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**TABLE OF CONTENTS**

**Dream Breaker**

Dareth battles another Arkyn (magic user) across two planes of existence as he fights to protect his client from assassination.

**Slice**

Half orphaned and struggling to survive, can Tzun save his family with a drug that enhanced his powers?

**The Serpents Root**

A quest for a dangerous item to cure the sick may not be as simple a delivery as a thief expects. Love can be a killer.

**Assassin Hunter**

When Kaden is hired to hunt down his brotherhood of assassins, mind blowing revelations begin to surface. Drew expanded this short story into a much more in depth novella in 2018.

**Fangs of the Dragon**

Blessed by a holy man, Porter Rockwell was promised that if he never cut his hair he would not be harmed by bullet nor blade ... But what if monsters strike with tooth and claw? This might be Port's last ride ... Or will he send them crawling back to the abyss? Either way it's gonna be a helluva fight!

**Siren Witch**

Even a murderer can be surprised by a victim's cause of death.

**Demoni Vankil**

When the world falls into shadow, the Kings of old are forced to embrace the darkness ... in order to banish it forever. An ancient puzzle box. Fourteen letters. A Council of Whispers ... and a clerk. Discover the 700 year old secret millions died to protect.

**Invincible Shadow**

Argentus fights for his life against Orryn Ghostblade in a heist gone wrong. But the treasure that he does find will change his destiny and the destiny of the world.

**The Dig**

An archaeologist struggles with the semantics of who is the real grave robber with a rogue Italian captain in WW2 when they find something buried that should not be.

**Desolation of the Na'Eedna**

What if the fate of the world rested in the hands of a mediocre mage on the verge of insanity? The year is 1663 and the world is about to find out.

**Worms of the Wasteland**

A moment of neglect, a lifetime of regret.

**The King in the Wood**

Music and mythology merge as a young woman buys a strange instrument in a curiosity shop. Things will never be the same.

**The Glory of Intelligence**

From humble beginnings, Yushin soars to academic success only to discover an unorthodox solution for intelligence enhancers.

**Sample: Unproven**

**PRAISE FOR 5 BLADE AUTHORS:**

**Drew Briney**

_Riveting story, relatable heroes, and nasty villains. ... Brilliantly woven storyline._

\- Victoria Lucas

_Unforgettable, imaginative, and unbelievably exhilarating._

\- M. Hamilton

_Will impress even the most critical fans of the genre._

\- J. Lavuire

**David West**

_Brutal, gory and depressing._

\- Jennie Hansen, Meridian Magazine

_And he just keeps getting better._

\- Keith West, Amazing Stories

_One of the most well-written fight scenes I've ever had the opportunity to read._

\- Darkeva, Hellnotes

**Jaime Buckley**

_Jaime is an amazingly talented storyteller, artist, and illustrator. The first time I saw his work I was blown away - and he's only gotten better since._

\- Barry Eisler, New York Times & International Best Selling Author

_[In Demoni Vankil], readers are invited to solve the mystery alongside Hobin as he reads fourteen letters. Trust me, you will be surprised by just how many emotions you will feel reading them. As Hobin says, Eamon will begin to feel like a friend. Reading these letters was my favorite aspect of the book. I felt the hope, love and sometimes despair that Eamon felt._

\- Jennifer Elgy, Books That Spark (UK)

**Jason King**

_Fresh and fun ... Jason King's imagery is breathtaking._

\- James Wymore

_I was instantly wrapped up in the story._

\- Melissa Anne Curtis

**DREAM BREAKER**

by

Jason King

DARETH'S DISEMBODIED SELF FLOATED LAZILY through the colonnade room. Well, that's what _he_ called it. It wasn't a room, not really. It was a stone field with marble columns rising into a black, starless sky. It didn't have any walls either, but the sound-suffocating darkness extending in all directions made Dareth _feel_ as though he were enclosed in a chamber, and so he called it a room.

_Corporeal beings always interpret the metaphysical in physical terms_. _We cannot help but to do so,_ the line from Alegar's "Treatise on Dimensional Sensory Input and the Nature of Reality," automatically sprang to his mind.

"Quiet, Alegar!"

The words thundered throughout the chamber making Dareth wince. He hadn't spoken them, but thought and sound were interchangeable in this place. A person's inner monologue could ring forth as an unending stream of spectacular clamor, especially if that person didn't deliberately will the words to remain within the bounds of their own consciousness.

_What am I, a first week initiate?_

Dareth felt foolish. He knew better. He'd been coming to this place since he was a child. In fact, he'd only been eight when he first did what he would later come to know as Dream Breaking. He remembered telling his grandfather, in great excitement, of what he'd accomplished and was shocked when the usually gentle, soft-spoken man flew into a rage. He'd walloped Dareth across the behind with a birch branch so hard Dareth hadn't been able to sit for a week.

He later learned the reason for his grandfather's panicked fury. Dream Breaking was singularly dangerous, not because your body was inanimate and defenseless while your consciousness was here—that was a given. No, in this place, one could become separated from their body entirely and spend the rest of eternity as a lost spirit wandering the Aether. Worse, another Dream Breaker could attack you, overcome your will, and then claim your mind; making you little more than a puppet both here and in the physical world. It was also heresy according to the Faelen Church. So in his grandfather's view, Dareth might not only die, but he could lose his very soul.

Dareth had promised his grandfather that he would never do it again, but it'd only taken him a few weeks to break that promise. What he had done sparked an obsession within Dareth, and as soon as he'd turned fifteen he had left his grandfather's secluded cabin deep in the woods, and journeyed to The Jade Arcas where his unusual talent earned him quick admittance into that school. With access to the Arcas's vast library, Dareth obsessively sought out everything he could find on the subject, soon becoming a lay-expert in his own right.

_Dream Breaking_ , he mentally chewed the name. That term was a bit of a misnomer, for dreaming played such a small role in it. _Dream Breaking is the process of reaching through one's subconscious into that state of being that exists between life and death_. He'd studied so much that the recitations had become automatic and compulsive, and he had to shoo them away with ritualistic mantras lest he end up repeating them aloud.

Although Alegar was an arcane genius, Dareth never had liked his writings. The centuries-removed sage possessed a knack for taking something as fantastic and magical as reaching another plane of existence and making it sound technical and boring. If the desire to understand what he could do hadn't burned so hot within him, Dareth wouldn't ever have been able to abide reading the man's seemingly endless volumes.

Dream Breaking. He supposed the name fit, mostly because he couldn't think of anything else to call it. And dreams _were_ the beginning, the path, the gate. The trick was finding the boundary of your dreams―Dareth had been surprised to learn that dreams could have boundaries―and forcing your will against it until you broke through that barrier. Supposedly it was considered terribly difficult to do even with learning and practice, but Dareth had done it as something of an accident.

He still remembered that dream, the first one that had led him into the Aether. It had been a vivid and terrible nightmare in which Dareth was desperately running up an endless flight of stairs while being chased by black, cat-like creatures; living shadows that hissed and laughed while calling out in horrible detail what they were going to do to him once they caught him.

The memory of that awful dream still made him shiver, and he remembered the moment he'd hit the dream's outer boundary. It wasn't a location but something more abstract, a moment of perfect enlightenment. He remembered the desperate panic he felt at realizing the staircase would never end no matter how many steps he climbed. The awful, primal fear he'd felt in that one eternal moment ignited his will and he used that fire to press against the invisible wall of inevitability. It was then that the dream shattered like pieces of living glass and he found himself here, in this place. Since then, he hadn't needed a nightmare in order to find the boundary of his dreams. It was as if once he had felt it, he instinctually knew how to find it again.

Returning to your dream and waking was much easier. An exit, represented in the Aether as a crystal archway filled with light, stood at the far end of the room against what would've been the chamber's north wall. Simply moving through it took one's soul back to his body. It was all very metaphysical, and Dareth couldn't claim to fully understand it. He doubted even Alegar had completely understood this place.

Dareth moved across the stone floor to where a concentric arrangement of holes marked the center of the field. He looked down and saw in each hole a watery image, like the reflection in a pond. They were landscapes, living paintings of places in the real world. _Real is a subjective term that is not completely applicable when analyzing the planar strata of existence._ As always, the quote came unbidden.

_Bugger off, Alegar!_

If Dareth were to dive into any one of those portals, he would return to the material plane but remain in his disembodied state. That's what most Dream Breakers did and for a variety of reasons: some to learn the secrets of their enemies, others to explore geographic locations inaccessible to a person trapped within a body, and some to control people in the real world through influence or even possession. But none of those things were the real reason an Arkyn came here. No, they came here to drink Drenn.

Drenn was the power an Arkyn—the common vernacular for one with arcane talent, derived from the term "arcane-kind"—needed to execute a spell. Anyone had access to spells, which were really nothing more than words on a page, the recorded thought patterns that had been determined by Arkyns over time to be the most effective way to achieve an arcane result. An Arkyn with Drenn in his soul could imbue energy into the words of a spell as they were recited and, depending on the amount of Drenn used, execute the spell with varying degrees of effect.

Dareth peered through one of the portals, one that looked down over a snow-capped mountain range. This was his favorite portal to use for the simple reason that the scenery was the most beautiful. He flexed his will and materialized in resemblance of his physical form before stepping onto the liquid painting. Immediately he found himself atop one of those snow-capped mountains. The wind howled and whipped about him, but neither the force of it nor the cold could touch him. He was not here in the flesh, and so the things of the flesh could neither affect nor restrict him. It was a freedom that only Dream Breakers could know.

Dareth allowed himself to float downward, through the ice and rock until he found himself in the vast hollowness of a cavern. It was dark, and had he been in his body he would've been wholly blind, but as a spirit he could see everything as though the sun itself lived within the mountain. Dareth moved forward passing sparkling stalagmites and veins of gold. If he could access this place in the flesh, he very well could become rich, but no, that was not why he'd come. Dareth walked until he found a bubbling fountain of luminescent, emerald-colored water in the middle of a small pond.

_A Drenn Fountain._

The strange, glowing water only existed on the ethereal mirror of the physical plane. Of course, it wasn't really water, it only manifested itself to his mind as such; likely the product of his training in the ancient traditions of the Arcases. In theory, it could appear as whatever the Dream Breaker thought it to be. But Arkyns for centuries had clothed the knowledge of how to tap Drenn in the metaphor of drinking from a fountain, and so that notion had come to solidify the idea in the collective minds of everyone.

Dareth moved to the edge, knelt, and scooped up a handful of glowing liquid. He drank and warmth begin to spread within him, weaving itself throughout his entire spirit-body. Two more handfuls were all that he needed to quench his thirst and he knew then that he held as much Drenn as he could, which was considerable when compared with his peers.

_Great capacity to hold Drenn does not make one a great Arkyn,_ Alegar's dry voice echoed from the pages of some book Dareth had memorized years ago. It was true enough. Many of the most powerful Arkyns could drink in only half of the Drenn that Dareth could store. They learned early on to ration their energy, never imbuing a spell with more than what was needed. On the other hand, Dareth had read about Arkyns with great capacities who gave in to their hubris, opting for showy magic and recklessly flaunting of theirs power. Their tragic falls had been warning enough for him to never do the same.

A heartbeat later, he was standing atop the mountain again, his portal of entry still open twenty feet in the air above him. Dareth took one last indulgent look at the breathtaking view one could only find on the top of the world, and then ascended. He left the material plane and found himself again in the colonnade room that was not really a room.

It would be dawn soon on his side of the world. That thought set Dareth's mind to work, automatically listing everything he needed to prepare for his mission. That had been the impetus of his coming to the Aether, to refill his Drenn store. He knew he probably had enough left to perform his assigned duty, but Dareth was a careful man. He released the manifestation of his physical self and began to float toward the crystal archway at the far end of the colonnade, the door that would take him back to into his dreams.

"Hello," a small voice said, breaking the abnormal quiet.

Dareth reflexively coalesced into one of his many disguised physical forms; an old man that looked much like his grandfather. He whipped around and found a little girl staring at him. She looked about nine, dressed in a child's play dress with pink ribbons tying two pigtails. She had golden hair, and blue eyes.

_Those eyes!_ They were not a child's eyes. They were too intent, too knowing, too deep.

"No," she said shaking her head. "I want to see the _real_ you."

Dareth felt a wave of the girl's will slam into him, tearing away his disguise and forcing him to manifest true. He tried to counter with his will, but she had caught him off guard.

"That's better," the girl said.

"Who are you?" Dareth readied his will in case she struck out at him again.

"My name is Saesha." The girl smiled and curtseyed.

"Who are you really?" Dareth said as he put one of the columns between them.

The girl's smile faded. "Don't be rude, Dareth of the Jade Arcas."

_She knows who I am and which school I belong to,_ Dareth thought with a stab of panic. While it wasn't uncommon to encounter another Dream Breaker exploring the Aether, they seldom acknowledged one another, to say nothing of actually communicating. It was something of an unspoken rule. Everyone in the Aether usually disguised themselves if they chose to manifest at all. On those rare occasions when they did approach someone, it was usually to attack.

The weapons of an ethereal duel were different than that used in the physical world. There were no swords, spears, or even magic in the Aether. The way you defeated an opponent here was simple; overcome their will and bend it to your own. The result was enslavement, or possession; something considered an atrocity amongst most Arcases.

How had this Arkyn found him? _She probably heard the noise I made earlier._ He began to scold himself for the amateur slip, but then realized he'd only been responding to Alegar. Therefore, this was Alegar's fault. "Stupid Alegar!" he muttered.

"What was that?" Saesha asked.

"What do you want?" Dareth said as he continued to inch toward the crystal arch.

Saesha followed him with her intense eyes. "I am not going to attack you."

"You already did," Dareth replied as he readied his will to strike.

Saesha scoffed. "That wasn't an attack."

Was she bluffing? Her force of will had been terrible, not as strong as Dareth himself could muster, but if she had only been using a small portion...

"I say again, what do you want?"

Saesha smiled. "I just wanted to see you here before I see you there." She motioned to the circular portals set in the floor at the center of the room.

"Why?" Dareth asked.

"To know what I will be up against when I assassinate the High Priest of Faelen."

_She's the assassin_!

His assignment from the Jade Arcas had been to act as the High Priest's bodyguard this very day; the entire reason he'd come to refill his Drenn. The old man was going to be making his annual speech to the followers of Aul, and his vicars had caught wind of plans to assassinate him as he did so. Of course there were always plots to assassinate the High Priest, making this assignment largely routine, but if the assassin was another Arkyn...

"You're one of the disgraced! What Arcas were you expelled from?"

Saesha smiled. "So sure that I am just an expelled rebel, are you?"

Was Saesha implying that she had been sent by her Arcas to kill the High Priest? Such a thing was ridiculous. The Arcases all had strict laws forbidding any Arkyn to kill save for self-preservation, or for the protection of the innocent. This thing Saesha was insinuating was unthinkable.

"You lie!"

Saesha shook her head. "You are naïve, Dareth. For someone with your reputation of brilliance, you sure are blind to the reality of human nature and politics."

"But the law of the Arcases forbids―"

Saesha laughed. "Who do you think controls this land? Faelen's Kings and rulers are just puppets, and the Master Arkyns pull the strings. It's something of a game to them."

Dareth shook his head. "I won't believe it."

Saesha frowned. "It doesn't matter to me. I will accomplish my mission, and if you get in my way, I will kill you."

"So sure that you can best me, are you?"

Saesha smiled again, making her little-girl face look a nightmarish parody of innocence. "I wasn't. That's why I came here to meet you. I needed to know. And now I do."

Abruptly Saesha lashed out with her will, but this time Dareth was ready. He raised his will like a shield, deflecting Saesha's attack while striking back at her at the same time. The little girl resisted Dareth's attempt to dominate her and laughed.

"I hope you are better at casting spells than you are at Dream Breaking." And with that she was gone.

Dareth released his physical representation and hurled his consciousness through the crystal arch. He found himself back in his dream, one of swimming in an endless ocean. Fighting off the disorientation―there was always a moment of confusion when returning to one's dream from the Aether―Dareth remembered he was sleeping and willed himself to wake.

He sat up in bed, his entire body covered in sweat. He looked to the window and found that the sun had just started creeping up over the mountains. Dawn had come and Dareth had to meet the High Priest's vicars in less than an hour. _And then I'm going to have to face another Arkyn in combat_ ; an anonymous opponent that he would have to find in the crowd of devotees. He splashed his face with water from his washbasin, tore off his night shirt, and quickly dressed.

The vicars didn't take kindly to Dareth's assertion that the High Priest's potential assassin was another Arkyn. In fact, they accused Dareth of fear mongering in an attempt to negotiate a higher rate for his services. And they laughed at him when he suggested that they cancel the High Priest's annual pronouncement of blessing upon his followers. It was all very frustrating.

Because of his rising anxiety, Dareth attempted to talk to the old man himself, but the vicars were instant in putting him off each time. The blessing was _going_ to happen and Dareth had to be ready. The High Priest, two vicars, and Dareth walked out onto a stone balcony overlooking a sea of faces. They were two stories above the crowd of hundreds making them perfect targets.

Dareth went to work searching the eyes of the people standing at the front of the crowd.

He needed to dismiss all notions of looking for a little girl, or even a woman. One could disguise themselves in whatever way they wished when in the Aether. The only sure way Dareth would be able to recognize Saesha, or whoever she was, would be to find her eyes. You could change much about yourself when you manifested a different physical likeness in the Aether, but it was very difficult to hide one's eyes. Oh you could change the color or shape, but there was something behind the eyes that couldn't be hidden.

The High Priest began his prelude speech which was really nothing more than quotations of scripture and tired platitudes. Dareth was not a follower of Aul, but as an Arkyn he enjoyed an oddly duplicitous relationship with the church. They preached against the Arcases as pagan institutions that meddled with dark powers, while at the same time hiring them to perform certain essential functions, _like protecting their High Priest in public._ Dareth had once called them on that incongruity and received a heated dogmatic explanation that reeked of hypocrisy.

Movement in the crowd below caught his attention and Dareth reflexively dipped into his Drenn reservoir and readied a spell recitation. The figure was trying to appear unassuming as it carefully shouldered past a big man with a little girl riding his shoulders. He was a bearded man shrouded in a grey cloak, his hood drawn to hide his face.

The man neared the front of the crowd and that's when Dareth saw light glint off of something in his hand. _A dagger!_ Before Dareth could cry out, the man cocked back and hurled the knife up towards the balcony. It spun blade over handle on a trajectory that would bury the knife directly in the High Priest's forehead. Dareth's training took over and he mentally recited his spell. He began with a transmutation prefix to one of the three states of matter, all the while pouring Drenn into the words. The words of the spell moved before his mind's eye as the Drenn highlighted them in an emerald green glow. He cut off the infusion as he ended the spell.

The dagger was only inches in front of the High Priest's face when it changed into water, splashing the old man in the eyes and making him yelp as he brought his hand up. Smoke would've been better, but changing matter from solid to gas took more energy. _Transmutation ascends and descends the ladder of matter states; solid to liquid, liquid to gas. Skipping a rung on this ladder expends more energy._ Alegar certainly was an insufferable know-it-all.

Silence hung in the air for a moment as the import of what was happening dawned on the crowd. Screams and shouting followed and Dareth saw one of the vicars rush forward and tackle the High Priest to the ground. It was heroic, but would've come too late. The other vicar joined in and raised the elderly High Priest up enough so that they could drag him off the balcony and back into the basilica.

Dareth searched the panicked crowd for the assassin. He saw the man retreating into a group of women, and Dareth searched his memory for a spell that would let him apprehend the man while not endangering any of the people in the audience. A strategy had just sprung to mind when someone yanked on his sleeve. He turned to find one of the vicars excitedly motioning for him to follow the High Priest, who was being rushed away by a group of his attendants.

Dareth cast one more glance back at the crowd before following the High Priest. It made sense. It wasn't likely that the elderly man was in any more danger, but it was Dareth's duty to stay with him. He had been paid to protect him and he would do so. It wasn't necessarily his duty to apprehend the would-be assassin _. Saesha is a man_. Although it hadn't come as a complete surprise, something about that bothered him. He hadn't been able to see the man's eyes, but then again he hadn't needed to. The man's actions had marked him as the assassin. _And he had used a knife_!

No Arkyn worth his training wouldn't carry a weapon, Dareth himself carried a long knife in his belt. But there were a dozen different magical methods that the assassin could've used to try to kill the High Priest; methods that would've been far more difficult for Dareth to counter.

The clergy rushed Dareth and the High Priest into a room without windows. It must have been the elderly man's personal study as the walls were lined with shelves full of tomes and the air was thick with the musty smell of old paper. The vicars sat the High Priest down in an oversized, plush armchair, and lit candles before they closed the double doors.

Dareth glanced at the old man and found him pale and shaking. He chuckled to himself as he realized it was likely not from the attempt on his life, but instead from the use of a transmutation spell inches in front of his face. The religious were an odd sort. Things like suffering and the poverty of the peasant class wouldn't upset them, while the manifestation of a simple spell that could be learned by week-old initiates made them shudder.

The lead vicar, a round faced man, turned to face Dareth and hissed, "That was no Arkyn!"

Instead of letting himself be drawn into an argument with the man, Dareth shook his head and replied, "No, it wasn't."

A few moments later, the doors opened for a girl carrying a tray full of cups and a steaming teapot. Even in her white and brown servant's dress, Dareth could see that she possessed a superb figure. He looked at her face and admired her pouting lips, full and just the right shade of pink. She had to be in her early twenties, not much younger than Dareth himself. Her lustrous black hair reflected the dancing flickers of candle flames, and those blue eyes—he stiffened. He knew those eyes.

Dareth immediately reacted, mentally reciting another transmutation spell. The woman's silver tray exploded into a spray of water and the teapot fell, splashing scalding brown liquid down the front of her dress. She yelped and jumped back, eyes shooting up to meet Dareth's. They were hard and full of rage.

One of the vicars cried out as Dareth drew his knife and lunged at the serving girl. Saesha mouthed something and immediately a spasm in Dareth's left calf muscle caused him to stumble to his knees. How had she done that? Affecting one's environment was one thing, affecting the body of one's opponent was far more difficult and generally discouraged as inefficient. _Something to do with unknown interference from a living creature's aura_ , Alegar had theorized.

_Maybe that meant Saesha had lost control of her fear and acted rashly, leaving her with insufficient energy to duel. Maybe she would just try to escape_.

That hope proved folly. Just as the cramp faded and Dareth stumbled back to his feet, flashes of light and popping sounds echoed throughout the study as the candle flames exploded and extinguished. Darkness enveloped the room and Dareth found himself unable to see. He called to mind another spell, this one more complex. He fished in his pockets for a pair of spectacles, found them, and put them on while reciting an incantation that would change the composition of the glass so that it would bend heat into light, making the rooms occupants appear as pulsating outlines of red, oranges, and yellows.

Once he could see, Dareth found the High Priest's heat aura. The elderly man was still seated in his chair, rapidly glancing around the room and calling for his vicars. Another heat aura was rushing toward him. _Saesha can also see in the dark!_

Dareth flung himself at her and internally recited another spell. The gravity beneath Saesha's heat aura intensified and she went down. That spell had taken Dareth a year to master, and learning just the right amount of Drenn to infuse into it had been tricky. He could sustain it, thereby keeping Saesha pinned, but it would drain his reservoir if he didn't let it go. So he did.

Saesha's heat aura remained on the ground a little longer than Dareth expected. He could tell that she was moving her arm, but what was she doing? She abruptly stopped and scrambled up. Dareth couldn't see her eyes in the dark, but he could feel her glaring at him. He leapt and tackled the woman to the floor. He brought his dagger up to strike, but the weight of it vanished, leaving him with a palm full of gritty sand. _She can see more than just heat._ Dareth's realization came a moment too late as the heel of Saesha's boot slammed into the bridge of his nose, breaking his spectacles and knocking them off of his face.

Again, everything went dark. Dareth did the first thing that popped into his mind. He caused the particles that made up the cloth of Saesha's dress to speed up in their invisible motion and a heartbeat later her skirts combusted. The spell took too much Drenn though, and he realized with a jolt of panic that he was already at half his capacity. The flames lit up the room, and Dareth saw Saesha rushing toward the exit. She shouldered her way through the massive doors, light from outside outlined the panicked vicars and stunned High Priest.

Dareth launched to his feet and threw himself after her. He slid to a stop on the marble floor in the hall and found a charred dress crumpled in a heap. He snapped his head up. Saesha was running down the hall dressed in only a corset and a small silk skirt that didn't even reach her knees. He caught himself ogling her and had to shake himself back into action.

He tore after Saesha, racing down the hall. He turned a corner and slammed into an invisible wall. The impact drove the air from his lungs and he fell to the ground gasping. Saesha walked up to the other side, smirking as she looked down at him.

"A basic force wall shouldn't have stopped one as skilled as you, Dareth of the Jade Arcas." She smiled coyly and then slid her hands over her hips in mock seduction as she smoothed her short skirt. "Lose some blood to your brain?" Her voice had a breathy, overly dramatic tone.

Dareth recited a harmonics spell, and a small buzzing sound grew increasingly louder making Saesha arch an eyebrow. As the buzzing reached its crescendo, a sound like that of shattering glass ripped the air. Saesha's eyes widened, and Dareth was on his feet in a heartbeat, throwing himself through the space where the force wall had been and tackling Saesha.

He quickly muttered―he must be losing his control if he were actually saying the words aloud―another spell, poured as much Drenn into it as he could and cast. Saesha yelped, and Dareth felt power transfer from Saesha to him, and when the spell concluded his reservoir of magical energy was full again.

"H-how did you do that?" Saesha gasped. "You stole my Drenn!"

"They don't teach that spell at The Azure Arcas?"

Saesha's eyes widened even further and she gasped, "How did―"

"Your tattoo," he said as he rocked back onto his haunches.

Saesha's hand shot to her thigh, covering a swath of bare skin and a tattoo of a blue cloud.

Dareth smiled and tapped his right temple. "You didn't make _all_ the blood leave my brain."

An explosion from behind rocked the hallway, and Dareth looked over his shoulder just in time to see a gout of fire erupting from the High Priest's chamber. He looked back down at Saesha to find her smirking. Dareth lunged forward and clutched her throat.

"What did you do?!" he shouted.

"Don't blame me!" Saesha choked out.

"You drew a combustion rune on the floor when I pulled you down! Didn't you?!"

Saesha laughed, the sound strained under Dareth's stranglehold. "But you're the one who set it off. I was suppressing its ignition when you used that fancy spell to drain away all my Drenn."

Dareth clenched his teeth. He released her throat but stayed leaning over her. He felt sick.

"Are you going to kill me, Dareth?" she asked, still smiling.

"No," Dareth said. "But you are going to tell me which Master Arkyn put you up to this."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Not so certain of the Arcases' perfect altruism anymore?"

Dareth opened his mouth to answer, but the noise turned into a groan as Saesha snapped her leg up and slammed her knee into his crotch. Dareth rolled off her and she climbed to her feet. He curled into a ball, clenching his jaw as he weathered the nauseating pain that only a man could know. Dareth looked up at her through tears of pain. He couldn't think and he couldn't cast.

"We'll have to do this again sometime, Dareth," she said tossing her hair back. Then she turned and disappeared down the corridor.

_Regular hormonal responses to sexual stimuli can be as manipulative as any glamour spell. Remember, just because a woman cannot cast, does not mean she cannot distract you by appealing to your baser urges._

"Bugger off, Alegar," Dareth groaned.

NIGHT FOUND DARETH BACK IN THE COLONNADE ROOM that was not a room. He didn't need to refill his Drenn reservoir, he just came to this place to think. As dark and as odd as it was, it was quiet, the kind of quiet perfect for deep reflection.

It had only been a few hours since Dareth had stood before the Master Arkyns of The Jade Arcas reporting his failure to protect the High Priest. As a result they had disciplined him by ordering him to six months of healing duty in the orphan's hospital. He suspected that the punishment was merely a pretense to satisfy the church as the Master Arkyns knew this was Dareth's favorite kind of charity work.

They had clearly understood the import of what he had revealed to them concerning Saesha acting on orders from a leader of The Azure Arcas. Giving them his oath of secrecy on that point had been the mitigating factor in his receiving such a light punishment. As much as he hated being censured, it could've gone far worse for him. For failing to protect someone as important as the High Priest of Faelen, he very well could've been cast out of The Jade Arcas and branded one of the disgraced.

Dareth had expected stunned expressions of horror from the Master Arkyns when he told them what Saesha said about the involvement of her leaders, but was surprised to find them undisturbed by the news. _They knew._ _They knew what was going on_! Was his Arcas also involved in―how had Saesha put it? _Faelen's Kings and rulers are just puppets and the Master Arkyns pull the strings._ Were his masters playing this game? He admitted to himself that he didn't know. Once he would've been certain that Saesha's words were just a manipulative lie, but now...

"Hello Dareth."

Dareth coalesced into a mirror image of his true physical form. He knew she'd be here, and he wasn't hiding. He turned to find Saesha, not a little girl this time, but also in a representation of her true self. To his disappointment, she was completely covered in the blue and white robes worn by Arkyns of The Azure Arcas, her black hair tightly woven into a single braid.

"You must be very pleased," he said dryly. "The High Priest is dead, and the squabbling vicars are threatening to tear the Faelen church apart."

She smiled, but said nothing.

"It was all a setup, wasn't it?" he asked. "You used that false assassin to drive the High Priest back into his chambers where you were planning all along to kill him yourself."

Saesha shrugged. "I find that a layered approach works best."

"Who sent you?"

Saesha took a step toward him. "I really _was_ impressed with your skills."

"Just one in particular," Dareth replied dryly. "If you think I can be coerced into teaching you the drain spell, then you're wasting your time."

Saesha adopted a mock-hurt expression. "Dareth, you wound me. Why would you say that?"

Dareth smiled. "Because by now you've probably realized that it is a secret spell of my own making, one not found in any tomb or text."

Saesha smiled again. "You _are_ brilliant!"

"And now you're trying to flatter me." He frowned. "Who at your Arcas ordered you to kill the High Priest?"

"I'm not flattering you." She approached him swinging her hips as she sashayed closer. Although disembodied, Dareth was still connected to his physical form, and had to suppress his normal male response.

"I think I am _actually_ developing a fancy for you," she said with a giggle.

"Who!" Dareth shouted.

She walked up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, whispering so close her lips almost touched his ear. "And I think you fancy me too."

"Perhaps I do." Dareth smiled.

He stared at her for a moment before moving in to kiss her. Just before their lips met, Dareth struck out with his will. Apparently, Saesha had believed she had him under her spell, for her eyes widened with a look of surprise that told Dareth she hadn't even considered the possibility he would attack her in this moment.

He gave her no time to counter, threading his will into her consciousness and taking hold of her mind with a vice-like grip. She gasped as she tried to release her physical manifestation, but he kept her locked into her true form and forced her to her knees.

Dareth stepped back, stared down at Saesha and spoke with a satisfied smile. "Now you are going to tell me everything that I want to know."

She gasped again as she eagerly nodded. Dareth knelt in front of her and tipped her face up by her chin so that he could stare into her frightened, blue eyes.

"And I want to know _everything,"_ he whispered.

**SLICE**

by

Drew Briney

TZUN QUICKLY ROUNDED THE CORNER, discretely dropping the wallet he'd just lifted from an inattentive merchant and nimbly feathering his fingers through a thick set of freshly printed bills. _That should be enough for an entire week ... or more,_ he congratulated himself. That, of course, would depend on which numbers were written on the bills and how wisely he used them – but these details were of little consequence. This was a game of survival. But then, in tough times, it seemed like everything was about survival.

Short and somewhat scrawny, Tzun had some difficulty in quickly making it to his destination without drawing attention to himself by running. A brisk walk was all he could discretely afford. Two more buildings and he could pass through the alleyway to Mariner's Market Street where he would quickly disappear in a crowd. Dressed in beggarly clothes, eyes would naturally divert themselves away from the gaunt young man rather than retrace his visage for a second glance. From there, he would only be a few blocks from his modest apartment where he lived with his mother and extended family. This morning's prize would be well received.

But fate couldn't bear to smother Tzun in blankets of kindness for too long.

Before he turned the next corner into the alleyway, muffled screams covered by scuffling and hushed chuckling teased the air. _Blasted fate!_ He didn't need any trouble – but it was coming. Primordial instincts from deep within screamed to his consciousness that something wasn't right – beyond the apparent crime, something felt out of place – but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Four young men who clearly devoted more time to building muscles rather than character gathered around some dainty brunette, a young girl who almost looked too innocent to have set foot in this neighborhood. _Bloody bricks!_ Tzun silently cursed, considering this new dynamic and quickly absorbing every new detail of this ever-changing pathway. The dumpster was farther away from the west wall than normal. A hubcap lay at an angle, leaning next to that same wall. A small box of screws lay spilled near the feet of two of the larger boys – one of whom was holding the girl; two stacked boxes of junk appeared undisturbed since he had seen them there earlier that morning; the antique chair that had been next to the dumpster now sported a broken leg and the upholstery was looser near the top of the leg stump. Other than these few details, the alleyway looked precisely the same as it had a few hours earlier.

Behind Tzun, footsteps approached but slowed; hesitant, they either stopped or became silent. Above those feet, a hand brushed aside an over-length jacket and placed a recently discarded wallet into a back pocket.

If he played his cards well, Tzun estimated that he could divert his eyes to the left, walk along the other side of the alleyway, and then freely pass by unharmed – the thugs would leave him alone. He posed no threat to their fun and they would presume verbal threats would keep him from reporting anything to the police. Then, the distraction would be over. To them, Tzun would be nothing more than a lanky sixteen year old beggar, unworthy of their attention.

But he was _Uzzit_ so he couldn't in good conscience do nothing.

Shoving the stash of money deeper into his pocket and underneath a fold designed to hide prize lifts from family members when necessary, Tzun stopped walking, stood as erect and intimidating as his thin five-foot-nine frame could muster, slowly raised his head, and ordered the thugs to release the girl in the most threatening voice he could muster. Despite his best efforts, the inevitable unwelcomed response came as expected: they chortled and then laughed openly.

It always went down like this.

Carefully observing the spilled screws and the lone hubcap, Tzun focused his thoughts on the weather, creating a quick gust of wind to cover his Uzzit magic. As he knelt down to pick up a chunk of junk metal from the ground next to his feet, he sent the hubcap shooting into the lead thug's ankle, a volley of dust into the eyes of another boy, and the box of screws into the neck and face of another. For the boy holding the girl, Tzun sent a vivid hallucination that acid had splattered all over his body; fierce burning sensations turned to panic as the thug watched his own skin melting away. When his grip loosened from shock, the girl shook herself loose and bolted. Tzun threw the chunk of metal at her captor just long enough to give her the head start she needed. Although the metal hit its target, Tzun's efforts might as well have come from an eight year old girl unaccustomed to throwing balls – it didn't do much anything. For that matter, none of the attacks caused any significant damage – even the screws did little more than scratch the thug's face – but they did create the distraction needed to save the girl. Now it was his turn.

Quicker than anyone expected, Tzun was darting behind the dumpster, hoping to make his own escape. But from his limited perspective, he failed to notice one changed detail down the alleyway: entirely hidden in the shadows, two large antique batteries were resting against the wall on the other side of the dumpster. Tripping over them, Tzun stumbled heavily and just long enough to keep him from moving around the couch he knew would be resting by the wall on that same side. One stumble led to another until Tzun found himself face down and ungracefully sprawled over the ground. A moment later, vicious kicks repeatedly pounded his side and at least two blows connected with his head, leaving his ears ringing and his vision cloudy.

That wasn't quite how he planned things.

He thought he heard a whistle but wasn't sure. And then, that familiar feeling returned: something wasn't quite right.

Four sets of footsteps hurriedly ran down the alley away from Mariner's Market Street while another softer set methodically plodded towards Tzun. Propping himself up on one elbow, Tzun strained to open his eye to see what new trouble might be coming his direction only to discover that his eye was throbbing and that he couldn't see much of anything just yet. He reached up to touch it and winced at the pain. Somewhere, in the midst of that scuffle, he'd received a blow to his eye that he hadn't immediately noticed – but he certainly felt it now. Turning his head further, he opened his other eye to find a rough looking but clean cut fellow reaching his hand out to lift him up.

From boots to a hat that covered any hair that wasn't freshly buzzed, leather trappings of every sort decorated the newcomer. If he wasn't nearly bald, you couldn't tell so long as that hat was on. And as he softly smiled, he held one eye slightly squinted – as if it had to squint because of an unpleasantly large scar that reached from the middle of his bottom eyelid and through his hairline where it passed over a piece of missing ear – neatly sliced off in a fairly straight line. Further markings on this man's face betrayed some serious time on the streets. He looked downright rugged.

"That's quite a talent you have," he offered as he helped Tzun back to his feet.

Still dizzy and trying to keep his body from visibly trembling, Tzun struggled to retain his footing for a moment before responding. "Talent?" he feigned in ignorance.

"You're Uzzit aren't you kid?" The rough tone of voice left Tzun uncertain whether or not a question had been asked.

"The wind ..." he began.

"Don't feed me that bull," the street warrior interrupted with an overly confident air. "I know Uzzit when I see it." His rigid gaze carefully scanned over Tzun who still looked more than a little dazed and worse for the wear. _This boy barely belongs on the streets,_ the man silently considered. _He's lucky to have made it this far along._ And he was right: if Tzun hadn't been Uzzit, he would have been dead months ago – and the young boy was acutely aware of this fact.

"How would you like to _really_ grow in your powers?"

So that was it.

It had all been a set up. It made sense now. Girls that looked that innocent knew better than to walk this area alone. Women who frequented these parts of town looked much rougher for the wear than that girl. And the muscle-bound boys were chosen to exaggerate the mismatch. This had all been an effort to poach new Uzzit flesh – which meant the rumors were true. There really were drug dealing opportunists out there peddling their wares to this new generation of special kids.

"You have Slice?" Tzun tentatively queried.

"You've heard of it?"

"Who hasn't?"

"Answer my question first," the drug dealer ordered. "How would you like to double your powers?"

"Who wouldn't?" His half Asian eyes blankly stared back at the older man.

"It comes with a price you know?" His worn face looked more hardened now as he looked down at this new, potential client.

"Yeah, I know," Tzun responded emotionless. _Bricks_! he swore to himself, rubbing his eye. It really hurt. "So what are the terms – and who's gonna teach me?"

"Today's price is whatever is in your pockets. Tomorrow's price is negotiable – and I'm your teacher." Then, with overt pretentiousness, the man pushed one finger forward and drew it downwards as if writing on the wall. As he did so, a bend and then a tear appeared at the top edge of the dumpster and continued until his finger stopped moving. The sound was deafening and gave Tzun another reason to hold onto his head. It seemed his eye injury was quickly becoming a headache.

"That must make you Max," Tzun responded, still holding his hands over his ears even though it was too late for them to do any good. He said nothing to indicate he was impressed but his good eye emphatically told that story. Max was legendary on the streets but no one ever got to meet him ... When Tzun's instincts told him something wasn't as it seemed, they weren't kidding ...

"Alright kid, what's in your pockets?"

The question left Tzun a little frustrated. On the one hand, this would be worth every bill he had lifted earlier that morning. On the other hand, he believed it unwise to play his cards openly. Convincingly feigning stiffness in his right arm, he dug his hand deep into his right pocket and deftly pulled three bills out of the hidden pocket, reclosed it, and produced them for inspection – all without causing the slightest suspicion that he was holding something back. To their common surprise, all three bills were large ones.

_Crap!_ Tzun silently groaned with disappointment. _I should have pulled bills from the other end of the fold_ ... "I just got a lucky lift," he explained. "I don't usually have that much," he added as he opened his pockets to show that they were empty. The secret fold remained hidden.

"No problem kid," Max assured him, eyeing the cash with feigned indifference. "I won't expect that much every day. So you know the rules right? After three weeks, whatever Slice does to you becomes permanent. You miss a day, you have to start over and you might lose some of what you had before. And no cops right? Buying Slice is illegal; using it is illegal; making it is illegal. You get caught, you're going to the slammer for longer than I'll be around and the instant you get caught, old Max here will have zero memory of who you are or what you may have done. This is dangerous business kid. Got it? You still in?" Like most guys in the business, it never really seemed like Max was asking a question. It seemed more like he was saying: this is a done deal but if I have to do more fast talking to make this happen, I'll keep my mouth moving until you give in from exhaustion. Inevitably, the result would be the same.

Tzun feigned indecision for a moment, giving himself time to think over the consequences of what he was doing here. There really was no question though – he just needed to double check his resolve. What boy – especially a scrawny teenager worn from regular beatings – wouldn't take a three week ride to becoming a near superhero? Who doesn't want to be thrown away from their current life and into something bigger, better, happier? Who doesn't want more control over what is going on around them? For a thin teenage boy struggling to find his next meal, there really was no viable alternative – at least, Tzun didn't see any.

"Yeah, I'm in," he answered with cold determination.

"Aaaallright!" Max chuckled in response, stashing Tzun's prize cash into one pocket while reaching into another inside jacket pocket – all the while, a big smile spreading over his teeth. "Here's your package. This is enough for _two_ days but I expect you to be here again tomorrow. You keep the extra dose just in case something bad happens some day and one of us is late to our meeting. Every day, we meet right here at this same time. Got it?"

"Got it." Tzun reached for the metallic brown liquid as he carefully noted the time on Max's watch – Tzun, of course, wasn't wearing one.

The young boy shuffled nervously as he slowly placed the vial in his right pocket and considered what he was doing. He felt better when Max tipped his hat, nodded, and walked away in the same direction as the other thugs had gone. It passingly occurred to Tzun that Max may have ordered the beating he had just received – but he was too naïve to seriously consider such a thing so the thought promptly dissipated into oblivion. Besides, there were more important things to consider: if Tzun could hone his pickpocketing skills, he would quickly rise to the top of the food chain in three short weeks. If not ... well, he wasn't going to think about that. He was already scrounging about the lowest levels of society – how much worse could it get?

He swirled the bottle and watched the liquid shimmer and change shapes as two separate hues emerged among the cloudy swirls. When he held the bottle still, the liquid quickly settled into a more uniform consistency. As he pondered over the opportunities Slice might present to him, Tzun began walking down the alley with an uncharacteristic spring to his step and then checked it; beggars couldn't appear too happy – that would blow his cover. Modifying his gait, he considered various rumors he had heard about Slice: it only worked on Uzzit. If it didn't kill normal people, they wished it had. But for people like Tzun, it unleashed access to those inner workings of the brain that scientists had been attempting to tap for decades.

If research in this field hadn't been heavily regulated and ultimately banned by nearly every industrialized country, Uzzit advancements would have been the global norm. American Uzzits were subjected of federal government regulations and inefficient bureaucracy, which led many of them to congregate in the Puget Sound area where government oversight and corruption allowed a quiet underground to steadily grow. Numbers of Uzzit were unknown. Uzzit births were unknown; undetectable without expensive testing, parents of Uzzit children were often unaware of their children's abilities for several years – but very few kept it secret as long as Tzun. His weak powers offered an element of surprise that he frequently needed to escape trouble.

In the states, Uzzit enhancement drugs were controversial and experimental. On the black market, experimental versions of Slice could be purchased but resources were low and word had it that Max personally delivered every shipment of Slice, beating down every sign of potential competition. He never accepted solicitations and he always handpicked his clients. That made for stiff competition, high prices, and enduring loyalty that couldn't be bought in any other way. By some stroke of luck, Tzun was rising through that system. Life would never be the same.

His fingers instinctively wrapped around the cool vial, smothering it with tenacious attention. Passingly, Tzun considered that he didn't know how to divide the vial into two equal proportions – or perhaps that didn't matter. He could start out with a smaller portion this evening – surely that wouldn't matter for the first day? Not thinking about it, Tzun wiped some sweat off his brow and bumped his swollen eye. As he winced, he considered that he could use his misfortune to his advantage.

Feigning a slight limp that increased as he moved along, he found a small opening on the boardwalk where many people were passing by, gingerly sat down, and began to beg for money. Deliberately rubbing his temples to temper the pain, he tilted his head to accentuate the injury to passersby. Fickle fortune returned as his companion for a few hours when his success became difficult to hide – his pockets were subtly bulging with money. Each time he received cash, he slipped larger bills into his hidden pocket and left smaller bills in the regular pocket. He happily considered that he probably had enough money for a few day's worth of Slice by the time he went home for supper.

"Hey," a soft voice called Tzun to look up. His bad eye nearly swollen shut, Tzun awkwardly turned his head to look upon the most beautiful face he had ever seen. In her twenties, dressed like she didn't belong in the area, and conspicuously attached to some burly fellow Tzun ignored, the young woman looked perfect in every way – except for the severely deformed and mangled hand that she used to pass on a substantial wad of bills to the young beggar. "Better times are coming," she encouraged with a sultry voice that left Tzun melting ... and then flushing in shame as she strolled away to purchase local wares.

Daily – if not more frequently – Tzun recycled rationales to justify his lifestyle. Uneducated, somewhat fatherless, and stuck in a crime infested town, he only did what familial obligations required: he begged and stole so his family could eat. But he refused to think of himself as a thief; _at least_ , he periodically pontificated, _it isn't wrong to be a thief as long as you have good reasons to steal_. The fact that countless others used this same reasoning fortified his feelings of justification in what he did but something deeply embedded in his subconscious nagged at him to reconsider his life's path so he regularly chanted this mantra to keep himself steady on the course he was following. And while he often lifted enough money to take care of his family, it never seemed quite enough and occasionally, extra money was needed to bail someone out of jail. Retracing his thoughts, Tzun watched his most recent benefactor as she meandered further away from him. _People with enough money can buy stuff to regrow hands like that,_ he considered. But she gave money to Tzun instead. Of course he felt ashamed – who wouldn't? Another stranger discretely gave Tzun a small offering as he passed by while Tzun drooped his head further, nearly pinning it between his knees.

As the hours passed and street life slowed down for the dinner hour, Tzun slowly stood up and slithered down the boardwalk, unnoticed by anyone at all. If he had any real talent, this was it: he could disappear – masterfully well. His right hand, now familiar with the vial it had been stroking throughout the day, held firm to its package. He needed to go somewhere private to divide his daily dose and see how it affected him. As he had thought about this while begging, he determined that he would first go home, make his daily presentation of financial offerings to his family, visit the bathroom where he could hide his stash of money, divide the vial of Slice with a toothpaste cap, drink his daily dose, and go for a walk to the park where he could sit underneath some bushes and ... experiment. He waited to take his first dose so that he would have a strong buffer time between his meetings with Max. One missed day could lead to disastrous consequences – and that was a risk he wouldn't take.

Soon, Tzun was climbing the stairs to the second floor where his family lived. Part of him didn't want to go home today – his swollen (probably black) eye would be embarrassing and he would have to tell the same story half a dozen times to half a dozen family members before the night was over. The other part of him was thrilled and excited – how would Slice enhance his powers? Rumor had it that Slice was somewhat unpredictable: its effect on some people was minimal while its effect on others was nigh unto disastrous. But for most people, Slice just magnified the abilities of whoever was using it. Of course, Tzun knew he was taking a gamble by hoping that Slice would treat him well but he suppressed those considerations.

Hand held up to the doorknob, he briefly considered not opening the door to his apartment. What if he just downed half the vial right now, walked to the park, and learned what was going to happen without any further waiting? Maybe it would heal his eye – rumor said that Slice made some people heal ridiculously fast – but then, Tzun heard that from Patty and everyone knew she couldn't reliably regurgitate the truth. Or maybe Slice would enhance his psionic talents and allow him to control his Uncle Kan – the scariest relative in his family. To date, Tzun hadn't shared his Uzzit talents with anyone – not even with Koemi – so no one would suspect his taking control over Kan's mind for a while ...

Without thinking, Tzun turned the knob, hung his head low, and brooded his way into the living room. With his bruised eye swollen shut, feigning depression would be easy and Kan probably wouldn't badger him for his share of the money as intensely as usual. Marie, his mother was the first to notice, then Aki, his aunt, then Ba Tu, his mentally handicapped father, and then a slew of cousins all together. Within ten minutes, the entire household was in its traditional uproar and given the situation, it was easy for Tzun to excuse himself into the bathroom for a few minutes while the women of the family returned to their traditional meal preparations.

Hand shaking, breath constricted, and pulse quickening, Tzun shut the door, locked it, unscrewed the toothpaste cap, pulled out the vial, popped off the cork top, and carefully measured slightly less than one half of the metallic liquid one portion at a time. Although gritty, Slice tasted somewhat like old car keys. And beyond that distinct metal taste, it sent subtle shocks of electricity down his tongue and throat, sort of like chewing tinfoil except that the tingling sensation traveled with the liquid all of the way down into the stomach. Almost immediately, Tzun felt energized and found himself hungrily sipping every last spec of Spice out of the toothpaste cap, carefully rinsing the cap with a couple drops of water, and sucking hard to make sure there was no Spice left in the cap. Leaving residue in the cap could be quite dangerous to other family members but Tzun nearly forgot to think about that. If anything, he felt strongly tempted just to drink the second portion of Slice and then come up with some lame excuse as to how he had spilt it on the ground so that he could get an extra serving – it was exhilarating, fulfilling, and demanding all at once – and Tzun soon felt growing impulses to do things he had never done before.

The next hour with his family was painfully unfulfilling – like how a child feels when promised ice cream on a road trip: the excitement only lasts so long before the wait becomes agonizing. In between explaining what had happened in the alleyway (conveniently omitting anything involving Max) and presenting a disappointingly paltry financial offering for the day, Tzun found himself largely distracted by things that were happening outside.

Juan, known for blaring his mariachi music louder than anyone else in the neighborhood cared to hear began a long volley of expletives when his radio sparked and popped until it failed to work entirely. Experimenting further, Tzun brushed Juan's mind with strong suggestions to include a string of defamatory rantings about his wife while banging on the radio – bringing no small fury from her tongue as she overheard what he had to say. A homeless dog known for random acts of aggression whimpered loudly and ran away down the alley. A short while later, a neighborhood bully sincerely and profusely professed his love to a stairwell while onlookers softly chuckled with eyebrows cocked and heads shaking. Other random incidents followed every few minutes.

Psionics were Tzun's passion but before today, he had only been able to master some few useful tricks. Even then, after a few bursts of effort, he usually felt drained and unable to do much anything else. Today was different. Tzun was embarking upon a new world. New ideas came readily and Slice opened his mind to make new efforts intuitive – instinctual. After an hour of experimenting and messing around with people's heads as they walked along the road below, Tzun felt like he was just warming up. The moment dinner was over, he nearly bolted out the door and went for that long awaited walk to the park.

"KAN, YOU REALLY SHOULD TEACH HIM HOW TO FIGHT. Didn't you see his eye?" Marie coaxed, offering a prodigious puppy dog face to emphasize her point.

"Not a chance. You heard how he lost his temper and beat those boys last year."

"Oh come on, you know Koemi is prone to exaggeration. Look at Tzun's eye when he comes back. I really doubt her story carries much weight ..."

"The boy talks to himself late at night, comes and goes at random times, and has no job. He must first learn discipline, to control his passions ..."

"Kan," Marie interrupted in turn. _You're such a hypocrite._ "You began teaching your children before _they_ were old enough to know these things. I know Tzun's Australian mother unforgivably gave him a Chinese name but he is still your family. You cannot expect him to survive these streets much longer at his size without some training. How much longer until ..."

"No."

"Ba Tu would teach him but since his injury ..."

"No."

"Kan ..."

"No," Tzun's uncle repeated with exasperation. "He is already too dangerous. Koemi said that _two_ of those boys last year went to the hospital in critical condition."

"Not true..." she sing-songed in response, trying to retain her composure – and her patience.

"Why he let someone get the better of him again today, I don't know but I am certain of this ..." he paused for dramatic effect, shaking his finger with frustration. "Tzun is a danger to those around him. He is constantly in fights, he is unstable ..."

"He's a cheerful puppy dog who couldn't harm a spring chick," Marie interjected with unbelieving desperation, "he ..."

"I will not take part in teaching him anything that will harm others. It is already shameful enough that he makes money stealing and begging. He ..."

"Kan!" Marie interrupted. "Be reasonable. The boy has no means of getting a job – you yourself turned him down for a job – and surely you know _your own_ children beg and steal to survive ..."

Kan yelled something unintelligible and stormed off into the other room, knocking chairs aside and swearing words in Japanese that even Marie wasn't familiar with.

Being the Australian wife of a severely handicapped husband was rarely easy. Being dependent upon the mercies of a quasi-traditional, quasi-dysfunctional Japanese family was even worse. She enjoyed Asian cultures but this family seemed to have forgotten its heritage altogether. _Hypocrite,_ she all but screamed in her own mind as she watched him leave. _Uuuooohh,_ she silently grunted. _You couldn't at least teach him some self defense?_ she sarcastically complained. Reasoning with Kan was as profitable as betting on race turtles but motherly instinct had required the attempt. Then again, Marie tacitly understood that Kan only allowed her and her crippled husband to stay so that he could publicly protect his honor. The time would come when Kan would look for a good excuse to kick Marie, Ba Tu, and Tzun out of the house so she had to be careful not to push issues too hard. At the same time, it was becoming unbearably difficult to watch Tzun continually take beatings while roaming the streets just so he could put food on the table for her. The whole situation was one continual vicious cycle and she didn't know how to get out of it.

BURSTING WITH ENERGY, TZUN NEARLY FELT OUT OF CONTROL. He tried focusing his mind on healing his eye but nothing happened. He tried to make his muscles stronger so that he could run faster or jump higher. Nothing happened. Tzun saw a nerdy kid on the street corner trying to impress a blond girl way out of his league. She smugly walked over to the boy as if she were going to give him a major tongue lashing and instead ... kissed him. He saw a little toddler on the corner staring wistfully at the only real flower garden in the entire city. Tzun sent her visual images of flowers dancing all around her and singing happy songs. The girl clapped in delight and called to her mother to show her the dancing flowers. Tzun tried to break a twig with his mind. Nothing happened. He used his mind to roll a small boulder a good ten feet. It worked. After messing around with several more random psionic tricks, Tzun began to feel physically drained and while he walked towards his apartment, he began to drag his feet as he awkwardly swaggered.

He didn't make it out of the park before passing out.

He woke up late the next morning and looked at an antique clock erected on a stone pillar at the south edge of the park. It was nearly time to meet Max. _Blasted bricks!_ he swore at himself. _I have to hurry._ But as he tried to stand up, Tzun found himself unable to balance well on his feet and fell over twice before gaining enough control over his body to tentatively walk towards the alleyway where he had met Max. Nausea; fatigue; headaches; dizziness; sore muscles; they consumed him but he pressed on. Although only twenty minutes passed, Tzun felt as if he had heroically pressed through days of trials just to make it back into the alleyway. By the time he rounded the corner to meet Max, he worried that he might pass out while receiving his first Uzzit lesson.

Familiar leather trappings identified Max as the first man Tzun saw in the alleyway. The other man was young, perhaps twenty. His natural hair color was dubious underneath a strong coating of aqua coloring but Tzun guessed the man was naturally blond. A string of cursings poured out of his mouth as he argued with Max but the veteran drug smuggler barely responded at all. Instead, he simply hushed the younger man, brushed him aside with a cursory wave of his hand, and tossed a small package into the air. The man with aqua hair held onto whatever he caught like a starving man in a desert holds onto a diminishing flask of water and then ran around the corner as quickly as he could. The exchange left Tzun feeling uneasy as Max turned around.

"Hey kid, you made it!" Max said pleasantly as if nothing negative had happened in his life for days. "You never told me your name."

"Tzun."

"Soon?" he responded, puzzled.

"Ttttzzzun," the young boy repeated. "You hold your tongue as if you are going to say something that starts with a 'T' and then say 'Z' instead." The explanation wasn't quite right but it gave Americans a good shot at pronouncing his name.

"Got it ... Tzun," Max repeated carefully. "You look awful kid. You didn't sleep well?"

"Uhhh, I don't know," Tzun confessed. "I sort of passed out on the way home last night."

"Oh. You didn't use Slice in the evening did you? I gave it to you yesterday morning – you should always use it before the afternoon."

"Oh," Tzun mumbled, feeling stupid even though no one had ever told him that before.

"No matter kid. Here, take a little extra now and then drink another dose after our lesson and you should start feeling better right away." Max threw a small vial at Tzun who wolfed down the liquid without a thought. Immediately, that tingling sensation buzzed down his throat and into his stomach as Slice made its way through his body. Then, Tzun's headache, soreness, and dizziness gave way to an exhilarating surge of energy. Even though it was only a small dose, he was entirely overwhelmed by the feeling it gave him. Max glowed with satisfaction as he observed the change in his client.

"Okay Tzun, how much money did you bring me today?"

Tzun pulled out a few small bills he kept in his pockets as a reserve in case he needed to buy food on the streets and briefly touched the only large bill he left stashed away in his hidden pocket. The rest of yesterday's earnings were hoarded away back home, underneath the bathroom counter and in a small bag where he kept his toothbrush, razor, and other personal hygiene items. He had sewn a secret compartment at the bottom of that bag so no one would find it and it came in handy from time to time.

"Here," Tzun offered the small stash of bills as if he was pleased with how much money he was giving Max. He suspected Max might not be satisfied with this paltry offering so he feigned pride so that, on the off chance Max objected, he could tell Max to count the money. Then, if Max was still unhappy, Tzun could say he had counted wrong and let Max count the money again before pulling out the larger bill from his hidden pocket. If Max said nothing, Tzun would say nothing.

"Really kid, that's it?"

Fairly relaxed and confident, Tzun feigned surprise. "Count it," he coaxed, "that's more than I can usually lift in three days," he claimed, only stretching the truth a little. The amount was more than he got to keep for himself after three day's lifting. Max counted the money.

"Alright," he conceded grumpily as he stashed the money in his pockets and pulled out a vial of Slice for Tzun to drink. "Don't drink that until after our lesson," he instructed, "but you need to drink it right away after we're finished. Got it?"

"Got it," Tzun repeated. _This guy's a drill sergeant,_ he silently groaned. "What's our lesson today?" he pressed, brimming with hope.

"First off, I'm gonna need more money than that from day to day," Max complained. "Slice is expensive to make you know? I'll go broke trying to help people out if I can't at least pay for the production of your daily dose. Right? You follow me?"

"I'm following you," Tzun repeated. At least he didn't need to pay any extra money today but quickly calculating in his mind, Tzun estimated that his stash wasn't going to cover as much Slice as he had hoped.

"Okay then, let's see you lift something," Max instructed.

Tzun nervously looked around him. There was no one in sight and he had never let anyone watch him pickpocket before. What if Max caught Tzun on video? "Ummm. You want to follow me to Mariner's Market Street?" he tentatively asked.

"Ha!" Max laughed with one of those hearty smoker's laughs that almost sounded more like a cough than a laugh. "No kid, I mean lift something; pick it up using your mind." He pointed to his head.

"Oh, gotcha," Tzun answered, feeling stupid again. Fortunately though, he had already thought through this part of the lesson. If he started big, Max might give him better lessons. If he started small, Max might later become impressed with his progress and be easier on him if Tzun ended up a little short on money. Street savvy in some ways, Tzun nevertheless sported a strong naïve streak so he opted for the possibility of better lessons – without even considering that Max might not be invested in these lessons or considering that the lessons were really just a means of keeping kids on Slice.

Bearing in mind that Slice enhanced his capabilities, Tzun gave everything he had to lift up one side of the dumpster, an object much larger than anything he had ever tried to move before – including the small boulder he rolled the night before. It moved but the one side of the dumpster didn't stay in the air very long before the wheels on the other side started rolling, ruining Tzun's control over it. It slammed back down onto the ground. Frustrated and initially too intimidated to look at his mentor, Tzun was slow to meet Max's gaze. He struggled to discern his mentor's reaction. Was he disappointed? Impressed? Was that surprise in his eyes? Tzun couldn't tell.

"Not bad kid," Max started, pursing his lips into a frown and bobbing his head up and down as if he was trying to be encouraging. "Do it again."

Those three words scared Tzun interminably. He desparately wanted to impress Max. He wanted a great lesson. He wanted direction. But he didn't think he could do it again. Levitation was Tzun's weakest Uzzit talent. Tzun focused. He tried to channel the energy he had received from the small dose of Slice he drank earlier but it felt almost used up and his strength was notably weakening. Remembering how Max had torn that same dumpster the day before, Tzun pushed his hand into the air as if he were going to lift the dumpster with his own hand. He pushed with his mind as well and tried as hard as he could to tip that dumpster over.

And it actually worked.

But the instant Tzun began to smile with satisfaction, he collapsed and his world went dark. Unhallowed visions enveloped him. Scenes as if from a horror movie flashed through his mind and tormented his body. Imprisoned in unconsciousness, Tzun learned depths of fear previously unknown to him. Even the venomous battling of street life held no candle to the haunting fears he suffered within the confines of his own mind. Suffocating and struggling to breathe throughout his hallucinations, the young boy lashed out at unseen attackers and silently screamed for help. His words were never heard, his sentiments never understood. He felt smothered. He felt as if he was falling. Perhaps this was the feeling of death.

Then, the taste of metal on his lips rushed through his subconscious thoughts, reviving him somewhat. Instinctively, his mouth opened wide, hoping to receive more medicine. Tzun coughed as a few drops of Slice trickled down his throat and into the wrong pipe. Sitting up in panic, he instinctively tried to recover the small splashes of the drug that escaped his mouth. He quickly spotted a trace of Slice on the back of his hand and a bead of Slice on his pant leg. Without thinking, he licked the back of his hand and wetting his finger, wiped every last speck of Slice from his clothing that he could find. Only after he finished cleaning up the spills did he notice that Max was holding the rest of Tzun's daily dose in front of him. He guzzled it down and sucked hard on the bottle to make sure he got every tiny metallic droplet into his system.

Max eyed him carefully. "Maybe Slice isn't good for you kid. You're taking this pretty hard." Then, after a pregnant pause, he asked a pointed question: "Do you have any other Uzzit in your family?"

"I'm it," Tzun answered truthfully.

"Really?" Max asked in disbelief. He was hoping for more clients – this would be a talented family.

"My dad was badly crippled when I was little. He can't do much," Tzun explained, "and I'm an only child." He didn't like questions about his family but his head was too cloudy to think through what he was saying. That was probably more personal information than he'd shared with anyone for months.

"Uzzit traits are polygenic but it seems to be passed on through the moms," Max incorrectly explained. "Do you have any _step_ brothers or sisters?"

"No," Tzun answered again.

"Too bad," Max interrupted. "It's always nice to have siblings ... At any rate, this stuff is tough on you kid. Slice is unpredictable you know? It's better for some people than others. Maybe you should just let it go." With that, Max tipped his hat as he casually turned around and started walking down the alleyway as he had the day before.

"No!" Tzun countered, more aggressively than he had ever spoken before. Anger was welling up inside and he felt like throwing some nasty psionic blast into Max's pain receptors. He felt like forcing the street warrior to give Tzun more Slice. Foolish, Tzun cast the thought aside after considering what Max might do to him in return. Word on the streets was ...

With the speed of thought, the diplomatic side of his personality surfaced and took over. "I'll be more careful," the boy promised. Max slowed, his unseen visage showing uncertainty, doubt. "Just give me a lesson and let me try again tomorrow," he coaxed. Then, after a painfully long pause, he added, "I can do this."

For the first time he could remember, Max doubted himself. Confidence fled and he felt unsure as to what he should do. Retaining his ever present cover of coolness, Max looked over his shoulder and paused before deciding what to say: "Tomorrow kid. Take it easy tonight and meet me here tomorrow. We'll do a lesson after you get some rest." Then, in an uncharacteristic moment of charity, he spun half around and tossed Tzun a silver round worth more money than the boy had given Max a few moments before.

"Thanks!" Tzun responded in shock. _It worked!_ Brushing Max's mind was probably a dangerous thing to do but Tzun hadn't really intended to do it at all. He just thought the thought and reaped the rewards. _I could make some serious money this way,_ he considered, imagining a stream a wealthy women shopping on the far south side of Mariner's Market Street and emptying their purses as he massaged the sympathetic portions of their minds.

"Sure thing kid," Max answered as he turned around and began walking away from his newest client. Several moments later, as he passed a second turn, Max realized what had happened, connected the dots, and seriously considered skipping his meeting with Tzun the next day.

ON HIS WAY HOME FROM A WEALTHIER PART OF TOWN where beggars were typically unwelcomed, Tzun beamed with satisfaction. His pockets had grown so stuffed with money that he had taken the time to lay several large bills flat on the inside of each of his shoes to hide his success. His hidden pocket was also brimming over with large bills and his regular pockets had grown too inconspicuous to pass for a beggar any longer. It was time to empty them and relax the rest of the evening. Still, he collected more monies as he walked home, though donations quickly grew smaller as he entered the poorer parts of town where he lived. Tzun was feeling particularly pleased with his newfound abilities when he spotted his cousin Koemi half walking, half jogging towards their common apartment. She was clearly distressed.

"Koemi!" he called, sporting a smile and a happier disposition than he had known in years.

"Oh Tzun!" she answered with a clear look of relief on her face. "You're okay!"

That was the first Tzun had seriously considered that his family might have been seriously concerned about his failure to come home the night before. Truth be known, this wasn't his first night away from home but it was unusual enough that it passingly occurred to him that they might be worried. But then, he was so caught up in what he was doing that he hadn't considered it worth his time to report back home to assuage any fears they might have had.

"We were all scared for you after what happened in the park last night," she continued, now rushing towards him instead of towards the apartment. "Did you get hurt? What happened?"

"I'm fine. I just got tired and fell asleep," he exaggerated.

"But didn't you go to the park?" she pressed with unhidden confusion written all over her face.

"Yeah. Just like I said when I left last night. What happened?"

"How could you miss it?" she openly wondered, even more confused.

"Miss what?"

"The twister ... the gang fight." Koemi stared at Tzun dumbfounded. "You didn't sleep at the park. You couldn't have missed it ..."

"No. I slept at the park," Tzun answered. "Towards the south end though ... I didn't see anything last night or this morning," he continued, a bit surprised and relieved at the same time. "I guess I was at just the right spot not to get involved." Then, after a pause, he added, "Koemi – we don't get twisters around here."

Koemi eyed him with suspicion and only passingly considered his correction. Tzun looked too well kempt to have been at the park. "Tzun, the whole park is a disaster. No one could have slept there. Some really strong winds passed through. Benches were upended, statues were knocked over, branches were scattered everywhere – even a tree was half uprooted. A dozen gang members were taken to the hospital and one kid was taken to the morgue. There is no way you could have missed all that. Where were you?"

It was clear Koemi thought he was lying – but he wasn't, not really. It took him a long time to respond, taking in the bad news – had he really been that close to so much trouble? "I didn't sleep on a bench Koemi – I slept on the ground next to some bushes and a tall tree." _That must be why I missed the gusts of wind_ , he concluded. He wondered how much more he could safely tell his cousin. "Everything was normal when I started to leave the park – apart from feeling pretty sick – so I just laid down on the ground to wait it out when I fell asleep." That was pretty much all true but Tzun felt a bit guilty over the blatant omissions. "I was towards the edge of the park so I guess I just missed the action – I'm sure glad I wasn't noticed," he added with sincere feelings of gratitude.

"Marie's really worried."

"She'll be okay in a few minutes," Tzun answered, putting his arm around his cousin's shoulders and softly pulling her towards their apartment. "I had a really good day today," he gushed, patting his notably padded pants pockets.

Koemi's eyes widened. "You lifted all that today?" she asked in disbelief.

"Nope. I decided to beg along the bay by Macys ..."

"Nuh-uh. You know they don't let anyone beg down there. What have you really been up to?"

"I'm serious," Tzun answered defensively, recognizing that this story wasn't going to make much sense out of context; he'd have to stretch the truth a little again. "I had a little trouble like I expected but nothing too bad – just some dodging through back alleyways to outrun the cops..."

"Oh ... you're a dummy. You're lucky we didn't have to bail you out of jail again."

Without considering Tzun's discovery of how to brush empathy receptors, she was entirely right. "It seems like things have been too tight lately," he explained. "I ..."

"I think you better lie," Koemi interrupted. "Tell everyone you had some really good lifts again today or something but Kan's going to be really upset if he finds out you're risking another jail stint." Her eyes were warm. She was probably right and Tzun could see she was sincerely trying to help.

"Yeah," Tzun confessed. "Then again, maybe I shouldn't say anything at all. Kan gets awfully upset when anyone admits they've been lifting."

Koemi rolled her eyes. It was true. Everyone in the home knew the bigger kids were all lifting but no one could say that in front of Kan without earning a severe tongue lashing. He was a businessman. Having the unadulterated appearance of honor and trustworthiness outside of the home meant everything to him. Even when honest business practices meant losing some profit, he did what he thought was right. And even though that didn't translate into a perfect home life, he couldn't face the truth that his own children lacked integrity or that his own inadequacy to provide for his family was partially to blame for their wayward paths.

"You're right," she conceded with a dismissive chuckle.

TZUN WOKE THE NEXT MORNING IN THE ALLEYWAY where he first met Max. Hidden behind the dumpster, he overheard Max meeting with the same aqua haired junkie he'd seen the day before. He couldn't see his face – or his hair – but he vividly recognized that frustrated voice.

Tzun could tell his equilibrium was off again today and he keenly felt those feelings of withdrawal, those horrible feelings of desperation for another dose of Slice. _How can I possibly continue this for two and a half more weeks?_ he worried. Somehow, he needed to get larger doses of Slice. He reached into his pocket to make sure his extra vial of Slice was close at hand and then reached into his other pocket to determine how much money he was bringing for Max today. Two large bills were in his main pocket and another few large bills were in the hidden pocket. Although he couldn't remember much of what happened the night before, he vaguely remembered thinking that he needed to impress Max today.

Because of this distraction, Tzun barely noticed that both men were walking away, not just the aqua haired boy. Instantly springing to his feet, Tzun grabbed his head and pressed on his temples while stumbling around the dumpster. He could see that the sun was lower in the sky than it should be for his normal meeting time and felt confused over what was happening.

"Max!" he called, his voice revealing both a sense of urgency and a good deal of confusion. The man in leather trappings stopped walking and turned around with his characteristic coolness to meet Tzun's gaze.

"Hey kid!" he called back. "Your looking sharp today. What gives? With new clothes, I'm guessing you have money to pay for Slice today instead of looking for handouts?"

Uncharacteristically, Tzun felt his dormant temper rising but also found himself distracted by looking at his new hoodie and T-shirt and wondering where they came from. As he looked over his new clothes, he noticed a Celtic ring wrapped around his left forefinger. It wasn't fancy but Tzun had never worn a ring before and it felt strange on his finger. He masked his surprise. And being accustomed to covering his emotions while looking for diplomatic solutions, Tzun extinguished his rising temper and looked to capitalize on their common.

"Yeah, I have more money today," he agreed. "You should be happy this morning." Tzun looked towards where the sun appeared to be hanging around the corner of the alleyway and wondered what time it was while reaching into his pocket to present his offering. Maybe Max had been planning to come back later?

The street warrior backtracked to where Tzun was standing and inspected the bills, pursing his lips with a frown and nodding his head. "Much better kid," he said while reaching into his pocket and pulling out a new vial of Slice. Stopping his hand midair, he looked at Tzun carefully and added: "are you sure you still want to go through with this? You look like Hades after Hercules beat him up and you've barely got enough energy to stand straight." He pulled the vial slightly closer to his body to encourage a serious response – or perhaps it was just his habitual tease. He was genuinely concerned about the boy but that didn't make him treat Tzun any differently than anyone else.

Leaving one hand pressed against his temple while reaching for the vial with the other, Tzun answered with more confidence than Max would have expected: "Actually, I was wondering what it would take to get an extra dose," Tzun answered. "Do higher doses change anything? Would it enhance my abilities if I took more?"

That thought visibly startled Max.

"Don't worry," Tzun immediately reassured him. "I have more money. I worked late into the night to get some extra." He pulled another large bill out of his pocket.

Internally, Max greedily eyed the offering but Tzun saw nothing besides a blank look. What was he thinking? The street warrior reached inside his labyrinth of inside jacket pockets and pulled out another vial, swirled it, and watched the metallic brown swirls quickly settle.

"This stuff is unpredictable kid," Max started to explain. Tzun was starting to feel frustrated that Max never called him by name. "Extra doses help some people; extra doses do nothing for others. Sometimes it makes that craving worse you know? This is a dangerous game. Remember how I told you that? It's dangerous." Max wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Tzun not to take an extra dose or if he was trying to convince himself that he should refuse the money for his conscience's sake. Or maybe it was just his junkie sales pitch.

"Right," Tzun agreed, reaching for the vial with a bill pressed between two of his fingers for an easy trade.

While Tzun hungrily downed the first vial, Max casually nodded, tipped his hat, and turned around, wondering whether or not he had done the right thing. _This kid is dangerous,_ he considered. _Nerdy little half-pint Asian kid ... by tomorrow, he'll be throwing the dumpster._

"Max," Tzun called from behind. "My lesson ..."

The street warrior feigned surprise and turned around. "Oh, sorry kid. I almost forgot." Max stopped talking for a moment so he could think over the situation carefully and then stared intently into Tzun's eyes. "Alright Tzun, show me what you've been practicing."

Anyone who has taken lessons in anything would have known to expect that directive coming from an unprepared teacher but Tzun was completely taken off guard. Virtually every moment of his life on Spice had consisted of manipulating other people's minds – and he was pretty sure _that_ wouldn't go over very well with a worn, street veteran. He hesitated too long.

"Come on kid, I haven't got all day. Let's see what you can do."

Feeling desperate, Tzun did the first thing that came into his mind: he made Max kiss the dumpster and waited to see how long it would take the man encased in leather to overcome the power of suggestion that Tzun threw at him.

It took longer than expected.

Although he was just as amused as any other kid his age would have been to watch a superior doing something absolutely ridiculous, Tzun also understood there were limits and he was starting to worry that Max would be getting pretty angry sometime soon and he couldn't let that happen. Concentrating carefully, Tzun focused his mind on brushing Max's mind in a way to generate empathy tinged with sadness. Then, as the kissing died off, Tzun tried something he hadn't tried before: he wiped those memories from Max's mind.

It worked.

"Come on kid, I haven't got all day. Let's see what you can do."

"I just did."

"Did what."

"Showed you what I've been practicing."

"What? I didn't see nothin' kid. Do it again."

"Okay," Tzun began to explain. Here is the deal. I've been working on influencing other people and I just wiped your memory of the last minute or so."

That didn't go over so well. "Don't feed me that bull," Max bellowed. "I'm not here to play games kid. Show me what you can do or the lesson is over." It was becoming abundantly clear that Max had a temper. Tzun made a note of that and pushed subtle feelings of calmness into Max's mind – but it wasn't enough.

"Alright," Tzun conceded. "Pull out your pad and pen." Annoyed, Max did as instructed. "Write down the time." Max scowled at Tzun and almost left again but Tzun was brushing his mind to be more patient and empathetic so he wouldn't leave. He wrote down the time. As soon as he did, Tzun did what he had been practicing. Without saying a word, he got Max to take off his jacket, knock out one hundred and fifty pushups, and then put his jacket back on, filter through the pockets, and give Tzun a couple extra vials of Slice – not enough to be noticed as missing but enough to serve as a healthy bonus for Tzun. He then wiped Max's memory of the last few activities while sending Max into shivers – feeling as if he was freezing on this bright Spring morning.

"Got it?" Tzun asked.

"Come on kid, I haven't got all day. Let's see what you can do." Max rubbed his arms quickly with his hands, trying to warm up.

"Pull out your pad and pen," Tzun instructed, brushing Max's mind for extra patience this time. Max did so without protest.

"What does it say?"

"8:43 a.m." After a notable pause, he added, "hey, that's my handwriting."

"What time is it now," Tzun pressed.

"Nearly 9:00."

"Do you feel cold?"

"Yeah kid, I'm cold. Let's get on with this." Tzun held out his hand towards Max with his hand closed and then spread it open as if releasing something into the air. Now, Max was feeling too warm and began taking off his jacket."

"Did you just do that?" Max queried.

"Yeah. I made you do a bunch of pushups too but you don't remember do you?"

Max scowled in return.

"I'm not joshin' you," Tzun nearly laughed. "Try to do a few pushups now." He massaged Max's mind to feel really interested in whatever might happen. Max only knocked out a few pushups before slowing considerably and then stopped after only doing a few more. Looking up at Tzun with a careful gaze, Max released a nervous chuckle.

"You're not kiddin'."

"Nope."

"Do you know what you could do with power like that kid?" Max's mind began turning over the possibilities, not even considering that Tzun might have already taken advantage of him – Tzun was still brushing his thoughts for empathy. "You could make a lot of money. If you went gambling ..."

Philosphizing quickly came to an end as a cop rounded the corner and began interrogating the two about someone witnessing drug activity down this alleyway. While Max ran his smooth talk, Tzun wiped the officer's memory of anything related to the complaint, put the officer in seizures of fear until he began to cower behind the dumpster, motioned his hand as if tipping an invisible hat towards Max, and ran down the alleyway towards Mariner's Market Street.

RAIN SPLATTERED OVER THE DARK UZZIT, soaking his clothes so thoroughly that he considered his movement might be entirely impaired. He slithered across the rooftop with his eyes riveted on Max, the notorious drug lord who had been ruining this town. Ever since he had arrived, more Uzzit incidents had been headlining the news. Preying mostly on young kids, the leather wrapped man wore his collar up, his fedora tilted backward, and his head low to protect himself from the rain.

To the Uzzit, it looked like the drug dealer was ashamed – and he should have been. He tracked him most of the evening and catalogued every stop: a fifteen year old girl by the corner of a small local gym; a twenty year old man (who looked like the kind of person any reasonable man would fear) met Max behind a condemned home; a fifteen or sixteen year old girl who looked a little rough for the wear begged for another chance and fell to her knees and then all fours as Max walked away without delivering any goods; a fourteen year old boy offered a few coins only to receive a sneer from Max before delivering some harsh words and a small vial in a vacant lot behind the old grocery store.

Jumping from roof to roof to track someone down might have been hard work for a normal man but Uzzit could do it quietly if they had some good practice under their belt. This was only an information gathering mission so he couldn't afford to be caught – every move had to be made with the utmost care.

DAYS PASSED AND THEN AN ENTIRE WEEK and then a couple more days. Koemi had Tzun so concerned about the "Black Uzzit" and the string of violent crimes that followed him that Tzun took extra precautions everywhere he went. Whenever he was begging or lifting, he made sure to avoid anyone with dark skin. Half Asian himself, he held zero racist sentiments but wisdom dictated caution in situations like these. Even considering Tzun's growing powers and his knowledge of the area, he felt no match for an upcoming Uzzit thug. And although he estimated that he could probably buy himself enough time to make a clean getaway, he didn't know enough about this criminal to feel safe in that estimation so he continued to take precautions.

Besides, things were getting tougher at home. Apparently, the Black Uzzit hit Kan's business the night before last. Kan wasn't sure he would be able to make rent so Ba Tu and Marie's family had to come up with extra to make up for the shortfall. That would have been fine except that Ba Tu couldn't work and Marie had to tend him twenty-four-seven. That left Tzun as the family's sole provider. And while he had been able to control Kan's mind long enough to announce that he wouldn't require Tzun's family to pay extra rent, Kan reneged on the deal as soon as Tzun's influence wore thin. Tzun quickly realized that this game would ultimately prove nothing more than an energy drain but that didn't stop him from making Kan do things to embarrass himself in front of the family from time to time.

Increasing rent challenges aside, Tzun was making more money. But then again, the price of Slice grew steeper daily. Within the last two days, Tzun's entire stash of money had become history and he had barely been able to afford a single vial of Slice the day before. Max claimed he needed a huge amount of cash to keep supplying Tzun because he "just didn't feel right about it." He worried that "Slice just wasn't good for Tzun." By now, the young boy guessed that Max was using this line on other kids too – it was nothing more than a sales gimmick.

Given the injustice, Tzun considered stealing an extra vial of Slice from Max every day – not enough to be noticed – and then wiping Max's memory clean. But the last time he tried brushing Max's mind, he felt Max resisting. Tzun concluded that Max was practicing defenses against psionic influences so lifting from him could prove unreasonably risky. Besides, every time Tzun obtained an extra vial of Slice, he downed it before the day was over. He didn't even have a full extra vial anymore – he drank half of that in a moment of desperation last week.

At this rate, lifting and begging using empathy brushings wasn't going to cut it. Tzun was going to have to step up his efforts in getting money or his family would be without a home and he would have to start from scratch. Nearly two weeks had passed now. He couldn't risk starting over again – it was simply too costly. On the other hand, Tzun was getting used to having money available to him with less and less effort. Even yesterday, he had briefly considered that he might be able to make enough money without taking any drastic measures. But in the end, only optimism could posit such a course of action.

Tzun also considered hitting Kan's competition. After all, Kan had reason to believe that they hired the hit on his business and now, Tzun was suffering from their actions. If he had to escalate his lifting efforts, it seemed that he ought to hit someone who deserved it.

After habitually checking his pockets, Tzun unfolded a piece of paper in his pocket he didn't remember putting there. That was one thing about Slice that was still unnerving. Blackouts were not uncommon. In fact, it seemed to Tzun that he had them nightly. He scarcely remembered what happened past dinner time on any given night of the week. Half the time, he didn't even return home – and that was generating daily tongue lashings from his otherwise gentle mother who knew something wasn't right. At least, her lectures focused on encouraging Tzun to stay far away from the Black Uzzit who seemed to be terrorizing the entire west bank of Puget Sound. And Marie was easy to control: the slightest mind brushing sent her into a state of calmness that made Tzun jealous – what would it be like to have such peace of mind like that? He had forgotten.

The paper spelled out the address of Kan's competition, the time doors locked, the location of the alarm system, and the time police patrolled the area the night before. _At least I know where I was last night,_ Tzun nervously joked to himself. He went to the bathroom to check his stash of cash. Although he distinctly remembered running out of cash the day before, he was growing accustomed to finding surprises in his secret places. Since he didn't remember anything he had done the night before, it stood to reason that he would likely have done something to alleviate that problem. Besides, there wasn't anything in the secret fold of his pants and the cash in his pocket would barely be enough to keep Max happy.

But there was nothing there. _Blasted bricks!_ he all but screamed to himself. He was pretty sure that Max would sell him one vial of Slice for the money in his pocket but there wouldn't be enough for the two he was getting accustomed to and certainly there wasn't enough for three. He swore again, this time out loud, and pounded his fist on the counter.

"You alright?" his mother called.

"Fine," he brashly answered. Marie hesitated for a moment and then walked away. Since birth, Tzun had rarely showed any signs of a temper so these recent outbursts left her terribly unnerved. Something was intolerably wrong.

Then, Tzun had an idea that hadn't occurred to him before: even though Tzun could appreciate the aqua haired man's frustrations with Max, it was pretty clear he was a bad egg – perhaps as bad as they get. The city would be better off without someone like him having strong Uzzit powers at their fingertips. If Tzun hurried now, he could arrange a Slice lift from the aqua haired man before his meeting with Max. The timing would be difficult but he thought he could pull it off if he was careful. So, he rushed out the door, ran down to the docks and situated himself opposite the side of the alleyway where the aqua haired man habitually left his meetings with Max. Passingly, Tzun wondered how he could meet Max every day at the same place, yell loudly enough to attract attention from either end of the alleyway, and never get bothered by the police for a drug bust. He wondered if this guy was buying them out to leave him alone.

After doling out so much money to Max, Tzun was beginning to understand this new culture enjoyed by the aqua haired junkie. At times, he had money to spare, money to buy new clothes, money to eat at sit down restaurants, and if he had wanted to, money to buy out a cop or two. That freedom was swiftly dissipating as Slice prices were rising but Tzun had been starting to enjoy that lifestyle ... even if it only lasted half a week. Perhaps, Tzun considered, he was even beginning to expect that lifestyle. And he was beginning to understand that he couldn't want to go back to how things were; he couldn't live a life where he was daily scrounging around for a few dollars, where he was a slave to the daily grind.

Tzun arrived earlier than expected and patiently listened as the usual tone of exchange passed between the parties: the aqua man grumbled, swore, and complained; Max brushed him off without the slightest care for whatever he had to say. This time however, Max threw a surprise wrench into the system. In a voice that Tzun could barely hear at all, he warned the aqua haired man. "Listen. I hear you. I have problems too but here's the deal: the last supply of Slice has to be double whatever you've been using. If you don't bring double the money, you don't get the Slice. If you don't get the Slice, you start from day one. Got it? In two days, you need to bring double the money or you're back to square one. I can't fix all of your troubles. All I can do is deliver the goods, right?" Then, tipping his hat, Max turned around to find a spot on the sofa, pulled his fedora over his eyes, and reclined as if he was going to take a nap before his next client arrived.

The man with aqua hair stormed off, swearing a stream of profanities as usual, and flew out the alleyway exactly the way Tzun expected he would. Throwing a strong psionic blast of loathing, hatred, and anger towards the aqua haired man, Tzun directed all of the negative feelings towards the newest vial of Slice in the man's possession. Further brushing his mind, Tzun made the man pull the vial of Slice out of his pocket and throw it as hard as he could into Puget Sound, quickly turning his head away from the vial and swearing a new string of expletives. While his head was turned, Tzun psionically pulled the vial towards himself at breakneck speed, caught the vial of Slice, slid it into his secret pocket, and rounded the corner into the alleyway. Behind him, he heard a loud splash as the aqua man's senses returned and he realized what he'd done. Even if the vial had landed in the water, the search would have been futile. But, _that's what junkies do,_ Tzun thought remorsefully. He knew that feeling of desperation too well. He almost felt sorry for him.

"Hey kid, how are you doin' today?" Max gushed before pulling the fedora away from his eyes. Tzun's footsteps were familiar and easily recognized.

"I'm okay," Tzun answered, characteristically using as few words as possible and holding out the money to trade for a new vial of Slice. Max barely looked at it and made the trade without further comment.

"You look great kid," Max answered. "You workin' out? You look like you're gainin' weight."

The comment surprised Tzun. He certainly wasn't working out but he did notice that his muscles were often sore when he woke up in the mornings. What was he doing in the evenings? Now that he thought about it, he ran all the way to the docks this morning without running out of breath – that was new. "I don't know," Tzun answered, trying to brush aside the comment.

"You don't know?"

"Nope."

"You still blackin' out?" Max asked as if he was deeply concerned – but the artificial tone of voice offended Tzun. Apart from his mother and Koemi, there wasn't anyone in the world that genuinely cared about Tzun and he was used to that. He didn't like people pretending to step into those shoes.

"Maybe," he answered evasively.

"Tzun," Max said. That surprised the young boy. Max never spoke his name. "Look at me." Tzun no longer noticed it but he rarely made eye contact with anyone. Beggars and thieves are careful not to look into people's eyes. That's just what they do. Awkwardly, Tzun looked up into Max's piercing eyes. "Dude. Slice doesn't usually keep people blacking out for two weeks, you know? A few days, yeah. A week ... _maybe_. Two weeks?"

"It hasn't been two weeks," Tzun corrected.

"Yeah but we're like a day or two away right?"

"Two."

"Well then, same thing," Max said, leaking a tone of aggression. "It's not good. Two weeks is way too long. That's bad news kid." But then, after a pause, he changed course a little, "but you're looking healthier. You been gettin' hurt during your blackouts?"

"Sometimes."

"Bad?"

Tzun hated getting grilled like this. He just wanted to down his daily dose of Slice and to get out of there. Max's lessons were worthless and Tzun was starting to learn things that Max could do – like tearing things. He hadn't tried anything like the dumpster yet but he thought he might be able to do it. He wanted to try. "Not really," he answered evasively again.

"How bad?"

"What does it matter Max?" Tzun answered in frustration. "I'm walking; I'm breathing; I'm okay." Before Max could respond, Tzun's temper flaired. He downed the Slice while Max rambled on about something Tzun wouldn't hear and then turned. Making a forceful upward movement with one hand and a violent downward swing with the other, Tzun looked like someone throwing a ball into the air and then swatting it back down, only his hands were frozen in clawing shapes. The dumpster flew into the air a good four feet before smashing back down onto the ground, producing a horrendous tearing sound as it landed. Chips of asphalt flew towards the two men but Tzun deflected them without thinking them at all. Tzun noted four tears zigzagging their way down the entire length of the dumpster and looked over at Max with proud satisfaction. He didn't feel angry any more. He felt excited. He loved the way Slice made him feel. He wanted to do it again – and Max always made him do his tricks twice so he expected he would.

But Max didn't return the look. The veteran drug lord looked at the dumpster with shock and something else. Was that fear?

_Nobody can do that,_ Max jabbered in his mind. _Nobody's doin' that._ "Holy bloody bricks," he muttered almost incoherently. "Kid, that's ..."

"I've been practicing," Tzun interrupted, pleased that he had finally impressed his mentor. Now, maybe he could get some good lessons.

"Whoooow ... You've got serious swag kid," Max answered, diplomatically starting to walk away with a big, fake smile spreading over his face. "Yup, that's seriously impressive. Keep practicing that and by next week, you'll be demolishing entire buildings!" he called over his shoulder as he adopted his characteristic cool strut down the alleyway.

The compliment wasn't well received. Tzun wanted another bottle of Slice and now, with all hopes of any decent lessons shot, he was feeling angry again. Without thinking about what he was doing, he reached his hand out towards Max who was now a good fifteen feet away and made a pulling motion with his hand as if plucking a stubborn apple off a low hanging branch. Max's arms spread wide open as if someone had grabbed both of his sleeves to pull off his jacket. Then, Tzun spun and yanked his hand backwards and slightly over his shoulder as if throwing a fast pitch. Max's jacket violently flew towards his hand. Behind Tzun, he heard a shoulder pop as it tore out of joint; the street warrior's agonizing yelp followed almost immediately. Tzun threw a major psionic blast towards Max to further incapacitate him. Fear receptors and pain receptors flew towards overload and while Tzun began collecting vials of Slice from Max's jacket, he raised his hand towards Max and then threw the drug lord across the alleyway and onto the junky couch leaning against the wall. While Max cowered into the corner of the couch, moaning in pain, Tzun casually walked towards him, dumped the dozen or more vials of Slice into his pockets, and then tossed the jacket onto the couch next to Max. When Tzun hit the end of the alleyway, he wiped Max's memory clean so that the last thing he remembered was sitting on the couch after the aqua haired man left.

TZUN SAT ALONE NEAR THE EDGE OF THE PARK, shaking in disbelief. He couldn't believe what he'd just done. Never in his life had he seriously hurt anyone. He had barely entertained any thoughts of seriously hurting anyone. It just wasn't in his nature. He didn't even know how.

But, there he was huddling in a corner after single handedly taking out the legendary drug lord and the only dealer of Slice anyone knew about. Tzun needed nineteen vials of Slice before it would stay permanently in his system – that was counting his second dose for today and a double dose for the last day. He downed his second dose for the day and counted thirteen vials in his pocket. _Six shy_ , he realized in horror. What were the chances he could get any more vials from Max? Even with his memory wiped – or perhaps because his memory had been swiped – he would surely guess that Tzun had stolen the missing Slice vials. Maybe he could only drink one dose a day ... No, that might reduce his powers. If anything, he needed extra doses for the last few days ...

Passingly, Tzun realized how quickly his thoughts had gone from feeling badly over what he had done to feeling badly that he didn't have enough Slice to make it through his three weeks. He felt ashamed. Then, old habits sunk deep into his psyche and he began recycling rationales to justify his actions: Max preyed on kids; he charged too much; he lied; he didn't deliver the lessons he promised; and now he was pushing Tzun to plan burglaries just to make ends meet. No, Max didn't deserve pity.

_Where's Koemi,_ he wondered. She frequently came to the park this time of the morning. Why wasn't she here? He needed someone to talk to and she was the only one he could trust to help him out without giving him a lecture. He waited for an hour and then another. He waited until he lost his patience and then, as his temper flared, he dashed out of the park like a man fixin' to do something bad. Tzun recognized this unfamiliar feeling and checked it, if only for a little while.

Besides, he had to be careful tonight. The Black Uzzit had been headlining again. Deaths were mounting. Almost all of them were gang related. Tzun took some consolation from this fact but still ... he had enough challenges. He didn't need any confrontation with the upcoming Uzzit thug.

LIGHTENING FLASHED, THUNDER ROARED, AND RAIN SPLATTERED over the concrete, bricks, and mortar, making a sound like splashing grease in a deep fryer. The dark Uzzit clung to his clothes and wrapped them tightly around himself. Why did he always get stuck with such bad weather while following the infamous drug lord? _At least it makes it easier to stay under cover,_ he consoled himself. He leaped from one rooftop to the next, padding his landings by slightly levitating himself so that he could retain a cloak of silence. The feeling was addicting. He practically felt like he was flying.

Peaking over the ledge to observe the activity below, he watched as Max met his usual customers. The dark Uzzit carefully noted the dispositions of each client and watched as Max passed on vials of Slice to each of them. When he met the man behind the condemned home, the dark Uzzit couldn't bear to watch. That man shouldn't have Slice. He was a danger to society already. With Slice, the man would be a danger to everyone around him. Someone had to take him out. When Max left, the dark Uzzit dove off the building as the twenty-something man rounded the corner on the other edge of the street. Landing mere inches in front of the man, the dark Uzzit glared into the eyes of the budding criminal.

"You have something of mine," he declared.

"Like h ..."

Before the man could finish his retort, the dark Uzzit sent the man flying through the air and smashing into the brick wall behind him. When he failed to fall unconscious, the dark Uzzit sent him through the air and into another brick wall on the opposing side of the street. _I hope that didn't break the vial of Slice,_ the dark Uzzit instinctively worried. Moments later, he was downing the vial and jumping onto the nearest rooftop to watch over the drug lord a little longer.

TZUN WOKE UP BEHIND THE TORN DUMPSTER. _Blasted Bricks!_ he swore to himself. The last thing he needed was another encounter with Max – especially since he wouldn't enjoy the element of surprise a second time. Confident that Max wouldn't be accepting any belated apologies, Tzun had stayed away from this alleyway since he lifted Slice from Max several days past. Quietly and instinctively, he reached into his pocket. It was there. His last vial of Slice. He was still five shy. He wasn't sure where he got the extra vial but he vaguely remembered thinking the night before that he would have to steal Slice from other Uzzit. Maybe that was why he was here. _But Max always leaves the same way as the aqua haired man,_ he reconsidered. Then, rethinking the issue, he remembered that they never left together either _. What will happen now that Max isn't meeting with me?_

He didn't know. As he considered standing up to hide somewhere down the docks where the aqua haired man would be passing by, he heard footsteps rounding the corner. _That's Max._ The footsteps were unmistakable.

Tzun retreated a little further behind the dumpster, its misshapen form resembling some avant garde sculpture. Max's footsteps came closer and then briefly hesitated before plopping down onto the couch not five feet away from Tzun. With little more than a few empty cardboard boxes keeping Tzun out of Max's sight, the young boy grew nervous anxious. When a second set of footsteps rounded the corner and the daily banter between the drug lord and the junkie began, Tzun downed his last vial of Slice. No reserves, no resources, and no viable hope for getting his last day and a half's worth of Slice, Tzun would have felt discouraged and depressed but for that electric buzz that trickled down his throat and into his stomach. It was taking longer for him to feel energized but the effects were still noticeable.

If Tzun attacked Max after the aqua haired man left, before Max saw him, and before he had a chance to react ... Tzun felt torn. Part of him felt sorry for Max, sorry for what he had done. Part of him felt desperate. He couldn't go back to the life he had before. After tomorrow, he could get his own apartment. Maybe he could get a job. Even though he looked scrawny, he could prove his new strength easily enough. Maybe he could work loading ships at the dock. If he brushed a few minds with empathy, he might even be able to get a job that paid well ...

"Hey kid, you're looking sharp today," Max greeted the aqua haired man. Tzun couldn't see the young man but he could hear an exasperated breath escape clenched teeth. At twenty one years old, he didn't like being called a child. Small talk continued only briefly. No lesson ensued. Max exited the alleyway towards Mariner's Market Street while the aqua haired man wearily walked the opposing direction. Tzun disagreed with Max: he looked like Hades frozen over. Tzun wasn't swift with mythology but he recognized a ragged man when he saw one.

He stepped out from behind the dumpster.

"Hey kid," he called. The aqua haired man turned around, instant anger in his countenance.

"What do you want," he snapped back, pulling a long bowie knife out of a side holster and rushing towards Tzun before bothering to hear any response. Tzun was caught by surprise. A moment earlier, his quickly improvised plan had been to simply brush the young man's mind again and then wipe it clean while he was leaving. This wasn't quite how he planned things.

The aqua haired man lunged at Tzun who had no time to consciously react. He may not have had time to play intricate psionic games but that didn't matter. Instinct took over. Tzun leaped backwards while waving his arm towards his attacker as if shoving clothes on a hanger sideways. The dumpster flew sideways and pinned the aqua haired junkie against the wall, blood splattering in every direction around the dumpster. Without thinking, Tzun threw the dumpster back to the side of the alleyway where it belonged and pulled the Slice vial out of his front pocket where the aqua haired man always stashed it. The vial was cracked and broke open as Tzun pulled it out, forcing him to instantly down the Slice and clean up every slight spill that came out of the vial. As the electric buzz glistened down his throat, Tzun felt a scratching feeling as well - a small piece of glass passed down his windpipe.

As the adrenaline rush passed and as Tzun finished drinking the Slice, he looked over the bloody corpse of the young man Tzun had never spoken to – before today. Disgust and revulsion overwhelmed him as he considered what he had done. He nearly wretched at the thought of what had just happened but he forced the Slice to stay down. _Only four left,_ he intuitively reminded himself. _Only four left._ He felt ashamed, scared, perhaps angry. But he needed to press on.

THE DARK UZZIT LEAPED FROM ROOFTOP TO ROOFTOP, following the same pattern he had followed before. Max was increasingly predictable. As he peered over the edge of the grocery store, the dark Uzzit watched as the fourteen year old boy pulled out a stash of money much larger than he had the night before. Max smiled, delivered the vial, and sent the boy away happy as a lamb.

The dark Uzzit hated Max for what he did. Ruining children; ruining families; ruining society; the man represented everything foul. But tonight was the time to clean up the city. He just needed to wait: two more drops.

Only a slight sprinkle of rain dripped out of the sky, leaving the dark Uzzit feeling somewhat grateful for the reprieve. He needed a break from the bad weather – it was depressing. Max slithered down the streets, pushing his last two deals with a degree of nonchalance that one only achieves after many years of experience. The last drop was to a girl that couldn't have been any older than twelve. The dark Uzzit fumed. There was no excuse for preying on children that small. Thin of frame, long of hair, and as cute as any girl the dark Uzzit had ever seen, the young girl was nearly giddy about the small vial of Slice she held in her hands. _She is only three or four days into this_ , he reminded himself, keeping tabs of every drop.

Max hurriedly rounded the corner. _Here we go!_ the dark Uzzit gloated, carefully holding his leather hood over his head to obscure his face as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop. Black sludge smeared across his face, the dark Uzzit nearly looked like a guerilla fighter smacking down a rival drug lord's territory. Tonight he sported new shoes, thick black jeans, leather boots, and leather jacket that kept him warmer than usual – or perhaps he just felt warm because of the weather.

Two guards stopped Max as he made his way to the entrance. These were new guards. As Max gave them the proper password, they let him pass by. _Now!_ The instant Max passed behind closed doors, the dark Uzzit dove face first off of the roof of a four story building and all but flew down to the guards. Twisting his body, levitating his own weight, and throwing knives at the two guards, he landed softly. Aimed well, there was little needed to finish the job. He really had no clue where he was going. He only knew that this was where Max got Slice. This was production headquarters.

He tried to be quiet but his new shoes plodded on the hardwood floor louder than he could control. Pretty soon, he turned a corner only to catch the attention of a half dozen men who perfunctorily pulled out their guns and began shooting. Instinct took over. Years of discouragement, frustration, untamed fears, and anger flooded his mind. Untold horrors returned to haunt the dark Uzzit as he looked upon these men as vultures preying on young kids. With a wave of his hand, a wave of bullets wafted off to his side, missing their target and ringing loudly as they ricocheted off of metal filing cabinets. He sent out a universal and massive psionic blast to puncture the pain receptors of everyone present. Everyone except Max fell to the ground holding their ears and screaming in pain as blood trickled out of their noses. One knocked over a tray of Slice vials as he fell to the ground. Instinctively, the dark Uzzit summoned a number of vials to his hand and shoved them into his pocket, saving one and popping the cork so that he could down the contents and cast the vial off to the side.

Max looked over at this strange intruder while trying to maintain a psionic barrier protecting him from the attacks of this stranger. He was only barely succeeding and knew it wouldn't last. He'd heard about this Black Uzzit. Apart from the sludge on his face, he didn't look as intimidating as he expected. About five foot nine, medium build, and dressed in black, the Black Uzzit looked too undersized to deserve the reputation he had been accumulating over the past weeks.

"Game's over Max," the Black Uzzit declared in the most ominous voice he could muster. The voice was familiar but Max couldn't place it yet.

"Hey kid, what do you want?" Max asked with his characteristic charisma, hoping for a distraction. Backups would be coming. "You need more Slice? We have plenty here..."

"I have enough. I want you to stop dealing to little kids. Twelve is a bit young don't you think?"

Max thought he identified the voice now but he wasn't sure. "Tzun? It's you right? That talented kid who ..."

"Stop dealing to little kids. Got it? I know your route; I know every drop; you gotta stop or ..."

Two new guards inconspicuously burst into the room and started popping off shots at the Black Uzzit. Untamed, his anger surged until he found himself raging out of control. Bullets wafted aside once more, the Black Uzzit sent such strong psionic blasts that every guard in the room fell over dead. Max screamed out in pain but remained standing – barely. Four more guards entered the room and then five. Each fell in turn, recoiling in horrendous fear until they ran out of the room shooting at whoever was coming towards them. Four guards in the hallway fell from this new rampage.

Thankful for the temporary distraction, Max diverted his energies to psionically throw metal filing cabinets at the intruder. Flanking the intruder on both sides, the cabinets threatened to sandwich the Black Uzzit and kill him quickly.

But it didn't work.

The Black Uzzit diverted the cabinets, smashing them into the ground and twisting them into a knotted, unrecognizable mess. Then, his subconscious urged him to do something he hadn't done before. Frustrations, insecurities, and anger that had remained deeply hidden his entire life suddenly found their exit and their expression: the cabinets imploded until they burst into flames, dripping liquid metal all over the ground as they shot towards Max. One horrific scream later and the warehouse fell silent apart from the sound of flames lapping at tables near the fallen drug lord.

The Black Uzzit willed the flames to die and they did. He pulled several more vials of Slice towards himself and downed a third of them. The rest, he would drink tomorrow and that would be it. The three weeks would be over.

THE NEXT MORNING, TZUN WOKE UP IN HIS OWN BED. He couldn't remember the last time he actually woke up in his own bed. How long had it been? One week? Three? He reached over to pull the blankets down and saw blood all over the sheets and his hands. Scared, he quickly sat up and looked around. Traces of blood decorated his pillows and the floor. Half terrified, half shocked, Tzun darted into the bathroom to clean himself off. If his family saw him like this ... Kan would surely kick his entire family out of the house. But then, maybe that didn't matter anymore. Today was the last day. He reached into his pocket – a new pocket in new pants – and found eight vials of Slice. _Why the extra?_ he wondered.

_No matter_. He drank four in quick succession, saving the rest for his last afternoon dose. Not remembering the night before, he couldn't recall ever drinking four vials of Slice in one day. What would he be able to do with that much Slice in his system?

As he looked in the mirror, he saw the rest of his new clothes all splattered in blood - but not as badly as he expected. Dried blood came off of the leather jacket easily enough and the blood on his pants and boots was relatively hard to see. He scrubbed them well and hoped they would dry quickly. With no washer or dryer in the house and with no change of clothes, Tzun was accustomed to wearing wet clothes when he washed them. It was inconvenient but he didn't care much – besides, he would soon be living in a place with nice appliances wouldn't he? If anything, it seemed more fun to wear wet clothes one last time.

Tzun showered, wrapped himself in a clean towel, and darted back to his room, hoping not to be seen and then gathered his blood soaked bedding into a pile where he could clean them later – or maybe he would just throw them away. He was going to have plenty of money now. Satisfied that his new clothes did not conspicuously show significant amounts of blood, he put them back on and resisted the urge to jump out the window onto the ground below. He felt such an amazing burst of energy that he was barely able to contain himself. Four vials of Slice was too much, he quickly decided, feeling like a ten year old boy who had been cooped up in a car for ten hours of traveling - desperately awaiting the moment when he could open the door and run as long as his legs would allow. Energy swirled inside Tzun's body, insisting that he do something to release it.

Convinced that he had escaped anyone's attention this morning and feeling happier than he had ever felt in his entire life, Tzun bounced around the corner from his room into the family room where his disposition dramatically changed.

Kan lay dead on the floor, his hands tightly gripping a shotgun and his face grotesquely twisted, frozen in anger. A spray of shotgun bullets traced along his face and more particularly, across his eyes. Ba Tu lay dead by his side, a crazy smile spread across his face as if he had been watching something amusing – he always looked like that. Dried blood coagulated in a stream where it had come out of his ears, mouth, and nose.

Cousins, huddled on the other side of the room with their mothers also lay dead. Tzun's own mother and Koemi lay crumpled in front of them as if they had been kneeling, perhaps pleading for help. Red liquid splattered all around them gave the appearance that something – or someone – had exploded. Tzun recoiled in horror as he beheld the scene and started putting the pieces of the puzzle together. He looked more carefully around the room. Bloody footsteps traced back into his room where they led to his bed. The front door was ajar. A policeman's glock lay on the ground next to the door.

Memories started flooding back: Kan's verbal attack; his mother's pleading; his aunt's chastisement; Kan's shooting; Tzun's uncontrollable anger; his blackout; the officer's arrival and subsequent memory wipe; Tzun's feeling of confusion as he saw everyone dead; and then, another blackout.

Tzun reeled in confusion again. At that moment, Tzun's split psyche underwent the Slice transformation that usually came much quicker and much easier. With this last dose, Tzun gained the ability to choose. He could leave the room as an awkward, passive, gentle teenage boy or he could leave as the Black Uzzit. Tzun fell to his knees in anguish as he saw two paths lying before him. He preferred his true self, the resourceful teenage boy trying to take care of his family, but there was nothing left for him there. Only poverty, insecurity, fear of abuse, thievery, and an ever growing number of painful memories remained. There was nothing more. He couldn't live that life. He couldn't choose that.

Wiping his own memories clean, he downed four more vials of Slice and jumped out the window. Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, he wound his way through the docks and the city until he arrived at the warehouse.

As he entered the main room, he found a single man sitting at a desk, holding his hand as if he had just hung up a phone, shaking his head in disbelief. Everything about him from his dress to his demeanor screamed that he was in charge of the entire operation. The instant he saw Tzun, he recoiled somewhat in surprise.

"Who are you?" he asked gruffly.

"I'm Max's replacement."

"Would that make you the Black Uzzit?" he queried with a clear dose of doubt in his voice. "You're not black."

"Want proof?" Tzun groused in response. Metal cabinets, tables, chairs, and dozens of other items began to rumble. Glass equipment fell from countertops and shattered. Building walls shook ominously. But before Tzun ventured to do anything further, the man sat back in his chair and dismissively waived his hand at Tzun, pulling a cigarette out of its box.

"That's alright," he answered casually as he snapped open a metal lighter and lit the stick in his mouth. "You got this figured out right? It's never permanent. You'll always need another dose to keep your power. Only I know how to make Slice so I'm still in charge. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Sit down. Let's go over the numbers."

They haggled.

This short story was edited and expanded by the author. The newer version can be found here. It will be available on Audible, iTunes, and Amazon as an ebook by March, 2019.

**THE SERPENT'S ROOT**

by

David J. West

AS MIDNIGHT CLUTCHED THE CITY OF ZARAHEMLA in her talons, a ray of light from an open doorway shone, laying a golden path for the old witch, Tryphosa. A red-haired young woman welcomed the witch. "Get inside, Tryphosa. Lovesick dogs are gathering," she said, her gaze directed across the narrow street at a man draped in a stained green cloak. She gave the ward against the evil eye, placing her thumb just inside her mouth and flicking it across her teeth.

"Evening, Saphir," said the green-cloaked man, ignoring the spittle-tossing ward. "Everything fine? Everyone feeling alright?" He held a bouquet of dying flowers in his left hand.

"Away with you, Corom. I haven't time for false warlocks."

"False warlock? Time? Saphir, there'll soon come a day you'll dearly want that time," he said, with a sneer.

She picked up a stone from the flower-box beside the doorway, kept handy for such occasions.

"You will be mine," he said, while his eyes flared with lust. "My advances are not to be spurned. I know your secrets!" He dropped the flowers and crushed them with his boot.

Saphir threw the stone. It hit hard just above Corom, raining loose stucco from the building behind. He hurried away when she threatened a second, keeping her arm raised until he vanished into the city's gloom. "Next time," she muttered, dropping the stone back into the flower-box.

After anointing the door-frame with protective glyphs of holy oil, Saphir slammed the door. It was said malicious spirits stalked the city at night, and it wouldn't do to invite such things in.

"Corom again?" asked Tryphosa.

Saphir wrinkled her nose. "I try to dissuade him but he won't take no for an answer. I can't have him revealing my identity to the Kindreds."

"Can't he find another interested woman?"

Grimacing, Saphir said, "He's been obsessed ever since he saw me in the—" She halted as two of her younger siblings entered the room. "—library."

The old witch smiled. "Was it an accident?"

"Course it was, the curtains fell. You think I would purposefully expose myself to that pig?"

"Where is the sick child?" Tryphosa responded, as she patted the heads of Saphir's brother and sister.

"Upon the bed, delirious." Saphir pointed.

Her youngest sister, Mariah, lay ill, babbling as they approached. "Shadows, shadows in wardrobe. I didn't want the . . . gift."

Tryphosa laid hands upon the child's forehead and drew back suddenly like the fever scalded her withered fingers. She inaudibly counted the handful of purple spots on the young girls face and neck, sniffing at them afterward. Sitting on the old rocking chair, she opened her iron-bound book, scanning pages, then abruptly closed the book. Frowning, she whispered, "Mariah will last the night and day, but not another night. I'm sorry."

"That's it?" gasped Saphir. She took Tryphosa's arm in a lock and dragged the old woman to the next room, none too gently. "After all I have done for you? My sister is dead by tomorrow night? There is nothing you can do?"

"Quiet. They'll hear you," said Tryphosa, still in a whisper.

"I don't care!"

"This fever is beyond my healing abilities. We all have our time. We're all called back to the other side, some sooner than others. I'm sorry."

"Oh you sound sorry," said Saphir, hands on her hips. Her green eyes blazed as she dug her own nails into her palms. Maybe the pain would help her not feel so helpless. Nothing worse than being helpless. Feeling anything is better than the void.

"Saphir," spoke the witch, cold and unfathomable as moonlight. "I helped draw you and your siblings into this world. I watched your mother and father raise you. And I wept at their passing, but I don't have time for your accusations or complaints. Not anymore."

"Since you have lost everyone you have ever cared about Tryphosa, so must I?"

Sighing, the witch sat, unclasped her iron-bound book, and gently thumbed through tattered moldy pages. She scanned numerous handwritten scrawls and lost herself for a time.

Saphir kissed Mariah's burning forehead, her long red curls falling over her sister's face. The child's breathing was shallow and the sleep restless. Whatever evil spirits had hold of her must be exorcised and banished.

As of late, the city of Zarahemla brimmed with tales of dark magic, of things nefarious. The summoning of demons. The murders of many. Recent wars, anarchy and economic confusion had turned spell-directed curses into an especially popular pastime. Soothsayers and warlocks sold kits to the masses, performing forbidden rituals for a price. A few gold _senums_ were all that was required to wither another man's livestock. In these ill times, death was cheaper than life, but an enemy's suffering often granted even more pleasure to the paying customer.

The young woman did not let her mind wander over the sorcerous thievery that followed in the wake of such chaos; after all, she was guiltier than most. But the ill-gotten riches in her hidden coffers could not alleviate her sister's pain and fever. A raging red flux gripped the city, and many fell into loathsome despair before the burning end came.

"Serpent's root might cure such a fever. Yes, a serpent's root," muttered Tryphosa to herself. She raised her head from the book, meeting Saphir's questioning look. "I may have discovered a cure but it won't be easy. Retrieve for me a cockatrice's venom gland and I think I can save your sister, but I must have it within a day. I can manage the other ingredients, as well as the cleansing ritual for your home."

"A cockatrice? Why not have me slay the very dragon of hell? Where in Desolation can I find such a monster, let alone return in a day?"

Rounding on Saphir, Tryphosa spoke firm and hard. "Have you ever known me to speak untrue?"

Saphir's downcast eyes conveyed her answer.

"Just because you haven't seen such a monster doesn't mean they aren't real. They are rare, but one dwells not far to the northeast," said Tryphosa.

"Why have I never heard of such a thing? And so close to home?"

"Because you already _knew_ they didn't exist," said Tryphosa. "So why would you keep your ears open for such a thing?"

"What must I do?"

Tryphosa gave a thin smile. "You always were a brave and dutiful girl. Ride with all haste to the river crossing near Midian. Take the fork in the road near a great battle mound of elder days, go thru the ruins, and you will soon come upon a thatched hut. It belongs to a man named Jokshan. He can tell you where the river den of the cockatrice is."

Dripping disdain for her old lessons, Saphir recited, "I have heard the legends spoken of in the records. Out of the serpent's root shall come forth a cockatrice, a fiery flying serpent."

"Don't worry, that part may be metaphorical," said Tryphosa. "Cockatrices cannot fly and rarely leave the water."

Memories of drowning flooded over Saphir's face. "How am I to do this?"

"It won't give its gland away. You're the crafty one, but in the process don't let it bite you or you won't last as long as Mariah. You have the whole ride to think of something to slay the monster. I'll watch the children and cleanse the house."

Saphir thought for a few moments, and then packed a few useful tools: a hammer, a pry bar and even an exalted copper mirror—it might be useful to avoid the serpent's overpowering stare. She remembered legends that said it could charm men to death with its gaze. The exalted copper had the strength of steel; she had always wondered at the lost art of forging such a thing. She kept the mirror merely as a curiosity until now, but all things have their time.

Looking over herself, she decided to change from her woolen skirt to some trousers, high riding boots, mail vest and riding gloves. She wasn't sure how well she could swim in them, but anything was better than wool. She then donned a cloak and borrowed Tryphosa's shawl, hoping to confuse Corom in case he was still watching her house. Lastly, she put on her dead fathers sword and dagger. The fine Zarahemlan blades brought a comfort all their own.

As she readied her swiftest horse, Saphir pondered Tryphosa's final words. _Cleanse the house_. Had she not been careful? How could they be afflicted with flux? What evil spirits were summoned into their home? Had Mariah done something to invite the disease? Saphir didn't want to dwell on that possibility. No, Mariah was just a child. She could not be the focus of a curse, could she? No, someone must be reaching for Saphir, but who?

Much as Saphir covered her tracks, someone was bound to find out her livelihood. Enough of the city's wealthy citizens had employed her to steal priceless artifacts and information. Anyone could have talked.

And it was more popular to make people suffer rather than murder them. But who would have the will to curse her? Gangster Boaz 'the Profit?' One of the corrupt city judges? Perhaps even the Great Gadianton? No, why should any of them care? She was just a thief.

Saphir cracked the stable door and scanned the darkness. A few lights and noises hinted that some folk were still awake, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She threw back the doors and rode hard to the north gate.

Outside the city, the land was covered with farms and orchards, gradually breaking down into fallow fields and fruit trees gone wild. Far in the distance stretched the untouched forest.

Four hours outside the city walls Saphir found the fork in the road near the battle mounds of the elder race. She was swift, but not so much as hoped. Dawn still approached, and worries fomented in her mind.

Could she return fast enough? How big is a cockatrice? Most snakes she had seen were no more than a foot or two, though she had seen rattlesnakes as long as four or five feet. What was the best way to catch a serpent? If only the old records told more about the monster itself, instead of the fable. Perhaps this Jokshan would have some answers, but Saphir didn't want to depend on anyone; relying on Tryphosa was bad enough.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the road ended amidst the fallen stones of a colossal ancient ruin. Here, the elder race had built fantastic monuments before they were destroyed in a cataclysmic civil war. Leering blocks of stone were strewn about like the cast off dice of the gods.

The forest and brambles surrounded the ruin making it difficult to get the horse through. Riding through the maze of ruins would prove quicker, though several times she was forced to turn about when maze-like sections ended in hollows with nothing more than old campfires amidst forgotten debris.

Sunlight filtered through the unfriendly-looking trees in scattered rays, contrasting with the deep gloom. In her peripheral vision, Saphir thought she glanced shadows roiling in the murk—perhaps ghosts of the departed elders watched from the darkness—but whenever she turned her head, there was nothing but the still forest.

The horse sensed it too. Any other time she would have paid heed to the horse's sense for danger, but if she did and turned back, Mariah wouldn't stand a chance.

The claustrophobic trail opened into a wide ring of stones, probably an ancient observatory, mused Saphir, noticing what looked like embossed constellations upon the wall of basalt.

Some of the monuments were toppled in the center, all of them etched with peculiar glyphs. The desire to rest a moment and touch these fallen moss-covered colossi was a good enough reason to get off her horse. She stretched and took a moment to _feel_ the place.

It seemed hallowed and melancholy. What people once stood here and what did they dream? They vanished millennia ago, their knowledge with them, and she was sad that it couldn't be revived.

Her horse nickered, and Saphir grunted softly to calm it.

She walked about the center stone, letting her gloved hand trace its etched face. No one could craft these anymore, not the best mason in Zarahemla. Skills are lost when they are not perpetually renewed. What tools could have worked these magnificent blocks?

Inspired, she drew her sword to scratch the stone. Bringing the blade up, the mirrored surface caught a cloak of midnight behind her, centered with two blazing yellow eyes.

Pure instinct threw the blade back, impaling the black jaguar as it leapt. Saphir "s sword was wrenched from her hand, the impact knocking her against the center stone. She pulled the dagger, expecting another attack.

The horse screamed as something behind the stone assaulted it.

The dying cat's amber eyes followed her, hungry even as it's life ebbed away.

Saphir sliced hard with the dagger into the crippled beast, its hot blood spraying the ground. She took no chances on it getting up again. Wrenching the sword free, she dashed for her horse.

Her mission would fail if she lost the animal.

The mount gave a hearty kick, sending another jaguar flying, but a third beast raked its taloned paw at the horses exposed flank.

A blade in each hand, Saphir attacked the large cat. It retreated just out of reach. Saphir's sword swing extended too far and the cat jumped forward. Her dagger was ready.

Saphir punctured the jaguar's underbelly. It pulled away snarling, but she struck again and again. "I won't be stopped!" she shouted, stabbing until she was certain the jaguar was stilled forever.

All three cats were dead. But her horse was wounded. Could she do this and be back in time?

In a calming effort, she allowed a few tears to roll. A voice in her head whispered this was too hard, these were only jaguars, how could she fare against a cockatrice? Perhaps it was best to go home and spend the last few hours with Mariah before she passed.

No! Saphir wiped away the tears. She could never be satisfied doing less than her all. She banished the doubts while dressing the horses wound; she then gingerly mounted her horse. She must succeed.

Miles on through the weeping willows and aspens, Saphir rounded a bend in the narrow trail and there stood a thatched hut looking more like a pile of kindling. A scruffy older man lay on the ground near the threshold, a boar-spear beside him. He snored loud enough to wake the gods.

"Awake, Jokshan. Shake the dreams from your head. I need your help!" How she loathed the truth of it.

When he didn't stir, she dismounted and tapped him on the shoulder. This brought only a change in pitch and tone. Dumping water from her own flask into his gray beard did the trick.

He sputtered and sat upright, gasping for air. He glared at her, then looked for his dirty wide brimmed hat. Putting it on, he stood and dusted himself off. He cursed and went into his hut.

Saphir was about to shout after him when he promptly came back outside, a discolored wine jug in one hand and a sack in the other.

He held out the sack. "Give this to Boaz," he said, before taking a swig. "But I don't appreciate your rudeness, interrupting my afternoon nap."

"Jokshan, I'm not here for Boaz, the sun has not yet reached its peak and Tryphosa said you could tell me where the cockatrice den is."

He squinted at her and threw the sack back through his open door, letting whatever was in it bang against the threshold. "Who sent you? A Tryphosa?"

"She did."

"I don't know any Tryphosa." He looked away and took another pull on the jug.

"Don't lie to me; your eyes lit up when I mentioned her name. Were you lovers?"

He grinned scarlet until his face matched his neck. "Wanted to be, wanted to be, but that was a longtime ago. Now, what's this about Lev?"

"Lev? You named the cockatrice?"

"Well, yeah, I'm not gonna call it 'cockatrice' any more than I would call a dog 'dog'. What kinda sense would that make?"

"Are you on friendly terms with it then?" asked Saphir.

Jokshan laughed. "Ain't a thing alive on friendly terms with Lev. I just like naming things. You want me to show you his den? You wanna just take a look at him or what?" He took another long swig.

Saphir gave a nervous grin. "I need to kill him. I need his venom gland to save my sister. Tryphosa said it's the only way."

Jokshan scratched his beard. "I suppose it could be done. How many men can you get and when will you need it done? A week? A month? What will you pay for my help?"

"Fifty gold senums and I need to do it now. I must get back to Zarahemla before evening, or my sister will die."

Jokshan turned and went back into his hut, spouting a litany of curses to what seemed an entire pantheon of unfamiliar gods.

"Are you afraid of a poisonous snake?" called Saphir. "Think a snake will kill you?"

Crashing back out the door, Jokshan straightened his hat and glared at her. "Snakes don't kill me, I kill snakes. But Lev, he ain't no snake like you've ever seen. Horrible mottled skin that hides him among the leaves of the forest floor or the river. A tail that will knock any man asunder if they were foolish enough to be near him."

Saphir folded her arms, impassive to his warnings. "Don't matter. I have to try."

Jokshan gestured, putting two curved fingers near his mouth. "Curved fangs, a hand's breadth long, dripping with venom that'll kill your horse dead in a minute. But even worse are his dead black eyes. They're hypnotizing. You can't look him in the eye or that's it. You'll forget everything and he'll have you. I've seen him do it to deer, bears, bison - and even men don't matter. Lock eyes with him and you're dead. But ... that's also a weakness."

"Why?"

"Because he wants to lock eyes with his victims! You might buy some time if you don't look at him."

"You said deer, bears and bison." She deliberately didn't mention men. "How big is he?" asked Saphir.

"I don't call him _Lev_ for nothing."

"Leviathan," whispered Saphir.

"Let's get going. See if we can catch a glimpse and you'll change your mind." Jokshan pointed toward the trees with his flanged boar spear.

He led Saphir through the lush green woods at a steady pace. After about a mile, he stopped and said, "Let's leave the horse here. Lev might sense him, and we want to be careful."

They crossed over a wooded hillock fragrant with wild mint. Saphir heard what sounded like a river somewhere nearby.

"Lev's den is at the riverbank in a cave. He usually hunts things that come to drink."

Soon enough, they were skirting the rocky ridge-line above the river. They looked about apprehensively, and Saphir caught herself gripping her dagger hilt with a sweaty palm. "Where is he?"

Jokshan put a finger to his mouth. "He isn't out, but that's his den right there, under that massive boulder." He pointed at a piece of jutting stone large enough that Saphir wouldn't have called it just a boulder.

They waited in silence for what seemed a terribly long time. Images of Mariah flashed in Saphir's mind. She cursed herself for being helpless to prevent the flux.

"He ain't likely gonna show. Might've eaten something last week and he'll be good to lay up in his den for another week or more. Snakes is like that," said Jokshan. "Just as well, really nothing we could do, just being the two of us."

Picking cockle-burs from her clothing, Saphir asked, "If we had more men and time to plan this, what would you do? What could bring him out?

"Only thing to bring Lev out is food, bait, some kind of morsel incentive."

"Go on."

"Tell you what I'd do. I'd take a cow or horse, cover them in some of that wild mint we passed by a few hundred yards back, a whole bushel of it, and send 'em out into the river. Lev would come out alright, he can't resist that mint."

"Why mint?"

"Don't know for certain, but I think it's almost a narcotic for him. I saw him almost tear up a whole grove of it once. He just kept rolling in it, like it was the most intoxicating thing ever. Only reason he hasn't already taken that patch we passed already, is because he don't like to go over that loose rock." Jokshan gestured back to the ridge.

"Alright, but why would you send the bait into the river?"

"He's gotta come out of the den into the river. He'll slither out and skim across the water. When he's almost all the way out, I'd spear his tail to the riverbank, trapping him. _If_ he didn't escape, he'd eventually get tired of fighting the river current, starve and die. I think. Don't know how long that would take. Course he'd try and take my head off for the trouble."

Saphir's eyes flashed. "You could pierce his hide so easily?"

"I think so, right toward the tail end is where it's thinnest; it flattens out like a paddle. I'm sure I could puncture his scales with this." He brandished his spear. "It's an exalted-copper tip, very sharp, very strong. But without distractions or more people I wouldn't want to try."

"Thought you said you kill snakes," prodded Saphir.

Jokshan chuckled, "And I said Lev ain't just a snake. 'Sides, what if he could pull it out of the riverbank? All depends on how well I could anchor him, which is mighty tricky."

She gazed at the river. The deep brown current swirled and heaved, blossoming flowers of undertow. It beckoned with cool deceitful rhythms, daring her to embrace the hazards. Drowning has a way of making you rethink water's benevolence. But, if she faltered, Mariah was dead.

She couldn't live with the thought of Mariah's death being her fault just because she was afraid of water. She had to try, even if it meant being eaten by Lev.

"I am doing this. Will you help me according to your plan?" asked Saphir. "I have an idea. I'll be the bait."

Jokshan shook his shaggy head. "You' re crazy. It's a death wish."

"I have the senums to pay you handsomely."

"Where?"

"In my saddlebags."

"Fine. You can try, but if Lev hypnotizes or bites you, I'm heading back to the hut, and Tryphosa can come and find out what happened to you herself."

Saphir smiled. "Fair enough. I have a small hammer in my saddlebags, would you be willing to pound the anchor secure?"

Jokshan grinned. "Could try that."

Saphir ran to get her tools and stalks of mint leaves. She returned with the hammer, a huge armful of mint and the polished copper mirror about a foot in diameter.

"What are you gonna do with that?"

"I expect to avoid being hypnotized, but I need to see," she explained.

"And how are you going to swim with a mirror, armfuls of mint and those dark clothes dragging at the waters?"

"Simple. I shall blend the two." Saphir proceeded to weave the stalks of mint together, grateful for once at learning the skill from Tryphosa. Noticing how scanty it would cover her, she mixed in a few stalks of fuzzy leaved mullein.

"Are you a weaver?" asked Jokshan, marveling at her skill.

"Hardly, but I make do the best I can." The sun had slid far overhead, and Saphir worried too much time had passed while she'd been weaving until her fingers almost bled. "How long is Lev? What is the closest distance I can venture toward the den, _if_ you can pin him?"

"Glad you said _if_. I can't promise anything other than my best," said Jokshan. "He ought to be almost as long as the river is wide. Stay close to the far bank when you're directly across from the den, then raise a holler. It'll get his attention, 'specially with all that mint. When I'm behind the den and he starts coming, I'll rush and do my best, but it's awful risky. You sure 'bout this? Is your sister worth it?"

I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. Turn around."

Saphir waited until he did so, then took off her long riding boots, tan trousers and chain vest. She cinched the flowing mint skirt on with her knife belt until it was as secure as possible while still allowing movement, then attached the mirror on a thong to the belt with the dull side face out.

"You know, I'm gonna be looking once you start making noise," said Jokshan, over his shoulder.

"I'm sure you'll be keeping your eyes on Lev if he's half as fearsome as you say."

Jokshan turned and Saphir was already running through the woods to get a good distance upstream. "If only I was twenty years younger," he mused aloud.

Facing the river, Saphir felt some panic at the memory of drowning years earlier. That lake wasn't moving quite like these waters.

The whispers threatened again to dissuade her.

"For Mariah," she said and stepped in.

It was warmer on the toes than she had expected and granted a hint of peace for what she was about to attempt. She slid in all the way.

The mirror smacked her rump. "Steady, Saphir, steady." A moment of panic became foolishness, and she let the current take her downstream, drifting toward the opposite shore. In the middle, it was harder to steer than it had been and once, she felt the icy undercurrent rear up and pull down. Kicking up against the undertow, she straightened out and swam closer to the other side, grateful that she had chosen to abandon her clothes, which surely would have dragged her down.

Her foot skimmed a slick boulder and soon enough she could walk waist-deep, letting herself meander, watchful for the gaping dark den. The mint garment had pulled loose in a few spots, giving the appearance of a slit skirt, and the mint leaves floated beside her, pulled along by the current.

Jokshan was already in position and waved to her.

Blushing, Saphir sank in the water up to her neck and continued downstream until the den was directly across from her. She felt again for her knife and mirror, relieved she had not lost them. She tore a small piece of mint from her skirt and wrapped it round a fist-sized stone.

Jokshan crept closer.

Saphir threw the mint-wrapped stone at the den. It splashed shortly before the dark opening.

Nothing happened.

Jokshan came a little closer, spear in hand.

Saphir watched, and still nothing moved but the river.

What if the beast wasn't inside its den at all, but lurking nearby, hungry? Saphir glanced about the waters surrounding her and chose another stone to throw.

Nothing happened the second or the third time.

Despair took hold, and Saphir rose from the river and sat on a stone, as the water lapped at her shoulders. Nothing to do now but go home and ease Mariah's passing.

"Looks like it's not here," shouted Jokshan over the dull, even roar of the river.

Saphir nodded and stepped back into the river. Swimming across wasn't as hard as she expected, it was shallow here across from the den. Rising from the waters, she was as tired and downtrodden as she ever had been. All the successful robberies and adventures over the years meant nothing in the grander scope of what was important.

Mariah would be gone.

Jokshan stood on the riverbank, a grin splitting his face as he dropped the hammer and extended her a hand. "You know Saphir, you're a mighty fine looking woman. I got some wine at home."

Saphir didn't care anymore, she didn't even mind Jokshan's leer at her near nakedness. At least he kept his other hand on the spear.

She covered her breasts, she didn't want him thinking this would go anywhere.

His eyes went wide, his mouth hung open and he stepped back dumbly.

Saphir realized in horror that he wasn't looking at her.

Glancing over her shoulder, Saphir saw the coils of the cockatrice undulating in the waters. The serpent's head, bigger than a horse's, swayed; the black eyes holding Jokshan in thrall.

Leaping from the riverbank, Saphir took the spear from the man's frozen grasp and made to cast.

The great paddle-like tail whip-cracked out and smacked Saphir into the shallows, knocking the breath from her lungs. The weapon was cast into the depths.

Choking for air, the first sound that struck Saphir's ears were Jokshan's waking screams. The cockatrice's massive jaw unhinged to engulf the man. His feet disappeared with an all-too-sudden silence.

Waist-deep in the cold current, Saphir reached for the knife at her belt.

Lost!

The wedge-shaped head swung in her direction.

Panic took hold and she dove into the river to escape.

The cockatrice followed, gliding upon the waters. It swirled above Saphir, first on her right, then left, hunting her.

She changed direction twice but the monster cut her off each time, its massive coils blotting out the dim sunlight. Fearing it would soon tire of this game, Saphir pushed to reach the original riverbank.

Let me die on land.

Something smacked her in the rump and, expecting a vicious bite, she screamed silently, before realizing it was the mirror on her belt. Touching bottom, Saphir struggled to ascend the riverbank before the serpent drew near.

A hiss directly behind told her the cockatrice was mere feet away. Grasping the mirror from her belt, Saphir held it up, directly between her and the unholy monster. Stepping back to higher ground, Saphir sensed it slithering ever closer.

She prayed the cockatrice might seduce itself within the copper mirrors reflection.

No such luck.

Saphir dared to glance over the side of the mirror and was nearly seduced herself by the serpent's stare. She quickly adjusted the mirror keeping it between her and the deadly gaze. At the least the exalted copper would work as a temporary shield, being nearly as strong as steel.

The unwholesome image of the cockatrice's intense black eyes burned into her brain but did not hold her transfixed. She stepped back again and felt the hammer Jokshan must have dropped upon his demise, at her feet.

The monster swung its large head side-to-side, still attempting to make Saphir meet its eyes.

Saphir again lowered the mirror, but did not make eye contact. Trusting to her instincts, she watched the serpent's body, seeing its muscles tense and loosen.

Jaws agape, long fangs extended, the cockatrice struck.

Saphir raised the mirror just in time. One massive fang punctured through the mirror, its venom searing her hand, but she knew that letting go meant certain death.

The serpent swung its head, trying to shake the obstruction loose, but the mystically forged metal held fast despite losing its brilliance.

In turn, Saphir wrenched with all her might and felt the muscles holding the fang flex. Her foot brushed against the hammer again. Stooping to reach, she let go once with her right hand, but almost had the mirror torn from her grasp as the monster shook. Its tail swept out and knocked her off her feet but she would not let go.

Raising her up still clinging to the mirror, the serpent smashed Saphir down into the unforgiving ground.

Breathless and almost broken, Saphir spotted the hammer above her shoulder. She snatched the hickory handle with her right hand, pushing herself up with the left.

Even with the copper mirror hanging from its jaw, the cockatrice came in for a final one-fanged strike.

"For my sister!" Saphir slammed the hammer's iron head against the base of the cockatrice's fang. It amazingly snapped loose, and the cockatrice retreated, writhing.

She picked the tarnished mirror up. The broken fang and bits of gore and bloody gum tissue, even the serpent's venom sac, were embedded in it.

Saphir winced as she wiped the burning venom from her hand on the ground. Already her skin weltered, but she had to hurry. Not bothering to even dress herself, Saphir ran to her horse, mounting up and riding it the miles home to exhaustion.

Dusk walled up the sky in Phoenician crimson. Saphir raced through the streets of Zarahemla until she reached her own doorway, where Tryphosa stood with a disturbed look upon her face. Saphir dismounted and shook the woman to break her from what seemed a deep trance.

"I have the venom gland. Is Mariah?" asked Saphir.

Tryphosa blinked at her. "Saphir? It's you! Then you succeeded? Where are your clothes?"

Saphir pulled the mirror, fang, and gland from her saddlebag, the bottom of which was nearly eaten through by the venom.

"I tried to cleanse the house, but couldn't. Whatever evil spirit is here will not depart. The others now have the flux, as well," said Tryphosa. "I do, too."

"Will the gland not heal us?"

"It should, but something powerfully evil is here. Your home is cursed."

"I have invited nothing into my home," said Saphir. "Nor have the children. What could have caused this?"

The women entered the cottage to look upon the children's scarlet faces. They all coughed and looked miserable, while poor Mariah murmured deliriously. "Shadows in wardrobe, I didn't want . . . the gift."

Tryphosa and Saphir looked at each other.

"What a fool I was," said Tryphosa, as they each threw open the wardrobe doors. Casting all the clothing aside, Saphir discovered a small half-figure of obsidian on the shelf, a hideous grin masked upon his half-face.

Saphir reached for the object, as a tangible shadow formed overhead. It knocked her aside as the wardrobe doors slammed shut.

The children screamed and cold like the deep of winter settled upon Saphir's bare summer skin.

"I like it here," came a voice bottomless as the night. "I stay." The voice cut them with its harsh tone, glass vessels in the room vibrated and pitched off shelves as mist congealed in the shadowy corners.

"Get the children out," said Tryphosa, ushering the three children who could stand.

The front door slammed shut and a force threw Tryphosa across the room.

"You stay," demanded the voice as a shadow solidified, somewhat akin to a man comprised of smoke. Hollow dark spots resembling eyes were the only feature discernible in the billowing gloom. "Until the master speaks."

"Master?" Saphir glanced out the window, already guessing the answer.

Corom, the green-cloaked warlock, stood outside grinning, the other half of the obsidian figure in his left hand. He shouted, "You're finally home, Saphir! Have you met my servant? Do you have time for me now, I wonder? Only I can release the curse!"

Pondering the options for all scenarios, as well as the little she knew of cursed artifacts, Saphir asked low so Corom would not hear said, "Shade, the master asks for me. May I show myself at the door?"

A broad rippling hand of shadow reached and the door flew open, almost shattering upon its hinges.

"Fool girl! What are you doing?" shouted Tryphosa.

"Trust me."

Stepping to the door, still in naught but the woven mint skirt, Saphir faced Corom. It had the desired effect.

He gazed open-mouthed upon her state of undress. His eyes went wide over her every voluptuous curves. "Saphir! You are so beautiful," he whispered, giving a full body shiver.

She came to him, swaying with each graceful step. Wrapping her arms about him and pressing closer, he inhaled the scent of mint that still clung to her.

He froze in delight as their lips met. Groping, he let her hands take his.

Saphir ripped the cursed token from his grasp and stepped back.

Dumbfounded, Corom reached for her, but Saphir shoved him away and cast the vile object at the ground. It shattered into a dozen sharp fragments against the cobblestones.

Inside the house, the dark spirit warped and faded but did not yet disappear.

Tryphosa, deducing from the sound of volcanic glass, opened the wardrobe and took the remaining half of the idol in her hand, dashed it upon the tiled floor.

The evil spirit fully faded away.

Saphir stepped back inside, shutting the door.

Corom threw himself against the threshold. "Let me in! You are mine! Only I can break the spell and heal your family. You belong to me. Only me!"

Saphir cracked open the door, concealing her hands.

His face curled into a slick smile, eyes sharpening at the very sight of her. "Oh, Saphir . . ."

She allowed him to push the door open a little, then she revealed the mirror with the cockatrice fang still embedded in it. "I believe this belongs to you," she whispered. A fierce joy coursed through her as she pushed the fang into his groping hand.

Corom gasped, stepping back to stare at the hand, which rapidly turned an sickly blue. "Why? I only ever loved you."

"You don't know love."

Corom dropped to his knees; a pained expression wracked his face. Holding his hand up, it became black and shriveled, dark lines flowed up the arm under the skin toward his heart. "All is dark," he said with a whimper.

"Do you recognize me?" Saphir asked.

"I can't see . . . all is dark."

"No one curses my family," said Saphir, kicking him over.

Corom shivered and became still, his mouth agape.

Turning back to Tryphosa and her siblings, Saphir said, "I almost pity him, but not quite."

"A vile end to a vile man," agreed Tryphosa.

"I'll get rid of him. Can you still make the cure?" asked Saphir.

"I've already begun, but Mariah looks better just with the evil aura gone. Everyone is going to be fine."

"Was my quest for nothing then? Did I even need the serpent's root?" Saphir looked down at the obsidian fragments.

"Good or ill, all experiences are for our benefit," answered the witch. "Discovery, after all, is the key to life's purpose."

**ASSASSIN HUNTER**

by

Drew Briney

"I'M TERRIBLY DISAPPOINTED IN YOU."

The words hung in the air like a spider web waiting for prey to wander by. But Kaden was too groggy to recognize the bait. And his eyes were disturbingly blurry. He tightly squeezed them shut and shook his head, hoping to clear his thoughts and vision. Neither came. He squinted towards the figure in front of him. She appeared nothing more than a thin splotch of white clothes with long dark hair dripping towards her navel. He inhaled deeply. Rich pine scents greeted him but the groggy stupor held fast, refused to be casually tossed aside. Coarse bark gnawed upon his back so Kaden tugged against his bonds. Sore wrists protested but the pain helped clear his mind. He shook his head again and slowly began to remember what had happened.

The young girl observed, said nothing, and waited patiently.

Finally able to process her words, he grumbled, "To be fair, your thugs drugged me. Anyone can be surprised." Kaden might have said more but his head flopped helplessly towards the ground, a heavy boulder he could no longer bear. His eyelids sagged and his eyes rolled as he began to lose consciousness. Kaden shook his head a third time and regained a thin strand of mental clarity. _It will pass_ , he promised himself. _Just give it a few minutes_.

"Still," the young girl persisted. "I heard you were unstoppable, the perfect assassin. It only took three men to take you down when you knew you were being hunted."

The shot at his pride hit the mark and riveted his attention. "Three men shooting long range darts is hardly fair game. Perhaps if you would like a fair contest, we could play on equal grounds." He pulled at his bonds but it was nothing more than an emotional reflex. With a little determination, however, he was able to hold his head up more steadily and to glare at his captor. Mostly, he just tried to focus but years of rough living revealed a biting visage.

Kaden may have sounded overconfident but she knew substance met speech. Any three of her men would be poorly matched. Still, she wanted to taunt him. "There are running bets over why you were kicked out of your brotherhood. Perhaps you've been slipping a little?" Kaden's icy scowl could have frozen a desert snake but the girl merely feigned fear and then offered a subdued smile. It fit her well. Her pristine visage all but demanded dimpled cheeks.

"Poor Kaden," she said as she walked towards him. "I'm afraid I'm _not_ a very good host." Her sultry stride was immediately inconsistent and confusing. Kaden estimated she hadn't welcomed her teens and yet her confidence seemed genuine and unfeigned as she sauntered towards him with the gait of a seasoned siren.

A simple shirt with ruffles hugged the young girl's torso beneath her shoulders. Matching armbands wrapped her biceps. A pleated skirt failed to reach her knees. Thin, traditional silver threads weaved their way through her long, obsidian hair and sparkled as they kissed random rays of sun. Bronze skin framed haunting, light blue eyes. Kaden scowled as he tried to place her role in his abduction. She was too young to hold any allure and yet she glided towards him like a veteran seductress. _Awkward. She's a ruse,_ he concluded. _Bait._

As his consciousness emerged, Kaden began to absorb his surroundings better and to consider his escape. This unholy siren was nothing more than a diversion, someone meant to make him feel overconfident, unthreatened. As his eyes darted around the forest, he considered there would be a half dozen men with weapons trained on him, ready to take him out the moment he freed himself. He saw nothing.

"Hmmm. You don't feel safe ..." She reached up, cradled his strong jaw with her right hand, and offered a reassuring grin. Outwardly, she appeared a gracious dove but that did little to assuage his suspicions. Kaden answered nothing, scowled, and continued to survey his surroundings while she caressed his evening stubble with her thumb. "I'm _so_ sorry," she whispered. She turned towards a couple large trees to her right. "Men! You're dismissed." A few soldiers stepped out of the shadows and walked away. She looked towards another set of trees to her left and repeated the orders. More men disappeared into the forest. "If anyone else is left, you're dismissed as well," she snapped with the loudest voice a pre-teen could offer. Kaden only observed one man leaving. Eight total. There would probably be a couple more that lingered. _Prearranged. All show_.

The girl pulled a knife from behind her back and let the sun hit the blade as she observed its shaft. "I'm Treiliki," she offered as she walked around the tree to cut his bonds. Kaden casually reached down to untie the remaining ankle bonds and then stood up to finish untying his hands. As he did, he carefully scanned the area for his hood, jacket, boots, and gear. He saw nothing on the ground or in the trees. He noticed Treiliki wasn't wearing any shoes. Walking around a bed of pine needles, she didn't seem the slightest bit bothered by their continual pricks. Kaden frowned. He couldn't help noticing the needle bites and he wasn't even walking.

As Treiliki rounded the tree, Kaden noticed there was no sheath for her blade. Treiliki noticed Kaden's eyes surveying her backside and took the opportunity to exaggerate her swagger. Kaden considered attacking. If he grabbed her quickly, he could use her as a shield, demand his gear and ... _No._ He needed to wait. Something wasn't right, something he couldn't quite identify. He silently grumbled at Treiliki's deliberately sensual movements. She seemed accustomed to accentuating her budding femininity with every movement. Too genuine to be a ploy, it was old hat. He shuddered. Despite his profession, Kaden considered himself strictly bound by moral codes. And young slave trafficking lurked far underneath those codes. He wanted to slit her abductor's throat. Already, he could smell the blood. When the opportunity arose, Kaden would track him down.

"There," Treiliki began, her back still turned to him. "Do you feel safe now?" She broke eye contact.

"No." He wasn't lying. No boots, no weapons, no legitimate assurance there weren't still a half dozen drugged darts aimed at his neck.

"Hmmm." Her voice seemed sincerely pensive. "Your gear is eight feet above you." Barely considering she might be setting him up, Kaden looked up and saw his gear. With no low hanging branches, it would be awkward to climb the trunk like a bear but he could pull it off - even without boots.

"You're freshly unemployed. I thought you might enjoy some work," she began, finally turning towards her captive. "I have a certain contract that needs fulfilled." Treiliki didn't speak like a pre-teen. Kaden gritted his teeth, said nothing. She would offer terms soon enough.

"I want you to hunt down your brotherhood. Take each of them out, report the job, and I'll tell you where to find payment. When you're finished, you take out Anna. Fifteen hits total. I pay better than your old boss. Do we have a deal?" Treiliki spoke quickly, like an experienced gangster who didn't enjoy prolonged conversations. She turned her back on Kaden again, stretched her toes to trace something in the needled flooring.

Asking for time to consider the offer was not an option. Either Kaden feigned acceptance and fled deeper into hiding or he took the job. The offer didn't pass the smell test but acceptance would be better than other options.

"Done."

"You have five weeks."

Involuntarily, Kaden released a mocking gust of air and barely covered a chuckle. The last contingency was absurd. Most of the brotherhood was local for the next few weeks. Two were commissioned to take out Kaden. They wouldn't be difficult to find. Three more were set up for outside jobs. As for Anna, Kaden only vaguely remembered she was hiding in a nearby village and he couldn't recall how he'd learned her location. Perhaps he'd remember when the drugs wore off. Regardless, after a few hits, everyone would be on edge. That would make them more difficult to take out. Five weeks was nigh unto impossible. Then again, if things went too poorly, Kaden could leave traces of his new employer with the dead bodies and disappear with a fresh load of money to keep him happy for a while. The two brotherhoods could fight it out and Kaden might be forgotten in the mix. Either way, he'd win.

"Done." A branch cracked a dozen paces away. Kaden instantly believed he'd been tricked. Perhaps Treiliki worked for the brotherhood. Perhaps they were merely hunting for an open betrayal to bolster their case. Self preservation kicked in. Kaden launched towards the young girl, grabbed the knife from her hand, pulled her to the ground, held her on top of himself for cover, and firmly pressed the knife against her throat.

A lion bitten by a lamb wouldn't have been more surprised.

Before he understood what was happening, Kaden found himself rolling in fetal position and begging for his life as he cringed under Treiliki's psionic attack. She sent him into shivering convulsions and uncontrolled vomiting. He was only vaguely aware she was barking orders at a few soldiers coming out of hiding. Several long moments passed in silence before Kaden braved a peek at his captor. She widened her mouth like a cat and hissed. Uncontrollably, Kaden recoiled and hugged his knees to his chest, babbled unintelligibly.

"You gave your word," Treiliki growled. "I expect you to keep it." She allowed a long pause to haunt the air. "Don't disappoint me again," she added as she sauntered away. Kaden's eyes lingered on her until she disappeared into the forest. _With power like that, why don't you do it yourself?_ he wondered. She could probably induce a heart attack just by thinking hard.

Kaden wasn't superstitious, wasn't religious. And he didn't believe in mind control. And yet, there he lie, frozen on the ground like a butterfly with soggy wings, made captive by the very thought of some lithe little girl with a cutesy name. None of this made sense and it deeply disturbed him as he rested on a bed of pine needles, the newly appointed assassin hunter. He lingered there for several minutes before mustering the courage to climb the tree, to recover his gear.

KADEN HOVERED BY THE LEDGE OF THE BUILDING, hunkered down, hooded, and carefully observing his last two hits. Round one had been easier than expected. With a semiautomatic, a silencer, and a gathering around a large, scenic window, Kaden hadn't believed his own luck. Nothing could have been easier. The brotherhood's overconfidence had been unbelievable, astounding. In contrast, round two had offered a year's worth of excitement in less than a month. Everyone had been on edge. Two hired security teams while they finalized travel plans. Kaden hadn't received any bonus for the extra work but didn't complain: Treiliki did pay better than the brotherhood. And now, he had both targets staying in the same building with adjoining rooms. As long as he got a clean shot with minimal noise, Anna wouldn't suspect his presence until it was too late. If all went well, he'd even have an extra day to spare. If not, he had a backup plan.

Kaden's next hit, a young assassin in training, stayed clear of the lone window and trusted heavy curtains to hide his position. His overconfidence left Kaden ashamed for the young man. Green or not, he should have known better. Heat vision goggles and a high powered rifle made this nothing more than a game of patience. Sooner or later the greenie would walk past the window to retire to bed. When he did, Kaden would take him out and move on to Anna's room.

As it neared 2 a.m., Kaden expected the move any moment. He wasn't disappointed. The greenie darted past the window, clearly aware of the risk. His speed wasn't enough. Kaden eyed the motionless corpse several moments before accepting the hit as complete. _Too easy,_ he gloated as he packed the rifle, rolled it into an oversized duffle bag, and hid it underneath a large piece of folded canvas that hadn't moved in many months.

He wouldn't take out Anna so impersonally. Something unnerved him about her hit but he couldn't put his finger on it. He needed to feel out the situation. He needed to see her up close. He scowled. Killing was his game but Anna had recently changed the rules. She'd ordered hits on innocents, children. That had been the whole thrust behind Kaden's dissent. He should have been happy to take her out but as he scaled down the building, crossed the street, and made his way up the stairs by her room, something continually pulled at his conscience. And something nagged at him to check the greenie, to make sure he was down.

Before entering Anna's room, Kaden plodded down the hall to the adjoining room and pulled out his lavamag blade. He pushed it into the old school key entry, pushed the button, and waited briefly while it quietly buzzed and whirred. Soon, the internal tumblers pulled into place. The bolt turned and released. Kaden quietly opened the door and stepped inside.

Soon, Kaden observed a large crimson stain decorating the greenie's chest. If he wasn't dead, he would be soon. Still, he wanted a closer look. Kaden quietly pushed the door closed and walked towards the corpse. He kicked it. No reaction. _Dead. No question_ , he thought. Still, he couldn't leave. Uncertainty plagued his mind. He knelt down next to the body and thrust his palm against the greenie's chest. Nothing happened. Then, Kaden followed his intuition with his hand still pushing on the dead man's chest: he placed all of his weight onto the corpse and squeezed his fingers. Instead of feeling the body, he felt the pads of his fingers pressed against the flooring. _That's it. Mental implant._ With no real body under his hand, Kaden could only assume the hit was nothing more than a test. Still, the image remained. The greenie's hands clutched an old school fiberoptic invisibility cloak. Kaden grabbed it, put in on, and pulled the large hood over his face.

He casually walked the short distance to Anna's room and met eyes with a passing maid. She was strikingly beautiful. For a moment, Kaden regretted he was on duty and smiled back. He placed the lavamag blade into Anna's key entry, waited for the click, and quietly entered. The moment he closed the door, he donned night vision glasses, tossed aside the worthless cloak, and twisted the silencer out of habit, ensuring it was snug. Anna was likely asleep. If he hadn't already awakened her, this would be an easy hit. _Stay silent_. He quickly rounded the corner, gun aimed at this last hit. On her side and facing towards him, Anna lie asleep, uncovered by sheets, in a night gown, and as vulnerable as a child sleeping in a bear cave. Hand tickling the trigger, Kaden carefully aimed and pulled. The familiar buzz pierced the air. Anna gasped. Her body tremored and then rested lifeless.

Kaden pushed the gun in its holster and approached her bedside. He rolled her onto her back and pressed hard against her chest just as he'd done with the greenie. He squeezed with his fingertips and felt her ribs. _That's it._ He wouldn't kill her. He checked her pulse. _Steady._ He pulled out the drugged dart, pulled out a vial of blood from his deepest pant pocket, and poured it over her heart. Then Kaden crawled over a chair in the dark corner of the room, draped a throw over his body, and called in the hits: "Both down. Verify whenever. I'm out."

Treiliki answered: "Dirty bag behind the bush next to your hotel door. Well done. You didn't disappoint." Click. Kaden pulled out a live gun and sat there waiting, carefully retracing the past few weeks. A sultry pre-teen, _Treiliki walked barefoot over pine needles. Light blue eyes with black hair and copper skin. No sheath for her blade. Psionic blast._ _Several easy hits_. _The greenie was a mental implant - a false future memory. The cloak wasn't real._ _Memories of Anna were vague, sourceless._ _Anna wasn't dressed like an assassin. No weapons adorned her bedside. Nothing blocked her room entry._ What did it all add up to?

A small picture, wrapped in a nondescript frame, rested against Anna's purse close to Kaden. He grabbed it. A young blond played barefoot, hair fluttering in the wind. Kaden turned the picture over. Taped to the back was a strikingly beautiful woman that deeply moved his soul. He remembered the photo but _not_ the woman. A dozen nondescript memories flooded his consciousness but he couldn't place any of them. Lightening blue eyes, bronze skin, black hair, and a killer smile. She was an older version of Treiliki. _Erased memories,_ he realized with horror. _But why?_ He turned the picture over again and studied the young blonde. She was younger but she bore the same visage, the same eyes. And she was barefoot. The Treiliki he'd recently seen was a mix between this photo and the woman he couldn't quite remember. He recalled his early training: memory alterations could be messy. It's impossible to map a mind perfectly, to selectively erase details, to add pieces that weren't really there - without making some mistakes.

Kaden's mind buzzed as he tried to connect the dots. He sat motionless, waiting for the bonus hits. Two men entered. Kaden counted their footsteps, removed his night vision glasses, and squinted. _Dead men standing._ The first turned on the lights and quickly spotted Anna.

"Tucked into bed, just like the others," he said. "Perfect as promised." When the second hit entered, Kaden pulled the trigger twice and watched both men fall. He stood up, placed Treiliki's picture in his pocket, and walked over to Anna. He hefted her over his shoulder and exercised great stealth as he wound his way back to his car. She'd be out for hours. By the time she awakened, he'd have the dirty bag, his other gear, and a quiver full of questions. Kaden felt like a well written letter on perforated paper - an encrypted message obscured by numerous holes in all the wrong places. He needed to find Treiliki. And nondescript memories suggested Anna would know where to find her.

This story was heavily edited, expanded, and republished as a novella here. It will be available on Audible, iTunes, and Amazon as an ebook by March, 2019.

**FANGS OF THE DRAGON**

by

David J. West

_Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster._

_And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. —_ Friedrich Nietzsche

THE WATER LAPPED HUNGRILY AT THE SHORE. Waves rippled across shadowy liquid, pushed by something stronger than the moon's dominion. Something splashed far out in the lake as the mournful melody of a flute carried and abruptly went silent.

An eerie green ball of fire raced across the night sky on the far side of the lake. It shot chaotically from side to side down the mountain as if chasing down prey, diving hard, it was gone.

A man driving his wagon approached the lake. "Look at that Ahab, who says there isn't even a lake monster to see around here?" said Phineas Cook, to the dog that sat beside him. "I see lots of things." He cracked the reins and forced the ox, Petunia, down to the lake-shore.

Bringing the wagon to the rim of the ebbing surf, he circled it around next to a massive gnarled stump.

Phineas didn't want to be on Bear Lake at night, but it couldn't be helped. Work at the mill had taken longer than expected and he still had to uphold the bargain with Brother Brigham. The rope was expensive and there wouldn't be a better time than now. Naysayers were asleep, as were curious onlookers.

Bleak stars hung overhead as Phineas removed a rowboat from the wagon and set it upon the lake-shore while Ahab chased his tail.

The ox eyed the water, snorted and threatened to depart.

He ran a hand across her flanks, "Easy, Petunia. I've work to do, nothing to be afraid of."

Ahab whined.

"Same for you. We capture this leviathan and we'll be able to take care of the Church's debts. Think of the good we can do."

Ahab buried his face with his paws.

Icy mist lingered over the lake as Phineas secured a thick hemp rope to the huge stump. He put a pair of buoys in the water, one larger than the other, next to the rowboat. From the buckboard he produced a flag, Old Glory, and attached it to the top of the larger buoy.

It was cold, steam flared from his nostrils as Ahab whined again. "You coward," he said, loading the buffalo gun and setting it within easy reach.

A mournful sound carried across the waters and Phineas watched a moment, discerning nothing in the gloom. He waited a minute longer and whispered a prayer with eyes open. "Lord, walk beside me."

He lanced raw mutton upon a great triangular hook. Ahab whined so he tossed a small piece of meat to Ahab, saying, "You wait here. Watch Petunia. I'll be back shortly." He attached the hook to the smaller of the two buoys by a twenty foot chain.

Phineas pushed the rowboat into the lake, with the tethered buoys floating beside. He kept the baited hook in the boat with the buffalo gun. He waved to the pacing dog and rowed with soft sloshing sounds out into the lake. The rope slowly uncoiled from the stump into the frigid waters. It was fall but already frost danced across the valley.

Three hundred feet out and the larger flagged buoy jerked, held fast by the great stump. Phineas had another three hundred feet for the second buoy but with as late and cold as it was, he decided he needn't row that far. He pushed the smaller buoy to let it drift away. The twenty foot chain dragged from the boat. Phineas picked up the stout barbed hook and let it lightly into the water.

The smaller buoy shook as the weight of the chain pulled it taut. Phineas smiled. Nothing to do now but wait and let blessings come.

A tortured scream shot across the lake.

Phineas couldn't tell if it was human or animal nor from which direction it came. The boat rocked as he looked frantically in all directions. Picking up the buffalo gun, he was momentarily disoriented as the boat spun upon the dark mirrored water.

A horrifying roar echoed over the waters, terrible in its satanic majesty. Beastly divergent from the first cry, this was the sound of a bloodthirsty victor, not a victim.

If he had ever heard a monster, that was it. The sensation of that demonic call sickened him, inducing nausea worse than the time he fell into a swarm of pungent crickets. He'd never thought to feel that horrible again, but this enveloped him in thick dread.

Silhouetted against the hills, the greenish light of a fireball rose and floated across the lake some distance south, writhing worm-like in its flight. The color and speed were too strange for a lantern, the twisting trajectory maddening.

Phineas's eyes and rifle followed the thing as it moved away. He wondered briefly if he saw the eyes of a dragon, its colossal head lumbering back and forth as it swam the lake. If so, the brute would be far larger than he had anticipated, a behemoth for the ages.

The wicked firelight continued south, growing dim until it disappeared behind hills or sinking into the depths. Phineas couldn't be sure where it vanished in the dark. He pondered his predicament when a splash and knock against the rowboat made the blood in his veins freeze in piercing shards.

Something was alive in the water beside him.

Heart thawed and racing, he paused and looked over the side.

A thick wet tongue caressed his hand.

Cursing, he leveled the gun at Ahab's wet black face. "Ahab, you fool, I nearly killed ya." He pulled the dog into the boat and was promptly rewarded with its shaking dry. "As if I'm not cold enough," he growled, before rowing with all possible speed for land.

On shore, Phineas painstakingly loaded the rowboat into the wagon as the wind came down from the north. It whipped and gave him a chill as it cut sharply through his damp clothes.

"Let's go Ahab, we gotta get home."

The dog whined again as a loud creak caught Phineas attention. The rope to the first buoy was stretched rigid to the stump, water droplets catching moonlight before falling.

"The wind must be pulling her tight," said Phineas. "It's fine."

Creaking again, the stump lurched from the bank, exposing a few inches from the sandy shore. Phineas frowned and stepped upon the stump.

"Wind must really be pulling, but this is too heavy to go any further," he said, stamping his foot.

Shuddering, the stump heaved into the lake creating a white wake. Ahab whined as his master was pulled into the dark water.

IT HAD BEEN A COLD NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAIN for Porter and he meant to stay indoors tonight if he could, but first he went looking for a drink. He was of medium size but broad shouldered and strong, a fighting man, a gunslinger. Dark hair beginning to pepper erupted from beneath his slouch hat and his beard was long and wild as the north wind. But the most disconcerting thing to the townsfolk that watched him ride in, what made them turn away, was his piercing pale blue eyes. The eyes of a killer.

Riding the full length of the town and back again, he was disappointed. No saloon and no inn. He cursed the luck that broke two bottles of Valley-Tan whiskey on the ride through the mountains.

The most promising sanctuary looked to be a general store. He tied his stallion to the hitching post, knocked grime from his worn duster and went inside. His heavy boots pounding the floorboards as the spurs chimed in.

The air inside was stuffy; sunbeams swirling dust graced through thin windowpanes. A thin clerk paused reading the latest edition of the Utah Magazine and smiled, "Morning sir, what can I help you with today? Name is Thomas."

"Got any whiskey? Valley-Tan?" asked the rider, looking about the sparse room.

Frowning, Thomas put down the paper and grabbed a broom. "No, 'fraid not."

"How about a room then?"

Tightening the broomstick, Thomas said, "No, sir, we don't. You ought to keep moving along if you're looking for such things."

The rider gave a lopsided grin and ran a hand over his long peppered beard. "How's about you direct me to Brother Cook then," he said staring through Thomas.

Thomas repeated, "Brother? You ... you're Porter Rockwell?"

Port grunted, "You sure you ain't got anything to drink?"

"Yes, sir."

Pounding the counter-top, Port said, "I need a squar' drink!"

"Let me look again. Said you want to see Brother Cook? He's laid up in bed, had an accident last night, he did," said Thomas, as he rummaged through crates behind the counter. "Seems he fell into the lake, near froze to death afore he got home. Heard he blamed it on the lake monster."

"What's that?" replied Port, only half-listening as he squinted at a suspect case in the corner.

Straightening, Thomas proclaimed, "The eighth wonder of the world Brother Rich calls it. Right here in our own valley. You haven't heard of the Bear Lake Monster?"

"No," Port groaned, "What's in that case yonder?"

"It's for tinctures."

"Good enough, hand it over," he said, extending his broad palm.

Thomas paused.

Porter gestured with hands strong enough to break a bull's neck.

Reluctantly handing over a bottle, Thomas said, "You know the Good Lord doesn't want you to drink that."

Porter uncorked the bottle, sniffed it and took a swig. "Well, has _He_ ever tried it with raspberries?"

Thomas curled his lips at that. "After last night I imagine Brother Cook needs all the help he can get. Soon enough President Young will have to address things too." He held up the latest issue of the Utah Magazine to emphasize his point.

Porter looked at Thomas. "Don't know anything about that, I just need a place to sleep a couple nights. Give me four bottles."

"But you are here because of the monster?"

"Yup, a monster, sure" said Porter between gulps.

"You don't know much about it then do you?"

"Nope. I understand there's been some killings. Brother Brigham asked me to come take care of it. _If_ there was anything to it."

"There is," Thomas said with conviction. "We need true authority to take care of the problem. You can wait for Brother Cook to be ready to talk, but understand this, he had a hook and chain tied to buoys and roped to a huge stump beside the lake."

"So?" said Port, quaffing another mouthful.

"This morning Brother Rich told me, he saw that stump in the lake heading north."

Port shrugged.

"Something pulled it up the lake, against the wind, the buoys were held down underwater. This thing may be too blessed big ... even for you."

"I got my own blessings," responded Port. "Where is Cook?"

"Fine house, above the mill, just up the hill. Talk to Brother Cook, but he'll be no help. If I was you, I'd talk to one of the Lamanites," he said, gesturing south.

Port's gaze hardened at that remark; it didn't seem that long ago he met the Shoshone on the Bear River. Images of frozen blood and thunder washed over him. "Which one?"

"You'll want to find Ligaii-Maiitsoh. We call him Lehi; he likes that. Knows everything about the monster."

"That's no Shoshone name," said Port.

Thomas shook his head, "He's not Shoshone, they avoid him, not sure what tribe he is. But he's been good to us. He's nearly a convert."

"Where can I find him?"

STEPPING INTO THE BRIGHT SUNLIGHT, Port stared eastward across the vast long lake. He stretched his back, which in turn let his brace of pistols leer from his person.

A young mother and her son took one look at the long-haired gunfighter and wheeled around.

Port grinned. Watchdogs are rarely appreciated.

He went down the steps whistling an old tune, but a sixth sense that always rode shotgun with him, whispered, look around.

Three men, dogged his trail. They followed on his right with the rising sun at their backs.

"Hey, Rockwell! Need a word with you," shouted the foremost of the three.

Porter pretended he couldn't hear them while watching them in his peripheral vision. He crossed the muddy street in long strides, so that he was on their right, with the sun and shimmering lake at his back.

"We're talking to you, Danite!"

Porter faced them where the alleyway between buildings flashed sunlight into their faces. He watched as townsfolk scurried off the street. All but a curious white haired old Indian. He just stared.

"Hey, Porter!" called the foremost man. "Heard, you can't be shot or cut."

Port spat, "You pukes need schoolin'?"

The first averted his eyes pulling his revolver saying, "Ain't you the funny man." A second with crooked teeth also drew a pistol, the third a shotgun. They kept their distance with guns trained on Port, who had yet to draw, but they respected the pistol handles sticking out of his coat.

"You want me to feed those to ya?" asked Port with a grin.

The three stood with guns pointed but still nervous. Crooked Teeth shook so that his pistol trembled.

"You boys think I've lasted this long to be gunned down by your sorry hides?"

The leader swaggered, "Maybe. You're getting old. Why not?"

Port prodded, "So why don't ya _try_ already?"

Crooked teeth, whined, "Boss said we could just run him out of town."

"Huh-uh. He ain't gonna run. Are you Porter?"

Port shook his head.

The shot-gunner chuckled, "We got him."

Port winked.

Crooked teeth wiped his brow with his free hand, letting his aim go far afield.

Porter lunged sideways, drawing his two navy revolvers. Shots blazed and echoed. Bone shattered as Port's lead was sown scarlet upon dirty white fields.

Bullets whizzed like mercurial hornets past Port's ears, but he was untouched. He was always untouched, but he also respected how close death stood, always over his shoulder.

The three lay upon the ground, alive but wounded, mewling.

"Quit you're caterwauling," Port ordered. He nudged their shattered elbows and forearms with his boot. "You pukes is lucky, I was aiming lower." Glancing about for onlookers, "Where is the Marshall?"

The only soul on the street was the old Indian.

"Chief, I need the Marshall or deputy, where're they?"

The Indian just stared.

The lead gunman stopped crying long enough to ask, "Arrrgh. Why don't ya just kill us?"

Grinding his boot heel into the bleeding arm, Port demanded, "Why'd you come gunning for me? Who put you up to it? How'd you know I'd be here?"

The man screamed as Port's heel pressed. The old Indian still watched impassive as ever.

"Well?"

A new voice called out, "Rockwell! You can't do that, it isn't legal." A smartly dressed man approached, followed by two deputies.

"You the sheriff?" Port extended a handshake.

"I am." The man declined to shake, instead pointing at the three wounded men. "I respect your reputation, but you cannot torture these men."

The deputies picked up the wounded and led them down the road.

Grimacing, Port said, "I suppose its right for them to threaten me on the street?"

"Of course not, but times have changed. You're not the judge, jury and executioner. Not anymore," said the sheriff.

"I never was," answered Port.

The sheriff gave a sarcastic half-grin. "I could run you in for this."

Port glared.

"But I won't, I'll ask that you leave your guns with me while you're in town."

"Ha! _No_."

Paling, the sheriff blustered, "Fine, but anymore trouble and you'll be locked up."

"Someone put them up to this, I've a right to find out who."

"We'll find out. When it goes before Judge Jenson, next week. They may counter-charge you, so if there were any witnesses, you may need their testimony."

"Got one saw the whole thing." Port looked for the Indian, but the old man had disappeared on the wide open street. "He was just here."

"I didn't see anyone when I walked up. This may turn into a case of your word against theirs," said the sheriff. "Maybe you better leave town before any of that happens, let Brigham protect you again."

Cocking an eyebrow, the old gunfighter spat on the sheriff's polished boots and walked away.

PORT RODE TO THE HOUSE JUST UP THE HILL. A black dog lounging on the porch watched him dismount. At the door, it licked Port's hand.

"Hey, boy, what's your name?" asked Port kneeling. He scratched its exposed neck before knocking.

A short blonde woman opened. "I'm so glad you're here. Come in," she said, beaming. "Ahab, stay outside."

Removing his hat, Port asked, "Really, ma'am?"

"Of course. I recognize you, Brother Rockwell. I'm Amanda Cook."

Realization dawned across his face. "Wheat! You're, Dave Savage's papoose, ain't ya?" Port said with a laugh.

"Mary, see that the eggs are collected." Ushering her daughter out to the hen house, Amanda smiled. "No one has called me my father's papoose in years. Phineas is going to be so glad to see you and get your help."

"My help, ma'am?"

She turned her head, "With the monster," she said, raising her eyebrows. "That is why you're here isn't it?"

"I reckon so," said Port. "But everyone seems to know a trifle more than I do."

Amanda ushered Port into a side room where Phineas lay in bed. She tossed a chunk of kindling into the fire.

Heat made Port uncomfortable. He longed for a cool breeze.

"Sorry if I don't get up," sniffed Phineas, "but I got a terrible chill last night."

"What happened? Heard you fell into the lake because of a monster," said Port.

"I didn't fall, was pulled in. Maybe twenty, thirty feet before I jumped off the stump and made it to shore. I was afraid the monster would get me," added Phineas.

"You think so?"

"Yeah, folks have been seeing the monster for a spell. Lately it's been killing livestock and Indians. Figured if we could capture it, I'd solve some of our local problems and make some money to boot." Phineas paused to blow his nose.

"It's been killing then?"

Phineas looked surprised. "Yeah Porter, I thought that was why you were here. We all heard you were coming. I assumed Brother Brigham was sending you to help us deal. Have you throw down with it!"

Port scratched his beard. "Who told you?"

"That apostate writer Stenhouse. Been shooting his mouth off about how President Young is sending you, his avenging angel, up here to save face. Stenhouse has been up here the last few weeks writing up scandalous material for Godbe's rag. Keeps saying you'll fail, since Joseph's blessing for you weren't against tooth and claw. You read any of that trash?"

"Nope."

"You know how the Godbeites are don't you? The Utah Magazine?"

"Nope. Don't read much."

Phineas wrinkled his brow and Amanda restrained a giggle. "Well, they keep pushing for mining rights, trade with gentiles and abandoning sacred law. They're upset with Church doctrine and are trying to change things. Think because they control the paper and wealth they have a right, I suppose. Things could get bad if they convince the government to seize church property. We're at a crossroads."

Amanda broke in, "They believe they can steady the ark and dictate the Lord's commandments, telling the Prophet _he_ is the one out of order. They are Spiritualists, communicating with either ghosts or charlatans through séances."

Phineas nodded, "Personally, I think it's all their high falutin' British sensibilities, but I doubt any of that has to do with the monster itself."

Porter grinned. "Go on."

"This monster has been costing us livestock and even been killing folk on the south end. And Stenhouse is writing up articles, playing both sides, pressing for government regulation while also pleading sympathy from the Saints by saying if Brigham can't control a thing of the devil, how can he control Deseret."

"Brother Brigham," Amanda corrected.

"That's what I said. Now Stenhouse writes if Brother Brigham can't control Deseret, if he's not in touch with the Spirit, how can he lead the Church and be right about everything else," said Phineas. "Monsters should be easy, he says."

"His fault?" Port wrinkled his brow in disbelief.

Phineas shook his head. "It's not. It's ammunition, a distraction for something else. I don't know what yet. But they're sowing seeds of doubt and discontent, while something is murdering folks and livestock."

"Seems convenient," said Port.

Amanda nodded, "That's what I said."

Phineas pointed at the lake, "There is a connection somewhere, but one thing at a time. I already heard this morning from Brother Rich, that bodies were found in the Shoshoni area and I heard screams and saw weird fireballs last night. The monster got 'em."

"I'll go look around," said Port. "Is there anyone trustworthy who speaks Shoshoni to go along with me? I heard about some old Indian named Lehi?"

Amanda shook her head. "You don't need him. I can go with you and translate. Soon as Sister Ann-Eliza arrives to look after Phineas."

Port raised his eyebrows and looked to Phineas. "This could be ugly," said Port. "I've already got somebody gunning for me."

Looking up at the old gunfighter, Amanda replied, "You need someone trustworthy to go along with you. I can help get to the bottom of this better than anyone, and take a crack shot at the monster too, if need be."

"Not a monster I'm worried about."

Amanda answered. "Have no doubts Brother Rockwell, we do seek a monster. I've seen the slaughtered cattle and sheep. I don't think my Phineas realizes how lucky he is to still be alive."

Port raised his hands, "All right, little sister, we'll head out, soon as the relief arrives. Phineas, why didn't your fishing tackle work?"

Phineas sighed, "It did work. I had stout chains and rope, but my anchor was too weak. Monster tore the stump out. If you find it, I need that rope back, it was Brigham's."

"Brother Brigham's," said Amanda.

"That's what I said. The point is, Porter, this thing is big. I'm not sure anymore what it'll take to rein the beast in."

Port tipped his hat and said, "I'll keep an eye out."

A SKIN-DRUM THROBBED AS PORT AND AMANDA rode into the Shoshoni camp.

Port asked, "Why the drums?"

Amanda said, "They're letting everyone know we are here. Everyone is skittish after the Bear River massacre. The monster only increases the tension."

"I reckon so."

Crowds of people gathered, faces carved with somber expressions, hard and unfriendly. A tall, young man approached Amanda and greeted her in silence. She turned to Porter saying, "This is Many-Buffalo, he is Chief of this clan, Chief Sagwitch's son." She then told Many-Buffalo of Porter.

The Chief glared at Porter and revealed a scar on his breast.

Port intervened, "It doesn't have to be like this, we don't have to be friends, I just want to know about the trouble."

Many-Buffalo, gestured at his tribe and pointed at Porter.

"I'll get to that, but they aren't in a friendly mood," she said. "He says you were there, why should he speak to you?"

Rubbing a hand over his face, Port said, "I was there, but I've never killed an innocent man, tell him that."

"I will - in not so many words," said Amanda. She translated to Many-Buffalo and pointed at the lake.

The talk from several of the tribe grew excited pointing at the lake, several made a ward against evil, but Many-Buffalo looked at the sky. He spoke quickly back and forth with Amanda, who pleaded Port's case.

Amanda finally revealed, "He wants proof that you are as good a man as I say you are, before he will discuss the monsters with you."

"Monsters? There's more than one?"

"First things first," said Amanda. "He wants proof."

"Like what?" asked Port, extending his hand to shake.

Many-Buffalo hesitated, and extended his hand to Port's, but with only two fingers out, the rest clenched back.

Port questioned, "What's that?"

"He doesn't trust you."

"Wheat! I knew that. What do I need to do to get him to talk?"

A mountain of a man stepped forward, creating a hush among the tribe. Thick and strong, he looked down on Porter scrutinizing him. "You are Mormonee?" he asked, bringing his bare chest to Port's nose.

Amanda said, "This is Big Bear."

"Yeah, I'm Mormonee," answered Port. "He is probably the second biggest Indian I've ever seen."

"Do you wear the sacred robes?" asked the grinning giant.

"Yes."

"Show me."

Port opened his shirt revealing the garments. "Satisfied?"

"The woman is Mormonee too?"

"Yes."

"She will show me?" He smirked.

Port shoved Big Bear, "That's enough. Can we talk or not, Many-Buffalo? Or do I have to teach some manners to your boy?"

Amanda shook her head.

Big Bear knocked Port's hat off.

"Tell him! I'm here to take care of things and if they don't help me, I can't help them!" shouted Port. "But I'm not here to play games."

Many-Buffalo stood impassive, then nodded to Big Bear.

The giant lunged, grasping Port in a bear hug, trapping his arms and lifting him off the ground. The gathering laughed as Many-Buffalo shouted in triumph.

Struggling to breath, let alone move, Port asked, "What'd he say?"

"He said, if you are the best the Brigham can offer, he doesn't need help," cried Amanda over the din.

Big Bear's laughter boomed into Port's face.

"Wheat! They ain't seen nothing yet."

Big Bear's hug cracked Port's back and grew tighter, forcing air from his lungs and still the big man laughed.

Looking Big Bear square in the eye, Port winked and slammed his thick forehead into Big Bear's nose repeatedly. The huge man blinded and bloodied, dropped Port, who landed on his feet. Porter slammed Big Bear an uppercut to the chin, dropping the man mountain. Rounding on Many-Buffalo, Port snarled, "Was he the best you got?"

Amanda translated.

Many-Buffalo frowned, but motioned for Port and Amanda to follow.

Amanda picked up Port's hat, and handed it to him saying, "You know, might doesn't always make right."

"Didn't _I_ just prove that?"

THOUGH IT WAS STILL AFTERNOON ON A WARM DAY, Many-Buffalo kindled the fire inside his tepee. He took a powder and scattered about the perimeter of his dwelling, paying specific attention to the door-flap.

Sitting on buffalo skins, Port and Amanda waited, while Many-Buffalo sang a song of blessing and protection. Taking a seat opposite them, Many-Buffalo spoke quick, harsh-sounding words, staring deep at Port.

Amanda translated, "He said ... to speak of such things as we ask ... he must bless and purify his tepee. He will do it again ... after we've gone. They've had problems ... but he will not ask for help ... since he was already denied."

"Tell him this. A proud man won't ask, but a proud man can answer. Tell him, I'm asking to know about these things, so I can help his people."

Many-Buffalo looked at Port as Amanda spoke. He nodded and went into a lengthy round of back and forth with Amanda, as she gave Port snippets.

"He says the lake monster ... haunted the waters in the time of his ancestors. It has slept for many moons ... and only awoke when ... Mormons came. It eats sheep and cattle ... perhaps even men ... but it is not to be confused ... with other curses that have befallen his people. Murders have come ... the last few weeks ... only. Sorcery has tainted the people. They fear the witch and skin-walker ... more than they do ... the lake monster. The reason ... they have not moved yet ... because these evil things follow them."

"What's that?"

Amanda shook her head, "I'm not sure but it has all of them afraid. He is reluctant to tell me more ... because it invites ... the evil thing into his tepee. They hoped Brother Brigham could help ... but the ... drawing man ... told them Brigham ... would not help."

"What's a drawing man?"

Amanda shrugged. "There is no word for it, I translated as best I could."

"What can he say about the lake monster? How big is it? Is there a way to kill it?"

She asked Many-Buffalo and he pondered a moment, before going into a number of hand gestures and excited speaking with a final disgusted look before throwing holy powder into the fire that made it blaze brilliantly.

"He says they are related ... that Mormons ... brought the curse here ... the monsters are linked to each other ... yours and ours," said Amanda. "I'm not sure what yours and ours mean."

Port rubbed smoke from his eyes, "I thought we would get some answers here."

"I'm sorry. They're scared. This has touched them deeply," she said.

Many-Buffalo watched them and spoke again.

"He says their burial grounds ... have been violated. Something steals from the dead. As for your questions ... the lake monster ... is long as four wagons ... and its skin cannot be wounded ... by a gun or knife."

"Kinda like me," said Port.

"He says ... works of darkness ... fill this land. We walk ... the path of the ... skin-walker. May the Great Spirit ... protect us ... on our quest. He will say no more."

Murmuring the drums outside beat again.

Amanda gasped, "Someone is here."

A MAN ON A RICKETY WAGON PULLED INTO THE SHOSHONI CAMP. Bearded and slight, he glowered at Port and Amanda as they exited Many-Buffalo's tepee.

"What's the matter Stenhouse? Upset I wasn't chased outta town by your blacklegs?" called Port, chuckling.

Stenhouse dropped off the wagon, tipped his hat to Amanda, "Mrs. Cook," and extended a hand to Port. "My apologies, the uneducated rascal's misunderstood my direction and inclination. I have not levied them out of jail and I directed the sheriff to let the lot of them stay a fortnight therein."

Port declined the handshake, as he tried not to smirk at Stenhouse's English pretentious accent.

Stenhouse continued, "Forgive my temper, I merely wished to meet with Chief Sagwitch's son myself, and worried that he already had guests, you see."

"Yeah, 'I see'," mocked Port, "you're upset we beat you here before you could spread more lies. How'd you know I was coming up to Bear Lake before I did?"

"Nothing of the sort, I came to speak with the Chief much the same as I imagine you did, as for knowing you would be here ... whom else would Brigham send? Understanding his mentality, as I do, it was elementary, my dear Danite."

Port sniffed and spit.

"Regardless of what you may think of me, Porter, I am not the enemy. We may disagree fundamentally on authority, but our core is the same. The New Movement and I seek truth the same as you."

Amanda countered, "What was it Fanny wrote? To doubt one doctrine was to doubt all? Our core is not the same. You abandoned yours."

"Madam, I must protest."

But Amanda wasn't even close to being done, she reared up in the Englishman's face. Port stood back and smiled, this was gonna be good.

"You think we haven't all had hardships? You think we haven't all questioned the tests we have in life? Let me tell you something. You'll be caught in your own traps."

Stenhouse looked to Port for assistance from the feisty young woman but the old gunfighter raised his hands, cocked his head and smirked.

"Don't you and the other Godbeites fool yourselves. This life isn't where you will be successful. It's in the eternities. Just because Brother Brigham might have given you some bad business advice or won't let you mine our mountains to ruin, doesn't mean you can become a law unto yourselves. If you lost faith in God, it's because you put your faith in the arm of flesh!" shouted Amanda. "Your lies and schemes will snap back upon you."

With that, she mounted her horse and cantered off.

Visibly disturbed at her words, Stenhouse slunk away.

Port followed after Amanda.

Big Bear, still cradling his broken nose, glared at Port.

Tipping his hat to the big man, Port gave his horse heels to catch up to Amanda.

She turned in the saddle, "I'm sorry about that; but I'm so tired of his lies."

"No problem, little sister."

"I did give him what-for, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," Port laughed, deep and loud.

DUSK RODE IN WITH PORT, LAYING RED LIKE A MANTLE across the valley. With no clouds, it would be a cold night.

In the Cook home, Phineas gave his wife a warm hug before grilling Port. "So what'd you find out?"

"Whole lot of nothing. Many-Buffalo didn't have anything I can use and wouldn't tell us much of what's happened to his tribe."

Mary, the Cook's young daughter, offered Port a glass of water and hugged her mother's skirt.

"They're scared," said Amanda. "Something is happening. They feel powerless. And Stenhouse went out there after us."

"Really? What'd he want?" asked Phineas.

Port gulped down the glass of water and made a face, "Said he wanted to talk to Many-Buffalo. Don't know what for. Amanda gave him a good tongue lashing though."

Amanda blushed, "I did, I suppose." Phineas beamed.

Port took off his hat and slumped into a chair. "Now, I need to find out why Stenhouse tried to get me outta town. He should've known his thugs couldn't do it and why would he wanna talk to the Shoshoni? Can't imagine him getting any farther than I did."

"Nothing to do then but get some rest for the morrow," said Phineas. "Way past your bedtime, Mary."

"Goodnight, Papa," said Mary, hurrying to bed.

THE LITTLE GIRL RUSHED UP THE STEPS TO THE LOFT. The moon shone in her window like a finger of ice. Nestling in the covers, she said her personal prayers, closing her eyes as the lamp downstairs dimmed. She slept restless, dreaming of drowning.

She awoke with a start as a mystic green light passed her window. It wasn't the rising corn-yellow moon. Whatever it was lay outside her window. Sitting up, she gazed into the darkness and witnessed a pallid form shamble through the trees.

From behind the closest tree, a taloned hand gripped bark and then a white face leered. It was wolf-like, with red eyes glowing like embers which burrowed into Mary's.

Fear petrified her, she couldn't look away from the thing loping closer. So frightened she couldn't speak, only shake. Did the monster smile at that? The hideous wolf-man looked from her to the front door.

It would come inside.

She shivered, too terrified to warn her parents. She heard father downstairs, talking with the strange long-haired man. Her lips trembled but no sound came.

The thing stood directly below her window. It seemed capable of leaping up and through the glass. Those eyes so blood-red and evil. She couldn't look away, what horrors did it have planned for her? Her parents? Her sleeping siblings? It would come inside and devour them.

The monster, with white talons smeared scarlet, motioned for her to come.

Compelled beyond fear and reason, Mary released the latch on the window.

Saliva dripped as its tongue lolled.

Mary pushed the window open.

The monster beckoned her to jump, its eyes hypnotizing.

Too afraid to move, to scream or even look away, Mary did the only thing left her, she cried a prayer deep inside for deliverance.

The wolf-thing beckoned for her to jump into its waiting arms.

Tears streaming, Mary lifted herself to the sill and precariously balanced, halfway in and out.

Licking its lips, it beckoned again as the moon illuminated its awful red matted fur.

Was there no relief? Did those who gave themselves to monsters deserve heaven?

Ahab the dog, bawled out loud in staccato.

The spell broken, Mary snapped back to self-control and dropped to the floor avoiding any possible eye contact. She heard Father and the long-haired stranger startle, each muttering as they stirred. The familiar cocking of guns told her they were prepared.

The wolf-thing snarled at Ahab, who cowered beneath the porch.

Praising the Lord for delivering her family from the evil of this thing, Mary shut the window latch.

Raging, the beast summoned a ball of green fire in its left hand and cast it through her window. Flames erupted all about the bedroom as Mary screamed.

"WHAT THE DEVIL WAS THAT HORRIBLE SOUND?" shouted Port, drawing his pistols. He threw back the front door and looked into the gloom.

Nothing.

Ghostly green-orange firelight blazed upstairs, licking the windowsill and rafters.

Phineas cried, "Porter, help! The house is on fire!"

Somewhere, a child screamed an unholy fear.

Port replaced his pistols and stepped back through the doorway only to be grasped by the back of his coat and flung backward off the porch.

Stars reeled overhead as a black wind blew.

The breath knocked from his lungs, senses fled and only the fire above was visible. He struggled to sit up. Reaching for his pistols, his hands found empty holsters.

Forcibly lifted, someone slammed him to the ground. The most disturbing part to the Danite was the low rumbling chuckle the attacker let out. He couldn't see his enemy, but he heard him all right.

Port kicked and connected to thick shin bone.

The midnight assailant didn't chuckle anymore.

Rolling to his feet, Port snatched his Bowie, ready for anything.

As the enemy grabbed him again, Port's blade slashed across its chest. Blood and tufts of a white fur spiraled from the wound. Port trusted his honed senses to guide his hand. Listening intently, to his right a twig snapped. He barreled toward the sound, knife extended.

Port felt steel bite flesh, ripping the blade across what he hoped were vitals.

Howling in pain, an inhumanly strong hand took Port's shoulder, tearing cloth, and threw him to the earth.

Roaring, "Wheat in the mill!" Port launched up, renewed to fight his foe with blood-maddening vigor. He spun about, waving the Bowie, expecting another attack.

None came.

Dark blood along with flecks of white fur trailed into the gulf of night. Port raced back to the house to fight the fire.

Inside Phineas and Amanda held their daughter. The fire was out. Mary was shivering, wiping the last of her tears away. "You did it."

"I've never seen the like," gasped Phineas. "The room blazed like a furnace. You must have slain the thing because the witch-fire up and disappeared. Thank you."

"Yes, thank you," repeated Amanda, her own tears falling. "It's over."

Shaking his head, Port growled, "No, 'tain't. I didn't kill it."

A LONG NIGHT BROUGHT MORNING HEADACHES and breakfast questions.

"So what do you reckon it was?" asked Phineas.

Port chewed his mouthful, saying, "Probably that Shoshoni giant Big Bear. From what Mary said, sounds about the same size. Know I cut him bad, so he's probably gonna hole up in a sweat lodge for a while."

"What about the witch-fire?"

Stabbing another piece of venison, Port answered, "I've seen enough strange things in my time to say anything is possible. Tricks is key to the sorcerer type. Probably a wolf-skin mask and bear-paw war-club."

"That was no mask," broke in Mary. "That was a monster."

Shaking her head, Amanda said, "That wasn't natural."

"Darkness can play tricks on you."

The little girl shook her head, "No, this was real bad. That thing is of the devil."

"Men can be monsters too," said Port, finishing his last bite. "Much obliged Brother Cook, Sister Cook." He looked to Mary and rubbed his broad hand over her head. "I'm gonna get to the bottom this, an' that's a promise."

Amanda threw down her dishrag, "And just what are you planning to do? Sounds like you're in denial of monsters."

Grinning, Port said, "No need to worry, ma'am. I think Stenhouse, the Godbeites and some of the Shoshoni are in cahoots. I need a few more answers and I'll get 'em."

Blocking the door, Amanda said, "None of that explains the lake monster, what we saw last night was something different, probably the same thing that has the Shoshoni frightened. There has to be more to this than Stenhouse and a few bribed Indians."

"I'm sure there is, but I can't take care of it, jawing 'bout it."

Amanda looked to Phineas, who nodded. "Then I'm coming with you. You need someone's help to translate and watch your back," she said.

Port shook his head, like a black-maned lion. "No, ma'am. I got an instinct about a few things I'd best check out on my own." Before she could protest, he added. "And I won't need a translator this time. Thanks for breakfast. Feel better Phineas." Port tipped his hat, adjusted his gun belt and went out into the cool morning.

As he made for the Cooks' stable, a hint of white moving in the trees caught his eye. It swayed with the light breeze at eye level. Port drew his trusty navy revolver and approached with grim determination.

It looked like a tangled bunch of pale sticks strung in the pines facing the Cook homestead, but closer inspection revealed it was a curious cobble of interlaced bones, calico twine and a couple of dark feathers, about the size of his hand. It was some type of Indian fetish or charm. Then again it looked more like something a white man would make rather than a real Indian charm. The bones looked like chicken as opposed to eagle or crow. That and it smelt of coffee, not the succulent flowers of the field.

Port tore it down and put it in his pocket. He considered telling the Cook's what he found but decided against it. They were spooked enough.

IN TOWN, A HEATED COMMOTION CARRIED OVER THE STREETS. Men shouted at one another and Port could feel the contentious spirit waxing. There appeared to be two opposing camps, one backed by Stenhouse, the sheriff, and their full gang of thugs; the other fronted by tall Joseph Rich, the local newspaperman, who was supported by a good number of townsfolk.

Port couldn't tell what started the argument.

Rich's strong baritone proclaimed, "I lost a horse to the monster. But that doesn't mean it needs to be destroyed!"

Stenhouse countered, "You're the beast's greatest advocate. It clears you of the secret gambling debts, you lost your mount to. It grants sensationalism and lurid stories for your amateur journalism, but you seem to forget the spiritual implications."

Men tried to shout him down, including Rich for the gambling crack, but Stenhouse persisted. "A duel is coming! The hour of struggle is at hand. If _infallible_ Brigham," he said sarcastically, "can't cast out the devil, what good is he?"

A man swung at Stenhouse but was instead hit first across the mouth by one of the deputies.

Stenhouse continued, "If a man is to lead this people he has to be open to new revelation. We can change what doesn't belong. We can prosper with what the Lord grants us here in these mountains, there is gold and silver aplenty!"

Stenhouse had Port's full attention.

"My friends, Brigham is a good man but he has lost his way. Don't you lose it alongside him. A new prophet will rise!"

"Yeah? Who?" squawked a man between Stenhouse and Rich.

"Why the very blood of the great prophet himself, Joseph the third."

A number of boos and catcalls came with the mention of Joseph Smith's eldest son. Port just shook his head.

"What about the monster?" shouted a man in the crowd.

Another cried, "It took my sheep."

"What can be done about it? It killed Big Bear and a half dozen braves last night."

Port's eyes grew. He struggled through the throng to get to the man who mentioned Big Bear. The rebuttal from Rich was lost to Port's ears as he pushed and grabbed the man's shoulder.

"You! Who told you Big Bear is dead?"

The man spun trying to escape Port's grasp then breathed a sigh of relief, "It's you. You'll take care of this."

"What about Big Bear?"

"He's dead. Seen him myself yonder. Chief Many-Buffalo brought what's left of his body and the others into town a half hour ago."

"Was he cut up with a Bowie?"

The man blanched, "No! The monster took bites outta him. It's gruesome. Go see."

Port let go of the man's shoulder and drifted out of the crowd.

A familiar voice spoke, "Porter, what do you make of this?" It was Thomas, the shopkeeper. "You ever go talk to Lehi?"

Port shook his head, then spotted Many-Buffalo.

"You should, I'll bet he could explain things."

"Much obliged," said Port abruptly walking away.

MANY-BUFFALO WAS SURROUNDED BY A DOZEN wailing women, the remains of his braves lay beneath a broad red blanket. He was speaking with local authority and Apostle Charles C. Rich.

"Brother Rich, can I take a look?" asked Port.

"Go ahead Brother Rockwell. Chief Many-Buffalo has just asked my help in blessing them for their journey."

Port nodded and looked to Many-Buffalo who still gave the unfriendly glare he had from the day before. Lifting the blanket's edge, Port looked upon the terrible visage of Big Bear. He expected to see evidence of his Bowie, but not this—carnage to rival the worst horror he had ever witnessed. Claw and bite wounds from something huge. The same atrocities had been dealt to three more men.

There went Port's personal theory for last night's incident. Big Bear could not possibly have been the enemy he fought in the darkness.

"Many-Buffalo tells me that you and Sister Cook visited him yesterday," said Charles.

"We did. So did Stenhouse."

"He said Stenhouse came wanting to know what could be done about the monster, if there was anything he could do to help. He gave them some of the latest model of guns, repeating rifles and the like and yet, you see here what happened," said Charles.

Port squinted across the way at Stenhouse still fuming his 'New Movement' to the townsfolk. "Why try and get the Indian's to deal with this thing though? Why wouldn't he have that crooked sheriff and his blacklegs deal?"

"I couldn't begin to say."

Port threw back the blanket pointing at vicious wounds, "This gives more questions than answers. Seems worse than a bear attack."

Charles nodded, "These men could have handled a bear."

Narrowing his gaze, Port noticed Big Bear had a small bone fetish on his belt just like the one he found earlier. "Something is sending a message. But I can't read it, yet."

"Some messages can't be read," said the Apostle. "And when words can't cut the evil, it's time to use a sword."

Port grinned as he drew, spun and holstered his navy colts. "I find a six-gun is quicker."

PORT HAD A VAGUE IMPRESSION OF WHERE TO FIND LEHI, the old Indian that supposedly knew so much about the monster. A whistle drew his attention.

It was Stenhouse, across the street. He beckoned for Port to come and speak with him in front of the sheriff's office.

Flexing his fingers, Port warily eyed the windows and hiding spots behind Stenhouse. He was ready to draw his navy colts like chain lightning if need be.

"What do you want?" he growled.

"Just to speak a moment, without the self-righteous she-cat beside you."

Porter grabbed Stenhouse's tie, yanking him closer, "You'll speak kindly about the lady."

"Hey! You'll keep your hands of Mr. Stenhouse," called the sheriff from inside the office.

Port shoved the thin man away. "I've heard how you treat _your_ women."

Stenhouse rankled at the insinuation. "I beg your pardon. We have had our differences, our run-ins, but I wanted to let you know that a new wind is blowing. Utah is changing. The railroad is here and new revelations come with it. You can be part of the old guard that is swept away and forgotten — or be a part of the reformation."

Port shook his head, "You really know nothing about me."

"I know this," said Stenhouse, his tone turning cruel and superior. "I spoke to Vice-President Colfax only a few short weeks ago; the government is tired of Brigham's unfriendly theocracy, his dictatorship of the territory, his dominion of Deseret."

"You always were too theatrical, Stenhouse."

"Oh no, not this time. This is real. They are going to invade, they are going to take our lands by force and destroy the Church if things aren't changed. We in the New Movement are working toward effecting that change before it's too late. We could use your help."

Port guffawed.

"Laugh," Stenhouse said coldly. "Evidence that Brigham is counterfeiting is being filed."

"That'll never stick," objected Port.

"Oh no? How about this. There are those who will testify that he ordered Mountain Meadows."

Port frowned, "That's a lie and you know it."

"Do I? Does it matter if the government gets hold of the evidence to destroy the Church? Our survival depends on change. Brigham is a fallen prophet. He has lost his way. He can't even repudiate a monster that threatens his own people—what about the monster that is the U.S. Army? The people must abandon Brigham and follow the New Movement."

Narrowing his steely gaze, Port rumbled, "What's your part in this? Who's gonna lose faith in the prophet over a monster?"

Stenhouse's tone changed again, "I'll tell you because I'm afraid. No one has put this together yet. Every night with a waxing moon, the body count doubles. The creature's blood lust cannot be sated. Brigham can't protect anyone. How many deaths have you prevented since you arrived? Yes, even the ' _Destroying Angel'_ is helpless against this monster."

"Then why doesn't the New Movement take care of it?"

"Things have to get worse before they can get better."

Port said, "Hogwash. You're all using this as an agenda. You make me sick."

"Say what you will, but shame is our only tool. To shame President Young into acknowledging us his spiritual betters. Only then will we step forward and alleviate this threat."

Port shook his head, "So, you will let men die to further gain your political ambitions? Out of my way; I got things to do."

"You think so small. Better for a few men to die than for a people to perish in ignorance. We will bring balance to the Church," said Stenhouse. "New revelation has been given, the spirits have granted us release and wisdom. They have given us solution to our predicament."

Port rubbed a hand across his beard as if pondering.

"I offer you a place. Reject us and it will not be offered again and you will be swept away as so much chaff! The field is ripe. Where will you stand?"

Putting his nose inches from Stenhouse's, Port whispered, "That's the name of the game." He lightly patted the Englishman's cheek twice, then strode down the street to fetch his horse.

"What does that mean?"

"Figure it out," Port called.

A few minutes later, Port rode down the hill from the Cook's and came in behind the sheriff's office. He pulled the strange fetish of stick-like bones from his jacket pocket and tossed it upon the roof of the office. Chuckling, he rode on.

PORT RODE WITH THE WIND AT HIS BACK, watching the long lake and pondering. Why would the Lord allow these things to plague good people? What was the test? The lesson to be learned? What was his own part and responsibility?

All experiences are for our ultimate good, mused Port.

Sheep grazed in large swaths across the rounded landscape, most flocks were tended by young boys.

He trotted his stallion up to a tousle-headed boy and nodded, "Afternoon, son. You out here a lot?"

"Every day, mister."

"Ever see anything strange?"

The boy smiled. "Besides you?"

Port chuckled, "Yeah, besides me. A monster maybe."

The boy went serious. "I thought I saw it once."

Port folded his arms, now he was getting somewhere.

"I was playing by the lake shore when I saw six or seven dark shapes out in the water. A big horse-like head with horns was coming out, right at me. I was so afraid. I couldn't hardly breathe, let alone move."

Port looked out at the lake again. "You saw it? Didn't it try to eat you?"

"No, it wasn't the monster," the boy smirked, "it was a herd of elk crossing the lake. The bull was in front, the cows behind. My fear made a monster."

"You don't believe in the monster?" questioned Port.

"I didn't say that. I'm just saying things aren't always what they seem."

"True," Port said. "Know where to find an old Indian, called Lehi?"

The boy pointed southwest, "Over those hills somewhere. No one lives near him."

"Much obliged," said Port, galloping away.

"No one lives near him," called the boy.

"I heard ya," shouted Port over his shoulder.

OVER ROLLING HILLOCKS AND PAST A FEW STANDS OF TREES, Port saw a wisp of rising smoke, thin and gray, curling toward heaven through the light drizzle.

"Hello, the camp! Lehi?" Port called. Experience said you were better off letting folks know you were coming in.

Rounding the bend, a rotted tepee came into view. It looked smaller than the usual ten to twelve buffalo-hide tepees. It was made of perhaps eight skins.

Port's horse nickered at entering the clearing and tried to turn away. Glancing about for a possible predator, Port called again, "Lehi, you out here?"

"I am here," announced a ragged voice as the tepee flap peeled back and the very same elderly Indian from town the day before peered out. "Go away! What you want? Blood?"

Laughing, "You're the old man in town from yesterday!" Port dismounted the skittish horse. "You could've saved me the trip if you would've stuck around."

Exiting the tepee, Lehi frowned. "I have things to do."

"Take it easy. I just wanted to talk to you for a spell 'bout the monster. I'm Porter," he said, extending his hand.

Cocking his head, the old Indian stared with eyes hard and cold as the mountaintop. "I tell you as I told them. Monster comes to eat on clear night when moon grows like swelling belly." He stepped out of the tepee and stood uncomfortably close to Porter.

"They said you could tell me all about the monster."

Smirking, Lehi answered, "You want a story, you got to pay." He opened his hand, expecting.

The horse whinnied and backed away pulling the reins in Port's clenched fist. The ragged voice and unnerved horse put Port's guard up. He considered drawing his sawed-off navy colt.

Lehi grinned. "Forget it. I like you. We are the same, you and I."

Nerves calmed, Port said, "Anytime." He took one of the tincture bottles from his saddle bags and handed it to a pleased Lehi. "About last night, what do you know about the lake monster? What's it look like? Any weaknesses?"

Lehi nodded. "Trust in Great Spirit but tie up your horse. Let us speak inside," he gestured to his faded buffalo-skin tepee.

A smell that Port attributed to the old man's lifestyle permeated the inside of the tepee, it was similar to wet dog but with a reptilian copper scent. Ratty old furs and skins made up the old man's bed. A handful of tools cluttered the far side of the tepee. A ring of stones held a few glowing coals in the center. Unexpected to Port, was a worn copy of the Book of Mormon.

"You read?"

"I feel it is truth," said Lehi, "but my reading is not yet bountiful."

Port grinned, "Me too."

Lehi sat cross-legged opposite Porter and pushed back his beaded breastwork, revealing massive scars along his chest and shoulder. The trauma displayed was so extensive Port wondered at how the old man survived.

Showing a missing finger and the stub next to it on his left hand, Lehi said, "This is where great serpent bit me, here and here." He pointed to his shoulder, chest and upheld his disfigured hand.

"When was this?"

"To my life ... not long ago. Was first time I saw great serpent. I sang old songs calling for the Old Ones. But Great Serpent heard me and came. Him very angry with me," chuckled Lehi.

"Why is that?"

"Great Serpent not want to be wakened. He is lost and used."

Wrinkling his forehead Port asked, "Lost? Used? I don't follow you."

Wrapping himself in his cloak, Lehi said, "Great Serpent not meant to be here. He will not listen to me. But there is purpose in all things."

"How big is he? Can he be killed?"

Lehi lit a pipe before answering and stared into the smoldering center a long while. "I will tell you, because you are like me, a hunter of men. No gun of white man can kill Great Serpent. It is long as four wagons. It is a thing from old times."

"But why is it here?"

Lehi shrugged, "Why does sun rise? Moon set? It is."

"Are you saying it can't be killed?"

Lehi smiled, revealing wicked teeth for an old man. "I say, do not even try. Monster will eat you."

Port didn't like his tone. "If it lives, it can be killed."

"You have brave heart. Perhaps is a way.

Port rubbed his chin. "Go on."

"Would be dangerous. We would be risking our lives."

"That's my business. I've got a charmed life."

Lehi nodded and beckoned Port to follow. He stepped out of his tepee, and trotted out of the glade and into the thick brush. The speed of the old man amazed Port.

Lehi gathered a handful of pale roots. "We poison Great Serpent, tonight."

Port looked skeptical, "How come no one has tried this before?"

Lehi chuckled, "Who stupid enough to face Great Serpent?"

"Good point."

LEHI HAD A WIDE RAFT THAT WOULD TAKE THEM out into the lake. It was slow going, but allowed for more fighting space in Port's mind. The raft seemed safer than a canoe which could be capsized, leaving them at the mercy of the lake monster.

Port left his stallion on shore with a good bit of tether. Considering Joseph Rich had already lost a horse to the monster, Port left his farther uphill. He brought his blessed Bowie knife, his two sawed-off navy revolvers, and a 45-70 buffalo gun.

Lehi brought a deer-skin sack full of the poisonous roots, Port's gift of a tincture bottle, his flute, a tomahawk pipe, and a bit of firewood that he would use to make a fire on the raft over the top of a stone and mud section he had pre-arranged. A small burnt scar upon the raft denoted where he had done this in the past.

"Tell me again, how we're gonna get the monster to eat these roots," asked Port, regretting not having another bottle of Valley-Tan.

Lehi watched the gunfighter's eyes and gestured to the bottle.

"Much obliged."

Lehi nodded and said, "I will call Great Serpent. When he comes, his mouth wide to eat, throw in roots. But not until he right beside us. Very close."

"Could it sink us?"

"Sure. But I will sing our death song and chant old ways. You can shoot if you like, but it do no good. Roots work fast."

Port wasn't familiar with that many plants but he never heard of a poisonous root such as this before. Maybe it was Indian magic.

Dusk came quickly, casting red twilight over the valley. Somewhere a wolf howled and Port watched the shore. With the sun down, cold wrapped its arms about them. The cold sapphire waters did not look inviting.

Lehi lit his fire with a bow drill. He was amazingly quick. He blew on the shards of spark and they leapt into action as if commanded by the breath of the divine. The orange glow fought and won against the encroaching night. The old man lit his pipe and inhaled deep breaths, puffing them toward the west, to which he bowed.

Port expected him to do something more, perhaps something to the east but he didn't.

"We will let darkness grow a little stronger," said Lehi. "Then I will call Great Serpent out."

"How about another pull on that raspberry tincture then?"

Lehi handed Port the bottle.

An hour or two later their kindling was almost gone and Port dreaded the idea of being on the lake in the dark. "Well, is it time yet?"

Flute in hand, Lehi stood and played a melancholy and disturbing tune. The notes rose and fell in a jarring dirge that Port theorized was never meant to be heard by a white man. It was primal and savage, a true song of the wilds, full of wonder and midnight.

Something splashed out in the waters, forbidden to Port's sight.

"It comes," said Lehi.

"You sure?"

Lehi didn't answer, but blew a long note from his flute and went silent.

Port dropped the sack of poison roots at his own feet and readied the buffalo gun. If anything could penetrate the monsters hide, he reasoned it would be his 45-70. Glancing about, Port was ready, but no more splashing came.

Lehi broke into song, a sad and painful chant.

Port heard a splash like an oar hitting the water. The bright moon was just coming over Black Mountain to the east and Port thought he could see a canoe heading toward them. "Someone's out there Lehi, it ain't the monster."

The canoe glided closer and regardless of the dying fire, Lehi continued his chant. "Hey-yaw, taw hey-yaw. Zhoo' yea' Zhoo' yea'. Yana Glooshi, hey-yaw, taw hey yaw."

"Who's there?" asked Port of the darkness.

No answer came, or at least none he could hear above Lehi's chanting.

Port threw the last few chunks of fuel into the fire hoping to pierce the darkness a little better, absently wondering if whomever was about to meet them had seen anything up the lake.

The fire briefly flared and hid, perking up and down as it consumed its meager final meal.

Facing the incoming canoe, Port couldn't see anyone paddling it, just the form drifting closer. He strained to hear if anyone had fallen overboard or worse, if there was a struggle from someone becoming a monster's most recent meal.

"Hey-yaw, taw hey-yaw. Zhoo' yea' Zhoo' yea'. Yana Glooshi, hey-yaw, taw hey yaw. Oh yaw-hey! Oh yaw-hey! Yaw!" sang Lehi, powerful and deep.

The canoe was almost to the raft and Port puzzled over its missing pilot. He saw that the canoe was misshapen, strangely wider toward the rear. Was there a body slumped to the rear?

Gazing hard at the canoe, a wisp of flame from the firelight flared up for a fraction of a second and allowed Port to see two black eyes reflecting back the orange fire-light. Two massive eyes each set in the wider portion of what was not a canoe but the monster's head. Like a crocodile it had cruised upon them, drawn by the shaman's song.

The huge multi-fanged mouth sprang open.

Port braced himself, too stunned to shoot or grab the sack of poisoned roots.

Ferocious jaws came down, splintering the raft into kindling, snuffing the weak fire and coals.

Pitched into the air, Port was fell forward into the waiting jaws of the Bear Lake monster. He hit the giant tongue and was aware of a bright green light behind him as the cavernous mouth closed.

COLD MOONLIGHT REACHED THROUGH THE SHERIFF'S office window, barely warded off by the wood stove. Eight men sat with greasy cards as the lamp guttered low. Stenhouse was the only man sitting out the card game, but his whiskey bottle was emptier than most as he wrote at a furious pace.

"Probably ought to call it a night," said the sheriff. "Just after midnight."

Stenhouse didn't bother looking at him from his crouched position over the desk. "I'm not yet done recording the events of today. I have more."

The sheriff laughed obscenely and dealt the next hand.

A thunder rolled off the lake and even against the hugely waxing moon, a green-hued light approached, casting wicked intentions on the office floor like a dueling gauntlet.

Stenhouse visibly shuddered, saying, "It will keep going, it will keep going."

"You know what that is or something?" asked one of his hired gunmen.

"No ... no, just unnerving is all."

Another hired gun added, "People been seeing 'em all week. Probably shootin' stars is all, boss."

From that remark, the deputy told a crude joke causing riotous laughter.

Stenhouse turned from the desk glaring, "Be quiet, I am trying to work!"

A chorus of off-color laughter was interrupted by a loud thump upon the roof above their heads. Dust shook from the rafters coating the men in pale gray hues.

The card players looked up in wonder then terror as steps bounded across the roof. Stenhouse was halfway under his desk by the first thud.

"What is it?"

"Wha' could be so big?"

Frantic, Stenhouse ordered, "It doesn't matter, kill it, shoot, shoot!"

The sheriff looked unconvinced, "Shoot what? Sounds like whoever it was jumped off the roof. Slim, Roger, check it out." He beckoned toward the door.

Slim and Roger went to the front door, Slim gingerly opened as Roger covered him. With everything still as ice, they stepped out, pointing their guns in every which direction.

"Nothing out here, boss," said Slim.

A massive white hand reached from off the roof picking Slim up by the head, yanking him out of sight.

A chorus of gunfire followed, as Roger hit the deck. "Oh dear Lord, I saw it! Hideous!" As the shooting paused, he slammed the door shut and bolted it.

"Who was it?" demanded the sheriff. "Porter?"

"That was no man," wailed Roger.

A creaking across the roof was met with more lead, but no certainty. Something slammed against the door hard and final. Silence reigned as the sheriff stepped lightly to the side window to look. "Whoever it was threw Slim against the door. That's a strong man."

"I'm telling you that was no man."

"Shuddup Roger, he'll eat lead like anyone else."

Stenhouse beneath the desk looked about fearfully.

The deputy coughed and was glared at for his mistake.

The men waited for another sound. None came for the space of eight heartbeats.

Bursting through the window, a savage white shape roared as it rendered men too slow to defend themselves. Shots echoed from several pistols but the bone-pale attacker cast aside the lamp, blinding the men.

The crunch and splinter of bone and wood tore through the room that lead could not hope to stop.

Brief retorts from the echoing firearms illuminated the room, letting the terrified men see what they faced before the end came on black talons.

Roger ran to the jail cell and shut himself in behind the bars.

Unimpressed, the thing loped to the man cage, gripped the bars and tore the door from its hinges. Roger didn't last as long as the door.

Almost mad with panic, Stenhouse raced for the front door, clutching his notebooks to his chest. Three more shots rang out and the deputy, squealed. Daring to look behind, Stenhouse saw green witch-fire engulf the office.

Stenhouse ran up the street in a panic and threw himself upon the threshold of what he prayed was refuge. He banged on the door crying.

Growling behind him, heavy loping steps drew near, but stopped cold.

Putting his arms over his face Stenhouse screamed.

The door opened.

Joseph Rich looked down at the gibbering mass of Stenhouse. "What the deuce?" Rich held his rifle at the ready and scanned the darkness as the hysterical crying man held fast to his knees.

"Bring him in," said Charles Rich, looking over his son's shoulder into the vacant gloom. "He needs a blessing."

PORTER HAD BEEN BAPTIZED BY WATER AND BY FIRE, now he was sure where the twain should meet. Hot fetid breath whirled about him like a hurricane as a monstrous tongue lashed, attempting to force him down a bottomless black gullet.

Closed inside the leviathan's mouth, Port gripped the top two rear fangs in the monsters maw, only they allowed purchase without shearing his hands off. The tongue, almost as long as he was tall, proved a formidable opponent. Kicking at the pink monstrosity, Port knew he could not hold out forever.

He despaired thinking of his holy blessing. Not cutting his hair would not help against being digested, no bullets or knives were needed to end his existence here. What of his children and Christine? What would they do without him?

Anger coiled up in him, like a serpent preparing to strike its deadly blow.

The tongue struck again, trying to fling him.

Roaring, Port launched himself at the tongue and grasped it as he would a greased pig. The air pressure changed and he knew there were at the surface. Twisting the tongue, the monsters mouth opened and Port let himself out, still grasping the end.

The monster wouldn't close its mouth for fear of severing itself.

Once outside of the teeth's way, Port noticed something stuck on the lower left jaw-line. A crude contraption of tiny interwoven bones and rawhide, similar to the bizarre fetish he had seen earlier.

The monster struggled, but Port kept a firm grasp with one hand on the slimy tongue. Try as he might he couldn't free the fetish with one hand.

A deep bass inside the monster reverberated out.

He let go of the tongue and yanked the interwoven mess from the bleeding gums.

It let out a rumbling purr, and Port could swear that the great eye went from a dull black to blue. Whatever wicked spirit had held the monster in thrall, was released.

Running a hand back and forth over the thick scaly hide, Port looked the monster in the eye. A thick eyelid closed in rhythm to his strokes.

It let out a rumbling purr yet again.

"What have I got to lose," he said to the monster as much as himself. "Lemme up, Blue."

Port slid over the head of the calmed beast. He found he could grasp the folds of skin where the jaw ended. Port lightly kicked at its neck with his waterlogged boots and the beast started forward. He could even guide the direction of the monster as they cruised over the lake by pulling one way or the other just like a horse and its reins.

"Wheat!" Port called aloud. He had broken the wildest stallion ever.

The Bear Lake monster swam quickly through the water in a way that reminded Port of the seals he had seen in California. It was quick and he had to pull upwards a number of times to keep the creature from diving into the depths. It was exhilarating.

Piloting the monster to shore, Port finally realized how chilled he was. He needed warmth if he was to survive. Thinking of survivors...glancing over the waters there was no sign of Lehi. Old man must have drowned. Port bowed his head for some time.

The beast slumped its way onto shore using its shorter paddle like feet just as a seal would.

Port ran his hand along the monsters snout and ushered it away. He didn't want it getting any ideas about his horse nearby "Go on, Blue. Git. We'll be meeting up soon enough, I promise."

The monster seemed reluctant but finally went into the lake and disappeared beneath moon-stained waters.

It took some time to get a fire going, but once the blaze picked up, Port collapsed beside it. Who would believe it? Revenge could wait, he needed sleep after breaking Jonah's stallion.

Why had he named the monster Blue? He didn't know, but it made him laugh.

"Wheat," he chuckled as he fell asleep.

CLIMBING OFF HIS HORSE, PORT LIMPED on account of his water-logged boots drying by the fire and shrinking to an uncomfortable size. He lost his 45-70 in the lake and one of his pistols and all of his ammunition.

Shuffling into the general store Port could only point at the ammunition.

"Morning Brother Rockwell. You weren't part of that mess last night were you?" asked Thomas the shop keep.

Port shrugged through bleary eyes.

"Did you drink all of those tinctures last night? No wonder you feel so terrible."

Port rubbed his face and responded, "No, just get me some cartridges."

"Anything else?"

"Cartridges!" hollered Port. "Wait, what mess last night? How'd you know?"

Thomas gave a patronizing smile. "Last night right across the street. The sheriff's office burnt down. Everyone who was staying there is dead, burnt up, except for Brother Stenhouse."

"Stenhouse? Where is that polecat?"

Sniffing, Thomas responded, "Brother Stenhouse is among the most respected men we have in the Church, he hardly deserves to be called a polecat."

"Cartridges and where is he?"

Thomas gulped, "I understand he is at Brother Rich's for the moment. He went there last night a crying and a hollering that something was out to get him. No doubt he was distressed about the fire that took so many lives."

Port paid for the ammunition and walked out, figuring he had almost all the pieces to the puzzle. Now to get the last one from the dog's own mouth.

STENHOUSE WAS SHIVERING IN THE PARLOR, sipping warm milk. He started at Port's entrance, a dark avenging angel with the brilliance of the sun at his back. Charles Rich calmed him as Joseph shut the door and ushered the other family members out.

Joseph said, "He has been carrying on all night. Not a body in the house got a wink of sleep last night."

Stenhouse was still shaking, though the comfort of the Apostle had soothed him somewhat.

"Come and take a look at this," said Joseph, leading Port back outside.

On the ground in an obvious perimeter all about the Rich home, were big wolf-like tracks, as if a creature met an invisible barrier through which it could not pass.

"What do you make of that?" asked Port.

"What else? Father is here."

Port nodded and the two went back inside. Sitting across from Stenhouse, Port tipped his hat to Charles and said to Stenhouse, "Alright, don't feed me any cow pies. What is that thing? What do you know about it?"

Stenhouse looked at Port and quivered again, "It will find me."

"Are you talking about the Bear Lake monster?" asked Joseph.

"We got bigger fish to fry," said Port.

Confused, Joseph shot back, "No, we don't."

"Hold on son," said Charles. "There is a deeper conspiracy afoot."

Stenhouse stared at the wall and looked far away, remembering. "It was Harrison and Godbe. They started it. Sure, I was right there with them, along with Shearman, Kelsey, Tullidge and Lawrence among others but it was Harrison and Godbe that started it."

He took a sip of his warm milk. "I'm not mad. I have seen things. They discovered the answers when they went to New York and met the medium Charles Foster—he greeted them in Heber C. Kimball's voice! They knew it was Kimball communicating with them from beyond the grave. He told them our path was correct and Brigham was a fallen prophet, then others came and spoke the same; Joseph Smith, Alexander Humboldt, Solomon—even Christ spoke to them."

Joseph Rich snorted.

"Truly, they didn't see him, but he spoke to them and told what we wanted to hear. Our reformation path is correct and Brigham is wrong. He is not infallible."

Charles quieted Joseph. "He is speaking what he believes to be true."

"Of course I am. They brought back their ideas and wisdom. We have communed with spirits. Then Colfax came. The government wants to destroy Brigham and the Church along with it. We couldn't let that happen, we had to do something, reform the Church from within to save it. If we can show how we accept the world, they will accept us."

"What's all this up here then?"

"We tried to talk to Brigham, to make him see, but he was obstinate and cruel. We knew we had to make a stand but time was short. We met at the lodge, with the ferry on Bear River, Godbe's lodge. We held a séance. Harrison directed it. I remember it was cold no matter how we stoked the fire. A powerful force came to our room. It spoke from behind us, strong and vibrant. It surprised us. We all heard it but none of us could see it. It said to use an Indian shaman and the Bear Lake monster, to bring down Brigham. It said, His master wanted to bring down Brigham and would use his earthly servants to do it. We were all so thrilled to know the Lord was on our side."

Port rolled his eyes but remained silent.

"We were validated. I thought it odd to use a heathen for the Lord's work but we did as we were told. I found the shaman. He was staying just upriver from the lodge."

"What's his name?"

"Ligaii-Maiitsoh."

Joseph widened his eyes, "You mean Lehi? He's a friend."

Shaking his head, Stenhouse went on, "He is ancient as the mountains. He said he would call upon the Great Serpent to do our bidding. But something went wrong instead of just scaring people, the monster started killing people. I tried to help the Lamanites watch for the beast but it only made things worse."

"Ever wonder if you aren't on the side of angels, much as you think you are?" asked Port.

Stenhouse looked sharply at the suggestion. "There have been setbacks, but no, we are right."

"Then what was last night?"

Shuddering again Stenhouse said, "That wasn't right. I think it serves Ligaii-Maiitsoh. There has been a mistake. The fiend was supposed to be controllable, but it went blood-mad when it discovered the Shoshoni were in the valley. It has surely slain old Lehi. It will come for me next. I will never see Fanny again."

"That's enough crying. What is it about the Shoshoni?"

"The Shoshoni used to capture Navajo and sell them into slavery. All sorts of horrible things happened. I learned of this from Chief Many-Buffalo. The Navajo retaliated by sending witches out to destroy the Shoshoni, I believe Ligaii-Maiitsoh must be the last one."

Port rocked back in his chair, "I couldn't get him to tell me a darned thing and I even had a translator."

Stenhouse was surprised. "Why? He speaks perfectly good English. Oh yes — you were at the Bear River massacre; he was never going to tell you anything."

Port bristled as Stenhouse continued. "Many-Buffalo said his tribe was in the path of the skin-walker, and were under its doom. I wanted to help him but I knew there was nothing to be done when the crazy old man raved as he did over the Shoshoni enemies?"

"What about them fetish pieces I found? Collection of bones?"

"Some kind of curse is all I know. It lets the bloodthirsty creature focus where the shaman directs it," said Stenhouse trailing off as recognition washed over. "You! You put the fiend upon me!" screamed Stenhouse, rising from his chair for the first time.

"Just like it was put upon the Cooks and I couldn't have that."

"It wasn't for the Cooks — it was for you," snarled Stenhouse.

"I didn't know what it would do. I just followed my gut," answered Port.

Stenhouse still fumed. "You black-hearted murderer." He stood ready to fight bringing his fists up.

Port slammed him against the wall with ease. "This is what I do, boy," said Port before letting him go. "And I never killed anyone who didn't need killing."

Stenhouse collapsed to the floor and wept.

Joseph asked, "What about the Bear Lake monster?"

"Smoke and mirrors," answered Port. "It was a decoy for the old shaman, I don't believe it will give you any more problems."

"You didn't kill it did you?"

"No, I made peace with it. It'll behave itself."

Charles Rich asked a question, "What will you do, Brother Rockwell?"

"We'll throw down with the shaman and his beast. I'll use 'em up."

A POSSE WAS ORGANIZED BY MID-AFTERNOON and rode out to old Lehi's camp. It was later than Port meant, but several of the men insisted on getting silver bullets cast. Fancy trays, silverware and jewelry that had crossed the plain as priceless family heirlooms was smelted and molded into balls for precious family insurance.

Port didn't worry about any of that for himself. There were twenty guns riding with him to fire those sacramental rounds. He had his Bowie knife that Brigham had blessed and already knew that it could harm the creature. If he needed to, he would cut the beast asunder.

When they were close, Port had them come in from two directions to triangulate their fire and trap the old man and his creature. He kicked himself for not trusting his, or his horse's instincts. The creature must have been nearby the whole time he visited with the old man. That would explain the wretched smell.

The tattered tepee was there in the glade but Lehi was nowhere to be found.

"There's nothing inside but this copy of the Book of Mormon that father gave him," said Joseph. "I don't understand. He has been here, living amongst us for weeks, he seemed like a good man. He quoted scripture. He said he knew it was true."

Port gave a lopsided grin, "Don'tcha think the devil knows it's true?"

THUNDERING INTO TOWN AS DUSK CLOSED IN AROUND THEM, Port knew something wasn't right. Something whispered on the wind, and the scent of wet dog hung heavy in the air.

Amanda Cook raced her horse up to Port. She had been crying. "I thought you'd never return," she sobbed.

"Calm down, Amanda. What is it?"

"We were in the garden, gathering the last of the harvest, just Mary and I. That witch-fire wolf-man came back. Phineas heard our screams, he tried to shoot it and fight. It hurt him real bad. Apostle Rich is looking after him, but it took Mary. It tore her from my grasp. It spoke, like a demon from hell but it spoke, 'It said you and you alone had to come and get Mary at the lake shore past the camps.' What do we do?"

Port held Amanda close and looked her in the eye. "I will get her back."

"How? It will kill her."

"No, I'll take care of it. Rich, you very good with that Sharps rifle?"

Joseph nodded. "Got a few silver slugs too."

"Keep to the tree line. If the right moment comes, take it. Everyone else stay put."

"I'm coming with you," broke in Amanda.

"No, you're not. Look after Phineas and trust me."

With that Port turned his stallion about and made for the lake shore past the Shoshoni camps, and the full moon glowed down like a dragon's face.

THE SHOSHONIS HAD MOVED CAMP, but the markings of where tepees had sat along with cook-fire remnants still dotted the ground. The loss of Big Bear and the others would be a hard tax on the small tribe. He remembered his own people's exodus in the dead of winter. They'll be all right, he told himself.

Fingers of ghostly clouds tried to shroud the moon, but still the cold light poked through, casting a long line across the lake. Where it ended upon the shore stood the white-haired old Indian, along with the little girl beside him. She was bound up like a trundle bed with a rag stuffed in her mouth.

Lehi, or Ligaii-Maiitsoh raised his hand in the common greeting, though the smirk on his face was mocking and cold. "I knew you would come Long-hair."

"My motivations aren't hard to understand, what are yours though?"

"I have blood of the Trickster in my veins. I am naked terror. I sow deceit and discord. I am your fatal error."

Port dismounted, "Well I am here. You gonna give me the girl?"

The tall old man smirked and pointed a long spindly finger "She dies, but only after you."

Port drew his gun, "Where's your creature? Nowhere to hide down here next to the lake."

Lehi cocked his head and laughed inaudibly. "I have no creature."

"You're blood of the trickster, a natural-born liar. I know you have some kind of beast."

"My name is Ligaii-Maiitsoh, it means White Wolf in my people's tongue. If you knew anything about us, you would have known what kind of man wears skins of a predator."

"And I wear a dozen cow skins. Let the girl go."

Lehi didn't move.

Port sent a round nipping past the old man's ears, but he didn't flinch. "You got nerve, I'll give you that. Let the girl go or I'll shoot. I got no truck with kidnappers or rustlers."

"I know you. You don't know me," said Lehi. "A lifetime ago, I swore to serve the Trickster and his slave, the Master Mahan. They granted me powers beyond the white man's gun."

"Enough! Let the girl go, or I scalp you from the inside out."

Lehi grinned, revealing terribly big teeth, a jaw that jutted bristling with fangs. It grew wider and wider, impossibly huge and fearsome.

Port wasn't sure he was seeing correctly.

The old man's nose twitched and stretched. "You see what only the dead have seen."

Port sent a round through Lehi's chest. The old man flinched upon impact but no blood came, and his face stretched further. Port shot a second round and a third into the monster.

But the transformation wasn't complete. Fine white fur sprung from the old man's body, and beneath it muscles rippled. A howl came with the completion.

Port sent a fourth, fifth and sixth round into the beast, none of which produced so much as a drop of blood.

Grinning devilishly, Lehi tossed the bound girl into the lake behind him.

Amanda Cook screamed from farther up into the tree line, as she dashed downhill for her daughter.

"More to slay," growled Lehi, his transformation to skin-walker complete.

Port dove for the girl in the lake but the swift hand of the monster batted him aside.

His pistol knocked from his hand, Port strained for his Bowie. But already the beast took him by the coat and threw him.

The thunderclap of a Sharps rifle, boomed over the lake shore. A tuft of white fur flew, but still no blood came from the skin-walker's wound.

Amanda reached the water's edge and pulled Mary from the weak surf. The little girl took a deep breath, gasping from the cold water.

Then she was thrown back in the lake.

The skin-walker knocked Mary back into the waters while holding her mother like a rag doll. "Danite," it called, emphasizing the 'ite'. "Choose which to save: girl or woman."

Port had the Bowie out, despite how badly his body ached from the blow.

"Throw it away in the lake or I rip her apart, but choose," snarled the skin-walker.

Port knew Lehi was a liar, but he knew it could fulfill the threat. Even a silver slug from the Sharps did nothing against it. Only the Bowie knife Brigham had blessed in Nauvoo could harm it.

The girl was drowning, the choice must be made.

Amanda fumbled one-handed with something in her pocket.

The skin-walker stared cold-fire at Port relishing the Danites painful choice.

Somewhere above, Joseph Rich looked down the barrel of the Sharps, waiting to try another shot.

Mary sputtered in the cold lake water.

Port took the Bowie in hand and threw it true as he had ever thrown anything in his life, straight for the skin-walkers heart. "Lord, guide my hand," he prayed. "Help me end this creature."

The big knife flew end over end impossibly fast. And it seemed for a moment that Port's aim was true and he would skewer the fiend.

It caught the blade with the reflexes of diamondback's strike and sounded out in a cross between a dogs's bark and a man laughing. It arched to throw the knife back.

Port thought it would throw the heavy blade at him. He ran for the girl and drew her from the water like baby Moses. She gasped again her face turning blue.

Looking back, Port expected to be stabbed with his own knife, but the skin-walker reveling waited for Port to watch.

The blade went high and wide of Port, falling into the lake and disappearing in dark waters.

Port watched the trusty blade vanish in the inky darkness, glancing at the shivering girl, he had an idea. Facing the lake he called, "Blue! Blue! Blue!"

The skin-walker taunted, "Calling for your knife's return?"

Amanda found what she had fished for, a small glass vial. She smashed it against the only part of the monster she could reach, its shoulder.

Consecrated oil dripped down the white fur, surprising the beast. Amanda tore free, running to her daughter.

The monster puzzled at her choice of attack. "What is this?"

Granting a thin reflective line down the monster, Joseph Rich took his shot, nailing dead center the shoulder where the holy oil covered.

Deep crimson flowed and the beast howled.

Bare-handed, Port tackled the fiendish beast, punching, kicking and clawing like the monster was the devil himself. The skin-walker resisted until Port jammed a finger in the wound; it let roll a string of wicked curses.

Groaning, it prevailed and sent the avenging angel flying into the cold surf.

Joseph ran down the hill hoping for another shot to present itself, but Porter was too thick in the fray and he dared no take another shot. "Do you have any more oil? It works!"

"I don't," cried Amanda, desperately trying to untie her daughter and run away.

The skin-walker raked at Porter with its claws, but try as it might it couldn't pierce his skin, the sharp edges could not gain access. Yowling, it looked at the lake and dragged Port into the water.

Joseph took another shot, hitting the monster in the back, but missing the oil and nothing happened.

"If I cannot cut you, I will drown you," laughed the skin-walker, holding Port beneath the water.

Kicking, Port strained and fought but the monster was too strong, pushing him into the sandy bottom.

Underwater Port heard a strange set of clicks.

The shaggy white arms let go and Port sat up.

The skin-walker had stepped back away from the water. It beckoned angrily with its right arm, speaking a wolfish tongue.

Behind Port loomed the Bear Lake Monster.

"Blue, I need some help. Get him!" Port shouted, directing the lake dragon's gaze.

The skin-walker's chest began to turn a shade of pale green that was growing in intensity when Joseph shot it again, right where a stream of oil had touched along the ribs.

Wailing of pain and true terror, the skin-walkers glow faded.

"He won't bob off this time. Get 'em, Blue."

The Bear Lake monster lurched forward and swallowed the skin-walker, devouring the white horror entire.

"Chew him up, Blue! Chew him up!" shouted Port. "Wheat!"

An infernal, hollow cry sounded from within the beast, dimming and fading to silence.

Blue opened its cavernous maw and let its tongue loll out between titanic fangs.

Port patted the tremendous beast's snout and examined its handiwork. "No coming back from that," he said, picking random clumps of white fur that stuck in the monsters teeth. "You did good, Blue. Now back to the lake with ya, old friend."

The monster rumbled a colossal purr and turned to slide back into deep waters.

AMANDA WATCHED IN AMAZEMENT, holding Mary close. "He is good?"

"Yes, ma'am. He just needed some help and understanding," said Port.

Joseph ran down the hillside shouting, "What a story to tell. I'll get this posted in all the papers across the country. People will come from all over the world to be a part of our valley and see the lake monster."

"No!" Port stuck a thick finger in the tall man's chest. "You're gonna tell everyone you made it up. No good will come of this tale being told for true."

Confused, Joseph looked at Port and the monster disappearing into the lake.

"You don't want what they'll bring to your valley. You don't want more trouble coming down on Brother Brigham. And you don't want 'em messing with the monster."

"I'll say I made it all up," said Joseph Rich, rubbing the sore spot where Porter had pushed. "I can't take back what has already been printed. But I can say now that it was all a wonderful first-class lie."

"Good. Some stories are better off that way."

**THE SIREN WITCH**

by

Drew Briney

VODN TRUDGED THROUGH THE DEEP MUD, ignoring the impolite sucking sound his boots made each step along the way. Methodically, he observed his unsettling surroundings, familiarizing himself with every patch of rotting logs, every memorable twisted branch, each trail of phosphorescent mushrooms. Dense fogs made the job difficult enough but swirling, smoky mists winding through craggy, half submersed trees made navigation abusively complicated. They smothered the area with forebodings, unholiness. No wonder the scoundrel had chosen this area for his foul hunt. If getting lost in this labyrinth of cursed ground was easy, hiding would be effortless. Vodn swatted a mosquito. _Pestersome bugs_.

Predictably, only adventurous peasants ventured through these bogs. Unpredictably, victim counts steadily grew. Expendable peasant losses were initially ignored but diminished labor supplies now threatened future crop production. Vodn's own, relatively humble birth earned him the honor of investigating the murders two weeks ago. He kicked his foot against a fallen log, dislodged a huge glob of mud from his boot, and pressed forward. He spat at a bog rat, envied its speed as it raced over the sludgy terrain.

Nearly every evening, he'd hear moaning somewhere far off. By morning, he'd find an incomplete corpse. Remains were increasingly grizzly. And they peppered the landscape like maggots on rotten squash. Initial reports of a beast were no longer credible. Someone was cooking the corpses. Perhaps of all abominations, this one was worst: a cannibal. Rumor said human flesh was the sweetest of all and once someone got a taste for it, they couldn't stop themselves. Vodn shuddered.

Each discovery left Vodn with conflicting emotions. Part of him felt relieved he hadn't been attacked. Part of him felt guilty for not solving the crimes. And remorse mounted with each death. But tracking the attacks was impossible. Locations were random, precisely as expected. This was no thoroughfare. One couldn't expect a pattern. To make matters more difficult, there was no way to track the murderer. Inevitably, all tracks led to the waters or disappeared under the perpetual blanket of fog. And several tracks were false leads: small women, probably victims who escaped ... for a while. Finding the criminal might prove impossible.

MOANING, KEIKI DUG HER HANDS INTO THE MARSHY GROUND and squeezed the gritty texture through her fingers, leaving her hands balled in a fist. Tears fell freely as from a little child. Matted hair swept the ground as she released a throaty cry and then unexpectedly, a gust of fear pierced her heart. Lurching, Keiki snapped her head upright and dashed her eyes in every direction, absorbing every scrounge of landscape and vegetation they perceived. Her heart pounded mercilessly and forced her to take a strong breath. But she saw nothing unusual. And then, a haunting void consumed her thoughts.

Confused, Keiki looked upon her white dress. Thin and silken like a nightgown, it felt smooth upon her skin. It comforted her somehow - perhaps only a little bit - but it was something. She looked down at the beautiful lace trim and felt a tinge of guilt for allowing it to become soiled. Keiki wondered where she was and why she was crawling through a muddy swamp. She felt far outside of her natural element. She didn't belong here. From the craftsmanship of her clothing, Keiki considered she must be nobility but she remembered nothing of her station or family or village.

A horrifying void she could not escape, the absence of memories haunted Keiki, overwhelmed her like a water jug filled by a tsunami. She trembled. An empty shell, she desperately searched her mind for the slightest glimpse of who she was or where she might be. Opaque memories passed through her mind so fleetingly she could barely discern them at all. They seemed nothing more than ghosts, vestiges of violence. But she felt no pain. Even her heart aches seemed to subside. Were it not for her confusion, she may have identified a feeling of peace surfacing within her breast.

Tentative and uncertain, Keiki slowly stood up and walked a few paces to a clearing where she observed a large stone. The last warming rays of day danced upon its surface and invited her to rest, to warm herself before dusk arrived. She shivered as a brisk puff of air passed over her moist clothing. Slowly and methodically, she plodded towards the stone bed and tried to gather her thoughts. And then she remembered - or did she? Perhaps it was nothing more than a morbid dream. Surely, she couldn't have done that? Her gentle and compassionate soul quivered. She'd been trying to help him and then ...

Keiki crumbled onto the large stone and moaned loudly, her delicate frame resting upon the makeshift bed like a small girl ten years her junior. Perhaps she should retrace her footsteps. Perhaps it wasn't too late. Perhaps she could still save him. But no, more memories mercilessly plowed through her mind. He was gone. And she had killed him. She hadn't meant to. She stretched her delicate limbs across the stone as if offering herself to be tied down to this makeshift altar. Softly, she cried while trying to make sense of these elusive, haunting memories. Intermittent gusts blew her dress up and then slapped it back down. Keiki barely noticed, her thoughts riveted by incessant hauntings. They were nonsensical, tormenting. They couldn't be true.

LEGIONS OF PACES AWAY, A YOUNG MAN HEARD KEIKI'S CRIES, her moaning, her suffering. Dressed in drab colors, he was a simple peasant with a colorful personality. His sense of compassion overcame his cheery disposition as he followed the cries. He couldn't ignore pleas for help. And yet, the instant his eyes fell upon her lithe frame, something told him not to approach any further. But he couldn't help it. She seemed mysteriously surreal. A naked silhouette draped only with the thinnest cloth, she lie motionless upon a stone altar, a beautiful figure etched by an eerie sunset. As he plodded through the marshy meadows, he continued to hear faint moaning until soon, he perceived slight movements. She was writhing and twisting, perhaps in agony, perhaps her mind was entirely lost in pain. Perhaps she was suffering the last throes of death. He was too far away to see any blood but close enough to determine no one else was around for a few hundred paces in any direction.

His heart sank. Some burning intuition bade him to run but he cast it aside. He refused to act the coward and abandon someone in need. Mesmerized, he pressed forward, oblivious to the dangers lying upon that altar. He glanced quickly from side to side and then all around the perimeter of the sparse forest outlining the marshy field. His heart pounded as he cautiously waded through large, leafy skunk cabbage. He thought he could guess her age now - fifteen, perhaps seventeen - and still, he couldn't see any blood. Her thin and graceful figure now appeared motionless apart from the whipping of her hair in the wind and the flapping of her pristine dress. Then again, if she was moving, the waving grasses behind her would hide anything less than heavy breathing.

His feet kept moving. His heart filled with doubt. Perhaps she was fine. Perhaps he should turn back. Maybe she would be embarrassed to be found dressed so poorly. Then again, she would probably appreciate the warmth of his cloak. Clearly, his mind insisted, she needed help. Clearer still were swelling, burdensome forebodings that increased with every footstep. And yet, he couldn't justify any suspicion that he might truly be in danger. No one else was present and the young girl had no means of harming him. Besides, she was too small to harm anyone. At least, that's what every appearance declared. And while appearances can be deceiving, nothing could have seemed truer. Still, his heart refused to find peace.

Soon, he reached her side. She lie there, motionless apart from occasional, heart wrenching moans, yearning pleas for deliverance, for help. He scanned her figure and saw no traces of blood, no indication of injury apart from patches of dirt that indecently decorated her knees, feet, and hands. Her feet were bare, slightly scratched and her nightgown suffered some few minor tears. Other than that, the young woman appeared clean and pure - although significantly older than he first guessed. As her chest heaved from a particularly strong attack of emotion, her eyes slit open and then widened in surprise. Enthralling lightening colored eyes tore a dazzling portal through his mind. As he peered into Keiki's eyes, he wondered what they had seen, feared what they had seen, worried over their pain. And he longed to help her.

"My lady, may I be of service?" He bowed his head and diverted his eyes out of respect for her apparent social standing.

Keiki responded nothing apart from a raspy gasp, an emotional response that could have betrayed her inability to speak if only he'd been more observant. Her pale blue eyes remained wide with fear and surprise. Was this the same man she had killed? Was this some ghost? His gentle features were too beautiful to adorn a man. And yet, she fancied him iconically masculine. She longed to say something, to touch his cheek to see if he was real but still, she responded nothing.

"My lady, I am Unthor of Burr. How can I help you?" His voice was sincere but a tinge of fear seemed to surface. That creepy, foreboding feeling returned and threatened to force him into retreat. Only prodigious determination suppressed his instinct to run.

_No_! In silence, Keiki screamed but nothing escaped her lips. She drew another breath but only airy moaning escaped her lips. Curling slightly towards fetal position, Keiki began to roll away from Unthor as she tried to warn him to leave her alone. Then, she remembered. She remembered it all. With urgent ferocity, she summoned the courage to run away. He could never do it. He couldn't leave her now. Only she could stop what would come next. She forced herself to roll off the altar and to swing her legs to the ground. But as she did, the young man impulsively grabbed Keiki to keep her from falling.

_"_ No!" Keiki screamed in desperation. This couldn't be happening again. It couldn't be real. She couldn't accept it. She had to run. But as she began to force her body upright, she heard his painful cry and turned back to look. As she did, her arm brushed his hand and he yelped in pain. "I'm so sorry," she cried back at him. "I'm so sorry." The words echoed as he recoiled backwards away from her. In shock, he began to fall backwards towards a spikey rock. Keiki recognized it. Instinctively, she reached out and grabbed his arms. Like acid, her hands burned through his clothing and then his skin, puffs of smoke fuming towards the sky as his skin bubbled. Now balanced, Unthor pulled his arms away from Keiki in shock and disbelief but he stood there in a dumb, helpless trance.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated. But it was too late. Her arms ached for him. She brimmed with compassion. She wanted to help. She wanted to make everything better. She pulled him closer to embrace him, to comfort him for what she had done. But he resisted her efforts and wrenched his arm away. Keiki's grip had been firm. As Unthor twisted his torso away from Keiki, she found herself falling upon him, her inadvertent victim, her lost redemption. If she could stop herself from harming him, this cursed cycle would end but no, she lie upon him, her legs tightly pinned against his waist and her arms pressed against his biceps.

"Shhhh," she cried in delusion, "everything will be alright. I'm so sorry. Here ..."

Ignoring the fumes of burning flesh coming from every point of contact between the two inadvertent strangers, Keiki reached up and stroked his temple and hair as he yelped in agonizing pain. Her hands were now fiery embers, melting through his skin like molten lava. His body dissipated under her weight, leaving Keiki sinking towards the ground and spreading her legs wider so that she could reach and embrace this poor, suffering man. She hugged him closely and pressed her head upon his chest, absorbing the comforting thumps of his heartbeat. But it didn't last. The heart stopped beating and her mind went blank.

For many long moments, Keiki lie on the earth in confusion. A few vestiges of limbs occasionally fumed as she brushed against them. She observed her surroundings. Where was she? Her hands were bloody. She recoiled and sat upright and looked around carefully. _Someone must have attacked me,_ she surmised, standing up quickly and turning to see if there was anyone else around who might do her more harm. Keiki shivered in horror as she looked down on her tattered and blood stained clothing, her eyes wide and luminescent like the moon.

She let loose a primeval grunt and cried like a wolf howling into a star filled sky as the memory of what she had done came flooding back into her mind. Could she have really done such an awful thing? Her chest pulsed with repetitive and heaving cries until her voice was hoarse and her throat ached. With a fierceness she scarcely recognized as her own, she tore off her cursed clothing piece by piece, scrap by scrap and ran away from the few grizzly remains of the body behind her. With breathless haste, she gazelled over the landscape, hoping for an escape. _He seemed such a gentle man_ ... Keiki screamed with frustration as she ran and then sank into a particularly soft patch of ground, thrusting herself into the mercy of the earth, the grassy marshes.

_No_! She silently cried in unbelief, her tender soul rebelling against her own memories. She'd been a witch - good witch - but cursed by the gods nonetheless. "I'm so sorry Unthor," she moaned as she stared at the soggy ground beneath her. She pounded the earth as if beating a giant, unresponsive drum and then screamed into the uncaring night as she crumbled onto the earth next to a fallen tree.

Moaning, Keiki dug her hands deep into the marshy ground and squeezed the gritty texture through her fingers, leaving her hands balled in a fist. Her tears fell freely as from a little child and her eyes caught hold upon the lacey trim of her silken garb. She must have been of a noble line ...

VODN CONSIDERED HIMSELF LUCKY TO HAVE SURVIVED these bogs as long as he had. Locals said the waters were infested with diseases. They said no one could be here long without bending to their curse. That's why he'd worn high boots. He carefully avoided touching the water. He'd worn long sleeves and grown a beard in case the mists rising out of the waters were cursed as well. As he pondered these things, he heard familiar, haunting moans: a woman under attack. _Odd,_ he thought, _the murderer never tries to take them down quietly._

Bludgeoning through the wetlands, Vodn made every effort to make his way to drier land where he could run faster. If he wasn't terribly fast, he'd be too late. And so he trudged on, forcing himself through the muddy terrain, grabbing low hanging branches to more quickly pull his boots out of the mud. The moaning continued, interspersed with cries of pain. Vodn cursed for having ventured too deep into the waters in search of clues at this late hour. The murders were always around dusk. He'd simply lost track of time. His pace slowed momentarily. A foreboding swallowed his resolve, beckoned him to run away. But he pressed forward.

A brief eternity seemed to pass before he neared the victim. He could see her now. Elegant and graceful, she lie upon a rotting log, trembling, the victim of some drawn out torture. But stripped to her nightgown, the girl showed no signs of injury. Her white covering would betray the slightest trace of blood. She arched her back and moaned as if some invisible person had dealt a heavy blow upon her abdomen. Instinctively, Vodn snapped his head in every direction, looking for her abductor. Fear enveloped his heart as he imagined himself playing into the murderer's devices by being distracted by this young girl. But then it was clear no one else was around. Even the sparseness of overhead branches betrayed the barrenness of this area. They were alone. Keiki cried out again.

With prodigious resolve, Vodn lunged forward, drew his sword, and leaped over her thin body, half expecting the murderer to be lying in wait on the other side of the log. No one was there. For a second time, he surveyed the marshes. _All clear, no one in sight._ Vodn looked down at Keiki. She was older than he first imagined, dressed in noble woman's attire. While forebodings and fears lingered like the stench of a skunk, so did compassion and a deluge of desires. His eyes traced over her lightly covered body a second time. Still no signs of beating or cutting. The source of her pain was entirely unfathomable. Perhaps she was diseased, a victim of the water?

Finally, Keiki became aware of Vodn's presence. Eyes wide and terrified, Keiki cried out in horror but her babbling words made no sense. Vodn brimmed with empathy as he looked into the eyes of this supremely beautiful woman. He began to feel a deep longing to rescue her from whatever pain she was enduring. He felt love for her, a yearning to be her companion. He looked into her enthralling eyes, blazing like liquid lightening as he reached to caress her cheek. His fingertips began to burn.

"I'm so sorry," Keiki whispered, her eyes welling in tears as she trembled. "I'm so sorry."
**DEMONI VANKIL**

Höbin' Luckyfeller's Fieldguide #1

**Höbin's Discovery**

AS A FISHIS (FIELD SCRIBE HISTORIAN), you tend to collect a lot of ... well, stuff. I collect more than most. That's why I'm the best at what I do.

In my rented room one night I found myself staring at the towers of crates and packages—unevenly stacked and precariously reaching over my bed and small table. My eyes wandered over the field dates and priority numbers on each container—a system I developed to allow me to keep track of current work projects in order of priority. Filled with the knick-knacks of my adventures, each item held a story already written...or a story waiting to be discovered and told.

I absentmindedly ran my fingers over the surfaces of metal, wood and heavy plastic—lingering at the soft woven cloth of scroll pouches. Checking the numbers, my memories were working their way into the past.

For some reason, I was trying to remember when this collection started. Reflecting on the decades of research and discoveries of my life I located the medium-sized, faded blue 'smuggle crate' I acquired while at University. Scratches and dents adorned the surface of my very first piece of equipment.

I remembered one of my professors encouraging me to 'Be creative, if necessary, to collect the data you may need someday.' Chuckling to myself, 'It's called creative acquisition,' they told us in training. 'Often the story you are trying to uncover is not the story you will tell. Store away the dross until you can connect the facts and complete another story.'

'Steal what you have to', was what they meant.

My hand slid across the worn surface searching for the hidden latch. There's a soft 'click' as the seal releases the false bottom inside the crate. Removing my old field journals, the letters from Sylvia and Alhannah's first hunting knives, I lifted the separator out.

Perfectly nestled in the bottom was a rectangular wooden box. A puzzle box made of a glossy red wood—sifterwood or manzanita, I think, from the grains. The smuggle crate preserved it well all these years, the polished wood still looking like new. Except it wasn't new. The box was already hundreds of years old when I found it.

I was working for King Robert III on my very first job outside Clockworks City. Morphiophelius had been insistent. Said the job needed a 'professional touch' but the priests had never worked with a Gnome before. From their wide-eyed looks ... I'm not sure they'd even seen one until I showed up. The Church was determined to fill the holes of their history and prove their rights of succession and they wouldn't let any other humans on the dig site.

The remains of an old kirk was being excavated not two days ride from Castle Andilain. A kirk is a building where a priest of the Brotherhood lived and served out the days of his vows. Administering to the poor and needy, caring for the widows, teaching the orphans...and when someone was at deaths door, the priest would administer last rights and prepare a proper burial. His 'flock' were those within a two day walk.

What made the Brotherhood unique, at least in my opinion, was their reverence for life. It was a firm belief among all the ancient priests that every living soul had a purpose, some purposes obvious in life and others unknown until death and should not be forgotten. It would be an affront to the Gods if a life was lived without any acknowledgement of its existence. The priests felt it was their solemn duty to write about those abandoned souls—people at deaths door without family or friends to care for them.

From a historical perspective, I can appreciate that. It was a beautiful belief.

Anyway, priests would take their life work, specifically their journals and store them in hollowed out foundation blocks of their kirk before they died. This was what the Church was looking for—records which would provide the name of the priest and his line of authority. All other records, such as the letters and testimonies about the 'flock'—the very ones this dead priest sought to have remembered, were cast aside. Unimportant. Discarded. Rubbish.

That's when I picked up the puzzle box. The priests couldn't open it...and it rattled, so they assumed it was broken. Probably just a loose piece inside, preventing it from opening. Thus had it been discarded, left on the research table ... in the _rain_.

So I put it somewhere for safekeeping.

Shaking it lightly, I could still hear the loose piece inside. Never did figure out how to open it. Adjusting the cybernetic implant in my left eye, I examined the box more thoroughly. The craftsmanship was extraordinary. Evolu make, would be my guess. It almost looked like the box was grown from a single plant, the mark of a true master's hand. There were small symbols, almost invisible, hidden in the very knots of the wood, but not ones I could identify. These were new to me.

If I slide the carved shapes in the right combination, it should open. Well, nearly a week and more than a hundred attempts later ... the lid slid open. The puzzle was solved.

... or so I thought.

Contained inside was a set of letters. Fourteen in all, neatly folded and stacked together tied with a simple blue ribbon. Setting the box aside, I untied the bow and lightly examined the letters with the end of a pencil, careful not to let the oils of my skin mar their surface. The two top letters were deeply creased, worn and lightly stained, while the other twelve were crisp, showing minimal wear. Actually, they looked as if they could have been written yesterday. Fascinating.

I would soon discover that the answers to the greatest mystery of my career had been in my possession for decades ...

**LETTER ONE**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_I have arrived in Andilain unharmed and weary._

_Now I know why you have always desired to see Andilain at this time of year. The sweet fragrance of the trees blossoming remind me of the soft skin at your neck. If we should ever travel here I will insist on taking a carriage. You know how I detest riding horses and after two days my backside would be grateful if I never beheld a saddle again._

_The trip was uneventful and my royal escort was not unkind to me, though their conversations haunted my sleep._

_The Dark Lord is whispered to be closer to our home than I thought possible. The armies of Andilain, even now, wage war against the Vallen forces in the south, which have plundered the small villages of the coast. If these guards are credible, Mahan is a greater threat than I ever imagined._

_Though I inquired, my guards did not know why I was summoned, but I have my suspicions._

_I have been given quarters and informed that I will be brought before the King and Queen this evening. Being uncertain of what's to come, I thought it wise to send this letter now._

_My love, I do not wish to alarm you, but it may be wise to gather the girls and visit Elaine or your cousins in Whitewater. My passion for magic and consuming curiosity get the better of me at times and I fear this weakness has now placed our family in danger. I never should have challenged the mägo. It was foolish and selfish._

_I beg you to listen carefully and follow my instructions:_

_Pack only what you need for a fortnight and leave the cottage immediately. Leave no word with your friends, only that you are traveling west to see your cousins. Instead, I want you to go north to Midell and stay with Aiden. I have already sent him word to prepare for your arrival. Speak to no one in your travels. My sweet love, I am so sorry for creating circumstances that jeopardized the safety of you and the girls._

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

**LETTER TWO**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_I am sorry it has taken so long to send you news. Please don't worry, for I am safe. Thankfully, I received word from Aiden that you all had, indeed, arrived unharmed, which comforted me. I pray your travels went well and that the girls believe this to be nothing more than a family excursion._

_The six days and nights past have been much occupied in deep council. A neuvo-kuisa they call it. To my surprise, in this grand body gathered by High King Gaston and Queen Älodiä, more than just the human race is represented. I recognized Kimmeldell the Bold of the Kutollum, the Evolu, the Iskäri and even the reclusive Nocturi....and one other._

_Of all the people to find, Charles is here. Just when you think you know your friend. He is blessed to claim the confidence of the crown and I soon discovered it was he that recommended me for this task. He shared my blighted history with the council even though the others of our Order scowl at me. No doubt they seek vengeance for my sacrilege against magic._

_Ethany, things are so much worse than I have imagined. I did not see the shadow that hovers over the entire world. The Kingdom, our allies, the very world...is on the brink of ruin. Mahan has challenged every nation of light. Countless have died. Spies report that the Dark Lord is now gathering his forces to wage his greatest campaign of bloodshed against Andilain. The hills of Äsä-Illäriu are aflame, the Holy City of Väthinerä invaded and even now the Evolu and Nocturi flee to our lands for safety. No race can hope to stand alone against the crushing blows of the enemy. The Kutollum to the north and our own people remain free...for now._

_The Kings are fierce and we have been enlisted by none other that the Hero, himself. This evil must be stopped. But it will take great sacrifice. Not of money, but of life. What they ask has never been done and it seems impossible._

_As I first feared, the Council is aware of my experiments in the halls of magic and that is why I am here._

_Ethany, it is at this time I miss you most dearly. You've always encouraged me and been a strength through the years. Your wisdom, your gentle counsel would be of precious value to me right now. But here I must decide what is best for my family alone...and this is a most difficult decision. This isn't about the country, or the land, or the King's wishes. This is about you, my beloved. This is about Saffron and Melody and keeping you each safe from the evil that is approaching us. The evil that will surely find us if it cannot be stopped._

_I can help. They do not know what I have been working on, but you do. They don't realize the progress I have made in secret and how much can be accomplished with the right assistance and tools. They need me, Ethany. The war could be turned by the skills of a simple mägo clerk. So, I pray for your patience and understanding._

_I could not protect you if I were to come home. We could run for a time, but the tide of war will speedily find us, I am sure of it, as it devours the lands, and then what? Where would we go? How would we live when all we knew has been ravaged by darkness and ceased to be?_

_A royal guard will be dispatched to you within a fortnight. They will escort you to our home that you may collect our belongings. There is a stronghold in the East, in Bailish. You will be safe there. The Queen has vowed to me that she will keep you and the girls safe. Safer than you would be with me. This war will soon bring bloodshed to our doorsteps, my love. Only upon her solemn vow did I consent._

_My dear, I also informed the Queen that you have experience tutoring in the House of Lords so that you may have means of support until I can return for you._

_Listen carefully, Ethany—remove the floorboards under my chair by the fire and the second red cornerstone of the hearth. You will find my journals and rune scrolls. Give them to the Captain and he will bring them to me._

_Be brave, my love. I know it is a great sacrifice but this is the only way. I promise to work with haste and diligence and to be with you before the snow falls next season._

_Hug the girls for me. Tell them that Papa loves them and not to grow too much before I come home. Pray for me as I will for you._

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

FASCINATING!

My first clue. High King Gaston and Queen Älodiä were two of the greatest rulers in human history. Gaston being the son of a human and Älodiä being the noble daughter of the Evolu. I have a time frame. 5871s-6017s. These letters are at least 700 years old.

Few records exist from this point in history. The documents concerning the great conflicts of the nations against the Dark Lord are written with bias favoring the race of the writer.

Also, it was a focused tactic in times of war to cripple the future generations of an enemy by destroying their records when found. Journals, histories, church records, genealogies, anything that gives a people solid roots to build on and pass onto the next generation. Because if you lack the accurate history of your people to draw upon, seeds can be planted and a nation can not only be polluted, it can be undone.

Which makes these letters invaluable.

It's so hard to discern the truth until you can isolate common patterns.

However, there is one prevailing pattern in all the scattered histories of the races concerning this time period. Every nation of the world was in turmoil. Mahan was doing a sweep of the globe to either dominate or exterminate. His forces had become so numerous, he could dominate the field of battle by numbers alone—the war of Sharu, against the Nocturi, spoke of an army so vast, it outnumbered their own 300 to 1. In fleeing the field, scribes recorded the terrifying sight of the enemy falling upon the dead, rending them with their teeth and consuming them as food.

I read the letter again, my eyes halting when I saw 'rune scrolls'. I didn't know what to make of this at first and was actually disappointed. Really? Rune scrolls? rune lore is folklore. I must say that I believe all lore is probably based on a truth somewhere. I think that's why I'm good at my job. Believe everything until you prove it otherwise. Anyway. Anything I have found throughout my career has been little more than children playing pretend with magic drawings or decrepit old bards singing songs of Runelords who all died of a debilitating disease. I mean, come on.

The dwarves do tell more interesting stories of warriors who wore the runes and were so fierce and powerful that a single armored titan could bring down an enemy's army unaided. Or that placing runes on their swords or axes would make it so they could slice through stone unhindered. Or their enchanted armor would allow them to walk through dragon's fire without singeing a single hair of their beard. Poppycock, I know. But they sure do make the stories entertaining.

There's also been the odd heretic throughout history claiming rune lore is real but somehow all record of them disappears...or never existed in the first place...and therein lies the tales of rune lore being a dark and evil magic. Nobody really knows. Nobody really understands.

And neuvo-kuisa? I wasn't familiar with that term and nothing came up on the Fishis Archive Database (F.A.D.), so I would have to dig deeper. Maybe hunt for the language roots.

This Eamon was at the center of that time, in 'deep council' with the greatest minds and leaders of that generation. Setting runes aside, it still lends credit to him. Which makes me curious about what experiments a mägo clerk was performing in secret—especially ones that would get the disapproval of his Order? One of the heretics?

...or just a clever loon?

**LETTER THREE**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_It has been thirty-one days since I have beheld your lovely face and my heart aches for you and the girls._

_I am told it is safe for me to send letters now, as we have finally arrived at the hidden place. Where none will search and nothing will be found. It's fit for dwarves, I'm sure, but not the likes of me. But I thank the stars that we have traveled safely for it was a long and arduous trip. Our camp is so remote I fear regular communications will be challenging—but I shall write you faithfully and send my messages in bundles, if necessary, as often as the opportunity arises._

_Oh, what I have seen during my travels, Ethany!_

_Dragons! True as the red in my beard, I beheld a full grown dragon near the winter foothills not more than a week into our journey. The beast was so large its wings blotted out the rays of the sun several times. My heart was pounding as we kept to the trees to protect the horses. As it shrieked through the sky I started but the Gypsy in our party, Shiro by name, laughed at me before he explained it was a female in search of food for her young. That cry scared beasts into movement providing her with a successful hunt. For Melody's sake, I had hoped to see a young beast in the sky, but my searching was for naught._

_The Kutollum are a jolly people, my love, full of lore and hope for the future. Their leader, Hammel, is a soft spoken dwarf and appears thoughtful. Being well versed in the history of their race he occupied many tedious days with ancient stories of his ancestors. The most interesting being why they migrated north to the ice wastelands. We have some things in common. Hammel also has two daughters of whom he speaks dearly._

_A fortnight into the trip we were unfortunate to travel through the remains of a ravaged Westgaiden. The homes were burned, farms decimated—not a breathe of life left. A heavy residue of sulfur burned our lungs. I immediately recognized the signs of Tauku and their abominable craft—tearing at the very elements of nature to do their bidding. A terrifying race. It will be years before anything will grow. My mind agonized for you and I spent the rest of the day in silence, hoping and praying you and the girls are somewhere warm and safe. I am grateful for the vow of the Queen to keep you far away from the devastation's of this war._

_It's utterly cold and desolate here. In the evenings I miss your warmth. I try to focus on the early morning laughter of the girls and the songs sung while braiding one another's hair...or your soft voice in the kitchen, singing to the rising sun. Your voices all echo clearly in my mind, bringing warmth to my soul._

_I am confident in my assignment and believe it will go faster than anticipated, my love, and therefore I pray to return to you sooner than expected. Please tell the girls of my travels, especially little Melody, for I know she would have been fascinated by the lands and animals I have seen these past three weeks. Oh, the stories I will tell them when I get home!_

_Kiss the little ones for me, soundly on the forehead as I would have done._

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

TAUKU. NOW, THERE'S A SURPRISING DEVELOPMENT in the war. I don't think I've seen the Tauku involvement recorded anywhere. There is nothing so vile or horrifying in this world than that damnable race and nothing, NOTHING I hate more! May every wretched one be hunted, disemboweled, and burned that the ash may be trodden under the hooves of the lowliest of beast and creatures!

I digress. My apologies. Wanting to trace Eamon's steps and identify his end location, if possible, I successfully secured a copy of an ancient map of Humär and began tracing from Andilain northward. It was easy enough locating the land where the dragons were but there was no reference to a town called Westgaiden. So I searched for an even older record that told me Westgaiden was a small fishing village on the west coast.

West coast? That's also puzzling. I guess there's nothing like taking the scenic route. But a 3-week journey on horseback by an unknown route makes locating his end position sketchy at best. Maybe that was the point.

**LETTER FOUR**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_It has now been forty-seven days since I last saw you and the nights seem to be getting longer and more cold. The wind has a purpose of its own, bitting into flesh and bone without mercy, but I do see the wisdom in this location._

_Worry not in my sporadic writing, dear. Remember how consumed I can get in my studies and work when the topic is truly fascinating to me._

_It is a challenge for me to not share with you what is encompassing my every waking moment and I can not divulge too much, but this much I believe it is safe to say. The Hero of the Gem has chosen each of us for a specific reason. Exciting and scary, I know._

_My first hypothesis is this: It is possible for a mägo to imprison all darkness using the skills of a Rune Keeper, a master of metallurgy and a Gypsy._

_Now I must discover how._

_Praying that you are all well and warm. Will write more soon._

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

NOW, I REALLY WANT TO KNOW what is Eamon up to.

I read the letter over again. Then again.

I have a time frame. 6000s, the world war against Mahan.

A meeting, a secret location—presumably in north-western Humär during the cold season.

The Hero, Evolu, Kutollum, Gypsy.

Imprison evil.

What could a mägo, a rune keeper, a blacksmith and a gypsy have in common? I'm really bothered to see the runes come up again. And a keeper this time. It has so little merit that it dampens my enjoyment of this story.

There is something here that I cannot put my finger on yet. I do love a good puzzle.

I wondered if it might be the Demoni Vankil. I mean, the time is right. World events were pretty devastating and the unification of the races resulted in the defeat and capture of Mahan himself...and the use of a device. The darkest secret in history, the coveted mystery of all qualified and amateur historians.

No one actually knows what the Demoni Vankil is. 'Evil Chain' is as close an interpretation as anyone has discovered. Every attempt to uncover hints of its existence has trailed off into nothing. Zilch. Nada. There simply has not been anything to go on.

Instead, all we have are the muddy stories told from one generation to another, distorting facts to the point we can't discern between what's real and what's the embellishment of the imagination.

**LETTER FIVE**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_Oh, how time defies us! I am constantly urged to work harder and faster. But the 230 days since I last held you in my arms have been so long and tedious. I keenly feel my absence in the girl's lives. I am beginning to forget the sweet scent of your skin at my lips and I count the days until I can hold you once more._

_I wear your locket and the girls bracelets close to my heart. It keeps me focused on my purpose._

_It pains me that I missed Saffron's eleventh birthday. We had plans to go to the spring fair this year and attend her first Father-Daughter dance. Please kiss her and tell her I was thinking of her, that I remembered, even though I could not be there. The cook made a simple cake and we had a small celebration in camp to her honor, though I think Kutollum look for any reason to get out the ale._

_My burdens are great and a heavy ache grows in my chest. The whole camp waits on me as I, without a teacher, learn new languages and test over and over the magical combinations taken from my journals...but my tests are too slow and meticulous for their tastes. They pressure me. They do not understand. Mixing the disciplines of magic must be exact. Nonetheless, even Hammel and Shiro have become exceedingly bored._

_To pass the time Hammel has carved a beautiful puzzle box from manzanita wood, then had Renton forge delicate hinges of silver to hide within the twists and curves, corners and layers of the wood. I've never seen such skill or beauty._

_Charles arrived this morning with devastating news. His family has been murdered, Ethany. Eva and the baby are gone. Curse this blasted war! And curse Mahan!_

_Charles is worn down, broken under the weight of such sorrow that cannot be expressed or assuaged by anything other than time. I am concerned for him, as I feel acutely the sacrifices for this cause have been great. He will stay with me for a time and assist in the experiments._

_I miss you, my sweet. Painfully so._

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

230 DAYS? I BRIEFLY GLANCED THROUGH THE REMAINING LETTERS, carefully unfolding them in order and laying them out. There are huge gaps. Where are the other letters? What have you done over the last 183 days, Eamon?

Of course he's not going to give Ethany all the details—he's obviously hiding. He's working on a secret project. If anyone were to come across the letters in transit it could compromise everything. Maybe even his family's safety. Is that why there are letters missing? Was it protection or deception?

I was left with a challenge: where do I start looking for the creator of a prison? I started by looking into Eamon's first appearance.

It was difficult to locate any reference to a neuvo-kuisa. It wasn't a commonly used term by anyone. Only amongst royalty and those in high position. This led me on a mini goose chase. Since the records of the crown in Andilain were barren I was forced to find another option. There would be Evolu records. Normally this would not be the case—Evolu don't meddle in or concern themselves with the affairs of other races, especially political...but the ruling family wasn't just human. Lady Älodiä was from a noble Evolu house. That meant the elves had a direct interest in the welfare of the crown.

I traveled to Äsä-Illäriu, the Evolu lands, and met with a representative from the Grand Library. Librarian Ainsley welcomed and encouraged my enquiring mind. I was given a cot in the foyer, food and writing tools to take notes. Gotta love those elves.

He brought me a thick volume called the Book of Three Shadows, a history of events during the stay of the Evolu people upon the human continent. Interesting title. I raised my eyebrows, hoping Ainsley would explain, but he only smiled and motioned me to read. I did so...late into the night.

The Evolu account of the war was something I had not read before.

Across the sea the Nocturi and Evolu had driven Mahan's Tauku Invocators out of their homelands at great personal loss. Once fortified, the Evolu made an exodus from their homeland through the Prime Gates 'to join their human brothers'.

To the west of Andilain, the Hero of the Gem attacked Mahan directly with a small army of elite human warriors, called the Nethinim, 'men who refused to die,' along with four thousand Evolu rangers.

'For we all feared the wrath and scrutiny of the Dark Lord...'

'...so cunning and intertwined in our societies were his spies that many trusted none.'

It was then that the Hero through High King Gaston '...in the utmost of secrecy gathered the wise and skilled to craft a plan that would bind the evil that had thrust the lands of light into darkness for a neuvo-kuisa, the Council of Whispers.'

Ah-hah. And there it is.

In this 'council of whispers' a name was presented. '...a unique individual was charged with the task of creating a method...' Unfortunately, there's only a shred of information concerning him:

'...he held his head high, not with pride—but confidence. Only when his Queen pledged her protection to his wife and children did he bend knee. He asked for letters of sanction from each race...then uttered a mägo oath to do all that was required of him...'

Sounds like a good guy.

Next, I petitioned for a letter of recommendation from the great wizard Morphiophelius to take to the School of Magic. Surely the greatest collection of magical knowledge on Elämä would have record of a mägo clerk and experiments involving a magical prison.

Core, from what Morphiophelius told me, would be the logical discipline to engineer a prison or any spell of lasting containment. Traveling to meet with Master Caiden from the Order of Core almost proved a waste of time. Almost. Caiden was curt, arrogant and unwilling to answer any questions directly. I was met at the docks and not allowed onto the school grounds. He clarified that my request to meet was granted only because of Morphiophelius's recommendation and it never indicated that the interview must to be on actual school property. They're all warm and fuzzy, those mägo. Gotta love their literal interpretation.

Not.

However, I said 'almost' a waste of time because his last statement in our somewhat heated exchange clarified my first hunch. He said:

"The School of Magic has a glorious history, which does not and has not ever dabbled in the pollution of its practices. Disciplines are never mingled other than a secondary language to support its primary. Those who do are not permitted to study at this Institution and no longer exist to us..."

That is when I remembered Eamon's statement about being scowled at by those of his Order. He had already burned his bridges and got himself a one-way ticket to obscurity. He was disowned, struck from all the records of the Orders and forgotten. He was on his own.

Mixing the disciplines? He would have had to study in secret and not expose himself. Brave guy, though. Even I have been impressed upon by the mägo's conviction that mixing the disciplines is very dangerous and should never be attempted. Ever. I think it's even common knowledge among all the races.

This thrust me back into the world of myth, legend and folklore.

I was doing a whole lot of running around without collecting a whole lot of information. I took a moment to examine the puzzle box. Is this the very box Hammel carved? Probably. I was right about the manzanita, surprised it was a dwarf instead of an elf.

Where are the other letters? And why would Ethany keep some and not the rest?

**LETTER SIX**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_The isolation is killing me. The echoes and howling across this massive mountain range remind me daily of our remote location. It has been so long since I have heard your voice I sometimes believe I hear it upon the wind. I have not heard from you in so long and I believe I may go mad. I am tormented by the lack of any news...especially of the war. But I can feel it being waged upon our lands._

_The supply wagons have become less frequent and we are forced to rely on the wood lore of the Kutollum combined with our hunting skills to stay fed. Frost berries may fill a belly but do not satisfy for long. However, it's not the food that I miss so much as the news._

_The last we heard, swarms of Vallen march on the western lands, laying waste to the towns and villages. I am told even the majestic Forest of Andle has been set aflame! Hammel has tried communicating with his people in the north by Artic Tern, but even he receives little news._

_My progress is slow but steady. Even as I write, a renewed fire is kindled in my belly to complete this project in haste. I have the ability and knowledge to change our fate. I must succeed._

_Pray for me Ethany. Pray for my speedy success. Pray for my sanity to sustain me through the nights while I pray for news._

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

THE LETTERS HAD CONSUMED MY EVERY WAKING HOUR and I made the tired, foolish mistake of taking them down to the tavern. Wood, the tavern keeper, brought me spiced roots and meats with a large pitcher of Blackseed Ale as I combed over each document by candlelight, seated near the popping fire.

Vallen patrons shouted and growled to one another in the background of the tavern. A priest of the Brotherhood sat in the corner, alone, sipping a small glass of new wine while reading a small book, and old Terrin in the corner, singing his tales at the hearth:

The mists in lands not far away,

Have hidden the deer and doe,

But alas its power cannot hide,

The broken hearts and woe.

For upon the field of battle near,

Were waged the wars of shadow,

When men and elves and dwarves did fear,

The dead upon the meadows.

Choose ye this day, to serve darkness or light,

For the worth of a soul is revealed in the fight.

The evil swept across the sea,

And turned the days to night,

While wives and children fled the land,

Their men remained to fight.

The battle sore and blood did flow,

As many lost their lives,

The Vallen horde did pierce the lines,

With sword and lance and knives.

Choose ye this day, to serve darkness or light,

For the worth of a soul is revealed in the fight.

In the end the Gods did hear,

The cries of faithful men,

Who gave their all and fought with might,

Unto a bitter end.

For light did prick the night again,

The horde destroyed no more,

Now heroes live by bards abroad,

Their deeds are now our lore.

Choose ye this day, to serve darkness or light,

For the worth of a soul is revealed in the fight.

That old codger needs a new job—his music depresses the crap outta me.

Apparently the Vallen scum felt the same way, because the next thing I knew, a large metal mug filled with ale ricocheted off the hearth and onto my table, the black liquid sprayed over the whole of my notes...including the letters.

I bolted. Standing up too quickly I knocked over the candles I was reading by and ignited the drenched papers altogether. The table was suddenly engulfed in flames.

Beating the fire with my cloak, Wood finally doused the table with water as I felt back into my chair, horrified. In an instant I had destroyed all the letters!

Pushing through the soggy ashes of my notes...I gasped. Under the destroyed remains of my personal notebook were the 14 letters...unharmed! Lifting a single letter from the debris, the ashy diluted ale beaded and rolled off the surface of the paper, leaving it dry and unblemished.

Lifting each letter in turn, the result was the same. None of them were harmed in the slightest fashion. Peering at them more closely I noticed a slight shimmer in the upper right corner of the paper. A small watermark. So they weren't completely indestructible. I was still impressed and curious. Checking each page I recognized a similar mark in the upper right corner. That wasn't an accident.

What I did next, I can't fully explain, because it was nothing more than a hunch.

Lighting one of the candles...I held the letter over the open flame.

The candle went out.

I lit a match and tried to hold it under the paper.

The match went out.

...so I set all the letters down on the table and poured the remains of my ale onto its center, then lit it on fire.

Wood hollered at me, but without taking my eyes from the flame I assured him all was well and we both watched the fire consume the liquid in full and fade to nothing.

The table was unharmed...and so were the letters.

My conclusion is that rune lore is real. And Eamon is possibly a genius.

**LETTER SEVEN**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_I hoped, I searched, I desired. But now I know...rune lore is real! Oh, Ethany, the Order thought I was insane and mocked me, but never again. rune lore has proven itself to be all I had imagined and more._

_The tangible manifestations of this system of magic are so simple, I can see why it fell into disuse and faded into myth. Unfit for the purposes of the great mägo Orders, I've no doubt, but for me Ethany, brimming with possibilities!_

_The ancients never tapped into its full potential. Maybe they could not see the boundless power they beheld or else why would they allow it to fade into myth? It saddens me, this act of indolence. But do you know what this means, my love? I am that much closer to finishing my work and coming home!_

_We sought a method for bringing a rune to life. In this, Hammel, has been indispensable. He alone, the keeper of ancient texts and runes, discovered a reference to 'Oro-Lifsin' or words of life. Combining the lore that says the first language had intent, life, if you will, and was binding, I knew we were bridging the gap into my expertise: languages. More specifically the languages of the Seven Disciplines._

_I know, dear, you might be wide eyed with your hand covering your beautiful mouth and maybe a bit concerned, but be assured, all is well._

_I have mastered a skill that in the past could only be described as irresponsible, muddy and volatile, that no other mägo dared to conceive in his mind. I have successfully combined three of the seven languages into one powerful language and the result is life. The runes live!_

_I know that in this letter I may have said too much but in the length of time it takes to relay letters I believe my work here may be done and the entire world will know of it anyway. It is my fondest desire to return home to you and the girls before another holiday should pass beyond our reach._

_King Kimmeldell arrived today with a fresh party of stout dwarven warriors. As a representative of the neuvo-kuisa, he asked for an accounting of our progress. His comprehension surprised me as I expected to find it necessary to simplify my explanations, but it wasn't so. Maybe having grown up in a society were rune lore was as common a folklore as any other prepared his imagination for the possibilities. He seemed exceedingly pleased with our progress and gave us all encouragement._

_I celebrated Melody's birthday by compiling a book of sketches showing the beautiful places I have seen and the fascinating animals I have beheld. She was growing so quickly when I left, she must be getting so tall by now. Please give the girls my love and tell them I miss them. I always miss them._

_And you._

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

IT'S REAL. RUNE LORE ACTUALLY EXISTS. Thanks to Eamon I held in my hand literal proof that it exists, when all the world is forced to rely on the fables of mothers and drunken Kutollum. Why wouldn't there be something written down somewhere, about this form of magic? In thirty years I have searched the archives of gnomes, humans, Evolu, the ruins of the Nocturi and interviewed my dear friends in Holääfeldi for some sign of rune lore and every time, I came up empty.

Did the races work together to hide this knowledge from the general populace of the world?

And if so, why?

And who is this Hammel? A Kutollum Rune Keeper? Do the Kutollum have access to information they simply aren't sharing with the world? King Kimmeldell wasn't surprised with the rune progress presented by Eamon.

I think that is quite an accomplishment for 367 days of dedicated service.

**LETTER EIGHT**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_I am weary. My red hair has turned ashen and I am compelled to grip a cane with gnarled fingers as I walk. Will you still love me when you see me, my beloved? Will you see in my eyes the man who adores you, the same young man you fell in love with under the cottonwood trees that spring morning by the brook?_

_If I had known. If only I had some way of knowing before these experiments, I would have prevented this._

_rune lore is dangerous. To be a power that can work independent of its creator a rune needs life force to function. A literal life force._

_The effects of our work were not immediately noticeable. I thought at first the change in my stature and the lightening of my beard and hair was due to the demanding rigors of this project. It was not._

_Every experiment I have participated in has taken a part of my life, Ethany. Drained it from my very soul to power the rune. I am not the only one. I see the effects on Shiro and Hammel, too. Hammel is affected least of all, the life of a Kutollum lasts hundreds of years, but he still feels the effects. Shiro and I have not been so fortunate._

_This discovery has slowed our progress a great deal, though we press onward to our goal. Mahan must be stopped._

_I find my mind often wanders back to the day we met. I hope, my beloved, that you remember my heart and devotion if not the youth of my face._

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

DO PEOPLE NOT SEE THE IMPORTANCE for keeping accurate records? Another 314 days passed. Now rune lore is dangerous? I feel as if I am getting too emotionally involved in Eamon's progress and the missing information grates on my nerves.

I have come to the conclusion it must be the Demoni Vankil he is working on. I have no solid proof, just a gut feeling.

Two things all the races accounts have in common is that they don't know what the Demoni Vankil is exactly but that it is the greatest triumph in history: ...the banishment of the Dark Lord! A singular event that created the Dragon's Chasm, nearly rending Humär in two, sent the evil races scurrying back to their own lands in terror and brought peace, happiness and prosperity back into the world.

**LETTER NINE**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_709 days I have been gone and I cannot see the light at the end of this path. A growing fear within me whispers that I have made a grave error in judgement._

_Have I pursued the wrong path? Have I come so far, so long, to fail?_

_The draw from the runes is too strong. To work properly they require more life from a single source than I could have possibly imagined._

_The life force of Hammel has been weakened to the point that we dare not ask him to make another sacrifice. Our camp has become a community of old men, each Kutollum miner has willingly given of themselves for this cause, but to no avail. It is not enough._

_Shiro tells me he has an alternative, but the cost would be great. Greater than what we have already given? I don't know._

_Have I failed after all this time?_

_I could use your wisdom now. You always know what to say when I am confused or discouraged. I miss resting my head upon your soft breast, listening as the beat of your heart pumps warm vitality throughout your body, while you twirl your fingers in my hair and whisper your encouraging, soothing words and ideas._

_I dwell upon the memories of our picnics by the stream—the girls playing upon the grass, giggling as they chase butterflies. Life has new meaning to me. It's more precious than I realized, now that so much of it has been consumed in this war._

_Maybe I have missed something? Surely there must be an answer. A way to reshape the flow of magic or perhaps a means of rewriting the intent within the rune..._

_I will write again, soon, my beloved. Do you still pray for me?_

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

I DID NOT AT FIRST MAKE THE CONNECTION. Shiro is a Gypsy. That means he's an Iskäri—just not blue like the main colony. I may be wrong, but I don't think so. I should have noticed this sooner—because I live among the Gypsies.

Here in the Black Market the Gypsies rule.

There are various predictable rules that are of little consequence. It is the penalty for disobedience that is interesting. If you are of the lighter races, such as Human, Gnome, Iskäri, Gypsy, Kutollum or Evolu—breaking the rules can get you fined, cast into the local prison to work out your sentence or banishment.

If, however, you're a Vallen—the penalty is paid with your life. ...and it's a horrible sight to behold.

The Gypsies discovered how to 'drain' the life from another being. Can't say I know much about it, other than having watched it first hand, once. The Gypsies are pretty public about a punishment—making sure a strong impression is made upon anyone looking to cause trouble.

The victim ends up a dry husk...or dust. I always wondered where that life force went.

What are Eamon and Shiro doing? and to whom are the doing it?

**LETTER TEN**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_King Kimmeldell returned 2 days back to look upon our progress and impress upon us the necessity of bringing these trials to fulfillment in haste. He brought disturbing news of the war. The darkness has spread across the coast and will soon reach Vänkiläsä. We are no longer safe. He has orders to move us quickly and as quietly as possible. Should the Vallen slaves escape, they would be our undoing._

_The talent of the Gypsies has proven to be the salvation of our research. Shiro worked diligently through the night to capture the remaining life force of the beasts. The screams are almost unbearable, but he was unerring in this. Vallen are strong in body and spirit, and the runes don't know the difference between good and evil. Unfortunately, we don't possess enough crystals to store all the life force and many had to be put down by the blade. What a waste._

_Much of what I write will not make sense to you, I'm sure. I find it difficult lately to separate myself from this work. I fear it possesses me at times._

_A young human courier of the Kings has just arrived with dreadful news. Alas, Vänkiläsä is no more. She reminds me of you. It's her green eyes, the same as yours and when she smiled in greeting, my heart stopped. It is hard at times not to let the wind here freeze your very hopes. I spend my nights sketching pictures of you and the girls and talking with them as if you were here._

_But, you are not...and in the end I miss you more._

_Do you remember I do this for you? For Saffron and my darling Melody? Have they grown much? Are they as lovely as their mother?_

_We move in great haste now. They say the only safe haven left is deep within the very caves of Holääfeldi itself. I am grateful we will no longer be isolated._

_Beloved, I would give another decade of my life to a rune in exchange for a moment to hold you in my arms again. To feel the warmth of your sweet breath upon my face and taste the tender sweetness of your kiss._

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

VANKILÄSÄ!!?

I tore through my crates, searching frantically through the dates until I found a small metal container with rounded corners. Pushing the lock sequence, the lid popped open to reveal a small cloth scroll and I had to smile.

Miracle number three. Sitting in front of me was another missing puzzle piece I'd possessed for over six years.

Field Entry, CT-709:2-11

I had developed strong friendships with the Kutollum Historians of the North, who share their history freely with those seeking to shine a favorable light upon the Dwarves. They are a great and noble people and when there is a shred of history which crosses their path, chances are, they'll have a record of it in some form.

So I had ventured north in the hopes of discovering a certain genealogy line of an famous Nethinim who had an obscure past, with claims to have been raised and taught by the Kutollum.

With permission of Lord Coldham, the primary historian of the Kutollum, I searched the dwarve's records for months. I could not find any trace of this human visiting, staying or learning from this stout race of warriors. After nearly a month in the north country, frustration set in—the trail had gone cold.

What was I doing, chasing ghosts of the past that didn't want to be found?

The very beat of my heart told me this was more than a historical puzzle. It was a cry from the grave. A plea to be remembered for all the sacrifices made in blood.

I decided to retrace my steps and return to Humär, where my primary records had been found.

My travels took me down through the frozen wastelands of Ambasere, the kingdom of the noble King Borislav. It had been years since I traveled through his lands and when the people of the local village sent word that a Gnome was in their lands, I was soon invited to the palace in Glaserte to dine with the Winter Wolf himself.

When questioned about my journey, I openly relayed the previous season of research. King Borislav seemed very interested in my quest and listened intently. When I mentioned my thoughts about the lives of warriors needing to be told, the king smiled. He then dismissed his guards from the hall, poured two glasses of his famous crystal wine and leaned forward.

"I have much to show you," he whispered, even though we were alone. "I must believe your plans have now changed."

...and he was right. The next day King Borislav met me at the castle gates with a dozen hunters, a cook, supplies and sleds roped to giant wolves. He insisted that I accompany him on an expedition: a two day ride west.

If you've never ridden in a sled pulled by wolves the size of bears...I don't recommend it. The trees and scenery whipped by as we leaped across the frozen landscape, whistles steering the wolf trains as whips cracked from the hunters hand. They had to strap my body to the sled for fear of me falling by the wayside or bouncing off and breaking my body against a tree.

We passed the Prime Gate in the Ochra-Ruce mountains before the sun set on the first day. I'd never traveled that far west and certainly not in such a short period of time. The forests become dense and unforgiving unless you have considerable wilderness skills or wood lore, to which I had neither. Borislav and his men on the other hand, were completely at ease speaking with the predators of the forest so we were rarely disturbed.

Food was abundant, as was strong drink so I can't really complain. The night was loud with songs of victorious battles as fires blazed until dawn.

Just before nightfall the next day our journey ended at the base of a sheer mountain range—a wall of ice and stone virtually impassable. The trappers and natives called them the 'Sormi-jaa', which means fingers of ice. The wind constantly bombarded the ridge, caking it with thick layers of ice that would never fully melt during the warm seasons.

The men started unloading the sleds as the cook started on dinner. King Borislav then did something I never would have suspected. He transformed in front of me. I was privileged to meet Borislav when I wrote a small piece on 'The Tracking Masters of the North' a few years back and was shocked then to discover he was a shape shifter. I was just unprepared this time for the change when all of the sudden the Great Winter Wolf—a legend among humans, towered over me in his majesty. Brilliant grey and white fur with steel blue eyes. His red stained lips curled and gave a short growl, lifting a front leg in my direction. The command was unmistakable, 'Get on'.

What do you do when a giant wolf commands you to get on it's back? You obey.

He lept through the narrow paths as I clung tightly to his back, locking my cybernetic arm so I wouldn't fall off completely. I made a mental note to return to Ambasere in the near future and start a book on the White Wolf.

He brought me to the mouth of a cave...a single path etched in stone, surrounded by what resembled Kutollum stonework. Borislav transformed back into his human form, taking the lead while I popped my mechanical hand back to use my excavation light down the hole. It lead us deep into the earth where catacombs had been constructed...or at least that's what I thought they were at first glance.

As we descended, King Borislav rumbled softly, 'I think you won't soon forget Vankiläsä.' He then shared the story of the caves discovery.

In the early days of his fathers kingdom, villages had to deal with attacks from wolves and bears, slaughtering livestock and even carrying off the unattended young of the village. A hunting party had been tracking a beast for days and mistook the entrance for a bears cave. The party of warriors entered with spears and torches, only to discover the bones of hundreds of humans lying in rows in contorted shapes, a few decayed to the bone, but most so frozen, their flesh had been preserved after death.

His timing was perfect. For just as he finished speaking I could look around and see for myself what they saw. It was just as King Borislav had said. But there was more. Most had a round symbol carved into the stone above their heads. These had similar symbols burned into their bodies. In the deepest reaches of the cave, the skeletons became much larger, the teeth were sharp and jagged. Vallen. ...all in the same contorted shapes and lying under symbols etched in the walls.

I had examined the carvings and brands closely, but didn't recognize any of the symbols. I was puzzled because usually, I can identify various forms of magic...but these didn't fit any established patterns I knew of.

Borislav then pulled from his tunic a scroll of cloth and handed it to me. The writing was stitched, rather than stained—his peoples method of preserving older records. He said it had been rewritten from scrolls found at this site. The language was Baiūmen and revealed that these were not tombs at all...but cells. A prison for the foulest of evil-doers. Men and creatures who had been sentenced to death—to be used in an experiment sanctioned by High King Gaston, when Andilain was a nation of itself.

The bodies were abandoned by the Ambasere hunters, who reported their findings back to Borislav's father. The cave remained a well-guarded secret, kept from any records for fear of King Alik and his people being accused of some unspeakable crime against their own race.

As a fishis of the Gnome Nation, I documented and time stamped the ruins and ancient shackles—estimating the prison to have been constructed between 6011s and 6014s, long before Andilain was split and Borislav's father ruled his own people.

The cloth holds record of a human mägo and Kutollum miners using prisoners sentenced to death, to work the mines. Vankiläsä means 'prison of the damned'.

Setting the cloth scroll down on the table, I can't stop staring at the letters in front of me.

Ah-hah. I found you.

I have walked the path of Eamon, the mägo clerk.

I have seen the works of his hands or at least the effects of his experiments.

And now you are going to Holääfeldi.

**LETTER ELEVEN**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_I have confined myself to my quarters. You cannot possibly understand the anger and disappointment I have felt. And I cannot convey it on parchment. What a waste of our time together. If all along I was to die an untimely death I would rather have spent my last years and days with you and the girls. What a waste. A cruel and pointless waste._

_Day 1006. It won't work. Shiro and I have used up all the Vallen slaves captured on the field of battle. No matter how we try, there is not enough life force even within a giant Vallen to satisfy the requirements to bind the Dark Lord. It simply cannot be done._

_But this is not all. The seals are too fragile. Even the most basic of magic can sever the binding of a rune._

_We are undone and I have wasted my life for nothing. My work has been in vain._

_I have failed._

_-Eamon_

THERE IT IS IN WRITING. '...to bind the Dark Lord.' This is the history of the Demoni Vankil. From Eamon I now know that it used rune magic—but I'm not exactly sure how and that it required the combining of the Seven Disciplines.

I could kick myself. Decades I have searched. For decades these letters have been hidden. DECADES!!

The story I have sought to tell more than any other... staring me in the face!

Once and for all, Höbin Luckyfeller will be able to put the fables and assumptions to rest with cold, hard facts!

I found myself cheering him on. Don't give up yet. You are so close. Tell me more.

**LETTER TWELVE**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_King Kimmeldell brought me a visitor today. It was Charles. It seems strange to me - his visits. I am beginning to question what his part is in all of this. I was, however, looking forward to seeing a friendly face._

_But that is not what I saw. In fact, I may have not recognized him in another setting. His neatly trimmed hair is now shaggy and unkept and the once handsome face is scarred, creased and unshaven. Even his eyes had a fire in them that made him look stern and harsh. Could these be the effects of fighting on the front lines of this war since I saw him last? He, we both, have aged a great deal._

_Charles related to me impassioned, the conditions of the war, the devastation and death plaguing the land. Not a single village or city to the south has survived. Mahan now controls Tämä-Un and the Prime Gate._

_You will be surprised to hear what happened next, my dear. For you probably believe it isn't in either of our nature._

_We contended bitterly against one another. Charles has been most unkind about my completing this work and the time it has taken. He kept repeating that it would work...and that I must make it work. I tried to explain the limitations of the runes, but he won't listen to reason. He became red faced in his anger, and raising his voice to me said my results were unacceptable and my attitude deplorable. His judgements of me are unforgivable for I, too, as you know, have suffered and sacrificed a great deal. I can do nothing when I have nothing! I will not be held responsible for this failure. He then tried to make me swear I would not give up until I had succeeded. But I would not._

_Maybe I overreacted, being frustrated over the current state of this work and he being worn out from his labors. I know not. Whatever the cause, he's gone now._

_Maybe my part is over and I will be coming home soon._

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

_P.S. Gratefully, Charles had not left. He is the last person I want to be at odds with. It appears he took my words to heart and has been in council with King Kimmeldell._

_Charles announced that he believed the Kutollum possessed the answer to our problem and then the dwarf King reverently placed a jeweled case before me, which made me leery._

_Ethany, it was a Lanthya! A most prized possession of this race and King Kimmeldell gingerly handed me the shard to use with the runes. He assured me that no less a cause could have compelled his people to part with it. At first touch I could feel the power emanating from it, even though it was smaller than the other crystals we have been using. I wonder also if he knew that if the Lanthya had enough life force it would never return to his keeping and we would still need two more. How can such a feat be accomplished? I felt sorry at that but chose not to mention it at this time._

_I gave the shard to Shiro for study and to practice upon and we resumed our experiments the following day. Shiro shouted with excitement when he channeled the energy from the crystal into the seal of the rune. There was no limit to its power! Four insignificant runes were created and activated without requiring a single moment of our own lives..._

_Charles may have saved us all._

THERE ARE NO HISTORICAL RECORDS ON THE LANTHYA, even though historians know they exist. I have seen one myself.

Legend says the Lanthya fell from the skies, a gift from the Gods. An actual piece of their own home world, intelligent and filled with wisdom, sent to teach us and help us.

Unfortunately the people of the Elämä bickered and fought over who was to 'own' the Lanthya and bloodshed ensued. So the Lanthya split herself into twelve lesser pieces—eleven shards and a 'heart stone', to be shared as a free gift to all people. One piece to each organized 'clan'.

This is when the first Mahan appeared, seeking to obtain the shards—and use them to bring all people under his dominion. As the wars grew, Mahan gained several of the shards and became nearly invincible—drawing on the unlimited life force to power his magic.

But the intelligence of the Lanthya had remained in the 'heart stone'. The Ithari, she called herself. She chose a humble boy among the people to be her Hero. To be the one she would grant all her power in exchange for his service to the people. He was to be the warrior against the forces of darkness and to defeat the Dark Lord Mahan.

It was the last battle between the Hero and Mahan which caused the Great Sundering. It tore the world apart, sending lands across the waters and dividing each race.

**LETTER THIRTEEN**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_I awoke this morning to shouts echoing through the halls of Holääfeldi. Dwarven criers bellowing "High King Gaston is dead and Mahan is captured." Upon further investigation I am told that the Omethiä, the Head Speaker of the Evolu, and Lord Soturi of the Nocturi, have also fallen. King Kimmeldell the Bold, even now, clings to life, having received great wounds in the Battle of Northridge against the Vallen hordes. The finest healers in Holääfeldi were dispatched in haste but there is little hope of arriving in time. Had the dwarves not dismantled their own Prime Gate during the war this would not have been a concern._

_The victory is not yet full enough to outweigh the sorrow and devastation that has settled down upon these people. The dark cloud of grief engulfs them. And I mourn with them. I should never want to forget the moans and sobs of a people in despair when the savagery of war robs them of loved ones in open mockery._

_The pains in my chest have become unbearable. Ethany, I feel I am responsible for their loss. How can I not feel guilty when the greatest blood of this generation has been spilt to buy time for me to complete this work? My only consolation is that it is done. Oh, that you could hear me shout to the mountains—'I am finally done! You may have no more of our blood!' After 1402 days since I left you and the girls, do I dare hope that this war is finally over? I have prayed the end would come for years and so much has been lost! Yet, I am reassured it is true—my time has finally come._

_I know now you would not recognize me, my love, for I am nothing but a shadow of my former self. My mind may burn with the power of rune knowledge, but my body has all but withered away in my dedication to this task. Only now do I understand. The ancient Runelords of folklore did not allow this magic to fade into myth. It consumed them until nothing was left._

_The runes have been perfected. All is in order and I am ready. Three runes. One to bind the tongue and one to bind the body. It shall be impossible for the Dark Lord to weave his spells. The third is special. It will bind him to Unrest itself, forged from the ore of that frozen world...forcing that immortal damnation to exist in a hell of living death. I have named it Demoni Vankil, the Devils Prison. The seals have been separated from the marks. They cannot be broken if they cannot be found. We have only to place the marks upon him and it will be done._

_I leave this very night for Castle Andilain with a branch of Kimmeldell's personal guard to watch over me and preserve my life. For of the three newly cast Runelords, only I remain to speak the incantations. We will travel light and fast to the capitol for the ritual where I will have the privilege of delivering the final blow, for this act holds my loathing, my pain, my hatred...and my revenge._

_My warm clothing is all worn through. I have been given a red cloak to keep me warm. I wish I could travel to Andilain by the Prime Gate that my tasks may be done and I can return home. Tell the girls it won't be much longer. Will you wait for me?_

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

DEMONI VANKIL—THE DEVIL'S PRISON. Ahem—Yeah. That was my second guess.

Anxious to know of the end, I unfolded the last letter.

**LETTER FOURTEEN**

_My Beloved Ethany,_

_It is done. There is nothing left for me here and I am free to go._

_I have lived a lifetime without you these four years. A life I would wish upon no man, nor ask any heart to endure, though I have few regrets._

_In the time I have labored, I have learned an important lesson._

_Though we have bound the Dark Lord and cast him out from among us, Darkness will return. It is a heavy blow to a man's greatest work to know it is for naught. We will forever be vulnerable to the weaknesses in our own hearts and our selfish desires. Power, money, lusts of the flesh and any other desire which takes a man, a family, a village or a nation from peace or freedom and places it under the sword is tyranny and the enemy of all. For until men desire to control their own passions, evil has rooted itself in their hearts and darkness will rise again. I am certain of this. And Mahan will return - though it be by another name. Such is the war of mankind._

_My deed is done and I am consumed._

_I am coming home._

_All my love,_

_Eamon_

THAT IS THE END OF THE LETTERS. But not a satisfactory end of the story for me.

I want to know the details of the Demoni Vankil. I wish there was solid proof as to how this was done, but all the records are tainted. Each race involved in the conflict has their own version of the story and in all instances—they point out in painstaking detail (with the exceptions of the Iskäri) that it was their race who actually defeated and bound the Dark Lord.

The Evolu used the power of the elements to send the dark army fleeing and then cast a great sleep upon Mahan. The Nocturi destroyed the dark armies with such power that Mahan begged for mercy. The humans say Gaston challenged Mahan openly and his archers pierced the Dark Lord with arrows to the extent he was weakened enough that the mägo Orders could use befuddlement and sleep charms on him. The Kutollum say King Kimmeldell and his legion of dwarves decimated the dark army and bound Mahan in chains of enchanted metal.

...but the greatest version was from my own people, who said they came and destroyed the dark army completely with Gnome-powered robots and kept Mahan sedated by a electric choke-collar. Yeah—the Gnomes didn't have technology yet...and they didn't even FIGHT in the war!

However, the accounts are clear that the Kings of all four races gave their lives to defeat Mahan and his army upon the fields of Andilain. That is in the Book of Four Kings.

What happened to Eamon? I don't think I would be rebuked for saying this man is one of the greatest mägo in history and according to prominent records he doesn't exist?!? After what he accomplished, I'm surprised. Did nobody think that they should write this down? To remember?

Did he go to Bailish to meet his family? No, somewhere along this trail I read of Bailish being overcome.

Apparently he met up with Ethany and the children, because I found her letters and Hammel's puzzle box in the kirk.

Where's my happy ending? Full and satisfied? Neat and tidy?

Nope. I am going to Andilain.

**Höbins Last Discovery**

THESE LETTERS HAVE SENT ME TO FAR LANDS over the course of two years, putting together one of the greatest puzzles in my career and I found myself growing very fond of this Eamon, from Tildan. In the end, I travelled to Andilain once more and gained permission directly from King Robert III to study the records of the Church.

I had missed something.

It took a few days for me to remember this all started with the Church decades ago when I was asked to oversee a kirk excavation site. I forgot to access the most obvious resources available to me: the Brotherhood. The records independent from the rest of the world and protected by the power of the crown.

It was law that for anyone condemned to die a priest of the Brotherhood would be present to be a witness and record all that was done. Mahan did not die, but he was being condemned...which meant there was most likely a priest present and recording during the event.

I was feeling embarrassed. Could it actually be this simple? To quench the burning desire to know how Mahan, the greatest evil of all had been bound and exiled. And to piece together the fragments of a life which had become a friend to me. A friend by the name of Eamon.

Brother Owens journal states:

_"Old age has come too soon for me. I fear that this request of Queen Älodiä may be my last opportunity to serve her. Alas, King Gaston is dead. I administered to his burial myself. I am old and worn and unable to be the man I once was but still I stand by our Queen in this mournful hour in defiance of darkness._

_"We are gathered around the Prime Gate in Andilain. Being created first, it is the strongest. There are none here who are not necessary to the ritual. Mahan is in the center of the platform. None are permitted to stand near the prisoner, only the Gnolaum and the mägo, exerting their powers to keep the devil quiet and still._

_"There is an older man, pale, withered and hunched in a red robe working with the Kutollum in stoking a fire just aside the steps of the Gate. There are three irons in the fire. We wait in hushed silence for the man in red to begin._

_"The Dark Lord begins to struggle and cries out to the Gnolaum, 'Would you curse a wayward friend?'_

_"I do not understand but the Gnolaum was taken aback as the Dark Lord starts to laugh._

_"The man in red looked to me as he took one of the irons from the fire. 'I am ready.'_

_"I ask if he would like to have his name recorded. He said 'no'._

_"Two Kutollum take the other irons from the fire and we follow the man in red up the stairs and to the devils side. He examines the iron in his hands and then leans down to the devil's ear and I am forced to follow._

_"'For this moment I have sacrificed all I have ever had to give.' And without a moments hesitation, he thrust the burning iron into the devils forehead, chanting words I cannot recall or identify._

_"The hysterical laughter turns to screams as the man in red leans in hard. A scream which rends the very fabric of nature. I can smell the stench of burning flesh._

_"Trees within the courtyard split in twain and the ground rocks and trembles. The Gnolaum calls out to the man in red but he is unmoving. I question if this is really necessary. He only smiles as he pulls the iron from the wound, casts it aside and holds out an open hand to the Kutollum. I am stunned to see the flesh completely burned away and the marks seared into bone._

_"The Dark Lord's screams grow with each touch until I fear the world will rip asunder. Three times is the devil branded thus, but as the third mark penetrates the devils flesh, silence falls upon us. The ground is still and though evil thrashes, eyes wide in pain and terror, he cannot scream._

_"The Gnolaum speaks the words and the Prime Gate is opened. Through the portal I can see only darkness. The devils body rises from the alter, an invisible force pulling him violently into the void, but still being restrained by chains._

_"The man in red whispers so only the devil and I can hear: 'From darkness you came, to darkness you will return.'_

_"With a snap of his fingers the chains of the alter release their captive. The contorted body of Mahan is cast into the darkness, his eyes wide with a terror I cannot even imagine._

_"The Gnolaum closes the gate and all is silent. There are no cheers, no laughter, not a sound of nature._

_"The war has ended and the enemy vanquished. I turned to speak peace unto the man in red but he was walking away. I never saw him again."_

So where did Eamon go? I could only assume to find Ethany and the children, which would lead to the kirk excavation.

It wasn't long before I located the personal journal of the priest of the kirk in question. There was a note on the box from the Church that caught my eye:

"Contents: Journal of Brother Drydan, Book of Songs, Laws of The Brotherhood, ...one red puzzle box (missing)"

Woops. Brother Drydan. He seemed determined to have his journals endure. I say this because none of his records were committed to paper but rather on brass sheets bound together by simple metal rings. Interesting, maybe clever. Probably a former blacksmith. Anyway, I didn't find what I thought I would.

_"I found an old man, soaked and shivering in dirty red robes. He was turned face down and nearly frozen to death, not more than a hundred feet from my doorstep._

_"Oh, that I would have heard him! Seen him! I could have saved him. All through the night I prayed and worked to break his fever, but it would not. Death was determined to have him. May the Gods bless his soul for the sufferings he must have endured along this long road alone and away from his loved ones._

_"It is not often that circumstances prevent me from keeping my vow, for I know not his name and in this I am tormented. The only sounds from his lips were the soft whisperings of 'Ethany', as he clung to a small red box as if his soul were contained therein._

_"So I have done what I can. His body was prepared and buried, but not without a stone. I cannot bear to lay him to rest without a name, and so I place upon his stone, 'He who loves Ethany' in the hope that the Gods will have mercy on his soul...and mine._

_"I tried to open the box he clung to, but was unable. I can hear the contents inside, and so I will send it on to those wiser than I to discover its fate."_

That was it. The end of the path.

Eamon was alone in the end and had the box and was the one who ended up at the kirk.

Before I returned home, I traveled south to the original excavation site. The hole where we dug was now a fishing pond, filled in by the overflow from the river. There were no gravestones to look at, so I walked the land for a spell and ended up resting under a large cottonwood tree, the red puzzle box turning in my hands. This was a disturbing end. My hands absentmindedly slid the pieces randomly across the surface.

The bottom of the box popped open.

...there was a locket, two small bracelets and a folded, fragile, letter.

It had the red wax stains of a royal seal.

**EPILOGUE**

_From Her Royal Highness,_

_Lady Älodiä, Queen of Andilain_

_My dearest Eamon,_

_It is with heavy heart that I send this letter, for I gave you my solemn vow to keep your wife and daughters safe from the darkness plaguing this land and I have failed you._

_Your wife and daughters were escorted from their home just days after you departed the Castle for Vankiläsä. They were taken to our stronghold in Bailish as I had promised. Ethany was accepted into Lord Brahms care and at my request given a home and position in his household, also committing to watch over her and the children personally._

_We could not have foreseen what would shortly come. The Eastern shores have never been invaded in the history this nation. Within a fortnight Bailish was overrun by Mahan's forces. We were betrayed by Ogriel among our own people. A rider was immediately dispatched for reinforcements from the capital, which were granted in haste, but our forces were too late. The stronghold and village had been laid waste._

_Lord Brahms armored caravan was discovered ten miles west of the stronghold. The bodies of your wife and daughters were found among those soldiers trying to defend them. Lord Brahm himself was discovered at the base of the strongholds gate, pierced with many wounds and surrounded by the bodies of his faithful men. High Lord Gastons army engaged the enemy in the forests of Whitewater the following morning. They were destroyed from the face of the land, their bodies denied burial and burned._

_We mourn your loss, Eamon. Words cannot express our sorrow for your family and for our failure. I have tended to the ceremonial needs of your loved ones, my friend. They have been laid to rest among the Kings and Queens of Andilain, their bodies prepared by my own hands._

_There were two letters discovered, which your love kept close to her breast while you were apart. A testament of her devotion to you, I have no doubt. These I return to you, along with her locket and two bracelets we found upon the wrists of your beloved children. May they rest in the sweet company of loved ones who have gone before them._

_Eamon, we pray you will be strong and ever determined to aid us in ridding our land of the enemy. Let not the pain and sacrifice of your loved ones be in vain. Avenge them and every other family Mahan has taken._

_The crown will ever be mindful of your sacrifice and your service, my friend. If you have need of anything, you have only to ask. Our love, support and blessings are forever with you until our journey's end._

_With deepest respect and admiration,_

_Lady Älodiä_

_Queen of Andilain_

**INVINCIBLE SHADOW**

by

Jason King

ARGENTUS SLAPPED THE RIGHT SIDE OF HIS NECK. He pulled his hand away and examined his palm. A black speck ringed by red confirmed that he'd exterminated the mosquito that had been attempting to feast on him. Unfortunately, another was ready to take its place. He hated Maes Tol. The southernmost kingdom of Shaelar was renowned for its warm, almost tropical climate and being in Rellaysta made that most apparent. The capitol city was situated in the center of the Gulf of Rell, making it a chronically sticky, humid place, infested with cockroaches, lizards, and an unending number of mosquitos.

Argentus slapped his neck again, his irritation making the blow land harder than he intended. He yelped, and when he pulled his hand back, saw the mosquito zip away. "Dammit!"

"Stop that, lasa," said an olive-skinned woman lying on her stomach at his left. She had long dark hair, big brown eyes, and her lithe figure was clad in black leather. "You'll draw the attention of the wall guards."

"I can't help it, Arynda!" Argentus hissed. "They're eating me alive."

Arynda chuckled and hoisted a small looking glass to one eye. They were both lying on their bellies, concealed in the wide fan-leaved plants on the edge of a swamp just outside the perimeter of a walled manor house. It was nearly dusk, the sweltering heat still suffocating in spite of the sun being low on the horizon, and glowflies were starting to appear in the waning light.

Another mosquito landed on Argentus' neck, and he brought his hand up again to slap it. Arynda lowered her small telescope and stared at him. Argentus met her gaze, and as if in challenge, followed through with his motion, bringing his palm down on the parasite feeding on his neck. Arynda rolled her eyes and went back to surveying the manor house.

"How do you stand it?" Argentus whispered.

"I think of your beautiful brown eyes, toned muscles, and that lopsided smile you..."

"Not being with me!" Argentus snapped. "How do you abide the biters?"

Arynda collapsed her looking glass and said, "They don't bite _me_."

Argentus was about to tell her just how ridiculous that was when he noticed not a single mosquito alighted on Arynda's tan neck, nor were there any welts indicating that she'd already been fed upon. As if to drive the point home, a stinging on his bare forearm made him reflexively swat at another mosquito.

"Why don't they bite you?"

Arynda smirked. "I'm too sweet." She began to crawl backwards on her belly until Argentus could no longer see her in the underbrush. Another mosquito attacked his neck, and he slapped it. This time he felt the insect explode beneath his palm. Oh, how he hated Maes Tol.

He crawled backward until he descended a bank of moist dirt with protruding roots where he was able to turn and crouch. Arynda was already sitting, and pulling her long hair back and tying it into a pony tail. "No really," Argentus began, "why do they not bite you? Do you have some kind of bug-repelling talis?"

Arynda just smiled at him.

He was about to press the issue, when something in his belt pouch made a soft chime. He fished out a palm-sized, round and smooth stone. It was translucent, tinged with a bit of purple from a shard of amethyst embedded in its center. It pulsed with a soft light as it chimed a second time. Argentus tapped the top of the stone and asked, "What is it Jaris?"

The disembodied voice of a man emanated from the speaking stone, as clear as if he were sitting next to him. "Wall patrols on the north and east at the top of every hour."

Argentus glanced at Arynda. "It's the same for the south and west, but I'll bet you a hundred silver Aies that the night-watch patrols twice an hour with double the men."

"No bet here," Jaris replied.

"What about translocation?" asked another ethereal voice. It belonged to Kaul, the other member of Argentus' team of thieves.

Argentus unconsciously touched an amethyst earring piercing his left ear. "Tried that. Duke Royce has a warding stone."

"Damn," Kaul swore.

"Did you actually expect the largest collector of talises in all of Maes Tol to not have a warding stone?"

Kaul didn't answer.

"So what's the plan?" Arynda asked, her glossy raven hair now pulled back tight. Divine Mother, she was beautiful.

"You're sure there's no sewer?" Argentus asked the stone.

"Not if we trust the plans we got from our informant," Jaris answered.

"There's got to be a secret passage in and out of the keep," Kaul added. "There's always a secret passage."

Argentus sighed. "Probably. But the queen's soldiers will be here tomorrow morning to procure the weapon talises and the other most valuable of the duke's finds. So we don't have time to waste looking for one."

"Why not just attack the soldiers?" Kaul asked. "Ambush them when they take the road through the swamp."

Argentus met Arynda's eyes. He could see that her thoughts mirrored his own. Kaul was always so eager to resort to violence to accomplish their ends. It wasn't that Argentus was against employing sword and bow, but he didn't seek opportunity to kill like Kaul did. It was something about the man that made him uncomfortable.

"The four of us against fifty soldiers?" Arynda said into the stone and her tone was scathing.

"We have talises," Kaul snapped.

"So-will-they," Arynda said each word as if condescending to a child. "Weapon talises!"

Kaul growled. Argentus could picture the man clenching his fists or maybe even kicking a stone. He did not like Arynda, especially when she called him out on his foolishness. Argentus knew Arynda could take care of herself, but when they bickered—which was often—it invoked a tightness in his chest that he couldn't completely attribute to nerves.

"So what do we do?" Jaris asked.

Argentus ran a hand through his messy brown hair. "Kaul and Jaris, I want you to attack the east wall at sundown—as soon as they double their patrols. That should make them pull guards away from their posts on the other walls to reinforce the east patrol. Arynda and I will go over the west wall, sneak into the manner, and raid the duke's collection. If we do this right, we can be in and out of there in twenty minutes."

"I'm not attacking the wall-guard with just crossbow bolts," Jaris said.

Argentus ground his teeth. "Then what do—"

"—I need Arynda and her flame ring. Kaul can sneak in with you."

Argentus opened his mouth to argue, but Arynda touched his lips with one of her fingers. "He's right, lasa. We need something more powerful if we want the distraction to be effective."

Argentus stared at her and then spoke into the stone, "Fine. But if she gets hurt, Jaris, I'll cut off your balls."

Jaris responded with a good-natured laugh. "And what do we do when they send out a company of knights to take us?"

"We'll disappear into the swamp, and rendezvous in that village we passed on the way here." Arynda said.

"Sounds good. Kaul's already on his way."

The speaking stone chimed again, and its glow faded.

Arynda scowled at him. "I don't need you fussing over my safety, lasa! I can take care of myself."

"Arynda, I..." he trailed off under her withering glare.

"Besides, lasa," she said in a softer tone, "you need to worry about yourself. What with Osarr Rakahnas swearing to post your head on a pike outside the king's palace."

Argentus scoffed. "He's just politicking, and I'm a relevant issue."

"And sending that monster of a hunter, Orryn Ghostblade, was just a political stunt?"

Argentus nervously touched his shoulder. He'd run into the ruthless thief hunter in Jeryn, and only escaped with his life because he was able to teleport away. Still, the hunter had put his phase dagger through Argentus' shoulder, pinning him against the stone wall of an alley. That whole episode had been the reason why Argentus had left Aiestal for Maes Tol in the first place. Thinking of the man's dead green eyes made him shiver.

"Well that's why we left."

Arynda shook her head, making her ponytail wag. "His dagger tasted your blood, lasa."

"Shouldn't you be going?" Argentus snapped. He expected a tart retort from Arynda for snapping at her, but she leaned down and kissed him instead.

"Be careful," she whispered.

Argentus silently stared at her, the earnestness in her eyes leaving him wordless. He watched her as she slipped away, and couldn't help but touch his shoulder again. Had it not been for that monk with the healing ring, the wound wouldn't have stopped bleeding. Another of Orryn's tricks, the wounds from his phase dagger delivering an anticoagulant effect.

It was completely dark by the time Kaul arrived. Argentus knew the man was approaching long before he saw or heard him. This was due to Kaul's new talis, a dread medal. A medallion that radiated an aura of fear for several feet. It had proven to be a treasure of a find - its uses in interrogation were invaluable - but the fool-man hadn't quite mastered the use of it.

Argentus shut the fear out of his mind by reciting old prayers his sister had taught him. "Take that damn thing off!"

"Why?" Kaul snapped.

"Because it gives you away. You might as well be holding a glow orb and playing the lute!"

Kaul's only response was a growl and a moment later the aura of fear faded.

"That's better," Argentus said.

"So how do we do this?"

"I'll go in first and take up position," Argentus said. "We don't attack until Arynda and Jaris do." He tapped a silver bracelet worn on his right wrist, and to him the entire world lit up as though it were day.

Argentus leapt up from his hiding place and ran towards the shadows just outside of where moonlight touched the ground. To his eyes, they were glowing a bright purple, an indication that they would conceal him perfectly. That was the primary function of the stealth bracelet—to show him where the shadows were thickest, and then to somehow pull those shadows up and around him and render him undetectable by both sight and sound. Of course direct light shining on Argentus would reveal him, even as he stood cloaked in the dark. After all, there wasn't a talis that could make one wholly invisible, or at least if there was, no one had discovered it. Still, this marvelous piece of talis-craft gave him a distinct advantage, had facilitated an innumerable number of successful raids, and earned him the name people all over Shaelar were starting to call him—Argentus the Shadow.

Argentus darted from his cover to the base of the stone wall—it wasn't unusually tall, perhaps fifteen feet—and flatted his back against it. He likely didn't need to do this, as there was plenty of shadow where he stood so as to veil him, but it was an old habit he hadn't quite been able to abandon. He fished in his belt pouch and produced a gold ring with an amethyst jewel capping its center. This was the last of his personal talises and, while not one that was considered tactically valuable, had served Argentus well in his line of work. It was also compatible with his other two talises, which he'd found out early on in his career wasn't always the case.

He slipped it on, and immediately felt lighter, as though he weighed little more than a child. Reaching up, Argentus gripped the rough stone protrusions of the wall and hoisted himself effortlessly onto the wall. He climbed fast, faster than he knew he ought to be able to climb, feeling like a spider. He flipped up over the wall one handed, and landed in a crouch on the parapet. The soldiers patrolling the wall didn't detect any hint of his arrival. Instead they just stood, slump-shouldered, staring out into the night, occasionally moving off to find a different place to stand, and then back again.

Argentus kept flatted against the tooth-like stone lip of the wall, crouching down and drawing his daggers. Sadly, these were not talises. Not like Jaris' titan gauntlet, or Arynda's flame ring. Still, they were forged of fine steel, gold leafed handles inlayed with trailing designs bearing the blade, and sharpened to a razor's edge. And he was pretty damn good with them.

The minutes passed slowly until at last Argentus heard an explosion from the other side of the manner, and saw red light flash in the sky. Arynda and Jaris' assault had begun. The wall guards began shouting, and one barked orders to the other three before flying down stone stairs carved into the interior of the wall that led down to the courtyard. He took all of his men with him, save one armored guard standing atop the wall.

Argentus waited until the other guards were out of sight before leaping out of the shadows. To the guard's eyes, it would be as though Argentus had appeared in a cloud of black smoke. But before Argentus could strike, a sharp whistling sound punctuated by a _thunk_ made him pull up short. The guard tried to scream, but only a sickly choking noise came out as he clutched at something in his throat. The guard frantically backed up until he reached the edge of the wall, and fell to the courtyard below.

He belted his daggers and glanced down over the parapet to where Kaul stood in the darkness, reloading a crossbow. Argentus was glad Kaul had taken out the guard. Thief and assassin though he was, Argentus preferred to avoid killing men when he could. It was something he decided was probably a holdover from his religious upbringing. Kaul, on the other hand, seemed to lust for blood and competed for even the very chance to kill, and Argentus was more than happy to let him do the knife work.

Argentus shrugged off a satchel he wore on his back, set it on the stone wall, and dug out a thin rope tied to a metal claw. He lodged the hooks of the claw into a seam in the stone teeth running atop the wall, and then tossed the slack down to Kaul. A moment later, the man appeared, and Argentus could see his mismatched eyes in the moon light—one brown and one blue. It added to the dangerous, unpredictable persona the man worked hard to cultivate. Argentus reached down and helped Kaul up onto the parapet.

"Give me your feather ring," Kaul demanded.

Argentus scowled at him. Asking to borrow one's talis was taboo in their culture. Of course, if a person chose to lend that talis, it was perfectly proper, but to ask? No one did that. Not even criminals. It was such an egregious breach of civilized etiquette that answering its rudeness with a duel was permissible under the law in most cities.

"You have your stealth bracelet and you won't let me use my dread medal," Kaul said, his tone less demanding.

_He's right. Damn him for a presumptuous bastard, but he's right._

Argentus slipped off the feather ring and immediately felt as though he'd gained a hundred pounds, the ground seeming to pull him closer into its embrace. He gave the ring to Kaul who quickly slipped it on.

Another loud explosion from the other side of the mansion grounds prompted Argentus back into action. Kaul leapt from the wall, landing quietly in the courtyard below. Argentus cursed under his breath as he was forced run down the stone stairs. The two men kept to the shadows as they wound their way through a maze of bushes sculpted into various animals. Fortunately, all of the guards seemed to be participating in defending the east wall, leaving none in the courtyard. That struck Argentus as odd. Even during an attack, most guard units would keep patrols elsewhere to prevent their enemies from doing exactly what they were doing. He commented as much to Kaul, the man passed it off as luck, but Argentus wasn't so sure.

The situation was the same inside the manner, heightening Argentus' anxiety as they stole through empty corridors. Shouldn't the duke's servants and household have been roused by Arynda and Jaris' attack, if not for fear then at least for the sake of curiosity?

"Something's wrong," Argentus whispered as he grabbed Kaul's arm.

He threw off Argentus' grip with a shrug. "What're you talking about?" he hissed.

"Where is everybody?"

Kaul's jaw tightened. "Asleep!" Another explosion from outside made Kaul survey the corridor, and the man no longer looked so certain.

"Exactly," Argentus said. "I think we should pull out."

"Weapon talises, Argentus! And they'll be gone tomorrow, on their way to the queen and forever out of our reach!"

Argentus stared at Kaul for a long moment before finally nodding with a sigh. "Fine. But stay alert."

Kaul just grunted, and the two resumed their skulking down the wood-paneled corridor. They followed a hand drawn map they'd gotten from their informant—something that had cost them an extra fifty Toles—until they reached a basement store room. The heavy, iron bound door was locked, but that barely slowed them and Argentus soon found himself inside a room full of ornate storage chests of various sizes stacked against all four walls. One of those walls, the back wall, was incongruously made of smooth grey metal.

All the chests had the queen's sigil engraved into their locks, which were a bit more challenging for Argentus to defeat. He wrenched the first chest open and found a heart-stopping plethora of gold coins. The next trunk contained more precious gems than he'd ever seen before, but still no talises. It wasn't until the fourth chest they'd opened that they found talises. But these were of the mundane sort; glow orbs, speaking stones, looking stones, and various other valuable, but utilitarian talises.

"Where are the weapon talises?" Argentus growled.

"Those are in the vault," a man's voice rang out behind them.

Argentus whirled to find a black man with long, dirty dreadlocks standing in the doorway of the storeroom, hand extended to dangle a small pendant on a chain before them. He wore a breastplate, but no other metal armor, and had two ornate daggers sheathed on his belt, one at each hip. His bare arms were heavily muscled, and his legs looked to be as thick as tree trunks.

Orryn Ghostblade.

"Ah, hell!" Argentus said.

The dark-skinned man smiled and shook the pendant. "This is the key to Duke Royce's vault." He motioned at the odd wall made of smooth metal.

_Divine Mother! That's a holding box!_ Only it was large enough to be a room. Argentus had never seen a talis safe that large—never.

Oryyn pocketed the pendant inside his belt pouch. "You're not getting in, Shadow."

Argentus' mind raced and he berated himself for not withdrawing at his first impression of danger. Oryyn had laid the perfect trap for him. A large store of weapon talises located in a seemingly unprotected manner house shielded with a warding stone so he couldn't teleport away. Argentus thought that by leaving Aiestal, he'd escaped Oryyn. But the man had obviously gone to great lengths to arrange this. Argentus wouldn't be surprised if their informant had been a plant.

"All this just to capture me, Ghostblade? I'm flattered." Argentus' bravado sounded forced even to his own ears.

Orryn flashed another smile, and then drew his daggers so fast that Argentus only had time to duck as one of the man's phase daggers spun above his head. The blade didn't clank as it hit the wall, but instead blurred as it sank right through it, taking on a translucent ethereal form, like a ghost. A second later it reappeared in Oryyn's hand looking completely solid once more.

The sharp snap of Kaul's crossbow echoed in the square chamber, but the fletched bolt inexplicably changed course upon nearing its target, striking the stone wall instead. Orryn's breastplate was some kind of shield talis. Not as powerful, or impressive, as Jaris' shield bracelet, but effective enough to protect him from projectiles as was evidenced when Kaul fired a second time. Orryn laughed as the second bolt curved sharply and struck the ceiling. Well, stabbing him in the heart wasn't going to be an option.

Kaul dropped his crossbow and drew a short sword. He leapt to the side, his reduced weight allowing him to take four running steps on the wall itself, sword held high. The thief hunter hurled another phase dagger, sending it spinning end over end and turning ghost-like as it connected with Kaul's blade. Immediately it solidified inside the blade of Kaul's upraised sword. The weapon snapped in half as the phase dagger pushed it out of its space. When Kaul landed weaponless before Orryn, the thief hunter swung at Kaul with his other phase dagger, ethereal blade passing through the flesh of his left forearm. It was only after Orryn finished his swing that a wound appeared, a red line appearing on Kaul's arm and spraying blood. Kaul cried out and Orryn silenced him by slamming the bottom of his boot into Kaul's chest, knocking him against the wall and to the floor.

Argentus was already in motion when Orryn turned back to him. The man let fly a backhanded swing with his empty fist, only, by the time it neared Argentus one of his phase daggers had materialized in his hand. Argentus reflexively threw himself to his knees, leaning back as he slid under Orryn's swinging dagger. He slashed at the man's leg as he glided by and heard the thief hunter suck in a sharp breath. Argentus pitched forward, then somersaulted, rolled, and came up in a crouch just in time to swing one of his knives up and slam it into the back of Orryn's right calf. The dark skinned man bellowed in rage more than from pain, spun and kneed Argentus in the chest as he threw himself to his feet. The blow knocked Argentus back apace and he found a phase dagger spinning toward his face. He brought up one of his knives just in time to knock the blade aside, only it passed right through his own dagger. It was only a desperate lurch to the side that saved Argentus from death. But it wasn't enough to avoid the dagger altogether.

Argentus screamed as the knife solidified in the underside of his upraised arm. He dropped his knife, and crashed into the stone wall of the room. The phase dagger embedded in his flesh vanished, and blood poured from his wound—bleeding that Argentus knew wouldn't stop without a magical healing. He wanted to drop his remaining knife and grip his upper arm to stop the bleeding, but resisted the impulse. To drop his other knife would be to surrender to death.

"You're not much without the use of your translocation talis," Orryn scoffed. "Frankly I'm disa—" the man cut off abruptly, his eyes widening and his jaw snapping shut.

Argentus knew what had frozen the man. He could feel the icy wave of fear washing over him as well, threatening to paralyze him.. Perhaps Kaul's dread medal did have a practical use for more than just interrogation or intimidation. Argentus warded off the fear aura by reciting,

_Divine Mother of creation,_

_Rasheera the giver of life._

_Our petition we send unto thee,_

_To deliver us from strife._

He threw himself forward and tackled Orryn to the floor. They went down, and Argentus found himself lying atop the thief hunter. He raised his remaining dagger, gripping the handle with both hands, ready to bring it down on Orryn's face, but the thief hunter swung his arm into Argentus' side, knocking him off of him. A _clang_ resounded through the chamber as Argentus' knife fell to the marble floor, and he began to frantically search for it. But instead of finding his knife, Argentus found the pendant Orryn had teased him with earlier. It had fallen out of the man's belt pouch in their tussle, and glinted at Argentus from the floor just in front of him. It was the key to Duke Royce's vault. The massive holding box built into the room like a wall. A room _full_ of weapon talises!

Argentus seized the pendant and scrambled to his feet. He jumped and dove for the smooth silver wall at the back of the chamber. "Open!" he shouted.

Just as he was about to crash into it, the metallic surface liquefied and the substance parted enough so that a man-sized portal opened up directly in front of him. Argentus rolled as he hit the floor inside the vault. Once he was certain he was inside, he shouted, "Close!"

The rippling, liquid metal wall flowed back together, closing the portal and solidifying once more. Argentus breathed a deep sigh of relief and leaned back against a large wooden crate, glow orbs automatically waking to drive back the darkness of the vault's interior. He tore a piece of his tunic and fashioned a tourniquet that he tied around his upper arm. It wasn't enough to stop the bleeding, but it did slow the flow, which would buy him some time. He stood, and examined a pile of wooden crates stacked neatly atop one another, forming a pyramid shape.

These crates contained the weapon talises Duke Royce's men had recovered from an ancient Allosian sea vessel drowned in the Gulf of Rell for goddess only knows how long. It must've taken the polymath's months, and thousands of talis-assisted dives, to search out all of these priceless treasures; talises that would now hold an Apeiron charge since being brought within the influence of Rellaysta's Apeira well.

One of the crates at Argentus' left exploded into pieces and he spun around just in time to see a second phase dagger pass through the metal wall. It spun toward him, and Argentus had to duck to avoid it. It crashed into another crate, knocking it off the top of the small pyramid. Orryn wasn't going to give up, even if he had to keep phasing in those damned ghost knives of his. Part of Argentus wondered why the warding stone didn't inhibit the phase daggers' ability to disappear and reappear back in Orryn's hands, but he knew very little of talis-craft. Perhaps they just worked differently.

A spinning blade blurring by his head reminded him that he had more important questions to consider, such as how the hell was he going to get out of this vault before he bled to death, or before Orryn scored a lucky hit?

Argentus began frantically tipping over crates and prying them open. He started with the ones Orryn had shattered. All of the talises were wrapped in silk napkins. Made sense. The auditors probably didn't want to risk touching the various magical weapons, especially if they weren't sure what they did yet. That process, the actual cataloging, would take place at the queen's palace over a period of months, her polymaths testing each talis until they knew exactly how it worked. So far, the hoard had really only been separated based on the educated guesses of the duke's agents. So in theory, not all of the store would be weapon talises, but likely most were.

Another dagger spun through the solid metal wall, striking hard against a crate stacked above him. Some of the exploding splinters dug into Argentus' upraised forearm. He was about to hurl a curse at the goddess when he noticed a long, slender bundle slide out of the broken crate. It struck the floor with a muffled _clang._ Twine kept the black silk cloth from falling away, but a metal point tore through the napkin.

It was a sword.

Argentus stared at it for a long moment, and then moved on. Melee combat was never his strength. He preferred a talis that would let him attack from a distance, like Arynda's flame ring. Another dagger throw knocked down the crate which landed on top of the sword, tearing the cloth further to reveal a blade peppered with tiny green jewels. He couldn't help but stare at the beauty of the blade. There was something about the sword that almost invited him to take it. He shook his head and stayed low as he sifted through the pile of bundled objects, careful not to let his skin come in direct contact with any of them.

Argentus tossed away several talises he couldn't identify before coming upon another slender bundle. His heart pounded faster as he tore away the silk napkin and he grinned at what he found. He knew what this was—a concussion rod. He gripped its handle and a psychic signal confirmed it. This talis emitted an explosion of pure force strong enough to tear through stone walls. _Perfect!_ Argentus snatched the vault's key from the floor and gripped it in his free hand. If this vault were truly like the smaller holding box talises, then it would mean that any of its sides could be opened. Likely it was fitted into the building so that only the entrance was not walled in, which is what Argentus was hoping for.

"Open!" he shouted as he focused on the back of the vault.

The smooth metal wall liquefied and flowed open, revealing a gray stone wall. Argentus smiled and leveled the concussion rod at the bare stone. The air rippled in front of him, followed a half a heartbeat later by a sound that reminded Argentus of thunder. The stone wall exploded outward and, when the dust settled, an open corridor lie before him.

Orryn was certain to have heard that, as the cessation of daggers flying through the air confirmed. Argentus was about to scramble out of the vault, when the sword on the ground again caught his eye. _I'm not leaving here without a treasure!_ And that sword did look like it would be exceptionally valuable even if it weren't a talis. He grabbed it by the bundled handle and slid the blade under his belt so that the cross guard held it in place.

By the time Argentus entered the corridor, Duke Royce's guards were already filing in, swords drawn and pointing at him. Argentus smiled and fired off another blast from the concussion rod, this time at the vaulted ceiling. Chunks of stone rained down, slamming ontothe empty floor between him and the soldiers. Veiled by a screen of dust, Argentus activated his stealth bracelet and broke right toward a connecting corridor.

He heard the guards shouting in confusion. To their eyes he would've simply vanished in the cloud of dust and debris. Less careful about staying to the darker parts of the hall, Argentus furiously sprinted toward a connecting corridor lit by moonlight that was pouring in through a row of tall windows. He wasn't sure if Kaul had been able to get away, but he doubted the man had stayed to try and help him. Well, Argentus couldn't blame him. He wasn't sure he would've risked his life to help Kaul had their situations been reversed.

Argentus flew past a patrol of guards, startling them as he blasted out a window with his concussion rod. The shower of shards hadn't even finished raining down upon the ground as he leapt out of the keep and into the courtyard. The exterior wall was all that stood between Argentus and the likely boundary of the warding stone. If he could just get beyond it, he could tele—

A searing pain in his left shoulder blade made him stumble forward and crash into the ground. The concussion rod flew from his grasp, and he chipped a tooth on the courtyard's pavement. He made to rise, but something jutting out of his back sent a shock of pain through him, and he fell back to the ground.

Laughing.

"You are a very clever man, Shadow," Orryn said as he drew near. "I was wrong to assume your skill and prestige were due mainly to the talises you possessed. Apparently, you also have a spark of intelligence."

A booted foot fell in front of Argentus, and then he felt the knife in his back tear free of flesh and muscle. He screamed as warm blood spilled down his back. Orryn hadn't needed to do that; he could've simply called the phase dagger back to him, but that would've been less painful. The dark-skinned, heavily muscled man sank down to one knee in front of Argentus and with the flat of one of his blades, he raised Argentus' face by the chin so that their eyes met. Orryn flashed a set of immaculately white teeth and then brushed three stray dreadlocks out of his face.

"Would you like to know how much Rakahnas offered me for your head before I cut it off?"

"You can actually count?" Argentus said through clenched teeth. "I'm surprised." The desperate quip only made Orryn's smile broaden.

"More than the crown has ever paid for the head of any other criminal." Orryn laughed. "You should be proud."

A flash of orange light washed over the two men, accompanied by a wave of heat. Orryn snapped his head up just in time to see a ball of fire racing toward his face. Unfortunately, just before it struck the thief hunter, the fireball abruptly changed directions and streaked off into the dark, a heartbeat later setting a sculpted bush aflame.

_Dammit!_ The shield talis Orryn wore also worked on magical projectiles.

"Arynda, run!" Argentus shouted.

Orryn stood, glancing around the courtyard.

Argentus tried to rise, but Orryn kicked him hard in the ribs as he stepped around him. Argentus fell back to the ground, wheezing. More flashes of fire lit the courtyard, stopping when he heard Arynda cry out in pain.

_I need to get up!_ He tried again, but a new pain, similar to his throbbing shoulder wound but far more intense pinned him to the ground. He could feel another phase dagger materializing in his other shoulder. He gritted his teeth against an escaping scream, but it forced its way out. His vision blurred and he felt on the edge of syncope.

Then he saw Arynda's face as she pitched forward into his field of vision and crashed to the ground several paces in front of him. _No!_

"She's a pretty one, Shadow. Is she yours?" Orryn asked as he casually placed a boot on Arynda's back.

"Go, lasa," Arynda sobbed.

"Yes, by all means, Shadow. Go. Her head won't fetch me the coveted fifty-thousand silver Aies yours would, but it's a lot prettier."

"Argentus!" Arynda screamed as Orryn pressed his foot down on her back.

"Get away from her," Argentus growled.

Orryn just laughed.

Rage overcame Argentus' pain, giving him the strength to rise to all fours. He looked around for the concussion rod, but couldn't find it on the ground around him. He was weapon-less, worse than that, he was talis-less. No, that wasn't true. He had that beautiful sword. He felt at his waist and touched the bundled handle of the sword. What did the weapon talis do? He'd seen sword-talises before, but mostly they were firebrands, or venom blades. Deadly to be sure, but would that help against Orryn's phase daggers or shield talis?

Argentus tore at the silk cloth around the weapon's handle until it fell free. Then he gripped the sword and slid it out from beneath his belt. As soon as his skin made contact with the cool metal of the wired handle, everything changed. The pain pinning him down abruptly muted, still there, but no longer overpowering. He was on his feet in a second, his fear retreating as a wave of confidence carried knowledge of sword techniques and strategy into his mind.

The phase dagger buried in his back suddenly pulled free from his flesh and dropped to the flagstones with a _clank._ Orryn's smile faded. "How..."

Argentus began walking toward Orryn. The thief hunter stepped away from Arynda, and called both of his daggers so that they appeared in his hands. Then he hurled them at Argentus who casually moved just enough for the blades to spin by him, not stopping his advance on the dark man.

Orryn recalled his daggers and let them fly again. Again Argentus avoided them with little effort. He was only ten paces away now. Orryn's eyes widened. His daggers formed into existence again in his hands, and his jaw tightened as he threw the right dagger. Again, Argentus casually stepped out of the way, the spinning blade missing his neck by mere inches. Orryn threw his remaining dagger, this time directly at Argentus' face. The knife took on its characteristic ghost-like ethereal look once it left Orryn's hand. Argentus knew he should be worried, knew that he ought to move out of the way, but he felt confident that he was in no danger.

"Lasa!" Arynda screamed.

Then, in a blur of inhumanly quick motion, Argentus snapped the sword up and struck the phase dagger out of the air. Two _clangs_ rang out as the dagger struck the flagstone in two pieces.

Orryn's mouth hung open, and though he choked out an unintelligible noise, he said nothing. Truth be told, Argentus was just as surprised, he just didn't let it show on his face. He'd halved the phase dagger while it was still in its ethereal state, which shouldn't have been possible. It should've passed right through his blade and then re-solidified as it sunk into his face.

_Divine Mother! How powerful is this sword?_

Orryn appeared to recover his wits and summoned his remaining dagger to him. But before he could let it fly, Argentus spun and hacked off the dark man's upraised arm at the elbow. The thief hunter screamed as he clutched at his bleeding stump, the fountaining blood making it difficult for him to clamp his hand down on it. Orryn stumbled backward, tripped over Arynda, and fell to the ground. Argentus slowly approached, Arynda taking the opportunity to roll out from between them.

Argentus met Orryn's eyes. His black skin was noticeably paled, and he trembled as he rocked back and forth cradling his bleeding stump. Apparently, taking off the man's arm while he held the phase dagger was enough to sever his bond with the talis, because Orryn didn't try to recall it. Either it was that, or the man had lost so much blood that he wasn't thinking clearly.

Argentus swung the sword down in a diagonal cut, half expecting Orryn's shield talis to rebuff the strike. It didn't and Argentus' blade sunk into the man's right shoulder, passing effortlessly through his chest and exploding out of his left hip. Orryn fell to the ground in two pieces, like his dagger had.

Argentus heard the _twang_ of bow strings, and spun around just in time to knock aside two arrows. A group of the duke's archers had formed a line thirty paces behind him. They let fly another volley, which Argentus supernaturally dodged. He heard Arynda cry out behind him, and turned to find her gripping the shaft of an arrow that sprouted from her shoulder. That made him growl as he turned back just in time to see a half a dozen armored swordsmen shove aside the line of archers as they barreled toward him.

Argentus gripped the handle of the sword in two hands and charged his attackers. Part of him, a distant voice in the back of his head, warned him that what he was doing was suicidal, but the thought of his losing this fight just made him laugh. He whirled into the rushing soldiers, taking the head off of the first, and then ramming his sword through the chest plate of the second. The blade passed through armor as though it were made of paper.

It took him less than a minute to kill all six soldiers, and he did so without earning so much as a scratch. Argentus stood in a ring of dead and dying men, panting and covered in his enemy's blood. He lifted the sword and stared at the large, round, amethyst embedded in the cross guard. More alarms sounded, and lights in the duke's keep blinked on.

"Lasa!" Arynda hissed from behind him. "We have to go!"

Argentus laughed. If it weren't for the ever bleeding wounds he'd taken, wounds that needed talis healing, he would be in no danger. With this sword he could handle twelve, twenty, _Hell!_ a hundred men—all on his own! He activated his stealth bracelet, and the shadows of the courtyard wrapped around him. He turned to follow Arynda back over the wall.

_Shadow_ men called him. It had been a good name. But now Argentus was something more than an invisible thief in the dark. Now he was invincible—the Invincible Shadow.

**THE DIG**

by

David J. West

THE SHIFTING SANDS REVEALED A DEAD CITY'S BONES from beside the upper Nile. Charged dust flew on the moaning winds as the scent of the river clung to the ruins. Workmen crawled over her carcass like scavengers feasting on discarded marrow. No one had discovered a lost city of such magnitude since Bingham stumbled upon Machu Picchu.

But the unearthing of fabled Keshan gave its discoverer, Dr. Andrea Forester, little prestige or recognition. Who had time for a lost metropolis when the Nazi-war machine rolled over Europe and was spreading leprously to Africa? Still, she persevered, regarding the dig as the fulfillment of a lifetime of study. It stung that credit had to be shared with Dr. Julius Rivers, but it was the only way to get the University to finance the expedition she wanted.

She knew Rivers regarded her as much too pretty, meaning he assumed she was too naive and flamboyant for an archaeologist. In turn she thought him pompous, distracted and even a tad yellow. He had balked at the thought of weeks in the sub-Saharan desert and only took a shine to it when it was related that he could evade service in the civil defense force. He seemed more intent on writing his memoirs than in working on the dig. Forester was pleased, since it allowed her to direct the dig as she saw fit. Teatime was the only time they shared conversation, and even that seemed forced, short words and broken sentences pulled from Rivers constant scrawling.

Tea was prepared within the tents precisely at four. Forester paused a moment, setting the milk back onto the table. A distant rumble carried on the malevolent wind. She stepped outside to glimpse the impending commotion. Rivers followed, still clutching the red leather journal that had scarcely left his shaking hands for the past two weeks.

Tents billowed against the hot breeze as men shielded their faces against the biting sand. Workmen swathed in gossamer turbans, dug sands away from a vaulted stone entry as if fighting an incoming tide. A superstitious lot, they took to all manner of charms and good luck pieces to protect them from the spirits of the desert. Forester found herself combating their cowardly idleness almost as much as directing their work.

The rumble grew louder, sending sand rippling in waves down into the dig site from whence it came. Workmen, gibbering in fear, cast glances about the complex; they threw down their shovels and fled for their tents.

Rivers blinked and removed his glasses, staring blankly at the commotion, wrinkling his forehead. "Superstitious fools!" he shouted into the wind.

Walking between the small yet steep-graded pyramids, Forester couldn't help but feel as if gigantic jaws are about to swallow her. The sands reverberated, bringing a light curse from her lips. But it wasn't an earthquake nor the wind blasting through the haunted ruins that drew her ragged breath. The rumble and rising dust cloud of mechanized cavalry, loomed on the red horizon.

"What is it?" asked Rivers. "Sand storm?"

Forester wiped her brow and squinted, "Italians, pushing up from Ethiopia."

The older man held the binoculars up to his partner. "Perhaps they'll move on."

Shaking her head, Forester sighed, "They'll likely take our fuel and food supplies at the least. Mussolini doesn't supply his new empire so well as Caesar did."

A long horizontal line of camouflaged trucks and tanks edged closer, followed by a dark dust-storm.

"What should I tell the men?" he asked.

It took Forester by surprise that he even spoke. "Not to resist. Perhaps we can get back to our research faster that way."

The leading truck barreled up to the waiting archaeologists and slid to a stop in the sands. An officer with a week's worth of growth upon his face leapt from the cab, looked Forester up and down with some pleasure as he strode to face her. "A woman? English?"

Forester nodded, "I am an archaeologist, Forester, Dr. Andrea Forester."

"And I am Dr. Julius Rivers," said her colleague as he extended his hand, "an Egyptologist of some renown..."

The Italian held up his own sun burnt hand, demanding silence. "I am Capitano Santini." He lit a cigarette offered another to Forester, who declined. Rivers was ignored. Shrugging, Santini smiled, "You are spies, yes?"

"No, we are archaeologists investigating the Nubian ruins of Keshan."

Santini looked over their shoulders. The workmen watched from behind cover as the full bulk of the Italian forces drew up beside the dig. "Dig? For what? There is nothing here, it is all up in Egypt."

Forester smiled, "My colleagues tend to agree with you Capitano, but as you can see there is something here and I aim to learn all I can about this former capitol of greater Nubia." She gestured at the half-submerged gatehouse and farther on the steep little pyramids, beyond those, the peak of a wider-based structure poked through the blowing debris.

Santini gazed over the complex but appeared to give it little thought. "It pains me, but I will need to take your fuel and vehicles. I am sure you will be all right and can get more from your— _University_ ," he said, as if he had caught them in a lie.

Forester shot back, "I need my vehicles and my fuel. If you take them you may as well shoot us now!"

Santini laughed, "I am a soldier, not a murderer."

Forester put on her bravest face. "And what would leaving us here without fuel be, but murder?"

Looking her up and down again, Santini smiled. "I will leave you one vehicle and fuel, but you will swear not to alert the English to my presence for a full day, agreed?"

Forester grimaced but nodded. "Very well."

"See, we can all be friends. Now why don't you show me what is so important here in this wasteland," he urged. "Perhaps Il Duce would contribute to your work when all of this is over."

She gave a condescending grin for that remark, sure that the dictator would steal any precious artifacts back to Rome. Reluctant to show Santini anything of obvious value, Forester took him out to the steep sloped pyramids and mounded structure of stone just poking through the sands. She purposely avoided the mysterious gatehouse that promised to be something special once the workmen cleared the thick copper doors of the sand that kept them closed Instead she focused on what she hoped would bore the Capitano.

"They may have grown a garden here, and the remains of a canal look promising," she said, pointing at an indistinct trench. "Beside the river may have been a pottery center. Many broken fragments were recovered there, would you like to see?"

Santini looked at the aged monuments with disdain. "I have seen better monuments in a latrine."

Rivers mouth fell open but he said nothing.

Forester's flushed with anger at mockery of her life's work.

"My manners. I apologize for my rudeness," said Santini. "I have been with only brutes in the army for too long. What is that?" He asked, pointing at the domed stone.

"We're not sure yet. It could be a monument of victory, or simply a place marker."

"Victory? Over whom?" asked Santini incredulous.

"The Nubians here, conquered and ruled Egypt for generations. They fought the Assyrians to a standstill and held western Africa for more than a hundred years."

Santini snorted. "All I see is pale imitation. Now in Rome, I could show you wonders."

Losing patience, Forester proclaimed, "The wonders here would amaze you. You simply repeat the common misconceptions with your boastful pontificating."

She realized too late that was exactly what he wanted all along.

"Then show me," he said gesturing toward the ruined gatehouse.

"You sir, are a cad," said Rivers, stepping between Forester and the Capitano.

Santini smirked at the chivalric display and shoved Rivers aside.

Fuming, Forester led Santini to the massive copper doors. "They are still blocked with sand. I cannot open them yet, but as you can see from the glyphs and workmanship they had marvelous skill."

"Get your men to work. I would like to see inside."

She hesitated.

"There isn't time," she said. "It will be night in a few hours and you must be on your way."

Santini shouted, "I shall decide when we are on our way!" Calming, he added, "I wish to see the wonders of these savages. Show me."

"Now see here, this is a matter of scientific caution." Rivers objected. "Our boys in the RAF will spot you soon enough."

Not to be outdone, Santini grinned, drew his pistol and, from a distance of less than a dozen yards, shot Rivers in the heart. The older man clutched his chest and fell into the thirsty sands, his lifeblood disappearing swiftly.

"Bastard!" she screamed. Rivers journal rested in the sand beside him, its pages rustling in the desert breeze.

"I told you what I want."

"Why should I do anything for you? You'll kill us all."

"Exactly. I will continue until all of your people are gone. Then I will use my own men anyway. Unless you give me a reason not to waste our bullets. Open the doors. Show me. There must be something precious inside for you to hide it so tenaciously."

"I don't know what's inside. No one has opened those gates in twenty-five hundred years."

"Then all the better we should do it quickly," he said with a laugh, tucking his pistol into his belt.

Forester commanded her workmen to double their efforts, while she herself dragged Rivers body out to the edge of the dig. She buried him in the merciless sands amidst the tombs of forgotten kings that he had never before displayed interest in. It was a harsh irony.

The sun faded while she and the men worked, she covering Rivers, his book, his unfinished work, while they uncovered ... who knew what? Finishing the last shovel full of sand, she sensed Santini behind her.

"You think me cruel? These are desperate times for all of us," he said.

"I weep for your problems, Capitano."

"It's true. If I cannot beat the English, I need something special for Il Duce."

"Murder doesn't grant sympathy for your plight. Save your words."

Taking her shoulder, he spun her around to face his sand-blasted countenance. His gray eyes were cold in the desert heat and flashed with an eerie light. "Know this, I will take what treasures are in the vault. I will give you the credit of discovery, but I must give them to Il Duce. You could come with me. You could be a duchess of Rome." He smiled. His teeth looked predatory in the half-light. "You and I are not so different."

Forester shook her head and backed away. "You're completely mad."

"Come now. We each do whatever is necessary to get ahead in our callings."

Forester challenged, "I have never murdered anyone."

He laughed, "Don't tell me you haven't slain someone academically to get what you wanted."

She couldn't look him in the eye. Being a respected woman in her field meant doing whatever it took to get ahead, to get noticed, to be respected. If that meant stepping upon others shoulders, perhaps grinding them down in the process, then yes, she had done that. But didn't everyone in academia? It was du rigueur.

Santini continued, "I take these treasures from the earth without shame."

"Would the dead be pleased with that?"

"Would they be any more pleased that you took them than I?" He gestured at the gloom-laden pyramids etched sharply against the twilight. "It is the way of the conqueror to take what they will from the weak. My ancestors did it. I do it now. These forgotten people did it to raise up this ruin from the sands. They would respect it."

"I share my discoveries with the world."

"So do I. Have you seen the museums of Rome?"

"It's not the same."

He frowned. "Yes it is. You British are so self-righteous. Calling the Axis war-mongers and worse, while the sun never sets upon your glorious empire. It is human nature to judge personal intent against another's actions. Accept that you are no better than I, and I am no worse than you, and we will be friends."

"Are all Italian robbers so philosophical?"

"Veni, vidi, vici."

The workmen called that they had cleared the sand from the vault.

"Now we shall see what treasures the Nubians stole from the Egyptians," said Santini.

"If grave robbers tunneled in another way, as they do in Egypt, there may be nothing. Prepare to be disappointed Capitano."

Santini waved an indignant hand at that as he strode toward the submerged gates.

Torches were lit against the deep darkness of the desert and it seemed that with the night, stronger winds blew, causing the workmen to whisper fearfully.

The threshold of sandstone was fully revealed and glyphs were carved in relief over the massive corroded doors. Over ten feet tall and seven feet wide, the gates were gigantic. A tight seam ran down the center of the verdigris covered metal. Scraping away at the edges, Forester soon found that the copper was merely an ornamentation over a stronger metal.

She gasped in awe as she tore away a hand sized flake, revealing bright steel. "Impossible. They never worked steel such as this."

Santini questioned, "What do you mean?"

"A slab of steel this size would be worth more than gold in seven hundred BC. No one worked metal of this magnitude. No one."

"But here it is."

"This changes everything we know of ancient metallurgy," said Forester, mainly to herself, as she caressed the cool hieroglyphic covered surface.

"What does it say?"

She turned and frowned, remembering who she was dealing with. "You killed the man who could read it better than I."

"But you can read it? Yes?"

"Something about the temple of the watchers. I don't know any more, but I have books . . . give me time."

"No. Open these doors."

She stood and faced Santini with grim resolve. "You don't seem to understand. These doors themselves are incredible treasures. They shouldn't exist. No one has ever found metal workings so large."

"All the more reason to believe there is a great treasure behind them. If this is only the facade of the doorway."

"You have no idea what ruin you are bringing to this discovery!" she shouted.

"Can you open the doors for me?"

"No. I won't. We need time to examine this, to gently excavate the site."

Santini shook his head. "There is no time. Your army comes this way and will display no more caution than I. I must have what lies inside."

The workmen muttered and fretted, understanding their limited use. Rather than be made examples of like Rivers, they threw picks and shovels against the door, prying at the edges.

"Stop!" Forester shouted in vain.

But they could not make even the seam buckle.

"Stand aside," Santini commanded. Taking a German made MP-40 sub-machine gun, he stood around the corner and emptied the full thirty-two round magazine at the door. The copper plate was blackened and scored in a dozen places but the steel beneath was indifferent. "There must be something quite special here."

Dr. Forester refused to answer him.

Santini shouted to his men who quickly moved everyone back.

Forester said, "What did you say? What are you doing? You can't be serious?"

He grinned his oily smile as the rumbling of heavy machinery answered her.

One of the Italian Fiat tanks pulled abreast of the gates, with a mere dozen yards separating them.

"You could destroy everything inside the vault!"

"A chance I am willing to take. Either I will retrieve what is inside or no one will. I cannot wait forever." The Capitano waved his hand, and the tank fired its shell with a deafening roar.

Expecting the worst, Dr. Forester rushed to see the damage. Most of the copper plate was gone, but the steel was almost unblemished, and certainly unmoved, unfazed.

Santini's wide grin vanished as he saw the doors. "Impossible!"

"Perhaps it is a sign Capitano," said Forester.

He waved her off. "It is a strange hindrance, nothing more."

"Admit it. This Nubian door holds better than the Maginot line."

He laughed at that but shouted more Italian at his men.

"You should let this go. Let me keep studying this thing that should not be. I beg you don't destroy any more of the surrounding facade."

"You should get to cover," he said pointing at a nearby dune.

"What? Why? You have already proved you can't blast it open."

"I have more options."

Soldiers brought explosives from supply trucks and stacked them against the doors. Gazing at the fading horizon, Forester could see some of the workmen fleeing upon their camels and briefly wondered if she should have joined them.

A soldier called out the countdown in a crisp staccato voice.

The blast rocked the night. From behind her arms, Forester saw red flames dancing into the azure sky. Before she could see the doors, she heard them. A groaning creak and the thud of that heavy steel slamming against the sandstone. It took a few minutes for the dust to dissipate before she could see the black gaping maw of an opening.

Santini called for an electric torch and he was first through the gap.

Forester was close behind.

And stopped short, confused. She had expected perhaps gold and sarcophagi, treasures and canopic jars but this? There wasn't any carven stone or earth, everything was steel. An entire tunnel vaulted in steel, stretching away into corridors of gloom. The passageway sat at a slight tilt and they walked down shining the light against indecipherable marks and curious artworks that resembled nothing she'd ever seen before. The most curious thing was the echo that sounded down maze-like passages. The haunting whispers implied there was a vast complex buried beneath the sand.

They investigated passage after passage, little of it making any sense. Rooms as large as warehouses held steel containers that could not be opened no matter how hard the Italians tried. Others rooms had thick layers of dust and sand where tiny rips in the steel revealed stress fractures.

"This is not Nubian," she said at last.

"Then whose could it be?" asked Santini, moving the torch every which way. They had entered a huge room which only appeared to have one door, the one they came through. The light reflected wildly from both steel and glass in the distance.

"Theirs," she said, pointing at a pair of tall glass caskets.

A few of the Italian soldiers made the sign of the cross as they gazed up at the giants inside. The caskets towered over the gaping explorers.

While tall and broad-shouldered, they looked emaciated and shriveled and only slightly more alive than the mummies she had seen in the Valley of the Kings. They each had long red hair and one had a beard. Golden implements crossed their silver clothed torsos as did a few tubes and wires. Exotic jewelry rode on each giant's wrist.

"Atlantis," gasped Santini, "these must be refugees from Atlantis. Your Nubians must have viewed them as Gods and built a temple to them."

Forester glimpsed a chart on the wall. Unfamiliar constellations dotted the surface. This was no tomb, no temple to strange gods of yesteryear, she thought. This was a ship lost in a sea of stars, marooned on a primitive island.

"You will be famous for this," exclaimed Santini.

For a moment Forester forgot her anger. "Me?"

"Of course, this is still your discovery. I care not for the scientific papers or prestige. I only want the treasure."

"This is all treasure beyond understanding," she said. Distracted by her awe she ran her hands over an enormous chair, so large she was like a child in comparison.

"I will just take these and go," said Santini.

"Take what?" she asked as she turned back to him, slowly, unwilling to focus on anything that had come in from outside of the complex.

"The gold. They have bracelets big as necklaces, necklaces big as belts. I will be rich as Midas, maybe even move to America and become a cattle baron." He reached out and placed his hands on the nearest casket.

"You can't take those. You can't open the sarcophagi, we don't know what it will do to the remains."

"We have been through this already tonight." he replied without malice. He ran a hand over the clear caskets and noticed a lever beside them. "Ah, easy access."

"Don't," she whispered.

He pulled the lever down and hush of stale air burst from the cases.

A dull alarm sounded from somewhere in the dark and as Forester, still the only one looking up, watched in horror as the giants trembled. Santini braced himself as if for an earthquake but Forester, shocked into silence, watched as the long sleeping "gods" stirred awake and opened their pale vengeful eyes.

"It's all over," she cried as madness took hold.

**DESOLATION OF THE NA'EEDNA**

by

Drew Briney

THE FAINT SOUND OF A DISTANT EXPLOSION captured Ryley's attention. Comfortably stationed on the edge of a peaceful village, the promising young Point knew this explosion, whatever it signified, would be dramatically more exciting than anything he would witness under his meaningless post. Nevertheless, and despite the gripping distraction, Ryley's eyes and heart were slaves to his country. He meticulously followed every undulating gesture of a young Na'Eednan dancer and carefully surveyed her admiring crowd while even more distractions mercilessly tugged at his thoughts: that very morning, some green Point exposed an unlikely coverup down by the docks. A new, magically enhanced boat sealant was causing unpredictable and lethal mutations. Developed by Molvadorian mages as a gift to the crown, the magic slime increased maneuverability and top speeds of crown vessels. But now, influential English nobles were being accused of modifying the slime to poison local Na'Eedna - a nefarious conspiracy Ryley couldn't even begin to believe - not that he had anything against the wholesale genecide of this backwards race of people - it just didn't make sense. And there seemed to be no motive behind this move.

Unsuccessful at dispelling rising pangs of envy, Ryley fancied he'd heard an explosion echo somewhere far away - perhaps on the other side of the bay. He imagined less experienced peers would be uncovering a slew of exotic intelligence discoveries that would lead to undeserved promotions, all while he was ostensibly wasting time ogling some sultry Na'Eednan nubile. Admittedly, there were perks to this assignment that average and painfully boring Point jobs didn't share – but this was a job any grunt could oversee. Brilliant minds like his, destined for more prestigious assignments, shouldn't be relegated to watching natives dance for local families and a peppering of politicians disguised under middle class clothing. Recurringly frustrated over these disappointments, the young Point channeled his unrelenting mental grumblings into more focused surveillance by carefully noting each distinguished member of the crowd and naming each one of them in turn as if preparing a formal checklist. No detail would escape his meticulous scrutiny. Nevertheless, he strained his ear in case another explosion sounded.

Valayabezte, Valayah for short, roughly translated into "Crazy Beast." "Crazy" fit this Na'Eednan girl. Known for extensive, drawn out arguments with herself while strolling the streets and for habitually paying too much for whatever she purchased, Valayah was well known as the crazy dancing Na'Eedna. On more than a score of occasions, Ryley had observed her graciously extolling merchants for returning proper change, gushingly noting that they were unforgettably generous for giving her gifts in return for purchasing something from their market booths. Her bizarre idiosyncrasies often left him puzzled to the point of lengthy mental distractions as he tried to make sense of her random actions. Indeed, carefully observing her daily tomfoolery was occasionally embarrassing. At least Ryley was typically under the cover of nightfall while observing her errant behaviors. She consistently spent daylight hours cooped up in her blushingly quaint Na'Eednan lodging, a traditional hovel untraditionally covered with gaudy drapery, an oddity that only a genuinely crazy woman could tolerate. But it successfully kept Ryley from seeing inside. He guessed it would be a mess. And maybe that explained the curtain.

While "crazy" seemed a proper description of Valayah, "beast" did not, unless by "beast" one intended to describe painfully dull intellect. A good Pointsman, Ryley dutifully trained his eyes upon Valayah's liquid, expressive, and gyrating dancing while unintentionally admiring her elegant figure as it gracefully transitioned from one dynamic pose to another. Generally speaking, Ryley wasn't physically attracted to any uncivilized race - let alone the Na'Eedna. In some ways, she was very much like her kinsman: she had naturally bluish-green hair, eyes that eerily flashed when feeling strong emotions, a slender (almost lanky) body, and greyish olive colored skin artfully accented by subtly glowing tribal paint. In other ways, Valayah was somehow notably different from the grotesque deviation from high brow humanity Ryley associated with the Na'Eedna. Her alluring eyes cheerily flashed as she twisted, her skin glistened as she spun, and her hypnotic charisma captivated every individual in the audience - man, woman, and child alike. Even Ryley couldn't fail to notice her mysterious beauty. Unlike her kinsmen who were known for wearing bright, cheerful colors, Valayah always dressed in white.

Briefly, Ryley saw, or perhaps imagined, Valayah's body letting off steam against the cool evening breeze. Perhaps, he thought, it was a fanciful hallucination, a detail generated by growing physical attraction. Quickly and instinctively, Ryley quashed his feelings. Sooner or later, he would receive the call to take out this crazy dancer. Even slight emotional attachments were unwelcome professional liabilities. Hits needed to be seen as objects, nothing more. That was part of the job. His eyes deliberately strolled down the small of her back. Tribal marks across her lower spine showed little evidence of smudging – she wasn't sweating enough to release puffs of steam. Ryley scowled and shifted his eyes to more broadly consider Valayah's environment. A light fog teased by a lazy breeze was settling into this bayside villa, casually hugging the crowd, enveloping them in a subtle, swirling mist. That explained the illusion. Ryley scolded himself for missing the detail earlier. Missing minutia like that could prevent advancement to Master Point and he wasn't going to allow that to happen.

With a spiraling, nearly gymnastic walkover that struck Ryley as strangely disjunct, Valayah finished her dance and laughed with contagious tones, sending her audience into a mirthy applause. Her body seemed to release another quick flash of steam, leaving Ryley cursing at himself for falling prey to sophomoric delusions. Then, the young Na'Eednan, with almost deliberate slowness, bent over to pick up the bag observers used for a busking hat - randomly tossing coins and currency in exchange for her lively performance. She smiled with habitual surprise as she looked over her treasure trove of new gifts bestowed upon her for some mysterious reason she no doubt failed to fathom. _Dull-witted beyond imagination,_ Ryley silently grumbled with no small amount of disgust. Loathing a target helped deaden personal feelings. That too was part of the job.

VALAYAH SAUNTERED DOWN THE ALLEYWAY without a care in the world. Bag full of money, mind full of new information, and body invigorated from a very satisfying, emotional dance, she intermittently fell into improvised gyrations while meandering home.

But someone was following.

Bursting with a convincingly large smile, Valayah twirled her body and arched her hand over her head with an expressive gesture, allowing a brief glimpse of her newest admirer. It was enough. She recognized her shadow's lustful eyes. _Not again,_ she inwardly sighed. This was her least pleasurable duty: watching her back on the way home. She drew upon the power of her Molvadorian stone and sent the man into intense chills, his teeth audibly chattering as he slowed down. A moment later, he reversed course and headed home. Troubles like these were growing unnervingly common. Thankfully, Molvadorian chills could dampen every man's illicit intentions. Valayah convincingly shrieked in feigned glee as she spun another time to make sure she was safe. _As sure as flutterbies sail in crooked paths, chilled Englishmen wander,_ she quaintly mused.

Soon, Valayah's pace slackened until she barely kept pace with the sluggish mists. Even small bursts of magic following a strenuous dance left her undeniably fatigued. This evening was no exception. Tonight, she would skip her usual dip in the bay before going home. Chronic lack of sleep had been taking its toll and leaving her overly drained this time of night - or was it early morning? She'd been losing track of that too. Soon, she made her way home, latched the door, dismissed her longstanding custom of nursing a traditional hot drink before retiring, and undressed. No one would be visiting tonight so she would sleep uninterrupted.

As she pulled covers loosely over her torso, she scanned her eyes over her latest historical tome. Artistically penned, its swirly characters spiraled from the center of the page to an octagonal border as traditional Na'Eednan custom prescribed. The page was nearly complete but lacked a sentence or two - and portions of a border - and the cover wasn't stitched on. Those unfinished details bothered Valayah but she was too tired to do anything. She'd revisit them in the morning. For her people and her heritage, she awakened early to record sacred history and retired late after dancing and gathering information. It seemed her whole life revolved around information gathering - all for one single purpose: to preserve her people from the encroachments of the English, a race of people who were transplanting themselves all over sacred Na'Eednan lands.

The next morning, Valayah finished border decorations for the unfinished page while sipping zevole, her favorite hot drink, and then turned her attention to her poorly neglected diary. She hadn't written anything in it for far too long. _In fact,_ she blushingly considered, _I haven't even written since I began my assignment_ _moons ago_ _._ It was time to catch up. She began writing with less care than when she penned historical tomes.

_I started out gossiping and ended up Na'Eednan historian. I caught Elder Koolee ferociously nibbling his wife's blushing cheek while children watched. Later, he overheard me telling Neevah about it. He surprised me though. Instead of being angry, he said I was impeccably observant, showed promise because I think beyond traditions, and should have been placed somewhere where I could develop these talents years ago. So, as an Elder, he appointed me Na'Eednan historian. I'm supposed to compile a complete history into a single series of books. Without my stone, it would have taken years. Even with it, the task has been monumental._

_I'm happy to serve but sometimes my circumstances are very disturbing. Elder Koolee says Englishmen are planning to "correct" our history and worries our culture may be lost. I don't understand how that could happen. We keep our own records. True - we've suffered negative effects from their unenlightened influence but if they were a real threat, why allow them to settle along our beaches in the first place? And why not use the Molvadorian Starstone to stop them? I know – it's not intended for violence – still, we know what it can do._

_Then, Elder Koolee said it helped that I think like a man. Frazzle! How could any self respecting Na'Eednan say such a thing? We've always rejoiced in gender differences and focused on our strengths. We work together. I couldn't believe an elder would promote unhealthy English views like that. But that wasn't all. He insisted I cover my appointment by pretending to be a crazy dancer "just in case." Imagine: a crazy Molvadorian mage! "Naturally talented and of elegant figure," he said, "and already practiced in these trifling affairs." I couldn't believe it. What is trifling about moving souls through moving sculpture? I hope one of our Highborn notices his unenlightened ideas before he corrupts our younglings. Still, I have to honor my appointment. I should fill it gratefully._

_While I dance, I gather information. I record Englishmen who frequent my dance venues and my thoughts about them. Sometimes, I describe them to an artist so he can draw new people. The artist (I'm not allowed to know his name) is surprisingly good. Somehow he picks up details I don't even describe and creates amazing likenesses – it seems a waste of talent to draw stodgy profiles of English politicians but I suppose it's good practice for something – and I guess this too somehow serves our people._

_Oh. I'm supposed to be sexy. Dancing is an effortless cover: everyone knows I love to dance, but trying to allure Englishmen? That is painfully unnatural - like a lion trying to allure a house cat. I could never do it without my stone. But with it, I'm very successful. Even tonight, someone tried to follow me home._

_Elder Koolee suggested my cover would lead curious English to assume I was a whore - and that would explain why I stayed cooped up at home all day - and why men bring me gifts (disguised history books) late into the evening. It's hard to believe Englishmen think so poorly but I've heard others say the same things. Even so, this seems wildly over-reactionary. Why should a falcon fear a hen? Besides, we are here to bless every race, not fear them._

_Also, I'm in a village where I don't know anyone and I'm not allowed to get to know anyone - they're supposed to think I'm crazy too. It's hard to be part of a team without really knowing anyone except an artist and a few random messengers who bring packages of books without even knowing what they're delivering. But it won't last forever. Elder Koolee promised._

RYLEY SAW IT AGAIN: STEAM PULSING OUT OF HER BODY. Unlike the night before, there was no fog to excuse it away. His mind spun. While part of him was quick to self depricate, part of him knew this was not imagined. Valayah was literally steaming. He considered the possibilities: perhaps this was a biological Na'Eednan trait he hadn't been briefed on; perhaps his mind was overactive, desperate for something exciting to report to his Master Point, something to make his post meaningful. Ryley considered informing his superiors about this steam-thing but he feared their reaction. He didn't need pock marks tainting his perfect record. Still, this detail wouldn't be escaping his attention any time soon - despite the fact he'd somehow failed to notice it earlier.

Hours passed and nothing notable happened. Valayah ran through her daily gracious and crazy remarks before gathering her bag and heading down the same alleyway as always. Instinctively, Ryley revisited thoughts labeling the move foolhardy. Only Valayah was careless enough to take unlit alleyways home on this part of the island. _There's a reason they call her crazy,_ he reminded himself. Still, she always seemed to fare well enough. Even when it seemed inevitable that Baron Fitzwalter would accost the girl the night before, she'd gotten away without any trouble. And she seemed oblivious when the elder gentleman caught a fit of cold and turned home. Ryley wasn't sure what a baron was doing in this far corner of the globe but he'd noted the appearance for his Master Point.

_Here comes another admirer_. A bulky, ominous figure followed Valayah down the alleyway, a large sheathed dagger barely concealed under his clothing. Suddenly, Ryley was uncertain what to do. Field instructions had been minimal: Valayah was an important hit with no contact allowed. Apart from being occasionally spotted within her audience, he wasn't even to be seen. That was it - a lot of precaution for a crazy whore. Either way, no one told him what to do if her life was threatened. _Probably, no one even considered that,_ he silently grumbled. Apart from the reality of the moment, the idea was unfathomable.

Practical considerations aside, Ryley rushed ahead. Careful, yet frantic movements drove him from one shadow to the next, quickly closing the distance between himself and the assassin. Explaining the fallout might be messy but he saw no reasonable alternative. Besides, chances were, contact with Valayah would lead to a welcomed new assignment. Perhaps fortune was finally on his side.

Silently winding from one place to another, the young Point found himself less than a score feet away from the large man who was drawing his dagger. From the latest vantage point, Ryley saw and recognized a small insignia on the backside of the man's hood identifying his association with an elite league of assassins. Few would have recognized the insignia but every Point was trained to recognize it from his first days of training. _This one must be a greeny,_ he thought.

As Valayah spun around, bearing her characteristic, blazing smile, the large man thrust the dagger towards his intended victim. But Na'Eednan reflexes proved too quick for the bulky man, leading to a brief series of dodges, spins, and blocks that Ryley couldn't properly follow. By the time he was close enough to determine how best to intervene, the large man was falling to his knees as Valayah's glowing hand drew the dagger across his throat. A dense thud ended the scuffle. His large, bloody form littered the ground. Valayah's eyes were round bonfires of expression as her body fell into volcanic quakings. Her voice cracked as she mumbled frantically in the sacred Na'Eednan tongue - words Ryley wouldn't have understood had they been clear to hear - words he recognized as high speech, a variation of Na'Eednan tongue Ryley hadn't heard Valayah speak since this post began several fortnights past. As the dagger slipped out of her fingers and fell onto the ground, her trembling and bloody hands floated upwards until they covered her mouth. Ryley noticed they were no longer glowing and wondered whether that too had been a figment of his overly imaginative mind. Terror dominated her visage as she struggled to grasp what she'd done.

Until that moment, and in every way, Valayah had epitomized the innocent, naïve Na'Eednan youth who knew no dishonesty, very few vices, and virtually no violence. Her ancient culture lacked corruption and her youth left her unable to fully process its operations. These had been bred out of her heritage hundreds of seasons past. Moons ago, violent attacks were little more than theory, obscure occurrences scattered over the islands but they were becoming more common since Englishmen had arrived. The Na'Eednan Highborn Council had offered Valayah basic combat training but she regarded all that as foolishness - what violence could beset a historian? a dancer? a crazy woman? But had she been without her Molvadorian stone, Valayah would have been dead moments ago and this bright realization attacked her psyche with vehement presence.

"Are you alright?" The interruption clearly startled her.

The young Englishmen's eyes quickly fell to the fallen man, considering whether or not there was anything he should do to try to save the attacker's life. Questioning the would be assassin might be helpful but Ryley's ability to preserve the man's life was questionable at best, laughable at worst. He intuitively noticed that the sole stab wound looked like it may have punctured the left lung and perhaps the heart – a perfectly placed blow made with an effectively long blade. Before Valayah could gather her wits about her to respond, Ryley pointed towards the young woman's right hip and her right forearm. They were covered in blood.

"Are you hurt?" he repeated, his fingers rigidly pointing towards her apparent injuries.

Valayah, still in shock, drew her hand over the deep crimson patch covering her hip and smeared the blood away. There was no visible injury. She repeated the action, this time brushing her forearm with identical results. She seemed surprised. Still trembling, Valayah appeared unable to respond when she suddenly started rambling nonsensical thoughts about any number of things that didn't address Ryley's question.

"Valayabezte," Ryley punctuated her name with some degree of urgency. "That blood," he said, pointing to her hip, "didn't come from nowhere. Are you hurt?"

"No," she responded, almost laughing. "Red is sometimes my favorite color," she added. "But tonight, I don't like it much. I need some blue."

With unstable legs, she turned and began singing a traditional Na'Eednan ballad Ryley only vaguely recognized. He'd heard her sing it before. Her voice occasionally cracked and she paused for sniffles and intermittent bursts of moaning. Rylley took a different route. He knew where she was headed: a corner of the bay where she liked to bathe. After rounding a few corners, he easily spotted her and carefully followed her from a distance as she neared her favorite secluded swimming hole. Ryley found his preferred observation point and patiently waited for her to make her way towards her preferred point of entry.

But she surprised him.

On random occasions, Valayah chose a spot much closer to his position and this evening was one of them. Not three yards away from Ryley's location, Valayah sat down on a boulder, removed her latticed leather stockings, untangled her dangly décor that only vaguely resembled the genre of adornment Ryley would have recognized as a necklace, and began speaking to some unseen creature hiding behind a bush.

"May I pet you?" Valayah reached her hand into the vegetation where neither she nor Ryley could see.

_You're going to get bitten ..._ Ryley silently chastised as he rolled his eyes.

"Oh," she continued, pulling off her shoes. "I understand. I had a hard night too. You wait there and after I swim a little, I will take you home and find you some food. Do you like zevole? Of course you do. Everyone loves zevole. It makes everything better. It is blue you know? And warm ... like Molvadorian stones. Maybe that's why it's so calming ... don't you agree? Wait here. I need to bathe. I have red now. I don't like red." And on she went, chattering over never ending nonsense. She shivered as she waded towards her usual point of entry.

Ryley tensed as he watched Valayah sink lower into the water. For the first time, it occurred to him that it wasn't safe to swim in this part of the bay. As Valayah slowly submersed herself into the water and glided forward, he panicked. How could he justify protecting her from an assassin and then do nothing to stop this unintentional suicide? Didn't she know about the mutations? Didn't she know this area had been heavily exposed to the magic slime? Then it occurred to him: _She always swims here_. She was already infected. It was already too late.

Valayah's nightly dip lasted longer than usual, leaving Ryley more annoyed about this assignment than ever. He cursed the anonymous informant who misled Ryley's superiors into believing a crazy woman was worthy of surveillance. But he rejoiced when Valayah finally made her way back to the sandy beach and replaced her shoes and decorations. Soon, he would be able to go to his lodging and rest. Tomorrow, he'd get a new assignment. Then, as she stood up straight, Ryley noticed Valayah's tribal paint glowing noticeably brighter than usual. _It's reacting to the magic slime,_ he concluded. But moments later, he jettisoned that detail. He was a practical man. Observing the effects of magic left him reeling with mental dissonance. Reporting magical phenomena betrayed character weakness, irrational superstition. It didn't matter that he _really did_ _see_ _things_ from time to time. He couldn't admit it openly. He could barely admit it to himself.

"Oh hello sweetheart," Valayah began, momentarily startling Ryley into thinking she'd spotted him. He relaxed when he saw her on all fours, peering away from him and into the bushes. "I'm sorry I took so long. I needed to relax - but I came back just like I promised. Isn't it beautiful here? I like pretty things. They make me feel calm inside. Are you okay? Ohhh ... you're shivering. Don't worry, I'll take care of you and help you feel calm too. Do you like zevole? Of course you do. Everyone loves zevole. It makes everything better. It's blue you know? And warm ... like Molvadorian stones ..."

Soon, Ryley quit paying any attention to Valayah's words. He watched as she pet an imaginary creature on her shoulder, offering it reassuring smiles and occasionally brushing her face against its imaginary fur. None of this seemed out of the ordinary. This was standard fare. Daily routine. Ryley rolled his eyes.

"WE FOUND ELDER KOOLEE," Keoni began abruptly, nearly forgetting formalities embedded into his psyche since birth. He fumbled to conclude his sloppy bow. In a more determined display of respect, he left his hand outstretched to acknowledge Iwalani's high office. "He was assassinated." The words sounded forced, as if he wasn't really sure they were true. "We don't know when it happened - perhaps yesterday morning. Apparently, the Englishmen branded him a double agent."

"A double agent?" Iwalani mumbled, confused. "That would first require Elder Koolee to spy against his own people ..." The words were a declaration of disbelief, not a statement of fact. The Na'Eednan Highborn was notably unable to accept their reality. "Clearly they were wrong." His voice trailed but Keoni didn't dare interrupt the silence. Besides, his mind was as blank as a cloudless sky. "Who was working with him?" Iwalani asked. "Who was the true double agent and what information did he leak?"

Keoni's own thoughts hadn't progressed that far yet and the question was disconcerting. Only two people had been appointed by Elder Koolee to deal with the growing English problem: Valayah and his own son Tse'Namee. Several individuals worked with Valayah but they were nothing more than occasional errand boys. Keoni hesitated to offer a response but principle and tradition both required honesty. He forced it out. "Only my son and Valayah." Keoni sputtered the words with such difficulty, Iwalani immediately recognized Keoni's conflicted feelings. Mercy and kindness required him to softly channel the conversation.

"I don't know her well. Can she be trusted? She is a master illusionist after all."

"I can't say. I only knew her as a child. She was recently appointed by Elder Koolee to compile our history a few moons past," Keoni began, grateful for the artfully guided question. "As a Molvadorian mage, she most likely has a photographic memory, which would make her an ideal historian ... or informer," he somberly added. "She's a phenomenal dancer and is pretending to be crazy so she can get information about English politicians without attracting suspicion. She is a remarkably skilled actress."

"I think you should interview her," Iwalani said, cutting back into the conversation. "We need to find out if she can be trusted," he added before trailing off. It seemed he had something more to say. Keoni waited. "Be careful. If she's good at acting, you can't create suspicion or we'll never get an honest answer out of her."

"As you wish," Keoni agreed, respectfully bowing and then turning towards the door. Although he intended to dutifully fulfill this assignment, he somehow knew that keeping his word would never be harder. Either he would learn the unthinkable - that his own son was a traitor - or he would learn the heartbreaking - that Valayah, the childhood playmate of his cherished daughter, had become the epitome of corruption, a betrayer of her country. _No good end can come of this,_ he silently groaned. His heart sunk until it felt like he was trampling upon it with his own feet.

_T_ _HE LAST FEW NIGHTS HAVE BEEN VERY HARD_. _Despite my intentions, I've been too stressed to write any of it down. An Englishman tried to kill me. I didn't even recognize him. If I hadn't had my Molvadorian stone, I'd be dead. Even with it, I thought I was badly cut on my hip and arm. It turned out I was fine but I couldn't stop shaking for hours - and I still have a hard time sleeping. I'm constantly scared. And my visits stopped so I've had no one to talk to._

_I finished compiling our history. I was shocked there wasn't more. It seems we were pretty poor record keepers for a very long while. I'm preparing a miniature copy for myself since Elder Koolee says the originals will stay in the archives. I'm using my stone so my copy should be finished sometime today. I'm excited about that too. I think this means I can go back to normal life and be with my family._

_Oh - I read about how the Molvadorian Starstone was used in our last great battle. What actually happened was more interesting than the stories I heard as a girl: the stone molds itself to the soul of its wielder. That is why Elder Kor'Inta committed suicide after becoming our greatest hero: once the nature of the stone was discovered and revealed to him, he feared our people would learn how thousands of our enemies were destroyed while the stone mimicked the darker side of his soul. He jumped off our southern cliffs out of shame. Some say this is why the pools there have red sand to this day. Others say he discovered immortality and still lives. It's funny how superstitions find their way into history books like that._

_I overheard unthinkably bad news. Someone by the docks was whispering about the English invading these islands two days from now - with warships equipped with the very gift we gave to them: Molvadorian boat sealant. I can't believe it. I hope it was just gossip but the man I heard it from didn't sound uninformed so I told our Na'Eednan artist. That's when the visits stopped. I also sent a letter to the Highborn Council in case the artist cannot quickly get the information to Elder Koolee who has been traveling a lot._

Valayah's writing was interrupted by someone knocking.

She carefully peaked through a slit in her curtains far away from the door as she'd been taught. Ever since her attack, she was willing to accept precautionary measures with a great deal more respect than before. Besides, whoever was knocking was unaware of the secret knock her couriers knew. Valayah's early training forbade her to answer the door absent that secret knock but she recognized this man. Elder Keoni was assistant to the Highborn Council and was known for upholding the highest standards of integrity. _Perhaps they received my letter already,_ she considered. _There could be no harm in letting him in ..._ but she noticed he carried no package _._ That detail left her feeling uneasy. But then, she reconsidered, the history volumes were complete so there shouldn't be any further packages. While that made sense to her, the unexpected visit still left her nervous - like something was wrong.

She cracked the door, expecting Elder Keoni to offer the secret passcode but he only offered a warm greeting. Despite the kind words, Valayah nearly shivered from discomfort, wondered how she had gotten so used to this strange new lifestyle. "And good morning to you," she responded customarily and with a bow of respect. She held her bow long and low, suggesting that it had been too long since they had spoken one with another. The gesture unnerved Elder Keoni but Valayah didn't notice as she kept her eyes upon the ground until he gently held her outstretched hand against his cheek - her cue to end the bow.

He bore bad news to a woman. Custom required he do something to lift her spirits before delivering his message so he began with a word of deserved praise. "Elder Koolee tells us you've done a remarkably beautiful job compiling the history of our people." He customarily paused for emphasis, leaving Valayah plenty of time to blush and flash her eyes. "And he says you've finished the project much quicker than anyone believed possible. You deserve high honors for your gifted service."

The last phrase left Valayah hoping he was there to offer a ride home - but he wasn't finished speaking. "We all know you were named after the Valonati who were protectors of your village but the Highborn are considering giving you a new name for your invaluable service. Perhaps it will acknowledge you as a protector of history," he speculated, unsure whether or not what he said would still be true. He hoped not. Inwardly, he hoped to be spared the shame of learning he'd fathered a traitor. His eyes nervously darted around the room, hoping to find some clue as to her loyalty - an English gift, English clothing, anything. But there was nothing.

"Valayah," he began again, almost punctuating her name to make it permanent. "I've come with bad news." Elder Keoni watched her eyes drop and felt badly for breaching custom once again. He'd failed to give Valayah ample opportunity to respond before changing the tone of the conversation. Embarrassed, he hurriedly fumbled along. "I'm very sorry to report that Elder Koolee has been killed by the English."

Valayah gasped, immediately covering her mouth as she breathily muttered. "Red ... I hate red." She began stroking a ferret skin casually draped over her right shoulder. Her comment was so quiet, Elder Keoni wasn't sure whether or not she had really said anything at all - perhaps she had only echoed her first gasp. As tears filled her eyes, he continued. "I'm so sorry to bring this news - especially at this early hour - but we felt you should be among the first to know. For your safety, we need to move you to a new home - probably later today - a few men will be coming to assist you ...."

As Valayah absorbed the news, her attention quickly became lost in random thoughts. She was moving. That was good news - but she only passingly noticed. Stress and anxiety stained her thoughts so darkly, she couldn't keep track of good news. Her miniature Na'Eednan history should be finished by the afternoon - did she know any spell to make the stone work faster? The question dissipated as quickly as it arrived, only to be followed by several more. Why would anyone kill Elder Koolee? and what did that have to do with her own safety? Who was behind all of this horrible corruption? Uncertainty swarmed across her mind like ants pouring out of a leveled anthill.

So, she did what came naturally: she babbled.

"Too much red. I don't like red. I need blue. Blue is calming. The Englishmen are coming," she reminded the ferret on her shoulder, "but we will be safe here. They are coming to the other side of our favorite island. I hear they wear red suits. I don't like red. Thank you Elder Keoni. Oh don't worry," she consoled as she petted the ferret skin on her shoulder, "I won't leave you behind. I will always take care of you. Perhaps we will get some blue curtains and a blue bedspread. That would be nice don't you think? No more Keilimi plants," she added, grabbing a small flower pot and dropping it into a waste basket. "Red petals," Valayah clicked her tongue disapprovingly, "I don't like red."

Then, uncustomarily but with convincing enthusiasm, Valayah opened her door and bowed at her guest. "Thank you very much for coming Elder Keoni," she gushed. "Your gracious presence is always welcome in my home." The last phrase was traditional. In most circumstances, the parting words were intended literally. This time however, Elder Keoni felt uncertain as to their meaning. They were abrupt and out of context.

_She really gets into her role,_ Elder Keoni considered as he returned Valayah's respectful bow. Something about the visit disturbed him but it took him a few moments to pinpoint the detail. But as he carefully made his way home, it hit him. Valayah mentioned the English invasion. That pinpointed her as the double agent didn't it? _How else could she know about it?_ He'd been on the verge of mentioning the invasion but she'd beaten him to the punch.

That realization relieved Elder Keoni from all stress concerning his own son when suddenly, better logic barreled through his mind: if Valayah was working for the English, she wouldn't be revealing an impending invasion to a Highborn's assistant. As a Molvadorian mage, Valayah would be keenly aware that English troops would suffer grievous casualties if the Highborn were prepared to defend Na'Eednan islands. Even knowing that the Highborn would be reluctant to use the Molvadorian Starstone for violent purposes, she surely wouldn't give them any warning to debate the issue ... unless she was deliberately feeding misinformation for the purpose of gaining their trust only to later betray them.

As part of his position, Elder Keoni occasionally read about espionage but it had never mattered before - corrupt tactics were vestiges of a far gone civilization. Surely none of that applied to current challenges. Nevertheless, prospective cycles of treachery violently swirled through his mind until the never ending complexities of corruption enveloped him like the cool blackness of a cave. His mind couldn't comprehend it. His soul couldn't discern it. Worst, his heart couldn't handle the painfully persistent possibility: if Valayah was innocent as he was beginning to believe, Tse'Namee was not.

RYLEY NERVOUSLY TWIRLED AN INTRICATELY ENGRAVEN BUTTERFLY KNIFE with his right hand, opening and closing it with menacing ambition. The blade was foreign weaponry - this one came from his first island hit many months ago. The Na'Eedna _still_ hadn't found the body. The young Point was efficient, discrete, and resourceful when it came to taking out targets and he preferred to use this blade for memory's sake. Besides, if the blade wounds were recognized, they would suggest a Na'Eednan attacker, not an English Point. A very slight bend towards the tip of the blade reminded him of the moment he completed that first assignment. Vestiges of anxiety resurfaced whenever he rehearsed that vicious memory - but those dark chills had become hauntingly familiar over time. He mulled them over. He bonded with the memory. It defined him now. Like pythons, he preferred to monitor a victim's final moments of movement. He reveled in the last, warm twichings that preceded the depthless calm of death. The thrill of those moments made the monotony of doldrumous posts worthwhile. Ryley's thoughts continued to cycle in dark morbidity until he felt prepared for his new assignment.

As of five a.m. that morning, Elder Koolee hadn't spoken with him for three days. That was his signal: it was time to take out Valayah. Whatever she'd done to offend his superiors didn't matter now. His country was calling for his service. Besides, she'd die soon anyway. Mutations and disease from the slime were inevitable. She'd fall severely ill and die within months, or perhaps weeks. In the recesses of his mind, it seemed foolish to take her out any sooner. He knew her habits and daily routines. Little children seemed more threatening to his majesty's expanding territory. Sure, she'd been lucky the other night but smiling fortune would not greet her this evening.

The memory flashed through Ryley's mind. Valayah held trembling and bloody hands over her mouth while she babbled about red things. Images of her blood stained body called to him. Killing was a messy business. It helped prepare his mind to revel in the scenery and to relive the bloody deed so he indulged himself and retraced the memory with great attention to detail. Then, he changed the scene. He was killing her now. He held her while she babbled herself to oblivion.

While he imagined how it would be, Ryley meandered down the familiar path to her little hovel. Dusk was fast approaching. Valayah would be preparing for her evenings extravagancies. If he wasn't quick enough, he would miss his opportunity and have to watch her charismatically flashing her smiles all night long. Worse, it might require a distant attack - perhaps with the crossbow he'd buried by her favorite bathing hole. But that wouldn't do: he'd been secretly harboring a morbid curiosity for weeks now. He'd heard Na'Eednan females smelled sweet, like honey mixed with star jasmine. He wondered whether their blood might smell sweet too. He didn't want to miss the experience of finding out by taking a long range shot. No, this one needed to be close.

IWALANI SIGHED AS HE LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR, barely retaining his grip on Valayah's letter. His heart ached. For scores of decades, he'd stood watch over the Na'Eedna and worked with them to better the races of men. Now, this strange English race was intent on invading these peaceful islands - invading without any provocation. Why? He barely raised his head as Elder Keoni entered the room. How would the young Elder handle these latest developments?

"Your gracious presence is welcome. Dear friend, enter freely," he began.

From the tone in his voice, Elder Keoni quickly discerned his meaning. "You bear a letter," he responded. It was an invitation to share the news without formal restrictions. Iwalani gazed upon Keoni with sorrowful intensity, a look Keoni hadn't seen on the Highborn's face in all the days of his service as assistant to the Highborn Council.

"You do not know what you ask," the Highborn answered in almost whispered tones and a pace that betrayed his somber feelings. "This," he said while holding up a labyrinth of artistic lettering with characteristically few colors to brighten the message, "is a letter from Valayah. It was sent before you visited with her this morning and before we knew about Elder Koolee. It tells of the Englishmen's intent to invade these islands - perhaps as early as tomorrow if I read it correctly."

He paused and closed his eyes as if he would fall asleep. "I've consulted the Starstone." Another long pause followed. "It's true. Several warships are coming alongside the westerly winds at speeds that couldn't be achieved without the Molvadorian sealant. It appears she gave this information to Tse'Namee some time before Elder Koolee was assassinated and Tse'Namee hasn't been seen by anyone since he last spoke with Valayah. The implications are obvious. I am unbearably burdened to heighten your sorrow." The last words were slow and deliberate. With eyes closed and head bowed, Iwalani gave the Na'Eednan gesture of condolence one offers at the death of a loved one.

But Elder Keoni had been thinking carefully about the situation.

"Elder Iwalani," the assistant to the Highborn started with cautious tones. "I've been thinking ... what if Valayah is feeding us misinformation? I've read about it in our histories. Tse'Namee could still be looking for Elder Koolee. The English may only be looking to rest at our ports for a season. Of course Valayah knows that we would never attack the English unless we believed our lives were under threat ..."

"Elder Keoni," the highborn interrupted, "I honor your concerns. I will introduce them to the council for their consideration."

Intuitively, Keoni understood that Iwalani was not taking his suggestions seriously. The offer was one of respect and friendship, not sincere consideration. He would have to think more carefully about the details he might present to the council under inquisition. Deep down, Elder Keoni suspected he was being foolish but somewhere deep within his soul, he couldn't shoulder reality and refused to confront the unthinkable. How could he have raised a son so opposed to everything he'd ever stood for? The thought burned him to the core. At the same time, duty required that he share all of his thoughts with the Highborn - and that represented a hurdle he was sure he wasn't prepared to face. The shame was too much to ponder. Facing the council would require prodigious resolve Elder Keoni wasn't sure he even had.

RYLEY RESTED HIS EAR AGAINST THE DOOR and carefully listened to ascertain if anyone was inside. After a few moments, he determined that either Valayah was exhibiting a rare moment free from babbling, the walls were too thick to listen through, or the crazy dancer wasn't home. He removed a set of lock picks from the breast pocket of his jacket and began his work only to feel foolish a moment later: the door was unlocked - _of course_ , _crazy women don't lock doors_. He carefully spun the door handle and entered so quietly, he impressed himself - a nearly epic achievement.

Ryley thought he smelled star jasmine the instant he entered Valayah's little hovel but ignored the distraction. He was too late: she was already gone. Still, he could use the time profitably. Something might be worth reporting. For several minutes, he rummaged through Valayabezte's belongings but there was nothing remotely interesting except one very unexpected detail: it appeared as if she'd been cleaning. _Odd behavior for someone so dimwitted._ Suspicions began to surface. But before he was able to formulate any solid theory, the sound of approaching voices demanded his attention.

Ryley suspected they would simply knock on the door and then leave when no one responded. Regardless, he made his way behind a folding room divider. He wondered what use it might serve a crazy whore but crouched down next to scattered clothes as a precaution. _Sleeping clothes_? He held them to his nose to capture Valayah's scent. _Star jasmine sweetened with honey,_ he concluded, a little surprised. He breathed in more deeply.

Men walked into the home without the slightest formality one might expect in nearly any culture - barbarous or not. "Should we take these?" a lanky boy asked his older companion.

"No. We only take prepared boxes. There is no time to spare for anything else," he continued. "If Elder Iwalani is correct, the English may be on this side of the island by late morning. Of course, they could begin attacking any time after that so we need to pack as lightly as ..."

"Right," the boy interrupted.

"possible and get these back to the council before the second sleeping block," the elder Na'Eednan finished.

No lecture was necessary. The boy didn't expect that they should take anything else - everything just looked too nice to leave behind. He noticed Valayah's writing tools would fit nicely into his pocket so he stashed them in his cloak while the older companion spouted off miscellaneous details of little interest. The older companion frowned disapprovingly at the boy for stashing the tools but didn't reprimand him. The deed began and finished so quickly that no time had been lost. There were more pressing things to attend to.

Ryley strained to see what the boy was talking about and to see what the boxes might contain but he couldn't find a vantage point to observe anything without giving away his cover. He ran his fingers over the blades of two throwing knives sheathed within the top edges of his boots. Perhaps he should kill these two men and take the boxes back to his Master Point. He began unsheathing the right knife, carefully finding its balance without giving it much attention at all. Then again, if he took this course correction, he might miss his opportunity to find Valayah before the night was over. He slipped the other knife out of its sheath and felt its balance. If he was quick ...

Ryley reconsidered. If the Na'Eedna were aware of a pending English attack, that was unquestionably more important to report than a completed hit. He left the knives unsheathed and considered his course of action as the two men left as quickly as they'd come. Within moments, Ryley knew what he had to do: he resheathed the knives, grabbed one of Valayah's worn dancing tops from the floor, breathed in sweetened star jasmine, stuffed it in his pocket, and ran out the door. At breakneck speed, he might be able to get word to his Master Point before the second sleeping block.

"THE PLAN IS WROUGHT WITH UNCERTAINTY," Iwalani conceded, "but who among us dare use the Molvadorian Starstone for this purpose?"

"He's right," Elder Kituku answered. "It is no secret. As years pass, we've each become less able to effectively harness its power and each use leaves the outcome more uncertain, more unpredictable. We have long needed to turn this responsibility over to fresh mages who have not been tainted by its powers."

"But we still don't know if we can trust her," Elder Keoni interjected without thinking. His case had been made. Tradition demanded that he accept their conclusions but his personal weakness disallowed him from remaining quiet during this monumental decision. He immediately regretted the outburst and silently acknowledged his poor judgment with a bowed head.

"True enough," Elder Vizha mercifully conceded with his aged and gravel laden voice. "And there are plenty more reasons to doubt this course. The gestures are intricate, Valayah may not be fluent enough in ancient high speech to master this spell, and the purity of the caster is as crucial as anything else. If she succeeds, our eldest are all sent back home, failures in our mission to guide mankind to greater heights; if she fails, we may all die. It would be better to ask another Molvadorian mage we know we can trust."

"No," Iwalani interjected with a stronger tone than any Highborn Council member was accustomed to hearing. "There are no others well versed in illusionary spells that require similar levels of intricacy as this one. Several of our mages are untested in the ancient high speech and most importantly, none of them are close enough to offer instruction before it's too late. We have no further time for debate. She must be trained."

With only the slightest opening to speak, another voice entered the fray: "I concur ... but I believe there is one more point to consider," Elder Lokina offered with characteristic humility. "The Na'Eednans we are sending to the mainland - they will need a Highborn mage to protect them from whatever evils may yet await. I am the youngest so I expect to stay but someone else should be chosen as protector."

"Thank you," Iwalani answered without giving the council time to deliberate on the topic. "You will go with the others. Join them as soon as you can and arrange your affairs to retrieve the stone from Valayah as quickly as possible. Vizha and I will take turns instructing Valayah while the rest of the council sees to the needs of anyone trying to leave the island. Elder Keoni: please gather any tomes necessary to act as protectorate of those few who will remain."

VALAYAH SLOWLY CREPT FORWARD, her eyes riveted on her intended target. Stealthily, she slithered closer and closer until she thought she could successfully pounce upon her prey - but she was too slow. Le'aiyla, glowing dragonflies native to this, the smallest Na'Eednan island, were notoriously difficult to catch but it was the only thing in the courtyard to take Valayah's mind off that haunting, bloody evening. Each night, new details harassed her. While dancing, she'd sent Molvadorian chills towards her shadow but they didn't seem to phase him. He'd used sacred protective charms unique to Molvadorian mages. Baffled, Valayah daily wondered who would have even conceived of teaching such things to an assassin. And whomever it was had been an effective teacher. Valayah needed to tell the Highborn council.

Valayah was living to see awful days and it grieved her soul. She rubbed her shoulder and leaned her head slightly in the same direction to wipe water from her eyes. Grateful for the sweltering heat in the courtyard and the intense humidity, she wiped perspiration off of her brow, more to conceal her tearfall than to rid herself of the nuisance of excessive moisture. Molvadorian mages were supposed to be pillars of inner strength. Tonight, Valayah felt more like an insecure child than a pillar, unless by pillar, one meant a fragile ice cycle or a column of falling water. She rubbed her shoulder again as she spotted another Le'aiyla landing close by. She crouched down and began working herself through the routine one more time.

"Valayabezte."

The call sent the young mage flushing in embarrassment. Her distraction was anything but fitting a woman of her station. She forced a laugh and flashed her eyes. "Have you ever tried to catch the Le'aiyla?" she questioned the elderly woman who had called her. Valayah thought her name was Bray'tsel but she couldn't recall with certainty.

"I cannot say that I have," she responded coolly and with an air of disapproval that sent red flooding into Valayah's cheeks a second time. But while the young mage suffered the additional embarrassment, she snatched her hand forward with speed and precision that required as much luck as anything else. The glow of the dragonfly snuffed out underneath Valayah's hands. It was quickly replaced by a strong flash from Valayah's own eyes.

"The trick is to mimmic the movements of their only predator," Valayah explained with a sincere smile she couldn't begin to hide. "You need to create an illusion of security by allowing their glow to reflect off your hands at just the right angle." While speaking, Valayah spread her hands ever so slightly to sneak a peak at her prisoner. "Nothing else seems to work," she concluded. "Ouch!" The young mage swathed her hand into the air to shake off the pain of the bite. The greenish glow of the Le'aiyla reignited as it shot forth into the misty air. "That was a nasty one," she chuckled, looking down at her right hand. "Red," she mumbled as a small droplet of blood appeared on the fleshy part of her hand, "I don't like red."

"Iwalani requests your presence," Bray'tsel interjected, unamused. "It seems quite urgent."

BREATHING SO HEAVILY THAT HE NEARLY FELL from exhaustion a number of times, Ryley forced himself to press forward for perhaps the dozenth time that night. While his lungs threatened to fail, his heart pressed on. His country depended on him. If he got to his Master Point quickly enough, someone might reach the other side of the island by horseback in time to warn his comrades that the Na'Eedna were prepared for the attack. Ryley cursed himself for not having a horse himself. It had been a welcome break not to need to take care of any beasts but now his shortsightedness threatened the lives of many of his countrymen. He was unexperienced in infantry tactics, knew nothing of naval warfare, and had never been part of the crown's military but simple wisdom suggested a surprise attack would be compromised if the enemy was anticipating your first move. Perhaps Ryley would lose his life delivering the news. He really didn't know. All he knew was that his country needed him and so he pressed forward, gasping at every breath and pushing the limits of his endurance with every step.

Eternities came and went as Ryley grew almost delirious with dehydration and exhaustion. His determined sprinting deteriorated into periodic bursts of running sandwiched between much longer jaunts of desperate walking. _Not much further,_ he encouraged himself, envisioning the next few corners and convincing himself he was closer than he really was. He cursed himself for not stealing a horse along the way. And then he cursed himself for being dumb - Na'Eedna never rode horses so of course, he hadn't passed a single stable. On small islands, people are naturally content to walk wherever they go and the Na'Eedna were no exception. _The last turn!_ he emoted with surprise as he recognized the final jaunt of his journey. With renewed determination, Ryley began running again. Soon, he found himself tripping over the front entryway and unintentionally tasting the dusty wooden flooring. Alongside the dirt and wood, Ryley recognized the familiar taste of blood inside his mouth. The injury was minor compared to the bruising of his ego; he hoped his lip wouldn't swell while he informed his Master Point about the new developments.

But when the door opened, it was no Master Point who answered his call. "Tse'Namee!" he exclaimed in surprise. "I have urgent news. I need to speak to Mr. Bridgman." After all he'd been through, Ryley was aghast to be met by a cursed Na'Eednan nobleman. He considered slitting the man's throat and being done with this wretched race of men but thought better of the idea as he continued to struggle for breath. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _he may be of some use_. But if not ...

"Mr. Bridgman is on the other side of the bay on business," Tse'Namee announced. "I can get a vessel ready to take you across the bay within the hour."

Only with great resolve did Ryley keep himself from attacking this wretched traitor. It didn't matter if he was helping the English. He was Na'Eedna. He deserved to die for that reason alone. "Yes, send a servant," he barked. "And why are you here?" he questioned with unveiled suspicion.

"I'm here to receive the stone you retrieved from Valayah," Tse'Namee answered coolly. "May I see it?"

The question took Ryley entirely by surprise. Apart from the fact that he didn't expect Valayah to have anything of any value, he certainly didn't expect a Na'Eednan spy to be the intended recipient of anything he might recover from the crazy whore. "I'll do nothing until I speak with Mr. Bridgman," Ryley answered, hoping he covered his surprise reasonably well.

"It's true then. You failed." Tse'Namee's response was so matter-of-fact that Ryley found himself off guard a second time in only a few seconds. "But you are unhurt. That leaves you better off than the others. You tried a long distance attack then. Mr. Bridgman said you wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than a personal attack but I guessed you would be too observant to make that mistake. How did she escape?" The question lacked the slightest hint of doubt that it wasn't perfectly accurate and replete with merit. A meaningful pause followed as Tse'Namee reconsidered his options. "Did you steal the stone then? What cannot be taken by force is often taken by stealth. I heard that's a mantra of yours ..."

"That's no affair of yours," Ryley growled with notably less conviction in his voice. "We have more urgent things to attend to. The Na'Eedna are aware of our plan to attack the island. Someone needs to alert our troops before it's too late."

"Ahhh," Tse'Namee slowly bobbed his head with understanding. "This is why you're in such a hurry. Thank you for your valiant effort lad. I'm very impressed you pulled that out of Valayah," the Na'Eednan traitor gushed with condescension. "But we were made aware of that days ago. That's why Mr. Bridgman is on the other side of the bay. He's anxiously awaiting the stone so we'd better get you over there as fast as we can. But as I mentioned, the stone is mine. I'd really like to see it before we go ..."

Confused, frustrated, and disappointed, Ryley answered with nothing more than an evil eye coupled by a frown. What would he tell his Master Point? _At least,_ he thought, _the trip would take close to two hours_. That would offer him sorely needed time to prepare a plausible explanation for a failure that wouldn't land him in a world of trouble.

VALAYAH FOCUSED INTENTLY AS SHE STROKED the Molvadorian Starstone with carefully placed and intricately woven finger patterns. Each time she completed a sequence, the stone resonated and brightened. Without the added wording, the stone wouldn't be able to complete the instructions she gave it but the glowing flashes of light gave her assurance she was properly learning this portion of the spell. She was ready for her next lesson. Iwalani taught her the finger pattern - and she'd caught on pretty quickly - but it was Elder Vizha who would be guiding her through the intricacies of ancient Na'Eednan high speech. She could speak it better than most young people her age but she was far from mastering the dialect: a goodly number of tone variations and a few tricky clicks continued to evade her.

At least, they were giving her some few moments to relax before moving onto the next stage of instruction. While a young woman Valayah did not recognize carefully painted sacred symbols across her back and shoulders, Valayah lost herself in the starstone. Decorated with a labyrinth of aqua green veins, the bluish stone boasted so many variations of hue that it was difficult to determine where one vein ended and where another began. It was both exquisitely beautiful and mysterious at the same time. The patterns tugged at her curiosity while the stone pulled upon her soul. It felt warm. It was a comforting warmth but at the same time, it created a wellspring of anxiety within her as she began to lose her gaze deep within the stone.

"Valayahbezte!" Elder Vizha called sharply, tearing her attention from the prized stone and nearly causing there to push it off of the podium where it was mounted. Iwalani quickly stabilized the stone and threw a meaningful look at Vizha, a look that Valayah astutely perceived as a meaningful message of concern.

_What are they worried about?_ Valayah had performed each task flawlessly but she resolved herself to devote even closer attention to this last portion of her lesson. There was little time left - though she still had no clue why. Neither member of the Highborn Council offered her the slightest explanation as to what she was doing. They didn't tell her what the spell would do; they didn't tell her _why_ they refused to tell her what the spell would do; they didn't tell her why _she_ had been chosen to perform this extremely important task; and they didn't tell her why any of this was so important when English troops were closing in upon the island. It seemed any member of the council would have been a better choice to perform such a crucial task but they had unanimously chosen her. _Why_?

The only thing she really knew was that she was to chant the spell and unleash the power of the Molvadorian Starstone on the other side of the bay. She also recognized that certain finger patterns so closely resembled explosion spells that she couldn't help but envision English warships in flames as her fingers danced over the stone. Each time, she shook away the vision but it kept coming back. If that turned out to be her duty, she really didn't want to know what she was doing. She couldn't bear the thought of taking another life - let alone dozens or hundreds of them. One life had been way more than she could handle. It was the most awful thing she could possibly imagine. It didn't matter if they were English or not. Some people just weren't meant for battle or bloody combat and she was one of them. In the end, Valayah knew she had to divest her mind of any unfortunate possibilities, put her implicit trust in the Na'Eednan Highborn Council, and focus on learning these tones and clicks of the tongue.

After what deceptively seemed like many hours, Valayah became quite adept at reciting new lines given her by Elder Vizha. Each time she finished, the stone resonated in response to her words and glowed similar to how it had glowed when she executed the finger movements. With both parts perfected, she practiced them together without the stone until Elder Vizha was confident she would be successful. Just when Valayah began to feel that same confidence, Iwalani abruptly called for her attention. He'd been writing something at the other end of the room for quite some time so she'd nearly forgotten he was still with them.

"Our time is spent. We must move before we tempt fate too fiercely." The Na'Eednan Highborn exchanged another anxious glance towards Elder Vizha. "You have done well. She is ready," he praised the other Highborn, "but there is no more time to spare. Valayah must go." Iwalani paused, leaving his head bowed for a moment. The gesture assured Valayah there was more to say. "Here," he began again, presenting her with a small scrap of bluish paper carefully folded into a box with an octagonal base and progressive tiers that vaguely resembled a spiraling, octagonal staircase. The style and color of the paper promised sacred information within the box. The young mage trembled slightly at being presented such a gift. "Do not read this until after you've completed your assignment," he coached. "Then, when you are in a place of safety, you may read what I have written. It contains instructions as to where you should deliver the Molvadorian Starstone when you've finished. It will not be on this island," he explained, regretting that may have already spoken too much. He pressed the paper box into her hands, placed his hand on her cheek, slightly bowed his head, and quietly murmured words of a blessing that Valayah barely understood. It was the first time in many lessons she'd found herself complete lost in understanding words of the ancient high speech but somehow, she felt so peaceful inside that she barely noticed that detail.

Then, Keoni entered the room. "It's time Valayah. Let's go."

RYLEY'S EARS BURNED AS HE LOOKED out Bridgman's window overlooking the bay. Castigated for abandoning his post regardless of the situation, Ryley listened as his Master Point related unbelievable details about Valayah's prowess as a master illusionist - a Molvadorian mage, the most prestigious social class among the Na'Eedna apart from the few members of the Highborn Council. The stories were ridiculous. Lies. And they no doubt originated from the worthless puke they called Tse'Namee. Ryley wished he'd slit the traitor's throat earlier and silently swore he wouldn't let the opportunity pass a second time. Advancing to the position of Master Point would take many more moons now. Ryley would have to prove to his country that Bridgman was wrong. Valayah was a crazy dancer and nothing more. He'd followed her every movement for at least a hundred days now. He knew her as well as he'd known anyone - he'd listened to her babble for countless hours. And now, some grunt Point was reporting that she'd been spotted a few leagues away on this side of the bay - with an escort. The latter detail was obviously falsified. Valayah never let men escort her anywhere. Undoubtedly, she was somewhere dancing, flashing her eyes, and probably babbling as she gyrated.

Suddenly, a brilliant flash of light began to remove ageless scales of doubt from the young Point's eyes. And while disbelief wouldn't easily abandon his side, what he saw was not possible. It defied reason.

"Magic," Mr. Bridgman mumbled under his breath.

Ryley thought it shameful anyone would say such a thing. He knew better. There had to be some other explanation.

ELDER KEONI CAREFULLY PLACED VALAYAH'S FEW BELONGINGS under a bush not far from where she sat meditating. He glanced over the books in her bag. Without protest, Elder Iwalani had allowed the young mage to bring a very small copy of Na'Eednan history with her. _I guess that makes sense,_ Keoni considered. _One way or another, her copy will be of some use ...._ Other than those few octagonal volumes of history, her bag held little besides food and provisions to help her make it through the next few days. Keoni wanted to stay and observe the young mage summon the power of the Molvadorian Startstone but he'd been forbidden. He knew he would be able to secretly watch her from a hidden location if he really wanted to but he was a man of integrity. He wouldn't go back on his word. So, with steadfast resolve, he offered a traditional farewell to Valayah and reentered the small boat they'd come in.

For only a very brief moment, Valayah watched the somber man slowly and deliberately row the small boat into the distance. Then, she began setting things up the way she wanted. She unwrapped the stone, set up a foldable stand, and set the stone on top. Anxious about how much time she might have, she looked into the sky. Its lighting was uncertain. Was it dusk or dawn? Too many clouds obscured her vision and she'd lost track of time. It seemed like maybe a day had passed since she'd left her home. "Stop fussing," she scolded her ferret. "We need to hurry." She stroked its fur delicately, with reassurance.

As Valayah meditated a moment to find peace within her soul and to do a final mental review of the spell, she felt a strong grip around her arm and cursed herself for not being more aware of her surroundings.

WITH GREAT SORROW, ELDER KEONI FORCED HIS EYES to look directly ahead. He refused to turn around to look upon the many flashes of light emanating from behind his little boat. He'd been right. Somehow, he'd known all along. His heart sunk. It seemed to fall beneath the surface of the boat and into the depths of the ocean. He was leaving his homeland and would never return. At least his wife and children were among those being led by Elder Lokina to the mainland - presuming they made it safely there. Where they would be led next, he didn't have a clue. Perhaps he didn't even care.

WITH ONE HAND ALREADY TIED DOWN, Valayah quickly made simple motions with her left hand and drew upon the power of the Molvadorian Starstone rather than the power of her own small stone. She didn't really think about it. It just happened. She closed her eyes and refused to open them - she knew very well how this spell worked and she didn't want to see what happened. She simply turned herself over to the stone and relaxed so that her spell would be consummately effective. The stone would guide her movements in whatever way would be the most beneficial for her safety. Other inevitable results would follow.

Moments later, her body quit moving and her hands stopped glowing. She heard shouting and looked towards the sound only to see a very scared young man running away at breakneck speed. _If he doesn't slow down,_ Valayah thought, _he is going to take a fall and hurt himself. The poor boy._ It was then she realized she needed to make sure the Molvadorian Starstone was safe. If the boy had it with him ...

Conflicted in soul, Valayah deliberately scanned her surroundings and ended up convulsively shivering. Three men lay at her feet. Beyond dead, each of them looked like some gruesome sculpture gone awry. Half dismembered, entangled, and painted with a nasty patchwork of blood Valayah could never have imagined on her own, the scene left Valayah shaking with horror like she'd never experienced before. Instinctively, she made a series of motions with her hands to expose the illusion and the men disappeared. That calmed the young mage only slightly but it gave her the resolve to go back to her duties.

Heavily stroking the now bloody ferret fur on her shoulder, Valayah was desperate for comfort. She knelt down next to the Molvadorian Starstone. It too was coated with smatterings of blood but she couldn't see it. In her mind, it sparkled with unmatched purity and its pulsings invited her to complete her task. Rather than simply speak the spell like she had been taught, Valayah began to sing the words of ancient Na'Eednan high speech, varying the melody whenever different tones were required. The song calmed her soul and invigorated her mind as she lost herself in the spell.

Her fingers were artistic brushes painting upon the surface of the brilliant stone, which glowed brighter than any Na'Eednan had seen for generations. Her mind became slightly distracted as her fingers traced the patterns so closely resembling that familiar explosion spell. She envisioned English warships disintegrating under huge mountains of fire. They deserved it. They wore red. _I hate red,_ she thought in the recesses of her mind. But she pushed these thoughts away. She alone could perform this service for her people - whatever it was. She alone had been given this task and she wouldn't fail them. So, she kept singing.

When she finished, she looked towards the islands where she'd come from, expecting to see a fleet of ships in flames - or perhaps to see a fleet of ships crashing into one another until they were no longer able to attack her people. But that wasn't what she saw. She saw flames. She saw explosions so huge, she feared the entire world might be swallowed up. The entire sky lit up so brightly, she had to close her eyes to stop the pain of its brilliance. Out of fear, she kept her eyes closed. Perhaps she would never open them again. Perhaps she didn't want them to open. And as she kept them closed, she became more fully aware of the deafening sounds behind the flames. The very earth beneath her trembled. She brought her hands up and covered her ears to shut out the sounds.

_I did this,_ she realized. _I failed._ _I hate red._ Overwhelmed, Valayah passed out, her right hand tightly gripping the bloody starstone.

WHEN SHE AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING, Valayah looked across the bay but there was nothing to see. The ocean waters were relatively still as far as the eye could see and there was no land to observe except the land she stood upon. Tearfall stained her cheeks for many moments as she stroked the ferret skin and wondered what she should do next. Without really thinking about it, she summoned the power of her own stone - the one in her pocket - the one she'd been subconsciously stroking as she looked over the bay. With a few simple movements of her hand, she instructed the stone to remove the illusion from her mind and gazed towards her home once again. And there it was. The island was right where it belonged, right where she wanted it to be. She smiled and flashed her eyes, sat down, and with blood stained hands, read the sacred writings given her by Elder Iwalani. When she finished, Valayah jumped for joy, spun, and danced for several minutes before she began stroking her pet ferret.

"See, I told you. Everything is just fine. I took care of you just like I said. Elder Iwalani says there are others and we need to find them. We are going to help all men. They aren't all bad. Most are nice. Even the English will probably be nice to us now. Then, we will help them even more." As she babbled, Valayah stumbled over one of the corpses at her camp and looked towards it to prevent herself from falling. With a few movements of her hand, it vanished. "I hate red," she explained to the ferret. "Do you need some food? We can make zevole. Do you like zevole? Of course you do. Everyone loves zevole. It makes everything better. It's blue you know? Like Molvadorian stones. Maybe that's why it's so calming ... don't you agree? Wait here. I need to bathe. I have red now. I don't like red."

**WORMS OF THE WASTELAND**

by

Lewis R. Strasburg

BARDO WAS THE WORST. Of all the people I could have been partnered with, I would have picked anyone but him. It was difficult watching the vast empty wasteland day after day when a lush green paradise lay only a few yards behind you. It was insufferable with such a foolish, annoying, smelly, ignorant, lazy, disloyal, conniving, clumsy, greedy shirker like Bardo as a companion. Regardless of whose rotation it was supposed to be, he was only ever awake at night, and at night he spent all of his time keeping me awake asking stupid questions and telling bad jokes, or consuming most of our food and water, or dropping random things out of the tower. I often woke up in the morning to find he had wandered off. The one useful thing he ever tried to do was teaching himself how to read, but listening to him reading out loud was possibly the worst thing of all. I can't count the hours I spent trying to tell myself not to burn his book while he snored through the day.

However, it was my duty to watch the wastes from our tower and to be vigilant regardless of the hardships. The kingdom depended on us to uphold our responsibilities completely on our own. I am ashamed to admit I did things that were forbidden. Sometimes I left the tower unmanned to enjoy the splendor of the forest, if only to regain my sanity for a brief while. Sometimes I spent hours blissfully napping beside a cool stream with my belly full of fruit, and I could restore my strength enough to put up with Bardo for one more week. It was during one of these moments of peace that the crisis began, and I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself.

As much as I hated Bardo, I had to admire his talent with rope. I found a hammock he made in the forest, and I enjoyed the dappled sunlight on my face and arms and the slight swinging that came from the wind through the trees. I could have slept another hour, but an unusually hot breeze awoke me. I found little grains of sand all over my chest and legs, and all over the ground. I came out of my daze and started to recognize what was happening. The watchtower had fallen and in its place, only a line of smoke. I fell over myself getting out of the hammock and forgot to pick up my boots as I ran to see the horror I knew was waiting for me. I broke through the trees and there it was.

The collapsed tower burned furiously. I rushed into the open to try to find Bardo in the middle of an enormous snake-like track. The Great Worms had come at last. I looked around fearfully, but it was out of sight, slithering through forests and valleys that were now burning. In the vast wasteland, at a great distance and yet still so close, I saw large dust clouds and the heads of the worms that would follow the one that destroyed my tower. There would not be much time for any of us.

I somehow knew Bardo must be dead, but I had to check. The flames roaring through the stones were still as hot as dragon fire. I could not get very close. Then I could see Bardo's charred hand amongst the wreckage. He probably died before he even knew what was happening. Surely he didn't have time to raise the alarm either and now it was too late.

The weight of the kingdom dropped me to my knees. The Great Worm burned through the beautiful green landscape; a masterpiece of creation ruined by a crude black streak. This was only the beginning of the devastation. Already the wastelands had begun consuming the green paradise. The leaves withered and the grass wilted. The sand inched its way across the dark brown soil, burying it so fast it was as though it was never there. This was a mere side effect of the worm. By the end of the day, it would kill thousands of people.

I may have failed to raise the alarm when it was my charge to watch vigilantly, but I still lived. The worm had only a short head start. Perhaps there was still time to save some lives. The stable still stood, a good distance away from the fiery tower. I found the horses violently bucking in their stalls, trying to escape. As soon as I calmed them down I would go over land and raise the alarm and let nothing stop me.

As I hushed and patted them, I also considered whether it was best to ride to the next watchtower or not. The alarm would be seen throughout the kingdom, but perhaps the other towers would see the worms soon enough without my help. If I overcame the first worm, I could give a clearer warning to those directly in its path. I could also go to Founder's Fortress, where the champions of the kingdom were stationed. They could actually do something about worms, much more than just running and hiding.

My imagination did me no favors after deciding that my first duty belonged to raising the alarm. The people I might have saved screamed in my head. A wall of furious sand rushed me as I kicked my horse to run faster. I had seen larger sandstorms before, but not one that answered to the Great Worms. I tried to stay off the sand on the edge of the green paradise, but it was becoming impossible. The magic of our land was weakened by the presence of the worms, letting in the all of the heat and stinging wind. Until the monstrosities left, we would slowly lose everything.

I covered my face with a handkerchief before the sandstorm turned day to night. The horse, which had been kept in the gentle climate of the green paradise its whole life, struggled with the harsh wasteland air and protested the blinding sand. I kicked it harder and watched out ahead for the trees that appeared out of nowhere, stripped of their leaves and their branches snapping in the storm.

Suddenly, the horse fell out from underneath me and I hurtled from the saddle. I splashed into startlingly cold water. I could not believe I overlooked an entire pond. Worse than that, after scrambling out of the water, I lost my sense of direction. The sand swept away our footprints and hid every landmark. Even if the tower were 40 feet ahead of me, I could not see it. In a few minutes, there wouldn't even be a pond there anymore.

I'm ashamed that panic got the best of me, and caused me to stop thinking. I might have used the direction of the wind to help me figure which way to go, but I felt so overwhelmed that I just started wandering, pulling my horse behind me, too afraid to ride again in those conditions. From nowhere, a smell as rank as old fish hit me. Then I made out a large dark shape slithering past me.

I was paralyzed. Naturally I thought it was another worm at first, but there was something wrong about it. I could see feet... human feet... under it. I finally dismissed the idea of some horrifying cross-breed when I saw the stitches in the thick skin, and streaks of light from within. I fought the horse to be still, finally deciding to take a chance and reach out for the strange thing. The fact that it didn't burn my hand was proof that it wasn't a worm. It was more like a tent... I lifted the side and pulled my horse in.

The long lines of wastelanders carrying the enormous skin bewildered me. It must have once been the skin of a living worm, now all of these people... they must be using it to hide from the worms!

"Hello!" a dusty man stopped to say to me. He had a tattered turban and several missing teeth in his smile. He spoke other words too, but I could not understand him.

"Welcome, welcome!" another said in passing.

"What is this?" I asked, but the wastelander did not speak my language, save a few words. The next thing he said made no sense to me, and I'm certain he couldn't understand what I tried to say either. The horse was a little calmer out of the storm but still nervous. The swarthy man patted me on the shoulder and then urged me to keep up with the others. We walked together.

Sometimes I would see the wastelanders at a distance and I heard they could be traded with. For some reason they preferred the wasteland to the green paradise, which I never understood. And what were they doing here now?

Two of them, a man and woman, waited for me up ahead. They took the reins from me before I realized what they were doing. They urged me to go faster with them, but the horse fought us. The woman handed the man the reins and unwrapped the cloth around her neck. She blindfolded the horse, but had to hold the wrap there. This worked pretty well. The horse stopped fighting and kept pace, confident enough that it should follow the lead and not worry about what was around it.

As nice as it was have company and stay out of the storm, it would not help warn the kingdom to stay, so I tried to leave, but they held me back and refused to give back my horse. I would have been more forceful, but the way they refused me – the looks on their faces of sincere helpfulness – prevented me from trying too hard.

"You are welcome here," a woman said very well... with an accent that sounded familiar. I turned to see her. She had a beautiful face; green eyes and soft features that did not look as unfamiliar as the other wastelanders. "They're not trying to steal from you, they're just trying to keep you safe."

"Thank god you can speak my language! Who are you people?"

"We are Kazan. My name is Mina. We came here following the worms. We help people who have been attacked by them."

"I'm Tallus," I replied. "I'm from Elden but I spent the last three months at the Ammon Watchtower."

"So this is Green Paradise?" she asked with alarm.

"Yes, what's left of it," I said, looking ruefully at a trampled tuft of grass that managed to stay above the sand, only to be crushed by hundreds of feet. "I need to get out of here and warn the kingdom immediately. Can you tell them to let my horse go?"

"No, let us help you. We'll take your horse and we'll give you a hlathlu."

Riding a hlathlu, for anyone who is wondering, requires the calm and confidence that only comes from strong liquor. Unfortunately, I had to make do with 'scared stupid'. When Mina first explained that it was a large hairy spider I began to protest, but she put her hand on my mouth and I suddenly lost my voice. From that point on, I listened very carefully to everything she said. When I saw the hlathlu itself, I put on a brave face and mounted it immediately, trying to convince her that I was bold and unafraid. The spider jerked around under me, but not because it was frightened. All of its movements were sudden.

At this point, my blood froze and I felt numb. Mina guided my hands to the right places to hold the spider and instructed me on every important detail about riding and taking care of it. I would have liked a little more elaboration on the part where she said I must 'never act like food.' The hlathlu would want to feed as often, but I had to make certain it did not become bloated or else it's instinct to mate would make it impossible to guide.

The last thing she mentioned was that the hlathlu was trained to not eat things with a certain smell on it. The smell came from an herb that I never heard of before. It has a distinct spicy sweetness about it which actually smelled delicious to me. Mina pulled me down from the spider in order to wrap my head with a turban that carried the smell, and she smiled at me when she saw the final result.

Her smile was irresistible. I had to turn away or I was afraid I would do something foolish, like try to kiss her. I mounted the hairy creature again. They lifted the side of the worm tent, and I launched back into the storm.

The hlathlu ran at a good brisk pace, but it soared over hills and trees when it jumped, which it did often. It almost lost its rider the first time, which helped me understand why I had to lay down while riding. As the stinging sands scraped my skin, each jump would first smash me against the spiders back and then I could feel my insides floating around weightless as we fell. I had to keep my eyes closed much of the time. Luckily I didn't seem to be steering. The spider knew which way it wanted to go and it was as good a guess as any to me.

I knew we were close to the watchtower when we found their stable. The spider landed on the roof and climbed inside upside down with me clinging to it. The horses remained in their stalls and did not see us soon enough. I finally figured out what the hlathlu was attracted to, but didn't respond fast enough to stop it from dropping onto the horse. The horse bucked once before the poison set in and it remained paralyzed as the hlathlu fed on its blood. It was a sickening sight, I could see the terror in the eye of the horse as it looked on, but I decided it was best to let it happen so that it would not be a problem later. I pulled sharply at the reins when it seemed long enough.

After some circling around, we found the watchtower and climbed up it quickly. I can only imagine what the lookouts within were thinking when I knocked on the shutters and called on them to open up. Warily, my friend Samar opened the shutter and saw me, wearing a turban and riding a giant spider. Samar would have been a much better companion than Bardo. I never would have missed the sight of the worms if not for Bardo. But that was not a time for regret.

"Send the warning," I said. "I have seen the great worms and they are here."

Without a word, he ran to the blue gem hovering and spinning in place within the tower. He stopped it with his hand, then fiercely spun it the opposite direction. A light grew within the gem which became blinding. In another moment a streak of lightning tore the troubled air and arced toward the capitol. The blue light calmed but continued to glow. The warning had been sent.

"Did you not see any worms?" I asked Samar.

"No, I haven't seen anything since the sandstorm started."

"The worms brought the sandstorm," I replied.

"What do we do?" he said at last.

"We won't get anywhere just sitting here," I said to Samar, and considered a moment. "I think the worms might be going after Grysell. I could get there quickly on this thing. Maybe I can help people get away."

"We have horses, we could meet you there," Samar said.

"Actually, just one horse.... Sorry. Listen, you catch up as soon as you can, or you can go to Founder's Fortress. I'm going to do what I can with this 'hlathlu'."

Jumping with, instead of against, the wind felt almost like flying. It was much less jarring and faster. I could keep my eyes open better, so I watched for the worms. Only after soaring directly over one of them could I see any of them. It was larger than I imagined, as wide as a river and as tall as a castle. Flames ignited around it as it crashed through trees. We landed on a tree in front of it and the confused hlathlu became tangled in the branches. As the worm drew closer, indifferent to our presence, I considered jumping to the ground, some forty feet down, and running away, but it didn't seem I had time for that, so I just held on and hoped the spider would scramble free on its own. I felt the heat of the worm's skin and the tree tipping just before the spider launched us away. Two more jumps and I could not see the worm any more. We would find Grysell very soon.

The sand storm had settled somewhat by the time we reached the city, but the air remained a dusty brown color. We landed on the edge of a cliff where we could get a good look at the city. I seized the reins tightly and stopped. There was no mistaking that I looked upon the city of Grysell, but but it had become a shattered nightmare. The city built entirely on a giant bridge that spanned a very wide valley. The bridge stretched four miles long and nearly half a mile wide, and the buildings were often several stories tall. There were numerous lifts that raised and lowered from the city to the valley floor where acres of wheat and blue apple orchards and cattle grazed lazily under the watchful eyes of the farmers high above with telescopes. There were gardens with iridescent butterflies, and lakes and rivers full of crowned herons and red-bellied fish. The city itself was held up by powerful enchantments that had never weakened or faltered before. It was considered one of the safest cities to live in before the worms came.

What I gazed upon made me lose all sense of reality. I could not truly fathom what I saw. I couldn't really accept it. The valley burned, the rivers bled black and grey ash, and the city bridge had broken into dozens of floating or fallen pieces. The sand poured in, tearing and scraping and burying everything. Three worms, only three, had destroyed everything and they were now waiting to feast upon the survivors clinging to the floating remnants of Grysell. The enchantments were at last faltering. Some parts of the city were overturned and pouring people into the mouths of the worms below. The largest section hovered in the center of the valley and wobbled and drifted down as slow as the minute hand of a clock. The worms were patient and the survivors had nowhere to run to.

"We must help them," I said logically. I felt stripped of emotion. It was only some scrap of humanity inside that told me I should do something.

As the wobbling floating islands of the destroyed bridge city lowered the survivors closer and closer to the worms' mouths, I felt an increasing urgency. As a plan began to form, I felt that urgency slam into a wall of terror at what I was about to do. I also felt a heaviness in my heart, something more than just the pity for the people dying. It was guilt. I had to do something to relieve myself of it, and I was prepared to die if I had to.

The broken end of the bridge was crowded with people calling desperately across the gap. I recall a dog barking and pacing on the edge, hopelessly trying to find a way back its master. The people had ropes that they were trying to throw to waiting hands on the nearest island, but they could make the distance. But everyone stopped when they saw the spider and me.

"I'm here to help!" I yelled. "I'm from the Ammon Watchtower," I said. "I'm a scout for the King. Please make room, and I'll bring back as many as I can."

While I spoke, the spider stalked the dog. Before the dog could do much more than growl, the spider had seized it and was draining its blood while the refugees watched. At least I still had my uniform, and they didn't attack on the spot. We were distracted by the earth shaking roars of the worms.

I took the end of three ropes from the refugees. They offered no resistance. Then, on my command, the hlathlu jumped and easily cleared the large gap. The terrified people scattered at first, but we began making a bridge. Meanwhile, the worms, perhaps fighting over some particular morsel had started fighting each other, whipping their heads and tails which caused great whirlwinds. I heard a terrible crash as one of the smaller islands fell to the ground. I had no way of knowing how many had died with it. Our own island rocked and I saw a man get lifted right off of his feet from the wind and vanish in the storm.

Our rope bridge was nothing more than three ropes, one for each hand and one for the feet, and nothing to connect the three but one's own will to survive. Someone threw a big bundle of rope on my lap before making the treacherous traversal. I couldn't watch. Instead I started for the next island while there was still time.

The next island had a shorter gap, but it had turned upside down. I could see the large enchanted glyphs glowing on the underside, now shining upward, and a lift on top instead of dangling down. Below I heard people calling for help, clinging onto lampposts that were buried in the bridge while they watched their homes coming apart like a scarf with a loose thread. With a torn heart, I turned away. I couldn't save them. I took more ropes from the lifts, finished two more anchors, and prepared for a particularly wide jump.

By this time, the worms had stopped fighting and the worms turned their attention back to us. One worm turned up its head and fire blasted from its mouth, enveloping an island. I was simply lucky not to be there when it happened. I waited for a calm moment in the wind to make this large jump, but then I saw a bright point of light like a shooting star. It streaked down from the sky and struck the largest island.

"Thank god! It's a wizard! It's our wizard!" I said to myself. "Maybe Hestian or Galdernum? I'd even be happy to see Zinfury. Or even Grelda!" My mind raced through the possibilities. Our wizards were capable of amazing things, perhaps even capable of destroying a worm single-handedly. The wind had calmed as much as it was going to. As terrifying as the jump should have been, I was just so happy that the King had sent a wizard to help us that I felt invincible. We landed off course, but not so much we didn't make it. I didn't care! I couldn't wait to see who had arrived and what incredible magic was about to happen.

Time graced me with a moment of clarity that seemed to last for years. My memories, and all of their horror, returned to me. I was aware of everything around me, including the worms stealing magic, breathing fire, and killing everything in sight. Perched upon a broken piece of the city of Grysell, which weakly hovered on failing magic, I could see not just one, but two of the King's wizards, each of them channeling unspeakable power. I had to get closer. Jumping to the next island, I could now see Zinfury clearly. He was often considered the most dangerous, but if his rage was directed at the worms, all the better.

A little closer, I could see Galdernum casting his most famous of spells. As though every star in the cosmos descended upon us, shining lights converged into a bubble that surrounded the large island, and as more lights streaked down, it grew.

"A protective spell ... even the worms won't be able to get us through that!" I said. "Two wizards! I can't believe it! I thought those two hated each other. I wonder if it's safe to get any closer."

"Of course not!" a cranky old voice said from behind me. I turned to see an old man in peasant clothes. As old as he looked, he carried himself with strength, standing upright and his exposed arms were tense as though he carried a heavy load. "If you're done staring at the King's pets, do you mind going back to what you're supposed to be doing?"

"What?"

"Getting people off the bridge!" he yelled. His face was getting red, not just from anger. He was exerting his strength on something I couldn't see.

"You're Lysus," I said incredulously. That's three of the King's wizards ... well, Lysus used to be the King's wizard.

"Move! I don't want to crush anyone!" he said. I knew better than to argue with a wizard. The islands were getting closer together, making it easier to bridge the gaps. Galdernum's barrier continued to grow, overtaking us and filling the entire gap between the mountains. It was large enough to surround all of the worms below too.

"That doesn't make sense," I said to myself. "The barrier is supposed to keep the worms out ... isn't it?" But who was I to question the tactics of wizards? Clearly they had work to do, so we would just get everyone we could as far away as possible. We made it to the edge of the bridge and the barrier, we were just a step away from safety, but the barrier wouldn't let us out. "No." I said in disbelief. The barrier was like unbreakable glass, we couldn't just walk through it. It was too late to escape, we were all inside the barrier with the worms. Some of us beat our fists helplessly against the barrier. Nearby, two children were separated from their parents only a few yards away.

Now I knew what Galdernum's spell was, but what about Zinfury? A large black vortex opened before us, the color of it was darker than night, and it sucked away the air and the rocks, and buildings, and farms and people. Obliteration. We would all be destroyed to ensure the worms were destroyed as well. But Lysus cast a spell too, and the floating islands moved in strange ways in response. They put themselves together to form something that looked like a crude statue. When it was fully formed, with Zinfury and Galdernum now floating midair in the same place they began their incantations, the statue came to life. Its arms swung above its head, and with a mighty swing, they both came crashing down on the nearest worm, crushing it and causing its entrails to burst out.

The other worms breathed fire, but it did nothing to the golem that was mostly stone. A short battle raged between them, the worms whipping and chomping, and the golem swinging its fists. The black vortex grew, and started tearing large pieces off of the golem. Its right fist swung too far and went into the vortex. It pulled but it could not get its fist out. The worms took the advantage, tearing the golem down until its arm tore off and the rest of it fell to the ground, sending an enormous and furious dust cloud swirling within the barrier.

"At least the worms will die with us," I heard someone say grimly.

"No, I'm not ready to die," I said.

The dust cloud and the very air that held it was sucked into the vortex. My chest heaved in vain to try to draw in a breath. I pushed at the barrier with the others, hoping for some momentary opening to let us out. However, the barrier was unwavering. The ground trembled as the golem dragged itself toward us with its remaining arm. I could see Lysus within the cracked head. He was bleeding and he looked like he was in anguish.

Then the vortex abruptly stopped sucking in. I saw Lysus' eyes widen with fear, and with a final effort, he threw the golem around the survivors ... as many as he could .... The void exploded, shooting all of the mass that it had consumed back out. The protective wards on the golem glowed brightly as it endured the thrashing, then in quick succession the wards flickered and died. Lysus was torn away and the golem crumbled, burying some of the few who were saved by his sacrifice.

"THAT'S ENOUGH," GALDERNUM SAID LOUDLY in my ear. And everything around me swirled into a glowing orb that my hand touched. I realized I was no longer in Grysell ... that I hadn't really been in Grysell just now. I withdrew my hand from the glowing orb that showed the images of the past events, of the watchtower and the sandstorm and the city .... It was so real, I forgot where I actually was and I thought I was there, living the moment after Zinfury and Galdernum destroyed the city. As the light faded and the orb became a clear ball, I remembered where I really was.

After the explosion and the barrier vanished, the worms were dead and I was somehow alive. Lysus was gone. The remaining two wizards found me, and before I could say a word, everything went black. I don't know where they brought me, except that it was a dungeon of black stone with a large room filled with arcane paraphernalia.

My breathing had become very heavy and my heart pounded. It took a while longer before I could really regain my composure. The wizards had demanded to know the whole story. I saw no reason to deny them, though I did not know how they intended to extract the story from me before they made me touch the orb.

"What will you do with me?" I asked in an uncontrollable quiver in my voice. They spoke to each other in an ancient language I could not understand, but there was darkness in the tone and violence in their eyes. I glanced around the room at implements of torture that had been outlawed a long time ago. I wondered if the King knew about their schemes, if he would even care. It didn't matter much because I knew I was completely alone. No one would stop them from doing whatever they were going to do. They talked for a long time before they said anything to me.

"What will we do with you?" Galdernum repeated. A wicked smirk appeared as he said, "You must answer for your crime, of course, but first we must ensure no one forgets what happened to Grysell. Why don't you stay here a while, and revisit the atrocities that occurred because of your actions."

The crystal ball responded to his touch, obeying its master and showing the scenes from my memory of the horrible things that happened. Galdernum left the room through an iron door, the only way out of the strange room. I could hear him arguing with Zinfury, but I couldn't concentrate. The crystal ball kept sneaking into my mind, turning my attention to memories I wanted to forget.

The wizards would not let me forget anything. They made me see and hear and feel it all again and again. I do not know how long I was lost in the fear and the shame, staggering through the memories. Even when the crystal ball was far away, and I was left in cold dark places, the haunting continued. I didn't have the strength or concentration to stand. I became the wizards' mad man, and I don't know how I survived. Who took care of me when I could not even feed myself?

Either Zinfury or Galdernum would take me to various cities. I had only a weak awareness of them, for I could perceive nothing, and speak of nothing but the horrors: men, women, and children, being crushed, eaten, falling to their death, or burned alive. And each time, after sharing my story, the wizards would have the last word. It would be something along these lines, though I can only piece it together from what little I can remember from numerous occasions:

"These terrible events could have been prevented! The barriers can hold for a thousand years, but only if we, the Royal Order of Wizards, are given the resources we need to maintain them! You, who have withheld your gold, or your wheat, or your lumber, or your iron ... you may share the fate of Grysell in your folly!"

The people unleashed their hatred on me with curses and stones, and rose up cheers for the wizards. I had only one ambition: to beg the King to execute me and end my misery. But they would not bring me to him. I must have visited every city except the capitol. I don't know why, but they even brought me to the ruins of Ammon Watchtower. Zinfury laughed as I dared not look at the ruins, afraid I might see Bardo. I muttered repeatedly, weakly,

"I'm sorry .... I'm sorry, I'm sorry ...."

"You sniveling pawn!" Zinfury spat. "You still think this was all your fault? You think you could have held back the worms? You pathetic wreck! You don't have that kind of power! Only we can keep the green paradise green! Only we can hold back and destroy the worms! You and your people are our slaves. Even the King himself must bend to our will! All we have to do to remind him who is in power is let a few worms in. Perhaps we'll even let the worms destroy a city! We knew when and where the worms would come weeks before you fell asleep in your hammock! We let them in, then we destroyed them like we destroyed you!"

"That's enough, Zinfury!" Galdernum yelled. "We still have to bring him to the King!"

"Look at him, Galdernum! There's nothing left of his mind but what we burned into him. Give him to the King now."

Throughout his foolish monologue, I kept begging for Bardo's forgiveness though I knew it would never come. But though I made no sign of recognition, I _did_ remember Zinfury's words. It just didn't matter. The fact I knew it did not ease my conscience and my word, the word of a traitor for all they cared, would only make the idea sound more ridiculous and implausible. What did make me feel some measure of peace was that perhaps I wouldn't have to suffer much longer. They were ready to bring me to the King. The King would probably execute me.

On a carriage in an iron cage, they put me on display as they paraded into the capitol. As we drove through angry streets, I curled into a ball and covered my head with my arms, protecting myself as much as I could from the things people threw at me. They were more brutal here than the other places I'd been taken, or maybe there were just more of them. This time, I felt less sympathetic and more simply pathetic with each new bruise they gave me. I felt less shame for letting them down, and more anger, anger at them, and anger at myself. I wanted to stand up and taunt them, dare them to kill me and be done with it. I was finished with this place, with this life!

I didn't stand up, however, because it would hurt too much to expose my face for a moment. I just let the anger smolder inside of me. I only looked up when we reached the drawbridge of the palace, when the people could no longer follow us. I looked at my abused arms and gently touched my battered ribs to see how bad it was. Then, I looked over the edge of the drawbridge, into the deep black chasm that the palace was suspended over by magic. It was as dark and mysterious as death itself. It was a gateway for my own destruction, into a gracious oblivion.

The heavy chains clinked and the bridge closed behind us as we entered, and I was left, appropriately, in the dark chamber alone. My former self would have been very excited to be in the royal palace. It is the safest place in the entire kingdom, with the most powerful of enchantments warding off danger, champions riding magnificent griffons guarding it day and night, impenetrable walls, and it floated freely away from the surrounding city. Even if a worm managed to reach the capitol, it couldn't reach the palace. I simply sat there and awaited my fate.

Eventually royal guards, in their overly fanciful attire, retrieved me from my cage. They didn't want to touch me, so they prodded me with their halberds and yelled at me if I so much as raised my head. I stared at the floor and shuffled toward my doom. From only the corners of my eye, I could see many splendid things. Halls dedicated to the beauty and wonder of the Green Paradise. I've heard stories of the gardens and galleries ... of the libraries and armories. I found myself risking sideways glances at the marvels that all the stories told of.

I became aware of raucous peeling of distant bells. Some remarkable thing was happening in the capitol, beyond my sight. Perhaps it was the people celebrating my trial, and that I would soon be shown the kind of justice they were all so hungry for. They really couldn't wait for this to happen, as though having someone to blame would bring back what we lost. I no longer wished to think about the plight of our people nor see the marvels of the palace, so I looked back at the ground until I came to the High Court.

The doors of the court stood three stories high and sixteen feet wide, each elaborately carved from a single tree. They opened onto a hall full of officials and dignitaries - and not a single empty chair. The King sat on his gilded judgment seat. The grandness of the throne immediately drew the eye to his majesty sitting eight feet above the witness stand. His bejeweled robe almost blended into the throne, as though the man and his accouterments and seat were one, like a giant golden peacock spreading its plumage.

The room jeered and booed me as I entered. The King allowed it for a minute before raising his scepter, ordering silence.

"Bring the prisoner forward," spoke the King when all was quiet enough to hear a single person coughing. I walked among the cruel stares to the base of judgment seat where I dropped down on my knees. I noticed the wizards Zinfury and Galdernum were nearby. "I am going to ask you simple questions and I expect direct answers. Do you understand?"

"Yes, your majesty," I said.

"Are you Tallus of Elden?"

"Yes, your majesty."

"Were you honor-bound and sworn to keep watch for danger at the Ammon Watchtower, beginning in the first of this year and continuing until the first of next?"

"Yes, your majesty."

"And were you in dereliction of duty at the beginning of the recent tragic events when worms broke through the barrier?"

"Forgive me, your majesty, for it is still my duty to warn the kingdom, and I have something to say that will upset you ... if you believe it, which I respectfully doubt you will ...."

"Proceed."

"The barrier was not broken. The wizards let them in."

A mixture of gossip and laughter filled the hall. Galdernum remained stone-faced while Zinfury's face turned a furious red. The King quieted the crowd again with his simple action.

"I see," the King said. "And do you have proof of this?"

"It was something I heard Zinfury say. I have no other proof."

"Your majesty!" Zinfury cried out. "This man would say anything to relieve himself of his guilt!"

"You will mind your tongue, Zinfury!" The King commanded. Zinfury folded his arms, but nearby shadows were stretched from their sources, pulled toward Zinfury at his involuntary command. "You will not find yourself capable of educating me about lies I hear from this seat. I have heard so many now, I can detect one from a mile away. I will redirect you, Tallus of Elden, to answer the question I asked."

"I was," I said with a moment of pause. Coming to it now, I was not as certain that I wished to die. "I was in dereliction of duty, your majesty."

"Very good," the King said through the din of the crowd. "You accept responsibility for the calamities that befell the kingdom, then."

"... I do."

"Then there is but one just fate for you, Tallus of Elden. Let the weakness of your head no longer betray the loyalty of your heart. I hereby sentence you to death by beheading."

"Your majesty!" Zinfury began again during the applause of the audience.

"Your majesty!" Galdernum joined in. "If we could have just a private word with you about the fate of the prisoner, I think perhaps you might reconsider."

"Very well, you may approach," The King said. Hushed murmuring came from the crowd and I began to tremble. I knew the wizards had no love for me, if anything they wished a worse fate. Perhaps I would not be granted my death wish, or perhaps only after suffering a great deal more. "I see," the King said audibly with a nod as the wizards continued to whisper to him.

My chest felt like it had collapsed and I felt like I was sinking into the ground. It took me a moment to realize it was literally true that I was sinking into the ground. Where had all the sand come from? Was it just my own crazed mind, or were others seeing this?

"I have seen the wisdom of the wizards' words," the King spoke, addressing the audience, not me. "Death is too kind a punishment for such a terrible —"

Then the King saw me up to my waist in sand. He could see it. Others saw it sooner and a panic began already. The walls and the roof were sprinkling down sand. The whole room and in fact the whole palace was rocked by a fierce and hot wind. It swept over and across, and people stumbled amongst falling artifacts and toppling furniture. The desert wind tore through grand halls and blasted the mighty courtroom doors off their hinges. The sand blinded and buried us. The palace shuddered and the few that still stood had finally fallen. Pillars snapped and fell, ceiling beams cracked and sagged. They all looked at each other in horror and confusion - but I knew what it was. The wizards had tempted fate and now fate was here to collect its toll. I never imagined I would be happy about the arrival of a worm, but all I wanted was a quick death. I was certain the worm would oblige me.

Half of the court was torn away by enormous crushing jaws. The survivors could now see the worm clearly. It was larger than any worm ever spoke of in the Green Paradise, large enough to not mind the chasm that was supposed to protect the palace. Behind it was a trail of ruin and the land all around was no longer lush and green, but a vast wasteland as far as we could see. The largest city in the Green Paradise was nothing but sand dunes within minutes.

The worm drew in a mighty breath, and I knew what would follow. Instinct forced me to finish burying myself in the sand, but I could feel the heat of the worm's fiery breath above me. As I broke through the glassy melted surface of the sand, I saw the truth of it. The fire immolated the King and all of his aristocrats. Even the wizards were unprepared and burned to charred black masses. I dared not touch any of the searing hot surfaces on all sides of me, and the intense flames burning everything within made me wish I stayed in the sand.

The worm turned its attention to another part of the palace, but we were falling away from him. Like it was in Grysell, the magic that held up the palace was failing. The worm's fire consumed the palace again, and I could hear the screams, but we were descending quickly. We went deeper and deeper into the dark chasm, until the sky was black and I could only see by the fires. Still we descended and I wondered if perhaps there was no bottom to the chasm at all.

The crash at the bottom was very heavy, but I scrambled away from the falling walls and collapsing roofs. I lived. The doomed were now free and the free were now dead. I took from the burning palace only a torch to see by, and followed carvings on the walls left by ancient architects who had built tunnels out of the bottom of the chasm as a last desperate escape route should the King need it. The King was now dead and truly, so was his kingdom.

The worms overwhelmed everything. All of the green vanished in a few days, and when it was gone, the worms left. The survivors would either die in the wastelands, or be saved, as I had been, by the generous Kazan wastelanders that risked their lives to save people after the worms had passed.

This is how I came to wander the wastelands with its nomadic people, and I tell the story to any who will listen as penance for what I let happen to make a beautiful thing die. We live a hard life, but we live honestly, without tyranny. We once had a green paradise, but it was lost because of greed and vanity. I believe we could have it again, if we are wise. We must all be ready to be worthy caretakers of it, or we will surely lose it again.

**THE KING IN THE WOOD**

by

David J. West

A BRISK WIND, LIKE GROPING HANDS shoved Nikki through the doors of Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe almost knocking her into a glass display case. It was a blustery day but she looked behind just to be sure it had not actually been a person pushing her.

Nothing but the flying leaves clinging to her hair and the rolling grey clouds bringing sleet.

"Goodness. You all right?" asked a bespectacled old clerk. "I was afraid that gust was going to knock you over."

"It almost did," said Nikki. She stepped back and looked around the store at the myriad trinkets that filled the room. "You certainly have a lot of interesting things here."

"Yes, we do. It has been our life-long hobby to collect and travel. I only just recently brought in most of my personal collection. Decided it was time to share, see what other people might like to have a look at. Quite a few things here are one of a kind."

For all his verbal enthusiasm, he remained seated behind the counter looking down at his crossword puzzle.

Nikki wondered if it was simply a tired old sales pitch. She had walked past the shop many times before, it wasn't until today that the wind had decided her fate, regardless of how little money she had to spare.

Sun-bleached toys, rusty bicycles, and vintage signs hung about the walls. Embossed books with curious gold lettering on their spines and magazines older than her parents were stacked reaching to the ceiling. Basket-hilted swords leaned in the corners beside old brass instruments. Glass cases sat in the center of the room, crammed with more than they were ever made to carry. Instead of jewelry there were a multitude of carven images; some Chinese jade figurines, an African mask, a waxen Thai bust of the Buddha and a scowling Mayan warrior; even an Aztec sun disc with its central face and protruding tongue. There was also a wide assortment of Celtic green men with leafy green beards made of both stone and wood.

But what truly captured Nikki's eye was an oddly shaped fiddle made of light green wood. It had five multi-hued strings and was unlike any instrument she had ever seen. Somewhat pear shaped with a short stout neck, it defied expectation. Strange glyphs faintly visible along the neck made Nikki think of Egyptian hieroglyphs or Sumerian cuneiform, perhaps even Mesoamerican pictograms.

Most intriguing though was the bushy face not unlike the other green men perched at the head of the instrument. Twisting leaves upon his beard would tune the strings. The carving itself was minimalist but intense, with black staring eyes and a roman nose. The face was both fierce and proud, though not malevolent, it seemed royal, that was the first word that came to Nikki's mind.

She found herself pressing a hand against the glass to reach it, to play upon it, though her years of piano gave no real semblance on stringed instruments.

"See something you like?" asked the clerk, startling Nikki.

"What?"

"You've been looking for a very long time, so I thought to ask if you saw anything you liked."

"A long time?"

"I'm not trying to rush you. No worries, but we close at five."

"It's only a quarter to four." She looked at her phone, as she had only moments before stepping inside. It read four forty-four. "It's not daylight savings time yet is it?"

"That's next week."

"I must have read something wrong."

"Quite all right."

"What can you tell me about this . . . violin?"

The old man peered down. "Not much I'm afraid. It was my wife, Deborah's. I can't recall where we purchased it. I want to say Mexico or Egypt. I remember pyramids as she showed it to me, but that was a long time ago. It's very old. I've never seen another like it."

"So it's expensive?"

He smiled. "What would you like to pay for it?"

Nikki smiled back. "I don't know what I could afford right now. I'm trying to write my thesis but I don't play enough anymore with school, but something about it. It's very majestic, magical even. I would like to learn to play it. To let whatever is inside . . . out."

"Take it."

"I couldn't."

"Take it. You need to write, you need to play in this life before your time is gone. Deborah wanted to play it too and she never did find a way to release the song within. It needs to be heard, not just hung on a wall, forgotten."

"Are you sure? Mr.?"

"It's Mr. Christy. You were staring at it long enough. No one else has expressed half as much honorable interest since my wife did."

"Thank you," said Nikki, though inwardly wondering how he still thought she could possibly have been there for more than a few minutes.

He wrapped the fiddle carefully in long brown paper and tied the ends with string. "Take care. The song must be released," he called.

She thanked him and stepped out the door.

THE WIND STILL WHIPPED DOWN THE AVENUE, sending leaves aloft like notes in every direction. The sky was noticeably darker beyond just the threatening clouds. Nikki doubted her own conviction of being confused on the time; she had been inside for an hour at the very least but how?

A svelte dusky man in a smart dark suit approached her with purpose saying, "Greetings. I understand you just bought an instrument that I want very much."

Regardless of his tone and demeanor, not to mention his suave manner of dress, Nikki did not like the aura he gave off. Something about his unblinking eyes made her uncomfortable.

"How much? Sell it to me."

The fiddle strings seemed to twitch beneath the paper at his very approach and Nikki wondered if it was just the wind on the wrapping paper, but still . . .

"I'm afraid I couldn't do that. It has sentimental value to me."

"Maybe I didn't make myself clear," he said, gripping her shoulder and reaching for the package. "I will have the instrument. It rightfully belongs to me. I made it!"

"Hey!" shouted a policeman from across the street. "There a problem?"

The dark suited man let go of Nikki's shoulder and gave a wicked half-smile. "I can offer more than you can possibly imagine. I will see you again." He strode around the corner before the officer could cross the street.

"That guy bothering you Miss?"

"Yeah, he wanted my package."

The officer grinned, nodded and ran around the corner.

Nikki felt stupid about the exchange. Had any of this really just happened? Did she just say, "he wanted my package?"

The officer promptly turned back. "He's gone. If you see him again an' he's threatening, give us a call. Good day Miss."

Nikki nodded. She had never before been so grateful and disappointed in having an officer close by, and none of this strange occurrence explained her time lapse either.

Worried she was feeling ill or worse, she sat on the bus-stop bench to compose herself. She called her sister. "Maria, how long ago did I leave your place?"

"About an hour and a half. Why?"

"I have been in a curio shop all that time."

"Seriously?"

"The gentleman inside told me I had been standing there the whole time, but I thought it was only a minute. Then a handsome weirdo demanded I sell him the fiddle I bought."

"Gentleman? Fiddle? Was he some kind of pervert? Did he drug you?"

"No, not him. I just can't believe the time went by so fast."

"Were you reading?"

"No. Just looking."

"Right. Maybe you should come back here. I'll fix coffee."

"No, I'm going home. I want to relax."

"I wouldn't go back there again if I were you."

"Thanks' Sis."

Nikki felt fine, just confused. She had to catch a later shuttle than usual and at first saw only unfamiliar faces. Then toward the back she recognized a friend, Professor Carlson from the University. He wore his usual sun-bleached fedora and brown overcoat. Nikki always thought he looked like the actor Donald Sutherland. He had a mess of papers hanging from his accordion like folder and several books beside him on the seat along with his laptop. He almost never used his Mac but he was never without a book.

"Good evening Professor."

"Good day," he said, without looking up.

"It's Nikki."

"Oh, hello Nikki. Good to see you. I didn't expect anyone I knew to be here. I was grading papers later than I meant. You're not usually this late either." He picked up his books and she sat down beside him.

"I want to show you something." She unwrapped the paper and produced the fiddle.

He glanced at it, took it in hand and tried to read the glyphs upon the neck. He flipped it over scanning the entire body for any trace of identification. "Where is this from?"

"The Curio shop on the corner."

"When did you get it? It's been closed for months, since the old couple running it were held up."

"No, I just bought it. I talked to an old man."

"Trust me, I used to go in there every other week just to keep an eye out for rare books. The Curio shop has been closed since last March. The old man that ran it is dead."

"Someone was in there."

"Strange, but this . . . this is a unique piece. What do you know about it?"

"Nothing. I was hoping someone . . . well you, could tell me more, or at least point me in the right direction. Some weirdo already offered to buy it. Not that I feel like selling. I want to hear its song."

"I can tell from the grain and desiccation here, it is very old. Not sure what kind of wood though, strangely green. But several of these marks don't make sense. These almost seem like cuneiform, but this one looks Hebrew, and that one is Toltec. And this head looks like the Green Man from Celtic myth."

"That's what I thought. I love the leafy tuning fronds."

"It is remarkable," he agreed, turning the fiddle over again. "I hate to make a call sitting here on the bus, but either it is a phenomenal forgery or a truly history altering piece."

Nikki's eyes grew wide.

"Of course I can't really say more and must lean toward it being a bizarre chimera perhaps at the least three hundred to four hundred and fifty years old. Maybe something truly unique from Renaissance Italy? Or maybe just a hoax. Nothing should have this collage of old and new world symbols."

"But this . . . "

"It is remarkable, but where is it from? Who made it? Hoaxes ruin it for everyone," he said, shaking his head.

"I don't know anything about it, but I don't think it is a hoax either. It's too beautiful."

"Did the shopkeeper say who brought it in?"

"He said it was Deborah's, his wife."

Professor Carlson rubbed his chin and curled his mustache. "It can't be Mr. Christy, but I suppose Deborah could have remarried, if she has been released? Last I heard she was still in St. Pat's, almost comatose. I only visited once, time goes by too quickly. Very odd that. Someone else must be running the shop."

Nikki shrugged.

"This is my stop. Let me know what you find out. I'll have to go visit the Curio shop tomorrow too," he called, waving as he got off the bus.

Nikki couldn't help fixating on the fiddle, especially that leafy green face. She would find out more tomorrow.

INSIDE HER TINY APARTMENT, NIKKI fed her cat, Bagheera, ate a little herself and stared at the fiddle. She dared to pluck at the strings but proceeded only in creating discordant notes. She played with the tuning fronds but never quite found the harmony within. A proper bow must be needed to truly play.

She went to bed with Bagheera at her feet and moonlight shining through the curtains and onto the fiddle that sat facing her upon the chair. Did the dark eyes sparkle? Did the imperious scowl hidden behind the beard actually grin? Sure she had imagined it, she rolled over, clutching her pillow.

Nikki drifted into the realm of sleep when the throb of drums opened her eyes. She was no longer in her bedroom, but instead a vine covered forest.

Laughter and haunting music echoed throughout and a bearded man painted vibrant green, danced through the woods. Children followed him into a great courtyard, past massive stepped pyramids and finally before the largest tree Nikki had ever seen. Crowds amassed and played all manner of harmonious music, food too spilled across wide tables, every manner of good green thing from the ground or vine was available for the taking at this wondrous feast.

A crown was placed upon the green man's head and a sense of peace and prosperity extended as Nikki danced with the people in celebration of the coronation. The music continued into a wilder beat as the Green King danced in ecstasy.

But a discordant note sounded from out of the cyclopean pyramids, as black smoky tendrils extended and strained to reach the King. They engulfed him, coiling like serpents, driving the life force from him while also choking out the great music which had so recently filled the void. Desperate green hands reached out for aid, but were laid low against the choking amorphous doom.

While still just a spectator in what seemed a vast crowd, Nikki knew he was not dead, but venomously asleep.

Time passed swiftly and the Green King was buried beneath the sacred tree and winter came. Somehow, entombed in the cold dark ground, Nikki yet saw his still serene face, just like the carven fiddles head, but dusted with earth and shadow and covered in tangled roots.

Suddenly his pale eyes opened.

Nikki awoke with a start, to the sun shining through the curtains and the disinterested look of Bagheera.

She was late for class.

NIKKI WAS BUSY COPYING NOTES IN THE LOUNGE out front of the University Bookstore when Professor Carlson walked up, a frown across his face. "Are you laughing? Having a good joke at my expense?"

"Hello, to you too, Sourpuss."

He folded his arms and just looked at her.

"Ok, I'll bite. What are you talking about Professor?"

"Nikki, where did you get that viola? That shop is as closed now as it was eight months ago."

"No, it was open yesterday."

Carlson looked deep into her eyes and cocked his head. "Seriously. You're not messing with me are you? This isn't some joke, you're pulling on your doting old Professor is it?"

"Of course not. I was there yesterday. The old man, he said his name was Mr. Christy, he gave me the fiddle. He said something like, better I should learn to play it than it sit unused on a wall somewhere." She sipped her juice looking at Carlson. "What? I'm not lying."

"How did you get the viola?"

"I just told you. Mr. Christy gave it to me. There is no way it's closed. There must be some kind of mistake."

"You swear?"

"I don't need to swear, but yeah. What the hell Professor? I'm too busy with my essays to make this up. I think I saw that creep who wanted me to sell it hanging around here earlier too."

"Would I recognize him?"

"I doubt it. He looked thirty to fifty. Maybe kind of Latin or Indian, maybe not."

"Thirty to fifty? How old do you think I am?"

Nikki grinned. "He was dressed in an expensive looking black suit. Kind of handsome but creepy. Piercing eyes."

"All right, I'll watch for him too. Would you like to go with me to St. Pat's this evening? I want us to go see Mrs. Christy. We could try and ask her about the viola."

"Sure, if you think it's all right. If people weren't looking at us already, they are now."

He grinned at that. Their platonic friendship was still flattering. "I'll pick you up at five in front of the Bedford Building. See you later."

As Professor Carlson walked away, all the business and stress of the day faded and the haunting dream came back to Nikki in full force. Those pale eyes opening in the gloom, how could she see those pale eyes open in the dark? The clock tower gonged and she went to her next class, unwilling to think on anything but the fiddle.

AT FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON, NIKKI walked around the corner to the Curiosity shop. She reached for the doorknob and twisted, expecting it to easily turn and was surprised that it remained immobile. Glancing up, the sun-faded closed sign had cobwebs lilting from it. Dead flies littered the inside of the window sill. Inside the macabre scene was repeated with more dust and webbing.

Surely this place had not been open in months. Nikki stepped back and looked again to be fully sure this was indeed the place she had visited yesterday.

Stepping forward once again she rapped on the glass, eliciting no response. Poking her face against the pane and shielding her vision to adjust she looked deeper.

It was the same as it ever was, albeit dustier, but, there was a pear shaped spot in a glass case where the fiddle had rested, a spot where the green velvet felt was visible like an island in a sea of dust.

"Did you change your mind? Do you now wish to sell Madoc's fiddle to me?" asked the black suited man.

His presence intimidated her. She had not heard his footsteps on the walk. At least he refrained from touching her this time.

"No. I just wanted to ask the shopkeeper about it."

The man gave a wide flat-toothed smile. "He knew nothing. It is a sentimental piece for me alone. Do not be cruel, you received it for free, extend the same courtesy to me—its true owner."

"I don't think so."

His smile dropped. "You are a wicked child. Give me my lost treasure. It has no real value to you but means everything to me and my kingdom."

"Kingdom? Where are you from?"

He shook his head. "They have let it collect the dust of ages but it belongs with its master."

"Uh-huh. Tell me again how it's yours? Who are you?"

Encouraged by her response he took a step forward. "I crafted the instrument long ago. To play upon it at my leisure. It is mine to do with as I so choose. I don't need to answer to you child."

"Child? Ha! I'm the one who has it. You answer me. How did you lose it?"

"It was stolen a long time ago by a thoughtless priest who traded it away to a woman he could never have."

"Look. I know you're attached and all, but none of this shtick makes me want to just hand it you."

His face darkened again and he reached inside his coat pocket.

Nikki felt trapped against the doorway, thinking he would draw a weapon.

He pulled out what looked like a checkbook. "How much?"

"So you try to get it for free first, now you offer money? Get real, it must be worth an awful lot and you're just a freak!"

He slammed his hand against the brick. "Do not mock me."

Putting on her bravest face, Nikki asked, "Who are you? And why should I care?"

"I am Tezcatlipoca. I am from the Land of Reeds in Tollan. Sell it back to me!"

Nikki smiled and looked agreeable just enough to slide sideways and get back out on the sidewalk. "No. I don't know what your deal is Tezz, but I'll never sell it to you."

Visibly furious, Tezcatlipoca stood his ground, "I am Tezcatlipoca and it is mine alone to play upon!"

Nikki backed away down the sidewalk, a few other pedestrians staring at the interchange gave her courage, but as she took a dozen steps and looked back, Tezcatlipoca was gone. How could he have been so swift?

PROFESSOR CARLSON WAS EARLY, and in the twilight this time of year Nikki was relieved. He rarely drove his personal car, but tonight to go across town he would. Nikki got in, buckled and said her hellos.

"You all right? You're pale."

"I'm fine. That handsome weirdo demanded to buy the fiddle again, and you were right, the shop is closed. It doesn't make any sense."

"Of course I was."

"I thought we were mixed up on which shop it was. I didn't dream it up. You saw the fiddle too."

"I did."

"So it doesn't make any sense."

Carlson shrugged. "Maybe sometimes things are outside what we think makes sense and always will be."

"You're a professor, you're not supposed to say things like that."

"I don't have all the answers either."

Nikki smirked. "You sound like you do in class."

"You're mistaking my opinions for answers."

"At least you're honest."

"Did the handsome weirdo say who he was? Why he wanted it?"

"He said his name was something like Tez-Cat-Lee-Polka and he was from the place of reeds, Too-Lawn?"

Carlson looked away from the road and raised his eyebrows. "Tezcatlipoca? Tollan and the Land of Reeds?"

"Yeah, that's it. He claimed the fiddle was his, he made it or something and that it was stolen."

"Anything is possible, but I'd still like to hear it from Mrs. Christy if she can tell us anything. The old man, what did he look like? Take a look at this newspaper clipping from my files. Section D, page 3." He gestured to a vanilla folder on the seat between them.

Nikki picked it and thumbed through saying, "That's him!"

"You're sure?"

"Positive. But I thought you said he died months ago?"

"He did."

THE ELEVATOR OPENED TO REVEAL A LIFE-SIZE STATUE of St. Patrick. Carlson tipped his hat and gestured Nikki on. He spoke quietly to the nurse at the desk and beckoned Nikki on to room 101.

Inside, a mute TV displayed the home shopping channel. An old woman with ivory wisps of hair lay in bed.

"Deborah? It's Bill Carlson," he said softly.

She didn't move except for her eyes, the lids tilting upward ever so lightly and flickering like moth wings. "Bill?"

Carlson took off his hat and smiled. "You used to call me the book worm."

"Ah, yes. Who is your friend?"

"I'm Nikki, I was given your violin by—I think your husband."

Carlson looked sharply at her for that remark, but Mrs. Christy sat upright a little more and gave Nikki a curious look. "Are you in trouble?"

"I don't mean any harm, I—"

"No, listen child. The song must be released. But I couldn't discover it. Lord knows I tried."

Professor Carlson held Deborah's hand asking, "Where did it come from? What can you tell us about it?"

"We bought it somewhere in the Chiapas back in the sixties on our honeymoon. I always loved to travel with Burt. Some rude man tried to get me to sell it. We had to cut our vacation short because he said we stole precious relics, but the violin is unlike anything I've seen before and was not wholly Toltec, it is also Welsh, probably from when the great prince Madoc came."

Nikki looked at Carlson. He shrugged, "There are unverifiable rumors that a Welsh prince sailed to Alabama, returned to Wales, and came back and became king of the Toltec's in Mexico. Some say the winged serpent Quetzalcoatl is based upon the Welsh dragon."

Deborah nodded lightly at Carlson's tale, while a tear welled in her eye.

"What's that have to do with my violin?"

"It might explain the Green Man head and now that I think about it, those markings aren't cuneiform but possibly Ogham, an ancient Celtic script."

Deborah took Nikki's hand, "Tell me what my husband said."

"He said the song needed to be heard by someone who cares. That it shouldn't just be hung on a wall, forgotten. That he wanted to hear it."

"That was for me. He always said I needed to follow my true inspiration and release the music, to release the king within. But after years of not finding the song, I gave up and hung it on the wall. A piece of art in limbo, appreciated by no one."

Carlson took her hand in his. "Are you all right Deborah?"

"I will be soon. Release the song, don't give up as I did. Release him, release the king within." She rolled over whispering, "Goodbye, I need to rest."

"HOW CAN I RELEASE THE SONG? The king she called it?"

"I don't know. This is strangest diffusion I've ever been a part of."

"Diffusion?"

"The cross cultural diffusion of Wales and Mexico. There have been rumors for ages, Vikings, Irish Monks, Romans, Hebrews, Chinese, all well before Columbus; but this would be the first 'proof' I have ever been a part of. If I could even dare call it proof."

"I have to find a way."

Carlson nodded. "I suspect there must be something we need to understand about the fiddle beyond just playing it. Deborah was an accomplished musician in her time, she must have tried every bow and tuning fork imaginable and none of that worked."

"What can we try then?" asked Nikki incredulous.

"When we have exhausted all the rational we must go with the irrational. I'll get you some occult books tomorrow and we'll both research and run down any ideas we can. I want to hear this song too."

Nikki grinned, "I can't believe I have a professor that is actually suggesting magic."

Carlson shrugged.

TWICE OVER THE NEXT DAY, NIKKI saw the dark man, Tezcatlipoca, skulking nearby at the University. Each time she made it known she saw him as well and was not openly afraid.

He looked exasperated but kept his distance.

Professor Carlson gave Nikki a stack of books saying, "If we can find the answer it will be in one of these books—I think."

The titles were varied and strange but covered a wide gulf of arcane knowledge, from Frazier's _Golden Bough_ to Von Junzt's _Nameless Cults_ , _De Vermis Mysteriis,_ and even the Mayan _Popul Vuh_.

"I was reading in this one about the sacred violins of Adygea," Carlson said, "that the very sound was endowed with mystic features that alleviated pain and granted nobler qualities upon all who heard it. They had to be contained in a special fabric when not in use so that evil spirits could not steal its magic sound."

"That's all interesting, but doesn't say how to make the sound."

"What if the sound has already been stolen?"

Nikki sighed, "I don't even want to think about that. Besides if it had, would handsome there still want it?" She pointed across the library just as Tezcatlipoca disappeared again.

"I suppose not. Let's keep looking though."

"I'm exhausted and need to go home and feed Bagheera."

"All right, but take a few of these with you," he said, pushing a stack of weighty books her way.

"Of course, nothing like curling up on a Friday night with my cat and books. I'll get my degree in crazy old cat lady in no time."

Carlson smiled. "Count this crazy old dog man as your warning to solve this mystery and have a date next week."

NIKKI SAT IN HER THREADBARE RECLINER READING _The Golden Bough_ while a classic rock station played softly on the television. She was in the mood for classic rock after realizing that Jim Morrison had borrowed lyrics from Frazier's opus.

"Not to touch the earth, not to see the sun," she mused.

She also perused a massive tome by a Hugh Nibley about Egyptian Papyri and both books mentioned the sacredness of trees and the ritualistic killing of the king. None of this would have seemed like the proper course to play the fiddle but for her dream, the haunting vision of the green man buried beneath the great sacred tree.

The cross-cultural ties seemed to bind a lost knowledge of wisdom and sacrifice, beauty and terror. Could a king return and set things right?

Nibley's book also mentioned smashing the tree to kindling to release the trapped kings spirit. Nikki wondered if crafting the violin had done just that, a musical tribute to a magical Green King? A line in particular translated from Egyptian stood out.

_"Lift the stone and there you will find me, split the wood and there I am. In the pillar and in the tree."_

A loud knock at the door broke Nikki's wandering muse. "Who's there?" she asked with a chuckle because The Who were now playing on her television.

"Nikki," came Carlson's weak stammer.

Surprised, she jumped up and answered the door.

As the lock unlatched, the door pushed hard and Nikki was thrown backward.

Bagheera screeched as The Who roared into their climax of ' _Won't Get Fooled Again_ '.

Tezcatlipoca thrust Carlson inside and to the floor. He bore no weapons but had already bloodied and bruised the older man.

"I am welcome, yes?"

"Get out!" screamed Nikki.

"Not until you give me the instrument."

"Or what? You'll beat up an old man?"

"Hey!" protested Carlson.

Tezcatlipoca laughed.

"I'm calling the cops!" said Nikki, dialing.

"Call them. They cannot catch me and I'll come back."

"What do you want?"

"You know. I want the instrument."

"How do you play it?"

"It is for my ears alone."

The phone answered, "911, what's your emergency?"

Carlson struggled to stand, but Tezcatlipoca struck him again harder than Nikki would have believed possible. "Hang up. I will kill him, give the instrument to me."

Nikki hung up the phone but picked up the violin.

Tezcatlipoca reached.

Nikki held the violin in her hands and looked at the green man's face. "What would happen if I could release the song, release the king?"

"You don't know how to play it," he said, smirking gesturing with his two forefingers.

Behind Tezcatlipoca, the television gave a vision of Pete Townsend smashing his guitar onstage.

Inspiration from Nibley's book and smashing the sacred tree to kindling washed over Nikki.

"Would the Green King destroy you if he was released?"

Tezcatlipoca said nothing, but the fear in his eyes gave answer.

Carlson looked at her through bleary eyes and nodded.

Nikki raised the beautiful fiddle, just like Townsend and brought it down.

Song rang out like thunder and the Green King was released in splendid emerald light. Righteous strength returned and his arm stretched forth taking Tezcatlipoca by the neck. The demon man struggled in vain, caught in a grip strong as the tide.

"Mercy, Lord," croaked Tezcatlipoca.

The Green King retained his grip on the foe and looked to Nikki, "My thanks, daughter of Eve for releasing my song and spirit."

Stunned, Nikki could only answer, "Anytime."

"I return to my hallowed place and take my blood brother with me. The gift of my song will be yours always." The Green King shifted and his visage warped and twisted and he stepped into another realm, still holding Tezcatlipoca by the throat. They faded from view.

"Are you okay?"

Carlson got up from the floor and slumped in the chair. "Yeah, I've had worse, been a very long time but I've had worse."

"Did he call me daughter of Eve?"

"Yeah, he did. I'm sure it was meant complimentary, said Carlson."

"If you're all right," she stammered, as she glanced at her empty sheet music.

Carlson beckoned her on. He could tell what she was feeling.

Flushed with adrenalin and surprise Nikki was near to bursting with the great urge to write her own song.

**THE GLORY OF INTELLIGENCE**

by

Drew Briney

HANDS SHAKING, YUSHIN HELD THE BOTTLE tighter than necessary. He swirled the dull metallic liquid that reminded him of fancy coffee. It cost more than a schoolmate's home. Somehow, it didn't seem right to swallow something so expensive. It seemed unfair. He summoned resolve to down the bottle like the doctor instructed but he couldn't. He froze.

"It's the elixir of the gods," his father had told him, "the gift of intelligence." In his hands, Yushin held the key to life's greatest advantages. He would be a high genius or highest genius. But would he feel different? Would he be the same person? Would he prefer to be that new person or would he rather be the ordinary kid he was right now? What if all he really wanted in life was to juggle in the park, to hang out with friends, and to enjoy birds flying by? Why couldn't life just be simple?

Yushin wiped sweat off his brow. Sweltering temperatures in Brazil were exhausting. Humidity levels were unbearable. While his parents spared no expense to give him every advantage, their budget wasn't limitless. So there he stood, holding someone's home in his hands for the sole purpose of swallowing it while suffering inhuman, oppressive heat. He kicked the A/C unit. It didn't work and fussing with its nobs and buttons wasn't going to change that. He wiped more sweat off his brow and analyzed the texture of this godlike elixir. At twelve years old, it was difficult to summon courage to swallow strange, almost magical liquid. Add to that being alone in a strange country, sensing you might pass out from the heat, and feeling nervous about your future and the decision seemed impossible.

Sure, he knew he should be grateful. His friends were jealous. Doctors told him it would make him happy; so did his teachers. Everyone believed they'd be happier if they were smarter. Probably, he was an idiot for not wanting to drink it. Perhaps that alone should convince him to swallow. That _was_ why he was here wasn't it? Because he was dumb? His hands still shook. He promised his parents to drink it the moment it arrived – and here it was, fresh from arrival. Two pills encapsulated in foil wrappers came with the bottle. He barely remembered instructions about those pills. He was too nervous to remember anything well. _If I were smarter, I would remember,_ he chided himself _._

Permanent brain enhancers weren't banned here in Brazil - unlike his home country. His parents had scrimped for years to send him here, to ingest this fancy drink. He couldn't ignore that and dishonor them out of fear. And what was there to fear? He didn't know exactly. Yushin unscrewed the cap, removed the protective covering, plugged his nose (that was the nurse's suggestion), and swallowed hard. _Nasty_! It tasted like moldy chalk, worse than anybody had warned. Of course, had he known ... His hands shook harder now – as if they knew they'd done something wrong and wanted to take it back. Yushin struggled to read instructions on the label he hadn't noticed earlier: _Take two tablets with water before drinking._ He cursed. _Should've read that before_. _Duh._ He hoped he hadn't screwed everything up as he raced to the sink, poured himself a small glass of water, and poked the tablets out of their package. He threw them into his mouth, pressed the glass to his lips, and swallowed.

Yushin sat in a cushioned chair next to his bed for several minutes reviewing what he'd done. He didn't feel any different. He was still hot, still shaking a little. He didn't feel any smarter and he still wished he was back home with his friends, juggling in the park. He pulled out a contact juggling ball to pass the time but it was hard to do many tricks while his hands were sweaty. He wiped his hands and kept trying.

YUSHIN ROLLED THE BALL BACK AND FORTH between his hands, hands that barely remembered how to juggle. He looked at the calendar. It had been thirty years. Thirty years of academic success. Thirty years of accolades, publications, and ridiculously large grants. Thirty years of technological breakthroughs. Thirty years of misery. Thirty years of obsessing over hundreds of details few of his colleagues noticed: the never ending logical inconsistencies, the all too frequent extravagant extrapolations from insufficient data, the suffocating feeling of too many sounds, the noxious intoxication of every smell - all intensified by that first dose of cursed liquid.

He scowled at the crystal sphere as he thought upon his childhood obsession with juggling. He'd forgotten how to be happy like that. He didn't even know if he could do it anymore - be happy. He knew how to smile at cameras and to feel satisfied with his accomplishments. He knew how to down a few drinks at a party after publication announcements. And he thought he'd been a little happy when he'd first replicated chimp cognition in a bio-free robot with no interface between the software and the host. But twenty years of marital unhappiness, thirty years of intense pressure, and a lifetime of expectations to live up to had dragged him far from any semblance of happiness. He barely remembered smiling when his only child had been born. She was on her own now ... and rarely spoke with him. Yushin couldn't blame her. He'd all but ignored her growing up. He'd been too busy. Of course she wouldn't want to spend time with him now.

Yushin's secretary smiled at him through his office window. He barely spoke to Jenny outside of giving her instructions and yet, she still liked working with him. She had a simple mind. She was happy to be part of a team, part of whatever great accomplishment Yushin might envision. She knew how to be happy. He estimated her IQ: 110-112 depending on the day, her alertness. Sometimes, he had to explain instructions three times. She was annoying that way. But she usually got the job done and she habitually returned with a smile. He'd left carefully thought out instructions for her this time. He'd prepared his estate documents, his financial portfolios, the passing of his intellectual property rights. He'd taken the precaution of speaking with high profile lawyers and doctors who would vouch for his sanity and intellectual stability.

Yushin pulled a vial out of his drawer. He'd developed the liquid himself, patented the product and the process. Few would want to duplicate it but he needed to leave a perfect paper trail of his intentions. He had to appear methodical and sane. Estate documents promised generous licensing of the "elixir of dummies" to anyone who wanted to produce it so long as the final product was affordable to the average genius.

Yushin pulled a binder out of his top right drawer and thumbed through twenty some tabs. Everything seemed in order. His attorneys and doctors each had a copy. He carefully placed it in the middle of his immaculately clean desk. Jenny had been shocked. She'd never seen his desk tidy before, let alone clean. It had a glossy sheen to it now, a shoddy disguise covering years of wear and tear.

He took a deep breath and swirled the chalky looking fluid in its vial. Naturally orange, he'd added coloring and texture so it would appear like the original drink he'd taken as a boy. Nanotechnology allowed for better options to administer the medicine but Yushin was sentimental about this moment. He wanted to savor it. He wanted everything to be like it had been thirty years before - only this time, he wouldn't end up smart. He'd be dense at best. Since enhanced intelligence formulas had become mainstream, most IQs hovered at 145. Only the poor had IQs sagging below 120. That made him feel badly for Jenny. He wondered if she minded being poor. _No matter._ Yushin plugged his nose and tossed his head back as he drank the chalky substance. He grabbed two placebos and swallowed them with untreated tap water. They didn't do anything. They were for memory's sake. The "elixir of the gods" had made Yushin sick for weeks. This elixir could have had the same effect but Yushin prepared it to be relatively benign. Sentiment had its limits. He wanted to be happy, not pathetic.

YUSHIN REPEATEDLY PINCHED THE BALL between his ever moving fingers, keeping the ball steady to give the appearance that it was hovering. He smiled as he rotated his hand around the ball, making it continually appear to hover. It looked magical.

"Whoa!"

Yushin laughed when another child gasped in surprise as Yushin transitioned to another trick. Eventually, he stopped, tired and worn, and sat on a bench. Sometimes he spent his entire day here. Last night, he'd slept here. He'd won the home in the divorce but he didn't like to sleep there. It was lonely. There were always people in the park. And children always came to watch him juggle. Sometimes, Jenny visited. He thought she might visit today. She said she would didn't she? He couldn't remember for sure but he smiled to think of it. She made him happy.

**ABOUT THE AUTHORS**

We hope you enjoyed our stories.

If you did, **please leave a review** **of 5 BLADES** wherever you purchased it or on goodreads.

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**DREW BRINEY**

  1. style="font-size: 0.75rem">REW EXPLORES WHAT HAPPENS WHEN TECHNOLOGY CLASHES WITH MAGIC. He's been compared to Ursula LeGuin (Harry Potter influence), Elaine Cunningham (Forgotten Realms), and Fydor Dostoevsky (Crime and Punishment), but he takes his greatest pride in the fact that he can juggle more balls than any other author on the planet.
  2.

  3. style="font-size: 0.75rem">IS BOOKS FEATURE POST-APOCALYPTIC GENETICALLY ENGINEERED HUMANS joining forces with magically empowered aliens (Moon 514), superstitious steampunk societies warring with a magical society temporarily deprived of its magic (Unproven), high-tech assassins trying to distinguish memory implants from reality (Assassin Hunter), drug enhanced magic systems (Slice), psionically gifted dragons, telepathic griffons, symbiotic vampiric vines, and entrancing world building that has been compared to Ursula Le Guin. He aims to deliver thriller pacing a la Dan Brown and tightly outlined Brandon Sanderson-esque plots all while exploring deeply personal character growth.
  4.

  5. style="font-size: 0.75rem">E ACCIDENTALLY FOUND HIMSELF A TOP 5 AUTHOR at SciFiFantasyFreak.com (for Moon 514) and a bestselling author in SFF Anthologies (for 5 Blades - #1) and in Fantasy/Steampunk (Unproven \- #1). Currently, Drew's working on a screenplay for Unproven (as a teen animated series) and Sea Dragon Apocalypse (a futuristic sci-fi thriller meets epic fantasy mashup).

Website: ANewBreedofDragon

Goodreads: Drew Briney

Facebook: drewbriney

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Instagram: Drew_Briney

Twitter: @Drew_Briney

Amazon: Drew Briney

**DAVID J. WEST**

DAVID J. WEST IS THE BESTSELLING AUTHOR of Heroes of the Fallen, Weird Tales of Horror, and The Mad Song. His forthcoming novels are the gothic horror In My Time of Dying and the historical fantasy The Bastard Prince: Serpents Prow. He has an affinity for history, action-adventure, fantasy, westerns and pulpy horror blended together with a sharp knife and served in a dirty glass—meaning he writes what he knows.

HE RECEIVED FIRST PLACE when he was seven for writing a short story about a pack of wolves that outsmarted and devoured a hunter and his dog. Some children and parents may have been traumatized. He has never looked back.

HIS WRITING HAS SINCE BEEN PRAISED IN MERIDIAN MAGAZINE, Timpanogos Times, Hell Notes, and Amazing Stories Magazine which said his writing was "a solid collection of weird fiction." David's short stories have been published in the Lovecraft eZine, UGEEK, Sword & Sorcery Magazine, Iron Bound, Monsters & Mormons, Artifacts & Relics, Space Eldritch 1 and 2, and many more.

BEFORE BECOMING AN AWARD-WINNING POET, NOVELIST, AND SONGWRITER he was vagabonding all over North America sampling all native fauna for brunch. Friends have described him as a ladies man, a bootlegger and perpetually on his way to a bachelor party. When he isn't writing he enjoys traveling and visiting ancient ruins with intent to find out their lost secrets or at least get snake bit. He collects swords, fine art and has a library of some seven thousand books. He currently lives in Utah with his wife and children.

Website: david-j-west.blogspot.com

Twitter: @David_JWest

Blog: david-j-west.tumblr.com

Goodreads: David J. West

**JASON KING**

FOR YEARS JASON KING PUBLICLY PROCLAIMED HIS IDENTITY as "the chosen one," but medication and a stint in a minimum security health and wellness facility convinced him that was not the case. In order to cope with his greatly diminished role in society, he devoted his free time to making up stories.

BORN IN SALT LAKE CITY UTAH, Jason grew up on a steady diet of anime, science fiction, Dungeons and Dragons, JRPG's, and chocolate cake donuts. Stockholm syndrome gave him his beautiful wife, and the stork (according to his understanding) gave him his four wonderful children.

JASON HOLDS A BACHELOR'S DEGREE IN I.T. MANAGEMENT and is currently the Internet Marketing Manager for a local bookstore chain, but he has sworn by Grabthar's hammer that he will one day quit his "9 to 5″ and write full-time. He is also a proud "anonymous" member of the Space Balrogs comedy troupe, and he speaks fluent Labrador.

Website: www.authorjasonking.com

Twitter: JasonKing1979

Facebook: Author Jason King

Goodreads: Jason_King

**JAIME BUCKLEY**

LOVING HUSBAND AND FATHER OF 12 talented, brilliant and oftentimes sarcastic kids, Jaime Buckley has become the children's champion and a teens best friend. Author, illustrator & popular blogger, he writes about his exploits, sharing brilliant tips and techniques with readers. Jaime entertains the young and young-at-heart through epic fantasy and his off-the-wall humor. His focus and passion revolves around the potential of others. The underlaying theme of all his books, games and articles can be summed up in a single line: YOU ARE MORE THAN YOU THINK YOU ARE!

JAIME IS BEST KNOWN FOR HIS _Chronicles of a Hero_ series and his book _Advanced Worldbuilding_ , a guide to assist writers in building fictional worlds faster, easier and in more detail than ever before.

Website: WantedHero.com

Twitter: @WantedHero

Facebook: WHBooks

Goodreads: Jaime Buckley

Email: jaimebuckley@wantedhero.com

Pinterest: WantedHero

YouTube: OfficialWantedHero

iTunes: WantedHero

**LEWIS R. STRASBURG**

LEWIS HAS BEEN TELLING STORIES IN ONE FORM OR ANOTHER his whole life. Whether spoken, written, drawn, or performed, both interactive and otherwise, he thrives on bringing others on journeys of fantasy. Previously working as a programmer in the Game Industry for companies such as Activision and Gravity Interactive, he's now living back in his home state among family and friends, still weaving his stories or scheming for his next creative project.

LEWIS OFFERS HIS THANKS TO the City Of IF community for their contributions to Worms of the Wasteland.

Twitter: @LRStrasburg

Facebook: Lewis Rollow Strasburg

SHADOW COULDN'T STOP MOVING. Enslaved by his feet, he plodded along like some halfhearted marionette who wanted nothing more than to cut the strings controlling his body. He didn't mind hiking and he didn't mind following the earth's promptings, but this particular trek seemed excessive. Two days had passed. With very little food and almost no rest, Shadow had hiked past the outer ridges of town, through the sparse edges of Eznaki Forest, straight across the sandy dunes of Azh'leniki, and deep into the eerie interior of Vanaleige Forest.

His blistered feet smoldered but he refused to look at them. Somehow, it seemed seeing them might make the burning worse. Besides, more intense discomforts vied for his attention. Occasional coughs were slight but they ignited his lungs with fiery sensations he couldn't begin to describe. He'd practically drowned himself earlier that morning. Thirsty as sun-bleached lips on a wooden totem, Shadow had been careless when he came across the only waterway remotely close to Azh'leniki: he'd fallen in head first. It hurts to breathe in nearly as much water as you drink. He could have guessed that before - but now he knew. Now every full breath was a reminder and every cough was an unwelcome castigation for his foolishness.

Although these physical challenges were far from negligible, a visceral foreboding began to overshadow their presence, threatened to consume his soul with a suffocating, dreadful haunting. Shadow slowed his step, considered possibilities. Perhaps this was the earth preparing him for his own death. As azh'nahn, he deserved it. He accepted that truth even though deep down, he didn't truly comprehend it. No matter what the earth asked of him, it was his duty to obey. That truth he accepted without reservation. Nevertheless, as ethereal hauntings continued, Shadow grew increasingly convinced that he didn't _want_ to do whatever she was asking of him right now.

Already, he was considering his trip home. This time, he wouldn't be in such a rush and he would pamper his feet. This time, his pace would be reasonable. He'd probably take extra time to walk around the burning dunes instead of plowing a straight path through every foreseeable obstacle. He'd rest in the shade and stay close to rivers.

And he'd sleep.

Without intending to, Shadow stopped walking, paused to uncork his nearly empty flagon of water, and sucked hard to get the last drizzles of water before falling to his knees. When he replaced the cork, he crumbled to all fours, contemplated what might be next. The jagged cut of his pants left one knee uncovered as he began to crawl and his knuckles quickly turned white from holding his bo staff too tightly as he dragged it along the ground. Shadow paused, trembled a little as the foreboding grew and a startled bird fluttered out of a nearby bush. _This is crazy_ , he thought. But he was too intimidated to say it out loud. Shivering and consumed by a harrowing fear of whatever lay ahead, Shadow actually felt more comfortable crawling than walking.

Not far ahead, a ledge taunted him, dared him to visit, to peer over the valley below. Maybe this was the end of the journey. Maybe the ledge would betray him. Perhaps it was a stone elemental. Perhaps it would toss him to his death. As he crawled into its inviting lap, Shadow froze, felt his bare stomach next to the cool earth, and obeyed her call to stay put. The smell of putrid soil wafted past his nostrils. Involuntarily, he nearly heaved, shifted to breathing through his mouth to minimize the smell of rotting ... something. He pushed his long hair to the side, let his finger linger on a scar along his neck, shamefully considered the embarrassing failure it represented.

Shadow lay motionless for many long moments, staring at the oddly familiar valley. It seemed he'd been here before but he couldn't be sure. If he had been here, he'd visited the valley from some other vantage point, perhaps from the hills on the other side. Still, the area exuded such a haunting feeling that he couldn't imagine forgetting the slightest detail. Every contorted tree branch seemed a tale of torture, the history of some foul deed. No flowers bloomed, though the season was late enough to demand their presence. Even the grasses seemed yellowish, sickly from some disease. Shadow observed that they matched the demented, spiraling lichen trails that hung from tree branches like loosely braided beards.

A nest of fire ants drew threateningly close. Their large size left Shadow more than mildly uncomfortable. He remembered hearing of a distant cousin who'd died from their stings but despite the memory, his resolve stiffened and he refused to move. He was here for a reason. Until that reason was fulfilled, he would lie motionless as the frozen peaks of Ishmandool. Still, he shuddered when he tried to discern the foreboding.

He'd been raised to trust the earth's promptings, to have confidence in his instincts. Years of training had given him the discipline to push through his fear, to trust the earth but that didn't put an end to his curiosity, his attempt to make some sense out of what was happening. He considered several options but none of them felt right, so he landed on the only idea that made any sense whatsoever. Mother Earth was testing him. That was it: a test. He didn't know why she would do that but there was no other explanation to be found. Why else would she send azh'nahn to observe whatever doom he was about to witness? He had no power to change anything and no position to influence how the Hiwalani might deal with whatever he might see. He was practically Trayki. But despite his lowly status, he held fast to his determination. If the earth wanted him to observe something, he would watch carefully.

A brief gust of mist-ridden wind distracted Shadow's thoughts and blew his long hair over his eyes. He shook his head, tossing the hair to one side, shifted his eyes to the right and then left. Apart from the fire ant nest, there was no sign of moving life. While he found the thought slightly disturbing, it made sense. No healthy animal would graze in such sallow grass. And if there were no grazing animals, there would be no large predators. He saw no birds. He'd probably heard the only bird brave enough to land here a few moments past. This infested land was barely worthy of insect life, let alone the lives of larger, more sacred beasts. Perhaps, Shadow considered, some cursed creatures fed on insects or the black, putrid fungi that threatened to overtake some of the larger trees but none were to be seen. The foreboding pointed to something else.

Just as Shadow seriously considered he'd made a mistake and needed to move to a different vantage point, he heard shouting below. Amber hair and bronze skin immediately identified two men as Hiwalani. Shadow was numbered among this race of mages but these men did not share his lowly status. These were Hinzwala, men and women whose job it was to explore the limits of magical forms, Hiwalani elite who lived off donations from the Hiwalani masses. Their skin was a lighter shade of bronze because they spent much of their time studying indoors.

Shadow recalled his mother teaching him how it was unnatural for people to spend so little time tilling the earth, working the ground, and expressing themselves through the arts. But Shadow considered that maybe higher Hinzwalan magic forms were expressions of art. Maybe Hinzwalan forms connected mages more deeply with the earth than Hiwalani magic. Then again, maybe his mother was right. These men had very little free time. How could anyone connect with the earth when they had so little time to rest, to become one with themselves?

A woman joined the two men below. She was old. Even from this distance, Shadow could easily discern her prominent crown of white hair. But her figure seemed youthful and her gait was far too lively to come from someone suffering her declining years. She was Hinzwala'amaka, a rare Hinzwalan mage whose lifespan bridged through new magic Turns. She could be one hundred years old, Shadow considered - or more if she had lived through a few Turns. Shadow found her appearance in this valley shocking. He knew the names of every Hinzwalan alive, and there were no living Hinzwala'amaka anywhere remotely near here. Even a shy, backward young man like Shadow would be well aware of a woman like this, a woman who was old while still young, a woman who looked and acted like a youth, a girl with white hair. She would be the talk of every child. She would be legend. This one wasn't. And yet, there she was, walking several hundred paces away. Shadow strained his eyes but remained unable to discern her face well enough to sketch a silhouette of her features. A fleeting moment of good lighting suggested a slender nose and lips but it passed too swiftly for Shadow to memorize her visage.

The light _did_ expose the colors of her decorative beading and that solidified Shadow's suspicions. She wore the colors of a young, single woman: violets, blues, and oranges. Despite her old age, this woman was no longer bonded to anyone. She'd probably been married once and her husband had died. Then, after seven years had passed, she would have been required to wear the colors of a single woman. Hinzwala'amaka were expected to take a second spouse, to bear another generation of gifted children and to teach them higher forms of magery. This woman was thin. It had probably been years since she'd born any child. She would be expected to fulfill this communal obligation soon.

Curiosity and speculation flashed through Shadow's mind as he watched this woman slowly pacing the valley. Her arms stretched downward toward the earth and her hands held a position suggesting she was petting the air, assuring the ground below she meant it no harm. Her movements and countenance were those of someone gentle, loving, peaceful. Yet, as she moved, Shadow felt the forebodings deepen. His heart swelled with fear and he trembled again. A short eternity passed before he mastered his emotions and calmed his body. In response, the earth shuddered as if she too feared something, as if she knew the future and dreaded what it might bring. Shadow chided himself. Of course the earth feared nothing. She controlled every destiny, didn't she?

As he resolved to jettison such superstitious concerns, Shadow felt the earth tremble with greater fervor. The two men below exchanged knowing glances and then fastened their eyes upon the Hinzwala'amakan woman with more dogged determination. Her petting hands began making erratic clawing motions as if she was grabbing something in the air and throwing it away. In answer, huge clods of dirt flew through the air like splashing water, slowly forming a large earthen ridge that circumscribed the valley. The two men stood motionless, in some odd stance that Shadow thought he recognized from a famous statue in a neighboring village. This was a Hinzwalan brace, a position held when engaging in intense collaborative magery, magic so intense that one had to consciously hold one's feet to the ground. Soon, the ground around the Hinzwala'amakan woman lay bare, naked of any grasses, roots, or shrubbery. Exposed to her power, the earth continued to tremble in distress. Shadow could discern that much now. He dug his fingers deep into the moss covered ground, intuitively summoning courage to fulfill his calling to witness this event.

Even as he braced himself, he considered the obvious: if the earth feared what this woman would do, he should be terrified. Somehow, he mastered his feelings and continued to lie motionless. It would be foolish to expose his position. Besides, he reiterated to himself, whatever evil this woman might bring, whatever demons he might see and wish to forget, he would hold his ground and bear witness.

Larger clods of red earth, bronze sand, and shattering shale rocks flew through the air as if attacking some unseen foe. The mixture of materials the Hinzwala'akan woman dug up seemed unnatural to Shadow. Could they really be naturally mixed like that? But then, what did he know? He was a simple man, barely out of his youth. He farmed his own garden but he never dug this deeply. Anything could be beneath the earth when one dug that far down. Perhaps a long slab of precious metal lay below. Perhaps this Hinzwala'akan woman was unburying some great treasure worthy of every Trayki's dream.

The earth's foreboding grew yet again and soon, towering stripes of ivory were exposed and then gargantuan bones were unveiled. Instead of large clods of bronze earth and shattering boulders mixed with sand, the unearthing became a torrential storm of finer granules. But as the pit grew deeper, the uncovered bronze sand turned ruddy until it resembled some crimson grave where the sand had absorbed the blood of some massive monster. Shadow convulsed involuntarily and then forced himself to master his fear as the beasts' forms emerged. At first, he thought them dracoliches as their ivory bones began pulling together and taking form but after a few moments, he recognized their shapes more clearly. Four wings, four rows of teeth, and a long tail whose tip spread like the three feathers of an arrow. Worse than dracoliches, these were kotrakoy, the cursed beasts of Ali'ikiswan. Only two were uncovered but Shadow knew there was another just outside his view. Desolation was upon the land and he'd been there to witness it.

Slowly, Shadow backed away from the ledge. As he did, one kotrakoy lifted itself high on its legs so that he could see it well. He watched as sinews attached to bone, as muscles formed upon its neck, and as eyes began to form. He watched in horror as the beast slowly regained its grayish-brown reptilian skin and some few modified, decorative feathers that distinguished kotrakoy from other beasts flying around Hiwalani wilds.

Shadow had seen caricatures in children's books and paintings by some of the great masters in the great halls but none of that prepared him for what he saw now. Sitting upright, the largest kotrakoy stood nearly as tall as two homes stacked one on top of another. It's size wasn't what he found so intimidating. It was how it gradually disappeared after it formed. This legendary camouflage had spawned widespread fear of kotrakoy. As long as it remained still, Shadow couldn't even discern its presence, despite the fact he knew precisely where it stood.

He stared at it intently, trying to discern any portion of its newly formed body. He sat in awe, witnessing what no one in his or his father's generation had seen. His eyes were upon the most feared beast in Hiwalani history. He saw a blur as the beast turned its head. Briefly, Shadow looked directly into the eyes of kotrakoy and it looked directly back at him but he only saw those piercing eyes for the slightest of moments before they disappeared once more, fading into the background as impossible camouflage concealed it from all view. Somehow, Shadow considered, it seemed unnatural, even unholy for such an enormous predator to boast such an advantage.

As Shadow turned and considered running away, he experienced the beast's other unfair advantage. He felt the kotrakoy peering into his mind. _It's true._ _They can read minds,_ he intuited _._ Strangely, Shadow could peer into the kotrakoy's mind as well. He could sense its excitement. He sensed its unique intelligence. He sensed it wouldn't tell the Hinzwalan mages it had seen him because it was too excited to be released from its earthly prison to care about Shadow's trek through its own mind. He raced through some of the beast's memories before those forebodings evolved again, overtook his consciousness. They felt different this time but he couldn't clearly discern the distinction.

Shadow could have taken comfort from his glimpse into the beast's mind. He could have pondered over these details as he casually strolled home, taking care to nurse his blistering feet. He could have pondered the earth's purpose in calling him to witness this horrific development in the land. He could have wondered what he was supposed to do about it.

He didn't.

He ran.

And he took no care of his tender feet. He just let them fly as fast as they could move and resolved himself that he wouldn't stop until he'd warned the Hinzwalan council. He was keenly aware that they probably wouldn't believe him. Perhaps no one would, but he had to try. That was the earth's calling to him. If he understood nothing else, that much was clear. He'd warn everyone what dark magic was upon the land, and if no one else believed him, at least he might save his family from destruction.

If you'd like to read the rest, you can find it on Amazon as Unproven. 
Contents

  1. Copyright
  2. Höbin's Discovery

## Guide

  1. Start of Content

