Free-Form RPG Begins Here

[tamrend]

The Calling

Ariana

Ariana gazed up at the ceiling, observing every crack and crevice of the vaulted space. When she closed her eyes she could still see it, etched into her mind’s eye with perfect detail and clarity. The sharpening of her memory had been gradual at first, but in the space of a few killings had accelerated to the point that she now possessed perfect recall. She had only to concentrate and she could relive any moment she had experienced in the last six months.

Six months. Six more killings. She could only imagine what new changes, what enhancements those six deaths had given her.

Next to her, the man sharing her bed began to snore. She turned on her side to study him. Moonlight glistened in his beard and cast the crooked outline of his nose in sharp relief. She reached out her hand touch the smooth skin of his cheek. There was warmth and nothing more, sensation without feeling. She had invited him to her room without really knowing why. She’d played along with her body’s impulse, and once it was over, the only change from before was a vague sense of panic, as though she’d forgotten something vitally important. Which was, of course, impossible. She couldn’t forget now, even if she wanted to.

It had been days since she last slept. She knew her body would have to rest soon, but she wanted to delay it for as long as possible. She stood up out of bed smoothly and silently. The air was deeply, bitingly cold on her bare skin, raising tingling gooseflesh. The man slept on as she dressed, drawing on tall boots over her fur-lined leggings.

It was time to move on, she reasoned. If she stayed in one place for more than a few years, people began to notice that she didn’t appear to be getting older. They began to wonder, and then to ask questions. Too many questions tended to be bad for business.

Ariana reached beneath the bed and withdrew a leather bag with a drawstring. She opened it to check the contents. Inside it was a handful of silver and gold coins and a smaller, wrapped bundle that contained over a dozen perfectly cut gems, each one a moderate fortune, representing years of bounties. She bent once more and drew out a knife sheath. The blade quivered as she strapped it to her side.

She slipped through the common room with hardly a glance thrown her way. She stepped outside and snow squealed and crunched beneath her boots. Her breath frosted as soon as it touched the air. She stopped and looked back at the inn, feeling the stirrings of fear in her breast. She had finally come to it now. The nightmares that haunted her sleeping mind, the force that kept calling her west. She had tried to deny it, but it drew her on, the pull growing stronger by the day.

She turned from the inn’s softly burning lights. She lifted one foot slowly and set it down again in front of her. The knife quivered against her thigh, perhaps sensing the change that was to come. The next step was easier, the fear giving way to inevitability.

[Mercenary]

Cast out, as so many practitioners of arcane magic before me had been, I found the sort of solace that only solitude could bring one. “The cold and lonely road I travel,” I mused. “And bloody dark.” I added to my own thought, gathering my cloak about me more tightly. I had ridden hard all day and all night since leaving my father’s castle. It was therefore reasonably to be expected that my horse was beginning to slow. His fortitude so far had been impressive. It is an interesting trait that animals possess, the ability to discern between situations where their absolute and unflagging cooperation is required and those where it is not. Horses, it seems, always ride harder when the life of their rider depends on it, and even with less urging than in peaceful times. I patted the chestnut on the neck and dismounted.

So many of the difficulties of everyday life I had lived so long without. Even having been discredited and financially ruined, I would still live without them. Magic and privilege are in that respect similar. I gathered some branches together and strode a ways off the highway before setting them down in a heap. With the flicker of a thought the wet branches caught fire easily. I tied the recently stolen warhorse up but I knew it wouldn’t be necessary. He felt an inexplicable sense of loyalty to me, inexplicable to him because I had instilled it. I melted the snow off in a small circular radius around the fire I had created and sat down. Pulling out the few possessions I had been able to gather up before escaping: a dull blade from the smithy, a small satchel of traveling food, and an archaically decorated, slim, black volume.

Sitting down by the fire, I began to reflect on the day’s events. My father had loved me and no amount of delving into the arcane magics would have changed that. His nobles, however, were a different matter. I have observed that when given a reason to think they are somehow magnificent, men of little real worth or consequence are apt to defend their power by persecuting others. My father was ailing, and the issue of who was to take the throne on his departure had become one of some divisiveness. He was of course insistent that I, his firstborn and only son, should take the throne upon his death. His vassals were of another faith, however. They would have as their new king Lord Duncan, arguably one of my father’s most brilliant army commanders and without a doubt the wealthiest and most respected of his noblemen.

A few weeks prior, my father had decided that he would resign his throne while still living, and delegate it to me. Word of this had gotten out, doubtless by some betrayal, and Duncan marched on the capital at the head of an army of my father’s finest soldiers. I had stayed with my father even until the very end. I’d have gladly died in his defense. But for every line of veteran soldiers my mighty waves of flame could reduce to ash Duncan could field still more. My father pleaded with me to flee but I would not. Seeing this, he decided to force my hand. He fell on his own sword that I might be compelled to flee. I made sure his sacrifice was not in vain and, even as exhausted as I was after such a heroic expenditure of energy, made my escape.

I turned my attention to the slim volume in my hand. It was one of the few works in my father’s library that had escaped my attention. I flipped carefully through the pages but never seemed to come to the end of the book. Finally, after what seemed far longer than should have been possible for such a short work, the writing stopped. But, to my further amazement, the pages continued. “A book that can never be finished. Marvelous.” The pages near the non-existent end were blank, presumably that I should continue it. I set it down again. There would be plenty of time to study it at length. As I lay trying to drift off to sleep, exhausted but unable to find peace, I stared up at the night sky. It was an interesting thought, and one I had had often, to think that my pursuers and I both gazed upon the same stars, the same moon. To be so divided and yet united in something so simple and universal filled me at last with the peace I had been seeking.

[Snowglare]

The rain would wash his sin away. Doran was sure of it. The rain of molten fire that would greet him in Hell. This rain... This rain was only water, and would scarce wash the dirt away. It was just as well. He'd long ago decided that the gods meant for him to live. Life was his punishment; if it lasted long enough he might well be forgiven. But he didn't want forgiveness, he wanted to go back, to undo what he'd done. But that was impossible. The gods had made sure of it, lest men like him find easy redemption. He was undeserving, like a sycophant knighted for his so-called loyalty.

The rain left clear, deep footprints in the mud. They would be upon him soon. He was ready. Not to die, he silently lamented. Not this day. This day their arrows found his cloak, while his sword found their bellies. Afterwards, he wondered if the dead men weren't worse off than him. Their entrails strewn about, their blood pouring forth willingly, made thin by the water. And who's to say they'd find salvation on the other side, or that he wouldn't? Marla could be waiting for him, could already have forgiven him. She would understand his delay. She always understood. He couldn't go yet. It wasn't his decision to make.

He buried the men in shallow, unmarked graves. The rain would wash away the dirt and scavengers would tear their bodies apart. He didn't care, it was only a token gesture. They'd have given him even less. His head they would give to the king, who would use it to decorate his castle walls. His body they would strip naked, taking all he didn't need. Perhaps they would have used his sword to kill another like him. An outlaw like him. The thought angered Doran for some reason. Didn't outlaws deserve death? Didn't he?

Marla filled his thoughts, as she always did in the forest. As children, they were never far from it, just as they never feared it. You couldn't fear what you loved. They tried to chart the forest once, found they didn't care, and fell asleep deep within, far from home. They made their way back the next day without difficulty, but their parents were nonetheless upset. For the next month they were forbidden to enter the forest. They would have been safe there, he realized. That day, if they had gone into the forest. They were always safe there. Some magic protected them. It was so close. So close.

Tears came, and Doran prayed.

[proudfoot]

I hide behind no steel or stone.
Let them come.

The words were emblazoned on a dark obsidian panel, affixed to the base of the granite statue at the head of the great hall, the statue of Melkiza Sangloria, the great hero. They were his battle cry, his call to friend and foe alike. I had read them many times, and heard them spoken aloud even more. Every social gathering, every meal time, every night before I went to sleep. They were the token of my family; the strength of my bloodline.

I hated them.

For my entire life I had been indoctrinated with teachings of the might of the family name, the power of my inheritance, the pride I should feel at being one of the privileged: a prince in the House of Sangloria. Every day and every night I was told fantastic stories of the courageous acts of my ancestors; of their brilliant achievements, their innumerable victories in battle, their insurmountable superiority over all of mankind. And I was to be the next great Sanglorian king.

There is nothing I wanted less.

Power and might had never appealed to me. The sword and the sceptre were foreign implements; I would rather have pen and paper than mace and shield. I perceived no glory in victory; what pleasure is there in being someone’s better? I had seen my father and watched the life he led. He was the most powerful man in the most powerful kingdom in the world, or so my tutors led me to believe. But I did not want to be like him. He was lonely and sad, grey and old.

But I had no choice. I had been born into privilege; I was obligated to my duty. I studied and I learned, I trained and I grew, until the day of my father’s death, when I set out to claim my right to the throne in combat, seeking to overcome my opponents in the great Tournament of Succession.

The fact that modern-day politics dictated that I could not lose, no matter the opponent, was both good and bad to me. Of course, no one told me I would eventually win by default: they were too busy telling me how much better I was than the rest of the kingdom, telling me that victory was my birthright. But I knew this was not the case. No first-born son of a Sanglorian king had ever lost a Tournament of Succession. Bribery and blackmail saw to that. But did I truly want to win? Of that, I am not sure.

These thoughts ran through my head as I kneeled beside my bed. Today I had officially written my name on the tournament sign-up sheet as the masses watched and cheered. Soon I would participate in and win the tournament I had no desire to enter.

I lowered my head to my folded hands and cried.

[Zulehan]

Light braves my cell. Better not let them see that. They'd go nuts. Poor thing'll be whipped to death by big fat old nuns.

Suddenly it's a whole lot more light, and I groan and double over in pain. It pierces my eyeball, my eye socket, goes straight through the bone and juice to the core of my head, and I burrow my face in my pillows and blankets and wretch in pain. These aren't eyes. They're testicles, and I just got a swift kick to the scrotum.

So maybe it's not so bad that they sealed off the windows and don't let the light in here.

"I'm sorry Sammy, butcha gotta get some food in ya, or you ain't never gonna get better." Glenna, the big burly old church lady that tended my eye and ribs. She's such a worrywort. She cares, but boy, she's strict. "Here, I'm leavin' a plate of food on the table next to the bed. When I leave, you eat it all up, mmkay?" I grunt in hopes of driving her off, satisfied. I can't really seem to get ahold of myself enough to do much more.

But she's not gone yet. "Oh, some tall old man, dressed nice, he came and left a note here for ya. I don't want you straining yourself to read it, now. Wouldja like me to fetch Mother Lydia? She's taken some readin' lessons."

Oh no. "No, no, that's quite alright!" I manage to moan, muffled by the covers I'm borrowed into. "I'll read it later! No rush," I nervously spout. "Thanks a lot!"

"Okay, I'll leave it here for you. Don't you go reading it any time soon. If you need anything, just knock at your door." And finally, she leaves. Another burst of light--this time I'm prepared, and fully protected--and the door is shut again. Just a shy, dusty beam left so I can see to eat.

My eyes are finally recovering. One is smashed shut voluntarily by my eyelid, the other oozing and bloated under a thick cloth wrapped around my head. As the focus of pain leaves my eyes, it stalks, lupine in its efficiency, right down to some broken ribs, and dully picks at them. They're not too bad. Maybe not even broken. I can deal with it.

I put up a good fight, if I may say so myself, but there were at least a dozen guards at the gate. Doran managed to escape; I saw him running with a speeding panic I never would have guessed I'd see from a man so damned dour and proned to moping and sighing. They roughed me up pretty bad before their Captain Gregor arrived and pried them off of me. Since Gregor and I had an "understanding," he deemed that I was free to go.

I went, alright. After some talking and conniving with Gregor, I went straight to the church, and fell flat at the door. I woke up in this room, all dark and dusty and being bandaged and fretted over by big old Glenna.

I don't know what happened to Doran. My "understanding" with Gregor lifted the bounty from his head. But I really don't know what he got in trouble for. So who's to say there aren't still people out there who don't care about the bounty? Who just want him dead?

Graham, the tall old man that dresses nice, is a good friend of mine. He's the kind of guy you can go to ask what material the local cobbler uses to make his shoes, but has never met the cobbler, or just about anyone else here in town, as long as he's been here. The note he left will surely clue me in on Doran's well-being, and perhaps his whereabouts.

As I start to sit up, the wolf named Pain sees his opportunity, leaps roaring from my ribs into my head, and I'm thrown back against the bed again. Okay, so maybe I'll read the note later. I've got time. I get pretty good care here so far, since I also have an "understanding" with the head clergy of this town. Funny, that. Some pay me for the stuff, others pay me to keep the stuff away.

Whatever. I win either way.

[Jazzmosis]

Why or how Frailyn arrived here was irrelevant, now. He stood, alone in the dense thickets. Perhaps it was chosen by the gods he no longer believed in that he would be alone, lost in the forest. He wanted to scream in anguish at his cruel fate; but it seemed pointless since nobody would hear it.

He had never been a bad person - not exactly the kindest of souls, but never the worst. During his younger years, he joined a small group of teenage renegades, commiting crimes; petty theft, acts of vandalism. However, once he reached his twenties, he decided it was no longer worth being an outlaw. Frailyn settled down, taught himself the sword, and the mastery of the bow.

Eventually, he married a fair maiden. Her name... it would never escape him. Naya. Together the two spent years together. Frailyn wept as he recalled these torturous memories. After roughly five winters, Naya and himself decided to visit a famous city. On the way there, his old gang of youth thugs confronted him. Apparently, they were upset about his leaving without notice.

Frailyn's sobbing nearly became uncontrollable.

The thugs tried to mug him to regain their lost time and effort "moulding" Frailyn. While he fought them with relative ease, they took Naya by knife and put it to her throat. Threats were bellowed, from the thugs and himself, he remembered that clearly. He recalled immediately giving in to their demands, handing over his money, his shoes, his possessions - anything he had of value. Seemingly unsatisfied, the thugs made off with his things, and his beautiful bride, Naya. Or at least they tried. Frailyn remembered attacking, no weapon in hand, with such fury that the thugs ran off in fear.

Frailyn looked at the scar in his arm. It paled in comparison to the wound in his heart.

During his fury, he had taken a sword in his left arm, using it to block a blow heading to his face. Although it hurt beyond comprehension at the time, Frailyn still managed to scare his foes off. But not before, in a panic, they took off with Naya.

Frailyn recalled passing out from the pain, and awaking days later. He spent a week searching for Naya, before finally finding her corpse; tattered, beaten, scratched, and eventually he found a knife that had been used to slit her throat.

He sobbed uncontrollably - the memories he had spent so long trying to forget always came back.

Why she was murdered remained a mystery to him; Frailyn eventually decided Naya had fought back and was killed. Probably *****, as well. The widower had attempted to find her murderers, but in the end he only became lost, and without a hope to cling to. It was as if they had disappeared off the face of the earth.

A year had passed since that, and Frailyn was now 29 years old. He had abandoned humanity. From time to time, humanity found him, but he tried to escape his pain by wandering the world. Now, as he wiped away his tears, he had yearned for human contact. But in his efforts to escape pain, he had lost himself in these dense woods. And with each passing day, his pain grew more intense and his hatred and fury for the murders grew.

Frailyn killed when he had to; in his travels he found a sword.

He continued to walk, forcing each step. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, but he knew that an end to this infernal forest would come soon.

Why had the gods abandoned him? Why had he abandoned himself? It didn't matter now; all that mattered was getting out of the forest.

[Üdorim]

'Name?'

'Mayanna.'

The clerk dropped the point of his quill and looked up at her impatiently, 'your family name, miss.'

'Twelvetree.'

Mayanna Twelvetree sat across from a tired looking clerk, fidgeting with her hair and trying hard not to appear comfortable in her tall cushioned seat. She had after all spent the last fortnight on horseback, and the worn leather contours of the chair were whispering to her; ease back and rest for awhile. It was an annoying test of willpower, but a proper lady shouldn't let herself be caught relaxing into a man's seat. The clerk dutifully went on inscribing words and names on the parchment in front of him.

'The duration of your stay?' the clerk stated more than asked.

'I accompany my step-brother to the Tournament Of Succession. He was given a late entry into the tourney and I will be leaving with him when he is done.' she said.

'No more than two weeks stay, then,' he noted on the papers. 'Nationality?'

'Sanglorian.'

The clerk looked up once more, 'you have a Moranian name, miss.'

'I, as was my brother, was given the name by my father, who adopted the name himself from his wife. It's Moranian custom,' she finished.

The clerk tapped his quill against the parchment impatiently, leaving a small trailing line of dots, 'what was his legal name prior to that, miss?'

'I told you. His name is Twelvetree.'

The clerk sighed and gave in. With a final flourish of the pen he signed the form. He dabbed the tip into the inkwell and handed it to Mayanna, 'just make your mark at the bottom and your papers will be complete.'

Mayanna signed with exhausted hands and laid the quill to rest by the inkwell. The clerk blew gently to dry the ink, and then handed over her papers in a roll. 'Enjoy your stay, and may Tristan Sangloria fare well against your brother.'

May Tristan Sangloria fare well against your brother. Loyal words, legal words, religious words. A coward's words. Mayanna walked away from the guildhouse and onto the cobbled streets where a light rain drizzled over the rich and the poor indescriminately. She made her way quickly to the inn where she was staying, worried about the dye in her wig, even though she knew she needn't be. She'd been careful in selecting the dyes and stains to use in this kingdom's weather, so much different from the desert.

When she entered her room she took off the blonde wig and unrolled her own shoulderlength auburn hair; a dead giveaway she was a foreigner. She loosened her limbs and shook her body out, stressed from walking like a Sanglorian slut. The damn women were so hard to imitate with her lean and, she was resigned to it, hipless body. Made her wonder if it wouldn't have been smarter to travel farther east and try somewhere else.

Of course, only the tournament in Sangloria rewarded performance with position. No other kingdom in the world did so; it was why so many nobles were only brutes with nothing but steam between their ears. But she didn't know if she even wanted that position anymore, to be a noble. The need for it in her heart had been quenched by the rains of this place, and all she had left was the smoldering desire for revenge.

Looking out the window at the grey skies outside, she decided that she would leave. After she had beaten as many so-called nobles as she could, gouged out the eyes of as many as possible, she would leave. She would get far in the tourney and withdraw with a noble position, she was sure. Then she would cast that noble position aside to her imaginary step-brother, and leave them both in Sangloria. Something was calling her from beyond the city's walls, and she didn't understand what it was. She thought she had known its source before she came here, but now ... She unrolled her second set of papers and looked at them a long time, before storing them alongside the papers for Coran Twelvetree, the lithe blonde Sanglorian fighter.

She layed down in a real bed for the first time in weeks, and listened to the rain splattering on the roof above her. The same rain is falling on the palace roof, she thought. So why is the King given dominion over men, if the gods weep over his kingdom?

[Mercenary]

The wan sun had long since been up, its pitiful rays diminishing the cold with all the efficacy of a child’s bare fists pounding on an oaken gate. My entire body ached from the long ride and the day’s expenditures. My overuse of magic the previous day had brought the headache I normally endured to a point of such exquisite and unmarred agony that I could scarcely employ my mind in any other endeavor, no matter how small or trifling. I would have to make a point of not expending myself so utterly unless there was a dire need.

I gathered up my things and quickly was off on the road. My pursuers would be days behind me after my lightning-quick ride of the past day and a half, but there was no point in being too lackadaisical. The chestnut’s gait resembled that of a tired old mare, not the powerful, young warhorse I knew him to be. I considered invigorating him with some simple magic but the mere thought brought my headache, which had been receding slightly, once again to full crescendo. Right, no more magic for several days.

Finding myself incredibly bored on the plodding mount I decided to chance a read of the black book. The language at the beginning was in a fine hand, probably that of a commissioned scrivener, and was very elevated. It was too much for my mind to handle in its current state. “There must be some way to diminish this damn headache!” My fingers seemed accidentally to slip from the page I had been reading. The book opened to a page much further in and on it was a rather messy jumble of letters that were just barely decipherable.

“The reader will excuse my imperfect hand as my current predicament dictates that this must be written from the back of a near-galloping horse. The thought has just occurred to me that nowhere in any of the classical texts is there any reference to the methods of coping with magic-exhaustion. This being, I think, one of the magician’s most paramount concerns I will here detail my own methods. First, let it be known that sleep, counter-intuitive as it might seem, is the most detrimental of all activities to which the magician might commit himself. Magic's employment is similar in many respects to the consumption of ale. It should not be used on an empty stomach, and the consumption of good food and drink will aid the magician greatly in his search of comfort and repose.”

I immediately took out a hardened travel biscuit and began to eat it. It was so rock-hard, in fact, that I had to consume it very slowly, letting my saliva soften it enough to chew. The effect was instant and extraordinary. The headache, while still not reduced to those levels to which I was accustomed, had been greatly lessened. The enchantment on the book had to have been one of sweeping and extremely powerful proportions. Not only were its pages endless, it had a tendency to flip to a page pertaining to what the reader was considering. I had to wonder, though, what had brought it into my father’s possession. Perhaps he had been a close friend to a wizard when he was younger? I wondered, too, what had caused the book to pass from the wizard’s hands to my father’s, especially considering that my father was no mage himself. My headache having been reduced, and my curiosity having been piqued, I was eager to return to my study of the book. It would seem to have as its focal point the practical applications of magery, something no other book I had ever read could claim. I had never used magic on any large scale before the past few days, and as such much of what I knew was derived from ancient writings and classical theory.

“Further, if I may be allowed to continue with my alcohol metaphor, the prolonged employment of magic presents certain health risks to the mage. These health risks are purely physical however, so one may practice and practice without ever entertaining the thought of some day being made into an invalid. It is difficult to articulate exactly what these risks are, as different authorities have wildly differing opinions on the subject, but I will offer some symptoms I have personally observed in myself and in my colleagues.”

“Those wizards who specialize in the lighter disciplines, that is, in healing and other so-called holy magicks, have less to fear than do their peers. Theirs is not a profession without risks, however. The effects on users of this sort of magic seem to be largely focused on physical strength and constitution. They demonstrate characteristics that might only be otherwise observed in sufferers of anemia, their dexterity and vigor resemble that of the terribly old and decrepit, even if they are young. Often their hair begins to fall out, and in the well-advanced stages they may cease to be able to grow hair at all. Further, their blood does not clot correctly at wounds and so they must take great care should their skin be broken.”

As I was already pretty well invested in the darker magical disciplines I skimmed the remainder concerning light mages, earth mages, death mages, and all manner of elemental mages until finally I came upon the section that interested me, dark mages.

“The dark mage has more to fear from the negative effects of magic use than does any other sort of wizard. At the beginning of this passage I introduced the idea that all the effects of prolonged magic use concerned physical traits, let me now introduce one small caveat to that general rule; the practitioner of dark magic is subject to an unceasing and malevolent mental assault by all manner of demon and spirit. They are frequently corrupted by the dark spirits with which they are in constant communication. Furthermore, the enormous mental strain of fending off so many demonic beings on a daily basis is in many cases instrumental in establishing mental illness. Only one further difficulty confronts the dark mage and that is the deforming of his flesh. I have observed, though rarely, dark magi who have become so deformed by the practice of their art that they resemble the demons that they summon. Their skin becomes ruddy and coarse, cracks and fissures begin to emerge, giving their countenance a distinctly reptilian appearance.”

“The young practitioner of dark magic who may be reading this might well become discouraged upon discovering what horrible maladies await him. Take heart, young mage! For though your price is higher than that of your colleagues so, too, is your reward. Of the few dark mages I have met, and there are precious few of them, not one possessed anything less than the capabilities of even the grandest of light or elemental wizards. And there are certain measures to be taken in preventing the onset of these deformities. I met a wizard once who, though quite insane, was an intensely powerful dark wizard and yet he possessed none of the lizard-like traits that so characterize other dark magi. Just what methods he used I am not well educated enough to be able to describe here. I leave that to the budding dark mage who may be reading this to discover. But, let him know that there is indeed hope.”

[proudfoot]

Uharo wiped the sweat from his face with one forearm and let his sword-arm drop, his longsword hanging from his hand. Across from him his opponent stood and waited with a smirk on his face.

“You grow tired, Uharo,” said the man, chuckling softly to himself. “I would have expected more from you.”

Uharo’s face tightened in rage; he fought to hold it in. Losing his temper had cost him before. He wouldn’t let the taunting get to him this time. He raised his sword to continue. The man across from him did likewise.

“Prepare yourself, Uharo. I’m feeling… cruel, today.” The smirk grew into an open-mouthed grin of anticipation.

Uharo leapt forward, bring his longsword down in a sweeping arc which was easily deflected. Uharo moved with the parry, allowing his sword to be swung around to his side, pivoting with it until he stood sideways. He put the momentum to use, bringing up one leg into a kick aimed at the other man’s chest. The man jumped back and laughed.

“Come on, Uharo. Such simplicity from someone with such a big mouth. I grow tired of these games.”

Uharo bit back a cry and thrust his sword toward the man’s face. It was easily slapped away.

“You’ll have to do more than that to win the tournament, young one,” taunted the man. “If you don’t improve yourself by then you’ll be out after the first round.”

“Shut up!” screamed Uharo. His chest heaved with rage as the man laughed. Uharo stumbled back against a wooden wall and clutched the handle of his sword with both hands, his knuckles white and his face a contrasting red.

“I thought you were motivated, Uharo. I thought you wanted to become a great fighter. But at this rate you’re only going one place, and that’s the loser circle. I don’t know why I’ve even bothered to train you over these few years. I always knew you’d be a failure.”

Uharo raised his blade in front of his face. “I won’t lose,” he said quietly. “I don’t know where I might end up, but I know it won’t be here, stuck in a worthless hole, in a dead-end job, lording over a handful of children.”

The trainer’s eyes narrowed into slits and he grimaced. “You, young friend, are out of line. I think it’s time you go to bed.”

“I think not.”

“Uharo,” said the trainer, “go to bed.”

“Hikana,” said Uharo, his face a mask of defiance, “go to hell.” In one fluid motion Uharo dropped his sword, reached down to his leg, gripped a smooth knife by the blade, swung it out of its holster, and let it fly toward his teacher’s head.

But his teacher was faster still. In a blur of movement he dodged and countered, flinging two razor-sharp needles at the speed of sound. They knifed through the air and found their mark, piercing Uharo’s ears and pinning him to the wall. Uharo screamed.

The trainer stood and stepped in front of Uharo, his face a livid contortion of red. “This session is over. Go to your room and stay there.” He turned and walked away

Uharo reached up to the quivering two-millimetre-wide needles and gripped them. He ripped them free with a cry and sunk to his knees, holding his head as blood mixed with tears.

[Unvision]

“Closing time,” he announced, wiping out a tin mug with a stained rag. “Any last orders?” He finished drying it and flipped the mug upside-down before setting it on the shelf behind him.

The bar was the only place in the small tavern still lit and the only place still occupied. This was how it ended every night. The same three patrons on the same three stools at the bar, the same tired atmosphere, the same reek of ale and vomit and the same fogged up lantern struggling to illuminate the same scene.

All three of his customers set down their mugs and pushed them across the bar. That was part of the tradition too. The keg was almost empty. He filled the tankers half way then split the remaining trickle between them.

He took a scrap of paper from beneath the counter and scratched another tick on it next to each of their names with a bit of charcoal.

“Ya don’t mean’a tell me yer gon’ter charge us fer that?” slurred the gentlemen in front of him, waving his hand in the general direction of the mug and coughing, his breath mingling with the general foulness of the air.

“We all know ya’ don’t have any money left anyway. I’d put money down that you ain’t paid fer a drink in a year and you’ll never pay fer a single one of these marks!” belched his companion.

They all laughed and hiccupped and drained their mugs and stumbled out of the bar and into the cobbled street. The bartender wiped their mugs with the same dirty cloth and kicked the logs in the fireplace apart so only ashes and dying coals remained. He felt along his calf to make sure the knife was still there, grabbed the lantern off the wall and the keys from beneath the bar and went into the street. The room was finally smothered into darkness as he closed and locked the door and headed in the direction of the docks.

#

Waves slapped lightly against the bulkhead as the moon reflected off the water and made ghosts on the pilings. The bartender carried his lantern down the main dock past the sloops and ketches and turned onto a smaller dock. He walked down the weather-grayed planks and set his lantern down in front of an old cutter that was missing its sail. Other boats and pylons absorbed the waves here and the boat barely rocked as he stepped easily up onto the deck. He yawned, walked to the end of the boat and pissed into the harbor before walking around to the front of his boat to pick up his lantern. Finally he descended into the cabin and blew out the wick.

[Zulehan]

I'll just have to get up slowly, that's all. Then, read that note. Then get the hell out of this sickhouse.

I lift my back from the bed, first. Rise up to get my elbows under me. Then a bit more, and--ow--I'm sitting up. Throw my legs out over the bedside, and I'm still fine. It'll be nice to get some warm cider in me, clear my head of unimportant things like broken ribs and aching heads and the possibility of having to wear some sleezy looking eyepatch for the rest of my life. That'd be terrible for business. But I'm alright just yet.

A cup of water, a crusty slice of bread, a slab of beef in some dubious looking gravy, half a steamed potato. Nice. I plan out my next five minutes: water, note, bread, potato, try the meat if I'm still hungry. I drink half the cup, and pick up the note.

Samuval,

Linda and the remaining Breymond host appreciated the package you sent. Linda herself was intoxicated when she received it; she mistakenly paid too much. The money is under the sand.

Doran ran south, into a forest few enter. He slew the soldiers that followed, and is now an outlaw. The king is not happy, and as such, your deal with Gregor has shrugged off Doran's predators only temporarily.

Little yet known of Doran's initial crime. Seems he stole a valuable object, got caught, ran.

G.

PS: C is in tune. The rays have five notes piano, eight notes forte, five notes finale. The clouds have ten notes piano, fifteen notes forte, ten notes finale.

The mention of Linda's drunken accident makes me chuckle. What a dumb old woman, wasting away like that. I don't think it's sad at all. I don't care much about what happened to Breymond Academy, either. Except, of course, the irony of it all.

Graham had a brother, Duke, who liked me a lot, and got me into the Academy for free. Duke was kind of a weird guy. I was the young tall brash blonde in my prime years, with youthful features and tender eyes, and he was an eccentric, feminine bachelor in his forties, with too much money and not enough friends to share it with. I think he adored me in ways I don't want to be adored, if by old bachelors. But I got a free education, so he can kiss me full on the lips if he's so inclined.

Well, no, he's dead. So are most people related to Breymond, now.

Breymond taught two things: trade and alchemy. I took both, because I was smart enough. As an alchemy student, I got access to the libraries, and as a trade student, I was close to the professors. Combined, I had the opportunity to weasel my way into access to the deep, stinking cellars that housed the old books. Purely for studious reasons, of course.

Scanning the shelves, I found one of these was curiously stacked all with green books. They line Graham's library now, and I'll spare the details on how I got them there. But in them, were quite a lot of interesting and useful facts. Take, for instance, this excerpt that I memorized.

After removing the cup, dip the stem again into water, powdering it under water, and roast it over a calm flame of Thames ash. Its blackness begins to diminish. Grind it well in some clear water with Stotta's pine leafs and roast it again. It begins to be green, and then this blackness will disappear. Remove the pine leafs. When you see the powder beginning to turn green, be sure you are in the right path. Move it then when it becomes quite green and has the appearance of temyadlis techii. This will show that the process is right, and the powder has lost its sal savminaic which would have corrupted it.

That's how you make weeping powder. Graham, a music lover, calls it finale. It takes four sounds worth of weeping powder to kill a grown man. Twenty sounds makes one note. A note will balance perfectly, in weight, with the eye of a cow.

I left out the part about which mushroom you need in the beginning, of course, but you get the idea.

As I notice that it's raining outside, I dip some of the bread in the gloppy mess of beef and gravy, and have a bite. Not bad. I forgot how hungry I am.

[Mercenary]

The book had continued to fascinate me over the course of the next several days. The sky seemed to grow darker with each passing day even though the season was tending more toward Spring than Fall. I was so absorbed in the ingredient lists for various potions to increase mental stamina and aptitude that I almost missed the telltale signs of an ambush. A large tree had been laid across the road I traveled. A man before it had sheathed a cheaply forged broadsword and two men behind carried longbows with ease. I could easily devastate them with magic but I did not relish the idea of having headaches again unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Good day gentlemen.”

“We’ll be having your purse, stranger.”

“You’ll sooner be having death.”

“We’ve got ourselves a fighter here, lads.”

My head began to ache in anticipation of the bolts of fire I was about to hurl. I nearly groaned as I lifted my arms. But before I could cast I heard the sounds of mortal struggle from behind the fallen tree. Both archers had been gutted with a blade and lay now in their own brigand blood. With ever so light an application of my screeing ability, I noted that their purses had been swiftly removed as well.

The man, who was now holding his formerly sheathed sword, began to grow fearful. His wide peasant eyes looked this way and that. The shadow of an armed figure flitted from behind the tree and the last brigand collapsed in agony. Suddenly, I found myself faced with a threat potentially more deadly than what I had been confronting before.

Hoping to disarm any hostility the figure might hold for me I said lightly, “Good day, friend. Thanks for helping me out there.”

“No trouble at all. I should really be saying the same to you. I’d been lying in wait for a long time hoping someone would come by to distract them. Robbing brigands is generally a dangerous and profitless line of work but I saw that their purses were heavy with coin.”

“Excellent so we both profited.”

He sheathed his sword and I exhaled imperceptibly.

“So what’s your name fellow? I’m William.”

“Victor. Where are you headed now with your coin burden?”

“Nowhere truly, probably spend it all on harlots and gambling.”

“Noble employment for any coin!” I laughed heartily. He might become a good source of information on the local culture and customs; I was always in search of information, no matter its kind. “Say, are you up for a pint?”

“Sure, I know a great place just down the road a bit, right on the edge of town.”

“Oh, there’s a town around here?”

“Only the capital of Sangloria, friend.”

“Fascinating.” I said with a grin, “Shall we?”

[Jazzmosis]

Frailyn continued to wander through the forest, hacking through vines when they stood in his way. He considered himself a tortured soul - a forgotten shamble - of a man. The pain of losing his love, Frailyn knew, would haunt his life for eternity.

Further and further Frailyn pushed on, until he noticed the thickets were starting to become more scarce. Although still surrounded by forestry, he knew that the escape could not be far now. With a slight spring in his step, Frailyn walked on.

Despite the aches and pains he felt, Frailyn moved forward. In fact, the aches seemed to have dimineshed considerably, with the good news he thought was just outside the woods.

Further and further he walked, imagining a glorius field that he could soon step into. But.. suddenly he realized that the woods were once again becoming thicker.

"I hate you." Frailyn said aloud, hoping maybe a god would hear him, despite his disbelief.

Ready to give up, he collapsed to the ground. He lay there, for how long he didn't know - or care. Leaves rustled nearby, and for a moment he caught the glimpse of a squirrel. Beside him, the wind sprinkled dirt over his sword. What's the point in living? The lost wanderer thought to himself. Suddenly, a noise caught Frailyn's attention. Not far from him, he heard the sound of hope. "A creek. . ." Frailyn said. He pushed himself off the ground and grasped his sword. He must find this creek. It would lead him out of this infernal wood prison.

[proudfoot]

Uharo lay still on his bed, his head resting flat on the thin sheet of foam that he called comfort. Thin streams of blood still wept from his ears, but he was by now quite finished with any real tears. Resentment was building in his heart; had been building, in fact, for months. He had been shoved around, pushed to the limits, mistreated, and mocked by Hikana, the man who had “rescued” him as a child, for years, since before he could remember. He did not know how old he was now; eighteen, nineteen, who knew? How long had Hikana taught him, trained him, moulded him? How long had Hikana beaten him, berated him, hated him?

Too long.

Uharo stood and stepped lightly to the leaning board that was the door of his room. He lifted it quietly and set it aside, moving stealthily through the opening and down a shadowed hallway filled with other doors like his own. He leaned around a corner, saw nothing, and crept on. Coming to a flight of stairs he moved cautiously down, avoiding the steps he knew would betray him by walking tiptoe down the solid railing.

At the bottom a new hall awaited him. He slid down it to a new row of doors, proper ones with handles and hinges. And at the end of the hallway the largest of the doors, imposing its presence upon the darkness like a pair of glowing eyes in the jungle.

Uharo stepped up to it and pulled a thin metal object from a pouch at his side. He manoeuvred into the lock and twisted it slightly. The door slid cautiously open, Uharo moved through, and the door closed again, with no more sound than a whisper.

There was a bed in this room, a relatively luxurious one with a mattress and pillows. On the bed lay Hikana, his face a rictus of anger and loathing, even in sleep.

Uharo stood beside him and gazed into his face, the face of the man that had controlled him his entire life. He reached one more into the pouch on his leg and withdrew several short lengths of rope, intertwined into several connected loops and knots. He carefully slipped each of the loops around Hikana’s arms, legs, and neck, then tied the remaining length to the legs of the bed.

Satisfied that they would hold, he soundlessly lifted a knife out of his thigh scabbard and plunged it into Hikana’s stomach. Hikana awoke with a scream.

Uharo stood with folded arms and watched as his teacher writhed in agony. Gradually the flailing slowed and subsided into hyperventilation. Hikana raised his head as far as he was able and looked into Uharo’s eyes. His face showed a mix of anger and betrayal.

Uharo held the gaze steady as he reached for a third time into his pouch, withdrawing from it the two bloodstained needles that had pierced his ears earlier in the day. “Hikana,” he said, “I thought you might want to see me do this before you died.”

Hikana’s eyes widened in bewilderment as Uharo took each needle in turn and bent it with his hands into a centimetre-and-a-half ring. He took the rings and slid one into the hole in each ear so that they adorned the wounds like jewellery.

“I thought you might want to learn a final lesson, Hikana,” said Uharo, cold as steel. “There is more to strength than dexterity; there is more to power than skill.”

He pulled one final item from his pouch: an ornate dagger, its hilt carved from bone and its blade black as death.

Hikana’s eyes nearly burst from his head, and he screamed again, blood gushing out from the wound in his stomach.

One corner of Uharo’s mouth lifted in a smirk as he did what he had wanted so long to do.

[Snowglare]

Doran tired of tears. In fact, he was downright sick of crying. He resolved that morning to give it up. After all, he was still being hunted. There was no time to cry. No place. If the hunters had forcemarched through the night, they could be as close as the last already. He had to press on, to Heighton, where friends could hide him. If he still had friends there. They may remember all too well his last visit, how he made off with three thousand marks worth of jewelry, fine silks, and a certain gem-encrusted falchion. All were the property of nobles, no friends of his, and they could not have known he took them, but the falchion was the town's greatest treasure. His disappearance would have been noted, his involvement surely suspected.

If trouble came, he would find a way to escape it. If his friends abandoned him- Oops. He had forgotten, no, almost forgotten about Sam. Once he reached Heighton he would get word to Samuval somehow, arrange a meeting. If he yet lived. Doran would not cry for him. What he resolved to do, he did. He next resolved to acquire a horse. His feet were killing him.

[Unvision]

Later, William would question why he had agreed to follow a man who had been ambushed because he had his nose stuck in a book. In fact, he would start questioning himself as soon as they arrived at the tavern, realizing that to spontaneously share a pint with a man who’s life you had just saved was a bit odd. However, William was a firm believer in being kind to strangers. That was, unless they were robbing you, of course, in which case you slit their throats and gave them what was coming to them.

He knew he wasn’t the brightest, but he could swing a sword around pretty well, he was informed about the goings on of the world to a degree to which most men of his position were not, and, which was more, he could drink those same naïve characters under the table. Vaguely he was aware that there were probably ulterior motives at work and that the ale was more than just a reward for gutting a few brigands, but that same reward was doing its very best to help him forget that. At one point it may have occurred to him that his new friend Victor wasn’t drinking much, but he didn’t pursue it. If a guy who couldn’t defend himself on horseback from a couple of bandits wanted to know about Sangloria, what did it matter to him? He couldn’t complain about a heavy purse and free drinks.

“Well, the first thing you should know is that you’ve come at a rather interesting time. Or maybe it’s uninteresting, depending on which way you look at it,” began William.

“Why do you say that?” asked Victor.

“The Tournament of Succession. Of course, we all know the fighters are bribed and threatened into losing to the prince anyway, but it brings many people to Sangloria. I figured that was why you were here.”

“Me?” He laughed and pointed at his book, which was sitting closed beside him on the bar. “Not the fighting type, you might say.” He took a small sip from his drink. “Anyway… the Tournament of what? Which prince?”

“The Tournament of Succession, and Sanglorian king’s son. Let me explain. In Sangloria, when the king dies, there is a tournament to determine the next king. Everyone who wants a bit of money from the royal treasury signs up, gets bribed into losing, and then the prince becomes the next king, everyone goes home happy. Foolproof.”

Victor chuckled. “That sounds like rather a waste of time.”

“It’s traditional. More importantly, if the losers do well, they can be awarded lesser titles.” William wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Another pint please. I’m thirsty from all this talking.”

“Another drink, of course,” Victor apologized. “Sorry, but I know little of this area. You have interesting customs,” he finished, making sure to let William take a few deep draughts lest he get it into his head to ask questions.

The bartender slid another mug of ale toward the pair in anticipation – he knew where this was going. He was well aware that the foreigner was still nursing his first drink, but was a firm believer in the idea that it wasn’t the place of a bartender to judge. He’d been working this bar long enough to know that the fastest way to lose customers was to judge them. Of course, these men would only be passing through anyway: they sat at the end of his bar, away from the lantern.

It seemed like every month or so William ended up back in this bar, downing drinks on someone else’s coin and sloshing local gossip around with his loose tongue. Eventually, it would get dark and his three regulars would come in to drown their worries in ale and to pretend they would someday pay off their tabs. The stranger would have his fill of local news and William would have his fill of cheap ale. They would leave, and then about a month later William would be in the bar again for another round, so to speak. But it wasn’t his place to judge. He wiped the bottom of a mug with his dirty rag and hummed an old Sanglorian drinking song.

[Markle]

Still riding a high from tonight's riotous chat session, I now post the following:

Another short summer was coming to an end, evidenced by the abrupt blast of icy wind that drove Fe Sera yet closer to her fire. She was accustomed to the weather of the region, but not accustomed to enduring it alone. The thirty-fourth day since her expulsion she spent near the base of an intimidating peak, a jumble of cliffs and spires, perpetually capped with snow.

From here, it seemed an insurmountable obstacle, but this was where the road led. Just like the order to put such a wall between themselves and the world, but they weren’t the only ones to brave this environment. Several times in her journey she’d hidden from passing caravans, both merchants and warriors, traveling the same road as her. She didn’t know why she hid, but the urge was overpowering each time she heard the creaking of wooden wheels coming down the road behind her.

The behavior was particularly puzzling considering that she believed finding and joining a caravan to be her best hope. Presumably, the travelers knew where they were going and how to get there, while Fe Sera knew neither. She looked into her fire, trying not to remember how many nights it had been since she’d had something to cook on it. Also a problem best solved by joining with more prepared travelers.

She was distracted from her thoughts by the buzzing arrival of a fist sized winged insect. It set down on the dirt an arm’s length away from her, attracted to the heat and light of the fire. The creature was a uniform gray, blending in with the dust and rocks of the gloomy landscape. She’d never seen one before, though she’d lived near here for as long as she could remember, probably longer. Curiosity for the moment banished concern, and Fe Sera moved slowly closer to examine it.

It was similar to the flies that swarmed through in the summer, though it was much larger and sported a stinger and a pair of powerful looking mandibles. Those flies had proved frustrating subjects of practice, time and again. Such simple creatures, but she could only effect them in the crudest of ways. A part of her had long wanted to give up, but a much stronger part, the stubborn streak that had somehow survived her transformation, the eventual cause of her expulsion, overruled such urges.

Once again pushing away reservations, she looked inside the insect, followed its senses through the simple nerve clusters that served it as a brain. Simple, just like the flies. She watched herself through its eyes for several seconds, with an effort translating the creature’s vision into something her own mind could parse. This was the easy part, and she could spend hours tracing the nervous system, until she felt she knew it completely, could predict any response to any set of stimuli.

Still, she’d meet with failure when she tried to go further. As now, when she reached into its consciousness and attempted to prompt a flutter of its wings, the simplest manipulation she could think of. The reaction was a moment’s confused flailing, then it snapped its mandibles as confusion became aggression. It took flight, stinger bobbing menacingly as it flitted around the fire looking for a victim.

Before it could find one, an uncontrollable burst of anger burned through its cells, paralyzing it. It dove into the fire, and Fe Sera sat back, exhaling loudly. The masters could control a swarm of the flies at once, make them fly in complex and beautiful patterns, could dictate the flight path of a falcon miles away, could direct the growth of a plant, could even influence other humans. Five years after her transformation, she could only kill.

The masters said her former self hadn’t been fully committed to the transformation, hadn’t created the clean slate a student needed to truly learn. And, when she continued to fail, and more importantly, punish her experiments for her failures, she’d been banished, to die in the wastelands outside the settlement.

Discouraged, she looked up at the peak, which grew more ominous by the minute as light left the valley. It seemed to radiate hostility, from the jagged boulders at its base to the cloud-obscured summit. Impassable, she thought again, but she realized that she herself must have traversed it at one point. Rather, her previous self, the person for whom her loathing grew with each day.

One became a true member of the order through what was called the transformation ritual. When a pupil became sufficiently skilled, they were to rewrite their own history, erasing from their mind their old identity and in its place providing only what knowledge and history they needed to continue their studies. Most with any talent underwent the transformation soon after beginning their schooling, the manipulation of one’s own mind being infinitely simpler than influencing the energies of another being.

For obvious reasons, none remembered the origin of the ritual, but its most logical purpose was to strip young students of the arrogance that inevitably sprouted as they learned to toy with the flow of life. Before the transformation, they regarded themselves as humans becoming superhuman, after the transformation they were born anew as equals in a society where their abilities were commonplace.

When, for any reason, a student didn’t completely rid themselves of their old memories, it served only to impede them as they attempted to progress in their studies. Most went mad, the rest found themselves less capable than their peers, or even completely incapable. Students were warned of this, but Fe Sera’s old self had apparently ignored the warnings.

She’d awoken from the ritual with a name from a language she no longer knew, a handful of confusing but not particularly meaningful images rooted in her mind, and an ever-glowing ember of anger in her heart.

Light was gone now, only the silhouette of the mountain remained to taunt her as her fire slowly burned itself out. She lapsed into a mental silence for a time, ignoring the cold as she stared into the distance, thinking of nothing until a set of rhythmically swaying lights appeared down the road. The lanterns of a caravan, rushing through the night to be free of this place before the first storms. This might be the last one, but still she felt the compulsion to stay out of sight.

The time for a choice had arrived. She could give in to her fears, fears she didn’t even understand, and freeze to death here, or have a chance at survival with this caravan. An easy decision, it would seem, but she couldn’t force herself to what she knew was the correct course of action. The struggle between her instinct for self preservation and her inexplicable paranoia persisted for several minutes as the lights drew closer.

Tears of frustration, fear, rage, and confusion flowed from her eyes, the battle reaching epic heights as she dedicated her whole self to defeating the alien thoughts. Finally she withdrew into herself, calling on the same techniques used during the transformation, and scoured the voice of caution from her mind. She woke seconds later, and pushed herself off the ground, feeling light headed, still in a state of emotional turmoil, but ready to do what she had to, to save herself. She started toward the lights, stumbling awkwardly, yelling semi-coherently, making a spectacle that would be impossible to miss.

[Mercenary]

I had been quietly suffusing the ale with magic the whole night, and as William had drunk a good deal of it, he, too, was now suffused with magic and would thus be easily recognizable even from a great distance; magicians have an eye for that sort of thing. It was by such method that I picked him out of a crowd in the market square of Tellur, Sangloria’s capital.

“Good day, William. Say, come over here a moment.”

“Hail, what is it?”

“Would you consider entering the Succession Tournament we spoke of yesterday?”

“I’m pretty handy with a blade, but I’m not sure I could make it to a prize-winning position.”

“I might be able to do something for you there, for a share of your winnings.”

William looked at me quizzically. I concentrated mentally on increasing his physical constitution and strength. Some magicians like to use their hands for gestures, but it’s all theatrics and habit; the spells work whether the greatest and most profuse of gesticulations are gone through or none at all are performed.

“Have you sharpened your blade recently, William?”

“Just yesterday morning before slaying those bandits.”

“Good, take it out and give it a feel.”

William drew his sword and ran his hand lightly along the length of the blade. “It feels dull…that’s impossible.” He pressed the sword harder into his palm, so hard in fact that were he not magically protected it probably would have severed his hand. “That…is amazing.” He said with wonderment as he sheathed the sword, noticing no pain as the skin reformed itself from the light indentation that had been made.

“You’re not invincible, but damn near. I’ve been working on that bit for quite some time. And I’ve other cards to play as well, but now that you are assured there’s no reason to demonstrate them today.”

“So you’re a wizard then? If you’re so powerful why didn’t you lay waste to those brigands?”

“I could have, but it is rather a hassle; I was hoping they would let me go in peace. Had you not come along, they’d have been just as dead.”

“I’ll sign up for the tournament today! But, how much of my winnings did you say you wanted?”

“Just a pittance, my real prize I will explain to you later.”

“Sure, I’ll be off then.”

I waved goodbye and began to head towards the center of the city. On all four sides of the thatched and stone labyrinth that was Tellur was a wide, cobbled road heading out as straight as modern engineers could manage. I made my way up the slight incline that gave the castle the highest ground in the city. I stopped fifty yards from the front gate, the black, wooden portcullis and dark gray stone walls resembling a dragon’s gaping maw.

In my days as a mage in Tyrran I had heard of a great mage of the light who resided in Tellur. He, apparently, served the royal family with distinction and had for years. As such, I felt fairly confident he would be at the tournament watching the family’s son perform. He might even be playing the same tricks I was, I didn’t know enough about the light disciplines to say whether or not they contained any spells like those I possessed. Either way, he was sure to have some possessions that would serve me in my travels. I intended to pay a visit to his apartment in the castle during the tournament.

I gazed up at one of the three high towers of the castle. It was clear which room belonged to the mage; the very uppermost chamber of the third tower practically oozed with magical essence. All was set for the tournament to take place. All that remained to do was wait for it to begin.

[Mercenary]

I knelt in prayer. My comrades were often fond of joking that the only things I did more often than praying were fighting and cursing. I had a lot to be forgiven for, then, and the praying was required, for hours a day. That wasn’t why I prayed, however. When most people pray they think they are talking to God, but he does not hear. Only once one has committed himself fully to the pursuance of God’s justice does the Almighty begin to listen.

When I was younger I was discontent; I would have done anything to die were the canons not set fast against it. My father had died fighting for God. I had begged him to take me with him when he had left our quiet home. He had said that I was still too young, and promised to take me on his next campaign. There wouldn’t be a next campaign. There was one form of suicide the canons were most definitely not against, however, and that was martyrdom. My father had been the greatest fighter the world had ever seen and his father before him had been a priest. National records held that he had slain fifty men in the Crusades. Though these “men” would seem to be our brothers both in faith and in race, they were not. Disagreements in the church have never been well tolerated. God has but one word and it is absolute.

It was with those convictions that I threw myself headlong into one of the bloodiest of the Religious Wars. It was said that on one field alone during the Fifth War, in which I took part, were slain thirty five thousand men. Having at that time no desire to live, I decided to fight until death found me. I plunged into the enemy’s ranks in similar fashion as my blade did malign their flesh. But even as I was, surrounded and without hope of support, death still did not find me. My mighty blade whistled and cut down heathen after heathen. My sword devoured without mercy that day, but it was to no avail. My faction was routed utterly, nary a man survived. I looked back through the thick ranks of enemy soldiers to see my comrades fleeing as cowards. Now, death would find me.

But it did not. As all hope seemed lost, I heard the words of God. I had still some good work to do, he said. Though my blade leapt from chest to shield to leg to axe with a fire and vigor not of this world, my arms did not tire. Though the heathen’s blows did fall on me as a rain, I was unharmed. I battled my way to the other side of the heathen’s ranks and made my escape a hero. They dared not even pursue, for they had witnessed how legendary was my prowess in battle.

Shortly thereafter, an end to hostilities was called, and a King owing allegiance to that vile and heretical sect, The Universalists, took to the throne. What was more, he had a son who practiced in dark magic. I again considered seriously the possibility of taking my own life. But now, God was with me and I knew it. Under a new name I was able to reclaim all my family had lost in the war and then some. And with the Lord’s help I was even able to ouster that Godless king and install myself on the throne. Many men take great pride in being masters of their own destiny, not I. I couldn’t want for anything more than the Lord’s hand guiding my fate. Nor could he want for his subjects anything less. It was for this cause that he brought about the redemption of the Determinist forces, and the just installation of one of their number on the throne of Tyrran, the holiest and mightiest of lands.

“Lord, do I not tremble with righteous fury?”

I waited long for an answer. “You do.”

“Then hear me!” I shouted.

“Your throne will not be legitimate unless the son is dead?”

“Yes.”

“And you, in all your might, cannot bring about this heretic’s death?”

“Am I the mightiest fighter in the world?”

“No, a handful of others are your superiors.”

“Then no.”

“The son has the potential to be the mightiest sorcerer the world has ever seen. You would do well to tread cautiously. There exists in the world a magic blade of terrible power and insidious design. I will detail for you how it is to be destroyed. I leave it to you to discern just how this information will aid you.”

“Thank you, Lord.” I said, voice quivering with reverence, not a drop of which was insincere.

[tamrend]

Ariana stooped to drink from the stream. She cupped the freezing water to her lips, drinking deeply. Bending lower, she splashed and scrubbed at her face and neck. The bitter cold helped to clear her head. She could still feel the pull, though, a tugging on her mind leading her now southwest. And she still had the memory of the dreams, of watching her youth and strength wither away in a matter of moments.

She pulled the knife from its sheath and held it at arms length, running her gaze over it. She used to do this often in the beginning, wondering where the weapon had come from, how such a thing could come into being. Realizing what it would mean to live, what she would have to do to survive, she had considered death as the alternative. Back then, she had believed there was still a life worth living. She had had hope for the future. After nearly two centuries of killing, of watching friends grow old and die, of growing more and more detached from her own humanity, hope was nothing more than a memory.

Now, the one thing that stayed her from taking her own life was the one feeling she had that was still keen. Fear. The stains on her soul were deep and many. If there existed a world beyond death, surely she would suffer an eternity of torment there for what she had done. She would face whatever it was that twisted and pulled her before she would chance that.

A rustling in the grass made her bolt upright, her hunter’s instincts taking control. She listened more closely and discerned footsteps, a single person, probably a man from the heaviness of the tread. Her hearing was sensitive enough that she would have time to hide before he appeared if she wanted, but she saw no reason to do so.

“Greetings,” she said in the local dialect, the moment he came into view. He was nondescript except for a grizzled face and ragged clothes. Remembering the knife belatedly, she tucked it into its sheath and fastened it down securely.

[Jazzmosis]

Frailyn stumbled through the woods until he found the stream. He dropped to his knees and drank the sweet potion, feeling the energy revitalize inside him. It had been nearly a week since he'd drank anything - he'd been eating leaves and grass for days. When he had his fill, he observed the current - it would lead him away from the woods - at least he hoped it would. North.

Gathering his wits and his hopes, Frailyn followed the stream. How long he walked, he did not know - but he assumed it was a quarter of a day. He observed in delight as the trees were growing thinner and thinner. When he needed it, he drank some water from the stream.

The horrid memories of his lost wife were less torturous now - there was hope, there was an exit to this forest.

However, he realized that he was, once again, dead tired. His feet ached as did his legs. Must push on... Frailyn thought to himself.

Joy filled his eyes as the sun shone through the field - he had finally reached an end to the forest. The grass rolled on, the stream trickled off into the distance. He was free.

"Greetings." He heard a voice say. Startled, the man jumped backwards slightly. He looked suspiciously at the voice's owner - and his memories flooded back.

This.. woman.. she looked remarkably similiar to his lost wife. There were key differences - his wife was taller, and a different colour of hair. He stood from a short distance, far enough to that he could not see her details - like eye colour. Frailyn wanted to say something - anything. He'd yearned for the human contact, now he was amist it. Say something, you fool! His mind demanded.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The woman had a blade in her hand. She must have thought he was no threat as he watched her latch it into her sheath. Remembering his sword that he'd been dragging, Frailyn stuffed it into a sturdy hole in his shirt and roped belt. The blade tugged at his shirt, and caused the man to shift his weight awkwardly.

Dammit, say something!

"Who... who are you?" He asked weakly, his voice trembling slightly.

Not waiting for a response, he blurted another question. "Where are you headed? Myself - I'll go anywhere."

Idiot.. His mind scolded. Don't look like you're begging to go places with her - don't be desparate. You'll scare her off if you're too forward.

Frailyn immediately looked to the ground. "Sorry. . ." He apologized. It was only when he thought about what had just transpired that he realized he had said all three sentences in a row.

Wait for a response. He instructed himself.

"My name is Ariana," she said, nonplussed by the stranger's odd outburst. "You look like you've been out here a long time."

Frailyn looked down. "Sorry." He mumbled, half to himself. He turned his full attention to the woman he stood near. "I guess I have - I got lost in the woods." He kicked a rock away from his foot. "What are you doing out here?"

Ariana crossed her arms in front of her. "I am merely traveling through this land. Where I'm going is no one's care but my own."

Frailyn apologized again. "Forgive me, madam." He inspected her - he could not deny her beauty. Quickly regaining his composure, he continued his useless questions. "You're traveling alone? Aren't these lands. . . dangerous for just a woman?"

"They are dangerous," she admitted. The knife wriggled in its sheath, the motion too small for Frailyn to notice. Though she restricted her kills, the knife was always thirsty for blood. He was the first person she had encountered since setting out. "Perhaps more for some than for others. You don't want to go that way." She pointed north. "Runath is about three days away, but you'll freeze to death in those clothes before you ever reach it. Your best chance would be Kalagost. That's where I'm heading."

"Forgive me for saying this aloud, but you are quite a gorgeous woman." He blurted, then immediately cursed himself for letting his attractions get the better of him.

She shrugged. "You wouldn't be the first to notice. Since it seems likely we'll both be going the same way, perhaps you should tell me your name?"

Edited by Snowglare to include additional dialogue, courtesy of Tamrend and Jazzmosis.

[Mercenary]

“Who the hell is that idiot?”

“He’s not one of ours, sire.”

“This much I know. Still, this may yet prove a boon. I was expecting to lose two score men in capturing her. Perhaps if this fool distracts her we won’t have to lose any. Very well, Captain, give the order for the heavy infantry to take to the path on either side of them. Have the longbowmen at the ready.”

“Aye, sire.”

The armor-clad Captain hurried off and I spoke to my other advisor.

“How many arrows will she take before she is wounded enough to be captured, but not so crippled as to be of no use to us?”

“Of the blessed arrows, a score. And beware the blade, even when she is incapacitated the enchantment gives it some mobility.”

I passed the information on to my archers. Twenty were to stand down while the other twenty launched their arrows, all of which had been blessed by the Archbishop of Tyrran before setting out. These were my finest warriors. I had brought only those warriors who had proved their mettle in the Religious Wars time and time again. First, that God might smile on their endeavors as he does on mine, and second, because this woman was presented to me as being so powerful that anything less than veterans simply would not suffice.

My soldiers moved in with practiced silence and efficiency. I gave the signal and my archers rose from their hiding places and loosed their arrows. The woman’s catlike reflexes came instantly into play and she dove out of the way, avoiding fifteen of the score of arrows.

“Captains, fire at will!” I shouted. My five archer Captains began to nock their second arrows while the heavy infantry converged from both sides. I ran down the wooded hillside to join them. The woman had been unable to move terribly far, recovering as she had been from the multiple arrow wounds, and impeded by the wood and metal still embedded in her flesh. I held up my hand to signify that the Captains should cease firing.

The man was barely able to stand he was trembling so hard. I used the hilt of my sword to bash him in the skull. No use having a civilian complicating the already complicated matter. “Carry him to the camp, if he moves, kill him.” Two of my warriors carried out my command.

“Ariana,” God told me.

“Ariana, I offer you greetings. I am Duncan, Lord of Tyrran. You are now my subject. If you perform the tasks I set for you with dedication and skill I may reward you with fiefs of land or simply let you go, if that be your wish.”

“The blade!” God warned.

I raised my sword with a quickness born only of years of practice and the slightest of aid from the heavens. The blade, which had been lying on the ground beside Ariana, had flown up and towards my chest. I deflected it easily and it clattered to the ground. Now that all the infantry had arrived a sum of some five score heavily armored men stood around in a tight circle. I reached down and picked up the blade.

She had been silent thus far but now she spoke. “You cannot possibly hope to kill me, magic damned arrows or no. How can I be made to do your bidding, then?”

I laughed, “I know how to destroy this little trinket of yours. Does that change anything?”

If a woman who has twenty arrows in her and a hundred hostile armed figures standing over her can have a souring of expression, Ariana had it then.

I laughed again, “Bind her in irons! To the capital!”

“Sire, what shall we do with the man we have taken captive?”

I paused, waiting for God to offer some opinion, but he did not. “Bring him along. I’m sure we’ve got a cell waiting for him somewhere.”

[Rend]

The damned souls called him Torment. Bringer of Suffering. He was Asmodeus, Arch demon, the Prince of Vengeance.

Asmodeus thundered along Hell’s twisted byways, scattering lesser imps and gargoyles as he passed. No one was happy in Hell, especially not the powerful. Asmodeus, of course, was extremely powerful among the Damned, and this translated into a horrible and unique torture that belonged only to him. Each step was searing pain. Each breath was choked and cloyed with brimstone, ash, and the bitter weeping only one cast from Grace can know.

The appearance of the one who brings only lamentation and suffering was utterly terrifying by design. His once beautiful, angelic features were twisted, corrupted by eons spent in the infernal pits. He stood over thirty feet tall by human reckoning, with obsidian scaled wings spanning further to his sides. His chest was all knotted muscle, stone hard and laced with wicked scars. Truly, he was a creature forsaken by god and all that is holy.

Small souls cringed in their molten pools as Asmodeus came upon them with all his fury. With minimal effort, he snatched the first one up, piercing the wretch through with his black talons. Flicking his muscular digits--reminiscent of dexterous saplings--Asmodeus tore his victim’s abdomen out. Having sated his fury, he then tossed the soul down into the flaming pit, simultaneously relishing the screams. Asmodeus trudged on, stopping randomly along the causeway from the Lake of Fire to the Fields of Sorrow only to crush one of the Damned under his hoof, or to slash the limbs from another.

The Fields were awash with the moans of the Damned, as they wallowed in their eternal misery. Asmodeus regarded the sound as grating and horrific, as if nothing else in all of creation could have been worse. Given his location, Asmodeus was mostly correct. Regardless, the wailing and sobbing of languishing souls prompted the Bringer of Suffering to take magnificent retribution on his tortured prisoners. Gathering up a score of souls in his thick grasp, Asmodeus plodded to the edge of a cliff overlooking the Lake of Fire, and hurled the souls, screaming, into the inferno. This did nothing to ease his pain, nor did it lessen the deafening howls floating in the acrid air of the Fields. Such was expected in Hell, for never did Demon or Damned alike find comfort in the Pit.

[Mercenary]

I watched William and his opponent circle each other like predatory cats. Watching fighters was exquisitely entertaining. The man struck with great alacrity and accuracy. The blow caught William in the shoulder but the blade just rebounded, though he wore only a leather vest. The crowd gasped. The man swung again and William caught the blade with his bare hand. "Showing off his power a little too much," I mumbled to myself.

William crushed the end of the blade with the newfound strength I had instilled in him. He let it drop and the man looked at his ruined weapon. His gaze returned to William, eyes now wide with terror. William gave him a princely smirk, and the man dropped to his knee in surrender. The crowd cheered.

I stole quietly away from the crowd, leaving William to continue dominating without my watchful presence. The magic I had instilled in him would remain for several days, so strong were the spells I had used, just to be sure he did not trust them too much and end up paying with a limb or his life. I knew the wizard would be at the tournament but I couldn't find him. That worried me.

I made my way quickly to the castle and approached the gate.

"Halt, you can't enter here."

I leveled the guard with a wave of flame and strolled through the rapidly falling portcullis. The guards on the wall began raining arrows on me. I tried to incinerate them as they flew at me but I was not yet proficient enough for it to work. I sprinted for the inner-keep, making it without a scratch. I hurried up the spiraling stone staircase, laying low guards as they stepped out of their rooms. Time was absolutely of the essence. It was entirely possible that the wizard knew something was wrong and was on his way back. A wizard of his power could destroy me without any kind of difficulty.

I finally reached the room I knew from prior observation to be his. It was small and Spartan, as I had suspected it might be. A small bed and dresser made up one wall, while the door, the window, and a rather drab painting comprised the other three. My fear was consuming and I didn't feel I had time to carefully study which things I wanted to take and which I didn't. I had brought a large leather bag and I began to hastily throw things in it: scepters, staves, vials with odd-colored liquid in them, tomes, and most of all jewelry. I was sweating profusely. I turned towards the door and it creaked open. My whole body tensed and a wave of dread swept over me.

It was just a creaky door, and I was too nervous. I hurried towards it and made my way down the stairs. The guards, apparently, had been mounting a resistance force. Twelve soldiers waited at the bottom of the stairs for me, weapons drawn. I hurled a weak ball of fire into their ranks as I came around the last corner of the circular central-column around which the spiraling staircase revolved. It was more theatrics than power but it was effective nonetheless. They scattered and allowed me to pass through, not noticing that the flame had injured no one.

As I entered the courtyard once again I saw that the portcullis had been raised. It struck me as odd that, in the face of a robbery and, as far as they knew, an assault upon the castle, they would open the gate. It soon became apparent why they had done it as a squadron of mounted knights rode into the courtyard. As powerful as my magic at times seemed to be, I held little faith that anything in my arsenal could defeat this new threat.

The nine knights formed a semicircle and pressed me towards the castle. "Halt! You are hereby under arrest." The leader said to me as two others dismounted to escort me into the dungeon. A third took my things and spirited them off. Magical constitution and stamina enhancements or no, I was too exhausted to put up anything resembling a fight. I surrendered.

[proudfoot]

Uharo stood against a wall and watched the people pass in the dreary pre-sunrise morning. No one paid him any attention, which was fine with him. He peered out from under his hood at the cobbled street and the small shops and stores. Shop owners were preparing for the day, putting up signs, cleaning their floors and the sidewalks in front of their stalls.

Uharo rested his hand on the sword strapped to his waist. What was he going to do now? He had killed Hikana in a vengeful rage, giving little thought to consequence or what came next. Now he was exiled from his home of more than fifteen years. Where could he go?

It probably wouldn’t be too hard to find some dive to sleep in. Maybe he could get his hands on some money to pay for food, as well. That might be the hard part, getting the money. But there was more than one way to skin a cat, he knew. Either a job for some shop keeper, or a dark alleyway; the options were there.

But after that, even if he did secure some place to sleep and eat, what could he hope to achieve? His entire life had consisted of lousy meals, a hard, damp bed, and training with an abusive criminal. He had no social skills, no working skills, no connections. He had only his wits, a fancy dagger, and whatever he could acquire through petty villainy.

It was a nice dagger, though.

He reached down from the hilt of his sword to feel the dagger strapped against his leg, on the inside of his loose-fitting pants. He smiled as he remembered the way it had moved and swung, seemingly of its own accord.

His reverie was interrupted as a gust of wind blew a piece of paper in front of him. It bounced and bobbed above the ground for a moment, then he reached down and grabbed it, lifting it to his face. It seemed to be some kind of advertisement, like many he had seen plastered all over the city streets he had been walking. It said:

Tournament of Succession

You could be the next King of Sangloria!
Think of the fame! Think of the glory!
Think of the money!

Sign up today to fight in this
national tradition of personal combat!

Interesting, thought Uharo, fame, glory, and money sounds pretty good. Maybe I’ll give it a shot.

[Mercenary]

Languishing in my cell, with only my agony for company, I began to consider very seriously the possibility that this career wasn’t for me. I had spent far too much power energizing William for the tournament—I wondered how he had fared, and whether, should he have done very well, he would request my release—and on various other magical endeavors that day. Nothing had been done with finesse. Everything had been over-theatrical, ill thought-out, and heavy-handed. I let out a wail of anguish and self-contempt possessing an intensity that only prisoners ever seemed capable of producing. When next I hear such a wail emanating from the bowels of a dungeon I shall know from experience what causes it.

Magic has a cost. My body and mind were now paying for the previous days extravagances. Unfortunately, the fees attached to goods already enjoyed or services once rendered are not subject to later negotiation. I writhed about on the cold stone floor and clutched at my head trying to shake free the miniature smiths who were there hard at work. They hadn’t brought me any food or water in the day or so since I had been locked up. My headache was of such ferocity that I doubted whether those implements would retain any of their prior efficacy.

I began to reflect again on the fate of my father. God, I hated myself. My every fancy he had entertained. When his spoiled son had wanted to learn the dark arts against his better wishes did he steadfastly refuse it, as many fathers would have done? No, he sought out a teacher and paid for the lessons. His permissiveness had cost him his throne and his life, and perhaps his eternity as well. And now—now a religious maniac was on the throne. Could history possibly take any turn except that which it had already taken many times before? Fanatics, even when they have won, will still bring peace absolutely and unflaggingly to ruin.

Tyrran couldn’t have wanted for two more diametrically opposed rulers in such a short span of time. My father was leaning always towards a more liberal and permissive form of government, and Duncan, surely, would move it in the other direction. With Duncan at the helm Tyrran couldn’t but face religious polarization of sweeping and world historic proportions. Pogroms, burning villages, and roads lined with refugees were what awaited the once great nation of Tyrran.

I turned to my black volume; they at least had left me with this to ease my pain. Because I had it tucked deeply in my cloak, or because of some minor miracle performed by a divinity who surely hated me for my alignment? Maybe God ruled more as my father had than as Duncan would, with compassion and understanding. Perhaps not all who drink from the dark cup are damned by its contents.

The method had quickly become familiar and easy to me; the book opened to a page concerning the combat of magic fatigue without aid of food or drink.

“There are two further methods for the alleviation of magic fatigue, these are: rest and abstinence from the practice of magic for several days, or the immediate reapplication of magic.”

Fantastic! All I had to do was use magic again and the magic fatigue would diminish? It was too wonderful to be believed. Before reading another word I warmed the stone floor with my talents and felt the veil of pain miraculously lifted. I enjoyed the rush of feeling back to the other parts of my body. When one is in great pain the mundane sensations the rest of the body experiences are forgotten and forsaken in favor of focusing more completely on that which is the cause of one’s pain. Nothing, then, is more satisfying than a return to the study of those sensations once the source of the pain is extinguished. The feel of chill air around my fingertips, the steady and relaxing pressure of the warm stone floor pressing against my back, the delightful sensation of blood rushing to the task whenever I contracted a muscle: all took on a divine palatability. For a minute I was too enrapt in the absence of that pain which I had for an entire day been enduring to even finish reading the passage I was on.

When I had finally come down from my post-coital-like reverie enough to resume my perusal of the passage, the first words struck me as a thunderbolt. “In all but the most extreme of cases the former rather than the latter method should be used. Magic, again, like alcohol, is very addictive. If the latter method is made use of too extensively the wizard runs the very grave risk of getting into the habit of using magic to fight the effects of magic fatigue. For every hour this method is maintained the withdrawal symptoms will be so much the greater when the magician’s grip on the aether is finally allowed to loosen. Never have I witnessed an addiction more destructive to the user’s physical health than magic addiction, nor one as quick to manifest itself.”

I suddenly felt sick at what I had done.

[Snowglare]

The river was swollen from the rain. No, there was no river here. A stream that thought itself a river blocked his way. It was too deep for crossing, the current too treacherous for swimming. He would have to find a way around this overgrown puddle. The sun was hot, the grass green, and the rain done. But there were always more tasks for the rain here. The clouds were heavy as a nursemaid's breasts, ready to feed the land. Doran had to reach Heighton soon, or he was as like to die from a chill as a blade.

He found a small wooden bridge that was still above the water level. He approached it warily, looking every which way for spying eyes, but ultimately reached the other side without incident. He quickened his pace, eager to make Heighton while it was still daylight. It might be safer to enter the town under cover of darkness, but Marten would doubtless be asleep by then, and he needed the old man if he hoped to contact anyone else. Doran risked the main road to make better time. Rather, he moved parallel to it. Were he ahorse, the smooth dirt path would have sped him along, but afoot he had no worries of catching a root or a loose rock and tumbling over. Especially not in the daylight. He would have to think hard on what time to leave town, assuming he was given a choice. Night and day each held their own dangers. All the more reason to stay hidden. In a room with no windows, night comes whenever you wish it.

Or whenever your captors wished it. Whatever happened, he was not going back to a cell. Never again. The gods would surely let him die before that. Even Silth, the trickster god, would not be so cruel. The light comes, and the light goes. Ever at their bidding. The thought of someone having that kind of control over him first frightened, then angered Doran. I will snuff out their lifelight if they come for mine. He spied stone walls in the distance. Walls he knew.

[Khalic]

The clouds ride off east, straddling the horizon with the pink-hued sun on top, like a cherry, or the habitué. Neither are always on top if you want to prove me wrong. Desserts and sex have exceptions.

Either sounds good about now. A nice pastry pie. Piping hot pie for dessert, and a warm body and maybe pair of tits for second dessert. A warm bed. A hearth. Hell, it'd be nice if my own body was warmer than cold and wet, and nakeder than covered in damp clothes. Sitting better than sitting between puddles eating other than soggy bread and dry meat salted to shrivel your tongue.

The water hasn't soaked through everywhere quite yet, but sitting down in the drizzle always gets your *** wet. So it soaks through into your unders and sits clammy on your skin and you squish when you walk and you curse.

That's my theory on why rain gets people down. Because the people that come in are mad because they got their asses wet and then they give a bad tip or they tell you where to stick your chipper dry-*** conversation.

And it rained just long enough to mess up dinner.

I swallow my last bread and press my clashing teeth together on a stiff bit of jerky and pull. It tears slow and stubborn and then snaps. I drop the piece between my thumb and finger back onto the other strips and chew its unsiamese twin like I mean it.

While I chew I mull my wet clothes, and my soggy ***. I'm off duty, and I was planning on sleeping out here tonight since they don't pay me enough when I'm on duty, but I've suddenly decided that a dry bed sounds like a deal at a few dozen crowns and a slight chance of mugging and rape. And I could use the practice.

So, I start walking, chewing out my ire at the wetness and the walk. The sun sets, and the constellation Heighton looms on the horizon.

[proudfoot]

Uharo stood in front of a narrow-faced man with a pen and tried to stay calm.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” the man was saying.

“Yes, I’m sure. Why would I be here if I wasn’t?”

“You have your own reasons, I’m sure. I’m just not sure you understood the implications of participating in this tournament. You’re what, eighteen, nineteen? People die in these tournaments. Are you willing to die for this?”

“Look, I know all that, just put my name down and let me decide my own fate, ok?”

“Alright, alright, calm down boy, it’s your life. Uharo, was it? There’s your name; here’s your time slot. You just barely made it in, by the way. Today was the last day for sign-ups; the first match is two days from now.”

“I know,” said Uharo, “I’ll be there.”

“So impatient, youth today,” scoffed the man. “Run off home, then, and go swing that sword around a bit. You’re going to need all the practice you can get.”

Uharo glared and opened his mouth to retaliate, then thought better of it, turned, and stalked out of the building. I’ll show them, he thought angrily to himself, I’m no mere boy.

The dagger strapped to his leg glinted viciously in the late afternoon sunlight.

[Zulehan]

I had to spend two days in that damned church. Two days. It's like a prison, where the guards are old fat ladies. And they're everywhere.

I could have left, maybe. Gotten some work done. There are chemicals to be made, merchants to con, friends to help, burned out shells of former professors and smiths and family members, the terminal addictions of which to satisfy.

But the fat old ladies are not without boon. I recovered rather well, for two days worth. All I have left is a ridiculous looking eyepatch ("Ya mustn't take it off for another fortnight! If I catch you wonderin' town without it, you're gunna get such a hiding!"), some pain in my side ("Rest, rest for a week at the least. Don't you dare be workin' or dirtyin' with the harlots, ya hear!"), and, needless to say, a headache, which I can't tell is from the fight or the nuns. All in all, not bad.

On my way home, rummaging through my pocket, I've come across the note again, all crumpled and familiar. That reminds me: Graham requested a meeting at location C. Good choice.

Just a couple blocks down from the church is a respectable little inn called Cameron Arms. It's a nice place, has a history to it, the kind of history you can feel in the handle as you open the door, and smell when you walk in. The smell of dust and wood and someone with a similar kind of age, who is probably very uptight about its cleanliness.

It's not a long walk away, either.

When I get there, I know exactly where to go. But Graham is an odd guy. He has me buy a drink, walk practically the perimiter of the common room before I can stop at his booth, and sit at an adjascent table. I mean hell, the code is good enough. No one knows what we're doing. And anyone street smart enough to actually figure this stuff out, is probably in business with us in the first place. This just makes us look peculiar.

Sympathetic to his concerns, I put a tall glass of rich, warm cider on my tab. I don't carry money on me, and I haven't been to any of my spots since the other day. Around the room is a soft but annoying sound, like the trickling of a stream that's too good to hit the stones, and so, jumps gaily down the waterway. That's what gossip sounds like.

This place is rather prestegious; the regulars are all about the toned-down voice and the hyped-up gab. It's as if the talk of the town is really exciting, but too important to be heard by the next table. People.

"It's good to see you."

The drone's a good cover for the important stuff though, Graham and I of course, and as such I barely catch his signal. Without much of a glance, I seat myself at a table, and sip my cider. It'll last me the meeting.

"Pay no attention to the eyepatch." Why do I bother, though? The guy has no sense of humor. Apparently, neither do the patrons of Cameron Arms; I'm getting uncomfortable glances.

His low voice cracks nonchalantly like an uninterested dad reading a book. "Your friend is expected in Heighton soon." Doran he means. "Malia can intercept and assist, if need be." She's my associate in Heighton.

"Have her do so, and have them leave Heighton soon after," I suggest. We need to solve his fugitive problem soon.

"Malia intends to meet someone of importance in Ansdelham. Something is happening there that you will be attending." The way Graham says this speaks volumes. His usual pace being a paragraph a week, volumes are monumental coming from him. I have to get to Ansdelham.

I drink my cider. "Can things be arranged for my arrival within two days?"

"They are. But take your time."

"I'll be taking ten sounds of forte. A gift for Malia." She'll have to pay for it, but sure, 'gift' works.

"The rays," Graham suggests.

I have two stashes. One of them is a valley a bit north of town, a spot I used to go. There, I admired the shafts of sunlight piercing the clouds, and thought, 'I think someone should bend them.' It's on the way. The other stash is on a hill, south of here. That's where I admired the clouds themselves.

I finish my cider and leave. Our conversation is over, and I'm tired of the looks. Tired of this eyepatch. I wonder if everyone would stare less at a lumpy, purple, swollen shut thing on my face. Oh well. Good cider though.

***

I am an efficient traveller.

First stop, home. Grab my travel bag, already packed just in case; grab my bedroll, grab my keys. One is to unlock the stables. The other is for the rays.

Grab some bread and salted pork and fruit from the usual, Mr. Whitehead. Sells good stuff, bread that doesn't get hard. Grab a feedbag.

Swing by the stables, sneak in the back, see Edgar for a horse. Edgar's hooked young. Sips the sweetwater often. Forte, says Graham. Call it forte. The young are easily saved, though. Just enroll them in the military. The high they get from sweetwater is easily forgotten when they're stuck in some muddy broken fort five hundred miles from home, dying or scared to death of dying. That's a very different high, I guess.

That's the last stop. I ride north.

I drop off a quickly written note at the rays as I pass by, wasting no time but to grab a small bag of forte and a few crowns. It's pretty this morning. No sun yet, clouds are there to catch it just in case.

[tamrend]

Ariana leaned back against the swaying side of the wagon and closed her eyes. Sleep tugged at her, cradled her seductively. Her body had completely healed from the arrow wounds after two days of lying quietly, but it had drained her strength. She remained awake by force of will alone. The night she had left Runath, she had succumbed to the need for rest, believing that the dreams might be gone, but she was deceived. If anything, they were worse than before, and she had woken a few hours later feeling more fatigued than when she had gone to sleep.

She listened to the breathing of the two men in the wagon with her, standing guard. They were still very much at the ready and wary of her, but that would soon pass. While she waited, she began to visualize the mechanism that held her captive. Her wrists and ankles had been bound in thick steel manacles. They were fashioned from plates of metal forged into loops and held in together with bolts. Her arms had been bound behind her back. Heavy chains hung from each and ended in a ring set into a thick metal plate set into the floor beneath her.

The guards' breathing had relaxed marginally. They believed that she had gone to sleep. Ariana considered her options. The chain was too thick and strong to think of breaking. There were really only two possibilities for escape. Breathing slowly and evenly now, she began to pull against the manacles. She wiggled her arms back and forth, hoping to use leverage to weaken the metal around the bolts. After a few moments of this, she gave it up as useless.

One possibility left. She felt beneath her until her hand touched the ring in the floor. She curled the fingers of one hand around it, but the manacles prevented her other hand from reaching. She gave it a pull to test it and found it distressingly solid. Still, there was only one way to know.

Summoning all of her strength, she braced her knees against the floor and heaved upward on the ring, hoping to rip it out of the floor. The floor of the wagon creaked, but the ring would not budge even a hairsbreadth. She strained even harder, but knew it was a vain effort. The moment had been wasted.

A million white-hot points of light exploded inside her head. Pain rolled through her, pushing its way out to her fingers and toes. Something rough and unyielding pressed against her cheek. When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see that it was the floor. She looked up from the corner of her eye at the butt of a spear hovering just above her temple, then shifted her gaze to the man holding it. He looked on her with the cold, wary gaze of a veteran, but tempered with something else. Pity.

“Do it,” the other guard said. The pain only lasted for a single, excruciating moment before she slipped into blissful oblivion.

She awoke to darkness and cold. Her head swam and the world tilted as she tried to move and found her hands and feet still bound. She was lying on her side, facing a wall. Memory filtered back to her through the fog and she uttered a curse of frustration.

“You’d best not say such things when the Lord Duncan is about.”

Ariana wriggled and rolled herself around until she could see the man who had spoken. He was totally bald but for a thick, black mustache and his clothes were marked with the same device as all the other men she had seen. He held a pipe in one hand and had a spear resting across his knees. “Why is that?” she asked him.

“Lord Duncan doesn’t take well to blasphemy. You should take care.”

“I’m not afraid of Duncan,” she said, and then ruined the effect by beginning to shiver.

He reached into a bundle and dropped a thick woolen blanket over her. He sat back to regard her. “To be honest, I’ve a hard time guessing what he wants with you. You must be some kind of abomination to still be alive after having so many holes put in you.”

“I’ll do the same and worse to your Lord Duncan when the time comes,” she said. Thinking of that awakened a warm glow of satisfaction in her chest. She basked in the feeling, unable to remember the last time she had felt it.

The man shrugged and puffed at his pipe and said nothing more until morning. She lay on her side, not sleeping but actually feeling better off in that regard for her time spent in dreamless unconsciousness. Duncan had something planned for her and he thought he had a way of controlling her. Unless he wanted her to die, he would have to give her the knife back soon, two weeks at most. Then she would see how much control he had.

[Jazzmosis]

Unaware of what had just transpired, Frailyn soon found himself tied with rope at the wrists, and his dirty sword snatched from him. He cursed himself for not defending the lady more...adequately. In fact, he hadn't put up much of a fight at all. He assumed it was his lack of swordplay that got him just tied with rope. Seemingly unworthy of a cart that he noticed his brief companion was in, Frailyn walked alongside the pawns in the army. Only one seemed to care.. or even notice him. The only thing that bound him was this infernal rope around on his wrists. "Heh..." He chuckled.

"What are you laughing about, fool?" The guard asked harshly.

"I'm not much of a threat to your leader, am I?" He responded, smirking.

"I suppose not. Either way, don't try anything funny. We're not partial to cutting your throat - I doubt King Duncan would -"

"Shut up!" Hissed another guard. "Do not speak of his name in front of the prisoner!"

Frailyn logged that name away in the back of his mind. Perhaps I could fake being tired.. and collapse... He had already begun his escape plan. No, that's ridiculous. They'd put a knife in me for sure. He stopped thinking, looking at the two guards who were still arguing. Nobody was paying any attention to him. He looked to the right - if he could squeeze past the two guards and make a dash into the bush, he'd be free. However, with no weapon, survival could be tough.

The two guards continued to argue, the topic trailing from King Duncan to who's wife was more attractive, to which sword was crafted more skillfully. Frailyn walked along, waiting for his break. Alas, he saw it. One of the guards had turned slightly from him - his sheathed sword capable of being grasped if Frailyn timed it right. Run, you fool! His mind urged him to proceed.

With quick and surprising agility, Frailyn bolted from his calm walking pace. He set his eyes on the sword, still sheathed but not clasped. Taken by surprise and slow to react, Frailyn felt his fingers curl around the hilt. With his wrists still bound, he grasped the sword tightly and tugged with all his might. It stuck at first, but his strength proved the victor as the metal scraped from it's protection and broke free from the sheath. Spinning, Frailyn slashed the sword around in a whirlwind fashion until he once again faced the direction he intended and the sword was infront of him. He looked in front of him - the first guard was pulling out his sword to create opposition.

Frailyn took the final step at him, hunched down, and drove his shoulder into the guard. He immediately rose upwards, forcing the guard off his feet and sent him hurtling to the ground. Stumbing slightly, sword still tightly in his grasp, Frailyn dashed from the army and towards the shrubbery. He looked behind himself to see two guards persuing him, and the third climbing back to his feet. Well done, old boy! His mind praised.

"We're not out yet. . ." He reminded himself, leaping off the trail and tumbling into the ditch. He immediately sprung to his feet, scampering out of the way of a sword that was thrown from a guard.

"Catch him fools!" A voice from behind called.

"Make him bleed!" Another called.

Frailyn sprinted, adrenaline pumping, into the high grass. It was only up to his waist, at best. The guards were hot in his trail, probably only 10 or 20 feet behind. The escapee ran furiously, seeing another small ditch ahead. The grass dipped in with it, before rising immediately afterwards. He hurled his body in, sideways, the stolen sword parting the dirt beside him. He rolled to one side as the three guards got nearer.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a foot stomp beside him. He took the split-second advantage and slashed at the ankle. The guard cried in pain and fell, dropping his sword and clutching his leg. Frailyn jumped to his feet, ready to engage the next guard. They clashed swords once before Frailyn stumbled on a rock behind him and fell.

"He got my ankle! Bastard got my ankle!" The wounded guard cried out. Frailyn rolled again to avoid the sword from cutting his head in two, and kicked at the second guard's knee. He heard a loud crack, and watched as the guard's leg bent backwards.

"Ahhch!" He cried, collapsing to the ground. Frailyn rolled to his stomach, forcing himself up with his still-bound arms. He turned to face the final guard, who had backed off considerably.

"Not quite the useless fool now, am I?" Frailyn commented.

Ignoring the comment, the third guard turned to the second. "Give it to him!"

Only than did Frailyn notice the fallen guard winding his arm back, sword in hand. Frailyn immediately dropped under the grassline, hearing the sword whizz by his head, mere inches from a fatal strike.

"Damn, you missed!"

"Then you get 'em, Sajun! Bloody hell my knee's out!"

Frailyn heard rustling of grass. He crawled free, hoping the wind would make the grass he pushed away unnoticeable. It worked. "Can't find the bastard!" Sajun called out.

Frailyn crawled to within 10 feet of Sajun. Still haven't seen you, he assured himself. He then sprung to his feet, rushing at the final guard. Frailyn won again. The two crashed into each other, the escapist landing on top. With the butt of the sword, Frailyn mashed Sajun's face.

"You bastard! You bastard! You killed Sajun!" The second guard screeched.

"Relax," Frailyn said. "He's just unconscious. Lost a few teeth though."

"I'll kill you, murderer!" The guard retorted.

"Fine. Then stand up and fight me."

The guard let out a string of curses. "You bloody know I can't get up! You kicked out my knee!"

Frailyn smirked, then approached the guard. In the background, he saw the first pulling himself from the fracas, back towards the walking army. "Night night." The escapee said to the second guard, and kicked him in the face. He fell, unconscious. "Oi!" Frailyn called the first guard. "Might want to drag your friends with you!"

The guard mumbled something, but Frailyn did not hear it. He sat in the grass, and cut himself free by placing the sword in his legs and ripping free the rope. His wrists were sore, but he was free. Quickly searching the two unconscious guards, Frailyn stole some rations. He then took the shirt off of Sajun's back, his chest protector, sheaths and belt. Once satisfied, Frailyn swiped the two swords from the ground and the sheathed them. Odd.. he thought to himself. They don't have daggers on them.

Frailyn scampered out of view and began to follow the army from afar in the bushes, out of sight. With no other purpose than to redeem his poor fight whilst alongside Ariana, he decided he would lend whatever aid he could to free her from this corrupt king's clutches. He followed the cart into the city, but could not follow it when it disappeared behind guarded doors.

Exhaustion was starting to creep over Frailyn. After his daring escape, he only realized he needed rest. In the morning, he could continue his redemption and attempt to free the lady he'd only met briefly. Nevertheless, he had made his decision and would die trying to fulfill it. This was why I met her. Why else would I be here? Surely, this can not be fate. She needs my help and I lend what I can. Frailyn thought, nearly aloud. I owe it to my dear, sweet Naya.

He then slunk off, searching for a tavern or an inn.

[Mercenary]

Marble columns, rich tapestries, the warm glow of dozens of well-tended torches, the soothing notes of a skilled minstrel: I left it all to descend into a pit recommended only by rot, chill, and despair. Even knowing, as I did, that I was soon to leave it, the dungeon was possessed of such a powerful character as to evoke strong feelings of dread and revulsion as I descended the stairs. If the effect was so potent on me, a mere visitor, I couldn’t, no matter the extent of my fond and idle imagining, fathom the effect it had on my prisoners.

“I disapprove.”

“Wasn’t I who built it, Lord. Can I but use those resources my predecessors have left me?”

“More care can be taken.”

“Shall I have her taken upstairs and bound with silk rope to have her escape as our other prisoner has?”

Thunder struck God’s disapproval, though the sun shone brightly and the birds yet sang.

It was a strange feeling that now overtook me. I had never thought of God as anything but a loving parent and mentor, determined at all costs to protect me. I was ready to die for him at every turn. Ever since I had taken the throne I had started to resent God’s power over me, and he must surely have noticed my resentment building. Now that I was King I no longer wished to have my fate in the hands of another—I wished to break free and forge my own destiny. But, being as God controls all things regardless of whether he speaks to one or not, it was probably advisable to keep on speaking terms with him.

The woman awaited me in her iron manacles, freezing and destitute looking, just how I like my women. I offered her a condescending smirk as I entered.. I sat down on a wooden stool, which one of the wardens had earlier delivered to her cell for just such a purpose.

“Good morning, Ariana.”

I got only silence from her, which made it all the easier to take my coaching from God.

“I am the King of Tyrran. That title may not inspire in you anything in the way of fear, respect, or reverence, but I know another king whose title might. Do you know to whom I refer?”

She did not.

“I refer to the King of Kings, creator of men--” I stopped, she was smiling. “You dare to mock God?

“God doesn’t exist.”

She didn’t believe it. She couldn’t. I quickly regained my composure, sure she hadn’t noticed that her out and out blasphemy had caused me to lose it. I laughed a cruel, deep, ancient laugh. “I commune with God every day of my life and you would presume to tell me he doesn’t exist?”

“Why does he not commune with me, then?”

I rose from my stool and moved closer to her, towering over her, my shadow darkening what was now her entire material world. “To say that God is obligated to speak to every peasant, serf, and prisoner-whore who dares to ask is a sin worthy of the damnation you’ve already earned.” I spat, my venom was never more potent than when speaking to my spiritual inferiors. “God will speak to you if and when he wills it and no sooner. I could tell you that I knew your name and location from God, and why even I should seek you out, but you’ve probably already justified that to yourself as coincidence or luck. How feeble is the reasoning of an infidel.” I was so close to her now that I was speaking in a violent and forceful whisper, her chains prevented her from shying away.

“But you were putting on a brave face, weren’t you? You believe in God as strongly as I do. I look in your eyes and pierce your soul, stained and twisted though it might be. You think he doesn’t know? You think he doesn’t care? God knows all; I know all. I know about the man you killed last week in the Inn; I know about the first man you ever killed. The grass seemed ‘dreadfully green’ that day didn’t it, Ariana? I know about all the pain and guilt you have suffered through, the hatred, the disgust. I know, too, that rather than nobly sacrifice yourself you chose to kill, you chose the dark path of self-preservation.” She was shaking now, whether from the cold or the terror of my verbal barrage it mattered not. Her wide eyes told me all I needed to know; I had her scared.

“Every sin of yours, every depraved congress with strange men in varied and distant inns, every whispered confidence, every smile, every laugh, I have it all before me and its all mine.” Her pretty eyes glimmered as if she might cry, but was trying her best to not give me the satisfaction. “And what’s more, Ariana, I know how to destroy your little knife and kill you.”

I resumed sitting on the stool and crossed my arms, satisfied. Now it was God’s turn.

“Ariana.”

“Hark, he speaks!”

“Your soul is not yet forfeit. I love you and can forgive what you have done. I can even lift the curse that has plagued you these long years. But before any of that can happen I need your repentance and Duncan needs your cooperation.”

As He eased into a soft, teacher-like manner I made my exit from the room, leaving her alone in the room with God. If he couldn’t convince her I certainly wasn’t going to.

I returned to my lavish throne room and returned the covering that concealed the entrance to my separate, personal dungeon. A page suddenly burst into the room, to the vehement protests of the guards standing on either side of the throne room doors that I wished not to be disturbed. I waved them off and looked intently at the messenger.

“Sire, begging your forgiveness but this message must be heard!”

“Yes, go on.”

“Your agent has returned to give warning that he has retrieved those items you requested, and is even now executing the remainder of your orders.”

“Excellent, may God speed his ship.”

[Unvision]

The floor was getting rather warm. He was sure of it. At first, he’d thought that the heat was some sort of side effect of the numbness creeping into his legs from being cramped into such a small cell for days on end. His hands, however, didn’t usually go numb. Not unless he’d been leaning on his elbows and propping his head up with them for a particularly long time anyway. And he hadn’t been doing a lot of that, since there wasn’t a lot of reading material here. When he was young, he would lie on his bed with a candle on the table next to it and read that way – one hand holding open the book and the other cupped around his chin. Then his father would come in and say “Dammit Vincent, I said you can’t read in bed with a candle, you’ll catch the mattress on fire!” and he’d snuff the wick with his finger tips, without even burning himself. Although, this wasn’t that kind of heat. This was a gentle, radiant warmth, and his hands, despite being cold, were not numb, and they told him the floor was warm. So unless he was losing his mind (a phenomenon that, or so he had read, wasn’t all that uncommon among prisoners)… on second thought, it usually took longer than a week… no, this stone floor was definitely warmer now.

“Hey! Is someone in there?” called Vincent, trying to stick his head out from between the rungs of the cell.

“Yes,” came back an uninterested reply.

“I thought so. Are you making the floor warm?”

“Yes.”

“Are you,” Vincent paused, as though deciding upon an answer, “a powerful sorcerer?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you in prison then, may I ask?”

“I killed a lot of people and stole a lot of things.”

“Interesting, but I didn’t mean it that way. I meant it in the ‘Then why are you still here?’ kind of way.”

Silence.

“What’s your name?” Vincent implored.

“Victor.”

“My name’s Vincent. We have similar names.”

“Do we?”

“Yes, well, more similar than if your name was Vincent and my name was…” he thought about it before coming upon the perfect title, “Melon.”

“True. Do you sleep?”

“Sometimes. When I get bored.”

“Do you get bored a lot?”

“Not as much as you would think. I’ve been practicing my singing a lot. I wanted to be a bard when I was younger – traveling and singing and telling tales and traveling and singing and – Oh! I’ll sing for you! Good idea, yes. I should say though, that I don’t actually know any tales yet, because I’m not a bard. I could make one up though. Let’s see…

“There once was a bard from Atia,
Who was thrown in jail with a powerful and evil sorcerer named… Victor…ia.”

“I’m not evil.”

“It fit into the meter of the ballad. Don’t think you can teach me anything about meter, I’m a bard, remember? While we’re on the topic though, can I change your name to Victia?”

“You’re the bard.”

“Thank you.

“There once was a bard from Atia,
Who was thrown in jail with a powerful sorcerer named Victia”
They broke out, and the guards didn’t notice,
Because Vincent may or may not know a secret passage out of the prison once we can get outside these cells.”

Victor clapped dryly. “You’re a regular master of the metrical art, but I have to ask you something.” He dropped his voice. “Do you happen to know a secret passageway that could get us out of here?”

Vincent leaned in close, glancing from side to side conspiratorially. “Yes.”

There was an exasperated silence. “To where does it go?”

“I’m not entirely clear on that,” Vincent answered.

“Well, anything’s worth a try.”

[Khalic]

It's near midnight, I'm watching the lamplight oil burning away like an hourglass. First it brimmed there, now it's waning here. The oil's gone down, and the rest of the place has cleared out. And through the light I see the few people left huddled over the last conversation in the bar. I've named them all now, stout the bartender, with his silk vest, through blondie the prude, dressed up for no reason, because she isn't getting any. She laughs again. She makes the agonizing sound in reaction to a comical statement. It hits my head like a sap, bounds around in my slightly intoxicated brain, and makes my stomach complain dully. I close my eyes tight and will the sound away. Bloody spires of Kalaise, like Gid says. They get bloodier every time.

I'm a few drinks down, sitting in an empty booth with my head cocked a little, to look a little drunk. Those few down get me a little sentimental, and bring out that odd intimacy that you develop when you're alone or anonymous most of your time.

Story time.

After you've run long enough, several miles maybe, your jaw stops working quite right. The incisors clash all with molars, and it fits together like two broken edged chunks of glass. It's from hanging open so long. Dragging air in and out and bouncing as your feet run the ground away.

After you've run long enough, a few months, a few towns, until you've committed the crime you ran from in the first place a few times more and worse, you stop fitting into places right anymore. You're too used to being stranger to meet anyone like you used to. You'll feel idle in a house. Bite your nails. Think sick things. Sleep gets dodgy. Steady work, or another person, is beyond your attention span.

Or maybe that's how it is for everyone, and they just get over it.

The wench laughs again. I clench my jaw and close my eyes lightly. I finger the bindings on the hilt of my sword.

That's the story of how I got this job. The version that doesn't put you in any danger, anyway. This next part shouldn't either, but try to forget it quick.

I'm a courier. In a system more organized, I'd just be an agent. In a more prestigeous organization I could be called a herald. I might be a harbinger in one more religious. In one more legal, I wouldn't be necessary. In one less legal, I wouldn't be referred to. Though it's hard to get less legal than this.

The trade is anything for anything. The exchange rate is currently very appealing in money for blood and information for blood. The stock of life is cheap these days. The ***** laughs again, sending that sound chiseling in between my eyes and bursting out the back of my head through a gaping exit wound and I make a mental note to educate her on the stock analogy later.

This morning I got a message. Mail from Sam or Graham used to mean things funner and other than work, at different times for either, but now it only means work. I've finished this glass, and the blonde is leaving. I slap down the tab and alight my weapon and my body.

They know I'm going to Anseldam. They might know why. I'll take their fugitive. I'm on duty again.

[Üdorim]

He swung the blade in a mighty horizontal arc, extending his arm and recklessly letting the full weight of the attack pull him forward. Mayanna felt the breeze of the blade wash over her face as she fell backwards and under the sword sweep, letting the gentle pull of the wind tug at her memories.

The wind whipped fiercely around her body, like circling falcons diving in to rip the flesh from their prey. She had run away from her tribe ten days before, and had been plagued by this fearsome wind from the beginning. It was as if the shamen themselves, high on their cloudy aerie, sent the winds to dog her. More likely, it was a result of blasphemously keeping the sun to her sides, traveling north in daylight hours.

Her mothers had always warned her, "don't cross the path of the sun, lest it burn your soul to dust," and she had begun to realize why. During the day when the winds picked up, it became nearly impossible to trudge north, up the tops of the dunes with the cruel wind pushing forcefully down on her. To follow the dunes east or west, in the shelter created between the dunes, was easy. But she had to go north.

And when she did, on her third try, climbing to the top of the dune as if it was a summit, she would behold an all-encompassing range of such summits before her in the raked earth. And then Silth would send a gust from the south, and send her tumbling down the other side of the dune in a landslide of sand and dirt.

As Mayanna lay face down in the dirt with the wind in her ears and in her memories, Coran woke up and watched the brutish man tumble over their body like a landslide. The fool woman was going to get them killed. Coran kept his own attention fixed on the sword flying above them, and the bulk of the man crashing into their body. He snapped out his hand in an instant and grabbed hold of the wrist that was in turn holding the sword. Coran pulled with all the weight of gravity and the man's forward momentum combined, throwing him over top of them, and away. He got them to lift back up onto their feet, just in time to face another charge from the brute.

Mayanna charged down from another dune, scrabbling and struggling to stay upright. Soon she would have to cease her fight for the night. She had to stop moving every night. When the sun went down and the winds slowed to a trickle, that's when everything starts to move in the desert. But by the time the stars swathe over the sky in ribbons of light, she's already obscured them with her hair.

Buried neck-deep in sand she lets her golden-brown hair cover her deep black eyes; just another patch of dirt on the dunes. She disguised herself in this way every night, to conceal herself from the hunters. By the end of the night her skin was blistering from the heat of the sand, and in the morning she rose from the dirt as if from the grave, to face another day. Her flesh as scalded as her soul.

Searing heat attacked Coran, following its way deep into his muscle, alongside the blade shearing the meat it found there. The hit wouldn't be lethal, but with the god of ill-fortune on their side, the arm would need to be cut into again, and off. If they survived this match to begin with. Coran struck the sword away with his own, praising the fates that his good arm had been spared. Blood splattered the cheering audience.

Clapping erupted around Mayanna, and she awoke with a start. Still buried in sand; she had passed out exhausted during the night. It was vultures. The clapping. They were beating their beaks on bleached bones only paces from her resting place, keeping their eyes beaded warily and hungrily on her position.

She couldn't survive any longer like this. She had to survive though. With her soul burned away, she wouldn't have wings to fly into the after-life. Delirious thoughts, she knew, somewhere. Somewhere she even knew that the shamen had never spoken of wings, or even flying together with the after-life. But she had to survive, and needed a reason. And Lord, if she could not be worthy without a soul, how could she be worthy without a heart?

She trudged.

Coran stumbled. Their dexterity and agility had made quick and audience pleasing work of all their beginning opponents, and the crowds had cheered all the more at their mercy, foes kneeling prostrate before them. Even in the murder-match they had shown mercy. This time would be different. The man across from them at the other end of the chalk-outlined arena was Blacken by name, a walking mass of power and endurance. Nothing like that William they had watched, whose strength shone through weakness and whose Armour grew through skin; Blacken showed his power on the outside. He oozed muscle out of every pore and radiated a veteran's experience with every rough-and-tumble movement. His movements were very rough.

The sand scraped her heels like a bed of nails, and Mayanna collapsed at the top of the dune. She had left her pack behind, so sick in her weakness she was unable to lift it out of the hole she had dug for it the night before. A tear stained her eyelid, and then she saw water.

Cutting the desert impossibly in half, the Meror was a swift and revered river that could never been expected to flow between the same sand dunes twice. Rubbing the waste of moisture from her eye, she scrambled and fell down the dune to the bank; merely where the sand stopped and the crystal clear river began. She drank deep and thoroughly. A gust of wind sent beautiful patterns rippling across the water in front of her, and she prayed for a blessing on the tail end of the wind, to fall upon a fellow traveler at the whim of the wind.

From beyond the bend of the river came a sudden noise, and then a merchant flatboat rounded the curve. It's white sheets at half-mast to slowly navigate the twisting Meror, it sped slowly toward Mayanna. Heading north. The gust picked up, and Mayanna prayed for her heart and soul on the wind, and began waving her arms and opening her mouth, her weathered voice painfully cracking and sputtering.

More blood splurted from another wound somewhere. Coran dropped their dizzying vision to the ground, leaning on their sword to keep afoot. He turned their gaze slowly around them, and everywhere was their blood. Not just merely on one side, but splattered everywhere.

The funny thing about blood, Coran thought, is that there's either never enough, or there's too much. You kill a man quickly, you can't even be sure he's dead. A dead man doesn't always show that much blood; you damned don't even need to make a man bleed to kill him. Or you kill a man slowly. If you kill a man slowly, then you can't be sure he's still alive. The ground, Coran thought, is covered in way too much blood.

How many riches can one person have? There, Mayanna thought, is way too much gold on this boat for it to float. At least she was beginning to think coherently. The Ruvenian men around her didn't mind that she was staring at the gold. It was hidden in plain sight, piled up everywhere. They would be more careful, they told her, later, "when there's someone around to see. But here, it's better to distribute the weight evenly. Besides," they leered at her scant coverings, "you ain't got a place to hide anything anyway."

And it was true. She hadn't her pack. She hadn't her name. She hadn't anything. So she told them her name was Coran Twelvetree; none of them could tell one Moranian name from another, even across genders. As the lie lifted off her tongue, she felt better. Felt somehow like she was putting the wind back into her sails.

Their body lifted from the ground once more, coughing blood from the lung. The man, Blacken, had their chest held in one enormous hand, and Coran knew he was playing with them. He could end it right now.

Blacken pushed them backwards, letting them go. Seeing if they could still keep on their feet. If he could still have his fun. The crowd was roaring. And where the hell was Mayanna!!?

The river grew in its intensity until it raged about them and tugged the boat with a million white-tipped hands. It was a long and frightening journey, and all Mayanna had to eat was hard-tack. All she had to wear were sun bleached, sand rubbed, dirt stained rags. And all she had to drink was blessed, beautiful water.

And suddenly the journey was over, as all journeys eventually are. The vast Ruven horizon stretched out before them, and clouds greeted her for the first time. She wondered at their shaded interiors and swirling trails, and the boat lurched to a halt against the rocky shore.

The crew let her go with a handful of gold pieces. They had a full crew, they said, of thirteen, so they needed to distribute the weight a little more evenly. Just to be sure. She didn't think she had a heart left to check for sure, but she thought they might have shown her pity.

The boat took off again then, leaving her safe in Ruven. The waves hit the rocks endlessly as she lay outstretched on the empty pier ... a gentle clanging of water on the rocks ...

Their ears rang with noise and Coran thought they might have seen the broadside of the cruel man's sword for the last time. But he opened his eyelids and stared without comprehension as Blacken fled from the arena, crossing the chalk outline. Coran fell to the ground, unceremoniously and hard on their ***.

"Oh bless the light," the old referee rushed inward, along with several guards trying to head off the thronging crowd. "You're alive. It's a miracle, a godbedamned miracle! A god-be-damn-ed miracle!"

The crowd kept crowding, and their shouts started shouting of their own, and the miracles kept crashing into Coran's ears until they beat him senseless.

#

Two days and two healers later, Mayanna was sore and stiff all over. The match had seen three miracles. The final one: she wasn't scheduled for another match for a full three days after taking her life-threatening beating. With the aid of the healers, she could yet participate in the tournament. Minus eating, perhaps; she would have to find some more money, after spending her last coin on the priests.

Her second miracle, and this she reflected over in front of the mirror, was that no one had discovered her identity. That she wasn't Coran. That she wasn't really a man. Perhaps her miracle was aided by all the blood. It was still caked on her skin ... the healers had had more important work in front of them than mere cleaning.

Her first miracle, though. She returned to the bed and fell into its soft embrace, letting herself go; for to repay her first miracle she would have to send her life away on the winds.

Who could have known that Blacken was a member of the royal guard? A grizzled veteran, stronger than the strongest man in the army, surely. But to have that cruel man entrusted with the life of the prince?

When the bells had sounded and called the royal guard to arms, it was shouted through the crowds that the palace was under magical siege. To forfeit the tournament, the cruel Blacken had to forfeit his dignity. But to ignore the bell's call would have been to forfeit his life. It was treason to stop and kill even one man between hearing the bell, and answering its call. And maybe even a woman.

Mayanna remembered the first time she had ever taken the guise of another, and the disorientation it had caused. If she hadn't needed to, she might never have discovered her frightening power, all the more frightening for not being detailed in a single story or parable. Her prowess in combat was undoubtedly entirely Coran's doing, but his personality was getting out of hand. The real Coran had never been so dominating.

[proudfoot]

Uharo lay in an unfamiliar bed and stared at an unfamiliar ceiling. Thoughts ran through his head like spooked horses; the hoof-beats thundered around in his skull, preventing him from concentrating. He looked over to the bedside table, where the bone-handled dagger sat quietly beside his longsword.

It seemed so long ago that he had first seen and held it, but it had been, in reality, barely more than twenty-four hours since he had found it encased in an iron box in a corner of the storage attic where he had often gone to be alone with his despondency. He wondered, as he had then, why he had never seen it before, and why such a remarkable weapon would be hidden in such a useless place.

He sat up and reached for the dagger, feeling its smooth bone grip in his palm and swishing it slowly, mystically through the air. As he held it all curiosity left his mind; it didn’t matter where it had come from or why. It was his now, and it was good.

Uharo set the dagger down again on the table and slumped back onto the pillow. As he rolled onto his side he felt a prick on the side of his neck, and reached up in surprise. His hand met the bent-needle earring and he smiled, relishing the memory of what the dagger had helped him do.

Hikana, he thought with a smirk, you may have been a decent fighter; I admit your skill exceeded mine. But who got the better of who? Which one of us is the dead one?

You fool, said Hikana’s voice in Uharo’s head. You have no idea what you’ve done to us.

Uharo sat up and screamed.

[Mercenary]

I didn’t like Duncan; I did like his money. You don’t meet many blonde fanatics, the lighter complexioned seem more apt to being lighter hearted as well. Not so with Duncan. He made me uncomfortable, as if my favor with him rested always on the very razor’s edge, and the slightest flight of fancy might push me over.

I’d been at this business a long time, too long. Just what business it was I wasn’t exactly sure. Seemed like I knew the business more than I knew myself at times. Equal parts killing, escaping, and traveling, the life of a rogue was never without adventure.

The ship rocked back and forth in the swells. Two months at sea, it was almost unfathomable. And we were headed across God only knows how much water towards a land no one had ever seen, to meet someone no one had ever heard of, all on a hunch of Duncan’s. One of the things one comes to learn about Duncan—almost as immediately as that one doesn’t like him—is that his hunches are never wrong.

Ship’s deck; many a tale of swashbuckling begins at a place like this. If I’ve any luck left after some thirty odd years it’ll insure that this deck doesn’t serve as a similar launching point. This was a swift-running frigate of the Tyrranian Navy, commissioned specifically for the execution of my mission. To offset the cost of the voyage tickets were sold with claims that it was taking people to a new world; one they’d never seen.

All manner of villains had found their way onto the ship, their causes for coming as varied as their characters. One such ne’er-do-well was occupied staring wistfully off into the rainy night.

It seems that all criminals fancy themselves philosophers. Seldom will one come upon one who breaks the laws he himself holds dear. All too often they reject those laws altogether, and as such breaking them is no big deal. Not me. I break the laws I know are right. I learned at a very young age that I was one of the bad guys. Even ditches want for diggers, as they say.

Duncan and I were more strikingly similar than either of us was comfortable admitting. We both knew and respected what the laws were but weren’t above transcending them when it served our interests. The only difference was, he transcended them and remained legit, I transcended them and became ostracized and hunted. Apparently a mass murderer was more palatable to the Church than a rogue. I spat into the briny sea and approached the solitary figure.

I found a blade at my gullet before I could draw my own. He was fast. I liked fast. I extended my hand for a shake. “Easy fellow.”

He took it, “What’s your business?”

“A little of this, a little of that.”

“I’m in that too, very lucrative.”

We both chuckled and were silent for a time. When it was approaching the point of being interminable, I remarked, “So I’m on something of a mission. I could use an extra blade, yours seems quick enough, interested?”

He gave a barely perceptible nod in the darkness.

[tamrend]

Ariana watched until the last flickering of light faded from the dungeon walls. A ghostly blue smear floated across her eyes, the only feature she could distinguish from absolute darkness. Water trickled from the ceiling, beating out a maddeningly steady cadence on the floor. Drip, drip. Pause. Drip, drip. Now that the light was gone, the various creeping, nibbling creatures of the dungeon ventured forth once more from their holes, the noise rising to an excruciating babble in her unnaturally sharp ears.

When she could no longer stand it, she covered her ears. Duncan had put her down here to try to break her will. The threat of destroying the knife was just part of that ploy. She had no idea whether he could really do it, but keeping her locked up in this pit would settle the job just as easily. Then again, the knife had always possessed a peculiar way of making its way back to her. Maybe all she need do was wait for it to fall out of the pocket of a soldier coming to feed her.

She smiled wryly. That had been a neat trick, making her think she heard another voice speaking to her. It had frightened her for a moment, but the voice had stopped as soon as Duncan had left her. Now she just wanted to know how he’d managed it, and how he had found out so much about her past. She'd kept no friends, had given naught but her name in the pursuit of a bounty. The world should have forgotten about her by now.

She spat. “Curse you, Duncan, and curse your god.”

You know in your heart I exist. The voice rumbled out of the darkness.

Terror gripped her and she backed up until she was pressed against the wall. “You are imagining this,” she said aloud. “This isn’t real. You’re letting him get to you.”

You’re deceiving yourself, Ariana.

“It’s just in your mind.”

You’ve turned away from Me. Your soul is stained with the blood of your victims.

“Leave me alone!” she shrieked. Her voice reverberated from the deepest corners of the dungeon, bringing the rustlings and scrapings to a stunned silence. Only the dripping continued on stoically.

You know I exist. That’s why you won’t sleep, why you won’t face your dreams.

And then the voice left her once more to cold, and tiny scrapings in the dark.

[Unvision]

The king stood facing William from across the room, his features and robe woven into a tapestry of colors by the stain glass window and the sunlight that poured through it. William was experiencing some difficulty in remaining focused on what the king’s treasurer was saying whilst the king himself was lit by this mosaic of reds, blues and greens. And none of that was taking into account the fantastic, albeit distorted, view out of that window. William was keenly aware that he had never been up this high before. In fact, he hadn’t even been in a castle before. Well, not legally anyway.

“…You are a Sanglorian man, you… well, you know why you’re here,” began the treasurer.

William turned from the king to the dark-featured and squinty-eyed man in front of him. The king’s back was much more pleasant. He shrugged, looked away again and by sheer coincidence appeared aloof and unconcerned with what the treasurer was saying or the heavy bag that sat beneath the table.

The queen made the next move, slamming the bag down on the table in front of him. William flinched, but continued staring out the window with the king. The squinty-eyed man frowned perceptibly as if to say that this wasn’t the way of doing things and that she was the queen and shouldn’t be behaving in such a manner, but continued his narration undaunted.

“As I said, you are a Sanglorian. You know that his highness is a civil and genial king. We won’t talk about your… performance… in the competition, and we won’t have you thrown in the dungeon or killed, unlike a certain mage that we hear may be a friend of yours.” He licked his lips, waiting to see the effect this would have on William.

William, in return, continued to stare out the window.

“We propose that you take this bag with you when you leave and in return we receive your… cooperation.”

This finally managed to get his attention. “I have done nothing but cooperate with the Sanglorian court!”

Exasperated, the treasurer pressed on in a more hurried and blunt manner. “This is a different sort of cooperation. It involves you losing your first match in the championship.”

“You expect me to make it to the championship? Sir, I think you have more faith in me than I have in myself.”

“We both know that your… abilities… more than warrant your victory within the championship.”

William ignored him and his rather annoying habit of struggling to choose the perfect connotative word at every junction in this dialog. “So I leave this room a rich man and in return all I have to do is lose a match I would undoubtedly have lost anyway?”

“Exactly.”

“Sounds like a deal.”

“Done?”

“Done.”

The king, glad that his tiresome duty of staring out the window imposingly during the transaction was finished, left the room, beckoning to his wife from the door. William immediately went to the window, remembering to grab the bag as he went. As he surveyed the lands below him, he thought about the last week.

It was nothing too out of the ordinary. A bit more exciting than normal, and a bit more rewarding. That, he reflected, was usually how things went. Apparently, Victor hadn’t gotten away with whatever it was he had been trying to do. However, seeing as how whatever he was attempting to do had landed him in jail, it might have been all for the best.

[Unvision]

“I don’t understand why you’re so interested in this secret passageway if you’re a powerful evil sorcerer.”

“I believe I have already mentioned that I am not an evil sorcerer. Powerful… well, I’m certainly on my way. As for the secret passageway, they captured me once. I’d rather escape without having to walk past the guards. I don’t think they’d bother with jail if I were caught a second time.”

“Rightio. Well, I should probably mention that the entrance isn’t in either of our cells.”

“Can I ask where it is?”

“You may.”

A brief silence followed.

“Where is it?”

“It’s in the cell across from yours.”

“Thank you. Now, it’s only an issue of…” a slight hissing sound followed and the lock on Victor’s cell melted.

He stepped out into the hallway and looked in at Vincent, who looked absolutely nothing like he had expected. Vincent had struck him as the like sort of person that was not “entirely there.” This trait, in his experience, came in two flavors: the young, village-idiot sort, or the old, senile-drunk type. Vincent was neither of these things.

Victor’s first impression of him, judging by his voice and their earlier dialogs, was that he was some sort of bumbling old fool that had gotten in a brawl at the wrong tavern on the wrong night in front of the wrong royal guard and been arrested. In fact, the prisoner in front of him looked as though he might have been locked up for setting on fire a certain tavern at the exact right time in front of absolutely no one and gotten well paid for it. Upon further study, Victor was forced to reassess his inclination that this man was not insane.

“I have to admit, I hoped you would open my cell first,” said the stranger behind the bars, his voice much lower now and his dark eyes glinting beneath a clean-shaven head.

“Should I be glad I didn’t?”

“You’ll never know unless you do some fireworks on my lock too.”

“Apparently you’ve been in jail before. That or you’ve just been in here long enough to work out this clever series of lies in order to get someone to let you out.”

“Both, actually.”


“Well, I’m a civilized man. I don’t know much about you—”

“Oh, I’m a civilized man too.”

“—but I’m prepared to let you out, since you told me about that passageway. Speaking of which, it does exist, doesn’t it?”

“The passageway?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“There’s no passageway?”

“No.”

“Well now I’m in a fine place – a place where I’m rather less inclined to let you out, considering everything. I’m standing outside the cell that I’m supposed to be locked inside of. Now, I could hop right back in, except that I melted the lock off so that I could escape into a secret passageway that doesn’t actually exist.”

“Which, I was sort of hoping, would be a motivating factor in you melting my lock off as well.”

“So we can walk down this hallway to take on the prison guards armed with your shaved head and my novel?”

“Look at it this way. What have you got to lose by letting me out? They won’t kill you for being outside your cell if you go peacefully back in when they ask. Maybe they’ll even put you in a cell that actually has a secret passage and a magical lock that can’t be boiled off.”

“A fine solution if ever I heard one.”

“I wasn’t done explaining. I still have a way out of here that doesn’t involve us fighting off the guards with my shaved head, as you so eloquently put it.”

“Care to tell me what it is?”

“After my last experience sharing my knowledge with you? Let me out first.”

“I guess I have nothing to lose with you out here in the hall with me. Except that they might move us a few more cells apart and keep a guard in here if we get caught. A few more stone walls between you and I wouldn’t be an entirely unfortunate setup.” The lock on Vincent’s door melted.

“I was expecting sparks or blue fire or something,” he remarked as he pushed the door open and stepped into the cell across from Victor’s former residence. He felt along the edge between the wall and the floor of the cell and then blew into a tiny crack between two of the stones. The stone in the wall and the stone in the floor sunk down and then away from each other, revealing a dark hole.

“There actually was a passageway,” remarked Victor despondently and slightly in awe. “You told me that I was stuck out here and had nothing to lose so that I would let you out so that you could just go ahead with your original plan?”

“Yes, although the “tricking you” part of the escape plan didn’t take me as long to come up with as the first part did. That was more of an on-the-spot thing between when you didn’t melt my lock first and when you stopped staring at me in surprise.”

“You go first. I can do more than melt locks you know.” Vincent’s left sleeve caught on fire momentarily before turning to ash. “Maybe I’ll use your arm as a lantern if we get lost.”

[Snowglare]

She's to escort you to Anseldam. It wasn't so much the why, or how Sam knew to find him here. Even who Malia was didn't worry him as much as the suddenness of... everything. Getting into Heighton had proven easier than he'd hoped, and things were moving slowly enough that he could tell what was going on. Or maybe they seemed slow because he paid such close attention, unwilling to miss any sign of an attack, a trap. Then I got lost, Doran reflected.

He was to meet her behind the tanner's shop after dark. The boy had said as much. One of Marten's runners. Doran didn't catch his name, but then he didn't suppose they ever shared their names. I know I didn't, when I ran for Marten. The tanner's shop. Or was it the clothier? He never got there.

"Doran." It wasn't a question, but he answered it with one.

"Malia? We were to meet-"

She cut him off. "Yes. I know. Follow me."

He did not. Malia disliked that, but Doran insisted. She was rather less feminine than the boy runner. Dressed as she was, in gray breeches and matching gray doublet, it was easy to mistake her for a man. And her face was broad, homely. She was not unkind to the eyes, but with a strong jaw and thin lips that didn't smile... Only her voice betrayed her. It was soft, lilting... unbecoming. Had I not been told elsewise, I'd have thought her a eunuch. She even walked like a man, he noted later. Spoke like one, to be sure, voice aside; gruff, curt, vulgar. Expecting a woman and seeing a man, he refused to go with her. Adamantly refused, until Malia produced a letter from his old employer explaining everything. That Samuval had contacted Marten ahead of him, that Malia was to fetch him, and that they were off to Anseldam for the fair. Doran doubted this creature had skill enough to forge Marten's hand, if she could even read or write, and it was clearly his hand. It would have borne his seal if he had one, but Marten was no lord and didn't pretend to be. A simple man, and a friend. He trusted him, but could he trust this Malia? If she was who she claimed to be, he could trust her as well as anyone in Marten's employ, which was well enough for his tastes. He had asked to speak with Marten, but she was having none of that.

"He said take you to Anseldam. That's all he said. Nothing else. He doesn't want to talk to you." She said it like she was telling a child that his father didn't love him, and it hurt Doran near as much. He wouldn't let her see.

As if she'd spoken only of the weather he replied, "It's bright out. Shouldn't we wait-"

Again she cut him off. "There's no time." She gave him one last look before leaving. Her words were sharp, unyielding, and she walked as though she cared not where he went, but her eyes pled for him to follow. Could he trust those eyes? Was he in danger? He could find Marten, discover what was happening, who this person was. Marten would know... Doran ran to catch up.

"Is Anseldam far?"

"Far enough."

She's as eager to leave as I am, he thought. But Heighton will wait for us. If Marten had sent someone so green as to allow herself to be killed, to be replaced by an imposter, then he truly had as little love for Doran as Malia had implied. And either way, he wouldn't want to speak to him. Marten would know, and she would not be here.

"I lack a horse."

"You lack a horse's sense. Mounts await us. Good ones. Fed, groomed, saddled; ready to go. Waiting on you."

"On us," Doran corrected, but he saw her reply before she made it.

"On you. Everything waits on you."

[Markle]

The Queen's garden, more often called Messengers' Drop, was a grove of foreign trees and bushes made, at great expense, to grow in the infertile desert that was Morania. It was located just west of the capital city of Hadajik, on the edge of a cliff that dropped down into the steep, curving canyon of the Kaledara river, and was the Queen's favorite place to receive messengers, hence the name.

"News from Tyrran, Highness." Today's victim struggled to maintain some level of composure, standing in the traditional place, just outside the shade provided by the trees, heels inches from the cliff's edge.

"I do hope it's favorable." The Queen, shaded, fanned, and cushioned, ran her violet eyes over the man once, then looked past him into the sweeping bend of the canyon beyond. "If memory serves, you departed here nearly sixty days ago. To take such time collecting ill news?" She trailed off. "A magnificent view, isn't it?"

"Oh... uh, yes, splendid, My Queen." He stuttered in agreement, knowing that he was not to look away from the queen until dismissed.

"Come now, you've not even looked. Unless, of course, you are referring to me?"

"I would never- that is to say that, I wouldn't presume to..." The question had no acceptable answer. One couldn't express attraction to the Queen and live; neither could one deny her beauty. Any end to this would be a relief.

"What is your news?"

"I... went to Tyrran." The man paused, mentally reassembling the report he'd practiced his entire return journey. "The king is dead, his son is cast out. The general Duncan has assumed the throne."

"Duncan!" The Queen's eyes brightened, and the corners of her lips twitched upward, as great an expression of joy as any but her closest servants could hope to see from her in a lifetime. The scout's heart leapt. She was happy! Perhaps he'd be promoted to a palace post, or given a governorship, or-

"And what of Sangloria?"

"Highness?"

"You were absent sixty days. Surely you also traveled to Tellur in that time."

"It... it was not my assignment, My Queen."

"Was not your assignment," the Queen repeated flatly. "Your assignment is to serve me as best you possibly can. If you did not go to Tellur, why have you deprived me of your report for so long?"

"The lawless lands are very hostile this time of year, My Queen, very difficult to cross. Water is scarce, the nomads are restless. I could make only five miles some days."

"I see." Her voice may have been the least sympathetic he'd ever heard. "How do you propose to atone for your failure?" His brief euphoria brought to a sudden halt, the scout once again wished for an escape, any escape.

"Your Highness, if you wish it I will set off for Sangloria at once."

The Queen didn't immediately respond, instead gesturing for one of her guards to lean in so she could address him. "Refresh my memory: Does this river flow to Sangloria?"

"It flows to Ruvena Lake, Highness, which drains into another river, which is the border of Sangloria and Tyrran."

The Queen considered a moment, then nodded. "Close enough. So be it, you shall depart for Sangloria at once."

The scout managed only a tortured moan as a pair of guards lifted him by his arms and hurled him into the empty air.

"Bring my carriage. We return to the palace at once."

[Markle]

There was beauty in the desert. Most Moranians didn't realize it, as they'd never ventured outside, to the lawless lands and beyond. Fedar had seen the Ruvena Plain and its great lake, the resting place for all water in this land, even some of the forests of Sangloria. All were visually appealing, but beauty was more than that. The beauty of Morania was the feel of the air at dawn and dusk, the stars at night, the unreachable horizon, the hardy nature of plants, beasts, and peoples who dared dwell here.

From his resting place atop a small sandy hill, he looked south, imagining he could see Rethastan in the distance. It always pained him to stray far from the city, but orders were orders. With an effort, he turned his gaze north, to the valley below, where his men were making camp next to the river. Fools, but it wasn't their fault. They were mere trainees, despite several years as soldiers. It had been some time since Morania had seen real conflict.

He jogged down to them, shouting as he went for them to stop and wait for him, but the evening wind made communication over most any distance impossible. "We're to watch, but not be seen," he said sternly, upon reaching them. "We camp in the hills, away from the river." Like children scolded by a teacher, they hung their heads low, then shamefully set about disassembling the tents.

Fedar led them to a site of his choosing, hidden from sight and sheltered from elements, the only disadvantage being the hike one had to make to collect water. Of course, Fedar wouldn't have to make the hike. When camp was made, he sent his soldiers back to the river, an order they reluctantly followed, though they muttered complaints as they left. From real soldiers, Fedar wouldn't accept such insubordinate behavior, but there was no reason for these children to be real soldiers.

Unless these orders were something other than the Queen's latest whim. Captain Remyr, of the Rethastan garrison, would arrive tonight. Perhaps he would know. Until then, Fedar has no reason to plan for anything worse than a nomad raid. Probably not even that. It wouldn't be the first time the Queen had, in a moment of boredom, shuffled her forces throughout the realm.

Casting away for the moment thoughts of queens and nomads, he built a fire, cherished the solitude of this place, and looked south for the coming of the captain.

[Üdorim]

"This place is ... our home!

-- our land

-- the resting place of our shamens!

-- the home of the wind

-- this place is our home," Mayanna finished for everyone. Just at hearing that, at the longing she placed in home, everyone knew they had nothing left to say. The assembled group shuffled their feet, already packed so close together they were bumping hips.

"Ridiculous. After all the work my father and my grandfather did to bring civilization to this area, Morania is finally just becoming ripe enough to pick. How can you claim to have a home," and here she leaned forward as if sharing a particularly interesting part of a story with a group of children, "when you don't even have houses to live in? You are absurd."

The Queen was as cruel as they had heard.

"But we -- your highness -- we have been in this land since the winds dropped our seed here," came Mayanna's imploring argument.

"Ah, that tired story. That you would sprout from a seed. That only proves you're not a people. Begone!" cried the queen in a loud voice, suddenly tired of the company. The two escorting guards led the herd of nomads from the palace and into the city proper.

"You," said one guard, "are lucky she granted an audience for the all of you. She gets bored having to watch the killing of any more than a small group." He said this while the second guard untied the rope that had encircled the group, to keep any of the nomads from migrating through the castle.

"Yep. Well I suppose it probably would have been our heads before yours," the second guard continued, "shan't soon have a guard left in the kingdom. We're all a little lucky today," he finished with the knot, letting the desert people spill slowly into the street.

Lucky, thought Mayanna. He thinks we're lucky.

"But I suppose too that if you're still in sight of the city walls by the end of the day, there will be the order to send after you." A hunting party is what he meant. "Those wall guards, now those are the evil sort."

Without getting much response from the nomads, the guards merely coiled the rope, shrugged their shoulders and walked off to the nearest bar. They did feel lucky, for someone was always in need of rope, and they had quite the length of one. For extending a well rope so that the bucket could actually reach the water, perhaps. Maybe for lashing gates. In any case, they would have a full tab by the end of the night, for sure. With the Queen making so many nooses, there was always a shortage of rope.

#

Mayanna lay awake in the night, listening to the gentle patter of rain. Too many reveries to sleep.

She lifted the Tourney poster from its place at her side, staring again at its words. She could barely decipher them, in the strange blocky Sanglorian hand, but she wasn't a beast. Nomads all learned their letters, wide looping ones with tails and leading lines and dashes, flowing over the uneven papyrus like wind over the dunes.

Of course, she didn't know all the Sanglorian words, either. "FORE INQIURES VISIT YOU'R LOCALE REGJISTRAR" had been particularly difficult, but she supposed she'd be more comfortable fighting with a sword than with an inqiures, in case Coran didn't know their proper use.

Coran was, of course, not Coran. And Coran didn't know anything that the actual Coran knew, in fact didn't know anything more than Mayanna knew. Most of the times even less. Coran was merely Mayanna inside her own head thinking that she was actually Coran. And thus since Mayanna didn't think that Coran was trained in foreign fighting techniques, her Coran didn't think that he was either. She supposed she could try to believe, as she must have somehow believed Coran into existence in the first place ... but sometimes, it was just so hard to believe. No small wonder she was having headaches.

But this was all just a waste of time. She needed food, and she needed to look up the timeslot of her next match. Besides which, she had some questions about the tourney prizes that she'd have to track someone down to ask about.

[Mercenary]

I tucked into my magic-sealed, waterproof leather satchel those items I was to guard with my life. If I lost them, Duncan would have me killed. If I lost them, though, they’d have to get to me before I could lay hands on myself, considering all the trouble I’d gone to to get them in the first place. I had already risked my life by robbing a miner’s lodge. I had stolen a few pounds of their blackest, purest iron, the stuff the taking of which they punish with death. Following that, I had had to do a bit of spelunking, the first I’d ever had to do in my life. That had gone rather uneventfully as far as monsters or guards are concerned, the difficult going and long time spent underground were a *****, though. And it was all for so small and so few shards of red crystal that they fit nicely in an envelope.

My travels for King Duncan were far from concluded. I had still two more articles to retrieve from this new land I was sailing to, and then I had to meet with a smith, and give him all I had heretofore collected. Duncan had said we wouldn’t be able to communicate verbally, neither of us having ever even heard the other’s language spoken before. It struck me, as it had many times before, that Duncan knew so well all the details of my voyage, even down to the precise location of things that no mortal man could ever find. He had something of the air of an oracle about him when he would relate information. He would give you a long gaze, looking rather more through you than at you, and would recite information as if waiting for it to be handed to him.

I was first to “liberate” an ancient tome from an imperial palace in the city we were headed for. I was then to rob the grave of a king more ancient even than the tome. Finally, I had to visit the smith, give him the things, and wait for him to make a sword. How exactly I was to commission the sword when I couldn’t communicate with him in any way, Duncan had said I didn’t need to worry about. I had asked Duncan, too, how I was to pay for this blade when it was finished. He merely laughed and said I wasn’t to pay for it at all! I returned to the deck of the ship. We still had a few miles left yet, but the journey had not been as long as the planners had initially estimated. I gazed out toward the setting sun, and the horizon that kept hidden my destiny.

[Zulehan]

I should have known the dry weather wouldn't last long. Or rather, I did, but you know. I think people have the wrong idea about optimism. Optimism is actually quite useful when I keep in mind that I'm probably wrong about it. So I was optimistic about the rain.

Luckily, I'm at the gates of Anseldam this morning, the third on my journey if I count when I left off. Calm day, besides the rain. The clouds are all broken up in the sky like phlegm in the lungs of Leayaio the sky goddess, who apparently has pneumonia today. Maybe the whooping cough. Too bad.

The distinct smell of pneumonia perfectly matches that of a certain fungus I saw growing on the road on my way here. I can make a less potent sweetwater with it and some otono seed. Virtually no one else knows this. I love my job.

At the gates, I'm let in without much of a fuss. Leayaio will soon be coughing up the clouds into the sea. She'll probably end up giving Onumaru her pneumonia. I figure if sky goddesses can get it, so can sea gods.

I take on a good, hard, hacking cough as I pass, and make sure my horse is a bit staggery. What harm could a poor young lad with a cold do in a robust port city such as this? I just hope they don't notice that after I go by, I stop coughing so I can yawn.

First thing to do here is to get ahold of someone I know. It's a big town. Leo Reis is at the docks, but this early, he must be out fishing. I like that guy. Oh well. I'll probably go see Roger.

I make my way to the big, squat building, near downtown Anseldam. No features to it at all. No doors, no windows. Just kind of a big gray brick laying there. I always get a kick out of this place, though: no one really notices how you can't find any way to get into or out of it, and then, no one notices that way too many an unsavory character can be seen walking into or out of the little cottage next to it. Too much traffic in the little building, not enough in the big one next to it. No one thinks to look underground, I guess.

The shack has a slot in the door that passers-by presume is an eyehole for whatever crabby little man they think might live there. But it's set back from the door a bit, to allow for a bit of parchment to slide right through. I brought some charred wood from a fire I built last night, since I knew I wouldn't have a table to ink anything out on. Taking out some paper from my sack on the horse, I hurry under an awning and write, in big chunky letters:

R. S. CHAUCER.
GREEN HAT NOON.
S. ILVERITAS.

I hit the knocker on the door ten quiet times in succession, fold and slip the paper through, walk calmly back to my horse.

I haven't gotten enough sleep. I'm a bit worn down from the ride, half of it having been in the rain. So I check myself into the Green Hat for the rest of the morning. Nice little bed and breakfast establishment, a ways in from the sea. The sea makes me uncomfortable.

I tell the clerk there to wake me at noon, and slip him half a crown.

[Mercenary]

As far back as my memory extends, my mind has seldom been well-at-ease. Ever since the death of my father it has taken so very little to bring me to a cause of shaking and rage. I have tried admirably to control my anger. Whenever I feel the bile rising to the back of my throat I close my eyes, let my head loll back, and exhale deeply. When I return from this meditative state, much to my enemies’ chagrin, I am still sneering and my eyes still bleed wrath. That my efforts have failed only serves to redouble my rage.

I relax only while praying or fencing. This stems, I should like to imagine, from my love of respect. I feel that God respects me, and I know that my adversaries respect my prowess in battle, if their shattered and ruined bodies are anything on which to base an opinion.

I bowed to my captain and he returned the gesture. “Sorry about that nick, these things do happen when one chooses to practice with unabated blades.”

“Rather a nick in the throne room among friends than an arm on the battlefield.”

“And that’s why you’re a captain.” I smiled. I passed him a rag from the freshly laundered pile and took one for myself. He held his arm and I wiped the sweat off the hilt of my blade.

The torches of Tyrran were just beginning to be lit in the deepening dusk. My next opponent was one of my favorite captains, Robert, a man I had known since my days in the Religious Wars. The wounded captain returned to his place in the rotation of twelve who routinely practiced with me for ten hours a day.

Robert, a man of perhaps as remarkable endurance as my own, would probably have sufficed as a sparring partner, but I wanted my other captains to get practice too. I always noticed a marked improvement in their technique, grace, and confidence from the beginning of their rotation to the end. When my captains weren’t sparring with me, they were sparring with their officers, who in turn sparred with the rank and file. By this method were my fighting techniques transferred, if only in part, from the head of the army to its every extremity.

“Lets move to the balcony, now that night has descended?

“Excellent idea.” I replied.

The whole troop of captains and I made our way down the two wide marble steps to the balcony. The balcony served as a public address forum and as such extended out over the wall of the castle. In the urban area that had sprung up since the castle’s construction, hundreds of years ago, were many places for crossbowmen to hide and ply their trade. As my enemies were many, we practiced inside until dusk. And although the only separation between balcony and outer throne room was a single row of ornate columns, we had never had any incidents before.

Our blades flashed in the flickering torchlight and we met each other on every strike and parry. Two fighters who know each other very well are indeed a fascinating spectacle to behold. For every move of mine Robert had a counterattack already memorized and at the ready. I knew his every weakness and sought at every turn to exploit one of them. He was a fighter of such skill that, being aware of his own weaknesses and my experience with them, he was able to predict and preempt each of my attempts.

We remained locked in our perfectly synchronized dance of blades, neither taking nor relinquishing any points. Just when it seemed our stalemate could last forever, Robert let his hilt roll in his palm, the end of the blade leapt in similar fashion from the left side of mine to the right. With magnificent speed his blade came down and rested lightly on my shoulder. We both froze.

“Ho ho, what’s this?” He chided.

A broad grin crept across my face. “Men, take note of this for your comrade is a master, yes, I say, a master! This is exactly the degree of expertise to which one must advance if he hopes to succeed in the field of soldiering. Always be innovating, changing, training. He knew that I had all his moves memorized and so he invented something new and got the better of me. It has been my honor and privilege to be defeated by you, Robert.”

He withdrew his sword lightly from my shoulder, and we bowed to each other. “It has been my privilege to train with the best.”

“I think that’s enough for tonight, gentlemen. Well fought today, all of you!”

“Sire, may I have a word with you?” Robert asked, delicately.

“Of course, you of all people shouldn’t need to ask.”

“Sorry, the people are so frightened of you, it sometimes gets contagious.”

“Yes, that matter has been troubling me of late. I will have to do something about it before too long, but for now, what is your business?”

When all the other captains had shuffled off the balcony he began. “Our scouts bring dire news indeed. It would appear Morania has begun moving troops toward their northern border.”

“I take it from your tone you have information that would suggest they intend to attack us and not one of our neighbors.”

“Aye, that I do.”

I had walked to the very edge of the balcony and was now leaning on the parapet, studying the city that had so recently become mine, and threatened to just as quickly escape my grasp. “What is your opinion, Robert?”

“Their troops are green and few, with a small portion of our heavy foot we would crush them. Especially if they come through Ganaros as it would seem they are planning.”

“Very well, have one of the other captains lead a detachment to reinforce Ganaros immediately. Do not under any circumstances lead this detachment yourself. The winds are shifting; I don’t trust this.”

“Very good, sir.” He made his departure.

I stretched out on the thick rug laid over the steps to the balcony. I gazed wistfully at the stars and allowed the relative silence of the palace and city to lull me almost to sleep.

“The future portends dark things.”

I opened my eyes again. “This much I already know, you aren’t my only source of intelligence, you know.”

“You would do well to show some humility.”

“Humility?” I laughed, “What need have I for that? I walk as a god among men.”

“Do not think yourself too mighty.”

[Markle]

“My Queen, I must say I don’t view this news quite as optimistically as your Highness.” Valdur, Aledara’s chief military advisor, was one of an elite handful of people in Morania who could publicly disagree with the Queen and retain possession of all their limbs. “Duncan is an accomplished warrior, and much more aggressive than his predecessor. We should be securing our borders, not sending our forces beyond them.”

“Duncan is a fool, a religious fanatic, the most manipulable creatures on god’s green earth.” The members of the Queen’s court gave obligatory chuckles at Aledara’s mocking reference to Duncan’s beliefs.

“All the same, Highness—“

“Thank you for your counsel, Valdur. What is the status of my northern forces?”

“Most have arrived at the border, as you ordered, Highness. The rest will be there shortly.”

“Good. Send word to Remyr. He is to proceed as instructed the moment his forces are assembled. You may go.”

“Yes, my Queen.” Valdur bowed and exited, walking briskly down the wide polished marble halls of the palace. He tried but failed to banish worry from his mind. The arrogance of Aledara’s father had earned Morania a bloodied nose at the hand of Tyrran a generation ago, and Aledara was much more arrogant than her father. Also more clever, but she did not possess a military mind.

Proof of that he relayed to a mounted messenger outside the palace gate. The plan was beyond foolish. The force she was sending was miniscule in comparison to that stationed at Ganaros, and not half as well trained. Valdur frowned. None of the forces of Morania could contend with the battle hardened army of Tyrran, least of all those of the northern province. She wouldn’t have overlooked that there were more experienced soldiers, albeit in limited quantity, in the Tzen and Albrook provinces.

He thought back to what she’d said in the throne room. Tell him to proceed as instructed. She had deliberately omitted details, confident Valdur would simply assume he knew them. And so he had. Storm the keep, rape, pillage, normal war business, but Aledara was never so simple, not even in matters where simplicity was advantageous. She hadn’t a military mind, but she realized this, and was staging a nonmilitary conflict.

Why hadn’t she told him? Surely his input on such a plan would be invaluable. The only possible answer drove Valdur back into the palace, walking to his chambers as quickly as he could without looking conspicuous. He had fallen out of favor with the Queen. Those who fell out of favor with the Queen didn’t live long. He would leave tonight.

[Jazzmosis]

Frailyn knew it wouldn't be a simple walk-and-grab. He had spent the night planning in his room. A cheap room he had found for the night, with boards inproperly nailed. The door squeaked as the wind blew in through the open shutters. Frailyn had spent half the night sleeping - the rest, he prepared his second daring attempt in as many days.

"Curses." He muttered to himself. This plan will get me killed - why am I foolishly risking my life for a lady I hardly even know? The thought burned at him while he was tailing Mr. Duncan's army - but he couldn't see any other reason Ariana and himself had met. Is it just chance that we met, and nothing more to come of it? Constant doubts filled his head, but. . . everything had a purpose. It had to have a purpose. Why else would the woman look so much like Naya? Maybe she doesn't - you haven't seen Naya for a year now.

"Shut up!" Frailyn screamed at his own mind. "I loved my wife, even if you didn't, bastard!" His voice echoed off the room's walls. "Why god, why did you take her from me so?"

That question had haunted the young man for as long as he could remember. It was times like this that he refused to believe in god. After all, what god would be so cruel to rip from him the only thing that made him human?

It hurts - doesn't it? His mind jeered.

"I hate you. Leave me alone." He responded weakly, a tear silently sliding down his cheek.

Well, remember Naya by freeing this woman. You escaped from those guards in the grass, now. . . prove yourself again. Frailyn sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, his mind was right. He was wearing Royal Armour, which had confused the innkeeper as to why a warrior would take lodge here when this was his home already, but Frailyn slipped him an extra coin to turn a blind eye. He'd also taken the oppertunity to shave the hair off his face - that would give him another advantage. Hopefully, the lady would recognize him.

Gathering his equipment and courage, Frailyn left the inn and began to walk to the castle gates. His nerves instantly flared when he saw the numerous guards by the entrance, but he forced his exterior to look calm and focussed. He approached.

"I have a special message for King Duncan. It is of the utmost importance that see him as soon as possible."

The guard eyed him closely as Frailyn stared straight ahead. "I don't remember hearing about some message."

Frailyn glanced at the guard. "Why would you? You're a guard, not a trusted assailant."

"True, but most of his messengers I've seen before. I've neigh seen you, and I've been posted here for -"

"I was sent out on a reconnisence. Been gone for nearly a year."

The guard backed off a step. "Name?"

Frailyn scrambled in his brain for a believeable name. "Tetsuj."

The guard stood silently for awhile while the others looked on. "Alright then. Open the gates." The other guards began pushing the massive gates open, and for the first time Frailyn saw the grass on the inside of the walls. "Sorry about the interrogation, Sir Tetsuj, but we've been on high alert - seems some prisoner escaped yesterday. We've been told to make sure he doesn't come plotting revenge on King Duncan."

"Oh no, I understand completely. Those scoundrels will risk everything sometimes for a foolish reason." Frailyn responded, beginning to step forward.

The guard chuckled. "So true - have to wonder what they're thinking. All of Tyrran know's no criminal could get into these gates on wits alone."

Frailyn smiled and nodded as he passed through the gates. Once clear, the gates immediately slammed shut and locked again. No one indeed... He thought to himself. He continued to walk through the courtyard, in case anyone was watching his moves. Once he had got himself clear of any eyes that could be watching, he began to think of what to do. You're in this far. Find the dungeons. Frailyn nodded to himself and immediately set off. Whenever he passed another guard, he thought of how well he had done to shield his true identity. Not one guard gave him a second glance. It was not long that Frailyn found a winding starcase, to which he presumed was to the underground passages or a dungeon. He hurried down the stairs, until at last he reached the bottom. Rows and rows of cells lined the cooridoor he stood in. Surprisingly, there was no guard patrolling. But then again, who expected these souls to escape?

"Hey, pig!" One called out, most likely to the Royal-Crest clad Frailyn. "Care to join us in hell?"

Frailyn ignored the comment and began to walk down the cooridoor, observing each cell. Finally, he reached the end, but he did not find Ariana. Curious... perhaps she is being held elsewhere? He was in the midst of walking back when he heard footstepscoming down the stairs. He wanted to press up against a cell, but the scumbags in there would certainly hold him and take his swords. With nowhere to run, he waited.

The guard reached the bottom step and looked at Frailyn. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing down here?"

Frailyn stuttered, caught in the nervous moment. He tried to remember the name he had thought of for the gates, but now it escaped him. "S-Sajun."

"Sajun?" The guard responded. "Sajun who?"

Frailyn noticed he was sweating incredibly. "Sajun." Was all he could come back with, again.

It was then that the guard noticed Frailyn had two swords instead of one. "You lie! All Royal guards carry only one sword at all times! Never an excuse!" He rushed at Frailyn, who quickly drew both swords.

The yelling in the cells got very loud. The two clashed swords, but Frailyn knew this guard was far more skilled then himself - if he wasn't holding two swords, he'd be long dead. The guard pushed Frailyn to the cold floor. "Time for you to die. Unlike the rest of the scum in here, you get no cell."

"You talk too much." Frailyn retorted, struggling to his feet. "Coulda skewered me right then."

The guard rushed at him, screaming. To his surprise, Frailyn dodged the attack and tripped his attacker. He fell, sword scittering from him and to a cell. The prisoner quickly snatched it up, laughing. "You got nothing now! Ha-ha-ha!"

The guard retreated to the wall. "You'll never get out of here alive."

Frailyn approached him. "No, but if you value your life, you'll tell me what I need to know."

"Forget it!" The guard spat.

"We can do this the easy way or the painful way."

"I'd sooner die then let a thug like you kill King Duncan!"

Frailyn chuckled. "You idiot, I don't care about Duncan. I want a prisoner freed, but she's not here. You -" he pointed one sword at the guard - "you are going to tell me where she is. And every time you refuse, I'm cutting off a finger."

The guard swallowed. "You wouldn't dare." Frailyn pinned the man, by taking the second sword and forcing it through the guard's left palm.

The guard cried in pain while the prisoners looked on in stunned silence. "Believe me now?"

"Fine! Fine! What do you want to know?"

"How many cellblocks do you have here?"

The guard grimaced, the metal cutting bone clearly paining him. "There's only this one - and one other. A secret - a secret one." The guard began to try and move his right hand, thinking he could catch 'Sajun' by surprise if he ripped the sword out.

Frailyn noticed this and quickly jammed his second sword through the right hand. The guard cried out again, now defenseless. "Thought you could get away with that crap, eh?" Frailyn said.

"I've told you what you want to know!"

"Not everything. Where is the secret dungeon?"

"How should I know?" Frailyn stomped his foot on the guard's groin. The guard spat some blood out, and weakly spoke. "Near Kin- Duncan's.. room..."

"Was that so hard now?" Frailyn smiled. He pulled out the first sword. The guard tried to hold in a scream, but still whimpered. Frailyn stepped on his groin again, and planted his other foot on his free hand. "Now how can I be sure you won't talk?"

"You bastard - you sick, sick bastard. You're a raging psychopath!"

Frailyn pushed down on his groin. "You'll find I'm very easy to get along with when people co-operate."

"I won't talk - you have my word." The guard blurted, between coughs.

"I know you won't." Frailyn raised his sword.

The guard looked on in horrror. "You said if I told you that you'd spare my life!"

Frailyn smiled slyly. "I lied."

He brought the sword down and across the guard's neck. The head rolled off silently, between a spray of blood. Frailyn re-sheathed both swords and immediately searched the corpse. Murderer... His mind accused.

"Shut up." Frailyn didn't want to admit it, but the kill had felt good. It was just a start of his revenge - for the loss of his wife, for the pain he went through - for his capture, and for the effort it took to escape. Now, he was going to free Ariana in his wife's name. It'll be hard to sneak around now that you're covered in blood...

"Whatever. It'll have to do. There's less blood on me then him." He took some coins from the slain guard and began to leave. However, at the stairs he turned and called out to the prisoners. "Remember, if you value your lives, you'll forget my face. Otherwise, I'll come back and slay you all - I got a good look at your faces, and that's one thing I don't forget." He then climbed the stairs and re-entered the ground level. He had to find a way to get this blood out - he'd need another victim to change clothes with. Hopefully, that wouldn't take long. He thought of how to do it. Hide behind something, then cut out their legs. Stab them through the head, and take the clothes. Then dump the body in this dungeon.

It seemed simple enough to do.

[tamrend]

“I will not break.” She paced her cell, repeating the phrase over and over again like a cantrip. “I will not break.”

Her best guess was that had been three days since Duncan’s brief visit. It had seemed much longer, but the fact that no one had appeared since and she hadn’t yet died from lack of water, three days seemed the most likely.

“Don’t think of water,” she said, though that was impossible with the constant dripping. She had tried to find the source of the sound, desperate for a drink, but a thorough search of the cell had turned up nothing but a flat bit of dampness on the walls and floor. “I will not break.”

She had begun pacing after she had very nearly fallen asleep, snapping alert again just as her head came to rest on her arms. She was now coming to the end of her endurance. For all of the strength and ability she’d possessed, she was helpless before the simple need for rest. She stopped and leaned head and shoulder against the wall, giving herself the pretext of a few moments’ rest. She felt herself falling.

* * *

The knife felt warm to the touch. She pulled and it slipped from the man’s chest easily. He looked like a mercenary, garbed as he was in a hodgepodge of armors of different nationalities. Amazingly, the tiny blade had pierced right through the tough Sylvani ring mail. She bent to wipe the knife on the grass but then dropped it, startled. The blade was already clean, shining dully silver. She picked it up again and turned it in the light, studying the workmanship. The blade was thin, double-edged, and less than a hands breadth in length. The handle was smooth, fine ivory, and the crossbar was small, just large enough to ensure the hand didn’t slip and get cut on the blade. It would make for an excellent assassin’s weapon, small enough to be hidden away until the moment it was needed.

Ariana looked around at the bodies lying unclaimed and unburied. She had counted fifteen corpses among the crumbling remains of the camp. All but one possessed a knife wound in the heart. All of those but the mercenary appeared to have been killed in their sleep. Not twenty paces from where she stood was a wagon laden with rare dyes and spices and a modest stash of gold and silver. The horses were gone, but it looked as though they had pulled their stakes from the ground themselves. Who would want to slay every member of a merchant caravan without taking anything? And why use such an inefficient weapon to do it?

Ariana tucked the knife into her pocket. She would present it as part of her report. Now she went for a closer look the last of the bodies. He lay on the ground nearby, his hands curled around the hilt of a sword that jutted from the base of his neck. It was a short sword and looked a match for the mercenary guard’s empty scabbard. The two had killed each other, apparently striking in the same moment.

Satisfied that the site was nothing more than a robbery gone awry, Ariana set off at a brisk march, angling for the dark stain that trundled slowly across the plain. The shape gained definition as she drew closer, resolving into the forms of infantry and cavalry units and a long line of trailing supply wagons. The army had come to a stop by the time she reached its edge in the late afternoon, its members setting up camp for the night. She sought out the scout captain’s tent, nestled deep within the main guard. She gave her report in quick, clipped sentences and answered the few questions she was given just as ably. When she went to retrieve the knife, however, she found it had fallen out of her pocket.

“It is of no consequence,” the stocky old knight told her and signaled her dismissal.

She found her place near the rear of the main guard and was grateful to see that Lilika had already pitched the tent without her. A look inside found the tent to be empty, so Ariana sat on the ground and pulled of her boots, grimacing at the sting of new blisters on her heels. As her left boot came off, though, the knife she had found slipped out onto the dirt. She frowned at it as she picked it up and stowed it beneath her blankets. Since the captain had shown no interest in it, she may as well make it her own. She weighed the merits of sleep against that of seeking out a meal, as Lilika had apparently done, then climbed into the tent and settled in for the night.

A touch awoke her, a feather-light brush against her neck. The feel of a presence looming over her gave her an instant’s bewildered fright, but the familiar touch and scent quickly quelled her fear. “Damon,” she whispered. She put her arms around him and drew him down for a kiss, desire electrifying her. She lay in the dark with him afterwards, not saying anything, his fingers caressing her hair until she fell asleep.

She awoke before dawn and sat up, her pulse pounding with a sense of agitation. She put her hand down on the knife and closed her fingers around it without thinking. She listened, trying to decide whether the feeling of anxiety was real or imagined. Lilika’s quiet snoring sounded from the opposite edge of the tent, but the soft light of predawn spilled over her lover’s form, lying between them. She reached towards Damon to wake him, knowing that he would be punished in the morning if he were found outside his rank.

Her hand stopped just short of his shoulder and she began to tremble. How dare he? A jolt of searing rage accompanied the thought. He’d betrayed her love with Lilika. It came to her with absolute certainty, and an overriding desire to see him suffer for it. She turned and buried the knife in Damon’s chest, her mouth contorted into a soundless scream of fury. His eyes snapped open, staring at her in pain and confusion. His hands moved feebly, but no sound would come from his throat. The anger at once began to crumble, the thoughts she had only a moment ago now seeming baseless. She pulled at the knife, trying frantically to undo what she had done, but it would not come free. Damon gave a final gasp and the light left his eyes. Only then would the knife pull from his body.

Now, the urge to kill Lilika was upon her. Ariana hesitated, the knife poised to strike. It wriggled in her grasp as though it might slip from her fingers on its own. With a scream, Ariana threw herself backwards. She tumbled out of the tent and ran, tears blinding her but spurred by Lilika’s horrified cries.

A glow of warmth enveloped her, lifting her out of the darkness.

* * *

Ariana awoke sobbing, a pain from four lifetimes in the past made agonizingly fresh. The spirit of God hovered over her invisibly, watching her without pity or compassion. Do you know why I showed you this, Ariana?

She climbed to her knees, regathering the scattered fragments of her dignity. “To punish me.”

I showed you what you lost. How far you’ve fallen. You were human once.

“What else could I do?”

Damon's blood was on your hands, but his death was not on your soul. After you killed Damon, you managed to control the blade's influence for another month, until it began to eat away at your body. Then, when you realized you would have to kill again and again to survive, you had a choice. You chose to preserve your mortal body rather than embrace me. You could have had eternal life and eternal love. Damon believed in Me, loved Me. His spirit is with Me.

“Then I will never see him,” she said.

No, you will not. A thousand good works would not suffice to atone for the suffering you have caused. And even were that possible, still you would not love me. Love has no place in your heart now.

She laughed bitterly. “Then what hope do I have but to keep living, to continue killing?”

Only this. You will do as my servant Duncan wishes. Help him attain his rightful post as mortal king so that the message of my power and glory can be spread throughout the world. Achieve these good works and I will grant you the peace of oblivion you seek. Your soul will cease to be.

Ariana looked up and the spirit of God suddenly blazed forth in radiant glory. The light grew so bright that she was forced to turn away. She sank to her knees and bowed until her forehead touched the floor. Her voice shook as she spoke, fear and awe bringing tears once more to her eyes. “I will do your bidding, my Lord. And though I am not worthy, I will try to love you.”

She remained there, prostrate, even after the floor suddenly came into focus, revealed in the flickering light of a torch. “I spoke to him,” she said hoarsely. "I saw God."

[Markle]

“Engola.” Remyr said. “And your next link will be in Elyah.”

“Yes, captain.” Fedar replied glumly.

“None of us likes it, Fedar. But it’s better than the death the Queen will give them, if they return failures.”

“No doubt about that, anyway.” He sighed, and looked to where his former company camped, a field away, now under the command of a newly minted sergeant from Meroraj, someone Morania could more afford to lose. “Is there no other way?”

“For fulfillment of the Queen’s objectives, this is the best way. Whether the Queen’s objectives have any relation to the best interests of Morania, that is a question.” The most haunting expression one could see on a good captain’s face was not one of dread at his own demise, but one of dread at sending others to theirs. Remyr’s features reflected that dread now, as did all the sergeants to whom the real plan was known. “Regardless, Aledara has spoken. Unless we plan not to return to Morania, we would do well to heed her word.”

One more river crossing, and they would be in sight of the walls of Ganaros. They would never penetrate those walls, except for a few, days later in the guise of local peasants. Fedar was glad he was assigned elsewhere, he wouldn’t want to remember the upcoming battle for the entirety of his assignment.

--

“Retreat!” Remyr called. The words were usually shouted in panic, but this time the captain just sounded tired. The call was repeated by the remaining commanders, but there were few left to command. It was only for appearance’s sake anyway; those who would escape were already in position to do so. The mounted soldiers of Ganaros were approaching rapidly, lances leveled, ready to plow through the few Moranians who remained standing.

Remyr turned his horse away from them, to address his true command. “Run until they abandon pursuit. Then proceed to your assigned posts. Fail this and the sacrifice of your comrades will be for naught.” He kicked his horse into a run, bolting away from the field of battle, followed by the others. Fedar took a moment to survey what could liberally be called the field of battle. Five hundred men lost. Tyrran hadn’t even sent five hundred, and had lost less than fifty.

Tyrran or the Queen would pay for this. He didn’t care which.

[Khalic]

His pockets were empty. I rolled the corpse over and started into his pack. My hands were slick with gore, but I found a sack of coins in the bottom of his pack.

I removed one shrewdly.

I dropped my hand and slipped it into the pouch at my hip. I rummaged for a moment and then closed my hand around a flat piece of metal. Drawing the gold piece and holding it and the dead man's coin on my palm open palm dramatically, I began to recite a litany, just for concentration. Nothing spectacular happened, or would happen, to the coins in my hand. They just sat for a few minutes, dead monarchs looking highly inanimate.

The gold coin began to warm my hand, and I closed my fingers around it. I then drew another coin, this time a piece from Sylvane, minted in Silverhold, bearing the defunct crest of a few rulers ago.

Like dreamning I watched the crown pass to me, a tip from a dealer for a deal, and to him, from a fiend for a fix. Then, where the fiend took the purse, and from the purse a hundred golden strings erupted, each shooting off toward another horizon. Cause effect, cause effect.

I crossed the sea twice before the coins began heading in the right direction. A noble, a fence, but thieves only hold the money for an instant of its lifetime. Easy come, easy go. And quick.

However, there I found the goal, the money, attached to a person. Perhaps to an alias, perhaps to a clean-shaven, tall-standing version of the pitiful person sulking next to you, but it's the thought that counts in soothsaying. There was the breadcrumb trail to his doorstep, and the little halo on his head. The bounty on this man was a tidy total.

Too bad the authorities wouldn't cash it for an assassin. They rarely even pay to the legals. The two we had just dispatched were hired.

We were several days out, east of Silverhold. The two dead ones were inhouse from Breymond, or Heighton mercs. The live one was a burglar. I'm an escort, not that sort. I'm a courier normally. Not that sort.

And I'm not a gravedigger.

The trail of bodies stretched back to thirty miles from Heighton where there were a horse and three men hopefully still facedown in an irrigation ditch. Except the horse. The horse should be sort of on its side.

The second set were hopefully fully cremated, in the charred remains of The Blue Willow, outside Wintermaul.

Here the last ones were. They're just rotting in the woods. We're in a hurry.

And they were all after this thief.

There he was, sitting sulking like he's not worth the damn only Sam gives about him. And my damn, since Sam knew I was going to Anseldam. I wasn't sure if that made them allies or competition, but if it wasn't for that, then I wouldn't be for this sap.

Let's just get going.

[Zulehan]

"Sir, wake up."

"Uhhuh." I'm still dreaming. My father is waking me, telling me to go saddle the horse for him. He's going to the market to sell his fish. I never did like my dad much.

"Sir. It's noon."

I slowly become conscious of my arms. My legs. The position I'm laying in. The amount of light in the room. Slowly, the voice I hear fades into being as an adult male. An unfamiliar voice. The covers, the bed, the room, the Green Hat, Anseldam, why I came, what time it is, everything rises from the graveyard of my sleeping mind in that order.

And then it becomes clear to me that it's kind of urgent that I rise and find out who the hell this guy is. I get up on my elbows, turn around and look at not my dad, but at a young clerk, waking me up like I said, at noon.

Good rest. I get up, get dressed, walk down to the common room of the inn.

Just as I'm about to sit down and wait for Roger, a dark skinned man walks up to me, like he knows me.

"Hello, you must be Mr. I.?"

"Sam," I nod.

"Let's go somewhere else." That told me, generally, who this was. Since Roger's not here, he's probably just a new guy at the building, sent in Roger's place.

We walk out, and onto the streets of Anseldam. Sky's cleared up, but it's still wet out. Everything's a shade darker. The absence of my horse would worry me, but the Green Hat is classy. I'm sure they just took my horse to a stable.

Walking conversation is secure, because no one passing by catches enough words to make up any real information.

"My name is Mors Ranvier. In case you're wondering, I'm from Rajjinalya," he says with a modest grin. No one's from Rajjinalya. Then again, no one has skin as brown as this guy. Mud doesn't get this dark. And damn, he's big. I don't often have to look up at people's chins to talk to them.

"Yeah? Where's Roger?"

"Umm. Listen," he says, somewhat hesitant. Maybe Roger's dead. "Were you a friend of Roger?"

Yep, that settles it. "Let's back up, Mr. Ranvier. Who are you?"

"I came here with a caravan from the south. When I got here, I let some of your friends in on some information about that caravan, enough for a safe theft operation on the caravan. They made off with some good stuff, gave me some."

"Ruthless." Also, naive. He's telling me an awful lot about himself.

Mors grins. "I'll be returning to my home with the next caravan that comes in. Until then, I'm hanging around here, helping your friends out with this and that. They sent me in place of Roger, when they got your note this morning."

A kind soul. "So Roger's dead?" I ask.

"We thought you'd have more information about it than we. He was headed for Breymond, not long after the fire."

The Breymond Academy burned down last summer. I sold some information about sweetwater to a professor there, Dr. Agle. The faculty, thinking they were all too intellectual and such to suffer from addiction, sipped regularly, and, in fact, did end up addicted. Agle made the first intoxicated mistake. He was an alchemist who specialized in explosives. Alchemical mistakes in his field are... well, Breymond burned to the ground. Most professors died in the blaze, including Agle. Those who survived are mostly just junkies now.

I thank Agle for getting that place addicted, and again for destroying the only reason any of those people had for living. And by living, I mean not being anything other than the half dead, burnt out sources of income for my business that they are now.

Strange, though, that I didn't get word from Graham about Roger, if he was going to Breymond before he disappeared.

"No, I know nothing about it--a rare occasion indeed, Mr. Ranvier. And there's something else I haven't yet been informed of. What have I been summoned for? All I know is that it's important."

"I don't know exactly. I don't even really know who you are, Sam. May I have your full name? Maybe I've heard of you, or any plans they have involving you."

"Samuval Ilveritas."

"I've heard your name. You deal sweetwater in Breymond?"

"Yes, and more."

"I do know that there's a festival or something here, and a few of our friends are getting together in parallel to it. A few magical rarities being auctioned then; maybe theft."

"I'm not a thief. I'm an alchemist."

"Maybe they're gunna blow some stuff up."

We both laugh a bit. I like this guy.

[Mercenary]

It wasn’t until Vincent asked if I could stop that I realized I couldn’t. I had been maintaining a small flame in the palm of my hand while we rode, reading my book with the other. Reading with one hand is certainly easier when one may turn the page with a thought. I then set diligently to the task of denying myself any magic. Each morning the urges came to again draw the sweet nectar of the aether to my lips. I resisted them for what seemed a heroically long span but the pain of withdrawal soon forced my surrender to those familiar and loathsome forces.

Desperate for a solution, I turned to my companion and the instrument of my salvation, no, not Vincent, the book. While it offered no miracles, it did furnish the small advantage I had needed. “To the wizard finding himself newly addicted to magic I have only this advice to offer: tie your hands behind your back and leave them thus! It may seem absurd to do this when the hands are not required to cast spells. However, consider the fact that the motion of the hands is to many magicians as second nature as the thought processes themselves. If this be accepted, with hands thusly bound it is not possible to attempt to cast a spell without encountering the bindings. While the spell may still be cast, the pause before the spell that the rope causes will at the least give the wizard pause, too, and allow him to consider the full ramifications of what he is doing.”

It had not been easy, but with supreme strength of will I was able to resist the urge to practice magic for a full week. The agony of withdrawal was beyond anything I had ever before experienced. It was a pain so persistent and endemic that to it all comparisons are found sorely lacking. Neigh, perhaps it can be understood in those stages where my mind was temporarily distracted by some goings-on around me. The ferocity of the pain was such that even when forgotten for an instant by way of preoccupation with something else, it always still beckoned, and when returned to, like a neglected lover was angry and all the more insistent on my attention.

We had been riding stolen horses for a long time; a town was approaching us, so small that it was not on any of the maps of Sangloria that I’d ever seen.

“Untie me, it’ll attract unwanted attention.”

“Nah, I think it’ll be ok.”

I shot him a glare and he jumped from his horse and set to the task. Long shadows and shuttered windows signaled the onset of evening. Cottages in the country shutter up even tighter than those in the city. Dark shapes lurk in the hinterland, real and imagined. One such dark shape presented itself in our path in the middle of town. I quickly glanced around, noticing that not a trace of life was to be found anywhere, no witnesses, this wasn’t looking good. I turned toward Vincent and found that, amazingly, he, too, was gone.

So it was just she and I. It was a she, the lithe figure inadequately disguised by the tight, red cape betrayed as much.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to join me for a drink?” I patronized.

She wasn’t amused, and she wasn’t mucking about. I began hurriedly and surreptitiously to enhance my strength and quickness. The cape swirled with the arc of her arm as it drew a weapon from a sheathe and I caught the glint of metal in the moonlight. Her blade flashed as she lunged at me. I reared the horse and backed away from her but it was too late. She was astride the horse facing me, only the upward rotation caused her rather more to ride me than the horse and we were both thrown over its back. I had caught the wrist of that hand which held the knife and once we had tumbled to the ground I held it fast. My mysterious and attractive assailant was stronger and more adept at melee combat than I had expected. She was quickly getting the better of me, though she had not yet come to a point of such domination that she was able to get the knife into me.

We struggled for a few moments more until a sudden burst of activity on her part gave her the advantage she needed. She drew her arm back to strike and in the same instant I let fly a small fireball, even in such close quarters as those we occupied. The flame engulfed us both and we separated, each rolling in a shared yet wholly individual agony. I put my fire out more quickly than did she, which allowed me to stand and begin hurling yet more flame at her. She rolled and came to standing, cape still ablaze but otherwise unharmed. She sprinted for an alley between two houses, my vengeful fire chasing her all the way.

Practicing magic again had felt bitter. It was as if the aether’s nectar had turned to ash in my cup. The excitement and enjoyment was utterly lost. As I was brushing the dirt and soot off my person Vincent made his reappearance. “And where, pray tell, have you been? Did you have anything to do with that?”

“I hid as soon as I saw her, she looked like trouble. Sorry old fellow I don’t know her, was she an old flame of yours?” He began to laugh; I followed his lead, if more slowly and with less enthusiasm.

“Well try to stick around next time I come under mortal attack, that is if you’ve any fighting capabilities yourself. Have you any?”

[Markle]

All I want, all I ever want, is sleep. It isn't as if I don't have the time. Still, it evades me, or rather, is stolen from me, by the vermin occupants of this wretched city and their ever-buzzing minds. I understand now why the elders settled where they did. It may have been the least hospitable land in this world, but at least there were never any visitors. I wish I could go back.

One of the palace maids now stands outside my chambers, soon to enter and speak. I'd do well to brace myself.

A fever stricken man in quarantine, painting a portrait on the wall of his cell, with a stream of projectile vomit. This is, I think, the most apt way to describe human speech. Involuntary, accidental, intricate far beyond the intentions of the speaker, if they had any to begin with. Also, quite vile.

The door opened a crack. "Her Highness bids you go to her."

Watching a mind is like watching a boiling pot, brimming with fluids whose origin you'd rather not know. Unfortunately, I haven't that luxury: primary ingredients are emotion, instinct, and intelligence, present in varying quantity from person to person. Speech occurs when this unholy potion boils over the edge of its pot.

"Understood. You may go." Controlled rage lurks behind my voice, but not far behind it. Insomnia makes me almost as cruel as the queen when dealing with the lesser servants. Not that they deserve better; they're like rats, but rats are a good deal quieter. A brief walk through the dimly lit hallways of the palace brings me to the throne room, where a midnight cabinet meeting seems to breaking up.

"Icecap!" The Queen's pet name for me is irritating by design. It refers to my hair, which is for some reason snow white. Whether made that way by some ritual of the order, or perhaps a side effect of the magic I practice, or even if I come from a place where such coloration is normal, is beyond my memory.

"At your service, My Queen." I give as slight a bow as I can get away with. She knows I don't like her, but I know I'm too valuable to her to be punished in the traditional fashion for such feelings.

"I depart in one hour for Albrook, and I'd very much like it if you would accompany me."

"If it pleases you, Highness."

"Prepare yourself, then." One of her favorite games is to phrase her orders as requests, and act as if the order's recipient has a choice. Sometimes I'm tempted to play along with her, just to see her reaction. Not an urge guided by the instinct for self preservation, but that instinct is all but dead in me anyway. Mine is the path of least resistance. Right now, it leads to Albrook. Someday, though, perhaps someday soon, it may lead to my death.

[tamrend]

Pain blossomed in a flash of blistering scarlet. The blast lifted her bodily away, flames biting savagely into her chest and abdomen. She floated for a moment, ground and sky tumbling end over end before balance jarringly reasserted itself. She tucked in her head and limbs, rolling to protect herself from the worst of the fall, and ended on her feet, the knife still clutched in her hand.

She leapt to the side, and a second flare of light and heat roared past, narrowly missing her. In the space of a single step, she made a decision and kept moving, racing for the cover of an alley before the wizard could ready another of his missiles. From there, she ducked into another street, though she thought there was little chance he was following her. No matter that the encounter had gone against her. She had seen the surprise and desperation etched into his face. He would not be coming after her.

Duncan had warned her of Victor’s prowess with magic. She had killed dozens of wizards in her time, but she had simply never seen anyone throw spells as quickly or easily as he did. She had underestimated him this time, but it wouldn’t happen again.

She paused to stow the knife safely in its sheath and examine her injuries. When she looked down at herself, she sucked in her breath in alarm. The flames had burned away a wide hole in her tunic that left the flesh bare except for a dusting of ash and charred fabric that clung to her skin. The center of the burn was oddly devoid of sensation, but heat pulsed all around it. And with it, the pain suddenly surged to life once more.

Ariana closed her eyes and forced a breath into her lungs. She focused her thoughts inward, finding the edges of the pain, lending it a shape and a limit. When she opened her eyes, she was able to breathe normally. Agony still enshrouded her, but she channeled and limited its effect. She drew her cloak close to hide the wound and limped along the street, hunched over the wound.

“You’re hurt!”

Her head snapped up and she looked disbelievingly at the man before her. “You again?” she said. He was dressed to match one of Duncan’s guards, but the face was unquestionably the one of the man she had met just before her capture. She’d heard that he’d gotten away from Duncan during the journey to Tyrran. It was beyond all reason that he should turn up here. "You'd best just stay out of my way," she warned. "I don't know why you've been following me, but you won't live long if you stay close to me."

[Mercenary]

I can abide by discomfort and I can abide by anger but one thing I have found I absolutely cannot suffer is to be angry and over-warm at the same time. Every sensation is one of displeasure. I am everywhere aware of my own skin; my clothes, my throne, the thick humid air swirling about me, everything serves to remind me of and redouble my rage. “More servants, more servants, more servants!” I roared. The two women fanning me received reinforcements from the kitchen staff.

“Impetuous, arrogant, vile, damned woman!”

“Sire, they were repulsed severely; their losses outnumbered ours twenty to one! No battle in Tyrran’s history has been a more stunning and absolute victory.”

“The losses are not what concern me. It is the thought that she would dare, that anyone would dare. It’s…” I paused, partly to calm down for I was choking on my own rage, and partly because I was looking for just the word, “It’s blasphemy!”

“Blasphemy, sire?”

“Yes blasphemy! Must I repeat myself even to my advisors?” I spat.

“Certainly not, sire.”

“They will feel my terrible wrath. Call all the heavy cavalry and one third the heavy foot.”

“And what are their orders?”

“To sack the capital of Morania, take captive her queen, loot it, and burn it to the ground. They are then to bring her to me, and salt the fields on their return.”

“Yes, sire.”

“Leave me, all of you!”

They complied and I moved from my throne to the balcony. I gazed toward the stars.

“Do not act so callously towards your subjects.”

“I don’t tell you how to run your kingdom, extend me the same courtesy.”

“Do not mock me, mortal. Your kingdom is my kingdom.”

“God why do you no longer respect me? Am I just a mortal to you now?”

“You no longer deserve it.”

“Do my foes not tremble uncontrollably at the sweep of my hand? Do they not fear those thunderous strikes to which their comrades and friends have fallen victim? Does not every creature, every man, no matter how great, bow absolutely before my supreme will? My edicts ring as do your canons; my influence is felt the world round. My name is the most feared of any man in history, my father included. Does all this not command, neigh, demand, your respect?”

“You ask not for respect but for worship. God worships no man.”

“I ask only for that fatherly love you used to show me.”

“You see yourself now as a man before God and not as a child. Children know better than you, better than to talk back to their fathers.”

I laughed, “You would call me a child, now?”

“Yes.”

“You are neither all knowing nor all powerful. My kingdom is mine as a result of my own actions, my own thoughts. It all belongs to me, not you. You’re nothing, your will is nothing, fate is nothing.”

“Blasphemer!” God roared in so deep and penetrating a tone as to shake the throne room.

“No, you are the betrayer not I. It was you who created us, it was you who sought to enslave us. We will not be held hostage by the whims of a capricious and limited deity. If you are really so mighty give me some proof, some demonstration of your power.”

“I am to prove myself to a mortal? I will not.”

“You dare not. You cannot!”

God laughed. I had never heard him laugh before and it filled me with a shrill and unsettling dread. How cruel and deep and utterly condescending was his laugh! More than any of the knowledge he had ever imparted on me, more than his strikes of thunder or blessings, the tone of his laugh made me fear what I was doing. Perhaps this wasn’t God at all, or perhaps he was not as benevolent a being as I had at first presumed. If I could laugh with only a shard of the force, the majesty, the ancient seeming wisdom, I could lay the morale of whole legions to waste with a chuckle. “You will come to ruin, Duncan, by my hand, though you will not know it. Further, I shall not commune with you again. Enjoy your kingdom while it remains so.”

The stars were effaced from the great black swathe of sky. The night approached an opacity to which it might never aspire were the heavens themselves not darkened at that moment. A driving rain slashed down with such fury that it washed tiles from the roofs of houses and caused hanging signs to swing as though possessed. Four strikes of thunder sounded in unnaturally quick succession. It was then I realized God and I were at war.

[Khalic]

Gideon Blackwell ~ Two People Walk into a Bar

No joke. There they go walking past.

One’s a face I know. Malia. Malia Blackwell who speaks to coins and spends lives. Lil sis. And the other's a face that doesn’t look worth meeting. Disheveled in a way that always ends up being too stupid or too lazy to be of use. Nothing I’ve heard of him tells me he’s worth it either. They both head toward the back in a way so casual, they look ready to scream.

Personally, I’m not into these games of secrecy. Graham is dandy on them though. Loves to think danger lurks at every turn, and that the law is chasing his skirt. Loves to think that there aren’t a hundred other black organizations out for whatever amount of money and power and that most of them aren’t closer to it than the dozen of us. I’m sure he probably thinks this bar is used for things other than clandestine meetings to plan cloak and dagger, dagger in back. I probably have this distaste because I’m from Kalaise, where we have better games. And by better I mean more convoluted. And fatal.

I play, only because I so love the idea of adding an extra hour of games to the ten days extra we’ve been waiting on this pair. Watching them as they weave between tables and patrons, through lit and unlit, all over creaking boards toward the back reminds me that my eye hurts. It itches when I think of it, and then pricks a bit when I blink. Reflexively, I reach up and finger the corner, rubbing what must be a dozen contaminants in, to stay an itch that won’t go away anyway. I fix my hair back over my ear, take a deep breath, and open my eye wide and send it looking around. I squeeze it shut and then relax. Opening my eye I scan to the back, where they enter a gaudily inconspicuous room.

I stand and follow their path to the back.

This is the only part of the game I control. I make it quick. First with the door. And then, standing, I speak.

“Welcome to Ansdelham.”



Malia Blackwell ~

The door opens like it’s been kicked, except without the sound. It’s about as much of an entrance as you can get when you are entering a closet. I nod at Gid, and he mostly greets Doran.

He introduces himself as “Gabriel, don’t call me Gabe, Brine”, careful or lucky to match the inlaid initials on his weapon. Doran just calls himself Doran. And the courier need not take part in introductions, as is customary.

He starts to walk back out, still speaking down to Doran, trying to get the man to say much of anything. Failing. And he pauses, for us to stand and follow him out.

Gideon likes to keep things simple. Consequently he mars whatever secrecy there was with us entering at intervals and walking in sidesteps. Someone once tried to tell me he took his own eye out so he wouldn’t have to close it to sight his crossbow. As his sister, I know he only found out how much easier sighting was after he had his eye gouged out in a Moranian prison. Long story. True story.

I know the town well enough to know where we are headed. I can concentrate on nothing instead. It’s nice to relax a bit after I’ve been on an adrenaline high for two weeks straight. I would say ‘you’ve’ except you never have nor will be.


Gideon Blackwell ~

This Doran is at least cooperative. He’s obviously scared ****less, beyond trying to stay afloat. Just drifting now.

He says his last name with just the right inflection for it to be made up. Maybe his first is made up too. Firsts are easier to fake.


I knock, and the peephole slides open.

“What’s the password?”

“That’s very funny, Chase.”

The door slides open, and the young man presents the stairway down. “Thanks.” He says, and I toss him a two-crown. “And thanks.” He calls down the stairs.

Sam is right where I left him, this time with a purse of probably forte or james next to his chair. He unrests his feet, puts them on the floor, and stands when we enter.

“Gabe. Doran,” Pause, “Malia.”

“Sam, you never write.” She says as she goes to him.

[Snowglare]

Doran pored over the map one last time. The room they were gathered in was brightly lit by candles, night blackening the areas beyond their reach. There were windows in this room, but they were all shuttered. Even from beneath the door no light crept forth. They were the only ones awake at this godforsaken hour.

"It's no good."

"It's only perfect, Dor." Sam had lain out the plan in careful detail. The fair would be crowded, but only during the day, and it was a week-long event. Guards had been bribed, dogs would be fed, and the locks were child's play. In short, they expected no resistance. It was a glorified fetching. Every move was clearly outlined. Nothing could go wrong.

"You don't need me," Doran concluded.

"But we'd be ever so glad to have you," Sam mocked. Then his voice took on a serious tone. "This isn't a favor we're doing. It's a paid job. Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind an extra share. Maybe we don't need you. But we could use you. Think it over." Sam would never beg him, nor would Doran want him to. He wanted to do it, for Sam, for the money, to satisfy his curiousity; they were going to a great deal of trouble for a device that purported to make tea "at ten times the speed of human hands". Only a sloth would want such a device, but then you couldn't expect much from men who had others do their work.

"He's right. We can steal it just fine without him." Malia was the most agreeable person he knew, when it came to the topic of Doran going far away. Yet it seemed she was always watching him, looking down with a thousand eyes full of hatred that burned like lust, flaying him again and again in her mind. It was Malia who drove him away, though his own hate rivaled hers. Like her face rivaled a dog's hindquarters. He had decided she was hideous. Sometime during the journey he found himself unable to look upon her without revulsion. In moments of clarity he could tell it was not truly her face that repulsed him. Were she a different woman, he might love that face. But Malia Blackwell was hard as a rock.

He had dreamt her a statue and freed her. Once turned to flesh she struck him with rockhard fists. His shield splintered, his sword broke against her brow, and he woke in a cold sweat. He'd glanced at her sleeping form, crept around the burnt out fire, and crouched beside her. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, she turned to look at him. He stammered an excuse, stumbling backwards a step. Malia made no sound, no movement. She slept with her eyes open. Doran crept close again, and waited. Once he was certain she couldn't see him, he reached out and laid a finger upon her brow. It was cold, dry, hard. He might have explored further, respecting her modesty of course, but he could stand her gaze no longer, and it would be light soon. Part of him wanted her to be a monster; the easier to hate her. This monster that never ceased staring at him, straight through to his soul, that invaded his dreams, there terrorizing him, that had fewer kind words for him than even he had for it. His sword would remain unbroken, his shield would deflect many a mortal blow yet, and he would, gods willing, never be seen by Malia Blackwell again.

Sam told him to write, Malia smiled, and Doran rode for Silverhold.

[Jazzmosis]

Frailyn tried to conceal the blood splattered on the shirt, but her warning quckly made him forget. "I came to lend whatever aide I could," he huffed as he began to follow her. "After all, why else did we meet? I was thinking that perhaps I could have rescued you - you know, to fix my cowardly actions when we were captured." The two turned down another alley. "And what harm could come to me? What makes you so dangerous to be around?"

Ariana gave him an incredulous look. "I'm an assassin," she said bluntly. "I'm very good at what I do. That's why I attracted the attention of..." she swallowed and said the strange-sounding word, "...God. G--he has a plan for me. I've got to destroy a man of evil. Only the person I'm after is very dangerous." She pulled her cloak aside to show him the burn. Sensation in the form of renewed pain was beginning to return to the seared center, which was a sign of healing. A few hours of rest should have her at full strength.

Frailyn chuckled, amused and perplexed by her words. "God? He doesn't exist. Maybe it was just your mind playing tricks, or a guard, or some dastardly devil. But mind my word, there is no god - not on this planet." The words did not sound right coming from his own lips, but Frailyn knew he spoke the truth. No god would take his Naya from him in such a brutal fashion. Never. He regained his nervious composure and spoke again. "Also m'lady, I think you underestimate me. I may not have the outright sword mastery that you have, but I am an excellent shot. You see. . ." He choked on his words briefly. "You see. . . I was once in a group of vandals. Mischief was our game, and I became proficient at escaping and sneaking. All I ask of you is to take me with you, wherever you go. I ask not for you to watch over me - if I get hurt, you leave. But if I can help you in any way, I am sure I would not disappoint." He looked into her eyes, sensing what he assumed was doubt from her. "Please. . ." he whispered. "I have nothing to live for but you now." He immediately turned away after foolishly letting his emotions get the better of him.

His words pricked Ariana's suspicion. There was no reasonable explanation for why he would want to follow her. She had faced other assassins in the past. It was inevitable that they would appear whenever her reputation as a bounty hunter grew too large. The more organized criminals would begin to see her as an obstacle and a potential danger and strive to eliminate her.

But she had never encountered an assassin like this. Her perception of him, considering his odd, meandering speeches especially, was that he was mentally unstable and that somehow he had gotten it into his head that he needed to protect her. If he were trying to kill her, it was certainly an inventive means of gaining her trust. Their meeting had appeared to be happenstance, but appearances could deceive.

She could just kill him now and be done with it, but God might see such an act as evidence that she wasn't sincere in her beliefs. She would not cross that line unless she was certain her life was in danger. "I won't have you--" she began. But a sudden thought stopped her. Perhaps he had been put here as a test. What could God want her to accomplish with this unbeliever?

"You want to help me, then?" she asked, crossing her arms in what she hoped looked like an expression that he doubted he had anything to offer. "Very well. Your first task will be to help me find bandages for my burns. Once you've done that, I'll tell you what else I have in mind for you. Oh, and I do have one condition for you." She pointed a finger at him. "Never tell me God doesn't exist. You mock me with those words as surely as you mock the lord of heaven."

Frailyn smiled, oblivious to the threat she underlined. "Bandages?" He repeated, swallowing in the process and wiping his hands across the bloody shirt he wore. He rummaged through his pockets, but turned up nothing. Thinking quickly, he tore a long line of cloth off his shirt's arm, and grabbed her hand. He felt a resistance, but ignored it. "Here." He said, placing the cloth in her hand before releasing his grip. "This will protect them until I find something to relieve the pain and swelling." He observed her reaction quickly, but hoped she knew he meant well.

"So. . . where to?" Frailyn asked, containing the excitement in his voice.

[l33t]

Doran was riding fast. Too fast, frankly. He never did see the thin strand of wire, strung across the road. There's a special terribleness in not knowing the cause or hour of one's death. Perhaps if there was any life left in his head as it flew from the body, then he might have grasped it.

I mean, bump.

[Khalic]

Malia Blackwell ~

I couldn't see him; my hair had swirled around me as I spun and landed, but I felt him pull back. Felt it in the thin wood I was perched upon, and he was quick, enough for me to feel the air rush into his vacancy. He would have fallen, and died of it, but before he fell, I felt him in my palm, as the the handle struggled in my grip, pulled by the blade, binding as it bit skull and entered, the top few inches of the edge shearing temple, and worse. The blade struggled less as the skull gave way, and then hit the bridge of his nose, binding again but continuing to the other bit of bone and out. It rang out, and the crowd below, who had been so silent and awed by our show began to move and moan its dread.

He fell away from me, a sprayed cloud of blood obscuring the face that would have haunted me. His body smacked into a rafter and bounced around to spin a few times before landing with a crunch and a splat on the stage below.
There wasn't really a first scream. They all started on cue. First cue was the body hitting the stage. Second was the lights going out.

I hop to a rafter and then drag the curtain down and alight on the stage. One man beloved to me is dead, the other should know the cue.