Glad to have some expert advice from the Star Council, if somewhat uncertain about their new associate’s actual field experience, Vulk led Tarbol Arbitar to where Farendol lay, expalining how the Telnori had come to be killed and resurrected.

“I think he may be in some sort of healing trance,” the Kasiran cantor concluded. “I was working in the middle of a combat crisis, his injuries were significant, and the fight interrupted my treatment… it’s possible there remains some internal damage to his heart or lungs.”

Tarbol nodded and pursed his lips judiciously. “I’m sure you did the best you could, given your skills. Of course we in the Order of the Vigilant Shepherd are more well versed in combat healing than most others.”

Before Vulk could formulate a response to that, beyond raised eyebrows, the Alean cantor went on.

“Before I begin my examination, let me say a few words to you all on the virtues of healing through the great goddess Alea.”

He then launched into a half-hour sermon that left his audience variously glazed, dazed and/or annoyed. Just when Mariala thought she could bear no more, and was wondering if she could Fire Nerve him without revealing herself as the source of his sudden agony (and would it still be a sin if he didn’t know?), he wrapped it up and knelt down next to Farendol’s body.

He then made a great show of examining “his patient,” as he kept referring to the Druid. After several minutes he rose and turned to once again address the dubiously watching group.

“I’m fairly certain that what we have here is a Telnori healing trance,” he pronounced in a lecturing tone, “no doubt due to some missed tissue damage near the heart. Or perhaps the lungs.”

Vulk and Mariala exchanged incredulous glances… wasn’t that what Vulk had said just prior to the sermon?

“My recommendation,” he went on, standing up and adjusting his tunic, “is that he be moved somewhere safe, cool and quiet, where he will no doubt awaken in his own good time. The Telnori are a resilient folk, after all.”

After a moment of disbelieving silence, Vulk just shook his head and thanked the man for his opinion… and didn’t particularly try to muffle his added “twit!” as he turned away. It was obvious the fellow was too young and too inexperienced, and all-in-all an unlikely agent of the Star Council.

As the others prepared to break camp Mariala and Vulk further questioned Tarbol, but he certainly knew about the message to Master Vetaris, and details of the Star Council that indicated a close connection to that very secret organization. When pressed for why he didn’t have a Star Council signet ring, he was forced to admit that this was his first “away mission,” and there just hadn’t been time to issue him a ring, given the matter’s urgency.

“But my great-uncle Kiril is greatly concerned about the Hand’s penchant for releasing demons,” the young man huffed, getting a bit defensive as he finally sensed the tone of the questioning. “He felt that with my training in demonology and possession – my Order, the Vigilant Shepherd, specializes in these things – I would be the right choice to guide you through these perilous waters!”

Dropping the name of Master Vetaris as a relative, along with his other admittedly difficult-to-refute proofs, eventually forced the pair to accept Tarbol as a true representative of the Council, or at least of Master Vetaris, however unlikely that seemed.

“Vetaris must really be angry with us,” Mariala muttered to Vulk as they turned away, “to saddle us with this nitwit.”

Vulk could only agree.

♦ ♦ ♦

They had their camp struck in short order, despite Tarbol’s stumbling about trying, and failing, to stay out of the way. At one point he exclaimed over the dubious wisdom of the Hand in bringing a child along on such a perilous quest, before realizing that Toran was a grown-assed Khundari.

“How many children does he know with full beards?” the dwarf growled to Devrik as he stalked away to check the straps of the travois one more time.

After some debate as to where they should go, it was decided that they should head for Dor Dür and Draik’s expertise (and supply of Baylorium). As far as they knew it still held out as one of the frontline fortresses of the war against Tharkia and the rebel/impostor Earl of Yorma. Also, Devrik’s wife and child were there, at Raven’s insistence, as she disliked the “big city” when her husband was absent.

Tarbol offered to summon the Gate, but the group hastily assured him that it would be unnecessary, thanks very much. Instead Devrik called up the Sight and the energies to open the Nitaran Gate, and two-by-two the Hand of Fortune (and guests) stepped through the invisible portal –

– into sudden darkness and a humid heat that hit them like a solid wall. The mules brayed plaintively in surprised discomfort, and in seconds everyone was soaked in sweat. Devrik, bringing up the rear, groaned in dismay and muttered “Oh, not again!”

It took a few minutes for their eyes to adjust and for the group to realize they were not in total darkness. They were, in fact, outside under a night sky that blazed with stars. They seemed to be on a wide shelf of relatively flat land that dropped sharply away in front of them, while the dark shape of a mountain loomed up behind them. A slight breeze did nothing to relieve the heat, but did carry a plethora of scents, from the perfume of mysterious flowers to the stink of fetid plant life, and the susurration of rustling leaves. The scream of some unknown animal in the dark below them broke the silence and made the mules start in fear.

Just at the moment that both Mariala and Korwin realized that they couldn’t recognize a single constellation in the sky, moonlight broke over the shoulder of the mountain behind them and they breathed a sigh of relief – it was the blue light of Aranda, the Greater Moon, and it was just past full, as it should be.

”Well, at least we haven’t traveled to another world,”Mariala sighed after pointing out the arrangement of the sky to the others.

”Or another time,” Korwin added, morosely. “Probably.”

The silver-blue moonlight revealed the valley below them to be covered in a thick jungle of broad-leafed trees in a variety of species, none of which any of the Hand had ever seen before. Across from them tall peaks rose up, and stretched away to either side, enclosing a bowl perhaps five kilometers wide by 15 kilometers long. To their right, which must be north, the silvery plumes of three tall waterfalls could be seen plunging from a mountain cliff into the darkness, and occasional glints of silver showed where a river must wind through the valley.

“Ok, this is really beautiful,” Vulk said after a minute. “But I think we’d better try again, yes?” He looked at Devrik with a raised eyebrow.

“Opening these damn Gates takes it out you, you know that,” he grumbled. “I don’t think I could do it again right now, but you’re welcome to try.”

So Vulk began his own ritual to Kasira, summoning up the Second Sight which allowed him to perceive the otherwise imperceptible warping of space-time that marked a Nitaran Gate. He found nothing.

“Um, there doesn’t seem to be a Gate here,” he said, reluctantly, after several minutes. “This could be a problem.”

Devrik frowned and despite his exhaustion summoned up enough energy to renew his own Second Sight… he too could find no hint of a Gate.

At that point Vulk called up Kasira’s Holy Light, bestowing it on his companions, allowing them all to see without risking a more mundane light source that would announce their presence to any watching eyes. As they began discussing what to do next Toran pointed out a surprisingly wide path that seemed to lead from their plateau down into the jungle.

“If you can’t open a Gate,” he said to Vulk and Devrik, ignoring Tarbol’s assertion that he was sure he could open one, “then I guess going down is our only real option.”

This led to some debate, and Mariala drew out her deck of cards. She laid seven cards out on the ground before her as the others watched quietly. Frowning in concentration, slipping into the oracular trance, she examined the cards, touching each in turn. After a few minutes she seemed to come up from some great depth, swaying for a moment before gathering up the cards.

“I see some danger ahead, to be sure, but opportunity as well. It’s not clear to me if the two are one and the same, or two possible paths. But what is unmistakably clear is that going back is not an option – that way is blocked… as if by a mountain.” She smiled, looking up at the massive wall of stone looming behind them.

“We must’ve been shunted to a Gate that is one-way only,” Devrik concluded. “They are rare, but hardly unheard of. We’ll just have to hope that we can find another, normal one somewhere nearby.”

“But where are we?” Tarbol suddenly wailed, breaking his long, and blessed, silence.

“Given that I do not recognize any of these stars, somewhere in the southern hemisphere, I should think,” Korwin replied diffidently. “And on the other side of the world, too… by the moon I’d estimate it’s not much before midnight here, so… say, 10 or 12 hours ahead, or behind, of where we were?”

Tarbol’s eyes grew wide, but he didn’t say anything else.

It was decided that they wouldn’t risk taking the mules down the trail in the dark, given the need to leave Farendol slung between them — the trail might be deceptively wide here at the clearing, but become narrower or more treacherous further along. The group set about making camp for the night.

Tarbol, being new and in any case not having any gear aside from his medical satchel, was left standing near “his patient,” whining quietly to himself, “But I don’t want to sleep outside!”

Mariala and Vulk had the first watch, and they spoke quietly to one another after the others had settle down to try and sleep.

“I wish I had an explanation for that idiot,” Vulk groused. “He seems so ill-suited to this, yet he knows too much to be an impostor.”

“Korwin had a disturbing idea,” Mariala replied. “ He thinks that Master Vetaris had the Nitaran pattern for this one-way gate subconsciously planted in Tarbol’s mind, to be triggered when we tried to travel anywhere.”

“What?! Why does he think Vetaris would do that?”

“To exile us where we could free no more demons, of course. And he gets rid of an embarrassing, dimwitted relative to boot, I imagine.”

“That’s a depressingly plausible scenario, actully,” Vulk said after a moment of horrified thought, and shuddered.

They were quiet for the rest of their watch, each lost in contemplation of other possible expressions of wrath the Star Council might be capable of.

Tarbol was left out of the watch rotation, of course, an insult which he completely failed to notice.

♦ ♦ ♦

When the sky was brightening in the morning, though the sun itself remained hidden behind the mountain, the Hand broke camp and headed down the path into the mysterious jungle below, now alive with the songs of exotic birds and the howls, chirps and calls of who-knew-what other sorts of creatures.

No one had slept well, except Tarbol, having gone to bed at what their bodies thought to be early evening. Despite their exhaustion from the last five days, it was only shortly before the creeping dawn that most of them had really begun to sleep… so it was a grumpy bunch that man-handled the mules and their precious cargo down the mountain. Tarbol proved to be surprisingly good at the task, Toran noted. The mules seemed to like him.

In the clear morning light they had spied smoke rising from what looked to be a smallish settlement on the banks of the river to the south, near the center of the valley, and the trail seemed to head in that direction. It took two hot, sticky hours, but they eventually came out from the canopy of the jungle into a wide clearing. Crops were planted there, and on the far side of the river a bend in the flow partially enclosed a small village of maybe 30 huts of wood, wicker and thatch, raised 1-2 meters above the ground. A wooden palisade formed an arc from bank to bank, guarding the landward approaches, although its gates stood open to the warm morning breezes. As the group approached no one seemed alarmed, or even terribly surprised, to see such strange travelers.

And they were strange, in comparison to the local people. These were shorter, on average, with medium to dark brown skin and thick black hair, which seemed to run from straight to wavy. Most of them seemed to possess brown or black eyes, although Devrik noted a few startlingly green eyes, and they all had a very slight epicanthic fold. They were dressed in simple, lightweight clothes in blues, grays and browns, with sandals on their feet, and both men and women wore conical hats of some woven fibre. The children went naked and seemed excited rather than frightened by the strangers.

As they arrived at the gate a party of older men and women gathered to greet them. Unfortunately, the language was completely foreign to the Ysgarethi travelers. The outpouring of melodious, almost liquid, sounds was beautiful to their ears, but utterly incomprehsible. After a few attempts at mutual communication, a particularly old man shuffled forward and began to speak in halting, heavily accented, very broken Yashparic.

Fortunately Vulk had begun chanting the Ritual of Tongues as soon as he’d recognized the language barrier, and he soon felt the strange pressure in his head that indicated the sudden presence of new knowledge as Kasira imparted to him a basic knowledge of the local language. He knew he’d only retain about half of what he now knew when the ritual ended, but for the duration he could speak moderately fluent… Varui, he realized the language was called.

Between the old man’s broken Yashparic and Vulk’s newly acquired Varui, the group was soon able to learn that they were in the Valley of the Golden Orchid, on the island of Kensuai, in the nation of Couri. Which meant absolutely nothing to any of them, no one having ever heard of any of them.

Vulk tried to explain where they had come from in terms the obvious peasant might understand, but the old man, whose name was Usolu, interrupted his increasingly byzantine tale with a gesture toward the eastern mountains.

“Yes, yes, m’sahiri, you came through the Mountain Gate, of course. It delivers strange visitors several times each year, although it cannot take them away again.”

Excited that the man seemed to a least grasp the nature of Gate travel, Vulk asked if there was another such Gate anywhere nearby, or indeed anywhere on the island. The old man looked down at his feet and emphatically shook his head. There were no other gates anywhere that the villagers knew of. No matter how he phrased the question Vulk could get no other answer, and had to conclude that there really was no other Gate, at least not nearby.

“But if other visitors come through here, they must leave your valley somehow, yes?” Vulk took a different tack. “This is an island, there must be a port…?”

Usolu looked up then and smiled, agreeing eagerly that there must. It was the great city of Tegari-hon, which lay on the coast seven days journey south of the valley. How great a city? Oh very great, perhaps as many as one thousand people lived there, or so rumor said. Usolu himself was dubious that so many could live all in one place, but his grandson had been there once, and he was an honest boy, so perhaps it was true. Although of course the young do tend to exaggerate…

In response to further queries he agreed that, yes, ships came to Tegari-hon, very frequently. How frequently? Oh, perhaps as many as once a month or so, mostly from the great islands of Vavau, Yaro and Tongari… but occasionally they came from as far away as Orkora and even semi-legendary Shoidan in the north. Although, this is the beginning of the rainy season… traders may be more sporadic for the next three months or so…

This news was rather disheartening, and Devrik was the least pleased among the group when Vulk relayed it. “I’ll be void-cursed if I’m going to take six months or a year to make my way home to Raven and Aldari!” he growled furiously. His words might have been unintelligible to the crowd, but his mien, and the grating tenor of his damaged voice, caused more than a few of them step back.

“Well, there has to be Nitaran Gates somewhere in the region, statistically speaking,” Mariala pointed out calmly. “No doubt a larger town or city will point us in the right direction. It’s unlikely well have to take the long route all the way home, Devrik.  He grudgingly acknowledged her logic, but remained unhappy.

When it became clear to the villagers that the strangers understood the need to travel to the coast, they became quite eager to help them on their way, smiling and encouraging them to get started right away. Yes, this very day, m’sahiri, no point in lingering, the rains could start at any time, making the journey twice as long! They offered to trade them local foodstuffs for what seemed criminally low prices, not even haggling. But perhaps that was the way of things in this part of the world… who knew?

As the others were pantomiming the exchange of goods and beginning to pack the food for the trip, Vulk and Tarbol brought Farendol to the village shaman, a bent old crone who walked with the aid of a beautiful ebony staff, to get, as Vulk put it, “a second opinion.” The insult flew straight over Tarbol’s head he noted in exasperation.

A crowd of villagers gathered to watch the old woman carry out her examination of the comatose man. As she peered, prodded and shook a few carved and feathered objects over him, Tarbol took the opportunity to give a sermon to the locals, apparently unconcerned that they couldn’t understand a single word he said. And since they couldn’t, Vulk didn’t object – at least it kept the little git occupied.

The old woman eventually finished her exam and stood, shrugging. She fired off a rapid string of words at Vulk before turning to mount the stairs into her hut. His grasp of the language was beginning to fade a bit, but he thought he understood her to have said there was “no help for that one,” an odd way to phrase it, if he was still grasping the subtleties of the tongue. But, Tarbol’s absurd diagnosis not withstanding, it was about what he’d expected.

Nonetheless, he was grateful for her attempt and called out to her before she disappeared into her home. She turned and he pulled a silver ring from his finger and handed it up to her. She took it with a nod and another shrug, then vanished within. Vulk returned with his charge, and Tarbol (sermon cut short), to the others.

There he tried one more time to ask Usolu if there was any rumor, a hint even, of another Gate somewhere on the island, and the old man was emphatically denying it when he went suddenly quiet, his eyes growing wide before lowering to stare at the dirt near his feet. The whole village had gone quiet and the group turned to find another old man, even more wrinkled and wizened than Usolu, walking through the gates.

“Nonsense, m’sahiru, m’sahara,” he said in excellent Yashparic, strangely accented but pleasantly melodious. “These are mere peasants, and too superstitious and fearful about things they do not fully understand.”

They hadn’t seemed particularly fearful to Vulk, quite the opposite, actually…

The man was noticeably taller than most of the villagers, if still shorter than Vulk, and he was dressed in more colorful clothes of a clearly superior cut, decorated with fanciful stitching. A wide sash of white silk belted his saffron silk tunic, and the feet below his red linen trousers were clad in leather half-boots. He wore a white head wrapping of some sort and carried an intricately carved staff of a beautiful dark red tropical hardwood. He stopped before the group, smiling warmly at them all, then eyeing the villagers behind them more cooly.

“One must forgive them, m’sahiri,” he said, addressing Vulk. “By their own uneducated lights these ones were simply trying to protect you, believing the long overland trail to the coast would be safer for you than to vanish into nothingness, as they think of it. This one is afraid that such as these have no concept of such travel.

“But there is, in fact, another Gothaka-zhuhan, a – how do you say it? A Nitaran Gate – in this valley. This one’s Master, the Learned Thuron Yan, has built his home near it, so that he may study it. This also affords him the grace to meet and provide respite and safe haven to m’sahiru, noble travelers, such as yourselves, waylaid by the so-infamous Mountain Gate.”

By the time he finished speaking almost all of the villagers had disappeared, either back to the fields or into their homes. A few of the elders remained to watch the interchange, but from a distance. Only Usolu remained with the group, continuing to stare at his feet and saying nothing.

“This one has the honor to be the Learned’s… hmmm, major domo in your tongue? This one is known as Olbu,” the newcomer continued. “Might this one be graced with such knowledge of the honored m’sahiru as may seem good to them to share?”

After a quick glance at the others, Vulk introduced himself and the party, skipping the fact of Farendol’s Telnori identity, saying only that he was a sick friend. Olbu expressed concern over the welfare of one who was so obviously dear to them, and immediately proposed they accompany him home.

“My Master is currently away on one of his journeys, but he is expected back in only a day or two… it is his custom to invite all travelers arriving via the Mountain Gate to partake of the comforts of his villa, modest as they may seem to such obviously noble folk as yourselves. He would be most upset were this one not to extend that invitation in his name.”

“We are honored by your invitation, good Olbu,” Vulk replied smoothly, slipping into Herald Mode, “and would love nothing more than to meet the Learned Thuron Yan. But out friend needs special medical care, and his urgent need requires us to decline your gracious offer… if you could but direct us to the Gate you spoke of, we would be eternally in your debt.”

An expression of such abject sorrow fell across the wrinkled visage of the old major domo, that for a moment Vulk suspected parody. But the man bowed deeply in regret, and his words seemed sincere. The herald reminded himself that cultural cues could be hard to judge accurately.

“It saddens this one, m’sahiri, that he is unable to do as you so graciously and reasonably request, for the precise location of the Valley Gate is not within this one’s knowledge. And even if it were, it saddens this one further to report that the Valley Gate is of a periodic nature, opening and closing, he is given to understand, in a cycle that even the Master has not yet fully fathomed, in twenty years of study.

“But the Learned Thuron Yan is a master of many arts, not the least of which are those of healing. It may be that he can provide the succor you desire for your friend when he returns. And the Valley Gate is seldom closed for more than a tenday.”

It was hard to argue that Farendol would be more comfortable in either this poor village or bouncing along between two mules for seven days or more, rather than in the no-doubt-luxurious villa of a wealthy and apparently noble scholar. Both Mariala and Vulk had surreptitiously used their arcane abilities to sense emotions and truth, and neither had discovered anything overtly suspicious. Olbu seemed to be just what he seemed, and his offer a legitimate one.

While taking leave of Usolu and the others, thanking them for their assistance, some of the Hand noticed that the villagers refused to meet their eyes… and no one looked directly at their new guide. But they were peasants, after all, and no doubt intimidated by the chief servant of the local lord – not an unusual occurrence even in Ysgareth, to be sure. They shrugged the matter off.

The journey to Halani-var, as the Learned Thuron Yan’s villa was called, took a little over an hour, on a road somewhat better than the one they had followed down the mountainside. The jungle rose thick and tangled on either side, arching over into a canopy of green through which the late morning sunlight flickered mysteriously. The sounds and smells of this fetid and fecund world seemed very alien to the companions, and the humidity sapped their strength unmercifully — they were all overdressed, and shed as much of their attire as they reasonably could.

It was a relief to leave the sweltering hot-house of the forest for the large hilltop clearing wherein sat Halani-var, and a mildly cooling breeze. The villa itself was a large, single-story complex of pale yellow stone and dark, almost black, beams of rough-hewn tropical hardwood. A roof of dark red tiles curved up into a maze of peaks and gables, with ridge-lines of the dark wood carved into the shapes of snakes and fantastic birds with dragon heads at the ends. Directly under the deep eaves long, narrow, glassless  windows let in air and light via beautiful grillwork of black iron, intricately wrought in the shapes of twisting vines, leaves and flowers.

Wide, shallow steps of the yellow stone led up to a long porch at the front, where two tall bronze doors stood closed. They were etched in deep bas relief, showing various scenes of people, animals and plants apparently acting out stories of religious, mythological or historical import… none of which any of the Hand remotely recognized.

But it was not to these doors that Olbu led the group. Instead, he directed them along a track that turned left and then curved around the building to the north. There they found a small stable and some storehouses jutting out from the main edifice, where Olbu saw to the comfort of the mules.

“This one apologizes for making honored guests wait on such mundanities,” the old man said as he quickly and efficiently went about his task. “But the Master retains no staff beyond this one’s humble self, in the general course of things.”

At their expressions of surprise, he elaborated.

“There were originally several other servants, when the villa was first built. But the Master is both particular in his habits, and modest in his needs… he eventually found the presence of so many k’hiniru, unenlightened ones, more bothersome than helpful. One by one he dismissed them, until only this one remained, who has been with him since youth. Now we simply hire from the village if more hands are needed… perhaps once or twice a year, no more.

“Your own servant,” he indicated the barbarian Therok (the broad brush strokes of the red-painted “55” on his chest were finally beginning to fade), “may make his bed here in the stables, there is a loft for just such purpose there, above the stalls.”

Once the mules were fed and watered and the saddle bags distributed Olbu lead the group into the villa by a small door between the stable and the jakes. With their “servant” and Devrik carrying the stretcher on which lay the still form of Farendol, he showed them to two long, narrow interior rooms just a few paces away.

Both rooms, which formed an “L” but shared no connecting door, appeared to be dormitories, with multiple beds in each, as well as large communal tables, low, stool-like chairs of bamboo and wicker, and slim, elegant armoires. Silk wall hangings  were the only decorations, but these were of such beauty that they took the breath away and caused the eye to linger.

Farendol was laid on a bed in the first room, the one running east to west, and Vulk and Devrik took the other two beds there. A large hexagonal window of carved wood, filled with a black iron filigree of geometric shapes, looked out into a small green courtyard. Mariala, Korwin, Toran and Tarbol took the four beds in the larger room around the corner, oriented north to south, which lacked a matching window, but had two of the long, narrow grilled openings running its length near the ceiling, to the first room’s single such.

Once Olbu had seen that the quests were settled comfortably, he suggested that they should rest and refresh themselves before the midday meal. When he mentioned that a sauna and hot pools were available, they shuddered at the idea, but on learning that there were cool plunging pools as well, Vulk, Mariala and Korwin decided to partake. Torbol volunteered to stay with Farendol, while Devrik and Toran came along for the tour, if not the waters.

As the old major domo guided them, with a certain quiet pride, through the joys of his master’s splendid creation, it occurred to Mariala that the villa was almost more museum than home. It was decorated in a very spare yet elegant style, simplicity of form emphasizing function… and everywhere there was art. From wall hangings and paintings to gorgeous inlaid tables of exotic woods to porcelain bowls and carved jade statues, the hallways and rooms boasted a seemingly endless array of artifacts and object d’art.

Yet in no way was there any sense of overcrowding or excess – there seemed to be only ever just the right number of objects, in just the correct juxtaposition, in just the right place. Thick, richly woven carpets covered many of the floors, themselves polished black wood inlaid with designs in matte black woods, and red silk panels hung from the ceilings.

The interior, despite being open to the outdoors by the narrow eaves-windows and a few larger ones looking out into various courtyards, was significantly cooler than might be expected. Toran noted with approval that the stonework was excellent, and was put together without mortar or cement.

After refreshing themselves in the sybaritic luxury of the spa suite, located in the southern wing of the villa, and enjoying the art along the way, the group reconvened in the large dining room for a three course meal, served by Olbu. This seemed to be the only room furnished with Ysgarethi-style chairs, for which the group was grateful.

After the meal Olbu reappeared and invited them to enjoy the public rooms of the villa, but emphasized that they must avoid the Master’s private chambers, his arboritum/greenhouse and the large central courtyard, which they had glimpsed through grill-covered windows on the earlier tour.

“The great courtyard is the Master’s sanctum for his private meditations and spiritual renewal,” he explained regretfully. “But the smaller courtyard near your own chambers is certainly free for the enjoyment of the m’sahiru.

“This one must now attend to his delayed chores, and so leave you to your own devices until the light repast that is customary in this part of the world after sundown. The grounds are open to you, of course, but only until sunset – it is not safe to be outside after dark, and this one begs of you not to stray outside again until after sunrise.”

The rest of the day was spent relaxing, discussing the events of the past tenday, and theorizing about the nature of their absent host. Tarbol took advantage of the afternoon light to walk the perimeter to lay a Ritual of Protection of the Innocents around the building, which should give them an advantage should things prove to be less innocent than they seemed. At the same time Vulk attempted to locate the promised Nitaran Gate, but could find no hint of it before he was driven indoors by a sudden late-afternoon downpour.

The evening meal was, as promised, a lighter affair, again served by Olbu in the dinning room. Afterward the still very tired companions retired to their rooms, calling it an early night. Mariala tried to coax Grover to come sleep with her, but the ferret refused to be budged from his perch on top of her backpack. With a shrug she gave up the effort and prepared for sleep.

Wards were set, and not only by Mariala, but nothing external disturbed their rest during the night, to everyone’s relief. Tarbol was especially grateful to have a bed to sleep in, even if it was of an odd construction called a “tofu” or maybe it was a “futon.” Something foreign-sounding, anyway…

Nothing external disturbed the Hand’s slumber…but Mariala again dreamed of Erol, on the same vast dark plane. Although this time she felt she could almost make out his words before he again vanished into the darkness. And that night Vulk dreamed of Erol as well… also on a dark, endless plane; but he was no more able to communicate with his dead friend than Mariala had been.

♦ ♦ ♦

The whole of the next day the Hand spent in blessed idleness and rest, with Olbu appearing only to serve meals in the dining room. Finally beginning to feel like themselves again, they took the time to more closely examine the treasures recovered form the ruins of Yalura. Between their various arcane skills they managed to figure out which items were magic and which mundane.

Further divination and study revealed the nature of the four magical artifacts, as well: the small key of tarnished silver proved to be an Amulet of Defeating Locks, able to open locked doors or containers; the pale blue robe was a Robe of Kesadarin, which would shield its wearer from the effects of natural cold and, to a lesser extent, magical cold; the silvery silken rope turned out to be a Cord of Querelia-Sim, able to knot and unknot itself when invoked… it was Toran who discovered its command word, Ünkonai, woven into the threads at each end.

The last item, a polished amber bowl some 30 cm across, proved to be the most interesting… and the most difficult to pry free from its secrets. By the time Olbu summoned them for the evening meal they had only determined that it was seriously magical and seemingly of the X’avarna convocation. Mariala reluctantly set the bowl back into her pack, and noticed Grover leaping to curl up in his usual place atop it as she left the room.

They had just begun the first course, and Obul had left them to return to the kithchen, when the doors to the entry foyer opened to reveal a most striking figure – a tall man with stark white skin (a form of makeup, they learned later, affected by the nobles classes in this land), dressed in elaborate robes of green and black. A yolk of black leather rested on his shoulders from which a black silk collar rose up into a tight skull cap that enclosed his head, leaving only his white face exposed. It was impossible to guess his age, which could have been anywhere from 30 to 70.

“Good evening, my most honored guests,” the man said in a strong tenor voice, only lightly accented by the musical cadences of the local tongue. “I am Thuron Yan. Please forgive that I was not here to greet you myself. But visitors from the Mountain Gate arrive all too seldom, and my studies took me away on a matter that would not wait.”

Stepping into the room and moving to the empty chair at the head of the table, he held up a burlap sack of earth out of which protruded a delicate looking flowering plant of dark green leaves and pale blue flowers. Some species of orchid by the look of it, Vulk thought, and was reminded of Draik.

“I recently, finally, had word of a very rare plant which I have long sought… one that only flowers under the light of the full blue moon and the dark of the violet moon. The way was long and arduous, but the results most worthy of the effort expended.”

Offering the bloom for his guests’ examination, he studied them as they admired his trophy. He seemed to approve of their interest, and he quickly fell into a brief treatise on botany. Flowers were clearly his passion and his main area of study, although he made it plain that medicine was a close, and related, secondary field of interest.

“I will be pleased to show you my collection of rare and exotic plants – especially exotic, I imagine, to visitors from your distant, chilly part of the world – but first I would be pleased to look in on your injured companion, whom Olbu has told me of, if you think my humble knowledge might be of some use.”

At this point Vulk suddenly had an instant, and fully formed, suspicion that this Thuron Yan was in fact Olbu in his true form. He was frantically trying to communicate this idea to Mariala on the sly when Olbu entered the room from the other door, bearing a tray with the second course. Vulk shut his mouth and sat back abruptly, hoping the sudden flush of his cheeks would be attributed to the heat.

After the final course, with cordials of a delicate pink liquor in hand, the group took their host to examine the comatose Telnori; although they still failed to mention his race. But such discretion, or deception, proved both futile and unnecessary. It took only a few minutes for the scholar to determine that the sick man was not Umantari.

“Ah, your friend is one of the Star Children… yes, I can understand your caution. They are not unknown in these lands, but they are not as prevalent, I think, as in the North and West… and are too often feared by our unenlightened peasantry, sadly. Fortunately, I have known a few in my day, and so am not unfamiliar with their biology…”

Another few minutes of examination, and Thuron Yan stood back and frowned. He seemed lost in thought, oblivious to his waiting guests. With an effort he pulled his intense gaze from Farendol, and bowed in apology.

“Forgive me, my guests, I was pondering… the possibilities. It seems to me that your friend has suffered some great injury, yes?”

Vulk nodded, but offered no particulars. He’d learned his lesson with Tarbol, and kicked the Alean when he started to open his mouth. Thuron Yan either didn’t notice the byplay, or simply chose not to acknowledge it.

“I am certain that he is in the Telnori healing trance… it is impossible to say how long he will remain in this state, but in my (admittedly limited) experience it seems certain that he will eventually come out of it.

“I would not recommend moving him until he does, however – he needs all of his physical and mental resources focused on his own healing. An arduous journey is contraindicated, unless it were absolutely critical. And I’m even less sure what effect Gate travel might have –”

“Yes,” Vulk interjected. “About the Gate we’ve been told is nearby. If you could –”

Thuron Yan waved his hand languidly and shook his head, interrupting ever-so-graciously in turn.

“No, honored guest, I can offer no firm advice in that area… even if I knew that such travel was safe for a Telnori in this condition, my Gate is not open just now. It is of the periodic type, and I have not yet discerned a reliable pattern to predict its fluctuations.”

At the friends’ frowns, he smiled and gestured placatingly.

“I understand your concern, but it is unfounded. Although I cannot tell precisely when the Valley Gate will be active again, I can assure you with confidence that it will be no more than two or three days. Surely you can endure the hospitality of my home for that much longer, yes? And it can do your friend no harm to rest here for that long. Once the Gate is active, if he has not recovered, we can further discuss the advisability of  taking him through it.”

There seemed to be no polite answer to this perfectly reasonable argument, and so the friends prepared to retire once again, after their host had departed. But suspicion still smoldered in some…

“I suppose it is possible that we’re over-thinking all this,” Vulk admitted as the group discussed their options. “We’re so used to conflict and chaos, perhaps we’re seeing everything as a nail that needs to be hammered – and maybe this time it’s not.”

“We’ve certainly tried to find the hidden motives, the lies, the danger,” Korwin agreed. “But it all seems perfectly benign. It’s a different culture, so maybe that’s where the vague, um… creepiness… comes from?”

The debate went on for awhile, without coming to any solid conclusions. In the end everyone drifted off to bed and sleep. But wards were again set, other precautions taken as well. And again came the dreams of Erol on a vast, dark plain – to Mariala, Vulk, and this time to Devrik, too.

♦ ♦ ♦

The next day Thuron Yan took the companions to see his beloved arboretum/hot house wherein he kept his most prized botanical treasures. The immense room occupied the entire east wing of the villa, almost 50 meters long north-to-south and 13 meters wide east-to-west. Two iron-grilled windows, set in alcoves, and a bronze-gated doorway pierced the western wall, giving out onto the large sunken central courtyard. Matching alcoved windows were set into the eastern wall, and opposite the courtyard gate was a large, intricately carved teak door. Set in the wooden ceiling were glass skylights, running the length of the room on either side of the massive central beam.

Unlike the rest of the villa, which was marginally cooler than the outdoors, the arboretum was somewhat warmer and much more humid. A riotous profusion of plants filled the space, from large potted trees to small, delicate ferns and flowering shrubs. From the central beam hung a series of lattices over which grew vines and other creeping or hanging plants, many with flowers of gorgeous colors, some of immense size. In the center of the room stood a large oval work table of yellow sandstone, on which lay a confusion of gardening tools (as well as implements of more mysterious purpose), empty pots, and piles of rich, dark soil.

It took over an hour for the most cursory tour of the many plants the Eastern scholar had amassed, and even the most uninterested in the party couldn’t help but be impressed. Not only were there an incredible number of plants they’d never heard of, much less seen, Thuron Yan’s knowledge of them, of their uses either medicinal, practical or culinary, was immense.

“But I have saved the best for last, my dear guests,” he said at length as they paused near the work table. “My most beloved and valuable treasures… my orchids!”

With that he threw open the carved teak door behind him, revealing a small chamber some 6 meters square. Work benches lined the north and south walls, with several racks on each reaching up to the ceiling, and a desk-cum-work bench filled a small niche in the east wall, beneath an iron-grilled window.

Orchids of every imaginable size, shape and color occupied the racks and benches, and on the desk lay scrolls, parchment, pens, brushes and inks. Several of the papers could be seen to contain exquisite renderings of various orchids, with notes in a flowing, alien alphabet beneath them. The beautiful blue orchid their host had shown them the night he’d returned sat on the desk, and a partially finished sketch of it held the central place of honor.

Almost another hour was spent learning about the manifold virtues and wonders of the orchid in all its wild variety of species. It became clear their host had spent decades learning and writing about his tropical speciality. But eventually the scholar ran down, perhaps sensing the slightly glazed looks which even the most interested of his guests were beginning to sport.

“Well, I must return to my work,” he said, gesturing toward the door back into the arboretum. “And I understand some of you have expressed curiosity about my private library. Olbu could not grant you access, of course, but having seen your enthusiasm over my small public collection, it would be my pleasure share the larger collection with you.”

He then led the party out the southern door of the arboretum, through several short winding corridors to a set of carved double doors. Pulling a key from his belt, their host unlocked the doors and ushered them into his private library. It was a large room, 15 x 10 meters, and a double row of tall bookshelves ran down the center of the room, crammed with books, scrolls and loose-leaf folios. Being an interior room there were no windows, but four square skylights of frosted glass let in the day light; glowstones set about the room would provide illumination at night.

“I allow no open flames in here,” Thuron Yan said as he prepared to leave them. “And I expect you will treat the volumes here as befits their age and value… but I know that you are scholars yourselves, and need no instruction in this arena. I do ask that you not remove anything from this chamber, however.”

With a gracious bow he turned and left the group to their own devices, returning to the study of his new orchid. The Hand went wild in this treasure trove of exotic documents – each one of them found at least one volume of intense interest, and some more than one.

Toran found a volume on rare fungi cultivation written in an odd form of Kundaic, by the Dwarves of Svarlün, in central Ishkala; Tarbol was able to decipher an ancient treatise of the use of various plants in successful exorcisms; Mariala and Devrik kept calling one another over to see some new find, wandering from shelf to shelf, while Korwin browsed, and fingered the small gardening implement in his pocket that he had stolen from Thuran Yan’s workshop. He had been successfully containing his kleptomania with all the lovely object d’art laying about this place, but he just couldn’t resist this odd little tool…

Vulk was especially taken with a large illustrated volume, quite old, but from their own part of the world, that extensively covered the flora of Ysgareth and its subcontinent Xenoca, as well as that of the Shattered Sea. He had heard Draik speak of it on occasion, Merasid’s Illuminated Botanica, as a very rare and extraordinarily thorough encyclopedia that any herbalist would give his left nut for. He wondered how much he could copy during their stay here… and which were the best bits…

It was hours later that they reluctantly broke off their studies for the midday meal, after Olbu’s second, slightly testy announcement that it was ready. Thuron Yan did not join them, sending his apologies via his servant, but did promise to join them for the evening meal. As usual, the food was mostly excellent, if occasionally too alien – for instance, no one was inclined to try the chilled monkey brains…

Afterward, several of the group were inclined to return to the library, but Mariala insisted that they should finish trying to figure out what that last magic item was, the mysterious amber bowl. Retiring to the room she shared with Korwin, Toran and Tarbol, after checking on Farendol, she booted Grover off her pack and carefully removed the artifact. The ferret nipped at her hand, but quickly settled near her feet as she sat down, the bowl in her lap.

It took a combination of her own divination skills, Korwin’s psychometry talent, and Vulk’s prayers to finally uncover the nature of the item – a soul catcher created by the Telnori mage Barsol, over a thousand years ago. It was designed to capture either ethereal beings or the souls of the recently departed within a certain proximity. When properly invoked the captured soul could be transferred to another living or properly prepared artificial body… it took some more divination to discover the operant word to be lila’tometh. It didn’t take the group long, however, to realize what this might mean…

“This was less than a hundred meters away when Erol was killed,” Vulk exclaimed in sudden excitement. “That’s well within its range, yes Mariala?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, frowning thoughtfully. “I think a kilometer is the approximate, um, capture zone of the device… but it can only hold one soul, I’m positive of that! And Farendol was… um, died… before Erol did. Wouldn’t his soul have been the one to be captured?”

This gave them all pause for a moment. It certainly would explain why the Telnori’s body remained alive after Vulk’s healing, but seemingly unoccupied, if his soul was captive within the bowl. On the other hand…

“Telnori souls, like their minds, are stronger than ours,” Vulk pointed out. “Farendol may have been immune to the artifact’s power, or able to resist it… it is also possible that he wasn’t completely dead dead before I healed him. Maybe his should never left his body, and he really is in a healing trance?

“Also, why has Grover been so attached to this thing? Looking back, don’t you see it? He’s stayed as close to the bowl as he could, whether it was in a saddle bag or your pack – or on your lap right now?”

Indeed, the little animal was currently staring up intently at the bowl, never taking his eyes off of it. A sudden thought struck Vulk –

“Or maybe Erol’s soul ended up in Grover, somehow!” he blurted out.

“Well, I don’t see how that would have worked,” Mariala frowned. “No, I think there’s a soul in this bowl, and while I’m uncertain whose soul it is, I’d have to agree Grover’s behavior makes me lean toward it being Erol’s. That, and the dreams I’ve been having lately… if it’s not just wishful thinking…”

Devrik seemed more divided in thought, and said nothing. He really would like it to be Farendol’s soul in that bowl, making his murder, as he thought of it, of the Druid suddenly reversable. On the other hand, he knew Erol well and would like to see his comrade returned to life. Although, come to think of it, how would they even accomplish that? The man’s own body was no longer a viable option, certainly!

The same thought seemed to occur to the others just then, and a discussion began about how to figure out if it was really Erol in the bowl, and if so, what to do about it. Mariala could divine no way of communicating with the en-bowled soul, although she claimed it should be theoretically possible. She was extremely reluctant to invoke the control word without a suitable vessel nearby for the soul to enter into.

Vulk eyed Grover speculatively at that point, but when the ferret briefly pulled its attention away from the bowl to growl in his direction, he shrugged off the idea. He doubted Erol would be much enthused by being a ferret in any case.

“It occurs to me,” he said after a few minutes of intropsection, “that I have within my mind, the knowledge of how to grow a new body for Erol… a gift of my recent possession, er, symbioses with the Elemental Beast of Earth. But it would take many months, I think, to do this…”

“Or, I could fashion him an artificial body” Toran offered. “With the help of my people I’m sure we could create him a most wonderful, powerful form. As a fighter he might like that!”

“I’m not really sure he’d appreciate giving up the sex, though,” Devrik growled. “Although it might do as an interim measure, while Vulk grows this new body…”

“We could always dump him into Tarbol’s body, I suppose,” Korwin suggsted with a laugh. This brought a squeak of rage from the plump cantor, who had heretofore been following the discussion in wide-eyed, horrified fascination.

“You can’t allow him to possess another living, conscious being,” he shrilled in anger, leaping to his feet. “Not mine and not anyone elses! It would be blasphemy, and a secular crime as well, and–”

“It was a joke, Tarbol,” Mariala soothed gently, giving Korwin a quelling frown. But he saw the glint of laughter in her eye nonetheless, if Tarbol did not. Devrik snorted and shook his head, while Vulk and Toran couldn’t look at each other for fear of bursting into laughter. Tarbol grudginly sat back down, mumbling about people who jested about possession, and the bad ends they would no doubt come to.

The brief humor had broken the tension of the moment, and with a collective sigh the Hand realized there was nothing more to be done just then. But getting back to Shalara, and the resources of the Star Council, was suddenly even more urgent in all their minds. Vulk determined to press their host once more over dinner for the location of the Gate, something the man had deftly sidestepped up until now.

“And maybe we will find a way to communicate with Erol in our dreams tonight,” Mariala said as they rose to go about their separate concerns. “If so, maybe he’ll have an idea about what we should do…”

•••

Under Vulk’s persistent questioning, which began to border on the rude, Thuron Yan finally revealed that the Valley Gate was located in the Great Courtyard at the heart of the villa, as they had suspected all along. He went further, and said that he fully expected it to become active within the next 25 to 35 hours, at which point he would, with regret but full understanding, see them all on their way.

Having got the information he wanted Vulk attempted to repair his breach of manners by enthusing about the volume he had been studying in the library that morning. He explained about Draik, and soon found himself describing the discovery/invention of Baylorium, and it’s amazing healing powers. Their host’s slight coolness dropped away as he came to fully understand what the cantor was saying.

“By the Seven,” he exclaimed when Vulk had finished, his usual dignified reserve abandoned for the moment. “This is quite amazing! I have, of course, heard of Baylora and her frightening, brilliant skills in the Torazin arts… and of her tragic fate. But this… have you a sample of this wondrous elixir with you?”

“Sadly, no,” Vulk lied, without hesitation, although he wasn’t sure why he did so. “We used the last of our reserves after our last battle, to heal ourselves and to attempt to do the same for our Telnori friend. It is another reason why we are so anxious to return home, to restock our supply of the elixir.”

Thuron Yan seemed briefly disappointed to hear this news, before his usual cloak of distant, amused detachment fell back into place. But he was aroused to sharp-eyed interest once more when Vulk continued.

“But we plan to travel straight to Draik once your Valley Gate is open, sir. You should accompany us – I know my friend would be pleased to exchange ideas and knowledge with one so learned in the field that he himself loves so much. Who knows what a fusion of your talents and wisdom might produce? The possibilities, sir! And if you were to join us, perhaps you could bring Merasid’s Illuminated Botanica along, so that he might have it copied while you conferred…”

Thuron Yan seemed much taken with this idea, and promised to think upon it that night. As the meal wound down he motioned to Olbu, who came and bowed down to hear his master’s whispered instructions. The servant withdrew, to return several minutes later with a tray containing glasses of a pale blue cordial. Passing them out to the guests, he served his master last.

“To new friends,” the Eastern scholar said, raising his glass. “And to new beginnings, which may bring much good into the world.”

While the others drank without hesitation, Vulk and Devrik shared a glance across the table, and only touched their glasses to their lips. The subterfuge did not go unnoticed by their host.

“You do not care for the ub’arasl,” he inquired cooly, setting down his own empty glass. “Perhaps some other beverage…?”

“No,” Vulk replied, smiling tightly. “Thank you. I’m afraid something in that last course has upset my digestion… I fear further alcohol might exacerbate the problem.”

“And I do not drink distilled spirits,” Devrik rumbled blandly, setting his own untouched glass down. It was a believable enough assetion, certainly, as he had drunk nothing but watered wine during their stay at Halani-var. “But we both salute the toast, and the sentiment behind it.”

Mollified, Thuron Yan rose and graciously bid his guests a good night, reminding them once again not to leave the safety of the villa during the night. As Olbu began to clear away the dishes the Hand likewise rose, bowed to their host, and departed to their own chambers.

•••

Despite all evidence of his good will, both Devrik and Vulk had been suspicious of their host and of his special blue cordial. But in the event at least one of their suspicions was totally unfounded – the cordial had not been drugged or poisoned, had indeed been nothing more than a delicate, delicious, and very expensive liquor, distilled from a rare mountain fruit. It was a singular honor to have had it offered to them.

It was the food that had been drugged.

Retiring to their respective rooms, each of the companions found their eyes drooping even as they undressed. They were all asleep as soon as their heads hit their pillows — a deep and dreamless sleep.

Dreamless, except for Vulk. He slowly became aware of himself, though all around him was dark, and he could not move. There was a sense of concern, but not of panic, as he tried to move even a finger. Failing, he became aware of… not a presence, exactly… but maybe an echo of a presence. Following his sense of this not-presence, Vulk suddenly found himself aware of his body in its totality. It was something like what he sensed when he healed someone psionically, but much stronger – an awareness of every cell, every atom, of his biology.

With this awareness came a sense that all was not right… yes, there, he could… see/hear/taste/feel/smell… the alien pattern. He’d been poisoned! No, not poison he realized… drugged. A soporific of some kind… and very stong!

He could see how it flowed through his blood, how it interacted with his brain… and yes, he could suddenly see how to neutralize it… to turn it into something inert and harmless… all at once.

He did that thing.

♦ ♦ ♦

Vulk’s eyes opened as he came fully, instantly, awake; but no other part of his body moved to give away his sudden return to consciousness. Which proved a good thing, for across the room he could see two shadowy figures bent over the still form of Farendol, silhouetted by the dim red light one of them held. A deep red glow stone, he realized, perfect for seeing in darkness without ruining one’s night vision.

It was Thuron Yan and Olbu, of course. Vulk tensed, prepared to leap up if they made a threatening move… but Thuron Yan reached down and lifted the Telnori into his arms as if he weighed no more than a child. He said something to Olbu, too low for Vulk to hear, and the servant nodded, moving toward the open door. Thuron Yan followed, Farendol’s body cradled almost tenderly in his arms, and they passed out of the room.

Vulk was off of his futon instantly, and kneeling beside Devrik, who snored gently. No amount of shaking could rouse the drugged warrior-mage, however, and after a moment the cantor realized he would need to do for his friend what he had somehow done for himself. But how? He wasn’t even sure what he’d done, exactly. He closed his eyes and reached within…

And it was there. The knowledge of how to see the foreign substance, and how to alter it, make it harmless and inert. He reached out with his native psionic healing ability into Devrik’s body… and did the thing.

Devrik’s eyes flew open and he had his hand around Vulk’s throat before the latter could react. Fortunately Devrik didn’t seem confused or groggy, and he quickly recognized his friend.

“Sorry,” he grated quietly, releasing his grip. “Not a good idea to wake me that way.”

“No choice,” Vulk gasped sotto voce, rubbing his bruised neck. “We were all drugged. I’ve thrown it off, and neutralized it in you. But our host and his servant have just taken Farendol, and I think we need to stop whatever it is they have planned!”

Instantly Devrik was on his feet and buckling on his armor.

“Wake the others and follow after me,” he order Vulk. “I’m certain they’ve gone either to the arboretum or to the central courtyard.”

“That would be my guess too,” Vulk agreed, and dashed out the door, turning left. Devrik was only a few paces behind him, and turned right as he pulled his battlesword from its sheath on his back.

In the other room Korwin, being closest to the door, was the next person Vulk woke. Like Devrik, he came instantly awake, but with a less immediately aggressive response. When his friend had explained the situation to him the water mage grabbed his own weapons and armor, and dashed out the door to follow Devrik.

Tarbol was next, but Vulk felt they could do without the little nitwit’s “help,” and skipped over him to awaken Toran. The Khundari seemed to have been naturally fighting off the effects of the drug, and Vulk was able to dispel the soporific more easily than in the others. Toran too, on learning the way of things, donned his armor and grabbed his weapons to follow Korwin.

Mariala proved more difficult to awaken. Vulk knew he was getting tired, using his abilities so quickly in succession and at such strength, but there was something beyond mere exhaustion at work here. He could sense the toxin, yes, but there was something else, something that seemed to pervade the structure of her blood and brain… it was subtle, difficult to make out, and it seemed to be interacting with the drug in unexpected ways.

Twice he tried to neutralize the foreign agents in Mariala’s blood, and twice he failed. After the last attempt, he knew he only had one more go-round left before his psionic ability gave out completely. Reluctantly, he turned to Tarbol.

It was the most exhausting effort yet, but he managed to eliminate the drug from his fellow cantor’s body, and the young man woke with a start. Vulk grudgingly explained the situation, and asked if the Alean knew of any ritual that might work. Tarbol said he just might, and immediately knelt down beside Mariala and took her hands in his, bending his head to pray. In just a few seconds the woman before him began to  groan, and her eyes flickered open. She was groggy, and a bit confused at first, but she quickly grasped the urgency of the situation and rose to her feet, with Tarbol’s help.

Vulk had run back to his own room to grab his weapons, and now reappeared in the doorway to urge them on. They raced down the hallways toward the arboretum and the clashing of steel on steel, and he invoked the ritual of Virtue’s Armor, touching Mariala’s shoulder as he spoke. Kasira’s shimmering golden protection flowed over her…

♦ ♦ ♦

Leaving Vulk to rouse the others, Devrik had headed straight for the arboretum. He kicked in the northern door to Thuron Yan’s plant sanctum, splinters of wood flying as the lock twisted free of the frame, and blew through without even stopping.

In the center of the room, on the oval sandstone table, cleared now of all gardening detritus, lay Farendol’s empty but living body. At his head stood Thuron Yan, hands hovering near the Telnori’s temples, face twisted in intense concentration.

Between Devrik and the pale scholar was Olbu, who had whirled around at the sound of the shattered door, drawing a wicked looking sword with a curved tip. He advanced now toward Devrik, his sword lowered and making placating gestures with his free hand.

“Please, m’sahiri, let this one explain,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “The Master means no harm to your friend. If the m’shairi will just –”

“Get out of my way,” Devrik growled in his most nerve-grating voice, never breaking his stride. Red rage filled his vision as he saw his chance of redemption being pawed over by that ghost-faced… botanist!

Seeing that the Westerner would not be stopped by words, Olbu brought his own weapon up in a surprisingly fluid motion and attacked. Devrik was forced to stop then, barely managing to parry the slash toward his stomach. The strength of the blow shocked him out of his one-track focus on Farendol – the old man was about his own height, but must be 20 kilos lighter than him. How could he be so strong?

Devrik slashed his own blade two-handed at the old man’s stomach in return, only to have the blow turned deftly and the movement turned into a blinding counter attack. Devrik grinned then and blocked in turn.

When Korwin dashed into the room a few minutes later, he skidded to a stop at the sight of the frail-looking old mass of wrinkles holding his own, stroke for stroke, with Devrik! A moment later Toran skidded into the room, and was also impressed – although he didn’t recognize the style, he knew a master of the martial arts when he saw one. He started to crank his crossbow…

By the time the others arrived the old man made one last spinning attack to drive Devrik back, and then disengaged. He stood a dozen paces back, sword again lowered. Devrik was panting slightly, but Olbu seemed perfectly composed, his breathing regular and controlled.

“M’sahiru, please listen to this one,” he called out to the group. “Things are not as they may seem.”

“You drugged us, stole our friend’s body, and seem to be preparing some sort of mystical shenanigans,” Vulk said in his best Herald’s voice, putting a restraining hand on Devrik’s shoulder. The fire mage glowered but didn’t resume the fight.

“If your intentions are benign,” Vulk continued, “why did you drug us into oblivion?”

“Merely to keep things simple, m’sahiri,” the old man said, grimacing. “Though that seems not to have worked… this one had suggested the Master should confide the truth to you, but his curse has haunted him so long… it is difficult for him to trust…

“But truly, he means no harm to the one you call Farendol… for that one is no longer in this world. You resurrected his body, m’sahiri, but his soul must have already sped to whatever comes after. You have created, most inadvertantly, a rare theological occurrence – and the answer to the Master’s dilema.

“Stop speaking in riddles,” Devrik growled. “And stop stalling. Explain yourself now, or prepare to fight us all!”

“The Master is afflicted with a rare… condition.. One he considers a curse and a great burden. He has spent three decades seeking a cure from the plants of these jungles. But while he has managed to… alter… some of the parameters of his condition, he has found no cure.

“Now you bring him a solution we never thought to employ, a healthy but spiritually empty body into which he can transfer his wonderful mind! And a Telnori one at that – his genius may go on for centuries more in such a form! He knows the plants that will induced the trance, he knows the mental discipline to achieve the tansfer… now he just needs the time to achieve it. Will you not give him this?”

“It’s not his body to dispose of,” Vulk said hotly. “Even if Farendol’s soul is gone… and it’s true, we’d begun to suspect it… it is not for your Master, or for us, to decide what becomes of his mortal form. We must take it back to his–”

“But can you not see the value?” Olbu countered passionately. “Thuron Yan is a great man, an enlightened man, and what better tribute to your deceased friend than that his abandoned shell should now house this great soul!

“You yourself believed that much good could come of a collaboration between the Master and your friend in the West… Draik, that one is named, yes? It was Thuron Yan’s intention, once the burden of his curse was lifted from him, to join you, as you suggested.”

Vulk paused, considering the old man’s words. It seemed certain now that Farendol really was gone… and if so, what difference could it make to him what use his body was put to now? Aside from the drugging, Thuron Yan had treated them well… and it’s not like he’d actually poisoned them, something a plant expert such as himself would certainly have been capable of…

“Well, I can see an argument for what you’re saying,” he said slowly. “But let your master make that argument himself. He has endured his burden, whatever it is, for this long… a little longer can hardly matter. If he’ll stop what he’s doing, we can sit down and–”

“Oh, to the Void with this!” Mariala cried out suddenly, and let go a blast of Fire Nerves at the elderly major domo, who staggered back. Her friends were momentarily shocked at this uncharacteristically unilateral action, except for Toran, who took it as a signal to loose a crossbow bolt at the still-seemingly-oblivious scholar working his ritual over Farendol’s inert form.

The bolt missed, but it forced Thuran Yan to sway back, and broke his concentration. He glared then in fury at the Khundari and the others, his elegant fingers crooking into claws of rage.

“You fools!” he hissed furiously. “This is no affair of yours, I would have let you leave here alive in the morning, with my gratitude and friendship… but since you seem determined to interfere in things you have not the slightest understanding of, so be it! Olbu!”

At his call the old man stood straighter, a feral grin on his face, seemingly no more than inconvenienced by Mariala’s spell. “This one bears a… related… condition to the Master’s. But this one does not consider it an affliction or a curse – this one embraces it!”

As he spoke his skin began to flow and the bones beneath seemed to heave and buckle… his face elongated and then flattened out, and he grew taller, as orange, black and white fur erupted from his skin. His clothes ripped apart and fell from him as his body expanded, muscles seeming to bubble up from nowhere. In a matter of seconds his transformation was complete, and he towered over the group, a roaring creature half man and half tiger.

With a snarl the were-tiger leapt at Devrik, mouth agape and claws extended. The warrior-mage backpedaled, barely avoiding a lethal slash across his belly. Toran fired his crossbow, then dropped it as the were-tiger twisted away from the bolt. The Khundari jumped into the fray then, with a fierce Dwarven battle cry, drawing his battleaxe.

With his were-creature servant engaging his uninvited guests, Thuron Yan dropped the fight from his attention and turned back to his attempt to transfer his mind and soul into the empty body on the slab before him.

But Tarbol was having none of this! He had been shocked that Cantor Vulk had seemed ready to even discuss the blasphemous suggestion of allowing the transfer, and he would be damned to the Void if he would let Alea down now! He dashed forward, past the snarling mass of fighting were-tiger, Umantari and Khundari, whirling his staff about his head and howling his outrage. Vulk grabbed at his sleeve, and missed, while Mariala cried out for him to stop.

“You shall not commit this abomination, you fiend!” he shrieked, closing on the apparently unconcerned scholar, and aiming for his head.

At the last moment, almost languidly, in a single fluid movement Thuron Yan pulled two long, razor-sharp blades from the sash at his waist. With one estoc he effortlessly parried the staff, and as the surprised youth staggered around, carried by his own momentum, the other estoc whipped up and across Tarbol’s throat.

With a gurgling, inarticulate cry, the Alean cantor collapsed to the floor, blood spurting from a severed artery to form a growing pool around him. He twitched once and was still. Vulk, Korwin and Mariala stood momentarily paralyzed by shock.

Ignoring the corpse he had just made Thuron Yan strode toward the group, loosening his robes and smiling grimly. As he came on, his body began to shift and flow as Olbu’s had, but with subtle differences. By the time he reached the group he was an enormous pale white snake, with a human torso and arms, but a face that was a disturbing mixture of man and reptile. A cobra-like hood flared from his shoulders and framed his malignant visage.

“See what you would condemn me too!” he raged in a sibilant hiss unlike his normal, urbane voice. He attacked, slashing out with razor sharp claws and a battering-ram-like tail. Vulk took a raking blow across his shoulder, and countered with his sword. Korwin drew his saber, slashing at the horror before him, and was rewarded with a line of blood oozing along the creatures flank.

Mariala blanched and drew her lucky Khundari dagger...

At that point the fight between Olbu and Devrik and Toran came to a sudden end, as the Khundari Shadow Warrior took advantage of a momentary distraction by Devrik to slide between the were-tiger’s legs, hamstringing the creature and bringing it to its knees. Whirling around he swung his battleaxe in a flashing arc that ended in the back of the tiger-man’s skull. As it collapsed in death the body began to flow and shift, and in a few seconds it was the naked corpse of the elderly Olbu that lay at their feet.

Meanwhile Vulk was trying desperately to disengage from the enraged were-snake so that he could tend to poor Tarbol. There was no hope of saving the idiot’s life, he knew, but if he could get to him quickly enough he could place him in Stasis for possible revival later on. Fortunately at that moment Devrik joined their fight, diverting Thuron Yan’s attention sufficiently for the cantor to disengage and make a dash to his fallen comrade. Even as he fell to his knees he began to perform the Ritual of Stasis…

Thuron Yan appeared to be as ambidextrously agile with his claws as he had been with his blades, and while he fended off Devrik with one, and Korwin with his tail, he slashed viscously at Mariala, raking his claws across her chest and shoulder. Cloth shredded, and she staggered back, but the flare of golden light proved that Vulk’s blessing of Virtue’s Armor had done its job – her skin remained unbroken!

The momentary surprise at the failure of what should have been a killing stroke proved to be Thuron Yan’s undoing. In that brief instant Mariala, rather than retreating, leapt forward and drove her dagger into the were-snake’s belly, slashing up with all her strength. The finely-honed Khundari steel cut through muscle and viscera as though through cloth, and slid under the ribs to come to a stop, almost missing the heart. Almost, but not quite. The tip of the dagger pierced that organ, and Thuron Yan collapsed, clutching at his spilling guts, dead even as he hit the ground.

There was a stunned silence in the room as the Hand considered the sudden carnage before them. In death Thuron Yan, like his servant before him, returned to his human form, looking small and forlorn, curled around his sliced up guts in a spreading pool of blood.

Across the room, near the slab that held Farendol’s body, Vulk stood up from where he had been at work on Tarbol’s corpse. A faint bluish glow now surrounded the dead cantor’s form.

“I’ve managed to get him into Stasis,” Vulk called out. “With any luck his uncle – look out!!”

At his warning the others whirled around as four large figures dropped from the skylights behind them. Four more were-tigers – no, these were were-tigresses they soon realized. After a brief grief-stricken keening towards the body of old Olbu, the creatures snarled at the group and prepared to leap.

“To the Void with this!” Devrik roared in exasperation. A Orb of Vorol appeared in his hand, and with a sharp gesture he hurled the fireball toward the creatures. They had balked momentarily at the sight of the sudden flame, and now they tried to scatter. But the brilliant fire-seed exploded into a tremendous ball of searing death, catching all four in its blast.

Shrieking in pain and fury as fur and skin burst into flame, two of the creatures collapsed almost at once, twitching into smoldering, stinking stillness. The other two attempted to escape, one toward the central courtyard and the other out the shattered northern door. The first collapsed clawing at the grillwork of the window; the other died atop the splintered ruins of the door.

Unfortunately, this allowed the flames to get a firm hold in the wooden parts of the structure in both places. In combination with all the burning plants, trellises, ceiling and support beams, the fire threatened to quickly grow into a conflagration.

“Well, shit,” Devrik said, as his first elation was replaced by chagrin. He reached out with his pyrokinetic ability and attempted to control and quell the flames. But it proved to be more than he could handle… the best he could do was slow the spread a bit.

Fortunately, Korwin was able to summon up a large quantity of ethereal water, made easier perhaps by the high humidity of the area, and doused all the burning bits in the arboretum. With relief Devrik loosed his control as most of the flames spluttered out with a steaming hiss.

“Now we need to find the Gate and get out of here,” he sighed. “Before some other cursed thing comes up!”

No one disagreed, and Korwin and Mariala dashed off to collect their things, including the mules and Therok. While Toran and Devrik searched the central courtyard Vulk made a bee-line for the library. At least now he wouldn’t have to try and copy bits of that book for Draik… he could just give him the real thing! And maybe they could come back for all the rest of this amazing collection of tomes…

In the courtyard Devrik could still not sense any Nitaran Gates, and he began to wonder if Thuron Yan had lied to them… about more than just his intentions for Farendol’s body. Did a Gate exist at all? And if so, where was it? It could take days, even months, to scour this thick rain forest trying to find it. They might be forced into an overland journey to the coast after all… Raven was going to be so pissed… he’d told her he would be home days ago…

“I think this might be it,” Toran said, pulling Devrik from his increasingly gloomy reverie. He stood next to the elaborately carved stone and metal fountain from which water gushed from a wide central pipe into the large square pool at the heart of the courtyard. At Devrik’s inquiring grunt he reached up and twisted a metal collar around the base of the water pipe.

Instantly the flow of water stopped, and a second later there was a rumbling from the pool. Another few seconds and it was obvious that the water level in the pool was dropping, and quickly. In less than three minutes the pool was entirely empty, save for a few puddles on its stone floor. Steep stone stairs on three sides of the square led down about three meters to a small open space.

“As  you know, Nitaran Gates don’t form in solid matter… nor underwater,” he said, shrugging at Devrik’s quizzical look. “Most people don’t think about that much, but we Khundari are a subterranean folk, and we take advantage of the fact to guard Gates into our realms. It seemed fairly obvious to me, what with this rather large fountain and pool right at the heart of this place, that Thuron Yan might do the same.”

By then the others had returned, and a discussion quickly began about how much of Halani-var they could realistically loot, with already loaded saddle bags and two bodies to carry. No one was quite sure who first suggested cutting the body count in half by placing Erol’s soul into Farendol’s body. Given that Tarbol’s Stasis-rigid form was slippery and tricky to handle, and would need to be securely strapped to the travois, a task Vulk, returned from the library, was just completing, it seemed like a good idea…

Farendol’s body was still in the arboretum, on the central work slab, and they all trooped in to gather around him, leaving Vulk’s barbarian lackey to watch the mules, packs and ex-Tarbol. Mariala lifted Barsol’s Bowl up, holding it directly over the still form, as Grover darted excitedly around her feet.

“Lila’tometh!” she said in a commanding voice, and there was a purplish flare of light in the bowl, as a faint musical note rang in the humid air.

Erol opened his eyes to find his friends gathered around and staring down at him, eyes wide and faces variously concerned, anxious or worried. He realized he was lying down, and moved to sit up – whoa! He felt very odd. His body seemed to react differently… things seemed weirdly speeded up, but not in the way he was used to with his extratemporal sense… He swung his legs over the stone table he was on and stood up.

“By Cael’s balls,”he gasped. “You’ve all shrunk!”

It took awhile to get Erol to understand what had happened to him. He remembered the fight in the demon’s chamber, but not his grabbing the control artifact and being booted from his own body. His memory of his time in the bowl was hazy at best, although he did seem to remember dreaming of Mariala… and maybe Vulk and Devrik?

Unfortunately, they had to cut the explanations short at that point, as the northern portion of the arboretum collapsed in a shower of fiery sparks and burning wood.

“Shit!” Devrik cried. “The flames must’ve gotten into the attic rafters and spread above the ceiling!”

He reached out again with his power, but soon sensed the fire was much too big now for him to quell, too widespread for even Korwin’s ethereal water to do much good… and it was overhead as well as to the south…

“Hand, we are leaving!” he roared, and headed for the gate out to the courtyard. Most of the others followed, “Farenderol” staggering about amidst the falling embers, simultaneously exultant and frustrated trying to learn to work this new body. Vulk and Mariala, however, headed for the library.

“We have to save as many books as possible,” Vulk called over his shoulder at Devrik’s angry shout. “We’ll be right there!”

Dodging falling embers from the quickly charring ceiling in the library the two friends grabbed as many books and scrolls as they could. But when they’d grabbed all they could carry, there were so very many books and scrolls still left…

“Vulk, I know you must be exhausted,” Mariala cried out as bits of burning ceiling began to fall around them. “But if we chain our energies, could we cast a Stasis field around the bookshelves? We can’t let all this knowledge burn!”

It was insane, but there was no time to argue. Vulk invoked the ritual once more, this feeling the T’aran energies from his friend flow into and through him… and then a flickering blue haze enveloped the row of elegantly carved bookshelves running down the center of the room. Nothing they could do for the artwork along the walls, and Kasira only knew how long the Stasis would hold, but they’d done what they could…

The two staggered out of the library under their burdens of books and scrolls and raced down the hallways toward the arboretum and the relative safety of the courtyard. They had just made it out the gate when the rest of the arboretum’s roof collapsed, sending a shower of sparks and a blast of superheated air out the doorway and windows. The mossy floor of the courtyard began to smolder in places…

Stuffing books and scrolls into every available space in packs and saddlebags, Mariala found that Korwin had rushed back in to Thuron Yan’s workshop while she and Vulk had been in the library, and rescued as many of the scholar’s notebooks and papers as he could. And he had the delicate blue orchid, now planted in an equally delicate gray glazed pot, clutched in his hand.

As the smoke began to fill the courtyard and the heat became almost unbearable, Vulk summoned up Kasira’s Key, and opened the Valley Gate of the late Thuron Yan at last. Coughing and choking, the Hand passed through…

…and found themselves on the wooded slopes of the Elf Mound, just outside the town and keep of Dor Dür, with late afternoon sunlight bathing everything in summer gold. The air seemed blessedly cool and dry after the humid heat of the island of Kensuai, and they all breathed a sigh of relief.

“Halt and identify yourselves!” a commanding voice cried out, and a sudden rustling of leaves revealed they were surrounded by a dozen archers in brown and green, arrow nocked and bows taut, all aimed at the group. A man stepped forward then, tall, muscular, and black-haired, a grim expression on his face.

An expression that vanished and was replaced by a wide grin as he recognized the travelers. He motioned to his men, and they faded back into the woods.

“Brother!” Black Hawk laughed, coming up to Devrik and embracing him. “We have been expecting you this past pentnight, since you sent your message to my sister! Some were becoming worried, although not Raven – she said you’d be along in your own sweet time. And here you are!

“It is good to see you all… although it seems you have been recently in battle.” His smile faded then as he took in the smoke-blackened and blood-stained group, and scanned their faces. “And where is Erol? That is not his body at least, that I see there between the mules… is he –”

“Alive, brother,” Devrik said, slapping his brother-in-law on the back and turning toward the path to the keep. “But not quite himself. It’s a long story, and I’m very thirsty…

The Hand set off from the ruins of Yalura with Farendol in the lead, the lurid red light of Gendor’s Comet glowing ominously on their right before the rising winds lifted enough dust into the air to obscure it. Despite the danger of the growing storm, they were all relieved when the comet was hidden – it had seemed a malevolent eye watching them. Exhaustion, no doubt, and yet a lingering dread seemed to hang over the group…

That feeling was not assuaged an hour or so later, when the ground beneath their feet began to shake and roll. The earthquake lasted only 10 seconds, but it was all Toran and Korwin could do to keep the mules from bolting in their sudden panic. Despite the increasing sting of the wind-whipped dust, Farendol, with Mariala’s assistance, took a few minutes to sooth the spooked beasts.

Once the mules had regained some of their usual phlegmatic calm, he gestured the group to continue, yelling over the shriek of the wind that they should reach refuge within an hour, no more than two.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Devrik bellowed to the Druid as he resumed his place at the head of the line next to him.

“It is an old Royal Armory, and mostly underground,” the Telnori replied, barely audible as he pulled his scarf more tightly over his nose and mouth. “When last I saw it, 150 years ago, it was still intact, no reason for that to have changed.”

With that he pulled ahead, urging his companions to greater speed, though the shifting dust made the footing treacherous, and the wind was beginning to sting exposed skin raw. If not for the quartz goggles he had given them, the group would have been blind by now, as well as almost deaf. As it was, Vulk had to lead Barbarian 55 by the hand, since the warrior had no goggles and so was forced to cover his eyes as well as his nose and mouth with scarves and cloak.

Time seemed to lose its grip on the group as they staggered northwestward, feet slipping in the dust, the wind ever-increasing and seeming now to come from every side, and the light of moons, stars and comet all swallowed up in endless blackness. Even when Farendol, Vulk and Devrik summoned arcane lights, they pierced the swirling gray gloom for only a few feet before being swallowed as well.

No one was really sure how long they had been traveling when the second earthquake struck. Toran’s Khundari senses detected it first, and at almost the same instant as the mules – he grabbed tight at the lead line he held, pulling the beast’s head down, prepared to calm it.

But Korwin, lacking any warning, had his own lead line ripped from his hand, his panicked mule dashing into the murk as the earth began to heave and buckle. Toran, sensing more than seeing its bulk as it passed him, made a grab at it… but in doing so lost his grip on his own beast. With a curse he watched his mule disappear into the dark after its partner.

There was, quite literally, a king’s ransom in the saddle bags on those two animals, and it took no time at all for both Toran and Korwin to decide to go after them. While the ground still rolled and shook beneath them they staggered off into the dark in pursuit. It’s uncertain that even if they had been able to hear Farendol’s screams to stay together that they would have obeyed.

This quake lasted almost a full minute, and was much stronger than the first, the roar of the shifting earth almost drowning out the scream of the wind. Vulk’s barbarian charge was ripped from his grasp and he himself fell to his knees. It took several tries for the cantor to regain his feet, and he wallowed after the still semi-charmed warrior, calling his name…

Mariala was knocked off her feet almost at once, and by the time she regained her footing she had lost sight of both Devrik and Farendol in the maelstrom. She heard what she thought was Farendol, yelling something, and lurched off in the direction she thought they’d been going, eyes straining for a flicker of Devrik’s flame…

Devrik had managed to keep his balance, more or less, but in whirling around to grab for Mariala behind him he had let his palm flame flicker out. He couldn’t see her, but could just make out the shouts from the rear of the party, something about the mules! He started toward the sounds, but the winds whipped them around him confusingly, and he stopped. By the time he turned to where he thought Farendol was, he could no longer see even the Telnori…

Erol, bringing up the rear of the cavalcade, was lifted off his feet by the first shock of the quake, and slammed down hard on the hard, cracked ground, briefly stunning him. The almost subsonic roar of the temblor seemed to rattle the very teeth in his head as he staggered up, uncertain of the direction he’d been heading. Was that a shadowy form he saw there, one of his companions? He stumbled forward toward the dimly seen outline…

By a seeming miracle, some time after the shaking of the ground had subsided, stumbling around in the pitch black sand blaster that was the storm, the group eventually managed to find itself again. Toran and Korwin caught the mules, and Erol lurched up out of the dark behind them. A short time later Vulk and Barbarian 55 stumbled into them almost simultaneously from different directions. It was many minutes later that Mariala staggered out of the swirling darkness, while Devrik appeared a moment later from the other side of the mules. Only Farendol was still missing as the friends huddled together in what little windbreak the pack animals offered, putting their heads together to make themselves heard…

At that moment there came a sudden lull in the fury of the storm – the winds died somewhat, and overhead the light of the full Greater Moon broke through streamers of dust, dim but seeming a beacon after the utter darkness of the last few hours. And just visible a few dozen meters to his left, Toran spotted a dark bulk rising up from the rolling flatness of the Blasted March.

“There!” he cried, needing no more than a bellow to be heard now. “It might be a building, but even if it’s just a cliff or another ruin it will give us at least some shelter!”

“Yes,” Devrik agreed, his usual grating rumble even more unnerving in counterpoint to the shrieking wind. “It might even be the place Farendol was leading us to; if so, we may find him there. But there’s no point in stumbling about trying to find him – the winds could pick up again at any moment!”

And as if on cue, the fury of the storm suddenly renewed itself, seemingly redoubled, and the light of Aranda vanished as if the moon had been snuffed out. But they knew now the direction they needed to go, and it took only a few minutes to stumble their way to what they hoped was safety.

As they approached the hoped-for shelter another brief lull in the storm let them see that it was, indeed, a building – a low slung structure of stone, windowless and featureless, any ornamentation blasted away by five centuries of storms such as this one. Wide, shallow stone steps, at the moment scoured almost clean of dust, led up to great doors of badly corroded bronze, perhaps four meters tall.

As the strongest of the group attempted to pry them open, Mariala could see that the doors had once had carved panels, perhaps illustrating the purpose of the edifice… but try as she might, she could make no sense of them; they had long ago been eroded to nothing more than a suggestion of shapes and figures.

With much groaning and grinding of metal on stone, Devrik and Erol managed to pries open one leaf wide enough to permit the passage of the mule, once the beasts’ packs had been removed. As Toran cajoled the second mule into the darkness the winds began to rise once again, and it was with great relief that Devrik stumbled last into the relative calm of their shelter.

After hours of the senses-stunning howl of the storm, it seemed almost silent inside… but an echoing kind of silence. When both Devrik and Vulk had summoned up light, allowing Korwin to find and pull his lantern from a pack and light it in turn, it could be seen that their refuge was a single rectangular chamber, roughly 16 meters by 24 meters, which seemed to occupy the whole building. Dead glow stones were set in the walls near the 5 meter high ceiling.

Two large alcoves at either corner of the wall holding the doors sheltered large statues, apparently of tarnished silver, of what might be Telnori priestesses… except that the Telnori have no religion, as such. Whatever they depicted they were dwarfed my two truly massive statues, of an unmistakably martial nature, that flanked a great central column. The two warrior figures guarded a wide staircase that descended into darkness, and as the companions wearily set about making camp they tended to avoid coming too near the opening.

Toran was the only one undisturbed by the ominous stairwell, and volunteered to check it out for potentially dangerous surprises. Lighting one of the torches from a pack, he descended into darkness in a small pool of flickering orange light. The stairs went down perhaps six meters, ending in a three meter wide passageway that ran straight westward beyond his sight.

Moving forward slowly, battle-axe drawn, Toran examined the walls closely – good workmanship, he conceeded, for all that it was clearly Telnori-made. Drifts of dust covered the floor but the underlying structure seemed sound, despite the recent earthquake and centuries of who-knows-what other disasters. He could make out faint traces of color on some sections of the walls, but they were too faded and blurred by dust to make out.

After what he judged to be 15 or 16 meters Toran found himself at an archway opening into a larger space. Three wide, shallow steps led down into a chamber some seven meters across and 10 meters wide. The torchlight caught glints along the walls, and on closer examination the Khundari found that bands of various metals, of various widths, were set in the walls and that they encircled the room. Unlike the corroded doors and tarnished statues above, these metals seemed untouched by time, only furred to dimness by the ever-present fine dust of the Blasted March.

On the opposite side of the chamber from his own entrance, three matching steps rose up to what looked to be the room’s only other exit. But a sheet of smooth, featureless steel blocked the way, and a cursory examination yielded no obvious opening mechanism. Toran was as exhausted as any of the companions, and he wasted little time on the puzzle… it was unlikely that anything living existed down here in any case. As he made his way back to his friends he resolutely didn’t dwell on the fact that some things didn’t need to be living to be dangerous…

By the time he returned to the group and reported his findings, Erol and Korwin had prepared a cold meal and some light ale. After eating and some desultory worry about Farendol, the group drew straws for sentry duty. Devrik and Toran came up on the short end, and with resigned sighs took up posts at the door and the head of the stairs, respectively. In minutes the sounds of gentle snoring made it clear the others had dropped off almost instantly.

The wind continued to wail and howl outside, and to Devrik it almost sounded like fell voices calling to him… then the calls seemed to turn to rhythmic chants, almost hypnotic… but he was an old campaigner, and he had never fallen asleep whilst on watch in his life; he certainly wasn’t doing to start now. Of course that ale of Korwin’s might not have been… the best… idea…

Toran heard no voices, chanting or otherwise, on the winds. But the he did find the rhythmic breathing and snoring of his friends to be almost hypnotic in their own way… Mariala’s snore was quite lady-like, he thought… and an interesting counterpoint to Korwin’s deeper snore… lucky his training made falling asleep on duty impossible… and speaking of Korwin… maybe that ale… wasn’t such a… good idea… really…

Both Devrik and Toran jerked fully awake at almost the same instant, guiltily staring across at one another from where they had each slid down to the floor, and into sleep… but any thoughts of recrimination, self- or otherwise, were instantly dispelled by the sunlight streaming in through the now fully open doors – and the sound of birdsong!

As Devrik backed slowly away from the doors, drawing his sword, Toran moved toward them, eventually coming to a stop at his friend’s side, his own battle-axe in hand. They both stared in wonder at what they saw… the tall bronze doors where shining in the morning light, the bas-relief Telnori symbols sharp and clear and deep. The room itself was greatly changed as well – the walls now stained in shades of blue and white, the statues’ silver buffed and polished, and the glow stones bright with a warm yellow glow. The ceiling was a deep blue and set with thousands of flecks of silver, like the stars in the night sky.

But what really left them stunned and open-mouthed was the view out the open doorway – rolling fields of grain, copses of summer-green trees, and a small lake sparkling in the new-risen sun on a perfect summer day. And aside from the unexpected sounds of the birds, there was also the babble of running water and the rustle of leaves in the trees… sounds not heard in the Blasted March for over five hundred years! By the time the two erstwhile sentries could gather their thoughts together the others had awakened and were staring about them in equal shock.

“What the Void is going on?!” Devrik grated out, gripping his sword with both hands. As if that had broken a dam, the others all began to speak at once, exclamations of wonder, shock and disbelief. But before they could even begin to make sense of what had happened, the idyllic summer morning was suddenly shattered by the sound of clashing steel and fierce voices yelling in some unknown but harsh and guttural language.

A group of Telnori warriors appeared from the south, and rushed up the steps of the building toward the companions. It quickly became clear they were being pursued by an even larger group of – something horrible. They looked a little like Black Güls, but were very much larger than any of that race was likely to achieve; indeed, taller even then the Telnori they chased, by half a head or more!

“By Gheas, they look like Güruk-nai!” Toran blurted out in shock. “But that’s impossible!” The Güruk-nai had been minions of the Necromancer, his terrible shock troop, probably the ancestors of modern Gülvini… and driven to extinction in the century following the Great War.

There was no more time for thought or comment, however, as by then the score of Telnori warriors were around them, and their monstrous pursuers on the steps below. Four of the warriors turned and grabbed the two leaves of the great door, slamming them shut just in time – the guttural cries of anticipation turned to shrieks of thwarted rage. Metal weapons began pounding furiously on the bronze doors. Unfortunately, these seemed not to have been made to be barred nor locked, and several more warriors had to join their companions to keep the portal sealed.

The Hand had stepped back as the Telnori had rushed in, and it was only then that they realized that not only was Barbarian 55 not with them, the pack mules, along with their precious cargo, had vanished as well. But they had no time to digest this, as they were suddenly confronted by the leader of the Telnori soldiers.

“I thought the King had ordered all of the Younger Races evacuated to the coast days ago,” he asked in obvious exasperation. Tall, with dark hair, bronze skin and hazel eyes, he was, like most Telnori, beautiful. “Who are you and  what are you doing here, of all places?”

Vulk stepped forward to answer him, but had barely begun when a loud boom echoed through the chamber and the warriors at the door surged back as the leaves bent inward. They managed to shove them shut again, but it was clear the situation was unstable.

“Captain,” the man next to the leader said urgently. He was the only non-warrior in the group, a scholarly looking Telnori with ash-blond hair and pale green eyes. “We must hurry. If–”

“Yes, I know, Bertothin,” the commander barked, giving his companion a harried look. Turning back to the humans before him, he shook his head in annoyance and shrugged.

“I have no time to sort this out, and at this point it matters little – you are here, and quite frankly we can use all the help we can get. The Güruk-nai moved faster than we expected – already they are past the defences of the Khonira, and by midday they will be at the river. But they shall not pass the Ebony Bridge, the King’s Wards will yet protect the city.” He sounded more hopeful than certain on that last point.

“I am Elahir, Captain of the King’s Guard, and this is Bertothin the Keeper,” he went on, his piercing gaze taking in the group before him. “I perceive you are no minions of the accursed Necromancer, though you are no citizens of Serviana… who do you serve?”

“We serve the Star Council,” Vulk answered without hesitation. “And we are no friends of any creature of Chaos!”

Elahir frowned, and glanced at the Keeper, who frowned in turn and shook his head. “We do not know this Star Council you speak of, but if you oppose the Necromancer it is enough for me in this dire moment. Will you aid us now?”

A chorus of eager affirmatives caused the Telnori captain to actually smile, if only briefly. “Good! We must secure an artifact that lies at the heart of this sanctuary – not only to keep it out of the hands of the Necromancer, but to see that it comes to the King as quickly as possible! Now come!”

With an anguished look at his men holding back the deadly hoard beyond the door, he motioned the remaining half of his command to follow as he and Bertothin dashed down the stairs, the Hand right behind him. The stairwell and the corridor beyond it were lit by glow stones in the ceiling, and the walls that last night had been faded and dust blurred Toran now saw painted in abstract patterns of red, gold and white.

As they reached the three steps down into the room Toran had briefly explored the night before, the sounds of fierce fighting came echoing down the corridor from above – the Güruk-nai had broken through, and Elahir’s soldiers were doing their best to buy him time…

The room was much as Toran had last seen it, if much cleaner and with walls stained white. The metal bands seemed as shining and bright as they had before, and the steel wall blocking the exit as mysterious. Bertothin immediately dashed across the room and up the steps to the bright sheet of metal. He pressed his hands to the center of the barrier, and bent his head, muttering low-voiced words that even Mariala, standing closest to him, could not quite make out.

As eight glowing sigils appeared on the surface of the steel panel, across the room three battered and bleeding Telnori warriors backed down the steps into the chamber, followed by half a dozen Güruk-nai slashing viciously at them and howling in triumph. The three went down even as their companions rushed to join them, holding the monstrous fighters at bay.

But more were pouring down the corridor behind them, and Erol and Toran jumped in to join the fray, and Vulk called up his holy armor while drawing his own blade. Devrik began chanting silently, his eyes focused on the archway above them, and Mariala began to prepare her Fire Nerves spell… only to abort it as she saw a Güruk-nai, just inside the door, raise a blowgun to its lips. Mariala cried a warning, but too late, as Elahir staggered back, clasping a hand to his neck, and then collapsing to his knees.

A moment later the last of the Telnori warriors fell beneath the blades of their enemies, and only the Hand and Bertothin remained standing, along with three of the Güruk-nai. But more began pouring in from the corridor, too many more.

Until Devrik yelled “Duck!”

Erol, Toran and Vulk dropped to their bellies as a fireball flew from their friend’s hand, streaking over their prone forms to burst into a roaring sphere of flame just before the archway. Eight Güruk-nai briefly shrieked in agony and rage as they burned like torches, then collapsed into the  silence of death.

At Mariala’s call, Vulk turned and dashed to where she cradled Captain Elahir’s head in her lap. She held a black dart that she had pulled from his neck, where it had found a narrow gap in his armor. As Vulk sank to his knees next to them, the Telnori shook his head and looked grim.

“It’s no use, lad,” he said, grasping the cantor’s arm and pulling himself up. “I’m afraid I’m done for, curse the Necromancer and his poisons… but I have some fight left in me yet. That fireball has given them pause, but those monsters fear nothing, safe perhaps their master. The survivors will soon regroup…

“I shall hold them off as long as I can, which should be long enough.” He motioned toward the Keeper, who stood at the now open doorway out of the room. “Go with him, protect him, and he will get you to the heart of the Sanctuary. Take the artifact that we have so long guarded there – it is the Eye of Arial, the great gemstone into which the Lady of Heaven poured a portion of her vast power.

“It was a gift to the Telnori Kings of old as a shield and tool for them. But it has long been prophesied that the Shield would become a Sword in the hand of the King in a time of our greatest need. You must see that it reaches the hand of King Taharazod – he will use its power to animate the Iron Knight and defeat the Corruptor – and who knows, after that perhaps Vindus the Necromancer himself!”

With that he pulled himself up, and stepped away from the supporting grip of Vulk and Mariala. He wobbled for a moment, then seemed to draw strength from some inner reserve, and bent to pick up his sword.

“I shall stay with you,” Devrik declared, moving to the Telnori captain’s side. When the others started to object, he shook his head. “Erol, Toran, you must go with them, they may need your strong arms to protect the Keeper. I will follow behind, once we’ve finished off these beasts – there can’t be many of them left!”

Before anyone could marshal any further arguments six more Güruk-nai rushed into the room, with roars that curdled the blood. As Elahir and Devrik leapt forward to meet them, the others fell back to the open exit behind them and the waiting Keeper.

“Hurry,” he called, casting a worried look at the battle beyond them. “Once I seal this door, we need not fear the beastmen, they cannot open it.”

The companions streamed past him, then turned in the corridor beyond to look back as he moved to seal the steel panel. They saw Devrik decapitate one of his foes, and Elahir drive his sword through another – and gasped as a third brought a great axe down on the Telnori’s neck. As his captain fell in a fountain of blood Bertothin paused for one horrified instant – and in that moment a seventh, unseen Güruk-nai stepped from the shadow of the opposite archway and raised a blowgun to his lips.

With a piercing cry, the Keeper staggered back, clutching at his face. As he collapsed to the ground the shocked Hand could see the black feathered dart protruding from between the fingers that covered his left eye. Vulk and Mariala were instantly at his side, she pulling the dying man’s hands away, while the cantor plucked the poisoned dart from the eye. Bertothin convulsed and grasped Mariala’s hands tightly, his good eye seeking Vulk’s face.

“Hanar-Ariala-Ebeth,” he gasped forcefully. Then the strength seemed to leave him and he fell back. “Hanar-Ariala-Ebeth,” he repeated more weakly, then struggled to say something else… but his throat seemed to seize up, and in a few seconds he was dead. By this time Devrik had finished killing the last of the Güruk-nai warriors, and was just rising from checking on Elahir.

“I’m afraid he is dead too,” he told his friends as he cleaned and sheathed his sword. “But so are all the beast-men,” he added with a grim smile. “They may be bigger than Gülvini, but they die just as easily it seems. So, what now?”

“If they’re really all dead, maybe we can take a minute to figure out what the Void is going on,” Vulk replied from where he knelt over Bertothin’s body. Korwin had crouched down on the other side of the dead Telnori and was beginning to search him. At Mariala’s annoyed glare, he shrugged.

“He may have useful items we’ll need if we’re going to complete his task, as Captain Elahir asked us to,” he said calmly.

“Yes, but are we actually going to do that?” Erol asked. “I don’t understand what’s going on, and we haven’t had a minute to think since we woke up!”

“It seems fairly obvious,” Devrik replied. “Somehow we’ve been moved back in time – more than five hundred years, apparently, to the middle of the Great War, before the Desolation of Serviana. And if that’s really true, then maybe we can change the outcome…”

“Impossible!” Vulk said forcefully. “We’re taught that changing the past is not something that even the Immortals can do!”

“Yes,” Mariala agreed slowly, frowning in thought. “But that’s not the same as saying time travel itself is impossible. In fact, a large body of T’ara Kul thought holds that Nitarin Portals could just as easily be used to move through time as through space. In fact, Talorin himself claimed to have done it, and believed that he had created a… what did he call it? A divergent timeline…”

“The Church rejects that so-called ‘many worlds’ theory,” Vulk said. But then added after a thoughtful minute, “Of course, there is the Methankin Heresy, which claims the Immortals actually travelled back in time when they arrived on Novendo and found it a dead and sterile world – that gave them the time needed to bring forth new life, and for it to cover the world…”

“I don’t understand what any of that actually means,” Erol growled, kicking one of the bleeding bodies at his feet. “Like Toran said, these things sure look like what the legends say of the Güruk-nai, and we all know those Neandergüls have been extinct for five hundred years. I don’t know from ‘many worlds’ or ‘divergent timelines’ – I just know what I see and feel and smell.

“And it sure seems like we’ve gone back in time… and if so, nothing is going to stop me from trying to change what’s about to happen; I don’t give a damn about what the Church or anyone else says is impossible!”

“If there’s even a chance of changing the past,” Mariala said after a moment of silence, “or even of creating a new, better timeline… then I think we have to take it.”

“So, did our arrival here already change things,” Toran wondered. “Did we cause Elahir and Bertothin’s mission to fail? Or did it fail in, um, the ‘original’ timeline, and our arrival represents a chance to change that?”

“We defeated the Corruptor once before, in the future,” Devrik said with one of his grim smiles. “If this artifact of Elahir’s is as powerful as he says, then I’m sure we can help King Taharazod not only imprison the demon, but maybe even destroy it this time!”

“Past, present, whatever,” Korwin said, standing up with the Keeper’s satchel in his hands, “time is running on, one minute per minute, for each of us, and who knows if more of the Necromancer’s forces are  close behind these. If we’re going to go on, we’d best be doing it now… and I suspect we may need these.”

He opened the satchel to show his companions what he’d found – two sealed blue-dyed leather flasks of unknown liquid; a brown leather bag secured by a golden cord and containing black, loamy dirt; three square rods of translucent red crystal; and a large silver coin, incised with strange symbols that no one immediately recognized, although both Mariala and Toran thought they had an Ancient feel about them.

After laying out the Telnori bodies on the far side of the room from the stinking corpses of the Güruk-nai, the Hand returned to the corridor beyond the steel door Bertothin had opened. Toran tried for a few minutes, but could find no way to close it, so they reluctantly decided to move on and trust that nothing would come up from behind…

Ten meters down the corridor it opened up into another chamber, this one diamond shaped, with four doorways at the cardinal points and a large column of smooth, pure white marble rising from floor to ceiling in the center of the space. The walls of the room were white as well, but of a darker shade and of rougher stone, not marble.

Examining the central pillar more closely, if could be seen that eight sigils had been carved into the marble, at about chest height. The grooves of each had been stained a different color, and seemed to glow very faintly.

“These are the symbols of the eight types of magic recognized in the Telnori arcana,” Mariala said after examining them all. “Divination, Transmutation, Evocation, Abjuration, Illusion, Conjuration, Enchantment, and Necromancy.”

“Yes,” agreed Korwin. “And each in the traditional color of that type.”

He placed his hand on one of the symbols, the golden yellow of Divination. Nothing happened, and eventually they tried touching all of the symbols, with the same result. After a few fruitless minutes they decided to move on, exiting the chamber via the east archway, opposite to the one they’d entered by.

Another twelve meters of plain corridor ended in a cul-de-sac where the walls turned inward at 45° angels to create three blank walls. Excised into the gray stone of the central panel were three of the Telnori magical symbols: Illusion, Abjuration, and Conjuration. But these were not colored in any fashion, nor did they glow even a little.

Toran came forward to examine the dead end, looking for secret or magically concealed doors, but could find nothing. At Korwin’s suggestion, he touched his palm to the symbol of Illusion – which flared with a bright violet light, fading quickly away. Toran pushed and tugged and reexamined the panels, but nothing seemed to have changed.

The group turned and made their way back to the room with the marble column, where they then tried the southern exit. This led directly into a room seven meters square, with only one other exit, in the center of the western wall. But the group had reached the center of the room both doorways suddenly disappeared, leaving very solid looking stone walls in their place.

Only Toran had felt a slight dizziness as the walls seemed to materialize before them, and he examined both minutely. “These are very solidly built walls, and quite old,” he concluded. “They have never had doorways in them, secret, magical or otherwise – I’m certain of it!”

After a moment of thought, as the others continued to tap and pound on the walls and floors of their prison, he smiled with sudden inspiration.

“Hanar-Ariala-Ebeth!” he said loudly and clearly. And again he felt the slight dizziness as the walls vanished, to be replaced by the open doorways. He smiled smugly as the others congratulated him (although Korwin was certain he’d have figured it out momentarily himself).

“I think this room is linked to a nearly identical one nearby, via something like a Nitarin Gate,” he explained. “I felt the same dizziness I get when gating, and I knew it couldn’t be the same room!”

Able now to continue, the Hand followed the western corridor for twelve meters until it turned north, and then seven meters further on, where it ended in a cul-de-sac identical to first one they’d encountered.

“Not exactly identical,” Devrik pointed out when Vulk commented on it. “Look, the sigils are different – Evocation, Enchantment, and Necromancy this time.”

Like the first time, pressing palms to sigils resulted in a flare of colored light, but nothing else that anyone could detect. After more fruitless experimentation the group trudged back to the central room, and tried the northern exit.

Easily disarming an identical teleportation trap, they followed another eastern-leading corridor mirroring the southern one, to find another dead end. Here the sigils on the central panel were Necromancy, Divination, and Transmutation. More flares of colored light and frustration.

Eventually Mariala noticed a correlation between the sigils on the pillar facing each exit and those on the cul-de-sac walls, and also realized something else.

“They are protecting a powerful artifact here, right?” she explained. “Perhaps the way can never be opened by just one person – perhaps it needs three. A failsafe of sorts.”

So she and Devrik took the western passage, Toran and Erol the southern, and Vulk and Korwin the northern, carefully counting out their paces so that each would arrive at their panel at the same time, and place a palm to the sigil that matched the one on the pillar facing their exit.

Three sigils flared almost simultaneously, and with a low hum and grinding noise, the walls turned 45° left on a central core, opening the passage to all three corridors into an intersection with the first path continuing now to the west. Reunited, the group continued on into what no one doubted would be another test.

The new corridor stretched westward 15 meters to end at the top of a flight of stairs. Leading steeply down, they disappeared into a pool of still black water some three meters square. Two niches, one on each side near the bottom of the stairs, held statues of idealized young women carved from some translucent blue stone. The women held crystal bowls before them, and beyond them, on wide shelves set into the walls above the pool were two statues of recumbent panthers of shining onyx, with glittering green eyes of emerald.

Devrik and Toran were in the lead, and moved cautiously down the stairs, the others following behind with Erol and Korwin bringing up the rear. As they approached the water a matching flight of stairs could be seen rising from the far side of the pool, with a corridor beyond implied but not visible.

While they paused, contemplating the possible depth of the water and the practicality of leaping, freezing or otherwise avoiding it, a faint music came to their ears, from where it was impossible to say exactly. And rising up from the water were two of the most gorgeous creatures either fighter had ever seen… one was a lithe and buxom woman of piercing beauty, for all that she was translucent, as was the shorter, muscular man beside her, and equally breathtaking.

Although they seemed to be made of water, they also seemed to be warm, living flesh, and after a brief flash of doubt, both Devrik and Toran found themselves entranced… the figures strode up out of the water, moving seductively to reach for them… the female wrapped her arms around Devrik and bent to kiss him, while the  male did the same to Toran.

Completely ensnared by the charms of the water spirits, neither man heard the warning cries of their friends, nor noticed as they were slowly drawn into the water… all they were each aware of was the pure bliss they felt and the promise of more and greater to come… you could just drown in those blue eyes…

Erol felt a sudden “pop” in his head, and then he felt again the presence of Asakora / Kiren Frostwind in his mind. And with that whispering presence he suddenly knew what to do. Reaching into the Keeper’s satchel that Korwin carried, he drew forth the two blue leather flasks.

“Here,” he said urgently, thrusting one into the hands of the water mage. “Break the seal and pour the contents into the crystal bowl that nymph statue is holding! I think we’d better do it at the same time, though…”

He snapped open the seal on the flask he held, and after a moments hesitation Korwin did the same to his. Together they each turned to the statue nearest them, and poured what seemed to be simple water into the crystal bowls, filling them to the brim.

Below them Vulk and Mariala were struggling to pull Devrik and Toran back from the water, with little success. As soon as the water settled in the bowls, however, the two translucent forms suddenly froze in their seductions, then collapsed into cascades of water that soaked the two men as it flowed back into the pool.

Toran and Devrik shook their heads, and seemed momentarily bewildered, like men woken suddenly from a deep sleep.

“Why am I wet?” Devrik demanded in annoyance, shaking himself like a dog. Toran just peddled back quickly, up the stairs and out of the water, shuddering in horror. Khundari didn’t usually swim well, and he in particular just tended to sink like a stone…

After some argument, it was generally agreed that no one wanted to wade through the water, although it could now be seen to be little more than a meter deep. Instead, Korwin was allowed to try to freeze the water solid, a feat he managed to do, to everyone’s relief, without giving them all frostbite.

Once they had all slid carefully across the frozen pool, they ascended the stairs on the other side and found themselves in another corridor identical to the ones behind them. Another span of 15 meters brought them to another room, rather different than anything they had yet seen.

The corridor jutted out a meter or so into the ten meters square chamber, and ended. The chamber’s floor was half a meter below, and covered in a low ground cover of lush green vegetation. Taller plants grew in a great tangled profusion on either side of the room, leaving only a narrow strip of the ground cover clear down the center, leading to an archway in the far wall, where the corridor seemed to begin again.

Set in the ceiling was a strip of crystal panels running above the path, glowing with diffuse sunlight – if they hadn’t know they were many meters underground, the Hand might have thought it was a skylight. The light illuminated the central path through the overgrown room, but cast the sides into gloomy shadows. After several days in the barren sterility of the Blasted March, even gloomy greenery seemed a balm to weary souls.

This time Vulk was at Devrik’s side in the lead, and they stepped down onto the springy ground cover. They moved cautiously forward, and then heard Mariala behind them call out a question.

“Are those giant spider webs on those bushes? There, in back?”

At that moment vines suddenly shot up from the ground about their feet, and began to entwine themselves around everyone’s legs. Leaping about and hacking at the grasping vegetation, the group tried to avoid being held, but the plants seemed to spring up in increasing density – for everyone they hacked down, two more took their place!

One by one, the group began to be immobilized… and then things got worse. Half a dozen giant spiders, huge, black and hairy, multifaceted eyes glowing red, began to scuttle out of the shadows and move toward the increasingly helpless group.

Devrik lashed out with his sword, slicing one of the grotesque creatures in two. But triumph turned to horror as the two halves began to twist and flow, sprouting new legs, a new eye… in a moment there were two spiders where there had been one. Smaller, perhaps, but that was absolutely no comfort to anyone…

Even as Erol was hacking away at the vines that tried to restrain him, that whispering presence in his mind returned… and suddenly it was very clear what the solution to their dilemma was!

“Korwin!” he called, spearing a spider with his trident. “The dirt! Scatter the dirt around us, all along this path!”

This time Korwin didn’t hesitate, pulling the leather pouch from the satchel and tugging it open. Then he did hesitate, if only for a second – he really hated getting his hands dirty. But needs must, when a demon drives, so with a sigh he plunged his hand into the loamy black soil and began casting it about him.

Wherever the soil touched, the vines suddenly turned brittle, falling away into dust… and the humongous spiders stopped and then turned to scuttle back into the shadowy shrubbery. Freed from his vines, Korwin darted along the path, scattering dirt around his friends’ feet, and in moments the danger seemed to have passed.

No one was inclined to linger in the now-dubious charms of the garden room after that, and they exited with alacrity, into another westward running corridor of dressed gray-white stone. After another 15 meters the passage opened into a chamber six meters square, the room dominated by a large square plinth of black basalt, atop which a cheery fire blazed in a large bronze bowl. The yellow-stanined stone walls were lined with bands of black iron, six inches wide and maybe a foot apart, from floor to ceiling, which was five meters high. Set in the ceiling were matching bands of iron in concentric circles, ending in a silver disc set in the center.

The plinth was carved into sinuous shapes of snakes and flames intertwined, and from each of the four faces a larger snake head jutted out in serious bas-relief. The detail was exquisite, Toran notice, down to the diamond shapes lightly etched on the foreheads and running down the back… poisonous snakes then, he thought.

The room had no visible exits, save the doorway the group had entered through, and they began setting about looking for hidden or magical doors. Attempting to detect specific magic in a place like this, which was obviously permeated with arcane energy, was pointless, although Mariala gave it a shot anyway.

Just as she was announcing that she could detect nothing beyond the ambient magic field the single doorway into the room vanished, replaced by a blank stone wall identical to the other three. At the same instant the fire in the bronze bowl suddenly flared, shooting up to splash off the silver disc in the center of the ceiling.

Almost instantly the flame died down again, although to about twice it’s previous volume and size, and the silver disc began to glow… at first yellow, then red, then blue… within a minute it was white hot! At that point the glow quickly began to spread out along the concentric bands of the ceiling. The temperature began to rise noticeably…

“Toran,” Vulk called to his friend from across the room. “Did you feel dizzy? Is this another teleportation trap?”

“No, I felt nothing,” the Khundari replied, staring intently about him. “No, I’m certain we’re in the same room. But maybe – Hanar-Ariala-Ebeth!”

They all waited in sweating anticipation, but the glowing bands continued to spread outward, reaching the walls and then beginning to run down those bands. Within three minutes all the metal bands were glowing red hot, and everyone was forced toward the center of the room by the increasing heat radiating from them. Already the room was hotter than any forge, and the bands began shifting from red to blue…

Somewhat more accustomed than the others to intense heat, Toran continued to examine his surroundings, while Devrik tried to use his pyrokinesis to control the flame atop the plinth and Korwin attempted to summon ice and cold… both to no avail.

But the Khundari suddenly slapped himself in the forehead, and grabbed the Keeper’s satchel from Korwin. Rummaging inside, he pulled out the three square rods of red crystal and held them up. Yes, they were square in cross-section – unless you rotated your perspective 45°. And then they were diamond shaped!

“Like the three-person door,” he crowed. “Three crystal keys, all placed at once, and I think I know where!” He pointed to the etched diamond shape in the middle of the forehead of the nearest snake carving.

“But there are four snake heads,” Vulk gasped, the increasingly hot air beginning to sear his lungs. “And only three keys. Which three heads…”

Toran thought for a moment, and then shrugged. “The previous three-way lock used the west, north and south points of the compass… the Telnori are obsessive about the west… lets stick with the pattern…”

He handed a key to Devrik and another to Mariala, and the three of them took up positions at the three snake head carvings. Raising the crystals to the diamond shapes, on his command they all pressed downward. With a soft resistance the rods began to sink into the stone, until only a few centimeters remained protruding.

Immediately the metal bands in ceiling and walls began to fade from white hot, through blue, to red and yellow, and then to cool black iron once more. The flame atop the plinth shrank to it’s original size, and the temperature in the room dropped quickly from nearly lethal to merely very warm. Everyone was sopping wet with sweat, but they were alive.

After several minutes of gasping recuperation, it was Erol who first noticed that the walls at the north and south sides of the room now had large archways in them, leading to corridors beyond. After some debate it was decided to try the southern corridor first.

Only three meters up the passage turned back eastward, and after an equally short distance debouched into a six meter square room filled with the tinkling sound of falling water. Three basins of carved basalt jutted out from the north, east and south walls, with silver pipes above them from which clear water gushed out to splash into them. The walls were of a deep red stone, the floor and ceiling black.

But what instantly caught the eye and seduced the senses was in the center of the room – on a square of white stone, was a circular plinth of the same dark red stone as the walls, a meter-and-a-half high. Atop the the plinth floated a sphere of shifting, translucent energy, and within its heart was the tantalizing suggestion of… something… difficult to make out… but something infinitely wonderful…

Mariala tore her gaze away from the mesmerizing sphere, after some unknown time, and recognized it for what it was – another trap. Her companions all stood staring blankly at the shifting colors of the sphere, with exception of Toran who just rolled his eyes at her in resignation.

“You realize they’ll probably just stand there until they starve,” he said. “Or, more likely, die of thirst.”

She clapped her hands sharply, while the dwarf whistled piercingly, and they both yelled.

“Hey, wake up guys!!”

“Get your heads out of your assess!!”

With a start Devrik and Korwin suddenly shook their heads and looked away from the shining sphere. Vulk took a moment longer to come out of it, and it took several shakes and a slap to bring Erol up from his trance. In the end they all successfully threw off the illusion of the sphere, which thereafter looked like nothing more than a simple crystal ball.

“Not even a good crystal ball,” Toran snorted. “Look at all those damn inclusions!”

The northern passage, as expected, was a mirror image of the southern, except that it jogged west instead of east. But coming around the corner the group came to a sudden halt. Where they would have expected a room similar to the fountain chamber, instead they found a wall of dirt and stone where the corridor had collapsed.

“Well, we’re not getting through that, I can promise you,” Toran said glumly. “Not without a work gang of my cousins and a lot of pick-axes.”

But as they started to turn away and consider what to do next, Vulk suddenly made a surprised noise and darted forward. He vanished into the pile of rubble and dirt, his voice drifting back to them.

“It’s another illusion!”

Toran was the next to see through the deception, muttering angrily to himself that he should never have missed such an obvious fake… one by one the others came to see through the illusion, Erol again the last one to pierce it, and only then when Toran took him by the arm, had him close his eyes, and guided him through the imaginary wall of debris.

Passing through the illusory landslide, the group found themselves in a chamber about seven meters square, with walls of rough golden sandstone. The ceiling was vaulted and eight meters high, done in a deep red stone, with glow stones set around the edges. The central portion of the floor was raised almost a meter above the rest, and on this section rested a round plinth of red stone some two meters high.

Four sets of narrow steps curved up its sides to where, floating in a sphere of coruscating blue-white energy was a large transparent red crystal some 5” in diameter, faceted along the rim and back, with a smooth plane on the face, set in an intricately carved setting of silvery metal, hung from a heavy chain of the same.

It was difficult to make out the details of the carvings from the floor of the chamber, and Erol, Toran, Devrik and Korwin all moved to a staircase and began to ascend. But it became increasingly difficult to keep going, the air seeming to grow thicker around them. By the halfway point it had become quite impossible to move forward.

From that point, however, they could each see the top surface of the plinth, which was deeply carved with the runes of a Greater Ward, glowing blue-white like the sphere floating above it. And the details of the carvings on the pendant seemed like they were just on the edge of resolving… but never quite did so, although they left an unsettled feeling in one’s mind…

Coming down the stairs was almost as difficult as going up them, at first, although the effort got easier the closer they got to the floor. A great discussion then ensued about what they had each seen, and what it all meant, and what course they should take next. Only Mariala took little part in the debate, staring pensively around the room and returning her apprehensive gaze again and agin to the pendant floating above them.

In the end it was decided that they would have to try and dispel the enchantment that protected the pendant, obviously the Eye of Arial. It was unlikely that any one of them could break a Telnori enchantment that must be very strong, but perhaps if they pooled their power…

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Mariala finally said, as the other mages in the group prepared to cast the massive Dispel spell. “Something about this place feels… wrong…”

But the others would not be persuaded, feeling the pressure to recover the artifact and change the course of history. While Erol, Vulk and Mariala watched, Devrik, Toran and Korwin linked their powers and cast the spell… and Erol gave it a surreptitious boost…

There was a flash of violet light around the energy sphere encapsulating the pendant, and the flickering light of the ward began to flare randomly. And at that moment an enormous Güruk-nai burst into the room, roaring inarticulately and swinging a massive battle-axe.

Devrik, still partially dazed from the united spell casting, reached for his battlesword, but stumbled to one knee and almost dropped it. Vulk and Erol, not part of the spell, drew sword and javelin respectively, and attacked, to no apparent effect as the massive beast jinked and twisted away with speed and agility belying its size.

Toran and Korwin, also coming out of the haze of the joint spell, made their own moves – the Khundari whipped up his crossbow and launched a bolt at the monster, while the Oceanian mage began his Ice Needle spell. The bolt missed, and the spell would take a few seconds…

Mariala, shocked out of her worried funk, reacted instinctively, and with a gesture hurled a blast of Fire Nerves at the hulking brute. It hit, and the creature staggered back. Devrik was on his feet again, and preparing to swing his holy sword –

At that moment the Ward protecting the pendant fell to the Dispel of the Hand’s mages – and in that instant the scales suddenly fell from Mariala’s eyes, and she saw several things at once.

She saw that the room they were in was old, cracked and full of the dust of the Blasted March, the glow stones dead, the only light the malevolent red glow of the pendant floating above them –

She saw that there was no giant Güruk-nai in the room, only the Telnori Druid Farendol, grimacing in pain as his nerves burned, the pain apparently blinding him to the danger on his left –

She saw Devrik, poised to plunge his sword into the back of Farendol –

She screamed.

“Devrik, no! It’s an illusion! It’s Farendol!”

Devrik jerked his head around at her scream, but it was too late to fully stop the blow. His sword went into the Druid’s back, if not all the way through, and he didn’t twist and rip it out as he might otherwise have done. But the damage was enough. The blade pierced his heart and the Telnori died.

But with his dying thought, he send out a mental blast that was like a cold but bracing wind, shredding the illusions that fogged the minds around him, freeing them.

Devrik stared in horror at the body at his feet and the blood dripping from his sword, black in the ruddy light of the stone above him. Like Mariala, he now saw the reality of the room around him, as did all of their companions.

Before any of them could react, however, they were each frozen in place and pulled inward, to the centers of their own minds, where they confronted… something different for each of them. But the gist was the same – they could have whatever their hearts most desired in all of Space and Time. All they had to do was take up the pendant, and they would have it all, worlds at their feet…

Each one wrestled with their demon, not yet knowing it was all one demon, and one by one they rejected its temptations, piercing this final deception and stripping away the masks to see what they truly faced – an embodiment of Chaos and evil that promised only death.

All except one…

They were back in the red-lit chamber again, Farendol still dead at their feet, and the crystal pendant pulsing vilely above them. Vulk dashed over to the fallen Telnori and immediately began to channel his healing energy into the dead form, knitting torn tissue back together, preparing to try to restore life…

“It is Haranol, the Sakal-Ur,” Mariala said in horror. “The Elemental Demon Lord of Air. By all the Immortals and the All itself, what have we done?!”

“No,” Devrik said dully, staring down at the man who had gifted him his wonderful new sword. The sword he had just killed him with. “It’s not a disaster yet… at least, not a complete disaster. As long as no one touches the accursed artifact, the demon remains trapped within it and is powerless against us… without a physical form all it had were illusions. And we have survived those. Most of us…”

“But we can’t just leave the pendant here, now that we’ve broken the Wards,” Korwin said sickly. “I don’t know how far its power reaches, but if it ensnares some other unsuspecting traveller… don’t the Telnori patrol the March? If they come too near…”

“Yes, we’ll have to warn the Star Council, and stay… well, not here, but nearby… until help can arrive…” Mariala said, her numbed mind beginning to work again.

It was Toran who noticed that Erol, who hadn’t spoken since they’d broken the demon’s hold on their minds, was no longer standing next to him. He looked around and saw the ex-gladiator moving toward the stairs around the pillar, eyes fixed on the glowing pendant that still hung in the air, though it’s shielding sphere was gone.

“Erol, no!” Toran yelled, and leaped after his friend. But Erol, although apparently still under the demon’s beguilement, was a seasoned and crafty fighter, and he dodged the Khundari’s grab. Dropping all attempts at stealth, he now raced for the pendant, his friends in a scrambling rush to stop him. Just as he reached the top of the pillar, Mariala hit him with her Syncope of Shala in an attempt to put him to sleep.

He staggered on the last step, his eyes drooped, and his hand faltered as it reached for the prize… but momentum was (or was not, in the end) on his side, and as he fell forward his hand caught onto the pendant, clutching it even as he collapsed across the plinth.

For a moment everyone froze, and Mariala thought they’d done it, they’d saved Erol from a fate worse than death – and the world from a great deal of suffering. But then Erol stirred, and rose to his feet – rather bouncily, she thought with an almost hysterical internal giggle, quickly supressed.

The pendant was still clutched in Erol’s hand – no, not Erol, they could all somehow see. Perhaps it was the deep red glow in his eyes. Whatever now possessed their friend’s body raised the pendant and slipped the chain around its neck, settling the heavy stone on its breast.

“Well, isn’t this nice?” something said in a voice two octaves lower than Erol’s, stretching Erol’s face in a ghastly smile that managed to look nothing like the real Erol’s. “You can’t imagine how good it makes us feel to have a body again… and how maddeningly dull the latticed order of a crystal prison is to a being of pure Chaos. Frustrating, let us tell you!”

Throwing off their moment of shocked despair at realizing Erol was almost certainly dead, his friends moved as one to take down the creature who now occupied his shell… and maybe it wasn’t too late to save his soul, at least…

Devrik  shot a Fireball from his left hand, while at the same time throwing his battle sword with his right, as if it were a javelin; Korwin blasted out the freezing Breath of Arandu; Mariala again shot out a spray of Fire Nerves; and Vulk called down the blessings of Kasira on them all as he began preparing Abon’s Authority. Toran quietly faded into the shadows, slipping a bolt into his crossbow.

Haranol/Erol laughed deeply and in apparent sincerity as it was wrapped in flames, seared with cold, and nerve enflamed. As the visible effects faded away, its laughter died to a chuckle. It was holding Devrik’s sword, and as it looked closely at it a sudden spasm crossed its face, and it hurled the weapon to the floor – behind it. Then it regained its composure and smiled again.

“Ah, that tickled a bit… the Fire Nerves, we think. The others were just… refreshing.” It gestured abruptly, and a great wind suddenly began to swirl around the room. In seconds it had grown so strong that the dust and debris became like flensing knives, and everyone was forced to shield their faces lest they be blinded.

Then the wind broke into several separate whirlwinds, wrapping each of the humans in a fierce grip and lifting them off the ground. As they hung suspended in midair, on a level now with the demon on its tall pedestal, the creature frowned.

“One, two, three, four… weren’t there five of you? Oh yes, the little one… little dwarf, little dwarf, come out from the shadows… you can’t hide from us, you filthy little rat!”

With that a fifth cyclone plucked Toran from the shadows and whirled him into place near the others. Now the Erol-creature was grinning maniacally, eyeing its new toys in apparent delight.

“We thank you so much for freeing us,” it gloated, beginning to spin them slowly around him, like planets orbiting a demented sun. “And for bringing us this wonderful body… we would have made do with any of you sub-creatures, of course, but this one was the best of this pathetic lot, already attuned to our element.

“We would have loved to eat its soul, as we’ve done with so many others over the millennia, adding their distinctiveness to our own and increasing the Chaos within… but best to eject it, to take no chances, when so newly freed, and we are not at full –” it suddenly stopped, then veered sharply in another direction.

“Ah, how we remember the delights of these squishy bodies of yours! The many pleasures that can be squeezed from them… now, we can never remember… which of your types is meant to be fucked?

“Oh well, it scarcely matters, we’ll just fuck you all – we do remember that that was always so much fun. Especially once I’ve reshaped this body to our accustomed form.. you won’t believe how big all our… bits are… and sharp, too.” It grinned lasciviously, flicking a tongue that seemed much longer than it should over teeth that looked much sharper than they had earlier.

Indeed, Erol’s former body was visibly larger than it had been his, the skin rougher, the fingers longer… and the chest was noticeably broader, which apparetnly was beginning to discomfit the creature, as it casually reached up and ripped Erol’s breast-and-back armor off, dropping it to the floor.

“Much better,” it grinned again, and Mariala was horribly fascinated… despite the changes, it was still definitely Erol’s body, and yet the face looked very different, the animating spirit moving or holding muscles in a different way… and the body language was all wrong… and why the Void was she spending her last minutes noticing crap like this?!

“Now were were we,” the demon went on. “Ah yes, the sex… and then there’s the food! I’m sure you’ll all taste quite yummy, especially after I’ve filled you up with my–”

“Sleep!” Vulk suddenly called out in the irresistible voice of Abon’s Authority. And for just a moment they demon swayed, the red eyes half closing. The winds faltered, and the prisoners sank slowly floorward. But the moment passed, and the Erol-thing shook its head, snarling in rage, and seizing control of the winds again.

But before it could regain total control, Toran brought up the crossbow he’d kept carefully hidden behind his back, and fired at almost point blank range. The bolt moved even faster than the demon could react, at least in its still-weak new form, and pierced the creatures chest through-and-through. Unfortunately on the right side, not the left, and so missed the heart.

But it staggered back, clutching at the wound as red-black blood gushed from it, and the winds died away completely, dropping the surviving members of the Hand to the floor. Devrik dove for his battlesword, which he had landed near, Toran cranked another bolt into his crossbow, and the others prepared spells and rituals in desperate speed.

Above them the demon-Erol still stood, and the wounds in its chest were already beginning to heal… rage twisted its features, but Devrik thought he also saw doubt. And fear.

“Gah, you vermin are not worth our time,” the demon spat out. “Do not doubt that you shall meet us again, pathetic sub-creatures… and on that day, oh how we will make you suffer!”

While it spoke a whirlwind had been forming around it, and on its final word the demon vanished, gone with the wind. The room was plunged into total darkness.

Vulk quickly granted them all the Fortune’s Light, and they drew together over the body of Farendol, in grief-stricken silence over the loss of both the Druid and, more unbelievably, Erol. It took a few minutes for them to notice that Vulk knelt by the dead Telnori – and that he wasn’t dead anymore!

“I’ve healed the worst of the trauma,” the weary cantor sighed. “But he’s not waking up. I’m not sure what’s wrong…”

“I don’t know either,” Devrik replied. “But I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He certainly hoped so, because then he wouldn’t be responsible for murdering a six hundred year old man who had befriended them.

“We have to get out of here,” Mariala said suddenly, shaking off the fog of grief momentarily. “We have to warn the Council… Master Vetaris... everyone! We’ve just released one of the most powerful demons in existence, and we have to warn them!”

Farendol led the way across the Ebony Bridge and into the ruins of the once-mighty city of Yalura, and the Hand needed no encouragement to use all the cover that shattered walls and dust-drifted piles of rubble could provide. With this slow, methodical approach they took almost an hour to reach the former heart of the city, but did so without alerting their enemies to their presence. At the southern edge of the Great Square, from behind a particularly large section of standing wall pierced with the empty arches of three windows, they paused to take the lay of the land and decided on their course of action.

The Great Square was over 40 meters on a side, and completely clear of major rubble, if not of the ever-shifting dust. But even the dust was absent from a circle 15 meters in diameter at the center of the open space – a circle defined by the glowing yellow-red lines of a Greater Ward, made visible now by the power of the presumed Vularun sorceress, as was the Sigil of Power at the heart of the Ward. At the four cardinal edges of the Square were smaller blackened circles of scorched stone that represented the former Ward Seals that had held the Great Elemental Beasts.

The sorceress herself stood between the Great Ward and the northern-most of the broken Seals, the Great Sword on the ground before her, pointing at the heart of the Square. She had thrown off her dark traveling cloak, revealing dark red robes trimmed in silver and honey blond hair that fell to her waist. Her eyes were closed in deep concentration, and her hands moved in precise arcane gestures that made it clear she was attempting some spell… and probably not a small one.

To the southeast of her lay the giant form of the Iron Knight, face down and still wrapped about with the ropes and pulleys her minions had used to drag it from the Ebony Bridge. Near it could be seen the false Heart of Metal, it’s smashed and twisted form a silent testament to the rage the sorceress must have felt on learning she had been duped. Faerndol smiled faintly at the thought, but that faded quickly as he contemplated what her next move might be.

Scattered around other parts of the Square were at least 10 of the woman’s henchbeings, a mixture of northern barbarians, Tharkian mercenaries and Gül-Hovguvai, who seemed to have been looting amongst the ruins until very recently and were now either sorting through their booty or keeping a very loose watch on their perimeter. Near all of the breached Ward Seals were at least half-a-dozen variously disfigured or dismembered corpses of men and güls, apparently victims of the recently freed Elemental Beasts.

“I don’t know what the woman is doing,” Farendol whispered after they had all taken in what there was to see. “But I am disinclined to find out. The Great Sword is far too close to the final Ward, and if it should pierce that barrier then the Corruptor would be free again in this world.

“I wish we could get closer to the Iron Knight, so that we might animate it ourselves, and thus tip the balance of power in our favor, but it is too exposed and too far away. I am afraid we must fight, my friends.”

There was no disagreement from the Hand of Fortune, and as the warriors readied their weapons and otherwise girded their loins, Vulk began the ritual prayers to summon up Abon’s Authority, that the next words to pass his lips would carry the force of command from the Immortal Herself. Mariala and Korwin offered various suggestions as to what those words should be, generally along the lines of “stop what you’re doing!” The cleric just rolled his eyes and focused on his ritual.

The group left the shelter of their hiding place as stealthily as possible, but it didn’t take long for the Vortex minions to notice them. While Erol headed for the four looters across the Square, the others converged on the near group of four, between them and both the Iron Knight and the sorceress. Both men and gül drew their weapons and rushed to face the invaders.

“Listen to me,” Vulk bellowed, his commanding voice vibrating with the power of his goddess. “Drop your weapons, sit down, and you won’t be hurt!”

For an instant the two barbarians and the two gül-hovguvai stopped, as if they’d hit a wall; one of the men did indeed let fall his sword and drop cross-legged to the ground, looking confused. But the other three just shook their heads and snarled as they resumed their rush.

With a matching snarl and a roar that froze the heart of everyone who heard it, Devrik lunged forward to meet them, swinging his new holy battlesword in an arc that intersected the belly of the leading gül. Vulk and Toran blocked blows from the other two, while Mariala and Korwin dashed around the melee in an attempt to reach the sorceress.

Even as his first opponent’s guts spilled out onto the stones Devrik was whirling to attack another, but he was distracted by a cry from Farendol, several meters behind them. Looking to the west he saw that Erol was face down on the ground, defenseless. Hopefully just stunned, but with two gül-hovguvai looming over him, axes raised, and two barbarians close behind, that could change in an instant. Vulk blocked a blow from the nearest barbarian, allowing Devrik to disengage and sprint toward their fallen companion, muttering arcane words as he moved…

♦ ♦ ♦

As the group burst from cover Erol had felt confident he could take out the Vortex scum across the way while barely breaking a sweat, and Grover had leapt to his shoulder as he dashed forward, javelin in hand. He had felt strange – exhilarated and shaky at the same time, and slightly out of sync with the world – ever since the Telnori Druid had supposedly placed the soul of the Elemental Beast of Air into his head. And he could almost hear a voice… a voice, but no words… he tried to shake off the feeling and focus on the coming fight.

He hurled his first javelin as soon as he was in range, and he was sure the throw was true, aimed straight for the leading gül’s chest. When the creature zigged suddenly to the right, and the javelin flashed harmlessly by it, Erol was shocked. He barely had time to get his trident into position to block the beastman’s attack. And he almost dodged the second gül’s swinging axe, pulling back just enough at the last second to take only a glancing blow to the head instead of being decapitated.

Darkness crashed in around him, and the last thing Erol saw was Grover leaping from his shoulder into the face of the nearest gül-hovguvai…

… and then there was light. Erol found himself sitting in a wrought iron chair, next to a small matching table, on a white stone terrace overlooking a breathtaking vista of fields, forest and river under a perfect azure sky, the sun almost exactly overhead. Several wooden tubs nearby held orange trees, and the warm breeze brought the sharp scent of citrus to him.

“Drink your chocolate,” a deep, melodious voice said, and you could hear the smile in it. Suddenly Erol was aware of a man sitting across the table from him, pouring steaming deep brown liquid from a celadon porcelain pot into a matching cup. A similar cup, already full of the most fragrant chocolate he’d ever smelled, sat steaming in front of Erol.

The man was tall, even sitting down, taller Erol suspected than even Vulk. Despite the silver hair that flowed past his shoulders, the man was clearly not old, his face as smooth and unlined as a youth’s and entirely unblemished. But the piercing blue eyes, the color of glacial ice, told another story – one of long years and deep wisdom.

“You’re Telnori,” Erol heard himself say, surprised at his own calm acceptance of this strange tableau.

“Yes,” the man replied, smiling and lifting his cup to his lips. He drank and set the cup back down. “I am Kiren Frostwind, and more latterly, Asakora, the Great Beast of the Air. Now, I suppose, I am also, in some part, Erol Doritar of Kildora.”

“Where are we?” Erol asked, lifting his own cup and sipping from it. He had never tasted chocolate so dark, so rich, and he smiled in appreciation even as some part of himself screamed that this was impossible.

“An interesting philosophical question, my young host,” Kiren replied. “In some sense, we are on the south terrace of my home in Xaranda, almost a thousand years ago; in another sense, we are merely in my memory of that place; and in what will likely make the most sense to you, we are simply inside your head.”

“Ah,” said Erol, taking another sip of the amazing chocolate. “Am I dead, then? Did that gül manage to knock my head off after all?”

“No, no,” Kiren assured him, waving a hand dismissively. “You are merely unconscious, laying on the stones of the Great Square of Yalura, surrounded by several enemies… four, I believe.”

“Um, then perhaps we could have this conversation another time? I think we might both be better off if I didn’t die just yet…”

“Oh, indeed,” the Telnori mage agreed, refilling both their cups, and offering a plate of golden, crispy almond cookies. Erol took one. It was delicious.

“But there will be plenty of time for fighting later on. Time moves differently here… more so for you than for many others, eh, what with that temporal displacement ability of yours. No, there is yet time for us to discuss more important matters.”

“More important than not dying?”

“Oh yes. We all die eventually, even we Telnori. And I suspect… no, I know… that my time is finally here. But what must not die with me is all the knowledge I have gained in over 600 years of life… and in the other 600 years of my half-life as Asakora.

“Since it seems likely that you have a few more years ahead of you, despite current appearances, I wish to ask a favor of you.” For the first time the serene Telnori frowned, if only slightly. “You would not be my first choice, of course, but it seems you are my only one… and so I must roll the dice and hope for the best.”

“What is it you want of me?” Erol asked, reaching for another cookie. “And why wouldn’t I be your first choice?”

Kiren paused for a moment, sipping his own chocolate and nibbling on a cookie, before answering.

“As to your second question, I would not have selected you simply because you have a pragmatic, dare I say it, simple, mind… one not well attuned to the esoteric. You have not quite believed in what many of your people insist on calling “magic,” despite your own psychic talents and the evidence of your eyes.

“And yet, you are not wholly unsuitable to the task I would ask of you… so, to answer your first question, I simply wish you to allow me to pass on to you my accumulated wisdom of the esoteric arts of Valuru, the knowledge of the power of Air. To put it another way, will you become my apprentice and heir?”

Erol said nothing for a moment, looking down at the almost black dregs of chocolate in his cup. Then he looked up into the glacial blue depths of Kiren’s eyes and smiled.

“Sure, why the Void not?”

The Telnori mage arched an eyebrow at this, but returned the smile. Then he reached into his own chest and pulled forth a glowing, pulsing sphere of translucent red energy…

♦ ♦ ♦

As Devrik loosed the fireball from his hand, hurling it towards the heads of the gülvini standing over Erol’s body, Grover leapt from the face of the one he’d been gnawing on, landing on his master’s back and burrowing down beneath one arm. The fireball exploded overhead, immolating all four of the Vortex mercenaries, but only lightly singing Erol. Grover escaped without so much as a crisped whisker.

As Devrik dropped to his knees next to him Erol began to groan and slowly rolled over. His eyes took a moment to focus on the grim features of his friend, who pulled his eyelids back, checking his pupils, and probed at the bloody gash on the side of head.

“Hrrm,” the fire mage rumbled in his grating voice. “ No concussion, I’d say, and the bleeder is just a scalp wound – gory, but not serious. You good to get back into it?”

He hauled his fellow fighter to his feet as Erol gave him a weird look, and smiled rather alarmingly.

“Yeah, I’m great!” Erol laughed, taking the trident Devrik had picked up. “Let’s go kill that bitch!”

♦ ♦ ♦

At almost the same instant that Erol had been struck down, Korwin was busy taking his own blow to the head as he struggled with one of the Tharkian mercenaries who had moved to block his way toward the still-chanting sorceress. While the powerful sword stroke had stunned him and driven him to one knee, it hadn’t knocked him out, and he was able to block the follow-up stroke with his cutlass.

Another thrust and parry, and Korwin summoned up the Azure Hand – his left hand turned blue, and he thrust it toward his opponent. A sudden wash of pale frost covered half the soldier’s right arm and side, chilling the man to the bone. He staggered back, almost losing his grip on his sword and cursing the Oceanian mage.

Korwin pressed his advantage, moving in slashing with his cutlass, but the Tharkian was both experienced and skilled. He switched sword hands suddenly, taking Korwin by surprise, and almost took him full in the chest. Instead, the blade grated off some ribs and slid into his arm. He staggered back as blood gushed forth, stumbled on a loose stone, and went down. Dark whorls began to overwhelm his vision as he slid into unconciousness…

…until the slap of salt spray in his face woke him with an exhilarated start. Korwin stood on the rolling deck of a sloop that cut through the white-capped waves of a blue-green sea like a dolphin. But the wind that whipped his hair about his face billowed no sail – though the vessel had them, they were furled tightly, the ship moved as if under its own power. White clouds piled up against the horizon to his left, and on his right the silhouette of land was made gray-green by distance.

He turned and at the tiller he saw a tall woman dressed in white, with night-dark hair, sea-gray eyes, and a regal beauty that was only enhanced by the obvious thrill she took at taming the wild waters. She looked to be no older than himself, but Korwin knew, looking into those eyes, that she was in fact very much older.

“You are Shaluzira, the Great Beast of Water,” he called to her over the wind. “Or rather, the Telnori mage who’s spirit animated Shaluzira.”

“Yes,” she laughed as he made his way along the sloping deck toward her. “I am Tarinas Searider, mistress of wave and water, and once the soul of the Elemental Great Beast. And now a guest within your mind, Korwin Seaborn of Oceania.”

“Then this is an illusion you have created?” he asked, grabbing a stay line to steady himself next to her.

“No, it is a memory, a fond memory of my youth – I was but 90 when I sailed alone around the isle of Iria, for the sheer joy of the water and the wind.”

“But we do not sail, my lady,” Korwin noted, nodding toward the mast and the furled sails. “Is this not one of the sun-powered and water propelled craft of your people?” He again nodded, this time toward the array of crystal panels set in gimbaled cases down the center of the deck.

“Oh yes,” she laughed again, a deep, throaty sound. “And for the moment the water jets propel us, but it is time to unfurl the sails and test ourselves against Father Sea! Will you sail with me?”

“It’s been awhile,” Korwin laughed in his turn, “but not so long that I’ve forgotten anything important!” And he turned to begin the work of lowering the sails.

For what seemed hours the two of them worked the small ship as the wind freshened and the waves grew higher, sailing before the gale coming up out of the east. The sun sank into the sea, breaking though the now-solid cloud cover only at the last moment to send a single ray of red-gold light to gild Tarinas’ face in almost supernatural beauty.

By midnight the storm had passed. Both moons shone through the scuttering cloud wrack, the Greater almost full, the Lesser newly waxing, dimming all but the brightest stars and the Skyway itself. Now they simply drifted for awhile, exhausted and at the same time full of energy. After a time of companionable silence, Tarinas stirred and spoke.

“You feel the power and the beauty of the waters, as I do Korwin Seaborn. My time is almost done, but I would gift you with the knowledge my long years have brought me, so that knowledge does not die with me.”

Korwin felt a sudden, and wholly unfamiliar, moment of abashment. He looked down and murmured almost inaudibly, “I am not worthy of such a gift milady.”

She reached over and lifted up his face with a firm hand under his chin.

“No, you are not,” she said seriously, her usual smile replaced by a look of deep compassion. “You have demons that drive you, and they may yet destroy you if you do not learn to control them. But you are also very young still, and there is a core of strength within you, if you will but trust it.

“I am willing to risk it. Are you?” She released his chin, settling back against the railing.

After a moment of staring into her sea-deep gray eyes Korwin nodded. She smiled and reached into her chest, pulling forth a pulsing ball of translucent blue energy…

♦ ♦ ♦

Korwin came back to his senses laying on the stones of the Great Square, with Farendol crouching over him and binding the deep gash in his arm. The Tharkian lay dead a few feet away, though what had killed him Korwin couldn’t tell.

“He was about to finish you off,” the Telnori explained. “I had to act, despite the risk to the Heart of Metal, for we cannot afford to lose the Spirit of Water you carry.”

“Thanks so much,” Korwin croaked dryly, reaching into his jerkin to remove the bottle of activated Baylorium he carried there. “Your concern for my health is most touching.” But he secretly agreed with the Druid that Tarinas‘ survival was far more important than his own.

Farendol shrugged unapologetically, but was distracted at that moment by sudden movement around the Vortex sorceress. A whirling cyclone perhaps four meters across was beginning to swirl around her, picking up dust and small rocks, and obscuring if not completely hiding the still-chanting mage.

Devrik, having got Erol back on his feet, had charged towards the sorceress from the west, as Mariala had rushed her from the east, but both were stymied by the wall of debris that threatened to flay the skin off anyone who tried to pass through it. Mariala cast Fire Nerves, and Devrik summoned another Orb of Vorol, but both spells failed to effect their enemy.

Toran and Vulk had both been disarmed by their opponents, but had also both managed to recover their weapons. Toran felled his enemy with a blow from his axe that took the man out at the knees, and even as he fell the Khundari Shadow Warrior was cranking his crossbow. His bolt and Erol’s arrow both pierced the wind wall at almost the same moment, only to both be whipped away in the cyclone.

Vulk, meanwhile, had his hands full with Barbarian 43, as he’d come to think of his opponent (the number was crudely painted on the man’s boiled leather chest plate for some reason – the one who had obeyed Vulk’s Command had a 55 painted on his). He was a shrewd and wily fighter, a decade older than Vulk, perhaps, but still in his prime. Once he had recovered his sword the cleric had managed to hold his own, but no more. His greater height and longer reach helped counter the older man’s skill and experience, but it wasn’t enough to give him the upper hand.

It was only when Devrik suddenly appeared at his side that Vulk felt the tables had finally turned – right up until the moment Barbarian 43 executed a brilliant double fake and managed to drop Devrik with a mighty clout to the head. Vulk gaped in shock as his friend collapsed like a puppet with the stings cut – but the barbarian seemed almost as surprised, and that gave Vulk the opening he’d been looking for.

In a crouching leap over Devrik he managed to hamstring 43, who collapsed screaming in pain and fury. A quick blow to the back of his head by Vulk’s pommel quieted him down and allowed the cantor to turn to his medical attention on his fallen comrade.

♦ ♦ ♦

If Vulk had been shocked at Devrik’s sudden departure from conciousness, it was nothing compared to the surprise Devrik felt at suddenly finding himself in a great cavern lit by a steady orange glow. The space was roughly circular, moderately large, and very warm.

The stones of the floor were colored in shades of red, orange and yellow, cunningly shaped and fitted to make arcane patterns that seemed to hover just beyond Devrik’s understanding. It was also bisected by a chasm some five meters across, and it was from there that the orange glow, and the heat, emanated.

Standing at the edge of the chasm, near the foot of a narrow stone bridge that arched over the gap, silhouetted against the mellow light, was a figure. Not overly tall and solidly built, but those generous curves and flowing lines left no doubt as to gender. She beckond to Devrik, and he stepped forward to stand beside her.

Turning now to face him, he saw that she had thick, tawny hair, and golden eyes flecked with amber. Her unblemished skin was a deep honey gold , and though she looked no older than himself, Devrik knew she nothing of the sort.

“Welcome to the Fire at the Heart of the World, Devrik Askalan, son of both Kildora and Olvânaal!” She gestured at the chasm, and Devrik turned from her shining eyes to look down into a river of molten rock that flowed sluggishly a few meters below his feet. He felt the power of the fire thrum along every nerve in his body… but, he realized in surprise, no fear. Only in its sudden absence did he realize how pervasive his fear of the flame had been, even after the Mad God had taken away the  actual phobia.

“Yes,” the woman next to him said. “Fear had become a habit for you, my friend, and it has held you back. I would offer you true freedom from that fear, if you will take it.”

“Who are you, and how do you know my thoughts?” Devrik eyed her warily.

She smiled then, tilting her head to one side curiously. “You know who I am.”

And he did, he realized. And knowing that, he knew where they must be.

“You are the soul who gave life to Zhezekar, the Great Beast of Fire. And we are nowhere, except in my own mind.”

“Very good, beloved of the Flame! Yes, I was Zhezekar, and before that I was and will always be Yimara Goldentouch of the Star Children.”

“And why would such as you wish to help me?” Devrik asked suspiciously. Although he felt the great calm that lay over him, his ingrained distrust of the motives of strangers lay too deep to be completely quieted.

“You are wise to be cautious, my young mageling,” she replied, actually laughing this time. “For I can see in the Flames that you have a great destiny before you, you and your son after you… but it lies on the edge of a knife, balanced between the Light and the Dark, Order and Chaos. Will that destiny rage like a wildfire across the world? Or will it be the controlled fire of the forge, building rather than destroying?

“I know which I would prefer, and so I offer to impart to you what wisdom and knowledge I can, gained over a thousand years of existence, to tip the scales toward the Light. Not to mention helping to maintain the proper balance between Order and Chaos.”

Devrik frowned, despite that strange lassitude that strove to keep him mellow. “You are not the first to speak to me of this supposed ‘destiny’ of mine – or my son’s. No one is ever very clear about it all. I don’t suppose you’d care to be more specific? Actually shed some useful light on it?”

“Ah, well, no,” Yimara smiled ruefully now. “Prophecy is vague and uncertain for a reason, I’m afraid. The future is always in flux, you see, and although probabilities may be greater or lesser for any particular outcome, introducing another variable usually just complicates things. And, more often than otherwise, not in the way one would wish.

“Even for the Immortals, who have a greater vision and understanding of the probabilities than any on this plane, prophecy is more art than science. So you’ll just have to muddle through with what little has been revealed, I suppose. After all, most people don’t even get that much of a hint.”

“I figured as much,” Devrik sighed in resignation. “Never a straight answer; but I’ve learned to deal with the annoyance of it all.”

“Yes, that’s been your great strength,” Yimara agreed. “As a warrior you see the world as a very straightforward, linear place – do this, and that happens. But as one touched by the mystery and the power of the Flame, you must deal with the flickering uncertainties of Chaos. Very few mortals can hold such dichotomous world views in their head simultaneously and stay sane, but you are one such.”

After a few minutes of contemplating the glowing river of fire below them Devrik spoke quietly.

“You feel strongly that your gift would help me toward the Light?”

“I do.”

“Then yes, I accept.”

Smiling broadly, Yimara reached into her chest and drew forth a glowing ball of translucent orange energy…

♦ ♦ ♦

Kneeling over his fallen friend, Vulk quickly realized that Devrik was badly injured. He barked at Farendol, who stood nearby, to open his satchel and find the vial of Baylorium marked with Devrik’s sigil. Without bothering to see if the Telnori obeyed, he laid his hands on either side of his friend’s skull, and focused his healing energies outward.

Usually the healing put him in a mild trance, slightly removed from the world around him, but still fully aware of it. This time, however, he felt the world sliding completely away from him… for a dizzying moment he felt himself falling as everything went black…

…and he was standing in a beautiful sylvan glade, summer sunlight through the green leaves of immense oaks dappling lush grass under his bare feet. He was dressed in a simple knee-length tunic of pale green cotton, belted at the waist with a rope of silky, silvery strands woven together.

“Welcome, Vulk Elida, Cantor of the Immortal Kasira,” a deep, laughing voice called out from behind him. Vulk turned slowly, surprised at his calmness, to see a stocky man of middle height leaning casually against the bole of the largest oak tree he had ever seen. The man was strongly muscled, and hairy of chest, arms and legs, all of which were on display – he wore only a kilt of forest green and a belt of intricate gold links. He had curly chestnut brown hair cropped short, hazel eyes flecked with green, and deeply tanned skin. Laugh lines creased an otherwise ageless face, and Vulk recognized him almost at once.

“You are the Telnori who gave up his soul to the Great Beast of Earth, Ghoratok,” he said in a conversational tone that rather surprised him. Why wasn’t he freaking out? He needed to get back to Devrik, his life might hang in the balance…

“Yes, I am Dügora Oakheart, a Master of the Green,” the laughing man said, pulling up from the tree and gesturing to the ground at his feet. “Your friend will be fine, you are healing him as we speak… this is a moment out of time, and all in your head. So, won’t you join me, my young friend?”

Vulk saw then that there was a great feast laid out beneath the tree, set on a white cloth,  that he had somehow failed to notice earlier. He walked forward and sat cross-legged at one side of the spread, and Dügora seated himself similarly on the other. The Telnori mage reached for a massive turkey leg, and motioned Vulk to help himself.

As they ate, they talked, and it all felt as natural and easy as if they’d known one another for years. Vulk found himself laughing at the man’s stories, and even made Dügora laugh twice with stories of his own, especially the one concerning his and Draik’s escape from the giant rats of Tekolo following the affair of the fanatic priest of the Faith, the apple-seller and the one-armed courtesan.

This led naturally to a discussion of Baylorium, and its miraculous healing effects, and Dügora was impressed. He questioned Vulk closely about how Draik, and to a lesser extent himself, had gone about refining, testing and improving it, questions Vulk answered without hesitation.

“You are clearly a man of learning,” Dügora said at last, pouring them both wine from a silver carafe. “And you have the power of the Green within you… you are a healer. If only you weren’t burdened by your Umantari “religious” superstitions…”

Even through the preternatural calm that surrounded him, Vulk bristled at this. “My beliefs are not superstitious! You can hardly deny the Lady of Luck exists, and –”

“Well of course she exists,” the Telnori waved a hand dismissively. “Indeed, I’ve met her myself occasionally over the centuries. Like all her kind, she is vastly powerful, with a mind and a wisdom deeper than even we Telnori can easily fathom. But neither she, nor any of the Immortals, are gods… not in the way so many of you Umantari worship them.”

There followed a rather lengthy philosophical debate about the precise nature of the Immortals and their relationship to the younger races of Novendo, which ended eventually in an agreement to disagree.

“But in any case, what do my beliefs have to do with anything?” Vulk asked, somewhat sulkily, when the other man had stopped laughing at him.

“My time on this plane is finally drawing to a close,” the Telnori answered seriously, all humor dropped in an instant. “And not before time, if I’m being completely honest. I would like to pass on the knowledge and the power of the Green, that it not die with me… but I am reduced to only a single choice of heir now – you. But I wonder if you can accept my gift if I choose to offer it.

“You believe that your manipulation of the T’ara comes to you as a gift from Kasira, and that in itself is fine – all mental structures we mortals create to harness and control the Power are artificial, so whatever works, works. But can you accept, at the same time, a second way of controlling the Power within you, one that comes only from yourself? It will change you, and your relationship to your “goddess,” inevitably. But not necessarily for the worse…”

Vulk knew that there were temple sorcerers in every cult of the Eldar, men and women who learned the spells of the T’ara Kul, but who used that power only for the work of the Church Eternal. But could he become one of them? As he considered the vast knowledge of healing that was being offered to him, he realized that he could not refuse it, even if it challenged his faith. He would trust in Kasira to know what was in his heart.

“If you offer this gift to me, Dügora Oakheart, than I can only accept it.”

The Torazin mage nodded solemnly, then broke into a wide grin. He reached into his chest and withdrew a glowing, translucent sphere of roiling green energy…

♦ ♦ ♦

Vulk returned to the battlefield to find Devrik staggering to his feet, apparently entirely healed of his injuries and grappling for his battlesword. The others stood arrayed before the swirling wall of wind and debris that protected the Vularun mage in postures of frustrated fury.

“She’s summoning an air elemental!” Farendol cried out. “She must plan to use it to wield the Sword, in place of the Iron Knight!”

Even as the words left his lips, a form began to take shape out of the whirlwind – vaguely humanoid and 5 meters tall. Toran leapt forward to land with both feet on the Great Sword of Taharazod, gesturing and muttering the words to a spell. It was a long shot, but he was attempting to modify the Joining of Merkünon, so that instead of locking him to a metallic or mineral surface, it would lock the Sword to the ground.

Yellow-white light flared from his hands and feet, engulfing the great weapon in strands of energy that dove into the ground around it, the net of power flaring for an instant before fading from sight. Toran felt the power anchoring him and Sword to the ground. The now fully formed, if only partially visible, air elemental reached for the hilt of the Great Sword…

For a moment Toran was sure he had succeeded, as the Sword failed to move. But then, with a great cracking sound, the blade lifted free of the ground, Toran’s feet still firmly attached to it! With a snarl of fury he released his spell and somersaulted away from the rising Sword. He landed in a crouch three meters away, pulling his battle axe from its sheath on his back.

At Mariala’s urging he retreated with the others to the dubious safety of the eastern ward circle. Farendol, who had been standing on the back of the fallen Iron Knight, was the last to join them. He turned to watch grimly as the Sword rose slowly into the air, and his shoulders sagged as the blade fell.

As it bisected the circle of the Great Ward, there was a flare of brilliant white light which seemed to leap out and then rush back together, drawn to the blade of the Sword like lightening. The elemental seemed to implode, vanishing with a boom that shook the very ground, while the Sword went spinning through the air to land a few meters from the Iron Knight. The blade glowed whitely for a moment, the light slowly fading as if the light were drawn into the metal.

The Vortex sorceress had been knocked back by the implosion, and momentarily stunned. But she quickly staggered to her feet with a cry of triumph, drawing everyone’s attention back to the Great Ward. In the center of the etched circle, directly over the sigil of locking, a pinprick of darkness had suddenly appeared, and as they watched in horrified fascination it began to grow… slowly at first, then faster and faster, until it filled the former ward circle with a dome of utter blackness.

After a few seconds the blackness began to fade away, revealing a dark, vaguely humanoid figure perhaps 5 meters tall standing within. The form was veiled by a flickering aura of intense blackness, which seemed to cling to it, obscuring the details of the blackened, cracked skin… but not enough. It was a horror, a nightmare made flesh.

The Corruptor was returned to the world.

“Quickly!” cried Farnedol, regaining his momentum. “We have little time. You must all give of yourselves to animate the Iron Knight. It is our only hope!”

The Druid had already explained to the Hand what would be wanted, should it come to this crisis, and though it galled the fighting instincts of some, they had all agreed to the plan. So, as the Corruptor acclimated to its sudden release and the stunned sorceress re-gathered her wits, the six friends lay down on the dusty stones within the charred circle of a lesser ward.

“I have already placed the Heart of Metal within the Iron Knight,” Farendol explained as he positioned each person precisely, their heads toward the center of the ward circle, their bodies like six spokes of a wheel – or the wedges of the Thalurian hexagram. “Now I must place each of your astral forms within the correct elemental slot…”

The Druid’s eyes grew unfocused as he stood in the center of the circle, spreading his arms wide and began chanting in a language none of them recognized, but which seemed hauntingly familiar. As the chanting grew stronger, more insistent, a wave of vertigo overcame each of the Hand… the world seemed to spin, faster and faster…

…and suddenly it was dark. Each person had the feeling that they floated in an endless void, neither cold nor warm, indeed, with no sensation at all except their thoughts. Slowly a faint light began to grow, and each person became aware of the others in a way they had no words for. They felt connected, yet still separate, singular parts of a unified whole.

“This must be what it’s like when we die, and out souls rejoin the All,” Mariala thought, “One with everything, and yet still somehow ourelves,”

“Indeed, I’ve often thought so myself,” a deep, resonating voice answered her thought. And suddenly Mariala found herself standing in the Great Square. But it was a far different Square than the one she had been fighting in a few minutes before – it was alive, it’s multicolored stones glowing in late afternoon sunlight, the white walled palaces, towers and arcades surrounding it gold-washed, trees everywhere, and ten thousand pots, planters, baskets and rooftop gardens full of flowers that made a riotous and yet harmonious explosion of color amongst the green and white.

Standing next to her was a man she instantly recognized, for she had seen this very face a day earlier, in the – well, not living – flesh. King Taharazod. He was dressed in a simple long white tunic and hose, with white leather shoes and belt, both trimmed in silver. The face that had been beautiful in the stillness of his death-like stasis was almost unbearably more so when animated by the power of his personality. His dark hair was bound by a thin circlet of gold, set with a single diamond that shone like a star on his forehead. His eyes were a deep emerald green, and Mariala felt she could become lost in those depths…

‘Your Majesty!” she gasped, managing to pull her thoughts together with an effort, and she curtsied deeply.

“No need for such formality here, Lady Mariala,” the King smiled, taking her hand. “For all are one here… can you not feel it?”

And she could, now that she tried. She could sense not only her friends, but the the four Telnori elemental spirits they bore as well… and two others…

“Those would be Kelohir the Gray and Zhedorum of Storm Peak,” Taharazod answered her thought. “Or more accurately, the echo of them, retained here in the Matrix Crystals that once housed their souls. For unlike the five of us Telnori, their souls returned to their bodies after our great battle against the Corrupter. Because they are only copies of the originals they cannot manifest themselves as I and the other Telnori spirits do, but you can hear their voices, perhaps…”

She listened carefully for a moment, and did indeed hear a voice… a man’s voice, lighter than the King’s, but strong and commanding in its own right. It seemed to speak of the mysteries of the mind…

“Kelohir and I will guide you in your task, but the task is truly yours – we cannot do it without you.” Taharazod drew her eyes back to his, and she read the question there.

“I’m ready, sir, for whatever is required,” she answered it, firmly and without hesitation. “Um, what exactly is my task though?”

“You are the binding mind through which all the others in this… array… are brought together. It is not control, for each remains himself, but it is focus you must provide. And you must begin now! For see what transpires outside this comfortable shell…”

With a wave of his elegant hand the city around them vanished, to be replaced by the reality of its long-dead corpse. The view was from a vantage that momentarily distracted Mariala, and through her the others, for it seemed they hovered far off the ground. Then she/they realized that she/they were seeing through the eyes… or visor, or whatever… of the Iron Knight, which now stood at its full 14 meter height.

But there was no time to admire the aerial view, for the Demon Khanaribas still stood at the center of the shattered Ward Circle and seemed to have overcome its initial confusion. It also appeared to be slightly larger than before.. and was its aura of Corruption slightly larger as well?

“It is already drawing energy from the corpses in the area,” she heard Kelohir say. “Next it will seek to drain and Corrupt the living… the Druid will protect your mortal shells, for a time, but if we do not shove this monster back into its cell…”

Yes, there’d be no bodies to return to. Everyone understood the stakes.

“We must not allow the Corruptor to leave the Ward Circle,” the voice of Taharazod added. “It will be very difficult to drive it back in, if once it leaves, and it is only there that I can rebuild the locus of its prison.”

Before any move could be made, however, their attention was drawn once more to the Vularun sorcress, who stood within her own Circle of Protection, and was calling out to the dark figure before her. In her hand she clutched some sort of talisman, a disturbingly shaped construct of bone, ivory, crystal and silver, that glowed red at its heart.

“I have freed you from your long imprisonment, Khanaribas!” she cried out. The words were in a language none of the Hand knew, the secret tongue of the Necromancer; but Taharazod, at least, knew it and in the communal understanding of the merged mind the meaning was clear to them all.

“Now, by the power of he who created you, through this [untranslatable], I abjure and command you!”

The great form slowly turned towards the woman, and its glowing red eyes fixed on the object in her hand. It took a slow step forward, and then another, and then it was outside of the old Ward Circle. Thirteen disembodied souls cursed as one. The demon reached the edge of the sorceress’ own active Ward and went to one knee.

The sorceress’ face split in a savage smile of triumph, and she pointed at the Iron Knight. “There stands your ancient foe! Together we can destroy them, and you  shall take their imperishable body for your own. And then nothing will stand in my way, not even the Golden Man!”

In the brief stillness that followed, Devrik/Iron Knight reached for the Great Sword that still lay at his/their feet. But the Corruptor did not turn to attack him/them. Instead it reached out toward the blond woman. As its blackened hand touched the sphere of protective energy around her a darkness flared and for an instant the ward was visible in a crackle of red energy, before disintegrating into quickly dying sparks.

They barely had time to appreciate the utterly shocked look on the sorceress face as the hand closed about her head and lifted her off the ground. Her shriek was cut off before it could fairly begin, and her kicking feet went limp. In seconds her body, clothes, jewelry and all, were turning gray, and then black. Only the talisman seemed unaffected, dropping from her hand to be lost amid the rubble.

As they watched in horror her clothes turned to dust, her body shriveled and twisted and quickly began to crumble. In less than a dozen beats of a heart none of them currently possessed the demon had tossed the lifeless husk aside. When it hit the ground 10 meters away it burst into dust, which was quickly scattered by the wind.

Now the Corruptor rose and turned toward its ancient enemy. It was noticeably taller now, perhaps seven meters high, and bulkier. The aura of flickering blackness flowed around it at a distance of almost a foot. Despite the fact that they towered over twice the creature’s current height, none of the Hand felt the slightest inclination toward overconfidence.

Then there was no more time for thought as a blast of Corruption suddenly erupted from the demon’s hands – the battle instincts of Devrik, Kelohir and Taharazod brought the Sword up to block it. White light flared along the blade, scattering the darkness into fading shards; the battle was joined.

The power of the land was the first attack the Iron Knight made, as Vulk/Dügora unleashed a bolt of green energy that cracked the ground beneath the demon’s feet, lifting great slabs up at sharp angles and driving the creature back towards the circle of the Great Ward.

The next blast of Corruption Mariala/Iron Knight dodged, and the demon seemed wary of closing with them. Erol/Kiren next released a ruby blast of energy that caused a cyclone to form around the demon, lifting it from the ground and sending it another few meters back. A blast of Corruption shattered the cyclone, and Khanaribas dropped to the ground with enough force to crack the paving for three meters around it.

With the demon momentarily on all fours, they aimed a kick at its head, but it was faster than expected – it caught the foot with both hands and heaved upward. The Iron Knight went over backwards, crashing to the ground – the few walls still standing around the edges of the Great Square collapsed.

Before she/he/they could recover the demon was upon them, grappling in an attempt to pin the Iron Knight and keep it in constant contact with its Aura of Corruption. The touch on the foot had been bad enough – though the Corruption could not penetrate the spells and the metal, it nonetheless send a chill through each of their souls. In full body contact, it was much worse, and a despairing cold began to seep into the collective mind.

Devrik/Yimara sent a surge of Yalvan energy through the metal shell of the Knight, and it began to glow red-hot before a ball of flame erupted forth to send Khanaribas flying… unfortunately, at right angles to the direction they wanted it to go. The Knight staggered to it’s feet, and raised the Sword, as the demon prepared to charge them again…

♦ ♦ ♦

When his mind/soul/consciousness/whatever had been sucked out of his body and settled into its temporary (he fervently hoped) new home, Toran was perhaps less disoriented than his companions. His training in the Kahar-ün-Tem by the monks of Areth-Mar had included more than one out-of-body experience on the so-called Astral Plane, and this seemed much the same.

He had also been immediately aware of another presence there with him… not next to him, or behind him, but all around and through him. As soon as he heard King Taharazod’s explanation to Mariala, he realized who it must be.

“Zhedorum? Is that you?”

There was a laugh, and for an instant he had an image of a Khundari with dark honey blond hair, a beard tied in a triple braid and strung with amber beads, and hazel eyes flecked with gold.

“Yes, it is I, cousin,” a deep voice resonated through Toran. “Or perhaps just my echo, if you believe the Fairy King.”

“You… he… you were always one of my heroes,” Toran said almost shyly. “I studied your battles closely, and all your adventures with Kelohir the Gray. I often imagined myself at your side…”

The voice laughed again, this time longer and deeper. “You imagined a great deal more than being at my side, young Shadow Warrior. And here you find yourself, inside me… or me inside you, I’m not really just sure which!”

Toran blushed, but the voice chuckled again, not unkindly.

“We are in a space of mind and memory, cousin, and there are no secrets here. And I assure you, I am flattered.”

Toran’s embarrassment faded as he realized this communion ran both ways, and he could “see” memories of the long dead warrior-hero… some of them deeply personal. He struggled to bring his focus back to the task at hand, and the echo, ghost, revenant – whatever it was – of Zhedorum aided him by showing him how to channel his Tykizu energies, the energy of Metal, through the crystal that was their physical locus.

“Let me show you a few tricks I learned over the years, young cousin…”

By the time Devrik/Yimara had unleashed their fireball, Toran/Zhedorum was ready with their own attack. As the demon charged them, he/they sent a specific frequency of Tykizu energy up and out through the Sword, causing its already razor-honed blade to sharpen to the width of a single molecule.

Khanaribas reached out a hand for them, and the Sword came down, slicing through aura, flesh and bone at the wrist, as well as the arcane energies that held all together, like the proverbial hot knife through butter. Even as the severed appendage flew off, trailing an arc of black ichor, it began to shrivel and shrink, and it hit the stones as no more than a spray of dust.

The Corruptor leaped back with a roar of pain and rage, unleashing a mighty blast of light-sucking Corruption as it did. Again the Knight deflected and dissipated the corrosive energies, and moved in for another attack. Step by step, second by second, it/they drove the demon back toward the Ward Circle. But even as it retreated they could see a new hand beginning to grow from the stump of the old one.

It was wary now of the Sword, and sent blast after blast of Corruption at them… many were blocked by the Sword, buy some splashed against the armor itself, and sent chilling waves throughout the composite mind, slowing them just a bit more each time.

But in the end they succeeded in driving Khanaribas back to the heart of the Great Ward. There, driven to its knees by a kick that came straight from Toran’s Areth-Mar training, Devrik/Kelohir/Mariala brought the Great Sword down in a blinding arc that split the demon from the crown of its horned skull to the bone spurs of its sternum.

Khanaribas collapsed, and in seconds its physical form began to disintegrate and crumble away. But through the eyes of the Knight they could all see its spirit form, the raw essence of demonic chaos, rise from the dust like smoke and coalesce into a twisting confusion of bodies and faces – all of the Umantari, Telnori and Khundari souls it had consumed over the years, that gave it structure in the world of Order that it could not, by its nature, make for itself.

The spirit form seemed unable to assume any single shape for long, but it was clearly looking for some new host… and only Farendol and Barbarian 55 still lived as possible targets. If you didn’t count the six bodies arrayed on the ground nearby, of course… bodies currently bereft of their native spirits…

But before the demonic spirit could do more than look in that direction, the Great Sword began to glow with a white light that quickly became too bright to look at, even for spirit eyes. The resonating voice of King Taharazod could be heard chanting in that same language Farendol had earlier used, so hauntingly familiar… he was rebuilding the Great Ward, and again opening the portal to the prison dimension. As his chant reached a crescendo a black dot appeared behind the physical remains of Khanaribas, growing quickly to a window, and then a doorway, into an empty, gray void.

The shifting faces of the demon-spirit took on looks of terror, rage and desperation, and it tried to flow away towards the living bodies that could anchor it in the world of matter. But the pull of the gate was irresistible, and it began to flow backward through the opening, faster and faster… and then it was gone, and in a white-hot flash of light the door slammed shut and the Locking Sigil beneath it flared briefly to life, sealing it once again.

The Knight then stepped back out of the circle of the Great Ward, and touched the Sword to it. White light flared along the blade and flowed into the carved circle, and for a moment a lattice dome of white light could be seen over all. But it quickly faded, and half of King Taharazod’s soul was again bound into the Great Ward that would keep the Corruptor sealed away from the world.

They communal mind then walked the Iron Knight back to its post on the far side of the Ebony Bridge, at Farendol’s request. He himself stayed behind with their still bodies to prepare the ritual that would return their souls to them.

“Leave the Sword there, with the Knight, at least for now,” he had called out as it/they strode away. When they had positioned the Knight at the edge of the bridge, Sword held upward before it in two hands, they felt again the sudden dizziness and disorientation, as the world turned to black…

…and they were each again in their own bodies. And alone in those bodies, for the souls of the Telnori elemental mages had not come back with them.

“Tarinas!” Korwin called in sudden distress at finding her gone from his mind. “Farendol, did she remain behind, in the Iron Knight? She –”

“Has moved on,” the Telnori Druid answered him calmly and not unkindly. “It is what we all will do someday, and her departure to whatever comes next has been too long delayed already, my young friend. I suspect she was anxious to be gone…”

“But we… I… I didn’t even get to say good bye. I thought…” he trailed off and shot an embarrassed glance at his companions before turning to rummage in his pack. But no one was inclined to give him chaff; they were all feeling the sting of separation to some degree, for all that their symbioses’ had been so brief. Short, but intense, and none of them would be unchanged by the experience…

Farendol, knowing what they were going through, kept them all busy gathering up the looted treasures of the dead city that the Vortex scavengers had stolen. There was a variety of items, including armor, weapons, jewelry, clothes, gems, books and potions, besides a miscellany of trinkets and gee-gaws. Farendol agreed that they could take what had already been looted, with the exception of one piece.

When he saw the crown that Korwin held up for inspection his mouth dropped and he openly gaped. It actually took him several minutes to regain his full composure as he reverently took the construction of gold and seven gemstones into his own hands.

“By Ariala’s Blessed Stars, this is the Crown of Therin-Sar, the crown of the Kings of Serviana and of the Lost Realm before it! We had thought it lost in the last mad retreat from the city that day… how did that fool of a woman ever find this? Where did she find it?”

But a thorough examination of Helara Karis’ surviving possessions (for that was the sorceress’ name they quickly learned) revealed no clue as to how her minions had decided where to look for loot. What few scraps of writing related to their searches seemed to suggest no more than random shots in the dark.

What they did find, though coded in a fairly simple cipher, were her notes on the Corruptor, the Iron Knight and her plans for both. A spell of confusion had been placed on the writing, its true protection obviously, but Farendol had dispelled it with an annoyed wave of his hand. When no hint of the Crown was found he lost interest and allowed Mariala to stow the papers away in her own pack.

The sun was sinking into blood-red clouds in the west as they prepared to leave the dead city for the last time, with one new addition to the party. Vulk had refused to allow Barbarian 55 (whose actual name turned out to be Therok Drogsun, of the Uska Ethmoniri) to be killed or left behind to die on his own. And the fighter, who seemed to find the cantor enthralling, had agreed to sign on as a bodyguard. The others were too tired to argue about it.

The wind, which had been gusting sporadically since the fight, was building steadily in intensity, and coming increasingly from the east.They were all grateful once more for the goggles and face wraps Farendol had supplied them with.

“I was afraid of this,” the Druid said grimly as a particularly strong gust whipped up the dust around them, making the mules bray plaintively. “All the elemental power released here today, the air elemental, the demonic energies… all have combined to create a tremendous low pressure cell over us. We have sown the wind, I’m afraid, and now we are going to reap the whirlwind.”

At there exhausted, blank looks he clarified. “There’s a storm coming. And a storm on the Blasted March is something to fear… I’d say we have no more than two hours before it really hits. I had hoped to travel during the cool of the night, but we must find shelter soon, and there is none nearby… however, I may be able to guide us to a place that will serve…”

“And to top it all off, there’s that,” Devrik rumbled in his most grating tone. They all turned to see him pointing towards the eastern sky. A scattering of stars had already appeared in the deepening blue, and a few degrees above the horizon hung a smudge of baleful red light, trailing a faint tail, clearly visible even through the growing dust haze.

“Gendor’s Comet,” Farendol sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Always a harbinger of disaster in the past… I can only imagine what it portends this time around.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

♦ ♦ ♦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

♦ ♦ ♦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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