It took only a few hours for the Hand to gather all the equipment and supplies they would need, including two mules to carry enough food for a tenday. They also filled up a large number of water skins, although Korwin assured the group that he could conjure up water whenever they needed it… a valuable back-up, but Erol in particular had no desire to bet his life on it.

It was decided that the logistics of carrying enough food and water for their new Gyantari friend were too difficult, and he was left to explore the city in the care of Jeb and Cris.

In the Gate Room of Kar Landsar Master Vetaris arrived shortly after they had gathered, and himself opened the Gate for them. Stepping through, the Hand found themselves in a dry, grassy landscape of soft mounds of crumbled stonework interspersed with scattered copses of oak and scrub brush. The noonday sun sparkled on the blue ribbon of the Imperial Canal half a kilometer to the north, the brilliant white sails of several ships visible – ships that would never dock in the ruins of dead Xaranda, if they could avoid it. Sailors tended to avoid even looking at the ruins, wishing only to reach the Silvari Locks, ten kilometers to the west.

A few broken towers stood above the wreckage of the city’s lesser buildings, vine-covered and empty-eyed, and the land was quiet save for the soughing of the wind and the cry of a lone hawk circling high above. Several kilometers to the south and west faint smudges of smoke showed where lay the scattered dwellings of the few sheepherders that were the only human occupants of the region.

But it was the much larger, blacker smear of smoke to the east that quickly caught the group’s eye – far more than one would expect from the few hearths of the tiny hamlet that lay near the Shrine. From Master Vetaris’ briefing, they knew where they had to go, and headed off with little discussion.

It took them about half an hour to make their way through the uneven, overgrown streets of the former city, cautious and wary, weapons out, to arrive at the hamlet of Helathor. This consisted of five daub-and-wattle cottages, various outbuildings, and a pen that once held pigs. Now it held only their hacked and burned corpses, and the buildings were mostly burned to the ground.

Nothing but smoke moved in the charred ruins, and the bloody remains of both livestock and humans were scattered about the central area. Once they were sure no enemies remained, it took only a few minutes to determine that all eighteen inhabitants of the hamlet were dead, either hacked apart by sword or axe, or burned in their homes – men, women and children alike.

But they had apparently not died without a fight – peppered among the remains of the peasants were the corpses of five human barbarians, almost certainly from one of the tribes of the Savage Mountains. And, shockingly, two gül-Hovgavui, by their gear and weapons apparently allied with the tribesmen!

A few score meters beyond the remains of the hamlet lay the Shrine itself, a small stone structure with a slate roof, with a low wooden building nearby, obviously the living quarters for the resident monks. The latter was now a smoking ruin, although the Shrine itself seemed untouched. Both structures stood in the shadow of the ruins of what must have once been the city wall.

Around the Shrine they quickly discovered more bodies – three who were obviously monks, albeit well-armed monks, and two more mountain barbarians along with another gül-Hovgavui.

Devrik and Erol cautiously led the way to the arched opening that gave into the dim interior of the Shrine. Inside they found two more dead monks amidst blood-spattered wreckage. But their eyes were quickly drawn to the simple alter against the far wall – stones had been ripped out of its front, exposing a now-empty space about a meter square.

“Damn! We’re too late, they must have taken the Heart of Metal,” Erol cursed.

Devrik moved past him to stare up at the wall above the alter, where a shiny battlesword hung. Clearly the focus of this small holy site, it was obviously the Sword of St. Helathor. He frowned at it, but refrained from taking it down, or even touching it – he had been much moved by the story of the heroic, doomed blacksmith.

“I wonder why they didn’t take the Sword?” he mused, turning back to his friends. “Perhaps it truly is a holy relic of –”

He was cut off as Mariala, couched over one of the fallen monks, cried out in sudden consternation. “This one is still alive!”

They all crowded around, and Vulk knelt down on the other side of the still, bloody form, seeking a pulse. Indeed, there was one, if slow, weak and thready. The man had been slashed and pierced in at least a dozen places, and the amount of blood he’d lost… Vulk sent a wave of his healing energy into the monk even as he reached for his satchel.

He pulled one of the vials of unattuned Baylorium  from it, and poured half the contents into the bloody mouth. As he rubbed and poured the other half in to worst of the man’s wounds, he prayed to Kasira to lend her blessing to his healing efforts.

In about five minutes, the wounds began to slowly close, the rent flesh beginning to knit itself back together, and in ten minutes the monk groaned and began to regain conciousness. He looked wildly around him, struggling to sit up, but failing. As he collapsed back to the floor, Mariala’s hand beneath his head, he managed to gasp out “who are you?”

“Friend’s,” Vulk assured him calmly, laying a hand on his chest as he strove again to rise. “We are agents of the Star Council, sent in answer to the mystic alarm triggered this morning. Can you tell us what happened?”

Vetaris had told them the monks were all agents of the Council, but would the wounded man believe them? The monk’s eyes narrowed, and he fumbled at a ring on his left hand. They all felt the tingle on their own ring fingers that indicated the presence of a Council artifact. He lay back suddenly and sighed in relief.

“Praise the Lady,” he said weakly. “Well met, comrades. I only pray you have arrived in time…”

“I fear we have not, Brother,” Devrik said gravely. “It seems your assailants discovered the secret compartment in the alter, and have taken the Heart of Metal.”

With Mariala and Vulk’s help the monk now succeeded in sitting up, looking frantically toward the ruined alter. But he seemed immediately relaxed, apparently unconcerned at what he saw. Instead his attention was quickly diverted to the body of his fellow monk, collapsed at the alter’s foot.

“Ah, Tevrak, my old friend,” he whispered softly, shaking his head. He closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly opened them to look at his deliverers. “Are there any other survivors?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mariala replied gently, as Korwin and Toran, who had reentered the shrine in time to hear the question shook their heads. They had immediately went out to check on just that question as soon she’d discovered the surviving monk.

The man shook his head sadly, then made to rise to his feet.

“Whoa!” cried Vulk. “Slow down! You were on the brink of death 15 minutes ago, Brother, and while my healing and the Baylorium have brought you back, you’ve lost a tremendous amount of blood! It’s going to be a few days before –”

“No, my friend,” the monk replied, with a grim smile. “Only a matter of hours. I don’t know what was in that elixer – Baylorium you call it? But it has worked miracles, giving my own healing abilities a boost, so that they are even now speeding my body to full recovery.

“Ah, by your expressions, I see you are dubious. But the fact is I, like my fellow “monks” are not Umantari as most of you are. I am Telnori, and a Druid of the Lady Drina. True, my wounds were fatal, quite beyond my ability to heal… although I was able to slow my metabolism enough to keep me alive for awhile. But with your aid, I am now well enough to complete the healing on my own. By this time tomorrow it will be as if I had never been wounded. Mostly.

“But there is no time to waste, and no time to coddle my injuries. For you have indeed arrived in time, despite the appearance of things. Our enemies have not succeeded in stealing the Heart of Metal, though they do not yet know that. Unfortunately, they are intent on a larger goal, one they must not be allowed to achieve!”

Over the next half hour he grew steadily stronger as he explained to his rescuers what had happened and what he knew of the force they must move against.

His name was Farendol Wintereyes and had been the senior “monk” tending the shrine for over 500 years. He and his fellow Druids had been awakened before dawn that morning by shouts from the nearby cluster of Umantari homes, when a group of barbarians, Tharkian mercenaries and gül-Hovgavui had appeared apparently from nowhere.

There were at least twenty of them, he thought, although he couldn’t be entirely sure. He and his fellows had made ready to aid the villagers, but had themselves been set upon by a portion of the marauders, led by a tall woman in a dark hooded cloak.

From the Hand’s description of the evidence in the village, he surmised that the reason the villagers had made as good a showing as they did was primarily thanks to “Little Yon” Geftor, the blacksmith and a former soldier. He must have been already up, as he often was with his sons, preparing to begin work on another replica of Helathor’s Sword, which the villagers sold to the rare pilgrims who visited the Shrine.

Geftor would have raised the alarm and attacked the invaders, but in the end, like their patron saint, the villagers had been overwhelmed. The monks were similarly outmatched, not by numbers per se, but because the band’s leader was a mage of considerable power – of the Vularu convocation, by the air elemental she commanded. Only Farendol had lived, if barely, to see her cast back her hood and reveal a cold, beautiful face framed in thick blond hair. She had used a talisman of some sort to point her henchmen to the alter, which they had instantly ripped apart.

In great satisfaction, she had lifted the Heart of Metal from its hiding place, and stowed it in a leather pack one of her güls carried. Her remaining troops had then looted what little treasures there were in the shrine (although strangely no one seemed willing to touch the holy sword), and the whole party set out south into the Blasted March. But not before the druid heard the mage chuckle to herself that “now the Corruptor’s new body will have power enough and more!”

But they had NOT taken the actual Heart of Metal – only a replica, carefully crafted long centuries ago and magically imbued to give off the correct aural signature expected of such an artifact. The real Heart of Metal still lay in a lead-lined chamber beneath the Shrine.

“But despite her failure here, it is possible that this madwoman may still free the Corruptor from its long imprisonment. For years I have sensed that the four Outer Seals have been… leaking… and I fear the Great Beasts may have been themselves infected by the Corruptor’s evil. Discussions have been on-going within the Council on how to address this matter, but nothing has yet been undertaken. Now… if she obtains the Sword…”

“But is not the Sword right here?” Devrik asked, gesturing toward the shining weapon on the wall.

“What? That?” Farendol shook his head and smiled faintly. “No, I refer to the Great Sword of Taharazod, within which lays half the soul of my noble King – the only artifact that can break the Wards which imprison the demon Khanaribus beyond our world.

“The Tomb of Taharazod must be our first stop! Halting her there is our safest course of action.”

“So the Sword of St. Helathor is not really… holy?” Devrik frowned at the shining blade in faint disapointment.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Farendol replied thoughtlfully. “I do know there is some indefinable power about it, and it certainly had remained untouched by time… I have often wondered…” he trailed of, lost in thought for a moment before continuing.

“Well, I have no proof. But many Umantari have sworn its virtues have aided them upon touching the hilt – and its creator, Helathor, died at almost the same time as King Taharazod was imbuing the Great Sword with his own soul… possibly at the very same instant…

“But even if it were so, they were over a hundred kilometers apart, and I know of no connection between a great Telnori king and a common Umantari weapon smith; nor the mechanism by which the one could effect the other. And yet…”

Devrik eyed the sword more respectfully. “May I…?”

“Hmmm?” Farendol pulled his mind back to the present. “Oh, yes, feel free. Indeed, you make take it with you. It is an excellent weapon, holy or not, and we will need all the help we can get in the coming battle. I am loath to leave it here unguarded, in any case.”

With gentle hands Devrik reached up and lifted down the Sword of St. Helathor. He removed his own battle sword from its sheath on his back and slid the holy relic into it instead. As his hand gripped the hilt he felt a thrill of energy… or was that just his imagination? He stowed his old sword on one of the mules as the group prepared to move out.

Farendol was able to supply the group with both face and head coverings, to filter the fine, dead dust of the Blasted March from their noses and mouths. He also provided goggles for their eyes, beautifully crafted of leather, brass and crystal. He added more food supplies to their own, and water as well. By mid-afternoon the group was ready to depart, which the Druid insisted they do, despite his obvious weakness.

“They already have more than half a day’s head start, we cannot afford to give them more! I will continue to heal as we go, fear not – not as quickly as if I were at rest, but quickly enough.”

They started out into the sere grasslands that lay beyond the ruined city, the barren-but-still-living margin of the Blasted March.

♦ ♦ ♦

By the time the sun was nearing the western horizon behind them, they had reached the very edge of the dead lands, and Farendol agreed that they must stop for the night – although the greater moon was nearing full, the lesser moon was only at half, and neither would be in the sky until after midnight.

As they sat around the campfire that night, the night sky a glowing black tapestry of a million shining diamonds, the Druid told them of how he had been a young man, just past his first century, when the Demon Khanaribas had attacked Serviana. How, as squire to King Taharazod, he was present during the momentous events of that dark time, and how, in the aftermath, he had devoted himself and his life to protecting Taharazod’s legacy, to assure that the Corruptor would never again be free to destroy.

After the final battle that saw the trap sprung, the demon imprisoned, and the souls of Taharazod and the Great Beasts sacrificed to lock the trap, he himself had taken the Heart of Metal from the now-empty form of the Iron Knight. For years, even after beginning the process of becoming a Druid, he was its guardian on the Isle of Iria.

When the Star Council was formed after the Great War, it was decided to keep the Heart closer to the Iron Knight and Great Sword, in case both should one day again be needed to contain the Corruptor. The dead city of Xaranda was selected as the best site, and Farendol comfirmed as its guardian. The fortuitous founding of a shrine to a minor saint in the ruins had seemed a godsend.

Farendol had joined the lone hermit who had founded the shrine, a half-cracked young man obsessed with the memory of the man who had saved him as a child, and proved himself a worthy disciple. Other Telnori had soon followed, and they helped the man build the current shrine, replacing the crude wooden lean-to he had first built over the holy sword. This allowed the true hiding place for the Heart of Metal to be built, although it did reside for several years in the false compartment in the alter, leaving a faint aural residue of itself behind.

Eventually the hermit had grown old, as Umantari so quickly do, and had died. Farendol became the new “head monk” of the shrine. The small hamlet grew up slowly around them, comprised of people who had come to the shrine, been healed or otherwise helped by Saint Helathor, and had stayed to be near his holy relic.

Over the centuries, with the human settlement so close, Faredol and the other Telnori Druids who had joined him were forced to develop a pattern to keep the illusion of being themselves human. When enough time had past, the “master monk” would die peacefully in his sleep, and a younger man would take his place. For an Umantari generation he would guide and guard the Shrine, until everyone who had known the old Master had themselves died. Then Farendol would return, to once again become the Master when the current one “died.”

Thus did they cycle all the druid-monks through the Shrine, staggered over the years… one generation on, one generation off. For 500 years the same ten men guarded the precious artifact containing the piece of King Taharazod’s soul, in case it should ever be needed to again power the Iron Knight.

“And I have spent my years studying the powers of Life, seeking some way to destroy the Corruption forever, not just imprison it, should it ever rise again,” Farendol concluded his tale. He stared out across the wastes that had once been his home, the land of his birth. “I’ll take the first watch.”

♦ ♦ ♦

They started again just before dawn, finally experiencing the desolate horror or a land wholly dead. The sands of the Blasted March were cold and very fine, difficult to walk on, and even without a breeze got into everything. They were all grateful for the goggles and face guards the Druid had provided.

Four hours of slogging found them, by Farendol’s reckoning, more than halfway to the Tomb. They paused to eat and drink, and it was Erol who first noticed the small dark shape moving quickly toward them from the crest of a low hill to their south. Even as he called out in alarm to his companions and reached for his trident it resolved itself into a winged half-woman-half snake, alternating between gliding and slithering over the hissing sands. Its – her – skin and scales were black and oily, her hair a dark purple, and her leathery wings a translucent purple. Great black eyes stared from a face twisted into a mask of rage, or perhaps insanity.

“It’s Shaluzira, the Great Beast of Water,” cried Farendol in horror. “They’ve broken the First Seal! And as I feared, her body has been Corrupted!”

Before he had finished speaking everyone in the Hand with a missile weapon had it out and aimed at the fast approaching Beast. Arrows and cross-bow bolts darted out – and missed, as the lithe creature never even slowed its serpentine rush, twisting and dodging.

In its turn the Beast raised its clawed hands and a great spout of black water burst forth, striking the ground at their feet like a battering ram and sending them all scattering. Korwin began to prepare a spell, Tagik’s Drink, intending to turn the creatures water into alcohol and then set it alight, while Vulk invoked a Curse on the thing.

Devrik leapt forward, drawing the Sword of St. Helathor as he did, only to be sent flying by a blow from the Beast’s savage tail. He crumpled to the ground twenty feet away, unconcious, the sword falling from his grip. Uttering a decidedly unholy curse, Vulk dashed after him.

Toran ratcheted up another cross-bow bolt, as Mariala prepared her Fire Nerves spell, and Erol hurled a javelin. The bolt missed, the spell seemed ineffective… but the javelin struck! With a shriek of pain and rage, the Beast turned in a flash to attack Erol with another blast of black water. He narrowly the dodged attack, while Korwin prepared another casting of Tagik’s Drink, needing more alcohol volume for his plan to work…

As Vulk unleashed his healing powers on Devrik, Erol took a new tack, and drew his special Tritani net from his belt, charging it with a word and flinging it at the maniacal monster bearing down on him. It hit and entangled the creature’s wings and left arm, sending off a shower of blue sparks and bolts of electricity that grounded themselves in the dead dust. With an agonized shriek Shaluzira convulsed and collapsed to a quivering pile, at least momentarily unconcious.

“Quickly,” Farendol cried, rushing foward, “we must dispatch her and capture her soul – If it has been corrupted as well, we… well, we must know…”

Devrik staggered up at this point, still supported by Vulk, and at Farendol’s urgent insistence raised the Sword of St. Helathor. Erol pulled his net off the stunned Great Beast, and Devrik brought his blade down in a swift strike that severed the head cleanly. Gouts of stinking black liquid gushed from the stump, then the body began to blacken, shrink, crack and crumble into dust. In seconds there was nothing left but a pile of dust indistinguishable from that of the Blasted March.

Everyone stood transfixed as, for just a moment, an image flickered translucently before their eyes – it shifted and pulsed, alternating between a tall, regal woman of great beauty and the Great Beast as it had once been, beautiful with shimmering blue-green scales, pale blue skin and foam-white wings.

Farendol stepped forward raising his hands and chanting in a melodious language none of them recognized. As he fell silent the image faded and a blue-white ball of energy appeared to float between his hands.

“Praise the Lady, her soul remains pure. But I have no way to prevent her from moving on, and we may need still need her power. Will one of you accept her within you, act as her earthly vessel for a time?”

“Possession?” Mariala asked doubtfully. “I don’t think that’s –”

“No, not possession,” the Druid gasped, his hands beginning to shake. “Not a controller, merely a passenger, and only for awhile… I can’t keep this up much longer… still too weak…”

Korwin stepped  forward. “I’ll do it. Since she represents the elemental force of water, I would seem the most logical choice in any case.”

Farendol nodded gratefully, and raised his hands, the glowing ball pulsing between them, to the water mage’s head. He uttered a single word. The ball vanished and Korwin staggered back, looking suddenly dazed and blank-faced.

After a moment he shook his head and seemed to come back to himself, glancing sheepishly around at the concerned faces ringing him. “How… odd. I can feel her mind in my own…”

Once it was clear that Kowrin was in no immediate danger of dangerous side effects, the group prepared to resume their journey with new urgency.

“They have reached the City already,” Farendol muttered, half to himself. “Did they skip the Tomb, then, go straight to Yalura? No, they must be moving quickly. I fear what we will find…”

His fears appeared justified when they arrived three hours later, at the Tomb of Taharazod, a small, low structure almost buried beneath the sand/dust. It’s great stone doors stood open and the dead earth around it was scuffed as if by many feet.

“I had hoped the wards, traps and pitfalls designed to protect m’lord’s mortal form would have delayed them,” he sighed as he led them toward the dark opening. “Perhaps even long enough for us to have taken them by surprise.”

“Speaking of surprise,” Vulk called out, not following. “Don’t you think we should keep watch out here so no one does the same to us?”

Farendol waved a hand absently in his direction, focused on what he might find in the tomb. “As you wish, cantor.”

Steps led downward, and with a word and a gesture Farendol caused lights to glow along the walls. He was enraged to see the wanton damage done to the carvings in the long hall, and pointed out where various traps and snares had been triggered or disabled. Not all disabled, though, as drying blood on the floor and walls indicated. He smiled grimly.

Inside of the burial chamber the damage was even more extensive, but he breathed a relieved sigh when he saw that the crystal sarcophagus protecting the unchanging body of his late King remained undamaged. The group gathered around to peer down at the apparently uncorrupted body of the legendary Telnori ruler, tall, dark haired and beautiful even in death.

“A spell of incorruptibility was placed on his body when he split his soul in two,” the Druid explained quietly. “In the probably forlorn hope that the two halves might one day be rejoined and so be able to reanimate his earthly vessel.

“But the half of his soul that he placed within the Great Sword poured out of it when the trap was sprung, and it now powers the Great Seal that keeps the demon locked beyond the world. The other half powers the core that can animate the Iron Knight, and so, unless we can discover some way to destroy the Corruption, not just imprison it, it is an unrealistic hope.”

He turned to the high stone wall behind the sarcophagus, empty and blank. “And they have the Sword.”

At that moment they all became aware of a high pitched whine that quickly dopplered into a full throated scream as it approached them from the tomb’s entrance.

“Another one!” Vulk screamed as he barreled into the chamber and dove for cover behind a pillar along the north wall. Right behind him lumbered another of the Great Beasts, a behemoth of black oak sinews binding together muscles of black stone, with oily black leaves for hair and steel-like vines for fingers.

“Ghoratok, the Great Beast of Earth!” Farendol cried out as Toran sent a crossbow bolt toward it. Like Erol’s flung javelin, it missed, pinging off a pillar, and he began to re-cock the weapon. Devrik attempted to summon Gortan’s Brand, but was unable to achieve a proper form.

Great gouts of stone and earth erupted from the Beast’s claws, sending the Hand reeling back. Vulk’s holy armor came up just in time to save him from serious damage. As the Beast moved forward Korwin gestured and cast Damikiran’s Freeze, causing a sheen of ice to spread out from him in a circle, coating the chamber’s stones.

“Blunt force,” cried out Farendol from behind the crystal sarcophagus. “Points and edges will do little to stop it, use blunt force!”

His advice seemed good, as Toran’s continued cross-bow bolts, Erol’s javelins and Mariala’s Fire Nerves all seemed equally ineffectual. Toran tossed the useless cross-bow aside and drew his great battle axe, turning it to use the blunt, hammer-like end.

As the lumbering Beast stepped forward onto Korwin’s ice, its feet shot suddenly out from under it, and with a crash it landed on its stone-and-wood ass, slipping and sliding in a frantic effort to get back up. The Khundari leapt forward, immune to the ice himself thanks to Korwin’s passing touch, and began smashing at the creature. Chips of wood and stone flew, and Ghoratok tried to batter this small tormetor, but a final blow to the head sent it into unconciousness.

With no need for prompting from Farendol, Devrik strode forward and quickly beheaded the corrupted Great Beast. Once again the shifting vision of the Telnori soul and the pure Beast form flickered before their eyes – a  short, solid-looking man with dark hair and laughing eyes, alternating with a humanoid shape of brown wood, gray stone and green leaves and vines, festooned with colorful flowers in its many cracks and crevices.

It was Vulk, this time, that the Druid insisted should carry the fallen elemental’s soul, and he stood forward to accept his passenger. Like Korwin, it took him a few minutes to adjust, but he seemed little the worse for wear.

“How do they keep finding us,” Erol demanded of Farendol as they exited the Tomb, and the Druid made to reseal the stone doors. “I mean, in the thousands of square kilometers of the March, what are the odds of these things stumbling across us?”

“Actually, I suspect the odds are about 1-to-1,” Farendol sighed. “They sense the soul energy of the Heart of Metal – for centuries they have been spiritually bound to the other half of this soul, in the mesh of the five Great Seals, and they seek it out now like a parched man, dying in the desert, seeks water. And they must not find it! They would consume it, destroying Taharazod forever!”

Before he could go on Faredol suddenly cried out and clutch his head, staggering. Erol reached out to support him, frowning in concern.

“Someone has broken the Spell of Grounding that I myself placed on the Iron Knght 500 years ago, to prevent its being moved,” the Druid ground out between clenched teeth. “Whoever did this is either a very strong mage or has access to a powerful artifact. Perhaps both…”

Prepared now, knowing that as the Vortex mage broke the seals on the Lesser Wards and freed each corrupted Great Beast that they would make a beeline for them, the Hand kept a constant watch. They were thus not caught by surprise when late that night, as they took a few hours rest out of neccessity,  Zhezekar, the Great Beast of Fire came upon them.

With a blackened body, wreathed in red flames, and great bat wings streaked in blue flame, she made a frightening sight in the pre-dawn darkness. This time Toran’s cross-bow bolts were more effective, knocking the creature from the air as it blasted gouts of flame at them. Mariala’s casting of her Mote spell seemed to confuse the Beast, but it still managed a direct hit on Devrik, who attempted to divert the flames with his natural pyrokinetic abilities. This was only partially succcessful, but enough so that he was merely lightly singed and not charred to a briquet.

Once the monster was on the ground Toran took to it with his battle axe, this time wielding the sharp side. He managed to take a great gout from its side, which oozed flaming ichor onto the dead sands. Erol failed to hit it, but dodged its next flame attack, leaving an opening for Devrik to step in and part its head from its body, freeing the pure soul from the corrupted physical form.

This spirit form was golden skinned, wreathed in yellow flames with feathered wings of white flame, alternating with a young woman with golden eyes and tawny hair. There was little doubt about the proper host for the fire elemental, and Devrik stepped forward to receive the soul.

“But let’s not mention this to Raven,” he said when he had recovered. “I don’t want to know what she’d say about my sharing my body with a beautiful woman – other than her!”

It was late afternoon when they finally reached the outskirts of the once-great Telnori capital of Yalura, and it was there, at the spot just before the Ebony Bridge where the Iron Knight should have stood, that they met the last of the four Great Beasts.

Asakora, the Great Beast of Air, possessed the lower body of a horse, the wings of an eagle, and the upper body of a man. Its skin was blackened and cracking, swirling off its body and forming a shifting cloud around it. The wings were gray and black, and razor-edged. It instantly attacked, and with a tremendous blast of air sent Toran flying. But thanks to his training the Dwarf landed and rolled easily, taking little damage.

In the next ten minutes the Hand threw everything they had at the great Beast, but axe, trident, Frostblade, Fire Nerves, Breath of Arandu, Orb of Vorol, and even Kasira’s Smile seemed to have no effect. On the other hand, although buffeted, sand blasted and tossed around, the Hand didn’t suffer any major damage either. Farendol spent the battle dodging and trying to keep the Heart of Metal away from Asakora’s grasp.

Finally Vulk managed to Curse the damn thing, and this allowed Erol to get in and do some damage with his trident. Toran weighed in with his battleaxe, only to have it ripped from his grasp and hurled almost into the river. But this provided the opening Erol needed, and he pinned the Beast to the ground with his trident. Devrik leaped in with a decapitating swing, and the once again a soul was freed.

Alternating between a winged centaur with chestnut brown fur, white hair, and razor-edged feathers of silver and a tall, lithe man with silver hair and blue eyes, the spirit form faded as Farendol placed it within the mind of a reluctant Erol.

As they all collapsed and began tending to their injuries, minor as they were, Farendol walked onto the broad black stone bridged that spanned the rushing river, gazing across to the crumbling ruins of his old home.

“This is where it gets difficult,” he said grimly.