to the public. The law would ever be unchallengeable in their eyes.

- The war continued to turn in their disfavour. The armies throughout the flatlands, had been beset by a renewed tide of enemies - the numbers that poured yet out of Agdor, seemed without end. While theirs were ever and always dwindling.

Yet the fact also remained, that beyond a lone war band at a keep in the south - the enemy's forces had not attacked any other of the depleted fortifications throughout the west. They simply poured into the heart of the plains, against the steadily diminishing forces there.

The retreat had already begun.

East. And to the south.

Towards the resistance.

The snarl formed once again in the back of his throat -

Above all else, that affront would be dealt with soonest. The resistance camp that sheltered the Champion of the White Wolf -

And Syla.

The magus, a traitor penultimate to her order, should be executed publically for her crimes. That she had survived, and returned to Ammandorn had provoked a rage that no punishment would fully sate -

No execution was sufficient.

And what yet swelled as a hateful, reprehensible disdain, was that she was somehow protected - shielded from a punishment more than deserved. No spell could reach her, could enter her dreams and burn her from within.

Unlike that which he had used to possess Keylyn.

Some magic protected her -

The memory, of that unliving thing - in a world that was impossible - flashed through his mind. The words the detestable face - the helm - had said, resounded amidst the gall. The magics of a deathwalker protected her - a foul, evil power. One he had been unable to -

The snarl gurgled behind his tongue; he almost spat it out.

Syla would die; when the army razed the resistance camp, she would be slain alongside all the other traitors. That was a truth he had seen too. It would be sufficient.

All that was left for the Staff-Bearer of the Tribunal, now, was to wait.

- There was a knocking at the door to his chamber.

Behind, from amidst the darkness of the adjacent room, his aide moved out in silence, and proceeded to the locks that barred entrance from outside. The metal bars, within the metal of the door itself, slid discordantly out from inside the wall.

The door was pulled open a moment after.

With the unrestrained scowl, and the disdain that defined the features of his face, he turned to meet the eyes of the magus Inquisitor that had entered his chambers.

Outside, in the white marble hallway beyond, the High Captain, as ever, stood on guard. She closed the door behind the new occupant of the room, as his aide made a silent way to his side.

The Inquisitor gave the expected bow of respect.

"Speak." Ragmurath ordered.

"Staff-Bearer," the woman behind the polished silver of her mask, began, "A resistance cell has been discovered. Three have been detained, and interrogation has begun. However a most perturbing development has been uncovered - a fourth member of the cell was discovered, though he was killed in the process of apprehending him. The fourth was a magus bloodhound."

Ragmurath stared at the dark eyes beyond the sockets of the featureless silver mask; for a moment, his own reflected only a wavering ice - a sharp, unbreakable hardness.

The hardness glimmered -

He forced the words out - cold and sharp - against the softer crackle of the fireplace in the adjacent wall, "Interrogate the prisoners. I want to know everything about this bloodhound."

Beneath the heavy, embroidered edge of her vermillion cowl, the Inquisitor bowed her head, and answered, "Yes, Staff-Bearer."

The woman turned, moved to the door opened by his aide, and left the damning silence of his chambers.

More than a snarl filled - choked - in his throat.

He turned the ice of his gaze on the younger man, as the hard metal of the door was closed and locked again.

Dus turned, and waited. And raised a glance at the Staff-Bearer -

For a moment, he met his eyes.

The snarl clawed at the back of his mouth.

Leniency. The word resounded -

- There were traitors in the bloodhound order. Amidst the magus of the city.

There were traitors, helping the resistance, amidst the magus.

His gaze was locked on his aide before him - the magus.

Leniency. The word resounded.

He snarled -

Dus moved back, towards the open darkness of the archway.

* * *

The wall of Naresus had grown steadily out of the south eastern horizon. They had moved under the grey width of the ramparts above, as the southern sun had hung in midday.

- They had been stopped immediately beyond the edge of the wall; amidst the crowded courtyard.

They had been questioned.

The Guard Captain had wanted know why a group of soldiers was riding in from the north.

Darrodane had explained their purpose. The lies had been spoken outright - they had sounded the truth, even to him.

The world had gone mad.

The captain had believed them; and warned them of the goblins that had laid siege to the keeps to the north. Skirmishing parties were rife amidst the plains, and more than one patrol - or caravan of refugees - had been attacked.

Darrodane had not restrained the question as to whether reinforcements had been sent to allay the assault on the keeps - it had been entirely out of place -

- The guard captain had raised no more than an eyebrow; he had muttered, without shame, that there had been no order to help the keeps north of the port.

He had turned away, and left them.

Mad.

The truth of the skirmishing parties had come as no shock - though the same could not be said for the attack that had fallen upon them during the night prior. Of the ten men and women, the other Sword-Bearer included, that had departed the resistance encampment some days ago, two had been slain in the attack by the goblins.

The tamer, Garran, had suffered an arrow in the gut. His horse, three, in its leg, neck and mouth. The tamer had toppled off his collapsing horse, and landed with his neck and head - the fall had killed him, if the arrow had not.

- Nelhana had been cleaved apart by an incarnate.

The mammoth shape of the bull-headed creature had manifested so suddenly out of the darkness of the night - hidden impossibly amongst the flat emptiness of the grass. It had wielded a massive sword - in one of its hand. His niece had not uttered so much as a cry - as the blade had arced with a speed that surpassed any man or women, or their horse - and struck with a strength that had cut clean through her bay's neck.

The horse's head had fallen to the ground, followed only a moment after by the pieces of its rider.

Her right arm had been cleaved off; and the beast's sword had cleaved through her leathers, and breasts, and chest beneath - splayed open amidst the cool breeze of the night.

There had been nothing to do - nothing could have been done.

Except drive their horses into a gallop.

They had reached the wall of the port city, some hours after.

- Now, as they moved into the depths of the township, clad in the false garb of soldiers of Ammandorn, he glanced aside at the other Sword-Bearer. Here, she would depart, and head north, into the Warded Valley, with two of the knights, while the others and he would find a ship, and leave for the distant east.

No word was passed, as Palai'dred nodded her departure to him, and turned down an alleyway that led east. To Delphanas. And the mission their Champion had sent her on.

- Yet more acts against the magus government of Ammandorn.

Yet more acts against the people -

Mad. The world had gone completely, entirely mad.

* * *

"No. No one much liked me." Keylyn glanced up at the gaze of the other man, "...I didn't really care if I had any friends...they didn't matter."

Beside him, Faldorn smirked, "...I didn't have many myself. A small, close group." he paused, "For a long time, I only had one - Althyera. She made it difficult to stay away from the others though...annoyingly friendly with people. But she was a good friend...she, and her brother...she's probably dead now, along with all of them." There was a flatness to the other man's voice as he trailed off into silence.

For a moment, a question rose amidst the numbness - but he let it fade, with the uncertainty that ever wavered there. He let the silence return -

He did not care - he shook away the thought.

A moment after, he offered the last of the rations to the former archivist.

"No," Faldorn muttered, "...thanks."

Keylyn laid the food on the grass between them. The southern sun shone down onto the green of the hills, from the high west, above the peaks of the mountains that dwelt amidst the sheets of clouds. The coolness of the breeze whistled across the sloping grass.

For a moment, the emotions - the thoughts - echoed; but as always he let them fall away into the numbness. Into the silence.

Silence was a frequent occurrence between them. Some uncertainty. Some fear.

Faldorn glanced up, "Did you...did you have any one, in Grgadorn?"

Keylyn looked aside, met his eyes, "Anyone?"

"A lover...another mag- another man?"

Silence returned to the gentle course of the breeze.

For a moment, Keylyn stared at the green of the grass - the memories, the thoughts, and all the emotions -

Faded into the numbness of the air. He did not care.

He did not -

"No." he answered, quietly, "...There was no one."

Silence. A long, unbroken, silence.

He asked, "Did you?"

"Yes." - Faldorn answered quickly, and paused, "A man. An archivist." he stopped, again - there might have been a sigh - or a breath, "Keron....he was Althyera's brother. She introduced me to him..." a moment of quiet followed -

"What happened to him?"

"He's dead. He was killed." Faldorn glanced away; the flatness had returned.

Keylyn stared at the sandy skin of the other man's cheek, for a time.

"I'm sorry..." he muttered.

"...You...you didn't know..." Faldorn replied. The flatness remained.

- As did the quiet whistle of the northerly breeze.

Keylyn glanced up; for a moment, the emotions welled beneath the glaze - amidst -

"There was someone..." he muttered, "...don't...it's strange."

Faldorn looked at him; before he turned himself away.

"...Hadrath." - the name hurt; but maybe that was good - or at the least, the hurt passed into the ease of the numbness, emptiness, "...the Staff-Bearer. I think I..."

The thought passed. The face. Into the breeze.

"...That is...a little strange." Faldorn muttered, beside him - uncertainly.

Keylyn glanced up - there was an estranged distance, somewhat ineffectually restrained, on the other man's face.

The hurt lingered, momentarily -

The dream - the face -

He did not care. He did not -

He allowed a smirk to rise to his face. A smile. A chuckle - a laugh.

Brief, short.

The other man's uncertainty fell into a laugh as well, amidst the coolness of the breeze.

Keylyn laughed -

Somehow, he managed -

"Yeah...it is." he chuckled, "...was..."

Faldorn laughed -

- The face. The disappointment. Remained.

He did not care.

He chuckled, and let it subside into a grin.

It faded.

He glanced up; Faldorn was still smiling, or smirking.

He managed to do the same. Somehow -

He did not care.
Chapter 33

The report lay atop the hard wood of the desk. All that had been extracted from the prisoners.

- Bloodhounds, Inquisitors - had betrayed the magus order.

They had betrayed the Tribunal.

- The thought echoed, without relent, amidst the ice of his gaze. His eyes remained locked on the mass of fire that dwelt beneath the mantelpiece of his quarters, his jaw was clenched beneath that frozenness. His lips, curled, set, in a scowl.

Burned by the glow of the fire.

Bloodhounds had betrayed their order.

- Their order, itself, could not be trusted.

The news had been delivered by the Inquisitor - the thought, that she herself might be complicit, had passed, and resounded. Amidst the fire. He could not trust the bloodhounds - or their leaders. The High Inquisitor. The entire order.

He had ordered her detained. Some hours after.

Pending a review of her loyalty.

Not one she would survive. The others, of her squad, that had captured the resistance cell - and failed to detain the first discovered bloodhound, had been ordered for reassignment.

He would not risk the knowledge of their discovery being gained by the traitors of the order.

He would find them. All of them. And burn their taint from the magus order. That a magus could betray themselves so completely - could betray the rightful authority of their blood -

He snarled.

He would find them.

He would find those who led them.

And burn the magus alive himself.

* * *

Palai'dred moved amidst the throng of guardsmen, as they busied themselves around the wooden masses of the coaches. Amongst the multitude of green tabards, embroidered with the silver tiger of Thgad, the Sword-Bearer and the two other knights vanished utterly.

She gave an innocuous gesture with her hand, understood immediately by the men who trailed her, and turned towards the hallway beside the northern wall - where the mammoth, draping banner, crimson, embroidered with the five sigils of the Magus Order, hung. City guards intermingled with the men and women who had accompanied the caravan, as the Sword-Bearer and two flanking knights made their inconspicuous egress from the southern entry hall.

Some minutes passed as they negotiated the stretch of passageways that opened to the railed terrace overlooking the expanse of the sprawling metropolis chamber. Without pause, the Sword-Bearer continued across the raised flatness of the platform, skirting the encircling inner wall of the ring - towards the descending switch-backed stairs that led to the base of the chamber.

Disguised as a soldier of Thgad, hidden beneath the metal and leather of her helm and its coif, the Sword-Bearer moved into the maze of streets that wove amidst the buildings.

* * *

Keylyn laughed.

The action, the sound, seemed unnatural to him - an alien element to the world.

He was laughing. It felt good.

It dwindled into a smile. A grin. He managed it, despite the scars on his face. They still hurt - twisted, ached, when he smiled.

- The emptiness still remained.

Somewhere deep down, the numbness. Remained. But above - in the moments that had replaced the days, there was a fullness - a glaze, that had managed to overcome it. Had managed to make it fade.

He smiled.

Faldorn smiled too.

The other man sat on the grass, some feet away around the flickering warmth of the cook-fire. Underneath the star-strewn veil of the night's sky.

"No one ever found us out," Faldorn chuckled, "...at least, not as far as I know."

The mirth dropped subtly out of his voice, with the last words - for a moment, the smile flickered away too. He glanced up, and grinned.

"So, how have you ever managed to humiliate yourself in front of all your friends?"

Keylyn chuckled, "...I think you forget...I didn't have any friends."

Faldorn chortled, but glanced away, "...right...sorry..."

From beside, Keylyn watched him for a long moment.

The thoughts, as ever, echoed, beneath. He let them fade. As now they could.

He smirked. It wavered.

He glanced away - when he returned his gaze, the other man had looked up.

The whiteness of a grin, more restrained, more reserved, moved across the sandy features of the former archivist's face -

He had shaved. The black wisps that had covered his face for so many months had been cleared away - the recognition only just sparked amidst Keylyn's thoughts. He had shaved some weeks ago.

"...you want to tell me more about Grgadorn?" Faldorn asked, "Beyond the short sum up?"

Keylyn chuckled, "The sum up is fairly much it..." he muttered, "Not much more to tell..."

He glanced away, as the words emerged. They were the truth - as much as a thought said he did not want them to be.

Faldorn was silent a long moment.

- Before he asked, "Keylyn...can I ask about...Hadrath?"

The name drew his gaze up from the fire-lit blades of grass around him.

He met the other man's eyes - there was an uncertainty amidst the darkness of gaze, and the caught reflections of the flames. A timidity around his eyes.

Keylyn glanced away - beneath, the numbness remained. He let it fade. It would fade.

"...yeah..." he said after a long pause.

"How did you know him?"

A pause, "I was his aide."

"...That's all?"

A sigh, "...He was..." there was a long pause; longer, "...he adopted me...after my parents died...he was a father, to me...he became..."

He glanced up and met the other man's eyes; Faldorn looked away. A light brown hand fiddled idly with a tuft of grass beside his bent leg. In the fallen silence.

Keylyn returned his gaze to the ground, with a glance up at the spitting flicker of the cook fire -

"...You, loved him?" the question was quiet, tentative - afraid itself of provoking hurt.

It hurt. Keylyn bit it back, let it reside amidst the numbness below - this -

"Yeah," he murmured - breathed - managed a hard chortle, "...Just makes it weirder though, the way I felt...strange, un...more wrong..." he chortled. Again.

Faldorn was silent for a moment, "...not really," the other man paused, "Well...maybe...a little...but I meant, as family..."

Keylyn chuckled - a hard chuckle - the thoughts welled amidst the numbness - above - for a moment. He released a breath; he let them fade. He managed to smile again, a slighter, a less smile.

"Yeah...I loved him...he was my father, as long as I can remember."

Faldorn did not reply. Or continue.

Keylyn stared ahead, into the flickering mass of the flames, for a long time. Amidst the cool air of the night, warmed by the errant heat of the cook-fire, he let the thoughts fade -

He clung to the glaze, the feeling above the numbness. Until his eyes began to ache.

The silence lingered over the flames for some moments more -

"Do you ever..." his voice croaked through the mumble; he swallowed, "...Do you ever feel...wrong?"

He could feel the other man's gaze come to rest upon him in the pause that followed.

"Wrong?"

"About...the way you are?"

There was a tense, elongated silence beside him. Faldorn looked away.

"...Yes." a lowered voice answered, "...sometimes...I did, for a long time...even when I was with..." a snort, or a chortle, "...Keron...I even asked him to keep it a secret - us...I couldn't think of telling my parents - I barely let our friends know, and I was afraid even then...but Keron...I had Keron," another snort or a chortle, "...he never let me feel like it was wrong...I never felt wrong with him."

The other man glanced up, and met his eyes - Keylyn did not look away.

The flicker of a smile averted Faldorn's gaze, before it itself returned to the grass. The words, vanished into the gentle crackle and spitting of the fire, faded into recurrent silence.

The silence lingered, once again.

- The thought flitted through the quiet, and through the glaze, above the ever-present numbness -

The thoughts that he preferred; those that accompanied him now, more often, through the days. And the nights; whenever he was woken by a dream. The thoughts that always led into an inescapable silence -

The silence that neither of them wanted to escape. The silence they shared.

The always returned to - a comfortable quiet.

He let the thoughts resound; the quiet beat in his chest thrummed above the crackle of the fire. Amidst the silence of the starlight above.

He sat, and stared, and thought. As the other man did beside him also.

* * *

The fires blazed. The red of the flames crackled, and spat, and snarled.

The Staff-Bearer of the Tribunal held the fires in his gaze.

Held their snarl in his throat. Beside the mantelpiece of his quarters.

Word had come - the latest reports of those he had tasked in determining the extent of corruption that had tainted their order - word had come, that there was no word to report. The incompetence of the magus he had assigned to the task manifested as a choking gall above the snarl in his throat.

Held and fed the fury that blazed deeper.

- The suspicion hissed, ever now, that those he had assigned to the task may be corrupt themselves. May yet be in league with the traitors to their order, who hid in their midst.

He would find them. Every one.

The magus would not fall to the same weakness that had corrupted the archivists.

He despised weakness.

The snarl twisted the sneer across his lips into a scowl. Twisted further. Twisted his leg - away, from the mantelpiece and the fire contained within. It would continue to burn, unrelenting.

There were magus who had betrayed their order - who had betrayed their blood -

The snarl choked again, in his throat.

There was no recourse that had not already been undertaken. The reprehensible fact remained - a truth, that may have itself been tainted by the corruption within their ranks.

The fires crackled loudly, beneath their cage of stone behind him.

There were magus who had betrayed their order -

The thought manifested with a sharpness that forced the snarl from the constriction of his body; a moment's failing that only provoked another to grow in its place -

There was a magus who had betrayed her order - a magus who had been allowed to live despite the recognition and condemnation of her crimes.

The first magus to betray her order to their enemies in the most fundamental way. To betray her blood to a deathwalker.

- The memory played unsummoned amidst the fires behind; the words of that unnatural thing - that animate suit of armour. Syla was protected, from the rightful execution of her sentence.

Magus Syla should be dead. She should have been that day -

She should have been long dead now.

- The twenty seventh army was yet on the march. Those forces that had been ordered off the front in the north of the plains, would not join with the army for weeks yet.

Two generals had defied the orders to withdraw. Under the false belief of protecting the people there -

The people of the plains -

Were unimportant.

Those few that remained; that had allowed themselves to be caught up in the siege and attacks of the goblins. Most had fled the plains for the highlands - for Grgadorn and Delphanas. Refugees ever and always continued to arrive -

Continued to flood the streets of the city.

Those stupid few who had chosen to remain did not matter over the greater land as a whole.

When the armies withdrew - and they would withdraw - those that were lost in the retreat, or who remained behind, were acceptable losses. Necessitated sacrifice.

One army - one General - had obeyed; had heeded the authority of her superiors. She had sent word of the defiance of the others, of their wilful disregard of their orders -

The snarl spat out into a half-hiss.

There were traitors everywhere - traitors all, intent on undermining the defence of Ammandorn and allowing the land to fall to the enemy.

The order had been sent for the general to return to the front - to find and apprehend the two traitors, and exact the rightful penalty for their crimes. The woman had been granted the command of their forces - once it was done, she would lead them to the south.

Once it was done. In days - more reprehensible days -

Days that had trespassed into the criminal.

- Another snarl. Choked. Barely. Restrained.

There was no other recourse. No other recourse.

He glanced aside, at the empty darkness of the doorway to the adjacent room, beyond the hearth of his quarters.

"Dus!" he growled - snarled.

Some moments later, the black silhouette of his aide appeared amidst the white, flame-burnt orange, of the marble archway. The eyes beneath the shaved baldness of the magus head met the Staff-Bearer's - for a moment.

Before they glanced away.

Ragmurath sneered; he turned, and moved towards the open archway that permitted entry to the darkness of the bedroom. Behind, in silence, his aide followed.

The dim starlight, that trespassed through the windows between the curtains, spilled pale and white onto the bed, and its accoutrements.

The Staff-Bearer of the Tribunal did not allow the moments for his eyes to adjust -

He moved to the side of the bed; and began to undo the fastenings of his robe. He let the garment fall to the floor; its black folds lost amidst the shadow around his legs.

Behind, Dus bent down to retrieve it - and lay it in its proper place elsewhere amidst the room.

Ragmurath lowered himself to the edge of the mattress; swung his legs up atop the smooth weave of the blanket. Allowed his head to come to rest upon the detested softness of the pillow.

- Dus, his aide, the magus, took the place.

Where his Staff-Bearer required him.

Flesh met flesh -

As the twisted mess of his other hand came rest atop his Staff-Bearers. As the soft murmur of the words of a dreaming spell spilled from both their lips.

Atop the hated softness of the bed, Ragmurath felt the magics take their hold - felt the weary somnolence instilled by the power of his blood draw his eyes closed. Into slumber.

The dream wove its way around him; amidst the empty darkness of the moment of sleep.

The spell twisted beneath his grasp; twisted like the flesh of the magus hand that joined his power to his Staff-Bearer's beyond. Beneath, the fires yet blazed - yet burned every thought that dared trespass the dream.

Ragmurath twisted his unseeing sight towards the west - towards the affront to their blood and order and race. The taint of traitors, of incompetence and failure, would not be his own.

He would not allow it.

- That he had allowed it for too long, had allowed it despite the breaking of the wardings, and his possession of Keylyn, swelled as a conflagration that ravaged the depths of the dreams. That fed the snarl that tore through the night and sleep to where the bitch yet survived.

Yet survived.

The magus was protected by the fell power of an unnatural deathwalker - a fact that would be ravaged into fallacy. He was the Staff-Bearer of the Tribunal; the magics where the absolute right of his blood - were a power that none could contest in this world.

He would visit that truth upon whatever spells had been wrought to protect Syla - and tear her apart himself.

The thought passed, unacknowledged, that - as before - it would take several attacks; several assaults in succession to break through the wards, to shatter the spells protecting her. The efforts might drain his body to insurmountable fatigue -

That was acceptable. A failing he would permit - though yet despised.

Patience was a weakness he should never have allowed. Should never have been necessitated by others failings, as it was and remained now. Patience should never have been entertained -

Leniency -

The snarl slashed through the flames amidst the unquiet dark of the dream.

Outside, beyond, the grasp of his hand - held amidst the other's magus' - tightened.

He would exact Syla's sentence. He would bring to penultimate traitor to justice -

And the others would follow.

He would restore the unfailing strength of the magus order.

The dream reached across the vast distance of the west - across the plains of Thgad where the war yet raged - to somewhere on the edge of a forbidden forest.

As before, so many weeks ago, he found the wardings that protected the camp - that protected those within. As before, he laid his grasp upon the yielding strength that defined the essence of the spells, tightened the fingers of his magics and dream to twist and warp - and tear -

And he was repelled.

- Like before, his violent perforation of the defences drove its way inside - but there, it was turned aside. Was resisted by a force no part of him had expected - some new force that did not yield to weakness inherent in its being.

That did not scream in terror as it was ravished.

The shock - the resistance - stood there before him. The thought manifested - passed -

Some new magic bolstered the violated weakness of the spells. Some new power had been emplaced to preserve the wardings - to resist where they could not.

Some other magus had joined their power with the traitor -

The idea blazed into being amidst the shocked remnants of the dream - reignited the fury that choked every snarl, every breath, beneath illimitable gall in his throat.

There could be no other explanation - no other thought - magus Syla was broken, was shattered to her core by the weakness of her being.

He had felt that. He had felt that amidst the wardings. Her wardings.

He had known that they were hers.

This new strength - could not be -

A snarl. The same snarl that ever echoed amidst the fires and the dream.

He would break it - he would break them - whoever it was that aided the traitors would be found and killed - as would Syla now herself.

Amidst the blazing darkness of sleep, amidst the strangling fatigue of the spells he wove, the Staff-Bearer of the Tribunal forced all his rage into the dream, tore through every resistance within the body of his aide beyond, and dragged what he needed from the magus into the rage that fuelled it.

Despite the pain, despite the fatigue and the exhaustion - the strain - he lashed out with all the rightful power of the leader of the magus blood.

- He shattered the wardings. The first of the spells, and that beneath, savaged into oblivion -

And he was resisted.

Against the ultimate force and mastery of the spells he wove - he was resisted.

The dream broke. The spell, his spells, shattered against the defence that was raised against them -

A snarl of fury, inexpressible, savaged the breaking moments of the dream. Instinct clawed against itself to retain its hold upon the spell and its assault - upon the force against the wardings that yet resisted it -

The dream slipped from his grasp, slipped against the warding that defied him - slipped away into the darkness of unconsciousness exacted by the exhaustion of his power.

Slipped down - and past -

As the shreds of the dream, twisted and warped and strained, dragging into the black abyss all around, the spell slipped past a defence that did not raise its hand against it. Slipped past, and in -

And found the dream of a mind it had not, this time, deliberately sought.

As the hated weight of unconsciousness drowned the rage and its snarl, the thought was heard for the briefest moment -

Magus Keylyn was still alive.

End of Part 2

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Other works by D W Gladstone -

The Wyvern Kings Redemption Series

Book One

The Land of All Things Fallen - Part I

The Land of All Things Fallen - Part II

The Land of All Things Fallen - Part III

Book Two

The Forest of a Thousand Suns - Part I
