Robert Beers - Wells End 02 - Whispers Of War

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Writers Exchange E-Publishing www.writers-exchange.com/epublishing/ Copyright ©2004 by Robert Beers First published by Writers Exchange E-Publishing, May 2004 NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

WHISPERS OF WAR THE WELLS END CHRONICLES BOOK 2 By Robert Lee Beers Writers Exchange E-Publishing www.writers-exchange.com/epublishing/ THE WELLS END CHRONICLES BOOK 2: THE WHISPERS OF WAR Copyright 2004 Robert Lee Beers Writers Exchange E-Publishing PO Box 372 ATHERTON QLD 4883 AUSTRALIA

Published Online by Writers Exchange E-Publishing www.writers-exchange.com/epublishing/ ISBN 1 876962 38 0 All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to individuals known or unknown to the author are purely coincidental. Prologue

Over a thousand years have passed since Labad wrote his prophecy. Some say he used a dagger dipped in his own blood. A peculiar writing instrument at the least, but if one examines the characters in the prophecy closely, their color and line could have come from just such an origin. The Prophecy of Labad has been a point of discussion among clerics, scribes and scholars through the centuries. Even among the learned, there are those who say it is only legend, or that the dying King merely penned visions seen by a man in the last throes of Garloc poisoning. Yet the prophecy is coming to pass and the Promised Ones written of in its few terse passages are now among us. These are the last of the King's lineage. Twin brother and sister imbued with the sympathetic magik of Labad himself and armed with his weapons. Their names, Adam and Charity, have already become subjects of legend in their own right, he with his sword, and she with her bow. Many of my colleagues may choose to dwell upon that part of the legend alone, but there are others who have been placed into service to aid their endeavor, for the prophecy itself bore powerful magik. I list them here: Morgan, who molded Charity into a warrior of supreme skill, Milward, the last of the Wizards of old, who sheltered them while they were newly come into their task. Hersh of Dunwattle, who took them under his wing and taught them skills of market, Flynn and Neely, one-time thieves now stalwart companions of the lady Charity, Drinaugh, the first Dragon ambassador to walk among men, and the wolves, once shy of all mankind except the Wizard Milward, now packmates with Adam. They have had their part in this play, as did the Lady Thaylli, the only woman to ever ride a Dragon. There is another player, but the prophecies are even less clear on this point. They intimate this one is wields great power brought into being by circumstance. This is not to say the path was trouble free. By no means, the perils of their journey were many and varied. Within the caverns of the Dwarfs, they faced the dread Fire Wyrm, beyond the caverns, Trolls, villainous Giants, bigotry and war. Through them all they persevered and survived, though often by the sheer skin of their teeth. A petty war, begun by the machinations of the Sorcerer Gilgafed tore them apart as he had planned and eventually placed the lady Charity into the tender care of Lord Cloutier, the vile Earl of Berggren; her tribulation yet worsened by the belief that her brother lay murdered by the soldiers of Avern. On the way to her time of trial she encountered Flynn and Neely, who upon witnessing her skill with the long bow promptly bent their knee and swore fealty to their Lady. The worth of these two would be proven repeatedly, even during the long two years she would spend as a prisoner within the Earl's castle. Despairing of finding his sister, Adam journeyed back to where he and Charity stayed with the Wizard Milward. Together they set out on a journey to find Charity and to foster Adam's rapidly developing powers, what the Wizard's call Shaping. On that journey the young man learned much about whom and what he was, and of the awesome power he would wield. There are those who speak of a thing impossible, a cavern of glistening diamond, formed by the strength of his will alone. There are dark whispers that the one of whom the prophecies call The Destroyer is now walking among

us, if this is so, the time is indeed short. I have come across a particularly ancient vellum written in the dead language of Angbar that speaks of The Destroyer as having once been a man born of the great eastern whore. Who, or whatever she may be, one can only guess. I believe the Witches may be speaking of a city. Other prophecies speak of it as having no soul of its own but filled with the thoughts and lusts of many minds, black with death and decay, a twisted being that revels in pain, both in that which it gives and that which it receives. Fear is said to flow from it in great waves and this does give verification to the Angbar fragment. War is now on the horizon. It is said the Southern Empire has formed an army whose numbers defy description and they march north to bring the vengeance of the Ortian Emperor down upon Grisham and her Duke. The Duke's madness has killed many of those in his care and few will escape the time of judgment, unless the Promised Ones fulfill their destiny. Alten Baldricsson, Grisham Librarian Chapter One

McCabe enjoyed the feel of the sunlight hitting his face and the small sharp pains the glare caused after so many long months in the Duke's dungeon. The steps leading down from the Ducal Palace he took leisurely, one at a time, while casting his new senses for what he had touched in the far north. On the outer edge of sensation, he felt a quiver in the ether and decided a small detour from his trip north would not hurt. The voices inside him shrieked at him to leave the city now but he ignored them and began walking down the hill in the direction of that tantalizing power, toward the Southern Gate Market. Grisham's townsfolk fled from him as he approached, giving the former thief a wide path down the twisting streets. Later, when asked, some of them would talk about an all-consuming desire not to be there when the little man dressed in black passed. Pressing for more brought nothing but an invitation to leave the table. A beggar, crippled by a fever in his youth was unable to escape a brush of McCabe's finger. As the thief moved on down the street a grinning mummy watched his departure, holding a placard upon which was scrawled a plea for alms. He worked his way through the area city dwellers called The Steps. A series of switchbacks steep enough to require ladders in some sections. Thatched roofed inns, shops and cottages lined The Steps with individual landings leading to each brightly painted front door. The crowd fleeing McCabe's approach spread out into the various landings and streets as he passed through the area. Most were able to stay out of his reach but those who could not were fed upon. Bodies left in various contorted positions showed the passage of his wake. From The Steps the last stairway led into a twisting street lined with pubs and joy houses called Adders Alley. At its far end the alley opened onto the northern boundary of the Market Square. A Scrivener's studio stood across from the gaudy entrance of a pub at the alley's mouth. McCabe's vantage point in the alley's mouth gave him full view of the ten acres that made up the Market

Square. The sense of power that drew him came from somewhere to his right along the shops and warehouses lining its perimeter. He narrowed the focus of his senses until they rested upon a gathering even he found noteworthy. A Dragon, a wolf pack, an old fossil with a respectable smattering of the power and a young couple, stood some three hundred yards from his alley. The power that drew him emanated from the male half of the couple. It was tantalizing, overwhelmingly so. Inside him, the voices shrieked again. This time begging their host to go northnow , before disaster fell upon their plans. He ignored them in favor of the power that emanated from the sandy-haired young man. It pulled him like a moth to a flame. Swallowing his saliva, he flexed his hands hungrily and started across the square towards his prey. The onlookers that had been gathering to gawk at the sight of a Dragon with its own wolf pack fled from him like mice from a cat, many of them screaming. Thaylli turned her head in the direction of the screams and released one herself as she fell back against the wall of the Factor's shop. Her arm rose, pointing to the northwestern corner of the square. All heads whipped around to where she pointed and they saw a small black figure walking across the square towards them with a panicked crowd streaming away from it to either side. Milward began forming a protective shaping and then groaned, falling to his knees and grabbing his head in agony. The amulet against Adam's chest flared into a tiny sun burning him with its heat and he fell back, gasping at the pain. “Back, spawn of evil, back,” The Alpha wolf growled and bared his fangs at the approaching figure. One of the younger pack members snarled and launched itself at McCabe's throat. A small yelp sounded and the wolf's body fell to the market floor, shriveled. Drinaugh spread his wings and called out to the wolves, “To me, to me, now, for your lives.” Two of the other young pack members hesitated, snarling and snapping at the one who had killed their packmate. The Alpha wolf's mate growled at them, “Do what the Skylord says, now!” The pack retreated into the shadow of the young Dragon's wings and he furled them around until all the wolves were covered. Drinaugh looked back at the approaching figure. To him McCabe looked anything but dangerous, why he was smaller than the girl who had ridden on his neck. A swat of his tail could probably discourage the fellow from coming any closer; however, there was the corpse of the young wolf lying there. He turned to ask Adam what he should do but his friend was occupied with the old Wizard. Milward still knelt on the ground, waves of pain and nausea swept through him and his head felt as if it would soon burst from the pressure. Adam tried to get him to stand. “Milward! Come on! You've got to get out of here, now!” The old Wizard merely groaned and shook as with palsy. Thaylli fought the waves of terror that swept through her and bolted from the shop's wall to where her man knelt with Milward. “Adam! Please! We've got to go, that thing's going to kill us!”

“Don't you think I know that? Milward's frozen here, like ... like he's been struck down.” Thaylli shrank back from Adam's anger. “Why yell at me? I didn't do anything.” “Don't waste foolish anger on your companions,” Milward's voice was a weak groan and audible only to Adam's ear. “Only the power of a shaping can save us now.” He collapsed in Adam's arms. Adam watched the figure walking across the square towards them. A shimmering presence seemed to be moving with and around it like the echoes of a score or more insubstantial beings. An impression of intense evil flowed over him and nausea tried to overwhelm him. This must be what downed Milward, he thought, and then he saw the corpse of the young wolf. It was the one who had hunted with him, the one who had became his friend. A mist, red, like the one that came over him when he pummeled that bully drowning the kittens, rose up. Adam did not even feel the headache that usually ensued with a shaping. All he wanted to do was blast the man who killed his wolf into as many small pieces as possible. Every fiber of his being formed into what shot out of his hands. Folk looking into the square found themselves blinded for a few moments. The brilliance of the shaping went beyond white into a color that could only be described as pain. Thunder exploded into the square, sending those in it to their knees. Next, came a sound like that of a gigantic waterfall, as air rushed in to fill the void McCabe's body left as it vanished over the horizon. Miniature tornadoes created by the disturbance completed the destruction of goods and stalls within the market square, and a rain consisting of what had sat in those booths pelted those below for several seconds. The air was scented with a pungent mix of spice and vegetables. Milward recovered instantly and looked at Adam with something akin to fearful awe, “Bardoc's balls, boy! What in the nine hells was that?” Adam did not answer the Wizard's question. He stood there, unmoving in the same position he held when the shaping erupted out of him. He was becoming less fond of his path in life, and his chest hurt where the amulet burnt him. Running footsteps came to him from his back and his left, unbidden, another shaping rose up to destroy the threat when Thaylli threw herself against him, sobbing. He put his arms around her, not knowing what else to do. When Charity was upset he could say, “Buck up, It will be all right,” and give her one of those lopsided grins she found so amusing. This, this was different, entirely different. His feelings concerning Thaylli were a major part of the emotional stew churning within him. “Adam? Adam!” Milward's tone brought him out of where his thoughts wandered and he turned to see what the old Wizard wanted. “What is it?” “Your tone is a little sharp for addressing an elder, Adam.” Drinaugh looked at him mournfully while he allowed the wolves to leave the shelter of his wings.

Adam looked up at the Dragon's face. Drinaugh's expression said volumes about the value of an apology. He looked down again, avoiding Milward's eyes. “Sorry, I didn't mean to snap. That ... thing killed my friend Milward! Loo ... look at what's left of...” His shoulders began to shake and he turned back to Thaylli. This time, she comforted him. The wolf pack left the shelter of Drinaugh's wings and padded over to where the corpse of the young male lay. As one they pointed their muzzles skyward and howled. The sound of their voices carried an intense feeling of mourning, sadness and loss. The pack expressed as one being the feelings of all. Tears coursed down Adam's cheeks unhindered by shame. He felt as if he should be howling with the wolves. The vigil continued for several minutes and then stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The wolves lowered their muzzles and then turned to walk out of the city. Adam watched them go, holding on to Thaylli's hand. “They know you need to stay here Adam.” He could hear the tears in her voice and nodded his understanding. A growl came from the Alpha wolf and Drinaugh tapped Adam on the shoulder with a finger. Adam looked up at the Dragon. “I heard him.” A blush warmed Adam's cheeks. “What did he say?” Thaylli asked. “That's wolves for you,” Milward shifted his stance putting more of his weight against his staff, “Practical to the end.” “What ... did ... he ... say?” Thaylli stamped her foot while glaring at her companions. “They are a practical people, as the Wizard said.” Drinaugh lowered his head to where he could whisper in Thaylli's ear. “The wolf repeated what his mate had said earlier. They expect Adam to prove his leadership by siring a litter with you. The last was just a farewell.” Thaylli watched the pack walk out of the ruined gate and then break into a run. She blew out her cheeks and then turned to look at Adam. “Well, I'll be a wet hen.” **** “Look at that boy go.” Colling-Faler twitched a thumb at Circumstance as he ran past with a sheaf of elevation sketches clutched in his hand. “Yes,” Lemmic-Pries looked up from his perusal of a set of building plans with the suspicious look of a cafeteria, “even Gaspic is being turned around now by the boy's attitude. He actually said thank you to him the other day.” Colling-Faler raised an eyebrow, “He did? What did Circumstance do? Erect the General's headquarters all by himself?” “No,” The Chief Engineer chuckled, “nothing quite so elaborate. You know how Gaspic sets impossible deadlines for himself that only he cares about keeping?”

“Uh huh, so?” “So he finally decided to set one that could only be met if he managed to be in two places at one time. The boy overheard our favorite administrator bemoaning what the cruel fates did to him and stepped in. With that imaginary blade hanging over his neck he really had no choice in the matter, at least the way he sees things. Circumstance not only completed his part of the task on timeand error free, but he did part of Gaspic's as well. He's an amazing kid.” Lemmic-Pries shook his head as he refocused on the plans before him. **** Mashglach tapped a talon against the small crystal bell balanced on the top right corner of the podium. The Dragons assembled in the expanse of the great hall heard the sound. It began as a silvery hum that seemed to come from every corner of the hall and built into a pealing tone that slowly faded into soft echoes and memories of better times. Dragons of every shape, size and color filled the great hall. At the bell's sounding they all turned from their individual conversations to face the front where the Winglord's platform rose. “The Winglauch is now begun. Let all who have business before the Dragons prepare to raise their voice in truth,” Mashglach tapped the bell one more time. When the tone faded into its sweet afterlife the chief Dragon raised his wings to their full extent, “Who has business before the Winglauch? Let them come forth.” “I ... I have something to say,” Shealauch stepped forward aided by a push from his mother, Temidi. A number of Dragons voiced quiet encouragement. Mashglach looked down at the young Dragon and nodded, “Come forward young Shealauch and tell your tale.” He indicated the assembly with a sweep of his right arm, “The Winglauch will receive your words.” Murmurs of agreement and approval of the young Dragon swept through the hall as he worked his way up to the dais that held the podium. The Winglord smiled as Shealauch paused just before the dais, “Come Shealauch, step up to the podium and tell your tale. All of Dragonglade waits for you.” Shealauch took the three steps to the dais as Mashglach moved aside, opening the way to the podium for the young Dragon. “Ummm...” Shealauch cleared his throat and swallowed nervously as he looked over the assemblage in the great hall. Paintings of great moments in Dragon history covered the walls of the hall and he tried focusing on them in order to reduce some of the stage fright threatening to overwhelm him. “Ummm...” He tried once more. “You said that,” The mutter came from within the front rank of Dragons accompanied by a flutter of soft laughter that rippled through the hall.

It helped to reduce the tension as well as the young Dragon's stage fright. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. He was ready now. “I saw a small party of the beings who call themselves men below me during a time of flying over the lands to the north and west of Dragonglade. It was my first sighting of them since the Wizard and his apprentice came to visit us.” There was a muttering and nodding of heads as the assembled Dragons digested the bit of recent history. Shealauch continued, “I thought it would be fun to look at them more closely and maybe to talk with them.” This time the muttering contained mixed approval of the young Dragon's actions. “I realize now that was a mistake,” Shealauch said contritely. “Tell them how you came to be wounded,” Mashglach urged him on. The young Dragon nodded, “As I dropped into a lower flight layer they sent these things Niamh called arrows up at me. Two of them stuck me in the foot and the tail. The pain was surprising and I almost fell out of the sky. I didn't know what to do. I thought they were all friendly. “I also had no idea I was bleeding so much. I mean, it was just my foot and my tail. I didn't know about the large arteries being there.” “Just tell us what happened, Shealauch. We'll discuss your lack of attention in class later,” the Winglord said dryly, which brought another ripple of muffled laughter from the assembly. “Sorry,” Shealauch's facial hide flushed pinkly with the intensity of his blush. “After the arrows pierced me I flew back to Dragonglade as fast as I could. Things were getting blurry by the time I reached the glade and I don't remember the landing, not much about it anyway. “The next thing I remember clearly is my mother and Niamh tending to me.” “Someone had to,” Timidi sniffed loudly and then subsided upon receiving a glare from Mashglach. Shealauch looked at the Winglord who encouraged him with a nod, “Ummm, well, that's all of it really. The Winglord called for the Winglauch and here we are.” The young Dragon backed away from the podium and then made his escape back to the comforting wing of his mother. Mashglach retook his place behind it, tapped the bell once lightly, and then stopped the chime with a forefinger, “We have heard young Shealauch's witness of what caused his injuries. This is the first time in our recorded history that any of the younger races has attacked a Dragon. Not even Gilgafed during the Magik Wars dared such a thing, but just such a thing has now happened. It is only by the grace of the Creator that Timidi's child survived to give testimony today. “Now,” he paused for a moment, “is there anyone else in this Winglauch who wishes to have his or her voice heard upon this matter?” Chabaad stepped to the front and raised his right hand, “I, Chabaad, have something to say.” Mashglach beckoned the mature Dragon forward, “Speak your peace.”

“The other races, those who call themselves Men, Elves, and Dwarves live lives far shorter than we Dragons do. We need to remember this, especially in times when we are forced to deal with them. It has been over a thousand years since the Magik Wars. That is the last we had much to do with those other than our own kind outside of the occasional Wizard or lost traveler. Is there agreement on this?” Chabaad swept his gaze across the other Dragons in the hall. Many gave no visible response one way or the other as to his question, but enough of them nodded either to him or to the one they stood next to in the assembly. He grunted, satisfied with the answer and then continued, “Because of this difference in life spans, we Dragons have a tendency to discount, or in some cases ignore altogether, events in the world that may resolve themselves within a few seasons or a few years. Our perspective is a different one than those of the younger races. “However, in this instance, I do not believe Dragonkind can afford to act similarly. Shealauch's having been attacked and his resulting injuries are a symptom of a larger problem that has yet to manifest itself in this world. We, if we choose to wait and see as before, will be remiss in our responsibility to the younger races at the very least. At the worst,” he paused for effect, “we may bear silent witness to our own destruction. This is not the same as deciding on changing a planting schedule.” The last word in Chabaad's speech threw the Winglauch into turmoil. Mashglach had to tap the bell several times before the tumult began to settle down, “Enough of that! The Winglauch is a place for sober discussion and resolution.” He leaned forward, putting some of his weight on the podium, “This is not a classroom where favorite theories are bandied about for the entertainment of students. This is a serious matter that Chabaad brings to our gathering and it bears much weight when placed with the witness of young Shealauch.” The Winglord looked into the hall of now silent Dragons, “Is there anyone who has a view supporting or opposing Chabaad's words?” For several long moments, the hall remained quiet and then several hands rose into the air. Oscglach, an ancient Dragon so old that white showed on his muzzle, walked slowly to the front of the crowd. Those Dragons with hands raised lowered them as they saw him pass. He shook his head at Mashglach's invitation to take the podium and instead turned to face the Winglauch, “You know me, I am Oscglach. A few millennia ago I was Winglord before the tragic Naublouch and our wise Mashglach. My view differs from that of the noble Chabaad. I believe this is a lesson we all may learn from, if wisdom is still the path for Dragons. He mentions time and how our use of that time may decide our fate. In that aspect, we agree. The interpretation of that aspect is where we part ways.” A few murmurs followed Oscglach's statement but he ignored them as he continued, “I have lived for seven thousand years, though you are already aware of that bit of information, I find it is still good to use as an illustration of where my opinion is founded. During that time, it has been my privilege to see the traditions of Dragonglade proven valid repeatedly. Time, rather than being our enemy, will in all probability be our greatest ally in this matter. What enemy can assail us here? What foe could pull down the glory that is Dragonglade? No, learned Chabaad is in error in this matter unless I miss my guess.” He paused and paced to the left a few steps and then returned to where he'd been standing, “Prudence and long tradition suggests to us it would be best to do what we have always done when it comes to dealing with the younger races, wait and see. There is always the possibility their next generation will

change for the better. After all,” he spread his hands, “their lives are pitifully short in comparison, are they not? I see no reason why we must change our way from what has been proven to serve us well up to now.” “That's because you never had a child fly home punched full of holes!” Timidi pushed through the assembled Dragons and stood before Oscglach, her nose twitching in fury. “Timidi!” Mashglach gasped at the female Dragon's lack of manners. She rounded on the Winglord, “And you! What good does this gathering do for us when the ones who ... assaulted my Shealauch are still out there waiting to shoot their arrows at some other helpless Dragon?” “Silence!!!” Mashglach's roar snapped Timidi's mouth shut. “Great Gakh female, have you taken leave of your senses? Shealauch's injury is the reason we're here now. Hide and Tail! What do you think this is all about?” He waved a hand in the direction of the other Dragons. Timidi kept her peace under the glare of the Winglord. Mashglach held his gaze on her for several seconds and then nodded, “Very well.” He raised his voice as he addressed the Winglauch, “Is there anyone else who wishes to speak?” **** “Lookit ‘im,” Muttered the Avernese guard as he sipped from his bowl. “Sittin’ off by hisself, thinks e's too good fer the’ rest o’ us ‘e does.” “Keep yer voice down Aerny and eat yer breakfast,” The one to his left said, as he hid his moving lips behind the pipe in his hand. “Tha knows ‘is nibs there's a friend o’ th’ Baron? Well, e is, an’ it'll be yer ‘ead on th’ spike, not ‘is, iffn this little field trip goes wrong.” Aerny sipped another mouthful of soup as he watched Vedder. The priest was huddled with his hands crossed in front of his knees, staring into the fire he'd insisted be set up several yards away from those the guards were using. “Makes yer wonder, ya know?” “Wonder whut?” The pipe smoker blew a cloud into the firelight. “Whut goes on inna head like that?” Aerny finished off his soup and tossed the bowl against his pack. “Probably workin’ on ‘is next sermon, I'll bet.” Vedder stared into the flames of his campfire as they danced into the morning air. This was it, he was sure of it now. A Cardinalship at least would be his once word got out of his triumph over the evil the Dragons represented. It seemed amazing to him how ignorant most people were concerning the ways of evil. Well, soon he would have his proof of how Dragons abducted young children and used them in obscene rituals before devouring them at their perverted feasts. One thing did surprise him though. Dragons were much bigger than he thought they would be. **** “Well, Sergeant, are you going to tell us what this enlistment nonsense is all about?” Charity blew on her tisane to cool it and then patted on the log next to her indicating where he should sit.

No more than a quarter hour earlier, Sergeant Travers and the members of his patrol had attempted to “enlist” Charity and her companions into the Ortian army. The attempt had proven less than successful and ended with the Sergeant staring at the business end of a clothyard shaft. Much to his relief, the arrow stayed with the bow. The redheaded giant didn't seem inclined to do more than hand him a cup of tisane and the wiry fellow with the crutches ... well he was just as glad a fight had been averted. He looked at Flynn and then at Neely. Both of them wore unreadable expressions. The men in his party were no help either. With a sigh, he sank down onto the log and sipped some of the tisane Flynn had given him. “I suppose talking is better than getting our bottoms kicked in.” Neely chuckled around his pipe, “I'll say. Let's hear yer story.” The Ortian Sergeant nodded, “Very well. The name's Travers by the way.” “Neely.” “Flynn here.” “And I'm Charity.” He nodded in turn to each introduction. “There's a good reason why my men and I are out doing the job we are. You know anything about the Ortian royal family?” Flynn and Charity shook their heads; Neely nodded while blowing a smoke ring. Travers grunted, “Seems I'd best add some history to what I'm telling you. “The Emperor's a good man, a real good man, considering where most Royals put their pleasures. His brother's the Ambassador to Grisham, been there oh, two years now since the death of his wife. Wouldn't hear about backing out on the assignment. Many folks respected him for doing that. The man did his job and didn't ask for favors just because of his title.” “Sounds like a good leader. Someone men would follow,” Neely said around his pipe stem. Flynn nodded agreement. “That he is. The whole family is that way. Not a bad apple in the bunch.” Travers finished his tisane and held out the cup for a refill. Charity did the honors. “Thank you.” He sipped and smiled, “I wish I had your touch. Mine always tastes like I used saddle polish.” “Boil the water first, and then add the dry mix. Don't cook it. Cooking brings out the bitter oils and kills the sweet.” Charity tested the coals with a twig. Travers sipped again. “I'll keep that in mind. Back to the Ambassador's family, the only one any of them worried about was the daughter, Hypatia. She had a touch of the wild in her and Alford, the Emperor, her uncle, was more than a little happy to see her accompany her father up to Grisham and away from the crowd she was running with back home.” “Grisham, safer than Ort? Sorry Travers, but I'm havin’ trouble belivin’ that,” Neely took the pipe out of his mouth and stared at the Sergeant.

His answer was a sigh as the Sergeant lowered his gaze to the fire. “Turns out you're right in your feeling. Someone killed Hypatia. They found her body in one of the guest rooms in the back of the Embassy.” He shook his head, “She was only seventeen summers along too. The Emperor knows Grisham's Duke is involved. I don't know what proof he got, but he's not a man who goes to war over just a suspicion.” “And you got the conscription duty, right?” Flynn scootched down his part of the log until his ample bottom was on the ground and his back against the wood. Travers grimaced, “Right. It's not a proper duty for a soldier, but when you've got orders...” Neely's smile was crooked, “Seems those orders ran into a bit of a snag.” “Not really,” The Sergeant smiled back. “They said to collect as many conscripts aspossible .” He emphasized the word possible. “Seems to me possible wasn't in the picture here. As far as I can tell, I've obeyed my orders to the letter,” He put down his cup. “How did she die?” Charity's question came out wrapped in quiet dread. “That's not something I'd tell a lady, miss,” Travers looked embarrassed. “Tell me anyway,” Charity's tone and expression changed from concerned to dangerous. “Better do it,” Flynn grunted. “But...” The Sergeant looked hunted. His eyes darted to and from each of his hosts. Neely yawned, “Go on man, she's not gonna let ya go. Yer on the’ hook, ain't no wrigglin’ off.” Travers lips tightened and then loosened in a sigh, “Very well, but you're not going to like it. I don't like it; in fact the information apparently wasn't supposed to be known to the average soldier. But now that I think of it, the Crown probably leaked it to move the foot soldiers off of their collective butts.” “Probably,” Neely agreed, “so what did they leak?” “That she was raped and strangled. Whoever did it wrung her neck like a chicken's.” He paused for another sigh, “But that isn't the worst of it. I told you the Emperor had proof of the Duke of Grisham's involvement?” His three listeners nodded yes. “The worst of it was where they found the proof, whatever it was.” “Where?” Neely asked from around his pipe. “Umm ... well ... as I said, I'm not sure I should mention it with a lady present,” Travers demurred. “Mention it!” Charity said sharply. Travers told them. No one said anything for a while and then Charity stood and began pacing back and forth in front of the campfire. “Animals! To do that to ... to ... she was my age. Do you know that? My

age. That could have been me on that bed.” “Not likely,” Flynn said dryly. “You know what I mean,” Charity dismissed Flynn's attempt at humor. “We've got to do something about this.” Neely snorted, as he tapped out the dottle from his pipe, “Like what, go to war against Grisham? Somebody's already doin’ that.” He pointed the handle of the pipe at Travers. Charity rounded on Neely, “Were you listening to him? How can you sit there after hearing how the Duke violated that girl? The man's no better than Cloutier and he deserves exactly what the Earl got.” “Well...” “You think he doesn't?” Charity's eyes blazed. “You think maybe Cloutier didn't deserve what he got?” “I didn't say...” “I'm not going to let an animal like that escape if I can do anything about it,” Charity hissed as she turned away from Neely. “Do you have room for one more in your party who isn't a conscript, Sergeant Travers?” She sat back down next to the Ortian and glared at Neely. He returned the glare, “Now don't you do that to me, missy. You ain't gonna make me guilty just because of what you think I thunk. Women are always doin’ that, an’ it ain't fair! I never said we wasn't gonna do somethin’ about what th’ Duke done, I just asked what was we gonna do, an’ that's somethin’ different all together. Ain't it?” Charity looked at Neely, trading glare for glare, and then she looked away. “You're right,” she murmured. “What's that?” Neely asked with a half smile,” Sounded like you said something.” Charity scowled. “You heard me,” She muttered. “What are you grinning at?” She said to Flynn who was watching the two of them with a wide smile pasted onto his face. “Me? Nothin'. Whut should I be grinnin’ at?” Flynn's smile grew broader. Charity looked from Flynn to Neely and then to Travers who wore an expression of supreme puzzlement. Neely began to share Flynn's smile. “Men!” Neely nodded, “Yup, that's us, and I ain't apologizing for it neither. So, whadda you wanna do? Join up with the Sergeant here and hunt down the Duke fer whut he done? Or keep headin’ on south where we most likely are gonna run into more press gangs?” “That'sconscription patrols ,” Travers said quietly. “Same difference,” Flynn grunted as he settled a bit against the log. “Like he said, Miss Charity, what's next? You wanna head to Grisham? I'm ready to go if you are.” Charity's expression softened immediately, “Thank you Flynn. I really appreciate it.”

“Neely?” She looked at the tracker. He shrugged, “Yeah, sure. Why not? Just give me legs a chance to heal up afore we get too much into th’ thick of it, ok?” Charity jumped off her place on the log, ran over to Neely and gave him a hug. She then did the same to Flynn. “Thank you, both. You don't know how much this means to me.” Neely took hold of his crutches and struggled to his feet, he headed over to where the horses were tied off. “Where you goin'?” Flynn turned his head to watch Neely as the tracker stumped out of the campsite. “To sharpen me sword,” Neely replied without turning his head. “Looks like there's gonna be some killin’ to be done.” **** Adam watched through the ruined city gate as the wolf pack run across the lands west of Grisham until he could no longer see their forms in the distance. Faces appeared at the corners of the building lining the square. Braver hearts ventured into the square itself, but kept a wary eye locked onto the thirty-foot form of Drinaugh. When the Dragon showed no sign of desiring to snack on anyone, others came into the square. They rummaged through the rubble to see if anything was left worth taking. Items not thoroughly ruined by the power of Adam's shaping were snapped up or fought over. Drinaugh looked at Adam, “I should probably be going too.” “But you just got here,” Adam looked up into the face of his Dragon friend. Drinaugh's presence brought back a rush of memories of Dragonglade. He had a sudden desire to go back there, where things weren't so confusing and it was easy to forget about the terrible power hiding within himself. “I know,” Drinaugh looked around the market square and at some of the fistfights going on over disputed loot, “but this isn't exactly what I expected. You live in a violent world Adam, and if I'm going to be any kind of an Ambassador to these people I'm going to need to learn a lot more about them.” “Why can't you learn about them right here?” Adam asked. “I don't think they'd let him,” Milward poked aside a piece of rubble with the point of his staff. “Grisham's general population may be willing to forgive a little breaking and entering, as long as they get to profit from it along the way, but it would be foolish to expect that sort of understanding coming from their leaders. They're not people who take kindly to those who damage their property, especially the expensive pieces.” He pointed his staff at the gaping hole where the gate used to stand. Adam looked to where Milward pointed, “Oh.” “He's right Adam,” the young Dragon murmured, “but don't worry, I'll visit as often as I can, and we Dragons are very good at keeping our promises.” “Please don't go,” Thaylli hugged Drinaugh's abdomen fiercely. “I'll miss you terribly.”

“You fainted when you first saw me ... twice,” Drinaugh said quietly, with a smile at the corner of his mouth. Thaylli hugged him harder, “That was before I knew how kind and gentle you are.” “That's very nice of you to say,” Drinaugh answered, “but I really must be going. You don't want Grisham's soldiers trying to poke me full of holes do you?” “If they do, I'll have Adam send them all away just like he did that horrible man in black!” Thaylli sounded like a mother defending her child. “No,” Drinaugh gently chided her, “that wouldn't be right, and if you think a bit, you'll agree with me. It's not good for an Ambassador to develop the reputation of being fearsome.” “We have to get going. Eventually someone official is going to notice us and then start putting pieces together. I don't feel up to another fight with guardsmen right now,” Milward tapped the floor of the market with his staff. “Say goodbye and let the good Dragon leave.” Drinaugh disentangled himself from Thaylli and backed away. “I'm going to miss you all, especially you,” He looked at Thaylli once more, “Dragon rider.” The Dragon leapt into the air and with powerful strokes of his wings soon lifted himself high into the sky. Soon that all could be seen was a dark speck that shortly disappeared into the clouds. Adam turned to look at Thaylli, “What did he mean, Dragon rider?” “Oh, didn't I tell you? I rode him on the way here. Like a horse!” Adam didn't know what to say. He felt jealous and scandalized all at the same time. “Y ... you ...rode ... a Dragon?” “No,” Thaylli said primly, taking small offence at Adam's tone, “I rode my friend.” She turned her back on him and stalked off being sure to show him a good amount of wiggle as she did so. Milward chuckled as he clapped a hand onto Adam's shoulder, “Let's be off lad. I could use a bite to eat. It's near lunchtime isn't it? A brown ale would go down well right about now.” “I doubt I'll ever understand women, Milward.” Adam let himself be led off into the street that would lead to Granny Bullton's Inn. Thaylli allowed them to catch her, not wanting to become lost in the city's twisting streets. “That's the way of Creation Adam,” Milward murmured in a voice for his apprentice's ears only. “Women understand us only too well, whereas we are kept continuously in the dark, by design, I'll wager.” “What was that?” Thaylli looked at the old Wizard suspiciously. She got a beatific smile in answer, “Why nothing my dear. I was just telling our mutual companion here about the lovely brown ales awaiting us at the Inn. Would you like one too?”

Thaylli sniffed, “I don't like ale, it's too fizzy. Some wine would be nice though, for a change.” They left the square behind and walked up the incline into the Inn's neighborhood. Back at the market's edge a whip thin figure dressed in the black uniform of a Grisham Guard Officer watched them as they turned a corner and disappeared from his sight. His right hand played with his rapier's ornate basket hilt as his lips pursed in thought. **** “I tell you, it's getting’ worse,” The scullery maid hissed to her fellow worker in a frightened whisper. “I had to go into his rooms to pick up the dinner dishes last night an’ he didn't even look at me. He just sat there twitchin', with his eyes all bugged out, starin’ at somethin’ that ain't there. Gave me the chillers.” “You needn't convince me Lisbeth,” The other girl, a rather plain, short woman with mouse brown curly hair replied. Her arms were immersed in suds up to her elbows, washing crockery, “Poor Grisabele paid for it the night before.” Lisbeth started, nearly dropping the stack of plates she was carrying to the cupboard, “Grisabele? No! How?” The short one, relishing the chance to retell a good juicy story pulled her arms out of the suds and wiped them on her apron, “Well, what I heard is, she was called into his chambers ‘cause he says there's bugs crawlin’ all over ‘im.” “Oh my! What did she do?” Lisbeth had a deep-rooted fear of all things crawly. “The poor thing made the mistake of tellin’ his nibs there weren't no bugs in his bed.” The short one shook her head; “I hear he went spare at the tellin', total spare. Started yellin’ crazy like, and grabbin’ her, sayin’ she's a Garloc in disguise. Grisabele tries to say she isn't an’ to please stop hurtin’ her.” “What happened? How did she pay for it?” Lisbeth put the dishes away while keeping one eye on her co-worker. The stout one's eyes grew large, “I hear he called in the guards outside the door and had ‘em skin her, alive! All the time she was screamin’ an’ bleedin', an’ he was yellin', sayin, ‘See I wuz right!’ Over an’ over agin.” Lisbeth felt her gorge rise at what the dishwasher described. She choked as she tried to keep it down. Her co-worker handed over a dishcloth dampened in cold water, “Here dear, this'll help. I hear poor sire Wuest weren't so strong. Nestia tol’ me he come runnin’ out of his nibs rooms and lost it right there in the’ hallway. Three times.” That was enough for Lisbeth and she showed why. “Oh you poor dear. Just like sire Wuest.” Chapter Two

The barmaid bent low at the waist allowing the young man at the table full view of what she had in store.

“Here's your ale, honey. Can I offer you anything else?” Adam looked at the expanse of bosom hanging before him and gulped, “Uh, no, no thank you, thanks anyway.” He received a broad smile that was more invitation than greeting, “Well you just let me know, ask for Kittlyn.” She brushed her hand across his cheek before wiggling her way back to the kitchen door. “They can go back into their sockets now,” Milward said from behind a mugfull of ale. “What?” Adam forced his eyes off of Kittlyn's retreating form and back to Milward. The old Wizard chuckled lightly, “Your eyes. Shall I pick them off of that girl's behind for you?” “I guess I was staring a bit, wasn't I?” “Just make sure you act a little more circumspect when Thaylli comes down those stairs,” Milward pointed with his free hand. “She strikes me as a jealous type. I wouldn't want anything ... permanently damaging ... to happen to you.” Adam drank some more of his ale, “She knows I'm trustworthy.” “In her head she might, but in her heart she just like every other young woman, she won't completely trust you until you jump the swords together, and maybe not even then. You're a good-looking young man with a lot of promise. Some would probably take you for the son of a Lord or even a Royal.” He leaned forward and whispered, “We won't tell them you're really the true Emperor.” “Hsssst!” Adam shushed Milward's whispered revelation. “I don't want that mentioned, ever! There's no proof that's true.” The old Wizard raised his eyebrows, “No?” “Ok,” Adam grimaced, “so there's proof, but it's not overwhelming, and frankly I'd rather not have the job. I like being free, besides, I still have something else I need to do.” “What's that?” “Find my sister, Charity. We've been to the library. You've found out what you needed and youdid promise to help me find her.” Milward paused before replying, “Yes ... yes I did.” Thaylli's entrance into the room diverted Adam from questioning the Wizard further about his supposed reluctance in finding Charity. She chose a moment when Kittlyn was placing a platter of roast slices on the table while at the same time reintroducing her bosom to Adam's shoulder. A few quick steps moved her from the foot of the stairs to the table where she, apparently by accident, jostled Kittlyn enough to separate the girl's front from Adam's back. Thaylli looked up and smiled at the barmaid. There were knives in that smile. “Bring me some wine, please. Thank you.”

Kittlyn's returning grin promised mayhem. “Why certainly, Red or white?” “Red, please.” Thaylli's voice could have frozen the bottle. Before actual blows could be exchanged, a guardsman officer in an elaborate black uniform pushed through the door to the Inn. He looked directly at the table where Milward, Adam and Thaylli sat. His gaze centered on Adam alone and the hand resting on the elaborate basket hilt of the saber at his side tightened slightly. Milward leaned forward and whispered, “Make no sudden moves lad. This one's not like the rubble you dispatched earlier.” Adam nodded. The man was tall and whippet thin but with broad shoulders and capable looking hands. He moved with a dancer's grace as he crossed the floor to stand at the end of their table. The guard officer gave them a half bow. “I apologize for intruding on your luncheon. May I sit? I have a proposition for the young Swordmaster here.” Milward chuckled, “Swordmaster? I fear you have us mistaken for a different party Sire Guardofficer.” The man in black's mouth quirked in a quick half smile. “One old man with the look of a Wizard, a young fellow nearly grown wearing a Royals blade and a comely wench who rides Dragons. A grouping such as that leaves a broad trail. I fear no mistake Sire Wizard. May I sit?” “Sit, sit,” Milward sighed. “What is this proposition you say you have?” He sat across from Adam and looked at him again in that same searching way he did when he entered the room. It made him uncomfortable, like he was one of Milward's samples for study. “That was quite an exhibition of swordplay you put on back there,” The guard officer's voice was cultured and smooth. Thaylli wasn't sure she liked it. “What swordplay?” Adam picked up his ale and drank. The officer shrugged, “Now, I myself have faced down as many as four swords at once. They were probably better than the average press gang member, true, but six? No, I don't think anyone since Labad himself can claim such a feat. Where did you train? Who was your mentor? Certainly not this old fossil here, all due respect to your position, Sire Wizard, but you don't look the type to train a killing machine such as the one I witnessed earlier this day.” He leaned back when Milward's only answer was a lifting of his eyebrows. “Ah well, no matter. My real reason for being here is to ask if our young hero would be willing to aid our fair city in her time of need.” Adam put his drink down. “I ... Prefer to know whom I'm talking to. You seem to know a lot more about us than we do of you. Who are you and why the special interest in me?” The officer gave Adam another half bow from where he sat. “Captain Bilardi of the Grisham City guard at your service.” “The son of the sitting Duke?” Milward ran a fingertip around the rim of his Ale glass. He did not look up as he voiced the question.

Another half bow, Thaylli thought he looked like an elaborate children's toy bobbing up and down like that. “At your service.” “There are those who say you're the deadliest blade in all of the Trading States.” Milward looked up at the guard officer. Bilardi smirked with a slight shrug, “Some would say. That one is still without scars says more.” “You still haven't said why you're here,” Adam growled. A brief frown crossed the officer's face but was quickly stashed. “I haven't, have I? My apologies. I am here, specifically, to offer our young hero a commission in my Lord Duke's City Guard.” **** The old pub catered to those who served in the houses of the city's gentry. Because of this, information was as much an item of trade as potables. Hodder and Stroughten, life long friends to the Duke's man, Wuest, sat in their customary stall waiting for their friend to arrive. “He's late.” Stroughten cracked a peanut shell he'd plucked from the wooden bowl between them. “You said that five minutes ago.” Hodder reached into the bowl and snatched out a peanut of his own. “Doesn't make him any less late.” Stroughten chewed his peanut and washed it down with a mouthful of Porter. “Avin's prolly got some duty the Duke's shoved on ‘im at the last minute.” Avin was Wuest's circle-name, the one reserved for friends and family. Hodder finished off his drink and signaled for another. “He'll show, when he can.” As if Hodder's words were a spell, Wuest pushed through the door to the pub, looked for his friends and walked over to the stall in four quick strides. “God's Avin, yer totally white! You see a ghost er somethin'?” Hodder shifted his lanky frame over to make room for his friend. Wuest dropped into place next to Hodder and rubbed a hand against his eyes. “Brandy, please,” he called across the room to the barkeep. “Ale's no good for what I've seen,” he said in a lower tone just for his friends’ ears. Stroughten leaned onto the table as Hodder fetched the brandy. “What'd you see? Gotta be somethin’ mighty awful fer a face like that.” “Brandy first, then talk.” Wuest leaned back against the high back of the bench. “He's insane, completely insane. There's no other answer.” His hands shook, spilling a few drops as he took the brandy from Hodder. “What's the...?” A raised hand cut off Hodder's question from Stroughten.

Wuest took the snifter and drained it in one throw. “You want another? You still look the ghost, Avin.” He nodded his head yes and Stroughten signaled the barmaid for another brandy. Then he turned to reach across the table and patted Wuest on the shoulder. “Ok Avin. Tell us.” The Duke's aide's hands still shook and he clasped his fingers together to steady them. “I was in my work area arranging the new schedule for the feast time when I heard the shouting. It was the Duke. He claimed there were black beetles crawling through his bed linens.” “Was there?” Hodder sipped some more of his ale. “Of course not! Sorry, didn't mean to snap.” Hodder and Stroughten nodded in sympathy as Wuest took the second brandy placed onto the stall table and tipped half of it into his mouth. His hands still shook as he brought the snifter back to the table. “No, no bugs, just those in his brandy-sodden brain. The poor chambermaid made the mistake of telling him so. She was skinned alive for her trouble.” He picked up the snifter and finished it. “Gods,” Stroughten breathed out the epithet. “No gods'd be involved in somethin’ like that,” Hodder muttered, “only madmen an’ devils.” “It was the screaming that brought me into his chamber where I saw the whole bloody horror,” he spoke into the tabletop. Hodder signaled for another brandy frantically. “It looked like she was clothed in blood,” Wuest continued on in a monotone, “and all the time the Duke was dancing around, pointing at her as she screamed out her life, saying, ‘See, I told you so. See, I told you so,’ over and over again. My gorge started to rise and I rushed from the Duke's chambers. Didn't make it much past the doors. As long as I live I'll never forget what I saw. He's got to be killed.” Hodder put an arm around his friend's shoulders as the barmaid approached. “Hsst! Talk like that'll get our heads removed from our shoulders.” “Maybe we should talk about it.” Stroughten paid the barmaid for the brandy and put it in front of Wuest. “Are ye insane?” Hodder picked up his ale and drained it. He signaled for the barmaid without taking his eyes off of Stroughten. “Avin here has a bit of a reason to feel like he does. I'm rather fond of me head being where it is thank you very much.” Stroughten looked his friend up and down for a second. “You'd have no trouble. Just stand in place. They'd mistake ye for a fence post, ordinary lookin’ as ye are.” “Gotta be done,” Wuest murmured into his third brandy. “Can't leave, Southern army's too flickin’ close. Gotta kill the skrudin’ bugger, gotta...” He collapsed face down onto the table. Stroughten looked across the table at Hodder. “He's right there, can't leave. Guard's got the port all

locked up and the Southerners ‘er marchin’ up the highway. Duke's gonna get us all killed if this keeps on.” Hodder's voice came out as more of a squeak than a whisper, “What can we do about it, Leum? You gonna shove a blade into the Duke's back? I'm certainly no blade and I sure as the pit ain't no killer!” Leum was Stroughten's circle-name. He looked at the ceiling for a long moment. “I know a man.” **** “I said,” Mashglach repeated his request to the Dragon Winglauch, “is there anyone else with thoughts pertaining to the matter before us?” Shealauch raised a hand from his place next to his mother who was still fuming, though quietly. Mashglach nodded in the young Dragon's direction. “Yes, the one for whom this assembly has been called, young Shealauch. We stand ready to hear your words.” The young Dragon looked around him at the assembly and though having spoken before, suddenly felt very small and very, very young. The Winglord appeared to loom over him like the shadow of Cloudhook over the plains. Timidi leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Don't be nervous dear, just tell them what's on your mind like before. They all want to hear what you have to say.” Shealauch looked back up at the Winglord. Mashglach smiled at him gently and nodded. “Compose your words in the way you feel most comfortable young Shealauch, we will wait.” The Dragons in the great hall all murmured their agreement. “Umm...” He coughed nervously and tried to start again. “I was wondering...” He coughed again, his throat felt very dry. “Would it be undragonlike to just forget the whole incident and leave the humans to their short lives while we continue on with the business of being Dragons? I mean ... I'm healed now. So, why can't we?” He looked up at the Winglord and then turned to face the entire assembly. “Why can't we?” Several of the older Dragons expressed audible surprise at such a mature attitude coming from a Dragon of Shealauch's age. **** Drinaugh dipped a shoulder slightly and banked around a small cloud. Below him the land changed from high prairie into the rolling foothills preceding the heights of the Spine of the World. Soon he would reach the ancient crater that was the vale of Dragonglade and home. He watched the landscape glide by beneath him, seeing the snakelike patterns of creeks mixing into the darker greens of the treetops as the ground beneath rose into the flanks of the Spine. A change in the familiar landscape brought him into a tight-banked turn as he doubled back to take a closer look at what caught his eye. Focusing his telescopic sight brought the double row of dots into view as a company of men, men marching behind some on horseback. Drinaugh hovered in place as he considered what to do. His recent experience with the wolves and Adam's mate-to-be had taught him much about the species. In fact, they were more like Dragonkind than he had originally believed, but something about this group bothered him.

Hovering took prodigious amounts of energy. Dragons were designed to be gliders; they were not hummingbirds. Drinaugh could feel the huge muscles in his back and in his chest beginning to fatigue. The men were climbing the foothills in the direction of Dragonglade, and those were not gifts they carried. He dipped into a short dive to pick up speed and then started the climb that would bring him over the spine and down into the home of the Dragons. **** She leaned back in the saddle as the dappled mare picked her way down the slope. In front of her, Sergeant Travers and his patrol neared the bottom and would soon be onto flat ground. “Come on girl,” Charity clicked her tongue in encouragement to her mount. The cat, in her usual place behind the saddle, complained quietly at the jostling as they bounced with the horse down the steep path. Flynn and Neely followed behind Charity and her mare. Neely was actually glad to be on horseback as his still healing legs got a nice rest from walking. The draft horse Flynn rode followed Neely's buckskin with ease. Her huge platter sized hooves found sure purchase on the rich soil of the hillside. Flynn's multiple chins jiggled as he bounced in his saddle. “This is a rough go, Neely, I don't think I've ever been jostled so much before.” Neely barked out a short laugh. “This ain't jostlin'. Why I remember a time back in the westlands; Big Keri I think they called ‘er ... Yep. Big Keri.” “Why'd they call ‘er Big Keri?” Flynn joined in the fun of one of Neely's stories. “Well...” Neely paused for effect. “There wuz a couple ‘o reasons, iffn you get my drift...” **** “What?” Adam paused with his ale halfway to his mouth. “I believe you heard me correctly,” Bilardi said languidly, “I am here to offer you a commission in the Grisham City Guard, a position by no means, mean.” He smiled at the obvious word play. Thaylli's dislike of the man grew by the minute. “Why?” Adam put his mug back down and leaned forward onto the tabletop, “What use would I be to your city guard? I don't have any experience in it and I really don't see why you'd be interested in someone like me.” Bilardi looked over at Milward and raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. “Ah, such humility! And from one so young.” He turned and leaned toward Adam. “Very well, I'll tell you why, my young blademaster. Because of what you say you didn't do back in that alley is the reason. If there were a few more of your worth Grisham would have the finest officer corps in all the land. Tell me,” He leaned back and picked up the goblet of wine Kittlyn had set down while he talked. “Do you have any idea of what those southern barbarians will do to the people of Grisham if they break through the wall? A wall you bear some responsibility for opening mind you.”

“There are several points of debate on that Sire Bilardi.” Milward took out his pipe and began stuffing it. The guard officer waved a languid hand. “So you say, but can you not also verify my concerns?” Milward puffed his pipe alight. “I'm sorry. I can't prove or disprove any of that, as I know little of the southlands. I've had my hands full these past centuries just getting to know my way around up in the north. Besides, from what I know of the writings of Labad, they could not have come from the heart of a barbarian.” “True, True,” Bilardi nodded, “But things have changed somewhat in the centuries since Labad. The current Emperor, nor his recent ancestors, follows not the God of Labad. Instead they sacrifice the bodies of virginal children upon an altar stained red with their blood.” “That's horrible!” Exclaimed Thaylli. “That's not the worst of it milady.” He inclined his head toward her in a small bow. “The people of the Southern Empire are kept in a state of enforced ignorance. Those who do manage to learn how to read or write are tortured for the pleasure of the Royalty. Their teachers are killed outright and the bodies used as the main course in a pagan feast.” “Ewwwww.” Thaylli looked a little green. Bilardi nodded. “I concur milady.” He shifted his eyes back and forth between Adam and Milward. “Would you wish to see that fate fall upon the good people of Grisham? The greatest library in all the known lands is here. The beast of the south would love to see it become a pyre in honor of his demon god.” “I've heard little of what you're telling us,” Milward said mildly. “For the seat of Labad to sink into such depravity as you describe, why ... it seems farfetched at best.” “So ... Test my words. See if they are not true,” Bilardi replied blandly. “Use your Wizard's ways, look to the south and see if there is not an army marching upon us. See if they are not of a mind to remove Grisham from the face of this world.” Milward leaned back against the wall behind the bench he sat on. “Don't have to, something's up. The idiocy going on in this city's proof enough of that. The reason for it is something else altogether, and it will take more than a simple scry to find out.” Adam looked at Thaylli. The fear she felt was naked upon her face. Bilardi sipped some more of his wine. “As you say Wizard. I know little of such matters. All I care about is protecting the people of my fair city. Your young friend here is a weapon that cannot be ignored in that protection. I would be derelict in my duty if I did not at least try to enlist his aid.” Adam finished his ale and put the mug back on the table. “As Milward says. Something is going on. This city is filled with people afraid for their lives. I've gotten to know some of them as friends and I'd rather not see them come to a bad end. I'll help you, Captain Bilardi, if I can.” **** Drinaugh powered down into Dragonglade and backwinged to a less than dragonlike dignified landing. A feeling of dread concerning the intentions of the humans he saw climbing the slopes toward his home

weighed on his mind, but the glade itself was deserted. He'd never seen it with at least a few of his people occupied in some way or another. The dread increased. Was he too late? Had some calamity already struck his home leaving him the last Dragon alive? He entered the main doors into the complex of halls, rooms and arena-sized spaces that made up Dragonglade proper. Still he found no other dragons. That could mean only one thing. His fear of being left alone in the world was real or... Mashglach looked up as the young Dragon burst into the meeting hall. “Drinaugh! Has your sojourn among the humans robbed you of all manners?” The Winglord quivered with indignation at the apparent display of rudeness. Drinaugh, still winded from his race through the halls of Dragonglade stumbled forward and nearly fell except that Chabaad reached out to steady him. “Easy, young Dragon. What is the reason for this haste? Tell us, as this is the time and place for revelations.” The mature Dragon looked about the group and then rested his gaze upon the Winglord. “Is it not?” The other Dragons in the hall expressed their agreement with Chabaad's assessment. Mashglach puffed out his cheeks and nodded. “Go ahead young Drinaugh. Speak your peace. Let the assembly hear why you've burst in upon them like a marauding band of Ogren.” “Uh ... Well...” The young Dragon began. Then he looked around and noticed who was going to be listening to what he said.. Why, that was Oshglach, the oldest Dragon of all, standing just a winglength away from where he was. “You see ... I...” “Oh get on with it Drinaugh!” Harlig grumbled. “I can feel my cheeks whitening just standing here.” “Harlig,” Mashglach copied the large Dragon's grumble, “he's a juvenile. Grant him some grace, if you don't mind.” “As you say, Winglord.” Harlig cast an eye at the young Dragon. “At your own pace Drinaugh.” “Thank you. Uh ... I saw a party of humans, with weapons, climbing up the slopes toward Dragonglade. I don't think they're very friendly.” The hall erupted into bedlam. Nearly every Dragon began voicing their opinion as to what they should do, or not do, depending on their personal feelings towards isolationism. A few of the more radical voices called for the humans to be put down like sick beasts, after all, wasn't that what they were? Chabaad led that faction with Timidi in full-throated agreement. A large group, led by Harlig called for nothing to be done as there was no possible method the humans could use that would allow them access into the caldera, except by falling, and since humans could not fly... Drinaugh shrank back against one of the pillars supporting the roof of the hall. This was not at all what he wished to see. Dragonglade itself was being torn apart by his words and his actions. He felt completely and thoroughly miserable. The hubbub of Dragon voices stopped as a call that quickly built into a trumpet blast of ear shattering

intensity echoed throughout the hall. In the aftermath of the sound there was shocked silence. No Dragon since the times before the coming of man had ever uttered that cry. All Dragons knew of it. It was built into their very bones, but it was also a matter of visceral pride that no Dragon since Blathjeck the Bloody ever felt the need to use it. “Winglord!” Harlig was the first recover from his shock. “You go too far, explain yourself, now!” Mashglach ignored the rebuke and stared at the assembled Dragons with eyes flat with anger. Drinaugh saw the twitching of the Winglord's wings and crouched further behind his pillar as he waited for the explosion to come. “Too far, you say? Since when does a fledgling fresh from the birthing sack presume to tell an adult they've gone too far?” “Fledgling?” Haglig's voice rose in pitch until it was almost tenor. “Fledgling?” “Yes Harlig, fledgling,” Mashglach purred, “and it will continue to be so for every Dragon in this hall who chooses to act so.” He raised his voice so it carried to the rest of the assembly. “I used the battle call to bring you all back to your senses. If I didn't know better I would have thought I was in a hall filled with Elves instead of Dragons.” Many of his listeners averted their eyes. Mashglach pulled his head back into an erect position as he crossed his arms. “Good,” he nodded, “at least some of you have the good graces to be ashamed of yourselves. “Drinaugh,” he turned his attention back to the young Dragon, “come out from behind that pillar and give us a better description of these humans other than, ‘I don't think they're very friendly.'” The young Dragon peered around the edge of his refuge. “Uh...” “Come, come, Drinaugh, I won't bite. Nor will I abuse you. You, for one, did not partake of the hysteria we've just witnessed. As far as I'm concerned you're on a maturity level with the honorable Oshglach right now. Perhaps you could teach Chabaad, Harlig and Timidi a few lessons. Eh?” Mashglach favored Drinaugh with a wide grin. The young Dragon's returning smile was faltering. “Yes Winglord. Uh ... I had some time to look more closely at them before flying on. They had a lot of those pointy stick things they throw plus those things that look like a harp with one string.” “Spears and bows,” Mashglach muttered. He centered the full force of his gaze onto Drinaugh. “What size did these sticks appear to be? Did they have bundles of smaller one as well?” Many of the older Dragons picked up on where the Winglord was heading and a faint susurration swept through the hall. Drinaugh wrinkled his brow in thought. “Umm ... The stick things looked to be about a thumb's thickness and maybe seven to nine human feet in height, and yes, I saw what looked like bundles of the same thing, only smaller, except they had feathers attached at one end.” Mashglach nodded at that, his eyes hooded. “One of the signs...” He said to himself, though a few of the Dragons closest to the podium heard it.

“Very well,” He shook off his moment of reflection, “You have heard young Drinaugh's witness. Whether we like it or not, Dragonglade is going to be attacked by a party of men armed with weapons that have the capability of harming, or even killing some of you.” Another mummer ran through the hall, the wordkill surfaced and bobbed along the top of the conversation like a bubble in an agitated pond. “What do we do Winglord?” “Yes. Tell us! What do we do?” More and more of the Dragons picked up the refrain until Mashglach was being beseeched from all corners of the hall. “Silence!!” Harlig strode to the front of the hall and stood before the podium facing the assembly. “Well said Harlig,” Mashglach murmured from the senior Dragon's ears only, “Welcome back to the ranks of maturity.” “We'll discuss my demotion later,” The senior Dragon said out of the side of his mouth. He then fixed a steely-eyed glare onto the now quiet and somewhat shamefaced Dragons in the assembly. “I was called fledgling and I deserved it for the lack of courtesy I showed during Winglauch, but never did I ever believe my ears would be assailed by such fresh-out-of-the-sack whining as they've been subjected to by this grouping. This Dragon,” he pointed behind himself to Mashglach, “is not your mother or your father. And this Winglauch is not a nursery where your tails are cleaned for you. “Drinaugh has brought us word of a problem that concerns all Dragons, and we as Dragons must meet it with the wisdom and maturity we are supposed to be gifted with. Perhaps those who say we've kept ourselves from the rest of the world too long are right. It would appear so when a small band of misguided humans can produce such results.” Harlig put his hands on his hips and reared upright from his usual slouch. “So, what are we to do? Are we Dragons, or are we Wyrms?” The answering shout nearly blew him backwards. “DRAGONS!!!” “Shall we deal with this threat as Dragons?” Harlig's eyes blazed. “AS DRAGONS!” “Well Harlig, you've got them. Now what are you going to do?” Mashglach said dryly. The senior Dragon turned his head to look at the Winglord. “As Bardoc is my witness, I have absolutely no idea.” **** Circumstance ran along the row of tents, sometimes deftly dodging around the kit of the soldiers moving into their new home during the muster. Chief Engineer Lemmic-Pries said the message needed to get to Colling-Faler within the hour. He should be able to get it to the Engineer Third in half that time.

The Ortian military forces began arriving just after sunrise yesterday. The first to show at the edges of the camp were the cavalry along with the retinue surrounding General Jarl-Tysyn and his wagons. After them came the foot soldiers including a company of reluctant conscripts overseen by several heavy-handed noncoms. Because of this the engineers’ comfortable routine was reduced to chaos barely kept in check by the iron will of Lemmic-Pries. The Chief Engineer recruited Colling-Faler to oversee the settling in as his administrator Gaspic had taken to his own tent as the first companies began arriving complaining of a headache. Even though he was rated a mere Engineer Third, Colling-Faler showed a surprising amount of maturity for one so young, as well as a solid instinct for getting people to listen to him and follow his instructions. Besides that, the men liked him nearly as much as they disliked Gaspic. An eagle stooping for a ground squirrel spooked from its hiding place by a passing soldier caused Circumstance to take his eyes off of where he was running. It took just a moment, but that moment was enough. He slammed into a soldier backing out of his tent with an armload of supplies. “What th’ skrud?” The Ortian cursed, as he and Circumstance tumbled over into a tangle of arms and legs. Supplies flew up into the mid-morning air and scattered across the alley formed by the tents. The jumble of Circumstance and the soldier finished up against a teepee'd stack of spears and by sheer fortune avoided being impaled or cut by one of the razor-edged weapons as the stack flew apart. Circumstance felt completely mortified by what he'd done and was opening his mouth to offer an apology when a rough hand jerked him to his feet. “You dog-flickin’ brat! Lookit what you done ta me stuff! Whatcho go'n do ‘bout this flickin', skruded mess? I'll learn ya ta watch where ya go!” The boy tried to dodge the open-handed blow but the soldier's grip on his arm was like a vise and he could neither duck nor back out of the way. The pain exploded through his head and he saw lights flash before his eyes. Pain was a feeling he had little experience with. He'd always been in control before and his mother and Ethan never had reason to discipline him. Another blow rocked his head, this one harder than the first. He felt sick to his stomach and a knot of fear grew and blossomed in his chest. The smell of the soldier came to him in a mixture of sour rage and cloying perspiration. The man hadn't bathed in quite a while and his exertions added to the perfume. Through the tears filling his eyes he saw the hand pull back for another strike. A voice, from that place within him where the strange knowledge of the wild and magik lay, told him to strike and strike now. Circumstance knew, in that instant, that he could easily destroy the soldier. He was also afraid he would be forced to do so in order to live. The hand began its descent toward his head as he focused the magik to protect himself. “Leave that boy alone!” A hand jerked the soldier back by the scruff of his neck, causing his blow to pass harmlessly over Circumstance's head. Another hand reached out and released the grip on the boy's arm allowing him to fall back into the grasp of Colling-Faler. “Easy there lad,” The Engineer third eased Circumstance to the flattened grass that formed the floor of the alley, “Durston-Kres will deal with our friend for you.” The burly Engineer held the Ortian soldier at arm's length. The utter shock of being pulled away from his just punishment of the clumsy boy stunned him for a moment and he looked at Durston-Kres with uncomprehending eyes.

“What in Bardoc's name do you think you're doing?” The Engineer shook the soldier as he asked the question. Durston-Kres’ grip was broken by a violent twist of the other's shoulders. “Whut th’ skrud d'you think yer doin'?” He stepped back and spread his feet in an aggressive posture. “Th’ brat had it comin’ runnin'’ inta me like he did.” “And for that you have a right to beat him to death?” The Engineer stepped closer to the soldier. “Your name and rank, if you please?” “Whut you want me name an’ rank fer, brain-boy?” “Humor me,” Durston-Kres’ smile was anything but pleasant. The soldier took another step back and then straightened as he cracked his knuckles. “Awright, not that it'll do yer any good. I've taken on two like yers at oncet. Din't even breath hard doin’ it neither. Name's Greenstone,Corporal Greenstone ta yous.” “Thank you.” Durston-Kres followed that with a straight right that snapped the Corporal's head back, lifting him off his feet. Greenstone landed inside the tent behind where he'd been standing, breaking the support pole as he slid into it. The heavy canvas settled down over the Corporal leaving only his boots exposed. Durston-Kres walked over, reached down and dragged him out of the mess. On the other side of the tent the soldier who'd been occupying it prior to Greenstone's plowing into his naptime crawled out from under the canvas and stood just in time to see the Engineer send Corporal Greenstone back into the remains of his tent with a last roundhouse blow. “What in the flick's going on here?” Other soldiers were now looking out of their tents or standing around the small drama unfolding before them. Colling-Faler checked Circumstance one more time to make sure the boy was ok. “A little discipline private, nothing you really need to concern yourself with.” The soldier looked at Durston-Kres pulling Greenstone out from beneath his ruined tent. “This is where I was gonna sleep tonight. I think that's a bit of concern.” Durston-Kres held the unconscious Greenstone up where the private could see his face. “You know this fellow?” An expression of distaste crossed the Ortian soldier's face. “Yeah, I know him. What about it?” “Ah, I see he's a friend of yours.” The Engineer let Greenstone fall to the grass. “Bosom buddies, I'm sure,” Colling-Faler said as an aside, eliciting a chuckle from Circumstance. “Awright. I can't stand the guy, ok? Far as I'm concerned you can pound ‘im into jelly. I got a tent to fix. He's all yours.” The soldier turned back to his tent. Colling-Faler stepped forward drawing Circumstance along with him. “Just a moment.” The soldier paused and turned to look at the Engineer. “What?”

The Engineer Third held the boy before him. “I want you to take a good look at this lad. Mark his features well, all of you.” He raised his voice to carry to the rest of the watching soldiers. A good-sized crowd had gathered for the entertainment. “This is Circumstance. This fellow,” he pointed at Greenstone, “thought it good to take his temper out on him. As you can see it was a bad idea. I suggest none of you try the same. Am I understood?” No one in the crowd answered. Durston-Kres planted a toe into Greenstone's side and rolled him over. “The Engineer asked if you understood him.” The crowd of soldiers answered at once. “...Yeah.” “...Sure.” “...You got it.” “...No problem.” “In fact,” Colling-Faler continued, “I want you to spread the word throughout the camp. If a hair of Circumstance's head is harmed, I will have the one who harmed it, and those who could have prevented it and didn't, up on charges that will have them cleaning up after the horses until their grandchildren die of old age. Do you hear me?” This time the crowd answered in unison and in the affirmative. The Engineer Third nodded his satisfaction. “Good.” He looked down at Circumstance. “Come on lad, we'll see about those bruises.” “Thank you.” The boy took Colling-Faler's hand and allowed the Engineer to lead him to the medical tent. Durston-Kres followed, keeping an eye on the soldiers as they left the area. What the Engineer Third didn't know was Circumstance said thank you for more than one favor done to him. The killing prevented had not been his. **** McCabe woke to pain, lovely, beautiful pain. From what he could tell, every bone in his body was broken in at least one, if not two places. It also appeared, from the vantage point of lying on his back that he was in a fairly deep crater. Where the crater was, was anyone's guess. He could have summoned the use of his new senses to find out, but he preferred to just lie where he was and enjoy the agony that shot through his shattered body. The voices within were quiet. It seemed that they too wished to savor the sensation of pain along with their host. One of his legs twitched, the healing had begun. A world of possibilities had opened up before him. Apparently he could not be killed. At least not by any means he could think of. But he could still feel the loving caress of his mistress, pain. McCabe felt his bones realigning. The agony was building to a point where he would become giddy. Small giggles escaped his lips and he bought his fingers up before his eyes to watch the wriggling bones as they realigned. A memory of the sandy haired young man came to him. Next a picture of the blinding radiance as it erupted from the man and impacted into him, beginning the journey to this place. He wondered what power it would take to do such a thing, to have that power ... He asked the voices how to do so and they began to teach him.

Chapter Three

Haberstroh watched calmly as her poison worked on the hapless traveler. By now the mixage should be burning its way through his entire body, shredding the blood vessels, rupturing the organs, and causing exquisite agony. “Yes,” She thought to herself as a crimson fountain erupted from what was left of her victim's mouth, “this one worked well.” A little Garloc blood, some wine and a few special herbs; she'd have to remember this blend for future use. She stood and walked stiffly over to the body. It was already beginning to dissolve, including the bones. Soon all she would see would be a flattened outline of clothing suggesting what once lay within it. Haberstroh the Hag, was what they called her. The name had been affixed over a century ago when she, even then, looked much the same as she did today. The memory of that naming burned within and added fuel to the hatred boiling in her heart. Even brighter burned the memory of her late husband. Garloc he may have been, but he was hers and they had no right to kill him. The child of Elf and Garloc, Haberstroh was the result of a mating that should never have born fruit. The couple, spurned by both races, was driven north and east until they found refuge at the edge of the great swamp that lay at the southwestern edge of the Verkuyl Peninsula. There Haberstroh remained, long after the death of her parents. Spurned, like they were, by the races she bore the blood of; but at least neither of them were murderers like men. It was they who had hunted and killed her mate. Now she did the same to them. An affinity for Witchcraft and potions showed itself early on in Haberstroh's life. One of her earliest memories was of putting together a mixage to cure her mother of a wasting phage by cooking a few different kinds of mosses down into their hidden essences. Poisons especially became of great interest to her and she mastered their dark secrets quickly. The book of recipes begun in her youth now measured nearly a hand's breadth in depth. Bound in human skin and warded with arcane sigils, it was her greatest treasure. By allowing the occasional traveler or merchant to pass through her lands unmolested, she spread the word of her special talents into the rest of the northern world. Through this she was responsible for the untimely demise of nearly five dozen men of high position that just happened to be in the way of a rival's advancement. A few Elves had succumbed to her mixages, but they mattered little. It was the men she loved killing, even if it was by proxy. Haberstroh bent and gathered up the remnants of what had been a hunter searching for game along the edges of the swamp. She chuckled a bit at that, even now, it was the swamp that held the reputation and not her. Perhaps it was because she was only half the size of the men she killed. Perhaps it was her obviously advanced age. Perhaps it was that those who used her services for assassination kept her name secret within their circles. Whatever the reason Haberstroh took full advantage of it. She stepped outside the hut and peered at the sky. The day was nearly three-quarters done and that hunting party would be by soon to purchase their medicines. A pity she wouldn't be there to see them used. **** “And you're sure she's the one closest to term?” The crone nodded in a series of sharp motions to the Sorcerer's aide's question. Cobain marked the stall number on the tablet he carried for that purpose.

A withered hand stopped him as he turned back toward the corridor that would take him out of the gloom of the caverns. He looked into the rheumy eyes that silently pleaded with him and shook his head, “I'm sorry, Dagbare, it has to be.” Out of the caverns, Cobain climbed the stair that wound it's way to the heights of Pestilence where his master, Gilgafed the Sorcerer, resided. Gilgafed. Across the world the name was used to frighten small children into good behavior. The saying, “Watch what you do, Gilgafed will take you to Pestilence for his supper if you're bad,” kept many a precocious youngster awake at night. Cobain was born into the Sorcerer's service nearly four decades ago. Actually, his mother and a few kitchen workers with the ability to hold their tongues hid him from Gilgafed for the first three years of his life. Those tongues eventually were part of the appetizer the Sorcerer served up to his Ogren. The child's mother was their dessert. The toddler he placed into the care of a nurse who oversaw the young Cobain's indoctrination into the world of Pestilence. On his fifteenth birthday he entered into full time service as Gilgafed's personal manservant. Ten years after that, he was trusted to be in charge of his first of the Sorcerer'sspecial dinners. He reached the landing with its twin brassbound doors, each of them large enough to allow passage of a medium-sized Troll or a large Elefont. The left-hand door stood ajar allowing some of the soft golden light the Sorcerer favored to wash across the black marble of the landing floor. Passing through, Cobain stepped into a world of sybaritic excess. Red velvet drapery swagged between feet-thick cream marble columns. Paintings, richly framed and lit by ingenious lamps, graced the walls of both the chambers and the hallways. Gilgafed denied himself nothing when it came to the pleasures of the flesh, whether they would be of the ear, the eye, or the table. Young women padded softly upon a variety of errands. Cobain ignored them as a fixture is ignored when seen on a daily basis over an extended time. Cobain made his way through two chambers, down a hallway wide enough for four men walking abreast and then turned left into a narrow hall. Several yards down the hall he turned right onto an alcove leading to one last flight of stairs that brought him to his Master's window upon the world. The Sorcerer's private chamber seemed Spartan in comparison to what lay below. The walls were unadorned expanses of the white-flecked black rock of the mountain. A floor-to-ceiling window on one side opened onto a balcony. Blue sky and the ocean looked back. Along two other walls stretched a series of shelves forming the library. A number of thick volumes actually did reside there, though it was best to not look too closely at the hide they were bound in. Besides the books, the shelves housed several varying sizes of ceramic and glass canisters; some with lids covered in arcane symbols and sigils, others simply covered. Still others sat open to the air of the chamber and shared their perfume with the room. Gilgafed looked up from the open volume that lay at his desk. “Ah, Cobain. Which one?” “Dagbare confirmed what I already believed, Master, Friella is the one. Her term is due one phase prior to the new moon.” Cobain referred to the notes in his tablet. The Sorcerer marked his place in the volume and closed it, releasing a small puff of musty smelling dust. “So, after all these years, you still balk at my choice of meat.”

Cobain nodded. “I see.” Gilgafed stood and walked around the black desk to lean against it. He crossed one boot over the other and toyed with a small, carved figurine he picked off a stack of vellums. It bore the resemblance of an Elf child. “Perhaps it is time you learned a bit of history, sit down in that chair.” He pointed to one of a set off to his right as his servant turned away from the window. “No, master. I ... Can't.” Cobain was aghast at the thought of sitting in his master's presence. “I ... Said ... SIT!” The Sorcerer roared. Cobain sat. “You can do whatever it is Iwant you to do.” Gilgafed glared at his servant for a moment and then allowed his face to relax into a brief smile. “Besides, I feel like telling this tale.” The hand not holding the figurine traced over the web-like pattern of scars marring his right cheek. “I was born four thousand years before the magik war. Then the Dragons still dealt with man. They had another thousand years to go before their isolation began to take hold. The village I was born into was built upon the typical Elf lines; mud and wattle huts with the sewer being a shallow ditch running through the middle of it. After almost five thousand years they've changed little, the same mud and in some cases probably the same drek running down the street. “Like all Elf children I was small and bandy-legged as a child, but not as small as the female children so I had someone to bully when the older children were through bullying me. My mother and father fed me, but ignored me outside of enforcing my adherence to Elven culture. In short, men ruled, women obeyed and the weak died. I was lucky in that I was born male. “Back then Shapers were far more numerous than they are today, I did manage to getsomething right during the Magik War. My village boasted two, one worked fire as his element and the other, spirit. I apprenticed myself to that one. Not because my parents wished it, nor for any other reason than a vague feeling that this male could teach me something the other could not. “The Spirit Shaper was old, for an Elf, thirty-five or more years in age. I remember thinking I never wanted to be that old. His hair was almost totally white and his back was bent with age. The shop he kept attracted my attention immediately. A workbench ran the entire length of one wall and the shelf above it held clay pots with herbs, fungi and pickled amphibians. Some others held mixtures and ointments that filled the hut with a pungent, spicy aroma that struck me sharply in the nose the first time I stepped through his door. “He must have used his power to build many of the items in the hut for it had the only polished stone floor I've ever seen in an Elf lodging. Dirt is the usual material—it's far more absorbent and doesn't have to be mopped. The workbench and the shelves also exhibited far more precision than Elves typically use in construction. I found myself hungering to learn how to do such things. “For the first few seasons I was little more than a servant and the village children teased me terribly about having to fetch, carry and clean for the old shaper. They did so usually at a distance, though. The brats could never be quite sure I hadn't learned something that would prove fatal to them. I absorbed the old shaper's lessons like a sponge. As his talent lay only in the realm of spirit, that was what he taught, but I knew, in here,” Gilgafed thumped his chest, “that I could do it all. At nine, when the other lads were

busy chasing after a pair of legs in a skirt, I was practicing in the wood away from the village. That old shaper would have killed me outright had he known. In the Elven world it is a fatal mistake for the student to be better than the teacher too soon. In half a season I was able to work within all areas of shaping, after a fashion. Full mastery did not come until much, much later and those who teased me learned the lesson of their folly.” The small figurine crumbled in his hand and vanished into mist. “My life changed completely on an evening when the rains were so heavy you could barely see across the street because of them. My master was eating when I ran through the door and he looked at me with this strange light in his eyes, ‘Come here boy. I want to share a secret with you.’ He beckoned to me with a finger stained with blood. The blood came from what he was eating. There was a plate in front of him filled with small, white twitching shapes. When I drew closer I could see they appeared to be undeveloped rats. “The old shaper saw the expression on my face and sniggered in the way the old do. When he was through laughing, he said, ‘You don't like my choice of meat, boy? Sit. You'll learn to relish it as I do.’ So saying, he picked up one of the tiny rats and bit it in half. Blood spurted and ran down his chin. I hid my revulsion and sat, waiting upon the tale he was sure to tell me. “He chewed the remnant of his morsel and looked at me again with that strange intense expression. “How old do you think I am, boy?’ “From the look of him, with his white wispy hair, a face with more lines than not, I would have said forty-two, maybe forty-three. Very few Elves live past forty-five and my Master looked to be near the mark. I opened my mouth to answer his question but he held up that bloodstained finger and stopped me before I could speak. “Nothing was said for a long, pregnant moment and then the old Shaper reached into the plate and plucked another of the rats out of the mass and held it before me. ‘Eat this.’ “Of course I recoiled from the offered rat. I could feel my gorge rising and my Master sniggered again. ‘Eat this,’ he ordered, ‘and I'll tell you the secret of why I have lived to be two hundred years old.’ “My ears rang. It could not be, my Master, nearly as old as a Dwarf? I couldn't believe what I heard and I told him so. He just smiled as he ate another rat and then crooked that finger at me. ‘Use what I've taught you. See if I'm lying.’ “So I did. The shaping came easily as if it had been waiting for the summons. Truthsaying is part of spiritshaping, so he knew I would be able to discern whether or not he spoke false. I sent the shaping into him and watched for the color of the aura as it formed. There it was, golden, without the slightest shading of red. My Masterwas two hundred years old! So existed a secret I'd dreamed of. As I said earlier, the thought of being old disturbed me. If there was a way to forestall that day I had to discover it. “I didn't hesitate after the thought struck me, but snatched the rat from his thumb and forefinger, popped the whole of it into my mouth, chewed and swallowed it. “Ignoring the acrid taste of the raw meat and blood, I looked my Master in the eye and demanded the secret he promised to tell. “He grunted at my audacity and then nodded. ‘These,’ he pointed a thumb at the plate of twitching ratlings, ‘are the unborn of a half dozen rats, the large forest type. You can tell that by their size. By eating the unborn, I have been able to stave off death's embrace for more than one hundred and fifty

years.’ “Does it have to be rats?” I asked with the taste still on my tongue. “What you eat matters not, as long as it is alive and has been torn from the womb.” He ate another of the baby rats as he answered. I joined him in the meal and then laughed as giddiness overtook me. I didn't know it at the time, but that was the magik at work within me, extending my life. “My master remained ignorant of just how much his lesson changed my life and I kept that secret from him right up to the day I killed him.” “You killed your master, Master?” Cobain blurted out. “Don't get any ideas,” Gilgafed growled. “it happened two years later and I'd learned a lot more about my powers by then. So much so, it was impossible to hide the fact I was venturing into becoming a full Sorcerer, not just a shaper of Spirit. “The day it happened, I was running through several exercises intended to refine my control. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my Master looking at me with an expression I'd never seen on his face before, and I'd seen the full spectrum from pleasure to pain and joy to anger. This expression was one of fear, my Master feared me. I found the revelation pleasing to no end. “He would strike soon, of that I was sure. But if I chanced using the power to see if there was an aura of readiness about him, I would die before I was able to defend myself. The only thing I could do was attack him first. As my Master had taught me I built the power within, storing it in that place inside my mind I'd chosen back when he first began teaching me. The old fool knew nothing of real power; the only thing I had to fear was his experience. As it turned out, even that fear was groundless. “To this day I remember the sight of his eyes when my shaping hit him as clearly as if it just happened. There is a moment when your enemy knows beyond all certainly you've beaten them and that realization washes across their face and lodges in their eyes. There is nothing like it. It is delicious, absolutely delicious. “Unborn rats were not the only meat I ate back then. I discovered through experimentation that the higher the order of animal that I consumed, the greater the effect. Before I reached one hundred years of age I'd graduated from rats to lambs to swine. Did you know swine were higher in order than sheep? No, of course you didn't, you're a servant, not a scholar. “Well, naturally I wondered what the effect would be if I moved from the higher animals into the sentient. Elf I could not bring myself to consider for obvious reasons, I'm a Sorcerer, not a monster, regardless of what you may think, Cobain.” “You're my Master, that is enough.” “Good answer. As I was saying, besides the obvious, Elf was out of the question, you know how they consider children, and Dwarf would bring along with it certain complications I wasn't prepared to deal with then. They are a particularly stubborn and unforgiving race. Probably be too tough anyway. Dragon was simply impossible, though the idea still intrigues me, that left humans. They breed like rabbits and have little use for anyone other than themselves, making it rather easy and free of recourse to obtain the pregnant female or two. Did you know that some of their women evenwant to have their child taken from them?”

Cobain shook his head. The idea was too preposterous. Gilgafed turned and walked around his desk to sit back down. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet upon the mirrored black wood of the top. “Neither did I at first. But so it was. As it turned out, such a child proved unpalatable, in both flavor and result. It seems that in order to serve my need; the unborn must be loved, a tragedy for the mother, of course, but life for me, and power. In addition it also turns out that the sentient unborn need not be eaten alive in order for the magik to work. “There is the tale, my faithful Cobain. You may do with it as you will, but first tend to my meal. Fetus pie tonight I think, with a side of those nice meaty beans from the south and a light wine. You decide on the vintage.” “Of course master. As you wish.” Cobain left the room and descended the stairs back down to the level of the kitchens. The Sorcerer kept a well-stocked larder complete with storage units carved into the rock of the mountain and kept chill by shapings designed to work indefinitely with very little maintenance. Several cooks and scullery helpers were busily at work when he entered. The smell of cooking spices and meats filled the air. A sharp pungent aroma struck his nose as one of the junior cooks tossed chopped onion into a hot pan. The lead chef looked up at Cobain's approach. “Which one?” “Friella.” “Her? She'll fight every step of the way and probably die in the process. Shouldn't allow girls like her in the breeding pens at all.” The chef worked the dish he was preparing with more vigor than was necessary. Cobain shrugged. “The Master likes them best when they come that way.” The Chef nodded. “Aye, that's right, more's the pity. Ah well,” He spat onto a knife and polished it. “At least the Ogren'll get fed.” **** Vedder the Priest turned in his saddle to urge on the foot soldiers behind him. “We're almost there. Come on you. The slope's not that steep. Keep up with us or you'll be left out of the treasure.” “There better be treasure at th’ end o’ this hike,” The soldier trotting alongside Aerny muttered as they struggled to keep up. The last foothill that led to Dragonglade's ridge was steep. “I'm with ya on that one Wullim. Fack is ... I'm thinkin’ that even treasure might not be worth this.” Aerny muttered back. “Quiet you two. Thinkin’ ain't parta yer job, so leave off,” The Corporal in front of them barked a soft command out of the corner of his mouth. “Right Corp.” “Gottcha Corp.” The Avernese Sergeant behind Vedder looked at the ridge they were approaching. “That seems mighty

steep sir.” “Then we'll leave the horses,” Vedder ordered. “They've served their purpose anyway.” “But the supplies, the heavy weapons.” The Sergeant looked back at the ridge one more time. Vedder fixed the Sergeant with his best glare. “Nothing was said in your orders, Sergeant, concerning questioning my authority. What was said pertained to your obedience. I said we'll leave the horses and I intend to do just...” “Oy! Up there! Up ... flickin’ ... there!!” The priest looked up at the interruption and felt his bowels turn to water. Above them the sky had turned to Dragons. Monstrous beasts at least twice the size of the one they'd shot. The creatures seemed to be hovering, maintaining their position with lazy sweeps of their incredible wings. Then came the roars. Some of the horses panicked and began bucking, twisting and turning in order to lighten their loads. Vedder found himself flying through the air at the first lurch of his mount. Part of him wanted to call out to the men, rally them against the Dragons’ attack. The other part wanted to crawl into a hole and pull it in after him. He felt more frightened than he'd ever been in his life. How could he have been such a fool to think a few soldiers would be enough to deal with creatures like these? Wullim clutched Aerny's jerkin in his hands and pulled his friend closer so he could be heard in the crush of sound. “I'm gettin’ outta here. You comin'?” Aerny shouted back, “That's desertion.” Wullim pointed upwards. Aerny looked and nodded. “Right. Let's go.” He followed Wullim back down the slope. Several of the others took their cue and began running to catch up. Vedder looked up to see the remaining Corporal drag the Sergeant to his feet and pull him along as they ran after the deserting men. “Come back!” He shouted at the men. “Cowards! Come back.” The last word came out in a sob. “Come ... Back.” A sound came from in front of him and he raised his face from the ground to see the largest of the Dragons settle onto the slope about a dozen yards from where he lay. The massive wings settled into place and it regarded him with eyes that held a disturbing amount of intelligence. Then the head dipped down towards him. The defender of mankind lowered his head back down to the rocky soil and said the only thing that came to mind, “Oh, skrud.” **** Milward looked at Adam in open-faced astonishment. “What did you say?”

“I said I'd help him if I could.” Adam leaned back as Kittlyn reached across him to clear away some of the goblets and mugs. “Another one of these my dear.” Bilardi raised his goblet but his eyes stayed fixed on something besides the wine. Kittlyn favored the Guard Captain with a broad smile as she inhaled for emphasis. “Of course sire Captain. Is there anything else you wish to order?” Thaylli rolled her eyes. Milward ignored the potential entertainment and continued to stare at Adam. “Did I hear you correctly? You actually intend to join this ... this fop in his foolishness? No, I absolutely forbid it!” Adam's eyebrows rose. “Youforbid it?” “And just what do you think Ishould do? Let you flitter off willy-nilly on a fool's errand while your studies, not to mention your sister, lie neglected?” Milward's hand slapped the tabletop in agitation. “Uh, gentlesires ... If I may...” Bilardi tried to intercept what he saw as an escalating argument. “You may not!!” Adam and Milward shot back and then glared at each other. The Guard Captain retreated into his wine as Thaylli shrank back slightly from Adam's display of temper. “Well?” Milward raised his voice as he leaned towards Adam, “Explain yourself young man! What about your studies, what about your destiny?” Adam leaned towards the old Wizard as he raised his own voice, “And since when did you become my father? Not even Uncle Bal presumed that. The last couple of times we had trouble ... I seemed to do pretty well, I think. And I don't remember you doing much to help either, I may as well have been on my own.” Thaylli took hold of Adam's arm. “Adam! He's a Wizard!” He shook off her hand. “And so what about it? I am not a child and I won't be treated like one!” Milward's voice rose to a shout, “Won't be treated like one? Won't be treated like one? You have barely begun to crawl. It takes years of dedicated study and patience to even begin to scratch the surface of what you need to know and I'll be damned if a child barely out of swads will presume to tell me different!” That brought Adam to his feet. “If that is what you think of me, after all we've been through and after all I've done, then it's best we go our separate ways, isn't it?” He turned his head to look at Thaylli. “You coming?” Thaylli opened her mouth and then closed it. Milward gave her a sharp look. “Thaylli?” Adam held out his hand.

She looked back at Milward with hurt showing in her eyes. Her mouth opened again and then she shook her head, “I'm sorry, I have to go with him. I'm sorry.” Adam held the door for her and let it close behind him as he followed her out. Bilardi raised both eyebrows at Milward. The old Wizard blew out his moustaches and glared back at the Guard Captain, “This is all your fault, you know. I should turn your guts into spiders and let them eat their way out, but right now I'm too tired and too disgusted. If he wishes to throw away his studies and ignore his destiny, then that's his problem.” He leaned forward and placed his nose scant inches away from Bilardi's. “Your problem is this, one hair, one,” He held up a forefinger in front of the Captain's eye, “If one hair is harmed on his head, I will find you and fulfill what I should have done to you today.” Milward spun on his heel and stalked out of the room toward the stairs, his staff tip slamming into the wood of the floor every second step. Bilardi watched the old Wizard as he huffed out of the dining room. When Milward vanished around a corner he finally released the breath he'd been holding. He'd heard it wasn't wise to upset a Wizard and that one had looked particularly peeved. Kittlyn came into the room from the kitchen with a bottle of wine in her hands. Bilardi offered her his brightest smile, “Ah, perfect timing my dear. It seems I'm alone now, would you care to join me in a glass or two?” Her returning smile was blinding, “I'll have to ask permission, but for the Captain of the City Guard...” “You just run along and find out. I'll be here.” He watched her wiggle back to the kitchen and then turned to see where the boy and his girl had gone. The view of the street through the window showed him nothing beside the usual traffic of peasants and venders. He brought the goblet to his lips and sipped some more of the surprisingly good red wine. As he leaned back against the table he continued to watch the street and murmured to himself. “That went well.” **** Flynn watched the sky to the west of where they rode. The dark edge of the spine seemed closer. They must be nearing the place where they built the raft all those months ago. He reached out and tapped Neely on the shoulder. The start his friend gave showed him the tracker must have been sleeping in the saddle again. “Gods Flynn! Don't do that. I nearly soiled meself.” “You was sleepin’ again. Don't want ya fallin’ off an’ ruinin’ alla miss Charity's healin’ now, do ya?” The big man beamed at his friend through the curly orange beard he'd started last week. Neely looked down at each of his legs in turn and grunted. They were almost completely healed, and in less than a third of the time he would have thought possible. He no longer needed the crutches now, but Flynn was right, it wouldn't be good to have to go through that itching all over again.

“This is lookin’ like the place.” Flynn remarked. “Th’ place for what? Whatchoo talkin’ about Flynn?” Neely turned to the side and gave his friend a quizzical look. “The place where we built the raft. There's the Alder trees over there,” He nodded his head in the direction of the forest to their left. “Bet iffn we looked around we'd find the spot exactly.” Neely shuddered at the memory of the falls. “No thanks.” Flynn's next statement was interrupted by a shout from Sergeant Travers, “We'll camp over there, on that flat near the outcropping, just before that stand of Alder.” The Ortian troopers wheeled their horses to the left at the Sergeant's order and began the business of setting up camp for the night. Two set about preparing the fire, complete with its encircling ring of stones, another one tied up the line to tether the horses and the rest unpacked the tents and began erecting them. Charity dismounted and looked around at the bustle of activity. “Your men are well trained Sergeant.” Travers looked up from checking his mount's hooves. “I'd say the same about that cat of yours. Does she always ride behind the saddle like that?” The cat, in answer, jumped down and trotted off into the trees. Charity watched her until she vanished into the underbrush. “I didn't train her to do that, or anything else she does, it's all her idea. I don't think you can train a cat, either they allow you to be a part of their family or they ignore you.” “Hmmph,” Travers laughed, “sounds like some women I know.” Charity didn't feel like arguing the point but merely nodded and walked across the campsite to where Flynn and Neely sat watching the troops setting up the tents. “Busy little bees, ain't they Charity?” Neely pointed at the group with a twig. “Minds me more of ants,” Flynn said around the blade of grass he was chewing on. “Oy, here comes the Sergeant.” Travers approached them from the side opposite of where the tents were being finished. He held a bronze flask in his hand and a lopsided smile on his face. “What ho, Sergeant,” Neely called out, tapping the twig against his knee. “That flask looks promising. You come to share a dram or two with a couple of very thirsty men?” “I thought it might do at the end of a long ride,” The Sergeant said, as he settled down next to Neely. He pulled the stopper and stuffed it into a pocket of his tunic. Then he reached across Neely and handed the flask to Flynn, “Just a sip now, that way we'll all get a taste.” Flynn tipped a small amount of what was in the flask into his mouth and swallowed. His eyes bugged, his cheeks puffed out and then he let out his breath in a woosh, “Wwwwhhoooo! Oh Neely, you gotta try this.” He handed the flask to his friend.

The tracker took the flask and sniffed it. He turned to look at Sergeant Travers. “Amberfire? How old?” The Ortian shrugged. “My da's a distiller. He set this batch up a bit before I was born. Say forty-five years ago.” Neely imitated a fish. “F ... Forty-five years?” He threw back a good slug of the potent brew. “Hoooaahh! Ohh that's smooth.” Travers took the flask and sampled some of it. “Yep. Good man, my da.” Both Flynn and Neely heartily agreed. Charity, hearing her name mentioned, looked up from checking over her bow. Sundown was still a good hour away and the smell of stew and firebread floated through the air mixing with that of the pipes some of the men smoked. Long shadows cast by the trees lay across the campsite like tigers stripes. Flynn and Neely were passing a flask back and forth with Travers and laughing at something they found extremely funny. Neely pointed at her and Flynn nodded, laughing all the harder. She put down the bow and walked around the campfire feeling slightly irritated. If they were telling stories again with her as the butt of the joke... Sergeant Travers looked up at her approach, slightly bleary-eyed. He accepted the flask from Neely's hand, took a pull from it, and then got to his feet after one failed try. “Good evening, milady. These companions of yours have been entertaining me with wonderful stories of your prowess with the bow. They have even assayed a wager on your skill, but I think this time they've ventured beyond the realm of falsehood into outright fantasy.” Travers’ words, even though spoken with the slurred formality of one teetering on the edge of drunkenness, rocked Charity. She blinked and said cautiously, “Wager? What wager?” “Why as I said, about your ability with the bow. They claim you can center any target you see ... And some you can't.” Travers looked back at Flynn and Neely, both of them wearing loose-lipped grins. “Isn't that so?” Neely belched, “Pardon. Might as well pay us now Sergeant. Ain't a target you kin pick she can't hit.” “Easy money, I'd say.” Flynn chortled. Charity folded her arms under her breasts. “Oh really? And how much did you wager? I don't recall you having much in the way of coin.” Flynn nudged Neely in the ribs as he tipped more of Travers’ Amberfire down his throat. Neely crossed his arms in mimicry of Charity, “Naw, but we got horses, they're worth a couple a golds apiece, easy.” “Thehorses ? You bet the horses? Mine too?”

Travers sat back down and grabbed the flask out of Flynn's hand. “She can't do it. I might as well take ‘em now.” Charity's sigh sounded long-suffering, “What's the target?” Flynn and Neely slapped each other's hand in celebration while the Sergeant set up the shot for Charity. As Charity collected and strung her bow, he walked away from the campsite toward the line of trees off to the far side of the flat. By the time he reached the trees, Charity began to develop some concern over whether or not she'd stepped in it along with her two friends. Travers’ chosen target was a small piece of red leather tacked to the trunk of a lonely Madrone mixed in with the Alders and Beeches. The red of the leather was akin to the color of the tree's trunk. At the three hundred or more paces distance she'd be expected to be shooting from, there was little chance of even seeing the target, much less hitting it. “You're not thinking of backing out, are you?” Travers watched her face as they walked back towards Flynn and Neely. “Not on your life Sergeant, I'm rather fond of my horse. I'd rather not have one of your men riding her, thank you,” Charity pitched her voice to be as confident as possible, in spite of her feelings. When they reached where Flynn and Neely stood, the rest of the troopers came over to see what was going on. The Sergeant informed them of the bet and more wagers changed hands. To Neely it looked like they were split about half-and-half between whether she'd make the shot or not. One of the troopers sidled over to Neely and clapped him on the shoulder. “I'm sure gonna enjoy th’ saddle you got on that nag o’ yourn, mine's ‘bout worn through.” The tracker shrugged as he watched Charity string her bow, “Wouldn't be so quick off th’ mark iffn I was you. She ain't shot yet an’ it's the second mouse whut always gets th’ cheese.” Charity finished stringing her bow and turned toward the target. It looked even further away than she thought. She could see the Madrone, barely, but could only guess as to where the leather target was on the tree. “Got a problem?” Travers chuckled as she peered out over the course. “Just checking my bearings, Sergeant,” Charity was becoming a little irritated with Travers’ smugness. He was so sure he'd set her an impossible bet he was probably spending the money in his mind already. “G'wan miss Charity, you kin do it,” Flynn encouraged her from where he sat. “Yeah, let's lighten their purses,” Neely chimed in. The rest of her audience held their peace other than a bit of sotto voiced commentary between a few of the troopers. Charity pulled an arrow from the quiver and nocked it to the string. She looked out at the target once more. Her gut still swirled with feelings of apprehension but there was no backing out now. She was sure she'd miss the tree as well as that tiny patch of leather. Could she even send an arrow that far? “You kin do it, Miss Charity, we knows ya can,” Flynn's jovial voice came through her thoughts and eased a lot of the weight that had been settling down on her shoulders.

“Thank you Flynn,” She said to herself as she brought up the bow and drew back the string. As the knuckle of her thumb touched the point of her jaw that feeling ofknowing the target came over her. She loosed the arrow, renocked another and released again all in one smooth motion. Then she turned to face Sergeant Travers without even bothering to see if the first arrow hit or not. “Pay them,” She told him and walked away. Travers and his men ran to the target site with Flynn and Neely stumbling along behind them. Neely yelled out as he approached the Ortian troopers standing before the Madrone, “Don't you touch nothin', now. We all gotta see iffn she came close'nuf ta swing th’ bet.” “We ain't touchin’ it,” One of the troopers muttered. “Don't think I ever wanna touch it.” The last came out flavored with a bit of awe. “Lemme see.” Flynn shouldered his way through the press and then called over his shoulder, “Neely, you gotta see this.” The tracker pushed a couple of the troopers aside in order to get to where the big man was. “What? Whatcha see? Oh, mama ... Bardoc preserve us.” “I don't believe it. I ... flickin’ don't believe it.” Travers stood in front of the Madrone shaking his head. “Better believe it, you owe us a stack of coins.” Neely held out his hand before the Sergeant. Flynn grinned hugely, “Consider it payment fer a show Sergeant. Lotsa folk ‘ud pay good money ta see a shot like that.” Travers nodded numbly as he reached into his purse. Charity's first arrow centered the leather patch. Her second arrow had as well, splitting the first like a Sammla Fruit. **** “Half now, half when it is done? No, little man. All now ... or you can find someone else for this deed.” The speaker sat across from Hodder and Stroughten in the place Wuest usually occupied while sharing an after hours drink. His eyes held a coldness Hodder had never seen before. He wasn't sure if he was more afraid of the Duke or the black haired man facing him, the one who still hadn't touched his drink. Stroughten raised a hand. “Now, no need to do anythin’ hasty, you'll get yer gold, but fer it all ta be paid up front we's gonna have ta wait fer Avin ta add his into th’ pot.” The fellow smiled, but it never reached his eyes, “As you say, we will wait, but...” He toyed with the rim of his glass, “waiting will cost another gold.” “Another gold?” Hodder's exclamation caused heads to turn in the pub. “Ssshhh,” Stroughten reached out and covered his friend's mouth, “you want everyone in th’ pub knowin’ whut we's doin'?” “Mumph mheh wamphh nufnr mmoll,” Hodder mumbled from behind Stroughten's hand. “Perhaps if he promises to speak a bit more circumspectly you'll take your hand away,” The black haired man said quietly, his saturnine face nearly expressionless, his lips barely moving. “Won't you little

man?” Hodder nodded quickly and Stroughten pulled his hand back. “Whut was you goin’ on about?” “Another gold, Leum, he wants another gold,” Hodder hissed. “Where we gonna get that?” “Your friend has yet to show. You can ask him, when he gets here.” Hodder sent a glare across the booth. “You never gave us your name,” He accused. “I didn't, did I?” Their guest sat back and looked at each of them in turn. His voice dropped to a sibilant whisper, “Get used to it. You,” he nodded at Stroughten, “contacted me with an offer of a job. Assassination never comes cheaply, regicide even less so. In addition, I've found my clients’ memories ... lacking, when it comes time to collect the bill. So my policy is payment in full,” He looked at Hodder, “regardless of the price.” “But fifteen golds? No, sixteen?” Hodder remembered to keep his voice low. The assassin turned his eyes toward Stroughten, “Your little friend is too full of “buts".” “Tis a high price but we'll cover it,” Stroughten muttered. “Deed's got ta be done, no way ‘round it.” A cold smile greeted the gangly man's statement. “You're sure on this?” Wuest's arrival forestalled his friend's reply to the assassin. Stroughten was the first to remark on the Duke's aide's appearance, “Avin, you look like death herself! Sit, have a drink.” The Duke's aide sat and said, “Ale,” to the waitress as she passed the booth. “Gods, Avin. What happened? Did he skin another one?” Hodder leaned forward as he peered at his friend's pale features. “No, not that, fortunately.” Wuest grabbed the ale as soon as it touched the table and downed a good portion. “Bring another. No, no skinnings, not today. Today he told me his intentions, for us, for Grisham, for the world.” The black-haired assassin sat quietly, listening for anything he may be able to use later. “How bad?” Hodder gulped some of his own ale. “He's beyond mad, he's evil, dangerously evil. The madness just adds to it. He wants his war; in fact he started it to teach a lesson to the Ortian Emperor. What lesson, I don't think even he's sure of now, but he's going to teach it, oh yes. Even if we all have to die in the learning.” Both Hodder and Stroughten nodded. The assassin leaned forward, resting his weight on his elbows. “This madness you speak of, what form does it take?”

Wuest noticed the addition to the usual contents of the booth for the first time since sitting, “Who're you?” “Ask your friends,” The black-haired man said with a wave of his hand. Wuest looked at Hodder and Stroughten. “Th’ killer,” Stroughten said around a mouthful of beer. “What?” The Duke's aide started as if the man next to him had suddenly developed fangs and bat wings. “He said,the killer .” Hodder reached out and pushed Wuest's ale closer to him. “Here, finish this, you've all the color of a bleached sheet.” “The killer ... the killer...” The Duke's aide mused. “Oh!” He said, brightening a bit, “you're the one. How much do you need?” The assassin's smile was less chill this time. “Sixteen will do. Consider the price a ... humanitarian gesture from one who's motivated by a strong sense of civic responsibility.” Hodder snorted, “Civic responsibility, my puckered ass.” “Hodder!” Stroughten hissed. “Mind who you're speaking to.” “Leave off,” The assassin chuckled, “It seems I was mistaken in my estimation of your little friend. I respect his courage, even if it does come at a price, sixteen golds to be exact. Do you have them with you,” He looked at each of the conspirators in turn before adding a raised eyebrow for Wuest, “or need we go our separate ways?” “No, no need for that. I knew what we were planning would be expensive. I have the coins right here.” Wuest reached into his overtunic and pulled out a small purse, it clinked when he placed it on the table in front of the assassin. The man's eyes widened slightly, “Sixteen? Are you a seer as well?” “Looks like more'n sixteen,” Stroughten said quietly. “Where'd you get ‘em Avin? We addin’ thievery ta killin'?” “My life's savings—over ten years of scrimping, eating leftovers in the Duke's kitchens, buying nothing unless it was absolutely necessary and sometimes not even then. There's twenty-four golds in there, my Lord Lifetaker. They are all yours if you believe you can deliver this city from the demon plaguing it.” The assassin opened the purse and looked inside, “The agreement was sixteen and sixteen is all I'll take. Use the rest to build another nest egg. I'll not deprive a man of his last secant and I'll not pad my belly on another's hopes.” Wuest took back his lightened purse. “When?” was all he said. Hodder and Stroughten leaned forward. “When,” The assassin repeated while toying with the gold coins in his hand, “When, where and how is

my concern, employer. All that need concern you is that once paid, the contractwill be fulfilled . Prepare yourself for a new master, by this time on the next moon the Duke of Grisham will be no more.” Chapter Four

The foreman in charge of repairing the southeastern gates surveyed the ruin before him and shook his head. “We kin do th’ job, Errold,” His construction chief said. “Ofcourse we can do the job. Will we do it in time?That is what worries me. You've heard the stories, Mordun, just as I have, an army stretching from horizon to horizon. Great gray beasts, near tall as that Dragon that did this!” He waved an exasperated arm at the gap where the gates used to hang. “You just make sure I's got th’ men an’ th’ tools Errold, I'll git it fixed fer ya. In a fortnight yer won't even know they wuz ever down in th’ first place,” Mordun hitched the thick tool belt encircling his oversized belly, “an’ that's a promise.” Errold watched a crew of workers put the finishing touches on the left side scaffolding and then turned to walk back to his temporary office on the site. “Make it a week and I'll be happier.” “A week?” The pot-bellied construction chief followed his superior, “Ain't no way we kin get it done in a week, not without we hire extra men an’ do round th’ clock shifts. Maybe not even then.” “We may not have a week Mordun. Do what you have to and pay what you have to. Just get it done.” **** “Here comes th’ first batch milord.” Captain Bilardi turned at the old Corporal's call and walked over to where he could see into the street below. “How many do you figure McKenit?” He watched the line of men and wagons as it snaked through the city street and into the Grisham barracks. “Ummmm. Not two ... No, not two ... three, no make that four, companies so far, countin’ ‘scripts. See, there's a batch still wearin’ shackles comin’ ‘round the’ corner,” the Corporal pointed at the far visible end of the line. “Four companies...” Bilardi murmured, “this early, tells me we'll probably see ten times that number before the week is out. Maybe as many as one hundred, counting conscripts if the press gangs do their job properly.” Corporal McKenit nodded enthusiastically, “Aye, that oughta bring th’ numbers up a bit, ‘specially iffn they gets as far as Bern er Berggren.” Bilardi pushed himself away from the parapet. “Right you are Corporal, right you are. Come with me, there is a minor problem in the stacks that needs seeing to.” They took the stairs to the street level and, after a brief glance to see if the guards at the barracks gate

were at least semi-alert, made their way along the edge of the compound to the armorers warehouse. Captain Bilardi acknowledged the salute given him by the private in front of the door with a slight nod of his head. Corporal McKenit murmured, “Good lad,” as he brushed by and gave the boy a clap on the shoulder. The Sergeant behind the desk leapt to his feet when he saw who was coming through the door. “Captain in the house!” He called out as he came to attention. “As you were.” Bilardi looked more closely at the desk Sergeant, “Where's Sergeant Yeric?” “Indisposed, Sir!” The Guard Sergeant's eyes remained fixed on a point several yards in front of him. “'E means drunk Cap,” Corporal McKenit chuckled. “Very well,” Bilardi sighed. He looked away from the Desk Sergeant and waved a hand languidly, “As you were, as you were Sergeant, relax a bit. I feel like I'm talking to one of my father's statues. Do you have the current weapons inventory?” “Yes sir Cap'n, got it right here.” The Sergeant reached into the lower drawer in the right hand side of his desk, pulled out a thick sheaf of parchments and handed it to Bilardi. The Guard Captain checked the first page carefully. As with the majority of Grisham's military documents, castle scribes and illuminators initially prepared the inventory sheets. A drawing of the item and its name appeared on each line with a number of hash marks next to it, the drawing being for the convenience of those personnel unable to read, meaning most of them. One only had to compare the drawing with the item being inventoried and then mark in the right space once for each item in that category, all in all, a system simple enough to be nearly fool proof,nearly . Once, the Captain had a man flogged because he counted three score barrels of horse urine used in tanning leathers as wine. The lesson stuck and the error rate dropped exponentially. “I see we're low on line cutters,” Bilardi murmured, running his finger down the list. “We should have at least another four dozen, get five if you can by no later than next rest day.” “Aye Cap'n. We'll try.” “You had better do more than try, Sergeant,” The Captain's voice held no tone implying threat but the Sergeant's face tightened. Bilardi saw the result of his warning and nodded, “Good, now let's see the Stacks.” “I'll keep watch o'er th’ desk iffn ye want, Cap'n.” Corporal McKenit made as if to sit in the absent Sergeant's chair. Bilardi shook his head, “No Corporal, you'd best come along. We'll need a set of experienced eyes I think.” “Right'cho are Cap'n.” McKenit scuttled around the desk and fell in behind the Captain and the Sergeant. The “Stacks” were actually a series of multi-level pallets long enough and wide enough to hold

everything from boxes of gloves to bundles of the twelve-foot long halberds used by footmen. Forty-five rows of these pallets made up what was known as the Stacks. The lighting was left to the oversized skylights set into the warehouse roof during the day and oil lanterns at night. A crew of fifteen guards maintained the facility. Those who saw Bilardi on his tour snapped to attention and sighed in relief if he passed them without comment. One warehouseman wasn't as fortunate as the others. “You, stop right there!” The Captain quickened his steps and moved to the pallet where a guard was putting short swords from it into a canvas sling laid out onto the floor. The guard froze with a sword halfway to the sling. “I done nuthin’ wrong! Tell ‘em Sarge, you know I done nuthin’ wrong.” Bilardi stepped closer, a cold smile growing on his face, “I wasn't accusing you of doing anything Private, but one wonders why your reaction is so ... guilty.” He moved his right hand to the rapier at his hip. The young guard looked to the right and the left as if seeking a way out. There was none. Nor did any of the others who'd gathered to check out the disturbance appear willing to help. He backed away from the Captain still holding the short sword. “It's all over Private, Where are you going to go? Look around you. Do you think any of these men are going to help?” Bilardi advanced on the retreating warehouseman. “You've been stealing weapons and selling them. Why? Why Private, for money? Why have you been bleeding Grisham? Why? Answer me, damn you!” The last came out in a shout along with his rapier. The Private knew he was already dead but something within him said he had to try anyway. His first attack brought a sneer to Bilardi's mouth, “Oh come on Private, surely you can do better than that. At least hold your weapon properly, it's not a knitting needle, you know,” to demonstrate he opened a gash along the hapless warehouseman's left cheek, “see?” In answer the Private swung wildly, but his eyes were closed and Bilardi easily stepped aside. The warehouseman's forward momentum exposed his right side and the Captain used the opportunity to run his rapier into it at a slightly upward angle, piercing the heart. Red blood spread across the warehouseman's shirt as his eyes glazed over. His knees buckled as he released his hold on the sword. It clattered to the floor just before the body hit. “Quick work there, Cap'n.” Corporal McKenit said. “I did what I had to do, McKenit,” Bilardi grated. “It is nothing to be cheery about. He wiped his rapier on the Private's tunic. “Oh no sir,” McKenit exclaimed, “as you say, nothin’ to be cheery about, that's fer sure.” The Captain turned to face the Sergeant who was staring at the body on the warehouse floor. “What about you Sergeant? Do you see anything here to smile about? A man steals the weapons from under your nose, and you do nothing about it?”

The Sergeant gulped but otherwise remained mute. “Well, Sergeant? I'm waiting for your answer.” Bilardi tapped him with the tip of the saber. “Speak up. I don't have all day to wait on you.” “I thinks this is th’ first deader e's seen Cap'n,” Corporal McKenit said. “Looks like e's bout ta lose ‘is lunch.” “Yes, he does, doesn't he?” Bilardi murmured. “Very well Sergeant, have someone clean up this mess. Also, make sure this ... object lesson is well circulated throughout the men. This pilfering will cease, now! Any one else caught stealing from Grisham will get the same treatment.” The Sergeant nodded his head mutely. “Looks like we's done ‘ere Cap'n.” “Yes Corporal, I believe we are.” **** Low fog cuddled up against the pier like a white cat seeking a warm lap. It looked as if Bardoc himself had stuffed the harbor with cotton. A few gulls squabbled for perch space atop the exposed pilings not already occupied by pelicans. The salty fish-tinged scent of the docks lay in the still air inviting early risers to join the fog in its slow walk along the shore. Vessels lined the pier, each dock filled with a boat, sloop, or dinghy. Since word of the coming war spread, shipping had dropped to a bare trickle of what use to be. Few captains felt brave enough to try their luck on the open sea. What shipping did go on was confined to traffic between Grisham and the port of Bern on the northwestern shore of the sea-sized bay north of the great city. The figure trudging toward the dock on the far Southern end of the pier cared little for the beauty of the fog or the lack of ongoing commerce. A few dockworkers, up early enough to try their hand at catching breakfast looked up at his approach. They saw an old man with the look of a Wizard about him. The ornately carved staff he held in his right hand tapped a counterpoint to the click of his heels against the oiled wood of the boardwalk. Most of his face was hidden within the deep cowl of his cloak so they saw little of the expression he wore. If they had they would have sent up a quick prayer, for the face of the old man was one of sorrow and death. Rawn finished the knot he was tying and looked up at the sound of footsteps. A figure was descending the ladder to the dock he shared with two others. Phalup and Gruen were still in their pallets he imagined; sometimes, old bones prefer it that way when the fog rolls in. A lopsided smile split his homely face when he saw who it was. “A grand good morrow t'ye m'lord, so ye've decided to let ol’ Rawn ferry ye once more, eh?” He stood to let Milward enter his boat. The old Wizard kept silent and Rawn shook his head as he worked the lashings free from their pilings, Wizards, they've their own way of doin’ things . In deference to his state of being, and wanting to keep it that way, he kept his thoughts to himself. Beneath the fog, the surface of the strait lay smooth as a pane of fine glass and Rawn's small craft slid from its slip without a sound. Once away from Grisham harbor and into the strait proper, the old

ferryman settled back into the familiar rhythms of tiller and wave with barely a glance at his silent passenger. With Rawn's long years of experience, the trip across the strait from Grisham's docks to the great library perched on the heights above the eastern shore proved uneventful and reasonably short. Milward exited the craft and flipped a coin towards the ferryman. Rawn caught it with one hand and opened his fingers to look at it, “A gold? Thank'e, m'lord, thank'e.” “Consider it a reward for your silence.” Milward turned back in the direction of the long stair that climbed the cliffs and began walking, his staff again tapping out that odd counterpoint to the sound of his heels. Rawn pushed off the dock with the pole he kept for that purpose.Wizards is passin’ strange folk, he thought, generous sometimes, but passin’ strange . The steps climbing to the library had been carved in the distant past. They curved upwards, cutting through the tough stone of the headland upon which the library stood. A few terns, setting their nests started slightly as the Wizard passed and then resettled. Tending to their eggs was more important than scolding old men. At the top of the stair the path split. To the left, arcing around a natural abutment, the path changed to thick slabs of inset rose marble leading to a covered patio set against the cliff's edge. During the days of the Empire, royalty was wont to meet there and enjoy the spectacular view, while discussing matters of state. To the right the path snaked through canyons of natural rock and the man-made walls of the library's outbuildings until it opened up into the expansive grounds fronting the main building. A long-silent fountain stood in the center of the open forum fronting the library. Milward paused for a second and gazed into the rainwater collected in its basin. A scum of light green algae coated the surface of the water. He reached down and stirred it with a fingertip.So much for the plans of men and Wizards, he thought,look where my temper has brought me. He flicked the collected algae off his finger back into the fountain and walked up to the library door. Using the head of his staff he knocked three times on the oversized oaken panels. Inside the library Alten Baldricsson, the Librarian, lifted his head at the sound of the knock. A small flicker of annoyance passed over his face, discarded as soon as it was born. The two prophecies on his desk would wait well enough as they had for centuries past. He received too few visitors as it was for him to start ignoring them now. The knock sounded again. “I'll be there, I'll be there. These old bones don't move all that quickly you know,” Alten muttered his complaint to the door as he made his way through the scattered chests and crates in the anteroom he'd been using to sort some of the older materials. Another knock sounded at he opened the door. “Milward, This is a surprise! I didn't expect you to return so ... What's wrong? You look terrible.” “Can I come in?” The old Wizard's voice came out as a bare whisper.

Alten stepped aside to allow his oldest friend to pass, “Of course, of course. You know you never have to ask that of me. Come in, I've a nice pot of tisane at the boil.” Milward's brief grin did not reach his eyes. “That would be nice.” He stepped into the foyer and walked past the Librarian who closed the door and then hurried to catch up. “What is it Milward? What happened?” “Let me drink first old friend, then we'll talk. I need something to settle my insides.” Alten nodded, “Certainly, I've left the pot in the kitchen, you know the way.” They walked side by side through the Library, neither one of them speaking. Alten pushed open the door but allowed Milward to enter first. The scent of the tisane filled the room with its citrus-cinnamon aroma. “This is my own recipe Milward, you'll find it'll sooth what troubles your insides, then we can talk about what's troubling your soul.” Alten dipped a mugfull from the tisane pot into a couple of crockery mugs he pulled from the cupboard nearby. “Thank you.” The old Wizard took one of the cups and sipped. Alten sat across from his friend and shared a long period of silence along with the hot drink. Milward put his empty cup back onto the table and looked at his friend with tortured eyes, “I've lost him, Alten, that damnable temper of mine, I let it get the best of me and now he's gone.” “Who's gone?” “The young man who was with me before, the one the prophecy speaks about. He's gone. I drove him away with my temper, with my fear.” The old Wizard picked up his cup and looked into it, “May I have some more?” “Of course,” He refilled the cup, and as Milward drank, Alten peered at him closely. “You mean the young man who's to be the next Emperor? He's the one you're talking about?” Milward looked up. “Yes, he's the one, and because of me he's turned from it. He's put himself into the hands of the Grisham City Guard. Now he'll probably get involved in this petty war that's coming. Any chance of him fulfilling his destiny has flown out the window.” “Apparently, old friend, you've read the prophecy of Labad butdidn't read it.” “What? What are you talking about now?” The Wizard's voice sharpened. “Ah, ah, Milward, that temper of yours, remember?” Alten admonished. “Take a moment and listen to what I'm saying. That letter written to your young man and his sister they found with the original prophecy said something about them being of his blood, Labad's blood. They are royalty old friend and hewill be Emperor. I feel it in my bones. He'll take the job, don't you worry.” Milward sipped a bit more of his tisane. “A prophecy Alten, or just a feeling?”

“A feeling, but there's something else, something I was reading when you knocked. Bring your cup and come with me. Both the cook and Felsten are in the city doing their shopping so we're on our own here.” Alten picked up his cup and left the kitchen. “Might as well see what the old fool's talking about,” Milward murmured as he mimicked his friend's actions and followed him back through the hallways to the chest crowded anteroom. “Over here,” Alten motioned the Wizard over to the reading desk set before the high cathedral windows. The morning light shone onto the open volume on the desk. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams. “This one I found while cleaning out one of the older rooms. It has some rather interesting things to say about the Empire.” In spite of his depression Milward found himself developing an interest in the Librarian's find. “Is it one of Labad's writings?” Alten shook his head, “No, that's what caught my eye first. It's Dwarf and I think there's more of their work in these chests over here.” He pointed to a jumble of chests and crates off to the left. “Some of this stuff dates a few thousand years before Labad, before there even was an Empire.” “Dwarf you say,” Milward mused, “In all the centuries that I've had dealings with them I've never heard an inkling of a turn toward the prophetic. As far as I know even the Dragons are unaware of this,” He fingered one of the pages of the Dwarf prophecy, “But what does this have to do with Adam?” “Before we go into that, tell me about the boy. Why does his going off on his own distress you so much?” Alten leaned on the reading desk with an elbow as he regarded Milward over the rim of his cup. The old Wizard seemed to collapse within himself and a long sigh escaped through his beard, “As you must know, the boy is magik, being of the Blood he couldn't be anything else.” Alten nodded. “What I haven't told you is just how powerful his magik is.” “Surely he can't be stronger than you.” Milward's laugh sounded bitter and forced, “I wish I hadhalf his strength. If he ever lives to fulfill his potential ... Alten, he can't control a nits worth of his power and what he does use is so far beyond my capabilities I can't even begin to comprehend it.” He sighed, “I'm not rightly sure what happened. It started when we left you. Now that I think about it, it seems to have come from an outside source. I'll bet it has something to do with what that fool Gilgafed's been playing at. It affected Adam a bit too, but it made me crankier than an old boar with the trots, and because of that I've driven Adam off to play soldier.” The old Wizard loosed another sigh, “And that is, as they say, that.” He looked at Alten again, “What am I going to do?” Alten crossed his arms. “Well, for one thing, you're going to start acting like an adult instead of a toddler who's lost his favorite toy.”

“What?” Milward's expression showed his shock. “You heard me.” Alten put his cup onto one of the crates next to the reading desk. “How old are you?” “What's that have to do with all this?” “Just answer the question, you old crank. How old are you?” “You are an incurable busybody sometimes, do you know that?” Milward glared at his friend. Alten shrugged, “It's one of my most redeeming traits. How old are you?” “Two thousand two hundred and thirteen years old, give or take a month or two. What of it?” The Wizard's glare remained. “A fine crop of years; seems to me there must have been a few times among them where things didn't go exactly the way you had them planned out, hmm? What did you do then, whimper and whine, or did you think your way out of it? Maybe try and see if there was another way to get the same thing accomplished?” Alten picked up his cup and sipped the last of his tisane. Milward stared at his old friend for a long, long moment. “Makes you think a bit, doesn't it?” Alten pursed his lips and waggled his eyebrows. The stare continued for a moment longer and then the old Wizard slapped his forehead. “What an idiot I've been!” “Don't look to me for disagreement.” The Wizard ignored his friend's acerbic commentary. “This might even work out for the better. He's certainly not in much danger, not with his abilities. If anyone attacks him that'stheir problem.” He sat on one of the crates and touched a forefinger to his moustache. “You know, I might even be better able to help him because of this. He did have a tendency to buck against the reins, as it were. A stubborn lad, I have no idea where he picked that up.” “What do you plan on doing, skulk through the shadows and offer suggestions from dark alleys?” Alten snickered. “Don't be snide,” Milward shot a brief glare in his friend's direction. “What I'm talking about is keeping an eye on the lad and those around him. A word in an ear here, a small shaping there, possibly creating a situation where he needs to do a bit of shaping...? Yes, I can see a lot of possibilities. Thank you, Alten, you've cheered me considerably.” Alten nodded, “You're welcome, I think.” “Of course I am. Now, what does this Dwarf volume have to do with my apprentice?” Shorn of his depression Milward quickly reverted to his normal personality. Officious, overbearing and impatient, but Alten took it in stride. “Quite a lot, I think. As you know even though they have an unhealthy affection toward practical jokes, Dwarfish writing can be a bit dry.”

“A bit dry? I've seen wetter deserts.” Alten chuckled, “Point taken. This passage in particular I think bears some attention.” The beginnings of the troubles, when the humans choose sides, twill be known by the darkening of the moon and the coming of the shadow that fades the sun.In the roots of the earth, in the cool of the rock, will the children hide; yet the destroyer feeds. Only by the promised ones, mark well their coming, for they foretell both hope and despair by the blood of Labad, if honor is kept. “If honor is kept? What in Bardoc's name does that mean?” Milward took the volume from the desk and reread over the passage. Alten's mouth twitched in a grimace. “Don't know, unless it has something to do with the Dwarves in general or a Dwarf in particular, but as you can see; your apprentice and his sister are there. Unless there are some others running around the land with Labad's blood in them.” Milward put the Dwarf prophecy back onto the reading desk, “We can be assured there are none, as far as I've been able to tell.” “I thought as much.” Alten turned a page in the volume. “This prophecy, if you can believe it, is even drearier further on. It tells about the war enveloping the entire world. It becomes a war between light and shadow with a large portion of this world joining the side of the shadow. Listen to this, “Some follow the seduction of their dark lustings, forsaking the honor of clan and sept for the gleam of promised power. Those will offer their own upon the altar built by the dark priests whose robes drip red with the blood of innocents. From the Well of Sorrows flows the black breath of Luusticles, Father of Darkness. To the well the three go, sword, event and bow. A third will fall, a third will find, a third will mourn. Find ye the king, the true born." “Adam and Charity are most likely in this passage, but who is the third? And why is it called event?” Milward rubbed his chin through his beard as he paced back and forth in the small open space allowed by the crates. Alten closed the book of Dwarf prophecy. “I'd like to know that myself.” **** Sparks flew briefly with fireflies as the campfire flared under the proddings of the twig held in Sergeant Travers’ hand. “As long as I live, I'll never forget the sight of that arrow stuck between the halves of the first one.” He stirred the coals one last time. “She cheated. Hadda be a cheat. Ain't no one able ta shoot like that. No one, specially not a skirt,” one of the troopers off to Travers’ right muttered into the glow of the fire. “Let it go, Murt,” The one sitting across the fire from the mutterer growled. “You saw the shot, same as I did. Twern't no cheat, an’ iffn you'da bet the right way you wouldn't be whinin’ like a dog whose lost his bone.” Murt glowered at the speaker from beneath brows that met in the middle. Below them, his nose, not his

prettiest feature, wrinkled in disgust, “Look o's talkin', you'll be spendin’ a mess'o me own coin, I'm sure. Bettin’ agin’ yer kind like that, oughta be ashamed. Hadda be a cheat, hadda.” “How?” The simple question brought a surprised look from the mutterer and then a glare, “You Derrl-Gynic? You takin’ the witch's side too? You turnin’ on yer own now?” Derrl-Gynic picked up one of the smaller branches they were using to feed the fire and drew an arc in the ground before him. “That's no answer to what I asked, Murt and you know it. So, I'll ask it again. How? How'd she cheat? Are you so blind stubborn you can't believe your own eyes? Or are you just stupid?” He tossed the stick in Murt's direction. The muffled laughter coming from the other troopers around the fire did nothing for Murt's rapidly dissolving humor. He snatched the stick from where it landed and stuck one end into the coals. “Hadda be a cheat or a trick at least, hadda be,” He continued his muttering while he poked around the campfire with the stick until the tip burst into flame. One of the troopers, who also bet on Charity's prowess, felt something rub against his backside. “Ere, wot? Oy! It's the lady's kitty. Whotcho want missy, summat to eat?” He pulled a scrap off the game bird carcass he was watching over and tossed it to the cat that neatly snagged it out of the air. “You see that? She's got an eye just like ‘er missus. Here ya go girl, have another,” he reached out to pull a bit more off the bird but a hand roughly shoved it away. “Leave off! Iffn that cat wants ta eat she kin hunt it up herself,” Murt snarled at the trooper. “Leave off yerself, Murt. That cat ain't responsible for you bettin’ the wrong way.” The trooper slapped Murt's hand out of the way and pinched off another snack for the cat. She rewarded his kindness with a rumbling purr as she ate. With a snarl Murt surged to his feet and brandished the flaming stick as if it were a sword. “That bloody cat ain't gonna get none'a me supper nohow. Half'a me coin's in that flickin’ skirt's purse, ain't none'a me bird goin’ inta that skruddin’ cat!” He jammed the stick at the cat as she worked on finishing the scrap of meat. The glowing end caught her on the left haunch and she leapt away from the camp circle with a howl of rage and fright. Her reaction only fed Murt's rage and he chased after the cat yelling epithets. The rest of the troop around the fire came to their feet with Travers in the lead, calling the trooper to hold at attention. Murt ignored the Sergeant's commands as he chased the cat up a tree. He also failed to see Charity vectoring in from his right side at a dead run. Flynn and Neely came in from the other side. Flynn slapped one of his ham-sized hands onto Travers’ shoulder, jerking the Sergeant to an abrupt halt, “Let ‘em be Sergeant, He's earned what's comin’ to ‘im.” “But ... he'll kill her. I've seen Murt in a rage before, the man's an animal when he's like that.” Flynn clucked his tongue, “Naw, he'll be just a warm-up. Mark me words, worry ‘bout yer man instead.”

Neely came up beside them as Charity reached the trooper. “This oughta be good, I never liked th’ look o’ th’ man anyroad.” “Bleedin’ cat, climbin’ that tree ain't gonna save ya,” Murt pulled his knife and cocked his arm to throw it. “Aaagghh!!” The sound of his wrist snapping was audible across the camp. The force of Charity's kick spun her in a circle. She allowed the spin to carry her around and planted the heel of her free foot into the trooper's midsection, doubling him over and leaving him on his knees, retching. “Hold! You've beaten him, it's over,” Travers bucked against the restraining hands of Flynn and Neely. “She ain't listenin’ Sarge, he should'na tried ta kill ‘er cat,” Flynn rumbled. Murt tried to rise up but a heel from Charity into his kidneys slammed him back to the ground. “Mercy,” he gasped in both fear and pain, “mercy, please.” “Here's your mercy, you sadistic bastard.” She raised her foot and brought it down with all the force she could muster. “Oooooo!” Neely winced, “'E's got a right ta scream on that one.” “Told ya so,” Flynn said to Travers as the trooper's cries worked their way down the scale into whimpers, “she luvs that cat.” The Sergeant and another of his men helped Murt to his feet. Neely looked back at the campfire and his eyes centered onto the remains of the roasted game bird, “You hungry Flynn?” **** Something was tickling his nose. He allowed the sensation to continue for a moment more and then absorbed the small life contained in what ever was doing the tickling. Though tasty enough, it was not sufficient to satisfy the hunger growling within. In addition to being ravenous, the beautiful pain was missing; McCabe had mixed feelings concerning that. On one hand, it meant he was able to rise and move about, as well as find a source of food. On the other ... the agony of his injuries had feltsooo good. Ah well, he would accomplish nothing by just lying there. The voices came again as soon as he thought about getting up.East, go east, they insisted. The lesson on the power he desired still echoed in his mind and east was where it would be gained. McCabe looked around at the landscape where he had landed. As far as the eye could see in all directions the tops of grasses moved in the slight breeze. Shades of green with tints of brown flowed in rippling waves throughout the verdant sea. The pungent smell of rich earth wafted across his nose as he cast his senses in an effort to get a bearing on where he'd landed. It appeared to be the part of the world called the Forever Grass, a vast prairie stretching from coast to coast between the northernmost end of the Spine of the World and the beginning of the Frozen Waste. His senses told him he was approximately twenty miles to the west of the narrow neck of land leading into the peninsula where the ruins of Verkuyl lay moldering on its northern shore.

McCabe stood in the center of the shallow crater caused by his fall. The mere fact of his survival reinforced the impression he'd gotten earlier, in his ratherpointed argument with the Duke, that he was now immune to death. He could still be hurt, thankfully. Some pleasures he was loath to give up. Death was not one of them. Again the voices clamored, so he amended that last thought,his death was not one of them. If the satisfaction of his new existence lay in the killing of the entire world ... well, that was just too bad. Climbing out of the crater, he giggled as the thought of draining whole cities came to him. Early on, when he was young, some of the children living in the same dismal neighborhood as he did teased him about his laugh, they said it sounded like a girl's. He would revisit that street some day, and see if they could tease him while they screamed. East, go east. Now!McCabe shook his head with the mental effort it took to force the voices back. Then he shrugged, east was as good a direction as any, but if he went that way it would be his choice. He began walking, the prairie grass parting like water before him. Near the end of the day, with the sun split by the horizon, he came upon a gully cutting its way eastward through the soil. The gap it formed was too wide to jump and too deep to just step into. It looked to be formed by runoff. Even now there was a thin trickle flowing down the middle. Animals, especially those living in the heart of the prairie, seek out water. If he followed the gulch there was a good chance of coming across a snack or two, perhaps even a full meal. Unmindful of the good twelve-foot drop, he stepped off the edge and fell into the gully. He landed lightly, slightly disappointed in the lack of pain as he hit. The walls showed the depth of the topsoil beneath the forever grass. It varied as he walked along, sometimes dipping below the level of the gully bottom. The earthy scent he noticed lying in his crater grew stronger as the grade steepened; another scent tickled the edge of his nose, decay. McCabe cast his senses like a net into the gully before him. Other than several families of field mice and a gopher or two, they returned little. The hunger he felt upon waking came back with even more urgency. The feeling bothered him. Unlike his old friend, pain, this gave him no pleasure. It felt like something was gnawing at his insides. To top it off, night was falling. The scent of decay grew stronger and soon his feet were splashing in fetid green water. The sound of frogs told him what his eyes could not; he would come out of the gully into a swamp. No moon shone in the evening sky and the small amount of light from the stars was little help. A mosquito landed on his arm seeking the exposed skin showing through the rents in the black silk. He could feel it crawling, as clearly as if his own hand was imitating the motion. Another sign of the changes made when the seeker joined itself with his being. Following a whim, McCabe allowed the bloodsucker to feed and then absorbed its tiny spark of life in an instant. The minute thrill of it pleased him so he set off through the shallow waters treating his body like bait in order to trap a meal for the night. Leeches swarmed his legs, wriggling through the rents in the silk of his trousers. McCabe savored the feeling of their bites and then he fed. He bedded down in a pile of rushes that he found gathered at the junction of three large Willows.Others must have come this way, he thought,perhaps I'll catch up with them. Mosquitoes and leeches are tasty, but unsatisfying . With that thought he fell asleep and dreamed of nothing, nothing as far as the eye could see.

The growling of McCabe's stomach woke him. Part of him wondered about why it would be doing that since he no longer ate in any real sense of the word. In the daylight his swamp proved to be more of a wet patch in the prairie where the land sank into a hollow. A number of small creeks such as the one he followed fed the depression with enough regularity to support the growth of Willows, reeds, rushes and the like. He stood and continued walking eastward. Swamp or wet patch, it mattered little, there was something pulling him onward. He could feel it now. The voices exulted at the discovery and urged him with increased fervor. When he reached the verge where the depression began, he saw a long sloping hill whose base vanished in the distant haze. Before the haze, several dark spots moved in the grass. It looked like breakfast was coming his way. As the spots grew closer it soon became apparent they were a grouping of foraging Garlocs, what the naturalists called aTongue . McCabe knew of the beasts but this was his first sight of the lizard-like creatures. From what he could see there seemed little reason for the fear the mention of their name invoked. The Garlocs stood, on average, a bit more than a head shorter than he did and they were much thinner. Their mouths were at least twice as wide as that of a man, and filled with sharp needle-pointed teeth. The bandy legs bent at an odd angle, and didn't move like those of an animal used to walking upright, though these Garlocs showed no desire to do otherwise. Skin coloring, if it could be called coloring, was a sickly mottling of bile greens and browns. Good for camouflage if not for esthetics. He hoped they tasted better than they looked. The Garlocs noticed McCabe when he reached the halfway point down the hill. Six pairs of deep yellow eyes focused on the solitary man. Guttural voices barked back and forth as they spread out before him in a rough skirmish line. His only reaction to the impending attack was a thin smile as he closed the distance between himself and the Garlocs. Upon reaching a spot where mere yards separated them, he stopped. Two of the Tongue members gibbered at each other as they started an encircling maneuver. McCabe thought their voices interesting. The sound grated on the nerves like fingernails on slate, he liked that. One of the larger Garlocs feinted in, slashed at McCabe and then danced back into position. Like jackals worrying a bear, the Garlocs moved in and out in an ever-narrowing dance designed to wear down their prey until, exhausted, it leaves an opening where the first bite can be taken. The Garloc saliva, poison to all other living things, would do the rest and allow them to dine at their leisure. Finally one of the Tongue darted in close enough to try a bite. McCabe stepped aside lightly, and brushed the tips of his fingers across the Garloc's back. The creature dropped to the prairie floor, a dry husk. One Garloc, poised to attack immediately after its companion was done, stopped dead in its tracks. The others began gabbling all at once, but none of them moved a step closer to the slender black-haired human. McCabe sensed the rush of the Garloc's life-force as it was absorbed into his system. Something about it didn't taste right, he wondered if it hadn't been quite ripe. Maybe another one of the things should be sampled. Broadening his smile he started toward the Garloc closest to him. After the second step the remaining members of the Tongue broke and ran. To McCabe's disappointment there were no screams, but he did sense naked, unreasoning terror. That was partially fulfilling. He considered pursuing them but then a sudden wave of nausea dropped him to his knees. Pain came on the heels of the nausea and for the first time in McCabe's life it hurt. It had never hurt before; he couldn't understand what was wrong. The Garlocs had done something to him. His stomach emptied itself of what bile was in it adding the cold fire of the acid to the hot knife tearing its way through his guts.

Like all those who take pleasure in the pain of others, McCabe was unable to comprehend what was happening to him, as he found himself on the receiving end of that terrible club. Pain, no longer pleasurable, tore at his being. He whimpered in agony as his mind, along with the voices of the seeker, howled in lost confusion as their one time friend rampaged through his system in raging fury. On the other side of the wall between the worlds a presence clenched its fists in mute frustration as it watched the slow death of the door it had been building. Chapter Five

“Open your eyes, human, rise and listen, learn of Dragonkind. Learn of those you would try to destroy,” The voice, though far deeper than any man's, held no sense of anger. Vedder felt impossibly huge hands gently grasp him by the shoulders and lift him to his feet. Sheer terror swirled through him, bouncing between his stomach and his mind. He kept his eyes firmly shut; he did not want to see what held him, for he knew with absolute certainty his bowels would give way if he looked. “Open them, human. There is nothing for you to fear ... now.” “No. I can't, you'll kill me, I know it,” Vedder clenched his eyes tighter while trying to turn his face away from the source of the voice. A low chuckle was his answer. The Priest imagined he could feel a vast head shaking side to side. “That, human, is part and parcel of your folly. In ignorance you imagine evils where they exist not, and in your fear, you seek to destroy that which you fail to understand. Open your eyes and learn, growing in wisdom will not harm you.” A will, vast and implacable, bore down upon Vedder. The compulsion to open his eyes became irresistible and he did so. The face of the Dragon swam into focus; the reddish mottling of its skin pattern glinted in the sun.It smiled at him! “Your fear is pushed away human, Tell me your name. By what are you called, and what is your vocation?” That deep, deep, gentle voice soothed away the panic and Vedder found himselfwanting to answer, “I ... I'm called Vedder, um, actually, it's ... I'm a Priest, I guess. I don't know any more,” His voice trailed off. The Dragon shook it's head and then asked, “You know nothing more about yourself, or you no longer know the certainty of your priestly vocation?” Vedder attempted to stutter a reply but the Dragon's presence so overwhelmed the priest that all he could get out was, “I ... I ... I...” “Be at peace Priest Vedder,” The Dragon rumbled, “you are in no danger. I am Mashglach, Chief of Dragonkind. Know this, Priest Vedder, I have lived on this world for over five thousand of your years. My people watched as the younger races began to take their first tottering steps into civilization. They watched and waited for that certain spark denoting the potential for greatness to show itself, and rejoiced

with great joy when it did. “That spark led my grandsire and others to quietly guide certain philosophers, scholars, clerics, and wizards along the path to enlightenment, in some cases, without them being aware of it. I myself aided young Labad when he first began the building of his empire. “The petty squabbles you call wars we abjure, for Dragons will have no part in the death of any living creature, not even those brought into being by the Sorcerers, not even the Firewyrms—a lesser species that some mistake them for Dragons, though they have no wings, they expel fire, and eat meat, not Dragonlike at all.” Mashglach fixed one of his great eyes upon Vedder. “Would you mistake a Garloc for one of your own kind?” The priest shook his head no, vigorously. “Commendable,” the Dragon said softly, “then tell me this, why do you do thus tomy people?” “I don't know,” Vedder replied. “I don't know.” He could feel the Dragon's will press against his, pushing aside the blocks built up over years to keep the truth of what he'd become hidden from his conscience. A bubble of horror over what that reality was, welled up and broke, spilling its contents over the priest's soul. He began to shake with emotion as he sobbed, held up only by the Dragon's grasp, “Forgive me, I didn't know, I didn't know. How could I have done it ... how could I ... oh I am so sorry, please forgive me? Please?” “Forgiveness on my part and that of the Dragons is yours, Priest Vedder. But know this; we are a creation of the one you call Bardoc as much as you are. Ask it of him, and ask it of your self as well. That he will give, as freely as we, I have no doubt. It is of you wherein lies the question. Unless you deal with your own darkness and what it has done to your soul, I fear for your healing.” Mashglach lifted his head back to its full height and looked down at Vedder, “Are you able to do so?” The priest's sobs lessened to the point where he could speak, “I, I don't know, all I can do is try.” Mashglach released his hold on the man and nodded, “That is enough. Go in peace, but remember, the Dragons are watching.” Vedder swayed a bit as he was released, and with the Winglord's last words echoing in his head, he turned, stumbled slightly, and then began walking back down the mountain into a life of quiet obscurity. Harlig settled onto the ground next to Mashglach, “You let the human go, was that wise?” The Winglord turned to acknowledge the senior Dragon's presence, and then looked back at the vista spread out below them, “I fear we may have spent too little time with them, Harlig. This world is going to be theirs to care for one day, whether you or I wish that to happen. Wouldn't it be wise for at least a few of them to learn from us before that day comes?” “That is already done. The Wizard...” “One among millions, two, if you count the young human he brought with him.”

“How can we be sure some do not take what we teach them and turn it to evil?” “We can't, but inaction is a worse path. I believe we've learned that through hard experience. There is coming a time, Harlig, when the Dragons will have to take a stand. I feel it, deep in here.” Mashglach tapped the area over his heart. The senior Dragon looked at the Winglord out of the corner of his eye. “One would think Mashglach, that you've a bit of human in you.” The Winglord nodded. “That is not necessarily a bad thing.” **** Westcott looked up as the door to his Inn opened, “Come in, in a hurry mind you—the storm doesn't care if it's early as much as we do.” “Came up all of a sudden, damned inconvenient weather if you ask me.” The man brushed snow off of his shoulders and then looked up at the Innkeeper with a grin, “Sorry about the mess, have you got a mop?” “Ethan, that you?” Westcott came out from behind the clerk's desk with his hand held out. “If that woman of yours is still doing the cooking, it's me,” Ethan took Westcott's hand and shook it firmly. “Sheriwyn's in the kitchen right now, but dinner's not for another hour yet, will an ale or two keep you till then?” Westcott released Ethan's hand and looked to either side of him, “Where's that boy who came here with you? Something happen to him?” Ethan shook his head as he pulled his pack off and placed it onto a nearby chair. “No, he's in good hands. You didn't hear about it when we stayed here, but the lad has strong feelings about something that he's got to do, you might even call it a compulsion. There's a company of engineers camped against the southern flank of Cloudhook, they've kind of ... adopted him.” Westcott raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Sounds like a story to me. I'll pour one and join you while you tell it. The afternoon's quiet, most of the townsfolk are up at the mine, and I can only polish the mugs and tankards so many times,” He indicated the empty room with a wave of his hand. “Glad to oblige. This freak snow added a couple of days to my trip anyway. Ellona won't mind waiting a few more hours.” Ethan sat at the table shared by the chair his pack sat in. “Ellona, she your woman?” “Bring the ale and I'll add her story to the Lad's.” Westcott nodded and disappeared through the door at the back of the room. As the door to the cellar closed behind Westcott, the front door to the Inn opened and a man and a woman came in, blowing and shivering from the chill of the snowstorm outside. The smell of wet pine came in with them and added itself to the atmosphere of burning logs and roasting meat.

“Ooooh that's cold,” The woman, Ethan took another look and amended his thought,girl , stamped her feet as her companion walked over to the fireplace, pulled off his gloves and began warming his hands. “Decora,” The man called out, “come over here and thaw out.” Ethan knew that voice, and that name. He turned and caught the young man's eye, “You're welcome to share my table, that is, if you don't mind a tale or two told over a tankard of ale before dinner.” The girl's face lit up at the mention of storytelling and her companion cocked his head as he studied Ethan's face. “Do we know you?” The young man's mouth twisted to the side as he concentrated on pulling Ethan's name out of his memory's hat. He got punched in the shoulder for his trouble, “Rober, you numbskull! That's the traveler who came through here last week. You know, the Swordmaster, the one with that adorable boy, the one who knows Adam?” Rober's eyes widened in recognition, “Of course, Ethan, right? Welcome back to our little village of Access. Hope you like our beautiful weather,” He extended a hand toward the snow flurries outside the window. Ethan acknowledged the young man's welcome with a grin, “Thanks. Too bad I can't take some back with me to Berggren. The children would love to build a snowman or two.” Westcott pushed back into the room bearing a tray with a pitcher and five tankards and placed it onto the table in front of Ethan. “Sheriwyn saw Rober and Decora come up the steps and told me. Knowing how much the young woman likes her tales, I figured I might as well bring in the refreshments now.” “Well now, I knew you were a man after my own heart back when I first saw you.” Ethan reached for the pitcher and poured himself a tankard full. The cream-colored head foamed up, rich with the aroma of hops and yeast. He breathed in deeply, savoring the smell of Westcott's brew, “Ahhh, you could make a fortune selling this in Berggren.” “Aye, that he could,” Rober said in agreement. “Why don't you Westcott? You could be a rich man.” Decora looked up at the Innkeeper with her doe-like eyes. “I'm a rich man already, lass, and it's made up of a lot more than money. Besides we've our famous magical mine, or have you forgotten?” Westcott poured himself a tankard, as well as one for Decora and Rober. The young man stiffened at Westcott's mention of the mine and Decora covered her mouth with a hand. Ethan caught both of their reactions while sampling his first sip of the ale. “Now that I think of it, you're probably right, sire Westcott. A man could do far worse then live in a place like this, far worse. Some wealth you just can't measure in gold. Me, I'll settle for this fine tasting brew of yours,” He lifted his tankard in salute and then drank deeply, watching the young couple visibly relax out of the corner of his eye.

Westcott nodded. “You're right in that; how about that tale of yours, while we still have time before Sheriwyn's done with her cooking, and the dinner crowd starts arriving?” “Yes, tell your story, please.” Decora echoed Westcott's request. Ethan put down his tankard and took a breath, “Ok, first I'll fill you all in on what Circumstance and I did in our travels after we left your pleasant little village. And since the question's hanging in this lovely young lady's eyes, I'll also reveal the reason as to why he's not with me now.” “Circumstance ... yes that was the boy's name—unusual and beautiful at the same time. Why did you name him that?” Decora leaned forward as she asked Ethan her question. “I didn't. And that's another story for another time.” Ethan picked up his tankard and Westcott and Rober followed suit. The Inn's front door opened and closed, letting in another couple and a man. They each in turn greeted Westcott as they chose a comfortable spot next to the fire. The Innkeeper grimaced as he rose to his feet, “Raise your voice a bit Ethan, it looks like I'll have to hear your tale while I work.” “Very well Innkeeper, I'll do what I can.” Ethan sipped some more of his ale and then launched into a rambling rendition of the trek he and Circumstance took from Access to the Ortian Engineers’ camp around the Southern end of the mountain. Like most men given to storytelling, he embellished a little by adding a few dangers here and there,spicing up the story like any good stew, or so he would say. When he got to the part where he lay Engineer Gaspic out with one punch his audience had grown to number a dozen or more villagers including Nowsek, the Mayor and his wife Maibell. He also saw Saichele, the buxom young woman who was there when he and Circumstance first passed through. The Mayor and several of the men applauded when Ethan described the punch, “Well done!” “Bravo!” “Good Show!” A few of the women gasped and Saichele appraised Ethan with a feral eye. As Ethan paused to wet his throat Westcott leaned his head out of the kitchen door, “Food's ready for those of you wanting dinner. Will you be in that number, Storyteller?” “Yes, please. Whatever's hot and plentiful, I forgot how much of an appetite a long tale can build.” “But you're not finished yet,” Decora complained, “You said you'd tell us why Circumstance isn't with you.” Others in the crowd echoed her sentiment. “I did, didn't I?” Ethan folded his hands, put his elbows onto the table and rested his chin against his thumbs. “Well, I've never broken my word, and I'll not begin by doing it now. I told our worthy Innkeeper the Ortian Engineers sort of adopted him, and I suppose that's the best way to describe what happened. The boy's part Elf, so perhaps that explains some of the stuff he's been able to do, maybe. I've never known an Elf to do anything worthwhile as far as I could see, but Circumstance is different, any father not proud of a lad like that isn't worthy of the calling. You know, there wasn't one time he complained? Not one! If something needed doing he did it, no questions asked, unless it was necessary

for doing the job. “One evening in Berggren, he came to me on the doorstep and said there was something he had to do. I found out later part of that something meant his leaving the family in order to get to wherever it is he needs to be. I suppose that feeling is what led him to leave before dawn a few days later. I set out after him and soon caught up with the lad on the eastern flank of this mountain. He convinced me he could take care of himself and I promised I'd let the decision be his. I don't know what Ellona's going to say about it all, but there it is.” Decora leaned against Rober's arm, “Ohh, that's a beautiful story.” Saichele sat down next to Decora and leaned toward Ethan, emphasizing her attributes with pressure from her arms. “And who's Ellona?” She said huskily. Ethan looked up and nodded to Westcott as the Innkeeper placed a heaping platter of roast game and root vegetables before him. The savory smoky smell of the dish rose up to greet him. He looked back at the young woman and smiled. Her return smile was an engraved invitation. Picking up the knife and fork that came with the meal, Ethan sliced off a portion of roast. “Ellona, my gorgeous young lady, is the one reason why you and I will never be more than acquaintances.” The laughter from Nowsek and some of the other men filled the room. Saichele's eyes flashed dangerously and then she settled down and smiled at the joke herself. But for the rest of the evening, her eyes would on occasion stray in Ethan's direction, appraising the man. When the last villager left the Inn, Ethan thanked Westcott one more time for his hospitality, and then walked the stairs up to the room Sheriwyn told him he could use. The evening had been a long one, and the villagers anxious for news of the world outside. Ethan barely remembered his head hitting the pillow. In the morning he wolfed down the breakfast Sheriwyn laid before him, paid for room and board, and bid the Innkeeper and his wife a hasty farewell. Westcott turned back to Sheriwyn, “There goes a man in a hurry.” She smiled, “From what I heard he has good reason.” Her husband raised both eyebrows, “Oh?” Sheriwyn imitated his gesture, “Oh. Maibell told me about it before she and Nowsek left for home, Saichele made a move on him.” “Oh?” “Everything shy of stripping down and giving him the key to her door.” “Oh my ... did he...?” Sheriwyn kissed Westcott on the cheek, “No dear, he didn't. What he did do is ruin her nights for the next month or two, at least. He told her there was another woman in his life far more important than the young hussy could ever be, His woman. I do love you Sire Westcott.”

He kissed her back, “And I love you.” **** Thaylli didn't much like the look of the room the Innkeeper showed them. Nor did she like the look of the little man himself. He gave her the impression of a rat that had learned to walk on two legs, and in addition his nervous habit of dry washing his hands while he talked made her feel twitchy just watching him. “An’ this is the window I toldjer about, fine view here, fine view.” The Innkeeper waved a hand at the old battered window. It was of the country style, built of nine six-inch bubble strewn glass panes fitted into a wooden frame and puttied from the backside. Small copper staples insured the panes stayed put in those of better make. This was not one of them. “It's fine for our needs master Hildegren. You don't have to show us any more,” Adam held out a silver for the Innkeeper to take. “Are you sure milord? I haven't pointed out this fine Goosedown bed here, an’ covered in me own mum's quilt too,” In spite of his supposed concern the Innkeeper made the coin vanish. Thaylli was going to make sure that quilt received a thread-by-thread inspection for lice and other vermin,and if that mattress was stuffed with down, she deposited gold into the chamber pot each morning. Adam threw his pack onto the bed. Dust puffed into the air of the room. “I'm sure master Hildegren, please leave us now.” The Innkeeper backed out of the room bobbing his head. Thaylli closed the door after him and had to push it a bit to get the latch to take. “Why did you choose this pigsty? There's got to be at least one Inn or boarding house in this city we can afford besidesthis place.” “I know there is, at least three in this section of the city alone.” “Then why this one?” Thaylli's voice climbed into the higher registers. “Because it's one place Milward would never look into. He's sure to try to get me back into whatever course of study he thinks I have to do before anything else and I'm not going to let that happen. What he thinks my destiny is, and what I need to do look like they're two different things these days. After Grisham is finished with this crisis I'm going to find Charity.” “Your ... sister, right?” Adam nodded and sat down on the bed next to his pack. “My twin sister, I told you about her back in Access, remember? I've tried using my magik to find her and just like what happens when Milward tries, something is keeping me from being able to lock in on her. I know she's alive and well, but that's all.” “Well, that's good isn't it?” Thaylli sat on the bed next to Adam and placed her hands in her lap. “I suppose so, but there's something else. It's just a feeling, but I've learned over the past months to trust them better than my eyes. Milward doesn't know this and I think because I'm magik and Charity isn't, he never considered it. The other feeling I get is that whatever it is Labad's prophecy wants me to do has to be done by both of us, otherwise it won't get done.” He looked Thaylli in the eye, “That means in order

to fulfill this destiny of mine I've got to find her.” She kissed him lightly on the lips. “Then you'll find her.” He blinked. “As simple as that?” Thaylli stood back up and busied herself with unpacking. “Of course silly. I overheard Westcott and the old Wizard talking one night. You were the main topic of course. It seems they think you're one of those hubs history turns on. Anyway, I didn't understand most of what they said, but I did get one thing out of it.” “And...” Adam prompted her. “And,” she continued, “If something needs to happen for you to get to wherever you need to be, it will, period.” Adam wished he were as confident about his future. Unfortunately he felt like a straw in the wind when it came to plotting out his life's course. He was lucky to still be alive as far as he was concerned. Reaching out, he pulled a spare cloak out of the pack and helped Thaylli finish up. “I want to go over to the Grisham barracks when we're done here. You know, to kind of look it over and see where things stand. I also think the extra coins wouldn't hurt.” Thaylli nodded, but she seemed distracted. “You do that, I think I'll stay here. This place may have possibilities if some elbow grease were put to it. I'll need some coins for a few things.” “How many?” Adam could see where the extra money from helping Bilardi was definitely going to come in handy. She looked at the ceiling and thought a moment, “Umm ... could you spare three?” “Three coppers?” Maybe he'd get out of this with most of their coin intact after all. Thaylli laughed dashing Adam's hopes of a frugal shopping trip, “No silly, three golds. You may be satisfied with the insides of this place looking as bad as the outsides, but I can't be. It's going to take a lot of work and I'll need some things to work with. You see?” Adam sighed. That would leave him with one gold, two silvers and a small handful of coppers. Money seemed to leave his hands far faster than it flowed into them. “I see I'm going to have to ask for an advance.” He pulled the golds out of his belt pouch and dropped them into Thaylli's outstretched hand. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You do that. Run along now and play with your soldiers. I'll see to the fixing up of this room.” Grisham's officer quarters were housed in a large inn-like building nestled against the inner wall of the militia's compound. Three stories high, the top level was reserved for senior officers and their families, the second, for mid-level and of course the ground floor for those of junior status. The senior officers quarters was divided into three room suites, whereas the first and second floors were dormer style with a hallway running the length of the building. Between the officers quarters and the enlisted barracks stood the armory with the Sergeant's offices on

either side. At the far end of the enlisted barracks were the stables with the enlarged closets that housed the stable boys snug against the tack rooms. An open area used for parades and drill lay between the barracks and the administration building. Adam chose their Inn not only because of its rundown condition but because it sat just a few streets away from the militia compound. The neighborhood matched the Inn in many aspects. A large number of the folk living there had the same look as the Inn, somewhat rumpled and in need of repair. A few of them were of a more dangerous type, Garlocs circling a wounded prey. They stood at the street corners, leaning against the dingy walls and watched those who passed by with hooded eyes. One of them was out when Adam left the Inn and considered following until they passed a convenient alley but he quickly changed his mind at the sight of the sword belted to the young man's hip. Two streets away from the militia compound the look of the city changed to that of a more affluent style. Shops, pubs and eateries catering to the free-spending members of the City Watch and other employees of the militia compound lined the streets surrounding it. Many of them boasted window boxes filled with flowers and the pubs all kept a water trough for the benefit of their patrons horses. He walked past the shops quickly, acutely feeling the lightness of his purse. Adam hoped the Guard Captain had means and opportunity to come up with a few coins at least. The guard at the gates had no idea who he was and showed little inclination to ask. “Never heard o’ ya an’ if ya ain't got no pass ya ain't getting’ in. Them's the rules, no ‘ceptions.” “Can't you just send a message to Captain Bilardi? That would solve everything.” Adam's frustration was beginning to build at the guard's stubbornness. “What? An’ leave me post?” The guard looked aghast. “You want me head put atop one o’ those pikes?” The Sergeant pointed upwards to a series of pointed iron shafts jutting from the top of the compound wall. Adam counted slowly backwards from three and tried again, “Of course not. I was thinking if you called over one of those guardsmen passing by over there, they could take a message to the Captain's office and you'd find out I was expected.” The guard's grin showed a malicious streak, “Now why would I wanna go an’ do somethin’ like that? I'm comfortable right here, gotta bit o’ shade over me head an’ I kin even keep goobers like you outta me compound.” “And what'll happen to your nice comfortable post if what I'm telling you is true? Is Captain Bilardi that forgiving of a man that you'll risk his displeasure just for a bit of sadistic fun?” Adam looked at the Guard Sergeant out of the corner of his eye. The man's expression had changed to one of uncertainty. He worked at capitalizing on that, “What do you think he'll do to someone who keeps him from an appointment he's worked hard at setting up?” He added a small bit of influential magik to his words. The hesitation from the guard Sergeant increased. Adam decided to try one last tactic, “What do you think he'd do for a man who helped him to make that appointment?” A look of cunning replaced the uncertainty and Adam knew he'd struck gold. He pursued the point, “Why he might even promote that man another jump in grade, maybe even put a nice bonus in his next purse.”

A man of dim prospects and even dimmer wits, the guard muttered half to himself, “Aye, he might at that.” He looked back at Adam from beneath his overgrown brows, “Tell ya what me bucko, since I'm a generous man by nature I'll put me neck on th’ line an’ check on yer story, just in case th’ Cap'n might be wantin’ a meetin’ wit'cher. Whatcha say?” Adam looked around, checking over each shoulder. So far no one else from the surrounding neighborhoods seemed to have any business at the compound. At least none of them were heading towards the gate. He turned his attention back to the guard and nodded, “I'll wait here, just to be sure you don't get in trouble.”Flies and honey, he thought. The Guard Sergeant's face lit up in a homely grin, “Hey, that's right nice of yer, thanks bud.” He turned on his heel and ambled off in the direction of the Administration building. A couple of minutes after the Sergeant entered the Admin building's door, it burst open, a youthful looking guard came sprinting out and continued his dash all the way to the gate. “Milord!” He paused to catch his breath, “Are you by any chance the swordmaster the Captain spoke to in a certain inn?” “I guess so,” Adam shrugged. “If you please, Milord,” The young guardsman, he couldn't have been past fifteen, Adam thought, beckoned urgently, “Milord Captain greatly desires to have you grace him in his office, Milord?” Adam smiled, “One Milord is plenty, guardsman. I feel a little overwhelmed with three of them in one mouthful.” The youngster reminded him of Felsten, the Librarian's assistant. “Please, go on back to your duties. I'll be right behind you.” “Yes Mi ... yes sir!” The guardsman executed a smart about face and began briskly marching back to the Admin building with Adam right behind him as promised. A few guardsmen in the compound yard briefly looked their way as Adam and his youthful guide made their way across to the steps leading up to the building's front door. Captain Bilardi stood waiting for him as he entered the door. “It is you, my young swordmaster, Adam, correct?” He held out his hand for Adam to take. The guard Sergeant was nowhere to be seen. “You remember my name,” Adam took the proffered hand and returned the Captain's grip with equal pressure. For a second it seemed as if Bilardi was testing who had the greater strength and then he released his grip, “Yes, the hand of a swordsman. One can always tell.” He flashed one of his engaging smiles, “Of course I remember your name. Is there anyway I could forget the man who handled six of my guards at one time? Come; allow me to show you around my own personal kingdom.” He led Adam on a tour of the grounds beginning at the stables where he showed off his prize stallion. Adam had to admit the animal was magnificent, the horse rippled with strength and his black coat shone with vibrant health. The stallion tossed his head as Bilardi approached and wuffed. The Guard Captain reached into his pouch. “He's expecting a treat. I always try to have a bit of something for him whenever I visit.” The horse took the treat out of Bilardi's hand. “He's beautiful,” Adam reached out and stroked the horse's neck.

Bilardi nodded approvingly. “He likes you, that's a good sign. If he didn't, you would be missing a chunk out of your arm.” “He's still a beautiful animal.” Adam patted the stallion's neck and then stepped back from the stall. “What's his name?” “Hearthrust, I named him after a fencing move. An appropriate appellation I believe.” Adam shrugged. “I wouldn't know. I don't know any fencing moves, not the names anyway.” “Surely you're having a bit of fun at my expense,” The Captain stopped still in his walk to the stable door. “En garde, riposte, parry, thrust, surely these are as familiar to you as breathing water is to a fish. Though I must admit, Hearthrust is a rather obscure one.” “No, not really, I think I might have heard them mentioned before, but I couldn't tell you when or where.” Bilardi nearly gaped at Adam, “Who taught you the Art then? As I said at the Inn, surely it couldn't have been that old fossil; I mean he barely impressed me as a Wizard.” Adam gave his host a flat stare, “Whatever I may be feeling about Milward is my business, Captain. I'll allow no disparaging of him while I'm able to defend his honor. You would be wise to apologize.” For a brief instant it looked as though the Captain was about to answer Adam's challenge, but then he bowed his head, “Of course my Lord, it was wrong of me. I do beg your forgiveness.” “Good,” Adam removed his hand from the hilt of his sword, “I'd hate to mess up this nice clean stable.” He was joking, but the look of Bilardi's face said he took it another way entirely. “Do not think me that easy of an opponent my Lord Swordmaster. I would give a fair account of myself regardless of the outcome.” “That was a jest Captain,” Adam replied. “I was trying to lighten the moment.” “Ah, yes,” Bilardi laughed uproariously, “a good one. Capital jest indeed, caught me entirely by surprise, it did. Come. Let's see the rest of the compound.” He was still chuckling as he led Adam out of the stables. “Captain in the house!” A number of voices shouted out the call to attention as Bilardi and Adam stepped into the enlisted barracks. To Adam's eyes, it looked rather stark. Six rows of cots ran the length of the room with no walls separating them. Three sets of squared-off pillars supported the ceiling, two on either end and two in the middle. The men that were in the room at the time they arrived were now standing at rigid attention, each of them at the foot of a cot. They were in a variety of stages of dress, many of them just wearing their undergarments and jerkin, some wearing only the undergarments. Bilardi indicated the room with a wave of his hand, “The muscle and bone of the Grisham City Guard, at rest as you see.” He stepped over to the middle aisle in the room and began walking slowly down it with both hands

clasped behind his back. Adam was treated to a running commentary as he followed the Captain through the barracks. “Yes, by Bardoc's beard, these are the finest men in the city. You see Adam? Even half-clothed they show the discipline that has built them into a fighting unit to be feared.” “Good man Geddrik, nice tight cot there.” “See those toes Swordmaster? Not a one out of place.” “Suck in that belly Hubbord, good man. Try eating less sausage in breaking your fast, eh?” “Show me that short sword there. Yes, as I thought, sharp enough to shave with.” “If you're going to grow a moustache, try some fertilizer or wait a couple of years lad. That looks like a caterpillar died on your lip.” “Hoskines. How's that leg of yours coming along, no sign of corruption? Good.” “Sergeant Folistor, you still here? I thought you'd retired.” Bilardi stopped in front of a gray-haired, sturdy looking guard who was one of the few fully dressed men in the barracks. Tattoos fought for space with the corded muscles on his forearms. The Sergeant somehow managed to stand even straighter. “Wouldn't think of it sir!” “But you've got in thirty years already. Don't you feel like taking it easy, enjoying your senior years?” His Captain pressed the issue. “S’ problem right there Cap'n, been a guard too long. Would'n know whut ta do wif meself otherwise. Ain't no good at nuffin else. Cain't cook worth a damn, cain't garden, ain't no good at jest sittin'. Iffn’ it pleases yer Lordship, Cap'n, I'd druther stay right here. Someone's gotta look after th’ kids.” Bilardi clapped Folistor on the shoulder. “Very well Sergeant, a commander would be a fool to not see the value in a man of your stripe. As far as I'm concerned the barracks is your home for as long as you want it. You can die here if you like.” The Sergeant knuckled his forehead. “Thank'ee Cap'n, I'm much obliged sir, much obliged.” Adam waited until they were outside of the barracks before he asked Bilardi his question, “What's between you and that Sergeant?” “I beg your pardon?” “Correct me if I misunderstood what I saw,” Adam used a small part of the power to act as a truth sensor, “but it looked to me that there was a kind of connection between you and that old Sergeant. Did he save your life some time in the past?” The magik told Adam he'd struck the mark. Bilardi shrugged, “I see no reason why I should hide the knowledge. Sergeant Folistor did indeed save my life, a couple of times, in fact. The first was when I was a young recruit, eager to please my superiors and far too ready to take chances. I was chasing a thief

through the streets and didn't realize I'd chased him right into the Lowers until it was too late.” “The Lowers?” Bilardi shrugged again. “Like all large cities Grisham has areas where like attracts like. For example, in Temple Hill you've got to be of the merchant class and wealthy to live there. They've got their own special watch and you'd better have a good reason to be up there. Over in Cliffside the ship owners live. Some of them have near as much gold as those on the hill but they wouldn't be caught dead up on the heights. Then there are the Lowers, polite people don't go in there, flick, even moderately bad people don't go in there. They'd be skinned, plucked and put up to dry before they had a chance to realize their mistake. The same one I'd just made.” “What happened?” “Oh, they killed me.” Bilardi threw back his head and laughed at Adam's expression, “A jest in return Swordmaster. Fair pay, I believe, for the one you played on me. No, I didn't die, as you can see, but I near had my hide handed to me for sure.” “I remember there were nine of them. Couldn't see their faces, but their eyes shone with a desperate hunger. I'll never forget that part of it for as long as I live. All I had with me was my Guardsman's sword. You saw some like it in the barracks. Effective, but not a weapon made for finesse blade work. I gutted the first one and took a good chunk out of the next two but the third one got a hold on my sleeve. That's all it took for the rest to close in. I was sure death herself was calling me.” “That was when Sergeant Folistor made his presence known. The man came in swinging his sword and howling like a rabid dog. He beheaded the three who held me before any of the others even knew what was happening. That left four against two, but only one of us had a sword, fortunately, that one was Folistor. One of them attempted to rip out his guts with some kind of blade curved like a hook. The blade scraped a deep gouge right across his abdomen and then the fellow with the blade lost it along with the hand holding it. In all of that the only one making any noise was the Sergeant. He continued to howl as he hacked and slashed at our attackers. One of them nearly took my ribs out with a club and if I hadn't ducked with the pain I would have lost my head to the blade of my own sword.” When I looked up again it was all over. Those who could had run back into the shadows and Sergeant Folistor was helping me to my feet. “You ok kid?” He said to me. I nodded dumbly and then he turned me around and put his boot right into the middle of my bottom. ‘Then get that stupid arse of yours back into the part of the city where it belongs!’ I ran and he followed me. We've been friends ever since.” Adam was shown the armory next. The Sergeant in charge led the tour as if he was showing off a favorite son and to be truthful, Grisham's armory was worthy of that pride. Their store of edged weapons was indeed impressive, if that sort of thing impressed you. Adam found himself mildly interested in the swords; primarily from a professional perspective, but that was all. By the time the innumerable baldrics, axes, halberds, lochenbars, wildges, spears and so on had been paraded past him, it was all he could do to keep himself from yawning in the Sergeant's face. Captain Bilardi noticed Adam's eyes glazing over and stepped in, “Well I'm sure all of this is old hat to one such as you. Thank you Sergeant for a most enlightening tour, you may go back to your duties.” The Sergeant spun around and marched back into the maze of storage that made up the armory.

Bilardi pushed open the door on the wall opposite from the one they came in and held it for Adam. “The last thing I want to show you is the officer's living quarters. It can also be your home if you so choose.” “Me? An officer?” Adam looked at his host in surprise. The Guard Captain was equally surprised by his guest's reaction. “Of course an officer, do you think one of your blood could be anything else?” “One of my blood?” “This pretense of naiveté is quite charming, really, but don't you think it has gone far enough?” Bilardi cocked his head as he faced Adam, “Everything about you fairly screams that you are not what you claim to be. Your obvious education, bearing and manners are those of a Lord if not a Royal. What are you, a scion of one of the ducal families? Your profile looks somewhat like those of Labad's line. But all of that line died out over a century ago, or so I thought.” Adam turned away from Bilardi's intense stare. “I don't know what you're talking about Captain. My sister and I were raised in a modest village called Beri west of the Circle Sea by our Aunt and Uncle. The schooling we got was from them as well as our manners. I wouldn't even know what to do in a palace.” Bilardi nodded his head while showing a crooked smile. “If that's the way you wish it my Lord Swordmaster, so be it. I will keep my thoughts to myself.” “I'd appreciate it,” Adam replied, trying not to let his exasperation show in his voice, “Now how about showing me the officer's quarters?” “Of course, we shall use the front entrance. This way please.” The front entrance to the officer's quarters sat at the apex of a massive veranda. Three broad steps led up to it and onto the veranda's porch. Overhead, six thick pillars about a foot and a half across supported the canopy, which also comprised the second floor balcony. Two ornate multi-paneled doors, with fine crystalglass windows set in a diamond pattern above the panels, opened into the foyer. The foyer, a large oval room inside the doors, extended back to two curving staircases arching upwards to the second and third floor balconies. Between the staircases, another door stood open and a Guard Private sat behind the small desk placed just inside the door. He jumped to his feet at the sight of Bilardi and his guest. “Be at ease Private. Things quiet here?” Bilardi looked around the area while facing the desk. “All quiet sir! Very few in residence at this time, sir!” The Desk Private kept his gaze straight ahead, focused on a point about four inches in front of his nose. Bilardi nodded, “Good, good. The gentleman with me is to be treated with the same deference and respect as you would any other officer. You will address him as My Lord, is that understood?” The Private's eyes shifted quickly to Adam, memorizing, and then back. “Yes, sir!” “Good. Now tell me. Who is in residence now? Besides the juniors, that is.” The Captain folded his arms over his chest and waited for the Private's reply.

“Umm, up on top there's just Colonel Cuperti an’ his missus. The generals are up in the Palace doin’ the plannin’ sir. The second floor's empty sir, cep'n for Major Lossin an’ Cap'n Zack sir. ‘Tenant Mundy's got the duty on the ground floor,” The private indicated the direction of the Lieutenant's position with a twitch of his head. “Very well, we'll begin with the first floor. The senior officer's quarters are more impressive if you have something to compare them to.” Bilardi stepped around the desk and Adam followed him. A series of doors lined the hallway that teed off from the security desk's alcove. The Guard Captain turned into the left branch and pushed open the first door they came to. Adam looked into a fair-sized room not too unlike the one he had in Granny Bullton's Inn. The bed looked comfortable without being ostentatious. A chest of drawers stood beneath a framed mirror on one wall and a reading desk with a matching armchair against the one opposite. Between the bed and the desk lay a hand-knotted oval rug wearing an elaborate design typical of the Wool Coast region. A sideboard stood next to the chest of drawers holding an assortment of personal items including a pair of miniature portraits in ornate frames. He noted the quality of the work. The artist, whoever it was, knew how to wield a brush. “As you can see, even our junior officers live well. Somewhat frugally when compared to that of the seniors, but well enough regardless.” Bilardi looked over Adam's shoulder into the room, “This one is typical of the others on the floor. Come, let me show you my quarters on the second.” Adam nodded and stepped into the hall only to run smack into an officer coming out of the room opposite the one he'd been looking at. The man roughly pushed him, “Watch where you step, bumpkin!” Adam's feet tangled with those of the Guard Officer and as he tried to keep his balance, the man tripped backwards and fell heavily to the floor. Mortified, Adam held out a hand to help the officer up. The Guard Officer, Lieutenant Mundy, ignored the hand, surged back to his feet and pulled his sword from its place on the wall. Captain Bilardi stepped past Adam and wrapped both arms around the enraged man. “Restrain yourself Mundy! Let it go!” Mundy would have none of it, “I'll kill him! I'll gut him like a fish!” “No you won't!” “Let me go! This insult has to be paid in blood!” “And it would be your blood Mundy!” Bilardi hissed in the Lieutenant's ear. “Don't be more of a fool than the one you're acting like right now. You cross swords with that man and you'll die.” The tone of the Captain's voice shook Mundy out of his rage. “You sound like you're afraid of him.” “Perhaps a little.” Bilardi admitted. “There's something about the man that unnerves me. You want to cross blades with him? Go ahead. But first you need to be better than I am. Are you?”

Mundy looked down the empty hallway, the juniors in residence wisely keeping to their rooms. “What are you going to do?” Bilardi shook his head. “I don't know quite yet, that is something I'll have to think on. I do know this—right now he is useful. He's someone men would follow into the realm of shadow itself and Grisham will have need of him in the days to come. After he's done what is needed, well, we'll see what happens then.” Mundy snarled, “That's fine for you Captain, but I ain't Grisham. **** Charity, Flynn, and Neely rode along with Sergeant Travers and the Ortian troop under his command through the hardwood forest that comprised the western half of the vale of Cloudhook. Travers halted before the head of a path that twisted its way down the steep slope to the vale below them, and pointed, “There's the camp, right where our orders said it would be, and look up there, you can see the top of the mountain through the clouds.” Travers pointed to the glacier-sheathed peak of Cloudhook as it jutted through a break in the weather. “That ain't a camp, it's a bleedin’ city.” Neely muttered to Flynn as they looked in the direction of Sergeant Travers’ point. From their vantage point a sea of khaki-colored tents spread out below them to nearly the horizon. The movements of men, horses and wagons made it look almost like an anthill in operation. “I've never seen anything so large, not anything natural that is,” Charity pulled her mare up alongside Flynn's draft horse. “Would'n wanna be that cook. I kin hear it now, oy, Cookie! Oatmeal fer ten thousand, an’ hurry it up!” Flynn's chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Cook nuthin', what about th’ poor guy who's gotta do nightsoil duty? Talk about yer crappy jobs.” Neely reached forward and rubbed the spot between his horse's ears. The gelding nickered and leaned into the rub. Charity tried to hide her smile, “Oh stop it you two, I don't want to be embarrassed. Remember, we're guests here, let's act that way.” “Right'chu are miss Charity, but blimey ... that's a lotta tents.” Flynn stood slightly in his stirrups as he looked onto the vista below. Sergeant Travers walked his horse around alongside Charity's and had to lean quickly out of the way to avoid having his arm raked open by the cat. “Isn't she ever going to settle down?” “It's going to take more than a few days, Sergeant. It was one of your men who abused her, after another one of them lured her over to the campfire, I might add.” Charity stroked her cat's head. Travers received the full effect of a green-eyed glare accompanied by a low growl that promised mayhem. “But I didn't do anything. I wouldn't do anything, and Derrl-Gynic, all he did was feed her! Murt's the only villain in this story and he got what was coming to him.”

“It's obvious you're not a cat, or a cat person, Sergeant,” Charity said primly. “As far as she's concerned you're all guilty as co-conspirators and it's going to be a long while before you're trusted.” He looked past Charity to Flynn and Neely, “Funny how your two friends there still seem to be on friendly terms with her.” Charity stroked the cat some more, “Flynn and Neely are family Sergeant there's a difference.” Travers wheeled his mount around and urged it into a brisk walk. “Well, we'd best get down there. It's a good two hour trip to the camp, if I don't miss my guess and I'd like to make the lunch call.” “Oh yeah. I kin taste th’ oatmeal now.” “Flynn!” “Sorry miss Charity.” The trip took just over two hours as Travers had guessed, putting them on the edge of the Ortian camp about a half hour before lunch call. Two tall men wearing engineer insignia on their tunic sleeves crossed over from their posts to stand in the way of the company. “Halt right there, if you please,” The one on the right raised his hand in the universal gesture. Travers eased his mount forward until he felt he was close enough to talk without shouting, “Sergeant Travers in charge of conscription company forty-two reporting in. Are we in time for chow?” The Engineer looked down at his boots and began to chuckle. “Something funny in what I said, sir?” Travers frowned. “No, not precisely,” the Engineer said, looking back up at Travers, “It's just that you're the seventh company to come in today, and to a man every single one of you has asked me the same question. Come to think of it now, it is pretty funny.” “Yes, hilarious,” The Sergeant's stomach rumbled loud enough for the engineer to hear. “About chow call...?” “Of course.” The Engineer pointed behind and to the north of where he stood, “Follow that line of tents until you get to a double-wide lane. Turn right and go down it for a couple hundred tents, about three miles. You'll see a wooden structure with a canvas top. That's the chow hall. If you get lost, ask for a lad named Circumstance, he'll set you right.” Travers reached out and took the Engineer's hand, “I appreciate the info, Engineer...?” “Colling-Faler, Engineer Third, at your service,” The young man returned Travers’ grip firmly and then released his hand. “You'd best get moving along if you want to make it in time to be fed.” “That we'll do, Engineer Third, that we'll do.” Travers heeled his horse into a canter and the rest of the company followed. Charity, Flynn and Neely brought up the rear. “If anything it's even more like a city when you're in it.” Charity slowed the mare enough for Flynn and

Neely to come alongside her. Neely nodded, “Sure is. Kinda reminds me of th’ first time I seen a big city close up.” “Neely, if this is another one of those racy stories of yours...” Charity looked at the tracker from out of the corner of her eye. Neely looked pious, “Racy stories, me?” Flynn chuckled, his chin resting on his chest. Charity rolled her eyes, “Oh, very well. Go ahead.” “Right-chu are,” Neely cleared his throat briefly, “'Course you know I was born in Grisham. Far as I know it's th’ biggest city there is. But I didn't think of it as a city back then, I was a kid. You know, there's th’ neighborhoods an’ such, your world's a few blocks an’ alleys. Ya never look at it as bein’ a part of th’ whole bloomin’ thing.” “I never thought of it that way,” Charity mused and then guided her mare around a trio of engineers wrestling a piece of equipment across the lane. Flynn grunted, “Most wouldn't I suppose, they's involved in th’ concerns of what's goin’ on with them an’ maybe th’ neighbors. I mean, in some folks cases just findin’ th’ next meal's big enough worry. You want ‘em ta solve what's troublin’ th’ countryside at th’ same time?” “Why, Flynn. You're a philosopher.” The big man looked at Charity with wide eyes, “I don't think so Miss Charity, I ain't never even been married.” Both Charity and Neely shook their heads. “She means you're a deep thinker, Flynn,” Neely murmured out of the side of his mouth. “Oh.” “As I was sayin’”, Neely cleared his throat one more time, cause I wuz a kid I really didn't know nothin’ about bein’ in a big city. We moved from Grisham over ta a small village, ‘bout a hundred miles east o’ Bern along the shore. It's a tiny place, but there was kids an’ things ta do, an’ as far as I was concerned, th’ only difference ‘tween it an Grisham was there was a lot more game fer th’ table.” “Well I stayed there fer th’ next ten years. That's where I learned my trackin’ skills. Ma passed on a coupla days afore I left th’ village. Wasn't much ta keep me there after that, ya know?” “Weren't you happy there?” Charity asked. “Some of th’ best days of my life were spent in that little place. Grisham's excitin’ an’ all, but it ain't no place to raise a kid. I ‘spect my bones'd be coverin’ a cell floor ‘bout now iffn we'da stayed there.” Nelly shook his head, “I just hadda move on, ya know?” Charity looked across Neely to Flynn. He shrugged and she turned her attention back to Neely, “So

where did you go?” “Bern, th’ rustlin', bustlin’ metropolis of Bern,” Neely smiled. “To me it looked like th’ biggest city in th’ world. I mean there was buildin's five stories tall. An’ there was even a pub where a feller could find out what a girl was all about ... upstairs. Iffn ya knows what I'm talkin about,” He waggled his eyebrows. “Neely...” “Oh nothin’ racy ‘bout this tale Charity.” “Sure, and my grandmother raised Garlocs as pets.” “Really? How surprising. Anyway, it was there I discovered my unique talents with th’ ladies.” “Neely, you're incorrigible. I think I'll ride up to see how Travers is doing.” Charity clicked her tongue and pulled away from the tracker's position. When she was safely out of earshot Flynn turned to his friend, “What was that talent of yourn Neely?” The tracker smiled as if in memory, “I remember it like it were yesterday. I'll tell ya somthin’ Flynn, a man don't hafta be th’ best lookin’ feller ta be th’ best man wi’ th’ ladies. I thinks you'll agree with that, won'tcha?” Flynn nodded his head. He'd seen a few pairings that made him look twice. Neely returned the nod, “Thought ya would. Well, we both knows ol’ Neely ain't the looker some is but I got's somthin’ a whole lotta them fancy boys'll never git.” “What's that Neely?” Flynn leaned closer to his friend. The tracker dipped sideways in his saddle and whispered in Flynn's ear, “A sense o’ humor. Tell ‘em a few stories, make ‘em laugh an’ you can look like a mud fence wearin’ trousers. Of course, a few coins never hurt.” Flynn's bellow of laughter echoed across the plain. Neely reined in his horse as those in front of him came to a stop. “Hold up Flynn, looks like we's here.” Chapter Six

The half-moon passed behind a cloud as a shadow detached itself from the gloom-filled alley between two shops. It darted northward across the street and vanished into a deeper shadow cast by the bulk of Grisham's ducal palace. It is just a few hours until dawn, he thought,the best time for stealth. Even the bats and owls will be sleeping by now. A window across the street lit up momentarily as an insomniac put flame to a lantern. A ray of light from the lantern played across the shadow briefly, revealing the face of the assassin hired by Wuest, Hodder and Stroughton. He pulled further back into the shadow of the palace as he studied the wall before him.

The builders had not been kind to those of his profession. Smooth granite slabs joined tightly together rose above him to a height of more than eighty feet. Climbing them was not an option, as handholds were nonexistent, and sending a grapple up the wall without some scouting was risky at best. A man in his position did not take risks. It appeared the only course of action was the small door on the backside where the servants entered. He chuckled silently to himself. Leave it to the provincial mindset of the gentry to give him his way in; walls, smooth, thick and high enough to forestall a Dragon all around, and yet they leave an entry for him that may as well be a lowered ladder to the Duke's apartments. Servants, for the most part are considered harmless, not much more than cattle, by the upper classes. For that reason their comings and goings are essentially ignored. His ruminations brought forth the beginnings of a plan. As he considered, the workability of it became clearer and clearer until he saw little possibility of failure. His Grace the Duke of Grisham was in for a nasty surprise. Being sure to keep to the shadows, he edged his way around the palace wall towards the small door. **** Alford the twenty-third, Emperor of the Southern lands, scion of the house of Galtihedrion, even though tradition still used the house of Labad, and hereditary ruler of the city-state known as Ort, stepped back to take in an overview of his painting. It was a delicate watercolor rendition in the royal style, of a bright plumaged songbird perched over a transparent pool stocked with colorful fish. The tightly stretched white silk upon which it was painted shimmered in the mid-morning light. In the background the sound of a waterfall added its song to that of the birds in the trees and the crisp scent of herbs and flowers vied with the pungency of the paint as he squeezed a small amount onto his palette. Light footsteps rustled on the grass. The Emperor tilted his head to the side as he studied his work, “A little more yellow I think.” A polite cough sounded behind him. “What is it Cremer?” Alford kept his gaze fixed on the painting. “A report, my Lord, the army is beginning to gather at the base of Cloudhook Mountain.” The Emperor stepped up to the stretched silk and worked the brush in his right hand. “I see. Have you numbers in that report? A bit more yellow yet, don't you think?” Cremer blinked and then recomposed his face. “Yes on both accounts my Lord.” Alford nodded, worked the brush again and then stepped back once more. “Yes ... I like that.” He turned and faced his aide. “Have they a final count projected?” In spite of the feelings welling up within him he kept his voice light. “Thirty-three thousand score, my Lord, possibly another thousand, depending upon the conscripts,” Cremer answered. “In scores, the number could climb as high as three-quarters of a million.”

Alford nodded again and then he was still for several moments. With the patience of long years, his aide waited. After a while the Emperor stirred and resumed his painting. “You may go Cremer. I thank you for that information.” “My Lord.” The aide backed out of the aviary and was gone. Alford washed out the brush in a small pot of water on the stand where his paints were kept and then placed it in a tray with others of its type. He stepped back, further this time, and studied the painting, bringing his hand up to run the edge of his forefinger back and forth across his chin. “That many...” In the Bay tree on the other side of the pond a brightly plumaged songbird began to trill, but to Alford's ears it sounded like a dirge. **** “Oy! Up you! Get up!” Ethan's dream of tumbling changed as he woke to the realization he was being roughly shaken. His right hand darted to the haft of his sword but a boot stamped down, pinning his wrist painfully to the ground. “Uh, uh, none o’ that mate,” The voice was coarse and thick with the accent of those living in the lands north of Berggren. Ethan forced himself to relax as he focused in on his attacker. The face swam into view. There was nothing in it to write home about, lousy teeth, a nose obviously broken more than once, eyes of a nondescript gray, with one brow over both, and sagging cheeks sporting a week's worth of gray stubble finished the picture. To cap it off, the man's breath stank with a stomach turning intensity. Looking below the face, Ethan noticed the rusty mail and the insignia showing through the grime.Flickin’ great , he thought,a Trading State's soldier. I've been nabbed by a flickin’ press gang. “Get him on his feet,” The command came from another Trading States soldier standing at the far edge of the clearing Ethan chose as his campsite. To Ethan's eye he looked to be at least fifteen years older than himself, an old veteran to keep watch over the leftovers if the Trading States still did things that way. Press gang duty was usually reserved for those either in trouble or headed that way. This one had to have been in for a lot of years. He had hash marks running the length of his sleeve. Several more Trading States soldiers sat at the edge of the clearing on horseback. Four of them held crossbows ready to fire. Behind them stood a line of forlorn men wearing shackles—conscripts. The one with bad breath gestured to Ethan with his short sword. Ethan noted it needed oiling, badly. “You heard ‘im, get on yer feet.” Ethan got to his feet and the soldier reached in and gingerly pulled his sword from its scabbard. “You might as well take the knife too, no telling what damage I could do with that.” A couple of the men on horseback snickered at Ethan's joke. The soldier frowned as if trying to decide whether or not the joke was at his expense but he took the knife anyway.

“Good man, Hooper, that gives us an even dozen. Nice try there,” This was said to Ethan. “Men this rough usually doesn't take well to being mocked. Man could lose his temper an’ maybe slip up enough to give an opening or two. Make ‘em an easy mark for good blade. You've the look of one, I'll wager. “Problem is,” he shifted his stance and began walking back to where his horse was held by one of the mounted soldiers, “they've had me riding their worthless hides for the past couple of moons. Man slips up, he gets the livin’ crap kicked outta him. One or two of those, an’ they start payin’ attention.” He put his foot in the stirrup and swung up into his saddle with practiced grace. “Now, you've the look of a man with a bit of experience in him, maybe too much. We'll have to see if that's the case. You're gonna have shackles put on you an’ I'd druther not have a commotion. Keep quiet an’ you just may live to see that family of yours.” Ethan looked up into the eyes of the veteran, “How do you know about my family?” The question earned him a smile, “You'vegot that look about you, too.” “I need to get back to them, Sergeant. Fighting your little war isn't part of my plans.” Hooper backhanded Ethan across the mouth, drawing blood and rocking him slightly. “Mind your mouth you!” Only the crossbows aimed his way kept him from feeding Hooper his teeth. “Enough Hooper, put him into the line.” The old Sergeant looked down at Ethan as he was led to the back of the conscript line. “Keep your cool fellow and you may get a chance to repay Hooper his kindness, and get back to your family.” **** Ellona pulled the carding brushes apart with short deft movements and then reversed direction once more. She placed the finished batt into the basket next to her stool and put some more tufts of clean wool onto the card in her lap. “Can I card some mommy?” Jonas came out of the house and sat on the stoop. “Of course dear heart.” She reached into another, larger basket next to the one with the batts and pulled from it a smaller pair of cards, handing them to Jonas. “Is Sari still napping?” Jonas’ brow wrinkled as he concentrated on duplicating his mother's technique, “Yes.” “Good, she needs the sleep.” Ellona looked up at the sound of footsteps and smiled at the tall slender woman approaching, “Hello Nicoll, what brings you by?” Nicoll waved a hand in the air, “Oh, the sun, the warm breeze, a chance at gossip?” “So you just got tired of being home with your man away at work,” Ellona laughed as she gestured for Nicoll to sit down. “You know me so well,” Nicoll returned Ellona's laugh as she sat down, “Speaking of men. Have you heard anything from yours and the boy?” Ellona's expression dimmed, “Nothing yet I'm afraid.”

“I hope they're all right,” Nicoll murmured. “So do I Nicoll, So do I.” **** Haberstroh paused in her mixing. The potion swirling in the rough clay pot consisted of certain plant oils, a few rare herbs, and the slime gathered from the backs of the small red frogs found in the center of the swamp. There was a sound, she cocked an ear, listening, there it was again. Something on two legs was pushing its way through the rushes bordering her swamp. She put the wooden spoon down carefully and stepped out of her hut. Haberstroh turned her head this way and that ... over there. Therewas to the north of her hut just on the edge of the swamp where the rushes grew thin enough for a body to pass through. She craned her neck to peer over the copse in front of her and saw it. A shadowy form, bent double in agony, staggered past her position. Small whimpers of pain came from it and the faint smell of Garloc stayed behind after its passing. She moved back into the clearing before her hut and listened as the figure moved along the perimeter surrounding it. By the sounds, it seemed to be moving randomly with little evidence of intelligence. Could the smell of Garloc be a telling thing? A part of her, long buried, stirred. As if in answer to her musings, the figure changed direction suddenly and broke through the rush barrier and stumbled into the clearing. It wasn't Garloc, as far as she could see, and therefore worthy of being poisoned. She shuffled closer to the figure as it writhed on the ground. The smell of Garloc was even stronger but it looked human. Her memory flashed back to her husband. Looking human was good enough for her. She chuckled,Good enough for a moment of personal revenge. The pain coursed along McCabe's veins like cold fire. His friend, lover and mistress had turned on him like a maddened dog. The strain was nearly beyond him but he forced his body to remain erect as he pushed through the thick grass and rushes. Poisoned, that had to be what was happening to him. The life he drained from that filthy Garloc was doing it. He'd been overconfident and now he was paying the price for his lack of caution. Pushing through the reeds that made up the bulk of the rushes he closed his eyes and tried to shake off the dizziness overwhelming him. Squelching sounds popped and squizzled as he pulled his boots from the muck beneath the reeds. The smell of decay rose with each jerk of his feet as he exposed the mud beneath the water. Pain shot through his gut again, this time with redoubled fury and for the first time in his life he felt fear. The dizziness washed over him again and this time it stayed. Panicking, he struck out blindly trying to outrun what was killing him but his foot tripped on a hard outcropping and he pitched forward onto dry ground. He attempted to rise once but a well of darkness opened before him and he felt himself falling. Just before he lost all consciousness he thought he heard laughter. ****

“Look at that.” “Look at what, Cap'n?” Corporal McKenit looked up from the rollup he was working on. Bilardi nodded in the direction of the shirtless young man across the parade yard. The object of the Guard Captain's attention was running through a series of sword exercises in front of a crowd of junior officers, “That—he accepted my challenge this morning to a match with foils.” McKenit chuckled, “Oh I'da liked to seen that.” “I'm sure you would have,” Bilardi muttered under his breath. He shook his head as he watched Adam execute an impossible riposte-thrust-riposte-parry combination in three positions. “You would have been disappointed, Corporal, the match proved to be short and to the point, the point being the point of his foil at the base of my throat.” “He beat you Cap'n?” The Corporal sounded scandalized. “Yes, he beat me, made me look like a raw recruit.”Bitterleaf tasted better than this. “Sumpin hadda be wrong wittcher, Cap'n. Maybe you was sick er sumpin,” McKenit temporized. Bilardi nodded, “Yes, maybe that was it.”Not bloody likely. “Gotta be Cap'n, gotta be. You'll get ‘im next time out, I knows ya will,” McKenit gave him a snappy salute and walked off in the direction of the enlisted mess. The guard Captain watched the Corporal until he vanished into the mess hall door and then he turned back to watch more of his newest Lieutenant's bladesmanship.Not this one McKenit, no, this one exists on a different plateau. This man made me feel like a distant second. There's something about him... **** Sweat poured down Adam's forehead and into his eyes. He let it come, using the sting of it push him further into the dance of the patterns. The old Wizard's words still hung in his mind, destiny, his destiny, what had Milward meant by that? The prophecy had something to do with it, of that he was certain, as well as Labad being in the middle of it. Beyond that he was lost. The confusion was aggravating and he allowed his temper to flare with it. A dragonfly zipped through the space he was using and the sword's pattern changed, bisecting the insect and then returning to its original line. “Did you see that...?” “Man's not human...” “Bardoc's balls! I never thought you could...” The murmurs of astonishment coming from the watching guards eased his temper a bit as well as the petty act of death. He knew he'd feel guilty about it later, but that was then and this was now. Now it felt good to ride the sympathetic magik of the sword into exhaustion and oblivion.

Thaylli sat in the shade of the porch attached to the officers quarters and watched Adam run through his exercises. Some of the moves nearly took her breath away, she had no idea he was capable of such things. His magik had something to do with it, maybe. A warmth began spreading across her loins and she looked around covertly to see if any of the other women seated there noticed. “Magnificent,” A willowy blonde seated next to her breathed. “You're a lucky woman dearie,” The matron behind her placed a plump be-ringed hand on Thaylli's shoulder, “You're going to have to keep an eye on that one. More than a few of these vixens will have their sights set on tumbling him.” The warmth changed to a chill and she almost turned on the older woman but checked herself in time. The old biddy was just trying to be helpful in her own way. Besides, Adam had managed to resist Saichele back in Access hadn't he? Let the others squirm and dampen their pants. He was hers and they knew it. She turned and graced the older woman with a smile, “They can try Sirena Culperti, they can try, but Adam's not gifted with a roaming eye. They'd be sadly disappointed.” Sirena Culperti broke forth in a booming fruity laugh, “Oh you wonderful child! How poetic. What a delightfully refreshing presence you are. Will your man and you being staying here in the compound with us?” This time Thaylli's smile held a tinge of reluctant sadness, “I'm sorry, Sirena Culperti, Adam is insistent we stay at this shabby little Inn he found. It's not much,not by a long sight , but it's where he wants to be right now, he feels safe there.” “Just call me Hirittia my dear. As the Colonel's consort I'm a Sirena of course, but here it's just us girls,” She giggled more of her warm laughter. A woman with red hair similar to Thaylli's but several years her senior leaned across the Colonel's wife's ample lap, “That incredible example of a man, afraid? Look at him, what in the world could he be fearful of?” “He is rather strapping my dear,” Hirittia nodded in Adam's direction. “Is there something you're not telling us?” The redhead and the blonde leaned forward some more in anticipation of the potential gossip. They would be disappointed on this front as well. Thaylli shrugged, “Nothing I can think of right now, if I think of something I'll let you know, but as far as I've seen there is nothing in this world he fears.” **** Thunk!The thrown blade sank into the oak target a hairs breadth from a mark drawn on it in the shape of a lowercase x. Two other knives surrounded it, each of them equally close. “Almost there,” He murmured to himself as he stood up and collected the knives, “Another few hours and the Duke won't know what hit him.” He stopped, looked to the side and rubbed his chin, “Then again, maybe he will.” The old man shuffling home after a long evening at his local looked up at the manic laughter coming from

the third story and quickened his steps away from their source. **** “You callthis food?” “Maybe ‘e got th’ pots mixed up an’ we're getting’ whut was ta go to th’ dogs.” Both Flynn and Neely looked at the masses of overcooked stew laid in front of them with a mixture of disgust and astonishment. They sat at a plank table just inside the Ortian mess tent. Charity sat opposite Flynn and nodded her thanks to the server as he placed a smaller portion in front of her. Flynn prodded a greasy looking lump of gray meat and shuddered, “I ain't sure even the dog's ‘ud eat this.” “C'mon. ‘s not that bad, just spice it up a bit an’ use lossa bread fer dippin'. Goes down easy iffn ya does that,” The trooper sitting across from them demonstrated his technique with gusto. Neely started to rise, “Uh uh, I ain't that desperate fer food yet. There's still some travel rations in me saddlebag, hard biscuits is better'n what I sees here.” “Oh sit back down Neely, it's not half as bad as it looks,” Charity looked up at the tracker with a glob of the stuff attached to the chunk of bread she held in her right hand. Neely returned to his place on the bench warily, “Even half as bad's bad enough.” “Just try it, you too Flynn, we're guests here and you don't want us to be seen as rude, do you?” “No miss Charity,” The big man looked at the stuff in front of him apprehensively. “Neely...” “Ahh skrud, gonna die eventually I guess.” “Neely...” The tracker tore a chunk of the dark bread from one of the loaves on the table, “Sorry Charity. Ok, Flynn, here goes. Come in an’ get me iffn I start to sink.” The trooper across from him smiled as he bit into another bread/stew combination, “Ah, go on mate, eat. Good fer whut ails ya.” This was said around the dripping mouthful. Sergeant Travers chuckled, “Yeah, Neely, go on. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.” That earned him a black glare as the tracker bit into a small section of the bread after he dipped it. The others watched closely for his reaction. Neely chewed thoughtfully and then nodded, “Ain't horrible, tasted worse.” Flynn grinned and tore into his with relish, “Good'nuff fer me.” Travers and Charity watched the pair as they ate, apparently with some enjoyment. After a while the

Sergeant could contain himself no longer, “Uh ... are you actually liking that?” Neely looked up and nodded. Flynn grinned around a large mouthful, “Umm hmm.” “Ain't you gonna dig in?” Neely pointed to Charity's bowl with his hunk of bread. Travers looked out of the corner of his eye at the woman sitting next to him, “Well?” She sighed, “I suppose so.” The first bite surprised her. In spite of its bland scent and overcooked appearance, the stew was actually fairly flavorful, with a slight pepperiness on the back of the pallet. Her eyes widened with her surprise and she took another bite, this one a bit larger than the first. “I know whatcha mean,” Neely chuckled, “surprised me too.” “Would you like some cold tisane?” Most of those at the table turned at the voice. Flynn and Neely kept eating. A boy stood behind and to the left of Charity holding a large pitcher glistening with condensation. At first glance he looked to be ten, maybe twelve years old. His hair was straight, cut to just above his shoulders and parted in the middle. He looked at them calmly out of deep brown eyes that showed a lot of intelligence, “Tisane, it's cold. Would you like some? That stew can be pretty peppery.” Charity looked more closely at the boy. There was something about him that smacked of the exotic. As she considered his appearance, it struck her that it wasn't any one thing in particular but the whole of the boy's features that seemed unusual. For one thing, his coloring had an olive cast instead of the peaches and browns worn by the engineers and soldiers. His eyes had a slant to them, not unlike a cats and it looked like the ear showing through his thick black hair was decidedly pointed. If she wasn't mistaken the boy had Elf in him. She turned her head slightly to check on the others’ reaction. It seemed there was none. The Sergeant and the other troopers looked at the boy with nothing except interest in what he offered. “Sure boy, you come just in time, fill ‘er up,” The trooper next to Sergeant Travers held out his mug for a refill. “Same here boy, there's a good lad,” Travers duplicated his trooper's gesture. The boy tipped some of the chilled tisane into each of the proffered mugs and then turned to Charity, “Would you like some lady? It's quite refreshing.” She held her mug out for him, “Yes, please, it smells interesting, kind of sweet and sharp all at once.” “It's the limmins, the cooks brought them up from Ort. They add a nice flavor to the tisane. Sometimes they make a drink from the juice of the limmins only, it's real good on a hot day.” Charity sampled the tisane, “Umm. Nice. I'll have to try some of that limmin juice.”

“What's your name?” She looked up at the question, “What did you say?” “I think ‘e wants ta spark ya, Miss Charity,” Flynn snickered from his side of the table. “Boy oughta watch it, she'd take ‘im three falls outta three, no problem,” Neely joined in the ribbing. To his credit the boy gave no sign of being bothered by the banter, but kept his gaze on Charity, “I asked you what your name is. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, I guess it's Miss Charity from what the fat man with the red hair said.” Charity hid her smile behind a hand while Neely and the troopers erupted in full-throated laughter, “Actually it's just Charity, What's your name?” The boy nodded, “Circumstance.” He smiled, “Some of the engineers here have told me it's an unusual name but Ethan told me it suits me, so I guess it's all right.” “Ethan? My brother and I knew an Ethan. He used to be a watchman in this horrible little town called Silgert.” She laughed softly, “I remember we found him sleeping off a drunk outside of the town. He was running away. He was also one of the first people to really help us while we were out in the wild.” “Yes, he told us that story.” Charity looked at the boy sharply, “Told you that story? You know him? Where is he?” “This boy a part of your past you didn't tell us about?” Neely asked while he dipped into more of the stew. “No ... not that I know of. But he is a link, at least I think so.” Charity turned back to Circumstance, “Where do you know this Ethan from? Is he the one Adam and I used to know?” He looked thoughtful, “Adam? The people in Access talked about an Adam, he passed through there with this Wizard named Milward last year. They said he saved most of their men from some kind of mining accident.” Charity tried to say something but no words would come, Adam, alive? Alive? Her thoughts whirled as events from the past few years flashed dream-like through her mind. That soldier, the one that tried to rape her in the woods outside of Dunwattle, He had lied to her. For a brief instant she wished he could be here alive so she could put an arrow through his black heart all over again. All this time and she'd been led to believe her brother was dead. “They ... they said he was ... was there, last year? And ... Milward, the Wizard, was there with him?” The words finally came out. “Seems your brother's alive, Miss Charity,” Flynn's rumble came from across the table, “an’ he could be close by. Wanna go look fer ‘im?” Neely stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sounds like a plan to me, I'll go get th’ horses.”

“Hold on there,” Travers’ voice, sharp with the tone of command cut through the rest of the voices rising at the table. He stood there in his place casting his glare at each of the others in turn, “Am I mistaken or did you not pledge to fight with us against those villains who butchered our Emperor's niece?” Charity felt torn between honor and urgency, “But ... my brother...” “Doesn't matter,” Travers waved her protest away with an abrupt motion of his hand, “You gave your word, all three of you. Are you telling me that it's something that can be taken back at the slightest change of the wind?” “Just a flickin’ minute there, Sergeant,” Neely took a step toward Travers. “You spend a coupla years trampin’ around th’ country with this woman and then you kinthink about talkin’ to her that way.” The Sergeant's brows creased together in a frown as he gathered his retort, but Charity broke in on the impending melee, “No, he's right.” “What?” Neely, Flynn and Travers spoke at once. She brushed a tear away from her cheek as she turned back to put her forearms onto the table, “I said Sergeant Travers is right. I ... we gave our word to help them. Searching for my brother is going to have to wait.” She looked up at them and flashed a weak smile, “At least I know he's alive, that's something, isn't it?” “Heis alive.” Charity turned her head to look into Circumstance's eyes. The half-elf boy looked back at her gravely, “Your brother's alive, I can feel it.” She looked at him again for a long moment. It seemed as if everyone else at the table receded into the distance, leaving the boy and her all by themselves. “Whoare you?” Circumstance did not flinch from her gaze, “You don't mean just my name, do you?” “No, I don't.” The boy breathed out a sigh, as if in relief, “May I sit down?” Charity looked up at the trooper sitting next to her, the one who first urged Flynn and Neely to try the stew, “Would you mind...?” He rose hastily, “No, I'll get me a spot over there. You an’ the kid have yer talk.” Circumstance took the trooper's place and half-turned so he could look at the woman seated next to him, “I have something I have to do, and I'm pretty sure you and your brother are part of it.” “Go on,” Charity nodded to indicate she was listening. “Ethan came with me to this place. He left to go back home after he made sure I'd be ok. You see I ran

away before anyone else was up, this feeling of ... of a destiny, I guess, was too strong to ignore. I had to find you, or your brother, it doesn't matter who I found first. Eventually all three of us will be together, it's something we have to do, just the three of us. Anyway, Ethan caught up with me in the woods, just about the same time some Garlocs did.” “Garlocs?” Flynn, Neely and Travers repeated their unison trick. Charity glanced at them and then returned to face Circumstance, “You boys should join a troupe with an act like that. Go on Circumstance, you were saying...?” He smiled at Charity's joke, “We tricked the Garlocs by smearing ourselves with Skunkbush juice and after washing it off we climbed up the mountain to Access.” “Skunkbush juice,” Neely's eyebrows climbed into his hairline, “what's Skunkbush juice?” Circumstance glanced at the tracker, “It's what I called it, I don't know its real name. We crushed the leaves and rubbed then on our skin. It made us stink, really stink, bad enough that the Garlocs went the other way.” He looked back at Charity, “It's part of what happened to me. I know things.” “You know things?” Charity had an inkling of where this was going. “I don't know how. When I was in the woods I knew where to find food, which plants could be used for what I needed at the time and other things, a few of them Ethan taught me, but most of it I just knew.” He looked at his hands, “The magik surprised me.” “Blimey,” Flynn's whisper spread across the table, “did he say magik?” “Sounded like it,” Nelly murmured, “now shut yer cake'ole, I wanna hear this.” “What kind of magik, Circumstance?” Charity urged the boy on with his story. He shrugged, “We found a place in the forest after we left Access that had a lot of mushrooms. We picked enough of the ones that were good to eat and then tried to get a campfire going so we could cook them but I got impatient and started it myself.” “And that was the magik? Some people are just better at making fire than others, that's all,” Charity smiled at the boy. “She's right kid, ain't nothin’ magikal ‘bout that,” Neely added. “But all I did is wave my hand over the wood,” Circumstance replied. “Even Ethan was surprised.” “Oh,” Travers, Flynn and Neely each edged slightly away from the boy. “So you started the cookfire with just a wave of your hand?” Charity mused. “Can you do anything else?” “I'm pretty sure, but I haven't tried anything else. I've been a little afraid of what might happen. I can also keep anyone from attacking me. No, that's not right, they can attack me, but they won't touch me, except when I trip over something,” He flushed pink.

Charity leaned toward Circumstance, “Something happened?” “I'll say something happened,” An of the Engineer one table over spoke up. They turned to see who was speaking. “Circ here was trying to finish off one of his many errands for Gas-puke, the chief's assistant. That whittle would rather his tongue were torn out by the roots than admit it, but this lad here's saved his bacon more than once. It was when the troops first arrived. Circ was running up along one of the tent avenues when this trooper and he collided. Couldn't be helped but this fellow had a temper and decided to take it out on the boy, nearly killed him. If it wasn't for Durston-Kres stepping in with Colling-Faler he would have.” Circumstance shook his head once with a small movement meant only for Charity's eyes. “That's not quite true, the soldier would have died. I could feel it starting to happen,” He kept his voice low so the other tables wouldn't hear his confession. “We'll keep that to ourselves, ok?” Charity lowered her voice to a whisper. “Ok.” Flynn hoisted a mug full of the cold tisane in a half-salute, “Those two sound like a couple a stand-up fellers, this Colling-Faler an’ what's ‘is name.” “Durston-Kres,” The Engineer replied. “Yeah, Durston-Kres. Funny kinda name that, but he stood up fer th’ kid. What happened to th’ trooper what beat on the boy?” Flynn tipped some of the tisane down his throat. Circumstance shrugged again, “Engineer Durston-Kres punished him while Engineer Third Colling-Faler made sure I wasn't injured.” “Thrashed him good is what the boy means,” The helpful Engineer added. “The Engineer third told them all the same would happen to them if they tried to hurt me,” Circumstance looked embarrassed. “You'd like to stand on your own wouldn't you?” Charity regarded the boy. He didn't answer her statement directly, “I can take care of myself. I wasn't lying when I said no one could touch me if I didn't let them, except of course ... you know.” “Could be part of your magik. My brother, Adam, is magik, I've seen it work. He was a little surprised himself when it first showed in him.” Charity toyed with a bit of the stew using the spoon the stewards gave her. “Tell me more about how you know he's alive.” “It's more of a feeling than a knowing,” Circumstance screwed up his face as he tried to put into words what was inside of him. “I feel him ... here,” He tapped his forefinger on his chest. “But sometimes, if I try real hard, it's almost like I can reach out and touch him. It's strange because I can't do it with anyone else.” “Do you know where he is, can you feel him like that now?” A wild hope rose inside Charity.

Circumstance shut his eyes as he turned slowly from side to side. “He's over there,” His hand pointed across the table toward the far right-hand corner of the tent. Charity and the others at the table turned their heads in the direction the boy pointed. “He's here, in th’ tent?” Neely stood and craned his neck trying to search the crowd before he realized he had no idea what Charity's brother would look like. “No, not in the tent. Over that way maybe a thousand or so miles, but over that way for sure.” Circumstance opened his eyes and nodded at Charity, “He's over there, I know it.” “You know where that is Charity?” Neely's expression had turned grim. “Neely, it's her brother,” Flynn looked up at the tracker. “What are you talking about?” Travers looked from Neely to Flynn, “What's he talking about?” “That's what I'd like to know.” Charity locked eyes with the tracker, “What are you talking about Neely? Where is Adam?” “If this boy's directions are on th’ money, your brother's smack dab in th’ middle o’ Grisham.” Chapter Seven

“C'mon you, up!” Ethan clawed his way to consciousness with a fist balled and ready for mayhem, but the soldier who'd kicked him awake was already four other bedrolls down the line. His days as a plebe in the watch came rushing back to him along with that terrible first morning when the reality of military life came crashing down on all of them. The Corporal woke each of the young men by striding down the hallway, tipping the cots over as he passed by while calling morning parade at the top of his voice. There was nothing personal in the man's actions then, any more than there was now. He was just doing his job in the most efficient manner possible. “Hey, Berggren,” the half-whisper came from behind him. “Hey, who?” “Berggren, that's where you're from, ain'tcha?” The fellow jerked his head in the direction they'd marched from. “I remember hearing ya tell the Sergeant ‘bout yer family bein’ there. Me, I'm from Coevile, just a little place, ain't even on any o’ the maps. It's ‘bout a hunnert mile north o’ Berggren right up against the wood. You prolly never heard of it.” Ethan nodded as he pulled on his boots. Out of the corner of his eye he saw another one of the Trading States crew keeping watch on himself and the others around him. “You're right. I've never head of it.” “Not surprised.” The man stuck out his hand for Ethan to take, “name's Ruther, what's yer handle?”

Ethan took the man's hand, “Call me Ethan. Where did they pick you up?” Ruther jerked his head again, “'Bout two days march from where they got you. I'm lucky, I ain't got no family to worry me.” He looked back up at Ethan's expression, “Sorry ‘bout that man, guess I forgot.” Ethan's reply was cut off in the borning by a shout from the Trading States Sergeant, “Awright, all of you, on your feet, we march for our breakfast in this outfit! Let's go,” The last was said in a more moderated tone just like the day before. Ethan wondered if he was going to hear the same refrain repeated over and over as the days went by. Most likely so, if history was any judge. He stamped his feet firmly into their boots and joined the others in the line. Escape had been proven a bad idea the day before. One of the conscripts, a man approximately Ethan's age and size, tried to bolt from the line into a stand of timber twenty of so yards away. He fell to the ground less than half the way there, his back bristling with crossbow bolts. Ethan had no desire to end his life as an ersatz hedgehog so he kept his mouth shut, obeyed the soldier's orders and watched for a time when a break could be made without dying. They marched for two more days along the northern side of Cloudhook where they met up with other patrols herding their own lines of conscripts. The combined patrols bivouacked for a few days and then moved on towards Grisham. Ethan learned little about what awaited them at journey's end, though there were plenty of conscript rumors. Ruther found him during one of the stops on the high prairie where they were allowed to move freely, though the ever-watchful crossbowmen gave the lie to the feeling. “'Lo, Berggren.” “Ruther, the watchers treating you well?” Ethan bent to pick up the bundle of firewood he'd gathered as his morning duty. At least they were allowed hot food in the evenings. Ethan's companion in misery scratched his head, dislodging a number of vermin. One thing they'd not been allowed to do was bathe, all water was reserved for drinking, cooking and the horses. “Yeah, kinda, leastways I don't have no arrows stickin’ in me back. You heard the news?” Ruther fell in alongside Ethan as he carried the firewood over to where the rest was stacked. “You mean the rumors?” Ruther screwed up his face, making it even more homely, “Yeah, rumors, I guess. Some of ‘em kinda make you think, you know?” Ethan finished stacking the wood and turned to face Ruther, brushing the dust off his hands, “Like what?” “Well, the one I keep hearin’ the most is where the Duke of Grisham's gonna invade the Southern Empire an’ we're gonna be the ones he puts up front,” Ruther's head with its oversized nose and ears bobbed up and down as he talked. “Yes, that seems to be the favorite. Did you hear the one about the Dragons and the Wizards?” Ethan ran his eyes across the camp as they walked back from the woodpile. “You mean the one where there's this army of Dragons an’ Wizards just waitin’ for us at the other side

o’ this mountain?” Ruther gestured with his left hand. Ethan reached the spot where his bedroll sat and picked up the canteen he'd been allowed to keep. The water, though slightly warm, tasted good after the sweaty work. “Did you hear me? Wizards, an’ Dragons! I don't wanna face no Dragons.” Ruther squatted next to Ethan and stared into the afternoon haze. “I heard you. Far as I know there aren't any more Wizards and as for Dragons...” He let go with a short derisive laugh, “I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.” He held back the thought of Circumstance and the fire. There was a lot more in the world than these men were prepared to face. “I hear we's gonna be taken into Grisham itself an’ trained, trained to be them night-fighters.” Another conscriptee sat down next to Ethan and Ruther. This fellow sported a good-sized paunch and had the complexion of one who spent little if any time outside. His bald pate glowed red from exposure. Ethan looked over at him. “You'd like that, huh?” “They ain't gonna train you to do more'n peel spuds m'man.” Ruther snorted. The target of Ruther's humor looked down at his paunch and nodded. “I suppose you're right,” He chuckled, “never was much good at anything other'n enumeratin’ anyways.” He looked at Ethan, “You think they'll be needin’ that? I mean, can you see me in a battle?” He waved a hand across his paunch. “Only for a very short time I'm afraid.” Ethan leaned back against one of the large stones that littered the area where the combined patrols camped. “Look, I've been around armies, and if that senior Sergeant is anything like the others, only those men able to swing a sword will be given one. The last thing they want is to have a man on the lines who's as much of a danger to his own mates as he is to the enemy. You may find a few officers that stupid but they usually get killed during the fighting, often by those under them. Poetic justice if you ask me.” He picked up a small pebble and tossed it. The fellow with the paunch looked at Ethan with wide eyes, “You've been in a war? You have, haven't you? I'll bet you got's stories.” He was given no chance to hear any of them for at the moment the call to march came. As they were formed into their lines Ethan saw a caravan of wagons approaching from the west. They were of the type used by the military for running supplies between camps. The lines of conscripts were held in place until the lead wagon drew alongside and then they marched. They marched for the rest of the day and into part of the night, then repeated it again for the next two days. By the time they reached Labad's highway Ethan felt as if his feet were going to drop off. “C'mon scrip, get a move on, this ain't no vacation where you get's ta put yer feet up. Yer in the army m'man, now acts like it, march, lift them puppies, march.” Ethan comforted himself with visions of what he was going to do to that Corporal when given the chance. **** Purple spots of agony blossomed and burst before his eyes as McCabe clawed his way back to consciousness. As his awareness increased he found himself to be stuck to the ground. His hands and

feet were tied to stakes and he lay spread-eagle in front of a mud and wattle hut thatched with reeds. The scent of bitter herbs mixed with decay came to his nostrils and then left leaving behind only the musty odor of the soil beneath him. Another wave of pain washed over him and he blacked out again. When his senses returned he opened his eyes upon the ugliest crone he'd ever seen, including those dwelling in the Lowers. She was muttering something in the Elf language as she bent over him. “Help me.” The fire in his belly, though lessened was still there. The crone cocked her head as if one eye worked better than the other. “Help you?” She cackled, “Yes, I'll help you, help you to die, just like your kind helped my mate to die.” Her grasp of the human language made the words barely understandable but McCabe guessed her meaning. More of the pained burned through him and his back arched as he rode it out. “My kind? He gasped. “What about my kind?” “Mankind!” She spat out the word as if it was a curse. McCabe laughed in spite of his agony, “...not a man—not any more...” She cackled again, the sound of her laughter grated in the still air, “Not a man? Old Haberstroh isn't as blind as that. My mixage'll prove me right.” She stood up and vanished into the hut. Seconds later she shuffled back out carrying a small pottery vessel and sifting a fine powder into it. “You claim to be not a man. A few drops of this'll tell me if you be not. Oh yes they will.” Wisps of a foul smelling steam poured over the edge of the vessel as she bent to hold it over his mouth. Fear rose up in McCabe and lodged in his throat. He tried to drain the crone but it was as if a wall stood between him and his powers. Faintly, he could hear the voices from behind the wall screaming at him to run, but the stakes were fast into the ground and he was too weak to do more than try to twist his head away from the vessel. “No you don't, not be a man,” Haberstroh giggled, “you take your medicine. You take it and prove to me you be not a man. You take it now,” She tipped the vessel until drops fell from it and splashed onto his face. The oily liquid bubbled and hissed as it burned its way into the flesh. McCabe screamed with pain as he fought to keep Haberstroh's mixage out of his mouth but she continued to dribble the potion. “Come, not be a man, old Haberstroh'll fix you up. Hold that head of yours still,” She reached out and grasped him by the chin. Her strength was surprising, McCabe felt as if his head had been placed in a vise. “There you are my pretty, take your medicine now,” She poured a measure into his mouth held open by the pressure of her thumb and forefinger. The liquid traced a fiery path from the back of McCabe's throat into his stomach where it exploded into a furnace that spread fingers of fire throughout his system.

Haberstroh rocked back on her heels and waited. **** The dining hall built for Grisham's Guard Officers made Adam feel like he was looking at a toad squatting in the midst of a rose garden. The uniform he'd been given itched and the shiny black boots pinched his toes. To top off his discomfort the steward had him seated next to the wife of the Colonel and the old biddy chatted non-stop, moving from one inane topic to the next seamlessly. For some reason Thaylli seemed to enjoy the older woman's chatter and joined in the laughter whenever she or one of the other officer's wives made a joke. He concentrated on trying not to squirm but a spot in the high middle of his back started up an itch that was nearly impossible to ignore. Perhaps a small shaping would ease things a bit. Adam nodded politely at whatever Sirena Culperti was saying as he sipped a bit more of the wine and concentrated. The itch went away along with the tightness of his boots and several members of the luncheon party suddenly sighed as a waved of relief washed through them. Thaylli shot a sharp glance in Adam's direction but he avoided her eyes by dipping his nose into the wine goblet. Damn his lack of control, no matter what he tried in shaping, things still went further than he intended them to. He was just lucky he didn't send any of the women in the group into spasms of ecstasy. Sirena Culperti said something. He looked up from his plate, placing a pleasant smile on his face, “I beg your pardon Sirena, what did you say?” “I asked you where in the world you learned to use a sword they way you do. You'revery good, especially for a man as young as you are,” She graced him with a coquettish look. Adam felt like the rabbit being sized up by the mastiff. “Uh ... well most of it I sort of picked up on my own, but I did spend a short time with a man named Ethan, he taught me a few things.” “Ethan, Ethan of Swaledale?” Captain Bilardi looked up from a whispered conversation with one of the other officers. Adam looked across the table he shared with Thaylli, Sirena Culperti, Major Lossin and his Consort, a darkly handsome woman with amazingly thick black hair, “I don't know. He never told us his surname, but now that I think of it, He did mention your name ... unless he meant your father.” Mundy, seated on Bilardi's left muttered something.” “No, I don't think so, let it be, Mundy.” Bilardi picked up his drink. “Let it be” Mundy snorted. “He insults the Guard, and you say, let it be.” Adam blinked, “I have no idea what you're talking about.” “Adam,” Thaylli felt the tension mounting.

Major Lossin held her back with a hand placed on Thaylli's left shoulder, “This is the Lieutenant's game young lady, he has to play it out.” The statement was spoken scant inches from her ear. Mundy snorted in a manner that begged for a punch in the nose, “No idea, he says.” “Perhaps he really hasn't,” Bilardi mused, putting his glass back onto the table. “Perhaps he had no intention to be insulting.” “I say he did,” The Lieutenant growled. “I say he lies about it now to try to cover his tracks.” “I don't want to have to fight you Lieutenant Mundy,” Adam forced his voice to be steady even as his pulse began pounding in his ear, “You know you can't match me.” “I agree,” The Captain said lightly, “I warned you earlier Mundy, you'd best listen.” “Are you saying you're better at blades than I am, bumpkin?” Mundy sneered. “Adam! Don't let them do this,” Thaylli hissed. “Hush dear, sometimes it has to be this way, besides, from what I've seen in your young man he is more than capable of taking care of himself,” The Colonel's consort dimpled at Thaylli. Mundy stood slowly all the while keeping his eyes on Adam, “This is the second public insult I've taken from you bumpkin, I'll take no more.” Captain Zac, as blonde as Lossin's consort was dark, started to rise from his own chair, “Lieutenant...” Bilardi's voice cut him off in mid-word, “Sit back down Zac! This is none of your affair!” “Bloodsport at the table? The rules...” “The rules be damned! I want this whelp's liver! I've heard what he's said about me. Stand back Zac, or I'll call you out as well,” Mundy grated without taking his eyes off Adam. The Lieutenant was growing more furious by the second. Adam had no doubt killing the man would take little effort. The real task would be in keeping him alive without creating an even more dangerous enemy. He glanced around at the others in the dining hall. For the most part each face betrayed an avid interest in what was to happen next. Thaylli, Zac and the Colonel were the only ones appearing to be upset about the business. Major Lossin and his consort showed no emotion at all as if this was something they'd been through too many times and were merely waiting for the inevitable. Captain Bilardi stood, “A challenge has been given. According to strict custom, it must be answered. Usually the answer is at dawn on the parade ground, but it appears the Lieutenant's temper will not allow that courtesy” “Adam, hewants you to fight this man.” Thaylli looked at him out of frightened eyes, her fear making her skin even more pale against the red of her hair. “I know,” He whispered back without moving his lips, “and he knows Mundy's no match for me. Why?”

He said it louder, for Bilardi's ears, “Why?” The Captain sat back into his chair. “It is out of my hands. Mundy has issued the challenge and honor must be served. If you walk away from his challenge, you not only dishonor yourself, but your family as well. The Honor of the Grisham Guard is at risk here. My honor is at risk, since I recruited you.” Every eye in the hall switched from the Captain to Adam. “How am I not aware of what is honorable or not?” Adam's voice came out cutting sharp, “What have I done that dishonored myself or those with me? Answer me Captain! You have a man standing there who will die soon if I'm forced to do this.” “That is between you and Lieutenant Mundy, Lieutenant! The challenge was issued and it has to be answered. One way or another,” Bilardi's features darkened into a scowl, “it has to be answered.” “I don't see it Bilardi.” The Colonel spoke quietly from his chair as he toyed with the rim of his wineglass. Mundy darted a look from the Colonel back to Bilardi. “Really Colonel, and why is that? “The Guard Captain's voice was dangerously soft. Colonel Culperti grimaced, a brief twitch of his left cheek. “I see nothing arrogant in stating a known fact. We've all seen Mundy fence and we've seen this young officer in the exercise yard at forms. He spoke the truth, if Lieutenant Mundy draws on him he's a dead man.” “So, you insult my honor as well?” The Lieutenant growled at the Colonel through his teeth. “Believe what you wish Lieutenant, I'm too old for you to challenge and too well protected for you to kill. You wouldn't live long enough to draw a second breath.” He tipped some wine into his mouth, “Go ahead. Have your silly duel. Captain Bilardi won't be happy until it comes to pass. Good riddance anyway, I say.” “Are you going to allow this old fossil to speak to me this way?” Mundy turned in appeal to Bilardi. The Captain stared at the Lieutenant for a long still moment. The hall seemed to hold its breath along with that of the diners. Adam thought the Captain looked like a man struggling within himself. Bilardi shrugged, “Yes, I am. You have wanted this since the day you collided in the barracks hallway. I told you then to keep your temper, but you have not listened. Go ahead; enjoy your folly, if you can.” Mundy shifted his stance, “You heard the Colonel, bumpkin, stand on your feet!” Adam ignored him and leaned over to speak to Thaylli, “I think we'd better go.” She stood and smoothed the skirts of the gown given her by Sirena Culperti, “I'm sorry for this Hirittia...” Her throat closed on what else she was going to say. The Colonel's consort opened her mouth to answer Thaylli but Mundy interrupted, “Coward, hiding behind a woman's skirts!”

Adam and Thaylli continued to walk toward the door. A wine bottle shattered against the door jam showering Thaylli with wine and pieces of glass. She shrieked and stumbled backwards away from the door. She shrieked again as she noticed the ruin the wine had made of her gown. Adam whirled at the same time the bottle hit. The sword made a ripping sound as it left the scabbard. Chairs crashed to the floor as the hall's inhabitants scattered away from the inevitable swordplay. “So, the bumpkin wants to play after all,” Lieutenant Mundy sneered as he slowly pulled his own sword from its scabbard. “You shouldn't have done it Mundy, Thaylli has no part of your argument with me.” Adam kept the tip of the sword steady as he sidled to the left away from the chairs on the floor. He could feel its magik flowing through his arm and into his body. The Lieutenant sneered, it seemed to be his favorite expression, “Your bitch was a tool, nothing more. It got you to pull that sword, didn't it? Now let's see if you can use it.” On the word see Mundy lunged and swung his blade in a wicked arc that carved the air in a figure S beginning at Adam's knees and ending near his throat. An ordinary opponent would have had his throat ripped open by the last arc of Mundy's thrust. Fortunately for Adam, the sympathetic magik of Labad's legacy, in addition to his honing of native skill, made him no ordinary opponent. By the time Mundy's blade finished its pattern Adam's throat wasn't there. But his sword was. As the Lieutenant's sword tip completed its passage Adam's blade followed it on around and forced Mundy into a position where his entire left side was exposed. Adam exploited the opportunity and a line of red blossomed on Mundy's left cheek. “Auuggh! Blast you, you skrudding cur.” The Lieutenant slapped his free hand against the wound as he attempted a riposte. Adam parried and then his sword blurred. Another line of red appeared on Mundy, this one on the other cheek. Murmurs of approval and a few gasps of excitement came from the watchers. Lieutenant Mundy's lack of manners had won him no friends at the luncheon. “Give it up Lieutenant. I don't want to kill you, apologize to the lady and then leave. This will have never happened,” Adam emphasized his offer by twisting past his opponent's guard and tapping him on the chest when he could have easily run him through. The clash of steel upon steel continued for a few moments before Mundy answered, “Can't. It's gone too far.” He attempted a low level slash at Adam's knees and got a pink in his shoulder for the trouble. Another exchange and the sleeve of his sword arm opened up with the bicep deeply scored. Mundy yelled inarticulately and charged Adam waving his sword wildly, holding it in both hands.

Adam ducked and danced to the side, parrying the Lieutenant's slashes almost as an afterthought, “Apologize Lieutenant,” He opened up Mundy's other arm. “Apologize,” A second wound appeared next to the one on the right cheek. “Apologize,” Another blatant opportunity for a sure kill ignored in exchange for yet another minor wound. “Stop saying that,” Mundy panted. The combination of frustration, fear and loss of blood had begun to drain him. He knew Adam could kill him any time he wanted to. What he could not understand was why he didn't? He knew he surely would have if the positions were reversed. “I will when you apologize, do it and you can go,” Adam parried another slash and then spun the Lieutenant's sword out of his hand, catching it with his left hand. “My sword! How...?” Mundy grasped empty air. A gasp of astonishment came from the watching crowd. Adam could hear Thaylli's voice in the mix cheering him on. He threw Mundy's sword off to the side well away from easy reach, “I could have killed you during the first exchange. I could kill you now and no one here would even lift a finger to stop me. Look around you Lieutenant, do you see any friends? Look at your Captain, the Colonel, the ladies. None of them are in your corner.” Mundy looked into the faces of those standing around them. As Adam had said he saw no sympathy there. Bilardi wore a look of satisfaction and that hurt even more than the variety of wounds he now bore. The Lieutenant staggered a few steps toward his Captain. “You, you did this to me. You knew what would happen. You brought this freak into our barracks as an insult to us all. You skrudding bastard! You farting son of a bitch! You're as bad as that maniac you call father. Where's my honor now, how am I ever going to live this down? You can fight this dirty war of yours without me. Damn you all to the pit and beyond!” The last came out in a rasping scream as he turned and ran full upon Adam's sword. Blood spurted out of his mouth as the blade emerged from Mundy's back. He looked up into Adam's face and sneered, “I ... I ... ‘m gonna...” and he died. A few of the women screamed, including Thaylli. Two of them fainted and one emptied her stomach, which prompted a number of repetitions. Bilardi rushed forward and pulled Mundy's body onto its back. The Lieutenant's dead eyes looked past him into eternity. “Why?” The Guard Captain's head snapped up at the question, “What?” “You heard me Captain, why?” Adam wiped Mundy's blood off the sword with the golden sash that was part of the Grisham dress uniform. Thaylli broke away from Sirena Culperti's grasp and rushed to Adam's side, “Adam. I was so worried, that horrible man. Why did he do it?” She looked at Bilardi and her eyes projected pure venom, “Why

didn't you stop it?” The Captain looked back at her, “I had no power to stop it. This city has laws I cannot break. I am as shocked as you are about Lieutenant Mundy's actions. He was the one who threw the wine bottle. In addition, if I am not mistaken you gave him several opportunities to apologize for his churlish behavior. Did you not?” Adam opened his mouth to answer but Bilardi overrode him and continued speaking, “In spite of what you may believe I had nothing to do with his forcing a duel upon you.” Thaylli crossed her arms and snorted. “No of course not, how could we possibly think that?” “Thaylli,” Adam kept his eyes on Bilardi, “please go back over to the Colonel and his consort.” “No, I'm not leaving,” Thaylli pushed out her lower lip and looked stubborn. “Please, Thaylli, I need you to,” Adam added a tone of urgency to his plea. She shot one more look filled with poison at Bilardi and then stalked off to where the Culperti's stood. Hirittia gathered the young woman into her more than ample bosom. “Now Captain,” Adam said quietly, “shall we try answering my question again, or do you wish to spout more legal doubletalk at me?” “Mundy was an idiot!” Bilardi hissed his opinion under his breath at Adam, “If he hadn't run himself onto your blade I'm sure he would have forced you to kill him anyway. If you must know, there is more to the story. The man was heading for the hangman's noose eventually. You did me a favor.” Adam blinked. “What?” Seeing there was no imminent swordplay forthcoming the dining hall emptied and Lieutenant Mundy's body was removed. This left Bilardi and Adam facing each other over the stains the unfortunate officer had left behind. The Captain waited for the last onlooker to leave the hall and then returned his eyes to Adam. “You asked a question?” Adam ran his hand through his hair as he paced back and forth. It was happening again. The feeling of being pulled along by forces beyond his ability to control and he hated it, “Are you saying I did you a favor? That all of this was necessary, why?” Bilardi laughed and slapped Adam on the shoulder. “Please forgive the charade my young Swordmaster. Word had reached me Mundy was accepting bribes from agents of the Southern Empire. I'm sure it would have been only a matter of time before any of us fell to a knife in the back, or a drop of poison in our ale. However, I had no proof it was only good fortune you tripped him. Given his temper, the result was inevitable but I also knew that you would be in little danger. As you can see, it worked.” The Captain looked down at the bloodstained floor, “He was just that sort of a man. Unfortunately, his family has ... connections with the church, making any arrest or overt movement by my men or me politically impossible. My father would have had to go along with them, so you can see I had little choice in the matter.”

“Oh,” Adam looked at the stain. Something about the whole business still didn't feel right, but he was tempted to take the Captain at his word. The idea that Mundy was a spy was one explanation for the man running himself upon Adam's sword. He looked around the hall and then back at Bilardi, just looking at that smiling face made him a little uncomfortable and he excused himself saying he needed to see to Thaylli. What he really wanted to do was put some space between himself and the memories of Mundy's eyes staring at him as their light went out. Captain Bilardi watched the broad back of the young Swordmaster as he exited the dining hall. “Something about him...” Chapter Eight

“Well, you will just have to stand aside. It's my job to make sure this camp is secure and that means I have to ask her some questions,” The man's voice was high and nasal. Charity thought he sounded like one of those yippy mongrels the older women in Aunt and Uncle's village favored. He stood just outside her tent, barred from entering by Flynn's unyielding bulk. “Don't mean nuthin’ ta me. She's havin’ a bit of a chat with th’ boy an’ she don't wanna be bothered,” Flynn's rumble sounded like a mountain stating the fact of its immovability. Charity turned back to Circumstance whom she'd been talking to before the interruption, “Excuse me but I think I'd better see what he wants.” “Ok, but it's only Gaspic, he likes to think he's important,” Circumstance half-turned to watch Charity deal with the Senior Engineer's assistant. “Stand aside fellow, I said, stand aside!” Charity could not see the man arguing with Flynn. Her friend's silhouette blocked all but a glimpse of the legs. At least from the knees down he was wearing the same uniform the other Ortian engineers wore; shiny black boots with beige trousers tucked into their tops. She walked over to where Flynn stood just before the exit flap of the tent she'd been given, “It's ok Flynn, you can let him in. Remember, we're the guests here.” “Right'cho are Miss Charity. You kin come in now. Say, ain'tcho th’ one they calls Gaspuke?” Flynn turned to the side to allow the Engineer in. “That's Gaspic, you lummox,” The man growled as he pushed past Flynn to glare at Charity. “Explain yourself,” he grated, folding his arms across his chest. She nodded to Gaspic in greeting and then turned to walk back to the folding stool she used as a chair, “Explain what?” In addition to bad manners, a big nose and almost no chin, the skinny little fellow also had bad breath. He filled the tent with its stench. Gaspic tapped his right foot in agitation. Charity wasn't sure if he was aware he was doing it or not. “You know very well what I'm talking about. All persons of extraction other than Ortian citizenry must report to the supervising officer in charge when their presence penetrates the boundaries of an official military encampment, field facility, and/or base occupied by a score or more military personnel,” He sounded like he was reciting from a manual.

“You not really serious about this, are you?” Charity could not keep the smile from her voice in spite of the man's breath. Gaspic puffed up like a rooster defending his yard, “I am certainly most serious young lady. The Ortian Empire cannot have foreign individuals, whatever their extraction,” He sent a glance in Flynn's direction, “may be just wandering around. There are regulations for such things and undermy watch at least, they will be followed.” “What regulations?” Charity coughed behind her hand, trying not to breathe too deeply. “Allow me to enlighten you,” The Assistant Supervisor warmed to his lecture as he ticked the points off using his fingers. “One, as persons of non-Ortian extraction you must register prior to partaking of the benefits this base offers. Two, said registration may or may not allow the persons or persons registering free movement within said base unless so ordered by the base commander or his appointed representative, that is me.” “Actually the one you need to talk to is the Chief Engineer, Lemmic-Pries,” Circumstance spoke up from his spot in the back corner of the tent. Gaspic reared up, scandalized, “How many times must I tell you his title isLord Lemmic-Pries, or better yet, Lord Chief Engineer?” Circumstance remained unimpressed. He'd seen the Chief Engineer's assistant dressed down by Lemmic-Pries as well as felled by one punch from Ethan. “He said to call him by his name only, Lemmic-Pries, he likes it that way.” Charity smothered a laugh but Flynn allowed himself a deep-throated good-natured chuckle. The supposed ridicule sent Gaspic's fragile temper soaring and only his fear of Flynn's towering bulk kept it from exploding. Gaspic's sputtering only added fuel to the fire, and both Charity and her companions in the tent burst out laughing, which sent the apoplectic Engineer fleeing from the tent. The mess table chatter for days afterward included retellings of the sight of the red-faced Assistant Chief Engineer as he ran out of the visitor's tent chased by near hysterical laughter. “We'd best go find this Lemmic-Pries,” Charity said, once she was able to get a coherent phrase out. “I'd rather go through the formalities than spend another second breathing that little stinker's air.” Circumstance wiped the last of the tears from his eyes, “It isn't really him that stinks. It's this root powder he takes every morning. He thinks it will help him to grow bigger.” “Don't know why he'd want that,” Flynn rumbled. “Oughta be satisfied the way ya is. There's allus a reason fer somethin’ growin the way it does, ‘s Bardoc's bizness, ain't our'n.” “Well at least he isn't in this tent.” Charity pulled open the flap and stepped through, “Come on, let's find Neely and then we'll go over to the Chief Engineer.” Outside the tent, the camp, now a fully functioning base, was a beehive of activity. Engineers, troopers and even conscripts were streaming past the tent toward a large knot of men, many of them waving their fists in the air and shouting what sounded like encouragement.

“That's a fight. Miss Charity,” Flynn said as they approached the outskirts of the gathering. “Wonder what it's about?” “I don't know and I don't care,” Charity's voice held a strong edge of disgust. Flynn stopped suddenly enough that Circumstance had to do a quick sidestep to avoid running into him. “You don't? Some'un who fights as good as you do, an’ you ain't interested? I swear Miss Charity you allus find a way to surprise me.” Charity declined to answer. “I think we'd better get in there,” Circumstance looked around Flynn toward the ever-shifting throng. It continued to grow as more and more men from the camp added to its numbers. “Why?” Charity turned to give the boy a severe look, “So we can get a good vantage point before they're all taken?” Circumstance pulled his left foot over to prevent it being trodden on by a passing trooper. “No ... it's not that, but it is important. You know how I sometimes know things? This is one of those times.” One of Charity's traits was the ability to quickly make up her mind. She turned to Flynn and pointed toward the shouting crowd of Engineers and Troopers, “Can you get us in there without starting a riot?” “Sure, no problem.” The big man walked up to the outer ring of bodies, placed a hand on each of the two shoulders in front of him and created an opening. Charity and Circumstance fell in behind Flynn and followed in his wake like he was a ship passing through reeds. A few of the displaced troopers acted as if they wanted to repay being moved with a fight. That is until their eyes focused in on whom had displaced them. Occasionally a terrier will deign to take on a mastiff, however none of these men were terriers and Flynn was considerably larger than any mastiff. The last man Flynn shouldered aside turned out to be Sergeant Travers. “Hey! Who do you think..? Oh, it's you, Flynn.” Travers pointed into the center of the ring of men, “Your partner's got himself in a bit of a dust-up.” Flynn looked where Travers pointed, “Hey, ain't that..?” “Sure is,” Travers nodded, “seems like Murt can't keep himself outta trouble—putting up a good fight though.” “I know that man. Where do I know him from?” Charity worked her way around Flynn and stared at the sight of Neely going one on one with a scruffy looking trooper. Much to her disgust a part of her analyzed the tactics and form of the two combatants. “Last time you saw him you was kickin’ him in the nuts,” Flynn added dryly. Charity stared at the man fighting Neely for a long blank moment and then recognition showed up, “Oh, him,” her tone went completely flat. “He's got a knife,” Circumstance's quiet statement broke into her darkling thoughts.

“Don't see a knife,” Travers squinted as he tried to focus on the ever-shifting forms of Neely and Murt. Shouts and catcalls of support or disdain came from the ring of onlookers depending upon which of the combatants they favored. Money changed hands as bets placed on a given blow or series of blows were won or lost. “He's got it hidden,” The boy nodded, affirming his own statement. Murt threw a roundhouse punch that grazed the top of Neely's head as the tracker dropped to avoid the blow. He kicked out sideways as he fell back, catching Murt in his midsection. The trooper's breath whooshed out of him in a rush and he flew backwards onto his rear. More bets changed hands. Neely got back to his feet and raised his hands in triumph as Murt writhed on the ground trying to breathe. “See, I told you,” Circumstance pointed to where Murt's left hand fumbled at his waist. It came out grasping a small dirk with a leaf-shaped blade. “But Neely's unarmed! Look, there's not a speck of iron on him,” Charity gasped. “What's he doing parading around like that, doesn't he know any better? You don't turn your back on an enemy!” Circumstance stepped just into the ring of open ground, “He's going to be killed if we don't do something, and soon.” As Neely continued to ignore the rapidly recovering Murt, the trooper pulled himself up to one knee, a wicked grin suffusing his face. Charity started forward, “I've got to help him.” At the same time Circumstance raised his hand, “I can do it from here ... I think.” Flynn pulled Charity gently, yet irresistibly back into the crowd while simultaneously enveloping Circumstance's raised hand with one of his own, “Naw, I think yous'd best lemme do it, these boys'll like it better that way. Just wait here.” With that he released Charity and Circumstance and strode into the center of the ersatz arena. Murt raised his knife as he readied it to plunge the blade into Neely's back.The stupid tracker's still celebrating , he thought. Murt pulled the hand holding the knife further back so as to achieve the strongest thrust possible ... and then itkept going back. Murt felt himself lifted off the ground, suspended by the hand that gripped the knife. He looked back and saw a broad face wearing a short white and red beard along with a look of stern disapproval. “I ain't gonna let you stab ‘im inna back, Murt. Drop it,” Flynn's grip on the trooper's wrist tightened. Neely turned at the sound of Murt's screech, “What th’ flick?” His eyes widened when the knife fell out of Murt's hand, “Why you skruddin'...” He started towards the man but Flynn's free hand against his chest stopped him short.

“Ain't th’ way ta do it Neely,” The big man shook his head. Murt, still suspended, groaned over his crushed wrist, “You kill ‘im now it'd be murder.” “But he...” “Neely, you an’ me go back a long ways an’ you knows what's right an’ what ain't. Whadda you think it'd look like iffn Miss Charity sees you off this guy whist I'm holdin’ ‘im?” Flynn gave his friend a gentle smile. “But he...” Neely tried again but his heart wasn't in it. He was even beginning to find it hard to recall just exactly why he and Murt were fighting in the first place."Aww, skrud, let ‘im go, it's all over anyroad,” He turned on his heel and walked over to where Charity, Travers and Circumstance waited. Charity graced him with a not quite successful scowl, “Are you through having fun?” Flynn defended his friend, “he coulda hadda good reason fer it Miss Charity. Murt ain't th’ easiest feller ta get alongside, ya knows.” “That's the truth,” Travers muttered agreement. Charity let loose a longsuffering sigh, “I suppose so.” The fight over, most of the gathered Engineers and Troopers dispersed to their various posts and duties. A few, those who'd won betting on Neely, clapped him on the shoulder as they filtered past. Some expressed their appreciation verbally. One Trooper dropped a couple of silvers into Neely's hand, “You earned me near to two golds mate, thanks.” “We should get going,” Circumstance said. Charity gave Neely one more sour look, “Yes, we should.” “Well, you go ahead,” Travers turned to the right into a row of tents that looked just like the rows before it and all of the ones after. “I've still got a few duties to see to, good fight Neely.” With that the Sergeant walked away into the forest of tents. On the way to see Lemmic-Pries, Charity tried a couple of times to pull the reason for the fight out of Neely. Even Flynn attempted applying a bit of pressure but to no avail. The tracker was keeping mum. “Ain't no use Miss Charity, he ain't gonna talk about it,” Flynn grumped from his spot behind and to the left of Circumstance, which placed him on the right hand side of Neely. “You sure you ain't gonna talk about it Neely?” He asked one more time. “Bugger off, Flynn,” The tracker muttered as he mooched along behind Charity. “Nope, he ain't gonna talk.” The tent of the Chief Engineer occupied a position with others of its kind on a high point in the gently rolling landscape chosen for the Ortian Army's base. At first Charity thought they'd missed it. She had in mind that the head of such a large operation would

be housed in something grander than the mundane structures used by those below him. She nearly asked Circumstance about her concerns when Lemmic-Pries stepped through the flap of the tent and waved at the boy. “Ho there lad, who are your friends, a curious looking grouping I must say,” He waited while Charity, Circumstance, Flynn and Neely closed the gap between them. “A lady dressed for the wood, a man with the look of a tracker about him and a giant. What brings you to my humble tent my lords and lady?” Lemmic-Pries grinned. Circumstance separated himself from the others by a couple of paces, “Gaspic said they needed to register in order to stay at the camp, even though they came here with some of the troopers bringing in conscripts.” The Chief Engineer shook his head as he rubbed a hand across his bald pate, “One of these seasons I've got to get that man to take a vacation. His phobia about non-Ortians is going to cause me to lose what little hair I've got.” He looked back up at his visitors and gestured toward the flap of his tent, “I was about to settle down to some tea, won't you join me?” Neely shot a glance toward Charity, “Uh...” She missed his look and walked up to the tent, “I don't know what tea is Sire Engineer, but I'd be glad to accept your hospitality and so will my friends.” She didn't see the looks of horror that passed across Flynn and Neely's faces. Lemmic-Pries lived comfortably, for his dwelling and office being a tent. The walls were augmented with hand-hewn boards up to chest height. A drafting table stood to the left of the entrance with two oil lamps suspended above it. Lamplight glinted off the polished surfaces of the triangles and squares. Next to the table squatted a large desk covered in papers, inkwells and another lamp. Instead of the ubiquitous cot, the Chief Engineer had for his night's repose a goose down mattress with two matching pillows and a deeply quilted comforter laid over the blankets. He gestured for his guests to seat themselves on the turned wood chairs set along the back wall as he picked up a metal pot exuding wisps of steam, “Now, who will join me in a nice hot cup of tea?” “What is this ... tea?” Charity chose the seat closest to Lemmic-Pries’ desk. Circumstance sat on the bed as if he owned it and Flynn and Neely placed themselves as close to the tent flap as possible. The Chief Engineer eased himself into his desk chair and pulled open the left-hand drawer. Out of it he took an ornate ceramic pot with a curving spout, a handle that blended into the leaf decorations on the pot's belly, and a lid shaped like a singing bird. He talked while he spooned bits of what looked like an herb into the pot, “Tea is the favorite beverage of the Ortian court. It has been since recorded history. The young leaves are picked from the plants on their hillsides once each moon. This gives the next crop a chance to grow to the peak of flavor. After picking they are dried,” He poured water from the pan into the pot, “I like this particular blend best. Just smell that aroma.”

“I like it,” Circumstance chimed in, “it smells like melons and plums, kind of.” Charity sniffed the air, “I must say it does smell nice. Does it taste as good as it smells?” Lemmic-Pries smiled as he replaced the lid, “Indeed it does. Do you two fellows want to try some?” Flynn stared at the pot as if it had suddenly grown fangs and claws, Neely edged a bit closer to the flap. The Chief Engineer looked nonplussed, “What's the matter? Don't you like tea?” Two blank faces stared back at Lemmic-Pries and his other guests. “Flynn, Neely,” Charity was overcome with sudden concern for her two friends, “Are you ill? What's going on? “Flynn?” The big man blushed scarlet, “Uh ... it ain't th’ taste Miss Charity, I ain't never tasted tea, but ... you see...” If anything his blush increased in intensity and sweat appeared on his brow. “Um,” Neely cleared his throat, “you see Charity, there's these stories, we been hearin’ ‘em as long as we been around. By Bardoc, even me Gran Da heard ‘em.” “What stories?” Charity asked. Neely's faced matched Flynn's in color. “What stories,” She looked from Neely to Flynn, “What stories?” Both men remained dumb. “I believe I may be able to shed some light on this,” Lemmic-Pries broke in as he placed his cup onto a rare bare spot on his desk, “The fellow who brought Circumstance to stay with us, Ethan was his name, is that correct?” The boy nodded as he poured himself a cup from the pot, “Ethan.” “Well, Ethan was just like these two,” He nodded in the direction of Flynn and Neely, “Acted like the tea would cause his...” He looked over at Charity and reddened slightly, “Um ... his ... uh,” The flush deepened to match that of Charity's two companions. He drank a measure of his tea to escape the moment. “They think it will cause their manhoods to fail,” Circumstance sipped from his cup and smiled at the taste. Reaction to the boy's revelation came suddenly and with variety. Charity fell off her chair laughing. Flynn's blush deepened further. Neely shot to his feet with an oath and tea spurted from Lemmic-Pries’ nose. When he finally controlled his choking the Chief Engineer wiped his mouth and picked up the cup he'd dropped. “Out of the mouths of babes,” he chuckled.

“That ain't what...” Neely sputtered to a finish and then glared at Circumstance, “An sayin’ it in front of a lady...!” Charity settled her laughter and climbed back into the chair, “You needn't worry about my sensibilities Neely. If you remember, I'm a little experienced in failure of that sort.” Neely winced. She turned toward Flynn, “You believe this too, is there any proof?” The big man's flush continued as he pulled his battered floppy hat from his head and began wringing it back and forth in his hands, “Well ... you see Miss Charity ... I ... that is, me an Neely we ... uh...” Charity leaned far enough forward to place a hand on Flynn's knee, “It's ok Flynn, you won't embarrass me. We've been through worse. Remember that night in the Earl of Berggren's castle? I didn't have a stitch on and neither you or Neely were blushing then.” “That was diffrn't Miss Charity, we was rescuin’ you, not talkin’ about ... you know,” The blush returned. Neely flopped onto the floor of the tent and crossed his long legs under him, “Ah skrud it, Flynn, it's out an’ we might as well ride it to th’ end. Me da tol me Charity, just like his da tol him, tea'll make you limper'n a overcooked noodle, an’ not all th’ farm girls in th’ village'll git yer starch back. Every lad in th’ north knows it.” Flynn nodded while grinding more punishment into his long-suffering hat, “That's a fack Miss Charity, an’ I might not look like much of a catch but I kinda wanna be ready when th’ time comes, ya know?” Lemmic-Pries looked at them over the rim of his cup and smiled, “May I say something on this?” They all nodded. He sipped a bit more of the tea and then settled back into his chair, “In the Southern Empire we look at things a bit differently. In order for something to become a wide spread belief, we usually insist on proof that it is actually what it is said to be. For example,” he continued on as Neely opened his mouth to protest, “if, as you say, tea wreaked such damage upon a man's ... ahem, manhood, then the south would have to be nearly void of population, wouldn't you say?” Charity hid her smile behind a hand as Flynn and Neely stared blankly at the Chief Engineer. The moment of silence extended into a minute and then two. Flynn looked like he was beginning to choke. Lemmic-Pries refilled Circumstance's teacup and then his own. “One more thing you should probably know, I've been drinking tea since I was a young lad. I've fathered six children and three of them have made me a grandfather ten times over. I think if this beverage were as dangerous as you've been told things would have turned out a bit differently, eh?” Neely's mouth opened again. “Well I'll be a buggered onion.”

Chapter Nine

Haberstroh peered out of her doorway for the seventh time that morning. The one who claimed to not be a man still lived. True, his screams and groans of agony were satisfying enough but things were supposed to move in their proper time. Something was decidedly wrong, the human should have been dead days ago, his desiccated corpse being used as both home and food for the vermin of the swamp. She emerged from her hut and tottered over to look down upon McCabe, “So, Not-a-Man, you still live? Why, why do you live?” Red mist washed across McCabe's vision. The hag's face swam before him as if seen through poorly blown rose glass. “I told you,” The words came out spaced between gasps of pain, “I'm not a man, not anymore.” Haberstroh straightened and looked back down at McCabe, first from her left eye and then her right, twisting her head back and forth to do so, “Not anymore he says, my mate, not anymore. What's he mean, I wonder, what's he mean?” She bent down once more and tweaked her victim's cheek, hard, “Something here is different, Not-a-Man. Haberstroh will dig it out, oh yes she will, dig it out. You wait here,” She left him, cackling at her own joke. For McCabe life had become a swirling nightmare. The barrier between himself and his new friends was still there, impenetrable and as dense as ever. Every joint felt as though it was pulled from its socket and fire burned its way along his bowels. Ice lay in his veins, but not that of the days when he prowled the lowers of Grisham. No, this traced a line of frozen fire throughout his system that somehow burned more than the agony in his gut. The worst though, was the itching. It manifested itself as a deep prickling tickle that refused to go away. Even if he was able to use his hands, McCabe knew that no amount of scratching would erase the pit spawned double-damned itch. The hag returned clutching a crude pottery bowl in her bony fingers. She mumbled what sounded like an incantation as she swirled the bowls contents. “What ... is ... that?” McCabe tried to focus on the bowl. Haberstroh cackled as she chanted, “Answers, Not-a-Man, answers for Haberstroh. Isn't it my mate? Answers of what you are, Not-a-Man. We'll see, oh yes we will.” “I've ... already ... told you.” She mugged an expression at him, “Telling says nothing, Not-a-Man. My mixage will show the truth, won't it, my mate?” McCabe wondered why she kept calling him that. He had no way of knowing it was an affectation, garnered over decades of depressive loneliness, caused by the death of her husband. My mate was her way of including his memory into what she was doing at the time. Haberstroh dipped a finger into the bowl and watched as the reddish viscous fluid dripped thickly from its tip. “Yesss,” She hissed, “this will do, won't it my mate?”

“I'm not your...” She silenced his protest by pouring a dollop of the fluid into his mouth. McCabe braced for the agony to come but it didn't. Instead, a cool river washed away the pain leaving behind a lethargy he wanted to bask in forever. “Ah, he likes it, doesn't he my mate?” Haberstroh cackled, “We can't find what we want when it's twitching around now, can we? Now we shall see.” A change in the bliss he was feeling came over McCabe, beginning at his toes. It felt as if a part of him was rising out of his body. This feeling he didn't like and said so with a despairing wail. Another cackle erupted from the hag, “Not like the first part, is it, Not-a-Man?” McCabe's wailing continued as the feeling intensified. Haberstroh looked up from her mixage and frowned, “Enough of that noise you, this isn't for killing, it's for seeing. Ah, yes. Here it is now.” She leaned closer and peered at McCabe. No part of him escaped her scrutiny, from face, ears, throat, chest, groin, thighs, knees on down to the feet and toes, her eyes traveled, “And here, here, and here. How many are you, Not-a-Man, how many?” Her face held an unreadable expression. Haberstroh's question stopped McCabe's fear cold and converted it to incredulity. She knew of the voices! He forced himself to be calm, “How ... how do you know this?” The hag brushed his question aside with an abrupt wave of her hand, “Questions from you can come later, Not-a-Man. How many are you? What are these minds I see, Not-a-Man, what part of you are they?” At each question she moved closer until the last was said with her nose nearly touching his. Her breath stank of decayed fish, like Grisham Bay at low tide, “What part?” “I don't know what you mean.” She pushed closer and pressed her nose firmly against his. He tried exercising the power he'd had but to no avail. Her life remained within her and she surprised him further by kissing his forehead, “Oh no, Not-a-Man. That won't work on old Haberstroh, and I wouldn't taste so good anyway. That part of you is over here,” She pointed to a position a few feet away to McCabe's left, “and they can't help you right now, can they my mate? So old Haberstroh can see what she wants and do what she wants. Can't she my mate?” McCabe said nothing so the hag stood up and wobbled her way down to his feet, “The first thing we have to do is get these black rags off you.” **** Ethan was sure he'd raised a blister, maybe two since the combined conscript companies began marching up Labad's highway. Every step added a new discovery in the world of foot pain. To make matters even more difficult that little flick of a corporal had decided to make Ethan hisspecial project . They all had one, the noncoms overseeing the march, special projects, that is. The idea was to pick out a

man who looked like he might be one the others would look to for leadership and lay upon him every scutt task that could be thought of. In this way all thoughts of rebellion that just may be germinating within the ranks of conscripts would arrive stillborn. It was a good idea, primarily because it worked. In all large groups of men there are those who, by nature, are sheep and there are those who are not. For these menwolf would be a closer metaphor. Ethan, along with about a score of others were seen as potential wolves and therefore kept so busy and so exhausted they had little energy left for leadership. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. He focused his concentration on keeping the rhythm of the march going. The discipline of the count helped to take his mind off the spots of painful heat blossoming at each step. Pictures of Ellona and the children wafted in and out of his mind's eye. A stray side thought nearly brought a smile to his face. Just a few seasons ago his only thought had been on getting to the next tankard of ale and the next day marked off on his march to death. Now, now he had begun to think of himself as a family man. He made a silent promise to survive the soldiers and their business, whatever it was. Right foot, left foot, right foot, miles and then leagues passed by under the conscript army's feet. The Corporals maintained their attention to their special projects. One inventive noncom decided his wasn't marching fast enough and had the poor sod jog to the front of the line and back. Two of his fellow conscripts had to carry him until the joined companies stopped to set camp for the night. Ethan found a soft looking spot of trampled grass and sank onto it with a sigh. The only thing he wanted to do was get the boots off his feet. “Wha'cho think yer doin’ scrip? Yer day ain't over.” The Corporal's nasal voice grated against Ethan's nerves. He was really getting to hate that man. “What is it now Cobb?” Instantly the Trading States soldier was at Ethan's nose, bending over and shouting into his face, “That's Corporal Cobb to you scrip, an doan you fergit it! You an’ me, we's got us a bit ‘o clean up duty, seems like the perfik job fer a strappin’ country lad like yerself, git'cher lazy arse off'n that grass an’ foller me, now, scrip!” When he screamed, Corporal Cobb's voice rose in pitch, which elevated its nasal qualities to world class levels. To Ethan it sounded like fingernails on slate. He stood to his feet, stifling the groan that wanted to give voice to the abuse of his body, “Very well, Corporal Cobb, let's get it done, whatever it is.” Cobb peered at Ethan sharply as if looking for a hint of sarcasm in his special project's reply. Finding none he straightened his shoulders and stepped back a pace, “Awright scrip, let's move those big feet o’ yourn. Over there to where ya see the horse an’ oxen, they's needin’ a bit o’ seein’ to, well one part o’ ‘em does,” He laughed loudly at his own joke. The smell told Ethan what he was in for. Mucking out from underneath the livestock was a favorite duty given to those the military wished to humiliate. Cobb had no idea Ethan spent most of his childhood doing just that on the Wool Coast. Dung held no terrors for him, nor did it hold any surprises. The odor wafting from beneath the oxen brought back distant memories. He actually found himself looking forward to the

work. It would be a change of pace away from the endless marching. A flat bladed shovel came flying at him from the side and he caught it with his right hand almost absentmindedly. Corporal Cobb whistled, “Fast one ain'tcha? Betcha kin handle a sword. Well, let's see iffn you kin clear out that muck with yer new sword here. Yer kin parry it inta that honeywagon over there,” Another spate of hyena like laughter exploded out of the Corporal and he walked off toward the mess, tapping his noncom's quirt against the side of the open-backed wagon sitting to the side of the camp's temporary corral. Plop, plopplopplop. The ox behind Ethan reminded him of why he was there. Someone in the upper ranks either had a heart or knew it was stupid to break a perfectly good tool. For after a half-hour of shoveling the assorted presents offered by the oxen and horses, a private came by and took Ethan's place along with a suggestion he swing by the mess area before all the stew was gone. The taste of the stew made Ethan wonder if he wouldn't have been better off with the livestock. It was over spiced, burnt and filled with grayish green lumps of gristle. Its only saving grace was the bread the cooks served it in. They used round loaves of dark brown bread, thick with molasses and sweet with honey. Cut in half, with one of the halves hollowed out to provide a bowl for the stew, the bread helped a less than appetizing meal go down. Water was the only drink, but for Ethan it was enough. He finished the stew and the bread to the last crumb. He didn't remember falling asleep. Morning arrived before the sun did, along with Corporal Cobb's boots, “C'mon scrip, up an’ at ‘em. We march alla way ta Grisham today, git yer lazy arse up,” He punctuated his demand with another poke with the toe of his boot. Ethan surged to his feet, his right fist poised. Cobb stepped back. His short sword was in his hand and very steady, “I'd hold it right there me boyo. That is iffn yer wants ta keep all yer giblets in one place.” Ethan kept his eye on the Corporal's blade as he straightened from his crouch and allowed his hand to unclench, “You don't have to use that Corporal. I was just startled that's all, no trouble here.” “That's better,” Cobb resheathed his sword. “We march till an hour past dawn, then breakfast.” “You said we're going all the way to Grisham,” Ethan straightened his tunic now filthy from the wear and tear of his forced travel. Cobb moved his eyes across the rest of the camp as the other noncoms moved through the predawn gloom rousing the conscripts, “Aye, that I did.” “How far is it?” The Corporal didn't answer at first and the dim conditions hid his expression from Ethan, “No reason I should tell ya scrip, cepp'n yer been a real easy one ta ride. Consider it a favor, the only one yer gonna git. We'll be seein’ the city right about dawn, should be makin’ the gates in time fer lunch. Now git yerself

in line scrip, move it!” They marched, as Corporal Cobb said, until the sun had risen one hour into the sky and then broke for a brief meal. The Corporal was correct in his estimate. A dark smudge appeared on the horizon as the sun brightened the eastern sky. It coalesced into the city-state of Grisham on its hills as the combined companies continued to move north. The rising sun brought with it an unusually hot day for the season and the temperature sapped what little energy the marchers had. No one spoke within the ranks. Even the noncoms confined their barked orders to those of a single syllable. Everyone was tired and only the ever-increasing silhouette of the city kept them going. A cloud of dust and the rank smell of days old sweat followed the companies as they approached Grisham's newly repaired gates. Riders sent ahead earlier made sure the gates were open as the companies arrived and that any observing crowds were kept well back by the City Guard. This, to insure that none of the conscripts were harassed and that the conscripts had no chance of vanishing into said crowd. Ethan remembered dimly passing through the gates and the Market Square. Most of his attention was concentrated on placing one burning foot in front of the other. Sweat collected in his eyebrows and dripped down his cheeks. Out of an inborn sense of stubbornness he'd long since given up wiping it away. It was a small act of rebellion, petty and entirely ineffective, but it gave him some small satisfaction nonetheless. Out of the corner of his eye, shops, dwellings and pubs flowed past as the marchers neared the City Guard compound. They reached the Guard compound where the conscripts were separated from their captors and herded into a long low-ceilinged structure open at both ends. Inside it they were made to stand single file along the two walls and strip. Those who hesitated were encouraged to comply by the guard members overseeing them. The remaining conscripts then held them upright until they regained consciousness. The stink of their dirt streaked bodies rapidly filled the enclosed space. “What're they gonna do to us?” The man next to Ethan's right tried to cover himself while they waited for what came next. Ethan didn't answer. A part of him reviewed flashbacks to his days in basic training for the watch. This felt like those days, they treated him like a child badly in need of discipline, he'd hated it then. Hopefully experience would prove a buffer against what was expected. “They're gonna kill us. I know they are.” “Shut up, gnomic,” The man on the other side of the complainer mouthed the curse without moving his head. The one who complained stood only as high as the other fellow's shoulder but he bristled anyway, “You got no right. I can...” His neighbor turned and looked down at him. The fellow's thick lips twisted in a self assured sneer, “You'll what, skrud, tell yer mommy on me?” “Pipe down both of you,” Ethan kept his voice at a harsh whisper, “the guards are looking at you.”

The smaller of the two gulped and shrank back a half step. His antagonist gave Ethan a brief glare that said this wasn't over. Several large wagons carrying what appeared to be over-sized wine barrels were pulled into the building and stopped between the two lines of naked men. Right behind the wagons several Guard one-stripers came in with buckets and towels. “Oh Bardoc,” Ethan groaned inwardly, “we're to be scrubbed down like livestock.” A number of the one-stripers unhooked pairs of long hoses from the underside of the wagons and screwed the ends to spigots set into the lower end of the barrels. A murmur mixed with tones of apprehension and curiosity swept through the ranks of conscripts. Then the hoses began spewing water, cold water, and the murmurs changed abruptly to gasps and yells of shocked pain. Ethan's breath whooshed out of him as the water hit. It was bitingly cold, like falling through the ice on Firth Lake in winter. The guards played the hoses across both lines as the conscripts flinched and danced around under the spray. Ribald comments and laughter-filled suggestions were offered by the watching noncoms, a number of them included references to their odor. To Ethan's ears a few showed surprising ingenuity. The hoses stopped and then other one-stripers rushed forward wielding brushes and buckets of soapy water. They attacked the loosened grime on the conscripts’ bodies with vigor and lots of strong smelling soap. Ethan put up with a few suds-filled scrubs from his attendee and then snatched the brush from his hand. The two noncoms closest stepped forward with raised truncheons but stopped as Ethan began to scrub himself. “Got a smart ‘un here Jessup,” The older of the two nodded in Ethan's direction. “Seems so, Lowwol, seems so. Bet he's worn steel,” Jessup ran a practiced eye over Ethan as the dirt washed away, revealing the telltale scaring, “Might be interesting to see what he can do.” Lowwol nodded, “Maybe we can get the Captain to schedule a match against that hot young blade he's got, what's his name?” “Adam.” **** “There's so many of them!” Thaylli remarked as she and Adam watched the conscript companies file past their vantagepoint on the Colonel's third floor veranda. “Sure seems to be,” Adam replied, “Why so many, Colonel Cuperti?” He turned to ask his host. The Colonel murmured to his wife, “Why don't you see if our Lieutenant's young lady would like to try on that string of pearls you got during our trip to Southpoint, Hirittia.” “Pearls?” Thaylli clapped her hands and turned to face Sirena Culperti, “And I can try them on?” Hirittia beamed at the girl's reaction, “Why of course you can, my dear. Come with me, I'm sure they'll look striking against that bosom of yours.”

The Colonel and Adam watched as Thaylli was led from the balcony. “You don't want her to hear what you're going to tell me,” Adam made it a statement as he turned back to watch the flow of conscripts pass beneath the balcony. “No, I don't,” The Colonel gusted out a sigh as he laid his forearms over the railing, “I don't want Hirittia to hear it either. “We've a war coming our way young fellow, I'm sure you've heard the rumors.” Adam nodded. “Well, by and large most of them are true.” The Colonel held up a hand, “Oh I don't mean the ones about hoards of half-naked savages who live on the corpses of their enemies, or that one about Dragons bursting through the city gates, pure claptrap, all of them.” Adam kept what he knew about the Dragon rumor to himself. The Colonel leaned forward on the railing, “No, I'm talking about the ones that tell of the Duke turning into a raving madman and starting this war, about the Southern Empire putting together an army nearly twice the population of Grisham herself, and about the number of those men we see below us who'll never see their families again. “That's why there's so many of them down there. You can't face an army of millions with just a guard and a few watchmen.” He turned to look at Adam, “You've got to use men to kill men, that's the way of war and that's the way of armies. A soldier's primary job is to break things and kill people.” “So these men are forced to fight in a war they had no business in starting?” Adam felt his gut wrench. “That's it,” The Colonel replied, “a sad business at best.” “Adam look, they're absolutely beautiful!” Thaylli rushed onto the balcony ahead of Sirena Culperti. The Colonel's wife stood behind her. “They do look nice on her, don't they dear?” She tilted her head to look at her husband. Adam turned at Thaylli's call. The string of pearls shone against the pale skin of her bosom where they lay. The largest of them had to be three quarters of an inch through, at least. She watched his face expectantly for approval. “Hirittia, you've done it again,” The Colonel murmured, “You keep presenting tasty treats like her before me and I just may forget my vows.” The Sirena dimpled, “Oh go on, you old fool. Well young man, what do you think? Are you going to stand there all day and play at being a statue? Say something.” Adam closed his mouth and swallowed. The effect of the Sirena's ministrations on Thaylli had sent every gland in his body into a gallop. He swallowed one more time and tried again, “I ... I think it's time we went back to our place.”

Thaylli's expectant expression changed into one of feral delight.Gottcha! Both the Colonel and Hirittia erupted into peals of laughter. The memories of when they'd been young were never far from the surface. “Come my dear,” Sirena Culperti hooked her arm through her husband's, “I think we've done enough damage this day.” “But, the pearls,” Thaylli started to lift them from her neck. Hirittia forestalled her with a hand, “No dear, you keep them. I never had the background to display them properly anyway. I'm sure Cluthbert would agree with me.” “Not even if the very pit itself froze over,” Her husband grunted, half to himself. She smiled fondly at him while Thaylli examined her gift with small squeals of delight. “You are such a wise man Cluthbert, that's why I married you.” **** Captain Bilardi ascended the steps leading to the north tower apartment slowly, one step at a time. He wished to take the time for thought as he answered the confused summons delivered to him several minutes earlier. The messenger boy, Gupp was his name? Had had no explanations other than that the Duke seemed most anxious to seem him. His father's madness was troubling. Each day brought a new cause for concern. That skinning of the chambermaid ... Even the Earl of Berggren, when he lived, at his worst had never done such a thing. The Trading States were well rid of the fellow. Evil, used judiciously, had its purpose if one needed to rule a large and quarrelsome populace, but Cloutier had been stupidly evil and from the stories being bantered around, he'd died a stupid death—emasculated by the very maid he'd been trying to rape. Now there was justice for you. The landing leading to the Duke's private apartments appeared as he rounded the final curve in the tower stair. As usual two of the largest guardsmen were stationed before the apartment doors. They snapped to attention and saluted, right hand to left shoulder, as the Captain approached. “How is he?” Bilardi stood before the guards, looking at the doors. “Seems ok,” The one on the left shrugged, “Hasn't thrown anything for a while.” “Yesterday it was tiny little dragons comin’ outta the walls spittin’ fire at his toes. Took the maids most of the evening to mop up all the water,” The one on the right offered. “Water?” The Captain arched an eyebrow in question. The guard on the left shrugged again, “Had to put the tiny little fires out with something.” “But he's better today?” “Like I said, Milord Captain,” The guard twitched his head toward the doors, “seems to be ok, even asked for lunch like nothing happened. He's in there eating it now.”

Bilardi frowned, “Is he now? Perhaps the madness has passed.” He moved past the guards and pushed open the doors. “He's on the terrace,” The right hand guard called the Captain's back, “Said he wanted to enjoy the day with his squab.” As the guard said, the Duke was on the terrace with a plate filled with the skeletal remains of a half dozen young pigeons. He looked up at the Captain's approach with a tiny leg poised before his mouth, “Ah! There you are my son. Here, you must try this, the cook has outdone herself,” He thrust the leg toward the Captain. Bilardi the second held up both his hands while shaking his head, “Thank you father, but no. Enjoy your meal. I have eaten already. “Why did you summon me? Not that I'm not glad to see you well, father, but...” “But you've the business of preparing for a war waiting on you. Yes, I'm quite aware of how serious you take your responsibilities my son,” The Duke bit a small chunk out of the squab leg. Captain Bilardi waited while his father chewed and swallowed. The Duke continued, “No, I have not called you away from your duties merely to bask in your affection Captain, I sent the messenger because of something I've heard. The madness only clouded my mind not my ears and not my memory.” “What did you hear father?” The son took one of the chairs opposite the Duke's table, “Tell me, are you in danger?” Duke Bilardi smiled around another mouthful of squab, “Not as long as Grisham's walls stand.” His expression changed to one of concern, “No my son, my worry is for you and your future. What can you tell me about this hot new blade you recruited last month?” The Captain grimaced, “Only that what he does with a sword looks more like magik than bladesmanship.” His father put down the breast portion he'd picked up, “Surely he cannot best you?” Captain Bilardi's short laugh sounded sour, “We tried a couple of passes, he and I, I came out of them looking like a scratcher.” To his surprise Bilardi's father did not blow up at the revelation but merely grunted and nodded, “Tell me about his sword, I was told it looks like the blade of a Royal and a high one at that.” “I suppose it does,” The son looked down at his chest, “I said as much when we first met. Now that I think of it, it comes to me to wonder how he come to be in possession of such a sword.” The Duke picked up a small silver bell and rang it twice, “Before the wine arrives I want you to describe the hilt of this sword to me, leave no detail out, no matter how small.” “I'm not sure I can do so with any hope of accuracy father.”

“Indulge an old man, Describe the hilt,” Duke Bilardi wiped his mouth with the corner of a lace napkin. “Very well.” The Captain closed his eyes in thought, “The hilt ends in the stylized head of a dragon with opal eyes. Extending from the back of the head and curving downward to the crosspiece are two elongated wings. The crosspiece curves forward on the bottom half and backwards on the top. Small rubies are set into each side of the crosspiece's ends and two large stones are set into the join of hilt and blade. The handle of the hilt itself coils into the crosspiece with a fluid line. Labad himself would have desired such workmanship.” The Duke smiled. “Your recollection seems clearer than you thought it would be. Describe it again. There was something familiar in what you said.” Captain Bilardi ran through the description one more time. The Duke stopped him halfway through, “Those large stones, were there just two, set onto either side of the crosspiece, and did they appear to be about the size of a silver coin?” A steward arrived with the wine service and set up for both the Duke and his son. The Captain waited for his portion to be poured and then answered his father before taking a sip, “Now that you mention it, yes. And the smaller stones would be about the size of a half copper; what the peasants call a mite.” “You may leave,” The Duke waved the steward away and looked back at his son. “Is there some significance to this particular blade?” Captain Bilardi sipped his wine. It was one of the better house wines, fruity in aroma, slightly dry and easy on the pallet. “I think so,” Duke Bilardi picked up his glass, “I remember reading a description of just such a sword.” “And where was this?” The Captain sipped some more wine. The Duke put his glass back down on the table and his expression became grim, “In my youth I was known to pay an occasional visit to the library across the strait. On one bright summers day I decided to cross over to study some of the old battles fought in the days of Labad's conquest. In one of them the hilt of Labad's blade was described as a golden basket adorned with rubies the size of a silver coin, the wings of a dragon sweeping back from the beast's head making up the sides of the basket. “Did you know the books also say that sword was a gift to Labad from the Dragons?” “No father, I was unaware of that. Do you think this Adam is of the line of Labad? Do we have the uncrowned Emperor as a junior lieutenant in our very own city guard?” The Captain put his own glass onto the table. Duke Bilardi shook his head, “I don't know. For all we know your new Lieutenant could be a country bumpkin who found the sword while robbing one of the barrows west of the Wolf Wood. Or he could actually be the living heir of Labad himself, or something in-between. “What I do know is, he's a clear and present danger to you and your ascension to my throne. That is the reason why I had you summoned.” “Him, a danger to my becoming Duke?” The Captain was dumbfounded, “Surely you have to be

suffering still from the madness father. I may be smarting from the damage he did to my ego but from what I've seen of the man he'd rather work in the stables than sit on a throne. He's one of the few men in the guard I'd actually trust behind my back.” He paused for a moment, “Before I came to know him I was only interested in his ability with a sword and what that ability could do for Grisham's Defense, nothing more. I've since changed my mind. You didn't see what he did with Mundy, he actually tried to keep from the killing the poor bastard. He knew there was no chance of Mundy winning. In some ways I've even begun to like him.” “Don't question my judgement, Boy!” Duke Bilardi spat as he half rose from his chair, “I know of what I speak!” He sat back down and continued in a more moderate tone of voice, “If this Lieutenant is of the house of Labad he will eventually side with the Southern Empire over and above Grisham's interests or did you not know the Emperor's throne sits in Ort?” He carried on over his son's objection, “Pfah! No matter, it is there and you know it now even if you didn't before. Many of Grisham's great houses base their wealth on the labors of peasants and in some cases slaves. What do think would happen to those houses and the economy of Grisham as a whole if that supply of cheap labor were to be cut off?” He waited for his son's answer. The Captain remained silent. His eyes held a brooding look. “Well?” The Duke knew he'd scored a hit. “But ... there is an abundance of commoners, father, surely the great houses could find other workers. Grisham would survive,” The Captain's tone implied uncertainty. “At what cost, boy, at what cost?” The Duke stood and began to pace, “The new Emperor would want to placate his friends in the Ortian court. That means giving the peasants more than they need besides their day-to-day expenses. Bardoc knows why! They only need or want a crust of bread and some shelter for the night. Any more than that is ... is wasted. But don't try to tell that to those triple-damned Southerners! No, he'll listen to them and insist that the prevailing wage be raised. And the great houses will raise their rates accordingly. You can't expect them to reduce their profits for the good of commoners and peasants can you? Of course not! And that is where the trouble lays; they will raise their prices to make up for their increased labor cost. The shop owners will raise theirs to make up for the increased costs of goods and materials and the populace will buy less because of it. “With the shop owners selling less they will try to conserve by purchasing less themselves, which will cut into the profits of the great houses so they will raise their rates yet again to make up for it, and the whole cycle begins again. Eventually the entire economic structure of Grisham will collapse leaving our city unable to defend itself.” Captain Bilardi surged to his feet, “Father! Surely this can't happen!” The Duke spun around and took his son by the arms, “It can and it will. How safe to you think this city would be if the vast majority of the guard left to find work elsewhere because we had no gold to pay them?” Thunderstruck, the Captain shook his head, “I can't believe that. The vast majority of those men are loyal to Grisham, to you, to me. And even if they weren't I can't believe the city treasury could be depleted so easily.” His father turned and walked back to his chair. “Believe it. You know the heads of the great houses only

by reputation and the occasional state dinner. I know each of them personally. They would react to such a situation as I laid out to you in just the way I described. Those men and women are as rapacious as adders and they guard each copper of profit like a jealous lover. Oh, you can trust them to deliver catastrophe as you can trust the moon to deliver the tide.” “Then I'll have them put to death as a clear and present danger to Grisham,” Captain Bilardi grated, echoing his father's indictment of Adam. “Have you been listening to any of what I've been saying boy?” “Of course I have,” The Captain spun back around to face his father. His answer was a grim smile, “Obviously you haven't. The great houses are the very lifeblood of Grisham, nay, the heart. It is through their taxes and the taxes we levy upon their customers, all the way down to the beggar in the gutter, that we have coins in that treasury. “No, my son, we can no more remove the great houses from Grisham than a man can remove his own liver.” Captain Bilardi threw himself back into his chair and sat there, brooding, for a long moment. After a while he looked up at his father, “How did we come to be ensnared like this, where our honor can be bought like a trollop for the evening? I killed a man not too long ago father, because he was stealing from the armory. Small amounts, but the lesson needed to be taught. I can't believe this man Adam would ever do such a thing. “There may be some gray areas in my soul, I am your son after all, but to me Grisham's honor comes first. I'm not going to kill a man simply because he may one day be Emperor. By Bardoc's Beard, father, I don't think he could be corrupted by any amount of gold, the man's simply too honest.” The Duke picked up his wineglass and sipped before answering, “That, my son is precisely why he must die.” **** Milward stood in the open door leading to the balcony outside his room. Alten, the Librarian, knowing his friend's love of the sea, had arranged for this room to be his during the Wizard's stay. The rising sun had turned the western sky into a sheet of living flame. Beneath the dawn sky, Grisham's rooftops glowed like a bed of coals across the strait. “Going to be fog later Milord.” He turned at the voice, “Good morning, Felsten, what brings you to my door at this hour? Has the Librarian turned you into his cock for the morning to crow us awake?” The Librarian's assistant tugged a forelock, “Aye, that he has Milord, but I be seein’ you been up afore me. There's hot tisane and scones down in the kitchens iffn you be wantin’ any breakfast. Cook's got a nice thimbleberry conserve an’ fresh butter out too.” Milward nodded in acknowledgement, “Thank you Felsten, I'll be down presently. Where is your employer?” “Prolly still sleepin’ Milord. Just you, me an’ the cook. Them scones is still warm Milord,” The boy

turned and vanished into the hallway. Milward turned and looked once more as dawn progressed over the strait. The past days studies with Alten had led him to a decision. Labad's prophecy combined with those of the Dwarves indicated events would come to a head in the south, so south was where he would go. His decision made he collected what few belongings he brought with him, his clothes, pouch belt and staff, and hurried along the libraries hallways to the stairs leading down into the kitchens. Felsten and the cook were waiting for him as he entered. “Have a sit Milord an’ I'll set yer up right an’ proper,” The cook placed a steaming mug of tisane at a place on the long trestle table before bustling off to the ovens. Milward sat and picked up the mug, “Is he going to sleep the entire day away?” Felsten looked up from buttering a scone, “What? Oh, you meanhim . No Milord, cook got him awake whilst I was seein’ to you Milord. He should be down presently.” The cook returned with a tray loaded down with scones, butter and a bowl filled with glistening red thimbleberry preserve, “Here ya go Milord, tuck into this lot. It'll fill yer up right proper, it will.” “Ahhh,” The old Wizard breathed in the aroma of the steaming scones. They smelled of sweet buttermilk and toast. “Leave a few of those for me, old friend. I may not eat much any more but I do need something to get my day started,” The Librarian came into the kitchens from a door opposite to the one Milward used. He stopped as he neared the table and blinked, “You're leaving today? But we're just beginning to get somewhere in unveiling the prophecies.” Milward smiled at his friend's plaintive tone, “It's because of those prophecies that I need to leave. Everything indicates all of this business is going to be finalized somewhere in the south. I've neglected that part of our world for long enough. It's time I went there to see for myself. And, if I don't miss my guess, Adam, Charity and whoever this third party is, will eventually wind up there as well.” “I wish I could be going with you. To see history unfolding rather than reading about it after it has happened...” The Librarian's voice trailed off and his eyes took on a dreamy look. “Not me, not on your bloomin’ life. I wouldn't leave the library for anything,” Felsten slathered some of the preserves onto a scone. The cook placed another bowl of the preserves onto the table, “You'll be goin’ next week lad. I'll be needin’ supplies or you an’ his nibs'll be havin’ to eat gulls eggs an’ drink sea water for washin’ ‘em down.” Felsten mumbled around a mouthful of scone, “Nah, shoppin's ain't like leavin', ‘s just runnin’ an errand. Goin’ alla way to the Southlands now, that's leavin',” He shivered. “I wouldn't do that for anything.” His employer grunted and reached for a scone.

“Well,” Milward stood and drank off the last of his tisane, “I for one am looking forward to the trip. Sometimes the direct approach is the only way to solve a mystery. And make no mistake, this is a mystery which needs solving.” The Librarian waved away an attempt by the cook to place more breakfast before him, “And just how do you plan to go about solving it?” Milward placed a finger alongside his nose, “By observing and deducing, old friend, by observing and deducing. I'm sure I'll have it all worked out before the final curtain falls.” “What if the Emper ... uh, I mean Adam don't show down there?” Felsten asked while breaking open another scone, his sixth by Milward's count. “You be keepin’ yer mouth shut boy,” The cook gave the back of Felsten's head a good-natured whack. “The lad's all right Lisbeth, if I didn't want an assistant who asked questions I wouldn't have hired him, besides, it is pertinent to the subject,” The Librarian noted. Milward raised his eyebrows. “In what way?” “In the way of people being people Milward,” The Librarian said, leaning forward on his elbows. “They can be quite contrary on occasion. The question has been raised. What if your scions either singly or together, choose to act opposite the pull of the prophecy, what if Adam gets his fill of being pushed toward becoming the next Emperor, and decides to go back home?” The old Wizard's eyebrows came together in a glower, small sparks played around the crest on his staff, “They wouldn't dare!” Felsten and the cook watched this exchange with wide eyes. “Oh settle down Milward,” The Librarian temporized, “I didn't say they would, I just voiced the possibility. Remember, Bardoc did not create puppets, he created people, and that apprentice of yours looked like he had a fairly strong will, or am I mistaken?” “No, you're not mistaken,” Milward muttered. The Librarian stood and walked around the table, “Rest assured, master Wizard, besides being strong-willed your lad has a strong sense of duty. He'll do what is right, I'm sure of it.” “Hmmph,” Milward grunted, “I'm sure he will too.” He looked around the room and then nodded, “Well, if I'm going to make Ort by nightfall I'd best be off. Traveling by magik's faster than walking but it does take it out of you.” “I imagine it does,” The Librarian smiled, “Umm, would it be presumptuous to ask if ... we might watch?” “Watch, watch what?” Milward began walking toward the front of the Library. The Librarian and his staff followed.

“Your leave-taking Milord,” Felsten spoke up from his place hard on the Librarian's heels. Milward stopped and looked at the boy over his shoulder, “My what?” The Librarian stepped in for his assistant, “We want to watch you ... take off, as it were, Milward. Other than our recent discovery and your gift of Labad's prophecy there really isn't all that much excitement around here. Watching a little magik being performed by a master would be a treat.” “Are you telling me that you and your staff want to watch me shape a teleportation vortex and vanish into it?” The Wizard spoke quietly. “If it's not to much to ask, Milord,” Felsten ducked his head in a bow. “No,” Milward turned and continued walking toward the Library's foyer. “No?” The Librarian hurried after him, “Do you mean no, it's not too much to ask or no, you won't let us?” Milward spoke without turning his head, “I mean no, I won't be treated like a carnival act.” “But you are the greatest Wizard in the world, old friend. Surely a small demonstration of your mastery of the shaping arts would not be amiss,” The Librarian wheedled. Milward remained silent but his pace slowed slightly. “Please, Milord Wizard,” The cook pleaded, “it'd be somethin’ to remember fer the rest ‘o me days, an’ they ain't that many left.” Milward's paced slowed a bit more. Felsten added his two coppers, “Do it for me master, Milord Wizard. There ain't much in his life for pleasure these days. Do it for him.” The cook echoed, “Yes, do it fer ‘im.” Milward stopped and then dropped his chin to his chest, “Ok, you can all watch.” The Librarian slapped him on the back, “Good show, Milward, good show. You see, it doesn't hurt at all to be a little magnanimous now and then, does it?” He got a glare for his trouble, “Don't push it Alten, you wouldn't look good wearing a rat's tail,” The old Wizard hissed under his breath. Milward straightened his robe and stalked off into the foyer and then towards the door. He called out over his shoulder in a louder voice, “You want a show? Very well, I'll give you a show. Come on then, but stay well back.” They followed him out into the courtyard facing the Library entrance and stopped just outside the door. Milward continued until he reached a flagstone dais set into the grass of the courtyard. “This should do it,” He rapped a stone in front of him twice firmly with the butt of his staff. “Now watch

closely, I'm only going to do this once.” Milward held his staff out at arms’ length and closed his eyes. To his audience it looked as though nothing was going to happen, other than the slight rise and fall of the Wizard's chest. Then a small cloud appeared over Milward's head. It began to rotate, slowly at first and then faster and faster,expanding as it spun. Flashes of lightning crackled at its edges. The old Wizard remained stock still with his staff extended off to his side. Above him the vortex roiled and grew. Static discharges from the lightning tore into the ground around him, ripping up gouts of sod. Felsten was very glad he obeyed the Wizard's command to stay well back. Just as it seemed the storm of Milward's shaping would envelop or destroy the entire courtyard, the old Wizard rose into the air and vanished into the vortex. There was a slight pause and then the spinning clouds followed him leaving behind nothing but the clean smell of a storm after it has passed through. Felsten walked tentatively out to where Milward had stood and peered around the area. Small scorch marks showed where the discharges had struck. Other than that nothing had changed. He looked back at the cook and the Librarian, his mouth worked for a moment and then the word came out, “Crikey.” Chapter Ten

“There,” Alford stepped back and reviewed the results of his last daub of color with satisfaction. He looked upon a watercolor painting of a single large Koi viewed from above swimming in a crystal clear pool. Uneven areas of black and orange lay against its glistening white scales giving the fish the appearance of being painted itself. The artwork, done on a background of stretched white silk, was to be partnered with two others done earlier.. Alford put down his paintbrush and sighed. “A masterful piece of work, Your Majesty.” Alford turned at the sound of the voice, “General, what is the nature of the emergency?” “Emergency?” General Jarl-Tysyn stared at his Emperor. Alford refused to blink, “You heard me, emergency. There has to be something dire going on or you wouldn't be here, so, what is it?” The General stumbled around and several phrases dropped upon the floor unsaid, he then ground out, “There is no emergency, Your Majesty. I merely wished to inform you of our army's state of readiness for the coming war.” “Oh yes, the war,” Alford's mood of playfulness vanished like the morning mist. He walked over to a small round table set with a tea service and flanked by two rattan chairs. “Have a seat General,” He pulled out one of the chairs and sat, reaching for the teapot.

Jarl-Tysyn remained standing, “Your Majesty, I..."’ “I said, SIT!” Alford's uncharacteristic bellow shocked the General into action. He sat but somehow managed to give the impression of still being at attention while doing so. “You are perturbed, Majesty,” Jarl-Tysyn's voice was as stiff as his spine. The Emperor of the Southern lands put down the teapot and rubbed his eyes with one hand, “I apologize for my outburst General. Living here,” He indicated the palace with a sweep of his hand, “It is too easy to forget sometimes that I've sent a million men off to die. That's not a fact I enjoy living with. How do you do it?” “Your niece's memory Your Majesty, that and the justice that needs to be brought against her killer,” Jarl-Tysyn spoke using only his lower lip. Alford twitched his mouth in a quick grimace, “I realize my duty, General. The knowledge does not ameliorate my feeling for those that I send to their deaths.. I want this war over as quickly as possible and with as little loss of life as possible.” The General moved as if to stand, “In that case Your Majesty I will send word to have the armies return at once.” “What, why?” Alford looked across the table at his General, unsure he had heard right, “Are you serious? What about justice for my niece? What about Hypatia?” “All valid reasons for war, Your Majesty,” Jarl-Tysyn nodded his head, “But you can't fight a war if you don't want to kill anyone doing it.” Alford opened his mouth. Then closed it and then opened it again, “I didn't say that!” “You did by implication, Sire. I cannot send your armies into battle and expect them to succeed at anything except dying if I send them out with their hands tied.” “Who said anything about tying their hands?” Alford raised his voice. “You did when you added the skrudding conditions under which they would fight!” The General raised his right along. “With all due respect, Your Majesty,” He added at a more moderate volume. “Can't we at least give it a try?” Alford asked plaintively. Jarl-Tysyn reflected to himself on how their roles in this little play had suddenly reversed, “Your Majesty,” He began, “you are my Emperor and my Liege Lord, but sometimes you frustrate the skrudding crap right out of me.” “How nice to be surrounded by honest men,” Alford remarked quietly.

“The fact that you haven't ordered my head removed is one reason why you are, Your Majesty. We feel we can be honest around you. Your father was such a man,” The General said, relaxing slightly. The Emperor looked across the table at Jarl-Tysyn once more and then reached for the teapot. He poured a cup for himself and one for the General, “Very well, General, have some tea and tell me what you think should be done.” Jarl-Tysyn accepted the offered cup and eased back into his chair, “The last of the armies, by now, are settled into the Cloudhook base,” He mused. “The first thing we should do is begin cutting Grisham off from any support that may be headed their way from the Trading States. That was the earlier plan and it's still a sound one. This will give us two decided advantages, one; in spite of the rumored size of Grisham's stores they're not bottomless. With no replacements coming in it will be interesting to see how long they can hold out.” “What's the second advantage?” Alford sipped his tea. “Any supplies destined for Grisham will come into our hands. Oh don't look at me that way, they'd be spoils of war, not stolen. Your Majesty you have to get it into your head that war is just not a civilized business nor is it a game.” “I know, I know,” Alford slapped his cup down onto the table, some of the tea spilled. “I've agreed to give you a free hand General. It doesn't mean I have to like it, does it?” Jarl-Tysyn grimaced around his glower, “No Your Majesty, no it doesn't mean you have to like it. What I'd like to know is, do you agree with our plans and our timetable?” “I've already said you have a free hand General. I suggest you take that as a statement of agreement. I'm not going to give you anything more.” The Emperor picked up his cup, “You may go Jarl-Tysyn, I'm feeling a little fatigued just now.” “Yes Your Majesty.” The General left the Emperor's presence, his back as straight as an engineer's level. Alford sat stock still for a moment and then sipped from his cup. He stared off into nothingness and then sipped again, “Damn, damn, damn, damn.” **** Captain Bilardi took Adam by the elbow and led him up the steps into the Pub's doorway, “You'll like this place. Good food, good ale and goodlooking maids to wait on you.” “Seems kind of far to walk just for a tankard of ale and a few sausages,” Adam remarked as Bilardi closed the door behind them. “Ah, but wait until you taste those sausages and ale,” the Captain replied, “Besides, just look at the place.” Adam did so. At first glance the Pub appeared to be much like the others he'd seen since he and his sister began their journey. The center of the room was dominated by a u-shaped dark wooden bar over which hung a large number of tankards and glasses. Behind the bar the gaffer pulled on one of the several handles that dispensed the nut-brown liquid. To the left and the right of the bar booths lined the walls.

Many of them filled with patrons noisily going about their enjoyment of the day's end. Without conscious effort to, Adam's Wizard sense cast about the Pub checking the room behind the one his eyes saw. What came back to him was a sense of wholesomeness mixed with a few tinges of rot. These appeared to his sense as a sickly green halo but these centered more on some of the customers than on the gaffer or his staff. There was something else as well, something familiar. He couldn't put a finger on it so he tried pushing the sense but without success. For the first time since their argument, he wished Milward were around to help. The old Wizard would know how to work that type of shaping. Shrugging inwardly he followed the Captain around to a booth, eager to see if the fare matched his magik's estimation. “Ho! Innkeeper!” Bilardi called out as he and Adam settled into a booth close by the door that led to the kitchen, “Send us two flagons of your finest and a maid to take our order.” The Gaffer nodded and set to pulling his frothy brown nectar into two tall tankards. “Lindi, get yerself back ta the kitchens an’ have the new one see to these genl'men's pleasure.” The girl broke off her giggling with an attentive drinker and headed toward the back. “Relax Adam, enjoy yourself. You're as stiff as Corporal McKenit on parade,” The Captain said as he settled back against the polished wood of the booth. Adam started out of his reverie. As his Wizard's sense faded one last revelation tickled the back of his mind, Bilardi was actually trying to be friendly. A couple of weeks ago he wouldn't have been surprised to find just the opposite. He shook his head. “Sorry, my mind was wandering, to nowhere in particular if you want to know. I'm actually looking forward to that ale.” “Thirsty day, eh?” Bilardi favored him with a lopsided grin. “You might say that, Thaylli and I watched the conscripts being brought in. Most of them didn't look capable of swinging a spade much less a sword. The Colonel's wife distracted her with a necklace while the Colonel and I talked, pretty dismal stuff to be frank.” Adam turned at a flash of color in the corner of his eye, “Here's the ale.” The Gaffer set two foaming tankards onto the table, “The new girl'll be out to take yer pleasure m'lords, enjoy me ale while ya wait.” Bilardi had half of his down his throat before Adam could take his first taste. Adam paused before drinking, “And I thought I was the thirsty ... Thaylli! What in the pit are you doing here?” “Umm, my name's not Thaylli,” The Captain murmured. He turned his head in the direction of Adam's stare, “Oh, I see.” “Thaylli, where..? Ow!” Adam forgot where he was and stood up too quickly in the booth, cracking his head on one of the low beams. “Adam, your head!” Thaylli leaned forward to help him.

Bilardi whistled, prompting Adam to push her back upright. “Thaylli, where's the rest of your top?” “It's all there from what I can see,” Bilardi said appreciatively. Thaylli blushed furiously and tried to cover herself with her hands. The pub's working costume revealed a shocking amount of bosom, though the skirt's hem brushed the floor. “Captain,” Adam hissed with turning his head. “Sorry,” Bilardi went back to paying attention to his ale. “What are you doing here?” Adam looked down into Thaylli's eyes. Tears welled up and she started to sob, “I ... I just wanted to help us by b ... bringing in some money. I thought if I got a job...” “Ere now, you botherin’ me new girl?” The Gaffer stepped out from behind the bar with a truncheon in his hand. Thaylli turned quickly and held up a hand. “No, Gaffer, It's ok, he's my ... consort. He's an officer in the City Guard. He didn't know I was working here.” The Gaffer didn't look convinced, “I don't know ... din't look like that to me.” “The girl's telling the truth Gaffer,” Bilardi broke in with a lazy tone, “He's with her and she with him and I'm fresh out of your excellent ale. What are you going to do about it?” The Gaffer blinked, “Whut? Oh, sorry Cap'n, it were an honest mistake. Gotta take care ‘o me girls, ya knows.” He hurried back behind the bar to pull another pint for the Captain. Thaylli wiped her eyes, “I thought you'd be pleased for me. I wanted it to be a surprise.” “Well you surprised me all right,” Adam said softly, “Why are you wearingthis ?” He indicated Thaylli's blouse as his tone sharpened. “The Gaffer, he said the custom tips more if they've something to see. He was right,” She reached into a pocket sewn into her skirt and pulled out three silver coins, one large and two of standard size, “see?” “And all you had to do was serve them drinks?” Adam stared at the coins, not quite believing what he was seeing. “That and some pub food, mostly sausage and fried potatoes,” Thaylli tittered. “They're not allowed to do more than look, you've seen the Gaffer's truncheon.” “But ... the way you have to dress.” “Oh bloody hell, Adam. Let the girl do her job and bring us our sausages. So what if the men here see half of her bloody tits. It's not like they're going to get any of it,” Bilardi finished his statement with a belch. Adam and Thaylli stood there mutely long enough that the Captain lost his patience and stepped out of

the booth, “All right, I want every man in this place to hear me!” “Captain,” Adam looked around half expecting a fight to begin. Bilardi wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, “I know what I'm doing, Lieutenant. Now you just stand there and look as dangerous as you can. Play with the hilt of that sword of yours, there's a lad. “You see this man?” He pointed at Adam with the hand not holding the tankard, “I want you all to take a good long look at him. There's not a one of you who'd stand a frog's chance in a whirlwind against him with a sword. He handled six all by himself not too long ago and they knew what they were doing.” A murmur ran through the pub. Adam heard the wordssix andBardoc mentioned more than once. The Captain signaled for silence as well as another refill. I'm going to have to carry him back to the barracks,Adam thought. “Now take a good long look at the beauty standing next to him,” Several whistles and cries of appreciation along with a number of less gentlemanly offers followed Bilardi's command. He waved the crowd to silence again, “I'm glad you did that,” He allowed them a chuckle, “because this little lady is that man's woman,” He pointed at Adam who glowered and toyed with the hilt of his sword. The collective gasp told Adam he needn't worry about Thaylli's honor. “There now,” Bilardi sat back down, “That should keep their eyes in their sockets and their hands off your lady.” Thaylli flashed a brief smile at the Captain, “Thank you.” Captain Bilardi nodded once as an acknowledgement, “Merely doing what any gentleman would in similar circumstances milady. Think nothing of it, but,” He looked up at her with feigned distress, “Could you please bring us some of your employer's excellent sausages?” She looked at Bilardi and then at Adam, “You mean it, I can keep my job? Honestly?” They both nodded. Adam and then the Captain each received a quick hug about the neck before the girl rushed back into the kitchens. Adam picked up his tankard and sampled a good portion of the ale. It was excellent, comparable in fact to that of Granny Bullton's. “You're going to be reaping the rewards for this night's work me boy,” Bilardi raised his tankard in a toast, “Don't plan on getting much sleep.” **** “Well, not a man,” Haberstroh nodded in satisfaction as she pulled the last scrap of ruined black silk from McCabe's body, “You've one part of you at least that's manly.”

“What do you want of me?” For the first time that he could recall, McCabe felt the fear of uncertainty. He didn't like it at all. The ancient Witch sat back on her heels and chewed her lip. She regarded her captive silently for several long minutes. McCabe couldn't stand the waiting. He had to know what the hag was going to do with him one way or the other, “What do you want of me, please, I have to know.” She continued to regard him without speaking. Finally at the point where McCabe was nearly frantic with anxiety she spoke, “You're different, Not-a-Man, well, except for that,” She pointed, “Men took my husband. I kill them for that, but not many come through Haberstroh's swamp. No, not nearly enough, my mate, not nearly enough. You will be my tool, Not-a-Man you and your friends. You will be my tool to kill all of them. All of them means all, Not-a-Man, kill all of them down to the last babe in arms. You agree to this and I'll give you back your friends. You decide Not-a-Man but don't take long. Old Haberstroh has her patience, oh yes she does my mate, but it's not a forever thing, no, not a forever thing.” She left McCabe and hobbled over to her hut. He heard the door close. McCabe already knew what his answer would be. The question on his part was moot, but would Haberstroh keep her word? He lay there, quite nude, for the rest of the day and throughout the night. Mosquitoes bit his exposed flesh savagely and he squirmed against the ropes as the bites itched and burned. The Witch poked her head out of the hut's door as the eastern sky began to lighten. She sniffed the air, first to the north and then to the south. Seemingly satisfied at what her nose told her she stumped out of the hut over to where McCabe lay. “Well?” she asked, “have you decided, Not-a-Man, will you be my ... mixage?” She cackled at the last as if she had just told a clever joke. McCabe turned his head to look at the Witch, “You give me back my friends and I'll kill as many men as you want.” She leaned forward and grinned at him, spittle ran down her chin, “I want them all, Not-a-Man. I want them all. You lie there, I'll give you back your friends.” She straightened with an audible crackling of joints and disappeared back inside her hut. When she reappeared she was carrying a small cup from which a wisp of foul-smelling steam emerged. She brought it over to McCabe and held it under his nose. The stench made him gag and he coughed trying to hold down his bile. She pushed the rim of the cup against his mouth, “Drink it, Not-a-Man, drink all of it and you'll have your friends back with you. Haberstroh keeps her word she does, doesn't she my mate. Oh yes she does.” McCabe drank. Unlike the hag's earlier brews this one did not burn a pathway down his gullet but seemed more like a cool breeze brushing against his tonsils. The feeling passed quickly leaving a lingering taste of green and growing things, then for three quick ticks time paused. McCabe almost felt that disconnectedness come over him again and was just verging into panic when the voices slammed into him with a rush. They clamored for his attention, all of them speaking at once. Many of them demanded Haberstroh's life

as payment for what she'd done to them. Others insisted that McCabe resume their interrupted journey without delay. He savored the voices, drinking in the returned sensation of power. Tingles began at the ends of his toes and fingers, working their way along his limbs until his entire being felt as though he'd been filled with heat lightning. It was different from the time he'd first been gifted but he still liked it. Haberstroh cackled, “Feels good, eh, Not-a-Man? We keep our word don't we my mate? Oh yes we do.” McCabe didn't hear the Witch, he turned aside from the voices and tested his powers. Reaching outside of himself he felt for the sense of the lives in and around the swamp. They were there, appearing as small sparks of jeweled essence, they hovered, sat and swam before his mind's eye. The ties Haberstroh used to hold him down still encircled his ankles and wrists. By focusing a small portion of his power he pulled the life from them causing the ties to dissolve into dust. “Ah, you have them back Not-a-Man. Good, Good. What are you going to do now? Are you going to feed?” Haberstroh nodded her head vigorously as she watched McCabe climb to his feet. “Cold shouldn't bother you now Not-a-Man, should it my mate? No, naked like a babe he is, but not cold. No, not him, his friends keep him warm now.” McCabe noticed his lack of clothing no more than he did the hag's ramblings. The small sparks of life essence in the swamp drew him like a moth to the flame. He crossed Haberstroh's clearing in a few strides and entered the water. Its chill hit his skin like a lover's caress. Inwardly McCabe exulted, he was back to normal. A sharp pain flared on his left ankle. It felt so good he nearly let the snake pass unmolested but he needed the life the reptile offered. A tiny portion of power drained the snake as well as the myriad of mosquitoes seeking sustenance off of McCabe's naked body. The small lives he absorbed tasted like fine wine. McCabe spent some time wandering through the swamp draining the life of any creature unfortunate enough to cross his path. His route took him further and further from Haberstroh's clearing. She watched him until he disappeared into the rushes. Once McCabe's form was gone from her sight she turned and hobbled back to her hut. The makings of breakfast went into her pot and she cackled to herself as she stirred, “He'll do well my mate. Oh yes he will, yes he will indeed.” Chapter Eleven

“C'mon Willie, push over,” The speaker stood at the bench end of one of tables in the Ortian Army Mess Tent. To describe him as an ugly little man would have been an exercise in understatement. Loman, he always missed the inherent pun in his name, stood only four foot three inches, four foot five in his boots. His hair was a mixture of dirt brown and gray and looked as though combs ran from it in terror. Wrinkles crawled across his face like they had a life of their own, but this was secondary to its appearance. If asked, his friend Willie would be hard pressed to decide what Loman's parentage consisted of, Human, Gnome, or Ape. Loman could have passed for any combination of them. In spite of his looks, he had one saving grace that overrode all physical detractions; he was fun to be around. Willie looked up from the trencher he was single-mindedly devouring, “What, oh, oy there, Loman, ‘ere,

lemme make some room fer thee, there's a fellow.” Willie, unlike Loman, fit your typical career mid-rank noncom to a tee. He had enough in him to advance up to three stripes, but none of the initiative to go any further, and he was quite content to stay there. Being a Sergeant with a couple of decades of service under his belt meant easy behind-the-lines duty, three squares, and a comfortable cot in his own tent. Apart from the uniform, Willie bore no resemblance to the Ortian fighting man. The years had added their weight to his waistline, and he looked out upon the world with passive hound dog eyes set into a cherubic face. White stubble softened the lines of his cheeks and gray curls ringed the shiny crown of his head. He looked more the part of a retired merchant than a soldier. Loman slid into the place Willie created and slapped his own trencher down onto the table, “Thanks, Willie. How's the sausage an’ mash?” “Like eatin’ horse apples,” Willie shoveled another mouthful in as he spoke. “Will you listen to that? Here's a man after me own heart, Flynn.” Willie looked up at the speaker. He saw a man, taller than average and rail thin, with straggly brown hair showing touches of gray peeking out from under a floppy cloth cap. The fellow had a long nose, three-day stubble and very little chin. Twinkling gray eyes met his gaze, “Try th’ cider, tastes more like cow piss but it'll wash down them sausages.” Willie nodded as he elbowed Loman in the short ribs, “Oy, Loman, pipe these fellers sittin’ across us. They look as likely a pair as we does.” “Whazzat?” Loman looked up from his plate and in the direction Willie pointed, “Oh,” He smiled around his mouthful, “Howjadoo, Name's Loman,” He stuck out his hand across the table. “Neely here,” The skinny one took Loman's hand and indicated the massive redhead sitting next to him with a nod of his head, “This large fellow next to me is called Flynn. Keep a good eye on him cause he'll empty your stores iffn you give ‘im half a chance.” Flynn chuckled as he reached for his tankard, “Just gotta a healthy appetite that's all.” Neely barked out a short loud laugh, “You gots two healthy appetites iffn you ask me.” Willie reached across the table, took Neely's hand and then Flynn's, “Sergeant Hubban-Polig but folks just call me Willie. How long you two been dossin’ here?” Flynn finished his drink, “Mmm, whadja say Neely, coupla weeks?” “Been here longer'n us Willie,” Loman continued to dig into his food. “Seems like a coupla flickin’ years,” Neely muttered as he reached for a chunk of bread. “Came here ta help ‘em right a wrong what been done to the Emperor's niece but all we seems ta do is sit around and wait.”

Willie leaned back and rubbed his full belly, “Well, when you gets ta be my age you kinda ‘preciates the waitin’ times. ‘Taint as loud as the fightin’ ones, nor near as hard on a man's appytite neither,” He belched gently for emphasis. “I tell ya,” He reached for the bread on his trencher, “twas the best thing I ever did, joinin’ the army. Gots little ta worry me head about, sumbuddy else does that for ya. They picks out yer clothes, cooks yer food, tells yer where ta go an’ when ta do it. Ain't much in life less complicated'n that now, is there?” “You make it sound like a wonderful life,” Neely ran a finger through some of the spilled cider on the table. “Oh, aye, it is, it is, ain't it Loman? ‘Ere, you give our new friends a tale or two from yer store of treasures.” “Naw Willie. I don't wanna bore the fellers wif my doin's an’ all. I'll bet they've gots a lot better goin's on ta talk about an’ we've ever done. ‘Sides, lookit ‘em, they look like any soljer you ever seen? I bet they's rangers, er mercenaries, er summat else, ain'tcha fellers?” Loman waggled his eyebrows at Flynn and Neely. Flynn shrugged. “I ain't nothin’ special an’ I don't think Neely'll say diffrn't. We's just kinda goin’ along fer th’ ride.” Neely grunted in assent. “Whut ride?” Willie and Loman spoke in unison. “You tell ‘em Neely,” Flynn mumbled around a bite of bread, “I'm eatin'.” “You're always eatin',” Neely eased his jibe with a grin, “All right, me an’ me large friend here are companioning a very special lady on her hunt for her brother. Thought th’ lad was dead, now he's not. Me an’ Flynn here, we get ta see th’ fun along th’ way.” “Yeah, whut sorta fun?” Loman, his food forgotten in anticipation of a tale, leaned forward on the table. Neely began picking his teeth with a splinter from the table, “Well now, there was this time we had this little shootin’ contest with arrows. Charity hit her mark at near a thousand paces an’ then put th’ second arrow down th’ center of th’ first, splittin’ it. I tell ya, that was a sight ta see. “An’ then there was th’ time we was set upon by a batch o’ highwaymen. Hadda be a dozen or more of ‘em an’ only th’ three of us, figgered our giblets was cooked then fer sure.” “Yeah, yeah?” Both Willie and Loman urged Neely to continue, neither saw Flynn's smile at his friend's tendency for exaggeration. “I'm getting’ there, I'm getting’ there,” Neely placated his listeners with a wave, “Their leader was a real mean lookin cuss, had a knife this big,” He demonstrated by holding his hands a good eighteen inches apart, “An’ looked like he knew how ta use it.” “Sum o’ them do,” Willie muttered, “Lottsa deserters out in them wilds.” Neely nodded, “Probably some of them was in this bunch, can't be sure. Most won't be doin’ any

thievin’ any time soon.” Loman ooo'd and Willie grunted, “Good show.” Willie looked up at Neely, “So, you an’ Flynn protected th’ lady, eh?” Flynn's stifled guffaw caused the Sergeant to raise his eyebrows. He looked at Loman and then back to Flynn and Neely, “I missin’ summat here?” “You ... tell ... ‘em,” Flynn finally managed through his sniggers. “You tell ‘em, since you find it so flamin’ funny,” Neely huffed and buried his nose in the cider mug. Flynn wiped the tears from his eyes and finally settled himself enough to talk, “Wuz more the other way around, talkin’ ‘bout the lady, I mean.” Willie and Loman looked at each other and then back at Flynn, “Other way ‘round?” “Oh, I'm not sayin’ me an’ Neely didn't do our part but it wuz Miss Charity what finished th’ fightin’ with her bow,” Flynn's chins emphasized his nod. “You sayin’ a chit outfought a dozen men?” Willie shook his head in disbelief, “I can't figger that, I just can't.” “I dunno Willie,” Loman worked a chunk of sausage out from between his teeth with a fingernail, “I heard some of th’ boys jabberin’ an’ they was sayin’ summat ‘bout this here Cherry, Chary, er summat like that. Said she could near take any man in this here camp. Said she near ta kilt a man cause he teased her cat, she did.” Willie wasn't convinced, “I dunno, Loman, I mean a chit an’ all. They's built fer cuddlin', not fightin.” “Her name's Charity, like I said,” Neely's voice came out in a low growl, “She ain't no chit an’ that feller had it comin’ an’ more. He's th’ one what tried ta knife me out on th’ parade ground. Flynn shoulda left him without a hand.” Loman jumped in on top of Flynn's protestations to the contrary, “That wuz you?” He slapped his forehead, “Blimey! I'm flickin’ blind I am! Lookit ‘im Willie! That's ‘im, th’ one whut fit Murt to a standstill, till ‘e pulled that knife o’ his, I mean.” He punched the Sergeant on the shoulder, “Aw, c'mon Willie, You remember? Best fight we seen in years, you said it, remember?” “Aye, I remember Loman,” Willie said slowly, “So, you're that fella,” He appraised Neely with newfound respect. “An’ you must be th’ one whut stopped it,” His eyes fell back onto Flynn and a broad smile split his face, “I'll never fergit th’ look on Murt's ugly mug when you picked ‘im up by th’ hand like that. I near wet meself laughin'.” “Wuz that lady whut come over to ya th’ one you called Charity?” Loman turned his attention back to Neely.

“Aye, that's her,” Neely nodded once. “Phweeee,” Loman whistled in appreciation, “Now that'un's a looker she is.” He smoothed some of the lank hair on his head with a hand, “Any chance she's not taken?” The chorus of laughter that greeted Loman's question brought his head up indignantly. “Whut? Ere’ now! Whut's so bleedin’ funny?” “You ever look at yerself bub?” Neely snorted through his laughter. Loman's eyes widened as he looked from Neely back to Willie and to Neely again. “Huh? Wazzat mean? You sayin’ I ain't good'nuf fer her?” “Ol son, you ain't good enuf fer her cat,” Neely snickered. “You might wanna set your sights a tad lower, you think?” Flynn appraised Loman from beneath bushy red eyebrows, “Miss Charity chooses who she wants to be with an’ who she doesn't. I don't see much chance o’ her choosin’ you.” “Leave it Loman,” Willie spoke up without looking at his friend, “These two seem a bit protective of the lady. Which of ‘em do y'think you can take inna fight? ‘Sides, you ain't much better lookin’ than Murt anyroad.” Loman grimaced and for a moment looked as if he was going to argue the point, but his generally sunny nature took over and a smile brightened his face, “Aw skrud it, I knows there's better lookin’ mud fences but,” He looked wistfully at Flynn and Neely, “Ya can't blame a feller fer tryin', can ye?” **** Grisham's guard, due to the influx of conscripts, had now swelled to nearly four times the number of men usually housed in the city's barracks. Most, by mere observation, would serve only as a body to put between the inevitable Southern army and the city. The rest showed the potential to be fighting men of various skills. Ethan was one of those. “I tell you, that man has handled a sword before. Wouldn't surprise me if he's the best of the bunch. Look at the way his hands hang from his wrist. The man's a blade or I'm Bilardi's mule,” The Guard Sergeant worked the stalk he was chewing on over to the other side of his mouth. His Lieutenant watched Ethan as he toiled with the other conscripts reinforcing a suspect section of the city wall, “Um hmm, you may be right Sergeant. Corporal Jessup said much the same after they were scrubbed down. He suggested a match between this one and that new blade of the Captain's, what's his name?” “Adam.” The Lieutenant nodded as he crossed his arms. “Yes, that's the one. Made stew meat out of Mundy.” He raised a hand to point at a group of conscripts struggling to fit a hoist strap around one of the massive wall stones, “Watch those straps you lot! I don't want to have to replace that stone.” The Sergeant coughed softly to regain his superior's attention, “Uh, Lieutenant? How about arranging a

little test of the fellow's abilities first? Seems to me we'd stand a better chance at odds if we knew what this man could do before we laid our coins on the line, wouldn't it?” “Sergeant,” The Lieutenant's tone suggested deep reproach, “are you suggesting that an officer of the Duke's City Guard should stoop to wagering on a sword fight?” “Of course not sir,” the Sergeant smiled, “Merely a suggestion concerning a potential investment, sir.” He looked back toward Ethan and the conscripts working with him, “So which one do we use?” Ethan felt the strap finally slip over the granite block's corner. They were going about the business of reinforcing the wall all wrong. The judicious use of a few levers along with a block and tackle would have speeded things up considerably, but as the thought crossed his mind another one stepped on its heels. They wanted the work to be this hard. One of the best ways to gain the measure of a large group of men was to force them into tough physical labor as a team and then stand back and observe. The natural leaders, the followers, the cretins, the cowards and the bullies would all manifest themselves eventually. The man next to him slipped and fell hard just as the block began its swing toward the wall. On the other side of the block the thick-lipped oaf from the showers loosed a loud curse as his share of the weight was increased because of that, “You skrudding gnomic, take that!” He lashed out with the toe of his boot and kicked the fellow in the side. Those near could hear ribs crack. His victim groaning in agony did nothing to salve the bully's temper. Still cursing, he pulled back his boot to kick again only to find himself suddenly upended as the leg was jerked out from under him. “Kicking a man when he's down's no way for another man to act, Gros. You want to take your temper out on someone, try me.” Ethan stood over the bully, his right leg resting on the ball of his foot. “You again,” A thickly corded arm wiped spittle away from his mouth, “I'll teach you to mix in where you're not wanted.” Ethan easily avoided the boot that kicked out at him by dancing backwards, “Uh, uh, thick lips. It won't be that easy, try again.” “Lieutenant! We got trouble, a fight's brewing. Want me to stop it?” The Sergeant started forward, flexing his truncheon. The Lieutenant shook his head, “No, leave off. We wanted to see what our blade can do and this is a good time to do it, besides, I think he can take him.” “Him, takethat one?” The Sergeant goggled, “The man's a monster, it took three guards to subdue him when he went on a rampage the other day and two of them are still in the hospital. It'll be pure murder, nothing more.” “I don't think so,” The Lieutenant pointed to where Ethan stood, arms akimbo, waiting for his opponent to get to his feet, “Watch how that one moves. He's had training and hard experience, I'd bet a days wage on it.” “Done!” The Sergeant slapped a hand down on the Lieutenant's extended palm, sealing the bet.

Gros took his time climbing to his feet, keeping his eyes on Ethan, gauging the man. This one wasn't like the others, he didn't show any sign of fear or concern, in spite of the difference in their sizes, and he moved too fast by half, “You just let me get my hands on you, skrud, then we'll see what's easy.” Ethan kept his position. The only sign of readiness lay in his eyes and the way they tracked each of Gros's movements, “The problem with you thick lips, is you don't learn your lessons. You think every problem can be handled by brute force alone.” He dropped into a crouch and sidled off to the large man's left, “Well, come on then, school's open.” The blatant lack of fear just added fuel to Gros's anger. He lowered his head and charged with his huge arms spread wide, trying to catch Ethan in a grapple. All he caught was air and then a hard boot under the shortribs, “Arrggh!” “That's for the one you kicked while he was down,” Ethan danced back out of the reach of Gros's grasping hands. “Stand still you skrudding bastard!” Gros's mouth twisted into a snarl as he stalked Ethan around the hanging granite block. Ethan shook his head, “Can't, numb nuts, this is how the class operates, you dance, I teach.” He darted in under Gros's swing and planted two hard punches into the man's solar plexus. The answering grunt of pain could be heard across the workspace. Cheers rang out as Gros dropped to a knee. A crowd made up of those on the work crew had gathered. Some watched the fight from a vantage point atop the city wall while the rest occupied what spots they could find on the scaffolding or the ground. Gros missed again with a wild swing, receiving another kick for his trouble. But this one did not put the heavily muscled man down as Ethan intended. Inarticulate growls came from him as he stalked Ethan like a bear. Hammer-like blows to his chin did little more than rock Gros's head back slightly. “Gros's gone berzerker Lieutenant, gonna take a squad to bring him down,” The Sergeant turned to gather the needed men. “Stay right there, Sergeant, I want to see how this plays out,” The Lieutenant reached out and held his man by the arm. The noncom protested. “Sir, if we don't do something that man's going to die.” His superior shook his head, “I don't think so Sergeant.” Three times Ethan mounted successful strikes to his opponent all to no avail. It seemed each punch or kick simply added to the man's madness. Gros's eyes had narrowed to reddened slits, bruises showed across his face and blood dribbled from his mouth and nose. With grim acknowledgement Ethan knew he would probably have to kill the man to stop him. The watching conscripts and guards had ceased their catcalls and shouts of encouragement. They too sensed the deadliness of the affair. Ethan completed yet another circuit of the granite block with Gros following. The exertion of the fight was beginning to tell on his legs and his chest. If he didn't do something soon the thick-lipped monster

would catch him with the outcome of that situation all but certain. There was one avenue he hadn't tried yet, “Come on Gros, you brainless wonder, try and catch me. What happened did your mother mate with a fish to give you lips like that? If she had I'll bet the father was a bottom feeder, your balls are smaller than a rats.” Taunting just might push Gros over the edge, make him rush things enough to cause the opening necessary for Ethan's idea to work. The big man stalked after Ethan, his pace varying little; a slight pause here, a hitch to the left or right there, but that was all. The taunts appeared to have no effect but a closer look at his face told a different story, Gros's temper worsened with each verbal barb flung in his direction. “Come on mouse balls, try to touch me. Go on, try like this,” Ethan slid in sideways and rammed an elbow into Gros's stomach and then slid back out just beyond the big man's returning punch, but his heel caught on a piece of loose debris and he slipped. The crowd gasped. With an enraged bellow Gros darted forward and swept Ethan into his arms. His eyes held an evil light as he tightened his grip with every intention of breaking the smaller man's back, “Now I've got you meddler, try to run now,” Gros leered down at Ethan's face and squeezed even harder. Ethan tensed the muscles in his back, vainly trying to break Gros's hold. His mind raced to find a solution while he had time. Already spots swam before his eyes. Both arms were free, fortunately, so at least he could try something. Gros had his head held back as he strained to exert even more pressure and was unable to drop it in time to prevent Ethan's thumbs from clamping down on his carotid. “Lieutenant,” The Sergeant's voice was tight with strain, “we've got to stop it now!” “Patience Sergeant,” His superior said quietly, “watch, and learn a lesson in anatomy.” The fight had now been reduced to a race of endurance. Ethan pressed his thumbs deeper and deeper into his opponent's bull-like neck. Lights, like fireflies, danced in his vision. If the big man took too long to drop ... he shook the thought off and arched his back against Gros's arms, fighting for greater leverage. The maneuver seemed to work, for it felt like the pressure loosened a bit, so he pushed again. More firefly lights appeared and he began to get lightheaded. Ethan felt himself swaying. He could hear people yelling but it was difficult to get a fix on where the voices were coming from. “Let him go man, you've won, you've won!” This voice came in more clearly.He won, won what? Hands slapped him on the back and clapped his shoulder. There was a long moment where Ethan wondered where he was and then reality came swimming back into his consciousness. He'd been in a fight and ... what? He shook his head to clear some of the cobwebs and then wished he hadn't. The headache pounded at him from both sides of his skull. “Water, you! Bring some water over here, now!” The Sergeant noticed Ethan's wince of pain and, from personal experience, realized the source. “Fought yourself dry, didn't you?” He helped Ethan over to a convenient block and made him sit down.

Before Ethan could answer, the man straightened and bellowed at the crowd of spectators, “All right, back to work, entertainment's over for the day! Any man not sweating in two minutes forfeits mess call, move it!” The crowd scattered. The Sergeant turned back to Ethan, reached out and rubbed his shoulder, “You ok man? I've never seen anything like that. How'd you take that beast down?” “Let him drink first, Sergeant and then he can answer your questions. I also believe you have a small wager to settle,” The Lieutenant eased up beside the Sergeant and held out his right hand. “Worth twice the price as far as I'm concerned,” The Sergeant shook his head as he counted the coins into his superior's palm, “I've never seen a man fight like that before. Heard of it, never saw it.” “What's your name conscript?” The Lieutenant's voice held a strong tone of respect. Ethan drank deeply of the water given him by the Sergeant before answering, “Ethan, Ethan of Swaledale.” The Sergeant noticed his superior's reaction to that name, “You know this man Lieutenant?” The wager suddenly seemed less fair. The Lieutenant shook his head, “I know the name Sergeant, what I don't know is if this man and the name are one. Are they?” He looked at Ethan with raised eyebrows. “Put a sword in my hand and you'll find out,” Ethan drank more of the water. “So,” The Lieutenant crossed his arms in front of his chest, “what is one of the top swordmasters in the world doing in Grisham's conscripts? With your reputation you could have any commission you desired.” “The press gang leader didn't ask me,” Ethan finished off the water. “After that,” He shrugged, “it just never seemed the right time to bring it up.” Chapter Twelve

“March!” The shouted command rang out across the massed multitude of Ort's assembled armies, repeated by company commanders over and over again until the last private heard it and responded. It took nearly two long months for the Southern Empire's military to complete their trek across the plains from Ort to the Cloudhook base and then another few weeks to assure that all preparations had been met for the assault on the city state of Grisham. With the addition of several hundred thousand conscripts, give or take a few dozens, the army's size swelled to the millions Alford's Generals predicted. In every sense of the word a city now stood at the mountain's base where once only tall grass and game held sway. Mile upon mile of hastily scraped streets separated the tents, offices, stores and stables of the army. On the outskirts of the base those business that thrive on the need of the military man to do whatever it takes to forget his regulated life for a time, expanded from a tent wagon or two to several districts. A number even took the time to ship building materials from the south to construct full-blown pubs and entertainment halls, reckoning on the free-spending reputations of their targeted patrons to recoup the investment. Now, with the army massing for the initiation of combat, a few of the less

avaricious souls found reasons to change their business address. “Looks like yer settin’ to move on, Fergus.” “Aye, and not a day too soon I tell ye. Them soldier boys'll drink yer ale one day and spit ya like a pig the next. You've seen ‘em forming their ranks, Grandle-Jenz, that's a sign war's comin’ this way. I plan not to be here when it arrives.” Quarters for the senior officers sat in the geographic center of the base, the most senior within the ring of those officers junior to them. Orders began at the General's office and filtered out into the ranks through a network perfected by time into a system as rigid as a mother-in-law's opinion. Carried from the central core and placed into the hands of Captains and Lieutenants, the command to muster was eventually put into motion by the true managers of the military complex, the Sergeants. Each of them had come to know the men under them intimately. They knew who to push and who to cajole, who to threaten and who to praise. Like a vastly complicated mechanism, an army is built of individual parts, each of them requiring special attention to function as a whole. The Sergeants knew this and where to apply it, this they did and the Southern Army moved. From Cloudhook's heights it appeared as a vast black amorphous shadow flowing across the grass of the plain. Two sets of eyes saw the march begin. One thing about mountains, they're big and Cloudhook was bigger than most. As thoroughly as the Ortian scouts had scoured the mountain's flanks for stragglers and spies there was always a chance they would not find them all. This proved to be true as in the case of the two Grisham guardsmen now watching the Ortian troops begin their march. They noted the size and the general direction of the army including the large portion that split off to skirt the mountain's perimeter to the north. Nodding to each other they began making their way down the ravine below the ledge where they hid from the scouts. Word had to be taken to the city; the Southern army was on the march. It was three days before the first contact occurred, an organism the size of Ort's army must move slowly if it wishes to stay intact. Siege engines, supply trains and armories dictate the overall pace and if Jarl-Tysyn's orders to send out skirmish parties had not been followed, it may have taken another week to reach what would become the first line of battle. Thinking it foolish to wait like a badger in its den for attack, Duke Bilardi had positioned several companies of Trading States troops along the rolling hills that lay to the West and South of Grisham. There they would have the advantage of elevation and good cover to launch spears and arrows at the approaching enemy. The Southern Army's loss of nearly an entire company proved the Duke's premise a good one. Flynn and Neely were two of the survivors of that debacle. “Bloody hell, if I ever volunteer for another thing in my life Flynn, do me a favor and beat some sense back into my worthless hide,” Neely muttered the oath as he and Flynn crouched behind one of the few reddish colored boulders on the slope below where the rain of spears and arrows fell. Flynn waited a few seconds and then eased upwards until he could just see over the boulder's edge, “Seems to've left off Neely. Might be a good time to see iffn we can make it back over that first ridge. They might be waitin’ fer a charge, not knowin’ there ain't no one left to do it.” Neely peered over the edge of the boulder next to Flynn, “You may be right, but let's not both go at once. I rather like th’ idea of you being there to carry me body back iffn it gets skewered.” Flynn shook his head, “No good Neely, iffn we goes at the same time then they gotta decide which one

to shot first. Maybe give us the seconds we needs to make it. We's goin’ together. Iffn you run, I'll be right behind ya.” “Ok Flynn,” Neely nodded just before looking over the boulder one more time. “Let's go, last one over the ridge's a pincushion.” They made it to the ridge unpunctured though a few of the arrows sent their way came unreasonably close. On the other side of the protecting verge they increased their pace until a good two miles away they both collapsed into the tall grass exhausted. “So what're we gonna do now Neely,” Flynn spoke up after finally getting his breath back, “Go back an’ tell them what happened?” “Naw,” Neely brushed a grass stem away from his face, “there was a coupla survivors besides us. They'll get word to who needs it. I'm for goin’ back an’ makin’ sure Charity's safe. There ain't much in th’ way of fightin’ men left in that camp an’ I don't like th idea of what could happen iffn you an’ me ain't there to stop it.” Flynn rolled over onto his belly and grinned at his friend, “You sweet on her Neely?” “Huh,” Neely turned his head to look into Flynn's grinning face, “Sweet on who? Whatcho talkin’ about Flynn?” “Miss Charity, that's who.” Neely goggled at the big man, “One of those arrows hit you in th’ bean Flynn? You get that thought right outta yer head an’ don't ever let it in again. Charity's turned into a fine woman an’ all, an’ whatever man she chooses is th’ luckiest feller in this world, but,” He raised a finger for emphasis, “I wouldn't touch her for all the gold in the world, nope, not even iffn you added the silver to go with it.” Flynn's jaw dropped. In his heart he felt much the same way but was astonished to hear his friend admit to the feeling, “How come Neely?” The tracker climbed to his feet and brushed his trousers free of the few bits of grass clinging to them, “Cause she's too good for th’ likes of me an’ we both know it. Come on, it's gonna be a long walk before we get back to th’ camp.” **** Upon leaving the Library, Milward set his shaping to place him just outside Ort's city wall. He did not want to put himself through the trouble that would come from his appearing out of thin air in front of hundreds if not thousands of people, especially a people who've not believed in magik for generations. As the vortex enveloped him he inwardly shook his head. Something had to be done about his temper. Lately it seemed he was crabbing at everyone, sometimes about picky little things he wouldn't have raised an eyebrow over just a couple of centuries ago. Within a traveling vortex time and motion stand still as far as the traveler is concerned. A Wizard trained to use the shaping sets the destination in their mind and then the rest is left up to the spell. In most cases this all unfolds without a hitch, inmost cases. The Dreamsnatcher struck just as Milward was ruminating on his worsening temper, One of the creatures of Shadow, it preyed on the subconscious, absorbing the dreams and imagination of its victims

for its sustenance. In appearance it resembled a denizen of the ocean depths with many writhing limbs and a glassy transparent skin. Its attack caught the old Wizard off guard and before a defense could be mustered Milward was ensnared within the Dreamsnatcher's grasp. Pain, beyond that of a hornet's sting, surged through his body, nearly shocking him into insensibility. If the attack had occurred outside of the vortex Milward would have been driven to his knees. As it was his senses reeled and he could feel the thing reaching for the recesses of his mind where those attributes that made him a Wizard lay. A hastily erected shield stopped the advance of the Dreamsnatcher's tendrils but even as he threw it up Milward could feel his shield beginning to weaken against the enemy's attack. If a counterattack was not formulated, and soon, he would cease to be anything more than a lump of animated flesh. His being already involved in a traveling vortex though, presented him with an additional problem. A successful attack would mean pushing his powers to their limits, which would mean he could wind up anywhere, literally, because of what the release of those energies would do to the original shaping that built the vortex. But even that was preferable to letting the Dreamsnatcher have his mind for a snack. Milward formed the shaping so swiftly that arcs of magik snapped and sparked around him like glow worms. The Dreamsnatcher fought back sensing the shaping as it built. More pain surged through the Wizard, distracting his will and causing the shaping to release partially unfinished. Even in its partial form the shaping tore into the Dreamsnatcher with the fury of a thousand whirlwinds. All but one of its tendrils were torn from the Wizard's skull and pieces of its transparent skin flew about the interior of the vortex. Milward reeled with the exertion but forced himself to focus, if he failed now he was doomed. There would be no energy left for a third try and he had to hurry for the creature of shadow was beginning to rally even as he was. More arcs of magik crackled throughout the vortex as Milward's shaping erupted from the head of his staff and ripped into the Dreamsnatcher. The thing's scream grated across his mind with agonizing intensity but he continued to force the shaping into it. Another bit of its skin whirled away into the vortex and then another and another until the space around them was filled with a fluttering whirlwind of transparent confetti. Milward felt the last tendril give way as the vortex collapsed leaving him standing on a grassy sward just to the left of a gleaming white road. The road stretched to the horizon in both directions. Across the road the grass rose into a shallow hillock with the ocean meeting the sky beyond that. He had no idea where he was. “That is the second time I've been ambushed in a Traveling,” He said to himself, “it's no wonder I prefer walking.” **** Flynn and Neely had to hide twice to avoid being spotted by Trading States patrols. Grisham's allies were proving themselves to be a tenacious and deadly partner in the war with Ort's Emperor. The tracker and his large friend saw evidence of other scouting companies that had suffered the same fate as theirs. As they passed through the remains of one Flynn saw movement out of the corner of his eye. “Oy, Neely, hold up. Somethin’ moved over yonder,” The big man pointed off to his left. “Where?” The tracker looked back over his shoulder at Flynn. Flynn pointed again as he moved toward the spot he'd indicated, “Over here. Oh no, Bless Bardoc Neely, it's Willie.”

Neely came up alongside Flynn, stepping over an arrow riddled body as he did so. “Willie, you mean the Sergeant? Any sign of Loman?” He began to look over the battlefield, searching for a body half the size of the others. His nose told him the fight must have happened about the same time as the one he and Flynn had survived. A faint scent of corruption rose from the bodies and most of them held the stiffness of having entered rigor. “No,” Flynn shook his head while lifting a Southern trooper minus his head from its position atop Willie, “No sign of the little feller, just Willie here. He's got hisself a nice hole in his shoulder an’ a gash cross his temple. Not deep, but it bled a lot.” Willie stirred as Flynn eased him over to see the wounds more clearly but he did not waken, “Got whacked a good one, he did,” Flynn murmured, “Gonna be a while till he's able to tell us what happened.” “It's bloody plain what happened Flynn,” Neely toed aside a corpse that lay across another trooper, “They got their flickin’ heads handed to them, just like we did. Them Tradin’ States troops are a lot better'n we supposed they'd be, a helluva lot better.” A groan off to Neely's right caught his attention and he left off detailing the Southern Army's shortcomings to investigate. The terrain grew rougher in that section of the battlefield. Small gullies cut through the tall grass exposing the rocky soil beneath. One of them was deep and wide enough to hide men. In it he found Loman and four other survivors, all of them sporting the broken shafts of Trading States arrows. Loman's protruded from his right thigh. The little man looked up at Neely's approach with terror in his eyes, shying back from the blow to come. When it didn't he looked again. “Hey, I know you,” He said, “you're that feller from the mess tent. The one with the big redhead, Flynn's ‘is name,” Loman's voice quavered with weakness. Neely nodded, “That's me. Can any of you walk?” One of the Southern troopers braced himself against the gully's lip and tried to stand to his feet, “I can walk.” “Right, an’ I'm th’ General's right hand man,” Neely shook his head and motioned for the man to sit back down, “Flynn an’ me are gonna hafta fix up some bandages for your wounds. Iffn we don't you lot are gonna be dead from blood loss afore we gets back to th’ base. Any of you know iffn there was a healer with you?” “Had one,” The trooper in front of the one that stood spoke up. His voice told Neely there was a good chance he'd be the first to go. There was a bubbly quality indicating that the arrow in his chest had punctured a lung, “He got it first. The bastards knew who to hit and where. It was like they knew our plans better'n us, took us completely by surprise.” “He's got that right guvnor,” Loman gingerly poked at his injured thigh, “Them arrows took out half th’ comp'ny afore we could blink. Th’ only reason we's sittin’ here to tell ya is this here gully. I never thought mud could look so loverly.” Neely's mouth twitched. If he could just get them to stop talking he might be able to save most of them, “Where'd th’ healer fall? Maybe his gear's still good.”

“Hey, that's a right good idea,” Loman broke in, a smile brightening his muddy face. Neely held up a hand to forestall any further comment, “Just tell me where to look for his body.” The one with the arrow in his chest pointed behind and to the left of Neely's position, “Over there, about a bow shot. He had yellow hair. His pack was thicker than most. I think that's how they knew.” He fell back against the wall of the gully, “Don't think it'll do me any good though.” “You just hang in there boy,” Neely knelt and placed a hand on the trooper's shoulder, “Loman, you keep an eye on him, got any water?” “Aye,” The little man nodded. “Get ‘im to drink some, even iffn he ain't thirsty. Flynn!” Neely stood and called out to his friend. “Comin',” Flynn had Willie draped across his shoulder and was striding toward Neely as if the portly Sergeant weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. He had to skirt around a few of the dead troopers before he made it to Neely's side. “How's Willie, still sleepin'?” Neely tilted his head to check the Sergeant's head wound. Flynn had somehow managed to cobble together a poultice bandage and also washed off most of the blood from Willie's face. “Still sleepin', I made up a poultice with the bac from ‘is smokin’ pouch, me da once tol’ me it was good fer that sorta thing, keeps th’ corruption away. Here, lemme set ‘im down easy like,” Flynn eased the Sergeant down onto the ground next to where Loman and the other troopers sat in the gully. “Willie, you found Willie! Is he gonna live? Kin I do anythin’ fer ‘im. What's..?” Neely held up a hand, cutting off Loman's rapid-fire questions, “He'll be just fine. You see to him,” He pointed at the trooper with the chest wound. “Flynn an’ me'll go see to th’ healer.” He turned and began walking over to where the dead healer was supposed to lie before Loman could bring up any more questions. Flynn joined him after a few steps, “Loman's scared. Some men show it by talkin’ a lot more'n they usually do.” “Then that'll make the little fella a real chatterbox. Not sure I'd wanna spend much time in hearin’ distance right now,” Neely kept his eyes open for any other survivors. Flynn chuckled, “I hear ya.” Neely paused in his search and looked Flynn in the eye. “You're a strange duck sometimes Flynn.” “How so?” “Here we are in the middle of a flickin’ battlefield, our guys lost and you're makin’ jokes,” Neely gave an exasperated snort as he threw up his hands. Flynn looked embarrassed, “I like makin’ jokes.”

Neely's caustic answer died in his throat as Flynn broke in with, “Here's the healer, poor sod, looks like a bloomin’ porkypine.” “You're right there Flynn, they must've picked ‘im out ‘cause of his pack. Look at it, has to be half agin bigger'n th’ others,” Neely nudged the dead healer's pack with his toe. “Them Tradin’ States buggers sure know what they's doin'. Ya kill th’ healer—then all ya's gotta worry about is woundin’ th’ others. Corruption an’ bugs'll do th’ killin’ for ya.” “I'll turn ‘im over,” Flynn eased the healer's body off its stomach. The eyes were open, his expression one of surprise, “Bloody hell Neely, he's a kid! What's a kid like him doin’ in the middle of a flickin’ war?” Neely grunted as he cut the straps keeping the pack on the healer's body, “Dyin’ Flynn, bleedin an’ dyin'.” As Flynn closed the young healer's eyes Neely checked the contents of the pack. He was pleased to find it well stocked, “Got everything we need here Flynn, c'mon, let's get back to that lot afore they bleed themselves dry.” They worked their way back through the bodies to where Loman and the other troopers sat. The diminutive non-com was fussing over his Sergeant like a mother hen and the trooper with the chest wound was still alive, somewhat to Neely's surprise. In addition to a good supply of Willit powder, the pack also held a number of vials containing Opatia oil. The Willit would do for those such as Willie and Loman whose injuries were more troublesome than dangerous, whereas the trooper with the arrow sticking out of his chest ... Opatia would kill any pain the man felt, even that caused by Garloc poisoning, but it would also addict him to the point where more and more of the oil would be needed until he overdosed, a bad choice between two bad alternatives. Some refused to take it, choosing instead to accept what they considered a cleaner death. Flynn and Neely went to work. While the tracker pulled out bandages and the stitching kit he found in the pack, Flynn backed the arrow out of the trooper's chest. “Unngghh!” “Easy there fella, I knows it hurts, but we gotta get it outta ya so's we can stitch ya up. Here, drink this, it'll cut the pain some,” He took a tin cup of Willit powder dissolved in water from Neely and held it to the trooper's mouth. More than halfway into delirium the trooper gulped the bitter potion without protest. Flynn waited for a couple of minutes and then returned his attention to the arrow. As the head pulled away from the raw edge of the wound, red blood welled up and trickled down the trooper's chest. Neely looked over Flynn's shoulder and eyed the wound critically, “No pus, good. Least ways, he'll not die from gangrene.” A groan from his left caught Neely's attention. He motioned to Flynn, “You keep workin’ on that feller, looks like Willie's decided to wake up.” Loman's homely face split into an ear-to-ear smile, “Sarge, you've come back to us. Yer gonna be all right, Sarge, them two fellers we met in the mess tent is here. They's gonna get us back to where we

belongs.” He sat back against the gully's side, “We's gonna be all right.” Willie passed a hand across his face, “Wazzat, Loman, you made it? Where am I?” He looked around, centered on Neely and then Flynn for a second and then caught a good look at the battlefield, “Oh skrud, we been slaughtered.” Neely, gently but firmly, forced the Sergeant to lie back down with the palm of his hand, “That's what yer ugly little friend says. Seems they was waitin’ for ya just like they did our bunch. Gonna hafta do somethin’ about that,” He grunted, as he tore the Sergeant's tunic to get to the wounded shoulder. “Bad, huh?” Willie noticed Neely's expression as he exposed the wound. “I've seen worse,” The tracker muttered. The sweet/putrid scent of corruption rose to meet Neely's nose while he worked. “You want some painkiller before I yank this thing out?” Willie shook his head, “Just get it over with, I smell the stink. I know what's there. Never thought I'd get it like this, ya know? Thought I'd die in bed surrounded by me kids.” He sighed as Neely took hold of the arrow's shaft, “Just shows ya never can know.” “Don't you talk like that Willie,” Loman cried out, “you's gonna make it, ya hear? You's gonna make it just like me.” Flynn reached over and pulled the little man away, “Let ‘im work Loman. Here, let's take care o’ that leg o’ yourn.” They worked on the wounded troopers until the lack of daylight forced a halt. The Southern trooper who claimed to be able to stand came around faster than either Flynn or Neely hoped and was able to lend a hand. When morning came the one with the chest wound had gone, leaving just four out of the forty that had comprised the company. Loman was able to walk with the aide of a crutch thrown together by Neely, and Willie claimed to not need any help and managed to hold himself upright by sheer force of will. Of the other two only one needed a litter. Flynn collected a couple of spears and a few tunics from the battlefield. After a few minutes the big redhead produced a serviceable litter. Neely took the head and Flynn the tail. The march back to the Cloudhook base ate up nearly a week. By then, Willie was being half-carried. After a brief glance from the guards they were ushered to the healer's tent where a surprised Medical Officer confronted Flynn and Neely. “Youdid this work, who taught you?” Neely looked stubborn, Flynn flushed and scratched the white and red stubble on his cheek, “Uh, we just kinda picked it up, here an’ there like. Did we do somethin’ wrong?” “On the contrary, I wanted to congratulate the two of you on the work you did.” “Huh?” Both Flynn and Neely's mouths dropped open. The Officer reached out and took each of their hands in turn, “Because of you, those four men will not only live, but I'll not have to take any of their limbs. Sergeant Hubban-Polig will take a while recovering from the infection that set into his shoulder but even at that...” His voice trailed off, “It's just fortunate for them you came along, that's all I can say. Thank you.” They were saved further embarrassment by a sudden burst of shouting from outside the tent. Neely

reached the tent flap first and pushed through. Flynn followed on the tracker's heels. The entire camp had become a beehive of activity with men rushing everywhere. Screams, undeniably those of women, could be heard coming from the Merchants’ quarter. Neely made a long arm and grabbed an engineer as he raced by their position, “What's goin’ on? What's th’ shoutin’ all about?” “We're being attacked,” The Engineer gasped out, “men on horseback shooting arrows, throwing spears. Now let me go!” He tore out of Neely's grasp and rushed off, away from where the screams came. “Worthless twit,” Neely muttered. “C'mon Flynn, I'll bet them's th’ same ones what did us out there last week.” “Or summat like ‘em,” Flynn hefted his axe. He turned and began running cross grain against the general direction of the melee. Very few of the panicked Engineers and support personnel failed to move out of his way, those that didn't bounced off. Neely caught up with Flynn after hurdling a fallen clerk, “Where ya goin? Th’ fightin's back that way,” He pointed to his right rear. “Miss Charity's that way,” Flynn pointed in the direction he ran with the axe head. “Oh.” The fighting caught up with them two rows of tents before Charity's. A number of horsemen wearing Trading States colors came bearing down on them from Flynn's left. The one in the lead looked to be nearly equal to the big man in size. Some of them had bows. The one in front carried a spear crooked under his arm and aimed at the big man's midsection. Flynn waited and then side stepped at the last second. A downward sweep of the axe cut the spear in two and with the return he removed the spear-carrier's head from his shoulders. The horse continued on in its charge for several more yards before the headless body tumbled to the ground. An arrow whizzed past Neely's cheek forcing him to duck behind a tent. The other riders, seeing the ease with which Flynn dealt with their companion, had decided to stay back and shoot from a safe distance. But the camp was now aroused and not all its members were clerkish enumerators, shopkeepers and whores. Durston-Kres, wielding a spade like a felling axe, surprised a rider as he passed between two tents in chase of another Engineer less courageous. The flat of the blade caught the man full on his chest tearing him out of the saddle. Colling-Faler came rushing out of his tent just as the screams started up. Reflex alone saved him from being trampled into the ground. Lemmic-Pries called out to him as the Engineer Third jumped out of the way of a second horse and rider, “What's going on, who are these men?” “I don't know Chief Engineer, I ... duck!” Colling-Faler yelled out the last as he slammed into the older man, dropping both of them below a volley of arrows. “Damn it!” Lemmic-Pries slammed his fist into the ground, “Don't they know we're non-combatants?”

The Engineer Third looked grim, “I think they were counting on that, Chief.” None of the other riders noticed the first arrow take their compatriot out of his saddle, nor did they notice the second, but the third and fourth shafts caught their attention just as Neely came charging from behind his protecting tent to join Flynn. “Atta girl, Charity, you knock th’ buggers down an’ we'll mop ‘em up! C'mon Flynn, let's get ‘em,” The tracker ran full tilt at the horses screaming like a madman and waving his sword. As three of the remaining riders spurred their mounts toward the charging Neely the fourth wheeled around to take aim at the archer threatening them. He was not expecting to see a woman fitting another shaft to her bow. Charity stared into the rider's eyes from across the yards between them. She loosed her arrow the same time as the rider did his. A second shaft followed on the heels of the first. The arrows met head on and shattered but the rider had no time to marvel over that event. Charity's second shaft entered his chest on its lower left side, piercing his heart. He tumbled out of the saddle and landed face down driving the arrow out from between his shoulder blades. Sometimes in battle it isn't good to concentrate too closely on just one objective. Charity was doing just that when a piercing howl spun her around. A Trading States soldier had come up behind her holding a wicked looking knife. Fortunately for Charity, the howl was from her cat. The following scream came from the soldier as four sets of tearing claws bit into his face and neck. Charity buried the tip of her bow into the soldier's belly and followed up with the other one to his chin. The cat jumped from the falling man into Charity's arms, turned her head toward the soldier and hissed. Neely's charge had little effect on the Trading States horsemen but it did unnerve their horses. One ran slightly ahead of the others and as the raving tracker came upon it the horse reared, kicking out with his hooves. Neely ducked, rolled and slashed upward at the horse's belly neatly severing the cinch strap holding the rider's saddle to the horse. A startled yelp and the Trading States horseman fell backwards as his saddle slid off his mount. This happened too quickly for the riders behind him to swerve and his own compatriots ground the luckless horseman into the sod. On the other side of the camp, Circumstance had been one of the first to notice the attacking horsemen coming from the foothills leading to Cloudhook. He was helping with the picketed horses as the first group came galloping down out of the hardwoods. “Run, get out of the way,” He pulled the boy whose duty it was to see after the livestock behind a heap of fodder. “But what, who, uh, who are they?” The boy shivered with the fright he'd been given. “Bad men,” Circumstance said, a fire beginning to flicker in his eyes, “Very bad men.” They left the cover of the fodder after the last horseman passed. By then the screams had started up. Circumstance turned and looked the boy in the eye, “Go, run into those woods.” He pointed toward the hardwood thicket. The boy stood frozen with his mouth open. A rough shove in the middle of his back broke him out of his

trance and sent him scurrying up the hillside to safety. Circumstance did not understand the anger that burnt inside of him. When Corporal Greenstone was beating him there was no anger, just a sadness mixed with a fear of using the magik growing inside of him. This time he wanted to strike out, to make the horsemen feel the same terror they were inflicting on the people in the base. The Chief Engineer, with Colling-Faler right behind, avoided a large group of Trading States footmen following another of the horsemen by ducking into the laundry tent and out the other side. “We need weapons,” The Engineer Third said to his chief in a hoarse whisper. “And do what with them, Colling-Faler? The only fighting you and I have ever done is with equations and an abacus.” Lemmic-Pries shook his head, “We're not like Durston-Kres or those friends of Circumstance. Damn, I wish they'd stayed here with their lady. We could surely use their help now.” Colling-Faler pointed off to the right of where they hid, “We have it Milord, look!” They watched as Flynn caught up with Neely and together they dragged the last rider out of his saddle. Emboldened by the prowess the two showed, several Engineers, led by Durston-Kres, swarmed the Trading States footmen who had come to the riders rescue, even Gaspic came out from beneath his bunk to wield a heavy sauce pan all the while screaming in a high-pitched treble. All Flynn and Neely could do was watch as the footmen were overwhelmed by a force three times their number. The Chief Engineer grunted, “They don't seem to be doing much.” “Doesn't look like they needed to,” Colling-Faler rested his hands on his hips as Charity, Flynn and Neely turned and began walking to where he and the chief Engineer stood. “Bardoc's beard,” Lemmic-Pries breathed out the expletive as he pointed behind the three, “Look!” They turned to look in the direction the Chief Engineer pointed. Circumstance was running towards them, dodging a gauntlet of footmen who seemed fully intent on separating the boy's head from his shoulders. “I'll get him Miss Charity,” Flynn hefted his axe as Charity screamed out the boy's name. “We'll both get him Flynn,” Neely drew his long knife, “But I don't see how's we'll make it in time.” When they started out, Circumstance was a good fifty yards from their position with more than a dozen footmen between him and safety. Charity put as many arrows as she could into opening up the way for him but the rapidly shifting crowds gave her few chances for a good shot. Neely passed Flynn before the big man reached the first row of tents and then pulled up short, “Bugger, will you look at that!” Flynn skidded into Neely's backside, “What is it Neely, whatcho see?” “That!” Circumstance dodged around one footman and through the legs of another. The sword swung by the second buried itself deeply into the thigh of the first. Another footman tried to block the boy's way with a whirling pike. Circumstance raised his arm and pointed at his attacker. The man flew backward as if

kicked by a horse. “Did you see that?” Flynn's exclaimation came out as a squeak. “Bugger me iffn I didn't,” Neely shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. One of Charity's arrows took the next footman out of Circumstance's path and Flynn and Neely, now out their reverie, waded into the rest along with the thoroughly aroused Engineers. In a few short minutes they stood in an island of tranquility surrounded by battle. The Chief Engineer nodded to Flynn and Neely, “Thank you for coming back, it appears your return is both timely and fortunate. My men, for the most part, are not fighters but as you can see they learn quickly, if they've an example to follow.” Neely hefted his sword and winked at Charity, “Well then, let's give ‘em some more of that example.” In the ages to come, scribes and storytellers of the Southern Empire would tell and retell the story of how Lemmic-Pries and his Engineers faced down a hoard of Trading States horsemen and prevailed. Highlights of the saga would detail how Lady Charity and her enchanted bow decimated an entire troop of riders and drove their footmen into a panicked rout. How the giant Flynn and his terrible axe cleaved through armor and helm as if they were naught but tissue, and how the dashing tracker Neely wove a curtain of death with his glistening blade. Others, hinting of mysteries and magik, told of the half-elf Circumstance who, with a wave of his hand, toppled rank after rank of the enemy as if they were nothing more than wheat for the reaper's blade. In his dotage Neely had one word to describe the tales, “Rubbish, wasn't nothin’ dashin’ about me then an’ there ain't nothin’ dashin’ about me now. We had a job to do, plain an’ simple an’ we done it. Go ahead; make us into heroes iffn you want to. Callin’ it wine don't make horse piss drinkable.” His cynicism to the contrary, Neely's contribution to the battle was the stuff of legend. With Charity's incredible bowmanship and Flynn's axe to back him, the tracker cut a swath through the attacking forces leagues wide and yards deep. When the last Trading States soldier had been driven off Lemmic-Pries began overseeing the grim task of seeing to the wounded and gathering the dead together for burial. According to the custom of the Southern Empire their honored dead were gathered together onto a huge pyre with their weapons and those of their enemy laid about them. As the sun began to sink, the pyre was lit and the entire camp kept a watch until the last ember died away. The next morning Charity approached Flynn and Neely as they sat outside their tent sipping tisane, “Lemmic-Pries says they're abandoning the base and heading back to Ort.” Flynn nodded without looking up, “Yeah, I heard that too.” “We goin’ with ‘em?” Neely looked up after sipping from his cup. Flynn raised his head as well to see Charity's response. She squatted in front of them. Her expression showed a war of desires, “That's what I wanted to talk to you about. There's a lot we could do to help Lemmic-Pries and his people on their way back to the capital...”

“But...” Neely prompted Charity when she paused. “...But there's the fighting to the north of us and we did promise Travers...” Her voice died out again. “I'd surely like to see the South,” Flynn murmured, “We was headed that way when the Sergeant an’ his men come by.” Neely grunted and sipped his tisane again, “You're forgetin’ th’ promise we made. Goin’ South'd be nice mind you, but I've a feelin’ our consciences ‘ud be botherin’ us afore we got too far.” Flynn smacked his forehead, “Gnomic! Shoulda thought of it a lot sooner. Makes everything simple, it does.” Charity gave Flynn a sharp look, “What does?” “Yeah, what does?” Neely glowered over the rim of his cup. “Goin’ north, of course, ain't that where her brother is?” Flynn's beatific smile stretched from ear to ear. Chapter Thirteen

Clouds obscured the rising moon. From the look of the evening sky, the weather was turning and the night would be black. The assassin nodded to himself, the time was right to earn the coins those two in the tavern had given him. What were their names? It didn't matter, the Duke was a pig, regardless and Grisham would be better off without him. He closed the curtain and crossed the room to his bed. Reaching underneath he pulled out a locked chest of unadorned polished wood. He placed the chest onto the bed and unlocked it. From inside he selected a number of highly lethal tools. One of them, his current favorite, was a miniature crossbow of full-size power capable of a silent kill from a block away. Outside his apartment Burguf Street had few travelers crossing its cobblestones. With winter approaching the evening air now held a distinct chill. One man, a cloth merchant, who thought he knew this neighbor, nodded as they passed. It did pay to keep one's business well away from where one lived. Unconsciously the assassin's hands moved about his person, checking the various tools of his trade for their placement and security. By the time he reached the intersection of Burguf and Market he was satisfied as to the eventual success of his night's venture. A left turn would bring him to the hill leading to the palace. When the good citizens of Grisham greeted tomorrow's sun they would be doing so without the company of their ruler. The assassin reached the castle's perimeter an hour after midnight and flattened himself against the wall. Guards still walked the watch six floors above, and unlike the previous evening, two of them bracketed the door used by the Palace servants. He sidled back out of sight and skirted the walls perimeter to his alternate choice of a way in. If he kept to the shadows it was a good bet he would not be noticed. Luck stayed with him and he soon reached the wall overlooking the valley that led to the lowers. No lights shone from any of the buildings across the yard that separated the castle from the rest of the city and no sounds of patrol reached his ears from above. Inside the left flap of his overcoat the assassin withdrew a pair of gloves fitted with what looked like the claws of a large jungle cat. He pulled on the

right and then the left, cinching them down with a cord inset into the cuff of each. The blocks that made up Grisham's Ducal Palace were hewn smooth and made smoother still by the weathering of centuries. Ordinarily, climbing the walls without the help of a rope would prove a fool's errand. The assassin counted on that belief for his success. What looked like claws were actually hardened steel prongs. These bit into the softer mortar between the stone blocks and carefully, seam by seam, he moved up towards the empty guardwalk. A quick survey of the walk showed him nothing except a locked door at each end and some rodent bones where an owl once used the parapet to feed. No sounds came through either door and the only smell on the night's breeze, outside of the subtle background scent of decay from the lowers, was the mustiness of old stone. He kept the grunt of satisfaction to himself as he reached inside the overcoat once more and pulled out a thin glass vial filled with a clear fluid. Unstopping it with care he tapped out a couple of drops onto each of the heavy iron hinges and stood back as they began to bubble and hiss angrily. In a very short while the hinges fell away and he was able to pull the door from the frame and step into the castle. The first room he entered was nothing more than a rest and staging area for guards, one obviously long left untended, by the profusion of crawler webs he saw hanging between the stones. Another door stood in the center of the circular room directly across from the one he'd just ruined. A test of its latches showed it to be unlocked. From within the same interior pocket that produced the acid, he withdrew a small stoppered bulb syringe of clear oil. This he applied to the hinges, a few drops to each, and then waited. After ten heartbeats he tried the door, it swung inward silently. As per his guess, the hallway was empty. The map he acquired from a castle servant more avaricious than loyal, indicated the Duke's living quarters could be reached by following the right hand corridor through three turns and two stairwells. The stairwells would be narrow, meant for the servants’ use. Glancing at the map one more time he followed the corridor, his ear pricked for any sound. His passage remained uneventful through the first turn and partway through the next. One guardsman, old and overweight had the good fortune to be sound asleep as the assassin passed. He remained alive simply because experience had proven it better to leave as few bodies behind as possible. Another one, younger, ambitious and alert was not so lucky. He died wondering about the sudden pain that struck him from behind. The assassin turned to the right after stuffing the guard's body into a nearby closet and stepped into a small alcove. There he found the narrow door that led to the first stairwell.If the map proved true he needed to follow the steps down two floors. A door on the left hand side would access the Duke's suite, and so it was. He came out of the stairwell into an area used for linen storage. Aromatic Cedar paneling filled the room with its scent. Absently he brushed a hand across some of the neatly folded sheets. Duke Bilardi slept well, the cotton weave felt as soft as silk. He paused at the door that would open into the Duke's quarters. Placing an ear to its surface he listened for a few seconds. No sound came to him, either the Duke was away and his time had been wasted or the man was a quiet sleeper. A grunt stopped him as he was opening the door. The Duke's body showed as a silhouette sitting on the edge of his bed. An arm rose with the sound of scratching coming soon after. So the old man was an early riser, or something woke him prematurely. The assassin pulled back into the linen closet bringing the door with him. He left just enough of a gap to watch while his right hand readied the small crossbow. Duke Bilardi stood to his feet and padded across the room to an alcove cut into the far left side. The

assassin waited for a few seconds and then left the cover of the linen closet to silently dash across the bedroom. He flattened himself against the wall just outside the alcove. A whiff of flatulence tiptoed past his nose. So, the old man had his own garderobe. Well, he couldn't think of a more appropriate place for Royalty to die. He checked the tension on his crossbow once more and turned into the opening. “Go away, can't you see I'm sleeping?” Captain Bilardi pulled his pillow tighter around his head to smother the sound of that insistent ringing. The bell continued to ring and suddenly the Captain shot bolt upright. His father's alarm, that was his father's alarm! Throwing off the covers he grabbed a robe and struggled into it as he ran down the hallway to the Duke's apartments. The guards at the entry doors pulled them aside as he approached at a dead run. “Father! Father! Where are you? Are you all right? Father!” The Captain rushed from door to door within the Ducal residence as he frantically searched for his father's whereabouts. A faint sound, more of a whimper than a groan pulled him away from the balcony and back into the master bedroom. “Father!” The Duke was nowhere to be seen. Bilardi dropped to his knees and pulled back the coverings to peer under the bed. A few dust bunnies looked back but that was all. “Father!” He looked behind each curtain and in the small study off the bedroom. The sound had to have come from within this part of the suite. Holding back the yell of frustration that was welling up in his throat, Captain Bilardi rotated slowly in the center of the room looking for some sign that would help his search. There, the door to his father's linen closet was slightly ajar. It took three quick steps to cross the space from where he stood and less time to jerk the door fully open. To his utter disappointment all he saw was stacked linens. “Father! Where are you?” There, another groan, “Father, I'm here, call out once more if you can. I'm here.” His answer came from his right. He looked carefully and slapped his forehead, “Fool! Gnomic fool, the garderobe, why didn't I check it the first time?” Duke Bilardi sat where the assassin left him, slumped against the backrest of his private potty with a crossbow quill protruding from his upper left chest. He looked up, using only his eyes, as the Captain came into the room, “It ... looks ... like you may be a little late lad.” **** Adam woke to the sound of shouting. He was sleeping in the officer's quarters. Sirena Culperti upon hearing he and Thaylli weren't bonded had insisted the girl use the extra room in the Colonel's quarters, where she could keep an eye on her. He rose up onto an elbow and called to the orderly rushing past his door, “What's going on, are we under attack?” The orderly skid to a stop and turned to face Adam, who now stood in the hallway draped in his blanket, “No milord Lieutenant, nuthin like that, leastways I don't think so. Summat's happened to the Duke, milord. They says he's been kilt, kilt dead!” “What?”

“It's like I said milord,” The orderly knuckled his brow, “Kilt dead.” He edged closer and whispered excitedly, “I heard he was stuck full of arrows. Looked like a hedgehog he did.” “You saw this?” Adam stepped back a ways, the fellow's personal sanitation was less than pleasant. The orderly shook his head, “Oh no, milord. Like I says, I just been told so.” Adam left the orderly to his duties and hurriedly dressed. Outside the quarters the parade ground was quickly being filled with other men and officers also recently awakened. Off to his right a Captain and a wizened Corporal held a whispered conversation. “I tell ‘e Cap'n, it's true. Somehow this bugger got into the Castle without raisin’ so much as a cat's whisker. Dropped one of the guards an’ stuffed him into a closet, an’ then did his business w’ the Duke. Left his nibs sittin’ on the pot he did. That's where the Son found him, sittin’ on the pot with an arrow in his chest.” “And it was confirmed the Duke was dead?” The old Corporal scratched a grizzled cheek, “Hmm, that I don't rightly know, Cap'n. Didn't hear that, an’ the one what told me was there, helped the Son move his nibs onto the bed, he did. I guess he woulda noticed iffn the old man weren't breathin'.” “Yes, I suppose so,” The Captain nodded as he stroked his chin. He caught Adam out of the corner of his eye, “Did you hear any of this Lieutenant?” Adam stepped off of the porch and onto the playground wishing he'd thought to put on an overcoat. The night air held a distinct chill. “Some of it. Captain Bilardi's father's been attacked, possibly killed, an orderly said much the same thing inside.” The Captain grunted, seemingly satisfied with Adam's answer. Then the man's eyes traveled to the sword belted at his waist and widened slightly, “You're the one who's spent some time recently with the Guard Captain aren't you?” Adam nodded. That got him another grunt, “Good, if this is an attack rather than an assassination they'll need someone up there who can handle themselves with a blade, from what I hear, you'll do.” He scribbled something onto a notepad he pulled from his breast pocket and thrust it at Adam. “Here, take this, show it to those at the guard entrance, they'll let you pass. Get to Captain Bilardi as quickly as possible. If the worst has happened, he's the new Duke and there's some in this town who won't like that. They may try to take advantage of the chaos to remedy the situation.” Adam saluted, slapping his right fist over his heart and then headed in the direction of the guard entrance to the castle. The guard at the door took the proffered note and glanced at it, “Whatta you want me to do with this?” Adam blinked, “Did you read it?” There was enough of a hesitation to tell Adam the next words out of the guard's mouth would be a lie, “I read it, whatta you think I am, a gnomic?”

“If I'm still standing here you must be,” Adam loosened the sword in its scabbard, “That note tells you to let me pass as quickly as possible. Why am I still on this side of the door?” The guard looked at the note again, this time holding it up before his eyes, “Is that what it says?” He murmured half under his breath. “Do you really want Captain Bilardi finding out you kept me here when I was supposed to be at his side?” Adam clicked the sword against the scabbard a couple of times for emphasis. “Huh,” The guard peered over the note at Adam, “The Captain you say?” He stepped aside giving Adam access to the door. “Pass Lieutenant, pass. You'll tell milord Captain I let you in right quick if he asks, won't you Lieutenant?” “Of course I will, you've been a prince among men,” Adam muttered to himself as he passed. The stair to his right took Adam to the second floor and another guard. This one was better bred than the last and with a brief glance at the note waved him on. On the third floor he was directed down a long corridor to another stair. This one would lead to the Ducal apartments. Part of the way there he felt the magik kick in. Adam had almost forgotten about it, what with Thaylli's job, the Culperti's insisting she stay with them and dealing with the vagaries of learning what it was to be a commissioned officer in Grisham's guard. He stopped short and cast about with his Wizard's sense in the way that Milward taught him. Nothing threatening seemed to be in the castle. He exerted more power, enough to the point where he could even sense the mice moving through the dungeons. Lessons from the past taught him to listen when the magik spoke, but this time he was at a loss to what was being said. Probably something to do with that flaming prophecy, he thought, as he took the stairs to Duke Bilardi's apartments. His other thought was how Thaylli would react to his use of language. Living in the barracks had salted his tongue a bit. Adam felt it made him more dashing, in spite of Thaylli's disapproval, somewhat like Ethan, that drunken watchman he and Charity met outside of Silgert. The man had proved to be much more than a common drunk, he was the one person who'd beaten him in a fencing match. He wondered about the man now and then. More guards were at the top of the stairs and a beehive of activity sent its clamor out of the double doors leading into the apartments proper. The burly Sergeant wasn't about to let him pass, note or no, “I'm right sorry m'lad, but it's me head iffn ye turn out to be another one o’ them assassins, ‘er an Ortian in disguise. The Cap'n hisself is gonna hafta say iffn ye get in, ‘er not.” “But I'm here to make sure he stays safe.” The Sergeant folded arms the size of Adam's thighs across his chest, “So ye says. I've sent one ‘a me men to fetch his Lordship. He'll set me to rights iffn I'm wrong.” Captain Bilardi came out of the rooms with his eyes fixed on the floor. He only looked up after the guardsman prompted him to do so. His eyes looked hollow and dark circles beneath each of them added to his haunted appearance. At first he appeared not to recognize Adam, then his face brightened and he straightened out of his slouch, “What are you doing keeping him out there? Let that man through—at once!” He bellowed the last two words.

“Adam,” Bilardi took him by the arm as soon as he passed by the guards, “Thank Bardoc you're here. I would have sent for you, but with all what's happened...” His voice trailed off. “They said someone killed your father,” Adam tried to keep his voice even. The Captain looked as if he was walking a razor's edge with exhaustion waiting on either side. “Tried, Adam, tried,” Bilardi shook his head, “and it looks as if their attempt may yet succeed. The bolt took him in the chest, deeply. The physic's a good man but I fear this may be beyond his skill. He says even the attempt to find where the blood is coming from will kill my father, but if we don't try...” His voice trailed off again. They walked into the room where the Duke lay. How small the old man looked against the bed struck Adam. His skin was nearly the same shade as the sheets. Rasping breaths came slowly one after another. Off to the left of the huge bed another old man fussed with several small beakers and vials. A pungent smell, redolent with herbs, came from them. Bilardi quickened his steps to his father's side, “Father,” he whispered, “I'm still here. Can you hear me, Father?” Adam joined the Captain and gazed down on the old Duke. He looked even worse up close. The wound had an ugly color to it and black blood seeped from the ragged edges. Duke Bilardi stirred and his breath quickened briefly, then he relaxed further, seeming to sink into the bedclothes. The physic turned from his mixings holding a vial of something dark. He forced one of the Duke's eyes open with a thumb and forefinger and nodded, “He'll be gone soon. That last bit was him slipping into a coma. If you've any rituals you want performed I'd suggest seeing to them now.” “Yes, I suppose I'd best do that,” Captain Bilardi turned his head to look up at Adam, “Will you stay with him Adam? If he dies before I get back with the priest I don't want him dying alone.” “Yes, of course I will,” Adam nodded gravely. He looked back down upon the Duke as the old man's son left the bedroom with the physic on his heels. The thin chest rose and fell slowly.At least he doesn't seem to be fighting for every breath now , he thought. Then another thought crept in, one about the Elf Fireshaper he battled on the journey from Access to Grisham. Maybe this was why the magik started up. He had a hard time believing his powers had a mind of their own. It was more likely that somewhere deep within his mind he knew more than he realized and it was in those times the magik was used. A glance over his shoulder showed the parlor outside the bedroom to be empty. Now was his chance. He focused on the wound in the Duke's chest, trusting the magik to shape itself into what was needed but leaving a bit set aside so that he could get out if necessary. It would not be good to have a repetition of what happened with the Fireshaper, where the shaping would not turn off. He would have died if Milward had not been there to save him. That thought stopped him in his tracks. Why did he dwell on that incident just now? The fight with Milward over his accepting Bilardi's commission had split their friendship, with Adam stalking out of the inn taking Thaylli with him. For a long period he'd nursed a simmering resentment towards his mentor, but now he wished the cranky old Wizard was here with him.

Where are you Milward?He sent the thought winging out into the ether with a pulse of power as he extended his Wizard's sense over the City. The pulse vanished as quickly as it was sent and his sense returned empty handed. Milward was no longer in Grisham. He wasn't even any where near Grisham. A shudder from Duke Bilardi brought him out of his reverie and back to the task at hand. He glanced over his shoulder once more. The parlor room was still empty but he could hear voices in the hallway beyond. There was little time left if he was going to do this. He quickly reestablished the magik's focus on the wound in Bilardi's chest. An image of corruption along with torn vessels coalesced in his mind's eye. Holding a part of the magik aside just in case, he released the shaping to do whatever it would for the old Duke. The old man's eyes opened as his back arched upwards off the bed. He gasped, but not in pain and both of his hands grasped the bedclothes tightly enough to turn the knuckles white. More gasps came as the spasm continued and Adam's shaping worked its magik. Already loose, the dressing fell away revealing the wound. Adam saw the flow of blood reverse direction and begin to draw back into the Duke's body. As the last drop disappeared into the wound, its edges began to lighten and knit together as if time itself was running backwards. The Duke continued to twitch for several seconds after the shaping ended and then he relaxed, closed his eyes, and began to snore. Adam gently pulled the covers up to the old Duke's chin. “My father, is he still alive?” Captain Bilardi rushed back into the room followed by Magister Mallien, a grossly fat man dressed in highly ornate priestly robes. Adam stepped away from the edge of the bed, “Dead men don't snore, do they?” Bilardi did a classic double take between Adam and his father, “He's snoring? He's snoring, listen to that, he's snoring!” The shear joy on the Captain's face was revealing. He turned to the Priest while keeping a hand on his father's shoulder. “You're no longer needed here Magister. I apologize for pulling you from your bed, but as you can see he seems to have recovered.” “But you said he...” Mallien's mouth snapped shut and then he shot a suspicious glance in Adam's direction as if to say,what do you know about this that you aren't telling? The High Priest gathered his robes about him and turned to leave the Duke's bedroom. As he reached the door he looked over his shoulder and glared at Adam, “Something happened here tonight, Captain, I will find out about it, eventually. We'll speak of this later, good night.” He waddled out of the apartments without another word. Captain Bilardi chewed his lip for several seconds while he watched his father sleeping. He reached down, pulled a corner of the covers back and fingered the spot where the wound once lay festering, “Something did happen here,” he said quietly, “like at the market square. We've been treated to a miracle.” “You've made a powerful enemy tonight Adam,” The Captain didn't take his eyes off his father while he spoke. “I don't believe you meant to, but it happened anyway. Magister Mallien isn't a man who forgets insults, intentioned or otherwise, and he has his own agents to mete out his particular brand of justice.” “I can take care of myself,” Adam shrugged.

“I'm quite sure you can,” Captain Bilardi's mouth twitched, “It's not exactlyyour skin I'd be concerned about but those you care for.” Adam started, “Do you mean he'd harm Thaylli, or the Culperti's?” The Captain sighed, “And my father wouldn't lift a hand to stop him. You have to understand something Adam. Grisham is a political animal as much as it is a city. The Priesthood is a power unto itself within the city. My father controls the military and he does carry some influence among the merchants as well, but only in some matters. There is a Grand Council meeting now and then when something particularly nasty occurs, but that doesn't happen too often.” “What about the war?” Adam thought that at least should have raised some eyebrows. “Yes, there is that, isn't there?” Bilardi's chuckle held a bitter tone. “You don't have the heart of a politician Adam. You're neither selfish nor corrupt enough. According to the Priesthood the war is entirely a military affair and none of their concern. The merchant's council expects the guard and the city wall to protect their interests. Remember this period, Adam, this is the first time they and the Priesthood have agreed in recent history. They both want the military to solve their little problem.” Adam crossed his arms, “I don't consider war alittle problem.” “No sane person does,” Bilardi sniffed. “What are you going to do about Mallien?” “I don't know, keep my eyes and ears open I guess.” “I'll help,” Bilardi moved away from his father's bedside and into the parlor. “It looks as if my father will rest well enough on his own,” he said as an aside, “I can have a number of guardsmen take turns in visiting your girl's pub. If any of the Magister's people try something at least they'll have a nasty reception.” Adam showed his relief, “Thank you Captain. I appreciate that.” Bilardi shrugged, “Consider it a favor for a friend.” “Can I ask a personal question?” Adam sat in one of the large parlor chairs. Healing the Duke had taken a lot of energy and fatigue was setting in. “Go ahead,” Bilardi sat in a chair opposite Adam, “I'd have thought we'd reached a point where you wouldn't think to ask.” Adam grimaced, “Sorry, it's how I was raised. My question's about Mallien.” “Oh, are you planning something already?” The Captain seemed inordinately pleased at the idea. “No, that's not why I asked,” Adam smiled to ease the negation. “What I wanted to know was if you feel about the High Priest the way I think you do, why invite him to be the one to handle your father's passing? Why not one you liked?” “The answer to that is easy,” Bilardi toyed with a button on the arm of his chair. “I wanted the pleasure of waking Magister Mallien out of a sound sleep for a reason he couldn't refuse. When he got here and

found out it was all for nothing, well that was just that much more icing on the cake,” he chuckled. “Captain, you have a wicked sense of humor.” “Yes, I do don't I?” Chapter Fourteen

Flynn tossed the body onto the pyre and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve, “That's the last of ‘em. The buzzards are gonna hafta move on somewhere else to eat now.” “Three companies, gone just like that. How did it happen?” Charity surveyed the remains of the battlefield one more time. “Don't know ‘bout the others Miss Charity, but we was caught flat-footed an’ out in the open by their bowmen,” Flynn undid the top of his canteen and downed a good swallow of water, “It was just lucky Neely an’ me was close to them boulders.” Neely spat, “Luck is right, th’ first wave took out more'n half th’ men. Whoever's leadin’ those States bastards is doin’ a right tight job of it, I'll say that for ‘em.” “It's not a man,” Circumstance spoke up from where he knelt by a large rock spattered with brown stains. “What's that?” Charity looked down at the boy. Even since his miraculous dash through the attackers back at the Ortian base she had kept him close to her. He seemed more than willing to oblige her obsession. “It's not a man,” He repeated. “The one leading them, it's not an Elf or a Dwarf either, I don't know what it is, but it's not a man.” “You sure about that boy?” Neely asked. Circumstance nodded, “I'm sure. It doesn't smell right and the magik is telling me a name but I don't understand it.” Flynn looked confused. Neely made a warding sign. “What's he talkin’ about Miss Charity?” Flynn looked from the boy to his mistress. She sighed, “I guess it may as well be out in the open. Circumstance told me something of this back in the camp. There are times when heknows things and there are times when he can do things, magical things. He doesn't know why, but he has learned to listen. I think he's becoming a Wizard like my brother. You both saw what he did to those soldiers attacking us. All he did was point at them. He told me early on how he started a cook fire by just wanting it.” “I was hungry,” Circumstance broke in, “and Ethan was taking an awful long time at it.” Neely swallowed, “I told you a while back magik makes me nervous Charity.” He held up a hand as she opened her mouth, “An’ I remember what you said about your brother. A man can change a whole lotta things about hisself iffn he tries. Hells balls, I like to fish now, an’ ridin’ a horse is a lot whole better'n

walkin'.” “But?” “Ain't no but, I'm just tellin’ you an’ Circumstance here not to take offense iffn I look a bit shaky when he does somethin'. Learnin’ to ride an’ fish is one thing, getting’ your nerves switched around is somethin’ else altogether.” Neely relaxed into a slouch as he grinned at the two of them. Flynn looked over at the assembled stack of wood, “I wish I'd knowd about this earlier,” He said, shaking his head. “Why?” Charity asked. Flynn smiled as he waved at the now fully engulfed pyre, “Cause we woulda gotten this thing burnin’ a whole lot easier. My hands is near worn to a stub with all that stick spinnin’ I had ta do.” He chuckled and rubbed the top of the boy's head, “You do what feels natcheral to you lad. Me an’ Neely, we learned a bit about listenin’ a while back usselves,” He winked at Charity, who blushed pinkly. “Well, we may as well be movin’ on. I don't know about the rest of you but my nose could use better smellin’ air right about now,” Neely brushed off his hands and began fitting his arms through the straps of his pack. “How far to Grisham from here?” Charity picked up her own pack and shouldered it. Flynn shaded his eyes as he looked off into the eastern distance, “Don't rightly know, d'you Neely?” “A good month's walk, iffn we don't run into any raidin’ parties or more press gangs lookin’ for eager troops, say about six weeks. We'll not be takin’ a straight route, you can be sure of that.” Neely sniffed the air, “C'mon, let's put a few miles ‘tween us an’ that stinkin’ pyre, ok?” They skirted the rock outcrop from where the original ambush had come and began making good time on the gentle down slope that would eventually lead to Labad's highway. The moon was already high when Charity decided she'd ridden far enough and called a halt. The cat took that as an opportunity to jump into the sward and do some hunting. While the others rested their mounts Neely left the group for a while and scouted around until he found a source of water; a small spring fed creek cutting its way through the rocky soil. A few scrub Oak and Alders grew nearby for both firewood and a place to picket the horses. Once camp was set they got a fire going. Flynn did the work, because for reasons he kept to himself, Circumstance would not use his magik to do it. The big man did not feel put out, “The boy's got his own mind, it don't bother me none. ‘Sides, he's fetchin’ the water, ain't he?” Neely's old mare whickered as Circumstance came into the firelight carrying a leather bucket, “There's fish in the creek, Trout, I think.” “Fish?” The tracker's eyes brightened, “Them Alder branches'd make a passable pole wouldn't they Flynn?” “Hafta find some bait. Trout like worms'n bugs best,” Flynn worked his beard with his right hand, “Y'see any downed logs in them trees?”

Charity frowned, “It's late for fishing, but if you two think you can catch anything go ahead. I'll get some tisane brewing and Circumstance can see after the horses.” “Can I help them fish when I'm done?” The boy asked. “I'll cut an’ string another pole.” Neely stood and stretched, his joints popping and crackling, “C'mon Flynn, let's catch us some supper.” “I can taste it already.” Circumstance ran to tend the horses while Flynn and Neely ambled over to the Alder stand. Charity's tisane was just beginning to give off its familiar fruity aroma when she heard the first whoop of excitement from the creek side. Smiling to herself she began arranging the fire in preparation for the feast to come. An hour later the three of them came back, triumphant, bearing enough of the speckled brown trout to feed them all, including Flynn. Come dawn they were already several miles east of the creek and into the downs west of Labad's Highway. Overhead the sky had become a lowering gray with the promise of rain heavy in its clouds. A fine mist permeated the air and dampened everything. Charity pulled her cloak tighter about her and urged the mare forward up the next rise. The cat, choosing a more protected spot than the back of the saddle, poked her head out from behind the cloak and complained loudly about the weather. “I know how you feel,” Charity murmured and then she stopped short, “Sweet Bardoc, no.” Spread out across the plain below was a seething mass of black specks. From her vantage Point it looked like ants boiling out of a disturbed nest. Faint echoes reached her ears; the mix of sounds was the stuff of nightmare. Flynn pulled up alongside of her left and Neely took the right, Circumstance sat astride behind him. The big redhead took off his floppy cloth cap and scratched the back of his head, “Well, looks like we found us the war.” **** Thaylli ducked the wet towel as she snatched it out of the air, laughing, “You'll have to do better than that Ionae. You throw like a girl.” “That because Iam a girl,” Ionae hunched her shoulders and wiggled the appropriate bits. “So, that's how you got your man is it?” Fainnelle, head of the pub's kitchen grinned broadly revealing a wide gap in her smile as she dried her hands from the washing, “Bardoc knows you'd never catch one with your cooking.” “Cooking isn't everything,” Ionae sniffed, “There're more ways to warm up a man ‘sides filling his belly.” A tittering laugh followed Ionea's opinion and Jeini, Fainnelle's daughter, crossed the kitchen to poke the girl's developing tummy, “Seems you're the one what's got her belly filled. Is that your man's work or have you been sneakin’ some of his nib's sausage an’ mash?” “Jeini! You mind your tongue girl. You've got a couple o’ years yet afore such things need to be in your

head,” Fainnelle's face showed more tolerance than her words as she flicked her towel at the girl. “What are you...?” Thaylli looked from Fainnelle to Ionea's belly and realization washed across her face, “Is that a baby in there? You're pregnant? How did it happen?” Ionea giggled, pink coloring her cheeks, “What do you mean how did it happen? Same way all baby's happen...” She caught Jeini's eager look. “You know,” She said in a stage whisper. Fainnelle noticed Thaylli looked a combination of confused and disturbed as the girl's eyes traveled to each of them before she dropped them to the floor. Being the oldest in the room, Fainnelle gathered up her daughter and Ionea and pushed through the swinging door into the pubs gathering room, “You two've caused enough trouble for one day, get out there and see to the cleanin'. There's nobbut an hour or so before openin's here an’ the Gaffer don't like a messy place, come on get to it.” Jeini and Ionea moved into the room whispering excitedly with their heads together. Fainnelle watched until she was sure the two girls were well away from the door and then turned back to Thaylli. She leaned back against the sink and crossed her arms below her breasts, “Ok girl, tell me about it.” “I ... I don't know what you mean,” Thaylli stammered. “Oh you know girl, you're just ashamed to say, and that's all. Well don't you worry ‘bout that. I raised three of your kind, Jeini bein’ the last an’ all of ‘em grew up knowin’ their way about a home an’ a bed.” “That's just it,” A tear started at Thaylli's eye, “I'm grown, and I don't know. My mother had both my older brothers by the time she was my age and I don't even know what caused it. She never told me.” Fainnelle took the sobbing girl to her bosom and rubbed the back of Thaylli's head. “There, there child, I suppose your momma was just waitin’ for the proper time to tell you that's all.” “I didn't give her a chance, I ran off in the middle of the night going after Adam,” Thaylli sniffed. “Adam?” Fainnelle looked down at the girl as she comforted her, “Isn't that the name of that handsome young Lieutenant, the one who comes in here now and then, the friend of the Duke's son?” Thaylli nodded, her face buried into the folds of Fainnelle's top, “Yes, that's the one.” “He looks a lusty one. Surely he's...” “No, he hasn't, we've snuggled and kissed, but when I try to let him know I want to do more,” Thaylli paused, “I don't think either of us really knows.” “Well I'll be...” Fainnelle pushed Thaylli out to arms’ length and held the girl's eyes with her own, “Listen here, girl, men come in all shapes, sizes and colors just like any other animal. They just happen to be a bit more useful than the others, that's all. Your man looks to one of those who needs a touch of coaxin’ in the right direction. How long you two been together? You jump the swords yet?” Thaylli sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve, “Sirena Culperti wants us to have the ceremony on the next full moon. She says it means a large family. We've been together for nearly three seasons, a year this coming winter.”

Fainnelle released Thaylli's arms and nodded. Then she walked over to a cupboard next to the pantry door and pulled out a bottle. She placed the bottle into Thaylli's hands, “Sirena Culperti would have us all wearin’ churchman's robes if she had her way. You put a drop or two of this in the lad's drink next time you get a chance. Just be sure you tell me how things went afterwards, ok?” She chuckled and patted Thaylli's cheek. “You an’ he been together long enough to already be considered tied in most places I know of. I expect to see that belly near to burstin’ come next spring.” Thaylli looked down where Fainnelle pointed and felt the heat of her blush spread across her face. The older woman chuckled again, but what she may have said was lost when Jeini burst into the kitchen with, “There's fighting right outside the gates! The war's here, now!” **** Men surged against each other with the clash of weapons echoing beneath the leaden sky. The screams of agony and yells of rage broke against the city wall like angry ocean waves. A space equaling that of two bowshots, about two thirds of a mile, separated the battle from the city wall. Two men watched from the Siegewalk, a protected track running along the entire length of Grisham's outer wall, shored up from below to allow it to bear the weight of both men and armaments. “They seem to be pushing them back,” Adam remarked to Bilardi upon witnessing a concerted surge of the Grisham army. “Only temporarily I'm afraid, see those gray humps on the far backside of the Southern forces?” The Captain pointed over the seething battle to a line of what appeared to be grayish hills on the horizon. His voice held a noticeable tone of concern. Adam squinted and looked to where Bilardi pointed, “I see them.” “Those are elfonts, great plodding beasts with hides like armor and teeth as long as a hay wagon. They'll be moved to the front soon and then we'll have to sound the recall before all our men are trampled.” Bilardi shook his head, “What was my father thinking?” Adam turned away from watching the battle to face Bilardi. “What was that?” “This damned war is my father's idea. I have no love for the Southerners, but this,” He indicated the massed armies with a sweep of his hand, “Look at that, the bastards must have been breeding like rabbits for centuries. If they get inside the city...” “I remember what you told me back in the inn.” Adam leaned his back against the wall of the Siegewalk, “Some of it I still find a bit hard to believe—sacrificing their babies? Grant me a little common sense.” Bilardi sighed and sank back against the other wall, “I suppose that part was slightly exaggerated, but I still have good reason for distrusting the Southerners.” “Go on, tell me about it,” Adam crossed his arms and waited. “Ok, more than slightly exaggerated. I really know very little about them, nobody does, but I do know one thing. They're the cause of my father's madness and it's because of what they did to him that we're facing that out there.”

“What did they do?” Adam's curiosity was peaked. The Captain grimaced. “I was little more than a toddler at the time, but I remember the shouting and I remember the rants that came afterwards for years. It took more than a decade to where just the mention of it wouldn't send father into a rage. It had something to do with a gold shipment sent to Ort as part of the beginning of setting up a common market between the North and the South.” “Sounds like a good idea. What happened?” “The fellow leading the merchant train happened. He claimed the gold was nothing more than lead counterfeits dipped in gold and the Southerners took that opportunity to confiscate the entire shipment, over forty million golds worth. Grisham nearly went bankrupt, the merchants threatened to withhold their tax payments, and there was nothing my father could do about it but plead for patience. The humiliation is what did it. It pushed him over the edge. All he's desired since then is revenge against that thief of an Emperor. Well, he's got his revenge, and now we've got his war.” Adam was about to ask another question when Corporal McKenit rushed onto the siegewalk from below, “Sappers m'lord. The enemy's got ‘em diggin’ tunnels, tryin’ to get under our walls.” Bilardi snorted. “I thought as much. The attempt will do them little good. Unless they've a way to tunnel through solid rock that's faster than picks and shovels Corporal I wouldn't worry about it.” “That's the trouble m'lord, they do.” “What?” Bilardi straightened from his slouch, “Give me details McKenit and be quick about it!” The old Corporal swallowed, “S'gotta be magik m'lord cap'n. Ain't no other way fer ‘em t'do what they been doin'. Yer da's been right all along, them Southerners got to be in league with the pit,” McKenit made a warding sign as if the mere mention of the place of evil was enough to bring its attention toward him. “Whathave they been doing McKenit? That's what I want to know,” Bilardi took the old Corporal by his lapels and shook him. “I dunno m'lord. They say the Southerners got a feller what points at the ground and makes a hole. Not a real big one, but big enough for a coupla soldiers to crawl through for a few feet. The fellow what told me said he saw it, afore he died,” McKenit's voice bobbled through the shaking. “An Earth Shaper.” “What?” Bilardi turned at Adam's mutter. “Something Milward the Wizard taught me,” Adam's eyes took on an unfocused look as he spoke, “Below the levels of Wizard and Sorcerer are those who can use just one aspect of what makes up magik. An Earth Shaper is one of them, but this one doesn't sound very powerful.” Bilardi tugged at his lower lip, “I'd forgotten about that old Wizard you came into town with, this may be useful. Can you duplicate any of his tricks?” “I'm not a Wizard Captain, just a humble swordsman,” Adam did not look at Bilardi as he answered.

The lie burned in his gut even as he felt relief at Bilardi missing the clues Milward had dropped during their argument in front of the Captain. He received a solid clap on the shoulder, “Well, you may not wear a robe and carry a staff, but by Bardoc what you do with that sword should be called magik. Come on, let's go see what can be done about these Earth Shapers of McKenit's. Corporal?” “This way Cap'n,” McKenit pivoted sharply on his heel and headed to the ladder. Adam and Bilardi followed the Corporal past the levels hidden inside Grisham's wall and through one of the specially reinforced doors leading to the outside. This one opened onto an area partially shielded from the fighting by a series of low downs to the west of Labad's highway.A dozen men followed them. Even with the buffer of the downs they could hear that the fighting was nearer. Ort's army outnumbered Grisham's by more than ten to one. In addition, they had the elfonts. McKenit pointed to the right, away from the city's main gates, “It were over there m'lord Cap'n, ‘bout a good quarter mile from the wall. See that rise what hides Willer Creek? Our men run into a patrol by the creek. The Southerners was duckin’ into the hole their magik man done made.” “Shaper,” Adam corrected the Corporal. “What their Shaper made,” McKenit lowered his arm, “How're we gonna stop ‘em Cap'n? They gotta be half way or more to the wall by now.” “By hitting them when they're not looking Corporal.” Bilardi turned to face the men and divided them in two parties, sending six with Adam to circle the rise from the north and taking the other six along with the ever loyal McKenit around the south side. This move put greater space between them and the main battle, pushing its sound into the background to where it sounded like some angry beast growling and gnashing its teeth in the distance. Adam and his party encountered bog land part of the way around and had to move to higher ground in order to prevent themselves from becoming mired in the stuff. As they neared the place where Willow Creek cut through the downs he could hear the whispered conversation of the Ortian Soldiers. “How much further?” “A quarter mile at least, The magik worker complains the ground here is tough, too tough to move quickly, says he's getting tired.” “Tired is better than dead, tell him that. I'm not sure we got all of that scouting party. The enemy could be sending men out to see what we're doing at any time. Tell him that too.” The voices faded to incomprehensible mumbles and Adam waved his men to a halt as he inched forward through the long grass. He could use the power to spy on the Ortians but there was a possibility he'd be sensed by their shaper and lose the advantage of surprise. Parting the grass he saw six men standing around a ditch leading down into the hillock on the backside of the rise he had just circled. The ditch looked like it had been dug haphazardly. Adam snorted to himself. Milward would have been scandalized at such slipshod work. The Ortians must have been pushing their shaper from the beginning to do his job as quickly as possible. They probably didn't know about the price of shaping.The poor wretch must be completely exhausted by now, he thought.

A movement beyond the southern soldiers caught Adam's eye. Bilardi was waving at him. Using crude hand signals the Captain indicated they were to attack together, putting the Ortians between the two jaws of a pincer movement. Adam relayed the orders to his men and then drew his sword as quietly as possible. Looking back across to where Captain Bilardi crouched, he waited until the Captain caught his eye and nodded. Bilardi raised his hand, dropped it in a chopping motion and then charged down the slope towards the thoroughly startled southern soldiers. Adam and his men rushed down the other slope a mere heartbeat behind. The Ortian officer barely managed to raise his own weapon before Bilardi reached him. Their swords met with a ring of tempered steel. Adam cut through his first opponent without breaking stride and had engaged the second by the time the rest of his men spread out to join the battle. Three more southerners came out of the shaper's tunnel but in spite of their added swords they were still outnumbered two to one. By the time the last of them had thrown down his weapon half their number lay dead or dying. The officer stood off to the side glowering and cradling his now useless sword arm. The rest huddled together, two of them nursing minor wounds under the watchful eyes of the Grisham guardsmen. Bilardi nodded to himself, satisfied with the results of his stratagem. He tapped Corporal McKenit on the hip with the flat of his sword, “See to that cut McKenit and then help Doward there.” The surprise had been so complete only the aging Corporal and Doward, a green recruit, suffered any damage at all; the Corporal, a slash across the back of his left hand and Doward, a pink under his right ear. “Adam, do you think we're in any danger from that Shaper of theirs?” Bilardi finished wiping his sword and placed it back into its scabbard. “No,” Adam walked over to the groove and peered into the dark mouth of the tunnel. It was roughly three feet across in both directions. The walls showed the partial gloss of how they were formed. “By now he's got to be drained. Milward said shaping can take a lot out of you and from the looks of his work, this one wasn't too strong to begin with.” Corporal McKenit started and looked up from his patching of Doward's wound. “Not too strong? The man's dug a tunnel in a few hours where it'd taken four dozen men to do the same in months.” “That's the difference between men's muscles and magik, Corporal. If there's going to be more of these shapers involved in this war I'd suggest we remember that.” Bilardi bent and looked into the tunnel himself, “How do we get him out without killing him?” “Why worry about that Cap'n? Man's an enemy, better off dead.” McKenit pointed at the prisoners with his chin, “Should do the same with them.” “You do that, Corporal McKenit, and you'll force me to defend them.” Adam walked over and stood in front of McKenit, fingering the hilt of his sword.” One of the things I've read about since becoming an officer in this Guard is that there are rules to war. One of them is the duty of the victor regarding the care of his prisoners. I'd be forced to see that they remained unmolested. How's your sword arm feeling, Corporal?” McKenit sent an appealing look to his Captain, “M'lord?” Bilardi shrugged, “You want to take him on?”

“Well, Corporal?” Adam leaned forward, one arm resting on his knee, and stared into McKenit's eyes.. The older man's gaze shifted to Bilardi and then he gulped, “Uh, mayhaps I spoke a bit hastily, you think?” Bilardi put his hands in between Adam and the Corporal and forced them apart, “I think the Corporal sees the logic of your argument, Lieutenant. Shall we return to my question of the fellow who's somewhere deep in that tunnel he's dug? We can't leave him in there and there's a possibility he may be of use to us. That's why I don't want to kill him McKenit.” The Corporal grunted and then nodded, “Good thinkin', I reckon that's why you're the Cap'n, Cap'n.” “Thank you Corporal. The other problem we have is the tunnel itself. I don't relish the idea of an open backdoor leading into Grisham, even if we weren't at war.” Bilardi crossed his arms in front of his chest and considered. Adam looked into the mouth of the tunnel once more. If the Earth Shaper was exhausted enough there was a better than even chance he wouldn't know someone else was working magik near him. He decided to take the chance and reached out with his Wizard's sense. The shaper lay at the end of the tunnel, about twenty yards from Grisham's wall. The man was nearly drained. Adam pushed a little deeper. More than drained, it would be weeks before the Shaper would be able to move a pebble much less go about the business of filling in the tunnel. He straightened and moved over to sit on the edge of the ditch. Captain Bilardi sat next to him, “You have an idea?” “I think so, but it means me going into the tunnel.” “By yourself?” “I don't think anyone who could fit next to me would be able to help.” Adam said, shaking his head. Bilardi bent and looked at the tunnel, “You're probably right. I do hope you're going to keep that blade of yours out in front of you as you go in.” He looked back at Adam, “You are, aren't you?” Adam drew the sword, “Of course.” “McKenit, take a man and check on the battle.” Bilardi turned to Adam after the Corporal picked one of the guardsmen and dogtrotted around the rise, “We may as well see if there is still a clear path to the gate, don't you think?” Adam nodded and stood up, “That's a good idea. I'd rather not have to fight my way back to dinner.” Bilardi grimaced, “You had to mention dinner, didn't you?” “Just don't let your stomach tell the Ortains where we are,” Adam ducked into the tunnel with the sword held out in front to keep the Captain happy, but as the darkness closed around him he resheathed it and continued in on all fours. His Wizard's sense reached out and found the Shaper still where he was before, curled into a ball at the end of the tunnel. There was no dust or loose dirt to be felt in the tunnel. The shaper's power had fused it into a smooth rocky mass; a similar but far less princely effect then when Adam forced an opening into a collapsed coal mine. Then the result was a diamond-lined entrance worth

the ransom of an empire. Another five minutes of crawling brought him to where the Earth Shaper lay. He knew he'd reached the man only by touch and through the use of Wizard sense. The tunnel's end boasted a darkness that was absolute. A small surge of power and his right hand began to glow. Details of the space around him rushed into clarity. The shaper looked to be a small man with dark hair and a sallow complexion. He was dressed in a hooded tunic colored a deep wine with sable leggings. There was no sign of a sword or knife. “Adam,” Someone was calling his name. The length of the tunnel attenuated the sound and he couldn't tell who the caller was by voice only. Though it had to be Bilardi, any of the others would have used his rank instead of his name. “What is it?” He cupped his hands, trying to reduce the echo of the tunnel. There was a pause before the Captain answered and when he did he sounded worried,"Did you find him, is he able to work his magik?” “What's going on?” Bilardi's tone made Adam hesitant to tell him the Ortian wouldn't stir for days, if ever again. There was a longer pause this time, “Ask him if he can finish his tunnel. The southern army has broken our line and they're at the gates. A large number of them could be headed our way. They've cut off our access to the siegewalk. It may be less than an hour.” In less than an hour?Adam's mind whirled. How was he going to pull the Shaper out of his coma? There was no time! “Adam?” Bilardi's voice echoed back down the tunnel. “What?” “I was a bit off in my earlier estimation on when they'd get here.” “How far off?” Come on you, wake up. “Fifteen minutes, maybe less?” Fifteen minutes? That was no time at all! Adam shook the Earth Shaper, “Up, wake up! Oh, it's no use. You're gone so far you'll probably never shape again.” What he just said struck him between the eyes. He was holding the answer in his right hand; shaping. Bilardi and the others didn't need to know who dug the rest of the tunnel, just that it was done. He crawled back along the tunnel for several yards and shouted. “Get in here now! The Shaper has agreed to finish off the tunnel for us. He claims the southerners forced him into this. His real sympathies lie with the north, hurry!” Without waiting to see whether or not he was heard Adam scuttled around on his hands and knees and crawled back to where the southern Shaper lay. He pushed the man behind him and sent his Wizard sense into the rock beyond. Bilardi had been right in his estimation of a normal tunnel maker's chances;

the rock in front of him grew harder and denser as it drew near to Grisham's walls. To make this work he needed to do something different than when he rescued those miners. Just pushing a tube through the rock would disrupt the ground around it. He imagined what the effect of seeing a hump suddenly appearing in the ground above and racing toward the city would do to the men. In addition to that he'd told Bilardi the southern Shaper wasn't very strong. Yes, there would be too many questions if he did it that way, but he also had no time at all to play with considerations. He had a good idea how far the tunnel needed to go so he gathered the power and took a chance. It had to be done smoothly, but he found that using restraint was even more taxing than just letting the shaping fly. As the shaping worked he could see the tunnel extend outward before him. It looked like a pitcher of water being poured into a snow bank and melting a channel for its passage. The rock flowed like wax for an instant and then reformed into new walls along the tunnel's extension. He heard the men crawling into the tunnel behind him so, grabbing the Earth Shaper by his tunic, he moved forward as quickly as his burden and the space permitted. “Lieutenant,” The Corporal called out. “I'm here, I'm moving toward the city, the tunnel's being completed.” “Hope it's finished afore them southerners gets here. The Cap'n sent us all in ahead o’ him. How's that southern Shaper?” Adam could feel sweat building up under his uniform. It trickled into his eyes and stung. The little Shaper was getting heavy. “He's doing fine Corporal. He can't talk right now. Just keep coming.” Finally he could feel the power release as the shaping ate away the last of the bedrock. Voices filtered down into the tunnel ahead. Apparently there'd been witnesses to that magical event. Adam hoped he'd be able to explain enough to avoid any trouble with who may be waiting. The fresh air coming in because of the new opening cooled a lot of the sweat pouring out of his scalp and he dragged the Earth Shaper along the tunnel with renewed vigor. Soon smells mingled in the air, the mustiness of livestock, the slightly sour background aroma of the produce market and the oily acrid odor of weapons, lots of weapons. Corporal McKenit drew close enough that Adam could see his silhouette in the dim light. The older man puffed with the exertion of trying to catch up. His eyes widened when he saw Adam pulling the Shaper along, “What happened, he dead?” “I don't think so,” Adam grunted as he pulled the Shaper into the brighter light streaming down from the tunnel opening. Time for another lie, “He collapsed just as he finished the tunnel.” “Good thing for us, I don't fancy goin’ back out the other end. Must be crawlin’ with southerners by now.” “C"mon Corp, get a move on.” “What's the hold up?” Those and other voices came from behind McKenit as the men bunched up behind him. Regardless of

what may be waiting on the other side of the exit he had to get out of there. Adam released his hold on the Shaper and stood up. Several pairs of hands grabbed his shoulders and yanked him into the daylight, “Filthy souther ... Hey! You ain't a southerner,” The speaker sounded like he'd been cheated. “Lookit ‘is uniform, he's one of us,” This voice came from behind him. “There's more down there, c'mon, let's help ‘em out.” The hands moved Adam to the outside of the crowd. Shortly Corporal McKenit joined him and then, one by one, the other men of the patrol. After a short time he heard Captain Bilardi's voice bark out, “Bring stuff to fill in this hole now! There's southerners down there, hurry damn you, hurry!” Adam pushed back through the crowd to where he could see Bilardi looking into the tunnel. The Captain was waving his arms as if that would speed up the delivery of fill material. “Move it, faster you slugs, I hear them coming!” Adam cocked an ear. He heard nothing but the excited speech of the crowd and the clatter of material being brought to fill in the mouth of the tunnel. “How close were you to being overrun before you got into the tunnel?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the crowd noise. “Not too close, actually,” The Captain looked over at him with a smile. “The last man ducked in just as the first of them topped the rise. We had just enough time to tie up the prisoners.” He flashed a quick grin, “You know, for safety's sake.” Bilardi raised an eyebrow with his next question, “The southern Shaper?” Lying to my friends is getting to be a habit, Adam thought before he answered, “He had just enough strength to get the job done. I don't think he'll be good for much more any time soon.” “Too bad.” The Captain replied. “We could use something like that right now. I don't much like the idea of this thing being filled with just what's at hand.” An idea crept in and niggled at Adam's imagination. He acted on it—surprised that doing so took such a small amount of magik. Captain Bilardi's reaction told him the rest, “Bardoc's Beard! The thing is collapsing in, no, not collapsing, filling. Adam, look at this, do you see that?” Adam worked his way around to where the Captain stood and looked where he pointed. The shaping worked quickly. It was as if what had been done earlier simply reversed direction. Rock that once flowed like melting wax did so again, reshaping itself back into the hard granite of Grisham's foundation. He watched raptly as the tunnel exit smoothly closed and then settled back into the stuff of the street. Bilardi whistled. Many of the watching Grishamites made warning signs. One old woman fainted and fell to the ground uncaught.

Adam straightened and crossed his arms, “I did say the southern Shaper wasn't too strong.” This one wasn't quite a lie. It felt better. Bilardi whistled again, “And to think I crawled through that. If we'd waited much longer...” He trailed off and looked sharply at Adam. Adam's stomach clenched. Did Bilardi suspect? Had his healing of the old Duke finally register in the Captain's mind? “About your advise where magik is concerned Lieutenant,” The Captain's face was stern. Adam swallowed, “Yes?” “Kick me in the backside the next time if it looks like I'm not listening hard enough. By Bardoc, I'm glad you spent some time with that old Wizard,” Bilardi laughed and threw an arm around Adam's shoulder, “Come on let's go visit our favorite pub for a bite.” “But who's going to guard the siegewalk, watch for attack?” Bilardi yawned, “There's something you need to learn, Lieutenant, about being a member of the military. We're a team, there is no such thing as an army of one, and if a man is enough of a fool to believe he is; well, that man will have a very short and violent career. I don't know about you, but I'm going to trust the other officers to watch for a while while I grab a pint and a bite before getting some sleep. You care to join me?” “But it's clear over on the other side of the city.” The Captain looked around as if realizing suddenly where he was, “It is, isn't it? Well, at least we'll have a good appetite when we get there.” Chapter Fifteen

Ellona woke to the sound of crying. For a few seconds she wandered between wondering if it was a dream or reality, then reality flooded in, “Jonas!” She threw off the covers and ran, in her nightshirt only, to the room Jonas shared with his younger sister Sari. The child was sitting up in bed sobbing. Ellona rushed to his side and gathered him into her arms, “Ohh my poor dear, you feel frozen.” “My head hurts mommy, make it stop,” Jonas buried his face into Ellona's bosom as he cried. “Mommy,” Sari raised her head up from her pillow, “is Jonas going to die?” “No dear heart, Jonas is not going to die,” Ellona rocked her son gently while she racked her brain for what to do. She wished Ethan were here. Eventually Jonas fell asleep in her arms but he still felt horribly cold. She carried him to the front room and held him through the night, untill the sun rose over the roofs of the buildings across the street. Sari woke when the sunbeam coming through the window played across her face. She rubbed her eyes

and then turned to see her mother still holding her brother, “Mommy, is Jonas going to die?” Ellona opened her eyes and smiled at her daughter, “You asked me that last night dear heart. No, your brother is going to be all right, I just think he needs some medicine. Will you do mommy a big favor?” The little girl nodded her head solemnly. “Run next door and get Nicoll for me will you? Tell her it's very, very important. Can you do that?” Sari nodded again. Ellona smiled, “Good, go now Sweetings, and hurry back.” Nicoll came into the bedroom with Sari in tow and a frown of concern creasing her forehead. She reached out and felt Jonas’ cheek, “Bardoc help us, the poor child has the chills.” The boy still slept but his breaths came in sharp quick pants and puffs. “The chills,” Ellona looked up at her friend, “I remember hearing about them when I was younger. Are they dangerous?” Nicoll said nothing but turned her eyes toward Sari. Ellona pulled her daughter to her, “Sweetings, will you do mommy another big favor?” “Uh huh.” “Will you go into the big chest in mommy's bedroom and get another quilt for Jonas?” “Uh huh.” “Good, run along now. Just get the first one on top, ok?” “Ok mommy,” Sari scampered down the hall. Ellona watched her daughter until the little girl vanished around the corner and then turned back to face Nicoll, “All right, she's gone, so tell me what you know.” Nicoll dropped her gaze to the hardwood floor. A lot of hard work on Ethan's part had transformed the joined planks into a mellow chestnut expanse. “I've seen maybe a half dozen cases in Berggren since I've lived here. None of them made it past the first week.” She reached out as Ellona's hands flew to her mouth, “But that was years ago, and since then I've heard rumors, rumors of a healer in the hills. They say he can heal most anything, even the chills.” Ellona shook her head, her voice breaking as she fought to keep her composure, “I ... I don't know, after their father died my children became my life. That is until Ethan came, but he's gone off after Circumstance into the wilds. If I lose Jonas ... I don't know what to do, please tell me what to do!” Nicoll took her friend by the shoulders and shook her, “Ellona, keep yourself together. You'll scare Sari and do yourself no good in the bargain. Now, like I said, I've heard rumors and I think it best if we check with Sammel. If anyone knows where to find this healer he will, or at least he'll know of someone who

will.” The question Ellona was going to ask stayed put as Sari came tottering down the hallway nearly engulfed by the bulk of the quilt she carried. “Sari! I told you to just take the one off the top.” The little girl's voice came out from underneath the quilt, “I want to help Jonas too. This one is warmer ‘cause it's bigger.” Nicoll helped Ellona take the quilt from Sari and fold it to a manageable size, and then she tussled the little girl's hair, “You did just fine honey. Would you like to help tuck your brother in?” “Ok,” Sari followed as her mother and Nicoll moved Jonas as well as the quilt back to his bedroom. They tucked him in and then retired back to the front room. Nicoll continued walking into the kitchen, “I'm going to brew up some tisane, mind if I use your makings?” “No, not at all.” Sari climbed out of her chair and walked back to the hallway “I'm gonna stay with Jonas mommy.” “You do that sweetings,” Ellona smiled. “She's a very perceptive girl,” Nicoll called out of the kitchen while she prepared the pot for boiling. Ellona didn't answer right away but picked at a rough spot on a nail, “Jonas didn't even stir while I carried him. Will he wake at all?” Her voice broke slightly. Nicoll came back into Ellona's front room, “All I can tell you is that none of the others did.” She sighed, “In a way it's sort of a blessing. At least he's in no pain, not while he's sleeping.” The pot whistling came in on top of Ellona's answer, “Yes, at least there's that. Do you know where the tisane mix is?” “I remember from seeing you put it away all the times I've been over here,” Nicoll went to the cupboard and removed the stoneware Tisane jar. She talked while she poured the boiling water over the dry mix, “Sammel is making his rounds this morning. He came by my place before you sent Sari over and he should be back at his office by noon. I think we should go over there after we've had these cups.” She turned to look Ellona in the eye, “And don't tell me we should go right now. You're worried to a frazzle and I don't blame you for it, but the Tisane will help calm your nerves and put you in a better frame of mind to talk to Sammel.” “He will help, won't he?” Ellona sounded doubtful. Nicoll barked out a short laugh, “When have you known him not to? Of course he'll help. Sammel always does, unless you happen to be one of those who like to live off the charity of others. But you're not that type and everyone in this part of town knows that. Here, drink your Tisane.” They finished the beverage and Ellona had to admit that it did help to calm her a bit. After making sure Sari and Nicoll's children knew which neighbor to go to if there was trouble, and assuring that the neighbor knew of this, she and Nicoll headed down the street toward Sammel's office.

The old man kept a small accounting office in a location central to his many properties making it convenient for him and those he rented to. A first, second and third glance the storefront appeared somewhat shabby and cramped compared to the largess of its occupant. Unbeknownst to most of those he did business with, Sammel liked it that way. It put off those with a tendency to equate wealth with attitude and those who would attempt to take advantage. He also felt it helped to set at ease many of those who owed him money. Whether or not he was correct in this is a matter left to speculation. Being the landlord he could do with the building as he wished and Sammel wished to remember his roots. Sammel wasn't in when Ellona and Nicoll arrived at his door so they waited. The day was pleasant with a slight breeze helping to cool the early autumn heat. Nicoll chose a corner of the old man's stoop and sat. Ellona tried to sit but could not control her agitation so she got up and paced back and forth. “What is keeping him? Every minute that goes by is another minute Jonas may not have. We have to find out where that healer is and get to him. We have to.” “I'm aware of that, Ellona, try to relax a little. You'll wear yourself out with all this rushing about. Sammel will get here when he gets here. We're not his only tenants you know,” Nicoll leaned forward and looked left and right down the street. There was no sign of the old man and in this location he would have been easy to spot. Sammel's office sat facing one of the wider streets in Berggren. To the right, facing east was the western boundary of Carriel Park, a well-planted expanse with many duck ponds, flower gardens and ancient trees. One of those trees occupied a prominent position at the park's southwestern corner across from Sammel's front door. An oaken bench encircled the base of the tree. A few couples sat there enjoying the shade and each other's company. To the left, facing west, Park Avenue merged into two other streets creating a wide “Y". Anyone approaching the office from that way would have been seen before they cleared three cobblestones. As it was still a few hours before noon, the foot traffic was light with most of those out and about taking their sweet time in reaching their destination. Nicoll watched Ellona pace back and forth for several minutes until she could stand it no longer. She stood up and joined her friend in her pacing, “Now I'm starting to get worried. Where is that old man, he's never been this late to his office.” “If he isn't here in the next few minutes I'm going to start asking questions around town myself,” Ellona stopped and turned to face Nicoll, “I have to, for Jonas’ sake.” “Well,” Nicoll replied, “I think I'd ... there he is!” She pointed over to where Shilling Street ended at the “Y” intersection. Ellona looked. It was Sammel. The old man had his hands in his pockets and a pipe in his mouth. Small puffs of white smoke wafted along behind him as he made his way down Shilling Street's steep slope onto the more level expanse of Park Avenue. She didn't wait for him to reach where she and Nicoll waited but gathered her skirts into her hands and ran to meet him. Sammel looked up from his examination of the cobblestones to see Ellona rushing towards him. He stopped short and pulled his pipe from his mouth, “Well, Ellona, and a good morning to you. How's Ethan, have you heard from him yet? Has he found that lad, Circumstance was it?” “It's Jonas,” Ellona panted. “No,” Sammel replaced his pipe and spoke as he puffed, “No, I'm sure the name was Circumstance.

You don't forget a name like that.” “My child Jonas, he's dying!” Her exasperation made Ellona's voice tight with anger and she nearly shouted the words at the old man. “What? Oh my good lord. Come with me my dear, into my office, we'll sit and you can tell me what this is all about,” He led Ellona into his office. Nicoll followed and shut the door after herself. Sammel wasted no time on courtly mannerisms. He directed Ellona into a chair across from his desk, sat himself onto the one bare corner of its top, tapped out his pipe and nodded, “All right, what's this about Jonas, is he really dying?” Nicoll broke in before Ellona could answer, “The child's come down with the Chills Sammel, we need you to tell us where we can find the healer.” “Healer?” Sammel blinked. “The one Nicoll heard about, the one they say can heal anything, including the Chills.” Tears coursed down Ellona's cheek, “Jonas won't even wake up now, Sammel. Please, please help me.” “Of course I'll help you. You and Ethan are two of my favorite people,” He got up and paced around his office for a few seconds while rubbing his chin. He stopped and turned his head toward the two women, “The Chills? You said the boy's got the Chills?” Ellona and Nicoll both nodded. “Only one that I know of can do the job. The Chills, Bardoc bless him. Poor child's only got one chance. Going to be a trip getting there. Best get together a team and a wagon to do it.” The old man spoke half to himself while he restuffed and lit his pipe. Nicoll stepped away from the wall she was leaning against, “Does all that mean you're going to help us find this man?” Sammel nodded vigorously while he puffed, “Oh certainly, certainly, except for one thing.” An icy hand gripped Ellona's heart, Jonas, her Jonas, “What thing?” “This particular healer isn't a man, he's a Dwarf.” **** “Jonas!” Ethan sat bolt upright in his bunk as he yelled out the boy's name. It was now a week after his fight with the brutish Gros. The Lieutenant and his Sergeant seemed to treat him with more respect since that day and it also seemed his name still carried a reputation even after all these years. It didn't stop the dreams though and this one had been the worst. Jonas had lain dying and in the dream he'd been incapable of helping the boy. His hands could not or would not grasp him. They passed through Jonas’ body like those of a ghost and all his straining was to no avail. “Pipe down, will ya? I'm tryin’ to sleep here.” “Freakin’ skrud. Go outside iffn yer gonna yell.”

Those and other less generous comments voiced by sleepy conscripts floated his way in the darkened barracks. Ethan felt the dream was more than just that. During his youth, especially in times of battle, he'd been visited before by hints what was to come. He'd learned to listen to them and in those occasions where the feeling had been wrong, he'd learned to be grateful for that blessing. He eased himself out of his bunk and pulled on his uniform while still sitting. Thankfully the barracks floor was of stone slabs instead of planking. There would be no chance of a creaking board to give his escape away. His boots slid on easily, the soft leather tops having been broken in by miles of marching as well as running. Weapons, he had none other than those contained in his mind and body but they would do until he found a blade. The man in the bunk before him stirred and Ethan froze with his last boot partially on. He waited, not even breathing, while the fellow rustled around in his bedclothes. After what seemed an eternity the man let out a sigh and settled back into the rhythm of sleep. “That's it, Falon, sleep easy, tomorrow's a big day,” Ethan murmured the words under his breath as he tiptoed toward the barracks door. No one else stirred and the night sentries were on the opposite side of the barracks as he passed through the door onto the parade ground. A glance at the moon told him it was about two hours before dawn. If he could make it to the wall without being seen, a steady pace would have him a good five miles or more away from the city before they noticed he was missing. The search would probably encompass the city first and that could burn another hour or two. With any luck he'd be in the forests long before they extended the hunt beyond the city walls. Unlike those of the officers and the regulars, Ethan shared a barracks with other conscripts set into the far side of the complex. The parade ground extended to the south and west from the barracks’ door. Between Ethan and the only safe route out of the complex lay a vast open expanse lit by watch torches. He would have to cross that before he could gain the relative security of the outbuildings and supply sheds that occupied the area to the east of the main gates. At any given time one of the sentries could spot him and raise the alarm. As Ethan ran this through his mind his thoughts of being lost in the forest dwindled away into a vague uncertainty. A brief wind brought the smell of the stables to his nose and he thought of stealing a horse, thereby being able to place more distance between himself and the eventual pursuit, but that thought was quickly stashed as unworkable. A movement off to his left sent him back into the shadows of the barracks doorway. He watched with every nerve poised on the brink of chaos as a tall figure walked past, headed in the direction of the officer's quarters. The figure walked with a familiar gait. Ethan puzzled at this for a brief moment and then shook off the feeling, he didn't need to waste his time over trivialities, and he had to get home. One of the sentries rounded the corner of the regular guard barracks and called out for the figure to halt. Almost instantly two more sentries appeared and ran toward the point where the figure and the first sentry would meet. Ethan could not believe his luck; here was the break he'd been hoping for. While the four men were engaged he slipped out of the doorway and cut along the side of the barracks until he could dash over to the complex wall. This would mean adding at least four times the amount of ground he would have to cover but that ground would be in the darkness of deep shadow. Much more preferable than the light being cast by the watch torches placed around the parade ground. He glanced left and right and then

sprinted the ten yards from the rear of the barracks to the complex wall. The shadow cast by the wall extended only a few feet onto the parade ground floor but that was enough to swallow Ethan's form. He sidled along the edge carefully, trying to move smoothly but not so slowly as to eat up the little time he had. The trio of guards and the tall one came into sight as he passed the blocking corner of the barracks. By their stances, the guards seemed to be listening to some sort of explanation, listening with the deference of those who knew and respected the speaker. Again that feeling of familiarity washed over Ethan. He knew the speaker from somewhere; he just couldn't dredge the whereabouts from his memory. Shaking his head, Ethan pulled himself from the reverie and moved on. Another section of wall and he would be in striking distance of the first of the outbuildings. He didn't have the time to piece together that puzzle. As Ethan concentrated on his escape he did not see the figure dismiss the sentries and then glance his way as if the covering shadow was no cover at all. Nor did he see the decisive nod before the tall man turned on his heel and began walking purposively toward the juncture of the main gate and the small guard hut set just inside the massive timbers. Ethan let out the breath he'd been holding as he snuck out from behind a nondescript storage shed and quickly stepped into the blackness between the last outbuilding and the wall containing the main gates. “Isn't it a little late to be taking the night air?” Ethan spun around, his hand reaching for a sword that wasn't there. “Or maybe you're an early riser that hasn't realized the mess isn't open yet,” The voice held a droll amusement and it sparked a distant memory that hovered just beyond reach. “I'm waiting,” The speaker's face was hidden in the shadows of the darkened guard hut. Ten yards separated him from Ethan; enough for a dash but he couldn't be sure the man hadn't seen him. Ethan stepped out of his hiding place. It wasn't doing him any good regardless, and he may need to be within striking distance of whoever was speaking to him. “That's close enough, thank you,” The voice from the hut stopped Ethan's march so that he now stood in front of the gates. For several heartbeats nothing was said. Ethan's mind raced, turning over scenario after scenario and finding none of them comforting. “You look familiar,” The voice no longer held that sense of humor. Ethan's mouth twitched, “Maybe you saw me come in with the rest of the conscripts.” “Perhaps, but I don't think that's it, the memory's older. Where are you from, what's your name?” “Why should I tell you?” Ethan held his head up. At least they wouldn't take him back cowering like a beaten dog.

The man in the hut stepped into the moonlight. His expression showed angry concern. “Damn it man, I want to help you! Answer my question.” Ethan blinked. All the pieces of the puzzle came rushing together, “Adam?” He took another step towards the guard hut, “Adam, is that you?” Adam took his hand off his sword. He knew this man from somewhere. It was obvious the man knew him. “You know me, but that could be from mess room gossip. I seem to have gotten a bit of a reputation over the last few seasons. Answer my question.” “Ethan, my name is Ethan, remember? I led you and your sister through the forest from Silgert to Dunwattle. You woke me out of a drunken stupor and cured the world's worst hangover, if I remember our meeting rightly,” Ethan smiled ruefully. “I remember,” Adam nodded. “You also look a little different from what I remember.” Ethan ran a hand through his hair, “A little more gray, a few more creases around the eyes, plus I've lost a few pounds thanks to this place's wonderful cooking. I remember you as being shorter, skinnier and a lot younger looking. You're no longer a boy Adam, you've grown up.” Adam sighed, “That's right Ethan, I've grown up. Along with that I've added some responsibilities. One of them deals with this city and it's safety. I'm an officer in this guard, Ethan, and it looks an awful lot to me like you're thinking about deserting,” Adam kept his voice low but the words struck Ethan as if they'd been shouted. “I didn't volunteer, Adam, I was kidnapped, chained and force-marched to this place. There's nothing here that deserves my loyalty. To add to that, I've got a family now and I'm sure they're missing me,” Ethan's answer was spoken as quietly as Adam's accusation. The news rocked Adam, Ethan, the drunk, with a family? Now he understood the motivation behind the man's actions. But that still didn't remove the responsibility from his own shoulders. He shrugged. “As much as I'd like to, Ethan, I can't do anything about that now. Conscription, under a time of war, is legal here. I'm sure you know that as much, or better, than I do.” “Who goes there?” The demand was followed by the sound of running feet. Ethan turned to see if he had time to fade back into the shadows and slumped. All three sentries were headed their way. Both he and Adam were clearly in their sight. Any attempt to escape now would merely compound his error. Adam reached out and took Ethan by the shoulder, “Leave this to me and don't say a word. I've gotten rather good at lying lately.” He didn't take notice of the sharp look Ethan sent him. Two of the sentries reached them several steps ahead of the third. The first pulled up short and thumped his chest in a quick salute, “Lieutenant! We thought you'd've gone back to your quarters by now. Thought you might be southern spies or some such.” “Now Corporal,” Adam flashed the noncom a winning smile, “do you think I really look like a member of the southern army?” The Corporal swallowed and then offered a weak smile, “No Milord Lieutenant, Of course not.”

Adam's smile broadened, “Of course not,” he repeated, “Now why don't you and your fellow sentries continue on about your duties while my Sergeant and I finish our business.” Ethan's eyes shifted toward Adam at the word “Sergeant” while at the same time the Corporal and his men focused their attention on Ethan. “Sergeant?” The portly one who trailed the others in their dash narrowed his eyes as he looked Ethan up and down, “He ain't no Sergeant, he come in wi’ the others on the chain. Ain't no way he's a three-stripe.” The Corporal nodded his head, “What about this milord? I recognize this man. He's the one who fought Gros a couple of weeks ago. Cost me a few silvers as well.” “You should've bet on the underdog Corporal,” Ethan spoke up, “As for my rank, you know that information always takes its time filtering down to the enlisted. If you want to question the Lieutenant's word and honor, my sword will gladly answer for him.” Even in the moonlight Adam could see the Corporal's coloring blanch. He remembered that day he and Ethan fenced in the woods South of Silgert. Apparently the man's ability with a sword had made its way through the ranks along with the tale of the fight with Gros. He'd heard about the fight. From the stories, this Gros stood well over seven foot and massed out at about the same weight as a prize steer. Even allowing for the exaggeration of rumor it must have been something to see. He crossed his arms and stared levelly at the noncom, “Well, Corporal?” The Corporal swallowed again. This time the lump didn't seem to want to go down. Ethan wasn't in a mood to help the man. This Corporal was one of those who offered helpful suggestions while he and the other conscripts were washed down like cattle, “The Lieutenant asked you a question, Corporal.” The other two sentries took a step backward. They weren't in a mood to be helpful either. “Uh, Milord Lieutenant, if I've given offence I didn't mean any. Like the Sergeant says, it takes a while for news to make its way down to us. We'll be leaving you to your business, if that's all right with you,” Another hand on chest salute followed the Corporal's apology. “The Lieutenant and I see no reason to continue this beyond this moment Corporal. Go about your duties and I'll forget to mention your misspeak in my report,” Ethan dismissed the trio with a curt nod. “Of course, Sergeant, thank you. Lieutenant,” The Corporal saluted along with the two privates, turned about and marched off at a quick step. Ethan watched the sentries hurry away as he spoke to Adam, “Thank you for the promotion, I think. Now if you don't mind I'll be getting back to my family.” “I'm sorry Ethan, but I can't let you do that, not right now at least.” “I'm sorry too,” Ethan's tone was flat, “Because I'm going whether or not you let me. I don't think you're the type to cut down an unarmed man Adam, and you'll have to kill me to stop me.”

“Damn it all Ethan!” Adam slammed his hand against his thigh, “What is so flicking important that you have to take off right now and turn yourself into a hunted criminal in the process? If you give me a little time I could probably have you headed home as a part of your duty. Bardoc's beard! Think a little.” Ethan shrugged, “I have thought about it. Do you believe in dreams?” Adam blinked, the rapid change of subject threw him for a second, “What do dreams have to do with you deserting?” “I had a dream tonight and it woke me up, but it was more than a dream. I know it as well as I know you're standing in front of me with your hand on your sword.” Adam allowed his hand to slide off the sword's pommel and hooked his thumb into his belt. Ethan's mouth twitched and he continued, “My family came to me with children already as part of it; Circumstance, Jonas and Sari. Circumstance is the oldest and he's partly the reason I'm here now. Jonas is next oldest and Sari's the baby. My dream was about Jonas and I'm convinced he'll die if I don't get there to save him.” Adam stood there and thought. Part of his musings revolved around his sister Charity and what he would do if his situation mirrored Ethan's. But then his sense of duty walked in and stomped all over his empathy. He shook his head in an attempt to clear away the argument, there had to be a way to reconcile the two. Ethan shifted from foot to foot while Adam pondered his problem until he thought he'd waited long enough for an answer, “If that's all you're going to say boy, then I'll be going.” “No, wait,” Adam reached out and took Ethan by his sleeve, “I think there's a way we can work this out that will solve both our problems.” “What is it?” Adam hesitated for a brief second and then threw himself in headfirst, “You mentioned that fencing match we had a couple years ago?” “Yes...” Ethan let the word out slowly. “I remember what you called my sister and me after that, ‘Naturals, a couple of flicking naturals,’ Those were your words, I think,” Adam raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like me.” Ethan agreed. Adam lowered his eyebrow and frowned slightly, “You were wrong, a bit, Charity and I weren't naturals. We had help, a lot of it.” In spite of himself Ethan was intrigued, “What kind of help?” “Do you believe in magik?” Adam asked the question. Ethan combined a nod with a half shrug, “I've seen some. Enough to know I'd be a fool to not believe in it.” His thoughts went back to that time when Circumstance started a fire with the wave of his hand.

“Why do you ask, are you trying to tell me your help was magik?” “That's part of it,” Adam's smile was rueful, “The other part is me, I'm magik. I mean, I can do magik, like a Wizard. Before we met you, a Wizard took in my sister and me, his name was Milward.” Adam noticed the widening of Ethan's eyes, “You know him.” “I know the name,” Ethan mused, “I'd always wondered at the stories and whether or not he was something more than a legend. What does this have to do with me? Are you saying you can get me to Jonas with no one knowing?” “That's called a traveling and just about everyone would know, it makes a LOT of noise, I know, Milward dropped out of one right on top of me once. But it wouldn't do any good. I don't know how to do one, at least not well enough to where it'd be safe to try,” Adam frowned, remembering when Milward stopped him from inadvertently destroying the old Wizard's living room trying to mimic a shaping he'd seen Milward perform. Ethan threw out his hands, “Then whatcan you do for me? What good is this magik of yours if Jonas still dies?” “Before I answer Ethan I need your solemn promise to keep this quiet. The others can't know about me. If they find out what I can do ... well, you can guess the implications,” Adam grimaced. Ethan nodded, “I've seen things like that. You'd have to create a cult of fear just to have a moment's peace and I don't see you as someone who could do that. No, Adam, you needn't worry about my tongue. I can hold it.” “Good.” Adam smiled. “I'm glad to hear it. One thing I can do now isshow you Jonas. You'll be able to see how he really is right now. You'll know if what you had was just a dream or something more.” “How will you do that? What do you need to do it? Can you do it now, right now?” Ethan nearly stumbled over his own tongue in getting the words out. Adam turned to hide his amusement at Ethan's eagerness while at the same time looking for the location of the closest watering trough. He found one sitting to the left of the guard hut and began walking toward it. Ethan followed him. When he reached the trough Adam started his shaping, feeling the familiar pressure build in the back of his head. “Don't touch the water, you won't spoil the shaping but if the water isn't still it'll be difficult to make out what's being shown. A mirror would be better but there aren't any close by.” Ethan bent and peered into the trough. He saw himself looking back with a field of stars behind. “When will I know it's working?” Adam held back a chuckle, “You'll know.” He released the shaping into the water and Ethan gasped, “Gods, there's Berggren. That's Shilling Street. It looks the same as the day I left to chase down Circumstance. It's like I'm floating over the city and gliding into home. Ellona! There's Ellona. Oh Bardoc, I'd nearly forgotten how beautiful she is. She's crying. Adam, she's crying. Is Jonas gone already? No, he's in bed, but he's not moving. Gods, Jonas! I'm too late. Wait! I saw his chest move. There it is again. He's only sleeping. I'm pulling back. Why am I

pulling back? Is the spell over? There's Sammel and Nicoll. Good, at least Ellona has someone to help her. It's fading. It's gone.” Ethan stayed bent over the trough for a long, long moment. When he straightened Adam could see the glisten of tears running down the cheek facing him. He didn't need a truth shaping to know Ethan had been honest about how he felt about his family. “I ... I want to thank you for this Adam. I hadn't realized just how much I missed them. It seems this old soldier and tramp really has settled down, whether or not he meant to.” “What about Jonas?” Adam pressed the point gently. “Jonas is in good hands,” Ethan sighed, “and turning his father into an outlaw won't do him any good. I suppose you've got yourself a Sergeant for a while, that is, if I really am one.” Adam clapped Ethan on the shoulder, “I wouldn't have it any other way.” **** McCabe pulled his foot from the mud. It came away with a sucking popping sound and left the smell of dead things hanging in the air. Three weeks of slogging bare-bottomed through the mire of Haberstroh's swamp had finally brought him to its end, a slowly rising series of green hummocks that eventually coalesced into a vast steppe. On the maps it was called the Forever Grass but in reality it contained much more than grass and sod. Twisted bushes grew sporadically as a sort of discouraged scrub. The nomads who lived on the steppe named them piss plants due to the odor they gave off when wet or used for fire. During his trek through the swamp McCabe had come to find he still needed no sleep just as he discovered while staying in that nice Duke's lovely dungeon. A small life drained here and there was all that was necessary to keep his vitality at a comfortable level. But as he drew further and further away from the swamp those small lives diminished in number until he found it necessary to pull life from the very ground beneath him to keep going. Patches of a fine gray dust that followed him in a widely staggered line showed where this had been done. In those patches nothing would ever grow again. On the fourth day since leaving the swamp McCabe looked up to see a misty white peak jutting above the horizon. It sat just to the left in his line of sight. An icy breeze swept in from that direction causing goose bumps to rise on his naked skin. Any other man would have considered the wind to be painfully cold even if bundled against it. The ex-thief found it to be delicious and laughed as he spread his arms to embrace its frigid blast. The voices told him about the size of the peak and where in its caverns he would find the one he sought. He figured the journey would take another several weeks by foot, but what did he care. He had all the time in the world. **** The pigeon had no warning and only enough breath for a brief squawk before the Falcon's strike broke its neck. A few feathers from the initial impact fluttered to the ground. If one had been able to follow their path the watcher would have seen a winged form glide on a rising thermal toward the immense caldera below and then, upon reaching its inner edge, stoop and dive into the interior. Drinaugh opened his wings mere yards from the ground and landed onto the soft grass of Dragonglade at a full run. The young Dragon, in his haste, did not watch the ground in front of him and nearly ran into Timidi, the mother of his friend Shealauch.

“Open your eyes Drinaugh,” she said; with a laugh in her voice, “you will have a better chance of finding where you need to go.” Her laughter faded as she noticed the expression on the young Dragon's face. “What happened?” She craned her neck to look him over front and back. “You haven't been shot by the humans as well have you?” Drinaugh stuttered for a bit before he was able to get out the words, “N ... n ... no honored Timidi. I am not sh ... sh ... shot. Bu ... but I'm afraid my friend Adam will be.” “Adam?” Timidi's eyes widened. “Adam? I know of no Dragon with that name. Who or what are you talking about Drinaugh?” “He came with the old human Wizard Milward nearly two years ago. He was the one who ate with me, taught me about what humans use for humor, and he traded namesign with me. He became my friend. I don't want to lose him.” The young Dragon's voice strengthened as he spoke. “Why would you lose him?” This voice was that of a mature male Dragon and it came from behind Drinaugh. He turned his head and looked up, and up, Chabaad stood nearly as tall as the Winglord, Mashglach. The fully-grown Dragon peered at Drinaugh with interest, his nostrils twitching. “Honorable Chabaad, forgive me. I had no idea you were standing behind me.” Drinaugh dipped his head in salute. Chabaad sniffed, “How could you? I came up quietly while you were speaking with Timidi. You speak as though your human friend is in danger. Why?” “Because heis in danger!” Drinaugh's statement came out partially as a shout. He gulped and then dropped his eyes. “Apologies honorable Chabaad, I meant no disrespect.” The male Dragon's eyes twinkled. “If you keep apologizing to me every other sentence Drinaugh, my hide will be as pale as Oshglach's before you're done. Just answer my question and save the etiquette for later. Why do you say the human you befriended is in danger?” Timidi patted the young Dragon's head. “Take your time child. We will listen.” “Um ... ok. I was flying out over the plains when I caught one of those high fast winds.” “A Worldstream,” Chabaad murmured. “You were being a little foolish youngster. Some Dragons have lost their wings playing with those.” Worldstream winds flowed high in the atmosphere where only Dragons could still breathe. Their high speeds sometimes proved irresistible to an adolescent who could, with a little agility and a lot of luck, catch the ride of their lives. If the luck wasn't there, the hapless rider could be crippled by the vortices that frequented the Worldstream. “Let the child speak Chabaad,” Timidi chided, “or he'll never finish what he has to say.” Drinaugh looked at the large female with appreciation and continued, “I got a good ride. It took me out over the solitary mountain that sits between the human city and us on the straights. There were a lot of humans on the plains below so I dropped out of the Worldstream to take a closer look. They were

fighting!” “So?” Chabaad's smile held a touch of saddness. “Isn't that what the younger races do? Even wolves battle among themselves on occasion. Humans do it more often. Why I can remember several times in just the past few centuries where hoards of them have gathered together to cut each other apart. I wouldn't worry too much about your friend, Drinaugh. He may be enjoying himself. Besides,” Chabaad fixed the younger Dragon with a solemn eye, “you'll have thousands of years where he won't be with you. You are a Dragon after all and he is merely human.” “But he's not,” Drinaugh countered, “He's a Wizard.” “What?” Chabaad turned to look at Timidi. Other Dragons were coming see what the discussion was about. If there was one thing that could pull a Dragon away from his or her studies it was a good tongue flapping. Timidi smiled at Chabaad. “Niamh knew the day she smelled the Emperor's amulet on the human child's chest. The Winglord confirmed the Wizard Milward's tale. You preferred to stay with your studies and missed that bit of information.” Chabaad began pacing just as the first of the other Dragons arrived. “But if he bore the Human Emperor's amulet that would mean Drinaugh's assertion the child is a Wizard is true and if that is true then...” “Then that would mean the human child is one of the two in the prophecy,” Harlig spoke as he came up behind two younger Dragons nearly grown but still showing a few of the signs of youth. “That would also mean he has a part to play in what happens to Dragonkind.” “A claim yet to be proven,” Chabaad said quietly. Some of the other Dragons murmured agreement. “Oh hide spots, Chabaad! Are we going to have to cover that tired ground yet again?” Timidi crossed her arms before her chest. “Or do you consider the Winglord a fool?” Niamh, who had trailed the others because of her developing pregnancy nodded in agreement with Timidi's sentiment. Chabaad would not look Timidi in the eye. “Not a fool,” He said quietly, “Merely one who refuses to consider the facts as they should be.” “I've considered the facts for over a millennia, Chabaad and I've yet to find one that convinces me my opinion needed changing. You're allowing your prejudices to show, old friend, a human trait, more than a Dragon one.” Mashglach allowed a touch of wry dryness to creep into his voice. “Now what is all of this about, or are we convening Winglauchs in the park these days?” Chabaad pointed at Drinaugh. “Ask the child.” The Dragons around him stepped back effectively placing him in the center of a ring. He suddenly felt very small and very alone. The Winglord himself was looking at him! Drinaugh opened his mouth to speak and croaked out a word from a throat suddenly gone very, very dry. “You have a tale Drinaugh?” Mashglach leaned forward, bringing his face closer to the young Dragon's.

Drinaugh tried again, coughing to clear his throat. “Um hmm. As I told honored Timidi and Chabaad, Winglord, I flew over a large number of humans fighting each other in the plain just west of the City they call Grisham. My friend Adam is in that city and I'm afraid he may be in danger because of this.” “The human city Grisham is over two thousand leagues east of Dragonglade Drinaugh. How is it you were flying there when you were in the eating place this morning?” Drinaugh gulped and remained silent. Timidi and Chabaad hid smiles. “Well Drinaugh? Are you going to answer my question or just stand there and play the mute?” Mashglach grunted. “I was riding a Worldstream.” “What?” The Winglord exclaimed. A murmur circulated throughout the other Dragons. “So the child rode a Worldstream, Winglord. Don't act as if none of us have ever done so when we were young.” Harlig stepped into the circle to stand next to Drinaugh. “The important part of this is the prophecy. Whether some of us like the admission or not, Dragonkind is still part of this world. I for one do not want to face the creator knowing I did nothing to prevent my savior's demise.” Chabaad snorted against another background of murmur. “Savior!” Niamh turned to face Chabaad, her nostrils flaring. “Are you so quick to scoff Chabaad? I smelled the magik in the human child's amulet. He even carried the parchment Labad wrote his prophecy on, the blood confirmed it.” Chabaad recoiled slightly from Niamh's vehemence. Mashglach nodded, “I was there as well and there is some truth in Harlig's supposition.” He held up a hand to forestall another outburst from the now indignant Chabaad. “I saidsome truth. This matter requires further discussion, but not a full Winglauch.” “Things seem to be moving ahead faster these days, don't they?” Drinaugh looked around at the other Dragons. “They certainly do young Drinaugh. They certainly do.” Mashglach cast his eyes skyward. **** “You what?!” Captain Bilardi shot out of his chair gaping at Adam and in the process spilling his morning tisane. He ignored the mess. “You heard me.” Adam's voice remained cool and professional. “I appointed this man as my Sergeant. Every other officer in the guard above junior grade has an assistant who's either a Corporal or Sergeant. I made him a Sergeant.” Adam nodded in Ethan's direction. “What?!” “You keep saying that,” Adam remarked, “But I'm not going to keep repeating myself just because you're hard of hearing.” Ethan hid his smile behind a cough.

“You can't do that!” “Do what?” Adam raised an eyebrow. “Not repeat myself?” Bilardi came out from behind his desk. “Don't be impertinent. You know perfectly well what I mean. You can't appoint this man or anyone to a higher grade, it's against regulations.” “Oh?” Adam reached forward and plucked a thick book bound in indigo leather off the right corner of the Captain's desk. “Show me the regulation.” Ethan raised an eyebrow. The Captain snatched the book out of Adam's hand. “All right damn you! I will.” He opened the volume and began leafing through it, turning the pages several at a time until he came to the spot he wanted. He thrust the book under Adam's nose and pointed to the passage with a forefinger. “There, read that.” Adam took the book back and read what Bilardi wanted him to. He finished and looked back at the Captain. “This can mean anything.” “Well, it means he's no Sergeant unless I say he is.” “No it doesn't.” “Yes it does.” “Where? Show me where it says that exactly.” Adam handed the book back to the Captain. “I'll show you all right. It says so right ... it says so...” Bilardi pulled the book closer to his eyes. “It says so...” He turned the pages back and forth several times and then looked at Adam helplessly. “It doesn't, does it?” Adam turned, crossed the room and sat in one of the armless chairs. “Nowhere in that entire book does it say explicitly that I can't appoint my own assistant out of the guard, conscripts or otherwise. I read it before coming over here and I couldn't find one that came close. That passage is so vague it could be used to justify your transfer to the swine yard.” “But...” Captain Bilardi looked through the book once more, a helpless expression washing over his face. “The tradition...” He raised his head and bellowed, “McKenit!” The old Corporal's face appeared at the door. “Milord?” Bilardi turned back to his desk and gestured toward Ethan with a wave of his hand. “Pull out one of those promotion forms and fill it out making this fellow a Sergeant. What's his name?” He reached his chair, sat down and peered at Adam. Adam leaned back in his chair. “Ethan. Ethan of Swaledale.” Bilardi's eyebrows climbed into his hairline. “The Blademaster?” McKenit came into the Captain's office chuckling. “I recollect this feller, Milord. He's the one what fought that big lug over there at the new wall. Won, too, from what I hear.”

For the first time, Ethan noticed, the Captain really looked at him. “You were the one?” He continued to stare at Ethan for a long, long moment and then sat back in his chair. “I'm not surprised. If you are the man I'm thinking of I'm not surprised at all. You were a student of Morgan were you not?” Adam looked at Ethan. “Morgan?” McKenit continued to chuckle. Bilardi leaned back in his chair. “The finest hand fighter in the Northern world. Man could take you apart using feet or hands and it didn't matter if you held a blade or not.” “I find that hard to believe.” Adam said from his chair. “How could an unarmed man get past my sword?” “Yoursword?” Bilardi smirked, “maybe not, but then again, maybe so. You never knew Morgan and by your question you never heard of him either. Morgan grew into a legend in his own time. He could turn anything at hand into a weapon, even a ladies’ silk scarf from what I understand,” he quirked an eye at Ethan. “He could,” Ethan said quietly. Adam cast a glance Ethan's way. McKenit chuckled all the louder and left the office saying, “That's right, he could. Oh yes, he could.” Bilardi got up, walked over to the door and closed it. “McKenit served with Morgan before he was a legend. He's told me a few of the tales.” “He could do that? Use a ladies’ scarf as a weapon?” Adam tried to visualize someone waving a scarf at a swordsman and failed. Ethan nodded. “He could, and a few other things as well. I learned some of his tricks over the years I served with him.” “Yes,” The Captain murmured, “about that, why didn't you let it be known you were among the conscripts? You would have had a commission handed to you, most likely a Captaincy.” “I know.” Ethan toyed with the sleeve of his tunic. “Didn't want to do that as I had no plans to stick around.” “Desertion?” Bilardi raised his eyebrows. “Ethan!” Adam hissed the caution. His warning was brushed aside. “Desertion, Captain, applies to a member of an army, not a captive. According to Imperial Law, conscripts aren't members of that military body until they've sworn the oath. I never did. The only reason I'm here is because this Lieutenant of yours talked me into staying.” Bilardi slowly nodded his head, twice. “A technicality, but one that could kill the man exercising it. Not too many of the guards have a legal background Sergeant, and wouldn't believe the reference.” He waved the issue away and reached into his desk. “But that's past us now.” He held up a sheet of parchment. “This is a Captaincy. I've been saving it for your Lieutenant here,” he nodded at Adam, “but it's yours if you want it.” He winked. “Sorry Adam.”

Adam smiled. “That's all right. I wasn't really comfortable with the idea of him taking orders from me.” “What ever gave you the idea I would anyway?” Ethan said out of the side of his mouth. “Oh, I like this man,” Bilardi laughed, “he's a scoundrel, just like me.” Ethan shook his head. “I'd prefer remaining a Sergeant if you don't mind Captain.” “What?” Adam and Bilardi both stood to their feet. “I've been an officer and I remember what a headache it was. Being a Sergeant will absolve me of the grunt work I did enough of as a kid and also keep the weight of a commission off my shoulders.” Ethan shrugged. “A man gets to be my age he likes to take it easy now and then.” Bilardi sat back in his chair and laughed again as he stuck the Captaincy back into his desk. “Very well Ethan, consider yourself a Sergeant.” **** Nicoll pulled her shawl more tightly around her. Even though late spring had brought forth all of its floral beauty the wind coming down from the Spine held a winter's bite. Sammel was in the process of packing for their journey to find the healer and she felt a strong urge to check in on Ellona and that poor boy. Ellona's daughter, Sari was sitting on the front stoop when Nicoll turned the corner on Shilling Street. She waved and waited for her mother's friend to close the distance. “Mommy said for me to wait for you. She said for you to go right in.” “Is she with Jonas?” Sari nodded. “Uh huh, he's still sleeping.” The little boy had not gained consciousness since falling into a coma the day before yesterday. Nicoll touched Sari's cheek in a gesture of sympathy and then entered the house. Ellona had placed Jonas into the back room, the warmest in the house, converting it from storage into a sort of bedchamber with just barely enough space for the bed. She looked up at her neighbor's approach. “Nicoll. I'm glad you're here.” There was a touch of a smile in Ellona's expression as well as her voice. “What happened?” Nicoll hurried to the bedside and placed a hand on Jonas’ forehead. “Has it broken? Is he getting better?” The boy's skin still felt like ice. Ellona stood and massaged the little boy's hair. “Not that I can tell,” She said while looking at him, “but something happened last night that gave me hope. No, more than hope, a knowing. I now know that Jonas will be healed. I've no doubt about that at all.” “Why? What was it? Was it a vision?” “No, nothing like that.” Ellona smiled again. “It was more of a presence. I could feel Ethan as if he was right here looking at me. It only lasted for a few moments and I don't know why but after that I've just felt that everything is going to be ok.” Nicoll nodded. “That's good Ellona, real good. I'll try to think on that while you and Sammel find the

healer. He's packing now and should be here soon.” She placed a hand on her friend's shoulder. “Don't you worry about Jonas or Sari. I'll keep a watch on them both while you're gone.” Ellona covered Nicoll's hand with one of hers. Chapter Sixteen

Flynn shaded his eyes with a hand as the sun peeked out from behind one of the rain-laden clouds. He ran his gaze over the warring armies on the plain below. “They's got the highway blocked off, looks like for miles.” “You see any sign of Travers and his men?” Neely squinted as he tried to bring the specks into focus. “You kidding?” Flynn turned to look at his old friend. “I can't even tell which is man an’ which is beast.” “He's over there.” Circumstance pointed to a sector on the western edge of the battle. Flynn and Neely peered in the direction the boy pointed, straining to see what he saw. Charity just smiled. “You kin see that?” Flynn rubbed his eyes. “From here?” “Th’ kid's magik, Flynn, wouldn't be much surprised at what he can do. How's about pickin’ out a path for us Circ?” Neely straightened from his slouch and cracked his back in a stretch. Circumstance looked over at Charity. “Do we want to go down into the fighting?” There was no sound of concern or fear in his voice. “The boy was simply asking for a choice. “We did promised we'd help...” Charity mused. Flynn nodded. “Aye, that we did.” “We helped already. Picked near on two score of their dead up and did ‘em proper. Also hauled that bunch back to th’ base camp,and kept those Tradin’ States troopers from butcherin’ ‘em after we got there.” Neely scowled. “Did enough as far as I'm concerned.” “What About that pretty little speech before we left the base camp Neely, about our consciences bothering us?” Charity tilted her head at the tracker. Flynn and Circumstance perked their ears for his answer. Neely shrugged. “Changed me mind, I guess. Started thinkin’ about it while we was stackin’ that last bunch on the pyre. Finished thinkin’ about it when I was lookin’ at that goin’ on down there.” He pointed back at the battle boiling away on the plain. “Flynn?” Charity caught the big man out of the corner of her eye. A light rain began to replace the mist. He pushed out his lower lip as he thought. “I'm thinkin’ Neely may have the right of it Miss Charity. Sergeant Travers'll be upset ... but we didn't sign on, we just said we'd help. Seems to me we done that.” “Circumstance?”

“Flynn is right, Sergeant Travers will be very upset but he'll get over it.” “You kin tell th’ future too?” Neely smirked. “I want you with me th’ next time I get into a game o’ Jack th’ Spot.” Charity hid her smile by turning to rub the velvet on her mare's nose. Flynn grunted and climbed back into the saddle of his draft horse. He reached down and pulled Circumstance up behind him. Neely swept his eyes across the battle one more time and then mounted his old dapple gray. “So, what'd we decide? We goin’ into that down there, or we gonna see iffn we can skirt around it?” “Around seems a likely way fer me,” Flynn grunted. “Around it is.” Charity clicked her tongue and pulled her mare into a path away from the edge of the rise. “Do you have a path in mind Circumstance?” He led them along a ridgeline that descended steadily into an area of wooded downs approximately four miles west of Labad's highway. A mix of hardwoods and wild fruit trees crowded the low hills and shallow valleys that made up the downs. Several small creeks traced their way through the valleys but none of them flowed wide, or deep enough to hamper the party's passage. The light rain gave way to broken clouds, leaving the air smelling fresh and green. They rode until an hour past midday following a path through the trees and lunched in a clearing with a number of burnt stumps jutting out of its perimeter. A small brook cut through one corner of the clearing and then arced back into the woods. Rrrruuuupp! “Flynn! What do you say?” Charity looked up from her cup at the big redhead's belch while at the same time tossing more tidbits to the cat. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Sorry Miss Charity, sure was tasty.” Neely drained his cup and stood. “Yep, can't beat th’ taste of fresh-caught brook trout with wild onion for a toothful lunch. I'll see to th’ horses, don't want ‘em eatin’ too many of those windfall apples.” “I'll help clean things up.” Circumstance began gathering up the bones onto one of the bark trays they'd used as plates. He reached for the small pile in front of where Flynn sat and stopped, “They're coming.” Flynn stood at the announcement and pulled his knife. “Who's coming?” Charity's cat released a low growl and then hissed. Circumstance turned in a circle as if testing the air. “It's them.” “Who?” “The ones who killed all those Ortian soldiers, he's leading them.” Circumstance made one more turn and stopped facing west. “That way, they'll come over that hill.” “The one you said wasn't human? The one you said you didn't know what it was?” Flynn tested the edge of his knife, “Neely!”

“What?” The tracker ambled back over to the cook fire munching a windfall. Flynn pointed in the direction Circumstance had indicated. “We got big trouble comin’ over that hill. The lad said so.” Neely pulled his own knife, “Who, did he say who?” “He says they're the ones who killed all those men we came across.” Charity pointed at the fire, “Bury that while I get my bow. We're going to have to get back into the trees and hope they can give us some cover. Maybe they'll miss the signs if we hide them well enough.” Neely strode over to the nearby brook, muttering as he filed his hat with water, “Bloody flickin’ life this is, tryin’ to get around a bloody battle an’ what happens?” He poured water from his hat onto the fire. Steam, smelling of fish and lye, billowed up. “Th’ bloody flickin’ row comes to us.” Flynn stirred the ashes as Neely poured. “Could be worse Neely,” he said, “leastways we got's the trees to hide in.” “Look at them trees, Flynn,” Neely wrung the last of the water from his hat, “you think one of them skinny things'd be able to hide that stomach o’ yourn?” “Well they're a lot better than standing out here in the open.” Charity came up behind them wearing her quiver and clutching her bow. “Finish this up and help us with the horses. How close are they Circumstance?” The half-elf boy's eyes blanked for a second and then came back to focus. “I think if we hurry we can be two or three valleys away by the time they get here.” Neely kicked a bit more dirt onto the drowned ashes and jogged over to his horse. “Then let's get th’ flick outta here. Whatta you waitin’ for, an invitation?” Charity and Flynn rolled their eyes at each other and mounted up. Flynn pulled Circumstance up with him and the cat leapt onto her accustomed place behind Charity's saddle. Neely took the lead and followed a path designed to put as much distance between them and the approaching danger as possible. The trees grew denser and, to Neely's satisfaction, thicker. Overhead Sentry Birds and Jays scolded them as they passed beneath the birds’ territories. “Can't you do somethin’ about th’ birds, lad? They ain't helpin’ us none,” Neely glowered up into the foliage overhead as a Sentry Bird loudly proclaimed that tree as his. Circumstance looked up and shook his head. “I'm sorry, but they belong here. I can't do anything about them.” Flynn turned in his saddle and pointed, “Well I'm surethey don't belong here.” Behind Flynn at least a full score of riders carrying the heavy curved horn bows of the Trading States archers had crested the hill and were galloping full tilt through the trees towards them. One rider, wearing a black cloak fastened with silver scarabs reined in at the hilltop and watched the others as they bore down on Charity and her friends.

“Dig yer heels in,” Neely gave action to his words and the old Dapple Gray leapt into a run, “we got to get some space ‘tween those bloody bastards an’ us!” The others followed Neely's example and the chase was on. Charity's mare soon overtook Neely's mount. “Keep riding,” She shouted, “I'll try to slow them down a little.” The cat howled as Charity rode past, screaming out her defiance. Neely opened his mouth to shout a reply but shut it as an arrow buried itself into a trunk next to his head. He hunkered down and rode on. Flynn's draft horse, being nearly twice the size as the others had a harder time of it passing through the trees and both his flanks and Flynn's ankles bore scrapes from the effort. Several arrows had come close to finding their mark in the big man or his passenger but at the last moment something seemed to slap them away into a tree or the ground. One of the riders pulled up and took aim at Neely's back. The tracker's passage up the next rise had slowed him, making for a ripe target. As the rider pulled back on the bowstring an arrow passed through his hand and buried itself into the hollow of his throat. Seconds later two other riders fell from their saddles with shafts sticking from their chests. “Get up here!” Charity yelled out as she loosed another arrow, knocking another Trading States rider from his horse. Their closest pursuers were now several horse lengths behind Flynn as Neely's gray topped the rise, kicking away large clods of rich-smelling moist soil. The big man urged his mount up the last few yards and guided the well-lathered draft horseto a spot behind a clump of sturdy looking hardwoods. Circumstance slid off and ran over to a large Alder, peering around its trunk at the bowmen. The rider with the black cape still sat astride his horse on the hilltop. A breeze rustled the leaves of the hardwoods about him and shifted the cape's folds. Soft glints shone from its fabric as it moved. About half of his men lay scattered across the forest floor, their horses either patiently waiting vainly for their riders to remount or cropping at the new growth sprouting through the leaf cover. He raised his head and shouted out a command. The language was guttural and harsh and the rest of the riders stopped as if a leash had suddenly been yanked taut. “You able to tell what he said?” Neely spoke to Flynn who hovered over his friend's left shoulder. They shared the cover of a fallen fruitwood. “No, never heard anybody talk like that before,” Flynn murmured. He started slightly, “'Member that time you got stuffed into that fish barrel? Did it sound like that jaberin’ them folk made?” “Naw,” Neely answered, “Not enough sneezy sounds in it.” Charity eased her way over towards Flynn and Neely after sending her mare down slope to be with the other horses. “Why are they just standing there?” “Don't know.” “Beats me, Miss Charity.”

Circumstance crawled the last few yards from his chosen hiding place to the fallen tree. “That one with the black cloak. It's the one I felt.” Charity peered over the top of the trunk. “Don't you mean ‘he'?” Circumstance shook his head. “It's not a he or a she. I don't know what it is, just that it's bad.” “Prey!” The shouted word came from across the shallow valley. It was still guttural but this time they understood it. “Prey!!” This shout was louder, almost deafening. “What's that thing callin’ us?” Flynn's face showed his perplexion. Neely's just showed disgust. “The prevert wants us to get religion.” “No,” Circumstance sat down with his back against the trunk, “that's its name for us. It's the hunter, we're the prey.” “Buggerit!” Neely glanced at the rider. Other than shouting it hadn't moved. “I ain't game for no ghoul with a fancy cloak.” He rose up enough to get a clear look at the valley and the hill beyond. “Don't look much further than that Madrone, Charity. Think you kin make th’ shot?” “Prey!!!” This time leaves fell from the trees. “I weary of the chase. Surrender now and I promise your passings will be ... easy.” The last word was spoken at the bottom of the scale in a sepulchral bass. Charity nocked an arrow. “I don't have much choice, do I? But if this takes that thing out we still have a dozen or so left. Do you think they'll continue the fight with their leader gone?” “Can't say Miss Charity,” Flynn shifted to a more comfortable position. “But them sittin’ there like statues makes a man ponder.” “They're its puppets. I can feel the lines of control, they're very strong.” Circumstance's eyes were tightly shut. She drew the arrow to her ear. “Right, well, here it goes then.” Charity released the arrow and it sped across the valley sending its hiss into the still air of the wood. As she and her companions watched the shaft struck the mounted figure. It rocked slightly with the blow. “It ain't fallin',” Neely remarked. “Why ain't it fallin'?” “Maybe it's wearing some sort of armour,” Charity mused. Flynn scowled and flexed his hands. “Try puttin’ one in its eye. I bet they ain't covered with no armour.” The rider was examining the arrow in its chest when Charity loosed her second. Again the shaft sped across the valley unerringly toward its target, but this one was casually pulled out of the air. “Bardoc preserve us.”

“I don't flickin’ believe it. You see that?” “We're in trouble.” Charity lowered her bow. “We're in real trouble.” A deep chuckling welled up, seeming to come from all corners of the wood. It grew in volume until the ground vibrated in time with the laughter's rhythm. The voice that followed felt as cold as the kiss of the grave, “Foolish humans, naive prey, I am beyond your touch. Enjoy the pain as you die like the others and feed my hunger. Kill them.” At that command the riders snapped out of their trance-like state and rushed, screaming, towards the companions’ position. The horses beneath them responded instantly to shifts in position, passing between the trees with ease. Flynn scrambled down the slope to the horses and grabbed his axe. On the way back up he pulled Neely's short sword from its sheath and tossed it to the tracker. “Looks like we's gonna need these.” “Can either of you shoot a bow?” Charity released an arrow and quickly fitted another to the string as she talked. “Not like you but I can sure scare ‘em with it.” Neely hefted his sword as a rider charged up the hill towards him. “Then see if you can pick up one of theirs and use it against them.” Charity took out another rider. Circumstance vaulted the fruitwood and ran down the hill straight into the path of the closest bowman. Just before the horse reached him he dropped prone and the horse swerved, running its rider full force into the sturdy branch jutting out at head height. Flynn reached out and snagged the saddle-mounted quiver from the passing horse. Circumstance picked up the horn bow and tossed it to the big man. “Here.” “Thanks lad.” Flynn caught the bow and shouldered the quiver. “Lucky that horse shied the way it did. You coulda been killed, boy, why'd ya do it?” “Later,” Circumstance called over his shoulder, “when there's time.” He ran across the slope of the hill heading to where Neely was involved battling two bowmen. A third lay on the leaf strewn forest floor minus half an arm and all of a head. Several arrows streaked toward the boy. All of them missed because they swerved aside at the last second. Charity knocked an arrow out of the air with one of her own before it could skewer Flynn. “Keep your eyes open!” She shouted, “I'm running out of arrows.” “Sorry Miss Charity.” The big man bobbed his head in contrition and then yelled out in pain as a barbed head buried itself into his calf. “Aauuggh!” “Flynn!” “S'ok Miss Charity, just me leg. I'll be fine.” Flynn snapped off the shaft leaving a thumb-length stub before hobbling to relative safety behind a nearby tree. Charity nodded and turned back to see how Neely fared.

The lanky tracker had his hands full. Another Trading States bowman had joined the two harrying him through the trees and numerous arrows jutted out from the trunks like thin branches. She had three arrows left. Three bowmen, three arrows, but she didn't feel the confidence that had been there earlier. For some reason her sense ofknowing the target was off, the last few shots had hit, but not true, not true at all and the last was placed further off center than the first. Something was distracting her the same way a gnat or a fly would by buzzing at her ear. Shaking her head in an attempt to clear it she drew the nock to point and released. The arrow streaked past the trees between her and those attacking Neely, grazed a branch, and wobbled into the foliage at right angles to her target. “Damn!” She fitted another arrow and tried again. This one didn't even come close. Giving it up as a lost cause Charity lowered her bow and ran to Neely's defense, slipping and sliding on the slick leaf cover. She had to reach out with her free hand a couple of times to keep from losing her footing entirely. Neely dodged behind a gnarled Beech, ducked one more arrow, and darted around the other side, slashing upwards at the bowman as he passed. The tip of his sword gouged a deep cut in the man's side. With uncanny quiet the bowman tilted to the left and fell onto the forest floor. Charity reached Neely as the fallen bowman was climbing to his feet. A kick to the side of his head stunned him. Neely's sword kept him down. “Thanks lass.” Charity collected as many arrows as she could in the seconds given her. “Thank me after we've survived this. Look out!” One of the remaining five Trading States bowmen erupted from behind a small thicket of Alder waving a long curved saber. Neely fell backward just in time to miss having his head removed. His hat did not have the same luck. The blade caught the tweed just below the feather and tore a gash right through it. Charity sent an arrow the rider's way but missed by a good yard. “Damn and blast! What is happening to me?” “It's that one.” Circumstance's voice came from behind her and to the left. She turned to see him scrambling up the slope toward her, “Which one? Oh, him,” Charity focused on the rider in black. “Nothim , it,” Circumstance corrected her. “I think I know what it's doing, try another shot.” “Try it Charity, now!” Neely dodged another arrow sent his way and spun on the leaves as his feet went out from under him, sending the tracker into an uncontrolled slide down the slope. “Nowwwwww...” Charity targeted the bowman who'd shot at Neely, aiming for a path crisscrossed by innumerable branches and twigs. Her knowing was back and she released the arrow with full certainty the attacker was already dead. The rider in black held its hands to the side of its head and screamed, knocking loose more leaves. Two of its last three bowmen fell to Charity's next two arrows. The third charged at Neely with an arrow at full draw, leaning far to the right in his saddle. There was a meaty thunk and the bowman toppled to the ground with Flynn's axe sticking from between his shoulder blades.

“I think that's the one what stuck this here arrow in me.” Flynn pointed at the fallen bowman as he limped out from behind the tree he'd used as shelter. “What're we gonna do about that feller what led them?” Neely finished brushing the last of the leaf and twig litter off his trousers and scowled up at the subject of Flynn's question. “I say we stick ‘im full of his puppets arrows an’ leave ‘im for th’ wolves. I've had me fill of this place an’ Grisham's looking downright hospitable in comparison.” Charity, with Circumstance trailing closely behind her, made her way down the slope and immediately bent to examine Flynn's wound. “Let me see that, oh Flynn, you're bleeding! We've got to get that thing out of you before it festers.” Another scream from the rider drowned out Flynn's answer. Neely clapped his hands over his ears and winced, “I'm gonna kill that thing just fer th’ quiet it'll bring.” “It will take all of us I think,” Circumstance stood quietly, looking at their pursuer with a thoughtful expression, “If we even can.” Flynn bit back a cry as Charity inspected the stub of the arrow in his calf. “Maybe we should hold on fixin’ this ‘till we kin see about doin’ it proper, ok?” “Ok, Flynn,” Charity began, “but I wan...” “Prey!!” “What do you want?” Charity sounded like she was remonstrating a petulant child. “You, prey, I want you.” The rider's voice held a tightly suppressed fury, the glow of distant fires rose up inside its eyes. It grasped the shaft of Charity's arrow and pulled. No blood followed the removal of the head, just a small puff of dirty steam. “Not since the time of Labad have I hungered so for the taste of a soul. Your passings will be long and savored, prey. You will endure the torment of ages as I feed upon your tender minds. None of you are able to stand against me, none of you. Await my wrath and tremble.” “Talkative cuss, ain't he?” Flynn muttered as he hefted his ax. “Wonder how many arrows it'd take to let out alla his steam?” Neely had sheathed his short sword and retrieved one of the horn bows favored by the Trading States riders. A quiver filled with arrows rested on his hip Charity fingered one of the Trading States shafts now filling her quiver. They didn't quite match the quality of those she acquired back at Howell's Wayfarer House, but they shot straight enough. “Yes ... I wonder that too.” The rider threw its black cloak over one shoulder and nudged its mount into a walk. A breeze sprang up and flowed before it sending an odor of dead things into the shallow valley where the companions waited. Circumstance crouched, small crackles of blue lightning arced across his fingers. “Watch the bodies.” Both Flynn and Neely jumped back with an oath as the slain bowmen lying near their feet started to move. Their arms and legs jerked in fits and starts giving a grotesque parody of the smoothness they'd had when living. The one closest to Flynn struck out with a backhand blow delivered so clumsily that the

big man dodged it easily. He answered the attack with one of his own, loping off the corpse's arm with his ax. “What's to be afeared of them, Circ? Don't move worth nuthin', they's easy to deal with iffn you ask me.” Flynn sidestepped a jerky rush, letting Neely whack off the thing's head. The tracker dealt with the second one in the same fashion. “Flynn's got it right boy. Just keep your eyes open and we'll be fine.” Two more staggered through the trees heading their way. Charity had already put half a dozen shafts into them before realizing she was just wasting arrows. As they drew nearer she noticed a change in their gait. “They're getting faster ...aiieekk !” She stumbled back from a sudden lunge by one of the attacking corpses but not before its nails tore into her tunic, scoring a long scratch across her belly. The wound burned like she'd been stung. Her kick at the thing missed as she slipped on some wet leaves and went skidding onto her back. Three of the things rushed toward her. “Charity!” “Miss Charity!” Flynn and Neely tore into the corpses between them and Charity, hacking off heads and arms to clear a path, but before they could get to her, twin eruptions of blue energy twisting like snakes shot past them. The energy enveloped the things, turning each into a pyre of blue flame that flared briefly into an eye-searing blue-white radiance and then died out, leaving small piles of grayish ash. Other flashes flared and died around them flickering through the wood like sunbeams. “Deity!” “Hell's breasts! What was that?” Charity climbed to her feet and looked at the piles of what used to be the animated dead. Her stomach felt queasy. She hadn't been that close to death since ... no not even that time when she and Adam were captured by the giant couple was like this. Her voice trembling, she turned to see Circumstance, small arcs of magik still played about his fingers. “Circumstance, what was that? What did you do?” The half-elven boy smiled shyly. “They were Draugs and they needed to go away. I made them go before they could hurt you.” “Draugs?” Circumstance looked over his shoulder at the slowly approaching rider. “I'll tell you later.” The companions turned with Circumstance and spread out as the black-cloaked rider finished its descent into the valley. A sneer appeared at the corner of its mouth and it leaned forward in the saddle, one forearm draped languidly across a knee. “Hmph, I see you have a fledgling Wizard with you.” It straightened. “No matter, the Draugs were merely a test. Once I remove it from my path the rest of you will be kindling for my fire.” A dark red bolt of light shot from its eyes and slammed into Circumstance sending him backwards against the upper slope a good fifteen yards away.

“Noooo!” Charity ran a few steps after the boy and then turned, her face a blaze of fury. “Damn you, you stinking thing! I'll see you destroyed if I have to do it with my bare hands.” Tears streaming down her cheeks she sent three swift arrows at the thing. Two it batted away, one got through, penetrating its upper body and emerging near the left shoulder blade. Puffs of evil smelling smoke wafted from both wounds. Just as Charity released her first arrow, Flynn and Neely ran forward attacking the rider from both sides. Flynn struck out with a huge roundhouse slash intended to remove the thing's right leg from its body. The rider's mount shifted slightly and lashed out with a hoof, deflecting the big man's axe into the trunk of a Chestnut. Neely saw the horse shift and pulled his stroke, waiting. Charity's third arrow struck and so did he, aiming for the left hand. “Aarrghh!!” Billows of stinking black smoke boiled out of the gaping hole where the rider's hand used to be. It screamed again as it attempted to staunch the flow with its other hand. While it was distracted three more of Charity's arrows smacked into it with a hollow sound, like rocks thrown against an old dead tree. More smoke rose from the rider. Its mount began to shy and fidget, dancing back and forth in the leaf cover. Neely sidled in, looking for another opening while Flynn struggled to get his ax unwedged from the Chestnut. Charity sent arrow after arrow into the rider, all the while screaming imprecations at it. The horse tossed its head and danced to the left giving Neely the opening he was looking for. He lunged forward, slashing his sword at the rider's midsection. An iron grip halted the slash and then yanked the sword out of Neely's hand. Eyes glowing with the fires of the pit glared down at him. “Little prey, see, I have regrown the hand you took,” it shook the sword, showing the tracker the restored hand. The eyes brightened and flashed. Neely dove under the horse and the dark red beams passed over him shattering the tree behind where he stood. Small fires smoldered on the leaf cover around the stump but soon died in the wet. Neely lay in the damp leaves with the horse above him. He turned onto his back and, using his knife, sawed through the cinch strap. “If it worked on th’ one, it should work on th’ other,” He muttered, as he cut. Charity sent her last arrow into the body of the rider and her fury went along with it. The thing now resembled a man-shaped pincushion with glowing eyes. It turned those eyes upon her and twisted its face into a half sneer. The horse was urged forward and it moved toward her in a slow walk. Her bowels turned to water. The thing had over a dozen of her arrows in it, most of them sticking right through and it still lived. Neely had cut off a hand and it regrew it, and now it was coming for her. She tried to run but her feet wouldn't move. The eyes glowed brighter. A twisting bolt of blue-white radiance surged past Charity from behind and struck the rider full in the chest. Streamers of lightning arced and crackled throughout the glen, many of them grounding into trunks with the hiss and pop of superheated wood. The rider arched backwards, screaming in agony and fear. Blisters formed and ruptured on its face revealing a dull red glow like that of a dying coal. Charity stood transfixed as she witnessed her salvation. “Attack it now!” Circumstance came up from behind Charity and stood next to her. “It has to be now while the magik is working.”

Neely, who'd rolled from under the horse after severing the cinch strap nodded grimly and strode toward the rider holding his knife at the ready. Flynn gave one last heave and pulled his ax from the Chestnut. He tested the blade briefly with a thumb and turned to join Neely. Circumstance's body began to take on the blue glow of the power pouring forth from his hands. “Please, it has to be now.” His voice sounded weak and far away. “Right,” Neely muttered. “It's us for it, then.” He darted in against the horse and, grabbing the severed strap, heaved it upwards, spilling the convulsing rider onto the forest floor. “Lemme take it from here Neely.” Flynn stepped forward and, as if he was dividing a joint of meat, cut the downed rider into six pieces, arms, legs, torso and head. The legs took two strokes each. More of the black smoke poured out, filling the area with its stench. The severed head continued to scream until Circumstance stood over it. “I'm sorry, but you don't belong here. You never have.” He raised his hands. The light that came from them held the brilliance of the sun. When everyone's vision had cleared the head was gone along with the other pieces. Neely rubbed his eyes to clear the last of the spots and then walked over to stand next to Flynn. He looked down at the scorched spot on the leaves and nodded. “Well, that's that.” Chapter Seventeen

“I tell you,” Felsten downed the last of his nut brown bitter and signaled for another, “I saw it meself. It were there on his hip the whole time him and that old Wizard was at the Library, hadda be worth a thousand golds, maybe more.” The Librarian's assistant sat at a table in one of the pubs off the market square. The old man had finally relented and allowed Felsten to make the shopping trip instead of sending the cook. Most of the men in the pub now wore Grisham Guard colors. A few, like Felsten, enjoyed an immunity from such service due to age or disability. He'd finished his shopping and paid a boy at the market to deliver the boxed goods to the dock. The brown ale that slid into place before him would be his fourth. Felsten was feeling quite mellow. “A thousand golds?” The pensioner across the corner from Felsten shook his head and chuckled. “That's the ale talking lad. Ain't no sword worth a thousand golds, not even the one that Labad hisself carried during the magik war.” A man wearing a brand new set of Corporal stripes laughed and signaled for a refill. “You sure?” Felsten took on a stubborn look after downing a good portion of his drink. “What if it was Labad's sword, huh? I live in the library an’ I seen books describin’ Labad an’ his stuff. How many swords you seen with a solid gold dragon comin’ outta the hilt, huh? I seen one an’ it was on that young Lord's hip, what about that, huh?” He belched into his fist. “Ok, young feller,” The pensioner drawled out the words, “seein’ how you got the whole pub's attention, tell us about this here scion you saw. You telling us there's a new Emperor walking around Grisham? Does the Duke know about this?” The entire pub erupted into laughter.

Felsten glowered for a moment and then buried his nose into his tankard. When he came up for air the tankard was empty. He carefully put it onto the bar and stood up, weaving slightly. “I think I said ‘nuff.” The gaffer chuckled while wiping out a glass, “I think youhad enough.” There was more laughter. Felsten left the pub with his face aflame, accompanied by hoots of laughter and howls of derision. A guard lieutenant watched the Librarian's assistant as he left and continued to stare at the door for a long moment afterward. He lowered his head in thought for a moment, raised it to finish his wine and then left the pub. The following day a rumor began circulating through Grisham that the heir of Labad had returned. **** The day before, Sammel had picked up Ellona and took her by cart into the foothills west of Berggren to find the Dwarf Healer. Now the cart jostled over the bumps and potholes that made up the backcountry roads. Sammel's donkey moved at one pace, not quite as slow as a shell crawler but plodding enough to add to Ellona's anxiety. “When are we going to get there Sammel, Jonas only has so much time and we've used up one day already.” The old man drew on his pipe and blew out a fragrant smoke ring, “Almost there Ellona, almost there. You see that copse of Cedar above that cliff face?” He pointed with his pipe at a grouping of tall trees jutting above a sheer cliff to their right and about two hundred yards away. Between the road and the cliffs, noble sword grass clumps shared the flat with low scrub and berry brambles. “His hut's behind those trees.” “But we're moving away from it,” Ellona protested. Sammel chuckled around his pipe. “Don't know about you but I don't fancy my chances on being able to scale that cliff. This road follows along it for a half mile and then it does a snake dance to the top of the bluff. If things haven't changed much we should be able to get the cart up to his front door, don't you worry.” True to Sammel's word the road continued straight for another half mile and then began a sharp climb with several switchbacks. Ellona's heart was in her throat for the last few hairpin turns. The road grew narrow enough that it could not be seen under the cliff side wheels. To Ellona's eyes, it looked as if they were riding on thin air on one side and scraping along the cliff on the other. The scent of Cedar came to them as soon as they crested the top of the bluff. A tree-lined tunnel showed where the road entered the forest. Sammel clicked his tongue and urged the donkey on. Once under the trees the sound of the iron-wrapped wheels died, smothered by the deep layer of mulch on the forest floor. Ellona shifted in her place on the cart bench. “Oh that's better. My backside feels like it's been paddled from all that jouncing up and down.” Sammel nodded, “Aye, it's like this now, all the way to the hut.”

That got him an accusing look. “You knew. You knew all the time, didn't you? This isn't a search, we're going right to his front door.” “Never said I didn't know where he lived Ellona. Just said it'd be a trip getting there. This particular Dwarf lives by his self because he likes being by his self. If you're looking for a hermit I wouldn't suggest searching the market square, would you?” He smiled at his passenger. She smiled in return, “No, I suppose not.” They rode through the Cedars in silence for the rest of the way, each of them occupied within their own thoughts. Deeper into the wood the depth of the ground cover thickened to where the cart rocked slightly as if on water. Large golden brown mushrooms pushed their way through the leaves, well protected from the sun. The trees ended at the base of another cliff. This one had the look of a mountain having lost a good-sized chunk of itself in ages past. Above them, the cliff face of The Spine climbed into the clouds. “There's the hut,” Sammel nodded toward a thatch roof extending from the cliff wall several cartlengths in front of them. Below the roof, a half-circle door, intricately carved and Dwarf-high graced the hut's entrance. “Is the healer in?” Ellona gripped the cart bench tightly. “What if he isn't in? How will we find him?” “He's in.” Sammel reined the donkey in just before the door. “He's always in. That is,” he paused to climb down out of the cart, “unless he's in the forest gathering some of those mushrooms we saw.” At Ellona's gasp he shook his head. “Not to worry. Old Zasloff only ventures out predawn or after sundown. A lot of the old ones are like that, they're not much fond of the sun.” She got down out of the cart and joined Sammel at the door. “Will he come back with us then? We have to travel straight through to get back in time. That means riding during daylight.” The door was yanked open before Sammel could either knock or quiet Ellona's concern. An elderly Dwarf stood in the doorway glowering at them. He said nothing but just filled the opening with his broad hands planted on his hips. Zasloff only came up to just below Ellona's chest but he looked more than sturdy enough to her. After a long, long moment the Dwarf blew out his white moustaches and nodded. “Sammel, what brings you here this time, is this some doxie in need of a love potion?” Ellona bristled, “What?” “Take no offense Ellona,” Sammel placed a calming hand on her arm, “that's just Zasloff's usual cheery greeting to an old and dear friend. And a bright good morning to you too, honored Dwarf. We are here on a matter of the utmost urgency.” Zasloff snorted, his hands remained on his hips. “That's what you all say. Most of the time it's a lie. So what is it, a sliver in a toe, a bruised nail, or perhaps my talents are needed for the dire emergency of an upset stomach?” “It's the Chills.” Ellona stepped in front of Sammel and confronted Zasloff stare for stare. “My son has the chills and he'll die if you don't come back with us and heal him.”

“Ellona!” Sammel blurted out, scandalized. “You don't come right out and make demands of a Dwarf. There are rituals and traditions that have to be followed. Zasloff old friend, please forgive her, she's distraught and her boy is quite ill ... as she said.” The old Dwarf was shaking. Ellona stepped back, fearing she'd enraged him. There had been stories told of the legendary Dwarfish temper and she did not want to be within reach of it when it blew. Sounds came from Zasloff's beard. After a bit Ellona realized they were chuckles. Soon the chuckles changed into full-throated gales of laughter. Sammel gaped at the healer for a second and then slowly closed his mouth. He looked at Ellona with something akin to awe. “He's laughing, Zasloff's laughing Ellona! I've known this Dwarf for nearly forty years, and in all that time I haven't even seen him so much as crack a smile.” “Of course I'm laughing, you old fool. What did you expect me to do, whip out my axe and chop her into mincings?” Zasloff stepped in and away from his doorway, still chuckling as he beckoned them into his house with a sweep of his right arm. “Come in and tell me what you can about this child.” Ellona and then Sammel entered the Dwarf Healer's house, ducking their heads to avoid cracking them on the lintel. Unlike his door, the inside of Zasloff's dwelling contained ceilings high enough to accommodate beings other than Dwarves. The furnishings, though rather plain by human standards, were positively luxurious compared to those enjoyed by the average Dwarf. A front room just to the left of the entry held a nicely furnished sitting room with a number of bookshelves busy doing what they do best. A little further along, a door to the right opened onto what was obviously an office. Zasloff took the chair behind the desk and indicated for Ellona and Sammel to sit. The Dwarf leaned forward on his desk and opened both his hands, “Ok, tell me.” So Ellona did, starting from Jonas’ first headache complaint through Nicoll's help in nursing the boy to Sammel's offer of help and the trip to the healer's front door. She finished her story with a question. “Why were you laughing, was it at me?” Zasloff smiled and then he began to chuckle, “No, not at you lassie, because of you. Not in over seven hundred years has a woman of any species come right out and told me what she wanted. Dwarf females are too close-mouthed and Elves, well ... their males have them so beaten down they may as well be herd animals. Humans tend to keep their females away from the likes of me but the ones I have seen, treated me like some rogue Wizard who might steal their soul at any moment. But you,” he chuckled some more, “showed all the fear of a forest cat eyeing a prospective meal. I felt like a rabbit in the snare.” The chuckles became laughter again. When he could speak again he wiped his eyes and pushed himself up using the edge of his desk as leverage. “I've said enough and you've told your story. Shall we go?” Without waiting for an answer he walked out from behind his desk and into the hallway. Ellona felt completely at a loss. This hadn't gone anywhere even close to her expectations. She turned to Sammel, “Are all Dwarfs like this?” Her answer was a shake of the head. Sammel got out of his chair and left Zasloff's office with Ellona on his heels. They made the journey back to Berggren in a day and a half. The Dwarf Healer rode silently with his chin tucked against his chest for most of the journey, only the occasional chuckle told Ellona and

Sammel he wasn't always sleeping. **** Milward stopped and turned to look at the ribbon of highway behind him. It stretched to the horizon. He leaned on his staff and blew out a sigh,Frog droppings, but it was a long road. It was now two days since he managed to free himself from the Dreamsnatcher's attack and he still had no idea where he was. Part of the problem had to be the time of the year. Along the coast it could be the same temperature from Firth to Southpointe and Wycliffe to Orbis. Another part was the lack of distinct landmarks. It was apparent he was on a coastline, but which one? The ocean he faced was east of him, obviously. Even with the coastal fog only a total fool couldn't tell when and where the sun rose or the fact that he was on Labad's highway, but that still left two coastlines from which to choose. On top of it all, having to walk after the fight wasn't doing his temper any good. With the wall between his world and shadow getting weaker, he didn't dare try another vortex. Plus, he was already tired of seafood for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Milward blew out another sigh and turned back to his walk. At least he'd had the good fortune to land close to the highway. It would take a bagful of putting one foot in front of the other, but eventually he was going to reach a city or a town and then he'd find out where he was for certain. He just hoped he wasn't walking back to Grisham. The fog was just burning away when a sense that he was being followed caused him to turn around. Near to the point where the highway vanished over the horizon a dark blot moved. It looked to be coming his way. Milward gathered the power and focused it into a viewing; soldiers, of the Southern Empire by the look of their uniforms. He found a soft spot on the highway and settled down to wait. His chosen spot placed him dead center in the road. The officer in charge of the troops did not find that at all amusing. “Move old one. I've no desire to trample one of my elders into the highway,” He sounded tired and saddle sore. “Well ... at least you've sense enough to know I'm no child.” Milward favored the officer with a level stare as he leaned on his staff. “Perhaps you also have enough to tell me where I'm standing,” he smiled, “other than the middle of Labad's Highway, that is.” “I don't have time for foolish old men, father. Just move aside and let the army of the Ortian Empire pass and we'll leave you to your ruminations, or whatever it is you've been doing.” A tendril of gold fire played around the tip of the Wizard's staff. “What I've been doing is waiting for you,child , and you will take all the time I require of you.” The tendril flared into brilliance. “Now answer my question!” “...protect us, he's a Wizard.” “He'll have the Captain's liver for sure.” “...didn't sign on for this.” The murmurs came from behind the Ortian Captain, audible only to Milward's heightened sense of hearing. He smiled to himself,at least I didn't have to do anything flamboyant. “You're not answering my questionboy , and I don't like waiting.”

There was a noticeable gulp from the Captain. Milward could see beads forming on the man's brow. “Uhmm,” the officer cleared his throat, “you are standing roughly midpoint between the cities of Orbis and Ort on the Southwestern branch of the Imperial Highway.” “And where do youchildren happen to be heading?” Milward was pleased to note his insult raised a furrow in the officer's forehead. The man had a spine at least. A pause and then, “We travel to Ort for muster and then on to the north to join in the fighting.” The war, he'd nearly forgotten about it and his reason for shaping the vortex in the first place. He leaned forward, “How far to Ort?” “Master Wizard,” The officer fought to keep his composure, “We can either remain here answering your questions and gain no ground on our journey, or you can ride with us...” He didn't get to finish his sentence. Milward quickly closed the distance between himself and the Captain's mount, climbing onto place behind the startled officer. “Why didn't you say so in the first place? Let's be going.” The mass of men, horses and supply wagons began to move again. Milward decided he'd given the young officer enough time and repeated his question, “How far to Ort?” “About seven hundred miles give or take fifty, Master Wizard. Why do you ask?” The officer's back was board stiff. “That far,” Milward mused. “And the number of days to get there?” He made his tone jovial. It would probably pay to thaw the Ortian Captain's mood for a trip of that length. “We have been marching for a fortnight and will do so for the same number of days, I imagine.” Milward's ploy bore a small amount of fruit, the Captain's shoulders relaxed slightly. The old Wizard nodded, “Uh hmm, uh hmm. This fighting you mentioned...” “Wouldn't you prefer your own mount, Master Wizard? It would be more comfortable for you to sit in a saddle instead of behind one.” The officer sounded hopeful. Milward shuddered. “No thank you Captain. I prefer it when someone else handles the reins. My history with the beasts is checkered at best.” “I'm sure we have space on one of our wagons.” “Are you trying to get rid of me Captain?” “Not entirely Master Wizard, but I would be more at ease if you were not mounted behind me.” “Oh very well,” Milward made himself sound resigned, “Take me to this wagon of yours Captain.” The officer dropped Milward off at the first of the supply wagons, its driver being a middle-aged supply Sergeant with a much easier-going attitude than his Captain. He glanced at the Wizard as Milward settled onto the bench seat beside him and then reached down to come up with a small leather bag. He held out

the bag to his passenger, “Pemkin?” Milward took the bag and pulled out a wafer of the dried meat, “Thank you, driver. I was getting very tired of fish.” “S'why I allus bring a bag ‘er two of me favorite along on these trips. Man likes summat different now an’ then to chew on.” The driver chuckled and snapped the reins once, “C'mon old gals, keep ‘er up.” “Impressive pair of oxen,” Milward pointed at the animals with a piece of pemkin. The driver grinned and nodded. “Thanks, they're me gals. Allus pull whatever I asks ‘em to, better'n horses. Me, I never had much use fer horses.” Milward clapped him on the back. “I think we're going to get along just fine ... what's your name?” “Garld-Jens, Master Supply Sergeant Garld-Jens at yer service, sire.” “You can call me Milward.” The old Wizard held out a hand. The driver took it. “Well now, nice to make yer acquaintance Milward,” he looked his passenger up and down. “Whatcho do fer a livin'?” Milward chewed for a second on the spicy pemkin and then swallowed. “I guess you could say I'm sort of a professional student.” Garld-Jens looked directly at Milward with wide-open eyes. “Ya don't say? Good money in that?” “So, so,” Milward waggled a hand. The driver put his attention back on his oxen. “Ah well, can't have everthin'.” “No, I suppose you can't.” Milward handed the bag of pemkin back to the driver. “Your Captain said this caravan was headed towards Ort and then onto the fighting. What fighting?” Garld-Jens put the bag back where he got it. “Fer a perfeshonal student you ain't learning much are ya? The fightin’ up near Grisham's whut the Cap'n was talkin’ about. There's a war goin’ on. Ain't been one o’ them fer a long while, I can tell ya that.” “How long has this war been going on?” The fighting had begun already, unless he'd been stuck in the vortex longer than he thought he'd been. That had happened before. One poor sod botched the shaping and wound up coming home a few hundred years late. The driver pursed his lips and then scratched a grizzled chin, “Ah ... nobbut a month now. S'just getting’ warmed up iffn ya ask me. I hears the elfonts ‘er puttin’ quite a scare into them Northerns. Hee hee,” he laughed, “I woulda liked to see them tryin’ to dry themselves after catchin’ first sight a them beasts.” A month? So, he had been stuck longer than he thought. He'd have to try scrying Adam and his sister after the caravan settled for the night. A twinge of guilt nagged at him for hiding Charity's existence from her brother. He brushed the feeling aside. There would be nothing gained from regretting the past, besides the prophecy was quite clear on that point. They each had a separate path to travel before things came to a head.

Garld-Jens proved to be an amiable traveling companion and he and Milward had a jolly time of it trading stories until the Captain called the caravan to a halt for the night. Milward easily fell back into the role of storyteller like the time he took on the persona of Nought and told stories to the people of Adam and Charity's village. The driver thoroughly enjoyed the competition and said so when the wagon finally ground to a halt. “Fine time, Milward, fine time. You can ride with me whenever you want.” Garld-Jens shook the Wizard's hand, “You joinin’ us fer supper?” “Not immediately,” Milward shook his head, “There's something I need to take care of first, but save a place for me, will you?” Garld-Jens climbed out of the wagon. “Sure, sure. Barley stew ok? ‘fraid the meat'll be fish.” He worked at unhitching the oxen. Milward cast his gaze across the rest of the caravan as it set up camp for the night. “That's to be expected Sergeant.” He spotted a place suitable for his needs. “A man's got to eat regardless of what's set before him.” He left the driver to his oxen and his chuckles and passed through the camp. Most of the men ignored him, intent on their own tasks. A few, to his disgust, shied away and made a warding sign. A very few eyed him speculatively, one of them the young Ortian Captain. The spot Milward chose was a spring coming out of the rise west of the highway. Below the rise, a creek formed by the spring flowed into broad ponds the soldiers used to water their stock. Rocks laid along the edge of the ponds helped prevent their being muddied by the beasts. Using the tip of his staff as a guide he directed a small shaping into the head of the spring. When he was done a small still pool winked back at him in the fading daylight. Ok lad. Let's see how you're faring. He sent his scry into the pool's mirror surface. The old Wizard studied the images that flowed before him for a long, long while. He made no sound and moved not a muscle, even when a night bird wafted in on silent wings and settled on the tip of his staff. The bird eventually found the motionless Wizard boring and flew on. Another passage of minutes went by and finally he let out a slow sigh. Nodding, Milward erased the scry and started his walk back to the camp. If someone had been close enough they would have heard him say softly, “Good, very good.” **** Drinaugh reached out with a trembling hand and scratched at the door before him. He dreaded the moment to come more than anything he'd ever faced before, but the same compulsion he felt when he flew off to find Adam last year was driving him again. He had to do this. “Yes?” The Winglord's going to have me stuck into the deepest classroom in Dragonglade for this, I know it.Drinaugh's heart felt like it was trying to come out of his throat as he slid open the door. “Drinaugh, what brings you to my door this time?” Mashglach closed the cover of the Dragon-sized volume he'd been reading and turned to face his visitor. “Well, Drinaugh?”

The young Dragon tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Why was his mouth so dry? He'd ingested plenty of water before coming to the Winglord's quarters. Why was it so dry? He swallowed once more, “Uhmm, uh, Winglord ... I ... I still want to go help my friend.” “What was that?” Mashglach leaned forward, bringing his head closer to Drinaugh's. “You mumbled something, I didn't quite catch it.” “I still want to go.” Mashglach sighed. He's been expecting this, “You are aware of the consensus, young Dragon, we will not take part in the human's war.” “I ... I know, honored Winglord,” Drinaugh winced under the admonitiveyoung Dragon , but he pushed on, “however, I think the consensus is wrong.” “You WHAT?” Drinaugh reeled back from the Winglord's bellow and then reasserted himself, “I think they're wrong. All the older Dragons want to do is hide in Dragonglade and study, they don'tdo anything. I learned so much when I went out before and I did things, I helped people. I ... need to do that again, I can feel it.” Mashglach studied the young Dragon for a while. To Drinaugh it seemed as though his insides were being searched. The Winglord held Drinaugh with his gaze for a while longer and then reared back to where he'd been before. “Yes, I imagine you do feel it. I also remember you telling me how it seemed things were moving faster, and, your words have some merit,” the senior Dragon sighed, “but that is not the feeling of all of us, Drinaugh. It is certainly not the feeling of Chabaad or your mother. There are far too many of us who feel as they do, humans are to be left to their business and we are not to interfere, especially in their wars.” “But what was that when you led all of Dragonglade out to rout those humans who were coming to attack us, if not interference?” Drinaugh trembled in his fervor. “We all did something then, and I'm sure they all felt good about it.” “Being attacked is one thing, Drinaugh, attacking is another. Dragonglade was removed from violence even then. If you will remember, all we did was fly and roar. I have to say some of us are ashamed of even that much being done.” Instead of chiding, the Winglord's words had the reverse effect on Drinaugh. A seed of stubborn rebellion took root within him and his resolve stiffened. “I remember something else, you agreed with me when I said things were moving faster. I heard you.” “Yes, I did,” Mashglach nodded, “In that you are right.” “I also think my talent, my calling, is wrapped up in this. I'm the first Dragon Ambassador. I didn't know what it was all about at first and there is still a lot to learn, but I know it means I have to be ... out there,” he pointed to the door, “showing the other races what being a Dragon is all about. Part of that, honored Mashglach, is helping those in need and my friend needs me.” Drinaugh's speech brought another long thoughtful silence from the Winglord. When he broke it his gaze was centered on a point far away. “You bring up memories I thought long buried my spirited young

Dragon.” He paused. “Being Winglord does not mean being the dictator of Dragonglade, nor does it mean I have total freedom in allowing privilege, but it does give a little additional weight to one's decisions and I have decided.” “Decided what, Winglord?” Drinaugh could sense the precipice before him. Mashglach smiled. “Go, go be Dragonkind's first Ambassador. Find your friend and have the adventure of your life. Let the others grumble, they'll get over it. After all,” his smile broadened, “they're not going with you.” **** Thaylli leaned closer to the oak framed mirror trying to see the imagined imperfections in her complexion. “You don't have to fuss like this, Thaylli,” Adam admonished her from his favorite chair. “Ethan will think you look lovely, as I do.” She blushed furiously and looked into the mirror one more time, “Oh, poo! I'll just have to hope this looks all right.” Adam scratched a forearm. “I'm telling you it's ok, Ethan will think he's in the presence of the most beautiful woman in Grisham, and I'm not sure but if he'd be right.” Despite the Sirena's objections, Thaylli had moved back in with Adam. Thaylli turned from the mirror. “You sweet thing, you know just what to say.” A firm tap of the door's knocker interrupted her expression of gratitude to Adam. She pulled away but not before nipping the end of his nose playfully, “That's for later.” Adam stared at her. “What, what later?” She looked at him with half-lidded eyes as she went for the door. “You'll find out, later.” Ethan stood on the step with a bundle under one arm. He presented Thaylli a sweeping bow as she gaped in the open doorway, “My lady, may a tired old soldier cross your threshold and dine in the radiance of your beauty?” She had no idea how to respond to such a display of gallantry, “I ... uh, we...” Adam appeared behind her and placed a hand on each of her shoulders. What ‘later’ meant had just come to him. “Welcome Ethan, we're glad you could come over.” Thaylli nodded, “Come in, please. I made one of the recipes Fainnelle taught me.” She laughed quietly, “I've been practicing on Adam.” Ethan entered the house and handed the bundle to Adam. “I'll reserve judgment as to whether or not to be sorry for you,” he said with a smile, “But, what I smell tells me I should be jealous. The Captain gave you a nice place with that promotion.” Thaylli laughed again and headed toward the kitchen. Adam pointed Ethan to a chair and then sat himself. “She really is a good cook. I have to watch myself or I eat too much. Thaylli can be dangerous for a man's waistline.”

“I know that,” Ethan laughed, “Ellona's the same way.” He sobered suddenly, “By Bardoc, I miss her.” Adam nodded and then held up the package, “What's this?” “Open it and find out,” Ethan pointed with a fingertip. Adam untied the knots and pulled the string away from the wrapping, “A bottle of wine?” “Not just wine,” Ethan said smugly, “estate bottled Clarendy, and of a vintage year even our Lord Duke would be envious of, if he knew of it. I thought it might go down well with dinner.” Adam worked his thumbnail at the wax seal around the cork. “We may as well give it a try. How could you afford it on a Sergeant's pay, even with the advance Captain Bilardi gave you, this must have cost a few golds at least.” “No,” Ethan leaned back in his chair and grinned, “not even a whole silver. Remember, I said the Duke would be envious,if he knew of it . That bottle of liquid paradise you're holding is a product of the Wool Coast. Not too many people outside its boundaries are aware the region produces more than just wool and mutton. That bottle cost me no more than seven coppers. The shopkeeper wasn't even aware it was on his shelves. It was merely happy chance I spotted it.” The cork came away with a soft pop and the aroma of sweet flowers mixed with currents and deep blue berries filled the air of the sitting room. “Smells wonderful,” Adam held the bottle tip to his nose. “I'll get some mugs.” He stood up out of his chair and joined Thaylli in the kitchen. “What do you think of him?” She flushed and stirred the seasoned potatoes before her a bit more forcefully. Adam saw an opportunity for some teasing but wisely forbore. He still had the promise of ‘later’ dangling before him. Thaylli sniffed her potato dish and sampled a bit of its sauce. “He's very good looking, almost as handsome as you. In fact, he makes me think of what you'll look like when you're older.” “Oh,” Adam fingered his hair, the image of Ethan's gray streaks sweeping through his mind's eye. “Where are the mugs? He brought us a very good bottle of wine for our supper.” “Up in that cupboard over to your right. What wine?” She looked at him from behind her spoon. “One called Clarendy, it smells nice enough. Ethan called it liquid paradise.” Adam took down three mugs and whispered in Thaylli's ear, “Shall we give it a try?” She smelled of spices and musk. A tingling whispered through his lower region. Thaylli opened the lid of the pot behind the potatoes. Several fat sausages sizzled and popped amid a nesting of small chunks of apple. “The food's ready, I think. Why don't we get it to the table and then try the wine?” Ethan saw his hosts moving platters of food across the hall and, in spite of their protests, lent a helping hand. Supper consisted of the sausages and potatoes with a salad of crisp greens. A tiny pitcher held

dressing. “It looks and smells delicious. I'm glad I skipped lunch. Of course, what they're serving the noncoms in the mess made my decision easier.” “Is it really as bad as that?” Thaylli spooned some of the potatoes and sausage onto a plate and passed it to Ethan. Adam poured the wine into the mugs and passed them around. “Captain Bilardi is getting concerned that if the siege continues for an extended time, all of Grisham may begin running out of food beyond what can be caught in the harbor. I haven't seen fresh bread for days.” Ethan sliced a portion of potato and transferred it to his mouth. “That explains the mess situation. Someone needs to show those cooks how to prepare herring in different ways beyond stewing.” He chewed, swallowed and began slicing a chunk off one of the sausages. “That reminds me of a question, it's about the harbor.” “Yes?” Adam tried some of the greens with a drizzle of dressing, washing it down with a good swallow of Clarendy. The wine proved to be as good as Ethan said it would be. “What about the harbor?” Thaylli continued to slice her sausage into small rounds. “This is marvelous cooking young lady.” Ethan held up a piece of potato topped with a bit of sausage on his fork. “The harbor,” he finished off his bite of food, “seems to me to be an open doorway to invasion. Why isn't the enemy exploiting it? If I were them I'd have an armada through that strait in a heartbeat, Grisham would be in flames and the Duke's neck under my heel.” Adam copied Ethan's combination of sausage and potato. “The strait is better defended than it looks. I asked Captain Bilardi about that myself just the other day. I got to thinking much like you were after that situation with the Ortian shaper and his tunnel making. He told me something very interesting. I didn't even know it was possible. I certainly didn't believe it was possible until he showed me the engines.” “Engines?” Ethan and Thaylli said the question at the same time. “That's what he called them, engines. There are huge caverns dug into the stone at the mouth of the strait. Inside, running into shafts dug into the cavern wall are these things called pistons, each one of them as big as three wagons. He said the pistons drive giant spears upward at a great rate. Any ships caught above them are spitted like a boar for the pit.” “My goodness,” Thaylli held her hands to her cheeks. Ethan drizzled some of the dressing over a helping of salad. “So that's why we haven't seen southern warships sailing up to Grisham's dock.” “Indeed,” Adam brought another bite of potato and sausage to his mouth, “they most likely know Grisham's history better than we do, but they can still stand at anchor outside the strait and cut off shipping, which they've done. I'm very glad for these sausages now. I doubt we'll be seeing many more for a while.” “Or things like this salad,” Ethan held up a forkful for example, “Thaylli, let me say that this meal has been a masterpiece. You have worked wonders with humble fare and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” He rose from his chair and favored her with a half-bow.

Thaylli blushed scarlet and dimpled prettily. Adam looked proud and gestured with the bottle of Clarendy, “More wine?” Thaylli fingered the small bottle Fainnelle had given her in the pocket of her skirt. On the following morning, after a thorough lesson in what ‘later’ meant, Adam entered the Guard Administration office to find Ethan and Bilardi pouring over a pile of old maps. Some of them had the yellowing of extreme age. “What is all this about?” Both men looked up. Captain Bilardi greeted his newest Captain with a broad smile, Ethan with a searching look. Adam answered Bilardi's smile with one of his own and Ethan's look with an embarrassed flush. “I thought so,” Ethan murmured. “What?” Bilardi looked at both men. Adam coughed and worked at regaining some composure, “Nothing Captain, nothing at all. Can either of you tell me what all this is about?” He waved a hand over the maps. “Your Sergeant here is trying to prove a theory, Captain,” Bilardi's mouth twitched upward at the title. “He dragged me out of a warm bed before dawn to do so. It seems he remembers hearing somewhere about a rumor of old escape tunnels running beneath Grisham.” “Oh?” “Back when I was under Mogan's tutelage, I think.” Ethan slid the map before him aside, exposing another for scrutiny, “It had something to do with securing a fortress against siege and this city was used as an example. One of these maps should give me some clue as to where we begin looking.” “Looking for what?” “Why the entrances of course.” Bilardi pointed at a plotting of the dock area, “If these tunnels do exist there will be an indication ... somewhere.” His brows drew together as he peered more closely at the drawing before him. After a moment of studying he opened his fingers and allowed the parchment to fall back to the table, “It's no use, we're not finding a flicking thing!” Adam picked up the fallen sheet and ran his eyes over it.One of the older ones, he thought, some of these lines are so faded I can barely make them out. He used a shaping to pull the markings on the map into focus and looked at it again. “What would the indication look like?” Ethan spoke while tracing something on another map with a fingertip, “Since the tunnels run under the city they'd be dotted or dashed lines. Unlike the sewers they'd not run into the harbor but toward the city's northern and western walls.” “How can you be so sure?”

“Because any other way would bring high tide or a storm right into the streets and I don't think those old planners were that foolish,” Ethan looked up with a smile. Adam nodded, “That sounds reasonable. You say they would show up as dotted or dashed lines?” Bilardi laughed cynically, “That's what he said, but I'll be damned if I can find any of the blasted things.” “How about lines that are dashedand dotted?” “What? Let me see that!” Bilardi snatched the map out of Adam's hand, but Adam kept an eye on his place and pointed over the Captain's arm at what he saw. “There, see? And there, there, and there. Aren't those what you're looking for?” He traced a finger along the now clearly visible lines. “I'll be a ... I must have looked at this map a half dozen times, it's the oldest, and this has to be it.” Bilardi placed the map back onto the table and smoothed it out. Adam and Ethan joined him at either side. “See here,” He placed a fingertip on one of the drawings, “this one has an entrance beneath what would now be our favorite pub, and over here, and here, two larger tunnels starting from what is now a less than desirable part of the city.” “Isn't that where The Lowers are?” Adam looked up at both Bilardi and Ethan. “I've heard of them,” Ethan looked grim, “every city has one, a gathering spot where desperation is the primary method of exchange and hope a cruel dream. If your Lowers is anything like what Shilling Street was in Berggren I wouldn't go in there with less than a full company.” Bilardi smiled at the memory of his first foray into Grisham's slum. “A full company at least. With shortages now beginning to show in nearly everything, those in The Lowers will be even more dangerous and I have a feeling we're going to need those tunnels. The harbor will be less than adequate if we have to evacuate the city.” “Why?” Adam asked. “I'll handle this one Captain,” Ethan smiled. “Try to picture, Adam, word of an evacuation reaching the good citizens of this city. Now you and I both know a few with level heads set firmly on their shoulders, unfortunately they don't represent the majority or even a small percentage of it. Most people have a herd mentality and react just like sheep catching the scent of a wolf when something like what we're talking about happens. Can you imagine what the docks would look like?” Adam tried and the only picture that would come to mind was that of crowds of people falling into the bay and drowning. He shook his head to clear the image, “Couldn't the guard keep things from becoming a mess?” “Possibly, if they'd be ruthless enough.” “Then the merchant ships could be used to move the population to a safe area. Like maybe up here, or here.” Adam pointed to a couple of areas along the shoreline of the huge bay north of Grisham.

Bilardi shook his head. “There isn't that many ships left of a size to even begin to do the job. When the initial panic hit, the scabrous cowards spread their sails and moved on to safer waters. Besides that, I'm ashamed to admit that Grisham doesn't have a floating Navy, never has. To compound things, the closest safe landing on any of those shores is nearly a thousand miles away at Bern. Before that it's all impassable cliffs and sharp rocks.” “That leaves us with the tunnels,” Ethan said flatly. “Are there any on this map where it won't be necessary to fight through whole neighborhoods or dig up a pub's wine cellar?” “Well, there are a number of other tunnels indicated on this thing, at least one of them must have an easy access.” Bilardi rubbed his chin as he studied the map one more time. “The problem here is that this was drawn back when Grisham was considerably different than it is now. We're going to need some help, I think. McKenit!” “Yes milord Cap'n?” The old Sergeant stuck his head through the room's door. Bilardi gestured at the map, “Run your eyes over this and tell me if you recognize any landmarks.” McKenit came over to the table and spent a moment perusing the map. “Hmm ... not Harkon's reign no ... could be Belkimon ... naw, too large. The market square's wrong.” His voice trailed off and then he looked up, “It's from the time of the old Duke, back afore the Magik War. What was his name? Zacheral, that's it, Zacheral The Builder. Damn near bled the merchants dry with his taxes, he did, until they had ‘im kilt. Says he built a whole network o’ tunnels under the city. Says he had help from th’ Dragons too. Never believed that part of it.” Ethan nodded and crossed his arms. “That's very illuminating Corporal, but can you tell us where those tunnels are in relation to what the city looks likenow ?” McKenit looked to Bilardi who shrugged, “Answer the Sergeant, Corporal.” “Aye Cap'n,” McKenit bent back to the map. “I think so, Sarge. This here,” He traced an area on the map, “is the old Market Square. The new one's least twice as big. This curvy street's gotta be what we call Hill Run now, goes ‘round the hills where the rich merchants have their estates. An’ that makes this spot the Lowers. Wouldn't go there lessen I have to, iffn I was you.” “We discussed that Corporal,” Bilardi remarked dryly. “It is obvious you know your way around this map so can you tell us where the various tunnel mouths are? We know about the one beneath the pub and the one in the Lowers.” “You mean where they'd be today?” McKenit looked up. “Aye, Cap'n. Just give me a minute.” “Good man,” Bilardi clapped the Corporal's shoulder. He looked at Adam and Ethan. “McKenit's hobby, as you probably guessed is history. Spends nearly every spare copper on old texts and scrolls.” McKenit chuckled and nodded his head as he studied the map. As Bilardi, Ethan and Adam bent over the map with him, the old Corporal ran his eyes across the yellowed parchment slowly with just the occasional grunt to signify his progress. After a while he straightened and pointed at a spot directly in front of him, “You'll know this place Cap'n, remember that feller you had to slap down for stealin’ weapons a while back? He died right on top o’ one.”

“You're telling me there's a tunnel mouth right beneath the floor of that warehouse?” Bilardi raised an eyebrow. “Aye Cap'n, that's what I'm saying.” “What about the others?” Adam tapped a finger against the three remaining tunnels. McKenit scratched an earlobe. “Well milord, this one here's smack dab in the middle of the Merchant Quarter. Don't know what the buildin's look like there now but I'll bet a month's pay it's a shop of some kind. This one's close by the Palace, down the hill opposite the side facin’ the Lowers. An’ this one's way up in the northwest near the park, maybe in it.” Ethan stepped back from the table. “Ok, who's floor do we dig up first?” Adam pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders as he made his way up the cobblestoned street to the house the Captain gave to him on his promotion, with the proviso he get his girl “out from under the nose of that old mother hen". Sirena Culperti protested, albeit mildly, about them living together untied, that is until Thaylli put her foot down. He smiled at the memory as he turned the corner and saw the front of the house. They were going to be consorted on the next full moon anyway. Like most of the smaller dwellings in Grisham, outside of those in the Lowers and the lesser slum areas, the house was built on a narrow beam, longer than it was wide. An alley, with barely enough room for a man to walk through, separated their house from its neighbors. None of the houses had lawns, though several, including Adam and Thaylli's had flower boxes nestled against the front stoops. A light shone in the front room window. The shadow against the drapery indicated Thaylli was back from the pub and probably busy with her stitchery. His boots clomping against the step brought her to the door and she threw both arms around his neck and clung to him, “Oh, I'm so glad you're home.” She pulled back but kept her hold on his neck, “I've been dying for ... you know.” Adam flushed, “Thaylli! We're on the stoop!” She tittered, “Oh, you, not here.” She stole a feral look at his loins, “That is unless you're feeling adventurous.” Adam's deepening flush brought forth more laughter, “I'm just teasing, silly. Come inside and let me get you some supper, you're going to need it.” After supper and an athletic dessert, Adam and Thaylli lay side by side in their bedroom. Adam's expression grew thoughtful and Thaylli noticed the change as she traced patterns in his chest hair. “What are you thinking about?” She looked up at him with a languid smile on her face. “The war, the siege. I'm sorry, but I can't help worrying about you and what they may do to you.” He reached over and stroked her jaw line and chin. She sighed, making it sound like a purr, “I'm not worried. If someone tried to harm me you'd make him go away like you did that man in black.” Thaylli pantomimed performing a shaping.

“That's one of the things that worries me,” Adam folded his hands over his chest, “I'm not always near you. The duties of being an officer keep me away a lot longer than I want to be and as much as I like your friends at the pub or the Culperti's, I don't think they'd be much protection if the Ortians made it through the city wall.” Thaylli frowned, “What do you want me to do, tie a rope about my waist and follow you wherever you go?” “No. Besides looking ridiculous, it would be against regulations. Captain Bilardi would never agree to it. Anyway, you're my consort, not my slave; you have your own life to live. I'm just glad you choose to live it with me.” Her frown vanished and she snuggled up against him happily. “Actually, I was trying to think of a way of getting you to someplace safe, where I could join you once this mess is over.” Thaylli sat upright and stared down at him, “And just where would that be, Captain?” She tossed her hair. It swirled around her bare shoulders. Adam reached out a hand. “Could you lay back down? I'm just thinking and when you move like that it's awfully distracting.” She twitched again, “Oh? Is my Captain feeling a little tense?” “Thaylli, please.” Adam pulled her down, but she resisted and the whole thing developed into a wrestling match, which developed into some more dessert. When they were done Thaylli lay next to him and panted, “So where could I go?” “What?” Adam spoke with his face in the pillow. “Turn over and talk to me. You're notthat exhausted,” She slapped his bottom. He turned over. “So where could I go?” Thaylli repeated her question. “I don't know,” Adam yawned, “The Library maybe?” “Oh that sounds like lots of fun,” Thaylli said dryly as she cradled a cheek in her hand and propped herself up with an elbow. “I said I didn't know.” Adam threw up his hands, “If only I could get you back to Access. That would solve everything. You'd be safe, there'd be your family and friends around you plus no shortage of food...” “And I could start on our cabin,” Thaylli finished for him. Adam smiled, “Only if you can get there safely. There's still a little manner of a besieging army to deal with.” Thaylli reached out with her free hand and wriggled her fingers. “Could you do your Wizard thingy and send me there?” She saw the expression on Adam's face, “No?”

“No. I asked Milward about that when he started teaching me about magik. A Wizard can only carry himself in a traveling. He can't send or take anyone with him.” He turned on his side and faced Thaylli, “There's got to be another way.” “Maybe you could magik yourself to where Drinaugh lives and he could fly here and take me back to Access. No,” she frowned, “can you imagine what the sight of a Dragon would do to them?” Her impish smile vanished into a frown. “Too bad we can't just dig under the city wall.” “That's it!” Adam leaned over and kissed her. “Thaylli, you have it. We can use the tunnels to get you to safety.” “Tunnels?” Adam nodded, “Yes, tunnels. Back in the past they built these tunnels under Grisham. We just discovered the map that showed where they were placed. One of them has its mouth in the basement of the pub you work at.” “In Fainnele's basement?” “Actually, the Gaffer that owns the pub's basement. You know, the fellow who pays you at the end of each week?” Adam ran a finger up the middle of her chest. Thaylli looked down, “You keep doing that and we'll never get to sleep.” Adam reached out a hand, “Who needs sleep?” The following dawn Adam stood on the Grisham battlement next to Ethan and stifled a massive yawn. “Long night?” Ethan watched as Adam yawned again. “No where near long enough. I think I may have slept for two hours, maybe three. Any more of that tisane left?” Ethan reached down and pulled up a crockery jar with a solid looking lid, it sloshed when he shook it. “Some—here, wake yourself up,” He chuckled. Adam poured the hot tisane into his mug. “What are you laughing at?” “Nothing,” Ethan snickered and then straightened from his slouch against the embrasure. “Here they come.” Indistinct shapes in the morning fog coalesced into a howling hoard of Ortian regulars and conscripts that rushed at the city wall. Many of them carried scaling ladders and long pikes to fend off the defenders atop the battlement. “Man your stations! Ready the pitch, ready the stones!” The shouted command echoed along the battlement as it was picked up and repeated by the noncoms overseeing their section of the siegewalk. The archers readied their bows, several quivers of shafts at hand next to the arrow loop. Others grasped the heavy axes and pushpoles that would be used to fend off the ladders as they slammed against the crenellated wall in the battlement.

The front of the human wave reached the last twenty yards before the wall's batters and dropped from sight. Those directly behind them were unable to stop in time and they too dropped into the disguised pits. Screams of agony rose out of the ground and silenced the war cries of those within hearing. The pits had been dug over the previous week's evenings and lined with spikes. A brief pause slowed the advance of the hoard as the rest skirted the edges of the pits, and then continued on toward the curtain wall. “Stones! Now! Archers, let fly!” At the command, massive boulders, weighing upwards of a ton each were levered off the hoardings set outside the crenellations. Upon impacting against the wall's batters, the stones ricocheted directly into the advancing Ortian troops, some of them shattered, sending razor sharp shrapnel into their chosen victims. But even with that the attack barely faltered. Wave upon wave of snarling humanity smashed themselves against the rocks of Grisham's first line of defense. Men carrying the siege ladders were sheltered by others holding huge shields as they struggled to secure the ladders hooks against the base of a crenellation. Archers in the scrum sent flights of barbed death upwards to discourage those wielding push poles from knocking the ladders backward. Grisham's own archery corps answered their counterparts below in kind, but unlike the men on the ground, they were protected by three feet of quarried stone before them and solid wood overhead. Nearly every shaft sent into the crowd below meant death whether it hit its intended mark or not. “Fire the pitch!” Guardsmen holding torches dipped them into man-sized iron pots set into heavy hoarding mounted swivels. Flames erupted into the sky sending the pungent aroma of burning pine to mix with the scent of blood and sweat already heavy in the air. “Pour!” The earthly equivalent of hell rained down onto the men below. Flaming pitch refuses to go out and continues to burn straight through to the bone. At the base of the wall, the attackers pressed so closely together there was no room to run. Those with wit enough to look up could only watch as agony fell towards them. Their alertness served no other purpose and they died screaming along with the others. Burning flesh carries an aroma all its own. A cloud of it billowed up and reached Adam and Ethan's station “Ewuuggh!” Adam fell back, covering his mouth and nose, “I think I'm going to be sick.” “Keep yourself together Captain!” Ethan shouted, “This is a game of numbers. We have to kill more of them than they do of us.” Adam kept his hand over his nose. “But ... burning them alive? That's barbaric!” “Can you think of a better way to counter a siege? Only a Wizard could ... oh.” “Not another word, Sergeant,” Adam fixed Ethan with a glare, “I'm not going to do that. It's bad enough using my sword.” He leaned close enough that only Ethan could hear his voice. “Using my magik that

way would make me feel ... dirty.” Ethan nodded. “I understand. There're some doors a man just won't walk through. You'd best get used to this smell though, it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better.” Adam stepped past Ethan and looked at the ongoing battle through the crenellation. “This, is going to get worse?” An arrowpinged off the stone next to Adam's head and he jerked back, helped considerably by Ethan's grip on the back of his tunic. “A lot worse, and you won't be around to see it if you don't keep your head down. War is nasty business, at all times, and this is just the beginning. In a few days and no one will be able to look over the battlement without losing his breakfast. You think burning bodies smell bad? Wait until they start to rot.” “I can't believe it,” Adam peered cautiously around the edge of the crenellation, “they'd just up and leave their own to the vultures?” “It's better than getting your backside stuck full of arrows while trying to collect them.” Ethan craned his neck to check the battle and then drew his sword. “Up! All of you wake up! Get those push poles ready! You, ready that ax and try using it for something other than a backscratcher, like that ladder there.” He rushed forward swinging his sword. More siege ladders clattered against the stone of the battlement, many of them with Southerners already swarming upwards. Adam drew his own blade, feeling the bitter taste of adrenalin as it rushed into his blood. Part of him felt sick inside as he waited for those who would make it to the top. So many ladders were being thrown up that the southern army had to be trampling its own dead and wounded, some of them probably still smoldering from the pitch. He pushed the image away before it caused him to sick up right there in front of his men. He turned, and a young private stood in front of him, grasping a push pole, his eyes wide with fright. He looked barely old enough to shave. Adam's first impulse was to shout at the kid to snap him out of his trance, but another look at the boy brought a memory of himself facing that Fire Wyrm in the caverns he and Charity fell into. He shook his head, clearing the memory, “Scared, huh?” The Private gulped, and then blinked as if seeing Adam for the first time. He nodded, “Yes, Sire Captain, more scared ‘n I've ever been in me life. ‘Bout ready to piss me pants, I am.” “Well, don't you worry about that, just use that pole the way you're suppose to and you'll be fine. It's as long as it is for a reason. It keeps you out of the reach of the arrows,” Adam smiled to ease the moment. The Private's mouth trembled a bit and then he nodded, “I'll try me best Captain. I'll try me best.” “Good,” Adam saluted him with his sword, “You do that. I'll be right here with you.” He nodded, once, and with his mouth set rushed forward to help push off yet another ladder. This one had half a dozen men on it when it went over backward. Adam looked across the battlement. To him it was a scene out of nightmare; men surged back and forth in a sort of macabre dance of death and destruction. Enough southern archers were now sending covering fire against the defenders on the battlement that men were reaching the siegewalk. Ethan's sword flickered in a blur as he defended his area against them. Beyond that, an axman opened up the

chest of one of the climbers only to fall with an arrow in his throat and another in his eye. Men rushed up to fill the breach but Adam could see it was a stopgap measure only. The southern army outnumbered them by a hundred to one, at least. Yells of pain spun him around, and Adam cursed himself inwardly. While he daydreamed his own post had been overrun. As he watched, two more ladders slammed against the crenellations. Southern fighters were pouring over the wall and onto the siegewalk. One of them cut down the young private and came toward him, blood still dripping from the saber. Adam sidestepped the man's thrust, ran him through, and moved on into the fight. The men under his command were being slaughtered. Sheer numbers made defense of the siegewalk an exercise in futility, for every besieger killed, two to three more swarmed over the crenellations to take his place. In desperation, Adam picked up the pace of his fighting to the point where even Ethan's bladework seemed plodding in comparison. Each stroke felled an enemy. Each thrust brought him closer to the place where Grisham's defense had broken down. Time slowed for him, and each face of the men he killed was burned into his memory. A roaring filled his ears, and the ground shook. The next thing he knew he was on his knees with a splitting headache. Hands grasped him and he tried to shake them off, striking out with the pommel of his sword. “Easy Adam. It's all right, the battle's over, for now,” Ethan ducked the blow, and dropped onto a knee to look Adam in the eyes, “You Ok? No, you're not, are you? No one can be that pale and not have a hole or two in him. Here let me look at you.” Adam pushed the hands away. “I'm not wounded, it's just a headache. Have someone bring me some tisane and a packet of willet if there's any to be found. What happened?” “Earthquake.” “What?” “That's where the ground shakes, buildings jump around, trees fall, that sort of thing, some people call them earthquakes.” Ethan turned his head, “Someone get over here! And watch for arrows, they can still shoot!” Adam rubbed the back of his head. It hurt terribly, in fact it felt like that time back in Silgert when ... He pulled Ethan aside, “What happened? The last thing I remember is a blur of swords and axes, and don't give me another snide remark. I'm not in the mood for it.” “Ok,” Ethan nodded, “I don't remember much of it either. I can tell you we were getting our heads handed to us, there's just too many of them and not enough of us. One second I was in the thick of it trying to keep my skin all in one piece, and the next, the shaking started. Strange quake too, and I've been in a few. The Wool Coast is famous for them.” “What was so strange about it?” Adam asked warily. “Don't get me wrong,” Ethan temporized, “I've seen nature do some weird things. Sometimes as if Bardoc himself was having fun, but this is the first time I've seen an earthquake with a stopping point.”

“A what?” “Just as I said,” Ethan stepped over to the closest arrow loop and pointed, “a stopping point. Look out there and tell me what you see.” Adam did so, “There's huge cracks in the ground and every siege engine they had is little more than kindling, the ladders too. I don't think they could even use the scraps to build bridges.” He turned to look at Ethan, “Grisham's safe.” “For now, if this effect ran all along the wall,” Ethan nodded, his expression searching, “I'd say we were just rescued.” Men appeared on the siegewalk and began tending to the dead and wounded. Adam stepped back out of their way and Ethan followed him. “How's your head?” Adam rubbed a hand across his forehead. “The ache's going away, slowly, I wish someone would get here with that tisane.” “I hear that,” Ethan edged over to allow a stretcher to slide past. “My mouth always cottons up after combat. You don't feel like it when you're in the middle of things, but you sweat out buckets. It was you, wasn't it?” “It was me, what?” Adam gave Ethan a hooded look. Ethan moved close enough so he could whisper without any of the men around them overhearing, “The earthquake. It was your doing, wasn't it?” “I don't know what you're talking about,” Adam tried to protest his innocence, but he couldn't meet Ethan's eyes. In addition to the headache his chest burned where the medallion lay against it. Ethan smirked, “Yea, sure. That's why you're looking like the fox caught in the hen house. Don't worry, I won't give anything away, I'm glad it was done. There's just one thing, Captain.” Adam looked up at the title, “What?” “What did you think something like this would do to those tunnels we were looking for?” Adam bowed his head, “Oh, deity.” Ethan clapped him on the shoulder, “Exactly.” Chapter Eighteen

“We're here.” Sammel reined in the donkey and turned to look at Zasloff, “Are you awake?” The Dwarf's chin was firmly planted against his barrel chest and both eyes were closed, but the voice that came out of his beard belied his appearance, “Of course I'm awake. How could I be otherwise with all the noise this city of yours makes? Now, show me this child.” Ellona had leapt from the cart before Sammel brought it to a stop, and was already inside with Jonas and

Nicoll. She looked up at the Healer's approach, “Hurry, please! He's barely breathing, and his skin feels like ice.” “I'm coming, woman, I'm coming,” Zasloff said with a touch of exasperation. He pushed past her and opened the cloth bag he held. “Leave me now, that is, unless you wish this boy to not be healed.” “But ... I'm his mother,” Ellona wrung her hands as she looked down on Jonas’ pale form, “He needs me.” The Dwarf pulled a small stoneware crock from his bag. “Right now, he needs me more. Leave now, or I will.” Nicoll dragged Ellona by her arm. “Come with me dear, Sari's over at my place. I'm sure she'd like to know her mother's back.” Ellona resisted Nicoll's pull for a brief second, and then, with a despairing glance at Jonas, she allowed herself to be taken from the boy's room. The Dwarf continued to rummage through his bag, pulling out many more items than could possibly have fit into it. “You can go too, old man,” he said to Sammel without looking up. “I'm not sharing my secrets with anyone, not even you.” As Sammel began to close the door, Zasloff said in a more kindly tone, “Tell the woman not to worry, we got here in time.” **** Corporal McKenit met Adam and Ethan at the base of the steps leading to the siegewalk. A nasty looking gash peeked out from behind the thick bandage wrapped around his upper left arm, still, the old noncom managed to throw Adam a snappy salute, “Captain Bilardi's compliments Milord, if you could meet him at his office...” “Where'd you pick that up, Corporal?” Ethan pointed at McKenit's arm. McKenit glanced at his arm and then shrugged, “This bit o’ nuthin'? I've cut meself worse shavin'. Whilst you was playin’ on the siegewalk, his Lordship an’ me was seein’ to things over at the Gatehouse. They was usin’ them elfonts of theirs to knock on the door. Didn't get far that way,” He grinned nastily, “seems someone set a bunch of pointy spikes poking outta the timbers afore they got here. After a taste of them things, the elfonts just stood there. Near drove their drivers frantic, it did.” Ethan smiled. “So, what about your arm?” “Well, seeing the gate weren't going to cooperate, them southerns went after the barbicans. Woulda got in too, iffn that shakin’ hadn't started up. Never saw so many men so anxious to kill me all in one spot. Got this,” He glanced at his arm again, “cause I was keepin’ the other two fellers after me head busy. Never liked quakes afore, but this one were a blessing, by Bardoc it were.” McKenit nodded once in emphasis. “Summat wrong Cap'n?” He noticed Adam's grimace. “Nothing some hot tisane won't cure, Corporal.” Adam massaged his temple with a couple of fingertips. “Any idea what this meeting's all about?” McKenit shook his head, “Wouldn't say, Cap'n, just said to fetch you and the Sarge here, iffn you was

still kickin'.” “I'll be sure to thank him for that vote of confidence,” Adam said dryly. While Ethan quietly laughed, McKenit missed the joke entirely, “His Lordship's a wise man, Cap'n. Knows his bizness, he does.” Nothing else was said the rest of the way to Bilardi's office. Exhaustion, along with the chilling sight of just how many had lost their lives in the siege, left few words worth saying, nor the energy to say them. Stretched out along both sides of the street inside the curtain wall, lay the bodies of those taken from the siegewalk. Though the ones tending to the grisly task did their best, it was impossible to hide the results of war. Many of the bodies lacked an arm, or a leg, or both. Some had been opened like a pig for the knacker and flies were everywhere. They left the line of bodies and crossed over and through the Merchant Quarter, twelve blocks of eerie silence, contrasting what was once a bustling scene of activity. Past the quarter, between the Guard compound and the Merchants sat an area of the city where business was still somewhat brisk. The public houses catered to anyone with a thirst and coin enough to satisfy it. It would have been a rare Gaffer indeed who closed his doors merely because of a bit of fighting. The owner of Thaylli's pub had said as much one evening while Adam was waiting to walk her home from work. “Oh sure, nasty business it is, nasty business, war. But you can't expect a man to stop serving custom just because a few fellers are mad at each other now, can ye? Why, I've had brawls in me place'd clear out whole neighborhoods, an’ I still managed to pull a pint or two. Naw, I ain't closin’ down, Cap'n. Iffn them southerners come in here, I'll offer ‘em a pint an’ a bite. Ain't seen a man yet, willin’ to fight with his mouth full.” A quick tour of the pubs told Adam that was the prevailing sentiment among their owners. Some of them even looked upon the war as a business opportunity, with the invading army as nothing more than an untapped source of revenue. Those thoughts occupied his mind until they reached the gate of the guard compound. The sentry on duty saluted, but only after assuring himself that none of them happened to be an enemy in disguise. No less than a dozen hard-eyed men watched over the inspection with their weapons drawn. Guardsmen patted them down and checked their faces to be sure they were not wearing masks instead of flesh. Ethan grunted in satisfaction as a private plucked at his cheek, “Good lad, you make sure of things and we'll all live a bit longer.” The inspectors waved them in and then closed off the path behind them. Adam rubbed his cheek where the guard had pinched him, “Can they do that, make you look like someone else, without magik?” Ethan chuckled, “You'd be amazed at what can be done with a bit of tree sap and paint. Remind me to tell you about the goings on during the Firth War.” Bilardi's office, usually an island of quiet contemplation, had turned into a riot of activity. The scion of Grisham sat at his desk, hair askew and black circles under his eyes, scribbling madly at a stack of blank parchments. Aides rushed back and forth, some carrying sheaves of maps, others delivering single sheets with terse lines of prose. Two pots sat at his elbow with a plate of uneaten scones.

He looked up at their approach, “Adam! Ethan! You're alive!” Adam nodded. Ethan patted himself across the chest, “I am? Why, what an amazing thing, I am, aren't I?” Bilardi grunted sourly, “Keep your humor outside the door, Sergeant. Suffice it to say I am pleased to see that both of you survived the siege. I need your help. We have to find out if those tunnels we spoke about survived that shaking. It turns out there's thirty-two of the bloody things down there, did you know that?” He shook his head, “No, of course not, there's no way you could have—McKenit, clear this room.” The old Corporal did so with brusque efficiency. “How did you find out?” Adam asked once the door closed. “My father,” Bilardi said simply. Ethan started, “The Duke? I was told he died.” “I'm not surprised. We thought it best to allow the assassins to think the job was successful, whoever they were. All the signs pointed to someone who is very, very good at what they do. It's possible my father used them himself at one time.” He sighed, “No, its better if the population mourns. That way their Duke lives a little longer.” “Grisham has got a funny way of mourning,” Ethan muttered under his breath. Adam smothered a chuckle. “What was that?” Bilardi looked up sharply. Adam toyed with a line on the map pinned to the wall next to where he stood. “Ethan said Grisham has a funny way of mourning. I've seen some of it at our favorite pub, Captain. I've also seen less celebration at some weddings. Your father doesn't seem to have a lot of friends out there, and I think you know why.” Bilardi threw himself back into his chair. “So the old man has a few quirks,” He growled. “He's still my father, dammit!” “Hestarted this war, you told me so yourself. That isnot a quirk.” Adam turned from his feigned study of the map, “And, we're all going to pay for it if we don't find a way to stop it.” Bilardi looked like he was going to carry the discussion into the arena of argument, so Ethan stepped in. “You said, thirty-two tunnels? Is that what all the fuss was about?” “I thought there was no more than a handful,” Adam mused. “That map on your wall shows no more than that.” Bilardi relaxed with the change of subject. “I thought so myself, but it appears there are other maps. My father was going to bring them to my attention when I took over his seat, at least he claimed he was,” he added with a touch of acerbity. “It seems his brush with Lady Death, and the fact that we're losing this war, has mellowed his perceptions somewhat.”

“Coming face to face with your own mortality can change a man,” Ethan agreed. “What about these maps? Are they here?” Bilardi held up a sheaf of parchments, “These and the others on my desk here.” “What were all the aides rushing about for?” Adam asked. “Are they looking for the entrances?” “That, and to see if they're usable,” Bilardi nodded. He stood and moved around to the front of his desk. “I hear that the shaking saved our giblets from the fire. Eventually, though, the southern army is going to be able to bridge those cracks in the ground, and we'll be right back to where we were before it happened.” “You have a plan,” Ethan regarded Bilardi evenly. The Guard Captain smiled self-consciously, “More of an idea, really. I hope to find a way to the enemy commander, and, under a flag of truce, see if there's a way to settle this thing, without further bloodshed.” “And, just how in the pit are you going to get ... ah, yes, the tunnels,” Ethan said, as he crossed his arms. “If any of them are still standing,” Adam shook his head at the thought of what he might have done. “Hence, the rushing aides,” Ethan remarked. Bilardi nodded. “Exactly, those scribbled notes, if you were wondering, carried a description of where to find that tunnel's entrance, if it still existed.” “Who's doing the hunting, the aides?” Adam had grown tired of standing and sat in one of the office's chairs. “Not exactly, McKenit!” Bilardi yelled at the closed door. “You sit too Sergeant,” he waved at a chair. The Corporal's head appeared from around the doors edge, “Yes, Cap'n?” “You through eavesdropping?” “Eavesdropping? Me? Milord Cap'n, wouldI do sech a thing?” McKenit raised his eyebrows in mock horror. “Only as a life's work. Corporal, collect the completed field reports and bring them in here. Also, have all the Guard Sergeants not currently occupied with the cleanup of the curtain wall assembled outside this office.” Bilardi answered McKenit's nod with a wave of his hand, and then returned his attention to Adam and Ethan. “We'll be going out to see if those tunnels, all of them, are still useable.” “I see,” said Ethan, “The aides aren't going to be doing the hunting, we are—with the help of those Sergeants you summoned.” “Extra eyes, the other part of the ‘we',” Adam added. “Exactly, and, every one of them capable of thinking on their own,” Bilardi walked over to the door and pulled it open. “McKenit, where are those flicking field reports?”

The old Corporal scuttled from around his desk with a handful of parchments. “Right here, Cap'n. I got ‘em right here.” Bilardi took the reports from McKenit and rapidly skimmed through them. When he was done, he looked up with a sparkle in his eye. “They've broken through to the one in the armory and found the entrances to a dozen more, most of them the work of a few minutes to pull away a facade. One of them was a hole in the backside of an old barn.” McKenit nodded vigorously. “The rats—I allus wondered where them critters come in from. They was using the old tunnels.” “And now we are,” Bilardi said triumphantly. “If they weren't collapsed in the quake,” Ethan added. “I've seen mines come down with less shaking. Captain, wouldn't it be better to approach this search with a bit more pessimism?” “I think we'll find them in good shape.” Adam looked up from a study of the floorboards. “It's just a feeling,” he said to Ethan's sharp look. Bilardi stuffed the reports into a bag and pulled its strap over his shoulder. “Feeling or not, we're going to find out for sure, one way or the other, let's go. McKenit!” “Yes Cap'n?” McKenit pulled up on his way back to his desk. “Get a copy of the tunnel locations to each of those Sergeants. I want every one of them thoroughly mapped before this week ends. If anyone complains, tell them the stable master always has room for extra hands in the mucking out.” McKenit left with an evil grin on his face. “Aye, Cap'n, that I will.” They left Bilardi's office and walked directly over to the armory. The noncom at the desk jumped to his feet, saluted, and walked quickly to the barred door leading into the stores. Inside the area of the stores known as the stacks, they made a sharp right, walked along the shelves of weapons stacked one atop another, turned left, and walked to the end of the stack. To the right of the corner, against the armory wall yawned an open hole, twice man height in both length and breadth. A guard sergeant turned at their approach, snapped to attention, and called out, “Captain in the house!” Bilardi returned the salute and strolled over to the edge of the hole. Adam and Ethan joined him. “When you first mentioned tunnels, I thought...” “A wagon with a full team could be driven through this thing,” Ethan's exclamation overrode Adam's. “That brickwork looks old.” Adam leaned forward onto his knees and peered into the tunnel mouth. Bilardi nodded and climbed into the opening. Its floor slanted away and down to where it met with the brownish-gray of the tunnel's brick. Each of the old bricks looked half again larger than the ones currently used in modern building construction and a musty odor, redolent of age poured out of the mouth. “It should, this armory was built by my great-great-great grandfather over three hundred years ago. Looks like this one, at least, used to have freight wagons move through it. Come on down, we're going to see

where it goes.” “How?” Ethan still stood on the edge of the opening. Bilardi looked up at him, perplexed, “What? What do you mean, ‘how?'?” Ethan kneeled down and pointed into the tunnel. “Looks mighty dark in there, what are we going to use for light, the brightness of our personalities?” He smiled at Adam's chuckle as Bilardi shook his head in self-recrimination. “How about I send one of these men here to collect a few lamps or torches?” “I'd prefer a torch myself,” said Adam, thinking back to the time he turned himself into a source of light when he and Milward were making their way to Dragonglade. Another smile crossed his face as he remembered his chagrin when he found he could not turn it off. “Think of something funny?” Adam looked down. Captain Bilardi stood just inside the tunnel mouth smiling at him. “Nothing much,” he replied. “Something from a long time ago just popped in and out of my head. How far does the map say this thing goes?” “Gnomic ass!” Bilardi slapped his forehead, “I am such a gnomic ass! I'd forget my own feet, if they weren't locked away in my boots.” “You forgot to check the map?” Ethan asked dryly. Bilardi nodded, mutely. Ethan climbed down into the hole and beckoned Adam to join them. “Well, we may as well see about finding out. Did your teacher show you a way to gauge distances underground, Adam?” He raised an eyebrow in secret meaning as he hid the gesture from Bilardi's sight. “I think so,” Adam replied, “It has been a while, seems lately I've spent most of my time working on swordsmanship.” “And spanking me in the process,” Bilardi said sourly. “Where are those flicking lamps?” As if in answer, a couple of guardsmen appeared at the edge of the opening bearing three lamps each. They gasped in deep breaths as they passed the lamps down to the party in the hole. “Sorry for the delay, Milord Captain,” one of them panted as he handed down the final lamp. Adam reached up and took it from the guardsman. “Don't mention it. They'll come in handy, thanks.” The guardsmen raised their eyebrows at the courtesy, nodded, and then backed from the openings edge. Adam's ears picked up snatches of their conversation as they walked away. “...don't seem like a real officer...” “...allus like that ... diffrn't, ee is.”

Adam smiled to himself, they did not know just how different. Ethan handed two of the lamps to Bilardi. “Shall we start exploring?” **** The Alpha Wolf paused to sniff the air and then padded over to his mate's side, “I smell you, my mate.” She turned her head to nuzzle his cheek, “I smell you, sire of my cubs.” “Two-legs are in the forest. It is time for the pack to leave this place.” She answered with a wistful note in her voice, “It would be good to smell Bright-eye again.” He nuzzled her and then turned onto the game trail to his right, “Then we will follow his scent.” **** The sound of dripping water mixed with the echoes of their footsteps, as Adam, Ethan, and Bilardi followed the old tunnels path beneath Grisham's bedrock. Ancient moss and glistening patches of green slime added their aromas to the scent of musty age that pervaded the atmosphere. “Phew!” Bilardi tried to wipe away the stink with the back of his sleeve. “It smells like an old grave down here.” “It very easily could be one,” Ethan said, as he swung a lamp upward to check a suspicious shadow. “There are stories about the ancients building crypts into the walls of tunnels like these. I wouldn't be surprised if we came across one, or even a Keeper or two.” Bilardi snorted. “Surely you don't go along with those old superstitions?” Adam turned and shone the light of his lamp onto Bilardi's face. “I've run into a few superstitions, Captain. One of them almost nicked my blade. You can believe, or disbelieve, what you want. As for me,” He drew Labad's sword. It came out of the scabbard with a silken hiss. “I'm going to consider readiness a virtue.” Ethan nodded behind his lamp, “Good lad.” Bilardi drew his own sword. He was glad of the tunnels gloom; it hid the sweat popping out on his face. “Ah, well. One might as well join the crowd.” “How far do you think we've gone?” Adam asked, just after they rounded a long, slow, turning. Bilardi replied, “Don't know, I've lost all track of direction down here. What about that ... thing you were taught? The one Ethan asked you about. Can't you tell that way? Or do you need a light and some parchment for figuring?” Adam nearly collapsed with relief when he realized Bilardi had not connected the dots in Ethan's cryptic question. He exercised a bit of the power and felt the familiar pressure begin to build.It should be the same as sensing the landscape around you, he thought,like the time Milward showed me old Rawn in his boat.

He answered Bilardi just as he released the shaping, “I don't need any light, thanks.” “Oh, you can do it in your head?” “Something like that.” A map of the tunnel coalesced into view within Adam's mind's eye. Three white dots moved upon the map's surface. Behind the dots stretched an elongated J, ending at a widening that had to be the armory. Stretching away from the dots, the tunnel continued on for several more miles, passed beneath a line that he sensed must be the city wall, climbed up into the hills west of the city, and ended at another widening. Adam also sensed branches within the tunnel reaching across and connecting to other tunnels in the system. These felt smaller, barely large enough for a man to walk along without having to stoop. He ran over the map for a while within the shaping and then released it. “We've come about two miles, and are closing in on the third.” “Feels like twice that far,” Bilardi groused. “These tunnels stretch for miles, according to the map. I suppose my feet will just have live with it.” Adam and Ethan nodded in agreement, and the trio walked on into the further depths of the tunnel. They had covered another couple of miles when Ethan noticed a deepening in the shadows ahead. “Hold up. Something's different up there,” He pointed with his lamp. “I'll say something's different,” Adam said around the cough that welled up in his throat. “Do you smell that?” Ethan Sniffed and began choking; so did Bilardi. The reek of raw sewage filled the air around them with a suffocating miasma. Adam reeled back, trying not to sick up. Ethan and Bilardi backed away with him. “A sewer,” Bilardi choked, and pulled out the canteen hanging off his hip. He took a long swallow, and wiped his mouth with his thumb. “That stench can only be a sewer. I'll wager it cuts right across this tunnel, probably fed from the mansions on the hills above us.” Ethan chuckled, “Makes you think, doesn't it?” “About what?” Adam reached for his own canteen. “I think I know what he means,” Bilardi said, with a surly edge to his voice, “and my father would hang you by your intestines if he heard you say it in his presence.” “Probably,” Ethan replied, but it does make you think, regardless. Adam raised his lamp higher. “About what?” He repeated, with a touch of exasperation. Bilardi drank some more water. The stench of the effluent was making his throat itch. “He's making a rather crude reference about people's various stations in life, and how, when it really comes down to it, they all have one fundamental thing in common.” The light went on in Adam's head, “Ohhh.” “And my fatherwould string you up by your guts if he heard you say it. I find the thought somewhat

disturbing myself.” Bilardi coughed, and then had to hold off a gag reflex, “By Bardoc! Is there any way to turn off that stench?” Adam began to build up the power for a shaping, but held it back as Ethan stepped over to the archway leading into the sewer. “I've got an idea that may do the trick; it could be dangerous, though.” “How dangerous?” Bilardi said, warily. Ethan was doing something with his other lamp. “Oh, not too dangerous, but it would be good if we kept a ways back from this access hole.” The Guard Captain swore, “Scrud!” and began running back the way they came. Adam stared at Ethan's face for a second and then joined Bilardi in his flight. They pelted down the tunnel until the glow of Ethan's lamp was just a dim spot of light behind them. There they stood, waiting. Ethan's lamp bobbed around for a moment and then it flew off to the right and vanished. The sound of running feet came towards them. Ethan yelled, “Down! Down now!” Then he slid into Adam's side. A wave of intense heat and sound washed over them as they clutched at the brickwork of the floor. Echoes of the explosion rebounded through the tunnel and slowly died away in the distance. Bilardi groaned and climbed to his knees, “What in the flaming pit was that?” He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. Adam rolled over and the sat up, “Ufff! Ethan, what did you do? Was that some kind of magik?” Ethan lifted his face off the tunnel floor and grinned broadly, “No, not magik. It was just an idea. Something you learn about when you grow up around a whole lot of livestock. Though I didn't think it'd go up quitethat much.” He looked over his shoulder at the thin flickers of blue light that rimmed the sewer entrance. “You didn't burn up my city, did you?” Bilardi shook his head one last time and stood to his feet. “My father would never forgive me if I allowed that to happen.” Adam stood next. “Speaking of your father, how is he doing in his recovery?” “Smell that?” Ethan got to his hands and knees, and then stood. “It worked, and no, I don't think I burnt down Grisham, probably scared a few thousand rats, though. If it went up with enough force to get to the surface we wouldn't be here.” Bilardi sniffed, and so did Adam, “You're right, the stink's gone.” “Not all the way gone,” Adam said, as he sniffed again. He had shifted into way of smelling he learned while he and Milward stayed with the wolves, and the old Wizard force-fed him their language. Old traces of various histories came to his nose: an old woman with an even older disease, young men who had drunk bad ale and some who had downed better. Another tidbit of memory tickled his nose, and unbidden, a growl forced its way out of his throat. “Something wrong?”

“What?” Adam started, brought out of his wolf moment by Ethan's question. “If I'm not mistaken, you just growled. There something around us you sense, or is your stomach unusually loud?” Bilardi laughed, “Leave him be, Sergeant. I'm more interested in what that trick of yours did to my sewers. Who knew that what come out of our backsides could be so ... expressively explosive.” “Can we get going?” Adam grimaced at Bilardi's garderobe humor. “Right,” Ethan started walking towards the sewer/tunnel intersection. Adam and Bilardi fell in alongside, and shortly they looked in on the scene of the explosion. For a while, none of them could find any words to say. The stream flowing through the sewer conduit shimmered with a coating of small blue and green flames. Bits of fire danced here and there on the walls and ceiling like tiny fairies. The stench was gone, replaced by an aroma not unlike that of a fry-up. Bilardi turned his head to the right and then to the left, making small sounds of amazement, “By Bardoc, have you ever seen such a thing?” Ethan grunted, “Not too shabby, even if I do say so. The brickwork looks all right, that's a good thing.” “Good thing, indeed,” Adam said, as he sent out his Wizard sense. Ethan was right. The brickwork was solid enough to hold for centuries more. “Would you mind giving us a bit more warning the next time you plan on experimenting?” “Oh, sure, sure,” Ethan replied, but he looked insufferably pleased with himself. They turned back into the tunnel and continued their hike. The smell of fry-up persisted along the path and after another hour of walking, they found out why. Flickering blue light appeared at the edge of vision and grew closer with each step. Eventually another sewer mouth came into view. Along with it came something else. “I thought I saw one of those before.” Adam pointed to a bowl-shaped sconce protruding from the tunnel wall directly across from the sewer mouth. Ethan walked past Adam and examined the sconce while Bilardi leaned over and peered into the flame-lit sewer. Ethan reached up, poked a fingertip into the sconce and sniffed it. “Right,” He murmured. “Adam, hand me your lamp for second, will you?” Adam handed him the lamp. “One of those was on the wall across from the other sewer. I'll bet all the intersections are like that.” “Probably.” Ethan tore a small piece from his tunic and lit it, using the flame in Adam's lamp. Then he reached up with the burning fabric and held it over the sconce. A soft, yellow light bloomed against the tunnel wall as golden flames danced up from where Ethan had dipped his finger. Features of the tunnel wall came into focus as the light spread; reinforcing buttresses, like the ribs of a giant whale, curved down the wall. To Adam's eye, it looked as if they were set about twenty yards apart. The sconce that Ethan had lit sat against one, its width, twice what he could reach if he extended

his arms out to their full length. At the top of the curve, the buttresses met at a single capstone, carved into a blunt diamond shape, small side down. “They must all connect,” Bilardi muttered, as he ran a hand over his chin. “That fire has to still be moving through the system.” Ethan shook his head as he handed the lamp back to Adam, “No, it's probably stopped by now, that stuff goes up quickly. These little blue flickers will die out soon, and the place can start building up a whole new stink.” Bilardi cast a fish eye at Ethan. “You are an incredibly cynical man, do you know that?” “One of my most endearing qualities,” Ethan replied. “Shall I get the two of you a room?” Adam said, with a smile. “I think this is as good a time as any to break for a bite.” Ethan walked over to the wall opposite the sewer mouth and squatted, rummaging into the small pack he had pulled from his back. “Anyone want to join me?” Bilardi looked at Adam and shrugged. Adam replied with the same gesture, and they joined Ethan, each of them finding a soft spot on the brick floor of the tunnel. Packets of trail rations came out, along with a couple bottles of a light red wine. “What's this?” Adam reached out and picked up one of the bottles. “Hmm?” Bilardi mumbled around a bite of meat pasty, “Oh, the wine. Yes, well, I've never liked drinking just water with my meal. Even humble fare like this pasty,” he held it up for an example,” washes down much better with a fine wine.” “Really?” Ethan reached out and took the other bottle. “What do we have here?” He examined the label closely, “Good year, and not a bad growing region. Not quite Wool Coast quality, but promising.” He looked over the bottle at Bilardi. “Shall I open one?” The half-eaten pasty waved in assent, “By all means.” Adam and Bilardi held out small stoneware beakers as Ethan poured. They munched and sipped for a while quietly, each lost in their own thoughts. Adam swallowed the last of his cheese and looked over at Bilardi, “How is your father's recovery coming?” Bilardi's face revealed and quickly stashed a guilty look. “Not as good as I would have liked.” “How so, if you don't mind my asking?” Bilardi looked guilty again.

Ethan settled back against the tunnel wall, anticipating a good story. “Father...” he began, pausing to sigh, deeply, “is less than grateful for the part you played in his rescue. He has been in a foul mood since that night, but I can forgive him that. It was an assassination attempt, after all.” “He doesn't blame me, does he?” Adam blurted. “Bloody hell, I was the one who...” He swallowed his words before he confessed to doing the wizardry responsible for the Duke's healing. “He blameseveryone for not doing enough to protect him from the assassin's bolt, but for some reason he is fixated onyou ,” Bilardi pointed a forefinger at Adam. “Ever since I described the hilt of your sword to him...” His voice trailed off for a moment. “You know,” he continued, “I think my father believes you're the scion of Labad, the next Emperor.” Adam held up both hands as he shook his head. “Oh no, I'm not going through that again. I don't care what anyone says, all I am is what you see.” “And what is that?” Ethan drew out the question in a slow drawl. “Yes,” Bilardi added. “I'd like to hear the answer myself.” Adam looked at both of them in disgust, “I grew up poor, in a small village on the far northwest coast. My sister and I are orphans, and we never knew our parents, but the couple that raised us treated us like their own. Does that sound like the background of an Emperor to you?” “Yes,” Bilardi said, “as a matter of fact, it does.” “It's the classic story,” Ethan added. “Poor orphans, raised by a hardworking couple, thrust into a dire situation, eventually find out their royal lineage and save the kingdom. Fits you like a glove.” “Oh, please!” Adam snorted. “You don't really believe that tripe, do you?” Ethan and Bilardi looked at each other for a moment and both of them erupted into laughter. “Oh Adam, you should see your face. Of course we don't. I mean, you're a fine officer, and all, but the coming Emperor?” Bilardi gasped out the words between wheezes. Ethan rubbed his eyes. “We had you going lad, I'll say that.” “Funny,” Adam grunted, “very funny.” Bilardi stood. “Come on, Adam. It's all in good fun. You have to admit, that is a very fancy sword. I can see how a man like my father, one who believes all the old superstitions, would be drawn to think like he does.” Ethan stretched out his arms and yawned, “Well, Emperor or not, we've still got a mission to finish, and I'd like to do it while I've still got a few hairs that aren't gray.” “Might as well,” Adam stood and shouldered his pack; “we must be close to the city wall by now.”

He looked sharply at Bilardi. “I don't have to worry about your father demanding my head, do I?” Bilardi shook his head, “That's not his way. He will push and prod at me to do something about you, but he will never directly issue a command like that. If you were a member of the underground, or a militant, then the headsman would already be measuring your neck. My father may be a man, who is ruled by his passions, Adam, but he's not an idiot. The men in the guard admire you too muchfor him to do anything directly, but it would be wise to keep a watch on your back.” “That is, if the Ortians don't overrun us first,” Ethan remarked cynically. Adam slapped his forehead. “Deity, I forgot all about that! Come on, let's pick it up. I need to see if this tunnel is usable. If it is, then the others probably are as well.” “Why the sudden rush?” Bilardi matched his pace to Adam's. “Thaylli. I don't want her in the city if the Ortians break through. If these do have an end, I want her safe.” Bilardi nodded, “I can see that. I'd feel the same way, if I were in your shoes. Mind you, we can't send anyone through until their safety has been established and each entrance is guarded. I want your promise in this, Adam.” He turned and fixed Adam with a level stare. “No one, I mean no one, goes through these tunnels without my permission. Is that understood?” Adam didn't answer. “I want your promise, Captain!” Adam took in a deep breath and then answered quietly, “You have my promise that I'll do the right thing.” “Good,” Bilardi replied, “Just so long as we understand one another.” Behind them, Ethan looked at Adam's back, and smiled. Adam was right in his estimation that they were close to passing beneath the city walls. The tunnel dipped once, into a long shallow descent, and then climbed steadily for a good quarter mile. At the top of the climb, they paused for a moment to catch their breath. “Oouff! I've been spending too much time sitting in my office,” Bilardi said, as he massaged his thighs, “My legs feel like they're made of water.” “At least the return trip will be downhill.” Ethan looked to his left and then walked over to inspect the sconce light on the tunnel wall. “I sure would like a chance to inspect how this system works,” he muttered, “I only lit the one, but they're all burning.” Bilardi finished working his thumbs into his thighs and straightened. “Some secret of my ancestors, I suppose. If you want, I'm sure the old plans are in the Library.” “Do either of you hear that?” Adam cupped his right ear as he strained to catch what was on the edge of his hearing. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Something was going on in the tunnel beyond the range of the flickering wall light.

Both Bilardi and Ethan strained to hear. Ethan turned his head to either side. “Sorry, Adam. All I get is the sound of that lamp,” He pointed to the wall sconce. “Perhaps it's nothing but nerves,” Bilardi looked around and behind them. “No,” Adam shook his head vigorously, “Ihear something. It reminds me of the time when Milward and I...” He cut off his words. “When you and that old Wizard ... what?” Bilardi drew his sword. “Are you saying there's something, unnatural, in these tunnels? I remember that Dragon in the market square. Could it be one of those things?” “I don't know what it is,” Adam said, heatedly. “But a Dragon would knock on your door, not sneak through a tunnel. No, whatever this is it's worse than Dragons, a lot worse.” Ethan drew his own sword. “You didn't say anything about Dragons back when you and your sister sobered me up. They really exist?” “The one that shattered Grisham's gate sure existed,” Bilardi said. “His woman was riding on its back.” Adam's sword came out of its scabbard with the sing of magiked steel. “I didn't know anything about them back when Charity and I found you. There, hear that? Tell me you can hear that!” Ethan and Bilardi stiffened. “I hear it, a chittering sort of squeaking.” Bilardi hefted his sword. “What is that?” “I just hope it's not rats,” Ethan said, quietly, half to himself. “Don't like rats?” Bilardi looked at Ethan out of the corner of his eye. “Hate them. They turn my guts inside out, can't help it. One runs across me in the dark, and it's a wonder I don't have to change the sheets.” They drew closer to the sound. A wall sconce lit a sharp turn in the tunnel, the first they had seen since entering. The chittering coalesced into a myriad of individual squeaks and squeals. Ethan's grip on his sword tightened, whitening his knuckles. Bilardi smiled. “I hate to say it, Sergeant, butthat sounds like rats.” It was rats, a river of them, streaming along one of the sewer outlets, but this one was dry, and cut through the tunnel floor, leaving an expanse of several feet that could only be crossed by jumping. “Gods!” Ethan expelled the curse in one whooshing breath and staggered back. An involuntary shudder coursed through his body. He spun around and hid his face against the tunnel wall. “It's all right, Ethan,” Adam called out, as he looked over the edge into the stream of gray-brown bodies. “They aren't interested in climbing out.” Bilardi sheathed his sword and stepped up beside Adam. “He's right. In fact, it seems to me that they're

running away from something. Look at that, will you?” “I'd rather look at the Lord of the Pit,” Ethan's voice echoed off the tunnel wall. “I think you're going to have to, eventually.” Adam turned away from the dry sewer and walked over to stand next to Ethan. “We have to cross that space to finish this job, and I don't think you'll want to jump it with your eyes closed.” “I can't. By Bardoc himself, I can't!” Ethan shook his head as his fist thudded against the wall. Bilardi watched the flood of rats for a moment longer and then moved over to where Adam and Ethan stood. “Yes, you can. Listen to me, Sergeant. You alone, of all the men in the guard, stood up to that monster, Gros, and beat him senseless with your bare hands. Now, I may be missing something here, but isn't he a bit more dangerous than a few rats?” “It's not that, Captain. It's deeper, something I can't control, always been this way, and I don't know why. Gods, I wish Circumstance was here,” Ethan turned, exposing his face. His eyes held a haunted look Adam had never seen in the man. “Circumstance, is that a name?” Ethan nodded, and wiped his face with a hand, “Ellona's adopted son. He ... has some unique ways of dealing with things like rats, and Garlocs.” “Is he a Wizard?” Something in Adam stirred at the mention of the boy. “I don't know,” Ethan replied, wiping his face once more. “He could be, but I've seen Wizards,” He flicked a glance at Adam, and then looked down, “but there's something different about his way of doing things, something special. He'd clear out those damned rats.” “This is all very interesting,” Bilardi said, as he rubbed his chin, “but this Circumstance,” a brief smile appeared as he said the name, “of yours is not here. You are, and we need you to fight this fear of yours, Sergeant. Look, the hardest thing a man can do his face his nightmares, but when he does he usually finds them to be little more than fairy tissue. I'll go over with you, if you want.” Ethan swallowed and turned to the Captain. “You really mean that, don't you?” He gave a weak smile at Bilardi's nod. “All right,” he said, straightening his back, “You want to get onto the other side of that sewer? Come on then, let's go!” He took hold of Bilardi's arm with a grip that numbed the Captain's forearm. Stepping quickly away from the tunnel wall, he broke into a run, pulling Bilardi along with him. Just before they reached the drop off, they leapt, and flew over the surging rats with a yell. The two men hit more than a yard beyond the other edge. Ethan released his hold on Bilardi's arm just as they did, and ran a couple of more yards before stopping. He turned with a look of chagrin and shook his head. “I'm sorry about the arm, Captain. I hope I didn't hurt it.” Bilardi rubbed some feeling back into his forearm, letting out the breath he was holding, and then grinned. “Glad to oblige or we'd still be over there watching rats.” He pointed at the sewer. “You notice none of them paid us any attention while we passed by overhead?”

Ethan stared at the Captain for a moment and then forced his gaze onto the sewer and its furry contents. He stood that way for several long seconds. Both Adam and Bilardi waited, neither wanting to interfere with the man's inner struggle. Eventually, Ethan closed his eyes, and lowered his head to his chest. When he looked up, the glint was back in his eye. “You know, they really are little things, aren't they? One of them could have been Gros’ mother, distant cousin, at the least.” Bilardi barked out a laugh, “come on, Adam. Get over here and we'll see where this thing ends. I'd like to get back before the snows come.” “But it's only early fall.” “Exactly.” After Adam cleared the jump and Ethan offered apologies, which were graciously accepted, the three men continued through the tunnel. They crossed three more of the dry sewers, each of them requiring a healthy jump to clear. After the third, Ethan stopped, and turned back, dropping to a knee as he peered closely at the sewers edge. “What is it, what do you see?” Bilardi dropped to a knee beside him. “One of the paving stones shifted slightly under my feet. I'd been wondering why these intersections have no bridge, and now I think I may know why.” Ethan reached down and grasped the edge of the stone. It, and a couple of dozen more like it, formed the edging on either side of the dry sewer. The stone came up as he pulled, with a grinding sound and the scent of old axel grease. Twin rods, approximately six inches in length were attached to the stones backside and fitted into slots liberally coated with the grease. Ethan pulled the stone free of the slots and placed it to the side. “Check the others. I'd wager most of them are the same as this one.” Adam and Bilardi did so and true to Ethan's guess, the other stones fit into the tunnels foundation in the same manner as the first. “So, what does this mean?” Adam dropped the stone he had shifted back into place. “Is there a bridge somewhere that can be packed away, and then put back when it's needed?” “There's got to be,” Ethan answered as he looked closely at the exposed lip, “It makes perfect sense, when you think about it.” “It does?” Adam looked over at Ethan. “Of course, that's got to be it.” Bilardi began running his hands over the left hand wall. “What does?” Adam was beginning to feel liked he had stepped into the middle of a long running conversation. Ethan walked quickly over to the opposite wall and began the same searching technique as Bilardi, “It could be any one of them.” “WHAT COULD?” Adam yelled out the question.

Bilardi stopped, and turned to face Adam, “According to Grisham's history, the same engineer who designed the harbor defense, created the schematics for the tunnel system. Those,” he pointed at the cut running across the tunnel floor, “aren't sewers at all. That's why they're dry. They're part of the city's defensive system, troughs to carry burning pitch and naphtha. Somewhere back up there,” this time he pointed into the opening in the tunnel wall, “are huge cisterns filled with the stuff. And somewhere, hidden in this wall, is a release for the bridge.” “I'm not surprised you didn't know anything about this, Adam,” Ethan said, as he continued his search. “The knowledge was kept pretty close to the royal family during the time of the empire.” “And I'm just as surprised you knew,” Bilardi remarked, dropping onto one knee to check the bricks near the tunnel floor, “As it is supposed to be secret.” Ethan smiled, “Another aspect of my misspent youth. Grisham's family tree has a few sprouts. Some of those sprouts have daughters. One of them liked to talk, among other things.” Bilardi grimaced, “My grandfather, yet again. That old man would have bedded the statues in the gardens if it were possible. I don't suppose you know if this dalliance of yours shared her secrets with anyone else, do you?” Ethan turned back to the wall, and his search. “Don't know. I was just passing through back then. She was a barmaid in a pub. I doubt anyone paid much attention to her mouth. The usual focal point is about a foot lower.” “Ah ha!” Adam turned at Ethan's shout. He had his right hand pressed against a brick in the tunnel wall, situated nearly level with his eyes. “Look at this.” He exerted pressure, and the brick swiveled out, revealing a brass lever set into a slot nearly as long as the brick. “Well, see if it works, man.” Bilardi wiped his hands on his trousers and stood. “Go ahead Ethan. We may as well try it.” Adam wondered if a mechanism so old could even function. Ethan grasped the lever handle and pulled. It moved reluctantly, but it moved. A grinding sound built up beneath the paving stones, and then, slowly, as if shaking off the sluggishness of a long sleep, a series of metal planks extended from both sides of the gap to meet in the middle. As the ends joined, great blunt hooks, pushed by the heavy flanges on the opposing plank, pivoted out and snapped into place, sealing the two into a solid bridge. “So, that's how it works,” Adam said, moving closer to look at the bridge. “I'll bet it would hold an armourer's cart, no problem,” Bilardi nodded. Ethan stood, walked over and picked up the paving stone he had removed earlier. “I'd best put this one back with its friends,” he said. After replacing it, he stood back with Adam and Bilardi and looked once more at the bridge. The stone he had replaced formed, along with the others, an inch high bump in the middle of the bridge about two

feet wide. “Perfectly disguised, when the gap is opened,” Bilardi said, pointing to the stones, “and, just a slight bump for the wagons to cross over. We'll open them back up when we return this way.” “If we return this way,” Ethan added. “We still don't know what we'll find at the end of this tunnel.” “You are a gloomy individual sometimes, do you know that?” Bilardi said, with a smile. “Let's see where the end of this tunnel is, and then we'll be able to forecast our fates a bit better.” Four more of the gaps crossed their path before they saw the pale light that signaled the tunnel's end. A sound, like that of a distant wind rose up as they approached another corner. Faint halos glimmered, highlighting the bricks at the corner's edge. They turned the corner and saw the source of the illumination, as well as the sound. Gaps, both small and large, showed in the tunnels wall where bricks had fallen. Some of them lay strewn across the paving stones of the floor. Small flying insects danced lazily in the light shining through some of the gaps. Adam looked upwards through one of the larger rents in the tunnel wall. “It looks like we're spanning a gorge. All I can see is a faint line of sky mostly hidden by a cliff edge.” Bilardi went to the other side of the tunnel and looked through a gap. “This shouldn't be here. There are no gorges near Grisham.” “Weren't, you mean,” Ethan said, with a smile. “That earthquake did this, I'll bet. The ancients built their tunnels well.” He tapped the paving stone under him with the heel of his boot. “This feels just as solid as the rest.” “There's the tunnel's end.” Adam pointed ahead of them where a sharp rise in the floor vanished into gloom. “Are you sure?” Bilardi asked, “I can't see anything in that blackness.” Adam then realized he was using his Wizard sense. Bilardi and Ethan would only see the deep shadows that hid the tunnel mouth. “Trust me, it's there.” Ethan looked at him sharply, and then nodded, “Ok, lad, you're the one with the sharper eyes, let's check it out.” As Adam had said, the tunnel's mouth lay at the back of the gloom, a thin line of light, too faint to be seen from any distance from the doors, shone at the join of the two massive iron-studded doors. Tendrils of green curled from beneath the doors and a faint dusting of earth covered the floor just inside the doors rim. “I don't see a handle for opening.” Ethan peered closely at the walls on either side of the doors. “They're probably hidden, just like the lever for the bridge,” Bilardi joined in the hunt by poking at the paving stones at the base of the left hand wall. Adam stood away from the doors and let his Wizard sense explore the area. The doors were even more solid than they looked. His sense told him whole armies would wear themselves out against them. Huge

steel beams, wrapped in brass, shot through both doors and into the rock of the walls. Heavy brass hinges, running from floor to ceiling, connected the doors to the wall. The doors swung inward, so any controlling mechanism had to be set far enough away from the doors so their opening wouldn't cover it. He cast his sense into the wall several feet back of where Bilardi was searching and found it. A cupboard disguised by a facade of three bricks covered a small alcove. Within the alcove sat the lever they were looking for. While Ethan ran his hands over the stones along the right hand side of the tunnel, Adam crossed over to where he had sensed the door's control. It swung open smoothly.More of the ancient's building mastery, he thought. He looked down. Bilardi still had his attention focused on the stones below him, and Ethan had just stopped his search and was gathering himself back to his feet. Both turned as the door locks began pulling back into the walls. “Who...?” Bilardi halted in mid-rise and watched as the massive doors slowly began to open. “I think you'd better step away from there. They look heavy,” Adam said, dryly. Ethan gave Adam another searching look as he joined Bilardi next to the control. Adam saw the look and shrugged. Ethan nodded back with a small smile at the corner of his mouth.There's a lot more use in knowing a Wizard than one would think, he said to himself. “We'd best be ready just in case,” Ethan drew his sword by example. Adam and Bilardi followed suit. Adam sent his Wizard sense out beyond the slowly opening doors as a probe, but all he got was a feeling of green. It was getting harder to sense things, and he could feel a strain in the back of his mind. Probablysome more of that draining Milward told me about , he thought, as he cut off the flow of power. The doors continued their stately traverse inward. As the gap between them widened, the density of the growth outside the tunnel revealed itself. “Lovely,” Bilardi grumbled. A tangle of vines and underbrush thoroughly blocked any passage through the doorway. “It's going to take a good hour to hack our way through this mess. I can't see a blessed thing, besides leaves.” “Well then,” Ethan swung his sword a few times to loosen his arm, “we should get started.” He put action to his words and greenery flew. Adam stepped in beside him, glad for the chance to do something with a distinct purpose. Bilardi watched for a couple of seconds and then he too joined in. Contrary to the Captain's estimate, they were through the overgrowth in less than a quarter hour. Bilardi hacked the last length of vine that dangled before his eyes out of the way and looked at the tableau before him, “Bloody hell!”

Chapter Nineteen

Charity stood at the edge of the rock promontory shielding her eyes against the rising sun. Below her stretched the white ribbon of Labad's highway, and below that, the blue expanse of the eastern ocean. Next to her Circumstance sat, with his legs dangling over the rock's edge. It had been two days now, since their encounter with the demon from the shadow realm. The boy did not appear to have taken any lasting harm from the fight, but she could not help glancing at him every now and then, just to be sure. Flynn and Neely stood to the right and behind Charity and Circumstance, minding the horses. The cat sat upright just behind Charity's saddle, seemingly asleep. Neely took out the straw he had been chewing on and spat. “It ain't gonna look any shorter, Charity, no matter how long you looks.” Neely rubbed one of the several bruises he had picked up during the fight with the Draugs. Flynn patted his draft horse's nose and limped over to stand just behind Charity. “Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout, Miss Charity?” She turned and favored the big man with a sad smile. “My brother, I've been thinking about my brother. It's been so long, nearly four years now, Flynn. I ... I'm wondering if he'll even recognize me by now, there've been so many changes.” Flynn did not answer. “I'm afraid, Flynn. After all we've been through, I'm afraid. It's the one thing I've wanted, since I found out he was alive, and now I'm terrified over the prospect of actually seeing my brother. What's wrong with me?” Circumstance turned halfway and looked up at Flynn. The big man shrugged and scratched his thigh. The wound was starting to itch. “I dunno, Miss Charity, they's nuthin’ wrong with you I kin see. Maybe it's just nerves, ya know? I mean ... iffin it's somthin’ really important to a body ... uh, then that body tends to be a mite more thoughtful about it, you follow?” Circumstance transferred his attention back to Charity. She looked back out over the vista that included the highway and nodded. “That's probably it Flynn, and I thank you, but it doesn't settle my stomach.” “Well,” Flynn said, softly, “Iffn you need a shoulder sometime, mine's big enuf to take the load.” Charity nodded again and turned back to take the reins of her mare, “Like Neely said, looking at the road won't make it any shorter. We may as well be on our way.” Flynn grunted in assent and swung into his own saddle. His draft horse whickered softly, and he reached out to rub the spot between the stallion's ears. “We'll be headin’ down soon, m'lad, just be patient.” Neely spat once more and reached for Wilbut's halter, “Yeah, let's be going, though I can't say I'm much lookin’ forward to it.” “I am,” Circumstance stood and moved over to where Flynn could help him up behind his saddle, “I've never seen Grisham, it sounds interesting.”

“Yeah, Neely,” Flynn spoke up, with a chuckle, “You never know, it could be more fun than a barrel of fish.” Neely's reply was unprintable. **** The wolf pack worked its way down the slope, following a trail that was ancient when Grisham was little more than a gathering of shacks near the water's edge. It had been an easy journey thus far, game was plentiful and so was water. The growing pups were able to keep up with the Alpha Wolf's pace easily, and the abundance of small game gave them plenty of practice in the hunt. The Alpha wolf halted in mid-stride and sniffed the air. He sniffed again and growled low in his throat. His she, walking just behind him and to the left, sniffed. She too released a low warning growl. “You smell it.” The Alpha wolf's ears remained flattened against his skull. “As does the pack, my mate, there is great evil in the wood, and it is not the man-things we passed before." More growls and a few snarls came from the pack gathered behind them. One of the pups began to whimper. “Gather the pups into the center and keep them safe,” The Alpha wolf sniffed the air again. “It is behind us. We will run in that direction,” He pointed, with his muzzle, toward the southeast, further on down the foothills toward Grisham's wooded outskirts. The pack ran, as if the very pit itself was chasing them. Breath was saved for flight now. None of the pack, not even the youngest pup, uttered even the briefest of growls. The only sound of their passage was the slight padding of their feet against the leaf cover of the forest floor. After they had covered a good three to four miles, the Alpha wolf slowed, and trotted to a stop before a vine covered hillock. He sniffed the air, whimpered softly in his throat, and then sniffed again. “What is it, my mate?” The mother of his pups turned from her examination of the young as he whimpered again. “Do you not smell him? It is Bright-eye, our two-leg packmate. He is here, nearby.” She sniffed, and opened her mouth in a wolf smile,"I smell him, my mate. He is with two others, in there. ” She turned toward the hillock. A sound came to their ears, a low rumbling from deep in the ground. The pups yelped in fright and hid between their mothers’ legs. As the sound continued, the vines covering the hillock shifted and rustled, as if seeking prey. With his hackles raised, the Alpha wolf sidestepped toward the hillock, fully ready to do battle with whatever was between himself and his two-legged packmate. The voices of the two-legs came to him and then the sound of the long teeth they sometimes carried, cutting into things. He backed away until he stood alongside his mate. “We wait?” She asked.

“We wait.” **** “Bloody hell!” “What is it?” Ethan pushed through the cut vines and immediately dropped into a fighting crouch. “Adam! Get yourself ready. There's a pack of wolves out here.” “Wolves?” Adam shouldered his way past Ethan and Bilardi and walked over to stand just before the pack. His sword went back into its scabbard. “Adam!” Ethan hissed, “What are you doing?” “Captain!” Bilardi's warning came in riding on the back of Ethan's. Adam ignored them and knelt in front of the Alpha wolf and his she, “I smell you pack leader. Was the hunting good?" “...What is he doing?” “I think he's talking to them.” “That ... growling, is talking?” Adam heard the whispers behind him, but his focus remained on the pack. He hadn't realized how much he missed the honest camaraderie the wolves offered before now. The Alpha wolf ducked his head and opened his mouth in a grin, “I smell you bright-eye. The hunting has been good, and the pack is strong. Where is your she, have you sired pups yet?" Ethan and Bilardi remained with their swords at the ready, but the wolf, and the pack behind him, studiously ignored Ethan and Bilardi in favor of their two-legged packmate. “There will be time for that later,” The Alpha wolf's she broke in before Adam could answer. “There is danger near.” Adam's sword leapt into his hand, “Danger, from where?” “What is it?” “What's going on? Are those beasts attacking?” Bilardi slid over to Adam's left, and Ethan covered his right. “Stay back, back!” Adam whirled and glared at his would-be protectors, “These are our friends. They sense danger somewhere close to us, and if they say it's near, you can be sure of it.” Ethan paused, started to say something, and then nodded, moving his attention away from the wolves to the area beyond them. Bilardi shook his head in confusion. “I can't believe what I'm hearing; these ... slavering beasts, friends?

I'm sorry, Adam, but I'll need...” “Do what he says, Captain Bilardi,” Ethan said, quietly, “Or have you forgotten about what occurred the day he entered your city?” Bilardi's eyes lost their focus for a moment as he thought back to that day. “Captain?” The eyes refocused, and Bilardi flashed a brief smile, “I remember. There's a lot about our young Captain we know nothing about.” “We're just scratching the surface, I imagine,” Ethan answered. “Now keep a sharp watch, my own hackles are starting to rise.” “Do you think it's Southerners?” Bilardi swept his eyes across the rise running to the left of where he stood. “I don't think so,” Ethan answered. “According to the map, that entrance sits at least ten miles or more behind their lines. I'd wager we couldn't even see the city walls without committing to a good hike.” “The two-legs with you, bright-eye,” The Alpha wolf growled, “can they fight well?” “Both of them are worthy, pack leader,” Adam answered, in the wolf's tongue. “They are members of my own pack, tried in battle and the hunt.” “It is there, my mate,” The Alpha wolf's she crossed in front of her mate and crouched, growling before a copse covered in brambles and slender hardwoods. The Alpha wolf turned with her as the rest of the pack spread into a skirmish line. Two of the females herded the pups off to the side and into the tunnel entrance. As he sent out his Wizard sense, Adam shifted his stance to match the position of the wolves. “It's coming from this direction.” He pointed toward the copse with his sword. His Wizard sense rebounded off of something that roiled with blackness. It sent shivers of icy heat along his spine. Whatever was out there, it was big, and possessed a form of magik all its own. He was going to be forced into using his power, in spite of everything. The hardwoods along the ridge just above the copse rustled, and then snapped as something slammed against them. Adam got another sense of blackness just before the thing's head came into view. “Gods!” Bilardi staggered backwards, tripped and half fell, scrambling for purchase. “Into the tunnel, get everyone in, now!” Ethan tried to sweep the wolves on either side of him back towards the tunnel entrance with his arm and sword, only to receive a painful nip on the elbow as a thankyou for his trouble. “The pack won't be sheltered, Ethan,” Adam shouted over the cacophony of growls, snarls, and snapping timbers, “Not by you, and not by me. Wolves fight their own battles. The best we can do is fight alongside them.”

“How?” Bilardi yelled, “How do we fight that thing? It's nearly as big as that Dragon your woman rode into the city.” The object of their attention turned its head, if that was what it was, toward the grouping. Its coloring shifted in an unsettling way from a dead black into a muddy mixture of brownish greens swirled with blood red. Insect legs jutted out from below a body that seemed unsure of which shape to take. Protrusions formed, swelled and deflated as if smaller creatures milled around just beneath its skin. A variety of grasping arms and tentacles waved from the chest and neck areas. The smell of rotted flesh and vegetation exuded from beneath its abdomen and rolled across the crushed sward as the thing moved steadily towards them. The mouthparts twitched, dribbling a colorless drool that blackened the ground where it fell. Ethan pulled one of the knives from his belt. “How do we fight it? By finding out first if it can be hurt.” He threw the knife, “That's how.” The knife flew, end over end, towards the monstrosity, but was batted out of the air by one of the tentacles. Ethan reached for his other knife and then had to duck rapidly to the side as the thing moved forward in a sudden rush. One of the insect legs slammed into the ground where he had stood, throwing up huge gouts of rock and soil. A second came down forcing him to roll into the wolf that had nipped him earlier, but this time he escaped a second lesson in manners. Bilardi swallowed the terror threatening to overcome him and rushed, yelling at the top of his lungs, toward the creature. Several of the wolves followed at his heels. Two of them were thrown aside as if they were no more than a child's stuffed toy, but the rest managed to latch onto a leg or a portion of the thing's body. Shrill shrieks and whistles erupted from the creature's mouth. The wolf pups whimpered under the impact of the sound. Adam could see no other option but to use his magik, and thereby reveal to the world at large what he really was, if he didn't, it was a surety Ethan and Bilardi, along with the wolves, would be dead soon. As he ran, he built the power, letting it grow in intensity until it felt like heat lightning on his skin. A sweeping tentacle caught his shoulder a glancing blow and he flew, tumbling into the bracken, picking up more than a few pricks from the brambles winding through it. Adam staggered to his feet. His shoulder felt like it had been slapped with the flat of an ax, the creature's strength must be incredible. Something within him told him the only reason he was still able to stand was the magik tingling through him. “Adam! You ok?” Ethan's shout came to him as if from a distance. He didn't answer, but concentrated on focusing where to put the power of his strike, and how to shape it. The thing's head seemed like a good choice, but he needed room to work. “Away, every one get away!Packmates, move now! ” Both the wolves and the men jumped at Adam's shout. The strength of his magik pushed the sound of his voice to a volume that bordered on the edge of pain. Ethan and Bilardi scrabbled backwards along with the wolf pack. Adam pointed his sword at the creature and released the shaping. He visualized the magik dissolving its target the way it did the Chivvin back during the trip he and Milward took into Dragonglade.

From the others’ viewpoint, their companion suddenly flared into an eye-watering brilliance and his sword pulsed out ever-expanding rings of vivid blue fire. The fire enveloped their enemy and it reared back onto its hind legs and screamed. Its edges blurred and began to break away. Snorts, screeches, and shrill whistles poured out of the thing in a continuous stream. A yellow cast began to blend into the blue of the fire and the blurring stopped. Those bits that had broken away floated back into the creature and reattached. Adam could feel his shaping being shoved back at him. His skin burned like it was being peeled away in strips. He drew deeper into the magik and exerted his will. The yellow glow suffusing the creature faded as the blurring returned. With the blurring came more of the shrieks and whistles. A brief pressure, like that of a wave fighting the outflow of a river, surged back against his shaping, and then the fading accelerated. Soon all that remained of the creature was an oily looking cloud bobbing and weaving above the brambles. The Alpha wolf sniffed the air and growled, “It is not dead, bright-eye. Beware.” Adam's knees wobbled, set into legs made of unbaked dough.Not dead? What was keeping it alive? He tried to gather power for another shaping, but the attempt brought nothing, his power was exhausted. The cloud bobbed in toward the wolves and danced back away from a twin-bladed slash from Ethan and Bilardi. “It is gathering its strength, bright-eye.” “What can I do? One cannot bite a cloud.” Adam allowed his knees to collapse as he tried to regain some of his strength. “That is a true saying.” “He's talking to that wolf again,” Bilardi kept his eyes on the cloud as he called out to Ethan. “Good. Maybe it'll have an idea of what to do.” Ethan waved his sword and the cloud retreated once more. Adam's mind raced. Whatever the thing they faced was, it had strong enough magik of its own to not only withstand the best he could do, but to come back, and this time, perhaps kill them all. He had to somehow dredge up enough of a shaping to at least send the thing away and give them time enough to make good an escape. Not for the first time he wished Milward was around. “If something can be done, bright-eye, it must be now,” The Alpha wolf snarled and leapt at the darting cloud. Its speed of movement had picked up, and bits of it were showing signs of clumping together. “So it comes to this,” Adam thought, to himself, “A heroic death to save my friends. So why does it feel so stupid?” He gathered his will and forced the power to come, building his shaping layer upon layer until he could hold no more, and released it. The magik erupted out of his hands as an almost invisible pulse of power. It struck the cloud and tore though it, scattering the particles across the landscape. Each of them vanished in a brief explosion of light like fireworks. The danger was eliminated.

“It is gone, bright-eye. The pack is safe.” “Good,” Adam answered, and collapsed into Ethan's arms. Chapter Twenty

Milward left Garld-Jens and the other Ortians to their pipes after the caravan paused for a mid-morning break. They were within sight of the towers of Ort now. The pinnacles of the city stood like reeds on the line of the horizon. A gentle prodding of the Captain in charge had given him the location of the royal grounds. Two more days of travel would place him on the steps leading to the palace. It had been a week since he last scried the twins. Charity was obviously moving toward Grisham with the companions she'd picked up. Milward chuckled to himself, who knew those two scruffy gadabouts would have turned out to be the best thing for her? As far as Adam was concerned, his last scry on the lad had to be cut short, there are some doings that needed privacy. Milward still blushed at what he'd come onto. He had to walk a good distance to find a spring. The caravan had dwindled to mere specks in the distance by the time he found it. A clump of rushes surrounded the source, and, pleasantly enough, the small pool it fed. Frogs protested the Wizard's approach by leaping into the pool. He had to wait for the ripples to subside before beginning his scry. When the pool had stilled, he sent a tendril of power into the water. Shapes and colors swirled through the reflection and slowly coalesced into a scene of those he seeked. For several long moments Milward stood, transfixed, over the small pool. When the scry was over, the Wizard's face dripped with sweat, and he drew in deep breaths as if he'd been running for distance rather than standing stock-still. “By Bardoc's beard,” He whispered, “it's begun to tear already.” **** Adam fought to reach the surface of the well, he had to, or he'd drown. Thaylli ... her name floated before him and he redoubled his efforts. In spite of the water over his head, he called out to her. Strangely enough, she answered. He called out again. He could almost feel her hands caressing his face. He called out yet again. The surface seemed closer now... “Thaylli.” “I'm here, Adam. I'm here.” She turned her face toward Ethan, “He's fevered, what can I do?” “Keep calling to him,” Ethan answered from his spot in the doorway to the couple's bedroom, “He'll use your voice as a guide to come back from wherever he's gone.” Thaylli looked back down at Adam and caressed his cheek once more. “You say that like you've been there,” she said quietly. Ethan nodded slowly, “I have.”

She leaned closer and parted her lips, “Adam, come back, Adam. I'm here. I hear you.” “Thaylli.” The surface of the water was just there. He could hear her voice clearer now, and the pressure in his lungs diminished. “Thaylli...” He broke through to the surface, and then he was looking up at her. “Welcome back,” Rather than cynical, this time Ethan sounded sincere. Adam turned his head at the older man's voice, “Ethan?” “In answer to your question, you've been out for the past two and a half days. Captain Bilardi has sent teams into each of the tunnels to map them. The southern army is still stymied by the results of the earthquake, at least it looks that way, and there's a wolf napping in your sitting room.” Ethan finished the last with a brief grimace creasing the left side of his mouth. Thaylli lifted her chin, “I think it's one of the wolves that came with the Dragon, Drinaugh, I mean.” “Drinaugh, he's here?” Adam tried to lever himself out of bed with little success. “Shhh, sweet,” Thaylli pushed him back down with ease. “I'm talking about when I came to find you, not about now.” “Oh,” Adam murmured, “I'm sorry, my head's a bit sore, and I'm really quite tired. What happened? It's all pretty fuzzy after that thing dissolved into a cloud.” Ethan stepped into the room. “You don't remember? No, I suppose not, you were weaving around like a man on his last legs. Probably because you were,” He said, half to himself. “You and that big wolf were growling back and forth to one another, and then something flew out of your hands. Whatever that thing was becoming vanished into little sparks. I got to you just in time, or you'd have fallen right into the brambles. “Bilardi was full of questions, and barely shut up long enough to catch his breath. I think this little episode spooked him a bit. He did promise to keep quiet about what exactly happened back there. Who's to believe him, anyway?” “The wolves?” Adam's voice came as if out of a dream. Ethan jerked his head in the direction of the room behind him, “Other than the one behind me, they all took off, but not before you got a thorough sniffing over. The big one looked me in the eyes and growled something. I'm pretty sure it was a promise of what I'd get if you weren't kept safe and warm. Two of their number didn't make it, I sorry to say. They're good beasts.” “He's asleep,” Thaylli looked prepared to stay right where she was until Adam woke. “Then I'll be going.” Ethan looked back at the girl sitting on the bed with her man's head nestled beside her, “Will you be alright? With that wolf out here, I mean?” Thaylli nodded, and smiled, “Of course, she's a friend, and a protector.” Adam slept for two more days, but this time he did so peacefully. Ethan stopped in briefly midway through the second day, both to see how Adam's convalescence fared and to bring some meat for the she wolf, who had, at that point, taken up residence at the foot of his bed. Thaylli, not wanting to disturb

Adam, slept in the overstuffed chair the Culpertis insisted she take when she and Adam moved into their home. Early on the morning of the third day Adam woke to find Thaylli retching, bent over the cleaning bucket. She confessed to having done so each morning since he went off to explore the tunnels under the city. Adam, though still a bit weak, sat upright and swung his legs out from under the covers. “We've got to get you to the Doctor. You should have told someone. Does Sirena Culperti know about this?” Thaylli wiped her mouth and looked up at Adam, “She does, and she couldn't be happier about it.” Adam's head jerked back with his surprise, “...Couldn't be happier? What are you saying? She wants you to be sick?” “No, silly,” Thaylli answered, with a smile. “She wants to hold the baby.” Adam gaped at her, dumbfounded. He stood like that until she rose upright and kissed him on the nose. “You did it, first time, my love. Now get washed and dressed, that is, unless...” She looked at him through half-lidded eyes. There was a mountain-sized lump in Adam's throat preventing his answer.A baby, How...? Well, he knew how, but ... a baby?“Uh, I think it would be best if I dressed, I mean, you just finished...” He pointed at the bucket. Her eyes followed his point. “No, the funny part of that is, I actually feel better afterwards. Like getting rid of a bad meal.” “A baby?” The she wolf interrupted what else Adam might have said by padding into the bedroom and sniffing him up and down thoroughly, “I smell you, packmate. It is good to see you ready for the hunt once again.” Adam held out both of his hands, palms first, to allow the inspection. “I smell you, packmate. The path of blood is clear. Why have you stayed in my den?” That earned him a wolf laugh. “The pack survives because of you. It is meet that one of the pack watches while you heal. You hunt well, bright-eye.” The she wolf sniffed Thaylli, “And you have sired a pup, your she will need a guide on her journey.” “Journey?” Adam looked at Thaylli, “What does she mean, journey?” Thaylli cross her arms under her breasts. “I don't know what you're talking about. Remember, I don't speak Wolf. What journey?” Adam turned back to the wolf, “What journey?” “Your she will need to den in safety to give birth. This place is not safe.” “Where will she go?” Adam had known Grisham wasn't safe, but he'd put off addressing the issue, feeling if it came down to it he'd be able to see to Thaylli's security by the strength of his magik. His

recent experience had shaken that resolve, and now, with a baby on the way... The wolf looked toward the west, “The scent of her birthplace is still with her. It is good to give birth where one was born. I will take her there.” Thaylli reiterated her question, “What journey?” “She says she's going to take you back to Access, to have the baby there, where it's safe.” “Safe?” Thaylli's voice climbed into the upper registers, “Safe? And just who is going to make sure it's safe on the way there? You? You're going to be here, being the gallant Guard Captain. Will Ethan go along to keep whatever's out there at a distance? Will the Culperti's?” Her eyes began to fill as her voice caught, “You're the father of my child. I want you to be with me.” She placed both hands over her belly. “With us,” She finished in a whisper. Adam gathered her into his arms. “I'll be there, Thaylli. Do you think any power on this world will be able to keep me away? The wolf is right, Grisham is no place to have a baby, and if there's any way to get you home, I'll find it, get you there, and be right behind you. Captain Bilardi knows what I am now, and I think that will change things a bit.” Thaylli sniffed, and then laughed into Adam's shoulder, her voice muffled against his skin, “A bit? Ethan told me all about it. I imagine he needed a complete change by the time it was all over.” Adam finally got dressed in time for the noon meal. **** While Adam and Thaylli were discussing their mutual differences, Wuest, aide to Lord Duke Bilardi, was busily sweating out the last of the water in his body. At least, that is how it felt to him. He was being marched, not walked, marched to the Royal suite, and flanked by two hulking guards wearing the ebon black livery of the Duke's personal guard. The populace called their members the Plague for good reason. No one paid a visit by their number ever returned, no one. “I ... I've done nothing wrong,” He continued the babble that had begun back in his quarters. “Please, you've got to tell his Lordship that. I'm loyal to the Duke, always have been, ask anyone, they'll tell you. Please ... you must believe me.” The procession passed a young scribe who, unable to sleep, was working late on a manuscript. His bowl cut hair fell across his ears as he bent over the vellum sheets. Wuest's pleas for mercy and understanding dopplered down into the distance as the trio passed. The scribe, wisely, did not look up. Wuest did not quiet his protestations of innocence until the twin doors leading into Duke Bilardi's suite came into view, and then they cut off abruptly. The guards did not stop to announce their presence but pushed straight through the doors. They eventually ground to a stop at a point precisely ten feet from the Duke's chair. The old man was sitting in it, both hands gripping the carved lions at the end of each armrest. “What have you to say for yourself?” The Duke's voice came out of his chest in a feral growl. Wuest was too terrified at that point to do anything but babble, “I ... I ... I...” “I ... I ... I,” Bilardi mimicked his aide with a childish sneer. “You are a traitor, Wuest! Did you think

your plans for my death would not eventually come into the light of day? This seat of power has ears everywhere, Wuest. Your fellow conspirators are already wending their way to the headsman, but that fate is not for you.” Wuest nearly fainted with relief. “No, my once faithful servant, that fate is not for you,” The Duke mused. Wuest opened his mouth to express his gratitude. “No, my once faithful servant, now black traitor!” Spittle flew from the Duke's mouth as he stood and screamed his sentence upon the cowering Wuest. “Yours is to be placed into the loving and gentle hands of the dungeon master! Yours is to be flayed slowly, and fed piece by piece to the rats and the vermin you chose to ally yourself with!” Bilardi finished his tirade screaming so loudly he was nearly incoherent, but Wuest understood all too clearly. The condemned aide collapsed onto the polished marble of the floor, gibbering in terror. Bilardi leaned back in his chair, a slow satisfied sneer playing across his lips, “Yes, I will enjoy this. You and I will become very close, dear Wuest, very close indeed. I may even dine upon your sweetmeats myself. Take him away.” He lifted his left hand in a languid wave. The two guardsmen bent and lifted Wuest. He offered no resistance, but hung limply, like a marionette without strings, in their grasp. Nodding a salute to the Duke, they turned smartly about with Wuest still hanging between them, and pushed through the double doors. Once through the doors and out of the Duke's presence, Wuest began pleading again for mercy, but it was like arguing with stone. The guards remained silent and continued their inexorable march down through the Ducal Palace's layers and toward the dungeons. As they drew closer to his doom, Wuest became more animated, eventually to the point of lashing out, trying to extricate himself from his captors’ grip. Again, the results could have been easily foretold. Against the power of those massive hands and arms the ex-aide was as helpless as a kitten pitted against twin mastiffs. Five levels down they entered the floor that led to the dungeon stair. The walls were lined with ancient suits of armor, set in position and stance as if guarding the way. Between each suit stood a man-high vase elaborately decorated with enamel and gilt. Wuest looked up and saw the iron bound door leading to the dungeon. With strength born of desperation he lashed out with his feet and managed to catch the haft of one of the spears set with the armor. The spear fell in just the right direction to catch the gauntlet of the one next to it, causing that suit to overbalance and tip against the vase next to it, which shattered explosively sending shards of porcelain into the unprotected faces of Wuest's vanguard. The resultant blood and pain caused both brutes to drop their charge, who scrabbled around on the tiles unsure of what to do with his new freedom. Half mad from the combination of fright and sudden surcease, the ex-aide darted from side to side trying to collect his thoughts. A hysterical giggle erupted from him as his hand darted out and tore a spear from a still standing suit of armor. The first guard grunted in surprise as Wuest drove the spear into his side. The second uttered no sound

because the exploding porcelain had torn out his larynx. Another giggle signaled Wuest's delight at what he'd managed to do. Its echoes followed him as he ran from the palace and into the depths of the city. Hours later, a more composed, but thoroughly exhausted Wuest stumbled into the corner pub where Hodder, Stroughten, and he had hatched their ill-fated enterprise. It had not been his intention to push through that door; it was more a whim of fate and the habit of long years instead that placed him there. The gaffer behind the bar looked up as Wuest came in, grunted a greeting and resumed his glass polishing. Wuest waved off the attentions of the serving maid and threw himself into the first handy booth. “Avin! Gods, what happened to you, man?” Hodder's voice pulled the ex-aide out of his fugue. “Hodder, you're alive? But, I ... but I was told you'd been beheaded!” “Beheaded? Me?” Hodder's eyes widened as his hand went reflexively to his throat. “You, and Leum,” Wuest whispered, as he leaned forward. He turned his head from side to side as he scanned the pub, “Where is he? Have you seen him lately?” “He's asleep, I imagine,” Hodder replied. “Why, what's going on? You got me scared, Avin.” Wuest slapped a hand down on the tabletop. “You should be,” he hissed, “I spent a good part of this day being tended to by a pair of the Duke's Plague! It was only Bardoc's happy chance I escaped with my life.” Hodder made a warding sign, “The Plague? But they only take people on orders of ... gods, he knows!” Wuest nodded as he reached for and downed his friend's drink, “He does, and he's the one who told me you and Leum were minus your heads. We've got to get out of the city.” “How!” Hodder made the question an exclamation. “Leum and me, we've poked our noses into every possible crack there is ever since you gave that killer your golds. I tell you, there ain't no way out of this city. What do you think you're going to do, walk out the front gate, jump that chasm, and have the southern army greet you with open arms?” “I ... don't know,” Wuest replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “There's got to be a way out. Something, anything we haven't thought of. I'll wager this pub's under suspicion. Bardoc knows we've spent enough time here.” Hodder drew a circle in the condensation marking where his glass had been. “There's the sewers,” He said, in an off-hand manner. Wuest looked at his friend. A parade of expressions flickered across his face, finally settling into one of determination. “Right, let's do it.” Chapter Twenty-One

“There's the sewers.” “Huh, what?” Captain Bilardi looked up from the page of scribbled notes lying on his desk, “Did you say something, McKenit?” The old Corporal nodded, “Aye, Cap'n, I did. You was askin’ me about the ways into the city, an’ iffn we was secure, an’ I was just telling you, there's the sewers, iffn a body was real desperate, that is.” Bilardi massaged his temples, “McKenit, have you any idea what a run on sentence is?” “Awhat sentence, Cap'n?” “Never mind,” Bilardi dropped his eyes back to the notes. “I'd already thought about the sewers, and discounted them. The rats alone would suffice as a guard down there. Any other vulnerabilities you can think of?” McKenit's mouth screwed up as he considered his Captain ‘s question, “Umm ... hmm ... naw, Cap'n, none. Not with that great bloody trench circling the backsides of the city. Seems it's too wide at the narrowest for anythin’ the southerners can do.” “That is my thinking,” Bilardi replied, without looking up. “Go back to your desk Corporal and keep any visitors from my door. I wish to remain private for a time.” McKenit flipped a perfunctory salute and shut the door quietly, leaving the Captain with the notes before him, and his thoughts. Bilardi ran a finger under one of the lines of script before him and pursed his lips, “So he's a Wizard, as well as a blademaster. What would my father say if he knew the rumors were true...? What would he say if I told him the next Emperor was one of my officers?” **** As Captain Bilardi ruminated over the sudden turn his life had taken, the object of those thoughts sat enjoying a hearty midday meal at his favorite pub. The platter before him held a good helping of a savory smelling stew, flanked by two thick slices of sweet, dark bread. “So, you're going to be a daddy,” Ethan said, as he dug into his own portion of stew and bread. “That's what Thaylli tells me.” Adam broke off a chunk of the bread and dipped it into the stew. He washed the bite down with a sip of brown ale. “Then, I suppose congratulations are in order.” Ethan followed Adam's example, duplicating the actions of dunking, chewing and drinking. “A woman is rarely wrong in knowing whether or not she's carrying. What plans have you made?” “Plans?” Ethan waved the chunk of bread he held in the air, “Plans, such as...” He sipped some more ale, “...preparing for the child's future. Maybe finding a home with a bit more room than that enlarged closet you and Thaylli now live in. I hear Access is a nice place.” Adam looked up sharply.

“Don't look so surprised,” Ethan smiled around another bite of stew. “It's not like I'm going to be shouting it from the rooftops, and I quite agree with you. Thaylli will be much safer there than here, even with that ... moat you created. I'd wager the southerners are going to be in for a long, unsuccessful siege. Look at the attitude of the city. Right now, it seems to be mostly one of relief, but that could change. Yes, Thaylli'd best be on her way.” “How did you...?” Adam allowed the question to fade and just shook his head. Ethan held up his empty tankard for the bar maid's notice. “Friends tend to ask questions in the background, and their friend's friends tend to answer. You think Thaylli would have been able to keep quiet what you two managed to accomplish?” Ethan laughed, “Lad, you still have a lot to learn about women. She ran in here the second she found out and blurted the news to Ionea and Jeini. Fainnelle learned about it from all three of them at once. She told me about it last night.” Adam looked shocked. “Ethan, you and she didn't...” He motioned with his hands. Ethan sopped up some gravy with the last of his bread. “Another thing you need to learn about women, Adam, is that the really good ones respect a man who can be friendly with them without being too friendly. You understand what that means? Besides, Fainnelle is the Gaffers woman, or didn't you know that?” “I ... think so, no, I really didn't.” Ethan leaned back and called out to the bar maid, “Jeini, bring this lad another ale, will you? He's thirsty from last night's work.” “Ethan!” Adam said, scandalized, as the girl burst out in giggles. “An object lesson, did you mark her reaction? She's going to remember that bit of fun for a long, long time, and a lot more fondly than if she bounced around in bed with some stranger. A good man, Adam, doesn't play with a woman's affections and then use her for his own satisfaction. He's friendly, helpful, and honorable. A good woman will see that, and understand that his friendliness will only go so far. Fainnelle learned about Ellona the first night I stopped in, and she knows how much my commitment to that woman means to me. Besides, as I said, Fainnelle has her own commitment to the Gaffer to consider, as do I.” He nodded in Jeini's direction while the girl was relating Ethan's joke to her father. “Now take Fainnelle's daughter there. She's near as good looking as Thaylli and full of energy. I imagine she could wear out a man, or even two, you interested?” “Ethan!” If anything, Adam was even more shocked than he was over the joke. Ethan nodded just before taking a sip of ale. “See what I mean? You're a good man, Adam, and Thaylli knows it. That's one of the reasons she spread the news of your virility around to her friends as quickly as possible. She's proud, and rightly to be so.” “You've sure got a funny way of proving your point,” Adam said, torn between flattery and outrage. “Well, you don't have to go by me, here she comes.” Ethan pointed across Adam's shoulder with his free hand. Adam turned just in time to be enveloped by a positively glowing Thaylli. While Ethan hid his smile

behind another sip of ale, the young couple reacquainted themselves after being separated for the morning. The demonstration of affection went on until Ethan coughed, “Uh hmm, if you want, I can ask the Gaffer to clear the place so you could have it to yourselves.” “Would you?” “Thaylli!” Ethan roared with laughter, “Seems you're going to spend this day being shocked, lad, relax a little, you'll enjoy life more. Now, if you two will excuse me, I've some sargenting to do. ‘Scuse me, girl,” This was said to the she wolf lying next to the booth, seeming asleep, only the constant movement of her ears giving away her alertness. The wolf raised her muzzle off her paws and grumbled out a long, low-voiced growl. Adam replied with a short series of quiet barks. “What was that all about?” Ethan carefully stepped over the wolf, especially mindful of her tail. “She asks if we're ready to go and says she's had her fill of two-legs and their crowded, smelly caves. I said they'd be leaving soon.” Thaylli leaned back from Adam and searched his face. “What do you mean, ‘they'? You aren't going?” Adam puffed out a sigh, “I said I'd join you, remember? I still have to make sure my leaving Grisham isn't called desertion. The last thing I want is to have to put up with Bilardi sending a company of the guard after us to try to bring me back in chains. Not that they'd have much luck,” he added. A party of four pushed through the pub door, letting in a rush of cool air and prompting another grumble from the wolf. Thaylli looked down at her. “What did she say?” Adam smiled, “She's getting impatient. If we're going to do this, it had better be now. I don't fancy the chances of the next person to walk by her. She's really gone out of her way, you know. This hasn't been easy for her.” The Gaffer slapped his bar rag down. “It ain't been easy on any of us, m'lord. That great gray beast lyin’ there, in easy bitin’ reach of me ankles, no ... it ain't been easy at all. The only reason I let it in was ‘cause your missus vouched safe fer it, an’ her being in the way an’ all. No, I can't say I'll be sorry to see it go. Not sorry at all.” “Seems you'd best be on your way, Thaylli,” Ethan nodded. “I wish you a pleasant journey, may Bardoc guide your steps along the way.” “So mote it be.” The Gaffer echoed the end of the ancient blessing along with Jeini. Thaylli looked around at the interior of the pub with tears welling in her eyes, “But I don't want to go, not without Adam.” She wiped a tear away from her cheek. “I know I agreed to, but now that it's come to

it...” She broke into sobs. As if Thaylli's tears were some form of signal, the women of the bar descended upon her en mass, cooing sounds of comfort and sympathy. Several of them sent glances of accusation Adam's way, it mattered not that he was innocent, he was aman that was enough. Ethan took the opportunity and ducked out the pub's door leaving Adam to face the emotional storm to come. Fainnelle was the first of the women to break away. She came over to Adam, her hands still coated with flour from the kitchen. She brushed them off on her apron as she approached. “That gal of yours is gonna be missed, lad. You'd best be takin’ good care of her, now.” “Of course I will,” Adam replied, not without some heat, those glances from the women clustered around Thaylli had grated on his nerves. “What do you think this is all about, anyway? If anything happened to her...” he paused, “well, I really don't know what to say at this point.” Fainnelle chuckled, “An’ wise enough to admit it.” She leaned over and kissed Adam on his cheek. “That's from a momma what's been through some of what you two are facin'. We'd best be getting’ your lass on her way afore too much gets said in that hen circle. We's the only ones what knows about the secret in the Gaffer's cellar, an’ I think he'd like it to stay that way.” Adam nodded in the gathering's direction. “I think you better be the one that pulls her away from there. I feel safer over here,” he pointed, “behind the wolf.” The older woman patted his cheek and smiled, “You just stay here, sweets, I'll collect your woman for you.” Fainnelle vanished into the scrum and emerged a few seconds later with a smiling Thaylli. Whether it was by Fainnelle's apparent fearlessness, or some instinct within the she wolf, there is no recorded answer, but the gray beast rose as the older woman gathered them together and led them into the rear of the pub, down the steps and into the cellar. “Now then,” Fainnelle said, folding her hands before her apron, “here we be. Doesn't look like I'll get to see that belly swell, after all, does it?” She smiled, muting the angst of her statement. “Oh, come now,” she raised a hand at Thaylli's expression. “No more tears. I've had my fill of them, these days. I'd druther have a memory of that face the way it looked when you told me your man'd done his duty by you.” Adam could feel the flush rising in his face. Thaylli wiped her face and forced a smile, “I'm going to miss you, Fainnelle, but now that I'm really going, I think I'd really like to see my family again. I can't wait to see the look on my mother's face when I tell her she's going to be a grandmother.” Fainnelle gather Thaylli into a hug and whispered, “You take care of yourself child.” In a louder voice she said, “Where's that pack, lad?” Adam looked around the cellar floor for a second and then stooped. “Here it is, heavy thing. You going to be able to carry this, Thaylli?”

She sniffed, “Of course I will. It's the same size of the one I carried here, let me see it for a minute.” She held out her hand. After a few moments of rummaging through the pack, Thaylli declared it adequate and resealed its ties. “The Dwarves taught me how to do that,” She explained to Adam, “when I was on my way to see you. I'm glad I remembered my lessons.” The wolf looked up at Adam, “Is your she ready? This one wishes to be out of this cave.” “Soon, packmate, very soon, I am glad you will guide her on her way.” Adam replied, in the language of the wolves. He turned back to the two women. “It's time. I was never shown this tunnel, Fainnelle. Where's the door?” “Just behind that cask, lad,” She pointed to a man-high wine cask snuggled into the rock of the cellar's back wall. “Grab the right edge an’ give a bit of a tug.” He did so and the front of the cask rotated away with a sloshing sound. “The Gaffer had a false front built into it,” Fainnelle explained. “Holds a good amount, too, so's you wouldn't even guess it was also our back door.” She chuckled. “Back when the old Duke was tryin’ to tax the publicans to death, it made for a handy hidin’ place.” A slight breeze wafted out of the opening, its scent reminding Adam of his first trip through the tunnels, and bringing another thought to the fore. He slapped his forehead. “Diety! Diety! Diety! Diety!” “What is it, what's wrong?” Thaylli and Fainnelle looked to Adam in alarm. “The bridges, I forgot all about the flicking bridges. If they're not closed there is no way she'll be able to get through. I am such a gnomic!” Fainnelle put her hands on her hips. “Is that all? Well, don't stand there frettin’ about it, tell the lass an’ get it over.” With an abashed look on his face, Adam did so. It took a lot less time than he thought it would. Thaylli had him repeat a couple of the instructions, but with even that being done, he was finished with his instructions in less time than it took to eat breakfast. Thaylli and Fainnelle shared one last hug goodbye and then the wolf and the girl stepped into the tunnel's gloom. **** Wuest, Hodder, and Stroughten ran along the alley separating Hodder's apartment and the series of shops lining Glowbell lane. The sound of slaps and splashes followed the trio as they ran. Stroughten wiped his face and swore, “Damn this weather! Why couldn't it wait and rain after we got under cover. I'm soaked through to my bleedin’ skin.”

Hodder grunted, “It's hittin’ me before it hits you.” “Shhh! Both of you,” Wuest hissed as he peered around the alleys edge. “Do you want the Plague to hear you?” Both Hodder and Stroughten gulped. Neither of them answered Wuest's question, there was no need to. The rain increased in intensity, which suited Wuest just fine, fewer folk would be out and about, and therefore, fewer eyes to take their sightings back to his pursuers. He ducked back into the scant protection of the alley as a huddled group of pedestrians made their way to drier surroundings. “Now,” he called out the command in a hoarse whisper, while at the same time darting across Glowbell's cobblestones into the next alley. His two companions followed on his heels. “How long are we gonna be doin’ this?” Hodder complained, “Feels like we've run across the whole flickin’ city in fits an’ starts.” “We're almost there,” Wuest answered. “Listen, you can hear the docks.” “The docks?” Stroughten reached out and took Wuest by an arm, “You said we was gettin’ out through the sewers, an’ now you're leadin’ toward the bloody docks?” A ship's bell mixed its sound with the patter of the rain as Wuest shook off his friend's hand. “The sewers are exactly where we're going. Think for a second. Where do they empty out? Or do you think piss runs uphill?” Stroughten paused as he considered Wuest's statement. Hodder grunted and dragged the moisture off his face with a swipe of his palm. “Avin's got ya there, Leum. So, where's the outlet we're gonna crawl in, Avin?” Wuest copied Hodder's gesture and wiped his own face. “About another block from here, South of the docks. The sewer outlet juts out over the large rocks a mile inside the strait.” Hodder and Stroughten nodded, and huddled further into their cloaks as they followed Wuest. The street beyond Glowbell was aptly called Cod Lane. Many of the shops lining it dealt in that particular fish and the reek of it lingered, even in the downpour. Beyond Cod Lane rose the slender spires of the various vessels moored at Grisham's dock. A few shouts rose above the sound of the rain, ships masters guiding their crewmen at work. Rain meant little to them. Water was still wet, whether it fell from the sky or jumped up from the sea. At the far southern end of Cod Lane lay a two story ramshackle building that looked as if it had never had better days. Along the top story, black, jagged-edged holes showed where windows had once looked upon the street. At street level an attempt to board over the missing doors and panes had resulted only in giving the poor an occasional store of firewood. A few of the planks still hung listlessly against the building, supported by one or two rusty nails. Wuest pushed aside the board blocking entrance into the abandoned warehouse and ducked inside. Hodder and Stroughten followed suit. Hodder looked up, started, and swore, “Damn and blast, right in my flickin’ eye!”

Wuest didn't even turn his head at his friend's outburst. “It's only water, come on, we've got to keep going. Watch the floor, there's holes there that'll drop you straight to the rocks.” Just as Wuest finished voicing his warning, Stroughten stepped onto a weak spot and crashed through the floor, he wound up with just his head jutting above the floor's planking. “Leum, you ok? Speak to me, man!” Hodder began a rush to his friend's side, but halted in indecision as he realized the same fate might await him as well. Wuest turned at the crash and shook his head as if he'd been expecting such an occurrence. “Leave off, Hodder. I've been across this floor before. I know which spot'll hold our weight, let me get over there. You ok, Leum?” He edged to the side a few steps and dropped to his hands and knees, “You ok?” Stroughten turned slowly, his face a mask of pain. What voice he had came out in a high-pitched whisper, “No, I'm not ok. I think I've crushed me bleedin’ plums!” A sound came from Hodder. It gave the impression he was choking. Stroughten turned and fixed him with a glare, “It ain't funny! You try slappin’ onto a skruddin’ plank an’ getting your flickin’ plums pushed up to your bleedin’ nose.” He turned back to Wuest, “Get me the flick outta here!” With a lot of effort and not a few grunts of pain from Stroughten, Wuest and Hodder managed to get their friend out of his predicament. Once all three of them were back onto mostly solid floor, Wuest led his companions to an open door frame partially concealed by stacks of rotting sisal bags. Through the door, they passed under a series of sharply slanting beams, past two more doors, and into a room with no apparent exit but the way they came in. “All right, Avin, whatta we do now? Chew our way out?” Stroughten spat a clot of saliva onto the mud covering the floor. Wuest shook his head. “No, watch this.” He reached up and pulled on a nail protruding slightly out of one of the studs running vertically along the wall before them. The wallboard it appeared to have been holding fell away leaving an opening just wide enough for them to squeeze through. With the board removed, the sound of Grisham's harbor came clearly to their ears. Mixed with it came also the scent of salt, fish, seaweed, and something else. Hodder covered his nose with both hands, “Fauggh! What in Bardoc's name crawled onto the beach and died?” Stroughten took one sniff and choked, “Gods Avin! I can't go out into that. I'll lose what little's in me stomach now.” “Fine,” Wuest snapped, “stay here and play with the Plague. I'm sure the Duke'll choose a pleasant one for each of you.” Hodder and Stroughten looked at each other and then their shoulders slumped as if on cue. Wuest nodded. He knew there was little choice in the matter. It was merely happy chance their three heads weren't smiling down on the city from the pikes aligned along the parapet of the Duke's Keep.

“Very well, then. Come on.” The three of them pushed through the opening. Hodder and Stroughten stepped aside and waited while Wuest refitted the board back into place. Once that was done, he led them along the narrow stretch of sod and rock that overlooked the estuary waters below. They continued that way for a good distance until Wuest drew up and pointed below where they stood. “There's where we go in.” Stroughten leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, “Where? I can't see a bloody thing in all this rain.” “Over there, to your left, up against the rocks. See that darker shadow? That's the sewer outlet, just a bit over man-high.” Wuest pointed again, raising his aim slightly. “And that's where the bloody stink is comin’ from, too, I'll wager,” Hodder muttered darkly. Stroughten nodded and blew out his cheeks, “Right, then. I'd druther face that smell than have the Plague use my giblets for nubbins. Let's get down there, at least we'll be outta this tiddlin’ rain.” They scrambled down the rocks as carefully as they could. Even at that, a couple of shins got barked, and Stroughten nearly re-insulted his throbbing testes. When they got to the bottom they discovered a new impediment. “Crabs!” “What? What are you screamin’ about now, Leum? You tryin’ to let the whole city know we's down here?” Hodder turned to add to his rebuke when something began skittering up his leg. “Ahhh! Get it off me! Get it off! Get it off!” He flailed wildly at his clothing while dancing backwards across the narrow strip of seaweed and sand. Wuest also let go with a curse and began a duplicate of Hodder's gyrations. Stroughten picked up a driftwood branch and used it as a broom to sweep himself clean of attackers. He then went to work on his two friends. “Got ‘em, now move. Keep your feet moving. Don't give ‘em a change to latch on. Into the sewer, now! Go! Go! Go!” Wuest jumped ahead of Hodder and dove into the outlet, catching his cloak on a protruding sharp edge and hindering his friend's entrance. Stroughten had a bad time of it there, then, because, as if sensing a potential opening, the voracious little crabs swarmed after them like a mounting wave of large greenish-black spiders. Wuest finally tore his cloak free and vanished into the sewer. Hodder bundled his cloak under one arm and followed, yelping and cursing as he freed himself of the last of his attackers. Stroughten danced around just outside the sewer's mouth, slapping at himself with the branch. “Geroff, damn, skrudding buggers! Geroff!” Crunching sounds echoed across the beach where those crabs not quick enough found themselves under his boots. One of them managed to worry its way under the cuff of his trousers and started scuttling up toward softer, sweeter flesh. Two pairs of hands reached out of the blackness of the sewer mouth and pulled him in. “Get it out! It's runnin’ for me plums. Get it out! Hurry! Huurryyyy!!” Stroughten's high-pitched scream

bounced around the confines of the sewer pipe. “Sorry about this, Leum.” Wuest set his jaw and reached down his friend's trousers. The seriousness of the moment overrode any potential jokes. It proved less easy than supposed to chase down the crab delving around Stroughten's nether regions. When Wuest's hand came in reach, the creature would scurry out of the way and give Stroughten a pinch for the trouble. “Aauuggh! Get the bleedin’ thing, will you?” Stroughten started beating at his trousers in spite of the damage he'd done to himself earlier. “Leum, what the pit are you doing? Stop it. I'll get the thing, but not if you...” They all heard a crunch and a grating squeal. Stroughten looked down at his crotch. “I think I'm gonna throw up.” “What were those things?” In spite of the knowledge gleaned from scouting the docks, Wuest was strictly a city dweller. Crabs, and other sea life, came from the fish mongers, usually dressed for the pot. Hodder shook his head. “Damned if I know.” They both looked at Stroughten. Even in the dim interior of the pipe they could see how pale he'd become. Stroughten wiped his face with a trembling hand. “I want out of here. Gods, that thing nearly had me for dinner. As Bardoc is me witness, I'll never eat crab again, couldn't stand the sight of it lookin’ back at me.” “What was they?” Hodder repeated Wuest's question. “Blood Crabs, from the look of ‘em.” Stroughten dropped his trousers and cleaned out the remnants of his late attacker. The welts and bruises it gave him stood out as dark blotches against the whiteness of his skin. “Good eatin’ from what I hear. Problem is, when they're spawnin’ they think the same of us. Enough of ‘em get together, they can strip a man to bones in about an hour.” He shivered, “let's get goin’ to where we're goin'.” Even the lanky Hodder had room enough to stand in the pipe. Grisham's early planners had foreseen the need for lots of sewer space. “Why aren't they in here, still after us?” Wuest asked, to no one in particular. Stroughten sniffed and made a face, “Smell the air, Avin. Would you come in here, if you had a choice?” Wuest drew in a breath. The air was indeed foul, but not as bad as it had been before. Perhaps they were getting used to it. “No,” he answered, “probably not. All the better for us. Think about it, we now have two guardians protecting our backsides, this stink,” he waved a hand, “and those crabs.” Hodder and Stroughten nodded in agreement. The three of them turned away from the sewer's mouth and began walking the slow incline that would take them under the bowels of the city. ****

Thaylli shifted her shoulders, trying to readjust the weight of the pack on her back. In spite of her assurances to Adam, it was heavy. “How long have I been walking? Bother Adam, why couldn't he have just come with me? This is going to take so long.” The wolf's ears twitched, but she didn't answer. “I should have had him teach me how to talk to you,” Thaylli said, directly to her guide, as she shifted the pack one more time. “Then at least I'd have someone besides myself for conversation.” After about a quarter hour's walk they came to the first of the bridges. Adam's instructions had been thorough and to the point. Thaylli had no trouble in finding the concealed lever, or in activating the bridge. Well, she thought smugly,this seems to be going better than I thought it would. Maybe all my worrying was for nothing. For the next few hours, her thoughts seemed prophetic. Each bridge worked just as it was intended to, and the wall lamps, lit when she first came across them, continued to light her way. She rested for lunch at a spot much like a landing after one of the bridges. The tunnel floor slanted up and away from that spot curving off to the left. Flickers of warm amber light danced across the arching bricks of the tunnel wall under the influence of the lamp above and behind her. The wolf took the package of diced meat from her and devoured it carefully, with a daintiness Thaylli found surprising. During her journey from Access, the wolf pack that accompanied her fed away from her sight, so she had no reference for comparison, but this one seemed to be very much the lady. After finishing her meal, the wolf padded off to one side and lay down. Thaylli watched her for a moment, and then leaned back against the tunnel wall. The ancient brickwork felt comfortably cool. It was the growling that woke her. At first Thaylli thought she was back on the road, traveling with Drinaugh and the wolf pack, but that feeling lasted only an instant. Opening her eyes she focused on the sound and turned to see the wolf standing, stiff-legged, and growling. The she-wolf's nose was pointed toward the right-hand wall where the tunnel intersected the sewer. Sounds came out of the sewer, they sounded like voices. Fear clutched Thaylli's stomach.Did the city guard find out about her leaving? Did this mean Adam was now in danger? “Who is it? You stay back now, I ... I've got a wolf!” “...hear something?” “Sounded like a girl.” “...wolf?” The voices grew closer and clearer. In a few moments, faces appeared. Two of them belonged to men of short stature, one of them as plain as a lump of mud, and who looked like he'd been chewed on. The other one looked like a bookkeeper. Close behind them walked a third figure; this one was at least a head taller than the other two, but just as bedraggled.

Thaylli stared at them for a moment and then, in spite of herself, began to giggle, the wolf's growls continued, but at a considerably lower volume. The three men noticed the wolf and stopped just inside the confines of the sewer. The lump-like one stopped with one foot raised to step into the tunnel. “Avin ... there's a wolf growlin’ at us.” “I see that, Leum. Try telling me something I don't know, like how to not be eaten.” “Bloody Bardoc's balls, first blood crabs, now a bleedin’ wolf. Hey, there's a girl.” The tall one pointed at Thaylli, “Uh, miss, that your wolf? Can you call ‘im off, please?” “It's not a him, it's a she, and she's merely protecting me. You'd better stay back,” Thaylli sniffed, “if only for my nose's sake.” She giggled again. The trio looked anything but threatening. The wolf growled something. “Avin, you hear that? Sounded like the beast was talkin'.” “Yeah, askin’ if its lunch is ready,” Stroughten muttered. Wuest shook his head. “Well, I don't care any more. I'd rather be gulped down by a wolf than go back.” He ignored the slight increase in growls and clamored up onto the tunnel floor. Hodder and Stroughten watched for any sign of mayhem, and when none seemed to be coming, joined their friend in his spot against the tunnel wall. The wolf growled again, softly, and turned back to take up a position between Thaylli and the three men. Hodder groaned, rubbed the lank hair sticking to his scalp and leaned forward to look over at Thaylli, “Um ... I don't mean to be forward, miss ... but I couldn't help noticin’ you've got a bit of food with you.” “Leum!” Wuest admonished his friend. “It don't hurt to ask, Avin. ‘Sides, I'm starvin’ here. Feel like me bloody stomach's naught but a nubbin right now.” Stroughten remained silent, but managed to look even more pitiful. “Miss?” Hodder pressed. Thaylli stuck out her lower lip, and then shook her head slowly from side to side, as if arguing with herself. The wolf grumbled something that sounded like anot on your life statement. Thaylli continued her internal argument for a while longer, and then she stood and stamped one foot. The wolf winced and looked up at her reproachfully. “Miss?” Hodder sounded like a child begging for food. “Oh, all right, here!” She reached into her pack and pulled out a wrapped bundle of bread and hard white cheese.

Wuest caught the thrown parcel and bowed from the waist. “Thank you Miss. It seems we failed to consider food while making our escape.” “Youfailed, you mean,” Stroughten said accusingly. “I wanted to take the time to pack a morsel or two, but no, you said the bloody Plague was hot on our heels. The only Plague I saw was them bleedin’ crabs. Should've packed a bit anyway...” He trailed off into a self-contained mutter. Neither Wuest nor Hodder commented on Stroughten's outburst. The condition of their stomachs made the truth of his statement patently clear. Stroughten continued to mutter, but he took the bread and cheese offered him, regardless. For a while the only sound in the tunnel was that of Wuest, Hodder, and Stroughten eating. When Thaylli saw they had nothing to wash the meal down, she offered them one of her water bags. Hodder held out the deflated bag toward Thaylli, ignoring the look given him by the wolf, “Thanks, miss. You've saved me life, you have. An’ that goes for Wuest and Stroughten too.” Thaylli smiled, “That's quite all right. Where I come from, people share what they have.” “Must not be from Grisham, then,” Stroughten mumbled around a mouthful of bread and cheese. He sounded considerably mollified over his earlier state. “No,” Thaylli answered, thoughts of her family jumping to the fore, “I'm not from Grisham. I'm going home.” “And where would home be, miss?” Hodder licked the last of the crumbs off his fingers. “Access, it's a small mining village halfway up the southwestern side of Cloudhook.” She hugged herself, “I'm really starting to miss it.” “I know what you mean,” Wuest said, while focusing his gaze on the opposite tunnel wall. “I'm leaving Grisham, most likely forever. I have to go in order to stay alive, yet already I am homesick.” The wolf stood, looked at Thaylli, and growled softly. Wuest, Hodder, and Stroughten leaned forward to look at the wolf. “Was that something? Sounded like your wolf said something, I'm sure of it.” Hodder scratched his scalp with a forefinger. Thaylli looked down at the wolf and smiled. “Oh, she said something, all right. But I don't speak wolf like Adam or Milward do, so I can't tell you what it was. From the look of her, I'm pretty sure it was about getting up and going, and that's what we're going to do now. I hope you get to where you're going safely.” “...she leaving?” Stroughten turned to each of his friends. “Did she say she was leaving?” Hodder nodded. “Sounded like it to me.” “But she can't ... I mean, it ain't fair. No tellin’ how far this bloody tunnel goes ... could be days afore we

see the end. We'll starve!” “Ease off Leum,” Wuest said quietly. “She's a free citizen, and has a right to choose where she wants to go and when. Neither the Duke nor we have a say in that. Besides,” he smiled grimly, “which of us is going to tell her furry friend she can't go?” Stroughten stood. With his long legs and arms, to Thaylli it looked like an oversized marionette being pulled into position. “Well, I for one am glad we was able to drop by for a visit.” He tipped an imaginary hat in her direction, “Pleased to have met you Miss. Stroughten's the name. Me friends call me Leum.” “Wuest here, Avin to these two.” Hodder looked down at his toes and mumbled, “Hodder, just plain Hodder, like me face. Sorry iffn I caused any offense, miss. It's just that I'm scared pissless.” Thaylli finished shouldering her pack, “I'm Thaylli, and as far as I know it's only a few hours hike to the tunnel's end, so you've no danger of starving. But I suppose...” she paused, “I suppose I could let you come along with us, that is,” she held up a hand as Wuest and Hodder surged to their feet next to Stroughten, “if you keep your distance. I don't mean to be rude gentlemen, but you do stink something awful.” Hodder pointed. “What about your wolf?” The wolf looked over her shoulder and sniffed, as if dismissing the trio out of hand, and then began padding off into the tunnel. Thaylli smiled. “I think she'll be ok.” Chapter Twenty-Two

Ellona stood in the doorway to Jonas’ bedroom, hugging herself. The Dwarf healer had been working on her son for a week solid without sleep or food. For the first few days he'd insisted on having everyone out of the house while he worked, but now at least he would let her watch, for a while. The healer seemed to have a sense about him. He could tell when she was becoming tired, and then he would send her back to Nicoll's for rest and food. She had been standing there for almost an hour now. “So, woman,” Zasloff sifted a pinch of pungent smelling herbs into a small clear flask, “Still suspicious of my work, eh?” “No, not any longer,” Ellona admitted. “He seems to be doing better.” Zasloff poured water into the flask, filling it halfway. He shook it a couple of times and then examined the result. “Yes, he is.” “Is he warmer?” The Dwarf bowed his head and sighed gustily. For a moment, Ellona thought she'd overstepped again, and then he stood and faced her. “Feel him and see,” He moved aside and gestured at the bed. Ellona reached out, but then drew her hand back. What if Jonas was still cold? What if Zasloff was

mistaken and all of this was just a trick of the disease? “Go ahead, woman, the lad won't bite,” The Dwarf's voice sounded tired, but amused. Her hand trembled as she reached out again, slowly. She paused, just above the boy's forehead, and then with a silent prayer, set her fingers, and then her palm against Jonas’ skin. It was warm. **** Adam and Ethan watched as the image of Ellona embracing Jonas faded from the mirror Adam held. Ethan stood there, unspeaking, for nearly a full minute. When he did move, it was to wipe a tear from his eye, “Thank you, Adam. You can't know how much that meant to me, but you will, one day.” “I'm not sure what you mean,” Adam said, setting the mirror back onto his desk. “Wait until your child is born ... you will,” Ethan nodded to Adam and left the room. It was the office Captain Bilardi had given him upon his promotion from Lieutenant to Captain. Adam had moved in a cot and a trunk for his things the evening of Thaylli's departure. Bilardi had so far said nothing, but he also had been absent from the pub so it was possible he still did not know. Adam looked at the door after it closed behind Ethan.I'm sure I will , he thought. He turned back to the desk and positioned the mirror to where it faced the way he was standing. A tendril of the power flashed into the silvery surface and turned it to a grey, shifting mist. “Show me my sister,” Adam commanded. “Show me Charity.” As before, the mists of the scry roiled, but no image of Charity, or her body appeared. Milward had confessed to having the same trouble in locating her. Adam ended the scry and slapped his hand onto the desktop in frustration. What was blocking his ability to find his sister? The next morning Ethan sat down across from him in the mess hall. Adam looked up with a spoonful of porridge halfway to his mouth, “Ethan, what are you doing in here? This is officer country.” Ethan smiled and picked up a wedge of Adam's toast, then balanced a kipper and a slice of tomato on it. “I like their manners better than those of the noncoms. Besides, no one's complained yet.” “Oh,” Adam finished the spoonful of porridge, “Have you seen Bilardi this morning?” “No, not that I didn't try, McKenit says he has explicit orders not to let anyone past his desk, not even the Duke himself.” “I see.” Adam wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Ethan shook his head, “I'm not sure you do. The Captain was more than a little spooked at your show outside the tunnel with the wolves and that thing, whatever it was.” “I had no choice. I had to use my powers or we'd all be dead.” “And I, for one, thank you for it. But I don't have the throne of Grisham waiting for me, and I don't have to worry about the Emperor taking it from me, do I, your Excellency?”

“Don't call me that!” Adam's heated whisper was confined to their area of the table. Ethan smiled around another bite of toast and kipper, “Why not? You carry the whole package with you. You'd have to be pretty ignorant not to see it, and Bilardi is anything but ignorant.” Adam stared at Ethan for a moment and then bowed his head, “Oh deity, what do I do now?” Ethan said nothing for a while, but his expression said volumes while he chewed. After swallowing he picked up his tankard and sipped. “What did that Wizard you traveled with do? How did he live his life?” Adam waved away an orderly with a pitcher in his hand. “Milward? Why, pretty much what he wanted to do, I mean, who was going to tell him different?” “There's your answer.” Adam mouthed a repetition of what he just said, the wordstell him different clearly on his lips. He looked Ethan in the eye and shook his head in refusal, “But I don't want to live like that. Everyone lets him do what he wants because they're afraid of him. I don't want people to fear me I want them to like me.” “And you think if you don't make them fear you, they'll be hanging around, acting like your friend. Well, let me enlighten you, people who hang around you because they want something from you, are not really friends, but sycophants,” Ethan said, sipping again. Adam nodded, slightly. “Lad, I've been in Grisham long enough to see that type of life won't be found here,” Ethan said, around another mouthful. “You've already befriended the few folk real enough to take you as you are. Bilardi?” he paused, “I'm still deciding on him.” “What if he wants me to use my powers on the southern army? I can't commit mass murder. I won't do it!” Adam's expression hardened. “One,” Ethan held up a finger, “it wouldn't be mass murder, they attacked us, remember? Two,” he held up a second finger next to it, “you're right. You couldn't, and you wouldn't. That type of slaughter isn't in you. I heard about your duel with Lieutenant Mundy. You gave a man who would have knifed you in the back every chance to come out of it alive. A man who would do that wouldn't slaughter thousands whose only crime is obeying orders.” “So, what do I do?” “Well,” Ethan leaned back in his chair and picked at a bit of food in his teeth, “you could come along with me. Seeing Jonas and Ellona convinced me. I'm resigning my post and going home.” He straightened in his seat, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. “This city is safe, in spite of the hoard camped out there,” He pointed behind Adam. “It no longer needs you and it certainly no longer needs me.” “What are you going to do? March into Bilardi's office, slap your stripes onto his desk and leave? What if he won't let you?” Ethan smiled, “I was kind of hoping you'd go in with me. Even if you wouldn't turn him into a toad, the implication is still there. It might make him a bit more agreeable.”

Adam spooned up another bite of porridge. “That's true,” he mused, “it might.” “You bloody hell will not!” Bilardi bolted up out of his chair and slammed both fists onto his desk hard enough to rock it. “This city is under siege! The only trade routes we have are those to the north through the bay. Wycliff's cut off, and so are all the land routes to the Trading States. I can't believe what I'm hearing!” He turned away and began pacing back and forth behind the desk. “See?” Ethan remarked, “I told you he'd take it well.” Bilardi spun around and pointed a finger at Ethan, “I would have expected better of you, Swaledale. You, at least, have a military background. You know the importance of keeping an oath.” “I do. I also know what it feels like to be conscripted. There was no oath given, by the way.” Ethan's mouth twitched as he matched stares with Bilardi. “The hell it wasn't!” Adam coughed, drawing Bilardi's outraged eyes toward him. “He didn't?” The Captain's feeling of rightness began to crumble. “If I remember, Captain, all you did was say, he's a Sergeant and leave it at that,” Adam shrugged. “I did?” Bilardi switched his gaze to Ethan. “Aye, Cap'n. That's th’ way I heard it.” McKenit's drawl came through the half-open door. Bilardi shot a brief glare in the direction of the old Corporal, and then looked back at Ethan, “I did?” “Actually, what you said was, ‘Very well Ethan, consider yourself a Sergeant.’ That's verbatim.” Bilardi looked at Ethan for a while, saying nothing, and he turned and threw his hands ceilingward. “Auugghh, Alright! You can go,” He said, as he turned back to them once more, “But he stays. He, at least, took an oath, and signed his commission paper.” Adam looked at Ethan. “That's right, I did.” “What are you smiling about?” Bilardi placed his hands on his hips as he scowled at Ethan. “Oh, nothing,” Ethan replied. “I was just trying to imagine what you'd look like as a toad.” Bilardi's face remained blank for several seconds, and then realization dawned. “You wouldn't,” he said, turning to face Adam. “You couldn't.” The color in his complexion drained away. “I'm not sure,” Adam mused. “It might be interesting to try.” The Captain's face, already pale went ashen, but to his credit he did not back down. “Then, do your worst. My first duty is to Grisham and her defense.” “Oh, let the lad go, Captain,” Ethan pleaded. “It's due to him the Southern Army's elfonts aren't battering

your gates down. And, if you recall, it's also due to him you aren't resting comfortably inside the belly of that beast we encountered a few days ago. What kind of gift can you give a man to whom you owe your life, a number of times over, I might add, hmm?” Bilardi snorted and turned away from them, facing the wall behind his desk. “Captain?” Ethan pressed his point, but Bilardi's shoulders stiffened. He's struggling,Adam thought,I can feel it . Another thought ran through his mind, that of using a shaping to ease Bilardi over into allowing his release. If it worked, the Captain would even believe it was his idea. He rejected that idea out of hand. The man wasn't his enemy, he was a friend, of sorts. Besides, the thought of doing that made him feel somewhat dirty, as if he'd just peeked in on something he shouldn't have. As the thought was passing through Adam's mind, Bilardi's shoulders slumped. He turned back to face them and waved a hand in dismissal. “Go on then, get out of here, both of you. Take Thaylli and go to your homes and families. I suppose I do owe each of you that, at least.” Adam winced inwardly, remembering his earlier promise to Bilardi. Ethan bowed at the waist. “I take my leave of you, Your Grace. It has been an honor to fight at your side and to shed my poor blood in your service.” Adam goggled at Ethan. “That sounded ... that's an old saying, isn't it?” Bilardi's expression appeared set in stone. “Yes, it's old. You said it letter perfect, ex-Sergeant Ethan. Not many know the old courtesies these days.” A small smile played across his face, “Well, letter perfect except for one thing, Your Grace was exchanged for Your Excellency.” “That title is reserved for the Emperor, Your Grace.” “Why are you calling him that?” Adam suddenly felt like he was outside looking in. “You should ask him, Your Excellency,” Ethan replied, ducking his head in a bow. “I asked you not to call me that!” This time Adam did not whisper. “Summat th’ matter m'lord?” Corporal McKenit cracked open the office door. Bilardi walked between Ethan and Adam and took hold of the door. “Nothing is wrong at all, Corporal. Go about your business.” “Aye, Cap'n.” Bilardi shut the door. When he turned back to face Adam and Ethan his smile looked self-conscious, “I've spent a lot of time thinking about what happened at the end of that tunnel. Magik is a belief of the uneducated, an element in fairytales and bedtime stories, or so I used to believe. I don't mind telling you, seeing what I did shook me to the core.” “You stood and fought. That says something.” Ethan remarked.

“I suppose so. Still, the question remains, what do I tell my father? I have to admit something, Adam.” He chuckled, sourly, “It is damn hard not to call you by your title.” “I amnot the Emperor,” Adam said flatly. “The pit, you're not,” Bilardi retorted. Adam opened his mouth to arguer further, but Ethan broke in on top of him, “I think we can agree on a technicality; Adam will not truly be Emperor until he takes possession of his throne, agreed? Until then he is nothing more than what he appears to be.” Adam nodded. Bilardi muttered under his breath, “He appears to be the next Emperor.” Ethan had to place a hand on Adam's shoulder to forestall further argument. “You were saying, Your Grace?” “Why are you using that title? He's no more the Duke than I am the Emperor.” Adam's tone held a note of exasperation. “If I were to echo Ethan's thoughts, Adam, my reply to that would be, exactly. Just as you have a destiny, so do I,” Bilardi shrugged. “As I was saying, what I saw back at the end of that tunnel shook me to the core. It revealed more to me about myself than even the trauma of my father's near assassination. That's why I spent so much time closeted here in my office. My father fears you, Adam. He fears the leadership he sees in you, and if he knew the truth he would hesitate not an instant in ordering your death, in spite of what I told you back in that tunnel. I actually toyed with those thoughts myself. Rejected them out of hand, of course. But I did toy with them” “What?” “That was before I came to know you, before I ... grew up,” he added, ruefully. “You did trample on my ego a bit when we sparred. “No matter, that is far into the past now. I even told my father as much when we argued about you. Did you know there is a rumor that the next Emperor is roaming Grisham's streets?” “You wanted me killed?” Bilardi sighed and sat on the edge of his desk. “As I said, I've grown somewhat since we first met, a lot, actually. Back then I was a spoiled scion of an old house. The first and only son of the reigning Duke, and already secure in the knowledge that I was better than any other man out there. Then you came into the picture.” “Shattered some preconceptions, eh?” Ethan said, with a smile. Bilardi smiled back. “Just a few, but it was my father being struck by an assassin that broke the dam. That drove into reality the knowledge that I was no different that anyone else when it came down to basics. Prince or pauper, we all breathe in order to live.” He directed an intent look at Adam, “That was you also, wasn't it?”

Adam frowned, “Was what?” “You did something, something that kept my father from dying. The physics couldn't have done anything, they told me as much. There was poison on the bolt they drew out of him. It has no antidote that anyone knows of. If you weren't there...” his voice thickened, “My father owes you his life, as do I.” “I can't believe you wanted to have me killed.” “Oh, get over it, Adam,” Ethan growled. “He's apologized, twice now. There are a couple of other things you should probably devote your time to instead. One of them concerns the intentions of the sitting Duke,he hasn't apologized.” “True,” Bilardi said, “And there is that rumor I mentioned.” “That's right,” Ethan added, “how is it the pub crawlers of Grisham seem to know the heir of Labad is out and about, and the gentry do not?” “Who said the gentry were unaware?” Bilardi looked at Ethan out the corner of an eye. Adam ran a hand through his hair and began pacing the floor in front of Bilardi's desk. “Then that settles it. I've got to get out of here. I should have left months ago, and now it could be too late.” “You can't run from your destiny lad,” Ethan placed a hand on Adam's shoulder as the pacing stopped. “All you'll do is delay it a bit. Eventually it will catch up to you, believe me, I know.” “Besides,” Bilardi added, “if you had gone earlier, there's a good chance we'd all be dead. I think, now, that all of this,” he waved a hand, “is part of that destiny Ethan mentioned, and the rest of it awaits you ... out there.” “Uh, yes, about that,” Adam murmured. “Yes?” Bilardi raised his eyebrows. “Thaylli's already gone. I sent her out one of the tunnels yesterday with that wolf that came back with us,” Adam smiled, adding a shrug as an apology. “You ... after I ... after your promise that...” Bilardi sputtered, and then he threw up both of his hands. “Why do I even bother?” He asked the ceiling. “I am surprised, Adam. I never thought you would go back on your word.” “I didn't” “What? I heard your promise. You most assuredly did!” “He's right,” Ethan said, quietly, “he didn't. He merely said he'd do what was right. He didn't say whose opinion of right he'd follow.” Bilardi opened his mouth a couple of times, and then sat back heavily onto the edge of his desk. “I give up. You two have led me around like a bullock with a ring in his nose since you got together. I'm really not sure whether or not Grisham won't be safer with you gone.”

“What about your father?” Adam asked. Bilardi shrugged, “He'll be ok. I'm the one who oversees the city guard, not him, besides, what can one paranoid old man do?” **** It had taken Charity and her companions two days to reach the outskirts of the Ortian army, and another day of explanations to reach Jarl-Tysyn's tent. At least two of the officers blocking their progress wanted to intern them as possible spies. Fortunately, Sergeant Travers recognized them and vouched for their good character. He took them to an officer who'd witnessed Neely's fight with Murt, and that officer used his senior status to muzzle the complaints of the two lower rankings. “There's the General's tent. I don't know what you hope to accomplish by trying to see him. He's short-tempered at best, and that's when he's home and in bed.” The officer indicated the tent with a nod of his head. “Thank you Colonel, but as Neely said earlier, it will be a lot safer all the way around if we have his permission for what we're going to do.” Charity hugged herself as a cold breeze swept in from the sea bringing with its chill the smell of salt and seaweed. “Yeah,” Neely said, through a bite of hard biscuit, “we'd druther have our backs looked after than full ‘o holes, iffn you follow.” “Sergeant Travers mentioned something about a covert mission...” The Colonel began. “Oh, it ain't nothing like that,” Flynn interjected, “We's just gonna sneak into the city, that's all.” The Colonel smiled, and nodded, “I see. Well, Jarl-Tysyn will have to authorize any incursion beyond the skirmish line. I don't see how you're going to advance past that chasm, though.” Jarl-Tysyn's tent was set up on a rise in the land just east of the highway. The entrance to the tent faced north, towards Grisham's gates. The city walls rose above the horizon line as a brooding affront to the General's sense of duty. Labad's highway had been kept clear, the wide strip of stone being much more useful for the movement of wagons and personnel than a tent's foundation. On either side of the tent stood two open-sided pavilions, each one of them held a long table, slightly higher than normal. The General could be seen in the one on the left, pouring over several large parchments spread out before him. A group of officers occupied various positions around the table. Two of them seemed to be older than the rest. One of the guards standing just outside the pavilion noticed their approach and moved to block their way. “Let ‘em pass.” Jarl-Tysyn remained focused on the parchments before him, and spoke without turning his head, “Ginette-Pries, take your men and see if they can figure some way of getting across that skrudding great gulch.” One of the officers, a tall, thin man with a fringe of white hair and ascetic features, slapped his fist against his chest in salute and left the cover of the canopy. Two of the others left with him. The General turned and glared down at Charity and her party as they reached the steps leading to the

canopy. “Hmmph,” He grunted, “So this is the group of warriors and wild women they told me about.” He closed with Flynn and stared up at the big man. “From what I heard, you must be the giant. You don't look twelve feet tall.” “I ain't m'lord. Leastways, I don't think I am,” Flynn said, easily. Jarl-Tysyn grunted again, and moved on to stand in front of Charity, “And you're the witch, eh?” Neely turned and started forward with his hand on the haft of his knife, but the General held up both hands and backed off a step, “Hold up there, lad. I mean no insult to the lady. I'm just saying what I've been told.” “Then you been told a pile of crap. I want a chance to show this teller th’ error of his ways.” Neely's eyes stayed even with the General's. “Back down, Neely, you'll do no such thing. We don't have time for this.” Charity rebuked the rangy tracker. “Ah, it's no problem, Charity. I'll explain my position real clear, like.” Neely paused on each of the last three words. “Kin I help, Neely?” Flynn rumbled, cracking his knuckles. “Flynn!” Charity rounded on the big redhead. “You see, General, we take our lady's honor rather seriously. It don't pay fer a man to run contrary to it.” Neely chewed on a nail, spat, and examined the result. Flynn grunted in assent. Jarl-Tysyn scowled, and then relaxed his expression as he nodded, “Hmm, I'll keep that in mind. Now, why the skrud are you three here, and what in the flick is that child doing with you?” He pointed at Circumstance. To Charity's surprise, the usually unflappable Circumstance took shelter behind Flynn. She smiled at him and then turned back to Jarl-Tysyn, “I don't know about what you've heard, General, and I really don't care. We've been through some adventures, this is true, and my companions have proven themselves the equal of anyone else you'd care to mention. This is really just a courtesy call.We're here because we plan to get into that city,” she nodded in the direction of Grisham. The General looked over his shoulder, “So do I, but there was this skrudding earthquake, and it put a flicking great bloody ditch between us and it. I lost over a hundred thousand good men by the time the shaking stopped. So tell me missy, how in Bardoc's bloody balls do you plan to get across it?” “We could just go in by way of th’ harbor,” Neely said. “Ain't no bloody ditch blockin’ you there.” “Tried it,” Jarl-Tysyn said, in a flat tone, “seems the folks in Grisham aren't too trusting. They've sunk every ship that tried that. Some of them actually were merchantmen, too,” he mused, wryly. “Then we'll just have cross the chasm,” Charity stated. The finality in her voice raised Jarl-Tysyn's

eyebrows. He swept his gaze across each of them once more in turn and then walked back up to the table. “Come up here, I want to show you something. Deric-Hess! Drag over that last perimeter map.” A young looking officer near the end of the table jumped, and then hastily pulled out an extremely large parchment scroll and opened it as Charity and her companions reached the tables edge. Jarl-Tysyn slapped some weights down onto each corner and indicated the contents with a sweep of his hand. “There! Look at that thing! I've had draftsmen following its perimeter for the past two weeks. It cuts into the sea right here,” he stabbed a thumb at a point on the lower right of the map, “and exits into that bloody great bay to the north, here,” he planted a forefinger onto a spot on the upper left corner. “You tell me how to cross something you can't throw a stone across, and there's water, no telling how deep, in its bottom.” All four of them looked at the map. Circumstance ran a finger along the blue line that indicated the water within the chasms depths. “How far down does it go to the water?” Deric-Hess frowned. “It varies. Over here, along the western wall, there are sheer cliffs over a thousand feet above the water. Just in front of us here,” he stabbed a section of the map, “the cliff walls are only half that high.” “Five hundred feet, and that's the shortest drop.” Jarl-Tysyn growled. “What are you going to do, grow wings?” Charity ignored the General's acerbity, and turned to the young officer. “We were told the chasm is too wide to throw a stone across, do you know where the narrowest point is?” “Yes, milady, over here,” Deric-Hess pointed at a spot a couple of inches inward from where the chasm met the sea. “It narrows here to a mere one hundred or so feet across.” Neely snorted, “A mere hundred feet, may as well be a thousand. Ain't no way a man can jump that, but,” he looked at Jarl-Tysyn, “I knows I could toss a spear across that, much less a rock.” “The General most likely did not include that site in his estimation because a man would have to live long enough to complete the throw,” Deric-Hess explained. “Where the cliff face juts out there is little cover, save for the odd bush or two. They may hide a rabbit or a fox, but not a man. The few soldiers who have tried have been met with a hail of arrows. None of them survived.” “So that's why you haven't built a bridge,” Circumstance looked up from the map. “That, and the fact that the quake turned every one of my siege engines into kindling,” Jarl-Tysyn grimaced. “I wasn't left with a single timber long enough to be usefull for anything except kindling.” He slapped both hands together behind his back and turned towards Grisham, “All of this, just to get one skrudding blackard. We'd leave the whole bloody city alone if we could get their Duke handed over to us, but, that's a weed-dream in itself,” He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to them. “This skrudding war is going to kill hundreds of thousands, maybe ten hundreds of thousands, you know, all because a madman had to take out his grudge on an innocent girl. If you four can get in there...” He turned back to face them, “And for some reason ... I don't know why, I've got a feeling you can.”

He smiled, “That's surely not from the look of you, I must say, you're a pretty scruffy bunch.” Flynn looked down and brushed at the dust clinging to his jerkin, “We ain't had a chance to clean up, General. You should see Miss Charity after a bath, she'd turn a head or two.” Jarl-Tysyn chuckled at Charity's blush, “Yes, yes, I suppose she would, but I can't say that for you two,” he stabbed Flynn and Neely with his eyes. “No matter, it's not your looks that won the field at Cloudhook.” “You heard about that?” Neely said, surprised. “Yes, I did,” Jarl-Tysyn murmured. “A little bird by the name of Lemmic-Pries told me.” Charity's eyes widened. “The chief Engineer?” “You've heard of him, have you?” Jarl-Tysyn said. Lightly. “It seems you impressed him ... considerably, and his Lordship isn't easily impressed. If I had a few thousand more fighters like you...” He trailed off and turned back toward Grisham, shaking his head. “If I give you cover to get in there, will you do something for me?” Charity looked at Flynn and Neely. They shrugged their shoulders. Circumstance returned her look with a level stare. She cleared her throat with a cough, “Um, I'd need to know a bit about what I'm being asked to do, General, if you can tell me.” He turned back to face her, scowling. “You would, eh?” He held that pose for several long seconds, and then shook his head again. “Well, then, gather round this table. Deric-Hess! Get me that schematic of the palace and its grounds.” The young officer ran into the tent next to the pavilion and reappeared a few moments later with a thick sheaf of parchments under one arm. Jarl-Tysyn snatched them and spread them across the table. Each sheet appeared to have a bird's eye representation of Grisham's Ducal palace drawn on it in dark brown ink, but there were differences. The General rummaged through the sheets and picked one out, sliding it to a position so Charity and her companions could see it as well as he. “This is the palace's first floor.” “These is all the palace?” Flynn picked up a sheet and peered at it closely. “Yes, they are,” Jarl-Tysyn said, dryly, as he took the sheet from Flynn's hand. They are also quite old. They were copied from the originals a couple of centuries ago, just in case. Seems the Emperor back then had a head on his shoulders,” he murmured. Neely slid another one of the sheets over to where it lay next to the first. “Then, if I'm readin’ this right, this one's th’ second floor.” “So, you're an architect?” The general looked at Neely in surprise. “Naw, I ain't no lord,” Neely replied. “Trackin's th’ same iffn it's in th’ brush, or th’ city. A man learns

what to look for after a while. Why're you showin’ us this?” He looked up at the General. “That would be my question as well, General,” Charity said, quietly, but with an edge of steel in her tone. Jarl-Tysyn blew out his cheeks with a gusty sigh, “Lemmic-Pries gave me the impression there was little you four could not accomplish. I asked around. Sergeant Travers, he was the one who attempted to conscript you, wasn't he?” Charity nodded. “Yes, well, my questions led me to the Sergeant, a good man there. He had enough steel in him to answer truthfully. Not too many men will admit to being cowed by a slip of a girl, even if she is flanked by a giant and a man on crutches.” Neely snickered, and Flynn's chortle threatened to explode into laughter. Jarl-Tysyn ignored them. “He said you were an amazing archer. Did you really split your own arrow at a range of over one thousand yards?” “She sure did, an, I bet she coulda done it at twice that far,” Flynn broke in, beaming with pride. The General nodded, “He suggested as much. Travers didn't have much to say about your shooting ability,” He centered his gaze on Flynn and Neely, “But he said he believed the reports from the Engineers. They also included some fascinating speculation on this lad here. Circumstance, is it?” “Yes, Sire General.” Jarl-Tysyn smiled. Charity thought the expression looked lost on the man's face. “General by itself will do just fine, lad. Tell me, boy, what's so special about you? Other than having a bit of elf in your background, that is.” Circumstance's right hand reached up to where his hair covered his ear, and then, tentively, he returned the General's smile. “You notice things more than the others do, don't you, General?” Jarl-Tysyn grunted, “Habit of the job, lad, a habit of the job. That's why I also notice you're avoiding my question, even if you're doing it politely.” Circumstance looked up at Charity. She dipped her head in a single nod. “Ok,” he said, “I can do some things normal people can't do. I don't know what it all is. Usually I just do it when I need to.” Jarl-Tysyn chewed his lip as he looked down at the boy, “What sort of things?” Charity stepped over and put and arm around Circumstance's shoulders, “I don't think we need to go into that just now, General. It's enough to say that without his help I doubt any of us would be here talking to you.” “Ain't that th’ truth,” Neely snorted, nodding his head. Jarl-Tysyn continued to look at Circumstance and chew his lip. After a while he nodded to himself and turned away. “All right, here it is. I need something done. This war is the result of one man's actions

against the niece of our Emperor.” “We heard about that,” Flynn said. “Filthy bastard needs a lesson in manners,” Neely said, fingering the haft of his knife. “My thoughts exactly,” the General replied. “The Imperial Council wants to burn the city to the ground. The Emperor is going along with them, but I feel, reluctantly. If there was a way to remove the Duke, alive if possible, and deliver him to trial in Ort...” Neely goggled at the General, “You want us to sneak in there,” he pointed in the direction of Grisham, “nab the Duke hisself, an’ then sneak back here with him, so's you can haul his ass downriver?” “If possible,” The General repeated. “What if he don't want to come quietly?” Flynn asked, scratching his cheek. “Oh, then just bring back something proving he's been punished properly; a finger with his signet ring on it, or his head will do.” Jarl-Tysyn said, with an evil grin. Neely spat a build up of saliva, and wiped his mouth. “Well, looks like we're movin’ up in the world. First it's an Earl, now it's a Duke. Wonder what'll come next?” Charity ignored Neely's reference to her past and leaned over to peer at the parchments spread out over the table. “How do we know these have any relation to what's there now?” “Grisham's rulers have been notoriously resistant to change. The sitting Duke is no different. You can bet very little is in that palace that wasn't there from the beginning, outside of a few window dressings and such.” Jarl-Tyson reached around Charity and began gathering up the parchments, “In anticipation of something like this being done, I've had a set of copies drawn up. They're a bit brighter than these, but I wanted you to see the originals first.” “Why?” Circumstance asked. “Why, what, lad?” The General continued to collect the parchments. “Why show us the originals, if the copies are just as good, or better?” “I kinda wondered that meself,” Neely murmured. Jarl-Tyson leaned forward and scowled. “Because I wouldn't trust any skrudding doodles unless they were based on something solid, and I didn't expect you to, that's why.” Neely folded his arms over his chest and nodded, “Good enough for me.” Flynn caressed the blade of his axe, “Same here.” “There's still the question of how we get in,” Charity said, as she turned away from the table. “Has anyone thought of a way to cross the chasm?” “Outside of magik, no,” Jarl-Tysyn growled.

“I wanna see this bloody great ditch.” Neely spat once more, and stepped out from under the cover of the pavilion's canopy. “There anyone around here willin’ to show me?” “Deric-Hess.” “Yes, General!” The young officer snapped to rigid attention. “Show them the chasm. Take care to stay under cover and outside of the snipers’ range.” “Yes, General. Right this way, please.” Deric-Hess led Neely with Flynn, Charity, and Circumstance close behind, away from the canopy and down slope into a thicket of hardwoods. “These will give us some cover. The grounds from here are well forested all the way around the western walls of the city to the cliffs overlooking the great bay.” “It ain't changed much, then.” Neely said as he bent a sapling out of his way. “Mind this patch, Flynn. Some o’ these little'un's ‘ll switch yer privates iffn you ain't careful.” “You're familiar with this territory, then?” Deric-Hess asked, interest brightening his eyes. “Neely grew up here ‘bouts,” Flynn chuckled. “Ain't much you kin show ‘im he ain't already seen.” The young officer stepped aside. “Oh, then perhaps you should be leading the way, sire.” Neely looked closely at Deric-Hess, searching for any sign of cynicism, he found none. The lad was being completely earnest. “Naw, you keep on, young feller. You're doin’ just fine.” They were led through an area filled with rills and rushes. Sparrows and finches defended their territories with a cacophony of chirps and whistles. A rise in the ground took them into a grassy clearing that looked over the downs fronting the city wall. The jagged black rent of the chasm snaked its way along the wall in both directions. Behind the chasm and the wall rose the rooftops and spires of Grisham proper. The Ducal palace rose above them all. Sunlight glinted off the copper sheathing the keep's roof and its towers. Beyond the rooftops, misty in the distance, rose the cliffs housing Grisham's Library, the sliver strand of the strait shone ribbon bright below them. At the point where they stood, the lip of the chasm looked to be a quarter mile or more away. Occasional flashes showed between the walls crenellations, reflections off a helmet or a weapon. More reflections showed along the battlements of the towers spread along the wall. “Looks crowded up there,” Neely commented, shading his eyes as he ran his gaze along the city's curtain wall. Flynn nodded. “Lottsa pins for me cushion. You sure ‘bout this, Miss Charity?” “My brother's in there, somewhere, Flynn. Once we're inside we should be ok. None of us are members of any army, and only Neely has any connection at all with Grisham. I'm sure the years have changed him somewhat.”

“I'm hopin’ that meself,” Neely muttered. They stood there for several long moments, watching the city wall, and the black chasm before it, saying nothing. Finally Neely broke the silence with a murmured, “It just might work.” “You got somethin', Neely?” Flynn asked. The other turned to listen. “Think so. You notice how the ground ain't even on both sides ‘o that ditch?” Neely pointed with a twig he'd picked up earlier. “See there? Our side is a good bit higher than their side. Bet it's that way along most of its length, cep'n where it levels out at th’ ocean cliffs.” “That is correct,” Deric-Hess broke in, “The Engineers said that the earthquake shifted this side of the chasm away and upwards from the Grisham promontory, as much as twenty feet in some areas.” “An just when were you gonna let us in on this little bit of info, junior?” Neely walked around Flynn and gave the young officer a gimlet stare from less than an inch away. Deric-Hess flinched back and swallowed hard, “I ... uh, I meant no offense, sire Neely. Really, I didn't. I'm sure if I would have told you sooner if the question had come up...” “Don't intimidate him, Neely,” Charity said, sharply. “We have ample time, so no harm's been done. What is this idea of yours, and where does the difference in cliff height figure into it?” Neely smiled to himself, “Well, I hafta admit part of it come to me when Flynn was braggin’ about your shootin’ ability. It looks like there's plenty of places where that ditch out there is maybe two feet or less across. This is what I'm thinkin',” he kneeled down and cleared a spot of ground with his knife, “We find a place where th’ cover's good right to th’ edge, but still with room to move. When night comes, Charity shoots a line with a grapple across to th’ other side. Iffn it holds, we slide down th’ line, an’ bob's yer uncle.” “Uh, Neely...” Flynn began, “Just how thick a line you planning on gettin'? I ain't slidin’ down no thread, it'd snap afore I got ten foot out.” Charity nodded. “That could pose a problem. I'm not sure how far my abilities with the bow go, but I'm sure the arrow has to be able to fit in order to work. If I tried to shoot a boat anchor across, I'm certain it would fail.” “Let me go first,” Circumstance spoke up. “I'm the lightest, and I can carry a heavier line over with me.” “What about anchorin’ it? Flynn asked. “We sure don't want it comin’ loose whilst we's crossin’ over.” “That won't happen,” Circumstance said, flatly. The finality of his tone brooked no argument from those who'd witnessed what the boy could do. Deric-Hess, on the other hand, had no such point of reference. “Surely, you're not thinking of actually allowing this child to undertake such a dangerous outing?” He said, aghast. Flynn plucked a grass stalk from the ground near his feet and began to chew on it. “You wasn't there,” He said, laconically. “If you was, you'd understand.” Neely stood and stretched, “That's a fact. Seein’ sometimes changes a whole bunch of opinions a man

can carry. Believe me, lad,” He said to the young officer, “You don't wanna see what we saw. Just trust that th’ boy knows what he's doin', an’ leave it at that.” They could see the indecision flooding through Deric-Hess. A strong part of the young man rebelled at any thought of putting a child in harm's way, but here were three personalities rumored to be the equal of any of the heroes of old telling him not to worry. His eyes bounced from face to face, looking for some crack in the resolve, he found none. “I see,” he sighed. “What supplies will you need?” The Ortian Army Quartermaster wasn't about to release any of his materials merely at the say so of a junior officer; a blistering, profanity-laced postscript to that say-so from Jarl-Tysyn, however, turned things around and the company was given access to whatever they needed. “You know, Flynn,” Neely said, as they sorted through stacks of grapples and lines, “th’ more I see of that General feller, th’ more I like ‘im.” “Right you are, Neely,” Flynn replied while examining a grapple with collapsible vanes, “He's a man what knows how to get things done.” It took a good while to sort through everything, but eventually they had a collection of lines and grapples that looked as if they'd do the job. Flynn located an empty box and Neely gathered the supplies into it. “Charity should have her part put together,” Neely grunted, as he dropped the last section of line and grapple into the box. “Let's see, iffn I'm guessin’ right, should be dark soon, and I don't know about you, Flynn, but I'm kinda itchin’ to get goin'.” Flynn's eyebrows climbed into his hairline, “You, Neely? But you said Grisham was...” “...th’ last place I'd druther be,” Neely finished for him. “I know, Flynn, but a man's got a right to change his mind, don't he? ‘Sides, this time I'm goin’ in with a whole bleedin’ army at me back, an’ the Duke ain't huntin’ me, I'm huntin’ him. Changes th’ flavor of th’ whole situation a mite, don'tcha think?” Flynn chewed the thought over, “Aye, Neely, you're right there, it does at that.” He picked up the box of supplies and followed Neely over to the other side of the Quartermaster's enclosure where the smaller weapons were stored. There they found Charity, with Circumstance standing close by, sorting through several bins of arrows. A number of the shafts lay on the floor. She was holding one away from her and sighting down its length with her left eye closed. That arrow joined the others on the floor. Charity shook her head as she picked up another shaft. “I can see why you have so much trouble keeping Grisham's parapets clear, most of these arrows would be better for shooting around corners than anything else.” The Quartermaster's assistant wrung his hands, “Milady, please understand, this is war and our fletchers have little time to complete their duties.” “Than it's probably a wonder these have feathers on them at all,” Charity murmured as she threw down another reject. Flynn dropped the box he was carrying and the ensuing clatter made the already nervous assistant jump.

He turned and saw Flynn and Neely grinning at him. “Oh, my Lord,” He exclaimed, “I thought the barbarians were upon us.” Charity glanced at the two and then returned to her sorting. “You were right, those two aren't exactly what you would call civilized. Is this all of them?” She swept the remaining arrows off to the side. The assistant hesitated. Charity was on him in an instant. “Are you going to tell me you might be holding some back? Are there better ones? Are there actually some arrows in this place that will fly in a straight line?” Neely moved to where he was just behind the assistant and placed his long knife against the man's throat. “Looks like he's havin’ trouble talkin’ outta his mouth. Maybe I should give ‘im a new one.” The little fellow began babbling, “B ... b ... but I cannot. I ... I ... I mean, it's forbidden.” “So, unforbid it,” Neely's voice held a deadly flatness. Charity scowled, “Oh, let him go, Neely. All you're doing is scaring him, and he isn't the enemy.” She turned back to the arrows laid out in front of her. “Besides, these should do me, I think.” Neely replaced his knife and the Quartermaster assistant nearly fainted with relief. “Thank you, milady, thank you.” “You're welcome,” Charity said, dryly. “What's in that box, Flynn?” The big man shrugged, “Bits ‘n pieces, Miss Charity. A bunch'a grapples ‘n lines, what might do, I think. I ain't never done somethin’ like this.” Charity smiled, “We're all in the same fix, Flynn. None of us has done anything like this. Let's take a look at those, shall we?” She pointed at the box. Neely kicked the box of grapples and lines into a spot with better light, “Here ya go, ain't too pretty, but like you said, Charity, they should do.” Circumstance stood up from his spot against the wall and walked over to look into the box. Without hesitation he reached down and pick up a line. “This one,” he said, quietly. He handed the line to Neely and reached down again. The grapple he brought up was the smallest of the group. “And this one.” Flynn smiled broadly, “Well, that was easy.” “But ... aren't you going to inspect them yourselves? You're not going to take this boy's opinion merely on face value?” The assistant gesticulated broadly as he spoke. Neely smiled at Flynn, “Why is it, Flynn, that these southern fellows are so thick when it comes to Circumstance?” “I dunno, Neely,” Flynn replied, with an exaggerated casualness, “Maybe it's somethin’ in their diet. Kinda strips away the childlike trust, ya know?” “Could be right, Flynn. Perhaps it's th’ tea ... kills th’ manhood, ya know.”

“Will you two stop it?” Charity looked up from her examination of the grapple and line. “As to Circumstance,” she turned her attention to the Quartermaster assistant, “We have our reasons for trusting his opinion. These will do nicely.” She held up the items. The assistant gulped and nodded, “Yes, milady. I'll tally them up right away.” With their supplies gathered together, Charity and her companions paid a brief visit to Jarl-Tysyn to inform him of their plans. “A night raid, hmm?” The General rubbed his chin in thought, “Sound thinking in most cases. I've only got one concern, how in the world are you going to see to hit your skrudding mark at that distance when it's flaming pitch black outside?” His voice rose into a near bellow, “what good is all this preparation going to do if the four of you fall into that great bloody ditch?” He threw out his arms and spun around, “Gods, I wish I had a Wizard. I'd have him burn that bloody city to the ground.” Neely reached out and took Charity by the arm. “Easy there Charity,” he whispered, “Th’ man don't know what he's sayin', an’ it might just be good to keep it that way.” At first Charity stiffened as Neely's hand closed on her arm, and then she relaxed. The tracker was right; it wouldn't do any good to let the General in on any more of the family history than he needed to know. She reached over and lifted Neely's hand off her arm and forced a reassuring smile for Jarl-Tysyn's benefit, “You needn't worry General, light or dark, I'll find my mark.” Jarl-Tysyn did not answer immediately. He nodded at her over his shoulder and then stood there, hands clasped behind his back. The General held that pose for several long seconds, his head bowed in thought. Charity was just about to break the silence when he turned around and fixed the four of them with a scowl. Charity got the distinctive feeling that was his favorite expression. “Skrud it,” Jarl-Tysyn growled, “Half a plan is better than nothing, which is what my officers have been giving me. Let's do this thing.” Charity nodded and left the General's tent with her companions in tow. She paid a brief visit to Deric-Hess, who for some reason had been chosen by the cat as a friend. “She's not in the habit of doing this. Apparently she sees something in you.” The young officer tossed a scrap of meat in the cat's direction, watching as a paw snagged it neatly out of the air. He looked up a Charity and smiled, “I've always been that way, Milady. Animals just take to me, I don't know why. Boy, she is a big one though, isn't she?” She nodded, thinking,Was I ever that young? “I have a favor to ask of you,” Charity said, rubbing a hand along the cat's back and getting a loud rumbling purr in return. He nodded his head gravely, “You just name it, Milady. Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it.” She smiled, “It's nothing that dangerous. I just need someone to watch over her while I'm away. She'll want to follow, but she won't be able to. I'd feel a lot better if she had someone she liked taking care of her until we get back.” “Oh, I'll be glad to Milady. As much as animals like me, I like them.”

Charity reached down and scratched the thick fur around the cat's neck, “Perhaps that's why they like you.” Since most of their equipment and supplies were already gathered and packed, Charity and her companions spent a tense couple of hours waiting for dark, all except Circumstance. He seemed as calm and unruffled as ever. Flynn and Neely watched him as they crouched behind a thick hedge of bottlebrush overlooking the narrows. Neely's jaw muscles bunched and relaxed as he chewed on a piece of grass. “He don't move much, does he, Flynn?” the tracker whispered, as he pointed at the boy with the gnawed stem. “Nope,” Flynn replied, just under his breath, “The lad's a quiet one, he is, lessn’ he needs to move, he don't.” The big man chuckled, deep in his chest, “Mind you, I'd druther not be the one he'd decided to move against. You remember that thing what sent all those draugs ‘gainst us?” Neely nodded, his eyes still on Circumstance, “Aye, I do. It seemed near as surprised as us when th’ lad sent it away. You don't belong here, you never did,” he raised the pitch of his voice into a fair imitation of Circumstance's contralto. “We's livin’ in strange times, Flynn. Hope we gets to see th’ end of ‘em.” “Me too, Neely. Me too.” Chapter Twenty-Three

Zasloff finished his examination of Jonas, stood, and grunted. He said nothing to Ellona, who hovered in the doorway, but began packing the various vials and small bags of herbs and powders scattered about the bedside table into his pack. “Is it over?” Ellona asked from the doorway. The Dwarf nodded as he closed the pack and stood, “Aye, it's over. I'll be taking my leave of you, woman. Let the lad sleep through till the morning after next. The herbs will make sure he does that, but keep it quiet about him anyway.” He turned to look at Jonas and Ellona thought she saw an almost tender expression flit across Zasloff's face, “He's been through a lot, poor tyke, but his heart is strong, he'll do well.” Zasloff reached down, grabbed his pack by its strap and threw it across his shoulder. He crossed the room and looked up at Ellona, “That neighbor of yours, she consorted?” Ellona felt struck dumb. She had no answer to the Dwarf's question. Zasloff, and Nicoll? As her silence continued, the Dwarf Healer just stood there, looking up at her. Clearing her throat, she tried to think of what Nicoll would say. The thought came to her that her neighbor's first impulse would be to laugh, but that was the last thing she wanted to place in front of Zasloff. The Dwarf was taciturn at the best of times. “Um ... to be honest, healer, Nicoll is consorted. Her man is away at the moment. I believe she would be flattered by your thought, but that is as far as it would go.” Zasloff sighed, and nodded curtly at Ellona, “Aye, I thought as much, but it never hurts to ask.” He nodded again and walked past her and out the door to meet Sammel who was waiting with his cart. Ellona watched the door close and then turned back to her son. His forehead felt normal now. She

backed out and shut the door quietly. Sleeping would be easier now that Jonas was cured. She sat at the kitchen table, considering whether or not to brew a pot of tea. As she sat she couldn't keep the laughter away. Consorted? What would Nicoll say to that? **** When night finally fell, Neely led the companions out of the bottlebrush and along the lip of the chasm, until they reached the place where Charity planned to send the line and grapple across with her bow. “Mind that edge,” he whispered, “It ain't solid.” “Gods, it's dark,” Flynn hissed. “Glad you're in front, Neely. I'd be swimmin’ by now.” “You'd be fish food,” Neely answered, keeping his voice barely audible. “Now shut yer trap, we's almost there.” Lights flickered from the embrasures along Grisham's curtain wall. Brighter glints showed where a helmet or spear passed in front of them. Neely put a hand behind him to bring everyone to a halt, while keeping an eye on the curtain wall. They waited there for several minutes and then moved on. “You think they seen us?” Flynn asked as they moved out onto the spur that jutted out over the chasm. “Not while the moon is still down, but iffn it comes up while we's crossin'...” Neely left the obvious unsaid. Charity strung her bow as Flynn pulled the pack that contained the line and grapple from his back. As Neely played out the line, Flynn used his considerable strength to drive a heavy metal stake deep into the ground using a padded sledge. A test of the stake showed it should hold even the big man's weight during the crossing. Flynn screwed up his face, straining to see the other side of the chasm, “Can't see a thing, Miss Charity, how're you gonna know where to put that thing?” “You'll just have to trust me, Flynn,” Charity tested her string by pulling it halfway and then easing it back, “I'll know.” Neely looked at Flynn as the big man came into his field of vision, “What're you grinnin’ about?” “I just talked to Miss Charity. We's in for a time, Neely, we's in for a time.” They gathered together around the stake. “Ok, once I send the grapple over, Circumstance will carry the stronger line with him. Flynn will go next, carrying one of the packs, and Neely will follow with the other one. I'll come last.” Charity illustrated her plan with a stick in the dirt. Flynn objected, “It'd be safer iffn you was to go over second, Miss Charity. With me strainin’ the line, well, you know...” “I'm going over last, Flynn, and that's it, no argument. If it breaks, you'll be able to haul me up. I wouldn't trust our chances of doing that with you.” She looked at each of her companions’ faces and then nodded, “Ok, let's do it.” Neely handed Charity the specially prepared grapple; it had a shaft like that of a heavy arrow complete with vanes and a nock, except the shaft was of tempered steel. Just in front of the nock was attached a

small iron band with a lanyard ring. To that ring they snapped the line. Charity fit the nock to her bowstring and pulled it back to the anchor point. Just like all the times before, the feeling of knowing her target washed over her. Without hesitation, she moved the bow slightly and released. A soft thud sounded as the grapple sped into the dark, the line twisting along behind it. After, to what Neely felt was an interminable wait, the line stopped its passage and began to sag into the chasm. “Grab the line,” Neely hissed. Flynn bent and snatched up the line, quickly wrapping a short length of it around the stake he'd pounded into the ground. “Shoulda done this earlier,” he muttered. “I go first,” Circumstance stood and moved over to the cliff edge. “Not afore we make sure that line's solid,” Flynn knotted the line off at the stake and began to pull in the slack, “We's gotta make sure you get over onto the other side.” Neely reached into one of the packs and pulled out a thick bundle of coiled rope, “This's gotta be looped over th’ line iffn th’ boy's to be able to get it across. Th’ thing is flickin’ heavy.” He looked hard at Circumstance, “You let that rope come off'n th’ line, lad, an’ it'll take you with it. You got any magik that'll help here?” Circumstance looked uncomfortable, “It doesn't work that way. I can't just do things like that unless it's needed.” “But you did against that thing and its Draugs.” “Because I needed to,” Circumstance replied. “I tried to do some stuff after that. Nothing happened.” He paused, and said half to himself, “I kind of knew it wouldn't.” Neely laid a hand on Circumstance's shoulder, “S'ok, lad. Can't nobody do everything they want to do. Iffn you learn that early enuf, it'll make a better man of you.” “Flynn's got the line as taut as possible, it's time,” Charity said, as she pulled an arrow from her quiver. “I'll keep ready if anyone tries to shoot you during the crossing. Maybe an arrow or two through their eye might discourage things.” Neely put his mouth next to Flynn's ear, “Iffn anyone else said that I'd be laughin'.” Circumstance climbed onto the line without hesitation and shimmied out over the gulf. Neely carefully looped the rope around the line and handed him its end. The boy gave the tracker a smile and began working his way into the gloom. For a long time the only sign of Circumstance's progress was the up and down bobbing of the line. Finally even that came to an end, and the companions were forced to wait, unknowing whether or not the half-elf boy had made it to the other side. Then the line jerked, once, twice, three times. “He made it,” Charity nearly sank to her knees in relief. “Sure did, Miss Charity,” Flynn said, as he bent to take up the rope. The big man untied the knot from the stake and began retying it in a series of hitches. When he finished, Flynn snapped a forefinger across the rope. The taut line hummed deeply.

“Now it's my turn,” Neely grunted as he swung his pack onto his back. The tracker knelt down and climbed out onto the rope, “Feels strong, that's good.” Flynn gave his old friend a salute, “See ya soon Neely. With those long arms of yourn, you oughta be across in no time.” Neely nodded and began his crossing, taking considerably smaller reaches than those Flynn had implied. Just like Circumstance, Neely soon vanished into the darkness, the only indication of his progress being the intermittent vibration of the rope. When the expected signal came of the Tracker's success, Flynn went next, leaving Charity by herself to watch and wait. She tried to keep her thoughts away from the chasm and the black gulf waiting below. Relaxing her pull on the bowstring, she watched the lights along Grisham's wall. Somewhere behind those flickering lights was Adam, her twin. So much had gone on since they'd last been together that Charity could not bring to mind a clear picture of their last meeting. She shook her head, would her brother even recognize her? Would she recognize him? Flynn's signal on the rope drew her away from further dark thoughts. She unstrung her bow and tied down the cover over the arrows. It would do her no good to have them all fall into the sea. Flynn and Neely had taken all the packs over with them, so all she had to do was secure her bow and begin creeping across the rope. Charity was unprepared for the acute feeling of distance that stretched beneath her as she inched out over the chasm. Every little breeze washing over her seemed like the beginning of a maelstrom prepared to rip her from the line. She was sure she was gripping the rope far too firmly, but not even Bardoc himself would have been able to convince her to loosen it one iota. Craning her head backwards, Charity strained to see the other side where her companions waited, but all she saw was blackness. Out over the gulf, not even the rope she was clinging to showed in the dim starlight. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to focus on the job at hand. Reach out, grip the rope and pull forward another span, then repeat. Do it again, and repeat. So absolute became Charity's focus that she was almost startled off the rope when two large hands reached down and took her by the shoulders. “S'ok, Miss Charity, I got's ya,” Flynn's low voice whispered. Charity released one hand and reached out. Flynn's enveloped it, and the big man pulled her up onto the ground. “We's all here, Miss Charity, where to now?” “I think you'd better ask Neely, he's the only one of us with any connection to Grisham,” Charity readjusted her doublet, and then shifted her bow and quiver to a more comfortable position. Neely scratched his cheek, “Well, I remember hearing somethin’ about the sewers emptyin’ out near th’ strait. Iffn we creeps along th’ wall, we oughta come to a point where we can start lookin’ for one.” Circumstance pointed in the direction of the sea. “It's that way,” he said, quietly. Flynn raised an eyebrow. Neely raised both of his. Circumstance gave them a level look.

“I know,” Neely said, “You just know.” They crept along the batters that formed the base of Grisham's curtain wall until they reached the barrier that ran from the wall to the sea, cutting off foot access to the mouth of Grisham's harbor. The only other truly nervous moment came when they had to make a series of timed dashes across the remnants of the highway where it met the city gates. Now at the barrier they were forced to make a decision, whether or not to get wet. “Too high to reach, even if we jump,” Neely cast an accusing glance at the top of the barrier. Flynn looked down at Circumstance, “I don't suppose you kin do somethin’ about this,” he hooked a thumb at the wall. “I could,” the boy stated, “but it would make a lot of noise. I don't think that would be good right now.” Neely's mouth twitched, “No, probably not.” Charity sighed, “What do we do now?” Neely grimaced, “We go swimmin'.” The water off Grisham was bitterly cold and filled with swirling currents that made the passage around the point fraught with danger. Charity picked up a number of scrapes and bruises from the waves slamming her against the rocks. Flynn took pity on her and had her cling to his back the rest of the way. The first sign of a beach came after they rounded a knife-edged promontory jutting out into the strait. Light from the rising moon shone on a cluster of slippery green-tinged rocks dotting the waters just offshore. Circumstance was the first to make it to shore, seemingly unfazed by the experience, Neely followed, then Flynn with Charity still clinging to his back. Small stones made up the beach, mixed with empty shells and bits of driftwood. A sheer cliff rose upwards along the backside of the beach, slanting out towards the strait near the top. They staggered to where the cliff wall met the beach stones and fell prostrate on the ground. Charity rolled off Flynn's back and coughed out the last of the seawater in her throat. “Ohhh, I'm freezing, that water's like a breath from the pit. I can't feel my toes, or my fingers.” “Fingers, nothin', me plunbs're lumps of ice. I'm ruined for life,” Neely gasped, as he wiped the wetness from his eyes. “Umm, Miss Charity,” Flynn said quietly, “Is the beach supposed to be movin'?” “What?” Charity turned her head in the direction Flynn was pointing. Neely levered himself up onto his elbows and squinted against the moonlight shining onto the wet beach, “Probably th’ waves movin’ pebbles.” “Those aren't pebbles,” Circumstance said, as he stood and walked forward a couple of paces, shading his eyes against the moon's light, “Those are crabs.”

“That's a lot of crabs,” Charity said, as she stood too. The movement Flynn had noticed had spread to cover the entire wavefront area of the beach. Neely wiped his face and spat, “Bloodcrabs, skrud me iffn it ain't bleedin’ bloodcrabs. Get up, Flynn! We're runnin'. Get up, now!” Without waiting to see if his command had effect, the tracker took off down the beach in the direction of Grisham's harbor. Sand sprayed out from beneath his pounding feet. The others hesitated for only the merest fraction of a second and then they too were pelting down the beach, close on Neely's heels. As if it were a single organism, the host of crabs flowed after them, their claw tips ticking against the stones of the beach. “Keep it up,” Neely gasped, as he ran, “Iffn they catches us, they'll strip us to bones in seconds, then they'll eat th’ bones.” “Where's the bloody sewer?” Flynn looked over his shoulder and then sped up. “They're catchin’ up with us! They're catchin’ up with us!” “Yell louder, Flynn, I don't think they quite heard you in Berggren.” “Take it easy on ‘im, Charity,” Neely said, “He ain't never been eaten by bloodcrabs before.” They continued to run, with the chattering host in hot pursuit. To their dismay, no sewer opening showed in the sheer cliff walls, or even handholds that would allow them to climb clear of danger. The beachfront curved around a small headland and then continued straight on to Grisham's port where a rough wall of man-sized boulders divided the beach from the city's docks. Just beyond the headland, the cliffs lowered and the rooftops of some of the buildings above began to show. Neely slowed his sprint as he turned slightly to the left. “What are you doing?” Charity's screech showed the level of her panic. “Those crabs are almost upon us!” Circumstance darted past Charity, and then Neely, scrambling up the slope, sending a spray of gravel out from under his feet, “He saw something. It's up here, hurry!” They climbed the slope in Circumstance's wake and joined him at the edge of a small ravine cut into the face of the cliff. Above the ravine yawned the black mouth of a foul-smelling pipe. Tendrils of dark moss dribbled from its lower lip like a matted beard. The opening of the pipe sat a good yard above Neely's reach. Charity nearly sobbed in frustration, “Gods, it's too high!” “Then we'd best learn to fly, Miss Charity, them things are climbin’ the slope.” Flynn looked over his shoulder. The wave of purple-black carapaces completely covered the beach now, its leading edge lapped at the base of the slope, scrabbling for purchase in the gravel-covered rock. Some of them found it and then those crabs behind them used their brothers as ladders. Then the process repeated. Neely swore, “Skrud it! I'm jumpin’ for it.” The tracker squatted, keeping his eyes on the pipe lip and sprang upwards. He misjudged the distance and overshot his goal by several inches. For a few frantic seconds Neely scrabbled for a handhold before finding the end of a long since rusted away grate. While

holding on with his right hand, he groped around with his left until he found another of the protrusions. Swinging his legs back and forth for leverage, he managed to get one of his arms under his body, and then the other. The pipe was high enough to allow Neely to squat, which he did. Turning around, he lay flat and reached down with both hands. “Ok, Flynn, toss me th’ boy.” The tracker had no need to include the words, hurry or quick to his sentence. Flynn nodded once and took Circumstance by the waist, lifting the boy to where he could reach Neely's outstretched hands. “Gottcha, lad,” Neely grunted, “c'mon up. Ok, Flynn, send up Charity,” He reached back down after helping Circumstance into the pipe. Flynn turned at looked at Charity, “Scuz me, Miss Charity,” he blushed, “but I gotta...” Charity glanced at the ever-nearing wave of bloodcrabs, “Just do it, Flynn, I won't complain.” The big man blushed again and took Charity by the hips, lifting her to where she too, could grip Neely's hands. After Charity joined Circumstance behind him, Neely turned to reach down toward Flynn. “C'mon ol’ bud, jump up to me. You kin do it.” Flynn bent down and leaped, but his reached failed by half a span. “C'mon,” Neely grated, “Jump! Do you wanna be eaten?” Flynn tried again, but still he came up short. “It's no use, Neely,” the big man gasped, “I's fagged out, you go on.” “I ain't goin’ on, you flickin’ great fool,” Neely growled, as he inched himself further out of the pipe, “an I ain't gonna watch me best bud get chewed up by a buncha sea spiders.” He turned his head and called out to Charity and Circumstance, “Take holda me ankles an’ brace yer feet against summat.” And then he turned back to Flynn. The bloodcrabs were mere inches away from the big man's feet. “Now, jump, you great lump. Jump like yer life depends on it.” Flynn jumped, hard enough that it felt like he'd dislocated both knees, but high enough that he and Neely's hands clasped in a durable hand-over-wrist grip. The big man's weight started pulling Neely out of the pipe. “Brace yer feet, skrud it,” Neely shouted to Charity and Circumstance, as he struggled to hold on to his friend. The position he lay in gave the tracker almost no leverage, he had to rely on main strength alone to keep Flynn's twenty-two stone out of the reach of the bloodcrabs milling beneath his boots. Flynn misunderstood Neely's yell and reached around with his feet for something to brace against. His right foot found a small ledge of granite, which gave him enough of a base to push upwards. That, and the frantic pulling of Charity and Circumstance, enabled Neely to lift enough of Flynn into the pipe so the big man could finish the job on his own. He lay there in the muck and moss that coated the bottom and sighed, “That's the closest I ever come to bein’ bait. It ain't a comfortable feelin'. Neely, I'm plumb glad ya didn't give up on me,” Flynn lay a hand onto his friend's arm.

“Fergit it,” Neely dismissed his friend's thanks with a smile, “I owed you a couple, anyways.” Charity sniffed, “Well, you two may enjoy rolling around in the sewage, but I'd like to see if we could find someplace a little cleaner and a lot further from those disgusting crabs.” Flynn sighed once more, “I dunno, Miss Charity, compared to where I was, this is right comfortable.” Neely slapped him on the back, “You can get comfortable later. Iffn I remembers right, these pipes open up a ways under th’ city, could be we'll find a place to stretch out a mite.” Flynn rose to his hands and knees, “Sounds good to me.” Since she was the furthest into the pipe, Charity led the way. The sewer pipe slanted upwards at a fifteen-degree angle for well over fifty yards, and then, as Neely had implied, it opened into a passage with considerably more room, and a narrow ledge elevated them out of the muck below. The tracker rummaged into his pack, pulled out a torch and lit it with a few clicks of his striker. Flickering yellow light revealed their surroundings. The red brick of the sewer wall climbed to an arc just inches above Flynn's head, where it met those on the other side. The ledge they stood on was only a foot and a half wide and it ran off into a darkness that seemed to indicate the turning of a corner. Neely looked from side to side, “Seems we all made it in one piece, so's now I guess I can ask me question,” he fixed a gimlet eye onto Circumstance, “how come you didn't...” he wiggled the fingers of his free hand, “...magik them crabs outta th’ way?” “I wuz kinda wonderin’ that meself,” Flynn murmured. “I couldn't,” The boy answered simply, as if the reason was plain to all. Flynn nodded, “I see, kinda like those times ya tried to do summat, an’ it wouldn't happen.” “No, that's not what I mean at all.” “Then, what in th’ bloody blazes do you mean?” Neely straightened in exasperation. “Don't yell at him Neely,” Charity said, in an aside. With a glance at Charity, the tracker tried again, “Whatdo you mean?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You remember back when the draug master's head was still yelling at us and I sent it away?” Circumstance looked up at Neely and then at Flynn. “I ain't gonna forget it anytime soon,” The big man acknowledged quietly. “Me neither,” Neely agreed. “What about it?” he asked. “It didn't belong here,” Circumstance answered, “The crabs do. They were just doing what they're supposed to do, I can't stop that.” Charity shivered in memory, “What are they? They're horrible.”

Circumstance shrugged, “I don't know, I just know they belong.” He looked up at Neely. The tracker smiled, though it looked more like a grimace, “Yeah, I suppose they do. They really ain't all that dangerous,” he began. “Really,” Charity snorted. Flynn chuckled in sympathy. “No, I mean it.” Neely turned and slid down the wall to a squatting position. “Most o’ th’ year, bloodcrabs is harmless. You can pick ‘em outta th’ tide pools with yer bare hand. A bucketful makes for a tasty meal with a crust of bread,” He smacked his lips. “Me da showed me that one.” “So, what makes ‘em ... like they is now?” Flynn asked. Neely shook his head, “Summat to do with them spawin', I think. Leastways, that's what me da told me. He near tanned th’ hide right off'n me backside when he caught me an’ me buds sneakin’ to th’ beach ‘bout this time o’ year. We was told not to, too. I guess that's what made ‘im so mad,” He sighed. “How long are they dangerous?” Charity asked. “Three, four weeks, thereabouts,” Neely said, with a shrug, “I think. Never learned for sure, never bothered to.” Neely's answer ended the conversation for a while. As narrow as the ledge was, it was more comfortable than either the beach or the sewer pipe. The companions rested quietly, enjoying the sense of security the solid brick walls gave them. Circumstance stood after about a half hour and tugged on Flynn's sleeve, “It's time to go.” “Huh,” Flynn roused himself out of his lethargy, “Go where?” **** Magister Mallien sipped a bit of the brandy Duke Bilardi had poured into his crystal aperitif glass. A smile buried itself amidst the rolls of fat in the cleric's face. “The forty-six,” he said in appreciation, “I wasn't aware any of it remained.” The Duke replaced the stopper into the decanter and slid the vessel back into position onto the sideboard. “That is surprising, your grace, considering your sources.” Mallien sipped again, “Your recovery seems complete, Your Grace.” Bilardi noted the change of subject, but hid it as he sank into the plush chair across that of his guest. “As well as may be expected, Magister. My family has always healed quickly, both from wounds of the body or of the heart.” “Ah,” Mallien smiled again. It looked like a frog experiencing gas, “A reference to your son, perhaps?” “Perhaps,” the Duke acknowledged, sipping from his own aperitif. He savored the musky sweet sharpness as its vapors filled his mouth.

Mallien observed the Duke from behind steepled fingers. Though well hidden within folds of fat, the cleric's eyes were quite sharp, nearly as sharp as the mind behind them, and very little escaped their notice. The slight tightening of the fingers holding the glass, the twitch of the nose, and the even slighter narrowing of the Duke's eyes all told Mallien his bolt had hit the mark. Bilardi was disturbed deeply by something his son had done. The cleric decided to probe further, “Perhaps something to do with the young swordmaster seen frequently in his presence?” To his credit, the Duke held his temper. He raised an eyebrow and sipped again. “You have an interest in this young man?” He asked, blandly. “Perhaps,” Mallien answered, continuing the game. He swirled the brandy in his glass, watching the play of the light against the facets. “Word has reached my office concerning this ... Adam, is it? A strange name, that. It means clay, or mud, I believe, certainly not a name one would find among the royals,” He waved his free hand, “But that is beside the point. I am told he carries the Emperor's sword.” Bilardi's eyebrow quickly climbed into his hairline and then relaxed.Damn the cleric, he almost had the advantage . “Do tell,” He forced indifference into his voice, “There are a lot of young men in this city with fancy swords, my son is one of them. That does not make any of them a royal, much less the Emperor's heir.” “So, you discern the thrust of my argument,” Mallien noted with a nod. He paused and drew in a breath, letting it out with sibilance, “Yes, you do. Can you describe for me any of these young fancys’ swords?” Bilardi sneered, “What's to describe? Most of them are merely toys acting as overly large pieces of cheap jewelry. The balance is atrocious, mostly due to the massive amounts of gilt work framing the hilt.” “And the scabbards?” Mallien cradled a gelatinous jowl with his fingers. “Their scabbards aren't much better, some are worse,” Bilardi's sneer deepened as he warmed to his subject. “Garish, as a description, would be a kindness.” “I see,” Mallien changed position to where his hands were linked over his huge paunch, “So, how would you describe the sword of Labad?” The Duke rose out of his chair and poured himself some more brandy. “Why? You've seen the portraits. There's that one in the Basilica, it's what, twelve feet tall? You walk past it at least three times a day—Labad himself with that blade strapped to his side.” He regained his chair and sipped, “You describe it to me.” Mallien's chin disappeared into the folds of his neck as he ducked his head in thought. When he rose back up his eyes held a faraway look, “The pommel is the head of a mythical creature with its wings curving out and down to form the basket of the hilt. Its eyes are emerald, with a larger one centered on the crosspiece. Actual gold appears to be the metal of the hilt rather than gilt, of course, it is the Emperor's sword.” Bilardi leaned forward, his eyes alight, “Exactly, the Emperor's sword. Do you think a ragamuffin, no-name oaf from the bush is going to be carrying a weapon like that strapped to his side?” “One would be fool to believe that, eh, my lord Duke?” Mallien imitated a frog with gas again. “Yet, your response leads one to wonder about your use of the word ragamuffin and bush. Would that be a

reference to this Adam? What little I've learned of him says he is from an area that would apply to both.” “You make my point for me,” Bilardi said, just prior to draining half of his brandy. “Perhaps,” Mallien conceded, “Perhaps not, there is the matter of the prophecy.” “Pfagh,” The Duke snorted, “Prophecy is for weak-minded fools and aged philosophs. It is nothing more than shallow fantasy useful only in controlling the masses.” Mallien scowled slightly, “You border on heresy Your Grace.” “Good,” Bilardi finished his brandy, “I was hoping to. Someone has to shake up that comfortable little world you clerics have built for yourselves. There really is more to life, Mallien, than little boys’ bottoms, you know.” The piggy eyes narrowed, “You go too far, Duke Bilardi, jestful heresy is one thing, but...” “Why Magister, I would have thought your skin to be far thicker than that,” The Duke interrupted with a consoling tone. “Has my gentle probe pierced your heart?” Mallien composed himself with visible effort. “By no means, Your Grace,” he smiled, “No more than my mentioning your only son's friendship with the man who will one day sit on the Emperor's throne upset you. Were you aware he has allowed this Adam to resign his commission from the city guard?” “No, I was not aware of that,” Bilardi said flatly. “Oh,” the cleric's smile broadened, “Then you also haven't heard that he is nowhere to be found in the city. Not a one of my sources has turned up a thing. It's like the young man has vanished into thin air and this in a city completely under siege.” To Mallien's surprise, this bit of information did not enrage the Duke. Bilardi nodded slowly and pursed his lips as if in consideration. Then he stood once more and walked over to the decanters. “More brandy?” He asked, holding up the crystal vessel. “No, thank you Milord,” Mallien responded, hiding his surprise with the ease gained through years of experience. Bilardi noted the cleric's response with another nod, poured some more of the potent liquor and regained his chair, “So, your inquisitors can't find the boy. What has this to do with me? For that matter, why should I even care? He is none of your business, he's my son's business, and that business is his alone, since he is the Captain of the Guard. This siege you mention has become a farce. Have you seen any Southern barbarians rampaging through Grisham's streets? Has your larder become bare due to our lines of supply being cut? Pfagh,” Bilardi snorted again, Mallien had the distinct thought that it was the Duke's favorite expression, “As wars go, this one has become severely disappointing.” “I am so sorry Your Grace is disappointed,” Mallien said blandly, “But whether or not you choose to be involved, this Adam is most definitely the church's business.” The Duke looked up with interest. “Oh? Why?” Mallien leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his lap and assumed a pious expression. “If one is

too assume the mantle of clergy, than one must also assume, at least, a passing acknowledgement of the hand of destiny, that hand being guided by the divine Bardoc. I took the liberty of reading a copy of Labad's prophecy. What little I've learned about this young man moves me to some concern. One interpretation would have him pulling down the present government as it stands and replacing it with one of his own.” “And that concerns you, does it?” Bilardi murmured. “As long as I've known you Mallien, the only faith you've ever shown is in the power of gold and its ability to further your own perverted ends. Now, you're quaking in your fat over the distant possibility some young blade could be fulfilling Labad's prophecy? Why?” Mallien smiled once more, “Milord Duke, when one is dealing with the divine, it pays to hedge one's bets.” **** The image of Adam and his friend leaving the Grisham guard office faded as Milward passed his hand across the bowl of water.Good, very good, he thought,now if Bardoc would just help a bit with the timing ... He looked up, “I'm not pushing, just suggesting.” Milward had ridden into Ort proper alongside Garld-Jens upon the Ortian's cart. Once the direction of the palace had been pointed out, the Wizard excused himself and hopped off, waving goodbye to his riding companion. The Officer ignored him. Ort was a city of broad, tree-lined streets and imposing white buildings. The sheathing material was of granite containing specks of mica that glinted in the sunlight. Birds completely unlike those of the northlands flew from tree to tree, calling to each other in lilting voices. Unlike the inhabitants of the north, Ortians were orderly people, and their city reflected that trait. No street vendors accosted him in an attempt to make a sale, rather, neatly lettered signs graced the fascias of each building informing passersby which shop lay within and what could be bought there. Many buildings had, the Wizard noted, within them more than one shop. He thought the concept rather strange and unwieldy. Who would want to have all their shopping centered in one building? Where was the adventure? Milward caught sight of a group of the city's inhabitants across the street as he prepared to cross a major intersection where six streets converged upon a circular plaza. The plaza held a statue of Labad set into the center of a fountain that fed a many-terraced waterfall. The city dwellers were talking amongst themselves and pointing in his direction. Like most Ortians, they differed in appearance to the peoples of the north. Their skin tended toward a golden olive in tone rather than the pale pinkish-beige of the north. Their hair was nearly uniformly black and straight, with the current fashion having the hair left long in the back and cut to tightly frame the face. They wore loose robes of shimmercloth printed with bright pictorials of flowers and birds, making Milward's travel clothes appear rather shabby in comparison. A notion suggested itself and Milward agreed, being in a mischievous if not gregarious frame of mind. He nodded in the direction of the gawkers and proceeded across the boulevard toward them. From the startled looks it appeared most of them were not expecting this move, though a couple of the watcher's faces held sneers.This should be diverting , he thought. One of the sneer wearers stepped forward from the group and held up a hand as Milward stepped out of the street. “Hold yourself there, fellow.” There was a pause before “fellow", as if the term was meant to be insulting.

“Hold myself where?” Milward kept his tone light. “There, as I said,” the dandy waved at Milward with a limp, languid hand. “There?” Milward said, with an incredulous voice, “I must say, that's awfully personal, and we haven't even gotten to know each other yet.” A number of the group behind the dandy snickered. A flush built up in the young man's olive complexion. “Don't be impertinent, fellow. Do you know who you're dealing with?” “You say that as if I should care,” Milward leaned on his staff as he studied the man's face. “I don't recognize you, should I, care, I mean?” This brought out more snickers, and one outright laugh. The dandy drew himself up, though the effort seemed less sure. “He's not the oaf you thought him to be Litjen-Pul, be careful, or you'll lose what little dignity you have left.” This comment from the oldest appearing member of the group increased the flush in the dandy's face and the thin brows narrowed in anger. He drew back his hand to deliver a backhanded blow but upon delivery it struck Milward's staff instead. “Owww!” Litjen-Pul howled, as he massaged his bruised hand. He glared at Milward, “You did that on purpose!” “And what was that slap you aimed at me, an accident?” Milward moved back into his slouch, leaning on his staff, “You're lucky I don't spank you, spoiled children usually need that, obviously, you weren't.” The one who'd warned his friend earlier laughed out loud, “Come on, Litjen-Pul, it's clear you're outclassed. Let the ancient go and let us be on our way.” “No, I won't,” the dandy hissed at his friends over his shoulder. “I won't be insulted in this manner. No country oaf, no matter how old, is going to do that to me.” Milward figured he'd had enough of the fellow and formed a small shaping, releasing it with a snap of his fingers. A tiny cloud, black and roiling, formed over Litjen-Pul's head. It growled with high-pitched thunder. The laughter of his friends died as if cut off by a slamming door. The Wizard smiled, it wasn't a nice smile. “What an incredible thing,” he said, “One little cloud and the lot of you are struck dumb.” “Holy Bardoc, preserve us,” the one who'd been talking to Litjen-Pul breathed, “The man's a Sorcerer.” “A Wizard,” Milward corrected him, “Can't any of you idiots ever get that straight? If I was a Sorcerer, your wet friend here,” The tiny thundercloud had begun to rain on Litjen-Pul, who had also discovered it would follow him wherever he went, “Would not be alive right now. There is a difference, you know.” Murmured fragments of exclamation came to Milward's ears, “...wizard? ... No difference as far as I'm concerned ... we're dead, no way around it ... fool Litjen-Pul, if we ever get out of this...”

A look of disgust seated itself on Milward's face and his beard bristled, “Oh get out of here, the lot of you. You're not worth the time it would take to turn you into nickbats. You stay here,” He reached out and took hold of the oldest one's sleeve, “At least you seemed to have some intelligence. Tell me,” He looked into the face of the apprehensive Ortian, “Where can I find the Emperor? I want to see him.” The rest of the group bolted as if the pit itself was hot on their heels. Above the heads of the crowd could be seen the bobbing and weaving thundercloud as it followed the hapless Litjen-Pul. The remaining Ortian stammered at Milward, “T ... t ... the Emperor? No one just sees the Emperor.” “Why not,” Milward demanded, “is there something wrong with him? Does he have some communicable disease that keeps others away?” “N ... no, but ... he'sthe Emperor,” The fellow put an emphasis on the word,the . Milward kept hold of the Ortian's sleeve, he wasn't sure the man would run without the restraint, but he didn't feel like hunting up another guide, willing or no. “What does that have to do with anything? No, don't answer that,” he held up a hand as the Ortian's mouth opened. “I'm going to give you something to think about, your Emperor is just a man, as you are, and unless he is a Wizard or a Sorcerer he has no special powers beyond that of being a man. Bardoc has no children that I know of, so he has no divinity. And, since he has no divinity he must eat. If he must eat then he must...” “No, please, I beg you,” The Ortian was staring at the Wizard in horror. “Hmmph,” Milward stared at the fellow for a moment and then nodded, “Yes, I suppose it is a bit too much for you to swallow at one go. So, tell me, where can I find this Emperor of yours? Since I'm not a subject, there should be no problem associated with your telling me.” That statement ran around the Ortian's head for a while and then his eyes cleared, “No, I suppose not.” “So...” Milward pressed gently. The man was relaxing, finally, no need to ruin things by being too forceful. “Well,” the Ortian began, “See that white pinnacle off in the distance over there?” He pointed off to Milward's left, in towards the city. “The Emperor's compound covers the acreage surrounding the tower. It's the highest circle of the city.” “Circle?” Milward questioned. The Ortian smiled slightly, “Ort is built of seven rings, each one higher than the last. The outer ring houses the servants and working class, much of the military, along with some of the markets and warehouses of the merchants, and of course those offices necessary for keeping the peace. The next ring in is where we stand now. This section holds many of the lower government buildings, some of the better shops and inns, and the homes of many of the more skilled workers, plus several public houses. Above this level you will find the homes of most of the merchants and the warehouses for the best of their goods along with those shops dealing in the finer things, and several of Ort's parks, as well as the University. Rings four and five are where the wealthy and the senior military live exclusively. Ring six houses the upper government buildings for all branches except the Emperor; seven is his alone. So, you see,” He smiled again, “in order to see the Emperor, you would have to pass through several gates, each one with better security than the one before it.”

“My, my,” Milward murmured, “I had no idea this was such a secure city. I imagine it would take someone with the powers of ... say, a Wizard to get through all of that, wouldn't you agree?” The Ortian stared at Milward for a second and then his eyes widened, “Oh, my, I had forgotten.” “Of course you had, in there,” Milward tapped a finger against the man's chest, “You'd come to realize I wasn't going to hurt you. You relaxed, and,” He continued, “you should also realize that I won't do any harm to your Emperor, either, I just want to talk to him,” He winked, “And you can be sure that I will.” The Ortian nodded, half turned away and then faced the Wizard. “Can I leave now?” Milward pursed his lips, “Umm, right after you answer a question. It is fairly obvious to anyone with eyes and a brain that you and your companions do not belong in this ring. Unless I'm very mistaken, those robes of yours are of a much higher class than those of those folk over there,” He pointed with his staff at a group of workmen offloading a cart drawn up in front of what was the Ortian equivalent of a pub, they were being directed in their work by a portly man wearing a heavy apron over a short cotton robe and hose. “Shimmercloth is usually reserved for the wealthy, isn't it?” That earned Milward a weak smile, “Yes, it is. We were grolling.” “Grolling?” Milward frowned, “I don't know that word.” The Ortian looked embarrassed, “Grolling is where those of us who are daring enough venture down into the lower rings to mingle with the lower classes. It is really quite exhilarating sometimes.” “Oh really,” Milward said dryly, “Where I come from, the practice is called slumming. Occasionally, the young lords find themselves dead because of it.” The Ortian looked at Milward out of shocked eyes, and then burst into laughter. “I said something funny?” Milward leaned on his staff and cocked his head at the fellow. It took several minutes before the man could suppress his hysterics long enough to get out a clear answer. When he finally did, he drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, “The word you used means something entirely different here in Ort. I won't repeat it, but I can assure you it most certainly bears no resemblance to grolling, not at all. And to die because of it...” he broke into laughter again. “Interesting,” Milward remarked. “Can you let me in on it's meaning, without undue discomfort, that is.” His reluctant guide blushed. The Ortian looked decidedly uncomfortable with the request. He stuttered a few times, and then swallowed, “I ... um, well, that is to say ... the people in my class just don't use that kind of language. Even the children avoid it. In the lower classes, that ... word is used to describe in the coarsest terms possible, what occurs when a man and a woman...” his voice trailed off and the blush deepened. “I see,” Milward pursed his lips as he considered the ramifications. “Well, I won't keep you any longer, nor embarrass you further.” He looked up toward the pinnacle of the Emperor's tower, “Up there you say?” The Ortian stopped and looked over his shoulder, “You won't make it. No one knows you.”

Milward continued to look at the tower as he rubbed a forefinger across his lower lip. “We'll see about that,” he said to himself. “We'll see about that.” The Wizard's journey through the second and into Ort's third ring proved uneventful outside of his learning how the separate sections of the great city were joined together. Where the outer ring and the second were joined as parts of a gentle slope with little difference between them, the third ring was reached by a broad avenue flanked by white stone steps that slanted upward as more of a ramp than a road. On either side of the steps rose twin stately ramparts sheathed in the same white stone as the steps. Three stories above the street, wide balconies encircled the ramparts and connected to each other by means of a covered walkway. Suspended below the walkway hung the iron points of a serviceable looking portcullis. Hard-eyed men kept watch along the balconies; their expressions matched those of the men who stood just to the side at the top of each step. The one Milward passed as he crossed from the second ring into the third gave no indication he even heard the Wizard's greeting, but his eyes followed Milward across the street and into the bustling section filled with shops on the other side. What the Ortian had said was true, the goods offered in the shops were of fine quality, but not ostentatious. Many of them mirrored what would be found in the better markets of the north. The one glaring exception was the produce. A few of the offerings looked like those he and Adam found in Dragonglade, but most of the vegetables and fruits were unfamiliar. A few were decidedly unusual. One stall in front of a shop was selling what looked like over-sized bean pods, but they were a dark reddish-brown in color and covered with a sweet, sticky sap. The bean inside had the consistency of thick paste, and was even sweeter than the sap. The shop next that one keep all of its goods inside. Its most unusual bit for sale was a hard, round fruit about the size of a silver coin, but deep red in color, shading to a black purple. Radiating out from the fruit in all directions were dozens of flexible, dark reddish threads, each of them bearing a clear drop at its end. The shopkeeper insisted Milward try one, which he did, after due instruction. The fruit was not so much eaten, as tasted. It was the drops at the end of the threads, rather than any nut or pulp inside which made it attractive to the diner. The Wizard ran a fingertip across several of the threads and placed it into his mouth. A delightfully sharp and sweet flavor spread across his palate, reminiscent of berries and melons, but with an indefinable something that made the flavor unique in its own way. Where his finger had swept across the threads could be seen the beginnings of more of the drops. Apparently the fruit replenished the supply from some reservoir within its center. Further into the ring, and beyond the shops, lay the homes of the merchants. To Milward's eye, the word estate would have been more suitable to describe a good number of them. Those befitting of that description also featured more of the hard-eyed guardsmen like those he saw at the entrance to the ring. He nodded at one as he passed, again receiving no reaction other than being followed by the guard's eyes.Better than statues , he thought. The section of homes and estates continued for several blocks, in fact, the day was coming near to its close when he crossed over into another market that included a few well-appointed inns. As the sky darkened, Milward stepped onto the threshold of an inn graced by a deep porch that stretched across the inn's face on three sides. A number of chairs and benches were placed there in small groupings, giving the guests a place to sit and watch the ebb and flow of the southern land's greatest city. A few of them turned to watch as the Wizard stepped across the threshold into the main room. Inside, the inn boasted a large central room filled with furniture that made it suitable for intimate meetings or entertaining large gatherings. On the back wall of the room a tall desk sat in front of the innkeeper's registration clerk who took Milward's silver without more than a casual glance at its northern mint mark. A tasty meal of roasted red meat seasoned exotically and mixed with some of the vegetables he saw in the market satisfied his hunger. The wine was surprising, light and fruity, but with an effervescence that left the feeling of soft bubbles on the tongue. He had two more glasses of the wine after his meal and retired to bed, rising just before sunrise. No one in the inn saw him leave.

A large number of the buildings were quite tall in the third ring, so Milward was not at all prepared when he turned a corner and found himself looking at a forest. The street he was on split and wound outward to the left and the right, eventually vanishing into the distance as it followed the curvature of the ring. The rising sun colored the treetops a fiery yellow. He stared at the forest for a long while and then memory kicked in. “Must be one of the parks,” he murmured. Passing through the line of trees confirmed his suspicion; a broad lane of trees rimmed the perimeter of the park, giving it the appearance of being within the center of a forest. The park itself was a well-groomed paradise of tended lawns, sparkling creeks and fountains, and gently sloping swells of floral green. Nowhere was a walkway or path to be seen. Apparently, in Ort, parks were to be experienced with the feet as well as the eyes and ears. Also apparent became the fact that Ortians were early risers. Milward had not ventured more than half a mile into the park before several of the city's inhabitants could be seen coming through the tree line. Many of them carried small bundles that could be their midday meal. Some couples had with them what appeared to be the makings of a breakfast picnic. Two were leading horses, and one began putting together an easel, while at his feet sat a stretched canvas and several pots with paint drips running down their sides. By and large, their clothing duplicated those worn by the young dandies who were grolling in the second ring. In contrast, Milward stood out like an ink stain on white muslin. Many of the heads turned to watch as the old Wizard passed, but either out of politeness or timidity, none of them approached him or tried to bar his way. Beyond the second line of trees stretched an even broader expanse of lawn than what Milward had crossed in the park, at its far end stood several white stone buildings unadorned by trim or carving. They looked as if a giant had paused in his building of a wall and then left his blocks strewn across the ground. The structures were arranged in no discernable order, and each turned its entrance toward its own unique point of the compass. As the old Wizard drew closer, he could see dozens of Ortians scurrying hither and fro between the buildings. Many of then carried parcels or stacks of scrolls and parchments.Ah , he thought, this must be the university.Only students rush around with that particular look in their eyes. As in the park, no one bothered him, but this time he thought it was not out of politeness. The young are rarely polite in an adult sense, but he thought it was rather because of the possibility he could have been an instructor waiting to hand additional work to whichever unlucky student crossed his path. Passing into ring four proved a different matter entirely. At Milward's approach, the Ortian guard stepped into the Wizard's path like a door sliding into place. Milward could almost imagine the snick of the lock closing. He did not stop at the base of the steps, but continued his pace, taking each with the same measured tread he had used crossing the avenue that separated the University campus from the entrance into the next ring. The Ortian guard was big. Milward found himself looking at the man's sternum when he stopped on the top step. He coughed, gently, covering his mouth with his left fist, while his right gripped his staff, “Ah, hem! Would you please step aside so I may pass? I have business with your Emperor.” No reaction came from the guard. “I said ... would you please step aside? I really do have business with your Emperor, in spite of my appearance,” Milward looked down and fingered his woolen tunic. This time there was a reaction. The guard looked down at Milward and spoke, “Show me your pass.”

The man's lips barely moved. Inwardly Milward's temper began to simmer. He had little patience with bureaucracy and the guard's attitude smacked of that of a lifelong member of that profession. He tried once more, holding his irritation in check, “I am the Wizard, Milward, that should be pass enough.”Sometimes, it paid to use one's notoriety , he thought. “Wizard, or not, no one enters without a pass signed by the Emperor.” Milward blew out his moustaches, “And ... how does someone get this pass?” “They see the Emperor.” What tore it was not so much the sheer idiocy of the situation, but the way that tiny smile appeared at the corner of the hulking guard's mouth as he answered. Milward began his shaping as soon as the man spoke the word,Emperor . The guard's eyes bulged as he felt himself rising from the ground. To his credit, that was his only reaction. Milward waited until the guard's feet rose to just above his head before he looked up at the man's still bulging eyes, “See, I knew we could be reasonable about this. So sorry I can't stay to chat, but I really do have an appointment to keep, don't hang around on my count.” He winked, and then strolled beneath the guard and into the fourth ring of Ort. He knew the chuckle was rubbing salt into the man's wounded ego, but he just couldn't help himself. When he reached the second boulevard crossing, Milward released the shaping. By the time he reached the third, the shouts began. “Took them long enough,” he murmured. The dwellings spaced along the wide streets were not so much estates, as they were edifices erected for the purpose of flaunting wealth. Milward looked at them as he passed and shook his head. Even with a large family, a man really only needed so much room to live in, the rest was a waste of resources, not to mention being in truly bad taste. He was skirting the edge of an estate filled with marble statuary and Cyprus-lined walks when the guards caught sight of him. Their shouts blended into an unintelligible mish-mash of sound as they gave chase. Milward turned at the sound and watched as the pack of guards closed the distance between them. The one in the lead looked familiar. Ah, it was the one he'd given a flying lesson to. The sword in the guard's hand gave the impression the man had not appreciated the experience. Milward formed a hasty shaping and released it as the guards closed in upon him. The one in front slammed into the invisible barrier with a surprised grunt, his nose and lips compressed against it distorted his features into a clown's mask. The rest of his fellows piling in on top of him didn't help his disposition at all. “Can I be of help to you fellows?” Milward asked from the other side of the barrier. At least half of the guards were involved in untangling themselves from their compatriots. The rest stood back from the pile, unsure of what to do in the circumstances. Invisible walls were not included in the Ortian Guards basic training. One of the standing guards stepped forward warily, and reached out with his left hand until he encountered the barrier. The fingers of his hand flexed like a spider and then withdrew. “Bardoc preserve us, sorcery!”

Milward snorted, “Again? When are you people going to learn the difference? Wizardry is not sorcery! Pfagh!” He dismissed the baffled guards with a wave of his hand as he turned away. The old Wizard was intending to cut across the estate to his right as a flicker of movement to his left caught his attention. He turned toward the movement and saw a figure in a white robe running toward him, full out. He looked over his shoulder at the guards. Those who'd been involved in the tangle were now standing. A few had their palms pressed against the shaping, testing its strength. The huge guard Milward had humiliated earlier stood a ways back from the barrier, glaring at him.That one , he thought,will never be a friend . The figure in the robe pulled up just a few yards away from Milward and rested his hands upon his knees as he regained his breath. As the Wizard watched, the man gathered his composure and straightened, tugging his robes into a semblance of dignity. “Are you the one? You must be the one.” “The one ... what?” Milward reached out and brushed off an errant leaf resting on the man's shoulder. “I've been plenty of things over the years, so you're going to have to narrow your parameters a bit.” The man paused for a second to catch his breath, and then drew himself up a bit straighter. “The Wizard? I was told a Wizard was journeying inward to see the Emperor?” Milward smiled, “How about telling me something without making it a question, there's a lad. Yes, I am the Wizard, Milward, and yes, I have business with your Emperor, though I am at a loss as to how you became aware of this.” The fellow showed sudden relief, “Oh, good, they said you'd be coming by way of the University, though I have no reason why you call yourself a Wizard, as they don't exist. I'm to take you to see his Excellency, if you come with me?” He half-turned and gestured for Milward to accompany him with a sweep of his arm. Milward raised his eyebrows and looked back at the still baffled guards. “Is that so? Then how do you explain those fellows lack of success in getting to us and doing rude things to my person?” His guide shrugged, “Oh, there's all sorts of explanations, mass hypnotism, the power of suggestion aided by a powerful narcotic introduced into their systems, possibly through a fine powder blown into the air that they breathed ... that sort of thing.” “I see,” Milward murmured, turning away from the guards. “You sound like a young man with an education. Did you learn this at the University?” “Oh, no Wizard Milward, that is common knowledge among the educated classes in Ort, the University merely added foundation to what was already known.” “So, tell me,” Milward noticed, in spite of the young man's acclaimed views, he still used the title, Wizard, “How did thisknowledge come to be common? I seem to recall a time when the average citizen of the Empire knew differently. You do know Labad was himself a Wizard, do you not?” The young man turned and stared at Milward as if he'd just sprouted horns and a tail, then the expression on his face relaxed into one of embarrassed amusement. “Oh, I see you're jesting with me, haa, haa, very droll, very droll indeed—Labad, a Wizard. Wait until I tell my fellows in court about that one. They'll be beside themselves.”

Milward nodded. They were walking a gentle, steady upslope past more of the overbearing estates. The guards and the invisible barrier were far enough behind them that he felt he could dissolve the shaping without too much trouble. If the guards were like others of their kind, they'd figure he'd been taken on as someone else's responsibility and go back to their stations. He glanced over his shoulder; no uniformed hulks were in sight, surmise correct. “You haven't answered my question,” Milward said, as he shifted his grip on his staff. The young man had kept up a quick pace, and the effort of his past two shapings was beginning to tell on his reserves. “What question was that, Wizard Milward?” The old Wizard counted slowly to three, the young fellow was taking him to see the Emperor, even if he was being insufferably dense, “I asked you ... how did this disbelief in Wizardry become common knowledge? Hold up here, I need to rest a bit while you answer.” He watched his guide through his eyebrows while he rested by leaning onto his staff. The man's thin-lipped mouth twisted into a thoughtful purse while he considered Milward's question, “I'm ... not really sure, as far as I know it has always been so. I mean, why wouldn't it be? As I said before, other than parlor tricks, there is no such thing as magic, Wizards, Warlocks, Witches, or Sorcerers, so why should anyone believe in them?” Milward thought,with such circular reasoning, it's no wonder this sprout is dizzy . “Parlor tricks? Are you speaking about those powders and what-not you mentioned earlier?” “Exactly so!” Milward's guide emphasized his exclamation with a sweep of his hand, “It is just that sort of trickery that has fostered the superstitious beliefs in the illiterate masses.” He paused and looked more closely at Milward, “Are you a philosopher? I don't mean to pry Wizard Milward, but your unusual title must mean something. Surely, a man of learning such as yourself cannot be one of those charlatans that frequents village faires in the countryside.” “No,” Milward smiled as he straightened, “I'm no charlatan, you can be assured of that, young man. Come, let's proceed, your Emperor is waiting.” **** Alford the 23rd, Emperor of the Southern Lands and scion of the House of Labad, stood just inside the alcove that led to his favorite balcony in the palace. The view stretched out southward, looking over Ort's gleaming domes and rooftops, to the deep blue expanse of the southern oceans warm waters. From the height of the tower, all the turmoil inherent in city life coalesced into a vista of seeming tranquility, which was a feeling he desperately needed to have just now. The problem with war was that it tended to become like a living thing, feeding on the lives and property of the innocent as much as the guilty and he was the one that had set the monster into motion. Cremer padded up behind him and coughed, diffidently. “Yes, Cremer, I know,” Alford sighed. As a rule, Imperial Council meetings were tiresome things, but now, with the fires of war heating up the whole process ...insufferable , as a description would be a kindness. Alford took the circular stair to the base of the tower and then followed the path from the Palace to the building that housed the Council Chambers. It stood several stories high, culminating in a gold-leafed

dome inset with crystal skylights encircling the dome's perimeter. Beginning at a distance of approximately a half-mile, the path wound through a grove of tall Cyprus trees and emptied onto a discrete patio set into the side of the Chamber building. The sentry at the patio entrance imitated a statue as Alford walked onto it. “Nice day,” the Emperor said, as he passed the sentry. He received no answer, not even a change in the sentry's body language indicated anything had been said at all. Inwardly, Alford sighed. The creation of life was a miracle, wrought by Bardoc's hand. It would have been a greater miracle if the sentry had broken his stance and said something like, “Yes, it certainly is, isn't it?” At the far end of the patio, a foyer led the way to a recessed door of highly polished honey-hued Castell wood. He followed the stair behind it as they curved upward and to the left to another, smaller foyer and another door. This one guarded by a sentry who could have been the first's twin. Alford nodded to this one, expecting, and getting, no response other than a slight stiffening of the man's posture as he pulled open the door. On the other side of the door was a small balcony overlooking the council chamber, a throne-like chair sat before a large slope-topped desk made of the same Castell wood as the doors. The right-hand side of the desk held a drawer, that when pulled out contained the agenda for the day's council meeting. Next to the agenda rested a rock crystal carafe filled with rose scented water. Next to the carafe sat a matching goblet, also filled. At the Emperor's appearance, the council chamber erupted into a cacophony of claps and cheers. To Alford's ear, the sound had all of the attractiveness of a roomful of donkeys, braying at top volume. Some of it may have been genuine, but most of the council members had as little use for the imperial seat as a prostitute had for her clientele, and they weren't that good at acting. He waited for the requisite fifteen seconds and then nodded in the direction of Lord Portins-Jons, a short, supremely fat man, with the booming voice of a giant. Portins-Jons held in his hand an ornate gold staff, emblazed with the sigils of the noble houses along its length. The top of the staff was crowned with the imperial dragon nestled upon a large ruby, the dragon's tail wound down the staff's length, dividing each house sigil from the other. The portly Lord rapped the butt of the staff against the granite tile of the Council chamber floor three times, as he bellowed at the top of his considerable voice, “Attend! Attend! Attend! Alford, the twenty-third, Emperor of all the known lands, light of Ort, and the Ortian Empire, Scion of the House of Labad, and protector of the one, true faith is entered into Council. Let all who have business with the Empire, for good or ill, speak freely and without fear.” He rapped the staff three more times, and then backed away from where he had stood. Once off the dais, the fat Councilman waddled over to his chair and promptly sat down. Alford noticed that, as he sat, Portins-Jons sent a quick wink in his direction. Good old Jons, he thought,at least one person in the Council has the proper perspective on Government . Lifting up the goblet, and holding it out before him, he began the traditional response to the Steward's Call to Attend, “The House of Labad is honored once again, to open its ears to the free discourse of its Noble Neighbors. Let no man fear to speak freely here. Let no one fear that their voice will not be heard, nor that their concern be unanswered. Let no idea be held back, for this is the place of ideas. As this water is the gift of Bardoc to this world,” he drained the glass, “so is this Council to the Ortian Empire.” He set the goblet down and the Council Chamber erupted into applause once again. Alford swept his gaze across the council chamber. As auditoriums go, it was by no means the largest. The maximum number it could hold comfortably hovered around the thousand mark, depending upon the size of the

bodies involved. Beginning at the dais, an elevated platform of polished granite tile, the Council Chamber rose in a series of fifteen concentric rings that allowed the Council members to watch, or partake of the proceedings without their view being interrupted. Entrance to the chamber was through the fifteenth level, as the entire facility was built within a natural hollow discovered centuries before the time of Labad. Six wide aisles separated the sections of seats for Council members, and six narrow for their secretaries. The walls of the chamber were paneled with wood, deep, deep red in hue, and tightly grained, at each joist hung a drape of burgundy shimmercloth, trimmed in gold. The walls reached upwards above the entry to join at the central dome where its circlet of skylights let in the mid-morning sun. As the applause died down, Alford nodded, as if accepting the hollow praise, and then he mouthed the next set of prescribed words, “Who has business before the Empire?” For a brief, hopeful, second, nothing happened, and then there was a rustling of cloth near the lower left quadrant of the members’ chairs. The movement caught Alford's eye and he turned his head to see a wizened figure making its way slowly down the incline toward the dais. “Gods, no,” the Emperor whispered to himself, “not Dowger-Gerins.” The elder member's preferred mode of speech could be used as a sleep aid. There was a story of a time when Gerins was lecturing a class at the University. Half way through the lecture, he heard what he thought were sounds of encouragement; it turned out they were snores. Dowger-Gerins reached the dais and looked up to where the Emperor sat. He nodded once, in greeting and then turned his rheumy eyes on the rest of the Council membership. A slow smile spread across his features, and then it vanished just as slowly. “A ... hem,” The ancient councilor cleared his throat, “I bring before you fellow members, business of the utmost importance.” Oh, no,Alford thought,not this, yet again. “When one has lived as long as I have, one tends to store up favorite memories of how things used to be back when one was in the full vigor of youth. As the son of a Council Member...” Alford stifled the yawn he felt building. It wasn't so much Gerins’ choice of topic, which varied as often as the ocean horizon line, it was the slight lilt he put into his monotonic speaking voice. The old man should have made his living as a hypnotic in the faires. He stifled yet another enormous yawn with difficulty and set his face into a visage of moderate interest as the old man droned on and on about the simple pleasures of growing up in a family of privilege, without once reaching anything resembling a point or a conclusion. “...and in closing, fellow Council Members,” Alford almost applauded at that phrase, a few in the Council Chamber did, though Dowger-Gerins gave them no reaction, “One can only hope that the Empire will continue to flourish as it did in the past, in spite of it's sometimes questionable policies.” Alford blinked,what was that? Did he miss it, or did that old fossil actually say something? And if he did, what was it? He was given no time to ponder over Dowger-Gerins’ possible point. Another Council member, this one sitting bare yards from the dais, jumped to his feet and occupied it before the ancient Councilor was even half way to his seat, according to Council etiquette, a definite breach in manners. Some of the older members sent disapproving looks his way. He pulled a thick sheaf of parchment from beneath his arm

and slapped it onto the dais’ podium. Alford considered the Council Member with some interest. This was something new; the man had to be one of the youngest members, if not the youngest. Typically, by consent of tradition, the senior members had first go at the dais. Alford was sure this practice was put into effect to assure that no actual business would be done, while allowing those members a chance to strut before their peers. This young fellow had just made himself several very powerful enemies. The young man was slightly overweight, clean-shaven, as were most Ortians, with thinning dark hair cut short in variance with the current style. He peered myopically at the parchment held before him and then began speaking, “Much as I value the wisdom in my learned elder's words,” he paused to look around the chamber, “I believe our purpose as Council Members is to see to the needs of Ort and its people, not to merely fill the hours of an otherwise empty day.” Alford started,this fellow was going for blood at the very start. Perhaps it would be good to assign someone to watch his back. As if in answer to Alford's thought, a number of muted grumbles came from the council chamber floor as the speaker continued, “I also realize this position may not be popular, as my taking the dais at this time also may not be popular,” He brought the sheet he was holding up to his nose for a moment and then looked around at the seated members once again, “But I have kept silent far too long while certain Council Members have continued to profit from their families’ involvement in this war.” His pause brought an explosion of shouts and catcalls from the Council. Some of the members stood to their feet shaking their fists as they shouted their displeasure. The speaker stood there, blandly unmoved by the show of opposition, as if it were wholly expected. Alford nodded, and a guard standing at the back of the chamber stepped out of the shadows and raped the butt of his staff against the floor. He had to do it three times before the clamor died down. Alford stood and addressed the Chamber, “May I remind the Members that this is supposed to be a civilized body. If another riot such as the one I just witnessed happens again, the Chamber will be cleared. Now compose yourselves.” Several dark looks, and a few murmurs of discontent were sent the Emperor's way, but the Chamber did quiet down. Alford nodded to the speaker,good man. Struck a nerve, there, this meeting could actually prove interesting. The Emperor had no idea just how interesting it was to become. Milward's guide pointed to the building on the knoll before them, “That is where the Imperial Council meets.” “Um, hmm,” Milward nodded, “Are they in session, currently?” His guide turned to look at him, “Of course, that is why I was told to find you right away. The front entrance is around the path over here.” He pointed to the left, where the walkway followed the knoll upwards as it curved around the Council Building. More Cyprus jutted skyward above the line of the knoll.Bright semi-tropical flowers sent their scent into the air as the two passed. The door wardens pulled their pikes away from the entrance as Milward and his guide approached. “As you see, Wizard Milward, we're expected,” The young man said quietly as they passed between the wardens and into the main foyer of the Chamber. Milward glanced about the foyer, noting with some interest, the sense of great age emanating from the

very walls themselves. Double doors, framed with intricate floral carvings, were set into the foyer's interior wall, which curved away from them to the left and to the right. Statues followed the wall along the inside of the foyer, placed on either side of each door. A few of the visages tickled the backside of the Wizard's memory. They appeared to be likenesses of past Emperors. “This way, Wizard Milward,” His guide motioned toward the second set of double doors, and then passed through them. Heads turned as the old Wizard and his guide entered the Council Chamber. The speaker at the dais turned and flashed a quick grin to Milward's guide. “My Lord Emperor, may I step away from tradition for a moment?” he looked up at Alford. And just where have we been stepping, then?Alford thought, as he nodded his agreement. To his eye, at least one quarter of the Council Members appeared to be calculating various methods of permanent retribution over the youthful speaker's words. He leaned back and motioned to the secretary sitting at the desk off to his right, “What is that Member's name?” “Gerold-Lyrd, sire Emperor, he sits in the place of his late father who bore the same name.” “Ahh, thank you,” Alford sat back up and motioned to the speaker, “Gerold-Lyrd, a question, if I may?” “Of course, my Lord Emperor,” Lyrd turned away from watching Milward and his guide make their slow way down toward the dais to look up at Alford, “What is it?” Alford considered how to phrase his question. Inwardly he was having a ball, watching Gerold-Lyrd's upset of the Council's apple cart was the most fun he'd had in seasons, especially since he'd been forced to declare war upon Grisham. It wouldn't do to have the young man die from an accident, like metal poisoning, for example. He raised an eyebrow and favored Gerold-Lyrd with a lopsided smile, “For the past half-hour you have accused the Imperial Council of nearly every crime in the Empire's lexicon short of barratry, and I'm almost sure if you carried Esquire afteryour name, they'd accuse you ofthat particular crime. So, my question is this, do you have a death wish?” Gerold-Lyrd blinked, “I ... don't understand Milord Emperor.” Alford leaned forward, “Politics makes a fine sword, but a poor shield.” “An interesting observation, is that a quote?” Milward stepped up onto the dais next to Gerold-Lyrd. More grumbles came from the seated Council Members. A few off to his right held a particularly angry tone. One of the loudest was a florid-faced fat man with quivering jowls sitting on the front tier. Each of the fingers on his hands sported a heavy gold ring fitted with a large stone, and they flashed as he folded his hands across his paunch, glowering at the Wizard, “Get that filthy vagabond off the dais! This is the Imperial Council, not a First Ring tavern!” General laughter greeted the derision, and the fat member settled further back into his chair, pleased with the results of his joke. “Members, please!” Gerold-Lyrd raised his hands in an attempt to restore order. The laughter died down, albeit slowly. When quiet finally reigned, the young Council Member turned back to face the Emperor, “This is no vagabond, as the distinguished Member asserts, Your Majesty, but a man of great learning, one of the Wizards of the north. I learned of his presence in Ort just a short while ago. There is

every reason to believe he himself may have been present when the Empire was created. It is said the Wizards were instrumental in helping Labad win the Magik Wars. Perhaps it would be useful if the Council availed itself of his wisdom.” So, you're the one,Milward thought,I'd wondered who sent that queer little fellow out looking for me. Gerold-Lyrd's introduction of Milward brought the fat Council Member to his feet, “Your Majesty, please, must we be subjected to this farce? First the young whelp insults our integrity,our ethids, and now he insults our intelligence. It is common knowledge there are no Wizards, just as it is common knowledge that there is no such thing as magik. If we must endure this spectacle, at least issue the fellow a jester's hat and have him dance for his supper.” General laughter rippled across the Council Chamber as the fat man sat back into his chair looking insufferably pleased with himself. Milward lay a hand on the rapidly coloring Lyrd's shoulder and murmured, “Easy there lad. The worst thing you can do with a fool like that is to allow him to think he's baited you. Allow me to speak now.” He patted the shoulder and then released it, turning to face the assembled council. He looked down at his well-worn traveling attire and gathered a bit of his cloak in his free hand. Then he raised his eyes to those of the Council Members and graced them with a self-effacing smile, “I do look a bit of the vagabond, don't I?” A ragged trill of quiet laughter wafted through the chamber. The fat Council Member scowled, as if Milward was stealing his audience. “And of course it is wise to be wary of those calling themselves Wizards, but please be fair, gentle sires,” he stopped and struck a pose, “at least I'm not the tax man.” More laughter came, this time stronger. The fat Council Member looked uncomfortable. Milward waited for the laughter to settle and then raised a beseeching hand, “Allow me, gentle sires, I pray, to introduce myself and my mission. If, after due consideration, you find my plight to be unworthy, I will depart in peace and you will have done nothing more than to enjoy an old man's tale.” He brought his hand down with a flourish and finished with a bow that would have graced the elaborate balls held in the Ortian Court. Milward held that pose as he waited for the Council's reaction. At first nothing happened, and then from the back of the chamber came, “Hear him.” Then from the far right, “Hear him.” And then from the far left, “Hear him.” As the calls for the Wizard to be heard spread across the Council Chamber, the fat Member's scowl deepened. Gerold-Lyrd leaned over to Milward and whispered, “Beware Baxtr-Kin, Milord Wizard, he perceives you as a threat to his power.” Milward whispered back, “Which one is he?” “The fat one in the front tier, third seat to your left.” The old Wizard turned his head the fraction it took to bring Baxtr-Kin into view. “My word,” he murmured, “he is a fat one, isn't he?” He shrugged, “Don't you worry, my young friend, before this

gathering is over, our friendly Councilor will have an entirely different opinion regarding me.” Milward turned back to face the assembled Members, allowing a slow smile to crease his face, “Thank you, honored Councilors of Ort, for allowing me the opportunity to share my words with your august assembly. Words can be like a fine meal for the soul, and,” he paused with a glance in Baxtr-Kin's direction, “I am sure that at least of few of you know well the pleasure of that pastime.” A smattering of chuckles rang out across the chamber. Milward was sure he heard Baxter-Kin's name mixed in with a few of them. The fat Councilor shifted uncomfortably in his seat and sent black looks in the Wizard's direction. He signaled to one of the aides standing in the wings and scribbled something onto a piece of parchment that the boy took quickly off the chamber floor. Milward noted the exchange and filed it for later reference, and then he added his own chuckle to those fading from the chamber as he raised his hand for attention, “Alas, I am not so fortunate to be one who can allow his belly to be his passion, as I am sure many of you honored sires share my fate,” He pitched his voice low for the last half of the sentence. Baxtr-Kin's scowl deepened, “No, ‘tis my unhappy destiny to leave this life to be able to count my toes. But that is not the reason I stand before you this day. No, honored Councilors of Ort, the reason I stand here today is for a far more solemn duty than the pleasures of the table. “War is a nasty pasttime,is it not? And therefore we leave it to those with the intestinal fortitude to stomach its gruesome details. But, I ask you, honored Members; must an entire people suffer for the wrongs of one man? I ask this because I know something about the reason for this war and of the man who began it.” A crusty looking Councilor seated near the back called out, “What do you propose we do, send the blackard an engraved note to come out peaceably to his hanging?” Chuckles scattered through the chamber along with a few,well said's . Baxtr-Kin's face grew a smug sneer as he nodded agreement with the heckler. Milward refused to rise to the bait, but smiled warmly at the old Councilor, “Actually, Sire Councilor, I would not be beyond trying such an enterprise. It certainly couldn't bear less fruit than what has been born so far, or have none of you received word of the earthquake that split the combatants in twain?” The murmur that followed the old Wizard's question gave him the answer he expected. “So, you did not know,” Milward smiled as if in pity. “Or you do not believe me.” He reached over and gripped his staff with both hands, leaning his weight onto the ancient wood. “Either way, it doesn't matter. As I speak, the Duke of Grisham sits comfortably within his nest like an old spider gloating over his meal. Tell me, how long will the Empire keep herself undefended because her armies are thousands of leagues to the north on a fool's errand?” He raised a hand to forestall comment, “That was a rhetorical question, but the point is made, is it not?” Baxtr-Kin felt he'd heard enough nonsense and surged to his feet as quickly as his bulk would allow, “So, Wizard, if indeed that is your title, are insults the only fare you're going to offer the Council? Honeyed words, spoken by a Lord or a vagabond, are still honeyed words, and insults buried within them still offer offense. I believe the time has come to show the proof of whom or what you are, regardless of young Gerold-Lyrd's sponsorship. And, I believe I have the support of the Council in this matter.” The fat Councilor planted both fists on his hips and scowled at Milward. Gerold-Lyrd stepped forward from his spot off the dais, but stopped when he ran into the Wizard's staff.

“No lad, this lesson is mine to give,” Milward's voice held a dangerous edge as he looked down at Baxter-Kin. “You want proof, do you?” Milward's hold on his temper, fragile at the best of times, had been severely strained by the fat Councilor's pugnacity. He seemed to swell to twice his size as he raised his hands and the wolf's head of his staff glowed brighter and brighter until it became painful to the eye. The wizard's voice boomed out in a voice like thunder, “Know you that I am Milward, last of the Wizards who fought alongside Labad in the Magik Wars. I walked this soil before your distant ancestors saw the light of day, and will do so long after your bones have turned to dust. Men stronger than you have quailed at the mention of my name with good reason, for they knew who stood before them. Mock not what you know not for you do so at you own peril!” As the Wizard's last words echoed off into the chamber, he lowered his arms and returned to his normal size, looking just as he had before, an elderly vagabond traveler, slightly bent at the shoulders. Shocked silence reigned over his audience. “Labad himself placed a charge upon me to watch over a certain portion of his legacy. This I have done so to the best of my ability, but by Bardoc, you people would try the patience of the Maker himself,” Milward said the last quietly as he once again leaned on his staff. Alford shook his head, both to clear his senses and the ringing in his ears. The old man, correct that, Wizard, had nearly deafened him. Who would have thought the stories he'd heard as a youth would turn out to be true? Baxter-Kin was almost apoplectic with rage. The fools around him had been cajoled with a magician's trick. The young whelp, Gerold-Lyrd was not going to get away with his attack on decades of scheming, graft, and dearly won power and privilege, not to mention gold. The initial shock of the old man's act had dropped him back into his seat, but he levered himself upright once again and pointed an angry finger at Milward, “Trickery, sirrah, no mater how elaborate, is still trickery, and not proof. I have walked this soil many years myself, and in obviously better circles than you, and I have seen your like before, often during the harvest faires where your kind playacts for the coppers the children throw at their feet.” He turned and spread his arms in an appeal to the assembled Chamber, “My fellow Council Members, are you going to allow yourselves to be swayed by the smooth tongue and carnival flummery of this rumpled fraud? I say, nay! Never will I let slip the knowledge gained by living and learning in the greatest city of this world, that says there is no such thing as magik or Wizards, nor should you. Be reasonable now,” he smiled beatifically, “do you really think what you saw actually happened?” A few of Baxter-Kin's cohorts raised their voices in shouts of, “No!” but the calls seemed to lack the strength of conviction. He nodded, as if the affirmation was unanimous, and turned to face Milward, “You heard the voice of the Council, trickster, what say you? Where is the real proof of whom or what you are?” “You sweating, fat bastard!” Gerold-Lyrd swung around Milward, startling the old Wizard out of the shaping he'd begun, and inadvertently saving Baxter-Kin's life, “How dare you treat a guest of the Council like that. You have shamed my house, and me and I am sick of the way you have corrupted what we do.” The young Council Member drew himself up and breathed deeply, “There is a very old custom we haven't used for generations, but it is still there, and I propose to use it now ... I chall...” “You will not!” Alford's voice rang out. Baxter-Kin didn't know it but his life had just been saved for the second time. All eyes turned to look at the Emperor, but rather than the anger they expected to see, Alford's

expression showed amusement as he leaned forward, fixing his gaze upon Milward. “We will discuss your temper later, Gerold-Lyrd. Well, Master Wizard, it appears you and I have a few things to talk about.” Chapter Twenty-Four

Gilgafed, the preeminent Sorcerer of the Northern world, stood in the pinnacle of his mountaintop fortress gazing out at the storm as it shrieked against the unyielding stone of his sanctuary. He could feel his doom now, stronger than ever, moving unceasingly across the steppes. Damn his arrogance! Damn his pride! Damn his stupidity in thinking he could control the Seeker. If it hadn't been for Cobain ... he brushed away the thought. Sending out the Golems had been an expensive waste of time. The creature hadn't even paused in its march; it merely absorbed the animating energy of the clay, leaving the steppe littered with hundreds of small terra cotta lumps that blew away in the evening wind. “Cobain!” He shouted his servant's name without taking his eyes off the storm. Somehow the primal ferocity of nature at its worst was comforting to him, it made the feel of things less ... ethereal. “Cobain!”Where was that fool? Gilgafed glanced over his shoulder toward the entrance to his chamber. The sound of running feet and a hoarse panting rose from the stairwells depths. The Sorcerer's servant appeared at the door and stumbled through, breathing heavily. The Sorcerer smiled knowingly, “Ah, there you are, what took you so long?” It took Cobain three tries to catch his breath enough to answer, “...but milord, it is seven flights. I ran all the way.” “Not fast enough, Cobain. Try harder next time. I don't relish having to call you twice. Where is it now?” Cobain did not have to ask what it was. McCabe's steady advance across the steppes had been the subject of conversation for the past week. The creature he'd become hadn't varied the track of his journey one iota. Any village or hunting encampment unfortunate enough to be in his path simply ceased to exist for six feet in either direction. “It is approaching the coastal range, Milord. Nothing stops it, nothing!” Cobain's voice rose to the edge of hysteria and then cut off as Gilgafed's palm slammed against his jaw. “None of that! Compose yourself, that's better,” the Sorcerer nodded and then turned back to watch the storm. “So far the creature has done nothing I could not have done myself, given the proper circumstances. If, and when, it crosses the range we shall see who has the greater power. Leave me.” **** As Thaylli, the wolf, and their unlooked for guests, approached the tunnel's back door, Drinaugh, Dragonkind's’ first Ambassador glided down through the clouds toward the forest east of Grisham. It was always so freeing for the young Dragon to rid himself of the Earth's shackles, but there was a feeling that overrode even the joy of flight, he was going to be seeing his young Wizard friend again. The incongruence of a Dragon having such feelings for a human was not lost on him, merely ignored. The undulating wave of green that was the forest roof came into view as he broke through the last of the cloud cover. A migrating V of Ringnecks honked in agitation as he passed. Below, patches of darker green showed where small clearings in the trees appeared. Drinaugh banked sharply to avoid flying too close to a circling Dunhawk. Coming out of the bank, a

scent caught his nose. It smelled of magik ... and something else. He backwinged to slow his speed and then began circling, sniffing the air. Thaylli looked at Hodder, Stroughten, and Wuest in disgust. Over the past couple of hours she and the wolf had had to stop and give the trio time to catch their breath. If the three of them were any measure of the average man in Grisham, it was definitely high time she took her leave of the City. Adam had more of a man in a finger than all three of them had gathered together. The wolf looked over her shoulder at the panting men and growled a short statement, it sounded derisive. Thaylli nodded, “I quite agree. Even pregnant, it seems I'm pushing them too hard. Come on you lot, we've got to get going.” Stroughten looked up at her, his hands upon his knees, “Can't we wait a bit longer, Miss? You've run us ragged. I'm totally fagged.” “Leum's right, Miss, I couldn't crawl another inch, not even if there was a pile of food waiting at the end.” Wuest slid down with his back against the tunnel wall. Thaylli threw up her hands, “But I'm pregnant. I'm carrying this heavy pack and a baby. How can you be so exhausted when I'm not?” “You wasn't chased by a pack of bleedin’ Blood Crabs neither,” Hodder joined Wuest against the tunnel wall. “Just give us a bit more an’ we'll be right along.” Thaylli looked at the wolf, “How about I just tell my wolf to eat you?” “What?” Wuest bolted upright, all thought of his exhaustion gone. “What was that? You can't sic your beast on us! We haven't done anything to deserve murder.” “Gods!” Stroughten retreated further into the recesses of the tunnel, “We're gonna die, I know it!” Thaylli sniffed at their show of dismay, “Hmph, I knew it, you can move if you have to. You were just being lazy. Well, I'm not going to stand here waiting for you any longer, let's go.” She nodded at the wolf, who looked as if her own opinion of the trio had somehow managed to sink even further. “You skrudding witch!” Hodder slapped a hand against the bricks of the tunnel floor in frustration, “You did that on purpose! I've got a good mind to...” Wuest grabbed his friend's arm and kept him from rising, “Don't do it. Leum. She's right, and if you think about it, we all know it. There's no reason we can't get up now and follow along, no reason at all, but I've been getting this funny feeling, like it's just that I feel ... I don't know, beaten, I guess.” Hodder started to pull away, but then he nodded, “Yeah, now that you mention it, that's it. Seems like the right thing to do is, give up, I suppose. But, what do I give up on?” He slid back into his previous position against the wall. Stroughten murmured into his sleeve, “Life, I guess.” Wuest's answer died in his throat as a shout came from the darkness beyond where the girl and the wolf

had gone. “Get over here, quick! Now! I mean it, now!” A bark, like that of a large dog, came out of the darkness on the heels of the girl's shout. The three men shared glances with each other and then, as one, they rose and shuffled listlessly off into the direction of the call. After crossing the last bridge, the tunnel began to rise slightly as it curved to the right. They could see nothing beyond the apex of the curve. As they walked up the incline, the sound of scratching and someone grunting softly became audible. At the top of the incline, a line of light gleamed across the bricks of the floor, stretching from wall to wall and illuminating the figures of Thaylli and the wolf. They were worrying at something against the far lower left corner. In spite of the growing lethargy, Wuest, Hodder and Stroughten found themselves irresistibly drawn by curiosity to see what the struggle was all about. As they drew closer they could see the girl was fighting to pull a lever set within an alcove in the wall. They could now see that massive twin doors set across the mouth of the tunnel caused the darkness. The wolf had her nose against the base of the left-hand door and was scratching at the bricks below it. Thaylli looked up at the trio's approach, “What took you so long? Help me, this lever is stuck fast.” Wuest couldn't understand what all the fuss was about, “Why? Stroughten yawned, “Oughta give up now. Ain't no good fighting something if it ain't gonna give right away.” “What are you talking about?” Thaylli released the lever and rounded on the men, “All you have to do is reach over and help me pull this lever. It has to be the one Adam told me about. If we pull it the doors will open and we can get out of this tunnel.” Hodder muttered something unintelligible and sat down. Stroughten yawned again, and Wuest scratched his head, “Why?” Thaylli tilted her head as she studied the trio closely, “What's come over you? When you first came out of that sewer you practically begged me to let you come along. Now it seems all you want to do is lay down and die.” “Not die, sleep.” Hodder matched Stroughten's yawn. “Well, you're not going to sleep now!” Thaylli stamped her foot, “And if you don't get up and help me open this door, I will sic her on you!” She pointed at the wolf which exposed her teeth in a snarl. The looks she received from Wuest and Hodder were ones of intense disinterest. Stroughten released a muffled drawn out snore. “Aaugg!” Thaylli screamed and ran over to the prostrate Stroughten, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking them as hard as she could, “Get up now, you lazy bastard! Get up! Get up! Get up! You're not going to leave me stuck inside this tunnel, and if you try to,” She hissed the last phrase, “I'll make every second of your life a misery! Get up!” Stroughten groaned, thrashed his arms and muttered, “G'way, lemme sleep.”

“No! I'm never going to let you sleep ever again!” Thaylli leaned over and yelled as shrilly as she could directly into the man's ear, “Geeeettt uuuuppp!” That produced results. Stroughten rolled away from Thaylli's grasp and sat up fingering his injured ear. “Why'd you go and do that for? You near deafened me.” She sniffed, crossing her arms under her breasts, “If you don't want me to do it again, you'll help me pull that lever.” She turned and pointed at the implement in question. Stroughten looked across the floor to where Thaylli pointed and shrugged, “Sure, why not? Iffn it'll get me some peace.” Again, Thaylli was struck by the change of attitude. Stroughten, the dumpy one, was somewhat easy going, but now he almost couldn't be bothered to scratch an itch. Wuest, and the lanky one, Hodder, were barely moving at all. It was as if the three of them had been put under some kind of spell. Stroughten slouched over to the small alcove that held the door's lever. He slipped his hands around the ancient brass and gave the lever a half-hearted tug. “Sorry,” He pulled his hands out of the alcove and began to turn away, “ain't gonna move.” Thaylli roughly shoved him back to face the alcove, “Try harder this time. Put your weight into it.” He shrugged again and gripped the lever with both hands, turning his head to look at Thaylli over his left shoulder, “Ain't gonna work.” “Do it anyway.” The wolf added a growl for emphasis. The emphasis was lost on the now thoroughly bemused Stroughten, but he put his weight into the pull regardless. At first the lever remained stubborn, but as he continued to lean backwards the lever gave, just a little to begin with, but then it slammed open with the ring of brass on steel. A line of bright green appeared at the joining of the two doors and slowly widened, sending the scent of fresh grass and wildflowers into the tunnel. “Oh, just smell that!” Thaylli breathed deeply of the scented air as it rushed in to push aside the tunnel's dank atmosphere. The doors continued to move inwards, opening in a slow, stately pace. As the gap between them widened it revealed more and more of the verdant growth covering the land beyond their panels. No porch extended past the threshold. Vines covered in heavily scented blooms vied for space with thickets of Cassia and Acacia. About a dozen yards away from the tunnel's entrance the ground flattened and the yellow flowered evergreens gave way to groves of Oak and Madrone. Uttering a very unwolflike bark, the she wolf darted between the doors and ran onto the grass just beyond the threshold where she proceeded to roll in a display of absolute ecstasy. Wuest, Hodder, and Stroughten watched Thaylli as she followed the wolf into the outside. They shared glances with each other and then, as if by mutual unspoken agreement, they rose and strolled into the sunlight. Hodder was the last to exit, and as he stepped over the threshold a click sounded, the doors

halted their slow swing inwards and reversed direction. The wolf finished her roll, sat up and looked toward the sky, murmuring in wolfen. Thaylli crossed the grass to the wolf's side and looked up, “What do you see?” Drinaugh sniffed the air. Yes, there was definitely the smell of something magikal coming from below. Thesomething else that hovered in the background eluded him. Perhaps if he dropped lower to the ground... Wuest looked up to see what interested the girl and the wolf. What he saw momentarily drove the lethargy from him, “A Dragon! Bardoc's beard! A bloody, bleedin’ Dragon!” Hodder and Stroughten looked up at Wuest's shout in time to see Drinaugh backwinging to slow his landing. Hodder gulped, unable to utter a word. Stroughten's eyes widened, and then he began to laugh in that quiet, self-absorbed manner of the harmlessly insane. “Drinaugh!” Thaylli exulted, as the young Dragon settled onto the sward. “Drinaugh, you're here!” The young Dragon smiled, more than pleased to see the young human female who rode his back into Grisham's market square. She wasn't his friend Adam, but she was Adam's mate and that was close enough. With her was one of the wolves that accompanied him. He leaned down to put his head at the level of Thaylli's as she ran to him. “Why, hello, this is a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect to find anyone here, but to find two friends is wonderful.” Thaylli reached her massive friend and threw both arms around his neck and hugged it fiercely, “Oh Drinaugh, you're here. You don't know how good it is to see you, especially after that dreary tunnel.” “You came out of that?” Drinaugh looked past Thaylli to the now sealed tunnel entrance. “Interesting,” His nostrils dilated as he sniffed, “You're carrying a human child,” He said it as a statement of fact. Thaylli blushed as she released the young Dragon's neck, “You know that just by sniffing me? I guess there's a lot about Dragons I don't know.” “Oh, that's all right,” Drinaugh smiled, “there's a lot about humans I don't know. We can share with each other. Are those three human males your friends?” “Them?” Thaylli looked over her shoulder to where Wuest, Hodder and Stroughten stood, “No, they're just three men who attached themselves to the wolf and I while we were coming through the tunnel. I really don't know who they are.” “Why do they smell of magik?” He didn't mention the stink of the sewers that still hovered about the three. Thaylli looked back at the trio, “So, that's the problem? They've been magiked?” She turned her attention back to the Dragon, “Drinaugh, something happened back in the tunnel. They began acting as if nothing mattered to them, nothing at all, except giving up. I had to threaten them to the point of acting like a perfect harridan in order to get them to do the simplest thing.” “Hmmm,” Drinaugh moved past Thaylli, being careful not to step on the girl, and bent down to sniff each of the trio in turn. None of them fled, which registered with the young Dragon. His earlier experience with

the citizens of Grisham and with Shealauch's near fatal wounding had taught him that his preconceptions needed expanding. Not all humans were alike, somewhat like Dragons in a way. Based on what had happened when he carried Thaylli into Grisham's market square, at least one of the three should have been fleeing not realizing Dragons weren't dangerous, but all they did was stare at him with their mouths open. It was intriguing. He turned his eyes back to Thaylli, “They are indeed under the influence of magik, but no spell has been cast, at least, not on them. The scent would be far stronger, as if they'd been immersed in the magik. This smells as if they'd just walked through it, like passing through a cloud of smoke.” “Can you do anything about it?” Thaylli asked, “I mean, they're not anyone I'd like as a friend, but we can't leave them like this.” She waved a hand at the three, “They'd starve inside of a week.” The wolf, who had finished her roll, padded over to sit next to Thaylli. “I smell you, Skylord, it is good that you are here. My packmate's she will indeed be safe on her journey now.” Drinaugh looked down at the wolf, “I smell you, friend wolf. I saw your pack from the air, far to the sun's bed. What has separated you?” “This one stayed to guide Bright-Eye's she through the man-thing's hole. It stank, and left it's stink on me, but it will be gone, in time,” the wolf groomed a paw as if in illustration of her complaint. “What are you two talking about?” Thaylli asked, slightly miffed that she couldn't understand what the Dragon and wolf were saying. Drinaugh excused himself from the wolf and turned back to Thaylli, “Oh, we're just getting reacquainted. Wolves really do have immaculate manners. She is as pleased to see me as you are. Did you really come through one of the tunnels out of Grisham?” “Yes.” “Oh, this is marvelous,” The young Dragon enthused, “You must tell me all about it. While I was being taught Human/Dragon history, my instructor told me of the time we Dragons helped the Human Emperor with his plans for the tunnel system. I had no idea it still existed. You Humans tend to lose so much of your past.” “Maybe later,” Thaylli temporized, “Right now we need to do something about them,” she indicated the still transfixed Wuest, Hodder and Stroughten with a nod of her head. Drinaugh arced his neck in the direction Thaylli's companions, “Of course,” He said, “let me see now, my instructor in Human magik mentioned something about that...” He looked back at Thaylli, “Can I sniff them again?” Thaylli hid a smile behind her hand, “Sure.” All the trio did was stare open-mouthed as the young Dragon sniffed each of them in turn. Drinaugh's head alone was nearly as large as the lanky Hodder was tall, but none of the three showed the slightest sign of fear. To the contrary, Hodder's face held a bemused smile as the massive nostrils passed over him. “A Dragon ... bloody, bleedin” Dragon ... who woulda thought...” Wuest and Stroughten remained mute.

Drinaugh finished his inspection and backed away, “Interesting,” he said, primarily to himself, “Yes, it should work, Gashlauch said as much back in class...” You know what to do?” Thaylli asked. “Yes, I think so,” Drinaugh answered. “I mean, I'm pretty sure. Gashlauch, my Elementary Magik Instructor mentioned situations like this occurring during the Magik War, it seemed the residue of particularly powerful magiks and spells cast in combat would affect some species, mostly non-magik Humans. Fortunately, most of the effects were nonfatal and wore off when the victims were removed from the saturated area. I think this happened to your companions.” Thaylli looked puzzled, “Then why wasn't I affected?” She asked. “I'm as non-magik as they are.” Drinaugh smiled, “But the child you carry isn't.” Thaylli dropped her eyes to her belly, “My baby?” “She is made in part by Adam's seed, is she not? I would say it was that magik that protected you.” Drinaugh pointed at Wuest, Hodder and Stroughten, “We can talk about that later, after we've moved your companions to a safer place. It's getting late and you should consider resting for the night.” “Yes,” Thaylli rubbed her belly, wondering when she would begin to really show, “I would like that.” She? **** Upon leaving Captain Bilardi's office, Adam and Ethan split off to their respective billets and gathered what belongings they felt could be safely taken through the tunnels. By mutual agreement they decided to keep mum concerning their intentions. Any guardsman or officer crossing their path would only be told about a scouting mission, the details of which needed to be kept secret. They met at the pub where Thaylli used to work. Ethan convinced Adam to wait until closing time before slipping off to the tunnel entrance in the cellar. Fainnelle brought a pitcher of brown ale to their table and set it down while glancing over her shoulder, “You two plannin’ on going out that hole?” She nodded in the direction of the cellar stair as she whispered the question. Adam and Ethan traded looks. Ethan reached out for the pitcher and began to pour ale into his tankard, “We were planning to, yes. Why the whisper, Fainnelle?” She looked over her shoulder again. The pub was full, with the continuous background buzz of voices mixed with clanks, clatters, and the occasional spurt of laughter. A scent of old sausages and stale beer hung in the air. “There was these men,” she began, “Not our usual custom, you know?” She placed both hands on the table and bent forward. “I think they was Churchmen,” The words came out as a barely audible whisper, “They was askin’ questions about Thaylli.” “Churchmen?” Adam asked, “Why would Churchmen be coming into a pub? And why would they be asking about Thaylli?” “Why, indeed,” Ethan said, after draining off a good portion of his ale. “They're usually found skulking

around school grounds and whore houses.” “Ethan,” Adam hissed, “What are you saying?” “What I'm saying, junior, is that in my experience, the difference between a Churchman and a thief, is that the thief is at least trying to pursue an honorable career.” He picked up his tankard, “And Bardoc alone knows why he puts up with them.” “Aren't there any good Churchmen?” “Of course there are, dear,” Fainnelle patted Adam's shoulder and then went back to her duties. “She's right there, lad,” Ethan grunted, as he poured himself another tankard of ale. “The priest who oversaw the Church in Swaledale was a good man, and I mean, good. He embodied everything you think of when the old stories of the working Priests are told. That old man was the one who taught me my letters.” Adam poured some of the ale into his own tankard. “What changed your opinion? Listening to you, I get the feeling there isn't much lower.” “Than a Churchman, you mean?” Ethan put his tankard back onto the table and smiled ruefully, “Forgive me my cynicism, Adam, I shouldn't lump the good in with the bad, but I'd bet you a cartload of gold, if I had it, to a copper secant that there aren't a handful of good Churchmen in this whole forsaken city. You ever hear of a Magister Mallien?” Adam finished his sip and then put down the tankard, “No ... wait, yes, he runs the Church in Grisham, doesn't he? I don't know anything else about him though.” Ethan snorted, “Count yourself lucky you don't. There are some who say his holy fatness is the real power in Grisham. Where the Duke is mad, this man is pure evil. He's got a mind as quick as any, personal tastes as twisted as a snake, and the ability to indulge in them. I wouldn't be surprised if those fellows sniffing out this pub were his agents looking for information to lead them to a young Blademaster of my acquaintance. Probably Mallien's own Inquisitors.” “Me?” Adam's eyebrows climbed into his hairline, “You think they were looking for me?” Ethan signaled for service, “Wouldn't be surprised.” “Why not?” Ethan sat back against the booth's bench, “While you were cutting a swath through the Guard Officers’ swordsmanship, I was keeping my ears open. The best way to survive as a conscript is to have a good share of the currency armies’ use the most of, information. I kept up the practice after I met you and became your Sergeant. You wouldn't believe noncoms, they're worse gossips than the officers’ wives. Some of the last gossip I heard centered on Mallien and his interest in a rumor that began circulating about a month ago—the one regarding the heir of Labad.” Adam had begun to lift his tankard, but put it down in disgust, “Oh, that.” “Yes, that,” Ethan stared at Adam levelly, “It's going to dog you, lad, until you turn and face it. We all have choices to make in our lives. For most of us, they're pretty routine and about as exciting as

breathing. You, on the other hand, are one of the few who've been chosen, by destiny, Bardoc, or whatever. I really don't care one way or the other, and that choice will not be denied.” “But I don't want it,” Adam almost wailed. Ethan gave him a sad smile, “I know, lad, I know. But, don't you see? All your running from it's just brought you to the point where you would have been had you accepted that destiny in the first place. Look at the Captain, he knew, and I'll bet old McKenit knows also. And now, so does our beloved Magister Mallien.” Adam massaged his forehead with both hands, “Lovely.” Fainnelle chose that time to return to the booth, “You wanted something ... what's wrong lad?” She looked down on Adam with his head between his hands. He didn't answer her question, but instead nodded toward the front of the pub, “When those Churchmen came in asking about Thaylli, Fainnelle, what did they say, exactly?” She pursed her lips, “I don't know, exactly. They was speakin’ to the Gaffer, not me, he tol’ me later. He said they said they was from the Magister, an’ they was interested in speakin’ to your young lady, ‘bout what or why, they didn't say.” “Do you know what the Gaffer told them?” Fainnelle smiled, “He tol’ them they was a copper short an’ a gold late, since she been sent packin’ a couple days ago. They asked why, an', you have to excuse the Gaffer, lad, he meant well by her, feelin’ protective an’ all, he said it was cause of her spillin’ more beer than she sold. Said iffn’ they wanted to find her they was welcome to, but he wasn't interested in havin’ her back.” “No offense taken, Fainnelle, he did well,” Adam returned the woman's smile and lifted his tankard in salute. Ethan sighed hungrily, “Since we've got you over here, young lady, is there anything back in that kitchen of yours worth eating?” Fainnelle set both fists against her hips, “I'll have you know, Ethan, that anything I've got cookin’ back in my kitchen is worth eatin’ an’ well you should know it too, since you've put back enough of it to fill three men, but I thank you for the ‘young lady’ bit,” She finished with a grin. “I'll see what we can plate up for you.” Adam asked for a plate for himself and soon he and Ethan were single-mindedly involved in reducing the heaping platters of fish stew set before them. There was no bread, as the siege had effectively cut off shipments of flour and wheat from the south, Barley, they had aplenty from the ships coming in from the bay east of the Wolfwood, but most pubs and inns customers preferred it served in liquid form since the loaves formed of that grain tended to break teeth. There was no speaking while they ate, and neither one of them noticed the two black clad figures enter the pub and join the crowd at the bar. The Gaffer did notice and nodded at the two while polishing one of the never ending tankards brought in from the back by the scullery boy, “Evenin’ Inquisitors, what's yer refreshment this night?” “Small beer,” the voice held little emotion, and the little it held was not pleasant. The Gaffer swallowed

once, thinking of the service he'd done for the young lass and reached down behind the counter for the glasses used for small beer. Next to the glasses sat his truncheon, a two-foot length of iron-hard wood, weighted at the end with a lead collar. His hand hovered over the weapon for a second and then slid aside to grasp two of the glasses. The figure to his left smiled coldly, “Wise decision Pubkeep, there may be forgiveness for you after all.” Both of them spoke in a quiet, self-assured manner. The Gaffer swallowed again, “I ... I don't catch yer meanin’ Milord.” This time the one on his right smiled, “You lied to our brethren earlier this day when asked by them concerning a certain trollop in your employ. Now you consider threatening us with the weapon you hide beneath your bar. It sits approximately here, I believe,” A polished fingernail gouged an x into the oak counter directly above the truncheon's resting spot. Sweat began running down the Gaffer's brow, even though it was still cool. “Lie? I ... I never told no lie. I sent that girl packin', I did. Ask Fainnelle, she'll tell ye the same, so'll most o’ me custom.” “I'm sure they will,” The one on the left nodded, still smiling, “And I'm sure the stories will match closely, almost as if they'd been rehearsed.” By this time the patrons on either side of the two figures had noticed what was going on. They now had the entire front section of the bar to themselves. The Gaffer looked to his right and his left, and then wiped the sweat from his face with the palm of his hand. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Milords, but what does yer want with the girl anyways? She ain't no threat to no one, I mean she...” “That was and is no concern of yours, Pubkeep,” the one on the right interrupted smoothly. “Your concern should be how you are going to answer our questions,” The one on the left traced a fingernail through a ring of condensation on the bar. Steam rose from the nails wake. “We will have no difficulty assuring your truthfulness.” “Is there a problem here, Gaffer?” The Inquisitor on the right spoke without turning his head. “You have no part in this affair, bumpkin, go back to your drink and enjoy what life you may have left.” “No, I don't think I will, nor will my friend,” The voice behind them sounded confident, dangerously so. The two black clad figures turned slowly as if on pivots. Behind them, the Gaffer sagged like a balloon losing its air. The one on the right's smile stayed with its mouth, leaving the eyes cold and distant, “You have made a mistake, bumpkin, one that will cost you your soul.” Ethan shrugged, “Too late, I kicked the Church out of my soul's business a long time ago. I let Bardoc worry about the niceties.” “Blasphemy,” The one on the left breathed, “How dare you speak so about the Mother Church?” Adam looked at Ethan and saw how the man was standing. There was going to be swordplay. He

added a few inches of distance between them as he loosened his sword in its scabbard. Ethan smiled while his right hand caressed the worn pommel on his sword, “Your church is no mother of mine, so I dare what I please. Now, are the two of you going to leave this place peacefully—or in pieces?” The speed with which the two attacked was blinding. Both Adam and Ethan had barely cleared their scabbards when the rapiers of the Inquisitors slashed across their shirtfronts. He managed to parry the return slash and then try an attack of his own but his black clad opponent was easily a match for him. At glance to his left showed Ethan was in the same fix. A sudden twisting attack by his opponent caused a line of fire to bloom on his sword hand. Out of the corner of his eye Adam saw blood welling up along the line of the cut. The pub had completely cleared of Patrons. Fainnelle shooed her daughter and the rest of the serving girls out the door. No one wanted to be around in case more of Mallien's Inquisitors showed up. Ethan now bore an additional rent in his tunic and two bloody slashes on his right cheek. The Inquisitors fought with an eerie calm, their feet moving only when necessary. Unlike their opponents, both Adam and Ethan began to show signs of strain. Sweat mingled with the blood on Ethan's cheek, and Adam's breath now came in short gasps as he struggled to get enough air into his lungs. “This is beginning to bore me,” The Inquisitor across from Ethan stepped back and brought his rapier up in salute, disengaging from the duel. Adam's opponent did the same after one last pass. “Surrender now, and we will promise your deaths to be short and painless, even though you are guilty of gross blasphemy.” “Really?” Ethan wiped the blood off his check with the back of his free hand. “And I was just getting all excited about the prospect of a long painful one, how disappointing.” “Yes,” Adam said, easily, “Don't you have a more attractive offer? After all, look who you work for.” He hoped Ethan knew what he was doing with the false bravado. It was only because of Fainnelle and the Gaffer that he hadn't worked a shaping already, and he wasn't sure he wouldn't have to, regardless of who witnessed it. “Then,” The one across from Adam shrugged, “It appears we must charge you.” He moved forward a series of short hops and lunged at Adam with a lightning fast move that Adam just barely blocked with a high parry, forcing the tip of the rapier up and away from his forehead. “You are fast, young Lord,” The Inquisitor said quietly, “But not fast enough. Soon my blade will wear you down.” In the background, Ethan's opponent was backing him up against the far end of the bar. Ethan tried sliding the edge of his saber in along the Inquisitor's rapier, but the Churchman converted the attack by twisting his lighter weapon around Ethan's blade and pinking him in the shoulder. Adam parried a strong downward slash and countered with a move that whipped the point of his sword across the Inquisitor's chest, scoring a long line of red against the ebon black. As the man jumped back with a curse, Adam raised his own sword in salute, “Perhaps I'm fast enough, after all.” The Inquisitor snarled and lunged at Adam's feet, sweeping the tip of his blade in a vicious arc, just inches off the boards of the floor. Adam jumped as the rapier passed beneath him, bringing his sword over and down in a swift arc, forcing his opponent into a backing defense as he hammered at the others

rapier with his heavier sword. The change in tactic seemed to confuse the Churchman. Since Adam was targeting the weapon instead of the man, most of the subtleties of fencing were thrown out the window forcing the Inquisitor to concentrate primarily on deflecting the force of Adam's cuts. “I see your mind,” The black clad Churchman grated, “This will avail you nothing. My brother and I have weapons you cannot guess.” One of the pub's tables had been overturned during the general rush when the fight started. It lay on the edge of its circular top. Adam struck out with his left boot and sent the table rolling towards Ethan's opponent. His own opponent mistook the move and laughed harshly, “Poor aim, heretic, that missed me by yards.” “I wasn't aiming at you,” Adam replied, as he continued to beat against the rapier. Ethan dodged back, ducking below a high cut. His opponent could not recover in time to avoid being hit by the rolling table, which allowed Ethan time to recover and launch his own attack. Adam saw the result of his gamble and called out, “Use the blade of your sword. Go after his.” Ethan nodded and began a series of rapid-fire cuts, battering the blade of the Inquisitor's rapier as Adam had done. Now the tide of battle had reversed. Adam and Ethan backed the Churchmen across the pub floor until they were pinned against the far wall across from the bar. A metallic ping sounded, sharply cutting across the clang of blade against blade. The Inquisitor facing Ethan looked with chagrin at the stub of steel protruding from his rapier's hilt. Almost immediately after that another ping sounded when the rapier of Adam's opponent gave way. The shaping took Adam completely by surprise as he found himself hurtling across the pub. Unseen hands gripped him, pinning his arms at his side. To his left, Ethan's curse said the same had happened to him. “A wise and clever strategy, targeting our weapons, instead of ourselves, it is a pity you will never live to tell of it,” The Inquisitor who had dueled Adam tossed the remnant of his rapier off to the side. It rolled for a ways and then came to a stop against an overturned spittoon. He interlaced his fingers and turned his palms outward, cracking his knuckles, “The only question that remains is how to dispose of your bodies.” “Adam, what is holding us? Do something!” Ethan struggled against the shaping, but the only thing he could move was his head. “Yes, young Lord, do something,” The Inquisitor who had dueled Ethan chuckled, “My brother and I would be very interested in seeing what your swordsmanship can do against the powers of the Church.” Adam reached out with his Wizard's sense. Another surprise stuck him, though the shaping held him snugly, he could break free any time he desired. To his sense, the bonds felt as though they were made of tissue. He looked up at the Churchman, “If you let us free now, I promise I won't hurt you.” Laughter greeted his statement, “Let you go, why should we do that? We've just bound you.” Ethan looked over at Adam and raised an eyebrow in question. The look he received was answer enough. “If I were you I take him up on his offer.”

“Well, I am not you, bumpkin, nor am I inclined toward graciousness in your behalf. You owe me for one very good rapier.” The Inquisitor snapped his fingers under Ethan's nose. Adam built up his shaping slowly, being careful to hide its presence in the background. He had no idea how sensitive the two Churchmen were, so stealth was the better part of wisdom. He raised his head once more, “This is your last chance. Release us and you can leave unharmed.” The Inquisitor across from Adam sneered, “And you'll do what, boy? Bore us with more of your bravado? Pfaugh! We have dealt with your like before. You are nothing more than a swordsman who has interfered one last time in business that was none of his affair.” “No, I'm not,” Adam said, quietly bringing the shaping to a finish. “Oh, really,” the reply came with another sneer, “And what else are you, besides a swordsman outclassed by his betters?” “I'm a Wizard,” Adam released the shaping, dissolving the magik that bound him and Ethan, while at the same time encapsulating the two Churchmen. He stood and stretched, joints popping as they realigned, “You'll notice there's a difference.” The eyes of the Inquisitors bulged as their immobile bodies were lifted from the pub floor and suspended near the ceiling. “I can maintain this bit of magik as long as I want, and from what I understand, Wizards live nearly as long as Dragons do. Gaffer! Fainnelle! You can come out now.” Fainnelle and the Gaffer came out of hiding and gaped at the scene before them. “Blessed Bardoc, what has happened?” Fainnelle looked around at the ruined pub. The Gaffer walked over to where Adam and Ethan stood and looked up at the two floating Inquisitors. He then looked at Adam and Ethan, “Which one of you is the Wizard, iffn I don't miss me guess?” His gaze centered back on Adam. “How did you know?” Adam asked. “Lad,” the Gaffer began while stooping to right an overturned chair, “When you've run a pub as long as I have, you can learn an awful lot about folks, iffn you keep yer eyes open. Take Ethan there, “He hooked a thumb in Ethan's direction, “He's a man with a lot of experience, some good, some bad, but he'll back a friend till his belly caves in. One thing he ain't, is a Wizard. Never has been, from the look of ‘im.” “Thanks a lot,” Ethan said dryly. The Gaffer smiled, as he continued to clean up the Pub with Fainnelle's help, “No offense, Ethan.” “None taken.” “But you take Thaylli's lad there, Adam. There's always been somethin’ about him. Summat different, you know what I mean? He ain't regular folk like Fainnelle an’ me. He's somethin’ better.” The Gaffer's eyes took on a far away look. “Somethin’ ... Royal,” Fainnelle finished for him.

A sputtering from the magically bound Inquisitors took Adam away from the uncomfortable feeling of being the center of attention. He turned and walked over until he stood beneath them. “You have something to say?” He asked. “Let us down. You have no right...” the one on the left began. “Let me, Adam,” Ethan joined him at his side, “I have a bit more experience in these matters.” Adam nodded and stood back. Ethan drew his sword and tapped the Inquisitor who had complained with its tip, “You are mistaken there, citizen. We are not the ones who have broken Church law, you are.” This brought on more sputtering, but little else. Adam's shaping bound the two Churchmen to the point where only their eyes and their mouths could move. “T ... that is preposterous. It is you who are the criminals, the heretics, the blasphemers. I command you, release us now!” “Stubborn to the last, aren't they?” Ethan turned and smiled at Adam, the Gaffer, and Fainnelle. He tapped the Churchman again, “No, no, no, bad boy. Don't you know that lying is a sin? The old priest who taught me my letters also taught me Church law, and since the time of Labad, officials of the Church have been forbidden to practice magik of any kind. Are you going to float there and tell us that what you did wasn't magik?” Silence greeted his question. Ethan smiled, “I accept your admission of guilt.” “But he didn't say anything!” The Inquisitor on the right protested. “He admitted nothing. We admit nothing.” “Oh, but you did,” Adam stepped forward. “The Book clearly states,the silent tongue speaks volumes . Your silence answered his question more fully than an outright admission.” He moved closer and looked each of them in the eye, “Who taught you? How did you come to learn about shaping magik?” He received the same silence Ethan had. “Nothing to say, eh?” Adam shrugged, “Ok, then I guess that's it.” He turned away and nodded to Ethan, with a wink, “Kill them both.” Fainnelle gave a little shriek and started to cry. Both Inquisitors began yelling, “No! You can't!” as Ethan moved forward, grimly with his sword at the ready. The one on the right began crying and blubbering, “You don't understand, we can't tell you, it is forbidden...” His brother yelled out, “Stop! You'll kill us bot...” The Inquisitor's last word was cut off in mid-syllable as he began to scream in agony. A red mist billowed up around him and then the other one began to shriek. Spatters of red pelted the pub floor in a grisly rain as the Churchmen's cries rose in pitch and intensity. Sounds of ripping claws and rending talons mixed with the screams. The red mist thickened, obscuring what was happening and soon small chunks of flesh joined the spatters. This continued for what seemed an eternity, but in reality only lasted for a few brief seconds. The shrieks cut off abruptly and the mist cleared; where once had been two figures clad in

black, now hung two skeletons, clothed in tatters of skin and bits of reddish gore. Fainnelle fainted into the Gaffer's arms. Ethan looked grim, and Adam was suddenly, disastrously sick. He couldn't prevent it from happening and it continued until there was nothing left but bile. In addition, he lost control of his shaping and the two skeletons clattered to the ground. The Gaffer laid Fainnelle gently to the floor, pillowing her head with a couple of bar towels. “I'll take care of that, iffn you don't mind Ethan. You tend to yer young friend.” Ethan nodded and wiped Adam's face with the damp towel he'd taken from the bar. “It's ok lad, nothing to be ashamed of. I almost lost it there myself. You have any idea what did that?” “Sorcery, it had to be Sorcery. Milward would never do anything like that. I know I couldn't.” Adam kept his eyes averted from what the gaffer was dragging across the pub floor. “Sorcery,” Ethan repeated the word and then he shook his head, “Well, I'm not going to dwell on something I know nothing about. Here, let me help you up.” He took hold of Adam under each arm and helped him to stand. “You alright?” His young friend still looked a bit green. “I'll be fine,” Adam held a hand against his stomach. A vile taste filled his mouth and the back of his throat felt like it had been scraped clean with a coarse brush. A soft moan drew their attention to Fainnelle. She stirred slightly and then raised a trembling hand to her forehead. Ethan dropped to a knee and helped her sit up. She recognized who was helping her and collapsed, sobbing into Ethan's arms. Unlike most men, when confronted with a crying woman, Ethan appeared completely comfortable with the situation. He let Fainnelle cry herself out as he sent Adam to fetch a small brandy. When the last drop had been drunk and the last tear dried, Fainnelle stood and brushed herself off, “I'm so sorry for that display, Ethan, Adam, you must think me as weak as water, breaking down like that.” “Not at all,” Ethan remonstrated. “Look at me,” Adam said with a self-effacing grin, “At least you didn't sick up all over your floor.” The Gaffer came back in wiping his hands on a rag, “Well, that's done.” No one needed to ask him what that was. After the floor was mopped, Adam and Ethan helped Fainnelle and the Gaffer finish putting the pub back in order. Ethan wiped his hands on his trousers after he pushed the last chair into place, “You can't stay here any more, you know that.” The Gaffer looked around the inside of the pub and then picked up a tankard and began polishing it. The vessel already gleamed. “Aye, I knows, I'm stayin’ anyroad.” “But...” Adam began, “Someone sent them and they are going to want to know why they're missing. At the very least there's going to be hard questions, probably from more of Mallien's Inquisitors.” “It won't be questions, Adam, it'll be worse. For all we know that bit of horror we witnessed came from

Mallien's own hand. Bardoc knows the man's evil enough.” Ethan looked down at his feet and then back up at the Gaffer, “At least do me this favor, the first sign of trouble, you, Fainnelle, your daughter and any of the wenches that'll go along with you, duck into the tunnel and don't look back. Ok?” The Gaffer didn't answer instead he picked another already clean tankard and started polishing it. Fainnelle looked at Ethan helplessly. “Ok?” “But ... this is our home, Ethan. I've lived here all me life. The only travelin’ I done was to market. What'll we do, an’ where would we go?” The Gaffer didn't look up from the tankard as he spoke. Fainnelle forced a smile, “Well, I suppose you two'll be wantin’ to be goin’ yourselves, won't you? You just give me a moment an’ I'll throw together some provisions for the road. Can't have the two men who saved our skins goin’ hungry now, can I?” Ethan took her by the arm, “Fainnelle, I'm serious about this. If you stay here, there is every chance you won't survive. All I'm asking is that you do something to protect yourselves. Is that too much to ask?” He released her arm. “We're worried, Fainnelle,” Adam said, gently, “And I think I know of a place where both you and the Gaffer would be welcome.” A small spark of hope appeared in the woman's eyes. The Gaffer looked up from the tankard. “Where?” Fainnelle asked. “A little village called Access, it's on the western slopes of Cloudhook Mountain.” “I've been there,” Ethan murmured, “It's a nice spot, good people.” “That's Thaylli's home, isn't it?” Fainnelle asked. “Hers, and mine,” Adam's eyes held a far off look. The Gaffer nodded, “Right, I'll think about it, leastways.” Ethan clapped the Gaffer on the shoulder, “That's all I'm asking.” “Right,” Fainnelle said, briskly, “I'll see to those provisions.” She disappeared into the back of the pub. The Gaffer put down the tankard and turned to face both Adam and Ethan. A slow smile spread across his deeply lined face, “I swear, I never seen swordplay like you two put together. Mind you, it kinda looked like them Churchmen was getting the best of you for a mite.” “That's exactly what was going on,” Ethan remarked, “If Adam hadn't come up with that strategy of his...” Adam shrugged, “You would have thought of it eventually.” “No, lad, I wouldn't have. That's the difference between us. One thing does puzzle me, though.”

“What's that?” A queasy sensation built up in Adam's stomach. Ethan rubbed the left side of his mouth with his right forefinger, “I know the name of every single blademaster going back ten generations, but I've never heard of any one of them being a Church Inquisitor. Those two had us, fast and sure. It was all I could do in most of it to just keep my guts inside where they belong. Who trained them, and how did they get so fast?” “That's easy,” Adam said, relieved the question wasn't another one about him, “They weren't trained, at least not in the usual sense. You saw what they tried to do to us. They were Sorcerers, weak ones, to be sure, but Sorcerers nonetheless. They were using magik to improve their fighting, and when that failed, they tried to use it directly against us.” Ethan nodded, “That makes sense,” and then he flashed a brilliant smile, “They didn't plan on taking on a Wizard, though, did they?” The Gaffer chuckled, “Aye, that's fer sure.” Fainnelle's entrance forestalled any further discussion on Sorcerers and Wizards. The two parcels she handed Adam and Ethan were heavy with cheese, bread, and hard sausages. Adam hefted his, “Fainnelle, you don't have to do this.” She patted his cheek, “Hush boy, it's the least a body can do.” She stepped back until she was next to the Gaffer and then smiled at them both, “Now you two had best be goin’ afore any more trouble happens.” Ethan slung his parcel over his shoulder, “Remember what I said,” he pointed at the Pub's back door with his chin, “If there's any sign of trouble...” The Gaffer nodded as he walked over to the back door, “Aye, I know, we skeedaddle into the tunnel as if the pit itself was after us.” He held the door open for them. “Good,” Ethan said, “Because it might very well be.” He walked through the door. Adam glanced behind him as he followed Ethan into the kitchen. The Gaffer and Fainnelle were sharing a look of horror as they realized what Ethan had just said. Against the far back wall of the kitchen hung a cupboard door, a secret latch released the catches that caused the entire cupboard to swing outward revealing the stair to the cellar. Ethan was the first to the false wine keg that covered the tunnel entrance. He turned to look at Adam as he pulled the ancient door open, “There's no going back now, you know.” “I know,” Adam replied, “But everything I want is ahead of me.” Ethan stood there for a moment, studying Adam. After a few seconds Adam began to fidget, “What?” Ethan smiled, “It just struck me, you could be back, whether or not you want to be.” “You're not going to harangue me all the way to Access with that prophecy nonsense, are you?” Ethan laughed all the way to the first curve.

They settled down for the night after Ethan had made thoroughly sure that no rats scurried in and around the sewers. Adam thought briefly about teasing Ethan by spotting an imaginary rat, to pay him back for his prophecy joke, but decided it would only be funny for one of them. He remembered a saying Uncle Bal used to tell him, “A joke that can't be shared is no joke at all.” When they woke there was no sense of morning, but they breakfasted anyway. The ancient oil lamps that had lit their way when they first ventured into the tunnel system with Captain Bilardi gave off enough light to choose what cheese and sausage combination they desired from the provisions packed by Fainnelle. “That thing that happened with the Inquisitors,” Ethan began around a mouthful of bread, sausage and cheese, “You ever see anything like that before?” “Me losing my lunch didn't give you your answer?” Adam sliced off a thin piece of white cheese from one of the wax-coated bricks. Ethan waited for him to continue. “No, I've never seen anything like that before. I've never even heard of anything like that,” Adam took a bite of the cheese and followed it with a bite of the dark, sweet bread Fainnelle had added to his parcel. “Milward taught me a lot, and in all of what he said, I've been racking my brain trying to remember, I can't think of one thing that comes close to that type of magik.” “It was magik, then? Adam reached for his flask, “Of the worst kind. Like I said yesterday, it was Sorcery.” “And you're a Wizard, what's the difference?” Ethan reached for his own flask. “I'm not really sure. Milward told me a bit about Wizards, Sorcerers and Witches, but he just brushed over the Sorcerers and Witches. I think it has something to do with the way the shapings are formed. That magik didn't feel like Wizardry and a Witch uses potions, so it had to be Sorcery. One more thing, whoever, orwhatever did that was powerful enough to do it at a distance.” “Why didn't they do it to us then? Those Churchmen were killed to keep them from talking, why not just shred us and be done with it?” Ethan waved a chunk of bread in the air. “I wondered about that myself, but I didn't want to say anything in front of the Gaffer or Fainnelle. You scared them enough with your parting reference to the Pit.” “Good, I wanted to.” Ethan bit into a large chunk of sausage. “You were saying ... about wondering...” “...Why we weren't ... shredded too?” Adam finished for him. “There's a couple of reasons, one,” Adam held up a finger, “As powerful as that magik appeared to be, the Sorcerer doing the shaping most likely exhausted themselves by doing it. I've done that a couple of times. You were witness to one.” Ethan nodded. “Two,” Adam added a second finger to the first, “And I'm hoping this is the reason, Milward once said that certain types of magik need a focus, something they can be drawn to, or sent through, such as a staff,

a ring, or an amulet. In the case of Sorcery, the shaper has a part of the victim with them. It can be a little as a paring from a fingernail.” Ethan went white, “That means none of us are safe, there's bits of me spread all over the place.” “Only if you've given the Sorcerer permission to use it, that type of magik requires it. I don't know what the ceremony is, Milward wouldn't tell me. The fact that you and I are still in one piece says something at least.” “Amen to that,” Ethan murmured. They packed up the remnants of their breakfast and continued on into the tunnels. After passing over the second bridge, Adam's Wizard sense suddenly flared into full alert. Pulling Ethan against the wall, he held up a finger before his lips, signaling silence. Ethan nodded his understanding. Adam slid quietly back along the right hand tunnel wall, listening with both his ears and his sense. Ethan followed with his sword in his hand. They stopped just before the intersection of the tunnel and a sewer. The sounds of murmured conversation and splashing came faintly out of the sewer entrance. Ethan whispered, his mouth nearly pressing against Adam's ear, “Sounds like a good sized party. You think Mallien's already found us?” Adam sent his Wizard sense into the sewer. Contrary to Ethan's estimate, his sense told him only four bodies of widely varying sizes walked the sewer, but one of them had power, a lot of it. He held up his hand with four fingers extended and waved it in front of Ethan's face. Then he jerked his thumb back in the direction they came from. The man nodded again and started sliding back along the tunnel wall away from the sewer mouth. The voices grew louder, one of them sounded like a child's. Ethan cocked his head and raised a questioning eyebrow at Adam. Adam shrugged. The sense of power was still there, but undefined. A large shape stepped out of the sewer and straightened. A giant, Adam thought. As the giant figure stretched its arms and rolled its shoulders, obviously enjoying the extra room, another one exited the sewer. This one was tall, but nowhere near the size of the giant and rail thin. It looked back into the sewer and beckoned. Two more figures came into the dim light, one small and one that had to be female. The thin one turned its head and looked down the tunnel the way Adam and Ethan had come. It said something unintelligible and then turned its head the other way. The eyes widened, showing their whites clearly in the flickering lamplight, “We got company! Get behind Flynn an’ me, Charity.” “Charity?” The sound of his sister's name thudded through Adam like a hammer blow. He stepped away from the tunnel wall and into the light, “Charity?” The female figure pushed between the thin one and the giant. She held an unstrung bow in her left hand. “Hello Adam, how have you been?” End, Whispers of War

About The Author Robert Beers I grew up in the Pacific Northwest. In fact, many of the landscapes I describe in The Promised Ones can be found there. I attended Humboldt State University as an art student and for a number of years maintained an active studio in Eureka California, a small port city in the heart of the redwoods. My wife and I currently live in the Southwest where I work as a computer graphics expert. In my spare time I play guitar, paint and, of course, write. The Wells End Chronicles, of which The Promised Ones is only the first book, grew out of a graphic novel I was asked to create. When the outline alone reached 45 pages I knew it was time to just start typing. Two writers in the sci-fi/fantasy field who have earned my undying respect and admiration have given me a lot of support and a couple of quotes on what they thought of the first book. “A rip-roaring action adventure that never stops” L.E.M. “He avoids clichés, but when one has to be included he punches it in the nose.” J.LeV You can keep track of Robert's books at his author page: www.writers-exchange.com/epublishing/robert.htm OTHER BOOKS AVAILABLE THROUGH WRITERS EXCHANGE: THE WELLS END CHRONICLES BOOK 1: THE PROMISED ONES Good fantasy pulls you in and immerses the reader within its world. For those fantasy lovers who have cut their teeth on the writings of Tolkein, Brooks, Eddings, Jordon and Goodkind, The Wells End Chronicles offers an exciting ride. The first volume of this epic series, The Promised Ones introduces the reader to Milward, the last Wizard, and the scions of the house of Labad, whom it is his duty to protect. In the distant past the Empire was torn apart by war. Now, individual fiefdoms live together in an uneasy truce. Gilgafed, the Sorcerer, has plans for that truce, and the Promised Ones. If you like epic fantasy, grab a copy of the Promised Ones and dive in. Available in pdf, html, rtf, microsoft reader—Download and CD Similar books to the Wells End Chronicles would include John DeChancie's Castle Perilous series, L.E. Modesitt's Recluce novels, David and Lynn Eddings Belgareth novels, and Terry Pratchet's Disc World books. Available from www.writers-exchange.com/epublishing/robert-book1.htm

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