Black Hawk sent a runner to inform Draik that the Hand was returned, and request that he wait upon them in Ser Alakor’s solar in the keep. He joined them on the short walk to the town and up the hill to the fortress, filling them in on the recent local happenings, which were few enough.

Though they remained on constant alert, no enemy forces had yet tried the defenses of Dor Dür. The summer had been cooler and rainier than usual, no doubt due to the eruption of Mt. Katai back in the spring. There was some concern that the harvest would be poor this fall, but stores were good… barring a complete disaster at harvest, they should be good through the winter.

Raven and the wee baby Aldari met the group at the gate of the keep, and everyone smiled at the passionate greeting she gave her husband. His son seemed thrilled to see his papa again, reaching chubby hands out to be held and cooing baby garble enthuiastically. Devrik returned his family’s greetings with smiles, hugs and whirling spins around to the sound of infant shrieks of delight, but Mariala thought that he seemed distracted, even so.

Raven also noticed her husbands half-hearted attempts at gaiety, and as the others made their way up to the solar to tell Alakor and his brother all the latest news, she drew Devrik to her own rooms. She had no doubt that she would learn soon enough what was bothering her beloved…

So it was that only Devrik was missing when Draik arrived and the Hand began the long tale the past tenday. With these close friends they spared no detail, including their being tricked into releasing one of the Four Lords of Chaos and the death of Erol. Explaining his resurrection in a Telnori body was the most difficult part of the story… in the end both Alakor and Draik agreed that this part of the tale would best be kept as quiet as possible.

Of course rumors were already flying around the small town and keep, but the return of the Hand of Fortune to Dor Dür was not the biggest news feeding the gossips. That honor went to the exciting events of the recent Battle of Bankir Bridge. Ser Alakor related the tale to the Hand that night during the modest welcoming feast he threw in their honor – a mostly family affair, with only himself, his brother Draik, Raven and her brother Black Hawk, and Marik Canatori, the current captain of the Hand of Vengeance, invited.

“The main Tharkian army, under the command of the usurper “King” Laravad himself,” he began, “made a massive push forward from Dor Fensir on the 17th, taking Tocharn Abbey easily and investing Dor Sholan.”

“Tocharn is the seat of the Kleros of Feradis,” Mariala interjected, frowning. “They didn’t capture the Kleros did they?”

“No, fortunately,” Ser Alakor replied with a wry grin. “Kleros Artelkes is a crafty political beast, like most of his clan. His cousin, the Earl of Burnan, keeps him apprised of events, of course, and he knew he was on the front line – he had his escape contingencies well in hand.

“Even so, it was a close thing. Laravad moved surprisingly swiftly, and the Klersos and his entourage barely kept ahead of the Tharkians. They made it to the relative safety of Dor Sholan and the protection of the Sheriff of Buran, but were then trapped there when the Tharkians besieged the keep. Ser Eris Karondal is a good man, though, and his defenses were well prepared. Without treachery and surprise on his side, Laravad couldn’t take Sholan easily.

“Indeed, the Tharkians barely stopped to invest the keep. The bulk of the army moved on south after only a day or so, to force the crossing of the Sürkil River at Bankir Bridge. The majority of the siege equipment went with him, so it seems obvious that Laravad intended to do his best to take Kar Bankir.

“But the Crown Princess surprised everyone by taking a major part of the Army of the East under her own command, and racing north to bolster the levies of Lord Torad. The Earl’s forces had marched out from Kar Bankir and held the Bridge against the Tharkians all day on the 20th. But they were badly outnumbered, and with boats landing on either side, they were forced to retreat by the early morning of the 21st.

“That is when Princess Miralda and her army arrived, having marched through the night from Dor Norasol. You want your troops as fresh as possible before a battle, or course, but the Princess had realized time was the critical element here – a day later and they’d have been dealing with an entrenched army, a siege, and an enemy with a beachhead on the wrong side of the river!

“Thanks to that foresight her men charged in from either side of the Earl of Burnan’s force, taking the Tharkians by surprise. Miralda led the main charge, with her father’s cadre of Royal Knights around her, and she inspired not only her own tired troops but the exhausted levies of Bankir as well. The sides were more evenly matched now, and the tide turned very quickly – in the space of two hours it turned into a semi-route of the Tharkian army!

“Laravad and perhaps half his army escaped back over the Bankir Bridge, in an unfortunately well done fighting retreat… the Princess and the Earl followed and secured the eastern bridgehead, but they decided their troops were so exhausted that to pursue would be to invite another reversal of fortunes, and this time one not in their favor.

“Instead they rested the army and the levies overnight, and the next morning set out after Laravad, leaving only enough men to secure the bridge. They expected to find the Tharkians thoroughly entrenched around Dor Sholan, but instead that afternoon found them in considerable disarray.

“It seems that Ser Eris had led a sortie out from his keep in the middle of the previous night, destroying most of the siege engines the enemy had been assembling and sowing confusion in their ranks by killing the commanding officer. When Laravad and the remains of the army had arrived a few hours later, he apparently had his hands full trying to stop a full-scale route!”

Alakor laughed at the thought, drained his goblet and motioned for more wine before going on.

“When the Crown Princess and Lord Torad arrived with their army they found the Tharkians barely organized… but not for battle! Apparently Laravad had decided discretion was the better part valor, and was preparing to retreat… I myself think he realized how tenuous his control of his forces was, and knew he could lose it all, then and there, if he allowed it to come to a battle.

“So, despite a numerical superiority, he fought another “tactical advance to the rear,” as they say. Princess Miralda and Lord Torad pressed them hard, but could never bring them to a stand-up fight. By the 23rd the Tharkians had retreated beyond Tocharn Abbey, which was recovered mostly intact, to the great relief of the Kleros, whom they had in tow, and the pursuit was called off.”

The warriors around the table nodded their heads in approval. They all knew the temptation to pursue an enemy just a little further – and how often that could lead to stretching your forces too thin and to your own defeat. It was a wise commander who knew when to stop and consolidate their gains.

“The people have been enthralled by Crown Princess Miralda’s bravery and skill,” Alakor continued. “She’s certainly put to rest any grumblings among the nobles about her being named the Heir. And she really is both strategically and tactically quite brilliant… perhaps more so than even her father, honestly.

“She not only had the foresight to stop the Tharkians at Bankir Bridge, but also to realize that they might be just one prong of an attack. Before she set out from Shalara she ordered a smaller contingent of the army and some of her father’s own Royal Levies to move north to bolster the defense of Dor Belthin and the Belthin Bridge… a move that proved very wise indeed.

“A smaller but stealthier army of Tharkian mercenaries, Urkonis rebels and northern barbarians tried to take the bridge and invest the keep… and were repelled by the royally-reinforced troops of Baron Korathin. Actually, it was the Baron’s twin sons, Ser Corwyn and Ser Merwyn, who led the defense… and in the end they were forced to throw down the bridge. But that might not be so bad in the end, with the rebel forces of Urkonis so close…

In any case, the enemy was defeated, if not quite so decisively as at Bankir. Had both attacks succeeded, Laravad would’ve had twin beachheads on the west side of the river, leaving Shalara open to attack by both land and water. Even one beachhead would have been a disaster, but thanks to our Princess the Sürkil line remains secure.”

“She is a formidable woman,” Vulk agreed, sipping at his own wine. “The Hand got credit for rescuing her, and the other noble ladies, from the clutches of the false Earl of Yorma at Urkonis, but really she rescued herself.

“With your help, of course, Raven,” he added hastily, nodding to Devrik’s wife. She just smiled and switched the wee baby Aldari from her left breast to her right.

“But as impressive as she is, why is she leading troops in the field?” asked Devrik, pulling himself briefly out of the brown study he had been in since their return, and that his hours closeted with his wife had done little to relieve. “What of the King?”

Ser Alakor grimaced and set down his goblet. “That is a more worrisome question. My sources at court tell me he has never been really well since the assassination attempt… as I think you know. For a time he seemed to be recovering, then he seemed to grow weaker and more frail day-by-day.

“He has done his best to hide the worst of it from all but those closest to him, but I fear he expended himself too freely in the struggle to get his daughter named Heir. The physicians and arcanists at court seemed unable to do anything for him, until your friend Master Vetaris came up with a treatment.

“I believe he consulted with you, Draik, yes?” Alakor asked, glancing at his brother.

Draik nodded and took up the story.

“Yes, as I know he told you before he sent you all off into the Blasted March, he had a sudden notion that the King’s malady might be some form of the Corruption itself, something that the Vortex was working on. At his request I provided him with raw Baylorium, and he consulted me occasionally as he worked to craft some new cure.

“Several days ago he started the King on a regimen of treatment involving his altered version of Baylorium, and the initial reports I’ve had from my own sources at court are that it seems to be working. King Maldan is reported to have more energy and looks much less wan and haggard. Some of his old force of personality seems to be returning, though his body is still too weak to take to the field. But there does seem to be hope now.”

“To the King’s health,” Ser Alakor cried, raising his goblet. “And to his quick recovery and return to full health!”

“Hear, hear!” the company replied enthusiastically, raising their own goblets and drinking deeply.

Two days later a breathless messenger from Shalara arrived via Gate bearing the news of the death of King Maldan I.

•••

Along with the tragic news of the sudden passing of the King, the messenger bore a Royal Summons for Ser Cantor Vulk Elida and the Lady Mariala Teryn, Margrave of Green Tower to attend at once upon the Queen-elect in Kar Landsar. The rest of the Hand might attend on the Court with them or not, as they pleased, but were in any case invited to the Coronation, which would take place on 6 Kilta, a tenday hence.

Ten days was the minimum time custom permitted between the death of a monarch and the accession of the next. And with the Landsar Succession Council having already affirmed Miralda as the Heir, there was no need to delay further and every reason not to. The war pressed, and there was little time for pomp and ceremony.

The Hand chose to travel as a group back to the capital, taking Raven and the wee baby Aldari with them. Unfortunately, Devrik had departed Dor Dür the day before the royal messenger had arrived, and so knew nothing of recent events.

He had said little to his friends, only that he had to sort things out on his own after recent events, and that he would return.

Raven, of course, knew where he was going and why, and they had argued about her staying in Dür while he was gone. Devrik had pushed for her and their son’s removal to the capital when he had learned that Dame Erila Kalafon, the late King Garinalt’s long-time mistress and mother of his youngest bastard, had joined her son at Dor Lorethal.

The former Lord of the Privy Seal had left Shalara quietly, some said even secretly, and rumors blazed up – she was a knight of Tharkia, however long she had lived and held power in Nolkior… with her hopes for her son’s elevation to the throne now dashed for good, would she seek to influence him to turn traitor and ally with Tharkia?

Ser Tulath Kalafon, Sherfiff of Kinen, was not particularly popular, nor very bright in Devrik’s opinion. The Hand had encountered him briefly during the affair of the false Earl of Yorma, and no one had been impressed. If his mother did suborn him to her nominal ancestral allegiance, would he turn over Dor Lorethal to the Tharkians? If he did, that would place Dor Dür directly on the front line of this shifting war. Devrik was not certain that the man would betray his half-niece the Queen-elect but didn’t intend to risk his family on it.

Knowing that he would never leave them if he thought they were in danger, and also knowing that he desperately needed this vision-quest, Raven eventually agreed to return to their home in Shalara when the Hand left. Neither had expected it to be so soon, however.

Draik decided to leave his apothecary shop in the hands of his cousin/assistant and accompany his old friends to the capital, having received his own invitation to the Coronation. He would also act as his brother’s representative, since the Constable Ser Alakor didn’t feel he could leave his responsibilities at Dor Dür even for a short time.

Early on the morning of 29 Emblio the Hand, minus Devrik but including Draik, Raven and the wee baby Aldari, two saddlebags stuffed full of treasure, and the stais-shrouded corpse of Tarbol, climbed the Elf’s Mound once more and entered the Gate…

•••

On arriving at the Gate in Kar Landsar most of the Hand immediately departed for for their homes in the New District of the city. Only Vulk and Mariala remained behind, with the body of Tarbol, to meet with the Queen-elect and then seek out Master Vetaris. The servant sent to greet them and guide them to Miralda’s presence was slightly taken aback by the sight of the faintly glowing body on the stretcher, but recovered his composure quickly and managed to find both a quite chamber to stash it and two strong footmen to carry it there.

Once they’d seen Tarbol’s body carted off the two friends were guided to a small parlor overlooking the Royal Park, where they waited for over an hour for the Queen-elect. Refreshments were served, naturally, but by the time Miralda finally strode through the door unannounced, they were beginning to nod off in their chairs.

Coming instantly alert, they jumped up and bowed / curtseyed to Her Majesty, who smiled and waved them back to their seats, taking one herself and pouring herself a cup of hot chocolate. No servants attended on her, which greatly surprised them. Obviously this was to be a very private conversation.

“Thank you so much for getting her so quickly,” she began, after graciously accepting the two friends’ condolences on the death of her father. “I have a decision to make, and you two have the last pieces of information I need before I commit to… well, to my proposed course of action.”

“Tell me, what was your impression of King Dorikon of Arushal, when you met him earlier this year at the treaty negotiations? As a man, not as a king, that is.”

“Well, er, um… that is… well, he is the king, so…” Vulk looked to Mariala for help, but she seemed equally nonplused.

“I know you are a subject of his, Ser Vulk, but I pray you will be honest with your thoughts. It is important to me. And Lady Mariala, I especially want your opinion of the man, as a woman.”

A sudden light went off then in Mariala’s head, and she smiled. Vulk just looked confused.

“Well, Your Majesty, he is certainly well found in the looks department,” she said carefully. “He is still a young man, of course – just past 30 I believe – and physically quite fit, but not in that over-done way of some fighting men. He had a certain quiet charisma that I think went beyond simply being a king… he did seem to me to be rather grave, but of course that might have been the circumstances…”

“Yes,” Vulk interjected, drawn in despite his reservations. “My father has known the king since he was a boy – since the king was a boy, not my father – and says that even as a youth Dorikon had quite a dry sense of humor. He’s very intelligent, everyone agrees on that, and I’d have to concur after watching him in action.”

“They say he is too quick to appease an enemy, and worse, that he is a passive tool of his father, the Earl of Savartim,” Miralda said diffidently, but watching Vulk’s reaction closely.

“No,” the cantor shook his head decisively. “I’ve heard those accusations, of course, but my father says there is little merit in the one, and none at all in the latter.

“It’s true that some, particularly in my part of the country, bordering Darikaz, worry that he settled the Somkari War with the Republic badly, that he gave up too much too quickly, and unnecessarily. Which might be true, who can know for sure?

“But if so, he has certainly learned from it… and, after all, it was a decision made when he was younger and not long come to the throne. In fact, a year younger than you are now, Your Majesty, if I recall correctly.

“Besides, much of that complaint comes from the Baron of Ultorim, the former Earl of Somkari who started the stupid war with Kildora in the first place and lost two-thirds of his holdings as a result – he thinks the king should have plunged the country into a major war, of uncertain outcome, to cover his own sorry ass. Er, excuse my Darikazi, Your Majesty –”

Miralda smilled and waved her hand dismissively. “I have spent some time in the field with the troops, Ser Vulk, I am not easily shocked or offended. Please, go on.”

“Well, as to the suggestion that the king is a puppet of his father,” Vulk continued. “I can myself attest to that being unlikely. Lord Naldaro certainly is an important advisor to his son – how not, being an Earl and former sovereign himself, prior to Zarik’s War? But he wields little more influence than the other Earls, as I witnessed at the recent treaty talks – he rejected more than one of his father’s suggestions, as he did others’. He also accepted some, when they seemed good to him – he seemed to me very much his own man, Your Majesty.”

Miralda nodded thoughtfully, and for the next half hour intently posed various insightful questions to the two friends to complete her picture of Dorikon IV of Arushal through their eyes. At last she sat back with a sigh and a smile.

“Thank you , my friends,” she said, picking up her chocolate then wrinkling her nose when she realized it had gone cold. Setting the cup back down, she looked each of her guests in the eyes, her expression growing serious.

“What I am about to tell you is a state secret, and must not leave this room. You may not tell even your comrades in the Hand of Fortune – do I have your solemn oath on your absolute discretion in this?”

The two friends both swore an official oath, and waited expaectantly. Taking a deep breath Miralda slipped into formal monarch mode.

“We have determined that, in the face of the increasing threats Our realm faces, both from within and from without, that it were best done that We should propose marriage to Dorikon of Arushal, that We might unite our two realms into a greater whole, the better to confound our mutual enemies.”

At Vulk’s shocked look, and Mariala’s knowing nod, the Queen-elect suddenly grinned, and dropped back to her more normal cadences.

“I’ve been thinking about this for awhile… ever since my father first proposed the idea, shortly after his own coronation. At that time, of course, he simply sought to bind the alliance more tightly, not foreseeing his own death so soon.

“But with a war going on, and him the kind of ruler who would not lead from behind, he had no illusions about the possibility of his early death. He was not adverse to the uniting of the two realms that would result, as long as it was done on a basis of equality.

“And joint rulership will be required, if Dorikon and his advisors accept my proposal – each monarch to remain sovereign within their own realm, and consort in the realm of the other. But our eldest child, boy or girl, would inherit a united kingdom!”

Her eyes were bright with the vision of the future she saw, and Vulk and Mariala were infected with that tantalizing dream too.

“But as sound as I think this idea is, I wanted a more personal perspective on my proposed mate before committing to it… not that a Queen,or a King for that matter, has much choice in these things. I would go through with it even if Dorikon was fat, ugly and an imbecile, it is my duty… but I’ll be damned if I’ll go into it blind!”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll find you’re making too great a personal sacrifice, Your Majesty,” Mariala said, laughing. “He really is quite handsome, and far from an imbecile.”

Vulk nodded enthusiastically, grinning himself.

“My father and I had been over this with our very closest advisors and the greater nobles of the Realm,” Miralda went on after a moment, turning serious once more. “There will be some struggle to get all the nobility to swallow this, especially now that I am Queen, but the key Earls and the Archkleros are behind it, more or less. We plan to send an embassy immediately after my coronation.

“But how the nobles of Aruhsal will react to this proposal is more of a mystery. That is the other reason I wanted to speak to you, Ser Vulk – tell me what you think the reaction will be in your homeland, please.”

Taking a deep breath and gathering his wits, Vulk leaned forward and began to talk…

•••

Two hours later the exhilaration the two friends had felt during their conversation with the Queen-elect began to fade as they stepped into the room where Tarbol’s body lay. Master Vetaris had send word that he would attend on them shortly, and they weren’t looking forward to this interview at all.

When the silver haired man entered the small chamber a few minutes later, Mariala thought he looked older and a bit haggard. How much of this was due to the news of his nephew’s death or to the recent strain, and failure, of keeping the late king alive, she wasn’t sure.

“My great-nephew, actually,” he said with a sigh in response to their condolences. “My niece’s son. And not all that great, to be honest. How he came to be with you all, I’ve only begun to piece together, but before we get into that, tell me what happened, from your point of view.”

Haltingly, but leaving out no detail, Mariala and Vulk recounted their brief acquaintanceship with Tarbol Arbitar, and the manner of his sudden death. When they were done the Gray Mage sighed again, looking down at his idiot relative’s glowing body.

“Thank you, Cantor Vulk, for preserving the boy’s body,” he said after a moment. “I don’t know if I will be able to revive him, but for my sister and my niece’s sake, I suppose I have to try…

“And I apologize for putting you in this no doubt uncomfortable position. It seems the boy intercepted, not the note you sent me, Mariala, requesting aid for the Telnori druid, but my instructions directing a skilled healer to attend upon you. Cantor Hervador had been called away on an urgent medical matter, unfortunately, and this seems to be what gave Tarbol the idea, and the opportunity, to take his place.

“Over the last couple of years it seems he had learned more that he should have about my association with the Star Council – reading his hidden journals, discovered when he went missing, it seems he was more devious than I’d ever have given him credit for. And, even more surprising, rather intelligent, too – he pieced together hints, clues, obscure references, to come to the correct conclusion that not only did the Star Council exist, but that I was associated with it.”

He smiled then, a wan and regretful smile. “Actually, he seemed to believe that I was a member of the Council, perhaps even its head… the boy was a born romantic, eh?

“In any case, he seemed to think that by absconding with this mission he could gain my respect and trust, and become himself an agent of the Council. He really didn’t seem to understand that what it would really do, had he survived, was get him mind-wiped and relegated to some backwater manor on the edge of the wilds. Indeed, if he is revived, his mind will certainly be relieved of any knowledge of the Council… but perhaps I can find him some better post… although it will be have to be far from his old haunts, lest his memories be reawakened…”

“If it’s any consolation, sir,” Vulk offered after a moment, “his heart really did seem to be in the right place, even if his skills weren’t up to it. He was truly incensed at the idea of Farendol’s body being usurped by another…”

“Thank you, Vulk, yes, it is some consolation,” the older man replied. “Which brings us to the next issue… the possession of this Farendol’s body by our friend Erol. I think this is a more complicated issue than you perhaps realize… and then there is the matter of an Elemental Demon Lord loose in the world again…”

“Er, yes, sir,” Mariala said, grimacing. “But I would like to point out that we managed to keep the Corruptor imprisoned, surely the more dangerous of the two demons…”

With a sardonically raised eyebrow, and a last look at his great-nephew, Vetaris motioned the pair out the door and towards his private rooms, for what promised to be another long meeting… and one less happy than the one with the Queen-elect had been…

It took the Hand far less time to make their way back out of the Prison of Haranol than it had to penetrate it. When they arrived back at the large entrance chamber, they found the mules waiting patiently, Barbarian 55 still asleep, and the sun just beginning to rise in the east.

The storm was over, the winds now no more than occasional gusts, and the fine dust of the Blasted March was settling again to cover the dead land in a blurring blanket. Still exhausted from days of hard travel, possession by benevolent spirits, mind-merging, battle with a demon, more hard travel through a sand storm, mental manipulation by another demon, and the death of one of their own, the surviving members of the Hand of Fortune wanted nothing so much as to collapse into sleep for the next several days.

But grief and responsibility drove them to resist the temptation, at least for the moment. Mariala drew out the pieces of her magic parchment that were linked to ones in the possession of Master Vetaris, her ink and a pen. As she sharpened the quill, she pondered how to say what she needed to, as concisely as possible. With suggestions from Devrik and Korwin she finally put pen to parchment.

Corruptor imprisoned. Vortex stymied here. Farendol dead, resurrected, in coma. Erol dead, body possessed by Haranol/Sakal-Ur. Demon Lord free. Survivors exhausted, on verge of collapse. At least 1-2 days from nearest Gate. Please advise. –MT

Mariala knew that her mentor made a habit of checking her parchments each day as part of his morning routine; it should be no more than an hour or two before he saw her message. Although how long it would take him to craft a response, and what that response might be, she couldn’t guess. When they’d freed a minor spider-demon on a mostly-empty moor awhile back he’d been quite wroth… freeing one of the five most powerful demonic entities on Novendo… she couldn’t begin to imagine.

Well, she’d done what she could, for the moment. And whatever Vetaris or the Star Council might want of her and her friends next, she wouldn’t be able to do anything if she didn’t sleep soon. And the others needed to sleep too…

After advising her on the note, Devrik had left the building to patrol the perimeter and assess the possibilities for defense, while Korwin had set about making breakfast. Vulk had never left Farendol’s side since they’d laid him down on the cantor’s sleeping roll, and Toran was busy putting together some sort of travois that could be slung between the mules to carry the comatose Telnori.

After breakfast, they all gathered on the steps of the building in the bleak morning sun to discuss what to do next. Mariala had checked her parchment, but no word yet from Master Vetaris.

“We need to return to civilization as soon as possible,” Vulk insisted, continuing an argument begun over breakfast. “Farendol needs more healing than I can give him here, and the longer it’s delayed… Well, if we set out now, we might make the Gate before nightfall, if we push hard.”

“I understand, my friend,” Devrik growled. “No one wants Farendol to recover more than me, truly. But we are all on the edge of collapse, and frankly, you more than most – we’ve all seen what your healing takes out of you, never mind an actual resurrection!”

“He’s right, Vulk,” Mariala agreed. “You’re not thinking clearly. What good would it be to Farendol if we perish ourselves in these wastelands? And we might well do so, if we set out in this state.”

“And I can’t promise I can summon up more water without some rest,” Korwin sighed. “I tried while preparing breakfast, and I just can’t do it, my focus is shot… I, at least, wouldn’t dare to try any magic until I’ve had a good 10 hours of sleep.”

Vulk argued a bit more, but in the end he was too tired to keep it up… which he knew proved his friends’ point. Not that he didn’t surrender with ill grace, stomping off to check on his patient and roll out a second bedroll next to him, while the others pondered whether or not they could safely use Barbarian 55 for sentry duty.

“He has a name, you know,” Vulk flung over his shoulder as he walked away. “It’s Therok, try using it!”

Devrik just rolled his eyes as he finished cleaning his sword and re-sheathing it across his back.

“I know he still seems totally, um, smitten with our cantor,” he said as the blade snicked home, “but I don’t feel comfortable trusting our lives to him just yet.”

“I agree,” Toran said, pulling  a whetstone along edge of his own weapon. “Which is while I’ll take the first watch with him. My people are naturally able to go longer than you humans without sleep, and my Kahar-ün-Tem training means I can go days without sleeping, if need be.”

“That training didn’t seem to do much good last –” Devrik started to say, but then seemed to think better of finishing the thought.

“No, no… I admit, I wasn’t immune to the mental powers of an Elemental Demon Lord,” Toran purred sweetly. “Not like a bad-ass fire mage-warrior such as–”

“OK, that’s enough!” Mariala interrupted sharply, jumping to her feet. “We’ve agreed we need to rest, so let’s do it. Barbarian – er, Therok has had a full nights sleep, so he should be good for the whole day, with one of us always awake with him – Toran first, then Korwin, then Devrik, in four hour shifts. OK?”

The others agreed, and it was only as they were preparing to lay down that any of them realized she’d managed to leave both Vulk and herself out of the guard duty rotation…

As Mariala prepared her own sleeping roll she noticed that Grover, Erol’s beloved ferret, was curled up on top of one of the saddle bags. He had been asleep when they’d returned, and had darted about between their feet, obviously looking for his master, and had seemed confused when he couldn’t find him. She made the chirping sound she knew attracted him, but he just raised his head to look at her, then heaved a sigh and lowered it onto his forepaws again and closed his eyes.

Mariala shrugged, feeling bad for the poor creature – however much she would miss Erol, Grover would certainly miss him more. The two had been inseperable, and gods knew, the little beast had been useful more than once in battle. She wondered if he would come to bond with her, when his master failed to return…

The last thing she did before sleeping, fighting off her drooping eyelids with an effort, was check her parchment. And there was the reply from Master Vetaris:

A disaster to be sure! Will need full details soonest, but Council forces have already been set in motion. Will send medical help to nearest Gate, day after tomorrow. Rest, recover, travel by night. Condolences –V

Good, she sighed, tucking the sheet away again… no urgent call to action, good… In seconds she was asleep.

♦ ♦ ♦

She dreamed of Erol.

She stood on a vast, dark plain, under a dark, starless sky. In the distance she saw a figure, and as she watched it seemed to come closer without actually moving. She realized it was Erol, and she felt a great grief wash over her. He seemed to recognize her, but looked puzzled, even confused. He seemed to be trying to speak, but she could make out no words. Then he was suddenly receding from her again, and she called his name, but he was gone…

If she dreamed any other dreams that day, she didn’t recall them…

♦ ♦ ♦

By the time the sun was touching the western horizon everyone was awake and preparing to set out. Devrik and Therok had fixed a hot meal, which they ate quickly, and Toran and Vulk had secured Farendol between the mules in the sling travois the Khundari had rigged. It meant that as much of the load from the saddle bags as possible had to be split between the party, but it wasn’t an intolerable burden for anyone.

Mariala was gratified when Grover ran up to her and leaped onto the top of her pack, settling himself there with a deep sigh. He had been rather frantic earlier, when they’d been distributing the contents of the saddle bags, running around and nipping at hands. But he seemed calm now, if still a little depressed. Of course she was probably projecting that last emotion…

The day’s rest had certainly gone a long way towards renewing everyone’s bodies, but their reserves were still dangerously low – it was a surface recovery, and more physical than emotional. Through the long hours of the night, putting one foot in front of the other, they all had plenty of time to remember and mourn their fallen friend. Only the physical exertion prevented them from dwelling too much on their grief, Vulk suspected.

He himself was more than a little distracted from his very real, raw emotions over Erol’s death by the needs of Farendol. He couldn’t understand why the Telnori hadn’t yet regained consciousness. Certainly Vulk had learned his lesson after that horrifying revival of Ser Andro Valador, as the man immediately died again of the painful poison that had first killed him – this time Vulk had healed enough of the physical trauma to ensure the Telnori wouldn’t simply expire again from his wounds.

And clearly that had worked, as Farendol’s body breathed, his eyes were reactive to light, his temperature and color were good – perhaps Vulk had missed some internal damage – Kasira knows he was working in the heat of battle and panic. Maybe the interruption in his healing efforts when Erol – the demon – had attacked had caused him to miss something crucial. Or maybe the Druid was in some sort of healing Telnori trance. Actually, as he thought about it, lat last idea seemed more and more likely…

♦ ♦ ♦

When the sun rose the next morning, the tired group could see a distant line of green ahead of them, beyond the shifting gray dust of the Desolation. No more than another half-day’s march Devrik  and Toran estimated. After a shot stop for a cold meal and a rest, everyone agreed that they should press on. Hopefully help would be waiting for them at the Gate, or would at least be there not long after them, as Master Vetaris had promised.

It was not yet midday when the group found themselves once again standing before the Gate in the ruins of the once-proud city of Xaranda. They had left the Blasted March slightly south and east of where they’d entered it, and so arrived in the dead city without passing through the burned-out shell of the hamlet of Helathor, where all this had begun – was it really just four days ago?

No one was waiting for them, so Korwin oversaw the setting up of camp and the preparation of a hot meal, while Devrik and Toran scouted the area. After eating, Vulk and Mariala volunteered to take the first watch while the other slept, including Therok.

The sun was well on its way toward the western horizon when Devrik and Toran, who were on guard duty by then, and Vulk, who was up checking on his patient, saw a figure materialize within the circle of the Gate. Silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, he seemed an imposing figure – of average height, but solidly built, stocky even, silver-gray hair flared in a halo around his head, one hand holding a tall staff and his dark traveling cloak thrown back over one shoulder.

He peered down the slight slope at the three men and the camp beyond them and raised a hand.

“Hail, friends!” he called, in a surprisingly light, if pleasant, voice for such a hefty body. “My name is Tarbol Arbitar, and I’m here to–”

His last words were cut off as he took a step forward, caught a booted foot in his cloak, stumbled forward, almost regained his balance… and tripped over a stone, face planting in the grass at Devrik’s feet. The commotion woke the others, who craned to see what was going on.

As the three men rushed forward to offer assistance, the stranger scrambled to his feet, waving them off, tugging his clothes back into order and recovering his staff – a shepherd’s crook, actually. No longer framed against the light, it was obvious he was much younger than they had first thought, though both his shoulder-length hair and close-trimmed beard were silver-gray. His eyes were a watery blue, and his generous nose raw and red. His bulk seemed less muscle than… well, less than muscle.

He squinted myopically around, and seemed momentarily taken aback as he noticed the rest of the group gathered around, then cleared his throat and began again.

“As I was saying, I am Tarbol Arbitar, and I’m here to help!” he declaimed more than said. “Master Vetaris promised you a healer… and I am a healer, a cantor of Alea, of the Order of the Vigilant Shepherd.”

He threw back his cloak again, to reveal the coarse beige cloth of his tunic and trousers, little distinguishable from a well-to-do peasant’s garb if not for the white leather belt and the wheat-sheaf & crozier badge of Alea on his breast.

“Now, where is my patient?”

The stone mason’s cart, though now empty, limited the pace of the Hand of Fortune as they made their leisurely way back to stately Elidar Manor. The pace suited everyone’s mood, spared the horses, and allowed Ergaboreth to keep a comfortable walk, as they enjoyed the high summer days. They celebrated Maita Lai, the summer solstice, quietly on the road. The turmoil of Bremkin and the handover of the Onyx Throne behind them, everyone seemed to appreciate a breather, and were content to enjoy their new companion’s tales of his homeland and people.

Erol alone paid little attention to the giant’s tales, seeming sunk in thought, and at each inn they stopped at he spent much of his evening alone, scribbling away at a letter. When asked about it he shrugged and changed the subject; he also had little to say about the meeting with his father, and his friends declined to pry.

The most excitement the Hand faced was in the villages they passed through, and most especially the ones they overnighted in, where their giant companion created quite a stir. Whatever fears his appearance might have evoked were quickly overcome by his gentle and curious demeanor – and Devrik’s darkly eyeing potential trouble makers and fingering the hilt of his sword didn’t hurt either.

On arriving back at Elidar Manor, Vulk’s young cousins and their friends were again quite taken with “Uncle Vulk’s giant,” a situation which Devrik claimed was just fine with him, since they usually swarmed him, and who needed that. Nonetheless, Mariala thought he looked a little wistfully as the rug rats climbed all over Ergaboreth. She wisely said nothing.

After several days of relaxing in the countryside, and following several hints from Vulk’s aunt that, charming as he was, feeding a giant was beginning to take its toll on her stores, the Hand decamped, setting out for the port town of Devok. Their ship Fortune’s Favor was due in port in just a few days, and they had decided to “commandeer” it for the journey back to Shalara.

It was pleasant to catch up with old friends in the town, where they were remembered fondly for past heroic efforts. Their former landlord, Helkam Grennan, was thrilled to rent them their old rooms at the Cloven Shield, plus a couple more for the expanded roster. And he hardy blinked at all at the challenge of putting up Ergaboreth… in the stables, as it turned out.

The most emotional moment of their visit to Devok, however, came on the second evening in town, when the town’s butcher, Marik Baysiron, showed up in the common room with his wife Elana and their now 12-year-old son Borin. They seemed very pleased to see the people who had saved their son, despite their failure to also save the boy’s younger sister. If the Hand had been in any doubt, it was removed when Elana unwrapped the bundle she carried to reveal the face of a month-old baby girl.

“We named her Mariala,” Elena said shyly. “In honor of both Mirala and you, Lady Mariala. Would you like to hold her?”

Too overcome for words, Mariala just smiled and took the infant in her arms. While she cooed at the baby and showed her off to her companions, Marik drew Vulk aside for a brief word.

“Master Vetaris spoke to me shortly after you and your friends left town last year,” he said quietly. “Borin was having nightmares, and we didn’t know what to do… I was surprised to see such an important man take an interest in such as us, but… well, after he told us what really happened that terrible night, or at least some of it, I understood.

“He spoke to Borin for a long time, and whatever he said seemed to calm the boy. The nightmares never came again, thank Mara, and he still has no memory of the horror… the horror that…” He had to stop for a moment to regain his composure.

“I know I’m just a butcher, Cantor Vulk, but if there’s ever anything I or my family can do for you and your friends, I hope you will let me know. We are forever in your debt, and will never forget it!”

“Thank you Marik,” Vulk replied, clapping the shorter man on the shoulder. “I only wish we had been able to… do more… But whatever you feel you owe us, you can best repay by helping anyone you find in their own dire straits – pay it forward my friend! But that said, a nice cut of beef…”

♦ ♦ ♦

When Captain Levtor was presented with his employers’ request to take them all to Shalara, he reacted with his usual graceful aplomb, agreeing that he could alter his planned trading route with little trouble. He was less sanguine when he was presented with sight of Ergaboreth.

“But – I – we can’t –”

The others grinned at the sight of the usually unflappable and very urbane trader-captain flummoxed and at a loss for words. Of course he regained his balance fairly quickly, and after consulting with his first mate, agreed that they could make accommodations for the Gyantari guest. While the crew went about the business of getting the ship ready to sail with a giant aboard, Levtor, Vulk and Mariala repaired to the Safe Harbour for lunch and to go over the books for the last trading voyage to the Sydoran League.

The others strolled around the docks, enjoying Ergaboreth’s fascination with the sea, something he had never seen before. He was rather nervous about the idea of going out on all that vast expanse of water on such a tiny boat. Toran’s own discomfort with large bodies of water didn’t help matters, especially as the two had become rather close on the road, staying up long into the night talking of the mountains and of metalcraft.

Devrik and Erol both tried to assure Ergaboreth that it would be fine, and even offered to teach him how to swim, if that would reassure him. Toran, too, but the Khundari was adamant. “I don’t float, I just sink,” was all he would say, shaking his head firmly.

“You know, most sailors never bother to learn how to swim,” Korwin interjected. “They genrally feel they’d rather dro-” Devrik’s elbow in his ribs shut his mouth, and a glare from Erol kept it that way. He shrugged and took a sudden interest in the seagulls flying over the harbour.

The swimming lesson was of marginal success, at best. Although the Gyantari didn’t sink like a stone, as his Khundari friend claimed to do, he wasn’t exactly buoyant either. He also seemed to have a hard time coordinating his strokes and his breathing.

After an hour of flailing about in the water, generally having fun but making little progress, while Toran and Korwin watched from the rocky beach, they finally gave it up.

“Look, just don’t fall in, OK?” Erol suggested. Toran muttered darkly under his breath, but no one asked for a clarification.

A crowd had begun to gather, despite their seeking out a secluded cove, and there was a gasp and some wide eyes when the giant emerged from the water with his trews clinging wetly to… well, everything.

Despite the mixed results of his lesson, Ergaboreth seemed strangely cheered by the exercise. After Devrik had shooed off the gawkers and they had dried off , as they began walking back to town, Toran asked the giant why he was so damn cheerful.

“Well,” he replied with a grin, “if I can’t swim very well, I suppose I can just walk along the bottom!”

It was true, the water in the cove had only come up to his chest, but when Korwin started to explain that the sea was very much deeper Devrik just shook his head and muttered “Let it be, water-boy, let it be.” Korwin shrugged and started whistling a sea chanty he knew particularly irked the fire mage…

♦ ♦ ♦

The voyage back to Shalara was uneventful, and while Ergaboreth quickly relaxed and began to enjoy the wind and the motion, Toran spent most of his time below deck. Except when he would come up to hurl his last meal back into the sea, of course. After a day of this, Korwin offered to cast a small cantrip he knew, and thereafter Toran’s sea sickness abated, although it did nothing to improve his dark mood.

The Fortunes Favor sailed into the harbor of Shalara in the morning of 11 Emblio, a gloriously beautiful day, which even Toran grudgingly had to agree with, especially once his feet were on the solid stone of the docks. The group made their way through the city towards their homes in the New District, the center of a constantly buzzing bubble of excitement at the sight of an actual Gyantari.

Actually, the South River Gate guards had had a momentary fit of panic at the sight of Ergaboreth, but the captain, at least knew who the Hand was. When Lady Mariala haughtily assured him she would take full responsibility, he relievedly bowed them into the city.

After some debate, it was agreed that the Gyantari would stay with Toran, both because of their budding friendship and because, paradoxically, Khundari House had the highest ceilings of any of their homes. Ergaboreth would only have to slouch a little, and then only in some of the smaller rooms. When the others seemed surprised at this, he shrugged and grinned.

“What can I say, my people build on a grand scale!”

As they parted company, each to their own home, Vulk muttered something to Mariala about “overcompensating,” which, perhaps fortunately, Toran missed.

Early the in the morning of the day after their arrival home, a page from Kar Landsar appeared on their collective doorstep, summoning the Hand of Fortune to attend on the King’s Council at the Third Turning of the Wolf’s Watch. This was not unexpected, of course, and the six friends gathered at the Green Tower an hour before noon. While they made their way to the Royal District, Jeb and Cris were left to entertain (and keep an eye on) Ergaboreth.

When they were announced into the Royal Council Chamber, they were all shocked at the appearance of King Maldan. The large, robust man they were used to seemed shrunken and wan, slouched in his chair at the head of the table, his usually sharp eyes dull and half-lidded, sunk in dark pits. His flesh seemed to hang loosely on his large frame.

At his right hand sat his daughter, Crown Princess Miralda, now officially the heir despite the misgivings of some of the realm’s nobles. She nodded and gave the group a tight smile before turning her attention back to her father. He patted her hand and sat up a little straighter in his chair, nodding for Master Vetaris to speak.

The group’s mentor stood at the Kings left hand, a fact which both Mariala and Vulk, at least, sensed was annoying to the Lord Chancellor, Ser Tarkin Urhano. And more than annoying to Sera Derwen Verdeth, Mistress of Esoterica. If Vetaris was aware of the ire of the councilors he seemed to have superseded in the King’s counsels, he showed no sign of it and greeted the Hand gravely.

“We have heard some report of what has gone on in the west,” he began, “but His Majesty and His councilors would like now to hear first hand from those involved. Ser Cantor Vulk, if you would care to summarize, and then the Council will have questions.”

Taking a deep breath, Vulk plunged into the tale of their embassy to Arushal, the attack at sea of a kraken and their subsequent rescue by and alliance with the Tritani, the fight with, and death of, Grandmaster Yoridar in the ruins of Nirokilon, including the freeing of a spider-demon and the discovery of the long-lost Onyx Throne, Erol’s scouting mission to Bremkin and capture by his old nemesis, and the Hand’s mostly successful rescue attempt, followed by their own capture by General Satirnus’ legions and his blackmailing them into handing over the Onyx Throne to him, the recruiting of Ergaboreth to their cause, and finally the thwarting of Satirnus’ plan by the very public return of the long-lost Kildoran relic.

Master Vetaris, of course, knew most of this already, and had a hand in bringing much of it about – a fact which Vulk and his companions did their best to downplay during the subsequent questioning by the Council. The King said little, but most of the councilors were fairly impressed with what the Hand had achieved, and the questions soon turned into a debate about how these events would effect the current war effort.

It seemed to be the general consensus that, with Grandmaster Yoridar dead and the Iron Claw in disarray, and the Republic happy with both the return of Bremkin and the discovery of the lost Throne (and especially as the latter was accomplished by Arushali and Nolkiori agents at the behest of their respective monarchs), King Dorikon would now be able to honor the just-signed treaty and move troops east to bolster Nolkior’s forces.

At this point the conversation turned to matters of internal politics and the conduct of war against the Tharkian invaders and the “rebel” Earl of Yorma, and the Hand was dismissed, with thanks. Master Vetaris stepped out with them to have a private word. He seemed tired himself, and lacking some of his usual energy…

“It’s all this Gate travel,” he replied with a small smile at Mariala’s noting this. “I’ve had to be in five places at once, or so it seems, and keeping all these balls in the air can wear even a Gray Mage down.”

“What of the King?” Vulk asked. “He seems worse now than when we last saw him, shortly after he was wounded.”

“Yes, he continues to slowly decline,” Vetaris acknowledged grimly. “And not any of his physicians, archaists or cantors can figure out why. Even I am stumped. I have come to conclude that it is more a malady of the spirit than of the body, especially after Ser Draik sent some of his amazing Baylorium – though it seemed to raise the King’s energy levels and his spirits, the effect was only temporary… which reminds me, Draik sent along a new shipment of vials for you. I’ll have my man fetch them from my rooms before you leave.

“And now I must return to the Council, before the Chancellor suggests some new impracticality. We will talk again soon… and please tell your new Gyantari friend that the King regrets that the needs of war prevent Him from formally receiving such a rare and distinguished visitor to His realm as he deserves, but hopes that he might be presented soon, in a more informal setting.”

The Hand returned to the New District both gratified at the reception received from the King and his Council and worried about His Majesty’s health and the course of the war. But for the next two days they were able to set aside those worries and enjoy the many and varied reactions of Ergaboreth to the largest city he had yet seen.

Mariala received a staggering number of social invitations from her new peers in the nobility, all of them requesting that she bring her “marvelous new friend” along. After discussing it with Ergaboreth and the others, she accepted only two, from nobles who had treated her elevation to the peerage without the sniff of “old blood” snobbery she faced from so many others.

On the third day, however, the Hand were awoken just after dawn by a pounding on their doors – a messenger from Master Vetaris, with an urgent summon to the castle at once. Fearing that it had something to do with King Maldan’s health, they hurriedly threw on clothes and made their way through the still dark and silent streets of the city to Kar Landsar.

But it was not the King’s health that had the Magister upset and pacing the floor of his study in the suite of rooms given over to him. He gestured them to seats around the room and immediately launched into the problem.

“Not an hour ago I received… well, word is not correct, let us say ‘news’… of an attack of some sort on a location that the Star Council deems of top importance. In itself, this alarm would be cause for concern, but the chain of reasoning that this news has set off in my mind – I’m still processing it all, but I fear we face a potential disaster of fearful proportions.

“The Shrine of St. Helathor, an obscure holy site of an even more obscure saint, in the ruins of Xaranda, seems to have been attacked just before dawn. Obviously, this place is more than it seems, for the Star Council to have set up powerful wards to alert us instantly of such an event.

“You are all familiar, I assume, with the tragic story of the Desolation of Serviana?” Everyone nodded, even Korwin, for that was one of the greatest of the many tragedies that resulted from the Great War and the Necromancer’s mad bid to free the Chained God.

“You may know less of the details of the story of the Iron Knight, however. It’s Heart of Metal, the power core that gave life and animation to that massive golem, imbued with a portion of the great soul of the Telnori King Taharazod, has lain hidden in this obscure little shrine for 500 years. Guarded by Telnori Druid-Warriors, it has remained secret and safe, until now.

“Now it seems that someone has breached the defenses, and in doing so, it has made me recall the legend of the Demon Khanaribas the Corruptor. The Necromancer created the body of the Corruptor, and placed within it a greater demon, and this monstrosity had a hideous power. Everything it touched became infected with the Corruption, a dark, life- and energy-draining force that killed everything it touched, including the very earth itself.

“No one knows how Pürshok Vindu created this effect, although Talorin Silvereye believed he had acquired a sliver of the Shadow and had distilled some essence from it, and this essence was the Corruption. How he controlled this powerful minion we don’t know, but we do know the Vortex has been seeking out and studying old texts from a number of would-be mage rulers, including the Mad Astrologer and the Necromancer.

“If they have discovered how Vindu controlled the demon Khanaribus, and the Corruption itself, they may want to free the old horror to use in this war they’ve started… and now the seemingly insane attack of Tharkia into eastern Nolkior begins to make sense! The confusion and chaos of that invasion, and their control, however brief it may prove to be, of the region, gives their agents perfect cover to steal the Heart of Metal and to cross the Blasted March to the Corruptor’s prison. The Heart and the Sword together could break the Seal that holds that horror at bay…

“Furthermore, if they have discovered old texts of the Necromancer’s, they may have been experimenting with the Shadow, as he did, trying to recreate the Corruption themselves – and while they apparently haven’t succeeded (or we would certainly know it), perhaps the malady that infects the King is what they have achieved. Certainly the symptoms support the possiblity, at least.

“I need you all to go, as fast as is humanly possible, to the Shrine of St. Helathor, discover what has befallen, and stop whoever has done this before they can awaken the Corruptor, if in fact that is their goal. This matter is of such import, that I would accompany you myself this time, but I dare not leave with Maldan so fragile – time is of the essence in both matters, but only I can hope to cure the King, if what I now theorize is true. So once again, the Star Council calls on you, if you will take up this burden.”

There was no hesitation, as six voices assented as one. Vetaris smiled, for a moment his old dry humor peeking through his exhaustion.

“I had no doubts of you , my friends. Now go, prepare, and whatever you need you may requisition from the Royal Stores. I will operate the Gate myself, so you arrive fully refreshed and ready for whatever awaits you. And remember, if this journey takes you into the Blasted March, it is one of the most inhospitable places in the world. Nothing grows there, the very land itself is dead and the water foul and dangerous to drink, even if you can find it. Only the great River Asamira remains relatively untainted, though I would not drink even from it except in great need.”

With those words the hand rose and began to confer about what they would need, drawing up hasty lists and dispatching Vetaris’ pages on various errands…

Kingdom Map-Serviar

Once beyond outskirts of Bremkin the group were able to drop their magical shielding and continued under the simpler cover of darkness. No one was on the roads at this hour, nor likely to be. Which is why they were taken by surprise at  the sound of pounding hooves coming up the road from behind them when they were perhaps half way to the Gate.

From the volume of sound, it was a large group, which was fortunate as it gave them enough warning to hide themselves in the deep shadows of trees to the side of the road. From this vantage they were able to watch the twenty horsemen gallop by without themselves being seen – impossible to tell who they were in these moonless hours before sunrise, except that they looked like soldiers.

After the troop were well gone down the road, the Hand emerged from their covert and resumed their own brisk march toward escape. Or at least as brisk as the injuries of Devrik and Mariala would allow. A quiet debate as to the nature and intentions of the horsemen was carried on in hushed tones.

“I don’t think they were hunting for us,” Korwin suggested. “They went by far to quickly to be searching. They had a number of remounts, too – it seems they had a destination in mind, not a hunt.”

“Unless they simply wish to get out ahead of us, and make a slow progression back along the road for a proper search,” Devrik growled. He was beginning to take a chill, despite the mild night and continuing exercise, and his healing burns itched to drive him mad. Mariala seemed entirely focused on her own misery.

“Or set up a road block beyond any possible distance we could’ve made on foot, and simply wait for us to catch up,” Erol added, running a finger under the collar still clasped around his neck, in unconscious irritation.

With that unsettling thought in mind, it was decided to sent the Shadow Warrior Khundari ahead a long arrow shot to scout for road blocks or ambushes. Toran flitted through the night shadows along side the road, as invisible as any magic could have made him. He saw no sign of the horsemen, or anyone else.

The sun was just breaking the horizon when the group reached the narrow path that broke off from the main road and led to the glade in the dense woods where stood the Gate. Toran waited for them silently, reporting no sign of the night’s galloping riders, and together they all headed into the woods.

A ring of ancient standing stones, worn with age and many tilted or even fallen over, encircled the invisible portal that would take them to safety. Vulk, in better physical shape than Devrik, stepped forward to begin the ritual that would open the Nitaran Gate, the others crowded close behind.

But before he had done no more than open his mouth, there was a rustle from the dark woods outside the circle of stones, and twenty men appeared suddenly all around them. Half of them had crossbows, cocked and aimed at the party, others had javelins poised to throw, and the leader had his gladius drawn. Even in the uncertain light of dawn and through morning mists that had arisen, it was clear these were soldiers of the Kildoran Legions.

“I suggest you throw down you weapons, my friends, and surrender peacefully,” the leader said calmly but with an implacable certainty. “And I know there are T’ara Kul amongst you, so at the first sign of speech or any hand movements unrelated to laying down your weapons, my men will shoot –  one of your companions.”

Vulk opened his mouth to maybe negotiate, but at a cocked eyebrow from the commander, and the movement of the weapons of the men to either side of him, he shut it with a snap. Devrik tensed, but even in his rage at this ambush he knew that he would only get his friends killed if he attacked. If it was just himself… but he had a wife and child to think of now, as well… and as long as he was alive, there would be other chances to act. He slowly drew his battlesword from over his shoulder and laid it on the turf at his feet.

The others followed his lead, and in moments soldiers moved amongst them, searching them, binding their hands, and gagging their mouths. A dozen ranged weapons remained trained on them until they were mounted on horses brought into the glade from the woods. Once they were secured to their saddles the rest of the troop mounted up, and they began the ride back towards Bremkin.

But, in fact, it was not to Bremkin that they were bound, but to a large military encampment set up to the east of the town. It was obviously the Kildoran Legion that had been sent to secure the newly returned town, and they were taken to a large tent near the center of the camp. There they were again searched, this time by several bookish-looking men who seemed to know what they were looking for, and every possible tool, spell aid or artifact was taken from them. They were unbound and ungagged, and left alone in the otherwise empty tent. A quick peek out the flaps proved that they remained physically well-guarded, and the oppressive feeling of weight that pressed down on the minds of the T’ara Kul told them that the tent was warded against magic.

Nonetheless, Korwin attempted to cast Klordia’s Shadow Body, only to have it not only fail, but leave him with a blinding headache. Seeing the wards woven into the fabric of the tent flare briefly at his attempt, the others didn’t even bother to try.

It was perhaps an hour later, around noon, that the tent flaps were suddenly drawn back and two heavily armed, tough-looking soldiers stepped in and took up position on either side of the opening. They were followed by a dark haired, serious-looking man of middle height and middle years, with amazingly penetrating eyes of sea gray. As soon as he stepped into the tent, his presence seemed to fill it. There was little doubt as to who he was – Satirnus, the fabled general of the Kildoran Republic, now Marshal and Magistrate. The two women and one man who followed him hardly seemed to register at all in the umbra of his personality.

“So,” he said after examining his captives for a moment, “this is the desperate band of would-be rebels who disrupted our planned festivities, released a gaggle of condemned prisoners, and unleashed a giant on the countryside… interesting.”

“And kidnapped a high-ranking adherent of the God!” cried one of the man’s companions, a short woman with dark brown hair and a fierce, hawk-like face. Her eyes burned in fury at the the prisoners. “Where is the Deputy Grandmaster, Satirnus?”

“My troops found no sign of the man, Karin,” Satirnus said mildly. “My men are still searching along the route these rogues took, but haven’t found a body or other sign. I’m beginning to think they didn’t take him as a hostage after all.”

“Hostage?” Erol blurted out. “The bastard was dead when we left him–”

At Mariala’s jab in his back he suddenly shut up.

Satirnus’ eyebrows shot up, and his companions looked darkly at one another.

“Well, that is an interesting development,” the Marshal-Magistrate said, with the hint of a smile.

“So where might our missing cantor be, do you suppose? Eh, Grandmistress Kantal?” He turned to look at the older woman standing behind him, and the tall, brutal-looking man at her side. “Any ideas of your own, Grandmaster Merbed?”

The older woman frowned and waved off the question. “This is a matter for the Orders involved… we will want to question these rebels once you are done with them Satirnus. I’m sure we can pull the information we need from them –”

She broke off at the suddenly cold expression on Satirnus’ face, and bowed her head. “If that suits you, of course, Marshal-Magistrate.”

“Internal orderial politics holds little interest for me, as long as they don’t intrude on my own affairs,” he said turning back to the prisoners. “But let’s not pretend any of you actually liked Tramano, eh? What was it you called him? A prissy little parasite?

“So, on to more pressing issues… our young guests. From the description of recent events it seemed obvious T’ara Kul were involved, and my own intense military study of this area over the years led me to believe you might well head for the nearest Gate. So, while the Korönian Orders sent men toward the Arushali border, I sent my own to cut off the Gate. And so here we all are.

Now, what does it all mean? What exactly were you about? The Grandmistress here, and her associates, think your are Darikazi rebels… but my sources tell me that you are a rather international lot – Kildoran, Arushali, Nolkiori – do you have a native Darikazi amongst you at all?”

“We are not Darikazi,” Vulk stepped forward. “As you have noted, my lord, we are from several nations, and are here only to free our friend from an illegal captivity at the hands of Korönian slavers.”

“None of that ‘my lord’ nonesense,” Satirnus waved his hand as though swatting away a fly. “In the Republic we are all citizens, all equal under the law. You may address me simply as Marshal-Magistrate. But why do you say this captivity was illegal?”

And so Vulk began an edited recitation of Erol’s capture by the Taruthani, and the riding of his friends to deliver him. He tried to avoid too many specifics, but Satirnus was not only a commanding personality, but a shrewd interrogator, and by the time it was over he’d learned more than enough about who they were. But certainly not all..

“But how did you come to be a gladiator to begin with,” he asked Erol once Vulk finished his story. “If you were legitimately the Order’s property, then your escape was illegal and your recapture perfectly legal – and this whole escapade quite illegal.”

“ I was never legitimately a slave, Marshal-Magistrate,” Erol grated out. “I was a prisoner of war, never ransomed but instead sold to the Games. I was, and am, a citizen of the Republic, a Legionaire, and no man’s slave!”

Satirnus looked surprised. “A prisoner of war? That’s the first I’ve heard of this… what war, and where were you taken prisoner?”

“I was a soldier in the Topaz Legion, based in Olyron, under the command of General Jardin Kereth. I was captured during his failed attempt to retake this very town from the Darikazi who had stolen it.”

“By Tanar, you were caught up in the mess of that fool Kereth? It’s a lucky thing he died during his stupid raid, or he’d have been hung by his thumbs and whipped to death!” Satirnus’ sudden rage seemed to fill the tent for a moment before he regained control of himself.

“But I certainly don’t blame the men who followed him,” he went on after a moment. “It is a soldiers duty to follow the orders of his commanders, and the dishonor of that episode lies solely on head of the man who conceived it.

“Still, it is a common practice to sell unransomed men taken in war… both in Darikaz and in the Republic. I don’t see this as a defense –”

“I was never allowed to send word to my family,” Erol interrupted. Which was a lie, he’d simply been too proud and too sure his father wouldn’t ransom him because he’d defied him and run off to join the Legion. But no need for Satirnus to know that. “Tremano saw me and… wanted me. He refused to let me be ransomed.”

Satirnus frowned and turned darkly on his companions. “Is this true?” he asked in a deceptively mild voice. The others stepped back a pace.

“We have no way of knowing, Marshal-Magistrate,” Grandmistress Kantal said nervously. “With Tramano… missing… it’s possible that he did this. But that is a matter for his own Order, and not of the Burning Blood. These crimes were committed against us though, and we–”

“Actually,” Vulk interrupted, “that raises an interesting point, Marshal-Magistrate. Is not the town of Bremkin today once again a part of the Republic?”

“Yes,” Satirnus answered, looking speculatively at the young man before him. “As of dawn this morning, the traditional timing for such things.”

“But these ‘crimes’ we are accused of were committed last night, while Bremkin was still in the hands of its conquerors, the Darikazi. I do not stipulate that they were crimes, of course, but if they were they took place in another country. We stand now in the Republic of Kildora, not in the Kingdom of Darikaz.”

Satirnus laughed suddenly, a surprisingly big laugh for a man his size. “Young man, I usually have little use for such legal pettifoggery, but I must say I admire your balls! Indeed I do, big brass ones!”

As his laughter died down Crasel Merbed, Grandmaster of the Order of the Fist of Shangtor stepped forward. “It is legal smoke-blowing, Marshal-Magistrate, and of no consequence in any case – the crimes committed were against the Church of Korön, and such fall under religious law, not secular! All three Orders so sinned against are recognized in both Darikaz and in the Republic, so it matters not in which secular realm we now stand, they must answer to Korönian justice!”

The humor had drained from his face during this speech, and now Satirnus frowned in irritation. Before he could say anything, though, Grandmistress Kantal added her two pennies.

“Surely, Satirnus, we should not let such matters interfere with our… joint interests. What do such as these matter to you? What can they offer you but division and strife? Turn them over to the Church, and let us move on to the weighty matters we came here to discuss.”

From the sour look on his face it was clear that Satirnus didn’t like the suggestion – but it was also quickly apparent that he wasn’t going to argue with it. Whatever politics these four were involved in, it obviously meant more to him than the fate of a handful of stangers…

Before he could speak, however, he was again preempted, this time by Korwin. His headache had begun to fade, and a sudden thought spurred him to speak.

“But perhaps we do have something to offer you sir,” he said smoothly and confidently. “Something that might matter a great deal to you… one way or another.”

“What could you possible have that would be of interest to one such as the great General,” Deputy Grandmistress Karin Delvano sneered, backed up by snorts of derision from her co-religionists. Satirnus merely cocked a curious eyebrow at him.

“We know the location of the Onyx Throne.”

The silence in the tent was absolute for one tense moment. Then bedlam broke loose. The Hand shouted over one another, a confused mixture of berating Korwin and denying his assertion, while the Korönians exclaimed in various modes of disbelief. Only Satirnus stood silent and thoughtful, taking it all in.

After a moment he raised his hand, and the babbling died out.

“I have always had an almost infallible sense of when I am being lied to. It’s one of the skill that have kept me alive all these years in the shark pool of Senatorial politics. Between that and the fact that half his friends are berating him for revealing this thing, while the other half are denying that it’s true, I’m inclined to believe him…

“But young man, why do think the location of the Onyx Throne would be enough to buy your freedom? What do you imagine it means to me?”

Korwin saw the dangerous gleam in the great man’s eyes, and knew he had to tread carefully. In the days since they had discovered the lost throne, his companions had filled him in on much of its history and the current state of affairs within the Republic – not least of which, was the general belief of a great many people that the ex-General had ambitions to restore Imperial Kildora, with himself at the helm.

If this was true, then the Onyx Throne, missing since the demise of the last legitimate heirs of the Empire, would be an incredible boon to his own legitimacy. If it wasn’t true, and he merely schemed to senatorial power, it would still enhance his stature to be the one who returned this important cultural and historical artifact to its proper people. Perhaps best to go with the latter assumption…

“Returning the throne to its rightful place and people would greatly enhance your standing with the citizens, and would surely make immune to the schemes of those senators who oppose your own vision for the Republic,” he said without missing a beat.

Satirnus slowly smiled, giving the young Oceanian an approving nod. The boy wasn’t stupid; perhaps he and his friends could be useful down the road… or not. But if they could actually produce the Onyx Throne…

“Why should I not just give you over to the tender mercies of my allies here, and have them pull the information from you?”

“We have mental defenses that would make it unlikely they could succeed,” Korwin shrugged diffidently. “But even if they did, can you trust them, sir, to pass that information on to you, rather than keep it for themselves?”

Satirnus’ smile widened, while the Korönians grew stoney-faced. Korwin went on.

“In any case, the Throne does not lie within the Republic or even in Darikaz. It would require an army and a war to acquire it. But we can bring it to you without all those complications, sir.”

Satirnus laughed again, shaking his head. “Boy, you fail to understand that I rather like those complications of armies and war! But now is not the best time to indulge them, it’s true… so a more subtle approach would seem to be indicated…”

“Marshal-Magistrate,” Grandmistress Kantal said urgently. “Even if they are telling the truth, something even I can’t be sure of in this warded tent, how could we – you – trust them to keep their word?”

“I suppose we could keep some, and let the others fetch the treasure,” Satirnus said, eyeing the group thoughtfully.

“Sir, it’s a very dangerous and hostile place we must go to, to retrieve the throne,” Vulk said, having realized there was no point in pretending anymore. “Even with our full compliment, it will be difficult…”

Satirnus turned to look at Erol and smiled. Erol felt a sudden chill.

“Your name is Erol Doritar, is it not,” the great man asked. Erol nodded reluctantly. “Is not your father Belin Doritar, the well-respected scholar… and long-time client of Senator Aric Kenorda?”

Erol said nothing, but Satirnus read the answer in his face. “Of course he is. And if I recall correctly your mother is a great poet – I remember hearing her recite some of her work at a dinner party Senator Bhelkord threw in my honor after I subdued an uprising of eastern tribes some years ago. A lovely woman as I recall.

“Now, you all seem to share the greatest of the virtues that make my own Legions great – loyalty to a comrade, as witnessed by your rescue of young Erol here. You are also clearly very clever… if perhaps not quite so clever as you think. So I make this proposition to you – bring me the Onyx Throne by sunset on Maita Lai, and you may then leave free and unharmed, last nights events forgotten and all records of Erol Doritar’s enslavement erased.

“But fail me in this, whether through betrayal or incompetence, and the Doritar family will come to ruin.”

“You threaten to kill my family?!” Vulk and Korwin had to restrain Erol as he tried to leap at Satirnus. “You’re no man of honor!”

Satirnus never so much as blinked as Erol struggled in his friends’ grasp. “Don’t be naive young man. I am a man of my word, which is all that honor really means. Do as I ask, and my word is good; reject my offer, and my word is good for that as well.

“But please, what I promise if you fail is nothing so crude as assassins in the night, or whatever melodrama you were imagining. No, in the Republic there are so many other ways to destroy a man. Or a woman. Reputation is everything, as you well know, and such a delicate thing – once damaged, almost impossible to repair.

“Senator Kenorda is not one of those who favor me, I’m afraid – seeing to it that irrefutable evidence that one of his principal clients engaged in treasonable actions found its way into the hands of the Senate would greatly embarrass him, weakening his own position. Of course it would also be fatal for the scholarly client.. and one wonders what would become of his children, then…”

Erol had stopped struggling by then, and simply glared at the Marshal-Magistrate. His friends looked grim-faced and angry. Only Korwin maintained his outer composure.

“But sir,” he said, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. “Maita Lai is only five days away! If you could give us more time –”

“No!” Satirnus cut him off with sharp chopping motion. “I leave Bremkin on the first of Emblio. If I leave with the Onyx Throne in my possession, all will be well for everyone. If not, by the second of Emblio the Doritar family will be ensnared in treason trials and scandals that will destroy them all.”

He turned to leave, motioning his Korönian allies to follow.

“At least make them take this damn collar off me!” Erol called after him.

Satirnus turned back in the doorway and smiled. “No, I rather fancy we’ll leave it on for now… perhaps when you return with the Throne…”

He turned again and was gone.

Within the hour food had been brought to the Hand, all of their possessions had been returned, and they found themselves mounted on Legion horses, preparing to head away from Bremkin…

After properly looting the ruins of Nirolkilon, the Hand of Fortune decided they really needed to hack off the head of Grandmaster Yoridar, as proof to the King and his councilors that the man really was dead. Devrik shrugged and did the honors, and then did the same again when the arcanists all insisted the head of the demon-spider-thing need to be preserved for study.

They would’ve liked to have taken the whole thing, of course, but that was simply not possible. And Vulk was of the strong opinion that they should burn the whole damn thing and then salt the ground. They compromised by stowing the head and eight claws in a large burlap sack, and then burning the rest of the remains.

The Korönian knights and soldiers they dragged outside as well, and piled them together with the demon, before Devrik used a fireball to start the pyre. They decided there was no need to stick around, and the smell of the burning demon proved an added incentive to hurry them on their way.

They stopped at the sad little shack of the murdered shepherd and his son just long enough to strip the bodies of their murderers and pile them up for their own smaller funeral pyre. They would’ve liked to have done a proper pyre for the two victims, but the bog had their bodies and there was no retrieving them at this point. Instead Vulk held a brief ceremony and everyone observed a moment of silence.

By this time it was late afternoon, and they all agreed it would be good to be off the moors before night fell. They unhobbled the horses, loaded up the poor beasts with sacks of coins, jewels, books and heads, and set of in the opposite direction from the sunset.

The discussion along the way mainly centered on what to do about their discovery of the fabled lost Onyx Throne of the Delfari Empire. While it was undoubtedly an invaluable historical find, it not only weighed close to a ton, but no one could quite figure out how to monetize it.

If they revealed its location to the Arushali authorities, there was little chance that they wouldn’t simply claim it for the Crown, with anything more than a pat on the head for the Hand very unlikely.

And, as Devrik pointed out, the Republic, which views itself as the true heir of the old Empire, would probably insist that it be returned to Delfarin, and the last thing the political situation needed right now was more friction between the two nations… really, they’d be doing everyone a favor if they kept its existence a secret, at least for now!

This lead to recounting of some of the legends surrounding the Onyx Throne, the most widely know of which was that only a true scion of the ancient Oceanian royal bloodline could sit on it. What was less clear is exactly what that meant…

“I’ve heard that anyone not of the royal blood who sat on it would be instantly struck dead by a bolt of pure energy,” Mariala offered.

“No, no,” Devrik ojected. “Not instantly – it was a curse, you see, and any pretender would die within a tenday of placing his (or her) ass on the throne.”

“The story I heard,” Korwin interjected, “was that it simply didn’t allow a non-royal posterior to touch it… such would simply slide off, as if the seat were made of very slick ice. There were some very humorous anecdotes about various pretenders over the years squirming and scheming to keep their seat, and always failing!”

“The legend I heard in seminary school,” Vulk said, “claimed that it was heat that drove off the unworthy. The longer a pretender sat on the throne, the hotter the stone became, until they were forced to leap up or be burned to death…”

Everyone looked to Toran. He shrugged. “Never heard of it before today.

“But I will note that none of us tried to sit on it today. I wonder why that is?”

The others started to object, surely one of them had tried out the great black seat… but they quickly realized the Khundari was right. Even after they’d cleaned it off enough to identify it, no one had tried to sit in it.

“Well, we were rather busy with more important tnings,” Vulk said. But he seemed a bit uncertain. The others frowned thoughtlfully, and they rode on in silence.

They made Dor Kolvin before the sun had quite touched the horizon. The Sheriff of Ulionshire seemed rather surprised to see them, which cast a rather unflattering light on his opinion of their abilities. But he was quick enough to acknowledge their accomplishment once he saw the head of Grandmaster Yoridar.

He immediately had it packed in salt, and a courier was dispatched to Lothkir and the King with the news. This threw the whole question of what the Iron Claw might be planning up in the air, and possibly off the board altogether…

Yoridar had been the driving force behind the order’s ongoing rage at Aruhsal and the Bronze Shield. Oh, to be sure, everyone in the order shared that enmity, but without his guiding hand, it was unlikely they would be a threat any time soon. If nothing else the internal struggles to fill the power vacuum at the top would keep them focussed inward for awhile…

The Hand followed behind the courier more slowly the next day, but still at a good clip. They stopped only briefly in Virzon to fill in Vulk’s parents on recent events and bid his family farewell. They made Dor Colton an hour after sunset, and were on the road again an hour after dawn the next morning.

They arrived at the gates of Lothkir in the mid-afternoon, and were closeted with the King and his advisors by supper time. Yoridar’s head made an interesting centerpiece for awhile, before the king had it removed.

Dorikon and his Council seemed quite pleased with the results of the Hand’s little vacation, and as a reward the king granted them one fifth of the treasure recovered from the ruins of Nirokilon, and first perusal of the books found there, though he did insist his own scholars would eventually want to take possession of them for the Royal Library.

No mention was made of the Onyx Throne, and the group breathed a silent, collective sigh of relief when it was decided there was no point in sending another party into the ruins at this point.

Released from their obligations to the Crown, the Hand next met privately with Master Vetaris and Ser Owain. To the representatives of the Star Council they recounted the full story of the encounter with the Ancient chamber and the demonic spider creature. Again, however, the subject of the Onyx Throne never seemed to come up…

It was agreed the site was something for the Council to deal with, and that the problem of a disembodied demon loose in the land was indeed an issue to be taken very seriously. But there were those who were expert in tracking and dispatching such horrors, and they would be contacted.

Free now to relax until Erol returned from his scouting mission to Bremkin, the various members of the Hand went about their various tasks the next day – Devrik closeted with his new matrix crystal, attuning it to himself and learning its capabilities; Vulk studying the two new rituals he had found amongst Koltorin’s papers; Toran poring over a tome of artificer techniques and spells from the Observatory archives; and Mariala and Korwin studying faded treatises  on their own areas of study.

The next day continued on in much the same vein… Erol was expected the following day, at which time they would all take ship with the Arushali delegation headed to the alliance negotiations at Kar Vandol.

But those plans were thrown into sudden disarray when Mariala made her pre-supper check of the various linked parchments in her possession. She burst into the dining room where the others had gathered, waving one of the sheets.

“Erol is in trouble,” she said, tossing the paper to the table, where Vulk picked it up and the others crowded around to look over his shoulder. The scrawl was childish, many  words misspelled, but the message was clear enough:

“ERAL TAKIN BY 7 PILORS

ENSLAVD FOR GAYMS SOON!!

TOWN BEEING GIVIN TO KILLDOA”

The Hand of Fortune’s dramatic arrival, rising from the waters of Lothkir Harbor in the Tritani underwater warship, certainly made their embassy to King Dorikon IV easier to accomplish. Within hours of their arrival, once fears of an aquatic invasion had been eased, Vulk, Toran and the Tritani heir Lord Korak were in a small council chamber of the royal palace.

Half a dozen men were gathered around a large table, including the King’s brother, Prince Darlanis, his father the Earl Savartim, and the Hand’s first mentor Ser Owain Hannorn. Introductions were barely completed when the King himself arrived.

“Your arrival is well timed, by Lords Ambassador,” the King said, taking his place at the head of the table and motioning everyone to sit. “We are just about to receive the latest intelligence report on the situation in Darikaz, and it would be good for you to hear it, as those events to the west will greatly influence any decision We may make on the proposal you bring from our brother king in Nolkior.”

Sew Owain stood, glanced down at a sheaf of papers before him, shook his head with a sigh, and began.

“Darikaz has degenerated into a chaotic free-for-all, and if anyone claims to know who will come out on top, or when, then he’s a liar. Indeed, it’s quite possible no one will come out on top, at least not in the foreseeable future. But let me begin at the beginning, for our guests and to keep it all fresh in our own minds…

“On 14 Margas, the same night of the failed attempt on the life of our own monarch, during a feast celebrating the the Kaluran Banquet of Delights, King Farlox III was poisoned at his royal seat of Ashtaru. It is believed that agents of the Korönian Order of the Searing Mace were responsible, seeing as their fighting order, the Red Hand of Pain, instantly seized control of key positions in the capital.

“But the Chancellor of the realm, Ser Aric Kasta, was not present at the royal feast, though he had planned to be. He was actually in Izmirk, dining with Queen Arella at her request, and in the ensuing chaos he took command of the Queen’s Guard. They were able to secure Kar Astang and its island.

“The City Guard, which is made up of members of the Warriors of Kamera, the fighting chapter of the Korönian clerical Order of Morokol, Master of Steel, apparently weren’t in on the plot, as they fought the Red Hand of Pain in many places… as did the Naventhülian forces of the Khorik-Tar, the secretive but powerful “primate” of Izmirk’s demon-worshipers.

“For two days the city was in constant turmoil as various factions seized control of different sections of the city, some districts changing hands multiple times. Then, on the morning of 17 Margas. the forces of Kar Gethel, the castle which guards the northern approaches to the city, under the command of its Constable, Ser Dorin Mestalan, arrived to restore order.

“Allied with Chancellor Kasta, their combined forces were able to pacify and control the northeastern portion of the Garim District, the northern third of Kinshio Island (including Northhaven Wharf), and Oriti Island, as well as Kar Astang.

“At about the same time, the Sheriff of Malthinshire, Ser Lewen Reythan, moved into the city from the south, where Kar Torkaza guards the southern approaches to Izmirk, with the same idea in mind. His own officers retained control of the Toraro Bridge and its gate, so he was spared the effort of taking it by force. He pacified Bleath Island quickly, and was able to bring the southern two-thirds of Kinshio Island under his control by the next day.

“The Red Hand of Pain had seized the offices of the Red Council in the first hours of the crisis, and over half the members of that governing body, including the Archkleros of Korön (and Grandmaster of the Order of Morokol, Master of Steel), Ser Klarin Bastril. The Warriors of Kamera retook the Council Hall on the 15th, but the Archkleros apparently remains a prisoner of the Red Hand, probably in their temple/fortress on Inaltan Island.

“The forces of the Iron Fist of Tarutha, and it’s clerical sponsoring order, The Seven Pillars, quickly joined forces with the Red Hand of Pain, and the two factions jointly control the southern half of Garim Island and all of Inaltan. Although those two areas are on opposite sides of the city, it is believed they are communicating through the warren of tunnels, catacombs and sewers that run beneath the city.

“The mercenary companies and temple soldiers of the Naventhülian Khorik-Tar control the Old District, and his assassins also use the underground network to travel to any part of the occupied city at will.

“This was driven home on 20 Margas, when both Queen Arella and the young Crown Prince, Ulkor, were murdered in their sleep in Kar Astang itself. There had been some negotiations between various factions to accept the young heir as the new king, with his mother and Chancellor Kasta as co-regents, which might have resulted in a union of at least some of the rival forces in the kingdom… and thus a restoration of order. Or at least less chaos. Not a big goal of the Demon Lord’s followers…

“On the other hand, some believe that it was the Earl of Gormilioth who convinced the Khorik-Tar to countenance the assassinations, since the Earl’s  nephew and niece have the strongest legal claim to the throne. Even though young Ulkor’s claim was weaker,his death has removed even the possibility of impediment from that quarter.

“While the five main factions in Izmirk fight for control of the capital, the great nobles of the realm have been plenty busy themselves, every faction blaming one (or more) of the others for the assassination of the king and his family….

“Ser Dorin and Chancellor Kasta siezed Dor Yeraltha on 24 Margas, claiming the Baron Robia Suldenal (cousin and vassal to the Earl of Gormilioth) was complicit, along with his liege lord, in the royal deaths. He is currently imprisoned in the dungeons of Kar Ashtura.

“Baron Quamak, techincally a vassal of the Earl of Therund, has betrayed his overlord by turning over his keep of Dor Narün to the Chancellor’s forces “for the good of the Realm” on the 29 Margas.

“The Sheriff of Malthinshire browbeat the pliable idiot Baron Branal Torget of Dor Bekar into siding with him and his ally Ser Orrin Tazabra, the Earl of Hosin. He was aided in this by the Earl of Gormilioth seizing control of nearby Dor Ziqua. the Earl accomplished this through the expedient of having his tame bandits, who had been harassing the countryside for over a year, storm the keep – he and his forces then rode to Baron Stevan Zoraxol’s “rescue” on 8 Sarnia.

“How solid Baron Zoraxol’s allegiance to Gormilioth is is questionable, but with the Earl’s forces occupying the keep in the role of “advisors,” it’s a moot one for now. And whether by defection or conquest, the control of Ziqua by Earl Gormilioth has only further enraged Earl Hosinu – he has now had two-thirds of his lands stolen by his hated rival.

“Earl Hosinu is pushing hard for his ally, Ser Lewen, to join forces with the Korönian fighting order the Companions of Burning Destiny, who have their own grudge against Gormilioth, to “crush the upstart half-breed.”

“Long rivals for control of the waters of the Warthym Bay, the Companions were enraged to learn that the Earl Gormilioth had disguised his own ships as theirs to gain access to, and thereby sieze, the island fortress of Dor Koltar on 12 Sarnia. This has given the Earl control of the entire Pelon Peninsula, with the exception of Dor Tarin, and a grip on both side of the Bay.

“The Ilrionim tribal allies of the Earl of Gormilioth continue to harry the Warriors of Kemera at their keep of Dor Draende, keeping them from attacking his western flank, and are poised to probe into the lands of the Earl of Therund, Ser Jerad Rayanoz, should that young nobleman threaten to become a problem.

“But Ser Jerad is busy with his own troubles, both north and south – the Red Hand of Pain, and its sponsoring order, The Searing Mace, have seized control of both the great seacliff castle of Kar Veladon and the charter town of Tovasir. Once they have both pacified and productive again, they will have the Earl of Therund’s two northernmost holdings in a pincher. And if Inwe and Istikor fall, then Dor Adan would be easy pickings, leaving the Earl with less than half his lands.

“The defection of Ser Karel Abetha, the Baron of Oroth, to the camp of the Sheriff of Malthinshire, in mid-Sarnia was a heavy blow to the Earl, and he fears what this example may lead one of his other southern vassals, Baron Gerd Lyrtuin, lord of Dor Unalte to do. Ser Gerd was a cousin of the late king, and although he always tried to play peace maker between his liege and the sovereign, where his loyalties now lie is uncertain.

“On top of all this, it looks very likely that Kildora will come into the conflict in the north, as the splinter Order of the Burning Blood and it’s fighting chapter, the Fist of Shangtor, may return Dor Bremkin to the Republic. I greatly fear this would only encourage the Kildoran Marshal of Orial Province, Satirnus, to once again unleash his martial brilliance to push the Republic’s border west to Blackmoor.

“This is not something to wish for, from Arushal’s point of view, however, as such an expanded base in the north might lead Satirnus to renew his aborted effort of the Somkari War to seize the western part of our own lands. And it is possible, my sources say, that the deal has already been made with the Senate, and they are merely waiting for the right strategic moment to announce it.

“With that threat looming in the north, the constant question of what the Order of the Iron Claw at Tarin plans becomes even more urgent – which way will they jump, with the civil chaos all around them?

“They’ve been out of royal favor since Zarik’s War, these 15 years, and this could be a good time to regain ground… but their obsessive hatred of the Caelite Order of the Bronze Shield, and of Arushal itself, remains undiminished. Will they risk trying to regain what they lost, with little chance of back-up from the currently non-existent Darikazi government? Perhaps so, if we are also being attacked by Kildora in the north…”

“Thank you, Ser Owain,” the king said, rubbing the bridge of his nose and briefly closing his eyes.

“As you can see, my Lords Ambassador,” he continued after a moment, “the situation on Our western border rather complicates the idea of a formal alliance to the east. Of course if the Republic does think  to attack us again, then an allied Nolkior on its southeastern flank might give it pause…”

And so it continued for three days of meetings, as Vulk, Toran and Lord Korak met with various combinations of the royal advisors, and once more with the king himself. It was in that second meeting with Dorikon that it was finally agreed that Arushal would send an embassy to meet with that of Nolkior to formally discuss alliance, on 23 Agras at the Arushali border fortress of Kar Vandol.

While all this had been going on, the rest of the Hand had enjoyed the cosmopolitan pleasures of Lothkir. But they were willing enough to fall in with Vulk’s suggestion, once he was free of his official duties, to travel to Virzon to visit his family.

All except Erol, who had agreed to undertake a solo journey into the Kildoran Republic, to try and learn more of what was going on between the Senate and the renegade Korönian orders at Bremkin. Being a native, it was felt he might better worm information from sources both low and high than Ser Owain’s non-native spies.

So, while Erol and Jeb headed north, the rest of the Hand saddled up on royal horses and headed southwest.

The ride to Virzon was relaxing after the stress and tension of the past tenday, and the joy with which his family greeted both Vulk and his companions seemed to lift a burden form him. Old friends and new were taken in by Ser Tulath and Lady Lena with cheerful goodwill, despite some minor crowding in the Elida townhouse.

Vulk  spent much of the first day catching up on the doings of his younger siblings – Gevin and Brant had both joined the City Guard last summer, and with the brash confidence of youth looked forward to “kicking some Darikazi butt,” should an invasion occur.

They enjoyed reverse bragging about the hardships of barracks life, which made the veteran mercenaries present smile inwardly. Their oldest brother, Ser Naldaro, a captain of the Guard, was less reticent in his mocking, and grateful he didn’t have the boys under his own command.

His youngest sibling, Laniala, was the only child sill home, at only 17. Shy and retiring by disposition, she took a fondness for Mariala, quickly overcoming an initial hesitance over her fancy new noble title.

The family all enjoyed hearing the tales of the group’s adventures since they were last in Virzon, or at least as much as they could be told. Ser Tulath seemed especially proud that his son was a Royal Ambassador, and Lady Lena smiled in delight when Vulk told her that the Nolkior blood he inherited from her had no doubt played a part in King Maldan’s decision.

At breakfast on 17 Agras Ser Tulath arrived late to the table, having been closeted for some time with a about a courier from the Sheriff at Dor Kolvin. He shook his head and frowned as he sat down, absently accepting a plate from a servant.

“Dark times are coming I fear,” he said to his son. “As you well know from your meetings with the King and his advisors, the chaos in Darikaz grows ever worse, and I fear it has finally begun to spill over into our own land.

“I’ve just received word from Ser Marik that a band of Darikazi warriors, almost certainly knights of the Order of the Iron Claw from Tarin, were seen near Yamal Manor, on the Arushali side of the River Pelon, two nights ago.

“He has ordered his own patrols to be on the look out, and the Order of the Bronze Shield has sent a patrol to actively hunt the intruders down, but both the Sheriff and the Grandmaster are already stretched too  thinly along the frontiier.

“But if this is some opening move of that mad man Marag Yoridar and his cursed Iron Claw, we’re not sure what it might be… the intruders have  apparently vanished into the vastness of the Orikol Moor. I suppose we can only hope that they’ve suffered whatever horrible fate befalls so many people in those accursed uplands!”

Although this news was disturbing, the Hand didn’t give it much more thought until just before noon, when a servant announced a visitor to se Ser Vulk and his companions – Master Vetaris of Devok. Once they were all crowded into Ser Tulath’s study, their mentor got right to the point.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard of the group of Darikazi soldiers who crossed the Pelon two nights ago –”

“Yes,” Vulk interrupted him. “My father was just telling us about it over breakfast.”

“Ah, good, then I can skip to what I’m sure Ser Tulath could not have told you – my sources inside Dor Tarin have been speaking lately of new obsession of Grandmaster Yoridar, one that may threaten the balance of power along the border.

“It seems that some months ago he came into possession of certain documents, purported to be the work of the Mad Astrologer, Koltorin. These papers speak of a “powerful weapon” discovered during the excavations undertaken for the building of his “city of the stars” on Orikol Moor.

“We know that Nirokilon was built over an Ancient sight, part of the reason the mad man chose the spot. But if he discovered an Ancient weapon or artifact, why did he not use it when his Second Mageocracy was falling apart around his head?

“The Council has long believed that if he did find something, he either didn’t know how to use it, or he was afraid to use it – certain of his surviving writings, suppressed by the Council, strongly indicate the latter. If the papers Grandmaster Yoridar has are from that same source – as seems likely since the ones we have are clearly incomplete – then it would be potentially disastrous to allow him to gain control of such an artifact.

“Now that he has sent a party into the moors, there can be little doubt it is to search for and retrieve whatever may be hidden in the half-drowned ruins of Nirokilon. Whether there is anything to find is greatly debatable, but however small the chances of his success are, the consequences of it are far to great for us to be complacent.

“And so I propose to send you all to Nirokilon… if this party Yoridar has sent has survived the many very real dangers of the area, then scout out the situation and act as seems best to prevent the expedition’s success. Even if they fail to find an Ancient artifact, destroying or capturing 13 warriors of the Iron Claw could only weaken their position.

“i will have a squad of the Sheriff’s men ready near Dor Kolvin, should you send word that reinforcements are needed, but he refuses to send men out into the moors “on a mere rumor.” So be sure you have something before calling them in!”

The Hand arrived, with Princess Miralda, her hand maiden, the remnants of her guard, the Ladies Thalia and Lania, the Maid Carissa, Raven and the wee baby Aldari… not quite where they had expected.

Vulk’s heart sank as he stepped through the Portal, last of all, and found himself not in the tower chamber of the Gate of Shalara, but in some sylvan glade. Sunlight dappled the ground through the bight green of early summer foliage, apparently about the right time of day – at least they weren’t on the other side of the planet!

“I’ll need a few minutes,” he said to the large cluster of confused people milling about the clearing. “I need to recover some strength before trying again… and we need to know exactly where we are, in any case.”

Erol and Devrik undertook to discover that last, striking out down the obvious path out of the glade. They were back in less than a turn of the glass, with the happy news that they were very near the village of Hask, less than ten kilometers west of the city! They had made arrangements with a local drover, and a wagon and team of horses awaited them, ready to convey the ladies (and Raven and the wee baby Alari) into Shalara. Everyone else would have to walk, with the exception of the most badly wounded.

The journey, while relatively short, was tense and quiet. They passed a larger number of people than would normally be expected on a country back road, apparently worried folk fleeing the city for fear of an invasion. Princess Miralda snorted in derision when she learned of this, and shook her head.

“The betrayal of Yorma – or whoever has taken his place –” she added with a  nod to Lady Thalia, ” was a devastating blow. But Shalara is hardly in immediate danger, and even if it it were, it’s still a far safer bastion from marauding enemy troops than any country manor!”

But she agreed there was nothing she could do to stop the fools, if fools they were determined to be, and sat back with a frown, contemplating future remedies.

They arrived in Shalara in the early evening of the first day of Agras, and went immediately to Kar Landsar. Ser Koris was relieved to see his niece, but shocked and saddened to hear of his nephew’s death. The King was not yet returned to the city, he informed the Princess and her companions, but was expected the next day. He commanded the hand to remain in the castle for the night, so that they would be available to give their report as soon as possible on the monarch’s return. He had no specifics about his brother’s wounds, but wasn’t too worried, as he seemed still to be in command.

“It can’t be too bad,” he assured Miralda. “He’s still issuing orders and seeing to every detail of his army, by all reports, so I expect the rumors are far worse than the reality.”

Indeed, the next morning, when he arrived at the eastern gates with columns of soldiers marching in good order, King Maldan rode into the city at their head mounted on his famous white charger. Relieved crowds throng the streets to see him, and cheered as he nodded gravely to all. He wound through several parts of the city, eschewing the most direct route to Kar Landsar, giving as many people as possible a chance to see him.

But when he was safely back in his palace, and had time to eat and hear the news from his daughter, he summoned the Hand to a meeting that revealed another story.

Seated in a large chair, his left leg propped up on a footstool, Maldan looked pale and in pain. He waved away Vulk’s solicitous offer to examine his injuries with an irritated grimace.

“It’s not all that bad,” he said. “My own physicians have the wound well in hand, they assure me. It was an axe blow from that traitorous cur Yorma, laid open my thigh to the bone! Still, I’d have decapitated the bastard if the tide of battle hadn’t swept us apart the next moment…

“I have heard all that my daughter has to tell me, of her bother’s death and the events at car Urkonis. I have heard the testimony of Lady Thalia, concerning the apparent imposture of her husband, and of Lady Lania as well. Now I wish to hear what you all have to say of these matters.”

The King listened for almost an hour as the Hand recounted the events of the last several days, only occasionally interrupting to ask for clarification on some point or probe deeper into a statement. When they had brought the story up to their arrival in Shalara he sat back with a sigh and brooded for a few moments.

“Well, you did all that you could,” he said at last. “It is not your fault that you could not save my son; and if you violated my instructions by taking my daughter through a Nitaran gate, well, it seemed you had little choice. I thank you for your service.”

With that it seemed the audience was over, and the Hand were ushered out of the room, free at last to return to their homes.

♦ ♦ ♦

Raven was suitably impressed by her husbands new mansion… she’d seen enough of civilized life now to recognize its value. It was still in the middle of a city, but there seemed nothing to be done about that, and she looked forward to seeing the country manors he – they – had also acquired. But there was no time for that now, and in any case her main concern was for her brother Black Hawk. Killed in the battle at the inn in Athon’s Grove and resurrected by Vulk thereafter, he had been left in the care of the inn folk. To her relief Mariala was able to assure Raven, through the agency of her magical papers, that Draik had arrived from Dor Dür to oversee her brother’s recovery, and that he should be up and about very soon.

The next several days were spent by the members of the Hand in ordering their new homes, studying and practicing the various arts on which their lives depended, and eagerly seeking all the news of what was going on in the east and the north. Kar Vinkara and the Earl of Kinen remained cut off and under siege, but showed no signs of falling. News from the captured eastern lands was sporadic, but seemed to show no particular bent of the invaders to more than the usual rapine and pillaging… indeed, less than might be expected, as if they expected to be in possession of the lands permanently and therefore not wishing to despoil them unduly. News from the rebel fortress of Yormashire was scant indeed, even to rumor.

One story that seemed to buoy the spirits of the city was that of the Princess Miralda, and her heroic leading of her troops into battle at Dor Lorethal, breaking the siege and providing the one success of that terrible day. Her mystique was only enhanced by her subsequent capture by, and escape from, the traitor Earl of Yorma, bringing out with her the Earl’s betrayed wife as well as the wife and doughtier of the brave Earl of Kinen. The Hand’s role in these events was seriously downplayed, to the chagrin of some and the amusement of others.

“No doubt it is the desire of the Crown to do everything they can to enhance the Princess in the eyes of the people,” Vulk said when Korwin complained about the lack of credit over dinner one evening. “She is the Heiress now, and the last thing this country needs is another Succession Crisis should, Immortals forfend, anything happen to the King.”

“Yes,” agreed Mariala, “I imagine Maldan will try to get Miralda recognized by the Landsar Succession Council, as he did for his son, before he goes into battle again. Anything that makes her popular with the people can only help in that regard.”

And the Princess’ popularity did index seem to be riding high, at least with the people of the capital. With the King’s return, and the safety of the new Heiress, the number of people leaving the city slowed, and even reversed itself as many of those who fled early returned quietly and red-faced.

On the seventh of the month the Hand was summoned to Kar Landsar at noon, where they found themselves among a large throng of nobles and gentry, all summoned to hear the official proclamation of the Princess Miralda as the Heir Apparent and Crown Princess. Apparently Maldan had forced this through the Council, who must still be worried about another crisis in the midst of a war. The people seemed generally in favor of this announcement, what murmuring there was centered more on her age than her gender. But even that seemed muted in the face of her apparent martial abilities and sharp wits.

As they were preparing to leave the castle after the ceremony, the group was discreetly intercepted by one of the upper servants of the King’s household, who asked them to follow hi, at the King’s command. They were once again brought into the small study cum audience chamber where they had last seen the ruler. His leg was again hoisted onto a cushioned footstool, although he seemed less in pain today than previously. The Crown Princess stood beside him, and ranged about the room were his brother Ser Koris, several Court officials, and a dour-looking Khundari in rich robe. The King wasted no time getting down to the matter at hand.

“We wish you to undertake an embassy for us,” he began as soon as they had made their courtesies. “Specifically, We wish Cantor Ser Vulk to act as Our envoy to his own king, Dorikon IV of Arushal, in seeking an alliance 0f Our two realms against the threat of this mysterious Vortex.

“You are ideally suited to this task, not only by reason of your being a subject of Arushal, but because of your close personal involvement in many of the events that have led us to what little is known of this Vortex. Who better, along with your companions, to convince Our brother ruler and his advisors of the true nature of the mutual danger we face? We are also led to understand that you are not unknown to certain noble elements of the Arushali Court, including the King’s own brother.

“In addition, We have recently made treaty with Prince Rhogûn of Dürokon, in common cause against this foe. Ambassador Ghervin Stonefoot,” and here he gestured at the grave Kundari, “has a similar writ for Toran Quickhand, to act as envoy for their own ruler, and help bring Arushal into this alliance.

“Your writ is not to return with a treaty, of course, but to convince Dorikon that he should meet with Us as speedily as possible – I propose the Arushali border fortress of Vandol as the best place for our conference, but We are open to any other suggestions he or his people might make. But time is of the essence. Do you accept this mission on Our behalf, Ser Vulk, Lord Toran?”

When they had made their acceptance, the King continued. “We are placing at your disposal the royal warship HMS Kestrel, one of the mightiest of Our fleet. In international diplomacy, it does not do to introduce the uncanny – and it is best for Our own prestige that Our envoy is seen to arrive in style and power, not skulk into Lothkir unnoticed!

“The ship sails on the dawn tide tomorrow. Our Chancellor has your credentials and the official documents of proposal for the Conference of Vandol; Lord Stonefoot has similar documents for Lord Toran. May the Immortals smile upon you and bless this endeavor!”