3-5 Metisto 3020

The day dawned clear and warm when the Wind of Kasira finally sailed away from Arapet. The green crew, under the guidance of the four experienced seamen aboard and the Mate Grünbay, with Korwin as acting captain and pilot, pulled together, gaining confidence as they trimmed the sails and turned the ship into the following winds outside the small harbor. No incidents beyond a few scrapes and bruises marred the vessel’s inaugural run… which, in the event, was short.

Two hours after departing Arapet they dropped anchor off the small port town of Fethik on the neighboring island of Eari. The island was small, by the charts and standards of the Archipelago, but was nonetheless almost ten times the size of Arapet Island. The town of Fethik was more than double the size of Arapet Town and, obvious even from a hundred meters offshore, in much better condition.

“Well, that was quicker than I’d awaited… but why aren’t we maneuvering into the harbor there,” a curious Toran asked Korwin, who was peering at the town through the spyglass that had been a gift from the Legate Charkress. The Khundari was feeling moderately happy about this first leg of their open sea voyage, he hadn’t gotten sea-sick at all.

“Because we’re not staying,” the water mage answered somewhat absently. “I promised the Legate that we’d check on the fate of his men, the ones he dispatched for help, and this is where they were headed. And… ah, yes… the Harbor Master is heading out now, no doubt to learn whether we’ll be paying an anchorage fee or the pricier docking fees.” He collapsed the elegant metal tube and tucked it into his sash, grinning down at his friend. “We won’t be paying either, of course.”

The local Harbor Master was a portly, middle-aged fellow named Karlin Vestor who, despite his bulk, came up the rope ladder amidship with surprising agility. He was disappointed to learn that he’d not be collecting any fees from this impressively large ship (his sleepy port seldom docked a vessel of such length!). He was, however, willing to answer their questions once they’d filled him in on the outline of recent events on Arapet.

“Yes, just such a skiff as you describe was found adrift by one of our fishing boats, about a fiftnight past,” he said grimly. “Two men aboard her, and both dead, though no wounds or illness were apparent. We’re too close to the Fuming Sea not to recognize the signs, of course… although not afflicted by its evil airs ourselves, thank Tyvos.

“No one recognized the men, nor the skiff… which was too small to have come far. We asked of other ships and fishing boats of neighboring islands, but no one could solve the mystery… honestly, I don’t think anyone even thought of Arapet. Eventually the bodies were given to the sea, with all due rites, of course.”

There was little more to say after that, aside from the harbor master’s assurances that no ships from Arapet had docked in Fethik in the last month. That was a relief to the Hand, who had feared the alien infection might have spread by means other than the one planned. The Wind weighed anchor and was under sail again before Master Vestor was halfway back to Fethik.

They sailed on through the late morning and early afternoon, with only minor nautical mishaps. As their duties permitted, the crew never seemed to tire of Master Danir Alvador’s lurid retelling of the tale of his rescue by the Hand and his miraculous healing by Cantor Elida, and of the devastation of the alien Mi-Go. Vulk also never seemed to tire of the story, although most of the others quickly found it becoming somewhat embarrassing.

By the third re-telling Korwin was reaching the eye-rolling stage. “I wish I’d just used my Pillow of Suffocation™ on the damned fellow, if only Devrik had let me,” he muttered to Toran. “Then we wouldn’t be suffering through this never-ending tale…”

“Do you sleep with that pillow next to your regular pillow?” the Khundari laughed. “Seems a bit risky!”

“No, no,” Devrik interjected, with a glower at Korwin. “He only carries it on the battlefield, where he can smother the wounded when they’re helpless.”

Korwin scowled back and opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment the lookout called down from the crow’s nest that land had been sighted. Everyone was immediately diverted by the work of preparing for arrival and docking. They had made good time, thanks to favorable winds, arriving near the end of the late afternoon flood tide, which made the journey up the Korin River easier. The westering sun lit the white walls and red, brown and blue tiled roofs of the city with a golden effulgence as the local pilot guided them into the wharf. Mariala expressed her fascination with the process of “parking” the “boat,” and Korwin’s eyes got another workout. Toran just shrugged.

“Don’t look at me,” he laughed. “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout berthin’ no boats.” Kowrin ground his teeth as he stalked off to the waist, where Vulk was waiting with the pilot to disembark. She was a slight woman in her thirties, and seemed quite taken with the tall, handsome cantor. Vulk seemed oblivious, having his eye on a particularly muscular and hairy deckhand who was manhandling the gangplank into place.

As the gangplank was hefted over the side to thump down on the stone quay, the pilot was saying to Vulk “That’ll be 20 pence for my services, Cantor Vulk.” Grinning, she added “And let me just say, it was a pleasure… to pilot such a magnificent ship!”

His attention pulled back to the business at hand, Vulk pulled out his purse and counted out twenty silver pennies into the woman’s open hand, not without a wince. He was left with a few bronze and copper coins, a gold Crown, and a Khundari gold Imperial. He wasn’t broke, but he’d have to find a money-changer first thing… and then hope Master Alvador was quick about selling their cargo.

“I trust that concludes our business?” he said with a sigh as he dropped the last coin into her palm.

“Indeed, for all of me,” she agreed amiably. “But there’s still the matter of the docking and port fees, which – ah, here’s the Port Master’s agent now.” She nodded toward the tall, slender red-headed man striding up the gangplank. He acknowledged her with his own nod, and then turned to the two men.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, I am Urno Kovith, from the Port Master’s office. So, which of you is the captain of this impressive – and very long – ship?” Wharfage fees were, of course, based on the length of a vessel. In the end Korwin paid for the first days fees using his last gold Crown and 20 of his 38 remaining silver pennies. He was left, like Vulk, with a little silver, a single Khundari gold Imperial and the hope that they’d be able to sell off the cargo soon.

As the port agent was departing the rest of the Hand arrived, ready to disembark themselves. Vulk and Mariala intended to head directly to the Prince Palatine’s palace, to deliver Legate Chakress’ report, along with their own observations. Erol and Toran decided to accompany them, but Korwin felt obligated to oversee matters on the ship, while Devrik seemed entirely uninterested. He had been even more quiet than usual since the caverns beneath Arapet, moody and introspective.

“I’m not fit company right now,” he said, when Vulk once again encouraged him to join them. “A tavern and a dark corner is all I want right now. But Korwin, are there any particular customs, traditions or taboos I should know about here in your Empire? I have no desire to accidentally offend.”

“Well, it’s hardly my empire,” Korwin quipped reflexivly, looking a little surprised at his friend’s unexpected concern for manners or social norms. But he gave the question some thought before replying. “Really, your uncouth accent will mark you as an outlander, which will excuse most slips. You don’t know enough to talk local politics, and with your scary voice… well, just don’t insult anyone’s mother or the Emperor and you should be fine.”

•••••••

The palace of Prince Palatine Rapareth stood on the northern side of the spacious Imperial Square, near the top of the central of the three low hills across which the city sprawled. The square was crowded with people in the early summer evening, and Mariala noticed that many in the press paused to toss a bronze coin into the large octagonal fountain at the center of the area. An immense statue of Tyvos, Immortal Lord of the Sea, loomed over the fountain, and the central jets of water leapt almost to the 10 meter height of his crown.

The palace itself was a beautiful pile of ancient stone, four stories tall in two major wings, with two smaller wings at right angles to east and west. Its roofs were tiled in the distinctive brilliant blue tiles of Oceania, and a central tower soared up 50 meters from its heart, its battlements the highest point in the city. Its was set in its own expanse of open courtyard and encircled by a 3-meter wall of white marble. Large gates of bronze, cast in twinning bars of seaweed and merfolk, stood open, ceremonial guards lining the stairs up to the main entrance.

It took the better part of an hour for the group to work their way through the various layers of bureaucracy, functionaries and minions that stood between them and the Prince, and it took the blatant use of Vulk’s Herald’s Baton and asserted rank as a representative of the King and Queen of Ukalus to do it at all. Eventually they were taken to a study on the third floor, clearly a working rather than a ceremonial space, where the Prince was seated behind a magnificent desk of ironwood and ebony, inlaid with polished gold coral.

“So, they tell me you represent an embassy from the newly united Kingdom of Ukalus, of which we have but recently heard,” the Prince said genially as he finished signing a document and laid down his pen. He was a large man, maybe 45 years old, dressed in gorgeous silks, and rather corpulent. A closer look, however, revealed the muscle beneath the fat and finery and, despite the friendly demeanor, his shrewd, intelligent eyes were cool.

“Yes, your Highness,” Vulk said bowing low, his Baton held out before him. “An accidental embassy, to be sure, but a true one nonetheless.” At the Prince’s sharp look he quickly went on to give a truncated and heavily edited version of the events that had led the Hand of Fortune to Arapet and the Empire. As he wound up his brief précis of the horrifying events on the small island he handed over the sealed folder containing Charkress’ report.

The Prince was really frowning by this time, and he quickly broke the seal, after a quick glance confirming its legitimacy. His frown grew deeper as he scanned the first few pages. After a moment he tossed the papers onto his desk and looked up at his guests with a heavy sigh. “It is clearly going to take more than a few minutes to come to grips with this bizarre happening, and my stomach is telling me it is past time for my supper. I shall be dining casually this evening, in the Old Parlour, and would be pleased to have you and your companions join me, Cantor Ser Vulk. After which we can all retire to more comfortable chambers to go over this incident in greater detail.”

The Old Parlour turned out to be a moderately-sized dining hall, and the “casual” gathering consisted of 30 courtiers and hangers-on seated below the salt, with the Prince, his current mistress, and his seneschal at the high table. Servants found places for Vulk and Mariala at the first table beneath the royal dais, near the large fireplace, while Erol and Toran were seated at a table opposite them.

The meal progressed uneventfully through several courses of game, seafood and vegetables, until just before the dessert course. At that point Mariala, Vulk and Erol each noticed a wine steward pouring out a cordial for the Prince from a crude looking ceramic bottle into a glass of elegant Telnori crystal… a brilliant blue cordial of shocking familiarity. All three leapt to their feet with an almost simultaneous chorus of “No, your Highness!”

The Prince paused with the glass halfway to his lips, surprised at this harmonized breach of decorum by the foreigners. Vulk stepped forward to explain, but Erol beat him to it, calling out from down the hall. “Please, your Highness, do not drink that liquor! The matter which we brought to your attention earlier, Ser, involves just such a beverage as this one appears to be. If we are mistaken in this, we beg your indulgence and pardon, but if we are right… the consequences are too grave to allow us to err on anything but the side of caution.”

“Indeed, Highness,” Mariala agreed. “Do you know, has any food taster yet tried this drink? How does it come to be served here this evening?”

Prince Rapareth glanced uncertainly at his wine steward. “Ejan? What say you to this? You told me this liquor was something new, but what do you truly know of its provenance?”

The servant drew himself up even as he bowed his head to his liege. “Your Highness, as I said, I came across this last month on my annual trip to the highlands and my progress through the royal vineyards. I’ve tasted it myself, more than once, and I can assure you that it is no danger to anyone.” With a snarky glare at Mariala he took the glass, which the Prince had set down on the table, and tossed back its entire contents in a single gulp.

Mariala, with her training, could see the small changes in the man’s body as the drug took hold, despite his rigid attempt to hide them. But it was Erol, with his Telnori-sharp vision, who could see the man’s pupils dilate until the black almost obliterated the brown of the iris – a symptom he had noticed in the blue-cordial drinkers on Arapet. But the Prince had noticed his servants eyes as well, and the man knew it. Before anyone could speak, the steward whipped out the small dagger at his belt and attempted to plunge it into the Prince’s neck.

Rapareth moved with a speed that belied his bulk, dodging the blow and knocking the blade from the man’s grasp with a powerful buffet. His expression of fury turned to one of shock as a crossbow bolt flew through the space his head had occupied an instant before, embedding itself in the wooden screen behind him. It had been fired by one of his own guardsman, stationed at the far door to the chamber!

Erol found himself almost unconsciously shifting into the super-heightened mental state that seemed to slow his perception of time to a crawl. He saw the bolt miss the Prince and turned to see the guard who had fired it frantically working to crank a second bolt into position. Erol wasted none of his accelerated time worrying about the fact that, aside from his dagger, he was unarmed – he raced full tilt at the man, covering the length of the Old Parlor in seconds. The guardsman never even saw him coming until Erol was ripping the crossbow from his hands and slamming his forehead into the man’s face. Cartilage crumpled, blood spurted, and the traitor slumped to the floor unconscious.

Toran, who had missed the initial clue of the blue cordial due to the fact that he was fully engrossed in savoring a dish of mushrooms that reminded him strongly of ghurpesh, a Khundari dish of his childhood that he’d not had since venturing out into the wider world. But his nostalgic reverie had been broken by the shouts of his friends, and by the time the crossbow bolt was fired he was standing on his bench, hand on dagger hilt. He sensed Erol move in a blur of action, but his attention was focused on the three guardsmen closer to the Prince, and to himself.

They were racing towards their liege lord, as was right and proper… and yet he had a distinct impression they were aiming their halberds at the Prince. There was no time for thought, and he let his Kahar-ün-Tem training take over. His hands came up, he murmured a phrase, and almost-invisible bolts flashed from his hands at the speed of thought. The nearest guard went down shrieking as one of Stavin’s Arrows embedded itself in his thigh. The second bolt missed his companion, who nonetheless also fell to the floor an instant later, writhing and gasping in wordless agony. The guardsman from the other side of the hall and the wine steward joined them on the floor in a similar state, and Toran glanced over to see Mariala lowering her hands, a gleam of fierce satisfaction in her eyes.

She and Vulk strode forward to put themselves between the Prince and any other attacks, as did several noblemen amongst the guests, but no further attacks came. When Erol dragged up the limp form of the crossbowman and dropped him next to the others Mariala used a foot to discreetly nudge the man’s bloody head off of the very expensive-looking carpet, letting the blood pool on the wooden floor instead.

“What in the endless blue Void is going on here?” the Prince’s baritone was surprisingly mild, considering the circumstances. His mistress was sobbing and clutching at him, and with an exasperated look he gave her a soothing word and motioned to the seneschal. “I think it would be best if Lady Erimin retired to her chambers, will you see to it Argalond?”

Once the weeping lady had allowed herself to be guide away by the elderly retainer, Rapareth immediately turned to question the Hand. It was obvious his suspicions had been aroused by the coincidence of these mysterious new visitors and the attempt on his life by previously trusted men. “Ejan Salaim has been my wine master for over a decade! Why would he try to poison me now, never mind actually draw steel on me?”

“Highness, I don’t think he was attempting to poison you, exactly,” Vulk answered. “Our understanding of the blue cordial is that it weakens the will and allows for the mental manipulation, even outright control, of those under its influence. If the… agents we spoke of earlier have indeed made it here, Ser, than I think this was an attempt to gain control of you, not kill you… not unless they should fail of the first goal, that is.”

“We have in the past noticed that those habituated to the drink have blue-stained tongues,” Mariala offered, and knelt to lift up the head of the semi-conscious wine steward. Forcing his mouth open, she tilted his head to reveal the blue-tinted organ, as predicted. “I think your steward was controlled in this manner, and probably your guardsmen too.”

At the Prince’s sharp command several of the vigilant nobles bent to check the tongues of the guardsmen, and all were found to have the tell-tale blue tongues. After himself checking the mouths of his would-be noble protectors, and finding them untainted, the Prince sent one to summon his Guard Commander and a squad – but to bring them only after the man had checked their tongues. He then ordered several others to check all the remaining folk in the hall for the tell-tale mark. When no more were found, he ordered everyone to depart, adding that no word of the evenings events were to be breathed to anyone who had not been present.

“Not that there’s a minnow’s chance in a shark frenzy that I’ll be obeyed,” he sighed once he was alone with the Hand and his newly arrived commander. A dozen armed and armored men, all vetted, had accompanied the commander and several were now efficiently binding the prisoners with manacles on feet and hands. Erol was increasingly impressed by the Prince – his sensual and epicurean bent clearly concealed a sharp and decisive mind.

“So, Ejan, is this the truth?” the Prince asked his steward, as the man was dragged to his feet between two guardsmen. “Have you been suborned, or was this treason a result of some mind control?”

“I have seen the blue vision of the paradise to come,” Salaim cried out in a hoarse but rapturous voice. The effects of the Fire Nerves spell had worn off, but he was disheveled and wild looking, his pupils still dilated as wide as they would go. “The angelic Mi-Go will come soon to carry all the faithful off to the eternal bliss that is to be our reward… they… I… wished to offer you the bliss, out of my love for you, Sire… but if you would not accept it, then death was to be your portion… none must stand in the way of the glory to come!”

Rapareth looked suddenly pale and, for the first time since the attack, shaken as he listened to this diatribe. “Take all four to to separate cells, Commander, as far from one another as possible… I don’t want them conferring before we can interrogate them properly.” He turned to Vulk and motioned him closer. “I think it’s time I fully read the report you brought from my Legate Charkress… and once I have done so I will wish to question you, and all your party, more deeply. Please return to the palace at the third turning of the Phoenix watch tomorrow, with all of your companions.”

“Of course, your Highness,” Vulk bowed in agreement. “May we be permitted to sit in on the interrogation of the prisoners? Aside from our personal experience with these matters, Lady Mariala and I both have some skill in discerning truth from those who would seek to deceive.”

“I will decide on that in the morning, once I’ve had a chance to assimilate all the information you’ve brought, and have questioned you all further. But if all is as you claim, I would be pleased for another set of eyes and ears in the matter. Now, if you’ll excuse me I–“

“Your Highness,” Toran interrupted, stepping briskly through the doorway from the kitchens. “Before you retire, I have some information that may affect your deliberations, if I may briefly detain you?”

“Certainly, Ser Dwarf, if you have knowledge I should possess, then speak on.”

“Well, Ser, I took it upon myself, once the immediate danger was past, to investigate your kitchens, to seek out any others who might have been suborned by the blue cordial and to learn more of your wine steward’s movements in recent days.

“I learned that the Steward Salaim has seemed, to his professional intimates, to be “a bit off” for the past couple of days, distracted and withdrawn, not his usual gregarious self. More importantly, yesterday he accepted delivery of a small cask from two rough-looking fellows, whom he seemed to know. This evoked no particular surprise, as I was led to understand that he was a rather egalitarian sort of man.”

“Yes, Ejan is not the wine-snob one might expect of a man in his position,” the Prince agreed, sadly. “He liked… likes anyone who likes wine, and likes to share when he can.”

“So his associates told me,” Toran went on. “And yesterday evening he shared some of the blue cordial from that mystery cask with three of the four guards on duty today, and with one other man – the First Warder of the Privy Chamber I was told is the man’s title.”

At this the Prince looked surprised, and he immediately sent off two men to locate the First Warder. But despite having been seen in the palace an hour before supper, no sign of him could now be found. An expanded search was ordered, and the Hand was allowed to go to investigate their own ship and see if the cask came from there, with a reminder to return at the appointed hour in the morning.

•••••••

While the bulk of the Hand were at the Palace, hob-nobbing with the royalty and stopping hostile alien takeovers and/or assassinations, Devrik and Korwin remained aboard the Wind. Or at least Korwin did, busy going over the cargo in more detail with Master Alvador, and the state of the ship with the Mate. Devrik took off not long after the others, seeking that tavern he’d mentioned, with little more than a diffident wave and a grunt to Korwin.

Korwin frowned as he watched his friend make his way up the quay and vanish into the shadows of warehouses and shops that lined the waterfront. But he had little time to spare on his concern, as he was also intent on finding a new crew. Most of the crew from Arapet had asked, and been granted, permission to go ashore, and neither neither Korwin nor Yonas expected to see any of them again. It had been tacitly understood that they simply wanted off of Arapet, and since they were not actually being paid, Korwin could hardly object.

As the shadows were beginning to lengthen that evening two men showed up at the gangplank, looking to hire on. They were twins, in their late twenties, Korwin guessed, and rather scruffy looking, even for sailors. But Yonas put them through their paces, they had their Guild tattoos and, when they worked together, even Korwin could see that they seriously out-classed any of the departed crew.

“Yay, they’ll do,” the Mate said laconically when he’d finished with them, and Korwin quickly signed them on. As the two men went below to stow their gear and pick their berths Yonas motioned to the acting Captain.

“I thought I should mention this , domus, though I’ve no mind that ’tis of any great moment… aye, probably nothing. But, you see that little fishing ketch moor’d ’t yon wharf across the way? I swear ’tis the Sailfish… one of the fishing fleet out of Arapet.”

“What?” Korwin pulled out his glass and peered intently at the vessel in question. No one moved on the small, rough-looking ship as it bobbed against the dock on the gentle swells. “Could it have come here before the… before the monolith appeared?”

The Mate frowned, and scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Oh, not too likely, Cap’n…’tis run by the brothers Yon and Yerino Akurta, with a usual crew of two to four other men, depending on t’ season. And I knows I spied ‘er on the Arapet Town docks around t’ time the recent…troubles… begun. Couldn’t say exactly when I last noticed her, though, not fer certain…”

Korwin didn’t like the cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was probably nothing, but… maybe he’d just stroll over and have a look. Probably turn out to be perfectly innocent… Leaving Yonas in charge of the watch on the ship, he set out down the dock and along the quay to the dock just north of their own.

Along the way he passed Devrik, chatting it up with a group of locals outside a rather seedy looking tavern. Korwin stopped to fill him in on the mystery of the Sailfish, and his concerns about it, but the obviously intoxicated fire mage waved him off with a belch and a broad sweep of his arm toward his companions.

“My new friends here have just shown me a lovely little place, the Leaky Keg,” he waved this time at the building behind him, “and now we’re off to the Barrel O’ Beers.” Only the slightest blurring of his vowels and the exaggerated precision of his movements betrayed the level of his inebriation. “When you grow bored of mysterious fishering boats, my watery friend, you should come join us.” He followed this with garbled directions, interspersed with corrections and clarifications from the others, before he and his new chums drifted off down the quay.

Shaking his head, Korwin continued on… he was a little concerned for his friend, he’d never seen him quite like this, but his anxiety over the dire possibilities represented by the Sailfish pushed that concern to the back of his mind. Passing a merchant ship named the Azure Rose, which was being unloaded by half a score of the local stevedores using muscles and cargo cranes, he approached the Sailfish, tied up at the end of the stone pier. The sun was low in the west, but there was still at least an hour of sunlight left he calculated.

Several barrels of fish sat on the wharf near the seemingly empty ship, and Korwin could see at least one other on her deck. By the smell they’d been left in the summer sun for several days, at least. Repeated calls brought no response, but before he took the step of boarding the vessel uninvited he decided to check with the locals – the stevedores and several vendors of fish, mussels, and other fruits of the sea with carts nearby.

Two storys emerged – the first was that the brothers Akurta often came and went, not unusual, nothing to see here, they’d be back soon no doubt, domus; the second tale, more common, suggested that it was all damn odd, and a shame. Yes, the brothers showed up, that wasn’t unusual… but they and four other men had left the ship an hour after it arrived, unloading only a few barrels but taking away several small casks and a largish bundled object that took two men to carry.

His suspicions now thoroughly aroused, Korwin decided he had no choice but to go aboard. If nothing else, perhaps something there might trigger one of his psychometric insights. The smell below decks was worse, with the combined smell of rotting fish and unwashed humanity, and the cramped crew quarters yielded little of interest. He was about to give up when he absently picked up a scrap of leather with a broken buckle, as from a belt or weapon harness. With shocking clarity, he had a vision of a man, well enough looking, in his mid-thirties… obviously a soldier, and an officer at that… he was speaking with the Legate Charkress in a room Korwin recognized, the Legate’s study… no sound accompanied the vision, but he felt with certainty that this was a vision of the past…

In an instant the image faded from his mind’s eye, but the man’s face remained clear in his mind. He had no doubt that he would recognize him if they ever crossed paths. He spent a few more minutes touching things and picking up objects, but he had no further flashes of insight. Able to stand the stench no more, he gratefully headed back up to the deck and the at least somewhat fresher air.

As he was leaving the Sailfish, however, an official-looking fellow accosted him, in something of a snit. A man of middling height, he had thinning hair and a rather nasal voice. “Are you one the Akurta brothers?” he demanded. “If so, we have the serious matter of your docking fees to discuss – you are three days in arrears, domus, and if you do not make good on your debt, then I–“

“My good man,” Korwin interrupted this barrage, raising a placating hand. “I am not one of the brother-owners of this disgusting vessel, I assure you. If I was, it would be in considerably better shape, you may be certain. In fact, I am looking for Yon and Yorino Akurta myself, and they are not aboard this ship – no one is, actually.”

“Then who are you, and why were you aboard their ship?” The man asked suspiciously.

“As for my presence, as I said, I’m looking for the brothers, rather urgently – when no one answered my hails, I went aboard. My name is Korwin Seaborn, and I am the master of the Wind of Kasira.” He gestured across the ways, where his ship floated, her dark wood and pale canvas looking especially dramatic in the golden early evening sun.

“Ah, indeed?” the man’s annoyance and supercilious manner dropped from him like a cloak. “What a fine vessel she is, domus! She’s been the talk of the docks since you tied up this afternoon. How long have you been her captain? Where was she built? I’ve never seen rigging quite like hers. Oh, I beg your pardon… my name is Arn Darvin, I’m a deputy Port Master. A pleasure to meet you, captain!”

The man’s enthusiasm was almost overwhelming, and he proceeded to pump Korwin for information about the Wind. Darvin himself was an aficionado of the ship building arts, apparently, and was fascinated with the unusual vessel. Somehow in the course of answering his questions the water mage managed to imply, if not outright state, that he was not only the captain of the ship, but her designer and builder. T only served to feed the man’s eagerness, and Korwin quickly regretted whatever impulse had led him to that little exaggeration. It was only by agreeing to meet for drinks “soon” that he managed to get away before the daylight was entirely gone. The two men also agreed to share any information they might discover concerning the whereabouts of the brothers Akurta.

Making his escape, Korwin decided to seek out the Barrel O’ Beers and Devrik. He eventually located the establishment, which turned out to be not quite the dive he’d expected, only to find his friend pretty far gone in his cups. So far gone, in fact, that he was flirting shamelessly with an attractive, if somewhat slatternly, young woman… the same one that had been hanging off his arm when he’d been introduced to the group earlier. What was her name? Oh yes, Winna.

“Devrik, we really should be getting back to the ship,’’ Korwin suggested a little desperately as the woman’s hand disappeared below the table, and the fire mage got a surprised look on his face. “I think Raven will be expecting us soon, no?” Fortunately, either the mention of his wife’s name or whatever Miss Winna’s wandering hand was up seemed to snap him out of his infatuated fog. Devrik stood up abruptly, and almost went over backwards, until Korwin steadied him.

“I’m sorry, m‘dear,” he intoned solemnly, “but ish true, I must be getting home now.” He let his friend lead him out of the tavern, studiously ignoring the vocal, and very uncomplimentary, complaints of his disappointed would-be paramour. As the door slammed on the raucous laughter from the tavern Devrik slapped Korwin on the back, half knocking the breath from him and sending him staggering forward. “No need to mention this to Raven, eh my friend?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” the water mage gasped. “My lips are sealed!” The rest of the walk back to the ship was silent.

•••••

The other members of the Hand of Fortune were just arriving back at the Wind of Kasira as Devrik and Korwin turned onto the pier. The sun had finally gone done, although the western sky was still a luminous violet, and the stars were just beginning to come out overhead. Gathering in the ward room the group exchanged tales of their afternoon and evening, and both Master Alvador and Mate Grünby were summoned. The former assured them that none of the casks of the blue liquor in the Wind’s hold were missing, having completed a new inventory less than two hours earlier; and Yonas was equally certain that none of the departing crew had left the ship with anything the size of a cask in their possession.

“Well, given the timing of the wine steward’s acquisition, we knew it wasn’t possible,” Toran sighed, “but we had to check.”

Despite his warning to Korwin, Devrik waxed a bit rhapsodical, and a little wistfully, about the charms of the apparently hot-to-trot Winna during the meeting. Vulk, already a bit worked up over Korwin’s description of the longshoremen he’d encountered earlier, was intrigued.

“Perhaps I should stop by this tavern and make the young lady’s acquaintance,” he mused, half seriously, as the meeting broke up. “I understand from Korwin that I missed a chance with our local pilot earlier today, maybe I’ll have better luck with this Winna…”

“Keep it in your breeches, Vulk,” Mariala interrupted before the glaring Devrik could speak. “This isn’t the time, we have an early meeting with the Prince in the morning, and we should all get a good night’s sleep. Right?”

“Yes, yes, I was just kidding,” Vulk said, rolling his eyes. “Sheesh, lighten up!”

Everyone dispersed to their cabins, but out on the deck Devrik grabbed Vulk’s arm and pulled him aside into the shadows near the stairs to the quarterdeck. “Shleep is a good idea,” his voice was still slightly blurred by drink, but no less grating. “But first I’m going to find a fire ashore, to seek guidance in the flames – and you’re coming with me, so I can keep an eye on you, you purple and gold weasel.”

Given his friend’s clearly inebriated state, and very large muscles, Vulk wasn’t inclined to argue. But he wasn’t keen on wandering the docks after dark, either. He knew the spell the fire mage spoke of, and it required as large a flame as possible for the best chance to gain a vision. “Can’t you use that fire you keep burning day and night in the forge below decks?”

“No! That is the flame I will soon use to talk with my Raven… it’s taken me a loooong time to build that shpell up to reach so far… I’m sooo close now… and the flames on either end mus’ never be allowed to die, or ’ll have to shtart over… and casting any nother shpell on them would have the same effect… and it takes forever to cast my Far-Flung Fire Flame Fone™ Shpell… “

Fortunately, it didn’t take long for the two men to find an appropriate fire. Toket & Son’s Chandlery was actually the closest building to their pier on the docks, and though it was closed at this hour it had a small forge in an open shed around back. It was banked for the night, of course, but it took Devrik only moments to fan the flames to full force. His movements were as graceful and cat-like-smooth as ever, Vulk noted, and if it wasn’t for the slightly blurred voice he’d never know the man was drunk…

The cantor stood patiently by as his friend muttered the incantation and sank into the trance, staring into the flames… Vulk also gazed into the fire, but he saw nothing beyond the eternal beauty of the flickering, shifting flames themselves. For almost a turn of the glass they stood silent… the evening was warm, and if not for the breeze off the river Vulk, at least, would have found the heat from the forge oppressive. He doubted Devrik would be bothered by it, of course, or even notice it… wait! Was the man in a trance or had he fallen asleep?!

Apparently it was the former, because as the flames began to die down the fire mage’s mind slowly rose up from its trance, back into the world of matter and time. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and looked over at his friend, as if surprised to see him there.

“So, did you see anything? Did it work?” Vulk asked.

“Yes, it worked,” Devrik replied slowly. The blur was gone from his voice, and he seemed entirely sober now. “Xydona granted me a vision… I saw a man, tall, handsome, a military man… an officer, I could tell… on his face was a terrible smile… behind him were a billion stars and beautiful, shifting nebulae of many colors… between his cupped hands he held the globe… Novendo spinning silently… and from his fingers hideous, insect-like creatures streamed down to the surface… the Mi Go were there, leading the way, but so were other things, even more repellent and terrifying… and they swarmed across the face of the world until they were all that there was…”

Vulk was shaken by the mere description of the vision, and he was suddenly not upset that he hadn’t seen it too. “Did you recognize the man?” he asked when his friend showed no sign of continuing.

“No, but from Korwin’s description of face and armor, I’d guess it was the same man he saw in his psychometric vision. The one who arrived here days ago, aboard that fishing boat.”

•••••

The next morning, back at the palace, the Prince and his chief advisors spent almost two hours questioning the Hand – about themselves, the events on Arapet, and their theories of what yesterday’s events might mean. In the end, the Prince was convinced that the group were what they claimed to be, and the horror on Arapet all too true. The man’s own native intelligence and wit no doubt helped him reach this conclusion, but it was aided by the confident support of his major domo, Karl Esfantor. By the testimony of the Star Council rings each member of the Hand wore, they knew he too was an associate of that secretive cabal – and knew that he must know it of them, as well. They would have to speak with him privately, later, but for now his support was theirs.

Once the Prince made his decision to let the Hand fully in on his counsels, they sat down to a more relaxed discussion over brunch. Domus Esfantor revealed that the last ship known to have arrived in Tishton after having stopped at Arapet was over a month ago – a full tenday before the mysterious obelisk had appeared there. Small fishing vessels, of course, were not so closely tracked, as vessels under thirty feet required no local pilot.

“But now we learn of this ship, the Sailfish, and the mystery concerning its arrival and the current whereabouts of those who arrived aboard her,” the Prince said, sipping his hot chocolate appreciatively. “What of this man both Ser Korwin and Ser Devrik have seen in separate visions? Have you any guess who it might be?”

“A guess, yes, your Highness,” Vulk replied. “Discussing it this morning, it seems likely that the man is Legate Charkress’ Captain of Guards, a man named Frongar. Or perhaps something wearing his skin, if the man was unlucky.”

“Frongar?” The Prince seemed startled. “Damn, I know the man… I chose him personally for Charkress’ mission, in fact. He is… was…is a fine, principled man and a doughty fighter, but not afraid to use his head before his steel. I had been planning to promote away from Arapet in a few months, in fact… I shall be greatly saddened if he has been corrupted or… worse. Do you think there might be a chance to save him?”

The others looked uncomfortably at once another, and it was Mariala who spoke. “Perhaps, your Highness… but I don’t hold out much hope. The Mi-Go seemed to take the brains of the best of those they enslaved, and to then wear their victim’s forms to interact with other Umantari… more direct control than second-hand, via minions, I suppose. On a mission like this, away from their… nest… that seems most likely…”

“But even if Frongar is merely controlled, can that control be broken?” Erol asked. “What of your own people under the spell of the blue liquor, Prince Rapareth? How do they fare this morning?”

“I’m told that they awakened this morning confused and disoriented. They each claim to have no memory of the last two days. I had planned to send my Arcanist Royal to examine them after this meeting… I know you are anxious to question them yourselves, so perhaps you would like to accompany her now?”

Mariala and Erol agreed, and they left with Leraned Kira Lestoron, the Prince’s advisor on arcane matters and his Chief Sorcerer. Several guards escorted them down to the dungeons far below the palace proper, while the others remained with the Prince and his other advisors, discussing possible plans to combat the possible alien infestation they faced. It was slightly more than two turns of the glass before they returned, somewhat to the Prince’s surprise.

“It went quite quickly, yes, my liege,” Learned Lestoron said grimly at his inquiring look. “We started with wine steward Ejan Salaim, as the one apparently longest under the influence. As reported, he seemed confused and denied any memory of his treasonous attack on your person, your Highness, and hotly denied that it could be true. It was quite a convincing performance, actually.”

“Performance?” the Prince sighed unhappily.

“I’m afraid so, sire. Both Lady Mariala and I had prepared our spells of Truth Sense before we entered the cells, and there could be no doubt. I have seldom encountered an instance where the lies were so starkly revealed in someone’s words.”

“Indeed, your Highness,” Mariala confirmed. “I was suspicious of this convenient amnesia from the start – everyone on Arapet remembered their actions while under the aliens’ control. The memories were distant and blurred, to be sure – as if they happened long ago or to someone else – but they were there nonetheless. As the Learned Lestoron says, your steward’s lies blazed like a beacon in the night… barely a word he said had truth in it. And I’m afraid the other three were much the same.”

“So… it would seem like there are three different levels of Mi-Go domination,” Toran said slowly, thinking it through. “There’s the basic control, achieved through the emanations from that cursed obelisk; then there is the stronger control provided by the blue liquor, which seems to increase suggestibility, as well; and then there is the wearing of the actual skin and form of the victim.”

“Well, the obelisk is gone now, as are most of the Mi-Go,” Erol observed. “Which leaves the blue liquor and the skin-wearing… is there any way to tell which we’re dealing with here? Were the men who arrived on the Sailfish mind-controlled Umantari, or Mi-Go in Umantari skins? Or both?”

“The only way to be sure, I’m afraid, is to find them,” the Prince sighed. “I have my men searching the city, and I will put as many more to the task as I can spare… but it’s a large city, and when we must guard against suborned and controlled agents amongst ourselves on top of it all…”

“The longer they are allowed to run free, ensnaring more and more people, the harder it will be to eradicate them,” Erol said. “But I have an idea that just might lead us directly to them…”

•••••

The plan that the Hand eventually hammered out with the Prince and his councilors could not be implemented until the wee hours of the coming night, which not only gave the royal agents more time to find the renegades first, but freed up the Hand to take care of their own business during the rest of the day.

Leaving the palace just after mid-day the Hand of Fortune split up to go about their various errands: Mariala and Erol planned to return to the Wind of Kasira, after a stop first at the chandlery whose forge Devrik had used the night before; Korwin and Toran sought out the local Cartographer’s Guildhall, looking to purchase sea charts covering their planned route through the Archipelago; while Vulk and Devrik were scheduled to meet Master Alvador at the Merchant’s Guildhall to begin the process of selling as much of their alien cargo as possible (excepting the blue cordial, of course) and acquire the coin they desperately needed.

Toket & Sons Chandlery was a modestly sized, two story building, with walls of pale stone and dark timber and windows of mullioned glass. Entering through the large front door off the main quay, Mariala and Erol found the place dim and cool, permeated with smells of preserved foods, spices, old wood and leather. The small entry vestibule widened quickly to either side, and a central block, containing staircases up and down, effectively divided the interior into two spaces.

Mariala rather desultorily began to pursue the various crates of pickled, dried or otherwise preserved foods to her left. She was beginning to feel that nervous flutter which presaged the very beginning of Lyrin oil withdrawal… she hoped someone here might have a connection to the black market. If they were going into a fight tonight, as seemed likely, she’d have to take some risks to resupply herself… maybe that young man across the room to her right, doing something she couldn’t quite make out behind a counter?

Erol, oblivious to his friend’s nervousness, headed straight for the back area, where the hardware seemed to be and the most likely place to find the glassware he was interested in. He really needed to create more weaponized spheres soon, preferably before tonight, assuming their strategy came off as planned. Two men were in the larger back section of the shop – an older man behind a counter on the north side of the room, and a younger man (by his looks Erol guessed one of the “sons” in the shop’s name) near a display of cast iron pans and pots to the south.

“Excuse me,” Erol began, approaching the younger fellow. “I’m looking for glass spheres, such as might be used for fishing floats, can you –“ He was interrupted by Mariala’s sudden exclamation of alarm from the front of the shop, followed by a crash and the very distinctive thunk of a cross-bow bolt into wood. He turned to see what was happening, and the young man in front of him lunged forward, trying to bury a dagger in Erol’s neck.

The former gladiator’s reflexes had not been diminished by being transplanted to a Telnori body, indeed, quite the opposite – he whirled back to knock the blow aside, while aiming a roundhouse punch to his attacker’s face. But the man was wickedly fast himself, and Erol’s fist merely grazed his jaw as he sprang back.

Mariala, who had managed to dodge the practically point-blank cross-bow bolt fired at her only because she was turning to address the young man who had fired it, crouched down behind the crate of purple potatoes she’d knocked over. Her assailant was quickly cranking his cross-bow to load a second bolt, and to her left she could see his brother slashing at Erol with a long dagger. Raising both hands and stretching her arms in a wide “V” she unleashed a blast of Fire Nerves at both attackers, and felt the energy slam into them – a solid casting, if not her best given the widely-spaced targets. Both men staggered, and her’s dropped his cross-bow… but neither collapsed in agony as they should have.

They were staggered, however, at least momentarily. Erol took advantage of his opponent’s distraction to slam his own forehead into the would-be assassin’s face. He felt cartilage crumple and saw blood spray, yet the man managed to counter with another swipe of his long blade, which sliced through Erol’s tunic to lightly score his chest. Before he could follow up, however, the older man behind the northern counter, presumably Toket himself, gave an inarticulate roar – and sighted down a strange, metallic object, grasping it with both hands.

Once again, his reflexes saved Erol – he instantly recognized the device as a weapon, very much like the “guns” they had encountered on Arath and its parallels, and knew what was likely coming. Shoving the son away, hard, he dove in the opposite direction, coming down hard behind a barrel of wooden spars.

He was still surprised by the beam of coruscating energy that flared from the muzzle of the old man’s weapon. Of a color his eyes were not built to see, nor his brain to understand, it sizzled past his head to blast out a large chunk of the stone wall two meters behind him. Instinctively, Erol dropped into slowed time, barely aware that he’d done it. Trying to keep his distance would be fatal with that weapon, his only chance was to get in close…

Why the old man didn’t fire again immediately he didn’t know, but Erol didn’t waste the opportunity. He hurled his trident, forcing the man to dodge, then he was across the room and leaping over the counter in a blur of motion. His left hand grabbed for the weapon as he body slammed the older man backwards. They rammed into the shelves behind, and Erol’s head snapped forward for another head butt. Like his son before him Garet Toket’s nose broke, and his head bounced off a solid wooden post with a sound like a melon hitting pavement. He slid down to the floor, unconscious. Erol shoved the alien artifact into his sash and turned…

Mariala, meanwhile, had her Khundari dagger in hand as her assailant rushed toward her, his own blade out and held like he knew what he was about. She didn’t wait for his attack, driving her blade toward his gut in a sudden thrust… but he was faster than he should have been, and dodged the blow. He feinted left, then punched his dagger into her side, and Mariala staggered back, a red-hot pain shooting up her right abdomen. Her cuirass had deflected some of the blow’s force, but the blade had slipped past the front and back plates and into her. The strength of the blow had been enough to knock the air form her lungs, and her vision dimmed for an instant…

Instinctively she whirled away from the next lunge, blocking it with her superior blade, and to the skree of metal on metal she danced backward, putting space between them. He pressed forward hard, driving her against a stack of crates, and they exchanged feints and thrusts for a moment. Mariala finally succeeded in getting a cut in on the man’s forearm, but he hardly seemed to notice… and that was why, she realized, catching a glimpse of his blue-stained tongue as he gasped for air and glared at her.

Then Erol was behind her assailant, and a single blow from the ex-gladiator’s fist to the back of the man’s head sent him pitching sideways into unconsciousness. Mariala straightened from her defensive crouch with a relived gasp of her own, then winced at the pain in her side.

“Are you alright, Mariala?” Erol asked in concern, seeing the wince and the blood on her green leathers. He reached out to steady her, and she shrugged, briefly leaning on him.

“I’m alright, it’s not deep… just bleeding like the proverbial stuck pig. Are you injured?”

“No, no, nothing beyond a bit of a headache… head butts are effective, but it is something of a two-way street after all.” His brief grin faded. “But what the hell is going on here? I have to say, this is the worst customer service I’ve ever seen!”

“Yes,” Mariala agreed with an involuntary laugh. “If they didn’t want to deal with customers today, one wonders why they opened their doors in the first place. But seriously, did you notice if the ones you fought had blue tongues?”

“Ah, no, that wasn’t what I was focused on to be honest… but it’s easy enough to check…”

They quickly discovered that all three men, presumably the Toket & sons of the shop’s name, all had the tell-tale blue stain. Which in no way explained why they had attacked two strangers, with never a word spoken in the whole encounter.

“It’s as if they knew us, and were waiting for us,” Erol said, frowning.

“Yes, and if that is true, what of the others? We need to contact them, warn them to be on alert!”

Unfortunately, giving in to Devrik’s argument that they should spare the “batteries,” the Hand had not turned on their Scion-made communicators, and it was hours yet before their scheduled check-in time.

“We’ll just have to trust that they can take care of themselves,” Erol shrugged. A sudden thought occurred to him then, and his eyes widened. “But we need to return to the ship immediately! If this was a trap laid specifically for us, they might well be trying to take the Wind even now!”

•••••

The Cartographer’s Guildhall was only one street down from the palace to the east, and as they were in no particular hurry Toran didn’t object when Korwin insisted they had to purchase a pastry that a particular street vendor was selling. It was indeed quite good, Toran and to admit, the almond flavor delightful, if a little sweeter than he generally cared for.

“They’re even better hot from the ovens,” Korwin assured him. “A little melted butter on top, there’s nothing better!”

“I was a bit worried when you said I had to try a “bear claw,” Toran laughed as he licked the last bit of filling from his fingers. “I’m glad they turned out to be so delightfully not what I was envisioning!”

The guildhall was a long two-story building of mellow golden stone with a red slate roof and large stained glass windows, and a narrow park-like yard between it and the street. In the beautiful and stately main foyer of rich mahogany walls and brilliant colored mosaic floors they were met by the stout, white-haired and dignified Master Cartographer, Larun Kelgrove.

“Certainly domi, we can accommodate your needs,” he beamed when he learned who they were and what was wanted. “Already your magnificent vessel is the talk of the town, and it will be a pleasure to provide her with charts appropriate to her stature. Let me just guide you to one of our viewing rooms and I will then gather several offerings which I think it will please you to consider.”

In his mind’s eye Toran saw their cash reserves shrinking like a snow ball in a forge. He certainly hoped that Vulk and Master Alvador were having luck at the Merchant’s Guildhall, finding buyers for their cargo…

Before Master Kelgrove could lead them anywhere, however, a younger man, apparently an apprentice by his deference to the older one, appeared from a side hall and offered to escort the distinguished guests to the viewing room, freeing up his master to bring the maps that much more quickly.

“Oh, why yes, an excellent idea Jaxim,” the master agreed, apparently surprised by his subordinate’s initiative but not displeased. “Yes, take the gentlemen to the East Room and I will be along shortly.”

The apprentice, a tall man in his late twenties with ash-blond hair, so light as to be almost white, and green-gold eyes, introduced himself with a tight-lipped smiles as Jaxim Hondül and motioned them to follow. The East Room proved to a luxuriously appointed chamber lined with bookshelves of oak and teak, filled with atlases and volumes on travel, geography and history. Deep rugs of classic Oceanian geometric designs covered the hardwood floor, and various tables and comfortable-looking chairs were scattered discreetly about. Flanked by two large stained glass windows on the south wall was a large antique globe in an ebony and gold stand.

Two men were already present in the room, standing at different bookcases and examining the offerings. Neither looked up as the newcomers entered the room… Toran’s trained ninja senses suddenly went into high alert — and then everything seemed to happen at once.

Apprentice Hondül had turned away, as if to leave the room, then whirled around, pulling what Toran recognized as a Mi-Go weapon from his tunic. At the same instant one of the strangers raised a cross-bow he’d been concealing, aiming it at Korwin.

Korwin saw the cross-bow, but not the alien weapon, and he dodged as the bolt was loosed. His attacker, tracking him, pulled the trigger just as he realized Hondül was now between him and his target. The bolt went straight through the apprentice’s right forearm, sending blood and the Mi-Go weapon flying across the room. Jaxim’s scream seemed as much from surprise and rage as from pain.

At the same instant the third man drew a bastard sword and rushed at Toran, aiming a mighty swing at his torso. Toran already had his battleaxe half drawn when the man began to move, and he counterstuck as he dodged. The sword scrapped along his armor, and might leave a bruise, but no worse; Toran’s axe, however, bit deep, cutting through coat, tunic and leather armor to send a spray of blood arcing out across the room. The man staggered back, barely avoiding the Khundari’s follow-through blow.

Korwin drew his cutlass, but realized he couldn’t make it across the room before the man with the cross-bow fired another bolt – he raised his hand and muttered a word. A shimmering sliver of blue ice appeared and flew straight and true — only to embed itself in the cross-bow his target had raised, with shocking speed, to block it. The effort had saved the man from taking the ice needle in the neck, but the weapon was ruined. He tossed it aside with a snarl and drew a curved dagger, rushing forward.

Korwin met him with his cutlass, parrying the man’s attack and cutting deep into his shoulder. The would-be assassin screamed and leapt back, but didn’t drop his blade. Only his slight shifting glance to Korwin’s left warned the water mage… he turned to see that Jaxim Hondül had retrieved the alien weapon he’d lost and was aiming it, left-handed, right at him. He leapt to the side, bringing his cutlass up between them – the beam of shimmering, alien color, a color his mind refused to see, struck the blade, which vanished in a cloud of glittering dust. The nimbus of the blast seared Korwin’s left side, and he crashed to the floor, dazed.

Toran, parrying another attack with his battleaxe saw his friend go down. Wielding the axe one-handed, he raised the other to send a flight of Stavin’s Arrows at Korwin’s opponent, sending the man staggering back clutching his arm, his dagger dropping from nerveless fingers. This caused Jaxim to shift his aim from the downed water mage to the dwarf, only to find his shot momentarily blocked by his accomplice.

Unfortunately, splitting his attention cost Toran — his opponent’s sword pierced his shoulder, and his battleaxe dropped from his suddenly nerveless grip. Rolling away from the follow-up attack the Shadow Adept loosed a split attack of Stavin’s Arrows – two of them took his attacker in the gut, causing him to double over and collapse; the other took Jaxim in the arm, and he almost lost his grip on his weapon again.

This byplay had given Korwin time to gather his scattered wits, and rising to one knee he launched another Ice Needle of Burkon at the disintegration-ray-wielding Jaxim. This one took the apprentice in the chest… he stared at Korwin in disbelieve for an instant before a gout of blood erupted from his mouth and he collapsed. The alien device clattered to the wooden floor and spun away under a chair.

This left only one would-be assassin, but Korwin could see that Toran was wounded and weaponless, while he himself had nothing but the hilt of his cutlass, with maybe an inch of blade. The lone remaining attacker was bearing down on him with murder in his eye, his long, curved dagger glinting. Burned and still a bit dazed, Korwin called on his reserves and prepared to summon the Effluvium, that magical, elemental water of his convocation, to encase the man’s head… he’d drown the bastard on dry land, by Tyvos!

His Form was good, but in his distracted and injured state it wan’t until he was pouring the Principle into it that he sensed the powerful wards that protected the building they stood in. Wards against fire, of course, in a storehouse of books, scrolls and paper – but also wards against water.

“Oh shit!” was all Korwin had time to say before those wards shattered his Form. Ethereal water formed around him in a maelstrom powerful enough to knock everyone still standing off their fee, drench the quick and the still alike, before blasting through the two large windows. Stained glass shattered as the water roared out to soak the narrow yard and the street beyond… but not a single book in the room was even dampened, a dazed and shaky Korwin noted.

Toran recovered first, and he quickly dispatched the last ambusher into unconsciousness with the flat of his recovered battleaxe while the man was still gasping and groping around for his own weapon. At that moment the door burst open and Master Kelgrove stood in the doorway, a bundle of maps and charts clutched in his arms, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.

“Out apologies, master,” Toran said as he sheathed his axe across his back and rolled over the last attacker with a booted foot. “But you seem to have a rather nasty infestation of assassins…”

•••••

Vulk and Devrik, with Brann frolicking happily around them (he’d been a very good dog during the long meeting with the Prince, content to gnaw the large bone his Grace had ordered brought for him underneath the table), had to wait for half a turn of the glass before Master Alvador was due to meet them. Sitting in companionable silence on a stone bench outside the guildhall, they watched the crowds going about their varied and sundry business in the large Imperial Square.

Vulk was worried about his friend. Although never a voluble man, he’d turned positively taciturn since the events under Arapet Town — at turns moody, uncommunicative, and distracted. They had all been deeply shaken by the horrors they’d experienced in those caverns, but Devrik seemed to have taken it particularly hard, and Vulk was unsure what to say to help drive his melancholy away. Maybe if they could get Raven here she might do it…

Master Alvador arrived precisely on time, looking very professional and competent in his best blue tunic, black hose and scarlet, ankle length vest cloak, embroidered in gold. He had a jaunty hat on his head, a leather folio of documents under his arm, and swung a silver-headed walking stick of ebony. Vulk had noticed that such canes were very common amongst the well-to-do in the Empire… or at least here in Tishton. He might’ve considered looking into one for himself if he didn’t already posses his much cooler Staff.

“Well, gentleman,” Alvador said after they’d exchanged greetings,” I imagine Master Ossar is waiting for us… shall we?” He gestured at the broad steps up to the rather grand entrance of the guildhall.

“I’ll just wait out here with Brann,” Devrik rumbled diffidently, staring at the cobbles between his boots. “I know little of these mercantile matters, and would be of little use in there.”

“What? Nonsense!” The merchant seemed genuinely surprised. “On the contrary, you must come in with us, Ser Devrik… you have a commanding, indeed dare I say intimidating, presence! And your voice… well, let us say that you will lend a very real gravitas to our negotiations. And the hound won’t hurt either!”

Devrik looked at Alvador at last, reluctantly. He’s been avoiding that recently, because whenever he did, he saw the man back on that slab, a tear running down his immobile face, only his eyes showing his horror as he was dissected alive. A sudden epiphany struck Devrik — maybe that was why he’d so foolishly flirted the night before, and came so close to making a terrible mistake – a desperate grab at life over death and horror. Sighing, he allowed Vulk’s added cajolery to “convince” him, and he stood to accompany them inside.

The interior of the Merchant’s Guildhall was every bit as ostentatiously impressive as its carved, inlaid and rococo façade had promised. Polished floors of intricately patterned black and white marble graced the large entry foyer, where graceful stone pillars upheld vaulted ceilings of cedar and mahogany and bronze lamps illuminated everything with a rich golden light. A sweeping staircase of red marble, carpeted in deep burgundy velvet, lay before them, curving up to either side at a landing dominated by a massive stained glass window, made brilliant by the sun.

An usher greeted them, and hearing their names and business led them through beautifully carved teak doors to their left, into an only slightly less grand reception room. She assured them that Master Ossar and his people would be with them presently, and invited the guests to partake of the refreshment provided on a side table. Bowing, she departed, closing the double doors behind her.

Before anyone could move toward the sideboard and the various decanters of wine and plates of savory viands, however, a door on the far end of the room opened and a tall, balding man in robes and vest cloak even richer than Master Alvador’s, strode in. He was flanked by two others, obviously apprentices or secretaries — a regal looking young woman with dark hair to his left and a boyish looking youth to his right.

“Ah, Vertan, it’s good to see you again–” Alvador stepped forward, as the group approached, hands outstretched, but stopped suddenly when the youth whipped up a cross-bow, and the girl and the merchant each drew knife and dagger, respectively. “What –?”

The cross-bow’s metallic thrum cut him off, and Vulk staggered back several steps and collapsed with a bolt piercing his left shoulder. His staff clattered to the marble floor and his vision darkened with pain. To his right, Devrik was taken by surprise by the knife that flew from the girl’s hand and embedded itself in his chest. He too collapsed, if only to one knee, clutching at the blade.

Master Alvador, shocked at the sudden and inexplicable violence, nonetheless reacted without thinking. His old acquaintance was drawing something metallic and glittering from his vest – and with a thrill of horror he recognized it as one of the alien Mi-Go’s terror weapons. Before Ossar had fully pulled out the weapon, much less aimed it, Alvador’s cane whipped up and came down on his hand with a crack that echoed off the stone walls. The master merchant screamed and the weapon clattered to the marble floor, spinning away.

The man’s male apprentice had been advancing on the downed Vulk, dagger now drawn, but at this turn of events he lunged instead at Alvador. The merchant tried to block the blow, but the youth was preternaturally fast and the blade drove deep into his belly. Alvador gasped… for an instant he was suddenly back on the alter of the aliens… his flesh was being cut open… then everything went mercifully black…

But his attack had been all the break his companions had needed. Before Alvador had finished collapsing Brann, with a savage snarl, leaped at the female apprentice, as she drew a second blade. His powerful jaws would have closed on her throat had she not ducked her head at the last instant – instead his fangs left bloody furrows from the top of her skull to her collar bone, and part of her ear was torn loose and swallowed. Screaming in pain and fear, her knife hand came up to knock the hound away, the blade grazing his side as he tumbled to the floor. Clutching at her bleeding face, she never saw the blow from the flat of Devrik’s sword that sent her spinning into unconsciousness.

Vulk, at the same moment, was crawling to his knees and grasping for his staff. Finding it, he raised it just as the male apprentice was turning away from the downed and bleeding Alvador, coming once more for Vulk. The cantor uttered a Word. White strands of shimmering energy shot from the Staff and engulfed the youth almost entirely, before snaking around and beyond him to ensnare the still yowling Master Ossar as well. Both men were immobilized, struggling futilely in the unbreakable bands of power.

“Vulk!” Devrik called form where he knelt beside the fallen girl. “Her tongue is blue!”

Cursing, Vulk fumbled at his belt, pulling out his Vanguard communicator and shoving it into his ear. As he clicked the power on Mariala’s voice came blasting through – “—one hear me? We’ve been ambushed by blue-tongued assassins! Vulk? Devrik? Toran? Can anyone hear me?”

•••••

The immediate aftermath of the three ambushes was chaotic. Devrik intimidated the guild page who’d burst into the chamber at his bellowing call into wide-eyed compliance, sending her to summon the Prince’s men. His bloody tunic no doubt helped establish a tone – although thanks to armor and a rib, the knife had done little real damage. Vulk, ignoring the cross-bow bolt in his own shoulder, knelt beside Danir Alvador and sank at once into his healing trance. He’d brought the man back from worse, and he’d be damned if he’d lose him to this! Fortunately, Alvador still had the specific Baylorium dose, keyed to his body alone, coursing through him. Combined with Vulk’s psychic healing, it meant that the wound, otherwise almost certainly fatal, was merely painful.

At the Cartographers’ Guild panic and bewilderment gave way to relieve when the Imperial Guard arrived, and Korwin blessed the communicators that had allowed him to tell Devrik to send help to them as well. The Wind of Kasira, thankfully, hadn’t seemed to be a focus of the coordinated attacks, and Erol and Mariala were able to leave Mate Grünby and the twins on watch and return to the palace to meet the others.

Once the Hand had regrouped there, the Prince ordered the palace essentially locked down and his Guard put on full alert. Between Vulk’s healing touch, the potions and skill of the Royal Arcanist, and almost the last of their Baylorium supply, everyone was back to full fighting strength not long after sundown. After a modest repast with Prince Rapareth and his key advisors, and a serious discussion over whether or not to continue, the plan developed that morning was set in motion…

•••••

Gilmon Thürkist sat listlessly on the stone floor of his cell, absently twisting a piece of straw into knots. His mind, never a powerhouse of activity at the best of times, was blank save for the visions of bliss that the Captain had placed there two days ago. The visions and the fear, running in an endless loop. He had failed to carry out his mission, would the angels still come for him when the moment came for the glorious Ascension? Those beautiful beings of a higher power, and the realm of light and wonder they came from. But he had failed, so would they still come for…

The loop of his thoughts was broken by the sudden clang and scrape of his cell door being opened. Two soldiers – he recognized them, Andresik and Portuno – shoved a third man into the cell, ignoring Gilmon with a studied contempt. As the door slammed shut again he saw that it was a small, wiry fellow who was picking himself up from the floor and dusting himself off. He was in his 40s, perhaps, with long dirty blond hair, clean shaven except for a thin mustache, and was dressed all in black. Both he and his clothes looked rather the worse for wear. No doubt the boyos had worked him over a bit, that being generally considered good sport amongst his fellow guards (well, ex-fellow guards now), whatever the poor sod had done. Or maybe it was because he…

“Are you a convert of the angelic Mi-Go?” he asked the newcomer eagerly. Perhaps he had succeeded where Gilmon had failed, and the apostate Prince was…

“The what of the who, now?” the man replied, sounding confused. His accent was… odd. “No, I’m no convert to anything, my friend. Just a very talented thief who apparently picked the worst possible night to steal the Prince Palatine’s concubine’s stash of jewels. How in the eight hells of Korön was I to know the palace would be in such an uproar? It’s damned unfair, if you ask me… it was such a beautiful plan!”

Gilmon slumped back, losing interest. Just a common criminal then, not a fellow acolyte, and some sort of foreigner to boot. He ignored the fellow’s attempts to draw him out, and after a minute the would-be thief gave up. But Gilmon’s attention was soon drawn back to his cellmate by the sound of metal on metal… the man was hunched over the lock on their cell door, doing something he couldn’t quite make out.

“What are you doing?”

The man glanced over at him briefly before returning his attention to his task. “I’m getting out of here. I’m sure the Prince’s hospitality is of the very highest quality, but I’d hate to think I was putting him out… so I’ll just…” there was a sudden click, and the cell door swung open… “be on my way.”

Gilmon stared in somewhat bovine amazement as the thief folded up some bits of metal and returned them to his left boot. Without another word or glance, the black-clad fellow slipped out of the cell and began moving furtively down the corridor. It took a minute to penetrate, but Gilmon suddenly realized that this was his opportunity to rejoin the others, to be sure the angels could find him when the time came. Scrambling to his feet, he followed the quickly disappearing thief.

Catching up with him at the entrance to the dungeons, he was just in time to see him release his chokehold on the lone sentry there, letting the unconscious man slump to the stones. The Palace must be in an uproar indeed if they only had one man on down here…

“Ah, you’ve decided to join me,” the thief’s greeting broke his tenuous chain of thought. “Good! Any chance you know your way around this pile? I had my routes well planned, but I never intended to visit the dungeons, I must confess.”

“Yes,” Gilmon nodded, and pointed to the left. “There’s a way out through the storage rooms, down this way.” He led off and the thief, after a brief hesitation, followed. After several minutes of twisting corridors, crate- and sack-packed rooms, and a crawl up a ladder, the two men stood in the shadows of the courtyard at the back of the palace.

“Well done my friend,” the thief whispered, slapping Gilmon on the shoulder. “Over that last wall and we’re home free!”

Aranda had already set… it must be well into the Owl watch by now… and the lesser moon was a mere sliver, low in the sky. Gilmon thought they had made it indeed, as they scrambled up the two meter high outer wall, more ornamental than defensive, that surrounded the Palace ground – until he heard the shout from behind them.

“You two there! Stop! Stop or we’ll shoot!”

With a curse, the thief made it to the top of the wall just behind Gilmon, who had dropped quickly over the side at the first cry. But before the thief could follow suit he gave a strangled gasp. Gilmon looked up to see the man shilouetted against the stars, turning sideways, an arrow embedded in his back. He seemed to pause for a moment before plunging over the wall to land at the former guard’s feet. He didn’t move.

Gilmon didn’t hesitate. Without another look back he took off across the street, disappearing into the shadows of the nearest alley before anyone from the palace was in a position to see him. He should be grateful to the thief for helping him escape, he supposed. But really, the man was a criminal, and his fate was no more than he deserved. The important thing was, now Gilmon Thürkist would be able to join the angels in their glorious Mi-Go heaven when the Ascension came…

•••••

Had former-Guardsman Thürkist lingered a moment and looked back, he would have seen the still form of his erstwhile cellmate suddenly shimmer, like a heat mirage in summer, as the arrow vanished from his back and his body shortened and thickened, his hair turning black and a beard sprouting…

Toran was just tucking his illusion amulet on its chain away beneath his tunic when Korwin stepped out of the shadows. Even then he was hard to see, a toneless thing of grays thanks to his spell of blending. He stuck out a hand and Toran took it, letting his friend help him to his feet.

“Mariala has Wallflowered the others,” he reported, putting a hand to his ear and listening. “Two streets down that alley, then to the right…”

As a Shadow Adept Toran needed no spells to blend into the night and pass unseen, and the two set off after their friends, all of them on the trail of their pigeon as he flew home to his roost.

•••••

Captain Emiron Frongar sat in the darkened office of the Port Master, and brooded. Or it would have appeared to his human minions that he brooded, had they dared to disturb him. But, in fact, the thing that wore Frongar’s form was not brooding – its species did not, generally, experience emotions the way humans experienced them, and so was incapable of brooding, as such. The Mi-Go did not experience love, or fear, or desire, or much else that a human might recognize… in point of fact, the only major emotion the two races shared was anger. And so the thing that appeared to be Emiron Frongar sat in the dark and contemplated its fury, that towering rage that burned in an otherwise cold mind.

When it had lost communication with its fellow colonists five diurnal revolutions of this planet past, Designate Xhr-Ajwuzkn-39 (which is as close as a human mind could come to how the creature thought of itself) had simply assumed it was a mere technical glitch. There were always some issues with the more complex mechanical and electronic devices in a new dimension, until they had adapted them to the local quantum conditions. It had not been overly concerned.

But when the Black Wind of Corruption had sailed into the harbor yesterday, several days early, it had known deep in its fungoid hearts that something had gone terribly wrong. Within hours it had learned that the vessel was crewed and commanded by feral humans, and had confirmed this by coming close enough to sense their mental vibrations – while some of the crew had clearly been tamed by the obelisk at some point, they were now reverted to their wild state; and the group in command had never been tamed at all, neither by the obelisk nor the blue binding beverage.

That was when the anger had begun to build. It only intensified when Xhr-Ajwuzkn-39 learned what had actually transpired on Arapet. Its score of tamed human mind-thralls had collected the garbled tales told on the docks and in the taverns, and its cold, analytical mind had synthesized them all into a version of events that it estimated to be 98.79% accurate. But how could it be possible? How could six of these disgusting, weak, mewling non-entities have managed to not only destroy the Mi-Go’s nascent colony but actually seal the dimensional rift through which they had come?

Self-deception and wishful thinking, however, were not Mi-Go traits, and Xhr-Ajwuzkn-39 wasted no time denying what it had calculated to be the truth. But the question of “how” remained important if it was to defeat the interlopers, recover the Black Wind of Corruption, and fulfill the Mi-Go destiny of taking this planet, and ultimately this universe, for themselves and the Elder Gods.

It seemed obvious that this particular group of humans possessed powers the Mi-Go had not previously encountered in this reality… admittedly, their initial sample population had been small. But the race had encountered other species that wielded what some called “magic” – the basic power of the Great Old Ones, and the cosmic background power that fueled their own technology – and it was certain these were merely more of the same. They could be conquered once one was prepared for them… they were, after all, merely human.

Unfortunately, Xhr-Ajwuzkn-39 had limited resources to claw. Aside from the several score of humans it had enthralled by now through the blue bonding beverage here in Tishton, it had three fellow Mi-Go, disguised in these repulsive human skins, each with two disruptors; the two human brothers; a handful of others in the city under its direct mental dominion; and its own disruptor… plus, of course, the idol.

Subterfuge and assassination had seemed the safest and surest route to destroy its enemies, especially after they had upended, within a few hours of their arrival, its plan to suborn and make a puppet of the human ruler of this island. Its tamed mind-thralls were sent out to learn all they could of the enemy, and ambushes were laid for when the group might split itself to various tasks. To ensure the humans could not bring whatever powers they possessed to bear, Xhr-Ajwuzkn-39 ordered its Mi-Go subordinates to give over one of their disruptors each, one to each group of human pawns, for overwhelming force.

And yet they had failed, every one of them! To make matters worse, the cursed humans now had three of their seven disruptors. It spent only a moment in useless regret that it had not sent its subordinate Mi-Go, as well… they would not have failed, it was certain… but it had dared not risk their future reproduction. In any case, the past was immutable – only that future mattered.

It was time to cut their losses. Time to take back the Black Wind of Corruption and flee, find a place to nest and to rebuild. With four of them (the Mi-Go had no gender, at least not in the sense the meat creatures did) they could build a safe haven and in a few years repopulate a new hive-colony. Between them they had the knowledge to recreate many of the Mi-Go weapons, even starting with the primitive technology of this backward world… in 10 circuits of the planet around its primary they would be ready to begin again…

They would need a distraction, however, something to draw this “Hand of Fortune” away from their stolen vessel long enough for them to re-seize it and escape… ah, it had just the idea! It would leave thousands of the alien meat creatures dead and their city in ruins, but what mattered that? It would keep the dangerous ones too occupied to interfere. Very well, first it would have to – a commotion from the yard interrupted it’s cold, precise thoughts.

The thing wearing Captain Fronger’s skin rose and went to the window that looked down into the main yard of the city’s principal Bonding House. A human had entered and was speaking excitedly to several of the minions… it recognized the creature, one of the island ruler’s guards, enthralled with orders to kill the ruler if he didn’t drink the blue – wait! All those thralls and been taken alive it knew. How had this one escaped…

Disgust was one of the minor emotions the Mi-Go shared with humans. The fool had been allowed to escape, of course. Which meant the useless tool had lead the dangerous feral humans straight to them. Its disgust slowly gave way to a cold calculation. This could actually save it some trouble, if the interlopers could be destroyed here, now, in the dark hours of the morning. It reached out and stroked the tentacles of the idol that stood next to the window, muttering an alien phrase three times… a phrase that would have driven any human hearing it quite mad…

Great Cthulhu might not be the Mi-Go’s preferred Old One, but it was certainly the one most ideally suited to this watery world. He felt the power of the idol begin to radiate outward in waves, and turned to go out to chastise that useless human… and wait for its enemies to make their entrance…

•••••

The Hand of Fortune gathered in the shadows across from the open gate to the storeyard of Tishton’s main Bonding House and quietly conferred on their next move. Sunrise was still some hours away, and both moons were now set; only the blaze of stars overhead and a few lanterns within the yard’s precincts gave any illumination. Within the walls, at the center of the wide yard, stood the man from Korwin’s and Devrik’s vision, the presumed Captain Frongar, alone and staring into the darkness of the street beyond the gates.

“He’s not alone, of course,” Vulk said sotto voce to the others. Cherdon was invisible in the night sky save for an occasional flicker of black against the stars, but its sharp eyes picked out every one of the dozen figures waiting in ambush. “There are at least 12 others hidden behind piles of crates and stacked barrels around the bonding yard,” the cantor continued. He quickly described their positions as his familiar relayed the visions.

“If some of us can get in behind them, before they know we’re here, we can turn the tables,” Toran said. “Mariala, how is your Wallflower spell holding up?” His friend muttered a few words and gestured at the Khundari and at Vulk, reinforcing the spell of not-noticing on them while letting it fade on the rest of the group. Erol took a moment to cast his own spell of true invisibility on himself, and the three moved quietly toward the partially open gates.

“Come, come, do not hide in the shadows,” Captain Frongar called out after a moment. His voice, a naturally pleasant tenor, had the unmistakable clicking burr of the aliens, removing any doubt that he was actually a Mi-Go wearing Frongar’s skin. “I know you allowed that idiot to escape so that he might lead you to me, and now here we are.

“No need to delay the inevitable… I do not know how you managed to defeat my companions, but it could only have been through stealth and surprise – two advantages you do not now possess. By the rising of your sun, you will all be dead, and the Black Wind of Corruption will be back under the control of we who built it.”

While the alien monologued, Vulk and Erol moved forward into the flickering torchlight of the yard. Toran followed, pausing in the shadows of the gate, while Vulk moved boldly into the courtyard to the left of faux-Frongar. Erol did the same to the right, equally stealthily. As the Mi-Go finished speaking the rest of the Hand stepped forward from the shadows into the middle of the street, revealing themselves. Devrik continued forward several more paces to issue a challenge…

And froze as a wave of sudden, gut-wrenching terror washed over him. His companions were all likewise rooted in place, muscles turned to jelly, hands suddenly sweating and nerveless on their weapons. The struggle to not curl up in a ball of mewling fear or, better yet, to run screaming into the night, was all consuming for a moment.

Eventually Devrik pulled himself together, and spoke… later, he could never remember exactly what he said, except that even in his own ears his voice had sounded tremulous, weak and uncertain. The rage this caused served to burn away some of the terror, however, and he tightened his grip on his battlesword, willing his nerveless fingers to new strength.

Frongar laughed at the challenge – and in a lightening move he lashed out with his fist, taking Vulk utterly by surprise as he stood frozen in horror and fear nearby. His last thought as he spun down to the stones and darkness was that he hoped Erol’s invisibility was more effective… damn aliens…

Seeing his friend go down so suddenly, so completely, pushed Erol into his hyper-time state, the fear stretching as his sense of time did. He attacked Frongar before it could move to finish Vulk, casting his net in a brilliant throw that should have ensnared the inhuman creature… but the alien‘s reflexes seemed as fast as his own, and it successfully snagged it in mid-air, hurling it to one side.

The Frongar-thing might be fast, but Erol was just a little faster – his follow-up trident attack pierced the alien’s side, and it leaped back with a shrill hiss of pain and anger. It reached for something concealed in its tunic…

While this was going on Toran was struggling to master the almost overwhelming fear. He called on all his Kahar-üm-Tem training, and gradually the terror receded enough for him to regain a shaky control. But his attempt to cast B’harik’s Cloak upon himself, to turn his skin to stone-like hardness when struck, fizzled and sputtered out into nothing. With a curse, he reached back and pulled his battleaxe, Ergonkïr, over his shoulder… fine, he’d do it the hard way!

Mariala, after a moments struggle, walled off the horror and fear in her mind. It was enough for her to cast a spell of Resistance on herself, and the success helped her to further calm her mind… although the terror remained, if muted. With a deep breath she drew her Khundari blade… given her current shaky state, combined with the early stages of Lyrin withdrawal, she was reluctant to cast further spells unless absolutely necessary…

Devrik, in a burst of fear-fueled rage, apparently had no such fears. He unleashed Arkel’s Fiery Ribbons, the rainbow-hued flames twisting up the blade of his sword before leaping out into the courtyard. He dared not aim directly at Frongar, with a now-visible Erol engaged with it and an unconscious Vulk laying nearby, so the colorful ribbons of fire arced out to either side.

A pile of crates to the right burst into flame, forcing three rough-looking longshoremen from their concealing shelter, cursing and slapping at smouldering clothes. To the left a stack of barrels also burst into flames, and they appeared to have contained brandy, for two men staggered screaming away, hair and clothes wreathed in flames. One was clearly human, who quickly fell to the pavement, his shrieks dying out as he burned. The other was equally clearly a disguised Mi-Go, for as it’s skin began to burn it struggled desperately to free itself of its disguise.

Paying no attention to any of this, the false Frongar fired the disruptor it had pulled from its tunic at Erol, at point-blank range! But Erol remained in his hyper state and twisted out of the alien-colored beam with an impressive twist-and-duck. The beam flashed over him, narrowly missing Devrik beyond, who was forced to release his fiery ribbons and leap aside as well. A section of the iron gates beside them disintegrated in a hissing cloud of silvery dust..

Korwin, having regained enough control of himself to push the fear down, had retreated to the shadows near the other gate, where Toran was preparing to enter the fray. The water mage touched him on the shoulder first, however, and then Mariala, as he cast Demokiran’s Freeze, exempting them both from the spell’s effects… as a sheet of ice spread rapidly from Korwin’s feet, fanning out into the bonding yard…

As he climbed back to his feet after avoiding Frongar’s stray death ray, Devrik found himself facing another of the disguised Mi-Go, its claws partially ripped through its flesh disguise, another disruptor gripped in one. It fired, and he dove to the other side, the beam narrowly missing him and instead disintegrating the rest of the gate.

Rolling back to his feet Devrik whipped a javelin from his back and hurled it with all his considerable strength at the creature. The shaft pierced the alien’s torso, knocking it back and pinning it to a large crate behind it, the disruptor spinning off into the shadows. The fire mage’s satisfaction was brief , however. He watched in suddenly resurgent horror as the thing pulled itself forward and off the javelin… and came at him, drawing a sword! Devrik stumbled back, slipping on the suddenly icy cobblestones and going to one knee…

Erol, feeling the world begin to speed up around him, focused his mind and renewed his psionic extratemporal ability, which allowed him to avoid a stumble as he slipped on the ice. But in trying to use his trident to disarm the alien Captain Frongar of his disruptor he slipped again, and this time he went down. But that stumble may have saved his life – a second disintegrator blast sizzled overhead to take out a stack of wine barrels behind him.

In its fury, Frongar ripped its second set of arms from its fleshy costume, ripping the first set free of the human arms as well. One clawed arm blocked Erol’s next attack, and two of the other three countered with a flurry of rending claws. Erol managed to avoid them all, if barely, on the now treacherously slick pavement.

Toran, meanwhile, had leapt into the fray unencumbered by the ice, wielding his battleaxe in a bloody fury against several of the alien’s enthralled minions to reach Frongar itself. He brought Ergonkïr around in a mighty overhand swing, but the creature deflected the blow with one of its chitinous armored limbs, somehow keeping its own feet on the ice. But ichor seeped from the injured limb…

Mariala, having disciplined her mind to suppress her terror, snuck up on the third Mi-Go, also partially out of its disguise. It was trying to stealthily circle around to take Toran from behind, and had failed to see the woman in the shadows. She aimed a powerful blow with her dagger at its back, but the creature managed to slip on the ice – she ended up pithing it through the skull, killing it instantly.

Vulk, meanwhile, was struggling to free himself from a seemingly endless cycle of nameless terrors that filled his unconscious mind, straining to pull himself back into consciousness and the light. But every time he thought he’d succeeded, the horrors pulled him back down into the darkness, to the waiting things that lurked there…

That same endless wave of terror continued to batter at Devrik’s rage-fueled will, until he suddenly had had enough. “To the Void with this,” he muttered as four more muscular and savage-looking men, and one naked and lightly singed Mi-Go, rushed to attack him. He Orb of Voroled the lot, setting the yard even further aflame. One man managed to escape the brunt of the fire ball with only moderate burns, remaining mostly functional; but the other three were entirely immolated. The alien… having previously shed its burning human skin at last, now found itself again engulfed in flames. This time it had no skin to crawl out of but its own, and it died a slow and agonizing death.

Korwin, cautiously entering into the fight with the cutlass he’d borrowed from Yonas Grünby in hand, saw the burning alien draw and attempt to fire a disruptor. In its death throes, however, it lost control, and the device spun away, skittering over the iced pavement. Korwin carefully reached out with his mind and telekinetically snagged the silvery alien weapon, drawing it slowly toward himself. Now if only he could figure out how to use it…

By this time people were stumbling all over the ice, slipping and sliding but still determined to fight. The longshoreman singed by Devrik, still on his feet and deciding a little guy might be easier prey, took a sword to Toran. The Shadow Adept countered, severing the man’s left leg at the knee, and then halfway buried his axe in the man’s neck on the follow-up stroke… the man’s dying thought was that maybe he should’ve stuck with someone his own size…

Frongar, holding off Erol and apparently still pissed about being wounded by the Dwarf, now aimed the disruptor at Toran while he was engaged in hacking apart the human thrall. Mariala, however, had snuck up behind the distracted Frongar and now knifed it in the shoulder. The shot went wild, taking out part of the yard wall, and it dropped the disruptor with a shriek.

Before either Mariala or Erol could follow up on the attack, however, there was a brilliant flash of white light. An intense pain, just behind the eyes, left everyone nearby by stunned and blinded. The pain began to recede almost at once, but the stupor lingered… one minute? Five minutes? No one was quite sure afterward. But as their vision cleared it became obvious that the thing that had been Captain Frongar had fled, and its one surviving fellow Mi-Go with it.

The disruptor was nowhere to be found, Mariala noted… but more importantly, the constant waves of terror that had been washing over her since the fight began were gone as well. It was like a crushing weight had been lifted, or going out of doors again after a long convalescence as an invalid. She felt lighter than air, and only now realized how much energy she’d had to expend to keep herself moving at all.

The others clearly were experiencing similar feelings, and Vulk finally began to come around, slowly pulling himself from the grip of the nightmares that had held him in agonized unconsciousness. Devrik, seeing them still surrounded by half a dozen burly longshoremen, attempted to ignite his sword with the Goraten’s Brand. The sudden release of the fear and rage, however, had left him spent and still a bit groggy, and the spell fizzled out in a few sparks. Erol, eschewing any magic, simply spitted the nearest enemy who came at him on his trident.

Their remaining enemies showed no signs of dismay at the defection of their leader, and seemed as intent as ever on killing the Hand. Fortunately, they too had been blinded and stunned, and Korwin’s sheet of ice still covered the cobblestones of the yard, impeding their movements. Devrik, Vulk and Erol, mindful of their own vulnerability to the treacherous footing, remained still and let them come to them.

“Look around you, you fools!” Devrik roared. “Your cause is lost, your leader has abandoned you – run now and save your worthless lives!” The light from the slowly dying fires of the burning crates, barrels and bodies cast dancing shadows across him, and his immense battlesword shone ruddy as it reflected the flames. For an instance the men stopped, but then began to slip and slide forward again, faces twisted into masks of blind rage, their own blades glinting in the flickering light.

Devrik sighed, and focused on unleashing another fan of Arkel’s Fiery Ribbons. His control, however, trained tenuous from tension and exhaustion, and the spell misfired, badly – to his horror he saw the fiery bands leap out toward both Mariala and Vulk! He tried to control them with his pyrokinesis, but he simply had no juice left…

Mariala, herself suffering from exhaustion and a shaken mind, had tried and failed to unleash a mental bolt on their foes, but her physical reflexes saved her now. She dodged away and the rainbow-hued ribbon of fire melted the ice where she’d stood an instant before. She shot Devrik an exasperated glare, which he entirely missed because his attention was focused on Vulk.

Still groggy from the blow to the head and the nightmares, the cantor made no effort to dodge, not even seeing the flaming ribbons until they’d engulfed him. But to both his and Devrik’s amazement, the fire seemed to arc around and above him, never touching him beyond a pleasant warmth.

“I guess that amulet of fire protection of yours is the real deal after all,” Devrik rumbled in relief, to which Vulk gave a shaky nod, fingering the charm on the chain around his wrist.

Erol, meanwhile, had grown annoyed with the uncertain footing and, indeed, of the whole affair. Taking a moment to gather himself, he carefully summoned and released a Blast of Norinnos. Silvery blades of solid light flashed out from his hands and almost half the remaining longshoremen went down screaming. Toran, unencumbered by the ice thanks to Korwin’s touch, laid into the rest until the few still able to, broke and fled.

“We need to go after the damn aliens,” Erol said as the Hand gathered outside the gates. “I don’t know what their genders were, but two of them remain and we can’t let them escape, possibly to breed–“

“No, we can’t,” agreed Devrik sharply.”But it’s pointless to go after them in the shape we’re in currently. We’re all exhausted and still feeling the effects of that flash and… the… whatever that horror was. And the Mi-Go have at least one of those cursed disintegration beam weapons. If they have range on us… Vulk, how much Baylorium do we have left?”

“Very little, I’m afraid… but I have one dose of the specific keyed to me. If I use it to restore myself, I think, between what’s left of the general Baylorium, my healing power, and the blessings of Kasira, I can remove the worst of our exhaustion and the minor injuries, at least.”

There was quick agreement to this plan, and while Vulk dosed himself and prepared his Kasiran ritual, Korwin toyed with the alien weapon he’d purloined. There was no obvious way to trigger the destructive beam that he could see, though he was careful to keep the dangerous end away from himself and his friends. Maybe if he tried a psychometric reading…

The resultant hallucinogenic trip almost overwhelmed his senses, as visions of alien stars, nebulae and planets combined with utterly alien sensations and feelings. His mind was swamped, and only Mariala’s quick response saved him from being totally lost in that terrifying otherness – seeing him go white and ridged, his eyes rolling up until only the whites showed, she knocked the device from his hands. He collapsed to the pavement, gasping in relief… his body had forgotten how to breath during the alien immersion… and now his head throbbed terribly.

Fortunately, Vulk’s circle of healing served to fix his new problems, as well as the older ones. The cantor’s native psionic healing powers combined with his Immortal patron’s blessing, and a golden glow spread out from him through the group’s linked hands. Like a spring breeze, it seemed to blow through each person in the circle, dissipating the fatigue and exhaustion, healing the aches, bruises and cuts, and leaving them all refreshed and reenergized.

There was little time to enjoy the feeling, however. Vulk had sent Cherdon aloft to keep track of the fleeing Mi-Go, a not too difficult task – the former Captain Frongar, once more in its true form, had taken wing as well, but it’s companion was too injured to fly, apparently. This slowed them somewhat, as did some large bundle the alien leader carried. They had entered a largish tenement building not far from the quay where the Wind was docked, where they had stayed for several minutes.

“But they’re leaving the building now,” Vulk reported grimly. “And they have close to two score new thralls following them. They look like more longshoremen and wharf rats… and they’re moving toward the docks.”

The Hand took off at a run…

•••••

Designate Xhr-Ajwuzkn-39 knew that the Dark Wind of Corruption was currently held by only a handful of humans, who would be no match for his mind-controlled mob. They should be able to seize the vessel quickly, and then it would use its disruptor to blast holes in the nearby ships to forestall pursuit as they made their escape. The weapon was running low, but it had enough charge to sink the two nearest and largest vessels, at least.

The Cthulu idol, quiescent for now, was heavy and it slowed them down, but it dared not leave it behind. Once they had the vessel– from the corner of its multifaceted eyes it caught sight of the cursed feral human rabble dashing out onto the quay from a side street. It gave the Mi-Go equivalent of a profane oath. They would never make the Dark Wind now, not before the feral humans were close enough to unleash more of their unexpected ranged energy attacks. A change of plans was called for…

It let off a burst from its disruptor, which narrowly missed the pursuers but did slow them briefly as they dodged debris from the building it partially collapsed. Xhr-Ajwuzkn-39 ordered its troops to make for the nearest pier, where a merchant ship was tied up – they would arrive in seconds and, with the human crew mostly asleep, perhaps take it quickly. It led the way up the unguarded gangway, slaying the sleepy-eyed sentry with a single blow.

The thralls spread out, dashing down stairs to kill the crew as they slept, while Xhr-Ajwuzkn-39 prepared to take care of the two remaining watchmen on the poop- and fore-decks. It needed to move quickly, so that it could fly up to the crow’s nest and gain the advantage of elevation… perhaps if it could kill the feral humans with the disruptor at range, there would be no need to use it on the other ships. It set the heavy idol down near the main mast, and moved forward…

Having dispatched the two humans, it was preparing to push against the oppressive local gravity and fly up to its selected perch, when another human, large and powerful-looking, with an eyepatch and roaring in rage, burst from a doorway, swinging a short-handled battleaxe. The alien didn’t quite dodge this furious attack, and ichor flowed from where the blade scored its side. But it quickly counter-attacked, its four vicious claws driving the human back, if only a step or two… it dared not use the disruptor down here, and risk damaging the vessel it so desperately needed to take…

•••••

Vulk was taking no chances this time, and invoked Virtue’s Armor on himself as the Hand ran through the pre-dawn streets and alleys of Tishton dockside district. He wasn’t going down at the first blow in this fight, he swore on the Golden Dice of Kasira! As they burst from the alley onto the main quay, he saw that they were only 50 meters or so behind the alien’s small army. He wondered how many he could bind with his Webs…

Suddenly a beam of light, of a color that his eyes even more than others’ refused to recognize, flashed out from the alien weapon. He jinked left. The beam missed him, missed them all, but it did hit the second floor of the warehouse they were passing — stone, brick and wooden beams came crashing down around them. No one was hurt, thank Kasira, but they were momentarily slowed…

“They’re not making for the Wind,” Korwin called out. “It looks like they’re going to try and take that merchant ship, instead – the Azure Rose!”

Half the mind-thralls were already aboard the merchantman by the time the Hand raced up, and had severed the ropes tying her to the dock. The ones remaining on the pier turned, prepared to fight as the ship began to slowly drift away. Mariala laid almost half of them on the ground in writhing agony with a blast of her Fire Nerves. Several, already on the gangway, fell into the dark waters of the harbor.

“Let’s try to be at least marginally mindful of our reputations,” she called out to her friends. “If we go around killing innocent people or sinking someone’s boat, we won’t be terrible popular around here!”

“If you keep calling them ‘boats’ you’ll never be popular around here anyway,” Korwin muttered to himself, as he summoned up the Strands of Lakmira to combine with the Webs from Vulk’s Staff of Summer to ensnare the Azure Rose, puller her back and binding the ship firmly to the dock…

Erol, once again in hyper time, had raced ahead of his companions, arriving at the dock just as the mind-controlled longshoremen, wharf rats and roustabouts began pouring onto the unsuspecting merchant ship… too many men even for him. His eye was suddenly caught by the large cargo crane nearby… the mechanism to turn the machine was simple, designed to be operated by a single man. An idea bloomed like a sudden light going off inside his head…

By the time he was running along the crane’s arm, which he had positioned directly over the deck of the Azure Rose, Erol could see the alien leader grappling with a large, gray-haired and one-eyed man who wielded an expert axe – by the look of him and his bellowed roars about “my ship,” the captain of the vessel. But when the alien saw the glowing strands from Erol’s friends binding the ship to the pier, it suddenly abandoned the fight, using it’s absurd-looking wings to fly up and hover three meters over the deck. In its hand glittered the beam weapon. The deadly alien ray shot out, moving between vessel and dock in a wide arc, disintegrating the web strands instantly (but without causing them to burst into flame, Erol noted).

The creature hovered almost directly below him, and the former gladiator realized he was never going to get a better opportunity – soundlessly he dropped off the crane. His feet slammed into the back of the Mi-Go leader, driving them both down to the deck, hard. His trident pierced the thing’s left thigh, pinning it to the wooden planking as they hit, and Erol rolled away and to his feet.

With a high pitched, ululating scream, the alien writhed and turned in away that should have been impossible, given it’s pinned limb, and must have caused it immense pain. In its claw it had retained the disruptor, and in a gut-wrenching instant Erol saw what it intended – if the Mi-Go could not have their ship, then no one would! The beam would easily hole a quarter of the length of the hull and send her to the bottom of the harbor in minutes.

The impact had knocked Erol out of his hyper time state, and he felt like he was moving in molasses as he reached for and began to draw his gladius. He wasn’t going to be in time, the alien weapon was coming up – but as it did the battle-axe of the one-eyed captain came down, severing the arm that held it. Claw and disruptor spun away in a spray of ichor, and the unnamable color flashed out… to strike into the sails of the Wind of Kasira. A large section of the main sail, several spars and a great deal of rigging vanished into silver dust, but the ship herself was untouched.

While this had all played out on the main deck near the stairs up to the poop-deck, Toran had hacked his way through a number of enthralled longshoremen, doing his best not to actually kill them, to confront the other Mi-Go. Although wounded, it had been trying to come to its leader’s aid, and it never even saw the Khundari axe that cut it in two.

Mariala had dropped another half dozen of the mind-controlled stevedores, while Devrik had followed up by going around and bonking those still on pier or deck on the head as they writhed in immobilizing pain… but gently and humanely, he assured her. He drew the line, however, at jumping into the water to rescue those who’d gone into the drink…

Fortunately for Mariala’s peace of mind Captain Rüla Tafas of the Imperial Frigate Queen Ariela arrived just then with twenty of her own men. With the Hand and the Azure Rose’s surviving crew cleaning up the last of the attackers, she ordered a couple of her men into the water to rescue the drowning longshoremen, at Mariala’s urgent request.

With that taken care of, Captain Tafas, Mariala and Devrik joined the crowd gathered around the severely injured alien leader. Vulk was attempting to convince Captain Oraka and Erol to not summarily kill it, but his usual rhetoric mastery seemed to have deserted him. His arguments were confused and unconvincing, and with the distraction of the others’ arrival Erol simply lopped off the alien’s head.

“What?” He said diffidently to the variously shocked, surprised or annoyed looks on the faces around him as he wiped the ichor from his blade. He sheathed it before tugging his trident from the body. “I was hoping to free the enthralled men from its mental control.”

Mariala just winced and shook her head, while Vulk stalked off in a huff. But both captains nodded with approval, gazing down in disturbed wonder at the hideous alien creature, while Devrik, Toran and Korwin just shrugged. Oh, that Erol…

Dawn was breaking as the sailors finished mopping up and restraining the last of the thralls (who didn’t seem to have been released with the death of the alien Vulk pointed out to Erol, who shrugged unrepentantly), and the Prince Palatine’s backup force from the palace finally arrived. They’d been a bit behind at every step through the night, and were chagrined at missing all the action.

They at least were able to provide corroboration of the fantastic tale the Hand had related to the two captains… not that the two dead aliens hadn’t already been rather convincing… and took all the prisoners off their hands. The latter was a relief to both captains and to the Hand, none of whom wanted to deal with complications they could see looming if the mental geas didn’t wear off soon…

Both of the captains seemed rather impressed with the Hand of Fortune, and neither one was lacking in experience or courage themselves, obviously. Captain Tig Oraka appeared to be about 60 years old, a grizzled veteran of the dog-eat-dog world of mercantyle adventurism in and around the Empire. Fairly tall at 5’ 10”, with dark hair and a full beard, both shot with gray, he was a solid, thickset man. Perhaps beginning to fill out a bit with age, most of his mass seemed still to be muscle. His right eye, covered by a blood-red leather patch, had been lost in a fight with pirates two decades ago, he had explained wryly. His remaining eye was a sea-gray color, giving him a piercing gaze which Vulk found quite fetching. He seemed generally well-liked by his crew, many of whom (especially his officers) had been with him for years, apparently.

Captain Rüla Tafas, on the other hand, was a staunch Imperial officer, her ship part of the local Imperial flotilla under the command of Prince Palatine Rapareth. She stood 5’ 5” and was also very solidly built, with auburn hair and green eyes. She was known as a skilled swordswoman, as Erol picked up from some of her crew, and was considered a no-nonsense and by-the-book officer. She achived her current rank ten years ago, and at forty years old she was now in the prime of her life. She aimed to command her own flotilla within the next five years, she’d confided to Mariala in a quiet moment. She’d been following the odd events going on around the docks over the last several days, and was on the alert for trouble, so when the attack on the Azure Rose began she’d been in a position to act quickly.

“Well, I want that horrifying idol off my ship,” Captain Oraka said, when the last of the attackers had been removed and his own dead and wounded were being seen to. “It gives me the chills just looking at it… I say we toss it over the side right now.”

Murmured agreements from the men close enough to hear made it clear his crew heartily agreed, but no one seemed anxious to actually touch the thing.

“Unfortunately, I can’t allow that, Captain,” Captain Tafas said, although her expression said she agreed with him, at least in principle. “There’s no telling what uncanny or arcane effects that thing might attract to itself, and I can’t have it sitting at the bottom of an Imperial harbor. I agree, it should go overboard, but only over the deepest part of the open sea i should think.”

Oraka didn’t look happy, but it was clear he understood her reasoning. Still, he had no intention of sailing with the idol aboard, and he motioned her aside to say as much. “Look, even if I wanted to, I doubt I’d have a crew to sail us out of the harbor if I proposed to keep it aboard for even a short voyage. No, it has to go, and the sooner the better.”

Tafas in turn understood his concern and reasoning, but seemed equally reluctant to take on the idol herself. Still, she was an Imperial naval officer, and it was her duty… unless the Prince wanted the damnable thing, of course…

Watching the woman trying to steel herself to do what she knew she should, Mariala sighed and gave Vulk and Devrik a glance. Vulk grimaced and nodded, and Devrik just shrugged.

“Captains, no need to trouble yourselves over this,” Mariala said. “We will undertake to dispose of this unholy artifact ourselves. We’re going to have to dump several tuns of that accursed blue liquor overboard anyway, one more item will hardly be a problem. And we do have some rich previous experience with this sort of thing. Sadly.”

Both captains looked relieved and grateful. Captain Tafas invited the Hand and Captain Oraka to join her aboard the Queen for breakfast, an offer Oraka reluctantly declined, being responsible to see to his wounded and dead first. The Hand, however, accepted with alacrity, and made an offer to host both captains aboard the Wind of Kasira in a day or two, when things settled down, an offer that was quickly accepted.