Usurper And The Heir 403x4t

Usurper and the Heir

A story by Russell Walterhouse

Copyright © 2013 by Russell Walterhouse.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921292 ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4797-4873-0 Softcover 978-1-4797-4872-3 Ebook 978-1-4797-4874-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Prologue ASCENSION

Chapter 1: A New Life

Chapter 2: Plot on the Plains

Chapter 3: Defence of Kresh

Chapter 4: Road to Castlerock

Chapter 5: A Birthday Party

Chapter 6: The Ghorro Desert

Chapter 7: Legacy of the Gardens

Chapter 8: Quest for the Sword

Chapter 9: Capacity for Evil

Chapter 10: A Child No More

Chapter 11: The Keeper

Chapter 12: The Games

Chapter 13: A Land Defiled

Chapter 14: Hannan Mobilizes

Chapter 15: A Bitter Victory

Chapter 16: Too Little Too Late

Chapter 17: Friend or Foe

Chapter 18: Betrayal

Chapter 19: Kayla

Chapter 20: The King’s Counsel

Chapter 21: Lament of Muran

Chapter 22: The Heartland

Chapter 23: Whispers in the Dark

Chapter 24: Sorceress

Chapter 25: The Darkest Hour

Chapter 26: When Two Worlds Collide

Chapter 27: A New Day Dawns

To my two boys Richard and Gabriel and special thanks to my muse Maureen Napier

Prologue

ASCENSION

A blue-gold emblem of a mounted knight blazoned onto banners rippled in the crisp morning breeze; a warning to those who would dare assault the fortress of Zaranstaad. The powerful mountain kingdom of Ukorstria lay strategically wedged in a broad, fertile valley where many trade routes converged in the region leading to distant places. Though relatively small in size, the kingdom prospered from its rich farmland, abundant timber, and tariffs applied to caravans ing through the region. King Brekor competently ruled to secure the borders of his land. However, talk among the nobles and gossip in the alehouses hinted that his Counsellor, Istolar, had much influence over the king; the real power behind the throne. Besides being an imposing figure at almost seven feet tall, Istolar was as respected as he was feared. His reputation as a ruthless enforcer of Ukorstrian law was widespread throughout the kingdom and won him favour with the king, although some on the Council of Nobles questioned his motives. Long, greying hair and beard framed his chiselled face with a hooked nose that gave him an unwholesome appearance. Flanked on two sides by potential threats, Ukorstria maintained a small, but highly trained army of knights, foot soldiers and bowmen totalling eight thousand combat ready troops with another four thousand in reserve. Among the ranks of knights, the legendary King’s Guard, an elite force handpicked by the king himself, offered assurance at either choke point in the valley: Castle Zaranstaad to the north, and the keep, Kresh, to the south, both unassailable fortresses.

The Coppertop Mountains to the north and west, so named for the copper hue of its snow capped peaks at sunset, offered a natural barrier to invasion. The perilous waters of the Serpent Sea bounded the east where the port city of Muran provided additional trade routes for those brave—or greedy—enough to navigate its shallow ages. However, the most potent threat came not from neighbouring states, but from roving bands of fierce barbarians known simply as “Hill-men”, or as some Ukorstrians derisively referred to them, “Grunts”. Shorter and stockier than the average man, their eyes were wide-set with broad, flat noses. There are even rumours that Hill-men were descendants of a tribe of Orcs that used to roam this region many centuries ago, but no such fantastical creatures existed today, and scholars hotly debated in the Halls of Wendolin whether they ever existed at all. Trolls and Fairies only inhabited the creative imagination of children nowadays. Trumpets heralded the beginning of the ceremonial initiation of the newest additions to the King’s Guard. Such pomp always surrounded the initiation and Zaranstaad bustled with activity in the days leading up to the event. Cailin Clanhammer, one of the new recruits, drew a deep breath to calm himself. He had been unable to sleep the night before which further racked his nerves. The enormity of realizing his dream in mere moment’s time threatened to overwhelm him. He glanced up as Istolar entered the chamber. The counsellor motioned for the knights to rise. With his deep, commanding voice, Istolar addressed the knights, “Today, the greatest honour shall be bestowed upon you. Proceed in formation to the courtyard immediately upon the trumpet’s final note.” Narrowing his eyes, he added, “That is to be your signal. Do not disappoint your king.” Istolar let the final words hang in the air for effect before leaving the chamber to King Brekor on the balcony overlooking the congregation. Cailin wondered how much control Istolar exerted over King Brekor. When he spoke, his words had some sort of binding quality, as if his will could not be denied. The timbre of his voice instilled fear into those he addressed, perhaps even the king. Cailin felt as though Istolar could smite his opponents with his voice alone. His hands felt clammy with the mere thought of the man. He closed

his eyes as the last trumpet note echoed throughout the valley. The knights filed out into the courtyard in two columns. In the centre, a massive stone monument loomed up before them depicting the names of all the rulers of Ukorstria since it achieved statehood twenty-five thousand years ago. A mountain peak was sculpted at the top bearing a bronze figure of a knight on horseback, the state emblem. One column turned left while the other turned right at the monument until they had encircled it. It was here where they swore fealty to the king under the watchful eye of Istolar while the people solemnly looked on. Afternoon saw the sun climb high and with it, a small but perceptible measure of heat. By this time, many had been standing for hours in the chill and welcome the warmth, even if it was only a few degrees. Towards the conclusion of the ceremony, chants and cheers rose sporadically from the crowd as the mood became more festive in anticipation of the celebrations that were to follow. The Great Hall of Zaranstaad was built for these occasions. Its sister fortress in the south, Kresh, had much of the same defences, but not designed to cater to large gatherings of dignitaries, and so rarely hosted major events. They Great Hall was cleverly crafted along a semi-circular precipice on the southern side overlooking the village, Verdun, below. However, the hall was reserved for nobles, knights and prominent barons who had grown rich from Ukorstria’s lucrative trade economy. King Brekor, flushed with red wine, loudly praised the fresh King’s Guard during the feast. Istolar appeared for only a few moments before disappearing to the study. A league away to the south, the masses would celebrate in the streets and taverns below, raising cheers that could be heard all the way to the twinkling lights of the hall. Cailin was quietly observing the din below, secretly wishing he could the merrymaking. “That is not your life anymore.” A voice brought Cailin about. A tall, lean man towered over his shoulder, a friendly smile etched onto his angular features. “Welcome to the King’s Guard. I am Torin, Torin Pyke.” “Cailin Clanhammer, at your service.”

“You are in the service of the king now,” Torin chuckled, pulling up a chair. “Something seems to trouble you, friend.” “I have waited for this day so long, and now I do not know if I belong here,” Cailin itted. Torin looked upon Cailin sternly for a moment before replying, “Perhaps, but that decision has already been made, and you must abide by it.” He gave Cailin a nudge, “Come, let us drink tonight. Tomorrow we hunt wild boar in the Wildwood.” Cailin nodded and ed Torin for a flagon of mead. Hours drifted by. The heavy scent of ale and smoke filled the hall until finally, the crowd began to thin out and the newly branded knights found their way to their beds. The sun rose in a brilliant mosaic of red, pink, and orange the next morning. Torin and another recruit, Barandur Van Rhyne, banged on Cailin’s door. BAM—BAM—BAM—BAM “Alright, alright, wait a goddamm minute!” Cailin was already awake, but his head pounded from too much mead the night before. He swung the heavy, oak door open. Torin greeted him with a smirk. “That’s no way for an esteemed knight such as yourself to speak.” Barandur nodded with mock disapproval. “Ack! Let’s go, I need some air.” Cailin threw on his leather tunic and grabbed his ash bow. The three knights descended the long, winding stairs leading to the armoury to refill their quivers, then ventured outside the main gates where Anton managed a tiny roadside bakery provided some fresh bread with cheese and grapes. A little further down the cobblestone path to the outer gates, three saddled mounts awaited them. The sun cast a blood-red glow on the massive outer gates as it climbed over the distant Spriggan Heights. They swung open with a reluctant groan. The company proceeded down the path that veered off the road to the village and descended

into the misty meadow. An expert scout and tracker, Cailin led the way through the meadow until the land began to rise into a mix of woodland and plains where wild boars roamed. No sooner had they rounded a knoll, when a panicked boar scurried to escape. It did not get far before Cailin’s swift arrow found the unfortunate creature’s throat. The boar dropped with a heavy thud, almost dead before hitting the ground. By midday, not a single other boar had crossed their path. Cailin knew they should have bagged at least three by now. As if reading his thoughts, Torin said, “I’ll get some wood for a fire. Don’t worry, there are more boars in these hills than you can shake a stick at.” “Or a bow,” Barandur quipped. “I’ll prepare some lunch.” They enjoyed a light meal of apples, bread, and cheese, followed by a flask of ale. Basking in the afternoon sun and feeling the warmth from the fire chase the morning chill from their bones, they discussed their initiation from the previous day. “Strange,” Torin began, “I did not see Istolar after the ceremony.” “He was there briefly, talking with King Brekor, but did not stay,” replied Cailin. “Just as well, I neither like or trust the man.” “Nor do I, he was eyeing me from the balcony with an evil gaze.” “Strong words my friend, you cannot deny he has kept our lands safe, even as the king dithers about trivial affairs.” Barandur said nothing, but watched the exchange curiously while sipping some ale. WHIZZZZZ—THUNK An arrow struck a nearby tree, narrowly missing Cailin’s head.

“Hill-men!” Torin cried. Cailin leapt for his bow, rolled while notching an arrow, then fired in one fluid motion. It found an advancing Grunt’s throat, felling him with a sickening gurgle. Four more appeared out of the thickets on either side. Torin slashed the belly of one, but the other caught a glancing blow off of Barandur’s leather gauntlet while he drew his sword. Cailin quickly dispatched two with lethal shots from his bow before they could close the distance, then turned and threw his dagger into the side of Barandur’s attacker. Torin brought his sword down on the wounded creature with such force that his severed head rolled into the fire. “Grunts this close to the castle? What the hell!” Torin fumed. “That may explain the lack of boars in the area,” replied Cailin grimly. “They are getting bold venturing so far from the Wildwood. We better get Barandur back to get that arm bandaged.” They talked little on the return journey. Torin gave Cailin a sideways look and said, “That was some weapon craft you performed back there.” Cailin shrugged. “I happened to be in the right spot.” Torin looked back to the road ahead, laying the matter to rest. Barandur suffered in silence the rest of the way. When they arrived at the outer gate, guards dispatched a request for a medic. Princess Elena was enjoying tea with the healer, Troy, when the message came. Together, they hurried down to the inner gates to greet the knights. Though Elena and Troy were good friends, they were decidedly unlike each other. Elena was slender and enigmatic, speaking in slow, deliberate tones, whereas Troy was sturdy and forthcoming. “Are the wounds deep?” asked Elena. “No, My Lady, I owe my gratitude to Torin and Cailin.”

“Mostly Cailin,” Torin gestured to a flushed Cailin who stood entranced by her beauty. In that moment, the world seemed to stop as their eyes locked in mutual attraction. Troy awkwardly interrupted the exchange. “ . . . I’ll tend to our wounded knight.” Cailin dismounted and approached the princess. “We were ambushed by Hillmen, My Lady, five of them. There may be more about. I would speak with King Brekor if he would hear us.” “We have not encountered Hill-men around Zaranstaad in three-hundred years,” she returned in her peculiar, ethereal voice. “You shall come with me, Cailin,” Elena said. Her silver, gossamer hair floated on the breeze as she spun around to lead Cailin to the king. Cailin eagerly obliged, savouring every minute he could spend with her. They climbed up the winding stone steps to the throne until they entered a broad hall adorned with tapestries of battles that long ago had ed into legend and myth. Some depicted strange beasts in the enemy’s ranks bearing sharp, curved horns and deadly claws. At the end of the hall, stood the Obsidian throne of Zaranstaad. King Brekor was not present, however, Istolar looked up from a table of scattered documents and scripts. “Ah, my knights have returned early from the hunt. I trust all went well. These boars have been ravishing our farms for too long now.” Cailin bowed. “It is not the boars we should fear My Lord. Hill-men have encroached on our territory. I suspect they are amassing an army within our borders, sustained by our crops and boar meat. It is they who raid our farmland.” “Nonsense!” Istolar snapped, “A few rogue Hill-men in the wild are of no threat to the safety of our people.” “We were attacked, My Lord. Barandur was injured in the fray. With your leave, I would like to the matter onto King Brekor.”

At the mention of the king, a sneer formed on Istolar. “There will be no such…” Elena interrupted, “My father will see you as soon as possible.” “If it is indeed your wish,” Istolar sighed. “You will find him dining at the moment.” The three of them crossed the hall to the dining room where they found Brekor feasting on roast mutton. Cailin related all the details of their encounter while Brekor listened intently. Istolar sat imively beside the king. “We shall dispatch a scouting party in the morning,” Brekor declared. “You shall lead them Cailin. This will be your first duty as a King’s Guard. Return when you have discovered their numbers and determined their purpose.” Cailin bowed deeply and replied, “As you wish My King.” He bowed again for Elena who returned a sensual smile. Istolar narrowed his eyes, following Cailin out the door. Brekor interrupted his thoughts, “Prepare for me the maps of the surrounding area, my friend.” Istolar bowed perfunctorily to the king then departed for his quarters at the top of the north-western tower that was known more commonly as the Zaranspire. At the base of the Zaranspire, across from the barracks, Cailin assembled a band of eight knights at the Hill and Glen, a sprawling tavern where soldiers of Ukorstria gathered to exchange news and gossip. Cailin and his party picked a quiet corner by the light of a hearth to discuss their plans, away from the din and revelry. They agreed that stealth was vital to the mission’s success, detailing a scouting excursion bearing light armour and few rations. Istolar emerged out of the smoky haze. He motioned them to remain seated when they began to rise. “Please friends, no such formalities are necessary here.” He smiled at each one in turn. “I have something that may be of use to you,” he said, drawing the maps Brekor requested from his cloak.

“Thank you, Counsellor,” Cailin said. He examined the highly detailed maps of elevations, shrubbery, forests, and outposts. While he and the other knights studied the maps, Istolar released a fine, green powder in Cailin’s ale before he slipped off into the night. “Odd that Istolar would take the time to deliver these maps to this tavern, of all places,” Torin remarked. “Maybe he had a change of heart,” Cailin chuckled as he drained his tankard of ale. They poured over the maps discussing routes and strategies when Cailin had trouble focusing on them. Voices began to blend together into a single murmur. “I need some air,” He said and attempted to stand. But his legs buckled and he fell backwards off his chair. “Are you alright?” Torin helped Cailin off the floor. “Perhaps—too much ale—” Cailin replied, “I feel a little—light-headed, I need some rest… see you in the courtyard at six o’clock alright?” Stumbling, Cailin made his way to the door. Torin whispered to Barandur, “Follow him, make sure he makes it back safely.” Barandur nodded and followed Cailin outside into the cool, damp night. A thick fog swept into the valley, encasing the castle like a tomb. From out of the mist, Elena’s wispy form materialized in front of Cailin as he wandered aimlessly in the castle’s gardens. She always went for an evening stroll at this time to calm her mind before bed. “Somebody had a good time tonight,” she laughed. “Here, let me help you.” She draped her arm across his shoulder to steady him. Cailin could feel the warmth of her breast on his arm. They walked for a few steps, then impulsively, Cailin’s hand found Elena’s supple breasts. He feverishly caressed them, hands trembling in excitement and confusion. “What are you doing!” Elena tried to break free, but her strength was no match for his, even in his drugged haze. One hand came up and clasped her mouth.

With the other, he dragged her to the ground and savagely tore off her silk garments. The slight build of the princess only drove Cailin’s desire to brutally violate her to the extreme, but his ethical nature persevered to exhibit some restraint. Cailin heaved convulsively on the mortified Elena, then his body went limp. Elena summoned all her strength, fed by disgust, to slip away from Cailin. Shortly after, he ed out of consciousness. Barandur watched her run off crying with her tattered clothes wrapped about her. From behind some barrels, he debated what he should do. Cailin woke in a predawn drizzle with his head pounding. He needed several attempts to stand on his wobbly legs. He ed everything. If he was quick, he could go to her quarters without being seen while everyone was still asleep. He hastily formed a plan. He still carried his letter of acceptance into the King’s Guard, on which bore the King’s own seal. Perhaps he could it off as an urgent notice requiring Elena’s immediate attention. It was not a good plan, but he would have to sell it. Two guards stood watch over the age to the inner chambers, where Elena, Troy and the most privileged cooks and maidservants had their private quarters. “King Brekor requests Princess Elena’s urgent attendance!” “By whose authority, sir?” “The king himself,” Cailin replied, holding out the sealed envelope for persuasion. The startled guards exchanged uneasy glances, unsure how to respond. They were used to boredom and tedium beyond measure, and now this. “The king will not be kept waiting,” Cailin pressed. At the mention of the king, reluctance gave way to fear of reprisal and so they let Cailin .

One of the advantages of being a King’s Guard, was knowing where each member of the royal family’s private quarters were located in the event of an attack. Cailin picked his way quietly down the dim hall—one—two—three and four torches. He thought his heart might explode out of his chest. Tap tap tap. Cailin thought he could hear shuffling from within; he knocked a little louder. TAP TAP TAP. The shuffling stopped. Realizing his only option now was to be up front, Cailin pleaded, “Elena, please open the door, I have to talk to you.” “You have a funny way of talking.” “If you will just let me explain, I was not myself.” “Oh? And now you are then?” “I think I may have been poisoned or drugged.” “Could you be more original?” After a long and hesitant pause, the door slowly swung inward revealing a wary Elena assessing her tormentor; her head tilted forward, cat’s eyes carefully monitoring Cailin’s body language. “What do you want?” she demanded. “I know how it sounds,” He began, “but I know the effects of ale; this was something else—some evil alchemy that made me out of my mind.” The princess stepped back from the door, her curiosity overtaking her fear. Cailin slipped quietly inside and closed the door behind him trying not to alarm Elena. “Who and why would someone want to harm you? Sorcery is hardly a practice for a knight to undertake. Was anyone else with you?” “No, there was only…” Then he ed Istolar’s unexpected greeting. “Only us,” he continued. “Please, if you will allow me some time to investigate, I will find the one responsible.”

“Then go, Cailin. I will expect an explanation.” Her tone softened. “Go now, while it is still dark.” Cailin barely had time for a change of clothes before meeting with Torin. who scrutinized his appearance. “You look like you crawled out of a keg at the Hill and Glen,” he remarked. “Didn’t sleep well,” Cailin brushed aside the comment. “Are we ready?” Torin looked around. “Where is Barandur?” “Probably his wound is too fresh, we can wait no longer,” Cailin responded, eager to depart and put last night’s business behind, at least for awhile. Once they set off, Cailin began to feel somewhat refreshed by the brisk mountain air. They descended into the meadow, shrouded in the morning mist as is usual for this time of day. Shapes formed, only to dissolve again, stirred by their age. The knights grew uneasy, keenly aware that the emboldened Grunts could ambush them at any moment. Back at the castle, Istolar listened solemnly as Barandur related the incident between Cailin and Elena; a black plot already forming in his scheming mind. “I will deal with this personally,” Istolar said at length, “Do not discuss the matter further with anyone. Do you understand?” Barandur nodded. “Good then, leave me now,” Istolar waved towards the door. Barandur rose, cast a furtive glance towards Istolar, then made his way out onto the streets with head bowed, feeling the hot rush of shame wash over him. Meanwhile, the knights were fulfilling their mission with vigour; the hills were teeming with Hill-men. Yet, they managed to ransack three camps by late afternoon without suffering anything more than superficial wounds. “I think we better report back,” proclaimed Cailin, satisfied objectives had been completed for the day. Watchmen had signalled the return of the party as Istolar requested. He greeted them inside the courtyard. A beaming Cailin proclaimed, “We have destroyed three camps, My Lord!”

“Well done, Knights of Ukorstria, the king will be pleased. Cailin, I will hear your report in my quarters after you have refreshed yourself.” Cailin detected a lack of fervour in Istolar’s voice, but he was beginning to adjust to the Counsellor’s indifference. Yet, there was something else in Istolar’s tone that bothered him. Why not address all the knights? Why not meet in a more accommodating location? Very few had ever seen the inside of the counsellor’s quarters. He dismissed these misgivings and went off to wash before his meeting. Perhaps it would be short so that he may his comrades at the Hill and Glen before the hour was too late. Cailin climbed the steep spiral staircase to Istolar’s quarters at the top of the Zaranspire and rapped on the door. “Come,” the commanding voice answered from within. Cailin entered the dusty chambers where maps, potions and instruments lay scattered about. The sight of the potions caused his stomach to stir and suspicion began to rise in a ball in his throat. He turned his attention to Istolar who was regarding him from behind a worn table stacked with ancient parchments. “You have performed well, Sir Cailin,” Istolar smiled revealing long, stained teeth. “Your knight’s are well trained in the service My Lord,” Cailin offered in an attempt to share credit with the group. Istolar rose slowly and circled around the table to approach Cailin. “Yet, you show remarkable poise and skill for a recruit.” His narrow eyes casting a surreptitious appraisal of Cailin’s muscled body. He placed a bony hand on his shoulder. Cailin tensed but said nothing while trying to conceal his revulsion from the rotting stench of Istolar’s breath inches from his face. Istolar let his hand slide down Cailin’s side to his buttocks before returning to his table to pour some wine. He ed a goblet to Cailin and studied him a moment before continuing, “However, we have a problem.” “My Lord?”

“Have you seen Princess Elena?” Istolar asked casually. Cailin detected accusation in his tone. A pit formed in his stomach and his palms felt clammy. “Yes—My Lord.” “When?” “Last night,” Cailin replied warily. Istolar considered Cailin a moment. “You have committed a very serious crime, one punishable by death.” He paused, pleased by Cailin’s obvious discomfort. “However, you can change the outcome, if you so choose.” Cailin considered denying knowledge of Istolar’s remarks, but he concluded the difference may mean a slow death versus a quick one. He met Istolar’s steady gaze; one which spoke of hunger and malice. “What must I do, My Lord?” he submitted weakly. “You must eliminate the one who carries your death sentence.” Cailin’s eyes grew into round orbs of shock, “You want me to kill the king?” “That is your option,” Istolar replied evenly. Cailin was speechless for a moment, then he blurted, “And what becomes of Princess Elena?” She will become your queen. I will secure your ascension to the throne.” “You will make me king of Ukorstria,” Cailin repeated incredulously. “What would you gain from this?” “I have… plans. Do not concern yourself how I may benefit. I only require an answer right now. So what will it be, young knight? Death or lordship?” Cailin sought to clear his mind but there were too many issues, and the wine… he glanced at the vials of potions by the window with renewed suspicion. His code of honour screamed at him to accept his judgement, however, he felt helpless under the domineering will of Istolar. He was not ready to die, not like

this. Finally, with resignation, He looked at Istolar blankly and said, “I will do as you command, My Lord.” “Good,” Istolar announced, as if he had just completed a routine business exchange. “Let us make preparations then.” Istolar’s plan was to make use of Cailin’s remarkable marksmanship. Brekor liked to take afternoon walks in the castle’s mystical gardens just like his daughter, though she preferred the evening. The gardens were situated off from the courtyard to the east, below the seldom used north-eastern tower. The battlement leading into this tower provided a perfect opportunity for a close shot. At the other end, the battlement ed the Zaranspire, his escape route up into Istolar’s chambers while guards would be searching frantically below. When the search cooled off, Cailin would slip quietly away into the night. The afternoon turned out to be in favour of their sinister plot. High, wispy clouds partially obscured the sunlight. Equipped with two poison-tipped arrows, Cailin set off take up position on the battlement, concealed behind the tower. The sound of rustling leaves alerted Cailin to movement in the gardens below. He quickly notched an arrow. He had only a brief opportunity for a clear shot before Brekor disappeared among the towering shrubs. TWANG—TWANG The first shot bounced harmlessly off of a mossy boulder, but the second found the tender space between the king’s shoulder blades. The poison worked quickly. “NO!” Cailin gasped as Elena bent over her stricken father, screaming for help. He ran along the battlement back to safety in the Zaranspire. The sight of Elena tending her mortally wounded father made him nauseous. But instead of safety, he found Istolar waiting with a company of guards. Realization dawned on him; he had been used to achieve Istolar’s ultimate goal —the throne of Ukorstria.

Cailin’s claim of Istolar’s involvement served only to portray himself as a man, which was further reinforced when Istolar commuted his sentence to life in prison. The public viewed Istolar as an empathetic scholar and rallied behind him as their next leader. Istolar took the despondent Elena as his wife to solidify his claim to the throne. She did not object. Consumed by grief, she could often be seen wandering the gardens under the moonlight like a wraith, bereft of soul or purpose. Istolar was weary of the castle’s gardens; an ancient magic lay beneath in the catacombs where her father lay buried. Under centuries of decay and rot, something horrible festered. The sound of water dripping and rats scurrying were the only company Cailin knew. Far off, steps could be faintly heard on the damp stone stairs descending into the dungeons of Zaranstaad. “I owe you much my friend,” Istolar spoke softly to Cailin. “My fellow Hill-men have replaced the much vaunted King’s Guard,” he pronounced with a sneer. “Unfortunately, the King’s Guard had proved to be quite useless defending the king. My people are much more adept, I assure you.” “Why did you not have me killed?” Cailin managed through broken teeth. Istolar leaned closer. “I wanted you to witness the day when what you call ‘Grunts’ serve as nobles in my court.” He looked back at the broken form of Cailin and commanded his guard to bring him blankets in a rare act of comion. Winter had come and gone in the kingdom, though Cailin was unaware of its ing; he had no reference to day and night in his windowless cell. He became vaguely aware of a distant clanging of metal, indicating some guard activity, then, heavy booted footfalls grew louder out of the oppressing silence. Resignation crept into Cailin’s soul, yet he was unable to fully accept his predicament. Madness tugged at the fibre of his being, ebbing and receding in an insane contest of wills. In his darkest hour, Torin came to bid him farewell. “I have been granted one final visit, my good friend.”

“Wha… what do you mean?” stammered Cailin. “King Istolar has been gracious to allow me to come and say goodbye,” Torin stated methodically for the benefit of the nearby guard. As much as he cared for Cailin, he had no desire to share his fate. “Hill-men have been assigned to protect the king. The King’s Guard have been disbanded except Barandur, whom he promoted to warlord, chief of the new regiment. We have been reassigned work in Verdun.” Cailin looked away, his eyes drifting off into the gloom, unable to process this new turn of events. “So Istolar has fulfilled his pledge after all.” When Cailin’s gaze slowly focused again on his friend, Torin mouthed, “You have a son.” “Okay, time’s up!” the guard interrupted and led Torin back up the stairs to gather his belongings. Days turned into months and months into years until one night Cailin sensed he was being watched. Startled, he bolted upright at the sight of Elena sitting crosslegged in front of him. Her silvery hair flowed although the air was still. Her once beautiful green eyes were now only two milky green orbs that glowed eerily from her skeletal features. “Why have you come?” Cailin asked, fear coursing through his veins. Elena’s thin lips parted, slightly at first, then a shriek tore through his soul. He closed his eyes at the relentless assault on his senses, violating his being, raping his soul. The wail eventually receded to a forlorn cadence, yet it remained pervasive; a ballad imbuing all that is wrong. And it was the last thing he would ever in his mortal life.

A New Life

Eight years had ed since the Assassination of King Brekor. Thick, earthly fragrances rose from freshly budded flora in the Gardens of Zaranstaad. Occasionally, a drunken Hill-man wandered from the tavern for some air and strayed into the overgrown and untended gardens. Their claim of seeing two ghostly images under the moonlight was dismissed as ale-house hearsay. The official story, as related by Barandur, was that Cailin was locked down in the deepest dungeon for his treacherous assassination of King Brekor while Elena had acquired a mysterious ailment that made exposure to daylight painful. “Both true,” Barandur mused, for he prided himself for being truthful while at the same time appeasing Istolar; a cunning act that helped vault him to warlord. However, Istolar was a shrewd ruler knowing very well the limitations of Barandur and never gave much thought of filling his now vacant post as Counsellor. Why did he need to fill that post at all for that matter? Someone may seek to replace him as he had used his authority to plot against Brekor. Torin, a blacksmith now by trade, married a local townswoman, Jill, in Verdun. They settled into a quiet life raising two young children: Arianna, a daughter of their own, and the other, Liam, the son of Elena and Cailin. “Take that bastard boy with you”, Istolar had advised him, or I’ll feed him to the wolves. There was one other, an older sibling, that left a scar so deep, the family forbade any mention of her. After a hard day’s toil, Torin sometimes dropped into the Bird’s Nest, Verdun’s popular inn, where he would sit by the hearth, drawing reflectively on his pipe. Amidst the gossip of patrons, he listened attentively for rumours of strange tales about the Gardens of Zaranstaad, spirits wandering through the maze of choked cobblestone paths. Soon after the sun slipped behind the Coppertop Mountains, Liam tugged at Torin’s sleeve. “Father, you promised to tell me the story of Olphy The Orphaned Dragon. It was hard to tell who loved story time more—father or son, or perhaps both. Usually, Liam drifted off to sleep towards the end of a story, but

on this particular night, sleep would not come for he was intrigued the story and saddened for the orphaned dragon. “What happened to his mom?” asked Liam. “The king sent his champion to slay her.” “But why?” “She was destroying their crops.” “And his father?” “He was—imprisoned,” Torin responded absently. His thoughts turned to Cailin. “Don’t be silly Father, dragons don’t go to prison.” Torin laughed and ruffled Liam’s wavy blonde hair. “Of course not, Son. Listen, silly father is tired. Go to sleep alright?” “Alright, goodnight Father.” Liam watched Torin quietly close the door and lay awake wondering about the Olphy the dragon.” Liam’s remark imprinted on Torin’s consciousness. What happened to his mom? He resolved to visit Zaranstaad in the morning to seek Istolar’s permission to see Cailin. After all, three years had ed since their last meeting. “Are you coming to bed my love? It’s almost midnight,” Jill interrupted Torin’s black thoughts. “Yes… yes, my dear, I am coming.” Torin rose early the next morning; not too early, for he did not want to concern Jill, at least not yet. Before heading up the mountain to Zaranstaad, Torin stopped at his forge to leave instructions for his apprentice, Ned. Odd, he thought, having a skilled apprentice like Ned when he was virtually an apprentice himself. But that is how Istolar dealt with the former knights. He treated them well, opened doors for them to pursue other interests, if only to keep them from conspiring against him.

So Master Smith he was. He quietly closed the door behind him and set off to Zaranstaad in the predawn mist. The air became markedly cooler as Torin travelled the winding trail up to Zaranstaad. He paused two-thirds of the way to glance back at Verdun, but could only see a heavy fog still blanketing the village. The once familiar sight struck a note of sadness in his heart for the life he left behind. Torin turned resolutely and continued climbing. He inhaled the rich, loamy morning air as the outer gates rose ahead in the distance. The Hill-man on guard duty eyed Torin suspiciously as he approached. The other guard looked too disinterested to acknowledge him, choosing instead to pop grapes lazily into his mouth. “You have no business here, town man,” the first guard jeered. “I wish to seek permission from King Istolar to visit my friend,” Torin replied, ignoring the slight. “The king does not concern himself with rabble that dwell in his cellars. Perhaps you would care to him?” Torin’s chiselled face flushed with anger, his hand strayed instinctively towards the dagger sheathed under his cloak. But Barandur Van Rhyne spotted him in the distance from the seldom occupied south-western tower. What brings him here I wonder? He folded up a map of Hannan he had been poring over. I could use some fresh air anyways. Both guards stepped back in spite of themselves when they saw the rage burning in Torin’s eyes. One guard received a smack on his helmet in the process. Torin was about to deliver another humiliating whack on the head of the other guard when Barandur arrived. “Stand down and lower your weapons! Have you no courtesy towards visitors?” Barandur scolded the guards. “No sir, we were questioning this fellow when he up and attacked us!”

“Really? Maybe I need to post more guards then. How many do you figure would be enough? Ten? Twenty?” Both guards turned red in shame and remained silent. “That’s what I thought,” Barandur said, dismissing them. “Torin Pyke, my friend. Come, let’s catch up on old times!” He gestured Torin to follow. My friends are in Verdun, Torin wanted to say but thought better of it. He felt a strange mixture of resentment and distrust while he followed Barandur a few steps behind. He gave the guards a threatening look ing by and laughed at their startled reaction. Sensing Torin’s ambiguity, Barandur slowed to allow him to catch up. “How are things in Verdun?” Barandur tried to sound casual. “The life of a blacksmith does not compare well to a knight of Ukorstria,” replied Torin evenly. Barandur winced at the retort, but quickly added, “The knight probably would never have crossed paths with the blacksmith’s wife?” To this, Torin could not argue and decided to let the matter rest. He needed Barandur to gain access to see Cailin. However, he noticed Barandur did not ask about Liam. “So what brings you to Zaranstaad?” Barandur asked, as if reading Torin’s mind. “I thought maybe you could get me in to see Cailin. I would be most appreciative.” Torin could see Barandur stiffen as he spoke. “I am afraid that is not possible.” “Why?” “It is not permitted.” “Why?” Barandur turned to face Torin, his face contorted, betraying the struggle within.

“Because… he is gone.” “Gone?” “Gone! Dead! I don’t know!” Barandur blurted out all at once, unable to resolve his conflicting emotions. Torin said nothing. He simply stared at Barandur. “You don’t know,” Torin repeated slowly, as if saying the words might reveal the meaning. Barandur changed the topic. “Come, let’s get some breakfast.” He tried to sound off-handed, but he was less than enthusiastic about dealing with the subject and deeply regretted having left the tower in the first place when he could have simply dispatched a messenger to turn the stranger away. Cursing his timing for some ‘fresh air’, Barandur considered the implications of bringing Torin into the castle and what kind of reaction he could expect from the Hill-men guards. Istolar was sure to find out. He did not even know if he was acting within his authority. But he would have to project his confidence. He would have to at least appear to be in control of the situation. They reached the bakery roughly halfway from the inner gates to the outer gates, the same one they frequented on their hunting trips. The scent of fresh, hot biscuits rose to meet them. The baker met Torin with a confused, but friendly greeting. “Long time since I had the pleasure to make something for ye lad,” he said, offering a plate full of steaming biscuits. Torin laughed, “Yes, well, I don’t get up here much these days.” He shot a sidelong look at Barandur, who had purposely busied himself filling up a bottle of juice. “You’re welcome, and eh… no charge for these.” Anton winked and went around the back to make a new batch. “Thank you, Anton,” Torin called after him. With biscuits and juice, they followed a lightly trodden trail that led to an area scattered with benches and tables under majestic oak trees. The area was intended for those who enjoyed spending their leisure time reading under the shady oaks or maybe for some quiet reflection. A short distance to the

north, over the wall that ran from the inner gates, lay the Gardens of Zaranstaad. While they caught up on events, both recent and past, Torin became distracted by the mist rising from the garden and kept glancing in that direction. If he let his eyes focus on the swirling patterns, it seemed to form faces, dissipating and reforming; two faces, in fact, a man and a women. He squinted, trying to make out features, but then it only appeared to be an illusion. Barandur grew anxious over Torin’s preoccupation with the garden. Rumours of spirits were familiar to him. Istolar had instructed him to downplay the phenomenon and ordered the gates locked and the area sealed off. However, this only fuelled further speculation. He attempted to draw Torin’s attention away from the garden. “How is Kirik? Is he still touting to be the strongest man in Ukorstria?” “Hmm, not so much. I suppose he’s becoming mellow in his old age.” They both laughed. Barandur poured the last of the juice into their cups. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” “Are you coming into town?” Torin raised an eyebrow. “Not sure yet. But Istolar always has me running trivial errands lately so it’s quite possible.” Torin nodded, glancing back at the gardens. “There seems to be something there —out of the corner of my eye, but when I look… it’s gone.” “Happens to me all the time, just the mist playing tricks. Those paths act like a funnel for air flow. I wouldn’t make too much out of it. We don’t want to spread any rumours around now do we?” “I suppose,” Torin said, not entirely convinced with the explanation. “Yet, sometimes rumours can also be truth trying to get out.” Barandur glared at Torin for an instant, but recovered quickly. “Yes, well, it has been nice to see you again my friend,” he said, rising to his feet. “You are always welcome here. The king feels bad for the King’s Guard. He wishes he could have done more on their behalf.”

Torin rose as well, casting a shadow on the slightly built warlord. “Odd that he should feel that way—being king and all. I suppose doing nothing and keeping the outfit intact is too much to ask.” The sarcasm was not lost on Barandur, but he did not want to part on a sour note. “I will look into Cailin for you.” Torin said nothing, not willing to trust whatever Barandur would say anyway. Barandur escorted Torin to the gates, bade him farewell. Returning to the gardens, he tugged at the gate to check the lock. The rusted latches groaned, but held. Just as he turned to leave, a movement caught his eye. Squinting into the gloom, he thought he could make out the image of an old man clutching an arrow protruding from his chest. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Swirling mists was all he could see. I think I need to take my own advice, he laughed nervously to himself. The sweet aroma of pipe weed told him Istolar was near. He turned to find him standing right behind him. The king had been watching him, suspicion mirrored in his eyes. “Your Highness, I didn’t see you there.” “Apparently not,” Istolar replied coolly. “What did he want?” “Oh, you mean Torin?” Istolar’s scowl warned him not to play coy. “He, uh, came to visit Cailin.” “Uh, what for?” “He didn’t say,” Barandur replied truthfully. “Have you any idea why?” “No, Sire.” “And what did you tell him?” “I told him nothing, Sire.” “Then you decided to check the gates?”

“There are rumours of sightings—spirits haunting the grounds. I don’t know where they started or how they came to Verdun.” “I do. Inform the guards they can no longer set foot outside of Zaranstaad without my express permission.” Istolar turned abruptly and strode away, but paused and asked over his shoulder, “Were they secure?” “Yes, Sire. They are locked tight.” “Make sure they stay that way.” “Of course, Sire.” Barandur winced at his choice of words, but Istolar took no notice. Probably didn’t hear me, just as well. As promised, Barandur ceased all unauthorized travel outside the castle, but ghost tales trickled down to Verdun regardless. Torin’s thoughts drifted to the barmaid, Anna. What words will you choose to poison the minds of the good people of Verdun? Why Anna? Why? He fought back tears and banished her from his mind as he rode gloomily back down to Verdun.

Torin read to Liam that night around the usual time. All the while Liam searched his father’s eyes. “Where did you go today, Father?” “To the forge.” “And then?” Torin put his brawny hand on Liam’s head. “To see a friend,” he said softly and kissed his forehead. “Goodnight Son.” Liam smiled and closed his eyes. That night, Torin had vivid dreams about the faces in the mist, for now they took form and he recognized them at once. The image came to him so sudden and real that he cried in his sleep, “Cailin! Elena! NO! NO! NO!” Jill shook him gently but firmly, “Torin, wake up, wake up! You’re dreaming!” Crickets chirped continuously in the damp earth in the Gardens of Zaranstaad. A nightingale’s song of longing wove through deep shadows of the neglected flora. Two ghostly figures stood across from one another under the gazebo, bound by their fate, each lamenting to the other, their undying love: Your love keeps me alive—You always have my love— Forever, in your embrace—Together as one— Moonlight shines in your eyes—Only you I am thinking of—

Plot on the Plains

Beyond the southern fortress of Kresh, lay a boundless swath of grasslands known as Aegia, a loosely knitted tribal people with a reputation of posing more of a threat to each other than to other nations. Unlike the fertile valley of Ukorstria, the dry plains of Aegia received little rainfall and nomadic tribes constantly warred with each other over land fit for grazing. The Aegian Plains, adjacent to the Serpent Sea and not far from where Kresh guarded the mountain into Ukorstria, provided the best pastures in Aegia. Here, the dominant tribe, Yamata, housed the sultan of Aegia—the commonly recognized leader of all the tribes that made up Aegia. The sultan had to endure the constant threat of assassinations and attacks from coalitions of other tribes to maintain his post. However, the high trade tariffs imposed by King Istolar provided a unique opportunity to unite the tribes under his banner once and for all. Under King Brekor, the tariffs applied only to meat shipped to Ukorstria’s northern neighbour, Hannan. Under the new regime, tariffs had been increased threefold and included all goods, including leather and hide which were previously exempt. The only other age between Aegia and Hannan was through the straits of the Serpent Sea where many ships had been lost from sudden windstorms. At least, that is the official ; tales of sea serpents hundreds of feet long were spun by local fishermen, giving the sea its namesake. Shaded from the scorching sun by a gur, a makeshift tent commonly used by the Aegians, The Sultan Jumaki and King Ferdugar of Hannan discussed their options. “I can see no other way!” Jumaki pressed, eager to direct the hostility of his people northward and away from himself. “I will not sacrifice my men needlessly,” Ferdugar countered. “Perhaps if we sail around the straits.” “That will add weeks, if not months for merchant fleets to make the journey.

Meat will be spoil long before it reaches your markets.” “Can we not reason with Istolar?” Ferdugar persisted. He had no desire to interrupt the lucrative markets in Ukorstria that paid well for their gems and metals. However, Aegians had little use for metal. They craved the lumber from the dense forests of Ukorstria to craft their bows and their crude pikes were often mounted with stone heads rather than iron. Jumaki studied Ferdugar for a moment. Odd, he thought, Hannanites were a proud warrior race. Why would their king want to dissuade me from going to war over an unjust situation that clearly affected us both? “He cares only for enriching his own treasury,” he said finally. “The sharp blade of a sword is the sole persuasion he will understand.” Ferdugar paused to consider Jumaki’s words. Perhaps war was the better solution. After all, They could both prosper from the resources they both lacked and sorely needed as well as do away with unfair tariffs at the same time. With fish being the sole food commodity, Hannan was almost totally dependent on its southern neighbours to feed its people. The inhospitable snowbound nation of rugged hills and rocky terrain harboured a surprising variety of wildlife, but even the peasants disliked the tough, dark meat. However, the Hannanites were a resourceful race. The harsh environment of their land demanded it. They learned to delve deep into the mountains for precious gems and metals of which there were many for those who could withstand the suffocating heat and toxic fumes. The artisans of Hannan were unmatched in their crafting of weapons, some of which were said to empower the wielder with enhanced abilities such as the one Ferdugar carried—sapphires and emeralds embedded in the hilt that could radiate a blinding beam of light in times of desperate need. Ferdugar drew his broadsword, raising it as if to deliver a blow. Jumaki’s alarmed guards responded quickly, encircling Ferdugar with pikes trained on his stalky frame. Heedless to his own peril, Ferdugar casually sheathed his broadsword and responded, “We will make arrangements for war.”

“Then let us forge an alliance in blood,” Jumaki sliced his palm and handed the dagger to Ferdugar to do the same. Ferdugar hesitated ever so slightly before doing likewise. The sultan and king pressed their palms together, mixing their blood. Jumaki grinned, seemingly enjoying the ritual. “It is done.” He wheeled around to face Lengu Naga, a battle-hardened warrior and proficient tactician who served as Jumaki’s trusted bodyguard and advisor, “Summon leaders of all the tribes. Do not speak of war just yet.” “But Your Greatness, they will not come on a whim.” “Tell them I command it!” Jumaki snapped. “Return to me in eight days. Take with you three or four Khuppa.” Khuppa were the name for the famed Aegian horse archers that patrolled their borders on the lookout for bandits that raided their northbound caravans. Unlike the heavy cavalry of Ukorstria, the Khuppa were swift, relying on speed and agility to outmanoeuvre opponents rather than charging head-on. Ranked by colour, the Black Khuppa could split an apple from twenty yards with their compact crossbows while in full flight. Next in rank were the Red Khuppa that also used crossbows but were of lesser skill. White Khuppas made up the bulk of the Aegian cavalry. They used light, compact staves to strike opponents down from short range and also made excellent scouts. Jumaki turned back to Ferdugar. “We will send an emissary in two weeks time to coordinate our attack. He will have a list detailing how and where the assault should begin. You should do the same. When he returns with this information, we will mobilize the Khuppa.” Ferdugar replied, “So it shall be,” and turned to gather his escort for the return trip to Hannan. Jumaki stroked his wispy black goatee thoughtfully. In spite of the bold display Ferdugar showed raising his sword, he sensed a certain reluctance from the king. Perhaps it would be prudent, he thought, to send two emissaries: One to speak with Ferdugar while the other looks for signs of readiness of the Hannanite army. Satisfied with the day’s proceedings, Jumaki called for his evening meal. “I’m famished,” he chuckled to himself, “All this scheming whets one’s appetite.”

The camp bustled with activity. Provisions were stocked, siege equipment was made ready, warriors sharpened their pikes. Nine days later, a tiny puff of dust on the horizon signalled the return of Lengu. Jumaki awaited his approach with a scowl, arms folded across his chest. “You’re late.” “I am truly sorry, Your Greatness. We had to navigate around several bands of roaming bandits.” “Why do you think I provided you with an escort?” Lengu winced. He thought he better get right to the point. “We have six legions of Khuppa, Your Greatness. The White Khuppa will arrive in two days, the Black and Red in four, at the latest.” “Twenty-thousand men,” Jumaki murmured, shrewdly calculating how many losses he could suffer in order to secure Kresh. “Send one of your men to Hannan to inform Ferdugar we are ready. He will have to be quick to through Ukorstria before the assault begins. Assemble the catapults within range of the walls. Prepare every available warrior to defend them until reinforcements arrive. Go now! By nightfall we move out under cover of darkness.” While Lengu scurried off to fulfill his duties, Jumaki strolled down to the seashore. The Aegian coastline provided some of the most beautiful, unspoiled beaches in the land. Jumaki found solace here when he needed to be alone to think. He perched atop of a bleached piece of driftwood washed up from some distant shore and watched the waves crash onto the white sand. Once again, his thoughts returned to Ferdugar. Doubt gnawed at him. The initial reluctance to his plan followed by the show of bravado with the sword, it just did not seem right. While he struggled with his uncertainty, a young rider dashed across the plains on his way to Hannan. Johan expected to meet with Ferdugar in three days; just long enough to be safely out of Ukorstria when the siege begins. He calculated that he could keep one day ahead of the messengers that would bring word of the assault of Kresh to Zaranstaad. By the time Istolar became aware, he would already be entering the border to Hannan. If there were no delays, Jumaki concluded. Best to send some reassurance.

Defence of Kresh

From behind his oak desk in the Zaranspire, King Istolar assessed his young warlord. He was not a fearless fighter, nor was he exceptionally skilled. His frame was smaller than most knights, all of whom were now banished to the town of Verdun. But he was loyal and obedient. “Why have you not brought this matter to my attention before?” “It was my intention My Liege,” Barandur replied, casting his eyes downward to avoid the intrusive glare. “I believed my eyes were playing tricks on me, My Liege. You know how the fog moves about in the gardens.” In a few long strides, Istolar closed the gap between them. “Indeed,” he chided, gently lifting his chin with long bony fingers. Instinctively, Barandur resisted, revulsion welling up inside him. Istolar pressed their lips together with such savagery their teeth gnashed together. His gnarly hand found an opening in the terrified warlord’s tunic and probed excitedly down into his undergarments. With a whimper, Barandur reluctantly ceased to struggle as a toxic mix of fear and self-loathing drained his will. Afterwards, he lay in a shameful heap on the floor, his dignity cast aside like trash. Blood trickled from his mouth onto the polished marble floor. “Clean up your mess!” Istolar dismissed him with a wave, making a mental note to relieve him from his post. Surely, there must be a warrior worthy to serve his king. The mysterious disappearance of Cailin had robbed Istolar of his plan to use him as a sex slave, discreetly, in the deep dark depths of the castle, where no one would find out. He was certain Elena had rescued Cailin somehow, but what of the guards? How did she get by them? Her transformation had unsettled him. Her ability to go about unseen

undermined his security. He could not even determine at what precise point she ceased being his queen. What concerned him most was not knowing the limits of her power should she decide to take revenge. For now, they seemed content to dwell in the garden. I must trap them there. They must never leave. He descended the long, spiral staircase of the Zaranspire to the ground level. Reaching into a dark recess, he pulled a lever. With a groan, a small opening appeared in the recess just large enough for a man to squeeze through. In a dusty room on the other side, Istolar lifted a mat to reveal a floorboard that could be turned like a handle. He gave it a tug and a trapdoor gave way to another set of stairs leading to an alchemist lab. Buried under mounds of texts, dating far back, even to the early rulers of Ukorstria, lay a bound chest; its secrets locked behind a magical spell that defied Istolar’s attempts to open it—until now— Two locks that belied their age secured the lid; a pinkish glow emanated from the forged steel of the Hannanite crafted locks, fusing magic and metal together. Istolar withdrew a vial from under his robes; a concoction he had devised specifically for this purpose. Brown, smokey liquid comprised of sulphuric acid, beetle juice and crushed limestone churned within the vial. Deftly applying a few drops on each lock, Istolar chanted the appropriate incantation: Opto Biforis Adaperio. For a moment, nothing happened. He stared at the chest impatiently. Then, steam rose from the locks and they changed to an icy blue colour. Fine cracks appeared, until at last they burst apart, vaporizing into the air leaving no trace of their existence. Apprehension needled the king. Slowly, he released the latches and opened the chest. Inside lay a thick volume titled, “Origin of Ukorstrian Royalty”, along with several trinkets. The pages had been treated with a light oil to preserve their suppleness, but he still had to handle them carefully. Blowing dust off a nearby table, he spent the next few hours poring over the journal. The single, tiny

window revealed afternoon was giving way to dusk. He was about to light a torch in a nearby sconce when he came to a chapter titled, “Curse of Zaranstaad”. His heart raced as he read aloud: My queen, Marian delighted in the fragrant flora of the gardens. I am confident this is the place where she can have an accident, away from the prying eyes of the castle. No witnesses and no questions. After a few respectful months, I can install my lovely mistress, Lyra, by my side as Queen of Ukorstria. Elena! Istolar feverishly flipped through the pages, hoping not to find what he already knew in his wicked heart. She walked right into the trap unsuspecting. She fell, mortally wounded. Even while she lay in her own blood, betrayal was mirrored in her eyes. The pike did not simply fall from the stone wall; it had to have been thrown. Blood gurgled from her lips, though I could hear the curse she invoked in her last gasping breaths clearly, as if whispered into my ear: ‘Here my spirit shall be bound to the earth to provide sanctuary for all who dwell with me—unless called upon by those in dire need; Girdion shall set me free.’ —Dadreus Girdion? Nowhere in the journal could he find any clue as to how gates may be sealed.

Two sentries exchanged nervous glances from their vantage point high above the sea on the Ukorstrian border. They had often witnessed the sultan assemble his troops to enforce his rule over a renegade tribe, but as the line progressed in the failing light of day, they were unmistakably headed towards Kresh. They watched as campfires were extinguished in the wake of their departure. “What the hell are they doing?” “They are heading for Kresh. This is not another internal Aegian conflict.” “Then we must warn the keep!” “Light the beacon at once!” Together, they thoroughly soaked the pillar of stacked timber with oil. With a nod from his superior, the other sentry applied flame from a torch. The oil ignited in an instant. The startled men jumped back at the ferocity of the signal fire roaring to life. The battle station siren sounded in Kresh in response to the warning from the coast and the keep sprang into action. Perimeter gates were reinforced. The main gate barred with heavy iron beams, lowered into place by two enormous pulleys, groaning under the stress. Heavily armed infantry took up positions around the main and perimeter gates. Archers filed into the heavily fortified battle-tower. Unlike its northern cousin, Kresh was built with only one defensive tower; but it was stronger and provided many more arrow-slits in a one-hundred and eighty degree arc. Lord Herat commanded the garrison of Kresh. He had been loyal to King Brekor; a fact that Istolar was uncomfortable with. However, the Hill-men were not numerous enough to completely replace the entire army, so some divisions were left intact. Istolar infiltrated their ranks with ‘advisors’ whose true intention was to watch for suspicious activity and report back to the local Wrynn agent— the secret police of Ukorstria which only the most loyal to Istolar himself could be ordained. Their reputation to follow orders unconditionally would come to be their defining hallmark. Istolar transformed the agency from a spy network into a ruthless and efficient organization.

Along the road northward to Zaranstaad, a messenger flew past farms and villages on a Feandar—a white steed the Ukorstrians bred for their swiftness. Tucked under his tunic he carried a letter from Lord Herat detailing the imminent attack from Aegia and a request for reinforcements. When he came within twelve leagues of Verdun, he ed the Aegian emissary. He slowed enough to get a good look and waved at him. Johan waved back, attempting unsuccessfully to mask his worried expression. The messenger spurred the Feandar ever faster to warn the king of possible spies making their way northward. He arrived at first light of day. Istolar had already awakened when the messenger entered the hall. “Sire, I have an urgent message from Lord Herat,” he said, handing the letter to Istolar. The scowl on Istolar’s face deepened as he learned of the attack on Kresh. Reluctant to infuriate the king with more bad news, he started hesitantly, “I have also seen a man, an Aegian spy I think, on the road to the south. He is headed this way.” Istolar glared at him, as if the messenger was personally responsible for ruining his morning. Sweat beaded on the poor man’s face and he avoided eye . At length, Istolar said, “Herat shall have his men. Find Barandur for me. I wish to speak to him at once.” The Messenger bowed, grateful he had escaped the king’s wrath for the moment, and hurried out to do his bidding. Barandur appeared a short while later, ointments spread across his face to conceal his wounds. Awkwardly, he approached the king. “You asked to see me, Sire?” The king smirked. “Have an accident?” When Barandur didn’t respond, he continued, “Reports of a spy coming this way from Aegia. I doubt Zaranstaad is his intended destination. Bring him to me.” “Yes, Sire.” Barandur rode south with a company of twelve men. By midday, they spotted a figure trying to scurry off the road and hide. He was not fast enough. “Hail there! Who are you and why do you run from us?”

“I… am not hiding. I thought you were bandits.” “Do we look like bandits?” “From a distance… I could not tell. I could only see the sun glinting off your weapons.” “You will have an opportunity to explain to King Istolar.” On the way back to the castle, Johan struggled feverishly to fabricate a story. Upon seeing the castle’s walls rise in the distance only made matters worse. Within the walled confines of Zaranstaad, reaction was mixed. He was met with cold stares, but some were mingled with sympathy. Cold stares he could cope with, however, he interpreted the sympathetic looks to mean that he was about to meet an unpleasant end. Istolar coldly appraised Johan squirming in a wooden chair high atop the Zaranspire as his messenger relayed the events surrounding Kresh. “Is this true, my friend?” he asked in mock kindness, amused by the obvious discomfort of Johan. “Yes, Your Highness, I have been sent to warn you from the Hataki tribe,” he lied. “The Hataki tribe you say.” Istolar leaned down to gaze into the frightened emissary’s eyes and snatched his badge. “Then you have no use for this then,” he said, showing Jumaki’s insignia etched onto the badge. “No, Your Highness. I only needed it to cross the border to speak with you, and for that I am in your debt.” “Indeed you are,” Istolar jeered. “Take our guest to our accommodations on the lower level,” he instructed a guard. Johan’s eyes grew wide with a mixture of fear and bewilderment when the guard clasped his shoulder. Istolar walked to a window and looked out across the northern expanse toward Hannan. Puffing on his long and slender pipe, he added, “Inform me if our friend’s senses return. You may encourage him, but do not kill him. I need him alive.”

With quiet returning to the room, he turned his attention to Lord Herat’s request for reinforcements. He sat back at his desk and stared at the letter blankly. The mystery of the castle’s gardens had preoccupied his attention, almost to the point of obsession. He spoke to himself, “Why cannot that old fool defend his own keep? Are all Brekor’s soldiers incompetent? I will send Barandur down with a legion upon his return. But can I trust him when he learns of his demotion to field commander? No. This will be a good test for my new warlord, Gorgon.” “YOU FOOL!” cried Jumaki, when the beacon lit up the sky to the north of their war caravan. “I ordered you to move out under cover of darkness! If I meant dusk, I would have said dusk!” Lengu desperately wanted to downplay the incident for he had thought the early warning signal fire was unmanned after so many years of peace, and so it was under the later years of King Brekor’s reign. However, Istolar was cautious as he was cunning and put them back into service in one of his first acts as king. Lengu concluded that the King’s Guard were no longer a threat to their catapults, an advantage he was eager to exploit. He responded coolly, “They have no way of getting to our catapults before the Khuppa arrive Your Greatness.” In two quick steps, Jumaki closed the distance between them, his dagger piercing the soft flesh under Lengu’s chin, allowing blood to trickle down onto the blade. “You had better pray my emissary is able to get into Hannan.” he whispered menacingly, allowing the implied threat to hang in the air. Deep into the night, a solitary horn blasted into the silence, commencing the attack on Kresh. The southern tower was pounded with volley after volley from Aegian catapults. Its eight-foot thick walls suffered considerable damage but withstood the barrage. Archers from the upper arrow slits responded with flaming arrows though they soon found their targets out of range. Unsatisfied with the progress on the tower, Lengu directed fire at the perimeter gates to soften them up for an all out attack once the first Khuppa arrive. To his astonishment, the gates opened before he could get the catapults turned about. “No—It cannot be!” he cried. Four-hundred King’s Guard stormed out of the gate and were rapidly closing on their position. Turning to his archers he

shouted, “Fire! Fire at will!” Aegian infantry scrambled to form a blockade around the siege machines. One-hundred and twenty leagues south of where Johan shivered in the draughty, damp dungeons under Zaranstaad, Herat led his contingent of King’s Guards into battle against the thinly defended Aegian catapults. Desperate soldiers fought valiantly to protect the catapults, but their crude pikes were no match for the disciplined knights, and little by little, they fell by the sword. Aegian bowmen inflicted heavy casualties on the knights and before long, their numbers dwindled to one-third of the men that charged out of the gates. Yet, enough knights survived long enough to make one last suicidal charge to break the last defences around the catapults. Within sacks secured to their mounts, each knight lit a fuse to a charge packed with gunpowder and enhanced with an extremely powerful explosive devised by Istolar in the days of his service to Brekor. Each knight suffered many mortal wounds from a hail of arrows when the defenders caught sight of the sparkling fuses. The sheer momentum of their attack had carried them within lethal range of the catapults and a blast that sounded for many leagues tore the air in a low sonic BROOOOMM! The ensuing shock-wave caused further devastation. Wood splinters and body parts flew out with such force that many more were killed outside of the detonation area. Lengu himself narrowly averted a fatal blow when a severed booted foot struck him on the side of his face, leaving a deep gash that would later cause an ugly disfigurement. An enraged Jumaki called for a retreat and cursed his misfortune at the turn of events when victory lay near. Yet, he was already amending his strategy. Without averting his eyes from the mayhem around him, he spoke to the wounded Lengu, bleeding without complaint beside his master. “We have not called upon our allies to the south for quite some time. And the catapults will take time to rebuild. Speak with the Bandi ruler, Bokomein. Ask if he can send troops, front-line warriors in fact. Remind him that he owes us a favour if he seems reluctant.” “Yes, Your Greatness,” Lengu managed out of his deformed mouth, for air ed through his cheek making it difficult to form words. The sarcasm in

Jumaki’s tone was pronounced when he spoke of Bokomein. Lengu recalled when Jumaki had ordered the Hataki tribe to conquer and occupy the Ghorro, a vast desert inhabited only by the Bandi. Though of no strategic value, nor did any useful resources lie under the hot white sands, the land itself represented an expansion of Jumaki’s hunger for a greater Aegia. He thought the conquest as being nothing more than a training exercise for his raiding Khuppa, but he badly underestimated the bravery of the people he viewed as savages. The Bandi were a fierce, albeit primitive warrior race, lacking in technology, but compensating with an almost superhuman courage; an attribute that Jumaki thought would suit them ideally for mounting a protective shield around his precious catapults. However, what Jumaki lacked in strategy, he made up for with subtlety, for at his core, he was a cunning opportunist, not unlike his Ukorstrian adversary, King Istolar. Quickly gathering a small force he feigned an intervention, fooling Bokomein into believing he interceded in the attack from the Hataki tribe, thereby securing his trust and . “Clean and bandage yourself first,” Jumaki added unsympathetically. “Yes, Your Greatness.” “Debts to be paid in full,” he said to no one in particular, watching Lengu once again set off southwest, this time, beyond their borders to the scorching desert land of the Bandi.

Johan listened to the soft and deliberate footfalls on the wet stone grew louder. Though he had only a brief and unpleasant encounter with him, he knew at once that they belonged to Istolar for he carried himself gracefully for a big man. But another accompanied him, not a guard, for the sound of the steps were too light. They emerged from the darkness. Johan cringed in terror; he had already taken a savage beating at the hands of the Ukorstrian guards, which consisted mostly of Hill-men thugs. Several front teeth were missing and ugly black and blue bruises covered his body. “I trust you slept well,” Istolar stated matter-of-factly, ignoring his obvious discomfort. Johan did not answer, but anxiously appraised his antagonists. A nod from Istolar prompted Barandur to open the cell door. A frightened Johan shrank into the corner when he stepped inside. Barandur was about to launch a kick when Istolar raised his palm. “Okay! Enough!” Johan shrieked. In between whimpers, he related the plans devised between Jumaki and Ferdugar to divide the territories of Ukorstria between them. Istolar listened intently, his unnerving gaze not allowing Johan any opportunity to concoct something untrue into the mix. Istolar digested this news for quite some time while his evil but shrewd mind calculated the appropriate course of action. At length, he continued, “You will continue on to Hannan along with my trusted aide, Barandur.” Barandur stiffened at the mention of his name and noted also, the omission of his title, warlord. “Once there, you will inform Ferdugar the Aegian army has been overrun and Ukorstrian forces now occupy the Aegian Plains,” he stated, handing Barandur an envelope bearing the king’s personal seal. “Do not think to play a hero, Johan of Aegia. If you should betray my orders,

Barandur will cut you down on the spot.” Though Istolar could not know it, his army had already scored a victory even as he spoke, which meant Kresh would live to fight another day.

Road to Castlerock

Soot and toil defined the village of Ravencast, situated deep in the mountainous central region of Hannan. Along its narrow and grimy lanes, forges wrought metal into artifacts of war late into the night. The whisper of war spread through Hannan like the chill wind from the mountains. Yet, far from Ravencast, In the coastal capital of Castlerock, Ferdugar still wrestled with his pact with Jumaki to invade Ukorstria. Carved right into the high cliffs, Castlerock provided a formidable defence from any naval assault. Trebuchet niches lined the cliff face on either side of the fortress that could rain fire and stone down onto ships or troops below. He gazed out across the icy sea from a balcony considering his options, even while the order for weapons and armour production had already been placed. At his side, his niece, Cetera, watched him with concern. “War is such a sad affair uncle; families broken, so much sorrow.” Ferdugar reached out with one muscular arm and pulled her close, unable to find words of comfort. “Do you what you said to me, long ago, after mother fell under a Hillman’s spear in the Outlands? “I said—you would never again have to bear the bitter taste of war.” “Can we not speak with Istolar about Jumaki’s treachery, Uncle?” “You know not what you ask, my dear Cetera. How can Istolar trust me when he learns of my deed in Aegia. I have sentenced us all to doom. It was an ill-fated decision.” “Perhaps Jumaki has also had a change of heart. We have not heard any word from him since your return.”

“They will come,” Ferdugar said grimly. “In the meantime, we must prepare.”

Barandur paid little heed to his equally miserable charge, Johan. They seldom spoke as they journeyed through the rugged hills between Zaranstaad and Castlerock. “Uggh!” Johan groaned, unaccustomed to the brambles and burrs. “Might as well get used to it, at least until we get to the Myrshin Swamp, then you can complain about the insects,” Barandur cracked. Johan only knew of the dreaded swamps from some old maps stored in the Aegian archives. He heard of strange beasts lurking in shadows under the moonlight; canine creatures with feral red eyes and razor-sharp fangs and claws. “I will be glad if we meet up with nothing more than mosquitoes.” Barandur smiled grimly, eyes focused on the trail ahead. Johan sensed he did not wish to pursue the topic further so he attempted to lighten the tone. “Leaves already starting to change colour.” “We are a long way from Aegia,” Barandur reminded him, dually implying it would be unwise to flee. “Can we at least stop for food? We have hiked through this godforsaken land since early morning.” “When we reach the outpost on the edge of the swamp.” “I don’t think I’ll last so…” —SMACK— The berry Johan was about to consume flew harmlessly into the brush. “Ouch! What was that for?” “That is deadly nightshade, Belladonna! You would not wake if you swallowed it.” Johan’s bulging eyes ed shock, dropping the remaining poison berries

with a shudder. “Come. The sooner we get there, the sooner we rest,” Barandur onished. They trudged on for several more leagues before coming to a worn, wooden hut on the edge of a black, fetid swamp. “Beyond the swamp lay the land of he Hannanites,” Barandur declared. “Let’s see what we have for rations.” Inside, two opposing benches with a window between them facing north and a weathered chest were the only furnishings in the outpost. Yet, it was well stocked and replenished often for travellers, subsidized by Ukorstrian levies. Istolar may have tripled the rates, but at least he maintained existing services. “Dried meat, bread, apples. Not bad.” Barandur tossed some of each to Johan and together they ate abundantly. Johan took in the surroundings through the window. To the west of the swamp, the towering Coppertop Mountains cast a bronze hue on the swamp, reflecting the setting sun off its snow-capped peaks. On the eastern side, sheer cliffs rose abruptly from the perimeter of the swamp. This, too, caught the light from the mountains and shone with a brilliant golden radiance. The peculiar effect of the surrounding light gave the brackish swamp a deceptively friendly appearance, and by day, it did not appear to harbour any danger. Frequent caravans carting their wares hugged the base of the eastern cliffs on the sole route through the swamp, though fewer in number than during King Brekor’s reign. Barandur surveyed the room. “We will camp here tonight, on these benches.” “But what of these beasts that roam the swamp at night?” “You do not believe in fairy tales do you?” Barandur smirked, but he shared Johan’s anxiety of being in close proximity of the swamp. “Perhaps you will sleep better in the brush?” “Oh, very funny. I see why Istolar keeps you around.”

Barandur pursed his lips at the mention of the king’s name; the abuse he endured left a scar on his pride and he no longer felt like the knight he was years earlier. His life since had seen a downward spiral which not even his dubious promotion to warlord could alleviate, if in fact, he still retained the title. Yet, with every league further from the castle, and the oppressive king, he began to feel better about himself. “I will search the area. Remain here,” he said curtly. Not far from the hut, Barandur found strange tracks intermingled with cloven hooves. The hooves probably belong to goats come down from the mountain to drink, but these . . . Tracing the outline of the splayed clawed feet slowly with his fingers, he suddenly felt sick. Dread worked its way inward, beads of sweat formed on his forehead and his legs became numb. The sun dipped behind the mountains. The relatively warm appearance of the swamp gave way to a putrid, green haze in the failing light. Racing back to the hut, the fear intensified. At the door, he stopped to compose himself. Turning the handle with forced restraint, the door swung open on creaky hinges. Where was Johan? Doubt and confusion welled up inside him; partly from losing his charge—What was I thinking?—but more importantly, he now had to track Johan through this foreboding landscape. Though a comparably poor model for a knight, training had nonetheless taught Barandur how respond under duress. Quickly, he gathered his belongings and followed Johan’s tracks northward into Hannan. What a fool to travel this godforsaken land by night! At least the light from the full moon should help me find that scoundrel! Not long after he set out, Barandur glimpsed a shadowy figure on the trail as it ed the base of the cliffs. Moonlight flooded the swamp, reflecting off the mist and illuminating the trail, making it easy to follow. Yet, the figure seemed hesitant, as if sensing some terror awaited ahead. Barandur also noticed something amiss in the swamp. Far off in the distance, a mournful howl pierced the silence. Yes, that’s it, the silence . . .

What happened to the crickets? In fact, all sounds that had been present earlier were stifled somehow, as if a giant lid closed over the swamp. Another cry rose, this time closer. Barandur reacted on instinct. Tossing caution aside, he swiftly caught up to the figure, recognizing Johan as he drew near. Johan was too frightened to attempt another escape. He simply stared at Barandur, blinking stupidly, frozen in his tracks. If it were not for their predicament, Barandur would have laughed at his comical expression. A foul stench wafted by the two travellers. Another wail, so close, it split the night asunder. Barandur thought he could feel hot breath on the nape of his neck. Unlike the previous two, a hungry snarl punctuated the last howl. Barandur followed Johan’s glare as it shifted upward, no longer looking at him, but behind him, at a beast so terrible that a silent scream was all Johan could manage. Barandur drew his sword as he turned to face his adversary, but what he saw made his grip so weak with terror, it clattered feebly to the ground. Wolf-like in appearance, Coarse, red fur covered the entire length of its powerfully muscled seven-foot frame; bristling on the back, and slightly greyish on the underbelly. Ancient, red eyes bore into him, carving up his soul. Saliva oozed from the creature’s huge yellow fangs, dripping onto its claws. A rakshasa. Sensing an easy kill, it swiped at Barandur with three fully extended two-inch claws. Barandur recovered in time to narrowly evade the attack, but the miscue only angered the creature. Out of the brush the rakshasa lumbered. Again it lashed out at Barandur, but this time he was more prepared. Anticipating the move, he dodged the blow that likely would have decapitated him, and came up swiftly using momentum to bury his dagger deep into the outstretched limb of the hapless creature. Momentarily stunned, the rakshasa paused to assess its antagonist, giving Barandur just enough time to retrieve his sword. The beast lunged with renewed fury. Barandur held his sword up in a defensive position, but the rakshasa swatted it away like a stick. Wicked intent burned in

the beast’s eyes. Lowering its massive head, a sickening rumble emanated from its throat while it circled the badly outmatched knight. Then the rakshasa leaped with a suddenness that belied its size. Barandur would have been crushed had it not been for a pack of were-dogs. The rakshasa ed confusion initially from the attack, but recovered in time to swat two of them against a rock-face, killing them instantly. Another were-dog had its face torn open by the rakshasa’s claws. Of the remaining three were-dogs, one clamped its muscular jaws in a death grip around its throat, while the other two harried the beast, preventing it from mounting a counterattack. After a long struggle, the rakshasa fell from exhaustion and loss of blood. Three of the six were-dogs lay either dead or mortally wounded, while a fourth suffered deep slashes across its body while it held onto the beast’s throat. Only two survived. Several arrows protruded from the beast’s hide. Barandur managed to get to his feet with some help from a fighter in leather armour. Are you all right?” the man asked. “I’m alright, no broken bones, just a little bruised I think.” Johan brushed himself off and casually remarked, “Whew! That was close.” Barandur shot him an irate look. “Who are you and why do you sneak through here like a thief?” A stout warrior emerged from the brush. “Barandur Van Rhyne,” he replied indignantly, but grateful for the assistance nonetheless. “And I am no thief.” “We shall see. I am Horgram. You will accompany us. Food and shelter for the night will be provided for you.” Then, in a lower tone he added, “The swamp is not a safe place for travellers by night.” “We are very grateful,” Barandur replied and they set off for the dwelling of the Hill-men. “I’m sorry for this,” Horgram said as he tied blindfolds around their eyes. Within an hour’s march, a waterfall concealed a cleft in the cliff, worn from

years of erosion. Behind the falls, the water pooled, carving out the underlying limestone. After many centuries, an underground lake evolved at which in the centre, an island formed from deposited sediment. Once inside, a large cavern opened up before them. Horgram led them across a rough wooden bridge to the island where a number of crude huts stood. Though ungainly in appearance, the dwellings were deceptively solid; fashioned from reeds hewn from the swamp and bonded with hardened clay, readily available in the cave. As they approached, Horgram removed their blindfolds. “Let us eat while we talk.” Johan nodded eagerly. The smell of stewed rabbit and mushrooms greeted the hungry and weary strangers to the land. Afterwards they washed the meal down with some ale. “Do you mind if I ask what brings a Ukorstrian and a…” “I am from Aegia,” Johan offered, shifting uncomfortably. “Very well—an Aegian—to this land?” “We are on business, to seek a pact with Hannan,” Barandur replied, not taking his eyes off of Johan. “Hmmm, a pact you say. You do not look like the usual traders that this way.” Johan leaned forward, as if to speak, but Barandur silenced him with a wave. “We are on a mission from King Istolar, whom rules this land. I am not at liberty to discuss details and he would be most upset if he learned we had been delayed.” Horgram sniffed at the bold retort from Barandur. “Brave words from fools surrounded by hunters under my command. I know who King Istolar is, thank you.” “I do not wish to offend, but you are well-spoken for a Hill-man,” Barandur said, immediately regretting he could not keep his mouth shut. When Horgram met the remark with an imive stare, Barandur continued awkwardly, “I’ve told you the truth of our mission.”

A tense silence hung in the air. “Indeed, I believe you are,” Horgram said at length. “You have leave to through to Hannan if that is your wish. My men will see you have sufficient provisions tomorrow morning.” “We are in your debt, sir,” Barandur replied. “From the time we saved your hides,” Horgram said pointedly. “Bring us more ale,” He called over his shoulder and they talked late into the night about politics and business; subjects that Horgram knew little of, but was intrigued nonetheless. Barandur was careful not to reveal his own views. “What exactly was that beast that attacked us? Johan asked.” “A rakshasa is an immortal beast that has dwelt in the Myrshin Swamp long before men arrived. Only through battle can its life be taken.” “And these dogs? Are they your pets?” Horgram chuckled. “They are wild dogs in these parts—were-dogs. The rakshasa cultivate them, turn them into rakshasas by virtue of the poison in their fangs. Not enough to kill them, but over time, they turn into the beasts that attacked you, unless we get them first of course. They are not inherently evil, so long as they have not turned.” Barandur’s eyes became heavy. Soon after, Horgram bid them goodnight. Johan lay awake for some time thinking about the were-dogs, until he, too, drifted off to sleep. The next day dawned with grey skies and steady rain but the two weary companions continued to sleep until they were finally awakened by the clatter of pots and pans as the camp prepared for breakfast. Johan was first to rise, disturbed by dreams of returning to a homeland that no longer existed. What if Ukorstria actually did overrun Aegia, as their message to Ferdugar purposed? If he and Barandur succeeded in their task, then the result would spell the end of Aegia. Barandur would be watching him closely now after his failed escape attempt. The topic never rose, but they had always been in the company of the Hill-men since the incident. Maybe he will just let it rest.

—CLANG—CLANG—CLANG— His thoughts vaporized. That must mean breakfast. After a hearty breakfast, they thanked their hosts and resumed their trek to Castlerock. “Take these with you.” Horgram presented each of them with a hooded cloak and clasp bearing the Ukorstrian emblem of a mounted knight; rarely seen in the kingdom these days as Istolar sought to banish all traces of the former reign. “Thank you,” Barandur said earnestly. “How did you come across these?” Horgram simply smiled. “Two trackers will accompany you to the border.” Barandur nodded and followed the trackers out of the concealed entrance to the cave. He glanced over his shoulder, marvelling at the skill the Hill-men used to hide the entrance. He could see Horgram speaking with Johan, though he could not hear their conversation. “Use this if you encounter danger in this land. Were-dogs will come to your aid if any are within range. Their hearing is quite remarkable,” Horgram said, handing a silver whistle to Johan. Speechless, Johan gaped at the silver sheen of the whistle. “Put it away,” Horgram whispered, closing Johan’s fingers around the whistle. Johan stashed it in his tunic. “Thank you. You have been a most gracious host.” “What was that all about?” Barandur asked as Johan caught up. “Oh, just saying we are welcome if we ever through here again.” The rain subsided to a steady drizzle, but the wind picked up and drove the sodden air right through every seam and opening of their clothing. The bog had thinned out as the trail wound steadily upward until at last one of the trackers announced, “The land of the Hannanites.” Two stone watchtowers defended the , one on either side of the entrance

where the trail turned into a road, also built from stone. A parapet bridged the two towers in a ‘V’ formation so soldiers could quickly transfer between them in the event of an attack. Below, heavy iron gates fastened to the towers in an open position, as they did in times of peace. Behind these, a lighter set of wooden gates swung open and the gate watch came out to greet them. “Good afternoon gentlemen, where might you be headed today?” The two trackers simply offered a familiar nod while Barandur replied in his best official tone, “We have business with King Ferdugar of Hannan.” The gate watch squinted doubtfully. “Where do you hail from?” “I am King Istolar’s… warlord, and my companion is from Aegia, a land to the south.” “I know where Aegia is!” The gate watch snapped, “What is your business?” Barandur handed the sealed envelope Istolar gave him, not bothering to hide his chagrin. “Of course, you recognize the king’s seal.” The gate watch carefully examined the seal for authenticity. “Wait here,” he said gruffly, retreating back to the tower he had came from. Barandur started to object, but the tracker closest to him laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. “He is just doing his job,” he advised. After what seemed to be an eternity, the gate watch returned, handing the envelope back to Barandur. “You may ,” he said flatly, but with a suspicious eye towards Johan. After They departed, the gate watch filled out the necessary paperwork for the regional sheriff, Gunther, in Norbit. Later that day, Gunther received the report. Something in it perked his curiosity. He put the matter aside and turned his attention to his lunch of brisket and potatoes. The rest of the journey to Castlerock ed without much hindrance of any sort. Wolves howled during the night, but never too near enough to cause concern.

Isolated puffs of smoke marked small villages in the distance, several which they ed through without fanfare outside of the scrutiny of an occasional curious villager. Ninety or so leagues of twisting mountainous road through the hinterlands of Hannan eventually brought them to their destination. Only the city was no longer there. “I don’t understand, it should be right here!” Barandur exclaimed. “We followed the main road. I can even smell the sea not far away.” “Seagulls up there, ahead in the distance,” Johan gestured. “Odd,” Barandur said. “The ground rises here—and there are no trees.” Johan knelt to feel the earth, as if the act would solve their puzzle. “We are in a clearing on the crest of a hill, like the bald spot on your head.” Barandur smiled in spite of himself. Suddenly, they were surrounded by soldiers emerging from the woods at every angle, blocking any possible escape routes. “What strangers venture into our land unannounced!” A green and brown clad man demanded in a firm, but not unfriendly tone. “I am Barandur of Ukorstria. This is my companion, Johan of Aegia.” The soldier, Anders, wrinkled his nose as though smelling something foul. At five feet and four inches, he was tall for a Hannanite. “You are both my companions now.” Turning to his men, he ordered, “Seize their weapons. Bind their hands and cover their eyes.” “Oh no, not again,” Johan sighed. “Just be quiet,” Barandur snapped, irritated by the manner in which they reached their destination.

After a short walk through the woods, the visitors were led down a circular stairway of moss covered stone steps before they came to a cool and damp chamber. From here, they traversed a series of narrow halls carved out of the rock until finally setting foot in Castlerock proper. “Remove their blindfolds,” Anders ordered as Barandur and Johan were brought before King Ferdugar. “Who are you and why have you come?” Barandur bowed. “You can see we are no threat, Sire. If you would kindly remove my bonds, I bear a message from King Istolar. Ferdugar nodded, but just as the guard was about to carry out the order, Johan seized the opportunity. “Wait! The letter is a fake!” Ferdugar grew irritated. “Search him!” The guard searched the helpless Barandur roughly while Ferdugar waited impatiently. Istolar had failed to consider this possibility. Now he was in no position to prevent Johan from spoiling the mission. Eventually, the guard produced the letter and Ferdugar snatched it hastily from his grasp. Upon seeing Istolar’s seal, his eyes narrowed as he looked up at Barandur, who shifted uneasily before him. Ferdugar read silently, carefully looking for any hidden context that might reveal the real truth in the matter, before folding it back into the envelope. “I see. Can anyone tell me what is really going on?” Barandur blinked stupidly, dismayed at the turn of events, while Johan seemed to draw courage from his new-found freedom. “Just as the letter says,” Johan said. Barandur stared at him dumbfounded and confused by Johan’s retraction. “I do not have time for GAMES!” Ferdugar roared. “The letter was bears the king’s own seal! Please tell us how it could be fake!” Johan resisted the urge to step back from the king’s rage. “Just the part about Kresh being overrun—Your Highness” “There is no mention of Kresh being overrun,” Ferdugar sighed, exasperation

creeping into his tone. Using his only available option, Johan played stupid. “Oh, I thought…” “Never mind! Untie them and take them to the holding cells—separately. Do not allow them to talk. Place two guards outside their cells at all times. I will deal with them later.” Guards shoved them towards the an exit from the hall, opposite to the one they entered. They followed a long, roughly hewn hallway, descending slightly for quite some time. At the end, it widened and levelled into a dusty chamber lined with small barred cells to either side. Here, they were separated into cells at each end of the chamber so they could not conspire a story together. Minutes turned to hours until one guard outside Johan’s cell complained, “Has the time not yet come for our relief?” “Fifty minutes ago,” the other replied. As if on cue, a tapping sound came from down the tunnel. “Here they come,” said the guard stationed outside Barandur’s cell. “It’s about time,” grumbled the other guard. “What’s taking them so long?” the first guard asked after awhile. “Go have a look.” “You go, you’re closer. I’ll watch these two nitwits.” “Alright, but don’t fall asleep. I don’t want to have to bail you out of trouble anymore.” When his partner did not return after some time, the remaining guard went to investigate. He could still hear the footsteps, yet oddly, they seemed just as distant as before. He found him staring at the roof of the corridor where water seeped through a crack and fell to the floor. “So this is our relief duty? Come on, we better get back. They’ll be here soon enough.

Barandur and Johan found themselves with a small window of opportunity to coordinate their before the guards returned. “What made you change your mind?” Barandur asked. “Well, you did save my life…” “Quickly then, we must abide by the letter and convince Ferdugar that we have come as peace wardens.” “For what purpose?” “To ask him to negotiate a surrender.” “But my land will be lost…” “Ukorstria relies heavily on trade between your two countries. I think that could include a return to original borders. He must realize the influence he has in this conflict.” “You have overlooked why I was sent in the first place. Jumaki will…” “Shut your mouth or I will shut it for you!” one of the two guards bellowed upon returning. Johan and Barandur obliged, not wanting to test the tempers of the guards. Maybe the next ones would be more amicable, or ignore them altogether. The sounds of arguing came from down the hall, followed by shuffling noises. Two guards spilled in the room, falling all over each other in the process. A wineskin tumbled to the floor, its contents leaking onto the stone floor.” “Hey, you idiot!” “You pushed me!” The intoxicated pair went down in a heap of arms and legs in the ensuing brawl. The two guards on duty exchanged bemused looks. The first one said, “I don’t care. Let’s get outta here.” “I’m with you,” the other laughed.

With their wine supply emptied out on the floor, the latter two guards soon fell fast asleep. The captives slept little on the hard, cold floor amidst the heavy snoring that night. The next morning, Barandur and Johan stood before King Ferdugar. “Am I to believe the contents of this letter?” He eyed them each intently, gauging their reaction. “Yes Sire,” Barandur said. Ferdugar looked at Johan. “The question was for both of you.” “Yes, of course, Your Highness,” Johan said quickly. Ferdugar studied them, drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne. “Very well, I will speak with King Istolar in a few days. I think you should accompany me back.” “King Istolar is expecting us back immediately, Your Highness. He would be most displeased if we were delayed,” Barandur pleaded. “That is not my concern. Tell me, why should I trust either of you?” “We are just following orders. Please excuse my friend. He did not want to make this journey. I think he may have been bitten one too many times in the Myrshin Swamp, he lost his senses.” “That’s a pretty poor excuse. However, you have made a point. There is no reason to detain you from your duty. Give my regards to King Istolar. He can expect a visit one week from today.” “Thank you, Your Highness. May your axe never dull,” Barandur replied using the proper farewell speech of Hannan. Ferdugar smiled. “You are both free to go. Soldiers will escort you as far as Paragon. From there, you should find your own way. Stay out of trouble or the next time you end up in one of my cells might be for an extended stay. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” They answered together.” Two days later, a second emissary travelled up the coast by ship to ensure word would reach Ferdugar the assault on Kresh had begun. Fortunately for the beleaguered travellers, they were well on their way back to Zaranstaad and safely out of reach of King Ferdugar’s troops stationed in Castlerock. For just off the coast, another emissary entered the harbour at Castlerock. Cetera wrapped her cloak about herself to ward off the morning chill. Winter came upon Castlerock under grey, soaked skies; not bitterly cold, but ubiquitously damp. “Here, this will warm you up,” Ferdugar said, handing her a cup of steaming tea. “Why do you not come inside?” She rubbed her eyes. “Thank you, Uncle. I have not been sleeping well as of late.” She peered into the fog rolling off the sea and rubbed her eyes again while her uncle watched quizzically. “What is it?” he asked at length. “I’m not sure… Can you see something offshore? Over there?” Ferdugar followed her finger, squinting in an effort to penetrate the swirling mist below. Then, he thought he could make the outline of a small skiff entering the port. “Seems like we may have a guest.” The storm-battered vessel barely navigated into port. Large swells almost smashed it against the pier. But Najir was a seasoned sailor who logged many hours on cargo ships transporting wares between Muran in Ukorstria and the outposts dotting the Aegian coastline. He deftly steered the skiff alongside the pier and secured it to the iron dock cleats. “I will greet the visitor. Have your tea inside love.” Ferdugar lifted Cetera’s chin with his weathered hand, seeing concern mirrored in her big, blue innocent eyes. He looked away, suddenly engulfed with regret and sorrow for the future of her world, then descended to the lower levels.

A solitary guard greeted Najir stoically as he climbed the last few stone steps leading up from from the pier. “Welcome. What business do you have in Castlerock?” “I bear news from the Sultan Jumaki of Aegia for King Ferdugar.” The guard weighed his response, before replying, “I will see if the king is available.” He left Najir in the shallow ingress at the doorstep, where he huddled against the sleet driven into the shelter by strong gusts off the sea. Ferdugar ambled down wide stairs that led into a cavernous hallway. Arthritis creeped into his aging ts fed by many long Hannanite winters. “Someone to see you, Sire,” the guard announced, hastily scrambling to his feet from the pedestal in the centre of the hall where where a granite statue depicting the first king of Hannan stood. “Yes, I know. Where is he? You left him outside?” The guard’s face reddened. “I will see him in Sire.” “Come this way,” he instructed Najir, as he stumbled in from the cold. Upon seeing the exhausted Najir, Ferdugar called for more tea and led him to a wooden table against a wall; one of the few furnishings not constructed of stone. Not prone to a lot of preamble, he briefly appraised the newcomer. “You have come a long way my friend. Where do you hail from and what brings you to Castlerock?” Najir shook himself out of his haze and replied, “I have been sent by my Sultan Jumaki to deliver a message, Sire.” Ferdugar’s eyes widened as he learned of the assault on Kresh. He turned to Anders. “How far have those two scallywags got?” “Past Paragon by now, Sire. Unlikely to catch them now.”

“Well don’t just stand there! After them!”

Barandur returned the es issued by the gate guards upon their entry when the sound of hooves pounding the cold dry dirt sounded in the distance. The guard regarded them with renewed suspicion. “Thank you and good day to you,” Barandur said with barely concealed restraint. “Someone is after us,” he whispered to Johan. “As soon as we get around the bend, run.” “What if they chase us?” “Then run as well, you idiot.” When they were about to round the bend, shouting rose among the neighing of horses. “Now!” Barandur said. They dashed for the safety of their own land, not knowing if their pursuers would follow. Barandur risked a look back and could see they were about to give chase when Anders ordered his men back. “Apparently, they don’t want to spoil Ferdugar’s promised trip to come in the next two weeks,” Johan said. “Why do you think they were chasing us?” “I cannot be sure they were, though my gut feeling tells me they were—for whatever reason. Let’s get out of here.” Barandur and Johan had narrowly escaped their Hannanite pursuers. The rest of the way went much more smoothly given they were better prepared with fresh provisions provided by Ferdugar’s niece, Cetera. This time, they managed to avoid the Myrshin Swamp after dark. Istolar greeted them in his chambers high up in the Zaranspire with his customary scowl. “I trust all went well?” “Sire, King Ferdugar has offered his services to negotiate peace with the Sultan Jumaki. He is expected in several days after taking care of some domestic affairs,” Barandur said. He did not bother to mention the encounter with the rakshasa for he knew Istolar would first, find fault with him, and second, inquire why they were out in the Myrshin swamp at nightfall. Nor did he mention why they raced across the border on their return.

Istolar studied him for a moment for signs of deception. He never wholly trusted the former knight due to his prior allegiance to the deposed King Brekor. “We shall see,” he said, turning his back to them to gaze out the north window, as if he could see King Ferdugar riding south as they spoke. “That will be all.” Barandur and Johan exchanged nervous glances. “ . . . Sire, is Johan to remain here?” Barandur asked. “Let him go. He is of no further use.” Johan bowed, though Istolar did not turn to acknowledge him. “Thank you, Your Highness. It has been…” Barandur cut him short with a gesture. Istolar stopped Barandur as they were about to take their leave. “One more thing. Gorgon will serve as warlord, effective immediately.” Barandur swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew it was coming, but hearing it delivered in such disdain only made it worse. He managed a weak, “Yes, Sire,” and hurried out the door to avoid giving Istolar the satisfaction of witnessing his chagrin. The travellers shared a final meal together at the Hill and Glen. Afterwards, Barandur supplied Johan with some food, blankets, and a pony. “I’m sorry for your demotion,” Johan said. “It couldn’t be helped. I thought I was prepared and I wasn’t.” “Still…” Johan started, then decided to drop the subject. “I want you to have this,” he said, pulling out the silver whistle Horgram had given him. “What’s this?” “A whistle Horgram gave me. He said were-dogs may respond to defend the keeper if they are in danger.” “That is fantastic, but why have you not mentioned it before? And why now?” Johan looked away shyly. “I don’t think I should have need of it anymore, but you might.”

Barandur took Johan’s hand in his own and said, “Thank you, Johan. You have been a good companion and I would like to think of you as a friend.” “Farewell, friend. Until next time,” Johan replied. He mounted the pony and headed down toward the outer gate. He glanced back over his shoulder as he approached the gate. Barandur was still standing there. He smiled as the guard swung open the heavy iron gate and headed for home.

A Birthday Party

The market square in Verdun teemed with activity. Locals bustled about their business on an unseasonably warm, late autumn day. Jill left Arianna with her friend, Sasha, while she arranged Liam’s birthday cake to be ready in time for the party In a lane leading from the main bazaar, a rotund man with a cheery face greeted Jill, “Good day to you my dear! I wonder what might bring you here?” the Master Baker inquired with mock curiosity. “You know what brings me here, Edgar Oatley,” Jill laughed. “Can you make a vanilla knight with lemon cream icing?” “Of course! for you, anything is possible.” Edgar bowed deeply, extending his right hand. “That’s not all,” she continued, wagging her finger at the amused baker. “I need nine knights, each holding a candle, to top it.” “Ah, Liam is nine already. Where does the time go.” “Can you do it?” “Yes, my dear lady. If you would grant me two days, I’ll have a perfect birthday cake for you, as always.” Edgar smiled reassuringly. Jill reunited with Sasha and Arianna. Together, they enjoyed a leisurely day shopping, taking advantage of the autumn sunshine. Afterwards, they went to Sasha’s house to pawn over an assortment of dresses, gowns, handbags and jewelry, all laid out over Sasha’s bed. Sasha peeped over the rim of her teacup. “Who’s birthday is it anyways?” Jill put a finger to her lips, nodding at Arianna who was busy iring herself in the mirror. “She doesn’t know about the party,” she whispered.

“Oops, sooorrrrry.” Jill laughed, “Don’t worry, she can keep a secret pretty good—for a teenage girl. I have two boys waiting for me at home. I’ll see you soon Sasha.” “Alright Jill, I’ll see you there then. Thanks for the wonderful day.” “My pleasure, Sasha. We need to get together more often.” “Let’s make some time,” Sasha said, seeing them to the door. “See you soon.” Jill waved and headed for home. To her surprise, she found Liam helping Torin preparing roast mutton. She exchanges bemused grins with Arianna and they both giggled. “So what if it’s a little burnt,” Torin said. “We’re used to cooking metal, not meat.” “Just the way I like it,” Jill said, wrapping her arms around them both. “Oh! Potatoes and carrots too! A meal fit for a king!” Liam smiled crookedly. “Yes, yes, can we eat now?” They enjoyed the burnt mutton, relating the day’s events to each other. Jill and Arianna were careful not to mention Edgar or the cake. Afterwards, they played a Tarok—A game of trading tile sets and rolling dice to gain more. The winner was the first to collect a complete set. Jill returned two days later for Liam’s birthday cake. “Good day to you, my dear!” Edgar beamed in his usual, cheerful self. “As promised, I hope you will be pleased with my creation,” he said, proudly holding the cake out for Jill’s inspection. “Oh Edgar, this is lovely. Thank you, thank you so very much. Where did you find these little knights? They are gorgeous.” “Oh no, trade secret.” Edgar winked. “Okay then, have it your way,” Jill laughed. “How much do I owe you?”

“For you, six silver pence and it’s yours.” “That will be fine Edgar.” You are welcome to come to the party if you like.” “If I can get that lazy son of mine to look after the shop for awhile, I just might,” he joked. “Hope you make it. See you Edgar.” She hurried off to prepare for Liam’s birthday party. Several women arrived early to help with the preparations. Under a tent, away from the hustle and bustle, Torin enjoyed an ale with some friends, former of the King’s Guard like himself. They talked of war and politics and after awhile, the topic turned to better days when King Brekor ruled. A burly man with an untamed, flaming red beard slammed his empty mug on the table and wiped the froth from his mouth using his sleeve. “Ahhh! The best stock in Verdun! Quite a party we’re in for eh Torin?” Kirik jabbed at Torin playfully. “Yes Kirik, Liam is in for quite a party,” Torin returned the gibe. The other two men, Miradan and Landur, chuckled at the retort, then everyone present grew silent; each one lost in their own thoughts, keenly aware of the brothers in arms lost in the assault on Kresh. Word travels fast through the remnants of the disbanded King’s Guard. Even Istolar grudgingly accepted the fact they had saved Kresh from capture. Yet, he assigned the Wrynn to discover how this unit survived the purge, only to die in one suicidal charge. “Jumaki will return,” Miradan prophesied, “And he will bring allies.” Torin solemnly nodded in agreement. “Istolar dithers while Jumaki rebuilds.” “Not a single legion has been transferred from Zaranstaad to reinforce Kresh. What is he waiting for? The walls to crumble?” Landur said. “I hear talk of a newly appointed warlord to lead a reinforcement battalion to shore up defences there,” Torin offered. Kirik jumped to his feet, nearly upsetting the table. “Well what do ye propose

then? We march down after the party to do battle with twenty-thousand Aegian’s on their own soil?” “With you leading, how can we fail?” Landur joked. Laughter broke out just as Miradan’s teenage daughter, Miriam, entered with a full tray of ale. “I’m glad to see we are getting on with Liam’s party.” “Thank you, dear. You are truly the bearer of good tidings,” Miradan said, taking the tray from her and set it down on a nearby tree stump. “Or is that beerer of good tidings,” Kirik chortled. Miriam rolled her eyes. “Yikes, I’m outta here.” She spun on her heels and left to attend to new guests that had just arrived. Miradan watched her as she skipped away with love in his heart; love tinged with sadness and fear for what kind of country Ukorstria may become after the war. Will it exist? Will my daughter be enslaved to savages? He swiped at a tear welling in his eye, pretending it to be a pesky gnat, and banished the thought. “Yes Kirik, you are right. As odd as that may seem,” Miradan said, still watching Miriam as she mingled with the crowd. Kirik stared dumbfounded back at Miradan, trying to figure out what he was referring to and if he had been complimented or insulted. Miradan looked squarely at Kirik. “The future of our nation may well ride on our shoulders. The people must defend their land.” The people, Landur mouthed the words silently. Miradan looked at them each in the eye, one by one. “We must reform the King’s Guard.” “I’m afraid Istolar is ahead of us there. I hear he is reforming his own elite force to deal with the threat which he calls the ‘Home Guard’,” Torin said. “Our time is past. It’s up to those younger and stronger than ourselves now.” The fires died down to glowing embers as the night deepened. Conversations

progressed from heated political debates to local issues, eventually winding down to family and friends with some juicy gossip mixed in. Little by little, folks said their goodbyes and went home, some more wobbly than when they arrived. The day following Liam’s birthday party found the yard strew with ribbons, plates and all manner of things you might expect to find in the aftermath of a big party. Torin made a token effort to assist Jill and a few of her friends returned to help, but he was hindered by his throbbing head. Jill smiled at the attempt and dismissed him. “Why don’t you your friends at the Coffeehouse? You don’t look so well.” Torin returned the smile and gratefully replied, “Thank you my love. I think I’ll take you up on that.” He relished the fresh breeze massaging his aching head while he strolled down the street towards the Coffeehouse. Leaves of autumn gold and crimson skittered across the cobblestones; sometimes swirling into a brief whirlwind before dancing off to reform somewhere else. Closing his eyes, he could hear the sounds of morning: A stick tapping, children laughing, a dog barking far off in the distance… “Hey you! Don’t go walking into a post!” Torin opened his eyes to see the jovial face of Kirik and laughed, already starting to feel better. “Sometimes I wish I had your tolerance.” “Oh, you wouldn’t want to be me now,” Kirik quipped, wagging his finger. They both laughed heartily and Kirik slapped Torin on the back. “Come! I can smell Mary’s coffee beans roasting from down here.” They headed up the hill to where Mary’s Coffeehouse stood perched overlooking the Verdun on one side and the North-south Road connecting Zaranstaad to Kresh on the other. The building itself was constructed entirely of sturdy logs; a commodity Ukorstria had in plenty. The two friends stepped inside, welcomed by a woody aroma of fresh coffee and banana-nut cakes. Miradan peeped up at the pair from a table by a window facing east.

“Ah! There you are! Already here I see,” Kirik said, a little too loudly and drew the attention of several patrons. “Shush,” Miradan onished. “You always think you’re in a tavern.” Torin and Kirik seated themselves as Mary greeted them. “How are you boys? What can I get for you?” “Coffee and one of your nut cakes,” Torin replied. “Same for me, but throw on a couple of sausages too sweetheart,” Kirik winked. “More coffee for you, Miradan?” Mary asked. “No, I’m fine thanks.” Even from this distance, over a grove of pines, Torin could see the outer gates swing open and a column of about four-thousand soldiers issue forth; almost half the regular contingent normally stationed in and around Zaranstaad. The sight of so many men heading south immediately sprang rumours, fuelled by caffeine, which would quickly spread across the kingdom. People crowded to the windows or climbed up on patio tables for a better view. The soldiers soon rounded a corner led by a gangly man with a loping gait. “That is Gorgon, Istolar’s prized warlord,” Torin said. “Doesn’t look much like a warlord to me,” Kirik said. “More like a beast from the Myrshin swamps.” “Where is he from?” Miradan asked, peering through the window. “A distant land, Guanna. None save Istolar has ever heard of it,” Torin responded. “How he came across him is anybody’s guess. Another of his kind is said to be in charge of the Wrynn.” “You know this? How?” Miradan looked at him dubiously. “I still keep in touch with Barandur from time to time, and if you pay any heed to the rumour mill we call the Bird’s Nest. Yet rumours are often based on truth,

in part at least. Come, let’s see what we can find out.” They gulped down their coffee and left a generous tip for Mary before scampering down the hill to intercept Gorgon. When they arrived, Gorgon gave them a puzzled look but did not stop or slow his men. Kirik and Miradan barely concealed their dismay when they caught a closer view of his vaguely lizard-like appearance. Rather than take offence, Gorgon grinned in return. “Where is our noble warlord bound?” Torin asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “Who wantsss to know?” Gorgon replied in a peculiar hissing voice. “I am Torin. These are my friends and former comrade-in-arms, Miradan and Kirik.” “Armsss? Friendsss? Knightsss maybe? Kingsss Guardsss then?” “Yes we are… or were. You know the rest.” “Sssouth to Kresss. Great battle awaitsss.” Torin had known Lord Herat as a father; a true leader, disciplined and brave. He would always be at the forefront of any charge against the enemy. He feared for him, having lost his own father while on patrol by Aegian assassins. The fallout triggered the brief, but bloody Twenty-seven Day War in which the sultan Drax was beheaded and replaced with the more moderate, Jaman, father of the current sultan, Jumaki. When Aegia sued for peace, Ukorstria listened and normal relations were restored. “You wantsss to ussss?” Gorgon offered, revealing pointed teeth that made him appear menacing rather than smiling. “Torin looked to Kirik and Miradan who both nodded in assent. “If we can muster a contingent together, we will certainly offer what help we can.”

The Ghorro Desert

Two Bandi riders met Lengu just as he approached Bokomein’s modest desert village, Drakhar. Apparently, he had been spotted by sentries, though he spotted none in the endless sand dunes that dominated this scorched and tortured land. They spoke no words of greeting or otherwise, taking up positions on either side to escort Lengu to the village. Their traditional red and black robes with a tassel fixed to the top of a leather helm indicated officer rank in the Bandi regime. Strange, he thought. He had expected to be met by guards, or men of similar rank. He stole a glance at their stoic faces. One bore a gold tassel, while the other wore red. He cursed himself for not bothering to learn their significance. “I am Lengu from Aegia.” Teemu continued to ignore him, but the other who wore the red tassel Introduced himself. “Uru, Commander of Drakhar. Chief Bokomein will determine your purpose of your visit.” The chilly response discouraged Lengu from attempting any further conversation. A slight, studious man greeted Lengu from a carved sandstone chair, “Welcome man of Aegia.” Two servants, tasked with bathing Bokomein’s feet in a tub of warm water, looked up curiously at the stranger; the first they had ever seen. Upon seeing Lengu’s bandages soiled with sweat and sand, Bokomein ordered, “Fresh dressings for our friend.” One of the servants left to do his bidding. “You have come a long way Master…” “Naga, Lengu Naga, Your Lordship. I have been tasked by the great Sultan Jumaki, to plead for your aid for we are at war.” Bokomein gravely eyed this stranger, who boldly entered his land to ask for an ally in a war that did not concern his people. The servant returned with clean, hot towels which Lengu accepted gratefully.

“And why should I put my troops in harm’s way in a conflict not of our making?” “Sire, our sultan did intercede on your behalf when the Hataki tribe…” “When he saved us from his own people,” Teemu, the chief’s advisor, interjected. Bokomein chuckled. “Be at rest Lengu Naga. Enjoy our humble retreat for a day and I will meet with you later.” Turning to Uru, he said, “See that our guest is lodged comfortably.” Lengu spent the remainder of the afternoon browsing the village’s markets. Many stares followed him from people who had never seen another with such light skin; not that Aegians were particularly light. In fact, their tone was as different from Ukorstrians and Hannanites as it was from the Bandi. Though the hardships of desert habitation were evident, the resourceful Bandi made the most of their environment, especially the underground springs the village was built around. Below the parched surface, a network of caves carved out of the sedimentary rock by hot springs provided a natural source of water. Hot steam mixed with the soil above when it sought to escape, causing the earth to be a slightly darker shade than its surroundings; a trait the Bandi were able to detect and exploit. A series of shafts were laboriously dug down to the caves below, concentrating the escaping steam. This had a twofold benefit: While cooling the water, the rising steam served as fuel to turn paddles connected to a crank. In turn, the other end of the crank connected to a pulley and rope system that drew water to the surface. Once at the surface, the water was dispensed throughout the village via aqueducts using gravity to create water pressure. Lengu marvelled at the achievements of a race he had always been taught were primitive savages. Following a narrow lane lined on either side with sandstone residences, he came upon two sprawling buildings that marked the barracks and armoury. Row upon row of deadly spears lined racks in between the two buildings. In the event of an attack, these could be dipped in buckets of scorpion poison that hung at the end of every fourth rack. Clearly, they had learned the consequences of complacency from their last encounter with the Hataki tribe and were much better prepared to defend themselves.

“Hey you! These are restricted grounds!” A heavy-set man in a red and black uniform shouted from across the yard. He bore the silk tassel of a lower ranking officer. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.” “Where are you from? What is your business here?” Constable Mudoo demanded.” “I am here to seek aid from your leader, Chief Bokomein, to aid in our struggle against Ukorstria.” “Have you met with him yet?” “Yes, I am to speak with Chief Bokomein again tomorrow morning.” Mudoo paused, silently gauging Lengu’s response before dismissing him. “Be on your way then. And stay away from here and the lower quarter.” Lengu, unsure how to respond but relieved nonetheless, gave an awkward gesture of understanding before heading back up the lane. The lower quarter? Why? The twilight sun hung mercifully low on the horizon, bringing a welcome reprieve from the midday sun. Lengu headed back toward his accommodations along a road aptly named, ‘The Korforgalom’, which means, ‘the Roundabout’ in the common tongue. The Korforgalom derived its name from the way it completely encircled the village. Dusty streets connected The Korforgalom to the village hub like spokes of a wheel. He hoped his route might offer a glimpse of the lower quarter. Like a moth to flame, Mudoo’s warning only perked his curiosity and now he needed to know what could warrant such caution. His hope soon became realized. Several figures donning black hooded robes milled about in a small clearing. Though difficult to discern at such a distance, they appeared to be setting up objects in a circular pattern. Ignoring Mudoo’s advise, he selected a street that

would take him closer to the drama unfolding below, right into the heart of the lower quarter. As he drew near, he could surmise the objects were urns place on bamboo stands with an opening carved out of the side facing the centre of the circle. Inside, a human skull with crystal eyes sat on a bed of straw. The desert sky darkened quickly once the sun dropped below the horizon. Billions of stars lit up the sky on a dazzling tapestry of light and colour. The Followers, a sect within the Bandi unknown to the outside world, gathered in a circle, one behind each urn, as a full moon cast an eerie bluish-white glow upon the village. Lengu watched, enthralled by the hypnotic chanting of the Followers while the hours slipped by. Close to midnight, light reflected the moon from the crystal eyes towards the centre of the circle where an obelisk absorbed the light. Not far off to his left, a narrow lane led down into the bowels of the lower quarter. All manner of outcasts wandered about—derelicts, thieves and drunkards—casting an occasional hostile glare towards Lengu. But curiosity trumped fear so he headed determinedly down the lane, pulling his cowl close to shield his face. Do not make eye . He decided to find a more favourable vantage point, away from the prowlers of the night. He found a secluded spot behind a cluster of utility sheds. The obelisk loomed up before him. Clearly it was growing, standing now at least fifteen feet high, obsidian and blacker than the deepest caves in Hannan. No light could escape its blackness. The blue streams of light focused onto it simply dissolved onto its surface. Yet, its mass was insubstantial somehow, as if no native form sustained its structure. An obelisk was the simplest form to achieve and so that was the shape it assumed. No sooner had the thought occurred to Lengu, when the massive frame twisted and turned. The sides contorted outward in what appeared to be black leathery wings with barbed course hair instead of feathers. Its base split into two legs, each as thick as an oak tree, with monstrous hooves that could crush any unfortunate creature to be caught in its path. Lengu gasped at the massive, hideous head, adorned with two curving ram horns and crystal eyes that bore a

cold, blue flame. And now, those eyes of unspeakable evil had taken notice of him. An acrid stench overpowered Lengu. Suddenly, his legs could no longer bear his weight and he slumped to the ground. Only one word could he now make out from the droning of the Followers: —Popobawa— Lengu opened his eyes to see Mudoo standing over him with a disapproving look. Behind him, Bokomein shook his head gravely. “Did I not make myself clear?” Mudoo scolded. Lengu blinked, trying to clear his head. “What happened back there?” “Many things within our borders…” Bokomein cut him short with a wave. “We have suffered many hardships at the hands of invaders and would-be conquerors. Though our land lacked fertile valleys or mineral wealth, enemies regarded us as primitive savages, unable or unwilling to defend ourselves.” He fixed his gaze on Lengu. “We have discovered such a means.” “Oh my God, you have made a pact with a demon from hell!” “Popobawa is a formidable ally.” “At what cost?” “That is of no concern to you.” An uncomfortable silence ensued, electrifying the air. An unspoken truth hung between them. “Of course, you realize you have made yourself a permanent guest by your foolish actions.”

Anticipation of war began to dwindle as time ed and an ambivalent calm settled on the world. Ferdugar sent spies to confirm Jumaki’s claims and found siege machines withdrawn and covered. Gorgon arrived in Kresh two years ago, and now Herat was considering how long he should keep his charges on high alert. Jumaki had since learned from a Bandi message delivered by the Hataki tribe, that Lengu was being detained on charges of spying, denying him the vital he needed for a second attempt on Kresh. He mistrusted the Bandi in principle and became suspicious of the official charge of spying. Twice he sent messengers to seek Lengu’s release and twice they returned with flat refusals. Lengu may have discovered something he was not meant to be privy to. If Jumaki could see all the way across the Aegian Plains and the Ghorro Desert, he would see Lengu languishing in a dusty cell. Twice he had been stung by scorpions and had nearly died on one occasion if it were not for the talents of Drakhar’s only healer. Constable Moodoo paid the ultimate price for failing to keep Lengu away from the lower quarter. Bokomein filled the vacated garrison officer’s post with Uru for the time being. Lengu examined his cell, looking for a weakness to exploit. Escaping would prove to be the easy part of his plan. Crossing the searing Ghorro desert undetected was another matter. Fortunately, running errands for Jumaki far and wide also taught him how to survive on meagre rations with scant resources. “First things first,” he said to himself, chuckling at the thought of congratulating himself on a clever escape he had yet to do. He popped a buckle open on one of his boots, then he threaded one end of his blanket through and tied it securely. Next, he popped open the second buckle and squeezed the boot between the bars. In the centre of the room, a large wooden wheel turned around a crude axle that was in turn, driven into the ground.

Lengu was interested in the crane mounted atop the wheel. The entire assembly could swivel around to release a catch that allowed the spring-loaded gate to pop open on one of six cells. Typical of Bandi architecture, the cells were arranged in a circular pattern, with the crane mounted in the middle. First, he needed to turn the crane so it pointed toward his cell. Holding the other end of the blanket, he attempted to toss his boot over the arm of the crane, but it was too far. Stretching his arm out through the bars as far as possible, he tried again. This time it fell only inches short. Removing his shirt, he tied it together with the blanket to added another twenty inches or so. On the fifth try, he succeeded. Now if he could only loop his buckle around the hook, he would be free at last. He would need to be both lucky and patient, for the hook rested at least four feet above the top of the gate where an eyelet protruded. Even if the buckle caught onto the hook, would it be strong enough to hold while he pulled it down toward the eyelet? As night deepened, Drakhar became quiet. With the aid of starlight and moonlight, Lengu laboured at his desperate work. Only the chirping of crickets helped mask the clinks and the clangs. Finally, it caught. He could hardly believe it. Slowly, he pulled on the blanket as the crank on the other end turned with creaks and groans. The operation was like loading a crossbow by pulling the arrow. He could see the buckle straining at its seams under the tension. With each notch, the tension grew. —click—click—click— Just a little bit more… —SNAP—ZING— The thread could not hold the buckle any longer as it sprang from the boot and flew across the room. But not before the hook caught in the eyelet. Lengu breathed a sigh of relief and slumped to the ground. The final task required knocking out the trigger so the gate will lift. Of the few stones that lay

strewn about, even fewer were large enough to knock out the trigger. Still, he was not about to give up now. First, he used up the smaller stones for target practice. Next, the bigger stones may release the trigger with a lucky shot. If he used up these, then he would have to rely on the buckles off of his remaining boot. The boot itself would serve as a last resort. The first attempts flew off in erratic directions as he tried to quell his nerves. A few of the bigger stones grazed the trigger, but not the direct strike needed for it to disengage. Stones were becoming scarce. Panic began to creep up his spine. His hands trembled while he worked frantically to remove the buckles. The first one sailed over the trigger and fell uselessly to the ground. The second one came agonizingly close to dislodging the trigger but instead reflected off and settled on the wheel. One last chance remained with his boot. Squeezing it through the bars, he extended his arm and steadied his hand. Using all his concentration, he tossed the boot, heel first, and watched in dismay as it missed wide of its target. What now? After his initial despair, he searched for more stones, feverishly digging until at last he struck something solid. Tracing along with his fingers, he could feel something long and slender. With renewed vigour, he cleared the area around his discovery, soon revealing what appeared to be a branch, perhaps leftover from construction of this tiny jail. Here it lay, as chance would have it, perfectly preserved in the dry, sandy soil. But was it long enough? Carefully, he excavated his prize and examined it closely. Certainly, it appeared like it might work. Shuffling sounds outside caught his attention. He had lost track of time and realized how stupid and careless he had been tossing his boot out. Now, the guard would surely question him about two broken boots. Hastily untying the blanket from his remaining boot, he covered the hole with his blanket and leaned

back against the wall, pretending to be dozing. The guard rambled in, looking like he would rather be sleeping comfortably at home. Nevertheless, he carried out his duties; checking the gates were secure and no tunnelling was going on. “Remove that blanket!” he commanded. Lengu swallowed his fear and reluctantly obeyed the guard. “Just as I thought.” the guard said in smug satisfaction and smacked Lengu hard with his baton. “Ya think you’re going to dig you’re way outta here rat! Fill it up before I come back or I lay a beating on ya! Understand?” “Yes, sir.” “Good!” He snapped and tromped out feeling very pleased with himself. Lengu stared after him in disbelief—how the goddess of fortune had smiled upon him— Satisfied he had thwarted an escape bid, the guard took no notice of the boot laying on the other side of the room. In addition, he failed to see that the latch was unfastened above the cell. Lengu took advantage of the turn of events, eager to exploit the time before the next round and get a good head start. With one jab, he used the branch to spring the trigger and the gate slid upward. Using his dusty blanket for a cloak, he stole his way through the back alleys, blending in amongst crates, barrels and storage sheds until he came to the outskirts of Drakhar. He had nearly been seen while filling his water flask at a well, but heard the approach of the villager in time to sink back into the shadows. He rested awhile to decide how he should proceed. This had always been the weak part of his plan The only strategy he had was to bury himself under the blanket at the first sign of pursuit, which would require constant monitoring of the ground for the tell-tale thumping of hooves. He wished he had a horse for himself, but they were scarce here and he could not afford the time to forage around for one. A likely spot may be close to the barracks, if he felt lucky enough to risk poking around there. He did not, so here he was.

Yet, luck smiled down on him again. Stomping noises and the unmistakable snorting of a horse came from somewhere nearby. “By the Gods,” he whispered. The horse was an average size mare of various shades of tan. Lengu quickly bridled her. No saddle, oh well, can’t have it all I suppose. He encouraged her to drink deeply before setting out, for they had to travel quite some time before the next watering hole. One last cautionary check revealed no danger, so off they went under a starry velvet sky. Lengu breathed a little easier once he made some distance from Drakhar. Two hours had ed since the change of guards still no indication of pursuit trailed him. A ruddy sun rose ahead, painting the leading slope of the sand dunes with blood and setting the sky ablaze; signs the day would be unbearably hot. Though fatigue coursed through his veins, and the sun beat mercilessly down, he was more concerned for the mare. “A few more hours girl,” he encouraged, sharing with her the last few gulps of water. As dusk approached, he started to worry that he had miscalculated the location of the watering hole. The shifting dunes made it difficult to trust direction and distance. The Three Witches: Three rocky hills that earned their name from the howling winds that whipped through its craggy terrain, marked the location of the waterhole. One only had to be within fifty leagues to spot them. He rode on through the night without rest until the next sunrise revealed The Three Witches’ silhouette on the horizon. With half a days ride still ahead, he found himself south of his intended target and desperately thirsty. The poor mare struggled with each step. Her legs wobbled and her breath was shallow and laboured. Sensing imminent death, Vultures circled overhead to track their progress; a grim reminder of what fate awaited them should they falter. In spite of his own weariness and heat exhaustion, he dismounted and led her on foot. However, it was too late. Unable to her own weight, she stumbled a few more steps before collapsing. Lengu tried to coax her up, but when her eyes rolled back in her head, he knew she was gone. He wanted to cry, forgetting he was an Aegian warrior; his resolve all but spent. Turning away from her, he continued toward The Three Witches with an empty

heart. The gruesome sound of vultures feeding would have caused him to vomit if he had anything in his stomach. Instead, he gagged and choked until his stomach ached. Just when he thought things could not get any worse, he sensed the approach of danger, feeling it in his toes. Dropping to the ground and resting his ear against the sand, confirmed what he feared most. They are coming. He quickened his pace as much as his shaky legs would allow. The Bandi warriors were closing fast; less than two hours. Even if he were to reach The Three Witches by then, what chance did he have? Surely, they would flush him out eventually. Again, he repeated the mantra that got him this far: “One thing at a time.” Well, he did make it there in time, and drank greedily until his stomach hurt. Having replenished his strength somewhat, he scanned the area for a place to hide, though he was sure they would search every nook and cranny. In spite of being exposed to the elements, the outcrops were geologically young. Many hidden pockets and crevices had been carved out of softer rock by wind and sand. The Bandi riders slowed their mounts and circled the perimeter. Lengu needed to find cover quickly. He spotted eight riders below, perhaps one-hundred feet. He stumbled across a concealed entrance. Outside, the wind began to intensify. This was as good a place as any to make his last stand. The Bandi soldiers split into four pairs to comb the area. Only a matter of time, Lengu thought, considering the unthinkable—just giving up. The sound of sliding stones interrupted his thoughts and caused him further despair. He peeped out to see if they were drawing near. They were indeed. Just below, two men were bent over examining tracks. How could he have been so careless? They argued back and forth. “Those are yours, fool! Last time we circled the hill.” “No. We were further down.”

“You this brush?” The other stared at it quizzically. Lengu felt as if he were staring right at him and shrunk back into the cave. “No… I don’t,” the other replied, and climbed up for a closer look. Lengu’s heart thumped wildly. In sheer panic, he staggered backwards and lost his footing. Both soldiers heard the misstep as Lengu groaned, landing painfully on the uneven surface. He was cornered with no chance of escape. The Bandi, delighted to have snared their prey, closed in. “Grab him!” From somewhere behind Lengu, a shriek pierced the darkness, eerie and hollow, like the howling wind outside. The soldiers retreated; fear and panic mirrored in their eyes. Lengu instinctively scrambled to follow, but something held his ankle, pulling him down deeper. In vain, he clawed the earth, but the hill seemed to be swallowing him up. Succumbing to terror, he lost consciousness.

Aegian engineers worked feverishly to rebuild the siege machines on anticipation of Lengu’s return with the Bandi reinforcements. Sporadic skirmishes flared up with Ukorstrian border guards when they attempted to secure lumber to accomplish their task. Jumaki had anticipated as much and infiltrated the hills with marksmen armed with crossbows. From behind rocks and high in trees, they struck fear into the patrolling guards, driving them back just long enough to allow a few logs of precious timber to be retrieved. But it was dangerous work and Jumaki decided to send elderly and otherwise unfit men to replenish their numbers, thus reserving his engineers for the construction of the machines. This made sense, from a military perspective, but many grumbled where he would draw the line. Whom would be next? Women? Children? His earlier defeat did not rest well with him and cost several lieutenants their lives. Morale was for the weak of heart as far as Jumaki was concerned. With Lengu far off across the Ghorro, Jumaki appointed Kai, a competent general in his army to oversee the arrival of the six legions of Khuppa. Though not an especially imaginative strategist, Kai impressed Jumaki with his ruthless aggression in battle; a role well suited to lead the Khuppa when they rushed the gates of Kresh. Jumaki spotted the unique gait of the tall, lanky man from a distance, ambling through the smokey camp towards him. He already knew why. His instincts rarely betrayed him and helped him to retain the role of sultan of Aegia longer than any before him. “The riders grow restless, Your Greatness.” Jumaki smiled. “They will not have to wait much longer.” “Shall I send a scout out to meet them? Perhaps their journey has been hindered from their long trek across the Ghorro.” “That would be prudent. In fact, send a company of rangers.”

“Immediately, Your Greatness.”

Putrid odours wafted through the cave, emanating from a large, cast iron cauldron boiling in the centre of the cavern. Nausea forced Lengu to regain consciousness. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his eyes to the acidic fumes. From the sound of the bubbling in the pot, he determined the concoction to be of thick texture, like some nightmarish stew. Three figures gathered around the brew as it simmered over red-hot coals, stirring it occasionally which sent new waves to assault Lengu’s nostrils. As much as he tried, he could not help himself, gagging and choking until finally vomiting yellow bile from his empty stomach. Unfortunately, now he had attracted their attention. Horrified, he realized they had no eyes; only a faint, green light glowed from empty sockets—The Three Witches— He had assumed the hills were named for the howling wind that whipped around its jagged terrain. The possibility of three witches living here never occurred to him. Yet they were beautiful, with the exception of the eyes; not old, craggy women he envisioned witches to be. He could hardly tell them apart, so similar they appeared. Yet, their demeanour revealed their character in ways both subtle and grotesque. One bearing a baleful expression looked down at Barandur, cocking her head slightly. “Please sir, she pleaded, “Will you not help us?” “Help you with what?” he asked incredulously. “Sweeten our stew. We made it just for you.” “For me? Why?” “So that you may sweeten the taste, silly. Pleeeezze. It does not smell very good.” “No kidding. Look, I don’t think I can do anything to help you with that. It smells like rancid dead things.” “Yes, thank you. We were lucky to find a dead horse.”

Barandur just stared in shock; they found his abandoned mare. He suppressed the urge to gag as revulsion welled up inside. “So what do you want from me?” “Your arms.” “My arms… You want me to move the pot?” When the witches responded only with smiles, dread filled him like black ichor coursing through his veins. —Sweeten the taste?—Oh God!—No!— He tried to run, but his trembling knees buckled under him as soon as his feet hit the floor. The third witch, who had been silent thus far, picked him up and placed him back on the stone slab. While the first witch appeared mournful, the second one characterized seduction. Sliding up beside him, she whispered into his ear, “Don’t be afraid, my love. We’ll keep you alive. We need your legs for the next batch.” She licked his ear. “Mmmmm, so sweet.” Reaching down his pants, she fondled and caressed his genitals until he achieved an erection. His body and mind reacted separately. He arched his back and unwillingly succumbed to the violation, even while his mind fought against it. Her hand worked feverishly, bringing his erection to a climax. Lengu screamed in protest, eliciting giggles from the witches, amused by his struggle. The seductive witch withdrew her hand and licked her sticky fingers clean. Lengu retched again, trying to vomit on an empty stomach. “Enough of this,” the third witch, the sensible one, said. “Take his arms off below the shoulder!” A moment later, the sad witch returned with an axe. Seemingly remorseful, she said, “I’m sorry, it will only hurt for a day or two.” Then she brightened. “You’ll still have your legs for a couple months, maybe even three!” She waited for gratitude to show on his contorted features. When it didn’t, she shrugged and raised the axe while the other two held him steady. With renewed vigour, Lengu rolled as the axe came down, taking a slice out of

his shoulder blade and exposing bone. He yelped in pain, but stood his ground, snatching a stirring rod off the wall for defence. But he was in a hopeless situation, surrounded as they formed a circle, looking for an opening. A witch splashed oil at his feet causing him to slip whenever he tried to spin about. He managed to land a blow to the side of the sensible witch’s head that should have knocked her to the floor, but she just shook her head a little then grinned back at him. Amidst the mayhem, the sound of pebbles trickling down from the entrance to the cave alerted the witches. They froze in unison, turning to deal with the foolish intruder. Lengu reacted on instinct and fear, dashing toward the opening in a desperate bid for freedom. “Dive!” A company of Aegian rangers trained their bows on the witches. As soon as Lengu hit the floor, A volley of arrows sped toward their targets. The humming of arrows resonated above him. He had spent so much time in captivity without seeing or hearing from one of his own countrymen, he wanted to kiss the ranger’s feet while he lay prostrate on the floor. Madness had begun to take root in his soul. First, the cramped, vermin infested cell in Drakhar, and now, with these horrid creatures, who intended to carve him up like a roast. Before the arrows reached their target, the witches coalesced into stone. In disbelief, the rangers gawked at this new threat as it lumbered toward them. “Stone golem! Run!” Lokar, the ranger captain cried. Two rangers grabbed Lengu and clambered up the age leading outside. The entire cave rattled with the heavy stomping of the golem, sending huge chunks of rock crashing to the ground. A falling rock struck a ranger down and another larger one trapped him. Though he was still alive, the company could not help him. His arm was pinned firmly under the boulder. Lengu would never forget the agonizing looks between the doomed ranger and Lokar as the captain regretfully abandoned the ranger to his fate. At least the ranger did not suffer for long. In the time it took for the golem to squash his prey, the cave began to collapse. Cascading boulders thundered down the age, blocking the golem’s escape.

“Am I ever glad to see you!” Lengu cried. “Your rescue was not without cost,” the captain said bitterly. “Let’s get out of here before that golem gets free.” “Free?” Lengu repeated. The captain addressed him as one does a child; “it’s a stone golem. Probably hollowed out that cave in the first place.” “So what became of the witches?” “All things are made up from the basic elements of earth, wind, water and fire. Elemental beings have an enhanced ability to assume forms beyond their natural state when they choose. Indeed they…” Lokar’s tone became abruptly urgent. “We cannot tarry here. Lengu—take Jarid’s mount. He will not need it any more.” He hastily wrapped Lengu’s raw shoulder wound. “We must hurry. Your wound is deep and the golem is a threat while we linger.” Lengu considered the Lokar’s words. Could Popobawa be one of these elemental spirits? He brushed the thought aside. Time to think of home—rolling hills, good food. Every league closer brought his spirits higher, leaving the horrors of the past behind. Even though he would be thrust into battle once his wound healed, nothing could dampen his spirits. Yet, his failure to secure an alliance with the Bandi would not be sit well with Jumaki. The price for failure might earn him a spot on the front lines, leading a suicidal charge into the heart of Ukorstrian defences. Within two days, he must decide how to tell Jumaki there would be no Bandi reinforcements. Curious, he mused, that I should need my best diplomacy for my own sultan. How will I explain what happened? “Do I tell him about Popobawa?” He whispered to himself. “Just tell the truth. Jumaki is a reasonable man. He will understand.” “You really are going mad. He will think you are spinning a wild tale to save your wretched hide.”

“So it shall be. I’ll have to take the risk.” Lengu’s debate with himself caught the attention of Lokar, who eyed him with concern. Lokar had no idea what was going on in Lengu’s mind. He was unaware what had transpired in the cave before they arrived. Nor had he any knowledge of Lengu’s imprisonment in Drakhar. Lokar knew he only needed to find Lengu and return him Aegia. This was his assignment and he followed his orders to the letter, which was probably why Jumaki selected him for the mission in the first place. For the remainder of the return journey, the riders kept a discreet distance from Lengu, wondering if the loss of blood made him delirious.

Bokomein summoned the War Council to discuss the request from Sultan Jumaki for troops. “Popobawa is once again, a secret known only to the Bandi,” Bokomein began. “Jumaki must not learn what became of Lengu. As far as he is concerned, Lengu carried a document stating our assistance is forthcoming.” “Are we certain of Lengu’s death, Chief?” Teemu asked. “My trusted advisor, if you have something to say, then please do so.” “Only this, there is no body, only the soldiers sent to retrieve him have any of what happened. Do you not think it is in their best interest to claim he was taken by… spirits, of which they provide little detail.” “Many have ventured into The Three Witches, none have returned,” Uru offered dryly. Teemu reacted to his rival angrily. “Oh? Tell us what you know of the area, Uru.” Chief Bokomein raised his hand. “I have decided. He will have his foot-soldiers. Two infantry divisions and one brigade of archers must be made ready to march by the morning after tomorrow.” “And the Followers? You do not intend to include them?” Uru asked candidly. Bokomein did not answer immediately, as if he wished to avoid the question. “This is not our fight. We have few dealings with these Ukorstrian’s, but as long as Aegia is looking to their northern border, our own should be secure. Popobawa is a lethal and capricious force, to be used only in the utmost need. The Followers summon it here under strict protocol. There is no telling how it would respond on the battlefield.” “And what if the Aegians take Ukorstria? Will we be next?” “I doubt Jumaki will supply an entire army across the Ghorro. But if he does, Popobawa will be waiting for them. Are there any further questions? Concerns?”

Uru glanced about the table. Four sat placidly, as if they were attending a tea party. Teemu just stared at him, not bothering to disguise his disgust. He sensed Bokomein wanted to close the debate, but he had to press, even if it meant falling out of favour. “If no one is willing to state the obvious, then I suppose I must. Over one year has ed since Jumaki sent the emissary, Lengu. Although he is aware of Lengu’s detainment, he has made no further requests for aid. What does that tell you?” “He is afraid to risk another emissary?” Teemu interjected scornfully, attempting to belittle Uru. He perceived Uru as a sycophant, unworthy of his promotion to garrison officer. Whenever he seen Uru talking with Bokomein, he suspected he was the topic of conversation; undermining him and sowing seeds of distrust. “No, wait,” Bokomein said, wondering why he had not considered the point before. “Perhaps the war has already been decided, one way or another. They may have even settled for peace.” An older man, whom had been nodding off at times, voiced what they were all thinking. “Well, we can’t just show up at their doorstep like a bunch of fools.” “Point taken, Carack. Teemu, send word to the our liaison in the Hataki tribe and notify them we plan to send troops to supply the Yamata tribe if they are ready to receive them. After all this time, Jumaki should be pleased with the news. Uru, prepare the troops, but we will wait for a response before committing.” Oh, yes. I’ll prepare the troops—while Teemu is busy elsewhere. Uru thought, having a plan already in the making. This time, Bokomein did not prompt for further discussion. “You have your orders,” he said, leaving the room. The others followed, except for Carack, who drifted back off to sleep.

Legacy of the Gardens

The visage of an old, stately man shimmered in the dark depths of the catacombs underneath the Gardens of Zaranstaad. Spirits of long-forgotten nobles darted about the dank and musty corridors. An almost imperceptible movement of his grey beard was the only indication one had ed close by. The former king recalled days not so long ago, under the shady oaks outside the gardens where he tossed his baby girl, Elena, playfully into the air: Nearby, her mother, Helen prepared lunch. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she listened to the delighted screams of her daughter. She had no idea of the evil days ahead, just over the wall in the castle’s gardens. In a sudden outbreak of fever, she fell sick and lost consciousness two years later. For two weeks she lay on her deathbed before the fever claimed her. Elena was so young, she overcame her grief, but Brekor visited her resting place in the catacombs every night. Now he was reunited with his queen. The ghost of Brekor slowly lifted his soulless eyes upward. Even in this form, his head was heavy, weighed down by grief and regret. He chanted a summoning incantation from pale, quivering lips which could be heard through the earth to the gloaming twilight above. “He calls us, my love.” Elena’s silver hair reflected the moonlight, casting a mystical light about them. “Yes, I know. I can feel his will upon me.” Cailin dreaded this day, but he knew he could not remain hidden from Brekor forever. “You know I never meant to harm you,” he said, referring to the night of his drug-induced rape while she was out for a peaceful evening stroll in the gardens. She nodded, holding his gaze. The incident was but a distant memory now; like a ship sailing over the horizon, fading from time and thought. For out of the ashes of the vile act, the deep attraction between them survived and against all odds, grew even stronger.

But the trauma of the incident left a scar that would not heal. While she struggled to find inner peace in the sanctuary of the gardens, an assassin’s arrow took the life of her father. Watching him die in her arms proved too much to bear. In her pain, she crossed over into the twilight that exists between life and death. The change happened over time so that few noticed her already spectral appearance shift in subtle ways. Her silver, gossamer hair adopted an otherworldly sheen; her skin appeared translucent; she seemed to float rather than walk. When she learned Cailin was the perpetrator shortly after giving birth to Liam, her transformation became complete and she vanished from the world of men. Thus came about her visit to the dungeon as she sought to bring him with her to claim retribution and erase the evil deed. He, too, mysteriously vanished and all, with the exception of Istolar, had any idea what became of them. And he learned of Liam’s origin. Chance or destiny saved Liam’s life the day Torin and Jill adopted him into their family. He filled a void in their lives where they had lost a daughter. Here, in the Gardens of Zaranstaad, Cailin and Elena formed an unbreakable bond, bound by their grief to each other for eternity in a world that knew neither sun nor rain. Yet, their love survived this ultimate test of their devotion and became the sole reality in their colourless world. Their palms pressed together, clasping tightly together until they became one. The opaque form brightened to a glittering sparkle, and like stardust, it flowed down through the earth to re-materialize in the catacombs below where Brekor awaited them. “Nothing can erase the cowardly act you have committed,” he addressed Cailin perfunctorily. “But you are fortunate to have an opportunity to redeem yourself.” Istolar has brought Ukorstria to the brink of all out war; a war he cannot win. Both our borders will be assailed. Either Kresh or Zaranstaad will fall and when that happens, the other will quickly follow.” “Then what can we do?” “You must find my grandson, Liam, and restore him as the true king.” At the mention of her son, Elena released a long, mournful wail.

“But he is just a child,” Cailin implored. “He holds within him a great power; one which allows him to wield the most powerful sword ever forged.” “What chance does a child have with a sword, no matter how powerful, against the combined might of two armies? Ukorstria does not have enough men in arms to fight a war on two fronts.” “Perhaps no chance,” Brekor agreed. “But that is not all!” The urgency of his tone snapped Elena out of her sorrowful lament and she fixed her attention on her father. He paused briefly while she struggled to bury the memory of being separated from her son, then he continued, “Another nation has ed with Aegia. They possess a weapon that no devices of man can defeat… except the sword, Girdion. If they choose to use it, only Liam can stand against it.” Cailin lowered his head. “Then I must reach him somehow.” Brekor smiled ively. “Perhaps if you can reach Barandur, he may trace its whereabouts.” Brekor’s wispy voice trailed away and his image wavered. He was being called back by the dead. “Wait! Where is this sword you speak of?” Brekor’s voice was little more than a whisper as it mingled with the swishing sounds of ing spirits.—In a cave—remote hills—Hannan—Ravencast— “How will he know where to look?” Cailin asked, but he received no answer. Such is the fate of one whom exists in the netherworld. Elena picked up a stone from where her father’s visage had been just a moment before; a ruby, the colour of blood from all men who ever died in battle to save their homeland of Ukorstria. “I guess he will be needing this.” She turned it in her hand curiously, though she did not know it’s purpose.

From atop the southern tower, Barandur watched gloomily as Gorgon led the troops—his troops—south to Kresh. He could not escape the malaise that caused him to feel as though his life had taken an irrevocable downturn. In an attempt to lighten his mood, he wrapped his cloak about him and sought refuge in the gardens. Though the usually lush gardens turned to brown and dry undergrowth in late November, the sun was warm, and the crisp air, refreshing. Barandur stopped to rest on a marble bench where two intersecting paths met. Closing his eyes, he began to contemplate what lay ahead and how his future may unfold. Foolishly, he allowed his envy for Gorgon to show when he spoke out against the credentials of the Guannian. “What did a foreigner know of the internal structure of the Ukorstrian military?” he demanded of the king. Istolar regarded him with a cold, appraising look that made him worry for his life. What if Istolar perceived him as a threat? Would he have him imprisoned? Or worse, killed? As these worries swam around his head, he became vaguely aware of motion under his feet. When he opened his eyes again, the sun was shielded by an everthickening mist. By the time he realized the motion he felt was real, vines had wrapped around his ankles. Panic overcame him. He tried desperately to break free but its grip only tightened more with the effort. “Do not be afraid Barandur.” A vaporous voice whispered out of the mist. Though the feminine tone was disarming, almost seductive, Barandur put his hands up defensively. “Who are you? Who is there?” “I know what ails you, Barandur. You feel as if you have lost your way. But all is not lost, if you will travel down a different path; one which is both new and familiar.” “Why do you speak in riddles? Show yourself!”

Elena materialized in front of Barandur. “A friend we share needs your help.” Barandur instinctively tried to step back, forgetting his legs were still rooted in the earth. To his relief, the vines withdrew back into the undergrowth. When he looked up again, he saw another familiar face. “Cailin!” he cried. “We have much to discuss,” Cailin said sombrely. “So it’s true after all,” Barandur exclaimed. “How did you… What happened?” “Destiny wove my path with Elena’s. But we have other urgent matters to discuss.” Cailin related the events taking place in and around Ukorstria, much of which Barandur was already familiar. “There are perils your king has not yet foreseen. Along with the Bandi reinforcements, Bokomein brings an evil weapon of unfathomable power. Only a descendant of the true king can wield the Sword of Girdion against this foe.” “Liam? Surely you can’t be serious. He is just a child,” Barandur declared. “Liam will grow faster than his years, as you may have already noticed.” Before Barandur could ask for further explanation, Cailin went on, “That is not all. Your mission to Castlerock has come to folly. Jumaki sent another messenger up the coast to assure that word of their agreement reached Ferdugar. He arrived in Castlerock the next day after you left.” “No wonder they were after us. We barely made it back across the border. You saw this?” “The undead see many things that take place in the world of the living; some of whose fate has not been decided.” After a brief, but annoyed may-I-continue-look, Cailin added, “The messenger, Najir, has informed King Ferdegar that everything is going according to plan. Kresh will soon fall to Aegian forces. Istolar will attempt to reinforce his divisions there, leaving Zaranstaad undermanned.” Barandur did not like where this was going. “Alright Cailin. What exactly do you expect from me?”

“The fate of Ukorstria rests on your shoulders, Barandur, and by extension, with young King Liam.” “Oh, is that all. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Cailin paused patiently for he was fully aware Barandur had already endured much and performed thanklessly for Istolar. No matter how hard he tried, his personal fortunes always seemed to go in the opposite direction. Cailin took no measure of revenge for the part Barandur played in his own demise. The past was the past and they had to work together now or risk losing the nation altogether. “In a remote corner of Hannan, there lies a village called Ravencast. Little is known of this place other than it was once a colony for exiles and outcasts. Now it serves as a mining settlement. Danger lurks in every corner and alleyway where bandits ply their trade.” Barandur listened as though he were listening to his own eulogy. “I get it. And from these derelicts, I am to get information on Girdion?” “That is correct. Somewhere in a cave not far from Ravencast I think. Speak to Terrance, the innkeeper at the Woodcutter’s Den. And watch out for Stone Giants. They are thought to have been gone for ages, but few visitors through there.” “Great. What of Istolar? Have you forgotten I am in his service? This is madness! Even if I succeed, I have to drag this sword all the way back through foreign territory that may soon be at war with us, and convince Torin he should allow his son to fight…” “Popobawa, an ancient demon shapeshifter,” Cailin finished. “I trust you will find a way. As for Torin, he is a logical man. He will agree there are no other options. Perhaps I can reach him through a dream. Give him this.” Barandur took the ruby Brekor had left behind from Cailin’s spectral hand. “Will he know how to use it?” Elena, who had been silent so far, answered, “I believe its purpose is connected to the use of the Sword of Girdion. My father left it for us to on, but he did so without further explanation.”

“Very odd, just great,” Barandur sighed heavily and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he found himself alone. The rusted gates closed behind him with an ominous clang as left the gardens behind. Downcast, he headed towards his quarters to digest everything. He barely the new recruits bustling about to and fro across the courtyard, eager to begin training. Istolar had taken notice of him. “Are you losing your hearing along with your mind?” “I’m sorry, Sire. Can I be of service?” Istolar wrinkled his nose up in disgust in the way that Barandur had come to hate. “You can begin basic training of these fellows. They are to be conscripted by the time the snow melts.” “Yes, Sire.” Hell! From warlord to trainer. Just how am I supposed to retrieve that bloody sword . . . Unless . . . a training mission . . . hmmm. At that moment a beam of sunlight pierced the clouds and settled on the courtyard, lifting Barandur’s battered morale a little. Istolar’s eyes followed Barandur until he was out of sight, then shifted to the garden’s gates. He tested the lock and found it secure, though he could not tell where Barandur had been before he arrived. The thought continued to trouble him for the remainder of the day.

Quest for the Sword

In the smoky comfort of the Bird’s Nest, Torin Pyke enjoyed an ale while he waited for friends. Outside, the season’s first major snowstorm descended on Verdun, encouraging villagers to stay inside and huddle around a cozy fire. A visitor trudged stubbornly through the slush toward the tavern. He climbed the last few icy steps and welcomed the aromatic and familiar air of the Bird’s Nest. From a darkened corner, Torin recognized his former comrade in arms. “Barandur!” he shouted above the din, waving his arms. “Surprised to see you here, old friend!” Torin offered his hand. “Can’t say I can say the same,” Barandur cracked, and they both laughed heartily. “How’s the family?” “Good, good,” Torin replied. “Just waiting for a few friends.” “Oh, anyone I know?” “As a matter of fact, all of them: Kirik, Miridan and Landur.” “Glad the knights still keep in touch.” Barandur thought he detected a slight hesitation when Torin mentioned their names, so he pried a little further. “Anything particular?” Torin weighed his reply. “We were informed of the situation in Kresh. Gorgon asked is if we want to help.” “Now that you mention it, I would ask you to remain here. I have spoken with Cailin and Elena.” Torin’s eyes grew wide with premonition. He recalled the vivid dreams he had as of late; the two of them, wraiths wandering the gardens, neither living or dead. “Speak, my friend.” He listened intently as Barandur related how he was approached in the gardens

and Cailin’s message from the ghost of King Brekor. When he had finished the tale, Torin said, “It is as I have seen it, Barandur—in my dreams.” Barandur spotted Kirik with Miradan and Landur following not far behind, coming in from the storm. Miradan and Landur went straight to the hearth, rubbing their hands to get warm. Kirik appeared unfazed, frost melted from his gruff beard as he surveyed the inn. He was as tough as he looked; a natural born leader. He found Torin and trod across the inn with his heavy boots soaking the floor with each step. “We should keep this to ourselves for now,” Barandur advised Torin as he ed him the ruby Cailin and Elena had given him. “For how long?” Torin replied, studying the gem. “Until I return in four months. Continue organizing as if you were preparing for Kresh. Delay if you must.” “What do you want done with this?” Torin held the ruby up to the light. “To be honest, I’m not sure. However, I believe it is connected to the Sword of Girdion. If you have no plans for it, keep it safe until I get back. I can tell you no more at this time.” Torin looked at Barandur quizzically, then nodded and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Kirik gave Torin a friendly slap on the back and pulled up a chair beside Barandur. “Hey, lad, how ya been keepin?” He grasped Barandur’s hand with strength that could crush stone. “Not bad,” Barandur said, hoping to avoid too many questions. “And yourself?” “Aw, you know, life ain’t so glamourous down here in the village. I woulda thought you might be leading the men down to Kresh.” Torin, familiar with the vague animosity between the pair, sought to diffuse hostility before it surfaced. “You know Gorgon is warlord, Kirik?” “Slim pickins these days,” Kirik chortled.

Miradan and Landur hesitated ing the table from a few feet away, not wanting to get involved. They knew Kirik to be a highly charged, emotional man that relied on his instincts more than his intellect; not to say he lacked intelligence, just that his instincts rarely led him astray. Torin was reluctant to trust Barandur himself. Even so, Barandur’s role had yet to be determined, and it was becoming apparent that role would shape the future for years to come. Torin stood, separating the two before the situation spiralled out of control. “Look, I don’t come here and pay good money to listen to petty quarrels, so let’s just have an ale and enjoy ourselves, damn it.” Everyone broke into laughter at Torin’s contrary remark. Kirik tussled Barandur’s hair playfully, which irritated Barandur immensely, but he decided to play along and gave Kirik a roguish shove. “More ale!” Kirik boomed. A petite barmaid with mousy brown hair skipped over to the table, gracefully balancing a tray of ale. “That’s my girl.” Torin saw him give her a friendly pat on her rear and quickly turned away. Anna returned an impish smile, slightly lopsided in a sexy way that drove men crazy. However, many learned the hard way that she was not to be trifled with. What Anna lacked in size, she more than made up for in agility and speed. An attacker would likely be on the ground before they knew what hit them. When Barandur left the inn around ten o’clock, the others remained until the early hours, except for Torin, who left shortly after him. Barandur thought to stay at the inn, but decided against it should Istolar come looking for him in the morning. Besides, the storm had largely subsided, with only a lingering, light snow. The wind gusted heavily at times, but no longer howled constantly. He looked up in time to see the lights blink out at the Coffeehouse. Ten hours from now, patrons from the Bird’s Nest the night before would be in there recuperating from their night out. The damp chill from the ing storm turned into a crisp cold. The few remaining flurries dissipated and starlight flooded the valley. The sudden drop in temperature caused the top layer of snow to glaze over, forming a crust. Barandur made a game out of trying to walk on top without falling through. A flash of light from somewhere off to his right in the thick brush caught his eye; something shiny, like the glint of a steel blade, he thought grimly. He pretended

not to take notice, walking softly and listening for movement. Whenever his step broke through the icy top layer, he checked for movement, feeling vulnerable with his feet sunk into the snow. Probably just a reflection off of crystallized snow, he thought, since he could hear nothing other than small woodland creatures scurrying about looking for food. Laughing nervously at his skittish behaviour, he relaxed somewhat. “Too much ale,” he told himself, then added, “or not enough.” Dropping his guard created an opportunity for the assassin. Two blades lunged out of the darkness. Each dagger sliced down in a crescent arc from different angles, making it impossible for Barandur to defend against. Yet, he managed to deflect one aimed for his neck, while turning his body enough to allow his knapsack to absorb the other. Before the assailant could recover to deliver another strike, Barandur rolled, pinning the diminutive creature beneath him. Having the advantage of size, he wrestled one dagger from her and tossed the other a safe distance. “Who are you?” he demanded, holding the dagger against her throat. She squirmed, trying to break free in spite of the threat. He pulled back her cowl and repeated, “I said who sent you?” He looked in disbelief as recognition flooded through him… Anna?” She glared back at him. “Nobody sent me. If Kirik dislikes you, then he has good reason to.” “What? That makes no…” He thought about their subtle affection toward each other; the way she would look at him, then he understood. “Just get out of here! I’ll keep these if you don’t mind,” he said scooping up the daggers. She ran off back to town. Now I see why he was demoted, she smirked. So easy to fool.

Locotus cum mea. From his chambers, Istolar stood in front of a mirror, allowing time for the spell to work. An image clothed in blood-red robes shimmered before him. “I bear tidings of great concern to you, My Lord,” Anna replied. “Speak,” came Istolar’s curt reply. “As you suspected, Barandur is up to something. He plans to search for a sword of great power up in the land of the Hannanites.” “What is the name of this sword?” “I cannot tell. Barandur did not speak of it in my presence. I only know he hopes to retrieve it.” “Perhaps he is more useful to me alive after all. Your failure has proved to be a boon rather then a bane.” Concealing her anger and wounded pride, she added, “One other matter, My Lord.” “Yes, go on.” “Gorgon has invited the former knights to help defend Kresh. Barandur asked Torin to keep them here.” Istolar frowned, particularly at the Gorgon’s audacity to enlist the very knights he had disbanded. Under normal circumstances, he would have delivered a severe reprimand to the warlord. But these circumstances were anything but normal and he had more pressing matters at hand. “Very well, keep me informed,” he said and dissolved the connection. Istolar headed directly over to his study. The Origin of Ukorstrian Royalty lay open at the last page he had been reading in the chapter, Curse of Zaranstaad. He stared at the last line again: Here my spirit shall be bound to the earth to provide sanctuary for all who dwell with me—unless called upon by those in dire need; Girdion shall set me free—

The unsealed gates posed a genuine threat to his claim on the throne. He could not allow the possibility of his secret escaping from there, and as long as Elena or Cailin survived in wraith form, the danger lingered. Since banishing them to the spirit world permanently was beyond his power, the gates had to be sealed. Perhaps something prevented them from venturing beyond the gates. Piece by piece, Istolar’s cunning mind assembled the puzzle, smiling wickedly at his discovery. —The Sword of Girdion— Cailin and Elena need this sword to be free of the gardens, confined by the curse laid down by Queen Marian. I shall allow Barandur to retrieve this prize for me. He pulled all texts in the study to trace the origin of the sword. Every document that pertained to the Hannanites, he scrutinized. He painstakingly mapped out all the regions where their mines had uncovered precious or unusual artifacts. After many hours of fruitless research, he came across a seemingly insignificant document under the Royal Treasurer’s Registry. Countless baubles and chalices were catalogued along with semi-precious stones and jewels. Every item of value was listed here. His bony finger meticulously traced each page until he came to a section titled, ‘Gifts and Contributions’. Here, he had found a sword offered by the Hannan king, Girdion, bearing the name, ‘Sword of Girdion’. He examined the scribbled text written on the side. Though faded badly, he could decipher a reference to the Origin of Ukorstrian Royalty with a number twenty-six. Excitedly, he paged through the volume to article twenty-six only to find the backgrounds of lesser nobles in that era. Disappointed, he flipped through the last few pages and came to what appeared to be a section added to the original volume. Milestones numbered the left margin along with dates, one of which read: ‘26—earth spirit, day 49, year 202’ It rises from the depths of the earth, an obsidian beast, loathsome and terrible in its native form: —Popobawa— Many guises are its ruse; be it an old man, a bear or even a tree. It strikes

without warning, without mercy. I feel like it desires me, hunting me, haunting me. Cold, empty will forcing its way into my soul. —Marian He returned to his chambers, poured himself some wine and sank into a comfortable armchair, basking in the belief everything was under control.

Sunlight bathed Barandur’s tired body as he awoke late in the morning. His head still hurt from the copious mugs of ale he drank last night at the inn, however, the long walk back and an extended sleep helped to ease the pain. Over at the Hill and Glen, the recruits waited patiently while their groggy master prepared to meet them. They were in no hurry. Sausages, eggs, and assorted fruit adorned the table and they ate heartily what would likely be their last decent meal for months. Barandur had done his best to make himself appear fresh, then set off across the courtyard to the Hill and Glen. Istolar watched him from atop the Zaranspire, detecting in his stride that he lacked sleep. Istolar went to see them off. He reached for his staff, then thought better to leave it behind. People were talking lately, saying he was engaged in dark magic. He had always been careful to keep his arcane arts away from the public eye, but the aura about him was not that of a regular man. There was something strange about him, and folks perceived it. The staff would only serve to the claims. Why should I care what they think? I am king and answer to no one. The chatter quieted down noticeably when he entered the tavern. The feasting recruits bolted upright upon his arrival and Barandur busied himself with paperwork. Feigning surprise, he looked up as Istolar approached the table. “Good morning, Sire. Have you any further instructions?” Istolar raised his eyebrows. “Morning say you?” Barandur checked the time: Half-past noon and they had just finished breakfast. “I ahhh… we umm…” “Were just getting started?” Istolar finished, smiling unexpectedly. “Are you well enough equipped?” Barandur shifted in his seat. He did not like where this was going. “Yes, Sire. Well enough, I think.”

“And where will you be heading?” Barandur sensed, rather than heard the change of tone; carefully masked. “To the hills, Sire, leading into the Coppertop Mountains.” “Anywhere in particular?” Istolar pressed. “No, not really…” “Ravencast, Sire! We’re going to Ravencast!” a young recruit blurted out, eager to please the king. “Is that so?” Istolar chided, not taking his eyes off Barandur. “Very good. Better get started then.” Without a further word, he left the tavern, leaving Barandur angrily staring down the hapless recruit. “Let’s go,” Barandur said testily. Light snow powdered the cobblestones while they gathered some final provisions before setting out. Barandur could feel the cold eyes of Istolar on his back as they headed north. He wondered if he should have warned Istolar about the threat Hannan now posed based on the information provided by Cailin, but how could he explain his reversal after reporting he would come as a mediator? If Ferdugar did attack, then it would be Ferdugar’s deception in the eyes of Istolar and not his own, he reasoned, and put the matter to rest. Menacing clouds formed around the peaks of the Coppertop Mountains, threatening to make the first leg of their journey miserable. Once again, Barandur found himself on the road leading north into Hannan, only this time, in the dead of winter. His companion on the last journey, Johan, had long since returned to his homeland. I wonder how the rascal is getting along? Unconsciously, his hand strayed into his tunic where he kept the whistle Johan had given him before they parted. Brambles and thorns lay just under the snow, snagging the heavy outer garments of the soldiers whenever they wandered off the trail too far. Barandur kept an eye out for the hidden entrance to Horgram’s cave but without success. Their age did not go by unnoticed, however, and Horgram assigned a tracker to follow them. He was surprised to find the Myrshin Swamp not entirely frozen over. He

guessed there must be an underground source of heat, such as a hot spring. All around the edge of the bog, thickets were coated with ice due to constant freeze and thaw cycles, giving them the appearance of bizarre, crystalline structures. “Daylight is short. We must be clear of this bog before the sun sets,” Barandur said. When the men began to grumble, he added, “Believe me, you do not want to be caught in this place after dark.” A faraway howl marked the beginning of twilight as if to punctuate Barandur’s last remark, to which one of the men joked, “Or what, we’ll be eaten by werewolves?” The others ed in the laughter. “Something like that,” Barandur said grimly.” Leaving the relative warmth of the bog behind, the temperature dipped noticeably. The terrain rose steadily to the leading into Hannan, giving the tired men the peculiar sensation of being forced back. The storm that looked like a remote inconvenience from Zaranstaad, now descended upon them with a fury. To make matters worse, strong gusts of wind whipped the granular snow into exposed areas of their reddened faces. “Find shelter, quickly. You, Meehan, as of now you’re second in command. Take half the men and look for a place to set camp in those pines,” he said, waving toward a shallow, wooded ravine off the road on their right. I’ll go with the others to look around that hill on the other side.” Barandur and his men circled the hill, looking desperately for a cave, a crevice, or anywhere that might shield the biting wind, but their efforts were in vain. On the other side of the road, Meehan shouted, trying to be heard above the storm. “Barandur! Here! Over here!” One of the men tugged on Barandur’s sleeve. “Sir, I think I hear Meehan.” “What?” “I SAID, I THINK I HEAR MEEHAN!” The storm grew into a full-blown blizzard. Barandur barely heard him, even standing right beside him. “Alright, let’s go.”

They had just crossed the road and were descending the slope into the pines, when an ice coated branch snapped under its own weight. The victim below had no chance to avoid it. The branch knocked him to the ground with such force it smashed his shoulder. As he lay pinned, Barandur could see a limb from the branch had impaled him in his side. “Get it off!” Barandur shouted, sending the men scrambling for a grip on the icy branch. With every tug, their hands would slip and it would spring back, sinking even deeper into his side and painting the snow red with his gushing blood. The trapped soldier screamed with each attempt. “Stop,” Barandur ordered, seeing the wound opening up. The dying man gasped, “For mercy’s sake—put a—blade—through me—” Meehan watched in horror as Barandur raised his sword, but the blow never came. The young recruit gurgled his last words as his lungs filled with blood. For what seemed like an eternity, Barandur stared at the fallen soldier. Guilt coursed through his veins, yet he knew it was just an accident and nothing he could have done could have prevented it. Nevertheless, he could not entirely absolve himself of blame. That was his nature. In a similar way, he also assumed responsibility for Cailin’s imprisonment, Brekor’s death; all of it—his fault. Meehan’s voice intruded upon his thoughts. “Sir, if we remain here much longer, we will all surely freeze.” “You say you have found a place to set up camp?” “Yes sir, not very far, follow me.” Meehan led them along a frozen creek, lined on both sides by pine and fir trees, until they came upon a small clearing. “Looks like bulrushes grow here in summer,” Meehan said. “But I think we can pitch our tents here.” “Then do it,” Barandur said. Two tents were erected in quick order. Each could sleep six people of average

size. They had room to spare, numbering only nine now. While the blizzard raged outside, the tents provided some measure of protection for the weary company. Unable to start a fire, they had to settle for some cold bread and dried meat thawed by their own body heat. Meehan studied Barandur while he ate. “What will we do with the body?” “What can we do? Build a rock mound around him? They will be frozen in the ground under two feet of snow. There is nothing more we can do for him.” “We can’t just leave him there!” “Perhaps you haven’t been listening. I said there is nothing further we can do! Wolves will likely have devoured his corpse by morning, so I highly recommend staying clear of the area.” Barandur sighed, “if the weather clears by morning, we will give him a better place to rest. Few words were spoken for the rest of the night. One by one, they drifted off to sleep. Morning saw only light snow fell under a grey sky. Not even a slight breeze stirred the air and the winter woodland seemed quiet and restful. They managed to get a fire going and enjoyed a hearty breakfast of salted pork, tomatoes and cheese with bread fried in fat. Afterwards they gathered what rocks they could find and erected a makeshift grave for the stricken soldier. Thankfully, the wolves had not found him yet. By mid-morning, they were on their way to the gates guarding the leading into Hannan. If the weather stayed clear, they could make it by nightfall. The prospect of getting past the guards weighed heavily on Barandur’s mind. He had always felt confident an idea would form before they actually got there, but now the time had come and he still searched for answers. How ludicrous it must appear: Nine armed men expecting to be itted across the border into a foreign territory. The guards will never open the gates. More than likely, they will drive them back with arrows. And he was still quite possibly a wanted man. What if they simply through me in jail? What then? Midday, the sky began to clear, leaving deep snow the sole reminder a storm had ed. Although the temperature sat well below zero, the absence of wind and

bright sun made it feel much warmer. Barandur thought this to be an opportune time to break for lunch as he felt the gloomy mood of the company dissipate a little. Taking Meehan aside, Barandur instructed him what do do when when came to the gates. “I will speak with the gate captain alone. I have met him once before. Keep the others back so as to not appear threatening but stay in sight. I don’t want him to think we are hiding anything. Keep your weapons sheathed.” “And if you get into trouble?” “I don’t anticipate any, but if I get held—or killed, return to Zaranstaad and report back to Istolar.” Barandur paused, not fully appreciating until now how that would impact his mission. “And send word to Torin, a blacksmith in Verdun, what happened.” Meehan frowned at the unusual request, but agreed, “Yes sir, I can do that.” Seven hours later, Barandur stood before the gates with the rest of the company a discreet distance back. The captain came down to speak with him, while two bowmen garrisoned in each tower awaited a signal from their captain to fire. “I am sorry. I can’t allow age to such a large band of armed soldiers,” the captain stated flatly from behind the gates. “Perhaps if you provided a written request from your king, I could forward it to King Ferdugar.” “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” “Good idea. I’ll just leave you the key to…” The captain followed Barandur’s eyes. Ferdugar’s coal-black stallion stood out against the snowy backdrop like a hole in the landscape. Ferdugar’s niece, Cetera and commander, Anders accompanied him. “Barandur? Well met!” “Your Highness.” Barandur bowed deeply. “Have you news for me? Or an ultimatum.” Ferdugar nodded toward the recruits, looking both amused and inquisitive.

Barandur blushed. “Actually Sire, I was hoping to train these lads in the foothills of the Coppertops.” Ferdugar searched for some sign of deception; a shift in posture, averted eyes. He weighed whether he should tell him of the visit of Najir. He concluded that perhaps only Johan was aware of Najir’s arrival at Castlerock given their orders came from Jumaki. Even Johan may not have been aware of Najir’s journey to Castlerock. “What say you, my dear?” He turned to Cetera “If it is agreeable with you, uncle.” although privately, she felt vaguely uneasy. When Ferdugar looked to Anders, the commander responded with a quick nod and shrug. Barandur whistled for the company to come forward. As they approached, he addressed them in a formal manner, “Beyond, King Ferdugar rules the nation of Hannan. While we are guests here, we will respect the customs of the land.” Ferdugar smiled and motioned for the gate to be raised. Barandur led his men in single file past the gate, allowing Ferdugar to inspect the troops as they ed. Ferdugar waited until they were well on their way, then to the gate captain he said, “Send word to the village elders, I want to know every step they take.” “As you command, Sire.” Ferdugar wheeled his steed about and continued on to Zaranstaad where Istolar patiently expected his arrival. Horgram knew nothing of the planned visit by the Hannanite king. His duty was to protect Ukorstria’s northern frontier and report directly to the king. Once he had learned Ferdugar crossed into Ukorstria, he immediately sent word to Istolar. Meanwhile, Barandur led his young recruits into the rugged foothills of the Coppertop Mountains. He took comfort in seeing Ferdugar with a small escort rather than an invasion force. Perhaps Cailin had been wrong about the second emissary from Aegia. Could he also have been wrong about the sword? Popobawa? Since the initial blast of winter that claimed the life of one of his charges, the weather had been largely cooperative. The presence of settlements were easily

identified by streams of black, sooty smoke from forges mixed with lighter, grey smoke from dwellings. In midwinter, these could be seen from great distances, making navigation fairly straightforward by simply following the road or trail leading in that direction. Norbit was the first of these settlements to cross their path. Life here was harsh. Few luxuries made it this far. Even basic supplies were in chronically short supply. Gloom and hopelessness hung over the village like a shroud. “Anyone for an ale?” Barandur offered half jokingly. The others ignored the jest yet took him up on the offer. Down the muddy thoroughfare, a clapboard inn functioned as the village gathering place. Most of the lime green paint had peeled off and what remained had faded to a sickly yellow moss colour. They entered through a weathered pine door into a drab, musty room populated by equally drab patrons. A few of them talked among themselves about the strangers, but for the most part, the locals paid little heed to Barandur and his crew. All except one man with long, greasy hair and a pointed nose whose interest seemed to perk upon their entrance. Howard, the burly and balding proprietor, approached them. “You stayin the night?” As eager as he was to push on, Barandur felt that his men badly needed some respite from the elements. They had been through so much already. Cold, tired and hungry eyes looked up to him waiting for him to answer, though none wanted to be the first to speak. At length, he simply said, “Yes.” The men cheered and immediately filled two tables by the fire with ale. As shoddy as the inn was, it far sured the conditions in the cramped tents. Barandur beamed, pleased to bring so much joy with such a small gesture. No sooner had they sat down, when the long haired man approached the table and introduced himself. “Name’s Gurney.” He smiled revealing crooked and rotting teeth. Barandur stared back at Gurney with distaste. “Respectfully sir, we are very tired and wish only to be left alone.” Gurney jumped backward, feigning hurt feelings. “I only look fer a little friendly conversation. Don’t have many strangers… er… visitors in these parts. C’mon,

whaddya say? Mind if I ye fer an ale?” Barandur was losing his patience. “Really sir, thank you, but we are quite…” Before he could finish, Gurney said, “Yer most welcome.” and yelled to Howard, “Round fer our friends on me!” Barandur sighed, too exhausted to deal with the impetuous man. Meehan leaned over and asked, “You want me to deal with this nuisance?” “Nah, let him be. We’ll get our room and wash shortly, then come back later to eat.” “Might I ask where ya be headin?” Gurney interrupted. “Ya might, but I wouldn’t be tellin.” Barandur mimicked, prompting snickers around the table. Gurney looked put off, but laughed anyway. the man had an unwholesome nature that made Barandur queasy. The ales came not soon enough and the conversation turned to general local gossip and politics. Through it all, Gurney deciphered one word cast by a careless tongue from one of the men: Ravencast. Barandur gave him a warning look that said to be quiet. He thought it might not be such a good idea, after all, to be drinking ale in an inn when you are trying to keep a low profile. Soon after, he gathered the recruits together to get their rooms. The next morning, Gurney sat in an office with paperwork strewn about. Bulletins and events covered every wall. Across a desk stacked with legal documents and mining orders, a fat man with swine-like features by the name of Gunther waited imively for Gurney’s report. He served as Sheriff for the entire north-west region mainly due to his ability to keep roads open and reasonably safe for Hannan’s major export—minerals and gems. Many locals suspected he had a hand in the mining industry itself, though no-one produced any proof, or were smart enough to keep their mouths shut. “What do you have for me?” “Ravencast, sir. They are going to Ravencast.”

“Then you will be there to receive them.” Gurney smiled wickedly. “At once, sir. I’ll need a horse, sir.”

A house guard peeped into Istolar’s study. “King Ferdugar is here to see you, Sire.” “I will meet with him. See to their needs.” King Istolar descended down the stone steps to the courtyard with his dark purple robes billowing out behind him in a stiff, winter breeze. He carried his staff openly now, no longer caring if citizens identified him as a mage. And few spoke out publicly, for they feared being accused of treason of which they had little hope of defence in Istolar’s courts of convenience. He was king and answered to no-one. “Welcome, King Ferdugar. It has been many years since our last meeting.” “Many years indeed. I recall you were Counsellor to King Brekor back then. I would like to take this opportunity to personally congratulate you on your ascension to the throne of Ukorstria.” Istolar paused to detect sarcasm or accusation from the king of Hannan before responding, “And in return, please accept my sincerest gratitude for your .” Ferdugar remained reticent at the mention of ; a notion Istolar correctly interpreted as noncommittal. He decided to pursue further. “For that is why you have come, is it not? To seek an alliance against our ambitious neighbours in the south?” “May we speak in private?” “Of course, come. Your men are welcome to rest at the Hill and Glen. Lunch will be served soon: beefsteak pie. It’s very good I hear. They can us in the Great Hall afterwards.” A courtesan winked at Ferdugar, drawing a venomous glare from Cetera. They climbed the steps to the entrance where two guards opened the heavy oak doors. “Bring us food and ale,” Istolar commanded a servant inside. The Great Hall stood off to the left of the cavernous entrance. A long, oak table

was being prepared by the window with a good view overlooking Verdun. The servant brought fruit, nuts, bread, and slices of smoked pork along with tankards of fine Ukorstrian ale. Ferdugar felt a little more at ease after awhile. He pushed his plate aside, drained his tankard, refilled it and topped up Istolar’s barely touched mug. Cetera declined any ale at all, being content to sit quietly a little apart and listen. Istolar barely acknowledged her. However, he had been solemnly appraising King Ferdugar, trying to determine what would compel the Hannanite king to leave the comfort of Castlerock to make the long and dangerous trip to Zaranstaad; surely more than a social visit. “I suppose you think me mad travelling all this way to wish you well,” Ferdugar said, as if reading Istolar’s thoughts. “The thought occurred,” Istolar replied with poorly timed humour. “I have received your emissaries, Barandur and Johan…” Ferdugar began. “And it is our wish to stay neutral in your border dispute.” “Border dispute? Aegia has been camped outside our walls for almost two years! My only hope is you are not in league with them.” “I assure you, good king, that is not our intention. We can supply you with raw materials, if you could restore tariffs to their original rate. Currently our stocks indicate a small surplus of axes and swords as well.” “You have come to take advantage of our situation to demand lowering tariffs? I was under the impression you came to offer aid.” “Yes… Of course. Yet we have suffered much from the loss of commerce from Aegia as well,” Ferdugar countered. “We cannot simply give you arms with nothing in return.” Istolar felt reassured by Ferdugar’s bargaining position that he was not planning to undermine his reign. He needed to focus all his army on Aegia. “I see.” “Perhaps we can negotiate a trade agreement,” Ferdugar ventured.

“If you are trying to bribe me…” Istolar stood. “No, never would I assume…” “It’s working,” Istolar laughed, easing the tension between the rival kings. The servant appeared at the door. “Sire, the guests have returned from the hall.” Istolar and Ferdugar exchanged looks. Istolar replied, “Call them in. Bring more food and ale.”

Trekking north through the rocky and dangerous terrain of Hannan in the thick of winter might not have been such a good idea after all. With Norbit far behind and Ravencast still a long way to go, the stretch they were in now was about as bleak and inhospitable as possible. They huddled around a campfire in the shadow of the Coppertop Mountains, which ran north and south as far as the eye could see. Their survival depended on the whim of the land. The cold was so numbing that strong winds could be fatal. After a bone-chilling night, Meehan prepared a frugal breakfast of salted pork, warmed over the fire and some partially thawed apples. Afterwards, Barandur reluctantly doused the flames. Rotating sentries had carefully tended the fire all night and now they had to leave its precious heat behind. Meehan helped the others pack supplies and soon they were ready to go. Once again, they prepared to set out northward, hugging the foothills, over or around them in a circuitous path toward Ravencast. “Are you sure we are taking the best route?” Meehan asked. “Why don’t we stay on the roads? Poor as they are, it still beats tromping up and down these godforsaken hills.” Barandur answered, not bothering to hide his annoyance, “Forty leagues more we don’t have time for. I do not wish to our expedition through every mud-slung shantytown on the way either. Besides, backtracking to Norbit is not an option.” Meehan’s shoulders sagged visibly. He wondered at times what he had got himself into. But no sense in arguing, time was wasting. Days were shorter as they travelled north, so he returned to finish with the tents and they were on their way again. Barandur set a brisk pace, forcing the men to keep up. He fixed his gaze ahead, focusing on the clearest route in an attempt to conserve their dwindling energy, though grumbling persisted nonetheless. Meehan scrambled up beside him. “Why Ravencast, sir?” “An artifact King Istolar hopes to recover lies there.”

“And King Ferdugar granted permission? I heard no mention of it when we met at the border.” Barandur rolled his eyes. “Of course not, because they had already discussed it. Anything else you wish to know?” He was getting tired of lying and telling halftruths. His life seemed defined by deceit since the fateful day when he reported Cailin’s transgression to Istolar. From that moment forward, a series of events were set in motion that could not be undone. “Sorry sir,” Meehan said meekly, “Just curious.” and reed the others. Barandur realized the glaring weakness of his plan. The scenario played itself repeatedly in his mind: Istolar greets them upon their return. He asks them how they fared in their training. A recruit answers, “Very good Sire, we have recovered the artifact you seek.”, to which Istolar replies, “Where is this artifact?” The whole purpose of his venture, all the hardships endured in a cold foreign land, could be undone by a chance encounter. There will be time to worry about that later. Focus on the present, he reminded himself. First, get the sword. After six more gruelling days, they penetrated deep into the wilds of Hannan. Supplies were critically low and the same could be said for moral. Frostbite remained a serious threat. Though they were spared the brunt of another major storm, snow-squalls periodically hampered their progress. Yet, hope appeared as dusk fell on the seventh day in the form of faint but unmistakable twinkling lights less than a day ahead. Ravencast! A few of the more stalwart recruits managed some halfhearted cheers. They could be there by the next day. After a brief consensus whether to continue on or camp for the night, they decided against going on without rest. With tents quickly erected, a fire soon roared to life. They ate most of their remaining food that night, leaving themselves at the mercy of whatever provisions Ravencast could offer. They all slept a little better knowing tomorrow they will rest in a warm room. In the morning, the men required little prodding, eager as they were to get to Ravencast. The time spent in the foothills had sharpened their appreciation for

civilization, even if it were an outpost like Ravencast. By early afternoon, they entered the settlement looking a little worse for wear. But their haggard appearance did not look out of place here. Unkempt, rough folk roamed the washed-out roads; forgotten inhabitants in an unforgiving land searching for scraps of food or clothing. Better to give them something than get whacked or stabbed from behind. Barandur and his men had nothing to offer, and nothing to fear for that matter, being well armed to discourage most potential threats. They strolled through the town as if they owned it, unaware of Gurney’s beady eyes staring down at them from behind a grimy window. An aging clapboard house, converted to function as Ravencast’s only place to provide lodging, stood at the base of a cliff. Above, snow hung over the edge, impossibly clinging to the rock-face. Evidence of prior collapses lay strewn about the inn, miraculously avoiding a direct hit. This is the inn Cailin spoke of, Barandur thought. “Almost like they planned the best place to build,” Meehan laughed. “Or just plain lucky,” Barandur added, eyeing the overhang uncertainly. “Come on, let’s check in.” Inside, the ambiance was surprisingly cozy. Walls of the original house design separated many rooms, yet, it provided a measure of security and comfort. The woody aroma from two fireplaces burning in the common room and the lobby provided welcome relief to the harsh winters. A tall, gaunt man with high cheekbones and thinning hair combed over the top welcomed them. “Good afternoon, sires. Welcome to The Woodcutter’s Den. I’m Terrance and can provide for you, as can my wife, Sophia,” he said, referring to a somewhat plump, but not unattractive women entering the lobby wiping her hands on her apron. Barandur replied, “Great, thank you. I hope you can manage to put up nine of us for a night or two.” Sophia smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure we can do something for you. You look like you could do well with some hot soup. Why don’t you rest up in the lounge down the hall on your left while I prepare your rooms?”

“Yes, sure, sounds good.” The recruits followed Barandur down the hall, their spirits feeling considerably lighter. Four picnic style tables occupied the modest common room. A huge, stuffed head of a brown bear glowered menacingly above the door. Across the room, hot embers glowed in the fireplace, releasing welcome waves of warmth. Otherwise, the room was sparsely furnished and decorated. They seated themselves by a large window, far enough from the fire to feel its heat comfortably. “Looks like this would have been the living room in a house.” Meehan commented. “Why would they go through all the bother to make an inn out of it?” one of the younger recruits questioned. “Income would be my guess, for temporary mine workers. Kids left the nest, big empty house, sounds like a good idea to me,” Barandur said. A man walked in and sat at the bar. He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder at them, then turned away, pulling his wide brimmed hat over his eyes. “Some real unsavoury folk in these parts,” one recruit whispered. “And we don’t want them to bother us,” Meehan added. “Something familiar about him,” Barandur said, examining the lanky man. A few long strands of grey hair poked out from under the hat, the rest tucked inside. “What is it?” “I don’t know, something—unwholesome—can’t put my finger on it.” Meehan laughed, “That would describe most people in this town.” “Shhh!” The thought vanished when Sophia entered the room carrying trays of soup.

“Ah, yes, here we are.” The aroma of steaming chicken soup had them salivating like a pack of hounds. Sophia laughed at the sight as she distributed the bowls to the hungry men. “Just shout if you want something. I’ll hear you,” she called over her shoulder. She stopped to take the stranger’s order and returned a moment later with a flagon of mead. She sensed he was not interested in chatting, which was fine for she thought him to be creepy. Little conversation took place while they enjoyed their soup. Gurney tapped and fiddled, growing restless in the silence. Meehan pushed back his bowl and sighed with satisfaction. He stretched out, clasping both hands behind his head. “So what now?” Barandur gave him a stern look, nodding in the direction of the stranger who, had he known, was Gurney. “We relax and enjoy ourselves until we start work.” Several men looked at him with confusion. “I say we get out of these soggy rags. What say you?” They knew Barandur well enough by now that his questions were, in fact orders. They went back to the lobby to check in, leaving Gurney alone and stewing. “Ready for our rooms, gentlemen?” Terrance suggested. “Yes… but who was that man at the bar? Do you know him?” Barandur asked. Terrance leaned forward. “He’s not from this town, I can tell you that much. Been poking about here and there though, asking questions and bothering townsfolk.” “What kind of questions?” Terrance regarded Barandur thoughtfully. “ . . . Like, have any newcomers from Ukorstria ed through here lately…” Upon seeing the unspoken question on Barandur’s face, he added, “What folks do around here is their own business. I just see to their needs.”

“You seem like a man who respects discretion.” Barandur paused. “There is something I would ask you about.” “Yes, go on then,” Terrance said while pulling up a stool as if he anticipated a long, convoluted conversation about to unfold. “Have you ever heard of…” Terrance raised his palm, motioning for Barandur to stop. Just then, Gurney scuttled by, hat draped over his face. “That looks like a poor attempt to look inconspicuous,” Barandur said. Terrance smiled. “Alright, he’s gone.” “Yes, a sword is rumoured to be hidden in this region. It is known as the Sword of Girdion, in ancient texts.” Terrance stared at him as if he had been struck in the face with a rock. “Do not attempt to retrieve this weapon! It is cursed! You know nothing of it.” He began wiping the counter where he had just wiped moments earlier. “Please Terrance, what can you tell me of the sword.” Terrance regarded him with trepidation for a moment. With a subtle tremor in his tone, he related, “While your nation was still in its infancy, a powerful demon called Popobawa by southern folks threatened your tiny kingdom. Our king, Girdion, recognized the evil may spread north to consume his own land, so he issued a Norsemet,—a meeting of the nobles reserved for such security concerns.” “They agreed to summon the most skilled smiths and craftsman to fashion a sword so powerful it could banish demons to the netherworld by calling upon spirits of the undead. Reinforcements were sent south to fight alongside what remained of the King’s Guard. Many lives were lost, but not in vain, for the sword bearing the king’s name was ready to be put into service.” “The Sword of Girdion was bestowed upon King Dadreus, for only one of royal bloodline could command its true power. Many of his own people doubted his ability to slay the demon-beast for they considered him a narcissistic fool who

spent too much time with wine and women. However, none would dare oppose him out of fear for their lives.” “When the beast confronted the king and queen in a tunnel leading to the stables, Dadreus froze in fear for it appeared as a hideous three-headed hydra. He could not even draw the sword. But it was Queen Marian it hungered for. It needed to break her courage, her will, and her spirit. Yet, she had faith in the sword’s potency. Pulling it free from the king’s scabbard, she decapitated the hydra one head at a time in a pitched battle that left her gravely wounded. She managed to strike the beast down, even if the sword received more credit than she for the king had downplayed her role to the court’s scribes. So long as Popobawa was banished back into the netherworld was all that mattered.” “After the sword fulfilled its purpose, fear subsided and Ukorstria began to rebuild itself. It didn’t take long for Dadreus to revert back to his decadent lifestyle. One ambitious and cunning mistress used her outward beauty to win the king’s heart. She concocted a plan to replace Queen Marian on the throne and presented it to the king one night while he was intoxicated with wine and her body. I don’t know exactly what followed, but suffice it to say, the queen was murdered, and in her dying breath, she lay a curse upon the sword.” “King Dadreus grew fearful of the sword that had once saved his kingdom and his life. Its very presence intimidated and shamed him and he desired greatly to rid himself of it. But how to dispose of it while keeping its location hidden? One option would be to destroy the sword outright, but he did not wish to risk offending Girdion should he find out.” “Finally he came upon a solution. In those days, few people inhabited the northwest wilderness of Hannan. If he could point some man in that direction, the unfortunate sod could bring the sword to an unknown place where it would never be found. There, the man would ultimately succumb to the elements, sharing his final resting place alongside the sword, never to be heard from again. He could then claim it was stolen.” Barandur turned to the recruits. “Go and get settled in, I’ll be with you soon.” Meehan shot Barandur an annoyed look. He did not want to leave now; the tale was just getting interesting.

Barandur reluctantly began to accept that secrecy in this mission may not be viable after all. He may yet face exile or even death upon his return. He had been a fool to think otherwise. “GO NOW!” he shrieked, feeling his temper slipping a notch. Meehan started to protest, but thought better of it upon seeing the rage simmering inside Barandur. Instead, he turned to the others and said, “You heard him.” “Forgive me, the journey seems to have affected my mind,” Barandur added quickly. “Find some rest. We will talk later.” “Understandable sir,” Meehan replied. “We will oblige.” Allowing time for them to scurry off, Barandur fixed his attention on Terrance, unsure how to deal with the man he knew nothing about. Yet, his instincts told him this was a man he could trust. He must gain his confidence in order to find the sword, for Terrance seemed to know much about it. “I have reason to believe,” he began slowly, “that history is about to repeat itself.” Terrance raised his eyebrows. “How so?” “I have spoken with the undead.” Terrance regarded him skeptically, but refrained from comment, preferring to hear his explanation. “War is upon Ukorstria, maybe soon from Hannan as well. Even worse, an enemy to the south brings with them the same great evil that you speak of, this Popobawa.” Terrance shuffled about behind the counter, picking things up and putting them elsewhere, all the while wishing he were somewhere else. An uneasy silence ensued. Barandur looked around uncomfortably. Terrance eyed Barandur warily. “Tell me, why should I help you if your nation may soon be at war with mine, as you say?”

“Because the same fate awaits us all, just as it did thousands of years ago,” Barandur stated bluntly. “Do you choose to believe the menace that will threaten Ukorstria cares about borders?” “As I’ve already told you, the demon was sent back to the netherworld.” “No, Terrance. The undead do not lie. It can be summoned and will do the bidding of its master.” Terrance sighed with resignation. “There lives a man,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “Some say he is mad, though I have not seen him in a very long time. Sven is his name. Go west of here, toward the peaks and you may find him. If he can’t help you, nobody can.” “Thank you, Terrance. You have been an enormous help. I will do what I can to stop this creature.” Terrance opened a bottle of liquor he had been saving for better days. After they enjoyed the warm glow of a few drinks, Barandur stood, wavering slightly more from fatigue than the liquor. “I think I’ll sleep good tonight,” he said. “Just one more thing…” “Yes?” “How do you know all this?” Terrance winked. “I once knew a crazy old man. He is unlike any you have met before. Sleep well, my friend.”

Capacity for Evil

Kai entered the sultan’s gur. “The messenger, Johan, has returned, Your Greatness.” “It’s about time. Send him in.” Johan’s slight frame poked through the tent flap. “What took you so long?” Jumaki demanded. Johan shifted uneasily on his feet. He could not tell Jumaki that he had been captured in Ukorstria only to be sent under guard to relay Istolar’s message in place of his own. Indeed, that would be treason, punishable under pain of death. He decided he had to colour the truth. If he attempted anything more, he was sure Jumaki would detect the deception. “I was detained, Your Greatness. King Ferdugar is very cautious within his borders.” “And-what-is-his-intention?” Jumaki pursed his lips, barely controlling his patience. “He has agreed to ride to Zaranstaad, as promised, Your Greatness.” “I’ll expect a written report of your findings today.” Jumaki dismissed Johan and gestured for Lengu to enter. The desert sun, the year in captivity, and the wounds suffered at the hands of the Ukorstrians and the Three Witches had conspired to give him a fearsome appearance, which Jumaki found mildly amusing. “You have looked better,” Jumaki said in his usual terse tone. Lengu grimaced as if the memory of his ordeals caused him pain. “Felt better too, Your Greatness,” is all he could manage. “So, when can I expect our friends? Kresh awaits, as does the soft underbelly of Ukorstria with its forests and farms.”

“They are divided, Your Greatness,” Lengu answered carefully, trying not to incur the wrath of the temperamental sultan. “Logistics, how many troops can be spared, what type…” “I told you, I need INFANTRY!” Jumaki slammed his fist on the table, sending plates and papers flying. “But they made it clear they will come as soon as possible,” Lengu added hastily, hoping his lie would go undetected. He swallowed hard as Jumaki narrowed his eyes. “What took you so long?” The witches, as you are aware, Your Greatness. They captured me on my return home.” “You lie!” Jumaki leaped to his feet, striking Lengu with a blow to his jaw where his scar ran. “I swear, Your Greatness! I would not be so foolish in trying to deceive you.” “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. You haven’t the guts.” Unknown to Lengu, Jumaki had learned of Lengu’s detainment in a Drakhar cell some time ago by a messenger dispatched from the Hataki tribe. The same messenger also confirmed reinforcements were forthcoming. “The party that rescued you found you by following tracks to the entrance. Any idea who they belonged to?” Lengu lowered his head, wishing he were somewhere else. “Hunters, Your Greatness. I escaped after being held for bearing witness to a weapon they desired to remain secret.” Jumaki’s eyes sparkled at the mention of the weapon. “So this is why they kept you, and you escaped, being the crafty rat you are. What is this weapon?” “Popobawa, a demon of the underworld they have learned to summon.” He went on to illustrate the evening he ed by the lower quarter in Drakhar and witnessed the summoning of the monolithic Popobawa.

“Are they bringing this weapon?” “I don’t know.” “For your sake, I hope so. Speak with Kai. He will bring you up to date in the camp.” Lengu bowed halfway when Jumaki cut him short. “One more thing—If and when our friends show up, you have revealed nothing about the demon to me or anyone. They may think you entombed under the Three Witches and will try to discover if their secret is safe when they see you alive. Do you understand?” “I do, Your Greatness.” “Good, leave me now.” Lengu turned to leave, satisfied he had bought some time. All he could do now is wait and pray the Bandi will come. Alone in the gur, Jumaki laughed softly as he pictured the shocked look on their faces when Lengu rides out to greet them. But he had more urgent matters to think about; like how he might lay claim to the Bandi weapon once the fortress of Kresh is secured. Stroking his wispy goatee, he set his scheming mind to work. Summoned . . . by whom? And how? Is this a skill that can be learned? What if they leave it behind? After all, they will not be fighting on their own soil. Perhaps the gesture of is all that motivates them. It matters not. Someone must infiltrate these Bandi to find the answers; one who fears to betray me. And one who would betray their own . . . Two weeks ed since Lengu assured the sultan Bandi troops would be arriving soon. He had not been sleeping well. If Jumaki could not get the Popobawa, he would be angry. If the Bandi fail to appear altogether, he would be outraged and probably vent his anger with a dagger through Lengu’s heart. But they did come, though only with a mere two-thousand foot soldiers and three-hundred bowmen equipped with poison-tipped arrows. They were led by the garrison commander, Uru with Teemu, Bokomein’s advisor. Uru would command the army while Teemu was to record events as they unfold and have

the final word in all political and battlefield decisions. Lengu and Kai rode out to meet them on the camp’s perimeter. As Jumaki predicted, Uru and Teemu were barely able to conceal their shock. “Well met, Lengu of Aegia. I’m glad to see you made your way back safely,” Uru said. “No thanks to you. You would see rats feasting on my rotting corpse had I not escaped.” “Not too late for that!” Uru responded, drawing his scimitar. In an instant, Kai trained his bow on Uru. “You might want to reconsider.” Uru grudgingly sheathed his weapon. Kai possessed an intensity about him that left no doubt about his intentions and Uru was no fool; sneaky and nefarious maybe, but no fool. Teemu sought to quell the dispute before it erupted again. “Please, are we not here for a common purpose? We came to help.” Kai lowered his bow, though he thought better than to strap it away for the time being for he did not trust the Bandi commander. Despite having the well deserved reputation as a ruthless tyrant, Jumaki was in fact, a methodical leader, and his choices in commanders reflected these traits in both Kai and Lengu; strong willed, yet intelligent and yielding if the situation called for it. He recognized that he himself lacked the balance. Appointing commanders with these abilities compensated, provided they were loyal. Lengu noted with relief most of their army was comprised of infantry as Jumaki required. They would provide vital protection to the catapults so as to not get overrun and destroyed again by Ukorstria’s knights. Amongst the small contingent of archers, crates bearing peculiar markings drew his attention. Munitions? But a company of heavily armed guards never strayed far from them. And they were set aside from the other supplies. Odd. He became aware they were eyeing him with suspicion and diverted his attention elsewhere. He caught sight of Jumaki, beaming as he approached them.

“Glad you could come,” he addressed Teemu, recognizing him as the representative of the nomadic Bandi people from the gold tassel fixed to his helm. Tasting the tension in the air, he added, “Is there a problem here?” They looked at one another before Kai replied, “No, Your Greatness. Just getting acquainted.” Teemu extended his hand. “Governor Teemu, at your service, and commander Uru”, who bore the red tassel of a military officer. Jumaki treated the Bandi governor from a position of superiority, even though the Bandi lived in settlements whereas his people roamed the grassy plains within their borders. But that was what the Bandi lacked—borders defining the extent of their territory, something which Jumaki coveted above all else and always sought to extend them. He forever set his ambitions outward to neighbouring realms, confident his own land was impossible to conquer due to their lack of centralized structure. “You have already met Commander Kai. He oversees the entire campaign, beginning with Kresh. Once the fortress is secure, you will have our thanks and we can ask no further of you. Though we would appreciate all the aid you can offer.” “And of course you are familiar with Lengu…” He paused to see if any reaction showed on Teemu and Uru. It did not, so he continued, “He will coordinate troop movements between our forces. In the days following, he must learn all there is to know of your capabilities and… assets.” Teemu and Uru exchanged concerned glances. Neither liked the sound of Jumaki’s proposal, if a proposal it was. “With all due respect, Your Greatness,” Teemu started. “Please!” Jumaki cut him short. “We are peers and leaders of our people. Let us call each other by name.” “As you wish… Jumaki.” The name rolled off Uru’s tongue awkwardly, sounding more like ‘Chumabi’. “We are used to operating under a degree of autonomy. While we recognize the necessity of coordinating our forces, we can manage our own troops.”

Jumaki glowered, his temper flaring. He was unaccustomed to being challenged, especially by an outsider. Both Teemu and Uru stepped back in spite of themselves. When he seen their reaction, he put a hand up. “I mean no offence, but if we are to succeed, we’ll have to work together.” Teemu broke a brief, but tense standoff. “Of course you have our full cooperation in whatever way is appropriate.” Jumaki accepted the statement warily, not liking the wording. “So it shall be.” He took his leave with a half-nod, half-bow and whispered to Lengu before he left, “Learn all you can from their demon-weapon.” “Yes, Your Greatness,” he answered trying to sound convincing. “Good. I know I can count on you.” Lengu returned a lopsided smile that disappeared the instant Jumaki turned his back. He clasped his hands together and faced the Bandi leaders. “Well, let’s get started shall we?” All the pieces were in place to renew the assault on Kresh. Catapults were uncovered and greased, showing signs of the lengthy idle time. Yet, they were in remarkably decent shape thanks to a rigorous maintenance routine. One by one, they were rolled into positions behind evenly spaced berms. Engineers appeared to have learned from the last time not to cluster them too closely together. Additionally, in every fourth position, a ballista was inserted to deter any suicide charges. The newly commissioned infantry provided a last line of defence.

Lord Herat emerged from a stairway behind Gorgon and stood beside him squinting into the gloom. “How can we withstand such might?” “Kresss is ssstrong, but no match for ssso many catapultsss. Mussst destroy them.” Gorgon answered without taking his eye away from his spyglass. “Do you have any idea how?” “Yesss, fire arrowsss.” “Jumaki is no fool. He will never bring them within range of our archers.” Gorgon looked away from his spyglass and fixed his narrow green eyes on Herat. “From mountainsss they fire from, on my sssignal.” “You’re mad! They’ll be slaughtered before they can return to the keep!” “The cossst of war. Lassst time sssame sssacrifice with knightsss. ?” Herat recalled the knights he had known for many years being lost in a violent inferno as they blew up the siege machines along with themselves during the last siege. “I’ll be in the courtyard,” He said gloomily, leaving by the same way he came.” “Sssee Zerak. He makesss big crossbowsss too, go very far, reach catapultsss with fiery boltsss.” When Herat reached the courtyard, he found everything in disarray. “Is it beneath Gorgon to arm his men?” he mumbled under his breath. He helped sort armour according to size to make it easier for them to suit up and get their weapons, which were mostly standard issue blades. Gorgon led two brigades of grim-faced archers up into the mountains to the east and west of Kresh. He instructed them where and when to fire, and to retreat back into the keep upon his order. As night fell, no campfires could be seen on the plains. A surreal calm settled over the opposing armies as the sun disappeared over the western ridge. Under

cover of darkness, Bandi foot-soldiers inched toward the gates ahead of the catapults, just out of range of the archers garrisoned in the massive battle-tower. Even in the early morning hours, no-one slept. Kresh was on full alert anticipating the beginning of the pivotal battle that would determine their lives and freedom of so many who depended on their courage and skill. Everything remained still. Not even the predawn bird songs sounded in the valley. The ruddy sun rose. Somehow it seemed devoid of light, illuminating the battlefield by some unknown power other than light. Soldiers looked at one another tired and confused. What is going on? —WHOOSH— A solitary boulder crashed into the tower, shattering on impact and sending a cloud of dust into the air, but leaving little damage to the eight-foot thick walls. Moments later, another massive stone narrowly missed the outer gate, gouging a huge crater near the entrance. One archer was killed instantly when a flying chunk of rock struck him in the head. The rest returned fire with a volley of flaming arrows, most of which fell short. Of the few that reached the catapults, some bounced harmlessly off shields and the remainder were quickly extinguished. “Is this all they got?” Herat said defiantly, encouraged by the sturdiness of the keep’s defences. “Something amisss,” Gorgon hissed.” Ploy to keep men awake. Send them off to sssleep.” “What? Are you out of your mind? We’re in the middle of battle!” “No, real battle beginsss tonight.” “Why did they delay, and toil in darkness all night?” “No toil, no delay. They sssleep while we wait for attack.” Herat realized what Gorgon was saying. They had been fooled. Such a simple,

yet effective ploy; fresh troops fight much better than tired ones. This light daytime bombing would serve to give the impression of invincibility to an already exhausted core. By the heavens. “Stand down!” Herat ordered, leaving just enough men to convince the enemy they were still fighting. “Two can play that game.” “I must find Zerak, don’t waste too many arrows.” Gorgon grinned, revealing rows of pointy teeth. Augh, leave it to Istolar to find a warlord that looks like an alligator on two feet, Herat thought to himself as he followed a dimly lit underground tunnel connecting the tower to the armoury. He found Zerak in the keep’s workshop putting the final touches on the first batch of fifteen wall mounted crossbows. These were to be Kresh’s answer to the Aegian catapults. Though much smaller than a ballista, they operated under the same principle, and had a greater range than the hand-held version. “What can you give me, Zerak?” The plump engineer was sweating profusely, but never strayed from his task. “Four ready here, sir. I’ll give you four more by nightfall if someone can install them.” “Alright Zerak, but it will take twice that many to stand a fighting chance of holding them off.” “I’ll do my best, sir. You know I’m good for that!” “I know you will, Zerak. I’ll send someone for these,” Herat said and rushed out the door. Gorgon kept the enemy at bay while Herat Instructed one of the keep’s few sappers to secure the crossbows to the upper, inside battlement where it would be much harder to hit. An hour later it was ready to use. Oil-soaked cloth was wrapped around each

iron-tipped bolt and ignited just before firing. While this negatively impacted trajectory, it was the only way to cause meaningful damage. However, it soon became clear that four would not be enough to disable any catapults for long. Of the flaming bolts that found their targets, they were doused with water before causing significant damage. They did manage to take one out by aiming at opposite ends of the field, thereby increasing the distance between the afflicted catapults. In the time it took to douse the first one, the other was already engulfed in flames. Gorgon knew as well that the wood used to construct them would be dry due to the lengthy delay in which they sat idle while Jumaki waited for reinforcements to arrive. A good tactic, but it only worked once. If the other crossbows were not delivered soon, their cumulative effect would be negated. Gorgon watched with growing trepidation, the combined armies massing below. He combed every inch of ground using his spyglass, probing for weakness in their lines. He estimated they were outnumbered by at least eight to one. If they could not destroy the catapults; if the outer wall is breached… Herat was watching him, measuring the fortitude of the warlord. “The defences will hold. They must hold, whatever it takes.” “Whatever it takesss,” Gorgon repeated, his serpentine face resolute. “Yesss, whatever it takesss.” Beyond his initial revulsion, Lord Herat quietly ired Gorgon for his tenacity. On the surface, Istolar’s appointment of the warlord to replace Barandur seemed like an odd choice. He had no allegiance with Ukorstria, no history, born to a race of barbarians in distant Guanna. But there was no denying his skill on the battlefield. An enormous rock hit the base of the battlement where they stood, sending a shock-wave up through the stone and knocking them off balance. While Herat stumbled and fell, Gorgon did not even flinch. Herat brushed the dust off himself, regaining his composure. “I better see how Zerak is coming with those crossbows.” The waning sun hung blood-red on the western horizon, as if in forewarning of the blood that would be spilled that night. War chants spread throughout the Aegian alliance, reaching a crescendo as the night deepened. All eight crossbows

were mounted. Archers stationed on the cliffs stood ready with flaming arrows on a moment’s notice. Their role was pivotal for Kresh to remain standing by dawn. They stood ready, determined. However, in moments of weakness, they glanced at one another, wondering if this night would also be their last. “I hope they’re not bluffing again,” Herat said as he surveyed the defences from atop the rampart. “I cannot stand this game. Let’s just get it started and be done with it!” If Gorgon detected the slight quaver in the lord’s voice, he betrayed no acknowledgement; his expression unreadable under his peculiar smiling appearance. Zerak taunted, “Let them come. We’ll give them a taste of fire and stone.” “I wish I shared your certainty,” Herat said, looking out at the row of catapults facing them. “We have one of our own you know.” “Our own what? Catapult?” Zerak nodded enthusiastically. “Even better, a trebuchet, capable of reaching almost all enemy positions. Better yet, they have not shown anything that will reach it.” “Why have you not mentioned it before?” “You never asked.” Herat rolled his eyes. “You fat fool of a—genius! Take me there!” “Right away.” Gorgon loped behind them, not feeling the need to be asked. They climbed a winding path to the base of the tower. Here, it split in two. The main path continued to the tower a short distance away, while the other, was used mostly for transporting equipment in and out of the second level.

Before the service entrance on the second level, an overgrown yard served as a storage place for equipment awaiting repair or to be hauled away. Zerak led them to a corner of the yard where a tarp covered the enormous, wooden machine. “Ah! This will do some damage.” Herat said, circling the towering trebuchet and releasing the snaps. “Why have I never noticed it before?” “I have only recently reassembled it, after the Aegian catapults were dug in.” Reinforced beams allowed for very little sway when it launched projectiles from its hardened leather bucket, ensuring the charge is secure and thereby improving accuracy. A hickory arm replaced the original ash one and extended to an additional two feet. “Very good, but too little too late asss humansss sssay.” Gorgon ended on an unintelligible hiss, but Lord Herat heard enough to get annoyed. “If you feel you can no longer lead the army, then maybe you should step aside!” Gorgon responded with a menacing hiss, his forked tongue darting rapidly in and out in a threatening gesture. Herat’s hand strayed instinctively to the pommel of his sword. Zerak stepped back in disbelief. “Wait a minute. Are we not supposed to be fighting the thousands of troops camped on our doorstep?” “Of course,” Herat said. “They are waiting only to wear us down, put us on edge.” PHOOM—PHOOM—PHOOM The false quiet of the night was broken by the sickening sound of boulders launched at the tower. “So, it has begun,” Herat said bleakly. “Man your posts! Make ready the crossbows!” Gorgon attended the huge, mounted crossbows. Bolts were soaked in oil and set aflame before being launched at the catapults.

SHUNK—SHUNK—SHUNK—SHUNK Within minutes, the field blazed in sporadic fires, for even the shots that missed set the dry grass on fire in an instant. The attackers were prepared, cutting out vegetation around the catapults and having plenty of water on hand. The keep’s defences held up irably under relentless bombardment. Against overwhelming odds, they efficiently destroyed many of the enemies siege machines while losing few of their own in which they had so few to spare. “Archersss!” Gorgon’s order was relayed through the ranks until it reached archers stationed on the clifftops. With the advantage of height, their flaming arrows rained down on the invading armies.

Jumaki felt victory slipping away. He needed desperately to take back the initiative. His troops were in utter disarray. “Uru, you’re supposed to be protecting those catapults!” “Infantry is not well suited to defend against burning projectiles. Did you not say to guard against riders bearing explosives?” “That is true… or was… never mind. We need to break through, somehow.” “If you can break down the gates, my infantry will hold them until we can gather our combined forces to drive them back from the outer wall.” “They are too strong, and too well covered by archers to use a battering ram.” Lengu interjected, “If I may, Your Greatness, the far wall, opposite the tower, is least protected and has already suffered much damage. If we direct all catapults to fire at a weakened section of the wall, we may be able to punch through. Then we can rush in with the Khuppa until Uru’s infantry arrive. That will negate their ranged fire, unless they risk firing on their own men, which is unlikely.” “That just might work,” Jumaki said grudgingly. Uru nodded approvingly. “Find Kai. Get it done,” Jumaki said. He felt his blood boil when he spotted Johan and Najir sitting on a wagon eating bread. “Do you not have your orders?” They looked at each other nervously. “Uh, no Your Greatness,” Najir said. “Then go to the walls. Catapults need spotters. Make haste!” They jumped off the wagon, but before they got far, Jumaki called them back. “Wait! I want you to go north into Hannan instead. As soon as we break through, go around the remnants of their fleeing army. Find out Ferdugar’s intentions. Be quick and don’t get caught.” Lengu rode out under a rain of fire to tell Kai of the new tactic, “Orders from the chief.” Kai regarded him quizzically at his casual use of Jumaki’s title. He would not dare to address him that way in his presence. The thought amused him, in spite

of the surrounding chaos. Lengu paused to catch his breath. “The plan is simple: We knock out part of the wall that’s taken the most damage, then rush in with a few brigades of Khuppa before they can reorganize to defend it. Once inside, Uru sends heavy infantry to secure the area.” “What of their archers?” “The western flank is out of range of the tower and exposed only to wall and cliff archers. We can take out the ones on the wall and those on the cliff will not be effective in close combat without hitting their own men.” “We’ll have to focus the remaining catapults to have any impact.” “True, but it’s our best chance.” Lengu left out the fact it was his plan they were putting into action, but Kai considered it unlikely to be contrived by Jumaki. It did not matter whose plan it was so long as it worked. For a moment, the bombardment stopped while the catapults were repositioned. Gorgon distrusted the sudden lull and climbed up to the top of the battle-tower to get a better look. His suspicions were warranted. For below, the Khuppa massed for a charge. Even more alarming, his spyglass revealed Bandi infantry equipped with heavy armour marching toward the front lines. He calculated roughly where the fire would be directed at, then hurried down to the trebuchet. Several men worked at preparing it for use; greasing the wheels and hub and soaking the bucket in oil to make it supple so it wouldn’t tear under the stress of heavy loads. “Never mind, we needsss it now. Aimsss it there,” Gorgon said, indicating the clustered catapults. “Need more rocksss. Load wagonsss. Get rocksss.” Before long, they had it set up and not a moment to soon. The Aegian catapults pounded the wall, pulverizing stone into rubble. Less than a minute later, several large boulders weakened the structure further, causing a twenty-foot section to collapse. Dust made it difficult for Kai to see if there was enough clearance for the Khuppa to through. After several more volleys, he sent a scout to get a

better look only to see him fall under a hail of arrows. Lengu came running up to Kai, panting heavily. “Two chunks of rock flew over the catapults, the second being a near miss.” “I didn’t expect they had anything with that range and power… But whatever it is, they appear to be calibrating it to destroy the catapults.” “Then we must attack at once.” “Correct. Prepare the Khuppa. I’ll inform Uru to follow with infantry. We must pull back the catapults immediately.” “Give me five minutes.” As if to punctuate the gravity of the situation, a large boulder smashed into the tightly grouped catapults, destroying one and heavily damaging two more. “PULL THEM BACK! PULL THEM BACK!” Kai shouted, waving frantically. Minutes later, Lengu ordered the Khuppa into battle. The agile horse archers quickly closed the distance to the wall. Rubble slowed the advance of Khuppa where the wall gave way. Archers picked them off almost at will and the keep’s guards put up fierce resistance. However, once Aegian engineers cleared the debris, they pushed back the outnumbered Ukorstrian defenders. Within an hour, thousands of Aegian and Bandi forces poured into the area between the inner and outer gates. Though they could pick off archers from their hard-earned foothold, they still had no solution for taking the keep. Catapults were too few in number and could not be brought in close enough to challenge the gates or inner wall without getting destroyed. They might have been able to take out the trebuchet if they had greater numbers, but both Kai and Lengu agreed it was too risky to attempt now. Kai calculated correctly from the trajectory and rate of fire, Kresh only had one trebuchet. But that information was of no use if they could not reach it. There must be another way.

“We may catch them off-guard if we launch a counter-attack,” said Lord Herat. “Tempting, yesss, but mussst be patient. Enemy full of tricksss. Wait and sssee,” Gorgon said. “Wait for what? Until they break down the gates and overrun the bloody keep? The whole country will be there for the taking, all the way up to Zaranstaad. By that time, there will be nothing left to defend!” A pale-faced guard appeared. “Sir, I think you should come and see this.” Gorgon and Herat looked at each other. “Lead on,” Herat said. They followed the guard up the rampart into the yard where the trebuchet hurled stone over the wall, crushing those unfortunate to be in its path. “More rocksss, need more, get sssome,” Gorgon ordered as they ed by. Through the service doors, and up a winding stair, the guard led them to an arrow-slit and pointed to the rear guard of the enemy army. Herat squinted but could not make out anything unusual. Gorgon withdrew his spyglass and scanned the distance. From the way he froze, Herat knew the warlord saw something disturbing. “Sssorcery. Enemy prepare wicked beassst. Told you, tricksss.” “A beast? Surely an animal poses no threat. A couple flaming arrows should stop it.” “Not flesh and blood—smoke and fire—sssorcery—demon that is Popobawa.” “Popobawa? Only one was ever spoke of, the queen… or king, depending on which history you follow, banished it to the netherworld.” “It comesss back.” “Let me see that.” Gorgon ed the spyglass to Herat, though he clearly disliked parting with it. Lord Herat peered across the waves of enemies to where Gorgon had indicated.

Even from this distance, fear gripped him like nothing he had ever experienced; blacker than the deepest night, except for two crystal-blue eyes. Evil radiated from its form, yet, insubstantial was its shape, as if not bound by earthly laws. Like a menacing dark cloud, it drifted toward them with ill will. Their own army peeled back in horror as it ed. Only the Summoners, who performed the ritual to bring it forth, could bear its presence. The cost was high; they forfeit their souls to the demon upon their mortal death. But Jumaki was unaware of this. He turned his vexation on Lengu. “You had orders to learn about this weapon and you have failed!” Lengu cringed, having grown accustom to a blow following Jumaki’s reprimands, but this time it did not come. “Your Greatness, these conjurors were disguised as soldiers until now. There was no way to know…” “No, there never is with you, is there? Don’t just stand there like a buffoon, go now! I want to know what this thing is, what it does, and how to use it. Do not fail me again lest you become food for the hounds.” “How many times am I to be fed to the hounds,” Lengu muttered to himself after he was safely out of earshot. He was loath to go near Popobawa; he ed his last encounter when he became overwhelmed by the demon’s presence. Even at a distance of onehundred feet, its stench bore into his memory; the smell of death and despair. This is as close as I get. Once it had ed into the field of battle, its shape transformed back into the horrific beast Lengu ed it by—a great hooved animal bearing two curved ramming horns. But to Lengu’s horror, it turned its icy-blue gaze upon him. —Lengu— How does it know I’m here? He shrank back, trying to blend into the melee, but its eyes pierced all physical barriers. There was no escaping its scrutiny. He reluctantly came forward, unwillingly but unable to resist, and subjected

himself to the demon’s will. Though it did not speak, he could hear its thoughts like words spoken; sinister and unmistakably clear. “You want to learn power boy? To earn the respect of your master?” “Of course… I suppose I would,” Lengu stammered, taken aback by the demon’s cordiality. Popobawa laughed in a deep, evil way that made Lengu’s skin crawl. Yet, he craved the respect denied to him for so long. “A demonstration for you,” Popobawa said as it turned toward the gates. Lowering its massive head, the demon-beast charged the gate with frightening speed. The entire rampart shook under the force of its horns against the reinforced gates of iron and wood. Two of the eight iron rods buckled under the impact and thick, oak logs splintered apart like dry kindling. Popobawa reared back and lunged at the gates a second time, twisting its horns in the wreckage, ripping out timber and iron as it withdrew. Arrows had no effect on its black hide whatsoever. Not that they bounced off, but were merely absorbed by its spectral mass; a sight that spread fear throughout the Ukorstrian ranks. Little doubt remained whether the gates could withstand a third strike. In an act of sheer desperation, the guards poured boiling oil over Popobawa and set it ablaze. This only served to amuse the demon-beast and it laughed in derision at their efforts. It was about to strike the gate down with a final blow, when it looked up at the defenders. There, upon the wall, Gorgon observed Popobawa, methodically looking for a weakness or how it may be defeated. Gorgon’s imive, calculating bearing caused the demon to pause its assault. For a moment, the wanton destructiveness of the demon-beast seemed to falter, for it fed on terrorizing its foes, but here was one not afraid. And this creature bore little resemblance to the soft, fleshy humans it so despised. Instead of bashing what remained of the crippled gates, it withdrew back into a shapeless, black vapour. As both sides looked on in confusion, it seeped into the

soil and vanished without a trace. Immediately, fighting resumed with renewed vigour as the Aegians tried to breach the gates. Catapults pounded them mercilessly while guards valiantly tried to shore them up. So much blood was spilled that night that the battle would be ed as the ‘Drink of the Demon-spawn’ for years to come. With dawn still more than an hour away, the invaders finally broke through, driving the exhausted and bloodied Ukorstrians from their defensive positions. Gorgon issued a general retreat, gathering all who were able to run and flee northward, abandoning the keep. As the sun rose, Lord Herat looked back at the smouldering ruins. A single tear ran down his weathered face. History would record the Drink of the Demonspawn and the Fall of Kresh as one of greatest battles ever fought. When Jumaki and Uru met where the inner gates once were, they both had the same thought on their minds. What became of Popobawa?

A Child No More

The Pykes sat down for a typical Sunday dinner prepared by Jill with help from Arianna. She loved cooking for her family and today was no exception. Little had changed in the year that ed since the first assault on Kresh. Liam had transformed from a boy into a man in so many ways, townsfolk whispered of supernatural forces at work. Some even went so far as saying Jill practiced witchcraft. No-one would speak of it to her face and few took it seriously. “Mmmm, this chicken smells great,” Torin said, and upon seeing the hurt look in Arianna’s eyes, added, “and the carrots and potatoes too.” Liam smirked, but said nothing to expose the faux pas. Arianna caught it anyway. “It’s alright, Father, they’re only vegetables.” Jill turned to Liam. “You can go see your friends for awhile if you are finished dear.” “Thank you, Mother.” Liam rose, but instead went to practice swordplay in the yard. Jill watched him through the window, concern etched in the fine lines of her face. Torin watched too, but with pride; he marvelled at how easily his son wielded the blade he had forged for him on his ninth birthday. The sword was true in all aspects except the edges and point were blunted. Now, as he approached his tenth year, he looked as comfortable with a blade as a professional duellist with thrice as many years of experience. “You don’t see it do you?” Jill said to Torin. “See what?” “That he should be playing with other kids his age.” “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

“He is growing too fast.” Torin got up and circled around behind his wife. Placing both hands on her shoulders, he gently massaged her worries away. He said in his most reassuring tone, “Jill, he is just a child, and he’s in a good home with a family who cares for him. He’s just a quiet kid.” Arianna interjected, “Liam’s real, I mean, birth parents. What were they like?” They had all but forgotten she still sat at the table and was listening intently. Jill and Torin exchanged uncertain looks. Torin was the first to answer. “They were both strong and proud people. Cailin Clanhammer was a quality knight while his wife, Elena, was the daughter of King Brekor.” “So what happened to them?” “Dear, would you mind clearing the table? I have important matters to discuss with your father. Maybe we can talk later,” Jill said, hoping her daughter would forget the topic. “Alright Mother,” Arianna responded, sounding disappointed. Big, fluffy snowflakes fell from the twilight sky, melting as they hit the ground. The last few days had been unseasonably warm and many villagers took advantage while it lasted before winter settled in. Jill took Torin’s hand in hers as they strolled in the deepening night. “Do you think Liam’s maturity is related to his parent’s transformation into wraiths?” “I don’t know. I hadn’t considered it,” he lied. “Meaning you agree he is beyond his years then,” she reasoned. “I didn’t say that… I mean… well, I don’t know.” “Maybe it’s time to test his skills.” Torin looked at Jill in surprise. “You want to enter him in competition?” “He is not happy being around kids his age. Why don’t we find what he wants to

do, not what we think he should do.” “That makes sense, I suppose.” Mary’s Coffeehouse appeared up the hill as they rounded the corner. “Coffee?” Jill asked, squeezing his hand. “A little late for coffee, but a cup of ginger tea sounds good.” “Deal,” she laughed. The place was unusually busy tonight as the warmer weather brought everyone out of their homes. Landur sat against the wall, preoccupied writing something that seemed of great interest to him. However, he looked up long enough to acknowledge them with a wave. Torin pulled a chair out for Jill in a quiet corner as Mary greeted them warmly, “Good evening to you. Interested in some warm cocoa?” “Sure,” Jill said. “And ginger tea for Torin.” “Coming up,” Mary said and bustled off to the kitchen. “I don’t know where she gets the energy.” Jill said, iration reflected in her tone. “Do they still run tournaments up at the castle?” Jill asked delicately, knowing Torin’s sensitivity to the disbanding of the knights. They both took comfort in the fact they would not likely have met otherwise. “I’m not sure. I’ll check when Barandur returns.” “Oh, he’s away?” “Some sort of training mission. Should be back before spring,” he answered half-truthfully. He recalled his conversation with Barandur at the Bird’s Nest. His stomach rumbled in apprehension. A premonition of evil days ahead lingered in his mind. Banishing the thought, he turned his attention back to Jill. “Care for some wine?”

She smiled mischievously. “Sure, if you’re up for it.” They talked of times gone by and what the future might hold until the soft sound of conversation turned to the clacking of chairs being stacked. Torin rose, holding Jill’s coat open for her to slip into. “I think it’s time to go.” The morning sun streaked through the shutters of the Pyke home, illuminating tiny particles of dust that would not otherwise be seen. Torin and Jill worked around the kitchen with the dreamy contentment that only a bright morning after a night of ionate lovemaking could bring. The aroma of hotcakes soon woke the kids from their slumber. While still in bed, Liam closed his eyes and entered a world of his own as he was oft to do. Arianna washed and prepared herself in front of the mirror until she was convinced she was the prettiest girl in the village. And pretty she was indeed. Golden locks frame her heart-shaped face with warm brown eyes and lips that gave her a slight pouting expression. Liam was handsome also, though born to different parents. His masculine frame and strong jaw spoke of conviction and purpose; traits that exemplified both Cailin and Elena. An hour later, they were all seated together devouring hotcakes. While Jill and Arianna exchanged juicy tidbits of local gossip, Torin eyed Liam, who, as usual, did not contribute much to the conversation. Those who did know him sometimes translated his taciturn nature into insecurity or some other unflattering condition, but truth be told, he simply did not speak for the sake of conversation. If he had something to say, he would express it, otherwise, why bother? Of course, Liam was aware of his father’s gaze upon him. He did not mind, he knew it was out of love and respect. He had an uncanny sense of his surroundings. And although he could not read minds, he could sense intentions on a scale that bordered on magic; a skill that would serve him well in days to come. “Yes, Father?” he asked before lifting his eyes to meet Torin’s appraising look. “I would like you to come with me to the smithy today.”

“Sure,” Liam replied. He didn’t ask why, nor did he care. He simply revelled in the surroundings; the clang of hammer on anvil; the smell of tempered steel. During the twenty minute walk to the smithy, Torin could see out the corner of his eye that Liam was almost as high as his shoulder, and he had not even turned eleven. When they reached the forge, Torin fired the furnace and picked through his stock to find a suitable piece to start with. “I had a dream last night,” he said. “What about?” “This,” he said, tossing Liam the ruby Barandur had given him at the Bird’s Nest. “It came to me in a dream,” he restated while taking measurements of Liam’s head. “I don’t know if I understand it, but it’s somehow connected to the Sword of Girdion—to complement the sword’s destructive power with a protective one. Rather than wait for Barandur to return, I thought to make a helm and set the ruby into it. Now, how to go about it?” “Perhaps leather, Father. It can be stretched. To add strength, metal plates can be stitched together on the outside that should be flexible enough to expand as well.” “I knew I brought you along for a reason,” Torin laughed, but impressed by the idea nonetheless. “We’ll try it out.” Liam sensed hesitation in his father. “But that’s not all…” Torin smiled. “I can’t keep anything from you, can I?” Torin’s smile changed to a more serious expression as Liam leaned forward on his elbows to listen.” “Your mother and I have often debated when to tell you… more about your natural parents. You have been told your father—” “You are my father!” Liam cried. Torin motioned for him to sit back down. “You have been told your father, Cailin, was imprisoned and your mother, Elena could not bear the light of day.” “Yes,” Liam said, his eyes narrowing.”

“Well, there’s more to it than that.” Torin paused, taking a deep breath. “They do not live in this world any longer, at least, not as you know it.” Liam stared at his father in confusion.” What do you mean?” “They are wraiths.” Liam’s jaw dropped, he gasped, “What… how… I don’t understand. How could it be?” Too much at once, Torin thought, he didn’t have the heart to tell him how they became wraiths. He was too young to understand. How can you tell a child he was brought into this world because his father raped his mother? “The important thing is, they love you and they are together in their domain. You have a role yet to be played out in their existence.” “Really, Father, how do you know this?” “Because that ruby you hold came from them.” Liam stared at the gem in awe and wonder. “How did it come to you?” Torin chuckled, feeling as if a burden had been lessened from him a little. “I think that’s enough on your plate for today.” He gave Liam a hug and said, “Come on, we have work yet to do.” “I hate it when you do that.” “Do what?” “Keep me in suspense.” “If I tell you, will you stop asking?” “I promise.” “I have a friend who met with them.” “That’s not fair!”

“You promised.” “I suppose.” By the time the sun dipped below the mountains, they had the makings of a hardened leather helm with the ruby embedded in a sturdy steel clasp. “The cover plates can wait for another day. Let’s go eat. Your mother will begin to worry.” Liam lay awake long into the night trying to piece together the events surrounding his birth. When he did manage to nod off, he slept in fits and starts only to be awakened by strange voices he was not familiar with. More than once, Anna’s face appeared among others he did not recognize. The next day, the clanging of hammer on anvil filled the forge where Torin was hard at work shaping new armour for the war in the south as Kresh prepared to repel a renewed offensive from the Aegians. Liam sat on a nearby crate, tracing his fingers along the seams of his new leather helm while he watched his father work. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a quick flash from the ruby embedded in his helm. By the time he looked, it was gone. A brief glow, subtle and almost imperceptible, remained for a short time. “Did you see that Father?” Torin looked up, sweat dripping from his brow. “See what?” “The gem. It shone for an instant.” “Probably a reflection from a spark.” Had they known at the time, far to the north, the Sword of Girdion had just ed into Barandur’s keeping, Thus ensuring its legacy would go on. “Son, put on your helm,” Torin said as he picked a sword from the rack. Liam fastened his helm and slipped his right hand into the buckler at his side. Torin came down with an overhead swing, which Liam blocked easily with the

buckler. He responded with a quick thrust with his short-sword. Torin parried and cut a low sweep that Liam jumped and cleared. Using the momentum from the low sweep, Torin came around in a high, arcing slash that snapped off the clasp on Liam’s tunic. Not to be outdone, Liam caught Torin’s blade with the hilt of his own and swept it from his grip, finishing the match with a spinning back kick. He offered his hand to help his father to his feet, but when he caught the gleam in Torin’s eye, he warned, “Don’t even think about it, father.” “Ah, you know me too well,” Torin laughed, accepting his hand and pulled himself up. “I think your ready for some tougher competition. In a week’s time, King Istolar is holding competitions when his newest recruits return from their training. The stakes are high, the rewards higher still; a chance to serve in the Home Guard.” Liam’s eyes widened. “The Home Guard! The same regiment you were in? Of course, Father. I’d be glad to.” Torin looked away. He regretted times like this when he felt it necessary to withhold the truth due to Liam’s heritage. “Yes, Liam. It was called the King’s Guard back then. Same thing, I suppose…” His voice trailed off as he gazed out of a tiny window coated with soot. As if to reaffirm his best days were behind him, the sun slipped behind the peaks leaving the sky ablaze in scarlet. “What is it, father?” Torin looked back at Liam. Upon seeing the concern on his face, he tried to make light of the situation. “If you’re going to learn to fight like a man, you might as well learn to drink like one. Come on, we got time for an ale or two before dinner.” On Thursday afternoon, the Bird’s Nest usually attracted a fair number of patrons eager to start their weekend early. Today, it was exceptionally packed with men and women from all over town. “Seems like you live in here,” Torin teased Kirik. “Ah, then as a guest, ye can buy me an ale,” Kirik said, then patted Liam on the head. “Hey kid.”

“Kid yourself,” Liam responded, swatting Kirik’s trunk-like forearm away. “Ye got some strength in those puny arms.” “He’s going to Zaranstaad on Saturday to compete in the games.” Kirik laughed heartily, “Are ye now? Wouldn’t ye be a little young?” Liam wanted to knock Kirik off his stool, but a lesson in respect would surely follow from his father, so he ignored the comment. Anna, who had been listening from a short distance away, approached the table. “Thirsty boys?” “A round on me, Anna. How are you today?” Torin asked. “I’m fine, thank you. And the boy?” Liam bristled at the mention of ‘boy’, but shrugged it off with a somewhat forced smile. “I’m fine, thank you.” He peered into the depths of her dark soul, not by will, rather by some other means emanating from deep within. He probed beneath the cheerful, petite barmaid to the spiteful and calculating person inside. An impression formed in his mind. —sorceress—sorceress—sorceress— Without realizing, he gave voice to his thoughts in a soft whisper— sorceress— Anna’s friendly face appeared to him as a bird of prey. However, No-one else took notice, just an awkward silence. Kirik broke it with a friendly slap on Liam’s back. “Ye take yer eyes off me woman, young buck.” Kirik’s remark had the desired effect. Anna smirked and swatted his shoulder while Liam unfocused his stare. Torin remained unconvinced. He knew Liam well enough that he didn’t simply fall into a trance for no reason. Torin gulped down the last of his second ale and indicated to Liam he should do

the same. “Come up to the house tomorrow. Jill will put some roast mutton on the spit,” he said to Kirik. “Aye, sounds like a good plan. I’ll bring Landir and Miradan too.” “Great. Tell them to bring their kids. We can make it a birthday party for Liam before he sets off to Zaranstaad.” “Aye, See ye then.” Dusk was already descending when they stepped out of the inn. Torin gave Liam a sidelong look. “What was that all about?” “Huh? What was what about?” “You know what, you and Anna…” “Oh.” “Oh? That’s it? You were in another world back there.” “I don’t know. Anna seemed kind of strange somehow, like someone… else.” “Like who? Go on.” “A witch maybe, or a conjurer, or a sorceress.” “Sorceress? That’s disturbing. Do you more?” “No only a hunting bird, a falcon I think, and a fortress that looked much like Zaranstaad.” “Have you experienced these visions before?” “Funny, now that you mention it. Back in the smithy when I told you the ruby lit up, I imagined Barandur speaking with an old man. But never before today. Is something happening to me, Father?” “I’m not sure, but I plan to find out.” Shadows grew deep around them on their way back home. Dense pockets of

trees had already succumbed to the encroaching darkness. From the same woods where Anna had ambushed Barandur a year earlier, a falcon watched the pair by. Liam’s spine tingled and for the third time today, his enhanced senses perked “We’re being watched.” “Are you sure? How do you know?” “I feel it, as sure as you’re standing there. Can you not feel it too, Father?” “No, but let’s have a look around anyway. Lead on.” Liam went no further than four steps toward the bushes when a cry pierced the air. The bird swooshed over their heads before it flew off in the direction of Anna’s house. Torin tried vainly to follow its flightpath but could not spot it against the inky sky.

Several hours later, Anna returned home to find Rua, her falcon, waiting patiently in one of the ash trees that lined the lane leading to her home. Rua flapped its wings and squawked upon seeing her. She extended her arm for Rua to perch on. “What is it, my love? What did you see?” she cooed, locking onto its coal-black eyes. For a moment, all its senses became hers. She could see, hear, and smell everything it did, like looking through a window; and she learned of Liam’s conversation with Torin. “Ooh, the king will be most pleased with you my little treasure.” She pulled a live fish from a barrel and tossed it to it. Once inside, she cast aside her barmaid cloths in favour of her red silk robes, iring her tiny but shapely figure in front of her mirror before tightening the sash. Locotus cum mea, she recited to open the portal through the mirror to Istolar’s chambers. When he appeared before her, he looked like he had aged she thought; his dour visage even more pronounced by sagging around the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Rua saw the young king with his father today My Lord.” Istolar glared at her. “Never again will you refer to him as king. Do you understand?” “Yes, My Lord. I’m very sorry.” “Good. I’m sure you would not care for me to refer to HIS father as YOUR father now would you?” “No, My Lord, I would not,” she said, trying not to sound short. She resented that Istolar knew of her heritage; a past she sought to bury. “He spoke of visions: Barandur with an old man, me as a falcon…” “FOOL! You have allowed yourself to be revealed to him! At least your bird had

the sense to fly off! Have you not the sense of even a bird?” Istolar stopped his rant to consider the implications of what she said. “Yet, your blunder has once again proven useful. It seems our friend has discovered where the Sword of Girdion lay hidden.”

The following day, Jill invited a few close friends over for Liam’s birthday party; a much smaller affair this time around. After all, he was outgrowing birthday parties. She fussed, as was her custom, over food and drink, making sure everyone was enjoying themselves. Torin enjoyed ales with the company, as was his custom. The young children played outside with the older ones, while Liam watched, a thousand thoughts running through his mind. “Strangest thing happened on our way home yesterday,” Torin said. “A falcon came out of nowhere and flew right over our heads.” “Probably Anna’s bird getting you for not leaving a tip,” Landur joked. “Anna owns a falcon?” “Oh yes, she’s quite fond of it, and adept at falconry, or so I’m told. Maybe it was her’s you saw.” “Could it be? I wonder. Know where she lives?” All eyes turned toward Kirik, who had been sipping his ale and behaving himself. “What are ye lookin at me fer? I ne’er been up there.” “Up where?” “Up the hill, on the outskirts.” “That is indeed the direction it flew off, the hill on the northern edge of town. There’s maybe two or three houses up that way.” “Augh! Well ye didn’t hear it from me.” Miradan leaned over and gave Kirik a pat on the shoulder, “Don’t worry mate, your secret’s safe with us.” They all erupted with laughter at Kirik’s expense, in good fun, for they loved to tease each other given the opportunity. The night wore on. Outside, crickets chirped under a moonless, star-studded sky.

Sleep would not come easily for Liam. The women had long since went home to their beds while the men talked into the early morning hours. Liam closed his eyes and emptied his mind, watching shapes form and dissolve in a mindless cacophony of motion. The murmur of voices beyond his room eventually nurtured him to sleep. An abrupt snort from the corner where Kirik lay coiled up in a ball reminded them the hour was late. “Guess he dozed off,” Torin said. Landur stretched and announced with a yawn, “Think I’ll call it a night.” “Me too, I’m whacked,” Miradan said, giving Kirik a gentle shake. After they said their good-byes at the door, Torin smiled as they staggered down the road singing, ‘The Knights Go Marching In’. When, at last, their voices faded into the night, he closed the door quietly and went to bed. Liam spent the next week honing his swordplay, either on hastily constructed dummies, or with Torin if he was not too tired from work. During this time, no more visions visited him and he began to wonder if he had eaten something funny that day. On the day of his departure, Liam woke before the sun rose, feeling both eager and apprehensive. Torin sensed his discomfort and tried to soothe his anxiety. “Don’t worry, Son, you will feel more at ease once you’re there. With a nudge, he added, “Besides, your competition will likely be quite older than you. The pressure is upon them to perform.” “Great. I’m younger, so it’s alright if I fail.” “That’s not what I meant.” “I know. Are we leaving soon?” “Can’t go off without a nice breakfast.” “—Which mother will make when she wakes up, right?”

“Right, so pack up your gear and it’s a little cooler up there.” The sound of rummaging awoke Jill, triggering her maternal impulse to ensure Liam had packed everything he would need. Breakfast was prepared in short order: Sausages and eggs with fresh beans from the garden. As Liam picked at the last few morsels on his plate, another vision flashed before his eyes. His fork clattered to the plate startling his parents. “What is it, Son? Are you okay?” Torin asked. “I’m fine. I just—” Another image flashed, then another, followed by a short sequence. Liam blinked, wondering if it would continue. He looked at Jill’s worried face, then to Torin. “What did you see?” Torin asked. “Barandur again, this time with a man of shady character. There was a battle, beasts fought also, much blood.” “What beasts? Who were the men?” “I cannot say. It all happened so fast.” “I don’t think he should go. At least not until we know what’s going on,” Jill said. “We may never know. Do you still want to go, Liam?” “Yes I do. I’ll be fine, Mother,” he said, giving her a big hug. “Whenever you’re ready, Father.” I don’t like this, Jill thought. Nevertheless, she sent them off with an encouraging smile. “We’ll be cheering for you! Love you.” “Love you too, Mother,” Liam said, and hugged her close before he turned and left with Torin, up the road to Zaranstaad. Her heart ached watching him go, for she could not accept he was no longer her

little boy. I’ll miss you, my son, she mouthed silently.

The Keeper

I go into trees, in the middle. I watch in the middle. I see them. They come and they go, but they don’t see me. No, they cannot. But I see them, yes. From the wood. A tingling sensation crept over Sven as Barandur and company slowly picked their way through thick rushes and reeds. They were still a fair distance away, but he sensed rather than seen their approach. Sven will be vigilant. Sven will hide. He disappeared back into the trees, cackling as he went. The existence of the hermit was known to few save Terrance. Once Barandur and company ed through the bog stretching between the village and surrounding hills, an uphill struggle in dense pine forest welcomed them as the terrain climbed steadily toward the peaks. Jagged crevices opened suddenly before them, sometimes concealed under an accumulation of frozen mulch, forcing them to backtrack to find another way up. “This place has a will of its own,” Barandur grumbled while retracing their steps yet again. “Every time I think we are almost out of these treacherous cliffs, we come to another dead end. Where is this crazy old man? Perhaps Terrance is the one who is mad.” “Over here,” a recruit called out. “A way up.” “Be careful, wait till we get there,” Barandur shouted back. Big, moist snowflakes swirled between them, obscuring his vision. He guessed at the direction where the voice came from. But it was too late. Eager to be the one to lead them out of the maze and up the mountain, the recruit slipped on wet foliage and tumbled over the side of the narrow ridge. Sven closed his eyes when he heard the screams echo throughout the canyon. So, they have found the age. When Barandur reached the point where the man fell, the only indication left

behind was an impression his boot made in the snow as it slid off a decaying log. There, he lost his balance and rolled a few feet before falling over the ledge. A last, desperate hand print where he tried to grasp the edge was the last trace he left behind. Barandur stood solemnly for a moment, peering down into the chasm, feeling his heart heavy in his chest, the memory of losing the last recruit still haunted him. Now he would have another to deal with. How could he face their families? What solace could he offer? He could visualize the man’s wife, the look in her eyes as her expression changed to eternal grief. Perhaps she already carried his child; a child who would never know what it’s like to run through a field of tall grass with his father on a sunny afternoon. Damn you, Cailin! How long must I pay? “Sir?” Barandur looked at Meehan with the reddened eyes of a mortally wounded animal. “Sir, we will all freeze if we don’t move on. He found the . Don’t let his life go in vain.” “Yes, of course, let’s get going.” They followed the narrow ridge as it snaked up the mountain. On either side, it fell precipitously into a white haze far below. Several recruits became overwhelmed by vertigo as they struggled to navigate the treacherous . They would make the crossing, even if they had to crawl on their belly. They had not travelled far when Barandur chuckled sardonically. “What could possibly be so funny?” Meehan asked. “Snake ,” Barandur snorted, pointing to a crudely hewn sign mounted on a rotting post. When Meehan stared at him blankly, Barandur began to laugh uncontrollably. “Don’t you get it? Snake ! Look behind you!”

Meehan turned to see a few men inching forward, prostrate on the ground as if the wind might sweep them over to their comrade. He faced Barandur, concern evident in his expression. “Sir, it wasn’t your fault. He got ahead of us is all. Anyone could have…” “Could have what?” Barandur snapped. He swung his head side to side wildly. “Never mind! What do you know? What do you know of anything? Get up! All of you. We don’t have a bloody week to cross this cursed thing.” The men who had been crawling stood up slowly on trembling legs and found, surprisingly, they were no longer afraid. Oddly, the scene they had just witnessed galvanized them in an unexpected way. Barandur drew strength upon seeing their courage as well. They wasted no further time crossing the gorge. And not a moment too soon. The wind picked up suddenly, as if coming to the aid of the mountain, driving them back. They bowed their heads and forged ahead. White, fluffy snowflakes changed to driving sleet, coating the rock with ice. Each step meant the difference between life and death and the thought of sliding over the edge pushed their courage to the limit. This is getting dangerous. Real dangerous. Halfway around a narrow strip, a section which appeared to be connected gave way under the foot of a terrified recruit. His cry caught the attention of Barandur, who instinctively reached out, catching the man’s sleeve before he tumbled over. But his weight was slowly drawing them both down. Barandur would not release his grip as he locked eyes with the recruit’s own, whose look reflected sheer panic. Meehan hooked his arm around Barandur’s leg as well, and before long, everyone ed in the rescue attempt of the soldier. Despite their combined efforts, they were losing him one inch at a time. And he knew it. In a last act of great courage, the soldier closed his eyes and smashed Barandur’s hand against the ice, forcing him to release his grip. He opened his eyes as he fell back, doom written across his face; a look that would be forever imprinted on Barandur’s already tortured soul. Barandur looked back with anguish, then emptiness as the last remnants of his soul flickered and went out. Yet, he was a good actor and quite capable of faking the rest of his life. No-one would have to know the fire inside had expired.

The mountain lay ahead, another fifty feet and they would be safe, at least until the return journey. Carefully, quietly, they picked their way across the remaining span until they reached a broad ledge. Exhausted, both mentally and physically, they slumped against the wall under a shallow recess and neither moved nor spoke for a long time. Meehan stole a glimpse occasionally at Barandur, who gazed out across the abyss without blinking and wearing an expression he could not read. At length, Barandur rose stiffly. “Let’s find this Sven before this place brings death to us all.” “Sir, the men are hungry. Should we not rest and eat a little before moving on?” Meehan asked. “Here is not a place to linger for too long. Let’s see what the other side of the mountain brings. Have some more biscuits, then we need to move while there is yet daylight.” In the failing light, Sven scurried down to his refuge in the dense forest. He did not care for the barren slopes above the trees; it made him feel naked. I go into trees, in middle of nice cozy trees and watch in the middle. I see them come. They look for me but can’t find me in trees, then they go and leave Sven alone. “Sven! If you are here, please, we need you! Help us, please!” Sven hunched on a log, eyes darting around as if looking for a way out. “Sven, if you are here, we beg of you to show yourself. We mean you no harm.” Barandur faced the company. “Spread out, twenty feet apart. We’ll comb every inch of this valley if need be.” Doing a poor job trying not to annoy Barandur, Meehan interjected, “Far be it for me to say, sir, but how do we even know he’s in this valley? This is quite an expanse of mountains around us.” Barandur answered testily, as Meehan expected he would, “Call it a hunch. You have any better ideas?” Without waiting for an answer, he added, “I thought not.

Any more questions?” What do they want from Sven, me wonders? Grabbing his gnarly walking stick in his equally gnarly hand, he slipped into one of his many hidden holes he dug out when he didn’t want to be found. Soon, he heard their heavy booted feet plodding clumsily above him. He snickered quietly inside his hole. “Over here!” Barandur shouted. Sven listened intently, trying to decipher what they found. “What is it?” Meehan came panting as he ran up to Barandur in a small clearing where a cleft ran deep into the mountain. “You think he might live in there?” While others ed them having heard Barandur’s call, Meehan peered into the gloom. “Augh! What’s that stench? It smells of decay and rot! Nobody could possibly live in there.” “Even still, it’s worth a look. Maybe there are clues.” “The only clues you will find is your own demise,” a voice came from behind. They turned to see a shrunken old man with a walking stick. Thin strands of white hair hung below his shoulders and a wispy beard framed his wizened face. He gazed at them intently through his bright blue eyes. For a moment, they simply stared at the gnomish-looking figure before them until finally Barandur croaked, “Sven?” Sven jumped up on a log, deceivingly nimble for his apparent age. Leaning forward, he squinted at Barandur. “How do you know Sven?” “The innkeeper, Terrance, told us where you dwelt, roughly speaking.” Sven shook his head in an animated way, as if denying what he heard, and muttered something unintelligible with ‘Terrance’ repeated at intervals. The

company just stared at him, unsure what to make of this strange little old man, but transfixed by his antics nonetheless. “What do you want?” Sven asked, hopping from one foot to another on top of the log. “We are looking for the Sword of Girdion. It’s said to infuse the one who wields it with magic strong enough to defeat Popobawa.” Sven’s eyes grew wide. “Yes, YES, a great power indeed! Turns dead to living and living to dead. Calls upon the dead it does. But needs red stone to work.” “We have the ruby if that’s what you mean,” Barandur said, hope working its way into his tone. Sven’s eyes glittered with wonder, then in an instant, turned downcast. “What is it? Can you take us to it?” Barandur pleaded. “In there.” Sven pointed a bony finger toward the cleft. “Kept in a cave where Keeper keeps it.” “What is Keeper?” “Keeper is Kwoth. Kwoth is Keeper.” Barandur started to tire of Sven’s riddles. “Who and what is Kwoth the Keeper?” Sven stared back at Barandur as if he just asked a very stupid question. “A big brown bear.” They looked at each other and began to laugh. “We can deal with the bear, I assure you,” Meehan said. “Do not make mockery of Kwoth. Do not make Kwoth angry. Kwoth not ordinary bear. Very big he is, fifteen feet high with jaws of iron. He take down a tree with one swipe.” “How did the sword end up in there?” Barandur asked. “Sven leave it there. Bear not home when Sven leave it there.”

Barandur stared at Sven dubiously. “You brought the sword from Zaranstaad to this cave?” “Yes, long time ago it was.” “Long? That was thousands of years ago.” Sven nodded his head slowly, a smile betraying the irony of his fate on his face. “Yes, Sven is dead… undead? Almost. Last of kind.” “You are crazy. Why should I…” The answer hit him before he could finish the question: Sven is dead. Queen Marian’s curse preserved him in much the same way as it had Elena, and through her, Cailin as well. Sven was the first victim of the sword’s curse; preserved as he was thousands of years ago—when his race inhabited pockets of Ukorstria’s remote forests. “You are—a gnome—transformed into a wraith?” Barandur gaped in awe. The other recruit’s stared in wonder at Sven who appeared annoyed with the attention. “Tell us Sven, can this Kwoth be defeated?” Sven surveyed the group, cocking his head from side to side like a dog hearing a whistle. “Perhaps, but many will die.” They looked at each other with a mix of courage and conviction. A surge of pride washed over Barandur. These men were just kids looking for adventure less than a year ago. And yet, they rallied behind him every step of the way, no matter how perilous the path he set them on. He brushed hastily at a tear forming in his eye. “Is there no other way?” “Yes, of course.” When it became clear that was Sven’s answer without further prompting, Barandur gestured for him to continue. “Sven can retrieve it for you.” An audible sigh of relief sounded among them. “But cost is high. Sven give sword to you and, over time, you become like Sven, unless you give sword to someone else or queen removes curse. Queen make

curse, only queen can remove curse. Or sword is destroyed by magic.” Barandur swallowed hard before he said, “So be it. Is there somewhere we can wait for you? We have had neither food nor rest for many hours.” “Sven take you somewhere, yes,” he said, and led them to one of his nearby holes. A dull thud from above marked Sven’s departure, leaving the company with a small cooking fire. No utensils or ornaments hung from the bare, earthen walls. Wraiths had no use of such things. Yet, they still had a few potatoes and strips of beef Sophia provided for them. Meehan scrubbed the lone, rusted pan with sand and sliced up everything together to simmer over the fire. “At least this one doesn’t smell so bad,” Meehan said. “What of this curse? What did he mean, ‘Sven is dead’?” “Not exactly dead… but not in our plane of existence either.” Under better circumstances, he would have laughed at their baffled expressions. However, he felt no laughter within so he went on to explain about the true nature of the mission. Having come so far, they deserved to know the truth, even if it cost him his life when they returned to Zaranstaad—if they returned. Kwoth growled menacingly as Sven approached. His baleful, black eyes fixed on the intruder. Yet, his keen animal instincts knew he was powerless against the otherworldly foe. Sven danced right up under his nose. “Sven come for it now.” He gave him a swat on the snout. The enraged bear took a swipe at him that would have decapitated a man, but Sven shimmered for an instant and reappeared beside the sword. There it lay, half covered in dirt and filth, like a discarded keepsake. He snatched it and wheeled to face Kwoth, but Kwoth made no attempt to stop him. His fearsome appearance belied his intelligence; he knew nothing he could do would prevent Sven from taking the sword. Rearing up on his haunches, he let out a terrifying roar as Sven skipped out of the cavern with the sword. “Phew! What’s that horrid smell?” Meehan exclaimed, holding his nose.

“You ask for sword. Sven bring sword. Never ask to clean it.” Barandur picked up the Sword of Girdion, wiping it clean on the mud wall. “Not even a speck of rust after all this time.” He turned to thank him, but he was already gone. Sven would never be seen or heard of by anyone again and his name fell into a myth along with the Sword of Girdion. Generations later, it would become a favourite tale for children in Ravencast: Grandpa, tell me the story of the gnome, the Sword and the Big Brown Bear. However, The story told around inn fires late at night had a more sinister ending. When Barandur and company ed within sight of Kwoth’s lair, they saw him feasting upon the remains of a little man. For with the ing of the swords, the curse had also ed, leaving Sven mortal for a brief time. He had just enough strength to make it back to Kwoth. Barandur stared in awe. He went there to die. Rest in peace, old man. The company retraced their footsteps the way they had come, this time without losing another member. They came within sight of the bog that encircled Ravencast and found it imable. Milder weather returned to Hannan with spring approaching, melting ice and snow from a particularly harsh winter. To Barandur and his men, this meant trading one peril for another. Though the ice had thawed, many rivulets of water crossed their path on the way down the mountain. But that was a mere nuisance compared to the bog, which had become a lake from all the melt-water. “What do we do now?” Meehan asked. Barandur shrugged. “Go around.” “That will take days!” “If you have any better ideas, now is the time to speak up, otherwise we leave in an hour.” Some stale bread, served up with a couple of coneys unfortunate enough to have crossed their path, provided a decent meal. And with a lot of perseverance, they managed a small fire from damp brush. Despite this, the camp was glum. They expected to be back at the Woodcutter’s Den by nightfall. Nobody knew exactly

how far the flooded bog extended, but the delay would likely cost them at least two days. “Let’s move out,” Barandur said, drawing a few moans and groans. “Now that I’m dried out a tad,” one of the recruits said bitterly. “You can stay here by the fire if you wish,” Meehan said. “Nah, probably some swamp beast lives in there. This land is strange, something unnatural about it. Everything is in a state of decay. You can smell it in the air.” “Maybe the sword has tainted it.” “Maybe your minds are a little tainted,” Barandur interrupted. But we’re not sticking around to find out, so let’s move.” There were no trails to follow, and to make matters worse, the hills fell right into the flooded bog, forcing them to navigate the steep and slippery terrain. Rations were also dwindling, forcing them to scavenge what little food the land had to offer such as scrawny rabbits or sour berries. At length, they came to a point where the bog ended with steep hills and cliffs rising abruptly around Ravencast. The land rose on a gentle and even slope from the bog into town, allowing melt-water to drain unobstructed into the bog. “The second time I’m happy to see that wretched village,” Barandur quipped, his spirits rising a bit with the thought of an ale and a hearty meal at The Woodcutter’s Den. His mood spread among the company and for now at least, the loss of and harsh environment did not weigh them down. With Ravencast in sight, they sang and joked their troubles away. “Something’s wrong,” Barandur said, slowing his pace. “Yes, we’re half starved,” Meehan said, drawing a few laughs. “No, I’m serious. I can feel it.” Meehan’s expression changed. He had come to trust Barandur’s instincts. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. It’s too quiet. Maybe you’re right, hunger is playing tricks on my mind.” No sooner had he said that when men appeared from behind buildings on both sides of the road. “What the…” “Well now,” Gurney said, emboldened by the sheriff’s men at his side. “Don’t get a lot of tourists round here. Mind if I ask what brings a company of soldiers up from Ukorstria?” Barandur stared at Gurney, then Gunther, who stood scowling at his side. “Training, not that it’s any of your business. King Ferdugar has granted us permission.” “Oh? Did he also grant permission to take whatever you like while you’re here?” Barandur looked to Terrance, who was being restrained rather roughly by two of Gunther’s men. “I didn’t have…” Terrance tried to talk, but was knocked to the ground. He looked in bad shape. His clothes were soaked in blood. Sophia trembled not far away, biting her fingers to stop her hands from shaking. “Shut up!” Gunther put up his hand. “King Ferdugar will decide what will become of you. I understand you are no stranger to Castlerock’s dungeons. You will accompany us to Norbit. If you resist or try to escape, you will be killed. Understood?” “We will do as you bid,” Barandur said, drawing a look of shock from Meehan. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “Like he said, I’ve been there before. I am not afraid of their king. He is a fair man and I know he will have spoken to King Istolar by then.” “Can we have a meal first? My men have spent many days in the wilds with little to eat.” “See to it they are fed. Do not let them out of your sight,” Gunther said to a

chagrined Gurney, who would have preferred to see them go hungry. “And take that sword from him.” A caravan of horses and wagons awaited them on the south end of town. While Gunther and Gurney shared a cozy-looking coach, Barandur and his men were packed into a makeshift cage on wheels. Gunther’s small army of enforcers rode in relative comfort. The climate became markedly warmer on the journey south. Even the rainfall lessened to a more tolerable drizzle. The thin slab of wood that served as a canopy allowed them to dry out somewhat. And although the road followed a meandering route and prone to washouts, they travelled much quicker by horsedrawn wagons than the way they had come on foot through the hills. The hot afternoon sun on the moist earth enveloped Norbit in a thick fog. Normally, the sun would have burned it away, but the humidity saturated the air so much that it clung to the town like a damp towel. Norbit served as the regional centre for most of Hannan’s mining operations. Although barely large enough to be considered a town, it was nonetheless far bigger than Ravencast or any of the other satellite mining communities. Every sound became muted in the heavy air. The clipety-clop of the horses drew little attention as they entered town. “The air is so close here, I can hardly breathe,” Meehan said, tugging at his collar. “Later, by mid-summer, when the rainy season breaks, it’s much drier. I don’t expect we’ll be around by then.” “You could have phrased that a little differently.” “Everybody out!” shouted Bob, one of Gunther’s deputies. He herded them into the jailhouse adjacent to the sheriff’s office. “When can I see King Ferdugar?” Barandur asked. “When we tell him you’re here,” Bob scoffed as Tom, the jailor, slammed the door with a clang. They both broke into laughter.

Barandur slumped to the floor. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this.” The cramped, windowless cell made the time of day hard to judge. But a small window across the room filtered in the last light of day. Tom lit the lamps and threw a dozen strips of dried meat in the cell. Probably rats, Barandur thought to himself as he eyed it suspiciously; dark and gamey. Closing his eyes, he popped it into his mouth and chewed while he tried to hide his revulsion for the sake of the others. Tantalizingly nearby, the keys lay where Tom tossed them on the desk, yet too far to reach without a rod or stick of at least four feet in length. Bob returned with some bread and cheese. “Thought you might be getting hungry.” “Thirsty too. Got anything?” “Whaddya think?” He said, pulling out a large bottle of dark red wine. Meehan had silently been watching Barandur, who was getting annoyed at the pair. “If I get out of here, you’re as good as dead,” Barandur said. The remark sparked guffaws from Tom and Bob who were steadily getting drunk. “Good one! I’d like to see that,” Tom said. “I bet you would,” Bob bellowed, pushing him off his chair. They wrestled around awhile, drunk and clumsily, until they exhausted themselves and lay panting on the floor. Neither noticed they had knocked the keys to the floor in the fracas. Tom rose on shaky legs, extending a hand for Bob to get to his feet. “I’m getting too old for this,” Bob said. “You and me both,” Tom agreed, refilling their glasses. For a time, they talked of lost dreams and opportunities, and where their miserable lives had taken them. As the hours drifted by, the wine took its toll and left them snoring on the floor. Barandur had been patiently waiting for the opportunity. He reached for the keys on the floor, but still they were too far

away. “Let me try. I’ve longer arms,” Meehan said. As he strained to reach another six inches, Tom stirred with a loud snort. Startled, Meehan withdrew his arm quickly, banging his elbow on the iron bar. “Curse that fool!” he said, rubbing his elbow. “Still too far.” Barandur had been absently fiddling with Horgram’s whistle, given to him by Johan, when he suddenly became aware of it. “I wonder if this thing works,” he said pulling it out of his pocket. Its silver sheen glowed wondrously in the dim light. Several recruits sat up to gape at its brilliant silver sheen. “Does it always shine like that?” “Not that I’m aware of. Perhaps when danger is about, or if were-dogs are close enough to hear it.” “Were-dogs? I don’t think I like the sound of that.” “They’re not wild beasts. They serve their master, Horgram in…” “Who? Where?” “Never mind,” Barandur said “Anyway, we’re probably too far from the Myrshin Swamp for them to hear it. Nothing to lose anyways. Here goes…” He blew the whistle long and hard. “Let’s hope they hear it.” Meehan looked puzzled. “Yes, because I heard nothing.” “Which means you’re not a were-dog,” Barandur said, putting away the whistle. “Now we wait.” They did not have to wait long. Bob had stumbled out the door in the early morning hours, leaving his friend on the floor without so much as throwing a blanket over him. Shortly thereafter, a single were-dog appeared in the doorway left open by Bob. It sniffed the air for signs of danger, then cocked its head, looking curiously at

the company. Instinctively, it knew the keeper of the silver whistle and approached Barandur. “There boy,” Barandur whispered urgently, pointing to the keys. “Bring them here.” The were-dog complied, sliding the keys under the door with his paw. He then went to check if Tom had woke up. Unfortunately for him, he did. In one swift motion, the were-dog grabbed the poor jailor by the throat and crushed his neck before he could call for help. He shook him violently side to side to make sure he was dead, nearly decapitating him in the process. Barandur ushered them toward the door, many turning away from the grisly scene as they ed. “I told you, “he said to the bloody heap on the floor. Outside, the streets were quiet. They hurried through the deserted streets, staying in the shadows wherever possible. They made it to the edge of town and beyond without any further encounters. The border gates provided the final obstacle. For better or worse, the same guards were on duty as the day they were met by Ferdugar months before. To Barandur, it seemed like years. “Three guards and we’re free. Suggestions anyone?” “I say we storm them. Got em three to one,” a recruit suggested. “Have you no sense? They fight from within a fortified gatehouse with shortbows. I don’t like the odds.” They worked their way in to as close to the gate as possible without being seen. Clearly, the gate was the only route through, unless they dared try to scale twenty-foot stone walls extending more than one-hundred feet in either direction until they reached solid rock faces jutting straight up into the mountains. Another option would be to burrow under or around the wall, but that risked discovery by a patrol. Besides, the ground was still frozen a few feet down. Taking out the patrol guard seemed to be the best bet, but that would require someone to be stationed by the road to stop another guard from riding out for reinforcements.

Which brings up a third and most important problem: Their actions would almost certainly be viewed as an act of aggression. Ferdugar would strengthen his garrison there and Istolar would respond likewise. The ensuing troop buildup would likely lead to border skirmishes. The possibility of an all-out conflict would weigh on the minds of both kings as neither placed much trust in the other to begin with. Horgram’s were-dog proved his worth yet again. In the time it took the company to reach the border, she managed to gather a pack together to destroy a supply wagon nestled under a strand of fir trees about sixty feet from the gatehouse. They easily gnawed through the sturdy twine to get at the precious cargo underneath, spilling wine, apples, and salted pork on the grass. Garments were shredded and even the wagon itself was not spared damage. “Stop them! Kill them,” the captain screamed. The other two guards sprang into action with a barrage of arrows. However, the were-dogs were too quick and too smart. They dashed for cover before the first arrows struck the wagon. “This is our only chance. Make for the gate now!” Following Barandur’s lead, they stormed the gate, finding it open and undefended. As the last recruit slipped through, a guard finally noticed. “Hey! You! Stay where you are!” “Hurry! No stopping now. RUN!” The urgency in Barandur’s voice lit a fire under the feet of the company. They sprinted for their side of the border with all strength and energy their tired bodies could manage. Then they were free, for all in the company knew the guards could not pursue them in their own realm. Not that they would stand a chance beyond the gatehouse, out in the open. A little further down the trail, they paused long enough to catch their breath. The euphoria of escape vanished with one look at Barandur’s horrified expression. “What’s wrong?” Meehan asked, thoroughly dreading the words even as they left his lips. Barandur stared at him blankly. “It has all been for naught. The whole purpose of

this mission… Lost…” Meehan suddenly realized what Barandur was referring to. “No sir. Not this time.” He withdrew the Sword of Girdion from under his tunic. “I wouldn’t think to leave this behind. I grabbed it on the way out. I thought you knew. I’m sorry.” “Sorry?” Barandur laughed insanely. “You stupid, wonderful idiot! I am forever in your debt!” He hugged him so hard, Meehan could barely breathe. “You’re welcome… I think.” The recruits laughed aloud and soon after Barandur and Meehan ed them. Barandur felt like the load had been lifted from his shoulders slightly and breathed deep while the others laughed and made wisecracks. So loud was their rejoicing, that it reached the ears of the Hannanite guards. The captain looked down the trail, his face a mix of humility and gloom. “Gunther will not be pleased.”

The Games

Liam and Barandur had not met since Liam was a young child. “You are him,” He ventured, breaking the awkward silence. Barandur looked uncertainly at Torin. “You Barandur?” Torin asked Liam. “Can you give us a minute, Son?” “Sure,” Liam said, casting a quick glance at Barandur before scurrying off. “He knows little of you,” Torin assured Barandur. “Why would that concern me?” Barandur probed for the meaning behind the words. “Your expression, you looked… surprised or something.” Barandur wondered how much Torin knew about his role in Cailin’s fate. “First time I’ve seen Cailin’s… I mean, your son.” “Alright then,” Torin chuckled. “The sword? Did you find it?” “Yes, but the price was high. Three men were lost. One was hit by a falling tree branch during a blizzard. Two were lost trying to cross an icy land bridge leading to the mountain where we found the sword.” “I’d like to hear all about it. You want to get something to eat?” “Maybe later. I’ve yet to see the king.” Barandur turned to leave, then hesitated. He turned back to face Torin. “Before I go, and if I’m not being too forward, may I ask what Liam knows of his heritage?” “He knows who his birth parents are… if that’s what you’re getting at.” “I see… Is that all you plan to share with him?”

Torin shifted uncomfortably. “If you mean, does he know they are wraiths, yes, he knows. Why do you ask?” Barandur stepped back. “I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business, Torin. I didn’t mean to pry.” “Not a problem. Listen, I’ll see you after you’re done your business with Istolar.” “I’ll see you then,” Barandur replied, feeling a bit more at ease thinking his secret to be safe. “I’ll meet you at the Hill and Glen. On these grounds, take care to use the proper salutation when addressing the king. You never know who is listening around here.” “Hmmm, yes, thanks for the reminder. Hard to think of that usurper as being king though. I’m going to get Liam ed while you attend to your business.”

“Come,” Istolar’s deep voice commanded. Barandur entered through the massive double doors into the Great Hall. A resounding ‘thunk’ echoed through the hall as two guards closed them behind him. The sound of the deadbolt sliding into place carried with it a finality that unnerved Barandur, as if it were sealing his doom. “Your Majesty.” He bowed deeply, hoping to dispel any displeasure the king may be harbouring toward him. “Welcome back,” Istolar said flatly. “Training went well I take it?” “Yes, Your Highness. I am pleased with their performance and expect them to excel in the games.” Istolar leaned back and clasped his hands in front in a deceptively casual manner. “Their training was exceptionally difficult?” Barandur felt like a mouse in the clutches of a cat; to be toyed with for awhile before the kill. “The trials were many and resources few, but all challenges were met with skill and courage. I’m very proud of them. Meehan, in particular, proved to be capable in a leadership role under difficult situations.” “And to what end, I wonder?” Istolar sat back, stroking his beard. An uneasy silence electrified the air. Istolar rose and walked over to Barandur. Barandur lowered his head, but Istolar lifted his chin. “I missed you.” Barandur squirmed, feeling the sickening pit in his stomach return as memories of abuse and humiliation flooded back into him. I didn’t miss you. “To what end,” Istolar repeated to himself, then turned abruptly to the guards. “Leave us!” After the doors closed behind him, Barandur struggled to regain his composure, torn between duty and betrayal. Ultimately, his fear of reprisal prevailed, but he sought to salvage the situation in any way possible. “My Lord, I am ashamed of my actions.”

Istolar seated himself again, much to Barandur’s relief. “How so?” “I put the men in my charge in harm’s way. I led them on a quest to retrieve a weapon that could help in the war in the south. Three of them were lost. We were arrested upon our return for theft, but we managed to escape.” “And yet, you still were able to bring this weapon all the way back; a tribute to your ability, though the manner in which you have done so disturbs me. Tell me, why did you not inform me of the purpose of your trip from the outset?” “I was afraid you would disapprove.” “And yet, you left thinking I would not approve… The question is, what to do with you?” “I beg to serve you, My Lord, if you would give me a chance to prove my loyalty. The sword may be of use against your enemies.” “Now they are my enemies? I can think of nothing within your power to aid me. You always test my good nature and prove you’re worthless. Though I it you possess a resiliency that belies your character. After a deliberately long pause while he poured himself a half glass of wine, he continued, “You are correct about this Sword of Girdion and I only need a champion worthy to wield it.” Barandur made a conscious effort to not look surprised that Istolar knew of the sword. How will this play out? Liam is the only one who can use it against Popobawa. “Sire, if I were to produce a champion in the games?” “I will have a champion in any event. What makes your contestant so special?” “His name is Liam, Sire, son of…” Istolar cringed at the mention of his name. “I know who the bastard is! Very well, you shall have a chance to redeem yourself. Should you fail, you will not see the light of day again. The victor shall have this sword to use against our Aegian foes.” “Kresh is still under siege, My Lord?” “I have received word they have broken through, burning and ransacking every

village on their way north. Resistance groups are forming to impede them, and I am sending whatever reinforcements that can be spared.” “I never thought they could penetrate the defences of Kresh. Their assault weapons must have made advances while we have been idle.” Istolar bristled at the assertion. “You tempt my leniency yet again.” “Forgive me sire, I…” Istolar waved him off. “They have recruited a powerful demon ally to aid them in battle, it is named Popobawa.” Barandur’s eyes widened in shock. “I thought it to exist in myth only; tomes written in the ages of the first kings.” “You know of this beast?” Istolar exclaimed, genuinely shocked. “Myths, Sire. Cailin described them to me.” Istolar searched for signs of dishonesty but found none, for he was hearing the truth, though he was unaware the source of information came from the catacombs, deep under gardens, where Cailin dwelt in wraith form. He mistakenly assumed Barandur referred back to the time when they were of the King’s Guard. “How long do we have?” “Three, perhaps four months until they hole us up in here like rats in a trap, longer if the weather turns to favour us.” Istolar went to the window. Dark clouds were rolling down from the mountains as it had the day Barandur set out for Ravencast. “I hope you have not brought King Ferdugar’s wrath upon me with your careless actions. Do what you must with the boy. He must be ready the day after tomorrow. The stakes are high. If he wins, he wins the sword and will fight alongside the Tower Guard. And you will not suffer the fate I promised. If he loses, well…” A wicked smile crept across his chiseled features. Torin could see Barandur’s face sag from across the room as he entered the Hill

and Glen. “You don’t look so well, my friend.” He slid a cold tankard across the table as the former warlord seated himself. Barandur drained half of it in one long gulp and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “He knows Liam is here. I told him,” he said, ignoring Torin’s comment. “What did he say?” Barandur laughed sardonically, “He said, he better win… for my sake.” “Why did you even bring his name up?” “I was trying to get his attention off the sword. He messes me up, trips me up every time.” Torin refilled Brandur’s tankard. “Don’t worry. Liam will win.” Over the next two days, fighters poured in from across the country, driven by news of the fall of Kresh. Ukorstrians had always felt secure within their borders with Kresh and Zaranstaad to keep enemies at bay. Zaranstaad was faced with a problem it had not seen for a very long time: Where to accommodate all these people. They slept wherever they could find room. Every bed in the Hill and Glen was filled. Common rooms held makeshift straw mats. Some even braved the gardens despite rumours of its haunting and the chill nights. In the morning of the third day, all participants gathered in the courtyard to await Istolar’s appearance. From the balcony, he held up a hand to quiet the crowd. “Welcome, my friends. Your nation has called in dire need and you have taken heed.” Barandur joked in a low voice to Meehan, “Is this going to be a speech or a poem?” Several men close enough to hear snickered in response. Istolar paused, eyeing him with disapproval as if he heard the remark. “As you are all probably aware, our great nation has been attacked without provocation by the Aegian barbarians along with the savages known as the Bandi. Thus, We begin the annual skills contest on a sombre note. As usual, only those with the highest points from each match will be selected. However, due to extreme circumstances, the pool will be widened. For those who fail to qualify, the need may yet come to defend our homeland.”

“To the contestant who achieves the highest score, a prized sword will be awarded, and an honorary rank of knight will be bestowed upon him. If anyone chooses to step down, do so now and no shame shall be brought upon you.” As was to be expected, nobody did, for despite the claim to the contrary, everyone knew full well what others would be thinking if they walked out now. It would have been better not to come in the first place. “Very well. Report to one of the stands along the wall to . Good luck to you all.” In an uncharacteristic flash of showmanship, Istolar vanished behind a cloud of smoke. Meehan said to Barandur, “How much you want to bet he tries to steal the show at the ceremonies? The man has no shame.” “He would not have pulled that off a year ago,” Barandur said, then turned to Liam, “Did you get signed up?” “Yesterday. I think I’ll have a look around.” As he turned to leave, a man with long wavy black hair stuck his foot out, tripping Liam up. “Sorry lad. I wasn’t expecting children to be out here.” He extended his hand to help Liam to his feet in mock friendship. Liam looked up at the man whose black locks dangled over him. He had a lean build, but Liam suspected deceptive strength and agility in him. “What is your name?” “Zackery,” he said, like he was addressing a child. “Well, Zackery. We’ll be meeting again. Of that, I am certain,” Liam said, sweeping Zackery’s legs out from under him as he got to his feet. “Why you insolent little rat!” Barandur had seen enough. “I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities to settle grievances in the coming days.” Zackery brushed himself off. He was about to shove Liam but hesitated upon seeing the warning look brewing in Barandur’s eyes. Instead, he glared a parting shot at Liam, who smiled in return. “You and your father can stay with me until the games begin,” he said to Liam.

“That way I can keep an eye on you,” he added with a wink. Istolar reappeared in his study moments later, but he simply stood there staring at the leather-bound volume of Origin of Ukorstrian Royalty, lying on his desk. Fluff and dust billowed out as he sat in the worn upholstered chair, illuminated in the sun rays that shone through the tiny window by the ceiling at ground level. Pushing the book aside, he cupped his chin in his hands and closed his eyes. No one knows all of its uses, and its secret is safe with me. Very simple. After the beast is defeated, the sword will be displayed in the Great Hall, encased with its secrets forever more. He put the volume onto the shelf, sliding it gently into place, inconspicuous amongst the others.

Barandur had taken Torin and Liam into his own modest residence during their stay. His solitary lifestyle demanded few luxuries. The three of them worked together to fabricate two cots. Torin noted how bare the dwelling seemed; devoid of any personality or warmth. Liam became withdrawn in the days leading up to the event. Torin and Barandur did not intervene, for they trusted the best way to prepare was to allow him time to focus. On the eve before the starting day, Liam went to bed early while Barandur and Torin shared some ale around a fire. Barandur stared into the glowing embers, sipping his ale. Torin tossed a rock in, stirring up a few sparks and disturbing Barandur from his trance. “You still haven’t said anything about how you came across the sword.” A smile crept across Barandur’s face as he recalled Sven, the Keeper, and the enormous bear, Kwoth, who guarded the treasure. “History tells of how King Dadreus sent a local on a suicide mission to take the sword far from the kingdom. After the sword fulfilled its task of banishing the Popobawa, this man, who was known only as ‘Sven’, took the sword far into the wilderness of northern Hannan. But the curse that Queen Marian infused into the sword had taken hold of Sven, and preserved him up to this day as a wraith.” Torin’s eyes widened. “He still lives!” “Yes, he did until he ed the curse and became mortal again. Then Kwoth, a gigantic bear, swallowed him up.” Torin wrinkled his nose and stared at the fire, contemplating how horrible Sven’s last minutes would have been. Barandur cocked an eyebrow at Torin. “He was the last descendent from the race of gnomes.” “By the Gods! I wish I could have seen him. What of this spell that kept him alive? Tell me more.” “I didn’t… I don’t want to draw attention to the trip and its purpose. He kept the sword under guard of Kwoth. He retrieved it for us but…”

“But what?” “The bearer will also inherit the curse.” “Not Liam! Why have you not warned me before? You mean if he wins, he will become one of them? A wraith?” “Yes, in time, if the curse is not lifted by Elena or the sword is destroyed.” Torin stared at Barandur incredulously. “And what next? Liam turns into a gnome?” He narrowed his eyes. “When were you planning to tell me?” Not waiting for an answer he lashed out, striking Barandur and knocked him to the ground. Barandur recovered just in time to partially defend himself from Torin’s wrath. “Wait! Stop! There is a way!” Torin glared down on him. “You have thirty seconds.” “Are you going to let me up?” Torin hesitated, then rose to his feet and walked over to his ale and smashed the mug on the rocks before seating himself. Barandur tried to avoid Torin’s gaze. “Have you ever wondered what became of Cailin and Elena?” “Only that you encountered them in the gardens and they had become wraiths. Is there more to the story?” “Much more,” Barandur said, feeling the cumulative effect of the ale loosening his lips. The burden of keeping his part in their fate was eating him inside out. His self-esteem shrunk; a fact Istolar cleverly exploited with his sexual domination. Lately, he felt his health declining as well. “As you already know, Cailin assassinated King Brekor. For committing the ultimate crime of treason, he received imprisonment.” Torin tapped his foot impatiently.

Barandur looked up at Torin, his eyes red with emotion and guilt. “A light sentence for the crime, wouldn’t you agree?” Torin nodded silently. Barandur laughed derisively and downed his ale in one gulp. A smile flashed across his face for an instant as he recalled better days, but soon gave way to a twisted expression of conflicting emotions. “He was spared because he was blackmailed into killing the king by Istolar himself.” “Why would he agree to such a thing? It’s not like him.” “He was given a choice to either he do Istolar’s bidding, or be charged with the rape of Princess Elena.” Torin rose angrily to his feet again. “Your time is running out. How can you make such a claim? Where did you hear this nonsense?” “I know—because I was there.” Torin furrowed his brows, his mouth agape. “And it was I who reported the crime to Istolar.” Torin sat again, his legs unsteady from trying to absorb all this new information. Barandur allowed Torin sufficient time to recover before continuing, “I believe Elena seduced Cailin in his cell so that he may atone for his crime and share her fate. Elena had never been fully entrenched in the world we call our own, even before her father’s murder. But that sinister act had tipped the balance, pulling her closer to the spiritual plane; the same plane where Popobawa exists.” Torin looked sharply at Barandur. “The ruby you left with me.” “Yes, you still have it?” “Imbedded in a helm I made for Liam. He will be wearing it tomorrow.” “Hmm. I hope this is what Elena intended. I wish she could have explained. The sword and the ruby; opposite, yet they are one in the same. The ruby is not of the

same potency, but provides some measure of protection against similar foes. Combined, they hold power limited only by the will of the .” “Who must be born into royal blood,” Torin finished. “That’s not all. Sven told of the link between the ruby and the sword and how it could summon the dead. Presumably, this includes wraiths.” “So what does this have to do with Liam.” “It means… that the former princess, Elena, has the power to remove the curse of the sword.”

The morning showed promise of perfect weather for the tournament. A slight chill hinted autumn was fast approaching. Barandur watched an aging veteran enter the courtyard. Like Barandur, he was one of the few that survived Istolar’s purge when Istolar became king. Barandur felt a tinge of shame that he did not even know his name. The old man stepped up to a podium under the balcony and addressed the group. “Before we begin, let me remind you how the scoring system works. Each event will host three rounds. In order to advance to the next event, the contestant must win all three rounds. The first event will feature one-on-one hand combat. In the second event, contestants will make use of common objects to use as weapons or shields. Points will be awarded for effective use of these items. The third event will require lightly armed combatants to disarm their opponent. In the fourth and final event, you will go head to head in full body armour and weapon of choice. Are there any questions?” Barandur watched proudly as his seasoned recruits swept through the opening rounds of one on one hand combat. Even Istolar offered a word of praise to his former warlord for their proficiency. However, Liam struggled in the same events. Though he didn’t suffer a size disadvantage, his premature growth showed that his mind had not yet matched his body. Yet, he squeezed out victories in his first two rounds. Now he faced Meehan in the elimination round. Barandur felt as if his heart had been ripped out of his chest and handed to him. After all they had been through, he had to turn against him. Meehan was aware and accepted the fact in good sportsmanship. Though he was unaware of the circumstances regarding Barandur’s for Liam, he trusted Barandur had good reason and never questioned his motives. Such had their friendship evolved. Their eyes met briefly before the match began. Barandur froze his expression in an attempt to conceal any emotion within. Armed with only their wits, Meehan and Liam squared off. From the outset, Liam was the aggressor, despite being half Meehan’s age. He circled like a wildcat, looking for an opening to strike. Meehan kept him at bay, patiently looking to exploit Liam’s attack.

Liam feigned an overhand strike to the head, then dove to sweep Meehan’s feet from underneath him. The strategy worked with Meehan ending up on his back. Liam pounced on top and rained down fists on his hapless opponent. Somehow, Meehan weathered the storm and used his strength to wrap himself around the leaner Liam. Barandur smiled in spite of himself in iration. Torin cocked an eyebrow at him and they both laughed at the irony of their situation. Meehan could not contain his wiry counterpart for long, however, and Liam squeezed out of the hold. They both scrambled to their feet. The remainder of the match saw them trading blows under a dazzling display of athleticism and endurance until they were both a bloody mess. The timekeeper signalled an end to the match, leaving the outcome up to the judges. So even was the match, and so impressed were the judges, they issued a draw, allowing both fighters to go forward into the next event. Barandur breathed a sigh of relief, hoping the pairing would be different for the next event. Torin dressed Liam’s wounds while everyone broke for lunch. “You need to keep your wits about you Son. Some serious competition awaits, and it’ll just get harder the further up the ladder you climb. Don’t be too eager to commit. Use your opponents moves to your advantage.” Liam frowned, but listened to his father’s advice. Barandur’s stoic silence suggested he was in agreement. “I don’t feel comfortable defending,” he said finally. “If I initiate, I feel in control.” “That is inexperience talking, I wish we had more time. There is little room for error in your approach. Once weapons are introduced in the next event, the price for a miscue could be painful and cost you the match or more.” Barandur had confidence in Torin’s ability to Instruct Liam. He agreed with his tactics for the most part, which spared him from getting directly involved. He was sure Torin would suspect something if he did, and he didn’t want to add pressure into an already stressful situation. The deal he made with Istolar was his burden to bear. He almost let it slip out while they were drinking last night, but steered the conversation toward Cailin and Elena instead. Though he hated opening those old wounds, he felt better getting it off his chest. He made a

mental note to watch his ale consumption during the remainder of the games. The sound of a gong marked the end of break. Fighters collected their cards to see who and when their next matches would be. Barandur sorted through Liam’s cards. No one of particular notice appeared on any of them. Barandur led Liam through the arena; blood splatters still evident from the first event. However, what concerned them was the items placed around the arena that could be used as weapons. Hoes, shovels, sticks, and other assorted everyday tools and utensils could all be used with lethal force. Chairs, crates, lids and such could all be used to ward off an attack. “Metal is your friend. Metal breaks wood so you want to go for things like that pipe over there, or that tin lid here.” “I got it,” Liam said, picking up the pipe and putting it through a series of twirls and spins. “One more thing. Save the fancy displays for the backyard. Energy management will likely make the difference between victory and defeat. Defend and strike. Strike and defend. .” “Don’t worry, Barandur. I’ll be ready, and thank you for the tips.” “Not so fast.” “But you said one more thing.” “I was joking. Has your father told you anything about your helm and the ruby placed in it?” “Only that it had had some kind of defensive enhancement—when used with the Sword of Girdion.” “Yes, well, we shall soon see. In the meantime, Try to focus on its energy. See if you can channel its energy to aid you.” Liam looked at him quizzically for an instant. “Sure, if there is a way, I will find it.” Taking a last bite from an apple, he tossed the core into a barrel fifteen feet away and winked at Barandur before skipping off. Barandur watched his blond

hair bouncing about his shoulders as he went, worried that overconfidence may be his undoing. Two gongs from the tower marked the resumption of activities and the beginning of the second event. Liam’s first match caught him off guard as he underestimated his opponent. He suffered a nasty gash to his side as he waded in eagerly swinging the same pipe he had been playing with earlier. From his back, his opponent spun around with a shovel and caught him below the ribs. Liam looked down at his wound, then up at Barandur, who was giving him an Itold-you-so look. He took heed and went to work. The fighter quickly jumped to his feet, looking to finish off Liam. A vicious right-hand hook knocked him back again. Liam launched a kick the fighter narrowly evaded as he tried to regain his senses. However, he was too dazed to avoid the pipe following behind that knocked the air from his lungs. A knee to the head and the match was over. He was out before hitting the ground. Fortunately, Liam finished the next two bouts with relative ease. The next two events were scheduled for the next day: Weapons in the morning and full armour in the afternoon. Torin helped Barandur clean and dress Liam’s wounds. “Good job today, Son. I’m proud of you. I bet you’re hungry.” “You bet I am,” Liam agreed. People crowded into a large tent set up adjacent to the Hill and Glen to accommodate the overflow of patrons. Even in the open air, the sickly sweet mixture of blood, bread, and ale permeated the air. Raucous laughter and boasting filled the makeshift pavilion, fuelled by the heady mix of testosterone and alcohol. Jostling and skirmishes periodically erupted, but mostly in a good natured competitive spirit. With the exception of Zackery. Liam filled three jugs from one of many kegs atop a sturdy wooden bench for Torin, Barandur, and himself. He knew he should be practicing restraint before the final events, but tonight, he felt invulnerable. “Let that be the last round,” Barandur said to Torin.

Torin nodded in agreement, but his eyes were fixed on Zackery, who was sauntering over to where Liam grappled with the three jugs. “Here comes trouble.” Barandur followed his gaze. Zackery approached Liam casually. “Looks like you could use a hand.” “I’ll manage.” “Don’t be such a hard nut. Let me carry one for you.” Liam looked at Zackery warily, his instincts confused by the effects of too many ales.” He handed a jug to Zackery. “All right then.” The full jug slid right through Zackery’s fingers, smashing on the ground at Liam’s feet. Liam’s temper took control of him. He struck Zackery under the nose with the heel of his palm, nearly knocking him out. Being a seasoned fighter, Zackery recovered quickly and tackled Liam at the waist. The last two jugs went flying, showering bystanders with ale. Zackery mounted Liam as he hit the ground and pressed his thumb and forefinger deep into Liam’s neck. Leaning over with his face inches from Liam’s, he whispered, “You don’t have a chance in hell tomorrow. You’ll learn your place, little boy.” Torin and Barandur squeezed through the crowd. Fire danced in Torin’s eyes. “What’s going on here?” Zackery stood, wiping blood from his nose. “Just a little mishap, sir.” “He’s lying,” Liam said, still on his back.” “Another mishap and you can deal with me,” Torin replied sharply. “Understand?” “Yes sir.” Zackery gave a mock salute, spun on his heel and disappeared into the crowd. Torin’s eyes followed him as he fought to quell the anger brewing inside him. “Why did you have to do that?” Liam said, on his feet now.

“Because you didn’t look to have the situation very well in hand.” “I hate that bastard.” Torin smiled. “You’ll have your chance at redemption tomorrow. Come, let’s get some sleep.” Barandur followed, wondering to himself if Liam was up to the task, and hoping his own bed would not be in the holding cells sleeping with the rats tomorrow. Liam jumped out of bed at the break of dawn feeling rejuvenated despite some bruising. He dispelled the last lingering effects of ale with a brisk walk in the cool morning air. Droplets of dew reflected the rising sun to give the appearance of a bed of rubies under a silver mist. The sight inspired him. He thought of his own ruby set in his helm and what it all meant. Torin never explained its purpose; only a vague reference to some esoteric protective shield. How do I tap into its power? The aroma of hotcakes pushed the thought into the back of his mind. He hurried back. The tantalizing scent made him wish he had not wandered so far. Torin stood in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest. “Where have you been? Wash up, Barandur is making some hotcakes.” “I’m washed already.” “Well, get your gear in order then. They’re not ready.” Liam groaned, realizing the aroma must have come from another house. He picked up the helm and studied it. Barandur had told him to focus on its energy, but he felt no connection to it whatsoever; just a helm with a pretty gem mounted on it. He put it on while he cleaned the blade he was given; standard army issue, as was the chain mail. He went to the kitchen where Barandur busied himself preparing breakfast. “Will I be allowed to wear this?” he asked, referring to the helm. “I have arranged it, don’t worry. Sit down.” Liam wolfed down his hotcakes, washing them down with cider. Despite having a full stomach, his energy grew and he struggled to control the butterflies in his stomach. But he was too up to get down. Nothing would stand before him today.

He wondered if perhaps this confidence grew from the energy encased in his helm. “Time to go.” “I’m ready.” Barandur and Torin exchanged glances of approval; he looked ready. The sun illuminated the courtyard, burning off the last vestiges of the morning mists. Thunderheads billowed in the distance, ominously contrasting against the pink sky. Liam made a point not to acknowledge Zackery’s stare as he ed. He knew a stupid smirk would be plastered across his face anyway. They would not meet this round. Not until the fourth and final round would their skills be pitted against each other. He would deal with him then, once and for all. No major upsets or surprises marked the third round of light armed combat. Five of the seven combatants trained by Barandur made it through to the fourth round. Liam won all three of his matches handily, though a nasty gash on his thigh threatened to hamper his mobility in the next round. He ate a frugal lunch of fruits, nuts, and cheese as he prepped for the final event. Rarely had he ever donned a full set of armour, at least not in combat. Torin watched moisture laden clouds advanced steadily toward them. Lightning flashes danced off the mountainsides. “Do you think it’s safe to continue?” Barandur shared his concern. “I’ll see if King Istolar is willing to postpone for a day, or at least a few hours. It may .” “Better hurry then.” Barandur bounded up the steps leading into the fortress. Another short and wide set of stairs led into the Great Hall, where Istolar was enjoying mutton chops and carrots. “Sire, dark thunderclouds roll in from the northwest. The contestants will be at great risk wearing metal suits of armour.” “Would you have them wear wood?” Istolar said in between bites. “—No Sire. I thought maybe we should wait for awhile… until the storm

es.” Istolar sipped from a glass of dark red wine. Thunder rumbled in the distance as if to reinforce Barandur’s warning. “How is your young friend doing?” “So far, he has completed every match, My Lord. The fourth is about to begin. However, the approaching storm is heavy, with much lightning…” “Have you forgotten two armies are making way to this fortress while we discuss weather?” Istolar said, anger creeping into his tone. “The games will continue.” Barandur stood frozen, unable to think of anything else to change his mind. “Round up the the losers of the first two matches. Equip them and send them south to Taroga and dig in there. That should spoil Jumaki’s party for awhile.” Barandur bowed. “As you wish, Sire.” Torin could see from the expression on Barandur’s face, the meeting with Istolar did not go well. “We might as well get started then,” he said without waiting for an explanation. “I have something to do first.” Torin glanced up at the bell tower. “We have only minutes to spare.” “You’ll have to do without me. I have been charged with leading the men who didn’t make it to the third match to Taroga.” “And send them to their death,” Torin finished. “How many are there?” “Twenty-two hundred, twenty-four at the most. I’ll try to be back for the final round.” “Liam will be expecting you,” Torin said. Both knew they may never see each other again.

A Land Defiled

Dark smoke followed the Aegian army and their Bandi allies as they burned their way northward toward Zaranstaad. Terrified citizens fled into the Wildwood to avoid the slaughter. But that only drove them into the jaws of wolves or wild boars. If the wild animals didn’t get them, Hill-men hunted them down with spears. Even with Istolar’s efforts to integrate the Hill-men tribes into Ukorstrian society, many remained in the foothills of the Coppertop Mountains where they kept with familiar customs and way of life. Cannibalism was neither shunned nor sought after; just another meal if nothing better was available. Yet, the ousted villagers made the most out of their predicament and organized in roving bands to protect and provide for the women and children. Some of these bands merged together in ever-growing numbers; enough to harass the enemy’s rearguard and slow their progress. From a village on the southern edge of the Wildwood, a leader rose among them by the name of Huron, who displayed courage and tactical ability usually reserved for seasoned captains. Small wisps of flame flared from the dying embers of a campfire where Huron spoke quietly with his family. “Take the kids up there,” he said, pointing to a barely discernible trail. “Bol will see that you are safe. You will find an abandoned trapper’s cabin. It’s rough, but at least it’s dry. I’ll come for you the morning after tomorrow.” “Father, don’t go, please!” Huron’s youngest of two daughters wrapped her arms around one of his tree trunk-like legs. “I’ll see you in two days, sweetheart. I promise.” “Come, your father has work to do.” Jan, Huron’s wife gathered the girl’s in her arms. She hugged Huron as if for the last time. Huron smiled back at her, trying to look reassuring. Jan returned a weak smile before leading the children up the trail. She looked

back at Huron before disappearing out of sight. He was standing in the same place watching them, praying silently he would see them again. To his friend, Bol, he said, “See to it they get there will you?” Bol gave him a pat on the back. “Take comfort, my friend.” Huron turned back to the camp, jaw clenched and resolute. “We have work to do. Gather your weapons.”

Lengu and Kai sped north, two prongs on each side of the main road, overrunning undermanned garrisons along the way. The reinforcements from Zaranstaad were too small to bolster their strength much. Huron observed when the enemy ransacked a settlement, they searched for anyone hiding in the ruins and killed them on the spot. On some occasions they herded them together in the centre of a town and hung them to discourage peasants from ing the resistance. However, this required the enemy to spread out, leaving them vulnerable to the very groups they were trying to eradicate. Huron and his men were prepared as they entered Ferndale. Forming into small hunting parties of two to four men, they waited for them on rooftops or other hiding spots that offered a good vantage point. Whenever an unsuspecting Aegian or Bandi soldier appeared, he would fall under a hail of arrows before he could warn his comrades. Huron took only one companion with him; a young man, Turindor, eager to redeem his valour. On one occasion, Huron surprised a Bandi soldier when the man entered into a narrow lane looking for what sounded like the muffled sobs of a woman. Even in the twilight, Huron could see from his perch on a roof, the evil intent in the man’s eyes. He watched him approach, kicking down doors and smashing windows. He turned to his comrades. “I am not about to abandon that helpless woman to this savage.” “Let me take care of the brute!” Turindor snatched a dagger from his belt. Huron smiled at the youth’s courage. “No, my boy. We need arrows if we’re going to stay out here till dusk. Leave this one to me. Take the back alley and meet me back here. Be quick.” He nodded reluctantly, then scampered off to carry out his orders. Huron turned to face his foe. Timing had to be precise. A slight miscalculation and he might break a limb when he landed. Had the Bandi heard the pounce from above, he might have been able to bring his spear around and skewer Huron as he dropped from the roof. Huron struck where the man’s neck and shoulder ed, temporarily stunning him. He screamed out in shock and pain. But these desert warriors were as tough as they

were brutal; a major reason why Jumaki requested their infantry. Before Huron could bring his dagger up for the killing blow, the Bandi swatted it from his grasp. Huron reacted quickly, lunging for the man’s spear. But the Bandi had anticipated the move, stomping on the spearhead. Huron tried to twist it free, but it snapped off from the torsional stress. Huron quickly reacted, rolling to the side and bringing the shaft up as he gained his feet, striking a solid blow to the Bandi’s broad nose. While the man shook his head trying to clear his vision, Huron darted for the dagger and sunk it deep into his back. The enraged soldier spun him off, the dagger still implanted in his back. His breath came in harsh wheezes. Huron knew he had punctured a lung. With strength belying his injury, the Bandi knocked Huron down and mounted him, wrapping his hands around Huron’s throat. Huron struggled to free himself, but blood from the soldier’s wound poured freely over him, making it too slippery to get a good grip. He began to lose consciousness; visions of his daughters, his wife, formed in his delirium. His world became black and he would not feel the pressure on his throat ease as the man slumped over him. One last breath from the Bandi ended in a sickening gurgle. A stream of blood poured over Huron’s face. All went silent. Both lay motionless on the ground, locked in death’s embrace. Turindor found him there several hours later and fell to his knees. “By the Gods, I should not have left you! Loath am I to have to be the one to bear this tragedy! I’m so sorry!” Burying his face in his bloodied Tunic, he wept, feeling like a very ordinary young boy. Gathering himself together, he pulled the corpse of the bloodied Bandi off of Huron so he could feel for a pulse. And there was one; faint, yet it plodded along steadily nonetheless. From the bruising on Huron’s neck and the wound on the soldier, he determined how the struggle ended. Initially, he believed the blood covering Huron belonged to Huron. Hoisting his heavy frame across his shoulders, he set off to find help. Weaving through streets littered with debris, Bol called out for his comrades. “HELP—HURON IS BADLY HURT—CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?” Houses and shops smouldered on either side. Acrid smoke filled his lungs.

“Turindor!” Bol shouted through the haze. “Come here! Quickly!” “By the Gods! Huron! Is he dead?” “Not yet. But he soon will be if we don’t get him out of here. Is the village safe?” “Sporadic fighting in pockets. Seems like they left some behind to mop up, but they won’t be reing their regiments,” the fighter said with a broad grin. “Good work. Find a sturdy plank and some rope. Be quick.” The fighter returned shortly with the requested materials and before long they fabricated a makeshift stretcher. Lifting the limp form of Huron onto the stretcher, Bol struggled to contain his emotions. The fighter looked at Bol doubtfully. Bol checked for his pulse again and nodded. “No change. He’s still alive.” Sentries at the camp perimeter sent for runners upon their approach. People stood aside, letting them , thinking him dead. Sombre faces bowed as the march moved slowly by like a funeral procession. Just as well, Bol thought. “Take him right up to the cabin,” he instructed the runners. Jan ran out to meet them, fearing the worst. “Is he alive?” Bol lowered his eyes. “He is, lady. He is with us in body, but where his spirit lives I cannot tell.” When Bol looked up sharply, she realized the children had come out of the cabin. “Go back inside, girls. I’ll be with you in a minute.” “Is father okay?” “Yes. Just go inside, please!” For the first time since Bol found him, Huron’s eyes moved, ever so slightly. Jan

sensed he was trying to look at her. She shifted closer. “My love, can you hear me?” Huron tried to move his lips, but could only manage to blink instead. Bol backed away, signalling for others to do the same so they could have some privacy. She caressed his strong jaw and buried her head in his chest, weeping. “What will become of you? Of us?” Huron could not answer, but tears welled in his eyes. She dabbed them softly. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. Maybe when we get to Verdun… if it still stands.”

“Mother! Come quickly!” Jan dropped an armful of firewood and rushed to her daughter’s side. Anxiety coursed through her veins like acid. Around the back of the cabin, the hammock where Huron should have been resting lay empty. A short distance away, he leaned against the cabin for . In his hands, he held two walking sticks and on his face, a beaming smile. Gingerly, he put one foot in front of the other and walked toward her. “By the Gods! You’re walking!” He stumbled the last few steps, but she caught him. “I can hardly believe it. Yesterday, you could not even move. Truly, we are blessed.” “Indeed we are, my love. My hopes are high I will regain my health soon. Can you find Bol? I should like to work with him to help get my legs back.” “I will, after you have had a decent meal. And don’t think to overdo it either. I need you, your daughters need you, and your country needs you.” He smiled. “You needn’t worry about me, my love. Right now, I miss your cooking most of all.” Within an hour, Jan returned with a large wooden bowl of rabbit stew. She watched with satisfaction as Huron devoured it hungrily. A whistle pierced the air; a sound Huron recognized as a sentry’s signal that their position had been compromised. “They have found us!” Jan’s eyes widened. “What do we do?” “Take the children inside and bar the door. Do not open it unless you know the voice.” “What will you do? You cannot go far, and certainly, you cannot fight.” “Do as I say. There is no time for debate. Bol, help me down to the camp.”

Jan took children into the cabin, trying hard not to show her anguish. A few minutes later, they saw the camp had sprung into action. Archers dug in behind earthen mounds, others perched high in the trees. Those with hand weapons lay in wait under thick foliage to spring an ambush. “What the hell is that?” Bol said. Huron laughed in relief. “That is our warlord, Gorgon. Hold your fire!” Huron’s men gaped at Gorgon as he loped into the camp with Lord Herat at his side. His pointed teeth lining his snout always startled folks who had never seen him before. What appeared to be a smile at first, they soon realized otherwise. His menacing countenance commanded respect; a fact Istolar was keenly aware of when he appointed him as warlord. But Huron addressed Lord Herat instead, as protocol demanded. “Greetings, Lord Herat. Your arrival foreshadows an ill omen.” “Kresh has been overrun by the Aegian and Bandi invaders. Let us discuss further at your convenience.” “Of course. Tell your men to be at ease. They must be weary and in need of food and rest.” Under a canopy of deer skins, a fallen log, shaved off at the top, served as a table for the four men. On one side, sat Huron and Bol, the other, Gorgon and Herat. Huron and Bol took notes while Gorgon related the events leading up to the appearance of Popobawa. Huron glanced over at Bol’s notes to compare when he noticed Bol included Gorgon’s hissing sounds on paper. He gave him a cuff in the head for his troubles while Herat looked on, wondering what was going on. Gorgon continued to describe the demon-beast. “Black asss coal, eyesss glitter and sssparklesss, ssshiftsss and weavesss…” “I think they get the picture,” Herat intervened. He was becoming accustomed to the warlord’s propensity for the dramatic. “What became of this Popobawa then?” Huron asked.

“It simply vanished, but the gates were too damaged to hold for long and the rout was on, so here we are.” “Vanished? As in gone for good?” “No, my friend. Popobawa is a creature from the netherworld, a shapeshifter. We do not know what devices are at work to summon this evil. However, at some point, we will confront it again, and be tested. If we fail, then it will have finished what it started so long ago, and put an end to our existence as we know it. “This is not the first time we encountered the beast then?” “No, but I am not well versed in the lore surrounding the events of that era. Only that a sword of immense power banished the creature from this world back to its own—the Sword of Girdion—I understand it has been recovered. Perhaps it will save us once again.” The wind picked up suddenly, blowing papers around while the men scrambled to retrieve them. The area seemed to darken, almost imperceptible, yet unmistakable. They exchanged nervous glances, however, the disturbance ed as quickly as it started. “What in God’s name was that?” Bol exclaimed. “Let’s hope the fell beast does not stalk us,” Herat said. Jan appeared with some bread and ale, breaking the tension. “What’s wrong? You all look like you seen a ghost.” “Not far from the truth perhaps,” Huron said. She frowned at the remark, but brushed it aside and set the tray down. “Thank you, My Lady,” Herat said. Gorgon made some sort of noise of gratitude. Herat turned his attention to Huron. “Your injuries, are they severe, my friend?” “From where I was a couple of short days ago, is almost a miracle, better than I

could have hoped for.” “Will you be able to travel with us then?” “I should think…” “In two days, we might know,” Bol interrupted. Herat studied them in silence a moment. “Very well. We could use a short rest as well. The road has been fraught with danger. Jumaki has sought to stamp out all resistance while heading for Zaranstaad. I suppose he fears a flanking attack while he mounts another siege.” “Then let’s give him something to worry about,” Huron added. “But come and let us refresh our spirits with some good food and ale while we can. They will have moved on far enough to not pose an immediate threat.” “Yet, a vigilant watch should be kept. I feel danger still lurks in the area,” Bol cautioned. “Yes, Bol. Post guards around the perimeter until we are ready to leave.” In one short day, Huron proclaimed himself fit for duty despite his injuries. “I think you’re being irresponsible. How can you be of any use when you can barely walk? You’ll slow them down. You’ll be killed,” she said, despair creeping into her voice. Jan was, indeed, a woman of character, but the thought of losing Huron and taking care of two children by herself distressed her greatly. Huron hardened his resolve against her pleas, although he just wanted to take her into his arms to allay her fears. Yet, he also knew the gravity of their predicament. Touching her cheek softly, he said simply, “I must go. You know I would stay with you if I could, but the truth is, we could no longer live here if Jumaki has his way. Please understand.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “I do. I just wish things were… different. Go if you must, but take a mount until you can walk better. And I am not asking.” He smiled. “I will do this for you, my love.” He bent to kiss her gently, catching sight of his two daughters out of the corner of his eye. “How long have you two

been standing there?” The oldest one replied, “Not long, Father.” She lowered her eyes and clasped her sister’s hand. “Are you going to die?” Huron scooped them both in his arms. “No!—Don’t think of such things. I will be back for you all, I promise you that.” He straightened and looked into Jan’s sad eyes once more, then turned to the others. Jan watched with their daughters until he faded into the morning mist. She stared into the swirling fog briefly before turning to her daughters. “Come, I’ll fix us some hotcakes.” Bol greeted Huron with his mount. The festive spirits when the soldiers arrived had dissolved into a sullen acceptance that they may soon fight their last battle. The sun tried hard to burn off the fog, yet, it still clung to them like a wet blanket. Gorgon had been scouting ahead, looking for traps or signs of an ambush. Bol and Huron talked quietly with Lord Herat, awaiting his return. Gorgon returned late in the afternoon relaying the way was clear. “No enemies?” Huron asked incredulously. “None that live to give warningsss,” Gorgon said with what appeared to be a grin on his perpetually grinning face.” Huron winced, visualizing the bloody pulp of what were once sentries. He hoped the warlord at least dragged them off the road. “Let us make haste to Taroga.” They rode without incident until late into the night. Within a short march to Taroga, they set up camp in an area sheltered by a thick canopy of trees. The ground was elevated and dry, providing an ideal place to rest without an abundance of crawling insects. Huron sketched the area south of Taroga in the sand. “A long ridge runs east to west, overlooking the town. The eastern end flattens out into a swamp that makes up part of a large, shallow lake called Shimmerstone. The base is recessed inward, protected from elements from above.”

“Rain and snow, yes, yes, go on,” Herat interjected impatiently. “And fire,” Huron continued. “From atop of this ridge stretching south, much of Ukorstria’s hay is harvested.” He paused, suddenly aware Gorgon had silently reed them, sitting on a stump near the horses. They seemed at ease in his presence. Yet, he had no doubt the lizard man probably feasted upon one at some point. An awkward silence ensued as Huron tried to where he left off. Bol came to his aid and joked, “What of the hay? Hay is for horses.” “In fact, the ridge provides an ideal position to roll down burning bails of hay. They’re already rolled. Just line them up and…” “Alwaysss likess to playsss with firesss ukorsstriansss, burnsss to ashesss. Homesss and shopsss. Big Mistakesss.” “If we can get down to the bottom of the cliff under cover of darkness, a few bails can light the way. They won’t know what hit them.” Herat shook his head. “Gorgon is right. Buildings will be burned down. Too risky.” “Yes! A few perhaps, But take them out quick enough, and we can save most of them.” Huron looked squarely at Gorgon. He was the king’s warlord and the one to make the final decision on any plans where risk needed to be measured against gains. “Mussst try,” Gorgon said after deliberating a moment. “Too many enemiesss. Mussst risssk.” “Alright then. It’s settled,” Bol said. “Barring any surprises, the plan can go into action tomorrow night.”

Jumaki scowled. “How many are there?” “About eight-hundred, Your Greatness,” Johan answered. Najir added, “About three-hundred survivors which formed after our troops ed. The rest are the ones who escaped from Kresh.” Jumaki looked to Kai. “Armies forming on our rearguard will not do. Prepare an ambush. Let’s deal with this now, in Taroga.” He turned back to Johan and Najir. “You have done well. Continue on to Hannan. If Ferdugar remains idle, I want to know why.” “Yes, Your Greatness,” they replied together. Najir turned to Johan, “What was that thing back there?” “Some kind of lizard from the Shimmerstone I think. Better stay clear of that lake.”

Hannan Mobilizes

Gunther’s face scrunched in disapproval, making his swine-like appearance even more apparent. “What do you mean they escaped? Did you not post guards to watch them?” “Yes, sir,” Gurney replied. “It looks like outside help came to their rescue. Tom is dead. I’d say he was into the sauce with a buddy and ed out.” Gunther narrowed his eyes. “All the while under your care.” Gurney clamped his mouth shut, realizing too late he had already said too much. Slamming his ham-handed fist on the desk, Gunther yelled, “Is this what you want me to report to King Ferdugar?” Gurney looked slyly at Gunther. “Does he have to know?” “No, perhaps not, if you want to risk death by the king’s executioner.” “What do we do?” “We?” Gunther chortled. “As it stands, I’m holding you personally responsible.” Gurney started to object, but Gunther interrupted. “Don’t make it any harder on yourself. You may roam as you wish in Norbit, but report to me every morning. Any attempt to flee and I’ll hunt you down and, I assure you, the consequences will be unpleasant. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, sir,” Gurney squeaked. “Good. You can go now.” After the door shut behind Gurney, Gunther prepared papers detailing the capture and disappearance of the prisoners and why—Why they were arrested—He brushed his rolling jowls as he pondered what to write. Maybe Gurney was right, or at least in part. If he left the sword out of the report, nothing further should come of it. No, that won’t work, you fool! You travelled

to Ravencast to apprehend visitors—whom already had permission to be in Hannan— He shook his head, jowls jiggling. Just stick to facts. He called for a courier after finishing the report. “See that it goes out in the morning.” After the courier left, his stomach rumbled. Suppertime.

From a parapet spanning two towers of the bleached stone fortress of Castlerock, King Ferdugar looked out at the rough waves rolling into the harbour. Far below, he spotted Cetera perched on a boulder. He studied her mood from afar; she sat atop a boulder, staring out across the grey sea. I wonder what is going through her mind right now. Movement at the base of the cliff caught his eye as a rider flew by, disappearing under the canopied gate. He descended the long spiral steps, his creaking knees reminding him of youth slipping away. Castlerock was built right into the cliffs for defence. The engineers at the time gave little thought to make it a comfortable place to live. Cool draughts flowed through the corridors and the coal furnaces worked hard to keep it habitable. Two more had been added, but the winding halls did not distribute heat well. However, from a purely defensive perspective, it was impregnable. After all, how can you take down a cliff? The gate guard met him at the bottom of the steps. Ferdugar could see the envelop bore the seal of the Sheriff, Gunther. Wordlessly, the guard ed the envelope to him. Ferdugar sat on a stone table and read carefully. He had been expecting news from Jumaki’s campaign, but this was news entirely different. A sword? Surely, it could not be the sword crafted by his ancestors? No-one had ever attempted to the Sword of Girdion even existed any more, let alone try to retrieve it. A cool blast of salty air greeted him as he exited through a doorway roughly onehundred feet down a corridor from the main gate. A patchwork of planks and stone slabs led down to the harbour. Cetera was still sitting atop the same boulder with her leather tunic drawn tightly to keep warm. “Why do you sit out here in the cold?” Come inside for a hot cup of tea.” Cetera turned to face her uncle; worry etched in her delicate features. “I guess that’s not a bad idea.” She forced a smile and took his hand as they walked back up to the Castle. “Something troubles you, my dear?” “I don’t know. Lately, I’ve felt like changes are coming to the lands, big changes.

I can feel it as sure as the air we breathe; as sure as the ground we walk upon; as sure as…” “I get the idea,” Ferdugar chuckled. They sat by a blazing hearth in the centre of the cavernous entrance. After sending a servant off to bring some tea, he looked sternly at Cetera. “We have important business to take care of. I’m leaving you in charge to marshal the army and head to Norbit.” Her eyes searched his. “Are we going to war, Uncle?” He touched her cheek softly. “My dear Cetera. That you should bear such burdens in these times grieves me so. I ask you, with a heavy heart, to do this for me.” “But where will you go?” “I must go to Ravencast. There is reason to believe the Sword of Girdion has been found by the Ukorstrians and taken from the land. No doubt, it will be used in the war with Jumaki. We must be prepared to take sides.” “With all due respect, Uncle, I wouldn’t know where to begin.” “Anders will assist you. Together, I think you’ll manage. Be in Norbit one month from today. I’ll be expecting you there.” “I will do this for you, Uncle. Or try to…” her voice trailed off and she felt small. “I have faith in you, Cetera.” He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You know I’ve always been so proud of you, your strength of character.” She blushed. Accepting praise was not one of her strong points, but she was strong inside. “, the snow will come soon, no later than the end of the month. Now let’s eat well tonight, for the road will be long, cold, and hard. Speak with Anders tonight. He will help you with what you’ll need. Tomorrow, prepare and pack, for the next day you must be ready.”

“And you will come also, Uncle?” “I’ll ride as far as Paragon. It’s an ideal place to make with most garrisons in the country by virtue of its central location. Besides being a major hub, a large barracks remains on the outskirts. It has been sitting idle for the most part, and may require some work. At least you’ll have the manpower. The men will have something to do while waiting for troops to arrive.” They feasted on roast mutton, potatoes, and corn and finished with copious amounts of mead and honey. With full stomachs and a burning glow from the mead, they retired to a smaller chamber off to the side to relax and digest. A servant entered unannounced and left a tray of yet more mead before Ferdugar had a chance to decline it. He half-heartily called after her but she already left. “Oh well, live for today,” he said, refilling their glasses with less than perfect accuracy. “She could have poured it. I’m gonna throw that wench out tomorrow.” “If you what she looks like,” Cetera laughed. “And you with her.” He wrestled her to the ground, but he was no match for her in his drunkenness. Cetera was feeling it too, though her youth gave her the advantage and she wound up on top. She pinned his arms with hers and they ended up laughing and panting. Her golden locks tickled his face. Then she felt pressure where their hips met; subtly at first, but he could not control it, and soon it became unmistakable. She gyrated slowly, inducing thrusts from him in increasing intensity until they became synchronized. He could feel her hot breath coming in short gasps. Then he slapped her, knocking her over and off of him. He jumped to his feet, shock and confusion distorting his features. Cetera shared similar emotions. Looking up at him briefly before running out of the room and sobbing uncontrollably. “Cetera! Wait! I…” She ran straight to her room and locked the door, crying well into the early morning hours before sleep mercifully overcame her.

Breakfast was an awkward affair, eaten in stony silence with an occasional ‘ this please’ or ‘more of that?’ Ferdugar finally attempted to break the ice. “Cetera…” “There is no need for words, Uncle,” she said, pronouncing the last word as if it were poison on her tongue. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin and pushed her plate aside. “I will speak with Anders now. Have you any message for him?” “No—Nothing.” He watched her leave, feeling he had betrayed her, forever soiling their relationship. He went about preparing his own provisions. He planned to travel light, with an escort of only two guards, both of whom had proven to be loyal. It was a risky arrangement after they split in Paragon, but he didn’t care; a black cloud of doom hung over him, draining his spirit. But he did his best to hide it, ignore it and pretend nothing had changed. Yet, his guilt gnawed at him from the inside out and he found it increasingly difficult to function as before. Are you a king? You’re not even a man. Time to start acting like one. Pull yourself together. The remainder of the day, he spent taking care of Castlerock’s day to day business; allocating responsibility and leaving instructions in his absence. Though he felt somewhat less burdened, sleep did not come easily that night. The morning drizzle did nothing to alleviate the mood in Castlerock. The night peeled back, slowly giving way to a bleak, grey day that promised to last all day. Cetera looked out of her bedroom window at the rain trickling down the glass. With a heavy sigh, she turned to gather her remaining belongings and have a bath. Ferdugar was in the stables to perform a final checklist with Anders when Cetera swung open the large double doors; her diminutive figure silhouetted against the grey skies. He glanced up, grief and regret washing over him anew. Putting on his bravest face, he walked the length of the stables and paused in front of her, subconsciously keeping a respectful distance. “The horses are being saddled. We are almost ready.” She met his eyes with an unreadable expression. “I am ready too, Sire.” As she turned and walked back to the castle, it occurred to him: She had never called him ‘Sire’ before.

The hint of winter left a light trace of snow on the road to Paragon. Cold winds howled down off the mountains as they travelled further inland “Probably should not have waited so long,” Ferdugar said, once again attempting to thaw the icy silence that had grown between himself and Cetera. He glanced at her from time to time, discreetly, in an attempt to gauge her feelings. She showed little outward emotion, keeping her head bowed to the wind and eyes straight ahead. Ferdugar still ired her resiliency, although now it had turned against him. He felt a hole in his heart ever since she shut him out. Cetera’s response was curt and to the point. “There was no way of foretelling the Sword of Girdion would resurface, or any other events beyond our borders for that matter.” He knew she was right, but hearing her voice seemed more important than anything else right now, and he took comfort in that alone. Paragon loomed into view, drab and dreary, even by Hannan’s standards. Some referred to it as Ravencast’s big sister, though they shared little in common outside of being a haven for thieves and beggars. Sadly, most Hannanite settlements attracted the outcast and unwanted; desperate peasants looking to gain from the misfortune of others. The streets bustled with life as vendors plied their trade, seemingly oblivious to the harsh weather. Wherever currency exchanged hands, so did thieves ply their trade as well. Paragon teemed with all manner of riffraff. Some preyed on merchants too scared to fend for themselves, others were just dregs who soiled the alleyways with their filth. Cetera wrinkled her nose in disgust at the grimy men who leered at her. Ferdugar’s warning gaze deterred any potential threats. The local militia usually ignored the rampant criminal activity, preferring to hole up in the barracks and gamble instead. Merchants unable to fend for themselves were forced to pay protection fees to the same ones they needed protection against. Anders had kept to himself for most of the time since they left Castlerock. Whenever a subject relating to the recruitment process rose, he consulted with Cetera and, if necessary, King Ferdugar. Yet, he suspected a rift had somehow strained relations between the king and his niece. He had no idea what it could possibly be, but he gave them space to work it out. As they approached the barracks, he rode ahead to inspect its state of readiness.

And he did not like what he saw. Half-empty wine bottles dotted the room, on counter-tops and rickety tables. The floor looked like it had never seen a broom or mop. Critters and bugs made their home in every filthy nooks and cranny. Upon seeing Anders enter the hall, Bergius, the militia captain, leaped to his feet. “Sir!”. Several other soldiers stumbled to their feet awkwardly, while most blinked stupidly at the king’s captain. Anders stared coldly back. “King Ferdugar is on route to this building. Unless you all want to spend the rest of your days mining for coal without pay, you better get this place in shape in a hurry.” Nothing more need be said. Everyone scattered for mops, rags, and what little detergent could be found. Anders grabbed the arm of Bergius. “I will buy you two hours while we restock and find some food. Better make good use of it or the king might not be so lenient.” Bergius promptly saluted and set to work, issuing orders and organizing assignments. Anders met Ferdugar and Cetera at the end of the road. “Nothing good to eat up there. What say we rest for a spell? Some roast mutton would go down good with an ale.” Ferdugar and Cetera looked at each other and shrugged. They opted to visit The Basilisk, a nondescript tavern by appearance but known for its quality menu and generous portions. And this part of town had less rabble prowling around, thereby, more pleasant as well. Lamp posts were more abundant in this district, with the decaying remains of potted plants here and there. Cetera thought how it would be like on a midsummer’s eve; a romantic stroll with the man of her dreams. She could only dream of such times, having never experienced the love and warmth of a man by her side. Often, her mind wandered through scenes of intimate moments of bliss; the touch of one she cared for and who cared for her. Then the vision crumbled into harsh reality as she returned to the only world she had ever known: The cold, unforgiving mountains of Hannan. “Cetera!” Anders called to her. “This way, My Lady.”

She looked back, not realizing they had reached the tavern. “Oh, sorry.” Ferdugar smiled, pained to think he may be the cause of her lassitude. He held the faded green door for them. Hannan royalty neither asked for nor gave special privilege to rank or status. Much of the pomp and ceremony simply did not count for much as it did in Ukorstria. In contrast to the chipped, scarlet red exterior, inside was fragrant and immaculate. The hearty aroma of roasted potatoes and grilled lamb greeted them, mingled with that of a hot fire burning in the hearth. They settled down to a table in a secluded corner; not that it was crowded, but there was comfort in privacy. Ferdugar ordered a round of ale for himself and Anders, while Cetera had some hot apple cider. She seemed content to sip on her drink and watch ersby go about their business. Anders talked of plans to bring Hannan’s remote outposts together in Paragon. Cetera responded with the occasional nod of agreement but otherwise appeared distant. Ferdugar became drowsy in the warmth of the cozy tavern, after many cold days on the road. His eyelids felt heavy and Ander’s voice blended with the soft murmur of the tavern. “Does anyone care to discuss what we’re doing here?” Anders stated bluntly, exasperation creeping into his tone. Ferdugar jolted awake and Cetera came out of her daydream. They looked at each other and for the first time since the incident at Castlerock, they shared a laugh.

A Bitter Victory

“Who shall lead them, Sire?” Barandur asked “Whom shall lead whom?” Istolar responded, not bothering to look up from a document he was writing. “The contingent to Taroga, My Lord. They are without a captain.” Istolar paused briefly to regard Barandur. “You shall. I thought you understood. Do not fail me again or you need not worry about your contestant’s success.” Barandur winced. He was loath to miss the game’s finals for the sake of one day. “Sire, I was only aware that I had to assemble the men. Will you not allow me to witness the final tally? Given the impact on my own fate?” He immediately regretted saying the latter. It only served to awaken Istolar’s cruelty. “Makes no difference. Whether your champion wins or loses does not change your obligations to your king and country. Upon your return, you will learn of the results. Are you afraid? Shall I summon someone with the courage to lead them?” Barandur hesitated, thinking how to respond, but the decision was made for him. “As you command, Sire.” Istolar looked at him as if he were a troublesome child. “Dismissed!” He left the hall, downcast and discouraged. Gloom closed around him like a curtain. Worst of all, doubt drained his will to the point where death in battle seemed like a foregone conclusion. Outside, he found Liam and wished him success. Liam looked perplexed. “I don’t understand. Am I not under your care?” Barandur masked his anxiety and held the young fighter by the shoulders. “You will do well here today. all you have learned. Keep focused. Do not

let your guard down, not for an instant. I will be with you in spirit.” He looked Liam in the eye until he finally got a nod of acceptance. He released him and slung his gear across his back. Sheathing his sword, he looked to Liam once more. “And above all, listen to your father, heed his advice. Belligerence will not fare you well today.” “As you say, Barandur. I will not disappoint you, or my father.” Barandur raised his eyebrows as if to say let’s hope not, and nodded farewell. He left to gather his men. “Where will you go?” Liam called after him. “South, to Taroga,” he replied, then headed to the Hill and Glen, he felt a quiet confidence Liam would prevail today. A band of grim faced warriors met Barandur when he entered the inn. He greeted them each in turn; some wearing the expression of doom, others of fierce determination. One man, in particular, appeared well composed. He greeted Barandur in a formal manner. Barandur studied him for a moment. “What is your name, son?” “Rubin, son of Trundle,” he replied, pointedly correcting Barandur. “Alright then, Rubin, son of Trundle. I need someone to help out with the logistics and hopefully, a word or two of advice. Meehan served me well, but he still competes. Are you up to the task?” “Yes, sir. I will offer assistance in any way I can.” “Good. Start with bedrolls. make sure there are enough. Tired men don’t last long in battle. And battle we will face against seasoned soldiers.” Rubin trotted off to carry out his orders, taking a few other men to assist. They followed without question. A natural leader, Barandur thought. I sure can pick them out. Within an hour, the party was ready to depart. Istolar came by to see them off. Yet he offered no words of encouragement. As far as he was concerned, they

were little more than human fodder to slow the oncoming juggernaut of Jumaki’s war machine. Liam paced anxiously. Anticipation gnawed at his gut. He tried to quell the turmoil within, never realizing until now, just how much Barandur’s guidance had been a stabilizing influence. Now he struggled with doubt and insecurity. Torin watched, feeling helpless, but knowing he had to do something. Luck shone upon Liam in the first match of the final round. Clearly, he was not mentally prepared and spent most of the round narrowly avoiding serious injury. However, his opponent sensed victory and pressed the attack, forgetting to pay heed to his own defence. He faked a thrust, then cut a wide sweeping arc with his sword. Liam read the feint and caught his sword with his own, using the momentum of his swing to disarm the surprised fighter. In a flash he brought his own blade to the terrified man’s throat. With the tip of his blade, a trickle of blood under his opponent’s chin persuaded him to surrender. His second opponent applauded in mock approval. Liam did not have to turn around to see who it was.—Zackery. “Fight fair and show some respect,” the game-master warned as he led them to the centre of the yard, “or you will both find yourselves watching from the sidelines.” They exchanged bows grudgingly, but wasted no time getting started. Zackery attempted to distract him with taunts, calling him a bastard and a weakling, that he didn’t belong here and he had no chance. He also tested him with inhuman speed and agility. Although taunts backfired and served only to galvanize Liam’s will, he had no answer for Zackery’s quickness. Time and again, Zackery slipped past his blocks and parries with thrusts that found weak spots in his armour. Blood streamed from unprotected parts of his shoulder and side. In between rounds, Torin tended his wounds, dressing the most severe as best as he could while offering words of encouragement. “Be patient, Son. the man before you? I think this one will follow the same pattern. He doesn’t think. He relies on his speed. No matter the outcome, you’ve made me very proud.” All the taunts and teasing washed out of Liam’s thoughts; only his resolve

remained and he was now more determined than ever. Torin’s voice trailed off. The only thought in his mind was, I’m ready. Torin’s words proved to be right. Zackery came out like a storm; similar to his first opponent but at a higher skill level. Liam gave ground only enough to keep his focus on Zackery’s pattern’s, waiting for him to tire and expend his energy. A wild swing caused Zackery to lose his footing ever so slightly, but enough for Liam to notice and he capitalized on his miscue. His smart use of space management paid off. Sidestepping the thrust, he grabbed his arm, pulling him forward. Then with a sharp kick to the back of his knee, Zackery crumpled. With his other foot, he stomped on his blade rendering him helpless. In the euphoria of blood and adrenaline, he almost decapitated Zackery as he lay on his back. —DO IT!— Liam wasn’t sure if the voice was Zackery’s or in his head, but the game-master stepped in to stop the fight. Zackery got up and brushed himself off and strutted off, not giving Liam the satisfaction of seeing defeat in his eyes. The game-master ed the win, scribbling the details. He handed Liam a slip of paper with the name of his next opponent.—Meehan—Liam knew if Barandur chose him to help lead them into the rugged wilderness of Hannan, he would be a formidable adversary, as he found out in the first round. If only Barandur were here to advise me now, Perhaps it’s just as well . . . He concluded, ing the conflicting emotions of his tutor from the first match. He went over to Meehan’s tent to wish him good luck. “Don’t expect any help from me though, friend,” he laughed. “I would expect no less.” Meehan said in a more sombre tone. Resting his sword in a rack, he looked at Liam squarely. “Have you heard of any stories of Barandur’s involvement in all of this?” Liam shrugged. “He was my tutor.” “And now?” “My father, Torin.” “Was he not a knight in the King’s Guard? Like Barandur?”

“Yes, he was. They served together in…” Liam narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at?” Meehan dropped his gaze. “Nothing really. Just silly rumours floating around.” “What kind of rumours?” “I ahh…” He immediately regretted having brought up the subject. What was I thinking? “I thought you knew.” “Knew what?” Liam pressed impatiently. “I heard from a guard that Barandur would be imprisoned if you don’t finish first. It all comes down to you and me.” “Where did you hear that from?” Despite the cold, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He wiped them away before Liam would notice. “Everywhere,” he lied. “Surely, you have not been holed up in your tent the last three days.” “No, I haven’t,” Liam said slowly, weighing the truth behind the words. He was not convinced Meehan was being totally honest. A close friendship grew between him and Barandur, forged out of the many hardships and loss they experienced on their ill-fated ‘training mission’. But he decided not to pursue the matter any further, at least not until he won the competition, and then it wouldn’t matter. “Well you needn’t worry about that,” Liam said, running his fingers down the length of his blade. “I’ll go easy on you.” Meehan smiled. “Good luck to you, my friend.” “And you too.” Meehan returned to his tent. Conflicting emotions tugged on his conscience. I can’t win. I can’t. The bell tolled once again, signalling to the fighters to report for the final match. The sword of Girdion lay on a marble table wrapped in purple velvet, waiting to

be claimed by the victor. Liam hopped back and forth from one foot to the other. A sea of anxiety nagged at him, but underneath, winning was the sole thought he focused on. In the centre of the courtyard, they faced each other while the game-master explained the rules about fair play and what constitutes a victory. Liam and Meehan locked eyes. Neither showed any emotion on the surface, but Liam thought he detected a hint of doubt. He made a mental note to exploit the advantage. But it was Meehan who came out the aggressor. Liam backed off, trying to fend off the lightning strikes with limited success. His freshly bandaged wounds oozed through the wrappings, making his armour feel slippery against his clothing. Meehan nearly ended the match when a combination of a parry and swing penetrated Liam’s leather helm, but not deeply enough to cause serious injury. He ed the conversation with his father in the smithy—to complement the sword’s destructive power with a protective one. This was the nature of the ruby embedded in his helm. He could feel it’s power now, drawing from the proximity of the sword to which it was bound. The ruby glowed dimly, yet not bright enough for anyone to notice. He felt noticeably more capable to parry Meehan’s blade. Meehan was exhausted. He spent a lot of energy, trying to finish Liam off early. And in his fatigued state, the dilemma of Barandur’s fate of the outcome haunted him. Liam took advantage, countering with his own offensive. Where he lacked in experience, he compensated with sheer will and tenacity. Little by little, he pressed forward with an attack designed not to maim, but merely wear down Meehan until he was no longer able to defend himself. With a powerful front kick, he knocked him off his feet and held his blade across Meehan’s throat. He looked to the game-master, who acknowledged the victory. As he was about to sheath his blade, Istolar appeared, walking slowly down the steps. “Finish him.” Liam began to protest. “Sire, the game-master called the match…”

Istolar stared at the game-master, mock chagrin mirrored in his cruel eyes. “Am I hearing correctly? The insolent pup wishes to challenge the ruling?” The game-master lowered his eyes and said weakly, “Finish the match.” Liam looked to his father and found no instruction there. What would Barandur have me do? Surely he would not have me take the life of another man to spare himself and my own imprisonment? Lastly, he looked at Meehan, who seemed to be reading his thoughts. Speechless with fear, he mouthed the words, Just do it. Reluctantly, Liam raised his blade a few inches from Meehan’s neck. Istolar glared at him impatiently. Meehan clenched his fists and shut his eyes tight as the blade slid into the tender tissue of his throat. A fountain of blood sprouted forth. Violent convulsions racked his body several times before going limp. Istolar beamed. “Congratulations! The Sword of Girdion awaits your service.” Liam could not look away from Meehan’s lifeless body. Torin put a hand gently on his shoulder. “He did not suffer long. There was little else you could do.” Liam angrily brushed it off. “I would rather die myself!” “I know. But that decision was not yours to make.” Torin leaned forward and whispered, “Claim the sword, Son. What’s done is done. The king grows impatient. Your duty and your fate are bound together in the days ahead.” He nodded once. Swallowing hard, he forced one foot in front of the other toward the marble table where the sword lay. The Sword of Girdion belongs to me. Someday I will impale that hell-spawned king with it, as God is my witness! As he reached for it, the accolades grew louder. Yet, to him, all became muffled as if he were far removed from the scene. Visions flashed by as he wrapped his

fingers around the hilt. Great beasts from ancient lore fell under its power. Nothing could stand against it. And something else: Legions of undead and black wraiths overran their adversaries as the sword commanded them. Commanded them? He turned to Torin. “What are you not telling me?” “We will talk later, Son. I’ll tell you all I know, but this is neither the time nor the place. Accept the sword for now. The king awaits.” “The king,” he repeated, anger and tension rising to the surface. “Stop saying that. Meehan was an honourable man. He didn’t deserve this! To hell with…” “Pull yourself together! There’s too much that depends on you whether you like it or not. I’m sorry it has to be this way, but you’re simply going to have to adapt. Now claim the damn sword and be gracious about it.” Liam bowed his head. He knew his father was right. There was no other way. The game-master took the sword back from him and indicated for Liam to follow. Seven trumpets blew, splitting the quiet afternoon. One by one, The game-master presented each fighter with a silver medallion bearing the national symbol of a knight on horseback. Next, they filed by King Istolar, pausing to bow and kiss his extended hand; a ritual Liam found disgusting. After all contestants who completed the final round were initiated into knighthood, the game-master handed the Sword of Girdion to Istolar, bowed, and took his leave. Istolar accepted it with his customary icy smile. Liam felt a wave of nausea at the sight of his crooked, yellow teeth. He had heard Barandur tell of Istolar’s advances to Torin once, late at night, when he was drunk. He could read the regret and shame on his face the next day. Never did he bring the matter up, but the thought sickened him whenever it crept into his mind. “You have proven yourself worthy,” the king began, “of the rightful keeper of the Sword…” He trailed off, frozen with the memory of the texts in his study. rightful—king—keeper of the Sword of Girdion.

All became silent—no birds, no voices, not even the sound of a breeze. The air seemed electrified as Istolar struggled with indecision. I have it all worked out. Why is it so hard . . . “My Lord?” Words from the game-master pierced the silence like shattering glass. Istolar blinked at him blankly, then turned his gaze on Liam. Hatred filled him instantly at the sight of the pale-faced boy. His eyes studied his lean frame. Lust and hatred of his flowing, blonde hair. He wanted to ravish him in a way much stronger than how he felt for Barandur. I will have him . . . As if waking from a dream, he continued, “—The rightful keeper of the Sword of Girdion,” and placed the sword flat across Liam’s outstretched palms, according to Ukorstrian custom. Liam closed his hands about the blade until his hands bled, then wiped off the blood and returned the handkerchief to Istolar, who placed it in a small bottle alongside those just recruited into the order. Liam forced himself to bow as his father watched with mixed emotions. He empathized with Liam, for he, too, harboured a simmering contempt for the king. It could not be avoided if Liam were to fulfill his destiny. Above all, his pride beamed outward undiminished. “Bear all to witness!” Istolar announced, “The fate of our land now lies with these valiant fighters who have proven themselves to be of the highest skill in arms, and especially to Sir Liam Pyke, victor of this year’s special edition of the annual games and bearer of the Sword of Girdion!” The people responded with a chorus of applause and cheers. Istolar waited a moment, as if taking the accolades for himself, before raising a hand to quiet the crowd. “Before these men carry out their duty in defence of our sacred borders, tonight will be a cause for celebration in the Great Hall. All are welcome!” A great cheer rose among them even louder than the first. Istolar waved, then retreated back into the castle. As he turned, he cast a glance toward Liam. For the first time in his life, Liam lowered his eyes, unable to resolve his contradictions. He felt torn between duty and honour. Were they not of the same substance? Duty and honour?

Istolar smirked, taking pleasure watching Liam struggle. Stupid pup, he sneered and left Liam alone with his thoughts.

Too Little Too Late

Huron woke early, eager to get a glimpse of what they were up against. What if we are too late? His heart pumped as he raced recklessly up the ridge overlooking Taroga. Far from being healed, his injuries nagged him to slow down. Better judgement finally overcame him and he slowed down to walk the rest of the way. Atop a cliff overlooking a once bustling commercial hub, Huron surveyed the smoking ruins of what was left of Taroga. He dropped to his knees, the weakness of despair sapping the strength from his powerful legs. What could a few hundred poorly armed peasants and a handful of soldiers hope to achieve against a highly trained army numbering thousands? He was in such a state of despair, he didn’t notice two figures climbing down the ridge. Two well placed arrows could have changed the course of the war. Instead, Johan and Najir continued on to Hannan. Bol approached quietly from behind, respecting his friend’s mood. A twig snapped under his foot, alerting Huron who then leaped to his feet with sword drawn. “You’re lucky I didn’t cut you in half! Why do you sneak up behind me like a petty thief?” “I’m sorry, friend. I didn’t mean to startle you.” “No, it’s me who’s sorry.” Huron said, sheathing his sword. He regretted the remark even as it left his lips. “Of course I didn’t mean that. I’m a little on edge; this town… that town,” he spat. “Those cursed barbarians pillaging and looting everything in their path and little we can do to stop them.” Bol handed him a letter. “Perhaps this may lift your spirits.”

Gorgon:

Your valiant struggle to slow the invaders is greatly appreciated. Yet, the enemy is strong. I will lead a detachment to rendezvous with your men and form a more capable unit. We hope to stop them before they get to Zaranstaad. Relay your position if you are able.

Regards Barandur Van Rhyne

“Indeed,” Huron said. “This could not have come at a better time, even if our own feats have gone unnoticed.” “Why do you speak so? You don’t know that.” “It isn’t me whom the letter is addressed to… Ah, never mind. I’m worried about who the letter is addressed to while our people die in the streets.” He shook his head, then referred back to the letter abruptly, “Has Gorgon dispatched a runner?” Bol hesitated. “He is… concerned, it could be a trick to give away our position. The letter is not sealed.” “What? What is he thinking? As if they don’t know we’re here? They’re not concerned with our ragtag outfit! They’re on their way to lay siege to Zaranstaad and bust it open! Like they did in Kresh! Time is not a luxury we have to spare.” He paused to regain his composure. “If a runner left now, he should be back close to nightfall, provided he avoided capture.” Letting the thought linger a moment, he studied the valley. A mist crept in as the grey sky dimmed with the promise of a dreary evening. Long grey tendrils reached out from the forest like a ghoulish hand seeking to snatch the town away. After what seemed like an eternity to Bol, Huron spoke, “We have discussed this before. Nothing has changed. There is enough daylight still to prepare the fireballs. What better time could there be?” He pounded his fist in his other hand for emphasis. “A two-pronged attack—Barandur’s forces come in from the north, ours from the south. Assuming the mist only deepens with nightfall, our men can make it down to lay in wait under the ridge where the fireballs will over them.” Bol looked skeptical. “What if Barandur does not agree to this tactic? Or, as you say, the runner doesn’t make it?” “As I said, war is full of risks. Let’s not add to it with further delays. I must speak with Gorgon at once.” Bol knew better than to argue with Huron when he was determined. At times, he worried his friend may be too eager to get himself killed. Together, they made their way down toward the camp.

Gorgon was not one for idle chatter under any circumstances, let alone letting an opportunity slip away. He made no objection to Huron’s plan and left him with the task of appointing a runner. Although little more than a boy, Derek had boundless energy and light on his feet. Huron briefed the boy on the terrain he would encounter on the way to the other side of town and the route he must take. “Lake Shimmerstone is a shallow lake. It’s shores are not well defined, often stretching out into bogs choked with reeds and bulrushes before meeting firmer ground. Yet, open ground must be avoided at all costs for you will likely be spotted by sentries stationed around the perimeter.” “You have anything to deliver? A message perhaps?” Huron looked at him grimly. “What I have told you, is what you must relay.” “But, wouldn’t a written letter… Oh, I see,” Derek said, “If the letter should fall into the wrong hands.” “Exactly. You know what they’ll do to you if you get caught,” Huron said, handing him a sturdy bamboo stick. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before dark.” “Make haste then! And be careful!” Derek flew down the ridge as if he had wings on his feet, down the gently sloping eastern end where it descended to the lake. He picked his way through the narrow strip of land that lay between the town and the lake. He could not completely avoid open ground, but only if the water was too deep or the muck too soft. He almost lost a boot to the sucking muck before he learned to probe the ground with his stick first. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead despite the cool air. He felt precious minutes slip away as he tried to navigate the soggy ground. Unlike the southern shore of the lake, the north shore was littered with large boulders, as if a giant threw them there. After a short distance, it rose abruptly for about thirty feet, hinting that long ago, the lake was much deeper. He scaled the cliff, grabbing exposed roots to pick his way up.

Where he was greeted by two arrows trained on his head. “Who are you?” one of the men demanded. Oh no! Please God NO! I must be dreaming. Derek’s mind raced for an answer. He thought he was safe. What a fool! His stomach churned as he fought to control his bowels. “The captain will deal with this spy,” the man who appeared to be the one in charge said to the other. “I am not a spy!” —WHACK— One end of the bow came down on his head before he could say more. “Too late! I said the captain will handle this! Speak no more lest I put this bow to better use.” They grabbed one arm each and led him along an overgrown and twisting trail for about twenty minutes. Derek was vaguely aware of men talking ahead, but he was too groggy to make sense of the conversations. Yet, these did not sound like the guttural voices of Bandi or Aegian warriors. No, this sounded like his people, his countrymen, and judging by the chatter, they were discussing strategy against the enemy. “My men tell me you were snooping around our camp,” Barandur said matter-offactly. “Not at all, sir. I was merely trying to relay a message to Barandur—Gorgon and Huron are camped on the other side of town. They wish to launch an attack by nightfall.” Barandur studied the boy a moment. “Who are you? And why would they send a boy on such a dangerous assignment?” Derek bristled. “I am Derek Triton, son of Dayton. I assure you, I am quite up to the task.” “So I see,” Barandur joked, drawing a few laughs from the men. “How many

have you?” “Approximately eight-hundred. They plan to take back the town tonight and wish you to coordinate with them. When you see fireballs coming down from the ridge yonder, fighters will charge out from the protected shelter under the ridge.” “Hmmm, sounds like Gorgon’s handiwork.” “Actually sir, it’s Huron, my chief, who came up with the idea.” “Then we are fortunate to have him on our side. “Tell your chief we will do what he asks and make every attempt to coordinate our tactics. Now you better hurry. There isn’t much time.” “Thank you, sir. Huron will be pleased.” Derek sped off, hoping he had enough daylight left to get back in time.

In the fading daylight, Huron’s men gathered dry kindling and chopped up dead logs. These were then soaked in oil and stuffed into huge bails of hay. When Huron noticed they were positioning them too close to the top, he became alarmed. “Have you lost your mind? Why don’t you just hold up a sign saying, ‘Balls of fire coming for you?’ Fools! Bring them back below the crest until it’s dark enough that they won’t be spotted—if they haven’t been already!” As the night deepened, Huron began to worry, pacing back and forth and cursing under his breath. “He should have returned by now. I sent him to his death for nothing.” Bol grew concerned over Huron’s mental condition. In all the years he had known him, he had never before seen him get so unravelled. Even trivial matters could throw him into a frenzy of curses and stomping around like a man. “He’ll be back soon, I’m sure,” Bol said. “There is no clear path around town. The brush is thick in places, especially near the lake along the eastern side.” Huron cocked an eyebrow. “You’re sure about that?” Bol saw Derek emerge from the woods. “Yes, I am.” Huron followed his gaze. “Ah! Well said, my friend.” He was so relieved, he hugged a very surprised Bol. “All is good, sir,” Derek announced, looking slightly bemused. “Well done, lad.” Huron beamed. “Did Barandur leave any further message… besides that one on your forehead?” “A misunderstanding, sir. He is ready and awaits your signal.” “Excellent. Have you ed this information to Gorgon?” “I was about to, sir.” “Then be on your way.” He turned to find Gorgon. Before he went very far, Huron called out, “Good job,

lad.” The boy slowed and smiled without turning around then continued on his way. Huron stared silently across the ridge to Taroga below, as if having second thoughts. The last traces of twilight gave way to a black velvet sky with billions of pinpricks of light. He might as well have been staring off into the vastness of space. The wanton destruction of everything he had ever known and loved poisoned his mind—and his judgement. Bol approached cautiously, as he was inclined to do lately, ever weary of his friend’s shifting mood swings. “Huron, the men await your signal.” “My signal?” he answered irritably. “I thought Gorgon was in charge here?” “This is your plan, he wishes you to initiate it.” “To escape blame if it fails,” Huron laughed sardonically. “Sure, I’ll be responsible for turning Taroga to ashes. Another of my country’s beautiful towns… homes… shops…” He turned to face Bol, fire and rage burning in his eyes and fists clenched tight. “Light the fires!” Bol repeated the order and twelve bails of hay roared to life, each easily ten feet in diameter. “Release them!” Bol ordered. Levers hurled the burning masses up and over the ridge, sending them careening madly down toward the unsuspecting defenders. Jumaki’s soldiers came out to witness the spectacle and froze in their tracks when they saw the massive fireballs bearing down on them. Huron’s bowmen picked them off by the dozens. After the last of the fireballs crashed into their targets, Gorgon’s troops charged out from under the shelter. Bowmen continued to fire on enemy soldiers as they came forward to meet the new threat; shock and dismay clearly ed on their faces. Not since Kresh had they encountered any significant resistance. Lengu and Kai barked generic orders: FIGHT! HOLD YOUR GROUND! Neither were sure exactly how to respond, but knew they had to rally their men. From the outset, the momentum clearly favoured the Ukorstrians. The few losses they suffered resulted mostly from friendly fire. Taking control of the town was another matter. The deeper into the town they

penetrated, the more resistance they met. Superior numbers and weapons eventually stalled their advance. Huron was not the kind of leader to send his troops into battle while he shouted orders from behind the lines. Gathering his sword and a wooden buckler, he prepared to in battle. “The trail lies to the east,” Bol called after him. “There is no time. I spotted a crevice earlier that snakes its way down the ridge. I can make it down from there.” “Wait, I’m coming with you.” “No! If something happens to me, you’re in charge. We can’t risk it!” “Then let me go. You have a family that depends on you. I am alone.” Huron paused, his heart softened by Bol’s altruistic character. He put both hands on his shoulders. “You are a true friend. I am lucky to have a friend like you. Understand, I need you here. The men need me there. I’m not saying I am any better in battle than you, only that I need to be with them—down there, with those who are dying following orders—orders that I gave them!” He shouted while thumping his chest. “I cannot have that on my conscience. A quarter of the men are up here with you. If we don’t return, flee south. They will not follow you far. And I know I don’t have to tell you what to do for my wife and kids.” Bol nodded reluctantly. Huron looked back once over his shoulder, then raced off toward the fighting, hoping he was not too late. A cheer rose from the weary men upon Huron’s appearance. They fought with renewed vigour. While Bandi warriors engaged Gorgon’s men, Aegians held back Barandur’s contingent. On both fronts, Ground was hard fought for and the streets were slippery with blood. The heady mixture of blood and fire had men on both sides vomiting, which only added to the stench. Even Huron could not help purging his stomach of bile. When he looked up at the devastation from the fireballs, he could hear Gorgon’s words: Alwaysss likess to playsss with fire . . . Ukorssstriansss, burnsss to ashesss . . . Why did I not listen? How could I be so blind? Anger welled up inside as he

irrationally blamed everyone for his lack of foresight. Don’t be a fool! This is your doing and yours alone. Rage spurred him on. For the next hour, he slew many of the enemy, morbidly thankful he had them to vent his rage.

As was the case with Huron, Barandur’s initial foray pierced the ranks of the Aegians, only to get bogged down in house to house fighting. Jumaki was not fooled by the apparent advantage for he knew time would not favour him for long. Buildings set aflame would soon entomb his entrenched soldiers in a funeral pyre. He summoned his captains for a change in strategy. “Kai, counter-attack the Ukorstians. Cut off their escape route and supply lines. Lengu, you do likewise against the rabble to the south. Seal them in their own inferno. If they want to burn the place to the ground, so be it. It’s time to move on anyways. Any questions?” “No, Your Greatness,” they replied together, both knowing better than to ask. “How many fire-ships in our fleet back home?” “Twenty-one,” Kai replied. “Not nearly enough to take on the fleet in Muran. But I want them engaged nonetheless. The port city may be needed to keep supplies flowing. They are to gather in Barren Cove and wait for a signal to attack the battleships in the harbour.” “Your Greatness, our fleet will be lost,” Lengu protested. “Quite likely, but they will at least draw their attention from a land based attack and split their resources in two.”

Pitched battles left many dead and dying in the streets as daylight revealed a grisly scene of chaos and destruction. Men on both sides were exhausted. The north end of town being relatively free from fire, progress was measured in feet. Gaining access to buildings for ranged combat tilted the advantage to whomever could control these vital points. On the streets below, Kai and Barandur moved their men like pawns in a chess match. As morning wore on, Barandur made significant advances to the core of Taroga. The south end of town was a different case altogether. Buildings set ablaze from the fireballs negated any advantage for either side using archers. Huron still had a contingent on top of the ridge, but in close quarters, their own men were taking casualties so Bol ordered them to cease fire. Yet, like Barandur’s men, they advanced little by little into the town’s core. Or so they thought. Gorgon was the first to notice that at one point, it seemed easier to drive them back; too easy in fact. Gorgon could hear the frenzied cries of Barandur’s men pitted against Kai to the north, only a few hundred yards away. Where was Jumaki’s army? Surely they could not have vanished into thin air? He realized too late they fell into a trap. Jumaki’s men filtered out of the battle slowly, so as to not draw attention. Kai sent men east to circle around to the north. Lengu sent men west to circle around to the south. In a sideways figure S pattern, they flanked the unsuspecting Ukorstrian’s and bottled them up in the town square. Bol could see it developing from his high vantage point and rushed down to warn them but he was too late. A handful of Jumaki’s men held the town square briefly; their fate never in doubt. Gorgon had told Huron of the trap beforehand, but they had no choice other than to kill the remaining enemy soldiers. The warlord marvelled at their tenacity, and secretly ired them. They fought for their lives until the bitter end. As the last of them fell under the sword, Barandur met with Gorgon and Huron. Bol arrived shortly after. “I’m afraid celebrations will have to wait, Barandur,” Huron said. “This fight has just begun.”

“I see. My men have informed me of enemies on the outskirts and coming around. They will be here in minutes.” “How long do we have?” “Hard to say, ten maybe, fifteen minutes at the most.” “We have to get out of here.” “Where’sss Lord Herat?” Gorgon asked. Huron looked at Bol. “I thought he was with you.” “He was… He was with us… but when…” “If you followed my instructions, I think I told you to remain on the ridge.” “I did… until I saw the enemy pulling out to flank. I came to warn you.” “Mussst leave now. Lord Herat lossst.” “I’ll go back for him,” Bol offered. Barandur stared straight ahead. “Never mind, he is here.”

Friend or Foe

“King Ferdugar?” Gunther repeated, eyeing the visitors with skepticism. “What is your station?” Johan straightened. “I am Johan. Najir and I have come on behalf of the Great Sultan, Jumaki.” Gunther snorted. “What business does the Great Sultan…” “Jumaki,” Johan prodded. “Jumaki, have in Hannan?” Gurney hunched over against the wall, his eyes darting back and forth while he nervously chewed his lower lip. Johan ignored the slight. “Their business is their own. We are just messengers and not at liberty to discuss it.” Gunther paused, hesitant to let them , but afraid of being blamed for interfering in state affairs. Either way, the wrong decision could mean a demotion, or worse, end up as a prisoner in his own jail. He glanced at Najir, who remained silent. “Two weeks,” he said at last and stamped two es. “We cannot make Castlerock and back in two weeks,” Najir finally spoke. Gurney pulled a folded document from his tunic and handed it to Gunther.

Gunther Van Sickle Sheriff’s Office

King Ferdugar has received your report on Barandur’s detainment and subsequent escape. His Highness will travel to Ravencast to confirm events as you have recorded and will speak to you upon his arrival in Norbit. Be advised Lady Cetera will arrive in Norbit beforehand with an army of several thousand troops. Be prepared to accommodate them.

Regards, Anton Urstwhistle Royal House Speaker

The sheriff studied it a moment, then said to Gurney, “When did you plan to give me this?” “I was about to chief, when these two…” “Never mind,” he snapped. To Johan and Najir, he said, “You will find King Ferdugar in Paragon, if you don’t meet him on the road there first. He is heading…” He stopped, plainly reconsidering his words. “Now get out of here.” Johan and Najir exchanged puzzled looks. “Thank you sir,” Johan said. They hurried out onto the street. Najir tugged Johan’s sleeve. “What did you make of that?” “I’m not sure, but it does appear there is something going on. I suppose we’ll know soon enough. Right now, I’m starving. Where can we find a good place to eat around here.” “I don’t know, but I think there’s more to that letter than meets the eye; something big.” “Like a big steak with roasted potatoes.” “All right then, let’s have a look around.” ersby eyed them curiously as they stood at the intersection, looking decidedly lost. Johan stopped an old woman carrying bags from the market. “Excuse me. Can you tell us where to find a decent meal around here?” She regarded them curiously. “You’re not from these parts hmmm? Help an old lady with her groceries and I’ll make you a meal better than you’ll find in this shantytown.” Johan and Najir looked at each other and shrugged. “Thank you lady, we will gladly oblige,” answered Najir.

She led them along a washed out road that faded into little more than a trail. After a league or so, a rugged log cabin perched on a hill sprang into view. They crossed a rickety bridge over a swift creek and came to a yard of noisy chickens. Johan wondered how she could have possibly carried her foodstuffs so far on her own. “Well, don’t stand there all day. Are you hungry or not?” Johan gulped, his eyes fixed on the largest cat he had ever seen. Right above the old lady, perched on the roof, it regarded them coolly. Its sleek, black fur reflected the sunlight in iridescent patterns, giving the impression of an aura around it. Najir leaned toward Johan and whispered, “There’s something peculiar about this place. This woman…” “You may call me Gershwin,” she interrupted, somehow hearing him. “It’s not polite to whisper, you know. Don’t be afraid of ol’ Tommy Cat. He wouldn’t harm a whisker on a were-rat.” The Aegian scouts followed her inside, but not without trepidation. Johan expected to see the walls lined with shelves of potions and other esoteric ingredients, but they were surprisingly bare. A large cooking pot hung over an open fire pit. Above, a sheltered opening in the roof allowed smoke to escape; primitive but effective. “Built it myself,” she said, as if reading his mind. She related the history of Norbit while preparing chicken stew. “Folks were more honest in those days. No need for a sheriff! Then along came Gunther and his thugs to protect the mining. Things ain’t never been the same since. They took over the whole region, from the border all the way up to Ravencast. That Gurney fella, you don’t want to get too close to that sneak. He’s Gunther’s eyes and ears, always slinking about. Look at him the wrong way and you might end up in the slammer.” Johan leaned forward. “Gurney gave Gunther a letter earlier today from the king’s office. I can’t say what it was about, but he turned white as a ghost. He approved our es just to be rid of us methinks.” “Maybe I can see what it’s about,” she said coyly.”

“You? You haven’t even asked us who we are.” “Come.” She smiled and led them behind a doorway of hanging beads into a room not much bigger than a closet. A chipped pine table and chair furnished the tiny space. She drew a tattered, grey flannel cloth off of a sphere on the table. In the light, it turned from jet black to a deep purple. As her hand ed over, it began to glow subtly and emit a faint, almost imperceptible hum. The men stared in disbelief with their backs pressed against the wall. “You are a seer!” Najir blurted out. “If you say so,” she laughed. “Now I need some quiet, thank you.” He blushed. “Sorry.” Crystalinnus balaena tela allatus. Softly she spoke, her eyelids fluttering. At first, the ball clouded into a swirling grey mass, but soon images began to emerge. Ferdugar peered down from a window high in Castlerock at the waves crashing onto the rocks. A figure struggled to bring a small skiff into port. “That’s me!” exclaimed Najir. “Shhhh!” Johan nudged him in the ribs. Ferdugar and Cetera rode side by side in the next image, leaving Castlerock behind. Johan could sense tension between them, but whatever happened was not revealed. Then abruptly, a wizened figure appeared with a huge bear. The man did not appear to be threatened by the beast. On the contrary, he paid little heed to the bear as he plucked a sword from a fetid pile of dung and carcasses. The ball flashed quickly through a battle that included were-dogs and men fleeing, then it reverted back to a dark purple. Once in this state, it gradually returned to the original jet-black form. Johan frowned. “What was that sword? There must be some importance attached to it.” “Importance indeed.” Gershwin’s light banter was gone. She regarded them with

an intense scrutiny that made them uncomfortable; like a cat eyes a trapped mouse. “You have come in search of it?” “N-N-No! Of course not!” Johan stammered. “Alright then. What brings you to Hannan, so far from home?” “You’re the seer, you tell us.” “Najir!” Johan scolded. “Have you taken leave of your senses? And your manners as well? “My apologies,” he mumbled. “It’s been such a long journey.” Gershwin’s customary smile returned. “I understand. These are trying times for us all. I understand your nation is at war with King Istolar.” Tree limbs thrashed the cottage as the wind suddenly picked up, as if in response to her query. She hung a kettle of water over the fire and stirred the chicken stew; the aroma making their mouths water. “Yes,” Johan replied tentatively, not missing the reference of ‘your nation’. Najir gave Johan a sidelong glance and added, “Being close to the border, you may have noticed less goods from Aegia—potatoes, carrots and the sort.” She filled three wooden bowls and set them on the table. “As you can see, Ukorstria has plenty of vegetables, and beef in abundance too, which is probably why King Istolar raised tariffs thrice the rate.” “You approve of him? Of his policies?” She shrugged. “He’s a business man, doing what he thinks is best for his people.” The kettle whistled above the fire. “Tea?” “Please,” they replied together. They ate heartily and the conversation turned to politics as night crept over the tiny cottage. The wind continued unabated outside. “Looks like we may be in for a storm,” she said, refilling their cups.

Najir yawned. “This is good brew, has a rooty flavour.” The door popped open. Tommy Cat sauntered in, going right to the corner and curled up on a blanket without even acknowledging the guests. “Agreed,” Johan said, not taking his eyes off the big cat. “I think I shall sleep well tonight. We must be going I’m afraid. You have been most a most gracious host, Gershwin.” “Oh no, you cannot go back out there. Can you not hear a storm b-r-r-e-e-ewing?” The last word had a pronounced cat-like quality. “Soon it will be upon us. I must insist you stay.” “Thank you, but there is really no room. It’s not too far…” Johan slumped to the floor before he could complete his sentence. “What have you done? Najir cried. “Johan! Wake up!” He tried feverishly to revive him, but soon, he too, succumbed to the narcotic tea. “I insist,” she repeated, her smile gone. “Looks like we have guests, Tommy Cat.” Mrrrarr, Tommy Cat mewed indifferently, licking his paws. Before the night was old, the storm moved in. Little rain fell, only streaking lighting bolts that lit up the woods followed by deafening peels of thunder. Most of the townsfolk were awakened, but Johan and Najir slept soundly. Gershwin sat by the fire thinking of the images the sphere had offered. She was about to try it again when a tapping sounded at the door. “Open the door, in the name of the king!” a woman called from without. Gershwin opened the door a crack and peeped out. “Yes?” “I am Cetera, advisor to King Ferdugar. You have two strangers inside?” Gershwin hesitated, then a pout crossed her feline features. “Yes… Come in, they are asleep.” “Very good. I will take them now.” To her escort, Cetera commanded, “Take them.”

The guard started over to Johan when he noticed Tommy Cat in the corner staring at him. He froze in his tracks. “Tommy Cat! Stay! They are not here to cause harm.” The guard proceeded cautiously, prodding Johan to wake up. However, he did not move. He shoved him vigorously and still he got no response. Exasperated, Cetera ordered, “Pick them up and carry them out.” The guard obliged, loading the two oblivious scouts one at a time onto the wagon. “Thank you,” Cetera said curtly as they turned to leave. “I don’t think we shall return.” Gershwin smiled and bowed under Cetera’s suspicious gaze. After they disappeared into the night, she bolted the door and sat on the floor beside Tommy Cat and scratched his ears. Oh dear, Tommy Cat. That busybody Gurney must have been watching them. But we simply must see what they’re up to now don’t we? Tommy Cat tilted his big head back and closed his eyes, purring softly. Soon he drifted off to sleep. She covered him with a blanket and went into the back room behind the beads. Moments later, the crystal ball swirled to life.

King Ferdugar rode into Ravencast accompanied by only two bodyguards. Cetera thought him foolish to travel through country infested with bandits with little protection, but he adopted the attitude of: Who would dare rob the king? Off to the south, she was thinking of her uncle at that very moment, and all they had been through. Regret nagged at them both. Ferdugar’s brooding did not go unnoticed by his niece. It seemed to her that he had become reckless since their misadventure back at Castlerock. He drank more. Many days he skipped breakfast in favour of wine or mead. Perhaps some time apart will mend the rift, she thought. They did manage some cordial conversation as of late. This could be just the right antidote to restore their friendship and respect. Ferdugar closed his eyes as if hearing her thoughts, feeling her pain. When he opened them, Ravencast and the surrounding countryside lay before him under a thick blanket of snow. Winter was in full swing here. Yet, the town did not seem as dreary under the clean, fresh snow. The sharp winter sun was hot enough to melt exposed areas until the crystallized snow glistened like diamonds. Rivulets of melt-water trickled down to form long icicles, glinting in a dazzling display. “Been a long time since the last time I was here,” Ferdugar remarked to his escorts. Shielding his eyes, he followed the same road Barandur travelled a year earlier toward Ravencast. Like many roads in the region, it was in a bad state of disrepair. The heavy carts laden with ore and other metals, carved deep ruts in the road in warmer weather. When the temperature dropped, the tracks froze. Horses would get their hooves caught and break their legs. They ed through the main thoroughfare. Grime and soot poked out from under the snow; a reminder of what lay under the glossy coating. No-one seemed to recognize the king. A few beggars brazenly approached looking for handouts, which Ferdugar gave sparingly so as to not attract too much attention. The Woodcutter’s Den appeared to have run out of luck with the overhanging snowdrifts from the cliffs above. Unseasonable warm weather alternated with freezing temperatures to produce a particularly long drift that Terrance had been meaning to deal with. But he delayed too long. The northern side of the building had taken a direct hit. He was out repairing the damage when Ferdugar rode up. Unlike the rest of this frontier, he recognized the king immediately. “Your

highness,” he greeted, bending to one knee. “Rise, my good man. We have need of a warm bath and a good meal.” Ferdugar eyed the damaged section dubiously. “Oh, don’t worry, Sire. It’s all cleared up now. Next time I won’t let it go for so long.” “You were just a boy last time I set foot in Ravencast. How have you been keeping? I take it your parents have ed on?” “Yes, Sire, twenty years ago.” “I’m sorry to hear that. I they were kind and generous people.” “Well I wouldn’t want to soil the family reputation,” Terrance laughed. “Come inside, the ale is still the best in town.” Sophia appeared, wiping her hands on her apron and smiled warmly at the king. While they sat by the fire sipping ale, Terrance relayed all the events of Barandur’s visit; from his visit to the hermit, Sven, the encounter with Kwoth, the giant cave bear, to their return with the Sword of Girdion. Ferdugar raised his eyebrows at the mention of the sword. Sophia entered the room with more ale and some fresh bread and cheese when Terrance spoke of the arrival of sheriff Gunther, of how Gurney and his thugs beat him until his face was bloodied and swollen. As the memory of the ordeal flooded back into her, she felt her strength give out. Although she tried to set the tray down on the table, she could not control her trembling hands. Food and ale crashed to the floor sending shards of glass everywhere. Terrance jumped to his feet. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he soothed. “I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know what came over me. I’ll clean this up and bring another tray,” she said, tying her hair back and trying unsuccessfully not to appear flustered. “No you don’t, I’ll do it,” Terrance offered. “Slice up another loaf and bring us some more ale, will you my love?”

With a fleeting smile, she said, “Thank you, love.” and went back to the kitchen. After she left, Ferdugar clasped Terrance’s forearm. “I will see that Gunther is held responsible for this.” “Thank you, Sire. Let me prepare your rooms so we can talk later.” “That will be fine, my friend.” Terrance checked on Sophia, then ran some warm water in the baths and brought out their finest linen. Sophia came to help him, but he was almost finished. “Thank you, my love. I don’t know what I would do without you.” “You never have to worry about that,” he said, pulling her close. They met for dinner with King Ferdugar later in the evening and talked late into the evening for Terrance was well versed in the histories of Hannan. Ferdugar was impressed by the innkeeper’s knowledge as he recounted the early days of Hannan right up to the present. “I would like to make you: Historian of the Republic of Hannan,” Ferdugar stated. Although his speech was thick with the effects of Terrance’s fine brew, he meant what he said. “I am honoured, My Lord. However, I cannot accept without the approval of my lovely wife.” Sophia pushed him playfully. “Don’t bother, she said, “It’s about time we ed civilization again. Of course, we gladly accept, Sire.” “Very good! A toast then!” They raised a cheer and emptied their mugs. Ferdugar wiped foam from his beard with his sleeve. “I think I should like some rest now. I had a pleasant evening with both of you.” Terrance helped the king to his feet. “The pleasure has been all ours, Sire. Sleep well.” he led Ferdugar up the narrow stairs into the finest suite in the inn. Ferdugar slept soundly, dreaming of the glory days of Hannan’s proud past.

The talk of the town these days in Norbit centred around Cetera and the army she brought with her. Although Anders had a great deal to do with the organization and leadership of the troops, he preferred to remain in the background and let Cetera be the figurehead. Not that she did not command respect; she learned very quickly how to deal with situations, and the matter with Johan and Najir was a good example. Around this time, when she paraded the captives through the streets, she became known as, ‘The Ice Queen’. As memories of Castlerock grew dimmer, so too did her former self fade. What replaced it was a hardened, imposing character, born out of necessity rather than by choice. Leading an army across the northern wasteland with winter biting at their heels had done much to reform her character. And the bitter taste of the sexual encounter with her uncle had served as a reminder that trust was not easily given, that it must be earned. Yet, cruelty could never truly take hold of her. At heart, she would always love her country and people. And these two foreigners posed a risk, or at least may potentially be a risk, with information of a stolen artifact. She wished her uncle would return soon to help deal with them. In the meantime, she would interrogate them in the best way she knew how. Had Johan and Najir been aware, they were locked in the same jail cell as Barandur and his crew a year before, ironically for the same purpose. Gunther’s deputy, Bob, assumed the position of Norbit’s jailor vacated by his friend, Tom. Guilt nagged at his conscience the night he left Tom on the floor drunk and the door open. Were-dogs left him in a pool of blood the night of Barandur’s escape. Johan pressed against the bars. “What crime have we committed? We simply came to relay a message to King Ferdugar. He will be angry if we cannot speak with him.” “You’ll have your chance,” Bob grumbled. “You don’t understand. The interests of my country are at stake… Of your country… Please!” “And you are angels sent from heaven to save us,” Bob laughed. “Listen, you’re talking to the wrong man. I’m just following orders. You should have spoken

with lady Cetera on the way here.” “We were sleeping.” “Hard to save the world while asleep right?” “No, I mean as in, knocked out cold.” Bob reached through the bars, cupping Najir’s chin in his hand, moving his head left and right. “I don’t see any marks.” Najir stepped back. “A townswoman put a toxin in our tea. Shortly after, we fell asleep.” “Who was this townswoman?” “Her name is Gershwin.” Johan shot Najir a warning look that said, ‘You talk too much.’ “The soothsayer,” Bob said. “You know her?” Najir asked. “She’s crazier than a loon, she is. Should have stayed clear of her.” “It was quite by accident.” “Nothing is by accident with her.” The door flung open. Cetera stormed in. Without even acknowledging Bob, she strode straight to the cell. Her eyes flashed with recognition when she spotted the pair. “You have come to speak with King Ferdugar? You may speak with me.” “Our business concerns King Ferdugar only, on behalf of Sultan Jumaki.” “I am Cetera, advisor to the king. Speak and be done with it or make yourselves comfortable in that cell for a very long time.” Najir leaned close to Johan. “Nothing is to be gained by not talking, except for rotting in this cold cell. Should we talk to her?”

“I think so. When Barandur and I returned from Castlerock, she saw to it we had enough provisions for the journey, though I had no idea she was advisor to the king.” “Ha ha ha. No, I suppose I should be a maid waiting on men hand and foot. Does that suit your image better?” she asked without humour. Johan flushed with embarrassment. “I only meant…” “Never mind. Are you going to tell me why you’re here? Or am I wasting my time?” “No, My Lady. We had to be sure. Sultan Jumaki wishes to consult with King Ferdugar regarding Hannan’s position with Ukorstria. Several years ago, King Ferdugar came to Aegia and spoke with our Great Leader. They agreed to make war with Ukorstria once they marshaled their forces, although a formal pact was never signed. Now, war is upon us and Sultan Jumaki is left to wonder if King Ferdugar has changed his mind.” “No. In fact, we have garrisoned in Norbit. An artifact was reported stolen by agents of King Istolar, one of which travelled with you before, Johan. You Barandur?” Johan nodded, absently searching his pocket for the silver whistle he gave him. Now he wished he had kept it. What if Horgram’s rakshasas tracked us? We were fortunate not to have crossed their path on the way here. Would we be so lucky on the way back? “I AM TALKING TO YOU!” Johan snapped back to attention. “Yes… yes, My Lady.” “King Ferdugar seeks to confirm it has indeed gone missing. If so, Hannan treats theft of national treasures as an act of war. The king should be here in the coming days.” “Such a treasure seems to have much importance to go to war over. Where was it stolen from?” Cetera laughed softly. “You ask too many questions, and I have already told

more than I probably should have. King Ferdugar will want to speak with you upon his arrival.”

Two days later, in the late afternoon, Ferdugar arrived from Ravencast. Gunther greeted him at the Sheriff’s office. “Good day, Sire. We have unexpected guests. One is known to me, Johan of Aegia. With Barandur he travelled to Castlerock to meet with you. The other, Najir, also of Aegia, I am not familiar with. Yet, I understand he has also met with you.” “True on both counts. Where is lady Cetera? I must speak with her at once.” “You’ll find her in the guest quarters, Sire.” Ferdugar left the office and followed a narrow lane that wound downhill a short distance to the guest quarters. Cetera was busy filing reports when he entered. She looked up and smiled warmly, though she didn’t run to hug him as she used to when he returned from a trip. Ferdugar returned her smile, concealing the hurt he felt inside. “I hear we have company.” “Yes, the Aegians that came to Castlerock have come back to get an update for their sultan. What did you find in Ravencast?” Ferdugar ignored the question. “Update? What business is it of theirs?” “You have forgotten you have a treaty with Jumaki against Ukorstria?” He scratched his coarse, yellow-grey beard. “Yes, that’s right. and we will honour it. I am a man of my word.” “And your word you gave to Istolar not to get involved in their war?” Anger welled up in Ferdugar’s eyes. He forced himself to soften his tone, “They have taken the Sword of Girdion from its resting place outside of Ravencast. They have broken the treaty already. I should not have to tell you this.” “Technically, the sword belongs to Ukorstria, being gifted to their king.” “Even so, Aegia has no claim on it.”

Gunther waddled inside, his belly swinging to and fro. Gurney followed behind him looking decidedly sheepish. Ferdugar looked at Gunther with disapproval. “How did Barandur get the sword across our border?” Not wanting to take the blame, Gunther shook a chubby finger at Gurney. “They were under his care, Sire, when they escaped, but not before murdering one of my guards.” “You are relieved of duty,” Ferdugar said to Gurney. Gunther breathed a sigh of relief but saw that the king was still eyeing him. Ferdugar continued, “You can go with him for your disgusting performance in Ravencast. Never again will you lay a hand on any of my citizens or I will personally see to your death. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, Sire. But what will we do?” You will work in the mines. Report to your local supervisor. Now get out of here.” They walked out, fat and skinny. Ferdugar would have laughed at the sight had Cetera not been watching him. “Where were we?” “You were saying, broken treaty? What are we to do with these two Aegian’s?” “Tell them to assure Jumaki we are preparing to occupy the lands north of Zaranstaad. We will set up around the fortress until siege machines can be brought in or built. If Zaranstaad falls, so does its king and Ukorstria ceases to function as a sovereign nation. Cetera had a meal brought for the captives and briefed them while they ate, “You may stay here for the night if you wish, or leave now. The choice is yours.” Johan gratefully accepted. “We will be on our way, My Lady. Sultan Jumaki is not so patient.” “I suppose not,” she answered indifferently. “Safe journey then. Until next time.” They bowed. Najir kissed her hand and for a flickering moment, her heart thawed. Almost in an instant, her hardened smile returned.

Johan and Najir disappeared into the night amidst the needy and desperate folks wandering the streets. “I don’t like this,” Johan said. “We should not travel back through Ukorstria together. If they catch us, we are dead or thrown in a dungeon and Sultan Jumaki will never learn of Hannan’s intentions.” “What other choice is there?” Najir asked. “The sea is too far to reach from here —and where would we find a boat once we got there? Assuming we got there. Besides, are you forgetting the sultan is IN Ukorstria?” “Then we must go to Horgram and convince him to let us .” “Why would he do that? Our armies camp within two days march of Zaranstaad. We are better off to slip by—like before.” “And if we’re caught? What then? Nothing you or I can say will deter him. Certainly he will escort us straight to Zaranstaad to be interrogated and tortured.” “So your solution is to walk into his camp and save him the trouble of finding us. Honestly Johan, have you been picking belladonna?” “That’s my point! If we were spying, would we not avoid being seen? Don’t you see? Now, if we warn him of Ferdugar’s coming, he may let us .” “Fine, but that still doesn’t explain our presence here in the first place. I can’t see Horgram letting us go. He’ll suspect something is up and retain us anyhow.” “Not if he were to think Istolar himself commissioned us—and will be very angry if he doesn’t get the report. So we request an escort rather than wait for him to assign one.” “Why request? If the intention is to…” “Have you not been listening?” Johan snapped. “If he assigns an escort, you can be assured there will be more than a few closely watching over us. This way, we might get a hunter or two. Or perhaps he’ll just say he has none to spare and to fend for ourselves.” Najir hesitated. “I’ll tell you what. You try your plan. I’m going to take my chances and sneak through.”

Johan sighed. “Alright, it’s all or nothing I suppose. I hope I don’t have to say I told you so. Let’s get going.” Leaving the grungy town of Norbit behind would have been a more pleasant experience if they had a better destination than the Myrshin swamp. They decided to retrace their age that brought them through last time, following the rugged hills on the western edge of the swamp, thereby staying as far as possible from Horgram’s hideout. The greatest obstacle lay in the land itself as it grew increasingly difficult to traverse. Many hours they spent scaling treacherous slippery slopes, and since the swamp never froze even in the thick of winter, they could not walk across the surface. Worse yet, steam rose out of its fetid and stagnant pools as it met cold air to make ice out of everything in and around it. No-one knew what sorcery or freak of nature kept the marsh from freezing, but it was said that a bloody battle took place not long after Popobawa was defeated between the Hill-men and were-dogs. So much blood had been spilled that day, the murky waters turned red. Even to this day, the bog emits an eerie, ruddy hue when the sun reflects off the Coppertop Mountains. Never again did it freeze even under the most extreme temperatures. The victorious were-dogs have populated it ever since. In an act of sheer irony, Horgram’s band of Hill-men hunters became their protectors, saving many from the clutches of rakshasas. Four of them now watched two figures struggling along the western reaches of the swamp. “It’s hopeless,” Najir cried. “Why don’t we just walk through the swamp.” “This was your idea,” Johan shot back angrily. “We should have taken our chances with Horgram.” “I don’t understand. Why does it seem more difficult than before.” Johan studied the terrain, a puzzled expression on his face. “What is it? What do you see?” “It doesn’t seem harder—it is. The northern face of these hills are steeper for some reason.”

“Are you sure? What could be the cause?” “I don’t know, but I think it’s time to test the waters again.” “Am I supposed to laugh?” “Come on, let’s have a look.” “Gladly.” Najir retraced the way he came up. Johan descended down the other side having already reached the top. Johan should have reached bottom first if Najir hadn’t lost his grip and slid most of the way down. The last ten feet or so dropped abruptly into the bog. He clung to a protruding root desperately; below his dangling feet, were-dogs snapped and snarled, waiting for him to fall. “JOHAN!” Nothing could save him, he knew. Johan’s dagger would not save them against four were-dogs. Terror overwhelmed him to the point where he had difficulty maintaining his grasp. “RUN!” he screamed as Johan ran straight into the pack. Johan almost slipped and fell into the muck in an effort to stop. Three were-dogs peeled off and circled Johan, sniffing and making peculiar whining noises. They did not seem to want to attack. Najir could not hold on any longer and fell with a splash. But they ignored him and focused on Johan. He stood frozen with fear. Najir started laughing. “It’s your cloak!” They recognize the cloak Horgram gave you when you ed through here with Barandur.” “Well I’ll be damned.” Johan wiped his brow with a trembling hand. The weredogs stopped circling and approached, warily at first, then more at ease. One nudged his arm, whining. “He’s trying to tell me something,” Johan said, trying to decipher what it was trying to say. “I think he wants us to go with him.” Najir still wasn’t convinced. “Do you think that’s a good idea? A moment ago they wanted to eat us.”

Johan knelt down beside it. “Can you take us to him?” The were-dog yelped, indicating for them to follow. “That decides it. We never should have come this way in the first place. We’re going to see Horgram. I can’t trudge all the way through this cursed swamp.” They set out in a north-eastern direction, The were-dogs expertly tracked along the safest path. Johan followed closely behind with Najir, who offered no further complaint. However, they were by no means out of danger. Rakshasas roamed the swamp, always looking for new were-dogs to recruit or an occasional meal wandering through the area. Johan recalled the fire-red eyes and coarse, dark-red fur that could cut a man’s hand from just a touch. The smell of burnt copper and rotting flesh from the beast had made him nauseous. He was sure Barandur had been a goner that day, until Horgram came to the rescue. Najir watched Johan about ten paces ahead of him. The way was generally too narrow to walk side by side. Perhaps he had been wrong to mistrust Horgram, but having never met him, he did not like the idea of meeting up with a man in the service of the enemy’s army. He jogged a few steps to catch up with Johan. “I’m sorry if I led us astray, but I know nothing of this Horgram, other than he is a Ukorstrian hunter.” “A hunter yes, but he is not employed by the king. They protect the northern borders by their own accord. Although it is true, Istolar relies on them for this purpose, He does not command them, nor do they receive orders from an officer in the army. However, I would strongly suspect an intrusion of an invading army would be reported to Zaranstaad in short order.” “I see. How do you think he will treat us. After all, he would see us as agents of the enemy and rightfully so.” “Last time I was with Barandur, we truthfully told of a mission sanctioned by King Istolar to seek a pact with Hannan. As far as we are concerned, we are still trying to prevent a conflict that would devastate all nations involved.” He noticed the were-dogs had fallen silent. Putting his finger to his lips, he added, “Nothing has changed since.”

Najir nodded, acknowledging the signal, and fell back behind Johan. The weredogs slowed, sniffing the air. “Something is not right,” Johan whispered to Najir. “They have picked up the scent of whatever it is, perhaps a rakshasa.” “Oh Lord, I hope not.” “Once is enough for me. They’re savage beyond belief; it just keeps on attacking regardless of injuries.” The tremble in Johan’s voice amplified Najir’s own fear. However, the weredogs did not seem affected in the same way, and they feared the creature more than anything else. The transformation of an afflicted were-dog into a rakshasa was difficult and immensely painful. They reached the road approximately half way between the border and Horgram’s hideout. A man came running toward them, plainly panic-stricken. He appeared to be fleeing. When he caught site of the were-dogs, his fear intensified. “Who are you and where are you fleeing from?” Johan demanded, using the were-dogs to gain the advantage. The animals neither threatened or withdrew, seemingly waiting for the man’s response. “I’m all that’s left of a small garrison recently posted to keep watch on the northern border. A large invasion force has crossed from Hannan. They are only hours behind.” Johan and Najir looked at one another in disbelief. Johan whispered to Najir. “That was fast. Our path has been laid before us. In order to get word back to Sultan Jumaki, we must gain the trust of Horgram by informing him Hannan has crossed into Ukorstria. He will find this out anyways. Then we move on to Zaranstaad to inform the king; something we have no intention of doing, of course. Hopefully, he will let us go without escort, but if he sends one or more, we’ll have to find an opportunity to escape.” “I understand,” Najir said quietly, trying to digest the events that had been set in motion. “You will come with us…” “Gerrard,” the man offered.

“ . . . to speak with the local authority on this matter. They are not too far; half a day’s march if we keep a quick pace.” Johan said, sounding more like the leader since the ill-fated trek into the swamp. They marched further without incident. Johan studied the high cliffs to the west for signs of Horgram’s Hideout was getting close. He listened for the tell-tale gurgling of the waterfall that marked the entrance to the cave. “Better put this on.” He handed Najir a blindfold.” “I’m not wearing this!” Najir protested. “I mean Gerrard, you ninny, though you should too. I’ll explain you to Horgram, but I cannot explain him.” Najir attempted to wrap the cloth around Gerrard’s head, but he swatted it away. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me? Say… You don’t look like Ukorstrians to me.” He backed away slowly until the were-dogs coerced him into cooperating. “You’ll just have to trust us,” Najir said firmly and tied the cloth securely around his eyes. “We must hurry while there is still daylight.” They continued south along the narrow road, making much better time than hiking through the slippery hills they had come from. “I don’t think it’s because of some long forgotten battle,” Najir said, peering into the swirling mists. “Yet, I see how the myth may have been born.” “What are you talking about?” Johan replied irritably. “Watch. See how vapours rise, then ride on the wind currents to give the illusion of ghosts floating about?” “They very well could be; disembodied spirits cursed to roam this bog until…” “Until what?” “Until they can be freed…” he trailed off, recalling how the rakshasa targeted Barandur in particular. Najir broke his train of thought. “Or maybe it’s fed from hot springs below the

surface.” “Yes, more than likely. I think we’re getting close. Can you hear it? It’s very faint for the entrance is well back from the road. You would miss it entirely unless you knew what to listen for.” “I should think I will not be ing this way again anytime soon.” Two hunters emerged from the brush with bows ready, wordlessly directing them to halt. Najir leaned toward Johan. “I guess that saves us the trouble of finding the place.” “Shhh! Be quiet,” Johan said. Like their captive, Gerrard, Johan and Najir were also blindfolded. When Gerrard heard Johan protest that he already had visited their hidden retreat once before, he pleaded, “I am a soldier of Ukorstria. Why do you treat me like a criminal?” The hunter said simply, “In good time.” and rewarded Johan with a jab to the ribs for his part. Johan complained no further. As they drew near, the waterfalls could be heard clearly. Here, the terrain was uneven and the men stumbled frequently with only two hunters to guide them. Horgram stood outside, eyeing the newcomers curiously. “What have we here?” “Found them on the road, sir. These two had this man blindfolded. He claims to be a soldier of Ukorstia.” Gerrard shot back, “Do you not recognize the uniform?” “That could be claimed off of a fallen soldier,” replied Horgram grimly. “Bring them inside and remove their blindfolds.” They escorted them inside to a small room that bore the marks of an interrogation chamber. Sinister looking devices hung from the walls and lay across a crudely fashioned wooden bench. A trained eye could see they were mostly for effect and rarely used, but when their blindfolds were removed, fear ed in their expressions. Horgram’s eyes widened as he recognized Johan.

“Well met, Johan! What brings you to the Myrshin Swamp? Conducting a tour?” Horgram nodded toward Najir. “An emissary, like myself. And good to see you too, sir.” “These are not good times to be be roaming the countryside without an escort, but I see the broach has served you well. Have you the whistle I gave to you?” Johan lowered his eyes. “I gave it to Barandur. I didn’t expect to be back this way.” “A selfless act.” Horgram’s eyes flickered. “And what did you say the purpose of your return?” I didn’t say, Johan felt like saying. He glanced at Najir, who remained silent for a change. He knew better than to provide an honest answer. He had to take a chance that if he divulged Hannan’s troops were on their doorstep, Horgram would spring into action and the question of their business here would be forgotten. He took a deep breath. “Sir, Ferdugar’s army marches toward Zaranstaad.” A multitude of emotions and thoughts tumbled around in Horgram’s head. For a moment, he gaped openly, unable to speak. At length, he asked, “Where are they now?” “Well inside your borders. I would estimate two or three hours from here.” “My God, how did we not know of this?” “This man, Gerrard, we were taking to King Istolar to warn the castle to prepare for them.” Horgram frowned. He had not had time to talk to the hunters to their story. Now moments were slipping away. “Where is Gerrard?” he demanded. A hunter stepped forward. “I will bring him immediately, captain.” Johan sensed the moment was ripe to spring his plan. “Sir, with your permission, we will continue with Gerrard to Zaranstaad.”

When Gerrard was brought into the chamber, Horgram asked him, “How many are there?” “Our scouts estimate more than five-thousand, sir, as many as seven, with six catapults. Most are heavily armed infantry and five to eight-hundred archers.” “This will help us a great deal. Continue on to Zaranstaad with Johan and Najir.” Then he turned to the other hunters present. “We must prepare for when they arrive.”

Betrayal

A hush fell over the town. Inhabitants either fled or were killed. The few that remained hid wherever they could find cover. Only the crackling of sporadic fires left over from the barrage could still be heard. The confident clippety-clop sound of Jumaki’s mount preceded him as he rode out of the smoky haze into the town square. He surveyed the destruction with approval; nodding, as if checking off a list of achievements. Coming to a stop in front of the group, he planted his spear into the earth. By his side, Lord Herat stood quietly and looking squeamish, but otherwise unhurt. “Enough bloodshed has been shed today. Gorgon, you are a great tactician and warrior. King Istolar has chosen wisely to appoint you warlord. Will you not with us on the field of battle? Surely, you can see the outcome is no longer in question.” “Sssave your breath. Go back to plainsss.” Anger flashed across Jumaki’s face. “Why do you care for their wretched lives? Your own people are safe and far away—for now—” He let the last part hang in the air to be sure Gorgon understood the implication. Gorgon ignored the threat. “Becaussse it’sss my duty.” “Your duty,” Jumaki spat. “He has a point,” Herat said amid gasps from his countrymen. If we cooperate, our country will be spared further ruin. Sultan Jumaki has promised leniency and mercy, perhaps even allowing us to run our own affairs.” “Very nice of you,” Huron said, “to allow us to live in our own land.” He pulled his sword free from his scabbard, drawing the attention of a half-dozen arrows trained on his head. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Jumaki said, sliding off his mount. He walked

casually up to Huron. Two burly thugs each grabbed an arm of Huron and held him fast. Jumaki stopped just short of him and eyed him coldly. “Why don’t I waste your miserable hide right here? Should have finished you off back in your flea-bitten village of Ferndale.” He punctuated the name with a swift uppercut to Huron’s solar plexus. Huron doubled over in agony. “But I have a better use for you.” He stepped back to address everyone. “To your king, these are the : All of Ukorstria shall be under Aegian rule. However, day to day governing of the state can remain under Ukorstrian control. Exceptions are any and all armed divisions, meaning the complete disarmament and disbanding of the army and dismantling of the Wrynn, whose shall be executed.” Barandur wondered how Jumaki might dismantle the secret police; only Istolar himself was aware of their hip. He wisely kept his thoughts to himself. He spoke in low tones to Gorgon. “Sometimes, it’s better to live and fight another day.” “Sss! Gesture is falssse goodwill, but I agree. Cannot win here. He letsss usss go to persuade king. He isssa sssnake.” “A sssnake? Sounds funny coming from you.” “Your jokesss make me warlord.” Barandur winced at the retort. “Alright then, let’s do it.” Gorgon faced Jumaki. “We agree to do thisss for Sssultan Jumaki.” Jumaki hopped back up on his mount. “Very well. You are free to go. Your Lord Herat will remain with me. If my generous offer is declined, his head will be delivered to the gates of Zaranstaad. Understood?” “Underssstand, sssultan, if you enter my land, my peoplesss eat you like rodentsss.” Jumaki sneered in anger for an instant then he laughed. “Of that I have no doubt.” The remnants of the once proud Ukorstrian army left the town. Shame hung over

their collected heads; they knew their lives were spared by the sultan of Aegia. Kai approached the sultan, covered head to toe in soot, grime, and blood. He took no perverse pleasure in humiliating the enemy, but he itted to himself, the tactic was effective in demoralizing their troops. Nor did he approve of Jumaki’s treatment of Lengu, but again, it was none of his concern. Personally, he thought Lengu to be a competent captain, though he never told him so. “Do we go after them, Great Leader?” “And break my word?” Jumaki said in mock chagrin. “No, let them hole up and worry. Popobawa is at our disposal. How are supplies holding out?” “Food to last a few days, a week if rationed. Blades are chipped and dull. Arrows…” “Enough. We can’t find anything here. It reeks of death. We need to resupply, and open up a faster supply line.” “Where, Your Greatness? Taroga is the last major settlement before Verdun.” “You have forgotten the port city of Muran to the east. I expect the fire-ships to have arrived in Barren Cove by now. Muran will not be unprepared. Check we have enough flares to signal the fire-ships. Visibility may be poor off the coast.” “Yes, Your Greatness.” Kai found Lengu sitting on a patch of grass tailoring a makeshift bandage for a deep wound on the right sight of his face. “At least you’ll have a matching set,” he said, referring to the scar he earned in Kresh. Lengu looked up, unaccustomed to any brand of humour from Kai. “That’s comforting. By the end of the war, I won’t have any face to save.” “Hmmph.” Kai reverted back to his usual taciturn state. “Sultan Jumaki wants to head east to Muran.” “I see. He fears our supply lines are not secure, even with the bandit, Huron out of the way?” “A wealth of food, clothing and munitions are there for the taking, a direct age by sea to our Yamata brethren…”

“I would sail there myself just to see my homeland once again. I can only see the rolling plains in my dreams. Seems like so long ago.” “I’m with you there, brother, though the Serpent Sea does not have a history of being kind to sailors.” Lengu stood, wrapping his head with the cloth while Kai helped. “Do you believe the rumours of a serpent that can devour ships?” Kai paused, looking east, as if that may help him see the creature. “I only know that ships steered by seasoned sailors have been lost in good weather. Perhaps something does lurk in there. The sea is vast and no anchor has ever touched bottom in places.” “I would brave it nonetheless, to set foot on our soil again.” “Soon you may have a chance, my friend. The final days of Istolar’s reign are coming to an end. Yet, winter is almost upon us. An extended siege at Zaranstaad does not bode well. I hope there are plenty of bearskin coats in Muran.” Lengu looked doubtful. “Enough for an army of twenty-thousand? Not including the Bandi.” “And those already lost in battle? They, too, require need gear for winter?” Blood smears disguised Lengu’s embarrassment. “Of course not. Fifteenthousand I should say.” He quickly changed the topic. “What has become of Popobawa? Is it still with us?” Kai furrowed his brows. He disliked the mere mention of its name. “One would think so, however I have not heard its name being spoken as of late. This entity is from another dimension. To bring such unpredictable evil into service can only spell disaster. I hope I’m wrong.” “As do I. We better get going. I can’t wait to get away from the stench of burnt flesh.” Many days on the road taught them to organize and move out efficiently. Only four hours of daylight remained, enough to put the smouldering ruins of Taroga

behind them. Muran could be within grasp by the next evening, but not without a gruelling march after a hard-fought battle. Jumaki surveyed the fertile valley on the way to Muran as if they were his own. Ukorstrian geography consisted of low, worn coastal mountains, an interior plateau, and the towering Coppertop Mountains to the west. These mountains were imable except for a single at eleven-thousand feet. Since the land beyond was uninhabited with the exception of distant Guanna, no post had been maintained for a millennium, although the crumbling foundation of a tower still stood. The plateau they currently traversed made up the bulk of the country’s narrow width; sixty leagues at the widest and as little as twenty-five in the northern tip where the Coppertops encroached. There, the Myrshin swamp was all that stood between the mountains and sea-cliffs. The Spriggan Heights greeted them as they approached Muran. The granite cliffs jutted sharply between the road and the river Volgaard, giving the impression that some huge hand had planted them there. Caves and crannies formed from their otherwise squarish formations where softer rock had eroded. “Did you see that?” Lengu pointed to a long rock formation to the north-east. “I thought I saw…” Kai peered in the distance. “The sun glinting off something.” “Or someone,” Lengu observed. “What is it? What do you see?” Jumaki demanded. “Maybe we are being watched,” Kai said. “Can’t be sure, I’ll ride up for a look.” “No. Lengu, you go.” “Yes, Your Greatness.” He wheeled around and drifted back in the column so as to not make his departure obvious. Although Jumaki criticized him publicly and treated him harshly, he respected his ability to remain unseen and escape out of tight spots ever since he escaped from the Bandi in Drakhar. When he reached about two-thirds the way back of the column, he ordered the rest to fan out. Rugged hills closed in around the road not far ahead. Lengu

positioned himself on the outer-left edge. When a gap opened up less than fifty feet away, he left his mount and dashed for cover. Once in the relative obscurity of the Spriggan Heights, he worked his way closer to where he thought the flash came from. The jagged cliffs were difficult to navigate. And the land provided a formidable position in which to fend off a large army. He felt disoriented, never quite sure if he had somehow circled back on himself. To make matters worse, storm clouds moved in, seemingly out of nowhere to negate the sun as a reference point. The first few heavy drops fell, indicating a downpour was forthcoming. He was beginning to regret having left the company for no reason when he heard the faint voices of men talking. They were close by, so close he could make out their conversation: “These lads are in for a real shock when those clouds move in.” “It’s nothing more than they deserve. I’ll feel a whole lot better when my quiver is empty and the bastards are bleeding on the field.” “How many you figure there are?” “Ten, maybe fifteen-thousand.” “I don’t like the odds—twenty to one? A bit less if you count the Wrynn in town.” “Get as many as you can. They can’t get to us up here, not when the rain starts.” Lengu crawled along the ledge on his belly to catch a glimpse of the men. Inch by inch, he edged closer until finally he could get a better view. Two men chatted casually twenty feet below. They appeared to belong to a group of ten, with the others another fifty feet beyond. He thought he had better retrace his steps. As he backed away, a few loose stones became dislodged and rolled down the steep incline. His heart felt like a lump in his throat and his limbs went weak. “Who’s there? You up there! Show yourself!”

“Why has he not returned?” Jumaki growled. “Shall I search for him?” Kai looked up at the head of the blue-grey mass of thunderclouds. Ominous rumbles of thunder followed ripples of sheet-lightning. When Jumaki didn’t answer, he tried to inject some optimism. “At least these are not lightning bolts—less chance of being struck.” Jumaki looked at him like he was talking nonsense. “Sheet-lightning,” Kai explained, “generated from within the clouds.” Then the deluge came upon them in furious bursts. They had no place to take cover so they just marched on. Kai was awed by its intensity. He could barely see in front of him and was forced to dismount as wave after wave pounded them. Thunder rolled incessantly, but without the sudden peels that make men jump out of their boots. Sudden screams and shouts erupted from the company. Without warning, arrows hissed toward them, followed by sickening thuds when they found their targets. They fell into a perfectly timed trap, and Lengu was nowhere to be seen. Kai sent a detachment of red Khuppa to harass the archers, but since they were dug in to positions in the Spriggan Heights, the Khuppa served to be little more than sacrifices to be made in order to avoid a rout. Only fifteen of the onehundred riders returned. However, the strategy succeeded in buying time for the army to escape. A growing urgency to minimize losses became a priority to Jumaki. They were down to roughly half of the initial twenty-four-thousand that left Aegia. Popobawa occupied much of Jumaki’s mind as of late. With his dwindling troop strength, he would need to rely on its power ever more if he hoped to take Zaranstaad. Yet, he knew so little about it. The little information he had came from Lengu, who was lost to him once again. The sodden armies of Aegia and Bandi warriors withdrew and regrouped out of firing range of the Ukorstrian bowmen. An Aegian soldier stumbled out of the thick fog. “Now I know how a fish in a barrel feels.

Kai turned to Jumaki. “We must find shelter and dry off if we’re to carry this fight to them,” Kai advised. “If the storm persists, I fear it will turn to snow overnight.” “I am aware of that,” Jumaki snapped back irritably. “Unfortunately, the shelter is there. He waved a hand angrily toward Muran. “Why must we take the port by force, Your Greatness?” Jumaki looked at him incredulously. “Is Lengu rubbing off on you? Or are you just going mad?” “A Lord of Ukorstria is in our midst. Why not use him to our advantage?” “Get to the point.” “Herat rides into the city, accompanied by one, or both of us. He will claim we desire peace.” “I didn’t come this far to turn back in defeat!” “Claim, Your Greatness—Claim.” “I see, and if he decides to simply turn us over?” “Then he dies.” “You have nothing better…” Jumaki trailed off as he gave the matter some thought. He rode in silence for several minutes, stroking his beard as was his custom when in thought. “How can you be sure he is not prepared to make that sacrifice?” he said at last. “Your Greatness, he offered no resistance when we caught him. I don’t think he would give his life.” “Exactly my point. He offered little resistance. I don’t trust him.” “What did he have to gain by turning himself over? He had no idea of our plans. Muran was an afterthought after sacking Taroga.” “Perhaps his intention is to infiltrate—to spy on us—our numbers, morale,

strategy… There may be spies in our midst already. Has Lengu defected? Or captured—Much is yet unknown. Still, I will not discount your idea, but with a slight alteration.” Kai looked puzzled. “Yes? Your Greatness?” “I will go with him.” Now it was Kai’s turn to consider the sultan had taken leave of his senses, though he dared not give voice o his concerns. “Your Greatness?” “My double will accompany Herat.” “Chukhan? Excellent idea, Your Greatness. I will bring him immediately.” “Find Herat as well. Say nothing of our intentions. He must believe we intend to leave, bowing out in defeat. Let him think he will become a hero.” Jumaki laughed derisively. Kai sped off to find Chukhan, although he didn’t know where to begin. Chukhan had gone unnoticed mostly due to the fact none of their plans involved him. Jumaki brought him along as an afterthought, his intuition a boon to their campaign, or so he hoped. Normally, Chukhan would be used for ceremonial functions in remote tribal regions of Aegia where opportunity for assassination posed the greatest threat. Soon, he would be up against his greatest challenge— And greatest danger. Chukhan seen Kai before Kai seen him, perhaps sensing he was being sought after. When Kai spotted him, he gestured for him to follow. “The sultan has an important assignment for you.” Chukhan did not like the sound of this. He had come to expect risky tasks, but never on foreign soil. To an outsider, he could easily be mistaken for Jumaki, bearing the same chiseled features and wispy beard. The perpetual scowl was something he had to work at, but he refined his expression to a close semblance when performing his duty. The only thing that set them apart was that he outweighed Jumaki by about ten pounds—not enough to make a visible difference except under close scrutiny. Even this was not a factor if he was given enough notice before an appearance; he could shed the extra weight at a rate of about one pound per day.

Jumaki did not approve of the scowl. Nor did he care for some of his other mannerisms taught to Chukhan by specially trained tutors. But he trusted in their ability to ister the required techniques. As a result, Chukhan was highly adept at his job. For his part, he avoided plying his trade in the presence of the sultan, although he made discreet observations to be practiced at a later time. “Chukhan, Kai has briefed you?” “No, Your Greatness.” Jumaki looked disapprovingly at Kai. Chukhan studied his expression and put it into memory. “Then let’s not waste any more time. I want you to go into Muran with the Ukorstrian Lord, Herat. There, you are to meet with the city’s counsellor. Now it gets tricky, you must not fail!” I will not fail, Your Greatness.” “Good. You are to convince him we will abandon all claims to their land if they provide us age back to our land. In other words, if they provide us with transport back within our borders in whatever vessels they can spare.” Chukhan scowled himself and for a moment, Jumaki’s temper flared as he thought he was being mimicked. “Your Greatness, with all due respect, do you think they will believe it?” Now Jumaki’s anger did percolate. “For your sake, I hope so.” “I will do my best, Your Greatness.” “I don’t want you to do your best; I want you to succeed! No allowance for failure. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, Your Greatness.” “Good. One more thing—if he fails to cooperate, kill him.” Jumaki handed him a slender, curved dagger, an assassins weapon that could easily be concealed under clothing. The length of the blade was optimized to

inflict maximum damage with a quick thrust, and thin so as to not get lodged or blocked in the rib cage. Chukhan suppressed an involuntary shudder before tucking it under his tunic. Using this weapon would mean a violent end to his own life. “Bring Herat in now,” Jumaki said to Kai, then to Chukhan, “I trust you will have no problem with this lordling. Send Kai to inform me once you’re done with him.” Lord Herat appeared a moment later with Kai, clean-shaven, but visibly lacking in sleep. He greeted Chukhan without suspecting he was not Jumaki. Chukhan studied him, trying to assess whether the Lord would offer him into the hands of Muran officials. The thought occurred to him to tell him his own life would be forfeit should he turn him over to authorities, but concluded it may not work to his advantage. He needed to gain trust, not dissolve it with threats. Besides, Herat had only to wait for the right opportunity. Lord Herat listened to Chukhan, believing he was hearing Jumaki tell him how tired he was of this war and wished only to return to his homeland. Kai watched in silent iration as Jumaki’s double spoke convincingly of peace. “Much has been lost. Buildings may be rebuilt, but the loss of loved ones will stain this land for years to come,” Herat said. Chukhan nodded, feigning empathy. “Yet, why must we continue down the same destructive path? I will take you to Muran to meet with the city councillor, Lord Fairmont. He is a man of good reason and has the ear of the king for Muran is vital to Ukorstria’s economy. Perhaps he can convince King Istolar to negotiate a treaty.” Chukhan looked quickly at Kai, who nodded. “Yes, that would be acceptable.” Kai made a mental note to post assassins to intercept any messengers leaving Muran. He then went to inform Jumaki that Chukhan had been successful posing as the sultan. He found him studying maps under a tree. “Chukhan has done well, Your Greatness, all according to plan.” “Very well. We must find rest. An interesting day lay ahead tomorrow.”

Kai gathered the troops together and set out for what he hoped would be a short trek to find a place they could spend the night. With the coming of dusk, the clouds mercifully broke and shafts of sunlight brought welcome relief. The night promised to be cold, but at least they could dry out their clothing and stay warm by a fire. They traced the route they had come, then turned in toward the hills, looking for a swath of land out of sight and not vulnerable to ambush. Kai did not expect one. Their numbers were far superior to the city’s defenders. Surely they would not be foolish enough to be caught in the open. They came upon a shallow ravine with a tributary feeding the River Volgaard to the north and enough wood to fuel their fires. Before long, they set camp on the eastern hillside where rainwater had sufficiently drained. By facing west, the gently sloping land caught the last two hours of sunlight, drying the earth to a marginal degree. Kai sent hunters out to find some deer or other game to add to their dangerously low food stock. He then met with Herat and Chukhan to draw up the details for tomorrow’s anticipated meeting. He was surprised to find them sharing a flask of mead by a fire; Jumaki rarely drank anything with alcohol, but Herat would know nothing of that—or would he? They gathered around the fire, feasting on fresh venison from a successful hunting party. Each were apprehensive about tomorrow, for different reasons. Chukhan could not shake the fear Herat would betray him once they got to in Muran. Herat shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. He felt, rightfully so, he was being measured for what he would do when they got to the port city. Herat kept his thought to himself. He did not suspect he was being fooled by an imitation of Jumaki, but he did think his behaviour was slightly peculiar. Everything he had come to know of Jumaki was that of a ruthless tyrant, achieving goals at whatever cost with little regard for human suffering. Yet, here he was, drinking and eating with a noble of the enemy like a long lost friend. He didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t sleep well that night. He had not slept well since the battle for Taroga. How he wished he fought to the death when the Khuppa charged their rear flank. Of all the fronts, his should have been the easiest to defend, but he was caught off guard. He simply did not expect an attack descending the ridge into town.

He ed Jumaki’s eyes light up when he seen his Khuppa bring a captured Ukorstrian noble to him. He will never forget the cold, steely-blue gaze in those… Blue? How can it be? He could swear his eyes were of another colour last night—hazel? By the Gods! It’s a trap! His mind raced. He forced himself to think what he must do while he escorted the fake sultan into the city. Once there, he would warn them of the deception and that their army had no intention of leaving. Somehow, he had to get to Fairmont without arousing suspicion of the imposter. “Herat! You ready!” Kai shouted over the heads of soldiers, stirring them from sleep. “Sultan Jumaki awaits!” “Yes, I am set to go.” “Follow me, no time to lose.” A hastily arranged breakfast of salted pork and biscuits awaited Herat at Jumaki’s tent, which for now, was Chukhan’s. While he ate, he watched Chukhan gather his belongings. His eyes were indeed a different colour than their first meeting. Although they appeared similar in shape, these eyes bore an unmistakably greener hue. This was not Jumaki he was going to Muran with, but a remarkably close semblance of the sultan. I’ll go along with their plot, he thought, until we get inside the city gates. The brisk morning air felt sharp on bare skin. Yet, a faint breeze combined with a hot sun forecast a pleasant afternoon for travel. They set out by mid-morning. Lingering haze gave way before them as the rising sun erased the memory of yesterday’s penetrating chill and drizzle. As they drew nearer to the city and further from the camp, they exchanged moods: Herat became more at ease while Chukhan began to feel edgy. “Who will we discuss business with when we get there?” Chukhan realized immediately he had dropped his Jumaki persona and for an instant, he was just himself. However, he recovered quickly. “We’ll need someone on the port authority if we are to request ships.”

“Lord Fairmont,” Herat reminded Chukhan. “Yes, of course.” The slip did not go unnoticed by Lord Herat, but he was careful not to show any response. They were both caught in a bizarre game of brinkmanship. They rode on in an awkward silence, each nursing the effects from too much mead the night before. Any conversation would be an irritating distraction so they continued as they were, each wondering what lay ahead. Majestic spires rose in the distance as the city of Muran came into view; symbols of Ukorstria’s incredible wealth with Muran being the commercial heart of the nation. Here, the River Volgaard spilled out into the Bay of Bundy, a natural harbour protected from the choppy swells of the Serpent Sea. The road they had been following from Taroga ran between two and four leagues south of the river in a roughly parallel course. Of course, they both knew their path was being monitored by the same bowmen that drove them back just a day earlier. “Pay no heed to them,” Herat advised. “I doubt two men would pose a risk, although I’m sure word has been sent to the city gates to expect us.” Two wary guards greeted them at the polished marble gates that marked the entrance into the city. Normally, these were always open and unmanned, but since the sacking of Taroga, the city council beefed up defences with a garrison at the gates and bowmen in the surrounding hills. One of the guards recognized Lord Herat and bowed as the king approached. “Welcome to Muran, My Lord. To what honour do we owe this visit?” “We have come to see Lord Fairmont.” At the mention of ‘we’, the guard examined Chukhan. “Whom am I to say has arrived, My Lord?” Herat hesitated, then replied, “I bring an emissary from Aegia.” “One minute, My Lord.” The two guards stepped back from the gates and talked in low tones. “That’s no emissary. Look at the way he’s dressed.”

“You would accuse Herat of lying?” “Well—no—suppose he’s a high ranking diplomat?” “Or Jumaki himself.” “Don’t be absurd.” “I’m serious. It’s a well known fact their sultan favours red clothing, even under his red and silver uniform. Look at his uniform. I tell you, this is Jumaki. Something big is going on.” “So what do we do?” “Let them , fool.” “Okay, but it’s on your head.” They returned to face Herat and Chukhan. “Word of your arrival will be sent ahead of you to Lord Fairmont,” one guard said, opening the gates. “You’ll find him either in his manor on the hill overlooking the harbour, or down by the river.” “The river?” Herat queried. “It flows red with the blood of the fallen in Taroga,” he said, looking directly at Chukhan. Herat glanced at Chukhan, then said, “Thank you, we’ll be on our way.” They found Fairmont by the riverbank trying to assure a frantic crowd that the city was well protected. Herat said, “You better wait here. That’s probably not a good scene for you to be walking into right now.” “As you wish, I will remain here,” Chukhan replied, trying to conceal a growing trepidation. Fairmont appeared glad to see Herat, eager to show the people a positive auspice. “Lord Herat! This is indeed a fair day! I’m happy to see you are well!” He said loudly so he could be heard above the townsfolk.

“And you too, Lord Fairmont,” Herat replied, then in a low voice he added, “We need to talk.” “Of course, friend,” Fairmont said through a forced smile he looked like he had been wearing for quite some time. Questions flowed off his tongue as quickly as they sprang into his mind. “How did you escape? What brings you here?” “Not here. All I will answer in due time, but I have other more pressing matters at hand,” Herat replied while looking reassuringly at Chukhan. Fairmont’s eyes ed worry but he maintained his smile as he waved to the crowd and led Herat inside a nearby merchant’s shop. Chukhan watched them leave, nervously fidgeting with the hilt of his dagger.

Kayla

Fairmont instructed the messenger to use extreme caution on her way to Zaranstaad. For the greater part of the way, she did; paddling up the River Volgaard close to the near bank, sheltered from view by pine and spruce trees. In the few places the water didn’t flow fast enough, sheets of ice formed, leaving her vulnerable while attempting to navigate through them. Otherwise, the only chance Jumaki’s men had of capturing her was if they happen to be right down at the riverside. But as chance would have it, that happened to be the case. Jumaki and the Bandi governor, Teemu, agreed to establish better communication by pairing up their men wherever possible. Teemu assigned his commander, Uru, while Jumaki appointed Kai to organize them whenever the situation presented itself. One such occasion found an Aegian and a Bandi fetching water from the river. Above the bubbling sound of water flowing over stones, the Bandi detected the soft, swishing sound of a paddle. As the messenger approached, they leapt out of the cover of dense foliage and snatched her out of her canoe before she could paddle out into deep water. She spotted them too late and screamed. In the ensuing struggle, her clothing became torn and tattered as she thrashed frantically in the frigid water. But she was no match for the two men. After she exhausted her energy, they hauled her toward shore while her canoe drifted back downstream. Once on shore, they dragged her roughly by her clothing to a rocky outcrop. By this point, much of her clothing was shredded. The Bandi warrior gaped at her exposed breast and fumbled excitedly with his own clothing. She backed away, crawling on her back like a crab. A sharp thud doubled the warrior over as the Aegian soldier landed a well placed kick to his stomach. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? She goes back for interrogation. They will decide what to do with her.” The warrior growled but backed down, for he knew the purpose of these pairings was intended for situations like this. They each grabbed an arm and pulled her to her feet, half dragging her back to camp.

Jumaki beamed upon setting eyes on the captive, evil intent pulled at the corners of his cruel mouth. “What have we here? A spy?” She hung her head, afraid to look up. Jumaki stepped closer and lifted her chin, smiling at the fear in her eyes. “What is your name?” “K-K-Kayla.” “Kayla, a lovely name. Where were you heading? A little cold to be out paddling, don’t you think?” “Yes, s-sir.” Uru and Kai came upon the scene and stood a short distance away by the fire. Uru felt pangs of envy watching Jumaki manipulate the frightened woman. Lust built up in his own dark heart and wished he were the one exercising his power over her. He knew Jumaki well enough to know he would interrogate her then have his way with her. Afterwards, he would dispose of her body, probably dump it in the river so the bloated corpse would wash up on a riverbank in Muran for Fairmont to discover. He smiled in spite of himself. That’s one way to tell them how isolated and alone they are. Jumaki reached out to brush the damp hair from her face. Kayla flinched at his touch. “There now,” he soothed. “Let’s get you warm and dry. Maybe you will think more clearly.” He led her off toward his tent, leaving Uru glaring with envy. “Not like him at all,” Kai said, then shrugged. “Maybe she knows what became of Lengu. It worries me that Chukhan has not returned yet as well.” Uru did not respond. His own black thoughts drowned out everything else. He cared for nothing other than having Kayla and did not bother to conceal it. Teemu looked upon him with concern. “Uru, you are a Bandi warrior and commander of our army. Do not let this harlot distract you from your duty.” Uru shot him a venomous look. “I know where my duty lies. Do you?” Inside the tent, Jumaki poured a thick dark liquid into two wooden vessels. Kayla eyed it warily as he ed one to her. “What is this?”

“Shiraz. A liquor made from acacia roots; plentiful in our land.” “Why did you come here?” “I’ll ask the questions if you don’t mind. To begin with, where were you going and why?” She looked up, meeting his cold steely gaze, and found herself oddly attracted by his forthright nature. She also felt keenly aware that any attempt at deception would likely result in a torturous death. I am just a simple townswoman. They should not have assigned this task to me. “I was to ask for aid in Zaranstaad. Lord Herat warned the councillor Chukhan was not the real Sultan.” “How did he come to know this?” “I do not know.” He raised a hand to strike her. “I tell you truthfully!” She brought her hands up instinctively to defend herself, but the blow never came. Jumaki studied her a moment, then went to pour himself more Shiraz. “The counsellor of Muran may be adept at commerce, but he should be aware that Zaranstaad has no men to spare, not that it would make much of a difference.” “Your army has been driven back once already…” She knew she was pushing her luck and braced herself. Once again, Jumaki checked his temper. He glared back at her, irritated by her impertinence, yet iring her for the same reason. “Cowards hide in the hills and shoot arrows through the rain,” he shot back and drained his cup. “What would you do in these circumstances?” “Surrender would be the wise choice if he wants to keep the city intact and citizens unharmed. I may even let him live—if he cooperates—Someone has to keep the port open.” “Meaning, your men cannot sail ships on their own.” “So you have some spunk in you yet. Do not be too presumptuous girl,” he said, sliding a weathered hand under her shirt. Kayla recoiled as his hand met her soft

breast. “Are you afraid?” “Y-your hand is cold.” “I’m sorry, I should warm them up first.” He unbuckled her tros and worked his hand down past her pubic hair until he found the velvet lips of her vagina. She sucked air in sharply through her teeth, then felt her body relax. Her legs parted without conscious effort, as if by nature’s will, and she moaned softly while his fingers probed deeper, easier now that her body responded to his touch. She did not know why she reacted in the way she did; only that she desired to have him inside her. Perhaps it was his power, or dangerous aura. Whatever it was, she lost all fear and worse, her sense of responsibility. All gave way to the insatiable need she felt at the moment. Under normal circumstances, women could count themselves lucky if Jumaki allowed them to live after he was done with them. But something about Kayla tamed the Aegian leader. Perhaps it was her odd mix of intelligence and naivety, or more likely, she didn’t shun him. In fact, she was drawn to him. And that fed his massive ego. Whatever the reason, he decided he would keep her. After they fulfilled their wild, ionate urges, they both lay back, satisfied and exhausted. “I’m going to get some food. Are you hungry?” Kayla nodded and grinned. “Sure.” “I’ll be back soon. Stay here.” Jumaki left the tent, tying the flap shut to indicate to others not to disturb. But Uru had no intention of letting a simple rope come in between himself and the woman inside. He approached the two guards and dismissed them. “You may rest awhile. I wish to speak with the sultan when he returns.” They looked at each other, confused. “Go on, until you’re called back to post.” Still they hesitated, but left under the weight of Uru’s angry stare. Uru turned his attention to the flap, deftly untying it, though his hands shook with excitement. Opening it just a little, he peered inside.

Kayla had fallen asleep, oblivious to the Bandi commander leering inside. He glanced around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, and ducked inside. He peeled back the wolfskin cover slowly. Kayla stirred but did not awaken. Mmmmmmm. His eyes grew wide as her still moist and swollen lips met his hungry eyes. There was no room in his sexually deprived mind to turn back now. No chance for rational thought to do anything other than mount this woman and find relief for his urges before it consumed him. He paused, hovering above her, he closed his eyes, caressing a nipple with his tongue. She responded in a halfslumber Mmmmm ooooh. Then he savagely thrust into her. She woke in panic. Horrified, she tried to scream, but he cupped one hand over her mouth and held a knife to her throat with the other. She had no choice but to endure the pain of his oversized organ slamming into her in vicious thrusts. The smell of blood mingled with the heady odours of sex. His eyes rolled back in his head, the whites of them rimmed with red, contrasting ghoulishly against his dark skin giving him a demonic appearance. Revulsion swept over her as he ejaculated inside her. Bile rose in her throat and she spewed vomit on them both. He jumped to his feet, shouting in his native tongue, “Ostintsinto baasini!” Kayla wailed in what sounded somewhere in between a scream and a cry. The guards, not trusting the crazed look in Uru’s eyes had not strayed far and responded immediately. They grabbed Uru and pulled him out of the tent. But before they could disarm him, Uru slashed out with his knife, cutting into the ribs of one guard. The guard rolled away clutching his side, but allowed the other one precious time to knock the weapon out of his hand. Uru scrambled after the knife. He almost reached close enough to grasp it, but as he lunged, a heavy boot stomped on it. When he looked up, the other boot caught him under the chin, snapping his neck with a crack. “Get him out of here,” Jumaki ordered and rushed in to check on Kayla. He found her whimpering in a fetal position. His first impulse was rage. However, he suppressed it long enough to try and comfort her. He fetched some hot wet towels and tried to help her clean herself up, but her body trembled when he touched her. “I brought you some food. Eat when you are ready. I’ll return soon. You’ll be safe now.” After replacing the two guards, he left strict orders

no-one was to enter his tent and went off to find Teemu. News of the incident spread through the camp like wildfire. By the time Jumaki reached Teemu, the governor had already heard the news. He regarded Jumaki gravely as the sultan approached. “I understand I’ve lost my best… my only commander.” “He committed a vile act in my tent and deserved a fate no better.” “Yet, you killed him without questioning what happened.” Jumaki bristled. “If my guards are defending my property, that’s all I need to see.” “The time may have come for us to part ways. We have already fulfilled our pledge to Break through Kresh.” Jumaki considered killing Teemu as well, but where would it lead? And where would it end? He still needed the Bandi if for no other reason than to secure the services of the summoners. He could force them, but now was not the time for divisions to course through the ranks. He decided to take a softer approach. “Too late to turn back now. Resistance builds in our wake as we speak. Your men will be picked off like flies without a return route by sea. Let us use this Popobawa to get Lengu back. I offer him into your service if we’re successful.” Teemu considered the offer. He respected Lengu’s competence. Like Kai, he felt Jumaki never gave him enough credit. “Very well, I accept. I will call upon the summoners before nightfall.” “Until then,” Jumaki replied. Teemu bit his lip, disliking the sultan more than ever. Although he often found himself at odds with Uru, he was one of them, a proud Bandi warrior. In that moment, he vowed to avenge his death. Jumaki spoke to Kai about the incident, instructing him to keep watch over her whenever he could. “You have two guards already, Your Greatness.”

“I have relieved them. Had they abandoned their posts, they would be also relieved of their lives.” “You are holding the girl prisoner?” “—Keeping her—In my care.” “In your care,” Kai repeated dubiously. “Yes. Are you losing your hearing?” “No, Your Greatness. What of her mission?” “It shall be fulfilled.” Kai looked confused. “I will explain. Find for me a young girl from the prisoners, around Kayla’s age, whose parents are also with us. Or at least, her mother. Leave the mother there but her face. I just want the girl.” Kai returned a half-hour later, presenting a frightened girl to Jumaki, who scrutinized her like a hawk over its prey. “What is your name?” “Sarah.” “Until I tell you, your name will now be Kayla, understand?” “Y-yes—sir.” “Good. Repeat this to me,” he said, ignoring her discomfort: “Sire, Lord Fairmont gives his kind regards and is pleased to announce the capture of Sultan Jumaki.” “S-Sire, L-L-Lord Fairmont gives his k-k-kind regards and is p-p-pleased to announce the capture of Sultan… Jumaki.” “Again.”

“Sire, L-Lord Fairmont gives his k-kind regards and is pleased to announce the capture of Sultan J-Jumaki.” “Again.” “Sire, Lord Fairmont gives his kind regards and is pleased to announce the capture of Sultan Jumaki.” “Very good. Now do exactly as I say and your mother will live to see you return.”

The King’s Counsel

The Pykes carried on with daily life as much as possible. Torin spent long hours in the forge preparing weapons and armour for the freshly ordained Verdun militia. Being a former King’s Guard earned him the respect of townsfolk and they looked up to him for leadership. He humbly accepted the role as captain, but continued with his blacksmith trade while there was a need for more weaponry. He appointed his friends, Kirik, Miradan, and Lander as lieutenants; if not for their experience in battle, then their stouthearted loyalty. Istolar questioned the appointments, but did not intervene. Instead, he provided some army regulars for that also acted as his eyes and ears in the group. Rather than honing his skills with the Sword of Girdion, Liam helped his father in the forge. In between filling orders, they took short breaks together. During one such time, Liam perceived something in his father’s behaviour that made him uneasy. “Is something wrong, Father?” Torin put down his tongs and looked at Liam. “Have you the sword with you, Son?” “Yes, Father,” he said, pulling it free and swinging it with a SWOOSH—SWISH —SWOOSH. Torin raised his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, lad. Tell me what you know about the sword.” “Not much I’m afraid, Father.” “King Istolar wants to speak with you, presumably about your responsibilities with it. What can you tell me of its heritage?” “I know it’s an ancient weapon of great power, and helped to defeat Popobawa when it stalked the land.” For an instant, the flames died, as if thirsting for air. Silence fell like a heavy blanket, then lifted as if nothing happened. Yet, they both felt it; a vague sense of

dread that ed through the room like a gust of wind. “Sit down, Son.” Liam did so. When Torin said, ‘sit down’ it usually meant: Pay attention to what I’m about to tell you. He perched himself on a scorched bench stained with oil and cupped his head between his palms waiting for his father to speak. Torin studied Liam a moment before he began. “When Ukorstia formed as a nation, a demon sought to prevent the birthing of it on territory it claimed as a gateway to the netherworld. The demon often appeared as a fearsome beast but was in fact, a shapeshifter.” “Had it succeeded, minions of darkness would have poured forth from The Void and threatened all the lands around them. King Girdion of Hannan recognized the danger and summoned his most skilled artisans, craftsmen, blacksmiths, and alchemists to fashion a sword capable of destroying the demon-beast. The sword by your side is a result of their handiwork.” Liam traced his finger along the length of the blade. “King Girdion offered the sword to King Dadreus to slay the demon that threatened their land. Yet, Dadreus grew fearful of Popobawa and so Queen Marian, who was more stout of heart, took it upon herself to conquer the beast. This is exactly what she did.” “Dadreus grew despondent, falling even further into decadence than before. A beautiful, yet plotting maid in Zaranstaad caught his eye and he became entranced by her charms. But she was not content to be just another mistress; she desired to be queen. She hatched a plan to fulfill her ambitions: Dadreus would murder Queen Marian with the same sword she used to kill Popobawa. She knew how much he hated that sword and told him to report it stolen after taking Marian’s life. Eager to win her love, he agreed. On a still midsummer’s eve, he slew her in the gardens of the castle. The betrayal in her eyes as she drew her last breaths would haunt him ever after. A curse she laid down in her dying breath; a curse that stands to this day, that whomever shall possess the sword would from the land of the living, yet their spirit shall remain trapped here.”

Torin watched while the implication dawned on Liam, watched his eyes widen as comprehension spread across his young face. “You mean I am to become a wraith?” In Torin’s eyes, Liam transformed from a fighter back into a young boy again, frightened by an unimaginable horror. He pulled him close and hugged him for the first time since he was a child. “Nothing is certain. The sword exists in both worlds though only an heir to the throne can harness its power. Istolar fears it for this reason. It threatens his claim to the throne. Yet, hope lies within its power to defeat Popobawa. Their destiny entwined and forever bound; the sword and the demon.” “Why are you telling me all this now, Father?” “Because Istolar wants to see you. He will try to learn how you will use the sword. He fears it, yet he requires its service, and I believe he also secretly desires it.” “I don’t even know how to use it,” He said, looking at it anew, as if for the first time. “There’s nothing to tell.” “The undead will know. Only they can inhabit the same plane as Popobawa. They will know how to defeat it, if you have the will to call upon them.” “How am I to do that? I know of no incantations or words of power. I am not a spell-caster or a summoner. I’m a fighter! I have no use for magic. If destiny has brought this sword to me, then fate will dictate its .” “You sound like a man yet speak like a boy. Life is not so simple. We all have tough choices to make. Sometimes the road before us has many paths to follow and the right one may be cast in doubt. If you don’t find a way, we are doomed to fall under the dominion of our foes. They themselves might be subject to the rule of the demon. Perhaps they have underestimated its power. But don’t despair, you have the gift of vision. You must learn to trust your instincts. My heart tells me that you will fare well.” A crisp, northern front moved in overnight, coating everything with frost and turning wet into ice. But the air was still, and a cloudless sky made the threehour hike to Zaranstaad more bearable. Arianna met Liam at the door with fresh biscuits and hot tea. “Here’s something to keep you warm.”

“Thanks sis, I should be back for dinner… I think. Tell mother, will you? Where is she anyways?” “At the market, where else?” “Ummm, without you?” “Somebody had to send you off with a warm belly, silly. I told her I’ll meet her there later. She’s having lunch with Edgar from the market.” “Who?” “Edgar Oatley, the merchant?” “Oh yes,” he said, yet he still didn’t . He checked for his sword, then paused as he turned to go.” She held out his helm. “Looking for this?” she said, wearing a bemused grin. “Right, thanks sis,” he said and gave her a little hug. To her own surprise, she blushed and waved him off. “Better get going before the snow.” Liam looked out at the blue sky and smiled. “See you soon.” Shortly after noon, he arrived at the castle. Guards led him through the entrance, past the Great Hall and up the long spiral stairs of the Zaranspire. Istolar smiled at Liam when he entered the room and dismissed the guards. Liam wondered how anyone could smile with such a lack of warmth. He sat across a table upon Istolar’s gesture. Neither spoke for an awkward moment as they studied each other. Liam held his ground, refusing to flinch under the king’s intense scrutiny. Finally, Istolar spoke in a light tone that belied his body language. “The cream of the crop. Our great nation’s fate rests largely on your shoulders, my boy. Such young shoulders…” Liam felt a sense of wrong pervade the air, an insidious timbre creeping into the

king’s words. “I am no man’s boy, Sire.” trying not to sound offensive. Anger flashed for an instant in Istolar’s grey eyes. “No, I don’t suppose you are. Tell me, how do you plan to deal with this menace that approaches from the south?” The question caught Liam off-guard. “I… I cannot be sure until the time comes, My Lord.” “Not very reassuring from one appointed with such responsibility.” Liam felt like saying, I didn’t ask for it, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. Instead, he said simply, “I will not disappoint, My Lord. I will be ready.” Istolar weighed his words. “Do you know how to use the sword?” Liam resisted the urge to put on a flashy display of swordplay, vainly hoping to avoid the topic altogether. Now, he could see it was pointless avoiding the question. After all, the question was legitimate. The defence of Zaranstaad depended on not just stopping the Aegians, but also the threat posed by Popobawa. “Popobawa is the ancestral foe of Ukorstria,” He began. “The demon is a shapeshifter, able to assume any identity at will, even yours.” Istolar raised his eyebrows, detecting a measure of audacity in Liam’s tone. “I believe the the best way to counter it is at the source: the ones who call upon it from its domain.” “Who might that be?” Istolar asked, still irritated by Liam’s remark. “I believe from reports from Kresh, the Bandi are responsible. A ritual of some form is likely performed to bring it forth from its spectral domain.” “How do you plan to break their ranks and disrupt the summoning? Surely, they will be well protected behind their army.” “Exactly Sire. At the rear we must form a cavalry charge. They will not expect any significant attack there. My father and other townsfolk have mobilized a

force for the defence of Verdun. Jumaki will be so focused on his goal of Zaranstaad, he will concentrate his forces there once he feels in control of Verdun. I say let him have the town.” Istolar bristled at the thought of King’s Guard knights loyal to King Brekor suiting up again, but Liam’s plan warranted consideration. “Keeping the forces there in reserve.” “Yes, Sire. They will lead the charge into the summoners once the attention has shifted away from them.” “Jumaki is no fool, and neither are his captains. They will suspect a trap. Verdun is vital to arms production. I am not keen to simply hand it over.” “I understand, Sire. The trick is to have them believe they have control of Verdun. Reserve forces would be kept hidden until the right moment. I’ll discuss further with my father.” “Dismissed,” Istolar said. Liam bowed and left the chamber, feeling Istolar’s eyes following him all the way out to the hall.

Istolar listened sombrely as Gorgon relayed the events leading to the fall of Taroga. Outside the windows of the Great Hall, light snow fell gently on a calm, grey afternoon. Huron and Barandur sat at a nearby table, each sipping a tankard of ale. “Many thousandsss. Killsss many enemiesss but too many for usss. They takesss prisonersss, how many cannot guesss. Herat isss one.” “Precisely why I cannot trust the old guard,” Istolar said, referring to men who served under Brekor’s reign. Barandur turned around to see if Istolar was looking at him. He was. Istolar turned his attention back to Gorgon. “I assume they are headed this way?” “Matter of time. He buildsss sssupply chainsss. Sssultan demandsss unconditional sssurrender.” “I’ll burn in hell before that happens.” Barandur took a long sip in an attempt to hide his expression from Istolar after the last remark. I’ll see you there. The doors swung open with a bang as a courier dashed in. Istolar glared at her angrily. “Have you no manners? How did you get past my guards?” Sarah was to focused on fear for her mother’s life to answer anything beyond delivering the message Jumaki instructed her to give. “Sire, Lord Fairmont gives his kind regards and is pleased to announce the capture of Sultan Jumaki.” Silence fell in the hall. Istolar’s visage went from shock to anger. “Can anyone explain how a port official can accomplish what my army cannot?” Despite warning looks from Gorgon and Barandur, Huron spoke first. “In all fairness, My Lord, Lord Fairmont is also charged with the defence of the city and commands his own militia.” “Being the simple woodsman you are, I expect nothing more from you. It seems a competent warlord is hard to come by. Barandur failed me, now Gorgon. To

whom shall I turn? Horgram? Tor…” His face contorted. The idea of appointing a former King’s Guard was out of the question. Gorgon studied her. Something in her demeanour he found fallacious. Already nervous, she became even more so under his fierce, serpentine gaze. Never before had she seen one of his kind. Nor had she known such a race even existed. “He is Guannian,” Barandur said in response to her unspoken question.” “You didn’t sssay who sssent you,” Gorgon said. “Lord Fairmont, sir. That’s what I said.” “And you are?” “Sa—Kayla.” The others stared at Gorgon, wondering what he was getting at. “Waitsss outssside, Kayla.” After she left, Gorgon gathered the others together. “Ssshe liesss, under duresss. Aegian tricksss.” Istolar looked doubtful. “You are saying she was sent by the Aegians? Why?” “Draw forcesss out, falssssssecurity.” “False security?” “Yesss, what I sssaid.” Huron and Barandur’s eyes met. Both turned their head knowing Istolar would find no humour in trying to understand his own warlord; one which he handpicked from the far corners of the land. “What do we do?” Barandur asked, mainly to get his mind off of Gorgon’s peculiar, hissing lisp. “Nothing,” Istolar replied bluntly. “Send her back on her way. Do not offer any reply.”

“Why do you suppose the enemy is in Muran in the first place?” Huron asked. Barandur considered the question. “We don’t know they are in Muran, but circumstances have diverted their path away from Verdun and Zaranstaad for the time being. It would be prudent to build up defences in the meantime.” “They goesss to city for sssuppliesss and make sssea route back to homeland for reinforcementsss.” Istolar brightened. “Then you have put a dent in their army at least.” “Yesss, many killed both sidesss.” Istolar thought to himself for several minutes before speaking. “Huron, take your men to Verdun. Assist Torin Pyke, a blacksmith you will find amongst the forges. He will tell you more of what is to be done there.” “My Lord, I know of Torin.” Istolar ignored the comment. “Gorgon, Barandur, prepare the castle’s fortifications, and do it while there is still time.” “What of the girl, Sire?” Barandur asked. “I thought I already answered, send her on her way.” They bowed together and left the hall to carry out the king’s instructions. Gorgon went to find Zerak, the engineer who served in Kresh.

The flow of resources from the north dried up as of late, causing significant shortages at a crucial time. Istolar grew suspicious of Ferdugar and thought the disruption to be more than mere coincidence. He feared the king of Hannan meant to betray him, and he may secretly be in league with Jumaki. One of the few advantages he enjoyed was Jumaki’s diversion to Muran, which had at least bought some time. Yet, time would be of no use if he could not get raw materials. Three other garrison commanders waited patiently for the king to speak. While he weighed the idea of sending a fact finding mission north, Gerrard stumbled in. Istolar eyed him curiously. “Who might you be?” “I come all the way from the border, Sire. I was to escort two spies here but they escaped. Hannan marches on Zaranstaad, My Lord. Horgram wishes to tell you his men will do what they can to delay them, but their numbers are not enough. “You have come to tell me in my own court that spies are roaming freely in Ukorstria because you allowed them to escape? How…” he paused, narrowing his eyes. “These—spies—what did they look like?” “Not from around here, Sire. They claim to be emissaries.” “You said they were spies. Are those your words or Horgram’s?” Gerrard looked down. “Mine, My Lord. Horgram seemed to know them, one of them anyways; the one who calls himself, ‘Johan.’” Istolar smiled with an evil grin. Gerrard made a conscious effort not to stare at his rotting teeth. So Jumaki has bribed King Ferdugar’ with promises of spoils. “Let them come,” he said with conviction, “We will be ready for them.” The garrison commanders exchanged dubious looks; they didn’t share the same enthusiasm as the king.

“Someone comes,” Johan said. We better get off the road.” The sound of hooves on the cold, hard-packed dirt road grew louder as they hid behind bushes at the side of the road. “It’s just a girl. Maybe she knows where to find horses,” Najir said. “For once, you make sense.” They stepped back on the road and waved her down. Sarah was reluctant to stop, but she did not feel these were bandits, and she felt sorry for them upon seeing their bedraggled condition. “Who are you and what do you want?” Johan stepped forward cautiously with his palms open. “We are travellers lady. We have a long ways to go. We wish only for help to find some mounts as you have.” She eyed them suspiciously. “You don’t look like you can afford mounts. Where do you go?” “—Ah… south… to um…” “Muran,” Najir interjected. “Well, you have a long walk. Why do you travel so far on foot?” “We are messengers to King Istolar,” Johan said, recovering somewhat. Sarah regarded them doubtfully. “That’s strange, me too. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” “Will you walk with us awhile?” “I have urgent business. I cannot. Good luck to you both.” She grabbed the reins and rode off before they could plead further.

Lament of Muran

Chukhan watched Herat and Fairmont return from the merchant shop twenty minutes later. His suspicion grew as Fairmont stopped to speak with a group of soldiers. He noted that none of them looked in his direction. He would have to rely on his ability to read facial expressions and body language. “How did it go?” he asked casually as Herat approached. “Details need to be worked out, and a formal truce ratified, but in principle, everything looks good.” “There will be enough transport ships?” Chukhan made a point to keep his tone level while observing soldiers split into two groups behind him.” “Yes, however as I say, arrangements must be made.” Chukhan could no longer follow the soldiers without turning his head. Instinctively, his hand strayed to his dagger. Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned to his left just in time to see three soldiers less than twenty feet away rushing toward him. He barely had time to react. The black Assassin’s dagger glinted deadly in the afternoon sun. He had no time to close the gap between himself and Herat. Only one chance to throw a precision strike. But its curved blade was not meant to be used as a throwing weapon. And he was trained to spot assassins, not be one. Yet he managed to throw the dagger before being swarmed, and with luck, it struck its target, ripping through Herat’s tunic and lodging deep in his left shoulder. Herat howled in shock and pain. Chukhan never saw the blow that made his world go dark. Herat clutched his shoulder. “Send for help from Zaranstaad,” he said through clenched teeth. “You will not hold them for long if they attack. Taroga is burned to the ground.”

Fairmont cocked his head. “Largely set by your own men if I understand correctly.” Herat blushed. “Yes, well, a desperate measure to say the least, but we did manage to drive them out.” “So I see,” Fairmont said grimly as he looked at the distant smoke from enemy campfires. “But their numbers are great and battle-hardened. I will send for aid. Meanwhile, we need to get you bandaged up before you bleed all over my splendid city.” Herat managed to laugh with a grimace. Chukhan was tossed into a tiny cell with barely any heat. On a straw mat crawling with lice and roaches sat a bedraggled Lendu. Fairmont hoped to gather information by posting a scribe in the guise of a guard outside the door. His hopes were soon realized. “Where did you go? Jumaki was not pleased to leave without you,” Chukhan said. “I became disoriented. The hills branch out there and a heavy mist swept over the Spriggan Heights. Why did you retreat?” Lengu asked, wondering how Muran’s militia could repel the mighty Aegian juggernaut. “They caught us in a crossfire in heavy rain from perches in the Spriggan Heights. Retreat was the only option.” “How far? Will they come for us?” “Not far, between the road and River Volgaard. I don’t know if they will try to take the city or continue to Zaranstaad.” Lengu suddenly became aware of an unnatural stillness in the air. The guard had not moved, and the faint sound of paper could be heard just around the corner. He put his finger to his lips. Shhhh. A moment later, Lord Herat entered the jail, walked up to the cell and smiled. “Well well, what a change of fortunes.” “How is the shoulder?” Chukhan asked sarcastically.

“The doctors are well trained here. Thank you for caring, phony sultan.” “How did you know?” “No harm in telling you now. An obvious detail, I’m surprised you don’t know. But then, I suppose you never had to be up close when addressing a crowd—it’s the eyes, Chukhan.” “Eyes… I see, a rather big oversight, as it were. I won’t be making that mistake again.” “And you are right about that. Goodbye my friend.” Herat left, leaving them staring after him. Lengu sighed. “Looks like the end of the road for us.” “Then what are they waiting for?” “Information would be my guess.” Long shadows cast from the few scattered pieces of furniture indicated the sun would soon dip behind the western hills. Cold northern winds from Hannan swept over the land, bringing clear skies and freezing temperatures. Within a day’s march, Aegian and Bandi armies dug in to stay warm as possible in the frigid temperatures. If all went according to plan, they would have already taken Muran and have all the furs and heavy boots they needed. In the worst case scenario of Muran holding out, warmer weather was not far off. For now, fire would have to sustain them while they waited for the imprisoned Lengu and Chukhan to return. Back in their cell, Lengu and Chukhan huddled together. Lengu called out to the guard. “Can we have some heat in here? We’re going to freeze to death.” The guard tucked his notes away and went to check on the pair. “You look fine to me,” he laughed. “Why not snuggle a little closer till my relief comes in.” Lengu was not amused. “Your relief? When is that?” “An hour and change.”

“By then we’ll be dead. Please, where will we go?” The guard paused. “It is rather cold in here. Alright, I’ll gather some wood. Don’t try anything!” He threw the last log, a piece not much more than kindling, onto the dying embers and went outside to get more wood. Night was only minutes away. A faint glow on the horizon was the last remnant from where the sun had been. Pulling up a small wagon, he plucked a few pieces from the woodpile. When he reached for the next log, something grabbed his arm firmly. Panic pulsed adrenalin into his veins as he shook his arm but it wouldn’t release its iron grip. When the guard returned without any wood, he approached the cage and regarded the prisoners. Lengu and Chukhan exchanged confused glances. “Ummm, where’s the wood?” Lengu asked. “You will have to find your way out while there is still darkness,” he said, unlocking the cell door. “Why are you letting us go free?” “In Kresh, I have seen you, and you me, though unrecognizable I am to you now. Hurry, the sun rises in three hours.” “Popobawa?” “Astute of you notice. Go now.” “What have you done with the guard?” “He was more than a guard. Every word ed between you has been recorded. I will destroy what records that are still here. For your sakes, they will have small .” Lengu and Chukhan stole out into the quiet predawn, keeping to the shadows wherever possible. “He never answered you,” Chukhan said.

Lengu had almost forgotten about the guard. “No, I guess not. Not that it matters now.” Chukhan smiled grimly. Lengu pointed. “Look! A vendor’s cart. Let’s make it look like were heading to market.” “It’s a little early…” “So what. You have a better idea?” Chukhan lifted the handles. “It’s heavy. What could possibly be…” He dropped it and backed off. “Bad idea.” “What is it?” “The guard—minus an arm.” Lengu grimaced, “Stay to the shadows then.” The jail was located down by the freight docks, an area that attracted all of society’s rejects: Thieves, beggars, swindlers, and the like. Fires burned here and there. Grimy men cast wary glances their way, eyeing their attire for its worth. “The sooner we get out of here, the better,” Chukhan said. “I have an idea,” Lengu said slowly, as if unsure of it being a good one. “Let’s swap clothes.” “Can we do without any more of your ideas? I don’t think it will work; I can’t fit into yours.” “No, I mean with two of them.” “Are you crazy? Put on dirty, lice-ridden rags?” “Eyes are upon us. Face it, we attract too much attention. We must blend into the city, and do it fast.” “Their lives are not worth living. If we must adorn their rags, why not just take them?”

“Fine. Let’s see what we can find.” Many buildings in this quarter were barely more than roughly constructed boxes, using leftover material from construction and other discarded junk. Older dilapidated buildings were scarcely any better, many without doors and broken windows. In a few hours, the rats would scurry into the refuse as the children came out to play in the filth. Two men who had obviously been drinking heavily, staggered along a rainsoaked lane-way, laughing and pushing each other. They came upon a house with the door ripped off. Inside, a woman prepared an early breakfast for her husband before he set out for work on a fishing vessel. “Letch she wass fer breakfash,” one drunk said to the other. “You can have breakfash, I’ll eat her instead.” “Ha! You’re likely gonna eat a fryin pan.” “Ya wanna bet?” “Let’s check er out.” “The sound of the sizzling frying pan masked their clumsy entrance. However, the stench of alcohol alerted her of the intruders. She screamed for her husband, but no sound came out. Then a hand cupped over her mouth. The other man grabbed her legs and they carried her outside between the two houses. Lengu and Chukhan were there to meet them. “Where you going, mate?” Lengu said. “Who the hell are you?” “Your worst nightmare.” “Izzat so.” The drunkard holding the woman’s legs dropped them and took a wild swing at Lengu. Lengu laughed, stepping backward to avoid the swipe. The lunge worked against the man as own momentum sent him tumbling to the ground. “Get out of here,”

Lengu said in disgust. He looked up, rage and embarrassment etched on his face. But his friend saved him from further shame and pulled him to his feet. “C’mon, less jus get outta here.” “Great idea. No tellin what diseases this whore’s got anyways.” “Go on, while you still can.” Chukhan gave him a shove, nearly toppling him over again. He added a boot to his behind for good measure. As the drunkards ambled off, the woman shouted after them, “My man’s coming after you! Count on it!” “I don’t think you’ll see them for a while,” Chukhan said. “But I’d get that door fixed if I were you.” “We’ve been meaning to, but my husband’s been so busy, he barely makes it home to sleep anymore. Do you think you can repair it? I don’t have much money, though a hearty breakfast is on the stove.” “How can your husband leave you alone without a door on the house to keep out intruders?” “How ain’t none of yer business mister.” The fisherman stood in the hall leaning on one hand as if not fully awake. “These fellows saved me from the street rabble. We were discussing getting the door put back on.” “Ain’t got no door to put on, told you that. Guess I gotta find one now. Seems I already owe you mates. What can I do fer you?” Chukhan stepped forward. “Any old clothes you don’t wear anymore?” The fisherman frowned. “Don’t got nothin fancy like what’s on yer back. You can check out the back room to see what’s there.” “That would be fine, thank you.”

“Yer welcome,” the fisherman said, scratching his head as if wondering if he was dreaming. “Maria, show these fellers Bryan’s chest.” “This way,” Maria gestured, leading them down a dark narrow hall to a small room at the end with a slanted ceiling that matched the slope of the roof. A cot lay folded up in the corner. Under the window, a large weathered chest served as a table. She cleared off several ornaments off the top, an assortment of playthings and books. Although she had her back turned, Lengu thought he heard a stifled sob. “Are you all right?” “Yes, I’m sorry. Bryan is no longer with us. It was long ago, but the memories linger. I have tried my best to cope. Bert has given up hope. He cares for nothing and works all the time just to be away. Sometimes I think he wishes I were dead so he wouldn’t have to bother with me.” While she spoke, her words came in short bursts and Lengu feared she would break down.” I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not your problem.” She wiped away tears and straightened. “Let me see if something here fits you.” The chest popped open, revealing a white sailor’s uniform. She lifted it out carefully and laid it aside. Lengu and Chukhan both looked away, feeling an odd tinge of guilt. She dug through the chest blindly; her fingers fumbled around like they had a mind of their own. Lengu stepped forward and put a hand gently on her shoulder. “Is there anything we can do?” he said, ignoring Chukhan’s chopping gesture. “You’ve done much already. I don’t want to think what might have happened if you hadn’t come along when you did.” She paused, staring up at the ceiling. “Bryan idolized his father. Like him, he wanted nothing more than to be a fisherman. And so he set out one night after we were all asleep to surprise Bert.” Lengu sat across from her on the floor. Chukhan remained standing where he was, making a conscious effort not to fidget. “Well, that he did,” Maria laughed bitterly. “He never returned.” Again, she

broke down into fits of sobbing. Lengu could think of nothing to say that would comfort her, and he felt uneasy with Chukhan’s growing impatience. Once again, Maria gathered herself. “I think these shall fit you.” She handed Lengu grey tros and a charcoal flannel pullover. “And for you, quiet one.” Rummaging through the chest, she found tros similar to Lengu’s except a shade lighter and a blue plaid buttoned shirt. “Thank you madam,” Chukhan stepped back and bowed slightly, banging his head on the sloped ceiling when he straightened. Maria looked at Lengu and giggled, her face brightening a little. Chukhan frowned, rubbing his head. “We should get going.” “Will you not have breakfast first? I’ve made plenty enough hotcakes. Besides, you can’t go outside with just these on your backs. You’ll freeze to death. I’m sure there’s something around here to keep you warm. Come, come to the kitchen and have some tea.” Lengu and Chukhan looked at each other. Lengu shrugged “Hard to argue with that.” Chukhan forced a smile and followed. He could not help but think how Jumaki would receive them when they returned, Would he be angry? Relieved? It was always hard to tell given his unpredictable and often violent mood. Bert already sat at the table, gnawing on a pork bone. He gestured them to sit but otherwise paid little heed to their presence. His rough unshaven face revealed a tough life, weathered by the sea and the torment brought upon by losing his son to it. “Where ye be going?” he asked at last without preamble. Chukhan answered, “We were driven out of Taroga, lucky to escape I might add.” “You might. Don’t look like yer from round here though.” “Bert!” Maria cautioned as she busied herself to fry some ham for the hotcakes. Chukhan put his hand up. “That’s a legitimate question, and for good reason. We come from the south. Our mother is half Aegian.” “Yer brothers?” Bert said, screwing up his face.

“Half—brothers,” Chukhan lied. “Alright, none of my business no how. Thank ye fer saving Maria from those thugs. Guess I should get that door fixed after all.” With a grunt and not a further word, he ambled off toward the water with his fishing gear. Maria watched after him, sorrow mirrored in her eyes. “I can hear my man’s ts creaking from here,” she said softly. “I’ll see what we got to keep your bones warm.” She smiled warmly and left them to finish their meal.

Sarah arrived back in the Aegian camp. She found her way back to Jumaki’s tent unescorted. The trip to Zaranstaad and back had taken a lot out of her, in spite of having a mount and a snug sheepskin coat. Concern for her mother’s well-being had robbed her of sleep. Now she teetered on collapsing from exhaustion. Jumaki negotiated with Teemu for handing Lengu over to the Bandi to replace Uru. He tried unsuccessfully to include the Summoners to gain control of Popobawa. “Don’t be absurd,” Teemu snapped. “Your entire army does not compare to the power of Popobawa.” Jumaki’s temper flared. He was beginning to dislike these Bandi intensely and thought to deal with them once and for all after he dethroned King Istolar. “Be careful. Your own army is a little on the weak side.” “Is that a threat?” “An observation.” The two men glared at each other across the table. Tensions between them grew since Uru’s death. Only the fact they were so deep in enemy territory with victory in sight kept them from tearing each other apart. The silence bordered on unbearable when Sarah poked her head through the flap. “May I come in?” Both men welcomed the interruption. Jumaki beckoned her inside. “What have you to report?” “I have done as you asked, sir. May I see my mother now?” “When you have answered my question. You spoke with King Istolar?” “Yes, sir.” “What does he look like?”

“Sir?” “His appearance. What does he look like?” Jumaki repeated, drumming his fingers on the table irritably.” “Well, very tall, with long greying hair and beard. A hooked nose, long, like the beak of a falcon, and intense blue-grey eyes.” “What did he say?” “As you instructed, I told him Lord Fairmont requested reinforcements for Muran.” “Yes, and his response?” “He told me to wait outside.” “What? That’s it?” Jumaki glowered. There could be no doubt Istolar was skeptical. I should have been more specific. “You should have got an answer.” “But he told me…” “I heard you. Leave us.” “Sir, My moth…” “GET OUT!” Sarah flew out of the tent, weeping uncontrollably. Kayla happened upon her as she returned and recognized her as a Ukorstrian. “What troubles you?” “The sultan sent me to deliver a message to the king, so I did. Now he wants to know what the king’s reply was and became upset when I told him.” “What was the reply?” Sarah shuffled her feet. “The king never offered one. He simply dismissed me.” “That’s not right, it’s not your fault. You did as he asked… What was the message?”

“I was to introduce myself as Kayla and tell him Lord Fairmont requests reinforcements. The sultan said if I don’t, my mother will die. Now he’s going to kill her because I came back without a response. It’s not fair! He didn’t ask for one, and I wasn’t given one.” She broke down again, sobbing. Kayla was speechless. She stared at Sarah, wide-eyed and mouth agape. Her expression caught Sarah’s attention. Sarah brushed aside her tears. “What is it?” Kayla ignored the question. “You wait here. I’ll be back shortly.” “Can you help me? Please, I can’t bear to lose my mother.” “I’ll see what I can do.” Kayla marched into Jumaki’s tent, anger overcoming any fear she may have felt. Jumaki looked up, puzzled by the expression on her face. “Where have you been? I was about to send for you.” “Send for me?” she repeated in acidic tones. “Why not send someone else instead?” “Careful,” Jumaki growled. “What are you talking about?” She put her hands on her hips. “You send another in my place while you use me for your own pleasure?” “It does not concern you,” Jumaki said dismissively. “You march into my land and burn everything to the ground. And it doesn’t concern me?” Jumaki turned to Teemu. “We are done?” “Of course,” Teemu replied and wondered if he had seen the last of Kayla as he left. Jumaki stared hard at Kayla. “You are not in a partnership. You are alive because I allow you to be. Do not put me in a position where I have to choose.”

His deliberate tone forced her to withdraw. She considered what he said, then asked in a milder tone, “Will you spare her mother?” Jumaki smiled and pulled her close. “I never planned to harm her. She did as I asked.” “So you’re a bit human after all,” she teased. “No, still an animal,” he said, sliding his hand up her thigh. Her legs parted in response to his touch. “Hmmm, Growl for me, my surly sultan.” He laughed softly. “Many wars have been fought over beautiful maidens who would tip the balance with their seductive arts.” She asked coyly, “Is that what you think I’m doing?” “It will do you no good,” he answered flatly, putting on a heavy fur coat. “In the meantime, I have work to do.” He left her lying on the blanket, puzzled and a little put out. One of his guards stationed outside said, “Johan and Najir have returned, Your Greatness. They are getting food. I didn’t want to disturb you.” “I see. Tell them to wait here when they come. I must speak with Lengu first.” “Yes, Your Greatness.” Jumaki took Kai with him to speak with Lengu about his new role. He had a hunch he would find everyone he was after not far from food. Sure enough, Lengu, Chukhan, Johan, and Najir all sat on a fallen log chomping on salted pork and drinking a thin, watery soup. All rose when Jumaki approached. After a perfunctory visual appraisal, he said simply, “Be seated.” The men complied, but did not touch their food until Jumaki said, “Eat. There is much to discuss. Johan, where is your companion?”

“Companion, Your Greatness?” Jumaki’s eyes burned dangerously. “The girl who travelled back from Zaranstaad with you?” “She was on horseback, Your Greatness. We could not have travelled together.” Jumaki smirked. His guess had been right, as usual. “So you it you met with her then. I trust you have not been loose with words.” Johan realized he had foolishly walked into a trap. To deny meeting Sarah now would likely be suicidal. “She ed us on the road, Your Greatness. We talked briefly.” “Good. She will confirm this to be true.” Johan squirmed, glancing at Najir, who sat stiff as a statue. He blurted, “Only that we were messengers to King Istolar.” Jumaki looked at Najir. “Is this all?” “Yes, Your Greatness.” “What of King Ferdugar? Does he come?” “Yes, Your Greatness. He brings six-thousand soldiers.” Jumaki’s eyes glinted. “Too many to ignore. As I hoped, Istolar’s men will be spread thin.” His eyes strayed over to Lengu who resisted the urge to cringe under his intense gaze. “I have offered your services to Teemu. Uru unfortunately met his end by his own foolish actions.” Lengu looked stunned. “How?” Jumaki brushed the question aside in his usual manner and rubbed his hands together. “The pieces are in place. Our fire-ships will soon be in Muran. They will set their precious battleships ablaze and disable their cannons, or at least draw their fire away from the Bandi troops. Officially, you will serve under Teemu, as Uru’s replacement, and lead the Bandi against Muran. With the fireships at your service, victory should be quick. Take at least ten flares along with

you. When you are within sight of the gates, fire them toward Barren Cove once every two minutes. The fire-ships will respond.” “And unofficially?” Jumaki smiled wistfully. “Take control of Popobawa. Command the Summoners. Gain their confidence so they become familiar with you. You are Aegian,” he emphasized, thumping his chest. “I don’t have to tell you where your loyalty lies.” “I will do this, Your Greatness. The Summoners are an enigmatic group. They keep to themselves. I have never seen one eating, sleeping, or anything else that regular folks do. I have never even seen one up close; their faces are hidden behind heavy grey cowls. I am not sure how to approach one.” “I’m sure you will do fine. We cannot have this threat hanging over our heads.” He looked next to Chukhan. “Good to see you are well. Herat is a seasoned veteran. There is no shame to have been bested in your assignment; it was a bold plan.” Teemu approached the group, looking more than a little irritated at not having been informed of a meeting. Jumaki added to his annoyance when he informed him, “Lengu will lead the Bandi to secure the port city.” “Is he not to serve under my command as agreed?” “Of course—Your command and my orders,” Jumaki corrected. He breathed a long sigh, as if he were reprimanding an incompetent officer. “Understand, Teemu, you are here to assist in this campaign. That is all. There is one commander here and that is me.” An uneasy silence followed, Teemu nodded reluctantly, wishing he had not done so.

Lord Fairmont watched grimly from the riverbank as several militia men pulled Sarah’s boat ashore. One of them confirmed his fears. “It’s hers, My Lord. Supplies are soaked right through, but still intact. It was riding so low, it almost sank, yet likely saved it from capsizing.” Fairmont squinted at him as if he was talking gibberish. “What shall we do with it my, My Lord?” “Pull it inside the boathouse. Send word to the perimeter to keep watch. They’ll be back soon.” “Unless we get another lucky storm rolling through, I doubt the bowmen will be effective, My Lord. They’ll be picked off like flies.” “Point taken, now do as I ordered.” “What then, My Lord? We cannot hold out for long against them.” “No, we cannot. Prepare the battleships and spread the word for folks to defend their homes with whatever can be fashioned as a weapon—and kill as many as we can.”

On any given day, the people of Muran would welcome the calm seas and breathtaking sunrise over the Serpent Sea. However, today these conditions would almost certainly bring about the destruction of their beloved city. Bert, who had unwittingly allowed Lengu and Chukhan to escape days earlier, set sail toward Barren Cove. Experience taught him that seabirds swarmed around the island when fish were coming in to feed. Maria pleaded for him to stay this morning. “I have a bad feeling about those streaks in the sky,” she had said. He knew what they were. He had seen them before; the last act of his son, Bryan, had been a call for help. As soon as he saw the flares illuminate the angry thunderheads, he feared the worst. He should never have allowed him to go out on his own with high winds and a storm brewing. By the time he arrived, Bryan’s skiff had already sunk below the surface and his son was nowhere to be seen. The memory haunted his every waking hour. He sailed straight for the island, a twisted expression on his face, as if he could somehow get revenge on the sea by sailing straight into the enemy’s fleet. But they were already on their way to the harbour. He should have known better. Of course, he smacked himself on the head. They use the sun’s glare to avoid detection. He was quickly surrounded. The captain of the Aegian fleet, Yamateo, called out to Bert, “Prepare to be boarded!” The voice drifted across the waves like a siren’s song, distant and faint. The voice in his head was much louder, filling him with guilt; too much guilt. In that moment, he finally succumbed to his madness. Detaching the anchor from its mooring, he shackled it around his leg. With one last look toward shore, he whispered, “Goodbye, my love.” He tossed the anchor overboard and followed it down to be reunited with his son. Back on shore, Lord Fairmont directed the galleons out of the harbour to give his warships room to manoeuvre. He didn’t specifically instruct them where to go; he had no idea. He was a merchant, not an iral. In the chaotic confusion that followed, he cursed himself for never bothering to have a captain look after military matters. He always meant to speak with King Istolar about it, but just

never seemed to find the time. And now time had run out. Already, the unmistakable sounds of battle reached the outskirts, faint for the time being. The last galleons had escaped just as the Aegian fire-ships came into view. As planned, reflection of the rising sun had masked their arrival, taking the advantage away from the longer ranged cannons aboard the warships. Panic fed the furious barrage unloaded on the swiftly closing fire-ships. Almost a third were either sunk or disabled in the first salvo alone. But they were slow to reload. The front line was engulfed in flames before they could release the next one. Fuel spray from the fire-ships soon spread flames among the entire fleet. Crews worked frantically to douse them but the sticky oil stubbornly reignited. Both fleets suffered enormous losses and it became clear to Fairmont the warships would not be available when the troops closed in. The sound of metal clashing against metal could be distinguished now, along with villager’s cries as the Bandi warriors rushed in. Maria wandered down to the docks where she spotted Fairmont. “Have you seen Bert, my husband?” she asked in a quavering voice. “I have not, Maria. I am sorry. He may be alive if he avoided them,” he replied, indicating the burning ships. “Not my Bert! I have already lost my son out there! How will I survive?” “How will any of us survive? Take shelter wherever you can.” Her eyes widened as a blood curdling scream pierced the air. They looked at each other thinking the same thoughts: Some poor woman was being brutally assaulted. The sound succeeded in shaking Fairmont to his senses. He shook off his malaise as if he had woken from a nightmare only to find it was real. “WEDGE FORMATION! RALLY TO ME!” Units struggled to regroup. Bandi warriors had forced them into isolated pockets and so fought fiercely to prevent them from reorganizing. But the rejuvenated militia collapsed inward, protecting their flanks, while archers took up positions

in nearby buildings. The few remaining warships that survived the flames bombarded the enemy now that distinctive lines were visible. Fairmont’s call seemed to change the momentum and incredibly, the Bandi warriors were being forced to retreat.

Lengu cringed at the thought of losing a battle so nearly won. One option remained and he intended to use it: Popobawa. The summoners sat in a circle, seemingly oblivious to the chaos raging only a few hundred yards away. Lengu approached them as a group; there seemed to be no leader among them. “We have need of the mighty one,” he said in halting tones. They did not respond, nor did they even look up; not a flinch, nothing. “Have you not been informed? I am Lengu, your commander. Uru is dead.” He waited a moment for a response. Still they offered none and Lengu felt doubt creeping in. He shuffled his feet in nervous frustration. The spectre of going to Teemu for help would not only be embarrassing, but likely result in his dismissal. Jumaki was not very forgiving when faced with continued failure. He had escaped from captivity three times only to face death by his own leader. In anguish, he cried, “By the Gods, We need Popobawa!” To his surprise, they repeated the name, ‘Popobawa’. Lengu realized all he had to do was invoke its name. A harmony formed among them as they chanted, “Popobawa.” All the while, the ritual formation he witnessed in Drakhor was being set up. Chills ran up his spine as he recalled the soulless gaze of the demon. He wanted to walk away and leave them to the task, but he needed to direct it once it formed. And he dreaded it. The ground in the centre of the Summoners darkened, subtly at first, then intensified into an inky well, like a gate into hell. As it rose, the crystal eyes formed. Curiosity overcame his fear as Lengu approached to witness the spectacle. He pried his eyes away to look at a Summoner now that its head was raised. What he saw horrified him beyond belief. It was no longer a dark, empty space like he thought, but a skull, not unlike the ones on the stands arranged in a circle

around the summoning portal. Yet, the image seemed spectral, fading in and out of view again as if occupying another plane simutaneously. Only the pale blue orbs seemed to remain fixed; spiritless and remorseful. Popobawa now stood motionless in the circle. Lengu felt its eyes settle upon him. He felt his nerve wilt as the demon laughed softly, cruelly, “You have been rewarded for escaping from Muran I see. I am pleased to have been of service. Now it seems I am at your service once again.” While it spoke, it assumed the shape familiar to Lengu in the fall of Kresh; the beast that smashed the gates down with its mighty horned head. Lengu did not immediately respond, transfixed by the fell demon-beast. The stench of death brought bile to his throat. When he finally realized it waited for his command, he said, “The enemy puts up fierce resistance by the water. Do whatever you must.” Initially, Popobawa twisted into unrecognizable forms, then apparently unable to make the transition smoothly, it reformed into a black cloud. From this point, the shape of a two-headed hell-hound appeared, each head capable of spewing fire at great distances. After completing the transformation, it darted down toward the waterfront where the battle had been fought to a standstill. Archers were running low on arrows. Some had to double as runners to resupply. These unfortunate souls became the first victims of Popobawa as they were charred in their tracks. But they were not immediately burned to death; just their legs, drawing the attention of their comrades who watched in horror. Those who tried to help met the same fate. The Bandi seized the opportunity, renewing their attack with such vigour that the remaining defenders dispersed and ran for their lives. One by one, the hell-hound took great pleasure in hunting them down and cooking them alive. Even the Bandi warriors had to turn their heads to look away from the gruesome carnage. The smell of bunt flesh permeated the air. As the hell-hound went about its grisly business, Lengu spotted Teemu smiling at the ruthless efficiency in which the hell-hound mowed down its prey. It seemed to be impervious to any weapons the militia could throw at it. “A useful weapon, wouldn’t you agree?” Teemu remarked as Lengu approached.

“It would seem so. Where did these Summoners come from? They are not Bandi.” Teemu’s eyes darkened. “They are, or at least, were, fierce captains in the Bandi military many ages ago. We have always been at the mercy of your people’s superior numbers and weapons. We had no answer to the mounted attacks from the Aegian tribes—the Khuppa, as you call them. So these captains offered their souls in exchange for the aid of Popobawa; a great sacrifice for their part. It is why your sultan desires it so much.” Lengu could not mask his surprise quick enough. Teemu chuckled. “Yes, I’m aware of your purpose here, but they only answer to a leader of the Bandi people, and that would be me. They follow your command only as long as I permit it.” Lengu did not answer. He simply turned to watch the hell-hound carve a path of destruction through the streets. An unwelcome thought bore into his mind: What fate did Jumaki have in store for him when he returned without the Summoners under his control? As long as he served under Teemu’s command, he should be safe in order to fulfill the of their agreement. But the sultan was volatile and unpredictable, especially when things weren’t going his way. Under smouldering rubble, Maria could hear whimpering of a suffering woman. The bloodthirsty snarling of the hell-hound grew louder and she knew she had to find a better place to hide. Deeper she burrowed into the wreckage. The woman stopped sobbing long enough to listen. She heard Maria and called out, “Help me! Please! Help!” “Not so loud,” Maria warned. “It’ll hear you.” “What will?” “It’s some kind of demon in the form of a dog with two heads that breathes fire like a dragon.” “Don’t leave me like this,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Are you hurt?”

“—Yes—” Maria frowned. Something odd in her tone—A trap? Why bother? No, it couldn’t be. “Tap something, not too loud, and I’ll find you.” Maria crawled and twisted her way through the ruins, following the tap—tap— tap of a piece of debris on an iron bar. Outside, shrieks of intense pain mingled with those of terror as the beast’s hellfire cut down anyone in its path. Muffled cries followed in its wake while townsfolk tried to care for survivors. Their skin melted off them like hot butter as they lay dying in the arms of loved ones. Eventually, she emerged into what was left of a bedroom. The woman lay on the bed, half-naked, blood trickling down her thighs. Maria gasped, “You are the woman I heard earlier! I heard your screaming.” The woman answered bitterly, “Yet no-one came to help. My husband is dead, clubbed over the head, but not before he was forced to watch them take turns with me. ‘Beg for mercy,’ they said. And after he pleaded for his life, one of the bastards hit him from behind. Cowards! All of them! I hope they rot in hell!” “I’m so sorry, but we have to get out of here. The town is under…” “Shhh. It’s near, the creature, I can feel it.” The woman tried desperately not to vomit. She wretched and heaved, but it was no use. She spewed the contents of her stomach on the floor. Between the stench of the beast and smell of vomit, Maria had to do everything in her power not to do the same. After a tense silence, they heard it prowling through the rubble. —sniff—sniff—sniff— “Be still,” Maria whispered. The woman squirmed in the attempt, panic and shock pushed the limits of her endurance. Maria clutched her arm tightly. —sniff—sniff— Pots clattered to the ground as walls collapsed while it relentlessly nosed its way through the wreckage. Maria pulled the woman’s head close to her breast so she wouldn’t see the sleek black fur as it occasionally flashed through small

openings. A low rumbling snarl rose from its throat; feral and eager. Maria correctly identified when it found their whereabouts. She relaxed her grip and the woman could no longer contain herself. She screamed like one who is about to meet their death. Not far away, Teemu said to Lengu, “I think it’s safe to say we have the town under our control.” Lengu agreed, “As you say. How do we cage this beast up again?” “Either let it continue until it has satisfied its hunger for destruction, which could be a very long time, or this.” Teemu held up an a glass orb about the size of an apple. It glowed in a fiery, swirling mass of orange particles. He shook it several times and the particles settled into a dull grey blanket. Lengu watched curiously. “So you don’t need the Summoners to call it back?” “No, their purpose is to summon. However, they did provide it to us for this purpose.” Maria held her breath for a long moment before she sighed with relief as all went quiet. “I think it’s gone.” When the woman did not answer, she looked down and saw her eyes frozen wide open in terror. She sobbed softly as she pulled her lids shut. She rocked for several hours, still holding the woman, before she rose stiffly and dug her way out.

The Heartland

Days ed without much change. An uneasy calm settled over Verdun as the forges worked at a fever pitch to produce armour and weapons in preparation for the expected siege. Because of its strategic proximity to Zaranstaad and the flow of resources from Hannan, Verdun grew to be the natural industrial centre for Ukorstria; The Heartland as it became known. “Bol, Turindor, make camp here by these woods. I don’t expect to be long,” Huron instructed. They both nodded and went to work pitching tents and setting campfires while Huron made the short hike into town. He knew little of the layout of Verdun, other than his intuition that a good place to start was from a popular tavern. He found the Bird’s Nest with a little guidance from local townsfolk, some of which also advised him to stay clear of Hill-men. He had heard of the influx of them after Istolar came to power, but they mostly settled in the upper regions of Ukorstria, coming down from the Coppertop Mountains where they carved out an existence hunting wild boar and mountain sheep. Now, Verdun was overrun with them, and when he arrived at the Bird’s Nest, he found many of them drinking ale even though morning had barely ed. Townsfolk despised them with their unsavoury and uncivilized ways. Likewise, Hill-men treated the local inhabitants as weak underlings, unable to fend for themselves. When Huron entered the tavern wearing leather armour and a sword at his side, they regarded him with contempt. A table of Hill-men talked in hushed tones, casting furtive glances his way. The greeting was not lost on Huron, but he did his best to ignore them. He picked a table across the room with the hope that they would keep to themselves. Anna approached and surveyed his muscular frame. “Can I get you something sir?”

“I’ve heard the ale is the best in town,” Huron said. “And bread and cheese will do.” “We have an excellent beef stew if you like, served with fresh bread and goat cheese.” “Ah, just bread and cheese right now, thank you.” She returned a minute later with his order. “You’re not from around here…” Huron ed Barandur said to be careful what he said around her. Now he wished he had asked why. By all appearances, Anna was a pretty and petite barmaid that couldn’t possibly be a danger in any way. Perhaps she liked to gossip. It would certainly be tempting in her line of work. “No, I’m from the south.” “Oh! You are Huron!” Anna winked. “I have heard good things about you.” “My reputation precedes me,” Huron replied in his most humblest tone. “A sense of humour too. I’m going to have to keep my eye on you.” Anna left to serve other patrons. And me, you, Huron thought to himself. The Hill-men swaggered over to his table and sat down, uninvited. One of them puffed out his burly chest. “Don’t reckon I seen you ’round here before…” “No, don’t reckon you have,” Huron replied evenly. The Hill-man turned to his mates. “Seems like they don’t teach manners where he come from.” “Never too late to learn methinks,” another said. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I just came in for some good food and ale.” “And so you shall have.” The Hill-man snatched Huron’s mug and emptied it over Huron’s head and set it back down on the table. “I really wish you hadn’t done that,” Huron said, simmering with anger.

“Oh? Why’s that?” “Because this!” Huron grabbed the mug and smashed it into the Hill man’s face, knocking him out cold. Before he could defend himself, the other three were upon him; two pounding him with their fists while the third placed some vicious kicks. Amazingly, Huron was able to fight to his feet and returned a few blows of his own. But the swarthy Hill-men were too many and overwhelmed him, punching and kicking mercilessly like ravaged animals. With their short, powerful arms, they beat his face into a bloody pulp. On any given day, Kirik, Miradan, and Landur dropped by for lunch. Today, only Kirik and Landur came in, but they were more than a match for the reckless and drunken Hill-men. Kirik grabbed two by their scruffy hair and bashed their heads together. They fell to the floor in a heap. Landur dispatched the other with a well placed kick to the groin. The Hill-man howled in pain, yet he had just enough fortitude to flee out the door. The remaining two lay dazed on the floor, blinking stupidly. “Scram! You make me sick!” Kirik shouted, jolting them into consciousness. The sight of Kirik towering over them was all they needed to see to scramble to their feet and run. While Landur tended Huron, Anna rushed to fetch wet towels. “I’ll need something to bandage his face,” he called after her. She returned a minute later with both. “Allow me,” she offered. “I am not new to this around here.” Landur propped Huron’s head up on a pillow and stepped aside for Anna to take over. She deftly padded the wounds with cold, wet towels to stop the bleeding. No-one would have ever guessed she was also a trained assassin, but she regarded healing as a natural extension to her art. Kirik watched Huron slowly regain his senses. “What happened here Anna?” “This is Huron, the leader of the resistance in the south. He was minding his own business when those thugs attacked him. He fought back but they were too many. That’s when you showed up with Landur.” “What brings him here I wonder.” Huron opened one eye, the other swollen shut. “Torin… I must see him.”

Huron took Kirik’s hand and pulled himself to his feet. “Much appreciated, friend. I’m sure the king would not approve of my introduction to Verdun.” “Not your fault,” Kirik said. “King Istolar sent you?” “Yes. He has assigned me to assist in the town’s defence, and that I should speak with Torin.” “Defence? Nay, it’s the castle Jumaki is after. If he gains control of it, he will have effectively taken all of Ukorstria. Yet, I’m sure he will want to remove any threats from Verdun to proceed. Torin should be here shortly. He’ll be able to explain better than I.” Anna returned with a cold towel. “Thank you yet again,” Huron said while she gently padded his swollen eye. As if on cue, Torin arrived with Liam in tow, both black from soot and sweat. He raised a brow when he saw the battered Huron being attended to by Anna. He reached over the counter and grabbed two mugs, filling them with ale for Liam and himself. “You’re not going to leave it like that I hope,” Anna said, referring to the blackened keg tap. “Course not,” Torin said. Liam was already wiping off the soot. “Good lad.” He winked. “Now what happened here?” “Local riffraff decided to give our friend a rough welcome,” Kirik offered. “So I see. Does our friend have a name?” Huron straightened. “I am Huron of Ferndale, at your service.” “Glad to have you with us, Huron. Your reputation precedes you. Have you any with you?” “Only a few hundred battle-hardened men that were tradesmen and farmers not long ago. Many have been lost along the way, many more in Taroga.” “All the help you can offer is welcome. But come, let’s get your men housed

food and shelter. The barracks are not far.” “Very well, I shall have my friend, Bol, help out so we have time to talk.” “Yes, there is much to discuss. We can gather at Mary’s Coffeehouse in say, three hours?” Landur, who had been quiet up to now, cut in, “Our friend is new here. I doubt he would be familiar with Verdun at all. If I may, three hours should be enough time. I will stay and help him get situated while you track down Miradan and meet us there.” “We’ll see you there then.” Kirik turned to leave when Anna called out after him, “I would be more than happy to serve you here. There’s room aplenty and seasoned roast lamb is on the menu.” “Thanks just the same, Anna, but clear heads will be in order if we’re to prevent this town from suffering the same fate as Taroga.” He waved as they left, puzzled by the disappointment on her face. He thought he detected a slight tremble in her voice. He grinned as he walked out into the bright, crisp afternoon. Perhaps she feels more deeply than I thought. Rua greeted Anna at her house with a squawk that said, “I’m hungry, where have you been?” Anna chuckled softly, “Oh you poor thing. Did mama not leave you enough to eat?” She pulled a slab of meat from her carry bag and tossed it to the eager raven who devoured it in seconds. Cocking its head, it eyed her carry bag. “Oh no, I’m afraid you are going to have to wait. Mama has important business to do first.” She awaited Istolar’s image to appear in her mirror. “I regret to inform you, My Lord. They will be meeting at the Coffeehouse.” “Then you better be there.” “My Lord, I am expected to be serving at the Bird’s Nest. They will ask questions.” “Leave that to me, I will send some recruits over to the Coffeehouse. That

should prove to be more than she can handle on her own. You will just happen to drop by and offer to help. Mary will gladly accept.” “But what about the Bird’s Nest?” “It will still be there in the morning. What if you fell ill? Do the doors close? You know what to do. I look forward to your report.” “Yes, My Lord.” After the connection faded, Istolar turned to Krylok, a favoured Wrynn agent. “I want you to be there. I cannot rely on her.”

With Huron’s men settled in and fed, he walked with Bol and Landur to Mary’s Coffeehouse. Turindor declined to be present, staying behind to sort out equipment and assign men to their bunks. “Isn’t that Anna?” Huron asked, peering through the lightly falling snow. “Why yes, I think it is.” Landur called out, “ANNA!” The diminutive figure ahead slowed, then turned slowly. Recognizing Landur, she waved. “Where are you fellows headed?” Landur nudged Huron. “As if she didn’t know.” He yelled back, “Mary’s, how about you?” “I thought I would head up there myself. I could use a strong coffee. My head is foggy today.” As Landur and Huron caught up, Landur said, “Same here. I thought you were working tonight.” “Edwina gave me the night off. Says she can cook up roast lamb in a snap and Lisa’s filling in for me. I did the seasoning earlier so she just has to cook it.” “Great. You can serve us at Mary’s then,” Landur cracked. “What do you think I am? Your personal servant?” She shot back in her typical light banter, but inside she thought, That’s exactly what I intend to do. Everybody arrived at the Coffeehouse at roughly the same time. Mary kept her usual casual greetings to a minimum while she struggled to deal with the sudden rush. Fortunately, she made more than the usual number of biscuits in the morning with the intention of having friends drop by. Now it would appear that would have to wait for another day. Anna entered with Landur and Huron. While they ed Torin and the others, she approached Mary. “Oh dear, Mary, I’ve never seen your Coffeehouse so jammed.”

Mary forced a quick smile, taking a moment to tie her hair back. “Actually, Miradan was in earlier and told me that I could expect a few people, so naturally, I assumed he meant himself and maybe Torin and Landur. Kirik’s not a big coffee drinker. Yet, here they all are, together with out-of-towners and more.” “Just like them isn’t it. I would be glad to lend a hand until you catch up.” “Now, Anna, I can’t ask you to serve coffee on your day off! That’s your job. Have a seat and I’ll see you in a minute.” “Don’t be silly. It will be a pleasure, just till you get caught up.” Mary hesitated, then sighed, “Alright, if you could take care of these two tables where the men are talking business, I can handle the rest.” Anna’s eyes brightened. Even better. “Sure thing, Mary.” She tied an apron around her small but shapely hips and strode over to the tables where Torin was already laying out plans for the inevitable attack. “So this is what you folks do when not downing flagons,” she jibed. “Anna?” Kirik could not hide his surprise and the whole table broke out in laughter. She did a little curtsey. “At your service.” “I’ll have the roast lamb,” he said quickly to hide his embarrassment. “You’ll have to speak to Edwina for that. She gave me the night off.” “She owns the place and cooks too huh?” “No, Lisa is filling in for me tonight. I’m just going to help Mary catch up for awhile. What can I get you folks?” Torin interrupted to get the focus back on track, “Coffee and raisin biscuits all around if you have them. Bring some plain ones too anyways, Anna. Thank you.” She disappeared into the kitchen, whistling softly. Torin laid some maps out on

the table. “Jumaki will likely bring his Bandi infantry first through here,” he said, indicating a secondary route into town used primarily for trade caravans. Townsfolk often called it simply, ‘the service road’. “From these points, we have a good overview of both the main road and the service road to the south.” He circled three points on elevated ground: The one in which they stood; a hill in between the roads; and an escarpment south of the service road. He marked a straight line across the front, then sectioned it off in a series of perpendicular slashes. “What is this?” Miradan asked. “A trap.” “Certainly looks like one.” A chorus of laughter rose from the men. Torin put his hand up to quell the ruckus. “Let him finish.” “A perfect place to fortify. Let them think they need to take this hill to get into the city. It makes sense; it sits between both routes.” Miradan leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Time is not a luxury we have to begin building fortifications.” “No, it is not. Precisely why I said let them think this is a strong point which they must take first.” Murmurs spread among the men. Liam paused briefly before he finished, “False fortifications.” Murmurs turned to nods of approval as Liam explained further. Torin looked on proudly; Liam’s time has come, he decided. They planned, argued, and debated well into the early morning hours. Poor Mary was almost sleeping on her feet, but Anna was more than happy to take over. Among the sacks of grain and flour in the storeroom, Mary dozed fitfully, oblivious to the clamour in the next room. Most of the patrons had long departed. Now they could talk more openly without

so many inquisitive ears listening in. Or so they thought, for sitting behind a large, potted fern, Krylok busily scribbled notes for King Istolar.

Tension mounted in Verdun after word of Muran’s swift defeat at the hands of the Bandi warriors. Meanwhile, Aegian troops assembled catapults out of range of Verdun’s archers until the Bandi reed them. Liam sipped his morning coffee while scanning the sprawling encampment from a storeroom window in Mary’s Coffeehouse. His mind drifted back to the events leading up to Lord Herat’s defection. Herat probably felt much like Liam did now; looking out over hundreds of tents and fires so tauntingly close. And he would have also had faith that the thick walls of Kresh could withstand anything the Aegians could muster. Except Popobawa. He watched the catapults being assembled and positioned. Scant hours remained before they would be hurling deadly boulders into the town. Was he bound to share the same dilemma as Herat? After all, Verdun lacked the protective fortifications of Kresh. It lay wide open to suffer the same fate as Muran. Doubt made his stomach churn. He had cursed Herat’s treachery, but now cruel irony placed him in the same situation. He clenched his teeth in resolve; better that I die in battle than become a slave. I will fight alongside my father to the bitter end. “The bitter end,” he repeated aloud as he drew the Sword of Girdion from its sheath. Unable to feel reassurance from its grip, he examined it closer. It looked mostly plain and unadorned, yet forged with superb craftsmanship, perfectly balanced and much lighter than it appeared. In Liam’s deft hands, its strokes felt fluid and natural. But his heart quailed at the thought of pitting his skill against a monster like Popobawa. “Why do you trouble yourself needlessly?” Mary said as she set a hot cup of tea on a stump beside him. “The outcome depends on our ability to resist—as a people. It’s always been that way, and always will.” She smiled warmly, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Our forces are second to none and I have complete faith in them.” “You don’t understand,” Liam shot back, more harshly than he intended. “They expect me to slay this demon with this.” He held up the sword before tossing it aside irritably. “I’ve always boasted I knew its powers. Truth of the matter is, I

know nothing of it. I suppose I thought there would be more time, but here they are, on our doorstep, and still I know nothing.” Mary eyed him, unsure how to respond. “Drink your tea, it’ll make you feel better. Have faith and you will have hope, have hope and you will have faith. All anyone can do is to do their best. And that has always served us well in the past.” She returned to her duties, closing the door quietly behind her, sensing his desire to be alone. Liam sat brooding for a moment, sipping his tea. Indeed, he did feel better, and drew strength from her words. He never suspected the tea itself played a part, although she said it would. Mary hummed softly to herself as she prepared vats of tea with ginger roots and ginseng. She took comfort from being able to help in her own way. A warm and rested army are much more effective than a tired, cold one. Liam went outside for some fresh air. Climbing up onto a large, rocky outcrop, he gazed over to the next position where Kirik commanded. This is where the brunt of the enemy’s thrust was expected. As they discussed earlier, false fortifications were in place to lure them in. Although its location between the two main roads into town offered a great strategic point from which to defend, they would ultimately have to fall back or get overrun and have no recourse from which to counterattack. Better to bait them into the trap and explode from the sides with longbows, then a cavalry charge while they attempt to regroup. Tiny specks was all he could make out on the furthest position, where Miradan and Landur commanded the right wing of the spur. He glimpsed through his spyglass to confirm most of their men were properly hidden for the ambush. Himself and Torin were also prepared and now the eerie calm began to gnaw at his nerves again. Torin? where was he anyway? He should be back from patrol by now. He hoped they hadn’t been ambushed themselves for venturing too close to the Aegian camp. Impossible, he thought. Torin was far too experienced to be caught in the open. As if answering Liam’s thoughts, Torin appeared, lines of worry etched on his face. “Not much longer. The Bandi have ed them.”

“Their catapults are also ready,” Liam added. Torin paused, suddenly aware of how much older Liam seemed from the boy he raised such a short time ago. “Come, let’s have some food while we still have time.” They walked the short distance back to the Coffeehouse and sat down to a table of bread, goat cheese, and goat meat. Liam ate heartily, devouring his meal and washing it down with a tankard of ale. Torin took his time, watching Liam with a father’s love and pride as he sipped his own ale and picked at his plate. Liam looked up. “Not hungry Father?” Torin smiled. “Know that no matter what happens, Son, your mother and I are already so proud of you. I only wish you could have enjoyed your youth as I have. And I wish I could have enjoyed watching you grow into a man, tending the forge and…” “And I wish I could fly!” Liam said, feeling rejuvenated from the tea. “We will prevail, Father. Of that I have no doubt.” Torin laughed, “Is it the tea or the ale? Or both?” Yet he knew that HE should be the one offering encouragement. He promised himself that he would be strong against whatever evil they faced. Jill and Anna came through the door carrying baskets of food. Torin felt the kind of pang one feels reliving a time when they were a family; a time buried and forgotten, never to be mentioned again. Liam jumped up to help them. “Oh, you’re such a good lad,” Jill said, handing him a box of apples. She turned to Anna. “I’ll take those.” But Anna was staring at the weapon strapped to Liam’s side. “Is that the sword?” She asked. “The Sword of Girdion?” Liam stepped back, uncomfortable under her gaze. “Yes, it is.” “Oh! It’s marvellous! How does it work? Does it have special powers?” Liam covered the hilt with his tunic, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “It’s a finely crafted weapon.”

Anna’s voice lowered. For an instant, she sounded menacing and not at all like the affable barmaid they knew. “How do you expect to kill Popobawa with only a sword?” “Warning alarms rang out in Liam’s head. “How do you know of this creature?” Aware that she had been careless trying to get information to please Istolar, she hastily retreated back to being the demur barmaid. “Just talk around town…” He was about to say, I have heard no such talk, but decided to let the matter rest. Jill shot Torin a questioning look, but he shrugged and shook his head, indicating he had no idea what the incident was about, which, of course, he did. —BOOM— A large chunk of concrete smashed into the eastern side of the Coffeehouse. Torin ran to the window. “What the…” —THUNK— Another shot fell short and buried itself into the frozen mud on the hillside. Jill cried, “Get back from the window!” Liam grabbed his father’s sleeve. “They’re onto us. They must have tracked you back here. Or else…” He cast a suspicious glance back at Anna. Torin ignored Liam’s accusation, How and why would have to wait. “We need to act quickly.” Mary came out from the storeroom. “One hit in there and we’ll be picking our meals out of the snow.” “You’re right,” Jill said. “Come, Anna, let’s get this stuff safe.” “Safe where? Outside?” “The woodshed is back down the hill on this side. It’s not as likely to take a direct hit,” Mary said. After the three women left to transport supplies from the storeroom into the

shed, Torin looked sternly at Liam. “Sometimes your age really shows.” “What do you mean?” “You know exactly what I mean. Tact is a learned trait and you have much to learn. Before throwing accusations around, be sure you can them.” “You know she is up to more than tending patrons. she attacked Barandur?” “She reports to the king himself. Istolar trusts no-one, not even the Wrynn. Nor does he trust Anna. He maintains a series of communications that makes it difficult for any to oppose him.” “As far as the Wrynn are concerned, she is one of them, but she operates independently, yet works with them. And this is not the time or place for lessons in politics.” Liam blinked, trying to digest what he was hearing. “You’re right, Father, I’ve a lot to learn.” “Now for this matter of our guests knocking at the wrong door.” —BOOOOMMM— As if in response, something smashed into the wall of the log building sending shards of wood and glass flying in all directions. Liam yelped as a large splinter buried itself in his thigh. “We have to move,” Torin urged. “Can you walk?” “Pull it out.” Torin examined the chunk of wood lodged in Liam’s leg. It was already slick with blood and would be hard to grip. “Don’t move, I’ll be right back.” He ran into the kitchen in time to see Jill, Anna and Mary coming up the hill. “Go back! Too dangerous!” Jill felt a lump in her throat. “Back where? Where’s Liam?”

Torin could hear the panic in her voice, but he had no time to calm her. “Go to the inn, I’ll see you there,” he said, hating the harshness in his voice. He thought he heard her ask, ‘When?’ but he had to get Liam out of danger. He snatched a pair of tongs off a rack and rushed back to Liam. “Bite on to this.” He stuffed a cloth into Liam’s mouth. “This may hurt,” he cautioned as he clamped onto the rough piece of wood. “Just be quick… aaAUGHH…” “Done.” Torin was already bandaging the wound with the cloth from Liam’s mouth. “Remind me not to get sick around you,” Liam griped, but grateful for his father’s speedy work. The piece was jagged, though did not pierce any major arteries. He watched as Torin wrapped his leg. “Looks worse than it is. Just a flesh wound. You’ll survive. Can you walk?” He helped Liam to his feet and tested the leg. “I’ll be fine,” Liam said and they started down the hill. Along the way, a soldier offered to help. “Bring a cart,” Torin instructed. “Take him to the inn and tell them… they’ll know what to do.” He said to Liam. “I must get things organized. They’ll be wondering how they should respond. Come when you feel ready.” “I’m ready now.” “You’re no good to us like this. Do as I say. Your time will come, of that, you may be assured.” Torin sprinted up the centre defensive position with agility of a man much his junior to find Kirik. He worried for Liam, though he was careful not to fuel his already impressionable mind. He pushed the thought to the back of his own mind; more urgent matters at hand. Anna leaned over Liam, smiling not so much out of kindness, but like one who finally achieved a cherished goal. “Just relax, my boy. Everything will be

alright.” Liam felt as though he had fallen into a trap, yet powerless to escape. Darkness descended on him like a soft blanket, lulling him to sleep.

Whispers in the Dark

Having effortlessly dispatched the tiny frontier contingent defending Ukorstria’s northern border, the six-thousand man Hannanite army filed along the narrow road bordering the Myrshin Swamp and continued on toward Zaranstaad. Although well armed and bearing heavy armour, they lacked the one thing needed to assault the mighty castle—siege machines. Six catapults would be ineffective against the twelve-foot thick walls. However, the Ukorstrian defenders would be spread a little thinner if they hoped to keep two armies at bay. Jumaki’s catapults possessed more power and range, but even more importantly, they would be attacking from the south—an angle the castle was not designed to defend. However, the Ukorstrian army had a reputation for holding out against superior numbers; such was the skill of their highly trained soldiers and knights. Ferdugar’s mind drifted over to the campaign to the south. Were they even winning? What if Jumaki had already been defeated? Had he chosen the wrong side? Impossible, he brushed the thought aside. Yet, many more questions plagued his confidence. Anders broke the silence. “The Ukorstrians have likely inflicted heavy casualties on Aegian troops. They are seasoned fighters and train hard while other nation’s armies are filling their bellies with ale.” Ferdugar flashed him a venomous look. “What do you mean by that?” “No… nothing, Sire, just that we must be prepared.” “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.” He snapped, his mood darkening further. The suffocating humidity in the bog pressed on his chest, making it hard to breathe. Decay and rot mingled in the heavy air, seeping into the morale of his men. The gloom began to deepen. The only indication of day turning to night. The subtle fluorescence of slimy green air hung over the swamp, casting shadows in the mist. Soft bubbling sounds came and went, indicating sources where heat vented from deep below the stagnant water.

Anders stopped suddenly, peering ahead in the darkness. Cetera raised a hand, bringing the column to a halt. “What is it you see?” She gazed ahead, trying to pierce the gloom. Then she saw it. Barely discernible in the pale light, stood three massive figures blocking their path, each eight to ten feet tall. They seemed unsure what to make of the vast numbers tresing in their midst. Cetera motioned to proceed cautiously. Ferdugar’s guards unsheathed their swords and the front ranks drew their weapons. Still, they did not move. Their feral, red eyes gleamed at them as they approached. Several soldiers hesitated, intimidated by their size and ferocious appearance. The rakshasas became agitated and growled menacingly. “Hold your ground!” Anders ordered. A tense standoff ensued until finally the middle rakshasa spoke in a course raspy tone, “What do you want here, intruders?” “You speak?” Cetera said with shocked disbelief. “Then you understand, now leave.” “We have a task to fulfill.” The rakshasa repeated, “What do you want here?” She consulted briefly with Anders and King Ferdugar, then replied truthfully, “We are at war with the nation that occupies this land, the Ukorstrians.” The rakshasa smiled, revealing rows of daggerlike teeth with two sickly-looking canines. “Then it would appear we have a common enemy. They have an outpost of rangers in the Myrshin Swamp, Hill-men allied with the new king of Ukorstria. We have been unable to locate their camp for it is well hidden. They have been very active in recent days, preparing for your arrival it seems.” “You have more knowledge of politics than I would expect from beasts,” Anders

said. The rakshasa growled, “We know what goes on in our land. This region we claim as our ancestral home and intruders are not welcome.” Red fur bristled on its companions to either side as they echoed their leader’s sentiment. Cetera shot Anders a warning look, then turned to Ferdugar. “We should never have let those spies go. They work for Istolar, not Jumaki.” Ferdugar frowned, deep lines etched from years of thought and worry. “Or perhaps they concocted the story just to get past these rangers.” King Ferdugar addressed the leader. “Will you not let us then?” “You can continue on your way. The rangers will try to stop or slow you. We have no interest in your battles other than to reclaim the were-dogs that belong to us. These strangers in our land are clever. They have turned them against us.” “Your… offspring?” “That is none of your concern. Now go, before we have a change of… heart.” Cetera shuddered and said to Ferdugar, “That sounds like good advice to me. Let’s be done with these creatures.” The rakshasas vanished into the bog. Clearly, they had no difficulty navigating its treacherous ages. “Something troubles you, Uncle?” His grey eyes drifted slowly until they met hers. “What do you think he meant by, ‘preparing for our arrival’?” She started, “Well, I suppose… barricades?” She looked to Anders for . Anders picked up what the king was getting at. “Traps. Small numbers against an army on home soil, land they are familiar with. We must practice extreme caution.” “Likely an ambush will follow,” Ferdugar added. “Let’s take it slow, and keep your wits about you.”

They followed the road south without incident for several hours. Cetera glanced up at the towering cliffs on their left. “At least they can’t flank us from there.” Anders replied, “No, but they could be hidden in caves.” He noticed Ferdugar hunched over on the road ahead. “What have you found, Sire?” Ferdugar displayed a fine wire. “Looks like our friends are looking out for us. This tripwire has been cut. The other end is attached to a stick lodged in those rocks. A firm pull, such as the heavy boots of several men, might cause a rockslide.” “Best we rest until morning. Have to stop sooner or later, and the men are exhausted.” “I agree. the word down. We stop where we are. Rotate watches every hour.” “Yes, Sire.” Anders and Cetera set about carrying out Ferdugar’s orders. Before long, they had a makeshift camp arranged. The hours crept by without incident. Now and then, a howl sounded in the distance; were-dogs that have, so far, evaded the rakshasas. Darkness lingered long after sunrise under the cliffs on the eastern side of the road. Only the sounds of strange birds broke the oppressing silence. After a frugal breakfast of a tiny chunk of cheese and a strip of salted pork, they resumed the march south. By mid-morning, the sun appeared as a blurry ball of light over the clifftops. Cetera felt the hair on her scalp tingle, as if they were being watched. “Something is wrong,” she whispered harshly to Anders. “I feel it too. Be on guard,” he said, scanning ahead for signs of trouble. But trouble came without warning from both sides. Were-dogs charged from the bog while arrows rained down from above. “SHIELDS!” Anders shouted above the din. Soldiers held their shields overhead to ward off ranged attack by Horgram’s rangers. They still fell as the wooden

bucklers lacked size and strength to stop many of them. Yet, those lucky enough to have the larger metal shields fared much better. However, they were left vulnerable to Horgram’s were-dogs as they tore into their flank. Ferdugar’s mount reared up, terrified by the sudden chaos. The king fought to maintain control of the steed. “Do something! We’re getting slaughtered!” Cetera turned to Anders. “The men with bucklers have short-swords right?” “Yes.” “Then they can counterattack the were-dogs. Their bucklers are almost useless against bows.” Anders nodded. “SHORT-SWORDS!” The strategy paid off as the Hannanite soldiers blunted the were-dogs attack. Yet, they still rushed heedlessly into sharp blades. For every one slain, two seemed to take its place. Despair began to sap the will of the soldiers to resist. “Where are they all coming from?” Cetera asked, sounding exasperated. Anders did not answer. He simply stared at the mayhem, frozen with indecision as the lines began to break. Blocks of soldiers were cut off from the others, forcing them to defend back to back in a circle formation. Fortunately for them, the nemesis of all were-dogs showed up, forming an impenetrable wall behind the were-dogs. Though relatively few in number, the rakshasas struck terror into the hearts of the were-dogs, causing panic to spread among them. They yelped in fear, attempting to flee, but could not find a gap between the soldiers and rakshasas. Above, Horgram ordered the rangers to cease fire for he could no longer distinguish between friend and foe. “NOW! RUN FOR IT!” Ferdugar shouted, not waiting to bother with the formality of ing it down the chain of command. They managed to escape, but with significant casualties. Cetera looked back.

“You realize we will likely these corpses if we return.” “If,” Ferdugar repeated. “They will be bones by then.” “Or ghosts. I expect there will be more rakshasas by then as well.” “Let’s hope they are still willing to let us ,” Anders said. “Worry about it after,” Ferdugar said, indicating the subject was closed. “The real battle lies ahead.” Horgram’s outfit nipped at their heels as they ed through the swamp, but was never able to mount a sustained attack. With the road being the only able route through the area, there was no means to pull ahead and flank, leaving his option’s severely restricted. The occasional skirmish served to be no more than a nuisance for the Hannanite army. Within three days Ferdugar could see the towering Zaranspire of Zaranstaad off in the distance. He had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Cetera approached her uncle quietly. He seemed lost in thought, staring blankly into the small campfire before him. She gently put her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll help with the camp.” He flinched slightly at her touch. “I didn’t hear you,” he said, trying awkwardly to conceal his reaction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” “No, no, I should have my wits about me instead of day dreaming like an old fool.” “You are NOT an old fool. You are our king and led us through thus far. I am proud to have served at your side” Ferdugar smiled crookedly, as if it pained him to do so. “Whatever happens, I want you to know—I need you to know that what happened between us…” “Shhh.” She put a finger to his lips. “There is no need. Let it be washed from our minds. Much more important matters are at hand.”

“Perhaps you should be wearing the crown.” “Stop it,” she said flatly, letting her patience slip a notch. “You are the king I said, now…” “Start acting like one?” “Don’t put words in my mouth.” The twisted grin on his face unnerved her, like a window into his tormented soul. “You’ll know where to find me.” She turned abruptly and headed back to where the men mulled about waiting for orders. She was right, he knew. Standing around idly so close to the Ukorstrian stronghold was not the way to be leading an army. He brushed off the light, powdery snow that had begun to fall, then stamped out the fire before following her tracks back to camp. Here it begins, he murmured under his breath as he stopped at his wagon to uncork a bottle of wine. Not wanting to set a bad example, he kept it tucked under his coat. Can’t do much damage to a castle with arrows, he said, ignoring how simple he sounded to himself. He stumbled down the snowy path until he came upon the three carts hauling six small catapults. “Can we get these together while there’s still daylight?” He said to no-one in particular. “Yes, Sire,” responded the men closest to him. Ferdugar walked further, feeling slightly better for just doing something— anything—it didn’t have to be important, so long as his thoughts were focused on the present. “Sire,” Anders called. “You may want to have a look at this. There, above the Zaranspire.” Ferdugar squinted at the dark, swirling mass. “Just a cloud.” “It hasn’t moved, Sire. I’ve been watching it and it stays atop the tower.” Ferdugar studied it a moment longer before turning to Anders. “Spread the men out… as a precaution.”

He headed back to his wagon to retrieve his spyglass, and another bottle of wine. Ducking behind it, out of sight of most of the camp, he gulped down half the bottle. Its warmth spread through his tired body giving him renewed fortitude. In a clearer state of mind, he examined the cloud through the spyglass. The cloud had not moved. Alarmingly, it seemed to spin faster and appeared darker. He lowered the spyglass and wiped his brow. Damn this cheap Paragon wine. Looking again, he saw flashes within it. Lightning? He returned the spyglass to Anders. “Tell me what you see.” “Hmmm, a twister appears to be forming from the cloud. I haven’t seen one since I was a child on the Curridian Plains.” “That is no ordinary twister, my friend. It is an abomination of the sorcerer, Istolar. And I have little doubt it will soon be upon us.” “How can we defend ourselves?” “Should I not be asking you the same question?” “Yes, Sire. I am sorry to have…” “No time for idle talk. We must find refuge, quickly. We haven’t much time.” Anders jumped into motion, spurred on by embarrassment, How can we defend ourselves?—What was I thinking? He searched along the riverbank for a protective shelter, preferably a cave, but found only a muddy enclave carved by a bend in the stream that flowed out from Zaranstaad. The water smelled foul and the ground soft with slimy mud. He surmised the area could not protect any more than one-hundred men. The stench caused him to wretch. He began scrambling out for open air when a sound caught his attention. CHK—CHK—CHK—CHK He stopped to listen. CHK—CHK—CHK—SQUEAK—SQUEAK—CHK—CHK

Rats! He dreaded the thought of venturing in, but he knew it could also lead to a way inside, through the castle’s sewers. “Hurry! In here,” Anders tried to shout above the roar of the approaching twister. The engineers abandoned work on the siege machinery and ed the rest of the troops in the dash for shelter. As they pushed their way in, an iron grate blocked a narrow age at the back of the cavern. An engineer detached a short rope from his side and looped it through the heavily corroded grate. Several men tugged at it but it held firmly. Finally, the grate snapped under the stress, leaving the rim still in place with jagged, rusted and probably infected bars protruding outward. Not exactly what they wanted, but at least they could hammer back the remaining pieces. Hundreds of men flooded into the age. The air became stale and stuffy. Ventilation was designed to filter out toxic fumes, but not for a hoard of people. However, many didn’t get to safety as the twister bore down on them. Partially assembled catapults disintegrated on impact. Splinters flew like daggers, slicing through flesh as easily as a sharp blade. Trees were flattened, crushing scores of soldiers at a time. Panic spread through the troops like a plague, accentuated by screams of mortally wounded men. As the twister tore through the camp, soldiers were picked up and tossed hundreds of feet. Anyone still able to move rushed the cave, crushing or trampling those still waiting to get through the sewer entrance. Mercifully, the maelstrom died down and the funnel retreated back up into the sky. Ferdugar looked with concern at Cetera. He saw the icy indifference return to her eyes. Her heart seemed to thaw since they left Norbit. He had hoped they could resume the close relationship they once shared, but those hopes were all but dashed as he seen pain turn her back into ice—The Ice Queen. Coupled with the grief of losing many of his men, men with families of their own, despair weighed heavily on his shoulders. A voice interrupted his thoughts. “Head count, Sire? Anders asked. “Yes. Pull everyone back from the age. Keep close to the entrance. Who knows what other tricks are in store for us.” Gathering everyone together proved to be a considerable effort. Wounded and

dead bodies were scattered everywhere, and the wounded required attention. After several hours, Anders reported to the king, “Twenty-two-hundred and ninety-six able bodied, Sire. Four-hundred-seventy-one injured, about onehundred of them critically.” Ferdugar struggled to speak, “More than half… Gone…” Cetera folded her arms. “Still enough to launch a surprise attack within the castle. Their lives must not be in vain.” “Perhaps the gate can be brought down with concentrated catapult fire.” “Sire… Uncle… The catapults are destroyed. We have no other choice.” Anders tried to lighten the mood. “If Istolar believes we have been wiped out, he won’t expect any more trouble.” Ferdugar considered the option. “I know this king. He is as shrewd as he is evil. They will be coming to finish us off. We must withdraw.” Cetera stamped impatiently. “All the more reason to get into the sewers and out of sight.” “And what of the wounded?” “Take those who can walk. The rest must be killed.” Both Ferdugar and Anders stared at her in horror. “It would be a better fate than what interrogation would have in store for them.” Ferdugar winced at the thought. “I will stay and fight. Cetera and Anders—take a handful of men and find your way inside. If you succeed, open the gates and we will rush them. In the meantime, we will try to hold them off. You must hurry. We may have little time and even fewer soldiers.” “Go now,” he said, looking squarely at Cetera, likely for the last time. She bowed before him and turned away. Any warmth she may have felt lay buried deep inside. He watched her until she was out of sight; watched as she paused and looked over her shoulder before disappearing into the depths of the castle.

He stared at the empty space she vacated long after, wondering how she felt and what was going through her mind; his beloved angel. The Ice Queen. The first few minutes inside the dank tunnels found them fighting to get used to the stench. The darkness extended before them where they could hear, but not see, the scurrying feet of rats and other vermin. Cetera flinched whenever she felt one brush past her feet. The layout was not hard to follow, leading steadily upward in a gentle slope, ages intersected at regular intervals with drainage shafts allowing minimal light. The clay-brick walls were coated with years of accumulated filth and slime. In the centre, a gulley ran carrying the shallow, fetid water away from the castle. Rats squeaked and squealed at the torchlight and scattered for the most part. However, a few perched along ledges above their head and watched them with their beady eyes. Not long after they entered the system, a large cistern opened up before them. “This must be where all spillways meet and empty out below into the river close to where we entered,” Anders noted. “Look!” Cetera pointed to crude furnishings strewn about. Around the perimeter, rooms had been carved out of the earth. “Who would live in this wretched place?” “Caution,” Anders warned. “I don’t like the looks of this.” “Nor do I.” A gangly man with long blond and stringy hair emerged from the shadows. “Who might you be?” “Who I might be is none of your concern,” Anders answered. In an instant, two figures leapt from behind and set daggers at the throats of Cetera and Anders. “Wrong answer, my friend. You may call me… Jeremy. I’ll ask you once more, who are you and why have you come?” As he spoke, other unsavoury characters appeared out of the darkness, leering at the strangers as if they had never met anyone from the outside world. Cetera broke the silence. “We have come to see your king.” Jeremy laughed bitterly, “We have no king. And since we do our best to keep to our own, I’m afraid I can’t allow that.” He nodded for others to search them. “Take their weapons and relieve them of any valuables they carry.

Cetera stepped forward at the risk of the blade cutting into her throat, but the bandit released her. “We have no love for this king. We are from Hannan, at war with his reign and wish to remove him from the throne.” “I see,” Jeremy sneered,” so you wish to liberate us from our tyrannical king?” Cetera ignored the sarcasm. “Aegians to the south have already claimed much of Ukorstria. Istolar has put heavy tariffs on all commercial traffic. This is what has fuelled the conflict. If these decrees could be reversed, there would be no reason to continue this conflict.” “Perhaps so. However, even if what you say is true, you do not speak for the sultan. We have been aware of what is going on above us. The tariffs have actually been profitable for us as merchants are required to pay up front,” Jeremy said slyly. “Go freely. You have nothing of value to us. I have no love for this King Istolar. His Wrynn have forced us underground so we have not benefited from his policies as much as we should. What good is money when you can’t spend it? Take these few torches. Your own supply will not get you far.” “Thank you,” Cetera replied. “Perhaps some good will come from this in the end.” Jeremy laughed sardonically, as if she were thanking her executioner. “You seek a way in, but will not come out. Be mindful where your steps lead you. Those who ventured in never return to tell the tale.” “You have not explored this area?” “I have not, nor do I desire to. I will take you to the door that opens into the ages under the castle. From there you are on your own.” They followed Jeremy down a age that looked much like the one they had been on except narrower. It opened up into a small clearing where an oddly adorned door with symbols of strange creatures battling gods. “This is it,” he proclaimed. “What is this place?” Cetera asked. Jeremy fitted a star-shaped symbol in the centre and turned it slowly. The door seemed to groan as it slid open, like it had not been opened for a very long time.

“The catacombs. If you manage to find a way to the castle… alive, you will find a similar door. You will need this,” he said, handing her the star-shaped ornament. “I have no further use for it. Good luck.” “Thank you, and to you as well.” Jeremy raised an eyebrow, then turned to head back up the path to the relative safety of the cistern. These halls bore no resemblance to the orderly structure of the sewer system they left behind. Tunnels branched off at obscure angles, some leading up, others down, with many wandering twists and turns. The walls were carved roughly out of the stone and the floor each hazardous step. One at a time, they ventured cautiously in and looked around. “This doesn’t look like a good idea. We shouldn’t have come this way,” Cetera said. As the last man entered, the door slid shut with an ominous clunk, sealing them inside. “Too late to turn back now,” Anders stated nervously. “I think we must descend to get to the lowest levels of the dungeons and storerooms. This path may lead us there,” he said, pointing to an unwelcoming fissure in the rock wall where a narrow tunnel sloped treacherously downward in the vague direction of where he thought the castle was. Cetera peered through the fissure. Moss draped from jagged edges on the walls. The ground was littered with slippery stones of all shapes and sizes. “It smells of death.” “You were expecting the promenade?” He chided half-jokingly and lit a fresh torch after he slipped through the crack. When no-one followed, he called back, “Perhaps you would prefer to burn through all the torches while sitting there?” Cetera reluctantly motioned the men to follow Anders before entering in herself. Something is wrong. She could not dispel the feeling. Old wounds—regrets— betrayal. She felt gusts from a chill breeze at times; poignant and repulsive. The sense of wrong intensified as they descended deeper. The gusts she felt subtly before were now palpable, as if not born of air. Moaning sounds startled the men, freezing them in their tracks as they spun around in a futile attempt to

locate the source. Their muffled footsteps became suddenly amplified as they entered a chamber housing several rows of sarcophagi. Every dislodged pebble echoed loudly; here, in this room, where King Brekor spoke with Cailin and Elena years ago concerning the Sword of Girdion. Thick layers of dust covered the inscriptions on the tombs. Inside, kings of Ukorstria lay at rest, from Dadreus to Brekor. “They appear to be in chronological order,” Cetera said as she brushed the one nearest to them. “Good for them,” a soldier said. “Probably best that… My lady, look!” Rather than settling on the ground, the dust she had disturbed formed a funnel out of which King Brekor’s visage emerged. In a voice that sounded like gravel driven by wind, the king demanded, “Why have you come?” Cetera stared, unable to answer. “Speak—or die.” Anders stepped forward. “King Istolar has caused much hardship in our land, Your Highness. His tariffs have made many of our people go hungry needlessly.” “Indeed,” Brekor rasped. “A wise answer, if true. Go no further. A verdict will be made soon.” The dust collapsed amid a strong rush of air, extinguishing their torches and leaving them in darkness blacker than any had ever known. After a long silence, Cetera said, “Anders, what you said is true. Let’s hope it’s enough. I don’t think I like that word.” When Anders looked at her questioningly, she faced him, “Verdict.”

Sorceress

Outside the hall, Malik pressed his ear to the doors and listened to Barandur and Istolar talking. He had become an errand runner for Barandur as of late, and often followed him everywhere he went. The conversation didn’t sound very friendly, and he rightfully guessed Barandur instructed him to wait outside because the topics were not meant to travel outside the doors. But he heard everything. Istolar smiled his crooked, evil smile. “That should take care of our northern friends.” Barandur stood beside him, mixed emotions struggled to be resolved within him. He wisely concealed his thoughts and swallowed the murderous spectacle down. After all, were they not at war? Hairs bristled on the back of his neck, the way it does when you feel like you are being watched. He glanced up to find Istolar looking sidelong and down at him. His empty, soulless gaze prompted him to say something. Anything. He stammered, “ . . . Shall we search for survivors… Your Highness?” “Yes. Find any alive and throw them into the dungeon. I will interrogate them there.” Barandur felt inclined to say, What if there are too many to lock up? Instead he said, “Yes, Sire. Many will be unable to walk on their own. I’ll need carts and medics.” “There are none to spare. Leave no survivors behind.” Barandur knew this meant carrying out the grisly task of killing unarmed men; something he was loath to do. “As you command, Sire.” “How are the defences in Verdun doing?” “Well enough, My Lord.”

“Istolar poured himself some wine, then, as an afterthought, poured Barandur some too. “I expect a little more detail than, ‘Well enough’.” “Initial reports indicate they misjudged where the attack would come and suffered heavy losses. Men complained Zaranstaad has abandoned them.” “I see. What do you think?” Barandur didn’t want to answer. Although the king’s tone was casual, the question felt like a trap. He could feel those remorseless, brooding eyes boring into him, stripping away his self-respect, like it always did. His thoughts wandered back to times when he suffered humiliation at the king’s hands. An involuntary shudder crept up his spine. “I said, what do you think?” “I think they will not hold out long with only Torin and Huron in command of a few thousand men… Sire.” “Very well. I will send Gorgon to clean up the Hannanites. Take one-thousand men with you to Verdun. Hold the town at any costs. We must have those armouries working night and day.” “Sire, there is not enough ore to fuel the forges. The enemy numbers fifteenthousand battle-hardened troops. Another thousand will only…” “Would you abandon them then?” Istolar interrupted. Annoyance framed his tone. “Or would you have me leave Zaranstaad undefended? You said yourself they need more men. What would you have me do?” Barandur sighed, “You are right of course, Your Highness. With your leave, I will prepare four battalions to leave at daybreak.” “Draw from the recruits first,” Istolar said and sorted through papers on his desk to indicate the conversation was finished. “Thank you, Sire,” Barandur heard himself say and bowed before turning to leave. He gritted his teeth as he left the hall. He closed the heavy, oak doors behind him, careful not to allow them to slam and draw further ire from Istolar. Then, he slapped himself in the face. How could I be so foolish? One minute he

was going to flush out a handful of Hannanites and in the next, he had assigned himself to the front lines. And he had no-one to blame but himself. “Are you alright, sir?” Malik asked. Barandur was so wrapped up by self-reproach, he totally forgot Malik still waited outside for him. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “Just not myself today. I’m in the mood for a tankard of strong mead at the Hill and Glen.” Many potential recruits were merrymaking inside the tavern. “This is convenient,” he quipped to Malik. After downing his mead in three long gulps, he jumped up on a table in the centre of the room and planted his sword into it. “EVERYONE! YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE.” He waited for the room to quiet down. “Tomorrow I’ll be leaving for Verdun. I’ll not be going alone. Those of you under the age of twenty in the service of the king’s army are to report to the courtyard at daybreak for selection.” A voice called out, “Is it true, sir, that Verdun has already been overrun?” “No, it is not. And if it is within my power, it will never be. Anyone else?” Each man looked to the next for answers. Confused murmuring began to fill the room. Barandur took the opportunity to leave, not giving the crowd time to collect their thoughts. He just wanted to put this day behind him. After stopping by the barracks to relay the same message, he went back to his quarters to rest and digest the day’s turn of events. He slumped into an old worn but comfortable bearskin chair by the fireplace, wondering if he would ever have the chance to feel its warmth again. Unlike Istolar, he took no pleasure bringing hardship upon others. Yet, he knew he had no claim to be a man of honour when faced with danger. He often wondered if Cailin would have wed Elena and become king had he not betrayed him. Did I betray him? He thought back to the incident when Cailin had forced himself on Elena. I only did what any good citizen would do: report a crime. —Why were they so close . . . in the gardens . . . below the gardens?— They were dead . . . are dead. How do I know what the dead think?

—They are not dead. They are wraiths— Wraiths then. What does it matter now? —It matters that you finish what is asked of you— I will. I have. Haven’t I? I retrieved the Sword of Girdion and delivered it to Liam. That is what was asked of me. —He needs guidance to use it. You know of the power lying dormant within; the summoning of the undead. Be at his side through his task and your redemption will be complete— . . . My redemption. He bolted upright, suddenly aware he was talking to himself. He looked around, unsure if he was alone. Were voices speaking from the catacombs? He shrugged off the peculiar feeling, but assured himself to see Liam immediately when they got to Verdun. After a restless night, Barandur packed lightly for the short trip into town. Although he spoke bravely in front of the troops, he didn’t share the same conviction inside. He began to question his ability to counsel Liam, given his self-destructive nature. A road to ruin is the path I’ll lead him down. He paused before the door, closing his eyes as he considered if he had forgotten anything, then quietly closed the door behind him, not expecting to return. To the east, a pink sliver on the horizon told him daylight was not far off. Myriad stars twinkled in a cold, clear sky. Uros, the nearer of the two moons, shone pale and baleful, painting everything in shades of blue. Nothing stirred, not even the wind. Far off in the distance, the occasional sound of rock crashing into buildings broke the silence; not intended to cause damage so much as to prevent the inhabitants from sleeping. He was pleased to find many soldiers were already assembled in the courtyard. “Very good,” he applauded. “We’ll be on our way soon.” Closer inspection revealed some were in no condition to march into battle. He walked among them, sending men home he deemed unfit for duty.

Latecomers were separated upon arrival. He was thankful, and somewhat surprised, Istolar was not there to monitor the selections. The men he sent home would have been the ones Istolar prefer he chose. If I’m to do with a thousand men, they better be able, he justified. “Most of you have not been in battle,” he addressed them from the top steps. “What you see will be like nothing you have experienced before. Are there any survivors here from Taroga?” A few dozen tentative hands rose. “Gather into battalions of fifty men. I want at least one soldier who fought in Taroga in each one. You will follow their command and they will follow mine. Submit the names of your leaders and we will set out. Be quick and do not dally. Time has not given us the luxury to further prepare so I am relying on your cooperation.” His candid, straightforward manner struck a positive tone with the men and they did as he bade without complaint. By the time the sun peeped over the Serpent Sea, they were ready to depart for what would be the battle of their lives. The column wound its way down towards the huge, iron gates. The sun reflected off them in ruddy shades, just as it had when he went hunting for boar with Torin and Cailin years ago. He swallowed the regret that fought to creep into his soul. No time for regrets. He clenched his teeth and ordered the guards to open the gates. They swung open easily and he smiled. At least someone had oiled the bloody hinges. Despite the ominous sounds of battle growing louder, his spirits rose as they drew nearer, and had an infectious effect on the men’s morale. They sang songs of valour as they followed the winding road down into Verdun. However, spirits dampened considerably when they found the enemy had already taken the hill upon which Mary’s Coffeehouse was perched. “The road in is blocked, sir,” Malik said. “We are cut off from Verdun’s forces.” “Yes, I can see that,” Barandur replied dryly. Unfazed by Barandur’s retort, he pressed, “What do we do now?”

Barandur turned to him and said, “We shut our mouths so I can think.” “I see, sir. I think we can do that.” Barandur looked at him, wondering how simple he really was, then turned his attention toward their predicament. The enemy had not seemed to notice them yet, so he ordered the men to fall back behind the bend in the road. “Malik, Go around, through the woods and into Verdun. Make your way to the farthest hill. Torin should be there. If he is not, find him and inform him of our position. We will help them fight their way out toward the castle.” A soldier called out, “What of the citizens, sir? They’ll be slaughtered like sheep.” “When they feel the town is no longer a threat, they’ll move on to the castle. Zaranstaad is their prize. If it falls, so does Ukorstria and the all is lost. They’ll spend the summer routing out the last pockets of resistance.” He sighed deeply, not caring to paint such a grim picture, but the gravity of the situation they found themselves in could not be understated. “So, what do we do now, sir?” “We wait for Malik to return.” Malik least expected to hear prayer in the middle of intense fighting. Must be desperation, he thought. Barandur is right: We have to get out of here. As he drew closer, he could discern words. With his uncannily sensitive hearing, he listened. “The boy will defeat Popobawa, my King. Liam is empowered by the sword, and the sword by him. The dead will rise and fight for him and him alone. He will conquer all and reclaim the throne.” Malik peeped inside. At first, he saw only Anna in a trance-like state; her hands around Liam’s head as he lay unconscious. Then he saw the mirror she faced, but where her reflection should have been, King Istolar was there instead. The king? How is it possible? Istolar’s voice brought him back to the conversation. “When the time comes, he must die. I will not cede the throne to this… bastard

son, conceived out of lust. Do not repeat the same mistake as with Barandur or this time I will not be so forgiving.” Anna didn’t reply. Deeper she went inside Liam’s mind. Her hands trembled. Unintelligible words poured from her mouth. Istolar became alarmed. “Anna, what is going on? Answer me!” “Someone… Something… Here…” Her head drooped and she moaned hideously like one possessed by demons. Istolar realized what was going on. “BREAK IT OFF! IT’S BREKOR! HE IS INSIDE YOU!” He tried to stop Brekor, but his own powers could not project through the mirror effectively. Anna threw her head back and wailed like a beast in its death throes as Istolar and Brekor waged a battle of wills inside her mind. “What goes on here?” Torin demanded from the startled Malik. “I… I was sent to find Torin by Barandur, when I came upon this.” Upon seeing Liam in danger, Torin barged into the cabin. “STOP IT! LEAVE HIM!” As soon as he entered, the spectacle ceased. Anna slumped to the floor as Liam woke and tried to sit up. “Ouch, my head. Father, what happened? Why are you here? And why is she down there?” “I don’t know, but we’ll find out soon enough, starting with this lad. Who did you say you are?” “I didn’t,” Malik replied. Barandur, Torin grumbled under his breath. “Alright then. Who are you and why has Barandur sent you to find me?” “You are Torin?” Torin rolled his eyes. “Yes.” “We have to retreat… back to Zaranstaad.”

Torin and Liam exchanged concerned glances. “Verdun can’t simply be abandoned,” Torin objected. “Those are his orders, sir.” “No. I won’t do it. Once he has us all holed up in Zaranstaad, Jumaki only needs to maintain a siege and starve us to death. Perhaps that has been his plan all along. As fortified as Kresh was, Zaranstaad has many points of defence in which to counterattack from. Catapults would be ineffective without winning higher ground to avoid our own trebuchets. Kresh had only one don’t forget. We have eight.” “It wasn’t catapults that smashed through the gates at Kresh, Father.” “Yes, you are right of course.” He put his hand to Liam’s cheek. “You’re warm. How do you feel?” “As good as anyone who just had a chunk of wood removed from their leg, then poisoned.” “You know that… the time draws near when…” Anna stirred, waking in a haze. She looked around, unsure exactly what happened. “What’s going on?” “I was hoping you could tell us that,” Torin said. “If I may sir,” Malik ventured, “The last words I heard came from that mirror.” “Alright, Malik, what did you say in the mirror?” “Not me, sir. King Istolar. He said, ‘Break it off. It’s Brekor. He’s inside of you.’ Who’s Brekor, sir? Was he not a king of Ukorstria?” No-one spoke for a moment. Torin broke the silence. “Yes. He was. Perhaps Anna can tell us more.” Anna squirmed on the floor, wishing she had not come to. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. I nothing other than tending to Liam’s wound.”

“You poisoned me!” Liam protested. “How dare you! This is the gratitude you show—” “No more games,” Torin demanded. “Anna, it is believed you are the king’s eyes and ears in Verdun.” He stopped short of accusing her of worse to get information out of her. “What interest does King Istolar have in Liam?” Anna squirmed uncomfortably. “King Istolar wishes to know how Liam will deal with this demon spawn that threatens us,” she said half-truthfully. “You are referring to Popobawa.” “Yes.” “And your role in all this is what? Why the attempt on Barandur’s life? And now Liam’s it seems. There seems to be more about you than a barmaid.” Anna straightened. “I don’t have to answer your accusations. The king has every right to know of Liam’s progress. He is the champion of the year at Zaranstaad. He won a prized weapon for his efforts. King Istolar has invested much in his abilities and deserves to know all about his capabilities.” “Ah yes, that’s it isn’t it. The Sword of Girdion. He fears it, yet he desires it.” “This conversation is over.” “On the contrary, it’s… only… be…” The room flooded in scarlet light. The three men shielded their eyes against its intensity. Time slowed down to the point where their words made no sense. Liam reached for his sword for what seemed an eternity. They were helpless. Anna walked by them, immune to the affects, and laughed as she patted Liam on the head. All he could do was watch for it seemed to take an eternity to move in his state. He heard her say, ‘We will talk later.’ before she walked out the door. Outside, her spell lacked the range to have any effect and time ed normally. She looked back over her shoulder at the cabin once, then headed up to

Zaranstaad to see Istolar. As the spell wore off, time restored itself. They shook their limbs as if to rid themselves of a hideous malady. “Let’s get out of here,” Torin said. “Liam, there is no time to debate. Go with Malik and tell Barandur I will take whoever will me to go underground. The rest will you shortly back to the castle. My hope is, Jumaki will believe a full scale retreat is underway and concentrate on Zaranstaad. When all their energy is directed at the castle, we can strike from the rear without warning. Verdun’s damaged buildings offer effective cover. If we succeed, we may take out their catapults. Do you understand?” “Yes, Father. If not, then it won’t matter much anyway,” Liam replied sombrely. “That was your plan, Son. I’m sure it’s a good one.” Torin smiled. “We haven’t come this far to die like mice in a trap. Everything has a purpose. Barandur found the sword and you were meant to wield it. I will not lie, I don’t envy you. What you face is a demon of unspeakable power and evil.” He paused for a moment to let the unsettling truth sink in, then continued in a whisper, “But you’re not alone. The undead will rally to your side, Liam. Summon them when Popobawa’s breath is upon you. They will sense it, and they will heed your call. The sword’s power lies within you. Become who you were meant to be: The king of Ukorstria. That is your destiny.” Liam tried to smile back, but could only manage to purse his lips. Torin raised his eyebrows and nodded once before departing. He could only hope he had got through to Liam. Liam sighed and said to Malik, “Let’s get going.” Malik led Liam back to Barandur under a constant barrage of catapult fire. Arrows whistled by at intervals, a sign that Jumaki’s captains were already moving in to secure the town. “We better get off the road. The forest will offer some protection from all these rocks.” “Agreed. Lead the way.” Liam worried Torin would become trapped if they could not withdraw in time. Even if he did get his men out to safety, a company, likely Bandi warriors, would be dispatched to hunt them down. The only fact for certain was many more Bandi would die before Torin’s men were defeated. Not thinking in the present nearly cost him his life as they almost stumbled upon

a party of Aegian scouts. “Shhhh,” he hushed Malik. “Down the hill. Four, maybe five of them, with bows.” “I see them. What will we do?” “Can’t get around them. Can’t wait for them to leave. I guess we have to fight our way through.” “Are you crazy? I have a dagger and you have a sword. They’ll fill us with arrows before we get close.” “You seem to be stuck,” a soft voice said from behind them. Liam went for his sword. “Anna! What the…” “There is no need for that. You are in need of help. I am here to offer it to you.” Liam narrowed his eyes. “And why should I trust you?” “Looks like you have few options,” she said, nodding toward the patrol. “I’ll take my chances,” Liam said, turning to leave. Malik said, “Wait sir. What can she do? Tip them off? If we are going to fight them anyways, what do we have to lose?” Liam eyed Anna warily. “I suppose you have a point. How can you get us through?” “Distract them. You’ll have to be quick.” “What are you going to do?” She smirked, “Just leave it to me.” She left them wondering and walked casually down to where the patrol were talking quietly. “Hey fellows, cold to be standing out here isn’t it?” None even bothered raising a weapon, perceiving no threat from this diminutive, crazy woman. One of the men stepped forward “Perhaps you could warm it up a little.”

“Oooh, you are a brash one aren’t you? If you want it, why don’t you come and get it?” She opened her shirt, exposing one small, supple breast. “Alright, harlot. Just you stay right there.” He scrambled up the slippery slope a short distance before falling face first in the slushy mix of mud and melting snow. The other men followed, each eager to have the first round with her. They jostled and pushed their way to her like a pack of hungry dogs. Anna simply stood watching with disgust and bemusement. As they closed in, they began to sense they fell into a trap. Like before, the air increasingly turned scarlet as time itself slowed. She laughed for a moment at their futile attempts to fight the effects. “Good-bye, my friends,” She said and left before the spell wore off. Liam and Malik ed safely by. Neither wanted to talk about the debacle that they too fell victim. Thick brush gave way to rushes and reeds as they came upon a partially frozen bog. “Not much further,” Malik panted. They stopped to catch their breath. Large black crows lined the perimeter of the bog. Perched high on a dead fir tree, a particularly enormous crow cocked its head and observed their ing. Suddenly, it pierced the calm with a shrill cry. Others ed the chorus and together they took flight, swooping low over their heads before disappearing to the south. “We better keep moving,” Liam said. Malik tested the ice gingerly with his foot. “I think we can cross.” They continued across the thin ice, falling through now and then, but the water was not deep. However, it seeped into their leather boots freezing their feet to numbness. On the other side, a meadow led them into forested hills once again. Liam did not feel comfortable with the ruckus the crows made. The last thing they needed now was to draw attention to their location. Malik interrupted his thoughts. “They’re up ahead.” “Who?”

“The wood pixies—Barandur’s company, of course.” “Sorry. I was thinking about my father.” “Torin is your father?” “Yes. You sound surprised.” “I competed at the games this year. I saw you defeat Meehan to claim first place.” “Yes? So?” “I heard King Istolar say he would send all the failures to ‘die with the bastard and his sword.’ Since you possess the Sword of Girdion, I assumed the bastard to be you. No offence.” Liam grabbed him and spun him around. “How does he expect to defeat Popobawa if not me? He knows I alone can defeat it.” “I’m just telling you what I heard.” “How exactly did you hear Istolar say this?” “I was with Barandur when he spoke with him. I guess they forgot I was there.” “Come, we will sort this out right now.” “Wait! You can’t. He’ll wonder where you got the information from, and suspect me for telling you.” “So? It’s not like you promised to be silent.” “No, but…” “But nothing. Like you said, he probably forgot you were even there.” Malik groaned and mumbled, “Me and my big mouth.” as they emerged from the forest.

To the south, Jumaki watched the noisy birds take flight. “So our friends have reinforcements.” “I don’t like it,” Lengu objected. “They would be more cautious in their approach. I say send a few men to scout the area first. The town is ripe for the taking.” Jumaki did not like Lengu’s tone; did not like the confrontational manner in which he spoke. “Has Lengu assumed control over the Aegian army?” Against his better judgement, Kai reaffirmed Lengu’s plan. “He does have a point, Your Greatness. If it is a diversion, then the forces in Verdun will escape and blend into the town.” “Then we’ll burn it down as we did in Taroga!” Jumaki fumed. “Have all my commanders gone soft in the head when I need them most?” He pounded his fist into his palm in rage. Send men to intercept. Their reinforcements are not far away. I will not allow them to hook up. After we have eliminated them, we continue to the south gates. Is that clear?” “Yes, Your Greatness,” they replied together. “Good. Inform me when we are ready.” Jumaki stormed off, leaving Lengu and Kai wondering if the toil of war was beginning to take its toll on the sultan. But neither dared to voice their thoughts out loud for fear of Jumaki getting word of it. They simply looked at each other and shrugged, knowing that the other shared the same concern, then set out to carry out their orders. Kayla had been listening from behind a weapons rack, gnawing on a bone and doing a good job looking inconspicuous. If Jumaki discovered how she had escaped the tent he would hunt her down and certainly end her life. She had to act fast. As they parted ways, she casually walked to the edge of the camp where some heavy brush might provide some cover. Then she slipped into them hoping any curious eyes would think she was just relieving herself. Meanwhile, Jumaki had cooled off to a degree by the time he returned to his tent.

Odd, where are my guards? Apprehension rose inside as he hurried to the tent and opened the flap. Inside, both guards lay naked with utensils protruding from their chests. Instant death ensured they had no time to call for help; nor did they bleed for long as their hearts stopped pumping shortly after being pierced. Jumaki grudgingly ired her expertise and shuddered for all the times he had foolishly left himself vulnerable. “KAYLA,” he shouted, then ordered anyone nearby, “Find her, and bring her back to me—alive.” Kayla heard him call and dashed to the point where they indicated the reinforcements were likely concealed. As Jumaki said, they were not very far, perhaps twenty minutes away, but she made it in half that time. “You must get out of here. They’re coming.” “Who? What? Who are you?” Barandur asked, clearly surprised by this woman bursting through the trees into their midst. “Who is coming?” “Jumaki. You must leave now! They were alerted by a flight of crows and will try to stop you from ing the men defending Verdun.” Liam and Malik emerged from the forest. “The rest are staying behind sir,” Malik said. “We are all that’s going.” Barandur looked at a very dishevelled Liam and joked, “Looks like you’ve been through a war.” He looked around at the soldiers gathered around. “Do we have any lookouts? Because the next folks to pop out of the trees might not be so friendly.” They exchanged glances but no-one answered. Indeed, no thought was given to posting sentries. The sound of thousands of feet marching could be heard in the distance. “Never mind, Barandur said. “To Zaranstaad, now.”

The Darkest Hour

“Where did you go?” Cetera asked as Brekor’s dim glow emerged from the blackness. “To a place where time and space have no meaning.” She had no idea what he meant other than the finality in his tone told her an explanation would not be forthcoming. “I see. Have you come to a… verdict?” He studied them sombrely with sad eyes, quietly, while at times his image faltered and almost vanished. Then two more spectres, one bearing the image of a handsome young man, the other, a woman of enchanting beauty, appeared at the far end of the chamber. They floated toward them, arm in arm, and settled beside the former king. Brekor paid no heed to Cailin and Elena. He spoke directly to Cetera, “You are not welcome here. Istolar is a scheming tyrant, usurper to the throne of Ukorstria, but you have come armed to kill our people. This, I cannot permit.” Frustration began to overcome Cetera’s fear. “He is a traitor. You said so yourself. That makes no sense!” “DO NOT TELL ME WHAT I HAVE SAID!” The chamber echoed with Brekor’s retort. Chunks of stone fell around them, striking one of the guards and killing him instantly. “He… He’s dead,” Anders said as he felt for a pulse. The three wraiths looked on, disionately. Elena spoke to Brekor and Cailin in a tongue that the Hannanites could not comprehend. The sound of their voices were of wind and sea. “You are no better than him!” Cetera said angrily. She drew her sword, oblivious to the danger she was putting herself in; to the danger she was putting all of them in.

Don’t be foolish. You cannot harm me,” Brekor spoke with a voice like gravel. “One option remains to be considered…” A long and awkward silence ensued as Brekor seemed distracted by a distant memory or an important consideration. Anders and Elena exchanged bewildered glances. “ . . . Yes?” Cetera prompted. “One option remains to be considered,” Brekor continued. “If you work only to overthrow Istolar for the purpose of restoring King Liam to the throne of Ukorstria.” Cetera whispered to Anders, “Who is this Liam?” Elena answered, “No need to whisper; I hear your thoughts. Liam is my son. I am Princess Elena. He is the rightful heir to the throne of Ukorstria.” Anders said, “If you are to trust our word, a pact made by our king…” “Must be broken,” Cailin interrupted. “How can we break a treaty made by our king?” “That was not the only pact King Ferdugar made. Of course, I speak of one that he made with Istolar; whose castle you have chosen to invade.” Anders face reddened. He looked down, biting his lip as he looked to Cetera for her decision. Cetera straightened. “We will abide by your , O King, and do what is within our power to fulfill them.” “Betrayal will bring swift judgement should you stray from this objective. The chances of your success are slim, but we may meet again.” The three images wavered for an instant before vanishing. Cetera called out, “Wait! Meet where? Will you not aid us?” “They’re gone,” Anders said. “We best be gone too.”

While Cetera’s stalwart band of men were granted another reprieve from being turned back or worse, they did lose one member, leaving only five guards to reach the northern gates. In the unlikely event they survived that long, the gates could be opened from the inside and allow Ferdugar to storm inside with the remainder of their army; a desperate and suicidal plan. She shook her head. How did we get involved in this? “Use these stones and build a cairn for our friend, then we’ll be on our way.

With Aegian troops still safely at a distance from Zaranstaad, Gorgon took no chances with Hannanite survivors. He intended to get some battle experience for three-thousand men. He did not expect much resistance, estimating that Istolar’s twister vanquished most of their army. With the few medical supplies that remained intact, Fergugar had a makeshift care centre set up down the road, further away from the cave entrance so the broken grate would not be discovered. Far from ordering a hasty retreat, snipers hid back from the road waiting for a signal. The trap was set. They waited for the Ukorstrian’s to walk into it. Yet, he knew in his heart that their hopes were slim. Ferdugar’s twenty-three-hundred soldiers prepared to face Gorgon’s well-armed, but inexperienced three-thousand troops. However, what they lacked in experience, they compensated for in training. Gorgon instructed his men to be cautious. “Road north isss narrow here. Hillsss on right, ssstream on left. Arrowsss fly from hills—use ssshieldsss. Road followssssssssstream to Myrshynn Ssswamp.” “Yesssssssir,” a soldier quipped to his fellows, poking fun at Gorgon’s hissing sounds. However, Gorgon’s hearing, along with other senses, were superior to a human’s. “Arrowsss in head not ssso funny.” The snickering stopped abruptly. “If jokesss over, we fightsss.” They marched forward only a short distance before being ambushed right after a tight turn that provided little forewarning. Hannanite archers peppered them from clefts in the rugged high ground to their right. However, they had little effect as many arrows failed to penetrate Ukorstrian heavy armour. Further ahead, Ferdugar’s infantry braced for a clash of steel and iron. The bulk of Gorgon’s army surged forward, slicing into Hannan’s front lines. Momentum carried them forward, gained by confidence in their equipment and numbers. Rested and eager for the taste of victory, they pushed on with relentless pressure.

Ferdugar had no shortage of heavy armour in his infantry as well. Ironically, almost all of Ukorstrian armour was made from iron mined in Hannan’s northwestern frontier. Yet, the steel plate of Hannan soldiers was still superior to the cumbersome iron Ukorstrian mail. Unfortunately for Ferdugar, he was outmatched in most other aspects. Yet, He held on to their position stubbornly, to the point where his lieutenants questioned if he was fit to command. The advantages of the defenders began to show on the battlefield. Ukorstrian soldiers were mostly equipped with heavy maces that could knock a man senseless even if it failed to puncture steel plate. The swords of Hannan’s forces had to rely on finding weak spots to thrust into, making them more vulnerable to counterattack. Slowly at first, then with increasing haste, Ferdugar’s men gave ground, falling under the heavy iron maces of Gorgon’s infantry. The road became slick with blood. Its sickly-sweet smell hung in the air. One of his lieutenants, a man trusted for his unwavering loyalty, warned Ferdugar, “Sire, this is a complete disaster. I advise a retreat immediately before the other lieutenants take it upon themselves to do so.” “That is not an option. Cetera is in there… and Anders,” he added quickly. “The gates will be open to us.” As the situation rapidly deteriorated, Ferdugar’s unlikely allies came to his aid once again. More than a dozen rakshasas suddenly emerged on the other side of the river. Their ferocious appearance struck terror into friend and foe alike. However, Ferdugar calmed his men, reminding them the fearsome creatures had helped them once before. The morale of the Ukorstrians changed instantly to panic. The numerical superiority seemed to make no difference to them in the face of these fearsome beasts. Ferdugar wasted no time to capitalize. “CHARGE!” The resurgent Hannanites drove them back as the beasts crossed the river. The combination had a devastating effect as the retreat turned into an all out rout. Archers cut them down, having their lightly protected backs for targets. The rearguard fared even worse. Their armour was no match for the deadly claws of the rakshasas as they ripped through flesh and iron and leather alike.

Ferdugar stopped short of arrow range of the castle finding the gates closed. He wondered if Cetera and Anders had been captured or if they would make it to the gates. Inside, his question was being answered in the worst way possible: Cetera’s band were spotted by the retreating soldiers. Had he known, Ferdugar would have made every effort to gain on them and get through the gates. Yet, unbeknownst to him, one of his men did make it inside— and he wore Ukorstrian iron mail.

“Takesss them,” Gorgon said. Attempting to run was futile, yet they had to try. “This way!” Anders called, pointing to a narrow hall only steps away. “Hurry!” An instant later, all of them escaped down the corridor leaving the bewildered Ukorstrian’s behind. “After them!” Gorgon ordered. “Ssstupidsss needsss to be told?” For a time, they looked as if they might escape. The corridor was too narrow for their pursuers to effectively track them down. However, no-one in their party knew of the castle’s layout. Their hopes were dashed when they discovered the route functioned as a service way used for carting food and drinks during official functions. Here, Gorgon’s men trapped them on a break between levels on the long, winding stairs. “Bringsss them to me.” Soldiers pushed the captives forward, not too gently. A few guards flinched as Gorgon inspected them but Cetera and Anders didn’t waiver. Gorgon stopped in front of Cetera, his dagger-like teeth inches from her face. She resisted the urge to wretch with what smelled like horse meat. “Princccesss?” Cetera remained silent, staring directly ahead. “Never mind, we findsss out.” He faced Anders next. “Commandersss? Captainsss?” Anders answered in a formal monotone, “Paragon infantry, division…” “Sssssss,” Gorgon interrupted. “Do not mocksss, human. Liesss repaid with pain.” He glanced quickly at the guards then ordered, “Takesss them to sssecond level and locksss up. King ssseesss them later.”

They were shuffled off down the broad stairs to the main level. When Cetera stumbled, a guard moved to assist her. She smacked his hand away with force that could have broken a slighter man’s arm. “Get away from me, you swine!” The angry guard raised his hand, but Gorgon intervened. “Do not harm captivesss. King dealsss with them.” He trembled with rage for a few seconds before getting control of himself. Anders marvelled at the carved marble statues bearing crowns of gold and precious stones. And this was only the northern wing. “Appears they have made good use of our mines in Ravencast,” he said to Cetera. “Keep moving! No talking!” The still-riled guard pushed him forward, nearly sending him tumbling. The main hall connected at different points, mostly by crisscrossing walkways intentionally designed as a last line of defence in the event of breach at northern gate. A cleverly concealed set of steps led down to Zaranstaad’s lower levels. None of the captives were prepared for what greeted them here. Arcades teemed with people. Despite war raging all about them, they found a flourishing market that rivalled that of most big cities. A wide, cobblestone promenade ran down the middle where the most affluent stores plied their wares. Another tier encircled the area where smaller shops and booths made use of every square foot of space they could find. Past the first subterranean level of storerooms, they came upon the first dungeon level. It was reasonably clean and lit, intended for misdemeanour offenders such as petty theft. “This is not for you,” one of their captors jibed.” Down narrow steps, mottled with patches of green moss, they entered a dimly lit corridor with rusty cells on both sides. Rats and mice scurried away for cover upon their entry. Centipedes and large black slugs were everywhere. “In there,” a guard ordered. After Anders and two Hannanites reluctantly entered the filthy cell, the guard put his hand out to block Cetera. “The rest of you on the other side.” Anders began to protest but received a baton in the jaw for his efforts. Cetera fumed but obeyed to avoid getting the same treatment, or worse—Who knew what these people were capable of? She had never travelled beyond Norbit, and

that was long ago, in the time she blocked from memory when her parents were alive. The ominous clang of the cell door slamming shut and bolted brought her back to the present. The sound of hard boots on stone echoed down the hallway, fading until the distant sound of a metal door shut and left them in silence. Only the flickering torchlight and the skittering of vermin interrupted the oppressive gloom. Anders attempted awkwardly to break the quiet. “Apparently, they did not want us together.” Cetera looked at him like he spoke nonsense. “Oh? Do you think so, Anders? Whatever gave you that idea?” He looked down, bearing the brunt of her frustration, of their failure. His jaw hurt. He thought it might be broken. And now he felt like a fool. He leaned back against the cold, moist wall and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Anders. I didn’t mean that. I can’t believe…” “No talking,” a voice overhead hollered down. Cetera looked up to a balcony that ran around the perimeter of the cells on the next level. So that’s where they keep watch from. “My friend is hurt. He needs attention. Please! You must help him.” The guard peered over. “I have orders to keep an eye on you until the king comes. You can plead with him if you like.” The pitiless laugh that followed as he returned to his chair hinted that the king was not one given to kindness. Hill-men, Cetera thought in disgust. A motion caught her eye. A glint off steel or some other shiny object. A guard peeped around the corner. He had his finger to his lips. “Shhhh, I am one of you. I sneaked in with them wearing this armour from one of their fallen soldiers.” She leaned forward, straining to hear him. “I’ll relieve the jailor, then get you out of here. A age runs from over there,”

he said pointing to some shelves along the wall near the jailor’s office, “and comes out behind a fireplace in a small study not far from the northern gate. We may have just enough time to open them.” “Will my uncle be there on the other side?” The soldier frowned. “We can only hope. My instincts tell me yes—For how long, I cannot say. He would not leave you here and doesn’t know you have been caught.” Cetera had not noticed until now that Anders had been watching them curiously. She laughed in spite of herself. “He must be thinking I am making a deal with the devil.” She made a sign indicating he was one of them. Anders acknowledged with a nod. The soldier said, “Wish me luck.” “Good luck,” she said as he disappeared back into the darkness. Upstairs, Istolar emerged on a battlement that ran above the gates overlooking both sides. He laughed to Gorgon at his side, “This is the rabble that drove you back?” Being of the race he was born into, Gorgon was unaffected By Istolar’s biting remarks. He answered simply, “Rakshasssasss.” “Yes, so you say. “He turned his attention to Ferdugar. “Well met O king,” his voice carried out across the expanse in front of the gates where bodies still lay. “What business have you bringing an army on our soil? Do you have grievances you wish to settle?” Ferdugar winced. Where is Cetera? He struggled to find words. “Exploiting the trade routes has brought this war upon yourself King Istolar. You have only yourself to blame.” Istolar laughed and answered in a condescending tone, “Is that why you have come? To barter in blood instead of words?” He paused to gauge the Hannanite king’s reaction, then pointed his bony finger. “This is why you broke your word?” Ferdugar appeared like a weak and frail old man before him; a plaything provided for his amusement.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust and scoffed to Gorgon, “This snivelling—king— is a stain that should be scrubbed off our doorstep.” The sight of Ferdugar wavering before him triggered Istolar’s thirst for wickedness. He felt giddy with the notion of crushing his will. “You may leave in peace, if you desire, mighty king of Hannan. As repayment for your act of aggression against the peaceful Ukorstrian nation, Cetera will remain as my consort. The noble commander, Anders, must be punished however, and the others I return to you as a gesture of goodwill.” His heart sank. He struggled to maintain his composure, fought the urge to vomit right then and there. It took all his strength to stop his wobbly knees from buckling. I have failed her—I have failed my people. Before he could muster a reply, the gate unexpectedly opened. Istolar seemed unaware of what was happening below. “Very lovely she is indeed O king. I am most grateful for this gift.” A guard tugged urgently on his robe. “Sire… the gate… it’s opened.” Gorgon reacted immediately. And so did Ferdugar. This was his chance for redemption. The sight of his niece renewed his courage and he responded vigorously. “TO THE GATES!” Although they were hopelessly outnumbered, the Hannan infantry stormed in, taking control of the gates before any resistance could be mounted. However, Gorgon was usually prepared for the unexpected as he was now. Replacements for the retreating soldiers were already positioned around the perimeter of the yard. Ferdugar’s men gained the castle, however, they could proceed no further and found themselves surrounded by Ukorstrian armour. Gorgon and Istolar watched the slaughter unfold. A handful of archers used the high vantage point to pick off the enemy, especially those that appeared to lead the charge. “What a waste of lives. These men would have made a good shield against Jumaki,” Istolar said. “Can you get a shot at Cetera? She seems to be the one in charge. Without her, maybe they will lose their will and surrender.” Gorgon’s keen vision spotted her at the side of Ferdugar. “Yesss, I ssseesss both. Many sssoldiersss they killsss. Fightsss with much energy,” Gorgon replied with

iration. Istolar snapped irritably, “Kill them!” Gorgon gestured to an archer to give up his bow. He notched an arrow. Drawing the bowstring back with strength that threatened to snap the bow in half, he took careful aim. Ferdugar had been keeping an eye on them up on the battlement. When he saw Gorgon with the bow he cried out, “Cetera! WATCH OUT! Gorgon!” She did not hear Ferdugar’s warning, as the circle closed in around them. Ferdugar raised his sword, directing the gem studded hilt toward Gorgon. A blinding flash erupted causing Gorgon’s arrow to miss his target. —THUNK— The arrow missed her, but found his shoulder. “UNCLE!” Cetera gasped. She moved quick to get him out of Gorgon’s line of fire. —THUNK— Another arrow buried into his side. He groaned, dropping to his knees. Blood spilled on to the the yard, pooling around him. He managed to get to his feet and flailed at several Ukorstrians closing in on him. One fell from the king’s sword plunged into his chest, while the others hesitated for fear of being next. “ENOUGH!” She yelled. Istolar motion for Gorgon to hold fire as he was about to let a third arrow fly. Down in the courtyard, the sounds of battle died as both sides drew their attention to the stricken king. “Take him to the ward,” Istolar ordered, referring to the healing ward. Cetera clutched her uncle, refusing to release him. “You will—never take him— from me!” she said between sobs. Gorgon looked to Istolar. The king rolled his eyes and said, “Very well, let her accompany him.”

Gorgon followed the servants bearing the grievously wounded king. When they reached the ward, the healer, Troy, greeted them. She examined Ferdugar and spoke to Cetera, “I will prepare some balms, but do not hold much hope.” Gorgon said, “I’ll be back in two hoursss. Makesss your peassse.” “That’s ‘peace’ you sssnake! Why don’t you go eat one?” She slammed the door on him, narrowly missing his snout. She patted Ferdugar’s head. “You’re so warm. Don’t talk, just rest until the healer returns.” Troy appeared in the doorway. “Give him these,” she said, handing two vials of a purple mixture to Cetera. “They will bring down his fever until I can make something stronger.” Ferdugar opened his eyes. Slowly they focused on her and a faint smile spread across his cracked lips. She mixed the potion in a cup of water and lifted it to his mouth, spilling much of it as he tried to drink. He leaned back on the bed. “I’m sorry, I have little strength.” “Strength will return to you, Uncle.” She clasped his hand in hers. “You lost a lot of blood.” Two hours to the minute later, the door creaked open behind Cetera. Gorgon entered the room unannounced. “Timesss to go.” “Five more minutes, please.” “Five minutesss, no more.” Gorgon left, leaving the door open behind him. “My time…” he began to say, but thought better of it. “Your eyes, they used to sparkle. I would dearly love to see that sparkle one more time.” His tone disturbed her. “Don’t talk like that. When this is all over, we’ll return to Castlerock and everything will be as it was before. I promise you.” “I disappointed you, broke your trust…” Sobs turned into heavy wheezing as he fought for breath. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Cetera became frightened. She knew if she called for help, Gorgon would simply tell her time was up and take her away.

Ferdugar finally caught his breath. “But know this,” he said, softly caressing her cheek, “I always have and always will love you more than life itself.” Cetera clamped her eyes shut, struggling to contain her emotions, but tears poured forth like water over a broken dam. She rested her head on his chest and wept uncontrollably. In that cruel moment, she could not feel the heaving of his chest, could not feel his breathing. She looked up to find the king staring blankly ahead where their eyes last met. The sword he so proudly held aloft in Jumaki’s gur had served him well, saving her from sharing his fate. A single tear ran down her cheek and onto the hilt where it mingled with the gemstones. She placed it across his chest and folded his hands on top. “Rest in peace, dear Uncle.” Troy entered with Gorgon. Troy placed the healing balms on a table and went to Cetera’s side. “I’m sorry.” “Five minutesss up,” Gorgon announced. “He’s dead. By your hand, the only one I have ever known, the one who rescued me from the wretched Hill-men, is gone now forever.” For the first time, Gorgon showed the slightest hint of comion. “I am sssorry.” She rose to her feet and faced him, locking eyes with his alien and expressionless orbs. She stepped closer, revulsion filling her as she forced herself to confront him, confront the being that took her beloved uncle from her. He did not flinch or even showed any indication he knew she was there. Then she beat him. In a blind rage, she kicked and punched him. Black blood oozed from his wounds, mingling with her own cuts from pounding his rough leathery skin. Yet, he remained motionless as she spent every last bit of energy on assaulting him. When she slumped to the floor in exhaustion, he allowed her a brief moment to catch her breath, then said, “Sssave fight for Aegiansss and Bandi warriorsss.” He called his lieutenants to release the prisoners into battle as Cetera followed him outside, resigned to die in battle. He said to her without turning around, “They will be yoursss to command, Hannan sssoldiersss. Fightsss better, livesss longer. No gamesss. Treachery isss inssstant death. Understandsss?”

“Yes.” She rose to her feet slowly, ignoring his outstretched arm. They ed several more rooms in the healing ward where the grievously wounded or ill were given care. At the centre, a wondrous refuge encouraged the sick to heal faster or the dying to have peace; a paradise that she least expected to find in a fortress such as Zaranstaad. She spotted small creatures flitting about and varieties of brightly coloured birds. Although enclosed, this area was open to the sky above, yet warm and humid, even in winter. She soon discovered why: Hot springs gurgled at its core, providing a tropical paradise for the sanctuary roughly the size of a large ballroom. Exotic plants and vines turned and twisted around ancient gnarled dogwood trees. As she followed Gorgon, she stared at the back of Gorgon’s head thinking how she could kill him. He didn’t seem to feel vulnerable walking ahead of her. Perhaps nothing she could do would cause him much harm. How much at home he looked here, she thought, half-expecting him to snatch a lizard trying to scurry out of the way and gobble it up. She feared her suspicions were true when he announced, “Eatsss firssst.” When he saw her disgusted expression, he continued, “In captain’sss quartersss. You are an offissser of Ukorssstrian army now and treated asss sssuch… Until you prove otherwissse. Other captainsss will be presssent. Princesss getsss to know them.” “Stop calling me that!” The word reminded her how alone she was; how her uncle’s face would never again smile upon her amid the turmoil that strained their last days together. “Sssetera then.” The sound of her name spoken by him made her feel sick, but she would have to get used to it. They reached the other end of the sanctuary and re-entered the castle through a small wooden door. Up a short flight of stairs, they emerged near the beginning of a long, marble hallway leading to the main keep. The north wing paled in comparison to the sight before her. Greater statues stood

towered on either side, each more magnificent than others she had seen before. These were the founders, the first kings of Ukorstria beginning with King Dadreus and Queen Marian. Conspicuously absent in Dadreus’ hands was the Sword of Girdion. In its place, a blade of unknown origin was held aloft. Above, a depiction of a mortally wounded Popobawa spread from one side of the hall to the other. Further down, shops offering exquisite wares lined both sides. These were not the cramped, noisy markets of below, but expensive retailers exclusive to nobles. A few storekeepers peered at Cetera curiously as they ed by. At length, they reached the main keep itself. Gorgon pushed open one of two heavy oak doors. If Cetera was expecting the main keep to be an even greater wonder, she would have been disappointed. Although quite spectacular in its own right, functionality became the priority in the architecture. Visual grandeur gave way to defensive considerations. Cetera looked upon the rather plain throne that Istolar seldom occupied. Other than some basic designs carved onto the worn wood surface, it bore little resemblance to what she had imagined as they walked along the connecting corridor from the north wing. Gorgon opened a door into a smoky room where maps and documents lay scattered on a large table. She recognized Barandur immediately, locking eyes with his. He had aged visibly since he escaped from Norbit. Streaks of grey ran through his long, black hair and his youthful face began to show lines of worry. Dark circles formed under his eyes from insomnia. He carried himself like a tormented soul. Where was Meehan? Was he not a captain? As she searched the room, she spotted Liam. Such a young man. She had no idea he was even younger than he appeared. But who was he? “Sssit,” Gorgon instructed. “This is it? This is all you have to stand against Aegia?” “Huron and Torin remain in Verdun,” Barandur said. “Miradan, Landur and Kirik are with them to launch a surprise attack once Jumaki’s forces are preoccupied with Zaranstaad—if we survive that long. Zerak is responsible for

the castle’s defences and is too busy to attend.” “Where are my men?” she asked, feeling Liam’s eyes upon her, studying her. “You will them at the gates soon. Anders may maintain his rank in your division if you wish.” “If I wish,” she repeated sarcastically. “I wish I were at home by the fire, not served as fodder to dull your enemy’s blades.” “Our enemy,” Barandur corrected. “Whatever,” Cetera sighed. “When do we begin?” “Soon enough. Eat now. Food and rest…” “Will probably be my last,” she finished for him. Mutton chops served with potatoes and carrots were brought in generous portions. Although she was not hungry, Cetera didn’t leave any scraps. They ate in silence, each lost in their own thoughts as a sense of doom stifled conversation. Liam, being no stranger to the unexpected, broke the silence. “I’ll go with them.” Barandur and Gorgon stared in disbelief. “Do you know what you’re saying?” Barandur asked. “Your time will come. And you must be ready when that beast is unleashed upon us.” Realization dawned on Cetera. “So you are the one,” she said, surprise and awe in her tone. “That’s what this is all about.” “I am not afraid of them. What I am afraid of is all this waiting around for the inevitable.” He pushed his plate out and repeated resolutely, “I will go with them.” Barandur turned to Gorgon. “King Istolar will not like this. He didn’t exactly welcome me back from Verdun with open arms.”

“Liam’sss decisssion, Liam tellsss king himssself.” Liam stood. “I’ll do that right now.” “Come prin… Sssetera, it isss time.” She found Anders and the remnants of her army, about sixteen-hundred, gathered in the courtyard. Fear was on their faces and in their hearts, so palpable she could almost taste it. If there was ever a time for a rallying call, now was that time. Climbing onto a cart, the Ice Queen spoke above the approaching war drums and chants of the enemy. “You have fought many battles, proud soldiers of Hannan. And survived to finish each one before returning to your families. Glorious are your achievements and a hero’s welcome awaits thee.” Reception was mixed from the soldiers, and understandably so. The enemy they now faced were allies only a short while before. Now they were expected to fight them against their will. But none of that mattered now. If they were to survive, they must be victorious, and Cetera was determined to save as many lives as possible. Ferdugar’s death would have meaning. “ with me now. Let us herald in a new era of peace between nations. Fight for freedom! Fight FOR HANNAN!” “For Hannan,” they cheered. “FOR HANNAN!” “FOR HANNAN!” the chorus rose, then in unison, they cried again, “FOR HANNAN!” On the other side of the outer gates, the enemy pressed, eager to finish the business of war and hardship; eager to return to their own families after months in foreign lands. The battering rams set to work on the southern gates. The gates shook and strained under the hammering of the rams while Kai ordered fireballs launched from catapults. Rocks were wrapped in oil-soaked cloth and ignited, then hurled over the walls. Some landed perilously close to where Cetera rallied her troops. With grim determination she said, “Let it begin.”

Zerak had finished readying the trebuchets without a moment to spare. They welcomed the Aegians with an impressive barrage with their extended range, forcing Kai to withdraw the catapults. Even so, two of the precious siege machines were lost before being pulled back. Cetera managed to bring her men to defend the gates under withering fire, losing a third before reaching the relative protection of the outer wall. This was not the encouraging start she had hoped for, but morale held—for the time being. But now they could return fire through arrow slits from fortified turrets placed every two hundred feet along the wall. The Bandi warriors and Aegian Khuppa were driven back, except for the battering rams, which continued to weaken the iron gates under cover of thick wooden shields designed explicitly for this purpose. Liam arrived leading two brigades. They brought with them vats of hot oil that were hoisted up to the battlement over the gates by pulleys mounted on the wall. Horrific screams accompanied the acrid stench of burning flesh as the oil was released from above then ignited by flaming arrows. By sheer numbers, the defenders were overwhelmed as siege ladders sprang up all along the length of the wall. Liam raced along the wall decapitating enemies as they reached the top, then hacking at the last few rungs to render them unusable. Yet, many more replaced them, as if they had unlimited supply. Then the unthinkable happened. Liam found himself surrounded on both sides when he ventured too far from friendly . There was no escape. Lengu was among the dozen or so Aegian soldiers present. Having knowledge of the Sword of Girdion’s recovery, he eyed it and Liam curiously, wondering if the Ukorstrian captains would be foolish enough to assign their prized fighter to front lines. Jumaki would surely have to regard him with respect if he could deliver such a prize captive alive. He ordered his men to stand down, allowing Liam to catch his breath. Liam likely would not have been able to keep them at bay much longer. Panting heavily, he ed himself with hands on knees and eyed Lengu warily. Lengu boldly stepped forward. His eyes lowered on the sword. He examined its markings, the fine craftsmanship, and knew at once this was indeed the Sword of

Girdion. “Give me the sword and you are free to return to your people.” With limited options, Liam stalled for time, searching for an escape route or a miracle to get out of the predicament he put himself in. Lengu’s shadow gave him an idea. Angling the sword, he directed the reflection toward the castle where he hoped someone might see it. But Lengu was getting impatient. “Don’t play games my friend. I could just as easily cut you down right here, right now, and take it from you.” “How do I know you won’t kill me anyway.” Lengu laughed, “You don’t. The way I see it, you’ll have to take that chance. What choice is there?” “Live to fight another day… maybe, or face certain death.” Lengu narrowed his eyes, suddenly apprehensive with Liam’s talk. “You speak like a simpleton, not a defender of the realm. I…” A blinding flash exploded at the point where Liam’s sword reflected the sunlight as Istolar concentrated its power a thousand times. Liam instantly shut his eyes and barged head first toward the gate, toppling Aegians over the wall as he ploughed through. “STOP HIM!” Lengu cried, but Liam was already beyond reach, and none, save Lengu, had a bow. He notched an arrow and trained it on Liam’s back. He didn’t care at this point if he killed him or not, so long as he retrieved the sword. The arrow flew from his bow and whizzed over the heads of the pursuing soldiers, catching Liam in the left soldier and spinning him around. He cried out in pain, but stayed on his feet and kept running. He fought to ignore the burning sensation in his shoulder, surmising it must be poisoned. However, poisoned or not made little difference now. He had to keep moving. The world blurred before him. He could not even be sure he wouldn’t run right off the wall. Elena appeared before him. Is this a dream? She looked so real, beckoning him. He followed her, trusting in her guidance. The poison pumped through his veins with every stride as he raced for his life until his legs gave out from under him. He collapsed to the ground, crying out Elena’s name as he fell.

While convulsions shook his body violently, he heard the sound of heavy boots approaching. Liam blinked at the blurry face hovering over him. Slowly his eyes cleared, and he was relieved to find a familiar face. “Barandur!” “Every time I find you sleeping, boy.” “Yes, I Anna. But I last being outnumbered on the outer wall.” “Indeed you were, and felled by a poison arrow as you tried to escape. You’re lucky to be alive after your foolish antics.” “I knew you would come for me,” Liam smiled sheepishly. Barandur’s expression straightened. “Lives were lost. King Istolar made your escape possible and has demanded you now report directly to him.” “I thought as much. I suppose I got caught up in the action. Anything else I missed? Did Cetera survive?” “She was here moments ago to check on you. Seems like you have an irer.” Liam blushed, and for a second he looked like the young boy his years told him he should be. “I will keep her safe from harm, Barandur.” Barandur cocked an eyebrow at his reaction. “The king will see you when you’re able,” he said and turned to leave. “Barandur?” Liam stopped him. “What is it?” he said without turning around. “Will he order me back from the front?” “I can’t say, but given the fact you are recovering and Popobawa looms out there somewhere, that is likely, but not before then.”

Liam sat up. Pain still burned in his shoulder from residual poison left from Lengu’s arrow. Outside, the late afternoon sun shone brightly, favouring the defenders by blinding the attackers and leaving them open to ranged fire. Even birds chirped in the absence of chaotic battle, as if promising spring both in spirit and on the field. However Jumaki also welcomed the weather as it brought welcome relief to his troops as they fought their way north through a sometimes bitter winter. He expected food supplies to be replenished soon but the spoils from Taroga and Muran could last them until spring if need be. What concerned him most was the almost depleted stock of arrows. Kai and Lengu were instructed to fire only on targets of opportunity. In Zaranstaad, Ukorstria’s stronghold, that opportunity rarely presented itself. And so an unnatural calm settled over the battlefield. The night ed without incident, except for a handful of sappers attempting to tunnel under the walls. They were spotted and picked off by watchful lookouts posted in every tower along the outer wall. Initially, Lengu proposed the plan to Jumaki, who liked the idea so much, he took credit for it himself. When sappers started falling by the dozen, Jumaki blamed Lengu for its failure. Yet, in two places, they managed to come out the other side. One between the main gate and the first battlement tower to the west, and the other, to the east of the gate, in a pine grove near the Gardens of Zaranstaad. Guards standing watch at the gate were the first to notice the breach. Gorgon was immediately informed and he dispatched an engineering detachment to the site promptly. After repelling the first wave to emerge from the tunnel, an acidic broth devised by Istolar and Zerak was poured into the opening. Agonizing screams erupted from within the tunnel as the concoction burned the flesh off the men inside. Gorgon arrived at the site at this time. With cold indifference, he said, “Sssearch for more breachesss after sssealing ssshut thisss one.” An hour later, the gate captain reported, “All secure sir. Spotters in the towers cut their work short.” “Towersss not everywhere.”

“Sir?” “Never mind. Looksss myssself.” Gorgon loped off leaving the confused gate captain scratching his head. He knew every inch of the castle from a tactical standpoint; one of his strengths he had over the competent but unimaginative counterpart, Barandur. His suspicions were confirmed at the site where he discovered an opening through the tangled underbrush near the gardens. But what he found there he did not expect: Three Aegians dead, fear frozen on their faces. No oilsss needed here. Othersss come and turnsss back. Something lurksss deep under, I feelsss chill of death. Dead awakening. They ssssense they sssmell death in battle. Sssoon we learn who sssurvivesss. Sss . . . A foul stench rose from the entrance; the smell of eternal decay. Gnarled roots entangled the corpses, pulling them down. Gorgon stepped back to avoid them, but they came from all around.

Liam bolted upright, awakened by a dream where Gorgon was being swallowed by the earth. Istolar stood at the end of the bed, coolly observing him. How long had he been standing there? For an instant, Istolar’s face appeared as Brekor’s, bringing his attention back to his dream. He felt as if it were important but couldn’t put the pieces together. Who is at his side? Queen Marian? Istolar interrupted his thoughts. “You were to come see me, but given your condition, I thought I would save you the trouble,” he said, flashing his crooked, unwholesome grin. “I’m sorry. Yes, I meant to. I must have fallen back asleep.” “Then you are probably already aware why.” Liam knew he was going to be reprimanded for going to the front to help Cetera. However, he kept quiet and waited for Istolar to chastise him. Slightly annoyed by getting no response, Istolar continued, “That was a foolish act on your part. The kingdom was put in peril by your lack of judgement. If you had fallen, and the sword confiscated, who then would defeat Popobawa?” “I’m sorry, Sire. I… Who is this by your side?” “Kayla escaped from their camp with a wealth of information we may find useful.” “Oh, well met then.” Liam propped himself up with a pillow with an effort. “Where do you hail from?” “My home is in Muran,” Kayla replied. “I was captured while delivering a message from Lord Fairmont to King Istolar.” Liam studied her pretty, young face. In some ways, she resembled Anna, with her delicate features and long, flowing locks. Come to think of it, they both look like Arianna. He could not shake the feeling she was an opportunist who used her charm and beauty as a weapon. Not that Istolar would care, he concluded and dismissed the thought.

Again Brekor’s face replaced Istolar’s. He wore a pleading expression, like he was trying to communicate something. Liam blinked his eyes, trying to clear his vision, then suddenly realized the peril: “Gorgon! I have to help him! He is in grave danger. The gardens…” “Have you listened to nothing I have said?” Istolar glared at him with barely controlled anger. Liam met the king’s furious glowering with composure that belied his age. “Did you hear what I just said? Gorgon is in trouble. I don’t have time to explain other than, I must try to save him.” Holding his gaze a little longer, Istolar withdrew and said, “I will go with you.” “We must hurry.” No longer aware of his injury and despite jabs of pain shooting up his arm, Liam charged with Istolar toward the gardens. No sign of Gorgon could be found. “We are too late,” Istolar cried. “Whatever foul creature could have taken him?” The earth rolled under their feet, as if the earth itself were answering. “Not who, but what,” Liam replied. Drawing the Sword of Girdion, he attempted to invoke its powers. “Hear me, O mighty kings of old. Tame these grounds. Remove the wrath that holds our warlord captive.” Upon uttering the last word, he thrust the sword deep into the soil. Nothing happened. Istolar looked at him skeptically. This is the one with whom the nation’s destiny rests? Raising his staff, he recited, “Tempestas,” and held his staff high, pointing toward the heavens. A dark cloud formed above, roiling with angry energy. Cetera had seen it before; a much larger one that took the lives of most of their army. Of the survivors under her command, many fled in terror. Lengu had taken notice of the undefended wall and organized a hasty attack. Blinding bolts of lightning erupted from the menacing cloud smashing into the ground in a spectacular display. Yet, they had no more effect than Liam’s efforts as the lightning discharged harmlessly into the earth.

While Cetera reorganized her troops to repel the latest assault, something else stirred in the depths of the catacombs. Cailin had heard Liam’s call. He looked into the milky orbs of Elena, both sharing their loss. Painful memories resurfaced between them. ing hands, they tamed the wild, ancient vegetation that protected their domain. Their mournful lament spread through every branch, vine and root until the entire garden began to wilt. With the shuddering of leaves and undergrowth, the roots retracted, releasing Gorgon from their snare. “Better get out of there. I don’t want to have to explain to the men that plants devoured their warlord,” Istolar said without humour. Liam grinned in spite of himself. Gorgon arrived to chaos at the outer gate. While the gate towers were still held by Ukorstrian forces, the entire wall had been compromised. Bandi infantry pushed forward steadily, unyielding and without mercy. Aegian Khuppa cut down the retreating remnants of Hannanites under Cetera’s command. The scene quickly dispelled the elation Liam felt for having freed Gorgon—at least, he thought he had been responsible for the earth releasing him. He locked eyes with Cetera for an instant across the battlefield. Even at that distance, he could see the despair on her blood-streaked face. She was about to become what Istolar had intended—A buffer to slow the enemy down. Anger and hatred burned through Liam’s veins like firewater. Now they will taste the true power in the sword. My sword. Blood lust flashed in his eyes. He drove the Sword of Girdion deep into the earth, a third of its length, and cried, “Kings of Ukorstria, vanquish these villains who defile our land!” He looked over his shoulder expecting to see an army of wraiths charging out to meet them. But there was nothing. When he looked back again, she was gone. He scanned the field for signs of her. Only pockets of Hannanites still stood their ground and these too were falling under the sheer numbers of Aegians. “Fallsss back to keepsss,” Gorgon ordered. Liam looked over to find Istolar waiting for him to obey Gorgon’s command. A

figure ran toward them. Even from the distance, panic betrayed his pace, as if terror threatened to immobilize him. Malik tried to run faster, but his efforts worked against him. He felt like he was trying to escape a nightmare. In fact, he was. I must warn them. Despite the force holding him back, he managed to reach Istolar. “Sire, come quickly! Popobawa is being summoned. Barandur spotted the summoners gathering from the Zaranspire. He sent me to warn you. Liam felt a pit in his stomach. “Where did he see them?” “Further down the road, toward Verdun.” “Torin must be informed.” “I will go.” Liam ired the man’s courage. He was not much older than himself. “Barandur chose well to enlist your aid. Go then. Be quick. With any luck, they are already on the way.” “Just one problem,” Malik said. “Let me guess,” Barandur said. “How do you get past the Aegians?” “How did you know?” Barandur gave him a strange look, trying to discern if the lad was mocking him. He concluded he was just being his oddball self. “Before you can get by them, you must blend with them. In order to blend with them, you must look like one of them.” As quirky as Malik may be, he was not slow. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I have to wear a suit of their armour.” “Correct. I happen to have a clean suit that should fit you. The enemy took a club in the head but there was little blood so I cleaned it up for myself for such an emergency. Come, time is short.” Malik followed, regretting having volunteered now that the reality of the mission

had sunk in. Hanging up inside of a makeshift medic tent was a typical Aegian suit of leather and chain mesh. Not as protective as Ukorstrian, but flexible and useful for assault tactics. He climbed into it and pulled the helmet visor down. It was flimsy at best, and not really expected to be useful in the heat of combat. “There you go,” Barandur said teasingly. “A fine Aegian soldier you would make.” “Yes, well just make sure I don’t get an arrow in my back when I leave.” “I’ll see what I can do,” Barandur said in a more serious tone. “Good luck, my friend.” Malik smiled, feeling appreciated. He slipped out into the moonless night. Every twig that snapped underfoot set shivers running up his spine. The thought of getting caught and interrogated made his stomach churn. He was sure Aegian torture methods were ruthlessly efficient from everything he knew of Jumaki. His fears became realized when he spotted a shadowy figure ahead. In the almost complete blackness under the thick canopy of trees, he was surprised he was even able to stop the… Oh no! The figure peered in his direction. Damn! Panic flooded through him. He resisted the urge to run, opting instead to crouch down and hide. Just another wild animal. He rested there, trying to keep his heart from pounding out of his chest. The woods went quiet. Where is he? A hand flashed out of nowhere and cupped over his mouth. He wanted to scream but could barely breathe. “Who are you?” a voice demanded. But he could not answer. The heavy, calloused hand held him firm. He made some noises in a feeble attempt to answer. Slowly, the hand slid away just enough for him to speak. “Malik,” he blurted out. “You are not Aegian?” “No,” the man replied “You are not Bandi?”

“No. I am Huron of Ferndale.” “Thank the Gods!” Malik breathed a sigh of relief. “What are you doing out here by yourself?” “I might ask the same of you?” “Forgive me. I am Malik, Barandur’s runner, if you will. The Summoners are calling upon Popobawa at this very moment. They remain far back out of range of Zaranstaad’s archers. Are the knights able to attack from behind?” “Have the trebuchets been able to reach them?” “I… I don’t know.” “Never mind. Come, we will this over to Torin.” “I have to return. Barandur may have other assignments.” “I insist. It’s not very far.” Malik hesitated. “I suppose…” He went with Huron. He never met him before. Barandur had spoke of him; that he was a brave and noble man. Yet, something didn’t feel right. He expected him to be more up front, more forward. This man was quiet and soft spoken. The crackling of a campfire came from ahead. Shadows danced off the trees in a small clearing. The bloodied body of a man was propped against a tree, his hands tied behind his back and feet bound with chains. He was alive, though barely, and opened one swollen eye enough to see Malik. With terrible realization, Malik knew he had just met Huron.

When Two Worlds Collide

From atop the Zaranspire, Barandur watched nervously while Istolar stared curiously at the spectacle unfolding below. Neither broke the tense silence. Both knew the outcome if the Summoners were able to complete their insidious ritual. Barandur could stand it no longer. “Damnation! Where is that boy?” Istolar cocked an eyebrow, looking sidelong down his crooked nose he said, “Never send a boy to do a man’s work—but that would exclude you as well.” “He has never failed me before.” “These… King’s Guard,” Istolar spat, as if the mention of their name left an awful taste in his mouth, “are no stranger to failure.” “Malik is not from the King’s Guard.” “He might as well be—going for their help. What can a blacksmith hope to accomplish against an enemy of such power?” “Torin was a King’s Guard, before you banished him to Verdun to forge weapons and armour.” Barandur knew he was pushing his luck. Istolar had little patience with opposition. The disbanding of the King’s Guard was testimony to that. He looked over to find Istolar grinning sinisterly at him. “They will come,” he added quickly in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “And if they don’t? The fate of the kingdom lies with his pup.” Gorgon entered the room to Barandur’s relief. “Fieldsss clearsss enemy retreatsss for now, but wallsss no longer ssstand.” “What are they waiting for?” Istolar asked impatiently. “Perhapsss demonsss comesss in next wave.” “I know that!” Istolar snapped.

“Why doesss king asssk?” “Remind me next time to get a human warlord,” Istolar sighed in exasperation. “Where is Liam?” “At princesss ssside. She isss near death.” Istolar shrugged. “Bring him to me.” Gorgon and Barandur looked at each other, each expecting the other to do Istolar’s bidding. Barandur gave in reluctantly. He was talking to you, he thought irritably as he left the chamber. He found Liam sobbing over Cetera. Her eyes fluttered as he entered the room. He felt for her pulse; it was weak. Kneeling down beside Liam, he put a hand on his shoulder. “The king wishes to see you.” “I do not wish to see him,” Liam replied bitterly. “If I hadn’t been saving his lizard for him, this never would have happened.” Barandur bit his lip. “You forget how you ended up in here yourself. You are a brave lad. Too much for your own good sometimes.” “Courage is something dealt to you, not within you.” Barandur looked up, trying to work out if that made sense. He shrugged. “Come, you can check on her later.” “It may be too late by then.” “Possibly. No-one ever claimed war was fair.” Barandur hated to sound callous but now was not the time to dwell on the casualties of battle. Many more will perish before the day is done. Tomorrow will be much the same, until the outcome is ultimately decided. Liam rose to his feet, looking upon Cetera as if it may be for the last time, and followed Barandur out of the hall. Liam watched Barandur trudging up the long, winding stairs ahead of him. His shoulders slouched, as if under the strain of too many burdens; guilt, remorse, unworthiness. Yet, he never shirked his duties, never shied away from confrontation. He struggled with his conscience ever

since the night he betrayed Cailin to King Istolar that led to the latter becoming ruler over Ukorstria. Istolar greeted Liam with customary indifference. “I see you are feeling much better.” Liam bowed, resenting the very motion. “Yes, Sire. Ready to resume duty.” His tone betrayed his feelings: Curt and dry without conviction. “Good. You will obey orders this time, young soldier.” Istolar leaned forward, menace twinkling in his eyes. “So young… So strong…” His eyes lingered over Liam’s handsome frame. Barandur turned away in disgust, his own memories resurfacing like bile. Liam simply stood his ground, determined not to reveal any emotion. Istolar’s eyes became hooded. Deviant thoughts bubbled to the surface. What I would do if . . . “SIRE! THEY HAVE BROKEN DOWN THE MAIN GATE!” The sudden appearance of the guard rattled Istolar. He stared at him speechless for several seconds before he recovered. “Why have I not heard of this until now? Gorgon, Barandur, defend the gate at all costs. It MUST HOLD!” He turned to Liam. “You will remain here.” Liam gulped. He had faced down fear many times before, but now he felt its poisonous effects: Weakness in the knees, stomach pains, nausea and… “Hold out your hand,” Istolar said softly. Liam obliged, trying desperately to control the trembling in his left arm as he extended it. Istolar smiled, apparently pleased at Liam’s unease. “Life is short, is it not?” he cooed as he stepped closer and took Liam’s hand. His mind raced for a way out. Then, like a fuse detonated inside him, he rediscovered his backbone. “You killed my father,” he said quietly. Istolar stepped back, unprepared for the forthright nerve of this boy before him. He furrowed his bushy brows. “Your father? Your father was a hapless drunkard, unfit to rule his own table let alone a kingdom. I rescued Ukorstria from being

trampled by aggressive nations that sought to destroy her!” Liam looked out the window at the carnage below. “Whatever you are doing does not seem to be working.” Now it was Istolar’s turn to tremble. He shook with rage. THE AUDACITY! FOOLISH PUP! “I should kill you here and now then feed you to the carrion birds!” “They will certainly pick your own bones clean once Popobawa has finished with you—if there is anything left to pick.” The mention of the demon-beast brought Istolar back from his rage. He slumped back into his chair, regarding Liam while the fire in his eyes cooled to their customary cold glare. He picked up a tankard of mead from the table and examined it as if it were some new curiosity piece, then downed it in one gulp. He lifted his eyes to meet Liam, who hadn’t moved, and said aimply, “Leave.” Liam gave a perfunctory half-bow and left the king stewing in his misery. That’s better, he smirked. Now to check on Cetera quickly before I see Barandur. He skipped down the steps three at a time and raced across the courtyard to the healing wards. Chunks of rock littered the area, indicating Aegians had pulled their catapults close to within striking range of the castle’s vital defensive points. He found Cetera in obvious discomfort but even so, in better shape than when he had left her. He placed a palm gently on her forehead. “You’re burning up.” She smiled with an effort. “Fever is breaking. I’ll survive.” “You better,” he said, then added quickly, “We need you.” But she detected the awkwardness in his tone and correctly translated his remark to, ‘I need you.’ “We need you too,” She replied teasingly. Liam blushed, inexperience evident in his reaction. “I have to go. Rest here. Everything will be alright.” “Where will I go?” “Nowhere if I can help it,” he said, then left quickly before his embarrassment

would betray him again. Cetera laughed. She lay back on her pillow, closing her eyes and feeling the sun beam through the window to warm her face. The sounds of battle outside grew distant. Memories flooded through her. A young girl playing in the meadow with her friend. As the sun set, she skipped along the dirt trail leading to her house. Tall asp trees lined the trail casting long shadows while butterflies fluttered about in front of her. She had been so content. Then she saw two unkempt men leaving her house—Hill-men. She would never forget the sickening feeling in her stomach when she found them murdered, lying in their own blood on the kitchen floor. If not for her uncle Ferdugar, she probably would have died of grief—and now he was gone too. She bolted upright. Damn this to HELL! She grabbed her sword and shield. I’ll not lie here waiting for them to come and take me. Anger overcame her pain. She dashed out of the ward and down to the field of battle. Her pace slowed as she approached the mayhem. From every direction, the enemy poured in. Only the main gate to the castle stood between the defenders and the Aegian-Bandi alliance. There, the battle was fiercest. Hannan no longer mattered. They would become a satellite state of a Greater Aegia. Ruled from the new capital, Zaranstaad, though a name change was almost certain. Castlerock would be reduced to an istrative centre. Only the last, most formidable stronghold of Ukorstria stood between victory and defeat. Liam sensed Cetera behind him—watching him. He could even feel the frown on her face; the confusion she felt was palpable. He had not desired it, but power grew within him as the helm and the sword fused into his being. Now he craved its power. He laughed softly at Jumaki’s ambition; his obsession with the symbol of power and wealth in the region. If it’s Zaranstaad he wants, let him come and take it. “Liam!” Cetera’s voice sounded distant, but brought him back to the present. The scene unfolded in front of him. Urgency tugged at his dreamy consciousness. Yet, reality intruded on his new-found love of absolute power. And it angered him. He hurled himself at the attackers. Aegians and Bandi alike

cowered under the fury of the Sword of Girdion. In wide arcs, the swords cut through large swaths of the enemy. The tide had turned and suddenly the castle looked as if its walls would keep the enemy at bay. However, far stronger and devious beings exist that cannot be defeated so easily. A rumbling sound caused the fighting to cease. War cries and the clashing of steel gave way to the growing upheaval in the earth. Liam realized with horror, the ground was opening up right underneath where Cetera stood. “Cetera! RUN!” She did so, but too late. A pool of inky blackness opened under her feet, darker than the deepest night. Lengu witnessed the summoning once before in Drakhar. Jumaki had craftily assumed control of Popobawa through him. Now he watched from a hill top between the gates and the Summoners, directing the exact location to where Cetera stood. For Lengu saw their bond in battle. It was palpable and he sought to destroy it, taking Liam’s will to fight by hurting him where he would be hurt most—his heart. For the first time she could , she screamed. The evil emanating from the pit overwhelmed her. She fought desperately to climb out, but the slippery edges made escape impossible. Liam watched in horror. The hole had begun to collapse. He was acutely aware of what lay on the other side, but what could he do? Soon she would be gone. He dove into the pit just as it closed. I must face him sooner or later. No bottom existed. In this world, reality was a matter of perception. He heard Cetera crying out, but her voice was thin and as insubstantial as the void around them. He stood on a plane that was both there, and not there. In the distance, black peaks jutted upward, occasionally spewing lava in powerful bursts—the only source of illumination in a world utterly devoid of light. In these fleeting instances, shadows formed briefly before being muted by the oppressive darkness. Silence enshrouded the realm in much the same way. A muffled scream pierced the gloom now and then, but were stifled abruptly. Probably new arrivals, Liam thought, wondering if he would meet Jumaki here. “This is not hell,” a voice spoke softly behind him. He recognized it at once,

though they never met. “Father!” “Yes, my son. I have longed to set eyes upon you. I will never know your touch. I’m sorry…” Cailin broke off. “I understand, Father,” Liam said quietly. “If not hell, then what is this place?” “Some call it the Void, others refer to it as the Netherworld. It is a gate, if you will, a place inhabited by fearsome creatures that test the faith of the dead.” “Have you ed this test?” “I am not dead. My fate, and that of your mother’s, rests on what transpires in your world.” “Of which depends how I fare against Popobawa,” Liam sighed. At times like this, he felt less like a hero and more like the boy his years dictated he should be. “Are you here to help?” “You possess the most powerful sword ever forged; one that can transcend planes. Use it wisely. It’s yours to command. No-one can do that for you.” “Very well,” Liam said. He felt oddly disconnected from his father in ways he would not have thought possible. “Then I will hunt down this pesky demon and cut his head off.” Cailin fixed a stern look upon Liam. “Do not be foolish. Underestimating Popobawa will likely turn out badly for you. Be prepared.” “Be prepared for what?” Liam objected, but Cailin was already gone. Great. Liam surveyed the void. There was little to see. Blackness was ubiquitous. Yet a subtle shift in the shade indicated pathways. From where he stood, one rose gently, another level, and the last one curved before dipping at a steep angle. His instincts tugged him toward the perilous downward path, but something else inspired him to follow the level route. Is Cailin guiding me? Tortured voices compelled him to turn back, gently at first, then more urgently.

The further he went, the heavier his steps became. The void was sucking the very life out of him. No living creature could endure this vast emptiness for long. This is a mistake. I should not have come here. Confronting Popobawa in my own world was one thing, but to tackle the demon in its natural domain was plain foolhardy. Yet, he had one advantage he was not aware of. Popobawa’s greatest asset was the ability to change shapes into whatever it desired. However, no other shapes existed here, effectively negating a significant advantage. Liam sneered. Perhaps the poor thing is scared. “Come and fight little worm. Here I am!” He threw his arms out wide in an outlandish gesture. “And here I am,” Cetera said, stepping out of the darkness. Liam stepped back. “How did you. Where did you come from?” “Does it matter? I am here—with you, my love.” She glided toward him, seemingly at ease in the absence of terrain. “We were meant for each other, you and I…” Liam rubbed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts in this strange land. For the first time, he became aware he was strongly attracted to the Ice Queen. He saw through the hard, cold shell into the fragile spirit within. This abomination that he faced was none of that, just an illusion, nothing more. “Come forth from the shadows, decrepit beast.” Initially the image of Cetera appeared hurt. Then she threw her head back and howled an insidious laughter. It chided, “Come forth yourself, pretend king. You are a guest in my land. Perhaps a lesson in manners is in order.” Its face twisted into a loathsome grimace as it approached Liam in slow, deliberate paces. Liam could not see what it was stepping on, but it mattered little, it was coming for him. He was transfixed by the ugliness imprinted on Cetera’s face. It paused in front of him, eyeing him as if his very soul was under scrutiny. Suddenly, it lashed out, grabbing his manhood and cruelly massaged him to an erection. It pulled him in and met his lips with its own—or what was left of them. Most of the flesh around its mouth was falling off in rancid strips.

Liam looked down and found to his horror he had an erection. In futility, he sought to subdue the rush of a climax. He reached orgasm amid screams of revulsion. Popobawa laughed in contempt. “The boy king cannot control himself. You are no different than I am… with the exception of being a weak and sick little boy. Go back to your land, little sprout. And take your whore with you. I want to meet the whole family now.” Before Liam could react, a violent force pushed him so hard he thought his heart would fly out through his mouth. When he opened his eyes, he was in his own chamber with Cetera sleeping beside him. He resisted the urge to jump out of bed upon seeing her so close. Was it just a dream? He reached over and gently shook her. “Cetera?” “Ugh… What… Hmmm?” “Cetera, wake up.” “Oh, Liam.” Her eyes opened wide, now fully awake. “What are we—What am I doing here? I was having a nasty nightmare. I was swallowed…” “That was not a nightmare. It was real. We were both trapped in the void. Popobawa sent us back and here we are.” She blinked, trying to absorb the whole chain of events. “Yes, I everything.” She smiled demurely. “You came to rescue me.” “Anyone would have done the same.” “Not anyone.” She pulled him down to her, kissing him softly and running her fingers through his hair. He relaxed, letting go of the tension, and returned her caress. He shivered as she traced her fingers along his back. “I’m a little new to this,” he said, sliding his fingers inside her. “You’re doing fine… Mmmmm, yes. Just like that. Oooohh…” —BANG— The door blew open. The young lovers leapt from the bed. Both grabbed for their weapons, but with a wave of his hand, Istolar knocked them out of their hands

with an invisible force. “If you can do that, why don’t you fight the demon yourself… What are you doing here?” an enraged Liam shouted. “I might ask you the same thing,” Istolar replied evenly. He casually seated himself on the edge of a dresser. “Where have you been?” He doesn’t know. Liam’s mind raced. He did not have time to concoct a story, or even determine if he should. “I was sucked into a—crevice of sorts, by Popobawa. It led to the void.” “Ah, the Netherworld.” Istolar nodded slowly. He looked over at Cetera who was busy fixing her hair. “And she ah… fell in too?” Liam took long breaths to steady himself. He had to keep his temper in check or the king may send Cetera to the dungeons. “It’s a long story.” Istolar studied them both. “How did you escape?” “We didn’t. It sent us back.” —BOOM— A loud thud sounded in the distance. Yet, the reverberations could be felt underfoot. Dishes rattled and pictures fell to the floor. Istolar paid no heed to the noise. “So you both ‘fell’ into this ‘crevice’ then? It seems Popobawa does not fear you.” Liam bit his lip, not liking the insinuations. There is no debating with this tyrant. “What do you want from me?” he sighed. “What I want,” Istolar repeated, “is both of you in your gear and down on the battlefield.” He left without waiting for a response, slamming the door behind him. “I hate that man,” Liam grumbled as he began suiting up. “Could be worse,” Cetera said. “I might have been locked up and waiting for my

tormentors to come after me.” —BOOM— “Seems like you have not much faith in me either.” “I didn’t mean it that way and you know it.” “Let’s just drop it. We better get out of here before he comes back. I doubt he went far.” “Agreed,” she replied a little more coldly than she intended. Istolar was nowhere to be seen outside Liam’s chambers. However, a guard posted outside the door left little doubt he was watching on the king’s behalf. Liam brushed past the guard irritably and made for the stairs leading down to the main level. The long hallway did not detour either left or right. Nor did any other hallways intersect it; just door after door of guest chambers. “Come on, I know a short-cut, Cetera said. “Where?” Liam asked, surprised she knew her way around the castle more than he. “I found it when we made a wrong turn coming in through the lower levels.” “You show up in the most peculiar places. Lead the way.” On their right, doorways lined the hallway, while the left side was open to below, overlooking a general meeting area where a few shops plied their wares. The second door they came upon had a different type of handle. “This one is never locked,” Cetera said, turning the handle. It opened into a dusty broom closet. A musky odour wafted out to greet them. She pushed aside an empty crate revealing a door to below. “I knew I had come the wrong way when I looked around. This place is like a city in itself. It makes Castlerock look like a stone fort.” Liam said nothing. He simply followed her along the seldom used halls, offering an occasional smile or nod in response to her chatter. She went on about her

country and her place in it. Yet, he noted she never mentioned her childhood. The hall wound its way downward through the castle, eventually ending in a storeroom as equally inconspicuous as the broom closet two levels above. Liam broke the lock with a nearby axe and peeked outside. The outer wall lay in ruins. The enemy had swarmed inside the castle’s grounds. Only the thick walls of the castle proper and fortified gates stood between them and ultimate victory. A massive battering ram hammered into the gates, splintering the giant timbers and resonating like a death knell. —BOOM— “If something isn’t done, they will be inside by nightfall.” “I know.” Liam found his mind blank. Panic eroded his confidence. Now that the time came, he had no idea what to do. Just let me think.

Daylight disappeared as heavy clouds spread out from the northwest, hastening the sun’s retreat behind the mountains. As if on queue, darkness descended. Kai pulled the catapults within range. Fireballs streaked over the walls to rain down on terrified people; a tactic Kai favoured to demoralize their army. Kai was too busy iring the display to hear Jumaki come up behind. “Very pretty. But what does it take to bring down those gates?” “There is some kind of sorcery, Your Greatness. The gates are reinforced by a power I do not understand.” “Their king, Istolar, is said to dabble in the arcane arts, Your Greatness.” “It would appear he’s more adept than dabbling.” “Then there is the rumour of a boy who can defeat Popobawa.” Jumaki laughed. “Let him try.”

It’s working, Cetera said under her breath. Miraculously, the gate began repairing itself. A golden hue shimmered around it as broken timber and iron mended itself. But the toll it took on Liam proved difficult to bear. Never before had he been tested to such an extent. Now he fought to control it. Can’t maintain—too hard—It’s— —KABOOM— The gates shattered in a tremendous explosion unlike ever seen before. The force of the blast killed many men on both sides, but more of the Bandi, who were caught in the open. A peculiar calm followed as those who survived stood dazed looking around at the dead and dying. Seared bodies littered the yard and blood soaked the ground into a gooey paste. The stench in the air caused even the most hardened soldiers to vomit, adding to the already unbearable odour. “What happened?” Cetera asked, still in a state of shock. “I’m not sure—in fact, I don’t . I was trying to focus on strengthening the gate with the magic my father taught me about my helm. It’s only designed to protect the one wearing it I think. This ruby embedded… By the Gods! It’s destroyed!” “Perhaps you’re right. It wasn’t meant to be used in such a way.” “How would I know? I’m not a mage or sorcerer. A fighter is what I am meant to be.” “Then think like a fighter, and leave healing for healers.” “Yes, Your Highness. Your wish is my command.” “Be serious, look—” The lull provided the opportunity Teemu had been waiting for. He sent his light infantry to cut a swath into the castle, which they did with brutal efficiency. Bowmen fired at will from nests within the castle designed for such an event. Barandur struggled to keep enough arrows in supply as the corridors became

increasingly congested with runners. Once a nest had been taken, there was little chance of retaking it. On the ground, Gorgon struck terror into his foes. Weapons to his kind were a mere hindrance. His claws and teeth could transform a man into a bloody pulp in seconds. The invaders actually began to retreat in the face of his ferocious rending of flesh and bone. Until Popobawa appeared on the scene. As in Drakhar, a black monolith formed, this time right inside the gates. Fighting ceased as all armies gaped in awe at the huge block of utter blackness. The first feature to form was its sinuous, leathery wings. They unfolded slowly, emanating a putrid odour of rotting flesh, as if decaying bodies were wrought in its skin. Next, the gargantuan head formed with two curved horns. Blue flame smoldered where the eyes would soon appear. Finally, its full form was realized in a tormented cross between a bull and a goat. For a brief moment it surveyed the aftermath of the initial clash, revelling in the smell of death and fear. It absorbed the destruction as its cold blue eyes blazed to life. It lowered its head and blue flame sprang forth, incinerating anyone in its path. Soldiers recovered from their initial shock and charged forward in an attempt to catch the beast before it could release another burst. The tactic ended disastrously, however, when it swatted them away like pesky gnats with a whip of its tail. As in Kresh, Popobawa paused when confronted with the Guannian. Nothing had ever dared stand before it, none that lived to tell the tale. Yet, this creature brashly studied its every move, every nuance, searching for a weakness to exploit. “You are different from these weak bags of flesh and bone. with me. Be my lieutenant and help me rule over the humans.” “Why would powerful demonsss need help from usss?” Popobawa hesitated over the mention of ‘us’, confused by the plural reference. It discarded the term as inconsequential and chuckled, “Demons, Such a misused word. We all belong to different backgrounds. Some are stronger than others and meant to rule over weaker species so they may thrive. Simple laws of nature. Surely, as a Guannian, you can see the truth.”

Barandur watched in horror as Gorgon appeared to waver. Gorgon! No! “Promisesss empty. Only ssslaves to ssserve lordsss of darknesss.” “Lords of darkness?” Popobawa bellowed in a voice that shook the ground. It gestured toward the top of the Zaranspire where Istolar listened intently. “Look at your Lord,” it scoffed, impatience creeping back into its tone. “He watches from the safety of his tower while his people die defending him.” “They die for their country. And I am sssworn into their ssservice.” “A noble Guannian—How heartwarming,” it snarled. “Then prepare to die a fool’s death!” Before Gorgon could defend himself, lightning flashed forth from Popobawa’s eyes, enveloping him in sparkling blue electricity. Liam had seen enough. In one motion, he unsheathed the Sword of Girdion and charged the demon-beast. Popobawa had vivid memories of the sword and its power, enough to break its hold on Gorgon and the warlord slumped to the ground. Liam leapt over him and lunged recklessly at Popobawa. The speed and energy of Liam caught it off guard. The Sword of Girdion buried deep into its ethereal essence. Smoke poured forth from the wound like blood. It howled in rage and pain. But Liam mistakenly stopped to ire what he thought was a fatal blow. Popobawa had noticed the boy’s helm was not charged with the ruby. It reared its grotesque head, sucking in the air with such force that drew the breath out of any living creature nearby. Then it released it in an inferno that spread across the battlefield in waves. Those lucky enough to escape fled in horror. A handful of brave men desperately tried to douse the flames consuming their comrades, but Popobawa simply stomped on them as it moved toward Liam. Liam fought the urge to run. Popobawa rejuvenated the enemy’s morale. They advanced alongside the demon. Victory seemed possible again. Fighting spread into the corridors in bloody combat that was measured in yards of territory gained or lost. Woman and children were hastily shuttled into the underground warrens. King Istolar finally ed in the fray, firing bolts of energy from his staff with a chaining effect, jumping from one to the next until it depleted its charge. Seeing the king fight by their side gave some sorely needed courage to the defenders.

Yet, as far as Jumaki was concerned, resistance only delayed the inevitable. Popobawa roamed at will, striking down any who stood before it. In one particular act of cruelty, a mother tripped and dropped her child. Before she could gather her in her arms, Popobawa snatched the baby girl off the ground. She screamed desperately for help but the child’s fate was sealed. Popobawa ate the girl piece by piece before her eyes. She would die shortly after from grief. The father wrote a verse about the incident that would later be archived as a literary treasure. He then hurled himself from a wall, but didn’t die. He suffered paralysis with the exception of being able to blink. Who knew the extent of the pain he lived with? But it was said that one look in his eyes would drive one insane, so he lived out his days in solitude to endure his own personal hell. “Do something,” Istolar screamed at Liam. Something . . . The sword will set you free . . . Who? The answer flooded his mind like a tidal wave. “I have to get to the garden.” Istolar eyed him suspiciously. “Why?” “It’s the only way. Clear a path for me.” Istolar didn’t trust Liam. He thought the boy might try to escape or defect, as Lord Herat had done. Though his real fear lay in the unleashing of the undead where the kings of old may turn against him. In his calculating mind, he concluded he had no other options. He focused his staff on the area that led toward the Gardens of Zaranstaad and attempted to blast an opening. It was no use. Too many enemies poured in from every direction. The situation looked hopeless until an unexpected appearance of a small battle-worn outfit appeared. Amongst them rode Torin, Huron, Kirik, Landir, and Miradan. They carved a path toward the dwindling defenders surrounding Istolar. The Aegians were totally unprepared on their flank. Many were slaughtered before they could reposition themselves to meet this new threat. By the time they did, the contingent from Verdun made it through. “Am I glad to see you!” Liam threw his arms around Torin. Kirik laughed and winked at the other . “As are we.”

“Of course,” Liam said, “All of you. No time to explain. I need to get to the gardens.” Torin nodded. He knew exactly what Liam intended. “You heard him. Let’s get to work.” Istolar felt insignificant, but vainly tried to impress his command and gave the order, “Clear the way to the gardens!” A savage battle ensued. Popobawa had discovered this new strategy and began putting the pieces together. It had thought Liam was on the run. It would not make that mistake again. When it realized what Liam was up to, it stormed the gate to block the way. “Ha ha ha. Oh yes. I almost forgot,” it taunted Liam. “Strange that I should forget about my own world. No, no, no, we mustn’t disturb their rest. Not their fight. After all we have been through. Let us put this matter to rest once and for all.” It turned toward the gate, but suddenly appeared distracted. It listened, yet no sound could be heard, at least not within their hearing range. Doubt flashed in its icy-blue eyes. Seconds later, it raced off to find the source of the whistle. Barandur was about to meet an untimely death. Popobawa needed speed if he were to intercept the were-dogs. They heard the call of the whistle that Horgram gifted Johan. Johan had given it to Barandur before returning to Jumaki. Barandur stood atop a rooftop and blew the silver whistle a second time. Jumaki, or any human being would not have been alerted, but Popobawa deciphered the high pitch and heeded its call. As Popobawa raced toward him, it changed into a great horned dragon, red as the blood spilled on the field below. It soared high until it spotted Barandur, then swooped down on him. Barandur did not hear the dragon until it was too late. The dragon clutched him in its talons and carried him off to where Horgram led the were-dogs who were well on their way to the castle. He struggled to get his sword arm free but its grasp left him no room to wiggle out. He caught sight of Horgram’s company on the road; specks on a dusty trail.

So did Popobawa. It swooped down on them, releasing Barandur about fifty feet over their heads. Miraculously, Barandur was not seriously hurt, although one were-dog was killed and another injured while cushioning his fall. Popobawa wheeled around and dived toward them again, this time, strafing them with fire. The were-dogs scattered into the river to douse their burning hides. Many never made it. The pungent stench of burning fur and skin filled the air. The lightly armed rangers fared even worse, unable to get to the river or find cover in time. Again and again, Popobawa attacked until satisfied their numbers were too few to be a threat. Only Barandur’s heavier armour saved him, though he suffered minor burns. Horgram also survived. Together, they gathered what was left of the contingent and continued to Zaranstaad. The heavy beating of wings warned Liam of Popobawa’s return. “There is not much time,” Torin said urgently. “You’re not helping,” Liam said as he turned the sword this way and that to unlock the gates into the gardens. “Why isn’t it working?” Istolar watched from a short distance away, both relieved and perplexed the gates refused to open. If Liam succeeded, the wrath of the undead would be unleashed on the enemy, perhaps including himself. On the other hand, if he failed, Aegia would almost certainly defeat them with a weapon as mighty and invincible as Popobawa. —click— Finally, it opened. The gates swung inward with a reluctant groan. A chill wind swept up a whirlwind of dead leaves as he entered. He stepped forward with Torin, who remained curiously quiet. Another gust of wind whipped up leaves where he ed the site where King Brekor was assassinated—by Cailin. “What do I do now?” he asked Torin, unable to keep the tremor from his voice. Torin smiled sadly and said simply, “Wait.” They sat together on the same bench where Barandur had been taken by Cailin

and Elena. At that time, Barandur was given the task of recovering the Sword of Girdion. Events set in motion then have now come to fruition, with the fate of Ukorstria in the balance. Cailin and Elena materialized out of nowhere. Sorrow and regret echoed the bittersweet reunion of parents and child. Liam reached out, wordlessly, to grasp his mother’s hand, but his fingers closed on empty air. A single tear trickled down his face. Somehow, he appeared much older. His eyes found Cailin and felt as if he were peering into a looking glass. “You have come, my son,” Cailin said sombrely. There is little time.” Liam gathered himself. “I am ready.” Cailin smiled proudly. “We will fight by your side willingly. We are free to walk the earth a short time by the power of the sword. Yet, the burden of defeating Popobawa lies with you—you must not fail.” Rage from all the injustice wrought upon himself, his family, his people, bubbled up inside Liam, ready to burst out in an explosion of violence. “I am ready,” he repeated. “Go now. Be strong. Be true…” The air distorted, bending time itself. Soon others appeared, some in grisly fashion as if maimed in battle. Torin grabbed Liam’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.” They dashed toward the gate. The shrill sound of Elena’s mournful wail sent shivers up their spine; the battle cry of the wraiths. Jumaki’s forces penetrated deep into the castle. Gorgon did not have the luxury to recover from his wounds in the absence of Barandur. The knights failed to slay or capture any of the Bandi Summoners. Popobawa could be called upon at will. Yet, Huron insisted they try once more to bust through enemy lines. The vision of Jan left alone with their children in an occupied land spurred him on. He knew they would likely die in the attempt but what choice was there? After Kirik and the others agreed, he presented the plan to Istolar.

“Sire, the enemy drives us back to where we can no longer fall back. We cannot kill Popobawa, but the Summoners can be eliminated—if we can get to them.” “You know nothing of these entities. They are spirits that can transport others between worlds. The full potential of their ability is unknown. You may break the enemy lines only to find yourselves in the netherworld.” “But Sire, we…” Istolar put his hand up. “However, I will not stop you. What you say is true, retreat is out of the question. Indeed, our backs are against the wall quite literally. Here, we must make a stand and allow Liam to fulfill his… destiny.” The word rolled off his tongue distastefully. “Gather your men. I will offer whatever I can.” Huron bowed. “Yes, My Lord.” Kirik, Miradan, and Landur waited anxiously for Huron to return with the verdict. The horrible sounds of war filled the air—the groaning of dying men; the desperate cries mingled with those of bloodlust. “Well?” Kirik stamped impatiently as Huron approached. “He said, go kill yourselves.” “He said that?” “No. But he might as well have. Are the men suited?” “Heaviest armour we could salvage.” “It has been an honour fighting by your side,” Landur said to Miradan. “Likewise, my friend. But don’t be so quick to cast our fate,” Miradan onished. “I don’t plan on dying here this day.” He drew his sword and held it high. “For Ukorstria!” “FOR UKORSTRIA!” they cried together. The few hundred infantry rose the rallying cry to a level that belied their

numbers. For a moment, Jumaki’s troops held back, fearful of the rallying cry as it echoed through the valley. Istolar arrived on the scene. An awkward moment ed when he offered no command, no morale boost, just a solemn nod to go forth. And go forth they did. Istolar spun deadly twisters into their midst, tossing enemies about like paper dolls. Huron and Kirik formed a deadly spearhead at the lead as they charged into enemy ranks flanked by heavy infantry. For a time, they seemed unstoppable. Not a single foe could stand in their way. The success of the manoeuvre even began to convince the Ukorstrians they may have turned the tide. Once they cut through to the Summoners, victory was within their grasp. However, in the euphoria of success, they forgot about the one piece that mattered most on the field: Popobawa. The demon stood squarely in their path. It laughed as they slowed, measuring the beast before them. Standing fifteen feet high, it towered above everything else on the battlefield. It’s hide was blacker than obsidian yet smooth as glass. Ice-blue eyes regarded them with a mixture of mockery and hate. And something else, Huron thought—Doubt? “Who are you to defy the law and order of the Great Sultan of Aegia?” “Go back where you came from, vile beast,” Huron said in a commanding voice. “I have been commissioned into service, so you see.” The Summoners appeared at his side, and for the first time, they bore weapons— deadly scimitars with notched and pitted edges meant to lacerate flesh to ribbons. No soul reflected out from their skeletal faces, only cold emptiness. Kirik whispered harshly, “Who controls who? I’d say the Summoners lead these witless armies, not the other way around.” “Good point. But we have other problems.” Huron nodded over his shoulder. “They’re closing us in.” Kirik looked back at the direction they had come. Enemies were quickly filling the gap they had fought so hard to open. “There never was much of a chance was there?”

“No, my friend. There wasn’t.” The fighters charged forward, splitting in half to circumnavigate Popobawa. It reacted a little late in erecting a wall of ice. All but a few made it through. They managed to reach the Summoners, but found their weapons severely hampered by an unseen force that slowed their movement. However, the Summoners moved naturally and with inhuman agility. They sliced through their victims as if they stood still. Soon, the tiny Ukorstrian force was whittled down to a few dozen. The outcome was looking grim when a green aura glowed above the Gardens of Zaranstaad. It grew quickly, then pulsed a few times before coming rapidly in their direction. Enemies caught in its path were instantly consumed. The undead are here. When the Summoners met with the undead, a rivalry rekindled that hadn’t been witnessed since the First Age of the Moon. These years saw the birth of all nations; an age of strife and persistent wars as fiefdoms made alliances to carve out their borders. The world belonged to perpetual darkness for three ages until peace heralded in the First Age of the Sun. Relative peace reigned for two thousand years, ending with the great battle in the Myrshin swamp to oust the ancient rakshasas. They clashed in an unholy maelstrom of unnatural dimensions. While the Summoners aimed to stand their ground, the undead pushed ahead. Every minute they spent on earth drained their strength. Elena employed her Siren Song to sustain them, but as they weakened, so did their chance of victory. Yet, Cailin had a debt to repay, and he had a target to direct all his bottled anger. Using the rift between the living and the Void, he separated the two dimensions to create a vacuum. Even the Void was more substantial then the complete nothingness in the rift. The vacuum stretched, a hole in time itself, until its yawning emptiness hovered over the garden. He then directed it toward the Summoners, careful not to let it distort and collapse. The Summoners leered at the anomaly twisting its way toward them, unable to determine what sort of threat it posed. Until too late.

Cailin relinquished control the slightest degree. The hole distorted slightly against the constraints of basic physical laws, violently sucking the Summoners inside. If any survived the initial phase, they were crushed when Cailin released it completely. It collapsed in a blinding flash, causing a devastating explosion. Everything within two-hundred feet not made of stone was flattened from the shock wave. Liam did not take time to marvel at the potency of the sword’s power. If he could summon wraiths, then why not the dead themselves? The rift created by Cailin had the unfortunate effect of cutting short the duration in which the undead could stay. One by one, the earth reclaimed them. Many Aegians remained. Gorgon estimated they were outnumbered four to one. Liam plunged the Sword of Girdion ever deeper into the earth until long dead people rose. These grotesque corpses shambled forth to meet the next wave of Bandi infantry; a testament to Liam’s rapidly growing mastery of the Sword of Girdion. The superstitious Bandi cried out in terror and fled, but Jumaki would not tolerate retreat of any sort. “Stand your ground!” he ordered. Still, they fled, crying, “Whoop whoop whoopah whoopah whoop whoop.” “Turn and fight, cowards!” Teemu scolded, “They are not cowards. They will not fight against the servants of Muerte.” “Then they will them.” Jumaki plunged his dagger into the rib cage of Teemu. Teemu dropped to his knees. “Treacherous… Muerte will… forsake… you…” He uttered his last words gurgling blood before he fell forward. After a few violent convulsions, he lay still.” “Give my regards to Muerte,” Jumaki said, spitting on his corpse face down in the dirt. He turned to Kai, “Fire on their worthless hides. I have no use for cowards.”

The withdrawing Bandi reacted in Shock. They looked for their leader. When he was nowhere to be found, they suspected foul play and turned on their former allies. However, being trapped between two hostile forces was not a very safe haven. The rotting corpses relentlessly closed in any way they could move. Disembodied dead without use of legs, crawled. Others which had legs shuffled along like drunks coming out of taverns after a heavy day of drinking. Inevitably, they made with the decimated Bandi. While some fought a heroic last stand, many fell on their swords to escape being eaten alive. And so ends the participation of the Bandi in The War of Redemption, as it came to be known. The battle raged on, redoubling in intensity. “Where is Popobawa?” Istolar tugged Liam’s Armour. “I… I didn’t see you… How did? I don’t know, but I suspect it’s up to something with my name on it.” “Most assuredly,” Istolar laughed. “Come, we will find him, you and I.” Liam followed Istolar through smouldering halls and blasted rooms. His conscience warned him something was not right. Most assuredly? Why is that funny? Istolar would love to feed me to Popobawa if it were not for the fact he needed the wretched beast dead. At length, they arrived at the barracks across from the Hill and Glen—one of the few places in the castle held by Ukorstria. “Arrest him,” Istolar ordered Barandur. “He made an attempt on my life.” A trap, Liam realized too late. What a fool am I? Barandur gaped at Istolar. “What are you waiting for? I said, arrest him!” Barandur motioned for two soldiers to take Liam. Each grabbed an arm and awaited orders. Barandur reluctantly led them toward the dungeons. “Wait—take his weapon.”

“Sire, standard protocol dictates all items confiscated are to be locked up in the jailor’s vault.” “I am standard protocol. Leave the weapon here.” Cetera detected treachery. While Istolar was evil to the core, he would never risk the kingdom he painstakingly plotted for his own by removing the one groomed for battle against Popobawa. This could only mean one thing: This was not King Istolar, but rather, Popobawa itself. “I’ll take that,” she volunteered. To be convincing, she added a modest punch to Liam’s midsection. Liam knew at once from the restrained hit that she clued into what he suspected. Barandur frowned. Confused, he took Liam away. Popobawa smiled knowing his nemesis would soon be safely locked up. Yet, for all its shapeshifter tricks, copying a personality was another matter. Popobawa sought to escape before its deception was noticed—or Istolar returned. “May the name of Liam never be spoken of again.” Gorgon arrived on the scene just in time time to witness the last edict, or so he thought. Cetera intercepted him and swept him out of sight before he had a chance to speak with whom he thought was the king. “That is not who you think it is.” “Princesss takesss too much medicinesss. Not good for sssensssesss. Needsss to be sssharp for…” “Will you shut up and listen? I’m not taking any medicine. And I told you not to call me princesss. You just saw Popobawa in the form of Istolar. He has locked Liam up so they can make the final push to capture Zaranstaad. We have to free him.” “Where isss king?” “I don’t know.” “You ssspeak truthful, I sssee. We free Liam, then look for king.” “Deal. Come with me.”

Hurrying along the damp corridor leading to the dungeons, they met the guards who escorted Liam. “Where is Barandur?” Cetera asked. “He remained behind to speak with the prisoner. We are to report back to the king.” “Very well, go then.” Minutes later, Gorgon and Cetera entered a large, circular room lined with small cells around the perimeter. Barandur sat on a crate talking quietly with Liam. He rose to meet them. “I thought you would come.” “Ssseemsss I am lassst to know.” “I stopped Gorgon before he had a chance to see Popobawa,” Cetera explained. “Then let’s be on our way while Zaranstaad yet stands.” Wasting no time, the four battle-weary fighters returned the way they had come. They had not gone far when they came upon what appeared to be King Istolar.” “Will someone explain what is going on here?” Anger sparkled in his eyes. Bony fingers clutched the staff in readiness. “Kill it,” Cetera whispered. “You may not get a better chance. Do it now while it is alone.” Liam hesitated. “What if it’s Istolar? How can we tell?” “What are you talking about? Have you turned against me too?” He narrowed his eyes at Liam. “So you plan to replace me do you. I thought as much. Ukorstria belongs to me. My kingdom. MINE!” Lightning shot forth from his staff, narrowly missing them and spending its energy on a metal drainage grate. It hissed as it melted into the gulley of water beneath. “My Lord,” Liam said. “Calm down. We have to remain united or we all die or wish for death to be free from slavery.”

“Slaves,” Istolar scorned. “They will thank me for your hide. You are a thorn in their side. Removing you will surely grant me a place on the council.” “You are mad. No-one will serve on whatever council they choose to impose, especially not the king.” “We will see. But you will never Know.” He was about to release another blast when a sword protruded through his chest. He looked down in disbelief, then turned around to see Torin. Hatred filled his eyes until they fluttered and rolled back in their sockets. Slumping to the floor, he gasped, “Mine—mine—mi—” Then spoke no more. “I had no choice. He would have killed you. Before Popobawa blended back into the shadows, it killed a great many soldiers. They thought the king had gone mad. When Istolar appeared afterwards, they attacked him. He had no idea of the deception of Popobawa and fled down here. Ironically, this betrayal had drove him over the edge of insanity. In his paranoid delusion, he feared the whole nation had turned against him. But we have work yet to do. You are our king now, my son. May you rule wisely and just for many years to come.” Barandir, Gorgon, and Cetera followed suite. Barandur cried, “Long live King Liam!” Liam smiled. “And hopefully not the last. Come, let us finish this.” When they reached the surface, they found the leaderless defenders in utter disarray. Gorgon immediately saw the brutal results. They needed a flag in which to rally around. He jumped up on top of an overturned wagon and declared: “Behold! The new king of Ukorssstria: King Liam!” Liam led by example, cutting through their ranks like a hot knife through butter. They pushed back the intruders, slowly at first, then more efficiently as they coordinated strategy. Archers fired just over the heads of front-line soldiers, who used their shields as weapons against the lighter armed foes. With coordinated tactics, momentum began to shift steadily in their favour. In the giddy headiness of success, they neglected the one weapon that remained undefeated. Popobawa leaped from a wall, landing squarely in the middle of battle, crushing or knocking back everyone in a radius of twenty feet. Once again, he assumed the form of a bull. It looked at Liam with hatred and

contempt. “So you have now rule over this pathetic little band of savages, boy king? I am going to be generous and offer your troop an opportunity to live. If they are wise, they will take it.” “We will never make peace with a demon. Nor will we serve under a hostile intruder that attacked our peaceful nation without provocation.” “Without provocation, you say?” Jumaki stepped out into the open to stand at the side of Popobawa. “Tripling the tariffs on trade ing through your borders is paramount to a declaration of war.” “That could have been negotiated. I am the new king. Istolar imposed those policies. King Brekor never would have approved of such a rate.” Jumaki paused in thought, as if the ammunition behind his grievance had just been spent. “Let us hear what you have to propose then, unless we have ed that point.” “Much suffering and damage has been done. But that does not justify it to continue either. If you withdraw your forces, we can discuss reparations for the…” “Have no such nonsense!” Popobawa interjected. With a snap of its tail, Jumaki’s decapitated head flew off and landed within feet of where Liam stood. Gasps arose from the onlookers and shocked silence ensued. Liam’s blood boiled. He had seen enough of this Popobawa. There would be no peace as long as it existed and he meant to end it once and for all. In an instant, his rage propelled him into such fury unlike the world had ever witnessed. The Sword of Girdion glowed in his hand like a harbinger of every infliction suffered by his people. Even Popobawa seemed taken aback by the display. Liam appeared more like a God than a king. He fixed his eyes on Popobawa and stepped forth to meet him. Today is your last in this world, beast.” Popobawa said nothing in return, just a hissing sound that sounded oddly familiar. Gorgon cocked his head at the sound, much like a dog does when its name is called. Popobawa tried to entice Gorgon to switch sides. “Spawned by usss, lizard man. Your king isss dead. usss now.” Liam lost concentration for a fraction of a second, enough time for Popobawa to attempt the same manoeuvre that cost Jumaki his life.

Gorgon hesitated for a brief second before responding, “We are who we have become, regardlesss of st. Sssame anssswer asss before. Liam isss new king, new massster.” “So be it. Die with them then.” The swooshing of its tail warned Liam’s heightened awareness of the impending danger. He dropped to the ground, holding the sword upright. The beast’s tail ed over him, missing by mere inches. However, the sword sliced enough off the tip that it missed Gorgon by mere inches. Enraged more at being bettered than losing part of its tail, it tried to stomp on Liam. Dodging Popobawa’s cleft hooves tested his agility to the limit. A few lucky rolls had saved him from being crushed, but the speed of the demon belied its size. He desperately needed to steer the match toward conditions that were more on his . This meant getting in close to the demon where he could use his sword and at the same time, negate its middle-ranged advantage. He moved around, looking for a higher ground. Popobawa did not try to prevent him. Instead, it released a stream of black, oily fire. It stuck to everything and everyone it hit, incinerating all in its path. The spectacular battle had all but ceased fighting by both sides as they stopped to watch in awe. In some cases, a Ukorstrian and an Aegian stood side by side, discussing the tactics of the two contestants like an arena event. Yet, the sticky flame never found its mark. Liam managed to scale the the wall encircling the compound, roughly at the same level of Popobawa’s massive, horned head. He leapt about eight feet and grabbed hold of one of its horns. They were smoother than he expected and he almost lost his grip. In one fluid motion, he wrapped one arm around the base and used the other to plunge the Sword of Girdion into its broad neck. Brackish liquid oozed from the wound. The stench of the tar-like substance almost made him lose consciousness. Shaking its head violently side to side, Popobawa loosened his hold, then flung him off, sending him tumbling to the ground. Seeing him stunned while he tried to get to his feet, Popobawa tasted victory. Again, it tried to stomp him out of existence, but Liam recovered long enough to defend himself with the sword. As its hoof came down, the sword lodged itself within its cleft and tore it out of Liam’s hands. The expression on Liam’s face sent the demon into hysterical

laughter. “Whoops,” it taunted. “Look what I found?” Turning it around in its clawed hand, it examined it in a mix of curiosity and mockery, then tossed it far over and beyond the compound wall. “Guess we won’t be needing this anymore.” Liam made a vain attempt to retrieve it, but Popobawa snatched him up with one hand and held him up close to its face. His arms were pinned. All he could do was move his dangling legs, which only emphasized the helpless position he was in. He stared into the demon’s crystal blue eyes; bottomless wells of nothingness, utterly devoid of any emotion other than a vague sense of hatred. Torin grabbed Gorgon. “We have to help him.” Gorgon regarded him in the same way he did Istolar in his final moments of madness. Torin ignored the wordless retort. I’ll get the sword. You just have to distract the thing long enough for me to throw it to Liam.” “Better not misss.” “Don’t worry, I won’t.” He dashed off, running faster than he ever thought possible to retrieve the Sword of Girdion; Liam’s and Ukorstria’s only hope for survival. Popobawa was in no rush to snuff out Liam’s life. Moments like these were the closest it came to pleasure. It patted Liam’s blonde locks. “Do you know what Istolar wanted to do with you? Oh yes. He wanted you in naughty, naughty ways. I was there. I know. Though he never saw me—until too late. I was even going to suggest to the stupid Aegian sultan that he leave Istolar in charge and offer you into his… service. But he started talking about peace. Fool. Look at him now.” He picked up Jumaki’s head and held it close for Liam to see. The eyes had popped out from the force of the blow. The empty sockets stared back at him. Torin returned. Crouching on the wall behind Popobawa, he showed Liam the sword, then nodded toward Gorgon. Gorgon got the signal and hissed loud enough for Popobawa to hear. Popobawa hissed in response. “Ah! My brother! So you have changed your

mind? Very very wise of you.” To Popobawa’s amazement, Gorgon casually walked over. “Yesss, mighty demonsss.” Popobawa was impressed. Apparently, vanity was one of the few emotions it still retained. “Do you know of your origins, lizard thing? We were created from the same mold, except yours was deemed inferior and cast out… ssso to speak.” Its banal laughter filled the air. It was so self-absorbed in itself, it relaxed its grip slightly on Liam, just enough for him to pull an arm free. At the same time, Torin tossed the sword to him. Liam caught it firmly and before Popobawa could react, he thrust it down its gaping maw. Shock ed in on its features as it realized it had been beaten; outwitted by a being it regarded as a plaything. It’s sleek, black body rippled and bulged at first. Seconds later, it heaved to and fro, releasing Liam and Jumaki’s head. Spasms shook it violently until suddenly it burst into fire that burned white-hot. No-one could stand near it. Finally a heavy, black smoke erupted, concealing its body. When it cleared, only a burnt patch on the ground remained of what was once Popobawa. Liam somberly picked up the hilt of the Sword of Girdion; all that remained of its former glory. Now it looked rather ordinary with its energy drained. He spat on the ashes of Popobawa, “Good riddance, vile beast.”

A New Day Dawns

The tables had turned so suddenly, that Kai barely had time to react. The defender’s morale skyrocketed with Popobawa and Jumaki taken care of. He ordered a full retreat. Lengu directed archers to provide cover and prevent the withdrawal from turning into a rout. With few men to spare, the Ukorstrians could ill afford to give chase. Yet, as luck would have it, Lord Fairmont arrived with a sizable army from Muran. Many were volunteers who had lost their homes and loved ones at the hands of the invaders. Maria was among them and stood by Fairmont’s side. “Well met, Lord Fairmont,” Liam greeted. “Our guests were just leaving.” “Were they now? Perhaps they would care to visit the men, women and children who lay rotting in the ground; the innocent peasants slaughtered in cold blood.” Fairmont’s voice rose in anger as he spoke. “Plenty of accommodations in the burnt out shells of houses where families once lived happy and peaceful lives.” Liam stared harshly at the Aegian commanders. “What have you to say to these charges?” Kai turned to Lengu. “What do you think? Their numbers match ours now.” “The numbers are not what concerns me. We are trapped between two hostile and motivated armies. Fairmont’s men are fresh and out for blood.” Kai looked long and hard at Lengu. “He is without his sword; it dissolved in the ashes of Popobawa.” “Such a mighty weapon, however its main strength was reserved to battle demons, not armies of men.” “Your time is running out,” Liam said impatiently. “Are you suggesting surrender?” Kai asked Lengu.

“I believe there is no other option… other than fight to the death.” “Jumaki would.” They both looked at Jumaki’s headless corpse. Lengu said, “So be it. For Aegia!” Kai and Lengu crossed swords high in the air. The Aegian army still had enough men to punch a hole in their southern flank. To some degree, they succeeded, but suffered enormous casualties. Kai fell in battle, but would be ed as a hero in Aegian folklore. Lengu used his considerable talent for escaping to finally break out with threethousand and six-hundred men. With continuous harrying from Fairmont’s men, they eventually reached their border with fewer than half. Liam considered pursuing them into their country on the advice of Fairmont. The idea of a greater Ukorstria teased his ego.” Who better than I to rule over the Aegian tribes? He watched the once proud Aegian army from the ruined tower of Kresh. “They scatter to mitigate their losses, knowing more will survive longer if we have to chase down small bands.” Fairmont was adamant. “All the more reason to hunt them down like the dogs they are.” “Do they deserve to die? Maybe,” Liam answered his own question. Yet, many didn’t want this war any more than we did. Jumaki was a tyrant.” “And still you defend them.” Liam did not respond immediately. Looking thoughtfully over the grassy plains, he said, This war has taken a toll on everyone. The time for healing is what we all need now. Over time, relations will improve, trade will resume. Let us rebuild our torn towns and cities. Kresh will be made into a fortress like never seen before; a warning to any who might consider invading Ukorstria again.” A movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye. “Look,” he pointed to the Keep’s turret. The blue-gold knight unfurled proudly, signifying the official end to the war. Fairmont sighed. He knew Liam was right and to debate further was pointless.

“As you wish, My Liege. I’ve had enough of this dreadful war. It will take years to restore trade routes and Muran has much rebuilding to do.” Liam turned to face Fairmont. “As does much of the land. Healing will take time. Come, let’s go home.”

The few hundred Bandi survivors eventually returned to their land and were never heard from again. Drakhar fell into ruin as its population dwindled. Its ancient arts were forever lost in ruins and buried by sand. A handful attempted to cross the vast Ghorro Desert to resettle in a distant, uncharted territory according to journals discovered later, but their fate remained unknown. A tumultuous period plagued Aegia. Clans were divided into two entirely different camps. On one side, the fiercely loyal but misguided tribes stayed loyal to Jumaki’s vision of a greater Aegia. While others wished for a return to traditional customs of herding and farming. Lengu led them through this difficult period. His natural low profile helped to consolidate their common heritage. Eventually, the people selected a young and charismatic leader by the name of Yumada who seemed to be everything to everyone. Yet, Liam did not entirely trust the ambitious sultan and ordered the rapid restoration of Kresh, complete with new battlements and another tower. Tensions grew between the nations once again, but they continued to coexist for many years. The presence of Kresh spanning the valley played no small part in the lasting peace. Trade flourished like never before in Ukorstria. Jamal, Fairmont’s successor, revived the port city of Muran. The harbour bustled with activity day and night as ships brought exotic spices from newly discovered civilizations. Satellite villages sprang up around Muran to process the new flow of goods from all around the world. Liam revisited Taroga on the return journey from Kresh and paid homage to the inhabitants who died horrific deaths. Whereas Muran was largely spared by Jumaki’s forces, Taroga was totally laid waste. Few folk had returned, even though Jumaki’s forces had vacated the area long before. In the heat of summer, an unpleasant odour of decay hung over the ruins. Liam’s men erected a makeshift monument in the town square. They looked on solemnly while he laid flowers at its base. “I’ll come back to put up something worthy of the sacrifices made here.” Upon leaving the town, they came upon a resilient store on the outskirts. Liam

greeted a grizzled shopkeeper with a scruffy beard, “I didn’t expect to find any business here.” “Name is Nam. Caught wind of your victory in Zaranstaad. Figured folks would need buildin equipment, but haven’t seen too many faces yet.” “They will return—in time—as long as people like yourself are available to help get started. I will leave some of my men behind to help clean up. After all we’ve been through, an ambush by a few bandits doesn’t seem so frightening.” “Appreciate that, My Lord. Nice to see a decent king rule Ukorstria again.” Nam winked. “King Brekor was a good king, and a good man.” “Now that’s what I like—humility. Here, take this as a gift. A fellow gave it to me. Says he was just ing through.” Liam studied the gift. This is Horgram’s whistle. Barandur used it at Zaranstaad. It saved my life . . . and likely all of Ukorstria. How did it end up here? “What did this fellow look like? Did he give his name?” “Strange looking sort. Not from ’round here. Never left his name, but I heard his mate calling him—Johan I think it was.” Liam’s eyes widened. “Johan… Hmmm. Thank you Nam. Good luck my friend. I think you will do well here.” “Thank ye, M’Lord. I’ll certainly do my best. Is all a man can do.” Liam mounted his horse and gave Nam a half-salute, half-wave. He wheeled around and sped off toward Zaranstaad. Despite great efforts to rebuild Taroga, the stench of death could never be totally vanquished and only a tiny village at the crossroads would survive. Confusion nagged him all the way. He chose to keep the matter to himself, occasionally fidgeting with the whistle as if it could not possibly be real. Surely, Barandur would not have betrayed him, not after all he did to oust Istolar… unless he meant to claim the throne for himself. It made sense after all. Was he not the one who betrayed his biological father Cailin? What promises were given? Fury burned through his veins as these

questions ran through his mind, one feeding the next like a cascading torrent in his mind. He urged his steed faster despite the protests of his guard. He lost them as he recklessly pushed forward to the castle. When he arrived, he found Barandur sharing a late evening ale with Cetera on a stone bench under a large oak. Jealousy threatened to overwhelm him. He glanced at Cetera with suspicion, then threw the whistle at Barandur. “Care to explain this?” Barandur saw Liam’s hand trembling on the hilt of his sword. “Calm down, Liam. You are experiencing the effects of losing the Sword of Girdion. It’s power can turn a man crazy. I seen it happen. Sven pos…” “I am not crazy. And you will address me by my proper title. Now answer me!” “I must have dropped it when Popobawa swooped down on me. It tossed me to the ground, but a couple of were-dogs broke my fall.” “That was in the north end of the castle, far from the conflict zones.” “I… I don’t know. It must have retrieved it and brought it back to the Aegians.” Liam calmed down, but became no less resolute. He turned to the guards. “Take him to the dungeons while I learn more of this.” Barandur’s jaw dropped in shock, but he did not resist. Liam waved off a guard who was about to shackle his legs. “That is not necessary. See that he has adequate food and water.” Liam went off to search for Horgram. He found him at the Hill and Glen. “You seem to have fared better than I expected.” He pulled up a chair beside him. “I suppose I’ve been lucky, My Lord.” “You were with Barandur when Popobawa attacked your men?” “Yes, I was.” “Did you notice a silver whistle in his possession?”

Horgram shifted uncomfortably. “I gave that to one named Johan, who travelled with Barandur to Castlerock.” Liam frowned. He was unaware that Johan was the original recipient. Torin entered the tavern. His stern demeanour made Liam wish he had picked a better time. He did not want to answer to anyone while he tried to sort through the facts. Torin skipped formalities. “If Barandur meant to betray you, he certainly would not have waited until the outcome is beyond question.” He paused to gauge Liam’s mood before continuing, “On the contrary, Barandur has proven his loyalty to a fault.” Liam looked up, his eyes rimmed red and swollen. “Please don’t fill me with riddles, Father. What are you saying?” “I know how this will sound to you, but it was Cailin, not Barandur, who committed murder to become king.” Liam stood up in uncontrolled anger. “That’s a lie! You’ve always been jealous of him. I can see it in…” —SLAP— Liam could not believe he, the High King, had just been disciplined like an unruly child. His eyes froze open in shock. His hand strayed to his cheek, reddened from embarrassment more than the slap itself. Words eluded him as he stood dumbfounded. Torin felt horrible. “I have never struck you when you were a child and now I do so after all we have been through. Curse this war. Curse my… I am sorry, son. I am ashamed. I do not ask your forgiveness, only your understanding.” Liam laughed unexpectedly, “There is nothing to forgive, Father. You are right. This war has tested our endurance and indeed, our very sanity, to the limits. I could not have been raised under a better roof. Now get on with it.” Torin relaxed, letting go of the tension, and recalled, “Istolar blackmailed Cailin into killing King Brekor.”

“Why go through all the trouble? He was an adept wizard. Could he not have found subtler means?” Torin cleared his throat. “Istolar promised Cailin the throne, but there’s more. Barandur witnessed the conception of your birth—it was not a mutual loving moment. Apparently, Istolar concocted a poison and added it to Cailin’s ale. That’s all there is to say. Cailin fired the arrow that killed King Brekor. Princess Elena withdrew deep into herself. In her wandering lust for dark places, she discovered the crypts of the kings. Having a common bond of royalty with the dead, she grew more like a wraith everyday until she eventually crossed over. She then claimed Cailin and consummated their bond. Thus, you became our child to care for. We are both very proud of you, your mother and I.” “And me too!” Arianna burst into the room. Liam greeted Arianna with a halfhearted smile. So I am a bastard king? A product of rape? Questions remained unanswered. He tried to block out the vision of Cailin raping Elena. Arianna roused both envy and iration within him. Perhaps the visions that granted him insight into Anna’s multiple identities were trying to tell him something. Who was she? Barmaid? Informant? Sorceress? She shared many of the same physical qualities of Arianna, but that’s where similarities ended—besides the name. Anna? Arianna? No, it couldn’t be. “Before I let the matter rest, who is Anna?” Jill came in, immediately sensing the tension in the air. Torin tussled Arianna’s long wavy hair. “Why don’t you go shopping with your mother? We’ll meet you later for lunch.” “Sure,” she agreed eagerly. The last time she had new shoes and a dress, Kresh was holding out against the invaders. Everyone felt confident it’s thick, stone walls and battle-tower would keep them at bay. Jill looked worried but nodded in agreement. Together, they left. Arianna’s long blond locks bounced around her shoulders. She resembled Liam in so many ways that unless someone knew better, they would never guess they were not related by blood. Torin sighed, “You’re killing me.” Liam looked puzzled. “You look well to me, Father.”

Torin laughed, feeling somewhat lighter of heart. “It’s an expression. With all these questions you… .” “Yes, yes, I understand,” Liam said, hoping he wasn’t sounding disrespectful. He planted his chin in the palms of his hands and leaned forward to listen. “Anna is Arianna’s older sister. She grew reclusive, preferring to keep outside of family affairs. We tried to make her happy, but she dreamed of greater things in life. Her ambition led her astray. We had another child, Arianna, even naming her in part to please Anna, but nothing would make her feel like she belonged. Your mother and I anguished over her behaviour until one day, I confronted her. I had drank too much—said too much—words that can never be taken back. She left without saying goodbye. We tried desperately to her without success. I drank away my guilt and your mother was not holding up very well under the circumstances. A month later, Anna showed up, dressed like a gypsy and in the company of brigands. She said she understands and is sorry, but she felt like pursuing life on her own.” “She said…” Torin choked on the words. “She said she cannot be a part of this family anymore. We rarely had with her and grew apart. Then I saw her working at the Bird’s Nest. I would go there just to see her, but to her, I was just another patron. And so life went on. We always held out hope our lives could be mended one day.” “And why not? After all, I could be of great service, as you have already seen— brother.” Anna walked in so quietly, neither had taken notice. Torin jumped to his feet. “You have much to learn, Anna. Don’t think you can waltz in here like nothing happened. You cannot be trusted. If there was ever…” “She’s right,” Liam interrupted. “I do need someone with experience to report on kingdom affairs.” “Liam, she tried to poison you! Her loyalty died with Istolar.” “You’ve forgotten the telepathic link between us? Trust is not an issue. I’ll know if she’s up to something.” Torin looked over at Anna, who had her arms folded across her chest and a smirk on her face. “I respect your decision, Liam, though I don’t agree.” “You,” he

said, without taking his eyes off Anna, “I’ll be watching.” For a fleeting instant, regret reflected in her expression; the longing for a life of love and security that only a family can provide. Torin lowered his eyes. After a brief but awkward silence, Liam said, “Good, it’s settled then. Anna, pack your belongings. Residence will be available as soon as damage can be repaired on the lots across from the Zaranspire. By the end of this week, I think. Right now, I have more pressing matters.” Liam hurried down to the sanctuary, the same place Gorgon led Cetera through when the siege began. He found her sitting by the fountain in the centre. She turned when she heard the sound of his footsteps and smiled demurely. “I knew you would come.” They clasped hands together. Warmth radiated out from Cetera. Happiness mirrored in her eyes. The ice had melted. “I never thought I could feel this way.” Liam looked deep into her eyes. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, she lowered her eyes. With one finger he gently lifted her chin so her eyes met his. He kissed her, long and ionately. Afterwards, they both gazed love struck into each other’s eyes. Cetera giggled and whacked him playfully with a stick. Liam tried to get it from her but she pulled it away and waved it teasingly before him. He pretended to give up trying, but snatched it away when she thought he quit. “Never let down your guard,” he onished, “except around me.” She fell into his arms. They wasted away the remainder of the afternoon, snuggling and cuddling, talking and planning, until a bright blue moon rose over the mountains. Ghostly light reflected off the ice capped Coppertop Mountains. Peace rested over Ukorstria.

Barandur watched the moon ing by his tiny, barred window. He imagined how it reflected off the icy peaks of the Coppertop mountains, wondering if he would ever see them again. The hour was late, yet he couldn’t sleep. He leaned his head on the cold stone of his cell. A tiny vibration, then the sound of footsteps caught his attention. He rose and stood by the gate; hoping… listening… A heavy clunk followed by the clicking of tumblers echoed down the dark corridor, unlocking the door to the dungeon. The footsteps grew louder. His heart pounded. Oh God, please get me out of here! Anna watched Liam through a mirror in Istolar’s dusty study. She saw him with Cetera in the sanctuary, saw him walking through the castle late into the night. She laughed to herself, Peace in our land. Reaching over, she spilled her glass of wine on the wooden table. It travelled in rivulets, seeping along grooves in the soft pine like blood. She picked up the ancient leather bound text before the wine reached its precious pages. “Damn, that was close.” She carefully placed the volume, Origin of Ukorstrian Royalty, back on the shelf. Stepping outside, she glanced at the full moon, cursing its illumination of the courtyard. She peeked around to make sure no-one was about, then headed to her quarters across the yard. Liam stirred uneasily in his sleep. Cetera wakened and nudged him gently. “Liam, I can’t sleep with all your tossing and turning.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, just a bad dream. I need to go for a walk.” “I know,” she said. Know what? Liam asked himself as he stepped out into the brisk night. The sound of crickets chirping was broken by the first chirping of birds awakening. An hour to dawn. Liam quickened his pace. He unlatched the gate to the gardens and waited. Cailin and Elena materialized. “We have been waiting for you, my son.” “I have learned what happened to King Brekor,” Liam said.

“I am sorry. I have caused much sorrow. The burden of guilt lies heavily upon me.” “And so it should,” Liam replied bitterly, but then he softened. “Yet, I have grown up in a good family. I have no regrets. The sword, What of the curse?” “The curse died with the sword in Popobawa. You will not share our fate. The acceleration of your youth will slow in the coming years as the effects fade over time. Our time has come,” Elena said. “We will be leaving this plane and the others who rest in peace. You will make a fine king, Liam. And you have made us most proud.” “I will miss you, Mother, Father,” he said, acknowledging them as his parents for the first time. The three of them tried to hug as their insubstantial forms allowed. In the last traces of darkness, they left the world to go into the unknown. Liam stood for a long time, watching the sun rise behind where he had last seen his natural parents. He turned and left for home afterwards, feeling both relieved and worn at once. He came into the world under the most despicable circumstance, yet, through hope, courage and a little bit of luck, ensured the line of kings would continue. Cetera greeted him at the door with a warm smile. In the background, a faint glow hinted daylight was not far off. She took his hand and led him back to bed. “I have a kingdom to run you know?” he said in mock protest. “It will still be there in a few hours,” she smiled devilishly. The sun climbed over the ocean in a brilliant orange. Before the moon dipped below the mountains, the first rays of the sun painted it red. Marvellous, Anna thought. She drew her curtains and slept through the morning, oblivious to the sounds of birds chirping and children playing.