From the personal journal of Lurin Ar’Hanol, Ships Physician
aboard the Wind of Kasira

When I signed on to this vessel, I had some small inkling of what I might be getting into… rumors were already swirling around town about this group, and my previous experience with both so-called “adventurers” and wielders of the T’ara Kul suggested that the trip was unlikely to be dull. Well, I had no idea of what I was truly in for!

The voyage started off quietly enough, with a visit, at the insistence of Ser Korwin, to the Isle of Sulan. It was my first visit, as it was for most of the owners aboard. I had long heard the tales of the many pleasures available there, of course, and of the magnificent temple of End’a On’ann, seat of the Kaluran Cult. It was a short but pleasantly intense visit, especially the time I spent with Lady Mariala. She’s usually so reserved, even in private moments, but that day and night she really let her hair down!

The real excitement began after we sailed from Sulan, however. The usual amusements of our strange group, such as the spectacular failure of Korwin and Vulk in their absurd fishing contest, or the oddly disturbing duet of Devrik and his adorable young son Aldari, were interrupted when we came across an island where no island should be. The landing party, which consisted mostly of the Hand of Fortune, of course, came back to the ship with the head of some sort of mechanical wolf and reports of dozens of other aggressive clockwork beasts. Beasts they only escaped by using the power of lighting, which they had somehow contained… I didn’t fully understand Mariala’s explanation, truth be told. They also discovered that the vegetation of the island, which had appeared to be a strange mix of species from many different climates, were in fact all artificial.

The reason for this was revealed all too soon, when what we thought was an island turned out instead to be camouflage set atop a massive vessel — a vessel in the shape of a tremendous whale! This leviathan appears to be the cause of all the missing ships reported across the Empire in recent months… an assumption I feel justified in making, once I witnessed it opening its great jaws and swallowing the Aldetha Star whole! The Wind only managed to escape the same fate thanks to a fortunate wind and the speed bestowed by her strange design.

We celebrated our escape too quickly, however. Only a few hours after the whale-island-ship disappeared below the horizon behind us, a new danger was spotted – a giant sea serpent, coming up aft on us at an even greater speed than our own improbable momentum. That it was related to the whale-island became obvious when it drew close enough to see that it, too, was a clockwork construct — a thing of brass, steel and crystal. I was sure we were doomed as it attacked the ship, snatching up several of the crew and swallowing them whole or biting them in half, shattering railings and various spars, and tangling the rigging.

But the Hand of Fortune proved they were all quite formidable in their own right – they chipped away at the things defenses, until Mariala summoned a gigantic water elemental! Then, in a well-orchestrated attack, Devrik unleashed a tremendous fireball as the elemental grappled with the monster. The resultant explosion of steam badly damaged the construct and, combined with a hurricane wind summoned by Ser Erol, slowed the thing enough for us to escape. This time we didn’t celebrate, but kept an anxious watch, scanning the horizon for further attacks. This time, however, we seemed to truly outrun… whatever all that was.

With our ship somewhat damaged and in need of repairs, and the ship we had been escorting now taken, Captain K’Jurol decided to change our planned destination, instead making for the small port of Cumor, the closest haven on the heading along which the fading magical wind was driving us. Located on the north shore of the island of Sidon, it is a possession of the Telnori Princedom of Asmir, and I confess to some fascination at the chance to see firsthand an actual city of the Star Children. While I have met more than a few of that race, I have never traveled to any of the realms they rule directly… I have only known them as outsiders in Umantari lands, never as the lords of their own realm.

In the event, the town turned out to be a rather small and rustic place, not at all the magical metropolis I had half imagined. Apparently it is where the long-lived Telnori of Asmir come when they tire of other pursuits and seek a quiet seaside life for a time. I suppose when you measure your lifetime in many centuries, a decade or two doing almost anything (or nothing) seems a mere interlude. About one in ten of the residents of Cumor are actually Umantari, and the majority of those are transient T’ara Kul. This is due to the existence of a Nitaran Gate in the hills just outside the town, to the southeast. The Guild of Arcane Lore has built a Fellowship House around the Gate, and it is a place of study and contemplation for many of their kind.

We arrived in the late afternoon, and within an hour of our dropping anchor in the small, sheltered harbor, a messenger was rowed out with a summons for the Hand of Fortune. It seemed that Kavyn Stormborn, Mymitron of the Imperial House, First Minister of the Empire, and Sword Brother to the Emperor Gil-Garon himself, sought an interview and awaited them at the Fellowship House in the low hills just outside of town. How the man knew we were here, given that we ourselves hadn’t known where we were going until a few hours past, is a mystery to me… but then he is one of the greatest mages of our Age. I’ve even heard it rumored he might be an Avatar of an Immortal!

Naturally our principals departed the ship with all due haste… one does not keep the second most powerful man in the Empire waiting! Young Master Aldari had begged to go with his father, but both his parents were firm in refusing him — the Lord Myrmitron had summoned only the Hand. As it turned out, it might have been better had Ser Devrik’s family gone with him…

Several hours after their departure, after the sun had gone down in the west but while the gloaming light lingered for a time in the sky, the Wind of Kasira was atttacked. As the ship was too large for the relatively minor docks of Cumor, we were anchored several hundred yards from shore, and the assault came from the ocean side – and from below the waves.

Swarms of clockwork “men” crawled over the sides of the ship from the dark waters, and would have taken us utterly by surprise if it weren’t for the keen eyes of the lookouts – a watch the good Captain had insisted upon, despite being in the safety of a port. Thanks to that warning, he had a defense organized in seconds, the crew rallying with cutlass and knife to repel the boarders.

But the first few mechanical men were followed by a new monstrosity – what appeared to be an animated corpse encased in a bronze and crystal sarcophagus, with spider-like legs and arms. It radiated a deadly cold, and a palpable feeling of dread and fear seemed to sap the strength of the sailors nearest to it… I felt the edge of that black despair myself.

The mechanical men were difficult enough to fight, being almost impervious to blades (bludgeoning damage seemed more effective, I noticed), but that undead thing was impossible for any man to strike. Those who got close enough seemed to become enervated and weak, quickly falling back in terror. Unlike its companions the creature didn’t immediately attack, but instead seemed to be surveying the ship, its dead, dull white eyes scanning hither and yon.

Only when it spotted Raven and her son, who had been watching the colorful sunset from the poop deck, did it move, and then with purpose. It cut through anyone in its path, friend or foe, making a beeline for the two, its glittering metal claws reaching for them… Raven had only her dagger, but she drew it and sought some weakness in the creature bearing down on them; the boy drew his own small blade, evading his mother’s attempts to keep him behind her, ready to fight the looming threat whatever the odds. Certainly he is the child of two warriors!

From my vantage point in the shadows of the doorway to the lower foredecks I could see that they felt the miasma of fear the thing emanated, but while they faltered neither cowed before it. Unfortunately, neither did they seem to do it any damage, and in short order it had seized both of them in an unbreakable grip. With its prey in had, the creature turned and plunged over the side of the ship, and I cried aloud in fear for them. But a great vessel, in the shape of a whale, though of much smaller dimensions than the great island-ship we had encountered, had risen from the depths beside the Wind. The undead thing landed atop its streaming hull and skittered quickly to a hatch, which opened to receive it… and the captives.

The mechanical men it left behind seemed to show no inclination to stop their attack, though they were now suffering more damage as the crew began wielding spars and belaying pins – and why should they stop, as our losses where still the greater? I think it was Stinky Pete who slashed the ropes that held the boom in place, bringing that great arm down and around, to sweep half a dozen of the mechanized invaders over the side of the ship. The remaining constructs hesitate for a moment, seeing the odds so dramatically changed; then as one they turned and leaped over the railing and back to their waiting vessel.

Within seconds they were inside the strange ship, which began to sink quickly back beneath the surface, water boiling around it as it disappeared. A faint luminosity of the water allowed us to track it for some minutes, until in vanished entirely, swallowed up in the darkness of both the night and the sea. Once it was gone I quickly began moving amongst the downed men of the crew, doing a brief triage to determine where my medical talents might be best deployed. While there were fair number of wounded, there were only three outright fatalities and perhaps half a score of men with injuries which might yet threaten their lives if not treated quickly.

Fortunately for them, the Hand returned to the ship less than half a turning of the glass after the attack, and between the divine, esoteric healing powers of Cantor Elida and my own skill as a physician we were able to save all but one of the most severely wounded. While we labored, despite the sad, bloody nature of the work, I was glad it was the Captain, not I, who had to tell Ser Devrik of the capture of his wife and child. Although I’ve not known them long, the comradeship between these friends is strong, and I was surprised at the vehemence of the argument between Devrik and Mariala over what course of action they should next pursue.

As busy in my work as I was, I could spare little attention to the debate, but few on the ship were unaware of it. In the end I gathered that the Lady prevailed, at least for the moment, and most of the Hand departed the Wind once again to return to the Fellowship House to seek the aid and counsel of Lord Kavyn. I think it was the Captain’s insistence that the ship was simply in no condition to sail, even had we a certain path to follow, that swayed the fiery warrior to yield to this less direct method of tracking his family… the man can certainly become very… focused… when his family is threatened.

Unfortunately, he and his companions returned to the ship in less than two hours, bearing the shocking news that a creature, very similar to the one that had taken Raven and Aldari, had come through the Gate around the same time we were attacked. It had seemed to wield some sort of magic-dampening field, and had taken the Myrmitron by surprise. It had encased him in a bubble of shimmering silver-gray energy, freezing him in mid-movement and leaving him a virtual statue. I overheard Mariala say something about a “stasis field” and an “Earl of someplace or the other,” but I’ve not had time to enquirer further on the matter.

I gathered that the arcanists at the Fellowship House were initially inclined to blame the Hand for what had happened, but once that misunderstanding was resolved had proved willing to offer what aid they could. Unfortunately, that wasn’t much, and in no way useful in tracking our enemies. Hmmm, when did all of this suddenly become my battle? When they kidnapped a mother and child, I suppose… some things just don’t let you remain a disinterested bystander!

While Ser Devrik fumed and stormed about the deck in an agonized fury, and the Captain organized the crew to work through the night on repairs, there was a sudden strange humming in the night air. Glancing up from where I was re-bandaging a cut on one of the ambulatory wounded, I saw a faint blob of violet light appear in the air just in front of the mainmast. It quickly grew, expanding to a shimmering disk of rippling violet energy, pulsing at the edges.

The crew dropped whatever else they were doing, and grabbing up weapons prepared to repel whatever enemy might come through the… opening. Brave men, to be sure, but it was impossible to miss the fear and uncertainty they felt at this uncanny intrusion – I saw more than one make a covert gesture to ward off evil. But nothing came through the disk, which just hovered, humming very faintly… an invitation, perhaps?

Or a trap?

I couldn’t hear most of the debate between the members of the Hand (and the Captain), but I did notice Ser Devrik gazing for several minutes into the flame of a torch he’d had a crewman fetch. When he abruptly snapped his attention from the flame, he tossed the flaming brand overboard, drew his sword, and with a few clipped words to his friends stepped through the glowing portal. The rest of the Hand followed quickly behind, and as the disk began to shrink I saw Vulk’s tame falcon swoop down from its high perch in the rigging to glide through the opening just before it vanished entirely.

With a shake of his head the Captain ordered his men to return to their tasks of cleanup and repair, while I returned to my own calling and knelt next to the son of the ship’s carpenter, who had a gash over his left eye… spectacularly bloody, as most head wounds are, but not especially serious…

♦ ♦ ♦ 

From the private journal of Lady Mariala Teryne, 7th Margrave of Green Tower, Kolori of the Convocation of Xavar’na, Adept of the Order of the Violet Eye.

Korwin was clearly the most nervous of us as we approached the Sidon Fellowship House, but none of use were immune to some level of the jitters — the rest of us simply hid it better, I suspect. I was certainly doing my best to maintain a façade of cool indifference… but the truth is, my stomach was twisting itself into knots at the thought that I was about to meet the world’s most powerful living mage. Truly a man of legends!

The Guild’s Fellowship House was a collection of low structures, none more than two stories tall, scattered almost hap-hazardously along the top of a low hill about a kilometer outside of Cumor. Yet somehow the seemingly random buildings of white stone and red tile roofs made a harmonious and restful-looking whole. A short, stout figure stood at the main door of the central building, obviously waiting for us.

“Come in, honored guests,” he said, standing aside and gesturing us within. The keen look in his gray eyes quickly banished any thought I had that he was a mere porter. “”I am the Learned Gillasant, the rector of this House. Our other distinguished guest awaits you all in the Sunset Room, if you will follow me.”

We passed through a long gallery and out again into a wide central courtyard. At the center of the court was a low, elaborately carved stone dais, wide steps leading up to it from the four cardinal points. I wondered if this might be the location of the Nitarin Gate which was rumored to be the reason this place existed, but our quick pace left me no chance to ask. We entered another low-slung building on the far side of the courtyard, and at the end of a wide corridor Gillasant flung open two large, carved doors of black oak.

The Sunset Room was a surprisingly cozy space, given it’s rather grand name – creamy plaster walls above dark wood wainscoting, thick Kunya-Kesh carpets, a large fireplace on one wall, and a wall of carved stone windows inset with the clearest glass I’ve ever seen. The windows looked to the west, over the tops of trees below the hill-top compound, and the late afternoon sun cast a mellow light into the room. A large octagonal table of carved black ironwood occupied the center of the room, with eight matching chairs, upholstered in deep wine-red leather arrayed around it. A figure was seated at the table, with his back to the windows, silhouetted against the golden light.

Rising as we entered the room, Lord Kavyn Stormborn, Myrmitron of the Ocean Empire, Sword Brother of the Emperor Gil-Garon, Master of the Order of the Silver Star, and greatest living wizard of our age, gave us a slight bow and gestured at the other chairs.

“Please, my friends, be seated… we have much to discuss. Rector Gillasant, will you be so good as to have refreshment brought, and then see to it that we are not disturbed.”

As we took out seats, and while drinks and light snacks were being served, I had a chance to covertly study our host. He was a tall man, slightly taller even than Vulk, with long, jet black hair, currently tied in a queue at his nape, and the most piercing ice-blue eyes you can imagine. He was dressed entirely in black, save for the eight pointed star embroidered in silver on his breast. When the food and drink had been laid out, and the great double doors had closed behind the Rector and the last of the servants, he spoke again.

“Thank you for coming so promptly. I’m sure you have many questions for me, as I do for you. But let me start by confirming what your signet rings are already telling you – I am, indeed, a member of the Star Council. Which I doubt comes as any great surprise — everyone who is aware of the Council’s existence, or at least believes in it, assumes I am a member. So you may be sure that I know much about you all, and your adventures on our behalf.

“But what I don’t yet know is what you have learned of these depredations visited upon the shipping lanes of the Western Reaches over the past several months… the Council’s own attempts at scrying, divination, and both pre– and post-cognition have so far failed to yield any tangible results. Something I find both frustrating and very suspicious…”

Between us, we managed a more-or-less coherent narrative, filling in Lord Kavyn on what we had learned of the enemy currently ravaging the western Empire, including the presentation of the clockwork wolf’s head, which Korwin had thought to bring along in a poke borrowed from Stinky Pete. He was particularly impressed by Korwin’s discovery of what he called the “principal of electricity.”

“I myself am one of the few living practitioners of what is sometimes called the Seventh Convocation — the Convocation of Lightning,” he said, when he heard how our comrade had felled the clockwork beast. “It will be good to add you to that list, Master Korwin, if you manage to live up to this promising start.

“To that end, and to further your study and eventual mastery of electrical magics, I gift you these jorums. Each contains a concentrated dose of convocational principal that should aid you in your studies… or, at need, can power a spell or two. But I suggest you not drain them both until you have mastered the ability to recharge them yourself.”

He handed Korwin two small cylinders of metal, silver and gold with a red lightning bolt running down thier sides. On each, a small nub on one end was matched by an indentation on the other. Korwin was practically goggle-eyed as he accepted the Mymitron’s gift, stammering his thanks quite effusively. Lord Kavyn waved the gratitude away and smiled wryly.

“I suspect having more adepts wielding the power of electricity may become important soon, if this plot is as deep and far-reaching as I fear. It is clearly the great weakness of these clockwork constructs… the sooner you become adept, the better.”

Korwin kept turning and examining his new gift, distracted, as the Lord Kavyn continued to debrief us on our experiences. While clearly interested in both with the whale-island-ship and the alien infestation of the Arapet Horror, it seemed to me that the gray mage’s mind was already working on plans to confront and defeat the Empire’s latest foe. But his attention was wrenched aside when I, sensing that the interview was winding down, took the opportunity to ask him of his own mysterious past, a question that had burned in my curiosity for years.

“It is rumored, milord, that you are a man displaced in time and space, coming from the ancient home world of the Immortals themselves, the lost world called Earth… I have always wondered about the truth of—“

“Wait, did you just say Earth?” he interrupted me sharply, his mesmerizing blue eyes widening. “Not Areth?”

“Well, yes, isn’t that the correct pronunciation?” I asked, a little taken aback by his intensity.

“Indeed it is, my dear Margrave, but very, very few people on this world are aware of that fact. The Espar corruption of the word, Areth, is so deeply embedded in all but the most ancient lore… how did you come to learn of it?”

This naturally led to our recounting to him the tale of our strange trip to ancient Earth last year, when we exchanged bodies with seven heroes of that world for a short time. Which of course led to the even stranger tale of our most recent encounter with the Vanguard and the destruction and resurrection of the entire multiverse.

“Fascinating,” he said, as I handed him my small earbud communication device, one of the set which the armored knight, Scion, had gifted us at our parting. He pulled a magnifying lens from his belt and peered intently at the device. “Apergy Systems, according to this maker’s mark… which was the name of the largest clean energy producer in my own time, some two hundred years after the era you say you visited. Indeed, Apergy engines powered the vessel which brought the Immortals to this world.

“But as much as I would love to believe that it was my Earth to which you traveled, I sadly doubt that’s the case. Much was lost in the Great Collapse of the late 21st Century, but not that much – had there ever been an era of superheroes, it would certainly have been remembered in my own time. Really, the world you visited sounds like something out of an old comic book.” I didn’t understand the phrase, and he smiled wryly as he handed back my earbud. “But why not? This world is pretty much a live action D&D game… and the multiverse is infinite, they say…”

Our puzzled expressions must have been rather comical, for he laughed out loud. “I’m sorry, references to a couple of popular entertainments from old Earth. I’m afraid a literal translation of comic book into Espar doesn’t really convey the true meaning; and I’m not even going to try and explain D&D…

He was clearly anxious to questions us further about the Earth we had known, however briefly, but with great reluctance he pulled himself back to the more immediate responsibilities demanded by his Imperial duties. “Once we have resolved the current crisis I hope that you all will agree to spend some time with me in Avantir, to more deeply explore these matters. I can’t tell you how exciting it is for me to speak with others who have known even a variation of my birth world… even one two hundred years before my time… the truth is, not even Gil can really understand what my home was like, although he tries…”

We agreed that we would be most honored to spend more time with him, then returned to recounting every detail we could remember of our recent encounters on the high seas. By the time he decided he’d decanted all he could from us, at least for the moment, it was full dark outside and the lesser moon was rising in the east. We declined the Rector’s offer of a torch-boy to see us back to the docks in town, the way being fairly straight forward, and said our goodbyes to Lord Kavyn, who intended to return by Nitarin Gate to Avantir that night to report to the Emperor directly.

“Please remain here in Cumor, until I can get back to you with further instructions,” he requested. “It shouldn’t be more than a day or two, once I’ve informed both the Emperor and the rest of the Star Council, and I suspect you’ve all a part to play in whatever is yet to come.”

As Fate would have it, we would be seeing him much sooner than that… although he was right about our involvement in the stunning denouement that was soon to follow…

♦ ♦ ♦ 

From the recovered internal log of Clockwork Captain Essa Rünalt, late of the Imperial Merchant Ship Aldetha Star.

…trying to recall those first moments when I woke up in this hideous shell… the sight of my true body being dispatched by that four-armed monstrosity with a snap of my… its neck… it is still too much for my mind to bear! How I do not go insane, I do not know… perhaps I may yet…

Perhaps it is my unique position, insofar as I can tell, in this monstrous mechanical army that is keeping me sane. For unlike any of the others (including all the men and women from the Star, crew and passengers alike) I do not seem to be constrained in my actions by this cold form. I sense the restraints all around me… that is, around my mind… I know somehow what they would force me to do, but I am able somehow to… slip around them. I remain my own man, even in this terrible form…

…I found the woman and child, unconscious in separate cells, and recognized them as passengers aboard the Wind of Kasira, our hired escort ship. Was their vessel seized as well, somehow? I never saw it in the great internal bay where they are dismantling my own former command…

I managed to awaken the woman, Raven, and she explained how she and her son were taken by clockwork men such as myself. I assured her I was not like the others, and explained who I was… or at least who I had been before my forced transformation. She came to believe me, at least provisionally, which likely proved my salvation when her husband and friends arrived a few minutes later.

Once we had freed Ser Devrik’s wife and child I was able to lead the small group of would-be rescuers (whose explanation as to how, exactly, they had come to be aboard this terrible vessel made little sense to me) to the great internal bay where the mechanized creatures toiled, unloading and dismantling my ship. I told them of the vast store rooms I had seen, full of cargo and material from earlier reavings, and then showed them the room where I and many of my crew were… transformed.

The four-armed master-mind of this hideous operation, or at least I so took the creature to be, and the massive “commander” of the whale-ship were in the chamber, watching the dismantling of the Star below, but thanks to the powerful magics of the lady in green we were able to pass by them unseen.

We eventually made our way to the control center of the mighty whale-ship, although apparently by more circuitous routes than someone more familiar with the vessel’s layout might achieve— for we found the master-mind and the commander there before us.

Still under the cloaking spell of the lady, the dwarven warrior attempted to open the sealed hatch that we believed might lead to the surface. Unfortunately, some sort of alarm was set off by this attempt, and the two leaders became aware of our presence. In the fight that ensued, I feel I held my own, for the rage at the theft of my body, indeed my very life, empowered me… and it’s not as if I had aught to lose at that point… even if the process could be reversed, I had seen my own true body destroyed…

The two clockwork creatures fought well, and the four-armed one was clearly a wizard of some sort, although how a mechanical man could wield that power is beyond me. But we gave as good as we got, and better – even the child leapt into the fray, though his small dagger did little actual damage. It was the strange net wielded by the tall Telnori, containing the power of a lightning bolt it seemed, that brought down the clockwork wizard, and the Khundari with his mighty axe that caved in the chest of the so-called Commander. As I had suspected, that is where the brains of their… our… mechanical bodies reside, rather than in the skull…

Unfortunately, while we were now theoretically in control of the giant vessel, it made little practical difference. The mysterious navigation system seemed locked onto an unchangeable course, presumably to the hidden base we had overheard the two mention prior to the alarm and ensuing fight. Nothing any of these extraordinary folk did seemed able to change that fact.

What we might find on this island of Teshunir (tesh-oo-NEER) remains a mystery… did we destroy the true leaders of this monstrous enterprise? It seems to me to be unlikely, for although they seemed to possess more free-will than the other automatons (myself excluded), how did they come to exist, if not by the hand and mind of someone truly alive?

The hatch did indeed prove an egress to the surface “island” atop the great whale ship, although how that advantages us I am uncertain. Still, I will follow this “Hand of Fortune” to the bitter end, for what little hope I have in being restored to true life lies with them, I think. And if not, then I will have my revenge on the architects of my misery — oh, I do swear it!

4 Agras 3020

It was days before the local authorities were, more-or-less, satisfied with their investigation into what happened in the Hammerhead District on 29 Metisto. During the extremely thorough investigation the Hand of Fortune was kept constantly on call for whichever Imperial functionary might be currently running the show. Now finally, five days after the bizarre invasion of Savage Mountain gülvini via an inexplicable portal which opened in a nearby park, the investigators had grudgingly delivered a verdict of “unknown causes,” and declared everyone involved free to leave the island.

In fact, despite not a shred of evidence linking them to the event, beyond proximity and the rumors of recent events elsewhere, suspicion apparently remained in some minds. The Hand was not-all-that-subtly made aware that their departure from Thorkin, and especially the city of Thermexold, would be viewed with relief, and the sooner the better. Unfortunately, Master Alvador had several more days before the cargo he’d secured for the ship would be ready, leaving them all at loose ends for awhile.

He had sold the bulk of their remaining alien cargo, for a very nice sum, and everyone was flush for the moment. Vulk, more than most of the others, remained keenly aware of how expensive it was to run a ship in the Empire, but for the moment they were good, and he had a growing confidence in their merchant factotum’s skill in such matters. He was just sealing the latest letter he’d penned to his cousin Dugos (one of his uncle Hain’s eight children), describing the various inns and bathhouses he’d visit in his travels, and their varied amenities, when Mariala knocked on the door to his room.

“Korwin has invited us all to a celebratory meal in the common room,” she said after he’d bid her enter. “Apparently he’s learned that this place does a particularly fine version of something called a “Lubber’s Lunch,” a speciality of his homeland he insists we’ll all enjoy, and it’s his treat.”

“Well, he was certainly right about those “bear claw” pastries he introduced Toran to in Tishton,” he replied enthusiastically, stowing his writing tools and standing up. “I was able to track down a recipe before we sailed, from a friendly baker, and I think my aunt will love it… I included a separate copy in my latest letter to my cousin, to pass on to her.” He waved said letter jauntily as he locked his door and they headed for the stairs down to the common room.

Today it was just the core group, as Jeb and Therok were enjoying a rare day entirely to themselves, the doctor was making rounds to check on several recovering patients she’d treated for injuries in the aftermath of the attack, and both the captain and Master Alvador remained busy back at the Wind of Kasira. Aldari was running a slight fever and being a bit fussy, so Raven had opted to stay in their room with him. Taking what had by now become “their” table in the great window bay overlooking the sea, they ordered drinks and eagerly awaited the promised repast.

“I think you’ll all really like this,” Korwin enthused, clearly delighted to share a favorite treat with his friends. “Some variation of the ‘Lubber’s Lunch can be found almost everywhere in the Empire, and even along the coastal regions of Kunya-Kesh and the Wild Coast. The variations range from the basic and simple dish of working fishermen to the elegant, even sublime, interpretations of the upper classes.

“According to the seminal tome on dining in the empire, Taverns, Inns and Disreputable Shacks by the legendary epicurean Guyon Fiarius, the meal’s roots lie in the western islands of the Archipelago, some 600 years or more in the past. Sailors plying the great trade lanes of the Empire, but most especially those working the months-long kraken-hunting voyages out into the Western Ocean, longed for fresh food. The men would talk on deck of the feasts they imagined the landlubbers were enjoying back home, as they themselves gnawed on the last of the salted mutton and hard tack biscuit.

“Legend has it that the meal came about as a result of the efforts of the great kraken hunter, Captain Orto Canava, on the return of his hunting fleet from its greatest voyage. After almost two years at sea, the surviving three ships carried the largest haul of kraken oil, meat and azurgris ever seen, before or since. It made every man aboard wealthy… and Canava himself rich beyond the dreams of avarice!

“As a reward to his loyal crews, he sent word ahead, ordering a great feast prepared for their arrival, consisting of all the things he knew they’d dreamed and talked about over the long, long voyage. Tables were set up along the docks, lights were strung, and the larders of every inn and tavern in the city were emptied to prepare the meal, they say. A great many dishes–“

“So, what city did this event happen in?” Erol suddenly broke in. “Maybe we should go there, you know, for the really authentic version.”

“Well, that’s the thing, of course,” Korwin laughed, for once seemingly unperturbed at an interruption. “And why it’s considered legendary, of course… I know of at least six cities in the Western Reach that claim to be the home of Canava’s Landfall, and I’m sure there are others. Actually, Thermexold is one of the claimants for the title, so it’s possible that we’re already there.

“Anyway, as I was saying, there were an incredible number of dishes made for that first feast, but what stuck with the sailors and survived the centuries, were the simple dishes involving fresh greens, lamb, and goat cheeses. These western islands have long been famous for the variety and quality of their sheep and goats, and their amazing cheeses… as well as some of the most succulent lamb in the Empire. Over the years the idea of a homecoming meal for those long at sea became a tradition throughout the Archipelago, and beyond.

“The ’Lubber’s Lunch basically consists of cold roasted lamb, a selection of cheeses and lamb a’jus, often served with delicate greens and preserved fish on the side. It is said to invoke the very idea of the Empire – wrapping the thinly sliced lamb around the cheese represents the Archipelago surrounding the heart of the realm, Avantir, all of it floating in a sea of salty a’jus. That first, legendary, feast included smoked and pickled fish along with fresh greens, and in later tradition, sailors would brine, salt, smoke or pickle fresh fish the night before sailing, as a symbolic gesture of faith in their return. Additionally the last of the ships supply of pickled vegetables would be brought ashore for the salad, to be enjoyed by all – one possible reason for the belief that eating the last pickle aboard ship will bring bad luck to a vessel.”

“Indeed, the young Master is very knowledgable in the history of our cuisine,” their proprietor said, arriving at their table arms laden with plates and bowls. Quoran’s daughter Bethda stood behind him, with more dishes piled onto a large tray, and the two began quickly laying out the food. “But it’s no mere rumor that Thermexold was the location of Canava’s Feast, and the port to which he first brought his riches – it’s the simple truth! One of my own ancestors was a sailor aboard the Golden Fleet… indeed, ’twas he who founded our family fortune with his pay from that single voyage!

“Now, on Thorkin we are renowned across the Empire for our cave-aged blue sheep’s milk cheese and aged goat cheese, which you’ll note Bethda has there, while Thermexold itself is known especially for our own semi-hard aged cheese called kafylteri, as well as a beautiful smokey goat cheddar.” He set a large platter of cheeses down in the center of the table.

“We’re also well known for our salmon runs, of course, as our mountains provide many wide, cold streams for the fish. Here we have smoked salmon combined with fresh goat cheese and my own wife’s legendary tomato vinaigrette, on a bed of delicate field greens.” As he finished speaking he set the final bowls of salad down and stepped back, beaming in pleasure at his guests.

Vulk smiled to himself, noticing that the man had managed to lay out the entire meal without coming anywhere near Devrik, who seemed oblivious to the innkeeper’s obvious nervousness around him. Although, if you were that afraid of a man who could turn to living flame (fair enough, even if he had saved your life and those of your entire family), it seemed a bit cowardly then to let your daughter lean in between him and Mariala to lay down cutlery and drinks. But the smell of roast lamb quickly drove the thought away, and he dug in hungrily to the food.

The meal proved to be every bit as delightful as Korwin had promised, and no one was feeling much ambition to rise from the table afterward. They took their time, enjoying the astringent lemon tea and slowly nibble on the brillberry-rhubarb tarts Goodwive Helmün had sent out for afters, content to watch the waves crashing on the cliffs below and the gulls wheeling in the clear blue summer sky above.

“I do beg your pardon, learned ser,” Quoran Heldmün spoke sotto voce in Vulk’s ear, startling him from his comfortable reverie. “Would it be possible to have a bit of a private word with you, if it’s not too much of a bother?”

Not particularly wanting to get up, but suddenly curious at the usually bluff and friendly man’s worried look, Vulk nodded and stepped away with him to stand near the smaller fireplace. It was early afternoon, in the middle of the tenday, and the common room was sparsely populated just then… a private enough spot if they spoke quietly.

“What can I do for you, Quoran?” the cantor asked amiably, with his best professional smile of sympathetic curiosity in place. If having half a dozen wizards in his establishment had finally broken the man, and he was preparing to ask them to cease any and all supernatural activity and return forthwith to their place of origin or to the nearest convenient parallel dimension, Vulk had no intention of making it easy on the fellow.

“I hope this isn’t too much of an imposition on your learned person, and on your friends,” the innkeeper began anxiously. “But I was hoping you might be willing to look into a matter for me, something here at the inn… “ Vulk gave him an encouraging nod, and the man rushed on gratefully. “You see, one of my other guests, an itinerant book buyer named Velkin Maribold, a regular patron whenever he is in town, has not been seen in six days… not since before the, the incident…” he faltered for a moment, and his eyes darted from side to side, as if expecting gülvini to suddenly leap out from some unseen ambuscade.

“Do you fear he was caught up in the attack, perhaps killed or injured?” Vulk asked. “Have you checked with the authorities, the local houses of healing–“

“Oh no, no, it’s nothing like that,” Quoran said hastily, pulling himself together again with a visible effort. “No, you see, he went up to his room… ’twas the day before the attack… and retired for the evening. Bethda delivered his supper to him, as was his preference, not being one for the common room much… a bookish sort of fellow, though he hardly looked the part – almost a tall as you, domus, if considerably wider in the beam – but anyway, my girl was the last to see anything of the man. In the confusion the next day, I confess I clean forgot about him, and since… well I never gave it a thought until yesterday, when he was scheduled to depart.

“I tried for hours, knocking on the door and watching for his return in the common room – I’d assumed he was out, when there was no reply – but nary a sign of him. At last I became worried he might’ve been killed by those– those– things, and I used my master key to let myself in. But there was no sign of the man! His own key was in the door, meaning it had been locked from the inside.”

“I know he gave you repeat custom but… how to put this delicately… could he have, er, simply snuck out on the bill?”

“Oh, Not really, domus, no. He’d paid upfront, as is my usual practice, and all his belongings are still there in the room – a powerful lot of valuable books, or at least I assume they’re valuable, all left behind, along with his clothes and other personal items… and to make it truly uncanny, all the windows were closed and locked! That’s the thing that brings me to you, cantor – I know you folk are, um, skilled in these sorts of matters, and I was hoping you might be able to figure out what’s happened to the poor fellow!”

Vulk had to admit, he was intrigued. Assuming the man’s information was correct, it was a classic locked room mystery… would melted ice come into it somehow, he wondered? He agreed to speak to the others about the matter, and a turn of the glass later the entire Hand was gathered in the hallway outside the missing man’s second floor room as Quoran Helmünd unlocked the door once again. After the fabulous meal everyone was in a mellow mood and ready for what promised to be an intriguing, if ultimately minor, mystery… a pleasant post-prandial diversion.

“Wait out here,” Devrik growled as he passed the innkeeper, and the man shrank back, plastering himself against the hallway wall and turning pale. Mariala patted his arm sympathetically as she went by and gave him a smile, which he returned weakly. Wiping his sweating brow with a large bar cloth, he wondered if he’d done the right thing after all…

The room was spacious, near twin to the one that Domus Bizwyk occupied directly below, if not as large as the Imperial suite Mariala was currently renting. On the desk against the far wall, under a modest window, a large leather-bound book lay open, face-up atop a sea of scattered papers and pens. The remains of a half-eaten meal moldered on a brass tray in one corner of the large desk, and two valises full of books of various sizes, shapes and conditions stood half-opened next to it on the right.

More scattered papers, along with a few pieces of obviously male clothing, lay spread across the large bed and spilled onto the floor. Like those on the desk they were covered in notes, diagrams, formulae and lists, almost all in the same spidery, scrawling hand and an unusual red-brown ink. At Devrik’s macabre suggestion that this might be dried blood, Korwin shook his head regretfully.

“Nothing so outré, I’m afraid. This sort of ink, which was designed to look like blood, was all the rage amongst the Imperial nobility about a century ago. The fad eventually burned itself out, and these days it’s mainly popular only with the most hide-bound old noble fossils, pretentious scholars, and certain antiquarian historians, writers, and the like.”

In the margins of the large open book Mariala found other notes in a more elegant, and probably feminine, hand. After a brief examination of the visible text and the marginalia she flipped the book closed. Erol jumped, looking like he’d expected the thing to explode, or bite her hand off, or something similarly nasty, then shrugged sheepishly. Until he saw the cover, and then he discreetly took several steps back…

Bound in beautiful, thick red-brown leather, with a heavy locking clasp set with a large red carbuncle, the cover was heavily tooled with the likeness of a compelling bald man with a goatee and, even in bas relief, piercing amber eyes. The title of the volume was “The Joys of Extradimensional Spaces,” and Mariala’s eyes widened in surprise.

The tome was one of the more obscure works by the famed grey mage Darolithukan (dahr-oh-LEE-thoo-khan), the man best known for his creation, almost three hundred years ago, of the incredibly useful magical artifact type commonly called a “bag of holding.” He had been a prolific and inventive creator of practical artifacts and devices, and was perhaps even better known today then he had been during his own lifetime. Mariala had heard of this particular volume, considered one of his more difficult and cryptic works, but it being relatively rare had never seen a copy. She recognized his face, of course, which tended to be similarly attached to most of his works, one way or another – besides a genius polymath, the man had been a shameless self-promoter.

Now really intrigued, Mariala began shifting through the various papers and the marginalia in the book again, muttering to herself as she sank into her research trance, so familiar from her student days. The others recognized her deep concentration, and left her to it, variously studying the room for other clues. Toran searched carefully for any hidden doors or mechanical devices, while Vulk (after directing Korwin to stand near the door and keep his hands in his pockets) performed the ritual to invoke Kasira’s Key. Erol and Devrik undertook a more mundane physical examination of the room and its contents.

Toran’s search proved fruitless, as he’d expected – but of course you never find 100% of the hidden doors you don’t look for. Vulk found himself with a pounding headache when his ritual to search for dimensional rifts resulted in a sudden backlash of searing, violet psychic light, invisible to everyone but himself but extremely painful, nonetheless. The physical search yielded a few hints about the personality of the missing man, but nothing to indicate where he might have gone, or how.

“Actually, I may have an idea on the how, at least,” Mariala said in a distracted tone, when Erol mentioned the latter point. She started to read one of the notes in her hand aloud, then noticed the innkeeper still hovering in the open doorway. With a pointed look and a nod of her head at Korwin, who stood closest, the water mage deftly shooed the curious man away.

“I’m sure you have much to do, Quoran, and you can be confident we’ll report to you as soon as we find anything definitive,” he assured the man. He began to swing the door shut, then paused. “Oh, and if you hear anything… unusual… or see any unexpected lights, say, or smell something odd… well, don’t worry about it, it’s all part of the process!” The door snicked shut on the innkeepers worried face, and Korwin turned the key in the lock.

Once the Hand were alone Mariala continued, gathering up several papers from around the room and laying them on the desk about the re-opened tome. “I think the book contains clues to the location – or maybe the creation, it’s not entirely clear to me yet – of an extradimensional “refuge” of some sort… I think whomever wrote in the margins of the book figured it out, and from those clues, it seems that Master Maribold may have deciphered the puzzle as well…”

“So you think this bookseller opened up a portal to some weird dimension and simply stepped through?” Erol asked.

“Hmmm, stepped through or perhaps pulled through, it’s hard to say for sure,” Mariala replied, frowning in thought. “I do think, whatever this is about, it’s tied to the book itself, however.”

“Can you reopen this portal, or gateway, or whatever?” Devrik asked, eying the book dubiously.

“I think so,” Mariala said after a moments thought. “With their groundwork to build on, I think I’ve solved the clues myself now, and I believe I know the operant phrase required…”

“Well, if there’s a chance this guy got sucked into whatever he might’ve opened,” Vulk said, still rubbing his temples and looking a bit peeved, “should we be repeating his mistakes?”

“No, of course not,” Mariala said, somewhat cavalierly he felt. “I doubt very much he was actually forced through against his will, although I can’t rule it out completely, of course. But we’ll prepare ourselves, so hopefully we won’t be taken by any surprises. But really, if we’re going to rescue the poor man, we don’t have much choice, do we?”

A few minutes later, with everyone firmly anchored in various spots about the room, just in case, Mariala closed the book again and centered it on the cleared surface of the desk, clicking the jeweled clasp firmly into place. Then she picked up the scrap of paper she’d jotted down the operant phrase onto, and spoke the words aloud, in a strong, firm voice.

“Klevnartank Vorsoon!”

For a second nothing happened… and then a beam of brilliant red light shot out from the great carbuncle affixed to the clasp of the book, spreading wide to form a red, glowing-edged portal in the center of the room, between the bed and the door. Within its shifting, luminescent bounds two ironbound old oak doors seemed to be set. The magical portal hovered just centimeters off the old wooden floor, and nearly scraped the plaster ceiling overhead.

“Well, in for a copper, in for a crown,” Vulk sighed, and reached out with Toran to pull open the doors, weapons drawn. Immediately behind were Devrik and Erol, weapons at the ready, with Mariala and Korwin bringing up the rear as they all stepped through the gateway…

••••••

They found themselves in what appeared to be a grand foyer, about seven meters square. The floor was made of polished tiles of black and white marble, set in a pattern of alternating diamonds. The walls were of a dark green stone, carved in elegant geometric patterns to form a kind of wainscoting, but without visible seam or join — as if carved from a single piece of dark jade. The ceiling was five meters overhead and deeply coffered in rich, dark mahogany. Oak-and-bronze cloak pegs were set along either side wall, ready to receive any outer garments the visitors might wish to divest themselves of. Behind the group the two tall, iron-bound doors of dark oak stood open, revealing the room they’d just left, the image slightly dimmed by a pale red haze.

To either side corridors of similar materials and design stretched away, like the foyer lit by indirect light of uncertain origin… it almost seemed as it if the walls themselves exuded a soft, directionless glow, although a closer examination revealed it just wasn’t so. The light simply… was.

Directly ahead, and slightly to the left, a bronze-bound oak door, already slightly ajar, suddenly swung wide. In the doorway, warm candlelight flickering in the room behind him, stood a tall, heavyset man in wrinkled blue-gray robes and a black cloak-vest. He possessed a thick mane of gray hair, shot through with a few remaining streaks of black, and a thick gray beard that tumbled down his chest halfway to his belt. His brown eyes were rather bloodshot, and he looked both tired and extremely surprised to see a sudden gang of people.

“Bookseller Velkin Maribold, I pressume?” Toran inquired, setting the head of his axe on the marble floor with a musical ‘tink’ and leaning casually on the handle. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Oh! Er, who are you people? How did you get in here?” the man said, clearly trying to catch up with events and eying the heavily armed strangers with some alarm. Devrik slid his sword into its sheath, and the others stood down as well.

“We are known as the Hand of Fortune,” Vulk said, in his best Herald’s voice, stepping forward, “and our mutual landlord at the Inn at Hammerhead, Goodman Helmünd, was concerned by your mysterious disappearance. He asked us to come find you, as we have some small skill in solving these sorts of mysteries.

“Ah, yes, well… that is uncommonly decent of him, I suppose. I know I’ve been gone a few days, but I am paid up through he middle of the tenday… still, still, it was very thoughtful of him to send help.” His doubtful expression rather undercut his words, unfortunately, and Devrik narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“Well, you have been gone for six days,” Vulk explained patiently. “You were to check out today… either that or renew your lodgings, I suppose… which is what drew us in, at the landlord’s request.”

“Six days?!” Velkin looked genuinely stunned. “That’s… that’s just impossible! It couldn’t be more than two, I’d swear it on by parents’ cenotaph! Why, those little beasts only fed me… well, no more than three times, I’m certain of that… no, wait, it was four. I’ve been so engrossed in the books, you know, but I’m not even hungry – it can’t be six days!”

The Hand assured him that it could be, and that it really had been, and after a moment he shrugged in resignation. “Well, this is a fascinating place, and I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised if time runs differently in here.”

“Um, yes, about that,” Mariala said eagerly. “Where exactly is “here”? I followed your notes, and the other’s, which is how we came to open the gate, but I’m still not entirely clear on the specifics…”

“Oh, yes, well this is an extradimensional space, a tiny pocket universe if you will, tucked away in the folds of our own greater reality… at least, I’m fairly certain it is. Karavina of Samokara was convinced of it, if I read her notes aright in the margin’s of Darolithkuan’s magnus opus. It was, after all, she who created this space in the first place.

“And then I believe she built this mansion within it, her own unbreachable, inviolate sanctum, a veritable fortress of solitude, if you will, to which she could retire at need to study and safely practice her art. And she did all this based off what she gleaned from the old master’s cryptical work.”

Devrik noticed that the older man kept conspicuously not looking at the open doorway behind the group, and the sight of his old room beyond it. And why did he continue to seem so very nervous? It might just be his nature, of course, and they were an intimidating bunch en masse, to be sure. Still… he continued to watch the man warily without actually looking directly at him, much as the fellow himself watched the doorway without ever looking right at it.

“This is truly the most amazing place,” Maribold was going on. “Indeed it is! I’ve barely had time to scratch the surface… six days you say? Astounding! But still so little time… and so much to discover! For instance, look at this carving. The detail is astonishing, the craftsmanship superb… I plan to take it back to see if the art or history experts at the University can identify its style and era.”

The object he pulled from a breast pocket of his vest cloak was a statuette, about 8 cm (3”) tall, of some kind of demonic creature. The craftsmanship was truly stunning in its detail and precision. It had the twisted, leering features one would expect on a Chaos creature, and its large bat-like wings were half unfurled, its legs bent, its claws outstretched as if leaping to the attack. It was carved from a glossy black material, perhaps onyx or obsidian.

“You work for the University, then?” Korwin asked, looking closely at the proffered totem before handing it back.

“Yes and no. I am technically a purveyor of books to the Unseen Library, but that gives me a certain entré with the University as well… I travel the world, seeking out rare and valuable tomes, as well as more mundane but still unique works, and provide them to the scholars… they are always hungry for new and fascinating works, and it pays for my own studies at the University and amongst the stacks… yes, I fancy myself something of a scholar as well… though perhaps with a more practical bent than those who make their home in the Great Library?

“But this trinket, while beautiful, is the least of the treasures here! Why, just step into the study, you’ll never believe the books, the sheer volume of knowledge –“ He turned to gesture back into the roomed from which he’d emerged, but hesitated when no one moved to follow him. With an annoyed frown he reached up to grasp something hanging on a chain around his neck…

Devrik’s suspicious mind saved him from being blinded by the sudden white-out sheet of light that enveloped everyone in the foyer… but the tremendous clap of thunder that accompanied it still left him momentarily deafened and lightly stunned. He reached to grab at Maribold as the man bulled through the others, knocking Toran aside and Mariala on her ass… a fraction of a second too slow. His fingers grazed the edge of the vest cloak, but he failed to get a grasp, and the man was through the doors and back in the inn in an instant.

Devrik dashed forward through his milling, blinded companions, but the tall doors began to swing rapidly shut as soon as the bookseller was through them. They slammed shut with a heavy boom just as he reached them. But in the instant before they came together completely everyone in the foyer heard Maribold’s mocking, relieved laughter turn into a scream of fear, followed by a sudden gurgling wetness… a sound itself quickly cut off as the doors boomed shut.

“Well, blast!” Devrik said into the sudden silence.

••••••

As soon as the others had regained enough of their dazzled eyesight to let them function again, Devrik and Toran had pushed against the entry doors while Erol stood at the ready with his trident. The portal had yielded with surprising ease, but what met their shocked gaze beyond was not the upstairs room at the Inn at Hammerhead. Instead a swirling, formless void of roiling violet… nothingness… stretched into an unknowable distance. Five meters or 10,000 kilometers, with no reference point beyond the faint whorls and streamers it was impossible to tell.

They stared into that void, and with a crawling sense of dread it soon felt as if the void might be staring back. They quickly closed the doors again, and Mariala attempted to invoke the operant phrase once more, but to not avail – when the doors were pushed open once more, all that could be seen was the violet void…

“Well, I suppose we’d better start searching this place,” Toran sighed, sheathing his axe and really taking a look around their temporary (he hoped) prison. “There has to be away out.”

“I suppose the place to start is that study the old bastard came out of,” Devrik agreed. The aroma of roasting meat wafting down the right-hand corridor, from somewhere beyond the staircase to an upper floor, might have been more tempting if they weren’t all still replete from their ‘Lubber’s Lunch.

The door to the door to the Study still stood wide open, and Toran cautiously led the way in. The room was dominated by bookcases at the far end, running the full 5 meters from marble floors to coffered wooden ceiling. Made of dark mahogany, with ebony trim and inlay, the shelves were crammed with books and more than a few scroll cases. While even more books were scattered around the room piled upon chairs and tables, the large central desk was free of clutter. The only thing on its malachite stone surface, aside from standard desk accessories, a picture, and a small candelabra, was a very fine mandolin.

Flickering light from wall sconces and candles scattered about the room warmed the cooler diffuse ambient light of the hallway and entry, and an attached ladder on wheels gave access to the room’s higher reaches of shelves. Two large paintings occupied the little wall space not taken up by bookshelves – a landscape on the “east” wall, depicting a green dragon emerging from a grove of pine trees; and a study of a winged horse in flight on the “west” wall. A third painting, a small portrait of a young girl standing next to a unicorn in a wooded glade, sat in a gilt frame on the desk.

A fluffy black cat was curled up asleep in the armchair behind the door, but woke and yawned, stretching languidly, at the sudden influx of strangers. After staring at them for a moment it mewed plaintively then hopped down and strolled toward the group, twinning between their legs. Most of the Hand ignored the beast, but Erol crouched down to stroke it, making it purr. He then fed it a couple of the ferret treats he carried for Grover, and the purring became a happy rumble.

“Why did you do that?” Mariala sighed in exasperation. “Now the thing’s going to follows around forever.”

At almost the same moment Toran said almost the same thing to Vulk, who had made a beeline for the beautiful mandolin. He’d picked it up and begun strumming a few chords, carefully adjusting the pegs, and Toran had been horrified.

“Why would you do that?” he’d exclaimed in amazement. “We’re in a bloody magic mansion in some bloody magical pocket dimension – how do you know that’s not some sort of cursed instrument, or a damn mimic, or some other damn dangerous thing?”

“Toran, my friend, you read too many children’s stories,” Vulk laughed, playing a short melody once he had the instrument tuned to his liking. The sound was as pleasing to the ear as the instrument itself was to the eye.

“And you obviously don’t read enough of them,” the Dwarf muttered darkly, turning back to his examination of the desk’s drawers with a shake of his head.

Korwin, searching through the pile of books stacked on a table below the dragon painting, managed to resist his sticky-fingered impulses, if barely… but he was the first to notice that the flames in the room, whether on candle or sconce, gave off no heat at all, only light. Devrik was fascinated by the phenomenon when it was pointed out, for they were more than mere illusion, and yet were not ethereal flame, either. he quickly fell to trying to figure out how that had been achieved…

For a full turn of the glass they searched the room, and in the end pieced togther some idea of what the place was. Almost all the books in the study were written by the same person, a grey mage named Karavina. As well as being a powerful mage she was also a consecrated cantor of Shala, and was most famously linked with the free-city of Samokara, on the Wild Coast.

“But didn’t she go missing a couple years ago?” Vulk asked, trying to recall what he’d heard on the subject.”And isn’t she generally presumed dead?”

“Yes, it was around the time Devrik and I took that fool Ardath back to Lothkir for his trial in the mess surrounding Baylora’s Island… two years ago I suppose it’s been now. Her vanishment, and presumed death, was probably the next-most-talked-about topic during the trial, after our revelations about Baylora’s fate, as I recall.”Devrik nodded in agreement.

“We heard about it in the monestary, as well,” Toran recalled. “She had been an occasional visitor, apparently, and was generally well-liked i believe. But I never met her myself, her last visit was a few years before my time there.”

“That’s right, I remember now,” Vulk said. “That was when Draik and I were down south in Tekolo, in the Theocracy, getting drawn into that whole mess with the one-armed priest, the apple seller and the courtesan… not to mention the sewers and the giant rats. I’m afraid I didn’t have much time for random news just then, but I do recall hearing something about it.”

“Well, according to some of these journal entries,” Toran went on, reading from a large black leather-bound book, “she credits her piousness, along with her work in expanding universal education to all, as the the reason that Shala “gifted” her with the understanding and insight to decipher Darolithukan’s cryptic work on extradimensional spaces. “

“Ah, that tallies with what I read in another journal,” Korwin said, sifting through a pile of books and pulling out a smaller red, leather-bound volume. “It was that insight which allowed her to eventually create a permanent link between her copy of his book “The Joys of Extradimensional Spaces” and a pocket dimension she’d managed to create, wherein she “…constructed a refuge for my studies, free from the distractions and dangers of the greater world at large.”

“Well, we know where we are then, more-or-less, and how she accessed her pocket dimension from the real world,” Devrik rumbled. “But how did she mange to get back, once she was ready to return?”

Erol looked up from a third journal, bound in green leather, that he’d been skimming. “She does seem to have been open to visitors, close friends and professional colleagues, and it looks like she worried that a guest might become trapped in the mansion… but she also worried about potential invaders and thieves, and had no desire to make escape easy for them. This entry says that Karavina hid the key to opening the portal back to her linking book “…on the spines of seven books, placed variously about the mansion.”

This set off a flurry of searching about the room, but with nothing else to go on, it was difficult to know what to look for. There were hundreds of books, at least, in a bewildering variety of styles, sizes and shapes, and hardly any two had the same spine treatment – some bore the book title, embossed or in gilt, some were blank, others bore designs or patterns, some simple and others complex, yet others had initials in different configurations.

In the end it was agreed they’d need to search further if they were going to unravel Karavina’s puzzle, and they decamped back into the foyer. Toran, Vulk and Erol decided to go down the left-hand “western” hallway, while Devrik, Mariala and Korwin took the “eastern” right-hand passage. They agreed not to head upstairs until they were together again, and to meet back in the foyer in any case no later than two turns of the glass hence.

The next room to the “west” of the Study appeared to be some kind of exercise space, and after a brief look around Toran dubbed it the Training Room. It was lit by the violet-tinted light of the Void streaming through a large window opposite the door, mostly washing out the usual ambient glow of the mansion. It was a sparsely furnished chamber, containing a battered wooden mannequin, one weapons rack holding staves and daggers, and another housing cross-bows. An archery butt was set up in the far corner of the space from the cross-bow rack, while two target boards were mounted on the “east” wall opposite the dagger rack, apparently for knife and dart throwing. Several diagrams and charts showing the humanoid body, attack and defense positions for staff and dagger fighting, and tables and text on ranged weapons were displayed in several places on the walls. Several tatami mats softened the marble floor, but both mats and stone were variously stained and scorched, as by blood and fire. A large bullwhip lay curled up on the nearest mat.

Most unusually, at the far end of the room a broom hovered in the air to the right of the window, methodically sweeping the floor, seemingly under its own power! Casting a cantrip, Erol concluded there was no invisible charwoman wielding the implement, just some sort of animation spell. Keeping a wary eye on the artifact, the three men spread out to examine the room, although it seemed singularly devoid of books.

All the weapons in the room proved to be of purely mundane manufacture, if of the very highest quality and craftsmanship. The first rack contained four fine daggers, three quarterstaffs (a fourth lay on the floor near it), and twenty darts in a fine leather bandolier hanging from it. Three taburi throwing knives were embedded in one of the boards, and Toran took all three, along with the bandolier of darts. If they stumbled across the owner, he could always return them, and if not, well it was a same for them to go to waste…

Vulk quickly became engrossed in studying the detailed information about staff fighting to be found on the wall diagrams and instructions. It was all incredibly well organized and presented in such a clear and lucid manner that he felt his confidence in his own quarterstaff skills rise as he studied. Erol likewise found the knife-fighting diagrams informative and deeply educational.

With the others engrossed in their reading, Toran stepped closer to better examine the animated broom. He briefly wondered what would happen if he grabbed it, recalling childhood tales of mountain hags and their flying broomsticks – the power of flight would be amazing! He then remembered his earlier criticism of Vulk and his careless playing of the mandolin, and with a sigh he stepped away from the industrious broom, leaving it to go about its business unmolested.

••••••

Down the “eastern” hallway, past the staircase, the others quickly found the Kitchen. The smell of mouthwatering cooking aromas wafting through the entry foyer became stronger as they approached, no doubt because the door was propped open with a wooden wedge. A large iron stove took up half the far wall, while the rest of the room was filled with large tables and racks lined with hanging pots, pans, and cooking utensils. Everything was sparkling clean, and at first glance the room appeared to be empty, despite the two steaks searing on a side grill of the stove.

Then the sound of flapping wings near the large table to the right of the door drew their attention. It took a moment for the sight to register, but two small humanoid forms flitted about, eventually coming down to land amidst the food and utensils on the table. They bowed low to their guests and in piping, squeaky voices greeted them with great enthusiasm.

“How can we be of help to our honored guests? Cooking? Cleaning? Mending your clothes, perhaps? We are at your service!” burbled the blue-tinted one.

“A guest is a jewel on the cushion of hospitality, most honored visitors!” piped the rose-tinted creature. “Please let us serve you to the best of our meager abilities!”

The three mages stared in open-mouthed amazement for a moment, before gathering their wits and bowing low in return to the charming little beings. They all recognized homunculi, of course, but what was so startling was the fact of their speech. Most such artificial creations of any T’ara Kul skilled enough to manage it, while able to understand their master’s speech, very seldom had voices themselves. It wasn’t impossible, but it was very rare, and to find two such…

Actually, that was another surprising thing… no mage could have more than one living homunculus at a time. That had long ago been proved to be quite impossible – any mage with an existing homunculus invariably found that all attempts at another such creation ended in failure. Yet here were two, nearly identical creatures… had Karavina somehow managed the impossible and broken the Homunculus Barrier?

“Greetings to you, worthy servitors,” Devrik responded gravely, in the prescribed forms for such conversation. He introduced himself and his companions, then asked after their own names.

“I am Cumin,” squeaked the blue homunculus proudly, standing up to its full 25 cm (10”) height. The rose one added equally proudly, “And I am Coriander.” It flapped its wings with a jaunty snap.

“Are you both the, um, servitors of Karavina,” Mariala asked, fascinated by the little creatures. She’d often day-dreamed about making her own, as a young student at the chantry, but of course it had been far beyond her skills then. Was now too, almost certainly, she thought wryly.

“Oh no,” tittered Cumin, obviously vastly amused at such a silly idea. “Lady Karavina is my maker, not Coriander’s!”

“My maker is Lord Elyoiat (el-YO-ee-aht),” Coriander added, also laughing. “Can we make you something to eat? We have steaks cooking, but we can make you anything you might desire.”

“Oh yes, please, may we cook for you?” Cumin piped. “Or maybe wash your clothes? Do you have any mending you need done? We’ve only had the cats and the faerie dragons to cook and take care of for such a long time, and they’re so boring! Now, to have four new guests so close together…”

“Four new guests?” Korwin queried.

“Yes, you three and Master Velkin… those are his steaks cooking, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing. Actually, he hardly notices the food we prepare in any case, so if you’d like them intead…” Coriander squeaked suggestively.

“Ah, yes, well, we’ve just had a large meal, so we don’t really –“ Korwin started to explain, and the little creatures’ smiles vanished into looks of dejection, their wings drooping noticeably. Devrik interrupted quickly, giving his friend the stink eye.

“Actually, most worthy homunculi, I am feeling a bit peckish, now that I think on it. Might you manage some dal maharani, if you please, favored homunculi?” He named the most exotic dish he could thing of off the top of his head, just to see what would happen, and to give the little beasts a challenge, which they clearly loved. Indeed, they immediately perked right up, wings fluttering excitedly.

“Of course, venerated guest, at once! And for you, most lovely and charming of ladies? May we not prepare something for you as well?”

Following Devrik’s lead, Mariala smiled and nodded. “Well, I suppose a nice turkey and cranberry sandwhich might be just the thing right now. And is that berry pie there on the table? Perhaps a slice of that as well?”

In a thrill of excitement, the two tiny creatures began fluttering around the kitchen, darting into the pantry, grabbing ingredients, implements and crockery from shelves and racks, and firing up the stove. The humans tried to follow what they were doing, but in the blur of motion and non-stop chattering it was difficult to keep track of everything… in less than ten minutes, however, the homunculi were laying out the requested food for their guests on the kitchen table.

Devrik had never actually had dal maharani, only heard the name from Master Vetaris once in a discussion of favorite foreign cuisines, so he had no idea if this was a good example or not. But if it wasn’t, he really looked forward to trying the real thing someday, because this was amazing! And so spicy! He loved it.

Mariala was perfectly familiar with turkey, bread, cranberry sauce and pie, and she could categorically state that this was some of the best she’d ever had of each! She wondered where they could possibly be getting the fresh ingredients (there was no way any of this stuff had been dried, salted, smoked or otherwise preserved). And maybe that would prove to be a clue to getting back to the real world…

Korwin had been wondering the same thing, and while the cooking frenzy had been in full swing he had checked out the pantry. The small room was set behind the stove, its door just to the left, and inside were all the things one might expect to find in a well-stocked manor house’s stores. And yet there was something about them… a close look revealed that almost everything was a generic sort of item – starches, flours, grains, meats, spices, fruits – but he had a hard time identifying any specific foods… he suspected magic was at work here…

Stepping back out into the kitchen he could see that his friends were enjoying their snack, if slowly so as not to exploded from over-eating, and how pleased the homunculi were at serving them. He decided he’d better repair his accidental faux pas from earlier, and clearing his throat he caught the attention of Cumin.

“My pardon, favored servitor,” he said. “Could you tell me what polish you might recommend for my boots? As you can see, they’re looking a bit scuffed, and I –“

“Oh yes, absolutely, honored guest,” the creature fluted enthusiastically. “We have the very best here, of course, the Mistress and Master insist on it — Old Minster’s Leather Boot Polish and Dessert Toping! Here, let us take care of that for you, at once!”

Before he knew quite what was happening the two tiny beings had his boots off and were industriously buffing away at them with something from a can one had pulled from somewhere on a shelf. The stuff was dark and thick, and smelled like both leather and clotted cream… something that should have been nauseating he thought, yet wasn’t.

With the tiny servants happily busy, the humans were able to question them a bit. It was slow going, as the creatures were flighty and not very bright about some things – time for instance. They seemed not to have a strong concept of the passage of time, so when they said their masters had been gone “a long time” it was impossible to determine if they meant a month or a decade.

Their spatial acuity seemed better, and they were able to affirm that the house had “always” been the same size it was now, that the violet void had not been slowly encroaching on it. Although they had no idea what the void actually was, and seemed surprised at the question – perhaps even confused by it.

One thing they were very clear on, however, was their creators’ instructions concerning the books and artifacts in the mansion – the strict command that they were never to move or even touch any books that had single letters on their spines. They had no idea why, and it had never occurred to them to wonder. Their domain was mainly the kitchen and the adjoining dining room, and they seldom visited any of the other rooms in the mansion, beyond occasional maintenance or cleaning (or to free a cat, if a door got closed somehow).

“Something keeps dumping books into the middle of the floor in the Library, and making piles of them” Coriander said crossly. “It is very annoying to have to keep re-shelving them!”

“Yes,” agreed Cumin vigorously. “I’d think it was that terrible little imp the Mistress summoned that time – it caused ever so much trouble – but she gave it a proper time-out, and it hasn’t been a problem since!”

“You mentioned earlier that you only had the cats and the, um, faerie dragons to care for, since Karavina and Elyoiat went away,” Mariala said. “What are those, exaclty, and how many of them are there?”

“Oh just Krasinda and Methora,” Cumin said diffidently, with a flick of its wings. “They’re silly things, and they always want to play… it’s not like they have work to do, is it?! They always want to wrestle, even when we don’t have time!”

“But they don’t mean any harm,” Coriander piped in, clearly more fond of the creatures, whatever exactly they were, than its companion was. “Their mischievous though, so it’s just best for big folk to stay out of their way, I guess.”

“Easy to say,” sniffed Cumin, “when they’re –“

This flow of information was interrupted when the black cat who had befriended Erol (or vice versa) in the Study sauntered into the Kitchen and meowed imperiously. The homuncluli immediatly flitted away to scoop food into one of the four bowls set on the floor near the stove, where a second cat, a gray and white one with a crooked tail, appeared from seemingly nowhere. The two cats daintily began to eat, and the two homunculi cooed and petted them – however boring they found taking care of the cats, they clearly loved them.

It took awhile to get the homunculi to answer questions again, and somehow that effort turned into the little beings giving Devrik cooking lessons, while Mariala sipped a very nice cider and looked on in mixed amusement and horror. Korwin, growing bored, decided to check out the dining room, to the “east” of the Kitchen, and perhaps the Arboretum, which Mariala (who’d stuck her head in to briefly check out the room when they’d arrived in the Kitchen) had mentioned lay beyond it…

••••••

After exhausting the learning (and looting) possibilities of the Training Room, Erol, Toran and Vulk moved on to the final door along the “western” hallway, which proved to lead to what was obviously the Library. The large room was lit, like the hallways, with the cool, mysterious, indirect light, although her the soft white radiance was more like sunlight through heavily frosted glass, diffuse and pleasing to (and easy on) the eye… perfect for reading. Shelves of books lined the walls, and twin sets of double-sided shelves ran down the center of the space. Several rich, dark red carpets, with a strangely pleasing silver geometric patterns interwoven, helped soften the cold white marble floor. The 5 meter high ceiling was groin vaulted in carved arches of a deep red-brown wood, highly polished and, despite the universal light, slightly shadowed.

Four small reading desks, one in each corner, were paired with cozy scarlet chairs, and stacks of books overflowed the shelves in several places around the room. Toward the “north” end of the central aisle it appeared that one or more of these stacks may have been knocked over, with books scattered in a wide drift across the floor.

The three men began a methodical search of the books, although they still weren’t really sure what they were looking for. Erol started on the “west” wall, for the moment ignoring the bronze double-door that lead… who knew where?… to focus on the shelves. Toran took the reading desks along the “south” side, while Vulk headed “north” up the central aisle, scanning the shelves to either side, looking for a clue.

He was almost on the pile of toppled books, and just considering how to navigate them without stepping on or damaging any, when there was an almost subliminal hummmm – and the scores of fallen books suddenly levitated upward, swirly madly around as if caught in a cyclone, rising up to tower over the shocked cantor. Before he had a chance to gather his wits a “pseudopod” of books lashed out from the swarm, aiming for his head!

Vulk dodged under the blow, screaming for the others to beware, and trying to knock the conglomeration apart with his Staff. The books simply parted around his blow, however, like water, and he barely dodged a second blow, this one aimed at his legs. The third blow caught him squarely in the chest and he flew back down the aisle to collapse on the carpet, the breath knocked out of him. As he gasped and struggled to pull air into his shocked lungs Vulk was unfavorably reminded of being wapped across the back with a very heavy grammar book by a tutor when he was 12 years old. He’d been caught staring out the window at the sweating gardner boy instead of conjugating his verbs… The book swarm moved menacingly toward him, and he pulled his mind back to the present…

Erol and Toran appeared at the “north” and “south” ends of the central aisle respectively just in time to see Vulk stagger back to his feet, raggedly sucking air into his lungs and leaning on his Staff. Erol cast a Dispell at the obviously arcane construct, but it seemed to have no effect… obviously a powerful spell must be animating the thing! Toran fired a blast of Stavin’s Arrow into the heart of the swarm, but the swirling volumes simply opened up around the translucent energy blade, forcing Erol to dodge aside as it sailed through unhindered to splash uselessly against the “northern” bookcase.

“Erol, can you throw a net over it?” Toran called through the cyclonic thutter of the books, pulling his battle axe from his back.

“Excellent suggestion, Toran,” the ex-gladiator called back. “Maybe I could start a collection… unfortunately, I didn’t bring my net to lunch today.”

Just then the swarm lashed out again, just as Vulk was preparing to unleash a spurt of Weaver’s Web at the biblioarcanic maelstrom… three “arms” struck out, and Vulk dodged one, only to have the second knock his Staff out of his grasp and the third slam into the side of his head. Stunned and confused, he dropped semiconscious to the floor once more as the swarm reared up and prepared to descend on him like giant locust…

Toran leaped forward to stand over his friend, and swung Ergonkïr in an overhand blow, the shelves too close for the roundhouse cut he’d have preferred. But perhaps it was for the best, as he clove two books clean in half, and sent another half-dozen dropping, inert, to the floor around them. The book swarm reared back, as if suddenly wary… and Erol drove his trident into the heart of the mass. He’d been watching the thing closely, sped up in his temporal bubble of slowed time, and had noticed a massive red leather-covered tome, deeply tooled with a leering demonic face, that appeared to always orbit in approximately the same high circle, with the face always pointed outward. The “brain” of the construct perhaps?

His trident drove two tines through the back of the book and clean out the face of it, and instantly the swarm stopped its mad dervish whirling as every book dropped to the floor in a series of dull thuds. All save the one impaled on Erols trident, and he placed his foot on it, tugging the blades out.

“I think some of these might need new spines,” he said as he stomped over the inert pile to where Toran was helping Vulk to his feet.

“As long as you don’t expect me to shelve them!” the Khundari replied, looking around at the carnage. “So many paper cuts,,,”

“Thanks for the help,” Vulk said, winching at his now severely multiplied headache. “Now let’s get out of here and rejoin the others, it must be close to time.”

“I think we should see whats on the other side of that door,” Toran disagreed, moving towards the large bronze panels. Vulk ignored the throbbing in his head to get in front of his friend and hold his Staff across his torso to block the way.

“No! I think we’ve seen that this place is dangerous enough the it’s no longer a great idea to split the party. Let’s go back, regroup, and we can hit this again later.”

“We also haven’t made much of a dent in the books in here, though,” Erol said. “Pun intended. We should look for these keys a while longer, don’t you think?”

“No,” Vulk replied emphatically. “Who knows how many more of those book swarm things might be waiting to come to life in here? Better to come back in force…”

“Well, perhaps your right,” Toran agreed turning away form the door, and Erol shrugged. With relief Vulk lead the way out of the Library and down the hall. “You’ll see, this will work out better, really…”

In the Library Toran glanced at Erol with a shke of his head. “How long do you think it will take him to realize we’re not behind him?”

“Well, he took a pretty bad blow to the head, so… a minute of two, anyway.”

Toran pulled open the bronze double doors, letting a cascade of shifting violet light flood into the room, while Erol went back to examining the bookshelves, if a little more warily. It actually didn’t take long. On the top shelf of the “western” bookcase, his eye was caught by a medium-sized volume, bound in black leather, laying on its side. A gold foil-stamped ”R” was set vertically at the top of the spine… he’d seen something similar back in the study, he realized. He picked it up and read the title on the cover: “Back to the Madding Crowd,” by Tomas Arday. But what did the letter “R” have to to with either title or author, he wondered… and suddenly the light went off.

Tucking the book under his arm, he stepped out the bronze doors to join Toran on what turned out to be the Patio, and for a moment his clever insight was driven from his thoughts by the sight. The swirling violet light of the void stretched overhead, on either side, and out beyond the stone balustrade of the semicircular terrace that occupied the “western” end of the mansion. It was mesmerizing… and more than a little unsettling.

“Mesmerizing, isn’t it?” Toran’s deep baritone brought him back to himself with a start. “If you can pull your eyes away from the void, take a look at these statues, though. Exquisite stonework!”

On either side of the terrace where two large likenesses in gray stone – to the “north” was a representation of Shala, Immortal Patron of Knowledge, in Her classic cross-legged pose, reading a scroll (from Mariala, Erol knew that more modern interpretations tended to portray Her reading a book, instead). On the “south” side of the terrace stood a statue of her husband, Brindar, Immortal Patron of Music and the Arts, also in one of His classic poses.

“Beautiful craftsmanship,” he agreed, then waved the book he carried. “But I think I’ve figured out what we need to look for to get out of this place.” At once Toran’s interest in the stonework evaporated, and he listened intently as his sort-of Telnori friend explained his reasoning.

“Yes, I think I noticed that book you’re speaking of in the study myself,” he agreed. “Come, we’d better grab that one as well, and then find the others!”

Passing Vulk, who’d just been coming back to the Library when he’d realized no one was following him, Erol waved the book again and cried, “Come on man, there’s no time for dawdling! We know what we’re looking for now!”

“Yeah, come on Vulk, stop playing around,” Toran added with a grin as he sailed past, and the cantor’s eyes narrowed in annoyance… one of these days…

As they passed the Study, Erol darted inside and quickly found the volume he’d noted earlier — a large green leather-bound book titled “Freedom from the Expectations of Others”. Set vertically on it’s spine was tooled a large, dark green letter “I”, alone and unadorned. Now they had two of the seven keys…

••••••

They had little trouble finding Devrik and Mariala in the kitchen, and after a brief introduction to the house’s homunculi, Erol shared his theory about the books with single-letter spines. Any doubt that might have lingered was dispelled when Cumin piped up, saying “Oh yes, those are the books we’re not allowed to touch or move. Honored guests are allowd, of course,” it concluded graciously. “Are you fellows hungry? Can we fix you something to eat? You look like you could use an analgesic, domus…”

While Vulk took the creature up on the offer of a headache tablet, Toran inquired as to the whereabouts of Korwin.

“Oh, he wandered off a little while ago, during the cooking lessons,” Mariala replied, taking a big gulp of cider. She’d used the diversion of their friend’s arrival to discreetly spit the bite of Devrik’s cooking she’d bravely sampled into a napkin, which Coriander equally discreetly whisked away.

“I thought he was just going to check out the dining room,” Devrik grumbled, not having missed the byplay but refusing to dignify it with a reaction. To be fair, he’d have spit out his own taste if he’d been able to do it without losing face. “He should be back by now.”

“Perhaps we’d better go find him,” Vulk suggested, swallowing the two tablets Cumin handed him along with a small glass of the cider. “This place is not as benign as it appears, these charming little fellow notwithstanding, and he might be in danger!”

••••••

WTF happened to the rest of the story?

26-30 Metisto 3020

The journey back from Joy’s Gate and the hamlet of Wallenwood was uneventful. The Hand and companions were mostly occupied with keeping the wee toddler Aldari distracted and entertained – and preventing him from petting every wild animal they encountered along the way. It was late afternoon on the 27th when they arrived back in Thermexold, but it had been a fairly leisurely, mostly down-hill walk. After a brief rest everyone was ready to help Raven celebrate her 23rd birthday in style.

Once again they commandeered the round bay-window table in the common room of the Inn at Hammerhead, along with satellite tables to accommodate the enlarged party which, besides Raven and Aldari, tonight included Captain K’Jurol, Dr. Ar’Hanol, Master Salvador, pilot Arus Salasin, Domus Biswyk, Jeb and Therok. Korwin had invited the Mate, Yonas Grünby, to join them, but he had politely declined, obviously uncomfortable about socializing with his employers and captain. And with those he thought of as his social betters, Mariala suspected.

“Aye, it’s right kind of you folks,” he’d said when she’d had pressed him on it. “But I’m Officer of the Watch tonight, and I’d not be pushing the duty off on another just so’s I could party. T’wouldn’t be right, m’lady.” The two let it go then, and departed for the Inn and the evening’s festivities.

The party remained relatively sedate and pleasantly convivial while Aldari was awake. He was certainly the center of attention, which didn’t bother his mother in the least. Her tribe took rather a different view of birthdays than her husband’s folk –Golana Rethmani birthdays were considerably more somber, and limited to family and the closest of friends – a time for reflection and taking stock of the year past, and planning for the year ahead. But she was amongst “civilized” folk now, and she did her best to fit in, adapting their ways to her own when she could. The birthday thing was hardly the most difficult adjustment she’d made, she thought wryly… who didn’t like parties, after all… and gifts! And maybe tomorrow she could get some time to herself, to honor her own traditions.

Once he’d finally begun to nod off (but oh, how valiantly he fought not to yield to sleep!), Raven carried him up to the family’s room, leaving him sleeping under the watchful eye of the innkeepers youngest daughter Bethda. Jeb was the one usually tasked with babysitting duties (“I have 12 younger nieces and nephews,” he’d explained when she’d asked if he minded the duty. “I’m used to it, and anyway, I like kids!”), but tonight she’d wanted him at the party, so he could enjoy some time off… especially from Erol!

On her return to the common room she found the celebration had grown more boisterous. It quickly began to remind her of her own people’s celebrations after a successful hunt, when the hunters and fighters of the tribe would drink and dance around the camp fires, and tell ribald stories and outrageous tall tales. She supposed the immense fireplace was a decent enough substitute for the bonfire, and while the beverages were certainly different, the intoxication was pretty much the same.

Sending Devrik off to play some game of throwing skill with the other males, Raven settled in for pleasant talk with Mariala and the new woman who would be sailing with them, Lurin Ar’Hanol. She was a fascinating person, a healer of some repute in her own distant land – even in the Pelon Delta Raven’s people had heard tales of distant and mysterious Kunya-Kesh – and very friendly. They were soon all on a first-name basis, and Lurin was much interested by what Raven could tell her of the Rethmani healing herbs and compounds, as well as by her people’s culture. The doctor in turn shared several tales, some quite harrowing, of being a woman practicing medicine in a strongly patriarchal culture.

As they talked, one or another of the men would occasionally glance over at them, then worriedly whisper something to a companion. Both men would then frown in their direction before being drawn back into their sporting pursuits by the rest. Mariala laughed when Raven pointed this out, and Lurin smiled knowingly.

“They assume we must, naturally, be talking about them,” Mariala chuckled. “And they are desperately worried about what we might be saying about them!”

“Indeed,” agreed Lurin, her smile turning wry, “and males are generally so insecure about… well, about so many things!” With a pointed look towards the crowd of men the three women leaned in toward one another and lowered their voices… as they began a lively discussion on the current political situation of the Ocean Empire vis-a-vis Kunya-Kesh, and its effect on cereal grain production in the Southern Islands… several of the men began to look really worried, and Devrik burst suddenly into a Olvânaali love ballad, which was actually on tune for once, and bordered on actually pleasant! Toran joined him on the harmony, humming acceptably…

Eventually the two groups merged once more, and two bottles of Arkivian sparkling wine, one bottle of Kaluran brandy, and a dozen pints of the Inn’s famed Sea Salt Sour Beer and ThermexBold Strong Ale later, and well after midnight, everyone finally stumbled up to their rooms or back to the Wind of Kasira. Mariala and Erol had both finally joined their companions in taking rooms at the inn, once Master Alvador had made it clear they would be in Thermexold for several more days, at least. He slept aboard, as did the captain, of course, the pilot and Dr. Ar’Hanol. The latter accepted the arm and escort of Captain K’Jorul as they left the inn, and Mariala smiled as she watched them go… did she detect a spark there?

The next day was one spent primarily in recovery for most of the Hand of Fortune, with the exception of Devrik. He had, surprisingly Raven thought, imbibed only lightly the night before – something she had appreciated, too, one they’d retired to their bedchamber. Aldari was a heavy sleeper, thankfully – Devrik was so strangely appalled at the thought that their son might ever hear or be aware of their lovemaking! It was something she had yet to really understand, as Rethmani culture had little concept of what her husband called “privacy,” and all children grew up knowing all about the so-called “facts of life.”

Devrik did, at least, understand her people’s customs involving birthdays, and he surprised her by announcing that Mariala would be watching Aldari and Brann for the morning. He’d had the innkeeper, Quoran Heldmün, pack them a picnic basket and proceeded to take her on a private stroll through the large cliff-top park just northwest of the inn. They talked of not only the year past as experienced with their friends, but of the private years the three of them alone had experienced on that day back in Novara.

“Let us hope that the coming year will be less… eventful,” Devrik laughed, as they ate under a large plane tree overlooking the sea. “Although I’ll not tempt Vandor and Xydona by saying it must be so!”

Packing up after their lunch, Devrik returned alone to the Inn at Hammerhead, leaving his wife to her private contemplations. He found Mariala and Aldari sitting on a bench in the shade of the inn’s courtyard, deeply engaged in what he knew to be a particularly challenging Xavar’nan 3D puzzle of multicolored interlocking metal pieces. It had taken him half a day to solve it, the first time Mariala had shown it to him, he recalled. As he walked up his son slid the final piece into place, and gave it a twist to lock it solid, looking up at his father in delight.

“Look Da! I did it! Mar’la said it was very hard, but it wasn’t really!” His piping voice held both pride, and excitement at seeing his father. He ran to him and leaped up, wrapping his legs around Devrik, who caught him with a woof. “Where’s Mama?” the boy asked, looking around curiously.

“She is taking a little well-earned time to herself for the rest of the afternoon, my lad,” Devrik replied, spinning his son around by his feet, arms outstretched, his shrieks of laughter distracting him from further questions. Devrik glanced at Mariala and raised an eyebrow. She picked up the puzzle and eyed it thoughtfully, giving him a shrug before stashing it back in her scrip. Sh stood up as her friend lowered the boy to ground again and send him staggering dizzily onto inn, still giggling. The adults followed more slowly.

“He seems to have exceptional spatial relationships skills,” she said, shaking her head in bemusement. “Exceptional.”

“How quickly did he solve that infernal thing,” Devrik asked with a grimace, gesturing at her scrip. He still remembered his first go at the puzzle.

“In a little over a turn of the glass, almost as fast as my first time! And I had the advantage of experience with similar such concepts and puzzles… not to mention 15 or so more years of life experience. Well, we’ve known since the beginning that he was no ordinary child, right?”

“Yes, but I just wish there was something concrete to work with… most of the time he seems a pretty ordinary kid for his age – his actual age, not his technical age – but then he does something like this. Or sets off a volcano.”

“Well, to be fair, I’m not sure the volcano was entirely his own doing,” Mariala laughed. “I think Kirdik Hanol, and Alvira Vetaris, deserves some of the blame for that one. But this one was all him, yes.”

• • • • • •

The next day dawned clear and warm, promising to be a scorcher. Korwin insisted that everyone must join him for a trip to one of the city’s famous public baths. At the party both his cousin and Danir Alvador had been going on about the sybaritic pleasures of their own visits to several such establishments, especially the Turquoise Waters of Kalura’s Delight, while the Hand were slogging through the mountainous Argatha Forest. It had certainly piqued everyone’s curiosity, even the somewhat reluctant Mariala.

“It’s not one of the more… carnal… baths,” Korwin assured her, and added to Raven, “In fact, many families come there, and children are welcome in the main areas. Although, come to think on it, Aldari may be a little young to be allowed in the water…”

“It’s no matter, Korwin,” Raven replied with a smile. “ I intend to spend the morning in the park with Aldari… I noticed a great many dogs playing there yesterday, and you know how he loves animals. I think we’ll take Brann, and maybe we’ll make some new friends.”

Mariala offered to join her friend for the trip to the park (not least as an honorable, and plausibly deniable, way to avoid the baths), but Raven demurred. She was still in a contemplative mode, she confessed, and was looking forward to some more alone time, or at least as much as an active eight-year-old might allow. With a sigh Mariala gave in to the inevitable and agreed to accompany her friends to the, to her ear rather floridly named, bath house.

The Turquoise Waters of Kalura’s Delight was not far from the inn, as it happened, just a few streets over in the same district. The group strolled leisurely from the inn to the park, where Raven, Aldari and Brann left them, then continued on to their destination. The bath house was a large, lavish rectangle of pale pink marble overlaid with a riot of carved white limestone filigree work. It stood three stories high, in a park-like setting which occupied two city blocks. Surrounded by a low wall of sandstone, topped with wrought iron in the shapes of interlocking seahorses, the grounds consisted of wide expanses of verdant lawn and a number of large shade trees.

An immense dome of brass and crystal dominated the center of the roof, while two short towers rose on either side of it at the back, each one capped with a dome of warm pink stucco and more white filigree. A similar half-dome covered the grand entrance, whose five-meter-tall bronze doors were flanked by twin red marble staircases which rose to the second floor’s more discreet entrances.

Inside the opulence only increased, with floors of inlaid mosaic, white and rose marble, and complex patterns in wood, walls and doors of a myriad exotic woods in alternating shades of light and dark, gilt detail work at every turn, and warm glowstones set in brass and crystal fixtures and chandeliers illuminating it all. Along the outer wall of the building, to right and left of the main foyer, were the changing rooms, the scraping rooms, the mud baths, various massage rooms, and several steam rooms; on the second floor were a host of rooms and chambers where more intimate pleasures might be discreetly pursued.

And at the heart of it all was the main bath, beneath the great crystal dome. The geothermally warmed main pool was 50 meters long and an average of 20 meters wide, and lined in a dozen shades of blue tile. An immense statue in white stone of Kalura, arm outstretched to release her golden eagle (gilded in actual gold) to seek those of true heart and steadfast love, stood at the center of it all, towering over the blue-tiled pools and luxurious appointments.

Attendants of both genders were waiting to take each person in hand, once Korwin had shown proof that he had already purchased the full Imperial Package for himself and his companions. Each member of the Hand was led to a private massage room, where for the next three turns of the glass they enjoyed deep tissue massages and a final rubdown with fragrant and warming oils. After that, Vulk and Erol sought the upper gallery and its carnal delights, while Toran opted for the full mud treatment Korwin had thoughtfully arranged. The others went for one of the larger steam rooms, followed by an invigorating scrape-down.

Eventually they all ended up in the main pool hall where everyone, with the exception of Toran, slipped into the water. The temperature was perfectly balanced, but if one felt the need there were two smaller pools of cooler water, and two of hotter water, to invigorate or to stimulate. Families, groups of adults, and the occasional lone bather were scattered about the large space, but their numbers were less than a third of what could easily be accommodated there.

“Yes, that’s part of why I chose today,” Korwin said, when Vulk pointed out the relative scarcity of fellow patrons. “I learned that the day before the end of the month was one of the slower times for them, although tonight and tomorrow it supposedly becomes quite a hopping palce. And of course that also helped me get a better deal on the cost of our excursion.”

“Hey, Toran,” Erol called, and sent a great splash of water up toward the Khundari, who nimbly dodged it and continued on to the nearby purple, silk-covered divan he’d had his eye on. “Why don’t you come in? The water’s beautiful, and for Kalura’s sake, it’s only a little over a meter deep! Not even over your head!”

“Why in the world would I want to ruin the effects of the incredible mud bath I just finished,” his friend replied, too relaxed to get worked up at the friendly gibe. “Do you know, they used six different kinds of mud, and three different temperatures? It was the most amazing experience, and I owe you a debit of gratitude, Korwin, for convincing me to come along today.”

Vulk, laying back with a contented sigh, considered his two friends as they bantered. Most of the Hand had seen one another in the buff on occasion, of course, but this was the first opportunity he’d had to see Toran , and Erol in his new body, totally naked. He appreciated the chance to test the truth of some of the old folk stories regarding the endowments of both Khundari and Telnori…

Popular belief would have it that, as some sort of cosmic balance for the strength, extreme beauty, intelligence, facility with magic, and very long lives the Telnori enjoyed, their men were shortchanged in the matter of their private parts. If this was true, Vulk mused, then Erol had enjoyed Kasira’s own luck in landing in that Telnori body, for it certainly gave the lie to the tale! Actually, remembering other bathhouses they’d visited, Erol had come out much the winner in that regard, compared to his old body!

For the Khundari, the popular folk belief held that a Dwarf’s male member was much larger, especially in girth, than the average Umantari’s. Taking Toran as representative, however, Vulk didn’t think this folk tale held up either – while certainly rather wide, he felt it was only the comparison on the smaller body that made it seem so impressive… although his friend was even more hairy than he’d imagined, and with muscles like rocks!

Mariala’s slitted eyes betrayed no indication of where she might be looking…

After some time in the pleasant, soothing waters of the main pool, with occasional trips to the hotter pools and the cold plunges, the Hand were all extremely relaxed, even the still-dry Toran, to the point of limpness. Ambition was entirely gone, and all thoughts of worry or of the future seemed no more than vapor…

Gradually, over the echoing murmur of muted conversations, and the occasional higher-pitched laughter of children (none under 10, Devrik noted), a more disturbing sound made itself heard. Erol noted it first, but the others soon cocked their heads to listen as well…

Coming through the high, open narrow windows that lined the chamber, were the sounds of… a street fair? …an angry crowd? They all stood up, just begining to look concerned. “That sounds like steel on steel,” Devrik suddenly growled, and stepped up out of the water onto the tile deck.

“And those are screams… along with the sound of fires,” Erol added grimly, following his friend.

At that moment the double doors at the north end of the room burst open and the plumb, middle-aged attendant who had first greeted them at the entrance staggered in, wild-eyed and gasping for breath. “Flee!” he cried, making frantic shooing gestures at the patrons. “Out the side doors! The city is under attack… hideous monsters are in the streets, killing and looting! Flee!”

“Where did these ‘monsters’ come from,” Devrik barked over the rising babble, striding towards the man. “Is it an attack by land, or by sea, man?”

“I don’t know, domus” the fellow gasped. “They say they just appeared in the middle of Cliffside Park, as if from nowhere, but they – gurk!” The man looked briefly surprised at the foot of black steel suddenly protruding from his chest… then his eyes rolled up and he toppled sideways, blood gushing from his mouth.

Behind him a Black Gül stood arrogantly in the doorway, his tusks glistening with slaver as he yanked the blade from his victim’s back. With a roar, he motioned forward half a dozen more gülvini, many of them of the smaller nomai breed. People began to scream in terror and stagger out of the water, making for the exits in a chaotic panic. The gülvini surged forward with gleeful snarls and roars, eager to rape and kill.

Time seems to stretch to infinity for Devrik as the words “Cliffside Park” echoed in his ears… the very place he’d left his wife and son! And then it sped up again, and he was racing for the exit. A roundhouse blow from his fist lifted the gül-bogaba in his way off it’s feet and sent it sprawling to the wet tiles, unconscious. With a muttered invocation, he unleashed Arkel’s Fiery Ribbons, wrapping the commanding gül-hovgavu and one of smaller gül-nomai in its searing bands of flame. He barely heard their screams of pain as he bulled past and headed for the street.

As Devrik charged from the chamber, Erol was headed for the changing room and his weapons, when Jeb appeared, carrying his trident. Therok was right behind him, with Vulk’s sword in his grip. Erol and Vulk had treated the two men to their own separate time at the baths, and he was very glad of it now!

“Good man!” Erol cried, catching his favorite weapon as the yeoman tossed it to him. “You two grab the rest of our clothes and weapons and follow us to the park!” Without looking to see if he was obeyed, he cast Asakora’s Veil and vanished from sight. Only because he was looking for it did Jeb catch the wet footprints on the blue tiles, headed for the doors. With a shake of his head, he turned and followed his barbarian friend back to the changing room, to gather up the Hand’s gear.

Korwin, being literally in his element, had summoned up an Ice Needle of Burkon as soon as he’d realized what was happening. He’d impaled one of the gül-nomai clean through the left breast with it, as the creature was pulling a young woman up from the pool by her hair. She dropped back into the water, sobbing, and her would-be attacker toppled over behind her, sending a spray of water upward. As the woman struggled hysterically for the other side of the pool, the gülvini floated face-down in the water, an expanding pool of blood around it.

Realizing they needed one of these things alive, if they were going to figure out what was really going on, the naked Korwin’s next attack was a roundhouse punch to the face of another gül-nomai, which snapped its head back and stunned the creature. Slamming its head against the floor for good measure, Korwin grabbed a clawed foot and began dragging it towards were Vulk, the flickering glow of his holy armor shining around him, was tending to the wounded near the head of the pool.

Mariala, wrapped in a towel, came up from the other side, looking worried. An especially powerful blast of her Fire Nerves had taken out the rest of the invaders, and Toran, dressed now in a rather fetching armored codpiece he’d apparently cobbled together from a towel and a bronze sconce, was quickly and methodically dispatching them with sharp twists of the neck.

“We have to go, now!” she cried. “Raven and Aldari were in that park –“

“I’m well aware,” Vulk snapped, looking harried. “But Devrik has already gone, and – damnit, where the Void has Erol vanished to? Did he go after him? But there are injured here, and I can’t just leave them–“

“Go, I can handle this,” a woman’s soprano voice commanded, and then Dr. Ar’Hanol was thrusting Mariala’s clothes and dagger at her before kneeling at Vulk’s side. She had been trading physical therapy tips with several of the masseuses, until hearing the sounds of fighting. “Go, you’ve stabilized them, I can handle it from here!”

At that moment Jeb and Therok arrived with most of the rest of the men’s clothes and weapons, Toran right behind them, snatching at his own items as they ran and throwing them on. With a grateful nod at Lurin, Vulk also began to hastily dress next to Korwin and Mariala. Ordering Therok and Jeb to stay to guard the doctor and the wounded, in moments the friends were racing for the front doors…

• • • • • •

A few minutes earlier Erol, still cloaked behind Asakora’s Veil, had stepped out the main doors of the bath house and into a scene from nightmare. Thick black smoke was boiling up from a dozen places around the district, darkening the summer sky to almost twilight, underlit by the flicker of orange flames. Panicked people were running screaming down the streets, pursued by laughing, ravening gülvini of at least three breeds. The creatures stopped their pursuits only long enough to smash windows and batter down doors, dragging more shrieking victims out and gleefully torching the buildings.

Erol’s appalled gaze was torn from the carnage by the sight of Devrik, naked and still dripping, on the walk ahead of him just meters from the street. He seemed frozen in concentration, head bowed, fists clenched at his side… but before Erol could say anything there was a brilliant flash of orange light, and suddenly Devrik was gone, replaced by a wraith of living flame in his shape! This fiery manifestation hovered a few centimeters above the stones of the walkway, and as the former gladiator watched it began moving away, out into the street…

A flaming hand reached out and grabbed a passing gülvini by the throat, just before the creature could seize the young boy it pursued. The Deathspawn shrieked in pain, and in an instant its head burst into flames. Wraith-Devrik moved on, drifting at a steady, rather stately, pace towards the park, several blocks away. Erol could see that it would take much too long for his friend to reach their destination in this form, if he was more-or-less at the mercy of the winds…

A sudden burst of insight struck him, then. The spell he’d been working on for the better part of the month wasn’t really ready for prime time… not to move a ship, anyway. But he had certainly mastered a gentle zephyr… at least mostly mastered it… and directional control. And those were all that was needed here and now.

The wind in this coastal city was often blowing inland, as it was now, but he needed it to flow the other way. He summoned the energies of his spell, the Form was perfect… just a modicum of Principal now… he felt the wind begin to shift… a muttering, inconstant thing at first… but then the change came, all at once! Then, with a little push, he increased the force. Not a lot, just enough to move Flame-Devrik forward… at a brisk enough pace, in fact, that Erol had to trot to keep up…

By the time the rest of the Hand of Fortune dashed out of the baths, the flaming figure was nearly a block away and gaining speed. “Wait, is that Devrik?” Vulk asked as they began to run toward the park. “Did we know he could do that?!”

“Yes,” Mariala replied, hiking up her gown and wishing she’d worn her traveling leathers. But who could have predicted this? “He doesn’t do it often, it’s exhausting and very difficult, I believe… but you know Devrik. Nothing is going to keep him from his family!”

A few minutes later the companions bust past the tall hedge that surrounded Cliffside Park, to find the flame-wraith Devrik and a naked Erol decimating half a dozen gülvini. A few citizens, apparently taken captive and dragged back here by the creatures, cowered and sobbed in the middle of the fight. With a Khundari battle cry Toran whirled this battle-axe and leapt into the fray, neatly decapitating a gül-bogaba. Vulk, wielding his Staff, followed him, while Mariala and Korwin provided arcane support. In less than a minute there were no gülvini left alive in the lower end of the park.

“I don’t see them here!” The hissing shadow of Devrik’s usual voice still managed to convey his anguish and fear.

“It’s late,” Mariala assured him. “We were at the baths quite a long time, they probably just returned to the inn, that’s all.”

Her friend’s fiery expression lightened (she winced at her own mental pun) and he turned to head back toward the street. At a gesture from Erol, the wind picked up suddenly, and Devrik raced away from her, streaming flames behind him. fists clenching and unclenching. While Vulk tended to the injured people, the others dashed after their friend, back to the inn.

Gülvini still prowled the streets, but they seemed less in numbers, and the people were beginning to fight back. Armed men, and a few women, attacked individual Deathspawn, or small groups of the things, and the sound of metal on metal from several street away indicated the City Watch was finally rallying. In front of the Inn at Hammerhead, the group found several burning gül-nomai corpses, a few more in the courtyard, and the front doors smashed wide open.

The innkeeper was behind the bar, fending off two smallish gülvini with a long andiron from the fireplace and a flaming brand, while several patrons battled other güls from behind overturned tables. The Hand took the creatures from behind, and in seconds the place was free of living invaders. Mariala drove her Khundari dagger through the neck of the last one, which had been menacing the innkeeper’s wife in her kitchen as she fended it off with a butcher’s knife.

“Say, have you seen Ser Devrik?” Korwin asked the shaken Quoran in a bright, chipper voice, as the man emerged from behind his bar . “Looking a bit flamey and wraith-like just now, perhaps?”

The man, wide-eyed, just nodded and pointed to the stairs.

“Ah, of course, I should’ve guessed,” Korwin said, and headed up the narrow stairs two at a time, the others hard on his heels. But there was little need to rush, as it turned out. Erol was dispatching the last living gülvini with a trident to the back, while a once-more human (and naked) Devrik was pounding on the door to his and Raven’s room. It flew open and Raven and Aldari tumbled out, the latter red-faced and crying, the former pale and sheathing her longknife before greeting her husband in relief.

As Korwin summoned Effluvium to quench the flames on the still-burning gülvini corpses (and patches of carpet) scattered along the hallway to the Askalan’s room, Erol leaned on his trident and smiled at the happy family scene. “This is a very solidly built inn,” he remarked to Mariala. “That door there took quite a beating, and it could still take a blow or two, I’d estimate… still, good thing we arrived when we did.”

Mariala nodded agreement and handed him one of the towels she’d grabbed on her way out of the bath house, while pointedly not looking at him. With a grin he took the proffered bit of fabric and wrapped it around his waist. “Thanks, m’dear, but now that we’re here, I think I’ll slip into something a little more… armored… and go back out to make sure the Guard is really getting things under control.”

He became serious as he turned for his room, leaning down to speak quietly into his friend’s ear. “I suspect Devrik may get the same idea, eventually… you know how he is… but don’t let him. That Immolation spell of his leaves him weak and exhausted, and I have no desire to drag his corpse home to Raven!”

“Ha! Like he ever listens to me,” Mariala snorted. “But you’re right about that spell, its after-effects are brutal. Maybe with Raven to back me up, though, we can keep him inside…”

3-5 Metisto 3020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•••••••

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•••••••

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•••••

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•••••

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Performance?” the Prince sighed unhappily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

•••••

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•••••

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•••••

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•••••

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

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

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

•••••

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•••••

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

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

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

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

•••••

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•••••

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hand took off at a run…

•••••

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

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

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

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

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

•••••

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A good meal and a good night’s sleep proved to be just what the Hand needed. Departing Zurhan at the last turn of the Phoenix watch, they rode a steady, sustainable pace of walk-and-canter that brought them to the gates of Kar Gevdan at the middle of the Unicorn watch, just after noon. Leaving the castle’s groomsmen to see to the care and stabling of their horses, most of the friends made their way quickly up to the Baron’s study where, his seneschal informed them, a light lunch had been laid out for them.

Devrik, however, made a beeline for the rooms set aside for his family, and an intense, if briefer than either would have liked, reunion with Raven. Afterward (and following the few minutes he allowed himself to play with his son) Devrik made his own way to his uncle’s study. He arrived just as the others were finishing their meal and preparing to get to work.

Lord Tynal recounted what little he knew, all of which turned out to be secondhand, gathered from the reports of his Captain of the City Guard– strange goings-on in the town below the castle, with strange animals appearing in the streets, rumors of ghosts and the walking dead, and several people mysteriously vanished. The only new intelligence concerned a suspicions shipping concern that might possibly be involved in moving the victims of the Darikazi slavers. Their ships and warehouse were in the Eastport Docks district, to the east of the castle and High Town, while the mysterious events, and supposed Darikazi base of operations, were both in the western Low Town.

It was decided that Haplo and the Guard captain would investigate Sheltam & Sons Shipping, while the bulk of the Hand would look into the more uncanny events in Low Town. At the fourth turn of the Wolf watch they set out on their various tasks, with the Baron’s blessing and good wishes.

Wending their way down the steep, narrow Rockfoot Lane from the High Town, headed for the Farmer’s Market, the larger group decided to split into three and approach from different streets, so as not to appear too overwhelming or intimidating a group. Mariala, Erol and young Jeb took the northern approach, whilst Toran and Korwin assayed the central passage, and Vulk, Devrik and Therok claimed the southern route.

 

The Low Town of Gevdan lay between two arms of of blue-black basalt to the east and the west. The western arm was lower, no more than 20 meters high in most places, while the eastern arm was both larger and higher – atop it’s 60 meter headland sat the castle, one wall and tower of which extended into the district. The area was dominated, however, by the great pinnacle of stone that rose up more than 40 meters from its heart . Upon its peak stood a circular tower of grey-white granite topped by crenelations and a great beacon, lit day and night by an oil-fed bonfire and a reflecting mirror of polished bronze.

The Farmer’s Market occupied a large area at the NE foot of the Lighthouse Rock, and should have been a bustling place on a springtime morning, Mariala thought. But today several booths stood empty, and the crowd was thin and nervous. Taking the lead, she set about putting the booth merchants at ease before bringing up the strange events of recent days. Most of the vendors appeared sullen and fearful, unwilling to talk. But eventually a baker proved not only willing, but downright voluble – Virnok was not shy in his complaints of the recent uncanny occurrences in the district.

“It’s bad enough that wild beasts and such have come into the town – why, two of the City Guard killed a great silver-back bear just a few days ago, not two streets from here (and didn’t they have a time of it, the creature near killed them before they managed to bring it down) – but now dark specters are prowling the streets and upsetting decent folk!”

“Specters?” Mariala asked. “Do you mean–”

“Specters I said and specters I meant!” the man continued obstinately, as if she’d been about to contradict him. “Dark specters! My own dear wife saw one just last night, and it near frightened her straight into her own grave! When a gods-loving woman can’t even get up at night to use the chamber pot without being terrorized by haunts and whatnot, well, I don’t know what things are coming to!”

“Um, yes… now, your wife–” Mariala tried to interject.

“Esmalda, a gem of a woman and a great helpmeet to me, I can tell you. She’d be here now, of course, she always is, but she was that upset by the specter. She left not a turn of the glass past, daren’t stay out now the sun is getting low!” The baker plowed on, warming to a new theme. “At least she had the heart to open with me – not like some of these jelly-knees who won’t even open their booths the last couple days. Why, all the standards have just gone to shite these days, if you’ll pardon my Khundari, and don’t get me started on the young folks–”

Mariala managed to stem this flow after a minute, and drew him back to the matter of the specter. “Well, I didn’t see it myself, of course… it had vanished by the time I’d leapt out of bed at Esmalda’s shriek – gods, that woman can scream – but she described it clear enough, once her heart stopped pounding so.

“All glowing green and transparent, she said it was… a gaunt, bearded fellow with a great helm on his head and armor beneath tattered robes. No, no, not anyone she recognized – who would she know who went around in such ironmongery in life? Probably some knight or warrior-cantor whose ashes were laid to rest beneath the temple in the old days, I should think.”

Erol was at first inclined to dismiss the man’s story, or rather the wife’s, as no more than a bit of undigested beef, but further questioning of other vendors revealed similar stories of a similar spectral figure, seen in the last tenday or so. Some said that it was a Khundari knight, others a great human warrior, although no one actually claimed to recognize it.

Several people also claimed to have seen actual walking corpses, however, and those were sometimes recognized. “Why ’twere the very corpse of that Nedor Felkin, ‘im what was killed last month by that run-away cart down to the docks!” one old woman told them breathlessly. “I saw ‘im clear as I’m seeing you, milady, from my bedroom window, when I ‘eard that poor young girl screamin’. I yelt at ‘im to let ‘er be and go back to the undertaker’s for proper burning! But he paid me no heed, and dragged ‘er into the dark, right from in front of the temple doors! ‘Twasn’t right, even if the lass was no better ‘en she should be!”

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Meanwhile, at the small park on the south edge of the market square Toran and Korwin were questioning a pig butcher and a barber who plied their respective trades there. After some general remarks about the weather and the chances of the fishing fleet having a decent catch today, it soon came out that the victim the old woman mentioned was not the only person to go missing in recent days. At least seven others had been reported by friends or neighbors to have vanished in the night over the last half tenday or so.

“I think the first one I can recall ‘earing about,” the ruddy-faced butcher said, frowning in thought when pressed on the matter,” was that n’er-do-well Bektram the Khundari. Er, meanin’ no offense to your lordship, of course…”

“None taken,” Toran replied with a dry smile.

The butcher coughed in embarrassment before continuing, “Ee does odd jobs ’round the town… mainly ‘ere in Low Town… and mostly bad repairs on metal-work, If’m honest. A surly fellow, and none to popular, yet underfoot all too often – though I can’t recall a sight of ‘im in the last tenday.”

“Well I saw him the day before the earthquake,” the barber offered. He was a tall, slender man with a surprisingly refined manner, in sharp contrast to the bluff, stocky butcher. “It was in the temple side yard. He was talking to that scruffy young fellow… I can’t remember his name… the one who’s always hanging about with one or another of those stand-offish foreigners. Anyway, the two seemed quite intent about something, until Bektram noticed me watching and dragged the boy off.”

The barber thought that the troubles in town had begun not too long after the earthquake… definitely by Saridás, though. “I hadn’t really thought about it before,” the barber said thoughtfully, “but now I wonder if that earthquake itself wasn’t the first of the troubles?”

“No, no,” the butcher disagreed, in that dismissive way only old friends can pull off. “I’m certain I first ‘eard about a missing ‘lura a day or two before the ‘quake… that blond-haired boy, it was; and old Randorf said he saw that ghost of ‘is before that.”

“I think not, you country bumpkin,” the barber disagreed amiably. “I was there when Randorf told you about seeing the spectral warrior, and it was two days after the earthquake at least…”

Korwin and Toran slipped quietly away as the two men fell into what was obviously an old and comfortable pattern of bickering. They joined Mariala and Erol, who were just passing on the street to the west of the park, and headed south toward the smaller Fishermen’s Market near the docks where they could see Devrik, Vulk and Therok.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Those three worthies had found the Fishermen’s Market to be even more anemically attended than its larger neighbor to the north. Part of that may simply have been that the fishing fleet was still out on the bay plying their trade, but the few vendors and patrons present seemed just as nervous and skittish as everyone else in the district. The first person they struck up a conversation with was the local ratter, a lucky break as he quickly proved very informative. He seemed rather an upbeat fellow, considering his profession, and he set down his wheelbarrow full of rodent corpses amiably enough when Vulk hailed him.

“It’s just as well her Ladyship isn’t here,” Therok muttered to Devrik as they peered at the pile of dead rats. The fire-mage grunted an amused agreement, while keeping a watchful eye on Brann and the ratter’s little terrier. The two dogs were circling one another and sniffing butts, and after a moment fell to playing, despite the size difference.

“So, how is business my good man?” Vulk asked heartily, leaning on his staff in a way he hoped was friendly and conversational. The man eyed his cantor’s colors a bit bemusedly, but seemed willing enough to talk, once he saw his dog was in no danger from the gentlemen’s hound.

“Well, your worship, it’s been a right windfall, truth be told, this tenday past. Or so I’d’ve said before yesterday… now I’m ‘avin’ me doubts.”

“Really? That looks like a, um, good haul,” Vulk offered, waving a hand at the man’s wheelbarrow. “Why are you having doubts?”

“Well, ser, ’cause of this!” The man reached into the pile of corpses and pulled out the body of an enormous rat. As he held it up by its tail for a proper viewing, Devrik could see that it was easily three times the size of any rat he’d ever seen. Vulk was less impressed, having once encountered the giant rats of the deep sewers of Tekolo, in the Theocracy of the Faith… but he had to allow that it was a rodent of unusual size.

“I figure the ‘quake musta shook up the usual beasties,” the ratter went on. “For awhile afterward it was a boom business, let me tell ya! But then the big ‘uns started showing up… which was fine, I suppose… they was a bit ‘arder to kill, but worth the effort. But when some buggers showed up four times bigger than this–” he raised the giant rat corpse a little higher, shaking  it for emphasis… and gave a shout of surprise and dismay when Cherdon swooped down and snatched it from his hand. Over his angry shouts the raptor soared back up to the nearest rooftop to devour his meal.

“Did you blokes see that?!” the ratter demanded of his visitors, his outrage momentarily overcoming any class consciousness. “That bloody ‘awk just stole m’ rat!”

“Er, yes,” Vulk agreed, looking blankly innocent. “Well, birds… what are you going to do? Shameless scavengers, the lot of them!” Devrik disguised his snort of laughter with a sudden cough, while Therok didn’t even try to hide his grin. “So, you were saying about these even larger rats…?”

With a disgruntled sigh, the ratter resigned himself to the loss of his rat, and continued on with his tale of rodents the size of the gentlemen’s hound. “One of ’em almost took off me ‘and last night!” he said, showing the still red welts and punctures on said appendage. Between monstrous rats, silver-back bears, and all the missing ‘luras and other night folk, it was getting too dangerous to be out after sunset, he was beginning to think…

“Last night ’twas the last straw, I’m thinking. Once I turn in the bounties for this lot,” he kicked the wheelbarrow, “I think I’ll take a few nights off…”

“Probably a good idea,” Devrik agreed. “Before you do though, could you recommend an inn or tavern nearby where a man might quench his thirst?”

“Oh, aye, you’re not far from the best place for beer on the docks, though it might be, er, a bit rustic for your lordships…” his gazed flicked to Vulk in particular. “It’s the Brass Kraken, just along the High Street there. You can’t miss it, there’s a big kraken, made ‘o brass, o’er the door…”

The three men thanked the man and made their farewells to him and his dog, Brann only reluctantly being pulled away from his new friend. As they walked up the street they paused as the rest of the Hand emerged from a northern cross street and joined them. They, too, had been directed to the Brass Kraken as the best establishment they were likely to find in Low Town, and the party repaired thence to compare notes and quench the thirst that such intense sleuthing had given them all.

The tap room of the inn was not empty, but was not nearly as full as might be expected given the afternoon hour, Devrik thought. Despite this, the service was somewhat slow, as only the proprietor and one young woman, presumably his daughter, seemed to be working. After an hour and three rounds of drinks, the debate on their next actions had degenerated into a scientific discussion on the relative merits of troll farts vs. troll belches as the primary cause of earthquakes, and whether or not Nitaran Gates required sentience to function.

Devrik, while firmly in the ‘uncertain’ column on the issue of subterranean humanoid bodily gasses and their possible relationship to earth movements, was able to definitively state that the Gates did sometimes activate spontaneously, and that people and animals were well known to pass through them, sometimes quite unknowingly. Mariala and Vulk were able to confirm this, so Vulk’s idea that the earthquake, whatever it’s ultimate cause, could not be ruled out as having triggered random Gate openings and therefore the recent flood of strange visitors.

But even if that were true, it didn’t explain the rash of ghost sightings, the walking dead, or the disappearance of seven or more of the Baron’s subjects, however lowly. Given the profession of many of the missing persons, Toran asked their host about local brothels, which brought a diffident suggestion that the gentleman might enjoy the delights of the Sow’s Silk Purse, just two streets over. A moment of confusion ensued before the man was made to understand that they were interested in the missing alura, at which point he was suddenly more congenial.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, Ser,” he said, laying down the fourth round of drinks, a pile of wooden bowls and spoons, and the large ceramic pot of beef-and-onion stew Mariala had order in a probably futile effort to soak up some of the alcohol.

“I completely misunderstood your interest… but it wouldn’t do you any good, then, you see. The lads and lasses who sell their, er… that is, work freelance, as it were, ply their trade up in the temple side yard, as tradition dictates. So none of the proper houses of good repute would be like to know anything about them, I’m afraid.

“And my apologies again, gentlemen, lady, for the slow service this afternoon. I’ve been short-handed this six months past, ever since my tap-boy ran off to take up with those foreigners. Now Kemis was no great shakes, and I had sometimes wondered if he was worth half the trouble he caused… but he did know how to keep the beer flowing, a virtue I didn’t perhaps appreciate until it was gone, as the saying goes. With the disruption of the war I could never replace him, and now half my servers are afraid to come in, thanks to all these uncanny goings-on, well…” He shrugged apologetically and began gathering up the empty tankards and mugs.

“What’s this about foreigners?” Korwin asked sharply, grabbing the man’s sleeve to stay him. The barber had said something about foreigners too, but he’d not been able to follow up on it once the debate with the butcher had started.

“Oh, meaning no disrespect, of course,” the innkeeper assured him hastily. By the intense young man’s accent he was clearly a foreigner himself, though it was hard to place him exactly. West of the Worldspines, certainly… “Being a port town, we get folks from all over, and we’re really quite cosmopolitan –”

“Yes, I’ve no doubt,” Korwin assured him, if a tad impatiently. “No offense was taken. But tell us more of these specific foreigners, the ones your tap-boy – Kemis, you said his name was? – took up with.”

“Oh, well,” the portly man sighed, setting his tray back down and frowning. “Not much to tell really. Several men, showed up maybe half a year past… not sure from where exactly, but they sound Aruhsali to my ear. They took lodgings up near the temple, and soon enough Kemis had taken off. I assume hired to do for them… but given his slovenly habits, I’ve no idea why. I’d’ve thought some local widow might’ve served better…”

“What business do these men follow, do you know?” Vulk asked, dishing himself a second bowl of the stew, which smelled like ambrosia and tasted of paradise.

“Well, not as such, your reverence… they’ve always kept very much to themselves; usually send the boy to do the shopping and such, come to think on it. But I believe they’re about some sort of scholarly work… what I’ve seen of any of them, they seem a bit bookish… I know at least one of them makes regular visits to the old book seller. I’ve little use for books and such things myself, of course, but to each his own, as I always say.”

The only thing he could add, before insisting he had to be about his work and bustling off, was that the foreigners lodged in a building north of the temple side yard. A location that kept coming up, Vulk thought – the missing alura, the killing of the silver-back bear nearby, the conversation between the surly hobo dwarf and the renegade tap-boy, and now these mysterious foreigners…

A suggestion was made that maybe they should lay a trap that night in the temple side yard – either Mariala all tarted up, or perhaps Vulk in drag, since he was prettier. The cantor pointed out there was no need for that, as both men and women worked the trade, and some of both had been taken… and besides, he wasn’t shaving his goatee! After a few more desultory sallies of wit the idea was tabled, at least until they’d had a chance to investigate the area… something they should probably do while the daylight lasted.

After polishing off the last of the amazing stew, the group had barely stepped into the street when the sound of distant shrieks and screams brought them instantly alert. The commotion seemed to be coming from the north, the direction of the Farmers Market. They set off at a run and soon encountered a score of panicked citizens fleeing south. The reason became obvious as they entered the plaza – an enormous black cat, sleek, beautiful and deadly looking, was padding silently through the stalls, ignoring the fleeing humans, mostly. Instead her brilliant green eyes were fixed on the little park – and the butcher’s milling pigs!

Erol was in the lead, and he rushed the panther with his net. He feinted left then, as the claws swiped out, released the net to the right, entangling the creature’s head and front claws in its mesh. As the big cat snarled and twisted about, trying to free herself, Mariala squeezed between Therok and Vulk to cast Fire Nerves on it. With a yowl the big cat collapsed to the pavement, writhing and mewling piteously for several seconds before slipping into merciful unconsciousness.

By the time Toran and Therok had the creature hog-tied and muzzled the City Guard arrived in the person of four sweaty, slightly worried looking men-at-arms. They seemed instantly relieved to find that someone had already dealt with the problem, but quickly reverted to worried when they were told to take the still very much alive beast up to the castle and find some secure place to keep it for the time being.

As three of the Guardsmen hefted the still groggy cat, Erol then began to track the panther back along its path, uphill to the north. Although he lost the certain trail around the still blood-stained cobbles where the silver-back had been killed, there was little doubt the big cat had come from, or at least through, the temple side yard. The bear, too, had been in the side yard as proven by the single footprint Toran discovered in a patch of thin grass and damp, clayey soil.

The group decided to split their efforts again. Toran, Vulk and Therok headed north, to the building where they hoped to find the mysterious foreigners lodging. It was, not incidentally, also the direction all these unusual animals seemed to be coming from. The rest of the party followed Korwin into the Temple of Tyvos, where he had already gone to pay his respects to his patron, the Immortal Lord of the Seas. Erol briefly checked out a glass shop on the east side of the yard, called the House of Pane, before joining the others in the temple.

As they approached it Toran could see that the two story stone and timber structure on the north side of the temple side yard was actually two buildings, sharing a common courtyard. A narrow passage between the buildings led, via an iron gate from the street, to the courtyard. The gate was hanging open as they approached, swinging slightly in the spring breeze off the bay. Toran pointed out the tufts of coarse brown bear fur caught on a rough patch of the iron bars to Vulk, and they proceeded cautiously into the narrow alley.

The door to the larger building, on their right, was also wide open, and Vulk called out a hail. There was no answer. Toran moved past him into the small courtyard, knocking on the two doors of the western building, then peering into windows when he got no response. All three residences seemed empty.

Therok bringing up the rear, the three men stepped cautiously through the open door of the eastern house and into a modest, if well-appointed, study/living room. It was a strange mixture of academic and slovenly, as if a brilliant but careless student lived there… or several scholars and a wastrel youth, perhaps?

There were books everywhere, on a range of subjects, from geography to Khundari history, metaphysics to navigation. Spread over a large desk were sheets of cheap paper covered in calculations of the most arcane sort. Scattered amongst and over almost everything were dirty clothes, plates of dried food, and at least two empty bottles of wine.

There was a small kitchen off the main room, and stairs up to the second floor, but between them stood a doorway into a storage area. It was this that immediately drew their attention, as a trap door could be seen within, open against the far wall. More arresting was the fact that the door to the room had been shattered into flinders. As if a great beast had forced its way through…

“Looking at these marks around the opening,” Toran said, crouching down to examine the trap door, “I’d say the bear actually came up these stone stairs from the cellar and then clawed its way out of the room. The panther came afterward, obviously…”

Vulk and Therok stared dubiously down into the darkness below and then at the dwarf. Toran shrugged. “It’s what the evidence suggests, odd as it seems.”

“It’s not that,” Vulk said with a short laugh. “I’ve no doubt you’re right. It’s just I’m not too sure about following this trail any further on our own. It’s one thing to split the party for a little light reconnaissance around town, but…”

“Oh, well, I suppose you’re right,” Toran sighed. “We should probably go fetch the others… although I’m sure we’d be fine, and I’m cursed curious about how these animals are getting here… it must be some sort of portal or gate, as you first suggested, Vulk, but…” With a shrug he his friend chivy him back out of the empty house and towards the temple.

When the others had entered the vast, shadowy silence of the temple they’d found Korwin at the main alter, making whatever silent communion with his patron Immortal as was his custom. Mariala, moved by the grandure of the place, and the beautiful patterns the westering sun sent through the stained glass, stepped into the niche set aside for her own Immortal patron, Shala, to offer up her own thoughts and devotion.

Devrik, after convincing Brann to sit outside the temple’s main doors and be a good boy, entered and found the somewhat larger alcove devoted to Cael and made his own obeisance. By the time Erol and Jeb had made their way into the sanctum the others were finishing their devotions and beginning to look around. They all found it odd that no one seemed to be attending to the temple… even with all the uncanny activity that seemed centered on it, surely its religious custodians wouldn’t;t abandon it…

Mariala was thinking about going upstairs, where no doubt the high cantor had his office and perhaps other functionaries might be found, when her attention was drawn by a sound coming from the stairway leading down into the crypts. Stepping to the head of the stairs she peered down into the dimness… torches must be lit in the crypts, because all was not pitch black. In fact she could see four small red lights…

Creeping up the stone stairs were the two largest rats she had ever seen — each one was almost as large as Brann, and their feral eyes gleamed red and malevolent in the dimness. It took a moment for her brain to process what it was seeing, and when it did, it froze up entirely – adrenaline flooded her body and every muscle locked up, while her mind simply went white as her life-long phobia seized her.

As the nearest dire rat leapt for her throat Mariala finally let out a piercing shriek of horror and her body unfroze just enough for her to throw up her arm in defense. The vicious rodent sank its teeth into the hardened kurbul of her vambrace, and its rear claws shredded her tunic but failed to find purchase against the acid-washed kurbul cuirass she wore beneath it.

She tried to fling the creature from her, but it clung, and its stench filled her nostrils as it clawed at her… it was simply too much for her over-loaded brain… she just shut down. As Mariala collapsed to the flagstones, however, the immense rodent lost its grip on her vambrace and rolled away. But it was back on its feet in an instant, preparing to leap again for her throat.

Erol, only a few feet behind Mariala when she screamed, lunged forward with his trident in hand as she collapsed. Standing over her prone form as the rat scrabbled for traction on the stone floor he skewered it, flinging its body away behind him and nearly hitting Jeb. While he didn’t share Mariala’s crippling fear of rodents, he had come to loath them during his time as an enslaved gladiator, and that hatred combined with his sudden fear for her well-being to drive his fury.

The second rat managed to evade his next thrust, but it failed to dodge Grover, who leapt from Erol’s shoulder onto the immense rodent, savaging it’s throat. The creature died, but not without exacting a price – in it’s death throes its rear claws raked the ferret’s side, drawing blood and causing him to limp back to Erol and curl up in his pack, licking his wounds.

Erol would’ve loved to take the time to tend to his friend’s wounds, but already another of the huge dire rats had appeared, and by the sound of it more were swarming up the stairs behind it. Korwin impaled that next beast on his Frost Blade, while Erol skewed the one behind, but more were coming…

Vulk, who had arrived via a side door with Toran and Therok just in time to see Mariala go down, rushed forward to lean over the carved wooden railing above the stairs. He aimed the Staff of Summer downward and the glowing, milky strands of the Weaver’s Web shot out, filling the stairwell with scores of binding ropes, ensnaring another five of the slavering creatures.

The rodents snapped and hissed, struggling to free themselves, but they had no leverage and the strands resisted their teeth. Vulk considered what to do next… they really needed to investigate the crypts he supposed, and they did make a nasty roadblock to that end…

“Say, Devrik,” the cantor called suddenly, tuning to his friend, who was just helping a pale, groggy Mariala back to her feet. “Think you could give us a little fire over here.”

Devrik, passing the still shaken Mariala off to Vulk for medical attention, stepped to the head of the stares and peered down at the writhing mass of trapped dire rats and grinned as he caught his friend’s meaning. The flickering flame in a nearby presence lamp was all the seed he needed for his pyrokinesis to feed off of, and a small sphere of fire appeared above his open palm. With a flick he sent it flying into the midst of the faintly glowing tangle of giant rats.

As they’d found in the hamlet of Hart’s Lodge, the strands burst into sudden flame, eventually burning away – but not before immolating all of the ensnared rodents. The stench of burning rat fur and flesh was unpleasant, but in a very short time Devrik was able to kick the smoking corpses off the stairs, clearing the path into the crypts. Any other dire rats that might have been lurking below seemed to have taken the warning and fled.

Mariala, however, having regained her composure and gotten a grip on her phobia, was reluctant to go down to the lower level until she was absolutely assured there was no more immediate evidence of even so much as a mouse visible. When she finally made her way down, with Erol and Jeb bringing up the rear, she saw that Devrik had missed one burned rat corpse. She viscously kicked the smoldering body off the steps, sending it flying into the dimness, before continuing down with some grim satisfaction.

The crypt of the Temple of Tyvos was one vast open cruciform space, upheld by a dozen pillars of stone carved in a stylized wave motif, and dimly lit by a half-dozen bronze braziers filled with slow-burning sea peat. Eleven elaborate stone sarcophagi were scattered about, and the walls were lined with scores of bronze plates marking burial niches.

At the north end was an area enclosed by three walls, tiled with beautiful mosaics, and housing a large stone statue on a marble plinth. According to the inscription carved on it, this was the final resting place of, and eternal memorial to, the great cleric who had founded the temple and oversaw its construction 140 years ago. It also appeared to have been used more recently as a lair for creature or creatures unknown – bones, both old and well-gnawed and quite fresh ones with bits of meat still on them, littered the floor.

Korwin, trying to determine where the bones had come from through the use of his psychometry talent, became quite convinced the older bones had belonged to a show girl named Lola who’d worked at a cabaret named… the Cobra? The Cobra’s Bandana?… anyway, the hottest spot north of Sydora… sometime around the turn of the last century…

The others exchanged meaningful glances (and the odd eye-roll) when he shared this intelligence, and went on about the business of searching the crypts for secret passages, mysterious glowing portals, or other such subtle clues.

It was a full turn of the glass before the Hand found the thing they were looking for – in the shadows of the northwest corner of the crypts, behind a particularly large and ornate sarcophagus, a section of the foundation had been cracked and partially collapsed. The breach looked new, no doubt a result of the recent earthquake, as Toran agreed (his eye-rolling was getting a workout today) when Erol suggested it. The resultant opening was just large enough for a grown man to squeeze through, after squeezing by the sarcophagus first.

“Well, the panther might have gotten through this,” Korwin said, eyeing the hole dubiously and rubbing his temples. The psychometry attempt had given him a headache. “But there’s no way a silver-back bear got through there. There must be another way to the surface…”

“Oh, there is,” Vulk and Toran said simultaneously. The Khundari gestured for the cantor to continue. “We didn’t get a chance to mention it, with all the excitement and Mariala fainting and all.” Mariala cast him dark look, but said nothing.

“We were coming to get you all,” Vulk went on, oblivious. “We found the house the foreigners were renting, we think… it was certainly where the bear and panther, at least, came from. Up from the cellar, actually. Maybe we should – Hey!”

That last was directed at Erol who, impatient with all the milling about jaw boning and anxious to see where the hole in the wall led, had squeezed past the sarcophagus and was just vanishing into the dark gap. With a shrug Toran followed, and one by one the others did as well, Vulk invoking Fortune’s Light on everyone.

The gap in the foundation opened into one of the main sewer lines of the town. The fading light of the setting sun cast the shadow of a street grating above them onto the surface of the murky waters of the drainage channel. The smell was not as bad as it might have been, the spring rains having kept things flowing relatively recently. The arched walls and ceiling of crumbling brick were damp and covered in patches of dark moss.

A raised walkway allowed the party to keep their feet dry and relatively clean as they followed Erol single-file while he tracked the spoor of some large rats. The party hadn’t gone far when they suddenly encountered a pack of living rats in the odoriferous flesh – not the terrifyingly large dire rats, true, but giant rats nonetheless, clearly close cousins of the one the ratter had shown them (and Cheron had dined on).

Their eyes gleaming a feral red in the dim light, the rats paused as they saw the group — and then began a mad, chittering rush forward. Erol managed to get off one arrow, skewering the lead rat, which slowed the others only momentarily. But that was all his companions needed.

Toran cast Stavin’s Arrow and killed two of the nearer rats with the translucent bolts of force. Mariala, again in iron control of her phobia, was nonetheless staying far enough back that her Fire Nerves only managed to fell three of the creatures – although she was gratified to see them collapse twitching into the filthy water, where they would no doubt drown.

Devrik finished off the pack with an Orb of Vorol hurled into their midst. Two of the rats closest to the fiery orb simply exploded in superheated balls of flaming body parts. The remaining giant rats either burned to death in a more conventional manner or died in the searing cloud of vaporized sewer water that engulfed them.

Unbeknownst to the Hand, a hunting pack of a dozen Taloxta, silently approaching from the darkness of a smaller nearby tunnel, had witnessed the demise of their rivals and, in a rare display of intelligence, decided that they weren’t really that hungry after all… so many tempting eyes notwithstanding. They slunk off into the dark, and so lived to torment other victims another day.

After a brief and fruitless foray to the north, whence came the giant rats, the group turned south again and soon came upon a short, narrow corridor that led to a half rotting wooden door, ajar. The small chamber beyond appeared once to have been home to a down-on-their-luck itinerant or two, although now nothing but two moldering beds and a half-rotted chest remained.

More interesting was the collapsed section of wall in the southwest corner of the room. This damage looked older than the damage to the temple’s foundation – at least a year, Toran estimated after crouching down to study the fall of stone and dirt. He also peered into the fairly large tunnel that sloped down into darkness… although it wasn’t quite dark, now was it?

While Toran studied the damaged wall and the tunnel beyond it, Erol, who had quickly decided that the room held nothing of interest, at least to him, had returned to the corridor and continued south. Most of the others, finding the room equally uninteresting, shrugged and followed him. Only Devrik and Korwin remained, the former to watch his Khundari friend’s back, the latter to make absolutely sure that old chest didn’t hold any secrets. Or valuables. Or valuable secrets…

When Toran finally turned back to his companions he was briefly surprised to see the others were gone… but in his excitement barely gave it a thought. “Devrik, come here, you have to see this!” he called, gesturing urgently at the tunnel. “There’s a pulsing light down here!” Warily, Devrik moved up beside his friend, discreetly checking to make sure he wasn’t somehow ensorcelled by this suspicious light. Korwin, finally giving up on his fruitless search of the rotting chest, joined them.

“Look, all this dirt has been well tamped down,” Toran pointed out. “A great many feet – booted feet – have trod this tunnel. And several animals, too, more recently… see, there’s the print of a big cat… and the tunnel is big enough for a bear, certainly. But look down the tunnel… see that pale white light that seems to flicker from around that first bend?”

Devrik glanced cautiously down the dark passage, and did indeed see a faint glow once his eyes adjusted. It didn’t seem particularly enchanting, so that was good. Korwin also saw the light, and was immediately on board with the ninja-dwarf’s suggestion that they investigate, scoffing at Devrik’s reluctance to split the party.

“Oh, the others will come back soon enough,” the water-mage urged. “It’s not like they’ll find another glowing mystery light, or anything else half so interesting, wherever they’ve gone. Once they get tired of roaming the sewers they’ll figure out where we’ve gone quick enough, and follow right on.”

Despite his misgivings, Toran’s intensity and Korwin’s enthusiasm combined with Devrik’s own strongly itching curiosity, and he gave in. Probably there was nothing too untoward down there any way, and they’d likely be back before the rest of the gang returned… what’s the worst that could happen?

♦ ♦ ♦ 

It was barely a score of meters down the southern branch of the sewer line that Erol, Mariala, Vulk and the minions did, in fact, come upon something rather more interesting than a mysteriously glowing light in a hole in the ground. A large section of the sewer wall had recently collapsed, and the gap thus created revealed a moderately large chamber beyond – a chamber that appeared to be a very old Khundari burial chamber.

Clambering up the large pile of fresh rubble that half choked the sewer, then down into the chamber, they found that they hardly needed the goddess-given sight of Vulk’s ritual – the room appeared to be suffused with a faint greenish glow, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. Four distinctive Khundari sarcophagi were set in small niches around the room, and four carved pillars upheld a central dome. But it was a larger sarcophagus in an alcove in the north wall – almost a small room of its own, really – that drew their attention. The stone coffin was made of matte black basalt and was covered in arcane symbols and runic text.

“This is an ancient version of the runic alphabet,” Mariala said, peering at the large words spelled out on the side, but not moving from the center of the main chamber. “But if I’m reading this right… let’s see… yes, this is the tomb of someone named Kordäth… the… Bleakheart? It also seems to be a warning… and those symbols are defiantly wards of some–”

Before she could finish her sentence the sound of grinding stone-on-stone filled the fetid air as the lid of the sarcophagus slowly slid aside. Jeb and Therok both stepped back, subtly shifting to place themselves behind their principals, as a ghoulish figure sat up and began to pull itself out of the sarcophagus. It appeared to be a gaunt, white bearded Kundari, dressed in ragged, once-rich robes, beneath which pitted and corroded armor could be seen. It glowed with a sickly green aura, and the stink of the grave was on it.

There was nothing spectral or translucent about the figure, however, and as soon as its feet were planted on the stone flags of the floor it drew a wicked looking black dagger from its belt. It began to stalk slowly toward the party, it’s glowing green eyes mesmerizing, a greedy gleam flickering in the depths…

Mariala felt a sudden lashing of malevolent force against her mental shields, and she recoiled in distaste. In the brief instant of contact, before she repelled the creature’s attempt at domination, she experienced something of its mind – thoughts of rage and betrayal… buried alive, but sustained by an indomitable will and… a connection to… some great force… long centuries of imprisonment… rage banked to embers, but never wholly dying… sudden freedom, at last! And a terrible thirst… a thirst for the life of others…

“I don’t know what this thing is,” she warned the others. “I don’t sense the Shadow within it, thank Shala… but nevertheless, I think it would be an extraordinarily bad idea to let it touch you!”

Vulk, even more familiar with the cold nothingness of the Shadow, was greatly relieved himself to get no sense of it radiating from the creature —but he was taking no chances. Once again he summoned up the Weaver’s Web, filling the mouth of the alcove with glowing strands from side-to-side and floor-to-ceiling, imprisoning the horrifying undead dwarf.

His feeling of satisfaction was fleeting as a shriek from Jeb, followed by a slightly more manly bellow of fear from Therok, caused him to whirl around. Two skeletal knights, chests and skulls glowing with a brilliant green light from within, lumbering toward the group from behind.

As Jeb fumbled to nock an arrow and Therok grabbed for his sword, Erol leaped past Vulk to thrust his trident at the nearest skeleton. It’s pitted sword knocked the shaft down enough to avoid a blow to the spine, but its legs became entangled in the weapon’s tines and it stumbled to the ground with a clatter of rusted armor.

Marila, meanwhile, had whipped up her cross-bow, kept (like her nerves) on a hair trigger since they’d entered the temple crypt, and fired off a bolt at the second skeleton that was reaching for a shaking, wide-eyed Jeb. The iron shaft pierced the base of the spine, shattering it to dust. This seemed to break whatever unholy magic was animating the thing, and the undead horror collapsed with a clatter into a pile of bones and corroded armor. The sickly green light at its core quickly faded into nothingness.

Vulk aimed his staff at the first skeleton as it staggered back to its feet and let loose a flight of Stavin’s Arrows. The translucent force bolts seemed to have little effect, however, and the creature swung a surprisingly swift blow at Erol, who countered with his trident. This time he plunged the weapon into the verdigris light of the undead thing’s chest. Ribs shattered and the spine snapped, and it joined its companion as just another pile of decaying bones and rusted armor, its own green glow fading away.

The heroes were allowed no breathing room, however, as they turned once more to find Therok engaged with the revenant Kordäth, who had made short work of Vulk’s webs, slashing through them with his black dagger as if they were spider webs in truth. The barbarian retainer had been the first to notice, and had dashed forward to place himself between the creature and Mariala’s back.

His sword parried the blow aimed at his heart, but as the slashing blade slid aside Kordäth twisted it, managing to drive it into B-Fiddy-five’s calf. The barbarian staggered back with a yell, his leg giving out and dropping him to the floor. The undead Khundari reached one leathery, desiccated hand out toward him…

Mariala’s Fire Nerves struck the undead warrior full in the head… to no effect, beyond drawing its malevolent gaze toward her. She felt the draining cold of its mental assault on her shields again, but had no trouble deflecting it once again.

The delay had been enough to give Jeb time to loose the arrow he’d finally nocked and drawn. It flew true, straight for the ghoul’s head – only to be snatched from the air by the creature’s leathery hand, just centimeters from its left eye. With a malevolent grin the thing snapped the shaft in two and turned its cold gaze toward the young archer.

Before it could launch a psychic attack on the boy, however, Erol was on it with his trident, slashing and jabbing, forcing the revenant to dodge and twist, with surprising agility, and parry with its glittering black dagger.

At that point the undead thing that had once been Kordäth made a tactical error. It turned its back on Mariala to focus on the tall Telnori warrior, representative of an ancient enemy which its black soul remembered well. It dodged another feint, and then went in for a counterstrike, the wicked sharp edge of the obsidian dagger, glinting in the unnatural light of the crypt, barely missing Erol’s face.

The crossbow bolt took the undead warrior in the back of the head, piercing the skull with a sound like a mirror cracking, the iron shaft exiting though Kordäth’s open mouth. With a psychic wail that only Mariala heard the green light faded from its eyes even as Erol watched, the nimbus surrounding the body and filling the room dimming to nothing. As quickly as that, the revenant spirit was gone.

“Where the Void are the others?” Vulk asked as he invoked the Besssing of Kasira over the remains of all three of the former undead, now hopefully really and truly dead. He really hated the undead, and generally preferred a lot more backup than this when facing them…

“Hmmm, I guess it’s not such a good idea to split the party,” Erol said diffidently, wiping the gristly gore from his trident and checking on Grover, who was doing well, nibbling on his Baylorium®-infused Ferret Treat™ in his nest in his master’s pack. “Although I think we did rather well on our own… mostly.”

Therok, who was being helped back to his feet by Mariala, gave the former gladiator a narrow-eyed look, but said nothing. Vulk bent to tend to his gashed calf while Mariala turned to look out the collapsed wall into the sewer. Still currently-rat-free she noted, and sighed.

“I suppose we should head back and find the others…”

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Toran, Devrik and Korwin made their way down the mysterious tunnel to find themselves in what looked like an even more mysterious ancient Khundari chamber (easily 2,000 years old, by Toran’s estimate). Most of the walls had collapsed long ago (only the rubble-strewn tunnel they’d entered through looked fresh), leaving only a three cubic meter open space. In that space a column of shifting white light rose from floor to ceiling.

They all assumed it was a portal, of course, and this was confirmed almost at once. Appearing as if through a glowing fog, another panther, this one male, had materialized from the column. It stalked out of the shimmering light, giving them no more than a wary glance, and quickly disappeared up the tunnel.

Once again, at Toran’s excited insistence and Korwin’s relentless badgering, Devrik let his common sense be overruled. But not so far as to fail all basic precautions – before they plunged into the mysterious portal he wrote a note for the others on one of Mariala’s entangled papers. For good measure he left the original near the mouth of the tunnel, using a bit of rubble for a paper weight.

Then they’d stepped through…

… and out of a hazy white light to find themselves on a circular stone platform about 10 meters across. At the center of the platform, now behind them, rose the column of milky white light from which they’d just stepped. It was centered in a circle of what looked like melted, twisted and fused metal, three meters in diameter. Within the column’s light faint whorls of shifting, pale colors could be seen slowly writhing and curling in on themselves, like smoke from a pipe.

But what grabbed the attention almost instantly, was the fact that the platform was floating in the air very far above the ground… and the ground was the bottom of an immense spherical cavern perhaps 200 meters in diameter. A diffuse gray light filled the immense space, revealing three other identical platforms floating in the air nearby, each one, like their own, connected to a much larger circular platform between and below them by short flights of stairs. The large central platform was more than 30 meters across, the stairs that connected it to its satellite platforms spaced even around its rim, and the whole assembly floating uncannily at the center of the immense space.

The stonework of all five platforms looked old and worn, Toran noted, with a hint of scorch marks over large patches of the surfaces. The edges of the platforms were jagged and crumbling, and the stairs were in particularly bad shape. The shattered remnants of what may have been a circular walkway that once connected the outer platforms floated in a slowly orbiting ring around the  large platform.  The whole construction had an air of very great age… and an indefinable aura of long abandonment.

Each of the satellite platforms had its own central column of shimmering light, while the larger platform did not. At its center was a slowly rotating disk of matte black stone (basalt, Toran absently noted to his friends) into which sigils of glowing white light were etched. Around the perimiter of this disk was a band of shiny non-rotating black stone (obsidian, Toran observed in passing) that was etched with silver-inlaid runes. Runes of the very most ancient Khundari form.

“I think I might know where we are,” the Shadow Warrior said, almost too low to hear. A thrill of excitement and awe ran up his spine, and he shivered. “I think this is… the Fane of Gheas!”

“The what of who, now?” Korwin asked after a moment of blank silence. Devrik winced and swatted him upside the head, giving Toran an apologetic eye roll.

“The Fane of Gheas,” Toran repeated in annoyance, as the wonder of the moment slipped away. “It is a legend of my people, almost a myth I would’ve said. But this is so much as it’s described in the tales of the ancient world, tales I learned as a child…

“Tells us about it,” Devrik encouraged, as Korwin rubbed his head.

“During the time of the Codominion, when Khundari, Umantari, Telnori and the Immortals all lived together in harmony and peace, before the coming of the Demon Plague and the tragedy of the Demon’s Fist, during the time of the building of the Eight Cities of the Dwarves –”

“Yes, yes, it was a long time ago,” Korwin interrupted nervously. He really didn’t like heights, and even thought they weren’t that close to the edge… “Can we move it along?”

Toran stared at his companion for a moment, resisting the urge to put a throwing star into his shoulder. But he sensed the other man’s discomfort with their position and his jangled nerves, and with a sigh he let it go.

“So, the Fane of Gheas was said to have been built in that age, a master work of the Khundari priests of our Great God Gheas, made with His blessing and guidance. It was said to be a spatial nexus connecting many different places on, above, and beneath the world, by a method unrelated to the naturally occurring Nitaran Gates. Some say it could even connect to other worlds and dimensions, but that always seemed to me to be too fantastical…”

“Well, this seems pretty fantastical already,” Devrik growled, a little awed himself by the immense structure… and its unnerving defiance of gravity. “So I’m not discounting anything. But where in the world was – is – this Fane of yours? Where are we?”

“No idea… and no one knows,” Toran said with a shrug. “Only the most outrageous of the tales ever claimed to know where the Fane was located, some even claiming it wasn’t in our world at all. But whatever the truth, the secret of its physical location was known only to the founding priests of the Dha’ghean Khor sect. Through the centuries that and their successor brothers acted as “ferrymen,” of sorts, for travelers they deemed worthy to use the Paths of Gheas, whether individuals or small armies. It was also known as the Eye of the World–”

“What the Void is that?” Korwin interrupted again, grasping Toran’s shoulder and pointing to the platform directly opposite theirs. In the pillar of light at the center of that platform a figure had begun flickering in and out of sight – it appeared to be a Khundari, his face twisted in a rictus of fear or pain. Even as they focused on him, however, he faded away altogether…

“Huh!” Toran said with a surprised grunt, and immediately headed for the shattered steps down to the central platform, pausing only to pull a stick of charcoal from his scrip and mark “their” platform. Leaping down the steps he barely seemed to notice the crumbling stone, the gaps, or the 100 meter drop they revealed, moving as nimbly over them as if on a grand staircase in a ballroom… the benefits of a ninja education.

Korwin, on the other hand, very much noticed the gaps and the extremely dubious condition of the stairs. Moving to follow the dwarf, he paused with a jerk at the first step. But under Devrik’s sardonic smirk, he flushed, gathered his resolve, and… staggered was really the only word for it, the fire-mage decided… down the stairs.

While Devrik held his position on the high ground, Toran went right around the central basalt disk on the main platform, while Korwin went left – neither was prepared to risk those arcane glyphs without knowing more. Just as they came abreast of the stairs to the two intermediary satellite platforms the pillars of light on those two, as well as on the one ahead, shifted from white to a pulsing pastel, each one a different color. Devrik glanced behind himself, but the pillar they’d enter via remained a soft white, with only swirling hints of pastel colors in its depth.

Toran, glancing up to his right, was arrested by the sight of something emerging from the violet glow of the pillar there. As it stepped into focus, he found his battle-axe in his hands reflexively. The thing was perhaps the most hideous abomination of life he’d ever witnessed – a mass of writhing tentacles and scores of eyes of varying sizes and colors forming its central mass, which was upheld by two tree trunk-like legs, themselves made up of entwined tentacles. The body, if it could be said to have one, was an electric blue, fading to a translucent, pustulant green at the tips of the upper tentacles; the legs were a dark brown.  

The creature immediately spied Toran, and with a weird, wet ululation began to lumber, with surprising speed and grace, down the crumbling stairs towards him. Holding his battle-axe in one hand the Shadow Warrior gestured with the other and sent an almost-invisible flight of Stavin’s Arrows into the writhing abomination. The magical bolts struck its center of mass, the thing shrieking and falling apart as if each tentacle was a separate entity.

The pieces struck directly by the attack withered and died quickly, but the rest began to writhe about blindly for a moment. But within seconds they began to wriggle and squirm their way towards one another; in another few seconds they began to reform, twisting together once more to form a hideous whole.

Just as the transformation was nearing completion, however, Devrik’s Orb of Vorol, hurled from his own platform, struck the writhing abomination dead center. The reassembling pieces instantly flew apart again, this time with much greater force and in flames. The burning pieces of twisted flesh mostly plunged over either side of the stairs, raining down on the cavern floor far below like some hideous meteor shower.

With an acknowledging wave to Devrik, Toran re-stowed his weapon and resumed his jog over to the far platform, mounting its shattered steps as easily as he’d come down the first set. He had only to wait a moment before the colors of the three columns, including the one he now stood by, shifted back to white. Seconds after they did the shadowy form of the Khundari appeared again… it grew as if rushing towards him from a great distance, then flickered in and out of sight, never quite gone but never quite there…

Just as Korwin made his queasy way up to join Toran, the trapped Dwarf seemed to notice them. His expression changed from fear and pain to one of desperate hope. His mouth moved, but at first they could hear nothing, and the hand he reached out, although appearing solid, moved through Toran’s grasp as if made of smoke.

A few words became audible, but as if from a great distance. “…blood of a… Kundari… must take the…” There were gaps, though, where they saw the lips move but heard no sound, and the figure seemed to pulse in and out of phase with reality. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, the mysterious figure was gone, receding away again… but not completely, Toran realized. He could still see the faintest, ghostly hint of the man. A moment later, another cycle of colors began pulsing through the three active columns, eventually settling into three new shades. Through it all he could just make out the trapped figure, so translucent as to be almost invisible, and seeming both very distant and immediately present.

“I think I know what we need to do,” Korwin cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted across to Devrik. Fortunately sound seemed to carry well in the strange, dead air of the immense cavern, and the fire-mage had no trouble understanding him. “We need Toran to cut himself – a good cut right across his palm is probably best – and drip his Khundari blood into that central sigil, in the middle there. I think…”

Toran paid no particular attention to his friend, focused as he was on watching the pillar of light, waiting for the cycle to begin again. While the Imperial went on about his theory of Dwarven blood being needed to operate the Fane of Gheas Toran readied himself…

When the imprisoned Khundari, who he was fairly certain was the probably clan-less derelict Bektam, made his next phase back towards reality, he was ready. When the man seemed as solid as himself, when his words were audible, if distant, he shot a hand out to grasp the other’s arm. For an instant he felt an almost solid touch… but even as the sensation registered it was gone and he held nothing but misty light.

He’d tried to read Bektam’s lips, but the phasing flicker seemed to blur him around the edges and he could make out nothing. A few different words came through, but were little more help… “pure blood… sigil of… four-fold path…” It was so frustratingly close to being clear, he felt the answer was hanging just out of his grasp, like the delicious peacock tail fungi of old Farmer Mhyklop, growing from the ceilings of the cultivation caves.

He was torn from his thoughts by a warning from Devrik – something was coming through the portal from Gevdan Town…

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Erol, Marila, Vulk and the rest returned to the sad little bedroom off the main sewer line to find it empty, their friends nowhere to be found. Erol, checking for tracks, seemed certain that a large cat, at least as large as the panther they’d encountered early, had come through the room. But as there was no blood, and it was unlikely that such an animal could have bested all three of the men in any case, it was dismissed as irrelevant.

“But the tracks come from this tunnel,” he concluded. “And it looks like our friends went down the tunnel… before the cat came up, in fact. I just can’t believe they’d go down there without us.”

“Perhaps they had a good reason,” Mariala said, frowning. “Still, I’d expect Devrik, at least to – oh!” A sudden inspiration struck, and she reached into her scrip for her entangled parchment. Sure enough, there was one of Devrik’s with his surprisingly beautiful handwriting visible. It explained what they’d found and what they were doing.

“No, no good reason at all,” she sighed, handing the note to Erol to read. He snorted and handed it to Vulk, but the cantor waved it away with a distracted motion.

“Wait, I’m getting something… Cherdon is trying to… oh! I see what he’s trying to tell me… ” he smiled as he came out of his semi-trance. “I think we need to wait a few minutes before we follow the others. Jeb, Therok, I think you should head back to the surface…”

♦ ♦ ♦

Haplo made his way down from Kar Gevdan at a brisk pace. His mission to the High Town and the Eastport docks had proved both long and fruitless. The shippers had turned out to be no more dishonest than any successful merchant, and after extensive questioning and a very thorough searching of their various holdings, almost certainly not in league with Darikazi slavers. Or spies.

The one irregularity he’d stumbled across, the smuggling of a certain illicit substance from Pangonia, was so minor, in his eyes, that it seemed unfair to call them on it under the circumstances. The rather uptight Guard captain might have felt differently, but he’s missed the clue and Haplo saw no need to direct his attention toward it.

The younger of the Sheltam sons had been present and had blanched when he’d realized what Haplo had found. And had then shot the young mage a deeply grateful look when he’d realized he was going to let it pass – a byplay that, once again, the captain failed to note. Nor did he see the small pouch that was slipped to his companion as they were leaving the shipper’s offices to return to the castle.

Having made their negative report to the lord Baron, the captain had returned to his wife and home for supper, while Haplo had declined Lord Tynal’s invitation to dine. He was hungry, certainly, but decided to try and find the others. Perhaps they’d discovered a decent inn during their afternoon’s investigation, and he could hear all about their findings over a meal and tankard or two. And now he had something to share for afters, as it turned out.

The sun was already near the horizon when he reached the Low Town, and he was grateful for the torch the Baron’s seneschal had insisted he take. He lit it now with his flint and steel, and set out to find his friends. A few questions of the locals, and some garbled tales of giant black cats and magical nets, led his to the side yard of the local temple devoted to the Sea God Tyvos.

He was just casting about, trying to decide where to check next, when Vulk’s familiar, the sleek and beautiful peregrine falcon Cherdon, had dropped down onto his shoulder. Momentarily startled, he’d relaxed once he’d recognized the bird – and then had the sudden realization that Vulk might be looking at him through those too-intelligent black eyes. When it motioned with its head toward the temple, he took the hint.

At the temple doors he found Brann, Devrik’s good natured hound, dozing with his head resting forlornly on his paws. The beast leaped up when he smelled Haplo, and seemed pleased at a familiar scent, if not that of one of his own people. Man and dog followed the raptor into the temple, where they ran into Jeb and Therok coming up the wide stone steps from the crypt…

♦ ♦ ♦

As Vulk, Mariala, Haplo, and Erol stepped through the light and out onto the floating platform, they suffered the same sense of awe and vertigo that their friends had experienced earlier. They explained that they had left Jeb and Therok behind, with orders to report all they’d done and learned to the Baron if none of them had returned by the end of the Cat watch. But Cherdon and Brann were with them, and Grover was still comfortably ensconced in Erol’s pack.

The raptor took immediately to the air, and seemed to enjoy the strange open-and-yet-enclosed space. Brann seemed uneasy and stayed close to Devrik, who thumped his side reassuringly. Grover peered over the mouth of his pack, glanced around, and went back to sleep.

Once the people had acclimated themselves to the wonder of the Fane, and been told of the dangers (they all peered over the edge to look at the small, smoking dots that were the remains of the writhing abomination), they began to brainstorm the puzzle of freeing the trapped Khundari. They all agreed he was probably the mystery-Dwarf Bektam, and they had a great many questions for him.

Korwin, who preferred not to traverse the fractured stairs any more than necessary, stayed on the far platform, ostensibly to watch for the returning phase-shifting Dwarf, and called out his continued insistence that they needed to bleed Toran to make everything work… to no avail.

After examining the slowly revolving central disk Toran eventually pronounced that the thing to try was a drop of his own blood in the central, and probably controlling, sigil of the interlocking wards.

Korwin threw up his hands and shook his head in disgust…

But as Toran was moving towards the central disk, and Devrik moved down from the other side to occupy one of the outer sigils, the portals shifted colors once again. And this time, out of the column of light opposite the one from which the writhing abomination had come, an immense shape appeared.

It was at least 8 meters long, resembling nothing so much as a bizarre eel, with a long tubular body that ended in a wide tail and two fins just in back of the head. It’s underbelly was pale violet, while its topside was a deep, mottled purplish color, fading to teal at the tips of the extremities. A little bit back from the head were four long, clawed tentacles, two sprouting from across each other on the top, and two more of the same on the underbelly. The head was roughly triangular-shaped, with a spherical, somewhat beak-like nose and a round mouth like a lampreys, lined with razor teeth. Above the nose were their three glowing blue eyes, each one set atop the other. Tendrils and a few shorter tentacles dangled from the bottom of the head.

As the Hand watched in horror the thing drifted out, undulating through the air as if it were in water, a wave of psychic malevolence and self-satisfaction rolling off of it, to those sensitive to it. And with that psychic emanation seemed to come a name… Lagor’enth. But whether a proper name or species name was unclear, even to Mariala.

It seemed to focus its immediate attention on Toran, who had the misfortune to be in its direct line of sight as it cleared the smaller platform. The Khundari loosened his battle-axe and dropped into a fighting crouch…

The Lagor’enth suddenly stooped and whipped out two clawed tentacles. Toran rolled under the first to drive his axe along the creature’s pale underbelly, but to no effect — its skin seemed as hard as stone. The second tentacle he dodged with a brilliant leap and roll, coming to one knee as he loosed a barrage of Stavin’s Arrows. These struck the creature full on but seemed to do no more damage than his axe.

Erol, having taken Devrik’s place on the original platform, drew a shaft to his longbow and let fly, hitting the flying behemoth at the base of one of its main tentacle-fins. It snapped around as if bitten by some annoying tick, briefly thrashing its long tail.

Mariala stood at the base of the stairs below Erol, and as his arrow struck she released a blasts of Fire Nerves. This, too, seemed merely to discomfit the beast but not really damage it… although… was it moving a little slower now, and maybe a bit less smoothly?

Toran aimed his second casting of Stavin’s Arrows at what looked like a softer, less well-armored patch of the creature’s thorax, just below the mouth. This time the near-invisible bolts got a reaction – it reared back and thrashed the air, sending out psychic waves of disbelief, anger, and pain. Enough pain, apparently, that it turned from this small tormentor to go for seemingly easier prey – Devrik.

The Lagor’enth’s tentacle-claws whipped out viciously, but Devrik was ready, having keenly watched the others’ attacks and the beast’s responses. He nimbly dodged the two-pronged attack, leaping to use one tentacle to push off and into his counterattack. He struck at the same soft spot Toran had found, and from which blue-black ichor was already flowing. He drove his battlesword deep into the beast’s thorax, then ripped it down as he dropped to the stone floor, rolling away as the dark ichor gushed forth in a flood.

The creature reared up, emitting an almost ultrasonic squeal and another psychic blast of shock, fear and pain. Even those with limited psionic talent felt that one, and no one escaped the headache that followed. The body crashed to the main platform at its very edge, spasmed once, and then slowly slid off. The sound when it hit the cavern floor, joining the still smoldering bits of the writhing abomination, was like the world’s largest pumpkin dropped from a tall tower.

Once everyone was recovered, they decided they’d best move fast if they had any hope of gaining control of this immense artifact before something even worse emerged from one of the shifting portals. Toran, after a fruitless attempt to stop or slow the central disk’s rotation by hand, took his place in the center circle, while Devrik, Mariala, Haplo and Vulk took up positions in each of the satellite circles. Korwin stood ready to pull Bektam from his prison, while Erol guarded the portal home, arrow nocked to bow in case anything else came through another gate.

Toran pricked his thumb with his dagger and let several drops of blood fall to the basalt upon which he stood, then began to recite the words inscribed on the encircling stone band… the pace of the disk’s rotation was perfect for the task. The others focused their thoughts on Gevdan and home. A thrum of power began to build, and as it reached a crescendo the disk slowed and then locked into place with its four outer circles aligned with the four outer platforms. The pillars of light all flared once, then settled into four new shades of pastel colors. The sound died away.

A cry from Korwin drew everyones attention to the platform where he stood, now attempting to hold up the half-collapsed figure of a dazed and gasping Khundari. Everyone looked to Toran before stepping off their circles, and after a moment’s consideration, he nodded, freeing them. They all rushed to join Korwin and the now freed Dwarf. The central disk remained motionless.

“Bektam of Gevdan, I presume,” Toran said, taking the weight from Korwin and letting the weakened man sink to his knees.

“Yes, cousin, I am,” the Dwarf replied in Khundari accented with the sounds of the western Greatsone Mountains. “My eternal gratitude for freeing me from that horrible, horrible trap, may your sons carry your memory forward ten thousand years!”

“You’re welcome,” Toran replied drily. “But we’ll circle back to that gratitude after you’ve answered some questions we have. And not all my friends speak our tongue, so stick to the Common… I know you speak Esparic perfectly well.”

Bektam was reluctant to answer the Hand’s questions at first, his gratitude not withstanding, trying for vague generalities and noncommittal answers. But they quickly impressed upon him the fact that he wasn’t leaving this place until he’d provided the answers they sought. With a surly sigh, he grudgingly told his story.

“I’ve been a, a wander for twenty years now,” he began. “A free spirt of the open road.” (A renegade or outcast, Toran thought grimly, but let the deception, maybe even self-deception, pass).

“I came to Gevdan Town about seven years ago, and I’ve made my living as a handyman, of sorts, providing the Umantari with the benefit of Khundari metal-smithing skills and stone working…

“But I’ve never liked sleeping aboveground, and for several years past I’ve made my home in a snug little room in the Underneath, near the temple of Tyvos. This was going on just fine, I guess you’d say, until about a year ago. An earthquake shook the city… from that eruption of Mt. Katai, way off west, they said afterward.”

His audience studiously avoided looking at Devrik, whose infant son had been more-or-less responsible for that eruption. Devrik merely tightened his jaw and glowered at no one in particular. Bektam missed the byplay entirely and went on with his tale.

“It didn’t do much damage, though I was busy for a tenday, checking people’s chimneys and foundations. But ’twas my own digs that took the real damage. One corner of my room collapsed, opening the way to… well, if you’re here, you know to what. Took me awhile to widen and shore up the tunnel, but eventually I found the glowing portal to… here.

” I knew at once what this place must be… I remembered it from the tales my grand da told me before I– back when I was a young ‘un. It took me a bit to… well, I had all that work, you see, after the quake… anyway, eventually I tried one of the other portals. It took me to a frozen mountain top, with air so cold and thin I could hardly breathe! I didn’t stay long, ha!

“The next portal took me to an island in an endless sea… hot and humid, and all that horrible water as far as the eye could see. I went inland, hoping for better, but it was a small island.. and the dark-skinned Umantari were none too friendly. Besides, who could understand that jibber-jabber?

“But third time’s the charm as they say, and by Gheas I thought my luck really had changed with the last portal. I found myself in a cave in the foothills of the mountains, near a forest meadow, spring flowers abloom. I even thought the mountains looked familiar, like those of home. As it turned out, they were a part of the range north of my old home. A few hundred kilometers and I could have –

“Well, but these mountains were in Darikaz, that pit of vipers. A dark land, for all its beauty, the very worst of the cursed humans blighting–” He seemed to remember his audience, and grew silent. Although certainly Vulk looked to be in perfect agreement with his assessment.

“To cut the tale short, I wasn’t there two days before I fell into the hands of fiends in the guise of men – a Korönian clerical sect I came to learn, the Order of the Burning Tower. Over time I learned more — that they were in decline, having ended up on the wrong side of some religious dispute (or more likely a power grab) within their cult some years past. These, the last score of surviving brothers, now moved from place to place, plotting their revenge on all who had betrayed them… but most of all on the primate of their own religion. 

“By sheer bad luck (really the only kind I know) I arrived and had been enslaved just as the chaos caused by the assassination of the Darikazi king reached the hinterland. Their country had collapsed into civil war, but as things fell apart this Order saw only opportunity, a chance to regain their lost power. And maybe more… for I had told them how I had come to their land… and the legends of the Fane.

“One of their number, a leader amongst them, was a powerful mage and telekinetic named Sevrok Baltan, and he had actually heard tales of the Path of Gheas. He compelled me to take him through the portal in the hidden cave, to the Fane itself. He was… besotted by the possibilities.

“It took him five months of intense study and constant experimentation, but he slowly learned, and eventually was able to make the Fane function, at least in a semi-random fashion. My own status rose during this time, for he realized early on that he needed one of pure Khundari blood to make it function at all. I was still a prisoner and slave, but now at least a well cared for one.” He frowned bitterly at some memory, but didn’t elaborate.

“He learned to keep the connections between the Fane and Darikaz and Tharkia active, while allowing the other two portals to be shifted. But his control of those other portals was erratic… really little better than sheer chance, as far as I could tell. But slowly Sevrok did seem to be making progress…

“About six months ago, as their hoarded coin began to run low, they hit upon a plan to make the Paths begin to pay them for all their work. They began by setting up a network of spies in Tharkia and took to stealing slaves to fill their coffers back home, while Sevrok worked to discover how to open the Path to exactly where they wanted to go – the Korönian primate’s palace!

“Everything seemed to be going Sevrok’s way… until the 11th of this month. Gheas, please tell me it’s still Sarnia! I can’t have been trapped more than a tenday, could I?” He looked briefly panicked, until reassured it was only the 22nd of the month. He let out a deep breath and continued.

“Most of the brothers in Tharkia were in Zurhan that day to gather the latest harvest of slaves (they’d begun taking special orders from “clients”) and collect the reports of their spies. How they slipped up, I don’t know, but the King’s men apparently laid an ambush for them in the tavern they used for these meetings, and the ring was exposed and broken up.

“The only reason I know this was that a single member of the Order in Tharkia not taken or killed was an idiotic young acolyte, named Kemis. They’d recruited him as a local face for their mundane business, and had eventually come to use him as a native decoy to lure victims into slavery in the capital. The boy fled back to Gevdan after the debacle at the Mermaid’s Song Inn, and found me.

“And once he’d told his breathless tale, I saw my chance. Oh don’t look at me like that, cousin. Yes, they’d left me free in Gevdan, had done so for months. But there are other restraints besides the physical, and Sevrok’s hooks were deep. There was no escaping from them, except through death. My own, I’d always thought, but now I realized their deaths would serve me just as well. As long as I could stay out of the hands of the few remaining brothers in Darikaz!

“I knew the boy, Kemis, would never betray the Order – he’d drunk the wine too deeply – but I knew I needed two, at least, to operate the Fane. That bastard Sevrok had made sure to keep me far from his work, and as ignorant as possible of how he was achieving even his limited control of the paths. But he still needed me to actually do it, and I learned more than he realized. I was sure I could operate the Fane, and I had no care where the portals took me, as long as it was far from Darikaz or Tharkia!

“But I was not as clever as I thought I was… or else the Korönian scum had been better at keeping vital parts of the procedure secret. I put Kemis in the Gevdan circle, since he knew enough to know we needed to anchor that point. And I did succeed in shifting the pattern! The boy might have begun to suspect then, but he was never the sharpest blade in the rack.

“But I’d missed something. I made my dash for a portal but as I stepped off the central disk an intense pulse of energy burst out from the central platform. It shook the entire cavern, as if a giant had kicked it. I felt myself thrown forward, and for a moment I lay half stunned.

” When I staggered up I could see that the boy had been hurled from the center disk as well, and was laying unconscious on the far side. But I had no thought for him, I just wanted out. I stepped into the former “Darikaz” portal, knowing it had shifted destinations – only to be gripped as if by ten thousand tiny hands, all trying to tear me apart. I turned, trying to retreat, but I was trapped.

“My body began shifting in and out of phase – one second I was in the Cavern, the next in an open field, then back to the Cavern, and then a mountain top. Or rather, I was almost in those locations. It was an agonizing sensation, and I could never pull myself free. The three portals began randomly shifting, and every time they did I was torn between here and some new, random place. 

“It was the boy’s presence on the “Gevdan” circle that kept it locked to that location, and when he finally came around he took one look me, silently screaming, begging for his help… and he fled. Into the wrong portal.

“As I said, he wasn’t very bright. I have no idea where he ended up, he never came back. Never had a chance to, really, given when in the cycle he went through – they changed again within seconds of his passage.

“For… I don’t know how long… I was trapped in my painful limbo, only occasionally phasing into reality enough to communicate, but never for more than a few seconds, as you saw. Nothing came through my portal, I think because I was blocking it… but the other two saw a strange stream of traffic… wild beasts, monsters, and some things I can’t even describe passed through the open portals. 

“The creatures tended to wander the platform, then leave again… sometimes through the same portal (although it would almost always have reset to some other location by then), more often through one of the other functioning portals. Including the one to Gevdan.”

With Bektam’s technical description of what he understood of the function of the Fane, the Hand suddenly realized that all four portals had almost certainly been reset when they’d freed him. Erol volunteered to go through what had been the portal to Gevdan.

He was only gone a minute before returning to confirm that yes, the other side of the gate was no longer under the town of Gevdan. It was instead in the middle of a steaming tropical rain forest, and daytime, rather than just after sunset, as it should be. No one looked happy.

Korwin tried another portal, finding a white-capped gray sea below high white cliffs and a scudding wrack of clouds. It was either early morning or late afternoon, but he had no reference to be sure of which. Devrik stepped through a third portal into a burning dessert of red sand, dunes stretching as far as he could see, a deep blue bowl of sky above and the sun almost directly overhead.

Mariala was about to step through the last portal when Bektram suddenly leapt to his feet and, with surprising speed given his debilitated condition, dashed past her into the column of light. While Mariala hesitated a moment on whether or not to follow and drag him back, he suddenly staggered back through on his own. His eyes were wide and fixed, and sticking from his chest and back were a score of thin wooden darts.

Without a sound he collapsed at her feet and expired.

“I don’t think we need to try that portal,” Mariala said faintly, kneeling to take the Khundari’s pulse, careful not to touch any of the almost certainly poisoned darts. “Toran, can we spin the wheel again? In case whoever did… this… decides to come through. Maybe we’ll get lucky…”

There was some discussion about whether the Paths all led to places on Novendo, or if they really did sometimes lead to other worlds or dimensions, as they took their places on the sigils. Or even other times, although Vulk maintained time travel was impossible. Still, how could they be sure?

The second attempt to shift the Paths of Gheas at first seemed no more promising than the previous, until Erol stepped through the fourth portal. He was gone longer than usual, and Devrik and Vulk were preparing to follow him, when he stepped back through.

“I think this one might be our best bet yet,” he said. “It’s early evening, so it should be on the same side of the world as us. The stars are familiar, but seem shifted – I’d say it’s significantly south of home, but not in the southern hemisphere. And it is grassland as far as the eye can see. There’s an encampment maybe two kilometers away, on a slight rise, I could see their campfires.”

“That sounds like if could be the great steppes called the Sun Plains that lie along the southern reaches of Ysgareth,” Mariala said, a hint of optimism in her tone. Erol nodded in agreement. “The Sea of Storms lies to the south, the Hellstorch Mountains to the west, Tur Kovan to the east… and the Garlini horsemen could be a problem… but depending on exactly where this portal is, civilization could be only 100 leagues away, maybe less!”

“Assuming this is really the Sun Plains,” Devrik frowned. “How can we be sure? And what risks are we willing to take to get home?”

And so the debate began…

It was a lovely early spring day when the Hand set out from Zhuran, the sixth such day in a row the region had enjoyed. But pleasant as that was after the harsh winter, the resultant thawing had left the kingdom’s roads a muddy, gluey mess. The main road south was no exception, and they made poor time as a result – despite setting out an hour before noon, it was well after dark before the group arrived in the town of Ondazel, 25 km away.

Dor Ondazel was the keep long charged with guarding the southern approaches to the capital, and possessed of some of the best-maintained fortifications in the kingdom. For three years prior to his coup, it had been held by Crown Prince Laravad as Constable, a post his father had hoped would steady and calm his increasingly wild and erratic son. But Laravad had become, if anything, even more unstable, eventually using the keep as the focal point of his plot against his father, replacing the veteran soldiers of its garrison with his own creatures.

Now the keep was back in King Balen’s hands, the traitorous younger knights and mercenary soldiers rooted out and a new Constable assigned to oversee the rebuilding of the garrison. Ser Barot Atlar, a Knight of Tanar and married to a distant cousin of the king, greeted the Hand with courtesy and a hot meal. He had remained loyal to the king during the usurpation, leading a group of men and women in a guerrilla campaign from the nearby Verduth Woods. During the meal he was happy to tell his guests all he knew of the area and of the former prince’s infamous hunting lodge.

“Hart’s Lodge was by far Laravad’s favorite place,” he said as a servant passed around the table pouring the port that ended the meal. “He visited it every month for years, in hunting season or out… for all his passion for the hunt, it was passing strange, I always thought. Even as his madness grew, and his plots were set in motion, he always found time to visit for at least a day or two, and often held meetings there with his chief lieutenants.

“In fact, I and my little band of merry loyalists had some thought of ambushing and seizing the traitor on one of these visits – they were almost like clockwork, which made the prospect very tempting. But once his coup had succeeded, he never travelled without a large and well-armed party of his mercenaries and suborned knights around him. So close to the edges of the Porgos Marsh there is little high land or natural ambush points, and the one attempt we made proved futile when the usurper’s party took an unexpected detour… almost as if they anticipated us.

“Well, we never had a chance to make a second attempt, thanks to your timely intervention this past Kristala Va,” he raised his glass in salute. “Since then, the lodge has remained empty and abandoned… I can’t imagine His Majesty, nor the Crown Princess, has any desire to make use of the place, and I suspect it will be allowed to fall into ruin. A pity for the nearby village that supported it, of course, but there’s little help for it. Frankly, that’s probably where this talk of “disappearances” comes from – folks simply recognizing the inevitable and moving on to greener pastures. The kingdom is still in such a roil, it’s a good time to make such changes I should think!”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The next morning the Hand, although having less distance to travel, nevertheless set out at an early hour, after a hearty breakfast served up by Ser Barot’s servants. By early afternoon they reached the small village that took it’s name from the royal hunting lodge, which itself lay a further two kilometers into the forest. Almost immediately it was obvious that something was terribly wrong.

The village consisted of more than 30 buildings, mostly homes, several with business occupying the lower floor. Apple trees abounded, just beginning to bud, and it should have been a charming scene. But, while smoke drifted lazily up into the pale blue sky from many chimneys, the streets seemed abandoned. No one could be seen moving outside, no one gathered at the well in the center of the village, and no one worked the small garden plots or grazing pastures nearby. And something else… it took a moment before they realized that the usual cacophony of bird sounds, ever-present in the countryside, was entirely missing.

The uncanny feeling was only deepened when the group, entering the village proper, was assaulted by the stomach-turning stench of rotting flesh. The sudden fear that the villagers had all been murdered was eased, if not completely erased, by the sight of mutilated and gore-covered corpses of sheep and pigs all around – in pens and yards, some in the very streets. Covering their mouths and noses with scarves or handkerchiefs, they paused in the village common, near the common well, to ponder their next move.

Furtive eyes peered out at them from between slats of closed shutters in the upper windows of a few houses, and eventually Vulk sent Jeb to go knock on the door of one such. His first knock elicited no response from within. He knocked again, more forcefully, and called out “Halloo the house! Is any one home? We are–”

“Go away!” screamed a frightened male voice suddenly. “Leave us alone, for the love of Alea!”

“Please, don’t hurt our children!” sobbed another voice, female, followed by the muffled crying of at least a couple of children. Jeb was taken aback by this response, and took several involuntary steps back, looking over at Vulk in puzzlement.

Not inclined to force their way into the obviously terrified peasant’s home, Mariala instead reached out with her arcane senses, heightened by casting Deana’s Perception. She almost reeled from the resulting wash of horror, fear and overwhelming terror that flowed over her. Staggering back a step herself, she quickly ended the spell.

“Dear Shala, these people are deeply, deeply afraid,” she told the others, rubbing her temples. “It’s not clear what has traumatized them so… not exactly… but clearly our presence is exacerbating it.”

The party decided to head the rest of the way through the settlement, to see if they could find anyone out or at least figure out which home was the village reeve’s, the man who’d sent the requests for help. As they left the common and turned south on the largest of the village’s five roads, they finally caught their first sight of someone actually out-of-doors.

At the end of the road a man had his back to them, apparently intent on carving something into the wall of one of the larger houses in the settlement. A common peasant by his clothes, the man seemed oblivious to their approach, muttering unintelligibly to himself, until they were about 5 meters away. Devrik cleared his throat to speak, and the man whirled around with a snarl. Everyone froze in horror.

The left side of the man’s face was a pustulant mass of slimy green scar tissue, out of which erupted half a dozen writhing tentacles of various sizes. His left eye was missing, the socket filled with a gelatinous blue substance,  and within its depths a shadowy shape appeared to be… swimming. But more ghastly than his face was his right arm. The hand had been severed and the flesh of the forearm stripped entirely away, its bones sharpened into vicious double points. Bloody rags encircled the upper arm, where the flesh remained, and the smell of putrefaction was strong.

He appeared to have been using the sharpened bone ends to carve mysterious glyphs into the plaster wall of the house.

His one good eye glared at them, ringed in bloodshot white, the pupil fully dilated. Movements jerky, almost spastic, he lunged forward, bone arm extended, shrieking in a voice like finger nails on slate “Sacrifices for the Dol’Gurthog!”

Devrik drew his battlesword, Erol and Toran drew arrow and bolt, Korwin reached for his cutlass, and the others began to prepare spells – but it was Vulk who acted first. Leveling his staff at the lumbering figure he spoke a low word. The green resin ovoid at its head flared and glowing white strands of writhing energy erupted from it.

The Weaver’s Web spell engulfed the gibbering creature (Vulk could hardly think of it as a man), the countless ends of its milky strands attaching to the walls of the house. In seconds the man was ensnared in a glowing web of energy, immobilized completely, despite his thrashing and shrieking, in the “L” formed by the two wings of the house.

The Hand stared at the struggling thing and at one another. For a moment, no one spoke. Even the strongest of them felt a queasy, unpleasant roiling in the gut and the shivering goose-flesh of fear on their skin.

“I don’t recognize this script,” Mariala said at last, trying to shake off the feeling of creeping dread that was nibbling at the edges of her mind. Keeping a safe distance from the ensnared… individual… she peered at his unfinished carving.

“Maybe…” she cast a spell of understanding, but while the sounds the symbols represented swam clear to her mind’s ear, no meaning followed. Gibberish it might be, but her feeling of unease grew stronger the more she studied the jagged symbols… Erol, trying his own arcane methods of translation, had the same result. They both desisted quickly, looking at one another in consternation.

As they tried to explain to the others what they’d felt there came a series of answering calls to their prisoner’s continuing shrieks. The responding cries came from the woods beyond the village, and in moments several more cultists were rushing at the group from three directions.

Vulk immediately slipped into his link with Cherdon, the falcon already aloft and surveying the scene from above.  His attention was immediately drawn to the nearest threat, two men to the west moving from the woods into the narrow lane between two houses.

One man was equally as disfigured and brutalized as their first acquaintance, if in a different fashion – while he had his hand, the flesh on all his fingers had been stripped away and the bones sharpened to lethal claws. He had a chain around his neck, the other end of which was looped around the wrist of the other man. This fellow was somewhat better dressed, in robes of dark red and brown – although they were filthy with dirt and dried gore. There was no way to tell if his face, too, was disfigured, as it was covered by a crudely carved and painted frog mask. A necklace made of frog skeletons haphazardly woven together rattled at his neck, and the hand not holding the chain/leash appeared to be a single, massive tentacle.

“Therok!” Vulk called urgently but quietly to his barbarian follower. “Go up over that roof and come down on the other side… two of these… men… are moving up between the houses. Get behind them and attack!”

The Firilani warrior nodded his acknowledgment, and with feline grace leapt atop the stack of barrels against the side of the house, and from there to the roof. In a moment he had scrambled up the shakes and vanished beyond the peak.

Erol, meanwhile, had moved to engage the first of the new arrivals as they stepped into the road – another disfigured, tentacle-faced monstrosity brandishing a flail. The weapon was made of bone and wood, its head a small human skull and the leather strands of the whips knotted with human teeth. When the madman opened his mouth to shriek “Sacrifices! Flesh for His spawn!” it became obvious where the teeth had come from.

Erol’s thrust his trident forward, taking the rushing figure in the chest, and bright red arterial blood gushed from both the savage wound and the man’s toothless mouth. Unfortunately, even as the man collapsed with a wet, gurgling death rattle, the flail whipped out and dug into Erol’s leg, just below the leather of his hauberk and above the plate of his kneecop. The leg gave out and he went down, teeth clenched in pain.

Toran, alerted by Cherdon through Vulk, was prepared for the frog-masked, dark-robed zealot that lurched out of the alley northwest of the group. The Khundari Shadow Warrior swung his battle-axe in a horizontal arc that should have intersected with the cultist’s chest – but with a speed and finesse that astonished the Dwarf the man brought up his brown-stained bone sword and turned the blade. In the return motion he attempted to slash Toran’s face, but the hero leaned back, easily avoiding the counterattack.

Mariala had, for a moment, wrestled with getting her cross-bow from where it hung down her back, cursing herself for not preparing it as soon as they’d entered the eerie village. But as another disfigured horror staggered into the roadway near her she gave up and grabbed one of her throwing knives from its wrist sheath. The black-bladed taburi flew out and buried itself deep into the creature’s chest. It collapsed, gurgled wetly, twitched twice… and died.

Once he had sent Therok off and warned the others of what was coming, Vulk immediately turned to prayer, silently chanting the ritual of Kasira’s Smile to bring down the Immortal Lady of Luck’s blessing on his friend Devrik. The fire mage felt the subtle tingling that he had come to associate with the blessing of the goddess, and his sword flamed to life at his murmured  summoning.

Haplo’s Karmic Missiles missed their intended target, but Korwin’s Ice Needle took the same cultist in the thorax, and the man collapsed, shrieking and grasping ineffectually at the spike of ice protruding from his chest. As the cultist collapsed Haplo rushed over to join Toran’s fight, while a pained grunt and the sound of flesh and bone striking wood drew the others’ attention to the wide alley to the west…

Therok had scuttled quickly across the roof of the house to the north, and dropped down behind the two cultists, as per Vulk’s instructions. Unfortunately, the element of surprise he’d expected to enjoy didn’t materialize – before he could do more than bring his sword up the dark-robed man whirled on him, his tentacle-arm whipping out with blinding speed. It slammed into the barbarian’s chest, sending him flying sideways almost two meters to crash into the wall of the house whose roof he’d just traversed.

With a grunt, as ribs broke and his skull slammed into the wall, Therok crumpled to the ground, unconscious and bleeding from nose and mouth. His demented attacker loomed over him, raising a bone sword in his scarred but human-looking right hand to deliver the killing blow. The cultist’s twisted features relaxed into a look of bewildered surprise, however, as three sharp tines of metal suddenly erupted from his chest. His own blood gushed forth as his eyes rolled upward and he collapsed bonelessly at the feet of his would-be victim.

Erol, levering himself up on his wounded leg, had seen the attack on his friend’s bodyguard, and knew no one was in a position to reach the fallen man in time. Instinctively he’d whipped his trident back and hurled it with all his strength and skill, taking the thing full in the back. The deformed creature it had held on the chain, suddenly freed from control, rushed headlong at Erol then, stripped-to-the-bone finger tips clawing for his face. The fighter drew his gladius just in time for the shrieking thing to impale itself on the blade.

Meanwhile, Toran and Haplo between them finally managed to put down the Rasputin-like cultist they faced, who simply would not die. Even after Haplo almost severed his hand, the raving madman merely passed out… but at that point even his stamina couldn’t survive a battle axe to the neck, as Toran was happy to demonstrate.

Mariala hit the last attacking cultist with a second thrown taburi, burying the blade in its shoulder. Devrik followed up with his flaming blade, nearly severing the man’s arm and then leaving him to bleed out in the dirt.

While Vulk rushed to tend to Therok’s near-fatal injuries, Erol pulled his own vial of Baylorium-7 from around his neck and dosed his injured knee. In a matter of minutes the gash had begun to knit together, and by the time he joined the others gathered around the one crazed villager who was still alive and conscious, struggling in Vulk’s webs, only a slight ache and a thin pale line remained.

During the sharp, brief fight, the demented cultist had been hacking at the bands of white energy that restrained him with his mutilated blade-like forearm, and several of the strands had actually parted. Thinking to put a stop to that before they tried to question the prisoner, Devrik whipped his sword up in a sudden slash that severed the man’s arm at the elbow.  Unfortunately, the blade was still flaming with Goraten’s Brand, and the magical webs turned out to be highly flammable…

As the writhing creature became engulfed in flames, its shrieks quickly tapered off along with its struggles, and Mariala pinched the bridge of her nose, casting a baleful glance at her old friend.

“It would have been nice to have at least one of these… things… alive to question,” she sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. “I hope you’re not planning on burn down the whole village – again.”

“No, it’s not my intention,” Devrik growled, returning the glare. “How was I to know the damn webs were so flammable.” He focused his pyrokinesis on the burning corpse, now collapsed to the ground as the last of the magical webbing vanished into smoke, and then reversed the usual flow of his power… the flames flickered out quickly and only the smell of seared flesh remained. The usual nauseating-appetizing pork-like smell of burned human flesh was underlain by a disturbing stench of fetid rot.

“This one’s still alive,” Erol said diffidently, gesturing to the leashed creature that had spitted itself on his short sword. But even as the others turned to look, the body gave a last shudder, a rattling sound escaped its throat, and it settled into the unmistakable stillness of death. Mariala sighed again, but before she could say anything further a sudden sharp crack caused everyone to wheel back around to the first body.

To the group’s horror, the burned cultist’s head was bulging grotesquely at the base of the skull. The corpse began to jerk and shudder as the bone cracked again, the bulge expanding… and then suddenly the whole back of the former villager’s head exploded outwards in a spray of bone, blood and brains. From the gaping hole a slimy shape lurched out into the pale sunlight, and everyone took one horrified step backward.

The creature was slightly smaller than an average bullfrog, to which it bore a passing resemblance – save for the shiny green-black skin visible through the blood and brain matter dripping off it, the four small tendrils waving from its head, and the dark, empty sockets where its eyes should have been.

It turned its blind gaze toward the group and as one Devrik, Erol, Toran and a still shaky but revived Therok all raised their weapons, while Mariala, Korwin and Haplo each began to gather energy for various spells. Jeb whipped an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bow as Vulk aimed his staff, prepared to unleash–

“Stop!” a quavering voice called out, as the door to the house before which all the action had taken place suddenly flew open. “Don’t kill it, for the love of the Immortals, don’t kill it!”

As the Hand stared in surprise, a short, round-bellied man of late-middle years dashed out of the doorway, a large metal wash basin clutched in his pudgy hands. Sidling skittishly around the smoking corpse on his doorstep, he bent down and slapped the container over the unresisting frog-thing. With a relieved sigh he stood up straight and smiled tentatively at the group.

“We need it alive, you see,” he said, as if continuing a conversation. “So that you can defeat the beast. It – it–” At their blank stares he stuttered to a stop and looked momentarily doubtful. “That is, assuming… I mean, you are here to kill the Dol’Gurthog… aren’t you?”

“What in the Void is a ‘Doll Girth Hog,’ and who the Void are you?” Haplo demanded. “And what the Void is going on in this cursed village?!”

The man looked momentarily taken aback, but he quickly gathered his obviously frayed nerves and made a slight bow, first toward the silver-haired illusionist and then to the group as a whole. “My name is Hal Neelow, sir, and I am the Reeve of Hart’s Lodge Village. As for what is going on here, and the Dol’Gurthog… well, those are much related, I’m afraid…”

The nervous little man then explained to the Hand as much as he could. The village had been under siege from these horrifying cultists for two months now – most of whom were actually former villagers. He assured the party that his fellow citizens, all of whom he’s know his whole life, would never harm a fly – but after the first cultists appeared, strangers to the village, people began wandering off into the woods, seemingly in a daze… and coming back as savage monsters who can no longer even be called human, as they’d just witnessed.

After a few days the missing villagers first began to return, and if they seemed a bit ‘off,’ they weren’t actually mad – not slicing-off-their-own-hands mad, anyway. In the beginning they just tried to recruit others to come with them, talking of enlightenment and joy. A few villagers actually followed them back into the woods. Later they, too, returned, if anything even more violent. Their minds apparently were deteriorating over time, withering away, breaking down what control they once possessed. Eventually they began demanding that more townsfolk go with them, or the entire village would face the consequences.

The people of Hart’s Lodge fought back that first time the demand was made… Five men were left dead and another four were dragged off into the forest. Reeve Neelow pointed to the man with bone claws, the chain leash still around his neck.

“That’s one of them that was taken in the first attack – Jerama Merrol. So now the people of the town are too terrified to fight… I sent off messengers to the Chancellory, begging for soldiers to come to our aid.

“And the next day the Learned Rythek, a master of the arcane arts who makes his home amongst us, followed the cultists into the woods, determined to confront the evil at its source. For all that he was a mere hedge-wizard, he was quite strong, especially with fire.” He gave a sidewise glance at Devrik, whose flaming sword had been re-sheathed after the Reeve had begun his tale. “But there’s been no word from him since.”

“A tenday past two of the King’s (may the All preserve him) men-at-arms arrived, and they went off into the woods as well. They were quite big, strapping fellows, and very sure they could handle some ‘damn frog worshippers,’ as they said… but we’ve not heard from them again, either.”

“So what exactly is this Dol’Gurthog,” Devrik asked impatiently. “Have you actually seen it?”

“Well, no, not myself,” Neelow replied, “but others have described it… A frog the size of a wagon with nothing but empty sockets where there should be eyes. Four massive tentacles extending out of its back, lashing out wildly for meters around it, and spikes of bone running down the length of its spine. A beast of nightmare, it seems to me… but those besotted by it seem to think it is glorious and the source of all bounty and goodness.”

“So, essentially a larger version of the frog-thing you’ve trapped under your wash basin,” Mariala stated, glancing dubiously at said kitchen implement. “Why is it so important that we not kill the creature?”

“Because I’ve seen this happen before,” the reeve replied. “One of them emerging from the head of a cultist and all. That um, frog, hopped off into the forest, going back to its progenitor I believe. If you were to follow the creature, it should lead you to the very root of this evil…” He paused again, doubt and desperation warring on his round face.

“You are agents of the King, are you not?” he asked again, almost pleading. “Sent to succor us in this terrible time, in response to my second messenger?”

“Yes, yes,” Vulk assured him gently. “We are indeed sent by the King and his advisors to sort all this out. Have no fear, the Hand is here.”

♦ ♦ ♦

It was eventually decided that the village reeve’s plan was, in fact, the best they could come up with under the circumstances, lacking any actual living cultists to act as guide. No further deranged people emerged from the woods, so following the baby frog-thing it would be.

Reeve Neelow having retreated to the relative safety of his home after securing the groups horses in his stable, Erol lifted the sieve off the creature, which had remained silently unperturbed by its brief imprisonment, and the Hand stared down at it expectantly. The thing seemed to have almost doubled in size during its brief captivity, which was disturbing in and of itself.

After a moment of staring sightlessly back at its liberators, the frog-thing gave a deep croak and suddenly leaped forward, heading down the road toward the wood’s edge.

“Maybe we should put a… a harness, or something, on it,” Erol suggested, and reached down to pick the creature up before it could get too far away. But Haplo put a restraining hand on his arm.

“I wouldn’t touch that thing with a bare hand,” he said, frowning. ” Some frogs can secrete toxins through their skin, I’ve heard, and given what we know about this little monster… well, I shouldn’t think it worth the risk.”

“I agree,” said Mariala. “Given the rate it seems to be growing, I’m not sure we could keep a harness on it anyway. Besides, it’s not moving that fast, we shouldn’t have any trouble keeping up with it.”

She proved correct, and the frog-thing seemed to be perfectly happy to follow the rutted track that led westward into the woods, in the general direction of the royal hunting lodge – which meant the Hand didn’t have to scramble through the underbrush to follow it. The creature seemed to have no trouble avoiding any obstacles in its path, despite its lack of eyes, and occasionally the tendrils atop its head would lash out at insects, pulling them into its mouth to be devoured.

Despite the pleasant spring day, the woods were gloomy and nerve-wracking… shadows seemed to stretch longer than they should, and to be deeper, the flowers in the understory smelled foul rather than sweet, and not a single woodland creature was anywhere to been seen. Like the village, no sound of birdsong could be heard, and the silence was both eerie and unnerving. Cherdon, flying low over their heads, was the only other thing moving.

After some 15 minutes of steady travel the unnatural monstrosity had again almost doubled in size, and its leaps were becoming longer… though its pursuers had no trouble keeping up. It continued with a swift and confident determination, and as they all moved deeper into the woods the party began noticing disturbing things… strips of human flesh nailed to trees with spikes of bone… remnants of scattered fire pits, visible off the path, appeared to contain scorched bones, both animal and human… and at last some birds. But these sat in the trees, unmoving, eyeless, and giving out low sounds of anguish rather than pleasant chirps – the sound seemed almost taunting.

Another ten minutes brought them all to a fork in the road. The main path bent sharply to the left, while a narrower and partially overgrown track led straight on. The frog-thing took the narrower path, but as they came to the bend the party was stopped by sudden movement to their left.

Ten meters down the main road two cultists were hunched over the carcass of an enormous elk laid out in the roadway. One man had a needle and thread and the other held a vicious looking bone saw. The cultists turned to stare at the group as they came into view, and both dropped their tools to draw weapons. One grabbed an executioner’s axe while the other took up a sort of club with rib bones shoved through the wood, forming sharp spikes.

With a staggering, bucking motion the dead deer stood up as well.

The horrifying monstrosity stood over two meters tall at the shoulder. An open wound in its side revealed where some ribs had been removed – apparently the same ribs now sewn along its back to form a set of curving spikes. Its antlers were sharpened to jagged points and its eyes, while still intact, appeared to be bleeding. There were distinct wounds and stitches around the deer’s back legs… almost as if they had been hacked off and then hastily reattached. The revenant corpse was partially covered in a dark-blue slimy substance, and even at this distance the smell was strong, and foul.

With inarticulate shouts, the taxidermist cultists raised their weapons and rushed the party, their undead class project lumbering behind. Before they had moved more than a couple of meters, however, Erol had loosed a single shaft from his longbow. It plunged deep into the monstrous elk’s chest and through the heart it apparently still had… and needed. The beast crashed down with an impact that everyone felt in their feet and lay there, its legs twitching spasmodically.

At the same time that Erol was letting the grey goose fly Mariala and Haplo were unleashing their own arcane attacks. As the undead elk crashed to the ground behind them the two cultists were struck almost simultaneously by Fire Nerves and Mokel’s Karmic Missiles. Their jerking spasms and shrieks of pain caused by the first spell were almost instantly stilled as the invisible bolts of the second slammed into them. They fell like puppets with their strings cut.

It was all over so quickly that Vulk, who had continued to follow the baby frog-spawn, and Devrik, who had followed Vulk to keep him safe, were still in sight down the narrower track. After a desultory search of the dead cultists, which yielded nothing more interesting than a few coins and a crude sketchbook, the others hurried to catch up.

Mariala and Korwin studied the sketchbook, and passed it on to the others as they continued deeper in to the increasingly wrong-feeling woods. The pictures in the book were all charcoal renderings of a monstrous frog, with empty eye sockets, clawed feet, and waving tendrils snaking from its head. In the early pages the drawings were actually quite good, but as they progressed the images became cruder, more simplistic. The last sketch was so abstract that it could be construed as the Dol’Gurthog only by context.

Looking though the book only deepened the oppressive disquiet everyone felt as they moved deeper into the woods. No one objected when Korwin pocketed the book after everyone had seen it. What the Void, he thought, maybe he could publish it back in the Empire, perhaps as illustrations to his recounting of this adventure… suitably edited, of course… this sort of macabre shit sold big back home, in certain circles.

♦ ♦ ♦

Another half hour of steady walking at last brought the Hand to what seemed to be their destination – a massive cavern entrance set into a low, treeless hill that rose like an island from the forest. Stalagmites and stalactites lined the mouth of the cave, giving it the appearance of a snarling maw. The skeletons of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of frogs littered the ground in front of the opening.

Their own amphibious guide hopped toward the entrance without slowing, and vanished within.

“Maybe we should’ve killed that thing before it went in,” Erol muttered, but it was already too late, and none of his companions replied.

As they approached the entrance themselves, the group stopped suddenly in their tracks, almost as one. A delightful smell wafted out of the cave, making all of their salivary glands suddenly start working overtime. The odor was utterly alluring, yet impossible to identify precisely… it seemed to hit all the pleasure centers in the brain, evoking memories of baking cookies at Grandmother’s, holiday roasts turning on the spit, savory mushrooms fresh from the farming caves, brillberry wine fermenting in the cellar, clams hot from the coals… it smelled like all of these things and like none of them.

Half entranced by the smell, the group stepped into the cavern, where the same blue slime they’d seen on the cultists in the village and on the zombie elk in the woods coated the walls, flowing down as if oozing from the very stone. It seemed to be the source of the magnificent smell, and the urge to run a hand through it and then lick it off one’s fingers was almost irresistible. Almost.

It looks more like blueberry jam, Mariala thought. Just like old Nan used to make when I was a child. She’d baked it into the most delectable tarts… Mariala could smell them baking right now, in fact, and she longed for that innocent, beloved taste of childhood… she reached out for the wall and the beautiful blue jam…

Devrik was torn from his own reverie, of roasting venison and the sour cherry reduction that had covered it each Höl Kopia before he’d been sent off to the chantry, by the sight of his friend reaching out to touch the dripping slime. He hastily grabbed her wrist, pulling her back and speaking her name sharply. For a moment she stared at him, her eyes blank and glassy, then she frowned and shook her head.

“I’m… alright,” she said, pulling her arm from his grip and shaking her head as if to clear it. “By Shala, I really was going to eat that! Ugh!” She looked slightly green and she shuddered. While it still smelled wonderful, the spell was broken and she no longer had any desire to put the stuff in her mouth!

“Thank you Devrik,” she said, patting her companion on the shoulder. “That could have been… unpleasant.”

“No problem,” Devrik rumbled. “And I think we all need to keep an eye out for each other, and not just for enemies… pair up and make sure your buddy doesn’t try to taste that crap. Whatever it smells like, there’s no way it leads to anything good!”

Everyone agreed, with the exception of Haplo, who, a look of fascinated anticipation on his face, was reaching out to run his own finger though the goo even as Devrik spoke. Fortunately, Korwin was close enough to stop him before he could succeed, and after a sharp shake Haplo, too, snapped out of his trance and felt the urge to eat the horrible stuff subside. Despite the lingering scent of positive-reinforcement-memories in the air, no one else seemed terribly tempted to lick the walls after that.

The group continued cautiously into the cave. The initial cave, beyond the opening,  was over seven meters wide. Painted on the walls beyond the blue slime were various depictions of the monstrous Dol’Gurthog, primarily in white paint. But the void where the being’s eyes should be used some darker pigment… dried blood, as it turned out on closer examination.

The cave narrowed quickly as it led further into the hill, and downward. Rarely more than two meters wide, the descending pathway wound lazily and was lit by flickering torches mounted periodically along the walls. Whispers seemed to echo around them, with no distinguishable origin.

More of the strange blue slime began to appear, coating the walls in wide patches. Fortunately, the appetizing smell was no more compelling than it was near the surface and the urge to consume it was no longer strong. After traveling down a narrow path for a score of meters the way turned into a series of winding natural stairs which opened up into a large, roughly “L” shaped chamber.

In the center of this area, between four slender pillars topped with carved frog capitals, sat an enormous, if crudely realized, statue of the Dol’Gurthog. While not well crafted, the emotion that the artist was attempting to capture was clear – madness, deep and utter. Aside from the feelings it evoked, the most notable part of the statue were the two massive jet gemstones  set into the empty eye sockets.

Around the walls of the space the party noticed furtive movements in the shifting shadows cast by the few torches that lit the area. This quickly resolved into 30 or more large albino squirrels, scattered about the space and eating from various pools of the blue slime that formed near the walls. They seemed calm and docile, and some ran across the floor, large red eyes faintly glowing in the torchlight, as they curiously examined the visitors.

As the group made no hostile move, a few of the small creatures came hesitantly forward, sniffing warily at their clothes. One ran up Jeb’s leg and torso to perch on his shoulder, and began examining his hair. The youth was clearly freaked out, but before he could decide what to do Therok had stepped up and plucked the squirrel from him. He set it chitttering on the floor, and it ran off to join a knot of companions.

“If one of those things tries to climb up me, I’m Fire Nerving the lot of them!” Mariala said nervously, eyeing the milling crowd of subterranean rodents. While not mice or rats, the albino squirrels were close enough to set her musophobia to a hair trigger. Keeping a wary eye on the creatures, she made sure her back was to an empty section of wall.

Toran began examining the walls of the cavern, eventually coming to a bronze-bound door of black ironwood at the bottom a narrow sloped passage. The door was locked, with only a smallish hole in the center of the panel, and neither his lock-picking skills nor his magic key had any luck opening it. Half a dozen of the albino squirrels gathered around him to watch his attempts with apparent fascination.

Korwin scouted out the exit to the north and east, going only few steps down the narrow passage before retuning to the statue chamber, while Devrik, suppressing disturbing memories of Taloxta going for his eyes in another cavern, moved to examine the statue. As he did so, he noticed that the alluring smell was hardly noticeable any more… indeed, he had to strain to smell anything besides musty, wet stone.

Must have finally gotten used to it, he thought as, keeping a wary eye on his furry audience, he cast Goraten’s Brand, lighting up his battle sword with comforting yellow flames. As he examined the crude statue in the better light of his flaming weapon, he realized that a new smell was making itself noticed – a foul smell, as of putrefying flesh and rotting vegetation. As the stench grew, his tension ratcheted upwards, and he felt suddenly uneasy and angry… had his flames caused this terrible smell? Was it coming from the statue?

He poked experimentally at the ugly sculpture with the tip of his sword – and as if that were some sort of signal, every squirrel in the room suddenly burst into frenzied action. With a mad chittering they attacked whomever was nearest, running up clothes, leaping from niches in the wall, biting and clawing at exposed skin.

For a moment it seemed that sheer surprise would allow the swarming rodents to overrun the group, but the tide was quickly turned. True to her word, with a shriek of fear-fueled rage Mariala sent a wave of Fire Nerve energy fanning out across half the room and eleven of the attacking rodents fell writhing in agony to the stone floor. She kicked and stomped the ones nearest her to bloody pulp, and plucked one surviving creature from her hair to fling it across the chamber in disgust.

Therok and Jeb, having been more-or-less out of the initial attack by being still on the stairs, rushed down and began dispatching the writhing, chittering victims of the Fire Nerve spell, and then stomping or spitting any others that came near.

Erol, having dropped his trident when several of the albino vermin had sunk their teeth into his wrist, took to pulling them off himself and smashing them against the nearest wall. He also followed Mariala’s lead and began stomping the ones underfoot into paste until he could retrieve his trident, at which point it became a game of spit-and-hurl.

Vulk attempted to invoke Kasira’s Smile, but whatever foul power held sway in this place seemed to block his access to the Lady’s blessing. With a grimace he began to lay about him with his staff, sending vermin flying with each blow, breaking legs, backs and skulls.

Toran cast Fist of Kuhan on himself, and as his arms began to harden into mace-like strength and durability he merrily worked his way back up from the locked door to the main chamber, smashing albino squirrels right and left as he went.

Korwin’s hastily summoned Frost Blade allowed him to slay several of the insanely attacking vermin, and kept the rest of them at bay while Haplo’s invisible karmic arrows impaled three of the hoard. Both men stomped a few more into ruin for good measure.

Most of the remaining albino squirrels were incinerated by Devrik’s Orb of Voral, and as their smoldering corpses twitched on the smoking stone of the floor, the few survivors skittered away into the shadows.

The brief Battle of the Squirrel Temple had lasted less than a minute, but it left the group shaken and on edge, their nerves frayed and tempers short. Matters weren’t made better by the overpowering stench that now filled the air. While no longer getting stronger, the miasma showed no sign of abating, either.

Mariala attempted to cast Feel on both the statue and the door, but achieved little more than a pounding headache and the sense of powerful, chaotic, almost alien magic permeating everything around them. Unable to open the locked door, the group continued on through the northern exit.

Another 15 minutes passed as they moved slowly through the dimly lit, twisting passages, and as they did the stench began to slowly fade. The removal of the horrible odor lifted everyone’s spirits just by its absence, and by the time they arrived at a curtained doorway the pleasant smell of all things delicious had begun to fill the air again. As they pushed through into the chamber beyond, everyone was feeling optimistic and upbeat.

The new chamber appeared to be a living area. A rotting bed, with a nightstand nearby and a small chest at its foot lay at one end of the room. On the nightstand was a candle and a small green dragon statue. Closer to hand a pile of mostly decayed scrolls was visible on and around a battered desk – at least twenty scrolls in total – and uncomfortable-looking chair.  A moldering deer-skin rug lay in the center of the room and scraps of cloth were scattered around the room.

But what immediately caught their attention, just to the right of the entrance, was a man sitting against the wall and gazing up at the ceiling as if it were a night sky filled with stars, or perhaps a fireworks display. Dressed in soiled but still serviceable robes he possessed a long, grey beard and gnarled hands. He didn’t appear to be sliced up or otherwise mutilated like so many of the other cultists they’d encountered… but there was a madness, nevertheless, behind his gaze.

Stepping forward Toran, his battle-axe lowered but at the ready, cleared his throat. The man’s head snapped down and whipped to the left, his bloodshot eyes going wide as he stared at the party as if they were phantasms.

“Guests!” he gasped out suddenly… and in apparent delight, a smile lighting his face. “Here to see the Master, no doubt?” he asked, using a gnarled staff that had been leaning against the wall next to him to lever himself stiffly to his feet. “You have heard His call and seek to give yourself into His embrace, yes?”

The man was clearly mad, but it seemed a very manic sort of insanity, and his enthusiasm was almost disarming. Compared to the other cultists they’d met so far, he seemed almost normal, if a trifle eccentric. He stared expectantly at the group, his gaze moving hopefully from face to face.

Small flames flickered occasionally between the fingers of his right hand, something he seemed completely unconscious of, like a deeply ingrained habit…

“Er, yes,” Vulk said, stepping forward, his own magnificent staff held slightly forward. “We have indeed heard a call, and have come here to learn what it means… who is your Master, and who are you?”

“Oh, I am the Keymaster,” the old man chuckled as if at a great joke. “Yes, or the Keyholder… though some still call me Rythek, my name from before my Enlightenment and being granted my holy task…”

At which point he pulled a small book from his robes, one that seemed to be bound in leather made from human flesh, and reading from it went off on a rant about his deep love for the Dol’Gurthog and his “god’s” unsurpassed magnificence. Eventually, however, Vulk was able to bring him back around to the whole Keymaster/Keyholder subject.

“Ah, well, you see…” he began, tucking away his horrid book in the folds of his robe. “There is a special key to open the Inner Sanctum, allowing entry into the Holy Presence itself. The Dol’Gurthog, in His infinite wisdom, has made me His Keymaster, solemnly  charged with the duty of seeing that only those worthy of His radiant presence, those able to endure his puissant power without dying, may pass within.

“To do this, He has created a puzzle of sorts… to test the strength of mind of those who would worship Him. The Dol’Gurthog wishes to have only those who are strong of mind, who will not crumble so easily before his glorious presence, come before him. This room contains all of the clues you will need to get through the door behind me.” He gestured at a closed door set in the north wall of the room. Glowing numbers appeared to be etched into its surface: 5612469 2 23015.

“Just say the password and it will open for you… then down in the pit, amongst the playful Children, you will find the key to the Inner Sanctum.” He smiled widely then, and for the first time his teeth were visible. All had been filed down to needle-like points. He gestured again, this time at the wider room, encouraging them to begin the search for clues…

The group spent some time examining everything in the room, which contained scores of items from the mundane to the arcane, including such esoterica as: a commemorative platter on the liberation of Tharkia;  an ornate Lirilalian Carnivale mask, in red and gold metallic foil over leather; a silver-plated gauntlet set with six multi-colored glass gems; a crystal punch bowl and seven small glasses; an onyx statuette of a panther; and a great many musty books.

In the end the group narrowed their focus to three items that seemed of particular interest, as they were the only three items with numbers written on them in some fashion. First, the carved jade statuette of a green dragon from the nightstand had the numbers 412 7142 scrawled on a piece of parchment glued to the underside of its base.

“Ah yes, the very inspiration for the cypher,” Rythek said with a fond sigh of reminiscence as soon as Devrik had picked it up. “Where it all began… the clever green dragon.”

The second item was the small chest, or footlocker, at the foot of Rythek’s bed. When Korwin opened it and began shifting through the odd little “treasures” within (frog skeletons, strips of human flesh, bone dice – the usual sorts of things one would expect to find, really), Rythek again spoke up. “Oh yes, my treasures, my collection of beautiful things… please make sure they remain within my treasure chest.”

As Korwin turned to stare at the demented arcanist standing at his back his eye caught the numbers scrawled in dried blood on the inside of the chest’s lid: 6151 8956. Making note of it, he gently shut the lid, leaving the “treasures” undisturbed within.

The last item was a seemingly mundane broom that Toran found in a nook after he had finished a fruitless examination the pile of rotting scrolls around the old desk. The implement seemed nothing special, and Rythek offered no musings on it when the Khundari picked it up, but the numbers 013 were etched deeply into the broom’s handle.

The Hand wrangled the problem about for awhile, and to Mariala’s chagrin it was Devrik who first realized it was a simple substitution cypher that used only the consonants, ignoring vowels altogether. To Devrik’s chagrin it was Korwin who actually decoded the password first, blurting out the phrase “strength in numbers” before the fire mage could.

Rythek looked inordinately pleased, and clapped his hands together in child-like glee as the door in the north wall popped open with an audible ‘snick’ of a bolt releasing. There seemed to be a glimmer of true happiness behind the madness in his eyes.

“Now you need only retrieve the Key, the Eye of God, from its resting place amongst His Children,” he said, flashing his sharklike smile once more and gesturing them on toward the now open door. With a communal sigh, the Hand filed through the narrow doorway…

♦ ♦ ♦

Beyond the doorway was an equally narrow stairwell that descended another six meters. At the bottom the group found themselves on a stone platform with a drop of at least another seven meters into a pit of darkness. From within the darkness the croaking of hundreds of frogs could be heard, and the slithery, wet sounds of amphibian skins rubbing together.

The darkness was utterly impenetrable, pierced by neither torchlight nor spells nor rituals. Hoping there was another way to accomplish their goal, they searched beyond the platform area, but the only other thing to be found was a small chamber to the northeast that contained thousands of squirming maggots and the hunks of rotting meat that hosted them. Even the alluring smell of the blue slime could barely counteract the stench when actually inside the chamber.

Retreating back to the pit of darkness, Korwin had the brilliant idea of trying his glowstone bullseye lantern. To everyone’s surprise, it worked, actually piercing the uncanny blackness at the bottom of the pit. It revealed a writhing mass of juvenile frog-things, much like the one they had followed into this nightmarish cave complex, crawling over one another in a shallow pool of black water. To the left a narrow, crumbling set of natural stairs led down to the pools edge.

Toran produced the Cord of Qorelia-Sym, the magic Telnori rope he carried for Vulk, and tied one end around his waist. Korwin and Erol tied the other end around themselves, and began their descent into the pit as the Dwarf cast Joining of Merkünon on himself, causing his feet to become temporarily welded fast to the stone floor.

At the bottom Korwin cast a ball of freezing energy into the center of the squirming mass of frog-things, hoping to at least slow them down, but the additional cold seemed to have little effect on them… it didn’t even freeze the water he noted with consternation.

After considering his options for a moment, Korwin heaved a sigh and slid off the last step and into the icy, calf-deep water and thigh-deep scrum of squirming amphibians. The creatures didn’t seem to react to him, and after a moment, with Erol shining the light from the lantern around, he began reaching into the mass of wriggling flesh to feel for the Key.

The light proved to be less useful than one might’ve expected, and after almost two minutes of fruitless groping amongst the frog-things even Korwin was beginning to go numb from the penetrating cold. Then his fingers brushed against something not living flesh nor rough stone – something smooth and curved. He groped back, found it again, and closed his fist around it.

Opening his fist in the beam from the lantern Korwin and Erol saw a glass sphere the size of a large plum, greenish-black with an iris of virulent yellow and a slit-like pupil of pure black flecked with gold. The Eye of God, obviously, and their key into the Inner Sanctum.

♦ ♦ ♦

Once they had dried and warmed Korwin as best they could under the circumstances the Hand had returned to Rythek’s chamber and presented him with the Key. He had merely smiled his needle-like smile at them and waved them on.

“Back to the Outer Temple,” he’d chuckled, beaming in pride at their accomplishment. “Now you can open the way, and soon you will join us and be as one in the Dol’Gurthog… if not in His heart, then at least in His belly.”

On that unnerving note, the group headed back to the site of the albino squirrel massacre and the magically locked door that had previously barred their passage. Fortunately no more of the demented rodents had yet repopulated the chamber, and they passed unmolested.

Toran took the Eye of God and inserted it into the round slot in the center of the door. With a ‘thunk’ the glass sphere dropped out of sight, and then a flurry of clicks, whirring and clanks followed. In a few seconds there was a louder ‘ker-chunk’, as of a massive bolt withdrawing, and the door swung inward.

Beyond the doorway was another narrow flight of twisting, uneven stairs. They descended steeply some eight meters, over a span of perhaps 20 meters, to open out into the largest cavern the group had yet seen in the complex. The dim light from a score of torches, spaced erratically around the wall, reflected off the black, glassy surface of a large body of dark water that filled much of the center of the space. A smaller pool of equally still, black water lay off to the left, beyond the larger lake.

On the far side of the chamber, in a large natural alcove or bay, the Hand could see a collection of tables, shelves, what looked like a rack, a large glass aquarium, and a stone basin with a large fire burning in it. Three robed and cowled figure were moving about purposefully, obviously engaged in some arcane job of work. They made no sign that they were aware of the groups entrance into the cavern.

As the group slowly made their way around the dark lake several of the adventurers noticed four largish lumps rising from the black water near its northern end. It was Vulk who realized, with a shock, that they were the dark brow ridges, and empty eye sockets, of two enormous, monstrous frogs, apparently at rest beneath the water.

“They must be two-and-a-half meters tall, if they’re to scale with those, um, eyes” he whispered to the others as he quietly pointed out the beasts. As the group moved past them the glass-like surface of the lake was disturbed by small ripples as the giant amphibious heads turned to follow their progress.

As they rounded the end of the lake one of the cultists finally noticed their approach and stepped forward to hail them. “Who are you? I don’t know your faces… what is your business here?” His voice was cracked and not a little mad-sounding, but friendly enough for all that. His eyes glinted with a feverish excitement as he stared at the newcomers, and seemed to harbor no suspicion of them.

“We are, um, new to the worship of the Dol’Gurthog,” Vulk offered. “We have been sent by Rythek, the Keymaster, to meet the Great One and become one with Him.”

“Oh, how marvelous!” the cultist exclaimed, and the other two turned briefly from their own indecipherable tasks to grunt pleased agreement. The one nearest the speaker seemed to be working with frog-things taken from the large, dirty glass aquarium, stroking them to encourage the flow of blue slime from their skin. The one nearer the blood-stained rack seemed to be working on creating bone weapons, reinforced with iron bits… a barrel full of completed such stood nearby.

“But the God is sleeping now, as you can tell… Speaker Kythel will come for you when the Great One wakes,” he smiled and gestured at the dark archway off to the group’s right. “Would you like to help with our experiments while you wait?” This time he gestured at the array of bloody instruments strewn about the surface of the scarred and stained workbench behind him.

“Um, well, perhaps another time,” Mariala temporized, and the man seemed to take it in stride. “But if you’d like to tell us about your… experiments… what, for example is that blue slime –”

“Ooooh, the Primordial Ooze!” the man gushed, his excitement doubling. “It is from the Dol’Gurthog Himself! He exudes it and He causes the very earth to put forth a form of it,  here in His womb. To consume it is to be one with Him… and with it, the world shall be reborn.

“Once we have enough gathered, the forests, the lakes, the world will all fall under the influence of the Dol’Gurthog… and we, His humble servants, have been tasked with finding ways to better utilize the Blue Mana to this end… but so many tests require live human subjects, and there are never enough…” He eyed the group speculatively, but was easily diverted by another hurried question from Haplo.

It quickly became obvious that all three men were so far gone in madness that they had lost all sense of reality. They seemed highly suggestible, and Mariala suspected they would be very easy to manipulate into doing almost anything – if they believed their “god” desired it of them…

Before she could think of a way to take advantage of this, however, she noticed that the alluring odor in the cavern had faded away, and a growing stench was quickly beginning to take its place. At the same time, Erol made a slight miscalculation, in the sudden surge of annoyance and impatience that came over him…

Noting, as had Mariala, that the cultists seemed unusually gullible, he decided to cut to the chase and probe for more information about their nasty frog-god. “So, the um, Mighty One must be quite powerful,” he began. “Is there anything He is particularly vulnerable to, that might –”

He wasn’t even able to finish the question before the faces of all three men went from vaguely idiotic friendliness to masks of full-on twisted rage. “Why would you ask about how to harm the Master?” snarled the one near the weapons barrel, reaching out to grab a nasty-looking double-edged blade of razor honed bone.

As the other two also reached for weapons as well, from behind them came the sound of water cascading. As Toran darted forward to intercept the cultist coming at him, Erol turned and whipped up his longbow, nocking an arrow and letting it fly at the nearest of the gigantic green-black frogs lurching out of the lake. But the creature took a prodigious leap, and the shaft flew under its massive form. It came down less than three meters from the party, its companion tight behind.

Toran blocked the maddened cultist’s first blow with his battle-axe, chips of bone flying as the macabre weapon met the enchanted iron of Ergonkïr. The crazed zealot, unbalanced by the block, completely failed to dodge the Khundari’s counter attack. He collapsed with an almost soundless exhalation as his intestines poured out of the gash the axe opened in his abdomen, spasmed, and was still.

Vulk had instantly aimed the Staff of Summer at the remaining cultists, and the faintly glowing strands of the entangling Weaver’s Web shot forth, enveloping both men and their workbench in a cocoon of nearly unbreakable energy, while Mariala had whirled and fired of a blast of Fire Nerves at the nearest of the giant frogs.

The creature was just opening its mouth to launch its no-doubt lethal tongue at Erol, who was scrambling to drop his bow and bring up his trident, and the blast caught it full in the face. With an enraged croak, the beast turned its blind gaze on Mariala and leaped over the gladiator, intending to come down on the woman and devour her in a single gulp.

Devrik swung his battlesword up over his head in a mighty arc which bisected that of the monstrous amphibian – the creature’s guts spilled forth, much like its human compatriot’s had moments before, and it crashed to the ground less than a meter from its target. One clawed, webbed arm reached for her, but fell limp as the beast shuddered and died.

“Thank you, my friend,” Mariala gasped, more than a little shaken by the close call. That gaping mouth rushing down on her had looked big enough to have swallowed her whole! “I don’t think –”

“Ah, I doubt I could have reached the thing if your magics hadn’t weakened it before it leapt,” Devrik shrugged and gave her a wry grin. He flicked the blood and guts of the dead frog off his blade, and they both turned to deal with the last frog.

That beast was preparing to leap into the midst of the group, but even as it left the ground Haplo gestured and gave a shout – three shimmering, almost invisible bolts of karmic energy shot forth from his hands and entered the frog in head, throat and belly. It collapsed to the ground much like its companion, although it continued to twitch until Erol drove his trident through its skull.

The web-bound cultists were trying to shriek in rage and fury at the death of the giant frogs, but their mouths were bound by the glowing strands, and little more than muffled squeaks escaped them. Ignoring them, the Hand drew together to discuss their next move… they knew where their ultimate adversary in this labyrinth lay, but how to deal with such a powerful being…

“It’s clearly a demon-spawn of some sort,” Mariala said. “And we do not have the best record with demons… I don’t think we want to loose a third demon on the world…”

“Well, technically, we only freed one demon,” Vulk argued. “Admittedly, one of the five most powerful demons in existence, but… anyway, the spider-demon was already free in the world, we just failed to banish it once we’d killed its physical form.”

“Well, that’s not a mistake I plan to repeat,” Mariala declared firmly. “Here’s what I propose…”

♦ ♦ ♦

A few minutes later, the group was ready to descend into the thick, noisome darkness of the Dol’Gurthog’s inner sanctum. Both Erol and Devrik had tried, and failed, to enflame trident and battlesword, respectively; the oppressive, cold chaos magics of the caves seemed to choke off their own power.

Toran, however, managed to cast Bladesharp on his battle-axe, giving his already powerful blade a particularly lethal edge, while Vulk spent several minutes in mediation and succeeded in gaining Virtues Armor, its faint glowing golden light providing him with the Lady’s holy protection in the upcoming fight.

In the hopes of softening up whatever waited below for them, Erol tossed one of his crystal spheres, imbued with the power of the Blast of Norinos, down the broad steps and into the darkness of the lair… but whatever uncanny blackness filled that space seemed to be too much for the light magic, and nothing occurred.

Erol then used his psionic Amplification ability to power up his companion’s defensive spells and rituals, while Korwin opened the lens on his bullseye lantern, hoping that its arcane light would again prove able to pierce the frog-demon’s arcane darkness.

And so it proved to be, the beam punching through the murk as the Hand descended the wide, rough stairs into the inner sanctum of the Dol’Gurthog, leaving Jeb and Therok above to guard their retreat.

The chamber was not as impressive as one might have expected for a supposed demon-god – maybe 30 meters wide and 15 meters deep. Its black stone walls dripped with the blue Primordial Ooze, while pulsating, bilious green masses of fungus grew in patches on the rough floor. Scattered bones, human and animal, littered the area, including an large pile of human sculls, topped by an immense giant’s skull, that formed an alter of sorts. A black-robed man stood near this structure, but his fierce glare at the intruders hardly registered, given what loomed behind him in the darkest corner.

Even after seeing all of the sketches and monuments, the Dol’Gurthog’s actual appearance was both horrifying and fearfully impressive. It stared in the group’s direction with empty eye sockets as the four large tentacles rising from its back flailed around above its head. Massive warts covered its body and a dozen horns jutted from the top of its head. Blue slime dropped from monstrosity’s flesh to form puddles on the floor around it. The eyeless stare seemed to flay the soul, and for a moment they all hesitated, caught in a grip of overpowering terror.

But with a collective shudder the companions all threw off the stultifying horror of the creature’s gaze. The Hand grit their teeth and moved forward, weapons ready, and the demonic amphibian gave out a croak that shook the chamber. As the echoes died away a thousand higher-pitched croaks answered, as from a great distance.

“His children come!” shouted the robed figure, presumably the infamous Speaker Kythel. “You shall suffer for your insolence in entering the presence of the Great One with violence in your minds!” He drew a wicked looking dagger and lunged at Vulk with a shriek.

Vulk easily blocked the attack with his broadsword, but the wiry man was limber and fast, dodging his return blow. At the same instance a tentacle whipped out from the Dol’Gurthog, sending Korwin’s lantern flying, and darkness descended like a shroud.

As the light failed Toran leapt forward to strike at the now-invisible bulk of the demon, but the attack was blocked by a tentacle that in turn sent the Khundari flying into a wall.

Mariala cast the Syncope of Shala on the monster, and for a moment it seemed to have staggered the thing. The stench that permeated the air began to fade somewhat… but then, suddenly, a tentacle flashed out of the darkness, just missing her head as she stumbled back. The stench returned in full force, and another enraged croak shook the room.

Erol shot shaft after shaft into the darkness. If the arrows hit he couldn’t be sure, but he suspected, by the sound of  wood clattering to stone, that at least some were knocked out of the air by those damn tentacles. Haplo’s karmic missiles vanished into the darkness as well, but by the squeal of rage that followed, there was little doubt they had hit.

As the others did their best to damage and distract the beast, Devrik stood still in the darkness and gathered all his arcane and mental strength. When he had found his calm center, and the heart of flame that burned there, he closed his currently useless eyes. He sensed the massive bulk of the hideous creature… there! He opened his mouth wide and with a roar unleashed the Breath of Zhone.

The cone of intense flame that blasted forth burned the darkness away and engulfed the monstrous demon frog. As the searing flames made a living bonfire of it, the Dol’Gurthog writhed and shrieked in agony and fury, tentacles lashing out at random. In the light of the burning Toran had no trouble nimbly leaping and ducking away from the flailing limbs, but Kythel, stupefied into immobility at his master’s  immolation, was struck and sent flying into a wall.

Mariala clutched the Bowl of Barsol tightly in both hands, and she felt the moment when the demonic entity that animated the mutant frog monstrosity fled its dying host. She sensed it trying to leap into Devrik. But the power of the bowl was irresistible and the arc of its trajectory, visible only in her inner eye as a streak of violet light, was bent and sucked into the bowl. It swirled ever faster, caught in an inexorable vortex that forced it to the center of the shallow concavity – and then it was gone, at least to her mind’s eye. She felt its raging presence within the artifact, however, and she smiled coldly in triumph.

“Did it work?” Vulk demanded, rushing up to her, the others close behind.

“It did,” she replied, her sharklike smile widening. “Just as planned. The demonic form is trapped in the Bowl, and once we can get it to a proper Temple sorcerer it will be cast back out into the Void.”

The group’s rather raucous response was interrupted by a sudden, heart-stopping shriek. Kythel had regained consciousness and he now knelt on the cold stone floor near the charred, smoking remains of his god, hands clutched to his head and unintelligible sounds – moans, grunts, shrieks and even less identifiable noises – poured from his writhing mouth.

As the Hand soon discovered, all of the cultists still alive in the complex were in a similar state. Their minds seemed completely gone, leaving them trapped in what seemed an unending horror they couldn’t articulate. No amount of talk could get them to respond, and mental probes only threatened to spread the madness to the prober.

The only exception seemed to be old Rythek. When they found the hedge wizard in his chamber he seemed dazed and listless, but clearly not raving mad. As Vulk tended to him he slowly came to his senses, and under gentle prodding, he answered some of their questions. It seemed that he had been kept relatively sane by the Dol-Gurthog so as to act as the demon’s interface with the human world… just as the Crown Prince Laravad had done for the previous two years.

This revelation shocked the company at first, but on reflection made perfect sense. Papers recovered from Kythel’s “office” had further fleshed out the tale – never stable, the Prince had discovered the lair of the proto-demon on a hunting foray from his lodge, while the creature was still fairly young. It had found easy purchase in his mind, and seemed to understand that their ambitions ran parallel, at least for the time being.

The Prince had fed the demon on outlaws taken by his men, travelers seized on remote roads, and eventually on his own servants and peasants. His own sanity had deteriorated, as the months went on, and whether he directed the Dol’Gurthog’s actions or the demon controlled his was unclear. But when the Prince died the demon frog was left to its own devices… and had quickly spread its influence to seek followers/victims in the nearest settlement. If not stopped, there was no telling how far its insanity and power might have spread…

Rythek eventually grew strong enough to move, and agreed to return with the Hand to the village of Hart’s Lodge.  Making their way out of the cave complex the group came across thousands of baby frog-thing corpses, which had apparently been on the way to answer their progenitor’s summons – and died with it. They trod carefully, and with great disgust, over the stinking corpses, already beginning to slough into a fetid slurry.

Once out into the relatively fresh air of the surrounding woods, the group turned to look back at the mouth-like entrance to the caverns. There was a brief discussion about how to keep innocent people from wandering into the underground shit-show, and what to do about the mindless cultists still within, but before anything could be decided Rythek took the matter into his own hands. With a look of fierce concentration, he reached out with both hands and used his apparently substantial telekinetic powers to bring down the entrance to the cavern, sealing the madness away forever…

“Works for me,” Devrik said with a shrug after the dust settled, and turned to lead the way back to civilization… and a cold beer.

Devrik was deeply skeptical of Vulk’s “plan” to seek out and recover the long lost Staff of Summer, but eventually he succumbed to the peer pressure – that, and the boredom of enforced inactivity, due to the winter weather, in a city he knew little of. The execution, by beheading, of the treasonous and arguably mad Crown Prince the day before had also left everyone unsettled, and a little action might do them good. Still, his doubts remained…

“After all,” he grumbled as they rode out of Zhuran’s South Gate two days later, “it’s not like we’re two for two in the freeing-malevolent-entities-from-their-justly-deserved-imprisonment game or anything… so what could possibly go wrong this time?”

The others, having heard it all before, said nothing and the cavalcade proceeded west into the Arnoth Highlands as quickly as the frozen, snow-covered roads allowed. Fortunately the weather was clear and dry, if very cold, and promised to hold so for at least the next fivnight, according to Korwin. And so it proved, somewhat to his companion’s surprise.

They crossed the semi-frozen Eigaril River at the Sarnik Ford on the third day out from the capital. The narrow but fast moving stream’s rocky shallows were slick with a coating of ice, which nearly brought down Haplo’s horse, rider and all. But disaster was averted, if narrowly, and the next afternoon brought the group to the small mountain hamlet of Winter’s Forge.

Nestled in a narrow alpine valley in the foothills of Mount Eigarstal, this was one of several small communities in the region that claimed to be the settlement closest to the Halls of the Winter King. Vulk, after careful study of what texts he could find, and strongly influenced by his dream-intuition (he carefully didn’t emphasis the latter point, especially to Devrik) had come to the conclusion that Winter’s Forge was the real deal.

The hamlet consisted of a half score of ramshackle buildings, the largest of which appeared to be both town hall and occasional inn. It’s two modest arms (they could hardly be called wings) encompassed the local well, and a decrepit sign depicting an ice-covered anvil swung above the main door. The Hand’s arrival was known to all the locals before they’d even managed to inquire about rooms, apparently by some species of psychic osmosis, and the main room began to fill up quickly with curious natives.

Stabling was found for the horses in various stalls or sheds around the hamlet, as were rooms for the humans, eventually – the hamlet rarely received more than three or four travelers at a time, and the Frozen Anvil had only three rooms.

“None of which are fit for a Lady,” the proprietor exclaimed, almost wringing his hands in anxiety. He was a tall, slender man of middle years, his face leathery and his sandy hair fast receding from a high forehead, who went by the name of Olberth.

“I’m sure your rooms are perfectly adequate,” said Mariala with a reassuring smile – which in no way conveyed her certainty that nothing in this miserable mountain pimple was even close to adequate. Thank Shala she’d learned that cantrip for killing vermin in her first year at chantry. “If I may have the smallest chamber, the men can share the other two rooms between them–”

This suggestion was greeted with more hand-wringing. It seemed all the rooms were small, the beds not only small but few in number, and what with the leaking roof in the owner’s own room, well… Eventually, with the help of several of the locals, it was all sorted out and the men assigned various beds in either the inn or one of three other nearby houses. No one, however, seemed willing to put forth their own home as adequate for the Lady’s (Mariala could hear the capitalization) unquestionably refined needs.

The Margrave of Greentower was about ready to put her noble foot down when an older woman, who had entered the common room in the midst of the discussion on settling the men, spoke up. “Oh for the love of Alea, the poor woman can stay with me,” she snorted in exasperation. “I don’t imagine, having ridden out to the arse-end of nowhere, she expected to find a palace. If she says she’s fine with what’s available, why must you make a fuss, Olberth?”

Clearly abashed at this rebuke, but equally clearly relieved to have the intimidating noblewoman taken off his hands, Olberth managed a few garbled words before dashing off to get Vulk, Devrik and Erol settled in their rooms. As the others were carried off by their new hosts to settle into their own accommodations the old woman offered Mariala an awkward half-curtsey, half-bow. Mariala smiled, genuinely this time, and offered her hand, introducing herself. “Mariala, and thank you so much for your hospitality.”

The old woman snorted again, but this time with a smile of her own, and took the proffered hand. Her grip was dry, firm and surprisingly warm. “Arella, pleased to meet you m’lady. And you might want to actually see the accommodations before you thank me.”

As it turned out, Arella’s home was the second largest in the hamlet, after the town hall/inn, and although worn with age it was tidy and clean. The small bedroom she installed Mariala in was both pleasant and entirely free of vermin. She had dragooned a neighbor youth to bring Mariala’s horse along, as her own small stable was, she assured her guest, drier and warmer than the shed they’d planned to house the poor beast in. “My late husband, may he be one with the All, was very insistent that the animals be properly tended to, and I’ve kept it up since his death.”

After she’d had time to clean up and rest for a bit, Arella knocked on Mariala’s door and asked if she’d be joining her friends for supper at the Frozen Anvil. “Everyone will be there, it’s unusual to get any visitors this time of year, never mind so many. It’ll be crowded, but one thing old Olberth does well is set a decent table.” The man in question had to be at least a decade younger than Arella, Mariala thought in amusement.

“Yes, I’d planned on joining my companions,” Mariala replied, reaching for her cloak. “We’re searching for some… information, and were hoping the local common room might be the best place to find it. Will you be joining the crowd?”

It turned out she was, and that she’d been right about the village turning out for the excitement of the exotic visitors. Although every seat in the common room was taken when they arrived, and people lined the walls, Mariala had no trouble finding a spot between Vulk and Devrik. Arella gave one young man near the door a look, and he quickly scrambled to his feet and offered her his seat. Patting him kindly on the cheek with an approving smile, she asked him to be a dear and fetch her a hot cider as she sat down.

The Hand shared with the room what information of the larger world they seemed interested in, telling tales of the recent battles, the narrow escape of the Crown Princess, and the restoration of the king. These remote subjects of his seemed genuinely to think well of the old man, and to be grateful that he was again ruling over them. The fate of the late Crown Prince was glossed over, and no one seemed inclined to pursue the matter – it seemed the usurper was likely to be quietly and quickly forgotten by his own would-be subjects.

The crowd also seemed very interested in the marriage that had united the kingdoms of Nolkior and Arushal, and even the men seemed fascinated by the details of the event. Much discussion was given to how this union would affect Tharkia – would the new Kingdom of Ukala retain Nolkior’s claim to their own country, or would they relinquish it, leaving only Serviar’s claim to hang over the throne, and poor, beleaguered King Balen?

Eventually the conversation was brought around to local tales, and to the legend of the Winter King. A strange reluctance seemed to fall over the crowd as Vulk and Mariala pressed the point. It was clear from their own stories that the hamlet milked the legend for all they could, and that it was the main reason they even had visitors, now that the old iron mine was played out. Yet with these visitors they seemed oddly reticent… the Hand hadn’t identified themselves directly, but the stories they’d told had made it clear that this group was, at the very least, competent.

Eventually several people offered up directions to the supposed “mountain seat” of the Winter King, although claiming that at this time of year it was too dangerous to make the several-mile journey. Both Mariala and Vulk had no trouble detecting the falsehood of these statements, but they also could sense that there were lies of omission going on as well. Letting the conversation be led off onto other paths, the two leaned in to speak quietly amongst themselves and to Devrik.

“I think they know where the true Halls are,” Vulk said in frustration, “but they are adamant about keeping that information secret. They’re happy enough to make some coin sending seekers to some made-up spot, but not to the true location. Why?”

“I agree, my own spells have made it very clear that we’re being actively lied to,” Mariala said, “and that other truths are being deliberately withheld. But I’m no clearer on the why than you are… Devrik?”

“I take your word on the lying, of course,” the fire mage rumbled. “But I don’t see what we can do about it. We’ve offered money, rather a lot, and yet they seem absolutely –”

“Oh, they are hide-bound, superstitious and fearful fools,” a querulous voice suddenly interrupted Devrik. The three friends turned to find Arella standing close behind them, a look of mixed resignation and annoyance on her face. “I suggest you three join me for some tea at my home. It will be easier to explain there than in the middle of this barn dance.”

An hour later the four of them where seated comfortably enough around the small fire in Arella’s parlor, as the old woman began her explanation. “It’s pretty damn obvious that you lot are more than the usual run of souvenir hunters, thrill seekers or arcane historians we usually get here, seeking the way to the Halls of the Winter King. I’d say you’d be what they call them there “adventurers,” like what the old stories talk about… and the others sense that too.”

She waved her hand impatiently when Vulk began to offer explanations. “Pish, it’s neither here nor there, as long as you’re competent adventurers. That’s what we need right now, though the others might deny it.”

“I’d like to think we’re above average,” Mariala said smoothly, noting the sardonic gleam in Devrik’s eye and cutting off any snarky comments he might have been inclined to offer. “But please, won’t you tell us why you feel the need for someone like us just now?”

“Well, that’s why we’re hear, dearie, init?” the old woman said with a laugh, apparently satisfied about the group’s bona fides. “You see, it’s well know in this hamlet where the ancient fortress and high seat of the Winter King can be found – and has been known for generations. In truth, it’s not far from here at all.

“But you see, our folk were charged long ago to keep the secret from all who might come looking… legends say that after the great Telnori wizard Hastur had defeated the Winter King and imprisoned him in a block of ice deep beneath the mountain, this was the first place he and his apprentice reached.

“Hastur was near to death, having been mortally wounded by the fell magics of that giant necromancer, and would never have made it even this far without his apprentice’s help. This was a larger town then, although already much reduced thanks to the years of eternal winter, and there was a physician here… sadly, his skills were not enough, and after a tenday the great wizard passed to the All. But not before exacting a promise from the townsfolk that they would not let anyone near the old fortress, lest his spells be broken and the Winter King freed once more.

“Already the terrible, endless winter had ended, and a marvelous spring was bursting forth with astonishing speed, as if nature wished to make up for all the years of growth lost to the cold. In their gratitude (and fear, lest the miracle be withdrawn) the men and women of Winter’s Forge agreed, and their oath was reaffirmed and taken up by each new generation. Even as time took its toll, and the town shrank to a village, and the village to a hamlet, the faith has been kept.

“But I fear that the time has come to break that faith.” She paused for a moment, lost in some melancholy thought, before resuming her tale.

“In my lifetime, I have seen the winters in these hills grow ever harsher, ever longer, and the effects spreading ever-farther afield. My dear Harult traveled much in the region, and became convinced, near the end, that the spells of Hastur were slowly beginning to fail, and the power of the Winter King was growing and spreading once more. Some in the village dismissed our arguments, saying there have been harsh winters before; but they are willfully blind to what is happening, hiding their fear behind “faith” and “honor.” Others simply no longer really believe in the old legends.

“The believers fear to tamper with what has always protected us, the unbelievers don’t care, and so we sit, sliding ever closer to a terrible doom, I feel it in my bones. I don’t know what you can do, exactly, but you lot practically reek of the uncanny… if you can renew Hastur’s spells, or destroy the Winter King for good, either one… well, I think it’s better to risk it now than wait for him to regain his full strength. I’m too old to be living in eternal winter!

“I will tell you how to find the true High Seat of the Winter King.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

That night Vulk had “The Dream” again. Like the previous two times, it was identical in the action it portrayed, feeling far more like a memory than a dream. But this time when the dream faded he didn’t immediately wake up. Instead he floated in a dark void, and after a few moments he heard a voice, soft but piercingly clear… the voice of his Great Beast mentor, Dügora.

“He who takes the High Seat of the Winter King
If his heart be open to Winter’s beauty
Shall see all of Winter’s Realm laid bare
And then the Wheel of Heaven shall be his
To be turned at his will and with the path unlocked
Shall the treasures of Winter’s Heart be opened”

As the last syllable faded away, Vulk woke suddenly and completely. He reached for the stick of graphite and scraps of paper he’d been keeping by his bedside since the dreams had begun, and quickly wrote down the words – although they seemed etched in his mind, and he doubted he’d ever forget them. Re-reading them he realized, with a start, that some version of this had been in the Ur-Tel’naru documents he’d been translating – a section that he’d had trouble deciphering, but that now seemed perfectly clear.

He eventually laid back down, certain that he’d be unable to sleep.. but in minutes he had drifted off into a deep and, this time, dreamless slumber.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Early the next morning the Hand, having reassembled themselves in the yard in front of the Frozen Anvil, set off along the almost non-existent, overgrown, snow covered track Arella had described for them the night before. The few locals who were up to see them off, which included the anxious Olberth, seem dismayed at their choice of direction, but uncertain of how to dissuade them. All their blandishments and suggestions about the desirability of the opposite, much wider and better tended trail seemed to fall on deaf ears. No one had any illusions about using force on this group, of course…

After several hours of hard travel, they were forced to leave the horses behind, securely tied to trees in a wide clearing at the foot of a steep, stoney slope. Jeb and Therok were detailed to keep watch over them, and the rest of the party continued onward and upward. Arella’s directions had been admirably clear, and they knew from this point it was less than a mile to the “High Seat,” but a mile the horses could never traverse. Indeed, it took well over an hour for the humans (and human-adjacents) to finally come within sight of their goal.

Stepping out of a stand of snow-covered firs, a wide plateau opened suddenly to the east, a steep slope rolling down to the south and sheer cliffs to the north. A frozen  stream cascaded down from the highest cliff in undulating, icy sheets, to “flow” around a pier of stone on a middle level, before tumbling in silent, motionless waves down the lower cliff into a narrow pool then running down the slope to the east.

On the rocky pier was set a circular dais of light gray stone, upon which sat a massive chair of carved granite. Clearly meant for one of the larger species of Gyantari, it remained surprisingly free of snow and ice. A narrow flight of large, deep and high steps was carved into the stone of the nearer cliff, leading up to the central plateau and the High Seat. Unlike the seat itself, the stairs were covered in snow and ice, and looked treacherous. A cold, oppressive weight and a sense of foreboding seemed to bear down on everyone, with the exception of Korwin, who actually felt quite energized.

Before continuing, it was decided that Vulk should send Cherdon aloft to scout the stone chair and the area around them. But as the falcon soared upward in a widening gyre a series of sudden, sharp cracks, like a score of whips snapping at once, broke the snow-muffled silence. Rising up from the shattering ice of the frozen stream to the north were a dozen skeletal corpses of men, the “flesh” that knit their bones made of glittering blue ice. Some bore pitted, rusting blades, others merely razor claws of ice. Between these hideous specters, rising from the ice with them, were great hounds, the size of dire wolves, the solid ice of their forms cracking and instantly reforming as they stalked forward, eyes glowing red.

Erol was the first to leap forward to meet the shambling hoard as it moved toward the group, his trident flashing in the winter sun as he drove it into the flank of the nearest ice hound. It made no sound as it staggered back, great cracks radiating from it side… and it didn’t go down.

Toran had his battle-axe out and chopped mightily at the legs of another ice hound, causing it to stumble but also doing no real damage.

Near the back of the group, Mariala cast Resistance on herself, while Vulk attempted to cast Kasira’s Smile on Devrik, who was rushing forward, roaring out the incantation to Arkel’s Fiery Ribbons. Unfortunately both Vulk’s ritual and Devrik’s spell failed in the cold, forbidding atmosphere of the area.

Haplo, near the front, whipped his hand axe from his belt, swinging it in a mighty arc at the “belly” of the nearest ice zombie, shattering its spine as it claws scrapped uselessly against his armor. Even as it fell to pieces, once again merely lifeless bone and ice, a second one attacked. Haplo continued his follow through, turning it into a powerful counterattack that embedded the axe in the creature’s skull. It, too, collapsed in ruin.

As his spell sputtered out into nothing, an ice hound leapt for Devrik’s throat. The fire mage pulled his massive battle sword from its sheath on his back and counterstuck as he ducked beneath the glittering body. The blow shattered the beast’s hip, and it fell to the ground, writhing as widening cracks ran up its body, until it shattered into a thousand inanimate shards.

More ice hounds, outstripping the more shambling zombies, leapt to attack Erol and Toran, who blocked and evaded, waiting for their moment. Two bore down on Erol, who countered the first attack, piercing the ice warrior’s chest, and nearly dodged the second but couldn’t avoid a freezing gash to his thigh. Toran’s opponent wielded two ice-coated blades, and its attack was swift and vicious. It scored a screeching hit across the armor covering his belly, and managed to dodge the Khundari Shadow Warrior’s counterattack.

Devrik and Haplo both dodged attacks of their own, while Korwin summoned up his Ice Blade. The spell seemed to flow effortlessly from him, and the resultant blade that encased his right forearm seemed both sharper and stronger than any he’d yet manifested. Even so, the ice hound he first swung it at easily dodged his blow, circling around to try and get behind him.

As more of the ice dead swarmed over them, Erol shattered the brittle metal of a frozen sword and the hand that wielded it. Again, fractures radiated out from the destroyed limb, causing the zombie to collapse into shards. At the same moment Toran drove his battle-axe through shoulder of another ice zombie as it clawed at his chest, cleaving the creature almost in two and it shattering it.

Vulk had attempted to turn the clearly undead mob with his holy symbol, but in doing so had sensed no hint of the Shadow. Whatever these monsters were, they were not true undead. Of course, merely necromantically animated corpses were bad enough… Focusing past the dampening effects of whatever magic ruled this place, Vulk again cast Kasira’s Smile, and this time it worked – with a vengeance!

Devrik felt the surge of power flow through him, recognizing the blessing of Kasira. Momentarily free of opponents, he tried again to cast Arkel’s Fiery Ribbons, and this time achieved some measure of success. The spell seemed weak, however, and the ribbons moved sluggishly. Only one fully hit an ice hound, which collapsed to the ground as its legs melted beneath it, while a second hound almost dodged another ribbon, taking only a glancing blow to its left side, which sagged a bit.

The damage caused the beast to turn aside from Devrik, however, and instead it leapt toward Korwin. The water mage’s ice-blade managed to block the bite attack, the ice hound biting down on the blade and inadvertently driving it it through its own skull. It shattered into pieces at Korwin’s feet.

As Haplo and Erol caused more damage to the relentlessly approaching enemies, yet another ice zombie lunged at Devrik. As the fire mage’s counterstrike shattered its right arm and blade, sending a lethal spiderweb of cracks along its torso, the creature still managed to drive its second blade through his armor, scoring a deep cut along his abdomen. The injury itself was relatively minor, but the shock of the supernatural cold hit Devrik like a sledge hammer, driving him down into darkness…

Erol saw his friend topple over, and immediately felt his extratemporal psionic power engage. Time slowed to a molasses flow as he ran across the field to drive his trident into the side of the ice hound that was scrambling over the disintegrating corpse of its former companion to savage the unconscious Devrik. The hound cracked in two, and both halves shattered as they hit the ground. His second attack took the ice zombie shambling toward his friend in the neck, neatly decapitating it.

Haplo and Vulk, momentarily back-to-back, both managed to dodge attacks from an ice hound and an ice zombie, respectively. Toran sent a cross-bow bolt into the ice zombie threatening Vulk, taking off its weapon hand and causing a chain reaction of cracks that ended with it collapsing into shards off ice and bone.

Mariala, drifting back into the cover of the trees, managed to position herself behind another ice zombie as it lurched toward Devrik, who was being helped to his feet by Erol. Neither seemed aware of the danger, and she leapt to the attack with her Khundari dagger, taking the creature in the upper back, shattering it.

Korwin killed another ice hound at the same moment, but was wounded himself in the process – the gash sent a wave of intense cold through him, momentarily dazing him, enough so that, as he staggered back, he was unable to completely block the next ice zombie’s slash at his abdomen. Even as a second wave of black cold washed through him he drove his own ice blade into its head… as it disintegrated into its component parts he collapsed on top of it, unconscious.

Toran was forced to drop his cross-bow as an ice hound lunged at him from less than two meters away; he barely had time to whip two tabûri throwing knives from his belt and hurl them. They met the beast in mid-leap, taking it in the throat and belly, shattering it into several pieces. The creature’s momentum, however, couldn’t be stopped, and the disintegrating body slammed into Toran’s head, momentarily stunning him.

Another ice hound, thinking to take advantage of the situation, had time to be only briefly surprised when the Khundari, whirled around and cut its legs out from beneath it with his battleaxe. Erol took out the last of the ice hounds before turning to help Mariala, who was facing one of the last two zombies. But despite a few dodges and feints she needed no help, driving her dagger into the monster’s thigh, then whipping it back up to shatter its jaw with the pommel as it collapsed.

The last ice zombie lunged at Haplo, glittering claws grasping for his face, only to meet the head of his hand axe instead. As the mindless creature gnawed on the weapon, held at arms length, its arms flailing, Toran stepped up from behind and cut it in two at the waist with a single powerful swing.

As the silence of the snow-muffled mountains settled over them again, the Hand stared warily around, cautious of a second wave of uncanny enemies arising from the again-frozen stream. But when, after several minutes, there appeared no new attack, they began to tend to their wounds. Korwin was revived, and Vulk’s healing ability, along with the group’s vials of Baylorium 7, soon had everyone back in fighting condition.

Once everyone was rested and generally healed up, the group cautiously mounted the stone stairway up to the middle shelf of land that held the small island of the High Seat of the Winter King. The stairs were covered in drifts of snow and coated in ice, the stone cracked and uneven, making the ascent just as treacherous as they had feared. Only Korwin seemed to have no trouble, skipping eagerly up the stairs as if he was in his own home.

As the last of the others made it to the top they found the water mage standing at the edge of the frozen stream that flowed around the pier of rock containing the giant seat.He was unsure, as were his companions, whether crossing the stream might not be a very bad idea – another wave of undead? The water suddenly unfreezing and sweeping people over the falls? Worse?

Erol volunteered to go first, tying a rope around his chest, under his arm pits, while Toran cast Joining of Merkunon to anchor himself to the bedrock of the mountain, the other end of the rope firmly tied around his own waist. Certainly no one would be swept away, should that be the trap that awaited them, and if some other dire eventuality occurred they could at least drag Erol’s body back. Korwin cast Demokirian’s Freeze over the ice and touched everyone in the group, making them able to tread on the ice as if it were packed earth.

With the others gathered near the shore, except Toran who was anchored further back, Erol stepped out onto the ice and cautiously moved forward, wary of any hint of change to the opaque surface. “It seems very solid, very thick,” he called over his shoulder. “I don’t see any indication of water below, even; I think it’s frozen clear to the –”

He was halfway across when he suddenly stopped, in both mid-sentence and mid-stride. After a moment he looked around, then down at the rope tied around his chest, then back at the others. “Why is there a rope around me?” he asked, almost conversationally, as he loosed it and let it drop to his feet. “And who are you folks? It’s certainly very cold, isn’t it?”

“Oh shit,” said Devrik as his friend stepped over the coil of rope and started to wander away. “We can’t pull him back now – I’ll grab him!” He stepped out onto the ice and headed towards Erol. Kowrin also headed out on the ice, but more to get to the other side than to help his companions.

“You idiots, no!” cried Mariala, just a second too late. Devrik, less than halfway to Erol, suddenly stopped and looked around in confusion. Who was the read-headed lady who seemed so upset? What was she so upset about? And why was he standing in the middle of some frozen pond? Come to think on it, who the Void was he, never mind the odd group of people milling about over there?

Korwin, meanwhile strode briskly to the opposite side of the frozen stream and climbed up the short rocky path to the dais that held the giant stone chair. He mightily resisted the temptation to hoist himself up onto it and sit, despite his conviction that he was meant to do so. He’d felt, ever since he’d heard Vulk’s little dream ditty about the High Seat of the Winter King and the treasures of Winter’s Heart, that it was meant for him – the rhyme called to him in a way he’d never experienced before, and he was sure it was his destiny to sit on this throne…

But they’d agreed to go carefully, so he restrained himself, turning back to his companions. Devrik and Erol still stood on the frozen stream, and seemed to be introducing themselves to one another. Trying to, anyway, as neither seemed to know what their name was or who they were. They were distracted by the calls of the others who, with gentle words and promises of answers, gradually lured them back to the “safe” side.

Erol and Devrik approached the strangers warily, hands hovering near their weapons, but they didn’t draw and they didn’t bolt. Mariala tried to explain who they were and what had happened, but it seemed to make little impact on either man. Devrik continued to eye everyone suspiciously and looked dubious as the tale unfolded.

“You’re very pretty,” Erol said suddenly, interrupting Mariala’s monologue. “When we get back to a city or town or whatever, would you like to get a drink?” This stopped Mariala in mid-sentence, her mouth open in surprise. When she didn’t respond immediately, Erol asked if anyone wanted to make a snowman.

“Snap out of it, man!” growled Toran in annoyance, and he slapped the ex-gladiator upside the head, despite their height difference. “Wake up!”

Erol, looking surprised and then annoyed himself, took a swipe at the inexplicable Khundari, who nimbly dodged. He realized he knew what the shorter man was, but not who he was, which seemed odd… his disgruntlement at being slapped vanished when the silver-haired stranger bopped the dwarf on the helmet and told him to stop. As they began to argue he turned with a shrug and began rolling the base of his snowman…

Vulk managed to lead a wary Devrik over to stand near the happily whistling Erol, where he performed the ritual Blessing of Kasira on both men at once. Instantly they froze, their faces suddenly stiff and blank. Then it was obvious that memory and personality were flowing back into them. Erol looked down at the large sphere of snow in his hand, the torso of his snowman, and dropped it in puzzlement.

“Am I making a snowman?” he demanded of Devrik, in some confusion. “If so, why?”

“I have no idea,” Devrik replied. “Anymore than I understand how Korwin got to the other side of the river.”

Vulk, emboldened by Korwin’s safe passage across the ice and his own restoration of his friends’ minds, performed the Blessing of Kasira on himself, then set off across the ice to join the water mage. Safely on the far side with both mind and memory intact, he called across to the others.

“I don’t see any point in risking anyone else at this point. Korwin and I will go up and see what the situation is with this High Seat; the rest of you keep a sharp watch for anything unusual while we’re at it, please.”

The others agreed. No one was anxious to lose their minds just to sit on a no doubt very cold hunk of granite, even if Vulk could probably restore them. As the two men headed up the short path to the dais, they argued about who should sit in the throne first. In the end Korwin deferred to Vulk… right up to the moment when the cantor was pulling himself up onto the seat. Before he could turn and sit Korwin had leaped up beside him, and they sat simultaneously.

To Vulk’s chagrin, he saw nothing, felt nothing – beyond the searing chill of the frozen stone on his ass – even as it was obvious Kowrin was having a different experience. He felt the cold not at all, and as his own ass hit the stone his vision suddenly sharpened – the high seat looked out over the Arnoth Highlands below them, and he could see to the horizon with a clarity, and in such detail, that it took his breath away. The hamlet of Winter’s Forge looked like it was a model just a few feet away… he could actually make out the individual faces of various villagers going about their business…

His attention was wrenched away from this voyeuristic pursuit, however, when a sudden vision appeared in the air before the throne. It was a glowing blue-white orrery of the Ziran system, hovering in translucent three dimensional glory before him. The date glowed in large letters and numbers above the model, and as he reached out to try and touch the beautiful structure he found the planets of the system moved with his motions. As they moved, the date changed, and he quickly realized he could select any date by positioning the planets and moons in their configuration on that date – past or future!

Vulk saw nothing.

Once Korwin had described what he was seeing some debate followed about how the orrery should be manipulated to achieve “the path unlocked.” In the end they found that it was the date of the summer solstice, for any year, that was the key. When the model was set thusly, the vision faded and there was a sudden rumbling beneath their feet. Down the cliff, near the base of the southern slopes, a sudden spray of powdered snow could be seen puffing out and avalanching down into the trees below.

Rejoining the others, the group headed down the slopes to find a massive cave entrance had been revealed by the swinging open of great stone doors disguised as part of the hillside. Cautiously entering, the Hand found a series of large caverns and sinuous, winding passageways leading deeper into the mountain. Great outcroppings of glowing blue crystal grew in patches from walls, floors and ceilings, illuminating everything in a cold, eerie light. A natural stone bridge arched over a chasm where a once rushing stream was frozen far below, and giant steps lead downward.

One level was clearly a living space for a giant of tremendous size… ethereal fires burned still in great hearths in kitchen and hall, giving off no heat, as well as in braziers of bronze and onyx in study and bedroom. An immense bed occupied the center of the latter room, and beyond it a hidden door lead to what appeared to be a treasury. Although the shelves were bare, a massive chest stood at the far end of the long, narrow room, and it drew the party.

Toran quickly determined that the chest, almost as tall as he was, was protected by locks and traps both physical and arcane. While he could defeat the former with his own skill and his magic key, the latter were far beyond his ability to dispel. After the other mages tested their own skills against the magic defenses, Korwin decided to try a more practical tactic. He used his telekinetic hand to unlock the last lock and lift the lid – instantly the chest and everything for two meters around it were encased in ice.

Fortunately no one had been caught in the frigid explosion, but the resultant ice was like steel. Most of the Hand had felt the oppressive weight on their souls increase as they moved deeper in to the Halls of the Winter King, and their own arcane powers waning, especially Devrik. Attempting to summon fire to melt the ice, he found he couldn’t generate so much as a magical spark. Even his psionic pyrokinesis could produce no more than a pale, flickering flame.

Korwin was the only exception, in most regards, to the general malaise. His own powers felt energized and sharper the deeper they went, but at the same time he sensed a malevolence that seemed directed at him in particular. This feeling of jealous rage kept him on edge, and he felt it trying to subdue his powers, even as the sanctum itself (for that’s surely what this was, a natural Avikoran sanctum) boosted them. He was forced to admit that it would take him hours to sublimate the ethereal ice around the chest.

The group decided to leave the chest, for now, and see what they might do once the primary objective was achieved. Moving out of the living quarters they followed more winding, giant stairs down to an even lower level, and so found at last the Great Hall of the Winter King. It was a huge chamber with multiple levels of natural shelves rising from the solid ice floor, and a great dais inset in the southwest wall, upon which was a far more massive and ornate throne than the one outside.

And seated upon that throne was an enormous humanoid figure of solid blue-white, translucent ice, much like the ice hounds in fact. A cold blue light burned in the deep-set eye sockets as it turned its gaze on the intruders, the mere moving of its head sounding like the groaning and calving of glaciers. Massive fists clenched at the arms of the throne, their ice cracking and refreezing as it flexed.

“Who dares disturb the counsels of the Winter King?” a voice both deep and crystalline growled as the Hand stood frozen in their tracks.

“We seek an audience with you, mighty King,” Korwin said, before anyone else could answer. As he stepped forward the figure rose from its seat with the sound of an avalanche and gestured toward the much smaller mage.

“Die, interloper!” it rumbled as a large icy spike flew from the out-flung hand. Korwin’s eyes widened and he tried to dodge, but the freezing spear took him in the thigh and he fell screaming to the floor. His blood froze as it tried to pool around him, and his mind sank into blissful, pain-free darkness.

Erol immediately sent a shaft from his longbow into the left hip of the Winter King, followed almost without pause by a bolt from Toran’s cross-bow, which embedded itself in the giant’s right shoulder. Mariala hurled her dagger at an eye, but the blade was batted aside with ease, sending it skittering across the ice floor.

Haplo pulled his axe free with one hand and gestured with the other, sending a blast of invisible force, in the form of four Mokel’s Karmic Missiles, at the looming enemy. Cracks appeared at the left thigh, both shoulders and the right elbow, but they seemed to heal over almost as quickly as the formed.

The Winter King in turn made a similar gesture, and another spike flew from his hand, piercing Haplo’s right bicep, sending his hand axe and a spray of blood flying and the young mage to his knees, clutching at the wound and attempting to stop the bleeding.

Erol’s extratemporal power kicked in as he tried to cast Burning Shaft on his trident before hurling it at their foe. But the oppressive weight of the Avikoran sanctum caused the spell to sputter out in failure, even as the weapon itself shattered the left shoulder of the giant. The Winter King screamed in crystalline rage, seeming at last to feel something – just as Toran’s next bolt pieced his mouth, blowing out the back of his icy skull in a shower of glittering shards.

The blue fire in his eyes flickered out, and in slow motion the body of the Winter King toppled forward off his dais, to shatter into a million pieces on the floor of the Great Hall. For a moment there was a deep silence, broken only by Haplo’s muttered curses as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from his arm. Then the flood burst as everyone started talking at once.

“That was… surprisingly easy,” Toran said suspiciously.

“Tell that to Korwin,” said Vulk as he knelt by the unconscious man. “And Haplo.” Mariala was kneeling by the silver-haired mage, wrapping an improvised bandage around his arm. “Damn, he’s lost a lot of blood. Go through his scrip, see if you can find the rest of his Baylorium 7s!”

As Toran searched for the precious ceramic bottles, Vulk pulled the chain around Korwin’s neck from beneath his tunic and unstoppered the brass and crystal vial it supported. He slowly poured the dose into his friend’s mouth, making sure he swallowed it and didn’t choke or spit it back up. When Toran handed him the green ceramic bottle which contained a triple dose of the miracle elixir, he poured the entire thing over the gaping wound in Korwin’s thigh.

Almost at once the bleeding slowed, and in less than a minute it had stopped completely. Within five minutes the edges of the wound were visibly beginning to close, the flesh knitting itself back together. Two turns of the glass later, Korwin was back on his feet, if still weak and pale from blood loss, and favoring the wounded leg a bit.

Once satisfied that his friend would live, Vulk moved to check on Haplo. With Mariala’s help he had managed to swallow his own emergency vial of Baylorium 7s, but was more than willing to let the cantor apply the topical version to the wound itself. Nasty as it was, not having nicked an artery it began to heal even more quickly than Korwin’s injury, and by the time the group gathered at the foot of the giant throne he was already flexing his bicep and hefting his recovered hand axe.

“There is no way that this was the actual Winter King,” Vulk began once they’d all gathered. A thorough search of the hall had revealed no sign of the Staff of Summer, and in any case in his visions the Gyantari wizard had been a flesh-and-blood being, not a creature of solid ice.

“I don’t think Hosara-Tar actually turned his enemy into ice… that just feels wrong, somehow. No, I think this was just another animated trap of the actual Winter King, much like those ice zombies and even more like the ice hounds. But I’m not sure what to do next, we seem to have reached the bottom of this fortress…”

“Actually,” said Toran diffidently, “I found a hidden door while searching around for the Staff. I figured if no one else found the thing, I’d suggest we try there. Or even if they did find it, that we might find something worthwhile to loot…”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The secret door did, indeed, lead to something worthwhile… after winding down narrow, twisting passages, the Hand came at last down a final set of stairs and out into another large chamber, unlike any they had yet seen. The clumps of crystal there glowed with a pinkish white light, and the floor was made of deeply glowing violet ice. A huge ward was etched into the ice, filling the center of the room, and across from where they stood was a massive throne of amethyst. On that throne sat the true King of Winter, and he was terrible.

His flesh had fallen from his bones at some point, and in its place flickered a cold blue flame. This searingly cold new “flesh” mostly covered his bones, save that his skull shone through the flames wreathing his head. The deep sockets of his eyes glowed with a piercing blue light and a malevolent intelligence. Tattered robes and blackened armor covered him, and in his hand was a black spear of twisted wood, with a black metal point across which pale blue flames flickered.

As the Hand stepped into the room, crowding onto the area of bare stone at the entrance which rose slightly above the glowing violet ice, he rose. He stood almost seven meters tall, and when he spoke his voice was as dead and cold as the void between the stars.

“So, once again the little folk come to challenge my power, the power of Winter. You are fools, and will fare no better than the last witless child to face me.”

“That ‘witless child’ may not have been able to destroy you,” Vulk said, stepping forward to the edge of the ice, inwardly praying to Kasira for strength and wits. “But he certainly succeeded in imprisoning you here for over 13 centuries.”

For a moment the Winter King was silent, and when he spoke it was almost wistful, if only briefly so. “Has it truly been so long? But it is no matter… I may have fallen into that mageling’s trap, my power indeed confined herein – for a time. But for many years since that trap has become my own bastion, its power my power. I have slowly subverted its energies to my own purposes, and am its prisoner no more!

“Whether you come to steal the Staff of Summer or to make sure that the King of Winter is truly dead, you have failed already – for I live! Indeed, I have become immortal; and the Staff of Summer is no more! For behold, it has become the Spear of Winter, and soon it will usher in a never-ending Age of Ice across the globe!” He lifted the spear and slammed its haft down against the ice three times.

While this had been going on, Devrik had been desperately trying to ignite his battlesword with Goraten’s Brand, struggling against the tremendous pressure of not fire that beat against him like an ocean. Five times he tried to empower the spell, and each failure drained a little more energy from him… he could feel the fatigue beginning to sap his physical strength as well as his mental agility, and that last attempt had been almost as draining as the first four combined. Closing out all distractions, he focused his will inward even as he sent out prayers to Kasira and Xydona…

As the echoes of the last tap of the Winter King’s spear reverberated, and before Vulk could respond,  Erol and Toran, almost simultaneously brought up their bows and fired. Erol’s shaft flew true, he could feel it, straight for the monster’s heart – almost contemptuously the giant flicked his hand and the spear knocked the arrow aside like it was standing still. A second flick and Toran’s bolt was also knocked aside before it could pierce the “royal” breast.

“Impressive,” muttered Toran, and Erol echoed the thought with a respectful “Well played!”

As soon as the missiles had flown, Vulk had begun the ritual of Kasira’s Smile, seeking to aid Devrik. He knew his friend would need it in this frigid Avikor sanctum more than any of the others. His own will was oppressed by the cold, dark weight of the sanctum, but even through the darkness he could feel the light and power of the Immortal Lady of Luck. And even if it wasn’t the widest channel he’d ever opened, nonetheless he felt Her power flow through him and into Devrik…

With a roar, Devrik leapt up from where he had been kneeling behind the others, and his sword burst into flame with a roar of its own, its light and heat pushing back the cold and the dark. The fire mage pushed past his friends and rushed the giant, sword high. “Prepare to meet the true King of Summer!”

The Winter King rushed forward to meet the charge, chanting some incantation that caused his spear to burst into blue flames that radiated a deathly cold to match Devrik’s heat. The two met near the center of the chamber, and the giant was slightly faster – he thrust his flaming spear forward with all his considerable strength straight for his smaller opponent’s gut.

Devrik, still feeling the power of Kasira within him, went low and for the counterstrike. The shock of the blow numbed his right arm, but he kept his grip on his sword even as the Spear of Winter went flying from the Winter King’s grasp to clatter onto the ice to the right!

As the giant reeled back in apparent shock and fury, he was hit at almost the same instant by Mariala’s Passion Nerves spell, and Haplo’s four Mokel’s Karmic Missiles. Unfortunately both seemed to do little more than momentarily confuse, and then further enrage, the giant.

Erol went extratemporal with practiced ease, and hurled his net. The Winter King dodged it easily and dove for his Spear. Toran made a grab for the weapon as well – and beat him to it. The dwarf rolled quickly away and the spear’s icy flames flickered out as he tossed it to Vulk.

Vulk, who had been taken aback by the giant’s claim to have corrupted the Staff of Summer, quickly realized it had been a lie. He sensed the power in the spear, but it had no relationship to the Toraz convocation, or indeed to life itself. It was strictly a tool of death and entropy, and he tossed it out of the cave, into the passageway behind them.

Meanwhile, Haplo had kept the Winter King busy with a flurry of attacks with his flashing hand axe. The giant blocked each blow with iron bracers, but it kept him distracted long enough for Erol, still moving at speed, to entangle the giant with his net, causing him to stumble. To the ex-gladiator’s accelerated senses the opening this gave him was wide and long – his trident thrust pierced the necromancer’s armor and blue fire surged out of the wound in the giant’s side, staggering him.

With the Winter King reeling, Korwin cast his Drunken Hand spell, while at the same instant Vulk Cursed him. Seeing their enemy dazed, Devrik attacked again, bringing his fiery sword around for a mighty blow. The Winter King, who had retreated almost back to his throne, grabbed his own battlesword, propped against it, and ignited it with his icy flames even as he made a lightning counterattack. Fast as he was, he was clearly still feeling the effects of Korwin’s spell, and he staggered just a bit as he attacked – and by that was saved as Devrik’s blade missed him by a hair. His own blade cut into Devrik’s right thigh, however, splitting his armor.

Ignoring the pain, Devrik instantly moved in for another attack, and the Winter King muttered an incomprehensible incantation… three balls of crackling blue energy appeared around his upraised hand, and he hurled them at the fire mage. Devrik just managed to dodge the spheres, and could feel the burning cold radiating from them as they passed.

The giant took advantage of Devrik’s momentary distraction and raised his sword to attack – but before the blow could fall, one of Toran’s tabûri bloomed in his forearm, piercing the fiery flesh between the bracer’s straps and causing him to drop his weapon.

Mariala had been preparing to throw her own knife from behind Devrik, but in having to dodge the Blue Balls of Icy Death herself, she fumbled the blade. Cursing silently to herself as the blade clattered to the ice, she dove to retrieve it and hoped no one noticed her ungainly scramble.

Erol, Haplo and Toran kept up a barrage of attacks on the Winter King, keeping him from picking up his fallen sword and able only to block with his armored forearms. Fire continued to flicker from the gash in his armor, but he seemed little effected by the wound.

As he prepared for his next run, a sudden flash of inspiration struck Devrik. He disengaged from the battle with the Winter King, ducking a blow from his massive fist and rolling away toward the center of the room. Coming to his feet over the heart of the warding sigil etched into the ice, he yelled “This is either going to succeed wildly, or fail spectacularly!” as he raised his flaming blade over his head. Everyone in the chamber froze as he drove the burning sword deep into the heart of the mystic symbol.

The was a flash of blinding violet light, a tremendous CRACK like thunder, and everyone was hurled away from Devrik as if lifted by an invisible hand. Cracks propagated outward at terrible speed, and the icy floor of the cavern broke into dozens of fragments floating on a sea of bubbling, steaming mud. Devrik lay stunned on the largest fragment, his sword cold and inert nearby, the Winter King had been thrown back against his crystal throne, and the others were scattered variously across the floor fragments.

As the combatants slowly recovered from the shock of the blast, a low hum began to fill the chamber and all eyes were drawn toward the center. Rising up out of the mud, surrounded by a glowing green nimbus, was a staff of twisted ironwood, its branches forming a sort of basket at the head that encased a glowing ovoid of translucent green resin.

“At last!” cried the Winter King, his deep, crystalline voice sounding truly alive for the first time since the Hand had entered his prison. He leapt from his throne to the nearest segment of floating floor ice, headed for the Staff of Summer. But Devrik was closer by far, and he staggered to his feet, reaching out to seize the artifact – only to be blown back and slammed into the far wall.

Korwin, taking note of his companion’s fate, attempted to grasp the Staff telekinetically. But it proved impossible – the mental sensation his mind generated was like trying to grasp a perfectly frictionless oval, he simply couldn’t get a grip on it. With a curse he gave up and prepared to focus on tripping up the Winter King as he hopped from floe to floe…

But Vulk had started moving as soon as the head of the Staff had broken the surface of the bubbling mud, leaping like a gazelle from ice fragment to ice fragment, never stopping, never losing his forward momentum. With a final leap he snatched the glowing artifact from where it hovered and came down, the Staff firmly clutched in one hand, on the large floor fragment Devrik had first occupied. He whirled to face the Winter King, who now stopped one ice floe away…

In a timeless moment inside his own head, Vulk confronted the intelligence within the Staff of Summer. Two wills clashed, for what seemed hours, until the will within the Staff retreated, submitting to its new wielder. Vulk knew it would take much more time to fully master the powers of the artifact, but for now he was truly in control. His mind snapped back to full awareness, and he realized only seconds had passed.

He raised the Staff, preparing to deliver a stirring monologue before blasting the Winter King into the Void, when the giant burst into a long, deep laugh.

“Thank you, little would-be mageling,” the giant gusted out gleefully. “So easily manipulated, so deeply foolish. Everything you have done since entering my realm has been by my will. Now, by seizing Hasora-Tar’s cursed staff and making it your own, you have broken his spells of binding and restraint, freeing me at last from the bonds I could never have broken from the inside, not in less than another thousand years! No more painfully extending my power meter by creeping meter, year after slow year; now I feel it all rushing back into me at once, like a river! Soon I – I –”

He faltered suddenly in his gloating, and staggered, dropping to one knee. “No! What is– what–” He held one hand up to his face and watched in uncomprehending horror as the blue flame flickered out and the bones beneath, suddenly visible, began to crack and fracture. In seconds his hand was gone in a spray of glittering blue dust. “How?” was the last, anguished word from his lips before his legs crumbled away beneath him and he collapsed all at once into a swirling mass of glittering flecks. Eventually only the scattered pieces of his armor and scraps of cloth remained atop a pile of bluish dust, before dust, armor, and all sank into the bubbling mud.

“What did you do, Vulk?” asked Devrik as he wincingly pulled himself up from where he’d hit the wall. “Did you use the staff to…” He gestured toward where the last of the Winter King was disappearing.

“No, that wasn’t me,” Vulk answered slowly. “Not directly, anyway. I think… the Staff is telling me… it’s hard to explain! But I think the powers of life contained in the Staff of Summer, combined with his own magics, was what was keeping the Winter King “alive.” He’d tapped into somehow, but he never controlled it, and when the spells were withdrawn – when I took control of the Staff – all the centuries caught up with him at once.”

“So, if he wasn’t lying about manipulating us into all this,” Haplo mused, “then he really killed himself. Ha! Great twist, I love it!”

“Well, now that that’s taken care of,” Korwin said once the general chuckles had died down, “and Vulk has his new toy, I suggest we head back to that treasure room and see about that large, promising chest we left encased in ice. I have a feeling that there’s some really nice stuff in there…”

The ship Stalwart drove through the rough seas with grim determination, sending up sheets of white foam as she crested each sullen gray wave before descending into the next trough. The wind was fresh from the northeast, and tattered clouds of gray and white scudded across the pale winter sky as Devrik stood alone at the prow, his dark gaze fixed on the horizon, beyond which lay their goal.

He knew the others were not entirely sold on this venture, and that it was primarily his will that drove them forward in such a rush. But time was not on their side, he felt it in his gut… besides, he knew his friends well. If he’d indulged the group’s usual habit of arguing endlessly around what needed to be done, they’d have come to this same place eventually – they always knew what had to be done, even if they sometimes dithered on how to do it. But the hours lost could be critical ones this time, and his cousin Nina might not have the luxury of those hours.

Nor the Princess Relina, of course. But it was the fate of the cousin he’d never met that occupied most of Devrik’s thoughts and drove him into danger. Family was of supreme importance, and he had few enough to risk losing any. His other cousin, Wirdon, stood on the aft poop deck with the captain and the steersman, his own grim visage a constant spur to the seamen despite their fears of the destination. His tension was so palpable, as he brooded on his twin sister’s danger, that Devrik could almost feel it across the length of the vessel…

Beneath Ser Wirdon’s feet, in the captain’s stateroom, the rest of the Hand of Fortune were gathered around the ward table, discussing their options. No one was thrilled about daring the legendary dangers of Barasina Island and the even more legendary evil of the Ur-Tel’naru, especially with no real time to prepare. But Devrik’s argument that a swift strike gave them the element of surprise, combined with King Balen’s pleas and the fear in Baron Gevdan’s usually stoic eyes, combined to sway them, and here they were.

“I don’t mind facing evil, dark Telnori,” Toran groaned, “but why must we travel through this storm to do it?” His usually swarthy features were pale, with just a hint of green at the edges, and he clutched a brass chamber pot in his lap. He hadn’t had to use it yet, but…

“Storm?” scoffed Korwin, getting up to move to the sideboard and the decanter of port there, his rolling gait seemingly oblivious to the pitch and yaw of the ship. “The storm is long passed, my Khundari friend. This sea is merely a bit fresh.”

He poured out some of the dark liquid into a cup and brought it to his companion. “Here, drink this, I promise it will help settle your stomach. Just sips, mind you, don’t gulp it!”

Toran looked dubious, but if anyone in the group knew about the sea – the horrible, horrible sea – it would be the Oceanian water mage. He took a tentative sip, and when he didn’t immediately heave it back up he took another. His stomach did seem to settle a bit…

Mariala looked in sympathy at her friend and patted his hand. She was very grateful that she rarely suffered from sea sickness, although there had been that one time aboard the Fortune’s Favor in that gale… best not to think on that just now, perhaps.

“I’m afraid there’s little choice, Toran,” she said with a sigh. “One of the reasons the Ur-Tel’naru were imprisoned on Barasina in the first place was that there are no Nitaran Gates there. And thanks to the wards the Immortals themselves placed around it, none ever will manifest there.”

“So, what do we really know about these so-called Dark Telnori?” Erol asked, tearing off a hunk of bread from the salted loaf on the table. His stomach was just fine. He fed a morsel to Grover, who was perched on his shoulder.

“Well, I know a few ballads,” Vox offered. “Mainly about the Ur-Tel’naru of Shaista-var, beneath the Greatstone Mountains, but there might be something there we could use…”

At the others’ urging he pulled out his lute and sang the songs… an entertaining hour for the others, and it did seem to distract Toran from his queasiness, but ultimately not of much obvious use.

“So, they seemed to be obsessed with spiders,” Vulk summarized as Vox re-cased his lute, “liked to sacrifice others in dark rituals to extend their own lives, and committed every atrocity imaginable on innocent peasants and unlucky heroes. And, of course, feared and shunned the sunlight… although that last one seemed more metaphorical than factual.”

“Whatever the truth of the past was,” Haplo offered, “perhaps 15 or so centuries of isolation and introspection has mellowed the survivors?”

As the others considered this dubious proposition a faint cry came suddenly from the lookout in the crows nest.

“Land ho!”

♦  ♦  ♦

The longboat scrapped against the shale of the narrow beach, and two of the terrified crewmen who had “volunteered” to row the group ashore leapt out. Chill water lapped at their knees as they pulled the boat far enough onto the strand for the Hand to disembark with relatively dry feet. As soon as Toran’s boots gratefully hit the sand, however, the two men were shoving the boat back out and pulling themselves aboard in unseemly haste. Pulling hard, with fearful looks to where the the wreck of the princess’ ship rose from the waves, the seamen headed back to the Stalwart.

“I trust your cousin will be able to hold them here until we signal for pick-up,” Vulk said to Devrik, as he watched the  men row away. “And wouldn’t it have made more sense for them to await us here on the beach… or at least just off shore… in case we need to make a fast escape?”

“More sense, yes,” Devrik growled, already striding across the beach toward the wreck. “But Wirdon felt we’d pushed the men as far as we could, getting them this far. And that’s why he stayed aboard the Stalwart, to stiffen their spines and make sure they’re still nearby when Mariala calls for them.”

And that had been a struggle itself, getting Wirdon to stay behind. He’d naturally been hot to lead the charge to rescue his sister (and the princess, of course), but had eventually given way in the face of Devrik’s arguments… the main one being that the crew knew and respected him, making him best suited to keep them in place off this haunted island.

Examining the sea-battered wreckage the group quickly determined that it was indeed the remains of the Sea Sprite, Princess Relina’s vessel. A single chest was half-buried in the sand, and once Toran had worked his magic to open its lock it revealed the high-quality clothes of a noblewoman. Korwin attempted to determine if they were, in fact, the princess’ clothes, but his psychometric gift seemed cold and he learned nothing.

In the meantime some of the others scoured the beach, reading the signs left by the survivors. It was obvious that several people had spent some time attempting to salvage supplies from the shattered vessel, and that a party of perhaps a dozen had eventually made their way off the beach and up a bluff to the west.

Atop the bluff the Hand found signs of a temporary camp, including the cold remains of a large bonfire. Set close by the edge of the 20 meter cliff overlooking the sea, it had obviously been built as a distress beacon as well as a source of warmth against the winter chill. But there were also clear signs of a struggle…

“No blood, which is at least promising,” Erol mused as he studied the marks in the sandy soil. “But I have no idea what they were fighting… I’ve never seen tracks like these before.”

“Nor have I,” Devrik agreed. “But whatever attacked, they were large  and… clawed? And these marks here… I’d say large nets were used. And our people were dragged off to the south…”

“Um, yes…” Vulk said abruptly, a distant look in his eyes. “Probably by enormous spiders… ridden like horses, by men with lances, or long spears…” The others stared at him in surprise.

“Like those!” Vulk pointed to the south, where three immense spiders were just cresting the nearest inland hill, Cherdon circling in the air above them. Perhaps five meters across, they had glistening black bodies with bilious green underbellies and their jointed, spiked, claw-tipped legs rose high over the heads of their riders. These were clearly men, but men with dark blue skin and shining white hair. Clad in gleaming black plate and chain, trimmed with silver, each bore a tall weapon – a cross between a spear and a proper lance the fighters decided.

“Perhaps they’re the traditional welcoming committee,” Korwin suggested as it became obvious the group had been spotted. “Maybe we could try talking this time, before we kill everyone?”

“I’m all for talking,” Vulk agreed, raising his Herald’s Baton high and stepping forward. Korwin followed a few paces behind. The three riders had spurred their mounts and were approaching quickly.

In fact, “barreling down on them” might be a better way to put it, Toran thought… he loosed the battle axe across his back. At the same time Vox nocked an arrow to his longbow, and Erol drew his own weapon. Devrik, Mariala and Haplo began concentrating on combat spells…

“They really don’t look like they want to talk,” Vox suggested, although he kept his bow lowered. At that moment the lead rider reached down to something on the side of his odd saddle, coming up with a wicked-looking javelin. Even as Vulk called out the greeting of Kasira’s Peace the rider hurled the javelin straight at him.

Vulk dodged left and Korwin went right, and the weapon flew between them, thudding into the ground with a weird electric hiss. Green tendrils of energy momentarily snaked out from it, narrowly missing the heroes. With a look somewhere between annoyance and resignation, Vulk again raised his Baton, but this time he used it to Curse the lead rider.

Mariala unleashed her Fire Nerves spell but, despite being a near-perfect casting, it appeared to have little effect on either riders or mounts. The sheet of ice Korwin cast across their path was more effective… the lead spider slid and scrabbled for purchase, then turned to flee. Its rider struggled to control it while hurling another javelin at the water mage, which Korwin easily dodged.

Devrik let loose a Fireball and the other two spiders and their riders were engulfed in flames. One rider managed to leap from his burning mount relatively unscathed, but the other took Vox’s arrow to the head… his body burned merrily along with his spider’s. The stench was horrible and almost overwhelming, an acrid smell like burning hair combined with the nauseatingly appetizing aroma of roasting human flesh.

Haplo sent one of his sleeping darts at the dismounted rider, but was unable to hit any of the the relatively small patches of flesh not covered by armor. Toran had better luck with his own shot, as his cross-bow bolt took the warrior in the throat. The man fell to the ground, clutching at the  bolt, twitched twice, and expired.

Erol loosed an arrow from his bow that managed to knock the remaining rider from his seat just as he regained control of his mount, turning back to face the group. As the rider lay stunned on the ground Mariala reached out with Dü Latal’s Communion to try and sooth and control the remaining spider. It seemed to work, as the creature calmed and stood where it was, shifting on its stilt-like legs restlessly…

Unfortunately, this calm didn’t last once she tried to suggest an action to the creature, and it reared up, preparing to attack. Toran and Vox hacked it down before it could follow through, however.

“A nice try,” Toran consoled his friend as he cleaned his axe. Mariala shrugged and gave him a wry grin.”The usual didn’t seem to be working,” she sighed, “so I thought I’d go with something new.”

Erol and Devrik bound the fallen Ur-Tel’naru and dragged him upwind of the burning spider corpses for questioning. It quickly became clear that the sentry didn’t understand Yashparic, and the language he spoke, while it hovered on the edge of comprehensibility, was not the Espar they’d expected. But once Vulk performed the Ritual of Tongues, the words of the their captive quickly began to make sense…

“…ghra na’ormvesh vhile mayfly vermin, infesting our prison/home –”

“Why did you attack us?” Vulk demanded, interrupting the prisoner’s tirade. The man looked momentarily surprised, then understanding lit his dark features.

“Ah, a lapdog of one of the Great Betrayers… you use the meager power they allow you to speak Reshki, the true tongue. Little good will it do you, mayfly. I will tell you nothing!”

And after several minutes of back and forth, with Vulk occasionally translating for his companions the various threats, predictions of their grisly deaths, and how their paltry life-force would feed the Ur-Tel’naru, it was obvious their captive would not, in fact, be telling them anything useful.

“This is a waste of time,” Devrik said at last. “We’re wasting valuable minutes –”

“He did let slip that his people took the survivors of the wreck,” Vulk interrupted, his own frustration obvious. “Maybe we can trip him up agai–”

“Devrik is right, we’re wasting precious time,” Mariala said suddenly. Then, to the utter shock of her companions, she drew her dagger and slit the captive’s throat. Vulk leapt aside to avoid the sudden arterial spray, venting a string of curses.

“I’m sorry,” Mariala said calmly, sounding not the least bit repentant. She wiped her blade on the dead man’s tunic before re-sheathing it. “We all knew it would have to be done, eventually – we could hardly risk leaving him alive behind us, nor could we safely take him with us. My own Truthsense told me that he was absolutely adamant in his refusal to help us, and given what he did say about sacrificing us “mayflies” to extend his own people’s lives, I judged we had best waste no more time here.”

Vulk was furious, and prepared to argue the point at some length, but Devrik interceded before he could get fairly started.

“We can debate this later, my friend,” he said, pulling the cantor away and giving Mariala a quelling shake of the head. “For now I think time really is of the essence. Let’s back-track on the trail of these disgusting spider-mounts and see if we can’t find our missing folk, yes?”

While Devrik calmed Vulk, Erol and Vox began looking for tracks, and  Korwin and Toran quickly searched the bodies of the two non-flambed corpses. They found little of interest in the way of loot, with the exception of a rod made of some dark wood that the lead rider had carried. Capped with a large white crystal, its only decoration was a carved collar just below the head set with four smaller gems of red, blue, green and white.

Korwin once again attempted to use his psychometry on the rod, but ended up with nothing except a splitting headache and the faintest idea that it might be a key of some sort. That was enough for Toran, who tucked it into his belt while the water mage rubbed his temples, looking like he might puke…

♦  ♦  ♦

The trail led them inland, up the slope to the crest of the hills overlooking the island’s northern shore. Covered in moderately dense woodland, the path of the original capturing party was not hard to follow. The bare trees and rough ground were covered in a light dusting of snow as they climbed in elevation, eventually leveling out to a large upland plateau and a crude path.

Two hours of travel eased Korwin’s throbbing head somewhat, and brought the Hand to a relatively open space in the woods. A frozen pond lay at the western foot of a small bluff, atop which was a stone platform, carved in intricate, mystical designs that glowed faintly with arcane energy in the weak winter sunlight. The structure was guarded by two motionless Ur-Tel’naru sentries, who seemed unfazed by the biting wind.

Cherdon overflew the area a few times, allowing Vulk to accurately describe the lay of the land to his companions. Warm enough while they hiked, everyone was now beginning to feel the winter bite, puffing and blowing on gloved hands and pulling cloaks tight about them as they worked out a plan of attack. Only Korwin seemed completely comfortable, wrapped in his magical Robe of Kesadarin… really more of a hooded cloak, Mariala mused irritably as she shivered next to the smug bastard.

In fairly short order the Hand worked out their plan…

Toran used his Amulet of Deception to give himself the appearance of the dead spider-rider they’d questioned, and took Mariala as his “prisoner,” straight up the stairs on the gently sloped east side of the bluff. The others divided into two groups which stealthily gathered to the north and south under cover of the winter woods.

As their supposed brother-in-arms approached, the two sentries finally broke their statue-like rigidity, calling out to him in what sounded like puzzlement… but not suspicion, Vulk realized, his understanding of their tongue making him the only one of the Hand to now comprehend what they said.

As they approached the two sentries Toran repeated the rote phrase Vulk had taught him, to the effect that he’d found this “mayfly” female wandering in the woods. The deception lasted just long enough for them to get within striking distance. Even as suspicion flared on the mens’ faces Toran swung his battle-axe at the one on the left, and Mariala’s Khundari dagger slashed at the one on the right.

Both Ur-Tel’naru warriors had lightning reflexes – Toran’s target leapt back just enough to avoid being gutted, although the blow rent his mail and a spray of blood arced away from the axe blade; Mariala’s target blocked her blow with his plate vambrace, and quickly to drew his own sword.

At the instant of their attack Vox and Jeb let fly from their longbows, but both shafts veered suddenly away, as if a strong gust of wind had struck them. Both archers were chagrined, but only Vox had a suspicion that it was more than an errant gust that had waylaid their shafts. A second volley proved just as ineffective, and then Vox was certain some arcane mischief was afoot.

On the stone platform Toran had moved to put himself between both warriors and Mariala, knowing that with surprise gone she stood little chance against the longer reach of their wickedly curved black swords. As he parried the Ur-Tel’naru attacks, watching for any opening, Devrik rushed forward to join the fray.

But before he could reach his friends there was a sudden shriek from the sky and Cherdon stooped on one of the sentries, his talons ripping the flesh from the man’s face, and one eye as well. At the same instant a flash of silver-brown fur streaked up the leg and torso of the other warrior, and Grover sank his fangs into the man’s unprotected throat.

Apparently hitting an artery, the ferret savaged his prey and the sentry fell to the ground, clutching futilely at the now blood-soaked and slippery animal as his life drained away. With a single, merciful swing of his axe Toran put the other guard, shrieking and clutching at his face and ruined eye, out of his misery.

The others soon joined Toran, Mariala and Devrik on the stone platform, and while the Khundari examined the area for signs as to its purpose the others airily explained to the amazed Haplo and Vox that no, this was not the first time that Grover had taken out a grown fighter. Although it was Cherdon’s debut kill as a member of the Hand’s Animal Auxiliary.

Toran soon drew everyone’s attention to a circular carving in the center of the stone symbol to the left of the main one. It had four smaller circles placed within it, three on the edge and one in the center. Each of these had large, smooth crystals set within, the three outer ones an opalescent white, the center one a translucent gray.

 “If that rod we took of the dead Ur-Tel’naru captain is a key, as Korwin suspects, this may be the lock it opens.” Toran pulled the device from his belt and examined it more closely.

“Both it and the circle radiate a very faint magical aura,” Mariala said after a minute of concentration. “They do seem… related.”

Toran twisted the collar on the rod and was unsurprised to find that it moved. He aligned the red gemstone with the silver arrowhead embedded just below the head. With a click the large faceted crystal atop the rod began to glow with a deep crimson light. Looking at the others for a group consensus, he reached down and touched the glowing crystal to one of the white stones.

The stone he touched immediately began to glow red, as did the next one he touched. Absently waving off Korwin’s various suggestions, the Dwarf twisted the collar again, turning the faceted crystal blue. He touched it to the remaining white stone, which turned blue… as did the two red ones to either side!

With all three stones along the edge now blue the center stone also began to glow with its own blue light. Toran touched the rod to the center stone and, with a grating sound of stone-on-stone, the central part of the platform irised open, revealing stone steps leading down into darkness.

“Huh. Well, that was surprisingly simple,” he said, tucking the rod back into his belt. “Of course I have an instinct for these sorts of things. Shall we?” He gestured at the waiting opening.

Vulk performed the Ritual of Kasira’s Light, giving the group the ability to see in darkness and removing the need for possible tell-tale torches or other light sources. The Hand descended into the now not-so-dark darkness, leaving only Cherdon behind to keep an eye on the area.

As they filed down, no one, not even the sharp-eyed bird, noticed the sudden dark, sinuous movement that was briefly visible beneath the ice of the frozen pond…

♦  ♦  ♦

The stairs wound down for over 30 meters by Toran’s estimate before debouching into a sort of courtyard – one overgrown with lush, green vegetation! A gray light, like that of a bright overcast day, filled the area, obscuring whatever ceiling there was and giving the illusion of being out-of-doors. The air was warm and actually a bit humid.

Directly ahead was a large statue, at least twice life-size, of a beautiful and yet somehow cruel-looking woman. Its blue-painted skin and silver-painted hair marked her as one of the Ur-Tel’naru… or perhaps some deity they worshipped? The gown the figure wore seemed a thing of gossamer – spider silk carved in stone. Its outstretched hand held…

“Is that a human heart?” Mariala asked plaintively.

To either side of the statue stood doors of age-darkened oak, bound in black iron wrought in a spiderweb motif. Both proved to be unlocked, and it was a coin-toss as to which way they should go, there being no indications anyone could find to suggest one path over another.

In the end the Hand passed through the door on the left, after Mariala’s casting of Deanna’s Perception suggested that an air of malevolent hostility pervaded the entire area, and she could provide no particular sense of where it was coming from.

The corridors they traversed, dimly illuminated by the reddish light of ancient glowstones, were of a style not even Toran was familiar with. He and Korwin agreed that they had something of the flavor of First Millennium Telnori stonework about them… but with subtle and somehow unsettling differences. The scattered bones that littered the floors in many places did little to lift anyones mood, especially once they were able to identify at least some of them as humanoid…

The architecture also seemed engineered to be purposefully meandering and confusing, often leading to apparent dead ends where even Toran could find no secret doors or hidden purpose. They neither saw nor heard any signs of life as they progressed through what was obviously a labyrinth.

Eventually they came to a chamber larger than any they’d yet encountered, in the center of which was a square pit almost two meters across. It’s carved rim, raised a few centimeters from the floor seemed almost designed to trip the unwary into its unknown depths. A stone dropped in fell for six seconds before the faint ‘plunk’ of water echoed back up the shaft.

A flight of oddly angled steps to the north led to another apparent dead end, but to the south a corridor led into another large room, this one obviously a spa or bathing chamber. Intricate friezes in black marble lined the ceiling and mosaics of black, blue and silver glass could be seen through the gently steaming water on the floor of the pool. All of the artwork depicted scenes of extreme sexual debauchery, some of which even Vulk had never imagined.

While Vox and Vulk lingered (to make absolutely sure there were no clues secreted about the room), most of the Hand retreated quickly back to the pit room. Toran, drawn to the odd angles of the northern portion of the room, eventually found what he’d been certain had to be there – a secret door. The opening mechanism was not complex, and in a moment he had it open.

The room revealed was 10 meters long and three wide, stretching off to the left. An innocent pattern of stylized waves covered the floor, beneath perhaps 30 centimeters of clear water. But before he had time to notice any more than that, all the water in the room suddenly rushed to the center and rose up into a swirling pillar of raging foam.

“Oh crap, I think it’s a–” was all he had time for before a tendril of solid water lashed out and slammed into his chest, sending him hurtling backward as everything went black…

Mariala barely dodged Toran’s flying body, and instinctively cast a spell of Resistance on herself, preparing for another fight. Another damn water elemental?! She really needed to get Korwin to recharge that Amulet of Water Elemental Control…

Vulk, returning finally from the spa/orgy chamber, was just in time to see his Khundari friend slapped across room by the water elemental, and he lunged forward, eyes wide as he realized Toran was headed straight for the open pit. Vulk was much too far away to be of any help but, by the blessing of Kasira, Devrik wasn’t.

Grabbing the flying Dwarf, Devrik was jerked off his own feet by the momentum, but he was able to stop either of them from going over into the darkness. A lucky save, he thought, but if they had to fight with that Void-cursed pit behind them… he was relieved to see glowing strands of force weave themselves across the opening as Vulk waved his hands and muttered an incantation under his breath.

As the raging water elemental surged out of the chamber that had, apparently, imprisoned it and the Hand took up battle stances, Devrik focused his primal fire energies. Before the creature could make another attack the multicolored sheets of Arkel’s Fiery Ribbons poured from his hands and blasted into it.

With an explosive shriek unlike anything the Hand had ever heard the elemental vanished in a cloud of steam that quickly expanded to fill the room and pour out into the corridors beyond. Fortunately most of the scalding moisture was blown back into the elemental’s chamber, and no one was more than lightly poached. The steam quickly evaporated away, leaving Vulk free to tend to Toran’s injuries, and Vox’s hair a frizzy mess.

It only took a few minutes and a little of Vulk’s innate healing ability to bring the Khundari ninja back to consciousness and dissipate his incipient concussion. While this was going on Korwin explored the elemental’s sweltering prison, but found nothing of interest, to his intense disappointment.

In short order Toran was back on his feet and ready to continue. “Although, one of you lot can open the next hidden door,” he rumbled as they returned to the maze of corridors.

It was just twenty minutes later that the Hand finally encountered one of the Ur-Tel’naru who presumably inhabited this dismal dungeon. Erol opened yet another door, albeit an ordinary looking one, to reveal what looked like an ancient shrine. A raised dais, etched with glowing green sigils of power, held an enormous golden skull at least two meters tall. Kneeling before the self-evidently evil alter was a male Ur-Tel’naru, so deep in prayer or meditation that he failed to immediately realize his sanctum had been invaded.

“Where is the Princess?” barked Toran, stepping in after Erol and drawing his battle axe. The man’s eyes flew open, revealing solid red orbs without visible pupil. He was on his feet and reaching for a dagger at his belt faster than seemed possible, a snarl replacing the very fleeting look of surprise on his face.

But Erol’s extratemporal talent had kicked in as soon as he’d entered the room, and he moved even faster – he threw a tangle net at the Dark Telnori, ensnaring his weapon hand, then stabbed forward with his trident. His foe twisted away, but entangled in the net he couldn’t quite avoid the blades, and they ripped a deep double gouge in his left shoulder.

Toran leaped in then, swinging his battle-axe, which the man tried to block with his ensnared hand, but again the netting stymied him and he staggered back with a deep slash across his abdomen. Clutching at the gushing wound, his blood spattering the floor, the Ur-Tel’naru never even saw Devrik’s killing blow…

In the aftermath, many of the Hand wanted to properly loot the place, but Devrik gently conveyed to them his growing sense of urgency in such a way that, suddenly, no one felt the need to linger. Only Mariala resisted an immediate departure, insisting on checking out the small vestry/office to the north of the shrine.

While she did, Korwin and Toran searched the body of the dead priest or mage or whatever the man had been, but found nothing interesting beyond a few gems in a pouch and another rod-key, identical to the one they already had.

Mariala soon emerged from the other room, stuffing various papers and scrolls into her pack. At Devrik’s look she shrugged. “In the past some of the most valuable things we’ve gained came from captured documents like these. And given that no one has had any contact with these people for more that 15 centuries, who knows what we might learn?”

Devrik shrugged in return and took the lead as the group once more set out through the maze-like corridors. Another hour of cautious skulking uncovered twinned rooms filled with water, beneath which appeared to be the skeletal remains of two very large giants, what looked like a tack room and barracks for spider-riders, and a multiplicity of fascinating hallways.

“I swear, we’ve entered the domain of Hallolth, the Goddess of Narrow Enclosed Spaces,” Vox muttered as they followed another twisting corridor out of the tack room.

But this corridor led to a wider space and two immense double doors, which promised something more interesting than they’d yet encountered… maybe a throne room, or great hall? Someplace with the actual residents, perhaps?

“I’m not sure about this,” Toran commented as Devrik and Erol approached the large doors. “Look at these.” He pointed at four wide shafts that led upward through the ceiling opposite the great doors. Far above, the wan light of the winter afternoon could be seen.

“Given the proximity to that tack room, with all the strange saddles and bridles and whatever, and these shafts… I think this is how the spider-riders come and go. Which means that room is probably –”

But Devrik and Erol had already pulled open one of the heavy oak doors, revealing an immense hall, shrouded in a darkness. A few large glowstones  radiated a sullen red light that only served to deepen the shadows. And moving in those shadows was a shifting mass of gigantic spider shapes! Scores of multifaceted eyes turned towards the open door, and a hissing, scrabbling sound began as they began to move toward the light.

With muscles bulging, Devrik slammed the door shut as quickly as possible, and dropped the iron bar back into place across it. “We’re going that way,” he rumbled, point to the corridor to their right. “Now!”

After traversing a very narrow corridor for several minutes, it seemed the Hand had finally found a populated area of the structure. Peering around the corner from where their narrow hallway opened into a wider and better lit passage, a spider-rider could be seen atop his foul mount (this one black with a sickening blue belly). Spider and man sat in a large raised alcove that commanded the corridor in both directions.

A hurried, whispered discussion resulted in Haplo casting Avkirin’s Field to generate an area of white noise to cover the group’s movement, while Toran cast Mimic Sound, throwing the illusionary sound of something moving around the curve of the corridor to the left. As hoped, this drew off the spider-rider from his post, and as he vanished around the corner the Hand made a dash to the right and down another wide side corridor.

Down this short corridor and up a flight of shallow steps, the group found themselves before pair of double doors, one of which was slightly ajar. The faint sounds of what seemed to be a rhythmic chant or incantation could be faintly heard…

Erol, activating his cloak of invisibility, squeezed into the chamber beyond the doors… and found eight Ur-Tel’naru gathered along a balcony overlooking a larger chamber to the right. Two armed and armored guards stood to either side of the doors, and Erol moved as quietly as possible as he maneuvered to see what these blue-skinned devils found so enthralling.

Peering over the shoulders and between the well-dressed noblemen and women, he was able to see a room with numerous arcane circles etched into the stone floor, the largest one in the center. All glowed faintly with a violet light that almost hurt to look upon, while the central circle flared as bright as a bonfire. Across the room a matching balcony held more Ur-Tel’naru spectators.

In the ritual chamber itself, several blue-skinned figures dressed in highly ornate (and no doubt heavily symbolic) costumes stood around the larger power circle, in the center of which stood a human male. Naked, the man seemed bewitched somehow, making no move to escape or protect himself as the woman with the disturbing spider headdress reached out to grab his hair, pulling his head back and exposing his neck.

The woman’s chanting, which was what they’d heard through the doorway, grew in pitch and volume, and with a final shouted word she drew a sinuously curved dagger across the man’s throat in one fluid motion. As his life’s blood poured out it seemed to vanish in a violet haze before it could spatter on the floor, rising up again as misty tendrils of energy.

The tendrils appeared to want to seek out the Ur-Tel’naru nearby, but the male in the ornate robes across from the murderous woman moved his hands in esoteric patterns and the mists sank into the arcane sigil at their feet, which seemed to grow brighter.

The woman, whom Erol could only think of as some sort of High Priestess, turned to say something to the watchers on the nearer balcony, as did her male counterpart to the other balcony. Then he saw that she looked quite elderly, something he’d not yet seen in any of the long-lived Telnori race he was now a part of, much less this evil offshoot. He realized she must be very old indeed…

Making his way out of the balcony room again, Erol quickly told the others what he’d seen, his sotto voce recounting muffled by Haplo’s continuing white noise. Devrik, frustrated that Erol had spotted neither his cousin nor the princess, momentarily wavered – should they continue searching for the captives, or attack this gathering now? If their current ritual was over, the blue-skinned bastards might soon disperse, making the group much more likely to be discovered. On the other hand, they were outnumbered here slightly more than two-to-one.

Devrik smiled at the thought and made his decision. “This is clearly the heart of whatever foul magic they seek to perform – best to wipe out the leadership first and deal with anything else after. We attack now!”

Mariala cast Wallflower on Vulk, making the cantor essentially unnoticeable as long as he made no sudden or overt moves, and he then summoned his holy armor for protection. He followed the again-invisible Erol back into the balcony chamber, where the noble spectators were now milling about and speaking to one another in low voices.

Vulk’s mastery of their tongue had faded somewhat, but he retained, and would always retain, enough to partially follow what was being said… it seemed that they restrained a very powerful excitement, believing that some sort of apotheosis was almost at hand… something about their true immortality with the sacrifice of “the unborn princess.”

Frowning, Vulk slipped over the iron railing of the balcony and dropped into the ritual chamber below, just as Mariala blasted the nobles above with the Syncope of Shala. Six of the Dark Telnori collapsed instantly into a deep, deep sleep. Only the two guards and two of the ladies remained on their feet – Erol and Devrik made quick work of the warriors, while Haplo’s Karmic Missiles lived up to their name, taking out one of the noblewomen with a crippling blow to the groin. Vox’s arrow took the last Ur-Tel’naru female right between the eyes just as she was drawing a wicked looking dagger.

As the rest of the Hand either took aim from the balcony they now controlled or leapt down into the ritual chamber itself, Vulk made his way to the curved wall that divided the main ritual area from the back of the chamber. The wings of stone had blocked the view from the balcony, and he now saw that they were two separate walls, connected by a lattice of wrought iron bars, done in the ubiquitous spiderweb motif, which created a prison cell. And in that cell were Princess Relina and Lady Nina.

Vulk startled the women when he spoke, breaking the Wallflower spell (for them, if no one else). Their eyes widened in shock as they perceived him, then expressions of hope lit their pale, haggard faces.

“Who are you?” whispered Nina Askalan, leaning forward urgently.

“A friend of your cousin Devrik, and an agent of your father’s – both your fathers,” he replied, including the princess in his answer. “We’re called the Hand of Fortune, but that’s not–”

“Oh, I’ve heard of you,” Princess Relina whispered excitedly. “Remember, Nina? I was telling you about that group that destroyed that litch in Shalla last year?”

“Er, yes, your Highness, that’s us,” Vulk interrupted. “But lets concentrate on getting you both out of here.” He turned his gaze to the elaborate and very sturdy-looking lock on the bars, but was momentarily distracted by a call from Erol.

The Hand had been decimating the remaining Ur-Tel’naru in the room, with Korwin’s Ice Needles and Toran’s Stavin’s Arrow downing several opponents, while Erol’s Balls of Asakora bedazzled most of the nobles in the other balcony. But not all of them, and it was this Erol needed Vulk to deal with.

Stepping away from the women’s cage, the cantor gestured toward the balcony and muttered a few words. Strands of glowing white energy flew forth from each of his fingers, and as he moved his hands back and forth they formed a web of sticky tendrils all through the chamber. The already mesmerized noblemen and women were ensnared, as were all but two of their unaffected fellows.Those two leaped down into the ritual chamber, weapons drawn, and with his Wallflower protection now thoroughly gone, Vulk drew his broadsword and prepared to fight.

Meanwhile, Mariala’s attempt at Fire Nerves was again a technical success – but, again, seemed to have little actual effect on the Ur-Tel’naru, seeming to do little more than momentarily slowing them. But this proved enough. As the elderly High Priestess shook off the effect and began an ominous sounding chant while waving around some sort of wand or scepter, she suddenly stopped dead, with a longbow shaft protruding from her open mouth. It’s iron tip was covered in blood and gray matter, and her eyes rolled up into her head as she collapsed to the floor. Vox waved cheerily from the balcony.

“Kash-i’nar!” screamed the mage, whom Erol had engaged as soon as Vulk had webbed up the balcony. The man seemed shocked at the woman’s sudden demise, and the distraction was all the former gladiator needed. He speared the mans foot to the floor, holding him in place for the killing blow from his gladius.

Devrik shot an Orb of Voral at the remaining ceremonial warrior, incinerating the man instantly, then turned to succor the wounded Vulk, who was bleeding but still managing to hold off his two Ur-Tel’naru opponents. In a short, sharp fight, Devrik managed to dispatch both men. Even as the last of them fell, however, the spider-rider from the hallway burst suddenly into the chamber.

While Devrik, Erol and Vox worked to remove this last immediate threat, Toran and Haplo had made their way to the imprisoned women. Using his magic Key of Opening, Toran had the Princess and her lady-in-waiting out in a trice, and the two men escorted them away from the fight.

“Is that my cousin Devrik?” Nina asked in some wonder as the man in question shot multicolored ribbons of fiery death out of his hands, immolating the giant spider even as it scored his flesh with a claw.

“Yes, yes,” Haplo assured her. “And he’ll join us as soon as they’ve finished the last of these blue devils. But he wouldn’t thank us if we let you get hurt now–”

“Oh pish,” the redhead said, stooping to pick up a scimitar from a fallen warrior. “We should go and help him!”

Fortunately a shot to the thorax from Vox and simultaneous blows from Erol and Devrik brought down the spider and its rider before the headstrong young woman could enter the fray.

Dervik, still unaware of the presence of the women, yells to Korwin, still up in the balcony and merrily sliding the throats of the sleeping nobles and looting their corpses “Damnit! No looting until we find Lady Nina and Princess Relina! Get down here, now!”

“We are here, Ser Devrik,” the princess said with a smile, stepping around the wall that had screened them. Nina suppressed a giggle and waved at her cousin, who looked momentarily flummoxed – and then greatly relieved, a wide grin splitting his usually grim face.

“But I’m afraid there will be little time for looting just now,” Relina continued. “I must insist that we find my husband and the remaining crewmen of the Sea Sprite.”

While she explained what she knew of the layout of the complex to Devrik and Mariala, Erol and Korwin quickly and efficiently stripped the non-burning corpses of valuables and interesting weapons. Vox and Jeb spent the time reluctantly using their bows to dispatch the remaining Ur-Tel’naru still webbed up and/or asleep in the other balcony chamber. Reluctant not out of any squeamishness, but because they knew they’d never be able to recover the arrows so used. But war is Void-cursed, and what can you do?

After burning the body of the sacrificed sailor on a pyre of his killers, at the princess’ insistence, with prayers hastily, if fervently, led by Vulk, the party headed back into the maze. Between them the two rescued women had a fair idea of how to find the chamber where they had been held before being brought to the ritual chamber. In the twenty minutes if took to reach the prison they came across no more of the Ur-Tel’naru.

When Mariala commented on their luck, hoping it would hold, Lady Nina laughed. “I tried to keep an accurate count of all the enemies I saw… I can’t be entirely certain, of course, but I never counted more than 30. And I don’t think this is actually where they live – lived – but rather a ceremonial center of some sort. So, including the ones you killed on the surface, there can’t be more than two or three still alive here.”

“Perhaps,” Devrik said cautiously. “But that doesn’t mean others won’t arrive from wherever they do live, at any moment. And two or three men, on their own ground, can still hurt us. So let’s not get complacent, eh?”

That sobered everyone. Devrik worried that he might have offended his new cousin, but she seemed to take it in stride – and indeed began to pay greater attention to their surroundings, looking for possible ambushes. He smiled inwardly as they pushed on.

The chamber where the remaining survivors of the Sea Sprite were kept was unlocked and unguarded, to the surprise of all. The surprise was quickly dispelled once they entered the room, however. A pillar of carved black stone rose up in the center of the chamber, and atop it a ball of crystal pulsed with violet light.

The Captain of the Royal Guard, Prince-Consort Marik Masadin, stood as still as stone, staring blindly into the eerie glow. Five other men with him, by their garb crewman of the doomed ship, formed a rough circle. Their chests rose and fell and their eyes even blinked, if less frequently than normal, but no amount of calling could rouse them.

“It seems very like your Balls of Wonder, Erol,” Mariala said. “Although if they’ve been like this for several days, there must be some sustaining element involved as well.”

“Fascinating,” Korwin sighed. “But how do we free them?”

“Maybe it is like Erol’s spell,” Vulk offered. “Maybe if we shake them, “attack” them, it will snap them out of it.” He strode forward and grabbed the nearest sailor by the shoulder, pulling him around. But almost instantly his own eyes glazed over. As the sailor turned back to the orb, Vulk stood rigidly behind him, equally entranced.

“Oh, great,” growled Vox. “We’re never getting out of here!”

“Maybe we should try the rod-key,” Toran suggested, pointing at the circle of stones set in the wall to the left of the door. It was identical to the one that had opened the portal into the underground complex. He pulled the rod from his belt and repeated the sequence he’d used earlier. As all the key lights shone blue the violet orb suddenly flared much brighter.

Everyone in the chamber felt a sudden pressure in their heads, and a wave of dizziness… Korwin seemed to throw it off with ease, and Mariala, Haplo and Erol experienced only a brief headache. But Toran, Vox and Devrik suddenly turned their faces toward the pulsing crystal at the center of the room and slowly shuffled forward to stand as close to it as they could.

“What happened?” cried the princess. She and Lady Nina had remained in the corridor just outside the prison, peering in through the doorway. They both looked on in consternation as some of their would-be rescuers suddenly became prisoners themselves.

“Hmm, this is going to be tricker than we expected,” Mariala replied distractedly. “Your Highness, did either you or Lady Nina feel anything when the light flared moment ago? A pressure in your mind, anything like that?”

Both women denied any such sensation.

“OK, so only those within the chamber are at risk,” Mariala mused. “We’re going to have to try other combinations, obviously, and with only four of us left… well, six counting the princess and Lady Nina… we’ve got just so many changes to get it right.”

“Yes,” Erol agreed. “And since this effect is so similar to my own, why don’t I try it next?”

“Alright,” Mariala agreed, secretly pleased. She had planned to go last in any case, so that she could learn as much as possible from the other’s mistakes. She handed Erol the rod-key, which Toran had dropped when his mind was seized, and stepped out into the hallway with the others.

Fortunately, there would be no need to go through the rest of the group, as Erol chose to set the stones to red, and after a little careful experimentation succeeded. The orb flared again, but then went dark, and in a few seconds all the men in the room began to wake up.

Relina and her husband enjoyed a restrained, but obviously deeply felt, reunion. The princess also seemed truly happy at the survival of her remaining crewmen. They, in turn, were clearly in awe of their monarch’s daughter, and on the three hour trek back to the coast they were more than happy to describe to the Hand how she had defied their captors from the beginning, even revealing her royal status in the hope it might spare her men. Vulk chose not to mention the whole “unborn princess will make us immortal” thing just then.

As soon as the party was back on the surface Mariala used her entangled parchment to notify Ser Wirdon that they’d been successful, his sister and future monarch were safe, and that he should send both the Stalwart’s longboats to pick them up…

Haplo Marikilo stood tightly wrapped in his cloak against the chill of the Kristala Va midnight air and looked apprehensively at his companions. King Laravad, usurper of the Tharkian throne, seemed in one of his manic moods, gleefully bouncing on the balls of his feet, his breath visible as excited puffs of white. His chief lieutenant, Kinthol Arket, blew on his hands and smiled faintly at his monarch’s high spirits, while the six Royal Guards under his command (foreign mercenaries to a man) stood stoically arrayed around them. The royal “advisor” and de facto Court Arcanist, Jeriko Varan stood behind them all, in the shadows of the Royal Box, his face invisible in the deeper shadow of his hood, save for the ice-chip glint of his eyes.

It made his skin crawl to have the older man behind him, but there was little Haplo could do about it at the moment. In the month or so since he’d gained entreé to this increasingly unstable Court he’d risen steadily in the “King’s” favor, despite rebuffing the man’s rather desultory advances (while having no desire to be bedded by the syphilitic despot, Haplo was a little insulted the man didn’t make more of an effort). But his meteoric ascent was viewed with thinly veiled hostility by many of Laravad’s synchophants, with Lord Varan, as he styled himself, chief amongst them.

He was certain the mage had no clue of his true status as an agent of the Star Council, else he’d have denounced him on the instant. But that didn’t mean the man wouldn’t take any opportunity to stab Haplo in the back if he could manage it without earning his meal ticket’s ire. No doubt he feared the younger man was angling to replacing him as Tharkia’s head arcanist… and so his cold, reptilian gaze seemed always to linger on him…

Except at the holy day feast this evening – then Varan had been entirely focused on Laravad, the two almost completely ignoring the festivities to whisper conspiratorially between themselves. Their inattention had annoyed the various entertainers, although the only one to show any sign of pique was the newest jongleur Laravad had brought back from his progress last month. Fortunately the “King” had been too preoccupied to notice, but Haplo worried that Vox was going to get himself in trouble if he didn’t guard his emotions more closely.

The singer was, in fact, about the only person Haplo came close to trusting in this vipers nest. They’d met last year when he’d come across the jongleur and a group of the Norja Duin being attacked by angry villagers. Using both his fighting skill and his powers of illusion he’d helped the Night People drive off their attackers, and of necessity had traveled for several days with them to get clear of any reprisals. He and Vox had struck up a friendly acquaintance, and found some mutual respect, in that short time.

He’d been surprised to see the singer at Court when he’d found his own opening, shortly after the “King’s” Royal Progress had ended. And Vox had seemed actually dismayed to see him, in turn… or maybe embarrassed? For a tenday they’d warily circled each other in the gavotte of paranoia that Laravad’s Court fostered, until circumstances had finally brought them to a relatively safe place to hold a private conversation.

Although both were cautious and circumspect at first, it quickly became obvious the two held similar views on the current “government” of Tharkia. Able to relax a bit, Haplo had been relieved to learn that Vox’s presence was not entirely voluntary – and that he already knew of the monarch’s disease. Like Haplo, he’d managed to avoid Laravad’s lecherous advances, at least so far.

Haplo had been tempted to take the jongleur into his confidence and enlist his help. But it was too risky, and in any case not his call to make… the Star Council was pretty clear about that sort of initiative. In the end they had agreed to distance themselves, so as not to bring disaster on the other if one suddenly found themselves out of favor. The closest they’d come to speaking in the last tenday was tonight, when Vox had rolled his eyes at Haplo as he’d stalked out of the Great Hall after finishing only two ballads –

“Soon my young friend!” Laravad suddenly exclaimed, slapping Haplo on the back and snapping him out of his reverie. “Soon you shall have the show I promised you! Isn’t that right Jeriko? Any minute now!”

“Indeed, sire,” the Court Arcanist’s voice slithered from the shadows, dropping the temperature another two degrees at least, Haplo was sure. He still had no idea why the increasingly erratic king had insisted that his youngest mage should join his little expedition when they left Kar Zhuran just before midnight. Or why Varan hadn’t objected, not even to the extent of a cutting look or sarcastic comment.

“I promise you a night you won’t soon forget… nor will the enemies of my regime” Laravad had chortled, pulling the younger man along in his wake as the entourage hustled out the postern gate. “A night that shall see the end of my greatest foes!”

The usurper had a great many foes, Haplo had thought, and it was anyones guess which ones he found to be his greatest. Not long ago he himself would have said it was the Hand of Fortune, premiere agents of the Star Council (although Laravad was unlikely to know that particular secret). But the Hand had vanished over a month ago, after narrowly defeating the powerful head of the Vortex organization, to the great consternation of their, and Haplo’s, mentor Kiril Vetaris.

The mystery was not made any clearer when the party had arrived, after several delays caused by the crowds of drunken revelers that still packed the streets, at the site of an ancient and more than a little decrepit arena in the oldest part of town. Once used to house the early Taruthani games in a distant time before they’d been outlawed, in recent decades it had been used as a thrice-monthly farmer’s market. That use had come to an abrupt end, however, when Laravad had imprisoned his father and seized the throne some six months ago.

But it appeared to be back in use now Haplo realized as they entered through the Royal Door and climbed up the steep steps to the old Royal Box. The stone of the arena floor had clearly had recent work done, being now much smoother and even than he remembered from his previous visit to the market, several months past.

The seats and stairs, at least in this section, seemed also to have been refurbished, and a new canopy was spread over it. The twelve large stone fire basins around the perimeter had all been cleaned and packed with fuel, and now burned brightly. They illuminated the arena beautifully, although there was nothing to currently see… aside from the new stonework itself.

After several minutes of nothing Haplo had tried to draw out the “king” (and he really had to stop adding those quotes, even in his head – one day they’d leak out in his voice, and then he’d have some explaining to do), but Laravad seemed to have gone silent, merely vibrating with suppressed excitement… and nerves?… until now.

“A wonderful show,” the king repeated in a whisper, eyes huge and glistening in his pale face, lips parted as if in anticipation of a kiss.

As Haplo wondered just what this promised “show” was going to be, and how many people were going to die, there was a sudden flash of light from the floor of the arena – when his dazzled sight cleared, the young mage saw a pattern of seven Greater Warding Circles, glowing a brilliant blue-white, seared into the stone. A moment after that, but with no corresponding visual warning, six figures suddenly blinked into existence, one in each of the smaller circles of power.

Haplo’s eyes widened in shock as he recognized the six people caught in Laravad’s trap…

♦  ♦  ♦

Vox’s eyes widened in surprise as six people suddenly appeared out of thin air, standing in the eldritch glow of the magical symbols that had also suddenly appeared, seconds earlier. The singer was not unfamiliar with magic, but only with the common, simple magics of the everyday world – not this kind of obviously high-end, melt-your-brain, apocalyptic magic! He suddenly wondered what he’d gotten himself into…

It had been almost a whim that led him to follow Laravad and his lackey-patrol when he’d spotted them leaving the castle by the postern gate. He’d thought it odd, since the main gate was still open to allow revelers to come and go on this holy day of celebration. But the fact itself of the king leaving in the middle of the night was not particularly strange, given his debauched appetites, and Vox was disinclined to know more than he already did about such things.

But then he’d spotted his sort-of-friend Haplo amongst the group, looking worried, and had made the decision to follow along almost without conscious thought. Grabbing his cloak and, on another sudden impulse, his longbow and quiver, he’d hurried out the postern gate after the royal party.

It had been difficult to follow them – on this particular Day Between the Years the city of Zhuran had exploded in a frenzy of excess beyond what the holy day usually brought – an excuse to release the tensions of the last horrible half-year, perhaps? In any case, drunken parties were going on everywhere, and the streets were packed with throngs of inebriated citizens, soldiers, mercenaries, Ethmoniri and Firilani tribesmen, and who knew what others. The City Watch and the Royal Guard were clearly having trouble keeping it all under control… not least because a great many of the erstwhile guardians of law and order had been indulging all day themselves.

Vox smiled cynically at the thought, as he pushed through the crowds. Fortunately the king’s party was fairly large and not at all shy about roughly knocking aside tipsy revelers… he was able to follow their disrupted wake until he regained sight of them. The crowds thinned a bit once past Execution Square and over the canal, as they moved into the older part of town. But even here there was a density of inebriated citizenry unusual for the hour, if of a rougher sort than the more affluent crowds around the royal keep.

The mystery of what was going on only deepened when Vox saw the king and his party enter a run-down old arena. It had apparently been a farmer’s market, until the current monarch had come to power, and had sat empty in the months since. Shortly after he’d arrived in town, more-or-less stolen away from the Baroness of Ansilmoth by King Laravad, Vox had noticed some sort of activity going on there, a renovation of some sort, he’d assumed then. With no reason to give it a second thought, he hadn’t.

But now he began to wonder… the construction had started shortly after that strange woman had blown into town. In her late sixties, still handsome, if a bit worn down, no doubt from the road, she had impressed the young singer as someone not to be trifled with. She had been immediately received by Laravad, and the two were closeted for hours that first day.

A few evenings later Vox had been summoned to perform for them while they supped alone, although he was too removed to hear any conversation. She was in and out of the castle for a tenday, before vanishing just as mysteriously as she’d appeared. But he was sure now that the woman he’d spotted that day giving the workers instructions had been her…

Easily disposing of the rusty lock that secured one of the public entrances on the side opposite from that by which the king’s party had entered, Vox had crept slowly up the steep steps and out into the stands. Crouching down behind one of the flaming stone basins he’d peered carefully around the great shell shape of its light shield to see what he could see.

Which was the royal party, arrayed around the seats at the far side, under a new-looking canopy in the Tharkian royal colors. It was hard to be sure, given the distance and the shifting shadows and light, but Haplo seemed ill at ease, uncertain.

Ever since he’d come to aid of Vox’s adopted Zilkah Sül family of the  Night People, during that unfortunate incident with the irate villagers over the missing pig, he’d rather liked him. Impressed with the mage then, Vox’s respect was renewed when they’d finally had a chance to talk after meeting at Court.

Originally worried that his acquaintance had taken up with the usurper out of personal ambition, he’d been relieved to learn it was not so. It seemed pretty obvious that Haplo was working some angle – to damage, maybe even bring down, Laravad – but was too canny to admit it. It was also clear that he wanted to protect Vox by keeping away from his agenda, whatever it might be, in case things went bad.

Vox appreciated the thought, but he could take care of himself… and so had taken to keeping an eye out for his sort-of-friend. Which was why he had followed along tonight, and was now staring in amazement at the greatest magical feat he had ever personally witnessed… and wondering what the Void he should do, besides slink away…

Just as he began to turn away one of the faces in the arena came suddenly into focus, and he inhaled sharply – Vulk Elida! It had been four or five years, but  he’d know that tall, strong figure and beautiful face anywhere. He’d been an apprentice – no, they called them acolytes in the religion business – when he and his mentor had taken on the case of a young Norja Duin accused of being a runaway Darikazi serf in an Arushali town.

The cantor had gotten the charges against Vox dismissed, and he’d listened to the man’s sermon afterward, at first out of gratitude, but eventually out of real shared interest. It was that moment that had started him down the path to Kasira, his patron Immortal to this day. And he’d have shared Acolyte Vulk’s bed that night, too, given the obvious attractions they’d felt for one another, if Cantor Arindel had not been quite so vigilant of his ward’s chastity…

So now Vox had two dogs in this fight… and he was sure it was a fight, or soon would be. Skulking away was no longer an option, although he still wasn’t sure what he could do against such magic. He shifted his bow from his back, and nocked an arrow as Laravad began to monologue…

♦  ♦  ♦

Mariala stepped through the Gate – and felt a sudden wave of vertigo and nausea wash over her. This was not what she usually felt during a Nitaran translation… but the sensation passed almost as quickly as it had come, as she found herself… what the Void!

It was night, not late afternoon; it was even colder than it had been in the mountains; and rather than the expected copse of trees, she stood in the middle of what appeared to be an old, run-down Taruthani arena. And the moons… Osal was alright, just begin to wax from the new moon, as was right… but Aranda. Aranda was wrong. It had been a waning half-moon just last night, and now it was only a few days past the full!

The arena was well lit by large bonfires in stone basins, but the stands were empty of spectators… no, there were maybe a dozen people directly in front of her, in what must be the box reserved for the nobility… all staring down at her. Faces were hard to make out in the flickering, shifting light…

Glancing quickly around she was relieved to see the others were all here too, thank Shala! But then she noticed the eerie glow of arcane energies pulsing beneath her feet – and the Circle of a Sigil of Greater Warding that she stood on! Each of the others also stood within their own Circles, and all were encompassed by a larger Circle yet. Oh dear, this was not good…

Her attention was drawn back to what she was increasingly certain were their captors as a man stepped forward and spoke. Dark hair and beard, dressed in furs and very high-quality armor, he smiled down at the friends with a very… disturbing smile. His eyes, in the shifting light, seemed like black pools… and quite mad.

“Ah, the infamous “Hand of Fortune!” Welcome, my dear enemies, to your doom!” His voice was not particularly high, but there was an almost subliminal hysterical edge to it. “What so many others have failed to do, I, Laravad the Second, rightful ruler of Tharkia and soon of all the lands of the Ukali Basin, shall accomplish this night!”

So that’s the infamous Laravad, Toran thought as he cooly scanned the area, noting everything that might be useful in a fight. The man showed every sign of going on all night, so maybe it was time to shut him up… he began the mental construct for the Arrow of Stavin… only to find there was – nothing! He couldn’t feel his connection to the T’ara at all. Well, this was not good…

“The Mistress has told me of your interference in our plans,” Laravad droned on, “but that problem will soon be rectified – this very night, in fact! She… WE… have laid this little trap for you all – and you have fallen quite neatly into it.” He actually giggled then, a very disturbing sound Devrik thought.

Like the others, he’d tried to cast a spell only to find his connection to the Power gone. The cursed Warding Circles, without a doubt. But if magic failed, a more physical course might serve – he often preferred it that way in any case. He strode forward, reaching for the holy greatsword at his back – only to run into what felt like a wall of solid air. It gave slightly at first, but the more he pushed the harder the barrier became, until it was like steel. He stepped back, frowning in furious thought. This was certainly not good…

“She would have liked to have been here herself,” the demented usurper went on, “but I’m afraid your last meeting left her… a bit the worse for wear.” He seemed singularly unconcerned at his ally’s plight. “So she’s off… rejuvenating herself… a little spa retreat, I suppose you could say!” That giggle again. It really was creepy Erol thought.

Magic and physical strength having failed him, as the others, he was trying valiantly now to use his extra-temporal and power-enhancing psionic abilities. Actually, he was attempting something that Asakora had recently suggested was possible… to reverse the effect of his power, and dampen, rather than enhance, a nearby spell. But while he could feel the power within, he could not make it manifest in any way… no more than Grover, racing around in frantic circles, could pierce the barrier… but he’d keep trying, even if it wasn’t any good…

“So, it falls to me to eliminate the annoyance that is the Hand of Fortune... What a pretentious name!” Laravad sneered. “And soon I will do the same to your precious Star Council. Oh yes, don’t look so scandalized – I have no problem mentioning that secret cabal of vicious puppet-masters in broad daylight – well, at midnight, but you know what I mean. I have no fear of them!”

Vulk rather thought that last bit was more to convince himself than anyone else. The man seemed a bundle of insecurities to the cantor… little good the observation seemed to be at the moment, of course. While he was frustrated at his inability to access the T’ara and worried about Cherdon, circling above the barrier, it was the apparent severing of his connection to Kasira that had the cleric truly shaken. He’d hardly even been aware of the subtle thread of soul-silver that had bound him to his patroness until it was gone – and now he feared it might be broken for good. This was so not good…

“Now, my pet sorcerror will activate the spell that Madame Vortex worked so laboriously on – quite a complex one, I’m led to understand, a true masterpiece – and you will all vanish like that,” he snapped his fingers theatrically, “banished to some alien dimension, who knows where? Not I, certainly!

“You… but not your possessions, hee-hee! No, you shall go naked to your new world, and powerless, too. While I shall collect all your little knick-knacks, to gift to my loyal mages as the mood may take me… save for that ugly little ring the mistress desires, of course.”

Uh-oh, thought Korwin. Keeping the Ring of Dominion out of the hands of either of their crazed enemies was vital… but he’d be damned to the Void if he could see how they could do it. These Wards were simply too cursed powerful – even he couldn’t seem to break them. But he had noticed the presence of Master Vetaris’ other spy, Haplo Marikilo, up in the stands. Apparently the lad had found a way to infiltrate the Court after all! He could be the hidden card they needed to turn the tables… which was a good thing…

“But before Jeriko chants the final words that will complete the ritual and rid this world of you forever, my friends, we have one more bit of business to attend to.” Laravad made a sharp gesture, and two of the gurads stepped forward and seized Haplo. One, grinning at the young mage’s surprise, put a knife to his throat, forestalling any thought of immediate resistance.

“Did you really think you had pulled the wool over MY eyes, you foolish mageling?” the erstwhile monarch crowed, his face alight with glee. “I knew from the start that you were a tool of the Council… and like any wise ruler, I keep my enemies close, hee-hee! But the time has come to discard you, like a bad card, along with these other jokers. Jeriko! Throw him in with the others!”

The older mage had stepped forward out of the shadows when Haplo had been restrained, a cruel smile crooking his thin lips. Now he frowned. “Your majesty, I don’t know what his presence might –”

“I did not ask for your opinion, lackey,” Laravad screamed, his manic glee turning instantly to rage. Spittle flew from his lips and his hand trembled as he pointed at his Court Arcanist. “Do as your king commands!”

Vox, watching the drama unfold from his hiding place, saw the robed man shrug and motion toward Haplo. The younger mage was lifted off his feet as if by invisible hands – even from where he was Vox could see the surprise on his friend’s face. With another gesture he was hurled into the arena, landing almost gracefully, despite the assault, at the edge of the magic whosit circles.

The older mage then raised his hands, stepped to the railing of the box, and began to chant. Vox decided that if he was going to act, there wasn’t likely to be a better time… he stood, drew and released a shaft just as the man seemed to reach the climax of… whatever the Void he was doing…

♦  ♦  ♦

Several things happened almost simultaneously when Vox Arantia loosed his shaft, in what he instinctively knew was a perfect shot to the head…

Jeriko Varan, deep in concentration as he set in motion the complex series of interlocking spells Avira Vetaris had created, telekinetically swatted aside the incoming missile out of sheer reflex. Had his attention been less wholly focused on the spells, he would have simply stopped the arrow in mid-flight, and Fate would have bent in a very different direction. But it was, and he didn’t, and so…

The arrow arced sharply to the right under Varan’s push, piercing the compass of the Greater Ward Circle. It missed everyone in the circles, landing near the center of the Greater Circle. At that same instant the ritual was complete, and the interlocking spells flared to life… but Vox’s arrow, in breaking the surface of the barrier, had created a hole… and a path…

Suddenly, Erol’s efforts bore startling fruit as he both slowed time around him and simultaneously dampened the power of the spells blazing into reality… psionics, altered spells, fractured barrier… all interacted in ways no mortal could ever have predicted…

There was a blinding flash of light, a deafening non-sound, and the Hand felt as if their very souls were being ripped from their bodies. With silent screams each was caught up in a cyclonic kaleidoscopic of sights, sounds, pain, ecstasy, euphoria and despair that they could make no sense of. Vox, too, was caught up in this maelstrom as the energy raced back along the path of his arrow to engulf him. For an eternity the seven souls whirled in an ever-tightening spiral…

And then it stopped.

With no transition Toran found himself standing in a large, well-lit chamber facing a strange man in even stranger silvery armor. He felt disoriented and… wrong. It took him a second to realize it was because he seemed to be several feet taller than he should, that and the fact that he seemed to be encased in an armored shell himself… from head to foot! Strange sigils, their meaning just on the edge of understanding, glowed in the air before his face, next to little windows, like… small scrying pools?

Vulk was having a similar sense of disorientation in regard to height… already the tallest of his companions, he seemed even taller now. But more disturbing was the fact that his body seemed composed entirely of… living ice?! Looking around him in a daze, he realized he was surrounded by strangers… very queerly dressed strangers…

Korwin was not only having to deal with suddenly being in a strange body, in a strange place, with strange people – but also the fact that he was hovering in the air… wreathed in blue flames! How the Void did this happen?!

Mariana was having an easier time of it, not least because the body in which she found herself was not too dissimilar to her own. In better shape, perhaps, she quickly realized, and with amazing physical reflexes. There was no connection to the T’ara, however, which was disturbing. But there was something else… something about the voluminous black cloak she wore…  As she took stock of the situation she also realized that she rather liked the scandalously form-fitting black outfit she found herself in…

Vox had been facing the Hand when… whatever the Void that had been… happened, and the body he suddenly found himself wearing was also faced toward this new group of strangely-clad people – and the view beyond them. Through a wall of… crystal? Surely not glass, not even the Khundari could make such huge sheets, and so flawless… Beyond that magical wall lay a city unlike any he’d seen. Or imagined.

Towers of stone and metal and crystal rose impossibly high, as far as he could see. Blue skies, white clouds, golden sunlight… and yet the light was wrong somehow… off in a way he couldn’t quite define, but couldn’t help noticing. And then there was that emerald green tower that rose twice as high as any other, seeming to pierce the alien sky…

Erol was trapped in madness.

Too many voices, all clamoring at once… fear, anger, bewilderment… Asakora, Faerendol, an unknown young man, an ancient raven, an angry eagle, so many more… but worst of all, he was in two places at once… in a vast, bright room lit by an alien sun… and also in an ancient stone arena under a blue moon he knew well…

♦  ♦  ♦

At that same moment, if that concept has any meaning under such conditions, the bodies of the Hand were playing host to the consciousnesses of those they had displaced in that strange new world… and confusing the Void out of Haplo.

He had seen Vox rise up beyond one of the fire basins, saw him take his shot at Varan, and saw it  suddenly veer off and into the Wards, just as the mage finished his chant with a triumphant shout. There had been a flash and an arc of blue-white energy had snaked back along the path of Vox’s arrow to strike his friend.

And now… nothing.

Both Vox and the Hand of Fortune stood where they had been, only the glowing sigils of the Wards gone, the arena lit now only by the natural fire light of the stone braziers. For a moment silence reigned as everyone stood rooted in surprise. Then Laravad screamed, a piercing cry of rage and fear.

“She swore it would work!” he shrieked, turning on Varan, whose face was as white as the King’s. “YOU swore it would work! Now they’re free and they’ll kill us all!”

Arket immediately ordered four of his men to surround the king and joined them to escort their monarch out of the arena. As they hustled Laravad away he dispatched the other two guards to another task.

“Release the güls!” he ordered quietly. “Then join us to get his Majesty back to the castle.”

As a trembling Laravad raced down the stairs surrounded by his five mercenaries, Varan shook his head in annoyance. “That will never stop them… it will barely slow them down.”

Looking like he’d rather run hImself, Haplo rather thought, the older mage mastered himself and began murmuring another arcane chant…

Artemis looked around in confusion. A moment ago she had been confronting the Silver Samurai in a penthouse suite, with the rest of the Vanguard… then the villain had blown that ancient horn and there’d been that sudden twisting sense of vertigo… and now she was… here.

Wherever here was, exactly. It had been an early summer afternoon, now it seemed to be a winter night… under a large blue moon… with the sliver of a second, smaller moon just rising above the stone walls… another alien planet? She quickly dismissed the unsettling thought as currently irrelevant.

More pressing, her teammates had vanished and she was surrounded by strangers dressed like extras from Game of Thrones… hell, she herself was in some sort of Maid Marion get-up. Except… this wasn’t her, at least not her body. She knew her own form too well to be fooled… this body, while of a height with her own, was in nowhere near as good condition. Not flabby, or even unfit, just not up to her own (admittedly high) standards. More disturbing, she felt no connection to her cloak and its shadow powers… this could be bad…

Scion staggered momentarily as he tried to climb to his feet, wondering how he’d found himself sitting on his ass… and out of his armor! It took a moment for him to realize the problem – he wasn’t sitting. He was, in fact, maybe four-and-a-half feet tall! And with a huge, dark beard, and mustaches braided with… onyx beads?! And dressed like a Dwarf from the Lord of the Rings movies. In fact, as far as he could tell, he was Gimili… oh shit, this was bad…

Blue Flame found himself suddenly on the ground and fully human. Which was bad enough, and deeply unsettling, but what was really disturbing was that he seemed to be in the body of some sort of blond surfer dude! The long blond hair and the indefinable sense of water and the sea left him with that certainty. The weird clothes – like all the strangers around him, he seemed to be dressed like a reject form the Shannara Chronicles – didn’t fit, but he was too freaked out to think about it… because his power was gone! Try as he might to flame on, it just wouldn’t happen… this wasn’t just bad, this was a fucking disaster!

Quanta looked around in surprise. His first thought, that they’d all been teleported by the strange device the Silver Samurai had wielded, was immediately discarded as he realized he appeared not to be in his own body. Shorter, much stockier and, frankly, over-muscled… he also could feel no connection to his quantum powers. Some sort of mind-switch was, he supposed, a possibility… but for the moment and until more evidence presented itself, he was inclined to the theory that they were in some sort of very advanced virtual reality simulation. The D&D-style clothes and environment certainly supported the idea. A bad spot, to be sure… but also interesting…

Chilz was shocked to find himself much shorter than he’d been an instant before – and much meatier! He immediately reached for that switch in the back of his mind that triggered his transformation into living ice – and found nothing. Well, no… not nothing.  There was some other sort of connection there… ignoring all the strangers in the Renaissance Faire costumes around him, Chuck focused on that feeling… and felt a sudden surge of understanding… there was a link within his mind to a Power, different from his own but somehow welcoming… and he sensed a Presence… He began to listen, and realized things maybe weren’t all bad…

Phantom Ace found himself standing behind a stone shield that backed a huge bonfire, a bow in one hand and the long shaft of an arrow in the other, looking down on a group of strangers in a kind of gladiatorial arena. They were all dressed like escapees from one of the more garish Robin Hood movies – maybe that old stinker with Kevin Costner? His first inclination was to go insubstantial and teleport to a safer spot – but the connection to his power was… gone! Instead he felt a ghost-like presence… and the certainty that if he just relaxed and… listened… he could shoot this longbow like an expert… which, he suspected, wouldn’t be a bad skill to have in Nottingham, or wherever he was…

Totem thought he was going mad.

After that disturbing sense of vertigo and dislocation, suddenly all of his avatars were in his head, babbling variously at him – angry, confused, demanding. And there seemed two… no, three… other voices… an Asakora… a Faerendol… and… Erol? But worse than this cacophony of voices was the fact that he – they– seemed to be in two different places at once… in Emerald City, with the confused faces of his teammates around him… them… and in some old stone coliseum, under a beautiful blue moon, with equally confused strangers… No! Not strangers, one of the voices said… friends… at his drunkest, he’d never experienced double vision like this… the cacophony in his mind seemed to redouble… in two worlds he collapsed to the ground, clutching his head…

♦  ♦  ♦

“Hand! They’re getting away!” Haplo yelled in frustration as the supposed heroes of the Star Council just stood around looking variously confused while the mad usurper and his minions fled. “And I don’t know what that swine Varan is up to, but it can’t be good for any of us!”

“Do I know you?” Artemis asked the striking-looking young man who was shouting at her. His words hovered just on the brink of comprehension…and somehow her own words came out of her mouth in that same almost-understood language!

“Yes!” the silver-haired man shouted, clearly very frustrated by something. “We met last month, just before you all vanished – I’m Haplo Marikilo. But there’s not time for –”

Artemis thought she recognized a name in that last spurt of words… Haplow Marakeelow… she should introduce herself next. “I am Artemis. Can you tell me–”

“Artemis! Is that you?” The stocky, muscular man with the flaming red hair strode toward her, an enormous, shining sword in his hand. “It’s me, Quanta. We appear to be trapped in some sort of advanced virtual reality simulation, as far as I can determine.”

He spoke in the same half-familiar language as the other man, but this time something seemed to click and she understood him… “Yes, it’s me… and if you’re really Quanta, then I think we can assume these others are our other teammates, yes?”

They quickly established their identities, using the code phrases the Vanguard had developed for just such doubtful situations, while the silver-haired Haplow danced around in impatience. Chilz quickly explained what he’d divined about their situation, forcing Quanta to reluctantly reevaluate his theory. After several attempts, with Artemis and Scion oddly enough having the most difficulty, the group managed to tap into the powers of the bodies they now wore… along with hazy memories and fragmented thoughts.

“I think we’re in a world where magic really works,” Chilz said, shaking his head in wonder. “It’s amazing!”

“There’s no such thing as magic,” Quanta sighed, shaking his own head in exasperation. “Only science we don’t yet understand. As Arthur C. Clarke said–”

But Kyle’s lecture was cut off before it could fairly begin by the sound of iron grinding on stone. From behind them and to either side openings appeared and four monstrous figures strode forth into the light. They were like nothing any of the Vanguard had ever seen – humanoid in build, with thick, muscular bodies, not especially tall, but far from short. Their jet black skin was covered in places with coarse, wiry black hair, and thick manes of blue-black hair covered their heads.

But it was the faces… those snarling visages seemed a horrifying mix of human and animal… snouted, fanged, with enormous tusks and  glaring red eyes. Various pieces of armor glinted ruddy in the bonfire light, as the creatures rushed forward, bellowing guttural shouts of eager bloodlust, wickedly curved weapons raised high…

Scion, overcoming his strong desire to unleash armor-piercing rounds from armor he didn’t have, instead listened to the dimmly-heard voice in his mind… and let instinct take over. Drawing three throwing stars from his belt, he hurled them at the nearest creature, where they sank into the flesh of its right thigh and hip. One of the blades must have severed an artery, for with a roar of rage and pain, the beast-man stumbled, collapsing to the ground. It twitched twice before going still in a fast-spreading pool of black blood.

Artemis instinctively reached for the throwing knife at her forearm… but although both “sides” of her knew the weapon well, the alienness of this body’s reflexes unbalanced her… the blade flew past the charging creature’s head by a hair’s breadth. With a silent curse, Artemis drew the large dagger at her waist, and as the beast’s weapon flashed past her head she ducked, dove forward, and drove her own blade into its belly. With a grunt it staggered back, doubled over, blood gushing between the clawed fingers of the one hand clutched to the wound. But it was still up, and the rage in its eyes was almost palpable…

Quanta, cooly accessing the inner template he was now able to sense within his own mind, decide to take this “magic” that some of the others seemed to find so amazing, and see what it could do. Shape the Form, pour in the Power – not so unlike what he did with his own powers, really – and then let it out into the “world”… or whatever this was. Multi-colored ribbons of flame shot from his hands toward the nearest charging humanoid. But the creature jinked and dodged, and the flames splashed harmlessly on the stone wall behind it. Hmmm, this was perhaps more difficult than it had seemed at first blush…

Phantom Ace didn’t hesitate, following the silent urgings of that voice within. He’d leapt down into the arena to join his teammates once they’d established their bona fides, and he still had longbow and shaft in hand. In a fluid movement, done without thought, he nocked the arrow, pulled back to his ear, and released… the shaft drove straight into the chest of the creature rushing toward Jonny/Korwin. It dropped without a sound, dead before its body hit the ground, curved mang skittering away across the stones. It was a little disconcerting to be getting two names for everything, but Gideon thought he was getting the hang of it now…

Haplo, still too mentally distracted to use his magic, whipped out his axe and leapt to attack the gül that was engaged with Mariala. While she had gotten in a lucky blow with that fancy dagger, she surely needed the help! His blow was blocked by the wounded Hovguvai, however, with such force it almost wrenched his weapon away. Seeing its new opponent off balance, the creature attacked in turn – only to miss entirely as the mage ducked beneath its killing blow. Driving his axe in an upward stroke with all his strength, the blade bit deep into the creatures groin with a meaty thunk. It took only seconds for the shrieking monstrosity to bleed out and go silent.

The gül (and where did that word come from, Kyle wondered) that had dodged his flame attack now aimed a vicious series of blows at Quanta, who unconsciously raised the sword he carried in both hands and parried every blow almost effortlessly. Ha, no doubt his old fencing skills coming to the fore in this strange situation… the black monstrosity stepped back and began to circle him warily… he circled in turn…

Which put Quanta in the perfect position to see the results of Varan’s arcane mutterings – with a rumble the ground shook in a rolling shock wave as a huge patch of stone rose up, like a balloon suddenly expanding. In seconds a vaguely humanoid shape made of dirt and stone towered over the heroes and loosed a roar that sounded like great stones grinding against one another.

“An earth elemental!” Haplo cried out, turning from the dying gül at his feet.  Perhaps if he could take out Varan with a Karmic Arrow… but the mage had vanished down the stairs as soon as his summoned minion had fully arisen. “Shit!”

Scion, disbelieving his eyes but never loosing his cool, instantly hurled another set of his shuriken at this massive apparition, almost before it had finished forming. But the metal stars merely plinked or cha-unked into the moving hill of rock and earth.

Chilz, coming out of the deep trance he’d been in for several minutes as he communed with Kasira – an actual goddess, this was SO frickin’ cool! – called on the silver thread he felt connecting him to Her. He felt Her power move down that thread and through him and out into the world – and felt the goddesses curse take hold of the shambling reject from Galaxy Quest! An actual holy curse! Hot damn!

Artemis, instantly forgetting her annoyance with Haplow’s interference – she’d have dropped the gül with her next attack, and he was lucky he hadn’t been killed himself – realized physical weapons would do little good against such a creature. Time to let this Mariala’s more arcane skills come to the fore… she relaxed and let the knowledge pour into her mind… it was very similar to the non-verbal communication she had with her cloak, truth be told…

With a shouted word and a hand gesture (overly dramatic, she couldn’t help but feel), Artemis released the energy she’d shaped – and felt it spread out to envelope the massive stone and dirt construct towering over her, fists raised. It stopped… it wavered… the arms dropped… and it toppled over with a deafening crash, and a shock wave that almost knocked them all off their feet.

Jonny had finally come to grudging terms with his new form as a damn surfer boy, and had been trying to let the body’s innate knowledge come to the front of his mind – a process suddenly accelerated when the ground had risen up in the shape of a man! Instinctively he’d begun forming a… well, a spell he supposed he’d have to call it… but by the time he sensed it was ready, the creature was already down.

Fortunately he didn’t need to let all that power go to waste… the gül that had been attacking Quanta/Devrik had been as taken aback as any of them by the appearance of the rock monster, but was again preparing to attack. Blue Flame unleashed his pent up spell of ice directly at the beast-man – and was gratified to see that the cone of frigid power was a beautiful blue. really, it was not that much different than a plasma blast. Just a lot colder.

The creature staggered under the onslaught of ice and cold, slowing it enough for Quanta to strike first. But in the excitement of the moment he overrode the instincts of the Devrik body and used his sword as if it was an épée. Which did have the advantage of being surprising – the blade slid into the beast’s gut, severing an artery and at least two vital organs.

But as is common with the gül-Hovguvai, it counter-attacked and even as it was fatally impaled, it slashed a wicked blow across Quanta’s stomach in return. The edge didn’t penetrate the armor he wore, except to score a shallow cut where front and back plates met, but the force of the blow was such that it knocked the wind out of him, and he collapsed wheezing to the ground, black whorls dancing before his eyes.

Once Chilz had used Vulk’s healing powers to revive Quanta, Haplo was finally able to get the group’s attention long enough to explain what was going on, from his perspective, and to learn who and what they claimed to be. While the others briefly debated their course of action Chilz also tended to the apparently delirious Totem/Erol, managing to get him to the point that he could at least stagger along  – with just a little help from his friends.

With time growing short, Quanta cut off the debate by unilaterally going after the fleeing men. “God knows what kind of damage these Ren Faire primitives are doing to our reputations back home – and to the city!” he yelled over his shoulder as he disappeared down the stairs from the Royal Box. “I can only hope they’ll be stymied by the technology…”

Realizing that their best bet to get home was, indeed, to defeat the local villains who had brought them here – keeping them alive to reverse the process, if that was even possible – the others rushed to following their hasty teammate. Haplo paused briefly to cast Aerik’s Whisper on the sleeping elemental, then spoke a few words in it’s “ear.”

“No idea if that will work,” he muttered to himself as he hurried out of the arena. “But nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

♦  ♦  ♦

The crowds of holy night revelers showed no sign of thinning as the seven heroes raced to catch up with Laravad and his men. Quanta had paused once outside the arena, seeing the crowds of people, and now allowed Haplo to take the lead, once he joined them outside.

“I have an idea,” Quanta muttered, bringing up the rear as they shoved through the milling, drunken mass of humanity, his mind turned inward…

It took nearly half an hour, or one turn of the glass as Haplo called it, to catch up to their prey through the winding, narrow, medieval-looking streets of the city. The so-called mage, Jeriko Varan, was just crossing a short bridge over a canal when Chilz caught sight of him. Beyond the fleeing man was a large open square, absolutely packed with drunken revelers… and beyond the square was a fortress-like structure that rose up into the clear, cold night sky, several stories higher than the buildings around it.

“The Royal Keep!” Haplo called out to his companions. “If we can stop them before they reach it… well, that would make this all much easier!”

Unfortunately there were two men, very obviously soldiers or City Watch, guarding the bridge, and as they approached it was equally obvious they’d been warned against the heroes. Weapons drawn, they blocked the way forward. Artemis, missing her Shadow Cloak, sensed a silent suggestion from the Mariala instincts within… Ah, this Wallflower spell was just the thing she needed…

Scion and Haplo met the guards with their own weapons, battle axe and hand axe, only to have their initial attacks blocked. It was clear these were some of Laravad’s elite mercenaries, not the lesser fighters usually found in the City Watch. Their own attacks were blocked by the Dwarf and the mage, and it looked like it might be a long stalemate – until an arrow suddenly appeared in the left leg of one of the guard’s.

Surprisingly, the man’s partner actually died first from Vox’s attack – momentarily distracted in his own attack on Scion, he let the diminutive hero in past his guard in a lightning counter-strike. The axe blow to the face killed the man instantly. While Haplo continued to spar with the remaining guard, who seemed little discommoded by an arrow in his leg, the rest of the Hand flowed past and into Executioner’s Square.

Artemis, intensely focused on the fleeing mage Varan, snaked through the crowd with much greater ease than her target could manage – the spell she’d cast, combined with her own 150 years of experience, caused the crowds to seem to part around her. She’d bypassed the bridge guards before the fighting had even begun and now had a commanding lead on her teammates…

Her brief amusement at the expression of fear she’d glimpsed on Varan’s face when he’d turned around, scanning for pursuit, disappeared as she glanced beyond him to see Laravad and his posse mounting the steps leading to the castle gates. They paused on the highest step, apparently feeling safe so close to home, and encouraged the panting mage to hurry.

But the king’s look of relief turned suddenly to one of horror. For a moment Artemis thought he’d somehow spotted her – how long did this “enchantment” last? But she realized he was looking at something behind her… a sudden flare of reddish orange light cast her shadow starkly ahead of her, and she risked a look behind…

♦  ♦  ♦

Chilz had discovered a new ability that his Vulk-form possessed – he was able to communicate with, and even see through the eyes of, the falcon that circled above the group as they shoved their way through the streets. Cherdon, the gentle, amused, and definitely feminine voice deep within had said. The initial mind-meld with the bird had been disorienting, and he’d almost barfed… but soon enough (and with some divine help, he strongly suspected) he’d learned to deal with the double vision and was able to shout out to the others the position of their quarry ahead of them.

Once they’d arrived at the densely packed main square in front of the looming castle, it occurred to him that they’d need to thin the crowd if they hoped to catch up with this king fellow and his men. Calling down the falcon, he’d pulled the pouch he’d examined earlier from his belt, and communicated his wordless desire to the familiar.

With a harsh cry the bird had clutched the leather bag in its talons and soared up and out over the crowds… and at Chilz‘ command turned it upside down. A shower of gold and silver rained down on the north side of the square… and, as he’d hoped, people pushed forward to try and grab as much as they could. This thinned the crowds to the south somewhat, and he saw the others moving more quickly towards the palace.

He also noted that people seemed to be giving Jonny a wide berth as he shoved through the crowd, and losing quite a bit of their holiday cheer in the process… oh yeah, his friend had said something about a Cloak of Merthados spell a few minutes ago… and after he’d cast it, muttered that he finally understood what those girls in high school French class had meant when they talked about ennui. Chilz followed in his wake, but didn’t get too close.

And then the night was driven back by a sudden flare of ruddy fire light…

♦  ♦  ♦

When the group had slowed to confront the guards on the canal bridge Quanta, who had been slowly bringing up the rear as he focused his thoughts on the structure he was building in his mind and absent-mindedly guiding Totem/Erol, came to a stop. He saw the massive crowd ahead, and decided he was ready… settling his still incoherently muttering friend on a crate near some pillory stocks at the edge of the canal, he sat down cross-legged in the middle of the street before the bridge.

It had been a fascinating study in dimensional mathematics as he constructed the appropriate Form in his mind, following the template the “Devrik” persona provided while also examining it from the enlightened perspective of 21st Century quantum physics… at first he’d thought this primitive culture had somehow found a way, crude as it might be, to breach the dimensional barriers of the multiverse and draw an intelligence from an alternate plane of reality into this one.

But as he moved through the steps and structures in his mind he’d come to the realization that what they’d actually done was find a way to latch onto the alien vibrational frequencies of an extra-dimensional entity that was already in this universe and merely bring it to their current position in space-time. Impressive enough he supposed, given their apparent lack of a proper mathematical/physical model of the structure of reality, but not what he’d been excited about initially – he’d hoped to use the method to get them all home, should other methods fail them.

Still, he’d completed the mental structure, and he was relatively confident that he could “summon” such an extra-dimensional intelligence… it would be fascinating, and perhaps instructive, to speak with such a being… he might learn quite a lot, really. Plus, if it was as physically impressive as the earthen being that the man had summoned back at the arena, then it could help them in the fight that would inevitably come up… this was the Vanguard, after all…

He poured the Power into the Form…

Quanta felt a tremendous heat rush through his body and out… out to the bridge before him… and the air began to swirl and thicken, growing brighter as flames seemed to be pulled from every torch and bonfire in the Square, all congealing into a massive humanoid form that was suddenly standing over the bodies of the two downed guards.

Haplo, who had finally brought down the second guard with his Karmic Arrow attack, and then immediately rushed onward into the Square, was brought up short as he heard a tremendous whoosh of flames and felt a great heat on his back. Whirling around, he saw a huge fire elemental standing astride the bridge, the bodies of the two guards smoking and turning black beneath its feet.

He’d known Devrik was rumored to be a very powerful fire mage, a natural by all accounts, but this was staggering. It was the largest such elemental he’d ever personally seen, easily rivaling the earth elemental Varan had summoned earlier. And this one had been summoned by an alien mind merely possessing Devrik’s body – what could the mage himself do, once back in his proper place? And of more immediate concern, could this “Quanta” person now control the creature he’d managed to summon?

A question Quanta was asking himself just then. He felt the mind of the alien connected to his own, visualizing the link as a fiery rope stretching between them. But that other mind was truly alien, and for a moment he shied away… but the surge of joy it felt as his control loosened was all too human, and made him realize he had no choice. His mental grip tightened on the rope and he pulled it taut… the alien pulled against him, but its will seemed chaotic and fuzzy, while his own was sharp and focused… in a moment he’d reigned it in, and he felt it grudgingly subside, giving itself over to his control… for now.

Quanta was fascinated at this strange new mind, and the opportunities it presented. He began to probe, asking questions – what was it composed of in its native dimension? Where exactly was its native dimension? Did it have a name? Did it know how to travel between dimensions itself? But his questioning proved fruitless. There was an intelligence, or at least a consciousness of self, in the creature, but it seemed too chaotic to really communicate effectively… but maybe, given enough time…

But that time seemed unlikely to be granted him Quanta realized, as he suddenly became aware of the ground beneath him, vibrating in a rhythmic thumping, as if giant feet were stomping… leaping to his feet, he saw the rocky head of the earth elemental from the arena just over the rooftop of the nearest house. As it cleared the last street before the bridge it paused, catching sight of its fiery cousin…

It let loose with one of its stone-grinding-on-stone roars and began to lumber forward, arms outstretched as it hurled rocks at its foe. The fire elemental roared in return, a sound like a massive forest inferno, and prepared to meet the other’s rush, batting aside the stoney missiles with fiery fists.

Quanta quickly decided discretion was his wisest course just then, and he dashed across the bridge just as the earth elemental reached it. With a simply indescribable sound the two behemoths met and cracks radiated out across the bridge…

As flaming stones flew through the fire elemental and into the the Square the early-morning partiers finally realized that some serious shit was going down. Those not struck by the debris took to flight in screaming panic… in moments the vast space was cleared, save for the bodies those unfortunates trampled underfoot or struck down by burning rocks, and people simply too drunk to notice two immense elementals battling nearby.

The half dozen mercenaries that had been bearing down on the Hand from north and south were temporarily slowed by the fleeing mass of hysterical humanity, but soon enough managed to confront the heroes. Unfortunately for them, Phantom Ace had restrung Vox’s longbow, after having the string snap during the fight for the bridge… two died instantly with arrows in the chest, while a third took a shaft to the skull.

Gideon felt a little queasy as he dashed past that last one – the man was still on his feet, but wandering around in circles, looking dazed and seemingly unaware of the arrow in the left side of his skull. His right leg didn’t seem to be working properly… which was why he was staggering in circles. Well, he shouldn’t have been working for an evil dictator if he’d wanted a long, non-brain-damaged life, right?

Scion took out two more of the mercenaries with his battle axe – he was finally getting the feel for the thing. He’d have to think about working up a high-tech version if they ever got home… could be very effective in the right situations. He grinned at the thought of taking an axe to the Big Brain as he caught up to Artemis.

Artemis had stopped on the steps up to the main gate to the castle, having seen Laravad, Varan and the others disappear within shortly after the appearance of the fire elemental. Her camouflage “spell” seemed to have worn off, and there was no way she was rushing through an unknown doorway in this body… not without backup. And damn, she was actually slightly winded after such a short dash…

“Well damn,” Blue Flame said, mounting the steps himself. “Did you smell the lamb stew that one vendor was selling? It was incredible! I was hoping to maybe get the recipe, once we got this all sorted, maybe take it home to see what the guys at Krazee Burrito could do with it. But the crowds knocked the pot over in the panic…” He exhaled in a deep and wistful sigh.

Artemis and Scion exchanged a glance and just rolled their eyes.

As the others joined them on the palace steps, everyone turned to watch the two elementals battle it out on the canal bridge. The one melted and fused parts of the other, the other hurled rocks though the one, ripping outward in flaming chunks… and Quanta lingered nearby, watching in apparent fascination.

“I left a magical suggestion in the earth elemental’s sleeping mind, to wreak as much havoc as it could when it woke up,” Haplo panted to the others, still winded himself from the running and the constant string of fights. “It seemed a safe order to give a being of elemental chaos, and I figured it might provide a needed distraction… but I never imagined this…”

Suddenly they saw Quanta dash toward the elemental combatants, raising his hand in a commanding gesture – and a tiny seed of flame leaped from his hand. It grew to a sphere 7 meters across and engulfed the earth elemental, which staggered back. Its flaming cousin surged forward, flinging out its own searing attacks. But the creature of earth and stone leaned into the flames, bringing its two fists down in a mighty overhead blow that tore the fire elemental in half – if only temporarily.

But that last blow had been the final straw – even as the fire elemental reformed itself, the bridge cracked and shattered, crumbling away beneath them, dropping both elementals into the frigid water below. With an explosive hiss a massive cloud of steam engulfed the shattered remains of the bridge.

By the time Quanta made his way back to his friends the steam had cleared away enough to show that the fire elemental was simply gone… and the earth elemental was no more than a quickly vanishing pile of mud and rock, eroding under the sluggish flow of the canal.

“Hmmm… so water beats both fire and earth in this universe,” he said, more to himself than to his companions. “Good to know.”

“Well, as dramatic as that was,” Haplo said impatiently, “we need to move quickly. Given the state of the castle, much like the city itself, I doubt Laravad has many more reliable mercenaries close at hand – but he could still kill his father and barricade himself in a tower, trying to wait us out. Time is not on our side here!”

“Well, lay on, MacDuff,” Chilz said. He and Scion were both now encased in a faint golden glow, the result of his latest communion with the goddess Kasira – very cool mystical armor! He drew his own sword and brandished it dramatically. “We will not rest until this injustice is set right!”

With Artemis shaking her head, and the others mostly just grinning, the team followed Haplo into the Grand Hall of Kar Zhuran to dig out “King” Laravad II, like a rabid badger from its den…

♦  ♦  ♦

The castle was still awake, mostly… and no more sober than the rest of the city. Dinners lingered in the grand banquet hall, although more than a few were asleep in their cups, Dozens still danced in the great ballroom, to the dragging music of a clearly exhausted band. And guards still patrolled the hallways.

Despite having been warned that enemies were in the keep, the guards proved little obstacle to the Vanguard/Hand’s search of the old pile. Not finding their quarry on the ground floor, they dispatched the guards on the stairs and proceeded upward – the direction Haplo was certain the panicked ruler would run.

Th second floor proved as empty of fleeing monarchs as the first, but had rather more mercenary guards. Between Artemis‘ skill with the dagger (killing one mercenary with a single blow), and her continued use of Mariala’s Fire Nerves; Scions skillful use of Toran’s axe work; and Haplo’s Karmic Arrows (one of which took a poor guard in the groin, incapacitating him – and only making him wish he were dead) and drugged blowgun darts,  it took only a few minutes to clear the way and complete their search.

Quanta suffered some injuries, however, and the brief loss of his sword, as he continued to override Devrik’s muscle memory and treat the greatsword as an épée. Eventually deciding he was more interested in the fascinating intricacies of the Devrik-form’s “magics” anyway, and inspired by both Blue Flame and Chilz, Quanta decide to attempt to actually alter the form he wore. Succeeding in properly formulating the steps of something called Immolate, he suddenly found himself composed entirely of flame!

Utterly fascinated at the new sensations he was feeling, he realized he might just gain some insights into how Jonny’s powers worked… maybe come up with some new ways for the kid to use those powers once they returned to reality. Half-abstractedly, Quanta wafted up toward the ceiling as the others headed for the stairs, seeping up to the third floor via the capillary-like network of cracks in the old stone of the castle…

It was on the third floor of the castle that the Vanguard/Hand finally cornered their badger –  screaming at his men as they attempted to force open a massive ironwood door. “Hurry, you idiots! I should have killed the old fool months ago! Why did I listen to her?! Why?!”

When he saw the Hand of Fortune pouring out of the stairway, Laravad gave a shrill yelp and made a break for it. Dashing past his men, who automatically formed a wall between him and his enemies, he almost knocked his Court Arcanist aside.

“Your Majesty, wait!” called Varan, clutching at his sleeve, but the panicked usurper paid him no heed, vanishing around the nearest corner. A moment later a door slammed. Grimacing in frustration, the mage ran after his idiot employer, motioning Arket to delay the cursed “heroes” for as long as possible. He had a little surprise prepared, but he had to catch up to that fool first–”

Before he could take more than ten steps, however, he was brought up short by an apparition of smoke and flame that rose out of the floor between him and Laravad. As it took on a more solid form he recognized the fire mage, Devrik Askalan… Immortals, how he hated Askalans, the bane of his existence these days it seemed! But he had a cure for this Askalan, he thought with a malicious inward grin…

Before the man of living flame could take a step, Varan gestured at him and a cone of silvery blue energy flashed out from his hands, freezing the very air between them and engulfing the fire mage in a cloud of pure cold. Devrik staggered back, his flame form flickering wildly for an instant before vanishing, leaving a slightly stunned but entirely living human body in its place.

Cursing darkly – that had been his most powerful casting ever of Breath of Arandu, it should have killed the bastard instantly – Varan dashed past his distracted foe and out the door after his wayward ruler.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“We don’t have time for this,” Artemis said in exasperation as the rest of the team faced the wall of heavily armed mercenaries blocking their way. She gestured in the way she was becoming accustomed to, creating the Form and releasing the Power almost without conscious thought.

Kinthol Arket was just raising his longsword to attack when every nerve in his body suddenly felt like it was in contact with a red-hot iron. He spasmed so sharply he heard, dimly through the searing pain, his spine crack. The sword dropped from suddenly twitching fingers, and he dropped to the ground along with all six of his men, writhing in agony.

“You’re getting really good at that, Artemis,” Blue Flame said, stepping past her to look down at the twisting forms on the floor and brushing the horrible blond hair from his face. “I think I’m getting the hang of this magic stuff myself – watch this!”

Summoning up Korwin’s muscle memory and the psychic stamp left on this body’s brain, Jonny took only a minute or so to cast the Strands of Lakira. Webs of glowing white energy flowed from his hands, and as he gestured back and forth they began to wrap around the writhing men. Wherever they touched they seemed to cling, including to walls and floor. In seconds all the mercenaries, and their commander, were bound helplessly in place.

“That should hold them even after that fire-thing of yours wears off. Long enough for us to deal with their little king, anyway.”

With one of her slight smiles, Artemis led the others around the immobilized mercenaries and out the door Laravad, Varan and Quanta had used moments earlier. The team found itself outside, on what she estimated much be the roof of the grand ballroom… faint strains of music wafted up through the frigid air. A stone walkway and chest-high battlements surrounded an expanse of weathered wood on three sides, with the main tower of the castle rising on the fourth side, from which they had just stepped.

Laravad was almost to the farthest corner of the space, brandishing a magnificent-looking sword before him – at his own wizard! Jeriko Varan was trying desperately to calm his hysterical monarch, while glancing apprehensively over his shoulder at their gathering enemies.

“Laravad, please, listen to me! I can get us out of this, get us away – but you must let me–”

“No!” shrieked the usurper, spittle flying from lips drawn back in a feral snarl. “I see it all now! You’re in league with them!” His sword flicked briefly toward the now cautiously approaching Hand. “You’re in this together… planned this all along… to humiliate me… to take me prisoner and seize my throne! I know that’s what your vile mistress wants, to rule over every land! Well you won’t take my throne, you traitor!”

He slashed wildly at his would-be advisor, backing away from the man and breathing heavily. Varan began to move forward, hands outstretched somewhere between pleading and a desire to strangle, only to be hit in the back by Artemis‘ latest blast of Fire Nerves.

He staggered around to face this new threat, his own arcane power already dampening the pain, only to be faced with Devrik in his flame form once again. Before the Vortex mage could do more than gape, Quanta landed a powerful, burning roundhouse punch to his head, spinning him two-thirds around and dropping him like a puppet with its strings cut.

Racing past the downed mage, whose face was already beginning to blister as his hair smoked, Haplo approached the now seemingly fully mad ruler. He was backed into the corner where the battlements met, with no way out except a three-story drop to icy stone.

“Laravad… your Highness… if you’ll just let us–” Haplo barely dodged the swift blow aimed at his head, taking it instead on the forearm as he raised his dagger to block. The sharp pain of the cut across his arm and an uneven board beneath his foot as he pedaled backward sent him sprawling. Laravad’s eye’s gleamed with bloodlust and he raised his blade again…

Before the crazed royal could follow up, however, he was struck twice – first by a cross-bow bolt from Toran, which pinged off the plate greave protecting his thigh; and again, an instant later, by a longbow shaft from Vox. This shaft pierced the armor at Laravad’s left shoulder, sending him staggering back against the battlement.

Strangely, the wound seemed to actually calm Laravad somewhat, the hysterical tinge vanishing from his voice, and a cold, hard light coming into his eyes. He ignored the shaft sticking out of his body, and raised his sword in a defensive posture.

“I warn you, you’ll never take me alive,” he snarled at the arc of foes before him. “And I promise to take as many of you with me as I can! But it need not come to that, even now. Perhaps we can reach an… accommodation. I can be a generous master, when the mood takes me. Join with me, and we… we…”

His eyes suddenly rolled up in his head, and the soon-to-be-ex-king dropped bonelessly to the walkway, sword clattering musically on the stones.

The others all looked around in surprise to see Artemis/Mariala on the far side of the roof, a little pale and rubbing her temples. “I was in no mood for a monologue… and this magic stuff is really rather fatiguing. I wasn’t sure how much more this body had in it, so it seemed best to simply end things.”

This pronouncement was followed by a sudden silence on the freezing rooftop as it sank in that it was over, at least for the moment. Haplo was the first to recover, as it occurred to him that they’d just created a power vacuum – if they didn’t act quickly, things in Zhuran could get very ugly, very fast.

“We have to free King Balen before anything,” he said, helping Toran… no, Scion… damn, this was confusing… carry the unconscious usurper back into the castle. Devrik… Quanta… whoever, hefted the singed Vortex mage over his shoulder and followed on their heels.

Inside Laravad’s mercenaries were just beginning to recover from their recent encounter with Fire Nerves, to find that they couldn’t move more than a few centimeters, being bound up in some sort of sticky, faintly glowing white webs. Arket glared venom at the group as they strolled past him, struggling futilely against the restraints.

Haplo found Vulk… Chilz… by Shala, he really needed to get the Hand back into their proper bodies… any way, whoever was operating Vulk’s body was standing at the door Laravad’s men had been trying to break down, attempting to coax someone on the other side to unlock it. It took several minutes, and a judicious use of Abon’s Authority, but eventually the young page was induced to unbar the way.

Inside a very frail looking old man lay in the middle of a large, canopied bed. Haplo was shocked at the sight. King Balen was only 47 years old, he knew, but this man looked to be closer to 80… and not a healthy 80, either. His brown hair had gone entirely white, and his eyes were sunk in dark pits. But for all that the man seemed alert and in his right mind…

“You Majesty, we have… subdued… your son and his closest minions,” Haplo said, going to one knee and bowing low. “But the mercenary forces he controlled remain, many of them in the city. We need to – that is, what are your Majesty’s orders?”

Balen pulled himself upright, the young page rushing to help him and put pillows behind him so he could reclined against the massive carved headboard. His voice was surprisingly strong, coming from such a frail frame.

“I am grateful for your service, ser, but might I know who, exactly, you are who have done this deed?”

Haplo quickly introduced himself and the others, glossing over the complicating issue of possession and dual identities for the moment. Between them they managed to give the rightful – or at least legitimate – King of Tharkia a concise precis of the nights events, again leaving out some of the more arcane details. When they had finished the king had sunk back into his pillows, a look of deep grief on his face.

“So, the foolish boy finally decided he had to kill me… I never met this “Madame Vortex” he kept going on about, but it was obvious that she was the puppet master behind his treason, if not his growing insanity. I also knew she was the reason I was kept alive, although I could never decide why she wished it… perhaps as an additional lever on Laravad?

“He may have thought so, and while he wouldn’t, or maybe couldn’t, disobey her… well, I think he found a way around that. Someone has been slowly poisoning my food for months now… once I realized it, almost too late, I enlisted young Gavin here to help me.” The page blushed and suddenly found something fascinating to examine on the floor.

“He has been my loyal servant in my imprisonment, and he began bringing me clean food, and helping me dispose of the poisoned fare, for awhile now. I don’t think the cooks know anything about the poison, for they never stay to watch me eat it…” With an effort of will, Balen threw off his morbid thoughts and turned to more pressing matters.

“You are quite right, young Ser Haplo, we must act quickly if we are to seize back control of the realm. Tell me, have you any word on my daughter, Princess Relina? I know from young Gavin that she escaped her brother’s assassins on the night of the coup, along with her husband, Captain Masadin and some of my loyal Royal Guards, whom he commanded… but we’ve heard no more since…”

“I’m sorry, Sire,” Haplo frowned. “I’m afraid I’ve heard nothing in the month I’ve been at Court… nothing more than whispered rumors, and a dozen of those, all conflicting.”

“Damn. Well, the next step is obvious, with or without the Princess – we must contact the Baron Gevdan and acquaint him with the current situation. He was the only one of my vassals that Laravad and this Vortex organization failed to either suborn or take by surprise. I know he has held out at Kar Gevdan since the Crown Prince’s treason, and been quite a thorn in his side, too. Controlling Tharkia’s only major port was, at the very least, a major inconvenience to my rebel son.”

Between the king and Haplo, enough loyal (and relatively sober)servants and fighters were rounded up over the next two hours to usher the remaining Kristala Va celebrants out of the castle, acquaint the few remaining mercenaries and Laravad loyalists with the dungeons, and close the gates. There were too few soldiers to properly man the castle, but riders has been dispatched to the Baron Gevdan before all else. “If he’s half the man I know him to be, he’ll be here with all the forces at his command by the end of the Unicorn Watch today,” the king assured his rescuers.

“And with almost the entire city, including most to the Watch and the men-at-arms, suffering hangovers, there should be very few awake before then to offer resistance.” Haplo grinned in anticipation… he had a few illusions he could try, to ease the Baron and his men into the city, if the need arose…

Once the castle had been made as secure as possible, Haplo knocked on the door to the Kings Chamber. Gavin let him in with a shy smile. The stench of his traitorous son still lingering in the room, despite the servant’s hurriedly removing all physical signs of him, Balen had nonetheless insisted on reclaiming them as his own immediately. Despite the late – or rather very early – hour the restored king sat at his desk, signing orders and reading what reports he had on the state of his realm.

“Sire, we are as secure as we can be for the moment,” Haplo began, once the formalities were dispensed with. “I’m afraid, however, there is an urgent matter that I and the Hand of Fortune must deal with now… a loose end left over from the magical attack at the arena last night.”

“Ah, that sounds ominous,” the king smiled wearily. “But I can hardly deny that you all seem to know what you’re doing. Certainly, you have my permission to leave the castle and attend to this business, as you see fit, ser. Will it be dangerous, tying up this loose end of yours?”

“I… hope not, your Majesty,” Haplo said with a grimace. “But with magic you just never know…”

♦  ♦  ♦

It was the hour before dawn, at the tail end of the Cat Watch, when the Vanguard and their new friend Haplo returned to the old arena. A section of the structure had collapsed since they’d last seen it around midnight – no doubt as a result of the earth elemental making its own exit.

Scrambling over the rubble, they viewed the open expanse before them. No sign of the sigils of the Greater Wards remained to be seen. Artemis turned to Totem/Erol and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“I/We should be able to do it, don’t worry,” the shaman/gladiator/mage said wearily. The team had recovered him from the spot on the edge of Execution Square where Quanta had left him, guarded by Grover and Cherdon. In the intervening time he had managed to come to some sort of understanding with all the various personas in his/their head(s), and learned to cope, somewhat, with the double vision of two very different realities.

“They’re ready on the other side, and Raven is prepared to work with Faerendol to recreate the framework… it won’t be the same as whatever the hell that cobbled-together nightmare of Avira’s was, but it should do the trick.”

As an afterthought he added, “Although I doubt the experience itself will be any more pleasant.”

As Totem/Erol/Raven/Faerendol/etc. made their preparations, the rest of the Vanguard/Hand gathered around Haplo.

“I don’t know how much of what we did tonight will be remembered by our hosts, once we all return to our proper bodies,” Scion said to the young illusionist. ” But you, and we, will remember. And if you should ever happen to find your way to our world… or time… or dimension… know that you’ll always have friends there, and will be welcome.”

For the last few minutes Haplo answered as many questions about his world as he could, mostly coming from Quanta and Artemis. But all too soon, Totem/Erol indicated that he/they were ready, and everyone took their places in the ghost-like echoes of the Wards that had appeared on the arena floor, and the shaman/mage began to chant…