 
### Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Other works by D W Gladstone –
The Land of All Things Fallen

The Wyvern Kings Redemption

Volume 1 - Part II

D. W. Gladstone

Copyright © 2015 D. W. Gladstone

Cover Art Copyright © 2015 Marco Morata-Plaza

All rights reserved.

Fifth Edition 2017

Published by Errant Words Publishing

ABN : 65 430 929 540
Chapter 16

_The Fourth Heaven flourished, and for a time all was well upon the sky. But not all the Andarae were happy with the cycle of rebirth to which they were bound. And to remain solely upon Anmyar would sadden them. An Andarae, a single flame, saw this and was angry. And so he turned his back upon the river, and cast the first shadow seen to the sky._

_That shadow was cast across Anmyar, and a new thing was born. An Immortal Being, one who did not change, one who did not flow from form to form. One who shed the cycle of rebirth to be the brightest flame. As he saw himself. The Immortal jumped into the sky, forsaking the river he hated. He took flight and headed for the Fourth Heaven. He saw it as his right to shape the fourth heaven with his light, as all Andarae did, for why should they become less for a lesser heaven?_

* * *

Syla had returned to the barracks. She was exhausted. She had spent the day and the night assisting the garrison prepare the township for the impending attack.

She was the only magus qualified to reinforce their defences. The handful of other mage-born ranked within the fifth army, and the four stationed at the keep, were useless - she had no other opinion of them. They were all battle-magus, trained to hurl glamorous fire and sweep earth aside in spectacular displays of power, but they were inept in the deep magics - utterly inept.

So their rightful duties had fallen to her; she was tasked with placing ward afterward along the outer ramparts, strengthening the wood of the barricades erected at every entrance, naming the faults in the walls left from the bombardments suffered days ago. And, despite her labours, she had to suffer the scorn of ignorant soldiers who muttered disparagements under their breaths -

- She had wheeled on one and delivered the most brutal lecture she had thought possible; in response the soldier had nearly struck her. Had his blow landed, and a fellow not restrained him - with a savage glare at her, as though the blame rested on her ebony clad shoulders - she was tired and angry enough to split the rock beneath their feet and let them fall from the ramparts to their deaths.

She would never have done that - she had calmed or consoled herself, later. That was against the law, and she served the law - it was her duty, if nothing else, the sovereign right of her blood.

All she had left was the law and duty.

She did not want to be here.

She had repressed her most morbid thoughts, meticulously - they would serve no purpose now.

They had to hold the township, repel the goblins - the primary defence of Ammandorn demanded it. The line of keeps were not just a myriad set of fortifications from which armies could be based, but rather they had been built as the first and foremost line of magical defence against their people's enemies.

Alike the Line of Erenbrek, which protected the Living Mountains and the South Bank in Eryndor, the line of keeps had been erected to support a warding spell, vast and unseen, that would secure Ammandorn's defence despite the calamities of war.

The warding spell prophesied doom upon any force or foe that crossed it; so long as the line held, Ammandorn would emerge victorious despite defeat or loss - despite the numbers they faced.

So long as the keeps held.

If one or more were razed to the ground, the warding spell would weaken if not undoubtedly break - a circle of the Tribunal might be able to hold the spell intact for a time, but if Catesus fell, or any of the other keeps, the spell would inexorably be annulled.

Syla did not know what constituted 'the line' itself - she wished she could assign a number to what they could suffer, how much they could lose before their defences fractured.

They no longer possessed the knowledge of the magics used to create the line; they could not restore it, or establish a second defence alike it. Those magics had been lost centuries ago - only the elves had retained any knowledge of them. And the elves were dead, extinct, now.

Dwelling on the subject served no useful purpose.

The line would have to hold; the ancient magic that had warded the people for centuries would hold.

It perturbed her, however, that the goblins might know of the spell - in their history, the goblins had never sought to destroy a keep. The military had believed that no war band could suffer the losses of an assault. But now, the goblins sought to destroy not one, but seemingly all of the keeps.

This war was already like no other war Ammandorn had faced.

She was exhausted. She did not want to be here. She had not bathed, she had barely slept - and she had been recurrently beset by the nagging guilt over abandoning her mission.

It did not matter - Ayadra and Hheirdane had arrived unharmed; or rather, no more harmed they had been. She had not seen anything of the knight since he had arrived - alongside the Champion of the White Wolf.

Elle'dred had not been dead, as she had been certain he was - and to her annoyance, no spell she had cast had revealed what sinister change had been forced upon him by that monster.

Maybe he had not been changed - no, necromancers were evil, so the law stated; Llrsyring must have done something to him.

The vile deathwalker's absence proved it.

The law stated he was an enemy.

She was too tired.

And to her dismay, she would get no sleep this day; Taedoran had risen when she had returned to the barracks, and she had been ordered to explain their presence in the keep, and what had transpired prior to their arrival.

Taedoran had glared at the incarnate when she had told him about Elle'dred's disappearance - he did not seem to care, more approve, of Hheirdane's beating of the prisoner.

Ayadra -

The guards had seen the incarnate, word had already spread about it - the beast kept in the empty barracks. What Hheirdane had told the garrison commander and the General, she did not know - neither had come to inspect the prisoner to her knowledge.

Dus arrived just after dawn; he looked as tired as she.

Thankfully, he took over the summary of the tactical situation.

In silence, she slumped on a cot, as her fellow magus' voice filled the air of the barracks. The dim light of the morning lifted the waning gloom of the only lamp left that illuminated the room.

As her eyelids hung heavily, near closing, the crash of the barracks door prompted a surge of adrenalin.

- Elle'dred entered.

Accompanied by a sound akin to the evanescent howl of a storm.

Black mist appeared from the air, in the corner of the room, and formed into the shape of the suit of armour; solidifying into the dull grey metal and black robes.

The necromancer.

Syla bolted to her feet - as did Taedoran. Despite the tremor of his arm, and the weak paleness that exuded from every area of his naked body, the Champion of the Tribunal groped for his sword.

"Deathwalker!" he snarled.

Syla crystallised a rune; the magic sapped at her lack of strength - the crystal evaporated into mist a moment after it formed, transmuted into a wave of dizziness that forced her back onto the bed.

She swore inwardly; she had reached the limit of her stamina.

She glanced up, as Dus reached for the flame of the lamp, and cupped a crackling blaze afloat above his palm.

Llrsyring waved his gauntleted fingers through a gesture - and the argent glare of rune shone at his fingertips; Syla watched helplessly as the rune sailed through the dim light of the room, between the necromancer and Dus.

It struck the flames in the battle-magus' hand.

In an instant, the flames froze - their colour and life transmuted into the transparency and stillness of water. The water cascaded across the magus' hand as he recoiled and checked his limb in alarm; it splattered against and wetted the wooden-floor of the barracks.

Syla gaped.

Taedoran took a step towards the armour, raising his sword for a blow - but was forced side-ways, and driven a half-dozen steps into a thudding impact against the wall of the barracks.

Elle'dred pinned him to the wood - the knight's own blade drawn across his naked counterpart's throat.

Exhaustion and shock drove Syla into a stupor of inaction - as it had too many times in recent days.

She was better than this, she was not so damned weak - she forced herself to her feet.

"Why?" Elle'dred hissed into the pallid face of the Champion.

There were tears in the knight's eyes - a palpable grief - Syla stopped, bewildered.

"Why?!" - a spray of saliva scattered droplets into Taedoran's face.

"Why what?" the Champion of the Tribunal snarled, half-choked, in response.

"Deathwalkers are killed at birth," Elle'dred stated - angry, in pain, "There are six bloods and you bastard magus murder all those born to the sixth."

Llrsyring had done something to the knight, she was sure of that now - she glared at the armour.

Elle'dred had a blade to their leader's throat; and she could not conjure magic - she would lose consciousness if she tried.

"There are only five bloods, Elle'dred." she stated, categorical and stern. To herself she sounded almost angry.

"You knew." Elle'dred hissed - at the Champion; the knight was paying her no heed.

"Elle'dred, lower your sword."

The command from the deathwalker shocked her, as it did all of them - Elle'dred glanced over his shoulder.

Why? -

Elle'dred turned back to Taedoran, "Tell them there is a sixth blood, tell them you kill necromancers at birth."

"Necromancy is a fell magic Elle'dred. It is a practice of evil - not a blood," her voice broke into hoarseness; stubborn certitude however could not be mistaken - but the knight wasn't listening.

He only listened to the deathwalker; Llrsyring had corrupted him, as any necromancer would. The law stated such.

The Champion of the Tribunal was silent; he had not responded to the knight with more than a glare - he wasn't damn well helping himself, he should have been denying the false accusations.

"Tell him there are only five bloods." Syla ordered - Taedoran had served the Tribunal for years; his service to the law had earned him his title. The knight is going to kill you -

Taedoran spoke, but the words that came out of his mouth were beyond her comprehension, "There are six bloods."

Syla stared - she had misheard him, or he had misspoken.

Elle'dred shook with rage; his eyes narrowed and his fist clenched.

She gaped - too much was happening before her, in her. She had misheard. She could not be wrong - she could have -

"Necromancy is evil. It must be destroyed, whether in a decrepit magus, or a newborn. Necromancers are an abomination." despite the indignity of his nakedness, the assuredness of the Tribunal Champion's voice was as bare as his body.

Taedoran recited the words as she had recited the laws of the Tribunal, her lessons to her students -

"Necromancer's are born?" she stammered - she turned her mounting confusion and pleading on her leader, "They are read at birth and destroyed?"

"Do your duty magus!" Taedoran snarled; his throat pushed against the edge of Elle'dred's blade releasing a trickle of red.

Shock.

She could not handle this. Her mind went blank, emptied of all thought. She could not -

She stared at the naked paleness of Taedoran's face, the pallid honesty of his posture - at the furious conviction that burned in his eyes.

All she could do was stare.

From beside her, Llrsyring - the deathwalker, whispered or spoke, "These are the masters you serve."

The words seemed meant for her. She heard them, but they faded in her sudden emptiness.

She stumbled back onto the bed.

Blood trickled from the edge of Elle'dred's sword, down Taedoran's neck, "I will expose you," - his voice was as empty as she, "I will expose your crimes to the people."

"They are not crimes." Taedoran snapped back, "You are the criminal - you speak treason and befriend a necromancer. You will be condemned for your crimes."

"What if I kill you here?" Elle'dred asked.

Taedoran sneered, his hand clenched the hilt of his own sword; but Elle'dred's grasp restrained his wrist.

"Elle'dred," Llrsyring said again, "Lower your sword."

"He deserves to die."

"He does." the armour replied, "He is a fool, but fools rule your world. And there is a duty you must yet do, if not for them then for the people you intend to protect. Ayadra."

What did he mean? - the thought vanished amidst her emptiness. What was he? A deathwalker.

"Listen to your deathwalker," Taedoran spat.

After a moment Syla scarce felt pass, Elle'dred lowered his sword and retreated a step away from the pallid, exposed Champion.

Taedoran rubbed the blood from his neck; his sword hung limply against the skin of his waist.

Elle'dred struck him, across the face - the slap of flesh against flesh, and the clack of bone echoed throughout the barracks as Taedoran toppled to the floor.

The man remained that way for a moment; Elle'dred turned around and moved away.

As the grey light of dawn intruded into the barracks, Syla stared at the naked, slumped body of her leader - of the man entrusted by the Tribunal to uphold the law.

That man now turned furious eyes on the knight's back. Taedoran dragged himself to his feet, advanced and thrust his weapon at the defenceless back of the Champion of the White Wolf.

Even shock was beyond her; all she could do was watch.

Taedoran's blade, however, was met by solidifying mist and the grating screech of rent armour. Llrsyring stood between him and the knight, having crossed the barracks in an instant of vanishing and reappearance. Taedoran's blade stabbed through the necromancer's shielding and hollow body.

Llrsyring grasped the naked Champion's pale throat, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him, again, into the wall.

Taedoran gasped, choked.

Llrsyring's gauntlet wrapped around the man's throat, a terrible threat Syla scarce comprehended, "I could make you suffer a death no living being should know," the helm hissed into Taedoran's ashen, sweat drenched face, "And you would suffer in death until the end of the world is upon us. There is nothing you could do to stop me. Try to harm Elle'dred again and I will kill you."

The armour's gauntlet released, and Taedoran dropped. His pale legs quivered and folded from the exertion, and he struck the ground - his injured shoulder bearing the impact. He grimaced, but did not allow any sound to move from his throat.

Dus moved to help him; Taedoran snarled and struck the magus away.

Syla stared.

Quivering in fury, pain and evidently the lingering effects of the goblins' poison, Taedoran clawed his way to his feet. He still clung to the hilt of his sword. He tried to moved, but managed only a stumble onto his cot. The morning's weak light glistened across the sweat coating his skin.

He stared at the knight and the deathwalker on the far side of the room; betrayal and anger festered in his eyes.

Syla stared at him, likewise.

* * *

Elle'dred sat on the cot in the barracks. The grey light of the day filled the silence of the room. The gloom had remained, like the air - heavy, thick - since dawn.

He had meant to kill the bastard - but he hadn't. He had wanted to, it might have eased the emptiness inside him - filled it with blood. But he had realised such things would be temporary at best; he had realised -

It was useless.

Taedoran's was just one pallid face of betrayal; and his was too consumed by self-conviction to be worth the knight's anger. The man believed he was right, what he did was right.

Nothing could shake that belief; Elle'dred had seen that in his eyes.

But there were others; three old men he had served and spoken to for too many years of his life - three Elder Archivists he had trusted. They served Ammandorn, they served the people.

And they murdered children.

They served the law.

It made him sick. There was ample self-recrimination too; he served the law - the tenets of the White Wolf. One stated, the very first and foremost edict of his order - that 'where the undestined lead we shall follow'. He couldn't follow anymore.

He betrayed himself; the Elder Archivists had betrayed him.

Hheirdane had not returned since his arrival in the barracks; he did not know where his friend was, or what he was or had suffered. He didn't really care.

Llrsyring stood by his side, as he had for hours; the deathwalker had not said anything.

Elle'dred thought he perceived regret - or satisfaction, on the immovable grey façade of the helm - but he dismissed the notion as everything else.

He had no power; the Champion of the White Wolf had no power.

Taedoran could have him convicted at any time; no one would object - if he tried to reveal what the Elder Archivists and the Tribunal had done, he would be arrested and condemned. They had hidden what they did for centuries; and no one had managed to undermine them yet.

It was pointless.

Llrsyring had spoken of a purpose - one he had to fulfil - Ayadra.

The incarnate was innocent - completely innocent; he knew that now. Ayadra had not escaped under his own volition that night, he had been controlled by Llrsyring's dreaming magic, and he had been abused constantly and without mercy.

He deserved better than this.

The magus had said the incarnate was a weapon designed to destroy Ammandorn - Elle'dred doubted their words.

- The Magus had no reason to lie about Ayadra.

Elle'dred had been assigned the duty of protecting Ammandorn's people; the people weren't the government - the people were as innocent as Ayadra. That duty still remained.

Llrsyring was right - he had some purpose left.

It seemed so pointless.

Hheirdane thought of the world as a dark place, Elle'dred had always wanted to believe it wasn't - self-delusion and ignorance, at least he had been happy with them.

"Elle'dred," Llrsyring's voice was a whisper, "Trouble approaches."

He did not comprehend what the deathwalker meant; the suit of armour stepped into the shadows at the corner of the room.

The door burst open amidst a clatter of wood.

Flanked by the grey sky outside, a man in the trappings of a General entered the barracks. His eyes flashed abhorrence at each of them, before he strode over to the wall - where the incarnate had been secured. Soldiers flooded into the building, amidst a thrum of boots, in the wake of their commander. Their swords were unerringly drawn.

Elle'dred bolted to his feet.

The General stopped at the incarnate - and pulled away his cowl. Alarmed gasps echoed throughout the room. The man snarled and grabbed Ayadra's throat, hauling the incarnate up against the wall.

Ayadra wheezed, and struggled weakly against the man's grasp - his eyes screamed fear.

The General moved his sword to thrust it into the incarnate's naked obsidian belly.

Elle'dred arrived before the man could complete his move.

The knight slammed his full body weight into the General's side, forcing the man to careen, stumbling into his inferiors beside him. The soldiers half caught their commander, struggling not to impale him on their own waiting blades.

Elle'dred drew his sword, and stood over the incarnate - gasping for breath, behind him.

Soldiers moved around him, a half-dozen blades bared and pointed at his throat.

He did not care -

The General regained his footing.

"You dare bring that curse here? You dare?"

"I am the Champion of the White Wolf Hall, by my authority you will be condemned and executed!" he bellowed the word with all the rage he felt towards the man - the other Champion, "If you harm this prisoner."

The feral anger in his eyes made the General pause.

The man glared in response, "Guards."

The soldiers moved closer; one pressed her blade against his tunic-covered chest.

Elle'dred held the eyes of the General.

"That thing brings evil towards it. It is a curse. It must be killed so we can live."

The man's eyes shone with the same self-conviction Elle'dred had seen in Taedoran's - the knight hated that glint.

"Our mission is to escort it," Elle'dred enforced a calm, level tone - he doubted there would be any reasoning with this man, and he would end up stabbed to death for trying; he didn't care anymore - "The Archivists and the Tribunal ordered this of us. You can't refuse their authority."

The words, each and every, disgusted him.

Taedoran still had not intervened; the bastard was so self-righteous he'd doom all of Ammandorn to see an enemy suffer.

Something fractured in the General's gaze; for a moment, he seemed ready to give the order and end Elle'dred's life - instead he relinquished, waved for his soldiers to lower their weapons.

"A second war band joined with the first, this morning; the goblins numbers have increased. All the enemy's forces have combined to assault this keep in particular - because that thing is here. It is a curse. The goblins will be here by tomorrow; if I killed that thing they might yet turn away."

Elle'dred did not respond.

"But it seems the Archivists have sanctioned the destruction of this stronghold," the General's lip curled, fatalistically, almost despairingly, "I concede to their authority, and yours, Champion. You're all going to die here anyway."

He turned and shouldered his way through his troops out of the barracks. The soldiers followed suit.

Elle'dred lowered his sword; Ayadra wheezed behind him.

He turned and knelt to inspect the incarnate's injuries, "Are you all right?"

Ayadra flinched, and clenched his eyes reflexively at his touch; his hands were bound in bandaging, as was his thigh. Elle'dred still did not know what had happened to injure him.

Ayadra trembled.

Elle'dred sighed, there was nothing he could do. About anything.

Llrsyring moved from the shadows; he had not disappeared into smoke as he did before - yet despite his presence, the soldiers seemed not to have perceived him.

He had not been slain by an army -

"Llrsyring," Elle'dred whispered, "You heard what was said. This keep is going to fall. That goblin army is beyond its defences - are they beyond you?"

"Elle'dred."

"Answer me!" he snapped.

"No, they are not."

Llrsyring could not die, he could be stabbed by dozens of weapons and suffered no ill effect - and his swordplay was beyond anything Elle'dred could hope to achieve. He commanded magic.

"Then do whatever you can. Slay as many of them as you can before you fall -" - if you can die at all, "Protect Ayadra, you seem to want to do that."

There was a long silence - the others of the party, the bastard watched him and the deathwalker.

The helm met is eyes, and whispered, "Shadows can be cast far longer than the form that makes them."

Llrsyring melted into black mist and vanished.

The words left in their wake, doubt - it filled the silence. He did not care -

- He had a duty left to fulfil; he had little conviction left for it, but he would fulfil it. Then whatever bastards ran this damned world could kill him and he would not care.

He stood, slowly and crossed the barracks. He stood before Taedoran; he met the man's eyes - the Champion of the Tribunal glared at him as he had at Ayadra and the deathwalker.

For sometime all he did was stare.

"I swore to protect Ammandorn," he forced the words out, "I swore to see this mission complete. I will hold to my oaths. The Archivists and the Tribunal are deplorable - they aren't worth my allegiance. So I am a traitor, and you can condemn me for it - but not until we reach Ambranas. I give you my word I will not oppose you, and I will follow your orders until our mission is complete."

He had to protect Ayadra; that was all that mattered now.

Taedoran sneered in disgust, "You are a trai-"

"Don't question my word," Elle'dred growled; the only belief he had left was evinced in every feature he possessed, "You don't have the damned right."

Taedoran glared at him, "You swear to serve me, obey -"

"Yes." Elle'dred ground out.

"You swear to serve the Tribunal and the Archivists."

- He bit back his rage, the betrayal. It did not matter anymore. He did not care enough for it to matter. "Yes."

"You are a traitor and will die for it."

"Yes."

Taedoran's eyes shifted into disdain, "Then you will not die until we reach Ambranas, Champion of the White Wolf."

Elle'dred turned, and moved away from the man he despised.

He would survive; he would serve what respect he had left for himself - he would protect Ayadra. It was all he had now.

* * *

The Staff-Bearer looked out of the narrow, slit of a window onto the terrace below. He breathed a sigh of relief that he did not have to strain his wrist again for some time. Coughing seized him briefly, but the slight annoyance caused by the paroxysm was a welcome alleviation to the dredging despair that had been upon him since morning. He had spent yet another day signing death warrants.

He knew too many of the names by the faces connected to them, and each of them was to be sent into the war. Very few would return, he knew, and the assuagement - that he had no other choice - did not comfort him. He longed to spare them a gruesome death, or otherwise spare them the pain of watching their friends die around them if they did not.

The only consolation he gave himself was that if he did not do this duty, it might fall upon someone who could not stomach it - or could stomach it too readily.

Some of the students that applied were not ready for a fight, and some would never be ready - the Staff-Bearer dreaded that it might come to a time when even they would be needed, but for the moment at least he could keep the utterly unprepared from pursuing their ends.

His thoughts, briefly, ignited into frustration; his lunch had yet to be delivered. After a morning of harsh, unforgiving work, and only the solace of more to come, he grew impatient with the lack of food.

He resolved to quit his room and investigate, when the old hinges screeched and the doorway emitted a servant carrying a tray loaded with sustenance.

"You are quite late." Hadrath muttered.

"Apologies, High Magus." the weak reply was given as the servant laid the tray on the table nearest the door.

"What is that?" Hadrath queried, eyeing the spherical pot beside the meal.

"Oh, High Magus," the servant remarked, "High Magus Ragmurath thought that with all the stress the Tribunal members are under, that a treat was in order. He knows you are very fond of Emerald-petal tea, and he requested I bring some to you."

"Hmmm," mused the Staff-Bearer, "It is not like High Magus Ragmurath to be so considerate." Hadrath chuckled, grimly, "Mayhap he is going as mad as I with all this worry."

The servant poured the tea into the cup. Its aroma reached Hadrath almost immediately; sweet, crisp and it cleared his nose even at a distance.

The servant took a spoon and ladled a little sugar into the cup and stirred, "Oh," he exclaimed, "I apologise High Magus, do you take it sweet?"

Hadrath had moved back to the window, "I do not mind."

The servant nodded, and stirred the cup again, once the tea settled he tapped the spoon against the rim and set it down on the tray. The servant approached and proffered the cup and its saucer to the Staff-Bearer.

"Thank you." Hadrath replied, informally but cordially. Raising the cup to his mouth, he savoured the aroma for a moment, before taking a sip. He lowered the cup slightly and breathed a sigh.

"Are you enjoying the tea?" the servant enquired.

The audacity of the question was surprising, given the limits of decorum; Hadrath thought it odd, but weighed by concerns that surpassed him, such considerations seemed trivial.

"I am," he answered, and added, "Do thank High Magus Ragmurath for the gesture."

"It was the same tea you drank when you sentenced me." the servant hissed, from just over the Staff-Bearer's shoulder.

Alarm gripped Hadrath, but it was quelled by the equally sudden pain that shot through his back.

The tea dropped to the ground; the cup broke on the soft carpet at his feet.

* * *

Three days had passed. And nothing had arrived. Three days of cloud-cover, broken intermittently by the spring glow of the southern sun, had passed the beaten battlements of the keep.

For three days the soldiers of Catesus had waited; tense with impatience. Apprehension and anxiety had slowly waned - replaced with a fragile hope.

Elle'dred could feel it - the insane belief that the goblins might no longer be approaching. That by some miracle, unexpected and unhoped for, the enemy had been turned away.

Elle'dred knew the goblins weren't coming, and he knew why - Llrsyring.

The deathwalker had done something; what it was Elle'dred did not know. The suit of armour had not made a reappearance since he had left. Elle'dred wondered if he was dead - if what had been asked of him had cost him his existence, living or dead as he was.

Now the knight waited, atop the ramparts of the township's outer wall. He - and Taedoran, had left the barracks to assist with the defence; the General needed every blade, however much the man blamed them for their predicament.

They had waited with the soldiers - for the attack that did not come.

They stood on the ramparts, yet, watching for the enemy.

No doubt, the Champion of the Tribunal had overheard his conversation with the armour - Elle'dred did not care what the bastard thought, of him or Llrsyring. Or what Llrsyring had done.

As the southern sun rose to midday above the southern horizon, occluded by a sheet of pallid grey that had fallen across the sky since the morning, the General ordered men to prepare the horses - they were going to dispatch a scout party to investigate if and why their foes had turned aside.

Taedoran apparently heard him; the Champion moved to join them - Elle'dred followed.

He had to see what Llrsyring had done, how his only ally had stopped an entire army.

He had not known how powerful Llrsyring was - or had been.

As he joined the General's squad in the stables, no one raised objection to his presence; he weathered the glares from both the commander of the army and his Tribunal counterpart wordlessly. Perhaps he had regained enough conviction for it to be evident he would not bow to anything other than a direct order.

As he mounted a black destrier, he hoped Ayadra would be safe in his absence; no other assaults had been aimed at his charge since the morning three days past. Perhaps the General had recanted his furious belief the incarnate was or brought a curse - Elle'dred could only hope.

The party - Taedoran and he needed some days yet for their injuries to heal; his leg wound ached as he sat atop the black. He ignored the pain.

The General signalled for them to move out. They left the stronghold by the northern gate and proceeded into the vast, empty flatness of the plains.

An hour passed; the flatlands hid nothing. The few rock rises, mounds of dirt and bushes that were scattered sporadically across the otherwise unerring landscape of grass held sweeping distances in between where nothing could have gone unnoticed.

Yet, despite the green bareness of the plains, Elle'dred's apprehension mounted - as did his dread. He did not know what he had asked Llrsyring to do, but he realised now, it may have been something as unnatural as the obsidian incarnate he had sworn to himself to protect.

Silence, broken only by the crashing of hooves around him, haunted the plains.

Abruptly, the General gestured for them to stop - Elle'dred had descried it too.

A dark splotch on the grass, in the distance.

The General ordered a warning shot.

One of his lieutenants unshouldered a bow, retrieved, nocked and drew an arrow; at his commander's motion he let the shaft loose. It flew, arced across the clouds and landed not far from the goblin.

The lack of response was all the General needed to kick his heels and resume their approach.

As the shape grew in size, Elle'dred could tell the goblin was dead. Blood stained the grass.

He glanced up, as they continued.

Their enemies began to emerge; each lay unmoving, sprawled across the grass. The bodies were few at first, scattered across the gently undulating hillocks of the plains; but their numbers grew. The ground turned dark beneath his black's hooves; the green of the land merged in tatters with the great stain that obscured it, and then was concealed utterly by the new undergrowth of corpses.

As far as the horizon stretched, the ground was covered. Goblins and incarnates had been cut down like the blades of grass their blood stained red. Their armour and weapons, their banners and their shields, all lay across the dead, unmoving and still.

The stench of rot wafted at its beginnings into the air.

The smell of battle Elle'dred was used to - the scent of spilled blood, was disturbingly absent. Whiffs here and there, he caught, but they were slight. The smells were as faint as the soft, mournful whistle of the wind.

The soldiers dismounted - where they could find uncovered ground - and began to examine the bodies.

Elle'dred followed after a moment.

He had seen sights like this before - battlefields covered in bodies.

But this had not been a battle.

The part of him that was a soldier, that had been a soldier, added - these were the enemy, this was a victory. Victory and fairness did not go hand in hand.

Some soldiers laughed out loud - one began to jeer, and kick the corpses at his feet. His friends joined him after a moment.

"Is this good fortune?" a lieutenant asked the General, "Is this an omen?"

"It is no good omen, if it is." the General muttered - Elle'dred agreed.

The commander barked orders for his men to stay their inappropriate behaviour; and to scout out the bodies, to find what had assailed the host and caused its destruction.

Taedoran sat atop his chestnut, pale yet from the poison. Rage and loathing might've burned as they always did in his eyes, but Elle'dred could not tell from his vantage.

After some long minutes, passed only by the wind, one of the soldiers sent to survey the battlefield returned.

"What did you find?" the General asked.

"The main fight happened over there, sir." he indicated with his hand, "The goblins were attacked by something from within their own ranks. Whatever it was - they could not handle it. It broke their formation, hundreds were trampled as they tried to flee."

"The war bands turned against each other, then?" a lieutenant suggested.

"No sir." the soldier answered, "We found no weapons of theirs that had drawn blood."

"None?"

"No sir."

Elle'dred avoided the General's glance.

"Sir, there is more." the soldiers continued, "There are some goblins and the bull-men that are not wounded. Many were killed with a blade, but there are others who did not have a wound on them. It is as if they just dropped dead. And there are corpses, sir...the strangest thing we found. It seems the goblins were carrying the remains of their fellows, and the bull-men. There are hundreds of corpses that appear long dead." he paused, palpably disturbed by what he was reporting, "They are withered, as if they have been dug out of their graves. But...sir, some of them look as though they were fleeing when they died."

The General was silent for a long moment, "Show me."

Elle'dred followed the group on foot, as the soldier led them across the bodies.

They neared the unmistakable corpse of an incarnate.

The body was unnaturally thin, as though its flesh had shrivelled around its bones; it seemed as though it had lain in its grave for years, had it not been for the lack of rot. Its skin was grey and crinkled, as though it was withered from age, but in its emaciated face there was a terror and agony perfectly preserved.

The General threw another glance at him, which he did not meet.

"Remain here." the commander ordered.

"Yes, sir."

"I will send more men out to assist you. Burn all the bodies."

The General mounted and reined his horse away from the soldiers; he gestured for his officers to remount and return to the township.

Elle'dred hauled himself up onto the black; he threw one last glance around the battlefield.

Llrsyring had stopped the goblins. That was all that mattered.

He kicked his horse into pace some hundred paces behind the General's company.

The General paid them no heed once they had returned to the stables, and Elle'dred felt no compunction to consult the man on his intentions. His township had been spared; he had not lost any more men - if he cared why, it was not evident in his face.

Behind Taedoran, at the man's direction, they returned to the barracks.

The others were there waiting for them, even Hheirdane.

Llrsyring stood in the corner of the room, amidst the shadows.

Taedoran shot a glare at the armour, half turned onto the knight behind him.

Elle'dred did not care.

Taedoran moved over to a cot, and began to disrobe - faint quivers still moved across the ashen flesh of his back and arms. Sweat beaded and trickled across his skin.

Despite the pain in his leg, Elle'dred moved over to the corner of the room.

Silence pervaded; he felt something akin to an abhorring gaze cast on him by his friend, or one of the magus - he didn't bother to determine which.

Llrsyring met his gaze with the emptiness of his helm - for a moment Elle'dred thought he saw fear or shame, but the armour vanished into mist before he could be sure of anything.

The fear and shame were likely more his than the deathwalker's.

* * *

Phio stood before the two people he trusted most in all of the city; Lyrien, his love, and Faldorn, his friend. It seemed to him so insignificant, that in all the immense stone splendour of Delphanas, there were only two people that he could trust.

But he needed them; he needed people he could rely upon if they were to fight. He had resolved, he had hated it - but he knew that there was only one solution; they would have to prepare for civil war.

Faldorn had been right; and the Magus had already moved.

"So Hadrath is dead?" Faldorn asked.

"He was killed several days ago," Phio answered, "They believe an escaped prisoner found their way into his room and murdered him in his sleep."

"Ormus arranged it?"

"That is what he told me." Phio muttered. He glanced at Lyrien, she held an unfocused gaze for some time, and it had worried him.

"Can we trust him?" Faldorn enquired.

"I am not sure. I wanted to know you were behind me before we even considered bringing others in on our...plot."

"You have not told him of my findings?"

Phio shook his head, "Only we here are aware that the War of Men will occur; I do not, yet, trust Ormus enough to share all our secrets with him...I wanted to see if he was truthful, capable of what he proposed. I did not know how capable he was."

"Murder..." Faldorn muttered, gravely, "It makes you wonder what else he can do."

Phio nodded, more to himself than to his aide's comment, "Ormus seems loyal, to the Assembly at least. I have no doubt he has his own agenda, and that he will use this turmoil to achieve it. But very much to my own surprise, it would seem that agenda can overlook personal grievances and animosity. And its clear to me he has a genuine desire to spare the people suffering." Phio paused, and sighed, "I took the impression that the magus betrayal has disturbed him the most."

"It still seems wrong."

Phio sighed - Ormus was right, he and those he befriended were idealists. Idealism may have had its values - but not now, when the land was threatened. A surge of bitterness manifested that under his nose the magus had prepared for civil war, and he had been led unwittingly by their supposed dedication to the law. He resented that he had been so naïve.

"This is no time for good and evil." he snapped - more to himself than to his aide; the remark however, caught Faldorn off-guard and Lyrien glanced at him momentarily in reprimand.

Phio recovered himself, "I'm sorry," he muttered, "This decision had to be made; and there are more decisions yet ahead that will have to be made. All of them as unsavoury as this...more people will have to die. And I think very few, cleanly." he paused, "This war must be fought in secret, we cannot allow it to escalate into an all-out civil conflict. With your forewarning we may even be able to keep this entire matter clandestine, at least until we can secure a...swift victory. We need to stall the magus, while we gather our forces, and we need the people on our side."

Faldorn was silent a moment, before he added, "We are going to need help."

Phio repressed a smile, his aide's support counted for far more than he had thought, "I have thought of that; and I think when the Magus move again, I will bring Ormus into this." he paused; he breathed a deep reluctant sigh, "We are going to need people we can trust. Archivists, oracles..." he paused again and glanced at Lyrien; she met his gaze, but gave only a slight nod, he continued, "It will take time to form our resistance."

Faldorn chuckled, grimly, "Resistance." he paused, "I know someone. An archivist, we are...close." again he paused, considering his words carefully, "And we can trust him."

Phio nodded, "It is unfortunate that we do not do not know when, or even how the magus will react to this. No doubt Ormus will be...watching, as he put it, but the magus next move might catch even him by surprise."

"I could consult the records again?" Faldorn proposed.

Phio motioned for him to leave, "Anything you discover that could help," he muttered; he glanced at Lyrien - her silence had begun to unnerve him, and she had resumed a cold, undirected stare, "I have wasted enough of our time as it is, and you unquestionably have duties to perform - we will meet again soon."

Faldorn nodded, and rose. As he left the room, Phio approached the oracle.

He reached out gingerly for her arm; when she did not recoil he asked, "Have I said something to offend you...again?"

"Why would I be offended?" she asked snidely.

"Lyrien, I am sorry," he said, "You were right - all those years ago, you were right. But I was a different man then, I was not...I was not right. There is nothing we can do to change the past."

She looked up at him and her eyes softened slightly, she raised her hand and stroked his face, "You were wrong." she reaffirmed, "At least you are not keeping more secrets from me."

Phio managed a grim smile, and moved to kiss her.

She held him off, and looked at him, "I need to go, this has...been a trying few hours."

Phio sighed and stepped back to allow her to pass. She rose, and planted a light, brief kiss on his lips, but moved out of the room with her back turned to him.

He marvelled at how she could be so warm and so cold at any one moment. He knew he had hurt her, and that she had already forgiven him for it.
Chapter 17

_The wyverns saw the Immortal take flight, and took upon themselves their greatest shape. They would fight the Immortal and stop him from shaping the Fourth Heaven. They were an army facing one foe. The Immortal was beaten, and fled into the sky, to the farthest corner where the Andarae could not find him. The Wyverns were angry, they knew such rage that they sought to chase the Immortal and remove him from the sky._

_But the Wyvern Kings knew mercy. And they told the other wyverns they would not follow. They would know peace, and would stay upon the Fourth Heaven. They would guard this land, and maybe when it had grown into every corner of the sky they would reconcile with the Immortal. If he did not realise his folly and return before the Fourth Heaven grew._

* * *

Ayadra's injuries were healing. His fingers were restrained and numbed by the casts around his hands; and his chest had stopped hurting some days ago. Despite a lingering tightness, he could breathe again.

Days had passed, since Llrsyring had vanished from the barracks.

Ayadra did not know how many; between the incessant anxiety of his captivity, and the sporadic pain of his injuries, he had lost track of the days. He had never been able to keep track of them. He did not know how long it had been since he had woken in his cell, his first memory -

He did not know who he was. What he was.

His days chained to the walls of the barracks had given him no respite from the uncertainty that had opened up within him. He did not know - anything. Save for what he had done to Hheirdane, what he still did.

Hheirdane did not sleep.

When Ayadra himself woke from the nightmare of the manacles and burning and the flames - he had caught the stare of the knight. When he glanced around in the first moments of wakeful terror - he had met the man's eyes. More than once.

Hheirdane watched him during the sleepless hours between nightmares. The nightmare they shared.

Every night Hheirdane relived his worst injury - Ayadra knew.

How he knew, continued to elude him. The force inside that had revealed the truth of what he had done had not returned since; and no effort of his could uncover its source. There was so little of himself he understood.

- What was he?

This morning, under the bleak grey haze of dawn, his guards had roused, prepared their belongings and removed the spike that affixed his chains to the wall. Elle'dred had asked him to his feet, and he had been led through the town.

A group of guards had surrounded them for the journey - too many eyes, too many people.

He had feared most that his tail would slip the hem of his cloak and expose him, as it had before. His broken fingers, immobilised in casts, were incapable of grasping the tip in any effort to keep it concealed, and when he had tried to wrap it around his leg, the awkwardness had nearly caused him to trip.

Elle'dred would not have taken offence. But Taedoran would.

He had let his tail move in accordance with his body; he had no other choice. Thankfully, however, they had made it out of the town without incident - and the other guards had disbanded.

Then they had begun marching, again.

* * *

Night encroached upon the flat emptiness of the plains, as they set up camp at the base of a hillock - one of the furthest foothills of the range that grew across the western horizon.

Elle'dred watched the black line of peaks, the Riven Mountains, lit by the lingering orange of the southern sun; they would not have a fire tonight. The reaches of An'dier did not extend this far east, and they had not procured firewood from the township.

Any fire would undoubtedly draw attention from their foes; an overwhelming slaughter seemed the most probable outcome. Some morbid part of him suggested that it would solve his dilemmas more efficiently than other options, but he repressed the thought.

The realisation manifested with little impact - he had never in his life been this far west in Ammandorn. He had crossed the last boundary of their civilisation; the furthest reach of the Archivists, and the Magus, lay a day's march behind him. The authority of Champions would no longer serve him as they moved into the forest of An'dier, and the wastes of Agdor. All that lay ahead was an unknown wilder land teaming with enemies he could not see.

He was glad.

Under the bleak haze of dusk the Champion of the White Wolf fed his charge.

Elle'dred had withdrawn the incarnate's cowl; to allow easier access to his face. Ayadra's hands precluded him from manipulating his food to any successful degree, and as such the knight had accepted the task of ensuring their charge was fed.

As he had for the past week.

He did not care; and it was the least he could do for the incarnate.

Four days past, he had watched Taedoran throw Ayadra a ration; and despite the casts binding his fingers, the incarnate had laboured awkwardly to pincer the food between his limbs and lift it to his face. The cowl Ayadra would never have removed himself, had obstructed the movement, and after the first two mouthfuls the ration had slipped from the incarnate's numb grasp.

Ayadra had endured the repeated task of retrieving it in silence, despite having been without food for two days.

Elle'dred had forgotten to feed him.

Despite Ayadra's difficulty, Elle'dred had not intervened that night.

He had fed the incarnate the next day, after the daily ration had slipped beyond his reach - beyond the length of his chains; and it had become obvious none of the others paid any attention to their charge.

Ayadra had trembled, and it had taken a firm order for the incarnate to eat the bites proffered to him; but it was all Elle'dred could do. He knew Taedoran had watched him in disgust. And Hheirdane.

He had not talked to his friend in days.

He did not care.

Ayadra had seemed more at ease at being fed as the days passed; Elle'dred was grateful a trust, if albeit a fragile one, had grown between them. Ayadra still would not meet his eyes; not unless he was ordered to.

Unexpectedly, Llrsyring emerged once more from a transient mist.

Taedoran shot a glare at the armour, but the fervour of his abhorrence was lost amidst the gloom of twilight.

The deathwalker moved through a swish of his robes towards Elle'dred, and Ayadra, secured to the ground beside the knight.

As the incarnate tentatively took the strip of bread Elle'dred offered, between the bone rim that occluded the thin obsidian lip of his upper jaw and his scaled lower mandible and began the slow task of chewing, the knight glanced up at the deathwalker beside him.

Llrsyring watched in silence, framed against the empty, greying sky, as Elle'dred gradually finished feeding Ayadra.

There was nothing and far too much the knight wanted to say - but if they were to talk he would wait until they were imparted the privacy of night.

"We make our way to Agdor," Taedoran interrupted the silence - calmly; but Elle'dred could not mistake the disgust the other Champion concealed underneath his tone; he hoped Taedoran would not look for a fight, "You can kill every goblin there."

Llrsyring did not respond.

After some further minutes locked in uncomfortable silence - and the transition into the thick darkness of night, their leader ordered them to sleep - Elle'dred had volunteered for first watch.

The knight drew alongside the suit of armour.

Under the starlight that revealed nothing but black across the plains, Llrsyring stood as an effigy of darkness that surpassed the night.

"I am sorry." Elle'dred muttered.

"I can hold nothing against you," the deathwalker replied, his voice lingered in its echo longer than was normal, "Men so easily commit evil, it must be in your nature."

The remark sparked a flare of anger, but it guttered momentarily under uncertainty and shame, "I did not know...what I asked of you, I -"

"I am sorry," Llrsyring interrupted, "That was unfair; you asked nothing more of me than to protect Ayadra," he paused - a long silence lingered amidst the distant whistle of the wind, "You regret it as much as I then?"

"Yes."

"And yet you are a soldier, and what you saw was a victory."

"Yes."

Llrsyring sighed, "Shadows dwarf the shape that makes them, Elle'dred. You will regret much more than you now do in the future."

The cryptic warning did not faze the knight; he already regretted more than he had thought he ever would.

After a long pause, the knight expressed the only thought that prevailed in his mind, "I am sorry."

Elle'dred knew it was not much of a beginning, but it was all he could comprehend.

"I must ask some things of you." - he managed.

"You need not my permission."

"How did you -" - as ever, his first question lacked any tact; but he was fortunately cut off by the armour.

"I will not destroy any others as I did that army. I will not claim so much life, however much of me might have been born to death. What I have already done may scar the land beyond all else."

"Llrsyring, what are you?"

The helm chuckled; the knight was almost grateful for the sound.

"Evidently, something that scares you."

"Everything scares me at the moment," Elle'dred muttered; the helm glanced at him, "Can we survive Agdor, Llrsyring?"

"No." the deathwalker answered; it did not surprise him, "We are on a foolish path, dictated by a fool." the helm paused, "But fools rule your world, and it is not my place to question them. Nor, would it seem is it yours."

- Elle'dred heard him; but for the moment he had no answer to that.

He paused, "Can I ask why none were turned to stone?"

That was an easier question.

"What happened on the plains that night must never happen again. It was a mistake - my failing."

"Can I ask what else you can do?" Elle'dred tried, "Some of the incarnates, they were - withered. Others seemed to have dropped dead of their own accord. Llrsyring, I have never seen anything like it."

The deathwalker did not respond immediately.

"In my right hand I hold the death of years; age itself that consumes life. And in my left I hold the moment of passing, the very instant when the world turns to ash. These two deaths are the birth right of deathwalkers, of the sixth blood. The magus, in their foolishness, would call them a gift."

"Do any necromancers survive?" - the question was more fragile; Elle'dred hesitated nearly to the point of silence before he managed it.

"Some."

Elle'dred was grateful for the vagueness, "Good." he muttered dismissively. He did not have the stomach to pursue that line of questioning - he did not expect he ever would.

"And the stone?"

Llrsyring paused for a moment - Elle'dred wondered if he would answer; the vague hope sparked that he would amidst -

"That death is not something this world should see. It is horrific enough in its method, but more so in its aftermath. That death - one's soul is trapped in the stone. It cannot feel, or see, or live, and it is alone - until this world ends."

Elle'dred was grateful for the answer; his ally had revealed more about himself than he could expect - and it served to turn his mind away from other matters. As much as the answer terrified him.

"Is this world doomed?" he asked, sardonically.

Llrsyring chuckled, "What do you think?"

* * *

Faldorn sat in his quarters, waiting for a reply. Keron sat atop his lap - but despite the intimate closeness of his presence, Faldorn was terrified there was a new distance between them.

He had explained their situation, and asked for his lover's help. But Keron had become oddly silent, and the characteristic smile was missing from his features. Faldorn had dreaded the more he spoke, the more he had said that Keron did not want to hear, and that he had asked too much of him.

"Well?" he prompted, nervously.

"It's a lot to take in," Keron muttered; a long pause followed, "But firstly," he planted a kiss on Faldorn's lips, "I still love you."

He smiled, and Faldorn could not help but mirror the expression, albeit with an inane relief.

Keron chuckled, "You know I don't really have a choice in this. If I wasn't with you, you'd stop sleeping with me - and that'd be no fun," he grinned, "And by that terrified expression you had a minute ago, one would've thought you thought I was going to turn you in as a traitor."

Faldorn chuckled, "I love you."

"Damn right." Keron responded, "With the way you started all I could think was 'oh hell he's leaving me' - or that you really had cheated with Phio. But instead I was told our society is coming apart at the seams and a civil conflict that will result in many, many deaths is unavoidable." he paused, and let the mirth of another chuckle settle into his smile, "Anything else you have to tell me?"

"No," Faldorn answered, "That was the worst of it." he grinned elatedly - the reprieve from the worry and solemnity of the past days was overwhelmingly welcome.

His lover caught his gaze and met it with a new playfulness, "Well then, what with the hard stuff out of the way and all...can we just have sex now?"

Faldorn laughed and kissed him, again.

* * *

Fire burned. Beyond the glow of his manacles, in the depths of his dreams.

Ayadra burned; as he did every night.

And the fire burned with him. It crackled, roared and seethed - and laughed. The flames of his flesh watched him, as the hours of torture were relived in his dreams. He screamed. He cried. They laughed.

They would always laugh. And they would always burn - as they had on that night, when they had seared his wounds away. They dwelt in his flesh, in the depths of his being. He knew them. Beyond the shallow obsidian of his skin, and the simple muscles and bones of his body - in his dreams, he knew.

He knew what they were. What they meant.

And he was afraid.

He tried to run; but in his nightmare of manacles and pain - watched over by the malefic face of his tormentor, he could not run. He could not escape.

The flames burned. They would always burn. And they hated him.

- Ayadra woke with a gasp.

A cry choked against the inrush of cold air. The bitter darkness of the night, broken only by the pale glitter of the stars above, had covered the plains for hours.

The first breath of waking filled his lungs for a moment; it departed as quickly as it had come, and was followed by myriad others; quick and shallow. Ayadra breathed - the sharp night air stung his throat and lungs.

The haze of fear - of his nightmare - remained.

Slowly, forcibly, he steadied his breathing. The fear was restricted to a flurried rhythm in his chest, and the quivering that ran across every scale of his skin. Slowly, it too steadied - into a lingering uncertainty, and an unwanted forgetfulness.

Ayadra tried to remember the dream - he wanted to remember -

But each night it faded. What he knew faded. There was something in his dream - something he needed to know. He knew -

Nothing.

Only uncertainty - and fear.

What was he?

The force of memory or knowing that had come before had not since returned; nor had the unexplained burning in his side, that had seared his wound shut - the burst of fire that had healed his flesh.

The fire -

"Nightmares?"

Ayadra started involuntarily, at the echoed voice of the deathwalker. A moment of resurgent panic darted his head up and to the side - to meet the empty eyeholes of the helm.

Llrsyring stood beside him; a black silhouette, against the night, defined by lighter shadow. The plates of the armour caught a dim sheen in the starlight, and deep shadows clung to every seam.

The deep emptiness of the serpentine helm, beyond the starlit edges of its sockets, met the incarnate's eyes for a moment. Ayadra returned his gaze to the ground.

After a pause, he nodded.

Llrsyring lowered himself, to sit beside him. Ayadra glanced again at the armour; for a moment, his trembling was not solely a result of the cold.

"Can I talk?" - the words emerged as whisper, and the starlight caught his breath as a pallid plume; it took more effort to speak than he had thought, "Ask you things?"

"What do you want to know?" the armour returned, warmly.

Ayadra's instinctual trepidation eased - but for a moment more, his voice was lost -

"They want to destroy me, don't they?"

"Yes." Llrsyring answered after a pause.

Ayadra remembered the same phrase being spoken by his guards; it was no more a fear than any other part of his life.

"Do you?" - he was terrified of asking the question.

"I could kill you here and now," Llrsyring replied, flatly, honestly; though no threat hid amidst his echo, "With little else but a touch of my hand. But, Ayadra, I neither seek your death nor will I."

Ayadra knew as much; the force of memory or knowing had revealed that to him.

He paused for a long time - there was another question that terrified him -

"Llrsyring, what am I?"

The armour chuckled, "A very long story. And not one you would understand."

Ayadra sighed; that had not been an answer. Tentatively, he drew out his hands from his cloak; the black bone of his talons shimmered in the starlight - above the dull bandaging that enwrapped his hands. The blades that had harmed Hheirdane, that haunted the man with a nightmare that yet continued to cause harm, caught the starlight on their edges. Malevolent and cruel.

For a moment, Ayadra stared at them - at the parts of him he understood no more than the patch of charring on his side.

"I know things Llrsyring. I don't know how - but I know....I know Hheirdane hates me more than any of the others...I know I wounded him with...these...I forced him to suffer his worst pain...I saw it...something inside of me showed me it...I didn't mean to..." he paused; the question he dreaded most escaped involuntarily - inevitably, "Am I evil?"

There was a moment of silence.

Suddenly, the ground threw mist around him; a grey unmoving mist. The earth beneath him felt warm and soft, and the slightest of winds, which parted the vapour, gently carried a fine black wisp from its surface into the air. The wisp lingered for a moment, and Ayadra thought it formed the shape of a hand grasping at the sky of endless storm. The thick, dark clouds glared menacingly, but in their faces the incarnate knew they would never break, never unleash their fury upon him.

He was warm.

The bitter air of the night was gone, vanished. And he breathed deeply; the air filled his lungs and felt as though it remained still within him, despite his breathing out.

Some part of him raced to panic, to terror; the landscape had changed so suddenly, the very night had been driven away. But at the same time, beyond his understanding, he felt safe. He was overwhelmed by a sensation as alien as the landscape around him - comfort.

Of belonging.

He swallowed, "Where are we?"

"The land of all things fallen," Llrsyring answered; the armour's voice rung out full and strong, unhindered by his characteristic echo.

- The land of all things fallen. He remembered.

"The land of the dead, the shadow of the world," Ayadra uttered the words as though they were his name, as though he had known them his entire life - but he had never heard them before; once more, he simply knew them, as he had known what he had done to Hheirdane.

The inexplicable knowledge returned, and it terrified him.

What was he?

He looked out across the mist, to the unending horizon watched over by the storm. The mists parted, momentarily, around five shapes - all rendered in stone. Four lay, asleep upon the ground of ash, while the fifth stood with his back turned to them.

Though no light intruded from beyond the storm, there was light upon the emptiness of the land, grey and old; Ayadra could make out the shapes - each had a face, each was one of his guards etched into unending stone.

He looked away, again, into the vast landscape stretching forever; the mist, the storm.

The door to his memory or knowing had not closed. Despite uncertainty and fear he remembered more - more that he could not know, "You brought Elle'dred here?"

"Yes." the answer was given behind him.

"This is where you go when you disappear?"

"Yes."

Ayadra knew it was truth before Llrsyring spoke, "No mortal man, no beast nor living thing of the world can tread these lands without facing their end." - the truth, he knew; he paused, "How do I know these things?"

The deathwalker did not answer.

"Llrsyring," he began - despite the guilt and the fear that he had just revealed himself to be a thing worthy of abhorrence, he turned to look at the suit of armour.

But Llrsyring was no longer armour. His form had changed; the face that met Ayadra shimmered in the unseen light. It was full, and glowed with a pale but inviting hue. His face was long and serpentine, alike Ayadra's, and it bore gleaming plates of bone that broke only at the seam for his sinuous mouth and sleek sockets - which held kindly eyes.

Llrsyring let the smallest of smiles curve onto his face.

But as quickly as the smile appeared, did it vanish; a shadow fell across the deathwalker's features, like a mask, so similar and yet so fixed and alien. Though Ayadra could still see the shape of Llrsyring underneath the veil, the shadow covered him, and turned to armour. The plates of his face became metal - frozen and lifeless; and a cloak of darkest shadow wrapped around him. Framed against the sky, a pale moon - a silver, glimmering circle of light shone for a moment. The armour's silhouette was caught, and he seemed in place against it.

But like Llrsyring's face, it faded also, passing beneath the storm.

"Is that what you are?" Ayadra's concerns were momentarily forgotten.

"What you saw was my once true form." Llrsyring answered, "It was the form of the Ellyan Taun. Of my race, and what I used to be - before I died." he chuckled, "You see this shadow, this armour that eclipses me, that is all I am when I walk in the world."

"You looked so alike me." the wild hope blazed to unwanted life inside Ayadra - maybe he was not alone.

"The Ellyan Taun are - were," the armour paused to correct himself, "Descendants of a very similar blood to that which flows in your veins. In a world before this one, great beings known as wyverns lived on this land. My blood is of that legacy and - so is yours."

"Am I a wyvern?"

"I can't answer that. Not yet. You would not understand," Llrsyring paused, "You ask me if you are evil; that is not a question I can answer. You ask me to explain what you are, how you know things - the answer is not something you can grasp, not yet."

Whether it was truth or not, Ayadra could not tell.

The door to his memory, or whatever force imparted strange knowledge to him, had closed once more. As quickly as it had come, it ceased. What he knew had limits again - a boundary that only enclosed confusion. And fear.

"But on another matter," the armour continued, "If you wish to know, I can explain what I am - at least, in part."

Ayadra nodded.

"I am a legacy, a bane and a curse."

Ayadra's eyes, the only expressive features of his face, narrowed in mystification.

Llrsyring freed a brief chortle, and resumed, "Before men destroyed my race, we fought an enemy that sought to claim this world in darkness, much as one now does. They were called Daethyr, and they wielded magics this world should never have seen. They built a creature of destruction. The Golem, they named it, and it was this very armour that contained it; no life to bind it, no death to take it, this armour was the weapon that would consume all things." the armour paused and looked down across his body, "I could not allow that. The Ellyan Taun warred with Daethyr. We fought their influence and tried to protect the men and the dwarves, from their power. But they managed to create this, and it attacked Ammandorn without mercy. I was once entrusted to protect the Ellyan. I was one of their oldest and strongest, born to the blood of deathwalkers, and I fought the Golem. I commanded it to death." Llrsyring paused, "It is such that those touched by the nethers cannot exist without a form to hide them, and this is that which hides me. However, I do not wear this armour by choice, but because I must. As with all old and powerful things, the Golem had been cursed. Perhaps Daethyr knew it might one day fall, so they made it such that it would fulfil its mission regardless," the helm chuckled, "It was something of a predictable curse, one I should have foreseen. Any who kill the Golem are doomed to become it. Not terribly imaginative. But as such, I took on the armour, and the dark power within." he paused, and met Ayadra's eyes, "I am a being of a power not meant for this world, encased in a weapon designed to destroy it - and I do not know if I am evil." he chuckled, "You, Ayadra, were created to end this world; whether you will or will not I cannot say, as I cannot say if you are evil, because I do not know what that means any more than you."

Ayadra's confusion - and uncertainty remained.

"But I am a weapon?"

"Yes." Llrsyring answered.

The answer hurt.

He did not want to be a weapon - he did not want to hurt people.

Silently, obliviously, the ground turned hard beneath him; once more, the grass of the plains stretched under the yellow hue from the southeast horizon, as the deep blue above receded.

Abandonment struck him abruptly and sharply, as the cool air of dawn moved through the slightest breeze from the west; the comfort, the belonging of the strange otherworld had faded with it.

He was cold, again.

Ayadra glanced away, at movement. At the recumbent form of Hheirdane. The knight shifted restlessly in his sleep - in his nightmare.

He was a weapon. It was the truth.

"Can I choose not to be a weapon? Not to hurt people?"

- Llrsyring was a weapon; Llrsyring, himself, was designed to kill, to hurt - but he did not; he chose not to harm the world as he was meant to.

Llrsyring was silent - for too long.

"Yes." the deathwalker answered.

But you will fail.

* * *

Phio had met the newest member of their group. Archivist Keron had been well received; he had accepted the duties of their subterfuge with alacrity. He seemed competent enough, but the boy had an excessive sense of humour; Phio had thought it indecorous the way he had treated the gravity of their situation with such a light-hearted manner.

He had not been unpleasant, just informal - though Phio was the first to admit his grasp upon the attitudes of the younger archivists was failing; it had been some time since he had spoken inofficiously with a lower archivist that was not his aide.

Faldorn had introduced Keron as a friend, but the Elder Archivist had noted that his aide seemed especially uncomfortable while he was in the room; and had even had to hide a grimace every time the boy had made a joke or jest that seemed, to the more reticent, inappropriate.

But Phio had thought it likely that they were friends as much for antagonism as for congeniality. The Elder Archivist had reflected, in nostalgia, how many of his friends had been likewise - and, regrettably, how many of those friendships had faded or all but disappeared. He had been struck by how alone he was - he counted only three people that he knew and trusted, and one of those he wanted to remain apart from this crisis.

Thankfully, Lyrien had resumed her more affectionate regard, but her outward coldness would have concealed it from most others. He was unashamedly glad she supported him in this.

She sat reading over the older prophecies he had thought could help them, and he; tired of vainly attempting to decipher cryptic phrases, stood at the window watching the mountains pass their timelessness under the sun.
Chapter 18

_Though distraught over the Immortal's actions, the Andarae found this pleasing. They appointed the Wyvern Kings the guardians of the Fourth Heaven. The Wyvern Kings would take the greatest shapes and stop anything from disrupting the growth of the Fourth Heaven. But while they would watch the Fourth Heaven grow into its fullness, they would have to remain upon the land, and they would not see Narguin again for the longest of times. The Wyvern Kings knew joy and sadness, yet they also knew that this must be done. Now, the Elves would tend the Fourth Heaven, and the Wyverns would guard it._

* * *

Another day had passed. The Riven Mountains loomed in the west. An uncharted range of soaring peaks, capped in white, shrouded in a cloak of green. The dense forest of An'dier concealed the convoluted uncertainty of the slopes; innumerable valleys and ravines were riven across the mountainsides, all twisting and winding through one another, up the severe and forbidding incline.

The sparse edge of the forest lay not more than an hour's walk away; Taedoran and Hheirdane had left some time before dusk. They had headed towards the line of green in the west.

Their leader had not given reason for his departure, or why Hheirdane in particular had been selected; and for the most part Syla did not care.

For a week now she had been empty; devoid of thought and comprehension. She had tried to find merit in the tasks assigned to her; but one could find only so much meaning in folding blankets and allocating rations.

Her only companions were resentment and plaguing honesty. She was determined to meet them both, on equal terms; she was damned if she weak. She was damned uncertain, but she was not weak.

Her life, study, truth, law - her home, were gone now; and despite the acrimony that she had had no choice in the matter, and the inane part of her that tried to cling to the established, to linger forevermore in denial, she was glad of it.

She was glad her life had been shattered irrevocably, and that now she was left abandoned and alone to retrieve a semblance of meaning and truth - the gladness had nearly driven her insane.

She watched the deathwalker; the empty suit of armour stood on the far side of their camp, staring, unmoving, out into the east. Staring into the emptiness of the plains behind them. What he saw she did not know, or particularly care - if goblins came, they would defend themselves, or die. Whichever tactics, advantage or luck decided.

The Champion and the Sword-Bearer returned, bearing armfuls of firewood.

Taedoran ordered Dus and her to setup a fire.

"That would be foolish," Llrsyring said, "It will draw the goblins to us."

"You can handle them if it does." their leader returned with his characteristic disdain - Syla wanted to object herself, but thought better of it.

When the deathwalker did not pursue further argument, she enquired if she should conceal the fire.

Taedoran ignored her. As he had for the past week.

She masked her frustration, and turned to the only order he had given her. Dus lent his aid, and soon they had established a small blaze.

Dus had not spoken since they had left Catesus; and she had no desire to speak with him - she would not warrant outside influence; not until she had reclaimed a measure of certainty, however frangible.

As the haze of dusk fell across their camp, illuminated now by a fire, watch was assigned; Hheirdane was ordered on the first, Elle'dred the second. They each spread their beddings around the warm crackle of the flames and lay down for slumber; Syla, however, denied herself the sleep her body craved - sleep was just another form of retreat, another place to hide. She would not hide anymore.

The night fell, concealing the wall of uncertain mountains in the west and filling the emptiness of the plains beyond the light of their fire.

Llrsyring yet stood on the edge of the light, watching the darkness.

As the Sword-Bearer paced the perimeter of their camp, some of her resolve dulled - what she did would be observed by the knight who had not established a rapport with the deathwalker.

She quashed the thoughts of forestalment; slowly, wrapping her blanket like a shawl over the weight of her ebony robes, she rose to her feet and made her way over to the armour's side.

She stared out across the empty darkness of the plain. If anything beside her doubt lay in the east, she could not discern it.

"Llrsyring," she said, loud enough she hoped only the deathwalker would hear, "I want to speak with you."

"As you are already doing such, it seems foolish to request it."

The acrimonious quip stung her own resentments, both intended and undesired.

"I hate you," she pronounced, determinedly, "I hate you and everything you have done. I hate that you have come into my life and torn asunder everything I bel - everything I thought to be the truth. I hate that you know more about magic than I do. I hate you, utterly." she paused; it was an inexpressible relief to be honest, "But you are the only one who knows the truth, and I need that now. The truth. You owe me that at least."

"I owe you nothing, magus." though Llrsyring spoke impassively, Syla felt the vehemence leashed in his tone, "You have dedicated your life to lies, and now that you have discovered they are groundless and unfulfilling you seek to force the truth from one who owes you only vengeance. I do not intend to enlighten you."

Syla glared at him; her resolve had shattered with his words - but her stubbornness remained.

"Do you want a confession? Do you want me to beg? Fine. I was arrogant, I held absolute faith in the Tribunal - I never questioned it. I saw injustices performed by my superiors, I saw how flawed our laws and our methods are. And I did nothing. I could even have discovered this revolting truth you are - but I didn't. I believed I was right, I believed the Tribunal was right. And I'm sorry, but I am not going to live those lies anymore. You can refuse to help me - and I am not demanding it of you, I am asking you - but then you will be as guilty of arrogance as I."

Llrsyring turned his eyeholes to meet her gaze; she did not try to muster conviction or truth, she had none - she was begging.

"The truth is not an absolute thing; you would do best to remain confused -"

"I won't." she snapped.

Llrsyring was silent a moment, "You fail to understand, magic."

The barb bit deeply; she had yet to undermine all of her preconceptions. Momentarily, her mouth twisted into a retort, but she quelled the impulse and replied - acerbically, "Probably."

Llrsyring chuckled; whether his laugh held the edge of derision she feared, she could not tell, she waited pensively for his answer.

"I can teach you, more things than you would like to know." he paused, "And I will."

A moment of relief overcame her; but she regained her composure quickly. Her resentment, unwarrantedly, returned alongside.

"I still hate you. And I intend to keep hating you."

Llrsyring chuckled, "It will be mutual, I assure you."

Syla allowed the slightest curl of her lips, she could not fathom a smile - not now, not yet, "Good."

Having stomached the first methodical step in reclaiming her existence, Syla found herself unable to continue further; she was too tired, the night was too cold, and she knew the day ahead would be arduous and unrelenting. All that lay ahead was a seemingly endless mountain range covered in uncertain valleys and overwhelmingly dense forestation. She was confronted by the extent to which she loathed mountains. And forests.

As much as the deathwalker beside her. As much as she herself.

She turned and moved to her beddings; sleep did not come easily.

* * *

Ayadra woke from the nightmare - the same dream as ever. The face. The pain. The fear.

- The fire.

In his waking moments, he knew it - where it came from, and what it was. He struggled amidst the involuntary trembling, to retain some clear memory of what he had known so undeniably in his dreams.

But as ever, the knowledge and the feeling slipped away. Into the depths of uncertainty.

When he was awake, though, he thought he could feel it - the fire - in the depths of his being, simmering, smouldering, eager to return to his surface. To his skin. Eager to be called up by the heat of brands and punishment.

He did not know if the feeling was real, or just some imagined terror left in the wake of nightmares and lack of sleep.

- Something moved in the gloom that edged their camp, beyond the orange circle cast by their campfire.

Instinct - fear - darted his eyes to the shape.

And as quickly, to the ground.

He had met the eyes of his guard - of the man he had injured.

Hheirdane's eyes lingered on him.

He had not meant to -

The man's stare lifted, and he began to pace the camp's perimeter once more. The pain yet remained in Hheirdane's gaze.

Ayadra knew.

The nightmare they shared; the nightmare he had inflicted on the man that night upon the river would never leave.

It was breaking Hheirdane again - and the man was alone.

Hheirdane continued to pace the camp's perimeter; even as Elle'dred rose - seemingly instinctually, to take the second watch.

The Champion tried to speak with the other knight - but after a few words, under Hheirdane's cold silence, Elle'dred gave up. Hheirdane moved over to his bedroll and began to strip his weapons - with his back turned to his friend.

Ayadra watched.

Hheirdane threw a glance up at him. Pain, and resentment, and rage filled the man's eyes.

Ayadra looked away, amidst a pang of fear.

After a moment, Hheirdane lay down for sleep.

Ayadra listened.

- What was he?

A weapon. A thing meant to harm people.

The only consolation he could give himself was that he would never harm another person with his talons again. He had promised himself, but the notion brought no solace; he had not hurt Hheirdane when he was awake - he had hurt him while he was dreaming -

- The dream. Another thing he did not understand.

Was that how he would be used? Would he continue to kill people in his sleep?

Llrsyring had said he could choose not to be a weapon -

Huddled under his cloak, the incarnate could not stifle a yawn. He was exhausted. And the day ahead promised only marching - and mountains. His stomach gurgled; he had been fed - for that he was grateful. Elle'dred had not let him starve.

The knight moved on the far side of the camp; his guard was talking with the deathwalker.

Despite the tiredness, Ayadra lifted his cowl from his bone-clad face enough that he could see the fire. The nightmare would return when he fell asleep, however much he might not want it to, however much he tried to remain awake. The fire would burn.

He knew, in his dreams. He was terrified of it.

Exhaustion, and the ever-present ache of his broken fingers beneath the casts called him back into slumber. Slowly, inescapably, he fell asleep.

Brands and fire greeted him. Pain and fear.

Ayadra burned.

* * *

Another day passed, and they had achieved the foothills of the mountain range. The undulation of the land had been strewn with copses, glades and abrupt meadows; open between the ridges. Scrub scattered across the escapements and the slopes with increasing consistency; clustering often around the lone trees half swallowed by lichen and moss.

As Elle'dred waded through knee high grass, he was grateful his leathers protected him from erratic thorns and bristles of the less pervasive undergrowth.

His eyes never rested; the landscape was rife with potential hiding spots for enemies - every tree, shrub, and fallen log could hide a goblin - some even an incarnate. And the grass itself.

They were surrounded by potential enemies; in this meadow alone, swallowed by a sea of grass, they could be surrounded by hundreds of foes.

That they had not yet been attacked since leaving Catesus only served to further heighten his anticipation; they could not have been so fortunate as to have found the only clear path through all the goblin war bands, skirmishing parties and scouts that lay amongst the dense and inconsistent foothills.

In their history, the goblins had never used the range as a staging ground; simply because the geography prevented them from moving easily en masse into or across the slopes. The Wounds of Armanoth to the north, barred the goblins from entering the mountains by way of anything other than a circuitous and hazardous path; any large host would suffer attenuation and casualties simply by attempting the crossing, and the part of him that still was the Champion of the White Wolf quailed at the logistical issues imposed by such a course.

The goblins had always approached from the Valley of Ythordor; the only clear path into the wastes. But all that had ever tried their defences, since the first war of Thgad, were lone war bands - in numbers that could be easily matched by the western armies.

Elle'dred did not know the reported numbers of their foes, since the war had begun; and he had not bothered to ask the General at the keep for the tactical situation.

That he had failed in his obligations as Champion no longer bothered him; there was nothing he could do in any case.

It had hit him, forcefully, the seeming insanity of their course - they were walking into the heart of their enemy's lands; hoping that their lack of numbers would shield them from discovery.

They were defenceless.

Their mission was suicide, and had always been - the recognition had almost motivated him to question the Tribunal's Champion, confront the utter lunacy of their course, but he had sworn not to oppose Taedoran; and though he would scarce admit it to himself, he wanted to ignore his concerns.

Dusk approached with the southern sun dipping behind the towering peaks of the range above them; they found a clearing, atop a ledge that rose from the gradual incline of the meadow, towards the wall of hills in the north. Again, seemingly beyond comprehension Taedoran ordered another fire be prepared.

Elle'dred objected, but when his protestations were ignored he did not pursue the matter.

The damned magus, and their Champion - and his fellow knight, seemed unconcerned.

At Llrsyring's side, he muttered, "Damn it. Is the bastard a fool or trying to get us all killed?"

"Both." Llrsyring returned, dryly, "He intends to spite me."

Elle'dred had realised much the same thing, "If I hadn't asked you to intervene, he would not be so convinced you can protect us from anything."

Llrsyring remained silent. The deathwalker turned his helm to look up - Elle'dred followed his gaze - a silhouette moved across the fading purples of dusk, high above. A bird.

It freed a piercing cry.

"A hawk." Elle'dred muttered.

Realising his presence beside the deathwalker would likely accomplish only harm, he returned to the campfire. Syla handed him a ration, and in the same dividing silence that defined their group, they each ate their meal.

Night fell.

After, in the insane brightness of their campfire, Elle'dred retrieved a ration and fed Ayadra. The incarnate complied, silently - but the knight could tell, gratefully.

A noise from the darkness prompted his attention - the shifting of grass.

It forced him to his feet - and had his sword drawn.

He could see nothing beyond the edge of the firelight; but something moved in the darkness.

A wolf emerged into the yellow glow of their camp. The animal's silvery coat shimmered dully in the light, and glints were caught in its eyes.

Elle'dred tensed; uncertainty more than alarm braced his defence - the animal was not on the hunt, it seemed only to observe them.

A male voice called out from beyond the firelight, "Identify yourselves."

Their leader was the first to respond, "I am Taedoran of Ygoth, Champion of the Tribunal. Show yourself."

Behind the wolf, the shape of a man manifested from the darkness; the flames cast shadows across his features at first, but he moved alongside his animal and further into the light. He was clad in rough, weathered leathers, around a frayed and blood-stained tabard displaying Thgad's faded tiger; between his archer's vambraces, he held a short-bow with an arrow nocked but not yet drawn; the leather-bound hilt of a short-sword and a dagger hung from the belt at his waist, opposite a half-empty quiver of arrows. He regarded them with an old demeanour, wrinkles rested unfurrowed on his brow, above a heavy black beard and blue eyes.

"I am Arthadane, soldier of the sixth army."

"State your mission here." Taedoran ordered.

"I am a scout," the soldier answered, but then added - improperly, "You should not light fires here, milord."

Taedoran ignored the comment, "Are you alone?"

Arthadane nodded - inappropriately silent.

"Stand to attention," Taedoran barked in palpable offence.

The wolf snarled in reaction, and circled forward to place itself between the Champion of the Tribunal and the soldier; it bared its teeth.

The man was evidently born to the taming blood.

"I am out here alone, milord." Arthadane responded, implacably.

Taedoran was silent for a moment longer than Elle'dred appreciated; though he doubted the man's frustration could place them into more dire strife.

"Why?" Elle'dred asked.

Arthadane glanced at his tabard, and seemed to muster a fuller respect, "We were moving towards the mountains. We were ambushed by a goblin war band; we managed to fight them off, but it cost us two hundred men. General Thadorn needed to know where the goblins retreated to, so he sent me and a handful of others out."

"You have scouted the mountains?" Taedoran asked, sharply.

Arthadane nodded, but retained whatever deference Elle'dred's presence had elicited, "I tracked the goblins to the Wounds of Armanoth, just south of Agdor. But they lost me in the ravines. My hawk told me more goblins waited in the land further ahead, so I turned back to report to the General," he paused, "I saw your fire, and thought you might be goblins. The range is covered with them. I had two skirmishes on the northern slopes."

"Where is the sixth army now?" Taedoran enquired.

The soldier and his wolf beside him paused for a moment; his obvious hesitation was turned to the examination of each of the party members - and his eyes rested on the cloaked mass of the incarnate with a notable suspicion. He did not seem to see the deathwalker who stood in the shadows on the far side of the camp; though Elle'dred's sideward glanced showed Llrsyring clearly watched him.

"General Thadorn was ordered to the Valley of Ythordor," he paused again, "Why are you out here, milord? So far from our defences?"

Taedoran disregarded the enquiry, "What did you see in the Wounds?"

Arthadane visibly repressed a sigh, though conflictingly shrugged in evident and improper decorum, "There are many goblins and the bull-men in the ravines. War bands crowd the wounds; I cannot say about Agdor. Why do you need to know about the goblins movements?"

Taedoran did not answer.

"Do you journey to Agdor? A small group such as you, not travelling with an army, this close to the Riven Mountains."

Taedoran glared at the wolf, and at the soldier, "You will address me as is proper, or you will be held accountable to your General."

The threat carried no weight, both Arthadane and Elle'dred knew it.

The soldier, however, nodded, "Yes, milord."

A glance at him, told Elle'dred the scout would have responded more properly to his authority; and, the knight unlike their leader, would not have taken offence at a tired soldier's lack of respect.

Arthadane placed the arrow into his quiver and shouldered his bow. At a cry from his hawk, wheeling near imperceptibly against the stars above, he seemed to realise he had been still too long. He waved at his wolf, and the animal moved away into the darkness, beyond the lip of their ledge. Elle'dred heard the click of its claws as it leapt from the height of the rock into the sea of grass below - a quiet rustle turned into a perturbing silence, no doubt even as the animal continued through the scrub.

"If that is all you require of me, milord, I would ask to be dismissed."

"By the right of the Magus Tribunal, I charge you with the secrecy of this meeting; no one is to be told of our presence here."

"Yes, milord." Arthadane responded.

Taedoran regarded him for a moment with a narrowed glare, then pronounced flatly, "Dismissed."

The scout moved back into the darkness and down into the meadow beneath the ledge. He, alike his wolf, made almost no sound as he waded through the grass.

Goblins would make even less.

Taedoran glared after him.

The encounter had reawakened Elle'dred's concern; their fire had already been seen, and it was only fortune that had allowed it to be a lone and friendly soldier and not a dozen enemies armed with poisoned arrows.

He glanced at Taedoran and moved to speak - they had to put the damned fire out, when the Champion broadsided, "This changes nothing. We make our way to Agdor." - the man's cold façade masked a rage apparent in his voice, and Elle'dred, despite his reservations, was not game to confront that fury - it would do no good in any case.

"Sleep." Taedoran ordered - without attending to the fire.

It seemed assumed the traitor in their midst would stand watch with the unsleeping deathwalker he had befriended.

After the others had retired, Elle'dred moved alongside the armour, "I am guessing you can see no threat?"

"No goblins approach," Llrsyring paused, "And no foes shall find this fire tonight."

The flames of the blaze behind them, flickered lowly for a moment - as though an unseen gust had threatened them to extinguishment; but they roared into restored force with a vengeful crackle, a second after.

Whatever Llrsyring had done, Elle'dred was grateful, but his concerns still remained - if Taedoran continued in this way, he would undermine the mission, and he would get Ayadra killed.

Once more their leader proved he would damn the world just to spite an enemy.

And Elle'dred had sworn to obey him. Some small voice inside, heralded his regret that he had.

"Why didn't that soldier see you?"

"At night, even the sharpest eyes cannot discern a shadow from the darkness."

Elle'dred smirked, he had not done so in too long, "Can you never answer straightforwardly."

Llrsyring chuckled.

* * *

The party made their way along the base of a ravine, snaking its way amongst the last of the foothills and into the initial slopes of the mountain. The wind howled sporadically above, its full force was broken by the intervening walls of rock that defined and frustrated their course. The black mass of a storm covered the sky - the rare cloudbursts, sheeted down across the slopes, into the valleys.

Across the southern sky, beyond the edges of their ravine's walls, the thunderhead concealed the Southern Sun; muffled by distance and the dark weight of the clouds, thunder rolled above the white peaks of the range. There was little light, and that which reached the depth of the crevices and ridges, through the pervasive trees, was as grey as in winter.

They had dodged a goblin skirmishing band amongst the foothills.

Half crossing a ridge, they had espied the enemies making their way along a streambed further down the dale. They had been ordered to a stop; and had waited for the goblins to pass beyond the heavily forested promontory of the last hillock.

The goblins had not seen them.

For that, Syla was thankful - she hated combat, seeing people die. Even now it churned in her gut; but it did not overcome her as it once had - she knew she could accept it.

She despised her circumstances for that - death now had become a part of her life and she could accept it. She was no longer reduced to unshed tears and paralysing fear, and the self-recrimination of her weakness. Even her own death did not give her pause; she knew it was a risk each day.

She wanted to be back in Grgadorn, where death was not present - where the presumption that one would live to see each morning, alongside one's acquaintances and colleagues, was not self-delusion.

That life was gone - she would not lie to herself.

Life - her life, had been replaced by this; winding, switch-backed valleys, crowded with trees and brush and outcrops, crushed between incessant hills and unremitting slopes. Under the incessant force of the wind.

They left the ravine, and for a time achieved a level plateau of forest.

As they mounted the base of a hill, or some steep fragment of the greater overwhelming mountainside, they caught sight of another group of goblins, led by the massive shape of an incarnate along the pinnacle of the slope. They were ordered down, and Syla lay supine amidst the scrub of the hill without objection.

Buffeted by the incessant force and shriek of the wind, the hillside above and around them was covered in a savage susurration, as the gusts raced through the scrub.

Apprehension beat rapidly in her chest at first, but stilled, as the better part of an hour passed in tense anxiety - amidst the chilling bite of the wind. The goblins made a lethargic way across the ridge-top above them. The outcroppings scattered across the hillside, amidst pervasive brush, she hoped would serve as adequate cover.

Eventually, the goblins passed beyond the ridgeline - though the incarnate remained for a moment, and stared out across the landscape below. Syla watched the creature, between grass-blades, swept viciously astir - but eventually it turned and vanished from view.

Some long cold minutes passed, before Taedoran ordered them up, and resumed pace.

The last hours of the day bled by without further encounters; and the night followed - amidst the howl of the sky, under the starless darkness of the thunderclouds. Whether because of the events of the previous night, or because their leader's childish vindictiveness had reached its end, no fire was ordered.

Syla was grateful; even as she shivered herself to sleep. Two layers of blankets did not fight off the chill that descended from the storm, born upon the winds, and it seemed plainly obvious no one in the party could stomach huddling together for warmth.

Save for the Champion of the White Wolf and his two monsters.

Morning came, in a faint grey that bleached the vibrancy from the green of the surrounding fauna; the storm had grown to occlude all but a sliver of the northern horizon, and established a gloom across the slopes, which was further darkened by the towering thickness of the forest.

They continued on until mid-morning - when they were forced into a run.

They had been seen.

Their escape wound through the obscuring ranks of the trees, over a ridge and into the depths of a valley. The goblins followed; piercing cries that echoed through the close air of the forest, and across every ridge and slope within sight, harried them through the dell.

More than once Syla thought she heard the skittering of an arrowhead striking rocks behind her, but she repressed the fear.

They achieved the safety of a series of hollows, along a low ridge that stabbed out of the larger dell cut open by an entanglement of creeks. Shrouded by the denseness of the forest, and surrounded by the close embrace of rock, they waited amidst the small, half-open caves.

Minutes, as ever, crept by in anxious trepidation.

However, after a long time passed only by the shrieks of the wind, it seemed clear their pursuers had been evaded. It was also plainly evident she and their incarnate charge were unquestionably exhausted.

Unexpectedly, Taedoran turned to her, "Make us more difficult to track."

Syla bit back her resentment, and the disgust she felt for the man; why in the hells was she still following him?

- She was exhausted. And any spell that would hide them would likely reduce her to unconsciousness.

That she lacked any confidence in her magic, did not bother her; it was all she had to work with.

- Llrsyring. The deathwalker.

The thought arose, unanticipated and admittedly unwelcomed.

With a something akin to a stranglehold on her demeanour, she moved slowly over to the suit of armour. Passing their prisoner and Elle'dred.

Despite herself, she felt degraded in asking it, "Can you do something?" - the howling of the wind, outside their cave, nearly obscured her voice, "You know magic, and I...can't do anything."

Llrsyring regarded her with the emptiness of his eyeholes for a long moment; she expected a denial, and no small part of her hoped for it - it would affirm the established.

The deathwalker, however, turned away and raised his hand to the entrance of their hollow and the panorama, half-concealed by the swaying trees of the mountainside; he began to mutter.

Gratitude was an emotion she had forgotten.

She recognised elements of Llrsyring's spell; but as had the rune he had manifested in the barracks of Catesus, his manipulation of magic surpassed her - much to an unwanted bitterness and jealousy.

When the deathwalker had finished his spell, nothing beyond his words seemed to have come into existence; and Syla could not be sure he had done anything.

Rain.

The thunderhead above broke into a downpour; heavy droplets spattered across the rocks of the ridge, quickened, and in a few moments escalated into a deluge. Thunder crackled and lit the sky in a flash of white, but the air itself roared with falling water - any tracks or trail they might have left would long be washed away once the storm eased.

And only the insane would attempt to scale the slopes around them in such weather.

Amidst the roar of the downpour, Syla gaped internally, but she was not so debase yet as to let her astonishment be revealed to the deathwalker - she resented him too much.

"Thank you." she managed, with an actual gratitude; though her words were lost even to her ears in the tumult outside.

Llrsyring nodded in recognition.

Syla turned and returned to the others; she met the edge of a disgusted glare shot at her from the Champion - the same glare he oft levelled at the deathwalker.

Syla did not care - no, she decided she was glad of his animosity. It was reciprocated in its entirety.

The remainder of the day passed under the rain, and the storm continued into the night.

Despite the obvious fact that nothing could scale the escarpment that led to their hollows in the darkness, a watch was ordered. Elle'dred the first, Hheirdane the second.

Despite the tumult and safety the rain had brought, so too did it moisten - and chill, the air. Under the blackness of night, elevation and the dampness of the storm served to induce a chill reminiscent of the first nights of their mission; Syla shivered amidst her blankets, but the chatter of her teeth was lost amidst the rain.

She could not sleep - she wanted to talk with the deathwalker.

He had apparently relieved Elle'dred of the needless watch, and requested the knight to move together with Ayadra for warmth; the knight showed no hesitation in doing so.

He really had -

Ayadra must have been cold; underneath his cloak he was naked - unlike the magus who was covered in thick ebony robes. Ayadra had always been naked, he must always have been cold, freezing - Taedoran had said no chill would harm him.

- But he felt it; his shivering was obvious.

Syla could not comprehend sympathy for the incarnate, not yet; but she managed - she forced, a bare pity.

That would have to suffice for the time being.

The rain had lessened as the night deepened, but was still accompanied by the sporadic flash and boom of lightning.

Llrsyring moved out of the hollow, into the curtain of rain. There was no light to make him apparent; all that revealed his presence and location was an undertone of rain-beaten metal, now accompanying the gentle drumming and infrequent boom of the storm.

The suit of armour evidently did not feel the cold; he was dead, that seemed little surprise.

Determinedly, and confident enough that unwanted ears were now dulled by somnolence and obscured by the rain, the magus shuffled her way forward through the darkness to the mouth of the hollow.

"I'd suggest you don't get wet." - the deathwalker's voice carried through the quiet patter of the rain.

"I wanted to talk."

"That would seem obvious." the snide retort sparked a flare of annoyance.

She suppressed a scowl. Thunder boomed above.

"What would you like to talk about?" Llrsyring asked, his voice was not deriding.

"I don't know." she admitted, after a pause, "I don't know what I want to ask."

"The Tribunal has betrayed you. They have fed you lies, and used you to perpetrate their evil."

- The facts cut deep. Too deep; she had to quell a pang of indignation and offence.

She glared at the armour, "They have." - she added, "Anything else you want to throw at me?"

Llrsyring chuckled, "Not tonight."

"Then can I ask a question?" - a flash lit up the sky, and the deathwalker, for an instant.

The helm's silence - broken by the delayed crack of thunder - prompted her to continue; whether he approved or not.

"Why do the magus murder necromancers?" - she chastised herself that her first question should be so imprecise.

"What do you know of your race's history?" the deathwalker answered, amidst the chime of rain spattered metal.

"Aren't you supposed to tell me they are lies?" Syla returned.

"In a moment." Llrsyring replied, "Tell me why you think the magus kill necromancers."

Channelling her ample frustration into recollection, Syla recalled in near perfect clarity the volume that had illustrated the events of those centuries, "Eight hundred years ago," - the time felt too familiar, "The magus uncovered the cult of necromancy; magus dedicated to the study of death -"

"Lies." Llrsyring interrupted.

She shot a glare at him; but his rain-battered silence once more seemed intended to have her continue, "Necromancers had established considerable influence in the city of Ambranas, and they corrupted the magus of Eryndor to rebel against the Archivist Assembly. The cult plotted to overthrow and claim rulership of Eryndor -"

"Lies."

Frustration surged innately into anger; and Syla almost slung a retort; thunder rolled above, overpowering the drumming of the rain.

She continued, "The magus were tasked with undermining their plot. They accomplished their goal - made war on and destroyed the leaders of the cult, and outlawed necromancy as a preventative measure. They formed the Tribunal to enforce the law - but they are all lies aren't they? Revisions to history? Isn't that what I am supposed to learn?"

Despite the darkness, and the rain, she felt approval from the deathwalker, "Syla, you may regret the untruths of the magus, but you will need more than shame to fight them off."

A flash, dimmer than the last, was followed some moments after by the cracking roar of thunder.

Her resentment dulled; she managed a calm tone, "What really happened?"

"Men showed their true capacity for evil," the deathwalker answered, and paused, more evenly he continued, "The city of Ambranas - once known as the City of Knowledge, was the first city of men. There, the Elves taught your race how to shape stone and wood with magic, and how to build things that would endure. The city was a place where all men and elves were supposed to walk freely; where they were to teach your race all the values of the world," he paused, thunder rolled softly in the distance, "It once saddened me that it was the first site where your race turned from their teachings. You know of the Six Cities once built across the Living Mountains in Eryndor?"

"Yes." her answer was dampened by the rain.

"Each was built for one of the bloods, and Ambranas became the home of the deathwalkers. Hresfyrra, as you now call it, is all that stands in memory of five great cities - and Ambranas lies under the darkness of a moon that should never have been raised." he paused, "The war your history speaks of between the taint of necromancers and the magus was no war. For centuries, the feud between the magus and the necromancers had grown in your race - because the magus were envious of their power. Whether or not the deathwalkers of the time did plan to overthrow the Archivists I do not know - I would not put it beyond your race, no matter which blood flows in your veins. But even if they had, it does not excuse what the magus did. They destroyed the deathwalkers - their ruling councils, their city's guard, under the conviction of treason. The Archivists' influence in Eryndor had waned, and what few spectators survived the massacres - called battles, or unfortunate incidents, so far removed in Ammandorn - had no inclination to bring them to light under the government that had given their full confidence in the magus. At first, the deathwalkers were called mere traitors, but as time passed, the Tribunal began to amend their laws. And their history. Until necromancy itself was evil - and any guilty of it deserved only death. It took little over a century for your race to see evil as an absolute; you men are capable of remarkable self-delusion."

Syla remained silent. The rain fell outside.

"I should not fault the magus solely, their war was sanctioned by the Archivists. The Assembly had been convinced that the deathwalkers were planning a revolution; and the Tribunal did not outlaw necromancy in its utmost for decades after - time enough to forget."

"Do any survive?" Syla asked, reluctantly.

"Some." the helm answered - a flash of white in the sky behind him illuminated the metal of his façade, "But I would not tell you where they are."

After the accompanying boom of thunder had passed, she met the chiming darkness where his eyeholes remained, "Good." - she was sincere, though not for reasons she appreciated, "I don't want to know."

She needed a moment - she wanted solitude; but that was beyond her circumstances. She would make do; she listened in private silence, to the thrumming of the rain, to the roar of the thunder.

- To her doubts.

* * *

Phio had been summoned to the antechamber of the Assembly hall. A messenger had arrived at his door, abruptly and without the observing of proper protocol. There was no indication as to whom had sent her; and when Phio enquired as to the dispatcher of her message she stated resolutely that she could not tell him - by that very person's orders.

The summons itself had required him to attend the antechamber immediately; there were none within Delphanas that had the authority to command such from an Elder Archivist.

The audacity had sparked his suspicions as much as indignation, and as such he felt he should pursue the source of the message. He had donned his officious adornments; his full sash and chest-piece and weighty robes, uncontrovertibly displaying his rank, before he had left for the chamber.

He slowed as he reached the large doors that led inside, and took a breath. As he opened the entrance and stepped in, his suspicions - and his fears, were confirmed.

The man, no doubt the source of the message, stood in the centre of the large, austere room with his back turned to the entrance. The simple, marbling white-grey of the walls contrasted against the rich, vibrant crimson of his robes. The few ornaments that resided within the enclosure were clustered in its centre; a set of large, plain couches were positioned around a small table that rose only as high as the man's knee.

The sparseness of decoration, however, was challenged by the embroidery of his robes; ornately woven silver thread covered his back and arms with a collage of images depicting noble, righteous men standing in judgement over a horde of despicable monstrosities.

Monstrosities that bore a disturbing semblance to men.

He turned to face Phio as the sound of the doors opening reached him. From the back, the robes had hid his rotund physique, and now that he had turned, the Elder Archivist saw that the baldness of his head terminated in a long, plaited brown beard that draped over his ample belly.

His face was unremarkable; plumpness and facial hair hid the sum of his features, but were incapable of obscuring the jovial sinisterness of his smile and the sharp, calculating menace of his eyes.

He beamed at Phio, "Welcome Elder Archivist."

Phio caught the scent of the incense that pervaded the room; the smell emanated from the gilded censer that hung from the end of the man's gnarled brown staff. The stave had been perched slantwise against the couch, and the man moved to and sat beside it.

He gestured for Phio to be seated on the opposing couch.

Beads of sweat formed on the Elder Archivist's brow; the thick musk of the censer near choked his lungs. But he knew he must do as the man requested; the smell grew intensely - near suffocating - as he approached the couch and sat.

The man's smile widened, "I am High Inquisitor Ansara. I apologise for the informal method by which I summoned you here. But as I was told you were the only of the Elder Archivists that was not currently occupied in important matters, I thought it appropriate to request your presence."

"I see." Phio responded, the incense hung about him like a haze. Sweat pooled and ran across his brow - the heavy scent seemed, steadily, to penetrate his flesh and force the water out onto his skin. As it pervaded the room, it too pervaded him.

Yet the Inquisitor was unbothered. His light ochre skin was unmarred by perspiration, and despite his closeness to the censer he seemed entirely immune to its effects.

The fact caused Phio no small measure of consternation.

The magus continued, "The Tribunal dispatched me here because a blunder has been made. No doubt you have heard of Staff-Bearer Hadrath's unfortunate death?"

The musk was so choking that Phio had to draw deep breaths to gain any air, "The news came as quite a shock."

"Hmmm..." the High Inquisitor mused, "Well, as you might also have heard, the killer was an escaped prisoner - and he has yet to be apprehended."

Ansara paused, and threw a summing glance across Phio; the Elder Archivist stared blankly at him.

"We believe that he has fled to Delphanas, and we are here to track him down."

"We?" Phio questioned.

The man beamed, unkindly, "I, and my squad."

Seemingly summoned by his words, the doors opened and a contingent of magus marched into the room. The magus wore the characteristic ebony robes, laced in azure, but in addition they bore ornate mantles about their shoulders that were crowned in heavy hoods that overshadowed their faces.

In the depths of the hoods, their countenances were further covered by featureless, flawlessly smooth masks; only the simple holes cut for their eyes blemished the mirror-finish of their metallic surfaces. Each of the Magus Bloodhounds carried a gnarled wooden staff with a golden censer hanging from its height, alike their leaders.

The suffocating haze of their incense grew suddenly to dominate the room.

They fell into formation behind the High Inquisitor and waited.

Ansara rose, and looked down at the Elder Archivist, "We will be calling on your hospitality and cooperation for however long it takes us to complete our task."

Phio stood too, his eyes did not deviate from the man's cunning orbs, "The Archivist Assembly will do all it can to assist you in this, and I hope that your mission will meet success quickly."

Ansara smiled.

* * *

Ayadra moved as quietly as he could through the underbrush; but the hem of his cloak scraped the forest floor, disturbing the leaf-litter, and his clawed feet scratched at the wood of roots and dirt as he made his slow way up the sheerness of the slope. Through the trees.

He made too much noise - and it would offend his guards.

He couldn't make noise, not now.

Not when the threat of enemies carried unseen on the breeze.

His primary guard had ordered them to a halt when they had heard it; Ayadra had heard it - the sound of movement, somewhere close by. Amidst the dense obscuration of the forest. They had paused and waited - but no other sounds had reached them.

Ayadra had repressed the trembles of fear - they rattled his chains, made sound.

Slowly, they had moved on - cautiously, quietly. Up the slope. Through the close air between the trees.

Every unexpected sound had Taedoran raise his hand; had them all pause. And wait.

Nothing came.

They continued. Slowly, carefully.

Every small snap - skittered rock, crack underfoot had Ayadra flinch; his cloak seemed a punishment he could not avoid.

He stepped; made his way onto the ridge-top, lined with trees. Crack.

Snap. Skitter.

Crack.

He flinched -

"If a battle comes," the deathwalker beside him whispered through his cowl, "Stay close."

Fear.

- Snap. Crack. Clink.

A sound.

Alarm tensed every muscle as his guards stopped around him; Llrsyring stood protectively at his side.

Moments passed. Silence.

All that moved through the forest was the soft rustle of leaves, and the low whistle of the breeze through the canopy above. A bird cried a sweet trill.

Taedoran motioned them onwards -

An arrow shrieked across the air.

The deadly shaft crashed into the wood of a tree; the trunk was rent, splintered by the impact. Another, whistled into ranged. And cracked upon a tree, amongst an explosion of bark and splinters.

Wood cascaded down onto the forest floor; onto the party.

The soldiers dropped flat in an instant, scrambling for cover. The magus followed immediately behind them.

- Terror.

It was all Ayadra comprehended in the brief second that Llrsyring stepped around him, and braced him against his robes.

He felt the impacts that shook the armour beyond the robes against his face; two heavy thuds that forced Llrsyring a step forward. Two arrows that had been aimed at him -

Ayadra could not see anything; his vision was buried in the darkness of Llrsyring's robes, his own cloak concealed all other sight, and muffled every sound. Thuds and cracks, ill-timed and sudden, birthed the alarming groan and creak of wood. Above. Beside. Behind.

Arrows whistled, half-lost in the breeze.

Llrsyring moved him a step forward, another to the side - wood creaked in a rent cry above him; too close by. Another arrow.

"Run." the deathwalker said, above - and melted into black mist. In the moment of departure, a cold swept over the incarnate, terrible and deathly, but faded as quickly as the deathwalker - it left in its wake a clarity of perception untrammelled by fear.

"Run!" the order was repeated by Taedoran - or Elle'dred.

His guards stood and ran.

The forest stretched before him; a dense woodland of green and brown, wood and leaves and moss and undergrowth coating the sweeping crest of the ridge, the towering crags and the steep descent flanking it.

An arrow blurred past from behind, and impacted a log in front of him.

Shock. Fear.

- Shrieks echoed through the trees, though still accompanied by the sporadic whistle of arrows. Shrieks of alarm, and steel.

Llrsyring.

Ayadra ran. He bolted from the cover of the tree as fast as panic could drive him; his guards had ordered him to run, and no impulse he had, served to overcome that command.

He caught sight of Elle'dred's shape tearing a path through the trees, some feet ahead of him; two black blurs followed the knight amidst the interwoven brush. But in an instant, their path dipped down a slope, and they disappeared beyond the rise of the dirt beneath his feet.

An arrow whistled past him - struck a tree. He yelped; it had missed him - run.

For a stretch of time driven by the instinct of self-preservation, and lost to the overpowering force of alarm, Ayadra ran. He wove his way through the trees, over fallen deadwood, across outcrops and debris, and down the dipping crest of the ridge. Promontories, sheer, grey and flat rose around him, as he descended deeper into a ravine.

Goblin cries followed behind him, tearing through the trees; but above the pounding of fear he could not discern whether they grew further away or closer. All he could hear was the susurration of leaf and dirt beneath his strides, and the thrum of his heart - all he could hear -

He was alone.

He had lost sight of his guards; he couldn't even hear them.

Shock.

- This would be seen as escape; Taedoran would interpret this as escape.

Dread, desperation and a renewed panic ground his feet to a halt. He turned, searching wildly through the walls of trees for signs of his guards -

And was met by the crash of branches to his side; and the sallow, skull-like façade of a goblin snarling beneath a blade brandished for a downwards strike. Two more goblins followed a pace behind.

Ayadra's cry froze in his throat.

But the goblin's strike was answered by the distant cry of a storm, and the swirl of black that solidified into a notched blade, armour and robes.

Llrsyring moved in a single, seamless arc, his rematerialised cloak flared in a sudden dark circle across Ayadra's vision. The deathwalker's notched-blade sung swift and sharp in his plated hand, and in the same flash of steel that led his manoeuvre, his second blade appeared, and countered two strikes aimed at the incarnate.

Steel screeched all around.

Ayadra felt the goblin's sword grind against the armour's blades, scarce an inch from his obsidian skin - but before the enemies could find his scaled flesh they were forced away.

Llrsyring spun; his cloak formed a twisting pillar of darkness as he swept his swords through a narrow circle - one of the goblin's blades caught in the notch of his. Seamlessly he wrenched the weapon free of its wielder, and turned. His second sword swung in elegance, a flash of blinding steel above his head as he moved a graceful step around Ayadra; his notched-blade rose and met the other, the two hung, arcing together above his form, then glided down and out as he bent low. Both found the flesh of a foe, driving deeply into the chests of the two goblins that threatened the incarnate on either flank.

Ayadra caught the bloodied breaths exhaled on either side, as he stood transfixed by surprise.

Snarls - erupting from the wall of brush to his side - solidified into the bodies of goblins, amidst an explosion of leaves.

The deathwalker stepped away from him, turning through a stroke that cleaved open a goblin's gut; his notched sword braced a blow, hooked the blade and traced a circling blur that freed the foe of its sword and bared open its throat.

Ayadra watched Llrsyring, as three new foes emerged from the wall of brush and trees before the armour. Instinct told him to run, but fear paralysed his legs - and Llrsyring had said to stay close.

Llrsyring slid around a goblin's blow, spun through a flaring arc of steel and cloak and sword, and severed the foe's arm and head in a spray of blood. Two more enemies advanced a step, and levelled tandem strikes to split the armour's limbs and hollow crown - as two more charged through the path of broken branches towards him.

But the deathwalker held no pause; from stance to stance he melded seamlessly, on the edge of his enemies blades but never caught by them. His own two swords danced outwards, flashes and flares of steel that rent armour and flesh alike - Llrsyring glided from arc to encircling arc, with a grace and fluidity and beauty no man could match; each thrust, each strike executed with flawless precision and poise, carried through to stance and step as the movements of an endless dance.

Ayadra watched his protector - but the deathwalker was only one, and the forest had too many sides.

Branches cracked - beside him.

A goblin formed into abrupt and malevolent life at his flank, two paces from sword range.

Panic.

Instinct forced him into motion; narrowly, he dodged the goblin's first hack at his mid-section; but the folds of his cloak, dragged through the movement, fluttered and wrapped around him to obscure his view.

All he saw was the muffling, black material -

Pain flared in his leg; as the goblin's poisoned blade cut a gash through the cloak and his flesh.

Ayadra freed a cry; the wound forced his leg to fold and sent him tumbling across the ground. His casts were battered by the impact - adding fresh agony; a tree's root grazed his arm, and hooked around his cloak, while his momentum continued and pulled him free. He slid to a rest, sprawled, naked across the soft bed of leaves riddled with stones.

Panic-stricken, he scrambled to his feet - and met the snarling face of his attacker.

He wrenched himself into movement, again; his injured leg cried out in protest - and the warmth of blood coated the scales of his limb. He rolled across his wings and back, avoiding another blow; his tail landed across a rock with force enough to bruise and elicited a yelp from his clenched throat.

His heavy collar and manacles restricted every movement - as they always did, and pulled at the casts that restrained his hands. He was defenceless, and exposed.

He rolled onto his back - his breath strangled in his throat as an abrupt wave of dizziness filled his head. The goblin reared and consumed his vision above; desperately, wildly, he lashed out with his legs. His thigh wound cried with pain; but his kick impacted - jarred his ankle, and sent his attacker toppling to the ground beside him.

He scrambled away - half-slipping on the leaf-litter.

But a grasp clamped onto his tail, and dragged the appendage with overwhelming force - his legs slid out from under him as he crashed supine to the ground; he rolled over -

The goblin stamped down onto his naked belly; crushed his gut under savage strength and brutality.

The air was driven from his lungs in a wheeze; he could not breathe back in - the dizziness in his head had transmuted to nausea, and the first spasms afflicted his muscles; the poison already clawed at his veins. He was going to die - he was dying.

He lay for a moment, breathless, defenceless and exposed, as the goblin moved a step away to retrieve its blade. He could not move; he could not breathe. His attacker returned, landing its knee in his belly, and crushing his groin with its shin. His genitals stabbed into his compressed gut with white flares; his legs clenched reflexively - his dismayed cry choked in his throat.

The goblin had raised its sword above him - to split his head in two.

He was going to die.

- Burning. Pain. In his wounds.

As it had on the night on the plains, inexplicable agony - unerringly alike the searing of brands and heat and fire - flared to life in his wounds. His leg burnt as though a brand had been pressed to the exposed flesh; and heat as savage as the dreams that plagued him each night filled and charred his hands -

For a moment, the torture he feared and hated was visited upon him - inexplicable and excruciating.

- But only for a moment.

As the blinding white, and the unnatural heat parted into ecstatic relief, there was no further pain in his thigh, no dizziness or nausea or ache of bruising - nor did anything remain of the casts that had bound his hands. The smouldering shreds of the bandages littered his chest; but his hands were free - the bones of his fingers were unbroken - instantly, and completely mended. The goblin's poison was effaced from his flesh.

Somewhere, deep inside, the flames of his nightmare crackled.

His vision cleared sharply - the goblin had been driven back, off of him. It held its arm across its eyes, as though it had tried to shield itself from some blinding light - or searing heat. It had dropped its sword.

Ayadra stared in shock; what had he done?

The goblin was incapacitated though for only a moment; it recovered itself, turned and snarled at him - it reached again for its weapon.

Black swept through a cascade of folds at his side, and a plated boot stepped out and crushed the goblin's hand amidst its agonised cry - it looked up, as Llrsyring drove his blade down through its face.

Blood leaked out across its sallow, dead features.

Before Ayadra could speak, the helm turned to him and shouted "Run!"

Another goblin - yet standing - stabbed its poisoned blade into the suit of armour's side -

Ayadra pulled himself to his feet, and turned, and ran. Unbound by his cloak or his casts, restricted only by fear, he fled once more as fast as he could manage.

He glanced back, to see if Llrsyring followed - but the deathwalker was not behind him, and in the brief second he searched the forest for the armour or his guards - or his enemies, he could find no sign of any. He made to turn back to the path before him, slow his pace - give himself room for thought, and fear - but his feet abruptly found emptiness.

He fell.

Panic. Terror. - Shock.

He grasped wildly into the wind around him - he looked back - glimpsed the edge of the cliff that grew rapidly - behind and above him. Panic eclipsed all thought - and gave way to instinct - his wings extended. They ached from lack of use; sore pain resisted their efforts to unfurl, and nearly forced them back into the draping cape they normally were. But, aided by the rush and pull of the wind around him they extended.

For one terrifying and rapturous moment, Ayadra flew.

He glided amidst the open sky. Free.

The world stretched before him, limitless, filled with horizons and mountains and forest and sky. He had never known this feeling, he had never dared to hope for it - even in the memories of his dream, of his flight upon the river, he had not known this -

This. As his wings bore him aloft, and the air caressed every naked scale of his body, he felt like he belonged, once more - like he deserved this -

Like he deserved this.

He glanced down - fear. The ground and the rising slope of the forested mountainside before him approached - fast. The crevice, drawn deeply into the furthest base of the mountains, had thrown him into the sky, and now sought to reclaim him. He glided, but the ground still came.

Liberty plummeted into alarm and terror.

His mind raced over how he should dip his wings to keep from landing harder than he wanted to; he did not understand the great sails on his back; they had always been there, but he had never been awake to feel them grasp the air and pull him across its currents.

- An arrow whistled past.

Panic returned him wrenchingly to the world; he was falling, fast. Far too fast. He tried to catch himself - but the mountainside rose ineluctably - and he struck the ground. Hard. Tumbling up over the slope, he tore the ground beneath as he rolled. The rough soil, the stone, the roots, battered his form, his limbs, his chest, his groin, his tail - his wings.

Finally, inevitably, he ground to a stop.

For a moment, he lay; senseless and reeling - panic rose above the numbness - an arrow had been loosed at him.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to stand; he managed to lift himself up for a moment. But his wrenched joints, and his bruised muscles dragged him helplessly back into the dirt. He wheezed a breathe; a moan.

His limbs trembled, unable to exert his desperate will to stand. He had to stand.

He had to stand -

Battered, naked and alone, he lay on the mountainside, unable to move. Numbness and shock swarmed in flickering lights around his vision and bled slowly into inevitable darkness.

Terrified and helpless, he let go of the world.
Chapter 19

_And so the Wyvern Kings took upon themselves the most beautiful and powerful of shapes. And the Andarae named them each with a word of blessing. The first of the Kings was called Aunvari, the Wellbringer. His face was alike a wolf's, white and sharp, crowned in a silver mane. He bore the breast of a lion, and his hind legs were slender like a fox. And upon his back two great sails spread forth, made of the eastern wind that bore him aloft. All the Wyvern Kings were born on winds, two of the north wind, two of the south wind, and one each of the east and west winds. First and sixth, Syrkyn, the Skyweaver. His face was long and slender, and shimmered like water. And around his head grew a mane of eighty horns._

* * *

Phio paced his study with an anxiety that bordered on terror; the bloodhounds could be have come to Delphanas for only one reason. They knew he had something to do with Hadrath's death - why else would the High Inquisitor have called him specifically to his presence.

He hoped he had not revealed anything. The methods of the magus were a well-hidden secret, but the rumours and myths that had evolved around them were disturbing enough. The smoke from their censers was said to reveal the presence of untruth within a person; and supposedly compel them to divulge it.

He knew the masks, the bloodhounds themselves wore, were purported to reflect the actions of a criminal in a way he could not deny them; though another more haunting supposition was that they showed all the tortures he would endure if he lied to the law.

He was powerless; he could not know how to conceal his actions against magic - and there was no way for him to amend that weakness. But what was most troublesome, was how the Tribunal had discovered he, specifically, was involved in the murder.

Ormus had dealt with the details, and yet still the magus knew Phio was his accomplice.

The idea that Ormus had betrayed him was the first under consideration - but his suspicion had been allayed when he had investigated the High Inquisitor's arrival; Ormus had been called to speak with the magus as well - alone.

The crux of his consternation was, however, the thought that somehow the Tribunal had discovered his plan: the resistance. They had barely begun their work, and if in some way they had faltered already and revealed themselves, the last verse of Thyesmered's prophecy was doomed to come true.

He was wrested from his worry into a more composed deportment by the sharp knocking on and opening of the door. Ormus stood in the passageway.

"Ormus." Phio greeted as unemotionally as he could.

The Elder Archivist stared at him; his face possessed the same disillusionment and sombreness it had when he had delivered the news of the magus uprising - but now the hardness of determination lingered in his eyes.

Ormus entered and shut the door.

"We have things we must discuss." he announced, equally impassively.

Phio nodded, and motioned for him to take a seat - Ormus declined, and moved to the far side of the desk.

"The Tribunal has discovered us," Ormus stated; Phio's worry peaked again - the older man continued, "Or rather, they have discovered you."

Suspicion, fear, both manifested with renewed vigour; and dashed the fragile trust Phio had placed in the man before him.

But in the silence that followed, the Elder Archivist sighed and explained, "They know about your plan. As do I."

Ormus knew of the resistance. Phio stuttered, but forced his words into cohesion, "How?" was all he could manage.

"I have been aware of your group for some time, and I have done all I can to protect it. But you are clumsy Phio. As I have said before, some of us keep watch much closer than others. It is something you should do more often."

Phio swallowed his surprise - and suspicion.

"Your plan is ambitious," Ormus continued, "Much more than I thought you capable of. But you are inexperienced in such matters, and you have already made some terrible blunders."

"How did you discover us?"

"I have many methods of retrieving information, and none of which I would ever disclose to you - or anyone, for that matter."

Phio regained his steadiness, and asked, "If the Tribunal has uncovered our involvement with Hadrath's -"

"Hadrath's murder has nothing to do with why they are here."

"What?"

Ormus sighed, "You know nothing of secrecy or suspicion." he paused; the dangerous glint in his eyes conveyed tacitly that Phio's concerns about his trustworthiness were as obvious as the expression made to cover them up, "You have been betrayed, Phio; someone in your group has alerted the magus, and I know who that person is."

"Who?" Phio demanded, though he had only one suspect he thought capable.

"Archivist Keron."

Phio sighed: a hateful, angry breath - he could not breathe back in.

Ormus continued unrelentingly, "He intends to turn you all over to the Tribunal. The Bloodhounds will easily discover your plans with his aid, and even without it you are ill-prepared to wage a covert war with them."

Phio forced a ragged breath into his chest, "What can we do?"

Ormus stared at him coldly, "We must deal with Keron."

"Kill him, you mean?" Phio iterated, "This seems to be becoming the only suggestion you ever make to me."

"I do not relish killing Phio, and the thought of killing our own blood, our own order -" Ormus' voice cracked with emotion; the sincerity in his eyes struck Phio, "- sickens me. If you had come to me with this before you attempted it, we could have avoided having to kill more people."

Ormus recovered himself; Phio watched the older man with an abrupt respect - once again, Ormus surprised him.

He paused before he enquired, "Will you help us? After we deal with -"

"I have no other choice," Ormus answered, flatly, "Yours is the only plan to deal with the threat of the magus. Although I must admit, I was surprised that you anticipated their reaction to Hadrath's death; they have not given up their scheme."

"We - Faldorn found a line of prophecy that told of their uprising," Phio admitted; Ormus seemed to nod in understanding, "And it also mentioned that a civil conflict was inevitable. I had no doubt that killing the Staff-Bearer -" Phio faltered, in uncertainty, "We must kill Keron then?"

"Yes, but there is one other thing you must know." Ormus said, and paused, Phio's gaze prompted him to continue, "Faldorn is in love with him."

"What?" Phio asked.

"Surely you knew your aide has been his lover for some time."

Again Phio was strangled by shock, "What...what does...what are we..."

"Faldorn cannot know that Keron planned to betray us - it would destroy him. Keron's death will be hard enough for him to endure, without -" Ormus paused, and stated resolutely, "I can deal with your traitor, but you, Phio, as his friend, must deal with your aide."

* * *

Ayadra opened his eyes. The blurry haze of unconsciousness could not pierce the darkness around him.

He was warm; a gentle warmth rested about his shoulders, enshrouded his body.

He tried to move -

His body protested; he suppressed a groan with a wince and released control - he could not move, his body was too bruised, too sore. Soreness - bruising -

Why?

Panic gripped him.

Where was he? How had he reached here? Why was he warm?

Instinct sent a surge of adrenalin through his exhausted limbs and chest; an involuntary impulse wrenched him through a second attempt to move - his aches objected fiercely. Reduced to a recumbent mass of spasmodic twitching, he lay.

He could not stand, or move.

There could be enemies nearby - enemies could have brought him here -

Where was he?

The grogginess of reawakening lifted slowly, and he could see the faint sheen of starlight edging the black silhouettes of shapes around him; tall pillars surrounded by a shifting mosaic of shadow.

Trees and leaves.

The soft rustle above, accompanied by the high whistle of the breeze confirmed his location; he was in the forest. The knowledge served little to allay his anxiety; he did not know where he was - he did not remember -

Running. He remembered running; he had fled from a battle, he remembered the desperation and the panic, he remembered arrows whistling past - the sudden shriek that split the air, and the rending thud that split wood. They had harried him for too long. He remembered goblins - Llrsyring - the deathwalker had appeared and fought off the goblins that had ambushed him.

The deathwalker had told him to run; Ayadra had run - he had run, and he had fallen. He remembered the fall; the wind tearing past him, buffeting his limbs, his tail - his wings. He remembered flying.

The memory was brief; he had glided on his sails for mere moments - and while the action itself and the memory of the experience lingered only in vagueness and uncertainty, he remembered all too clearly how he had felt.

Free.

He had felt the unbound and unparalleled freedom of flight. He had felt like he deserved it - he did deserve it. Every bruised inch of his being told him he deserved it - freedom; not to live in terror of his guards, of punishment, of being powerless to control when he woke, what he did, who he was -

- The memory of what he had done to Hheirdane returned, as sharply as the feeling of freedom. The joy of flight fell under a wave of guilt. He was a weapon. He hurt people. He had hurt people. Hheirdane still suffered - because of him.

He shook the thoughts away - he tried to forget. To remember the brief seconds of flight.

He deserved to be free.

He deserved to be free -

His manacles were gone.

The weight of his collar was gone, the hard edge of his manacles always scraping against the skin of his wrist was absent - his shackles were gone.

They had been removed.

The feeling was the most alien thing he had felt yet - it was a foreign sensation, that he should be so naked. And he felt naked, as though some inextricable part of him had been removed. As though some facet of his nature had changed.

Joy. A sudden and overwhelming surge of joy filled his chest; he wanted to cry - tears welled in the deep sockets of bone that cradled his eyes, amidst the mask that was his face. Free - the feeling returned; he was free. He was not bound.

He rubbed the skin of his wrists - the scales abraded by the metal, the patches of numb regrowth; he had never thought he would feel his wrists like this. He touched the skin of his neck - he could feel the scales above his collar bone; they delighted in the soft touch of his fingers.

He was -

- He heard breathing. The soft sigh of an exhalation came from close by, louder than the rustle of the leaves above.

Fear.

He had to move; he had to ascertain where he was. Who it was that breathed some feet away from him.

Sitting up seemed beyond him for the moment, and timidity added that any movement might alert his captors to his conscious state, and that then pain would follow.

Nervously, slowly, he sought the edge of the heavy material that wrapped around him; carefully he parted the warming folds and lifted the loosened hem away from his gaze. It took some further moments for his eyes to focus on the sitting form, propped against the tree beside him.

The shape was wrapped in a cocoon of blankets as he was; but the starlight caught a sheen on her immaculate, pale skin, and glistened off the long darkness of her hair, stirred gently by the breeze.

It was Syla.

- One of his guards.

A moment of despair overtook him; he was not free. His guards were here, or at least one of them was. Taedoran might not be far away - he had lost his guards when he was running - it would be seen as escape - Taedoran would see it as escape - Taedoran would punish him -

Why would Taedoran have removed his manacles?

The thought annulled his trepidation, his anxiety; his primary guard would not have removed his manacles. His primary guard would not have allowed him to remain unconscious. He would not be wrapped in blankets.

He allowed himself some calm; if he was in danger - of enemies or his guards - he would not be here, warm and unbound. The calmness transmuted into relief.

He felt at ease enough to look around; survey his location - Syla was asleep, she would not take offence. Trees, high and close encircled him. He sat in the midst of an entwined copse, in a basin formed and lined with the lichen-covered, roots of the surrounding pillars. Beyond the dull lines and haze of leaves high above, he could see the pinpricks of stars.

Movement caught his attention - not Syla.

He darted his gaze to a gap between the trees; Elle'dred emerged from the darkness, materialising into a shape of shadow, limned and lit by starlight.

For a moment, Ayadra met his eyes; then as quickly looked down.

Elle'dred knelt beside him, "Ayadra? Are you hurt?"

The question baffled him - as the knight did too many times. His guard seemed genuinely concerned; Elle'dred was concerned. Trepidation however restrained his head; he stared only at the ground. He lay as still as he could.

For a moment.

Slowly, despite himself - he lifted his head enough to meet the dim glint of the man's eyes.

He shook his head. The movement reawakened the aches, as ever.

Elle'dred knew - the knight could not mistake the small flinch of his eyelids that the movement stimulated. He could barely move.

Elle'dred sighed. The man lowered himself into a sitting position, and pulled an object from behind a small stone - alarm flared for a moment -

It was a pack; Elle'dred rummaged through it for something. Elle'dred removed whatever he was searching for and moved his arm towards him, Ayadra flinched.

- It was a ration.

"You must be hungry," the knight muttered, proffering the food, "Here."

Elle'dred waited.

Ayadra's innate fears precluded him from reaching out and grasping the ration - he could not. That was an offence.

Elle'dred would not take offence.

Despite his lengthy hesitation, Elle'dred did not withdraw the food - the knight waited for him to take it. Elle'dred would wait until he took it.

Ever tentatively, ever inoffensively, Ayadra reached out - the curving, black blade of his talon slipped the folds of the blanket and shimmered above his hand in the starlight. Elle'dred flinched, slightly - Ayadra paused.

Elle'dred did not move more than a flinch.

The talon gleamed malevolent and sinister in the starlight.

Careful not to touch his guard with the blade, he moved his hand to the ration, but despite his best efforts, his scaled fingers brushed against the knight's.

Elle'dred gave no reaction - he did not take offence. He would not take offence.

Ayadra was grateful.

Slowly, he brought the food to his mouth and began to eat. He had not realised how hungry he was.

Elle'dred smiled and sat back, resting himself against a tree.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me how your hands were healed?" the knight asked, lightly, after a moment.

Ayadra was stunned; he did not know how to respond.

And he did not know how his wounds had - the fire. He remembered the fire; the heat of brands; for one brief second. They had blazed in his hands, his leg, his body -

He did not how, or why - his injuries had been healed.

Again - despite himself, he looked up and met the knight's gaze; he shook his head. He hoped Elle'dred understood.

He returned to nibbling on the ration; slow, savouring chews. He was grateful for the food. He was grateful he was warm. And safe. That feeling, also, was alien to him - he had rarely felt safe in his life; only when an empty suit of armour had inexplicably transported him to a strange and alien otherworld.

He felt safe now.

He looked at up Elle'dred, "Thank...you."

He was hesitant to say the words, they seemed a curse to drive away his friends, or make them hate him even more - and they were disturbingly associated with the punishment that filled his nightmares. Still, he wanted to say them.

They felt good to say.

"You're welcome." the knight returned.

Ayadra finished off his ration.

Elle'dred watched the incarnate eat for some time. His mind was empty; perhaps still reeling from the hours of flight and fear that had pursued him across the slopes.

He had nearly died; nearly been claimed by a poisoned arrow, across the slopes of an unnamed mountain. And he did not really care.

More and more he questioned his life's meaning - what was he doing here? What was the point?

He quashed the thoughts. He had a purpose; he had to protect Ayadra. And the people of Ammandorn - he had to complete his mission.

That prompted the question, should he continue on his mission without the others? Without the bastard he loathed, the other magus and Hheirdane?

Llrsyring had found him, some hours across the slopes, bearing the unconscious body of Syla across his black-robed shoulder - she had exhausted herself through running and magic. The deathwalker had led them to this copse, and told them to wait, and hide. Llrsyring had left, and returned some time later with Ayadra.

The incarnate too, had been unconscious.

Elle'dred had asked him what they should do now; the knight had been overwhelmed by exhaustion. Llrsyring had said they should continue, the mission that had brought him here was important, Ayadra was important.

Elle'dred did not doubt that; he had asked Llrsyring where the others were.

The deathwalker had responded hesitantly; no doubt the armour would have preferred to abandon them. Elle'dred had asked him to find them; he had said they would rejoin the Champion, the magus and - his friend. Hheirdane.

On some level, beyond the betrayals of archivists and magus, and the laws he had served for the majority of his life, his friend mattered to him. He did not even know if Hheirdane was still his friend.

They had not talked for days - weeks. And Hheirdane seemed to have developed a rapport with the Champion of the Tribunal. Hheirdane might not consider him a friend - the man might even consider him a traitor.

He did not know.

He had to; he had to discover whether he had lost his friend alongside his purpose, his care, his life. He had to uncover what that pain was in Hheirdane's eyes - that pain that had seemed so familiar, that pain that had blamed him.

The sounds of the deathwalker's return broke the quiet breeze of the night.

Llrsyring mounted the rim of the basin, and slid down into the copse, "Elle'dred."

"You found them?" Elle'dred interrupted.

The helm nodded, "They are a while from here. We should reach them by morning."

Elle'dred could not mistake the disapproval in his tone.

"Llrsyring, I gave my word to Taedoran I would not evade him."

The armour paused; his empty eyeholes glanced over to the conscious incarnate.

"Ayadra," he pronounced the name with relief, "Are you hurt?"

The incarnate hesitated, then shook his head. But a visible flinch ended the manoeuvre abruptly. Ayadra was obviously hurt. As ever. He bore it in silence.

Llrsyring paused, before he asked, "Can you manage several hours of walking up a mountainside?"

Elle'dred did not need expression upon the incarnate's face to gauge the dismay Ayadra exuded.

Llrsyring chuckled, gently, "I did not think so." The helm turned to the knight, "Do you wish to leave now?"

Ayadra needed rest, but Elle'dred did not want to postpone rejoining the others - Taedoran would only consider each hour a further violation of their agreement.

"We have to." he answered; he felt the silent disappointment of the incarnate, though Ayadra did not protest. The incarnate would never protest; he'd just walk until he died.

The helm nodded.

Elle'dred stood, repacked his belongings and shouldered his pack; Llrsyring had assumed the weight of the magus' pack. The knight looked over at the incarnate.

Compliantly, silently, Ayadra was trying to pull himself to his feet. He had levered himself up on an arm, and slowly, awkwardly shifted his legs into a sitting position around his tail. The movement prompted a grimace; he did not meet Elle'dred's eyes, or Llrsyring's sockets. Despite his conditioned stoicism, as he tried to force himself up onto a leg, his knee buckled under a sudden spasm and had him sprawl back to the ground, amidst a stifled moan.

He could not walk.

Ayadra used his arms to brace what he could of his fall, and had summarily released the blanket that had hidden him.

Despite his pity, Elle'dred was reminded how different Ayadra was; the obsidian scaled incarnate's wings flexed with each breath, and his long sinuous tail twitched with the spasms of bruised muscles. The lids of his eyes clenched and opened in pain, in the cavernous sockets of the expressionless, serpentine mask of bone that was his face. His abyssal eyes gleamed with disappointment, and fear.

His talons emerged from between his knuckles like the dark blades of scythes, affixed to the black hafts of his arms, and scratched the earth.

And he was innocent - another quality that seemed entirely alien to the world.

He did not deserve this.

Despite his first brief attempt, Ayadra tried to lever himself up once more; Llrsyring knelt at his side.

"You can't walk." the armour muttered, gently.

After a fearful pause, Ayadra shook his head.

Llrsyring reached out, turned the incarnate over, and scooped him up into a cradle. Ayadra did not offer any resistance, save for an ever-reflexive flinch.

Elle'dred turned to the magus; he would have to carry Syla. The thought passed through his head that he would have preferred to bear the incarnate over the ebony-clad woman.

Elle'dred lifted the magus up over his shoulder; his own exhausted muscles strained at the weight. Regardless, he would force himself to manage the march.

With one hand wrapped around Syla's legs, while her body draped across his back, he moved up the rim-wall of the basin and through the trees. The deathwalker led, at his side, as they moved up the slope.

"Why do you feel you must rejoin the Champion?" Llrsyring asked, after a time.

Elle'dred glanced at the helm, "I cannot abandon the mission."

"You would not be," Llrsyring returned, "You could go on without them."

Elle'dred hesitated a moment, "I won't abandon Hheirdane." he paused, "And I promised Taedoran I would not evade him."

"One should not die for fool's promises, Elle'dred."

Elle'dred did not respond.

"He intends to kill you," the deathwalker said, quietly, "And if you let him, he will."

"I know." Elle'dred muttered.

* * *

Phio stood at his window - he was empty. It had been done. Another person was dead. He had felt alike this after the news of Hadrath's death arrived - but it had not been this acute.

This was emptiness. This was nothing. All he could do was stand.

He had sent Faldorn away - on an errand. It was not fair on the boy. And it would not be fair to hurt him like this. But the only consolation Phio could think of was that Faldorn would not have to find out himself.

He was to return today; he would return and Phio would tell him...Phio would tell him that Keron was dead. Phio had thought up a lie - he wanted to spare Faldorn as much hurt as he could.

Ormus arrived; Phio turned. Their eyes met, Phio looked away. Lyrien entered, she saw Ormus - some words were exchanged. Phio didn't listen; they were unimportant.

Phio had asked Ormus keep their...guilt, a secret from her. She would believe the same lies Faldorn was told. It wasn't fair to her.

Some minutes passed, in silence. Faldorn entered.

The boy glanced around momentarily for his friend - lover; this was supposed to be a resistance meeting.

"Faldorn," Phio began, his aide detected the seriousness in his tone, "We have something we must discuss."

His aide shot a wary glance at Ormus.

Phio explained, "It is alright, Ormus is joining us."

Faldorn's wariness turned to confusion.

"Ormus has uncovered some information that can help us," Phio paused, "That has helped us."

"What information?" Faldorn asked.

"You know of the Magus Bloodhounds that have come to Delphanas," Faldorn nodded, "Ormus has informed me that - that they are here because of us."

"Us?"

"The resistance," Phio continued, "They know about us. About our plans. They are here to track us down and stop us."

Faldorn was silent; his confusion was joined by fear.

"There is one other thing, however," Phio sighed, "The Magus had already - they knew who one of our members was - Faldorn, Keron is dead."

Faldorn's face was still for a moment. Only a small drop of his brows changed his expression. Then his lip quivered, his eyes widened. For long moments, he didn't breathe. He couldn't look at them.

Faldorn forced in a brutal gasp of air, like his throat would shatter if he breathed again. He shuddered, he did not want to release the breath. Another gasp, and tears.

Phio moved to his side.

* * *

They had rejoined the others. Sometime before dawn, they had crossed into the clearing that sheltered the Champion, the magus and the knight.

Elle'dred needed no light to see the fury in Taedoran's eyes; the man had evidently convinced himself that he had been betrayed, and unsurprisingly his rage had only deepened when he was proven wrong.

Elle'dred had restated his oath, that he would not betray the Champion.

He doubted Taedoran cared; the man had only enough self-control to repress his desire to ram his blade through Elle'dred's gut.

Their leader's cold fury had nearly broken when he realised Ayadra was no longer bound - Elle'dred had been prepared to defend the incarnate from the abuse he saw readied in Taedoran's posture.

But Llrsyring had intervened before he. The deathwalker had put Taedoran in his place.

The Champion had ordered them asleep, and no one who remained conscious had possessed any will to object. The morning had come and the day had passed; Taedoran's own exhaustion, if not the continued unconsciousness of Syla, had likely forced him to admit time was needed for recovery.

Syla had regained consciousness shortly after noon.

The following morning, Taedoran had driven them on, and they had resumed their crossing of the slopes.

Their course followed the tortuous bases of the ravines. Walled in by soaring, moss-covered rock, and watched over by the ranks of the forest above, their progress was imperceptible; they seemed to traverse the same switch-backed ravine again and again.

Cul-de-sacs invalidated hours of marching, and the snaking bends seemed to force them further and further up the mountainside, rather than across it. The grey-brown stone of the valleys blended into an undifferentiated marbling of bushes, trees and lichen - camouflaging the precarious clusters of rocks, pendant walls and abrupt drops, overlooking chasms and defiles - and lent no aid to their progress either.

The frustration of the terrain and their waning endurance, further worsened their leader's mentality. Elle'dred knew Taedoran was spoiling for a confrontation, or to do something foolish out of spite - the knight almost hoped they would be attacked by the goblins, simply so that he and Ayadra would be spared the backlash of their leader's temper.

Ayadra had moved under his own momentum for the first day; whether he had been able to maintain the march or had just feigned endurance out of fear of his guards was unapparent. Whatever pain he may have felt, he bore in silence. Llrsyring had not offered to carry him, and the incarnate would never have asked; the deathwalker trailed or led intermittently, evidently on watch for enemies.

Ayadra's injuries had enforced periodic rest breaks - despite the incarnate's best efforts to maintain the pace. Elle'dred had seen the fear in his eyes, every time he slipped, stumble or fell, and had been unable to immediately regain his feet; more than once Llrsyring, and Elle'dred, had to interpose between their leader and their charge - Elle'dred would not let Taedoran abuse Ayadra, not again.

He owed the incarnate that much.

Ayadra had strained a muscle two days after the resumption of their course; he had silently regained his feet, but on his first step, half-assisted by Elle'dred, he had nearly collapsed - doubled over in pain. He had repressed a cry; and clutched at his leg.

Llrsyring then had not allowed them to continue.

In the safety of a narrow ravine, half-concealed by overhanging curtains of vines, and occupied only by the fallen log of a once massive tree from the forest above, they had set up camp. Their leader had been forced to concede the incarnate's need for rest - as much as the recurrent need of his own. They were all exhausted.

Two days had passed. Elle'dred had bound Ayadra's thigh with a poultice, heated over a small fire; the treatment was purported to ease the muscles and accelerate recovery. For the second time, the knight was confronted by the myriad marks of previous abuse that covered Ayadra's body. A few small gashes had gone untreated from his frequent falls; Elle'dred had tended those wounds as well.

The incarnate had thanked him, quietly, hesitantly, again.

Ayadra deserved better than this.

Wrapped in blankets, under an overhang of the ravine-wall, the incarnate had managed a lengthy and much-needed sleep - broken intermittently by nightmares.

Llrsyring had kept watch at one end of their harbouring passageway, while Taedoran and Hheirdane had seemingly decided to guard the other.

As Taedoran exchanged places with Hheirdane, and the knight proceeded to move to his packs to retrieve a meal, Elle'dred realised he likely would have little better a time to speak with the Sword-Bearer.

Hheirdane did not acknowledge his approach.

He knelt down beside his friend, "Hheirdane, we need to talk.'

Silence was the only response he received.

"Hheirdane, I know something is wrong. I know you blame me for something," - he confronted only flat disregard, "I know you have been speaking with Taedoran." - even that elicited no response; in a moment of frustration, he reached out to grip the man's arm, "Hheirdane, I am still your friend -"

No you are not. The refutation was emblazoned in the jade-green gaze levelled at him, mingled with the same inexplicable pain, grief and blame he had seen weeks ago - and now they were joined by loathing, a sharp, utter hatred Elle'dred could not mistake.

Hheirdane shot him the glance, and growled, "Go back to your deathwalker."

With those words, the man who had once been his friend rose, turned his back and moved to the Champion of the Tribunal's side.

Elle'dred stared after him.

* * *

Night had fallen.

Their leader had made it clear, as he ordered them to sleep, that no more time would be allowed for rest. Tomorrow they would resume their march.

Whether their charge had fully recovered or not, neither of his benefactors had objected to the order.

Ayadra rested, unbound, nestled against the ravine-wall; all the men, and creatures, of the party either snored softly in slumber or did not breathe at all.

Syla was glad for the privacy; for some time, she had wanted to speak with the deathwalker. Apparently he had rescued her.

The last thing she remembered of their flight from the goblins was running alongside Dus; they had cleared a narrow gorge and mounted a snaking ledge that ran at the base of an escarpment devoid of trees. She had not heard an arrow in some time, and as her legs had begun to seize up from the exertion, she had slowed to a jog to regain her breath.

Elle'dred and Dus were only a few feet ahead of her.

There had been a booming crash and a creaking so loud it had filled the air around her; it had come from the ridgeline of the escarpment, above. She had looked up to see the massive pillar of a redwood cascading down the slope. The immense mass of timber had torn shale, and dirt, and brush free in its wake, and pushed a wave of earth and rocks before it - and it had been only a handful of feet away.

She had not been surprised; she had not thought; she had not had the time for thought - the sliding column of wood, lined with branches as thick as her torso and splintered sharp as any blade would have swept her from the slope and crushed her, helplessly and absolutely.

Her fingers had moved instinctually, summoning a rune - followed by another, and another. She had cast a spell through intuition and guesswork; it had been a series of spells, laced between a salvo of runes. She had not even had the time to complete it - as her world had swarmed with the encompassing crash of rocks, earth, leaves, and the inexorable mass of the tree, she had flung her salvo of crystalline glare outwards.

They had struck the trunk - and the very life had been drained from her veins.

She had not cared about the cost of the spell she was casting; she was going to die anyway - manageable exertion of magic had not seemed a great priority. The last thing she remembered, as her vision was dragged into darkness, was the overpowering cry of wood, and a wave of splinters breaking upon her face.

Then, she had woken up in a small clearing, surrounded by the others. When she had managed to coax some information from her fellow magus, he had said - with an air of disregard that bordered on disdain - that she had been carried into their camp by the deathwalker.

Elle'dred had said much the same thing.

Llrsyring had saved her life.

Amidst the near pitch darkness of the night, Syla rose and moved beside the suit of armour that stood guarding the entrance to their sanctuary defile.

The helm glanced at her, as she stood beside him.

A long silence held between them, before she spoke, "I'm sorry." - it was a hard starting point; but one she had to make, "For what I said to you when we first met. For taunting you about the war with your race."

The helm stared at her, but did not respond. His silence seemed accompanied by an unexpressed scorn; whether the shame she felt was levelled at her by the unnatural emptiness of the armour, or because of a need for forgiveness she would never admit to herself of having, she could not tell.

She continued, "It was a mistake of pride. Not one I intend to make again."

Still the helm was silent. His scorn seemed only to have deepened in the night-darkened emptiness of his armour. She felt an edge of rage, almost a demanding. Did he want her to beg? Again.

He was not being fair; she had apologised - if he did not want to forgive her, she could accept that answer. But she would not beg.

Before her own indignation overwhelmed her better judgement and caused her to shatter what little trust, or amity, or gratitude she felt towards this suit of armour, she turned away, and moved a step.

She had his answer -

"I accept your apology." the deathwalker's voice was flat - almost to the point of bitterness.

She glanced back at the helm, "You will not get another one."

Llrsyring chuckled.

Syla turned, and stood again by the armour's side, "Llrsyring, can I ask what the truth is regarding your people and the war we fought with them?" she paused, but added somewhat harshly, "I'm not sure whether I mean to offend you or not."

The helm glanced at her, and allowed a brief chortle, "My opinion on the truth of the matter might be scarred a little by the loss of my people, whom I cared quite a lot about." he paused, "The war with my race, was the result of many years, and many separate events. Simply, its beginnings were in that my people protested the extermination of those born to deathwalker blood, and as more than a century of magus lies and spineless leadership on the behalf of your Archivists had blatantly refuted our counsel and the guardianship my people were once entrusted with, we felt our service to the race of men was no longer deserved. We abandoned trade with your nations, refused diplomatic contact, and establish a military presence on our borders. We had given your leaders an ultimatum, perhaps the worst mistake we made in any of our dealings with your race; that until they recognised the truth of the crimes they committed against their own people and ceased them, the Ellyan Taun would not call the race of men their allies.

"By that time, the belief that the deathwalker blood was somehow tainted had spread to the nation of the dwarves; and there were movements and segregation between their own people; the dwarves felt the need to register and track the birth and dealings of deathwalkers. And of no other blood. We tried to advise them otherwise, but the influence of men was too strong, and ours and the elves too little or too far removed. Our 'opposition' to trade and fair relations, as your leaders defined them, motivated hostility along the border." he paused, "No doubt your leaders thought that by proffering the unabashed threat of military conflict, we would renege our isolation. We did not. For a decade, we tolerated your small incursions into our territory; the 'incidents' along the border; we enforced the line - and in truth more than enough blood was spilled, Ellyan and man - but where we were not provoked, your leaders used every skirmish, every life lost to gain support for our condemnation. The Tribunal labelled us evil; we supported evil - the practice of necromancy, among other things. And yet despite the antagonism your race had invoked, when a coincidental plague wiped out the crops of much of the Highlands of Ygoth, without so much as shame, your leaders turned to us with a plea - that we should break our diplomatic enmity, and re-establish trade of food on humanitarian reasons. For simple pity." he sighed, "Perhaps in that we should have indulged you; but we did not. We denied trade entirely; your people did starve. Quite a number died."

"There was a side note, in an obscure text." Syla added.

Llrsyring chuckled, "It was curious how the plague never touched our fields. But when we refused to help Ammandorn, the Elder Archivists gained the leverage they required to divide us entirely from the dwarves. They also severed all ties with our race. Supposedly because of the famine, your citizenry took it upon themselves to raid our towns close to the border; naturally we enforced our territory; and your starving people that we refused to aid were slaughtered by our soldiers in their search for food, so that we could preserve the sovereignty of our lands." again, the helm laughed, "Your people were convinced we were your enemies, and so then also was your military. Ammandorn declared war on my people, and decimated us. After, you annexed our lands - what you now call the Thousand River Mountains, and the forest of Meran'dier. You even built the city of Armanas from the ruins of one of our -" he paused, "That is the truth of your war, Syla."

The magus was silent for a long while; what the armour had said contradicted the history that she had studied - and it did not surprise her. She was confronted by a naivety she chastised herself for possessing; that she had never questioned the details of past events. Admittedly, their history texts disguised it well; Ammandorn rarely lay blameless for the unfortunate episodes of their past - no doubt the Archivists of the time believed they were recording the truth - but in no case did the fault lie completely on their government's shoulders, their enemies had always provoked them or in some measure warranted the ensuing conflicts; even the dwarves, although, that 'conflict' was not referred to as a war.

Only the goblins, their unremitting enemies, were cast as the perpetual villain that threatened their people; Syla wondered if indeed the goblins were their enemies by choice at all, or that instead they had just been relegated to the role by her race's ambitions and justifications.

She thought it no surprise the goblins had allied themselves with the Immortal; for centuries, they had been barricaded and imprisoned within an area known to men as 'the wastes', where survival was likely the first and only concern, the goblins as a race were forced to live lives of unrelenting hardship and conflict, warring with themselves over the sparse resources they were given. They would have embraced the prospect of defeating those that had antagonised them for so long.

"Do you have any family, Syla?" Llrsyring asked, flatly.

The question caught her a little off guard, and she wondered if his asking of it was not motivated by vindictiveness. Her instinctual response was to change the subject, to avoid revealing valuable information to an enemy - she was not sure this deathwalker was an enemy. She was not sure what he was to her. In any case, fairness seemed to dictate that she match the candour he had shown her.

After a pause she replied, "No." but was compelled to add, "My mother."

Llrsyring was silent; he seemed prompting her to elucidate -

"She is the only member of my family left; my father died when I was very young, killed in the service."

"Do you love her?"

- The question slipped her guard entirely - it was far too personal; and, it found only the void of an answer.

"Yes." the word was weak, enforced; it seemed the correct thing to say, "After my father died, my mother sent me to Grgadorn on the recompense afforded to her by the military. I lived at the school; she never really took an interest in my life, she never had the time for me - so I refused the time for her." she paused, "She refused to visit me in the keep; I always was the one who came to her. I decided a few years ago it was no longer worth the effort. But I did try...for a time."

Llrsyring said nothing more; a gesture she was intensely grateful for. A long silence lingered between them, before she had collected herself enough to pursue another inquiry. The primary question she wanted to ask evaded her, as it had too many times in conversation with this deathwalker.

"Llrsyring, could you tell me how I use magic?"

"Do you want to be insulted?" the helm replied with a measure of derision and incredulity.

She met the emptiness of his eyeholes and nodded.

"Your magic is childish, you are crude and unskilled. And you lack any insight beyond rote and standardised methods."

Resentment swelled inside her; Syla's cheeks flushed in the cold air of the night - she spent a second biting back her innate gall and indignation, but managed to ask without bile, "Can you teach me? How magic is supposed to be used?"

Llrsyring did not respond.

Syla assumed his silence as a denial; but as the seconds passed, the surge of bitterness opened to a bare need she had not acknowledged since the revelations at Catesus - she needed the answer to be yes, "I have not learnt from good teachers. And it is obvious you understand magic better than me - or anyone else alive. As much as I don't want to admit it. I want to know how magic is used; I need to know," - she was begging, "Please. I'd like to know how not to pass out."

Llrsyring chuckled, "I am afraid in that I cannot help you, unless you were to die."

That might be preferable - the morbid thought manifested in her mind; she quashed it.

The deathwalker assented, "Very well. I will teach you - but it falls to you to break the misconceptions you have based your understanding on, I will not aid you in that."

Syla nodded; she swore to herself she would not shy from this. It was worth the effort.

The empty eyeholes of the helm seemed to radiate an approval, as they had before, "I suppose you want your first lesson now, of all times?"

Syla nodded.

"You should sleep, tomorrow will be as arduous -"

"Teach me." she wasn't sure if the she pronounced the words as a student or a teacher; the first misconception that challenged her. For a moment, she realised the full measure of the damage to be undone, and - as before - she doubted she was capable of the task, or that she was truly resolved to complete it. But she repressed those doubts; if nothing else, her stubbornness would allow no retreat.

She had nowhere left to retreat.

Save for the question she had not asked - the thing that had brought her to his side, this night. Some small part of her would admit she was terrified of what the answer might be, or would not. However, the larger part of her argued that there were subjects of greater importance, which should be pursued first; she needed time to define herself, and so for the moment she couldn't suffer any other concerns. However much she might desire them.

She had always seemed to need time to define herself where others were concerned.

* * *

Faldorn sat. The garden around him was green with life. He waited.

Althyera walked up the path, her smile - the smile so alike her brothers, was gone. Faldorn thought the smile would never be seen again; the world was not same without it. She walked up to him. He stood. She had tears in her eyes.

* * *

Ayadra negotiated a small climb down further into the depths of the ravine. The deep chasm had sheltered them for three nights; its high rock walls protected them from sight across the mountainside. However, the rock-faces also precluded sight beyond their soaring edges, and the narrow defile had dictated their course without volition or alteration - they had found no egress in days.

The stone beneath was patched with moss, and the same lichen climbed the overhanging walls. Vines dangled over the edge of the ground above, and hung like thickly woven curtains adorned with scatterings of white flowers. The corridor of stone dipped and rose infrequently, and boulders and mounds of rubble littered the valley floor, amongst the occasional fallen logs that had once been trees on the mountainside above.

The incarnate had been spared the offence of his primary guard over their lack of progress, due to the difficulty each of the others possessed in traversing the precarious terrain; in a rare coincidence, his clawed feet and tail afforded him a steadiness and balance that surpassed the soldiers and the magus.

He could not be faulted with restraining their pace.

It had also become clear neither Llrsyring, nor Elle'dred would allow his primary guard to treat him as he had once been treated.

He was grateful to them.

He had not been abused; for the longest time in his memory, he had suffered no punishment, no reprimand from his guards. The burdens of marching ever dogged him, but those he could bare, he and his body had for the most part become accustomed to them.

He was no longer starving; he had been granted the boon of more than one meal a day - when the others ate, Elle'dred made sure he was included. He was grateful, more than he could say.

The southern sun warmed the air, though it rarely appeared beyond the edge of the ravine-walls around him, and at night he was granted a blanket.

Though each night was disrupted by nightmares when he slept, he was not bound to the ground or a wall; he could rest comfortably.

Without notice, his life had changed to include a measure of liberty he had never thought it would possess.

He was free, to a point. But he did not believe he deserved it; he could not convince himself that he deserved it.

Every time he inadvertently met Hheirdane's eyes, each time he glanced at him - the knight's suffering was as palpable to him as the features of the man's face. The hurt rested in the man's eyes - and in his dreams. As Ayadra's own trauma did. Hheirdane burned every night.

And the man hated Elle'dred for it. More than the thing that had hurt him.

Elle'dred had lost his friend - because of Ayadra's talons.

Because of Ayadra himself.

After rounding a jagged protrusion, that forced a bend into the valley, they descended onto a stretch of level ground, strewn with boulders. As the ravine floor maintained its evenness for some distance yet, Taedoran barked an order for them to increase their pace.

The Champion and Hheirdane strode ahead, heedless of the increasing gap that formed between the lead and the deathwalker, incarnate and knight that had fallen to the rear.

Beside Ayadra, Elle'dred released an exasperated sigh, and lengthened his stride to close the distance.

Ayadra did likewise.

The sword that emerged from the large pane of rock - which had blended so seamlessly into the crag beside it, half-concealed by the mass draping of vines - shone only as a flash of steel across the Ayadra's vision.

But the flash was followed by a spatter of blood, the materialisation of a goblin, and Elle'dred's gurgled cry. The goblin's blade had cut clean through his tabard, the leathers beneath, and through the flesh of his gut. Stifled by the armour, the strike failed to spill his viscera onto the valley floor, but the force of the blow, and the debilitating pain and shock of the wound reduced the knight to a helpless body sprawled across the rocks. Stained with red.

Shock. Ayadra froze.

A howl broke the quiet air of the defile - four goblins, and two incarnates emerged to complete their ambush.

Llrsyring reacted without a moment's passing; as Ayadra could only gape, uncomprehendingly.

The armour advanced a step, and through the arc of steel formed by the drawing of his notched-blade, cleaved away the first goblin's arm and opened its flank in a cascade of bright vermillion. He turned, as one with the manoeuvre, and came to rest facing as he had before, save for the advancing of a step around the goblin, and the extending of his arm in the finish of the twirl. His notched-blade leapt free of his open hand, with all the momentum imparted to it - hurled across the air.

His second sword appeared in his left, as he melded into mist.

In an instant, the deathwalker's notched-blade crossed the eight paces between him and the goblin that aimed itself for the two aghast magus - and in that same instant, black mist re-solidified into an armoured hand grasping the hilt of the notched-sword as it plunged from its flight into the arresting body of that self-same goblin.

Llrsyring stood before two incarnates, three paces behind the corpse of the second goblin he had slain. Both of the bovine-creatures paused a moment, stunned by his sudden appearance - but then freed enraged snorts, laced in spittle, and advanced with the malefic clack of hoof on stone.

One of the incarnates bore a sword, while the other brandished a great-axe in its clenched hands.

Llrsyring did not pause, from his appearance grasping the hilt of his notched-sword, he freed the blade and turned through a swirling flare of his cloak into a slash across the axe wielding incarnate. Behind, the argent glare of a rune formed and left the battle-magus' hand; the crystalline projectile aimed at the three goblins that assailed the Champion of the Tribunal and the Sword-Bearer of the White Wolf Hall ten paces away.

The first incarnate back a step, out of range of the deathwalker's blade, anticipating his attack; and with its preternatural strength raised its axe and hacked down in a reprisal so swift only the cry of the air evinced its movement. The serrated head of the weapon came down upon the armour's shoulder with force to split stone -

But the incarnate's blow met only the edge of the armour's second blade, as it rose from his emerging side, positioned across the haft of the descending axe; the weapon's handle was cleaved in two, as were the hands of its incarnate wielder.

As the armour had moved, however, the second incarnate had attacked with its sword - in tandem with its counterpart - the mammoth blade caught its foe and sheared clean through the deathwalker's robes and the plates beneath which composed his chest.

In a screech of metal, Llrsyring was forced to a halt.

The second incarnate was not stifled, by the landing of its attack or the clatter and thud of its counterpart's severed axe-head and fingers to the ground beside its foe. With the terrible strength of its muscles, it dragged its sword free and whirled it through a circle into a second slash that would free the deathwalker's head.

The hollow armour, however, had no life or flesh to hinder him; and as the incarnate's blade was freed, Llrsyring spun, lowered in a fluid swirl - underneath the mammoth blade that sailed over his bowed form. The sword's edge caught the folds of his cloak, flaring in a twisting ebon blur above him; as he spun, he drew his notched blade across the second incarnate's gut - cleaving through to its spine.

As entrails fell and the creature doubled over, choked by a spilling gout of blood, the deathwalker completed his elegant motion - he rose from the lowered bow through the end of his spin, and brought his second sword down across the nape of the incarnate's neck. Its bovine head dropped to the ground before it, followed momentarily by its gutted body.

A second rune, Syla's, sailed, struck and jarred the fingerless-incarnate's torso beside the deathwalker, but failed to supplant the wounded creature's cloven feet from where it stood. Its last groan, from the pain of its absent members and the force of the rune, was ended by the deathwalker's blades spearing in tandem through its head and chest.

Ayadra did not comprehend the battle, which waged and ended in breathless seconds around him. His attention was fixed solely on the knight that bled to death on the ravine's floor.

As Llrsyring had left his side in a swirl of mist, the obsidian incarnate had scrambled a pace ahead and dropped to his knees.

Elle'dred weakly clutched at his gut wound with one hand; the other seemed beyond his power to control. The wound itself opened like a maw of blood and rent flesh, dwarfing the knight's small, inconsequential grasp, which tried to stem the thick trickling of red.

Elle'dred coughed; sputtered blood. Too much red covered his abdomen - and too much poison filled the wound.

- He would be dead in moments. And Ayadra was powerless to stop it.

He did not want Elle'dred to die. Elle'dred did not deserve to die.

He clutched at the knight's inoperative hand; as the last breaths the man would breathe failed to clear his throat; as his eyes stared listlessly up, glazed over in shock.

- He had to do something - anything -

There was nothing -

- Knowledge.

The door to his memory, or whatever part of him knew the things he did not, opened once more. Desperation was quelled in a moment of understanding, in a moment of revelation.

Ayadra felt his hands burn - not as they had days before - but as though the flames of his nightmares merely called to his flesh, taunted, encouraged, impelled. He knew what it was he could do - what he had to do, and he knew what it would exact. He laid his hands across the knight's wound.

And Ayadra knew pain.

Syla breathed a tense breath of recovery, as she searched their surroundings for the signs of more enemies; she could find none. The burst of adrenalin that surged through her, seemed suddenly wasted - the battle had lasted only moments.

Llrsyring had once again saved her life. And the lives of the others - save for Elle'dred. Before she had been overwhelmed by the instinct to preserve her own survival, she had heard the knight's cry and glimpsed his dying body sprawled across the moss-clad rocks.

Death; Elle'dred had died - or would soon die. Her life had changed to include death - she loathed that she did not feel more - disturbed, angry, pained, afraid, sorrowing -

Anything was better than the emptiness, the unwilling and undesired acceptance -

A breath. A sudden, forceful gasp - annulled her thoughts. It came from the defile's floor, behind her.

She turned, and was paralysed by shock.

Though Elle'dred lay in the midst of a red stain coating the rocks and moss around him, and the broken tabard and armour of his abdomen was drenched in blood, he sucked a breath - a deep, life-sustaining breath into his lungs. He moved. He clutched at his belly - at the wound.

But it was no longer there.

A gash of unbroken skin glistened, pink-white and exposed, clearly between the bloodied tear in his claddings; where the goblin's blade had sheared fabric and leather - where the fatal wound had been -

The wound that was now utterly absent.

Syla gaped - she could not begin to comprehend. How had his wound vanished?

Her vision rose slightly, to the obsidian body that lay on the rocks beside the knight. In the limp weak breathing that moved in and out of the scaled, wound-riddled chest, and the red that coated the ground around the incarnate, she assumed a partial answer.

Ayadra.

Ayadra lay on the valley floor, on a bed of soft moss. The green lichen was stained red from the trickling rivulets of blood that ran across his scales. Entangled gouges covered his torso - a lattice of wide lacerations wove around patches of bloodied obsidian. Wounds; all jagged, rent, and sadistically shallow. Alone, not one of the lacerations was life threatening - but there were dozens of them.

Inexplicably and unnatural.

The incarnate wheezed a pained breath; his eyelids fluttered through a failing semi-consciousness.

Llrsyring moved past her, sheathing his blades.

The deathwalker reached for the knight's pack, and in a moment had scattered its contents across the rocks. Quickly he found bandages, and a water skin - Elle'dred, though palpably overwhelmed by bewilderment and uncertainty, moved instinctually to assist the suit of armour.

Together the Champion of the White Wolf and the deathwalker cleaned and wrapped what of the incarnate's wounds his bodily appendages would allow; his hands again were restrained by bandaging, as were his arms, though his wings prohibited adequate bandaging for the myriad gouges on his chest.

Ayadra continued to bleed.

Syla watched, unable to understand.

"We must move." - Taedoran's sharp order from over her shoulder had her turn to their leader's cold, impassive face. He too was covered in flecks and lines of red, though all were exclusively goblin.

Hheirdane stood at his side; a spatter of red marred the Sword-Bearer's face, but his green eyes were unmistakably locked on the three figures at the other end of the ravine. A glimmer of disgust and hatred moved across his gaze.

"We cannot move Ayadra." Elle'dred countered.

"We will move." Taedoran replied, obstinately. He turned away and proceeded a step ahead further into the ravine.

Syla glanced at the knight; Elle'dred's frustration ran rampant in his features, but a prompt from the deathwalker beside him had him acquiesce with silence. The knight washed the blood from his hands, repacked the contents scattered across the floor, and grasped his pack.

The straps had been severed by the blow that had cut open his gut.

Llrsyring, with blood yet staining his gauntlets, gently lifted the incarnate's wounded body into a cradle.

Confused and uncertain, Syla reassumed the pace, following after their leader, with the deathwalker, knight and the weapon of the Immortal behind her. 
Chapter 20

_For a time things were well, and the Fourth Heaven prospered. Until the Immortal attacked once more. This time though, he sought to destroy the Wyverns home, Narguin. He stood as a dark cloud above the Second Heaven, and caused the sky to fall upon the wyverns. He bound their wings and turned the winds against them. Many fell to the ground. The Wyvern Kings were consumed by rage, and in their grief they left the Fourth Heaven to drive the Immortal from their home._

_The Immortal saw this, and before they were upon him, he took to the sky, and flew to the undefended lands of the Fourth Heaven. The wyverns of Narguin were enraged and chased him. And the Wyvern Kings took charge amongst their brethren. They fought the Immortal above the fourth heaven. The battle scarred the land below, and before the Immortal retreated, wounded, the Wyvern Kings realised their folly. And they knew despair._

* * *

Ormus stood, half-perched on the lip of his desk. His private quarters were the most comforting abode for his thoughts - and his plans. He examined his achievements; the process was not a ceremony of gratification, but a summarising on the advancement of his course of action; he had won Phio's trust, and he had infiltrated the resistance, but the following manipulations would have to be more delicate than barefaced murder.

An unexpected knocking on the door wrested him from his ruminations.

"Come in." he instructed whoever it was that stood behind the wooden barricade.

The door opened, and he was greeted by the countenance of an entirely unanticipated visitor. High Magus Helanath strode in and shut the entryway behind her.

He immediately noticed the seriousness that hardened her features.

"Ormus." she greeted, coolly, in her diminutive voice.

"Helanath." he said, concern rising to his own visage.

"There is something I must tell you," she announced, then paused, "Something I would be grateful for your advice on."

Ormus nodded, as he stood; the distance of his eyes watched her carefully.

"I have discovered something," she began, "a rather unsettling fact about High Magus Ragmurath." Ormus worry peaked, "I have reason to suspect that he may have been involved in Hadrath's death...in the Staff-Bearer's murder."

The Elder Archivist remained quiet.

She continued, "After he was killed, the inquiry revealed that a prisoner had escaped from the prisons. That he had murdered Hadrath seemingly out of vengeance; the Staff-Bearer himself was the presiding judge over the escapee's trial. But there was something else," she paused, and sighed, "After Hadrath's death, I did some investigating of my accord, and I felt it my responsibility to look through the Staff-Bearer's personal diaries, to see if there was any indication as to who might have assisted the prisoner to escape, such a thing is supposed to be impossible," Helanath confessed, "I suspected that someone might have wanted Hadrath dead - I had my suspicions as to who and why already, but it seemed to be confirmed in the diaries."

She paused, and met Ormus eyes for a long while - he could see the conflict and betrayal in them, and he grew more concerned as to the source of it.

Helanath breathed and elucidated, "The Staff-Bearer recorded something that was never revealed publically in the Trial; that the murderer being tried was High Magus Ragmurath's bastard son. I suppose Hadrath wanted to spare him his reputation, and the Tribunal itself some embarrassment." Helanath paused as the conflict in her eyes erupted onto her face, "I believe in the law Ormus; I have always believed in the justice and fairness of the Tribunal. Why can I not then pursue this? Why can I not bring myself to believe a fellow High Magus has committed treason?"

Ormus did not answer her.

"Not all of us agreed with Hadrath," she admitted, "The Staff-Bearer's decision to comply with the Assembly's blatant disregard for the laws concerning necromancy cut a deep division in the Tribunal; even I had my doubts, and I was Hadrath's friend," she took a breath, "Though regardless of the circumstances, if High Magus Ragmurath is responsible for freeing a murderer, and allowing - and killing the Staff-Bearer, he must be convicted of his crime." Helanath pronounced the sentence determinedly, however the uncertainty returned shortly after and she professed, "But what with the war, and the already heated disputes with the Assembly, convicting a High Magus of treason would destroy all trust in the Tribunal, it could very well undermine our order."

Ormus moved over to her, and reached out to grip her shoulder. At the instant his touch was felt, the tension of resolve softened, and her divided convictions weakened. She turned and fell against him, holding him for comfort. He moved her back and kissed her.

"You must return to Grgadorn and proceed with your investigation," he professed, "We must know whether Ragmurath was involved in this, he could exploit Hadrath's demise as proof of his position. You saw how opposed he was to using the prophecies. At this time we cannot afford dissention between the Magus and the Archivists."

The determination in her gaze crystallised, the uncertainty faded into the softness she felt for the man mirrored in her eyes.

"I should not have doubted myself," she muttered, disarmingly, "Nor the law."

Ormus smiled soothingly, "You should stay a night, or two. There's no sense in leaving immediately; and I would appreciate someone to spend the night with."

She managed a half-hearted, sly, smile, "I would not mind it either," she paused as her face returned to solemnity, "Ormus, if High Magus Ragmurath is responsible, you must help us keep it from the Assembly, if they were to discover this -"

"They will not." Ormus dissuaded, paused and tenderly stroked her shoulder, "You will stay for a few days; then you must leave. I will join you after a time. Investigate, and we can decide when I arrive at Grgadorn how best to pursue this matter." he met her eyes and smiled, "This may just be some errant suspicion, on your part." she frowned sourly at the jibe, "And the Tribunal is not being torn apart by murder and political ambition."

Helanath scowled disapprovingly, but sighed and said, "I love you."

"And I you, my dear." Ormus replied, and kissed her again.

The Elder Archivist's mind had already determined a course of action; though it posed considerable difficultly. His accomplice had made an error, and Helanath had discovered more than she ought to know; he knew this development would forestall his plans; he knew he must deal with both inconveniences before he could move against Phio.

* * *

He had died. He had been dying. The goblin's sword had cleaved open his gut, and he had been dying. It had been a lethal wound.

He knew it; he knew it now as clearly - in fact more clearly - as the moments he had lain, splayed across the valley floor. He was yet covered in his own blood; prodigious amounts of his own blood. His torn tabard and leathers were hardened by the dried remnants of that blood.

It stank. Fortunately, he doubted the deathwalker had any sense of smell to offend.

And Ayadra was unconscious in the armour's arms - the incarnate was wounded.

As the day had drawn on, their flight from the ambush had turned into a branching ravine that continued along a precarious path until it had opened to a wider valley, filled with the roar of a waterfall and the glisten of a tarn. The dell, bedecked with hanging vines, moss and crowded by a contingent of willows, had been eroded by the frothing currents of the water, which filled the pool occupying its basin.

Partly because dusk was nearing, and in part because Elle'dred had protested adamantly that Ayadra's wounds required re-bandaging, Taedoran had ordered them to rest in the dell's confines. They would continue in the morning.

There were too many open crevices leading into the valley and its soaring walls, which edged the mountainside above, could harbour untold enemies unperceived; a watch was always prudent, but given his experiences during the past day, Elle'dred knew they would not see, nor hear, an enemy coming before they were beset upon.

As they had been, when he had had his gut cleaved open.

Llrsyring and he unwrapped the bloodied swathes that bound the incarnate, and cleaned Ayadra's wounds with the meticulousness their initial circumstances had disallowed. Elle'dred was confronted again by the unnatural mesh of gouges riven indelibly across the incarnate's arms and chest.

The blood had crusted over the open flesh on Ayadra's arms; though the movements of marching - even dampened by the deathwalker - had inadvertently prevented his chest wounds from sealing completely. He still bled.

Llrsyring's gauntlets were covered with blood; likely, so too were the front folds of his robes, but whatever red Ayadra had left was lost in their darkness.

Together, undisturbed by any of the others who Elle'dred realised now kept an even greater distance from him and his unnatural friends, he and the suit of armour re-bound Ayadra's wounds.

Elle'dred was brimming with questions; a tumult of uncertainty churned and clenched and clogged his gut, but it was quelled - or rather, barred by the thickness of confusion and blood that weighted the unbroken skin of his abdomen.

He needed to bathe, wash the blood - his blood, from his clothes. He could not think until he had accomplished that.

He had accepted the fact that if they were ambushed again, in the valley, they would be slaughtered, likelier this time despite the protection of the deathwalker - Llrsyring had not been fast enough to prevent the sword or the goblin that had opened his gut.

He should have been killed. He had been dying.

As he began to strip his broken trappings and armour, he heard the deathwalker muttering over his shoulder; he paused and listened for a moment - he had learned to define the low incantations of a spell. Llrsyring was likely protecting them again - protecting the wounded incarnate. And him.

He removed his claddings fully, slowly, breaking the red seal that merged them with his skin - his under-tunic clung, adhered by the blood, as did his trousers and underclothes and leathers and boots. Every inch of him seemed coated in the dried remnants of his life - so much blood had caked into his clothes. He set his claddings aside on the rocky bank of the tarn; dusk had begun to fall, and the cold air bit at his nakedness - but he already felt cleaner.

He strode into the soft ripples of the water, unhindered by the chill. For a moment, he knelt and submerged fully - in the numb occlusion of the tarn, all he could hear was the internal echo of his heartbeat. Each, steady, rhythmic beat.

His heart should not be beating; he had been dying; he should be dead - but he wasn't. He was alive. Fully and wholly alive.

Because of Ayadra.

Ayadra had saved his life, at an evident cost to himself. With a power the knight could not comprehend. Elle'dred had to know how the incarnate had saved him - he had to know why.

Resurfacing, he took in a gulp of air - the clean, clear bite that filled his chest was pushed out reflexively by the constriction of sore muscles submerged in icy water. Slowly he found his feet again, and waded back to the shallows; he threw a glance up the bank, and caught the ephemeral glint of Syla's eyes.

The magus looked away, but unlike the averting gazes of their leader and his former friend further along the water's edge behind her, Syla's look was not characterised by abhorrence. Hers seemed to reflect the same confusion that dogged him.

The same red confusion that yet coated his naked body in muddied rivulets and grime.

And unlike him, she was alone.

Elle'dred sighed, and began the ablutions to rinse the encrusting of blood completely from his skin. Dusk had near bled into darkness, by the time he had finished and waded out of the water into the seemingly undifferentiated frozenness of the air; yet, he waved off the blanket proffered by the deathwalker.

He still had to clean his clothes, and the chill of the errant dampness left on his bare skin helped to suppress the thoughts that would soon break through the new cleanness of his body. In the waning light he rinsed his claddings as best he could, and laid them out across the rocks beside the water. They were still heavy with blood, and they would not be dry by the morning.

The futility of his washing stifled him for a moment, as he knelt naked and shivering on the bank of the tarn. Everything seemed so futile. His clothes would remain covered in blood no matter how much he washed them, and they would never have enough time to dry.

It was all so futile.

The draping of a blanket over his shoulders by the deathwalker beside him pulled him from his thoughts; he thanked Llrsyring with a nod, although in the deep gloom he could barely see the armour's helm.

Elle'dred wrapped the warming material as tightly around himself as he could, and shifted to sit on the soft moss of the stone beneath him. Clean, free of his armour and weapons and blood, he could think; he could formulate his questions with a bare coherency.

"What happened?" - the simplest question he could cogitate, and the one most in need of an answer.

Llrsyring did not respond immediately, as per his usual, although Elle'dred felt something akin to confusion in the armour's silence, and he wondered whether Llrsyring knew the answer to his question.

"Ayadra healed you."

Elle'dred sighed, "That's rather obvious. What I mean to ask is how?"

"He took your wounds to his own flesh."

Once again, the answer was not enlightening, "And how exactly is it that he did that?"

"Ayadra is the Three Hells Incarnate; he is the wound of the world, the channel for all hell-fire," Llrsyring paused, "His flesh, his face and his hands are the three manifestations of the hells in the spirit that he is; his flesh holds flame, his face is hidden in madness, and his hands are the greed that destroys. They are the three things that will make him the weapon of the Immortal. What he did, how he healed you...that was a choice he made, to use his power. Though not how I expected, or how it was intended."

The last muttered phrases piqued the knight's interest - and concern, "Is what he did a good thing?"

"That depends on how much you value your life." the deathwalker quipped, "What he did was a good thing, but the power he invoked to accomplish it..." the helm paused, "His hands were supposed to work in a manner contrary to how he used them. They were supposed to visit his wounds upon others, to take life and restore his. But he seems to have decided otherwise."

For a moment, the deathwalker's tone evinced disapproval, or even a disappointment - but the knight assuaged it as the same confusion and concern that harried him.

He still did not understand what Ayadra was; he had been told much by both those he did not trust and those he did, but still he had no clear idea of what the incarnate was.

He was more than a frightened animal. Much more.

And Ayadra was his friend. Albeit one he did not understand.

- Hheirdane was not. The thought did not strike him with the force of recognition, he had been aware of it since the morning in Catesus. But he had not acknowledged it until now. Hheirdane was no longer his friend - their decade of history had been voided by the fact that he now sat with a suit of armour and an incarnate. One of a blood murdered clandestinely by the leaders he had once served, and the other an abused and tormented prisoner who had done nothing against them, except being a weapon he did not know that he was.

Both were now Elle'dred's friends.

His former friend, and Sword-Bearer of his council, sat in the surreptitiously separate camp formed by the Champion of the Tribunal and the male magus further along the bank of the tarn. Hheirdane had seemingly declared his allegiance.

Elle'dred felt a brief stab of bitterness; Hheirdane had been his friend - he had trusted -

His life was full of betrayals, and there was little he could do.

He avoided the thoughts, and the emotions; it was all too likely he would die in the days to come, far beyond the land he had served, and beyond its mendacious leaders and heinous laws. The betrayals he had suffered would not matter in the wastes of Agdor.

"Why did Ayadra heal me?" - he had to ask the question.

"I would think you can answer that question yourself." the helm replied.

Elle'dred turned his gaze to the unconscious incarnate, wrapped in blankets and bandages beside him, as Llrsyring lowered himself to the ground. The deathwalker reached out and stroked the bone of Ayadra's face with his plated fingers.

"Taedoran means to kill me, and Ayadra."

"Yes. And he will," the deathwalker replied, "If you allow him to."

Elle'dred was silent for a long moment, "Could you kill him?" - the question slipped out too easily, "No. Don't answer that. I don't...I'm not like him."

Llrsyring did not respond.

Elle'dred stared listlessly at the incarnate; Ayadra deserved better than this. But he could not change the incarnate's fate. Or his own.

He could not.

* * *

"I do not trust him." Lyrien stated.

"Ormus has helped us," Phio argued, "Without him the magus might have uncovered our entire group."

"He is dangerous, Phio."

"Do you think I do not know that?" the Elder Archivist asked, and paused as he sat beside her, "We are all killers, Lyrien. We are all guilty of Hadrath's death."

The flames of the fireplace crackled soothingly, they warmed the two in the Elder Archivist's quarters, but the iciness of the oracle's gaze did not thaw.

"How then do you explain the visit from a High Magus?" she asked, flatly.

Phio sighed, "I cannot."

Lyrien held her silence, though the subsequent question remained tacitly in the air.

"Are you sure this might not be something else?" he asked, gingerly, and paused, "I have felt as uncomfortable as you about this. As I am sure he does, but we are all trying to do our duty - regardless of our feelings, or our history."

"Phio." she chastised, softly.

"How would you have me deal with it?"

"We must test him." she answered. Phio stared at her for a moment; the deep strength in her eyes did not waver. Phio sighed and acquiesced.

"Very well." he replied, "We will see if he can be trusted, and I have a way," he paused, meeting her eyes decisively, "But you are not going to like it."

* * *

Ayadra woke with a gasp.

As ever, the nightmare of fire afflicted him in his dreams. The fire. His fire - born from brands, and his own obsidian flesh. The fire he was so terrified of.

For the first brief moments, his groggy senses tried desperately to retain the dread - and the knowledge that provoked it; but as ever, when he woke, the clarity of his nightmare slipped away. Into the incessant uncertainty of his life.

Slowly, his senses cleared.

The nightmare had ended; he was awake.

And in pain.

Immediately he grimaced; the startled gasp of his waking had provoked sharp throbbing throughout his chest and arms. The trembles of fear and remembered trauma were stopped by the tensing of his muscles - for a moment, all he could do was clench his eyes shut.

The instinct passed, and he managed a steady, deep breath. The throbbing faded - a sensation all too familiar to him. He recognised the soreness of breached flesh as he did the weight of bandages around his arms, and across his chest. The coarse touch of material rested under his furled wings, tail and knees, the cool hardness of metal gripped his arm and leg; he could hear the clank of metal plates beside him, muffled by their ebon robes, and the dim echo of hollowness that distinguished the deathwalker.

He managed to open his eyes, and met the helm beside him.

"Ayadra." - Llrsyring acknowledged, gently.

The armour bore him in a cradle as they made their way up the incline of the valley. High rock walls still flanked the breach of azure above, and obscured the warm glow of the southern sun beyond their edges.

Disoriented by unexpected pain, and the grogginess of more than a day's slumber, Ayadra glanced around to survey his environment. The others moved ahead of them, spread out across the gradual incline of the ravine floor; his primary guard and Hheirdane mounted a ledge some distance away.

Hheirdane.

The guilt resurfaced reflexively, even a glance at the man's back served as a reminder.

Syla marched half a dozen paces behind the other magus; her stride evinced a considerable tiredness, and the difficulty of the terrain was not aiding her. The incarnate could not discern the southern sun's position in the sky, but the last of the daylight was likely not far off.

A dozen paces ahead of them, Elle'dred marched, holding the severed straps of his pack in one hand. The straps that had been severed by a goblin's blade.

Memory. In a flood that breached the grogginess of waking and injury the memory of the attack returned. Ayadra remembered the fight, the ambush by the goblins. He remembered watching as Elle'dred was cut down by the first flash of steel to emerge from hiding, he remembered the knight falling to the stone with a lethal wound bleeding across his abdomen.

He remembered, the shock, the alarm - the helplessness. The powerlessness that defined his existence; he had dropped to the knight's - his friend's side, helpless to do anything other than watch Elle'dred die.

Then he had not been helpless. The door to his memory, or to a knowledge he did not understand, had opened and revealed to him what he could do, what he had to do - what he had done. He had known in a strange and terrible moment that he could heal Elle'dred - that his hands had the power to take the knight's wounds. He did not know how he had done it - or how he knew. He did not understand anything.

Hidden now beneath the bandaging, he realised his hands, as much as the dark talons affixed to them - as much as his flesh, itself - were parts of him he did not understand.

He remembered knowing also the cost of his actions; what the consequence of healing Elle'dred would be - he had known then the pain he would suffer, the pain he now suffered -

But he had to do it. It was all he could do. He did not want Elle'dred to die.

"You saved Elle'dred's life." Llrsyring muttered beside him.

He did not realise it, but his listless gaze had lingered on the back of the knight ahead, for an extended time. He glanced back at the helm.

"I don't really understand how." he replied. Some part of him hoped the armour possessed the answer to his unasked question.

"It was dangerous, what you did" - Llrsyring's voice was laced in a faint hardness; Ayadra could not discern what it was, until the armour continued, "You could have been killed; I cannot always be there to protect you."

Disappointment. He heard it clearly in the deathwalker's voice - he had disappointed Llrsyring. By what he had done? By healing Elle'dred?

Confusion swelled inside him.

"I did not mean to -"

"I know, Ayadra." the deathwalker interjected, "But your power is dangerous, and you do not understand it. It poses a danger to you more so than others; you should be careful how you use it."

He was a weapon. He had hurt people.

"Is what I did wrong?" he asked, weakly.

Llrsyring did not respond immediately, "No. Ayadra, you saved Elle'dred's life, that is not wrong. But the power you used to accomplish it - that power can hurt you Ayadra. It has hurt you. You are covered in wounds."

Uncertainty hollowed into fear.

"Am I evil, Llrsyring?" - the question emerged again, involuntarily.

"You are a good person Ayadra; you demonstrated that by healing Elle'dred." Llrsyring paused, "But the power inside you is evil, at its source. What you are Ayadra, or rather what you are meant to be, is a weapon...you may choose otherwise, but the powers inside you are designed to become the weapon that will end this world. And they will try to accomplish that design, regardless of what you do, or who you are."

You will fail. You have already failed.

You are a weapon.

Confusion and fear.

* * *

Ormus strode through the entrance to Phio's study; as always the resistance meeting was held there. The Elder Archivist was greeted by all three members of the group - Lyrien and Faldorn acknowledged him with silent nods; whilst Phio looked up from a book he was hurriedly scrawling something into.

"Ormus," he said, there was a distinct apprehensiveness in his tone, "There is something we must discuss."

Ormus glanced at the other two, both had fixed their attention unwaveringly on him; he prompted the other Elder Archivist to continue.

"Lyrien has spoken a prophecy," Phio informed, forthrightly, "It concerns the resistance."

"What does it say?" Ormus enquired.

Phio glanced down, and flipped back a page; he explained, "She spoke it last night, and I have been investigating it, but it is rather direct, and its message is not hard to decipher," he recited from the page,

"The voice of blood has called to thee, the storm has ridden through,

All that has and will be seen, is spoke in words to view,

The foe does move in shadows, dark, their blades have drawn anew,

They know your face, and of the spark, three of us so few,

One must die, for we to live, one of magus blood,

Secrets held, and vision speaks, the third must perish thus."

Ormus watched Phio; the Elder Archivist's gaze was fixed on his own. The calculating impenetrable distance saw through the man's simulated apprehensiveness to the deeply hidden suspicion that resided inside. Ormus had already realised the prophecy was false, no doubt a scheme concocted by his fellow, but why Phio had done this worried him immeasurably.

He had realised Helanath's visit would not go unnoticed, that was his intention - but in averting the suspicions of some, he had evidently encouraged the notion in his ally.

Phio proceeded, "The prophecy clearly states a Magus must die. I have decided that it must be another High Magus that is killed. It warns us the Tribunal is pursuing us, and that if we do not act soon -"

"I have come to the same conclusion as you." Ormus rebutted, impassively.

Phio stared at him; Ormus knew he was trying to uncover any falsehood.

"A Tribunal member must die." the Elder Archivist concluded.

Ormus sighed, feigning concern, "Phio, it was simple in murdering Hadrath. It was unexpected, and our enemies did not know we had discovered them. But murdering a second High Magus of the Tribunal is not only difficult, it is the beginning of a pattern."

"Can you do it?" Phio asked, emphatically.

Ormus looked to Lyrien; her gaze concealed any doubt or suspicion under an equally impenetrable iciness to his own, "Do you agree with the interpretation?" he asked.

She answered, flatly, "Yes."

Ormus glanced at Faldorn - the boy was laden with grief and hatred, though he tried to mask it, and even if he was not party to this ploy, the bereavement he had suffered would only motivate his agreement with Phio's request. Ormus returned his eyes to those of his rival.

"Very well." he agreed, but professed, "It will take some time, and I will need to leave for Grgadorn. The prophecy states they know three of us; that refers to you, they have not discovered me. This will be very difficult and presents considerable risk - but should they trace anything back, they will only discover me," he paused; his feigned sincerity thus far had already weakened the suspicion in his fellow's eyes, "I will journey to their Keep, and make the arrangements to have a High Magus killed, but a second accident will not go unnoticed."

Phio seemed to have wavered in his doubt, but added nothing further, Ormus announced his need for haste and left the others in silence. As he strode through the atrium, his mind had arrived to yet another course of action, it differed very little from his already plotted path. However, the suspicion he had seen in Phio's eyes had perturbed him, and the craftiness of the Elder Archivist's ploy was not to be unadmired - he would have to patient, regain the trust.

And the advantage. 
Chapter 21

_The Andarae knew sorrow, and they held the Wyverns close. So many had been lost. The Wyvern Kings had failed at their task. And they knew this. The Andarae comforted them, forgave them for their error. The Immortal had struck at their heart, and then turned their grief against them._

_But the Andarae felt they could do more, so they took some metal from the Fourth Heaven and sculpted it into a sword. Salfiernadorn, they named it. Great light of the first. They gave the sword to Aunvari, and said it would be used to strike at the Immortal. They had written every word they knew upon the blade, and they said all history and destiny was present in its face. To Aunvari and Syrkyn, the two strongest, they gifted swords. Armenblista, was Syrkyn's blade. The Protector of Heaven._

_Blistanthrvor, the Protector of the Winds, and Armenesthrvor, Swift Wind of Heaven were the two spears given to Gharguan, the Wallbuilder, and Rahn, the Tidewalker, second and third of the kings. Two daggers were forged for the fourth and fifth, Sulit the Stormbearer, and Tuoris the Seabinder. Saldier, Lesser Light, and Salaran, Light of the Land._

* * *

The coach jostled over the rough ground of the southern road. The long days of his journey to the Magus Keep had passed in the restrictive comfort of his carriage. The soft seats, long enough to serve as adequately supportive beds had grown a tiresome companion to the travel.

Ormus was patient, but he found the anticipation of arrival had overcome him - and had it not been contrary to his dignity and office he might have leant out of the window and watched with eager glee for the embrace of the township around him.

These feelings were odd, and he had realised that they were all rooted in a source he had not expected to indulge in - excitement. The thrill of Phio's suspicion, the delight of meticulous planning and the anticipation of engaging in his course of action, all were luxuries he had never allowed himself. But days of boredom and solitary thought had worn down the defences he had constructed against frivolous emotion. He was glad - to a point, but it also irked him, and he consoled himself that he would restrain if not repress the feelings once he arrived and was a participant to events once more.

He had driven his escorts without rest, and as he peered out of the window at the mounted guards around his transport, he observed that both man and beast were on the verge of collapse.

The guards had raised no objection; they had demonstrated their loyalty, and it was a quality that he well appreciated. They could rest while he spent the next days - possibly weeks here.

His convoy stopped at the maw of the narrow, stretching corridor between two of the lower, surrounding blocks that composed the widest segments of Grgadorn. Even in the light of spring, the grey stone of the Magus Keep was as bleak and dreary as in winter - and the perfectly, jarringly square edges were as unmoved as they had ever been.

As two of his guards unpacked his belongings, he waited at the entrance to the immense, open hallway. At the far end, where the central block rose in the midst of the lower squares, the doors to the front hall opened. A convoy of the Keep's guards emerged; their long, vermillion robes swayed about their elaborate armour as they marched down between the stone walls.

The column stopped just short of the Archivist. They stamped their heavy boots - in perfect synchronicity, to attention and turned to face each other. As they raised their ornate glaives above their heads in salute - the blades met and rooved the newly formed corridor of men. A central guard, who had marched at the rear of the column, continued between the now flanking, vermillion walls to stand face to face with the Elder Archivist.

This guard's armour, however, was distinctly different from the others. The robes were ebony, trimmed and embroidered in azure - and the breastplate was a polished silver, that highlighted the elaborate gilding in gold. The black and silver feature extended to the gauntlet and glaive at the guard's side. The helm was also polished, including the normally dull faceplate, where two sharp, attentive eyes watched the Elder Archivist.

"Welcome Elder Archivist Ormus," she said; her strong, yet dulcet voice was muffled by the unnerving fixedness of the mask that obscured her features, "I am High Captain Allyndra, of the Magus Guard, Commander of the Magus Army. I apologise for the discourteous welcome you have been met with, but as the Keep is in lock-down only those born to Magus blood and certain members of the guard are permitted to enter or leave Grgadorn."

Ormus raised an inquisitive eyebrow, "Lock-down?"

"Since the Staff-Bearer's death," the captain answered, "Certain precautions have been instituted to prevent any further incidents. However, I was notified of your arrival, and arrangements have been made to see you safely to your quarters." she paused, and her eyes flicked to the men standing around the coach, "But your guards must remain here, and as for your belongings, they will be delivered to you, once they have been inspected."

Ormus kept his inquisitive brow raised, but said nothing.

"This way." the High Captain said, shifting the grasp on her glaive as she turned - Ormus was startled by the rear of her helmet; an identical replica of the forward face-plate, save for the absence of the chin and lower jaw, stared motionlessly at him.

The Elder Archivist followed; the other guards all turned in sequence as they passed them, and once they reached the head of the column, filled the narrow corridor behind with the synchronised steps of plated boots marching.

They reached the front hall - which was unusually empty, even the fireplaces were dark. The room was cold, lit only by torches, and there was a suffocating aura that pervaded unseen throughout the space. The doors shattered the uncanny silence, as they closed behind the column.

The High Captain directed her men to resume their stations on either side of the room; two moved to the inner doors and opened them for their commander and guest.

"If you would follow me." Allyndra requested, gesturing conflictingly for him to move into the corridor ahead of her. He did as he was bade and once inside waited just short of the entrance. The High Captain closed the doors herself, and placed a sturdy bar across them.

She moved to the wall and removed the only torch in the corridor from its sconce. She drew the flames close to her faceplate and muttered something the Elder Archivist could scarcely perceive before the fire flickered strangely for a moment.

She strode forward, silently, offering no explanation - but when Ormus turned to the corridor again, he realised the flame cast light far in excess of what it was capable; equivalent to a bonfire, rather than a meagre torch. With the hallway amply illuminated ahead of them, she led him through the tortuous maze at a merciless pace - the butt of her glaive clacked against the floor with every stride to an even tempo.

Ormus maintained his position behind her with a small exertion; he did not complain.

He felt another strange desire, one for small talk, but as he would not allow himself to indulge in such without a purpose, he tried to garner information from his uncommunicative protector, "I thought you would be leading the Magus Army in the war." he began, impassively.

"I was," she answered, "I was recalled when the Staff-Bearer was murdered."

"How goes the war?" he asked.

"Better than is to be expected," she replied, proudly, "Though, I was surprised when the order came to divert our course to the valley of Ythordor - it was an unusually bold move for the Assembly."

Ormus made a non-committal sound of agreement, "It was not entirely our decision." he remarked, "The words of the oracles are often vague; but in this case the prophecy concerning the war was absurdly clear."

"The Forbidden words of Thyesmered." she stated, a hint of distaste in her voice.

"Does it bother you that such a source was used?" Ormus probed.

"The Tribunal deemed it necessary, as such I have no further opinion."

The Elder Archivist admired the conviction in her words; the Magus knew how to train loyalty into their soldiers.

They stopped, at another set of doors. These were fashioned from a heavy, wrought metal - and were newly erected; Ormus had never encountered them before. They bore a series of internal locks, all with different keys that the High Captain spent some minutes meticulously selecting and turning in each. There was an empty sconce on the wall, and after Allyndra opened the doors with a stressed shove she placed their torch in the corridor and shut the light away behind them.

Ormus could hear each of the locks snapping mechanically back into place; the dulled shrieking of metal and skittering clicks were a very new and unsettling sound to him.

The room was entirely dark, and the Elder Archivist had only caught a momentary glimpse of it before the light had vanished. It was a large, hollow cylinder. Spiralling stairways coiled up along the outer wall, terminating briefly at balcony after balcony that held closed doors against the encircling stone.

He was literally in the heart of Grgadorn, the central access-way to the innards of the Keep. He wondered how it was that they would continue, through the utter darkness - when the High Captain seemed to answer him.

A glaring white light shone suddenly behind him - casting pallid luminescence onto the grey stones. He turned as the guard passed him; the High Captain held her free hand out, a shimmering crystalline rune floated above her flattened palm.

Although it cast the ghostly light, it seemed as though the source of the illumination came from some unseen place, that a glaring, white lance had struck the rune from behind and that the transparent crystal had only refracted the light outwards - its heart was perfectly clear.

It unsettled the Elder Archivist, more so than he could suppress. He had experienced the deep magics before, but never so closely - nor in a situation where he had to rely upon the dim light of such to guide him up sharp and narrow staircases.

The High Captain paused, and shot a curious glance at him, her eyes glinted in the white light, "I apologise," she said, though her voice sounded only partial sincerity, "The Tribunal ordered such precautions; all elements are to be regulated within the Keep. The stone is impossible to remove, but fire - a very dangerous and easily shaped element, must no longer be in ample supply in every room. The escapee himself was born to magus blood, and there are many magus here, that should a traitor or criminal be discovered amongst them, could do considerable damage with elements close to hand." she paused, "Such an escape has never before happened here, and as such, all the servants, the lower magus, and the guard are being subjected to a review. There may be many more criminals on the loose than one murderer." Her sharp gaze watched him carefully.

"I see." Ormus replied; his mind considered the difficulties the extra security might present to his plan, and he was not concerned.

The High Captain gestured for them to continue; again for him to begin a pace ahead of her - but as he paused at the first faintly lit step, she loosed a disdaining sigh.

"You may grip my glaive for support," she offered, "I will guide you up our long climb."

Ormus nodded, and let her step around him so as to reach for the shaft of the weapon - the hand she held it with, however, meant that he would have to stand on the outside rim of the staircase.

As they ascended slowly, the light of the rune did not overcome the deepening darkness that stretched down beside the Elder Archivist; and in spite of the solid, stone banister beside him, he felt an increasing fear that a wrong step would send him falling over it and into the depths below.

"It is unwise to recall the commander of an army in the midst of a war." Ormus said, concealing his trepidation, "Why did the Tribunal require your presence exactly?"

He glanced at her, to see if she would react to the barb - she did not turn to look at him, but he caught the tensing of her hand on the glaive before she answered, "With the Champion of the Tribunal away, the High Magus turned to me to assist them with security. They needed someone they could trust."

"Your talents would be better directed towards winning the war."

"The Tribunal deemed it necessary to recall me, as such I consider it necessary." the rote response was pronounced with a superiority that countered the Elder Archivist's derision.

Ormus thought it best to continue in silence until they reached his assigned quarters. They paused on a balcony, some dozen or more floors up; the High Captain led him to one of the doors, and passing through it, into another dark corridor. The rune continued to light their course, and after some time spent in another dimly lit maze they arrived at two large doors, guarded by two vermillion robed, glaive-bearing men.

Ormus was again unsure, but as Allyndra opened the doors for him, he realised where he was.

"High Magus Helanath offered her personal quarters for your use," she informed, "She is currently engaged in Tribunal matters, but she will join you soon. She asked me to deliver the message," the High Captain gestured for him to enter, and after he had she continued, "Do not attempt to leave this room; no guests are allowed in the corridors after dark," the Elder Archivist glanced out the window, night had fallen during their trek, "It is to ensure your safety during your stay, Elder Archivist."

With that she turned away from him; the second, eyeless face glared at him in the obscured light, as she stalked back down the corridor. The doors were closed, by the guards, and further muffled the retreating sound of her weapon beating rhythmically against the floor.

After the beat had faded, Ormus examined the room. A warm - lit, fireplace seemed a welcoming enough audience for some further ruminating; his plans would require some rethinking.

* * *

More than a week had passed, and they had not encountered another goblin skirmishing party across the slopes. The convoluted labyrinth of ravines had hidden them.

It seemed too great a fortune that they had not been ambushed or slaughtered, and the anticipation of an attack dogged Elle'dred every moment he spent awake.

On some level, he was grateful for it; the respite from fighting had given Ayadra ample time to heal. The incarnate had managed to walk under his own power days ago, even though the movement aggravated his less healed injuries. Their charge was silent, as ever; Ayadra's wounds had not caused him to make any noise that might offend his guards.

The incarnate was always afraid.

It had become evident that Ayadra trusted him, as much as Llrsyring; but the incarnate had been conditioned to fear.

He had thanked Ayadra for saving his life; he still did not understand how, and some deep, instinctual part of him distrusted or abhorred the unnaturalness of Ayadra's wounds, and how the incarnate had healed him. But he paid no heed to those preconceptions.

He cared about the incarnate.

As he had once cared about Hheirdane. As he still cared about Hheirdane.

The loss of kinship with his fellow knight had become a preoccupation; he had thought he could disregard the feelings, forsake them to the same hollowness that replaced his attitudes towards the Archivists, but his friend's betrayal continued to sting - it hurt more than realising he had served lies all his life. Hheirdane meant more to him than his Champion-hood, than his fallacious ideals, than the years he had wasted serving deceitful leaders. Hheirdane deserved more than -

He deserved more than a silent betrayal.

He deserved, at least, to hear it from Hheirdane himself.

As the morning grew, they moved up a path scaling high, sheer cliffs overlooking the deep chasm, filled with forestation, which had sheltered them for a day and night. As the promontory of the cliff-face turned a sharp corner, it revealed a dark hole in the vertical rock-façade ahead.

The Champion led them silently through the hollow - the mouth of the cave - and into its depths, which opened to the dimly lit walls of a tunnel; the passageway ended on the far side of the cliff, at a precipice high above a lush dell, contained by towering granite walls on all sides. A sloping trail led along the vertical sheerness of the encircling cliffs, winding down gradually into the near flat basin below.

At a pace that seemed uncharacteristically lenient of their leader, they traced the path along the walls and crossed the forest that claimed the floor of the valley. They continued to the sheer, opposing crag; at first glance, it seemed impassable to Elle'dred, but when Taedoran turned and vanished into the rock-face, the wall was revealed to be a stack of high-rising slats that appeared solid and singular from a distance.

A switched-backed path led through the multitudinous, overlapping walls of stone, and rose gently up an ascent, providing entrance to a concealed, and much larger cave.

Small holes in the high roof of the cavern allowed beams of light to spear across the space and illuminate the lichen-covered stone, patched with the intruding roots of trees that grew some vast distance above on the mountainside. Tunnels branched off from the far side of the cave, leading under and across the mountain.

Taedoran ordered them to make camp - though midday had yet to arrive.

Despite a pang of suspicion regarding his motives, Elle'dred raised no protest, nor enquired as to the reason for the premature stop.

The cave was safe for a fire.

"Taedoran," he said, "Hheirdane and I will return to the ravine and gather firewood."

Their leader eyed him for a moment, but acquiesced with a curt nod. Compliantly, Hheirdane moved back towards the entrance of the cavern - the Sword-Bearer's eyes flicked the same glare that was always levelled at him, as he was passed.

He turned and moved out of the cave behind the other knight.

They both continued into the forest, some distance away from the concealed maze.

For a time, Elle'dred did not speak - some part of him hoped Hheirdane might spare him the effort; however, when the minutes continued to stretch on and the Sword-Bearer had gathered an armful of deadwood without a word of his own - without even a glare - Elle'dred realised no acknowledgment would come.

"Hheirdane," he called out to the other knight, "I want to speak with you."

Hheirdane did not respond.

"Hheirdane," Elle'dred growled, "You will face me."

The Sword-Bearer paused, and turned slowly to meet his gaze. The same pain, and hatred glimmered across Hheirdane's eye, but was quickly lost in a disdainful disregard, far too similar to Taedoran's.

Still the man did not reply.

Elle'dred met his former friend's stare, feigning dauntlessness - yet his gut churned with nausea, "What's happened to you Hheirdane?"

A corner of the Sword-Bearer's eyes twitched, but his lips did not move to answer.

"By my right as Champion of the White Wolf Hall I demand that you answer me."

The words felt hollow as they were spoken - but frustration and indignation could find no other avenue to force an answer from his inferior.

Hheirdane's stare did not relent as he replied impassively, "Nothing has happened to me, Champion."

"Then why in the hells have you sided with Taedoran?" - his shout ground the air with hoarseness. Immediately, he hoped he had not exclaimed loudly enough to attract the attention of the others.

Hheirdane was undisturbed by the volume of his voice, or the accusation; he remained silent.

More reservedly, Elle'dred tried, "Why have you betrayed me?"

The flat stoicism characteristic of the man's expression wavered for the briefest moment, like the frangible ice of his façade had been dealt a blow that had fractured its surface. Hheirdane's lips hinted at a sneer repressed by whatever other emotions lay conflicted inside him.

"You betrayed me." - the words were almost a whisper.

Confusion burdened the clarity of Elle'dred's indignation, "How?" was all he could demand.

Hheirdane could not repress a snarl. It vanished quickly, and he did not reply further; he made to walk past the Champion and return up the incline to the maze of rock and the others.

But Elle'dred would not permit him to leave; he reached out and grabbed the other knight's arm, "How Hheirdane? How have I betrayed you? What have I done to deserve this - you siding against me with that bastard?"

The man's eyes burned into his; let go of me was conveyed as plainly as was the threat of violence if he did not comply. Hheirdane's free hand had fallen and tensed around the hilt of his sword.

Elle'dred did not care; in this, he had to have an answer - even if it was expressed by the edge of a blade, "What have I done to betray you?"

"You are friends with monsters."

Llrsyring and Ayadra. That was it? That was all that was needed to motivate this betrayal from his longest standing friend, to break their kinship? To invalidate their history?

Elle'dred could not believe that answer; not when a recognisable pain flickered across his friend's eyes as he spoke - it was not sufficient. There was something else - something else Hheirdane blamed him for. Something that begged remembrance.

He tightened his grip, "That's not all," he paused, "Hheirdane, we've been friends all our lives, you can't expect -"

"Let go."

Elle'dred felt the tensing of Hheirdane's muscles underneath his grasp; his former friend was readying to draw his sword - likely then to splay his viscera across the valley floor.

He did not care.

"Hheirdane -"

The blow fell sharply across his jaw - dealt not from the edge of the Sword-Bearer's blade, but from the butt. Elle'dred's knees folded and he fell, sprawling to the ground; his grasp slipped from the other knight's arm.

For a moment the reeling of his head was occluded by numbness, but he did not need his sight to feel Hheirdane standing over him, or the sharp edge of steel cutting the air scarce an inch from his neck. For a moment, he was helpless; it would take no effort for Hheirdane to drive the blade down through his throat. For a moment, he almost wanted Hheirdane to.

But the Sword-Bearer's blade lifted from the closeness of lethality - and was hurled some feet away in a clatter of metal and dirt and twigs.

Confusion swam amidst the recovering haze of the blow, and was then bashed into numb shock, once more. The thud of Hheirdane's knees, as the Sword-Bearer lowered beside him, was lost to Elle'dred's hearing. Even the enraged snarl that accompanied the blow from Hheirdane's fist was lost in the ringing deafness.

Hheirdane's punch landed cleanly across the bridge of his nose; pain exploded through his face, and was as quickly followed by numbness. Another blow followed, along his cheekbone - sharpness flared and faded; another fell, and another - he lost count of the blows that were dealt.

He did not fight back; despite his instinctual urge for self-preservation, he raised no defence - some part of him wanted Hheirdane to kill him. It would just be easier, it would make everything easier.

He held no intention to abandon Ayadra - and he did not want to die; but this - being beaten to death by his closest friend - was easier.

"You are no friend to me!" Hheirdane growled above him. Another punch.

The physical pain stung; it was the quintessence of the betrayal he had been dealt - Hheirdane's betrayal. Whatever recrimination he felt was not strong enough to overcome the desire just to lie and let the end come. As dizziness seeped into what little cognitive thought he yet possessed, he asked himself why he had come here? Why he had confronted Hheirdane?

He had been angry only moments ago; he had been confused - he had wanted Hheirdane to admit his betrayal. Why? Why had this mattered so much to him over the recent days? And why did it not matter to him now - now that Hheirdane was exerting his pain, and grief, and hatred, undeserved, so completely?

"I love you Hheirdane."

As a friend, as a brother, as a lover - he was not sure what he meant.

He did not care. About his life - about the archivists - about the wasted years he had spent serving a Hall he did not believe in.

But he cared for his friend; unlike so much else, he could not deny it.

Unlike so much else.

He cared about Hheirdane, and -

A punch occluded thought.

"You don't love me!" the man above him snarled, "You love that thing - that thing that tried to kill me - you love it - it loves you - that thing healed you, and did this to me!" a blow filled Elle'dred's mouth with copper; Hheirdane did not stop, "It hurts me every night - every day. It shows it to me every night! Every night! Since it attacked us on the river - it tried to kill me! And you are still its friend!"

Hheirdane's last blow of the beating fell, made final by the pause that followed - Elle'dred lay, limp and numb, covered in bruises and pain. The pain was too much -

"I'm still your friend."

The statement was met by a punch. It, thankfully, landed on an area near numb from contusions.

"You are a traitor. You betrayed us...me. You abandoned me for it..."

"Ayadra."

Another blow.

"It healed you!"

"And did this to you."

Pain impacted his cheek. The haze had bled into lightness, as a trickle of red bled across his temple from his eyebrow. Hheirdane's shape hung above him, blurred and vague; his friend's expression was lost to him. But he could feel the tears.

Hheirdane quivered, his fist was raised to land another blow; Elle'dred knew the strength behind it was wavering. The grief he had seen, beneath the rage or blame or hatred, had risen to the surface. Now Elle'dred recognised it - it had taken him far too long. Or perhaps he had just not cared enough to acknowledge it.

"Tallai'dred."

Another punch.

Hheirdane sucked in a choked breath.

Elle'dred lay, dizziness and waves of haze moved across his senses, "Hheirdane -"

The other knight struck, and for a moment hung above him, readying another blow. Slowly, Hheirdane lowered his fist; then raised himself to his feet, and moved some steps away - towards his sword. Elle'dred heard the grind of the metal against the crunch of shifted dirt, as Hheirdane reached down and grasped the hilt.

The blade was lifted from the ground.

His former friend returned to his side, and knelt over him, raising the sword in both hands for a downward stab. The blade would drive clean through Elle'dred's abdomen - he could feel the tip hovering an inch above his belly. He did not care.

He would not resist - this was easier - this was -

"Hheirdane, do it." he muttered.

Hheirdane did not move. He did not want to die, but he could not resist this, he could not fight this. He was too bruised, there was too much pain.

"Tallai'dred..." Elle'dred mumbled, "...I'm sorry...I should have..."

The sword hung in the air. He cared about Hheirdane -

"Tallai'dred...every night..." he murmured the words through swollen lips, "...Ayadra did not mean...that night...he was not... Llrsyring cast a spell on him..."

The blade thrust.

The tip stabbed into the ground beside his head. The closest edge nicked his ear, but a small cut warranted no concern amidst the debilitating bruising.

For an eternity of relief, Elle'dred lay.

"Hheirdane -" he tried, weakly - the Sword-Bearer had not killed him; he was not certain why. In truth, he did not -

Hheirdane uttered a restrained gasp, of grief or rage, Elle'dred could not tell; and once more stood steadily, levering himself up on the planted blade. For a moment, the man hung above him - then Hheirdane turned away.

As Elle'dred heard the half-muffled steps of the Sword-Bearer retreating towards the maze of rock that led to the cavern, he could only lie.

Ayadra had wounded Hheirdane - he had seen that. And the sinister power of the incarnate, through no volition of his own, had inflicted upon Hheirdane nightmares of his son's death - that seemed clear. He had ignored it for too long - he had known - he had recognised - he had not -

He could not move; it was too hard. The beating had left him unable to rise.

He had to rise; Hheirdane likely meant to exert his anger on Ayadra. Hheirdane likely meant to kill Ayadra; the Sword-Bearer had been driven to his edge, and pushed mercilessly over it, far too many years ago. He was not to blame.

Elle'dred cared about Ayadra. But the pain was too much. He did not - he could not -

Llrsyring would protect the incarnate.

It was all too much. The pain, the grief - Hheirdane's and his own. He could not move.

As with all too many things, he did not care.

As with all too many things -

He loved Hheirdane.

Ayadra deserved better.

He dragged himself to his feet.

* * *

Ayadra sat on the soft, lichen-covered rock of the cave floor. His wounds were healing, the pain of their affliction had eased days ago. The occasional sting or throb came, and passed without so much as a grimace. He was not hungry, or cold.

Weeks ago, he would have broken into tears for having these fortunes.

But now, they were marred by guilt and shame and uncertainty.

He was a weapon; he was evil, if only in part. Llrsyring had said so - what the deathwalker had said resounded damningly in his head.

The doubt that he could be anything but a weapon clung unresolvedly.

The sounds of Hheirdane re-entering the cavern drew his attention.

Guilt surged rampant and devastating as he inadvertently met the man's eyes - the grief he had inflicted, and knew as personally as his own nightmares, flared alive and brilliant in the jade orbs. And there was blame - and anger.

Rage.

The knight carried a bared sword in his hand.

Hheirdane's stride remained unbroken as he moved from the entrance to cross the cavern, towards Ayadra.

Lethality, malice shone in the knight's gaze; his guard intended to use the sword. He had seen that look too many times before; he had seen that look before his fingers were broken.

Terror.

The shouts of outrage, and demands for explanation, uttered by their leader, were ignored by the knight. Hheirdane neared, the sword was raised.

Panic.

He did not want to die.

Ayadra scrambled a step away from the knight - and stopped. The abrupt surge of panic turned into wild confusion, as Hheirdane's gaze swept passed him, along with the knight himself and the sword he carried.

The man he had hurt approached the deathwalker.

Hheirdane stabbed outwards with his blade. In a grating screech of metal, and a snarl of terrifying rage, the Sword-Bearer drove his sword through the robed chest of the suit of armour.

Ayadra watched - bewildered, as he stared at the grief emblazoned on the knight's features. Grief he had caused - grief that had broken his fingers - grief no longer directed at him. He could not understand what was happening.

"Hheirdane!" Syla's exclamation echoed throughout the cavern.

The knight tried to drag his sword free from the armour - but whether through the clumsiness of emotion or the force of metal against metal, the blade would not withdraw.

Hheirdane lashed out with his fist; the blow connected with the helm.

Ayadra watched -

Stupor blinded him to Syla's rapid approach; the magus interposed between the knight and the deathwalker he beat with hands bloodied by the impact of solid metal. An errant punch struck Syla's cheek, and left an imprint of blood - but in a moment, she had forced Hheirdane away from the suit of armour.

Ayadra watched -

"Haven't I been stabbed enough." Llrsyring mumbled.

"Monster!" Hheirdane growled - the magus presence in front of the deathwalker seemed the only factor inhibiting further violence.

"Hheirdane -" Syla tried.

"You betrayed us!"

"What has happened?"

"You want to kill us! You did not tell -"

"Hheirdane!"

"You freed Ayadra!" Hheirdane snarled, "You cast the spell on him that night he escaped - you wanted him to kill us!"

- What?

Elle'dred stumbled into the cavern. Looks were exchanged - blame, disdain, disgust.

But Ayadra did not register them. He could not.

Anger. Rage. Fire.

What?

He had heard the words -

The argument that erupted between his guards, the recriminations and the excuses were lost on him. Lost amidst the hours of burning.

Memory returned, and brought a flood of flames and heat. And pain. Overwhelming pain.

Rage. And flame.

Ayadra leapt upwards; as tears blurred his sight. As fire choked his chest. As fire filled his hands and neck. With all the force his body could exert, he collided with Llrsyring - a shriek tore from his throat.

Deaf with grief, and blinded by tears, the wrenching stumble that had him land atop the clatter of the suit of armour, reduced now to recumbence, did not grace his mind. All he could feel was the hours of torture he had suffered; that pain, that pain - the pain that had broken him.

He sat on top of Llrsyring - the tip of his snout an inch from the helms.

"How could you?!" - he howled.

Strangling rage found release in the malevolent, obsidian glisten of the talons affixed to his hands - he lashed out with them, cleaving wounds into the deathwalker. The abyssal sharpness of the scythes tore into the armour and robes as though they were naught but flesh; anger raked the gouges into extremity - gouges disturbingly alike the one he had dealt to Hheirdane. Gouges like the wound he had taken from Elle'dred.

Atop the suit of armour, he clawed, and clawed and clawed. Llrsyring did nothing to resist. The tattered edges of metal, left in the wake of his talons, cut through the bandaging around his hands and the black sheen of his scales beneath. Blood coated his fingers and palms, as he hacked with the innate weapons of his being - his blood. He could not feel it.

"How could you do that to me?!"

The scream was accompanied by the shriek of rent metal, as he clawed through Llrsyring's flank - robes frayed and fell in tatters amidst flecks of aged, grey metal. Blood coated everything.

The rapid fury of movement loosened the bandages on his chest, and reopened the unhealed flesh, left from the power of his hands. His rage found solace in the flames seared into his depths; the fire that afflicted him each night, now rose to agonising remembrance in his arms and neck - somewhere in the void of trauma and grief, flames crackled with malevolent glee.

The fire graced his flesh.

Such rage. And grief.

He was stifled only by the restraining grasp of a guard.

Anguish occluded any fear that he had done something to offend them, that this might lead to punishment, that he might yet suffer that - again. That, which he had not deserved.

He had not deserved -

Elle'dred's voice broke through the deafness, over the crackle of the flames inside his mind. The words were incomprehensible, but he knew Elle'dred restrained him - he wanted to lash out at the knight; free himself. The pain was too much - the torture had been too much -

He did not deserve it. He had not deserved it -

Llrsyring stood suddenly above him; the darkness of his robes, and the soft glimmer of his armour manifested out of the haze of tears like his emergence from the land of all things fallen.

"Let him go!" the helm yelled; angry, pained, "If he wants to kill then let him. He is the only one who can."

He is the only one who can.

He would kill Llrsyring.

Amidst the maelstrom of flames and rage, and the tears of grief that had driven him beyond control or bearing, the door to the inexplicable knowledge opened - in the instant that followed the deathwalker's admission, he knew the truth. The truth. As damningly as he had seen the death of Hheirdane's son; as damningly as he had known the land of all things fallen, that he could heal Elle'dred and what it would cost - he knew he would kill Llrsyring.

He would kill his friend.

It was the truth.

As was the fact he had hurt the armour; with his talons - and broken the promise he had made to himself. He had used his talons - he had inflicted on Llrsyring, the armour's greatest pain. Before the force of impossible knowing left, it revealed it to him. He saw it now as clearly as Hheirdane's; he had done evil. Again.

The anger, like an inferno burnt suddenly to nothing, carried away the last of his tears and closed the door to his inexplicable knowing. Even as the weight of the knowledge imparted - unassailable and undeniable - cascaded into emptiness within him, he could not cry.

"I will kill you." - he whispered the truth as though it stung his tongue; pleading eyes looked up to the hollow sockets of the helm, "I will kill you. I know it."

The truth.

Emptiness.

He was evil. He was a weapon.

And he would kill his closest friend.

Elle'dred felt the incarnate fall limp in his grasp; Ayadra made no sound. He barely breathed.

The knight had seen this before - after Ayadra had been tortured in a blacksmith's.

Ayadra had reopened his wounds.

Elle'dred's hands were covered in blood - the incarnate's blood.

Llrsyring stood above him, motionless, as he released his grasp on Ayadra and lay the incarnate down on his side. The armour clutched at a gash on his flank, as though it pained him - as though in an effort to stifle bleeding. But he was nothing more than a hollow suit of armour.

Llrsyring pulled Hheirdane's sword free, and let it clatter to the ground.

Hheirdane had moved away to the furthest cavern wall.

Elle'dred did not understand anything that was happening around him; he did not know what had happened. It was all too much; Hheirdane's beating, Ayadra's attack on the deathwalker, the incarnate's sudden and inexplicable catatonia - what had been said - it was all to much -

His sight was restricted by bruises, and he could not -

Small trickles seeped from Ayadra's reopened wounds; none were severe. But they needed tending.

Llrsyring moved away - he stumbled - towards one of the branching tunnels that led into the north.

Elle'dred watched him leave.

Ayadra's wounds were not severe. Some had already stopped bleeding.

He rose, and moved after the deathwalker.

Less than a half-dozen feet around the concealing bend of the tunnel, he found the suit of armour leaning against the wall - his gauntlet clutched to a small protrusion, as though it was all that kept him from falling.

"Llrsyring." Elle'dred called - he did not know whether in frustration or compassion. He did not care.

"I do not desire a discussion now, Elle'dred." the helm returned, weakly.

"Is what you said true?"

Llrsyring turned the emptiness of his eyeholes to meet his gaze. Elle'dred was not sure what he saw in the helm - he saw nothing - perhaps it had always been empty.

"I can die, Elle'dred," Llrsyring answered, through a laboured breath, amidst his characteristic echo, "And it will be Ayadra who kills me." the helm paused; Elle'dred did not know what else to say - what else to ask - he could not think - "I must go, tend my wounds...take care of Ayadra."

The deathwalker vanished; his tattered cloak swirled in mist over the damaged plates of his armour, and faded into a black, transient wisp.

Elle'dred stood - terrified and uncertain.
Chapter 22

_The Wyvern Kings were told to guard the Fourth Heaven again. The elves would undo the damage that had been done. The land was not lost. The Wyvern Kings would be ever more vigilant, and they would guard the Fourth Heaven beyond all else. Their hearts grew flame, and the flame forged armour around them. Shimmering scales now hid their forms, armour they always wore. Their hands grew mighty talons, blades that they would never lose. And for so long did they hide their true faces that their armour became them. Now Wyverns looked as always scaled and shining, with talons ever to bear._

* * *

Ormus had waited nearly the entire day - and the night preceding it, for the arrival of the High Magus. The doors had opened three times, but each time it was only a vermillion guard, lit by a rune, delivering a tray of food.

His patience would last another night, perhaps the next day, before he would seek to venture out of his cell. His plans were complete, and now he required information; he needed to know what Helanath had discovered, whether she was convinced of High Magus Ragmurath's guilt, if she thought she could prove it. Without further knowledge he could only pace, read and wait for meals.

When he heard conversing voices slowly growing through the door, from outside in the hallway, he felt a sudden, sharp eagerness; the High Magus had finally come to meet him.

The doors opened, revealing both Helanath and the High Captain. The light of the glaring runes each held spread into the entrance of the room. Helanath let hers fade; closing her hand, and the crystal evaporated into diaphanous mist.

She thanked the High Captain before moving further in and waiting for the guards to close the doors behind her.

Ormus moved to speak, but she held her hand up for him not too; she directed him towards a side room. The boudoir.

As she moved closer to him, she elucidated, "We must be careful. I do not know who else Ragmurath has recruited, and I do not want him discovering us before we are ready."

Her diminutive voice was rattled by apprehension; Ormus surmised that she had discovered evidence enough that could prove his accomplice's guilt.

"You have found something." Ormus confirmed.

Helanath nodded, "He murdered the Staff-Bearer. I am sure of it." she continued, outlining her intent determinedly, "I will bring what I have to the others of the Tribunal. We can convict him - but if he demands a public trial, there is no recourse to stop him. If we are to be loyal to the law we must comply with his wishes. The Assembly will find out."

"You could hold a secret trial, carry out your sentence immediately." Ormus stated, impassively.

"How can you say that?" she asked - a fresh hurt narrowed her features, "This matter has occurred because arrogant Magus have decided they are above the law - what circumstances warrant must adhere to our codes; if we betray the law to satisfy it then we are worse than those who commit crime to breech it." she paused, "If this trial occurs it must be under all law, not only what we find convenient."

"Helanath I cannot help you hide this from the Assembly if you will not listen to me."

Helanath glared sharply for a moment, but then weakened, "I'm sorry," she muttered, "This matter goes against everything I believe in. I am trying to hold on to that."

Ormus moved sympathetically to her side; she willingly let him hold her.

"I know," he said, rather coldly, "But you must realise there are times when the law cannot be paramount; when things must be done because there is no better way."

She pulled slightly away from him, "For instance, lying to the Assembly about our capacity to deal with an evil weapon?"

Ormus sighed. Again her momentary hardness towards him weakened.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, despondently. She pulled entirely out of the embrace and moved to a cabinet on the wall; Helanath began to pour them both a drink.

Ormus pursued her, gripping tenderly to her stomach as he reached around her. An enterprising hand moved to probe lower regions as he cupped her bosom and kissed her neck.

She sighed, and moved to object; he whisked her around and held her tightly, planting a silencing kiss on her lips. She was pushed against the cabinet; the force jarred the glasses over, onto their sides, one rolled off the wood and shattered on the floor.

He would not let her speak, or move out of the erotic flurry - and she made no attempt to fight him. He carried her to the bed, almost violently stripping her robes off; she purred excitedly in return.

His hands leapt to their pleasuring work as he moved on top of her; he made her feel as beautiful, as desired as a man could. She complied with every thrust, enraptured by his fervid craving for her physical release.

But every move was applied and calculated with the same meticulous pertinacity he used to devise his plans; the sultry touch of skin, the location of a kiss, the right moan - all were designed to penetrate her defences, gain her trust, forge an obsession; anatomical interlocking was only the device Ormus used to achieve what he needed. Her vulnerability.

She moaned gloriously as they both reached climax; and he joined her in chorus.

The impenetrable distance of his eyes mimicked the shining of love; in truth, it simply watched for the mirrored glaze in hers. She willingly returned it.

Ormus moved off of her; and she relinquished herself to the protective, close hold he offered.

She sighed, "I love you."

"I love you to." he professed. He stroked her plump, naked body tenderly. Every twist of tension melted away, and he moved his hand to rest comfortingly on her face.

"Do not worry," he cooed, "I will make sure everything goes well. The law will be upheld, the criminal will face justice. And the Assembly will never hear a peep of it."

She smiled; her cares had vanished into the surrounding touch of his skin, "I'm glad you're here to help me. I don't want to do this on my own."

Ormus smiled back, "My dear," he ventured, gently, "What was it that you found?"

She moaned disarmingly; she did not want to retreat from the warmth and comfort around her. Ormus waited; his hand moved gently and softly against her skin. He stopped for a moment, a brief moment.

She sighed, the reply coaxed out of her, "There were witnesses. Guards. One saw him enter the dungeons." the stroking resumed, "The other, he paid...to help..."

Helanath sighed, and let her voice trail off into the elated doze.

"Sleep," Ormus muttered, above her, warmly, "I'll be here in the morning."

His plans were set; they would advance accordingly to the new information; he felt a pang of regret - as physically unremarkable as the body beside him was, he would miss it.

* * *

He had failed.

The truth resounded in the emptiness inside him. There was no fighting it. He had no power.

You will fail.

The truth.

He had broken the promise he made to himself. In anger and grief, he had lashed out at Llrsyring and broken his promise not to use his talons again. Not to hurt people. He had failed. And it had been his choice. No spell had been cast on him this time; he had been unable to keep his promise through no fault but his own.

He had failed. He would continue to fail.

He would kill Llrsyring.

The truth echoed. He deserved to die.

If he died, the world would be spared its doom - the doom he was designed to bring.

He would not kill Llrsyring.

- He did not want to die.

He wanted freedom - he wanted the freedom to be a good person, to define his own existence. He wanted to be deserving of freedom.

It had been hours since the door to the knowledge had opened, and shown him the truth, of Llrsyring's past and his future. Elle'dred had returned, slowly cleaned and re-bandaged his wounds. After, the knight had carried him out of the cavern - why, did not matter to him. There had been no objections from the others.

If any of them still looked on him with blame or abhorrence, he could not feel it.

He could not feel anything.

Elle'dred had propped him against the wall of the small side-chamber; the knight had been gentle, careful not to aggravate his injuries.

The man had spoken to him, or tried to. He had not heard any of the words.

The chamber was beautiful; sunlight lanced down through the holes in the ceiling above, and scattered into iridescence off the beads of dew that flecked the moss. The sights glistened over Ayadra's abyssal orbs without impact; even Elle'dred's swollen and disfigured face made no impression on him.

The knight was wounded; some part of him cared - but more of him said he had no right to.

Elle'dred sat beside him, in silence, as the hours passed.

The beams of light retreated slowly across the chamber, and began to fade. Outside, on the mountainside too far above, the southern sun was passing behind the peaks of the range.

Ayadra watched the light's decay into darkness.

The sound akin to the dying howl of a tempest did not draw his attention; though grief, and guilt, and indignation, flared amidst the consuming void. The scrape of metal plates - the sound of the deathwalker's footsteps - neared.

Beside him, Elle'dred sighed and rose; the knight returned languidly to the main cavern.

For a long time, Ayadra stared listlessly, as Llrsyring stood beside him.

"I'm sorry." the echoed voice ventured, hesitantly above.

Grief returned, as did a flare of guilt. And anger.

"Do you know what he did to me?"

"Yes." - the admission held no deceit, "I watched it."

Ayadra grimaced -

"You...you saw what he did? You saw that..." he met the empty sockets of the helm; Llrsyring did not avert his gaze, "Hours...I screamed for hours...it wouldn't stop hurting...you watched..."

The anger hurt as much as the grief. As damningly as the guilt.

His eyes clenched shut; he could not look at Llrsyring - he could not bare -

"I hate you," he had to say the words - "I hate you...but I don't want you to die....I don't want to kill you..."

He had failed.

He hated himself. He deserved to be hated - punished.

"I hurt Hheirdane," he muttered, "I know the pain I made him feel...I saw it...your pain. I know it...like I know I will kill you."

Llrsyring remained silent.

He was a weapon, he was evil, he would hurt people. He had hurt people. He would kill Llrsyring.

The truth.

Grief. No tears would come.

"I hold no remorse for why I did what I did," Llrsyring said, "But my arrogance has hurt you, and for that I am sorry."

He had already forgiven the deathwalker. He had no right to forgive him - he had inflicted Llrsyring's worst pain on him again and again. He had felt it - as he felt the torment that plagued his dreams. The brands, the heat, the pain.

He had done to Llrsyring what had been done to him; what he had done to Hheirdane; again and again -

Because he had been angry.

"I don't want to kill anything...but I know I will."

Some part of him begged that Llrsyring would deny it, that the deathwalker that had told him the truth could now say that he was not going to - that he was not evil. Even if it was a lie.

"I cannot change that."

The truth.

"Kill me," he whispered - "Please, before I hurt anyone else."

Fear - Llrsyring might comply. He did not know what the deathwalker would do. Panic raced inside the void; he did not want to die, but the guilt of knowing what he had done, and what he would do, stifled any instinct to preserve his existence. He deserved to die.

The truth.

He had never asked for this; he did not want to be a weapon. He did not want to be evil.

Steel sung, as it was drawn, across the air of the cavern.

Llrsyring's notched-blade glistened in the fading light. The blade that had slain goblins and incarnates; Ayadra had only seen it when blood stained its surface.

It might hurt - for a moment. He had suffered hours of torture, brands and beatings, the cuts inflicted by healing a friend - and yet now he was afraid of the pain. The short pain that would end him.

He did not want to die; but he deserved -

The sword held still.

The suit of armour lowered himself to the cavern floor, laying the blade across his upturned gauntlets.

"This is Ishtavra," he said, "An Ellyan longsword. Guardian to a fallen people, and last of its kind. It has witnessed their death and become one with it. It is cursed to avenge its masters. If one not of Ellyan blood holds it, its nature is such;

One who grasps the hilt, calamity shall claim,

One who swings the blade, his kingdom's fall shall reign,

And one who strikes a foe, smites him to the earth,

There is no line, nor understanding words to speak his fate in verse." Llrsyring paused, "This blade is evil Ayadra. You are not. I could let you grasp the hilt, and swing it once. You would die, and the darklands of Eryndor would fall, the Immortal's army turned to dust."

The truth.

Ayadra did not doubt a word Llrsyring said; the deathwalker had only ever told him the truth.

Fear.

In one swing, he could end his life - he could stop the weapon he was from coming into existence. He could stop himself from hurting more people.

Terror.

"If I wanted to," he asked, "Would you let me?"

Llrsyring stood again. In a flash of steel he plunged Ishtavra into the ground in front of the incarnate - the blade screech discordantly as it perforated the solid stone; the deathwalker's wielding gauntlet withdrew its grasp of the hilt.

Silently, Llrsyring turned away.

Ayadra stared - terrified, and guilty. His salvation lay before him; an answer to the confliction inside. An end.

He was evil. He was a weapon. He had hurt people. He deserved to be punished. Tortured. He deserved to die. But he did not want to.

He wanted to be something else; not this - sickening thing. Obsidian and evil. Not this weapon he had no choice in being; not tortured for being what he did not want to be. Not condemned, with no power to redeem himself.

The truth.

He did not want to die.

Slowly, terrified, he stood. Almost against his will, his hand reached out - the tips of his fingers neared the hilt. He had to - as he had to heal Elle'dred. There was no other way -

But he had done evil when he had healed Elle'dred - the thought lingered, he might do evil now.

He wanted to do good - he wanted to be good -

You have failed. You will fail.

Confusion, and fear, and guilt.

"It is not my place to decide the fate of the world, Ayadra." Llrsyring said, "Though, if you intend to grasp Ishtavra, I ask only one thing - that you kill me with your swing. For I am no longer Ellyan if I let you wield this blade...I hope I am still your friend."

No. Fear. Guilt.

Desperation.

- He did not want to die.

Ayadra withdrew his hand. For a long moment, he continued to stare at the Ellyan sword - this sword is evil - you will fail. The mercy of truth was lost to him; he did not know what to do. He wanted to be sure -

He did not want to die.

He would fight; he would not hurt anyone else.

He would fail.

The truth.

Ayadra looked away from the blade; he forced himself to take a long, painful step past it.

"I hate you," he did not know if he meant the words - there were others he wanted to say, "...you're still my friend."

Llrsyring deserved no forgiveness; he had done nothing to warrant it. Nothing that was not deserved.

"You do not have to forgive me." the armour replied.

The truth. He had already hurt Llrsyring. He would kill him.

He did not want to die.

"Give me a day," he forced the words out, as a whisper, "...or a week."

He stepped away, towards the entrance to the larger cavern.

Ayadra heard the grind of the Ellyan longsword being drawn out of the ground, and the song of steel as it was returned to its wielder's waist.

He had failed. He would always fail.

Llrsyring's plated stride joined him as they crossed the length of the chamber and returned to the main cavern, and the others. Ayadra did not dare a glance up; he feared meeting a guard's eyes - or a victim's.

The suit of armour stopped beside him.

He glanced at the helm; despite its lack of expressive features, he could discern the trepidation -

Alarm.

Llrsyring's hand fell to his waist; and the hilt of Ishtavra. Ayadra glanced at the cavern; fresh fear overcame the old - the others each stood, in silence and unmoving. Each of his guards' gazes were turned to the southern entrance of the chamber, shielded by the maze of rock. Each of the soldiers had drawn their swords, and the magus tensed in anticipation.

The sounds carried in from the pathway outside.

The heavy tread of metal upon rock. Disharmonised footsteps fell in chaotic rhythm, each scraped the air with the distinct rasp of metal against stone. And they approached.

"Ayadra," Llrsyring said, drawing both of his blades, "Get behind me."

The incarnate did not question the order.

Fear.

The first of the figures moved through the entrance. And was followed by three others.

They were all clad in heavy, wrought armour from crown to sole; the metal was black and dull, and the plates were twisted into shape, as though they had been fused by a sudden clash at their seams. Whatever lay inside was hidden entirely under the plate - they had the stature of men, slightly taller than the soldiers that stood in the cavern.

They each came to a stop, arrayed in a line before the soldiers of the party.

The four suits of coal black armour stood and stared - no glint of eyes shone amidst the slits of the helms, in the dim light of the cavern. No echoes of breathing encased by metal disturbed the silence.

- Then a sound, like the clicking of a thousand terrible insects whispered across the rocks - in the distance - on the edge of hearing - beyond the impenetrable stone of the walls. For a moment it remained a whisper; before it surged and swelled, furious and consuming, and turned into insane, malevolent laughter. Emanating from the suits of coal black armour.

It echoed and reared, and spat. The rapacious noise crawled forth across the cavern's air, and swept around Ayadra like a drowning flood of chitinous vermin. The laughter stung his ears, and unsettled his skin - as though the unseen insects had bored their way underneath and skittered about on his flesh.

Terror. Confusion. Panic.

He wanted to run.

His heart thrummed in his chest.

Amidst a torrent of insane cackling, the figures drew blades; guard-less shards of steel. Their plated hands held the jagged edges without hilts, the warped, black metal of their fingers curling around the blades where the grips should have been.

They each advanced a step, in flawlessly imperfect rhythm; the first time, the faint echo could be heard - of air moving where flesh should be. They were hollow, empty. Like Llrsyring.

They were nether-touched; Ayadra knew.

Terror.

But their hollowness did not remain for long - from the depths of the empty suits of armour, flames leapt forth. Ravenous tongues of fire slashed out from every crack and seam, spitting, spurting, ripping upwards in insatiable fury. And bathing the figures in fire.

Fire Ayadra knew - as intimate as every torture he had suffered, as close and painful as he dreamed it each night, the fires of his torment and flesh blazed into despairing life before him.

He could not move - he could not comprehend what he saw.

He could only watch. The fire.

The narrow slits for absent eyes, and the twisted maws of the figures' helms glowed with gleeful crimson. The crackling of the fire added a fresh sound to the hideous laughter; but it was the heat, which burned the air that was the truest sadism of the unnatural flames.

It was despair.

Even from the distance between the figure and he, Elle'dred's skin burnt; his flesh was scorched by the savageness of the flames - yet his core froze, turned to ice. As though all the warmth of his body fled to his skin to meet the fire's touch - and all it left behind was despair.

Emptiness.

These things - this fire, was beyond him; beyond the world that he knew or could bear. Fire, heat and despair. The energy of adrenalin, of simple will, abandoned his muscles; in an instant, every shred of hope and joy and passion was consumed in the eternal, cold emptiness of despair. Wracked by a sudden and impossible exhaustion, Elle'dred dropped his sword and collapsed to the ground; as did each of the party around him. All he could feel was the crushing hopelessness that desired only to wait and let the end, and the flames, come.

The figures advanced.

Tendrilous ebon mist swirled across the deathwalker - and in the same instant, remanifested into a flare of solidity, robes and blades.

Llrsyring reappeared behind the line of immolating suits of armour.

In his left hand Ishtavra flashed across him, through the glimmer of an arc - and severed the helmet of the closest nether-touched. The helm sailed, and clattered to the ground some feet away - as fire exploded from inside the hollowness of the armour; erupting in ravenous terror as it fled, free into the air and vanished.

The empty, quenched suit of armour began to fall - Llrsyring had not paused.

The second nether-touched turned amidst a flare of infernal spurts, towards the deathwalker - raising its shard of steel.

But Llrsyring was swifter, and his attack carried the precision and lethality of surprise.

Ishtavra's first circling arc flowed into a spin, and from the flaring edge of his cloak his second sword emerged - and caught and cleaved the twisted metal of the nether-touched's arm. Its gauntlet, yet holding its hilt-less blade, was cut free of its burning body; the severed tongues of its inner blaze clung to and died around the empty hand as it clattered to the ground. And like a torrent of crackling blood, flame erupted from the hollow stump of its arm. It seemed to recoil a step in pain or shock; still its laughter did not stop.

The deathwalker held no pause; coursing through a black river of cloak, that carried him yet another step around his foe, Ishtavra circled in an instant - flared, and cleaved free the second enemy's helm in a perfect finish.

The nether-touched's fire roared and fled, ravaging itself into nothing.

The second suit of armour clattered to the ground, smouldering.

But both of the remaining foes had withdrawn a step, and turned to face Llrsyring. Fire erupted with renewed fury through the seams in their armour; waves of sadistic flare swept across the black plates, crackling and dancing as the impossible despair dragged the life from all around.

No breath was drawn within the cavern, by man or woman, or armour.

In the gleeful vermillion of the fire, hope and life were consumed - breath held no point.

For a moment Llrsyring paused - as the impossible heat bathed the cavern. As the fire roared.

Ishtavra wavered in the gauntleted grasp of his extended arm, above.

The nether-touched both advanced, and flanked the only being that could oppose their heat - save for the weapon of the Immortal. The incarnate stood and stared and watched, as the two figures, alive with the flame of his trauma and nightmares approached the friend he would kill.

The despair that dragged the others to the floor, that stifled their will to breathe, caressed his skin - like a lover he had always known, and it beckoned to the pain beneath. To the flames.

An inferno blazed in the depths of his being - as he watched -

Llrsyring danced. Two suits of immolating armour attacked him; they matched his speed - they matched the strength born from worlds that should never have touched this one. Yet they could not match his elegance or deftness.

He twisted and turned, his blades moving seamlessly, arc after arc, fluid and poised, flowing, pausing, turning. He met his foes without fault or flaw; his swords danced through parry and block and reprising strike; he slipped from their blows as though even in solidity he was as incorporeal as in smoke.

But he was only one. And he was out-matched.

Llrsyring retreated seven steps, precise and graceful, as a master of his art - baiting his enemies to over-commit - then he turned. Seamlessly, he abandoned his defence, and twisted his blades into a flash of metal.

Into an attack.

Ishtavra - the sword of his race, struck and caught the blade of its foe; the deathwalker extended, in a narrow circle, twisting the defence of the nether-touched into openness. His second sword followed, and in a perfect arc, born of savage elegance, freed the figure of its hand and head.

But the attack could not be performed without committing him to defencelessness - and in his last movement of his bladed dance, he left himself open.

His extinguishing blow fell simultaneously with the grating of the second nether-touched's sword through his chest. The force imparted with the thrust, lifted him off his feet and drove him into the cavern wall.

A flaming gauntlet gripped the deathwalker's plated throat and squeezed.

A moment passed - and the last nether-touched blazed into horrific immolation; an inferno erupted from within - heat, despair and ending. Its flames could not claim Llrsyring's cloak, the black robes defied them, but the fire scorched the plates of the deathwalker's neck to a darkness identical to the grip laid upon it.

The figure laughed, and roared - its own twisted voice was the sound of the inferno that blazed into existence, obscuring the black armour that contained it.

Llrsyring hung, for a moment.

- And went limp; pinned against the wall, his arms dropped to his side, loosely clinging to his swords.

The nether-touched cackled. The deathwalker did not move. With a motion defining brutality, the hellish armour hurled its robed counterpart across the cavern. Llrsyring flew; his swords both clattered somewhere between him and the farthest wall. The deathwalker cracked the rock with his impact, and dropped heavily and limply to the ground.

He did not move.

Despair ravaged the air, amidst the waves of a maddening cackle. Amidst the roar of the flames.

Ayadra watched.

Fire blazed. The heat of brands moved to his skin.

The nether-touched strode through immolation and laughter towards the closest supine body; Hheirdane. Slowly, sadistically, the burning armour raised its sword for a downward stab - through the man's face.

No.

Fire blazed. Intimate and lovely.

"No!" Ayadra cried - fear, and guilt, and desperation gave way to flame. For a moment, the heat of the unnatural fire did not touch him; its despair was weak and impotent to affect him - it could not overcome his own that blazed inside. In his dreams.

Like Hheirdane - he couldn't let the man die.

He felt the flames of his flesh; as he felt them when they were born from the heat of brands; they licked at his surface, beneath the skin, painful and damning and desperate to be set free. They hated him.

He held up his hand.

The bandages across his body snapped and fell away; seared through by bursts of flame that spurted from each wound. He was wracked by each stab, each searing shut of his flesh alike the touch of a brand. But they passed in the briefest moments. They made way for his true fire. From the clawed tips of his fingers, tiny candlelights flared into crimson brilliance.

They grew.

Fire tore down in jagged streams across his hand and arm. The black of his scales amidst the flames seemed as the charred remnants of its fuel - for an instant, before the streams fused into a river of flowing waves that covered his limb. He burned - but there was no pain. Fire fled from his flesh, crackling, orange and free; slashing tongues of flare leapt into the air above his fingers.

It brought heat.

- And despair.

No knowledge came - it did not need to.

The figure stopped. It could not move. Its immolation grew; flames spilled out across its armour. They met and emerged; they coated the plates in a roaring flow that twisted down and around, and up across its body. The nether-touched dropped its blade, stumbled a few steps away from the knight.

Its laughter had not stopped.

But there was no longer glee in the sound.

Madly, it began to claw at its armour - tearing the plates away. It clawed, and ripped, and pulled, but the larger plates would not come free. It laughed. It slid it fingers into itself and tried - and tried to remove its skin. Rampant desperation defined its motions - and the spasms of pain. It laughed.

Still tearing at its metal skin, half lost amidst flame - it collapsed. Its fingers and limbs shook, and curled, as it cackled. Its laughter choked its screams, as fire crackled and roared all around it; it writhed, as the flames spilled and flowed over its form, bathing it in agony as clear as its rocky death-bed beneath. It laughed and laughed and laughed. When it wanted to scream.

Second after second passed, and Ayadra stood, holding his burning limb out towards the figure - fire beckoned to fire. He offered an escape that could not be reached, and would be snatched away for the sake of despair. And joy. Reflected crimson burned across the incarnate's abyssal orbs.

He almost smiled.

The black armour clawed at the rock, clawed away its own fingertips - it laughed and burned. And tried to scream. And was still. The flames rushed up, a final surge, and faded into the air amidst a cloud of diaphanous smoke.

The black suit of armour lay disfigured by melting, twisted now perpetually into a throe of pain - an unmoving shape on scorched ground.

Fire still burnt.

Ayadra stared at his arm. The flames of his nightmare - born from his flesh - entranced and laughed as they danced across his skin; they flared with wavering life, burning and fading, always moving. He was with them, amongst them. They were his, and he was theirs; he felt their power and their freedom, and their joy. He felt their heat, but was not touched by it.

It was his. His power.

He felt their despair. The hopelessness that burned from his hand was the same as the fire inside the nether-touched; the same unnatural and terrible fire as that which had made them. The same impossible heat and despair, which should never have touched this world. Or been freed upon it.

- Hell-fire.

Hell-fire burned upon his arm, born from his flesh. Its heat, that stole the joy and will to live from all around radiated from his skin. He had not been affected by the nether-touched's flames, as he was now unaffected by his own - but the others were not.

The others were dying.

The despair, the heat - his - still filled the cavern, still stole the will to breathe from those he loved - and it shone with glee, as they died. His eyes reflected its joy.

No.

Amidst the inferno of his being, found in glorious release upon his skin, he knew he prolonged their suffering; Elle'dred's, Llrsyring's, Hheirdane's. He knew the knight would die soon - within moments - the man did not breathe. And he would be responsible - he would kill his friend.

Like he would kill Llrsyring.

The fire inside continued to burn; he knew it would burn and burn and burn, until it had burnt all the world away. It was evil; it was meant to destroy. It wanted nothing more than to destroy.

No.

He was evil. He was a weapon. He would fail.

No.

He had to fight. He had promised himself -

He had failed.

No.

- Pain.

The fire flared, enraged. The agony of brands wracked him as it had too many times before - his limb was burning. And now he felt it. Hell-fire turned its full malevolence upon him; it burned and charred and seared without mercy - until he shrieked without volition. The pain of burning; hell-fire wrought every nightmare fully upon his flesh.

It hated him. It wanted him to burn.

His legs buckled, his knees folded and he dropped.

He screamed.

For a moment, all he knew was the agony of the fire - his nightmare had torn into his waking world.

Hell-fire laughed.

It would burn the world away - it would burn Llrsyring away - while he watched.

No.

- He could not let that happen. He did not want to hurt people. He did not want to kill -

Ayadra fought. For a brief moment, his scream was one of will, of blind purpose -

He fought the fires of his flesh.

Hell-fire roared.

And fled.

The fires raced up along his arm to his fingertips and fled and faded into the air - leaving only glistening scales behind. And pain. The memory of every brand pushed against his skin was captured in his arm - a cry choked in his throat; in silence, his vision blurred in agony.

Thought was effaced by pain.

Ayadra lay; the heat and despair of hell-fire lifted from the cavern, amidst his soft whimpers, as he cradled his clenched limb against his chest. The others sucked in desperate breaths of life returned to flesh. The will to live returned to muscles, shaking from fear and exhaustion.

The others lay, gasping for breath.

As Ayadra lay -

Save for Hheirdane.

Somewhere on the edge of his hearing, Ayadra heard the knight's snarl, the furious surge to his feet. Amidst the numb haze of agony, the incarnate watched as Hheirdane grasped the hilt of the sword - Llrsyring's sword.

Hheirdane approached, and raised the blade to deliver a death-stroke.

Pain obscured panic.

He deserved to die. The truth. He deserved to -

The deathwalker's second blade glimmered in the man's grasp for a moment; Hheirdane threw a glance into its surface.

Ayadra closed his eyes. He did not fight.

He had failed.

He was evil.

Elle'dred breathed. The sheer ecstasy of breath filled and left his chest again and again. Breathing, life - they were the most precious things one could hold.

The despair - the heat of the fire -

They were beyond him; even as he rose, unsteadily to his feet, the memory of it retreated into a part of his mind better left forgotten. That fire - Ayadra's fire, was beyond him. As were those creatures.

The knight glanced around; confusion dogged his perception as it did cognitive thought; for a moment, he could not comprehend what had happened, what was happening.

He saw Hheirdane; his friend was holding one of Llrsyring's swords - as he stood above the recumbent body of the incarnate. Alarm surged. But there was no anger in Hheirdane's features.

And the Sword-Bearer did not move; he was simply staring into the surface of the blade.

The scraping of metal on stone sounded behind Elle'dred; but, before he could turn to see what caused it, the deathwalker rushed across his sight, and moved to Hheirdane's side. Llrsyring snatched his blade from the Sword-Bearer's grasp with little gentleness.

Yet the man did not react to the armour's proximity, or the touch of his gauntlet.

As Taedoran and the two magus stood uncertainly around him, Elle'dred stared at the deathwalker, and the incarnate, lying silently on the cave-floor at the suit of armour's feet.

Ayadra's hand had burned - with the same fire that had blazed within those beings -

Elle'dred did not know what that meant. He could not.

"Those were the nether-touched of the Immortal," Llrsyring stated, flatly, "They are the evil and power of the Dark Moon. And there is an army more of them." he paused, and sheathed both of his blades; his notched-sword accompanied his second at his waist, "More enemies likely pursue us. I hope only incarnates and goblins. We must move."

Taedoran drew in several laboured breaths before he responded; his eyes were locked in the characteristic glare of disdain and disgust. On the deathwalker, on him, on the incarnate.

For a moment, Elle'dred could not blame the man.

"We move out." their leader barked the order, sharply.

In silence, yet recovering from the shock of the battle and foes and prisoners none could fully comprehend, the others retrieved their packs. Elle'dred threw a glance at the incarnate, as Llrsyring knelt down beside him. Ayadra flinched the deathwalker's touch away, and rose in obvious pain to his feet, still clutching his hand to his chest. Tears filled his eyes, in the sockets of the alien mask of bone that was his face; glistening lines of fallen water marred its black surface.

Elle'dred did not know what the incarnate was.

He did not want to know.

The armour and their charge, fell into file some distance behind Taedoran and the magus. The others departed the cavern through the third largest tunnel.

Hheirdane was the last to shoulder his pack, and take pace.

Concern flared in Elle'dred, amongst the shock and numbness and incomprehension left in the wake of the battle. The emotion nearly drowned amidst the weight of concerns better left to silence - concerns he did not want, but could not deny, resentments and fears he had thought he was past; thankfully it recalled the ache of his bruises. And reminded him of a matter he could understand.

Elle'dred moved alongside his friend, as they assumed the pace at the rear, set by their leader.

For one brief, bewildering moment, Hheirdane willingly met his gaze.

And smiled.
Chapter 23

_But the Immortal had grown in power too. He seemed greater than all the armies of the Wyverns and the Elves together. And even greater than the Andarae themselves. When he returned, he brought destruction that none could know. The first war was born. And the heavens were darkened. The Immortal's shadow fell grave and terrible and slew all light. The sky itself screamed. It was nothing the Wyvern or the Elves or even the Andarae thought could be._

* * *

Ormus had expected this. He had been relying upon it. He had sent word to Ragmurath before his visit, and he knew the High Magus would eventually summon him to his chambers for a discussion.

But the Elder Archivist was nervous; although he was certain he had placated Helanath for a time, she had not told him when she would move against Ragmurath. He knew it would be soon.

The High Captain had retrieved him from Helanath's quarters only an hour after dawn. She had hidden her concern well, and he had feigned his - this summons was supposed to be unexpected.

He had dressed quickly, assured her that they were not and would not be discovered, and moved out into the rune lit corridor.

The High Captain had led him through the unnaturally empty maze of hallways, and returned them both to the black depths of the pit that was the curving stair-room. Ormus trepidation had intensified as he stepped out onto the narrow balcony - he hid it entirely, but the ghostly illumination of the rune lit only the few steps ahead of him, and his hesitation was seemingly unnoticed by the double-faced helm or the woman inside it.

She had marched upwards, the back of her ebony robes declaring either he maintained his own position or she would abandon him to the dark. He had suppressed his fear.

Ormus had stumbled, more than once - she had not said a word, only the rhythmic tapping of her glaive against the stone broke the black silence. His treatment had sparked a new suspicion.

Did his accomplice know about his vulnerability? Did Ragmurath suspect Helanath, and him now? Ormus wondered if he had underestimated the High Magus.

They ventured onto another balcony; the endless darkness beside him offered no insight as to how high they were, but he was fairly certain they neared the highest level of Grgadorn. They continued through another set of corridors once more illuminated only by the rune; they did not pass or perceive anyone else until they reached the two vermillion guards standing on either side of a narrow, solid metal door.

Ormus only now realised, as they had approached both Helanath's chambers and this room, that the guards themselves held no light sources. They had and did stand in the empty darkness for hours; as unmoving as the stone around them. The Elder Archivist was struck by true loyalty.

The door had a number of locks, and was likely newly placed as had been the other Ormus had encountered. The High Captain cradled the glaive in the crook of her arm, as she selected the multiple keys and turned them each in a lock. She shoved the door open, and directed him inside.

Ormus emerged into a very familiar room; he had not realised, due to the pervading darkness and unnatural emptiness of the Keep, that he had been escorted to the Staff-Bearer's personal study.

Ragmurath stood on the far side of the room, near the window - pouring them both a glass of brandy from a decanter. More than once, Ormus had enjoyed such with the previous tenant of the room; the pang of nostalgia was easily dismissed. The High Magus glanced up to the Elder Archivist, as the door was shut and locked behind him. The High Captain had not entered.

"What are you doing here?" Ragmurath asked.

Ormus was unsure what he meant, "I take it you didn't summon me?"

Ragmurath picked up the glasses and moved past the large, crackling fireplace, over to him, "What are you doing in Grgadorn?"

"I came to warn you."

The High Magus was shocked momentarily, but sneered in disdain and handed him a glass, "Warn me? About what exactly?"

Ormus felt relieved; he took a sip, "You have made a mistake." Ragmurath's face contorted in scorn, but before he could sling a contemptuous barb, Ormus continued, "You have been discovered to be responsible for letting loose a criminal who is your bastard son, and allowing him to murder the Staff-Bearer."

Ragmurath was shocked - this time for longer than a moment.

Ormus finished the brandy with a single mouthful; its luxurious bite filled his mouth, then slid like silk down his throat into a gentle, fulfilling warmth in his chest.

"Helanath has discovered you," Ormus stated, as the hoarseness of the alcohol faded, "And she plans to turn you over to the Tribunal."

The High Magus glared at him, "Then you have betrayed me."

Ormus turned and raised an inquisitive brow.

Ragmurath hissed, "Do not think that I did not know about your relationship; it has been blatantly obvious for some time that she has been your consort."

The cold sting of steel brushed against Ormus' throat. Warm, wet breath dampened the nape of his neck, accompanied by a foul stench that forced itself into his nose.

Ragmurath sipped at his drink - and then furiously hurled the glass into the wall; the drink splayed out across the stones as the glass shattered in a cascade of chiming shards.

"Ormus, may I introduce my bastard son," the High Magus spat malevolently; his mouth curled into an emphasis of his characteristic sneer, "I could let him kill you, here and now. The guards outside would forget anything they heard from inside this room. Now, what was it that you came to warn me about?"

The Elder Archivist's eyes maintained the same implacable distance as before, "I came to warn you. Helanath came to Delphanas to inform me of her suspicions. I urged her to pursue them. I knew she would, regardless of my opinion, and telling her to do otherwise would have cast doubt on me. I also intended to send her here and return myself to warn you - it would seem my neck is as open as yours."

"It is only your neck that is exposed, Elder Archivist," Ragmurath stated, haughtily, "And as for your explanation, I am disappointed you did not devise a better one."

"It was a guard you trusted to let this murderer go that betrayed you." Ormus confessed, impassively; the ice of his demeanour had nearly cracked from the fear and desperation, but he held it firm and continued, "And there was one who I assume you did not recruit that saw you enter the dungeons before you freed your son."

The hardening of Ragmurath's face - and his silence, proved to Ormus he had informed the High Magus of something he did not know.

Ragmurath nodded. The blade withdrew from the Elder Archivist's neck.

Ormus could not help his curiosity; he turned around to see the killer behind him - the man's face was bound by swathes of tattered ebony cloth and only the glint of an eye stared out from a crack between wrappings. He wore a frayed set of a lower magus' robes, and gripped a simple dagger in his horrendously scarred hand.

"I see," Ragmurath said, "Then you really did come to warn me about this."

Ormus breathed calmly, "I did not know Helanath would discover you." he retreated from the man behind him towards the fireplace, intermittently watching the glint, "As I said, you made a mistake."

Ragmurath loosed a spiteful chuckle, "I intend to correct it."

"You may be too late." Ormus replied; the High Magus glared, again showing he had not expected the response, "Helanath will move before you can stop her."

"How?"

Ormus eyed him, and glanced at the killer, "She will inform the others of the Tribunal. They will arrest and try you for the Staff-Bearer's murder." he paused, "You cannot kill all the other High Magus and make it look credible."

Ragmurath held a silence for a long time, "It is not an issue." he answered.

"What?"

"The Tribunal will not be a hindrance to your plan."

"My plan?" Ormus enquired.

The High Magus moved to the fireplace, "Discrediting the prophecies?" Ragmurath asked, and smiled, "I apologise for my treatment of you; I had thought you were a disloyal traitor like Hadrath - my reaction was only to insure the completion of our scheme. The armies are taking heavy losses in the Valley of Ythordor, very soon we may have no soldiers left to defend Ammandorn."

Ormus watched him carefully, "If you trust me then?" he ventured.

"I have no reason not to."

Ormus paused, and then sighed, "I will soon have what I need to expose Phio. But first we must deal with this mistake of yours. How do you plan to handle the Tribunal?"

Ragmurath sneered coldly, "Do not worry about them."

"How?" Ormus insisted; the killer inched forward, raising the blade.

Ragmurath held up his hand to stay him, "I can convince them to see the necessity of my actions."

"Helanath will never -"

"Then she will have to die."

Ormus met his eyes, "Yes. I assume you can handle that?"

"You would so easily kill her?"

"She is a liability," the Elder Archivist said, "I do not desire her death, but as it is necessary it does not throw doubt on our goal. She is an unfortunate victim."

Ragmurath seemed pleased, "If she were loyal she would have kept her mouth shut. Bury what she had found, but she is like Hadrath - a traitor."

Ormus did not react; he continued impassively, "The Tribunal must not know we are both involved in this. If you cannot convince them to side with you, you must bear the guilt of Hadrath's murder alone. If they believe you have accomplices they will launch a full inquiry - and as clever as I am, I cannot outwit their resources. If they discover me, they will only be encouraged towards Phio's position and support of the prophecies. We will only have created more traitors."

"They will see it my way." Ragmurath answered, confidently.

Ormus stared at him, and nodded; after a pause, the Elder Archivist remarked, "I assume you are to be the next Staff-Bearer." he held out his hand, "Congratulations."

* * *

They were all exhausted. Despite the need for movement and distance from the cavern, they could not manage a further march. Amidst the tortuous and narrow confines of the caves, the night had passed in consternation and silence. The tunnels proved to be as rugged and uneven as the mountainside above, and their pace, due to uncertain terrain, close air and weariness had slowed to a crawl.

When for the second time Taedoran had tried to mount a rise in the cave floor, only to tumble back to the ledge below, their leader had acquiesced to a respite.

The Champion of the Tribunal and the male magus held the second highest ledge of the cave; while Syla slept, alone, a few paces behind them. Similarly to the female magus, Llrsyring and Ayadra had been relegated to their own isolated and silent position, and for the moment, Elle'dred felt no compunction in leaving them that way. He did not understand, and he was too tired to overcome the maze of uncertainty that dogged him.

He did not know what Ayadra was - he did not know if he still cared -

Ayadra deserved better; he reinforced the thought.

He needed to understand; but he was simply too tired.

For the first time in too long, Hheirdane sat at his side - the man sat in close proximity without a palpable aura of enmity. Hheirdane had not even objected to his presence beside him during the entirety of their march.

The normality of it was as alien as the incarnate that slept restlessly on the ledge above.

"I can't love her," Hheirdane muttered, quietly, into the heavy air of the chamber.

For a moment, Elle'dred wasn't sure how to respond - comprehension eluded him. He opened his bruised and swollen lids as he turned to meet his friend's gaze.

"I can't love her, Elle'dred."

"Who?"

"My daughter." Hheirdane paused, "I can't...since Tallai'dred I can't love...I can't love her the way she needs her father too. I can't...I didn't want..."

I didn't want another child.

Elle'dred heard the words all too clearly. As much as the shame that surrounded them; the pain.

He didn't know what to say; he didn't know what he could say.

"Taedoran means to kill you..." Hheirdane continued, "I told him all I knew about you...and Llrsyring. What I overheard when you thought I was asleep."

The admission stung. No worse than his bruises.

He did not care.

Anger was too much of an effort, and he wanted to forgive Hheirdane. Too much of him wanted the same closeness they had had when this damned mission had started. He had lost everything else, but it seemed, thankfully, not Hheirdane.

It would be too much to lose his friend.

"That's your apology?" he remarked, "It could use a bit of work."

Hheirdane chuckled.

He'd missed the sound; he'd missed being able to chuckle himself - as the mirth settled into a grin, he realised he hadn't smiled in so long.

"I hate you," - this admission was less comforting, "I hate you for so many reasons...the friends you keep...for being the damned man you are...I hate that you are still my friend." Hheirdane paused, "I have not done well by you -"

Elle'dred cut him off, "You're already forgiven." he didn't want to hear the words that would follow - they didn't need saying; he chortled, "Hells, I'm just glad to have you back on my side."

Hheirdane was silent for a long while. The jade green eyes, ever shrouded by stoicism, and despondence, drifted now into distance; something that was akin to normal for the Sword-Bearer - Elle'dred had missed it.

"Taedoran means to kill you." - the information was repeated, flatly, after a long pause.

Elle'dred sighed, and muttered, in placation, "I know."

"You can't let him." - there was an edge of concern, and disapprobation. But honest concern.

He did not -

He remained silent.

"Elle'dred."

"It is too much, Hheirdane. All of it. I cannot fight the whole of Ammandorn, and the Archivists, and the Magus, and the law. It is just too much." - he could not change the world; he could not even change the circumstances of his life, or of those he cared about - he hadn't even been able to help Hheirdane - or Ayadra, "Besides, I doubt I'll live long enough for Taedoran to kill me...we'll probably die in these mountains."

Hheirdane did not respond. Another lengthy silence fell between them.

"What prompted this turn around?" he asked; he was not sure if he wanted the answer.

And the Sword-Bearer did not reply for a moment.

"If it was bloodying up my face, I should let you do it more often." he remarked, idly.

"I saw my death."

- The admission shocked him. Comprehension continued to be lost amidst confusion; there was too little he understood about anything anymore.

He could not -

"What?" he asked.

"I was an old man," Hheirdane continued, "Surrounded by the people that loved me...Alandra, you, my daughter."

Elle'dred watched his friend; he waited for an answer - but Hheirdane, frustratingly, seemed lost in thought.

"I hope I didn't look too ugly in my old age," he quipped, Hheirdane chuckled, "How did you see it?"

Hheirdane was silent moment before he answered, "In Llrsyring's blade."

Confusion was trammelled by beginnings of understanding; all the concerns and fears he had tried to forget since their flight from the cavern, since Ayadra's hand had burned with fire unnatural to the world, remanifested - the desire for comprehension solidified like the robes and armour of the deathwalker he had realised he did not understand at all.

Like the incarnate he tried not to -

It was all too much. For now, it was all too much.

He was too tired. It was all too much.

* * *

Helanath had moved against him - but far quicker than he had anticipated, even with the Elder Archivist's warning. The Tribunal had been called to a meeting - High Magus Ragmurath amongst them. He had suspected the next time they gathered would be the moment Helanath would choose to bring her allegations to light, and as he entered the chamber, where the others awaited him, he concluded he had been right.

The room was large and circular - entirely empty, save for the High Magus that gathered in its space. The floor was a polished black stone, with an inlayed mosaic of azure runes. This room's function was not only for discussions of law and official matters, but was the place where the Tribunal performed its circle-magic; when they joined together to combine their power.

But there was an obvious distance between Ragmurath and the others; they were united, he was alone.

High Magus Gerdanath stepped forward, "High Magus Ragmurath, this session of the Tribunal has been called to determine your involvement, whatever that may be, in the murder of Staff-Bearer Hadrath."

Ragmurath shot a glare at Helanath, before he answered, "This is not an official court proceeding."

High Magus Sansurath - an aging man with a long black beard, and dark-brown skin, moved forward and answered, "There will be official proceedings, when we have determined your guilt."

Heleanth joined them, her quiet voice announced, "We have evidence that clearly shows you were responsible for allowing the release of a dangerous criminal," she paused, emphatically, "Who you then used to murder Staff-Bearer Hadrath."

Gerdanath asked, "Do you plead guilty to these accusations?"

Ragmurath eyed each one of them, before looking back to Gerdanath, "I had Hadrath killed."

"You admit it?" Helanath asked; her voice was calm and unemotional, though shock showed on her face.

"I not only admit it," Ragmurath snarled, passionately, "I am proud of it." the others were taken aback, "Hadrath was a traitor. He willingly supported the breech of the laws of necromancy. Those laws are at the very heart of the Tribunal; they are why we were formed, why we were given the powers of law and justice. He spat on everything we stand for."

He glared at each of them, as he leapt further into his tirade, "Hadrath was guilty of treason, but we ignored it - because he was the Staff-Bearer. Had a peasant been found guilty of necromancy they would be killed without mercy; Hadrath was guilty of necromancy -"

"The Staff-Bearer was not guilty." Helanath stated, implacably.

Ragmurath focused his gaze on her; she met it, her eyes were as vehemently determined as his own, "Hadrath was guilty; we were all witnesses to his crime. The moment he became an accessory to necromancy - you cannot deny that." he looked at the other two, "Use of necromantic lore is forbidden, if either of you disagree with that, then speak now."

Gerdanath and Sansurath remained silent.

Helanath glanced at them, but her conviction would not be swayed, "Murder is illegal."

"Not always." Ragmurath countered, steadily, "Our laws state that in times of war a soldier proven to be a traitor must be put to death, immediately. By whatever means are deemed necessary and most expedient."

"That law does not extend to the courts of Ammandorn."

"It should!" Ragmurath yelled; the sudden volume of his voice near threw Helanath back, "The Tribunal are soldiers. We are the leaders of the Magus Army - whether official or not we are the most powerful defence of the land. Hadrath was our leader, and he betrayed us; I enacted the law, nothing more. If you disagree with my interpretation then challenge it here and now - no more bureaucracy! No more dealing with petty undestined men who have no concept of power. We make the law, we are responsible for keeping the other bloods in line - but we have been lenient with our own. Hadrath was a traitor - I am not."

The others were silent; Helanath was alone, and she knew it.

Ragmurath stared at them, "If you do not condemn me, then you must agree - what I have done and what I intent to do, are not treason."

"I challenge your interpretation of the law." Helanath stated, determinedly.

Ragmurath sneered, "We all know what you do Helanath. Sleeping with an Elder Archivist is not illegal, but I am sure you have whispered more than a few secrets in his ear, and revealing any matters of the Tribunal is as heinous as treason."

"I have done no such thing." Helanath snapped.

"Perhaps not." Ragmurath replied, his grin growing wider at the continued silence of the others, "But you may be guilty soon." he paused, "As there is no Staff-Bearer to dictate the correctness of the law, we must decide by majority; are the actions of Hadrath and the Assembly in breech of the laws of necromancy, are they to be considered treason, and met with the appropriate response? A vote is hereby called."

"You cannot order us -" Helanath began, but was cut short by her fellow High Magus.

Gerdanath stated, "What Hadrath did was wrong. I agree with you, Ragmurath."

"As do I." Sansurath admitted, although he seemed a little reluctant.

"Then I am not guilty of treason, or murder."

Helanath stared at the others, betrayal and pleading alive in her features, she made to speak but was silenced by the man she had tried to convict.

"You would not go against a decision of the Tribunal, would you Helanath?" High Magus Ragmurath asked, "You would not break your own laws? The laws you have served so loyally?"

The others all watched her expectantly.

"No." she admitted in defeat, "I relinquish my charges against you. They were invalid, under the current law and the pertaining circumstances."

Helanath had lost.

Ragmurath smiled, he turned to his allies, "Before this unsavoury business interrupted our proceedings, I was to be made the new Staff-Bearer; as my competence has been cleared of any doubts, is there any objection to that decision?" he glanced at Helanath.

"Nay." Gerdanath answered, followed by Sansurath.

"Nay." Helanath said.

Gerdanath queried, "As we have decided that the actions of Hadrath and the Assembly were illegal, how do we plan to enforce the law? Ragmurath, I assume your murd-" she paused, and rethought her words, "Your execution of Hadrath was not without further intent? Do you have a plan to move against the Assembly?"

"My plan is already in motion," he answered her, "There are those within the Assembly that disagree with the use of the prophecies; they are preparing to move against Phio and his element - I do not know how they intend to wrest power from him. But in whatever coup ensues, our hands will be clean; all we must do is be patient."

"You will inform us of your contacts and what you know of their plans in detail." Gerdanath ordered, displeased with his response.

Ragmurath looked at her, "I cannot. To do so would jeopardize their standing, and possibly alert our opposition," his eyes flicked to Helanath, momentarily, "- to their plot. They must remain secret until they have overthrown the traitorous amongst them." he paused, "Is there anything else?"

"There is one other matter," Sansurath asserted, "The criminal, do you know his whereabouts?"

"He is dead," Ragmurath answered, flatly, "After I used him to kill Hadrath, I disposed of him myself. He does not threaten the populace of the Keep, and there are no traitors amongst them."

"There is no killer on the loose?" Sansurath confirmed.

"No."

Gerdanath looked relieved, but enquired in an aggravated tone, "Then the recall of the High Captain and the Magus Army was not necessary? The security measures a waste of resources?"

"No," Ragmurath answered, "Our responses were necessary. As much as we might now agree on the need for certain actions, the untimely murder of a Staff-Bearer, and the apparent escape of a dangerous criminal, both within Grgadorn, warranted such reactions."

Sansurath proposed, "We should send the army back to the war."

"No." the High Magus insisted, "If this coup succeeds, then we will be pulling our forces back to our outer defences. And if it doesn't, or if our allies within the Assembly take more time than we have, then when the goblins come pouring out of that valley our army may be all that is left to resist them."

Gerdanath and Sansurath considered his words.

"Very well," Gerdanath agreed, and continued, "Do we continue the investigation of Hadrath's murder?"

Ragmurath nodded, "Our conduct must not deviate from what is expected. We cannot afford anyone suspecting us. And a continued military presence around Grgadorn should ward off any belief that we are weak, it may even serve to unsettle our adversaries." His eyes rested on Helanath.

"All matters have been addressed," Gerdanath declared, "This council is adjourned."

Helanath left the chamber first; she crystallised a rune, and walked at a measured pace until she had turned enough corners to be sure no one had followed her - then she ran.

* * *

Elle'dred had slept; for half the night. He had garnered no rest from the hours; too many dreams, none resolved, disturbed his unconscious mind.

He was so tired. He needed to sleep.

The others each, save for Ayadra, slept restfully around him. The incarnate dreamt as he always did - nightmares. Ayadra always seemed plagued by nightmares.

There was nothing Elle'dred could do for him. He wasn't sure he wanted -

Ayadra deserved better.

He told himself that too often now; he did not understand the incarnate, he did not understand the fire that had been birthed from his flesh. The terrible fire, and despair.

He glanced up at the shape of the deathwalker, limned in torchlight; the chamber which sheltered them was entirely enclosed, save for the tunnels that led away at either end. Elle'dred could not tell if it was night beyond the rock that walled him in, or if the southern sun had yet to fall behind the mountains they traversed. He did not much care.

Sleep would have been welcomed, but he needed to know - something -

He rose, and moved beside the deathwalker; Llrsyring exchanged a short glance as he neared.

"You have not told me everything," he muttered; his voice echoed quietly down the tunnel.

"No," Llrsyring answered, "I have not."

Elle'dred was silent for a long while, he had too many questions to ask, and none of them were wanted - anymore than the possible answers to them.

He had to ask.

"Hheirdane said he saw his death in your blade," - the easiest concern to expiate, "Is it true? Or are we all going mad?"

Llrsyring did not answer immediately, "Yes."

The suit of armour reached behind his waist, grasped one of the hilts hidden amongst his cloak, and drew the second of his blades. With care, he perched it across his gauntlets and let the knight view it more closely.

The long, elegant sword in front of him was not the notched-blade he had seen the armour wield before.

The handle was strange; it was long, much longer than a normal blade. The hilt was near a third the length of the sword itself, and was divided at its midpoint by the hand-guard. The lower half of the hilt was a single, flowing shape of silver that rose from the pommel and spread out into the curving cross-guard. There, the silver ceased, and a leather wrapping twisted upwards until the metal flared once again, into a ridged fan that met the base of the blade. Where the cross-guard would normally take its place, there was none, and the blade and hilt met without pause. The blade itself flared once before tapering through delicate curves to its tip. Eight, intricate sigils were set into the reflective surface at its centre.

"This is Athyndyrra," Llrsyring elucidated, "It is the blade of my blood, as Ishtavra is the blade of my race. It was forged by deathwalkers three hundred years ago. When it was lifted from the furnace of its creation, it was cooled in blood. In the blood of a person killed for the crime of necromancy; she was not a deathwalker, and she was not guilty. Her name was Thyesmered. She was an oracle, and it was her blood and the blood of deathwalkers spilled and living that cursed this blade," the helm paused, "Its curse is such that any who wield this blade and gaze into its surface, witness their own death. Though, unlike the visions of an oracle, once their death has been told, it cannot be changed."

Elle'dred stared at the sword; yet again he found himself overwhelmed by a plethora of forces lying beyond comprehension. His world was far too convoluted for him to understand.

Simplicity seemed an ideal he could no longer imagine.

"So what Hheirdane saw is going to happen?"

"Yes," Llrsyring answered, levelly, "I cannot be avoided."

After a long pause, filled with trepidation and discomfort, the echoed voice of the helm broke tentatively, "What did he see?"

"He was an old man, surrounded by those he loves."

The deathwalker chuckled.

The sound bewildered Elle'dred; the effort to conceive what he had been told was overwhelming. It was easier just to avoid understanding, leave all the other questions unanswered. The damnation of a curse set upon a strange blade was better left to fear. Along with its wielder.

Llrsyring was his friend; Ayadra deserved better -

"Good for him," the helm muttered.

Elle'dred wondered if there was not some resentment in the armour's voice; too often, now, he thought he saw the expressions unrevealed by the inexpressive, grey metal, and too often he thought he saw nothing.

Another question surged into irrepressibleness, driven by a wave of consternations and trepidations he wished would just settle in to calm numbness. But the shock of the nether-touched - of - was wearing off.

He tired of it all.

"This is how you know Ayadra will kill you?"

"Yes. Athyndyrra has shown me my death, and I understand it. There is a remarkable peace at knowing one's own end."

"Hmmm," he murmured, dismissively - too many questions begged answers, "Hheirdane seems better for it..."

"If it is any consolation," Llrsyring continued, "Had it been my other blade he held, he would have ended the world."

The admission overwhelmed him; he hoped futilely that the deathwalker was making a joke, but the tone of the helm's voice evinced an ironic sincerity.

"That is so comforting to know," Elle'dred quipped, reflexively, defensively; this was all beyond him - "But this one cannot kill us all just by being held?"

Llrsyring chuckled, "It is safe. More or less."

Elle'dred let out a long sigh; he was so tired, "It's not the first enspelled blade I've seen," - the remark lingered unanswered and unpursued for a moment, "Every knight's blade, and Sword-Bearer's, are forged with spells. And the Champion's...there is a myth about that blade: that any who wield it are granted the power to decide the fate of the land..." he paused a moment before he asked, "Are you saying that might be true?"

"Perhaps."

For a moment, Elle'dred wondered what would have happened if he had made different choices with his life - if he had - where he might have been now. The reflection, however, passed idly; there were too many questions that yet remained unasked. And he had no power to change his circumstances, in any case; regrets were better left undiscovered. He was so tired; he needed to sleep.

"A sword's a sword's," he muttered, as he moved back to his blankets.

Whether he meant to affirm a belief, or to assuage a doubt, he did not care.

He was too tired.

Sleep came, though not easily.
Chapter 24

_The Wyvern Kings fought with all they had, and their lesser brothers fought from the Second Heaven. The Elves too, fought the darkness with every power they could muster. From the Third Heaven and the Fourth the elves fought, and kept the land alive. But the Immortal was too strong, and his shadow so deep that the Wyverns and the Elves that did not fall in battle were consumed by their rage and despair until they became things of destruction. And could no longer see friend from foe._

_Only the Andarae and the Wyvern Kings were strong enough to stand against the Immortal and not be twisted by his shadow. But their despair grew deeper at the brethren they lost, and they tried to reclaim those that fell. They cast them into the river to be reborn, hoping that the madness would be washed away. They fought without rest, but the Wyvern Kings were only six. Inevitably their guard did slip. And in that one moment of weakness they showed, the Immortal took form upon the Fourth Heaven._

* * *

"They sanctioned murder?"

"Yes." Helanath replied, disgustedly, "Ragmurath has convinced the Tribunal to side with him. They are even planning to move against the Archivists."

Ormus was surprised; once again he had underestimated his accomplice's capacities.

"How?" he enquired.

"He said there is a group that oppose Elder Archivist Phio and those that support him; they are planning a coup of some sort - Ragmurath refused to name them."

The Elder Archivist sighed - feigning frustration; but in truth, he was pleased Ragmurath seemed sincere in playing his part of their ploy.

The High Magus stood at the window of her quarters; she was tensed with apprehension and agitated to an excessive degree.

"He will try to kill me." she muttered.

Ormus moved over to her; as always she fell willingly into his arms - the security they provided her was all she had left in her home.

"We can't let that happen." he replied, sternly but soothingly, "I've already considered this and I have a plan. You must escape Grgadorn, you must come with me back to Delphanas - I can keep you safe there."

"Ormus -"

He cut her off, "There is no other way Helanath. I must return with all speed; if there is to be a coup, I must stop it. We cannot afford a civil war now - it is unthinkable that Ragmurath would support this so readily. Too many people could die. You could die," he paused, and stroked her face lovingly, "Ragmurath has already assassinated someone who he thought a liability."

She struggled to overcome the fear heavily present in features, "We cannot allow him to do this. The Tribunal cannot be corrupted like this."

Ormus admired her resolve, and the courage she showed despite the betrayal she had endured.

"In that," he said, "I have a plan also. We must recruit magus Keylyn to help us."

"Why?" she asked, confused.

"You cannot be my spy, Helanath," Ormus answered, "And we will need an informant within the Keep if we are to have any hope of undermining Ragmurath's plot."

She remained silent in her confusion.

He elucidated, "You are not safe here. Ragmurath plans to kill you; he cannot afford a member of the Tribunal that opposes him. I must return to Delphanas, prevent this coup; once I have, we can call on the Assembly, with your testimony we can bring an army here to force Ragmurath's surrender. But we will need the advantage - someone to feed us information. Magus Keylyn was Hadrath's closest aide; he will be more than willing to help."

She seemed doubtful, but Ormus suspected her trepidation likely coloured her thinking, "He has not been the same since Hadrath's death." Helanath replied, unsurely.

"Regardless," Ormus assuaged, impassively, "He will assist us. But we must move now; I am scheduled to leave tomorrow, and we have only a few hours before curfew."

"How can you be so calm?" she asked, incredulously.

He smiled, "Someone whom I love is in danger," she softened, "I cannot afford to be overcome by worry and fear." he paused, and planted a quick kiss, "Your escape will require careful planning. And I cannot afford to return to enlist Keylyn - we must speak with him now."

She nodded; Helanath smiled, weakly, nervously - but trustingly.

* * *

Magus Keylyn sat in his quarters; on the hard stone of the floor.

He had upturned much of his furniture, smashed and destroyed all of his 'possessions'. Weeks ago. He had not had any reason to restore them to any semblance of order.

Hadrath was gone; the High Magus - his father. When he had lost his birth parents - his family, Hadrath was the only one who noticed his suffering. He had been fifteen; he had loved his family's regular visits, though each time he had feigned resentment. They had lived in the township of Grgadorn for his entire childhood, and had supported his schooling in the Keep that watched over their home. They had always been there. And then they weren't.

It had hurt him more than he thought anything could; he had forgotten his friends, his studies, love. Hadrath was the only one who had noticed, who had shown him care and kindness when he needed it. The Staff-Bearer had become his family, and his mentor, and his friend. Keylyn had loved him. He had always been there. Now he wasn't.

Now he was empty. Despair, hopelessness, grief; they would have been preferable to emptiness. But that is what he was; empty.

There was a knock at the door. He did not bother to answer.

A voice called quietly through the wood, "Keylyn. It is Helanath. Please let me in."

Helanath. She had tried to help him. She had failed. But she had tried. She was one of Hadrath's friends.

Keylyn rose, and stumbled to the door. He gripped the coarse, rough rope that served as a handle and pulled; the door opened.

Keylyn had already turned his back to his visitors and retreated to his spot on the floor. They would talk; he might hear some of it.

The door closed softly behind him, as he slumped against the stones.

"Keylyn," Helanath said, "We need your help. It concerns Hadrath."

The name provoked a reaction; he looked up at her.

There was another man, behind her - an Elder Archivist by his adornment. Ormus. Keylyn remembered him from his meeting with Hadrath. Hadrath.

Helanath continued, "Keylyn, I know you are hurting; Hadrath's death - Hadrath's murder has been hard for us all to bear. But I need your help." Helanath paused; Keylyn's eyes were vacant and listless, "Hadrath's murder was part of a plot to take over the Tribunal. Ragmurath had planned this."

Keylyn felt a flare of anger; he let it kindle.

"I don't have much time. Ragmurath knows I have discovered him." she paused, "He intends to kill me. Like he killed Hadrath."

Ormus approached, "Keylyn, I remember you. Hadrath always spoke highly of you, he cared about you."

There were tears, burning tears. Keylyn blinked them back.

"Hadrath was murdered by Ragmurath." Ormus stated, "Helanath has uncovered a plot to take over the Tribunal and perform a coup on the Assembly. Hadrath believed in the place of the magus, in loyalty to the Archivists. That is why he did not oppose the use of the Tome of Acrius."

Ormus paused; through an ill-tended, matted lock of blonde hair, Keylyn met his eyes.

The Elder Archivist continued, "Ragmurath opposed the decision. And when Hadrath overruled him, he was convinced the Staff-Bearer was a traitor. So he had him murdered."

Helanath knelt down beside him; her face was weighed with compassion.

She spoke, gently, "I have discovered evidence that could convict him, but somehow he turned the other members of the Tribunal to his side. They have decided Hadrath's murder was warranted."

Keylyn felt the anger burn deeper inside him; it blazed suddenly.

"Helanath must escape." Ormus said, with an uncharacteristic stress in his voice, "Her evidence can still be used to gather the support of the Archivists. We will leave with my contingent tomorrow, I will keep her safe. But we need your help, Keylyn. We need someone inside the Keep to feed us information, to watch the Tribunal. You were Hadrath's friend as we both were, please assist us."

Keylyn's dark-brown eyes burnt with tears that fell freely now across his cheeks; he managed a nod.

Ormus stood, "I will leave tomorrow; we will send word to you once we are safely in Delphanas. Watch Ragmurath; if you can, get close to him - but be careful."

Helanath smiled approvingly, she kindly stroked his arm, "Thank you Keylyn. Hadrath would be - he was proud of you."

Keylyn glanced at her; the remark opened a fresh wound. He welcomed the pain.

"Quick," Ormus muttered, gravely, to her, "Curfew approaches. We must return to your quarters before they have reason to suspect us."

"One thing," Keylyn growled; his voice was hoarse and rough from disuse.

Ormus nodded, enquiringly.

Keylyn's lip quivered from incensed pain, "I want to kill Ragmurath myself."

Helanath was shocked; Ormus stared impassively, "Once we are ready to move against the Tribunal, if you still wish to kill him, I will not ask you not to." Helanath turned her astonishment on the Elder Archivist; he continued, caringly - and disarmingly, "But you will likely die soon after, or he may kill you in your attempt."

Keylyn glared, "Good."

Ormus glanced at the High Magus; he feigned a worried uncertainty, but she did not question further.

They both nodded, before they left.

Keylyn sat on the cold stone of the floor. His chest burnt; anger choked and clawed inside him. But the emptiness had been filled.

* * *

Ayadra dreamt. His nightmare had changed.

Now, his nightmare was filled only with flame. With hell-fire.

The manacles were gone; the fire no longer needed them. It flickered and burned, free from his obsidian skin, it recalled the pain, the fear, the hopelessness. It would not stop, unlike the manacles, it would burn, and burn, and burn without mercy.

And it would laugh, and crackle, and roar all the while.

He screamed.

Hell-fire - his fire - burned him.

It hated him. He knew.

The dark face of his tormentor yet remained. Though the face, once carved into an expression of perpetual rage, now seemed to smile - delighted by the sadism of the flames.

Hell-fire-laughed.

And it whispered - promised.

He had failed. He would continue to fail. He was evil.

Hell-fire whispered the thoughts, again and again.

The truth.

In his waking moments, when his hand ached so fiercely he thought he might break down and cry, he could ignore it; he could ignore it when he marched. In silence, that damning silence - even then he could ignore it. The pain helped; the pain of his hand.

But it also served as a reminder of the guilt; his hand hurt because it had burned with hell-fire - with the fire of the weapon that he was meant to be. The fire that had always been inside him, freed through the deserved touch of brands.

He was evil.

He would kill Llrsyring.

The truth.

He had no choice but to fight. Or die.

He did not want to die.

- And he did not want to fight.

Fighting the hell-fire hurt him, and it promised only that it would continue to hurt him. If he fought, if he resisted its urge to burn and destroy and ravage and rape - he would suffer its malice, its pain. It would burn him with the full force of the hells - until he failed, until he gave way and let it free.

Until he could not fight.

It whispered the promise to him, as surely as the thoughts; he had already failed, he would continue to fail, he was evil.

The truth.

* * *

It was an hour before dawn. Neither she nor Ormus had slept. They had gathered their things - a sparse collection of records and items that fit imperceptibly into her lover's case.

Ormus had gone ahead, to make sure the guards were preparing on time. He had assured her of her safety - he had made love to her, again, during the night. The physical comfort of his body, surrounding her, touching her, holding her; it had bolstered her resolve.

She knew what they had to do would be dangerous; she had been thrown by the betrayal of the others. She thought Gerdanath and Sansurath were advocates of the law, but she had been wrong. She regretted having to turn on them like this, but no more than she regretted they had driven her out of her home.

She would return; she would arrest that traitor - those traitors herself. She would see the Tribunal restored to what it had been. And Ormus would help her.

Helanath moved to her drawers; she was nearly ready. The last thing she had to take with her - a reminder of both her home, and her duty, was a simple silver ring. The ring had been the Staff-bearer's; it had been Hadrath's. He had given it to her after they had worked on a case, of which, she had made a breakthrough. He said it was thanks for her dedication.

She slipped it onto her finger. It sat well, neither too tight nor loose. She allowed herself a mournful smile.

She approached the door and opened it. She told the guards outside that one would stay, and the other would accompany her; as was the standard protocol for such a 'short-excursion' as hers.

Ormus had said no one would question her seeing him off, and while when she failed to return, Ragmurath would know she had betrayed them - it was fortunate, as it would buy latitude for Keylyn.

She admired Ormus for his ability to think so quickly and thoroughly in such an alarmingly situation; Helanath had no doubt he could keep her safe until they were ready to return.

She carried her lighting rune above her hand, as she and the guard made their way through the corridors of the Keep. To the stair-room.

The door to the circular balcony arrived in due course. Helanath opened it casually, and stepped out onto the hand-railed precipice. She took a few steps forward to allow the guard to move in with her, and waited for him to close the door.

The wooden partition shut softly behind her. She heard the guard's metal boots grind against the stone, and she moved towards the curving stairs that led down into the darkness.

Clatter. The guard's glaive had smashed against the balcony floor. She jumped in alarm, and whisked around.

Searing pain ripped its way into her gut. She gasped. Agony washed against her vision. It wrenched her muscles, and blurred her senses; she could not move, barely breathe. The rune evaporated into mist.

The guard held the handle of the knife, protruding from her belly.

"My father says hello." the guard spoke in a grating, malevolent whisper. He rotated the blade slowly. She screamed; pain erupted into her chest.

The guard reached up and twisted his fingers through her red hair. He gripped it tightly - she couldn't even pull away. He dragged her closer to the banister; the drop stretched into blackness far below.

He laughed, a malicious snicker. His grip tightened in her hair.

He smashed her head brutally against the stone of the handrail. There was a sickening crack, as bone yielded to edge and rock. Blood oozed across the split flesh of her temple, trickling into her hair.

He cackled, loudly, as he dragged her back up, "They'll never tell the difference. But this way is more fun."

He drove her head into the banister again. Violently. Savagely. Again. Again. Again.

Helanath was dead long before her body tumbled into the depths of the stair-room.

* * *

Ayadra sat, huddled in a blanket against the cavern wall. Once more, only flame lit rock surrounded him; the caves seemed without end, and branched off frequently and bewilderingly. Their path had dipped deeper into entirely enclosed caverns, and then returned to tunnels bedecked with multitudinous skylights. He had not cared as to their course.

He hadn't seen the southern sun for too long. So rarely had he seen the sun.

The others were exhausted; Taedoran had driven them on at the same merciless pace he always did.

Ayadra was exhausted. And hungry.

He hadn't eaten since the previous day.

For so much of his life he had been exhausted and starving; the conditions were almost a comfort to him. He wasn't cold. For that he was not grateful.

He wanted to be cold, and exhausted and starving. And abused. He wanted things to go back to the way they had been; back to when he was just a frightened prisoner trying to survive.

At least then, he did not feel like he deserved it. Like he deserved worse.

He had not been a weapon then.

His hand still ached dully; the pain had faded, as did the touch of brands, and the trauma of incandescent manacles, before it. The physical pain had lessened, and left an emptiness for the guilt to fulfil. Guilt, and condemnation.

Hatred.

He bit the thoughts away; he would face them in his dreams, where he could muster no defence.

The tiredness dogged him, but he did not want to sleep.

Llrsyring had gone ahead to scout the tunnels, while the others recovered from the hours of marching through the heavy, unsupportive air of the caverns. The deathwalker had given no choice to their leader, though Taedoran had not objected.

His primary guard had just glared at the armour, as he left.

The disgust the man felt at the deathwalker, at Elle'dred, at him, was palpable - and it had been for days now. As had the quiet, simmering rage - the same rage that had dragged him to a blacksmith's.

Fear. He was still afraid.

He did not want to die.

As the time crept by, and Llrsyring had yet to return, Ayadra could not fight off the weight of fatigue. His eyes began to close, and he slipped into a doze.

He dreamt. The nightmare of hell-fire returned.

He burned.

"Fi...re" he muttered, so softly none of the others heard, "Fi...re...fi...re...near..."

Hell-fire laughed, as it reared in his nightmares - as it burnt his flesh. It whispered its promise to him - it laughed and crackled and roared - he had failed, he would continue to fail, he was evil. Hell-fire would burn.

- As it did, now, in the waking world.

"Fire!" - he screamed; his eyes opened wide in terror, as the warning escaped his lips.

But it was too late.

Before either of the knights, or the Champion of the Tribunal could draw their swords, or before the magus could muster a defence, they were each struck by the wave of impossible heat that swept across the cavern.

And despair.

Metal ground against stone, amidst the crackle of hell-fire, and the madness of laughter. The gnashing, clicking laughter.

The nether-touched, defined by armour black as ash, and malignly emphasised by the spilling flames of its inner, crimson immolation, stepped from the tunnel behind them. It advanced, aglow in its contained hell-fire, gripping its hilt-less shard of steel in a charcoal gauntlet of twisted plates.

Elle'dred drew his sword as did Taedoran behind him, but neither managed more than a step before both blade and they tumbled to the ground, reduced to recumbence by the inescapable hopelessness of infernal flame. Both men struggled to breathe.

Dus' eyes were set aglitter by the reflection of the infernal flames - he held out his hand, as he had before, to manipulate the ravening element -

He shrieked.

The magus collapsed beside Syla, clutching the remnant of his coiled limb - charred in an unnatural instant to blackness.

Ayadra screamed. Alike the magus who moaned and lost his grip on consciousness some feet away, his hand burnt. Underneath the skin.

The heat of the figure's infernal fire beckoned the soreness of his arm; his limb burnt unbearably - as though brands had slipped underneath to sear the naked flesh. Hell-fire's touch and memory was alive in his limb. Beyond the pain, he could feel the fire building, in the depths of his being. Once more, it sought to rise and meet the heat of the air - the evil, his evil, malevolent flames would tear out of his skin to freedom. And kill.

For a moment, overwhelmed by the pain, he did not want to fight.

If he surrendered, if he let the fire wrought its will, it would stop hurting; he would be free of the pain. It promised.

If he did not fight -

- The others would die. He had promised himself he would not hurt people - he had failed. He had to fight - he had no choice -

He bit his lip, until his sharp teeth sliced through the scales and he tasted the saltiness of blood. He had to fight -

The agony that had once broken him flared in his arm.

He screamed.

Hell-fire laughed.

- The nether-touched approached the helpless, supine form of Elle'dred. It raised its sword.

"No!" - the cry emerged half-stifled by the constriction of pain.

The immolating helm turned towards him; the slits for eyes that were not there, flared with red glee. The nether-touched turned, and strode towards him; laughing.

Panic.

Struggling against the anguish afflicting his arm, and the savage roar of hell-fire both outside and within, he scrambled away. He could barely force his legs to function; pain annulled his senses and his muscles objected with fatigue and soreness.

- His leg cramped, and he fell.

As his stiff thigh, quivering with strain, sent him sprawling, he instinctually caught himself with both hands - the first touch of the rock against his burned hand sent a stab of pain through him so great he nearly lost consciousness. White sparks screamed across his vision.

His hand, once burned by hell-fire, clenched beyond volition. He cradled the limb against his chest. Unable to move, unable to breathe.

The rasping steps of the burning suit of armour, half-lost in the crackle of its immolation, approached. It stood over him.

He stared up at it, through the receding haze of agony, helpless.

The burning suit of armour raised its shard of steel, ready to thrust down into his naked body. He was defenceless - as ever. No - he had power; if he unleashed the hell-fire again, he could stop the foe from killing him.

If he reached out and strangled it, like he had strangled the other - he had burned the other creature alive. Beneath fire, and madness and armour, it was a soul - the pure essence of a being. An evil being, yes, but that did not excuse what he had done. In those moments, when he had reached out and first felt the power of hell-fire, he had grasped it - as a lover grasps flesh - and then he had raped it.

He had violated the nether-touched with its own most intimate essence, and he had not stopped until it had died - until he had forced it to ravage itself into destruction. The only thing crueller would have been to let it live. And he had enjoyed it.

For a moment, he let down his guard; he couldn't fight anymore - he didn't deserve to fight - he didn't want to. The flames of the nether-touched blazed into a pillar of vermillion, smoke and ash, as the fire inside him swelled to meet it.

But shock barred the hell-fire from meeting his skin. A swirl of black mist solidified into the deathwalker beside the black armour and its flames.

In a single sweeping arc of his cloak and blades, Llrsyring severed the nether-touched's hands and helm. Both clattered to the ground beside the incarnate. The headless suit of armour fell around the sudden plume of sinister, raging orange that erupted from its hollowness.

It too, clattered to the floor, extinguished.

Hell-fire recoiled, receding into him as though with the finish of the figures fire his own could not be sustained. But as it faded, it left the emptiness behind. Defenceless, inexcusable, naked before his guilt.

Overwhelmed by a sickness he could not stomach, Ayadra uttered a dim cry. Pain constricted his throat, and turned the sound into a moan.

Llrsyring lowered beside him, sheathing his blades.

"Are you alright?" the helm asked.

He could not answer - he had no answer that was not a lie -

"The fire...Llrsyring, it came so close." he clutched his hand gingerly to his chest; the pain of burning lingered, "I can't fight it..." I don't want to.

"Then don't." the deathwalker whispered softly above him.
Chapter 25

_Only one of the Wyvern Kings saw the Immortal's doing. Syrkyn, sixth, rushed for the enemy. Armenblista raised high. He struck at the Immortal, but could not kill him. Though the power and swiftness of his blade were beyond knowing, the Immortal would not be felled. Twisting Syrkyn's hand, the Immortal drove Syrkyn's own blade deep into him. And Syrkyn fell to the ground._

* * *

Ormus stood in the grand auditorium; his departure from the magus keep had been postponed - officially. He had never intended to leave on that morning.

And with the untimely and reportedly 'suicidal' death of another High Magus, he was expected to be in attendance at her memorial.

He and Ragmurath had planned it well; his accomplice's hold over the Tribunal was absolute, the others had apparently not only sanctioned Helanath's death, but the method in which they had covered it up. In that Ormus had been pleased - and deeply concerned.

Ragmurath had more sway than he had realised; and the High Magus was clearly dangerous, clearly unstable. Once Ormus had completed his coup against Phio, Ragmurath could easily move against him; he could convict Ormus of treason, regardless of evidence. And Ormus had realised the only advantage he had over his accomplice was now dead.

Again, he realised he would have to lengthen his scheme; once he returned, he would have to placate Phio while he gathered incentive to keep his accomplice at bay. And Keylyn would be the avenue he used.

As he stood in the large, stone auditorium, waiting amongst the vast majority of the denizens of Grgadorn, Magus Keylyn approached him.

The boy had dressed in his auspicious and finest ebony robes; double-sleeved, and cowled with more heavily embroidered seams, and accompanied by a ceremonial azure sash draped across his chest - as all the magus in the auditorium wore.

Ormus too had donned his finest attire; he nodded to the magus as he moved beside him. They waited for the overlooking podium, at the furthest end of the Hall, to be filled. Keylyn was silent.

Two figures, bearing the adornments of High Magus, moved out across the raised stage; their downcast faces were obscured by their cowls as they stood to either side of the centre. They lifted their heads to view the crowd standing before them; one was Gerdanath, the other Sansurath.

"We have been called here today to bear acknowledgement of the passing of a High Magus." Gerdanath announced, "And recognise the contribution she made as a member of the Tribunal. High Magus Helanath was reputed for her fairness and leniency to the criminals that stood in her court; she was merciful, but never once allowed her temperance to interfere with her pursuit of justice." the High Magus paused, "She will be missed."

A mournful cheer rose united from the Lower Magus. A long silence followed.

Sansurath stepped forward, "The Tribunal is weak; it has suffered the loss of the Staff-Bearer, and now the loss of one of its members. There are three High Magus, where there should be five. We are not complete." he paused, "But we shall rise to strength again. Today we mourn our loss, but also will we celebrate our gain - a new Staff-Bearer has been chosen, and today we reveal the new leader of the Tribunal."

He stepped back, as a third magus stepped forward; bearing a majestic, intricate mantle fastened about his shoulders - and in his hand a simple ebony staff.

Ragmurath turned and stood between his fellow High Magus; he lifted his head to meet the mass gazes of the room. With his free hand he lowered his cowl to settle around his neck.

Sansurath declared, "Here stands the High Justice of the Courts of Ammandorn, the Leader of the Tribunal, the Leader of the Mage-born, Staff-Bearer Ragmurath."

A victorious cheer rose unified from every lower magus - except for Keylyn.

Ragmurath held up his hands for quiet, "Thank you. I assume my title with gladness and sorrow. Although I did not know her well, Helanath was an unyielding servant of the law; she stood for its supremacy and its importance over all else. The Law, however, has failed in recent years; crimes have been overlooked, offences have gone unpunished, we have forgotten our obligation to Ammandorn and its people - but now that changes. I will see the Law restored to its place of supremacy. This I vow to you all as your Staff-Bearer."

Another victorious cheer rose around the silent magus and Elder Archivist. Applause erupted and filled the room for some long moments; the Tribunal left the podium.

As the other lower magus began to file out, Keylyn stood affixed to his position; he moved his cowl away from his face - only anger lit his dark eyes and pale skin.

The young magus whispered to the Elder Archivist; his words were barely audible under the drumming of the crowd's feet, "You'd best leave soon."

Ormus nodded, and answered, "Investigate, find anything you can to hurt that bastard. I will send word when I have safely returned to Delphanas."

Keylyn did not nod, the magus only stared at the centre of the empty podium.

Ormus was concerned, "Keylyn, do nothing foolish. I promise you we will deal with Ragmurath. But we must remain secret for now."

Keylyn glared at him - fury blazed in his eyes, but he gave a slight nod.

Ormus turned with him and moved out of the auditorium as the tide of people reached its end.

* * *

Syla moved out of the last cavern. The enclosing rock, which had defined their course for days, had finally ended - at the edge of a narrow precipice surrounded by the empty sky and cloud. She had listened to the distant sounds of the wind for hours; the mournful promise of open air and freedom from the caves. But the long, shrieking whistle of air tearing through high, thin rocks had not prepared her for this.

For the drop.

The view that began at the unsubtle edge of the precipice stretched across the sky from horizon to horizon. All it was; a sea of drifting, hoary mist, whose ghostly flow was broken solely by the petrified waves of the peaks - prolific, sharp and serrated - which filled the horizon. Tips of a thousand daggers that stretched far below, slicing perpetually through the dying eddies of the mist above.

Beneath the precipice under her feet was a drop that darkened into shadow, before it met the sea of fog. Everything that could be seen was bleak; the fading memory of brown, marred white or grey. There was no visible life in the land around them.

They had crossed into the Wastes of Agdor.

The lands they as a people and society had forced and imprisoned the goblins in for centuries. These deadly, barren wastes.

For a moment, her heart skipped a beat; the sheer fall of the cliff seemed so infinite, so inevitable. Trepidation and stark terror manifested, and it took all her will to stop a resurgent trembling - but that was no different to her recent days. The wind, ever so slight, and sharp with cold, fluttered the folds of her robe and pulled gently at her to slip and fall to a death hundreds of feet below.

The wind seemed now to whisper a soft malevolence, hidden under its once distant grief.

Fear; it was not something she was accustomed to - in her home, in the safety of her home, there had been nothing to fear. Amidst the expanse of a library, or at the head of a classroom she had nothing to fear; she hated this - the uncertainty, the doubt, the fear.

And she had no choice other than to feel it; she could not escape it - like the drop.

Since the incarnate had healed Elle'dred she had been beset by a confliction she had no way of resolving.

She did not understand what was happening, or the world or the people - or the things around her. The incarnate was more than he had seemed, more than she had thought she knew. And it terrified her; fear had dragged her will away from her promise to herself.

Once more, overwhelmingly, she found herself unequal to the task she had set herself. Her 'decision'.

It surpassed her; and that terrified her.

Stubbornness enforced a strength, a commitment - but her trust had been broken by the truth. Llrsyring had lied to them, lied to her - and the choice of whether he still deserved her trust had fallen on shoulders already strained with uncertainty. She had not decided; he was a deathwalker - a criminal - he had saved her life. He told the truth about the crimes of the magus. About her society.

He had betrayed them, and Ayadra. Though admittedly, that did not surprise her.

What had - and what had instilled a fear too personal for her to combat - was the fire. That fire. Ayadra's. The nether-touched's.

She did not understand the nether-touched; no tome of magic, nor ancient volume in the entirety of Grgadorn alluded to the idea that beings of another world could touch or walk in this one. The seven nethers were a myth, a story one told to children. And they were entirely real.

Dus had tried to fight a nether-touched with the power of his blood, and he had lost a hand for his attempt. After the second attack, they had bound his ravaged limb, and Llrsyring had carried him from the chamber. For days he had not regained consciousness. He was still too weak to walk.

The deathwalker yet carried him.

The empty suit of armour she did not understand. And feared. And hated. And blamed.

Taedoran turned away from the precipice, and resumed pace. Almost without volition, Syla fell in behind him, the two knights behind her, and the incarnate, deathwalker and half-conscious magus born in his arms behind them.

After descending the intervallic tiers of a slope, their course traced the length of a ravine, gouged between the impassable greyness of the surrounding rock. Asides from the limitless echoes of their footsteps, the occasional skitter of loose shale, no other sound trespassed the landscape.

Even the wind was silent.

They were alone. She was alone.

She had been for too long.

As she made her way through the narrow passage of grey, beneath the hoary sky, her gaze shifted to scan the bleak emptiness around her. All that she could see was bare rock; ledges and crags devoid of life. Desolate, encompassing, grey.

She returned to the barren, precarious slope ahead.

Once again - as she had too many times in her life - she found herself abandoned by the people she had tried to trust. She was alone; because she had been abandoned. What the damnation of hell-fire had shown her was that - that what she feared would never, and could never be amended. The little girl who lay in her room almost two decades ago, alone and scared, had not changed into the woman that she had thought she was.

That little girl had lain in that room, alone and scared. And she always would.

All her stubbornness and will, and strength had been born to combat it, and now, alone, amidst these empty wastes, an unassailable distance from the society and people she no longer believed in, it had been revealed by hell-fire to have been a waste.

- That provoked her resentment - she was not solely to blame for her ineptitude. Some - nay, much of the blame began with her mother. With the woman who had been inept herself, and had let that ineptness ruin two decades of her daughter's life.

The grieving woman who had failed to help her scared little girl, and herself. Who had sent her daughter away to a school, which provided nothing but a way to hide.

Strength, stubbornness and study.

That woman deserved the blame, not her - she was just a scared little girl.

And she always would be.

She was just like her mother.

The day had faded, as Taedoran led them out of the defile and into the hollow of the looming rock-face ahead; only the dim glow of the southern sun coloured the southwest horizon beyond the countless peaks.

They moved into the large cavern - grey, as all the surrounding rock - a plethora of tunnels opened across the opposing wall, leading further into the north, while the sweeping, eastern wall had been eroded to a collection of holes, overlooking the all surrounding sea of pale cloud.

Their leader gestured for Syla to join him at the far end of the cavern. The disgust and disregard she had become accustomed to from the Champion confronted her - as it had for days.

The man hated her, of that she had no delusion.

Taedoran glanced at the tunnels, "One of these passageways leads into Agdor. Find it." the curt order was given with the edge of a glare.

She ignored it, this man could not daunt her - and he did not deserve her respect.

Calmly, she answered, "A guiding spell will take the night to cast. Maybe longer."

The Champion's eyes narrowed into a glare of contempt. You are inept, Syla could see the words on his tongue. She had lived those words for days -

Spite, if nothing else, formed and pronounced words that surprised her completely.

"I will ask Llrsyring for assistance."

His eyes froze, the deadliness flickered across his gaze for a brief second; he seemed ready to strike her - with or without his sword. His lips curled into what she knew would be an insisted repetition of his order - or an insult.

She had crossed a line, one she was glad she had.

"Do you want to know your course in a day," she snapped defensively, "Or are you content to wait longer?"

Contempt and hatred burned into her from his gaze - but after a moment and a sneer, he turned away.

Syla released a pent breath; already she regretted challenging their leader, but more so she regretted proposing she talk with Llrsyring. Both had betrayed her, abandoned her, and she was no more eager to confront the deathwalker than the bastard who murdered children.

She moved across the cavern, slowly.

Elle'dred and Hheirdane aided Dus to reach a comfortable position; the knights were inspecting his wound. She passed the incarnate. Alone, huddled under a blanket against the wall, their prisoner - their charge, shivered mercilessly. The stray thought passed, that Ayadra could create more than enough heat for himself. A fleeting shame accompanied the thought - followed by fear.

She hated him; more than she hated those that had abandoned her - and she hated that she did.

The deathwalker stood at the entrance of the cavern, staring out across the path they had traversed.

The pallid gloom of the clouds outside was already fading into the darkness of night; the grey rock of Agdor receding into interminable darkness.

The others were ordered to sleep.

Syla stopped beside the empty suit of armour.

"I suppose you know how to cast a guiding spell?" - she was unable to repress an edge of sarcasm.

The helm nodded.

She paused, it took more effort than she could admit to herself to restrain her emotions, "I need your assistance. I can't do it alone. I thought we would form a circle and cast together."

"I could do it myself." - there was a hint of disdain in his voice.

You are inept at magic. He had said so much as that to her directly.

"Taedoran would not trust you. He would order me to cast it again and you would have wasted a night."

The deathwalker did not respond.

In the growing darkness she met the empty sockets of the helm; after a pause, he nodded, and she cautiously retraced her steps to the wall of tunnels. Together, they sat before the myriad openings, lost in the gloom.

"Did you kill them?" - the question slipped out too quietly. But she knew Llrsyring had heard her.

"No." he answered, "Nether-touched cannot be killed so easily."

"Did Ayadra kill one?"

Llrsyring was silent for a moment, "Yes."

"That was hell-fire that burned on his arm? And in those nether-touched?"

"That is the weapon he is, Syla."

"I hope I never feel it again."

"Then you'd best turn back now." Llrsyring stated, sharply.

She paused, "You know I can't."

Llrsyring sighed, "Ayadra is not evil, Syla. But the weapon that is his flesh must come into existence; the hell-fire must be freed. And it will, regardless of how strong he is."

"Then why did you come here? Why be his friend?"

"For selfish reasons," the helm muttered, "I had hoped with a friend he would last longer. Until we reached Eryndor."

"He will destroy Ammandorn if we don't." - it was not a question.

Llrsyring did not reply.

"Why did you cast that spell on Ayadra?" - the question slipped out too quietly. And not enough of her resentment accompanied the words.

"He needed to be free."

The answer was unsatisfactory, and he owed her more than this.

"Do you know what you did to him - what Taedoran did to him after?"

"Yes."

"And you could not have done it another way?"

A long silence fell between them.

"Perhaps I am not so perfect in magic, as you believe me to be," the deathwalker's voice was disturbingly naked, as though for once, both he and she were speaking as equals - that her blood did not matter; it shocked her into speechlessness, "Perhaps age imparts only so much wisdom, and what little we have is clouded by bitterness."

"Why did you lie to us?"

"Would you have trusted me if I had not?"

Trust. You needed trust? Something you could break, and leave us all alone and abandoned, despite all we have done? Loathing was not strong enough a word to her, for what she felt against this suit of armour; this being of another world, and as alien.

She had trusted him.

He had broken her trust.

"Why did you save my life?" - the words hung in the emptiness of the cavern's air. She had not meant to speak them, and all they left in their wake was the emptiness of hell-fire.

The despair she had been living with for days.

Llrsyring did not answer.

She sighed, and regained herself - she had not broken down through days of confliction, resentment and despair; she was damned if she would break now.

"The spell." she said, quietly.

* * *

The trip to Delphanas had been uneventful; the Elder Archivist had used the time to carefully consider each detail of his plan. The concerns and doubts had been assuaged, and Ormus was certain he had prepared for any contingency. He was confident he could handle Ragmurath and Phio simultaneously.

The coach had arrived, and he had disembarked for his quarters. He had wanted to bathe and change his travel worn clothes before he met with his fellow resistance members.

However, as he stepped out onto the sprawling level filled with shelves, he was caught by the sight of a squad of magus bloodhounds that marched through the ranks of bookshelves some distance from him.

Their reflective, featureless masks were not as unsettling as they once had been, but the smell of the incense that burned from their staves drifted chokingly to his nose and a corresponding moment of sickness churned his stomach.

He considered proceeding to his quarters, but asides from the cautioning thought that he may encounter another squad of magus, he was now curious as to why the bloodhounds were stalking the upper levels.

He turned towards Phio's study; and after another brisk walk he arrived at the gardened atrium that led to the room. As Ormus reached the arch of the doorway, he immediately observed the presence of the High Inquisitor.

Phio stood behind his desk, on the far side of the room, holding a tense conversation with the man. The High Inquisitor laughed warmly, and turned to see the Elder Archivist standing in the corridor.

"Ah," he exclaimed, beaming, "Elder Archivist Ormus, please come in."

Ormus moved into the room; Phio threw an apprehensive glance towards him before masking any feelings under a cold expression.

The incense pervaded the room, and Ormus immediately felt beads of sweat leaking out onto his brow.

The High Inquisitor maintained his welcoming grin - under his sharp, cunning eyes, "I was just informing Phio of the progress we have made in apprehending Hadrath's killer."

"Progress?" Ormus asked, impassively.

High Inquisitor Ansara chuckled, though there was little joviality in his voice, "We have had no success in tracking him down. But we are confident we have a lead on where he is sheltering."

"That is not progress." Ormus quipped.

The smile that folded the roundness of Ansara's face did not fade - but his eyes glittered malignly, "Any lead is progress."

"Is there anything else?" Phio asked, regaining the magus attention.

"No." Ansara answered, to the Elder Archivist behind the desk.

"Then if you would," Phio replied, steadily, "I have some business I must conduct with Ormus."

The High Inquisitor bowed, ruffling his ornate vermillion robes into acquiescence with the fat-folds of his belly, retrieved his staff and, in an elegant flourish that seemed beyond him, swept out of the room past the Elder Archivist. Ormus was nauseated by the incense, as the censer whisked past his nose.

He breathed for a moment, to recover himself, before moving further into the study.

Both men waited for a long while to be certain the High Inquisitor had left any range of hearing.

Phio broke the pause, muttering, "The laws of necromancy are not the only ones that should be revised."

"A High Magus is dead." Ormus announced, flatly.

"I heard." Phio answered; his voice was steady, but Ormus knew the Elder Archivist covered less convicted feelings, "You were not caught."

"Evidently."

"Then we are safe for a time." Phio stated, with a feigned certainty; he sighed, "I have talked it over with Lyrien and Faldorn; they both agree we need to start expanding into the Assembly."

"Is that wise?" Ormus enquired.

"It is necessary," Phio said, meeting his eyes; this time the resolve was clear, "And I have decided who our next member must be." he paused, and sat in the chair behind him, "Rethan has been...outraged would not be strong enough a word for it, at the magus' investigation. I have been talking to him," Ormus raised a questioning brow, "- not about the resistance. But I have realised we cannot complete our plan without the full support of the Triumvirate."

Ormus sighed, "Do you think you can trust him?"

"I know I can." Phio answered, unwaveringly.

"After the problems we faced with Keron, it is not advisable to permit more liabilities into our group."

"I have trusted Rethan for many years -" Phio tried to argue.

Ormus countered, "And Faldorn loved Keron. No doubt your aide could say he was certain of his loyalty as well."

Phio stared, pleadingly, "We cannot do this alone Ormus."

The Elder Archivist let out a defeated sigh, "Very Well." Ormus moved over to the couch and sat.

"I know Rethan can be trusted; he already hates the magus, and as you have pointed out he is something of my lapdog."

Ormus did not laugh at the jibe, he remarked, "We must be careful. The magus bloodhounds are far more suspicious of us than I would like."

"Then I am glad you are back to help us avoid them."

Ormus met the Elder Archivist's gaze; the suspicion and doubt were vacant, and there was a trust in their place - a genuine, plain trust. As he had planned.

* * *

Ayadra marched. As ever, he had not spoken in days. Once, he had had no choice; fear of his guards had dictated that sound was an offence, and offence led to punishment.

Sound was still an offence, and it still led to punishment.

Only now he offended himself, and his punishment was guilt.

In silence, marching, hungry, cold, exhausted, he could ignore it - it remained, in the back of his mind; the shame, the remorse, the thoughts, the voice of hell-fire taunting him; he could ignore it.

They were days into the wastes; the tunnels extended further and further into the jagged rocks, descending slowly towards the less perilous chasms that resided beneath the mist. The air was always freezing, the wind always blowing - the ephemeral shrieks, close-by, amongst the incessant distant howl were the only things that broke the utter deadness of the rocks. By day, everything was grey, and black by night.

The two magus and his primary guard led, at the front, while Elle'dred and Hheirdane assumed the rear of the file. Llrsyring, as ever, marched beside him; the deathwalker had not tried to speak with him for some time. For that he was grateful, it made things easier.

As they marched, Ayadra listened to the soft howl of the wind.

Darkness fell sooner in the wastes; the southern sun dipped behind the distant peaks of the Riven Mountains in the southwest, and its lingering light was dampened by the pervading crags and the grey of the endless mist.

As night approached, they moved into a slender gorge between two overshadowing spikes of stone; the mist had crawled over the high edges surrounding them and seeped slowly down into the barren crevice. The path that led out ended at a steep cliff they would have to descend in the morning. As he shivered, Ayadra hoped that the mist would have departed by then.

He could not suppress the chattering of his teeth; he was grateful for the cold. It eased the aching of his arm.

The weight of Llrsyring's cloak fell over the enwrapping blanket, and granted its further warmth.

"If you were cold, you should have said something." the deathwalker prodded lightly.

Ayadra met the emptiness of his sockets for a moment.

He wanted to speak -

He looked away. The hell-fire whispered in the depths of his mind, while the pain of his arm chained him to hearing it. All the words that damned him; the truth.

He closed his eyes; he was so tired. He wanted to sleep.

But he would dream, and he would be defenceless.

He had promised himself he would not kill another being the way he had killed the nether-touched. He would not use hell-fire again. He would fight, even if he had no hope of winning - even if he did not want to. He had to -

He would fail. He was evil.

Slowly, inadvertently, he slipped into slumber.

Ayadra dreamt.

He burned.

* * *

Rethan left the Assembly Hall, bade goodnight to Phio, and marched wearily back to his quarters. The gruelling hours of the day were occupied by the deliberations over instituting a new conscription program - their armies were losing far more soldiers in the Valley of Ythordor than they could sustain.

Rethan had begun to doubt the bottleneck tactic was having the effect they desired. Phio had been adamant that it was the only way to win the war, but Rethan had been inundated by too many reports that evidenced against a victory.

The goblins had spilled out onto the plains of Thgad far before they were ready, and while the Assembly had moved their forces to counter the entrance of the enemy, there had been a large number of foes that remained behind the line of defence.

Skirmishing war bands rampaged across the plains - but thankfully, due to a still unexplained event, much of their force had been wiped out not far from the Keep of Catesus. However, the majority of the remaining goblins had doubled back into the valley, trapping the Archivists' armies and forcing them to fight on two fronts.

The Magus Army had been ordered to join the battle in the valley - trap and destroy the goblins that had trapped them, and bring much needed reinforcements.

But in an incomprehensible, reason-defying decree, the Tribunal had recalled their army. Rethan had been outraged - and incensed further by the mounting time the Assembly had to spend to overrule the order. The new Staff-bearer had been opposing them at every turn.

Add to the fact, that the fat High Inquisitor had been parading about Delphanas as though it was his home - had pushed Rethan to his limit.

As he entered his quarters he was greeted by an unanticipated - and entirely resented presence.

Elder Archivist Ormus sat facing the door.

"Ormus," he said, exasperatedly, "What in the hells are you doing here?"

Ormus stood, and announced in his annoyingly impassive voice, "I must speak with you Rethan."

"It's not like you to be cryptic." Rethan jeered, and added with vehement contempt, "Spit out whatever it is and then get your tiresome face out of mine."

Ormus was not fazed. As Rethan shut the door and moved to lounge on the lavish sofa, Ormus responded, "It is about Phio."

Rethan narrowed his eyes in contempt, over his thick brown beard that shifted around a frown, "If whatever it was wasn't important enough for Phio to tell me himself, then I do not want to hear it." Rethan rose, again, the exertion straining his tired body; he moved back to the door, "Get out."

"Phio is a traitor." Ormus announced bluntly; Rethan's angered features faded into shock, "Phio intends to depose the magus; he intends to remove the Tribunal and do away with their laws."

Rethan stared blankly at the Elder Archivist.

Ormus paused, and stated, "He had Staff-Bearer Hadrath and High Magus Helanath killed to weaken the Tribunal...and he even murdered a young lower archivist who discovered him." the Elder Archivist paused, emphatically, and sighed, "He plans to gather the assistance of the Assembly and use our armies against the magus. Phio requires you, Rethan - he will need the support of the Triumvirate; I have pretended to join him. He intends to use you to help him commit treason." Ormus paused momentarily, "I came to warn you, and to ask for your help."

The long speech was uninterrupted by the other Elder Archivist; Ormus waited for the astonishment to dissipate from Rethan's face.

The shock did slowly disappear; it faded to a moment of ire and then melted into a hysterical laugh - a laugh that was entirely motivated by amused disbelief.

Rethan laughed until it hurt to laugh; Ormus stood, impassively watching as he laughed and wheezed for breath - only to laugh and chuckle even longer.

Rethan breathed to steady himself, and ordered in a light and cheery voice, "Get out Ormus."

Rethan continued to chuckle to himself as Ormus left. Ormus was not the type for drink, but Rethan could think of few other intoxicants the Elder Archivist could have taken to force him into such a crazed delirium. Rethan had wondered how the others were handling the added stress of the war, and it seemed clear, while Phio was becoming more and more withdrawn, Ormus was downing as much alcohol as the stocks of the city could hold. Rethan chuckled at the idea; he had not laughed that hard in years.

He moved back to the sofa; somnolence fast coming to the still fatigued and frustrated, if now heavily amused, Elder Archivist.
Chapter 26

_The Immortal stood over the Lake of All Things. He raised his hand and called to him all the flame of the Andarae he still possessed, and he struck the lake. The perfect water, beautiful and still, always reflecting the light of the Three Heavens was shattered. And when the surface stilled again, three new evils were born. Hollow mockeries of the Three Heavens. Their reflections were twisted and changed by the malice of the Immortal. At once, the water fell away. A pit now formed with the three evils at its base. Fire, madness and wanting of all things, the three faces of the Immortal. The Three Hells._

* * *

Alarm.

- He had heard it. The rattling of stone. The skittering tumble of loosened shale.

Everyone had heard it. His guards had drawn bows, and nocked arrows to the strings.

They waited.

Their course down through the mist had abruptly turned back skywards; and, after a day's arduous climb they had regained the harbour of high cliffs, exposed tunnels and caves overlooking the unending, grey sea of cloud.

Midday lingered overhead, as they had ventured out onto a precipice enshrouded by overhanging rock. The ledge extended widely before and beside them; a pervading platform of empty, flat stone. There was precious little cover. The soft wail of the wind echoed across the crag beneath them.

Ayadra waited.

Since entering Agdor, they had seen scarce a sign of their enemies, of goblins or incarnates.

- Fear. Shock. Alarm.

The sporadic shriek of the wind from above, muffled by the overhang had him jump. His heart quickened for a moment.

Long, slow minutes passed - another shriek, but no other sounds. Save his nervous breathing.

Their leader gestured silently for them to resume a cautious pace; they crawled further out onto the expanse of the cliff. Eight paces. Once more, dim echoes skittered across the rocks, like the cry of a gust shattered into ephemeral shards of sound - and a trickle of falling debris, which fell from the overhang beside them, and crunched softly on the lip of the cliff.

Llrsyring drew both of his blades.

They waited - for more sounds, or for the enemy to come roaring and screaming across the precipice towards them. The rattling again - a louder clatter of stone.

From the overhang - behind.

The slap of flesh against stone broke the howl of the wind, as the skull-like visages of goblins leapt down from the overhang, onto the ledge both in front and behind.

They were surrounded.

The goblins did not pause; from their drop, they leapt into a barefoot charge - they flew across the stones. Their sallow, leathery feet moulded and gripped the precarious and jagged rocks with a terrifying deftness and flawless balance. The goblins' battle cries chorused with the wail of the wind.

Elle'dred dropped his bow and advanced two steps; his last, sidestepping the vicious thrust of the head foe's dagger aimed at his chest. In a fluid continuance of the motion, the knight drew his sword out across the committed enemy's chest, felling the goblin in a spray of red.

Hheirdane loosed his arrow; the shaft found its mark in the throat of the second goblin that approached Elle'dred's unprotected flank. The Sword-Bearer abandoned the weapon and drew his sword.

Syla hurled the argent glare of a rune into a charging foe, and swept her outstretched hand into a flourish. Beneath the foot of another goblin, the rock of the precipice cracked, and opened into a sudden gouge; the creature's limb sunk, caught the lip of the depression and sent it sprawling.

Taedoran met the charge ahead of them, leaving the injured magus to fend for himself.

The Champion hacked. Swift. Brutal. Deadly. He cleaved free the head of a foe.

Five goblins advanced on him.

Llrsyring appeared in a solidifying swirl of mist, amid the enemies' charge. His cloak flared, as Ishtavra and Athyndyrra circled about him, flowed into a spin, and carried him a step back into the full extension of a finish. Both blades glistened wet with blood, as the five goblins dropped, flanks, faces and limbs cleaved mortally.

Ayadra huddled, at the centre of the battle; watching his guards and his friends fighting to survive. As ever, he was powerless - he could not help them.

The only power he had was evil.

He could feel the fire; the damning, terrible flames blazed deep inside. They sought release.

The reminiscence of brands and fire stung his flesh; now, amidst his alarm and desperation, the flames of his nightmare did not need a nether-touched's immolation to rear against his skin.

You are evil. You will fail.

Hell-fire promised the truth with tongues of malevolent orange. It would burn, and it would ravage him, his guards, those he loved, the world each in turn. The truth.

His arm burned with the promise of hell-fire.

He fought it. He had to -

He had promised himself -

It hurt; his fist clenched against volition, and the quivers of pain shook his obsidian scales. The heat of unseen brands neared his naked flesh, beneath his skin. Hell-fire crackled in the depths of his mind. It laughed.

You will fail.

- Crack.

Two cloven feet landed on the rock-floor beside him.

Above its bovine countenance, an Incarnate readied its weapon for a downward blow.

Freeing a yelp, Ayadra leapt aside - the immense club struck the rock and split the stone where he had been. His leap, unplanned and ill executed, had him tumble into a sprawl - his arm screamed from stimulated agony. Instinctually, driven by panic and adrenalin, he scrambled away.

But the preternatural strength of his pursuer lifted its club again and brought it down with impossible swiftness and force. Again, rock split, coated now in red - the club caught and crushed the tip of his tail.

Ayadra screamed.

A reflexive spasm annulled the mobility of his legs, and instinct compelled him to reach back and drag his injured extremity away from his attacker.

- The bovine-incarnate towered over him; it had raised its weapon, ready to bring it down onto the black-scaled body below.

Ayadra met the malevolent bestiality of its eyes, above; it would swing, and he would be splayed across the rock beneath. In a moment.

He was going to die -

Futile instinct raised his arms protectively between the oncoming blow and his vulnerable, naked body.

Hell-fire roared.

In a moment of hopelessness, his guard slipped - and the fire seized its chance.

Hell-fire, untrammelled by guilt and shame and regret, tore free into the air - tore free of Ayadra's skin. For a moment, there was pain - the white agony of brands, but it cleared into the ravenous exultation of orange and crimson. His limbs erupted before him into a plume of damning fire - waves of hell-flame seethed, crackled and swept up across his forearms and hands, effacing the obsidian scales beneath. Free of pain - but not despair.

Birthed from the sudden blaze between him and the incarnate, a searing, clawing wave of heat and hopelessness tore out across the cliff. Energy was burnt from muscles; joy and passion and hope were consumed in the ravenous hole of emptiness.

Of hell-fire.

The goblins were struck by it - the soldiers and the magus were struck by it. All froze, transfixed by the impossible heat of the fire - his fire.

The incarnate was forced back a step - away from Ayadra -

Its eyes, like his, caught the savage glow of the flames upon his hands - and were not halted.

It tightened its grip on its club and stepped forward once again. Raising its weapon for a downward deathblow.

Through a veil of hell-fire, as fluid and beautiful as flame could be, Ayadra saw the incarnate ready its weapon.

- He did not want to die.

A moment of desperation was ravaged by hell-fire.

The tongues of rising fire that coursed across his limbs clawed forwards in a sudden burst of flame. The air between him and the incarnate was consumed by fire - and the flames smashed against its body, bathing its shape in crimson.

Only for a moment.

Hell-fire caught its body alight; the flames raced across its skin and fur. But where normal flame would have consumed it flesh, charring it black, and dragging it to the ground - Ayadra's fire did not.

A second passed, and was followed by another, and another, and the flames blazed and burned - but their fuel was not consumed. The incarnate burned - and burned, but did not die. The hell-fire crackled and grew, racing and flaring across the creature's body, licking onto its bovine features and engulfing its head in flames.

It tried to growl or roar a scream, but pain choked the sounds.

It clawed at its ablaze skin - tearing melted shreds away with its fingers. It gurgled and flailed and thrashed - and the flames burned higher. They crackled and roared. Hell-fire laughed.

Upon Ayadra's arms, the rising waves of flare continued to burn and lit his eyes with orange malevolence. Hell-fire, gleeful, rapacious and furious, glistened across the abyssal emptiness of his gaze - on his arms, on his victim - as he watched.

His victim burned, and burned, and burned. It could not die. It could not scream.

And all he could do was watch.

As the infernal flames ravaged flesh before him, so too did they consume hope within. Despair - his despair, crushed those on the cliff, the unnatural heat of his fire seared and scorched, and the new stench of burning flesh bathed the rocks.

The incarnate stumbled back, trying to smother the flames of its face with burning limbs. It collided with a motionless goblin - and hell-fire leapt gleefully onto the armour and sallow skin of the creature.

The goblin shrieked - despair had stolen the will to escape, and now the flames visited their malefic heat into its flesh. The same horrific torture began, again. And Ayadra watched. The incarnate lumbered through its flames away from the goblin - and as the hell-fire on its body burned with new fervour, it bellowed its last cry and hurled itself off the edge of the precipice.

It tumbled into the clouds below. Still screaming, still aflame.

Ayadra watched.

Hell-fire roared.

Flames licked down onto his arms - its promise crackled madly amidst the infernal heat that would kill the others.

He was evil. He had failed. He would continue to fail.

No.

- Ayadra screamed.

Hell-fire, once again, turned its full malevolence upon him. The flames burned their full pain into his arms - as they burned the goblin, yet writhing aflame on the ledge before him.

Hell-fire roared. It would be free.

No.

Ayadra screamed - and fought.

Hell-fire cackled, it seethed - and fled. The flames of his limbs blazed upwards; in a sweeping, crackling wave the infernal fire fled and faded across his arms and hands and fingers. It left only pristine scales behind.

And guilt.

The heat of hell-fire abated, the despair receded, and the flames upon the goblin sputtered out. It was allowed to die, leaving a charred corpse and its stench behind.

Silence fell across the precipice.

The remaining goblins did not move; all stood as motionless as the stone around them, their armour and skin the pallor of the rocks and mist. They all stared at the black, scaled incarnate - as he stared into the rocks.

Ayadra did not watch, did not see or hear, as Llrsyring and the soldiers each dispatched the last enemies from the cliff. Without pity or mercy or exception, those with blades cleaved and hacked into goblin flesh.

And they were not resisted. No goblin raised a defence, as each was reduced to a corpse, splayed unmoving across the rocks. All they did was stare at the incarnate.

At him. At the thing he was.

You have failed. You will continue to fail.

The truth.

All he could do was stare at his hands, at the pristine obsidian.

There was no pain.

- Agony flared in his side.

As the wind was driven from his chest, he uttered an airy groan. The force that had dealt the blow sent him sprawling; his face was driven into the rocks.

Above him, Taedoran snarled.

A plated hand grabbed his throat, the man's thumb pressed into his windpipe. The Champion's other gauntlet raised and fell across his face; white light and ringing effaced the sickening crack the metal made as it impacted the bone mask.

The blow sent him back to the rock, amidst waves of nausea and faintness.

Pain erupted again in his chest - as the man's boot ground into his ribs. Something cracked, and the dull force of the impact transmuted into serrated shards of agony.

He half-cried, but the yelp was choked by blood.

He did not resist. He did not want to -

The sound of grinding metal against stone rasped scarce an inch from his face.

Llrsyring stood above him.

The deathwalker lifted the Champion off his feet and hurled him across the cliff. Taedoran thudded into the far wall, and slumped to the ground. The man snarled, inhaled and dragged himself erect, in an instant, his eyes aglitter with an abhorrence that overwhelmed expression.

"Touch him again and I will kill you!" the helm ground out.

Taedoran strode ahead three paces to retrieve his sword. He pointed the tip at Llrsyring.

Their leader glared for a moment, but a twitch of his left eye had him seethe through clenched teeth and re-sheathe his blade.

"We move!" he rasped, louder than any deemed safe.

The others moved to retrieve their packs; the Tribunal's Champion shouldered into his White Wolf counterpart, shooting a glare - his eyes dared the knight to react.

Elle'dred simply sighed and looked away.

As he grasped the straps of his pack, he could not help a glance at the incarnate.

Ayadra was his friend -

But that fire was evil. And Ayadra was the weapon of the Immortal.

The sights and screams of the incarnate and goblin had already vanished from his memory; no part of him wanted to remember that. But the smell, even now, remained.

Ayadra was responsible for it.

The incarnate was his friend. Their prisoner deserved better.

He had to tell himself it.

Llrsyring knelt down beside the obsidian creature; Ayadra coughed and shuddered - spittle coloured red, he sobbed or breathed. Elle'dred could see the trickle of blood that seeped from his mouth and onto the rocks beneath. His eyes clenched with every breath.

Still -

"Ayadra, are you -" Llrsyring began.

Ayadra groaned - a wild swing warned the armour off.

Tears fell from the incarnate's eyes.

Ayadra raised himself up on an arm - but his limb buckled, he could not stifle a yelp, and he collapsed back to the ground.

Llrsyring did not ask the incarnate again; the deathwalker moved his gauntlets under Ayadra's neck and waist and lifted him up into a cradle.

Ayadra moaned, but his protest was lost amidst the robes of the armour's chest - amidst the compassion he did not want.

The empty helm turned its sockets to the knight, "Elle'dred, his tail."

Ayadra deserved better.

Though a moment of hesitation restrained him, Elle'dred moved to the armour's side and scooped up the length of the incarnate's dangling tail and hung it over Llrsyring's shoulder. The tip had been restored to wholeness - unnaturally, by a power he did not want to understand.

Fear and loathing swelled for a moment -

Ayadra deserved better.

The incarnate's breaths were laboured by blood - and tears.

There was nothing Elle'dred could do.

Ayadra moaned slightly, as Llrsyring assumed pace with the knight at his side. The others had already moved ahead, and the deathwalker quickened their pace to close the gap.

Elle'dred half-jogged alongside an empty suit of armour, and the weapon of the Immortal.

They were both his friends; despite betrayal or hell-fire, he cared about the incarnate as much as he cared about Hheirdane. And Agdor would likely kill them all, save for Llrsyring.

There was nothing he could do to amend that. It was all too much to understand, let alone change.

He had to tell himself that.

* * *

Keylyn had watched for days. Ormus had sent word to him - the Elder Archivist had advised him to remain quiet, hidden. But he could not stomach that for another second.

That bastard - the murderer, had to die.

And Keylyn would kill him. Keylyn had thought it over - Ormus' plan would still succeed; if anything, the death of Ragmurath would aid the Elder Archivist. Keylyn would die - he knew, but he did not care. At the very least it would remove pressure from Ormus, if not distract the Tribunal to the Elder Archivist's movements entirely; Ragmurath's death, and his, would serve all their goals.

Keylyn's mind was clear; he was not driven by blind fury - but a determined rage. He knew what he must do, what factors he had to plan for, what spells to cast.

The wait had been longer than he had wanted, but shorter than most of him had expected. He had requested an audience with the new Staff-Bearer.

Keylyn rose and opened the door - after a heavy knock sounded and announced the presence of his escort; the High Captain's sharp eyes met his from the small holes in the reflective features of her mask.

"Magus Keylyn," she said, flatly, "The Staff-Bearer is prepared for your attendance."

Keylyn nodded, and moved out into the corridor. She held both pace and her position behind him. The grinding sound of her boots against the stone was accompanied by another set of plated feet - from the vermillion guard that fell in behind Keylyn's other shoulder. The butts of their glaives struck the stone in perfect time with their march.

They waded through the dim shadows that fled from the pale glare of their runes - the High Captain had raised no objection when Keylyn had materialised his, and he gathered some confidence his intentions had not been suspected. The long slow minutes of traversing the hallways of the keep passed without a word; they moved into the stair-room, and wound their way to the highest level of Grgadorn.

They arrived at the Staff-Bearer's study, and the heavily locked metal door that stood between Keylyn and the murderer. Anticipation flared inside the lower magus, alongside his racing heartbeat.

He breathed to steady himself, disguising the motion as an impertinent sigh.

The High Captain did not reprimand him, and moved to meticulously select each key for the locks. After some minutes, which exacerbated Keylyn's impatience, she shoved the door open and directed him into the study.

Keylyn stepped into the familiar room - the High Captain followed.

The door was dragged shut by the guards outside. Keylyn examined the room - a fire burned hot and bright in the hearth, and cast the room in orange glow. There was stone all-around, underneath the heavy rug, in the bookshelves of the wall. A large wooden desk was placed at the far side of the room - that the new Staff-Bearer stood behind. Keylyn knew all the elements available to him, but he was set on his plan.

The High Captain moved to a sidewall and stood; her sharp eyes watched Keylyn from the glow of the fire reflecting off her mask - while her hand tightened surreptitiously on the glaive at her side.

Ragmurath glared disdainfully at the lower magus before him.

"Lower Magus Keylyn," he said, sounding almost displeased, "The Staff-Bearer will hear you."

Keylyn remained silent for a brief moment - the instant of doubt and reconsideration of his plan passed. There were elements throughout the room, but Keylyn knew they would not be quick enough.

Keylyn's had always favoured the deep magics; before his parents' death he had excelled in his class, and after, when he had not cared anymore about magic or study, Hadrath had tutored him specially in their use. Hadrath had always chided him that he could do better in his other classes if he applied himself as he once did, and as he did for his mentor - but Hadrath had still been proud. He had understood. He cared.

"I have come to speak with you about Hadrath." Keylyn said, calmly, though the anger and grief flared to new brightness.

Ragmurath raised an inquisitive eyebrow over narrowing eyes.

Keylyn remained silent for a moment - the High Captain watched him from behind.

"There is something that he would want told to his successor." the lower magus said with particular emphasis on the last word; the pain had reached Keylyn's eyes, and tears desperately wanted to form.

Ragmurath's eyes narrowed - an obvious suspicion burned in the slits.

Keylyn knew the deep magics could kill - with a word or a gesture, a magus could cast a spell that slew their victim instantly. But there was a backlash, a payment for the magic. The magus died - Keylyn would die, and he did not care; Ragmurath would die with him.

He swallowed, "You killed him!"

Keylyn felt the magic lance across the room, invisible, deadly, shattering the air. The magics wrought death, simple and sudden - and their strangling grasp sliced into him from all sides; cold hands of the force he summoned tore at his flesh and darkened his vision - but for a moment only.

Ragmurath waved his arm and shouted - the word was incomprehensible, but although the Staff-Bearer staggered back a step, he was still quite alive.

Shock gripped Keylyn - and the aftermath of his spell slammed pain into his chest; for one second it felt as though his heart had ruptured and flooded his lungs. He gasped and sputtered blood.

But the pain was momentary; he recovered to see the High Captain bounding across the room, and readying her glaive for a sudden and lethal strike. Keylyn wrenched his body into purpose - he materialised a pale, glaring rune and sent it flying at the High Captain; she was struck square in the chest, and tumbled in a clatter of armour and glaive at his feet.

Keylyn had only a moment's breath before he was struck by the next onslaught.

Three runes flew towards him. He swung his arm and intercepted one; the illuminating crystal shattered across his hand, its fragments scattered into the air and faded into nothingness.

But two runes struck him; one in his chest and one across his shoulder. His cry was muffled by the snapping of bone. Keylyn gasped in pain; he was propelled backwards - into the wall. His head impacted hard against the stone, as pain flared across his back.

Somehow he landed in a half-stumble on his feet - his vision was blurred and agony stabbed through him in every limb and muscle, but the blinding light that filled his vision was obvious - he raised his arms to deflect the second barrage of runes.

He shattered the two that glared towards him, but the wild, jarring movement of his arms exacerbated the injuries in his chest. He grimaced, as a new haze obscured his sight.

Keylyn tried desperately to focus his will - but the new burst of pain that shot up from his leg stifled any power he had left inside. The High Captain had brought her glaive across the back of his thigh, and the blade had driven deep into his leg. Keylyn screamed, doubled over and fell to the floor - the blade was freed from his leg and released a spray of blood.

In an instant, the High Captain stood, pinned his chest and bared her blade at his neck.

"Hold!" Ragmurath shouted from across the room.

Keylyn shook violently, as he weakly grasped his leg to stem the quick flow of blood that ran from the wound. He whimpered and moaned, tears formed and fell - the pain of the wound and the broken bones was excruciating, and the exhaustion of magic heightened the agony. But it was the knowledge of failure that tore him up from the inside.

He had failed.

Ragmurath hobbled over to the quaking, crying body of the would-be assassin. The Staff-Bearer's breath laboured through a gruff throat, and he had to wipe a thick stream of blood from underneath his nose. The red smear marred his countenance, now twisted in disdain.

"Staff-Bearer, are you injured?" the High Captain questioned, dutifully.

Ragmurath glared at her, and then turned to the magus on the floor, "Take this bastard to the dungeons. Tend his wounds. We need to question him." The Staff-Bearer breathed a ragged breath, half from anger and half from exhaustion. He wiped the recurrent trickle of red from his nose and stumbled across the room as the High Captain lifted her blade from the lower magus neck.

Keylyn's vision was black, and numbness had begun to strangle his body before the butt of the glaive rushed down onto his head.

* * *

He had been in pain for hours. It hurt to breathe.

As Llrsyring mounted an unstable rise of piled shale, a misplaced step provoked a small cascade, and nearly forced the armour off balance - he compensated, but shifted the cradled incarnate inadvertently.

Ayadra moaned; his now bent chest flared with agony.

"I'm sorry," the helm muttered beside him, "I will tend your wound in a moment."

He nodded, slightly.

The deathwalker attained the top of the rise, and moved some feet into the higher portion of the valley. The others each had begun to prepare camp; the gloom of dusk already darkened the clouds above. The wind whipped through the recesses of the rocks, and howled despairingly; it brought a sadistic chill, reminiscent of winter.

Ayadra shivered. The aching of his injuries was further stimulated by the cold and the movement it engendered.

The deathwalker lowered him to the valley-floor, and took the blanket handed to him by the knight.

Ayadra shivered; he had been coughing blood for hours.

Llrsyring laid the blanket over his legs, and moved to probe his flank with a gauntlet - pain flared in response to the light pressure the metal fingers exerted.

Ayadra flinched reflexively, and stifled a groan.

"Your ribs are broken," the helm muttered.

Ayadra did not respond.

With a sigh that melded into the echo of his voice, the suit of armour laid a plated hand flat against his chest; Ayadra winced at the stimulus.

He wanted to protest, whatever Llrsyring was doing - he wanted to beg. There was too much he wanted to say, but he did not deserve to - he could not fathom his voice.

Llrsyring muttered something; the phrases, incomprehensible, faded into his characteristic echo.

Ayadra took a breath - there was no pain. A soft wave of relief washed over his muscles; for a moment, he could breathe, but the corresponding exhalation yet filled his mouth with the thick taste of copper. As Llrsyring withdrew his touch, he moved a taloned hand to test his side.

The deathwalker caught his limb, "Don't. The bones are still broken, and you are still bleeding. I have not healed you, but you will not die from your wounds."

No. Please no.

Ayadra closed his eyes in silence. He gripped the blanket and shifted it over his chest - the movement wracked him with a series of stabs. He winced; he bit his lip - he remained silent.

The deathwalker draped his cloak over his bare shoulders and sat beside him; a gust of wind prompted a violent shiver, followed by a spasm of injury, and a grimace. Llrsyring gingerly shifted him so he could rest against the rock, softened by robes. The armour shielded him from the force of the wind.

No. Please no.

He could not look at Llrsyring.

The truth echoed, whispered by the memory of the flames. His flames.

As indisputable as the suit of armour was beside him, so too was the truth -

He had failed. And he would continue to fail.

He was evil.

He wanted -

While he lay still, the pain was gone. There was no pain.

Slowly, sleep came upon him.

It brought no solace - in his dreams, as they had in life - the fires burned. And there were screams.

He woke to the faint glow of day. The nightmares stayed with him, even in waking. He did not fight them; he could not fight them. He deserved - hell-fire laughed in the depths of his being, it was always there.

Llrsyring still carried him; they had crossed out of the valley.

There was no open ground in Agdor, every crevice, ravine and defile wound amidst pervading, towering shards of rock - unending, mountainous daggers that filled everything with the edge of grey, beneath the hoary sky and the undying howl of the wind.

They crossed into an expanse nestled between two soaring ridge-lines, bathed in low cloud, and riddled with obscuring promontories that seemed to have gouged out the descending and precipitous tiers of the ravine floor. All empty and grey. For an hour they made a slow, careful way down across steep climbs and escarpments, around mammoth blades of rocks and precarious piles of debris and shale.

A dozen paces onto the flatness of a widened area of the chasm, their leader raised a gesture for a halt.

- Ayadra heard it.

Sounds. Voices. The guttural tongue of goblins.

The Champion of the Tribunal issued tacit directions for them each to find cover, and for the soldiers to unshoulder their bows. As the deathwalker moved behind a shielding outcrop, Ayadra saw Elle'dred nocking an arrow.

The voices grew louder. Tense minutes passed as the sounds escalated in volume until they moved over the rocks, undiluted by height or distance or intervening cover. The slap of bare feet joined the voices.

Three bows groaned quietly as they were drawn, beyond the incarnate's sight.

The goblins voices stopped.

Thrum.

- Three bowstrings thrummed with unleashed force, followed by the swift whistle of their shafts - and the gurgled cry of arrowheads penetrating flesh. Three goblins landed with heavy thuds on the ravine floor.

Startled shrieks broke the dead silence of the rocks - and were as quickly silenced by two more arrows loosed with deadly accuracy. After a moment, the distant howl of the wind returned to the silence of the chasm.

Llrsyring moved out from the cover of the rock; Ayadra dared an anxious glance up - Elle'dred and Hheirdane each had drawn their swords and were baring open the necks of the goblin corpses. Further ahead, Taedoran issued a hushed order for them to resume pace.

The deathwalker cradling him moved forward ten paces - then came to a halt.

No order had been given.

The helm surveyed the rocks.

"Down!" he shouted, as he turned his cloaked back on the valley.

Alarm - panic.

And pain.

Llrsyring clutched him tightly, drawing him protectively behind the cover granted by his hollow body and robes. The movement bent his chest, and recalled a stabbing agony.

He cried out, and winced.

But even amidst the pain he felt the forceful thuds that rippled through the suit of armour cradling him. The impact of arrows.

The whistle of the shafts, the skittering rasp of metal heads glancing off stone, the snap of broken wood - and the cry of a man. Someone close by had been struck.

Llrsyring moved them both towards a protrusion of the valley-wall; quickly, he lowered Ayadra to the ground, and propped him behind the cover.

"Stay here." - the words vanished almost unheard, as Llrsyring himself disappeared amidst black mist.

Ayadra grimaced, blood choked his throat and provoked a paroxysm of coughing. Adrenalin raced through his veins, and helped to annul the pain; Llrsyring's magic compensated for much.

The moan of an injured man broke through the sporadic whistle of the shafts.

Shrieks.

Dying shrieks split the air above, in the distance - from the ridgeline. The sounds were unmistakably goblin, and with each cry the frequency of the shafts lessened. Ayadra did not doubt the cause lay in the deathwalker.

- Crack. The sound was too familiar. The clack of hooves on stone, from the cloven feet of incarnates.

Despite the pain, Ayadra scrambled up to peer over the edge of the rock, into the valley ahead. Three incarnates thundered across the stones; each was unclad and unhindered by armour, one bore a massive sword, and the two others flanking it, the immense, barbed clubs they favoured.

Hell-fire crackled.

The memory returned.

What he had done on the cliff returned with overwhelming force; tears welled against the abyssal gleam of his eyes. Panic surged amidst the emptiness. The incarnates were two dozen paces away.

Elle'dred and Hheirdane crouched behind a shielding boulder, as did Syla some paces ahead of them. The magus' cover was barely sufficient, and a shaft skittered off the rock scarce an inch from her face - sending flecks of dust into her eye. She winced, and attempted to wipe free the offending matter; the argent glare of a rune manifested above her hand. Blindly, she hurled it away towards the ridgeline.

Dus had crawled out into the open; an errant shaft from above missed him, and was made the last by a fading cry uttered somewhere amidst the towering rocks. The magus surveyed the Champion -

Taedoran had been struck by an arrow.

Taedoran lay on the valley floor, with the poisoned arrow protruding from his chest. The shaft had landed some inches below his shoulder, and blood already stained his armour and mouth.

He breathed, and coughed reddened spittle - but he could not move.

Ayadra watched -

The central incarnate bellowed a roar, and hastened into a sprint ahead of the others. It raised its sword for a slash across its side that would cleave Dus in two, without breaking its charge. The magus, who now crouched over the body of their dying leader, did not react; he glanced up at the incarnate's approach seemingly without recognition.

Syla came to his defence - with her vision cleared, she forced herself out into the open, and held up her hand. For a moment, the incarnate's blade glowed a searing red, and as quickly melted into a cascade of incandescent orange drops. The molten metal spattered across the creature's bovine-head and back, and amidst an agonised roar, it tumbled uncontrolled across the rocks.

A gasp from the magus followed it, and Syla's legs folded beneath her as the exhaustion of her magic took its toll - she brace herself weakly on an arm, as the two remaining foes ground to a halt.

Somewhere, in the distance, there was a sound akin to the dying howl of a tempest.

Ayadra barely heard it.

All he could do was stare at the body of the man, dying from a goblin arrow in his chest.

- All he could do, was listen to the screams of an incarnate - an incarnate he had burned with hell-fire. And a goblin.

He watched as the Champion began to froth red spittle, as the vanguard of trembling that preceded the spasms, and death, shook the man's limbs. He watched, as Dus watched.

Ayadra forced himself into a stumble; despite the pain of his chest, he laboured six steps towards the body of the Champion. Ungently, he fell to his knees beside Taedoran. Dus glanced up, but gave no other reaction - Ayadra did not meet his eyes.

He could not bear to meet a guard's eyes. Or a friend's.

Ayadra reached out; his talons, the parts of him that exerted pain upon others, reflected the pallid sheen of the sky. The dark blades were affixed to the knuckles of the obsidian hands he loathed - the hands that had released hell-fire and suffering the world should never have known. His hands.

The hands that could also heal.

Ayadra knew pain.

The savaging wounds exerted as recompense for the only power he possessed that was not evil.

The only part of him that was not evil.

Anguish wracked his body; the torture of shallow cuts entwined about his flesh - riven by blades of unseen malevolence and sadism. Blood ran from a latticework of gouges.

Hell-fire laughed, as he fell into unconsciousness.

He had failed. He was evil.

He had taken Taedoran's wounds to his own flesh.
Chapter 27

_Once the pit had been made, the Immortal leapt for his realm. A place where all that was dark could muster, and strike at the Heavens above. Worse yet, the pit began to consume the Fourth Heaven. The land crumbled into the depths below. The pit's unceasing hunger took forest and sea, earth and wind alike._

_The Wyvern Kings flew swift over the pit, and their wings spread across the sky to every reach. They flew in a great circle. The winds that bore them became one, and grew so strong as to rain mountains down upon the pit. The rain became thick, and the mountains that fell stifled the pit's hunger, more than its mouth could take. And the mountains filled the pit and covered it from the Fourth Heaven._

* * *

Silence. Complete silence. For two days they had continued through the mazes of grey rock without a word or a sound, other than the rhythm of their feet upon the unending desolate stone and the intermittent howl of the wind. No one knew what to say; there seemed to be nothing that needed saying.

In the pervading emptiness of the wind, Syla had had too much time to think - and nothing to think about. Save the same repetitive confliction.

She was alone. The people and things that surrounded her were as desolate as the stone that filled her world; incessant, empty and grey. Her old life was gone, irreparably stolen by falsehoods she felt inept to challenge, and her new life terrified her beyond bearing.

She had watched, as the thing she did not understand had healed the Tribunal's Champion. As the unnatural and spontaneous injuries its power inflicted upon it had once more covered its obsidian body.

Ayadra had bled onto the grey stone of the ravine floor.

Elle'dred and the empty suit of armour had bandaged the unconscious incarnate's wounds. The deathwalker still carried him. Ayadra had not regained consciousness for two days.

Taedoran had woken; the poisoned shaft that had perforated his flesh, and nearly his heart, had lain freely on the blood soaked patch of his tabard. The wound, the injury, the oncoming death erased. He had stared at the knight and the deathwalker, and the creature that had healed him -

His eyes had been filled with incomprehension - with confusion and fear.

He did not understand, as Syla did not understand.

There was nothing in her life she understood anymore, and she had no avenue to remedy that ineptitude - only the word of an unnatural creature that had already betrayed her.

That was a threat, and an enemy, and -

That had saved her life.

It was simpler not to think, not to try and resolve the impossible convolution of truth - just to march through the maze of defiles, empty, grey and unending. They all looked the same.

- Sound.

Above the eerie call of the wind that whipped through the peaks of limitless, jagged spires above, she heard it - the faint sounds. Lapping, slow, rhythmic. The soft swish of a wave hitting the shore. Silence followed, for a moment, between sounds - then it lapped again.

Like water it washed over the defile, gently, softly.

Taedoran gave a tacit order for them to continue.

Their defile mounted the steep climb of a rise; the slope above composed of a thousand piled daggers of grey rock. Their defile ended at a crevice, which opened to a narrow path that wove its snaking way amidst the jagged protrusions, towards the high edge of what was likely a cliff.

The sounds continued; the susurrations of waves crashing against a distant bluff. As they made their way higher up the slope, the sounds grew steadily; the muffled crash of a wave - a wave - a wave. Broken by the unending howl of the wind.

The roar of water impacting the stolidity of stone - normal, save only for the absolute silence that lingered between. And that they were yet days from the shore.

As they neared the summit, some long minutes up the serrated slope, the waves stopped. Only the wind continued through the abrupt and unnatural silence. Taedoran gestured them onwards.

The rise flattened into a precipice at its apex, flanked by two unscaleable shards of stone. Before their leader could move to the edge of the cliff and survey whatever lay beyond, the sound returned; like the torrential roar of a river.

It lingered for too long, and faded once more into nothing.

They all moved to the edge of the precipice.

- Shock.

For a moment, all thought and emotion and comprehension was effaced - like the empty rock that had filled her world for too long - unlike what she saw before her.

Syla could not believe the sight that met her eyes.

Falling from the sharp edge of the precipice before them was an immense crater; a deep, perfect circle of rock hewn out of the surrounding cliffs. The bottom of the crater was flawlessly flat, and the single curving wall - which disappeared into haze at the far side of its perimeter - rose to the height of the clouds. No peaks or tips of the spires that comprised the landscape rose above its seemingly perfect edge. Multitudinous, narrow crevices marred its perfect curvature and had allowed mounds of debris and shale to intrude upon the crater's floor.

The wall was the interminable grey of Agdor - but the floor was not.

From her vantage point, Syla saw a field of dark stems rising from a marbling of black, dim brown and sallow white. A field of goblins, from which was birthed their lances and staves, flowering with uncountable war-banners.

- A cheer.

The roar - made from voices beyond count - swept over the rocks and rustled the dark grass below. A wave crashing against the cliffs of the crater.

No order was needed for the others to begin descending the slope, back the way they had come.

Syla could not comprehend what she had seen.

Some way down, shielded by the inadequate rock of the slope, they came to a halt.

"We cannot go through Agdor." Elle'dred muttered. Shock remained in silence, and the wind.

Taedoran glared at the knight, but gave no other response.

"We cannot avoid the goblins for the months it will take to cross the Bridge-Mountains," Elle'dred continued, "We have to turn back, make for the west bank. We'll all be killed otherwise."

Taedoran's glare did not change, still he did not reply.

Another roar, from the crater beyond, drowned the silence.

"You will follow where I lead, as you swore." the Champion of the Tribunal ground out.

Elle'dred's features collapsed into bewilderment, "We cannot -"

"We have no other path!" - their leader's shout was louder than Syla thought sane.

Elle'dred stared, in the same shock; Taedoran's hand had fallen to the hilt of his sword.

"Agdor is suicide." Hheirdane's voice stunned the Champion, as the Sword-Bearer stood behind the shoulder of his friend and fellow knight, "Elle'dred is right."

The shock in Taedoran's eyes narrowed into rage, his hand tensed around the grip of his blade.

Dus stood behind their leader, whether through choice or indifference Syla did not know. She doubted the injured magus cared.

"We have to make for the west bank, find a harbour and a ship -"

Taedoran moved a step forward, into sword range, "We will not cross the inland sea."

"Why?" Elle'dred asked - his voice carried no demand, and unlike Hheirdane behind him, he did not move for his weapon. He seemed only confused and shocked - he did not understand anything.

Like her.

"We risk waking the sea serpent." - whether she had chosen to speak the words or not, did not breach the shock the crater had imparted. Neither did the knowledge that she was revealing a secret of the Tribunal.

Taedoran's eyes expressed the rage his features could not; he did not reprimand her with more than the malevolence that had tortured an incarnate for hours - and she did not care.

He did not deserve her respect, or acknowledgement. Nor did the Tribunal.

"If we cross the inland sea, we risk waking the serpent," she repeated, "When the Tribunal first crossed the inland sea from Eryndor a terrible storm beset the ocean. It would not cease, and it grew so violent that it threatened to destroy the ships that bore them; the Tribunal was forced to still the ocean with their magic. Beneath the water they observed the cause of the storm - beneath the inland sea lies a great serpent, whose length stretches the coast of Ammandorn and Eryndor and the Bridge-Mountains; it had risen near the surface, and its movement had cause the storm. A prophecy was later told that if great power crosses the sea, the serpent will wake - and it is not known what will happen if it should. Knowledge of the serpent was ruled secret...the Tribunal suspected the weapon of the Immortal would be powerful enough to wake it."

The information seemed to quell any resolve the Champion of the White Wolf had mustered to confront their leader. After a moment of silence, it seemed clear Elle'dred would not pursue an argument further.

Despite herself, despite holding the knight in no greater trust than the deathwalker he befriended, she almost begged him to. But the brief impulse passed unexpressed.

Taedoran continued to glare at her; she did not meet his eyes.

"We will not cross the inland sea." he reiterated the order with a calm voice, and turned to retrace their path down the slope. Dus followed.

Elle'dred glared after their leader for a moment, but freed a defeated sigh and assumed pace behind the Champion and the injured magus. He met her eyes for a moment, and despite a palpable measure of uncertainty, he nodded an acknowledgement - it seemed a gesture of gratitude for what she had done.

She did not respond; she did not know if she deserved it.

Hheirdane fell into pace behind his friend, followed by Llrsyring and the injured, obsidian body of the incarnate whom he cradled.

She caught a flicker of Ayadra's abyssal orbs for a moment - loathing, revulsion and fear manifested, as they had too often and too frequently in recent days. Under the howl of the wind, and a roar of untold voices promising Ammandorn's destruction, Syla stood and watched as the others moved away from her.

She did not know why she had answered the knight's question - still numb from shock, she could not fathom a rational comprehension for why she had seemingly chosen to isolate herself ever more. Taedoran would consider her a traitor as much as Elle'dred now - and Elle'dred distrusted her for her blood. That much was obvious.

She was alone. Completely alone.

And she was the cause, despite whatever she thought she intended.

* * *

Rethan stood on the balcony of the Hall of the White Wolf. The immense building was a fortress unto itself; and was the centrepiece of the military district of Delphanas. The city's armouries lay around the Hall, and columns of steam and smoke rose from the lower buildings that beset the eight levels of marbled white-grey stone.

Although the air cycled through Delphanas by its design, this area was always heavy with the thick scent of smoke, and Rethan had become convinced the stone itself was imbued with the smell. It was not choking or acrid; in the constant cool breeze around the balcony, the smell was thinned to a light musk, though it was likely far less pleasant down amidst the multitudinous furnaces.

The Elder Archivist sighed; the day had been long, and he was already exhausted. He had been called to the Hall of the White Wolf to attend the council with the Circle of Sword-Bearers on the war effort.

The Hall was nearly empty; a quality Rethan had begun to realise pervaded the city. Seven Armies had been conscripted in the past weeks, seven thousand soldiers formed from the people of his home - and that was solely in Delphanas, more would be conscripted elsewhere, and all would be sent to the Valley.

The war was inflicting a terrible toll on them, and Rethan had to weather the incessant reminder that so many deaths weighed on him and his fellow Elder Archivists.

His duty was to preserve Ammandorn, preserve the people that made the land Ammandorn. It seemed whichever way he turned he was failing at that duty - thousands died in the armies; and it was no consolation to him that it was necessary to prevent thousands more from dying.

He had seen enough war for his lifetime.

He sighed again; he would soon have to return to the briefings - and endure more stratagems, more deployment schedules, and more estimated casualties.

He stood straight and stretched, trying to shake the displeasure and tiredness from his bones.

Phio strode to the railing of the balcony beside him; Rethan was startled, and the momentary boost of energy accomplished what his stretching did not.

"Rethan," Phio acknowledged, wearily.

Rethan nodded silently in response; his fellow Elder Archivist leant on the railing and peered out across the buildings. Phio remained silent for a long time, prompting Rethan to break the discomfort.

"Well that was as thoroughly depressing as I expected it to be." he joked, grimly.

Phio chuckled, but did not say anything in return.

"Are you having doubts about the Valley of Ythordor?" he asked.

"Some." Phio muttered.

Rethan sighed irately, "Did you come to talk to me or just to stare out at the smoke?"

Phio gave a short laugh, "I came to talk with you."

"Really? You are doing surprisingly little talking."

Phio smirked.

Rethan huffed, and then formed a sly grin under his heavy beard, "I noticed Lyrien has been spending an inordinate amount of time in your quarters, I hope you are not tiring yourself out. You are getting old you know."

Phio laughed again, and cast a displeased scowl onto his younger friend, "As are you." he quipped.

Rethan chuckled shortly.

"How's Harriet?" Phio asked.

Rethan sighed, "Worrying herself to death," he frowned, "It was good seeing Lydal again. He will be gone soon, and he won't be back for some time...if at all...Harriet is worrying about his sister enough already. Now the thought will be on her mind of both of our children dying."

"It is their duty as Knights of the White Wolf." Phio muttered.

Rethan scoffed gruffly, "I keep telling her that." he paused, "When they were both accepted into the Hall I was proud; she nagged me constantly it was dangerous, and one day they would be sent to their deaths. It seems she was right."

Phio let the despondent silence fall over them again, as they both watched the smoke.

"Rethan, I need your help."

Rethan raised an inquisitive - and slightly annoyed, eyebrow, "Oh?"

"The magus are plotting to betray us, and I plan to stop them."

Rethan stared at his friend, "What?" he managed through the shock.

"Since we ordered the Tribunal to use the prophecies of Thyesmered, they are convinced the Assembly is corrupt. They are convinced they must depose the Archivists and rule Ammandorn themselves. They have already moved against us - the High Inquisitor is here to investigate our resistance."

"Resistance?"

Phio sighed, "When I found out about the Magus' plot, I realised I had to act. I have formed a resistance, a group that we can trust to gather support for the Assembly. We have to remove the Tribunal before they can perform their foolish coup and plunge the land into civil war."

Rethan was silent.

"Rethan, we cannot resist the magus fully unless the entirety of the Triumvirate agrees on this."

Rethan swallowed, "Did you have anything to do with the death of the Staff-Bearer?"

Phio paused, confusion lit his face; he sighed, "Yes. I ordered his death. Hadrath was the instigator of this. I thought if he was killed they would abandon their scheme - but they didn't. And now it seems they are readying their forces for a military coup. Why else would they retract their army from the war at a time like this?"

The Elder Archivist returned to silence.

Phio watched him concernedly, "Rethan I need your help, we will need the armies if the Magus try to use theirs to attack us. And the Triumvirate must agree if we are to have the support of the Knights of the White Wolf."

Rethan glared at him for a brief moment, and then let his face dull to incredulity.

Phio was agitated by his grim silence; the Elder Archivist moved to plead further when Rethan spoke.

"I will join this resistance." he answered.

Phio sighed, allowed himself a flicker of a smile. He grasped Rethan's hand, and shook it warmly, "Thank you." he said.

Rethan glanced at him for a moment, nodded, and then looked back to the smoke rising from the buildings around the keep.

"I will need some time to think." he said, flatly, "It is a lot to think about."

Phio nodded, and turned to move away from the balcony.

As his footsteps retreated into the common room where the council had retired for a recess between sessions, Rethan could only stare out at the city below.

He waited; the thoughts swirled in his mind - but any resolve was dulled; his normal irascibility was quenched by the unwanted emptiness. He could not fathom anger.

The council was again called, and he sat in his place - beside the man who had been his friend for so many years. Rethan remained silent; he added his opinion when it was requested of him - but long minutes passed and the emptiness only deepened.

The council adjourned; Phio stood, asked him some questions - he answered blankly; Phio inquired if anything was wrong, he assuaged it on tiredness.

Phio laughed and moved out of the room with the soldiers; Rethan was aware Ormus still sat behind him. The Elder Archivist rose, nodded to Rethan and attempted to move past him.

"Ormus," Rethan said - his lip quivered with anger and hurt.

Ormus paused and looked at him, "What is it Rethan?"

Rethan was silent, the indignation welled inside him as angry tears welled in his eyes. The injustice of the pain that choked him sparked his anger.

"I will help you."

Ormus raised a questioning brow.

"Phio is a traitor." Rethan said.

* * *

"Taedoran means to kill you." his friend repeated the warning again.

As they moved through the empty pass of a ravine, under the grey light of the clouds above, the sporadic shriek of the wind had been broken by Hheirdane's warning.

Elle'dred did not care, he was too cold to care.

Since they had left the crater, and resumed their suicidal course deeper into their enemy's lands, their leader had ordered that a forward scout party would proceed ahead of the main group - whether the tactic was meant to prevent an ambush or just to have two of them killed some minutes before the others, seemed only a determination of fortune.

It seemed ever more likely he would die soon.

Taedoran meant to kill him -

- A moment's realisation dawned on him.

"He won't though." the Champion of the White Wolf Hall countered.

Hheirdane did not reply, though Elle'dred felt the unasked question against his back.

"You said yourself, you die surrounded by the people you love - me...you said I was there. So, somehow, despite this suicidal course we both must survive. And I'm guessing our leader won't..." he chuckled, "I don't know why I find that almost depressing."

Hheirdane did not respond.

They continued on in silence.

- The fact, that it was a fact he would live, lingered in his mind. The repercussions of what his friend had seen in the deathwalker's blade resounded for a moment - as did the thought that he did not really believe what Hheirdane had told him.

That somehow he would live through Agdor, that Ammandorn would survive that crater of goblins, and the Immortal and Ayadra, seemed beyond any reach of hope. Despite what a cursed blade may have said.

A glance over his shoulder was unrevealing - if Hheirdane was lying, there was no evidence of it in his demeanour or expression. Everything, except the shred of doubt at the impossible fortune of it all, confirmed that his friend was being honest - that he had seen a death any man should be unbearably grateful for.

Elle'dred looked away. He did not want to believe it. Perhaps he was not looking hard enough - he could question Hheirdane more forcefully, confront the potential falsehood directly - if it was there at all. Hheirdane was not a liar - yet his friend had lied to him, in recent days, and even sided with the Champion of the Tribunal against him.

But Hheirdane had changed. Elle'dred trusted him; he needed to trust him.

It was all too much.

They would all likely die in Agdor anyway.

* * *

Keylyn's eyes opened. The haze of unconsciousness lifted over the imperceptible minutes; it dulled the pain while it remained, but as his eyes focused, so too did every nerve of his body.

His head, his chest, his arms, all throbbed and ached horribly. His leg stung, and besides the bandage that had been wrapped over his thigh, nothing else covered his milky-pale skin - now marred by crusted blood and large, dark bruises.

The exposure of nakedness was heightened by the blinding beam of white light that shone down from the roof; his cell, otherwise covered in darkness. The coldness of the stones and air froze his ghostly skin. He wanted to shiver, but his body didn't have the energy for it.

He lay on his side; his hands were bound by manacles and short chains fastened to the hard stone of the floor. He tried to curl into a ball and preserve the little heat of his body, but it took all his effort just to remain conscious.

His memory cleared - the dullness of waking still drowned his thoughts - the pain was first; the battle; the exhaustion of magic; the wound in his leg; the face - the face of the man who he had not killed. The agony flared in his chest - the unbearable despair.

He had not killed Ragmurath, he had failed Hadrath. Keylyn wanted to cry, but his body could not manage it. He let out a hoarse sob, but it hurt too much to repeat.

The harsh grating of metal-hinges shattered the silence of the room. The noise sent a screech through his head and Keylyn winced, though more from the knowledge that his interrogator would soon approach. He had not been to the dungeons before; Hadrath had always taught him the duty of the Magus was to the law, and criminals had to be kept in the prisons. Keylyn had never thought to question what that meant - and he had never experienced a cell for himself.

An unwanted shame welled inside him at the cruelty that existed within his home.

The steps of his interrogator clapped across the room, accompanied by the thick choking smell of a bloodhound's censer. Keylyn felt the scent crawl across the stones and bathe him in a strangling heaviness; his exhausted body was forced to expel sweat from every pore, and his breathing laboured through deep gasps that seemed to bring little oxygen into his lungs.

The steps circled him, stopping at measured intervals, followed by the clack of something being placed on the ground. The steps returned to the darkness in front of him, and after an agonising silence the bloodhound stepped into the ambient light of the beam.

Keylyn's hair was soaked with sweat, and fell across his face such that he could only see the outline of the hooded, robed figure above him.

The bloodhound bent down next to him, and laid the staff and its censer on the ground. The proximity of the smoke's source did not worsen the suffocating smell, or the drenching perspiration - the air was thick with it. The bloodhound wiped the sweat soaked locks of blonde hair away from Keylyn's face - and ungently gripped his jaw to turn his head upwards.

The light that glistened and reflected off his skin was enough to show, in haunting clarity, the reflective featureless mask that covered his interrogator's face.

The glinting eyes from either hole in the mirror stared at him for a long time. Keylyn looked back, he tried to close his eyes but the smoke forced his lids to remain open; he waited for a question he did not have the strength to answer, and the pain that would follow.

"Your name is Keylyn?" a male voice, muffled by the mask, asked.

Keylyn felt the overpowering urge to speak - despite the incapacity of his muscles.

"Yes." the hoarse, groaned whisper moved involuntarily from his throat.

"You are a lower magus?"

"Y...es..." Keylyn tried to force his lips shut, but he neither had the strength nor the will to fight off the crushing weight of the air around him.

"You were Staff-Bearer Hadrath's aide?"

The name hurt, "...yes."

The Bloodhound paused; Keylyn wanted to shut his eyes, but the smoke compelled him to stare into the mask - the reflection had changed, and Keylyn did not want to see what the images were forming.

"You tried to assassinate Staff-Bearer Ragmurath?" the Bloodhound enquired.

"Yes."

"Were you working alone?"

"No." - guilt twist his insides - he had not only failed to kill his target, but now he would expose the man he had wanted to help.

"Who were you working with?" the bloodhound asked.

Keylyn tried desperately to tighten his throat, to close his lips, so the answer would not be forced from him. But the smoke was too heavy, and the reflection in the mask had sharpened into a sight Keylyn could not bear.

"Elder Archivist..." the words were wrenched from his throat, "...Ormus."

The bloodhound did not speak for a long while.

"Did he order you to kill Staff-Bearer Ragmurath?"

"No."

"What did Elder Archivist Ormus order you to do?"

Keylyn tried to fight - but the reflection in the mask glared down at him, and he broke under the pain.

"He told me...to spy...on the...Tribunal."

Again the bloodhound was silent for a moment.

"Does he plan to move against the Tribunal?"

Keylyn watched the mask, "Yes."

"Did Ormus tell you Staff-Bearer Ragmurath killed High Magus Helanath?"

"Yes."

"Did Ormus tell you Staff-Bearer Ragmurath killed Staff-Bearer Hadrath?"

"Yes."

"Does Ormus know you tried to assassinate Staff-Bearer Ragmurath?"

"No."

The bloodhound's eyes glanced away from him, into the surrounding darkness. The eyes returned and he retrieved his staff, before standing and moving away.

Keylyn heard the door slam shut. His eyes stung from dryness, and he desperately wanted to cry. He let out a ragged sob; it hurt - but he sobbed again.

The reflection in the mask had formed into a face, an angry, disappointed face.

Hadrath's face.

* * *

Ayadra walked; he had the strength to walk. He had to walk.

Hell-fire had healed his wounds.

While he burned for two days amidst nightmares of flame, the latticework of wounds that covered his body had begun to heal. Swiftly and unnaturally. Even the injuries within his chest had been mended, to a point. It no longer hurt to breathe.

As always, aching and soreness lingered. But they had become as accepted as the inescapable obsidian of his skin, as the fire that dwelt beneath. As the talons affixed to his hands. Pain was the only facet of his nature he did not hate.

Hell-fire laughed inside him.

When Llrsyring had removed the bandages to inspect the wounds, the work of hell-fire - of his nightmares - had been exposed; on their undersides, each bandage was browned by heat. Charring traced each and every line of the gouging that had afflicted his flesh, and the wounds had closed enough that walking did not aggravate them.

He could not fight the hell-fire in his dreams.

And it burned while he was asleep.

The weapon he was would ever reveal itself in his flesh.

That he had healed their leader - that he had saved Taedoran's life - was little consolation; for two days he had suffered the words of hell-fire roaring in his ears, filling his dreams.

You are evil. You will fail. You have failed.

The truth; ever and always, the truth. He had saved Taedoran's life, and in the process injured himself severely, and forced Llrsyring to carry him for two days. He had endangered the party. He had inadvertently freed hell-fire through breached flesh and insurmountable unconsciousness. The truth.

He had not meant to. He had only tried to do some good.

He had to -

The forward scout was reassigned regularly, their leader had established a cycle, and since the incarnate had proved his capacity to move unaided Llrsyring had been included in the rotation of pairing. In a rare act of prudence, their leader seemed to have accepted that the most perceptive eyes lay in the emptiness of the deathwalker's helm.

As the grey glow of the southern sun neared its midday peak somewhere beyond the lip of the overlooking cliffs, they reached the rendezvous with the morning's scout party. Taedoran and Hheirdane waited beside the overshadowing tip of a protrusion in the cliff face. Evinced by the silence that passed the scout duty to Elle'dred and Llrsyring, no signs of enemies had been perceived.

The suit of armour and the Champion of the White Wolf moved off to reconnoitre the further path of the main group through the ravine. The others were permitted a rest break, while the scouts were allowed time to gain some distance.

Ayadra sat against the wall of rock that had defined their course throughout the morning. With the absence of the only benefactors he had, the incarnate did all he could to remain unnoticed. And inoffensive. He did not want to be punished by a guard - however much -

He restrained a flinch as their leader rose, and strode towards him.

Fear.

Taedoran passed without so much as a glare of disdain; his primary guard moved to the male magus' side, and asked a question in a voice too quiet to be overheard clearly.

Hheirdane approached him.

The man he had wounded and tormented with nightmares - that hated him and broken his fingers, approached him; he did not dare to meet his eyes. He could not. For a moment, he thought Hheirdane meant to do him harm - for a moment, he wanted the knight to - but the man merely knelt beside him, and held out something. A water skin.

Confusion.

Despite his fear, or perhaps because the truth of hell-fire deserved the reminder of what he was and what he had done, he glanced up to meet the knight's eyes.

There was no hatred, no malice or animosity; there was almost a shame - a regret.

Hheirdane shook the water skin as an insistence for him to take it.

Tentatively, as ever, he reached out with a taloned hand - the black blade of bone shimmered in the pale light; an inevitable reminder of what he was, and what he had done. Hell-fire whispered its truth through the crusted lines of his remaining wounds, which broke the obsidian gleam of his bare flesh.

Hheirdane did not react to the talon.

Ayadra drank a mouthful from the water skin, in the discomfort of silence; the knight watched him.

"I can't forgive you for what you did to me."

The unexpected sound of his guard's voice elicited a start, and shock, for a moment, but the brevity of the words overcame the surprise a second later and added their own incomprehension to it.

"I know you were not responsible. But I can't -" Hheirdane paused; a long silence fell between them, before the knight finished, "You don't deserve what's happened to you. I'm sorry."

From behind, their leader ordered them each to resume the march.

Hheirdane gestured for him to return the water skin; he complied - once again, the sinister shimmer of his talon provoked no reaction in the knight.

As he rose, and Hheirdane shouldered his pack, the confliction of his nightmares and of his nature was dulled momentarily by confusion and shock. The man he had wounded could not forgive him - he did not deserve forgiveness - but the man did not hate him anymore, and he could not understand why.

He deserved to be hated.

Hheirdane moved away a few paces, further into the ravine.

Once again, his primary guard stalked past him without so much as a glance -

Fear. Momentary, and passing.

Taedoran moved towards Hheirdane.

And drew a dagger.

The Champion of the Tribunal grabbed the Sword-Bearer's head, wrenched it back, and slit open the man's throat. Hheirdane made no sound as he dropped, amidst a rush of blood, to the ravine floor.

- Disbelief.

And terror.

Syla uttered a cry behind him, cut short by the chiming of crystalline shards evanescing into sparkling mist. The magus sprawled across the rocks with a moan, as Ayadra's head darted instinctually to confirm his hearing with sight. Supine, Syla moved a limp hand, in the lingering throes of consciousness.

Taedoran strode four steps to her side, and stamped on her face with a boot.

Terror. Dread. Shock.

He could not comprehend what was happening - paralysed by fear, he stood, as the man whose life he had saved turned to him with the promise of torture in his eyes.

He had nowhere to run, and he could not if he wanted to.

Hell-fire whispered -

The argent glare of a rune blinded his vision; crystalline force impacted and shattered across his chest, sparking a flare of pain from his injured ribs; he could not breathe. The magic hurled him back, into the ravine wall; something cracked in his flank, and was followed by white agony. He gurgled a scream. As he fell to the ground the glittering haze of pain changed into the black void of unconsciousness.

- He deserved this.
Chapter 28

_The Wyvern Kings were so weary, they fell from the sky. Each unable to bear themselves upon the winds. Falling to the ground, at once they slumbered. And in their sleep the Andarae came to them. In a dream the Andarae spoke. Their beauty marred by tears, made them more beautiful by the glistening reflected of their light. They said that they loved the Wyverns and the Elves greatly, but that the Immortal would break the barrier in time. And then the Fourth Heaven would be his. They said that they must forsake the Fourth Heaven forever. So that none that walked the three heavens above could trespass the fourth. And it was this act, granted the greatest power seen to the heavens yet, by the love and grief of the Andarae together as one. It was this act that forbade the Immortal from ever treading upon the Fourth Heaven again._

* * *

Ayadra stumbled up the slope of loose shale that led into the recess of a defile above. His feet slipped on the precarious slates of stone, sending errant cascades down to the ravine floor below; each small stumble, followed by a rapid bracing step his overstressed legs could barely manage, was met by a savage and unforgiving tug on his restraints.

His wrists ached from the strangulation of the rope that bound them, and his muzzle. He could barely breathe. Every inhalation stimulated the pain in his chest. Every tug on his arms wrenched the soreness of his bruised shoulder.

And the restraint lashing his snout enforced silence - as did his fear.

Once again he was powerless, at the mercy of guards that had tortured and abused him. That hated him; because he deserved to be hated.

He did not know how long he had been unconscious; when he had woken, his surroundings were unrecognisable - all of Agdor looked the same, and different. High, jagged walls had surrounded him, grey and merciless. His primary guard had carried him, bound and gagged. Instinctually, driven by a surge of panic and despair, he had struggled - for a moment - Taedoran had thrown him to the ground.

The impact had aggravated his ribs; he had yelped - the sound had been suffocated by the rope binding his muzzle. He had not dared to meet his primary guard's eyes; that was an offense. Taedoran had ordered him to stand - if he did not obey, he would be punished.

Terrified, silent, in pain, he had forced himself to his feet.

Taedoran had ordered him to walk. He had complied.

Hours had dragged by - he had lost all conception of time or location. Like the southern sun was lost amidst the thick grey above. Despair annulled any hope of escape, and fear forced him into pace and file. As it had for too much of his life. He was alone; he was in pain; he deserved this. Hell-fire whispered in the depths of his being.

The truth.

The wind whipped through gusts against his naked scales; he shivered, violently. His stomach gurgled in the pains of hunger; he could not help a moan - his guard barked for him to be silent. He was starving. Cold. Exhausted.

He was terrified, and alone.

Again.

As his guard traversed a precarious dip in the passage floor, Ayadra held back a step to mount the descent more preparedly. His legs quaked from cold, tiredness and fear; the climb seemed impossible.

He had paused too long.

Taedoran yanked on his leash. His wrist objected; his shoulder was wrenched - he stumbled forward a step. A misplaced foot, and gravity, sent him tumbling down the slope past his guard, pulling his leash free. The hard rocks battered him on all sides, until he impacted the level floor at the bottom of the slope.

Crack. Agony flared in his chest.

He uttered a moan; it filled his mouth with copper. The thickness that accompanied it provoked a paroxysm, but the bindings around his jaw prevented him from expelling much of the blood. He choked, gagged and coughed; for a moment he thought he would suffocate. Reflexively, he drew in breath through his nose - some air made it into his lungs.

For too many long seconds, he lay, savouring the cold bite of inhalation through his nose. His chest throbbed each time. He could barely breathe. All he wanted to do was breathe.

He shivered. Pain. In his chest. In the myriad bruises and reopened wounds his tumble had engendered. In his shoulder, his wrists. In his ankle.

Taedoran's heavy stride descended the slope above him, and neared through a few slowing paces at his side. His primary guard glared down.

Fear.

"Stand." the Champion growled above him.

Terror. A flinch.

Reflexively he sought to obey; his wrists objected with soreness, his shoulder chorused with aching - he could bare it. Silently, with a grimace. Even the stab of pain in his chest, as he stretched his side, rising on a bracing arm did not break his silence. He dragged his injured leg beneath him, followed by his other, he shifted his weight onto his feet -

Agony. He screamed, and dropped back to the ground. A haze swam about his vision as he sucked in desperate breaths to combat the pain - he could not stand on his left foot.

Unconsciousness menaced the rocks around him with darkness - for a moment - and passed.

Fear.

Taedoran had already taken offence; his primary guard repeated the order for him to stand pitilessly above. Punishment would follow if he continued to lie, helpless on the valley floor. He did not want to be punished. He did not want to offend his guard.

He deserved to be punished. He deserved this.

Taedoran repeated the order, and his threat.

Dread.

Once again fear forced him into an attempt to stand - and pain sent him sprawling to the ground.

Whether the ankle was broken, or if the muscles had simply been wrenched beyond use, did not matter - he could not walk. However much he wanted to, however much he tried. He was powerless to change the fact, as he was powerless to escape his guards, or the obsidian scales that covered his body.

- The hell-fire that filled his dreams -

Taedoran stood above him in silence. Whatever punishment his primary guard intended to administer for his resistance glittered in his eyes - fear - as did the hatred and loathing that had abused him since he was removed from his cell an eternity ago.

"Heal yourself." - the words were ground out through clenched teeth, "Heal yourself, with the fire."

Ayadra groaned.

Hell-fire flickered in his mind. It laughed.

You will fail. You have failed. You deserve this.

"Heal yourself!"

With hell-fire. If he let it free, if he let it burn upon his skin like it did in his dreams, it could seer his injuries away. It could burn his ankle and his chest, and his shoulder and his wrists, his flesh, and leave only pristine scales behind. If he let it free.

For a moment, it reared against his skin.

No.

He had to fight - he had promised himself he would fight - he had to -

Terrified, in pain, without meeting his guard's eyes, he shook his head.

No.

Hell-fire snarled. As did Taedoran above him.

"Heal yourself!" - the roar dragged his primary guard down beside him. The man raised a fist.

Fear.

Taedoran's blow fell upon his flank - agony stabbed through his ribs and filled his chest. He could not breathe. Another blow fell onto his side -

He screamed. It was muffled by the bindings around his muzzle.

Another blow fell -

"Heal yourself!" his guard yelled, "Use your fire! Use your fire!" - another blow fell; bone cracked, "You are evil! Evil! How dare you heal me!" - another fell on already broken ribs, "You don't have the right to heal me."

Hell-fire laughed. It crackled softly inside.

Ayadra could not breathe. His ribs were broken, and the bones had perforated his lung. Blood filled his chest, as a sharp daze cradled his head.

The pain of the beating was joined by the memory of hell-fire.

The infernal flames of his flesh reared against his skin.

- He fought. Though only because the blind impulse had been the last thought he had held in coherence.

- He was dying.

He knew.

As Taedoran paused for a moment, glaring down at the black bone of his face. He sobbed. Blood leaked from the lashed slit of his mouth, dribble down his jaw. It choked his throat.

And the hell-fire laughed.

You are evil. You will fail. You deserve this.

You deserve to die.

He had tried to heal Taedoran - he had saved the man's life; and this was what his actions had accomplished. His death; because he was evil; because he deserved it.

Worse - in the eyes of his guard he saw pain, pain too alike Hheirdane's - the pain that had broken the man. Amidst the haze of agony, and the slow, coppery suffocation that filled his chest and mouth, the force of knowing or memory opened once more - the force of knowledge whispered to him with a clarity that cut through the pain in his chest. It showed him the truth. He knew.

- He had hurt Taedoran by healing him. Like he had hurt Hheirdane and Llrsyring.

Inadvertently.

By healing the man, he had reminded the Champion of his worst pain - irrefutably and unresolvedly. He had forced him to relive it, again and again. He had done to Taedoran what he had done to Hheirdane, without intending to - while intending to help him.

Hell-fire laughed.

His small glance into his primary guard's eyes - a silent apology he had no right to give - provoked a snarl, and the resumption of the beating. Taedoran loosed a blow into his jaw, into his chest, his throat, his arm, his groin - his genitals flared with sharp nausea. Outside, he was naked, exposed and defenceless; inside, he was bleeding to death - and burning alive.

He was evil. He deserved this.

- He did not want to die -

He did not want to kill Llrsyring.

He fought the hell-fire -

"If you won't heal yourself then I'll cut the fire out of you." - his guard's calm voice was broken by a pain and madness no volition could withstand - a pain, madness he was responsible for - "How dare you heal me - you are evil - evil things cannot do good."

The sharp sting of the dagger slid across his belly -

He could not scream - he had no air in his lungs.

The cold pain of a wound sung out above the symphony of bruising.

Ayadra gurgled - blood ran freely across his abdomen.

He was going to die -

A cut sliced across his arm.

Across his chest.

"Evil things should die."

Across his flank -

"Evil things deserve to die."

A cut -

"You are evil...evil."

The blade stabbed into his belly - driven to its hilt.

- Darkness menaced his vision amidst a haze of light. In a moment the weak beat in his chest would fail. He would die. Hell-fire laughed. He deserved to die - he was evil -

He did not want -

- Hell-fire.

The savage flames ripped free of every wound, of every cut and bruise and broken bone that had pierced his internal organs. Fire sealed the broken flesh - mended every bone - and leapt gleeful and free into the air.

Hell-fire roared. And crackled. And laughed.

- And burned.

Ayadra burned - and roared in a moment of blind agony, as the fire afflicted its branding heat on his flesh, as it filled his chest and every cut upon his skin, his ankle and shoulder and ribs, he screamed with all the fury and hatred and despair his being had contained. The infernal flames ran across his skin, caught and consumed the ropes that bound his wrist -

And erupted from his hands as a torrent of searing, scarlet waves.

Ayadra screamed -

And was silent.

As all the rage and desperation he had felt in a moment of abandon fled into horror so too did the fire flee his skin.

Hell-fire laughed. It crackled and roared. And burned.

- But not on Ayadra's skin. His flesh was free of flame. His pristine scales were free of injury or harm. No flames burnt upon them.

- Hell-fire burnt solely on the man before him.

On the man that had tortured him. That had broken his ribs - whose life he had saved.

Ayadra watched.

As Taedoran burned.

The man flailed - hell-fire ran across his clothes, clawed at his flesh, seared his hair away. The man screamed - and struggled, sweeping skin away with blazing, charred palms. Hell-fire burned and burned and burned. As Ayadra had, in a blacksmith's for so many hours; as Ayadra watched.

The incarnate sat, on the unforgiving rocks of the defile's floor, and watched.

As his victim screamed.

Taedoran collapsed to the ground, in pain only Ayadra knew. Pain Ayadra had dealt. Pain no living being of this earth deserved to suffer. Pain Ayadra could not take back.

Taedoran screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

And Ayadra watched.

* * *

Faldorn sat in Phio's study. They had inducted a new member to their group; Rethan had been briefed on everything that they had done, and the older man had been instructed with new tasks to help bolster the defences of the resistance.

Phio and Ormus were convinced the magus were preparing for a military attack - the new Staff-Bearer had decreed martial law over the district of the Magus Keep, and Ormus had said that the Tribunal planned to rewrite the laws for the entire land soon.

The Assembly had been fighting the Tribunal officially for weeks; Faldorn had been inundated with duties, which he had been grateful for. It filled the time, and kept him from remembering - but he never forgot entirely. Every night he slept on the floor of his quarters - he could not even approach the bed.

He had tried, once, days ago, but he had caught the faint scent - Keron's scent, and he had been reduced to tears. Althyera had left, in frustration - the investigation of Keron's murder had yielded nothing, and she had been Faldorn's friend long enough to know that he was hiding something from her.

She had been supportive, she had been his friend, but Faldorn could not tell her what had happened - he was terrified if he did, Althyera would join the resistance and he would get her killed as he had her brother. Keron.

Althyera had left Delphanas and returned to her family. Mycka had been abandoned, Faldorn ignored her; he was terrified for her as well. He knew they would be safe if they did not know him; he had isolated himself from his friends, except for Phio who was too busy to offer the comfort and consolation he did not want. His days had turned into a vicious circle of emptiness and anger.

He wanted to stop feeling; he wanted to stop caring, it was easier than facing the emptiness. When Ormus advocated the idea of war, he gave no objection; he did not care. Whatever plan the others enacted mattered little to him. Phio seemed surprised at his silence; he did not care.

He hated the magus, all of them. He wanted them dead. Every magus in that blasted keep.

He did not want to object.

The meeting ended, and Phio left with Rethan to attend a matter of the Assembly.

Ormus remained in the room, as did Lyrien. Faldorn sat sullenly on the couch, as always.

"Do you have any thoughts on this?" Ormus asked the oracle, in his usual coldness.

Lyrien glanced at him, "None." she answered shortly.

"Have you seen anything else that might indicate who we should next kill?" the Elder Archivist asked the question impassively, but there was a harder edge in his voice.

Lyrien glared at him, "No."

"I suppose, you would only share it with Phio. He is your Archivist." Ormus muttered.

"Yes," she said, "He is."

Ormus sighed, "Do you agree with him that we should keep our armies here?"

Lyrien replied quietly, "I believe you suggested that."

"Phio agreed with me," Ormus said; the tension in his voice revealed a hint of smugness, "Do you?"

"I was not my decision. It was yours," she said, sharply, "Elder Archivist."

Faldorn saw the smallest of twitches above the older man's eye; Ormus stared distantly at her.

"You were never good in making decisions." he muttered.

Lyrien glared at him momentarily, but her gaze weakened in guilt - she turned away and began gathering the papers on the table.

"I am certain you have other duties to perform. You should leave." she said, flatly over her shoulder.

Ormus looked at her for a second, before he turned, nodded goodbye to Faldorn and moved out of the room.

The oracle glanced at the younger Archivist.

"What was that?" he asked. She turned to him; he recognised the hurt in her eyes.

She sighed, "History." and added bluntly, "You have your duties as well."

Faldorn nodded, and stood - Lyrien watched the young man's face; she did not need the power of her blood to see that he was still in pain.

"I was always better with destiny," she muttered, loud enough Faldorn could hear.

"What?" he said, pausing beside the couch.

"I was always better at comprehending destiny rather than what's already happened." she said, coolly, "I have made more than enough mistakes in my life."

Her posture tacitly requested him to stay; Faldorn sat back down.

"You've only known Phio for five years?" she asked.

The archivist nodded.

Lyrien sighed, "He's a different man now than he was only a decade ago." she paused, "And a very different man to who he was when I met him. It is strange how our history changes us." again she paused, "Phio wouldn't have told you about our relationship, would he?"

Faldorn shook his head.

Lyrien allowed a slight smirk to break the iciness of her face, "Good. It is not the proudest part of our lives." she sat on the couch beside Faldorn, "Ten years ago I became a birth-reader, at Phio's suggestion, and it was then that he told me the dark secret of the law. At the time, I was...angry he had kept the secret from me, and I disagreed with killing necromancers at birth." she paused, "There's a lot of blood on my hands. Back then Phio was committed to the law, and I disagreed with that...we fought, considerably, before I left Delphanas to perform my duty as a Birth-Reader. I was gone only a year, but it would seem that was long enough for Phio to find someone else, thirty years of supposed love was forgotten in just one," she paused, and quelled the bitterness in her voice, "When I returned, he left me. But I was still his oracle, and he my archivist. As he would always be the one to record my prophecies, I knew I could make him suffer. Day in day out...for a year. It was only then that I realised how I could hurt him most - I bedded Ormus."

Faldorn showed only a slight shock; Lyrien sighed, "I loved him even. Or at least, I told myself I did...and he loved me. After less than a year, Ormus asked me to marry him, and I said yes." she continued, "Phio had been married for over two years, but knowing I would be married to the man he despised shocked him out of his stupidity," the quip was bitter, and she sighed again, "We met to record a prophecy one day, and after quite some shouting and tears we slept together. He told me he loved me...and then I went through with the marriage. It was only after a year of some further cowardice and infidelity, that I left Ormus and Phio left his wife." she smirked, "I don't remember her name. But I remember she resigned and left Delphanas afterwards, Ormus didn't."

"Ormus hates me as much as Phio. I can't blame him." she glanced despondently at Phio's empty seat behind the desk, "I still cannot believe he could put aside his pride and help us. I've never apologised to him...he still loves me, I think. But I only ever loved Phio."

She turned to face Faldorn; the archivist's eyes were red with tears, and the wet lines glistened on the sandy-brown skin of his cheeks. He sniffed away a sob. Lyrien moved closer and put her arm around him gently. His head fell against her shoulder.

"You loved Keron."

"Yes."

Lyrien rubbed his shoulder comfortingly, "He loved you." she said - though her features remained frozen and inexpressive, her tone was warm, "He chose his own path Faldorn. He chose to support you, because he loved you."

* * *

Elle'dred moved down the decline of the defile's floor.

Dus sat, twenty paces from the bottom of the slope.

The knight gripped the hilt of his sword; his hand tensed until it hurt.

Llrsyring moved onto the level ground beneath, eight paces ahead of him. The deathwalker materialised a rune. The crystalline manifestation glared with argent light - bright, piercing and fierce. The metal gauntlet flicked the crystal into a streak across the air.

The magus did not react; his dull, uncomprehending eyes merely watched the glaring projectile as it impacted his chest, and sent him tumbling across the rocks behind him. When his movement was halted by the mass of a boulder, he slumped limply against the ground. He still breathed, unconscious.

The helm turned to view the incarnate.

Ayadra sat, propped against the defile wall, five paces away. Stains - blood, dried to brown, covered the rocks around him. He was not hurt. His naked, obsidian skin was not wounded.

His eyes did not move. The abyssal orbs, in the sockets of the immovable bone mask that was his face, held his gaze on the black shape that lay on the valley floor in front of him. He did nothing more than breathe.

Llrsyring moved to his side. And knelt.

Ayadra did not react.

Elle'dred moved to the bottom of the slope. He stared at the remains. Black. Charred. Beyond recognition. It had been a man once. A man he had hated. A man that deserved to die.

Llrsyring said nothing. Elle'dred said nothing.

The wind whistled above, mournful and hollow.

Ayadra did not glance at the helm.

The incarnate raised himself to his feet. He did not meet anyone's eyes. He could not.

Slowly, the incarnate made his way up the slope to the ridge at the top.

Llrsyring glanced at the knight, and turned to follow.

Elle'dred threw one last look at the unconscious body of the male magus, yet alive, lying on the defile's floor some distance from him. Elle'dred sheathed his sword.

He turned away, and moved behind the deathwalker.

Llrsyring paused at the top, to bend down and scoop the unconscious body of Syla into a cradle. The large purple stain that discoloured the pale whiteness of the skin on her jaw spoke where she could not.

Elle'dred had no words to speak. He glanced up at the incarnate's wing covered back; his elongated, sinuous tail swayed as he walked. Ayadra continued ahead. The incarnate had not stopped walking. He would not stop walking.

The deathwalker quickened his stride to close the distance the incarnate had gained.

* * *

Keylyn shuddered on the cold stone floor of his cell. His body burned from the inside; the chill of the stones and the air, and the thick choking smoke of the bloodhound's censer had induced a ravenous fever.

The light glared down from the roof, but did not bring with it any heat. The incessant chill twisted his muscles, and wrenched spasms of coughs from his chest. The perspiration of his interrogation had forced what little water he had left in his body onto the stones around him, and since, he had not been fed or allowed a drink for longer than he could remember.

His mouth and throat were achingly dry, and even breathing was painful. He shivered uncontrollably, and the fever constricted his chest and head with a daze - fortunately, the feeling of sickness dulled the pain of his bruises and wound. He slipped intermittently into unconsciousness, but between the nightmares and the cruelty of his cell and the hours or days that had bled into eternity he had lost all grasp on what was real.

He dreamt of Hadrath; he dreamt of the disappointed face of his mentor. In every dream Hadrath stood there, staring at him; he couldn't bare to meet his eyes. He loved Hadrath, more than he could bear, more than he wanted to - and now he had failed him. He wanted to say he was sorry, he wanted Hadrath to forgive him, but he knew Hadrath would not - he would just stand there.

When Keylyn opened his eyes to see two silhouettes standing over him, he could not tell whether it was some new nightmare or if they had entered while he was unconscious.

One of the figures - the one holding a staff, bent down until the glaring light was blocked out, and the ambient illumination showed his face. It was the murderer - the new Staff-Bearer.

His insides knotted as hatred and rage surged, but beyond the shivers he could not move his body. He could barely glare up.

"Keylyn," the disdaining voice of the murderer said, "You have been convicted of the attempted assassination of a Staff-Bearer. The Tribunal has considered the evidence, and arrived at a fair sentence. For the acts of treason and murder, during a time of war, you have been sentenced to death by flame." the words curled into pleasure; Ragmurath paused and stood again, "However, as you have been the victim of a traitor yourself, we will grant you lenience. If you should help us to bring the traitor to justice, we will repeal your sentence."

Keylyn glared up at him.

"Elder Archivist Ormus is a traitor. He has plotted to overthrow the Archivist Assembly and undermine the Tribunal. He is willing to bring a civil war upon the land, even as our enemies try to overwhelm our defences and destroy us. And he has lied to you -"

"You killed Hadrath!" Keylyn growled through the dry, hoarseness of his throat.

Ragmurath's silhouette was silent above him for a moment, "Ormus told you that. He told you I freed a criminal from the cells and allowed him to kill Hadrath. He told you Helanath had found proof of this, as well. And then she was killed."

Keylyn glared upwards.

"No doubt, he told you I killed her. But all he has told you are lies. Ormus had a relationship with Helanath - he may have told you he loved her, but he did not. He used her; he fed her false information that implicated me, and then he used her proof to convince you that I killed Hadrath. To make sure you could not doubt anything he'd said, or that I was the enemy, he killed her. He pushed her into the depths of the stair-room; he knew we would see it as a 'suicide', and that she would not fight or suspect him, because she trusted him. Who do you think brought the news of her death?"

Keylyn was silent.

"Ormus killed Helanath, and he killed Hadrath -"

"You lie." Keylyn growled again, despite the pain. A paroxysm of coughing seized him for a time; Keylyn spat the effluvium, which was forced into his mouth, onto Ragmurath's robe.

The silhouette withdrew a step, snarled - but, after a moment, sighed irately, and continued, "You knew Hadrath well; you knew he was Ormus' friend. When Hadrath decided to use the prophecies of Thyesmered, he betrayed Ormus. And Ormus was convinced he was a traitor - so the Elder Archivist engineered his death, and then sought to blame it on me. I did not kill Hadrath, or Helanath - and I will not allow a traitor to destroy the magus."

Keylyn's glare had not wavered.

"You do not believe me. But I, unlike Ormus, have proof you will see in fullness."

Ragmurath's silhouette turned to the other beside him. The second silhouette descended, until a man's face was revealed by the reflected light of Keylyn's shivering body.

Keylyn did not recognise the face; a middle-aged man with greying hair - and vacant eyes that stared past him. The pupils were clouded with a dull whiteness - the man was blind.

"Keylyn," he said, "I am Adran, an oracle of Delphanas. You have been lied to - as we all have. The Elder Archivists are corrupt, they plan to remove the Tribunal and the Assembly. They are using the war to hide their movements, and they have killed many people already. I had a vision - of Ormus killing the Staff-Bearer. I did not want to believe it at first - and I did not tell my archivist. When Hadrath was killed I knew the prophecy to be true - I had not seen anything to know what Ormus planned to do next; so I forced a vision, despite everything I was taught since birth. I saw him - I saw what he would do, what he planned and what would happen." the man stopped, tears welled in his sightless eyes, "But in doing so, it cost me the sight of my blood. I am blind both to destiny and the world. But I know what Ormus and the Elder Archivists will do - they will bring about a civil war and Ammandorn will be destroyed."

Keylyn watched him with anger - and uncertainty; again he whispered hoarsely, "You lie."

The oracle dropped down to him, until his face was an inch from the magus, and clutched Keylyn's cheeks with his hands.

"I have lost my sight to protect Ammandorn! I do not lie!" the man shouted into Keylyn's face. Keylyn's eyes were locked on his, he still glared in wavering anger - but the man's eyes changed. The cloudiness inside parted and cleared, and the oracle met Keylyn's eyes with lively, clear pupils.

"You loved him," Adran whispered, "You loved Hadrath."

Keylyn felt the pain surge inside him.

"You loved him like a father," the oracle continued, "...but there was more...you hated it...you thought - you knew it wrong...but you wanted it. Desired it. You wanted him. You were in love with Hadrath...but you hated yourself, you hated feeling that...so you told yourself you were content as a son, yet your heart yearned for more."

Keylyn clenched his eyes shut; the truth of the oracle's words stabbed through him, and the agony inside flowed out into the light. He had been in love with Hadrath; he had had no one else, Hadrath had been the only one who cared about him, and he was not his father...but it was wrong. Keylyn had hated it for years; he had hated himself - but he knew he wanted it.

Keylyn sobbed, but no tears could run; he groaned in pain - he felt ashamed, guilty, he had failed Hadrath in every way, and he could not hide from it anymore.

The oracle stared at him; his face looked down with a comforting blankness. The cloudiness within the eyes returned.

From above, Ragmurath's silhouette said, "Dear me, Keylyn. You are stranger than I knew...such fealty, such loyalty to Hadrath. I could not comprehend why." the silhouette paused, "I did not mean to reveal you, or shame you with this."

"Keylyn, we need your help," Adran said, "Ammandorn is in danger. And we must stop the Elder Archivists."

"You have already betrayed Hadrath," Ragmurath stated, cruelly, from above, "Do not betray him further. Help us to foil Ormus; he asked you to help him - and you still can, you can spy on him as he asked you to spy on us. We will stop him before he kills anymore people."

Keylyn sobbed, the shivers of fever and pain became one violent spasm that shook him. Again he was seized by coughing - the oracle's comforting hands braced his shoulders gently.

"Help us, Keylyn," the oracle said, "To save your home. To avenge the man you loved."

"Make Hadrath proud." Ragmurath said.

Keylyn saw Hadrath's face again; the disappointment - always the disappointment. He wanted to make that face proud of him again.

He nodded, as forcefully as his exhausted, naked body could manage.

* * *

"You lied to me." Elle'dred muttered the accusation without blame.

He felt none towards Llrsyring.

The deathwalker turned to meet his eyes.

"You lied to me about what Hheirdane saw in your sword." he paused, "You knew what he told me wasn't true."

"Yes." the suit of armour admitted.

Elle'dred sighed, "But you didn't kill Hheirdane...I did."

The admission held no self-pity or self-hatred; it was the simple truth.

"In Dwener'dier..."

Llrsyring nodded. The armour had known since they had both emerged from that forest; Elle'dred was certain of it. He did not much care.

He had forgotten it; until -

In the forsaken glade. Elle'dred had killed his friend, because his friend wanted to die. He had forgotten - because some things are best forgotten. He had not remembered until now; until he had found Hheirdane's body, in a pool of cold blood on the floor of some unrecognisable, grey ravine.

Taedoran had killed him. But only because he had let the Sword-Bearer die.

There would be a price for saving Taedoran's life - Llrsyring had told him that. Still, he had forced the deathwalker to do it. Or rather, to show him how he could do it.

The price had been Hheirdane's death.

He remembered; like a nightmare of his childhood, so many years ago now recurring. Somewhere, through the impossible distance between the trees of that forest that stretched without end, he had lost the deathwalker. He had been so afraid; he had run. He had screamed 'Llrsyring' - but no one had answered. He had stumbled into a clearing, where two statues stood. One was of Taedoran, and the other was of Hheirdane. They both stood on marble plinths, staring at him with stone eyes.

He had not been afraid.

He had walked around them; Taedoran's back was as he was in life, but Hheirdane's was not. The Sword-Bearer's back was another image of his front, where instead he was doubled over in pain. He wept; his face was twisted by some unknowable grief. No - a grief Elle'dred had recognised. But his hands, desperate for his blade, were chained to the other side of his statue - chained to his other self. The self he lived in life.

It had been too painful to witness, and in fear or sympathy or cowardice, he, Elle'dred, the man's closest friend, had drawn his sword and stabbed. Hheirdane's statue had broken, had crumbled and fell to dust. He had known then that Taedoran would live...and like a dream, the deathwalker had reappeared. The armour had shouted for him to run. And he had. Because he knew Hheirdane would die. He knew Hheirdane wanted to die. He knew that he had killed him.

The truth. Elle'dred had to face it now; he could no longer deny it. The blood-covered body of his friend, lying on the valley floor with his neck bared open had shocked him beyond his denial.

Beyond the apathy he had lived his entire life with.

"Hheirdane wanted to die, or at least some part of him did. Since his son was murdered." Elle'dred paused, and after a moment chuckled forlornly, "He tried to kill himself then, but I stopped him. I convinced him he had something to live for. It think he wanted to live, in part."

A long silence remained across the rocks. The wind howled, far above.

"But he wasn't the same...he didn't want another child." he released a breath, "Tallai'dred meant so much to him..."

"How did he die?" the helm asked, gently.

Elle'dred glanced over at the emptiness of the eyeholes, "It was the end of a campaign. We had cleaned the Fore-guard mountains of goblin encampments. We were on leave. We were going to see his family at Narnauden, a town north of the range...his son had ridden ahead to meet us." Elle'dred paused, "The road was safe...it was supposed to be safe...the boy was six..."

"Goblins killed his son."

"No," he corrected, "His son was killed by bandits - anarchists. Men. A group that opposed the archivists. The towns were depleted because of the war...they were trying to use it to their advantage. They raided..." he paused; he did not need to finish, "They had not been considered a credible threat until..."

Until they had attacked Narnauden, killed an off-duty soldier who could have warned the town, and the six year old boy that rode the horse with him.

Elle'dred knew the truth, but as with everything that he had ever done in his life, he had not faced it, until now. Stranded in the middle of their enemy's lands, with so many people dead, and betrayed by the society and order he had served. Weeks after he had been betrayed.

"I never told Hheirdane...the Archivists had discussed the threats of the group with the Hall. I was partially responsible for the decision... the decision that they were no threat." Because it was easiest. Because a full negotiation - or a full action against them was an unneeded effort. Like so much of his life. Like all of his life.

His whole life was a joke - a waste.

It was funny. Damned hilarious.

Elle'dred chuckled, there were tears in his eyes, "I killed Hheirdane to save Taedoran...now they're both dead."

It was all so pointless -

The wind whistled quietly, in the grey distance above.

"How can he kill..." - another retreat, another attempt to find the easiest course, "How can that bastard kill so easily? How can he kill fathers and children like they are monsters? How can the law be so absolute?"

Elle'dred did not expect a response - and Llrsyring paused before he gave one.

"Taedoran had to kill his own daughter."

For a moment, all his hatred and blame evaporated - driven away by shock.

"Because she was born to the blood of necromancers. Because she was evil. The Tribunal forced him to kill her, as a test to become their Champion. He was forced to choose between his life and his duty, and he chose. You can blame him - I do, he deserved his death, but his past made him what he was."

Like Elle'dred. All the years he had wasted because -

"I never chose my own path, Llrsyring."

The truth. It hurt. No more than Hheirdane's death.

"All my life, I've only done what was easiest. I joined the Hall because my father wanted it. I didn't really care one way or the other. Even when I was harassed by the other sword-born, I did not care. My father was a knight and he wanted me to follow. I've never chosen anything for myself...for the right reasons," he laughed, honestly, freeingly, "My Champion-hood - I tried for Champion-hood to prove the sword-born knights were worse than me. That was my motivation. When I won, it surprised me...I didn't really want it, and I never did anything with it...it was just duty," he paused, "I should have killed Taedoran when I first found out about the necromancers. But instead I just told myself it was all too much; I couldn't fight the whole world...so why bother fighting him. I killed Hheirdane more than once...every time he tried to warn me Taedoran meant to kill me. He kept trying to warn me...I didn't listen."

Minutes passed, under the hoary sky of Agdor, and the undying wail of the wind.

Ayadra stirred in his sleep. In nightmares.

The incarnate lay beside the deathwalker; Ayadra had marched until he had collapsed from exhaustion. For hours. When finally his battered obsidian body could no longer manage to lift his legs, he had fallen, and lain. In silence.

Llrsyring had wrapped him in a blanket, and sheltered him, until he had fallen asleep. He could not meet the helm's gaze, even as the suit of armour held him.

Hours had passed, since they had left Dus unconscious in that defile - where Taedoran had died.

Elle'dred had done what was easiest, abandoned the magus. At least in that, he felt little shame, the bastard deserved to die - like the man he allied himself with. The man who deserved to die.

Involuntarily, against all better sense, he regretted the thought.

Syla slept, propped against the valley wall, beside him. He rested against her for warmth. The air was too cold. She was a magus, one of those responsible for the lies he had lived all his life - one of those he should have tried to confront. He didn't hate her - Syla was not his enemy.

She was an ally.

Llrsyring had said so. The purple bruise marring her features said so.

She had tried to help him, after they had seen that crater of goblins. She had provided an opportunity for him to do something - to confront the suicidal direction of their course; to confront the wrongness of their leader. But, instead he had just accepted the man's insane stubbornness -

"Do we continue?" he asked; he sincerely did not know the answer, or how to arrive at one, "With Taedoran dead, is there any reason for us to continue to Eryndor?"

"Yes." Llrsyring answered, "Ayadra must reach the shores of Eryndor."

"Why?"

"He will destroy Ammandorn if we don't."

Elle'dred sighed. He was still trying to do what was easiest. He knew.

"Ayadra's going to die, isn't he?"

Llrsyring did not answer. The deathwalker was going to die, and Ayadra was going to kill him, Elle'dred could be certain of that. The blade that had shown Hheirdane's death, had shown Llrsyring his - and the knight did not doubt the deathwalker had told him the truth of what he saw.

Unlike Hheirdane.

For a moment, Elle'dred almost wished he could look into the blade now - see his death - surrender. Do what was easiest. He chastised himself for the thought; he was ever who he was.

"We'll make for the west bank in the morning. Find a harbour." he decided, "We'll all die otherwise."

It was the easiest path, but it was the only one they could survive. It was the only choice they had - it was the right one, he told himself, and he made it.

Too late for it to do the full good it should have. The moment of self-pity passed into shame and a reprimand; he had no one to blame for the state of things except himself.

He promised himself that would change; it had to change.

Ayadra deserved better; he had never deserved what was done to him. He did not deserve to be the weapon of the Immortal.

There was nothing Elle'dred could do to alter that.

The west bank was days away, and there was no guaranteed passage to the shore. If they weren't ambushed, attacked and killed by goblins, they faced a course that might have them lost for weeks.

Elle'dred closed his eyes.

It was too much. It was all too much.

It was all he had.
Chapter 29

_The Wyvern Kings awoke, and they knew they had been left behind. They could no longer leave the Fourth Heaven, for the river had flown away from it, and would never return. The Wyvern Kings wept, and they were joined by the Elves upon the Fourth Heaven. The tears they shed fell to the ground, barren and scarred, and life began to grow anew. All darkness was lifted, and once again the land began to flourish._

* * *

Rethan was growing impatient - the time he had spent deceiving Phio had begun to weigh heavily on him. Phio was his friend - or had been, and he had not forgotten that he had once trusted the man. Phio had betrayed that trust - and while that stung Rethan deeply, he could not stomach Ormus' desire to prepare and plan. He wanted the ugly business over.

"You promised me we would deal with him quickly." he growled irately.

"There is more going on here than I had first thought, Rethan." Ormus responded.

The Elder Archivist glared at him, in frustration, "By the hells, tell me what you mean."

Ormus moved to the desk in his study, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He returned to Rethan, who was seated on the plush sofa against the southern wall.

"For some time now, I have had several spies within the Magus Keep," Ormus paused and handed the folded sheet to Rethan, "This message came only two days ago, from one of them. It outlines how Phio has managed to outwit many of my resources, and how he managed to dispose of one of my spies. High Magus Helanath."

Rethan read the message, "We must bring this to the High Inquisitor." he exclaimed.

"And tell him what?" Ormus asked cuttingly; his gaze rested on the Elder Archivist lowered on the couch, "We have only this message. If he were to act he would need the truth from the lips of my spy."

"Then bring your spy to Delphanas." Rethan snapped, standing to meet Ormus' eyes.

Ormus raised an inquisitive - and condescending brow, "It is not so simple Rethan. We cannot risk allowing any of Phio's accomplices to escape."

Rethan glared, sighed and sat; he muttered, "I cannot play this deceptive game any longer Ormus."

"Phio has been in league with High Magus - with Staff-Bearer Ragmurath for some time." Ormus stated, "And apparently, Ragmurath was responsible for High Magus Helanath's death. Undoubtedly he had a hand in Hadrath's as well."

"You told me Phio killed them."

"Phio was responsible. He ordered their deaths, but he used Ragmurath to carry out the assassinations."

Rethan stroked his brow, in aggravated confusion, "Why is Phio doing this?"

"You have been his friend for so many years," Ormus retorted, "I should expect you to tell me."

"Clearly," Rethan growled, snapping a glare at the other Elder Archivist, "I did not know the man as well as I thought."

"Phio is attempting to seize power."

"You said he was planning to turn on the Magus."

Ormus sighed, "He is. Although he is more clever than I thought." he paused and sat beside his fellow Elder Archivist, "He has planned this in frightening detail. He has used the Tribunal's own weakness against them; he may have turned Ragmurath, but once he is ready he will betray the new Staff-Bearer. The conflict will be..." Ormus faded into feigned dejection; he resumed after a moment had passed, "With the magus gone, there will be no one to oppose Phio. He will change the law to his liking, and remove those that were intended to protect us."

"The laws of necromancy." Rethan muttered.

"Phio, his aide and his oracle are all convinced that the law is in error. You heard their 'proof' as that young man called it - lies, all of it. It is Phio's justification for rewriting the law." Ormus paused, "He has interpreted all this prophecy himself, with only the assistance of an inexperienced and overly enthused, young archivist. He has gone against all the codes of our order, and he is mad."

Rethan sighed; the betrayal had deepened when Phio had shown him the prophecies that evidenced the Tribunal's participation in his war. Phio had acted solely on information that, to Rethan, was haphazard and convoluted - the Archivists trained all their lives in proper interpretation of prophecy, and consultation with one's fellows had always been a key element. Phio had ignored that duty - he had ignored the Assembly, he had ignored the Triumvirate, and he had already killed people on the basis of illogical predictions - he was mad. Rethan snarled.

Ormus watched the man as he sunk deeper into thought; the Elder Archivist added, "The Tribunal was instated to protect us from a dangerous evil within our society. The laws of necromancy are in place for a reason; to protect the people from a clear threat."

"I am well aware of why the laws are in place." Rethan snapped.

"We must bring all of Phio's resistance to justice. Especially a Staff-Bearer of the Tribunal."

Rethan glanced at him, "Ragmurath opposed the use of the Tome; was he not against breaking the law?"

Ormus thought for a moment, but answered flatly, "I doubt that the new Staff-Bearer knows who he is working for. And the bribe of his new position would have placated any concerns he might have had. Phio appears to be on his side, while Ragmurath destroys the Tribunal from within - when the dust settles the Tribunal will appear as the traitors, and Phio will be irreproachable."

"How can Phio do this?" Rethan asked.

Ormus maintained his silence for a moment, before adding, "Power seduces us all."

Rethan sighed.

"We must stop Phio. But we cannot do that with the proof we have." Ormus paused, "I know Phio is keeping something from me - he has not told me all his secrets. Phio does not trust me, and he will never trust me. But he trusts you."

The younger Elder Archivist turned to meet Ormus' intent gaze.

"This is why I need your help Rethan," Ormus professed, "He will share his secrets with you." he paused, "I would have preferred more time; his trust would have allowed you to coax the information we need from him without risking suspicion. But he is going to act far sooner than I thought; we must adapt our plan in concordance."

"Your plan." Rethan added.

Ormus watched him coldly for an uncomfortable second, "We need to demonstrate his trust is well placed in you. And engineer a situation that requires he share the details of his plan with you."

Rethan repressed the anger and frustration, and asked calmly, "And how will we do that?"

Ormus stood and looked down smugly on his fellow Elder Archivist, "You are going to turn me in."

* * *

They had reached the shore.

After too many days surrounded by the impassable and desolate grey of Agdor, backtracking cul-de-sacs he had lost count of, and hiding in crevices and crannies to avoid goblin patrols, they had extricated themselves from the wastes.

For two days they had been surrounded by the sounds of water - the sounds of the ocean impacting the shore; the incessant roar of waves so unlike the terrible cheers of the goblin host that populated the crater. Two days had passed with the waters' constant promise flooding the air - that beyond the last unassailable wall of jagged daggers lay freedom, lay sand and redemption.

The days had been barred by the impasse of grey stone - a dozen corridors, defiles and ravines that led only to unscaleable climbs, or sheer crags. It had nearly driven Elle'dred insane - the unbroken frustration - but this, this morning they had found the only, final path that led out of the wastes. That led to sand, and water and escape.

Desolate grey had opened to a paradise of undulating white dunes. And distant water.

For a moment, blissful beyond comprehension, Agdor lay behind him - all the past, of Ammandorn and his Championship and all the friends he had lost, lay behind him.

For a moment -

But that moment passed.

Ayadra had not spoken since they had found him. The incarnate trudged slowly across the sand towards the nearest dune. His clawed feet slipped as the ground depressed beneath his weight; he stumbled more than once - his tired stride evidence of the exhaustion that dogged him.

He would not meet anyone's eyes. He had that right.

He deserved better.

Syla stopped beside him; the bruise on her face was fading. For days she had not said anything either; the shock of all that had happened had driven her into a listlessness not at all unlike the incarnate - but, thankfully, she had recovered. She had even spoken to him about where they stood.

The magus was more resolved than he; she had decided to oppose the criminals of their society. Her own blood, and the order that had betrayed her. Llrsyring had said she could be trusted; Elle'dred believed him.

And her.

Though he would not yet admit it to himself, he respected her - no small amount; in truth, she was faced with a harder decision than he, and she had chosen her course herself. She was stronger than he was, by no small amount.

He glanced to the west; the wall of high grey cliffs they had emerged from continued into the distance; the sheer façade of rock rose abruptly from the rippling white softness of the dunes. The narrow band of sand, at the cliff's base, which stretched into the north, tapered to an end - where the grey rock met the sudden slopes of a distant mountain.

The mountain, the first in the range, rose monolithic and forbidding into the sky - birthed from the surface of the ocean. Its sharp sides sliced upwards out of the water and its base was rimmed in frothing, white foam, where a thousand waves crashed perpetually upon it. Beside it stood another peak, and beside that another, and another - a serrated wall of soaring rock sweeping into the north west; barring the western side of the Inland Sea, from the northwest tip of Ammandorn to the southwest tip of Eryndor.

The Bridge Mountains; which stretched beyond sight over the north-western horizon, connected the two lands.

Months would have been spent journeying through the range, and likely they would have died long before nearing Eryndor. The utter idiocy of their course struck him harshly - as did the guilt that he had not admitted it sooner.

He glanced into the east; the sharp cliffs of Agdor stretched onwards, edging the white dunes of the shore into the haze of the eastern horizon, marked by the soft shimmer of water.

After a moment's pause, he moved on after the incarnate and deathwalker.

Collectively, they agreed to a stop behind the nearest dune; the mound of sand, fortunately, obscured them from sight of the cliffs.

Rations were distributed.

Ayadra accepted the food offered to him, but as ever, he ate in silence.

Elle'dred watched the incarnate, as he finished the thick biscuit that served as a trail ration. He had lived off of rations identical to these for much of his life; the sustenance he had endured through the years of his service. Soon, they would set foot in a town again, and, while he did not resent the dry tastelessness that filled his mouth and his stomach, he would be grateful for some better food.

The town.

He glanced back to the west - they had emerged from Agdor far closer to the Bridge Mountains than he had hoped. There was only one town to the east from their location, and there was no other way across the shore than through it - or rather, over it. During the frustration of escaping Agdor, and the utter relief of discovering the shore, he had given no thought as to how they were to approach a fortified military structure that had blocked the passage of their enemies across the shore for centuries.

The Wall of Vyrys. One of their most effective fortifications.

Likely now it would get them all killed.

The relief of the sand beneath him faded into despondency.

"How exactly are we to get past the Wall of Vyrys?" he questioned.

"What?" Syla responded, confused by the question.

Elle'dred drew a crude diagram in the sand of the topography of the nearby landscape. He pointed despairingly at the large thick indent that symbolised the wall and the town, stretching from the line of cliffs in the south to the waves of the ocean in the north. Completely barring passage through the dunes.

"Somehow I think that all of us showing up on the wrong side of the wall will cause a bit of concern," he allowed a sardonic smirk, "Especially you two."

Llrsyring chuckled; Ayadra offered no reaction.

Elle'dred repressed a sigh, "We can't get past the wall, and the cliffs next to it aren't called the dagger slopes idly. The only way around," he paused; the only way around offered no hope, "Would be to return to Agdor. Make our way to the Valley of Ythordor - which would take days."

The soft, salty breeze whistled lightly across the despairing silence.

"Then we'll have to get into Vyrys." Syla stated, flatly, "But they'll never let Ayadra or Llrsyring into the town."

Elle'dred was grateful for the magus' assertiveness, "No," he agreed, "And even if they don't shoot us on sight as we approach the wall, they'll undoubtedly hold us for questioning."

"What will you tell them?" Llrsyring asked.

"The truth," the knight answered, "More or less."

Elle'dred paused; Syla and he could achieve the town, but that still left the deathwalker and incarnate abandoned on the shore.

"I'm sure you can enter the town unseen," he muttered to the armour, and glanced at the incarnate, "But Ayadra -"

"...Cast a spell on me." - the incarnate's voice was weak with disuse and emotion, but that he spoke at all granted Elle'dred some relief, "Then I can fly, like the night on the river."

Llrsyring did not reply.

For the first time in too long, Ayadra looked up and met the sockets of the helm.

There was no blame in the incarnate's eyes - only the glimmer of a shame Elle'dred could not understand.

Llrsyring said nothing in return. But nodded.

Ayadra looked away, returning to the listless stare, and the silence he could not otherwise break.

He deserved better; the thought resounded in the knight's head.

There was nothing he could do.

Elle'dred glanced at Syla, "Do you fancy a walk now? Or shall we rest a night before blindly marching up to a wall...and getting shot?"

Syla could not repress a wry smirk; she almost laughed, "A night's rest would be appreciated."

Elle'dred chuckled, but there was no honest mirth in the gesture.

He sighed, "I assume you'll be able to find us if we manage to get into the town?"

Llrsyring nodded.

Once again, in far too long, Elle'dred found himself beleaguered by a moment of relief.

* * *

Phio waited nervously in his study. Lyrien and Faldorn each had joined him; the oracle stood at his side, while his aide had been seated on a chair opposing his desk. They all wondered why Rethan had summoned them so urgently.

The Elder Archivist entered the study - and as Rethan turned silently, closed and locked the door, Phio's nervousness peaked into fear. Ormus was not with them - and barring a sudden and inexplicable detainment of the Elder Archivist, Phio's history prompted him to think Ormus must have been excluded from the meeting for a reason.

Rethan's face was blank - unusually blank. Phio could not place the emotion that dominated the heavy brown beard, or the hard eyes above, or the furrowed, aging brow.

Lyrien watched from his side; her attentive gaze remained fixed on Rethan's. The oracle's eyes read more than his, but Phio knew Rethan's expression was the focus of her concern.

Rethan glanced quickly across the younger archivist, seated on the far side of the room, to the oracle standing at the corner, to Phio.

"Ormus plans to betray us." he stated.

Phio was visibly shaken by the blow, the aging man had to brace himself on his desk; shock overwhelmed Faldorn's features, while Lyrien's characteristic coldness stifled any emotion from rising to her countenance.

"What?" Phio asked, quelling the bewilderment.

"Ormus has gone into hiding." Rethan informed. His voice was strangely flat; as though he was uncertain of his own words. Or defeated by them.

"How do you know this?" Phio managed.

Rethan sighed, and sat on the couch so that he would not have to face the other Elder Archivist directly, "Ormus came to my quarters yesterday. He said he had uncovered a secret that would expose the lies of the resistance - he was convinced you had lied to us, and the Assembly and that he had to turn us in to avoid..." Rethan glanced at Phio's face, bent over his desk, worriedly pleading for him to continue; Rethan steadied himself, "I think he suspected me. He asked for my help...he wouldn't tell me what he had uncovered - even though I agreed to his request. I think I was not convincing enough. Ormus would tell me no more...and when I went to his quarters this morning he was gone. I checked with the guards of the Library-levels, they said he was seen last night moving into the city."

Phio breathed a few ragged breaths, before slamming his fist down upon the table; it unsettled papers and sent a painful shock up his arm. The pain cleared his mind momentarily.

Faldorn stood, "Phio," he said, "Could he have seen the last verse of the prophecy?"

"Last verse?" Rethan asked.

Phio had not mentioned the last verse to either of his fellows - the removed last page concealed in the very chest that had held the Tome of Acrius. Phio had worn the key around his neck since he had removed the page from the tome - Ormus could not have discovered it.

Phio rushed to the large cabinet that stored the chest; selecting the appropriate key from the ring, he opened the doors. The chest still rested in its compartment.

"Phio," Faldorn continued, as the older man hefted the container towards his desk, "If Ormus goes to the High Inquisitor with this proof, they will arrest us. With two Elder Archivists convicted of treason the Tribunal will instate a martial-law edict throughout Delphanas." Phio could see the terrible cascade of events line up clearly, as Faldorn outlined them, "The Assembly will resist. The Tribunal will move their army against us - the guard of Delphanas will be called to defend the Archivists, and the Generals will choose sides. It will end in a horrific massacre."

Phio dropped the chest on the desk, brought the necklace from underneath his robe and placed the key into the lock; twisting it, he threw open the lid - the last page was there. It had not been shifted, asides from the violent rustling his recent handling of the chest had induced.

Rethan approached quickly, "What is this?" he asked, with sincere ire.

"Phio the War of Men will occur," Faldorn insisted, "And Ormus will set it into motion."

Phio glared at his aide, "Do you think I have not realise that?" he growled, "We can muster the guard, put out warrants for Ormus, conduct a search," he paused; Rethan had snatched the paper from the chest and read it, "We must put a guard around the High Inquisitor; prevent anyone from seeing him. He will want to know why, Rethan -"

"What is this?" Rethan shouted.

Phio glanced at the paper; ordering his thoughts, he met his fellow Elder Archivist's enraged eyes, "Thyesmered's last prophecy; that is the last verse." Rethan read it again, "After what Faldorn had found, I thought it best that no one else be aware of that - we believed we could prevent the last verse from occurring."

Rethan glared at Phio; the indignation and fury were dim amidst betrayal, "Why did you not bring this before the Assembly?" he yelled.

Phio was taken aback, "I did not think the Assembly would vote to use the Prophecy if they had read this verse."

"Of course they would not -"

"The prophecy had to be considered," Faldorn interjected in defence of his superior, "We scarcely acted in time as it was."

"We could not afford the inquiry the Assembly would demand into the last verse." Phio tried.

Rethan shouted, "That was not your decision!"

Phio weathered the loud strike, and stared back, "We must stop Ormus; we must order the guard to barricade the Library-levels and hold the magus bloodhounds in their quarters."

Rethan could only glare - Phio understood his friend's anger, but he needed Rethan's help.

"Rethan." Phio chastised.

The Elder Archivist snarled in displeasure, "Fine." he replied, forcing his temper down, "If we stop Ormus from meeting the magus bastard, then what?"

"We track Ormus down and kill him." Phio stated.

Sincere shock overwhelmed both Rethan's fury and his expression.

Phio continued, unremittingly, "He is a liability that must be dealt with. We cannot afford liabilities; not if we want to win this war. We must deal with Ormus, like we dealt with Helanath, and -" Phio stopped mid sentence; the Elder Archivist glanced at his aide, the strength dropped out of his voice, and he whispered, "Faldorn."

"Phio?" the archivist asked, concern lighting his face at his mentor's sudden weakness.

Phio swallowed hard, and feigned a recovered strength, "Faldorn, I need you to leave. There is a contact in the village of Thausden, in the highlands. He requested that I attend a meeting with him in eight days time," he paused; the words were difficult for him, "I cannot go now; if we manage to apprehend Ormus before he betrays us there will be too much clean-up work for both Rethan and I. I need you to attend that meeting. I will send word to him that you will speak with him and not I."

Lyrien glared at Phio; she knew he was lying - but she had no idea why.

Faldorn was baffled, "Phio I don't understand."

"Faldorn," Phio pleaded, "I need you to go now. I cannot risk missing the meeting. And I must know you are safe - there will be too many questions if the guards must protect an archivist such as you." Phio paused, "I will gather the things you will need, now, and see you to the stables."

Faldorn knew Phio wasn't telling him something, but Phio's eyes were entirely sincere. Faldorn nodded weakly and moved from the couch.

Phio sighed, and turned to the still livid features of the other Elder Archivist, "Rethan, please I need you to deal with the guards. I will join you shortly."

Rethan scoffed irately, but nodded and turned to the door; he slammed it behind him as he left the room.

Phio looked at Lyrien; the oracle's gaze was already probing with tacit questions - none of which he wanted to answer, but knew he would soon have to.

She nodded, coldly - their argument would wait until he returned.

Phio sighed; he desperately wanted to hold her, kiss her, if only for the momentary comfort, but he knew she would not allow him to be closer than she was already - a distance.

Phio moved to his aide's side; more lies about the details of his meeting with the contact threaded themselves into the thick shroud Phio needed to cover his mistake - he had killed Keron because of Ormus' advice, because of that bastard's lies.

Phio knew Ormus would not settle for turning them in, and should they manage to prevent his contact with the High Inquisitor, Ormus could send word to Faldorn. Ormus had handled Keron's death, and undoubtedly he had proof he could too easily use to frame Phio of the murder - or reveal to Faldorn Phio's hand in the archivist's death. It would destroy Faldorn - and Phio could not bear to lose another of his allies; nor could he bear losing a friend.

The guilt hollowed his gut, but Phio knew Faldorn would be better off never knowing what had happened to his lover. The resistance would be better off.
Chapter 30

_The Mountains of the Pit were the highest yet seen to the land. They formed the crown of the world. But it was a crown of shame. The mountains reminded all who looked upon them of the darkness that had tried to claim the Fourth Heaven. And that the darkness yet still resided beneath them. No trees would grow upon the Mountains of the Pit, and the Elves could not walk their slopes or even near their base._

* * *

Keylyn woke in the infirmary of the keep. He had lain in the bed for longer than a week; the fever had shaken and burnt him to the edge of his endurance. But the nurses and surgeons that supervised the infirmary wing had been too well trained.

At it worst moment, he had wanted the fever to kill him - he had lived with the face of his mentor staring at him for days; every second of lucidity was spent under the disappointed gaze. He hated himself - more than he hated Ormus, or Ragmurath, or anything else in the world.

He had resolved to make Hadrath proud - but he had sunk into a despair he could not escape from. He could never make his mentor proud of him again. The truth cut too deeply.

The last waves of the fever had passed, and despite the broths and herbs the nurses gave him, his battle with the Staff-Bearer and his days within the cell - but more so, the week in the infirmary, had utterly depleted his body.

The wound on his leg stung incessantly - though numbing salves had been applied. The bruising on his chest and arms made it excruciating to move. He would have to lie in bed for another week, if not longer, and it left only time for the circle of self-hatred and despair to drag him deeper into the pit of emptiness.

The Staff-Bearer's unexpected appearance at the side of his bed shocked him momentarily.

"Keylyn." Ragmurath said; his voice was flat and as always bore the edge of disdain.

The lower magus turned his head to face the man; Keylyn felt the anger glow, briefly, but his self-hatred quenched the feeling too quickly for him to do anything but glare.

"I wanted to check on your recovery." the Staff-Bearer continued, flatly, "The surgeons have informed me that you have overcome the fever, and that your wounds are healing - if slowly." Ragmurath paused, "However, they say the wound on your leg was too severe to repair fully. You will have to suffer a limp for the rest of your life."

Keylyn's glare faded to blankness.

Ragmurath was silent for a long time; the Staff-Bearer stood over him with a disdaining stare.

"The spell you cast was tantamount to necromancy." Ragmurath stated, "It was very hard to counter. Although, I admire your dedication in casting it. It would have killed you had I not intercepted it."

Keylyn looked up at him blankly.

"You are a powerful magus Keylyn." Ragmurath continued, "And that has caused some concern within the Tribunal. Although you have agreed to help us, we have taken the precaution of not lifting the binding spell put on you when you were imprisoned." he paused, "You will not be able to use your magic. We will lift the spell once you have assisted us in preventing the Elder Archivist's coup."

Keylyn did not move, nor speak.

Ragmurath sighed, "I assume Ormus will contact you when he is ready?"

Keylyn managed a slight nod.

"You must be well enough to do as he asks. I expect you to be recovered in no more than a week." The Staff-Bearer waited for him to respond; Keylyn nodded again weakly, "Demonstrate your loyalty Keylyn - as you did when you cast that spell."

Ragmurath moved away from the bed, and left the infirmary.

Keylyn turned his head to rest on the pillow; the ache flared - the anger he had felt towards the Staff-Bearer had shifted to Ormus, but this time it did not fill the emptiness inside him.

* * *

The morning had passed. They had crossed the stretch of shore that led to the Wall of Vyrys.

The walk had been maintained in silence, for which Elle'dred was partially grateful. There was too little to say in any case. Now, as noon shone somewhere above the cliffs to the south, they neared their next impossible challenge.

The Wall appeared in the distance; at first, a thin line of grey that jutted out perpendicular to the identically shaded and precipitous edge of Agdor. As an hour passed, the Wall grew until it towered not only over the flat, insignificance of the dunes beneath, but above even the bladed edge of Agdor beside it. The cliffs, now a wall of serrated shards pressed together like an impassable horde of daggers, yet occluding the southern sky, paled in comparison to the flawless construct that swept across the dunes.

The menace of Agdor was humbled by the unassailable might of the monolith that claimed the shore.

From a distance, the Wall appeared as though hewn from a single piece of stone; smoothly square, only the elongated lines of dull brown metal falling from the rim of the turreted parapet above marred the perfectness of its grey façade.

Elle'dred slowed their pace as they neared the base of the wall; no sound - or arrows, came down from the rampart above. He was grateful for the latter.

Twenty paces from the where the grey met the sand, the susurration of the ocean to the north and the playful call of the breeze overhead was overwhelmed by the bellow of a man.

"Halt!" the voice was unnaturally loud - and seemed to find strength in its echo across the façade of the wall, "Identify yourselves."

Elle'dred glanced at Syla.

The magus appeared occupied with the featureless grey of the stone, but after a moment, she turned to him and elucidated, "A spell. You will be heard."

Elle'dred couldn't help the slight disapproval of a frown, but craned his neck upwards, "I am Elle'dred, Champion of the White Wolf Hall, and this is Magus Syla."

There was a long pause before the voice responded, "Do not move until the rope reaches you. Secure yourselves. We will pull you up."

They waited for some time before the end of a heavy rope dropped with a thud onto the beach at the base of the wall. With the ample slack provided, Elle'dred gradually fastened a harness around both Syla and himself; the flinch of discomfort she tried to repress as he wrapped his hands around her waist, did not pass his notice. For a moment, he felt likewise.

After securing and testing the last knot, he turned up to the parapet obscuring the sky, "We're ready."

The slack began to reel upwards.

Both Syla and he flinched as their harness was pulled against them, and they were lifted from the shore. Slowly, apprehensively, they were hoisted along the seemingly endless surface of the Wall - even so close he could walk upon it, the surface yet appeared as a sole piece of unbroken rock.

Minutes passed as they ascended into the height of the sky, against the endless stone.

Long after both Syla and he had utterly lost confidence in their harness and the rope that hauled them up, they reached the edge of the parapet - the knight and magus each eagerly grasped the handhold that ended their dangling ascent.

Strong hands met their arms and pulled them the last few feet up and over the edge, onto the ramparts. They were lowered to the stone floor of the causeway, and propped against the parapet. Before either knight or magus could recover from the experience of the lift, the cold sting of metal was pressed against each of their throats.

A half-circle of guards surrounded them, blades beared. A guardsman, clad in the aging trappings of a Garrison Commander, remained the only unarmed man amidst the cordon of soldiers.

Unlike his men, his older, weathered face was not concealed by a helmet, and his greying hair, once black, wafted in the sea breeze. A displeased and contemplating frown emphasised every wrinkle in the sun-darkened skin of his countenance.

After a tense moment, in a deep, resounding voice that seemed alone more than sufficient to reach the shore below, he asked, "You say your name is Elle'dred, Champion of the White Wolf?"

Elle'dred nodded.

"And this is Magus Syla?"

"I am." Syla stated, unfazed by the soldiers or their blades.

"What were you doing in Agdor?"

"We were on a mission for the Archivists. Our course took us across the wastes - but when most of our party were killed, we fled to the shore. When we had gathered where we were we headed for Vyrys."

The Commander eyed him for a moment; Elle'dred had no doubt he sought any sign of falsehood - the knight had given none, in telling the truth. Despite the self-recrimination and bitterness it provoked.

"Lower your weapons." the man ordered.

The blades surrounding them were withdrawn, and the soldiers each moved away.

The Commander offered his hands to both Elle'dred and Syla, and both were effortlessly hoisted by his accepted grasp to their feet.

"I am Commander Rhordred," he introduced himself, and allowed an expression somewhere between a smirk and a scowl, "You are not the first we have had to haul up from the sand."

Elle'dred met his gaze - still it seemed to probe subtly for evidence of untruth, "More soldiers have come from Agdor?"

Rhordred nodded, "There is rampant fighting in the Valley of Ythordor, if you didn't already know." -the man's lack of respect for the rank Elle'dred held, did not receive more than a passing concern; he had not considered himself the Champion of the White Wolf for a long time, and he didn't need to fake exhaustion enough to assuage his lack of offence.

He was suddenly overwhelmingly exhausted - by relief.

"The war in the valley does not go well," Rhordred muttered, "More than one soldier has fled into the mountains and made their way here."

"How many have come from Agdor so far?" Elle'dred asked.

"A few dozen," the Commander responded, amidst the breeze, "There are many paths through the mountains...and our soldiers seem to be too good at running from the enemy," he paused, regret more than disappointment coloured his tone, "In any case, we patch them up and send them back into the Valley."

The state of the war evoked a sense of obligation Elle'dred had not experienced for some time; it passed.

"What was your mission?"

"We cannot tell you," Elle'dred replied, and paused, "By the order of the Archivists."

Rhordred loosed a grunt, which settled for a frown of disapprobation, "You said the rest of your party were killed?"

"Yes." Elle'dred answered; he could not conceal the bitterness or shame the response provoked, "However, we have not failed our orders...yet. I could order you by my right as the Champion," he paused; Rhordred restrained a disbelieving scowl - Elle'dred was almost grateful for his disrespect, "But I'd rather ask your help. Our mission - we were told it could decide the fate of the war."

The Commander eyed him impassively - any surprise the admission sparked was smothered by the stony features of his face.

Despite the man's lack of expression, Elle'dred continued, "We need to procure passage across the Inland Sea."

Rhordred raised a quizzical eyebrow, "You want to cross the sea to Eryndor? That is more than a little odd."

"Why?" Elle'dred asked, confused.

"Ships have been crowding our ports - all from Eryndor. Very few are scheduled to return there. Thousands of refugees have come here alone, because of the Dark Moon." the Commander paused; the bluntness of the utterance did not perturb Elle'dred as it might once have - he had seen too much in the past months for it to, "They say the Dark Moon has grown larger; that at night it lights the land in red, and one can hear the whispers of the evil that resides inside. I've not been there myself, so I can't say how much I believe the superstitions of scared people, but the name of Perrefiere is being spoken aloud these days."

Elle'dred did not flinch - yet he could not help feeling disturbed that it might now be spoken commonplace. By people who had no idea of what was coming.

He restrained a sigh; if he survived Vyrys, and crossing the inland sea, and whatever might happen in Eryndor, he could think about what the future entailed. For now, he was simply too exhausted.

Rhordred was silent a while yet, before he shrugged away the weight of the admission, and muttered, "Well, we'll get you fed and ready for your trip." he paused, and gestured to the soldiers further along the causeway, "As for a captain who'll take you there...I already have a candidate that will do it for free."

This time, Elle'dred was surprised.

Rhordred let a smirk or a scowl, "A friend that owes me a favour."

The Commander's men gestured for the knight and magus to follow them down the causeway, to the descending, switch-backed slope of staircases that led away from the ramparts.

Captain Rhordred watched both the knight and magus mount the stairs cautiously, and move out of sight. After some minutes had passed, and he was certain his new guests were well beyond earshot, he turned and glanced to a cluster of guardsmen manning the parapet some paces away.

The group had not moved since the two had arrived.

He raised an eyebrow. A question.

"They are the ones." a female voice called out.

Rhordred snorted in annoyance, "I gathered."

A guardswoman stepped away from the others, who were summarily dismissed with a wave from their commander.

"Well," she said, lightly, "You've been complaining since I got here that you are sick of being unable to help in the war - would seem fate has dropped an opportunity right in your lap for you."

Rhordred scowled, "The fate of the war he said. You didn't tell me that." she freed a laugh, as he did a scowl, "You are sure it's them?"

"Well two of them anyway," she remarked, flippantly. Rhordred sighed, shook his head, and managed a tired grin.

"A friend who owes you a favour, eh?" she asked.

"You owe me more than one." he muttered.

The guardswoman chuckled, "Just wanted to make sure you hadn't forgotten. Don't fret, I'll see them safely across the sea...they've been through too much already. A nice quiet boat ride will do them good."

* * *

Phio had not slept for two days. Since his fellow Elder Archivist had delivered the news of Ormus' betrayal, he had not had the time to sleep. Phio and Rethan had been occupied with the suffocating multitude of tasks to prevent the traitor to their cause from contacting the High Inquisitor.

The Library levels of Delphanas, the home to the Archivist order, had been turned into a fortified bastion - that with each passing hour, more and more resembled a prison.

The City Guard had dispatched search teams to sweep the metropolis itself for the traitor. But the immensity of Delphanas meant the chances of finding Ormus soon were nigh on impossible. Phio had let Rethan manage those difficulties; both had agreed that the task of placating the High Inquisitor should rest with Phio - and the Elder Archivist had not relished the task.

Phio had told the bloodhounds that they were threatened, and for their own safety they were required to remain in their quarters under heavy guard.

Ansara had not believed Phio's explanation for one moment, but these levels were his home, and the magus had not been so arrogant as to challenge his authority outright. Though, in time, Ansara would.

Phio knew the consequences of this sudden, inexplicable detainment would alert the magus to the resistance's movements; Ansara would redouble his efforts to uncover them, or at worst, the Tribunal would assume that they had already moved and prepare their army for an attack. Regardless of whether Ormus contacted the High Inquisitor, he likely had dealt a blow to the resistance they would not recover from.

Phio wanted the bastard dead - he wanted Ansara dead; the High Inquisitor's demise, along with his squad, would solve more problems than it would create, or so his tired mind reasoned. Phio had even begun to consider the act seriously, but he would have to consult both Rethan and Lyrien in due course; he knew neither of them would readily agree.

Exhaustion had blurred his thoughts, and as he strode wearily into his study even the shock of his lover standing in the corner of the room was not enough to provoke a reaction.

Lyrien eyed him; he was not sure what it was she had wanted from him, but her coldness was edged in an apprehension he recognised.

"Lyrien," he greeted; his voice was quiet from fatigue, "Rethan and I have secured the Library and the Archivists' quarters. Ormus will not be able to enter the levels without being intercepted by the guards...we are safe for the moment."

The oracle did not respond immediately; she nodded and muttered, "And the search parties?"

Phio thought for a moment, "Rethan is dealing with them; he thinks he might know where Ormus has escaped to. They will begin the search there."

Phio slumped on the couch; a numbing wave of somnolence washed across his body, for a moment he wanted nothing more than to let it carry him into deep slumber, but he forced his back into rigidity, sat upright and let the drowsiness pass. Lyrien approached and sat beside him.

"I don't trust him." she said.

Phio looked at her confusedly, "What?"

Lyrien stared at the Elder Archivist unwaveringly, "Rethan is hiding something from us. And he does not trust you."

Phio sighed, both from exhaustion and exasperation, "Lyrien, I trust Rethan implacably. And he trusts me as much - we have been friends for over twenty years."

Lyrien narrowed her eyes slightly, and said flatly, "And you have trusted me longer...and yet you are keeping something from me."

Phio's memory sharpened - and a crushing regret weighed atop his weariness.

"Lyrien..." he pleaded, barely above a whisper.

"Do not lie to me." she said; her voice was hard, and her gaze had sharpened into a reprimand - Phio saw the glistening hurt beneath the frozen edge, "You gave me your word you would not."

Phio stared at her; she was angry, hurt - he was responsible. He had kept this information from her - deliberately, it was not something she should have to bear on her conscience. But he wanted her support, he needed her support now more than ever; he needed her strength, he was too weak to continue without it.

"I had Keron killed," he muttered, not averting his guilty eyes from her gaze.

The oracle was shocked; the iciness of her face shook briefly, "What?"

Phio swallowed, "He was going to betray us, he called the bloodhounds here to expose us, he was going..." Phio paused - the lies came too readily to him, "He was innocent. Ormus brought me word that Keron was a traitor...Ormus told me Keron had called the magus here...Ormus told me..."

Lyrien stared at him; her features were still, and her eyes had frozen in pain.

"Lyrien," Phio pleaded, desperately, "I did not know. I believed Ormus...we all believed Ormus. I thought Keron was a danger, so I ordered his death...Ormus arranged it, as he did Hadrath's and Helanath's...Ormus lied to me, lied to all of us...Keron was innocent..."

"Why did you keep this from me?"

"I did not think..." Phio stammered, "I thought that if only I and Ormus knew, Faldorn would not be in danger..."

"In danger of what?" she asked, coldly.

Phio let out a breath, "Of knowing his lover was a traitor...of knowing we had to kill him." he paused, "But they were lies...even if they weren't, Faldorn cannot know that I killed Keron. Ormus handled his death, he could have proved it to Faldorn, and then -"

"Faldorn would have hated us," she stated flatly, "Hated you. He would have abandoned the resistance."

"I wanted to spare him the pain." Phio said.

Lyrien eyed him, "You did not want to face the guilt." she paused, "And you lied to me."

Phio stared at her; he wanted to plead and beg until his throat was raw, but the shame and regret choked any words from his breath.

The oracle stood, "I have to go. Good bye, Elder Archivist."

She moved towards the door.

Phio remained silent; he could not even turn his head to follow her, the weariness and desperation prevented anything more than a tear from falling across his face.

He lay his head down on the couch - the warmth the oracle had left in the cushion met his skin; he was alone, and there was nothing he could do. Rethan was infuriated with him because he had lied, Faldorn was days away from Delphanas because of his lies, Lyrien was gone; if she came back for anything other than the resistance, she might never forgive him, because he had lied.

Phio slipped into the darkness of sleep; everything will be alright - he lied to himself.

* * *

Elle'dred had spent a night in the officer's quarters of the military district. Both Syla and he had shared dinner with the Commander, and three glasses of port afterwards.

Rhordred seemed an amiable and even talkative man in the confines of his own residence. Admittedly, Elle'dred had not had much to add to the conversation, and as much as he realised he liked the man, he did not trust him enough to divulge anything more than what he had on the ramparts of the wall.

The Garrison Commander had explained the tactical situation - the near standoff that had resulted from their armies moving into the valley, and the bottleneck tactic that was extorting more men from their ranks than the soldiery could handle. The latest reports stated that the armies were steadily giving way to the enemy.

Rhordred had remarked, bitterly, that while the tactic had been effective initially, the Archivists were expending too many men fighting in the valley.

Elle'dred had agreed; the pang of duty - that his place should have been at the forefront of this war - passed unacknowledged. The bastards who ruled Ammandorn had always been too ready to kill their own people.

The Commander had complained about the overcrowding of the town; a flood of refugees had travelled from the flatlands in the wake of the opening attacks of the war, and ship after ship arrived in the port bearing ever more people fleeing Eryndor. Between the panic over the war with the goblins, and the fears of the Dark Moon, the town had been blanketed in a perpetual dread. There had been no riots, but overcrowding, fear and anticipation of further attacks would not simmer for long - fortunately, Rhordred had remarked, there was no food shortage.

The resident fishermen were reporting record business.

As night fell, Elle'dred had retired to his quarters. He had welcomed a bed far more readily than he had thought. Another day passed, before he had felt comfortable - that he was no longer under suspicion - to venture out into the town.

The dread was palpable.

The people were aware something was coming - what, they did not know. The feeling of apprehension, of concealed fear, was not born from the months spent on the sea, or the war that was waged over the cliffs to the south. A shadow loomed over the populace unuttered and unseen.

Three weeks ago, a goblin war band had broken through the defence in the valley, and had attacked Vyrys from its eastern side. The goblins had been easily repelled - the town's garrison had inflicted heavy losses on the foes, thankfully suffering little themselves. The survivors of the war band had retreated; according to the reports, the tenth army had cleared the last of them somewhere north of the dagger slopes.

While in no way a likeness to Delphanas, the town of Vyrys was in actuality a small city, and formed the northern most bastion of the Line of Keeps. When Elle'dred had admitted his never having visited the town, his host had welcomed the opportunity to enlighten his ignorance. The town was named for the General who had held the shore against the goblins over the course of a year, as the Wall had been erected. She had died defending the keep from an attack shortly after, but Vyrys had held then, and the current Garrison Commander, in her honour, had made a toast that Vyrys would never fall.

Elle'dred had thought about informing the man about what he had seen in Agdor - about the unfathomable crater and the goblins that filled it. He doubted any keep would be left standing when the real war came.

He did not know what forces the Immortal had mustered in Eryndor, but he doubted the sister land to Ammandorn would survive the enemy's thrust.

And then there was Ayadra.

What lay across the ocean for the incarnate, Elle'dred did not care to guess.

There was always hope. He tried to tell himself.

The overcrowding of the town was an understatement; still, however, there were places in such a city, that even desperate refugees did not want to inhabit. Until it became overwhelming necessary.

The knight found his way into a dark, narrow alley, between two establishments that had boarded their windows long before a war had erupted, and possessed walls thick enough that no sound could be inadvertently revealed to the outside.

Elle'dred passed a stain, that by its smell, he held no doubt had recently been blood. An ample amount.

It did not provoke more than a fleeting thought; it was the safest area he could find. People sneaking through the alleys around such places would not be regarded suspiciously - if at all.

Even if they were the Champion of a military order.

He waited. There was no doubt in his mind that the deathwalker would appear now of all times - he was alone and night was falling slowly over the already shadow-clad buildings.

The last of the day receded from the town. The first stars began to glitter in the purple haze of dusk.

Night fell, surrounding him with darkness.

The deathwalker had yet to appear.

Containing his apprehension, Elle'dred rested his back against the wall of a building, and waited.

He closed his eyes.

A noise, akin to the dying howl of the fiercest tempest, reopened them.

"Elle'dred," Llrsyring greeted from behind him.

The knight sighed and turned to meet the black silhouette of the suit of armour; his cowl had been drawn up to conceal the serpentine sleekness of his helm.

"This suddenly seems an idiotic move," Elle'dred muttered, "If you two are found..."

"We will not be." Llrsyring answered with a whisper, "I have placed the necessary precautions around us to ward off discovery. Providing we are careful."

He did not doubt the deathwalker meant spells - he let a displeased smirk cross his face. Ever, he did not understand his friends.

"Fortunately for all of us, Syla and I were not the first soldiers to emerge from Agdor. Although I still think the Commander of the Garrison suspects something of us." he paused, "That said, he has been very understanding; he even helped to procure passage across the sea...for free."

The shape of the cowl turned to the knight; despite the absence of light to reveal the material-obscured, immovable, metal features of the helm, he could see Llrsyring's suspicion.

"I'm doubtful too," Elle'dred muttered, with a smirk, "But I don't think we have much choice - it would criminally suspicious for us to refuse the offer. And I doubt we could find another Captain, if we weren't detained. Apparently, the Captain owes our commander friend a favour. And whether fortunate or not, we are apparently scheduled to leave tomorrow morning. Our ship is moored at pier eighteen in the fourth harbour."

The armour did not reply.

"Maybe we should just count ourselves lucky we made it into Vyrys at all." the knight muttered despairingly, "Ayadra?"

Again the deathwalker did not reply.

Elle'dred sighed.

Another long while passed - before his senses were disturbed by an abrupt and unexpected gust of wind that buffeted him from above, and very nearly knocked him off his feet.

The scraping of claws against the largely broken tiles of the alley, further up, drew his attention. The incarnate's silhouette stood for a moment, furling his wings, as the deathwalker approached. Almost cued by Llrsyring's proximity, Ayadra's unconscious shape went limp and began to fall.

The deathwalker caught him preparedly, and lowered the incarnate's bare body to the ground.

Momentarily, Elle'dred could not help but think that even without the incomprehensible power that dwelt in his obsidian flesh, Ayadra made a fearsome weapon with his wings and talons alone.

He deserved better.

Elle'dred doubted -

Llrsyring propped Ayadra against the wall of a building, and removed the incarnate's blankets from the concealing darkness of his own robes. After wrapping Ayadra in the warm material, the cowled helm glanced up at the knight.

"You'd best go, before you do anything that might draw suspicion."

Elle'dred nodded, but before he left he had to ask, "Llrsyring, what will happen to Ayadra once we reach Eryndor?"

The deathwalker only threw a silent glance.

As he left the darkness of the alley, and the two strange creatures that were now his only friends, Elle'dred tried to remind himself there was always hope.

After Ayadra became the weapon of the Immortal and killed Llrsyring.

End of Part 2

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Other works by D W Gladstone -

The Wyvern Kings Redemption Series

Book One

The Land of All Things Fallen - Part I

The Land of All Things Fallen - Part II

The Land of All Things Fallen - Part III

The Land of All Things Fallen - Combined Edition

Book Two

The Forest of a Thousand Suns - Part I
